Mr. Coutras was an old Frenchman of great stature and exceeding bulk.
His body was shaped like a huge duck’s egg; and his eyes, sharp, blue,
and good-natured, rested now and then with self-satisfaction on his
enormous paunch. His complexion was florid and his hair white. He was a
man to attract immediate sympathy. He received us in a room that might
have been in a house in a provincial town in France, and the one or two
Polynesian curios had an odd look. He took my hand in both of his—they
were huge—and gave me a hearty look, in which, however, was great
shrewdness. When he shook hands with Capitaine Brunot he enquired
politely after _Madame et les enfants._ For some minutes there was an
exchange of courtesies and some local gossip about the island, the
prospects of copra and the vanilla crop; then we came to the object of
my visit.
I shall not tell what Dr. Coutras related to me in his words, but in my
own, for I cannot hope to give at second hand any impression of his
vivacious delivery. He had a deep, resonant voice, fitted to his
massive frame, and a keen sense of the dramatic. To listen to him was,
as the phrase goes, as good as a play; and much better than most.
It appears that Dr. Coutras had gone one day to Taravao in order to see
an old chiefess who was ill, and he gave a vivid picture of the obese
old lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking cigarettes, and surrounded by a
crowd of dark-skinned retainers. When he had seen her he was taken into
another room and given dinner—raw fish, fried bananas, and chicken—_que
sais-je_, the typical dinner of the _indigène_—and while he was eating
it he saw a young girl being driven away from the door in tears. He
thought nothing of it, but when he went out to get into his trap and
drive home, he saw her again, standing a little way off; she looked at
him with a woebegone air, and tears streamed down her cheeks. He asked
someone what was wrong with her, and was told that she had come down
from the hills to ask him to visit a white man who was sick. They had
told her that the doctor could not be disturbed. He called her, and
himself asked what she wanted. She told him that Ata had sent her, she
who used to be at the Hôtel de la Fleur, and that the Red One was ill.
She thrust into his hand a crumpled piece of newspaper, and when he
opened it he found in it a hundred-franc note.
“Who is the Red One?” he asked of one of the bystanders.
He was told that that was what they called the Englishman, a painter,
who lived with Ata up in the valley seven kilometres from where they
were. He recognised Strickland by the description. But it was necessary
to walk. It was impossible for him to go; that was why they had sent
the girl away.
“I confess,” said the doctor, turning to me, “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 look-out 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 cocoa-nut.”
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 go free.
“I shall go up into the mountain,” said Strickland.
Then Ata stood up and faced him.
“Let the others go if they choose, but I will not leave thee. Thou art
my man and I am thy woman. If thou leavest me I shall hang myself on
the tree that is behind the house. I swear it by God.”
There was something immensely forcible in the way she spoke. She was no
longer the meek, soft native girl, but a determined woman. She was
extraordinarily transformed.
“Why shouldst thou stay with me? Thou canst go back to Papeete, and
thou wilt soon find another white man. The old woman can take care of
thy children, and Tiaré will be glad to have thee back.”
“Thou art my man and I am thy woman. Whither thou goest I will go,
too.”
For a moment Strickland’s fortitude was shaken, and a tear filled each
of his eyes and trickled slowly down his cheeks. Then he gave the
sardonic smile which was usual with him.
“Women are strange little beasts,” he said to Dr. Coutras. “You can
treat them like dogs, you can beat them till your arm aches, and still
they love you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, it is one of the
most absurd illusions of Christianity that they have souls.”
“What is it that thou art saying to the doctor?” asked Ata
suspiciously. “Thou wilt not go?”
“If it please thee I will stay, poor child.”
Ata flung herself on her knees before him, and clasped his legs with
her arms and kissed them. Strickland looked at Dr. Coutras with a faint
smile.
“In the end they get you, and you are helpless in their hands. White or
brown, they are all the same.”
Dr. Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressions of regret in
so terrible a disaster, and he took his leave. Strickland told Tané,
the boy, to lead him to the village. Dr. Coutras paused for a moment,
and then he addressed himself to me.
“I did not like him, I have told you he was not sympathetic to me, but
as I walked slowly down to Taravao I could not prevent an unwilling
admiration for the stoical courage which enabled him to bear perhaps
the most dreadful of human afflictions. When Tané left me I told him I
would send some medicine that might be of service; but my hope was
small that Strickland would consent to take it, and even smaller that,
if he did, it would do him good. I gave the boy a message for Ata that
I would come whenever she sent for me. Life is hard, and Nature takes
sometimes a terrible delight in torturing her children. It was with a
heavy heart that I drove back to my comfortable home in Papeete.”
For a long time none of us spoke.
“But Ata did not send for me,” the doctor went on, at last, “and it
chanced that I did not go to that part of the island for a long time. I
had no news of Strickland. Once or twice I heard that Ata had been to
Papeete to buy painting materials, but I did not happen to see her.
More than two years passed before I went to Taravao again, and then it
was once more to see the old chiefess. I asked them whether they had
heard anything of Strickland. By now it was known everywhere that he
had leprosy. First Tané, the boy, had left the house, and then, a
little time afterwards, the old woman and her grandchild. Strickland
and Ata were left alone with their babies. No one went near the
plantation, for, as you know, the natives have a very lively horror of
the disease, and in the old days when it was discovered the sufferer
was killed; but sometimes, when the village boys were scrambling about
the hills, they would catch sight of the white man, with his great red
beard, wandering about. They fled in terror. Sometimes Ata would come
down to the village at night and arouse the trader, so that he might
sell her various things of which she stood in need. She knew that the
natives looked upon her with the same horrified aversion as they looked
upon Strickland, and she kept out of their way. Once some women,
venturing nearer than usual to the plantation, saw her washing clothes
in the brook, and they threw stones at her. After that the trader was
told to give her the message that if she used the brook again men would
come and burn down her house.”
“Brutes,” I said.
“_Mais non, mon cher monsieur_, men are always the same. Fear makes
them cruel.... I decided to see Strickland, and when I had finished
with the chiefess asked for a boy to show me the way. But none would
accompany me, and I was forced to find it alone.”
When Dr. Coutras arrived at the plantation he was seized with a feeling
of uneasiness. Though he was hot from walking, he shivered. There was
something hostile in the air which made him hesitate, and he felt that
invisible forces barred his way. Unseen hands seemed to draw him back.
No one would go near now to gather the cocoa-nuts, and they lay rotting
on the ground. Everywhere was desolation. The bush was encroaching, and
it looked as though very soon the primeval forest would regain
possession of that strip of land which had been snatched from it at the
cost of so much labour. He had the sensation that here was the abode of
pain. As he approached the house he was struck by the unearthly
silence, and at first he thought it was deserted. Then he saw Ata. She
was sitting on her haunches in the lean-to that served her as kitchen,
watching some mess cooking in a pot. Near her a small boy was playing
silently in the dirt. She did not smile when she saw him.
“I have come to see Strickland,” he said.
“I will go and tell him.”
She went to the house, ascended the few steps that led to the verandah,
and entered. Dr. Coutras followed her, but waited outside in obedience
to her gesture. As she opened the door he smelt the sickly sweet smell
which makes the neighbourhood of the leper nauseous. He heard her
speak, and then he heard Strickland’s answer, but he did not recognise
the voice. It had become hoarse and indistinct. Dr. Coutras raised his
eyebrows. He judged that the disease had already attacked the vocal
chords. Then Ata came out again.
“He will not see you. You must go away.”
Dr. Coutras insisted, but she would not let him pass. Dr. Coutras
shrugged his shoulders, and after a moment’s rejection turned away. She
walked with him. He felt that she too wanted to be rid of him.
“Is there nothing I can do at all?” he asked.
“You can send him some paints,” she said. “There is nothing else he
wants.”
“Can he paint still?”
“He is painting the walls of the house.”
“This is a terrible life for you, my poor child.”
Then at last she smiled, and there was in her eyes a look of superhuman
love. Dr. Coutras was startled by it, and amazed. And he was awed. He
found nothing to say.
“He is my man,” she said.
“Where is your other child?” he asked. “When I was here last you had
two.”
“Yes; it died. We buried it under the mango.”
When Ata had gone with him a little way she said she must turn back.
Dr. Coutras surmised she was afraid to go farther in case she met any
of the people from the village. He told her again that if she wanted
him she had only to send and he would come at once.