So seemed to speak the idol in the forest by Tai-o-hae as I watched. That old idol even grew moss on its gigantic cranium, as though it would mock hairless old age and the unfruitful passing of man!
It was an unforgettable sight. As the festival progressed the prima donna became more excited. She was a maid of perfect beauty, possessing musical accomplishments; nor were her high kicks to be outrivalled the world over. This particular prima donna would have achieved a vast fortune in the western cities, I’m sure. Her rhythmic virtuosity was marvellous! The terrific encores of the tattooed chiefs became deafening as she sang and danced. She seemed to support her frame in space on nothing but the balancing, rapid movement of her limbs. Suddenly she jumped from the heathen pae-pae (stage), lay sideways up in the ether and moved her limbs as though she were performing mighty cadenzas on vast strings of some invisible violin—with her toes.
It seemed the time of my life as I watched, and the white settlers and beachcombers cheered and cheered each wondrous performance. As the shadows of night fell over the forest height, the natives came in from the plantations to join the festival. It was a weird sight to see them running along the forest tracks that had been made by soft-footed savages for ages. As they reached that opéra bouffe, each one rapidly cast off their European clothes with relief. Nor was this act of theirs to be wondered at, for those old clothes were supplied to them from the morgues of the South Seas and the far-off civilised cities, and usually swarmed with vermin and germs of latent disease that had managed to kill the late occupants. It is no exaggeration to say that the native cemeteries were crammed with victims who had been doubly unfortunate—those who had embraced the white man’s clothes as well as his creed.
As they leapt bodily out of those semi-shrouds, old coats and pants, they attired themselves in the cool, attractive suits that hung from the boughs of the forest. Dusky girls hastily attired themselves in sea-shells and strings of twisted leaves and tropical flowers. Then they embraced the impassioned youths, who blushed in green-fringed high collars that decorated their forest pyjamas, pyjamas noted for their cheap material and scanty width—but were of wide modesty.
While this was proceeding old chiefs joyously thumped mighty drums as they stood on the back level of the ancient pae-pae. The contagion of the glorious pandemonium spread. One by one old tattooed women remembered their happy heathen past, discarded the morgue chemise and plunged into the mêlée. During the excitement about a dozen dark ghosts who appeared to be clad in bath towels came on the scene; it was a crew of Indians. Standing there beneath the giant bread-fruits, they looked like majestic statues of the old Pharaohs that had somehow been dumped into that forest. As they approached the huts that surrounded the festival spaces, the pretty heathen girls rushed forth from the doors, for lo! the stealthy mongrel Indians opened their little carpet bags. One old Indian looked like some swarthy Pied Piper of Hamelin as the children followed, clamouring after him and his little bag. It seemed almost magical, that sudden change from sombre colours of green and gold as the native girls purchased those Oriental decorations. Blue sashes, crimson and saffron striped stockings, all the colours of the rainbow were suddenly to be seen fluttering to the scented breezes of the forest as the maids clutched their purchases. Flocking beneath the banyan-trees, they squatted and started to swiftly attire themselves in those gaudy, tinselled silks. It looked like some scene from an Arabian Night fairy-tale as the shadows fell and moonlight pierced the forest depth. Away flitted Marvaloa with her big blue silken sash flying behind her—her only robe of simple attire. She was held by the impassioned arms of some dusky Lothario who had never dreamed that he would live to see that exquisite hour, as the sash flapped and the bright crimson stockings tossed toward the forest height.
My attention was diverted from the pretty fairy toatisis[[1]] by the appearance of a Malay Indian. He bowed to Waylao with Islamic politeness. Waylao was alone; old Lydia, her mother, had departed homeward—probably had a headache and wanted some “unsweetened.” I had previously observed Waylao’s interest in one named Abduh Allah, but took little notice. I had been speaking to her and had flattered myself on gaining her attention, when that Indian settler obtruded with his presence. Waylao took a deep, awestruck breath as he bowed majestically to her. I can well imagine the girl’s thoughts, for I too have known those deep breaths. I dare say the Indian seemed some splendid hero of Eastern romance to the girl’s eyes as he stood there crowned with his turban.
[1]. Little girls.
“Gorblimy ducks!” murmured my new chum, an impecunious Cockney, as he turned from the forest opera-box to light his short clay pipe.
“Who’s he?” said I to the handsome Marquesan chief who squatted beside me.
He responded in this wise: “He great Indian mans, teach us kanakas all bout big god Mohamma; sella jewels, nicer tappa cloth, mats, stocking to womans from wonderful little tarpet bag O!”