The marking of the eggs is most curious and Whinney took a photograph of them (see [Ill.u.s.tration: THE NEST OF A FATU-LIVA]) when we reached the yawl. It is an excellent picture though Whinney, with the raptiousness of the scientist, claims that one of the eggs moved.

Just before we left the mountain beach my own radiant Daughter of Pearl and Coral made a discovery which in the light of after events was destined to play an important part in our adventures. Kippiputuona, my own true mate, there is something ironically tragic in the thought that the simple blue flower which you plucked so carelessly from the cliff edge and thrust into your hair would some day--but again, I antic.i.p.ate.

We had reached the yawl, which we made a sort of half-way house and were chatting with Captain Triplett. Whinney was repeating parts of his talk and I noticed that Triplett's attention was wandering. His eye was firmly fixed on the flower in Kippy's hair. That called my attention to it and I saw that whenever my wife turned her head the blossom of the flower slowly turned in the opposite direction.

Suddenly Triplett interrupted Whinney to say in a rather shaky voice, "Mrs. Traprock, if you please, would you mind facin' a-stern."

I motioned to Kippy to obey, which she would have done anyway.

"An' now," said the Captain, "kindly face forrard."

Same business.

The flower slowly turned on Kippy's head!

Stretching forth a trembling hand, Triplett plucked the blossom from Kippy's hair!

You can only imagine the commotion which ensued when I tell you that, in the Filberts, for a man to pluck a flower from a woman's hair means only one thing. Poor Kippy was torn between love of me and what she thought was duty to my chief. I had a most difficult time explaining to her that Triplett meant absolutely nothing by his action, a statement which he corroborated by all sorts of absurd "I don't care,"

gestures--but he clung to the flower.

An hour later when we had escorted the ladies safely to their compound, I paddled back to the yawl. Peering through the port-hole I could see Triplett by the light of a phosphorous dip working on a rude diagram; at his elbow was the blue flower in a _puta-sh.e.l.l_ of water.

"Triplett," I asked sternly, as I stood beside him an instant later, "_what is that flower?_"

"That," said Triplett, "is a compa.s.s-plant."

"And what is a compa.s.s-plant?"

"A compa.s.s-plant," said Triplett, "is---," but for the third and last time, I antic.i.p.ate.

I _must_ get over that habit.

CHAPTER VIII

Sw.a.n.k's popularity on the island. Whinney's jealousy. An artistic duel. Whinney's deplorable condition. An a.s.sembly of the Archipelago.

Water-sports on the reef. The Judgment.

Whinney and I were surprised to find that the islanders took Sw.a.n.k more seriously than they did either of us. Of course, since the Kawa's forcible entry into the atoll premier honors were Triplett's, but Sw.a.n.k was easily second.

The curious reason was that his pictures appealed. I think I have indicated that Sw.a.n.k was ultramodern in his tendencies. "Artless art,"

was his formula, often expressed by his slogan--_"A bas l'objectif!

Vive le subjonctif."_ Whatever that means, he scored with the Filbertines who would gather in immense numbers wherever he set up his easel.

This was due in part to his habit of standing with his back to the scene which he proposed to paint and, bending over until his head almost touched the ground, peering at the landscape between his outspread legs.

"It intensifies the color," he explained. "Try it."

Baahaabaa bestowed a t.i.tle on our artist--"Maimaue Ahiiahi"--"Tattooer of Rainbows"--by which he was loudly acclaimed. Whinney and I used to sing, "He's always tattooing rainbows!" but artistic vanity was proof against such _bourgeoisie_.

Baahaabaa was tireless in suggesting new subjects for him to paint.

One day it would be a performance of the _Ataboi_, the languorously sensuous dance which we had first seen in the women's compound; again he would stage a scene of feasting, at which the men pa.s.sed foaming sh.e.l.ls of _hoopa_ from hand to hand. A difficulty was that of preventing the artist from quitting work and joining his models which Sw.a.n.k always justified by saying that the greatest art resulted from submerging oneself with one's subject.

"Look at Gaugin!" he used to say.

"But I don't like to look at Gaugin," I remonstrated.

Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Sw.a.n.k by means of his camera--foolishly, I say, though the result was one of the finest spectacles I have ever witnessed.

For days Whinney had been stalking Sw.a.n.k, photographing everything he painted. In a darkroom of closely woven _panjandrus_ leaves the films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa long before the artist had finished his picture.

This naturally irritated Sw.a.n.k and he finally challenged the scientist to mortal combat, an artistic duel, camera against brush, lens against eye.

When the details were explained to Baahaabaa, he was in a frenzy of excitement. As judge, his decision was to be final, which should have warned Whinney, who, as the challenged party, had the right to select the subject. His choice was distinctly artful.

"I think I've got him!" he confided. "We're to do the 'lagoon at dawn.'

You know what that means? Everything's gray and I can beat him a mile on gray; secondly, there won't be a gang of people around, and, thirdly, Sw.a.n.k simply loathes getting up early. They're all alike, these artists; any effort before noon is torture!"

"All right," said Sw.a.n.k, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go to bed at all."

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Lagoon at Dawn (Whinney's Version)]

[Ill.u.s.tration Note: THE LAGOON AT DAWN

(Whinney's Version)

What the camera can do in interpreting the subtle values of a delicate color scheme is here shown in the prize photograph submitted by Reginald Whinney in the great compet.i.tion presided over by Chief Baahaabaa. It is rare indeed to find a beach in the Filbert Islands so deserted. An hour after this photograph was taken more than three thousand natives were a.s.sembled to witness the judging of the exhibits. In the small hours of night, the entire strand is covered with pita-oolas, or giant land-crabs, about the size of manhole covers, who crawl inland to cut down the palm trees with which they build their nests. An examination of the picture with a powerful microscope will reveal the presence on the surface of the water of millions of dew-fish enjoying their brief interval of day and dew.]

When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Sw.a.n.k was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In the meantime Whinney was dodging about with his camera, squinting in the finder, without finding anything--one never does--peering at the brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In Southern Peru the same gesture used to signify contempt and derision.]

in a word going through all the artistic motions which should have been Sw.a.n.k's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got onto all fours, looking like a dromedary about to lie down, from which position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes and then began to fumble in his painting box.

"Ver' funny--ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."

"Let me get them for you," I suggested.

He waived me aside. "Gimme air."

Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Sw.a.n.k was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others--the "Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece, most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.

Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa snored; Sw.a.n.k worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched the miracle of a tropical dawn.

It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.

Sw.a.n.k only allowed himself the use of the three primary colors--consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.

Where I saw the glowing promise of color rather than color itself, Sw.a.n.k saw red. Where I felt the hushed presence of dawn "like a pilgrim clad," Sw.a.n.k vibrated to the harmonies of pure pigment, the full bra.s.s of a tonal orchestra.