Nevertheless, it was touching7 to both the new-comers to see the Frenchman’s delight at meeting once more with civilized8 beings. “Figure to yourself, mademoiselle,” he said, with true French effusion—“figure to yourself the joy and surprise with which I, this morning, receive monsieur, your friend, at my humble9 cottage! For the first time after nine years on this hateful island, I see again a European face; I hear again the sound, the beautiful sound of that charming French language. My emotion, believe me, was too profound for words. When monsieur was gone, I retired10 to my hut, I sat down on the floor, I gave myself over to tears, tears of joy and gratitude11, to think I should once more catch a glimpse of civilization! This afternoon, I ask myself, can I venture to go out and pay my respects, thus attired12, in these rags, to a European lady? For a long time I doubt, I wonder, I hesitate. In my quality of Frenchman, I would have wished to call in civilized costume upon a civilized household. But what would you have? Necessity knows no law. I am compelled to envelope myself in my savage robe of office as a Polynesian god—a robe of office which, for the rest, is not without an interest of its own for the scientific ethnologist. It belongs to me especially as King of the Birds, and in it, in effect, is represented at least one feather of each kind or color from every part of the body of every species of bird that inhabits Boupari. I thus sum up, pour ainsi dire13, in my official costume all the birds of the island, as Tu-Kila-Kila, the very high god, sums up, in his quaint14 and curious dress, the land and the sea, the trees and the stones, earth and air, and fire and water.”
Familiarity with danger begets15 at last a certain callous16 indifference17. Muriel was surprised in her own mind to discover how easily they could chat with M. Peyron on such indifferent subjects, with that awful doom18 of an approaching death hanging over them so shortly. But the fact was, terrors of every kind had so encompassed19 them round since their arrival on the island that the mere additional certainty of a date and mode of execution was rather a relief to their minds than otherwise. It partook of the nature of a reprieve20, not of a sentence. Besides, this meeting with another speaker of a European tongue seemed to them so full of promise and hope that they almost forgot the terrors of their threatened end in their discussion of possible schemes for escape to freedom. Even M. Peyron himself, who had spent nine long years of exile in the island, felt that the arrival of two new Europeans gave him some hope of effecting at last his own retreat from this unendurable position. His talk was all of passing steamers. If the Australasian had come near enough once to sight the island, he argued, then the homeward-bound vessel21, en route for Honolulu, must have begun to take a new course considerably22 to the eastward23 of the old navigable channel. If this were so, their obvious plan was to keep a watch, day and night, for another passing Australian liner, and whenever one hove in sight, to steal away to the shore, seize a stray canoe, overpower, if possible, their Shadows, or give them the slip, and make one bold stroke for freedom on the open ocean.
None of them could conceal24 from their own minds, to be sure, the extreme difficulty of carrying out this programme. In the first place, it was a toss-up whether they ever sighted another steamer at all; for during the weeks they had already passed on the island, not a sign of one had appeared from any quarter. Then, again, even supposing a steamer ever hove in sight, what likelihood that they could make out for her in an open canoe in time to attract attention before she had passed the island? Tu-Kila-Kila would never willingly let them go; their Shadows would watch them with unceasing care; the whole body of natives would combine together to prevent their departure. If they ran away at all, they must run for their lives; as soon as the islanders discovered they were gone, every war-canoe in the place would be manned at once with bloodthirsty savages25, who would follow on their track with relentless26 persistence27.
As for Muriel, less prepared for such dangerous adventures than the two men, she was rather inclined to attach a certain romantic importance (as a girl might do) to the story of the parrot and the possible disclosures which it could make if it could only communicate with them. The mysterious element in the history of that unique bird attracted her fancy. “The only one of its race now left alive,” she said, with slow reflectiveness. “Like Dolly Pentreath, the last old woman who could speak Cornish! I wonder how long parrots ever live? Do you know at all, monsieur? You are the King of the Birds—you ought to be an authority on their habits and manners.”
The Frenchman smiled a gallant28 smile. “Unhappily, mademoiselle,” he said, “though, as a medical student, I took up to a certain extent biological science in general at the Collége de France, I never paid any special or peculiar29 attention in Paris to birds in particular. But it is the universal opinion of the natives (if that counts for much) that parrots live to a very great age; and this one old parrot of mine, whom I call Methuselah on account of his advanced years, is considered by them all to be a perfect patriarch. In effect, when the oldest men now living on the island were little boys, they tell me that Methuselah was already a venerable and much-venerated parrot. He must certainly have outlived all the rest of his race by at least the best part of three-quarters of a century. For the islanders themselves not infrequently live, by unanimous consent, to be over a hundred.”
“I remember to have read somewhere,” Felix said, turning it over in his mind, “that when Humboldt was travelling in the wilds of South America he found one very old parrot in an Indian village, which, the Indians assured him, spoke30 the language of an extinct tribe, incomprehensible then by any living person. If I recollect31 aright, Humboldt believed that particular bird must have lived to be nearly a hundred and fifty.”
“That is so, monsieur,” the Frenchman answered. “I remember the case well, and have often recalled it. I recollect our professor mentioning it one day in the course of his lectures. And I have always mentally coupled that parrot of Humboldt’s with my own old friend and subject, Methuselah. However, that only impresses upon one more fully the folly32 of hoping that we can learn anything worth knowing from him. I have heard him recite his story many times over, though now he repeats it less frequently than he used formerly to do; and I feel convinced it is couched in some unknown and, no doubt, forgotten language. It is a much more guttural and unpleasant tongue than any of the soft dialects now spoken in Polynesia. It belonged, I am convinced, to that yet earlier and more savage race which the Polynesians must have displaced; and as such it is now, I feel certain, practically irrecoverable.”
“If they were more savage than the Polynesians,” Muriel said, with a profound sigh, “I’m sorry for anybody who fell into their clutches.”
“But what would not many philologists33 at home in England give,” Felix murmured, philosophically34, “for a transcript35 of the words that parrot can speak—perhaps a last relic36 of the very earliest and most primitive37 form of human language!”
At the very moment when these things were passing under the wattled roof of Muriel’s hut, it happened that on the taboo38-space outside, Toko, the Shadow, stood talking for a moment with Ula, the fourteenth wife of the great Tu-Kila-Kila.
“I never see you now, Toko,” the beautiful Polynesian said, leaning almost across the white line of coral-sand which she dared not transgress39. “Times are dull at the temple since you came to be Shadow to the white-faced stranger.”
“It was for that that Tu-Kila-Kila sent me here,” the Shadow answered, with profound conviction. “He is jealous, the great god. He is bad. He is cruel. He wanted to get rid of me. So he sent me away to the King of the Rain that I might not see you.”
Ula pouted40, and held up her wounded finger before his eyes coquettishly. “See what he did to me,” she said, with a mute appeal for sympathy—though in that particular matter the truth was not in her. “Your god was angry with me to-day because I hurt his hand, and he clutched me by the throat, and almost choked me. He has a bad heart. See how he bit me and drew blood. Some of these days, I believe, he will kill me and eat me.”
The Shadow glanced around him suspiciously with an uneasy air. Then he whispered low, in a voice half grudge41, half terror, “If he does, he is a great god—he can search all the world—I fear him much, but Toko’s heart is warm. Let Tu-Kila-Kila look out for vengeance42.”
The woman glanced across at him open-eyed, with her enticing43 look. “If the King of the Rain, who is Korong, knew all the secret,” she murmured, slowly, “he would soon be Tu-Kila-Kila himself; and you and I could then meet together freely.”
The Shadow started. It was a terrible suggestion. “You mean to say—” he cried; then fear overcame him, and, crouching44 down where he sat, he gazed around him, terrified. Who could say that the wind would not report his words to Tu-Kila-Kila?
Ula laughed at his fears. “Pooh,” she answered, smiling. “You are a man; and yet you are afraid of a little taboo. I am a woman; and yet if I knew the secret as you do, I would break taboo as easily as I would break an egg-shell. I would tell the white-faced stranger all—if only it would bring you and me together forever.”
“It is a great risk, a very great risk,” the Shadow answered, trembling. “Tu-Kila-Kila is a mighty45 god. He may be listening this moment, and may pinch us to death by his spirits for our words, or burn us to ashes with a flash of his anger.”
The woman smiled an incredulous smile. “If you had lived as near Tu-Kila-Kila as I have,” she answered, boldly, “you would think as little, perhaps, of his divinity as I do.”
For even in Polynesia, superstitious46 as it is, no hero is a god to his wives or his valets.
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1
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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7
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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8
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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9
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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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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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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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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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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28
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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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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30
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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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philologists
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| n.语文学( philology的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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38
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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39
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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40
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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42
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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43
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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44
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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45
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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46
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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