The bays of Anaho and Hatiheu are divided at their roots by the
knife-edge of a single hill—the pass so often mentioned; but this isthmus
expands to the seaward in a considerable peninsula: very bare and grassy;
haunted by sheep and, at night and morning, by the piercing cries of the
shepherds; wandered over by a few wild goats; and on its sea-front
indented with long, clamorous caves, and faced with cliffs of the colour
and ruinous outline of an old peat-stack. In one of these echoing and
sunless gullies we saw, clustered like sea-birds on a splashing ledge,
shrill as sea-birds in their salutation to the passing boat, a group of
fisherwomen, stripped to their gaudy under-clothes. (The clash of the
surf and the thin female voices echo in my memory.) We had that day a
native crew and steersman, Kauanui; it was our first experience of
Polynesian seamanship, which consists in hugging every point of land.
There is no thought in this of saving time, for they will pull a long way
in to skirt a point that is embayed. It seems that, as they can never
get their houses near enough the surf upon the one side, so they can
never get their boats near enough upon the other. The practice in bold
water is not so dangerous as it looks—the reflex from the rocks sending
the boat off. Near beaches with a heavy run of sea, I continue to think
it very hazardous, and find the composure of the natives annoying to
behold. We took unmingled pleasure, on the way out, to see so near at
hand the beach and the wonderful colours of the surf. On the way back,
when the sea had risen and was running strong against us, the fineness of
the steersman’s aim grew more embarrassing. As we came abreast of the
sea-front, where the surf broke highest, Kauanui embraced the occasion to
light his pipe, which then made the circuit of the boat—each man taking a
whiff or two, and, ere he passed it on, filling his lungs and cheeks with
smoke. Their faces were all puffed out like apples as we came abreast of
the cliff foot, and the bursting surge fell back into the boat in
showers. At the next point ‘cocanetti’ was the word, and the stroke
borrowed my knife, and desisted from his labours to open nuts. These
untimely indulgences may be compared to the tot of grog served out before
a ship goes into action.
My purpose in this visit led me first to the boys’ school, for Hatiheu is
the university of the north islands. The hum of the lesson came out to
meet us. Close by the door, where the draught blew coolest, sat the lay
brother; around him, in a packed half-circle, some sixty high-coloured
faces set with staring eyes; and in the background of the barn-like room
benches were to be seen, and blackboards with sums on them in chalk. The
brother rose to greet us, sensibly humble. Thirty years he had been
there, he said, and fingered his white locks as a bashful child pulls out
his pinafore. ‘_Et point de résultats_, _monsieur_, _presque pas de
résultats_.’ He pointed to the scholars: ‘You see, sir, all the youth of
Nuka-hiva and Ua-pu. Between the ages of six and fifteen this is all
that remains; and it is but a few years since we had a hundred and twenty
from Nuka-hiva alone. _Oui_, _monsieur_, _cela se dépérit_.’ Prayers,
and reading and writing, prayers again and arithmetic, and more prayers
to conclude: such appeared to be the dreary nature of the course. For
arithmetic all island people have a natural taste. In Hawaii they make
good progress in mathematics. In one of the villages on Majuro, and
generally in the Marshall group, the whole population sit about the
trader when he is weighing copra, and each on his own slate takes down
the figures and computes the total. The trader, finding them so apt,
introduced fractions, for which they had been taught no rule. At first
they were quite gravelled but ultimately, by sheer hard thinking,
reasoned out the result, and came one after another to assure the trader
he was right. Not many people in Europe could have done the like. The
course at Hatiheu is therefore less dispiriting to Polynesians than a
stranger might have guessed; and yet how bald it is at best! I asked the
brother if he did not tell them stories, and he stared at me; if he did
not teach them history, and he said, ‘O yes, they had a little Scripture
history—from the New Testament’; and repeated his lamentations over the
lack of results. I had not the heart to put more questions; I could but
say it must be very discouraging, and resist the impulse to add that it
seemed also very natural. He looked up—‘My days are far spent,’ he said;
‘heaven awaits me.’ May that heaven forgive me, but I was angry with the
old man and his simple consolation. For think of his opportunity! The
youth, from six to fifteen, are taken from their homes by Government,
centralised at Hatiheu, where they are supported by a weekly tax of food;
and, with the exception of one month in every year, surrendered wholly to
the direction of the priests. Since the escapade already mentioned the
holiday occurs at a different period for the girls and for the boys; so
that a Marquesan brother and sister meet again, after their education is
complete, a pair of strangers. It is a harsh law, and highly unpopular;
but what a power it places in the hands of the instructors, and how
languidly and dully is that power employed by the mission! Too much
concern to make the natives pious, a design in which they all confess
defeat, is, I suppose, the explanation of their miserable system. But
they might see in the girls’ school at Tai-o-hae, under the brisk,
housewifely sisters, a different picture of efficiency, and a scene of
neatness, airiness, and spirited and mirthful occupation that should
shame them into cheerier methods. The sisters themselves lament their
failure. They complain the annual holiday undoes the whole year’s work;
they complain particularly of the heartless indifference of the girls.
Out of so many pretty and apparently affectionate pupils whom they have
taught and reared, only two have ever returned to pay a visit of
remembrance to their teachers. These, indeed, come regularly, but the
rest, so soon as their school-days are over, disappear into the woods
like captive insects. It is hard to imagine anything more discouraging;
and yet I do not believe these ladies need despair. For a certain
interval they keep the girls alive and innocently busy; and if it be at
all possible to save the race, this would be the means. No such praise
can be given to the boys’ school at Hatiheu. The day is numbered already
for them all; alike for the teacher and the scholars death is girt; he is
afoot upon the march; and in the frequent interval they sit and yawn.
But in life there seems a thread of purpose through the least
significant; the drowsiest endeavour is not lost, and even the school at
Hatiheu may be more useful than it seems.
Hatiheu is a place of some pretensions. The end of the bay towards Anaho
may be called the civil compound, for it boasts the house of Kooamua, and
close on the beach, under a great tree, that of the gendarme, M. Armand
Aussel, with his garden, his pictures, his books, and his excellent
table, to which strangers are made welcome. No more singular contrast is
possible than between the gendarmerie and the priesthood, who are besides
in smouldering opposition and full of mutual complaints. A priest’s
kitchen in the eastern islands is a depressing spot to see; and many, or
most of them, make no attempt to keep a garden, sparsely subsisting on
their rations. But you will never dine with a gendarme without smacking
your lips; and M. Aussel’s home-made sausage and the salad from his
garden are unforgotten delicacies. Pierre Loti may like to know that he
is M. Aussel’s favourite author, and that his books are read in the fit
scenery of Hatiheu bay.
The other end is all religious. It is here that an overhanging and
tip-tilted horn, a good sea-mark for Hatiheu, bursts naked from the
verdure of the climbing forest, and breaks down shoreward in steep
taluses and cliffs. From the edge of one of the highest, perhaps seven
hundred or a thousand feet above the beach, a Virgin looks
insignificantly down, like a poor lost doll, forgotten there by a giant
child. This laborious symbol of the Catholics is always strange to
Protestants; we conceive with wonder that men should think it worth while
to toil so many days, and clamber so much about the face of precipices,
for an end that makes us smile; and yet I believe it was the wise Bishop
Dordillon who chose the place, and I know that those who had a hand in
the enterprise look back with pride upon its vanquished dangers. The
boys’ school is a recent importation; it was at first in Tai-o-hae,
beside the girls’; and it was only of late, after their joint escapade,
that the width of the island was interposed between the sexes. But
Hatiheu must have been a place of missionary importance from before.
About midway of the beach no less than three churches stand grouped in a
patch of bananas, intermingled with some pine-apples. Two are of wood:
the original church, now in disuse; and a second that, for some
mysterious reason, has never been used. The new church is of stone, with
twin towers, walls flangeing into buttresses, and sculptured front. The
design itself is good, simple, and shapely; but the character is all in
the detail, where the architect has bloomed into the sculptor. It is
impossible to tell in words of the angels (although they are more like
winged archbishops) that stand guard upon the door, of the cherubs in the
corners, of the scapegoat gargoyles, or the quaint and spirited relief,
where St. Michael (the artist’s patron) makes short work of a protesting
Lucifer. We were never weary of viewing the imagery, so innocent,
sometimes so funny, and yet in the best sense—in the sense of inventive
gusto and expression—so artistic. I know not whether it was more strange
to find a building of such merit in a corner of a barbarous isle, or to
see a building so antique still bright with novelty. The architect, a
French lay brother, still alive and well, and meditating fresh
foundations, must have surely drawn his descent from a master-builder in
the age of the cathedrals; and it was in looking on the church of Hatiheu
that I seemed to perceive the secret charm of mediæval sculpture; that
combination of the childish courage of the amateur, attempting all
things, like the schoolboy on his slate, with the manly perseverance of
the artist who does not know when he is conquered.
I had always afterwards a strong wish to meet the architect, Brother
Michel; and one day, when I was talking with the Resident in Tai-o-hae
(the chief port of the island), there were shown in to us an old, worn,
purblind, ascetic-looking priest, and a lay brother, a type of all that
is most sound in France, with a broad, clever, honest, humorous
countenance, an eye very large and bright, and a strong and healthy body
inclining to obesity. But that his blouse was black and his face shaven
clean, you might pick such a man to-day, toiling cheerfully in his own
patch of vines, from half a dozen provinces of France; and yet he had
always for me a haunting resemblance to an old kind friend of my boyhood,
whom I name in case any of my readers should share with me that
memory—Dr. Paul, of the West Kirk. Almost at the first word I was sure
it was my architect, and in a moment we were deep in a discussion of
Hatiheu church. Brother Michel spoke always of his labours with a
twinkle of humour, underlying which it was possible to spy a serious
pride, and the change from one to another was often very human and
diverting. ‘_Et vos gargouilles moyen-âge_,’ cried I; ‘_comme elles sont
originates_!’ ‘_N’est-ce pas_? _Elles sont bien drôles_!’ he said,
smiling broadly; and the next moment, with a sudden gravity: ‘_Cependant
il y en a une qui a une patte de cassé_; _il faut que je voie cela_.’ I
asked if he had any model—a point we much discussed. ‘_Non_,’ said he
simply; ‘_c’est une église idéale_.’ The relievo was his favourite
performance, and very justly so. The angels at the door, he owned, he
would like to destroy and replace. ‘_Ils n’ont pas de vie_, _ils
manquent de vie_. _Vous devriez voir mon église à la Dominique_; _j’ai
là une Vierge qui est vraiment gentille_.’ ‘Ah,’ I cried, ‘they told me
you had said you would never build another church, and I wrote in my
journal I could not believe it.’ ‘_Oui_, _j’aimerais bien en fairs une
autre_,’ he confessed, and smiled at the confession. An artist will
understand how much I was attracted by this conversation. There is no
bond so near as a community in that unaffected interest and slightly
shame-faced pride which mark the intelligent man enamoured of an art. He
sees the limitations of his aim, the defects of his practice; he smiles
to be so employed upon the shores of death, yet sees in his own devotion
something worthy. Artists, if they had the same sense of humour with the
Augurs, would smile like them on meeting, but the smile would not be
scornful.
I had occasion to see much of this excellent man. He sailed with us from
Tai-o-hae to Hiva-oa, a dead beat of ninety miles against a heavy sea.
It was what is called a good passage, and a feather in the _Casco’s_ cap;
but among the most miserable forty hours that any one of us had ever
passed. We were swung and tossed together all that time like shot in a
stage thunder-box. The mate was thrown down and had his head cut open;
the captain was sick on deck; the cook sick in the galley. Of all our
party only two sat down to dinner. I was one. I own that I felt
wretchedly; and I can only say of the other, who professed to feel quite
well, that she fled at an early moment from the table. It was in these
circumstances that we skirted the windward shore of that indescribable
island of Ua-pu; viewing with dizzy eyes the coves, the capes, the
breakers, the climbing forests, and the inaccessible stone needles that
surmount the mountains. The place persists, in a dark corner of our
memories, like a piece of the scenery of nightmares. The end of this
distressful passage, where we were to land our passengers, was in a
similar vein of roughness. The surf ran high on the beach at Taahauku;
the boat broached-to and capsized; and all hands were submerged. Only
the brother himself, who was well used to the experience, skipped ashore,
by some miracle of agility, with scarce a sprinkling. Thenceforward,
during our stay at Hiva-oa, he was our cicerone and patron; introducing
us, taking us excursions, serving us in every way, and making himself
daily more beloved.
Michel Blanc had been a carpenter by trade; had made money and retired,
supposing his active days quite over; and it was only when he found
idleness dangerous that he placed his capital and acquirements at the
service of the mission. He became their carpenter, mason, architect, and
engineer; added sculpture to his accomplishments, and was famous for his
skill in gardening. He wore an enviable air of having found a port from
life’s contentions and lying there strongly anchored; went about his
business with a jolly simplicity; complained of no lack of
results—perhaps shyly thinking his own statuary result enough; and was
altogether a pattern of the missionary layman.