Chapter II

           

           WhensomuchhasbeenwrittenaboutCharlesStrickland,itmayseemunnecessarythatIshouldwritemore.Apainter’smonumentishiswork.ItistrueIknewhimmoreintimatelythanmost:Imethimfirstbeforeeverhebecameapainter,andIsawhimnotinfrequentlyduringthedifficultyearshespentinParis;butIdonotsupposeIshouldeverhavesetdownmyrecollectionsifthehazardsofthewarhadnottakenmetoTahiti.There,asisnotorious,hespentthelastyearsofhislife;andthereIcameacrosspersonswhowerefamiliarwithhim.Ifindmyselfinapositiontothrowlightonjustthatpartofhistragiccareerwhichhasremainedmostobscure.IftheywhobelieveinStrickland’sgreatnessareright,thepersonalnarrativesofsuchasknewhiminthefleshcanhardlybesuperfluous.WhatwouldwenotgiveforthereminiscencesofsomeonewhohadbeenasintimatelyacquaintedwithElGrecoasIwaswithStrickland?

           ButIseekrefugeinnosuchexcuses.Iforgetwhoitwasthatrecommendedmenfortheirsoul’sgoodtodoeachdaytwothingstheydisliked:itwasawiseman,anditisapreceptthatIhavefollowedscrupulously;foreverydayIhavegotupandIhavegonetobed.Butthereisinmynatureastrainofasceticism,andIhavesubjectedmyflesheachweektoamoreseveremortification.IhaveneverfailedtoreadtheLiterarySupplementofTheTimes.Itisasalutarydisciplinetoconsiderthevastnumberofbooksthatarewritten,thefairhopeswithwhichtheirauthorsseethempublished,andthefatewhichawaitsthem.

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