In Tai-o-hae—I come across a Widowed Marquesan Queen—Am
received with Dignity—The Artistic Tattoo on Loi
Vakamoa’s Royal Person—The Queen tells how she was
married to a certain Martin Smith of New South Wales—An
aged Queen’s Vanity—A Heathen Necropolis.
The seas I’ve roamed, hypocrisy I hate:
God grafted in my soul the fire of song.
On life’s dark hills I’ve wrestled, fought with Fate.
Here in South Seas, still young, I jog along,
’neath strange stars dream as low the banyan bends
O’er heathens singing by their huts—my friends!
We call them heathens, well, ’tis habit most.
King Mafeleto is my royal friend:
His ancestors, ’tis true, did eat on toast
Their mortal enemies, but Heaven defend
That I should judge men by their long-past crimes—
We White Men, too, have had some fine old times.
They’re chanting pagan songs by their hut-fires;
At each full breast clings one sweet tiny mouth,
Their busy babes, unsatisfied desires,
Eyes sparkling starlight of the sea-nursed South!
As down the forest track from hut to hut
Pass natives, clad in half a coco-nut!
I RECALL the memory of a Marquesan royal person who stands out in my
recollection with unusual vividness.
Whilst wandering, during one of my troubadouring expeditions north-west
of Tai-o-hae, I came across a small, semi-pagan, tribal citadel of huts
on the lower mountain slopes. It was a romantic and picturesque scene.
The scattered bird-cage huts, made of twisted bamboo and nestling in the
hollows, that were shaded by feathery palms, intensified the enchantment
of the secluded forest empire. I know that the glad reception which I
received from the whole population when I entered the high bamboo
stockade gate, my two native boys ahead of me, was as impressive as it
was pleasing to me. The two boys in question were Palao and Sango,
neither of them more than ten years of age. But they were invaluable
guides, considering the benefit their protection afforded my unarmed
person, for they were able to converse in the difficult Marquesan
tongue, and could explain my wishes and friendly attributes.
I was always careful in those days, and contrived that Palao and Sango
should move ahead of me as my advance guard, thus leaving me in the
immediate rear, ready for flight. The tribes about that part were
supposed to be friendly, but my nerves were a bit unsettled through
hearing that two sailors had been murdered in a tribal village ten miles
to the eastward. Indeed, more than once I had been welcomed by the
sudden appearance of fierce warriors with raised war-clubs and other
strange implements of combat, which gave due notice that intruders were
not to call at that particular moment! Possibly a tribal battle had been
on, and had ended in the demise of a young warrior or so, and
consequently a happy cannibal festival was in progress. Hence, no
admission to the tribal stronghold for white men unless they happened to
call on the most secretive and intimate terms.
Seeing only the smiling faces of chiefesses and chiefs welcoming me from
the ambush of multi-coloured flowers by the lagoon mangroves, I saw that
I had arrived at an opportune moment. “Aloah! Alli, Papalagi!” came from
the lips of the assembled natives as I placed my violin to my chin and
commenced to perform an old Marquesan _himine_.
The effect was magical: out of the leafy shadows and the hut doorways
rushed the whole population, so it seemed to me, their faces bright with
delight. It was a sight worth travelling many miles to see: tawny, oval,
elongated, scarred, serious, and handsome faces, with original-looking
eyes of varied brilliance, stared at me. A few tattooed warriors, clad
in lava-lava and palm-leaf head-gear, leaned against the coco-palm stems
regarding me with fixed, cynical-looking eyes. I did not like the look
of them at all, but they turned out to be harmless enough. They were
simply the old conservatives of heathen times, who instinctively
resented the intrusion of white men into their sylvan demesne. Flocks of
pretty boys and girls, of a pale walnut-polished hue, clambered at the
picturesque _ramias_ (native skirts) of their deep-bosomed mothers,
gazing with half-frightened stare as my violin bow swept forth the
wailing strains. I must have looked like some Pied Piper as I marched
across the wide _rara_ (village green), with Palao and Sango singing
lustily, one on each side of me. That pagan mountain village was part of
a true wonderland of the wine-dark seas. I am unable to describe the
bright-eyed glances of those pretty Nausicaas and Circés who crept from
the Elysium-like shadows of heathenland and stared at me as I passed by.
Two stalwart chiefs, who were nibbling my present of tobacco plug, led
the way; they were taking me straight to the palace building wherein
dwelt their tribal queen. This palatial stronghold was constructed of
coral stone and was surrounded by a wide verandah that was again
sheltered by the beautiful pauroa and tamunu trees. Entering the palace,
I found myself in a low-roofed apartment. On the walls hung the polished
skulls of fallen warriors who had been renowned for bravery in their
day. Magnificently woven tappa-mats covered the polished floors and the
barbarian furniture. I noticed two cases of gin and one empty rum barrel
standing right in the centre of the apartment. They were given that
conspicuous position, I believe, because rum and gin denoted all that
was immense wealth in the eyes of the Marquesan race. But what struck me
as the most interesting piece of barbarian antiquity was the strange
woman who presided over that palatial residence. She looked as old as
her palm-clad native hills, and I discovered that she was one of the
surviving queens of the many who had once reigned over the small
dynasties of the Marquesan group. I had never seen her like before; her
physiognomy was unique and decidedly pleasing-looking. She might easily
have been some happy personification of Death itself as she sat there
and saluted me:
“Aloah! Papalagi, you wanter see me am?”
“Oui! Aloah Majesty Imperialess,” I responded, as I made an effort and
bowed the knee to her. I had visited Queen Vaekehu, who still reigned
supreme in her old age down on the lower slopes by Calaboose Hill, and
so I knew how to gain the appreciation of those heathen ex-Queens.
Vaekehu was a masterpiece in the tattoo line, but I can assure you that
ex-Queen Loi Vakamoa, for the sheer hieroglyphic-tattooed beauty that
adorned her limbs and shoulders, could stand unrivalled throughout the
North and South Pacific.
After addressing me, she left her squatting-mat just by her gin barrel,
and majestically mounted what I imagine was her throne (a lot of old
sea-chests and gin-cases covered with tappa-cloth). I did my level best
to make myself pleasant, played the violin, drank some bitter stuff, and
took a keen interest in all she said. Sitting up there on her old box
throne, her profile reminded me of those old-fashioned engravings of
Queen Elizabeth of England. The sensual curves, once so pronounced, had
shrunk with her lips; but the beak-like nose—tattooed with tiny
semi-circles from the bridge down to the cheeks—gave her a somewhat
melancholy aspect. The only perceptible determinedness of the face was
the sharp outline of the nose, which somehow suggested that its owner
would meet the accumulating calamities of age with commendable
aggressiveness. Yet her demeanour was affable in the extreme. Never
before had I beheld a face that so sadly expressed the aftermath of all
that had been and at the same time told of a bitter forlornness through
senescence of frame and mind. The devious shruggings of her shoulders,
the pathetic semi-amorous glances, and the many hints that she gave
whilst striving to convince me of her once mighty Queenship and physical
beauty, were positively painful to my mind. After giving me a goblet of
whisky and lime-juice, which I must admit was refreshing, we seemed to
become more confidential with each other. She took Palao by the arm and
got him to tell her where he had met me, and much that I, of course,
could not make out. By many direct hints she let me know that she had
enjoyed a vast plurality of husbands.
“I been wifer to many kinks!” she said.
Most of what she said was translated to me by Palao as I politely sipped
the peculiar beverage that she herself handed me. I hardly knew which
way to glance as she gabbled on and Palao translated and I listened.
Suddenly she acquainted me with the fact that she had been wedded more
than twice to white men of distinction! She saw the look of surprise on
my face. Perhaps she thought I doubted her, for she lifted the lid of a
small sandal-wood box and brought forth a yellowish, very faded sheet of
foolscap paper.
“Savvy, Papalagi?” she almost whimpered, as I read on. (And her eyes
were shining with pride all the while.)
And so I perused the following marriage lines:
“This dokerment is to certify that Old Man Martin Smith of
Woolloomooloo, New Sarth Wales, has from the dated day of this
dokerment, 14th Feb. 1861, become the lawful husband of Queen
Loi Vakamoa of this yere Isles and several more isles to the
sarthwards. The foresaid Queen agrees to hand over all her
monies and prufits she gits from her copra plantations and
howsomeever monies she gits hold on whilst the aforesaid John
Martin Smith remains King. And it is agreed that John Smith can
have a safe passage in the old ship’s boat, free from any cursed
interference by the late dethroned King Kai Le Tua Vakamoa and
his b— heathen chiefs at any such time as he wants to quit this
yere Isles and his dominions and go back to his lawful Missus,
Maltida Sarah Martin Smith of Kansas City, Merica.
“Signed by QUEEN
————————— (_Signature_).
“Old Man MARTIN SMITH, Bridegroom and King.
“_Witness_,—JONATHAN BRIGGS, late Cook of S.S. ‘Albatross,’ who
hereby claims 25 per cent. on all profits accruing from the
aforesaid wedding.”
So ran the wording of all that may be published here of John Smith’s
marriage lines. My accumulated experiences of such hearties as John
Smith and Jonathan Briggs, Esq., gave me an idea as to the fine old
times those two noble papalagis had in their sojourn on those isles to
the southward during their brief kingship. But no hint of all I imagined
was visible on my countenance when I handed the tattered document back
to the smiling ex-queen. At this moment a hideous, aged Chinaman poked
his face in the palace doorway and surveyed me with surprised,
yellowish, vicious eyes. I wondered who he was, what relationship
existed between him and the Queen, that he could so impertinently thrust
his ugly physiognomy into the doorway like that. The next moment he had
gone, and I saw him no more, though I heard him gabbling as he drove off
the flocks of children who persistently crowded by the palace door,
waiting till I should come out again. And still the Queen spoke on.
Palao patiently translated her tales of departed lovers for my
inquisitive ears. Seeing my curiosity, her eyes gleamed with delight,
her two remaining frontal teeth, fitting fork-like into the gaps between
the two teeth of the lower jaw, gave a sardonic look to her face as she
sat there. She wore a peculiar garb too: the remnant of some old
European skirt swathed her frame, but was cut very short, ending just
above the knees. On her head was an old hat that had once been a
fashionable Parisian bonnet. Possibly this hat had been presented to her
by one of the French officials.
As I boldly surveyed her limbs she drew one tawny finger along the faded
blue curves and stripes of tattoo. From all that she vigorously hinted,
those tattoo marks were historic representations that denoted the
insignia and coats-of-arms of the tribes wherein she had married. “What
may that mean, Palao?” I said, as I glanced curiously at her anatomy,
and observed impressionistic figures of muscular men, some standing in a
gladiatorial attitude, spear in hand and face uplifted. And then,
listening carefully to all that Palao had to say, I made out that they
were a few of the ex-queen’s old lovers—men who had won her love in
years gone by and died in some great tribal battle that had been led by
some mighty chief who also yearned for her impassioned embrace! As my
faithful Palao and Sango translated these things to me (and more than
once cast their eyes in shame to the palace floor), it seemed like a
dream that I should be standing in that coral-built place listening to
the memories that remained in that old woman’s brain. A great deal that
she said sounded to my ears “not quite the thing.” But I am not one who
is too squeamish or critical over the moral codes that exist outside the
dominions of my own land. As she gazed up into my face, and her aged
lips quivered in the emotion she felt over her wild reminiscences, I
took the extended, shrivelled hand, and, with some emotional idea of all
that she once had been, gallantly kissed it! After that, her
conversation suddenly changed to a subtle delivery of phrases in pigeon
English. I slowly gathered that she was telling me of wondrous
presentations she had received from her past lovers, and how they had
each in turn recognized the great honour conferred upon them by _her_
acceptance of their manifold gifts. Before I had gathered the true
import of what she was driving at, she was beseeching me to hand over my
violin to her. I remained obdurate. What on earth she wanted my
instrument for, Heaven knows. Possibly she was childish, and so, like a
child, would have it as a toy.
She invited me to go out into the palace grounds. She led the way. Her
garden was cultivated. Pineapples, tomatoes, taro, oranges, yams, and
many tropical fruits grew in abundance around me. By the shade of the
buttressed banyans, at the far end of the cleared space, stood a huge
wooden idol. It was a hideous thing: one large tooth protruded from its
wide, slit, crocodile-like mouth, where in and out crawled fat insects
with tortoise-shell-hued wings (I think they were big ants). Though the
Queen wore a Catholic medallion on her bosom, and had told me that “She
belonger Popey God, and was all-e-samee great Cliston womans,” I
distinctly saw her aged form give a bow of heathenish reverence as we
both stood in front of that monstrous heathen deity! It stood nearly
seven feet high, and standing there as some representation of infinity,
the hopelessness of creeds and all the ills and mockery of human
existence, it was a magnificent bit of perfection. When we returned into
the small palace, it was dusk. “Salaba!” called Vakamoa in a wheezy
voice. In a moment I heard the shuffling of running feet, and then a
beautiful Marquesan maid, robed in tappa-cloth, flowers, and threaded
shells, appeared before me. She gazed on me with a quizzical lustrous
gleam in her eyes. This maid interested me because of her European-like
features. I saw her place her fingers into the folds of her thick
tresses to see that the hibiscus blossoms were still tastefully
arranged, in much the same way as a vanity-stricken English maid might
do. In a few moments this serving-maid, for such she was, lit up all the
tiny hanging coco-nut-oil lamps in the apartment, then she went away and
left Vakamoa and myself alone.
Squatting on the mats, I did as she bade me, and commenced to play my
violin. She seemed very pleased with the English melodies that I
performed, and once or twice mumbled as I played.
“You liker see me dance?” she said. Then she hummed a little _himine_
and asked me to play it. Had I not seen that old woman career round that
low-roofed chamber as she danced some old barbarian rhythm, I would
never have believed it possible. So astonished was I, that I forgot my
part of the business and stopped playing. “Alo! Alo!” (Go on! Go on!)
she said, almost fiercely. In a moment I placed my instrument to my
chin, and once more fired away. The hanging lamps along the roof-beams
swayed to and fro as her skirt swished violently, and her stiff legs
made such movements that it is impossible to describe them. “If this is
how she goes on in the dry leaf what _did_ she do in the green?” was my
reflection, as her bony legs went up with a bound, and then right over
my head! I’ve no wish to exaggerate in the description of it all; only
those who have seen the fetish frenzy of an aged barbarian woman under
the influence of whisky (for so I concluded she must be) will know what
I saw that night! I had no alternative but to go through with it. As she
leapt over me her toes caught in my hair and withdrew some by the roots!
But I did not budge an inch; I simply played for dear life, as it were.
I knew that she was a heathen, that she was old and childish and not
responsible for her actions. I also recalled many things that O Le Langi
had told me about heathen women’s mad ways when they grow old and
realize the loss of their beauty. “She can’t go on much longer,” I
thought, as she bounded round the room, lifting her scraggy arms and
chanting in a weird manner. True enough, she slowed down after the
fiftieth round, and then sat panting beside me. After that exhibition, I
did my best to keep on the right side of her. I handed her a piece of
tobacco plug that I, fortunately, had in my pocket. And, though it was
my last piece of tobacco, I felt well repaid for its loss by the evident
pleasure the gift gave her. She immediately twisted a lump off and
placed it in her large corn-cob pipe, then struck a match on the boniest
portion of her anatomy, and started to puff vigorously at my gift.
After that I withdrew as hastily as possible from her chamber. Palao and
Sango re-entered and prostrated themselves at her feet. This pleased her
immensely. Going down the mossy pathway that led to the stockade gate, I
turned my head and waved two or three farewell salutations. The last I
saw of her was as she stood by her door, her forked teeth close together
as she grinned with pleasure at thinking I should return on the morrow!
But I did not return again. And I may say here, that I have always felt
more at ease in the presence of old native men than in the presence of
native women, be they waiting-women or ex-queens.
Before I left the immediate precincts of that bungalow, which Vakamoa
styled her “palace,” I strolled into the tiny coral-fenced clearing by
the plateau of the mountain slopes. It was the lonely place where the
tribe buried their dead. I gazed for a little time on the strange
tomb-stones, and tried to make out the inscriptions that apparently
commemorated the past virtues of kings and chiefs who had passed into
shadowland. Notwithstanding the feathery palms and the glimpse of the
far-away, moonlit, tumbling seas, it was a forlorn place. And now,
doubtlessly, that discarded Queen Vakamoa has long since dissolved, with
all her pride of past queenship, into a little dust, and a lump of
memorial coral tells where she lies in that tiny, barbarian necropolis.
* * * * *
Next day I accepted the invitation of Palao to stop in his father’s
bungalow near the shore. I had had enough adventure for the time being,
and so was extremely pleased to romp with the native children and listen
to their wonderful fairy-tales. For be it noted that those children had
their Hans Andersens and Grimms, just as we have. I’ll tell one of the
stories in the next chapter.
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