The imaged stars the oceans knew a million years ago
Are dancing in the eyes of all the cities that I know!
Sees in the happy pagan’s eyes his own soul’s greatest need.
But these are aimless rhymes and will be understood by few,
Because I am the poet of those old things men call new.
IN the shadowland regions of a barbarian3 poet’s brain flows the river Lethe that murmurs4 the most subtle music of sentient5 Nature. Of such a poet I shall tell in the following pages, one whom I instinctively6 understood. For I also have stood in the primeval forest and “heard the silent thunders of the leaves” and seen the lightnings of a wild bird’s eyes, and God’s hand carving7 a thousand pillars for the temples of Nature, painting magical halls with the storied history of the blue days and daubs of all the dead sunsets. Wonderful eerie8 temples they were too. I have even been a pagan and half fancied I have seen the dead children creep out of the shadows and gaze around as they heard the sad songs and whisperings of those old forest trees. Nor was I deaf to the cry of anguish9 from the bleeding forest flowers as my foot crushed their uplifted faces of brief enough beauty. O Le Langi saw the world with such eyes. He was the first poet of his race. He was crammed10 full of mythical11 light, his imagination touching12 with 204splendour all that his eyes gazed upon. He hated most white men and their wretched boast of advancement13. He deeply read the books of Nature, but threw the white man’s lotu books into the sea! He too might well have cried out to his chastened people who had accepted the white man’s dogmas and gifts of clothing from the European morgues:
“Lo! thirty centuries of literature
O Le Langi’s ever earnest cry was:
Lo! centuries of grand belief in gods
Have chasteneth us; my mind a forest is
Of budding-light and thought’s bright spirit-flowers
And faery-wings of Beauty’s moving hours.
I am the darker-age grown old and thin—
And for you and your God care not one pin!
Such was O Le Langi’s cry to the white men—O Le Langi, who stands out like some wonderful, tattooed bas-relief in the background of my memory.
O Le Langi means Chief of the Heavens, and, so far as his handsome physique and fine, expressive17 face were concerned, he deserved that name. He was a fine sample of his race. Though he lived in Samoa, he was a full-blooded Marquesan, having emigrated from Nuka Hiva to Samoa in his youth. His father had been high chief of Queen Vaekehu’s royal bodyguard18 when that South Sea Semiramis had reigned19 supreme20 over her dominions21 and a thousand death-drums had called the hour of the sacrificial festival. O Le Langi’s mother had escaped from the rods of the French officials by beating a hasty retreat from Nuka Hiva to Papeete some fifty years before I met him. From Papeete she had stowed away 205in a trading schooner22 with her three little children, O Le Langi and her two daughters.
Both the girls had succumbed23 to the privations and terrors of some long voyage in an open boat which had finally drifted O Le Langi and his mother to the Samoan Isles24. The incidents of that terrible voyage O Le Langi only hinted about. Nor was I one who would attempt to learn more, it being quite obvious to me that the sad old chief had some strange idea that the whole truth of those days were best kept a secret in his own heart.
Though secretive over the tragic26 history that had caused his father’s execution and his mother’s flight from her native land, O Le Langi never tired of telling me the wonders of his tribe, and commemorating27 in words the mighty28 deeds of his forefathers29.
His knowledge of heathen mythology30 was marvellous, as were the tattooed armorial bearings, the insignia of blue blood, which were visible on his massive chest. I entertained no doubt whatever as to Le Langi’s royal pedigree. Seeing that massive human parchment inscribed31 with wondrous32 savage33 hieroglyhpics, the truth of all he said was perfectly34 evident. I knew that the Marquesans of royal blood had the tribal35 mottoes and family crest36 tattooed on their sons before puberty.
Langi looked liked some Greek god as he stood on his village stump37, his royal robe of the best tappa-cloth swung about his rosewood-hued, majestic39 frame. Never were the graceful40, god-like shoulders wholly covered. Even the maids, as they listened to his impassioned oratory41, sighed as the lightnings of poetic42 imagination leapt from those fine dark eyes of his. Yes, old as he was. By profession he was a travelling scribe, a genuine South Sea poet. This talent he had inherited. For I discovered that his father had once stood in the barbarian forums43 of Tai-o-hae and spouted44 the charms of his queen, 206Vaekehu, commemorating in verse the warrior-like deeds of the many brief kings who had ascended45 her throne—and their deaths when she had tired of them.
His temperament46 was Byronic, but at times he would become strangely imbued47 with the savage instincts of his race, becoming extremely bitter and cynical48 when his fortunes were at a low ebb49. For I must confess he had a large share of the commercial spirit. This much I noticed when he looked into the coco-nut-shell that he always passed around amongst his audience. Often one could see a poetic grin of extreme satisfaction end the handsome wrinkles in a bunch up to the northern territory of his high, bald, intellectual physiognomy as he counted the collection.
I never tired of listening to his way of telling the poetic legends of his island world to the white men, though I must admit that, beyond myself, few men of my colour were interested in all he had to say. Grins and jokes and indecent remarks were their highest contribution in the way of interest or gifts when he finished his poems.
I do not exaggerate in saying that, though Langi could not speak our language better than an English child of ten years, he was conversant50 with the works of many of our poets. He had an old volume of Byron. He asked me if I knew Keats!
“He great Tusitala chief!” he said, when I told him Keats was dead. Then he started off in raptures51 over Saturn52 and the fallen deities53 and goddesses of Hyperion! He had also read Longfellow’s Hiawatha.
It seemed a wonderful thing that one should leave one’s country and travel thousands of miles across desolate54 seas and pioneer lands, to find, at last, on a savage isle25 of the remote wild South Seas, a savage who loved poetry!
It is true enough that the old chief got little appreciation55 out of his talent, but many kicks.
207Poor O Le Langi! None of the natural chances of the literary world came his way either by birth or luck. He was born in a spot remote from all the dubious56 possibilities that the civilized57 world offers to budding aspirants58. He had none to puff59 him. With all his astuteness60 he could seize on no scheme that would elevate him on a pedestal in the eyes of men. Alas61! no starving, unrecognized poet of another tribe expired on his doorstep, so that the O Le Langi family for successive generations might write the dead poet’s memoirs62, and the memoirs of their father’s memoirs concerning the poet’s last sigh and the benevolence63 of the O Le Langi family to the dying poet’s last ten minutes! Ah me! No publisher chanced upon sad O Le Langi till I, a penniless traveller, appeared on the scene, recognizing his wonderful genius. And now that his body is dust beneath his beloved coco-palms, I would write these humble64 memoirs and commemorate65 the dust of the greatest poet I ever met on earth.
It is nothing against the posthumous66 poetic fame of O Le Langi to say that he had loved passionately68, more than twice. Indeed, it is well known that men who are not poets have this mortal failing.
The amorous69 weakness of O Le Langi was impressively forced upon me, for did I not walk beneath the coco-palms and breadfruits to that silent, hallowed spot where slumbered70 his sleeping passions?—the little native cemetery71 where slept the dead women and children that he had loved.
It was through this sad visit that I heard so much; for as O Le Langi knelt over each little mound72 of crumbling73 dust he kissed the earth and wept like a child. I saw at a glance that the solid earth did not hide from the eyes of imagination the stretched figures, the eyes, the lips, and the little fingers that he had once loved.
208Rising to his feet he surveyed me with solemn eyes, then said:
“Ah, Papalagi, me now grow old and weak; me now belonger to fool time.”
“No, you don’t, great O Le Langi, high chief of handsome bearing, and mightiest74 poet of the South Seas,” said I.
My heart was truly sorry for the old savage man, and well I knew that such flattery was worth its weight in gold at such a melancholy75 hour.
Then I continued, as with an effort he drew his tattooed shoulders up to their full proportion and looked at the sky:
“O Le Langi, they still live, those whom you love. We all live again.”
“But I no cliston or popy mans” (christian or prayer-man), he responded in a mournful voice.
“Phew! O great O Le Langi! It matters not a tinker’s curse what you are so long as you remain as you are.”
For a moment the old chief looked about him, as though half in fright, then, seeing that we were unobserved, he leaned forward and said:
“You nicer man. You no think much of ole white-beard-Man-big-nose?”
“Who’s he?” said I.
“Ole Misson-loom mans (mission-room man) who mournful voice, and who look at me and tell me that I one big liar76!”
“Why?” said I, as the old poet’s face seemed to flush beneath its tawny77 hue38 at the thought of such an affront78 to his veracity79.
“I tells ’im I wanter no go white man’s ’eaven. I go ’eathen ’eaven. Then ’e says, ‘There am no ’eathen ’eaven; yous sinfuls mans!’”
209Saying this, the old poet squatted80 down on his mat, which he ever carried under his arm, and inspired by grief dropped into the following poetic effusion. (The sun had long since set, and the shadows lay deep in the hollows by Mutoua. I sat down beside him, and as he commenced in sombre tones, the o le manoa sang its passionate67 strain up in the flamboyants over and over again.)
O white mans from across big waters,
I die not though my body die, be dust:
The maona in the forest singing, singing,
The stars softly dropping from great darkness
The deep caves by Savaii, and Momo,
When even falls—I say, O white mans,
All these things shall be my dead-heart dreaming!
I great chief of gods, so never die dead.
“And will you see your loved ones again when you die, O Le Langi?”
My love ones live, they are not dead.
They shine, their eyes in sky of darkness—
When sings the maona my dead love makes stars four!
Her children shine as eight stars far away.
She watch down sky, ever look far north-west,
As the big night passeth over moani ali[5]
Sometimes my love blink her eyes, and then
The little stars all laugh and clap hands!
And lo! stars shoot ’cross sky out of Poluto’s halls.
5. The sea.
“’Tis good O Le Langi, to know that your loved one watches with her starry85 eyes over your dead children,” I responded, as the scented86 sea wind stirred the feathery 210palms and dying forest flowers. The very trees seemed to sigh some mystery into my ears as the old poet spoke87, or rather chanted on, saying that which I have so weakly told. For a moment O Le Langi did not answer. Then, with his massive chest swelling88 with emotion, he slowly raised his handsome, old wrinkled face. He looked like some marvellous bronze statue as he lifted his head and chin skyward. I dared not speak as I saw him lift his arm and, with hand archwise over his eyes, stare at that tremendous manuscript of heathen-night. Then he pointed89 with one long, tawny finger to the heavens. For a little moment that dark, thin finger wavered with indecision, then it steadily90 pointed straight toward the far north-west—and lo! I saw his beloved dead (her who had died thirty years before) looking out of the sparkling constellation91. Yes, two bright stars—her eyes! It appeared that she was watching over the little group of pale stars that wistfully stared from the east to the north-west—they were the spirits of O Le Langi’s four dead children. It was some time ere he lowered his chin, for he had watched long and strangely those stars that he claimed.
As the shadows deepened and wild odours of citrons and decaying pineapples drifted on the cool sea wind, I relit my pipe. Once more the old poet looked at me with ambitious pride gleaming from his eyes over my rapt attention and praise. Then he continued in sombre tones that which was apparently92 of magnificent import to him:
One night I stand by sea-coast, dreaming
Of old chief who had longer been dead in forest grave.
I felt much sad as shadows of night falling
Went like big lava-lava round the waist of Night
As her big black feet rest on side of moonrise!
Long before stars in sky go indoors of morning,
211As god open door and let sun walker out ’gain into sky.
Then I looker at sea and saw old crab out walking:
Creepy up shore it looker me sideway artful.
“I know! I know!” I say to myselfs, “you am no crab that belonger sea,
You am ole chief from Poluto, disguised in crab-case.
That’s whater you ares!”
“What did the old crab, the chief, I mean, say then?” said I, as the old poet leaned his chin right down to the hieroglyphic93 tattoo16 of his chest, lapsing94 into deep thought. In respectful attitude I awaited his next inspiration, which came in this wise:
He wise ole crab-chief and know much, O Pagalagi.
So he look up at me and say in voice like deep music of waters:
“O Le Langi, greatest high chief of these parts,
O Chief who ’ave listen to the Miserilinaries[6] and hung head,
But still thoughter mucher of great gods all while,
I say: the gods of Poluto and the great Tangaloa
Still tramp, tramp across the great sky-floors of shadowland.
They do say with voice of thunders in mountains:
‘That great O Le Langi seems most faithful to us;
Therefore, though all the forest children desert us,
Stars across the skies of shadowland.
We still break old moons across our mighty knees
To brighten the Atua halls of long ago!
We still catch winds that creep across worlds of mortals
And take from their shifting, clutching fingers
The thoughts of dead mothers for children.
We still gently pull out the thoughts of dead maids and hopeful loves
As we pull up the old sunsets from the oceans.
And yet who am more faithful than the great O Le Langi?’”
6. Missionaries.
“O Le Langi,” said I, “I feel sure that the gods have no more faithful servant.”
212Lifting his hand aloft as he stared seawards to hide the embarrassment98 he felt over my praise, he continued:
I preach on sly to all little ones and old chiefs and chiefesses.
I tell them wonders of shadowland as the evening falls.
The fantoes creeper from huts doors and kneel at my feets and listen and listen!
Some nights I go down, down in great caves of Underworld!
A longer way I go, till I at lasse come to big ’nother world.
It shine ’neath ’nother big sky of blue and red stars.
I sit on small star and great god Tangalora sit on his throne by the big moon, and he say:
“Halloa! great O Le Langi, what you wanter?”
Then I says: “Show me ole chiefs who die, and all dead peoples.”
Great Tangalora say: “O Le Langi—look!”
He have lift big veil of Night, quick!—I stare and see
Beautiful country of mighty trees and fruits,
Big moonlit seas dashing by shore of bright Atua;
I see my dead tribe dancing, waving arms, singing, singing to heathen land stars!
Then big shadow hand of god Tangalora move and drop big veil of Night—
And I no longer in Underworld.
“But what became of that old crab?” said I, as the old chief looked about him and seemed to have forgotten the commencement of his story.
Ah me, Papalagi, the old crab look up and say:
“Halloa! O Le Langi, you been in Underworld?”
And then I say “Yes.”
And then crab say: “Did you ’appen to see beautiful
Linger Loa, whom I once love mucher, she who once my wife?”
Then I look at crab and say:
“Why, yes! I did see Linger Loa! and she say to me:
‘Have you see old crab on shores by Savaii Isle?’
And I say: ‘Yes!’
213‘O great O Le Langi, when you nex see the old crab, you tell him I still lover him much;
And tell him that, when ten thousand moons have passed away,
He once more be turn to chief by gods, and so
Will come back to arms of poor Linger Loa who longer see ’im.’”
“And what did the old crab say to all that, O Le Langi?” said I.
Ah me! The great chief-crab looker up at me with sad eyes.
Then he sigh and walk sideways down to sea,
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1
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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forums
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| 讨论会； 座谈会； 广播专题讲话节目； 集会的公共场所( forum的名词复数 )； 论坛，讨论会，专题讨论节目； 法庭 | |
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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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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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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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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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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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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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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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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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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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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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