Atolls of the Sun

by Frederick O'Brien

Gauguin’s residence was a half-mile away from Vernier’s. Two years he had lived there after ten in Tahiti. Always disappointment, always bodily suffering, and the reaction from alcohol and drugs; an invalid a dozen years.

“He was a savage, but a charming man,” said Pastor Vernier to me. “I could have nothing to say to him, ordinarily, and he did not seek me out. He had no respect for the law and less for the bon Dieu. The Catholics especially he quarreled with, for he made a caricature of the Bishop, and of a native woman, about whom there was a current scandal. It was common talk, and the natives laughed uproariously, which angered the bishop greatly. It was unfit to be seen by a savage. You can imagine it!

“I had not seen him for some time when I had a note from Gauguin, scrawled on a piece of wrapping-paper. It said:

“Will it be asking too much for you to come to see me? My sight is all of a sudden leaving me. I am very ill, and cannot move.”

“I went down the trail to his house, and found Mouth of God with him, as also the old Tioka. His legs were terribly ulcerated. He had on a red loin-cloth and a green tam-o’-shanter cap. His skin was as red as fire from the eczema he had long been afflicted with, and the pain must have been very severe. He shut his lips tight at moments, but he did not groan. He talked of art for an hour or two, passionately advocating his ideas, and without reference to his approaching end. I think he sent for me for conversation and no more. It was then he presented me with books and his portrait of Mallarmé.

“We chatted long and I was filled with admiration for the courage of Gauguin and his prepossession with painting, at the expense of his doleur. About a fortnight later I went back when Tioka summoned me, and found him worse, but still forgetful of everything else but his art. It was the eighth of May Tioka came again. Gauguin now was in agony. He had had periods of unconsciousness. He must have known his danger, but he talked fitfully of Flaubert and of Poe, of ‘Salammbô’ and of ‘Nevermore.’ When I said adieu he was praising Poe as the greatest poet in English.

“A few hours afterward I heard the shouts of the natives that Gauguin was dead.

“‘Haoe mate!’ they called to me. ‘The white is dead.’

“I found Gauguin on his cot, one leg hanging down to the floor. Tioka was urging him in Marquesan to speak, and was rubbing his chest. I took his arms and tried to cause respiration, but in vain. He was already beginning to grow cold. Do you know, Monsieur Americain, that the vicar went down there at night before I was aware of it, and, though Gauguin despised him and his superstitions, forced an entrance and, had the body carried to the Catholic Cemetery, with mass, candles, and other mummeries.”

The good Vicar, Père David, had another tale. He told it over our wine at the mission. My House of the Golden Bed was but the toss of a mango away, and we often discussed the fathers, especially Anthony, Jerome, and Francis of Assisi.