One may wonder how O Le Langi obtained possession of the magic Crown jewels of the old Samoan dynasty; but he was a true scribe and, possibly, knew the ropes. Even in my time, kings and queens were not too severe in Court etiquette. Here I will simply say that, through possessing a bottle of the best Holland gin, I have received the highest Court honours from South Sea Royalty. Indeed, I was once offered a princess’s hand in marriage, as well as being presented with the “freedom of the pagan city,” because the half-blind old king (in the Paumotou group) had been told by his head chief that I had a flask of the best Jamaica rum in my coat pocket. I seldom visited South Sea Royalty without a bottle of gin on my person.
Langi never tired of expatiating on the beauty of the Samoan and Marquesan maidens of his youth. He would lift his chin to the sky, and curse the day when the maids were forced by the missionaries to wear the Europeans’ cast-off clothing.
“Ugh! O Papalagi of the spirit-finger, we no do cover the flowers with stink-cloth and so hide the loveliness of their leaves; then why, I say, should new-time fool-men cover nicer girls, women, and mans down to feets?”
So raved O Le Langi, as I sympathetically muttered: “True! true, O mighty Langi!”
But it must be admitted that the long pink and blue-striped night-gown-like attire of the maids suited them admirably. It was a pretty sight to see a flock of native girls running along the shore sands, delighting in the windy dishevelment, as they stooped and clutched the gowns that were lifted from their ankles as the warm, seductive winds blew in. And it must be confessed that many maids who delighted in brown stockings would sit out on the shore reefs purposely to court the flirtatious of the winds as the handsome native youths passed by.
Though I have recorded the aforesaid incidents, they appear trivial enough when I think of the wonders of pagan life and the poetic mystery of a South Sea forest that flashes on the inward eye. I myself have more than once completely lost my civilized individuality and become part of the South Sea forest scene. I remember that O Le Langi once took me away to a secret witch-hut in the forest near Mootua. Sunset had already thrown the silent wooded depths into deep shadow when Langi, who was creeping along just ahead of me, heard a suspicious noise, and suddenly stood perfectly still: his tattooed wrinkled form had become a part of the forest! his arms instinctively bent, twisted at the elbows, represented two short, broken branch stumps. Lo! he was no longer O Le Langi, but was a gnarled spotted tree-trunk with blinkless eyes and carved to resemble man, apparently lifeless, as he stood with ears alert among the aged banyan stems! Well, just as Langi’s primitive instincts came to his assistance and made him unrecognizable, I too have become a part of the forest. I do not say that I have turned into a human tree-stump; but I have stood alone in the silent depths and felt my inner life become one with the old trees around me. It was as though my conscious life was splashed in spiritual colours over the leaves. I felt some old sense exude from my being, like warm blood, and dye the forest depth with the sunset’s golden glory and poetic mystery that lay hushed on the branched luxuriant tropical growth about me.
Of O Le Langi’s musical ability I can say but little. It would require a genius to describe the universal music of his gifts. He was a true primitive literary man and, therefore, like most true literary men, was a musician in the deeper meaning of that word. Langi could hear the grandeur of Creation’s harmony and that still, small voice of humanity that cannot possibly express itself by fiddling on catgut or blowing on brass. I can only say that Langi wrote a great symphony that my memory has vainly striven to play in these after years. The memory of his face and deep-set, poetic eyes seems to me as of some weird, conscious embodiment of all the sublimity of the rugged mountains and sunlit palms, the unheard harmonies of the moon-ridden seas and lagoons from Samoa to the Solomons, and again from Fiji to Tahiti and the far-off Poutomous. Those old forests are, to me, O Le Langi’s now dead whitening bones, where through the warm sea-winds whistle wonderful legends that his tongue once uttered forth.
It was years after that I went to Apia again and stood by his grave. It is situated by Safata village. I noticed that they had placed a wooden cross over the spot, and on it was written:
“Here lies O Le Langi.
Died Feb. 14, 1908.”