I looked at Grimes; the wonder of it all shone in his merry eyes. I thought of far-off old England, of grim conventionality. What a shock for my country to hear a wooden drum bang and up go rows of dusky legs! I thought of the funny old men who yearned to reconstruct modern civilisation—Members of Parliament; men who would reverse things, put the roof on the floor and the floor on the roof, reconstruct our entrails, our hopes, fears and feelings. What would they think, I wondered, if suddenly confronted with such a sight—a sunburnt British youth playing a violin to that heathen festival dance? But I am incorrigible, and as I sat there, imagining the horror on those British physiognomies to see me taking part in that terrible pandemonium, I snatched my red handkerchief from my pocket and tried to smother the laughter that convulsed my being.
The festival dancers whirled; crash! went that awful drum and still I reflected. I knew that those happy barbarians were the descendants of ferocious cannibals; indeed some of them had practised heathen rites but a few years ago. I wondered which was the most terrible: to eat your dead pal on toast, or to be a Christian, build cathedrals with spires pointing to the skies in the name of immortal salvation, while tender little kiddies, sad old men and women starve in the streets.
I laughed again. Grimes thought I had gone mad. I was as bad then as I am now, only I laughed more and was imaginative.
The dethroned king from the Paumotus Isles gazed frowningly upon my merriment. He was suspicious; thought I was making light of that royal display, little dreaming the truth!
Grimes and I ducked our heads as the covey of handsome native girls, arms akimbo, swept in whirling circles by us. We heard the swish of the gauzy, flower-bedecked robes. We ducked our heads just in the nick of time as they swung their perfect limbs skyward. The prima donna’s pearly toe-nails caught in Grimes’s curly hair. He yelled. Oh, the glorious memory of it all! The drums were beating a hundred strong, the weird barbarian fifes screamed. Something happened, my senses swam in some delicious indecision. I tried to look shocked—a beautiful, savage girl had embraced me!
“Aloah!” she murmured deliciously in my ear. I gazed interrogatively at my comrade. “Shall it be?”
“Whose ter know?” whispered Grimes enviously.
Then——! How can I boldly confess the truth?
What will you think of me, O my civilised brothers, sweet-scented, hair-combed men? Just think of it—I fell! I laid my violin down in the forest ferns; I gazed about stealthily. Once more she whispered: “Aloah! O beautiful papalagi!” Then I and Grimes whirled away into the wild dance, joined that barbarian mêlée!
It’s a sad confession, I know. But why should America rejoice in the proud memory of a Washington, and England lag behind?