A few of our native companions. Filbertine diet. Physiological observations. We make a tour of the island. A call on the ladies. Baahaabaa gives a feast. The embarrassments of hospitality. An alcoholic escape.
"We really must do something about William Henry Thomas," I said on the day following our serenade.
My companions agreed, and we really meant it. But alas, how easy it is to put things off. Day after day slipped by and we thought less and less of our boat-tending sailorman and more and more of what a magnificent time we were having.
The chief's name was Baahaabaa, meaning in Filbertese "Durable Drinker." Among his companions were several who soon became our intimates—Hitoia-Upa (Cocoanut That Never Falls) and Abluluti (Big Wind Constantly Blowing).
In every case reference in names was to simple, natural beauties. How much more interesting than our own meaningless nomenclature.
We soon found that these simple folk had evolved an admirable standard day in which there was no labor whatever, no cooking, even. Imagine a civilization, and I use the word advisedly, in which the question of having or not having a cook is eliminated. We were two weeks on the island before any one of us realized that we had seen no fire. The matches which we used to light our pipes were thought to be marvelous flowers that blossomed and immediately disappeared.
Nature, all bountiful, supplied a menu of amazing variety. Fruits, vegetables, combinations of the two, edible flowers and, above all, the thousand and one kinds of nuts from which the islands receive their name, were at hand for the plucking. Our breakfast grew on the ceiling of our bedroom and dropped beside us with charming punctuality at the first shiver of the rising trade.
It must not be supposed that we were strict vegetarians. Many varieties of fish and crustacea, as well as certain insects and some of the smaller birds were eaten raw. European and American civilizations alike are hopelessly backward in this regard. True, we eat with avidity oysters and clams (except in the Bapoo-period), knowing that they are not only raw but also alive. In the Filberts it was but a slight step forward to pop into one's mouth a wriggling limpataa (a kind of marine lizard), whose antics after he is swallowed are both pleasant and novel. The hors d'oeuvre course of a Filbert Island banquet is one roar of laughter caused by the interior tickling of the agile food. This of course promotes good feeling and leads to many lasting friendships.
With one's meals thus always ready-to-serve, with no cook glowering at the clock, no cheese souffle ready to collapse, no dishes to wash or frying-pans to scour, life is one long gastronomic song.
In physical stature and beauty the Filbertines are far above the average. The men are six feet in height and upwards, and proportionately wide. By a combination of equable climatic and economic conditions this altitude has become standardized and there is little variation from it. A sort of rough control is exercised in this regard. When a young male Filbertine has got his growth he is measured with a bamboo yardstick to see if he comes up to requirements.
If not, he simply disappears. Little is said about it, but the fact is that the physical failures are moored at low tide to a lump of coral on one of the outer reefs. Sharks, octopi and the man-eating Wak-waks do the rest. This, as I say, is a rough sort of control but effective.
There is no pleasanter sight in the world than that of the stalwart young Filbertine youths gathering dew-fish in the early dawn of a perfect tropical day. It is only at this time that these edible little creatures can be caught. Just as the sun's rays flash across the horizon they rise to the surface of the water in vast numbers, turning the entire ocean to a pulsating mirror of silver. For five minutes they lie thus, then suddenly sink simultaneously. Their work for the day, so far as we know it, is done. The natives fill their cheeks—which are very elastic—with hundreds of these tiny fish which they afterwards eject on the shore. Here we see Hitoia-Upa and Ablutiluti gathering dew-fish for the great feast given in honor of Dr. Traprock and his companions.]
In facial character the tribe is regular and well proportioned, presenting no traces of negroid antecedents. Noses are slender and slightly retroussed, lips clean-cut, chins modestly assertive with lower jaws superbly adapted to cracking cocoanuts and oysters, foreheads low with sufficient projection at the eye-line for shade purposes. All in all, they are entitled to an A-plus in beauty and reminded me less of Polynesians than of a hand-picked selection of Caucasians who had been coated with a flat-bronze radiator paint.
Beards, moustaches, imperials, goatees, side-whiskers and Galways are unknown, a fact which was to me strange considering the luxuriance of other vegetation until I learned that, from infancy, it is the custom of the Filbertine mother to scour her offspring's face with powdered coral which discourages the facial follicles. These eventually give up and, turning inward and upward, result in a veritable crown of glory on the top of the head, the place, after all, where the hair ought to grow. Their teeth, as with most gramnivora, are sound, regular, brilliantly white and exceptionally large, the average size being that of the double-blank domino.
So much for the men, and far too much, if you ask me, when you think that we still have the adorable women to speak of.
Ever since our first nocturnal glimpse of the charming creatures you can imagine that my companions and I were most eager to see more of them. During the entire next day not one of "les belles sauvages" was visible. It was next to impossible to make inquiries, but Swank, the irrepressible, resolved to try and plied Baahaabaa with questions in French, English, German and beche-de-mer, which only resulted in loud laughter on the part of our host. Swank next tried pantomime, using the French gesture for beauty, a circular motion of the hands about his face accompanied by sickening smiles. Baahaabaa watched him intently, slapped his hip sharply, uttering a melodious command and shortly afterward Hitoia-Upa presented Swank with a beautifully made wreath of elecampane blossoms (inula helenion) exactly matching his beard. This was all very well but got us nowhere.
On the day following, however, our difficulties were unexpectedly solved. Abluluti and a companion of his, Moolitonu (Bull-lost-in-a-Thunder-Storm), indicated by certain large gestures that if we liked they would be glad to make a tour of the island, a proposition we gladly accepted. Moolitonu was our official map. On his broad back in the most exquisite azure tattooing was a diagram of the island showing all main-routes, good and bad trails and points of interest. Moolitonu was, in fact, a human Blue-book.
Equipped with individual taa-taas and quart cocoanut shells of hoopa, a delicious twenty-seven per cent. milk, we set out along a well-traveled trail, stopping ever and anon to enjoy the tranquil beauty of the outer sea or the more spectacular glimpses of the inner lagoon dominated by the mountain. We had made the circuit of approximately three-fourths of the island, when suddenly, without a word of warning, we stumbled into the Hativa-faui, or ladies' dressing-room. Instantly we were surrounded by a bevy of captivating beauties. Our guides had evidently counted on our surprise for they laughed uproariously, their mirth being joyously echoed by the graceful women who crowded about us, patting, petting and bidding us unmistakable welcome to their compound. I have never seen a more charming sylvan retreat.
Since the exhibition of Herman Swank's South Sea Studies in the Graham Galleries, New York City, it is hardly necessary to introduce by name the illustrious artist who has justly earned the title of "Premier Painter of Polynesia." A whole school of painters have attempted to reproduce the exotic color and charm of these entrancing isles. It remained for Herman Swank, by his now famous method of diagrammatic symbolism, to bring the truth fully home. This he accomplished by living, to the limit, the native life of the Filbertese. Clad only in the light lamitu, or afternoon wrap of the islands, it was the artist's custom to spend entire days inhaling the perfume of the fragment alova flower, a practice which undoubtedly accounts for the far-away, dreamy expression so evident in the photograph. He is also wearing the paloota, or wedding crown, the gift of his lovely island bride.]
Let me briefly outline the Filbertine domestic arrangements as they were gradually unfolded to us. To begin with, make no mistake, marriage in the Filbert Islands is a distinct success. This is accomplished by the almost complete separation of the husband from his wives. During the day these joyous maids and matrons lead their own lives in their own community, rehearsing their songs, weaving chaplets of flowers, stringing pearls for their simple costumes, playing games and exchanging the badinage and gossip which are the life-breath of womanhood the world over. They are inordinately proud of their hair, as well they may be, and spend hours at a time dressing and undressing it.
The men, on their side, are equally free. The result is that a meeting with their wives is an event. Happiness, love and the elation of celebration are the harmonious notes of this beautiful domestic diapason.
Feast-days, banquets, picnics, swimming parties—the Filbertines adore salt water, which is not potable but thirst-producing—these are the occasions of a frank and joyous mingling of the sexes.
Before we left the clearing we were treated to a most graceful spectacle, a performance of the Ataboi, a dance descriptive of the growth and blossoming of the alova flower. This was performed by seven beautiful girls to an accompaniment of song and clapping. The plaintive love-motif was unmistakably introduced by a deep-chested dame who played on the bazoola, a primitive instrument fashioned from the stalk of the figwort (Scrophulariaceae). It may interest music lovers to know that the Filbertines employ the diatetic scale exclusively, four notes in the ascent and five on the recoil.
At the close of the performance we were shown the nursery compound, an enclosure teeming with beautiful children, screened by hedges where the little ones could be heard but not seen.
Two days subsequent to our amble we were invited to a grand banquet which led to disturbing problems and momentous decision on our part. This feast was our formal welcome; the keys of the islands, so to speak, were presented to us. There were ladies present—and everything.
It was served in a special clearing lighted by the moon and countless anchoridae tied by their legs in festoons, a procedure which causes them to open and shut their lambent eyes very rapidly, and gave a quaint cinema effect to the scene. After counting the courses up to twenty-seven I lost as each was accompanied by a new brand of island potion. Fortunately we were seated on the ground.
Triplett was in his glory. If I have failed to mention recently our hard-bitten old navigator it is only because we had seen comparatively little of him. Resting on his titular dignity as chief he seldom appeared in public, spending most of his time up his tree snoozing or reading an old copy of the New Bedford "Argus," which he was never without. Tonight, however, he blazed forth in full regalia, wearing his best blue marble, his visor-cap wreathed with nabiscus blossoms, his case-hardened countenance lighted with conviviality. Following an interminable period of eating and drinking came a long speech by Baahaabaa which, like most after-dinner speeches, meant nothing to me. Captain Triplett replied. The gist of Triplett's remarks, memorized from the "Argus," were taken from the 1916 report of the New Bedford Board of Trade. When he proclaimed that "besides cotton goods, 100,000 pianos were turned out yearly and 8,500 derby hats every day," his audience, set off by Whinney, burst into uproarious applause. The climax was reached when he lowered his voice dramatically and said, "And keep always in mind, O Baahaabaa and friends, that the New England Fur Company uses daily 35,000 rabbit pelts! Gentlemen, I thank you."
Pandemonium broke loose. Triplett was showered with congratulations. Music and dancing followed, among others an amazing performance by a sturdy youth, Zambao-Zambino (Young-Man-Proud-of-His-Waist-Line) who rendered a solo by striking his distended anatomy with his clenched fist, varying the tone by relaxing or tightening the abdominal muscles. Whinney sang a very dreary arrangement of "Mandalay"—his one parlor trick; Swank did an imitation of Elsie Janis's imitation of Ethel Barrymore and I sang "The Wreck of the Julie Plante," an amusing ballad describing the loss by drowning of an entire ship's company.
But the climax was yet to come.
There was a vague sort of commotion among the banqueters and Baahaabaa rose with amazing steadiness and made another speech, short this time, but aimed point-blank at us, after which, through the center of a sort of kick-off formation I saw approaching four of the most exquisite women in the world. When ten feet away they fell on all fours and, using the Australian crawl-stroke, crept slowly toward us, exhaling sounds of passionate endearment mingled with the heart-stopping fragrance of alova. Beyond the glimmering lights, an unseen choir burst into the "a-a-a" of the national love-song.
It was a critical not to say embarrassing moment. These lovely ladies were very evidently presents, banquet-favors so to speak, which we were expected to take home with us. To refuse them meant certain offense, perhaps death. Triplett was plainly non-plussed. Swank and Whinney were too far gone to be of any assistance. Summoning all my reserve strength I rose and faced the whirling assembly.
"Gentlemen," I said solemnly, "one final toast, to the President of the United States,"—at the same time draining a huge shell of hoopa. My companions followed suit and we fell simultaneously.
For the next twenty-four hours we were safe. After that, who knew?
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