Père Siméon was seated at a table under an umbrageous hao tree, writing. He was in a frayed and soiled cassock of black. His hair was white, and his beard grizzled, both long and uncut and flowing over his religious gown. His face was broad and rubicund, and his remarkable eyes—a deep, shining brown, eyes of childish faith—proclaimed him poet and artist. Aged, he had yet the strength and heartiness of middle age, and when I greeted him he rose and kissed me with warmth.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “Monsieur O’Brien, you have returned to hear more of Jeanne d’Arc, is not that so? You have been too long in Atuona. You should stay in Taiohae, and see what we have here. We go along well. Joan of Arc looks after us.”
We entered the sitting-room of the mission, and were soon with a bottle of wine, and cigarettes, in a discussion of affairs.
I asked to see any recent poems he had written, and, blushingly, he handed me the paper over which he had been bending.
“There has been an excess of drinking recently,” he said ruefully, as he took a sip of his mild claret. I read his stanzas aloud:
“Comment peut-on pour un moment d’ivresse,
Par le démon se laisser entrainer?
Que de regrets suivraient cette faiblesse!
Je n’ai qu’une âme et je veux la sauver.
“Oh! que je crains la perte de mon âme!