In Tai-o-hae—I come across a Widowed Marquesan Queen—Am received with Dignity—The Artistic Tattoo on Loi Vakamoa’s Royal Person—The Queen tells how she was married to a certain Martin Smith of New South Wales—An aged Queen’s Vanity—A Heathen Necropolis.

IRECALL the memory of a Marquesan royal person who stands out in my recollection with unusual vividness.

Whilst wandering, during one of my troubadouring expeditions north-west of Tai-o-hae, I came across a small, semi-pagan, tribal citadel of huts on the lower mountain slopes. It was a romantic and picturesque scene. The scattered bird-cage huts, made of twisted bamboo and nestling in the hollows, that were shaded by feathery palms, intensified the enchantment of the secluded forest empire. I know that the glad reception which I received from the whole population when I entered the high bamboo stockade gate, my two native boys ahead of me, was as impressive as it was pleasing to me. The two boys in question were Palao and Sango, neither of them more than ten years of age. But they were invaluable guides, considering the benefit their protection afforded my unarmed person, for they were able to converse in the difficult Marquesan tongue, and could explain my wishes and friendly attributes.

I was always careful in those days, and contrived that Palao and Sango should move ahead of me as my advance guard, thus leaving me in the immediate rear, ready for flight. The tribes about that part were supposed to be friendly, but my nerves were a bit unsettled through hearing that two sailors had been murdered in a tribal village ten miles to the eastward. Indeed, more than once I had been welcomed by the sudden appearance of fierce warriors with raised war-clubs and other strange implements of combat, which gave due notice that intruders were not to call at that particular moment! Possibly a tribal battle had been on, and had ended in the demise of a young warrior or so, and consequently a happy cannibal festival was in progress. Hence, no admission to the tribal stronghold for white men unless they happened to call on the most secretive and intimate terms.

Seeing only the smiling faces of chiefesses and chiefs welcoming me from the ambush of multi-coloured flowers by the lagoon mangroves, I saw that I had arrived at an opportune moment. “Aloah! Alli, Papalagi!” came from the lips of the assembled natives as I placed my violin to my chin and commenced to perform an old Marquesan himine.

The effect was magical: out of the leafy shadows and the hut doorways rushed the whole population, so it seemed to me, their faces bright with delight. It was a sight worth travelling many miles to see: tawny, oval, elongated, scarred, serious, and handsome faces, with original-looking eyes of varied brilliance, stared at me. A few tattooed warriors, clad in lava-lava and palm-leaf head-gear, leaned against the coco-palm stems regarding me with fixed, cynical-looking eyes. I did not like the look of them at all, but they turned out to be harmless enough. They were simply the old conservatives of heathen times, who instinctively resented the intrusion of white men into their sylvan demesne. Flocks of pretty boys and girls, of a pale walnut-polished hue, clambered at the picturesque ramias (native skirts) of their deep-bosomed mothers, gazing with half-frightened stare as my violin bow swept forth the wailing strains. I must have looked like some Pied Piper as I marched across the wide rara (village green), with Palao and Sango singing lustily, one on each side of me. That pagan mountain village was part of a true wonderland of the wine-dark seas. I am unable to describe the bright-eyed glances of those pretty Nausicaas and CircÉs who crept from the Elysium-like shadows of heathenland and stared at me as I passed by. Two stalwart chiefs, who were nibbling my present of tobacco plug, led the way; they were taking me straight to the palace building wherein dwelt their tribal queen. This palatial stronghold was constructed of coral stone and was surrounded by a wide verandah that was again sheltered by the beautiful pauroa and tamunu trees. Entering the palace, I found myself in a low-roofed apartment. On the walls hung the polished skulls of fallen warriors who had been renowned for bravery in their day. Magnificently woven tappa-mats covered the polished floors and the barbarian furniture. I noticed two cases of gin and one empty rum barrel standing right in the centre of the apartment. They were given that conspicuous position, I believe, because rum and gin denoted all that was immense wealth in the eyes of the Marquesan race. But what struck me as the most interesting piece of barbarian antiquity was the strange woman who presided over that palatial residence. She looked as old as her palm-clad native hills, and I discovered that she was one of the surviving queens of the many who had once reigned over the small dynasties of the Marquesan group. I had never seen her like before; her physiognomy was unique and decidedly pleasing-looking. She might easily have been some happy personification of Death itself as she sat there and saluted me:

“Aloah! Papalagi, you wanter see me am?”

“Oui! Aloah Majesty Imperialess,” I responded, as I made an effort and bowed the knee to her. I had visited Queen Vaekehu, who still reigned supreme in her old age down on the lower slopes by Calaboose Hill, and so I knew how to gain the appreciation of those heathen ex-Queens. Vaekehu was a masterpiece in the tattoo line, but I can assure you that ex-Queen Loi Vakamoa, for the sheer hieroglyphic-tattooed beauty that adorned her limbs and shoulders, could stand unrivalled throughout the North and South Pacific.

After addressing me, she left her squatting-mat just by her gin barrel, and majestically mounted what I imagine was her throne (a lot of old sea-chests and gin-cases covered with tappa-cloth). I did my level best to make myself pleasant, played the violin, drank some bitter stuff, and took a keen interest in all she said. Sitting up there on her old box throne, her profile reminded me of those old-fashioned engravings of Queen Elizabeth of England. The sensual curves, once so pronounced, had shrunk with her lips; but the beak-like nose—tattooed with tiny semi-circles from the bridge down to the cheeks—gave her a somewhat melancholy aspect. The only perceptible determinedness of the face was the sharp outline of the nose, which somehow suggested that its owner would meet the accumulating calamities of age with commendable aggressiveness. Yet her demeanour was affable in the extreme. Never before had I beheld a face that so sadly expressed the aftermath of all that had been and at the same time told of a bitter forlornness through senescence of frame and mind. The devious shruggings of her shoulders, the pathetic semi-amorous glances, and the many hints that she gave whilst striving to convince me of her once mighty Queenship and physical beauty, were positively painful to my mind. After giving me a goblet of whisky and lime-juice, which I must admit was refreshing, we seemed to become more confidential with each other. She took Palao by the arm and got him to tell her where he had met me, and much that I, of course, could not make out. By many direct hints she let me know that she had enjoyed a vast plurality of husbands.

“I been wifer to many kinks!” she said.

Most of what she said was translated to me by Palao as I politely sipped the peculiar beverage that she herself handed me. I hardly knew which way to glance as she gabbled on and Palao translated and I listened. Suddenly she acquainted me with the fact that she had been wedded more than twice to white men of distinction! She saw the look of surprise on my face. Perhaps she thought I doubted her, for she lifted the lid of a small sandal-wood box and brought forth a yellowish, very faded sheet of foolscap paper.

“Savvy, Papalagi?” she almost whimpered, as I read on. (And her eyes were shining with pride all the while.)

And so I perused the following marriage lines:

“This dokerment is to certify that Old Man Martin Smith of Woolloomooloo, New Sarth Wales, has from the dated day of this dokerment, 14th Feb. 1861, become the lawful husband of Queen Loi Vakamoa of this yere Isles and several more isles to the sarthwards. The foresaid Queen agrees to hand over all her monies and prufits she gits from her copra plantations and howsomeever monies she gits hold on whilst the aforesaid John Martin Smith remains King. And it is agreed that John Smith can have a safe passage in the old ship’s boat, free from any cursed interference by the late dethroned King Kai Le Tua Vakamoa and his b— heathen chiefs at any such time as he wants to quit this yere Isles and his dominions and go back to his lawful Missus, Maltida Sarah Martin Smith of Kansas City, Merica.

“Old Man Martin Smith, Bridegroom and King.

“Witness,—Jonathan Briggs, late Cook of S.S. ‘Albatross,’ who hereby claims 25 per cent. on all profits accruing from the aforesaid wedding.”

So ran the wording of all that may be published here of John Smith’s marriage lines. My accumulated experiences of such hearties as John Smith and Jonathan Briggs, Esq., gave me an idea as to the fine old times those two noble papalagis had in their sojourn on those isles to the southward during their brief kingship. But no hint of all I imagined was visible on my countenance when I handed the tattered document back to the smiling ex-queen. At this moment a hideous, aged Chinaman poked his face in the palace doorway and surveyed me with surprised, yellowish, vicious eyes. I wondered who he was, what relationship existed between him and the Queen, that he could so impertinently thrust his ugly physiognomy into the doorway like that. The next moment he had gone, and I saw him no more, though I heard him gabbling as he drove off the flocks of children who persistently crowded by the palace door, waiting till I should come out again. And still the Queen spoke on. Palao patiently translated her tales of departed lovers for my inquisitive ears. Seeing my curiosity, her eyes gleamed with delight, her two remaining frontal teeth, fitting fork-like into the gaps between the two teeth of the lower jaw, gave a sardonic look to her face as she sat there. She wore a peculiar garb too: the remnant of some old European skirt swathed her frame, but was cut very short, ending just above the knees. On her head was an old hat that had once been a fashionable Parisian bonnet. Possibly this hat had been presented to her by one of the French officials.

As I boldly surveyed her limbs she drew one tawny finger along the faded blue curves and stripes of tattoo. From all that she vigorously hinted, those tattoo marks were historic representations that denoted the insignia and coats-of-arms of the tribes wherein she had married. “What may that mean, Palao?” I said, as I glanced curiously at her anatomy, and observed impressionistic figures of muscular men, some standing in a gladiatorial attitude, spear in hand and face uplifted. And then, listening carefully to all that Palao had to say, I made out that they were a few of the ex-queen’s old lovers—men who had won her love in years gone by and died in some great tribal battle that had been led by some mighty chief who also yearned for her impassioned embrace! As my faithful Palao and Sango translated these things to me (and more than once cast their eyes in shame to the palace floor), it seemed like a dream that I should be standing in that coral-built place listening to the memories that remained in that old woman’s brain. A great deal that she said sounded to my ears “not quite the thing.” But I am not one who is too squeamish or critical over the moral codes that exist outside the dominions of my own land. As she gazed up into my face, and her aged lips quivered in the emotion she felt over her wild reminiscences, I took the extended, shrivelled hand, and, with some emotional idea of all that she once had been, gallantly kissed it! After that, her conversation suddenly changed to a subtle delivery of phrases in pigeon English. I slowly gathered that she was telling me of wondrous presentations she had received from her past lovers, and how they had each in turn recognized the great honour conferred upon them by her acceptance of their manifold gifts. Before I had gathered the true import of what she was driving at, she was beseeching me to hand over my violin to her. I remained obdurate. What on earth she wanted my instrument for, Heaven knows. Possibly she was childish, and so, like a child, would have it as a toy.

She invited me to go out into the palace grounds. She led the way. Her garden was cultivated. Pineapples, tomatoes, taro, oranges, yams, and many tropical fruits grew in abundance around me. By the shade of the buttressed banyans, at the far end of the cleared space, stood a huge wooden idol. It was a hideous thing: one large tooth protruded from its wide, slit, crocodile-like mouth, where in and out crawled fat insects with tortoise-shell-hued wings (I think they were big ants). Though the Queen wore a Catholic medallion on her bosom, and had told me that “She belonger Popey God, and was all-e-samee great Cliston womans,” I distinctly saw her aged form give a bow of heathenish reverence as we both stood in front of that monstrous heathen deity! It stood nearly seven feet high, and standing there as some representation of infinity, the hopelessness of creeds and all the ills and mockery of human existence, it was a magnificent bit of perfection. When we returned into the small palace, it was dusk. “Salaba!” called Vakamoa in a wheezy voice. In a moment I heard the shuffling of running feet, and then a beautiful Marquesan maid, robed in tappa-cloth, flowers, and threaded shells, appeared before me. She gazed on me with a quizzical lustrous gleam in her eyes. This maid interested me because of her European-like features. I saw her place her fingers into the folds of her thick tresses to see that the hibiscus blossoms were still tastefully arranged, in much the same way as a vanity-stricken English maid might do. In a few moments this serving-maid, for such she was, lit up all the tiny hanging coco-nut-oil lamps in the apartment, then she went away and left Vakamoa and myself alone.

Squatting on the mats, I did as she bade me, and commenced to play my violin. She seemed very pleased with the English melodies that I performed, and once or twice mumbled as I played.

“You liker see me dance?” she said. Then she hummed a little himine and asked me to play it. Had I not seen that old woman career round that low-roofed chamber as she danced some old barbarian rhythm, I would never have believed it possible. So astonished was I, that I forgot my part of the business and stopped playing. “Alo! Alo!” (Go on! Go on!) she said, almost fiercely. In a moment I placed my instrument to my chin, and once more fired away. The hanging lamps along the roof-beams swayed to and fro as her skirt swished violently, and her stiff legs made such movements that it is impossible to describe them. “If this is how she goes on in the dry leaf what did she do in the green?” was my reflection, as her bony legs went up with a bound, and then right over my head! I’ve no wish to exaggerate in the description of it all; only those who have seen the fetish frenzy of an aged barbarian woman under the influence of whisky (for so I concluded she must be) will know what I saw that night! I had no alternative but to go through with it. As she leapt over me her toes caught in my hair and withdrew some by the roots! But I did not budge an inch; I simply played for dear life, as it were. I knew that she was a heathen, that she was old and childish and not responsible for her actions. I also recalled many things that O Le Langi had told me about heathen women’s mad ways when they grow old and realize the loss of their beauty. “She can’t go on much longer,” I thought, as she bounded round the room, lifting her scraggy arms and chanting in a weird manner. True enough, she slowed down after the fiftieth round, and then sat panting beside me. After that exhibition, I did my best to keep on the right side of her. I handed her a piece of tobacco plug that I, fortunately, had in my pocket. And, though it was my last piece of tobacco, I felt well repaid for its loss by the evident pleasure the gift gave her. She immediately twisted a lump off and placed it in her large corn-cob pipe, then struck a match on the boniest portion of her anatomy, and started to puff vigorously at my gift.

After that I withdrew as hastily as possible from her chamber. Palao and Sango re-entered and prostrated themselves at her feet. This pleased her immensely. Going down the mossy pathway that led to the stockade gate, I turned my head and waved two or three farewell salutations. The last I saw of her was as she stood by her door, her forked teeth close together as she grinned with pleasure at thinking I should return on the morrow! But I did not return again. And I may say here, that I have always felt more at ease in the presence of old native men than in the presence of native women, be they waiting-women or ex-queens.

Before I left the immediate precincts of that bungalow, which Vakamoa styled her “palace,” I strolled into the tiny coral-fenced clearing by the plateau of the mountain slopes. It was the lonely place where the tribe buried their dead. I gazed for a little time on the strange tomb-stones, and tried to make out the inscriptions that apparently commemorated the past virtues of kings and chiefs who had passed into shadowland. Notwithstanding the feathery palms and the glimpse of the far-away, moonlit, tumbling seas, it was a forlorn place. And now, doubtlessly, that discarded Queen Vakamoa has long since dissolved, with all her pride of past queenship, into a little dust, and a lump of memorial coral tells where she lies in that tiny, barbarian necropolis.

Next day I accepted the invitation of Palao to stop in his father’s bungalow near the shore. I had had enough adventure for the time being, and so was extremely pleased to romp with the native children and listen to their wonderful fairy-tales. For be it noted that those children had their Hans Andersens and Grimms, just as we have. I’ll tell one of the stories in the next chapter.