"I guess you'd better get out of Marseilles before Tough Bill comes out of hospital," he said to Strickland, when they had got back to the Chink's Head and were cleaning themselves.
"This beats cock-fighting (斗鸡)," said Strickland.
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I could see his sardonic (嘲笑的) smile.
Captain Nichols was anxious. He knew Tough Bill's vindictiveness (怀恨在心).
Strickland had downed the mulatto twice, and the mulatto, sober, was a man to be reckoned with. He would bide his time stealthily. {1}
He would be in no hurry, but one night Strickland would get a knife-thrust in his back, and in a day or two the corpse (尸体) of a nameless beach-comber would be fished out of the dirty water of the harbour.
Nichols went next evening to Tough Bill's house and made enquiries.
He was in hospital still, but his wife, who had been to see him, said he was swearing hard to kill Strickland when they let him out.
A week passed.
"That's what I always say," reflected Captain Nichols, "when you hurt a man, hurt him bad. It gives you a bit of time to look about and think what you'll do next."
Then Strickland had a bit of luck. A ship bound for Australia had sent to the Sailors' Home for a stoker (锅炉工) in place of one who had thrown himself overboard off Gibraltar (直布罗陀海峡) in an attack of delirium tremens.
"You double down to the harbour, my lad," said the Captain to Strickland, "and sign on. You've got your papers."
Strickland set off at once, and that was the last Captain Nichols saw of him.
The ship was only in port for six hours, and in the evening Captain Nichols watched the vanishing smoke from her funnels as she ploughed East through the wintry sea.
I have narrated (叙述) all this as best I could, because I like the contrast of these episodes with the life that I had seen Strickland live in Ashley Gardens when he was occupied with stocks and shares;
but I am aware that Captain Nichols was an outrageous liar, and I dare say there is not a word of truth in anything he told me.
I should not be surprised to learn that he had never seen Strickland in his life, and owed his knowledge of Marseilles to the pages of a magazine.
It is here that I purposed to end my book.
My first idea was to begin it with the account of Strickland's last years in Tahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back and relate what I knew of his beginnings.
This I meant to do, not from willfulness (任性), but because I wished to leave Strickland setting out with I know not what fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islands which fired his imagination. {2}
I liked the picture of him starting at the age of forty-seven, when most men have already settled comfortably in a groove, for a new world.
I saw him, the sea gray under the mistral and foam-flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which he was destined never to see again;
and I thought there was something gallant (英勇的) in his bearing and dauntless in his soul.
I wished so to end on a note of hope.
It seemed to emphasise the unconquerable spirit of man. But I could not manage it.
Somehow I could not get into my story, and after trying once or twice I had to give it up;
I started from the beginning in the usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what I knew of Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.
Those that I have now are fragmentary (不完整的). I am in the position of a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct not only the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits.
Strickland made no particular impression on the people who came in contact with him in Tahiti.
To them he was no more than a beach-comber in constant need of money, remarkable only for the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed to them absurd;
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and it was not till he had been dead for some years and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin to look for any pictures which might still remain on the island, that they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of consequence (卓越).
They remembered then that they could have bought for a song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they could not forgive themselves for the opportunity which had escaped them. {3}
There was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who had come by one of Strickland's pictures in a singular (非凡的) way.
He was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant smile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter (快艇) in which he wandered boldly among the Paumotus (包莫图斯群岛) and the Marquesas (马库萨斯群岛), taking out trade goods and bringing back copra (椰子干), shell, and pearls.
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I went to see him because I was told he had a large black pearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when I discovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to him about Strickland.
He had known him well.
"You see, I was interested in him because he was a painter," he told me.
"We don't get many painters in the islands, and I was sorry for him because he was such a bad one. I gave him his first job. I had a plantation (种植园) on the peninsula, and I wanted a white overseer (监督者).
"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 (阁楼) and put it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never throw anything away. It is her mania (癖好).
"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. "
