Author’s Heritage—Arrives at Samoa—Disillusioned—Illusive Romance—Golden-skinned Polynesian Maids—Meets great Heathen Philosophers—The Samoan Chief, O Le Tao. I’d fiddled in Australia, lived on cheek,
Cursed all the gold-fields ever found down South,
Lived with mosquitoes down by Bummer’s Creek—
To say the least, I’d felt down in the mouth.
I’d tramped the seaboard cities with my fiddle
To make my fortune, but ne’er solved the riddle.
I’d got quite thin on nuts and grins and smiles,
So emigrated to the South Sea Isles—
That Eldorado where men yawned and seemed to make their piles!
EVEN the wind, my boon companion—for are we not both born roamers?—seems to blow chunks of old memories through the moonlit, tossing pines that are sighing to-night outside this wayside inn. It’s here that we rest awhile, my fiddle and I, as I take up my pen to record some of the incidents from my early travels. Time, in its everlasting hurry, gives me the briefest space to say all I wish to say; and ere the month ends I shall be, once more, outbound on the western ocean.
Personally, I think that to have inherited a pair of rose-coloured spectacles from one’s ancestors is to have 24been endowed at birth with inexhaustible wealth, as well as being born a king in one’s own right. Such an inheritance enables one to conjure up the finest illusions, helps one to surmount apparently impossible heights, and also cheers one in each inevitable precipitous fall. I’ve often blessed the fates in the thought that they so kindly enabled me to warm my hands and heart by an imaginary fire when the winds were blowing cold. So much would I say, in complete humbleness, about my special gift. Possibly the aforesaid gift is the only inherited privilege that entitles me to write this book dealing with my life and travels in the South Seas. So far as the world’s and my own opinion goes, I’ve no violent claim to write more than three books. For, true enough, it does not make for notoriety and a keen interest in one’s self from a wide public to have done the things that I’ve done. I seriously doubt if my effigy will be seen in Madame Tussaud’s waxwork show when I come to die. The plain fact is, that it is not considered highly respectable to have slept in a wharf-dustbin in a strange land, unashamed, and with the lid on! And to have knelt in the complete obeisance of idolatry before a wooden idol with a tattooed heathen poet, and deliberately worshipped at the old shrine of the stars, is, to say the least, not quite the thing. Neither does a wandering vagabond life, and a deep feeling of kinship with strange old shellbacks, ragged derelicts, and tattooed chiefs, lay a suitable foundation for recording one’s omissions and sins in polite form. However that may be, I believe that to have dined deeply on salt-horse and weevily hard-tack, and to have played the fiddle on the “Wallaby track” from Maoriland to the Solomon Isles, is to have gathered an outfit of dire accomplishments that I hope may have inspired me with something to say.
First of all, I will say that, though I had been smashing 25about the seaports from Shanghai to Callao, and had trekked across the Never-Never land, generally bound for Nowhere, I still had strange hopes that wild pioneer life and romance, as I had read about it ere I ran away to sea, existed somewhere in the world. I was down in the dumps, stranded in Sydney, when the great opportunity presented itself. By the wharf, in the harbour, lay a three-masted ship. When I went aboard I heard that she was bound for the South Sea Islands—the Isles of the Blest!
“Any chance of a job?” I said to the chief mate. He solemnly shook his head, then critically scanned me, then pointing towards the cuddy aft, referred me to the skipper. Entering the gloom of the cuddy’s small alley-way, I bumped up against the “Old Man.”
“What yer wan?”
“Any chance of a job, sir?” I murmured in my very best longing-for-work voice. The skipper stood stroking his whiskers, and, after scrutinizing me from head to feet, demanded to see my discharges.
“Git yer traps and come aboard.”
I was engaged as a member of the crew.
Next day we were towed down the harbour by a tug, and by midnight had a steady wind on the quarter, which took us out with all sails set into the Pacific.
It was a monotonous, long voyage. The “Saga,” for that was the name of the ship, wasn’t a “Cutty Sark” or a “Thermopylae” for speed.[1] Anyway, the length of the voyage helped to warm my ardent longing to arrive at the palmy coral isles.
1.  The “Cutty Sark” and “Thermopylae” were two of the fastest sailing ships running from London to Sydney. The author sailed before the mast from Sydney to San Francisco on the “Cutty Sark.”
I think I was the happiest member of the crew when, after much buffeting with wild weather and stinking pork and maggoty hard-tack, our old wind-jammer 26hugged the outer reefs of the Samoan Isles. Ah, the music of the long-drawn sounds of the surges beating over the barrier reefs! I half fancied I could hear the palms sighing lyrical melodies as the winds crept like overflowing zephyrs from some great scented dream across that pagan world. On the dim blue horizon rose ranges of mountains, apparently touching the tropic sky: they were, to me, the peaks of romance!
The dry tongues of the aged, seasoned sailors hung out as they rubbed their tarry hands and sniffed the distant grog-saloon. Old M’Dougal, the ship’s carpenter, danced a jig and looked human for the first time. The Dutch boatswain pulled his red beard, gave a terrific grin in the moonlight, and muttered something about “Voomen and vine.” Then I got my few belongings together, packed my violin carefully, and was ready to go ashore.
It was quite dark when I found myself being rowed, or rather paddled, ashore in an outrigger canoe. As I went gliding by the moon-ridden lagoons, I felt that at last I had surely entered some magical harbour of a fairy-land.
Even when sunrise came like a silent crash of liquid gold over the wide Pacific, touching the mountain peaks and the scattered bee-hive-shaped huts of the forest townships, I was not disillusioned. All seemed as I had so fondly anticipated; it was as I had read about it all. Men yarned and argued dogmatically as they stood, fierce-eyed, before the bar of the wooden grog-shanty; there they stood, attired in large slouched hats, telling such mighty things about their thrilling travels that even old Homer, could he have heard, might well have sighed with envy!
When dusk came and I heard the tribal drums beating the stars in far away up in the forest villages, I 27thought, “Here at least I shall find rest from the hot-footed turbulency of civilized humanity; here I can dwell beneath the Eden-like shades of feathery palms, and listen to the wind-blown melodies as they come in from the sea and run across the island trees.” I revelled in such like thoughts. I felt that I had come across a pagan world where no more should I hear servile mumblings of a conventional people. I would peer into savage bright eyes and listen to the poetic lore of people who worshipped at the shrine of the stars and counted their days by the fading moons. But when the fierce-eyed, tattooed chief, leaning on his war-club before the rough customers of the grog-shanty’s bar, looked straight into the eyes of an old shellback, and, bringing his club down with a crash, said, with much vehemence, that he preferred Solomon’s Songs to the second chapter of the Corinthians, I rubbed my eyes and thought I dreamed! My chagrin was immense; those delectable palm-clad isles of primitive lore and romance had come under the blighting influence of civilization and of missionaries!
I was in Apia, Samoa, R. L. S., attired in his velvet coat, walked into the bar-room and then suddenly said, “Damn!” when the Beachcomber trod on his toe, bowed, and said, “Beg pawden, soir!” I strolled afar and discovered that bright-eyed babies, nestling at the bosoms of their shaggy-haired, handsome mothers, slept as “safe as houses” in doorless, small-thatched dens under the moonlit palms. And, wandering on, I saw star-eyed, nymph-like girls with tossing, coral-dyed hair, pass and repass me on the lonely forest track, singing merrily in a musical tongue as they dived once more into the shadows of the coco-palms.[2] All this was extremely pleasing. 28But one may imagine how my tenacious illusions were grossly shattered when the majestic ex-king Malaetoa of the proud O Le Solu Dynasty, last of his ancient line, followed me into the isolated grog-shanty hard by, gazed into my eyes with fondest affection, and said, “Mine’s a bitter!”
2.  The Samoans are not tawny or mahogany-coloured, but are of a pleasing, golden-skinned hue, sometimes fairer than Europeans.
O, illusive Romance!
Nevertheless adventure abounded. Those semi-savage men sang weird soulful songs, melodious ballads, about half-forgotten legends, and battles long ago; and their love-songs were as pleasing as the beauty and innocence of their womenkind. I roamed those palm-clad shores for days, and was considerably enlightened in an educational way, for I came across clans of strange old heathens, who seemed to me to be the disciples of the one true transcendent democracy. They were semi-naked heathen philosophers, old men clad in loin-cloths only. My pleasure was immense when I observed them sitting by their coral cave doors, solemnly chewing nuts, apparently as happy as the sunny, livelong day. It was sunset, and when they all commenced to beat their drums violently, beating the stars in, it seemed that their hoarse, quaintly musical voices, wailed out, “Behold! we are the people! Creation hath nobly toiled through the ages till, lo! the blessed sun warms our aged bones as nature casts into our trembling hands digestible nuts and sweet-scented taro!”
Could I help liking the companionship of such happy, wise old philosophers?
Many of those old-time natives were endowed with wonderful poetic intellect. And I vow that such an intellect my old Samoan friend, O Le Tao, possessed. I came across Tao about three weeks after arriving in Upolu. And I may say, that though I’ve played the fiddle under a palm tree outside a barbarian queen’s 29royal seraglio, and have been given the Freedom of the pagan city in consequence, I can recall no one who was more hospitable to me than O Le Tao. And so, before proceeding with the wild life and adventures which I experienced after leaving Samoa for Tahiti, I would like just to touch on O Le Tao’s character and genius by the way. In fact, O Le Tao was interesting, if only on account of his physiognomy, which strangely resembled the weird scenery of Samoa by moonlight—scenery that I feel is an eminently suitable background for introducing him, and not in an impressionistic sketch either, but just as I knew him in his meditative old age.
First, I would tell you that it was a lovely sight to see the tropical orange flush of evening fade to a deep, fairy-like green on the sea’s horizon beyond the scimitar-shaped bay off Apia. Then, one by one, the stars peeped out, not down from the sky, but wistful-like up from the lagoons along the shore. It was an Olympian scene and one that I should imagine would inspire the most unimaginative observer. The native villages were silent; the mountains, like mighty sentinels staring out to sea, stood with tangled forest beards, sighing down to their rugged knees. Moonlit lines of palms waved like majestic plumes against the crystalline skies; a falling star seemed a pale ember blown out of the far-off constellations. But for the tiny pagan city of huts, nestling as it were in the crevice of the mountain’s hip, it might have been an uninhabited island world. Far down in the lower regions, in the vicinity of the mountain’s vast feet, a canoe was paddled out from the hairy growths between those mighty toes. It was a savage, wrinkled old man of another age, paddling off for the silent waters in a canoe, that was, to him, a small argosy bearing him away to the wonders of shadowland! But it wasn’t as weird as all that; it was simply the Samoan chief, 30O Le Tao, stealing away under the cover of night to one of the neighbouring islets, so that he might worship his hidden idol. Though I cannot claim to have been there on that special night, I well know it was none other than O Le Tao. And how I know this is my own secret. Possibly I’ve been a heathen too, and have prostrated myself before an idol; I’m queer enough for anything. However that may be, I recall that I met O Le Tao next day. I was travelling along in the vicinity of Mount Vala. I had just had an appetizing meal of Bass’s Ale and monkey-nuts—and was feeling in good humour. Coco-palms, breadfruits, and other picturesque trees sheltered me from the hot sunlight and my banana-leaf socks hardly swished as I softly trod the beautifully woven carpet of flower and fern that Nature’s patient hand had spread across the forest floor. The sea breeze swept pungent whiffs, like iced wine, to my nostrils, as I followed the track made by soft-footed savages for ages. Suddenly I was startled by seeing a frizzly, partially bald head protrude through the bamboos. It was O Le Tao’s cranium.
“What you wanter here?” he said.
“Talofa! e maloto ea oe” (I greet you, comrade, and hope you are well), I responded, as the chief’s brow puckered up with suspicion.
“What you gotter there—moosic?”
“Yes,” I responded, as he eyed my violin.
“You no tafoa vale?”
“No; I’m a friend,” I replied, as I handed him a mark. This largesse changed his aggressive look into a broad smile of welcome. Following him, I entered his hut. I sat on his best mat and drank refreshing coco-nut milk. Suddenly we were disturbed by hearing loud grunts, heavy breathing, and smashing of twigs. In another moment an aged Samoan woman entered the hut. 31She was a fine-looking old woman, and had kind eyes. She was carrying a huge calabash of water beneath one arm. Its cumbersome weight did not deter her from further efforts—in the other hand she held a coco-nut, a basketful of fish—all alive O!—on her back a bunch of bananas, and between her teeth two fishing rods. She was O Le Tao’s industrious better half. She too made me welcome. Then pretty Cenerita, their daughter, arrived. She had pretty hair, and eyes that outshone the gleams of the three coco-nut-oil lamps, hanging from the hut’s low roof that night; for it all ended in O Le Tao asking me to stay the night with them.
When the hour was late, I felt very contented as I squatted by their homestead’s door by Cenerita’s side. Then the old chief commenced to tell me about the grand old freebooting times.
O Le Tao was over seventy years of age, and so was a reliable authority on the old sins and wonders of the heathen period of his palmy isles.
As the old chief spoke on, and his wife, Cenerita, and I sat by the doorway that faced the ocean, I too became transformed into a semi-heathen, the Samoan underworld becoming some dim, far-off reality to my brain. The moon shone over the dark waters, and the voices coming from the dark shore caves just below seemed to drum out muffled echoes from the old gods of shadowland, as I listened to all that O Le Tao told.
Cenerita had ceased to sing. We could faintly hear the o le sanga (red-winged nightingale) whistling its melodious song somewhere up in the mountain breadfruits. And still O Le Tao spoke on in this wise:
“O Papalagi, you must know and believe that, in those far-off days, the great spirits of shadowland did walk about the native villages by night. Often would the gods knock at the doors of the great Atuiis (high 32chiefs), bidding them strive for their mighty requirements; which were many. And sad enough for us in the great sacrificial month!” said O Le Tao after a pause; then he continued: “O white man, I must tell you that Lao-mio was my kinsman’s child and was a maid beautiful to gaze upon.”
“Doubtless,” I said, as he continued.
“And of course she was daughter of great chief, so to fall in love with a low-caste youth, as she did, was a terrible disgrace to me and my people. Also the gods, Tangaloa, Tuli, Tane, and the goddesses of O E Langi (Elysium) were dark-browed with anger about it all. ’Tis true that the low-caste youth was handsome to look upon, straight as a coco-palm, with eyes like a katafa bird’s. But such things do not make up for the lack of great blood and the pride of the gods in one’s heart.”
“No, certainly not,” said I, as O Le Tao’s wrinkled physiognomy revealed the pride he felt over those old ancestors that he claimed. Then he continued:
“One night, when we were all fast asleep in our village by Tewaka, we did all leap suddenly up from our sleeping mats, for lo! the conch-shells of the gods in shadowland were blowing! True enough the gods and goddesses were rushing about the forests in great anger! We did know that something terrible had occurred, for their voices sounded like to thunder and echoed to the mountain tops. As all my people did rush from their huts, the gods disappeared in the moonlight, but we were all just in time to see a canoe being fast paddled across the bay out to sea! Ah, Papalagi, ’twas great insult; for it was that low-caste youth Ko-Ko, for that was his name, and Lao-mio, the high-caste maid, in flight together. For a moment we gazed dumb-struck, the horror of the scene before us being 33on the faces of all the chiefs. And the O tausalas (high-class girls and women) weep to see so wicked a sight.”
Saying the foregoing, O Le Tao placed his wrinkled hand to his brow and gazed in deep reflection on the scene that was apparently before his memory. Then, as his old wife handed him a goblet of kava (he swallowed it at a gulp), he cast his eyes skyward and continued:
“Suddenly we all recover our senses, and go rushing down to the shore. But it was too late. The cunning Ko-Ko had severed the sennet tackles and had cast all our canoes adrift, so that we could not follow him. He was very low-caste too, for, as the canoe turned round by the promontory, he did turn his face to us and waved his paddle jeeringly! And though my kinsmen and many of the tausalas did dance with much rage on the shore at this act of Ko-Ko’s, I did myself keep calm, as great chief should keep; crossing my arms on my breast, I did spit seaward. It was then that we all turned, and rushing way back to the village we looked into the hut wherein Lao-mio had slept. Lo, master, we found all her clothes—she had left them behind! ’Twas sad enough, this act of an erstwhile modest tausala maid, but we did all beat our chests when we find the maid had left a note behind her too, and this note said: ‘O stink chiefs of Samoa, I go away with my true love Ko-Ko, for his eyes are like unto the gods! And I would have you know, O meddling people of the village, that my children shall bless me for having so god-like a husband!’
“At reading this insult about the godliness of a low-caste, we did all beat our limbs and bodies till the blood fell. And as we did this act we heard the mighty, far-off voices of the gods cursing our village, to think that a high-caste tausala should elope with a cheeky 34low-caste like Ko-Ko. The next day the great toas (high chiefs) went away in sorrow to the sacred altars at Manono, and, paying obeisance to the autiis (priests), asked them to find out what the gods would have them do about the whole matter. After many libations of ceremonial kava and sacred offerings to the God of gods, the vassals of shadowland did say: ‘You disgraced people of Manono must away go into the forest by Lauii; and when you are there you must play sweetest music on the vuvu and the magic conch-shells while the moon shines over the sea. It is then that the spirits will hear, and will tell you what is best to be done to enable you to catch the wicked lovers.’”
Saying this, O Le Tao paused a moment, then, swelling his tattooed chest to its full proportions, and with his arms crossed high thereon, he gazed majestic-wise upon Cenerita, his wife, and my humble self. Then, turning his head and face round in the direction of the mountains, he gazed in such a manner that it was plainly evident he was about to divulge something reflecting no small amount of glory upon his person. He continued:
“When the village did hear that which the gods wished to be done, they all meet by the sacred banyans, and say, ‘Who? Who in our village am great enough to respond to the wishes of the gods?’ And, Papalagi, I would have you know that, whilst this talk go on, I sit in full humbleness behind the assembled tribe in deep shadow of breadfruit trees.” (I nodded my head, intimating that I quite understood O Le Tao’s humility.) Then he coughed, and proceeded: “For awhile I keep my face bowed towards the earth; but still they call in one great voice again, and yet again! And so, knowing well that one cannot cast the power, the glory, and majesty from one’s own person, I slowly did arise, and, 35standing forth into the clear light of the moon’s fullness, I say, ‘Who is this that calls aloud for O Le Tao?’
“And, in this wise, was I chosen above all others, O Papalagi!
“That same night I and Lao-mio’s father, who was a kinsman of mine, did go away to seek the magic caves where dwelt the vassals of the gods of the underworld. When we arrived by the seashore we perceive four young coco-palms growing, that had not been there before. And, as we blew the conch-shells, the four coco-palms did commence to quiver in the light of the moon, the plumes and bunches of nuts that sprouted at the tops starting to swell visibly. Still we did blow and blow the vuvu and conch-shell; and still the coco-nuts swell and swell till they gleam in the moonlight, and lo! they were the big faces of the gods! We did then notice that the trunks of the palms were their legs. My kinsman and I did lean one against the other, so great was our surprise to hear their voices. For, lifting their shivering arms to the sky, they say, ‘O great O Le Tao, and he too who am shadowed in your presence.’”
“I suppose the gods alluded to your kinsman?” said I, interrupting the old chief.
“That am so, Papalagi,” said Tao, as I struck a match on my knee and intimated by a nod of my head that I wished him to proceed. Then he continued in this wise: “The gods looked down upon us and said, ‘If you would once more get Lao-mio the maid back to your village, you must go along the coast and approach the caves wherein dwells the beautiful goddess Pafuto. She will stand in your presence, and then lead you across the sea to Savaii Isle so that you may get at the maid Lao-mio.’
“At saying these things they did look upon myself 36and my kinsman with deep concern shining like a shadow on moonlit waters in their eyes, and then, again said: ‘You are mortals, and so we would tell you that, whatever you do, you must not gaze upon the goddess Pafuto’s face or form with amorous eyes, neither may you let your hearts hold such thoughts as one may have when gazing upon a beauteous mortal maid.’
“Well, Papalagi, this wish of the gods did not trouble us; but pulling my tappa robe around me I did at once commence to go with my kinsman to the spot where we might see the great goddess. When we did at length come to the sea, the moonlight lay fast asleep on the deep waters. The o le manu ao (Samoan nightingale), hearing our approach, started singing its midnight song to its favourite goddess Langi (heaven). We listened until our hearts were charmed very much, so much so that we both felt that our hearts were fit to urge our voices to speak out those things which the gods had told. And so I stepped forward, and say, ‘O le sanga oa e magi langi.’ At hearing me speak, the o le manu at once cease its song. Silence did fall and run on silvery moonlight feet across the forest. Then, lo, a shadow fell slantwise across the lagoon that faced the sleeping ocean. We turn our eyes, and there, stepping forth from her big shore cave, was the goddess Pafuto!
“Ah, Papalagi, never before did my eyes behold so beautiful a goddess. Her raiment was made from the finest wove seaweed. Her hair tresses, falling like a golden river on the sunset mountains, made a wonderful mat for her nicest of feet.”
At this moment the old chief’s story was interrupted by the arrival of Cenerita’s fiancé, a handsome youth named Tamariki. As the youth sat at Cenerita’s feet, O Le Tao gave him a freezing look that he should intrude at such a moment. Then the old man placed his 37hand archwise over his eyes in some memory of the dazzling beauty of the goddess Pafuto, and continued: “The goddess gaze on us with magical light stealing through her eyes, then she plucked a reed from the lagoon’s edge and blew out a note of sweetest music. At once the o le manu ao commenced to sing again, and out of the cavern to the right of us came floating a taumualua (native boat). My kinsman and I at once did that which the goddess commanded, for we at once jump into the taumualua. As we sat in the magic canoe, she did softly step into it and give a magic sign. It was with much sorrow that I did notice that the taumualua carry no paddles, for, Papalagi, I feel that the goddess may be for voyaging beneath the sea instead of moving over the waters. But just as I did look into my kinsman’s eyes in sorrow, the goddess did stand upright between us. She was as tall as a mast and as straight. Uplifting her robes and stretching her curved arms out like unto sails of a ship, the night wind did at once commence to softly blow. It was a wonderful sight to see her robes gently fill out like big sails to the blowing airs as the magical canoe start to move silently across the moonlit waters.
“As we did glide over the sea we could distinctly see her shadow reflected in the water beside us, beside the imaged moon that was full of brightness. Ah, Papalagi, it was this uprightness of the goddess that did bring about the fall of my kinsman. Alas, as she became like to sails of a taumualua, because of the uplifting of her robes there beside us, her graceful limbs were revealed to half a finger’s length above the knees. Truly, Papalagi, it was a sight to tempt even the gods, let alone us poor mortals as we sat there, one each side of that wondrous figure, my cheek almost touching the right flank, and my kinsman’s the left knee.
38“Knowing deep in our hearts what the gods had warned us about, we tried, more than I may tell, not to behold or dream of her gracefulness and the secret glory of such womanly loveliness, as we could have done had she been a mortal.
“So, Papalagi, I did perspire overmuch through trying to kill those thoughts that will afflict us poor mortals. I sighed and prayed, and even sang a short lotu-song (hymn) to help stifle those thoughts that dare not rise from my heart. It was during this misery of mine in endeavouring to keep faith with the gods and our promises that I did notice my kinsman breathing heavily. I look long upon him, and then see that he was near to being fauti (in a fit) for trying also to stay his deeper thoughts. Much fright came to my soul at seeing the state of one whom I loved much and who was near to me in blood. I did look eagerly across the sea, and with much sorrow notice that we were still more than a mile from the lonely shores of Savaii Isle. The promontory was just visible far away to the north.
“‘What shall we do? What shall we do?’ I mutter as I did see my kinsman’s form writhe in the agony of his desires.
“At this moment the goddess slightly swerved her outstretched arms around to the north-east so that she might catch the fairer wind. In this sudden action of hers, her mass of beautiful hair fell about our shoulders, for she had slowly moved her head likewise, so that her face should be turned to the south-west; so that, while her left arm point north-east, her face turn south-west. Whether it was this movement of the changing winds that made her tresses fall and prove my kinsman’s undoing, I know not. But it is certain that, as her masses of hair fell tenderwise on his face and shoulders, her eyes, inclined sideways, gazed on him and 39on me in such a way as surely goddess never gazed to tempt mortals before. And then, alas, whether the knees moved through the soft swaying of the canoe or through the sudden veering of the night wind, I know not, but my kinsman’s lips did suddenly touch the left knee of the goddess!
“In a moment, as though lightning swept across the moonlit waters, a flash of light leapt from the goddess’s eyes—the canoe wherein we sat vanished—was as nothing!
“For longer time I did swim and swim. And when at length I sat on the shore, only the great goddess Pafuto sat beside me! It was then I knew that my sad kinsman had been unable to control his mortal thoughts, and so was lying somewhere dead at the bottom of the moana uli (the blue sea). Gazing upon me, the goddess said, ‘O Le Tao, thou art a great chief. Thou hast seen mucher beauty of the goddesses of Langi in their true nakedness, and thou hast proven that thou lovest the light of heaven in their eyes only.’
“At hearing this, I felt much pride. Yet, true enough, my heart did quake overmuch, for well I knew how near I was to falling as my kinsman fell.”
The old Samoan chief ceased for a moment. The night winds blew softly, drifting the scents of ripe lemons and breaths of decaying flowers to our nostrils. Cenerita, under the influence of her parent’s story, peered into the forest glooms. The grand chiefess, Madame O Le Tao, puffed her cigarette and revealed by the erect pose of her scraggy neck that she realized the import of her position as O Le Tao’s faithful spouse. The old chief, continuing his story, said:
“O Papalagi, when the goddess Pafuto said that to me which I have just told you, I feel much proud and thankful for her mercy. I well knew that she know 40in her heart that I too had been near to breaking my promise when the taumualua swayed. But, still, she know what great soul O Le Tao am!—so she say no more. Indeed, it was at this moment that she did bend forward, softly touching me on the shoulder with her lips, and so did make me taboo (a sacred personage). When I did get back to the village and told the chiefs all that had happened, they, though much grieved to hear of my kinsman’s death, thought little more of the flight of the lovers, Lao-mio and K-ko-ko. They did at once prepare great festival to celebrate the glory that the goddess Pafuto had sent back such a great one as I to still dwell amongst them.”
When he had made an end, the old chief lifted his shoulders majestically, surveying me keenly the while with his dim eyes. It was then that I realized how those island chiefs and the ancestors of knights and kings of all lands had first gained their power, their possessions, and mighty insignia. I instinctively knew that not only in those wild isles were men gifted with an imagination that made them have firm belief in all that they dreamed of over their own greatness. I half envied O Le Tao’s gifts—gifts he had so well utilized. For as he sat there I saw that he was enthroned on the heights of magnificent imagination and lived in the light of respect from all men’s eyes.
Such was O Le Tao’s story of the goddess Pafuto, as told me while the Samoan night doves moaned musically in the tamanu trees.
During my stay the semi-heathen chief took me to many interesting places, showing me spots in the forests and along the shores where once some great tribal battle had been fought, or some cave wherein, on certain occasions, gods and goddesses met in midnight council. After that, O Le Tao took Cenerita, Tamariki, and myself 41to a night dance in the shore village near Monono. I am assured that Man cannot improve on Nature’s handiwork in building roomy halls for secret congregations of human beings who would indulge in heathenish capers that endeavour to express the inherent impulses of mankind. The gnarled pillars and flower-bespangled curtains of that wonderful forest opera-house, decorated by Nature’s artless, silent-moving hands, left nothing to be desired even by the most critical Maestro who might happen to perform on the wide, branch-roofed stage. The moon hanging in the vaulted roof of space over the trees, was sufficient for all purposes. The acoustic properties were perfect, the neighbouring hills echoing back each orchestral crescendo and each encore in obsequious, weird diminuendos. In the intervals of silence it would often seem that I heard some phantom-like accompaniment, and faint encores coming from the gods of shadowland, ere the barbaric orchestra of fifes, bone flutes, and drums once more recommenced its terrific ensemble. I was more than astonished to see O Le Tao suddenly throw his stiff legs out as he commenced to dance with an elderly chiefess of enormous girth. A hundred dusky Eyes seemed to tempt a hundred willing Adams as the sarong-like robes swished to tripping feet when the whole audience began to dance before the footlights of the stars! With the characteristic restraint of my race, I clenched my fist in a great mental, virtuous effort, but only to fail through my miserable fallibility, for, opening my closed eyelids, I stared with unblushing effrontery at the prima donna’s exquisitely woven concert-robe—the equivalent of the South Sea fig-leaf!
She still danced on, a fascinating being, with the golden light of some witchery in her eyes. Her clustered tresses were distinctly visible by the pale glimmerings 42of the moon that silvered the huge colonnades of the stage. And, all the while she danced, she sang an ear-haunting melody, swaying her limbs, a scarlet blossom nestling in the hollow of her bosom. “Aue! Aue! Talofa!” came from the lips of the tiers of gay warriors and great high chiefs who squatted in the royal boxes. When the handsome young chief, Tusita Le Salu—the head-dancer’s affianced—stepped down from his perch in the breadfruit tree on the stage, the hubbub was immense. He at once faced the dancer in a god-like style, and commenced to sing a duet with her. They danced and tumbled about in a marvellous way. And when she lifted the pretty blue sarong robe up to her knees, I distinctly heard the aged O Le Tao groan through some pathetic realization over his departed youth. Yet the most fastidious could have gazed with delight on that scene: the whole thing was fairy-like, the girl’s dancing creating an atmosphere that was full of poetic mystery and nothing more.
The festival’s orchestra helped in no small way to enhance the poetic beauty of the whole scene. The bamboo flutes and bone-clappers (made from the skeletons of dead chiefs) played a suitable accompaniment to the many “turns” that I witnessed. The special music that was performed on this occasion was something between a Marquesan Tapriata and a Samoan Siva dance. Though I cannot reproduce the moaning of the resounding seas on the shore below or the echoes in the mountains, I give here an impressionist piano-forte arrangement of the wild music I heard that night.
It is many years since O Le Tao departed for the legendary splendours of his beloved shadowland: that much I certainly know. For, on a voyage bound for the Malay Archipelago, not so long ago, my ship put into Samoa, and, standing in the small village cemetery 43near Safuta, I gazed in sorrow on a little wooden cross, and distinctly made out these words, written in English and Samoan:
“Here lieth the mortal remains of High Chief
O LE TAO
Died, aged 83, in the year of our Lord, 1903.”
“In my Father’s House are Many Mansions.”
Gazing on that grave, I realized the briefness of all living things, be they great or small. There was something pathetic too in so humble a tomb for one who had dwelt in such imaginative splendour. For the island nightingale still sang its passionate song in the breadfruit, as the same aged tamanu trees sighed in their glory by the sea. But, doubtless, the children of a new age still whisper his name in wonder, telling how he was favoured by the goddess Pafuto for the majesty and inborn virtue of his mighty heart.
When I left O Le Tao’s hospitable homestead it was with feelings of regret, and it was a long time before I returned to Samoa. Brief as was my stay with that old chief, it was of long enough duration to influence me; indeed, I might say that I became a semi-pagan too. Cenerita no longer pointed in vain to the moonlit mountains, attempting to show my blind eyes the shadow-gods that she declared were stalking across the moon-ridden hills—I too saw them! I became a veritable heathen. My personality became robed in the weird atmosphere of pagan dreams. Civilization fell from me like an immaculate tall hat knocked off one’s head with a brick. The stern, dull, drab colour of the world changed for me. The bright-winged katafa, the brown-robed O Le mao bird, and bronzed-winged Samoan doves became warm-throated goddesses sitting in the breadfruit 44trees over our heads, their eyes bright with discovery as I played heathenish melodies and Cenerita sang. I was happy enough, for I lived in a small native house all alone; it had two rooms and was allotted me by the kindness of O Le Tao. That hut was my tiny grand ancestral hall. Just beyond my threshold waved the plumes of my coat-of-arms—a coco-nut tree crowned with a tawny bunch of fruit. My clock, far away over the wide waters of my blue demesne, chimed each sunset on the wave! Sometimes, when I played my violin far into the night, I saw ghostly shadows moving under my lovely garden trees; then I knew that I had awakened the wild people of another world, who came to listen with delight to the Tusitala of the “magic-stick” from the lands beyond the setting suns. Sometimes I would invite Tamariki, Cenerita, and a few more sweet-minded Samoan children to spend the evening with me. They would sing part-songs, melodies of which none knew the composer, wonderful strains that had been mysteriously blown into some old Samoan musician’s soul from the moonlit ocean caves. Crude as some of those songs were, I heard the true note. Metaphorically speaking, I threw all my music studies away. Away with such rubbish! No western music ever thrilled me as I was thrilled by the haunting poetry of wild sweet sounds such as I heard on those Samoan nights. It often seemed unbelievable, dream-like, when I sat on a fibre mat before the limelight of the stars and whiffed the odours of wild flowers and listened to the perfect strains of that great University of Samoan elemental musical art. Often when I heard the final chant of some musical genius I would arise and cheer loudly, as the rough, tattooed audience beat their drums and whistled their encores. Sometimes a sun-varnished maid would stand before the forest audience and sing some masterpiece 46that expressed all the impassioned melody of music’s far-away, forgotten childhood. I would hear the seawinds sigh their long-drawn accompaniment across the lovely wild-stringed harp of forest trees; a cloud would pass away from the moon and so lift a great silver curtain of ghostly light from the leafy, gnarled colonnades. And then the dusky, star-eyed prima donna of the forest would bow with a grace that was seemingly quite out of place as one listened to the wild hubbub of the fierce-eyed, tawny men who waved their arms as they cheered from the orchestral stalls of jungle, bush, and fern. Such sights, such experiences might well turn the brain of a much more sober head than I claim to possess.

I’d sooner be a pagan in this hut,
Wherein the singing spheres creep thro’ my door,
And dance and dance upon my bedroom floor,
As ’tween the sheets I watch with eyes unshut,
And on my bed-rail, wailing o’er the din,
A gnat plays on its tiny violin!
I’m wrapt in some fine madness of a sense
That robes me with the magic of those things
That lend imagination lyric-wings,
Imparadising all my dreams intense.
’Twill fade away, I know, and once again
I shall half-weep—to find I am quite sane!
Alas! I’ve worshipped stricken things called “Men”;
I’ve travelled down their groves and found their light
Hid magic splendours of the glorious night
Of things unseen. And now?—clear to my ken,
The sad old trees are whispering on the wind
The harmonies that maestros seek to find!
Last night those old trees said: “Oh, brother, stay!
That song you played just now we seem to know,
We heard it sung a million years ago!”
47I said “It’s mine!” They sighed. I passed away;
And even the flowers along the lonely track
Said: “Poor, brief thing with feet and weary back.”
’Twas then the River, old and full of tears,
Stopped by the hills and called, inquired of me—
“Comrade, is this the right way to the sea?”
I kissed its breast, I soothed its wandering fears
As on we tramped; then, at the close of day,
It said “Good-bye, old friend,” and crept away.
And now?—a beauteous melody I hear,
As constellations tumbling from the skies,
Are dancing on the floor before my eyes;
Nor do I dream at all, for, sitting near,
A gnat plays perfectly the sweeping strain
That Man’s ambitious mind strives for—in vain!
I could cry out in spite to think for years
I’ve sought applause, played to sad men and kings,
To find, at last, the universe, of all things,
Lo, hires a gnat to make the starry spheres
Trip to and fro, go gaily o’er and o’er
In perfect time across my bedroom floor!
And still they dance and dance, and still the trees
Sigh grand adagios as that maestro
Sits on my bed-rail sweeping from its bow
The music of the grand infinite seas,
Till ’neath the sheets I hide my head for shame
To think, alas, a gnat achieves such fame!
After leaving O Le Tao I came across a kind of South Sea Mozart. He was a young Samoan of about fourteen years. He possessed a cheap German fiddle, and on its frayed strings extemporized melodies of the weirdest beauty.
“What’s that song, Pango-Pango?” said I.
He shook his curly head and said, “Me knower not, nice songer camer me out of win’ (wind) of the forest, from moan of sea-cave and stars of big sky-land.”
48Saying that, he once more placed his fiddle (’cello style) between his knees, and performed a melody that might well have haunted the brain of a Brahms, a Schubert, or an Elgar. He was a handsome little fellow, with beautiful bird-like eyes. He was absolutely unconscious of the gift he possessed. He seemed, to me, the sun-varnished, perfect-limbed personification of Music itself, Music’s youth, light-winged, passionate, beautiful with elemental sweetness, the ecstasy of melancholy and inartistic carelessness. He played to his shadow in the lagoons. There was a fascinating witchery in all his ways. Yet I doubt whether such a soul as Pango’s could ever develop into that stage of music which men call “Classic.” His genius was the genius of youth, and could never grow old, and, rusting, develop into the austere ossification of the fashionable musical cranium, that awful unvibrant curvature of the musical spine that seems the melody of beauteous youth. Pango was as natural in his art as are the flowers and birds on the hillside. He could never have attained that decrepitude of imagination that invests itself in a robe of artistries, making sad old men and women imagine they hear the beautiful by having their unresponsive spines forcibly shaken by the thunderous crash, the multitudinous rumble and groan of artificial musical art. Ah, memory of Pango! Though a true musician, he would have been nowhere as a music-hall composer. Nor could he place suggestive words to music. He lacked British spiciness, too. But I vow that he did put the stars and forest streams to music as he sat out on the promontory’s edge by moonlight, looking like some young Grecian god as he hummed and played a strain that sounded like infinity in pain. To my great regret I lost sight of Pango-Pango for quite a year after that. The fact is, I left Samoa. How I left, and of the wonders of the sea, I will tell in the next chapter.