CHAPTER XLIX.
The rain fell in torrents the day succeeding our arrival, and it was not until Sunday that I had courage to set foot on shore: then I went solus, and jumping on the beach, two minutes' walk found me in the Broom Road, a broad lane running nearly the entire circuit of Tahiti, within a stone's throw of the surf-locked lagoons, shaded like a bower by magnificent trees and undergrowth, that hang their drooping, green arms in grateful coolness, to shield the traveller from the heat of tropical suns. Notwithstanding mud from recent rains, the roads and lateral paths were thronged with natives: I was surprised to find them so much superior in physical mould and beauty to those of other islands we had visited. The men were well proportioned, and some with a noble bearing; the women were very tall, scarcely one less than five feet eight; many of the young girls were exquisitely shaped, with small hands and feet. Moreover, they had borrowed a nicer taste in dress from the French, and their gowns and bonnets were very becomingly worn.
I splashed and trudged about the Broom Road until evening, and then, following the tide of population, entered the well laid out grounds of the gubernatorial mansion. The lawns and alleys were crowded with natives, officers and soldiers, listening to the evening music; this over, I devoted the evening wandering from café to café, and wondering if I were in France or Tahiti. Lights were gleaming from every little auberge and cabaret of the town—the tables within covered with pipes and bottles of red wine—soldiers were drinking and chanting favorite songs of Beranger; and one inebriated sapper, meeting me in the road, placed both hands on my shoulders, and roared out, with but an indifferent appreciation of music:
"J'ai connu Moreau—Victor—Argerau—
Et Murat—Et Massen—a—a—
Vash a fling a flong—tra a long, a long—!"
The streets were filled with groups of gaily-attired native girls, who, with low, musically laughing voices, were chattering their soft, vowelly dialect, unceasingly, interrupted occasionally by some gallant Frenchman, who would perhaps give a stray damsel a chuck under the chin, or a hasty clasp around the waist, and pass on, regardless of their lively sallies. Then overgrown gend'armes would be perceptible in the distance, by their white cotton aguillettes and clashing sabres, when the nymphs would disappear like frightened partridges amid the adjacent groves, and all were hushed in an instant, until the dreadful police had passed by, when they would again emerge and occupy their former ground. Then, too, the light yellowish tinge of plastered houses, so often seen in France—the thatched cane huts of the natives—sentinels pacing the ramparts—near by, a brass field-piece gazing up the road—and beneath the spreading bread fruit, or under the stately trunk of a cocoanut, a soldier in red breeches, resting on the shining barrel of his musket. All this, with the profusion of tropical foliage, the grand scenery of the island, and a thousand other novel scenes, so strangely contrasted with demi-bar-bare life, that I became quite bewildered, and was glad to make the acquaintance of an agreeable French officer, who, with a bottle of Bourdeaux, soon brought me to my senses.
I passed the night on shore, in the warehouse of an American merchant, and should probably have slept well, in defiance of musquitoes, had not a choice coterie of sous-officers, in an adjoining cabaret, within-arm's length of my window, made vociferous music, by screaming Republican airs until daylight, very much incited, no doubt, by continual cries of Encore du vin, mon cher, and the usual ringing accompaniment of bottles and glasses.
Rising betimes, I donned walking dress, and after breakfast, in company with my friend Larry and an officer of the French Marine, who spoke the Tahitian dialect perfectly well, we left Papeetee for an excursion up the Broom Road towards Point Venus.
The rain had quenched the dust, and there was a grateful freshness clinging around the lime and orange groves. The sun had not yet drank the sparkling diamond-drops of dew trembling upon the guava thickets, nor had the breeze shaken a leaf of the towering cocoanuts, nor vibrated a single sphere of bread-fruit that hung like pendulums from amid the glossy leaves. The air, too, was heavy with perfume of orange and jessamine—and we went larking along the quiet road—kicking up our heels and whooping joyously—pausing a moment to catch a gleaming view of the slender peaks above us—the conspicuous Diadem of Faatoar—the green savannahs sloping up the valleys, or the blue sea and reef as yet undazzled by the rising sun.