Sometimes Waylao came to the shanty and sang as I played the violin. All this to me was very pleasurable. But one must not suppose that I had no other purpose or ambition in life beyond playing sentimental solos to handsome half-caste maids and impecunious sailors who had seen “better days.” Indeed I took all advantage of my musical accomplishments, attending as soloist many social functions at the French Presidency. I also ingratiated myself into the good graces of high-class Marquesan chiefs and chiefesses—many of the surviving members of the old barbarian dynasty. For a while I became a kind of South Sea troubadour among those semi-civilised savages, gathering experience and honours enormous.
Old chiefs, dethroned kings and discarded queens, after hearing my solos, conferred upon me their highest honours.
It was in a pagan citadel in the north-western bread-fruit forests, after performing Paganini’s bravura Carnaval de Venise variations, that a mighty, tattooed monarch invested me with the South Sea equivalent of the Legion of Honour.
This degree was bestowed upon me in ancient style. Kneeling before the bamboo throne, I kissed the royal feet amid the wildest acclamations of the whole tribe. I was then tattooed on the right arm with peculiar spots, which turned out to represent a constellation of stars that were worshipped by that particular tribe. (I have those tattoo marks to this day.) I recall the admiration of the Marquesan belles as I stood by the bamboo throne wearing my insignia of knighthood—the whitened skull of some old-time warrior! I recall the music of the forest stream as it hurried by, and the noise of the winds in the giant bread-fruits, the monotone of the ocean beating inland as a majestic accompaniment to the musical exclamations of “Awai! Awai! Alohao! Talofa!” from the coral-red lips of sun-varnished savage girls, handsome, tattooed, lithesome, deep-bosomed chiefs, and youths.
I have been honoured with so many degrees, so many knighthoods, and so often elected to the peerage that it is no exaggeration on my part to say that I am a veritable living volume of all that’s distinguished—a genuine personification of Who’s Who.
I achieved far-flung fame as a mighty Tusitala, singer of wondrous songs on magic-wood with long spirit-finger (violin bow). Old semi-nude poets, scribes of the forest, left their forum-stumps of the village and followed me from village to village. Beautiful girls, arrayed in picturesque tappa of delicate leaves and shells, threw golden forest fruits at my feet, and then stood hushed, with finger to their lips as I played again. Kind, babbling old native women called me into their village homesteads, and without ceremony made me sit down and eat large gourds of taro and scented poi-poi, which was made of bananas and many indigenous fruits. As I seated myself on the homestead mat and ate, those kind old Marquesan women would squat and gaze upon me with intense curiosity, evincing little embarrassment at my presence. Indeed they would touch my white flesh, and one curious old chiefess leaned forward and lifted the upper lid of my eyes so as to better scan the unfamiliar colour, the grey-blue iris that so pleased those Marquesan ladies.
Though those heathen citadels had numerous advantages which left the vaunted claims of civilisation far behind, they had a few disadvantages. For, to speak truth, the township bailiff would arrive at the author’s, poet’s, or artist’s hut door with a regiment of determined warriors who were often armed with rusty ship’s cutlasses, ponderous war-clubs and heathen battle drums. It was no uncommon sight to meet some tribal poet flying with his trembling family across the mountain tracks in the agony of some great fear.
It was my lot to assist a distressed poet who was flying from the aforesaid avenging law. When I came across him he was camped with his wife and little ones on a plateau to the southward of Tai-o-hae. Hearing the troubles and facts of his case, I bade him fear not. Ere sunset I had taken him back into his native village so that he might appear before the tribunal chiefs. In the meantime he, with his little ones and trembling wife, stood in the background as I appealed on his behalf. After much gesticulation and argument, and many stirring violin solos performed before the whole tribe, I turned to the distressed Marquesan poet, and said, as I touched his shaggy head with my violin bow: “Arise, Sir Knight of Tai-o-hae!” Nor shall I easily forget the consternation of the tribe or the fleeting delight of my bankrupt poet’s countenance at this gracious act of mine, when I explained to all the assemblage how I possessed the power to dub one with the glory of English knighthood. So did I bring happiness to a savage author, and I believe he achieved mighty fame in consequence of my impromptu act. One thing I know, that his misdemeanours and debts after that event were looked upon with extreme favour, and his songs were sung and engraved on the receptive brains of island races as far as the equatorial Pacific Isles.
For a long time I roamed at will among the tribes of that strange land. I recall one village that was nestled by a blue lagoon; the bird-cage, yellow bamboo huts were sheltered by the natural pillared architecture of gnarled giant trees. The scene presented to my imagination some miniature citadel of ancient Troy as the romping, pretty, sun-varnished children rushed up to me. One pretty maiden was a veritable Helen, and the tawny youths loved to bathe in the sunlight of her sparkling glances. They even looked askance, frowningly upon me, as, like some wandering Odysseus, I wooed her with tender strains on my violin, and held her up and admired the forest blossoms that adorned the glory of her dishevelled tresses rippling down to the dimples of her cremona-like varnished shoulders. “Aloue! Awaie! Talofa!” said she, as the little woman in her soul gave wanton glances. She caressed my hand, and all the while, from those Hellenic-like enchanted forest glades, stared the envious little Trojans and Achæans who would slay each other to wholly possess her charms. She was only about eight years of age, but I could well believe that she inspired in the hearts of those youthful barbarians some epic glory of long-forgotten, fierce, bronzed lovers and romance, that seemed to sing over their heads as fitful sea winds sang in the lyric trees.
Ah me! I suppose some Paris arrived in due course from the civilised world and lured her from the arms of her dusky chief. And now ’tis only I of all the world would wish to be the Homer to sing her faery-like beauty, her childhood’s charms.