“Mon ami,” said the shaggy man, “I go to church, and you and I and Gauguin are the same kind of Catholic. We don't do what we pray for. That man was smarter than you or me, and the good God will forgive him whatever he did. He paid everybody, and Chassognal of Papeite found seven hundred francs in a book where he had carelessly laid it. If he drank, he shared it, and he paid his women.”
“He was an atheist,” persisted Le Moine.
“Atheist!” echoed Baufré. “He believed in making beautiful pictures, and he was not afraid of God or of the mission. How do you know what God likes? Mathieu Scallamera built the church here and the mission houses, and he is dead, and all his family are lepers. Did God do that? Non! Non! You and I know nothing about that. You like to drink. Your woman is tattooed, and we are both men and bad. Come and have a drink?”
We left him beside the road and walked slowly beneath the arch of trees toward the mountain whose summit was crowned by the white cross of Calvary graveyard.
“He drank too much, he took morphine, he was mortally ill, and yet he painted. Those chaps who have to have leisure and sandal-wood censors might learn from that man,” said Le Moine. “He was a pagan and he saw nature with the eyes of a pagan god, and he painted it as he saw it.”
I reminded him of James Huneker's words about Gauguin: “He is yet for the majority, though he may be the Paint God of the Twentieth century. Paint was his passion. With all his realism, he was a symbolist, a master of decoration.”
Past the governor's mansion, we turned sharply up the hill. Apart from all other dwellings, on a knoll, stood a Marquesan house. As we followed the steep trail past it, I called, “Kaoha!”
“I hea?” said a woman, “Karavario? Where do you go? To Calvary?”
There was a sad astonishment in her tone, that we should make the arduous climb to the cemetery where no dead of ours lay interred.
A fairly broad trail wound about the hill, the trail over which the dead and the mourners go, and the way was through a vast cocoanut-orchard, the trees planted with absolute regularity lifting their waving fronds seventy or eighty feet above the earth. There was no underbrush between the tall gray columns of the palms, only a twisted vegetation covered the ground, and the red volcanic soil of the trail, cutting through the green, was like a smear of blood.