“O noble white mans, I am ole Samoan fool. To doubt a white man’s honour proves that I am still heathen.”
“Wail not, O noble Matafa, O great chief, say not that you deserve death, for it has been known, even in my country, that such-and-such a man has betrayed a maid.”
Poor old Matafa was delighted when I took his hand and truly forgave him. After that confidential talk we became true pals, indeed he opened his heart to me. He would never tire of talking about Waylao—in some ways he was worse than Tamafanga.
“Ah, white mans,” he would say, “I did peep through the chink of the screen that divided our chamber from the beautiful Waylao’s, and never did I see so sweet a sleeping goddess.” Then he would twirl his fingers, as he rolled a cigarette, and sigh heavily as though his heart said: “Why should old eyes dare admire the beauty of a maid? Has not Mrs Matafa been a good and faithful wife?”
Poor Matafa, he was truly virtuous, good to the backbone. He possessed the inherent virtue of the highest races of mankind; for, notwithstanding his reflections, he would never really have done any harm to the unfortunate girl beneath his roof.
I did my best to cheer up my kind hosts. I recall how I took them to a festival one night. It was some kind of carnival near Safuta Harbour, and was very similar to the festival scenes which I have already described in my Marquesan reminiscences. The memory of it all seems to be some dim recollection of a wonderful faeryland of song. For the Samoans are the greatest singers on earth. As the dancers whirled about on the stage platform, their figures were lit up by a hundred coco-nut-oil lamps that hung on the branches of the bread-fruits. Tamafanga and I strolled about, half wondering if we would meet Waylao amongst that hilarious mass of dusky beings. Though we had inquired everywhere and heard that a canoe was missing the same night as Waylao had disappeared, still, we had hopes that she might have returned to the isle again.
Those picturesque Samoan maids looked more like fairies than earthly beings, as they crept out of the shade of the moonlit palms to stare at us. I never remember a more bewitching sight than when the sea wind tossed up their masses of glorious, coral-lime-dyed hair. But some did not use the dye that turned their naturally dark tresses to a bright golden hue, and this made a delightful contrast as they strolled about in groups together, rich scarlet blossoms in their tresses and adorning their delicate tappa gowns.
Tamafanga would never cease singing as he roamed by my side. He had heard me play the violin and so thought that I was never so happy as when he sang to me. I recall how he took me up into the most beautiful parts near Apia to show me the scenery. I often stood on those slopes by night and watched the dim lamps far below on Apia’s only street. As I write I seem to live again in the past. Once more Tamafanga and I stand together beneath the palms and watch the stars shining over the distant sea. All the birds of the forest are silent, only the songs of a few sailors in the beach shanty break the stillness. As I dream on, Vaea’s mountain-peak rises to the skies as the moon looms up far out at sea. Only the beautiful tavau-trees and plumed palms move as the sea winds touch them. As I watch, that height is no longer a mountain, it is the vast, solitary tomb of Robert Louis Stevenson. Far below, old Vailima (his late Samoan home) still has a light shining in its lonely verandah window; shadows still move in those wooden walls which he had built, but the master is far away up there, high above the Road Of The Loving Heart, fast asleep in that mighty tomb, as through the windows of heaven shine his eternal lamps—the stars.
Tamafanga sings by my side. I can see the ineffable, greenish flush of the dim sea horizons. By Mulinuu Point lie a few schooners, their canvas sails hanging like broken wings in the moonlit, windless air.
I am now alone, for I have sent Tamafanga down into Apia town to buy a little gift for the kind-hearted Matafas. As I stand there, awaiting my friend’s return, I recall all that has been and all that must have been in days gone by. It is on those wild shores, kissed by the whitened surfs, that the old Samoan kings met and discussed their various rights to the throne. I think of the laughter of the white men and their wives in that big wooden house in the hills. It was there where the Great Tusitala (writer of stories) welcomed the men who came across the seas to visit him.