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
A bit along the path I was brought to a clear stand, and had to rub my
eyes. There was a wall in front of me, the path passing it by a gap; it
was tumble-down, and plainly very old, but built of big stones very well
laid; and there is no native alive to-day upon that island that could
dream of such a piece of building. Along all the top of it was a line of
queer figures, idols or scarecrows, or what not. They had carved and
painted faces, ugly to view, their eyes and teeth were of shell, their
hair and their bright clothes blew in the wind, and some of them worked
with the tugging. There are islands up west where they make these kind
of figures till to-day; but if ever they were made in this island, the
practice and the very recollection of it are now long forgotten. And the
singular thing was that all these bogies were as fresh as toys out of a
shop.
Then it came in my mind that Case had let out to me the first day that
he was a good forger of island curiosities, a thing by which so many
traders turn an honest penny. And with that I saw the whole business,
and how this display served the man a double purpose, first of all, to
season his curiosities, and then to frighten those that came to visit
him.
But I should tell you (what made the thing more curious) that all the
time the Tyrolean harps were harping round me in the trees, and even
while I looked, a green-and-yellow bird (that, I suppose, was building)
began to tear the hair off the head of one of the figures.
A little farther on I found the best curiosity of the museum. The first
I saw of it was a longish mound of earth with a twist to it. Digging off
the earth with my hands, I found underneath tarpaulin stretched on
boards, so that this was plainly the roof of a cellar. It stood right on
the top of the hill, and the entrance was on the far side, between two
rocks, like the entrance to a cave. I went as far in as the bend, and,
looking round the corner, saw a shining face. It was big and ugly, like
a pantomime mask, and the brightness of it waxed and dwindled, and at
times it smoked.
"Oho!" says I, "luminous paint!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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