Robert Louis Stevenson—Bohemian Incidents—I lead a Tribal Orchestra—The
Big Drum—Robert Louis Stevenson at a Tribal Wedding—Robert Louis
Stevenson in the Grog Shanty—Mr and Mrs Stevenson—The Last Man-eater
of the Marquesan Group
I NOTICED that the brief incidents in my first book, _Sailor and
Beachcomber_, concerning my personal recollections of Robert Louis
Stevenson were received with an interest which I had not expected. Had I
anticipated this, or had he struck me as an adventurous old shellback of
crime and sea-lore, I should have dwelt more on the subject, but so much
has been written about Stevenson’s life in the South Seas, by men who
have devoted volumes to their reminiscences of that novelist, that I
deliberately left the matter alone.
As far as Stevenson the literary man is concerned I, of course, have
nothing whatever to add, excepting, perhaps, that Stevenson’s books
dealing with the South Seas did not strike me as being as realistic and
breezy as I had expected them to be, coming from such fresh experience
and so able a pen. But having often seen him in Samoa and elsewhere, out
of the limelight and under circumstances that have never, as far as I
know, been written about before, I feel that I may as well tell at
length the few incidents that I think may be of interest. I cannot do
this better than by pursuing my own reminiscences, and so I will revert
to my first visits to Samoa when I was a lad of about sixteen years of
age.
Stevenson was at that time residing at Vailima, Upulo. I had met him
several times in Apia and at sea, for at that time I was always cruising
on the trading schooners and visited most of the chief islands in the
North and South Pacific. I eventually got on a schooner that ran between
Samoa and Suva (Fiji), and it was on these return trips to Apia, and
during my sojourns there, that I saw Stevenson frequently, which was
natural enough, since he lived there and hundreds of men became
acquainted with him in that isolated paradise, where conventionality, as
it is known in Western civilisation, was completely dropped, and all men
became hail-fellow-well-met as soon as they sighted each other. Even
missionaries practised this outward appearance of brotherhood.
I recall how I was sitting in a German store in April one afternoon when
a Samoan, who knew me well, approached me and asked me if I would like
to come that same evening to a grand tribal wedding festival that was to
be held five miles off, round the coast. “And will you bring your
violin?” he inquired. I accepted, and my companion, a young American
sailor who had a banjo, agreed to go with me. I was well known among the
chiefs and natives as an obliging violinist, for I seldom refused to
perform at native ceremonies; the scenes that I witnessed, indeed the
novelty and romance of it all, amply repaid me for all the trouble I was
ever put to, though that is saying a good deal, for my troubles were
sometimes serious ones.
That same afternoon my friend and I tuned our instruments up and made
ourselves look as smart as possible, for the chief who was giving the
ball was one of high standing, and a well-known follower of Mataafa, the
ex-King of Samoa.
In high spirits we started off to tramp the five miles which had to be
covered before we reached our destination. We had not walked more than
three hundred yards from Apia’s main street when suddenly Stevenson
appeared with several of his acquaintances, coming across the slopes
carrying fish which they had purchased from the natives down by the
beach.
[Illustration: WHANGAREI FALLS, NORTH AUCKLAND, N.Z.]
Stevenson turned and saw us, and noticing that we were carrying musical
instruments, he came up and said in a jocular way: “Where are you
hurrying off to? The Lyceum Orchestra?” Whereupon I told him our
destination and he immediately became interested. “Are you in a hurry? I
should like to come,” he said quickly. I assured him that we were in no
hurry, and told him we would wait; but as his friends were becoming
impatient he said that he would come on later, and so off we went
without him.
When we arrived at the coast village where the ball was to be given, my
friend and I sat down under the palms exhausted, for the walk was a long
one and the heat terrific. Just before us was the native village, groups
of conical, shed-like houses, sheltered by coco-palms growing to the
shore’s edge.
As we sat wiping the perspiration from our brows, the village was all
astir with excitement over the approaching festival. Native girls,
dressed in picturesque style, passed by us along the track: they were
jabbering excitedly to each other over the beauty of the bride who had
been married that day, and who was to appear at the feast that evening
to dance and reveal her manifold beauties to the village maids and
youths ere she went off on the honeymoon to the bridegroom’s home.
The shadows were falling over the palm-clad shores of the wild coast and
village of Samoa as the sun dropped seaward. So my friend and I started
off once more and arrived at Kalofa’s distinguished residence. Kalofa
was the bride’s father, and a wealthy man for a native. We were greeted
with loud cries in joyous Samoan phrases as we arrived, carrying the
violin and banjo under our arms. As we entered the large primitive
ballroom, a shed that held about two hundred people, an old Samoan at
once started crashing away at a monster wooden drum, and another
drum-player inside the shed did likewise. The noise was deafening, and
the more so because the ballroom instrument was a large European drum
that had been purchased from one of the American warships that had come
into Apia harbour. This drum was lent out at a high charge on special
occasions by the chiefs. I forget who was the original owner, but I know
that he was quite a wealthy man through the money he received from his
drum receipts, and I often regretted that I had not known the tastes of
Samoans, or I should have arrived at Samoa with a cargo of old army
drums and made a fortune.
Well, as we entered the ballroom Kalofa himself rushed forward and
greeted us affectionately before all the chiefs as though he had known
us for many years. I had only seen him once before, and my cheerful
companion the banjoist had never seen him till that moment. Nevertheless
we met him as though we were the oldest friends, and bowed respectfully
as the whole audience arose and waved their dark hands as they cheered
us. It was a wonderful sight that we saw round us, for right to the far
end of the large, low room sat in half circles the élite of the native
village, dressed in all the colours and grotesque garments imaginable.
Handsome Samoan girls, half dressed and quarter dressed, were squatting
amongst old tattooed chiefs who wore the ridi only, while lines of old
women sat with the handsome youths, who glanced behind them at the girls
who, I suppose, were being looked after by the chiefs. The code of
morals in Samoa was becoming very strict, so many maids having been
tempted by the amorous youths to do things which they ought not to do.
In the centre of the throng was the barbaric orchestra. I have led and
conducted many orchestras and bands during my time, but never such a
deliberately planned inharmonious ear-torturing lot of musicians as I
led that night. I think the instrumentation was chiefly strings and
wind; the former consisted of wires strung across gourds and the latter
of bamboo flutes, old coppers and the drum which I have previously
mentioned.
I sat down in the middle of the orchestral players, squatting, with my
comrade by my side, on a mat, and all the native musicians around me
gazed with great curiosity as I started to tune the violin, and my
comrade to pink-ee-tee-ponk on his banjo; indeed, so great was their
curiosity that they arose from their mats and poked their faces against
our instruments. Hitting my violin with the bow, so—tap-tap, I made a
sign to them to take their seats, and then the overture commenced! My
comrade and I tore away at the strings. I forget what we had proposed to
play, but as soon as we started and the members of the orchestra heard
the violin wailing, they went completely mad with delight, and then
tried to outdo us; so placing their flutes to their dusky mouths they
all started to blow terrifically, and the drums started off and the
stringed gourds twanged! In a moment I realised that to keep up our
musical reputation we must outdo the barbarian music, so I signed to my
comrade, who looked at me as though he had gone mad, and then started to
grind away at all my violin strings at once! I believe we both caught
the primitive, barbarian fever, for though the row was terrible my
memory of it all is one of some far-off event of supreme musical
delight! Not Wagner’s wildest dreams, no Futurist’s idea of harmony
could have outdone the reality of that tribal music. Then suddenly it
all changed from thunder to weird sweetness, minor melodies of sad,
forgotten loves and dreams, for on a little elevated bamboo platform the
bride stood before us. She was a dusky, tender-limbed maiden of about
sixteen years of age. Dressed in a blue frock that went no higher than
her brown bosom, fastened on by a red sash, her thick hair bedecked with
tropical blossoms, she looked like the beautiful dusky princess from a
South Sea novel. Her husband, a fine-looking Samoan of about thirty,
stood beside her as she gazed up into his admiring eyes and sang a
tender song of love. It was a really beautiful melody and I at once
caught the spirit of it, and as she sang on sweetly I extemporised a
delicate accompaniment on my violin, interspersed with minor pizzicatos.
As soon as she ceased her song a tiny child stepped forth, and kissing
her feet handed her a large bouquet of richly coloured forest flowers;
then the bridegroom stooped and kissed the child on the brow as all the
audience solemnly murmured “O whey—O whey” three times. This child was a
relative of the bride’s, and not her own child; though, to tell the
truth, this was often the case in tribal weddings at which I had
officiated as violinist, where often the custom was that the bride’s
first-born came as chief witness to the altar, and sometimes was old
enough to toddle all the way!
When she had sung one more island ditty to her delighted husband the
Siva dance commenced. Through a little door behind the stage came about
a dozen girls clad only in flowers and grass, and when they had squatted
in a circle on the stage they started to beat their bare limbs with
their hands as they chanted, and the orchestra went tootle-tootle on the
bamboo flutes.
As the time passed the audience increased; chiefs, half-castes and many
high-caste natives were there. Robert Louis Stevenson arrived, with his
face wreathed with smiles, and stood just inside the door, watching and
talking to the natives. The old ex-King Mataafa, who was at that time
residing at Malie with his faithful followers, was also there and stood
talking to our host, who was, I believe, related to Samoan royalty.
Mataafa was a very intelligent-looking old man, well dressed and with a
majestic walk. About that time there was a deal of trouble brewing
between the subjects of Mataafa and those who stood by King Malietoa,
and possibly the old king was travelling incognito, for he hardly
revealed himself, but stopped in the shadows.
Stevenson went round behind the audience to him and was greeted very
warmly; they evidently knew each other well.
As the festival proceeded, and the bowl of kava was handed round, the
chiefs and women-folk became excited, while outside under the moonlit
coco-palms the girls and youths started to dance and caper about. My
friend and I took the first opportunity to get outside, for the heat was
stifling inside “the hall.”
When we arrived in the fresh air Stevenson was standing by the doorway
smoking. “Hallo! there you are; I’m sorry, but I was too late to see the
beginning,” he said, and then added: “That bride was a beautiful girl,
wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” I answered, as several native girls came up to us, and, laughing,
seized us and invited us to dance. The girl who had gripped hold of
Stevenson was a very wild but good-looking maid, and gazing up into his
face she started to make eyes at him. Stevenson looked round laughingly
and then accepted the invitation of the girl to dance with her, and so
off they went! As far as I can remember the novelist was a good dancer
and looked at his ease as he held the Samoan beauty in his arms and
gently whirled with her under the coco-palms.
All the time that Stevenson and I were dancing the native orchestra was
booming and shrieking away in the festival shed, and often we heard the
old native drum-conductor cry out “O Le Sivo,” and then came a terrible
crash as he struck the old army drum with a war-club!
Stevenson seemed delighted with himself for a little while, and then we
got too hot and, much to the disgust of the maids, stopped. They were
cool enough in their scanty attire, but we were bathed in perspiration
and fairly steamed in the moonlight as we suddenly stood still.
Now I am coming to the comical part of it all, for Stevenson’s partner
proceeded to make violent love to him, and the look on his face made it
quite obvious that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for he
eventually walked off and she at once followed him! He made several
attempts to get rid of her by talking to a native who stood by, but
still the girl persisted, till he suddenly walked up to me and said, “I
say, for God’s sake get her away somewhere; dance with her, do anything
to attract her attention.” I at once went to the rescue and asked her to
dance. I was not much of a dancer, but as a lover I have always been
passable! Stevenson seemed very grateful, but only expressed it by
walking off in great haste as I clutched the girl tightly.
No sooner had Stevenson got out of sight than she started on me, threw
her arms about my neck and began to say loving things about my beauty, I
suppose, in her own language. Several natives were standing under the
trees, shaking with laughter as they watched us: one of them touched his
forehead significantly and then I realised that the girl was not quite
right in the head! “I say, Hill,” I said, as I quickly turned to my
comrade, “she wants you to dance with her; do take her, old fellow.”
“Right you are,” he answered, for he was an obliging fellow in that way,
and then I also bolted and went off, toward the chief’s Fale-Faipule
(the head residence), to get my violin, which I had left in his care for
safety. As I approached the bamboo door I saw Stevenson peeping through
a chink! “Has she gone?” he said. “Yes, I’ve got rid of her; she is a
bit wrong in the head,” I answered. Then, as Stevenson came out into the
open, ready to start away home, to our astonishment the girl we were
talking about ran across the grass and embraced him once more! “Well I’m
d——d!” he said, and at that moment two natives came across the track and
collared her. I think they were her parents; anyway they took her off,
and Stevenson hurried off also, for the hour was late and the code of
morals strict in the Vailima domestic establishment.
My friend and I got back to Apia soon after. I slept soundly and dreamed
of dusky brides and mad lovers. So ended that wedding as far as I was
concerned.
A few days after the preceding events I saw Stevenson again. It was in
the daytime, and I and my friend were busy packing up cases of tinned
food, which had just arrived from Sydney on the s.s. _Lubeck_, which
generally called at Apia every month. Adjoining the stateroom—where we
were assisting in packing the cases—was a grog shanty’s bar-room. The
reputation that this shanty had was an evil one, for it was only visited
by the beach fraternity who lived solely on rum, and by Samoan women who
welcomed German sailors to their dusky arms after dark. In broad
daylight it was a _bona-fide_ beach hotel, frequented by traders who had
no reputation to lose, yet who seemed the happiest of men as they told
fearless tales to their rough comrades, squirted tobacco juice in
endless streams through the open door and drank fiery rum.
Well, suddenly Stevenson walked into the bar, and placing a coin on the
counter called for drinks. He seemed full of glee, and laughed heartily
as his two companions told him something that was evidently humorous.
These two men, whom Stevenson had most probably just met, and who
interested him, were shellbacks of the roughest type. One was positively
comical-looking with dissipation, and had a warty grog-nose; the other
seldom spoke, but simply nodded his head, as an umpire of truth, when
his companion told Stevenson the wonders of the South Seas. They were
telling him about earlier black-birding days, when native men and girls
were lured on to the schooners and carried off to slavery and worse. I
cannot remember the things that they told him, but I distinctly remember
Stevenson’s deep interest as he stood by them, with his head nearly
touching the low roof of the shanty, and called for more rum for his
companions, though he did not drink himself.
The convivial old rogues were delighted with Stevenson’s generosity, and
seeing that he listened eagerly to their yarns the chief speaker became
more garrulous and dramatic than ever as he lifted his hands up to the
roof and said: “Sir, them things that I tells you is nothing to what I
could tell you.” Meanwhile the novelist listened and looked out of the
grog shanty door, to see that no one was about who would carry the news
to Vailima that Robert Louis Stevenson was full of glee, treating old
rogues to rum, in a grog-house of mystery and lurking crime.
There was a native woman in the bar, whom the barkeeper called Frizzy.
She had a large mop of frizzly hair and I suppose got her name from
that. She was one of the abandoned class, had four half-caste children
and was a half-widow, for the father of the children, a German official,
had gone back to Berlin.
Whilst Stevenson was listening to his newly acquired friends this woman
approached him with her ghastly smile, at the same time offering for
sale her little plaited baskets of red coral. Stevenson shook his head,
and as she was still persistent one of the old shellbacks pushed her
away as though she was a mangy dog. Stevenson looked at him with
disapproval, for, though he was naturally opposed to women of her class,
he was a champion for the unfortunates who had been lured to their mode
of life by white men. He then called the woman, who had walked away, and
asking her the price of the coral bought two baskets, though I am sure
he did not want them.
At that moment a white man came into the bar and gave a start at seeing
Stevenson standing there. It was a “new chum” from Sydney, and the last
man you would have expected to see in that place. Looking up at
Stevenson, he said: “Well, who would have ever thought of seeing you
here!” On which the other responded in a surprised voice: “Who on earth
expected to see you here!” Then they both laughed, and Stevenson said
something about being a writer of books and seeking inspiration from
natural sources, and with intense amusement in his eyes he introduced
the two grimy reprobates to his friend, who shook them heartily by the
hand and asked them what they drank.
At this moment a Samoan youth rushed in at the bar door very excited,
and before we could understand his gesticulations a native girl came in
behind him, snatched a large mug from the counter and gave the youth a
crack over the head! As she made another rush to repeat the attack
Stevenson gripped her tightly, and she turned on him furiously, and
then, as quickly, calmed down and relented. She seemed to regret
bitterly her attack on her lover, for such he was, though he had been
paying attention to another maid. The youth had a gash on his forehead,
and though it was not a deep cut the large flow of blood made a
serious-looking affair of it all. Out of the native’s home, not far off,
the children and women came rushing to see what the row was about, for,
unfortunately, the jealous girl had screamed out when she struck him. A
German patrol came running across, and had not Stevenson expostulated,
and got on the right side of him, the girl would have been arrested. The
whole affair would have been in _The Samoan Times_, Stevenson and his
friend would have been brought forward as witnesses, and though
Stevenson was perfectly innocent a lot of scandal would have been the
result.
* * * * *
About eight miles from Apia, in one of the coast villages, lived a
Marquesan who had married a Samoan woman, whom I knew, as she had
resided in Satuafata village. One day, when I was walking along in Apia
town, I was suddenly greeted by her cheery laugh, and she invited me out
to their home, an invitation which I at once accepted, and so the next
day I started off alone. The weather was beautiful and the sky cloudless
as I passed under the coco-palms, and heard the green doves cooing in
the branches around me, as the _katafa_ (frigate-bird) sailed across the
sky bound seaward. Through the trees I could see the Pacific, bright
under the hot sun, and in Apia harbour the hanging canvas sails of a few
anchored schooners. As I walked along I felt perfectly happy in the
company of my own thoughts, which were only disturbed as I passed the
native homesteads and returned the hand-waves and salutations of
“Kaoha!” from the pretty native girls who stood at the doors. Samoan
girls were, as I have told you, born flirts, and longed for the romantic
white youth who would love them and make them “Te boomte Matan,”[1] as
they had read maids were loved in the South Sea novels which they bought
from the old store shops in Apia. Far away along the coast I saw droves
of native children standing knee-deep in the shaded lagoon waters that
joined the ocean just outside.
Footnote 1:
Wife of a white man.
I passed a beautiful spot where I had often stood at night, when the
island was asleep and the moon hung over the water, and the view
appeared like some mighty painting done in silver and mystic colours,
framed by the starlit skies. The palms perfectly still, stretching to
the slopes of the Vaea Mountains, stood all round, only a wave gently
breaking over the far-off barrier reefs, or the wavering smoke from the
moonlit village huts, destroyed the impression of something dream-like
and unreal around me as the wind came and moaned in the palm-tops,
humming beautifully, till it seemed the chiming of the starry worlds
across the sky could be faintly heard.
About three miles from Apia I left the track to cut across a plantation
towards the coast, when I was suddenly surprised to see two white people
some distance off coming toward the village that I was making for.
Ambushed in the thick scrub, I peered up the track to see what they
might be, and was again surprised to see that it was Stevenson and his
wife. Stevenson had a large bamboo rod in his hand, and was waving it
about violently and seemed very excited. Indeed I thought they were
quarrelling, but as they approached a group of village homesteads just
near the track I saw that he was gesticulating, and pointing with
pleasure at the surrounding scenery, which was extremely beautiful
there. They did not notice me, and so I remained unobserved. Stevenson
was dressed in white trousers and had an old cheesecutter cap on. As
they approached the native homes a lot of children came rushing across
the clearing to welcome them. Mrs Stevenson picked one of them up in her
arms and kissed it, while her husband in fun ran after the rest with his
bamboo stick, and they all scampered away in delight.
At the far end of the plantation, wherein grew coco-nuts, yams and
pine-apples, was the home of my native friends. I crossed the space and
passing between the lines of white native houses arrived at my
destination. Mrs Laota and her husband gave me an enthusiastic welcome,
with the usual hospitality of Samoans, and in a very short space of time
I sat down before an appetising meal of poi-poi, taro, bread-fruit,[2]
yams and boiled fowl. There were two families living in the homestead,
and the native children climbed over me as I sat down to eat, and,
though I am fond of children, at that moment they were a fearful pest.
However, as in England, I had to put up with it and assume a happiness
which I was far from feeling, while the delighted eyes of the parents
gazed upon me and on their children; but they were semi-savages and, of
course, it was all excusable.
Footnote 2:
Bread-fruit is baked in the red-hot ash, like baked potatoes. When it
is cooked properly the outer rind cracks and falls off.
After I had finished my meal I stood at the door, smoking and talking to
my host, who seemed a very intelligent native. He was a Marquesan, and
his father, an old chief, was also in our company. It was just at this
moment that Stevenson, whose wife was still visiting in the village,
came strolling along; he had evidently been to the village before,
because my host and his wife at once called him and he came across and
greeted us all with a cheery laugh, accepting a slice of pine-apple from
the children and sitting down on the bench with us.
Well, Koro, the old Marquesan chief, had lived in the stirring times
when his tribe had suffered from the ravages of cannibalism, and he
started off yarning almost directly Stevenson sat down. From his lips we
were told many things that seemed almost unbelievable. Koro even darkly
hinted that Samoans up till very recently had been addicted to the awful
appetite, which was probable; but, being an intellectual race and
superior in every way to the other races of the Pacific, Samoans had not
allowed the stain of cannibalism to rest on the history of their people,
letting the memory of it die out with the custom. Stevenson was alert
with interest as the old chief told us of past cannibalistic orgies of
his islands, and, as the old man yarned on in pidgin-English, kept
saying “Well now, really me!” for very surprise at the things we heard.
One tale he told us was so bloodthirsty and cruel, and the truth so
evident from the manner in which it was told, that I must repeat it
here.
It appeared that in the Marquesa Group, on Hiva-oa, at a period not
distant from the time that I am telling you of, there was a ferocious
cannibal who was the last survivor of a tribe which had ravaged the
surrounding villages and preyed on the flesh of the people. In Koro’s
time this hated man-eater lurked in the forest, and the village was
obliged to have sentinels on watch each night. For the terrible cannibal
had a passion for the flesh of their children, and often by night the
whole village was awakened by hearing the screams of one of their little
ones, who had been seized whilst asleep, and was being carried off into
the forest. The method of this monster was to crawl on his belly through
the thickets and watch the village for hours, and once or twice a girl
had been carried off in broad daylight to be strangled and eaten. Many
of the things the old chief told us were too terrible to write down
here; it is enough to say that he did not strangle his female victims at
once, but kept them lashed in his hiding-place to be killed and eaten at
leisure. The people knew this, because a native girl had managed to
escape, after being a prisoner of the monster’s for several days. It is
impossible to describe here Koro’s dramatic attitude, and his wonderful
way of telling the story. The listening children in the hut crept closer
to us for fright, and Stevenson laughed almost hysterically and said
“Good Lord!” as the old fellow continued. “Well, Marser Stesson, one
night Chief Swae, who had just got married, had a great dance, and we
all be happy and dance; and that night when the moon was getting old we
all did sleep and Swae’s bride did sleep beside him, for the night was
very hot and we did all sleep in the open under the _fifis_ (palms).
Suddenly we were all awake and jumping about in the village, for Swae
was shouting out with a great voice: ‘The man-eater has stolen my wife.’
In one moment we had all seized our war-clubs, old cutlasses and muskets
and rushed off into the forest, Swae the bridegroom leading the way.
Presently we did hear a far-off scream coming from the direction of the
sea. Swiftly we turned and went toward the shore, and it was then that
we all looked through the mangroves and saw the great man-eater holding
Swae’s bride in his arms as though she was a caught bird. He was leaning
against a tree and had stopped because she did cling to one of his legs;
he was a mighty big fellow of great strength, and his face was very,
very dark and wrinkled with wickedness. Swae ran with all his might
round the shore and got behind the cannibal, and, creeping up behind
him, with one sweep of his cutlass cut his head from his shoulders. It
fell to the forest floor and the body still stood upright, while the
cannibal’s head lay on the ground with the mouth still half laughing at
the thought of what he would do with Swae’s wife! When we got up to the
bride she lay as one dead, still clinging to the man-eater’s leg. Then
Swae called her softly by her name and she opened her eyes and sprang
into his eager arms. We cooked the body of the cannibal and gave it to
our grunting swine. No one of my tribe would eat the swine after that,
so we sold them to the white sailors who came in on the big ships and
they were much pleased that they were so cheap!” And saying this the old
chief gave a chuckle in his wrinkled throat, being hardly able to
disguise his inward delight. Stevenson, too, saw the grim humour of it
and also smiled and said: “Well now!”
As Koro finished Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene, carrying a large
bunch of flowers, and when Stevenson told her that which we had been
listening to she said: “Ugh, I am glad I wasn’t here to listen; you love
gruesome things, I know.” Stevenson grinned like a schoolboy as he
started mischievously to tell her some of the most gruesome details
which we had just heard.
------------------------------------------------------------------------