THE road from Taahauku to Atuona skirted the north-westerly side of the anchorage,somewhat high up,edged,and sometimes shaded,by the splendid flowers of the FLAMBOYANT -its English name I do not know.At the turn of the hand,Atuona came in view:a long beach,a heavy and loud breach of surf,a shore-side village scattered among trees,and the guttered mountains drawing near on both sides above a narrow and rich ravine.Its infamous repute perhaps affected me;but I thought it the loveliest,and by far the most ominous and gloomy,spot on earth.Beautiful it surely was;and even more salubrious.The healthfulness of the whole group is amazing;that of Atuona almost in the nature of a miracle.In Atuona,a village planted in a shore-side marsh,the houses standing everywhere intermingled with the pools of a taro-garden,we find every condition of tropical danger and discomfort;and yet there are not even mosquitoes -not even the hateful day-fly of Nuka-hiva -and fever,and its concomitant,the island fe'efe'e,are unknown.
This is the chief station of the French on the man-eating isle of Hiva-oa.The sergeant of gendarmerie enjoys the style of the vice-resident,and hoists the French colours over a quite extensive compound.A Chinaman,a waif from the plantation,keeps a restaurant in the rear quarters of the village;and the mission is well represented by the sister's school and Brother Michel's church.Father Orens,a wonderful octogenarian,his frame scarce bowed,the fire of his eye undimmed,has lived,and trembled,and suffered in this place since 1843.Again and again,when Moipu had made coco-brandy,he has been driven from his house into the woods.
'A mouse that dwelt in a cat's ear'had a more easy resting-place;and yet I have never seen a man that bore less mark of years.He must show us the church,still decorated with the bishop's artless ornaments of paper -the last work of industrious old hands,and the last earthly amusement of a man that was much of a hero.In the sacristy we must see his sacred vessels,and,in particular,a vestment which was a 'VRAIE CURIOSITE,'because it had been given by a gendarme.To the Protestant there is always something embarrassing in the eagerness with which grown and holy men regard these trifles;but it was touching and pretty to see Orens,his aged eyes shining in his head,display his sacred treasures.
AUGUST 26.-The vale behind the village,narrowing swiftly to a mere ravine,was choked with profitable trees.A river gushed in the midst.Overhead,the tall coco-palms made a primary covering;above that,from one wall of the mountain to another,the ravine was roofed with cloud;so that we moved below,amid teeming vegetation,in a covered house of heat.On either hand,at every hundred yards,instead of the houseless,disembowelling paepaes of Nuka-hiva,populous houses turned out their inhabitants to cry 'Kaoha!'to the passers-by.The road,too,was busy:strings of girls,fair and foul,as in less favoured countries;men bearing breadfruit;the sisters,with a little guard of pupils;a fellow bestriding a horse -passed and greeted us continually;and now it was a Chinaman who came to the gate of his flower-yard,and gave us 'Good-day'in excellent English;and a little farther on it would be some natives who set us down by the wayside,made us a feast of mummy-apple,and entertained us as we ate with drumming on a tin case.With all this fine plenty of men and fruit,death is at work here also.The population,according to the highest estimate,does not exceed six hundred in the whole vale of Atuona;and yet,when Ionce chanced to put the question,Brother Michel counted up ten whom he knew to be sick beyond recovery.It was here,too,that Icould at last gratify my curiosity with the sight of a native house in the very article of dissolution.It had fallen flat along the paepae,its poles sprawling ungainly;the rains and the mites contended against it;what remained seemed sound enough,but much was gone already;and it was easy to see how the insects consumed the walls as if they had been bread,and the air and the rain ate into them like vitriol.
A little ahead of us,a young gentleman,very well tattooed,and dressed in a pair of white trousers and a flannel shirt,had been marching unconcernedly.Of a sudden,without apparent cause,he turned back,took us in possession,and led us undissuadably along a by-path to the river's edge.There,in a nook of the most attractive amenity,he bade us to sit down:the stream splashing at our elbow,a shock of nondescript greenery enshrining us from above;and thither,after a brief absence,he brought us a cocoa-nut,a lump of sandal-wood,and a stick he had begun to carve:the nut for present refreshment,the sandal-wood for a precious gift,and the stick -in the simplicity of his vanity -to harvest premature praise.Only one section was yet carved,although the whole was pencil-marked in lengths;and when I proposed to buy it,Poni (for that was the artist's name)recoiled in horror.But Iwas not to be moved,and simply refused restitution,for I had long wondered why a people who displayed,in their tattooing,so great a gift of arabesque invention,should display it nowhere else.Here,at last,I had found something of the same talent in another medium;and I held the incompleteness,in these days of world-wide brummagem,for a happy mark of authenticity.Neither my reasons nor my purpose had I the means of making clear to Poni;I could only hold on to the stick,and bid the artist follow me to the gendarmerie,where I should find interpreters and money;but we gave him,in the meanwhile,a boat-call in return for his sandal-wood.As he came behind us down the vale he sounded upon this continually.And continually,from the wayside houses,there poured forth little groups of girls in crimson,or of men in white.
