CHAPTER III
| “Alas! for Tusitala he sleeps in the forest.” Native Lament. |
Vailima is only about three miles from Apia, but the road ascends the whole way, and in this land “where it is always afternoon” one does not care for much exertion; so a carriage was engaged to drive us thither, and we had John Chinaman for coachman.
That morning the captain and a fellow-passenger had urged us not to attempt the ascent of Mount Veea. “Go and see the house by all means, but the grave is impossible for ladies.” “Only last trip,” said the captain, “two of our passengers, both comparatively young men, got lost in the bush on Mount Veea, never found the grave at all, and returned to the Manipouri dead beat, after keeping me waiting four hours. But I give you due warning, ladies, I shall not wait for you, don’t think it for a moment. I shall just go off and leave you here.” I can recall now the twinkle in his brown eyes as the captain spoke, a twinkle that gave the lie to his words. Nevertheless, in spite of all warnings, we, the only three ladies on board, adhered to our intention of making the ascent, though we promised to take a native guide to show us the way.
THE ROAD OF THE LOVING HEART
We drove up a long, winding hill, in a very dilapidated wagonette. I sat by the driver, and felt sorry for our pair of lean and scraggy horses as they toiled painfully upwards. The heat was stifling, and the still, tense air vibrated with every sound, like a tightly drawn string. At last we reached the Road of the Loving Heart. This road exists as a touching memorial to the high regard in which Tusitala—the story teller—was held by the natives. And here it may be well to add that the name of Tusitala was given to Stevenson, not because the Samoans knew or loved his books, but because it is their custom to define the individual either by his or her profession, by some trait or characteristic, or even by an article of attire. Hence when the chiefs inquired concerning this new arrival, “What does he do? How does he live?” they were told “He writes books; he tells stories”; and from that day onward he was “Tusitala, the Story Teller,” just as Mrs. Strong was (I believe) known as “The Flower-Giver” (I forget the native equivalent), because she was in the habit of giving flowers to her visitors.
This information came from Captain Crawshaw, who was himself a personal friend of the late novelist, and showed me, by the way, quite a number of letters he had received from Stevenson himself. One of them interested me particularly, since in it Stevenson begged the captain to try and discover the whereabouts of a friend of his who had got into trouble. “Save him from his worst enemy—himself. Bring him to me. Spare no expense in the matter. I will be answerable.” Such was the substance of this letter as far as I can recall it, and it ended in the following characteristic fashion:—“Signed, sealed, and delivered in the presence of my Maker, and the ink-pot.”
“Robert Louis Stevenson.”
But I am wandering into bye-ways, and I must hasten to return to Ala Loto Alofa (which is the Samoan equivalent for the name of the road referred to).[4] Without going into the political details the facts are, briefly, that Stevenson had been very good to the six imprisoned chiefs of Mataafa’s following, and when their term of imprisonment expired, these men, out of gratitude, cut a road through the bush to Vailima.