The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 17Stevenson, Robert Louis
History
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 17
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Islands of the Pacific -- Fiction; Samoan Islands -- History; Short stories
But the thought of these starers stuck in my mind, and presently I came
out again. The sun was now up, but it was still behind the cape of
woods. Say a quarter of an hour had come and gone. The crowd was
greatly increased, the far bank of the river was lined for quite a
way--perhaps thirty grown folk, and of children twice as many, some
standing, some squatted on the ground, and all staring at my house. I
have seen a house in the South Sea village thus surrounded, but then a
trader was thrashing his wife inside, and she singing out. Here was
nothing: the stove was alight, the smoke going up in a Christian manner;
all was shipshape and Bristol fashion. To be sure, there was a stranger
come, but they had a chance to see that stranger yesterday, and took it
quiet enough. What ailed them now? I leaned my arms on the rail and
stared back. Devil a wink they had in them! Now and then I could see the
children chatter, but they spoke so low not even the hum of their
speaking came my length. The rest were like graven images: they stared
at me, dumb and sorrowful, with their bright eyes; and it came upon me
things would look not much different if I were on the platform of the
gallows, and these good folk had come to see me hanged.
I felt I was getting daunted, and began to be afraid I looked it, which
would never do. Up I stood, made believe to stretch myself, came down
the verandah stair, and strolled towards the river. There went a short
buzz from one to the other, like what you hear in theatres when the
curtain goes up; and some of the nearest gave back the matter of a pace.
I saw a girl lay one hand on a young man and make a gesture upward with
the other; at the same time she said something in the native with a
gasping voice. Three little boys sat beside my path, where I must pass
within three feet of them. Wrapped in their sheets, with their shaved
heads and bits of top-knots, and queer faces, they looked like figures
on a chimney-piece. A while they sat their ground, solemn as judges. I
came up hand over fist, doing my five knots, like a man that meant
business; and I thought I saw a sort of a wink and gulp in the three
faces. Then one jumped up (he was the farthest off) and ran for his
mammy. The other two, trying to follow suit, got foul, came to ground
together bawling, wriggled right out of their sheets mother-naked, and
in a moment there were all three of them scampering for their lives and
singing out like pigs. The natives, who would never let a joke slip,
even at a burial, laughed and let up, as short as a dog's bark.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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