father anster—fijian legendary lore—forest graves—the blind chief—mythology and love-making—falling stars—the change—a drove of native children—the village missionary—a native supper—an old chief’s reminiscences—fijian poets and musicians—a tribute to the humbug of civilisation

i sat and gazed round that little lonely homestead by the shore-side at naraundrau. the scent of the jungle blooms and dead grass crept into my nostrils as soft winds came up from the sea, blew in at the small doorway and fell asleep in the leafy hollows. opposite the doorway, by his broken coloured-glass window, sat the missionary to whom mabau had appealed. he had already given her his advice.

he was a venerable-looking old man, with earnest, sunken grey eyes. as his aged, bearded lips moved, and he spoke in a sensitive, musical voice, i at once felt a liking for him, and i seemed to be back in the days of an age that had long since passed away. for this lonely old missionary was the sole survivor of the first white men who had exiled themselves from their native lands with the one intense motive only in their hearts—to endeavour to preach the word of christ and better the conditions of heathen lands. no ambition in his mind had craved for recognition; he had done his day’s work, and there, weighed down with years, he waited sadly, yet patiently, the last act of life’s drama, the call of his creator, to whose service he had devoted his earnest existence. he died, quite unknown to men on earth, for if men do not strive for fame it seldom will come to them, unless they do not deserve it.

“my son, what brings you this way?” he said, and his grey eyes gazed kindly at me.

“father,” i said respectfully, “i heard of you from mabau, the native girl who sorrows over her faithless lover, and since hearing of you it has been my wish to meet you, and here i am.”

hearing my answer, the old man looked intently at me, and to my great pleasure i saw that i had impressed him favourably. “art thou hungry, lad?” he said. “no, not hungry, but i am exceedingly thirsty, father,” i answered; and at that he at once brought out, from a little wooden cupboard by his side two coco-nuts, and with trembling fingers pierced the holes with a screw. very thankful i was as i drank off a tin pannikin full to the brim of the refreshing fruit milk. after that i felt much refreshed and more at my ease, as i talked to my host.

at his bidding i took my violin from its case and played the ah che la morte from il trovatore to him. as the strain died away, and silently i laid the fiddle down, he crossed his hands over his breast and sat in the gloom, for night was falling fast. he looked like an old, grey-bearded apostle carved in stone as he sat there.

“my son, thou playest well, and i am thankful for thy visit,” he murmured; and i was touched and highly pleased, for deep in my heart i suddenly felt a tenderness for the lonely old missionary. i saw by the way he crossed his hands that he was a roman catholic. i am a protestant by birthright, but his sincerity made me feel more attached to his denomination than my own.

as night fell and the stars came out he became more talkative and unburdened himself to me, a fact which i always remember with pride, for he would not have done so if he had not felt instinctively that my heart was in sympathy with his.

rising and lighting an old oil lamp, he stood it on the window-shelf, and its faint flicker lit up his room. in the corner was a sleeping-mat, for he slept on the floor in native fashion. his furniture consisted of two wooden stools, a small bench table and a few cooking utensils. outside the door in a cage was a large grey parrot; it looked as old as its master, was almost featherless and seldom spoke. but now and again it would gaze sideways at me and without opening its tuneless beak say in a sepulchral voice, “good-bye, good-bye,” as though it were jealous of my conversation with its lonely master. it was a wise old bird, mistrusted strangers and realised that old age could be tempted and led away from old friendships by the voice of youth.

as we sat there together the moon came out and shone brilliantly over the sea, outdoing the dimness of his oil lamp; so brightly did it shine over the palms that one could easily have read ordinary print.

taking an old flute down, he started to play upon it, and then with a sigh laid it back on the shelf and asked me if i should care to stay the night. “yes,” i immediately answered. we went out and strolled in the moonlight, and he told me much of fiji in the old days. though he was a poor and aged man, with only the moonlit forest flowers as his friends, flowers that would some day blossom over his fast-dissolving dust, the largess of his sincere heart, all that he told me, has been vast wealth to my memories through the years, and his dead voice has haunted my dreams at times.

he too told me of thakambau; he had known him in his worst days, and spoke with the famous warrior king when he had at length, after many councils with his chiefs, decided to embrace christianity.

as we strolled under the straight-stemmed palms the silvered moonlit waves splashed over the coral reefs below, and across the waters, like a weird shadow, passed a canoe filled with singing natives.

“who sleeps there?” i asked him as we passed a mound of earth whereon was a cross half hidden in drala weed. he told me that it was the grave of a white man who had left a ship at viti levu and had become attached to the wife of a notable chief. the chief discovered them together by the shore, and after a terrible battle, the white man with a rifle-butt and the chief with a club, the white man fell mortally wounded. in the struggle the native wife was shot dead, and her spirit, the natives say, was carried on wings of fire up through the trees towards the stars that light the shores of that heathen land which was ruled by mburotu. the missionary told me that he crept through the forest and with his own hands dug a grave under the pandanus palms for the slain body of the white man, and night after night he came and prayed fervently over the man of his race, asking god to forgive and grant to his soul salvation.

i was much impressed as he told me these things, and also by seeing how, as we walked along, he would tenderly bend and touch the tall flowers with his lips. “under them sleeps the child i loved, or the chief who fell in some bloody tribal fight,” he would say; and he told me also that often in the fijian wilds men, women and children were buried in spots known only to those who loved and buried them.

that same night as we walked along the narrow track by the shore-side at naraundrau the aged missionary took me gently by the arm and, turning up the inland track, we stood by a native’s conical-shaped hut. in it sat an old, almost blind chief, the half-brother of vakambau, a great warrior who was dead. it appeared that he loved the missionary, and though he would not give up his heathen faith had, owing to the supplications of my host, half embraced christianity.

it was the habit of the father to call night after night and pray with the old heathen chief before he slept. i felt very strange as i stood watching the white man and the old fijian kneeling side by side praying, while three old women squatting in the corner of the den gazed on silently, as though they were carved stone images. they were his servants; being of fijian royal blood, he would not move himself. often as he sat there he imperiously pointed to a stone flask wherein was some yangona,[16] and at once the slaves of royalty, with machine-like swiftness, filled a stone bowl and held it to his lips. suddenly starting up, he rushed to the den door and gazed up at the trees, shouting, “wai, wai, taho mi,” then waved his arms, lifted his chin towards the stars and called to the memory of dead warriors and comrades dead with heathen gods. as the pacific wind sighed softly through the giant backa-trees he bowed his head reverently, for to him so answered the gods.

16. native wine made from a root.

i stayed that night with the missionary, and the next day and night also, and heard many strange things. beautiful were some of the legends of the forest children that my host told me. the stars were the eyes of the fiercer gods, and the falling stars the bright tears of the powerful muburto and nedengi’s warriors. fijian maidens and youths prayed to the eyes of shadow-land, and if, as their impassioned lips met, a star fell and arched over them in the vault of night, great was their sorrow, for a god had shed a tear over the grief that would befall the life of the first-born. but if, ere the lovers said farewell, more stars fell, great was their rejoicing, for it was a sign that other gods were pleading to the greater god to stay the evil that was predestined by the first star that burst out of the dark soul of evil destiny. so, notwithstanding heathenism and the gruesome cannibalistic customs of the old times, much innocence and poetry softened the hearts of the wild native children of those dim lands. it was a common sight by night in the shade of the coco-palms to see love-sick maids in the arms of the fijian youths, gazing at the skies, yearning for the sight of the vast gods shedding starry tears on their behalf, and often great was their delight to find the foretold grief to their first-born overthrown by the power of other gods. then the innocent maids gave themselves, body and soul, to the infatuated, delighted youths, and fell with the falling of the stars! when the stars on windy nights twinkled fiercely through the wailing boughs of the bending forest giants, lovers gazed heavenward anxiously, for to them the glimmering stars were the tiny bright legs of their unborn children running happily across the fields of paradise. often, too, sorrowing mothers would peer up for hours on those windy, starlit nights, as they watched their dead children’s bright legs twinkling as they ran laughing over the forest trees in the far-off fields of shadow-land.

as i heard these beliefs of the forest i thought of mabau, and wondered whether, while she was in the arms of vituo, the stars had fallen, and in her poetic faith she had given herself to him; and i saw that though the native legends were beautiful, it was sad for the maids; for the stars foretold many things that did not come to pass, and mythology, when applied to morals, brought much sorrow to those that loved.

the aged missionary spoke the language like a native and so, through mixing with the remnants of his old flock for years, isolated as he was, knew all their ways and their passions and aspirations. he told me that the mythology and religions of the south seas revealed, through their poetic, heathen expression, much that was “new thought” in modern europe, and that all those things which the great minds of my country had discussed and the nobleness they had overthrown by their doctrine of the “survival of the fittest,” a doctrine bringing the whole creed of self-sacrifice and bravery down to selfish motives, had been discussed and expressed in mythology and heathen song by the cannibalistic bards and philosophical savages at the bokai feasts of those heathen lands.

lands where maidens gave their lives for their lovers, and wives for their husbands, for it had been the custom that when a chief died his wife should be buried alive with him; and so strong was the faith of these people that they met their terrible end bravely, and sang death songs, which could be heard faint and muffled as the tombstone closed over them. it was even then the custom of maids to die and be buried with their dead lovers, their belief being that they appeared before the gods as they died. those who thought themselves young and beautiful sacrificed themselves, so that in spirit-land they might be ever young and fortunate in their love affairs. often i saw skeletons in caves, which were the remains of old age; they had been strangled by their relatives to avoid further trouble from the complainings of their infirmities.

on the night preceding my last day with the old missionary mabau, the native girl, came to him as sunset was fading over the seas. as the shadows crept and thickened around the hermit’s home a noise of naked feet in the jungle grass disturbed us. a gentle tap at the door revealed mabau’s dusky face. i understood little that she said, for she spoke in her own language to my host, but i saw by her eyes and trembling lips that she was sorely troubled. after hearing the father’s advice she became calmer, and falling on her knees kissed his extended hand and bearded face as a child would kiss its father; then, without speaking a word, she ran off swiftly into the forest.

the old missionary asked me many questions as to where i was staying, upon which i told him of mr bones. hearing this, he gravely shook his head and scanned me solemnly. “you look an honest lad and well able to take care of yourself,” he said; and then i explained to him how i had left my ship at s—— because i could not stand a drunken crew, and that was the true reason for my accepting the organization’s hospitality. from him i heard that a week or so before i arrived a fugitive had appeared at the organization and the second day after had shot himself. bones had hastily called on the father, who delivered the sacrament to the dying man, who, ere his breath ceased, made his confession. the father did not reveal the facts to me, but i heard them from the lips of a high-caste fijian with whom i stayed between my visits to the organization’s shanty. for after the first few days i only called upon mr bones as a visitor, taken there through my adventurous spirit, and for the novelty of associating with old villains and seeing the sad fugitives who arrived from the far-off cities of the world.

that night as i lay by my hermit host i watched him as he quietly slept on his sleeping-mat; moonlight streamed through the tiny window hole and revealed his careworn, bearded face. still as death he lay as the breeze crept into the open door and stirred the few grey hairs above his lofty brow. the beating of the seas on the shore sounded at intervals and died away; the shadow leaves of the palms outside moved gently over the wooden moonlit walls, over his grey-bearded face and crossed hands. i felt that i was back in the middle ages, in some mysterious medi?val monastery, instead of in that heathen land of dying crime and bloodthirsty cannibalism, where but a few years before thakambau, the warrior king, who now lay in the grave not far off at bau, sailed forth from the creeks below to give battle to rival kings, accompanied by his armada of outrigged canoes. as i dreamed i heard the restless seas below, i saw those primitive fleets of canoes fading in the sunset, filled with dark, savage, patriotic faces, and the stalwart cannibal king leaning on his war-club and gazing proudly as he stood eyeing the canoes of his warriors paddling along to meet the tribal foe. it was almost unbelievable how swiftly change, through the coming of the white men, had overthrown the cannibalistic festivals and heathen customs: at levuka, viti levu and suva church spires were rising where the bokai feast and fierce songs once broke the silence; from native homes now come the strumming of cheap german pianos and lotu songs sung by mouths that a few years before had eaten those they had loved.

at daybreak father anster, the old missionary, rose and prepared breakfast, after which he took his flute from the shelf and played one tune over and over again continually; and the old featherless parrot in the cage tried desperately to repeat the notes through its tuneless beak and, to tell the truth, made as much mess of the melody as my host did; for though he had music in his soul, his lips were unable to express it. there he sat, holding the flute to his aged lips and blowing away; and though i know he must now be dead, hallowed dust somewhere near that spot where i saw him years ago, still i can see him sitting by his little doorway, and see the kind look in his eyes as i bade him farewell and passed away into the forest, with the thought and promise to see him again in a few days.

as i strolled along under the palms and big tropical trees i fell into deep thought; everything was silent, except a few birds singing to the sunset, which they could spy from the topmost boughs whereon they sat. suddenly i was startled by hearing a noise, and crossing the gullies i went down a steep slope and peeped through the jungle thickets of bamboo beneath the coco-palms to see what was about, and there, romping in the deep fern grass, was a flock of naked native children, tiny wild faces, boys and girls. as i watched my foot slipped. in a moment they all looked up and their bright eyes spied me. like a drove of rabbits off they bolted, their little brown shoulders and tossing heads of frizzly hair just reaching the fern-tops as they raced away and faded in the distant forest gloom, frightened out of their lives. a stream of sunset out seaward crept through the wind-blown forest boughs and glinted over them as they ran, till they looked like tiny wood-elves racing across fairyland! i never saw such a pretty sight. in fun i ran after them, and two little stragglers left behind, seeing me run, screamed; then through the bushes in front of me suddenly poked the heads of mop-haired mothers and fierce dark men. i had come across a native village!

at first i felt a bit frightened; but as soon as those wild-blooded parents saw my white face and youthful look they smiled, for their instincts are swift and true. i stepped into the village, and soon we were all good comrades. it was there that i met a missionary who lived not far off, and was adviser and preacher to the native village. he was a good man at heart, but extremely bigoted, and when i asked him about father anster he yawned and evaded my questions, told me that he was considered a mild kind of lunatic. i did not argue the point, but nevertheless i saw the way the wind blew and thought a good deal. i realised there was no love lost between my old host and the new missionaries, who did not care for hermits who toiled and lived completely by themselves.

the hot season was at its height, and not till the sun had set and the sea winds gently blew over the isle did i feel comfortable. one is forcibly reminded when travelling in the south sea isles that the natives in complete undress are utilising their own skins to the best advantage: often i envied them their scanty sulu (loin-cloth), as my white duck trousers and shirt flopped and steamed with perspiration as i sweated onwards. i stayed for several hours at the village i had stumbled across. round the native huts the evening fires blazed as squatting by stone bowls the families ate their supper; dipping their fingers into the steaming mixture, they pushed worm-like stuff into their dark mouths. the toothless old chiefs and mothers were waited on by the children, who often sulkily helped them, hastily pushing what looked like long white worms, that hung from the aged mouths, in between the mumbling lips.

close by, in one of the conical, thatched dens, loudly wailed a windy harmonium, played by a young aspirant for musical fame. the selling of harmoniums in the south seas in those days was a paying business: a native would work for three years on a plantation, without wages, to possess one of those instruments of torture, and a family that possessed one obtained a social distinction equal to the order of the bath in great britain. it was the celebrated high chief volka who owned this particular terrible thing.

while the huddled natives chattered and gorged over their calabashes of hot mystery this chief led me round and proudly showed me the sights. sunset had died, and the stars were beginning to peep through the dusky velvet blue skies that could be seen in many patches above the scattered waveless palms and banyan-trees. chief volka was a true survival of the barbaric age, six feet in height, scarred and tattooed from his brow to his knees. he had lost one eye in battle, and the other, through double use, bulged considerably. leading me into his ancestral halls—three thatched rooms—he stood beside me, as his mop-head touched the low roof, and pointed to a ponderous war-club that hung on the wooden wall. round it was a grim collection of spear-headed weapons. standing by my side, with his shoulders majestically lifted and his chest blown out, he proudly told me of the wounds that implement had inflicted, and of the many lives it had, with sudden force, sent hastily to heathen-land. his one eye flashed with revived memories, and then that old veteran of some past fijian waterloo told me how his civilised tribe had exterminated the uncivilised foe in a mighty battle, and of the benefit the great victory had conferred upon humanity. for did not the victory overthrow tribal men who ate their wounded on holy days?—thus angering the gods by not keeping them in pickle till the fijian lent had passed!

he stood there, drawn up to his full height, his shrivelled but erstwhile muscular arm outstretched, as he told me of the overthrow of tribes on neighbouring isles who had aspired to dominate the whole fijian group by militarism. with forgivable pride he took down the huge club that had brought the ambitious leader of the hated hordes to the earth with a smashed skull. it was a mighty weapon, and the bare-skinned youth beside him gazed upon it with awestruck eyes as i said: “and what happened after that victory?” “we had ten years of great peace, many feasts and many wives, and our gods were pleased till came your race and overthrew them.” and then he continued in this wise: “alas, our great civilisation has passed away; revered customs, creeds and mighty histories of my race are forgotten with the old winds. ah, your white race tramples on our old dynasty of supreme goodness!”

i gazed silently as he spoke and wondered much, for i knew that the foundation of civilisation, and all that is called best, is built on man’s attempt to ward off impending disaster. as i thought i wondered how much wisdom lay in his natural vanity, for the warriors of old had died out and the new race looked cute, flabby, and quite devoid of energy. outside old men and youths smacked their lips and grunted as they nibbled coco-nuts and chewed tobacco; the grandees drank new rum, and the old women and maids of fashion whispered scandal and scratched their mop-heads delicately with one outstretched finger.

brilliantly the moon shone through the forest trees as i strolled from scene to scene of that south sea village. by tiny camp fires sat the elder members of the various households; the little children were fast asleep by them on small mats. some gazed into the fire ash, spat and chewed, others chatted, and on the hill-side sat several groups singing softly so as not to awaken the sleepers. they were strange, weird melodies that i listened to; and as i stood alone in the shadows i knew that i heard in those primeval wails of joy and sorrow the youthful voice of music and poetry as it was ere it attained the artificial development expressed in europe, tricked out and dressed in all the artistries to suit applauding conventionality. old women wailed songs that told of dead children, dead husbands or lovers, and all the many griefs that flesh is heir to. i think the sad old missionary with whom i had stayed had awakened in me a note of deeper thought than was usual in my reflection. on my memory are still vividly engraved the scenes of that night; the moonlight over the trees, the stars and the squatting groups of the village natives are all still mine, and the atmosphere is as clear as, yet somewhat sadder than, of yore, like a melody heard again, after many years, in another country. i seemed to know that the wild life and scenery round me was similar to the embryo life of modern civilisation; and there was something real and innocent in that fijian arabian night that made the modern world of life look intensely vapid. i still see the women of fijian fashion, with their legs outstretched before the dying fires, each attired in some sailor’s cast-off undershirt or a portion of a white woman’s garment. some strutted under the palms and gazed almost disdainfully upon maidens and mothers who only wore the native grass-weaved sulu. i knew that i gazed upon the first leaders of fijian fashionable society, society that has reached the zenith of vanity in europe. i saw budding knighthoods fanning flies and mosquitoes from the high chief’s oily body. his eyelids blinked approval as the aspirants to royal favour lifted his fat feet, which rested on a little mat, and blew their cooling breath on them.

poor relations carried refuse in large stone bowls to the village cesspool. pet mongrel dogs snapped at the hovering ring of flies and sniffed at the stench as they passed it, whilst the rich relations lolled under the sunlit tropic palms. at the far end of the village, on a stump, stood the fanatic, shouting in fijian, “taho-ai-oa,” and shrieking and stamping to entice the straggling villagers to come to his special mission class. swarthy solomon islanders and indians with brilliant dark eyes gazed at the maids. under the palms sat the full-lipped youth, lota-mio; oblivious of all around him, he toiled on with his rusty nail, carving on a sea-shell the outlines of a maiden’s face; the work revealed wonderful talent. maidens and youths embraced and gazed with shining eyes at each other as the shaggy-headed fijian poet pointed to the evening star imaged in the still lagoon, for it shone in the fairyland of still waters. they peered over the water’s brink and wondered to see their dark faces under the imaged trees that were upside down; then the branches stirred as the mirrored winds blew in the water and their imaged faces broke up and disappeared!

i got the old chief to see me safely on the road home; for though i trusted the fijians, i did not like the look of the imported indians, who crept about the village selling sham jewellery and tempting the maids with trifles and trinkets. they were stealthy-looking men, dark and masterful in appearance. their creeds were slowly overthrowing christianity, for the natives were weak, and mohammedanism was more in harmony with their secret cravings and requirements. also the colour of the turbaned teachers matched their own skins. white men can hardly blame the childish fijians for embracing mohammedanism as readily as they turned to christianity, for in london town the islamic creed is being preached and is finding numerous adherents, gathered from the so-called high-class christians, who gain greater comfort from mahomet than from the sorrow of calvary.