It is here thatI purposed to end my book. My first idea was to begin it with the account ofStrickland's last years in Tahiti and with his horrible death, and then to goback and relate what I knew of his beginnings. This I meant to do, not fromwilfulness, but because I wished to leave Strickland setting out with I knownot what fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islands which fired hisimagination. 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. Isaw him, the sea gray under the mistral and foam-flecked, watching thevanishing coast of France, which he was destined never to see again; and Ithought there was something gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul. Iwished so to end on a note of hope. It seemed to emphasise the unconquerablespirit of man. But I could not manage it. Somehow I could not get into mystory, and after trying once or twice I had to give it up; I started from thebeginning in the usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what I knewof Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.

Those that Ihave now are fragmentary. I am in the position of a biologist who from a singlebone must reconstruct not only the appearance of an extinct animal, but itshabits. Strickland made no particular impression on the people who came incontact with him in Tahiti. To them he was no more than a beach-comber inconstant need of money, remarkable only for the peculiarity that he paintedpictures which seemed to them absurd; and it was not till he had been dead forsome years and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin to look for anypictures which might still remain on the island, that they had any idea thatamong them had dwelt a man of consequence. They remembered then that they couldhave bought for a song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they couldnot forgive themselves for the opportunity which had escaped them. There was aJewish trader called Cohen, who had come by one of Strickland's pictures in asingular way. He was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasantsmile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter in which he wanderedboldly among the Paumotus and the Marquesas, taking out trade goods andbringing back copra, shell, and pearls. I went to see him because I was told hehad a large black pearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when Idiscovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to him about Strickland.He had known him well.

这本书我本来准备就写到这里为止。我最初的计划是首先叙述一下思特里克兰德一生中最后几年是怎样在塔希提度过的，以及他悲惨的死亡，然后再回头来描写我所了解的他早年的生活。我预备这样做倒不是由于我的任性，而是因为想把思特里克兰德启程远航作为这本书的收尾；他那孤独的灵魂中怀着种种奇思遐想，终于向点燃起自己丰富想象的陌生的荒岛出发了。我喜欢这样一个画面：他活到四十七岁（到了这个年纪大多数人早已掉进舒适的生活沟槽里了）动身到天涯海角去寻找一个新世界；大海在凛冽的北风中一片灰蒙蒙，白沫四溅，他迷茫地盯视着逐渐消失、再也无法重见的法国海岸。我想他的这一行为含有某种豪迈的精神，他的灵魂里具有大无畏的勇气。我本来想让这本书结束的时候给人一线希望。我觉得这样也许能够突出思特里克兰德的不可征服的精神。但是我却写不好；不知为什么我不能把这些写下来，在试了一两次之后我还是放弃这样一个结构了。我走的还是老路子——从头儿开始。我决定按照我了解到的事实以先后顺序记叙我所知道的思特里克兰德的生平。

我掌握的事实只是一些断简残篇。我的处境很象一个生物学家，根据一根骨骼不仅要重新塑造出一个早已灭绝的生物的外貌，还要推测出它的生活习惯。思特里克兰德没有给那些在塔希提同他有接触的人留下什么特别的印象。在这些人眼睛里，他只不过是一个永远缺钱花的流浪汉，唯一与众不同的地方是他爱画一些他们认为是莫名其妙的画。直到他死了多年以后，巴黎和柏林的画商陆续派来几个代理人搜寻思特里克兰德可能散失在岛上的遗作时，这些人才多少认识到在他们当中一度生活过一位了不起的人物。他们这时想起来，当时只要花一点点钱就能买到今天已经价值连城的名画，他们白白让机会从眼皮底下溜掉，真是追悔莫及。塔希提有一位姓寇汉的犹太商人，手里存着思特里克兰德的一幅画；他得到这幅画的情况有一点不寻常。寇汉是个法国小老头，生着一对温柔、善良的眼睛，脸上总是堆着笑容；他一半是商人，一半是水手，自己有一只快艇，常常勇敢地往来于包莫图斯群岛、马克萨斯和塔希提群岛之间，运去当地需要的商品，载回来椰子干、蚌壳和珍珠。我去看他是因为有人告诉我他有一颗大黑珍珠要廉价出售。后来我发现他的要价超过我的支付能力，我便同他谈起思特里克兰德来。他同思特里克兰德很熟。