I never saw her again.
Talking in this strain reminds me of a Homeric character who suddenly arrived at Tai-o-hae. He was a wondrous-looking being, attired in vast pants that were held up by a monstrous, erstwhile scarlet sash, and a helmet-hat with another coloured swathing about it. He looked Homeric enough, indeed he could have walked on the stage anywhere on earth as Ulysses. He strode into the grog shanty, gazed half scornfully at the congregated shellbacks and ordered one quart of rum! He swallowed same rum in two gulps, then, looking round the bar, asked the astonished, staring shellbacks if their mothers knew they were out! The general atmosphere grew hot and thundery. It was only when his massive, vandyke reddish-bearded, sun-tanned face became wreathed in smiles, and his deep-set fiery eyes laughed, that we all realised that his apparently insulting manner was simply some fine overflow of inherent humour. His commanding way and height seemed to inspire all the respect that his rough audience had at their command. Ere he had shouted for his ninth rum, he got boisterous, drew an old Colt revolver from his dirty, blue, folded shirt and brandished it about as the whole crew dodged, blinked and listened with respectful awe to all that he told. Unfortunately he had to depart the next day on the same schooner that had brought him to Nuka Hiva. But he really did make up for his short introduction. He sang wondrous songs of adventure in far-off lands, of farewells to tender Nausicaas, of Circes and Calypsos, thundering forth in majestic strain of mighty warriors whom he had put out of action with one blow of his massive fist. His voice—well, all I can say is, “What a voice!” The shanty shook as he sang. The whole crew were transported into some age of Elysian lawlessness as he looked at us, darkling, spoke of Cimmerian tribes on isles of distant seas, and hinted of things that would have made blind old Homer tremble with envy. As he sang, a flock of naked goddesses on their way home from fishing in the ambrosial waters happened to peep into the shanty to see who sang so wonderfully well and loud. I shall never forget the massive gallantry, the inimitable Homeric grace of his manner when he sighted those maids, put forth his arms and sang to the pretty eyes of those Marquesan girls. As he stood there in the bar, his helmet-hat almost bashed against the shanty roof, so tall was he, the maids looked up at him with coquettish, half-frightened glance as he sang on. There’s no doubt he was handsome. What a nerve he had! Did not care one rap for the old beachcombers who looked on and wondered if they dreamed his remarkable presence. The muscles swelled on his neck like whipcord and his huge nostrils dilated in fine style. When he brought his enormous fist down on the bar to emphasise some bravura point, the empty batch of rum mugs seemed to do a double shuffle with astonishment. I admit that I breathed a sigh of relief when he replaced his fire-iron in his belt and demanded: “Rum—no sugar—damn you!” His vast Quixotic moustache backed to within two inches of his broad shoulder curves and seemed some mighty insignia of virile manhood. I could have wept with the joy I felt as he praised my violin-playing. “Play that ageen, youngster,” said he. Such fame I had never dreamed of achieving! And when he expectorated a swift stream of tobacco juice—no indecision, mind you—between the astonished faces of the two shellbacks who were sitting by the open window, my admiration for his prowess was something that thrills me to this day.
Though men doubt if Homer’s Odyssean characters ever lived, I for one have no doubt whatever that such redoubtable characters once walked the earth. For I met such men when the world was young.
That uninvited guest came into our presence, massive and wonderful, some strange embodiment of heroic romance and lore; then departed like unto a dream. He was the nearest approach to my idea of Odysseus that I ever came across. I can still imagine I hear the vibrant, melodious timbre of his utterance as he curses and swaggers up the little rope gangway that hung from the deck of the strange fore-and-aft schooner that had suddenly appeared in the enchanted bay off Tai-o-hae. The very deck seemed to tremble as his big sea-boots crashed on board. Even the skipper gave one awesome glance at that giant figure of his as he rattled his antique accoutrements; then with his huge, hairy, sun-tanned hand arched to his fine brow he stared seaward at the sunset. The dark saffron-hued canvas sails bellied to the soft warm winds as the outward-bound schooner went out on the tide, as he stood on deck and faded away on the wine-dark seas.
I could write many chapters on such men, their ways, virtues and sins. They were strange, unfathomable beings of Time and Space: men who followed their own wishes, who reigned as king over their own life: men who were disciples of the great transcendental school of the genuine old idealists—those spiritualists of the Truth, the wise and the beautiful, happy in the glad excitement of the wide and wonderful. They were men who in the great desert of life had found a wonderful oasis—in themselves! Men who were born to command themselves, standing on their own feet, standing apart from the supreme stagnation of conventional civilisation.
Heaven knows how it was, but I always liked that class. They were, to me, the posthumous books, works of long-forgotten heroes, the only works that I ever read with deep educational interest: they are still books to me, shelved tenderly in the library of my memory; books that I so well know are born to be sneered at, buffeted about and criticised, ye gods, by weak-kneed chapel disciples and all the sensual, godless, hypocritical survivals that pose as the personification of the beautiful.
CHAPTER III
Another Comrade—Things as I found Them—Taking Photographs—I introduce Père de N—— —Penitent Natives—I witness a Native Domestic Scene
AFTER the passing of Odysseus I met another good comrade, B——. He proved an estimable pal, and was of Scottish descent, consequently his mental equipment was valuable and enabled him to discern an intelligent joke, and laugh, if somewhat sadly, over English humour.