"Alas! for Tusitala he sleeps in the forest."
_Native Lament._
Vailima is only about three miles from Apia, but the road ascends the
whole way, and in this land "where it is always afternoon" one does not
care for much exertion; so a carriage was engaged to drive us thither, and
we had John Chinaman for coachman.
That morning the captain and a fellow-passenger had urged us not to
attempt the ascent of Mount Veea. "Go and see the house by all means, but
the grave is impossible for ladies." "Only last trip," said the captain,
"two of our passengers, both comparatively young men, got lost in the bush
on Mount Veea, never found the grave at all, and returned to the
_Manipouri_ dead beat, after keeping me waiting four hours. But I give you
due warning, ladies, I shall not wait for you, don't think it for a
moment. I shall just go off and leave you here." I can recall now the
twinkle in his brown eyes as the captain spoke, a twinkle that gave the
lie to his words. Nevertheless, in spite of all warnings, we, the only
three ladies on board, adhered to our intention of making the ascent,
though we promised to take a native guide to show us the way.
[Illustration: THE ROAD OF THE LOVING HEART
_To face page 27_]]
We drove up a long, winding hill, in a very dilapidated wagonette. I sat
by the driver, and felt sorry for our pair of lean and scraggy horses as
they toiled painfully upwards. The heat was stifling, and the still, tense
air vibrated with every sound, like a tightly drawn string. At last we
reached the Road of the Loving Heart. This road exists as a touching
memorial to the high regard in which Tusitala--the story teller--was held
by the natives. And here it may be well to add that the name of Tusitala
was given to Stevenson, not because the Samoans knew or loved his books,
but because it is their custom to define the individual either by his or
her profession, by some trait or characteristic, or even by an article of
attire. Hence when the chiefs inquired concerning this new arrival, "What
does he do? How does he live?" they were told "He writes books; he tells
stories"; and from that day onward he was "Tusitala, the Story Teller,"
just as Mrs. Strong was (I believe) known as "The Flower-Giver" (I forget
the native equivalent), because she was in the habit of giving flowers to
her visitors.
This information came from Captain Crawshaw, who was himself a personal
friend of the late novelist, and showed me, by the way, quite a number of
letters he had received from Stevenson himself. One of them interested me
particularly, since in it Stevenson begged the captain to try and discover
the whereabouts of a friend of his who had got into trouble. "Save him
from his worst enemy--himself. Bring him to me. Spare no expense in the
matter. I will be answerable." Such was the substance of this letter as
far as I can recall it, and it ended in the following characteristic
fashion:--"Signed, sealed, and delivered in the presence of my Maker, and
the ink-pot."
"ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."
But I am wandering into bye-ways, and I must hasten to return to Ala Loto
Alofa (which is the Samoan equivalent for the name of the road referred
to).[4] Without going into the political details the facts are, briefly,
that Stevenson had been very good to the six imprisoned chiefs of
Mataafa's following, and when their term of imprisonment expired, these
men, out of gratitude, cut a road through the bush to Vailima.
[Illustration: KAVA FEAST GIVEN TO THE CHIEFS ON COMPLETION OF THE ROAD OF
THE LOVING HEART
_To face page 29_]]
This work was a labour of love, the men who engaged in it were mostly of a
high class, and they would neither take wages nor any sort of payment in
kind. How this pleased Stevenson may be gathered from the following:--"Now
whether or not this impulse will last them through the road does not
matter to me one hair. It is the fact that they have attempted it, that
they have volunteered, and are now trying to execute, a thing that was
never before heard of in Samoa. Think of it! It is road making, the most
fruitful cause, after taxes, of all rebellion in Samoa, a thing to which
they could not be wiled with money, nor driven by punishment. It does give
me a sense of having done something in Samoa after all."[5]
Stevenson had purposed putting up a notice of the new road, with its name
in large letters with a few words of thanks for the chiefs, and a board
was prepared for the purpose, painted and spaced for the lettering, when
the chiefs arrived with their own inscription carefully written out. They
begged so earnestly to have this printed instead that their wish was
gratified. I was privileged to read the notice at the corner of the wide
road leading to the gates of Vailima.[6] The inscription is in Samoan,
but translated into English runs as follows: "The Road of the Loving
Heart" (Ala Loto Alofa), "Remembering the great care of his Highness
Tusitala, and his loving care when we were in prison and sore distressed,
we have prepared him an enduring present, this road which we have dug to
last for ever. It shall never be muddy, it shall endure, this road that we
have dug."
On arrival at the finger-post our Chinaman was fain to be rid of us, so he
announced, with a grin on his yellow face, "Horsee too muchee tired,
missie walk now, missie catchee Vailima chop-chop." We had, however, been
forewarned what to expect by the captain, so I merely remarked, "Savey,
John no catchee Vailima, no catchee pay." And John drove on!
The Road of the Loving Heart, if very steep, has a fairly level surface.
On either side are palms, bread fruit trees and bananas. Vailima
(literally, "Five Rivers") is approached by a short drive, through a gate,
into a lovely garden. Mrs. Strong tells me that the present owner has
painted on that gate the words--"Villa Vailima." I am happy to say,
however, that neither of us observed this atrocity.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE AT VAILIMA
_To face page 31_]]
The house itself is well designed and has a double verandah; it is built
of wood throughout, and stands on very high ground. On the left hand, as
we faced the house, was the smaller villa once occupied by Mrs. Strong. On
the right, towering up into the blue dome above, was Mount Veea, and on
the wooded height (far beyond ken)--THE GRAVE.
Not a soul was visible, the place was bathed in sunshine and "steeped in
silentness," not even a dog barked at our approach. The crotons,
dracaenas, and other plants of brilliant foliage made patches of vivid
colour on the well-kept lawns, and everywhere was the scent of orange
blossom, gardenia, and frangipani.
Under the shadow of the broad verandah the air was cool and pleasant, and
we three lingered there awhile, as on the threshold of a temple. Before us
was the really magnificent hall, some sixty feet long by forty wide, the
door standing open, as in the days of Tusitala, but the dark panelling
within was a thing of the past, and the walls were now painted a soft cool
green.
All his furniture was gone--we were prepared for that--but the window was
there, the window below which he lay on the low settle and breathed his
last. As I stood there the whole scene flashed across my mental vision,
with its awful, and perhaps merciful, unexpectedness.
He had recorded, often enough, his desire for such an end. "I wish to die
in my boots, no more Land of Counterpane for me! If only I could secure a
violent end, what a fine success! To be drowned, to be shot, to be thrown
from a horse, aye, to be hanged, rather than pass again through that slow
dissolution."
No less has he left on record his attitude towards impending death. "By
all means begin your folio, even if the doctor does not give you a year,
even if he hesitates about a month, make one brave push and see what can
be accomplished in a week. It is not only in finished undertakings that we
ought to honour useful labour. A spirit goes out of the man who means
execution which outlives the most untimely end."
The hall of Vailima is (as Mr. Balfour tells us) quite the feature of the
house. I have before referred to its size, it covers the whole area of the
building. Facing us, as we entered, was the broad polished wooden
staircase leading to the upper storey. We passed through the hall and out
of a door on the other side of it; somewhere in the back premises we
unearthed a Samoan woman, attired in very scanty raiment, busily engaged
in peeling potatoes. To her we addressed ourselves, first in English and
then in German, but it was all to no purpose. Next we resorted to
signs. Pointing to the mountain top, I said, "Tusitala." The word acted as
a talisman, the brown face wreathed itself in smiles, the dark eyes
kindled into comprehension. Motioning to us to remain where we were, she
disappeared, and soon returned with a small brown girl, whose only garment
was a ragged blue pinafore sewn up at the back.
[Illustration: THE HALL OF VAILIMA
_To face page 32_]]
The little maiden (she might have been ten or eleven years of age) ran up
to us quite gleefully, intimated by smiles and gestures that she was
prepared to act as guide, and at once possessed herself of our heavy
basket of fruit. We followed her through a little wicket gate which led
into a lovely grove with oranges on one side and bananas on the other, the
leaves of the latter being larger and more glossy than any I have seen
before or since. The play of light and shadow here was something to dream
of, and often we stood still too enraptured to pursue our way. Soon we
crossed a little mountain stream, clear as crystal, with but a single
plank for bridge, and lingered awhile to admire the cream-breasted
kingfishers and the numerous little[7] crayfish disporting themselves in
and above the water. In time we left the cultivated land behind and
followed a slender path into the bush, where under foot was a dense
growth of sensitive plant with delicately cut foliage and little fluffy
pink ball-like blossoms. Our footsteps were marked by the quivering and
shrinking of the shy, tremulous leaves, but as I looked back they once
more stood bravely erect. This was the plant that baffled all poor
Stevenson's efforts at eradication, living, thriving, ever renewing itself
in spite of him.
"A fool," says he, "brought it to this island in a pot, and used to
lecture and sentimentalize over the tender thing. The tender thing has now
taken charge of this island, and men fight it, with torn hands, for bread
and life. A singular insidious thing, shrinking and biting like a weasel,
clutching by its roots as a limpet clutches to a rock."[8]
The trees here were simply magnificent, the fern life too was everywhere
abundant, exquisite ferns, such as we grow in our hot-houses at home.
Trees, ferns, creepers, flowers were tangled together in a vast net-work
of luxuriant vegetation, each individual plant fighting for its very
existence, contending for its due share of light, and air, and space. Here
it was that Stevenson conceived his poem of "The Woodman"; every word of
it came home to me with the inevitableness of absolute truth as we fought
our way upward and onward.
"I saw the wood for what it was,
The lost and the victorious cause,
The deadly battle pitched in line,
Saw silent weapons cross and shine,
Silent defeat, silent assault,
A battle and a burial vault."
Stevenson's attitude towards nature was a very remarkable one. Like
Wordsworth, he endued her with a real, living personality, but unlike
Wordsworth, he never seems to enter into a direct communion with her. She
does not soothe him into "a wise passiveness," she rather inspires him
with a strange, fierce energy. Take this passage, selected almost at
random from one of his published letters to Sidney Colvin: "I wonder if
any one ever had the same attitude to nature as I hold and have held for
so long. This business (of weeding) fascinates me like a tune or a
passion, yet all the while I thrill with a strong distaste. The horror of
the thing, objective and subjective, is always present in my mind, the
horror of creeping things, a superstitious horror of the void and the
powers about me, the horror of my own devastation and continual murders.
The life of the plants comes through my finger tips, their struggles go to
my heart like supplications, I feel myself blood boltered--then I look
back on my cleared grass, and count myself an ally in a fair quarrel, and
make stout my heart."
The living individual personality of nature is here as clearly recognised
as Wordsworth himself recognised it, but the standpoint of regard is
wholly different. Stevenson was aware of the spirit that clothed itself
with the visible, but he was no dreamy lover enamoured of that spirit. He
was rather (as he so often says) the ally in a fair quarrel, only desirous
of bending Nature to his will, of pitting his strength against hers.
But I am digressing, and the mountain top and the grave are before me, and
I am in the forest on my way thither. Now and again a tiny bright-coloured
bird would flash across the path, now and again a huge trail of giant
convolvulus, blue as the sky, would bar our progress. Over an hour had
elapsed before we gained the summit, and the latter half of the ascent was
by far the most difficult.
Small wonder that sixty natives were required to get the coffin up, and
even so the question will always remain, How did they accomplish the feat?
One may talk of the Road of the Loving Heart, but this was a veritable
Via Dolorosa, a road of Sorrow and of Pity. The path zigzagged through
the forest until it ended in a slender, fern-grown, almost imperceptible
bush-track. More than once it led over the face of the solid rock, but
branches of creepers, by which it was easy to swing oneself up, were
abundant, though still the top appeared to recede, and to become more and
more unattainable.
The mosquitos made the lives of my two companions a burden; on all sides
of us we heard their sinister aereal trumpeting, the heat was
insupportable--stifling, the very air seemed stagnant and dead, but, quite
unawares, we were gradually nearing our goal. Suddenly our little
brown-skinned guide, who was travelling ever so far ahead, in spite of the
burden of our heavy basket of fruit, flung herself down on a small plateau
just above us, and we, toiling painfully after, knew we had attained.
A minute later and we stood in reverent silence beside a massive
sarcophagus, constructed of concrete and surrounded by a broad slab. Not
an ideal structure by any manner of means, not even beautiful, and yet in
its massive ruggedness it somehow suited the man and the place. The broad
slab was strewn with faded wreaths and flowers, and on one side of the
sarcophagus were inscribed Stevenson's name, with the date of his birth
and death, also these eight lines, familiar to all who have read his
poems:
"Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I lay me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me,
Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."
On the other side was an inscription in Samoan, which translated is
"Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy
people shall be my people and thy God my God; where thou diest I will die,
and there will I be buried." On either side of this text was graven a
thistle and a hibiscus flower.
The chiefs have tabooed the use of firearms, or other weapons, on Mount
Veea, in order that the birds may live there undisturbed and unafraid, and
build their nests in the trees around Tusitala's grave.
[Illustration: VIEW OF VAILIMA FROM STEVENSON'S GRAVE
_To face page 39_]]
We remained on the plateau for over an hour resting our weary limbs, and
eating our lunch of fruit; and during that time we sat on the broad
sun-warmed slab. A tiny lizard, with a golden head, a green body, and a
blue tail, flickered to and fro. Overhead a huge flying fox, with
outspread "batty wings" sailed majestically. We seemed alone in the world,
we four human beings, and as we gazed about us we saw everywhere, far
beneath us, the beautiful "sapphire-spangled marriage-ring of the land,"
and down from us to the blueness, and beyond us, to an infinitude of
distance, billow upon billow of wooded heights. Sitting there, on that
green and level plateau on the summit of the mountain, my thoughts turned
involuntarily to the last lofty resting-place of Browning's "Grammarian."
"Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place!
Hail to your purlieus,
All ye high flyers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews!"
"Here, here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!"
The wind sighed softly in the branches of the _Tavau_ trees, from out the
green recesses of the _Toi_ came the plaintive coo of the wood-pigeon. In
and out of the branches of the magnificent _Fau_ tree, which overhangs the
grave, a kingfisher, sea-blue, iridescent, flitted to and fro, whilst a
scarlet hibiscus, in full flower, showed up royally against the gray
lichened cement. All around was light and life and colour, and I said to
myself, "He is made one with nature"; he is now, body and soul and spirit,
commingled with the loveliness around. He who longed in life to scale the
height, he who attained his wish only in death, has become in himself a
parable of fulfilment. No need now for that heart-sick cry:--
"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I."
No need now for the despairing finality of:--
"I have trod the upward and the downward slopes,
I have endured and done in the days of yore,
I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope,
And I have lived, and loved, and closed the door."
Death has set his seal of peace on the unequal conflict of mind and
matter; the All-Mother has gathered him to herself.
In years to come, when his grave is perchance forgotten, a rugged ruin,
home of the lizard and the bat, Tusitala--the story teller--"the man with
a heart of gold" (as I so often heard him designated in the Islands) will
live, when it may be his tales have ceased to interest, in the tender
remembrance of those whose lives he beautified, and whose hearts he warmed
into gratitude.
[Illustration: THE STAIRCASE, VAILIMA
_To face page 41_]]
So we left him, "still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying,"
and once more, following the footsteps of our guide, we took up that ferny
moss-grown track. It was scarcely less easy to scramble down the steep
descent than it had been to toil upwards. But "time and the hour run
through the roughest day," and we eventually arrived at the bottom, torn
and scratched and not a little weary, but well content, only somewhat
regretful that the visit to the grave was over and not still to come,
comforting each other with the recollection that the house yet remained to
be explored.
Vailima is not much changed since the days when Robert Louis Stevenson
lived there. Where the walls had been, in the late native war, riddled
with shot, they had been renewed, but so exactly on the old lines that the
change was scarcely perceptible. Although the house has been added to, and
in my estimation considerably improved thereby, yet the old part remains
intact.
Herr Conrade, the manager for Herr Kunz, the present owner, was kind
enough to show us everything, but naturally Stevenson's suite of rooms
were the only ones that possessed any special interest. First his bedroom,
then his library, and lastly his Temple of Peace, the innermost shrine
where he wrote, and which, opening as it did on to the upper verandah,
commanded a magnificent view of sea and mountain. From the verandah could
be seen the gleam of the sunlight on the breaking surf around the far
distant bay. On the left, fronting seaward, were the heights where he was
laid to rest.
Between two of the upper rooms (the bedroom and the library), there used
to be a square hole, just large enough for a man to crawl through on hands
and knees.[9] This was formerly the only entrance, but the present owner
has had a door put up on which the outline of the hole is still indicated.
With the exception of these rooms, Vailima might have belonged to any
other European of wealth and taste.
The question has been raised, Was Stevenson contented in Samoa? Did those
three years bring him pleasure? May we not answer, Yes! and not only
pleasure but profit. For the profit, note the books written during this
period, _The Master of Ballantrae_, and the unfinished _Weir of
Hermiston_!
[Illustration: VAILIMA
_To face page 42_]]
For the pleasure he shall speak for himself, and mark the subtle
distinction he draws between happiness and pleasure. "I was only happy
once--that was at Hyeres, it came to an end from a variety of reasons,
decline of health, change of place, increase of money, age with his
stealing steps; since then, as before then, I know not what it means. But
I know pleasure still, pleasure with a thousand faces and none perfect, a
thousand tongues all broken, a thousand hands and all of them with
scratching nails. High among these I place this delight of weeding out
here, alone by the garrulous water, under the silence of the high wood,
broken by incongruous sounds of birds."
"Intense in all he did, Tusitala could do nothing by halves," said a man
who knew him well. "Whether it was at clearing land or writing books he
always worked at the top of his power, and enjoying as he did the life of
the gay house party in the evening, he would rise at daylight to make up
his loss of time." His was the old, old story of the sword that wore out
the scabbard--flesh and spirit at issue, and the flesh so frail, so
unequal to the conflict. There was an Austrian Count in Upolu whom the
captain took us one day to see, and who, to use the colonial word,
"batched" in a little bungalow in the midst of a huge coconut plantation.
The bungalow contained but one room--the bedroom, and the broad encircling
verandah served for sitting room. Here we sat and talked about Tusitala,
and drank to his memory. The conversation turned on Vailima, and our host
took us within and showed us the only two adornments that his room
possessed. Over his camp bed hung a framed photograph bearing the
inscription "My friend Tusitala," and fronting the bed was another of the
house and Mount Veea.
"So," he said, "I keep him there, for he was my saviour, and I wish 'good
night' and 'good morning,' every day, both to himself and to his old
home." The count then told us that when he was stopping at Vailima he used
to have his bath daily on the verandah below his room. One lovely morning
he got up very early, got into the bath, and splashed and sang, feeling
very well and very happy, and at last beginning to sing very loudly, he
forgot Mr. Stevenson altogether. All at once there was Stevenson himself,
his hair all ruffled up, his eyes full of anger. "Man," he said, "you and
your infernal row have cost me more than two hundred pounds in ideas," and
with that he was gone, but he did not address the count again the whole of
that day. Next morning he had forgotten the count's offence and was just
as friendly as ever, but--the noise was never repeated! Another of the
count's stories amused me much. "An English lord came all the way to Samoa
in his yacht to see Mr. Stevenson, and found him in his cool Kimino
sitting with the ladies and drinking tea on his verandah; the whole party
had their feet bare. The English lord thought that he must have called at
the wrong time, and offered to go away, but Mr. Stevenson called out to
him, and brought him back, and made him stay to dinner. They all went away
to dress, and the guest was left sitting alone in the verandah. Soon they
came back, Mr. Osborne and Mr. Stevenson wearing the form of dress most
usual in that hot climate, a white mess jacket, and white trousers, but
their feet were still bare. The guest put up his eyeglass and stared for a
bit, then he looked down upon his own beautifully shod feet and sighed.
They all talked and laughed until the ladies came in, the ladies in silk
dresses, befrilled with lace, but still with bare feet, and the guest took
a covert look through his eyeglass and gasped, but when he noticed that
there were gold bangles on Mrs. Strong's ankles and rings upon her toes,
he could bear no more and dropped his eyeglass on the ground of the
verandah breaking it all to bits." Such was my informant's story, which I
give for what it is worth.
[Illustration: NATIVE FEAST AT VAILIMA
_To face page 44_]]
On our way back to the steamer we visited the lovely waterfall referred to
in _Vailima Letters_, also the Girls' School for the daughters of Native
Chiefs. The latter affords most interesting testimony to the value of
mission work. The principal of the school--a German lady--told us that
both Stevenson and his mother took the deepest interest in this school,
and subscribed liberally towards its support.
We had, I regret to say, very little time in Apia, and no time for
Papasea, or The Sliding Rock, which lies some miles inland. The natives
love to shoot this fall, and many of the white folk of both sexes follow
their example.
Next morning we were off again, steaming for the other side of the island,
where we stayed two days shipping copra. Here I met many of Stevenson's
friends, and can recall a chat I had with the photographer to whom I am
indebted for several of the photographs in this book. He was a thin spare
man, about six-and-twenty years of age, and not so very unlike the
pictures of Stevenson himself.
"I had but recently come to Samoa," he said, "and was standing one day in
my shop when Mr. Stevenson came in and spoke. "Mon," he said, "I tak ye to
be a Scotsman like mysel."
[Illustration: ONE OF THE FIVE RIVERS FROM WHICH VAILIMA TAKES ITS NAME
_To face page 46_]]
"I would I could have claimed a kinship," deplored the photographer, "but
alas! I am English to the back-bone, with never a drop of Scotch blood in
my veins, and I told him this, regretting the absence of the blood tie.
"I could have sworn your back was the back of a Scotchman," was his
comment, "but," and he held out his hand, "you look sick, and there is a
fellowship in sickness not to be denied." I said I was not strong, and had
come to the Island on account of my health. "Well then," replied Mr.
Stevenson, "it shall be my business to help you to get well; come to
Vailima whenever you like, and if I am out, ask for refreshment, and wait
until I come in, you will always find a welcome there."
At this point my informant turned away, and there was a break in his voice
as he exclaimed, "Ah, the years go on, and I don't miss him less, but
more; next to my mother he was the best friend I ever had: a man with a
heart of gold; his house was a second home to me."
"You like his books, of course."
"Yes!" (this very dubiously), "I like them, but he was worth all his books
put together. People who don't know him, like him for his books. I like
him for himself, and I often wish I liked his books better. It strikes me
that we in the Colonies don't think so much of them as you do in England,
perhaps we are not educated up to his style." And this is the class of
comment I heard over and over again in the Colonies, from men who liked
the man, but had no especial liking for his books. Is it that Robert Louis
Stevenson appeals first and foremost to a cultured audience? Surely not.
Putting the essays out of court, his books are one and all tales of
adventure, stories of romance. The interest may be heightened by style--by
the use of words that fit the subject, as a tailor-made gown fits its
wearer--but the subject is never sacrificed to the style. It seems to me
that one of my friends on the _Manipouri_ (himself a great reader and no
mean critic) came very near solving the problem when he said, "Frankly,
much as I like the man, I don't care one straw about his writings. I've
got on board this boat _The Master of Ballantrae_, _The Black Arrow_,
_Kidnapped_, and _The Ebb Tide_. They all read like so many boys' books,
and when I became a man I put away childish things. I've plenty of
adventure and excitement in my life, and I want a book that tells me about
the home life in the old country, or else an historical novel. Give me
Thomas Hardy, or Mrs. Humphry Ward, or Marion Crawford, or Antony Hope.
My bad taste, I daresay, but it is so, and I am not alone in my verdict,
although I reckon the majority of the folk, this side of the world, would
prefer Marie Corelli or Mrs. L. T. Meade."
[Illustration: ANOTHER OF THE FIVE RIVERS
_To face page 48_]]
* * * * *
I cannot leave Samoa without saying a few words about the natives, in whom
Tusitala took so deep an interest.
As I write there rises before my mental vision a crowd of brown-skinned
men, women, and children, their bodies glistening with coconut oil, and
looking as sleek as a shoal of porpoises. Supple of limb, handsome of
feature, the men are mostly possessed of reddish or yellow-tinted hair,
which stands straight out from their heads in a stiff mop. The colour is
due to the rubbing in of a much prized description of red clay, and the
stiffness to their constant use of coral lime, for purposes of
cleanliness.
All the men wear the kilt of the South Seas, the _sulu_, _ridi_, or
_lava-lava_, and as often as not a tunic besides. Nearly all the women are
clothed in "pinafore" dresses, infinitely graceful and becoming. Men and
women alike adorn themselves with flowers, wreaths of flowers in their
hair, flowers interwoven in their _sulu's_, garlands of flowers around
the neck, in addition to countless strings of shells and beads.
That they loved Tusitala with a deep and lasting affection is undoubted,
and if proof were needed this touching little story may be taken as but
one of many evidences. Sosimo, one of his servants, went out of his way to
do Tusitala an act of personal kindness. In expressing his gratitude
Stevenson said, "Oh! Sosimo, great is the service." "Nay, Tusitala,"
replied the Samoan, "greater is the love." The following is the Native
Lament composed by one of the Chiefs at the time of Stevenson's death. The
translation is by Mr. Lloyd Osborne, Stevenson's step-son and able
collaborator. I was allowed to copy the poems from the little pamphlet
kindly lent me by the Captain.[10]
[Illustration: DANCE OF SAMOAN NATIVES
_To face page 50_]]
NATIVE LAMENT FOR TUSITALA.
Listen oh! this world as I tell of the disaster,
That befell in the late afternoon,
That broke like a wave of the sea,
Suddenly and swiftly blinding our eyes.
Alas! for Lois who speaks, tears in his voice,
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala who rests in the forest.
Aimlessly we wait and wonder, Will he come again?
Lament, oh Vailima, waiting and ever waiting;
Let us search and inquire of the Captains of Ships,
"Be not angry, but has not Tusitala come?"
Tuila, sorrowing one, come hither,
Prepare me a letter, I will carry it.
Let her Majesty, Queen Victoria, be told,
That Tusitala, the loving one, has been taken home.
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, who rests in the forest.
Alas! my heart weeps with anxious pity,
As I think of the days before us,
Of the white men gathering for the Christmas assembly;
Alas! for Alola,[11] left in her loneliness,
And the men of Vailima, who weep together,
Their leader being taken;
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, who sleeps in the forest.
Alas! oh, my heart, it weeps unceasingly,
When I think of his illness,
Coming upon him with so fatal a swiftness,
Would that it had waited a word or a glance from him,
Or some token from us of our love.
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala who sleeps in the forest.
Grieve oh, my heart! I cannot bear to look on,
At the chiefs who are assembling.
Alas! Tusitala, thou art not here;
I look hither and thither in vain for thee,
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, he sleeps in the forest.
[Illustration: FIJI
_To face page 53_]]