The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham (most popular novels .txt) 📕

a plantation on the peninsula, and I wanted a white overseer. You never get any work out of the natives unless you have a white man over them. I said to him: ‘You’ll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn a bit of money.’ I knew he was starving, but I offered him good wages.”

“I can’t imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer,” I said, smiling.

“I made allowances. I have always had a sympathy for artists. It is in our blood, you know. But he only remained a few months. When he had enough money to buy paints and canvases he left me. The place had got hold of him by then, and he wanted to get away into the bush. But I continued to see him now and then. He would turn up in Papeete every few months and stay a little while; he’d get money out of someone or other and then disappear again. It was on one of these visits that he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundred francs. He looked as if he hadn’t had a meal for a week, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. Of course, I never expected to see my money again. Well, a year later he came to see me once more, and he brought a picture with him. He did not mention the money he owed me, but he said: ‘Here is a picture of your plantation that I’ve painted for you.’ I looked at it. I did not know what to say, but of course I thanked him, and when he had gone away I showed it to my wife.”

“What was it like?” I asked.

“Do not ask me. I could not make head or tail of it. I never saw such a thing in my life. ‘What shall we do with it?’ I said to my wife. ‘We can never hang it up,’ she said. ‘People would laugh at us.’ So she took it into an attic and put it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never throw anything away. It is her mania. Then, imagine to yourself, just before the war my brother wrote to me from Paris, and said: ‘Do you know anything about an English painter who lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius, and his pictures fetch large prices. See if you can lay your hands on anything and send it to me. There’s money to be made.’ So I said to my wife. ‘What about that picture that Strickland gave me?’ Is it possible that it is still in the attic?’ ‘Without doubt,’ she answered, ‘for you know that I never throw anything away. It is my mania.’ We went up to the attic, and there, among I know not what rubbish that had been gathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house, was the picture. I looked at it again, and I said: ‘Who would have thought that the overseer of my plantation on the peninsula, to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius? Do you see anything in the picture?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘it does not resemble the plantation and I have never seen coconuts with blue leaves; but they are mad in Paris, and it may be that your brother will be able to sell it for the two hundred francs you lent Strickland.’ Well, we packed it up and we sent it to my brother. And at last I received a letter from him. What do you think he said? ‘I received your picture,’ he said, ‘and I confess I thought it was a joke that you had played on me. I would not have given the cost of postage for the picture. I was half afraid to show it to the gentleman who had spoken to me about it. Imagine my surprise when he said it was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs. I dare say he would have paid more, but frankly I was so taken aback that I lost my head; I accepted the offer before I was able to collect myself.’ ”

Then Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.

“I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive. I wonder what he would have said when I gave him twenty-nine thousand eight hundred francs for his picture.”

XLIX

I lived at the Hotel de la Fleur, and Mrs. Johnson, the proprietress, had a sad story to tell of lost opportunity. After Strickland’s death certain of his effects were sold by auction in the marketplace at Papeete, and she went to it herself because there was among the truck an American stove she wanted. She paid twenty-seven francs for it.

“There were a dozen pictures,” she told me, “but they were unframed, and nobody wanted them. Some of them sold for as much as ten francs, but mostly they went for five or six. Just think, if I had bought them I should be a rich woman now.”

But Tiaré Johnson would never under any circumstances have been rich. She could not keep money. The daughter of a native and an English sea-captain settled in Tahiti, when I knew her she was a woman of fifty, who looked older, and of enormous proportions. Tall and extremely stout, she would have been of imposing presence if the great good-nature of her face had not made it impossible for her to express anything but kindliness. Her arms were like legs of mutton, her breasts like giant cabbages; her face, broad and fleshy, gave you an impression of almost indecent nakedness, and vast chin succeeded to vast chin. I do not know how many of them there were. They fell away voluminously into the capaciousness of her bosom. She was dressed usually in a pink Mother Hubbard, and she wore all day long a large straw hat. But when she let down her hair, which she did