Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 363
“These are only vegetables,” said the philosopher. “They are alive, but not at all interesting.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the stranger. “They seem to have very good manners. Do they never speak?”
“They lack the gift,” said the philosopher.
“Yet I think I hear them sing,” said the other.
“That is only the wind among the leaves,” said the philosopher. “I will explain to you the theory of winds: it is very interesting.”
“Well,” said the stranger, “I wish I knew what they are thinking.”
“They cannot think,” said the philosopher.
“I don’t know about that,” returned the stranger: and then, laying his hand upon a trunk: “I like these people,” said he.
“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher. “Come along.”
Next they came through a meadow where there were cows.
“These are very dirty people,” said the stranger.
“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher; and he explained what a cow is in scientific words which I have forgotten.
“That is all one to me,” said the stranger. “But why do they never look up?”
“Because they are graminivorous,” said the philosopher; “and to live upon grass, which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to business that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the scenery, or keep themselves clean.”
“Well,” said the stranger, “that is one way to live, no doubt. But I prefer the people with the green heads.”
Next they came into a city, and the streets were full of men and women.
“These are very odd people,” said the stranger.
“They are the people of the greatest nation in the world,” said the philosopher.
“Are they indeed?” said the stranger. “They scarcely look so.”
THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE.
Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were brought to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddle-horse to run free on the island. They were rather afraid to go near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and supposed he would not speak to them. Now the saddle-horse had never seen creatures so big. “These must be great chiefs,” thought he, and he approached them civilly. “Lady and gentleman,” said he, “I understand you are from the colonies. I offer you my affectionate compliments, and make you heartily welcome to the islands.”
The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with each other.
“Who can he be?” said the gelding.
“He seems suspiciously civil,” said the mare.
“I do not think he can be much account,” said the gelding.
“Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka,” said the mare.
Then they turned to him.
“Go to the devil!” said the gelding.
“I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our quality!” cried the mare.
The saddle-horse went away by himself. “I was right,” said he, “they are great chiefs.”
THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG.
“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog.
“When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.”
“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole.
“You never were a tadpole.”
SOMETHING IN IT.
The natives told him many tales. In particular, they warned him of the house of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it became instantly the prey of Akaänga, and was handed on to him by Miru the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the eaters of the dead.
“There is nothing in it,” said the missionary.
There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; but, by the native saying, it was death to bathe there. “There is nothing in that,” said the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming. Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards the reef. “Oho!” thought the missionary, “it seems there is something in it after all.” And he swam the harder, but the eddy carried him away. “I do not care about this eddy,” said the missionary; and even as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the house hung calabashes. He had never seen such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the ladder. “This is singular,” said the missionary, “but there can be nothing in it.” And he laid hold of the ladder and went up. It was a fine house; but there was no man there; and when the missionary looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the sea. “It is strange about the island,” said the missionary, “but who’s afraid? my stories are the true ones.” And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities. Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish.
“A body would think there was something in this,” said the missionary. “But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!”
Now the flaming of Akaänga’s torch drew near in the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru. And there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and made the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of the living, dripping and lamenting.
This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men. But of all who ever came there, the missionary was the most concerned; and, to make things worse, the person next him was a convert of his own.
“Aha,” said the convert, “so you are here like your neighbours? And how about all your stories?”
“It seems,” said the missionary, with bursting tears, “that there was nothing in them.”
By this the kava of the dead was ready, and the daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner of singing. “Gone are the green islands and the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, and life and love and hope. Henceforth is no more, only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends devoured; for life is a deceit, and the bandage is taken from your eyes.”
Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the bowl. Desire of that kava rose in the missionary’s bosom; he lusted for it like a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out his hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk. And then he remembered, and put it back.
“Drink!” sang the daughter of Miru.
“There is no kava like the kava of the dead, and to drink of it once is the reward of living.”
“I thank you. It smells excellent,” said the missionary. “But I am a blue-ribbon man myself; and though I am aware there is a difference of opinion even in our own confession, I have always held kava to be excluded.”
“What!” cried the convert. “Are you going to respect a taboo at a time like this? And you were always so opposed to taboos when you were alive!”
“To other people’s,” said the missionary. “Never to my own.”
“But yours have all proved wrong,” said the convert.
“It looks like it,” said the missionary, “and I can’t help that. No reason why I should break my word.”
“I never heard the like of this!” cried the daughter of Miru. “Pray, what do you expect to gain?”
“That is not the point,” said the missionary. “I took this pledge for others, I am not going to break it for myself.”
The daughter of Miru was puzzled; she came and told her mother, and Miru was vexed; and they went and told Akaänga. “I don’t know what to do about this,” said Akaänga; and he came and reasoned with the missionary.
“But there is such a thing as right and wrong,” said the missionary; “and your ovens cannot alter that.”
“Give the kava to the rest,” said Akaänga to the daughters of Miru. “I must get rid of this sea-lawyer instantly, or worse will come of it.”
The next moment the missionary came up in the midst of the sea, and there before him were the palm trees of the island. He swam to the shore gladly, and landed. Much matter of thought was in that missionary’s mind.
“I seem to have been misinformed upon some points,” said he. “Perhaps there is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it after all. Let me be glad of that.”
And he rang the bell for service.
MORAL.
The sticks break, the stones crumble,
The eternal altars tilt and tumble,
Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist
About the amazed evangelist.
He stands unshook from age to youth
Upon one pin-point of the truth.
FAITH, HALF FAITH AND NO FAITH AT ALL.
In the ancient days there went three men upon pilgrimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third was an old rover with his axe.
As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of faith.
“We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,” said he, and beat his breast.
“That is true,” said the virtuous person.
“The peacock has a scrannel voice,” said the priest, “as has been laid down always in our books. How cheering!” he cried, in a voice like one that wept. “How comforting!”
“I require no such proofs,” said the virtuous person.
“Then you have no reasonable faith,” said the priest.
“Great is the right, and shall prevail!” cried the virtuous person. “There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, there is loyalty in the mind of Odin.”
“These are but playings upon words,” returned the priest. “A sackful of such trash is nothing to the peacock.”
Just then they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on a rail; and the bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a nightingale.
“Where are you now?” asked the virtuous person. “And yet this shakes not me! Great is the truth, and shall prevail!”
“The devil fly away with that peacock!” said the priest; and he was downcast for a mile or two.
But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer performed miracles.
“Ah!” said the priest, “here are the true grounds of faith. The peacock was but an adminicle. This is the base of our religion.”
And he beat upon his breast, and groaned like one with colic.
“Now to me,” said the virtuous person, “all this is as little to the purpose as the peacock. I believe because I see the right is great and must prevail; and this Fakeer might carry on with his conjuring tricks till doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man like me.”
Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that his hand trembled; and, lo! in the midst of a miracle the cards fell from up his sleeve.
“Where are you now?” asked the virtuous person. “And yet it shakes not me!”
“The devil fly away with the Fakeer!” cried the priest. “I really do not see the good of going on with this pilgrimage.”
“Cheer up!” cried the virtuous person. “Great is the right, and shall prevail!”
“If you are quite sure it will prevail,” says the priest.
“I pledge my word for that,” said the virtuous person.
So the other began to go on again with a better heart.
At last one came running, and told them all was lost: that the powers of darkness had besieged the Heavenly Mansions, that Odin was to die, and evil triumph.
“I have been grossly deceived,” cried the virtuous person.
“All is lost now,” said the priest.
“I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the devil?” said the virtuous person.
“Oh, I hope not,” said the priest. “And at any rate we can but try. But what are you doing with your axe?” says he to the rover.
“I am off to die with Odin,” said the rover.
THE TOUCHSTONE.
The King was a man that stood well before the world; his smile was sweet as clover, but his soul withinsides was as little as a pea. He had two sons; and the younger son was a boy after his heart, but the elder was one whom he feared. It befell one morning that the drum sounded in the dun before it was yet day; and the King rode with his two sons, and a brave array behind them. They rode two hours, and came to the foot of a brown mountain that was very steep.
“Where do we ride?” said the elder son.
“Across this brown mountain,” said the King, and smiled to himself.
“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger son.
And they rode two hours more, and came to the sides of a black river that was wondrous deep.
“And where do we ride?” asked the elder son.
“Over this black river,” said the King, and smiled to himself.
“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger son.
And they rode all that day, and about the time of the sunsetting came to the side of a lake, where was a great dun.
“It is here we ride,” said the King; “to a King’s house, and a priest’s, and a house where you will learn much.”
At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them; and he was a grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and she was as fair as the morn, and one that smiled and looked down.
“These are my two sons,” said the first King.
“And here is my daughter,” said the King who was a priest.
“She is a wonderful fine maid,” said the first King, “and I like her manner of smiling,”
“They are wonderful well-grown lads,” said the second, “and I like their gravity.”
And then the two Kings looked at each other, and said, “The thing may come about”.
And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the maid, and the one grew pale and the other red; and the maid looked upon the ground smiling.
“Here is the maid that I shall marry,” said the elder. “For I think she smiled upon me.”
But the younger plucked his father by the sleeve. “Father,” said he, “a word in your ear. If I find favour in your sight, might not I wed this maid, for I think she smiles upon me?”
“A word in yours,” said the King his father. “Waiting is good hunting, and when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home.”
Now they were come into the dun, and feasted; and this was a great house, so that the lads were astonished; and the King that was a priest sat at the end of the board and was silent, so that the lads were filled with reverence; and the maid served them smiling with downcast eyes, so that their hearts were enlarged.
Before it was day, the elder son arose, and he found the maid at her weaving, for she was a diligent girl. “Maid,” quoth he, “I would fain marry you.”
“You must speak with my father,” said she, and she looked upon the ground smiling, and became like the rose.
“Her heart is with me,” said the elder son, and he went down to the lake and sang.
A little after came the younger son. “Maid,” quoth he, “if our fathers were agreed, I would like well to marry you.”
“You can speak to my father,” said she; and looked upon the ground, and smiled and grew like the rose.
“She is a dutiful daughter,” said the younger son, “she will make an obedient wife.” And then he thought, “What shall I do?” and he remembered the King her father was a priest; so he went into the temple, and sacrificed a weasel and a hare.
Presently the news got about; and the two lads and the first King were called into the presence of the King who was a priest, where he sat upon the high seat.
“Little I reck of gear,” said the King who was a priest, “and little of power. For we live here among the shadow of things, and the heart is sick of seeing them. And we stay here in the wind like raiment drying, and the heart is weary of the wind. But one thing I love, and that is truth; and for one thing will I give my daughter, and that is the trial stone. For in the light of that stone the seeming goes, and the being shows, and all things besides are worthless. Therefore, lads, if ye would wed my daughter, out foot, and bring me the stone of touch, for that is the price of her.”
“A word in your ear,” said the younger son to his father. “I think we do very well without this stone.”
“A word in yours,” said the father. “I am of your way of thinking; but when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home.” And he smiled to the King that was a priest.
But the elder son got to his feet, and called the King that was a priest by the name of father. “For whether I marry the maid or no, I will call you by that word for the love of your wisdom; and even now I will ride forth and search the world for the stone of touch.” So he said farewell, and rode into the world.
“I think I will go, too,” said the younger son, “if I can have your leave. For my heart goes out to the maid.”
“You will ride home with me,” said his father.
So they rode home, and when they came to the dun, the King had his son into his treasury. “Here,” said he, “is the touchstone which shows truth; for there is no truth but plain truth; and if you will look in this, you will see yourself as you are.”
And the younger son looked in it, and saw his face as it were the face of a beardless youth, and he was well enough pleased; for the thing was a piece of a mirror.
“Here is no such great thing to make a work about,” said he; “but if it will get me the maid I shall never complain. But what a fool is my brother to ride into the world, and the thing all the while at home!”
So they rode back to the other dun, and showed the mirror to the King that was a priest; and when he had looked in it, and seen himself like a King, and his house like a King’s house, and all things like themselves, he cried out and blessed God. “For now I know,” said he, “there is no truth but the plain truth; and I am a King indeed, although my heart misgave me.” And he pulled down his temple, and built a new one; and then the younger son was married to the maid.
