Task: To make a Video Comment on OR Comparison
The short story of S.Maugham
VS
the fable of Aesop
The short story of S.Maugham
VS
the fable of Aesop
Learning Tools
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Gallery
Use them
http://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/definition/english
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/
http://www.thesaurus.com/
http://www.wordreference.com/enro/
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/
http://www.thesaurus.com/
http://www.wordreference.com/enro/
MY STUDENTS’ TEAM
- Lichii Ruslana
- Bulat Eduard
- Nicolaev Corina
- Lichii Ruslana
- Bulat Eduard
- Nicolaev Corina
- Godoroja Mihaela
- Cociug Mihaela
- Burlacu Elena
- Braniște Victor
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Classwork Team Work Title |
Students Products Assessment (on Google Drive) 1st group work - a Video Comment On- is very,very good done; The 2nd group work - a PPT with a Comparison of the VIDEO MATERIALS on Topic - is a good job! The other groups must work more better. 
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Task: See the Speech on Youtube of TEDx.:
Stereotypes -- funny because they are true | Katerina Vrana | TEDxThessaloniki
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0q9hn8hebw
Comment on this Video for to be Assessed by Teacher for your Voiced Video Comment (NB!- Please, record your Comment On or make a Video with Voice).
Stereotypes -- funny because they are true | Katerina Vrana | TEDxThessaloniki
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0q9hn8hebw
Comment on this Video for to be Assessed by Teacher for your Voiced Video Comment (NB!- Please, record your Comment On or make a Video with Voice).
Task:
Look through the Plan of Flipped Lesson and acomplish the activities.
The British Museum
Watch the thinglink.com image-video presentation and comment it
Watch the thinglink.com image-video presentation and comment it
Нажмите здесь, чтобы отредактировать.
the 11th form task:
2. Read the pieces of the painter PAUL GAUGUIN from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Gauguin)
In 1873, around the same time as he became a stockbroker, Gauguin began painting in his free time. His Parisian life centred on the 9th arrondissement of Paris. Gauguin lived at 15, rue la Bruyère.[22][23] Nearby were the cafés frequented by the Impressionists. Gauguin also visited galleries frequently and purchased work by emerging artists. He formed a friendship with Camille Pissarro[24] and visited him on Sundays to paint in his garden. Pissarro introduced him to various other artists. In 1877 Gauguin "moved downmarket and across the river to the poorer, newer, urban sprawls" of Vaugirard. Here, on the third floor at 8 rue Carcel, he had the first home in which he had astudio.[23] His close friend Émile Schuffenecker, a former stockbroker who also aspired to become an artist, lived close by. Gauguin showed paintings in Impressionist exhibitions held in 1881 and 1882 – (earlier a sculpture, of his son Émile, had been the only sculpture in the 4th Impressionist Exhibition of 1879.) His paintings received dismissive reviews, although several of them, such as The Market Gardens of Vaugirard, are now highly regarded.[25][26]
In 1882, the stock market crashed and the art market contracted. Paul Durand-Ruel, the Impressionists' primary art dealer, was especially affected by the crash and for a period of time stopped buying pictures from painters such as Gauguin. Gauguin's earnings contracted sharply and over the next two years he slowly formulated his plans to become a full-time artist.[24] The following two summers, he painted with Pissarro and occasionally Paul Cézanne. In October 1883, he wrote to Pissarro saying that he had decided to make his living from painting at all cost and asked for his help, which Pissarro at first readily provided. The following January, Gauguin moved with his family toRouen, where they could live more cheaply and where he thought he had discerned opportunities when visiting Pissarro there the previous summer. However, the venture proved unsuccessful, and by the end of the year Mette returned to Copenhagen, Gauguin following shortly after in November 1884, bringing with him his art collection, which subsequently remained in Copenhagen.[27][28]
Life in Copenhagen proved equally difficult and their marriage grew strained. At Mette's urging, supported by her family, Gauguin returned to Paris the following year.
First visit to Tahiti[edit] By 1890, Gauguin had conceived the project of making Tahiti his next artistic destination. A successful auction of paintings in Paris at the Hôtel Drouot in February 1891, along with other events such as a banquet and a benefit concert, provided the necessary funds.[61] The auction had been greatly helped by a flattering review from Octave Mirbeau, courted by Gauguin through Camille Pissarro.[a] After visiting his wife and children in Copenhagen, for what turned out to be the last time, Gauguin set sail for Tahiti on 1 April 1891, promising to return a rich man and make a fresh start.[62] His avowed intent was to escape European civilization and "everything that is artificial and conventional".[63][64]Nevertheless, he took care to take with him a collection of visual stimuli in the form of photographs, drawings and prints.[65][b]
He spent the first three months in Papeete, the capital of the colony and already much influenced by French and European culture. His biographer Belinda Thomson observes that he must have been disappointed in his vision of a primitive idyll. He was unable to afford the pleasure-seeking life-style in Papeete, and an early attempt at a portrait,Suzanne Bambridge (fr), was not well liked.[67] He decided to set up his studio in Mataiea, Papeari, some forty-five kilometres from Papeete, installing himself in a native-style bamboo hut. Here he executed paintings depicting Tahitian life such as Fatata te Miti (By the Sea) and Ia Orana Maria (ca) (Ave Maria), the latter to become his most prized Tahitian painting.[68][c]
Many of his finest paintings date from this period. His first portrait of a Tahitian model is thought to be Vahine no te tiare (ca) (Woman with a Flower). The painting is notable for the care with which it delineates Polynesian features. He sent the painting to his patron George-Daniel de Monfreid, a friend of Schuffenecker, who was to become Gauguin's devoted champion in Tahiti. By late summer 1892 this painting was being displayed at Goupil's gallery in Paris.[69] Art historian Nancy Mowll Mathews believes that Gauguin's encounter with exotic sensuality in Tahiti, so evident in the painting, was by far the most important aspect of his sojourn there.[70]
Gauguin was lent copies of Jacques-Antoine Moerenhout's (fr) 1837 Voyage aux îles du Grand Océan and Edmond de Bovis' (fr) 1855 État de la société tahitienne à l'arrivée des Européens, containing full accounts of Tahiti's forgotten culture and religion. He was fascinated by the accounts of Arioi society and their god 'Oro. Because these accounts contained no illustrations and the Tahitian models were in any case long disappeared, he could give free rein to his imagination. He executed some twenty paintings and a dozen woodcarvings over the next year. The first of these was Te aa no areois (The Seed of the Areoi), representing Oro's terrestrial wife Vairaumati, now held by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His illustrated notebook of the time, Ancien Culte Mahorie (it), is preserved in the Louvre and was published in facsimile form in 1951.[71][72][73]
In all, Gauguin sent nine of his paintings to Monfreid in Paris. These were eventually exhibited in Copenhagen in a joint exhibition with the late Vincent van Gogh. Reports that they had been well received (though in fact only two of the Tahitian paintings were sold and his earlier paintings were unfavourably compared with van Gogh's) were sufficiently encouraging for Gauguin to contemplate returning with some seventy others he had completed.[74][75] He had in any case largely run out of funds, depending on a state grant for a free passage home. In addition he had some health problems diagnosed as heart problems by the local doctor, which Mathews suggests may have been the early signs of cardiovascular syphilis.[76]
Gauguin later wrote a travelogue (first published 1901) titled Noa Noa (ca), originally conceived as commentary on his paintings and describing his experiences in Tahiti. Modern critics have suggested that the contents of the book were in part fantasized and plagiarized.[77][78] In it he revealed that he had at this time taken a thirteen-year-old girl as native wife or vahine (the Tahitian word for "woman"), a marriage contracted in the course of a single afternoon. This was Teha'amana, called Tehura in the travelogue, who was pregnant by him by the end of summer 1892.[79][80][81][d] Teha'amana was the subject of several of Gauguin's paintings, including Merahi metua no Tehamana and the celebratedSpirit of the Dead Watching, as well as a notable woodcarving Tehura now in the Musée d'Orsay.[83]
Historical significance[edit]
Primitivism was an art movement of late 19th-century painting and sculpture, characterized by exaggerated body proportions, animal totems, geometric designs and stark contrasts. The first artist to systematically use these effects and achieve broad public success was Paul Gauguin.[207]
The European cultural elite discovering the art of Africa, Micronesia, and Native Americans for the first time were fascinated, intrigued and educated by the newness, wildness and the stark power embodied in the art of those faraway places. Like Pablo Picasso in the early days of the 20th century, Gauguin was inspired and motivated by the raw power and simplicity of the so-called Primitive art of those foreign cultures.[208]
Gauguin is also considered a Post-Impressionist painter. His bold, colorful and design oriented paintings significantly influenced Modern art. Artists and movements in the early 20th century inspired by him include Vincent van Gogh, Henri Matisse, Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, André Derain, Fauvism, Cubism and Orphism, among others. Later he influenced Arthur Frank Mathews and the American Arts and Crafts Movement.
The 11th form task: Read the pieces of text from the story by W.Somerset Maugham "The Moon and Sixpence"
The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham
Chapter II
When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may seem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's monument is his work. It is true I knew him more intimately
than most: I met him first before ever he became a painter, and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he spent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have set
down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years of his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar with him. I find myself in a position to throw light on just that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure. If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right, the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately
acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?
Chapter XII
The Avenue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively fancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many a sordid romance. There were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows
who might have stepped out of the pages of Honore de Balzac; members, male and female, of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind. There is in the streets
of the poorer quarters of Paris a thronging vitality which excites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected.
"Do you know Paris well?" I asked.
"No. We came on our honeymoon. I haven't been since."
"How on earth did you find out your hotel?"
"It was recommended to me. I wanted something cheap."
The absinthe came, and with due solemnity we dropped water over the melting sugar.
"I thought I'd better tell you at once why I had come to see you," I said, not without embarrassment.
His eyes twinkled. "I thought somebody would come along sooner or later. I've had a lot of letters from Amy."
"Then you know pretty well what I've got to say."
"I've not read them."
I lit a cigarette to give myself a moment's time. I did not quite know now how to set about my mission. The eloquent phrases I had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on the Avenue de Clichy. Suddenly he gave a chuckle.
"Beastly job for you this, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," I answered.
"Well, look here, you get it over, and then we'll have a jolly evening."
I hesitated.
"Has it occurred to you that your wife is frightfully unhappy?"
"She'll get over it."
I cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he made this reply. It disconcerted me, but I did my best not to show it. I adopted the tone used by my Uncle Henry, a clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society.
"You don't mind my talking to you frankly?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"Has she deserved that you should treat her like this?"
"No."
"Have you any complaint to make against her?"
"None."
"Then, isn't it monstrous to leave her in this fashion, after seventeen years of married life, without a fault to find with her?"
"Monstrous."
I glanced at him with surprise. His cordial agreement with all I said cut the ground from under my feet. It made my position complicated, not to say ludicrous. I was prepared to be persuasive, touching, and hortatory, admonitory and expostulating, if need be vituperative even, indignant and sarcastic; but what the devil does a mentor do when the sinner makes no bones about confessing his sin? I had no experience, since my own practice has always been to deny everything.
"What, then?" asked Strickland.
I tried to curl my lip.
"Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn't seem much more to be said."
"I don't think there is."
I felt that I was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill.
I was distinctly nettled.
"Hang it all, one can't leave a woman without a bob."
"Why not?"
"How is she going to live?"
"I've supported her for seventeen years. Why shouldn't she support herself for a change?"
"She can't."
"Let her try."
Of course there were many things I might have answered to this. I might have spoken of the economic position of woman,
of the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by his marriage, and of much else; but I felt that there was only one
point which really signified.
"Don't you care for her any more?"
"Not a bit," he replied.
The matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned, but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful
effrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable.
I worked myself up into a state of moral indignation.
"Damn it all, there are your children to think of. They've never done you any harm. They didn't ask to be brought into the world. If you chuck everything like this, they'll be thrown on the streets.
"They've had a good many years of comfort. It's much more than the majority of children have. Besides, somebody will look after them. When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews will pay for their schooling."
"But aren't you fond of them? They're such awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say you don't want to have anything more to do
with them?"
"I liked them all right when they were kids, but now they're growing up I haven't got any particular feeling for them."
"It's just inhuman."
"I dare say."
"You don't seem in the least ashamed."
"I'm not."
I tried another tack.
"Everyone will think you a perfect swine."
"Let them."
"Won't it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you?"
"No."
His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question, natural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two.
"I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one's conscious of the disapproval of one's fellows? Are you sure it won't begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn't you be tortured by remorse?"
He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself.
"What have you to say to that?"
"Only that you're a damned fool."
"At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and children," I retorted, somewhat piqued. "I suppose the law has some protection to offer them."
"Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven't any money. I've got about a hundred pounds."
I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.
"What are you going to do when you've spent that?"
"Earn some."
He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile which made all I said seem rather foolish. I paused for a little while to consider what I had better say next. But it was he who spoke first.
"Why doesn't Amy marry again? She's comparatively young, and she's not unattractive. I can recommend her as an excellent wife.
If she wants to divorce me I don't mind giving her the necessary grounds."
Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning, but it was evidently this that he was aiming at. He had some reason to
conceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he was using every precaution to hide her whereabouts. I answered
with decision.
"Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her to divorce you. She's quite made up her mind. You can put
any possibility of that definitely out of your head."
He looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously .
"But, my dear fellow, I don't care. It doesn't matter a twopenny damn to me one way or the other."
I laughed.
"Oh, come now; you mustn't think us such fools as all that. We happen to know that you came away with a woman."
He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariously that people sitting near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too.
"I don't see anything very amusing in that."
"Poor Amy," he grinned.
Then his face grew bitterly scornful.
"What poor minds women have got! Love. It's always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've done for a woman?"
"Do you mean to say you didn't leave your wife for another woman?"
"Of course not."
"On your word of honour?"
I don't know why I asked for that. It was very ingenuous of me.
"On my word of honour."
"Then, what in God's name have you left her for?"
"I want to paint."
I looked at him for quite a long time. I did not understand. I thought he was mad. It must be remembered that I was very
young, and I looked upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot everything but my own amazement.
"But you're forty."
"That's what made me think it was high time to begin."
"Have you ever painted?"
"I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no
money in art. I began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year I've been going to some classes at night."
"Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were playing bridge at your club?"
"That's it."
"Why didn't you tell her?"
"I preferred to keep it to myself."
"Can you paint?"
"Not yet. But I shall. That's why I've come over here. I couldn't get what I wanted in London. Perhaps I can here."
"Do you think it's likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age? Most men begin painting at eighteen."
"I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen."
"What makes you think you have any talent?"
He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the passing throng, but I do not think he saw it. His answer was no answer.
"I've got to paint."
"Aren't you taking an awful chance?"
He looked at me. His eyes had something strange in them, so that I felt rather uncomfortable.
"How old are you? Twenty-three?"
It seemed to me that the question was beside the point.
It was natural that I should take chances; but he was a man whose
youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of respectability, a wife and two children. A course that would have been natural for me was absurd for him. I wished to be quite fair.
"Of course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter, but you must confess the chances are a million to one against it. It'll be an awful sell if at the end you have to acknowledge you've made a hash of it."
"I've got to paint," he repeated.
"Supposing you're never anything more than third-rate, do you think it will have been worth while to give up everything?
After all, in any other walk in life it doesn't matter if you're not very good; you can get along quite comfortably if
you're just adequate; but it's different with an artist."
"You blasted fool," he said.
"I don't see why, unless it's folly to say the obvious."
There was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself I was impressed. I seemed to feel in him some vehement power
that was struggling within him; it gave me the sensation of something very strong, overmastering, that held him, as it were,
against his will. I could not understand. He seemed really to be possessed of a devil, and I felt that it might suddenly turn and rend him. Yet he looked ordinary enough. My eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him no embarrassment. I wondered what a stranger would have taken him to be, sitting there in his old Norfolk jacket and his unbrushed bowler; his trousers were baggy, his hands were not
clean; and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved chin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressive nose, was uncouth and coarse. His mouth was large, his lips were heavy and sensual. No; I could not have placed him.
"You won't go back to your wife?" I said at last.
"Never."
"She's willing to forget everything that's happened and start afresh. She'll never make you a single reproach."
"She can go to hell."
"You don't care if people think you an utter blackguard?
You don't care if she and your children have to beg their bread?"
"Not a damn."
I was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my next remark. I spoke as deliberately as I could.
"You are a most unmitigated cad."
"Now that you've got that off your chest, let's go and have dinner."
Chapter LVI
Then two years more went by, or perhaps three, for time passes imperceptibly in Tahiti, and it is hard to keep count of it;but at last a message was brought to Dr. Coutras that Strickland was dying. Ata had waylaid the cart that took the mail into Papeete, and besought the man who drove it to go at once to the doctor. But the doctor was out when the summons came, and it was evening when he received it. It was impossible to start at so late an hour, and so it was not till next day soon after dawn that he set out. He arrived at Taravao, and for the last time tramped the seven kilometres that led to Ata's house. The path was overgrown, and it was clear that for years now it had remained all but untrodden. It was not easy to find the way. Sometimes he had to stumble along the bed of the stream, and sometimes he had to push through shrubs, dense and thorny; often he was obliged to climb over rocks in order to avoid the hornet-nests that hung
on the trees over his head. The silence was intense. It was with a sigh of relief that at last he came upon the little unpainted house, extraordinarily bedraggled now, and unkempt; but here too was the same intolerable silence. He walked up, and a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the sunshine, started at his approach and fled quickly away: to him the stranger was the enemy. Dr. Coutras had a sense that the child was stealthily watching him from behind a tree. The door was wide open. He called out, but no one answered. He stepped in. He knocked at a door, but again there was no answer. He turned the handle and entered. The stench that assailed him turned him horribly sick. He put his handkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in. The light was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while he could see nothing. Then he gave a start. He could not make out where he was. He seemed on a sudden to have entered a magic world. He had a vague impression of a great primeval forest and of naked people walking beneath the trees. Then he saw that there were paintings on the walls.
"I Mon Dieu, I hope the sun hasn't affected me," he muttered.
A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that Ata was lying on the floor, sobbing quietly.
"Ata," he called. "Ata."
She took no notice. Again the beastly stench almost made him faint, and he lit a cheroot. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensation as he stared at the painted walls. He knew nothing of pictures, but there was something about these that extraordinarily affected him. From floor to ceiling the walls were covered with a strange and elaborate composition. It was
indescribably wonderful and mysterious. It took his breath away. It filled him with an emotion which he could not understand or analyse. He felt the awe and the delight which a man might feel who watched the beginning of a world. It was tremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something horrible there, too, something which made him afraid. It was the work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of nature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and fearful too. It was the work of a man who knew things which
it is unholy for men to know. There was something primeval there and terrible. It was not human. It brought to his mind
vague recollections of black magic. It was beautiful and obscene.
Chapter II
When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may seem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's monument is his work. It is true I knew him more intimately
than most: I met him first before ever he became a painter, and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he spent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have set
down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years of his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar with him. I find myself in a position to throw light on just that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure. If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right, the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately
acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?
Chapter XII
The Avenue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively fancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many a sordid romance. There were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows
who might have stepped out of the pages of Honore de Balzac; members, male and female, of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind. There is in the streets
of the poorer quarters of Paris a thronging vitality which excites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected.
"Do you know Paris well?" I asked.
"No. We came on our honeymoon. I haven't been since."
"How on earth did you find out your hotel?"
"It was recommended to me. I wanted something cheap."
The absinthe came, and with due solemnity we dropped water over the melting sugar.
"I thought I'd better tell you at once why I had come to see you," I said, not without embarrassment.
His eyes twinkled. "I thought somebody would come along sooner or later. I've had a lot of letters from Amy."
"Then you know pretty well what I've got to say."
"I've not read them."
I lit a cigarette to give myself a moment's time. I did not quite know now how to set about my mission. The eloquent phrases I had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on the Avenue de Clichy. Suddenly he gave a chuckle.
"Beastly job for you this, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," I answered.
"Well, look here, you get it over, and then we'll have a jolly evening."
I hesitated.
"Has it occurred to you that your wife is frightfully unhappy?"
"She'll get over it."
I cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he made this reply. It disconcerted me, but I did my best not to show it. I adopted the tone used by my Uncle Henry, a clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society.
"You don't mind my talking to you frankly?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"Has she deserved that you should treat her like this?"
"No."
"Have you any complaint to make against her?"
"None."
"Then, isn't it monstrous to leave her in this fashion, after seventeen years of married life, without a fault to find with her?"
"Monstrous."
I glanced at him with surprise. His cordial agreement with all I said cut the ground from under my feet. It made my position complicated, not to say ludicrous. I was prepared to be persuasive, touching, and hortatory, admonitory and expostulating, if need be vituperative even, indignant and sarcastic; but what the devil does a mentor do when the sinner makes no bones about confessing his sin? I had no experience, since my own practice has always been to deny everything.
"What, then?" asked Strickland.
I tried to curl my lip.
"Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn't seem much more to be said."
"I don't think there is."
I felt that I was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill.
I was distinctly nettled.
"Hang it all, one can't leave a woman without a bob."
"Why not?"
"How is she going to live?"
"I've supported her for seventeen years. Why shouldn't she support herself for a change?"
"She can't."
"Let her try."
Of course there were many things I might have answered to this. I might have spoken of the economic position of woman,
of the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by his marriage, and of much else; but I felt that there was only one
point which really signified.
"Don't you care for her any more?"
"Not a bit," he replied.
The matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned, but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful
effrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable.
I worked myself up into a state of moral indignation.
"Damn it all, there are your children to think of. They've never done you any harm. They didn't ask to be brought into the world. If you chuck everything like this, they'll be thrown on the streets.
"They've had a good many years of comfort. It's much more than the majority of children have. Besides, somebody will look after them. When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews will pay for their schooling."
"But aren't you fond of them? They're such awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say you don't want to have anything more to do
with them?"
"I liked them all right when they were kids, but now they're growing up I haven't got any particular feeling for them."
"It's just inhuman."
"I dare say."
"You don't seem in the least ashamed."
"I'm not."
I tried another tack.
"Everyone will think you a perfect swine."
"Let them."
"Won't it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you?"
"No."
His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question, natural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two.
"I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one's conscious of the disapproval of one's fellows? Are you sure it won't begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn't you be tortured by remorse?"
He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself.
"What have you to say to that?"
"Only that you're a damned fool."
"At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and children," I retorted, somewhat piqued. "I suppose the law has some protection to offer them."
"Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven't any money. I've got about a hundred pounds."
I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.
"What are you going to do when you've spent that?"
"Earn some."
He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile which made all I said seem rather foolish. I paused for a little while to consider what I had better say next. But it was he who spoke first.
"Why doesn't Amy marry again? She's comparatively young, and she's not unattractive. I can recommend her as an excellent wife.
If she wants to divorce me I don't mind giving her the necessary grounds."
Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning, but it was evidently this that he was aiming at. He had some reason to
conceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he was using every precaution to hide her whereabouts. I answered
with decision.
"Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her to divorce you. She's quite made up her mind. You can put
any possibility of that definitely out of your head."
He looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously .
"But, my dear fellow, I don't care. It doesn't matter a twopenny damn to me one way or the other."
I laughed.
"Oh, come now; you mustn't think us such fools as all that. We happen to know that you came away with a woman."
He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariously that people sitting near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too.
"I don't see anything very amusing in that."
"Poor Amy," he grinned.
Then his face grew bitterly scornful.
"What poor minds women have got! Love. It's always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've done for a woman?"
"Do you mean to say you didn't leave your wife for another woman?"
"Of course not."
"On your word of honour?"
I don't know why I asked for that. It was very ingenuous of me.
"On my word of honour."
"Then, what in God's name have you left her for?"
"I want to paint."
I looked at him for quite a long time. I did not understand. I thought he was mad. It must be remembered that I was very
young, and I looked upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot everything but my own amazement.
"But you're forty."
"That's what made me think it was high time to begin."
"Have you ever painted?"
"I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no
money in art. I began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year I've been going to some classes at night."
"Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were playing bridge at your club?"
"That's it."
"Why didn't you tell her?"
"I preferred to keep it to myself."
"Can you paint?"
"Not yet. But I shall. That's why I've come over here. I couldn't get what I wanted in London. Perhaps I can here."
"Do you think it's likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age? Most men begin painting at eighteen."
"I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen."
"What makes you think you have any talent?"
He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the passing throng, but I do not think he saw it. His answer was no answer.
"I've got to paint."
"Aren't you taking an awful chance?"
He looked at me. His eyes had something strange in them, so that I felt rather uncomfortable.
"How old are you? Twenty-three?"
It seemed to me that the question was beside the point.
It was natural that I should take chances; but he was a man whose
youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of respectability, a wife and two children. A course that would have been natural for me was absurd for him. I wished to be quite fair.
"Of course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter, but you must confess the chances are a million to one against it. It'll be an awful sell if at the end you have to acknowledge you've made a hash of it."
"I've got to paint," he repeated.
"Supposing you're never anything more than third-rate, do you think it will have been worth while to give up everything?
After all, in any other walk in life it doesn't matter if you're not very good; you can get along quite comfortably if
you're just adequate; but it's different with an artist."
"You blasted fool," he said.
"I don't see why, unless it's folly to say the obvious."
There was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself I was impressed. I seemed to feel in him some vehement power
that was struggling within him; it gave me the sensation of something very strong, overmastering, that held him, as it were,
against his will. I could not understand. He seemed really to be possessed of a devil, and I felt that it might suddenly turn and rend him. Yet he looked ordinary enough. My eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him no embarrassment. I wondered what a stranger would have taken him to be, sitting there in his old Norfolk jacket and his unbrushed bowler; his trousers were baggy, his hands were not
clean; and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved chin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressive nose, was uncouth and coarse. His mouth was large, his lips were heavy and sensual. No; I could not have placed him.
"You won't go back to your wife?" I said at last.
"Never."
"She's willing to forget everything that's happened and start afresh. She'll never make you a single reproach."
"She can go to hell."
"You don't care if people think you an utter blackguard?
You don't care if she and your children have to beg their bread?"
"Not a damn."
I was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my next remark. I spoke as deliberately as I could.
"You are a most unmitigated cad."
"Now that you've got that off your chest, let's go and have dinner."
Chapter LVI
Then two years more went by, or perhaps three, for time passes imperceptibly in Tahiti, and it is hard to keep count of it;but at last a message was brought to Dr. Coutras that Strickland was dying. Ata had waylaid the cart that took the mail into Papeete, and besought the man who drove it to go at once to the doctor. But the doctor was out when the summons came, and it was evening when he received it. It was impossible to start at so late an hour, and so it was not till next day soon after dawn that he set out. He arrived at Taravao, and for the last time tramped the seven kilometres that led to Ata's house. The path was overgrown, and it was clear that for years now it had remained all but untrodden. It was not easy to find the way. Sometimes he had to stumble along the bed of the stream, and sometimes he had to push through shrubs, dense and thorny; often he was obliged to climb over rocks in order to avoid the hornet-nests that hung
on the trees over his head. The silence was intense. It was with a sigh of relief that at last he came upon the little unpainted house, extraordinarily bedraggled now, and unkempt; but here too was the same intolerable silence. He walked up, and a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the sunshine, started at his approach and fled quickly away: to him the stranger was the enemy. Dr. Coutras had a sense that the child was stealthily watching him from behind a tree. The door was wide open. He called out, but no one answered. He stepped in. He knocked at a door, but again there was no answer. He turned the handle and entered. The stench that assailed him turned him horribly sick. He put his handkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in. The light was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while he could see nothing. Then he gave a start. He could not make out where he was. He seemed on a sudden to have entered a magic world. He had a vague impression of a great primeval forest and of naked people walking beneath the trees. Then he saw that there were paintings on the walls.
"I Mon Dieu, I hope the sun hasn't affected me," he muttered.
A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that Ata was lying on the floor, sobbing quietly.
"Ata," he called. "Ata."
She took no notice. Again the beastly stench almost made him faint, and he lit a cheroot. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensation as he stared at the painted walls. He knew nothing of pictures, but there was something about these that extraordinarily affected him. From floor to ceiling the walls were covered with a strange and elaborate composition. It was
indescribably wonderful and mysterious. It took his breath away. It filled him with an emotion which he could not understand or analyse. He felt the awe and the delight which a man might feel who watched the beginning of a world. It was tremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something horrible there, too, something which made him afraid. It was the work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of nature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and fearful too. It was the work of a man who knew things which
it is unholy for men to know. There was something primeval there and terrible. It was not human. It brought to his mind
vague recollections of black magic. It was beautiful and obscene.
