I cannot leave Samoa without saying a few words about the natives, in whom Tusitala took so deep an interest.
As I write there rises before my mental vision a crowd of brown-skinned men, women, and children, their bodies glistening with coconut oil, and looking as sleek as a shoal of porpoises. Supple of limb, handsome of feature, the men are mostly possessed of reddish or yellow-tinted hair, which stands straight out from their heads in a stiff mop. The colour is due to the rubbing in of a much prized description of red clay, and the stiffness to their constant use of coral lime, for purposes of cleanliness.
All the men wear the kilt of the South Seas, the sulu, ridi, or lava-lava, and as often as not a tunic besides. Nearly all the women are clothed in “pinafore” dresses, infinitely graceful and becoming. Men and women alike adorn themselves with flowers, wreaths of flowers in their hair, flowers interwoven in their sulu’s, garlands of flowers around the neck, in addition to countless strings of shells and beads.
That they loved Tusitala with a deep and lasting affection is undoubted, and if proof were needed this touching little story may be taken as but one of many evidences. Sosimo, one of his servants, went out of his way to do Tusitala an act of personal kindness. In expressing his gratitude Stevenson said, “Oh! Sosimo, great is the service.” “Nay, Tusitala,” replied the Samoan, “greater is the love.” The following is the Native Lament composed by one of the Chiefs at the time of Stevenson’s death. The translation is by Mr. Lloyd Osborne, Stevenson’s step-son and able collaborator. I was allowed to copy the poems from the little pamphlet kindly lent me by the Captain.[10]
DANCE OF SAMOAN NATIVES
NATIVE LAMENT FOR TUSITALA.
Listen oh! this world as I tell of the disaster,
That befell in the late afternoon,
That broke like a wave of the sea,
Suddenly and swiftly blinding our eyes.
Alas! for Lois who speaks, tears in his voice,
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala who rests in the forest.
Aimlessly we wait and wonder, Will he come again?
Lament, oh Vailima, waiting and ever waiting;
Let us search and inquire of the Captains of Ships,
“Be not angry, but has not Tusitala come?”
Tuila, sorrowing one, come hither,
Prepare me a letter, I will carry it.
Let her Majesty, Queen Victoria, be told,
That Tusitala, the loving one, has been taken home.
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, who rests in the forest.
Alas! my heart weeps with anxious pity,
As I think of the days before us,
Of the white men gathering for the Christmas assembly;
Alas! for Alola,[11] left in her loneliness,
And the men of Vailima, who weep together,
Their leader being taken;
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, who sleeps in the forest.
Alas! oh, my heart, it weeps unceasingly,
When I think of his illness,
Coming upon him with so fatal a swiftness,
Would that it had waited a word or a glance from him,
Or some token from us of our love.
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala who sleeps in the forest.
Grieve oh, my heart! I cannot bear to look on,
At the chiefs who are assembling.
Alas! Tusitala, thou art not here;
I look hither and thither in vain for thee,
Refrain, groan, and weep, oh, my heart in its sorrow!
Alas! for Tusitala, he sleeps in the forest.
