Lord of Marutea: The Director's Story

I

BEFORE the war there were a number of Germans scattered among the islands of French Polynesia. Afterward they were gathered in and sent back to Germany, and their property confiscated. Herr Müller was an exception; he was left on Marutea. I don’t know why, unless it was that he had lived there for so many years. I should n’t wonder if they were afraid to molest him. Whatever the reason, there he was when I went to his island in 1923.

I was employed by a European syndicate at that time, under contract to produce one picture a year for a term of three years, each of them to be concerned with the life of primitive people in remote corners of the world. That is how I came to be interested in Marutea in the first place. I was attracted by its name almost as much as by its isolated position. As a matter of fact, it proved to be precisely the island I was searching for.

‘His island’ I have called it, and so it was, although he did n’t own a square foot of land outside his trading compound; but he had lived there for so long that he had come to look upon it as his own property. ‘My island,’ he would say; ‘my copra,’ ‘my pearls,’ ‘my pearl shell,’ ‘my people.’ He was right about it, too. The very fish in the lagoon and in the sea beyond belonged to him, and could only be caught and eaten by his authority. Mussolini himself might have been envious of this man’s power. It was confined to the one island, but absolute within that limit.

He did own one piece of property in addition to his trading station — the Turia, an ancient, leaky, sixty-ton schooner used to bring his copra and pearl shell to the Tahiti market and to carry back his supplies of trade goods. When I arrived at Tahiti the vessel was in port there, on one of her annual calls. Her skipper was a huge man of forty-odd years, with mild brown eyes and a gentle, engaging manner of speech. He was Otto Müller, Jr., the oldest of his father’s large family of half-caste children.

Otto Müller was shocked, almost incredulous, at my request for passage to Marutea for myself and my two cameramen. I can think of no other words with which to express his attitude.

‘I could n’t possibly take you, sir,’he said.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘My father would never permit it. He will have no visitors on the island. He would be very angry with me if I brought any.’

He regarded me with an awed, frightened expression, like that of a small boy asked by another boy to rifle his father’s desk, or to commit some other unheard-of depredation.

Well, the more he objected, the more I urged. No other vessel called at Marutea; it was the Turia or nothing, and I was determined to go. At last I gained Otto’s reluctant consent. I agreed to take full responsibility, and to explain to his father, if it should be necessary, how I had forced myself aboard the schooner with all my goods and chattels. Otto was of the opinion that we should not be permitted to land. I told him that I was willing to take a chance on that and, if permission were not given, would pay whatever his father asked for passage in the Turia to another island I had in reserve, one hundred and fifty miles from Marutea.

II

At the outset of the voyage I put Herr Müller out of mind; I would worry about him when the time came. Meanwhile, we had to reach his island in a vessel that leaked like a wicker basket. We must have pumped half the Pacific through her before we reached Marutea. We had calms and head winds day after day, and once we were hove to in a gale that I thought would founder us. My two cameramen, George Crossland and Karl Zimmerman, thought it a great lark. Fine lads, both of them. As for myself, it seemed to me that we had been born on that vessel; that we had traveled beyond the limits of the known world. Not a sail, not a smudge of smoke on the horizon — nothing but empty sea and the tired old schooner, her belly half full of salt water, trudging along in the centre of it, under an empty sky.

We got there at last, and from the moment of sighting land all the anxieties and discomforts of the voyage were forgotten. I shall not attempt to give you an idea of the beauty of the place. Words can’t do it, pictures can’t do it. Music could, and only music. If you were to see Marutea, you would understand why I think so.

Through my binoculars I saw Herr Müller from afar; he was standing on the beach near the landing place with a telescope on a tripod before him. He leveled it at us from time to time as we approached, searching the schooner carefully, from stem to stern. Several times the glass was directed at me, long and steadily. I confess that I felt uncomfortable under that long-range scrutiny. An influence decidedly hostile seemed to be making itself felt. A large crowd of natives stood or sat in a circle around him. They made a glorious picture against the background of dazzling white beach, coconut palms, and blue sky. I saw no buildings except a sort of warehouse at one side, near the beach. Even that was beautiful with the shadows of palm fronds moving over its whitewashed walls. One would have said it had been built for that purpose.

The schooner was brought into the wind a quarter of a mile offshore and the whaleboat lowered. Otto Müller was very uneasy and apprehensive. He could not go ashore with us, and he warned me to be careful what I should say to his father.

‘Have you any suggestions as to how to begin ? ’ I asked.

‘No; only let him speak first, Mr. Forrest. I’m afraid there’s no hope of his letting you stay. I should n’t have brought you; I really should n’t have!’

‘Nonsense, Otto!’ I said, jokingly. ‘He won’t shoot me, will he?’

Otto was silent for a moment, as though seriously considering this possibility.

‘No, he would n’t do that, but he might strike you with his walking stick. It is an ironwood stick, and he might hurt you badly. It would n’t be the first time he has used it. He would be very sorry afterward, but then it would be too late.’

Crossland and Zimmerman came ashore with me. With four native boys at the oars and one at the steering sweep, we approached the reef. It was an ugly-looking landing place, and the heavy onshore swell made it uglier still. We got across without mishap, but my heart was in my mouth for a few seconds. The boat grounded in the shallows twenty yards or so from the beach, and the sailors started to carry the three of us, pickaback, to dry ground. Herr Müller strode forward and shouted something to them in the native tongue. They dropped us so abruptly that I lost my balance and sat down in two feet of water. Crossland and Zimmerman were as surprised as I was, but they had not fallen and they whooped with joy at my plight. They were the only ones who laughed. The crowd of natives looked on in silence, gazing from Herr Müller to me and back again. He stood with his hands clasped over his cane, which looked more like a war club than a walking stick.

He was a magnificent figure of a man, with thick white hair and a snow-white beard reaching nearly to his waist. I had seen many an island trader in my wanderings, but never one like this. It was inconceivable to me that he could belong to that fraternity. Race and character were written all over him; he looked like some old German baron who had strayed out of the feudal system. Vitality radiated from him — from his beard, from the tips of his strong brown fingers, most of all from his blazing blue eyes. You felt it as you feel the heat of tropical sunlight, and it seemed to come from as inexhaustible a reservoir. He folded his hands across his chest, one hand still grasping the stick, and waited for us to approach.

We all have our pride, and I could imagine what a ridiculous figure I presented as I waded, dripping, to the beach. Inwardly, I was boiling with rage, but I took care to conceal it. Remembering Otto’s advice, I waited for his father to speak. He looked from one to another of us for a moment; then he said, in English, ‘Why have you come here? ’

His voice was deep and powerful, and he spoke with only a slight accent. I suppose I should have been prepared for that question, but the fact was that I stood there, tongue-tied, like a small boy caught stealing cookies in his mother’s pantry.

‘Why have you come here?’ he repeated. The knuckles of his huge fists were white, and I more than half expected him to swing his club without giving me a further chance to reply. He took a quick stride forward, and I needed all my presence of mind to keep from ducking. He did n’t offer to strike me, however. With his stick he drew a line in the sand. ‘You will go no farther than that from where you stand,’ he said. Then he raised his arms horizontally and glanced back over his shoulder. Two husky young men sprang forward, ducked under his arms, picked him up, and staggered out with him to the whaleboat. A moment later they were across the reef and on their way out to the schooner.

III

Never in my life before had I been so taken at a disadvantage. After the showing I had made before all those people, I felt that I must do something to reassert my manhood, so I walked across Herr Müller’s boundary line and sat down in the shade at the upper slope of the beach. Crossland and Zimmerman came too. A murmur ran through the crowd at this defiant action, but whether of surprise or approval or apprehension it was impossible to say. Soon the hum of talk became general, but I noticed that the natives kept their voices under, as though they were afraid that Herr Müller might hear them even at that distance.

I glanced over the gathering, sick at heart at the thought that we should not, in all probability, be permitted to stay on Marutea. Nature has developed no finer race than the Polynesian. Here was the company for my picture, from the children to the great-grandparents. They had intelligent mobile faces, their teeth were flawless, as white as coconut milk, and their bodies were a delight to the eye. There was not a deformed or sickly-looking person among them. I picked out my principals there and then, and in the imagination I was already at work, the film, ‘Marutea,’taking shape.

The buzz of conversation died away; the whaleboat was returning. Herr Müller was now at the steering sweep. He had removed his shoes and his white coat, rolled up his trousers to the knee, and was standing with his bare feet braced on the gunwales. In the intervals between the thunder of the surf we could hear him urging the oarsmen on, but, instead of coming to the usual boat passage, he steered to a point where the surf piled up in an aweinspiring manner.

‘Good Lord!’ Crossland said. ‘Surely he won’t try crossing there!’ It looked like a mad attempt, but there was no doubt of Herr Müller’s purpose. Immense coral boulders were scattered there, the wreckage, evidently, of some old hurricane, and the surf piling in among them spouted high in fountains of spray and solid water. All the natives were now on their feet, talking excitedly. Old Müller stood in an easy, careless posture, his head turned over his shoulder as he watched the following seas. I wanted to cheer at the noble picture he made. At last, far out, he saw the wave he was waiting for, lifting its back slowly and majestically as it swept in. He shouted his order and the men made their oars crack. Involuntarily I closed my eyes for an instant. When I opened them again the whaleboat was gliding down an appalling slope of surf between two boulders that dwarfed the little craft, and the great volume of water hurled over the reef carried them across the shallows and grounded their boat high up on the sand.

Herr Müller sprang out and came toward us in great strides, his arms outstretched, his face beaming. He seized both my hands and shook them warmly.

‘Mr. Forrest!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are welcome to my island! Forgive me, my friend! What a beast I am! I lose my temper like that — for nothing! But why did you not speak? And you have with you a countryman of mine, nicht wahr? It is this young man!’ And he turned to Zimmerman and grasped him by the shoulders. ‘Not since ten years have I met a German! ’ He spoke rapidly and eagerly to Zimmerman, and a moment later turned again to me, laughing delightedly.

‘Do you know what this young man say to me, Mr. Forrest? He thinks I am a wonderful boat steerer. Never has he seen anyone cross the reef like I do it. No, and you will never see another, my young friend! Ask these men, born on the island, who live in the sea half the time. Not one of them has the courage, or the strength, or the quick eye, like mine. I am seventy years old, Mr. Forrest, and I am the best man on this island, old or young!’

Of a sudden his eyes filled with tears.

‘And I treat you like dogs! But why have you not told me? You are an artist! I too am an artist, Mr. Forrest. Yes, in this lonely place you find a brother artist.’

’It is kind of you to call me that, Herr Müller,’ I replied; ‘but the truth is, I am only a maker of motion pictures.’

‘Well, that too may be art,’ he replied. ‘Never have I seen a motion picture, but I keep in touch with the world. I have my books from Germany, my reviews and illustrated journals. I know a little of what is being done in this new form of art. It is not great, perhaps, like music, but I give it my sympathy, my respect.’

To say that I was relieved is to say little. He was simply charming. I could hardly believe this the same man who had stood, grasping his club, half an hour before.

‘Otto has told me,’ he went on. ‘You are employed by a German company. You wish to make a picture of our island life?’

‘I should like to very much, Herr Müller. Will you let us stay?’

‘Stay? Of course you shall stay!’ he replied, warmly. ‘You shall have everything you want. You have only to ask me.’

IV

With the natives following, we crossed the island to the lagoon beach where the village lay. The houses were scattered along the curve of the beach for a distance of half a mile on either side of Herr Müller’s trading station, and before them stretched the great lagoon, as placid as a mountain lake, shimmering in the morning sunlight. The native dwellings were of palmfrond thatch, and stood on clean coral sand that looked as though it were swept every morning; and so it was, as I found later. Every leaf, every twig, every fallen palm frond, was gathered up daily and burned by Herr Müller’s orders. For all his many years of exile he had not lost his German passion for order and cleanliness.

His trading station was a two-story building of coral cement, with wide verandahs both upstairs and down. It stood at a distance of fifty yards from the beach, and the intervening space was like the military parade grounds one sees in German provincial towns — except that it was beautifully shaded with coconut palms, and fine old puka trees that must have been growing there from heathen times. The store and warerooms occupied most of the lower floor. Upstairs were his living quarters, cool, spacious, high-ceilinged rooms furnished with richly carved and massive beds, wardrobes, tables, chairs, and sofas. On the walls were mirrors in heavy gilded frames, and paintings of German landscapes in the romantic style of fifty years ago. There was even a grand piano. You can imagine our astonishment at finding one on a coral island seven hundred miles from the nearest steamship route.

I heard the piano played a few evenings later. It was a strange and memorable experience. We had had dinner with Herr Müller, served in his spacious dining room at a table that would have accommodated a dozen guests. Shortly after the meal he excused Crossland and Zimmerman, but it was plain that he wished me to remain. We smoked in silence for a few minutes; then he said, ‘Tell me, Mr. Forrest; you have recently come from Germany?’

‘Not six months ago,’ I replied.

‘You have been in Hanover, perhaps?’ And, without waiting for a reply: ‘That was my home, and I have not seen it for fifty years!'

His eyes filled with tears and he leaned his head on his hands, gazing at the table in front of him. Not knowing what to say, I said nothing. I was surprised at this sudden change in mood; not five minutes earlier his lighthearted laughter had made the walls ring. Presently he raised his head, with such a look of desolation in his eyes that I was deeply touched.

‘Forgive me. I cry this way — like a child. But it is not for nothing, believe me!’ He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew a blast on his nose that must have been heard all over the village, but somehow there was nothing comical in the action.

‘ I have told you that I am an artist,’ he went on. ‘ You have wondered about that, perhaps? You have said to yourself: “An artist? Was für ein artist in such a place?” ... I keep it locked up — so long — so long — here! He struck his chest a heavy blow. ‘Sometimes, Mr. Forrest, I think I go mad! I am more than forty years in this savage place, and now my life is over. When I think what it might have been . . . And I have been ruined by my own father! ’

He straightened up in his chair and his eyes blazed with anger. ‘A beast of a man! But no . . . what am I saying? He is dead. Yes, I have forgiven him, but it has been hard . . . hard. Listen, my friend. You shall judge.’

V

And then he told me his story. I wish that I could tell it as he did— with his voice, his words, his passionate intensity. He gave me the history of his life. Briefly, these were the facts of it.

He was the fourth of eight sons. His father was a wealthy and influential manufacturer of surgical instruments. He had definite plans for all his boys. Four were to go into the army, two into the diplomatic service, and two into his own business. When the fourth son gave promise of having remarkable musical ability, his father encouraged him to develop it. He was supplied with the best teachers that could be found, in both voice and piano, but it was no part of his father’s plan that any of his children should follow a musical career. Music was well enough as an accomplishment, as an amusement for leisure hours, but this son was destined for the army, and into the army he must go.

Young Müller had his father’s iron will and passionate nature. Music was the breath of life to him, and he determined to carve out a career for himself. In his eighteenth year came the trial of strength. His father commanded him to return home from Munich, where he was studying, prepared to enter an officers’ training school. Müller refused. His father cut off his funds and the son was compelled to work for his living. No matter. He worked ten hours a day and continued his musical studies at night. In his twenty-first year he was given a place in the Hanover opera company. He joined it secretly, living in lodgings hidden away from his family, and studied and rehearsed his parts without his father knowing that he was in the city. Then came the opening night of the opera season. It was the great event of his life. He had a triumph, he said, and was called repeatedly before the curtain with the principals. His father was present, and young Müller thought he had vindicated his right to direct his own life. The father thought otherwise. Being a man of great influence, he compelled the directors of the company to discharge his son.

‘Then, Mr. Forrest, I am like a crazy man. You cannot know what this chance to sing means to me. In my dreams I have seen how splendid my future will be. Everyone is astonished at my voice, and my teachers have all said that I shall be one of the great singers of Germany, perhaps the greatest of my time. When I am told, “You can no longer sing in this company; your father will not permit it,” I am like a man who has lost everything. If only I could be patient, and work, and say nothing! Hanover is not the only city in Germany. But no, in my grief, my great madness, I forget everything. Think of it! I destroy my life to shame my father! Yes, that is what I do. I say to myself: “I will sing no more! Never! Never! I will be like a dog, a homeless dog! I will throw dirt on the name of Müller!"'

For three years, so he told me, he held fast to this resolution. He wandered far and wide over the earth, and all the time his one desire was to degrade himself and disgrace the name of Müller. At last he came to Marutea, still planning some revenge that would break his father’s heart. Then came the inspiration. He married an island woman, daughter of the chief of Marutea, but still a native, and when he had two children by her he sent all the way to Tahiti for a photographer to come to the island. He dressed himself, his wife, and their two children like the lowest of savages. They were photographed in this fashion before a palm-thatched hovel. He then sent home his marriage certificate and one of these photographs, inscribed, ‘To my father, from Otto Müller and his family.’

‘ Then, Mr. Forrest, I wake up . . . like that!' and he snapped his fingers. ’I am a man who has been mad, who has had an evil dream. Now it is gone; I am a Müller again, and my good German blood speaks to me. I have taken a terrible revenge; but it is too late now — the harm is done. I killed my father — that I was told by one of my brothers. His pride was broken forever. The anger I have kept so long leave me, and I again wish to make something of my life. I have a wife. I have children I love; they are of the best Polynesian blood; I have no need to be ashamed. I see that I must build up my life here, on this island. When I come out of my bad dream I begin to plan, to create. This island shall be a kingdom for me, and all of these people shall be my children. I see how I can make them happy and prosperous, and I take charge of their affairs.’

Then returned his great love and longing for music. He had sworn never to play or sing again, but with the first money he earned as a trader he sent for a piano. Gradually he sent for other things, so that he might live like a self-respecting German.

VI

That, in the barest outline, is the story he told me. When he had finished he rose, and I thought I was to be dismissed; but no — this was to be one of his musical evenings. One night in every week, he said, his people came to hear him play and sing. ‘One must have music, nicht wahr? You will see, my friend, how my people love this music. It is necessary. No longer can they live without it.’

Sure enough, when we walked out to the upstairs verandah, the whole village was gathering in the open space before his house. A chair was placed for me at one side of the crowd. The natives sat cross-legged on the ground, at a distance of twenty or thirty yards from the house. The piano was rolled out on the upstairs verandah and so placed that, while playing, Herr Müller would sit sidewise to his audience. Over it was suspended a gasoline vapor lamp, provided with a shade that threw the clear white light directly upon him. It was the nearest thing to a spotlight, I imagine, that he was able to devise.

Presently a bell was struck— three sonorous clangs. The late comers seated themselves hurriedly and the hum of conversation died away. There must have been well over two hundred people in the audience. We waited in deep silence for some little time; then Herr Müller appeared, in full evening dress, as he might have appeared on the concert stage in Hanover. A fine figure he made as he came forward to the verandah railing and stood, resting his hands upon it, looking down at us. At the moment of his appearance the audience started a vigorous clapping of hands, and Herr Müller bowed gravely to right and left; then he seated himself at the piano.

Picture, if you can, that strange scene. It was a perfect tropic night, windless and clear. From the far side of the island came the faint thunder of the surf, giving a voice to mid-ocean solitude, and behind us lay the lagoon with the stems of the palms outlined in silhouette against it. Herr Müller’s audience was all but invisible in the deep shade of the puka trees, but here and there a gleam of moonlight outlined a bare brown leg, the contour of a cheek, or the curve of a naked shoulder. The intense light of the vapor lamp fell full upon him, deepening the gloom outside.

I wish that I might have known his thoughts at that moment. One thing seemed quite certain: he was no longer at Marutea. He was in Germany — in Munich, perhaps, or Berlin, before a vast audience of his fellow countrymen. He was at the summit of his career, the great singer he had so often dreamed of being. He sat for a moment with his head bowed, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. Then he sang Wagner’s ‘Evening Star.’

‘Oh, du mein holder Ahendstern. . .’ I can hear the words at this moment, sung, and powerfully sung, in his deep and splendid voice. I admit that I was stirred. I had not known what to expect of this performance. In outlining his story, I have said little of his superb self-confidence, his unshakable belief that his father had wrecked the career of one of the most promising singers in the whole of Germany. As I listened, I could easily believe that this might have been true. His voice had great range and flexibility, as well as power; it was one that a much younger singer might well have been proud of.

At the close of the song, prolonged and hearty applause broke out. He rose and bowed in his courtly manner to right and left. I could see tears trickling down his great white beard, and gleaming in the lamplight. There was something inexpressibly pathetic, to me, in this makeshift of an audience, of a setting, that circumstances had forced him to accept and be content with; and yet it seemed to serve his purpose. Make-believe, if indulged in long enough by a man passionately eager to delude himself, may become almost as good as reality. So it was here, I think. What Herr Müller needed was an audience, the heartening sound of two hundred pairs of hands clapping vigorously at the close of each of his numbers. The rest he could himself provide. He had only to close his eyes to believe, for the moment at least, that all of his dreams had come true.

Naturally the thought came to me: How spontaneous is this applause? Remembering that these concerts had been taking place over a period of many years, I could imagine that his audience might have become bored with them. Furthermore, Polynesian music differs vastly from ours, and it was hard to believe that the Maruteans had ever cared greatly for Brahms, or Wagner, or Schubert, or Chopin. I watched with interest the faces of those near me, and, whatever the song or the instrumental number, they remained as placid and seemingly unmoved as the coconut palms. I observed that the applause was always started by the same old man. As long as he clapped, the others clapped; when he stopped, they stopped. Herr Müller saw nothing of this, of course, and he may have known nothing of it. These weekly concerts were given by his royal command, but in my opinion he truly believed that the natives attended for the pleasure they derived from them and not because of the fear which his dominating character inspired.

VII

I shall pass quickly over the events of the following month. It was a busy, anxious, and happy time for me. Herr Müller had given us the use of one of his coral-cement copra houses for a studio. It stood on the lagoon beach, half a mile from his dwelling. There I installed my small electrical plant, my film driers, and the rest of our gear.

Herr Müller was kindness itself in helping us to get comfortably settled. At first he was like a child in his eagerness to see us at work; but as the days passed I became conscious of a change in his attitude. He tried hard not to show it, but I could see that he resented the new interest we had brought into the lives of his people. It deprived him, not of any of his authority, to be sure, but of the position he had held for so long in the very centre of the Marutea stage. I did everything possible to keep him there. Never did we miss attendance at his weekly concerts, and I saw to it that there should be no distractions for which we were responsible on those particular evenings. Nevertheless, I was not easy in mind, and worked as never before to complete the filming of the picture in the briefest possible time. With a host of such violent and capricious moods, anything was possible. What I feared, of course, was that he might command us to leave the island before the work was finished.

Days passed, and everything went smoothly. We had splendid luck. The weather — everything — was in our favor. As for the company, they surpassed my most hopeful expectations. Half a dozen rehearsals sufficed to show the natives what we wanted: simply a pictorial story of their lives as they lived it from day to day, — fishing, pearl diving, housebuilding, dancing, — all their individual and communal activities strung on the thread of a story concerning one family. They were wholly unselfconscious before the camera; not once in a dozen times was a retake necessary. I saw little of our host during working hours, but I passed more than one pleasant evening in his company. One day he sent me word that he was going on one of his periodical visits to another smaller village on an island fifteen miles distant across the lagoon. He was to be absent for ten days or longer.

In the midst of our work, while he was away, I all but forgot his existence. His son Otto acted as my interpreter and general factotum. Otto and I had struck up a warm friendship during the long voyage to Marutea, and it had grown since that time. It was interesting to see how he expanded and throve during his father’s absence, and the effect was equally noticeable upon the rest of the people. They were like children who had been granted an unexpected holiday. Nearly everyone in the village belonged to my company, and by this time their interest in the picture was enormous.

Meanwhile, Crossland and Zimmerman had been working late every evening developing film. I was looking forward to projecting the pictures. I wanted to show the company the results of our work, and I knew that I could better explain what remained to be done by letting them see themselves in the shots already taken. At last we were ready, and I informed the village that if they would come to the studio that evening I would show them what they had been doing all this while.

We rigged up our screen out of doors, against one of the walls of the copra house. The whole village came. Otto and perhaps half a dozen others had seen motion pictures at Tahiti when they had gone there with Herr Müller’s schooner. The others had little conception of what would be forthcoming.

At first their astonishment was so great that they sat in complete silence; then they went half crazy with delight. They laughed, they yelled, they rushed up to the screen to convince themselves that those moving figures were merely pictures and not their own flesh and blood. I had to stop the show until we could quiet them down a little. Otto explained that they must remain seated and not throw their shadows on the screen.

We were in the midst of the performance when I heard, or thought I heard, the ringing of the bell at Herr Müller’s house. I had a decidedly uneasy moment. I remembered that this was the usual evening for the weekly concert, but I had heard nothing of his return and knew that he was not expected back for several days. Zimmerman was at the camera. I strolled a little way down the beach and listened again for the bell. Not hearing it, I decided that I must have been mistaken. Certainly none of the audience had heard it, which was not strange, considering the noise they were making.

When the performance was over they begged to see it again. I was glad to comply, and while repeating it I explained to them, through Otto, the work yet to be done, and how the various scenes would fit into place when all had been taken. We were getting on famously. Otto was in the midst of one of his explanations when he stopped short as though he had been smitten dumb. Following his awe-struck glance, I saw his father standing at the rear of the crowd. He was in evening dress, his concert costume, and stood drawn up to his full height, his arms folded across his mighty chest. In one hand he grasped his ironwood walking stick.

Not a word was said. Otto began to move backward as though some mysterious force were pushing him away. He melted into the darkness. Every member of the audience followed him. They neither walked nor ran — they simply vanished, without a sound. Within thirty seconds the place was deserted except for Zimmerman at the camera, Herr Müller, and myself.

I was prepared for anything. I was prepared to see him step forward and smash our precious camera to bits. Had he offered to do so, I doubt whether Zimmerman or I would have lifted a finger to prevent him. I have spoken of his immense vitality. It was more than that; what, precisely, I cannot explain, but the influence, whatever it was, seemed to rob us, for the moment, of everything but the capacity to feel it. He came forward two or three paces, breathing heavily, as though he had run all the way from his house. He raised his ironwood stick and pointed it at me, and opened his mouth as though about to speak; but instead of doing so he turned and strode off into the darkness.

VIII

I passed a sleepless night. My first impulse had been to follow him, but upon second thought it seemed best to allow time for his anger to cool before making any attempt to explain. I was certain that no one had been informed of his return. Had it been known, Otto would have told me. We were to have started work at daylight the next morning. No one came — not a soul. I waited for an hour, and then went along to the village.

A few children were playing about in the dooryards; otherwise the village street was deserted, but I saw faces peeping concernedly out at me as I went along. I found Otto and a younger brother, Walter, at the store. They greeted me in subdued, anxious voices. They had not dared speak to their father. He had forbidden the people to leave their houses without his permission. While they were telling me this we heard his tread on the staircase. The two sons, with frightened apologetic glances at me, disappeared into a back room.

I was ready to bring into play all the tact and diplomacy learned in twenty years of motion-picture directing. Fortunately they were not needed. All that I had to do was to point out that he himself was responsible for the failure of his people to attend his concert. He had returned home several days before he was expected, and late in the evening, after everyone had left the village to come to our picture show. I assured him that no one had heard the ringing of the bell. Strangely enough, this simple explanation had not even occurred to him.

‘Mr. Forrest! What a fool I am!’ he said. ‘Yes, it is so! I am like my father. I lose my temper and then I remember nothing, not even why I have lost it! You will not be angry with me? You are working so hard to do a beautiful thing. You wish to show people in the great cities this lonely island and the life of my people, so strange, so romantic, and I . . .’ He shook his head, ruefully. ‘You will forgive me? Tell me, what can I do to show you how deeply I am sorry?’

Forgive him? Indeed I did, what little there was to forgive. When truly himself, he had the most charming manners — a gracious, old-world courtesy rarely met with anywhere. The difficult thing for me to realize, in all my dealings with him, was that I had to do with a man who, in many respects, had never grown up. Intellectually he was splendidly mature, and yet he had the capacity for intense suffering of a sensitive, imaginative child. With him a slight, however small, and whether fancied or real, grew in a moment to enormous proportions, completely overshadowing the light of his day. I almost envied him that virginity of spirit. Had it not been for his fearful temper, how wholly lovable he would have been!

Nothing would do then but we must have one of our long talks. I excused myself as delicately as possible.

‘I was rather hoping to go on with a scene we started filming yesterday, Herr Müller, if the people could come . . . ?’

He slapped his forehead.

‘Donnerwetter! I forget! Of course! You wish to work, and I have told them . . . Ach, du lieber Gott, what a man I am! Otto! Walter! Come! Come quickly!’

They appeared from the back room, and their father galvanized them into action at once. Walter ran up to ring the bell which hung at the end of the upper verandah. The natives came thronging from their houses on to the village recreation ground in front of the store. I wish that you might have heard him address them. He was now in his happiest mood; he laughed with them, joked with them, and the effect was immediate. If they feared him, it was very plain to me that they loved him as well.

‘Now, Mr. Forrest, what will you have them do? Ach, how can you forgive me who make you waste so much of this beautiful morning? Along with you, Otto! No, wait! You shall stay at home. It is I who shall go with Mr. Forrest to-day. I shall work hard, hard! You will see. Come, my children, all of you!’

What a day it was! We accomplished more than in any four days previously. We filmed two scenes in particular that removed any doubts I may have had as to the ultimate success of the picture. I am prouder of that afternoon’s work than of all my years of directing, either before or since, and the credit belongs to Herr Müller. He could have made a success of a dozen different careers, motionpicture directing among them. He knew by instinct what I wanted done; and with his knowledge of island life, and his deep insight into native character, he offered suggestions that were priceless to me.

IX

If only I could have let well enough alone! Well enough? It was vastly better than well enough. I had a feeling of deep obligation toward him, and in my desire to show it I blundered. My intentions were of the best, but I don’t excuse myself. The consequences of that blunder were tragic.

You see, there was something more than pathetic, to me, in the immense need he had for his people’s admiration and respect, not as a man and a leader, — that he could and did take for granted, — but as a musician, a singer of genius. He had brooded so long over his ruined career; his spiritual pain at the thought of it was, I am convinced, all but unbearable at times. It was softened somewhat by his belief that his gifts had not been entirely wasted; that even here, among children of nature whom most people would regard as little above savages, he could give pleasure by his singing. I realized more clearly every day how vital it was to his happiness that he should believe the Maruteans deeply loved his music. I wanted him to keep that illusion, if it was an illusion. It seemed to me that if I could help him keep it I should be doing as great a service as it is possible for one man to perform for another.

Well, I encouraged him to believe that our picture was nothing to his people in comparison with his music. He could not help seeing their interest, but I made light of it, and convinced him that it was merely the interest in novelty and would quickly pass. He was wistfully eager to believe me.

‘You feel that, Mr. Forrest?’ he said earnestly. His eyes lighted up with pleasure and he laid a hand affectionately on my shoulder. ‘One sees that you are truly an artist! We know, you and I, that music stands first, nicht wahr? Yes, it is so, in all lands, with all peoples. It will always be so. Even here, among these Polynesians, there is this great passion for music.’

We were walking back through the groves, from the studio to his house. He halted and faced me. ‘You know, we can prove that,’ he said.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘I tell you what we do,’ he went on, eagerly. ‘Some evening soon you will again show the pictures? . . . Good! Well, I will say to my people: “Mr. Forrest will show the new scenes he has been making with you. Do you wish to see them?” And they will say, “Yes.” “Very well, my children,” I will say; “those who wish to go may do so. I shall have my concert on this evening, but no matter; I wish you to do as you like. You shall see the pictures if that pleases you better, and I shall sing and play for myself.”'

I at once realized the danger of this plan; but I tried not to show my alarm.

‘Herr Müller,’ I said, ‘we should have not one spectator at our picture show.’

‘Gewiss!’ he said, laughing delightedly. ‘I believe that, too, so much they love the music.’

‘Then why prove what we both already know?’

‘To make a little more sure. We have this wonderful chance; never again, perhaps, will it happen, anywhere. There are ignorant men, Mr. Forrest, who think these island people are savages who care only to eat and sleep. We know how wrong is their idea; and you can say, after you leave my island, when you hear their foolish talk, “But let me tell you what I know."'

There was no dissuading him. I tried in every possible way, only to increase his enthusiasm for the plan. He pressed me to set an evening for the double attraction. I delayed day after day, made excuse after excuse until further ones would not serve. He was not to be turned from his purpose, and at last I was compelled to comply. I had a possible resource in Otto. Although we had never spoken of the native attitude toward his father’s music, I knew how he felt about it in his heart: that it was both fear and love that compelled attendance at the weekly concerts. I told him that he must warn the people, secretly, not to come to the studio on that evening, promising them another showing of pictures the following night.

Otto shook his head. ‘My father would be sure to hear of it, Mr. Forrest, and he would be very angry. He would think you did not believe in the love of our people for his music, and wished to save him from being disappointed. He is a proud man; he would never forgive you for that. No, there is nothing we can do. It must be as he wishes.’

X

I made my preparations with a heavy heart. My hope was that the people would not take him at his word, or that a sense of loyalty to him would prevent their attendance. That hope soon faded. They came in twos and threes, in family groups, the girls and young men, the middle-aged. Only the Müller children and a few of the old people were missing; otherwise all the natives were seated on the ground before the screen, eagerly waiting for us to begin. If they were at all worried as to what Herr Müller would think, it was not apparent in their manner. For the moment, at least, they seemed to have quite forgotten him. At another time I should have enjoyed the animation of that scene, but my heart was with Herr Müller. I recalled his words: ‘On that evening, Mr. Forrest, I shall have a great emotion, a very great emotion. I shall sing as never before.’ I dared not think of the great empty square before his house. But the harm was done, now. There was nothing for it but to proceed with our show.

Crossland was at the camera; I had sent Zimmerman to attend the concert. I remained at the studio only long enough to inspect one bit of film I had been particularly anxious to see; then I set out for the village as fast as I could walk. We had the same wildly appreciative audience. I could hear their shouts of delight long after I had left the studio.

Herr Müller was singing when I arrived; the song was ‘Heilige Nacht.’ It was only then that I remembered we were in Christmas week; there were no seasonable reminders at Marutea. I forgot the tropics as I listened to that timeless old song. I had never before heard it sung by a man; I did n’t suppose that it could be. Now I know that only a man — if he be German, with the voice of a Müller — can sing it as it should be sung. It was lovely, unspeakably so. It seemed to me that I was hearing it for the first time. As I listened I forgot time and place, and all my anxieties.

When it was finished I came back with an effort to the little world of Marutea lost in the wastes of the Pacific. The great square before Herr Müller’s house was all but empty. The Müller children were present, and a dozen or fifteen of the old people. All applauded heartily, and I clapped till the palms of my hands burned, but the effect, in volume, was nothing compared to what was customary at these concerts. Herr Müller rose and bowed, but he seemed scarcely aware of our presence at the moment. He was deeply stirred; the spell he had cast upon one, at least, of his audience was upon him as well.

I sought out Zimmerman immediately. In a rapidly whispered conference he told me that Herr Müller had given no indication that he was aware of the smallness of his audience. As a matter of fact, they had spread themselves over a wide area in an effort to make their numbers appear much larger than they were. That was Otto’s doing, undoubtedly. The moon was again in its second quarter and the light fell in pools and splashes among the trees. It would have been easy for Herr Müller to be deceived as to the numbers of his audience, the more so because his eyes were accustomed to the brilliant light from his vapor lamp. I tried to persuade myself that he was deceived. Believing that the situation might yet be saved, I asked Zimmerman to hurry back to the studio and stop our performance, telling the people to come at once to the concert. However, thinking of the distance, I was apprehensive. Twenty minutes at least would pass before any of them could appear.

Meanwhile, Herr Müller proceeded with the concert. He sang next one of Heine’s lyrics set to music by himself. It was as fragrant of a northern spring as an apple tree in blossom. I tell you, the man was a genius! I could easily imagine him in Carnegie Hall in New York, the place filled with sophisticated music lovers, and every one of them deeply moved, as the human heart will always be moved by simple and beautiful things. Again I applauded like a dozen men, and so did the others. The applause was genuine, too; at least mine was. A tenderness welled up in my heart, a deep longing to please the fine old fellow; to make good to him, somehow, all his years of loneliness, of homesickness, of unrealized dreams. This time he did not rise from his stool; he seemed to be in a deep reverie. Then he played the Moonlight Sonata.

Ghosts of old memories, of places, people, evoked by associations the music had for me, came thronging back. It was strange indeed to think that there could be no such memories for the others of that tiny gathering. I thought: ‘Never shall I forget this! Never! From this night on, the Moonlight Sonata will mean Marutea to me.’ And so it does; so it always will. If ever my memories of the island grow dim, I shall know how to conjure up again all its loneliness and beauty.

Of a sudden the music was broken off, in the middle of a bar. I looked up quickly. Herr Müller had risen from his stool. He came to the verandah railing and stood looking down at us. Then, in a low dead voice, he said, ‘Go home. I shall play no more’; and, without waiting to see his command obeyed, he disappeared through a doorway.

XI

The little gathering dispersed; they seemed to float away rather than to walk. There were a dozen Müller children, married and unmarried, from the ages of forty-odd to eighteen. Two of the younger ones lived with their father; the others had homes of their own near by. They stood for a moment, conversing in whispers, looking toward the house. The intense white light from the vapor lamp seemed to spill like water over the piano keys to the floor, and the instrument cast a block of impenetrable shadow on the other side. I felt suddenly weary, emptied of the desire or the capacity for thought. I rose and made my way slowly to the beach, walking on for a hundred yards or so; there I sat down facing the lagoon, with my back to a tree. A few moments later I saw someone approaching. It was Otto. He sat down beside me. Presently he said, ‘He is in his bedroom, Mr. Forrest, walking up and down. I am afraid when he is like this.’

‘What do you think we should do, Otto?’

‘Nothing. We must wait and see.’

From far down the beach we heard a murmur of voices. The people were returning from our picture show. Otto hurried along to meet them, to tell them to go very quietly to their houses. They separated in silence among the groves; those who lived on the farther side of the village kept to the beach as they passed Herr Müller’s house. Within five minutes the last of them had gone.

It was useless to think of sleep. Otto and I wandered away from the house and back to it half a dozen times during the next two hours. The vapor lamp still burned. We were like moths attracted to it again and again.

It must have been well after midnight that we came for the last time, standing in the deep shade, waiting, listening, hearing nothing. We were about to move away for another quarter of an hour of aimless wandering when the curtains at one of the doorways parted and Herr Müller came out. His movements were like those of a sleepwalker. He sat down on the piano stool with his back to the instrument, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his hands. He remained motionless for a long time. Suddenly he turned to the piano, squaring his shoulders proudly. I could not see his face, only his magnificent head with its mass of thick snow-white hair, clearly outlined in the brilliant light of the lamp. He let his hands fall lightly on the keys, striking a chord that I can hear to this day. The music of the mingled notes had in it a quality of unutterable loneliness; it was as though some desolate spirit of mid-ocean had uttered a cry of profound despair.

That was all — a single chord. Silence flowed in again; I could hear the faint hiss of the vapor lamp. We waited, and I was hoping that he would play, finding an outlet in music for whatever emotion gripped him. Instead of that he sprang from the stool with an inarticulate cry that froze my blood. He disappeared within doors and returned with an axe in his hand.

How am I to describe what happened next? Have you ever seen and heard a piano being murdered? I am not speaking of piano music done to death by a novice. No — of the instrument itself, beaten, chopped, hacked, splintered, mangled, with an axe wielded by a man with the strength of a giant and the demoniac passion of . . . of nothing human. I doubt whether such a thing had ever happened before, anywhere in the world. With all his enormous strength he swung the axe again, and again, and again, and again — first on the keyboard, then on the beautiful body of the piano whose wood had been so permeated, so mellowed with music through the years. It was as though one were watching a god, who had created order and beauty and harmony, seized of a sudden by the horrible need to destroy all that he had won from chaos and night, himself with it. I leave you to imagine, if you can, the tortured cries that came from the instrument at each blow.

How long its agony lasted I do not know — possibly two or three minutes, though the time seemed endless to me. Then Herr Müller hurled the axe away from him. It flew far out, whirling round and round, and fell not a dozen paces from where Otto and I were standing. When I looked again toward the verandah, Herr Müller had crouched behind what was left of the instrument. The mangled corpse of it was heaved up on two legs, and it was hurled rather than pushed across the verandah. The railings splintered like matchwood at the impact, and the instrument fell with a rending crash to the ground, fifteen feet below.

Otto and I had stood, deprived of the power of thought or movement by the horror of what we saw. Now he cried out, ‘Oh, Mr. Forrest! Tomorrow! To-morrow!’ I knew what he meant.

But there was to be no to-morrow for his father. He was mercifully spared the anguish he would have known at the realization of what he had done. He swayed for a second or two at the very edge of the verandah, outlined in silhouette against the light of the vapor lamp. Suddenly he raised his hands to his head, staggered back two or three paces, and fell.

Regaining our power of action, Otto and I ran to the outdoor stairway at the end of the verandah, but we were not the first to reach him. He was lying as he had fallen, but his head was resting in the lap of a lovely old lady who I knew at once must be Mrs. Müller, although I had never seen her before. She paid no attention to us; she was not aware of our presence. She was seated cross-legged on the floor, running her slim brown fingers through his hair. His face looked as peaceful as that of a child asleep.

'Aué! Aué! Otto iti é! Aué! Aué!'

I shall never be able to forget that little wailing cry, so tender, so infinitely melancholy, repeated over and over again. ‘Alas! Alas!’ Words other than those were useless. There was nothing more to be said.

He must have burst a blood vessel in his brain. However that may be, he was dead. I remained in the house only long enough to be certain of this. The place was now filling with people; I was neither wanted nor needed there. I made my way down the stairs and through the throng gathered outside, to the beach.

The director of motion pictures ended his story at this point. No one spoke for a moment or two; then someone asked, in a tentative, apologetic voice: ‘You finished the picture?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, rising. I was obliged to do that.’