“Skipper gone violin mad. He’s got a good ear, but his technique and time are rotten. I’m on sick list. Skipper kept me up all night. Though I hate whisky, I swallowed several glasses through his infernal persuasion. I can see now that it was deliberate on his part. He says that I played the violin like a heathen god. I know that I did something, because the violin’s strings were all broken this morning.
“I’ve got some dim recollection of pressing Waylao’s hand when the skipper wasn’t looking, recall some faint idea that I thought she was a glorious Madonna, and that I whispered impassioned things into her ears. I think I danced too. The world seemed to have suddenly righted itself, everything seemed beautiful and rosy. Death and God walked mercifully together. I even got over-familiar with the skipper—smacked him on the back and told him he’d be a good violinist in about a thousand years’ time. No more whisky for me, thank you.
“Monday.—Passed Curacoa reef this afternoon. Samoan Isles are away to the north. Been thinking of dear old Grimes; wish he was with me.
“Waylao cried for two hours to-day. I did my level best to cheer her up. She had been telling me a lot about her childhood. I find that she is really a most intelligent girl, but rather given to following her impulses instead of calm reason. Like me in that respect.
“I feel sometimes that I’m half in love with Waylao. She’s romantic; has got a beautiful golden gleam in the pupils of her eyes. I can easily see how that devil of a man got her into trouble. She’s been talking a lot about Eastern men, Indians, etc. Got my suspicions about things. I know what the world is: read about life in the newspapers, London, England. Wicked, soulless old bounders some men are.
“I dreamed about Pauline last night. She came to me as I was playing the violin by the old grog shanty. I threw my arms around her; she kissed me passionately, saying that she had loved me all the time. She seemed wondrously beautiful in the dream. I can’t imagine anything so gloriously divine now that I’m wide awake. Yet I somehow feel the effect on my heart. It’s strange that the most divine conceptions of beauty are realised when we are asleep. Perhaps it’s a beautiful premonition, some prophetic knowledge of what things will be like when we are dead—and yet, what about nightmares?
“Tuesday.—Sighted isles off Fiji at sunset last night. Smelt the odours of decaying, overripe fruits as the wind blew gently from the land.
“A fleet of canoes passed on the port side. Big, savage, tattooed men waved paddles to us, friendly-wise. Passed one little isle that was inhabited by one hut, sheltered by a large, feathery palm-tree. Looked like the gaudy-coloured picture of a South Sea novel, as the Fijian chief stood by his hut door with his club, and his deep-bosomed wife threw the sailors a graceful salutation, kiss-wise, with hand at her lips. They had two fainy toatisis (girls), who were all the while running up and down the shore, waving their arms and splashing in the waves.
“Waylao is very excited at the prospect of going ashore soon. I’ve told skipper that I intend leaving the ship at Suva. He was angry at first, but calmed down after, and paid me all that was due to me.
“The boatswain kissed Waylao when she wished the sailors good-bye.