|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcjc
 

and the faun. I thought of Marsyaswhom the god flayed because he had dared to rival him in song. Strickland
seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patternsand I foresaw for him an end of
torture and despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that it was a
devil of evilfor it was a primitive force that existed before good and ill.
He was still too weak to paintand he sat in the studiosilentoccupied with God knows what dreamsor
reading. The books he liked were queer; sometimes I would find him poring over the poems of Mallarmeand
he read them as a child readsforming the words with his lipsand I wondered what strange emotion he got
from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases; and again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of
Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable
sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought
for its comfort. Stroeve liked his easeand in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a
large divan. Strickland would not go near themnot from any affectatyilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmffw