Once again in Papeete, we met the Swiss of the Noa-Noa who had intended to eat raw foods in the Marquesas.  He was to return to America on the next steamer.

“De wegetables in Tahiti have no wim in dem,” he said.  “In California I ead nudds und raisins mit shtrent’ in dem.  I go back.”

The fighter pointed out the “cryzy” Frenchman of Eden.  He was the customs employee who had provoked the American consul by refusing to understand English.

I asked M. Lontane, the second in command of the police, why Darling had gone.

The hero of the battle of the limes, coal, and potatoes, looked at me fiercely.

“Is the French republic to permit here in its colony the whites who enjoy its hospitality to shame the nation before the Tahitians by their nakedness?  That sacree bete wore a pareu in town because the law compelled him to, but, monsieur, on the road, in his aerial resort, he and all his disciples were as naked as—­”

“I have seen artistes at the music-halls of Paris,” I finished.

“Exactement,” he spluttered.  “Are we to let Tahiti rival Paris?”

Ivan Stroganoff I met two or three times a month.  He stayed in his chicken-coop except when the opportunities came for gaining a few francs, at steamer-time, and when sheer boredom drove him to Papeete for converse.  With his dislike for the natives and his disdainful attitude toward the French, he had to seek other nationals in town, for there were none at Fa’a except a Chinese storekeeper.  Stroganoff at eighty was as keen for interesting things as a young man, but his philosophy was fatal to his enjoyment.  He saw the flaw in the diamond the sunbeam made of the drop of water on the leaf.  He had lived too long and was too wise in disappointments.  He was generous in his poverty, for he brought me a tin of guava-jelly he had made and a box of dried bananas.  These had had their skins removed, and were black and not desirable-looking, but they were delicious and rare.  In turn, not wishing to exaggerate the difference between our means, I gave him a box of cigars I had brought from America.  I visited him at Fa’a, and found his coop had been a poultry shelter, and was humble, indeed; but I had slept a hundred nights in many countries in worse.  He had a box for a table for eating and writing, and a rude cot.  A few dishes and implements, and a roost of books and reviews in Russian, English, French, German, and other languages, completed his equipment.

He had several times reiterated his earnest wish to leave Tahiti, and his longing rested heavily on my heart.  Upon lying down at night I had felt my own illiberality in not making it possible for him to realize his desire.  A hundred dollars would send him there, with enough left over for a fortnight’s keep.  But my apology for not buying him a ticket was the real fear of his unhappiness.  What could a friendless man of eighty do to exist in the United States other than become the inmate of a poorhouse?  The best he could hope for would be to be taken in by the Little Sisters of the Poor, who house a few old men.  They were, doubtless, kind, but probably insistent on neatness and religiosity.