As some may think I have overestimated the comeliness and mentality of the majority of the old-time Samoans, I would like to give other opinions than my own on the subject before finishing this chapter. First of all, I would mention that all observant, able authorities who have travelled, and written about the South Seas, have remarked upon the fine physique and general attractiveness of the Polynesian races. In my profession, and I was bandmaster of the king’s bodyguard band in Hawaii, in Tahiti, and again in Mexico, etc., I had many opportunities of hearing the opinions of the various representatives of the Missionary Societies, and they were very often men of refined tastes, and so competent to judge. These men all seemed to share my opinion with respect to the manliness and refinement of the Samoans. Of course, a difference of opinion is bound to exist, for, to be sure, there is a class of men who, by an inherent obliquity of mental vision, see all the coloured races as something semi-bestial and unworthy of a white man’s interest and sympathy.
I once had the pleasure of arriving in Apia with Monsieur Bassaire, a well-known French artist. I vividly recall his astonishment and admiration when he first saw the Samoans who came on deck to welcome us when we arrived off Mulinuu. Nor was Bassaire’s surprise to be wondered at, for the handsome, sun-bronzed, herculean figures of the Samoan men were shown off to tremendous advantage as they stood on deck amongst the slop-shouldered, thick-necked German crew. Bassaire, who had travelled in New Guinea in 1879 with James Chalmers, the God-fearing, adventurous missionary,[[7]] was touring the world, and was taking sketches of the various races of mankind. I know that he was pleased with his artistic work in Samoa. Bassaire was introduced to Robert Louis Stevenson, and it was whilst they were in each other’s company that I heard R. L. S. comment on the clear complexions of the Samoans. We were in the photographer’s studio in Apia, and Stevenson was examining some of the photographs. The photographer told us that, though hundreds of native girls and youths presented themselves at his studio in hopes that they would make photographs of commercial value for book illustrations and for selling to tourists, he was invariably able to choose only two, or three at most, who possessed the thick lips and sensual features that coincided with the stock European idea of the South Sea type. Indeed, when Stevenson glanced through the albums, he actually mistook some of the photographs of the Samoans, which were toned in a light shade, for Europeans. R. L. S. remarked that he considered that in some ways the Samoans were amongst the handsomest races to be found in the world. However, they become slightly broad in the nose as they get older and the lips become sensual-looking; the skin, which in youth is of a golden hue, deepens to a tawny hue with age, the complexion becoming swarthy, something akin to that of the Spanish, Italian, Southern French, and the darker types of British. Of course, these remarks refer to the true-blooded types of over twenty years ago. Through intermarriage with Mongolians, Negroes, Malays, Papuans, and low-caste British, the herculean Samoan is becoming a very rare individual indeed. The statue-like figure is becoming bent and dwarfed, the full, clear eyes crafty-looking. I know that the surviving children of the old race, who now roam those palm-clad slopes, struck me, on a later day, as a kind of human rainbow, some aftermath that sadly reflected the tropic suns, the light and laughter of other brighter days. For now one meets all kinds of complexion—yellowish, brownish, white-blotched, mauve, greenish, tawny, and black, and eyes as multitudinous in colour as their own tropic flowers. At times it is hard to tell the half-caste from the pure-blooded white man or woman.
[7]. The author met James Chalmers in Apia and again at Port Moresby, New Guinea. Chalmers was a splendid type of the earnest missionary—manly, sincere, and brave, and a true Bohemian. He was murdered by New Guinea cannibals a few years ago.
The last remark recalls to my mind a little incident that it may not be out of place to mention here. Robert Louis Stevenson heard that a white woman was residing near Matautu, Savaii Isle. He at once made up his mind to go and see this lady—a natural enough wish in those remote isles, “where white men will tramp miles to catch a glimpse of a white woman.” Well, R. L. S. hired a boat from a half-caste who was a store-keeper, and with whom I was staying at that time. And so it happened that I and the mate of a schooner had the pleasure of accompanying R. L. S. in the boat. After a long, very wearying row from Manono, for it was a terrifically hot day, we arrived off the coast of Savaii. Even then we had to go ashore and tramp over two miles before we could reach the bungalow where the white lady resided. When we did arrive, Stevenson was nearly “dead-beat,” and struck me as irritated and fatigued. It was with much relief that the three of us at length passed under the shade of the mango-trees that sheltered the approach to the bungalow.
“Where’s the white lady?” said Stevenson, speaking in rather a sharp manner to a tawny-looking female who wore a small dark moustache and happened to be looking out of the bungalow’s doorway. To our astonishment the woman screwed her mouth up and shrieked out:
“What white lady?—damn yer eyes!”
Stevenson’s consternation and my own can be better imagined than described, when I say that the sun-tanned, brown-skinned, vulgar-looking woman who addressed us was the beautiful white lady herself! And, if I may say so, she was a good specimen of the white lady to be found in the South Seas in those days.
“’ave a beer, old party?” she said to R. L. S., who had astutely apologized and cursed the hot sunlight that, shining in his eyes, had made him so colour-blind.
Stevenson’s tact, after that grievous mistake, had a magical effect on the manners of our countrywoman. She fastened a flower on R. L. S.’s coat.