The chants of departure; night falls on the Land of the War Fleet.
On the eve of my going all the youth and beauty of Atuona crowded my
_paepae_. Water brought his _ukulele_, a Hawaiian _taro_-patch
guitar, and sang his repertoire of ballads of Hawaii--"Aloha Oe,"
"Hawaii Ponoi," and "One, Two, Three, Four." Urged by all, I gave
them for the last time my vocal masterpiece, "All Night Long He
Calls Her Snooky-Ukums!" and was rewarded by a clamor of applauding
cries. Marquesans think our singing strange--and no wonder! Theirs
is a prolonged chant, a monotone without tune, with no high notes
and little variance. But loving distraction, they listened with deep
amusement to my rendering of American airs, as we might listen to
Chinese falsettos.
They repaid me by reciting legends of their clans, and Titihuti
chanted her genealogy, a record kept by memory in all families. Water,
her son, who had learned to write, set it down on paper for me. It
named the ancestors in pairs, father and mother, and Titihuti
remembered thirty-eight generations, which covered perhaps a
thousand years.
We sat in a respectful circle about her while she chanted it. An
Amazon in height and weight, nearly six feet tall, body and head
cast in heroic mold, she stood erect, her scarlet tunic gathered to
display her symmetrical legs, tattooed in thought-kindling patterns,
the feet and ankles as if encased in elegant Oriental sandals. Her
red-gold hair, a flame in the flickering light of the torches, was
wreathed with bright-green, glossy leaves, necklaces of peppers and
small colored nuts rose and fell with her deep breathing.
Her voice was melodious, pitched low, and vibrating with the
peculiar tone of the chant, a tone impossible of imitation to one
who has not learned it as a child. Her eyes were kindled with pride
of ancestry as she called the roll of experiences and achievements
of the line that had bred her, and her clear-cut Greek features
mirrored every emotion she felt, emotions of glory and pride, of
sorrow and abasement at the fall of her race, of stoic fortitude in
the dull present and hopeless future of her people. With one shapely
arm upraised, she uttered the names, trumpet-calls to memory and
imagination:
Enata (Men) Vehine (Women)
Na tupa efitu Metui te vehine
Tupa oa ia fai Puha Momoo
O tupa haaituani O haiko
O nuku Oui aei
O hutu Moeakau
O oko Oinu vaa
O moota O niniauo
O tiu Moafitu otemau
Fekei O mauniua
O tuoa Hotaei
O meae Oa tua hae
O tehu eo Kei pana
O ahunia Tui haa
O taa tini Kei pana
Nohea Tou mata
Tua kina Papa ohe
Tepiu Punoa
Tui feaa Tuhina
Naani Eiva Eio Hoki
Teani nui nei O tapu ohi
Ani hetiti Opu tini
O kou aehitini O take oho
O taupo O te heva
Tui pahu Otiu hoku
O hupe Oahu tupua
O papuaei O honu feti
Pepene tona Honu tona
Haheinutu O taoho
Kotio nui Taihaupu
Motu haa Mu eiamau
Hope taupo Tuhi pahu
Taupo tini Anitia fitu
Ana tete Pa efitu
Kihiputona Tahio paha oho
Taua kahiepo Honu tona
Mahea tete Titihuti
Aino tete tika Tua vahiane
Kui motua Titihuti
Loud sang the names themselves, proclaiming the merits of their
bearers or their fathers in heraldic words, in titles like banners
on castle walls, flying the standard of ideals and attainments of
men and women long since dust.
Masters of Sea and Land, Commander of the Stars, Orderers of the
Waxing and Waning of the Moon, Ten Thousand Ocean Tides, Man of Fair
Countenance, Caller to Myriads, Climber to the Ninth Heaven, Man of
Understanding, Player of the Game of Life, Doer of Deeds of Daring,
Ten Thousand Cocoanut Leaves, The Enclosure of the Whale's Tooth,
Man of the Forbidden Place, The Whole Blue Sky, Player of the War
Drum, The Long Stayer; these were the names that called down the
centuries, bringing back to Titihuti and to us who sat at her feet
in the glow of the torches the fame and glory of her people through
ages past.
How compare such names with John Smith or Henry Wilson? Yet we
ourselves, did we remember it, have come from ancestors bearing
names as resonant. Nero was Ahenobarbus, the Red-Bearded, to his
contemporaries of Rome, at the time when Titihuti's forefathers were
brave and great beneath the cocoanut-palms of Atuona. Our lists of
early European kings carry names as full of meaning as theirs;
Charles the Hammer, Edward the Confessor, Charles the Bold, Richard
the Lion-Hearted, Hereward the Wake.
Titihuti, having gravely finished her chant, stood for a moment in
silence. Then, "_Aue!_" she said with a sigh. "No one will remember
when I am gone. Water, my son, nor Keke, my daughter, have learned
these names of their forefathers and mothers who were noble and
renowned. What does it matter? We will all be gone soon, and the
cocoanut-groves of our islands will know us no more. We come, we do
not know whence, and we go, we do not know where. Only the sea
endures, and it does not remember."
She sat on the mat beside me, and pressed my hand. I had been
adopted as her son, and she was sorry to see me departing to the
unknown island from which I had come, and from which, she knew, I
would never return. She was mournful; she said that her heart was
heavy. But I praised lavishly her beautifully tattooed legs, and
complimented the decoration of her hair until she smiled again, and
when from the shadowy edges of the ring of torch-light voices began
an old chant of feasting, she took it up with the others.
There were Marquesans who could recite one hundred and forty-five
generations of their families, covering more than thirty-six hundred
years. Enough to make family trees that go back to the Norman
conquest appear insignificant. I had known an old Maori priest who
traced his ancestry to Rangi and Papa, through one hundred and
eighty-two generations, 4,550 years. The Easter Islanders spoke of
fifty-seven generations, and in Raratonga ninety pairs of ancestors
are recited. The pride of the white man melts before such records.
Such incidents as the sack of Jerusalem, the Crusades, or Cassar's
assassination, are recent events compared to the beginnings of some
of these families, whose last descendants have died or are dying
to-day.
I took Titihuti's words with me as I went down the trail from my
little blue cabin at the foot of Temetiu for the last time:
"We come, we do not know whence, and we go, we do not know where.
Only the sea endures, and it does not remember."
Great Fern, Haabuani, Exploding Eggs, and Water carried my bags and
boxes to the shore, while I said _adieux_ to the governor, Bauda,
and Le Brunnec. When I reached the beach all the people of the valley
were gathered there. They sat upon the sand, men and women and
children, and intoned my farewell ode--my _pae me io te_:
"Apae!
Kaoha! te Menike!
Mau oti oe anao nei
i te apua Kahito"
o a'Tahiti.
Ei e tihe to metao iau e hoa iriti oei an ote vei mata to taua.
E avei atu."
"O, farewell to you, American!
You go to far-distant Tahiti!
There you will stay, but you will weep for me.
Ever I shall be here, and the tears fall like the river flows.
O friend and lover, the time has come. Farewell!"
The sky was ominous and the boats of the _Saint François_ were
running a heavy surf. I waded waist-deep through the breakers to
climb into one. Malicious Gossip, Ghost Girl and the little leper
lass, Many Daughters, were sobbing, their dresses lifted to their
eyes.
"_Hee poihoo!_" cried the steersman. The men in the breakers shoved
hard, and leaped in, and we were gone.
My last hour in the Marquesas had come. I should never return. The
beauty, the depressingness of these islands is overwhelming. Why
could not this idyllic, fierce, laughter-loving people have stayed
savage and strong, wicked and clean? The artists alone have known
the flower destroyed here, the possible growth into greatness and
purity that was choked in the smoke of white lust and greed.
At eight o'clock at night we were ready to depart.
The bell in the engine-room rang, the captain shouted orders from
the bridge, the anchors were hoisted aboard. The propeller began to
turn. The searchlight of the _Saint François_ played upon the rocky
stairway of Taha-Uka, penciled for a moment the dark line of the
cliffs, swept the half circle into Atuona Inlet, and lingered on the
white cross of Calvary where Gauguin lies.
The gentle rain in the shaft of light looked like quicksilver. The
smoke from the funnel mixed in the heavy air with the mist and the
light, and formed a fantastic beam of vapor from the ship to the
shore. Up this stream of quivering, scintillating irradiation, as
brilliant as flashing water in the sun, flew from the land thousands
of gauze-winged insects, the great moths of the night, wondrous,
shimmering bits of life, seeming all fire in the strange atmosphere.
Drawn from their homes in the dark groves by this marvelous
illumination, they climbed higher and higher in the dazzling
splendor until they reached its source, where they crumpled and died.
They seemed the souls of the island folk.
They pass mute, falling like the breadfruit in their dark groves.
Soon none will be left to tell their departed glories. Their skulls
perhaps shall speak to the stranger who comes a few decades hence,
of a manly people, once magnificently perfect in body, masters of
their seas, unexcelled in the record of humanity in beauty, vigor,
and valor.
To-day, insignificant in numbers, unsung in history, they go to the
abode of their dark spirits, calmly and without protest. A race goes
out in wretchedness, a race worth saving, a race superb in manhood
when the whites came. Nothing will remain of them but their ruined
monuments, the relics of their temples and High Places, remnants of
the mysterious past of one of the strangest people of time.
The _Saint François_ surged past the _Roberta_, the old sea-wolf,
worn and patched, but sturdy in the gleam of the searchlight.
Capriata, the old Corsican, stood on his deck watching us go.
I walked aft and took my last view of the Marquesas. The tops of the
mountains were jagged shadows against the sky, dark and mournful.
The arc-light swung to shine upon the mouth of the bay, and the Land
of the War Fleet was blotted out in the black night.
Some day when deeper poverty falls on Asia or the fortunes of war
give all the South Seas to the Samurai, these islands will again be
peopled. But never again will they know such beautiful children of
nature, passionate and brave, as have been destroyed here. They
shall have passed as did the old Greeks, but they will have left no
written record save the feeble and misunderstanding observations of
a few alien visitors.
_Apai! Kaoha e!_