That was it. Gauguin was like the Marquesans of his, of my, village of Atuona. Their old gods were dead, and they perished of the lack of spiritual substance.
Le Moine was to go mad, and to die, as I would have if I had not fled. The air was one of death.
“Le soleil autrefois qui l’enflammait l’endort
D’un sommeil désolé d’affreux sursauts de rêve,
Et l’effroi du futur remplit les yeux de l’Eve.
Dorée: elle soupire en regardant son sein,
Or, stérile scellé par les divins desseins.”
When I returned to America and wrote of Gauguin, I received a letter from his son:
... novel couldn’t hurt Gauguin as an artist. We men aren’t insulted when apes yelp at us; but we are sometimes obliged to live amongst them, so when you defend Gauguin against the quadrumanes, you make it easier for his son to move in their midst.
I therefore thank you and beg you to believe me your most grateful friend and admirer,