even to the claims of kinship. A relation may be ill and helpless for
a week, or even two, and who would complain? But when it passes into
months, and the relation has fits of blind anger, and talks foolishly,
and is ungrateful, who can be blamed for wishing to get rid of her?
Thus reasoned Ana, Finau’s aunt by marriage, after the manner of her
kind, and not being ashamed of her opinions, she gave them to all
Neiafu, including John Mason, the drunken carpenter, a grass-widower
three times deep. And when Ana understood that there was a vacancy in
the Mason household, and that the householder himself had had great
difficulty in supplying the vacancy, she enlarged upon the charms and
attractions of Finau,--her washing and ironing, her cooking, and her
undoubted experience in providing for the comfort of a husband overcome
with nocturnal convivialities. To Finau, in Mason’s absence, she made
returning life a burden. It is better to die than to lie weak and
helpless, eating food grudgingly given, and sheltered by an unfriendly
roof. And after each of Mason’s friendly visits Ana would say, “Why
does he come here? Why? because he desires you, of course! I heard him
say that your face was beautiful, and that he wanted you to live with
him. Drunken? Not more than Falani or the other white men, and when he
is drunk he would not ill-treat you. Used to beat Mele, did he? Ah,
that was another of Mele’s lies! She was always seeking an excuse to
leave him, because she liked Lavuso better. No. Jone Mesoni was not the
man to beat his wife unless she deserved it, and even then not hard
with a stick, but with his hand!”
And so at last, when one evening Mason came with a bigger _kava_-root
than usual, and took his bowl from Finau’s hands, and stayed after the
others had gone, she, feeling bitter anger in her heart towards the
man, but a greater bitterness towards the relations who drove her from
their door, would resist no more. Mason wasted no time over courtship.
He crawled over to where she sat, and roughly threw his arm round her
in the presence of them all. She pushed him away with a gesture of
disgust.
“Finau,” he said, in a voice broken with vinous emotion, “it is well
that we should live together. You will come to my _abi_ to-morrow?”
Finau sat with her face hidden in her hands, but Ana, the matchmaker,
answered for her.
“Yes. I will bring her before mid-day, so that she may prepare dinner.”
* * * * * * *
The steamer is in again from New Zealand. After the miscellaneous crowd
of natives from the southern islands have disembarked, and sniffed and
wept over their friends of Vavau, there is a flutter of excitement
among the onlookers.
“_Dies kann doch nicht Franz Kraft sein, Pots Tausend! was für
ein eleganter Herr!_” cries Karl Müller; for lo! Franz Kraft, the
dishevelled, the disreputable, shaved, transfigured, and glorified in
a black coat and billycock hat, silver-mounted walking-stick in hand,
is there. And more than this, Franz Kraft is leading a lady over the
gangway, for all the world as if he were handing her out of a tram-car
at the Thiergarten-gate His old boon companions whisper together in
derisive curiosity as Franz, affecting not to see them, paces the
wharf with dignity, his companion on his arm. She, poor thing, makes a
curious figure against the palm-trees and white sand--for black satin,
white cotton stockings, and German hats do not go well with palm-trees.
She was looking timidly and wonderingly at the mean iron-roofed houses
that line the beach, for the cunning Franz had crammed her flaxen head
with pictures of South Sea splendour, in which Neiafu appeared as a
city, and Franz himself as a benevolent planter of great possessions.
Of her future home Franz had been reticent, but she had formed a
mental picture of a mansion she had seen in a printseller’s window in
the _Unter den Linden_, all colonnades, and cool palms, and haunted
by numbers of dusky servants. The city must be farther inland, she
thought, as they passed up the beach. They were opposite a tumble-down
wooden house, larger than the rest. It might be, she thought, a small
_wirthhaus_, where they drank beer in the back garden. She timidly
asked Franz. “It’s the king’s house,” he answered roughly. Surely he
must be joking, for he had told her so much about the king’s palace,
and the soldiers, and the rest of it. Yes; certainly Franz must be
joking, for her great strong Franz could make jokes sometimes.
A few steps more, and Franz stopped--stopped at the meanest hovel of
them all,--a rickety wooden cottage, with iron roof, perched above the
sea, without even a tree to give shade or a fence to hide its ugly
squalor from the road. Telling her to wait, he went to the next cottage
and returned with a key. She was speechless with astonishment and a
vague fear. The door swung back, and he beckoned her to follow. Within
was a damp, ill-smelling, little shop, with dirty stained counter,
and shelves tenanted only by a few rusty tins of meat. Beyond this a
small unceiled room, furnished with a bare deal-table, and dirty like
the shop; and beyond this again a room containing a canvas stretcher,
overhung by a rotting mosquito-screen. That was all, and the all was
pervaded by the sickening rancid smell of _copra_, and unspeakably
dirty. The windows showed a large iron shed in which _copra_, the
currency of the country, was stored. This was the home he had brought
her to! And away there in Berlin her father, the stationer, was still
boasting of the brilliant marriage she had made.
It took two days for Franz to appear in his usual oily shirt-sleeves at
the counter, and he did not respond to the inquiries about his wife.
Thenceforth she became a person of mystery, for she was not seen at
all for two months; and when she did leave the house, there were lines
about the meaningless mouth, and the blue eyes were dull and red. Franz
now ventured on his first social entertainment. The guests were bidden,
and Franz, in a clean shirt, received them in the sitting-room,--nine
in all, including the two ladies of the place. There was an awkward
pause, for Frau Kraft had not appeared. Then Franz went into the
bedroom to bring their hostess. There was a whispered altercation, then
silence, then a burst of sobbing--and before he returned his guests had
all fled. Not even the faithful Müller stayed to break the square black
bottle that was to have been the gist of the entertainment. Scandal was
now satisfied, for it was evident that Franz did not get on with his
wife, and was not above striking her.
But the _copra_ season had begun, and Kraft, if he would live, must
buy _copra_ like the rest. Early one morning he started with his
wife for Halaufuli, where Fisher, a friendly rival, had a station.
Fisher’s house adjoined John Mason’s modest establishment. The Krafts
were given the only bedroom in the house--a long low room, in which
a platform filling up the end and covered with a pile of mats and a
mosquito-screen formed the bed.
When Mason, the man who could not beat his wife, steered an oblique
course towards his door, stumbled in, and, being a little less drunk
than usual, succeeded in finding his walking-stick, he was at that
stage of inebriation when the punishment of somebody for something
seems to a man a solemn and sacred duty. Unluckily poor Finau had
heard him coming, and ran to his rescue. He fell upon her savagely.
Her shrieks broke through the wooden walls, and interwove themselves
with Kraft’s dreams. Suddenly he hears his own name, and starts from
his sleep to listen to a voice he knows crying in an agony of need. It
is Finau calling to him, and without thinking where he is, he springs
up to go to her rescue. A blow or two directed by the dim light of the
kerosene lamp disposes effectually of Mason, and Franz, furious with
anger, yet not knowing what to do, creeps back to his room. His wife
is still asleep, as he can hear by her regular breathing; but Finau
has followed him, and whimpering she creeps into the room, and leans
sobbing against the wall. What could he do--this man who has so injured
her? She had loved him and suffered for him. Was he to cast her out
when she came to him in her need? And what harm was there in protecting
her? He whispers to her not to be afraid and to stop crying, but she
only sinks to the ground and sobs the louder. When he speaks again she
creeps towards him, as if in bodily fear of the man who has been left
outside the door. Franz looks at the screen: his wife still sleeps. And
so he speaks to her in a low voice, and strokes her bowed head, and
she, in the abandonment of her wretchedness, puts her arm round him.
And as he murmurs comforting words to her in her own tongue, he chances
to look towards the bed where the dim light is burning, and as he looks
there is a movement, a hand from within lifts up the screen, and eyes
with a life’s tragedy written in them look out at him.
IN THE OLD WHALING DAYS.
I.
In those days, sir, there were no white men, living on Kandavu, but
many whaling-ships used to come and lie at anchor for months at a time.
Run away? Why, the crews always ran away. We used to persuade them
to run away by means of our women, and then we caught them, and tied
their hands, and hid them in the forest until a reward was paid by
the captain--a musket sometimes, and many knives and axes. They were
not white men like you, sir, but they had dark skins like the Indian
interpreter, and came from a land called “Portugee.” These men were
very wicked; but there were others with them with blacker skins who
were less wicked: their place was only to serve the rest and prepare
food. Yes, some of us used to sail away with them--some from curiosity
because they wished to see other lands, and others because the chiefs
sent them, being persuaded with great rewards.
It was with Captain Aneli that I first sailed. We went hence to
Vatulele, my mother’s island, and lay there several weeks, helping the
Vunisalevu against Korolamalama, by lending him muskets and powder,
and by sailing round to the rocky point, where we shot many as they
fled from their enemies on the land. Ah, the captain was a good man,
and the Vunisalevu loved him well! No; he asked for no reward, but
did this out of his great love for the Vunisalevu, whose brother the
people of Korolamalama had killed. You may see the site of the town
away here among the caves at the western point; but do not go there,
sir, at night or alone, for the spirits that dwell there hate white men
as they hate us. The people are all gone, except the women, of whom my
mother was one, for they were more numerous than we; and when Captain
Aneli would go, the Vunisalevu strove to detain him, lest, when he was
gone, they should take their revenge. But the white man was wise, and
imparted to us his Wisdom, saying, “Invite them to a feast and slay
them;” and the Vunisalevu, knowing that conquerors do not make feasts
for the conquered, sent a messenger bidding them plant bananas for
him. But they were afraid, and answered that they would send all their
bananas and yams rather than come themselves, and with their answer was
brought a whale’s-tooth to turn the chief’s heart. But he refused the
tooth, and sent again, saying that it was not meet to suspect plots in
time of peace, and that he would pledge their safety, for they might
come armed while he and his people would be without weapons, but would
peacefully bring up the feast as hosts should do to guests.
And when the appointed day came, the captain pitied him, and landed
thirty men, who hid among the bushes where you see those _ivi_-trees,
and the Korolamalama men came, two hundred strong, each with his
bundle of young banana-shoots, his spear in his left hand, and his
throwing-club in his girdle. None were left behind, for they feared
lest, if they were divided, we might attack them. As for us, we were
hidden in the undergrowth along the path, our arms hidden near us where
we could find them; and for the feast we had brought a rotten _taro_
each in derision of our enemies, who were to die that day. We would
have set on them at once, but the white men said, “Not so, let them
first plant your bananas, so that they be wearied, and you will have
made use of them as long as they can be useful.” This wise counsel
pleased us; so we waited, and even came unarmed to look at the men
as they sweated beneath the sun, digging the holes and stamping the
earth round the shoots, each man with his spear stuck in the ground
behind him: and as we watched we saw that, when a man moved on to dig a
fresh hole, he first moved his weapon to the new place. And as the sun
dipped towards the west, slanting the black shadows of the _ivi_-trees
across the clearing, we went for our _taro_ and heaped it ceremoniously
beneath the shade of the trees, and sat down to present it to them. And
they, seeing us unarmed, were ashamed to bring their spears with them,
for it is forbidden by our customs to receive the feast with arms. So
they left their spears, each man where he had been digging, and came
and sat before us. And while they sat with their backs to the clearing,
the boys crept among the newly planted bananas as if playing, and took
their spears, heaping dead grass upon them so that they could not be
seen. Then Mavua the herald took a decayed root of _yangona_, and going
forward, presented it and the feast in the customary words, and their
herald came forward to touch the feast. But when he took the root and
saw that it was rotten, and touched the _taro_ and knew that it was
decayed, he was speechless a moment in fear and anger, for the insult
was very gross. Then he leapt to his feet, crying, “A plot! a plot! we
are undone to-day.” And they sprang up to go for their spears. But we
had snatched up ours already, and were upon them, stabbing and spearing
them as they dodged among the bananas looking for their spears.
But when they saw that they were gone, the herald uttered a great and
bitter cry, cursing us and bidding them follow him, and he ran for the
forest towards the west where Korolamalama lies; but there he met the
white men, and from the tree came the thunder of the muskets and the
bark of the little guns, and cries, and evil words, and a thick smoke,
while we lay on our faces in the clearing hearing the bullets scream
over our heads. And when some of them ran back to escape the guns, we
stabbed at them, smiting some, and driving some back again to the white
men, so that when all was done, only one was left alive of them all,
and he, being found hiding in a water-hole, was dragged out and led to
the beach among the boys, and Uluisau held his arms while the boys beat
him to death with their toy clubs.
Then the bodies were dragged to the town. To be eaten? How should I
know, when I was sent with the others to Korolamalama to fetch the
women and children? And when we neared the place they thought that we
were their own men returning from the banana-planting, and they came
out to meet us. But the two who saw us first ran shrieking to the
others, and Butho, he who held the basin at the missionary collection
last Sunday, followed close after them, making signs to us to keep
unseen. And he deceived the women, saying that their chief had sent
him to bid them bring crabs and yams to him in the plantation (for
they had just come from fishing on the reef). But they, still doubting
him, half followed and half held back, until they reached the thicket
where we lay. Then Amori, whose husband we had slain, raised a great
uproar, crying to the others to flee, for there was treachery; and
they scattered into the bush, screaming like a flock of paroquets.
But Butho, who feared nothing, flung his _ula_ at the woman Amori and
struck her on the back so that she fell on her face, and he slew her
with his club where she lay, and we others pursued the women, striking
down the elderly, who made the greatest uproar, and saving the young
girls alive. These we led with the children to the Vunisalevu.
Did they weep? No; they dared not weep, for Butho, the fearless,
who led us, told them that she who first wept aloud should die; and
thereafter, when Ina, the daughter of Naikele, lifted up her voice, he
struck her on the mouth with his short throwing-club. Ah! she was never
called “Ina the beautiful” more, for her teeth were all broken, and
her nose crushed, so that no man desired her as before, and she became
a kitchen-woman, and carried firewood for the chief’s kitchen all her
days. So the women feared to weep aloud lest Ina’s fate should befall
them.
[Illustration: “_Nothing now remains of Korolamalama but the name and a
few mounds._”]
Ah, it was a great victory! Nothing now remains of Korolamalama but
the name and a few mounds. Therefore the Vunisalevu was very glad,
knowing that the right was triumphant, and that vengeance could
never come again from Korolamalama. The white man? Oh, he was very
grateful to them of course, for they had helped him out of their great
love for him, and they asked for no reward, nor would they take one
when it was offered to them--neither oil, nor mats, nor timber, nor
anything of value. The captain was a good man, not like the white men
of this day, who will cheat their own fathers for the sake of gain,
but a generous man and a right-doer. His crew, perhaps, were wicked
men, for they swore much and fought among themselves, so that we all
feared them. What? How many times must I tell you that the captain
wanted no reward? Nay, more, for as the women of Korolamalama were
many, and food was scarce at the time, he offered to take some away;
and the chief bade him come and choose from among them, and he came
at night with four of his sailors. And all the women were brought to
the chief’s house trembling, for they thought that evil was to befall
them as the others. And the captain took a lantern and held it in the
face of each in turn, taking hold of any that shrank back. And when he
had seen all, he pointed to Sili and to Manana and to Latia, as the
three whom he had chosen. And we were all surprised, for we thought
that he would have chosen strong women who would work; but those he
had pointed to were young maidens, children, and useless for work. The
first two were the daughters of the woman Kurulawa, who stood by, and
of low rank, but Latia was a chief’s daughter, and beautiful. But when
the Vunisalevu told them they were to go with the white man, and the
sailors came to take them, they cried aloud to the men to save them,
and the other women caught them in their arms and wept, so that there
was a very great uproar. But the sailors shook them all off except the
woman Kurulawa, and her they struck, so that she fell upon the mats.
Then they bound the hands of the three girls with ropes, and put pieces
of wood in their mouths, and so stopped their cries--for one could not
hear the other speak for the noise they made when they knew that the
white men would take them.
* * * * * * *
I wonder where those women are now, if they be still alive! They were
not on board when Captain Aneli came back the next year, and I forgot
to ask him about them.
II.
Ah, the white men of that day were braver than the white men who live
among us now--be not angry, sir, if I say this--and Captain Aneli was
the bravest of them all! Many great deeds he did in these seas besides
the burning of Korolamalama and the slaughter of its people. I sailed
eighteen months with him, and saw much fighting, not only upon the land
but upon the sea also--among ourselves who sailed together. But Captain
Aneli was fearless, and we all dreaded him after he slew the big white
man and the Portugee who rebelled against him, and had flogged the
Indian who prepared the food until he died. He loved me well, and gave
me great gifts, teaching me to shoot with the little gun, and bidding
me be always near him lest the evil-minded among the crew should again
rebel against him. But when we reached New Zealand, and had been at
anchor but two days, a man came from the shore and seized my captain,
binding his wrists with iron fastenings that snapped to like the lock
of a musket; and he was led away, shouting many evil words, and I saw
him no more. I know not why this was done, but the man must have been
one of the captain’s enemies and evil-minded, for he was a just man
and brave.
And yet not all the captains of those days were like him, for there
were some who were faint-hearted, like the white men of to-day, who
think more of the love of women than of war, and whose hearts are
weakened like a missionary’s. With such a one did I sail as I will
relate.
After the captain was taken away we left the ship and dispersed, each
going his own way; and I, with Tom the Manila man and others, drank
white men’s _yangona_ in a house by the shore till we were intoxicated,
and there was fighting and much anger. I do not know what we did until
I awoke in the prison-house. Then I was taken before a chief, who
judged me and awarded my punishment. But a man who stood by asked me
whether I would sail with him if he released me from punishment, and
I, not knowing what would be my punishment by the laws of these white
men, and fearing to be flogged, besought him to set me free. So he
paid money to the judge, who thereupon looked with favour on him and
ordered me to be set at liberty. He was the captain of a two-masted
ship, about to sail to the lands of these seas to exchange cloth and
knives and axes for oil and the weapons of the place. And on the day
we hove the anchor a white woman came on board, who was his wife, and
sailed with him. He was a good man, this captain, but his mind was
like a missionary’s, and he was not skilled in the ways of the sea. He
had a large Bible which he was always reading in the cabin, while the
woman lay sick in her bunk; and he often said to me--for by this time I
had begun to understand his talk--“This is my compass and my anchor.”
And once when he said this the mate was near, who, being a godless man
but a good sailor, said, so that the captain might hear, “It would be
better for the ship if he steered by the compass on board.”
Now the crew were like other white sailors, evil-minded, and lovers
of forbidden words and strong drink. And even when there was no drink
they would fight among themselves, but they all feared the mate, who,
when giving orders, spoke but once, and instead of a second word
smote, sometimes with a belaying-pin but oftenest with his naked fist,
and that was the worst, for his arm was thick and knotted as yon
_dilo_-tree, and with his fist he could have split this rock. But me he
did not smite, because I honoured him and did his bidding cheerfully;
nay, he even loved me, both for this and because my skin was black and
I was a stranger, helpless, and without friends. He was a good sailor
this mate, and often in the night when I was in his watch he would
tell me stories of his cruises in the whale-ships, and I would tell
him tales of blood from my own land. But he never spoke of the sea
without contemptuous words towards the captain, whom he held to be no
sailor but a missionary, accursed among sailors, and less than a man.
He despised him, too, that he sailed with a woman, not being like the
mate and other good sailors, who held women as fit only for the shore,
and had a wife at every port to which they sailed. And I, too, hearing
this, despised the captain in my heart, most of all when I saw how he
subjected himself to the woman, as no man should do, and tended her as
only slaves and low-born do, and they unwillingly. But for all this he
was kind to me and did me many services, giving me from the cabin food
in tin boxes, such as none other in the ship might taste but he and the
woman.
All this time we were sailing northwards, the wind being south-east but
light. And the air grew warm, and the spirit-light flashed in our wake
at night, and the flying-fish, the birds of Nukuloa, took wing under
our bows, and my heart grew light in the warm air, for I knew we were
approaching my own land where only it is fit for man to live. We had
left behind us the bitter winds that chill the marrow, and the sterile
palmless shores, where men hurry ceaselessly to and fro, never resting
but toiling ever, and the heart is filled with darkness and disgust of
life and a great longing for rest. But though my heart was glad because
I should soon be in that sweet land and see the green yam-vines,
graceful as fair women in the dance, the captain became sorrowful, for
the woman whom he tended was now sick, and for many days we had not
seen her face, though we knew by his looks day by day that she grew
worse.