Sometimes when, like Mirza, I retire to my little Hill of Bagdad for
meditation, there comes before me the bright picture of Hawaii with
its coral-bulwarked islands and the memory of an idle sojourn on their
shores. I remember the rainbow-coloured harbour of Honolulu Hilo, the
simply joyous Arcadie at the foot of Mauna Loa, and Mauna Kea which
lifted violet shoulders to the morning, the groves of cocoa-palms and
tamarinds, the waterfalls dropping over sheer precipices a thousand feet
into the ocean, the green embrasures where the mango, the guava, and the
lovi lovi grow, and where the hibiscus lifts red hands to the light.
I call to mind the luau where Kalakua, the King, presided over the
dispensation of stewed puppy, lifted to one’s lips by brown but fair
fingers, of live shrimps, of poi and taro and balls of boiled sea-weed
stuffed with Heaven knows what; and to crown all, or to drown all, the
insinuating liquor kava, followed when the festival was done by the
sensuous but fascinating hula hula, danced by maidens of varying
loveliness. Of these Van Blaricom, the American, said, “they’d capture
Chicago in a week with that racket,” and he showed Blithelygo his
calculations as to profits.
The moments that we enjoyed the most, however, were those that came when
feast and serenade were over, when Hawaii Ponoi, the National Anthem,
was sung, and we lay upon the sands and watched the long white coverlet
of foam folding towards the shore, and saw visions and dreamed dreams.
But at times we also breathed a prayer--a prayer that somebody or
something would come and carry off Van Blaricom, whose satire, born and
nurtured in Chicago, was ever turned against Hawaii and all that therein
was.
There are times when I think I had a taste of Paradise in Hawaii--but a
Paradise not without a Satanic intruder in the shape of that person from
Illinois. Nothing escaped his scorn. One day we saw from Diamond Head
three water-spouts careering to the south, a splendid procession of
the powers of the air. He straightway said to Kalakua, that “a Michigan
cyclone had more git-up-and-git about it than them three black cats with
their tails in the water.” He spent hours in thinking out rudely caustic
things to repeat about this little kingdom. He said that the Government
was a Corliss-engine running a sewing machine. He used to ask the
Commander of the Forces when the Household Cavalry were going into
summer camp--they were twelve. The only thing that appeared to impress
him seriously was Molokai, the desolate island where the lepers made
their cheerless prison-home. But the reason for his gravity appeared
when he said to Blithelygo and myself: “There’d be a fortune in that
menagerie if it was anchored in Lake Michigan.” On that occasion he was
answered in strong terms. It was the only time I ever heard Blithelygo
use profanity. But the American merely dusted his patent leather shoes
with a gay silk kerchief, adjusted his clothes on his five-foot frame as
he stood up; and said: “Say you ought to hear my partner in Chicago when
he lets out. He’s an artist!”
This Man from the West was evidently foreordained to play a part in the
destinies of Blithelygo and myself, for during two years of travel he
continuously crossed our path. His only becoming quality was his ample
extravagance. Perhaps it was the bountiful impetus he gave to the
commerce of Honolulu, and the fact that he talked of buying up a portion
of one of the Islands for sugar-planting, that induced the King to be
gracious to him. However that might be, when Blithelygo and I joined his
Majesty at Hilo to visit the extinct volcano of Kilauea, there was the
American coolly puffing his cigar and quizzically feeling the limbs and
prodding the ribs of the one individual soldier who composed the King’s
body-guard. He was not interested in our arrival further than to give us
a nod. In a pause that followed our greetings, he said to his Majesty,
while jerking his thumb towards the soldier: “King, how many of ‘em have
you got in your army?”
His Majesty blandly but with dignity turned to his aide-de-camp and
raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The aide-de-camp answered: “Sixty.”
“Then we’ve got 1/60th of the standing army with us, eh?” drawled Van
Blaricom.
The aide-de-camp bowed affirmatively. The King was scanning Mauna Loa.
The American winked at us. The King did not see the wink, but he had
caught a tone in the voice of the invader, which brought, as I
thought, a slight flush to his swarthy cheek. The soldier-his name was
Lilikalu--looked from his King to the critic of his King’s kingdom and
standing army, and there was a glow beneath his long eyelashes which
suggested that three-quarters of a century of civilisation had not quite
drawn the old savage spirit from the descendants of Lailai, the Hawaiian
Eve.
During the journey up the Forty-Mile Track to Kilauea, the American
enveloped 1/60th of his Majesty’s standing army with his Michigan
Avenue and peanut-stand wit, and not always, it was observed, out of
the hearing of the King, who nevertheless preserved a marked
unconsciousness. Majesty was at a premium with two of us on that
journey. Only once was the Chicagonian’s wit not stupid as well as
offensive. It chanced thus. The afternoon in which we reached the
volcano was suffocatingly hot, and the King’s bodyguard had discarded
all clothing--brief when complete--save what would not count in any
handicap. He was therefore at peace, while the rest of us, Royalty
included, were inwardly thinking that after this the orthodox future
of the wicked would have no terrors. At a moment when the body-guard
appeared to be most ostentatious in his freedom from clothing the
American said to his Majesty: “King, do you know what 1/60th of your
standing army is?” The reply was a low and frigid: “No.”
“It’s a vulgar fraction.”
.....................
There were seven of us walking on the crater of the volcano: great banks
of sulphur on the right, dark glaciers of lava on the left, high walls
of scoria and volcanic crust enveloping us all about. We were four
thousand feet above the level of the sea. We were standing at the door
of the House of Pele, the Goddess of Fire. We knocked, but she would not
open. The flames were gone from her hearthstone, her smoke was gorging
the throat of the suffering earth.
“Say, she was awful sick while she was about it,” said the American as
he stumbled over the belched masses of lava.
That was one day. But two days after we stood at Pele threshold again.
Now red scoria and pumice and sulphur boiled and rolled where the hard
lava had frayed our boots. Within thirty-six hours Kilauea has sprung
from its flameless sleep into sulphurous life and red roaring grandeur.
Though Pele came but slowly, she came; and a lake of fire beat at the
lofty sides of the volcanic cup. The ruby spray flashed up to the sky,
and geysers of flame hurled long lances at the moon.
“King,” said the American, “why don’t you turn it into an axe-factory?”
At last the time came when we must leave this scene of marvel and
terror, and we retired reluctantly. There were two ways by which we
might return to the bridle path that led down the mountain. The American
desired to take the one by which we had not come; the rest of us, tired
out, preferred to go as we came--the shortest way. A compromise was made
by his Majesty sending 1/60th of the standing army with the American,
who gaily said he would join us, “horse, foot and cavalry,” in the
bridle-path. We reached the meeting-point first, but as we looked
back we saw with horror that two streams of fire were flowing down the
mountain side. We were to the left of them both, and safe; but between
them, and approaching us, were Van Blaricom and the native soldier. The
two men saw their danger, and pushed swiftly down the mountainside and
towards us, but more swiftly still these narrow snake-like streams came
on.
Presently the streams veered towards each other and joined. The two men
were on an island with a shore of fire. There was one hope--the shore
was narrow yet. But in running the American fell, spraining his ankle
badly. We were speechless, but the King’s lips parted with a moan, as he
said: “Lilikalu can jump the stream, but the other--!”
They were now at the margin of that gleaming shore, the American
wringing his hands. It was clear to him that unless a miracle happened
he would see his beloved Chicago no more; for the stream behind them was
rapidly widening.
I think I see that 1/60th of his Majesty’s infantry as he looked
down upon the slight and cowering form of the American. His moment of
vengeance had come. A second passed, marked by the splashing roar of
the waves in the hill above us, and then the soldier-naked, all save the
boots he wore-seized the other in his arms, stepped back a few paces,
and then ran forward and leaped across the barrier of flame. Not quite
across! One foot and ankle sank into the molten masses, with a shiver of
agony, he let the American fall on the safe ground. An instant later and
he lay at our feet, helpless and maimed for many a day; and the standing
army of the King was deprived of 1/60th of its strength.