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 1900 
 
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An Object of Pity 
 
 OR 
 
 The Man Haggard 
 
 BY | 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 and five of his friends 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 J900 
 
 
50040 
 
 Library of Congr«M 
 
 "*wj Copies Recfcivto 
 SEP 21 1900 
 
 Copyright «ntry 
 &44»4- +! , f 4*+ 
 
 SECOND COPY. 
 
 LM*V*«*J to 
 
 ORDttf DWSIOft, 
 O CT 13 1900 
 
 Copyright, 1900. 
 By Dodd, Mead and Company. 
 
 One hundred and ten copies printed. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface 5 
 
 Lady Jersey's Account of Her Visit to the 
 
 Rebel King 9 
 
 An Object of Pity; or, The Man Haggard. 
 
 Dedication 15 
 
 Chapter I. Samoa 19 
 
 Chapter II. The Mulled Mystery of 
 
 Malie 25 
 
 Chapter III. "There Was a Sound of 
 
 Revelry by Night"... 36 
 
 Chapter IV. "Late, Ever Late" 52 
 
 Chapter V. Extract from the Diary 
 
 of a Woman Child... 59 
 
 Epilogos 61 
 
 Vale — Samoa 68 
 
Preface* 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In the Stevenson Medley Mr. Sidney Colvin 
 collected some of the more unpretentious work 
 of Robert Louis Stevenson, including some of 
 his early juvenile productions and those inter- 
 esting "fugitive" leaflets which he wrote and 
 the illustrations for which he engraved for his 
 stepson, Lloyd Osborne, to print on his toy 
 press. He did not, however, reprint another 
 of Stevenson's humorous undertakings in lit- 
 erature. We refer to that "Ouida romance" 
 mentioned in one of the Vailima letters, as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Thence all together to Vailima, where we 
 read aloud a Ouida Romance we have been 
 secretly writing; in which Haggard was the 
 hero, and each one of the authors had to draw 
 a portrait of him or herself in a Ouida light. 
 Leigh, Lady J., Fanny, R. L. S., Belle and 
 Graham were the authors. 
 
 And in the new Letters as 
 
 O, my life is the more lively, never fear ! It 
 has recently been most amusingly varied by 
 a visit from Lady Jersey. I took her over 
 mysteriously (under the pseudonym of my 
 
Preface* 
 
 cousin, Miss Amelia Balfour) to visit Mataafa, 
 our rebel ; and we had great fun, and wrote 
 a Ouida novel on our life here, in which every 
 author had to describe himself in the Ouida 
 glamour, and of which — for the Jerseys intend 
 printing it — I must let you have a copy. 
 
 This "romance" has never been published, 
 though it has been twice privately printed. 
 The first edition, from which it is here re- 
 printed, is a small sixteenmo, with the title, 
 An Object of Pity; or, the Man Haggard. The 
 title-page says, "Imprinted at Amsterdam," 
 but this is probably only carrying out an old 
 custom of assigning Amsterdam as the birth- 
 place of books which, for one reason or an- 
 other, were not openly published. The paper 
 on which the book is printed has the water- 
 mark, "Hudson & Kearns Legal Note Lon- 
 don S. E.," and it was no doubt printed in 
 England. 
 
 This "romance" was founded upon fact, 
 having been built upon certain events which 
 took place during the visit of the Countess of 
 Jersey and her party there in August, 1892. 
 While there, the guest of Mr. Bazett Michael 
 Haggard, the English member of the Land 
 Commission of the Islands and brother of 
 Rider Haggard, they conceived the idea of visit- 
 ing the "rebel" king, Mataafa. This visit was 
 arranged by Stevenson, who was friendly with 
 that sovereign, and, indeed, at the time, afraid 
 of being forced by German influence to leave 
 the country. This visit has been described 
 
Preface* 
 
 by Lady Jersey herself in an article in the 
 Nineteenth Century for January, 1893, and by 
 Stevenson in a long letter to Colvin, dated 
 "Friday night, the (I believe) 18th or 20th 
 August or September/' 1892. This date was 
 really the 19th of August. A note by Lady 
 Jersey and two of Stevenson's letters to her 
 referring to the excursion are printed on pp. 
 260-262, Vol. II. , of the new Letters. 
 
 While this visit to Mataafa seems to have 
 been the event which induced the associated 
 authors to write their "romance," only one 
 chapter, that by Lady Jersey, deals entirely 
 with it. The others hinge more or less upon 
 it and relate to other occurrences during her 
 visit to the islands. 
 
 Before reprinting the story which contains 
 Lady Jersey's romantic account of her "ad- 
 venture" we reprint from the Nineteenth Cen- 
 tury article the portion which contains her 
 account of the trip. 
 
 The page numbers affixed to the quotations 
 from Vailima Letters and Letters to His Fam- 
 ily and Friends refer to the first English 
 editions. The notes indicated thus (1) (2) 
 are Stevenson's own. The others are ours. 
 
 L. S. L. 
 
Lady Jersey's Account* 
 
 LADY JERSEY'S ACCOUNT OF HER 
 VISIT TO THE REBEL KING. 
 
 FROM THE "NINETEENTH CENTURY." 
 
 Having been duly presented to orthodox 
 royalty [King Malietoa], we were naturally 
 anxious to invade the camp of Mataafa, com- 
 monly called the Rebel King. Here, however, 
 neither Commissioner nor Consul could law- 
 fully set foot, nor could the relatives of a 
 British Governor be formally introduced to the 
 Pretender. A deep-laid scheme, quite "faa- 
 Samoa" — i.e., according to Samoan custom — 
 was promptly concocted. The aid of Mr. Ste- 
 venson, who is, as is well known, the friend of 
 all parties in the State, was invoked, and he 
 undertook to include my brother and myself 
 among the members of his family who were 
 about to ride over to Malie and spend a night 
 in the house of the redoubtable chieftain. 
 Members of the official world were to know 
 nothing about it, lest their consciences should 
 oblige them to enter a protest, and we had to 
 assume fictitious names, though on reflection 
 I am not quite sure whom these were intended 
 to deceive, as they were only used and heard 
 by those already in the plot. 
 
 We left our temporary home in the afternoon 
 
Lady Jersey's Account* 
 
 of the appointed day, and rode by a circuitous 
 route to meet Mr. Stevenson's detachment, 
 who were concealed in a true conspirator's cor- 
 ner in a shady lane not far from a ford, after 
 crossing which we almost immediately found 
 ourselves in the enemy's country. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The first intimation that we were approach- 
 ing the quasi-royal village came from a man 
 with several attendants who was beating a 
 kind of wooden drum on the roadside, evi- 
 dently intended as a welcome to our leader, 
 who is famous among the natives under the 
 melodious name of Tusitala, the teller of tales. 
 A little further on the whole population came 
 out to meet us with their pretty salutation 
 "Talofa," which means "a loving greeting." 
 Though the eager inquiries for "the lady" 
 overheard around gave reason to fear that 
 my incognita was not a brilliant success, we 
 sturdily carried through our little comedy, 
 and just before sunset rode past the rebel 
 guard, strongly built men in native costume, 
 for Mataafa has not followed the example of 
 his cousin and rival by putting his army into 
 regulation attire. He himself wears a white 
 coat, but adheres to the lava-lava instead of 
 trousers. He is a fine-looking man, and re- 
 ceived us with much dignity, though with 
 manifest pleasure. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Our dinner, which was cooked in an outer 
 building, and served on a table in the back 
 
Lady Jersey's Account* 
 
 ii 
 
 part of the house, consisted of pigeons, 
 chickens, taros and yams; we were supplied 
 with plates, knives and forks, while Mataafa, 
 who sat with us, ate with his fingers. As 
 usual in native repasts, neither bread nor salt 
 was provided, and another supply of cocoa- 
 nut milk was the beverage. After an interval, 
 when we had returned to the forepart of the 
 apartment, the inevitable kava appeared. This 
 was felt to be the critical moment, as, though 
 native politeness had prevented a direct inter- 
 rogation, many fishing questions as to "the 
 family" present had been asked. This was 
 private kava, not King's kava, when certain 
 chiefs always take precedence, and we knew 
 that the cup would be first offered to the guest 
 who was considered of highest rank. When, 
 therefore, the cocoanut containing the kava was 
 given to me before any of the others present, 
 the difficulty of keeping our countenances was 
 great, and we were thankful that no serious 
 consequences would attend the penetration of 
 our disguise, as might have befallen a Han- 
 overian spy found in a Jacobite camp in '45. 
 The scene was really somewhat romantic ; the 
 mixed company of Europeans and natives 
 seated within the glimmer of a small lamp, the 
 dusky, dark-eyed forms flitting to and fro in 
 the background, and last, but not least, the 
 fine old talking-man Popo, who when his king 
 drank shouted in stentorian voice one or more 
 of the royal names — "The triumph of his 
 pledge" of Hamlet. Popo is a remarkable 
 
Lady Jersey's Account* 
 
 character; he lived before the days of Chris- 
 tianity, though now he wears round his neck a 
 little cross as the symbol of his faith. He is 
 quite unlike the ordinary native, who, how- 
 ever handsome, has almost always the broad 
 and rather flat cheek-bones of the Malay type; 
 while, as Mr. Stevenson records : 
 
 with an aquiline face designed 
 Like Dante's, he who had worshipped feathers 
 
 and shells and wood, 
 As a pillar alone in the desert that points where 
 
 a city stood, 
 Survived the world that was his, playmates 
 
 and gods and tongue, 
 For even the speech of his race had altered 
 
 since Pope was young. 
 
 Preparations for our night's rest were al- 
 ready in progress. Generally in a native house 
 all lie down on mats and sleep in the common 
 room, but Mataafa, having been forewarned of 
 the arrival of a lady somewhat unaccustomed 
 to Samoan arrangements, had prepared a very 
 large tapa curtain, which was now dropped, and 
 a portion of the house thereby partitioned off 
 for Mrs. Strong (Mr. Stevenson's stepdaugh- 
 ter) and myself. Behind this curtain a pile 
 of fine mats was laid upon the ground with the 
 further luxuries of a pillow apiece, while a 
 mosquito curtain descended over our couch, 
 where we soon slept as soundly as on any 
 English bed, rejoicing in the soft, warm 
 climate, which renders sheets and blankets un- 
 necessary. 
 
 ***** 
 
AN OBJECT OF PITY 
 
 OR 
 THE MAN HAGGARD 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 15 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 [by robert louis stevenson.] 
 
 Lady Ouida : 
 
 Many besides yourself have exulted to col- 
 lect Olympian polysyllables, and to sling ink, 
 not Wisely but too Well. They are forgot- 
 ten, you endure. Many have made it their 
 goal and object to Exceed; and who else has 
 been so Excessive? Many have desired to see 
 the world otherwise (and, if possible, Larger) 
 than God made it; and in this ambition none 
 has been prospered to succeed like the author 
 of Strathmore. It is therefore with a becom- 
 ing diffidence that we profit by an unusual cir- 
 cumstance to approach and address you. 
 
 We, undersigned, all persons of ability and 
 good character, were suddenly startled to find 
 ourselves walking in broad day in the halls 
 of one of your romances. We looked about us 
 with embarrassment, we instinctively spoke 
 low; and you were good enough not to per- 
 ceive the intrusion or to affect unconsciousness. 
 But we were there; we have inhabited your 
 tropical imagination ; we have lived in the real- 
 ity which you had but dreamed of in your 
 studio. And the Man Haggard above all. The 
 house he dwells in was not built by any car- 
 
16 An Object of Pity; 
 
 penter, you wrote it with your pen ; the friends 
 with which he has surrounded himself are the 
 mere spirit of your nostrils; and those who 
 look on at his career are kept in a continual 
 twitter lest he should fall out of the volume; 
 in which case, I suppose, he must infallibly in- 
 jure himself beyond repair: and the characters 
 in the same novel, what would become of 
 them? And must they not go on pretending 
 (with what countenance they might) that the 
 Man Haggard was there, and had just inter- 
 rupted them? much as Salvini has been seen 
 to do when the ghost of Banquo failed him at 
 the tryst. 
 
 The present volume has been written slav- 
 ishly from your own gorgeous but peculiar 
 point of view. Your touch of complaisance 
 in observation, your genial excess of epithet 
 and the grace of your antiquarian allusions 
 have been cultivated like the virtues. Could 
 we do otherwise? When nature and life had 
 caught the lyre from your burning hands, who 
 were we to affect a sterner independence? But 
 while seeking to borrow tints from that ad- 
 mired palette, we have been careful to respect 
 the Facts of the Case. As for the characters, 
 each author has been intrusted with his own, 
 a certain pledge of sincerity; while all have 
 contributed emulously to enrich the central 
 figure of the Man Haggard with the orna- 
 ments of truth and soberness. For the in- 
 cidents, it must be owned the Epilogue is still 
 prophetic; but to all acquainted with Norfolk, 
 
or, The Man HaggarcL 
 
 17 
 
 it will seem highly credible. The King's 
 palace, again, appears to be not quite vera- 
 ciously described, and you are recommended 
 not to rely in practice on the recipe for Kava: 
 it was not a cookery book we had in view. 
 Lastly, there is a regrettable incident referred 
 to on p. 45, on which I must trouble you with 
 a more particular comment. It is doubtless 
 highly characteristic of the Man Haggard ; and 
 the words attributed to him after the deed 
 were actually uttered and heard. But of the 
 deed itself, in spite of an unwarrantable state- 
 ment in the text, we have no legal evidence, or 
 not any which would be accepted by a Nor- 
 folk jury. And it is only fair to say that 
 none of those present remarked an occurrence 
 which could scarce have passed without at- 
 tracting a measure of attention, and that no 
 persons have since been reported missing in 
 the city. 
 
 In every other particular the volume in your 
 hands is true, and you are to consider whether 
 your interests have been infringed, what 
 should be your proper remedy, and before what 
 Court, and against what defendant you should 
 now proceed; whether against the Man Hag- 
 gard for a simple trespass, or against his 
 parents, who seem guilty of a flagrant breach 
 of literary good faith ; and whether the British 
 Government, which certainly aided and abetted, 
 and may be said to have held a candle in the 
 business, should not, perhaps, be called a party 
 to the suit. 
 
1 8 An Object of Pity; 
 
 We are, Lady Ouida, 
 
 Your fond admirers, 
 O le Tamaitai Sili 
 
 (The Queen Woman), alias Amelia. 
 O le Tapenali 
 
 (Prince Rupert). 
 O le Fafine Mamana O I le Mauga 
 
 (The Witch Woman of the Mountain). 
 O Tusitala 
 
 (The Writer of Tales). 
 O Teuila 
 
 (The Adorer 1 of the Ugly). 
 O Pelema 
 
 (Significance unknown; ignotus ipse 
 nomine ignoto), a Globe-trotter. 
 
 Apia, August 2, 1892. 
 
 Evidently a misprint. This should read 
 "adorner." "Belle had that day been the al- 
 moner in a semi-comic distribution of wedding 
 rings and thimbles (bought cheap at an auc- 
 tion) to the whole plantation company, fitting 
 a ring on every man's finger and a thimble on 
 both the women's. This was very much in 
 character with her native name Teuila, the 
 adorner of the ugly." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 226. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Samoa. 
 
 [by captain leigh.] 
 
 The Commission had finished its sitting for 
 the day, and the Man Haggard, Her Britannic 
 Majesty's Commissioner, strode jauntily away. 
 He was in high spirits. In the first place, it 
 was Friday, and the wearisome sittings would 
 not be resumed till the following Monday; in 
 the second place, he was beginning to revolve 
 in his mind a visit to the Gibraltar of the Pa- 
 cific — the sea-girt island of Apolima. 1 But as 
 in the very harbour of Apia, a placid sea con- 
 ceals the most treacherous reefs, so there were 
 difficulties in his path, which, if he had been 
 cognisant of, might have subdued even his 
 stout heart. Far off, on a long stretch of sand, 
 Mr. Firtree, 2 the Chief Justice, watched, 
 through his glasses, the long, quick stride of 
 
 1 "Apolima (The Hollow of the Hand'), a 
 natural sea-girt fortress, where an impregna- 
 ble wall of rock, rising on every side round a 
 verdure-lined crater, leaves one only portal, 
 barricaded by tumbling surf." 
 
 Lady Jersey. 
 
 2 Conrad Cedarkrantz, a Swede, the Chief 
 Justice of the islands. 
 
20 
 
 An Object of Pity; 
 
 the white-clad hero, and muttered beneath his 
 breath deep Swedish oaths. Nearer still, the 
 Baron von Pilsener, 1 the President of the 
 Council, eyed with a cruel look the figure of 
 the man whom he feared would thwart his 
 craftiest schemes of self-aggrandisement, and 
 an attentive bystander would have heard the 
 mystic words, "Potztausend, Donner und 
 Blitz!" fall from his lips; while from many a 
 German store a guttural "Ach" burst from 
 Teutonic lips. Different, indeed, was the mode 
 of the cunning Jesuits, but none the less vindic- 
 tive. No murmur escaped the lips of the men 
 schooled in the cloisters of Italian monas- 
 teries ; but none the less they were determined 
 to gain, for Holy Church, the richest lands of 
 the most lovely island of the Pacific — by fair 
 means if possible; if not, by fraud. 
 
 But ignorant, and therefore heedless of the 
 plots of these various conspirators, the Man 
 Haggard walked boldly on. 
 
 Let us pause a moment to gaze on the hero 
 of our tale. In the prime of life, he is one 
 who has seen much and travelled much. Rath- 
 er above than below the middle height, broad- 
 shouldered and deep-chested, with a frank 
 face and a ruddy beard; he is what he looks, a 
 thorough Englishman. In character he is a 
 man of quick determination, loquacious rather 
 than taciturn; ready to accept with cheerful- 
 ness whatever fate may bring him, and to do 
 
 *Baron Senfft von Pilsach, the President of 
 the Council. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 21 
 
 his duty to the best of his ability — a worthy 
 representative of his country's diplomacy in 
 this southern isle. 
 
 And now, as he wends his way along the 
 beach, he gazes to the left on the lovely bay 
 of Apia, peacefully sleeping in the calm of a 
 southern afternoon, and thinks how different 
 was its aspect when six great warships went 
 ashore in the fearful hurricane of 1889, and 
 one man-of-war alone, which bore the meteor 
 flag of England, stood bravely out to sea. On 
 his right hand lie the houses of the little town 
 of Apia, embowered in the lovely verdure of 
 the tropics, and beyond them one glorious 
 mass of green foliage, which is only terminated 
 by the outline of a lofty chain of mountains, 
 now tinged with the declining rays of a setting 
 sun. "Good-evening," says a cheery voice, and 
 the Man Haggard starts from his revery, as 
 Duncombe trots past on his stout bay cob, 
 which could well hold his own in Rotten Row 
 or the Bois de Boulogne. 
 
 Then he comes on a group of Samoan chil- 
 dren, merry, brown-skinned little savages, who 
 look up from their game of marbles to bid 
 him a laughing "Talofa." 1 Next a pretty half- 
 caste girl claims a bow of recognition, and 
 then the British Consul and his wife gallop 
 past, returning from their evening ride. 
 
 And so his walk continues, and he has 
 
 1 "Their pretty salutation 'Talofa/ which 
 means 'a loving greeting.' " 
 
 Lady Jersey. 
 
22 An Object of Pity; 
 
 nearly reached his own palm-embowered 
 chateau, when his face lights up with more 
 than its wonted brightness, for he sees walk- 
 ing quickly toward him handsome Prince Ru- 
 pert, 1 the man who has braved the dangers of 
 the deep, and, dauntlessly embarking on the 
 deck of the Lubeck, 2 has steered his course 
 through the mazy shoals of the Pacific, straight 
 to the Samoan group ; the man who has out- 
 cooked Captain Cook, and put Baron Mun- 
 chausen to shame. Lightly knocking the ashes 
 off the end of his scented Cabana, and with 
 the look in his eyeglass which, if rumour be 
 true, broke the heart of the Duchess X.Y.Z., 
 Rupert springs gracefully in the air, and with a 
 panther-like movement lands airily on the 
 Man Haggard's toe. To apologise is the work 
 of one second, to explain the motive, of an- 
 other. 
 
 "'Pain in your corns, eh !" says Rupert with 
 easy badinage. "I fear you'll find peine de 
 ceeur worse. Listen, mon ami, prenez garde, 
 there is another conspiracy/' 
 
 For a moment of time the Man Haggard 
 feels inclined to laugh, a smile ripples across 
 his features, but the warning look in Rupert's 
 eyes, and the deepening frown of his massive 
 forehead, which only adds to the grandeur of 
 his intense beauty, warns his companion that 
 
 2 Captain Leigh. 
 
 2 The Norddeutscher Lloyd steamship on 
 which Lady Jersey and her party arrived from 
 Sydney. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 23 
 
 this is no laughing matter; and with strong, 
 nervous diction he breaks out with a flow of 
 words, and louder and louder he shouts, 
 shouts, SHOUTS: 
 
 "A conspiracy, and against me ! I tell you 
 they dare not do it ! Who is it ? Not that ass 
 Tee-too-tum; not that I think he's half as 
 great an ass as Tee-too-tee, though that's pos- 
 sibly a matter of opinion; though, as for that, 
 I think my opinion is worth much more than 
 any German or Swede out here, though I can't 
 imagine why on earth they sent a Swede, who 
 really, anyhow for the first few months, didn't 
 know a word of English; and I really don't 
 think he's much better now. But German or 
 Swede or American, I advise them to look 
 out. I don't think it is worth taking notice 
 of anything any Samoans might do; and, be- 
 sides, I'm quite friendly with the Samoans, or, 
 at least, I don't think I'm unfriendly; though, 
 as for that, there's no knowing what they 
 might do. I've a couple of Samoan servants 
 now ; but then, really, if it wasn't for Abdool 1 — 
 you know Abdool — he makes them understand, 
 and really they are immensely improved. But 
 I tell you I've got the Foreign Office at my 
 back; though, of course, now Gladstone's in — 
 or at least I suppose he's in — not that that will 
 make much difference, for he can't stop in. 
 
 1 Abdul. "Haggard and the great Abdul, his 
 high-caste Indian servant, imported by my 
 wife." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 145. 
 
24 An Object of Pity; 
 
 You see if the House of Lords throws out his 
 Home Rule Bill — though for that matter he's 
 got to pass it through the Commons first; and 
 then, you must remember the Parnellites are 
 sure to go against the anti-Parnellites. Well, 
 even if an abominable Radical Government 
 won't support me, I'm independent, and I'll 
 defy them. I'm the only man — absolutely the 
 only man — who's got ten-finger glasses. Did 
 I ever tell you how I got them? Well, you 
 see, Calcraft — you remember Calcraft. . . ." 
 
 "You'll see no more of Calcraft," Rupert 
 broke in, pointing to the horizon, where the 
 last rays of the setting sun threw a light on 
 the fast receding hull, and the black masts of a 
 home-bound steamer; "he's off to England in 
 the Pate de Fois Gras, our deadliest enemy 
 will be at home before you." "What care I," 
 cried the Man Haggard, "good riddance of bad 
 rubbish !" 
 
 As he spoke the sun sank, and a heavy trop- 
 ical rain commenced to fall. Was it an omen? 
 Blind puppets of fortune that we are. Could 
 the Man Haggard but have looked into the fu- 
 ture, he would indeed have been appalled. The 
 passenger by the Pate de Fois Gras was the 
 man who held in his hand the fate and future 
 of the owner of the Ten Finger-Glasses. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 25 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Mulled Mystery of Malie. 
 
 [by lady jersey, the extract from the 
 "samoid" by robert louis stevenson. 1 ] 
 
 Two were the troops that encountered; one 
 
 from the way of the shore, 
 And the house where at night, by the timid, 
 
 the Judge may be heard to roar, 
 And one from the side of the mountain. Now, 
 
 these at the trysting spot 
 Arrived, and lay in the shade. Nor let their 
 
 names be forgot. 
 
 2 This is Stevenson's account of the adven- 
 ture in prose: "We left the mail at the 
 P. O., had lunch at the hotel, and about 1.50 
 set out westward to the place of tryst. This 
 was by a little shrunken brook in a deep chan- 
 nel of mud, on the far side of which, in a 
 thicket of low trees, all full of moths of 
 shadow and butterflies of sun, we lay down to 
 await her ladyship. Whiskey and water, then 
 a sketch of the encampment for which we all 
 posed to Belle, passed off the time until 3.30. 
 Then I could hold on no longer. Thirty min- 
 utes late. Had the secret oozed out? Were 
 they arrested? I got my horse, crossed the 
 brook again, and rode hard back to the Vaea 
 cross roads, whence I was aware of white 
 clothes glancing in the other long straight 
 
26 An Object of Pity; 
 
 Pelema, the World- Perquester, (i) gaitered, 
 and grave of face, 
 
 Came first. And dark as the dames of the 
 isle, her sojourning place, 
 
 She that "adored the Uncomely ,, (2) rode in 
 a habit of white, 
 
 But pale as the east at dawn her brother rode 
 by her right: 
 
 He that was feared by slaves. (3) And Tel- 
 ler of Tales was there. 
 
 And clad in the island kilt wijth an island rose 
 in his hair, 
 
 Iina, a chief of Savaii, (4) and only a boy in 
 years ; 
 
 And Raphael, 1 he that had charge of the Tel- 
 ler's horses and steers. 
 
 So these in the shade awaited the hour, and 
 the hour went by ; 
 
 And ever they watched the ford of the stream 
 with an anxious eye; 
 
 radius of the quadrant. I turned at once to re- 
 turn to the place of tryst ; but D. overtook me, 
 and almost bore me down, shouting 'Ride, 
 ride F like a hero in a ballad. Lady Margaret 
 and he were only come to shew the place ; they 
 returned, and the rest of our party, reinforced 
 by Captain Leigh and Lady Jersey, set out 
 for Malie. The delay was due to D.'s infinite 
 precautions, leading them up lanes, by back 
 ways, and then down again to the beach road 
 a hundred yards further on." 
 
 Vailima Letters, pp. 205-6. 
 
 ^afaele. One of Stevenson's servants. 
 "Lafaele, provost of the cattle." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 151. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 27 
 
 And care, in the shade of the grove, consumed 
 
 them, a doubtful crew, 
 As they harboured close from the bands of the 
 
 Men of Mulinuu.(5) 
 But the heart of the Teller of Tales at length 
 
 could endure no more; 
 He loosed his steed from the thicket, and 
 
 passed to the nearer shore, 
 And back through the land of his foes, cheer- 
 ing his steed, and still 
 Scouting for enemies hidden. And, lo! under 
 
 Vaca 1 Hill, 
 At the crook of the road a clatter of hoofs and 
 
 a glitter of white ! 
 And there came the band from seaward, swift 
 
 as a pigeon's flight. 
 Two were but there to return : the Judge of 
 
 the Titles in Land; (6) 
 He of the lion's hair, bearded, boisterous, bland ; 
 And the maid that was named for the 
 
 pearl, (7) a maid of another isle. 
 Light as a daisy rode, and gave us the light of 
 
 her smile — 
 But two to pursue the adventure : one that was 
 
 called the Queen, (8) 
 Light as the maid, her daughter, rode with us 
 
 veiled in green, 
 And deep in the cloud of the veil, like a deer's 
 
 in a woodland place. 
 The fire of the two dark eyes, in the field of 
 
 the unflushed face. 
 
 \A misprint; should be Vaea Hill. 
 
28 An Object of Pity; 
 
 And one, her brother, that bore the name of a 
 
 knight of old, (9) 
 Rode at her heels unmoved; and the glass in 
 
 his eye was cold. 
 Bright is the sun in the brook; bright are the 
 
 winter stars; 
 Brighter t^e glass in the eye of that captain of 
 
 hussars. 
 
 Tusitala's Samoid, 1 Canto XII. 
 
 (1) Pelema, the globe-trotter. 2 
 
 &)L r&' ,ias l c w»--' heWi ' ch 
 
 (4) The chief name of Henry Simete. 6 
 
 (5) Fabled monsters, plausibly said to be em- 
 blematic of extinct volcanoes. They were two 
 in number, the name of the one was The Lau- 
 relled, 7 that of the other The Corked. 8 
 
 (6) "The Man Haggard." 
 
 (7) The "Pearl of Guernsey."* See Ch. III. 
 
 (8) Le Tamaitai Sili. 10 
 
 (9) Le Tapanali. 11 
 
 1 "Among our other occupations, I did a bit 
 of a supposed epic describing our tryst at the 
 ford of the Gase-gase." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 213. 
 2 Graham Balfour. 
 3 Mrs. Strong. 
 4 Lloyd Osborne. 
 5 Mrs. R. L. Stevenson. 
 6 Stevenson's Overseer. 
 7 Conrad Cedarkrantz, the Chief Justice. 
 8 Baron von Pilsach. 
 
 "Lady Margaret, daughter of Lady Jersey. 
 10 Lady Jersey. 
 "Captain Leigh. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 29 
 
 Yes, Haggard, those sails as they disappear 
 on the horizon seem like the wings of depart- 
 ing hope ! The toils are thickening round thee, 
 and as thou standest thinking — now of the 
 crafty Swede, now of the Ten Finger-Glasses, 
 now of the distant home of thy careless youth 
 — not far from thee a conversation is taking 
 place which weaves a fresh black strand into 
 the web of thy future. The interlocutors are 
 two in number, but have guile sufficient for a 
 hundred — better indeed had a hundred Samoan 
 warriors vowed vengeance against thee, than 
 that two such subtle intellects coming in con- 
 tact had struck an electric spark, to cast so 
 lurid a glare upon thy fate. He 1 was of the 
 genuine Machiavellian type. His keen black 
 eyes and aquiline features bespoke the tren- 
 chant spirit which would cut like a knife 
 through every combination opposed to his de- 
 signs — nay, it is hinted that not merely the 
 mental, but the substantial dagger would prove 
 no stranger to that guiding brain, should it be 
 required to remove a troublesome adversary 
 from the path of Tusitala. She 2 was a wan- 
 derer, sprung from no one exactly knew 
 where; some said that England, some that 
 Scotland, some that Australia was her native 
 land; others did not hesitate to assert that 
 the somewhat swarthy hue of her thin, eager 
 features was due to an admixture of Indian or 
 Egyptian blood. One thing alone was certain : 
 
 2 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 2 Lady Jersey. 
 
An Object of Pity; 
 
 in whatever part of the world she might make 
 a transient apparition, one constant friend was 
 ever at hand in the hour of need — her family- 
 steed "Pedigree." Her great-grandfather was 
 said to have seen this noble charger in the 
 desert of Sahara. It was the last and most 
 valued possession of an Arab Sheik. "Give 
 me that steed," said the ancestor, "and I will 
 cast thee a purse of gold." "Not I, O Frank !" 
 said the son of the desert, "gold does not pur- 
 chase the war-horse of my free forefathers." 
 "Take then this ruby aigrette, the colour of 
 blood !" "Nay, rather my life's ruddy stream 
 shall be poured forth !" "This chain of dia- 
 monds from Golconda !" "Diamonds ! away 
 with them, they are like pure water for lack 
 of which I perish." "You perish ! then take 
 this flask of living crystal from the spring of 
 Parnassus, and give me that charger." Ere 
 the fainting Bedouin could renew his remon- 
 strance, the proud Frank had wrested the 
 silken reins from his nerveless grasp, and fling- 
 ing him the flask, had galloped into infinity. 
 Since that hour the Arab horse had been an 
 heirloom in the family of Amelia, the Queen 
 Woman, and was now standing at her side. 
 Tusitala greeted her with the words, preg- 
 nant with meaning, "We have met before, 
 Amelia." "On the sunny shores of the Med- 
 iterranean?" "Yes; do you recall the mar- 
 riage of Prince — " "Silence ! why refer to by- 
 gone years? Is not the present sufficient?" 
 and Amelia heaved a sigh, which quickly 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 31 
 
 changed into a glance of disdain, as she added, 
 "Let feeble minds regret; it is ours to act." 
 "Maybe," said Tusitala, with something of a 
 sneer, "but how?" "Do you ask? Does not 
 Malie lie yonder? I must hie thither ere the 
 moon reaches her first quarter, and you must 
 help me." "I, Amelia? but are you not 
 here as the guest of the Man Haggard, and 
 is not he the sworn foe of Malie's chief?" 
 "What matter? Amelia is not accustomed to 
 ask twice, nor is Tusitala used to plot and 
 fail." 
 
 One instant paused Tusitala. He thought of 
 the past, when he and the Man Haggard had 
 wandered together on many a coral strand; 
 of the present, when the innocent friend of 
 those sunny hours was doubtless smoking 
 scented narcotics encased in argent holders ; of 
 the future, when compliance with Amelia's 
 rash demand might lead — but no ; intrigue was 
 the breath of Tusitala' s nostrils, and he re- 
 plied: "Knowest thou the Ford of Gasi-gasi? 
 At sunset, two days hence, I will be there. 
 Say what thou wilt to the Man Haggard, but 
 as thou valuest the lives and liberty of all, dis- 
 guise thyself so that none at Malie may know 
 that thou art the daughter of — " "Peace, pra- 
 ter! am I not always disguised?" "I have sup- 
 ported enough of thine haughtiness," retorted 
 Tusitala, with an arrogance equal to her own; 
 "but recollect this: if, when the kava bowl at 
 Malie is passed from hand to hand, the Chief 
 — nay, I will say it, the Monarch — gives it first 
 
32 An Object of Pity; 
 
 to thy lips, the mystery is mulled." "The 
 wine is mulled, I suppose you mean/' re- 
 sponded the dame. And with this unique jest 
 they parted. 
 
 What dusky form glides from the grove of 
 bananas, whose graceful tendrils had twined 
 round the tall palms, forming an impenetrable 
 screen behind them? Whither does he hie, 
 
 and what fatal secret does he carry — where ? 1 
 ***** 
 
 Lofty columns of richly carved bread-fruit 
 stems bear aloft the vaulted roof of the Chief 
 of Malie's ancestral hall. Cocoanuts hang in 
 clusters from their capitals, and if any desire 
 to drink they have but to raise a hand and 
 press them to their lips. Piles of soft mats, 
 woven in the richest hues of the glowing south, 
 
 lr This is Stevenson's account of the second 
 part of the adventure as related in his letter 
 to Colvin : "It was agreed that Lady Jersey 
 existed no more; she was now my cousin, 
 Amelia Balfour. That relative and I headed 
 the march ; she is a charming woman, all of us 
 like her extremely after trial on this some- 
 what rude and absurd excursion. And we 
 Amelia'd or Miss Balfour'd her with great but 
 intermittent fidelity. When we came to the 
 last village, I sent Henry on ahead to warn 
 the King of our approach and amend his dis- 
 cretion if that might be. As he left I heard 
 the villagers asking which zvas the great lady? 
 And a little further, at the borders of Malie 
 itself, we found the guard making a music of 
 bugles and conches. Then I knew the game 
 was up and the secret out." 
 
 Vailima Letters, pp. 206-7. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 33 
 
 cover the emerald turf; beneath them are piled 
 beds of rose leaves, so that when the dusky 
 warriors throw their stalwart forms on the 
 yielding fibres the sweetest fragrance is wafted 
 into the mellow air of the tropics. Lovely 
 damsels, reclining at the foot of each couch, 
 wave fans wrought of the feathers of birds 
 of paradise, with handles of sandal-wood and 
 ivory. Above, from beam to beam, are sus- 
 pended garlands of bougainvillaeas, hibiscus, 
 roses, oleanders and tuberoses, on which are 
 perched the humming-birds, whose plumage 
 flashes like emeralds and rubies in the glare 
 of a thousand torches, held by beautiful boys 
 attired in scarlet lava-lavas elaborately worked 
 in gold, and in pure white tapa turbans, each 
 embroidered with the motto, "Faa-Samoa," the 
 ancestral war cry of Malie's Chief. 
 
 A low ivory table is placed in the centre of 
 the banqueting hall, and around it recline the 
 Chief, Tusitala and his clansmen, and one 
 shrouded figure, wreathed in an impenetrable 
 veil, whom he has introduced as "My cousin 
 from beyond the seas." The Chief of Malie is 
 a man of gigantic stature, and of a wild and 
 resolute appearance. Behind him stands the 
 white-robed, long-bearded priest of his ancient 
 faith, who ever and anon, with a sinister glance 
 at the Unknown, bends forward and whispers 
 in the ear of his lord. But neither Tusitala 
 nor the Unknown deign to quail before danger. 
 
 "Whence comes thy cousin?" demanded the 
 Chief. 
 
34 An Object of Pity; 
 
 "From a far land, from many far lands, I 
 may say," replied the man of intrigue. 
 
 "You have been a good friend to me, Tusi- 
 tala, and I gladly welcome the ladies of thy 
 clan, but thou knowest that I have cause to 
 dread the stranger," mutters the Lord of Malie 
 somewhat beneath his breath. 
 
 "A stranger may bring woe, but a stranger 
 may also bring weal," interjects the imprudent 
 Amelia. 
 
 A sardonic smile flits from the face of the 
 priest to that of the Chief. The latter signals 
 "Bring kava." "Kava! Kava!" shout the 
 warriors, and clash their weapons together. 
 
 "Kava, kava," sing the crouching maidens, 
 and every bird of paradise plume waves to- 
 gether in the ambrosial air. 
 
 "Kava, kava!" echo the shrill voices of the 
 torch bearers, who in rhythmic chorus swing 
 their flambeaux on high. The long proces- 
 sion enters as the silken portals are flung 
 aside. First twelve beautiful maidens, walk- 
 ing three and three ; the centre one of each 
 trio bears a branch of roses; from either side 
 depends a trail of rosebuds, the end of which 
 is upheld by her companions. Then came the 
 old men of the tribe, who have laid aside 
 the chains of skulls and assegais of their prime 
 to don the long white robes and parchment 
 scrolls of eld. Last march the aspirants to 
 manhood — youths awaiting the ceremony of 
 initiation : each carries one of the ingredients 
 — the fruit of the kava-tree, the spice, the cin- 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 35 
 
 namon, the nutmeg, the intoxicating juice of 
 the banyan — all that goes to compound that 
 nectar of the Pacific, the fatally tempting, the 
 maddening beverage — kava. 
 
 The maidens range themselves on either 
 side of the Chief's chair of state — the elders 
 group themselves in the background, the 
 youths kneel in a circle before him. Then 
 comes forward the Taupau, the favourite and 
 most beautiful daughter of the claimant of 
 royal honours. She bears a massive bowl of 
 silver, and carrying it to each youth, in turn 
 receives from him the concomitant which he 
 has had in charge — the kava fruit last; and as 
 that falls into the costly mixture the whole 
 froths up into living, enticing amber. Kneel- 
 ing reverently before her Father and Lord, the 
 Taupau gives into his hand the chastely em- 
 bossed goblet. All eyes are upon him to see 
 to whom the Chief will first assign the draught 
 of honour. To the First of Warriors ! To the 
 Wisest of the Sages ! To Tusitala, Leader of 
 the Allied Clans ! Nay, he gazes on each of 
 these and passes him by. He hands the fatal 
 bowl to the shrouded form — to Amelia ! * 
 
 "Ah," gasps Tusitala, "the Mystery is 
 mulled !" 
 
 1 "After dinner, kava. Lady J. was served 
 before me, and the King drank last." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 207. 
 
36 An Object of Pity; 
 
 CHAPTER III. 1 
 
 "There was a Sound of Revelry by Night." 
 
 [by mrs. r. l. stevenson.] 
 
 Sombre clouds with ragged edges blowing 
 back and forth like the fringe of a pall borne 
 through wild weather rent the tropical sky. 
 The leaves of the forest rattled together with 
 a sound as of marching armies. Darkness and 
 storm seemed struggling for the possession 
 of Apolima, that fair isle where it would be 
 no surprise to meet the daughter of Theia and 
 Hyperion, she who loved fresh, young life, 
 and with whom surely no youth famed for 
 beauty, and prowess in war and the chase, 
 would refuse to drive to immortality behind 
 her four white steeds. It is possible that many 
 a strong breast heaved with eager expectation 
 when for that emotion there was no occasion, 
 for the heart of the male is everywhere the 
 
 We surmise that this chapter, as well as 
 the next, refers to the reception at the Land 
 Commissioner's, noted by Stevenson, as fol- 
 lows : "Tuesday was huge fun ; a reception at 
 Haggard's. All our party dined there; Lloyd 
 and I, in the absence of Haggard and Leigh, 
 had to play aide-de-camp and host for about 
 twenty minutes, and I presented the popula- 
 tion of Apia at random, but (luck helping) 
 without one mistake." 
 
 Vailima Letters, pp. 211-12. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 37 
 
 same, and sings the self-same song — "Vanity, 
 Vanity." 
 
 At least so declared one or two, whose fig- 
 ures showed dim against a background of 
 dusky green as they rode slowly and pain- 
 fully down a rugged mountain path that led 
 to the sea. Slowly, because though they in- 
 cessantly urged onward their unwilling horses 
 with whip and dainty heel, the sagacious ani- 
 mals held back with panting nostrils and quiv- 
 ering flanks, as though already they scented 
 danger; painfully, for now the rain pelted in 
 torrents, the road had grown well-nigh impas- 
 sable, and the lianas, swinging from the trees, 
 lashed the faces of the two riders like whips. 
 
 Both these faces were dark, stained with the 
 blood of a wild people from a far land, till 
 they vied in hue with the richly adorned sad- 
 dles on which they sat. One, at least, was 
 not uncomely; hers was the face of a woman- 
 child : but, while her eyes shone with expec- 
 tancy of inexperience, and a smile fluttered on 
 her glad lips, a sinister mark that divided her 
 low forehead accorded but ill with the joyous 
 expression natural to her years. This marring 
 line forgotten ancestors had, as it were, im- 
 printed on her brow, a sign — a warning of fate 
 and doom. But all unconscious as the blood- 
 red rose when kissed by the dawn, the young 
 thing sang as she rode. Her horse started, 
 shied and made as though to turn. 
 
 "Strike him !" said the elder woman 1 sharply. 
 
 ^rs. R. L. Stevenson. 
 
38 An Object of Pity; 
 
 "Strike when you can, and where you can; 
 strike first, for the world waits to strike you." 
 
 But the girl 1 in answer only warbled gaily 
 the words of a foolish song, "Life is long, let 
 Haggard wait." 
 
 The elder woman twitched her bridle vi- 
 ciously : "Time enough," she murmured, "time 
 enough; 'tis but a female thing." 
 
 Insolent, arrogant, generous and unjust, this 
 woman was a compound of extremes. One 
 never knew where to have her ; she never knew 
 where to have herself. Her mind was a tangle 
 of broken threads that nowhere joined, and 
 not even those who knew her best could guess 
 into what quagmire she next might drag them ; 
 for obedience she exacted as a right, and none 
 could stay her hand. Some said she had the 
 evil eye; a suspicion fostered by her keen, di- 
 rect glance, like one sighting a pistol, and 
 whose aim is deadly. And the island people 
 in her service believed she kept an evil spirit 
 within call, and could read their thoughts 
 like an open book. 
 
 "Madame," said one, the stalwart Laefoele, 
 falling on his knees as he spoke, "I think my 
 wife no good. Please, madame, you look my 
 wife's heart. You see good thing, that's all 
 right. You see bad thing, I make devil." 
 
 Yet, despite this outward seeming of pene- 
 tration and resolution, and though she had 
 seen much of mankind in many and strange 
 lands, she knew them no more than they 
 
 *Mrs. Strong, Mrs. Stevenson's daughter. 
 

 or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 39 
 
 knew her, but walked in a maze all the days 
 of her life. 
 
 And so, in the gathering darkness, and the 
 rising storm, these two, the woman and the 
 woman-child, rode on — rode on to their doom. 
 
 The sea rolled monstrously over the reef that 
 surrounded the isle like the setting of a gem. 
 Night had closed in black as Erebus, and the 
 spirit of storm moved over the face of the 
 great deep. In the firmament of heaven the 
 mighty elements warred tumultuously with the 
 roll of thunder and darting flashes of fire. 
 Through the blackness and the rush and the 
 roar, soaked with spray and rain, two figures 
 crept over a precarious wharf built of the 
 wood of the mangrove swamp, the two who 
 had ridden down the rugged mountain path — 
 the dark woman and the woman-child. At the 
 end of the wharf a boat, tossing in the surf, 
 and manned by tattooed savages, naked but for 
 their loin cloths, awaited them. 
 
 "I believe we have still time," muttered a 
 low, over-sweet voice that had been likened by 
 beautiful women to melted butter and honey. 
 
 "You speak like a fool," retorted another 
 voice of deeper tone and thrilling timbre; "we 
 are not in time." 
 
 The arm of the dark woman was seized with 
 a grip of steel, and she and the woman-child, 
 passed roughly from one to the other, were 
 tossed into the rocking boat beside a sombre 
 figure, tall, silent and shrouded in an unsea- 
 sonable greatcoat. Whether it was the deafen- 
 
4o 
 
 An Object of Pity; 
 
 ing noise of the wind and the sea, or that 
 gloomy forebodings sat heavily on all, affecting 
 even the spirits of Teuila, the woman-child, 
 none spoke except to urge on the savage oars- 
 men. And it was ever the over-sweet voice 
 that broke the silence, and always in the wild 
 island tongue, with words of satire and ridi- 
 cule. Once, indeed, the woman-child ven- 
 tured a "vave, vavel" (haste, haste) ; but it 
 was rather a sigh of impatient fear than a 
 spoken word. 
 
 Had these boatmen, who bent to their oars 
 with so languid a grace — had they first seen the 
 light in the days of old Rome, striking their 
 strong white teeth into the black bread of the 
 peasants, the gourds and the garlic, all the 
 ancient superstitions of their ancestors, burned 
 into them by the scorching sun of the Eternal 
 City, would have paled their bronzed cheeks 
 and set their quick southern blood leaping in 
 their veins with fearful curiosity; for who 
 should be these rovers of the night but the 
 Fatui, the offspring of Fatua, with the pointed 
 ears, who whispered horrors into the ears of 
 those who slept. 
 
 But they knew not — these strong, brown, 
 young men with the tattooed skins — of Rome, 
 nor of the gods who once sang and leaped and 
 loved there on her seven hills; nor did the 
 graceful sweep of their long arms quicken 
 one jot for the melodious imprecations hurled 
 upon them by the over-sweet voice. But 
 everything has an end — life, hope, even the 
 
ot f The Man Haggard* 
 
 41 
 
 chapter of a novel; and as two clouds, one 
 from the east and one from the west, met with 
 elemental rage in the perturbed arch of 
 heaven, the boat grazed some solid substance, 
 glanced off at a tangent, and was dragged 
 back and held fast while from one to the 
 other again were tossed the dark-browed 
 woman and the woman-child, like bales of 
 worthless merchandise. No sooner, however, 
 had their feet touched the stairless pier than 
 they fled straight onward, like the Erinnyes 
 pursuing Orestes. Close behind followed the 
 three men; the one with the voice that had 
 a thrill in it, the one with the voice of but- 
 ter and honey, and the silent one, who, now 
 that he drew himself to his full height, showed, 
 even in the darkness of that tempestuous night, 
 a stature unusual and commanding. 
 
 All five stopped short within an immense 
 vestibule, where their features showed dimly 
 by the light of an invisible lamp. The two 
 womankind panted, and tried feminine-wise to 
 smooth their ruffled locks, at which two of the 
 men threw to each other a contemptuous 
 smile; but the third neither smiled nor spoke. 
 No change passed over his grim, sardonic 
 countenance. 
 
 Of the two who smiled, one was dark, the 
 other fair. At first sight the one who was 
 dark 1 presented the aspect of a boy in his 
 teens; the slender figure, tending in repose 
 like a lily in the summer wind; the sensitive, 
 
 1 R. L. Stevenson. 
 
42 An Object of Pity; 
 
 startled nostril, the small, narrow head, the 
 bloom on the smooth cheek, the soft, tranquil 
 dark eye — all these pertained to youth. But a 
 closer inspection revealed silver threads in the 
 thinning brown locks, fine lines in the fore- 
 head, traced by the inexorable hand of time, 
 deepened, perchance, by the follies of his disso- 
 lute early life. And behind the eyes, so velvet 
 soft, burned the fires of hell. Let no one, in 
 fancied security, make the mistake of touching 
 this creature on a sensitive nerve. The droop- 
 ing figure springs erect with a tigerish activ- 
 ity; from the lips, apparently formed to sing 
 the praises of fair dames, leaps a torrent of 
 blasphemy and imprecation that might well 
 appall a fish-wife, his terrible voice ringing 
 out like the trump of doom, till strong men 
 crawl shuddering from his presence to lie for 
 days on their beds sick and prone, while 
 women, shrieking and laughing in delirium, flee 
 until they fall in their tracks. The name of 
 this singular being was Tusitala, the Writer 
 of Tales. 
 
 The fair man, 1 he who had exchanged 
 smiles with this Tusitala, was still young, tall 
 and broad of shoulder. He wore glasses, per- 
 haps as a disguise, possibly to hide the steely 
 glitter of his hard blue eyes. While Tusitala 
 was all aquiline, recalling the day of old Rome, 
 when the gods were young, the features of the 
 fair man were Greek in their lines, and he 
 carried his head like Apollo. In the salons of 
 
 2 Lloyd Osborne. 
 
of, The Man Haggard* 
 
 43 
 
 the high-born dames 'twas sometimes whis- 
 pered that a woman who had wasted the best 
 years of her springtime in ministering to the 
 caprices of Loia, for so he was called, knew 
 where to lay her hand upon a picture of a 
 tall, fair lad clothed in naught but the tresses 
 of beautiful women, now lying in their forgot- 
 ten graves. The mouth with its clean-cut 
 curves smiled none the less cynically for that 
 remembrance, nor did the over-sweet voice 
 change a note, except when whispering in the 
 rosy ears of a woman-child. 
 
 The third man of this curious party, 1 the 
 silent one, bore some indefinable likeness to 
 Tusitala. It was rumoured that they were 
 bound together by the ties of kinship. Be that 
 as it may, besides this shadowy resemblance 
 there was little in common between their char- 
 acters, with the exception of a certain vol- 
 canic violence of temper, in Tusitala masked 
 by the boyish smoothness of his cheeks and 
 the peculiar softness of his gazelle-like eyes. 
 Pelema, for that was the present pseudonym of 
 the tall, silent man, had not been so favoured 
 by nature. In his deep-set eyes suspicion 
 lurked, and in each haughty nostril was in- 
 dented a signal mark that said, "Ware dan- 
 ger !" His enemies likened him to a Tas- 
 manian devil, the ferocious beast that holds 
 on to its adversary even after death, and 
 whose very teeth, once they are set in the 
 quivering flesh, must be cut out with knives. 
 
 x Graham Balfour. 
 
The arched vestibule, where these five sin- 
 gularly assorted persons waited, was damp and 
 chill, with mouldering tiles underfoot, and en- 
 closed within heavily barred iron gates, whence 
 fat spiders swung and wove their snares un- 
 afraid. The house itself, though not old as 
 years are counted, through long untenancy and 
 neglect had fallen into ruinous decay, and the 
 air from its chambers struck cold to the vitals 
 like a breath from the grave. Along an upper 
 balcony, at the front, a row of coloured lamps 
 swung to and fro, dashed about by the violence 
 of a rushing wind. Fisher-folk, far at sea, bat- 
 tling for their lives in that wild weather, 
 crossed themselves at the sight, and whispered 
 one to the other, "the bale fires are burning. ,, 
 On either side of the vestibule, and stretching 
 indefinitely in the rear of the great building, 
 were vast chambers, one leading into the other, 
 black, empty, silent. Vague memories of the 
 catacombs of old Rome, and half-formed in- 
 tuitions of terrible deeds there perpetrated by 
 her forefathers, mingled with strangely sweet 
 and wholly false dreams of the future, stirred 
 the dormant heart of Teuila, the woman-child. 
 She pressed closer to the side of the dark 
 woman, who repulsed her with an almost sav- 
 age gesture. 
 
 It was seemingly the over-sweet voice of 
 Loia 1 that broke the silence with an intimation 
 that time was passing and life was short. But 
 the words came not from the curved lips of 
 
 ^loyd Osborne. 
 
otf The Man Haggard* 
 
 45 
 
 Loia, but from the stern, set mouth of him who 
 had hitherto wrapped himself in an ominous 
 silence like a cloak of sables. 
 
 With one accord, all moved through a sort of 
 antechamber, and up a flight of steep and nar- 
 row stairs which debouched into a great salon, 
 gay with lights and colours, and heavy with 
 the perfume of tropical flowers that wreathed 
 but hid not the crumbling walls. 
 
 Slender, agile Indians, narrow-eyed, and 
 footing it like cats, appeared and disappeared 
 continually, probably through secret doors, un- 
 til the head swam and grew giddy with a sense 
 of misplaced movement. Through them stalked 
 he who was known as the Man Haggard, eager 
 to welcome his apparently unexpected guests. 
 As he advanced through the long room, with a 
 casual movement of his hand (aptly described 
 in the language of the novelist as a hand of 
 steel in a glove of velvet) he lightly twisted 
 the necks of a couple of crouching menials, 
 laughing gaily the while, as a boy might laugh 
 when pulling off the legs of a cockchafer, cruel 
 only in its absolute faun-like thoughtless- 
 ness. 
 
 "Abdul, remove the debris," (i) was his only 
 
 (i) The writer has conscientiously striven 
 after historical accuracy in every detail of the 
 scene here described, which was admitted to 
 the pages of this work only after the testimony 
 of an eye-witness, who took a solemn oath that 
 "these are the exact words that fell from Hag- 
 gard's lips.'* 
 
4 6 
 
 An Object of Pity; 
 
 reference to the subject, as he held out both 
 hands to the group at the head of the stairs. 
 In a far corner of the salon the pale face and 
 dilating eyes of a woman-child alone took 
 note of the writhing forms that were instantly 
 dragged out of sight by obsequious minions. 
 In the halls of Haggard, this young, unsullied 
 soul was known as Lady Margaret — fair, pale 
 Margaret. 
 
 But not even the merriest sallies of the brill- 
 iant Haggard, the wittiest man of his day, 
 could dispel the gloom that had entered those 
 dazzling halls with the five mysterious strang- 
 ers who came unannounced with the storm 
 and the darkness. Once only the woman-child 
 Teuila, drumming with her small, brown fin- 
 gers on the window pane, sang with eldritch 
 glee a line of a song learned from her deep- 
 bosomed nurse on the arid plains of the 
 Campagna, "Time seems long when dinner 
 waits." Pelema's strong hand opened and 
 shut with a convulsive movement, and she 
 sang no more. 
 
 The awkwardness of the situation was saved 
 by a summons to a banquet spread at one end 
 of the first of the suite of salons. Thither 
 the Man Haggard led his guests; at his right 
 he placed a regal dame, haughty, pale, with 
 eyes of midnight hue, and on his left the 
 dark stranger — the weird woman who had rid- 
 den down the mountain path. Soup was served 
 by hordes of trembling Orientals. As the 
 woman of the mountain languidly raised the 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 47 
 
 first spoonful to her lips, 1 she caught an enig- 
 matical glance from the dark eyes on the right 
 of Haggard. She paused — both paused — and 
 something of the nature of a challenge passed. 
 "If you dare, I dare!" each seemed to say. 
 But this incident bore no fruit, passing like an 
 idle breath on a pane of glass. 
 
 Nor did anything further of note take place 
 till near the end of the banquet, with one 
 trifling exception, which did not escape the 
 watchful eye of Pelema. Again and again the 
 witch woman put forth a brown hand to re- 
 ceive an offered goblet of sparkling wine. 
 Again and again her fingers closed on empty 
 air, and the cup, as it were, was dashed from 
 her lips. For a while she sat motionless, 
 then, with a lithe, backward movement, she 
 clutched the shrinking arm of a passing 
 Oriental. 
 
 "Abdul," she hissed in his ear, "do you re- 
 member that morning when, for three days and 
 nights, nor food nor water had passed your 
 lips? And who was it that crept to your side 
 
 x This note on another dinner at the Land 
 Commissioner's may explain these allusions : 
 
 "We went to Haggard's. There we had 
 to wait the most unconscionable time for din- 
 ner. I do not wish to speak lightly of the 
 Amanuensis, who is unavoidably present, but 
 I may at least say for myself that I was as 
 cross as two sticks. Dinner came at last, we 
 had the tinned soup which is usually the piece 
 de resistance in the halls of Haggard, and we 
 pitched into it." 
 
 Vailima Letters, pp. 227-8. 
 
48 An Object of Pity; 
 
 and pressed a fragrant gourd to your fainting 
 lips? Abdul, in the name of Mahomet, I com- 
 mand you to fetch me a glass of wine." 
 
 She was obeyed with stealthy celerity; but 
 the malevolent gaze of Pelema was upon her; 
 the import of a scene, noted by no one else, 
 was not lost on him. 
 
 Haggard, meanwhile, sitting at the head of 
 his table, dropping jests like diamonds, now 
 with a quotation from the classics, now with 
 a running fire of compliments in French — 
 which he spoke like a native of old Gaul — was 
 a figure to wonder at, to admire, to reverence, 
 perchance to love. His life had been one long 
 romance, and at love he laughed as Cupid is 
 said to laugh at locksmiths. At those shapely 
 feet that it was his sometime whim to drape in 
 silken garments of the far East, with fanciful 
 additions of his own invention, Princesses had 
 knelt and pled in vain. His very boatmen 
 told of a lady of high degree, who, after many 
 fruitless attempts to speak with him alone, 
 followed him to his boat, and there publicly 
 offered him herself, her fortune, her rank, her 
 retainers, all that she held dear. With the 
 careless boyish laugh that was part of his 
 charm for women, he kissed his hand and 
 skimmed away over the blue sea like a bird on 
 the wing. Here and there, scattered about 
 without thought, were souvenirs of his count- 
 less unsought conquests. And the slim, brown 
 boys, who waited in his antechamber, chucking 
 pennies for pastime, might, had they wished it, 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 49 
 
 have had women's hearts instead for their 
 game. And many a wild female thing had 
 blossomed under the sunshine of his pres- 
 ence, but to droop again, and die unseen and 
 unheeded. 
 
 One at the table, and that not a feminine 
 creature, seemed to quail before him. It was 
 the tall, fair youth called Loia, who seemed to 
 experience an electric thrill when those eagle 
 orbs roved past him. 
 
 "I have a paper to read," said Haggard sud- 
 denly. From his breast he drew a scroll of 
 scented parchment, which, on being opened, 
 proved to be a legal document; but though he 
 read it with the debonnaire manner of one who 
 possessed entire knowledge of all law, human 
 and divine, the technicalities of the paper 
 seemed not fully understood by any of those 
 present, with the exception of Tusitala and 
 Pelema, the latter for the first time showing 
 a gleam of mirth. But it was demoniacal mer- 
 riment that cast a chill over the table. 
 
 Loia drew together the Greek curve of his 
 lips, flushed, paled, and then, throwing up his 
 head, to the consternation of the company, 
 burst into loud song. Each looked at his 
 neighbour in wonder, and a blank silence fell 
 on all. One by one the other guests recovered 
 their composure, and there was a faint mur- 
 mur of applause, dominated by what appeared 
 to be a hiss from Haggard. In verity, he 
 only cried "Bis-bis!" At this the company 
 arose with one accord and wandered singly, 
 
50 An Object of Pity; 
 
 or in depressed pairs, through the great 
 rooms. 
 
 The strain was relieved by the chirrup of 
 voices in the vestibule. Strangers poured up 
 the narrow stairs, inundating two of the great 
 chambers. Lady Guernsey, "tall, and most 
 divinely fair," threw herself, with an abandon- 
 ment of serpent-like grace, into a hastily im- 
 provised throne. Who this lady really was is 
 a secret that will die with Haggard. Some 
 humbly addressed her as queen, some as her 
 ladyship, while others called her familiarly by 
 the name of Amelia, which, so much is cer- 
 tain, was never inscribed on her baptismal reg- 
 ister. 
 
 And ever through the throng, like one dis- 
 traught, the Pearl of Guernsey, Lady Mar- 
 garet, moved, but one question on her pale, 
 proud, young lips, "Where is Lady Villiers?" 
 At the pathos of the words bearded men turned 
 aside to hide their tears, for who in that vast 
 mansion could answer the question so artlessly 
 put, "Where is Lady Villiers?" 
 
 As the mower sweeps with his scythe grain, 
 and blossom, and chaff with one movement of 
 his brawny arm, so the babble of voices wa- 
 vered and fell. Something that was like the 
 blare of trumpets, yet soundless, shook and 
 silenced that multitude. Tusitala rose to his 
 feet with a countenance livid as death, and an 
 expression of envy, malice and hatred that was 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 51 
 
 hellish to see. Loia gave one cry of agony and 
 fell fainting into the arms of Belle Decker. As 
 to Pelema, it would require a pen dipped in 
 blood and gall and vengeance and the blackness 
 of despair to describe the swift and awful 
 change that passed over his face. For there, in 
 the doorway, in a full blaze of light, where all 
 might see who chose to look, Prince Rupert 
 stood! 
 
52 An Object of Pity; 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "Late, ever Late/' 
 [by robert louis stevenson.] 
 That was a strange house, fit for a strange 
 inhabitant. 1 The ground on which it stood was 
 low. A tremor and a great voice of the sea 
 filled it day and night. Mouldering gardens, 
 from which the luxuriance of a tropic flora 
 had now almost effaced the artifice of man, 
 came close to its walls, and were studded 
 with lone pavilions, and browsed by costly 
 steeds. Lights passed amid the thickets ; lights 
 turn red faintly in the pavilions; in the upper 
 story shone the lamps and lantern of the high 
 festival ; in all the lower chambers tapers of 
 vigilant myrmidons streamed between substan- 
 tial gratings. For the place was barred with 
 steel, like the heart of him who dwelt there. 
 
 1 "Haggard's rooms are in a strange old 
 building — old for Samoa — and has the effect 
 of the antique like some strange monastery; 
 I would tell you more of it, but I think Fm 
 going to use it in a tale. The annexe close by 
 had its door sealed ; poor Dowdney lost at sea 
 in a schooner. The place is haunted. The 
 vast empty sheds, the empty store, the airless, 
 hot, long, low rooms, the claps of wind that 
 set everything flying — a strange, uncanny house 
 to spend Christmas in." 
 
 Vailima Letters, p. 128. 
 
or, The Man Haggar d. 
 
 53 
 
 Ay, it was a fit home for him: semi-royal, 
 sinister, senescent ; strong enough, in a military 
 point of view, to bear the onset of besieging 
 battalions, and yet tottering to its fall. Bees 
 nested in the beams. By night strange tropic 
 things poured forth and obscured the bright 
 lamps and blotted the rare napery, so that, at 
 times, even the Man Haggard would leap in 
 a horror from his festival, and roar until the 
 caverned peninsula trembled and re-echoed to 
 its bowels, and the pale guests and the obse- 
 quious alien servants crowded to appease his 
 fury. Costly works of art and deadly instru- 
 ments of war hung together from the walls; 
 costly and humble gewgaws lay heaped in 
 barbaric incongruity upon the tables; and at 
 times, while the Man Haggard strode in his 
 long, unsteady halls, and berated his accom- 
 plices, and gave to those weighty despatches, 
 over which ministers grew pale, the thunder 
 of his voice, then would burn at his side, as it 
 burned in the boudoir of the dissolute hetaira, 
 as in the retiring room of the luxurious Hus- 
 sar, that rare, that almost priceless perfume, 
 Ruban de Bruges. Ay, they were well met, the 
 strange house and its singular denizen, they 
 were well met. 
 
 The guests were assembled, the Queen- 
 woman — she who was nameless, but who 
 throned it there like any Berenice or Semira- 
 mis of the old glad days, when the world's eyes 
 were young and the kids danced among the 
 capers to the flutes of Pan — the Queen-woman 
 
54 An Object of Pity; 
 
 sat in her chair, calm of face, but trouble ate 
 into her heart. For there was one wanting. 
 The dark witch of the mountains stole with 
 small steps, peered with swift, dark, uneasy 
 eyes, but peered in vain. Still there was one 
 wanting. In vain Prince Rupert obliterated all 
 expression from his face and veiled an anxious 
 glance behind a shining eyeglass; in vain 
 he gathered admiration from all women, and 
 envy from all men; he, too, felt the omen and 
 quailed in his gold lace. And he of the name 
 which brought a light to the eye of the Cana- 
 dian book-agent, and a flush to the cheek of the 
 Chicago pirate — he who had earned fame only 
 to despise it, luxury only to discard it — who 
 had fled from the splendours of a suburban 
 residence to toss in the rude trading schooner 
 among unchartered reefs 1 — who had left the 
 saturnalian pleasures of the Athenaeum to be- 
 come a dweller in the bush, and the councillor 
 of rebel sovereigns, crouching at night with 
 them about the draughty lamp on the bare 
 cabin floor — whose pen was of gold, and his 
 bed a mat upon a chest, who loved but three 
 things, women, adventure, art — and art the 
 least of these three, and, as men whispered, 
 adventure the most — was he, even he, at ease? 
 I trow not. His slender fingers plucked at his 
 long moustache; his dark eyes glittered in his 
 narrow, sanguine face; in his mind — the mind 
 
 W misprint, evidently. It should be "un- 
 charted." 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 55 
 
 of a poet — the oaths of stevedores and coal- 
 porters hurtled. 1 
 
 But there were of those who knew ; and 
 meanwhile the ruck of the invited thronged 
 with precaution on the tottering floors. The 
 house was doomed; report ran openly in the 
 island capital that it must fall ; perhaps noth- 
 ing but the fame of the Queen-woman could 
 have gathered so great a company under its 
 menaced roof. And as the wind beat upon its 
 walls and deluged it with volleys of stage 
 rain, and the beams throbbed with that multi- 
 tudinous footing, one looked to another with 
 a haggard surmise, and the speech on their 
 pale, silent faces syllabled a common fear : 
 "Will it fall to-night?" Outside, in the nar- 
 row harbour, under the darkness of the night 
 and storm, huge warships tossed with their 
 ponderous armament; yet these were safe, and 
 that throng of many races, treading the long 
 halls of the Man Haggard, knew themselves in 
 danger. In vain the lamps shone many col- 
 oured; in vain the banners drooped and the 
 palms arched on the gorgeous walls. Heart 
 spoke to heart, and their speech was of fear. 
 One thought was in the mind of white and 
 brown ; of the hardy American ; of the lissom 
 Hindu ; of the Teuton, bearded and bald ; of 
 the islander, barefoot even in that gay place, 
 and robed in white like a sun-priest of the old, 
 glad days, when the world's eyes were young, 
 
 1 "My description of myself should, I think, 
 amuse you." — Letters, Vol. II., p. 264. 
 

 56 An Object of Pity; 
 
 and the gods, etc. ; of the gilt and glazed Hus- 
 sar, inured to the thunder of the squadrons; 
 of the captain of great ships, deafened with the 
 bellowing of his guns ; for all these were 
 crowded in the halls of the Man Haggard, and 
 all walked with bated breath. 
 
 Ay, they feared that! the innocent, the un- 
 cunning ; that material fear spoke loud to all ; 
 the most ignorant espied, under the flowers 
 and palms, the blackness of the pit. The tale 
 is old; old as the days when the rude Mace- 
 donian peasant, bursting his way across Thes- 
 salian thickets, saw, and knew and thrilled at 
 the sight of old Evoe and Dyonisius, of Heli- 
 karnassos dancing, their godheads laid aside 
 by the triumphal amphorae, on the white fields 
 of thyme, and under the flowering boughs of 
 Luchriamachristi. So was it with the guests 
 of Belshazzar and the minions of Sardan- 
 apalus. The material peril — ay, they could see 
 that; but it was only the few that spied the 
 darker omen and could read the minatory 
 script upon the wall. There was the strength, 
 the wisdom, the youth, wealth and beauty of 
 the islands, crowded in the halls of the Man 
 Haggard, swinging as they were with the as- 
 sault of tempest; thronged as were their cel- 
 lars with treacherous, alien slaves ; and the 
 Man Haggard was not there among his guests. 
 
 Where was he? 
 
 In the extreme rear of his domain, far from 
 the coloured lamps and the stringed music, 
 the man had his dwelling in a cabin of painted 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 57 
 
 wood. A stranger (had he dared) might have 
 wandered for days in that rich, decaying pleas- 
 ance, and perhaps not remarked the Dwelling 
 of the Master. But the way to its door was 
 known by the costly steed that loved to fol- 
 low and fondle him, and the wild dove that 
 knew and waited for his coming. It was known 
 by the cringing messengers that stole there all 
 day long, the bearers of letters. For it was 
 here that he received, here that he answered 
 them, without a book, without a Peerage, 
 trusting in the resources of his brain. And 
 when the ready pen had done its work he 
 would call for wine, and laugh aloud with that 
 laugh of his that was noisy as a boy's and 
 cruel as a woman's. Outside and in the cabin 
 was to match. A female thing, a maid, a 
 nymph of Dian, might fitly have bestowed her 
 narrow limbs in that plain sleeping place. A 
 vessel (rude as a mere consul's) served him 
 for the toilet. Save for the manly shaving- 
 stick, and a chest that contained a few memo- 
 rials of more innocent years, the singular 
 chamber might be best described as empty. 
 And it was in such surroundings that he fitted 
 to his powerful shoulders a coat that was 
 heavy with gold, and was the gift of an Em- 
 press. Ay, an Empress gave it him; but did 
 she know all? 
 
 He stood a moment in the almost royal 
 pomp of his attire. "It was otherwise in Nor- 
 folk, happy Norfolk, Land of Story," he 
 sighed. 
 
58 An Object of Pity; 
 
 But the weakness in that stern soul en- 
 dured but for the instant. He turned, he 
 passed forth into the night and tempest; and 
 bowing his lion crest against the onset of the 
 squalls, moved toward the lights and the 
 music. 
 
 "Late — ever late/' he murmured. 
 
 Scarce a moment more, and in the eyes of his 
 surprised and fascinated guests, the Man Hag- 
 gard stood and glittered on the threshold, a 
 hollow smile on his face, a scornful excuse 
 upon his tongue. 
 
 "At last," breathed the Queen-woman. 
 
 And the ruddy face of Tusitala paled with 
 the exquisite relief. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Extract from the Diary of a Woman Child. 
 
 [BY MRS. STRONG.] 
 
 I am a simple, child-like creature, though 
 my years are more than you would suppose, 
 judging from my rounded cheek and innocent 
 parti-coloured eye. I love nature — and with 
 my pet bird, white as snow, and a thing of ter- 
 ror to all but me, who have tamed her savage 
 nature by my gentle wiles — I love to wander 
 by the brookside and babble to the listening 
 trees, and twining garlands in my flowing hair, 
 gaze upon the sweet reflection in the water. 
 
 I live upon the mountain-side, far from the 
 wild, mad world; strange are my companions, 
 and greatly feared, even perhaps disliked by 
 the inhabitants of that island village clustered 
 upon the sea-girt shore. The mind of the 
 great poet, known to the gentle island people 
 as Tusitala, unbends to my innocent prattle. 
 My stern, haughty brother, 1 cold as steel and 
 hard of heart as my own home-made bread, 
 even he deigns to call me "Little Sister" and 
 "The Sunshine of the House." That strange 
 
 ^loyd Osborne. 
 
6o An Object of Pity; 
 
 dark woman 1 — she of the evil eye, who rules 
 supreme within the walls of our mountain 
 demesne, whose lightest word is a command, 
 whose flitting form, clad in flowing garments 
 of electric blue, strikes terror to the hearts 
 of idling men upon the wide plantation; she 
 whom I call by the sacred name of "Folly," 
 has been known to give me her cheek to kiss. 
 There is a stranger here — one who has come 
 from far across the blue sea. I call him, in my 
 artless way, Pelema. 2 He is tall and fair, and 
 sometimes, even at the breakfast hour, his calm 
 face lights up with a sweet, shy smile when 
 I and the omelette appear. 
 
 I cannot tell of the banquet at the Man 
 Haggard's; the fair lady 3 whose form is like a 
 bending lily, whose smile is gracious as the 
 dawn, has been described by abler hands than 
 mine. Looking back upon that gay scene in 
 the dear dead days, my simple mind is in a 
 whirl ; but, alas ! my tender heart retains the 
 image of an Officer of Hussars — languid as the 
 sun at noon, and glowing like the burnished 
 dome of Nebraska city. 
 
 He spoke to me but a moment; for one 
 precious heart-throb I basked in the scintilla- 
 tion of his eyeglass. But how could I foolishly 
 hope to keep him by my side, for she was 
 there. With one toss of her yellow curls she 
 lured him to her side — may Heaven forgive 
 thee, Bella Decker ! 
 
 x Mrs. Stevenson, R. L. Stevenson's mother. 
 2 Graham Balfour. 3 Lady Jersey. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 61 
 
 Epilogos. 
 [by graham balfour.] 
 
 Far, far away from torrid zones and dusky 
 races, no more beneath the flaming constella- 
 tions of meridian skies, no more beneath the 
 midnight heavens, lurid with the splendours of 
 the Southern Cross, but in the chill gloom of 
 an English evening, draws this history of 
 beauty and bravery to its close. It is Christ- 
 mas night, and the gloom is deep, for this side 
 of England is that which lies nearest to the 
 gateways of the day : on it the sun god first 
 lavishes his orient splendours, and from it he 
 first withdraws his failing rays. The dense 
 mist and icy cold would have struck terror into 
 the heart of any child of the south; right 
 gladly would he have turned to that side of 
 the landscape where, glowing in the darkness, 
 rose tier above tier the brilliantly lighted 
 windows of a lordly mansion. 
 
 There, within the dark walls, lined with the 
 oaks whose acorns now furnished forth the 
 stately groves that covered the surrounding 
 park, in the warm rays of the Yule log, all 
 that Norfolk holds of grace and chivalry, of 
 dignity and birth, of strength and genius, 
 was met to do honour to the aged Master of 
 
62 An Object of Pity; 
 
 those halls. Scarce a family of the true aris- 
 tocracy of England lacked its fitting representa- 
 tive: all were there. The Montmorencis and 
 the Vavasours, the De Jonghs and Spreckels- 
 villes, the Longuebows and the Mirabels, those 
 in whose veins ran the bluest ichor of the race, 
 the azure flood which had encarnadined the 
 fields of Hastings and Poictiers, of Crecy and 
 Flodden. None were wanting. There were the 
 generals, foremost in ten thousand fights; the 
 statesmen, first in council and in daring : not the 
 blatant demagogues of honeyed tongues, who 
 lie and cozen and cheat the many-headed mob 
 in its vile dens, but the men of lofty birth and 
 breeding, pur sang et sans reproche, the men 
 born to threaten and command. 
 
 Not one was wanting. They were there, the 
 Cardinal Archbishops of the old faith, eloquent 
 priests and fiery martyrs. They were there, 
 the Lord Chancellors, skilled draughtsmen, 
 learned conveyancers, stern prosecutors, elo- 
 quent counsel, the flower of the Norfolk cir- 
 cuit. They were there, essayists, philosophers, 
 poets, seers, who tossed off epics ere they had 
 breakfasted, lulled you to sleep with golden 
 numbers of a dream of life, sweeter than ever 
 murmured through the groves of Academe, 
 more glowing than ever flashed from the ear- 
 nest lips of the ascetic of Samosata, and who 
 roused you again by their deep voices trolling 
 some hastily improvised Greek choriambic 
 worthy of the lips of Sappho, or some Mah- 
 ratta battle song. Not one was wanting. 
 
or, The Man Haggard* 
 
 63 
 
 Nor were there wanting partners worthy of 
 heroes. Fair, stately women, beautiful and 
 queenly, such as the cold north alone brings 
 forth: women swarthy-browed and high- 
 bosomed, no mean rivals of Cleopatra and 
 Semiramis; lithe brunettes with flashing eyes 
 and brows storm-swept with the tornadoes of 
 passionate love, and yet more passionate re- 
 morse; dovelike maidens, coquettish damsels; 
 every type was there. Not one was wanting. 
 Never was seen such a gathering of fair women 
 or heroic men since Cadmus reaped his crop 
 of armed warriors, or at her knee Harmonia 
 gathered the pure profiles of her daughters in 
 the city of the Violet Crown. 
 
 The banquet was far advanced. Already the 
 feasters were sated with ortolans and ante- 
 lopes; pearl oysters and the dugong potted in 
 far Australian lands passed unheeded. The 
 wine cup passed freely from hand to hand, and 
 from the deep cellars flowed the great vintages 
 without stint, Rhenish, Chian, Falernian, Im- 
 perial Tokay, and the choicest brands of 
 Arcady itself. 
 
 But now all eyes were turned to the head of 
 the table, where sat the mighty figure of the 
 Host, bowed with the weight of more than 
 ninety years, with locks white as the garland 
 of roses which crowned them; white as the 
 beard which lay upon his knees, and twined 
 lovingly about his feet. His massive brow 
 was bronzed by tropic suns, and seamed with 
 the storms of long-spent passion; but his eyes 
 
64 An Object of Pity; 
 
 neither heeded nor beheld the pale host of the 
 North around him. His thoughts were far 
 away; away in the days of his high youth; 
 away at the other side of the world, with the 
 dusky tribes whom he had taught and judged 
 and ruled; ay, ruled as the strong must ever 
 sway the weak. Far-off voices rang in his ears 
 — the cheers of a people dwelling in peace, 
 secured in the titles to their lands by the 
 dauntless judgments and Solonian awards of 
 the Land Court of Apia. Ovations, triumphs, 
 paeans — perfect paeans — passed before his eyes. 
 What wonder that he neither spake nor saw? 
 
 But now his swarthy cupbearer drew nigh, 
 bearing the wassail bowl of burnished gold, 
 crowned to the very brim, with liquor with- 
 out price. The Master raised it to his trem- 
 bling lips, and draining it at a single draught, 
 he muttered : "Curagoa ! — ah, me — what mem- 
 ories ! Gibson, 1 Curagoa !" And the cupbearer 
 behind his chair chanted, after the wild island 
 fashion, in his shrill tones : "Cock-a-doodle do ! 
 My Lord Haggard drinks ! Cock-a-doodle 
 do!" 
 
 But still he muttered, "Curagoa— H.B.M.S. 
 CuraQoa." 
 
 Fired at the word, the assembled guests 
 prayed to hear once more the tale of which 
 none grew ever weary — the tale of Samoa — 
 the siren melody of the South Seas. Back to 
 the hall, back across the vaults of Time and 
 
 *Captain Gibson was commander of the 
 British warship Curagoa, on duty at Samoa. 
 
of, The Man Haggar d. 
 
 65 
 
 Space journeyed the undimmed eye; for the 
 first time he heeded the assembled crowd. 
 "Once more!" they craved of him, and yet 
 again, "Once more !" At last he rose. At the 
 sight of the lofty figure, tossed in a storm of 
 petulant disdain, all bowed the head. "Ah! 
 quel homme !" sobbed the Duchesse de Pondi- 
 cheri, flinging at his feet her carcanet of price- 
 less chalcedonies. "Lawks ! Muster Bazett, 'ee 
 always were a fine figger of a man," murmured 
 old Joe Bacon, the centenarian retainer, as he 
 guarded jealously the door. 
 
 Then fell on all a great hush, and out of it 
 arose the voice of the old man eloquent. 
 Cicero in the forum, Demosthenes in the arena, 
 Chrysostom before the Council of Nicaea, never 
 unfolded a tale with such stirring eloquence. 
 Isocrates, Fenelon, Plutarch or Nicodemus 
 had sighed with envy and remained mute in 
 despair. 
 
 Once more, in a silence broken only by the 
 dropping of tears and the gasps of strong men, 
 they heard that marvellous tale. 
 
 Before them rose the palm trees and the 
 primeval forests of Samoa: the harbour thick 
 with rusting wrecks — the king's palace — the 
 twin cathedrals — the exquisite salons of Met- 
 ropolitan Apia. 
 
 Before them moved again the slight, stealthy 
 figure of the Teller of Tales, with shy, dark 
 eyes, and a strange blending of mischief with 
 chivalry, of Heine with the Young Chevalier. 
 Hard by, for them, was that Augustan face, 
 
66 An Object of Pity; 
 
 before which even the Teller bowed, master- 
 ing, in its lofty lineaments, things inscrutable. 
 Pride, and Strength, and Grief, and Death, 
 and Love. Upon the other side moved the 
 lithe form and falcon gaze of Teuila, with lov- 
 ing glance and dexterous fingers, weaving a 
 garland for the child that skipped around her, 
 mischievous as a bag of monkeys, and fair as 
 any faun in Bacchus' train. There, too, moved 
 the slim and stately form of the Lady of the 
 Pearl, serene alike beneath the hoofs of roll- 
 ing horses or above the heads of the pigmy 
 folks upon the beach. There, too, the well- 
 knit form of the cynosure of salons and of 
 squadrons, ablaze with crystal and with gold. 
 In the background towered once more a pair of 
 lofty figures : the one broad, with features 
 clean-shaven and sardonic. "Souvent femme 
 varie," he snarled, in deep and luscious ac- 
 cents; "Tout passe — tout lasse: only cacao 
 pays," he added, flinging a handful of gifts, 
 accompanied by a burning glance of admiration 
 upon the Samoan crowd. But no word passed 
 the stern lips of his companion, Pelema, the 
 onlooker, who long had renounced all ambi- 
 tions, and stood aloof, the better to watch the 
 game. Behind all these a background of 
 swarthy figures, with Titanic sinews and lux- 
 uriant forms, in which here and there appeared 
 the German, the missionary, or the Comber of 
 the Beach. 
 
 The cunning tongue marshalled this strange 
 procession, bending it in and out, leading it to 
 
 urfk 
 
ot f The Man Haggard* 
 
 67 
 
 and fro, always past one dignified and slender 
 figure, whose dark eyes gleamed dimly as 
 through a veil, which seemed to shroud her 
 features in mystery. Gracious words fell from 
 her lips; gracious thoughts guided her acts; 
 and still through all the twisting and twining, 
 mystery abode around her; a mystery as deep 
 as ever brooded upon the waves of Eleusis, or 
 sanctified the croonings of the Dodonean dove. 
 
 Once more the tale we have heard was dis- 
 closed, and still to the end the mystery of the 
 Nameless Lady was unrevealed. 
 
 A great shout burst from all that company. 
 "Bravo ! bravo ! bis ! bis !" they cried. "Who 
 was she?" they clamoured; "tell us her name 
 at least!" 
 
 Proud beauties that never had to ask before 
 joined their supplications to the seductions of 
 their sisters, whose pride it was to bend the 
 haughtiest to their will, and wring the deepest 
 secrets from reluctant lips. The golden mouths 
 of matchless orators were added to the blunt 
 behests of unconquered soldiers and the subtle 
 inducements of the wily priest: "Tell us who 
 was she, this Queen?" they cried with pas- 
 sionate glances, and yet again, "Her name?" 
 
 But for all his ninety years the heart of the 
 Man of Iron remained unmolten. "They are 
 all dead and gone," he said, "save me alone ! 
 Amicus Socrates, amicus Plato, sed magis 
 amicus curiae. In this bosom perishes the 
 Secret of the Beach of Apia." 
 
68 
 
 An Object of Pity. 
 
 Vale — Samoa, 
 [by captain leigh.] 
 
 Good-bye to the Samoan Isles, 
 
 The Siva 1 and the Kava. 2 
 Good-bye to seas of emerald green, 
 
 And rocks of glistening lava. 
 Farewell to bold Malie's chief, 
 
 And eke to Malietoa. 
 Farewell to Tamasese's Clan, 
 
 The kindest in Samoa. 
 Farewell to all the cheery folk, 
 
 Who live upon Vailima. 
 I know they will not laugh, and say 
 
 We ne'er saw Apolima. 
 Farewell to her — the woman-child — 
 
 I trust that naught will check her 
 Belief in me — it isn't true, 
 
 That I love Bella Decker. 
 The steamer's whistle warns me, I 
 
 No more can be a laggard. 
 So farewell to my generous host, 
 
 Farewell to Bazett Haggard. 
 
 x The native dance of the Samoans. 
 2 The native drink. 
 

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