Of All Inhabitants Of The South Seas, The Marquesans Were Adjudged
The Strongest And The Most Beautiful.
Melville said of them:
"I
was especially struck by the physical strength and beauty they
displayed . . . In beauty of form they surpassed anything I had ever
seen. Not a single instance of natural deformity was observable in
all the throng attending the revels. Every individual appeared free
from those blemishes which sometimes mar the effect of an otherwise
perfect form. But their physical excellence did not merely consist
in an exemption from these evils; nearly every individual of the
number might have been taken for a sculptor's model." Mendana, the
discoverer of the Marquesas, described the natives as wondrously
beautiful to behold. Figueroa, the chronicler of his voyage, said
of them: "In complexion they were nearly white; of good stature and
finely formed." Captain Cook called the Marquesans the most
splendid islanders in the South Seas. The men were described, as
"in almost every instance of lofty stature, scarcely ever less than
six feet in height."
And now all this strength and beauty has departed, and the valley of
Typee is the abode of some dozen wretched creatures, afflicted by
leprosy, elephantiasis, and tuberculosis. Melville estimated the
population at two thousand, not taking into consideration the small
adjoining valley of Ho-o-u-mi. Life has rotted away in this
wonderful garden spot, where the climate is as delightful and
healthful as any to be found in the world. Not alone were the
Typeans physically magnificent; they were pure. Their air did not
contain the bacilli and germs and microbes of disease that fill our
own air. And when the white men imported in their ships these
various micro-organisms or disease, the Typeans crumpled up and went
down before them.
When one considers the situation, one is almost driven to the
conclusion that the white race flourishes on impurity and
corruption. Natural selection, however, gives the explanation. We
of the white race are the survivors and the descendants of the
thousands of generations of survivors in the war with the micro-
organisms. Whenever one of us was born with a constitution
peculiarly receptive to these minute enemies, such a one promptly
died. Only those of us survived who could withstand them. We who
are alive are the immune, the fit - the ones best constituted to live
in a world of hostile micro-organisms. The poor Marquesans had
undergone no such selection. They were not immune. And they, who
had made a custom of eating their enemies, were now eaten by enemies
so microscopic as to be invisible, and against whom no war of dart
and javelin was possible. On the other hand, had there been a few
hundred thousand Marquesans to begin with, there might have been
sufficient survivors to lay the foundation for a new race - a
regenerated race, if a plunge into a festering bath of organic
poison can be called regeneration.
We unsaddled our horses for lunch, and after we had fought the
stallions apart - mine with several fresh chunks bitten out of his
back - and after we had vainly fought the sand-flies, we ate bananas
and tinned meats, washed down by generous draughts of cocoanut milk.
There was little to be seen. The jungle had rushed back and
engulfed the puny works of man. Here and there pai-pais were to be
stumbled upon, but there were no inscriptions, no hieroglyphics, no
clues to the past they attested - only dumb stones, builded and
carved by hands that were forgotten dust. Out of the pai-pais grew
great trees, jealous of the wrought work of man, splitting and
scattering the stones back into the primeval chaos.
We gave up the jungle and sought the stream with the idea of evading
the sand-flies. Vain hope! To go in swimming one must take off his
clothes. The sand-flies are aware of the fact, and they lurk by the
river bank in countless myriads. In the native they are called the
nau-nau, which is pronounced "now-now." They are certainly well
named, for they are the insistent present. There is no past nor
future when they fasten upon one's epidermis, and I am willing to
wager that Omer Khayyam could never have written the Rubaiyat in the
valley of Typee - it would have been psychologically impossible. I
made the strategic mistake of undressing on the edge of a steep bank
where I could dive in but could not climb out. When I was ready to
dress, I had a hundred yards' walk on the bank before I could reach
my clothes. At the first step, fully ten thousand nau-naus landed
upon me. At the second step I was walking in a cloud. By the third
step the sun was dimmed in the sky. After that I don't know what
happened. When I arrived at my clothes, I was a maniac. And here
enters my grand tactical error. There is only one rule of conduct
in dealing with nau-naus. Never swat them. Whatever you do, don't
swat them. They are so vicious that in the instant of annihilation
they eject their last atom of poison into your carcass. You must
pluck them delicately, between thumb and forefinger, and persuade
them gently to remove their proboscides from your quivering flesh.
It is like pulling teeth. But the difficulty was that the teeth
sprouted faster than I could pull them, so I swatted, and, so doing,
filled myself full with their poison. This was a week ago. At the
present moment I resemble a sadly neglected smallpox convalescent.
Ho-o-u-mi is a small valley, separated from Typee by a low ridge,
and thither we started when we had knocked our indomitable and
insatiable riding-animals into submission. As it was, Warren's
mount, after a mile run, selected the most dangerous part of the
trail for an exhibition that kept us all on the anxious seat for
fully five minutes.
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