Raeltoa and I went to the top of Vaea Mountain once; when you are half-way up you can look right across Apia and see the beautiful bay and farther across the sea. The jungle at some parts was so thick that we had to cut our way through it. I found some pretty tropical bird-nests, and as we climbed up the frigate birds flew over our heads. We eventually got to the top of the seaward side, right up against the sky. It was very silent and beautiful, almost noiseless, excepting for a bird singing now and again in the big-leafed dark green scrub that grew thickly just below. I did not dream as I stood up there that I was standing on the spot which was to be the silent and beautiful tomb of the man who was living miles away down by the river that ran seaward, for that is where R.L.S. lived in his secluded home, “Vailima.” I am sure that no poet who ever lived has found such a grand silent spot for his long rest as R.L.S. found on the top of that mountain that stands for ever staring seaward. I often look up at the moon on stormy nights under other skies, and fancy I see it shining over Vailima Mountain, dropping its silver tide over that lonely tomb, and on the jungle and forest trees of the slopes all around, and over the highways of the sea where now thunder the mail steamers bound for South America.
It was about that time that I made the acquaintance of a gentleman named Joyce, who had been a chemist in Sydney. He was a remarkable-looking old fellow and was touring for his health. He had small grey quick eyes, and a monstrous beard, and having no hair on his head he had managed in a most clever way to lift his heavy grey side whiskers up over his eyes and on to his bald head, so that when his hat was on the whiskers protruded and looked as though they were genuine locks in large quantity under his hat.
Coconut Palms and Pasture Land
XX
Mr Joyce and Mythologies—Numea and the Convicts—I play Violin to Native King and get a Knighthood!!—I lead a Native Orchestra of Barbarian Instruments
Joyce took a great fancy to me and I to him, and I was eventually engaged as his travelling secretary. He was very fond of music and would get me to play his favourite melodies, and as I entertained him he would sit by his bungalow with his hands on his knees, and often would give me a gracious smile as he gazed through his big-rimmed spectacles. He took a passage on the schooner Barcoo, bound for Rarotonga, and I went with him. We had some terrible weather on the voyage and poor old Joyce was sea-sick the whole time, and as we skimmed along with all sails set heaving to a broadside swell he looked the picture of woe as he spewed in the schooner’s scuppers. In his sorrow he forgot his hat, and his whiskers pulled up and tied in a knot on top of his head doing duty as hair gave him a woeful look and I felt very tenderly for him; for he could not help being old and bald—could he?
Rarotonga was a lovely Island. As they loosed the anchor ready to drop I gazed shoreward and saw the grand mountainous country brilliant under the tropical sun and covered with vegetation. Close to the shore stood the coco-palms, and by the sheds on the beach under the shelter of the palms stood the natives, fine-looking men and women they were, some half-dressed and some only in their lava-lavas. As soon as we dropped the anchor they swarmed round the schooner in their catamarans, bringing us corals and other curios of the South Seas. That night we enjoyed ourselves ashore, and were specially entertained by the King and Queen. They were both dressed in old dressing-gowns, and as they sat on the throne I played them a selection on the violin and the King knighted me on the spot.
Joyce was delighted with all that he saw and kept saying that his health was improving rapidly, and to tell the truth he got badly smitten with love over a Rarotongan girl, and under very suspicious circumstances disappeared for twenty-four hours. Next day he took me inland and up in the hills he visited the natives in their primeval homes. There were a lot of missionaries about and they all looked happy and prosperous. Joyce was deeply interested in the mythologies and genealogies of the Island races, and would go inland for miles so as to investigate native manners and characteristics. I remember well how he would see a fine specimen of the Polynesian fair sex walk out from her forest home, and rush up to her, take his rule from his waistcoat pocket, start to measure her from head to foot, open her mouth wide and examine her teeth, all the time taking notes down in his pocket-book, while the astounded native stood like a machine, obedient as a statue, knowing that a good tip would end the examination. “Of decided Maori origin,” he would mutter to himself as he lifted the limbs up and examined the soles of the patient’s feet.