Another Comrade—Things as I found Them—Taking Photographs—I introduce PÈre de N—— —Penitent Natives—I witness a Native Domestic Scene

AFTER the passing of Odysseus I met another good comrade, B——. He proved an estimable pal, and was of Scottish descent, consequently his mental equipment was valuable and enabled him to discern an intelligent joke, and laugh, if somewhat sadly, over English humour.

The absence of ordinary humour in the Scots is proverbial; but let me maintain that this proverbialness originated in England. The English, being unable to see through any joke other than their own, or a joke that had its point in the discomfiture of another, at once accuse the breezy, pithy Scot of lack of humour. The calumnies of my countrymen have misled me more than once. From my earliest recollection I can recall the old saying: “As mean as a Jew.” One can imagine my astonishment when travelling across the desolate, far-off spaces of the world, penniless and starving, I found my countrymen firing guns at me—whereas the Jews rushed to my assistance, and of all hosts proved the most courteous, gentle and generous.

I also found that the Japanese, Chinese and Kafirs were the cleanest livers, both in their persons, morals and domesticity. I discovered the French to be stoical, taking their pleasures sadly, phlegmatic and fearless. The Italians were mostly unmusical, the reverse of vindictive, and hated olives. The Germans I’ve met envied all that was British, sang old English melodies and vomited at the sight of sausages! I found the Irish somewhat humourless, but steadfast in friendship and good peacemakers during troublous times! I have lived with Turks and Armenians and found them deeply religious, clean in their mode of living and general outlook on life. As for the Greeks, those descendants of blind old Homer, I found them positively without any musical ear at all, unpoetic and even devoid of the simple love of Art that I discerned amongst the natives of Timbuctoo. I found Persians and Indians unphilosophical, exceedingly effeminate, and beyond the long grey beard, wise demeanour and picturesque turban of the Indian seer, I found no trace whatever of poetic ability, nor did I perceive otherwise than a great hatred for Indian curry.

The English I have always found gullible, and the finest hypocrites extant; brave, yet submissive under serfdom rule, and real stick-at-homes—such home-birds that the great cities of the world have arisen through their love of settling down! Americans I have met were decidedly undemocratic, unhurried in business, and in and out of their homes courteous and reserved. I observed that the cannibals, the wild men of the South Seas, were handsome, intelligent and poetical, their inherent love of peace being their most striking attribute. But I digress.

My comrade B—— possessed a camera, and as he was anxious to secure original photographs of natives and native life, I at once agreed to go off with him to the many scattered villages around and inland from the shores of Nuka Hiva. The least said about some of those photos the better. B—— had a contract with some publisher in Fleet Street, London, who desired native types for the halfpenny classics. Anyway, I can affirm that I placed my hand before my eyes and gazed seaward from the mountain villages more than once as my comrade followed the practical part of his tour through Southern Seas. And I will say on B——’s behalf that much that the reader may imagine exists in the imaginative mind only; that a background of palms and bread-fruit trees framed by mountain peaks makes a bevy of laughing girls with starry eyes and nut-brown knees (and, mind you, a mighty chief standing just by with huge war-club) a picture of perfect innocence not lacking poetic charm.

I recall that we came across a Chinaman in distress, in the act of being strangled by a Marquesan chief. We were passing through a mountain village when this adventure came to us. “O savee me! E killiee poor Chinemans!” yelled the yellow-skinned Celestial as he lifted his head, squirmed and appealed to us. B—— and I immediately gripped the chief’s leg and, giving a mighty pull, pulled him from the yellow man’s belly. The Marquesan still gripped the Chinaman’s pig-tail. Meanwhile the village children came rushing around us, screaming with sheer glee as they witnessed the struggle. I gave that chief a plug of tobacco as a bribe; he immediately rose to his feet, his mighty, tattooed chest swelling with the fierce desire that afflicted him as he grasped the tobacco and smiled his thanks. As he strolled away and coughed, and the children and shaggy-haired native women drew their rugs around them for sorrow that the fight was over, I asked the Celestial what he had done to fire such wrath.

“Me! noee dooey anytink. Markesans man hittiee me ’hind ear cause I sell woman’s one, two, three nicee opium pipe.”

B—— and I had our suspicions, but we wiped the blood off his face with leaves and fixed him up. He thanked us in pidgin-English, then waddled away.

I liked B——, but unfortunately he had to leave the next day, for his boat was sailing for Papeete. I saw him off early, at dawn. Then I went up the slopes and saw the old missionary, PÈre de N—— (Father O’Leary I will call him). He had just had his morning bath. His few grey hairs were still steaming as he stood bareheaded in the fierce sunlight that blazed over the mountains. I also had just bathed in those cool morning waters and had watched the broad awakening of the bright day. I saw the golden light of the sunrise touch the paddling, curling wings of a migrating flock of far-off parrots, twinkling as they sped away, fading like tiny canoes across the rifts of blue in the seaward sky. Those birds have flown away to their last roost these many years; but still over the azure heaven they pass, yes, as the priest once more turns away from the blue lagoon. As he stands before my memory I wipe my feet on an old shirt, for towels are scarce, and watch the ecclesiastic as he thoughtfully pulls his beard. Now he tugs the mission bell rope. Over the slopes comes another chime from the special mission building wherein Queen Vaekehu sings hymns and prayers for the sake of past sins. It sounds familiar, yet strange, to hear those bells in the wild South Seas. The priest looks worried; so much I notice at a glance as I stroll into the mission-room and proceed with my job, for I have come that morning to mend the broken stops in the mission harmonium. PÈre de N—— sighs, nor is it to be wondered at. Waylao and many of his flock are missing from early morning prayers. Well enough he knows the temptations that come to his flock on festival occasions: they are all semi-heathens, the penitent dusky maids, youths and chiefs with tawny wives who dwell around me. The holy Father is not at all a bigoted man. He often sighs in the thought of how white men rush across the seas, their brains afire with enthusiasm to paint the cannibal isles with tints of beauty—to make dark-skinned people as white as the driven snow. He well knows that rouged lips and jetty eyelashes do not make a whore a saint.

I have seen tears in the eyes of that old priest when tattooed chiefs once more turned up at his mission-room, fell on their trembling knees and bellowed forth fervent prayer, their voices shaky with fear and remorse—voices that smelt, alas! of gin.

Even as the old priest stands pondering in the bright sunlight and I watch, the reactionary period has set in, for lo! out of their huts one by one they creep, coming down the track to pray. Poor old Mazzabella, the great chiefess, staggers in front as they walk in Indian file. She is the essence of true belief and the finest example of tattoo art extant. Ye gods! only last night the moon hid its face behind its cloud-wisp handkerchief as the assembled tribe cheered with delight, and gazed with ecstatic admiration on her fat, whirling limbs of carven, hieroglyphic savage beauty. Her big throat pulses with the emotion she feels as she staggers on. Behind her totters three ridi-clad royal chiefs (one is a dethroned king, both his ears are missing). Their retinue consists of three more penitent maids. They are in full church dress—a loin-cloth and bright yellow silk stockings—finery that is fresh from the Islamic carpet bag. ’Tis grievously essential to tell one these things, for they are characteristic details, necessary, and full of the pathos of true native life. Even as I watch and mend the broken bellows of the sacred harmonium, I see the pathetic light in the Father’s eyes change to an amused twinkle, and no wonder! for, as poor Mazzabella kneels down in the pew, her mouth sobbing with ecclesiastical anguish, she takes a nip of rum out of the flask which she has hidden beneath her tappa gown.

Though I have not been long in the South Seas, I feel that there is no denying that a pick-me-up after a modern tribal festival is essential. In the olden days, ere casks of rum and Bibles were imported on sister ships to the isles, such pathetic duplicity was comparatively unknown. It is the combination of the Old World’s sins with the New World’s sins that is so disastrous to the native’s nervous system. Indeed so disastrous has been the introduction of Bibles and rum to the sins of the Old World that many an isle is to-day perfectly virtuous—for the whole native population, devoid of human passions, lie silent and sinless in their graves.

As the priest stands before those rows of dusky, savage faces, droning forth in reverent monotones the morning prayers, I finish my job and creep out of the mission-room. I have mended his harmonium gratuitously. I like the old fellow and know he’s as poor as a church mouse. How else could he be but poor, since he was earnest in his belief?

Again I am out in the glorious sunlight. As I walk beneath the bread-fruit trees I recall my promise; for I have quite forgotten to fetch the new-laid eggs for my host, a white settler hard by who has kindly given me shelter till I get a ship. Up the slopes I go, hurrying on. The parrots shriek, flapping away from the topmost branches. In a few moments I reach my destination—old Lydia’s cottage. Her new-laid eggs are noted for size and cheapness. I stand in hesitation by the doorway. It is quite evident that I’ve called whilst a little domestic drama is in progress. I listen, for I too suffer from the great weakness of mankind. “Deary me am! Poor chiles, mitia—Awai, Talofa! My poor Wayee, you sick?—and so sleep late these morning? Poor chiles.”

As I listen to the foregoing I still hesitate beneath the coco-palms. I can see through the slightly opened doorway. Old Lydia is stirring scented poi-poi on the galley stove. It is for poor sick Waylao. Alas! that I must confess that as I watch the honour that should be mine is mesmerised by the scene before me. There stands Waylao in complete deshabille by her mother’s side. Her unloosened hair falls in tangled masses to her dimpled shoulders. She has evidently hastily attired herself in that silken blue kimono gown. Her feet are bare. Her old mother looks positively jealous as the girl, sitting down on a chair, commences to pull on the Oriental, silk, pink-striped stockings.

“Wheres you git ’em?” screams the native mother with delight, eyeing the stockings with vivacious, child-like approval.

Again I remember that I am an honourable white man. Why should I pry on such domestic innocence? I attempt to stride towards the door and make my presence known, but my steps are arrested by a cry of joy. I make a mighty effort to be blind to it all—then I look. Old Lydia stands entranced, her mouth wide open with delight, for lo! Waylao has succeeded in bribing the old mother’s curiosity as to where she’d been the night before—has given her a brilliant pair of pink, yellow-striped stockings!

Yes, there stands old Lydia; in a moment she had pulled the stockings on, and now before the big German mirror sways and swerves in the most grotesque postures as the green and yellow stripes reach above her dusky knees.

Knowing not what else might occur, I hastily shuffle, cough loudly and knock at the door! It opens wider. The old woman grins from ear to ear, as, puff!—Waylao leaps out of sight into the next room.

Native instinct is deep: old Lydia stares at me suspiciously. With the external politeness of Western guile I blow my nose and make an attempt to appear more serious than usual.

I purchase the eggs.

“Nice eggs and good cheap,” says the old woman.

“Yes, very good,” I mutter.

“Good-morning, Aloha! Miss Waylao,” I say jokingly through the door chink as I spy Benbow’s daughter.

No answer comes. But as I stroll away I look back and just catch a glimpse of the girl’s face as she gazes after me through the little lattice window. I wave my hand, and she responds with a smile.

It seems a romantic isle to me as I stroll along. The very trees bend over me like wise old friends, wailing the lore of ages as the winds creep in from the empurpled seas. The exotic odours of forest flowers intoxicate my senses; they seem bright, living eyes of woods as they dance to the zephyrs. The very tinkle-tinkle of the stealing stream at my feet seems some wonderful song of sentient Nature as it ripples its accompaniment to the “Wai-le woo! wai-le woo! willy O!” of the mano alta (morning nightingale) as I fade into the forest shadows.