THE BIG NUMBERS SEE THEMSELVES ON THE SCREEN
Early on the morning of the show, we got the whaleboats to work and took
all my projection machinery ashore. Soon I had everything set up, ready
for the show. But when I tried out the projector to see if it was
shipshape, I found that my generator was out of order. Work as I would,
I could not get a light. I was blue and discouraged. I had been looking
forward to this show for two years, and now, apparently, it was not
going to come off. Imagine going back several hundred thousand years and
showing men of the Stone Age motion-pictures of themselves. That is what
I had planned to do. For the men of Malekula are in the stage of
development reached by our own ancestors long before the dawn of written
history. Through my pictures of them, I had carried New York audiences
back into the Stone Age. Now I wanted to transport the savages into
1919—and my generator would not work.
The projector was worked by man-power. Two men on each side turned the
handles attached to the machinery that should produce the magic light;
but though my boys ground patiently all afternoon, not a glimmer showed.
Finally, I gave up and motioned them to stop. They misunderstood me and,
thinking that I wanted them to turn faster, went to work with redoubled
energy. The miracle happened—the light flashed on. In my excitement, I
forgot my supper.
The beach was already crowded with savages. I had thought they might be
curious about my machinery. But they scarcely looked at it. They just
squatted on the sands with their guns clutched tight in their hands. No
women and only three or four children accompanied them. In spite of my
promise of tobacco, they had not quite trusted my invitation and they
were on the lookout for foul play. By dark they were restless. They had
received no tobacco. They did not understand all this preparation that
culminated in nothing. They wanted action.
I saw that the show must begin at once; so I tested everything once
more. Since I had no idea how the pictures would be received, I
stationed armed guards at each side of the screen and around the
projector, at points from which they could cover the audience. Then I
tried to persuade my visitors to sit in front of the projector, where
they would get a good view of the screen. They were now thoroughly
suspicious and would not stay where I put them. They wanted to keep an
eye on me. They were so uneasy that I expected to see them disappear
into the bush at any moment. But Osa saved the situation. She took
Nagapate by the arm and made him sit down beside her. The rest of the
savages gathered about them. Then the show began.
First, a great bright square flashed on the screen. Then came a hundred
feet of titles. The attention of the natives was divided between the
strange letters and the rays of white light that passed above their
heads. They looked forward and up and back toward me, jabbering all the
time. Then slowly, out of nothing, a familiar form took shape on the
screen. It was Osa, standing with bent head. The savages were silent
with amazement. Here was Osa sitting at Nagapate’s side—and there she
was on the screen. The picture-Osa raised her head and winked at them.
Pandemonium broke loose. “Osa—Osa—Osa—Osa,” shouted the savages. They
roared with laughter and screamed like rowdy children.
I had been afraid that my guests would be frightened and bolt at the
first demonstration of my “magic,” but they had been reassured by the
familiar sight of Osa. Now they were ready for anything. I showed them a
picture of Osa and me as we left the Astor Hotel in New York. Then I
showed them the crazy thousands that had crowded New York streets on
Armistice Day. I followed this picture with glimpses of Chicago, San
Francisco, Los Angeles, Honolulu, Tokyo, and Sydney. Nagapate told me
afterward that he had not known there were so many white people in all
the world and asked me if the island I came from was much larger than
Malekula. I showed in quick succession, steamers, racing automobiles,
airplanes, elephants, ostriches, giraffes. The savages were silent; they
could not comprehend these things. So I brought them nearer home, with
pictures taken on Vao, Santo, and other islands of the New Hebrides.
Now it was time for the great scene. I instructed Paul in turning the
crank of the projector and put Stephens and Perrole in charge of the
radium flares. I myself took my stand behind my camera, which was
trained on the audience. A hundred feet of titles—then Nagapate’s face
appeared suddenly on the screen. A great roar of “Nagapate” went up. At
that instant the radium lights flashed on, and I, at my camera, ground
out the picture of the cannibals at the “movies.” True, about two thirds
of the audience, terrified by the flares, made precipitately for the
bush. But Nagapate and the savages around him sat pat and registered
fear and amazement for my camera. In about two minutes the flares burned
out. Then we coaxed back to their places the savages that had fled. I
started the reel all over and ran it to the end amid an uproar that made
it impossible for me to make myself heard when I wanted to speak to Osa.
Practically every savage pictured on the screen was in the audience. In
two years they had not changed at all, except, as Osa said, for
additional layers of dirt. As each man appeared, they called out his
name and laughed and shouted with joy. Among the figures that came and
went on the screen was that of a man who had been dead a year. The
natives were awe-struck. My magic could bring back the dead!
Midway in the performance I turned the projection handle over to
Mazouyer and joined the audience. Osa was crying with excitement. And
there was a lump in my own throat. We had looked forward a long time to
this.
[Illustration: HUNTING FOR THE MAGIC]
[Illustration: A CANNIBAL AND A KODAK]
When the show was over, a great shout went up. The savages gathered into
groups and discussed the performance, for all the world as people do
“back home.” Then they crowded about us, demanding their pay for looking
at my pictures! As I gave them their sticks of tobacco, each grunted out
the same phrase—whether it meant “Fine,” or “Thank you,” or just
“Good-bye,” I do not know.
While we packed our apparatus, the natives cut bamboo and made rude
torches. When all were ready, they lighted their torches at the fire
that burned on the beach, and then they set off in single file up the
trail. We said good-bye to Perrole and Stephens, who were to sail for
Santo that night, and prepared to go aboard Paul’s cutter. He had
difficulty in getting his engine started, and while he worked with it,
Osa and I sat on the beach, watching the torches of the Big Numbers
people as they filed up hill and down dale the long eight miles to their
village. The night was so dark that we could not see anything except the
string of lights that wound through the black like a fiery serpent. The
head disappeared over the top of the hill. Half an hour later, the tail
wriggled out of sight. Then the engine kicked off.