Robert Louis Stevenson seemed very temperate; he smoked cigarettes and drank the pure juice of limes, holding them over a glass he squeezed them in his hand till the glass was nearly full, added whisky and drank at a gulp, throwing the skins of the limes over the heads of his friends, out of the open window, only just missing them, and seemed greatly amused as they dodged. He treated the native girls and boys who stood around with great kindness, speaking to them as though they were little children. I think he spoke to them in the native language. They seemed to know him; after the supper was over, I noticed their good behaviour and respectfulness, as they crossed their brown hands, closed their eyes and repeated word for word after R.L.S., as he bowed his head and said grace.
South Sea Lagoon
“Well, Middleton,” he said, as our host sat down to an old American organ and started playing softly, his feet going up and down ten revolutions a second, as he pedalled the leaky bellows, “which do you like the best, the Old Country or the South Seas?”
“Well, for climate and novelty, I like this place, but I often have a longing for the homeland.”
“So do I. We all love our native land the best at heart,” he said, and I could see by his expression that his dreams were often overseas, for he lapsed into silence, threw the cigarette away that he had only just lit, and placed another one in his mouth, and walked up and down, as was his habit at times when in conversation with anyone.
I remember that he asked me if I was going back to England again, also if I liked sea life, and when I told him of some of my bush experiences he seemed deeply interested, and asked me a good deal about the Australian blacks. He was greatly interested in their habits, and seemed to know a lot about their history and wandering instincts, and remarked upon the great difference between the intellects of the blacks and the Islanders of the South Seas, as he sat there gazing with his keen inquiring eyes, fingering his chin as the cool wind drifted through the open window. I can still vividly remember the delight in his face as he watched the native servants. I played the violin, accompanied by our host on the organ, who played by ear, and made up for his indifferent accompaniment by singing at intervals, as I did my best to entertain. R.L.S. joined in by humming. We were suddenly disturbed by a jabbering noise outside, and then the door opened and a native woman, with barely anything on except the ridi, poked her head and body half in the room and said something to our host the American, in the Samoan language. It appeared that he was a medical man, and had been attending her child who was suffering through influenza, which had become suddenly worse, so she and a gathering of friends had rushed hurriedly to our host for help. R.L.S. and I accompanied him, as he quickly shut down the organ lid, and off we all went out into the night.
Across the forest track we hurried. Like big children, Samoan mothers, men, and their naked little ones, went running along the moonlit track in front of us, the wailing mother and father of the sick child pattering beside us, looking with relieved eyes, because we were white men, thinking that our different skin made us potent and that all would be well when the doctor reached their child. We had to walk almost half-a-mile, and then they all turned off the forest track to the left, and under the palms, to where stood their large hut homes; bending down we all entered the sick-room. It was a sweet little mite, emaciated through chest trouble. Its tiny bones seemed to be all out of place, protruding under its soft velvety brown skin, as it gazed wistfully up with small bright fevered eyes, as we all leaned over its small mat bed.
The American tenderly picked her up, gave her physic, and did all that was best for the infant, then whispered some hopeless opinion to R.L.S., who tenderly bent over the little patient, as concerned as though it were his own child, as he chuckled with his lips, and touched it softly on the chin with his finger playfully, till it actually looked up at him and gave a wan smile. The parents fell on their knees delighted, and started rapidly to say the Lord’s Prayer together as others shouted “Folofa-Mio,” which meant “better to-morrow.” It was a weird sad sight, and when we passed out under the coco-palms into the brilliantly lit moonlit space I noticed Stevenson and the doctor were very quiet, for we felt pretty sadly as our medical friend had very dubious hopes as to its recovery. A Samoan quack medicine man had been practising on the sick mite, and the disease, through improper treatment, had got the upper hand. Stevenson went off soon after we reached the house again, and though it was very late, I would not accept the invitation to stay the night, and went back to my lodging by the shore side, near Apia Town, a little shanty place of a young trader, who had let me share his home. When I arrived back I felt a bit depressed, but my friend cheered me up. He was a lively fellow, crammed full up with reminiscences, having been for some years trading among the Islanders, and he would tell me in vivid language about his experiences in the Fijian group. He had known and lived with the son of Thakambau,[[3]] the last of the great Cannibal Kings, who had then been dead some two or three years or more, and terrible were the deeds of that old king before he became Christianised[[4]] and handed over the Fiji Isles to the British Government. I had personally met old men chiefs whose sisters had been roasted in the “Bokai Ovens” at the grand cannibal festivities of their young days.
[3]. Thakambau went on a visit to N.S.W. and brought measles back to Fiji, which carried of a quarter of the population.