That little pal still runs by my side. No wonder I love boys. I often give a hungry-looking kid a penny and smile grimly to myself as he looks at the coin, stares at the little ghostly pal at my side and runs away in fright.
Whilst staying with the kind priest I got pally with his dusky converts. Often I went into the forest villages about half-a-mile from his mission-room. Never have I played to a more appreciative audience than to those shaggy native mothers who crept from their huts to hear me. Some, for all their sins, had handsome faces and eyes. Their little children would romp about me and mimic the swaying of my violin bow and the melodies that I played. One old ex-cannibal chief became a most estimable companion of mine, and though he incidentally confessed that he liked human flesh on toast, I found him a reliable pal, trustworthy and deeply religious. He was a close observer of the beauties of nature, and I cannot recall any civilised white man whose conversation took my thoughts to a higher plane.
This particular old native, Maro Le Mu, had several bonny sons and daughters. He invited me to his home, which was situated in a beautiful spot not far from the lagoons near the shore port of entry near Tai-o-hae. His wife was a stalwart, deep-bosomed Tahitian, and a most hospitable woman. I stayed with them for a week and had fine times. The children of Maro and his relatives (he had four discarded wives of old standing) were delighted with me, and as I roamed the slopes and forests, they followed me like a flock of gambolling puppies. They looked upon me as some mighty white god or witchman. When I played the violin they would creep up to me and try and peep into the instrument to find where the music came from. I would run my fingers up the E string, and as the bow wailed forth the high harmonics they would scream with fright and spring away from me, regarding me with awe. Had it not been for Chief Maro and those kiddies, I think I should have got a ship and cleared before I did.
One of the sons’ children was a little girl about six years of age, a very pretty child, a mixture of Marquesan and Tahitian blood. She was beautifully tattooed on the shoulder curves and on the wrists. I think that O Maro Le Mu was high born and that the child was marked with the special insignia of the armorial bearings of the Maro Le Mu family’s blood royal. However, I practically hired little Winga, for so I pronounced her gimcrack Marquesan name. She would run behind me through the forest like a little dusky ghost, and when I entered a village she marched ahead as my advance-guard, so proud was she of being my servant. It was a sight worth seeing as she lifted her chin, while the forest flowers fastened in her folds of coral-dyed hair tossed as she marched disdainfully across some rara (village green), refusing to consort with or look at the flocks of native kiddies who rushed up to us as we passed along. They stared with awestruck eyes at that little comrade of mine, as we saluted the tribal king and his retinue of dusky wives and then passed away into the forest. She was an affectionate mite, and reminded me of the Fijian kiddie of the same age whom a pal and I had taken with us when we went troubadouring for hundreds of miles in the various isles of Polynesia.
It was at this time that I met a strange old man, who turned out to be an artist. He lived all alone on an islet just off the coast, not far from Chief Maro Le Mu’s home, and he invited me to go and see him. I accepted the invitation with alacrity, and hired a native canoe to take me across the three or four hundred yards of deep sea that divided his islet from the wooded mainland. Winga, her grandfather, and about twenty native youths and girls swam beside my outrigger canoe as I was paddled across to the isle. I felt like some dusky potentate as I saw those handsome savage children and old-time chiefs of royal blood swimming behind me, their dark heads drifting the still water into wavelets, their bright eyes gleaming with delight. They were all shouting forth in the musical Marquesan tongue their bright salutations: “Aloah! Awaie! Tangi me o le solea!”
So well do I know those happy, innocent people, who are true heathens and supposed to be savage animals, that I must confess that I have long ago discarded all conventional ideas. Indeed, so far as the normal outlook on conventional life is concerned, my mind has become completely reversed. I sometimes think that God’s most sacred agent—he who gains the most converts for immortality—is the devil himself. It is probable that some mighty mistake was made somewhere, and I would not be surprised to find, when I die, that the angels of heaven yearn to inherit mortality.
When I arrived at that old artist’s bungalow, I was surprised to find so snug a dwelling-place in that heathen-land. It was like an ideal bit of paradise, and consisted of two rooms, one a sleeping compartment, the other a living-room. As that solemn old man welcomed me into his little parlour, I stared in wonder. On the table lay a quantity of books and an old-fashioned telescope, native goblets made from coco-nut shells, and a large calabash. In the corner was his easel and palette, where he still followed the course of his profession. The walls of that cabin were ornamented with roughly framed paintings. These paintings represented a variety of subjects—ships fading away into the sunsets of mystical seas; faery outlines of beautiful women afloat on clouds in wondrous skies, allegorical faces peeping through mists, with stars shining through their hair; symbolical pictures portraying human aspirations with a wonderfully sure touch. One painting was so extensive that it took up one whole side of the cabin wall. It represented God: a vast white beard seemed to float on the sky-line of a dark infinity, the Face was a dim, wonderful outline, only the deep eyes of Creation were visible in the mystical hollows, mysteriously sprinkled with stars shining from their infinite depths, as the ages hung heavily on the vast, craggy brows. “You are a true artist,” said I, as I looked at that masterpiece.
The old man saw that I was greatly impressed. His wrinkled face lit up with pride as he observed my silent admiration.
After taking refreshments we sat together in the shade of that snug cabin of art, and the conversation drifted to the homeland. I soon discovered that his memories of the civilised cities were not pleasant dreams. I ventured the opinion that if our countrymen afar could see his paintings his efforts would be greatly appreciated and his fortune secured. A half-humorous curve flicked across his lips in a sarcastic smile. Then he coughed, and with a look of deep commiseration in his clear grey eyes he glanced steadily at me and said:
“Ah, my boy, I too once thought such things, ere I was drastically disillusioned. You seem not to understand that our countrymen know nothing of art, that they can rob artists with impunity and drive them, crushed, broken up and penniless, abroad or into the grave. They are even applauded for doing these things.”