my brother’s return—scenery—old providence—robert louis stevenson—new york—at sea—the change
in august that year i at last received a letter from my brother, telling me he had left california and would arrive in providence in a few days. i was delighted, for i was then completely on the rocks, having spent all my earnings on buying a violin bow and a stock of music! my comrade the swede promised to come with me to meet my relative at the station.
the next day we stood on the platform together at eleven o’clock. the telegram said 12.30 p.m., but we were young and eager. we rubbed our hands with joyful anticipation as we stood there anxiously watching. our funds were low and my brother had performed a miracle—he was a poet and journalist, and had made money out of his profession. when the train steamed in and the saloon car door opened i recognised at a glance the characteristic contour of the family face, though i had not seen my brother since we were children. i rushed forward overjoyed, and the welcome of brotherhood smiled in his expression. six feet in height, and correspondingly athletic in appearance, he was well able to carry his own portmanteau, but privations and thoughts of affluence from his exchequer inspired me. impulsively i seized it!
years of residence in the states seemed to have changed his original nationality and the accent of his speech. he stood smiling before me, a yankee of the aristocratic type. his keen grey eyes stared at my shabby clothes: the situation was evident to him at a glance. in a store by the civic centre, with an entrance that looked like the south nave of the crystal palace, my comrade and i were measured for new suits. words could not express my gratitude.
with this lightening of my financial cares i felt the dim delirium, the exuberance, the faint revival of my old romantic glamour return; the world seemed beautiful after all.
my swedish friend was delighted too, and smiled from ear to ear. i can still see his tall, lanky figure, and his merry round blue eyes as he puffs and tootles away on his beloved clarionet. ah, how happy we were, marching on, carelessly unfulfilling the great promise of youth while we were yet youthful! yet what is the good of promise fulfilled when youth is gone, when the glamour has faded, and you look through the grim spectacles of reality at the rouged cheeks of blushing truth and beauty? oh, to remould this scheme of life, and be born old! to travel with time and grim experiences down the years towards cheerful, glorious youth, back, back to the innocence and beauty of childhood’s dreams! to die full of hope and fond beliefs—and let the true believers travel the other way!
i know not where we went or why we went. i only know that my brother embraced the occasion and caught the vagabond fever; and that our valet, an old turk (who kept swearing that he wasn’t an armenian), sang jovial songs that were musically reminiscent of his harem days as he stumbled and struggled behind us, carrying our bundles of fruit, new suits, bouquets of flowers, and my long-wanted expensive copyright etudes, petrie’s violin studies, and all that sudden and unexpected affluence inspired us to buy.
i recall, too, how we were walking up the brilliantly lighted main street when a negro, who was anxiously watching for the editor of a providence journal (that had criticised his lodging-house and the lady lodgers who kept such late hours), suddenly whipped out a revolver and fired. the editor had appeared at his door and received a bullet in his face, but he too had a revolver—probably he had been expecting the negro’s compliments—and he fired back and blew all the negro’s front teeth out. the next bullet from the negro’s revolver went through the violin studies which i held by my side, and but for the fortunate ricochetting of the bullet i should not now be able to write my reminiscences! i think the negro recovered from his wound and the editor was severely reprimanded for not hitting a vital spot. for the sins of negroes are dwelt upon like the sins of the poor relation, and i must admit that negroes are sometimes almost as bad as white men. there were no moving pictures in those days to perpetuate the episode, but still it is flashed vividly before my mind’s eye. i see the three races of good fellowship, my tall brother and myself, between us my lanky swede comrade, and, just behind us, straight-nosed turkey struggling along on bandy legs. equipped with argosies of youthful dreams, pitching the moon and stars and sun from hand to hand, with rollicking song on our lips we fade away down the uncharted seas of westminster street, providence!—to awaken on dim shores of cold daybreak as once more i kneel and take the sacrament before the grim, mock-eyed old priest—reality! when i was twenty years and one month old—how long ago it seems!
we visited most of the fashionable places of interest, went almost everywhere, through the open sesame of my brother’s liberality. and that is saying a good deal, for theatres and palatial halls of amusement abound. there’s “the gaiety,” “the colonial,” “hippodrome,” “sans souci,” “bijou,” and heaven knows how many more, wherein the cheerful multitudes of r.i. folk scream with laughter and weep over unreal dramas.
i no longer played the monotonous second fiddle in the orchestra of the music hall; we sat, a happy trio, the smiling occupants of orchestral stalls, where i saw the indian squaw fade to a shadow and die rather than sell her honour; and the american missionary weep over the grave of the half-caste zulu in timbuctoo who had died sooner than he would drink rum! here was no painting of true life, no dramatic, realistic scene showing the besotted derelict who died far away in the isolation of some alien land—the man from nowhere, who took the wrong turning twenty years before, being hurried into his roughly made coffin: then his two lonely comrades watching the sunrise gleam in his dead eyes, and the half-boyish smile on the silent lips, as they place the coffin lid on, and creep along at daybreak, carrying him under the mahogany-trees to the hole by the swamp. they say a prayer and murmur: “pity, bill, that we left the bottle of whisky by his bed. didn’t he rave about someone in the old country? wonder what ’twas all about. the weather’s hot. buried him rather quick, eh? here’s the cross: ‘bill.’ no name. ‘died of fever, remembered by us.’”
moonlight ferry trips, picnics, concerts and songs are as characteristic of providence as of the south sea islanders of samoa and tonga. one difference divides the providence population from the islanders—the natives of providence wear clothes; but the yankee mechanics outdo the savaii and fiji islanders in tobacco-chewing, and can spit over their shoulders with even swifter certitude than my sailor comrades of san francisco, whom i told you about in my first book of south sea reminiscences. boating is an essential feature in their amusements. rhodes-on-the-pawtucket is crammed with boats. on sunshiny days thousands of youths and girls paddle and sing away, and never reflect on the time when red indian canoes darted in the moonlight over those same waters.
my comrade was still with me, and we got several engagements to play at dances and concerts. my brother was in the ring, so to speak, and so we were received with an enthusiasm that we had greatly missed when we really wanted it. my friend eventually, however, went off to alaska to some relations. he promised to write to me, but i never heard of him again.
my brother owned, and still owns, i hope, estates called cranston heights, an elevated, breezy place. on the hottest day a sleepy wind creeps about them. from that spot you can gaze down into the valleys and see a wall of cliffs about an eighth of a mile long, rising a hundred feet high. there on a large boulder, known as middleton’s rock, my brother and i would sit reflectively smoking long yankee corn-cob pipes, as we reclined, shaded by umbrellas of green-leafed trees from the hot sunlight. we sat there talking and dreaming of years ago when the indians camped on cranston heights. i think my brother could outrival fenimore cooper and cody in his knowledge of indian history and the legends of the original tribes that owned america. stone arrow-heads and indian pottery to this day are often found there, and my brother showed me several relics which were dug out of his estate.
rhode island was of course originally an indian settlement. forests grew by the rushing rivers, and on the prairie landscapes stood native villages. the dominion was under a king philip, and the island is sometimes called, for poetical purposes, “land of king philip.” the forests have succumbed to the woodman’s axe, though still patches of woods and prairie-land are left, and it was in that clump that i sat and played my violin and dreamed sometimes. still the beautiful rivers run across the landscapes like veins of silver and gold fluid, glittering under the leafy clumps of beech, maple, hickory and many varieties of trees that resemble tropical types. the waters of those old rivers, like the coming and passing of singing humanity, have long since slipped into the distant seas, but still other waters flow on and are known by the ancient indian names. the seekonk river winds through providence and throws its liquid mass into narragansett bay. from cranston heights you can see the exquisite scenery that is characteristic of the neighbourhood of providence; across the valleys the hills fade before the eyes into dreamy distances as sunset floods the horizon. if you are poetical you can see the ghostly camp fires and dead indian riders galloping and fading into the arched sunset of blood fire. the view reminded me of a south sea modern shore village, for here and there were dotted bungalows, fenced by trees and green shrub and flowers. things have altered a good deal since those days, for i have recently visited providence.
mr j——, whose palatial bungalow was among them, is one of rhode island’s greatest business men, and his commercial success is deserved, through his unassuming philanthropy. he has given a great deal of land, parks and drives to providence. i think it was in meshanticut park, one of his gifts to the city, that i met with an adventure. the weather was hot, and i spied a small lake by some trees. immediately i undressed and, though my brother expostulated, i dived into the water: the park officials came and arrested me, but my brother explained and i got off with a caution. years of wild life in the south seas had taught me to bathe where and when i liked, and i had yet to learn that park lakes in providence were not as lagoons on the isles of the wild south seas, wherein the whole population bathe without even the modest fig leaf, gossip, mention the weather and go their ways.
oaklawn is another pretty spot. i stayed there with some of my brother’s friends, at wilbur avenue, i think. there is a little wooden bridge thereabouts, not far from an old stone mill. near this spot in the old days a great indian battle was fought, and there by that little bridge my brother would sit for hours, writing his articles for the provincial and new york papers.
it was at oaklawn bridge that i sat and told my brother of my various boyish experiences in the south seas, of the island chiefs, and of my reminiscences of robert louis stevenson, whom i had met at apia and on ships at sea. my brother was deeply interested in all i told him. he was a great admirer of stevenson’s work and his perfect literary style. we talked of stevenson’s easy and careless manner that seemed such a contrast to his perfection and polish in writing. how he did not care a tinker’s curse for the opinion of the conventional world, and loved to shock visitors to samoa by appearing before them suddenly in old clothes, bare-headed and bootless. i saw him come aboard a ship dressed in that way; and i recalled how, on another occasion, i met him coming down the track inland from saluafata, the native village. “hello, youngster,” he said; and, as i was going his way, off we tramped along the track together as he hummed beside me. then, with the sunset, out came the native children rushing from the forest. like tiny ghosts they glided, begging, in the shadows at our legs as we strode alone; and as robert louis stevenson threw brass buttons to them, they raced after them, and then, half frightened that he might want to reclaim the prizes, they suddenly disappeared, racing back into the forest. the sunset died behind our backs and the stars crept over the vaea mountain top and the dark-branched coco-palms each side of the track; the shadows thickened as the stars brightened. so well do i remember that night that even now i seem to see my companion striding onward beside me, his loose neck-cloth fluttering in the wind that drifts in from the sea, stirring the coco-palms and pungent-smelling forest flowers as it passes. still i see his ghost-like shadow, the clear eyes, the thin, ?sthetic face; still he is humming a folk-song, while his right hand beats the moonlit bush with a stick—and yet he has lain there many years on the top of the vaea mountain—his rugged island tomb railed by the dim sky-lines of surrounding tropical seas, his vaulted roof the everlasting sky, studded with the brightest stars, as he lies with his stricken aspirations like some dead christ of the lost children of the wild, solitary south.
a critic in the times, reviewing my first book, sailor and beachcomber, after writing a column of critical appreciation, finished up by saying: “mr safroni-middleton prides himself on having known robert louis stevenson in the south seas.” my book has three hundred and four pages: on three of them i spoke of stevenson; but i fail to see why i should pride myself on knowing him, except in this sense, that i am proud to have met him and to count him among the many men who followed after my own heart.
if he had not died before i returned, a little older, to samoa, he would have welcomed me as i should have welcomed him; for he had several times expressed a wish that i should call on him and take my violin, but in the foolishness of a boy’s thoughtlessness i did not go. worldly greatness did not appeal to him, nor did my letters of introduction, for i had none, and he was, i am quite sure, aware of the fact.
well, to return to my experiences in north america. after a time i left providence, and then went down the hudson river bound for new york. there i stayed in a temperance hotel close to the bowery, and i cannot forget the scene.
along winding avenues that divide the towering wooden buildings rushed battalions of hurrying legs. the noise of car bells and gongs and the babble of shouting voices assailed my ears. all the races under the sun seemed to have emigrated to that spot to fight in scheming regiments for the almighty dollar. white men, chinamen, black men, tawny men, yellow men, armenians, turks, germans with thick necks—all were there. over my head rushed express trains. no space seemed wasted. indeed the yankees in their commercial search for gold peg out claims in the sky, claim square miles of stars, as up go their buildings to the heavens. by the second-storey windows on elevated railway tracks crash along the trains. in those days they ran by steam, and the coal-dust showered down your neck and in your eyes as you moved along with the thick crowd below; a crowd so dense that you could shut your eyes, make no effort, and still be propelled along in the mighty rush, as you dreamed of other days of peace and solitude! i went across brooklyn bridge by night: swung on mighty steel cables, it dangles in space and has several divisions for vehicles and pedestrians. below rushed the ferry-boats on the hudson river, their port-holes ablaze with light, and the sound of music on deck fading as they passed underneath. across the bridge hurried electric cars, racing along by the mechanical genius of man’s brain, the light of the universe—the stars switched on to wheels!
i only stayed one week in new york, for i met an old shipmate whom i had sailed with from sydney. he was on a tramp steamer. one of the deck-hands had gone into hospital, so i yielded to my friend’s persuasion, went on board, secured the job and signed on. for the rest, it is all like a dream now: i can hear the rattle of the rusty chain as they haul the anchor up, and the uncouth, shrill calls of the pulling crew rising above the clamour of the steam winches, just before the tramp steamer moves away from the wharf to put to sea. new york and its babble of voices with their nasal twang, its vast drama of scheming existence in a feverish hurry, fades away and becomes a memory of some monstrous “magic shadow show” lit by the sun far off somewhere across the lone sea miles astern.
the sea routine has commenced: deep down in the stokehold firemen with cadaverous faces turned to the furnace blaze are toiling away. they look like shadows in the flame-lit gloom, like dead men working out their penance in hell. attired in pants and a sweater only, with their hairy chests steaming with running perspiration, they work furiously. their conversation is made up chiefly of oaths and forcible criticism on the lack of generosity they found in bill or jim, who only stood them ten drinks ashore, after all they had treated them to on that first spree night of the last trip. they are not bad men, and as they spit out the coal-dust in a thick mass from their stained lips, and take a gulp of condensed water to quench their thirst, i feel deeply sorry for them, and realise that they are the unsung heroes of the sea. i look at the row of unshaved faces thrust forward to the roaring fires, and at their shrivelled hands and big arms moving the long steel stoking bars, and wonder at the marvellous strength and virtue of the hard-working ship’s firemen.
on deck, like iced wine to my lips, i drink in the fresh sea breeze. it is dark. i cannot turn in, for i should not sleep, so i go into the fo’c’sle and watch the sailors playing cards, then return on deck and look over the ship’s side. under the pendulous, curved moon—for it seems to sway to the roll of the rigging—the mate’s form moves to and fro as he tramps the bridge. the sailing ship that we sighted on the weather-side at sunset is now only a tiny travelling star low down on the ocean darkness far astern, where her mast head-light shines.
the weariness of the sea’s monotony is on me; we have been to sea long enough to be half-way across the atlantic. the weather is much colder. the moon is large and low, and looks like a ghostly arch to the south, for it seems half submerged far away on the edge of the ocean, that seems shivering for miles with silver mystery. just over the side i watch the mirrored masts and rigging glide along with us as though a ghostly ship is following; and the hours fly and dawn breaks greyly, and once more the tramp steamer is surrounded by blue sky-lines, till sunset sinks to a wild blaze in the western arch of the sky. the sailors go on watch. the cook washes his pots and pans ere he cuts his corns and turns into his bunk.
the wind’s voice murmurs mournfully in the rigging and round the bridge awnings; as the night grows older it swells to a tremendous voice that is really me! for it is the re-echo of my own hearing and dreaming consciousness. i fancy i hear the hounds of death racing across the wild sea moors as shadows dropping from the flying clouds go running over the moonlit sea, and now, as though a door in the sky is opened, the stars and moon are driven and shut away in the outer universe. for a mighty sheet of storm-cloud slides across the heavens. the world is changed to an infinity of dark and wind, and the one dim figure of the look-out man on the fo’c’sle head. the thundering seas slowly rise with their white crests glowing in the ebon darkness as the brave old tramp steamer, like a frightened thing, stays her way a moment, and shivers as seas strike the weather bow. then again she pitches onward, as wonderful little men, with bony, haggard faces with weary eyes in them, stare into the furnace fires of the steamer’s bowels, and shovel and stoke to sustain an honest existence, and drink tank water. no wonder they drink beer when they get the chance. i am quite sure i should.
a week later we sighted the cliffs of england, and soon after the sea tramp touched the wharf at liverpool with a jerk and a shiver, and went to sleep among a forest of masts and funnels till her next trip.
