Waylao Off Colour—Our Trip to Tahiti—Papeete at Night—The drowned
Native Girl—Her Obsequies—A Humorous Creed
WAYLO returned home after her experience in that harem mosque with
several of her illusions slightly damaged. But though the
materialisation of her dreams did not correspond with the romance of her
old South Sea novels, she was too infatuated with Abduh to break away
from him.
All that I know about the matter, or knew then, is, that old Lydia sold
me one dozen new-laid eggs next morning.
“Where’s Waylao?” said I.
“She poor sick girls this longer time; she lie bed late in morning. Nice
sun over mountain, allee samee she no wake.”
The native woman then told me that Benbow was due home from sea in a
week or so, and, in native fashion, did a little dance to express her
delight.
The same day Grimes and I sailed from Tai-o-hae on a short trip. We had
secured a berth on a small trading schooner bound for Tahiti. I remember
that we called in at Papeete, stopping one day and night. The old
capital by moonlight looked like some mighty enchanted castle in ruins,
the starlit vault, for roof, spread like a mighty dome inland. Plumed
palms and beautiful tropical groves grew along its wide floors, which
climbed to the rugged mountain terraces rising to the blue midnight
heavens. Its dimly lit streets appeared like faeryland. Dusky figures,
robed in many-coloured, semi-barbaric materials, flitted beneath the
moonlit palms, singing songs in a strange tongue. As curiosity drew
one’s steps nearer, it was evident that they were handsome feminine
figures with luminous eyes, running down palm-sheltered streets on soft
feet. In the adjoining spaces, backed by the first little houses of the
native hamlet, danced French sailors, embracing voluptuous girls. They
looked like puppets as they shuffled their feet and were held in the
arms of those splendid, semi-savage women. The dusky Eves wore flowers
in their hair, and as each couple whirled gracefully, the French
sailor’s peaked cap on the side of his head, a pungent smell of cognac
drifted on the zephyrs to our nostrils.
We heard soft whisperings: “Yoranna, monsoo-aire! [monsieur] Awai!
Awai!”
Then came the tinkle of a zither and fiddle, accompanied by melodious
laughter as the dance proceeded. “Sacré!” hissed some jealous Frenchman
as Mira Moe, the belle of the ball, went with his pal into the Parisian
café just by, under the South Sea palms.
In the morning all had vanished like a dream of faeryland. The Broom
Road and the scattered white houses on the slopes, the busy,
gesticulating gendarmes and stalwart, tawny hawkers made the scene
appear quite a commercial centre.
We were obliged to leave that little Babylon of the South, for our boat
stopped there only two days, returning straight to Nuka Hiva.
When Grimes and I arrived back at that grog shanty near Tai-o-hae, we
were enthusiastically welcomed by the shellbacks, who thought we had
gone away for good.
Before we had been back many hours a dead native girl was found in the
lagoon, about half-a-mile from the shanty. She had a pretty face, with
the hair floating about it as we pulled her out of the water. The mouth
looked as though she was quietly crying to herself though she was dead.
Neither Grimes nor I were used to death in those days. We were both very
depressed after the incident, though the tribe of the drowned girl had a
great festival in commemoration of the sad event.
At first it struck me as incongruous that they should beat drums and
sing weird _himees_ to the gods who had received the ill-fated girl’s
soul. Those jovial lamentations were in striking contrast to the
woebegone faces and wails of the Christian choirs of natives who
attended the tin-roofed chapel by Calaboose Hill. I was hired as
violinist for the burial ceremony of that dead girl. Two Yankee
missionaries sang a _Te Deum_ (so they called it). I extemporised an
_obligato_ on the violin. It was the world’s most woeful sight as they
opened their mouths and sang some American hallelujah—and fifty natives
groaned in unison to the mournful strain.
I cannot help thinking that the world’s religion should be inspired by
the soul of laughter. The more sombre a creed is, the sadder are those
who kneel in true belief at its altar. Hypocrisy has become such a fine
art that even the hypocrite believes earnestly in the hypocrite. It
would be more truly religious if the personification of a great creed’s
deity were some glorious, Punch-like figure with eyes agog with infinite
humour—something that represented humanity in some universal dance,
flitting along arm in arm, in imitation of the dancing spheres! Think of
the glory of temples crammed with jolly-faced old men of the priesthood,
opening their mouths in side-splitting laughter as they sang: “Glory to
God the Great Unhurried—Glory to the Infinite Humorist, the Eternal
Grin—the Omniscient Eyes of Eternal Merriment guiding the song-swept
nations!” Would not such an _opéra bouffe_ religion and existence be
sweeter than the pangs of the martyrs and the universal moan that
announces the hope of salvation?
I feel sure such a creed would have met with success in the
heathen-lands and brightened the Southern Seas with happiness and
sincere belief. Just think, reader, of the mournful disciples of our
creed arriving suddenly in the South Seas, and then imagine the arrival
of a priesthood of funny old Bacchuses, Punch-and-Judy men singing
bacchanalian songs, dancing up the sea-shores convulsed with laughter! I
have deep suspicions that many of the heathen creeds were founded on
some such idea. When I returned from that burial service many of the
tribal chiefs were still dancing by the grog shanty door, joyously
jigging off the fag-end of their memorial service for one who had
entered the Kingdom of Heathenland! Though the hour was very late, we
could still see them dancing with happy, semi-heathen maids beneath the
starlit palms as we sat by the shanty door.
“Ain’t half enjoying themselves!” remarked Grimes.
“Yes, they’re happy enough in their way,” said I, as I thought of their
wooden idols grinning from ear to ear, agape with life’s subtle joke. I
said: “Grimes, I’m sure those heathens afford the Almighty more
amusement than Europeans do.”
“That’s so!” said my comrade, who fell asleep as I philosophised. I
poked him in the ribs in sheer disgust.
Then someone twanged a banjo and burst into drunken song.
“White wings they neveeer grow wearrrry,” was gurgled out.
“Tink-er-ty-pomp—tum-tum-tiddle-te-tum! rrrrrrrrrrrh! ter-ra-te-rrip!”
went the banjo strings, till silence came over the slopes, for it was
very late. Even the stars were off indoors as the moon rose on the
seaward horizon. One by one the beachcombers stole back to the shore,
back to the promontory where lay the derelict hulk. Its tattered,
arm-like sails seemed to flutter as though with delight at our
companionship, as we stole down into its bowels, once more to sleep and
dream.
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