I gazed silently as he spoke and wondered much, for I knew that the foundation of civilisation, and all that is called best, is built on man’s attempt to ward off impending disaster. As I thought I wondered how much wisdom lay in his natural vanity, for the warriors of old had died out and the new race looked cute, flabby, and quite devoid of energy. Outside old men and youths smacked their lips and grunted as they nibbled coco-nuts and chewed tobacco; the grandees drank new rum, and the old women and maids of fashion whispered scandal and scratched their mop-heads delicately with one outstretched finger.
Brilliantly the moon shone through the forest trees as I strolled from scene to scene of that South Sea village. By tiny camp fires sat the elder members of the various households; the little children were fast asleep by them on small mats. Some gazed into the fire ash, spat and chewed, others chatted, and on the hill-side sat several groups singing softly so as not to awaken the sleepers. They were strange, weird melodies that I listened to; and as I stood alone in the shadows I knew that I heard in those primeval wails of joy and sorrow the youthful voice of music and poetry as it was ere it attained the artificial development expressed in Europe, tricked out and dressed in all the artistries to suit applauding conventionality. Old women wailed songs that told of dead children, dead husbands or lovers, and all the many griefs that flesh is heir to. I think the sad old missionary with whom I had stayed had awakened in me a note of deeper thought than was usual in my reflection. On my memory are still vividly engraved the scenes of that night; the moonlight over the trees, the stars and the squatting groups of the village natives are all still mine, and the atmosphere is as clear as, yet somewhat sadder than, of yore, like a melody heard again, after many years, in another country. I seemed to know that the wild life and scenery round me was similar to the embryo life of modern civilisation; and there was something real and innocent in that Fijian Arabian night that made the modern world of life look intensely vapid. I still see the women of Fijian fashion, with their legs outstretched before the dying fires, each attired in some sailor’s cast-off undershirt or a portion of a white woman’s garment. Some strutted under the palms and gazed almost disdainfully upon maidens and mothers who only wore the native grass-weaved sulu. I knew that I gazed upon the first leaders of Fijian fashionable society, society that has reached the zenith of vanity in Europe. I saw budding knighthoods fanning flies and mosquitoes from the high chief’s oily body. His eyelids blinked approval as the aspirants to royal favour lifted his fat feet, which rested on a little mat, and blew their cooling breath on them.
Poor relations carried refuse in large stone bowls to the village cesspool. Pet mongrel dogs snapped at the hovering ring of flies and sniffed at the stench as they passed it, whilst the rich relations lolled under the sunlit tropic palms. At the far end of the village, on a stump, stood the fanatic, shouting in Fijian, “Taho-ai-Oa,” and shrieking and stamping to entice the straggling villagers to come to his special mission class. Swarthy Solomon Islanders and Indians with brilliant dark eyes gazed at the maids. Under the palms sat the full-lipped youth, Lota-Mio; oblivious of all around him, he toiled on with his rusty nail, carving on a sea-shell the outlines of a maiden’s face; the work revealed wonderful talent. Maidens and youths embraced and gazed with shining eyes at each other as the shaggy-headed Fijian poet pointed to the evening star imaged in the still lagoon, for it shone in the fairyland of still waters. They peered over the water’s brink and wondered to see their dark faces under the imaged trees that were upside down; then the branches stirred as the mirrored winds blew in the water and their imaged faces broke up and disappeared!
I got the old chief to see me safely on the road home; for though I trusted the Fijians, I did not like the look of the imported Indians, who crept about the village selling sham jewellery and tempting the maids with trifles and trinkets. They were stealthy-looking men, dark and masterful in appearance. Their creeds were slowly overthrowing Christianity, for the natives were weak, and Mohammedanism was more in harmony with their secret cravings and requirements. Also the colour of the turbaned teachers matched their own skins. White men can hardly blame the childish Fijians for embracing Mohammedanism as readily as they turned to Christianity, for in London town the Islamic creed is being preached and is finding numerous adherents, gathered from the so-called high-class Christians, who gain greater comfort from Mahomet than from the sorrow of Calvary.
CHAPTER XXIV
Back at the Charity Organization—Mabau—A Fugitive Bank Manager arrives—How the Organization secured Funds—English Refugees—Departure—Native Burial—A New Sect—With Bones again—Another Fugitive and his Experiences—Galloway’s Tall Hat—The Death of Mabau—The Haunted Wreck
I RETURNED once more to the Organization rooms, so tired that I fell asleep without delay, and not until next morning was I introduced to several members whom I had not seen before. My toothless friend was mumbling away to an old “shellback,” who in turn was striving to outdo his comrade’s experiences on land and sea. “Glad to see yer,” said the old salt, as Bones introduced me. I returned the compliment and shook his extended hand warmly. He was the life of the place, and not pleasant life either, for he had an old cornet, and in the middle of the night would lift his face to the low roof and blow some wretched tune on it over and over again. One night there was a fight, for as he played and sang and rolled his eyes to the ceiling a boot struck him behind the ear; one of the members had lost his temper and thrown it. The incident caused a fearful hubbub, the cornet got smashed to bits and one or two of the bunks broken down. Bones came in, pointed a revolver at the fighters and threatened to shoot, and I believe he would have done so if they had not quieted down. They were a rough crew, and I made up my mind to get away from the place at the first opportunity. Many strange things I heard, some of which I will tell you.
Next day as I sat alone reflecting in the Organization’s gloomy room I heard Mabau just outside wailing a native chant of love-sickness. She had peeled the “spuds” and finished the domestic duties, for which Bones gave her ample wages.
“What did the kind white missionary say, Mabau?” I whispered softly to her, as Bones and two scrubby-faced villains puffed their pipes and shuffled a pack of cards on the bench.