beautiful shores of “Nuka Hiva.” Far away the whitening waves, tossing
on the reefs, faded as the sunset struck the inland forest palms and
mountain ranges, and then the stars came out and overhead the song of
the sails started to sing and once more I was at sea. It was a long
voyage; we called at the Caroline Islands, and after an absence of quite
five months I once more arrived at Samoa, and got paid off by the
skipper and stopped in Apia, resting myself for several weeks, spending
my days in violin-studying and calling on the storekeepers. Afterwards I
went to Upolu, and while strolling by the cedar-trees that skirted the
shore forest I met Robert Louis Stevenson. “Hello, young man,” he said,
as I looked up and recognised him, “are you still living here?” “No,” I
answered, “I’ve been to the Marquesas, and Fiji, in fact all over the
place.” I told him of the chieftain Hafiao who had told me that
Stevenson had bowed the knee to him. He was extremely amused at all I
told him, and I got to like him exceedingly as he began to talk in an
earnest way about the Island customs and what the home folks would think
of life in the South Seas and the women, for as we strolled along some
pretty native girls went by with baskets of fish, their lava-lavas on,
their bare brown bodies shining in the sunlight. We stopped them and
R.L.S. bought one of the baskets of fish and invited me to his friend’s
house, and I went with him and stayed and had supper and entertained
them with the violin. I think the gentleman whom he was staying with
then was an American, and had something to do with the Legation offices.
I had a very pleasant time, and felt extremely at home with the earnest
kind-faced man who has added such interest to the sad romance of Samoa,
for as the world knows he died there and was buried on the top of Vaea
Mountain, and to this day that mountain is looked upon as a sacred spot
by the Samoans who loved R. L. Stevenson, and the natives never hunt or
fire guns or shoot the birds that roam and sing by that mighty
sepulchre, for it is their faith that his songs are still being sung by
the birds as the years go by and he sleeps on that mountain top.
But to go back to the invitation which I had to supper.
I had a most enjoyable evening; there was a Mr Herd also in the party.
The house was only a one-storey dwelling-place, and the room wherein we
dined a large dim-lit place with two windows facing seaward. The
overhead hanging lamp-glass had been smashed through the clumsiness of
the native girls who waited at the table, and I was deeply thankful that
they had done so, for I was pretty shabby and threadbare at that time,
and the gloom made me feel more at ease as I sipped my wine and had very
little to say, having no confidence in myself through the knowledge that
R.L.S. was a writer of books. He seemed in a good mood as he sat at the
other side of the table in his white duck suit, his lean bare throat
moving above his loose low shirt collar as he and his friends spoke of
their experiences in the Islands and bubbled over with laughter. The
native girls, attired in fringed ridis and tappu cloth reaching from
their breasts, and down to their bare knees, rushed round the table
waving palm leaves to create a breeze, and repulse the mosquito droves
that made desperate attempts to get their share by dining off us. The
American Legation gentleman seemed to be a jolly customer, and partook
frequently of the whisky.
Robert Louis Stevenson seemed very temperate; he smoked cigarettes and
drank the pure juice of limes, holding them over a glass he squeezed
them in his hand till the glass was nearly full, added whisky and drank
at a gulp, throwing the skins of the limes over the heads of his
friends, out of the open window, only just missing them, and seemed
greatly amused as they dodged. He treated the native girls and boys who
stood around with great kindness, speaking to them as though they were
little children. I think he spoke to them in the native language. They
seemed to know him; after the supper was over, I noticed their good
behaviour and respectfulness, as they crossed their brown hands, closed
their eyes and repeated word for word after R.L.S., as he bowed his head
and said grace.
[Illustration: SOUTH SEA LAGOON]
“Well, Middleton,” he said, as our host sat down to an old American
organ and started playing softly, his feet going up and down ten
revolutions a second, as he pedalled the leaky bellows, “which do you
like the best, the Old Country or the South Seas?”
“Well, for climate and novelty, I like this place, but I often have a
longing for the homeland.”
“So do I. We all love our native land the best at heart,” he said, and I
could see by his expression that his dreams were often overseas, for he
lapsed into silence, threw the cigarette away that he had only just lit,
and placed another one in his mouth, and walked up and down, as was his
habit at times when in conversation with anyone.
I remember that he asked me if I was going back to England again, also
if I liked sea life, and when I told him of some of my bush experiences
he seemed deeply interested, and asked me a good deal about the
Australian blacks. He was greatly interested in their habits, and seemed
to know a lot about their history and wandering instincts, and remarked
upon the great difference between the intellects of the blacks and the
Islanders of the South Seas, as he sat there gazing with his keen
inquiring eyes, fingering his chin as the cool wind drifted through the
open window. I can still vividly remember the delight in his face as he
watched the native servants. I played the violin, accompanied by our
host on the organ, who played by ear, and made up for his indifferent
accompaniment by singing at intervals, as I did my best to entertain.
R.L.S. joined in by humming. We were suddenly disturbed by a jabbering
noise outside, and then the door opened and a native woman, with barely
anything on except the ridi, poked her head and body half in the room
and said something to our host the American, in the Samoan language. It
appeared that he was a medical man, and had been attending her child who
was suffering through influenza, which had become suddenly worse, so she
and a gathering of friends had rushed hurriedly to our host for help.
R.L.S. and I accompanied him, as he quickly shut down the organ lid, and
off we all went out into the night.
Across the forest track we hurried. Like big children, Samoan mothers,
men, and their naked little ones, went running along the moonlit track
in front of us, the wailing mother and father of the sick child
pattering beside us, looking with relieved eyes, because we were white
men, thinking that our different skin made us potent and that all would
be well when the doctor reached their child. We had to walk almost
half-a-mile, and then they all turned off the forest track to the left,
and under the palms, to where stood their large hut homes; bending down
we all entered the sick-room. It was a sweet little mite, emaciated
through chest trouble. Its tiny bones seemed to be all out of place,
protruding under its soft velvety brown skin, as it gazed wistfully up
with small bright fevered eyes, as we all leaned over its small mat bed.
The American tenderly picked her up, gave her physic, and did all that
was best for the infant, then whispered some hopeless opinion to R.L.S.,
who tenderly bent over the little patient, as concerned as though it
were his own child, as he chuckled with his lips, and touched it softly
on the chin with his finger playfully, till it actually looked up at him
and gave a wan smile. The parents fell on their knees delighted, and
started rapidly to say the Lord’s Prayer together as others shouted
“Folofa-Mio,” which meant “better to-morrow.” It was a weird sad sight,
and when we passed out under the coco-palms into the brilliantly lit
moonlit space I noticed Stevenson and the doctor were very quiet, for we
felt pretty sadly as our medical friend had very dubious hopes as to its
recovery. A Samoan quack medicine man had been practising on the sick
mite, and the disease, through improper treatment, had got the upper
hand. Stevenson went off soon after we reached the house again, and
though it was very late, I would not accept the invitation to stay the
night, and went back to my lodging by the shore side, near Apia Town, a
little shanty place of a young trader, who had let me share his home.
When I arrived back I felt a bit depressed, but my friend cheered me up.
He was a lively fellow, crammed full up with reminiscences, having been
for some years trading among the Islanders, and he would tell me in
vivid language about his experiences in the Fijian group. He had known
and lived with the son of Thakambau,[3] the last of the great Cannibal
Kings, who had then been dead some two or three years or more, and
terrible were the deeds of that old king before he became
Christianised[4] and handed over the Fiji Isles to the British
Government. I had personally met old men chiefs whose sisters had been
roasted in the “Bokai Ovens” at the grand cannibal festivities of their
young days.
Footnote 3:
Thakambau went on a visit to N.S.W. and brought measles back to Fiji,
which carried of a quarter of the population.
Footnote 4:
The Fijian race is fast dying out. Thousands of Indians arrive yearly,
and the result is that Mohammedanism is secretly over-throwing
Christianity and the noble, if futile, efforts of many true
missionaries in Fiji and elsewhere.
[Illustration: NATIVE GIRLS MAKING KAVA]
My comrade kept me up nearly the whole night cheerily telling me of the
wild escapades of those days, and was extremely amusing as he described
Fijian weddings, which were conducted something after the Samoan fashion
as far as the fantastic dancing went, but there the similarity ended. By
night most of the weddings were performed, the king or head chief of the
tribe taking a seat on the throne, solemnly gazing on as a kind of
spiritual figure-head, as from the forest for miles around came leaping
the natives, attracted by the boomed notes of the lais (wooden drum),
all to assemble and witness the wedding, as the native bride, flushed
with pleasure, attired in the scant robe of the period, danced the wild
fantastic can-can of the South Seas before the assembled encoring tribe,
dressed only in a string of shells that jingled at her sulu-cloth. There
on the chosen moonlit night under the tamnu and bread-fruit trees she
swayed and swerved in all the postures that would reveal her beauty to
the bridegroom’s eyes, and the ring of natives would make the forest and
hills re-echo as their voices extolled her female charms, as the old
high priest chanting the special service gazed enviously, nudging the
bride as an encore hint whenever she did anything especially pleasing to
the dusky onlookers. “Mbula! Mbula!” they would shout when at last,
perspiring, trembling and excited, she stood at rest. “Mbula! Mbula!”
they would still cry, which meant “may the gods send thee many
children,” and then the bridegroom also danced as the old king or chief
descended from his throne to welcome the bashful bride, and to bow her
into his home before the great wedding feast, for it was the custom of
certain tribes that the bride should receive the king’s kiss first. More
I cannot say, excepting for the grim rumour and respect for the
first-born, whose lineaments often resembled those of the old king who
officiated at the wedding, and such was the great respect held for those
children who were the first born, and consequently of blood-royal, that
the unloved maidens of those wild Isles, as innocent as in the Garden of
Eden, and of the ways of the Western world, would often ambitiously
throw themselves across the path of the royal favour.
Oft sought the king the unloved forlorn maid
With witnesses to prove she’d been betrayed!
On the other hand some of the tribes outdid the high standard of the
morals of advanced civilisation, and it was considered the height of
impropriety for a maid to eat in the presence of a marriageable man, and
everlasting disgrace lay on the head of the native girl who had once
touched a bed mat whereon had slept a man, and many of the old customs
of the South Seas are still practised secretly, and this was, and is,
common knowledge to the white residents of the Pacific.
But to go back to my comrade the trader, I stayed at his homestead for
some time. It was a romantic spot; by our front door curled the waves up
the shore, and by night across the moonlit bay in canoes paddled the
natives, singing as they fished.
We made a neat galley cooking stove just outside by the door, whereby we
sat at night, as the fire blazed and the cooking fish spluttered in the
frying-pan. My chum was a splendid cook, and served up many dishes of
yams and bread fruit, entrées, done in native fashion. From the village
a mile away, inland, the natives would come every morning and clean our
one-roomed dwelling out. On the wooden walls above our bunks were
photographs of our relations and friends in England. I was very happy
there with my amiable chum, who was always in a joking mood, and would
cheerily sing as I played the fiddle.
He was a bit gone on a half-caste Samoan girl, and the only little hitch
that disturbed our friendship was through my foolishness in responding
to the native girl’s wish to learn to play the violin. I was innocent
enough, and as soon as I saw the way the wind blew I shut right down,
and the fiddle lessons ceased, and so the sulky look on my comrade’s
face faded and once more the cheery smile returned; and by the crackling
fire and spluttering stews, into my ears was poured the lore of the
South Seas, with the human note of reality in it, till we retired to
bed, and the warm wind in moonlight waved the shadows of the palm leaves
outside over our faces as we lay unsleeping in our coffin-shaped bunks,
my chum one side and I the other side, talking and dreaming till “Are
you asleep, Middy?” sounded far away, as I sleepily answered, “Yes” over
and over again as he talked on, till at last even the sound of the waves
outside faded away and we both slept.
The natives got very friendly with us two, and extremely jealous of each
other if we hired one of them more than another, and terrible were the
tales we had to hear about the one whom we had hired.
“He not Christian man. Sin much, and steal ‘nother man’s wife” and so
on, till we thought it advisable, before there was a murder in the camp,
to make a bargain with the lot, and hire them all at regular intervals
to do our cooking, wood collecting and the rough general work.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVII
Apia—R.L.S. visits Samoan Homesteads—Apia Beach Incident—Samoan Music
and Dancing—I am nearly drowned—Native Song—Native Music and my own
Compositions, which reproduce South Sea Characteristic Music and
Atmosphere—I sleep in Cannibalistic Cooling-off Larder—“Barney Dear”
and Old Naylor
ON the beach about a mile from Apia, in our ramblings together, we came
across Robert Louis Stevenson. He was paddling in a shallow by the
shore, his pants tucked up to his knees, his legs sun-scorched and
browned. It was fearfully hot, and at first he did not recognise me, for
I was as brown as a nut, and had on a tremendous umbrella hat; the rim
was a foot wide and dipped downwards. I had told him when I last saw him
that I was going away to South America, as at the time I thought I had
secured a berth on a “Frisco” schooner that lay in the Bay, and so he
was somewhat surprised to see me.
I had just caught a monster sea-eel, and as he gazed upon it I offered
it to him. He would not take it till I convinced him that I did not want
it. His friend plucked a palm leaf and gingerly grabbed the slippery
victim, and as he did so, we were all suddenly startled by hearing
shouts and the sounds of pistol shots along the shore.
“What’s that?” said R.L.S. He seemed pleasurably excited at the idea of
some adventure coming, and we all went off together in the direction of
the noise. At that time there was often a feud between the various
native tribes who differed on some political matter; also there were
often fights between the natives, some who were adherents to King
Malieatoa Laupepa, and others who swore by Mataafa. It so happened that
it was only a squabble of a minor kind, and when we arrived near the
scene of the conflict, the ambushed natives bolted.
Stevenson seemed somewhat disappointed. I gathered from his manner that
he would have loved to have seen a real native battle, for his eyes
flashed with excitement at the prospect of what might be happening as we
went up the steep shore, and his friend, who was a careful and
jovial-looking man, about Stevenson’s own age, warned him to be careful
as he heedlessly went forward.
Out came the native children rushing excitedly from among the forest
trees; Stevenson spoke to them half in pigeon-English and half in
Samoan, as they excitedly pointed toward the direction in which the
guilty natives had gone. All being quiet, and the prospect of more
excitement from that quarter disappearing, we went back to the shore,
and searching about found the eel which Stevenson’s friend had dropped
at the sound of the pistol firing. Having found it, we all went off into
a native homestead some distance away from the shore, wherein lived a
family who appeared to be on very good terms with R.L.S.
They were all dressed in the “upper ten” native fashion of Samoa. One of
them was wearing an old American naval officer’s cast-off suit. The
women had their hair done in fashionable style with red and white
blossoms stuck in at the bunched sides, also on their native girdles,
and what with their plump handsome faces and intelligent eyes, looked
strikingly attractive. There were several children, and they all
welcomed him and rolloped around us with delight.
Stevenson was soon engaged with the elder, who, I think, was a Mataafa
chief, who could not speak English; but R.L.S. seemed to understand all
he said, and by the way he made him repeat phrases over and over again,
I should think the chief was correcting Stevenson’s pronunciation of
some Samoan words.
The native boys and girls were dressed neatly in ridis, and tappu-cloth
blouses, their hair parted and combed smoothly, and very polite, too,
they were, as they brought Stevenson their school-books, wherein they
had written their English lessons. Stevenson seemed to take a deep
interest in their efforts, patted them on the heads approvingly as he
examined their books and this greatly delighted them. In the corner of
the large shed-like place, wherein we all stood, the youngest son of
about six years of age, quite naked, stood on his head singing with
gusto, as R.L.S. gave him a lead pencil as a gift, for he seemed to be
very fond of children and greatly enjoyed seeing their delight. Lifting
the little girls up, he held them high over his head, as the parents
smiled approval at his antics to make them laugh, and Samoan children
are never so pleasing and pretty as when their cheery little brown faces
laugh, as their mouths stretch, and all their pearly teeth are exposed
to view.
As we said good-bye to the chief and his wife, Stevenson put the
youngest girl on his back as though to take her away with him. Although
she was only a mite of about three years old, she seemed to see the
joke, and waved her hands towards the homestead as we all walked away:
then when he put her to the ground she scampered off so fast homeward
that you couldn’t see her tiny legs going!
I am telling you all this so as to attempt to give an idea of
Stevenson’s character, as he appeared to my eyes as a lad. It was then
evening time, and the sun was setting over the hills as we all went down
the forest track, and in the distance two white women and a native were
coming up towards us. It was R.L.S.’s wife and a friend. Mrs Stevenson
affectionately greeted him with a loud kiss! And then started to give
him a dressing-down for going off and not keeping some domestic
appointment.
She was a vivacious amiable lady, without any side whatever; dressed
like an Australian squatter’s wife, and bare throated like Stevenson
himself, and they both wore white shoes without wearing socks, in sandal
fashion.
As we walked along the track Stevenson was very observant and asked the
natives the names of various tropical trees. He had a cheery musical
laugh, and a pronounced habit of gazing abstractedly in front of him
while anyone was talking to him, a habit which was especially noticeable
when his wife was with him, for he seemed to look upon her as a sort of
helpmate to relieve him and take the burden off his shoulders, by
answering and apologising to those who interrupted his meditations. At
other times he was just the reverse and strangely talkative, and could
not talk fast enough to his friends, whom he seemed very much attached
to, as he took down notes in a pocket-book. He had the appearance of a
man of very strong character, affectionate and tender to children and
all those about him.
I should think he was one of those who would show great courage if he
were called on to do so, for once on Apia beach a white man was
thrashing a Samoan boy who had been stealing fruit and fish from a
basket which he had left outside a grog saloon. Stevenson, who happened
to be strolling down the beach to take a boat out to a schooner anchored
in the bay, caught sight of the coward blows being inflicted on the
frightened lad, and as the trader did not cease, Stevenson went straight
up to him and pushed him aside, and heatedly expostulated with him about
his brutality. The ruffian stared astonished at R.L.S. and then used
some offensive epithet, at which Stevenson’s face went rigid as he
stared at him with flashing eyes, and almost lost control of himself. I
saw that had not the man had the instinct to see that Stevenson was not
the slightest bit frightened of him and gone away muttering to himself,
Stevenson would have knocked him down.
I think it was that same evening that I went to a native feast at Satoa
village. The guests were mostly of the Samoan best-class natives. It was
a lovely night. Overhead sailed the full moon in the dark blue vault of
a cloudless heaven, as by the huddled native village homes the assembled
privileged guests squatted around, forming a ring of dark bodies as they
watched the weird fantastic dance which celebrated the birth of a child
to a celebrated chief. The stage of the forest floor was adorned with
the Samoan professional dancers and singers. I shall always remember the
weird beauty of that romantic scene as they swayed and danced, chanting
strange ear-haunting melodies, all their faces alight with animation and
the joy of being alive as they sang old South Sea love songs, suddenly
stopping in their wild dances as the words of the choruses breathed
thoughts of love and impassioned vows of plighted lovers. They would
stop perfectly still and gaze for a few moments, staring in each other’s
eyes like statues, or the figures of romantic love pictures, only their
lips moving as they sang the words of delight into the listening maids’
ears, then once more suddenly start off whirling round with their arms,
swaying rhythmically, their faces gazing upwards, and sometimes over
their shoulders.
I can truly say that I have never seen anything so really romantic, or
heard music that so truly expressed human emotions, excepting perhaps
when, some years after, I was troubadouring on the frontier of Spain,
and played the violin, accompanying the Spanish peasants as they sang in
parts the romantic “Estudiantina.” The Spanish maids gazed into their
lovers’ eyes, as they sang, much the same as the savages of the South
Seas did on that night of which I am now telling you.