South-Sea Idyls

by Charles Warren Stoddard

LOVE-LIFE IN A LANAI.

IT was the witching hour of sunset, and we sat at dinner with tearful eyes over the Commodore's curry. You see the Commodore prided himself on the strength of this identical dish, and kept a mahogany-tinted East-Indian steward for the sole sake of his skill in concocting the same.

We dined, as usual, in the Commodore's unrivalled Lanai,—the very thought of which is a kind of spiritual feast to this hour,—and while we sat at his board we heard for the twentieth time the monotonous recital of his adventures by flood and field. Like most sea-stories, his narratives were ever fresh, as though they had been stowed away in brine, were fished out of the vasty deep expressly for the occasion, and put to soak again in their natural element as soon as we had tasted their quality.

The Commodore was a roaring old sea-dog, who had been cast ashore somewhere in the early part of the century; and finding himself in quarters more comfortable than his wildest fancy dared to paint, he resolved to end his amphibious days on that strip of shining beach, and nevermore lose sight of land until he should slip his cable for the last time, and sail into undiscovered seas. Meanwhile, he entertained his friends at Wai-ki-ki, a kind of tropical Long Branch a few miles out of Honolulu; and the grace with which he introduced Jack-ashore to the dreamy twilight of his Lanai is one of Jack's deathless memories. We met the Commodore in the interesting character of Jack-ashore, and with uncovered heads and hearts full of emotion entered the Lanai.

And now for a word to the uninitiated concerning the Lanai in question. Off there in the Pacific, under the vertical sun, all shadow is held at a premium. There are stationary caravans of cocoa-trees, that seem to be looking for their desert-home,—weird, slender trees, with tattered plumes, and a hopeless air about them, as though they were born to sorrow, but meant to make the best of it. Still, these fine old palms cast a thin shadow, about the size and shape of a colossal spider, and there is no comfort in trying to sit in it. Of course, there are other trees with more foliage, and vines that run riot and blossom themselves to death; but somehow the sharp arrows of sunshine dart in and sting a fellow in an unpleasant fashion, and nothing short of a good thatch is to be relied upon. So out from the low eaves of the Commodore's cottage, on the seaward side, there was a dense roof of leaves and grass, that ran clear to the edge of the sea, and looked as though it wanted to go farther; but the Commodore knew it was useless to attempt to roof over that institution. There was a leafy tapestry hanging two feet below the roof on the three sides thereof, and from the floor of the inclosure rose a sort of trellis of woven rushes that hedged us in to the waist. There was a wicker-gate, and an open space between the leafy stalactite and stalagmite barricade for ventilation and view, and everywhere there was a kind of semi-twilight that seemed crammed full of dreams and delicious indolence,—and this is the Hawaiian Lanai!

Of course, the Commodore always dined in his Lanai. It was like taking curry on the quarter-deck of the Whatyoucallher, in the dead calm of the Indian seas; and when that mahogany steward entered with turban and mock-turtle,—he always looked to me like a full-blooded snake-charmer,—I had the greatest difficulty in restraining myself, for it seemed to me incredible that any Jack-ashore could dine in a Lanai with his Excellency, and not rise between each savory course to make a dozen profound salaams to the fattish gentleman at the head of the table, who was literally covered with invisible naval buttons,—and the hallucination increased as the dinner-courses multiplied.

At this stage;—just as the snake-charmer was entering with something that seemed to have come to an untimely end in wine-sauce,—at this stage the Commodore turned to us as though he were about to give some order that we might disregard at the peril of our lives,—these sea-dogs never quite outgrow that sort of thing. "Gentlemen," said he, casting a watchful and suspicious eye over the weather-bow, "there is to be a Luou—a native feast—in the adjoining premises. Will you do me the honor to accompany me thither after we have lighted our cigars?"

I forget what answer we made; but then dinner was well on toward dessert, and our answer was immaterial. We had our orders, couched in courteous language, and we were thankful for this consideration; moreover, we were wild to see a native feast! There is a peculiar charm in obeying our superiors, when we happen, by some dispensation of Divine Providence, to be exactly of the same mind.

Black coffee was offered us, in cups of the pattern of gull's-eggs. By this time all the sky was saffron, all the sea a shadow of saffron, and in the golden haze that lay between, a schooner with a piratical slant to her masts swam by, beyond the foam that hissed along the reef. It was a wonderful picture, but it came in between the courses of the Commodore's dinner as though it were nothing better than a panel-painting in the after-cabin of the Whatyoucallher. However, as she swung in toward the mouth of the harbor, and passed a bottle of Burgundy in safety, but seemed in imminent danger of missing stays abreast of an enormous pyramid of fruit,—from the Commodore's point of sight, you know,—the old gentleman lost his temper and gave an order in such peremptory terms that I cheerfully refrain from reproducing it on this occasion. To cover our confusion, we immediately adjourned to the native feast.