my own race? Was I not borne down the ravine by a young giant, sleek and supple as a bronzed Greek god, who held me captive in his Indian lodge till I surfeited on bread-fruits and plaintain and cocoanut milk? And then did we not part with a pangone of those pangs that always leave a memory and a scar?" Furthermore, as he goes on to claim, "this happened not once, but often" (ITD 20)which, if true, suggests that as he wandered from village to village, his reputation may well have preceded him.
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How long did Stoddard luxuriate in these "mysteries undreamed of?" His answer is: "Well: Really, I cannot tell you. No one kept tally . . . and, as for pinning me down to so fine a point, I'd as soon think of someone who had been in Paradise for a while suddenly sitting up and asking: 'What time is it?'" (ITD 3 3). In fact, Stoddard stayed in Tahiti less than three months, and his stay, moreover, was not one long honeymoon.
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There are other aspects to this story that range, in Stoddard's fictional rendering, from the darkly humorous to the pathetic. Stoddard's only friend during the first week in Papeete was an imbecilic, misshapen cripple he called "Taboo." With this fellow outcast he took in the sights of the Fête Napoléon on August 15; but after a while Taboo, who could only grunt, became a rather depressing sort of companion ("TabooA Fete-Day in Tahiti," SSI). When his money began to run out, Stoddard appealed to the local Catholic church, to which he was always to turn in times of extremity. The bishop, however, gave only "a blessing, an autograph, and a 'God speed'" (SSI348). In desperation Stoddard took a menial job with a French merchant, in whose chicken coop he was allowed to sleep. Not feeling up to the task of hauling sacks of potatoes, he soon quit. Eventually his clothes were in rags, and he was so downcast that he was tempted to throw himself into the oceanexcept that he was afraid of the water ("A Prodigal in Tahiti," SSI). 21
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One day the American consul stopped Stoddard on the street and suggested that he think about going home. The Chevert was about to sail, and if Stoddard could promise that his fare would be paid when he reached San Francisco, he could sail with it. Stoddard made this promise, much to the pleasure of the consul, who said he was going to be making the trip as well. Once on board, Stoddard sensed that the tables had been turned: now it was the consul who was trying to be charming. It all began when Stoddard was airing the contents of his trunk on the deck: there were his dainty souvenirs, his beloved copy of Leaves of
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