Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (455 page)

The lawyer’s face became very dark.  “I do not profess to misunderstand you, Mr. Keawe,” said he, “though this is an ugly business to be stirring in.  You may be sure I know nothing, but yet I have a guess, and if you would apply in a certain quarter I think you might have news.”

And he named the name of a man, which, again, I had better not repeat.  So it was for days, and Keawe went from one to another, finding everywhere new clothes and carriages, and fine new houses and men everywhere in great contentment, although, to be sure, when he hinted at his business their faces would cloud over.

“No doubt I am upon the track,” thought Keawe.  “These new clothes and carriages are all the gifts of the little imp, and these glad faces are the faces of men who have taken their profit and got rid of the accursed thing in safety.  When I see pale cheeks and hear sighing, I shall know that I am near the bottle.”

So it befell at last that he was recommended to a Haole in Beritania Street.  When he came to the door, about the hour of the evening meal, there were the usual marks of the new house, and the young garden, and the electric light shining in the windows; but when the owner came, a shock of hope and fear ran through Keawe; for here was a young man, white as a corpse, and black about the eyes, the hair shedding from his head, and such a look in his countenance as a man may have when he is waiting for the gallows.

“Here it is, to be sure,” thought Keawe, and so with this man he noways veiled his errand.  “I am come to buy the bottle,” said he.

At the word, the young Haole of Beritania Street reeled against the wall.

“The bottle!” he gasped.  “To buy the bottle!”  Then he seemed to choke, and seizing Keawe by the arm carried him into a room and poured out wine in two glasses.

“Here is my respects,” said Keawe, who had been much about with Haoles in his time.  “Yes,” he added, “I am come to buy the bottle.  What is the price by now?”

At that word the young man let his glass slip through his fingers, and looked upon Keawe like a ghost.

“The price,” says he; “the price!  You do not know the price?”

“It is for that I am asking you,” returned Keawe.  “But why are you so much concerned?  Is there anything wrong about the price?”

“It has dropped a great deal in value since your time, Mr. Keawe,” said the young man stammering.

“Well, well, I shall have the less to pay for it,” says Keawe.  “How much did it cost you?”

The young man was as white as a sheet.  “Two cents,” said he.

“What?” cried Keawe, “two cents?  Why, then, you can only sell it for one.  And he who buys it — ”  The words died upon Keawe’s tongue; he who bought it could never sell it again, the bottle and the bottle imp must abide with him until he died, and when he died must carry him to the red end of hell.

The young man of Beritania Street fell upon his knees.  “For God’s sake buy it!” he cried.  “You can have all my fortune in the bargain.  I was mad when I bought it at that price.  I had embezzled money at my store; I was lost else; I must have gone to jail.”

“Poor creature,” said Keawe, “you would risk your soul upon so desperate an adventure, and to avoid the proper punishment of your own disgrace; and you think I could hesitate with love in front of me.  Give me the bottle, and the change which I make sure you have all ready.  Here is a five-cent piece.”

It was as Keawe supposed; the young man had the change ready in a drawer; the bottle changed hands, and Keawe’s fingers were no sooner clasped upon the stalk than he had breathed his wish to be a clean man.  And, sure enough, when he got home to his room, and stripped himself before a glass, his flesh was whole like an infant’s.  And here was the strange thing: he had no sooner seen this miracle, than his mind was changed within him, and he cared naught for the Chinese Evil, and little enough for Kokua; and had but the one thought, that here he was bound to the bottle imp for time and for eternity, and had no better hope but to be a cinder for ever in the flames of hell.  Away ahead of him he saw them blaze with his mind’s eye, and his soul shrank, and darkness fell upon the light.

When Keawe came to himself a little, he was aware it was the night when the band played at the hotel.  Thither he went, because he feared to be alone; and there, among happy faces, walked to and fro, and heard the tunes go up and down, and saw Berger beat the measure, and all the while he heard the flames crackle, and saw the red fire burning in the bottomless pit.  Of a sudden the band played
Hiki-ao-ao
; that was a song that he had sung with Kokua, and at the strain courage returned to him.

“It is done now,” he thought, “and once more let me take the good along with the evil.”

So it befell that he returned to Hawaii by the first steamer, and as soon as it could be managed he was wedded to Kokua, and carried her up the mountain side to the Bright House.

Now it was so with these two, that when they were together, Keawe’s heart was stilled; but so soon as he was alone he fell into a brooding horror, and heard the flames crackle, and saw the red fire burn in the bottomless pit.  The girl, indeed, had come to him wholly; her heart leapt in her side at sight of him, her hand clung to his; and she was so fashioned from the hair upon her head to the nails upon her toes that none could see her without joy.  She was pleasant in her nature.  She had the good word always.  Full of song she was, and went to and fro in the Bright House, the brightest thing in its three storeys, carolling like the birds.  And Keawe beheld and heard her with delight, and then must shrink upon one side, and weep and groan to think upon the price that he had paid for her; and then he must dry his eyes, and wash his face, and go and sit with her on the broad balconies, joining in her songs, and, with a sick spirit, answering her smiles.

There came a day when her feet began to be heavy and her songs more rare; and now it was not Keawe only that would weep apart, but each would sunder from the other and sit in opposite balconies with the whole width of the Bright House betwixt.  Keawe was so sunk in his despair, he scarce observed the change, and was only glad he had more hours to sit alone and brood upon his destiny, and was not so frequently condemned to pull a smiling face on a sick heart.  But one day, coming softly through the house, he heard the sound of a child sobbing, and there was Kokua rolling her face upon the balcony floor, and weeping like the lost.

“You do well to weep in this house, Kokua,” he said.  “And yet I would give the head off my body that you (at least) might have been happy.”

“Happy!” she cried.  “Keawe, when you lived alone in your Bright House, you were the word of the island for a happy man; laughter and song were in your mouth, and your face was as bright as the sunrise.  Then you wedded poor Kokua; and the good God knows what is amiss in her — but from that day you have not smiled.  Oh!” she cried, “what ails me?  I thought I was pretty, and I knew I loved him.  What ails me that I throw this cloud upon my husband?”

“Poor Kokua,” said Keawe.  He sat down by her side, and sought to take her hand; but that she plucked away.  “Poor Kokua,” he said, again.  “My poor child — my pretty.  And I had thought all this while to spare you!  Well, you shall know all.  Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then you will understand how much he loved you in the past — that he dared hell for your possession — and how much he loves you still (the poor condemned one), that he can yet call up a smile when he beholds you.”

With that, he told her all, even from the beginning.

“You have done this for me?” she cried “Ah, well, then what do I care!” — and she clasped and wept upon him.

“Ah, child!” said Keawe, “and yet, when I consider of the fire of hell, I care a good deal!”

“Never tell me,” said she; “no man can be lost because he loved Kokua, and no other fault.  I tell you, Keawe, I shall save you with these hands, or perish in your company.  What! you loved me, and gave your soul, and you think I will not die to save you in return?”

“Ah, my dear! you might die a hundred times, and what difference would that make?” he cried, “except to leave me lonely till the time comes of my damnation?”

“You know nothing,” said she.  “I was educated in a school in Honolulu; I am no common girl.  And I tell you, I shall save my lover.  What is this you say about a cent?  But all the world is not American.  In England they have a piece they call a farthing, which is about half a cent.  Ah! sorrow!” she cried, “that makes it scarcely better, for the buyer must be lost, and we shall find none so brave as my Keawe!  But, then, there is France; they have a small coin there which they call a centime, and these go five to the cent or there-about.  We could not do better.  Come, Keawe, let us go to the French islands; let us go to Tahiti, as fast as ships can bear us.  There we have four centimes, three centimes, two centimes, one centime; four possible sales to come and go on; and two of us to push the bargain.  Come, my Keawe! kiss me, and banish care.  Kokua will defend you.”

“Gift of God!” he cried.  “I cannot think that God will punish me for desiring aught so good!  Be it as you will, then; take me where you please: I put my life and my salvation in your hands.”

Early the next day Kokua was about her preparations.  She took Keawe’s chest that he went with sailoring; and first she put the bottle in a corner; and then packed it with the richest of their clothes and the bravest of the knick-knacks in the house.  “For,” said she, “we must seem to be rich folks, or who will believe in the bottle?”  All the time of her preparation she was as gay as a bird; only when she looked upon Keawe, the tears would spring in her eye, and she must run and kiss him.  As for Keawe, a weight was off his soul; now that he had his secret shared, and some hope in front of him, he seemed like a new man, his feet went lightly on the earth, and his breath was good to him again.  Yet was terror still at his elbow; and ever and again, as the wind blows out a taper, hope died in him, and he saw the flames toss and the red fire burn in hell.

It was given out in the country they were gone pleasuring to the States, which was thought a strange thing, and yet not so strange as the truth, if any could have guessed it.  So they went to Honolulu in the
Hall
, and thence in the
Umatilla
to San Francisco with a crowd of Haoles, and at San Francisco took their passage by the mail brigantine, the
Tropic Bird
, for Papeete, the chief place of the French in the south islands.  Thither they came, after a pleasant voyage, on a fair day of the Trade Wind, and saw the reef with the surf breaking, and Motuiti with its palms, and the schooner riding within-side, and the white houses of the town low down along the shore among green trees, and overhead the mountains and the clouds of Tahiti, the wise island.

It was judged the most wise to hire a house, which they did accordingly, opposite the British Consul’s, to make a great parade of money, and themselves conspicuous with carriages and horses.  This it was very easy to do, so long as they had the bottle in their possession; for Kokua was more bold than Keawe, and, whenever she had a mind, called on the imp for twenty or a hundred dollars.  At this rate they soon grew to be remarked in the town; and the strangers from Hawaii, their riding and their driving, the fine holokus and the rich lace of Kokua, became the matter of much talk.

They got on well after the first with the Tahitian language, which is indeed like to the Hawaiian, with a change of certain letters; and as soon as they had any freedom of speech, began to push the bottle.  You are to consider it was not an easy subject to introduce; it was not easy to persuade people you were in earnest, when you offered to sell them for four centimes the spring of health and riches inexhaustible.  It was necessary besides to explain the dangers of the bottle; and either people disbelieved the whole thing and laughed, or they thought the more of the darker part, became overcast with gravity, and drew away from Keawe and Kokua, as from persons who had dealings with the devil.  So far from gaining ground, these two began to find they were avoided in the town; the children ran away from them screaming, a thing intolerable to Kokua; Catholics crossed themselves as they went by; and all persons began with one accord to disengage themselves from their advances.

Depression fell upon their spirits.  They would sit at night in their new house, after a day’s weariness, and not exchange one word, or the silence would be broken by Kokua bursting suddenly into sobs.  Sometimes they would pray together; sometimes they would have the bottle out upon the floor, and sit all evening watching how the shadow hovered in the midst.  At such times they would be afraid to go to rest.  It was long ere slumber came to them, and, if either dozed off, it would be to wake and find the other silently weeping in the dark, or, perhaps, to wake alone, the other having fled from the house and the neighbourhood of that bottle, to pace under the bananas in the little garden, or to wander on the beach by moonlight.

One night it was so when Kokua awoke.  Keawe was gone.  She felt in the bed and his place was cold.  Then fear fell upon her, and she sat up in bed.  A little moonshine filtered through the shutters.  The room was bright, and she could spy the bottle on the floor.  Outside it blew high, the great trees of the avenue cried aloud, and the fallen leaves rattled in the verandah.  In the midst of this Kokua was aware of another sound; whether of a beast or of a man she could scarce tell, but it was as sad as death, and cut her to the soul.  Softly she arose, set the door ajar, and looked forth into the moonlit yard.  There, under the bananas, lay Keawe, his mouth in the dust, and as he lay he moaned.

It was Kokua’s first thought to run forward and console him; her second potently withheld her.  Keawe had borne himself before his wife like a brave man; it became her little in the hour of weakness to intrude upon his shame.  With the thought she drew back into the house.

“Heaven!” she thought, “how careless have I been — how weak!  It is he, not I, that stands in this eternal peril; it was he, not I, that took the curse upon his soul.  It is for my sake, and for the love of a creature of so little worth and such poor help, that he now beholds so close to him the flames of hell — ay, and smells the smoke of it, lying without there in the wind and moonlight.  Am I so dull of spirit that never till now I have surmised my duty, or have I seen it before and turned aside?  But now, at least, I take up my soul in both the hands of my affection; now I say farewell to the white steps of heaven and the waiting faces of my friends.  A love for a love, and let mine be equalled with Keawe’s!  A soul for a soul, and be it mine to perish!”