A LITTLE SAVAGE GENTLEMAN
BY
ISOBEL STRONG
Reprinted from _Scribner's Magazine_ by permission
"IF YOU want a child as badly as all that," my brother said, "why notadopt a chief's son, some one who is handsome and well-born, and will bea credit to you, instead of crying your eyes out over a little commonbrat who is an ungrateful cub, and ugly into the bargain?"
I wasn't particularly fond of the "common brat," but I had grown used totending him, bandaging his miserable little foot and trying to make hislot easier to bear; and he had been spirited away. One may live long inSamoa without understanding the whys and wherefores. His mother may havebeen jealous of my care of the child and carried him away in the night;or the clan to which he belonged may have sent for him, though hisreputed father was our assistant cook. At any rate, he hadgone--departed as completely and entirely as though he had vanished intothin air, and I, sitting on the steps of the veranda, gave way to tears.
Two days later, as I hastened across the courtyard, I turned the cornersuddenly, nearly falling over a small Samoan boy, who stood erect in agallant pose before the house, leaning upon a long stick of sugar-cane,as though it were a spear.
"Who are you?" I asked, in the native language.
"I am your son," was the surprising reply.
"And what is your name?"
"Pola," he said. "Pola, of Tanugamanono, and my mother is the whitechief lady, Teuila of Vailima."
He was a beautiful creature, of an even tint of light bronze-brown; hisslender body reflected the polish of scented cocoanut oil, the tinygarment he called his _lava-lava_ fastened at the waist was coquettishlykilted above one knee. He wore a necklace of scarlet berries across hisshoulders, and a bright red hibiscus flower stuck behind his ear. On hisround, smooth cheek a single rose-leaf hid the dimple. His large blackeyes looked up at me with an expression of terror, overcome by purephysical courage. From the top of his curly head to the soles of hishigh-arched slender foot he looked _tama'alii_--high-bred. To all myinquiries he answered in purest high-chief Samoan that he was my son.
My brother came to the rescue with explanations. Taking pity on me, hehad gone to our village (as we called Tanugamanono) and adopted thechief's second son in my name, and here he was come to present himselfin person.
I shook hands with him, a ceremony he performed very gracefully withgreat dignity. Then he offered me the six feet of sugar-cane, with theremark that it was a small, trifling gift, unworthy of my high-chiefnotice. I accepted it with a show of great joy and appreciation, thoughby a turn of the head one could see acres of sugar-cane growing on theother side of the river.
There was an element of embarrassment in the possession of thischarming creature. I could not speak the Samoan language very well atthat time, and saw, by his vague but polite smile, that much of myconversation was incomprehensible to him. His language to me was soextremely "high-chief" that I couldn't understand more than three wordsin a sentence. What made the situation still more poignant was that lookof repressed fear glinting in the depths of his black velvety eyes.
I took him by the hand (that trembled slightly in mine, though he walkedboldly along with me) and led him about the house, thinking the sight ofall the wonders of Vailima might divert his mind. When I threw open thedoor of the hall, with its pictures and statues, waxed floor and glitterof silver on the sideboard, Pola made the regulation quotation fromScripture, "And behold the half has not been told me."
He went quite close to the tiger-skin, with the glass eyes and bigteeth. "It is not living?" he asked, and when I assured him it was deadhe remarked that it was a large pussy, and then added, gravely, that hesupposed the forests of London were filled with these animals.
He held my hand quite tightly going up the stairs, and I realized thenthat he could never have mounted a staircase before. Indeed, everythingin the house, even chairs and tables, books and pictures, were new andstrange to this little savage gentleman.
I took him to my room, where I had a number of letters to write. He saton the floor at my feet very obediently while I went on with my work.Looking down a few minutes later I saw that he had fallen asleep, lyingon a while rug in a childish, graceful attitude, and I realized againhis wild beauty and charm.
Late in the day, as it began to grow dark, I asked Pola if he did notwant to go home.
"No, Teuila," he answered, bravely.
"But you will be my boy just the same," I explained. "Only you see Tumau(his real mother) will be lonely at first. So you can sleep at thevillage and come and see me during the day."
His eyes lit up with that and the first smile of the day overspread hisface, showing the whitest teeth imaginable.
It was not long before he was perfectly at home in Vailima. He wouldarrive in the morning early, attended by a serving-man of his family,who walked meekly in the young chief's footsteps, carrying the usualgift for me. Sometimes it was sugar-cane, or a wreath woven by thevillage girls, or a single fish wrapped in a piece of banana-leaf, or afew fresh water prawns, or even a bunch of wayside flowers; my littleson seldom came empty-handed.
It was Pola who really taught me the Samoan language. Ordinarily thenatives cannot simplify their remarks for foreigners, but Pola inventeda sort of Samoan baby-talk for me; sometimes, if I could not understand,he would shake me with his fierce little brown hands, crying, "Stupid,stupid!" But generally he was extremely patient with me, trying asentence in half a dozen different ways, with his bright eyes fixedeagerly on my face, and when the sense of what he said dawned upon meand I repeated it to prove that I understood, his own countenance wouldlight up with an expression of absolute pride and triumph. "Good!" hewould say, approvingly. "Great is your high-chief wisdom!"
Once we spent a happy afternoon together in the forest picking up queerland-shells, bright berries and curious flowers, while Pola dug up anumber of plants by the roots. I asked him the next day what he had donewith the beautiful red flowers. His reply was beyond me, so I shook myhead. He looked at me anxiously for a moment with that worriedexpression that so often crossed his face in conversation with me, and,patting the floor, scraped up an imaginary hole, "They sit down in thedusty," he said in baby Samoan. "Where?" I asked. "In front of Tumau."And then I understood that he had planted them in the ground before hismother's house.
Another time he came up all laughter and excitement to tell of anadventure.
"Your brother," he said, "the high-chief Loia, he of the four eyes(eye-glasses), came riding by the village as I was walking up toVailima. He offered me a ride on his chief-horse and gave me hischief-hand. I put my foot on the stirrup, and just as I jumped the horseshied, and, as I had hold of the high-chief Loia, we both fell off intothe road _palasi_."
"Yes," I said, "you both fell off. That was very funny."
"_Palasi_!" he reiterated.
But here I looked doubtful. Pola repeated his word several times asthough the very sound ought to convey some idea to my bemuddled brain,and then a bright idea struck him. I heard his bare feet patteringswiftly down the stairs. He came flying back, still laughing, and laid aheavy dictionary in my lap. I hastily turned the leaves, Pola questingin each one like an excited little dog, till I found the definition ofhis word, "to fall squash like a ripe fruit on the ground."
"_Palasi_!" he cried, triumphantly, when he saw I understood, making agesture downward with both hands, the while laughing heartily. "We bothfell off _palasi_!"
It was through Pola that I learned all the news of Tanugamanono. Hewould curl up on the floor at my feet as I sat in my room sewing, andpour forth an endless stream of village gossip. How Mata, the nativeparson, had whipped his daughter for going to a picnic on Sunday anddrinking a glass of beer.
"Her father went whack! whack!" Pola illustrated the scene with gusto,"and Maua cried, ah! ah! But the village says Mata is right, for we mustnot let the white man's evil come near us."
"Evil?" I said; "what evil?"
"Drink," said Pola, so
lemnly.
Then he told how "the ladies of Tanugamanono" bought a pig of Mr. B., atrader, each contributing a dollar until forty dollars were collected.There was to be a grand feast among the ladies on account of thechoosing of a maid or _taupo_, the young girl who represents the villageon all state occasions. When the pig came it turned out to be an oldboar, so tough and rank it could not be eaten. The ladies were muchashamed before their guests, and asked the white man for another pig,but he only laughed at them. He had their money, so he did not care,"That was very, very bad of him," I exclaimed, indignantly.
"It is the way of white people," said Pola, philosophically.
It was through my little chief that we learned of a bit of finehospitality. It seems that pigs were scarce in the village, so eachhouse-chief pledged himself to refrain from killing one of them for sixmonths. Any one breaking this rule agreed to give over his house to belooted by the village.
Pola came up rather late one morning, and told me, hilariously, of thefun they had had looting Tupuola's house.
"But Tupuola is a friend of ours," I said. "I don't like to hear of allhis belongings being scattered."
"It is all right," Pola explained. "Tupuola said to the village, 'Comeand loot. I have broken the law and I will pay the forfeit.'"
"How did he break the law?" I asked.
"When the high-chief Loia, your brother of the four eyes, stopped thenight at Tanugamanono, on his way to the shark fishing, he stayed withTupuola, so of course it was chiefly to kill a pig in his honor."
"But it was against the law. My brother would not have liked it, andTupuola must have felt badly to know his house was to be looted."
"He would have felt worse," said Pola, "to have acted unchiefly to afriend."
We never would have known of the famine in Tanugamanono if it had notbeen for Pola. The hurricane had blown off all the young nuts from thecocoanut palms and the fruit from the breadfruit trees, while the tarowas not yet ripe. We passed the village daily. The chief was mybrother's dear friend; the girls often came up to decorate the place fora dinner party, but we had no hint of any distress in the village.
One morning I gave Pola two large ship's biscuits from the pantry.
"Be not angry," said Pola, "but I prefer to carry these home."
"Eat them," I said, "and I will give you more."
Before leaving that night he came to remind me of this. I was swingingin a hammock reading a novel when Pola came to kiss my hand and bid megood night.
"_Love_," I said, "_Talofa_."
"_Soifua_," Pola replied, "may you sleep;" and then he added, "Be notangry, but the biscuits----"
"Are you hungry?" I asked. "Didn't you have your dinner?"
"Oh, yes, plenty of pea-soupo" (a general name for anything in tins);"but you said, in your high-chief kindness, that if I ate the twobiscuits you would give me more to take home."
"And you ate them?"
He hesitated a perceptible moment, and then said:
"Yes, I ate them."
He looked so glowing and sweet, leaning forward to beg a favor, that Isuddenly pulled him to me by his bare, brown shoulders for a kiss. Hefell against the hammock and two large round ship's biscuits slippedfrom under his _lava-lava_.
"Oh, Pola!" I cried, reproachfully. It cut me to the heart that heshould lie to me.
He picked them up in silence, repressing the tears that stood in his bigblack eyes, and turned to go. I felt there was something strange inthis, one of those mysterious Samoan affairs that had so often baffledme.
"I will give you two more biscuits," I said, quietly, "if you willexplain why you told a wicked lie and pained the heart that loved you."
"Teuila," he cried, anxiously, "I love you. I would not pain your heartfor all the world. But they are starving in the village. My father, thechief, divides the food, so that each child and old person and all shallshare alike, and today there was only green baked bananas, two for each,and tonight when I return there will be again a division of one for eachmember of the village. It seems hard that I should come here and eat andeat, and my brother and my two little sisters, and the good Tumau also,should have only one banana. So I thought I would say to you, 'Behold, Ihave eaten the two biscuits,' and then you would give me two more andthat would be enough for one each to my two sisters and Tumau and mybrother, who is older than I."
That night my brother went down to the village and interviewed thechief. It was all true, as Pola had said, only they had been too proudto mention it. Mr. Stevenson sent bags of rice and kegs of beef to thevillage, and gave them permission to dig for edible roots in our forest,so they were able to tide over until the taro and yams were ripe.
Pola always spoke of Vailima as "our place," and Mr. Stevenson as "mychief." I had given him a little brown pony that exactly matched his ownskin. A missionary, meeting him in the forest road as he was gallopingalong like a young centaur, asked, "Who are you?"
"I," answered Pola, reining in his pony with a gallant air, "am one ofthe Vailima men!"
He proved, however, that he considered himself a true Samoan by aconversation we had together once when we were walking down to Apia. Wepassed a new house where a number of half-caste carpenters were brisklyat work.
"See how clever these men are, Pola," I said, "building the white man'shouse. When you get older perhaps I will have you taught carpentering,that you may build houses and make money."
"Me?" asked Pola, surprised.
"Yes," I replied. "Don't you think that would be a good idea?"
"I am the son of a chief," said Pola.
"I know," I said, "that your highness is a very great personage, but allthe same it is good to know how to make money. Wouldn't you like to be acarpenter?"
"No," said Pola, scornfully, adding, with a wave of his arm that took inacres of breadfruit trees, banana groves, and taro patches, "Why shouldI work? All this land belongs to me."
Once, when Pola had been particularly adorable, I told him, in a burstof affection, that he could have anything in the world he wanted, onlybegging him to name it.
He smiled, looked thoughtful for an instant, and then answered, that ofall things in the world, he would like ear-rings, like those the sailorswear.
I bought him a pair the next time I went to town. Then, armed with acork and a needleful of white silk, I called Pola, and asked if hewanted the ear-rings badly enough to endure the necessary operation.
He smiled and walked up to me.
"Now, this is going to hurt, Pola," I said.
He stood perfectly straight when I pushed the needle through his ear andcut off a little piece of silk. I looked anxiously in his face as heturned his head for me to pierce the other one. I was so nervous that myhands trembled.
"Are you _sure_ it does not hurt, Pola, my pigeon?" I asked, and I havenever forgotten his answer.
"My father is a soldier," he said.
Pola's dress was a simple garment, a square of white muslin hemmed byhis adopted mother. Like all Samoans, he was naturally very clean, goingwith the rest of the "Vailima men" to swim in the waterfall twice a day.He would wash his hair in the juice of wild oranges, clean his teethwith the inside husk of the cocoanut, and, putting on a fresh_lava-lava_, would wash out the discarded one in the river, laying itout in the sunshine to dry. He was always decorated with flowers in someway--a necklace of jessamine buds, pointed red peppers, or the scarletfruit of the pandanas. Little white boys looked naked without theirclothes, but Pola in a strip of muslin, with his wreath of flowers, orsea-shells, some ferns twisted about one ankle, perhaps, or a boar'stusk fastened to his left arm with strands of horse-hair, lookedcompletely, even handsomely, dressed.
He was not too proud to lend a helping hand at any work going--settingthe table, polishing the floor of the hall or the brass handles of theold cabinet, leading the horses to water, carrying pails for themilkmen, helping the cook in the kitchen, the butler in the pantry, orthe cowboy in the fields; holding skeins of wool for Mr. Stevenson'smother, or
trotting beside the lady of the house, "Tamaitai," as theyall called her, carrying seeds or plants for her garden. When my brotherwent out with a number of natives laden with surveying implements, Polaonly stopped long enough to beg for a cane-knife before he was leadingthe party. If Mr. Stevenson called for his horse and started to town itwas always Pola who flew to open the gate for him, waving a "_Talofa_!"and "Good luck to the traveling!"
The Samoans are not reserved, like the Indians, or haughty, like theArabs. They are a cheerful, lively people, who keenly enjoy a joke,laughing at the slightest provocation. Pola bubbled over with fun, andhis voice could be heard chattering and singing gaily at any hour of theday. He made up little verses about me, which he sang to the gracefulgestures of the Siva or native dance, showing unaffected delight whencommended. He cried out with joy and admiration when he first heard ahand-organ, and was excitedly happy when allowed to turn the handle. Igave him a box of tin soldiers, which he played with for hours in myroom. He would arrange them on the floor, talking earnestly to himselfin Samoan.
"These are brave brown men," he would mutter. "They are fighting forMata'afa. Boom! Boom! These are white men. They are fighting theSamoans. Pouf!" And with a wave of his arm he knocked down a wholebattalion, with the scornful remark, "All white men are cowards."
After Mr. Stevenson's death so many of his Samoan friends begged for hisphotograph that we sent to Sydney for a supply, which was soonexhausted. One afternoon Pola came in and remarked, in a very hurt andaggrieved manner, that he had been neglected in the way of photographs.
"But your father, the chief, has a large fine one."
"True," said Pola. "But that is not mine. I have the box presented to meby your high-chief goodness. It has a little cover, and there I wish toput the sun-shadow of Tusitala, the beloved chief whom we all revere,but I more than the others because he was the head of my clan."
"To be sure," I said, and looked about for a photograph. I found apicture cut from a weekly paper, one I remember that Mr. Stevensonhimself had particularly disliked. He would have been pleased had heseen the scornful way Pola threw the picture on the floor.
"I will not have that!" he cried. "It is pig-faced. It is not the shadowof our chief." He leaned against the door and wept.
"I have nothing else, Pola," I protested. "Truly, if I had anotherpicture of Tusitala I would give it to you."
He brightened up at once. "There is the one in the smoking-room," hesaid, "where he walks back and forth. That pleases me, for it looks likehim." He referred to an oil painting of Mr. Stevenson by Sargent. Iexplained that I could not give him that. "Then I will take the roundone," he said, "of tin." This last was the bronze _bas-relief_ by St.Gaudens. I must have laughed involuntarily, for he went out deeply hurt.Hearing a strange noise in the hall an hour or so later, I opened thedoor, and discovered Pola lying on his face, weeping bitterly.
"What _are_ you crying about?" I asked.
"The shadow, the shadow," he sobbed. "I want the sun-shadow ofTusitala."
I knocked at my mother's door across the hall, and at the sight of thattear-stained face her heart melted, and he was given the last photographwe had, which he wrapped in a banana-leaf, tying it carefully with aribbon of grass.
We left Samoa after Mr. Stevenson's death, staying away for more than ayear. Pola wrote me letters by every mail in a large round hand, butthey were too conventional to bear any impress of his mind. He referredto our regretted separation, exhorting me to stand fast in thehigh-chief will of the Lord, and, with his love to each member of thefamily, mentioned by name and title, he prayed that I might live long,sleep well, and not forget Pola, my unworthy servant.
When we returned to Samoa we were up at dawn, on shipboard, watching thehorizon for the first faint cloud that floats above the island of Upulu.Already the familiar perfume came floating over the waters--that sweetblending of many odors, of cocoanut-oil and baking breadfruit, ofjessamine and gardenia. It smelt of home to us, leaning over the railand watching. First a cloud, then a shadow growing more and moredistinct until we saw the outline of the island. Then, as we drewnearer, the deep purple of the distant hills, the green of the richforests, and the silvery ribbons where the waterfalls reflect thesunshine.
Among the fleet of boats skimming out to meet us was one far ahead ofthe others, a lone canoe propelled by a woman, with a single figurestanding in the prow. As the steamer drew near I made out the figure ofPola, dressed in wreaths and flowers in honor of my return. As theanchor went down in the bay of Apia and the custom-house officer startedto board, I called out, begging him to let the child come on first. Hedrew aside. The canoe shot up to the gangway, and Pola, all in hisfinery of fresh flowers, ran up the gangway and stepped forth on thedeck. The passengers drew back before the strange little figure, but hewas too intent upon finding me to notice them.
"Teuila!" he cried, joyfully, with the tears rolling down his cheeks. Iwent forward to meet him, and, kneeling on the deck, caught him in myarms.