“Witness,—Jonathan Briggs, late Cook of S.S. ‘Albatross,’ who hereby claims 25 per cent. on all profits accruing from the aforesaid wedding.”
So ran the wording of all that may be published here of John Smith’s marriage lines. My accumulated experiences of such hearties as John Smith and Jonathan Briggs, Esq., gave me an idea as to the fine old times those two noble papalagis had in their sojourn on those isles to the southward during their brief kingship. But no hint of all I imagined was visible on my countenance when I handed the tattered document back to the smiling ex-queen. At this moment a hideous, aged Chinaman poked his face in the palace doorway and surveyed me with surprised, yellowish, vicious eyes. I wondered who he was, what relationship existed between him and the Queen, that he could so impertinently thrust his ugly physiognomy into the doorway like that. The next moment he had gone, and I saw him no more, though I heard him gabbling as he drove off the flocks of children who persistently crowded by the palace door, waiting till I should come out again. And still the Queen spoke on. Palao patiently translated her tales of departed lovers for my inquisitive ears. Seeing my curiosity, her eyes gleamed with delight, her two remaining frontal teeth, fitting fork-like into the gaps between the two teeth of the lower jaw, gave a sardonic look to her face as she sat there. She wore a peculiar garb too: the remnant of some old European skirt swathed her frame, but was cut very short, ending just above the knees. On her head was an old hat that had once been a fashionable Parisian bonnet. Possibly this hat had been presented to her by one of the French officials.
As I boldly surveyed her limbs she drew one tawny finger along the faded blue curves and stripes of tattoo. From all that she vigorously hinted, those tattoo marks were historic representations that denoted the insignia and coats-of-arms of the tribes wherein she had married. “What may that mean, Palao?” I said, as I glanced curiously at her anatomy, and observed impressionistic figures of muscular men, some standing in a gladiatorial attitude, spear in hand and face uplifted. And then, listening carefully to all that Palao had to say, I made out that they were a few of the ex-queen’s old lovers—men who had won her love in years gone by and died in some great tribal battle that had been led by some mighty chief who also yearned for her impassioned embrace! As my faithful Palao and Sango translated these things to me (and more than once cast their eyes in shame to the palace floor), it seemed like a dream that I should be standing in that coral-built place listening to the memories that remained in that old woman’s brain. A great deal that she said sounded to my ears “not quite the thing.” But I am not one who is too squeamish or critical over the moral codes that exist outside the dominions of my own land. As she gazed up into my face, and her aged lips quivered in the emotion she felt over her wild reminiscences, I took the extended, shrivelled hand, and, with some emotional idea of all that she once had been, gallantly kissed it! After that, her conversation suddenly changed to a subtle delivery of phrases in pigeon English. I slowly gathered that she was telling me of wondrous presentations she had received from her past lovers, and how they had each in turn recognized the great honour conferred upon them by her acceptance of their manifold gifts. Before I had gathered the true import of what she was driving at, she was beseeching me to hand over my violin to her. I remained obdurate. What on earth she wanted my instrument for, Heaven knows. Possibly she was childish, and so, like a child, would have it as a toy.
She invited me to go out into the palace grounds. She led the way. Her garden was cultivated. Pineapples, tomatoes, taro, oranges, yams, and many tropical fruits grew in abundance around me. By the shade of the buttressed banyans, at the far end of the cleared space, stood a huge wooden idol. It was a hideous thing: one large tooth protruded from its wide, slit, crocodile-like mouth, where in and out crawled fat insects with tortoise-shell-hued wings (I think they were big ants). Though the Queen wore a Catholic medallion on her bosom, and had told me that “She belonger Popey God, and was all-e-samee great Cliston womans,” I distinctly saw her aged form give a bow of heathenish reverence as we both stood in front of that monstrous heathen deity! It stood nearly seven feet high, and standing there as some representation of infinity, the hopelessness of creeds and all the ills and mockery of human existence, it was a magnificent bit of perfection. When we returned into the small palace, it was dusk. “Salaba!” called Vakamoa in a wheezy voice. In a moment I heard the shuffling of running feet, and then a beautiful Marquesan maid, robed in tappa-cloth, flowers, and threaded shells, appeared before me. She gazed on me with a quizzical lustrous gleam in her eyes. This maid interested me because of her European-like features. I saw her place her fingers into the folds of her thick tresses to see that the hibiscus blossoms were still tastefully arranged, in much the same way as a vanity-stricken English maid might do. In a few moments this serving-maid, for such she was, lit up all the tiny hanging coco-nut-oil lamps in the apartment, then she went away and left Vakamoa and myself alone.
Squatting on the mats, I did as she bade me, and commenced to play my violin. She seemed very pleased with the English melodies that I performed, and once or twice mumbled as I played.
“You liker see me dance?” she said. Then she hummed a little himine and asked me to play it. Had I not seen that old woman career round that low-roofed chamber as she danced some old barbarian rhythm, I would never have believed it possible. So astonished was I, that I forgot my part of the business and stopped playing. “Alo! Alo!” (Go on! Go on!) she said, almost fiercely. In a moment I placed my instrument to my chin, and once more fired away. The hanging lamps along the roof-beams swayed to and fro as her skirt swished violently, and her stiff legs made such movements that it is impossible to describe them. “If this is how she goes on in the dry leaf what did she do in the green?” was my reflection, as her bony legs went up with a bound, and then right over my head! I’ve no wish to exaggerate in the description of it all; only those who have seen the fetish frenzy of an aged barbarian woman under the influence of whisky (for so I concluded she must be) will know what I saw that night! I had no alternative but to go through with it. As she leapt over me her toes caught in my hair and withdrew some by the roots! But I did not budge an inch; I simply played for dear life, as it were. I knew that she was a heathen, that she was old and childish and not responsible for her actions. I also recalled many things that O Le Langi had told me about heathen women’s mad ways when they grow old and realize the loss of their beauty. “She can’t go on much longer,” I thought, as she bounded round the room, lifting her scraggy arms and chanting in a weird manner. True enough, she slowed down after the fiftieth round, and then sat panting beside me. After that exhibition, I did my best to keep on the right side of her. I handed her a piece of tobacco plug that I, fortunately, had in my pocket. And, though it was my last piece of tobacco, I felt well repaid for its loss by the evident pleasure the gift gave her. She immediately twisted a lump off and placed it in her large corn-cob pipe, then struck a match on the boniest portion of her anatomy, and started to puff vigorously at my gift.
After that I withdrew as hastily as possible from her chamber. Palao and Sango re-entered and prostrated themselves at her feet. This pleased her immensely. Going down the mossy pathway that led to the stockade gate, I turned my head and waved two or three farewell salutations. The last I saw of her was as she stood by her door, her forked teeth close together as she grinned with pleasure at thinking I should return on the morrow! But I did not return again. And I may say here, that I have always felt more at ease in the presence of old native men than in the presence of native women, be they waiting-women or ex-queens.
Before I left the immediate precincts of that bungalow, which Vakamoa styled her “palace,” I strolled into the tiny coral-fenced clearing by the plateau of the mountain slopes. It was the lonely place where the tribe buried their dead. I gazed for a little time on the strange tomb-stones, and tried to make out the inscriptions that apparently commemorated the past virtues of kings and chiefs who had passed into shadowland. Notwithstanding the feathery palms and the glimpse of the far-away, moonlit, tumbling seas, it was a forlorn place. And now, doubtlessly, that discarded Queen Vakamoa has long since dissolved, with all her pride of past queenship, into a little dust, and a lump of memorial coral tells where she lies in that tiny, barbarian necropolis.
Next day I accepted the invitation of Palao to stop in his father’s bungalow near the shore. I had had enough adventure for the time being, and so was extremely pleased to romp with the native children and listen to their wonderful fairy-tales. For be it noted that those children had their Hans Andersens and Grimms, just as we have. I’ll tell one of the stories in the next chapter.