Chapter XLVIII

           

           ItisherethatIpurposedtoendmybook.MyfirstideawastobeginitwiththeaccountofStrickland’slastyearsinTahitiandwithhishorribledeath,andthentogobackandrelatewhatIknewofhisbeginnings.ThisImeanttodo,notfromwilfulness,butbecauseIwishedtoleaveStricklandsettingoutwithIknownotwhatfanciesinhislonelysoulfortheunknownislandswhichfiredhisimagination.Ilikedthepictureofhimstartingattheageofforty-seven,whenmostmenhavealreadysettledcomfortablyinagroove,foranewworld.Isawhim,theseagrayunderthemistralandfoam-flecked,watchingthevanishingcoastofFrance,whichhewasdestinednevertoseeagain;andIthoughttherewassomethinggallantinhisbearinganddauntlessinhissoul.Iwishedsotoendonanoteofhope.Itseemedtoemphasisetheunconquerablespiritofman.ButIcouldnotmanageit.SomehowIcouldnotgetintomystory,andaftertryingonceortwiceIhadtogiveitup;Istartedfromthebeginningintheusualway,andmadeupmymindIcouldonlytellwhatIknewofStrickland’slifeintheorderinwhichIlearntthefacts.

           ThosethatIhavenowarefragmentary.Iaminthepositionofabiologistwhofromasinglebonemustreconstructnotonlytheappearanceofanextinctanimal,butitshabits.StricklandmadenoparticularimpressiononthepeoplewhocameincontactwithhiminTahiti.

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