The Moon and Sixpence, W. Somerset Maugham [beach books .txt] 📗

“that I hesitated. I did not relish fourteen kilometres over a bad pathway, and there was no chance that I could get back to Papeete that night. Besides, Strickland was not sympathetic to me. He was an idle, useless scoundrel, who preferred to live with a native woman rather than work for his living like the rest of us. Mon Dieu, how was I to know that one day the world would come to the conclusion that he had genius? I asked the girl if he was not well enough to have come down to see me. I asked her what she thought was the matter with him. She would not answer. I pressed her, angrily perhaps, but she looked down on the ground and began to cry. Then I shrugged my shoulders; after all, perhaps it was my duty to go, and in a very bad temper I bade her lead the way.”

His temper was certainly no better when he arrived, perspiring freely and thirsty. Ata was on the lookout for him, and came a little way along the path to meet him.

“Before I see anyone give me something to drink or I shall die of thirst,” he cried out. “Pour l’amour de Dieu, get me a coconut.”

She called out, and a boy came running along. He swarmed up a tree, and presently threw down a ripe nut. Ata pierced a hole in it, and the doctor took a long, refreshing draught. Then he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.

“Now, where is the Red One?” he asked.

“He is in the house, painting. I have not told him you were coming. Go in and see him.”

“But what does he complain of? If he is well enough to paint, he is well enough to have come down to Taravao and save me this confounded walk. I presume my time is no less valuable than his.”

Ata did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house. The girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the verandah, and here was lying an old woman, with her back to the wall, making native cigarettes. Ata pointed to the door. The doctor, wondering irritably why they behaved so strangely, entered, and there found Strickland cleaning his palette. There was a picture on the easel. Strickland, clad only in a pareo, was standing with his back to the door, but he turned round when he heard the sound of boots. He gave the doctor a look of vexation. He was surprised to see him, and resented the intrusion. But the doctor gave a gasp, he was rooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes. This was not what he expected. He was seized with horror.

“You enter without ceremony,” said Strickland. “What can I do for you?”

The doctor recovered himself, but it required quite an effort for him to find his voice. All his irritation was gone, and he felt⁠—eh bien, oui, je ne le nie pas⁠—he felt an overwhelming pity.

“I am Dr. Coutras. I was down at Taravao to see the chiefess, and Ata sent for me to see you.”

“She’s a damned fool. I have had a few aches and pains lately and a little fever, but that’s nothing; it will pass off. Next time anyone went to Papeete I was going to send for some quinine.”

“Look at yourself in the glass.”

Strickland gave him a glance, smiled, and went over to a cheap mirror in a little wooden frame, that hung on the wall.

“Well?”

“Do you not see a strange change in your face? Do you not see the thickening of your features and a look⁠—how shall I describe it?⁠—the books call it lion-faced. Mon pauvre ami, must I tell you that you have a terrible disease?”

“I?”

“When you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical appearance of the leper.”

“You are jesting,” said Strickland.

“I wish to God I were.”

“Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?”

“Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.”

Dr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him. He felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man condemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life. Strickland looked at him in silence. Nothing of emotion could be seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome disease.

“Do they know?” he asked at last, pointing to the persons on the verandah, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence.

“These natives know the signs so well,” said the doctor. “They were afraid to tell you.”

Strickland stepped to the door and looked out. There must have been something terrible in his face, for suddenly they all burst out into loud cries and lamentation. They lifted up their voices and they wept. Strickland did not speak. After looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room.

“How long do you think I can last?”

“Who knows? Sometimes the disease continues for twenty years. It is a mercy when it runs its course quickly.”

Strickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the picture that stood on it.

“You have had a long journey. It is fitting that the bearer of important tidings should be rewarded. Take this picture. It means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you will be glad to have it.”

Dr. Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc note, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture. Then together they went out on the verandah. The natives were sobbing violently. “Be quiet, woman. Dry thy tears,” said Strickland, addressing Ata. “There is no great harm. I shall leave thee very soon.”

“They are not going to take thee away?” she cried.

At that time there was no rigid sequestration on the islands, and lepers, if they chose, were allowed to