heard so much. It is unnecessary to describe the earlier stages of my
journey. Tromsö, Hammerfest, and Lyngseedt, though much frequented,
are but large villages in the neighbourhood of which the nomad Lapps
pasture their reindeer. The animals feed on a sort of lichen, termed
reindeer moss, which, during the autumn, covers the mountains with what
looks like a mantle of snow.
The natives live in primitive wattle and mud huts, and I found
entire families living in paternal promiscuity with their animals
in what--judged by the usual standards--was a most pestilential
atmosphere, the predominating feature of which was a nauseous mingled
odour of leather and boiled coffee.
As to the people themselves, the typical Laplander, with whom I grew
familiar, was, by no means a disagreeable type. Many of the older men
bear a strange resemblance to French peasants, having the same dark
skin, black hair, large mouth, thin face, prominent cheek-bones, and
long, pointed chin. Even in the most wretched hovels I was offered a
cup of coffee, accompanied by polite gestures that would have been
appropriate for the bestowal of Royal hospitality. In exchange for this
courtesy I usually presented my hosts with chocolate sweetmeats, which
were received with transports of gratitude. My general impression,
however, was that I was among a very primitive peasant race, but I am
bound to admit that the Laplanders fell in with all my requirements as
a photographer with the utmost good grace; they invariably took the
pose I required better than my own people, and never displayed any
unseemly curiosity.
I had not forgotten the famous Mickel Nilsson Nia, and when I reached
Nawick a Lapp schoolmistress there was kind enough to serve me as
guide to the abode of her celebrated countryman. We walked for an
hour through a most desolate stretch of country, which gave one the
impression that it had been abandoned after some mighty natural
cataclysm. In this landscape of death the only persons we met were a
stray herdsman or two, miserably attired, driving before them a few
attenuated reindeer. Suddenly my guide stopped, exclaiming, “Here is
Mickel’s house.”
[Illustration: A LAPP WOMAN OF THE BETTER CLASS--MOST OF THE FEMALES
HAVE A MARKED PREDILECTION FOR TOBACCO.
_From a Photograph._]
On the threshold two women were engaged in tanning reindeer hides. One
of the women was elderly, the other quite young, yet they were attired
in an almost identical manner. Each wore a short, coarse brown woollen
skirt, beneath which were visible garments that resembled trousers made
of bands of tightly-wound cloth. On their shoulders were grey shawls,
on their feet enormous shoes of reindeer leather, on their heads
bonnets of some blue material covered with lace. The colours usually
employed in Lapp costumes, by the way, are white, black, grey, blue,
and green; brighter hues are seldom seen.
At sight of us the two women ceased working to stare, and then broke
out into a hearty laugh--not of derision, but of welcome. The Laplander
is of an extremely jovial disposition, and invariably prides himself
on the possession of some nickname--not always complimentary--bestowed
upon him in jest. My guide addressed herself to the younger of the
two women, who, in addition to the garments I have enumerated, wore
some splendid reindeer furs. Then a young peasant came out of the hut,
and there ensued a tremendous discussion, the result of which was
to convince us that we had made a mistake--Mickel Nilsson’s hut was
farther on. The young man volunteered to accompany us there.
[Illustration: MICKEL NILSSON NIA, THE “LAPP ROTHSCHILD,” WHO POSSESSES
NINE THOUSAND HEAD OF REINDEER.
_From a Photograph._]
Finally, we came up to a group of men and women, in the centre of
which, busily talking, a veritable Triton among minnows, was the person
I sought. On the road I had, through my interpreter, been questioning
our new companion, and had thus learned that Mickel Nilsson Nia was a
sort of Lapp Rothschild, and possessed nine thousand head of reindeer.
As each animal may be put down as worth roughly about a sovereign, the
fortune of the little Lapp before me--who, hearing the object of my
mission, had now put his finger to his cap and was wringing my hand
with great affability--might be estimated at nine thousand pounds.
We had come upon him on a holiday, it appeared, and Mickel Nilsson
Nia was arrayed in his very best clothes. On his head he wore a tall
sugarloaf, peaked cap, topped by a bright red “pompon,” which gave it
a most extraordinary aspect. His body was covered by a superb white
reindeer skin--the gala costume--and on his vest glittered the medal
bestowed upon him by King Oscar as a reward for his success in breeding
reindeer. The man’s whole appearance, with his moustache, short
beard, cunning eyes, and perpetual smile, reminded me strongly of Li
Hung Chang, the Chinese statesman of illustrious memory, and also the
richest man in his country.
Mickel Nilsson Nia courteously invited me to enter his hut. I hesitated
for a moment, and then, with head bent low, bravely dashed into the
malodorous atmosphere of leather and boiled coffee which I had already
learned to dread. In the semi-gloom of the interior a mass of animals
were wallowing about, though I could not see them very distinctly. I
sank into a wicker arm-chair.
“A cup of coffee?”
“Many thanks.”
Into my hands was thrust a grotesquely-coloured cup, bearing the
fateful legend, “Made in Germany.” Like a hero I gulped down the
mixture it contained; to tell the truth, it was not unsavoury. Then I
commenced to ask him a few questions.
“Are things prospering in the reindeer breeding?” I inquired.
[Illustration: FRATERNAL AFFECTION--FAMILY TIES ARE STRONG IN LAPLAND,
AND EVEN THE BOYS LOOK AFTER THEIR BABY BROTHERS WITH THE UTMOST
SOLICITUDE.
_From a Photograph._]
Mickel’s answer was strictly non-committal--neither a decided “yes” nor
a “no.”
“How many animals do you possess?”
Again he evaded the direct answer with an unsatisfactory “Not so
many as I once had.” Then he called my attention to a herd of some
three hundred animals or so on the neighbouring hillside, but added
immediately, as though fearing he had hinted too much, “They do not
all belong to me, however; some are the property of my neighbours. The
herdsman we share between us.”
After this I thought it as well to abandon commercial matters for
literature. Mickel Nilsson Nia is a man of letters, devoting to books
all the leisure his nomadic pursuits leave him. Of the literature of
Lapland he spoke with pride.
“With us,” added Mickel, “literature is essentially popular. Our poets
sing only of what they have actually under their eyes; they celebrate
our daily life, our labours.” Here is a specimen of our poetry:--
The reindeer are in full flight.
Look at their wild flowing manes!
Look at the capricious animals!
Look how the noble creatures bound fleet-footed over the plain
through the world!
At his topmost speed the man pursues them, sweat standing out in
great beads.
“Ah, how fatigued I am!” he cries.
“And yet what would I not do to catch them!”
Oh, the precious animal!
What flesh, what a skin, what horns, what veins, what bones!
How excellent is all about him!
How excellent he is himself!
Ah, ah, ah!
Look! Look!
Two hundred, three hundred, thousands together!
Ever do they flee.
Into the lakes, into the snow do they cast themselves, seeking to
get refreshed.
Only when the sun has set will they come forth.
Now the night has come; forth they dart.
Now it is day and they hide themselves; only the plaintive bleats
of the young fall on the ear.
[Illustration: A VENDER OF SOUVENIRS--HE HAS DONE WELL AT HIS TRADE,
AND HAS ACCORDINGLY TREATED HIMSELF TO A SPECIALLY-SMART CAP AND
LUXURIOUS LAPP BOOTS.
_From a Photograph._]
As I was begging my interpreter to convey to Mickel Nilsson Nia my
admiration of this stirring epic of hunting, my host picked up a bundle
of Swedish illustrated papers from the corner and proceeded to make
comments upon them. Just then, however, a herdsman entered with news of
importance, so I rose and took my leave.
Accompanied by my two companions, I retraced my steps through the wild,
desolate country, in which none but the most intrepid of sportsmen
could find any pleasure. It is a land in which there are neither
hotels nor houses; a land which seems to take one back to some remote
age of innocence, when simple, honest human beings drove their flocks
and herds before them, chanting the while a hymn to the delights of a
pastoral life.
What souvenirs, you ask, can one carry away from this strange country,
where the reindeer rules supreme, and which, without the presence of
that useful animal, would sink into a condition of abject poverty and
utter desolation? Appropriately enough, there is nothing but carved
reindeer bones. Some are carved in so extraordinarily realistic and
expert a fashion that more than one eminent sculptor to whom I have
shown them has lifted his hands in admiration.
[Illustration: LAPP ARTISTS AT WORK CARVING REINDEER BONES.
_From a Photograph._]
Like all true artists worthy the name--like the Japanese, for
instance--the Laplander will only reproduce what he sees. Consequently,
in nine cases out of ten his carved reindeer bones show only
reindeer--reindeer at rest, reindeer jumping, reindeer harnessed
to sledges, and reindeer browsing. The thing becomes an absolute
obsession. And what realism is displayed by these unconscious artists!
What long hours of patient observation are implied by the life-like
attitudes they depict, and which might almost have been photographed,
so true are they to Nature! One gets the impression, watching the Lapp
carver at work, that one is in the presence of an artisan of a bygone
age, before rules had been laid down and become stereotyped--an age
when each individual worker was guided by his personal inspiration
alone.
After all, then, in this strange country, where there is supposed to
be “nothing but reindeer,” one may still find among these half-savage
people financiers--like Mickel Nilsson Nia--poets, and artists--types
which certainly go to show that the Lapps possess some of the
attributes of a civilized nation. Music alone is unknown in Lapland,
and this may be because the Lapp, with his boundless pride of race,
considers he has no need of its chastening and refining influence.
[Illustration: BUYING SOUVENIRS--STRIKING A BARGAIN WITH THE CURIO
PEDLARS IS A LONG AND COMPLICATED BUSINESS.
_From a Photograph._]
“TAPU.”
BY D. W. O. FAGAN, OF MANGAPAI, WHANGAREI, AUCKLAND, NEW
ZEALAND.
The author writes: “I can vouch for this story in every
particular. I hope it may prove interesting to ’Wide World’
readers, as illustrating the endless ramifications of the old
Maori law of ‘tapu,’ and the absurd predicaments in which
Europeans coming under its influence occasionally found
themselves.”
In the old days of thirty-five years ago, especially in the
out-districts, the Maoris still retained many of their ancient customs.
Among other inconvenient practices they had an insane habit of
depositing the bones of the dead in any kind of handy spot that took
their fancy--on the top of an island, in a hollow tree, in the crevices
of rocks--anywhere that was most convenient.
Afterwards the place became “tapu” (sacred, forbidden, prohibited).
Consequently any unwary and unsuspecting stranger who, happening along,
chanced to lean against the tree or tread on the rocks became himself
“tapu” (meaning, in this connection, accursed, unclean), and was hunted
from the tribe as a social leper and outcast. Like Cain, every man’s
hand was against him, though it was forbidden to kill him; and unless
he was a man of mark and could get the “tohunga” (priest) to “lift the
‘tapu’ off him” he speedily succumbed to a general sense of misery and
superstitious bedevilment.
It is not my intention to attempt an explanation of the working of the
“tapu” law. That has already been done by far abler pens than mine. My
own opinion is that no one ever did properly understand it--not even
the Maoris themselves.
In the beginning, probably, the thing was a decent and workable law
enough, as laws go, but in the course of ages, what with amendments
and addenda, it got beyond everything and was entirely indigestible by
human intellect; finally becoming an incubus--a kind of religio-legal
nightmare from which they couldn’t wake up.
I only know that any place, person, or thing could become “tapu.” Food,
fire, air, and water were not free from it. Man, woman, and child were
subject to it. For any trivial cause and without his knowledge a man
might be made “tapu.”
Sometimes it was partial, affecting only the feet or hands, and on
these occasions a man could put a “tapu” on himself by walking about or
scratching his own head!
Anyhow, if you got a bad dose of it, things became pretty uncomfortable.
White men could generally escape by affecting to ignore the thing and
taking ship for another country.
Unfortunately, as the reader will perceive, circumstances prevented my
adoption of this course.
At the time I am telling of I was superintending their northern trading
station at Te Mata for Messrs. Franks, Backhouse, and Co., a big
Auckland firm. Puketawa--whom I have mentioned in previous WIDE
WORLD contributions--a native of the South Island, educated at a
mission school, was by way of being my servant and store-help. Having
lived much with Europeans, and being ridiculously proud of the little
the mission school had taught him, he affected to despise the Maoris of
the neighbourhood. “Ignorant savages,” he called them, and stood aloof
in the light of superior wisdom. At times he even permitted himself
a mild remonstrance at what he considered my undue intimacy with the
heathen. Education had made Puketawa a bit of a snob; but, for all
that, he was a very good fellow.
The store, residence, and outbuildings stood on the shore of the tidal
estuary of the Mangapai River. Over a low range of hills running
parallel with the coast, at a distance of about half a mile, was the
Maori “kainga” (village), having a population of about nine hundred
souls.
It was with the object of bringing the blessings of civilization
to these benighted inhabitants and--of course, quite
incidentally--securing a profit to themselves that my principals had
established the trading post.
Being the only station within a radius of fifty miles, trade was good,
and neither merchants nor agent had reason for complaint on the score
of value or bulk of the cargoes of native produce picked up by the
firm’s trading steamer on its quarterly round.
By largess of sweets to the piccaninnies and gauds of cheap jewellery
to their mothers, I had gained a certain popularity. With Te Horo, the
chief, I was on terms of close friendship. I had quite won the old
fellow’s heart by a timely gift of an imitation pearl necklace to his
youngest and favourite wife. By careful tutelage I was fast inducing
in these children of Nature a craving for the things of the white man’s
higher life as represented by cotton goods, sugar, tea, tobacco, etc.
For obvious reasons, therefore, I was anxious to retain their good
will, and careful lest by any infringement of custom or superstition I
should unwittingly offend. In the light of what follows this should be
remembered.
The snipe were thick that autumn on the tidal flats at the river’s
mouth, and as a break to the monotony and with a view to change of
diet I would often close the store on Saturday afternoons and, with
Puketawa, drop down stream on a gunning expedition.
It was on one of these weekly excursions that misfortune fell upon
us. The birds were shy that day, and we followed them far over the
sand-flats. Intent on our sport, neither of us noticed the signs of an
ominous change in the weather, till, chancing to look seaward, I became
suddenly aware of it. The blue water had changed in colour to a leaden
grey and the horizon was hidden in a dense shroud of mist, which, with
the wind behind it, was rapidly rolling up towards us. There was no
time to lose. Our boat was at anchor a mile away on the inner edge of
the sand-flat. It would be a race between us and the fog. If overtaken
on those interminable banks we might wander, hopeless, till the
returning tide drowned us like rats in a trap.
Fortune favoured us. We reached the boat, and, breathless, had just
tumbled into it and hoisted sail, when the sea-fog shut down like a
curtain. Sky, cliffs, and river channel were blotted out in an instant.
No pretence at keeping a course was possible. The river ran due west,
and, the wind coming from the east, it only remained to sit tight and
let the boat scud before it, trusting to luck that we did not ram any
one of the hundred rocky islets studding the river’s mouth.
Our vision, beyond a small circle of heaving grey water immediately
around us, was shut in by the wall of thick white vapour. With Puketawa
at the sheet, I at the steer-oar, we drove along in a little world of
our own.
[Illustration: “IT ONLY REMAINED TO SIT TIGHT AND LET THE BOAT SCUD.”]
Suddenly, at a yell from Puketawa, I looked up. A wall of rock loomed
dark through the mist, before and above us! “Luff!” he screamed, but
there was no time. Ere I could sweep her round with the oar a grey
roller lifted under our stern, caught us broadside on its crest, rushed
us through a providential cleft in the rocks, and, rolling over and
over, we, with our belongings, were strewn broadcast on a little, sandy
beach. The boat, though shaken, was still sound, and we quickly hauled
it beyond the reach of the waves.
A short examination showed us we had been cast up on one of the
very islands we had hoped to escape. Still, unpleasant though our
predicament was, it could easily have been worse. In that thick haze
we might well have been driven on the bluff cliffs of the headland and
pounded to a jelly in the surf. At all events, we were on terra firma
and could make the best of it till the fog lifted. In our drenched
condition the wind was decidedly unpleasant, so, after securing the
boat, we made haste to seek shelter on the lee side of the island.
As we groped our way up the rocks and over the top we came across a
low-spreading puriri tree. Beneath it we found plenty of dry sticks,
and, breaking off some dead branches also, we carried with us a good
stock of firewood. I had matches in a waterproof case, and soon, in a
snug rock-niche, we were warm and comfortable beside a roaring fire.
We had managed to save some six brace of birds from the shipwreck, and
these, skinned and toasted on the embers, with the contents of my flask
to wash them down, made an excellent supper, with sufficient to spare
for breakfast.
Dawn broke clear and calm, with just enough wind to take us on our
homeward way. I had sent Puketawa for a further supply of wood, when a
shout from above brought me scrambling up the rocks. There he stood,
a living embodiment of terror. With wide eyes and dropping jaw he was
staring at the hollow tree-trunk. Then I saw what it was. From the
orifice, ghastly in the dim light, grinned two fleshless skeletons.
Around the hole was heaped a pile of human bones and skulls, while
other death’s-heads peered at us from crevices of the rocks. We were in
a Maori “wahi-tapu” (cemetery).
[Illustration: THE ESTUARY OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.
_From a Photograph._]
It was yet another instance of the sheer “cussedness” of things
in general. There were half a hundred islands to choose from; yet
malignant Fate, aided by that confounded fog, must needs fix upon
Taupiri on which to cast us up--Taupiri, the sacred island, where
for centuries the bones of the chiefs had been deposited. It was
consecrated to the “mana” (holiness) of their spirits, and frightfully
“tapu.” No man might put foot on it and live. And we had not only
passed the night there, but--horror of horrors!--had eaten food cooked
with wood from the sacred tree! The loose stones, among which we
had stumbled in the foggy night and had kicked from our path, were
the skulls of the great dead. There was no doubt about it--we were
“tapued” up to our necks. That it was purely accidental and through no
fault of our own didn’t in the least matter. From the Maori point of
view, indeed, it made the case infinitely worse. For Puketawa, whose
civilization was, after all, only skin-deep, it was likely to prove
a most serious affair. Brought thus face to face with the terrors of
ancient superstition, his white man’s education fell to pieces. His
mind swung back to the faith of his forbears and the fears of the
old beliefs gripped his heart. He was for fleeing the accursed place
at once, but, “tapu” or no “tapu,” I wasn’t going without breakfast.
Puketawa refused food. Already I fancied he was getting “pourri”
(depressed)--no light thing with a Maori, for I had known them before
then to die of sheer melancholy. I realized that the accident was
bad for me also if the thing should get known. I did not fancy being
ostracized by the tribe, my goods confiscated and destroyed, and my
house and store burnt by way of purification and to avert the anger of
the gods.
[Illustration: “THERE HE STOOD, A LIVING EMBODIMENT OF TERROR.”]
Though, on the way home, I was angry and contemptuous by turns,
Puketawa refused to be comforted. To my ridicule or reproaches he
answered only with a sickly smile. “No good,” he said. He was “tapu”
right enough--could feel the spell “working inside him.” In vain I
pointed out that the island was six miles distant from the “kainga,”
hidden by a bend of the river, and that we had landed at night in a
dense fog and had left again before sunrise.
“Ah!” he answered. “Te tohunga very wise. He know wi’out seein’.”
On arrival, contrary to custom, we found the beach below the store
deserted. Not a soul was in sight. No Sunday crowd of mothers chatted
as they squatted around the buildings; no piccaninnies dabbled in the
water, and waited anxiously for sweets on my return. I knew these
latter would not forego the weekly dole unless for serious cause. Could
Puketawa be right after all? Had our infringement of “tapu” become
known in some incomprehensible manner? It began to look very like it.
That night at supper also Puketawa declined food. He even refused
rum-punch, and when Puketawa refused rum things must be looking black
indeed. He lay in his bunk with his face to the wall, silent save for
long, shuddering sighs. So it went on through the night. Protests,
reproaches, even vigorous shakings were of no avail; he lay like a log,
with closed eyes, making no sign.
This was beyond a joke. No possibility of pretence was here. The man
was dying, visibly, of sheer funk. Unless I could rouse him he would
not live another day. I could not let him die, and, base surrender
to heathen jugglery though it was, made up my mind to seek out the
“tohunga” next day and entreat him to remove the spell.
In the long, dark watches I began to feel pretty queer myself. The
silence seemed tangible, heavy, impermeable. I was not exactly
frightened; the feeling was indescribable--a sort of nameless terror
at nothing, a horror of some unknown impending fate against which it
was useless to struggle and from which there was no escape. Mutuality,
sympathy, hypnotism--call it what you will--a weight of fear lay on my
senses, a veritable obsession of dread.
Was there any truth in heathen devilry after all, I wondered? Had the
confounded “tapu” got me too? With an effort I shook off the growing
lethargy and paced the floor through the night. In the morning I could
eat nothing; food was repulsive. Shortly after sunrise I took my way to
the “kainga.”
Within fifty yards of the gate I was warned by the young warriors to
keep my distance. Presently Te Horo himself appeared in full war-paint
of “korowai” (kilt) and feather mat, a spear in his hand.
“Thy sin is known,” he cried, sternly. “Come not near to bring
contamination upon us. Thou and thy servant are accursed. It may be
ye shall both die; I know not. Begone! At noon the ‘tohunga’ comes to
confer with thee.”