RUAU, the old Paumotuan woman, and the owner of Tanao, was the last of her family. There were relatives by marriage, but none of them would consent to live on so poor an atoll; and the original population, never large, had diminished, through death and migration1, until at last she was left alone, living in her memories of other days, awed2 by the companionship of spirits present to her in strange and terrible shapes. At last she felt that she could endure it no longer; but it was many months before the smoke of one of her signal fires was seen by a passing schooner3. She returned with it to Tahiti, and if she had been lonely before, she was tenfold lonelier there, so far from the graves of her husband and children. It was at this time that Crichton met her. He had been living at Tahiti for more than a year, on the lookout4 for just such an opportunity as Ruau offered him. Although only twenty-eight, he was in the tenth year of his wanderings, and had almost despaired of finding the place he had so long dreamed of and searched for. During that period he had been moving slowly eastward5, through Borneo, New Guinea, the Solomons, the New Hebrides, the Tongas, the Cook 21 Group. In some of these islands the climate was too powerful an enemy for a white man to contend with; in others there was no land available, or they lacked the solitude6 he wanted. This latter embarrassment7 was the one he had met at Tahiti. The fact is an illuminating8 commentary on his character. Most men would find exceptional opportunities for seclusion9 there; not on the seaboard but in the mountains; in the valleys winding10 deeply among them, where no one goes from year's end to year's end. Even those leading out to the sea are but little frequented in their upward reaches. But Crichton was very exacting11 in his requirements in this respect. He was one of those men who make few or no friends—one of those lonely spirits without the ties or the kindly12 human associations which make life pleasant to most of us. They wander the thinly peopled places of the earth, interested in a large way at what they see from afar or faintly hear, but looking on with quiet eyes; taking no part, being blessed or cursed by nature with a love of silence, of the unchanging peace of great solitudes13. One reads of them now and then in fiction, and if they live in fiction it is because of men like Crichton, their prototypes in reality, seen for a moment as they slip apprehensively14 across some by-path leading from the outside world.
He had a little place at Tahiti, a walk of two hours and a quarter, he said, from the government offices in the port. He had to go there sometimes to attend to the usual formalities, and I have no doubt that he knew within ten seconds the length of the journey which would be a very distasteful one to him. I can imagine his uneasiness at what he saw and heard on 22 those infrequent visits. An after-the-war renewal15 of activity, talk of trade, development, progress, would startle him into a waiting, listening attitude. Returning home, maps and charts would be got out and plans made against the day when it would be necessary for him to move on. He told me of his accidental meeting with Ruau, as he called the old Paumotuan woman. It came only a few days after the arrival from San Francisco of one of the monthly steamers. A crowd of tourists—stop-over passengers of a day—had somehow discovered the dim trail leading to his house. "They were much pleased with it," he said, adding, with restraint: "They took a good many pictures. I was rather annoyed at this, although, of course, I said nothing." No doubt they made the usual remarks: "Charming! So quaint16!" etc.
It was the last straw for Crichton. So he made another visit to the government offices where he had his passport viséed. He meant to go to Maketea, a high phosphate island which stands like a gateway17 at the northwestern approach to the Low Archipelago. The phosphate would be worked out in time and the place abandoned, as other islands of that nature had been, to the seabirds. But on that same evening, while he was having dinner at a Chinaman's shop in town, he overheard Ruau trying to persuade some of her relatives to return with her to Tanao. He knew of the island. He is one of the few men who would know of it. He had often looked at it on his charts, being attracted by its isolated18 position. The very place for him! And the old woman, he said, when she learned that he wanted to go there, that he wanted to stay always—all his life—gripped his hands in both of hers 23 and held them, crying softly, without saying anything more. The relatives made some objections to the arrangement at first. But the island being remote, poverty-stricken, haunted, they were soon persuaded to consent to a ten years' lease, with the option of renewal. Crichton promised, of course, to take care of Ruau as long as she lived, and at her death to bury her decently beside her husband.
He proceeded at once with his altered plans. There were government regulations to be complied with and these had taken some time. On the day when he was at last free to start he learned that the Caleb S. Winship was about to sail on a three months' voyage in the Low Archipelago. He had no time to ask for passage beforehand. He had to chance the possibility of getting it at the last moment. It is not to be supposed that either the manager of the Inter-Island Trading Company or the supercargo of the Winship would have consented to carry him to such an out-of-the-way destination had they known his reason for wanting to be set down there. It amuses me now to think of those two hard-headed traders, men without a trace of sentiment, going one hundred and fifty miles off their course merely to carry the least gregarious21 of wanderers on the last leg of his long journey to an ideal solitude. It was their curiosity which gained him his end. They believed he had some secret purpose, some reason of purely22 material self-interest in view. They had both seen Tanao from a distance and knew that it had never been worth visiting either for pearl shell or copra. It is hard to understand what miracle they believed might have taken place in the meantime. During the voyage I often heard them 24 talking about the atoll, about Crichton—wondering, conjecturing23, and always miles off the track. It was plain that he was a good deal disturbed by their hints and furtive24 questionings. He seemed to be afraid that mere20 talk about Tanao on the part of an outsider might sully the purity of its loneliness. He may have been a little selfish in his attitude, but if that is a fault in a man of his temperament25 it is one easily forgiven. And what could he have said to those traders? It was much better to keep silent and let them believe what they liked.
It must not be thought that Crichton poured out his confidences to me like a schoolgirl. On the contrary, he had a very likable reserve, although a good half of it, I should say, was shyness. Then, too, he had almost forgotten how to talk except in the native dialects of several groups of widely scattered26 islands. In English he had a tendency to prolong his vowels27 and to omit consonants28, which gave his speech a peculiar29 exotic sound. He made no advances for some time. Neither did I. For more than three weeks we lived together on shipboard, went ashore30 together at islands where we had put in for copra, and all that while we did not exchange above two hundred words in conversation. There was so little talk that I can remember the whole of it, almost word for word. Once while we were walking on the outer beach at Raraka, an atoll of thirty-five inhabitants, he said to me:
"I wish I had come out here years ago. They appeal to the imagination, don't you think, all these islands?"
His volubility startled me. It was a shock to the senses, like the crash of a coconut31 on a tin roof heard 25 in the profound stillness of an island night. There was my opportunity to throw off reserve and I lost it through my surprise. I merely said, "Yes, very much." An hour later we saw the captain, no larger than a penny doll, at the end of a long vista32 of empty beach, beckoning33 us to come back. We went aboard without having spoken again. It was an odd sort of relationship for two white men thrown into close contact on a small trading schooner in the loneliest ocean in the world, as Nordhoff put it. We were no more companionable in the ordinary sense than a pair of hermit35 crabs36.
But the need for talking drops away from men under such circumstances and neither of us found the long silences embarrassing. The spell of the islands was upon us both. I can understand Crichton's speaking of their appeal to the imagination while we were in the midst of them; for our presence there seemed an illusion—a dream more radiant than any reality could be. In fact, my only hold upon reality during that voyage was the Caleb S. Winship, and sometimes even that substantial old vessel37 suffered sea changes; was metamorphosed in a moment; and it was hard to believe that she was a boat built by men's hands. Often as she lay at anchor in a lagoon38 of dreamlike beauty I paddled out from shore in a small canoe, and, making fast under her stern, spent an afternoon watching the upward play of the reflections from the water and the blue shadows underneath39, rippling40 out and vanishing in the light like flames of fire. For me her homely41, rugged42 New England name was a pleasant link with the past. I liked to read the print of it. The word "Boston," her old home port, was still faintly legible 26 through a coat of white paint. It brought to mind old memories and the faces of old friends, hard to visualize43 in those surroundings without such practical help. Far below lay the floor of the lagoon where all the rainbows of the world have authentic44 end. The water was so clear, and the sunlight streamed through it with so little loss in brightness that one seemed to be suspended in mid-air above the forests of branching coral, the deep, cool valleys, and the wide, sandy plains of that strange continent.
Crichton, I believe, was beyond the desire to keep in touch with the world he had left so many years before. His experiences there may have been bitter ones. At any rate, he never spoke34 of them, and I doubt if he thought of them often. People had little interest for him, not even those of the atolls which we visited. When on shore I usually found him on the outer beaches, away from the villages which lie along the lagoon. In most of the atolls the distance from beach to beach is only a few hundred yards, but the ocean side is unfrequented and solitary45. On calm days when the tide begins to ebb46 the silence there is unearthly. The wide shore, hot and glaring in the sun, stretches away as far as the eye can reach, empty of life except for thousands of small hermit crabs moving into the shade of the palms. They snap into their shells at your approach and make fast the door as their houses fall, with a sound like the tinkling47 of hailstones, among heaps of broken coral. We waded48 along the shallows at low tide. When the wind was onshore and a heavy surf breaking over the outer edge of the reef, we sat as close to it as we could, watching the seas gathering49 far out, rising in sheer walls fringed with 27 wind-whipped spray, which seemed higher than the island itself as they approached. It was a fascinating sight—the reef hidden in many places in a perpetual smoke of sunlight-filtered mist, through which the oncoming breakers could be seen dimly as they swept forward, curled, and fell. But one could not avoid a feeling of uneasiness, of insecurity, thinking of what had happened in those islands—most of them only a meter or two above sea level—in the hurricanes of the past; and of what would happen again at the coming of the next great storm.
We made landfalls at dawn, in midafternoon, late at night—saw the islands in aspects of beauty exceeding one's strangest imaginings. We penetrated50 farther and farther into a thousand-mile area of atoll-dotted ocean, discharging our cargo19 of lumber51 and corrugated52 iron, rice and flour and canned goods; taking on copra; carrying native passengers from one place to another. Sometimes we were out of sight of land for several days, beating into head winds under a slowly moving pageantry of clouds which alone gave assurance of the rotundity of the earth. When at last land appeared it seemed inaccessibly53 remote, at the summit of a long slope of water which we would never be able to climb. Sometimes for as long a period we skirted the shore line of a single atoll, the water deepening and shoaling under our keel in splotches of vague or vivid coloring. From a vantage point in the rigging one could see a segment of a vast circle of islands strung at haphazard54 on a thread of reef which showed a thin, clear line of changing red and white under the incessant55 battering56 of the surf. Several times upon going ashore we found the villages deserted57, the inhabitants having 28 gone to distant parts of the atoll for the copra-making season. In one village we came upon an old man too feeble to go with the others, apparently58, sitting in the shade playing a phonograph. He had but three records: "Away to the Forest," "The Dance of the Nymphs Schottische," and "Just a Song at Twilight59." The disks were as old as the instrument itself, no doubt, and the needles so badly worn that one could barely hear the music above the rasping of the mechanism60. There was a groove61 on the vocal62 record where the needle caught, and the singer, a woman with a high, quavery voice, repeated the same phrase, "when the lights are low," over and over again. I can still hear it, even at this distance of time and place, and recall vividly63 to mind the silent houses, the wide, vacant street bright with fugitive64 sunshine, the lagoon at the end of it mottled with the shadows of clouds.
The sense of our remoteness grew upon me as the weeks and months passed. Once, rounding a point of land, we came upon two schooners65 lying inside the reef of a small atoll. One of them had left Papeete only a short while before. Her skipper gave us a bundle of old newspapers. Glancing through them that evening, I heard as in a dream the far-off clamor of the outside world—the shrieking66 of whistles, the roar of trains, the strident warnings of motors; but there was no reality, no allurement67 in the sound. I saw men carrying trivial burdens with an air of immense effort, of grotesque68 self-importance; scurrying69 in breathless haste on useless errands; gorging70 food without relish71; sleeping without refreshment72; taking their leisure without enjoyment73; living without the knowledge of content; dying without ever having lived. The 29 pictures which came to mind as I read were distorted, untrue, no doubt; for by that time I was almost as much attracted by the lonely life of the islands as my friend Crichton. My old feeling of restlessness was gone. In its place had come a certitude of happiness, a sense of well-being75 for which I can find no parallel this side of boyhood.
It was largely the result of living among people who are as permanently76 happy, I believe, as it is possible for humankind to be. And the more remote the island, the more slender the thread of communication with civilization as we know it, the happier they were. It was not in my imagination that I found this true, or that I had determined77 beforehand to see only so much of their life as might be agreeable and pleasant to me. On the contrary, if I had any bias78 at first, it was on the other side. Disillusionment is a sad experience and I had no desire to lay myself open to it. Therefore I listened willingly to the less favorable stories of native character which the traders, and others who know them, had to tell. But summed up dispassionately later, in the light of my own observations, it seemed to me that the faults of character of which they were accused were more like the natural shortcomings of children. In many respects the Paumotuans, like other divisions of the Polynesian family, are children who have never grown up, and one can't blame them for a lack of the artificial virtues79 which come only with maturity80. They are without guile81. They have little of the shrewdness or craftiness82 of some primitive83 peoples. At least so it appeared to me, making as careful a judgment85 of them as I could. I have often noticed how like children they are in their 30 amazing trustfulness, their impulsive86 generosity87, and in the intensity88 and briefness of their emotions.
The more I saw of their life, the more desirable it seemed that they might continue to escape any serious encroachments of European or American civilization. They have no doctors, because illness is almost unknown in their islands. Crime, insanity89, feeblemindedness, evils all too common with us, are of such rare occurrence that one may say they do not exist. It may be said, too, without overstatement, that their community life very nearly approaches perfection. Every atoll is a little world to itself with a population varying from twenty-five to perhaps three hundred inhabitants. The chief, who is chosen informally by the men, serves for a period of four years under the sanction of the French government. He has very little to do in the exercise of his authority, for the people govern themselves, are law-abiding without law.
When I first learned that there are no schools throughout the islands I thought the French guilty of criminal neglect, but later I reversed this opinion. After all, why should they have schools? No education of ours could make them more generous, more kindly disposed to one another, more hospitable90 and courteous91 toward strangers, happier than they are now. Certainly it could not make them less selfish, covetous92, rapacious93, for most of them are as innocent of those vices94 as their own children. In a few of the richer, more accessible islands they are slowly changing in these respects, owing to the example set them by men of our own race. In another fifty years, perhaps, they may have learned to believe that material wealth is the only thing worth striving for. Then will come 31 pride in their possessions, envy of those who have greater, contempt and suspicion for those who have less, and so an end to their happiness.
I had never before seen children growing up in a state of nature and I made full use of the rare opportunity. I spent most of my time with them; played on shore with them; went fishing and swimming with them; and found in the experience something better than a renewal of boyhood because of a keener sense of beauty, a more conscious, mature appreciation95 of the happiness one has in the simplest kinds of pleasures. Sometimes we started on our excursions at dawn; sometimes we made them by moonlight. I became a collector of shells in order to give some purpose to our expeditions along the reef. I couldn't have chosen a better interest, for they knew all about shells, where and when to find the best ones, and they could indulge their love of giving to a limitless extent. In the afternoons we went swimming in the lagoon. There I saw them at their best and happiest, in an element as necessary and familiar to them as it is to their parents. It is always a pleasure to watch children at play in the water, but those Paumotuan youngsters with their natural grace at swimming and diving put one under an enchantment96. Many of the boys had water glasses and small spears of their own and went far from shore, catching97 fish. They lay face down on the surface of the water, swimming easily, with a great economy of motion, turning their heads now and then for a breath of air; and when they saw their prey98 they dived after it as skillfully as their fathers do and with nearly as much success. Seen against the bright floor of the lagoon, with swarms99 of brilliantly colored fish scattering100 32 before them, they seemed doubtfully human, the children of some forsaken101 merman rather than creatures who have need of air to breathe and solid earth to stand on. If education is the suitable preparation for life, the children of the atolls have it at its best and happiest without knowing that it is education. They are skillful in the pursuits and learned in the interests which touch their lives, and one can wish them no better fortune than that they may remain in ignorance of those which do not.
Their parents, as I have said, are but children of mature stature102, with the same gift of frank, generous laughter, the same delight in the new and strange. Very little is required to amuse them. I had a mandolin which I used to take ashore with me at various atolls, after I had become convinced that their enjoyment of my music was not feigned103. At first I was suspicious, for I had no illusions about my virtuosity104, and even when I thought of it in the most flattering way their pleasure seemed out of all proportion to the quality of the performance. But there was no doubting the genuineness of it. The whole village would assemble to hear me play. I had a limited repertoire105, but that seemed to matter very little. They liked to hear the same tunes106 played over and over again. I learned some of the old missionary107 hymns108 which they knew: "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," "Oh, Happy Day," "We're Marching to Zion," and others.
It was strange to find those songs, belonging, fortunately, to a bygone period in English and American life, living still in that remote part of the world, not because of anything universal in their appeal, but merely because they had been carried there years ago 33 by representatives of the missionary societies. Many eccentric changes had been made in both the rhythm and melody, greatly to the improvement of both, but no amount of changing could make them other than what they are—the uncouth109 expression of a narrow and ugly kind of religious sentiment. I don't think the Paumotuans care much for them, either. They always seemed glad to turn from them to their own songs, which have nothing either of modern or old-time missionary feeling. A woman usually began the singing, in a high-pitched, nasal, or throaty voice, which she modulated110 in an extraordinary way. Immediately other women joined in, then several men whose voices were of tenor111 quality, followed by other men in basses112 and barytones, chanting in two or three tones which, for rhythm and tone quality, were like the beating of kettledrums. The weird113 blending of harmonies was unlike anything I had ever heard before. There is nothing in our music which even remotely resembles theirs, so that it is impossible to describe the effect of the full chorus. Some of the songs make a strong appeal to savage114 instincts. The less resolute115 of the early missionaries116, hearing them, must have thrown up their hands in despair at the thought of the long, difficult task of conversion117 awaiting them. But if there were any irresolute118 missionaries, they were evidently overruled by their sterner brothers and sisters.
On nearly every island there is now a church, either Protestant or Catholic. In the Protestant ones the native population practice the only true faith, largely to the accompaniment of this old barbaric music. Those unsightly little structures rock to the sound 34 of exultant119 choruses which ought never to be sung withindoors. The Paumotuans themselves know best the natural setting for their songs—the lagoon beach with a great fire of coconut husks blazing in the center of the group of singers. I liked to hear them from a distance where I could get their full effect; to look on from the schooner lying a few hundred yards offshore120. All the inhabitants of the village would be gathered within the circle of the firelight, which brought their figures and the white, straight stems of the coconut palms into clear relief against a background of deep shadow. The singing continued far into the night, so that I often fell asleep while listening, and heard the music dying away, mingling121 at last with the interminable booming of the surf.
By degrees we worked slowly through the heart of the archipelago, pursuing a general southeasterly course, the islands becoming more and more scattered, until we had before us an expanse of ocean almost unbroken to the coast of South America. But Tanao lay at the edge of it, and at length, on a lowering April day, we set out on that last leg of our outward journey. The Caleb S. Winship lay very low in the water. By that time she had a full cargo of copra, one hundred tons in the hold and twelve, sacked, on deck. A portion of the deck cargo was lost that same afternoon, during a gale122 of wind and rain which burst upon us with fury and followed us with a seeming malignity123 of intent. We ran before it, far out of our course, for three hours. To me the weight of air was something incredible, an unusually vigorous flourish of the departing hurricane season. Water spouted124 out of the scuppers in a continuous stream, and loose articles 35 were swept clear of the ship, disappearing at once in a cloud of blinding rain. There was a fearful racket in the cabin of rolling biscuit tins and smashing crockery. Then an eight-hundred-pound safe broke loose and started to imitate Victor Hugo's cannon125. Luckily it hadn't much scope and no smooth runway, so that it was soon brought to a halt by Ruau, the old Paumotuan woman, who was the only one below at the time. She made an effective barricade126 of copra sacks and bedding, dodging127 the plunging128 monster with an agility129 surprising in a woman of sixty. But what I remember best was Tané, a monkey belonging to one of the sailors, skidding130 along the cabin deck until he was blown against the engine-room whistle, which rose just clear of the forward end of it. He wrapped arms and legs around it in his terror, opening the valve in some way, and the shrill131 blast rose high above the mighty132 roar of wind, like the voice of man lifted with awe-inspiring impudence133 in defiance134 of the mindless anger of nature.
The storm blew itself out toward sundown and the night fell clear—a night for stars to make one wary135 of thought; but the moon rose about nine, softening136 the pitiless distances, throwing a veil of mild light across the black voids in the Milky137 Way, seen so clearly in those latitudes138. The schooner was riding a heavy swell139, and, burdened as she was, rose clumsily to it, sticking her nose into the slope of every sea. Ruau was at her accustomed place against the cabin ventilator, unmindful of the showers of spray, maintaining her position on the slanting140 deck with the skill of three months' practice. The thought that I must soon bid her good-by saddened me, for I knew there was 36 small chance that I should ever meet her again. I envied Crichton his opportunity for friendship with that noble old woman, so proud of her race, so true to her own beliefs, to her own way of living. Her type is none too common among Polynesians in these days. One gets all too frequently an impression of a consciousness of inferiority on their part, a sense of shame because of their simple way of living as compared with ours. Ruau was not guilty of it. She never could be, I think, under any circumstances. I learned afterward141 of an attempt which had been made to convert her to Christianity during her stay at Tahiti. Evidently she had not been at all convinced by the priest's arguments, and when he made some slighting remark about the ghosts and spirits which were so real to her, she refused to listen any longer. Frightened though she was of spirits, she was not willing that they should be ridiculed142.
We sighted her atoll at dawn, such a dawn as one rarely sees outside the tropics. The sky was overcast143 at a great height with a film of luminous144 mist through which the sun shone wanly145, throwing a sheen like a dust of gold on the sea. Masses of slate-colored cloud billowed out from the high canopy146, overhanging a black fringe of land which lay just below the line of the horizon. The atoll was elliptical in shape, about eight miles long by five broad. There were seven widely separated islands on the circle of reef and one small motu in the lagoon. We came into the wind about a half mile offshore and put off in the whaleboat. The sea was still running fairly high, and the roar of the surf came across the water with a sound as soothing147 as the fall of spring rain; but it increased in volume 37 as we drew in until the ears were stunned148 by the crash of tremendous combers which toppled and fell sheer, over the ledge74 of the reef. It was by far the most dangerous-looking landing place we had seen on the journey. There was no break in the reef; only a few narrow indentations where the surf spouted up in clouds of spray. Between the breaking of one sea and the gathering of the next, the water poured back over a jagged wall of rock bared for an instant to an appalling149 depth. Only a native crew could have managed that landing. We rode comber after comber, the sailors backing on their oars150, awaiting the word of the boat steerer, who stood with his feet braced151 on the gunwales, his head turned over his shoulder, watching the following seas. All at once he began shouting at the top of his voice. I looked back in time to see a wall of water, on the point of breaking, rising high above us. It fell just after it passed under us, and we were carried forward across the edge of the reef, through the inner shallows to the beach.
The two traders started off at once on a tour of inspection152 and we saw nothing more of them until late in the evening. Meanwhile I went with Ruau and Crichton across the island to the lagoon beach where her house was. As in most of the atolls, the ground was nearly free from undergrowth, the soil affording nourishment153 only to the trees and a few hardy154 shrubs155. Coconuts156 and dead fronds157 were scattered everywhere. A few half-wild pigs, feeding on the shoots of sprouted158 nuts, gazed up with an odd air of incredulity, of amazement159 as we approached, then galloped160 off at top speed and disappeared far in the distance. Ruau stopped when we were about halfway161 38 across and held up her hand for silence. A bird was singing somewhere, a melodious162 varied163 song like that of the hermit thrush. I had heard it before and had once seen the bird, a shy, solitary little thing, one of the few species of land birds found on the atolls.
While we were standing164 there, listening to the faint music, Crichton took me by the arm. He said nothing, and in a moment withdrew his hand. I was deeply moved by that manifestation165 of friendliness166, an unusual one for him to make. He had some unaccountable defect in his character which kept him aloof167 from any relationship approaching real intimacy168. I believe he was constantly aware of it, that he had made many futile169 attempts to overcome it. It may have been that which first set him on his wanderings, now happily at an end. It was plain to me the moment we set foot on shore that he would have to seek no farther for asylum170. Tanao is one of the undoubted ends of the earth. No one would ever disturb him there. He himself was not so sure of this. Once, I remember, when we were looking at the place on the chart, he spoke of the island of Pitcairn, the old-time refuge of the Bounty171 mutineers. Before the opening of the Panama Canal it had been as far removed from contact with the outside world as an island could be. Now it lies not far off the route through the Canal to New Zealand and is visited from time to time by the crews of tramp steamers and schooners. Tanao, however, is much farther to the north, and there is very slight possibility that its empty horizons will ever be stained by a smudge of smoke. As for an actual visit, one glance at the reef through the binoculars172 would convince any skipper of the folly173 of the attempt.
39 Even our own crew of natives, skilled at such hazardous174 work, came to grief in their second passage over it. They had gone out to the schooner for supplies Crichton had ordered—a few sacks of flour, some canned goods, and kerosene175 oil; in coming back the boat had been swept, broadside, against a ledge of rock. It stuck there, just at the edge of the reef, and the sailors jumped out with the line before the next wave came, capsizing the boat and carrying it inshore, bottom up. All the supplies were swept into deep water by the backwash and lost. There had been a similar accident at the other atoll—flour and rice brought so many thousands of miles having been spoiled within a few yards of their destination. I remember the natives plunging into the water at great risk to themselves to save a few sacks of soggy paste in the hope that a little of the flour in the center might still be dry; and a Chinese storekeeper, to whom it was consigned176, standing on the shore, wringing177 his hands in dumb grief. It was the first time I had ever seen a Chinaman make any display of emotion, and the sight brought home to me a conception of the tragic178 nature of such accidents to the inhabitants of those distant islands.
Crichton took his own loss calmly, concealing179 whatever disappointment he may have felt. Ruau was not at all concerned about it, and, while we were making an examination of the house, went out on the lagoon in a canoe and caught more than enough fish for supper. Then we found that all of our matches had been spoiled by sea water, so we could make no fire. Judging by the way Crichton brightened up at his discovery, one would have thought the loss a piece of luck. He 40 set to work at once to make an apparatus180 for kindling181 fire, but before it was finished Ruau had the fish cleaned and spread out on a coverlet of green leaves. We ate them raw, dipping them first into a sauce of coconut milk, and for dessert had a salad made of the heart of a tree. I don't remember ever having eaten with heartier182 appetite, but at the same time I couldn't imagine myself enjoying an unrelieved diet of coconuts and fish for a period of ten years—not for so long as a year, in fact. Crichton, however, was used to it, and Ruau had never known any other except during her three months' stay at Tahiti, where she had eaten strange hot food which had not agreed with her at all, she said.
Dusk came on as we sat over our meal. Ruau sat with her hands on her knees, leaning back against a tree, talking to Crichton. I understood nothing of what she was saying, but it was a pleasure merely to listen to the music of her voice. It was a little below the usual register of women's voices, strong and clear, but softer even than those of the Tahitians, and so flexible that I could follow every change in mood. She was telling Crichton of the tupapaku of her atoll which she dreaded183 most, although she knew that it was the spirit of one of her own sons. It appeared in the form of a dog with legs as long and thick as the stem of a full-grown coconut tree, and a body proportionally huge. It could have picked up her house as an ordinary dog would a basket. Once it had stepped lightly over it without offering to harm her in any way. Her last son had been drowned while fishing by moonlight on the reef outside the next island, which lay about two miles distant across the eastern end of 41 the lagoon. She had seen the dog three times since his death, and always at the same phase of the moon. Twice she had come upon it lying at full length on the lagoon beach, its enormous head resting on its paws. She was so badly frightened, she said, that she fell to the ground, incapable184 of further movement; sick at heart, too, at the thought that the spirit of the bravest and strongest of all her sons must appear to her in that shape. It was clear that she was recognized, for each time the dog began beating its tail on the ground as soon as it saw her. Then it got up, yawned and stretched, took a long drink of salt water, and started at a lope up the beach. She could see it very plainly in the bright moonlight. Soon it broke into a run, going faster and faster, gathering tremendous speed by the time it reached the other end of the island. From there it made a flying spring, and she last saw it as it passed, high in air, across the face of the moon, its head outstretched, its legs doubled close under its body. She believed that it crossed the two-mile gap of water which separated the islands in one gigantic leap.
That is the whole of the story as Crichton translated it for me, although there must have been other details, for Ruau gave her account of it at great length. Her earnestness of manner was very convincing, and left no doubt in my mind of the realness to her of the apparition185. As for myself, if I could have seen ghosts anywhere it would have been at Tanao. Late that night, walking alone on the lagoon beach, I found that I was keeping an uneasy watch behind me. The distant thunder of the surf sounded at times like a wild galloping186 on the hard sand, and the gentle slapping of 42 little waves near by like the lapping tongue of the ghostly dog having its fill of sea water.
We left Tanao with a fair wind the following afternoon, having been delayed in getting away because of the damaged whaleboat, which had to be repaired on shore. Tino, the supercargo, insisted on pushing off at once, the moment the work was finished. Crichton and Ruau were on the other beach at the time, so that I had no opportunity to say good-by; but as we were getting under way I saw him emerge from the deep shadow and stand for a moment, his hand shading his eyes, looking out toward the schooner. I waved, but evidently he didn't see me, for there was no response. Then he turned, walked slowly up the beach, and disappeared among the trees. For three hours I watched the atoll dwindling187 and blurring188 until at sunset it was lost to view under the rim84 of the southern horizon. Looking back across that space of empty ocean, I imagined that I could still see it dropping farther and farther away, down the reverse slope of a smooth curve of water, as though it were vanishing for all time beyond the knowledge and the concern of men.
My first packet of letters from Nordhoff was brought by the skipper of the schooner Alouette. He had been carrying it about for many weeks, and had it in the first place from the supercargo of another vessel, met at Rurutu, in the Austral group. The envelope, tattered189 and weather-stained, spoke of its long journey in search of me.
Before separating at Papeete we had arranged for a rendezvous190, but at that time we still possessed191 American 43 ideas of punctuality and well-ordered travel. Now we know something of the casual movements of trading schooners and have learned to regard the timely arrival of a letter as an event touching192 on the miraculous—the keeping of a rendezvous, a possibility too remote for consideration. One hears curious tales, in this part of the world, of the outcome of such temporary leave-takings as ours was meant to be—husbands seeking their wives and wives their husbands; families scattered among these fragments of land and striving for many months to reunite.
I witnessed, not long ago, the sequel of one of these unsuccessful quests. A native from a distant group of islands set out for one of the atolls of the Low Archipelago, the home of his sweetheart. Arrangements for the marriage had been made long before, but letters had gone astray, and upon his arrival the young man found that the family of his prospective193 father-in-law had gone to another atoll for the diving season. With no means of following, he submitted to the inevitable194, and married another girl. Months later, the woman of his first choice returned with her second choice of a husband; and the former lovers met, for the young man had not yet been able to return to his own island. Neither made any question of the other's decision—life is too short; and from the native point of view, it is foolish to spend it in wanderings which, at the last, may never fulfill195 their purpose.
Nevertheless, I shall make a search for Nordhoff—a leisurely196 search, with some expectation of finding him. Our islands, like those of Mr. Conrad's enchanted197 Heyst, are bounded by a circle two thousand or more miles across, and it is likely that neither of us 44 will ever succeed in breaking through to the outside world—if, indeed, there is an outside world. I am beginning to doubt this, for the enchantment is at work. As for Nordhoff, his letters, which follow, may speak for themselves.
Eaters of the Lotos
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1
migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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coconut
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| n.椰子 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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34
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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41
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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42
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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47
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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48
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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50
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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52
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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53
inaccessibly
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| Inaccessibly | |
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54
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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58
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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59
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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60
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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65
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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66
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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67
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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71
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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72
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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75
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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76
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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80
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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81
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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82
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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83
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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85
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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87
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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88
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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91
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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92
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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94
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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96
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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99
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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100
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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101
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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102
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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103
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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104
virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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105
repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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106
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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107
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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108
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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109
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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110
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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111
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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112
basses
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| 低音歌唱家，低音乐器( bass的名词复数 ) | |
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113
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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114
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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115
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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116
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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117
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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118
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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119
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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120
offshore
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| adj.海面的，吹向海面的；adv.向海面 | |
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121
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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122
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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123
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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124
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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125
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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126
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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127
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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128
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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129
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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130
skidding
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| n.曳出，集材v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的现在分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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131
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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132
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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133
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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134
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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135
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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136
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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137
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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138
latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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139
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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140
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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141
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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142
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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144
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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145
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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146
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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147
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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148
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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149
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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150
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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152
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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153
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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154
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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155
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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156
coconuts
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| n.椰子( coconut的名词复数 )；椰肉，椰果 | |
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157
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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158
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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159
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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160
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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161
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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162
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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163
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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164
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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165
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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166
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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167
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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168
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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169
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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170
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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171
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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172
binoculars
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| n.双筒望远镜 | |
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173
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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174
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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175
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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176
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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177
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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178
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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179
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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180
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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181
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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182
heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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183
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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184
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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185
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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186
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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187
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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188
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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189
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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190
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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191
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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192
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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193
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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194
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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195
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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196
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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197
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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