Twelve Days at Nuku Hiva: Russian Encounters and Mutiny in the South Pacific

ELENA GOVOR

pac i f i c h i s to ry

{ Continued from front flap }

Of related interest the tumultuousÂ�events of the Russians’ stay in Nuku Hiva; the course of the mutiny, its resolution and aftermath; and the extent and nature of the contact between Nuku Hivans and Russians. Govor draws directly on the writings of

Tahitians, Europeans, and the Ecological Exchange

GOVOR

JE N N Y N E WE LL

2010, est. 336 pages, illus. Cloth: ISBN 978-0-8248-3281-0 When Captain Samuel Wallis became the first European to land at Tahiti in June 1767, he left a British flag on shore along with three guinea hens, a pair of turkeys, a pregnant cat, and a garden planted with peas for the chiefess Purea. Bougainville, Cook, Boenechea—all planted seeds of vegetables, grains, and fruit from Europe and elsewhere and gave breeding pairs of cattle, goats, sheep, and poultry to island chiefs. In turn, they were sent away with great quantities of important island resources, including valuable and spiritually significant pigs, trees, and fish. What did these exchanges mean? What was their impact? The answers are often unexpected. They also reveal the ways islanders retained control over their societies and landscapes in an era of increasing European intervention. Trading Nature explores—from both the European and Tahitian perspective—the effects of “ecological exchange” in Tahiti from the mid-eighteenth century to the present day.

jacket illustrations Top, Johann Horner, Taiohae; bottom, Egor Skotnikov and Ignaz Sebastian Klauber after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Man from Nuku Hiva Island’. jacket design Julie Matsuo-Chun

is research fellow at the Division of Pacific and Asian History at the Australian National University. ELE NA GOVOR

UNIVERSITY of HAWAI‘I PRESS Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888

ISBN 978-0-8248-3368-8

90000

9 780824 833688 www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

T WELVE D AYS AT N UKU H IVA

the participants themselves, many of whom left accounts of the voyage. Those by the ships’ captains, Krusenstern and Lisiansky, and the naturalist George Langsdorff are well known, but here for the first time, their writings are juxtaposed with recently discovered textual and visual evidence by various members of the expedition in Russian, German, and Japanese—and by the Nuku Hivans themselves. Two sailor-beachcombers, a Frenchman and an Englishman who acted as guides and interpreters, later contributed their own accounts, which feature the words and opinions of islanders. Govor also relies on a myth about the Russian visit recounted by Nuku Hivans to this day. With its unique polyphonic historical approach, Twelve Days at Nuku Hiva presentsÂ�an innovative cross-cultural ethnohistoryÂ�that uncovers new approachesÂ� to—and understandings of—what took place on Nuku Hiva more than two hundredÂ�years ago.

TRADING NATURE

12 TWELVE

DAYS AT NUKU HIVA RUS S I AN E NCO UNT E RS AND M U T IN Y IN T H E SO U T H PA C IF IC

in august 1803 two russian ships, the Nadezhda and the Neva, set off on a round-the-world voyage to carry out scientificÂ�exploration and collect artifacts for Alexander I’s ethnographical museum in St. Petersburg. Russia’s strategic concerns in the north Pacific, however, led the Russian government to include as part of the expedition an embassy to Japan, headed by statesman Nikolai Rezanov, who was given authority over the ships’ commanders without their knowledge. Between them the ships carried an ethnically and socially disparate group of men: Russian educated elite, German naturalists, Siberian merchants, Baltic naval officers, even Japanese passengers. Upon reaching Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas archipelago on May 7, 1804, and for the next twelve days, the naval officers revolted against Rezanov’s command while complex cross-cultural encounters between Russians and islanders occurred. Elena Govor recounts the voyage, reconstructing and exploring in depth { Continued on back flap }

Twelve Days at Nuku Hiva

Twelve Days at

Nuku Hiva Russian Encounters and Mutiny in the South Pacific

Elena Govor

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2010 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 15╇ 14╇ 13╇ 12╇ 11╇ 10╅╇ 6╇ 5╇ 4╇ 3╇ 2╇ 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Govor, Elena. Twelve days at Nuku Hiva : Russian encounters and mutiny in the South Pacific / Elena Govor. p.â•… cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8248-3368-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1.╇ Nuka Hiva (French Polynesia)—Ethnic relations—History— 19th century.â•… 2.╇ Nuka Hiva (French Polynesia)—Social life and customs—19th century.â•… 3.╇ Acculturation—French Polynesia— Nuka Hiva—History—19th century.â•… 4.╇ Marquesans—French Polynesia—Nuka Hiva—History—19th century.â•… 5.╇ Russians— French Polynesia—Nuka Hiva—History—19th century. 6.╇ Nuka Hiva (French Polynesia)—Discovery and exploration, Russian. â•… 7.╇ Marquesas Islands (French Polynesia)—Discovery and exploration, Russian.â•… 8.╇ Russia.Voennyi flot—History—19th century.â•… 9.╇ Mutiny—French Polynesia—Nuka Hiva— History—19th century.â•… I.╇Title. DU701.N8G68╇ 2010 996.3'1—dc22 â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•…â•… 2009028691

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Designed by Santos Barbasa Jr. Printed by the Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group

For Vladimir Kabo, my husband, friend, and teacher

Contents

Acknowledgments

ix

Note on Spelling and Translations

xi

Part I

From Russia to Nuku Hiva

1

Part II

Nuku Hiva

56

Day 1.╇ Encounter. 25 April (7 May) 1804

64

Day 2.╇ Discovery. 26 April (8 May) 1804

91

Day 3.╇ Immersion. 27 April (9 May) 1804

115

Day 4.╇Tattooing. 28 April (10 May) 1804

137

Day 5.╇ Heresy. 29 April (11 May) 1804

154

Day 6.╇Tension. 30 April (12 May) 1804

163

Day 7.╇Temptations. 1/13 May 1804

170

Day 8.╇ Catharsis. 2/14 May 1804

195

Day 9.╇ Dislocation. 3/15 May 1804

214

Days 10–12.╇ Parting. 4/16–6/18 May 1804

227

Part III

From Nuku Hiva to Russia

238

Epilogue

Nuku Hiva Revisited

263

Notes

269

Bibliography

273

Index

289

Acknowledgments

This book emerged from a research project, ‘Tatau/tattoo: Embodied art and

cultural exchange’, funded by the Getty Grant Program (2002–2004), which provided the initial support for the search for forgotten Russian documentation on the first Russian expedition in the South Pacific. The discovery of abundant Russian textual and visual materials complementing the well-known published Russian accounts prompted the idea of drawing together all available sources about the expedition, including Russian, German, Estonian, and French archival materials. The support and generosity of my colleagues further facilitated this research. I am grateful to Tamara Shafranovskaia, Olga Fedorova, and Alexey Kruzenshtern from Russia, Frieder Sondermann and Makiko Kuwahara from Japan, Achim and Renate von Rappard from Germany, Burgl Lichtenstein from Switzerland, and Robert Suggs and Victoria Moessner from the United States. My long-term cooperation with Olga Fedorova and Frieder Sondermann was particularly productive. Olga Fedorova shared with me her transcripts of Russian archival materials (Chichagov 1805; Kruzenshtern 1803; Ratmanov 1803–1805a, 1803–1805b, ca. 1808; Shemelin 1803–1806), and Frieder Sondermann supplied transcripts of German archival documents (Espenberg 1805a; Horner 1807; Krusenstern 1804a, 1804d, 1810, 1813a; Löwenstern 1807; Tilesius 1803–1804, 1804, 1819, n.d.) and articles (Espenberg 1805b; Depping 1813). My discussions with them, as well as with my husband, Vladimir Kabo, helped me to shape a number of issues examined in this book. Another source of inspiration and reflection was the research by scholars in the field of South Pacific studies—Bronwen Douglas, Nicholas Thomas, and Greg Dening. I am also grateful to Mgr Le Cléac’h, Eric Bastard, and Félicité and Simeon Kimitete, who assisted me during my visit to Nuku Hiva in 2003. ix

x

Acknowledgments

My son, Raphael Kabo, translated into English numerous quotations from the Russian sources and helped with communication in French in Nuku Hiva. I thank him for his enthusiastic support and his interest in my studies during all these years. As English is not my first language and the book draws on multilingual sources, the role of the editor was very important. I was privileged to have this challenging work done by Kevin Windle, a scholar, linguist, and translator from the Australian National University’s School of Language Studies, who not only thoroughly and creatively edited my text but also verified all translations from Russian, German, Spanish, and French against the original sources. I am also grateful to Roderic Campbell for his expert advice in editorial matters. Further research funding and a stimulating context in which to write this book were provided by an Australian Research Council Discovery grant under Chief Investigators Bronwen Douglas and Chris Ballard, who appointed me as a senior research associate in the Division of Pacific and Asian History, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, at the Australian National University. I greatly appreciate their support and the friendly, inspiring environment of the Division of Pacific and Asian History.

Note on Spelling and Translations

The variety of multilingual sources created during the span of over two hun-

dred years necessitated a number of editorial decisions. The name of the members of the Russian expedition are given in a Westernized form if they appear in this form in Western publications by the voyagers themselves (e.g., Adam von Krusenstern rather than Ivan Kruzenshtern). If there is no such precedent, the Library of Congress transliteration system is applied supplemented by using the conventional ——sky rather than ——skii at the end of names. Variations of names are given when the person is first introduced, and the spelling that appears in quotations from English-language sources is left unchanged. Thus Golovachev in the author’s text will appear next to Golovatscheff in a quotation from Löwenstern’s journal. As the book draws heavily on primary sources their translation was another important issue. Russian sources that have not been previously translated into English were translated with the assistance of Raphael Kabo and edited by Kevin Windle. German sources were translated with the assistance of Vladimir Kabo and edited by Kevin Windle. Contemporary published English versions of the works of Krusenstern, Lisiansky, and Espenberg are cited with no attempt to harmonize the spelling. Modern English translations of Löwenstern, Langsdorff, Krusenstern, and others were checked against the original texts and modified wherever necessary. Marquesan names are given in standard modern orthography, following consultation with Robert Suggs (Suggs 2008); in quotations they remain unchanged. Since two different calendars were in use at the time, the date by the Western, or Gregorian, calendar is here placed after the date in the Russian, or Julian, calendar. xi

Part I

From Russia to Nuku Hiva

They had come from Cape Horn to do for the Russians what Bougainville had done for the French and Cook had done for the English—to discover the Pacific and its worth. â•… —Greg Dening, Islands and Beaches

The Broken Icon The first Russian round-the-world expedition, which would inaugurate the anthropological studies of the northern Marquesas, left Kronshtadt in August 1803 on board the Nadezhda (Hope) and the Neva, commanded by Adam Krusenstern and Urey Lisiansky. Greg Dening has summed up its primary purpose, but like all expeditions the Russian round-the-world expedition had its own genesis. By the end of the eighteenth century Russian expansion to the east had reached the North Pacific and the northwest coast of North America and resulted in the establishment of the Russian-American Company (RAC). Its interest in launching a sea connection with Russia’s European ports and promoting a direct fur trade with China coincided with Russian naval aspirations to gain a foothold in the North Pacific and to follow Cook and La Pérouse in the exploration of the Pacific.The planned circumnavigation expedition, championed by Krusenstern since 1799, was approved in 1802, and he was appointed the commander. But he achieved more: this expedition, initially planned as a commercial venture, was gradually transformed into one supported and partly financed by the Russian state. This change came about in early 1803 when Emperor Alexander I decided to add to the expedition the Russian Embassy to Japan, headed by the Russian statesman Nikolai Rezanov. Moreover, Krusenstern, Rezanov, and Count Nikolai Rumiantsev (Romanzoff), the minister of commerce and supporter of science and scholarship, each from his own angle, 1

2

Part I

set out to charge the expedition with broad exploratory and cultural tasks as well. The expedition was intended to proclaim Russia’s prowess as a naval, trading, colonial, and cultural power. It was seen off at Kronshtadt by the emperor himself—an ardent supporter—and senior officials of the imperial government. Eight months later, while the ships were anchored in Taiohae Bay at Nuku Hiva, a disagreement between Krusenstern and Rezanov brought to a head a conflict of which Rezanov later wrote, ‘During the voyage the naval officers of my ship mutinied against me’ (Sgibnev 1877:389). Tensions ran so high that on reaching Kamchatka both parties were ready to abandon their well-planned voyage and return overland to St Petersburg to seek the emperor’s justice. Gradually Kamchatka exerted its cooling effect: they reached a compromise and managed to complete their mission. A veil of silence was laid over the events at Nuku Hiva by participants and government officials alike, including the emperor. But this conflict was only the tip of the iceberg. The island of Nuku Hiva, which the Russian expedition had opened to the world, would become for many of them a place of supreme happiness and deepest distress. The aftershocks of those twelve days at Nuku Hiva would reverberate for a long time to come. The official artist of the expedition, Stepan Kurliandtsev, who left the ship at Kamchatka, would take an axe and destroy everything in his cabin. His pictorial record of Nuku Hiva would mysteriously disappear. His friend, the naturalist Fedor Brykin, who also left the ship at Kamchatka, would take his own life on reaching St Petersburg, and his Nuku Hiva material would likewise disappear without a trace. Petr Golovachev, the first to meet the Nuku Hivans on a pilot boat leading the Nadezhda into harbor, would take his own life at St Helena, only a few months from home, and the events of Nuku Hiva figure in his last letters. The priest Gideon would denounce Lisiansky’s behavior in Nuku Hiva in a complaint to the authorities of the Orthodox Church. In 1828 the naturalist Wilhelm Tilesius would dispute the interpretation of the Nuku Hivan materials by his colleague Georg Langsdorff, and Langsdorff would disagree with Krusenstern. The tales of two participants, Count Fedor Tolstoy and Joseph Kabris, who were adorned with Nuku Hivan tattoos, would for years supplement the official Russian accounts of the island. Finally, twenty-two years later, another Russian ship, the Krotky, lured by the accounts of the first Russian seafarers, would come to Nuku Hiva and lose four of its crew in a massacre. What did this faraway island mean to Russia? What happened to the Russian voyagers there, and how did this mutiny come about? The mutiny at Nuku Hiva has never been interpreted in the context of Russian encounters with the native peoples of the South Pacific. This is a first attempt.



From Russia to Nuku Hiva

3

The seeds of the major conflict, the issue of leadership of the expedition, were sown in St Petersburg in 1803. The expedition was Krusenstern’s brainchild, and he was appointed its commander from the very beginning; but less than two months before it was due to sail, when the Russian Embassy to Japan, headed by Rezanov, was added to the expedition, the authorities resorted to their favorite policy of divide and rule. Krusenstern’s orders were amended to the effect that the diplomatic and trade aspects of the expedition were put under Rezanov’s charge, but Krusenstern and his officers left Kronshtadt convinced that this amendment did not diminish his authority as the head of the expedition. Rezanov, on the other hand, knew the real state of affairs from the outset: his instructions were drawn up by Rumiantsev and signed by the emperor. These instructions, although stressing the role of Krusenstern as the commander of the ship, placed most areas—trade, diplomacy, administration, relations with native peoples, acquisition of ethnographical and scientific specimens, recordkeeping, and so forth—under Rezanov’s charge or, at least, oversight. Although he had never been to sea, Rezanov was to ‘constantly’ ‘ensure accuracy in chronometer readings and longitudinal calculations’ by the expedition’s astronomer. The sentence ‘Both these vessels, with officers and crew in the employ of the Company, are entrusted to your care’ unambiguously made him the head of the whole expedition (Rumiantsev 1960). It was probably expected that Rezanov, in view of his senior rank, would be the titular head of the expedition and its supervisor at the same time. Rezanov, as we shall see, took his position seriously. For two hundred years the expedition has been the subject of numerous publications. It was not only its geographical and anthropological results that appealed to readers; it was the passions concealed below the surface. The first revealing publications in Germany and France appeared in 1805 and 1813, but the Russian press started discussing this subject only at the end of the nineteenth century, when all participants in the events had died (Sgibnev 1877; Voenskii 1895; Ratmanov 1876). Surprisingly, despite a general tendency to take a skeptical view of Russian officialdom, which Rezanov personified, it was Rezanov who captured the sympathies of the historians. For many years after the Russian revolution of 1917, however, Rezanov could not be viewed sympathetically. It wasn’t until after the Great Patriotic War of 1941–1945, which gave an enormous boost to Russian nationalism, that a spate of publications celebrating Russian preeminence in every field of science and culture appeared and the masquerade of proletarian internationalism was set aside. Vladimir Nevsky, the author of The First Russian Voyage Round the World (1951), must have found himself in a difficult situation: a group

4

Part I

of naval officers, mostly with German names, confronted a patriotic ethnic Russian statesman, supported by others of Russian extraction. He could have exploited the incident to support the current line of official propaganda, but Nevsky chose the best option open to an honest historian who happened to work under the Soviet regime: if the truth is unmentionable, at least do not lie. Although he knew the archival materials, he did not support Rezanov’s claim to leadership of the expedition. Nevsky’s was a considerable exploit that later generations, accustomed to freedom of the press, can appreciate only with difficulty. Gradually the canonically paired names of Russian explorers—Krusenstern and Lisiansky, Bellingshausen and Lazarev—were absorbed into ‘true’ Russian history. This history was notorious for its ability to strip events and personalities of all life and replace them with heroic graven images. Krusenstern alone seemed to escape this fate. For those who grew up in Leonid Brezhnev’s Soviet Union, Krusenstern seemed a white knight, with his unusual name, his lonely monument on the bank of the Neva in Leningrad, the tall ship bearing his name—all tokens of a forbidden world beyond the Iron Curtain. The Russian bard Alexander Gorodnitsky expressed this longing for journeys that could never be in his intimate lines: Under the changeable northern wind, Under the azure southern sky, Again the Kruzenshtern’s sails Are singing their song on high.

And suddenly in the stifling atmosphere of Moscow in 1981 came a cultural explosion: the rock opera ‘Juno and Avos’, the love story of Rezanov, the longforgotten member of the expedition, and Conchita, a fifteen-year-old Spanish girl. In it the figure of a romantic lover was united with that of a visionary: Let me lift fatigue from your shoulders! Why can’t people learn to be brothers? In the ocean the rivers all mingle! Hallelujah for love! Hallelujah for love! Hallelujah! Let me find a land more vital, Where a new breed of men can settle Without money or injustice! No republics, thrones or jails!



From Russia to Nuku Hiva

5

The enigmatic lyrics, by the nonconformist poet Andrei Voznesensky, the inspired performance, and the story reaching across continents and oceans all combined to generate public interest and bring out a new dimension in the canonical story of the expedition. It would hardly be an exaggeration to speak of a Rezanov fan club, whose members emphasized his Russian ethnicity. This came at a time when the Soviet empire, with its dogma of proletarian internationalism, was collapsing, and unrestrained Russian nationalism was filling the void. At the same time a very different picture was gradually taking shape. Tamara Shafranovskaia, a St Petersburg ethnographer, spent many years deciphering the travel journal of Hermann Löwenstern written in German in his elaborate handwriting, describing daily life aboard the Nadezhda without selfcensorship (1803–1806, 2003b).The previously unpublished journals and letters of Krusenstern, Rezanov, Ratmanov, Shemelin, and Gideon, from archives in Russia and abroad, also became available, thanks to the efforts of Olga Fedorova (Fedorova and Fedorova 2006; Fedorova 2008), Alexey Kruzenshtern (Kruzenshtern and Fedorova 2005), Leonid Sverdlov (2006), and others. In the United States, Gideon’s journals and letters (1989) were translated by Lydia Black, and Löwenstern’s journal (2005, 2003a) by Victoria Moessner. In Germany, Ewert von Krusenstjern (1991) wrote a detailed biography of his famous relative, using family archives. In Japan, Frieder Sondermann (2002b) opened a new field with his thorough study of German-language archival materials, particularly Krusenstern’s and Tilesius’ travel journals and correspondence between the members of the expedition. Readers of these private accounts realized with horror that, far from being a matter of national pride, this expedition, with its intrigues, hatred, denunciations, arrogance, and incompetence, was more a cause for national shame. But perhaps we have no right to judge the actors by our conventional standards. When memoirs of the Gulag poured forth after perestroika, readers realized that they could not judge people who were there by their own criteria. The same applies to the experience of war. And the same should apply to the participants in the expedition. Rather than passionately trying to refute the truth of myth with the truth of fact or justify one side at the expense of the other, it may be more important simply to listen to the chorus of voices and try to understand each of them. They endured unprecedented pressure and strain— physical, emotional, and moral. They were children of their times; they are history itself, which we must accept in its entirety, without taking sides, as we look back from our complacent present. Only now, when abundant new materials have come to light, is this new approach to events becoming possible. In this book the varied sources on the expedition are drawn together for the first time in a study of a single episode—

6

Part I

the twelve eventful days at Nuku Hiva. The three ‘gospels’—the well-known accounts by Krusenstern, Lisiansky, and Langsdorff—are juxtaposed with the ‘apocrypha’ of other participants—Rezanov, Ratmanov, Romberg, Löwenstern, Shemelin, Tilesius, Horner, Espenberg, Gideon, and Korobitsyn. Three artists— Tilesius, Langsdorff, and Löwenstern—provide the pictorial materials. They are supplemented by some unexpected voices—those of the Japanese passengers aboard the Nadezhda, who left a visual legacy as well; of the European sailors living on Nuku Hiva, Edward Robarts and Joseph Kabris; and, not least, of the Nuku Hivans themselves, whose shadowy presence made itself felt throughout the Russian accounts—in more or less obscure countersigns, as Bronwen Douglas (1999a, 2003, 2009) aptly terms the matter. The Nuku Hivans even today relate a myth about the Russian visit two hundred years ago. The voices agree and disagree, complement and rebut each other. At times they seem to render the very notion of ‘truth’ elusive, and the words of Solomon very apt: ‘For in much wisdom is much vexation; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow’ (Ecclesiastes 1:18). In the Soviet/Russian tradition, the early Russian exploring expeditions in the Pacific were understood and interpreted through the prism of imperial history. The accounts of these Russian expeditions were scrutinized for their ‘contributions’ to the field of exploration, for their ‘discoveries’, and for the observations made by their naturalists and the ethnographic collections they brought back. During the Soviet era such studies were characterized by a strong anticolonial stance, which was reflected in the way the expedition accounts were edited. Equally, the Soviet appropriation of this exploration history wrote out the disparate voices represented in these accounts to create a single unified Russian voice, which thus minimized the outstanding role played by others of different backgrounds, such as the ethnic Germans, in the early Russian expeditions. The issues of encounter—particularly the significance of indigenous agency in encounters and in European experience and representations of them, as addressed in Douglas’ groundbreaking ethnohistories (1999a, 1999b, 2003, 2006, 2007)—were hardly ever explored in these Soviet-era works. Nevertheless, the publication of source materials by such Russian scholars as Bolkhovitinov, Komissarov, and Shafranovskaia and the recent works of a younger generation of historians provide a solid basis for any further study of Russian Pacific voyages. In the West the study of source materials in this field was further developed by the Canadian historian Glynn Barratt, who made accessible the richness of Russian-language materials for Western scholars, and by Richard Pierce’s Alaskan school, which was mostly concerned with the history of the Russian-American Company.



From Russia to Nuku Hiva

7

Although, as in the research of my predecessors, primary documents are a cornerstone of my approach, my main priority was not gauging and analyzing ‘reliable’ data from the sources as such. On the contrary, I was more interested in exploring the wealth and diversity of the textual and visual accounts, which has allowed me to reveal the predominantly subjective nature of this supposedly scientifically observed ‘data’ and how it was mediated through the voyagers’ ethnosocial backgrounds and their emotional and psychological states of being. In this respect the personal interactions of the participants are more important than their life histories in untangling their Nuku Hivan experience. While recent historical studies of the conflict aboard the Russian ships have taken no account of the Nuku Hivan backdrop, I see it as an essential part of this ethnohistorical drama, which is thick with countersigns left by the Pacific setting and the agency of indigenous protagonists. Such an approach mines the tales and anecdotes produced by the expedition participants after their return for the richly diverse material they contain, producing accounts no less telling than the published official journals. Contextualizing my research in the expanding field of recent ethnohistorical studies of Pacific voyages, which was pioneered by Greg Dening (1980) and elaborated by Nicholas Thomas (2003) and Anne Salmond (2003), I would stress the singularity of my material. The richness and diversity of my texts and the limited time frame of the visit provide a golden opportunity to weave a tapestry of encounters involving savants, officers, and seamen; Germans, ethnic Russians, and Japanese; French and British go-betweens; Marquesan haka‘iki (chiefs) and ordinary men and women, priests and warriors. Relationships of race, class, and gender intertwine in complex patterns across the beach and within each side on the beach—the tropes introduced and developed by Dening in his Marquesan studies (1980, 2004). Nuku Hiva enjoyed a particular reputation in the European popular imagination, built upon its singular tattoo practices, its celebrated masculinity, and rumors of cannibalism, all of it reinforced in the rich imagery that emanated from encounters in place. At the time of the Russian encounter favorable historical conditions obtained for the study of Nuku Hiva as a result of the presence of three Europeans who happened to be living on the island in the years 1799–1806. This was the decade that preceded the mass European invasion, which wrought catastrophic change in Nuku Hivan society from the introduction of European diseases, firearms, and sandalwood trading (Thomas 1990). This period of Nuku Hivan history is also connected with the outstanding role of Kiatonui, the haka‘iki who for nearly four decades up to his death in around 1818 was the leader of a complex tribal entity inhabiting the valleys surrounding Taiohae Bay. In this respect the timing of the Russian 1804 visit was espe-

8

Part I

cially fortunate. And because the Russian visitors were highly educated—with, for instance, six men of science among their number—the expedition proved to be the most intellectually productive in the early history of Nuku Hivan and, more broadly, Marquesan encounters. It is not surprising that the ‘three gospels’ mentioned above became standard texts on the Nuku Hivan social microcosm and were widely used in the studies of Steinen, Dening, Thomas, Gell, OttinoGaranger, and Ferdon. Similarly, images of Nuku Hivans from Krusenstern’s Atlas (1813b) and Langsdorff ’s Voyages (1813) became iconic in the history of Nuku Hivan tattoo and bodies in general. The wealth of new Russian, German, and Japanese accounts and images, which this study brings to light, allows us to reposition the well-known accounts by Krusenstern, Langsdorff, and Lisiansky by juxtaposing them with these newly found accounts and using them to test the ‘facts’ from different perspectives and fresh contexts. Drawing on Douglas’ innovative critical method (1999b, 2009), I use juxtaposition as my main strategy for uncovering traces of the involvement of Nuku Hiva’s indigenous inhabitants during the Russian visit. By counterposing varied media and different genres of texts, this strategy uncovers and exploits discrepancies between, for example, textual and visual representations; published and unpublished texts; field notes or journals and well-edited books; field sketches and engravings. A related strategy—acknowledging Thomas’ insight that one is studying ‘encounter between “cultures” that were each themselves made up of many cultures’ (2003:xxxv)—is juxtaposition of accounts produced by observers of different ethnic, social, and cultural backgrounds. The resultant polyphony of voices helps to decenter history in Oceania, to observe it as a concurrence of ‘messy actualities’ (Thomas 2003:xxxiii), of ambiguous meetings and exchanges conducted by voyagers, islanders, and go-betweens. This book seeks to depict the nature of the encounters that took place during the Russian visit to Nuku Hiva by adopting a narrational style that utilizes this great diversity of voices to portray the ‘messy actualities’ as seen through the lens of the record each writer or artist left behind. I am endeavoring to relate a complex story, leaving other more specialized, in-depth studies to explore the great variety of relevant anthropological topics raised by these hitherto unsuspected Russian materials, such as cannibalism, polyandry, homosexuality, exchange, tattooing, and so forth. The idea of polyphonic history manifests itself in different ways, for instance in maps. Every explorer produced his own set of maps. Between 1791 and 1793 the island of Nuku Hiva was ‘discovered’ four times by American, French, British, and again American navigators, each drawing his own map and giving his own names to geographical features. There is a bewildering abundance of early



From Russia to Nuku Hiva

9

maps. The English-speaking world prefers maps with mostly British names, allowing a scattering of French names, a token number of Russian names, hardly any German names, and none from Japanese. But these nations also had their own maps and perceived the world through them. Krusenstern’s expedition had several outstanding cartographers: Krusenstern himself, who would later spend years compiling his Atlas of the Southern Sea, and Horner, Löwenstern, Bellingshausen, Kotzebue, and Lisiansky. The Russian map of the South Pacific looks quite different from the British map, and features hundreds of Russian toponyms from New Guinea to the Marquesas. The time has now come to accept these different images of our world, to superimpose these transparent maps one upon another, and to allow the background to remain the property of the peoples of the South Seas. In Beach Crossings Dening made a start on this project in relation to the Marquesas. My aim is to try to add all the wealth of the Russian-German layer, in the hope that all of us may be the richer for it.

Noah’s Ark—the Men Aboard Before turning to the details of the Russian incident at Nuku Hiva and the conflict that occurred there, we must look more closely at the personalities of the men involved, their literary and artistic legacy, and their voyage. The Naval Officers Adam Johann von Krusenstern, or in Russian Ivan Fedorovich Kruzenshtern (1770–1846; fig. 1), was born into a noble family in Haggud (Hagudi), near Reval (Tallinn) in Estland Province, now Estonia but then part of the Russian Empire. His ancestors were of Swedish and German origin, part of that ethnic group known as Baltic Germans. At the age of fourteen Krusenstern was sent to study at the college of the Naval Cadet Corps. The corps was established in 1752 to provide a solid grounding in mathematics, navigation, military skills, and geography, as well as three European languages—French, English, and German. Krusenstern and most of the officers of his expedition happened to be there at a time when it was temporarily transferred after a fire from St Petersburg to Kronshtadt (1771–1796). Life there was extremely harsh, with much application of corporal punishment and brutal exercise of power by the gardemarins (senior cadets) over the junior cadets. Students would go hungry and cold and were reduced to scavenging for food and firewood in winter. The lack of regular communication with St Petersburg resulted in a low standard of teaching, which was often conducted by Kronshtadt garrison officers. Furthermore, because of the Russo-Swedish war, senior cadets were released before they had completed the course, as soon as they had undergone summer

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Figure 1.╇ Adam Johann von Krusenstern (A. J. Krusenstern, Voyage autour du monde, Paris, 1821)

exercises in the Baltic.Years later Krusenstern would become the director of the corps and try to improve conditions there. In 1788, at the age of seventeen, Krusenstern was released early from the corps as a midshipman to take part in battles with Swedes in the Baltic. Here he met Captain Grigory Mulovsky, who, with the support of Empress Catherine the Great, had planned the first Russian round-the-world expedition. Those plans were thwarted by the outbreak of war, and Mulovsky was killed in action in 1789. In 1793 Krusenstern and Lisiansky were among sixteen junior officers selected for further training as volunteers in the British Royal Navy. They took part in Britain’s war against the French and visited America and Britain’s Caribbean colonies. During their sojourn in the US they met George Washington. In 1797 they sailed with the British to South Africa, and Krusenstern went on to India, the East Indies, and China. Observing the fur trade in the Far East, he became convinced of the benefits of a future Russian maritime trade in the North Pacific. He returned to Russia in 1800 with the project of an expedition in mind and began to lobby for it. In the meantime, in 1801, he married Julia Taube for love, his bride being a twenty-year-old orphan girl who had been brought up in his brother’s family. Their first son, Otto, was born in August 1802, a few



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days after Krusenstern’s plan was approved by the new emperor, Alexander I. ‘I owed a sacrifice to my country, and I made it’, Krusenstern wrote. ‘I determined upon the voyage, and felt the greatest sorrow and affliction on account of my wife. How, indeed, could I remain insensible to the tears of a dearly beloved spouse, which I saw her shed daily during a twelvemonth’ (1813c:xxxii).1 Krusenstern, who at thirty-three was to head the expedition, was a singular phenomenon in the Russian Navy of the time. His harsh schooling, war experience, and long service with the British Navy, which was notorious for its cruelty and degrading treatment of sailors, had not affected his innate integrity, gentleness, and kindness, which probably came from his family. At a time when Russia, the empire of serfs, was recovering from the despotic regime of Paul I, Krusenstern decided to rule his ship with kindness and abolish corporal punishment on it. He wrote, ‘I had indeed been advised to take some foreigners among my crew: but I knew too much of the spirit of Russian sailors, whom I prefer to all others, even to the English, to listen to this proposition’ (1813c:16). He chose his crew from Russian volunteers willing to share the hardships of the voyage. Although they were serfs with no civil rights, he treated them with respect and took care to see them properly fed, clothed, and looked after and properly remunerated when they returned. Löwenstern, his most ardent supporter on the ship, sometimes felt that the captain’s kindness bordered on weakness, remarking that ‘the common man . . . is too unenlightened to be able to value and to honor forbearance and liberality’ and that ‘Russians have to be treated somewhat strictly so as not to go to ruin.’ The officers and crew, though sometimes critical of him for his mildness in relation to the sailors and his tolerance of Rezanov’s intrigues, responded to him with deep love and respect. They, the elite of the Russian fleet, could not fail to appreciate the accomplishments of Krusenstern, who was combining ‘knowledge with unequalled work’ (2003a:407, 126, 336). Horner wrote to Zach of him, ‘We all thank Heaven for sending us a captain who by his qualities of mind and heart has won the unreserved love of us all. He has rightfully been placed in command of us, as his merits raise him up over everybody else’ (Krusenstjern 1991:73). The commander of the Neva was Urey Lisiansky (1773–1837; fig. 2). ‘Urey’ was the form of his name that he himself used in the English version of his travel account, although a more usual transliteration from Russian would be Yury. His career before the expedition was similar to that of Krusenstern, whom he knew well: the Naval Cadet Corps, where he was one year ahead of Krusenstern, the Russo-Swedish war, secondment to the Royal Navy, and visits to America, South Africa, and India. When Krusenstern was appointed to lead the expedition he immediately invited his friend to take command of the second ship and handpick his own crew. Lisiansky was happy ‘to serve under

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Figure 2.╇ Urey Lisiansky (Lisiansky 1814)

the command of a good friend’ (1994:37). Krusenstern expected to find in Lisiansky an ‘unbiased and obedient man, with zeal for the common benefit’ as well as a thoroughly accomplished officer (1809:2–3; 1813c:2). Despite the similarities in their careers, they were very different. In Soviet historiography, Lisiansky’s Russian origins made him immune to any criticism—a trend that has survived into post-Soviet times. Nevertheless, accounts by several of his contemporaries contrast him sharply with Krusenstern. Löwenstern, who was highly critical of all on board except Krusenstern, his idol, left a number of unfavorable remarks about Lisiansky. Löwenstern does, however, take care to base his impressions on facts, with which he was always meticulous: To the same degree that our atmosphere is a happy one, it is said to be quiet on the Neva. Lisianski, the tyrant, has introduced a strict moral code so that everyone sits in his cabin and broods. ╅╇The sailors on the Neva are very dissatisfied with Lisianski. They intended to ask Krusenstern to mitigate their situation. (Lisianski often capriciously has his people whipped with the cat.) Our peaceable sailors advised them to hold out until they are back in Russia and complain there.



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╅╇ Lisianski . . . says, ‘Treat the Russian like an animal, last of all (before the end of a campaign, voyage, or march), be tender and friendly toward him; thus, everything in the past is forgotten, and you have won the love of your people.’ (2003a:26, 381, 423)

Löwenstern’s attitude to Lisiansky as an ambitious petty tyrant is supported in the complaint of Gideon, the priest.The matter he complained about probably spelled the ruin of Lisiansky’s career: Captain Lisianskii and Midshipman Berkh are people of troublesome character and caused me much offense, against which my only cure was magnanimous patience. Even now I shall pass in silence the many prohibitions against performance of the Divine service on Sundays and Lord’s Feast Days, the only solace at sea for those who know God. I am ashamed to mention various scathing remarks ridiculing Religion. The son of Archpriest Lisianskii from the town of Nezhin, one who, one should think, had been born and raised in the very lap of Religion, often took leave at table, drinking the Tenerife wine, to address me with these words: ‘Father! The Health of the Mother of God!’ (1989:81)

Indeed, Lisiansky, born in the township of Nezhin in Ukraine, came from the family of a provincial priest. He left home for the Naval Cadet Corps when he was just nine, and at the age of nineteen he became a British volunteer, so the experience of the Royal Navy may have done more to shape Lisiansky than his older friend Krusenstern. At the same time he obviously lacked the air of a European gentleman, which Krusenstern drew from his family background. Löwenstern remarked that as a result of his service with the British, ‘Lisianski . . . forgot how to speak Russian’ (2003a:385). That is an exaggeration, but it is certain that English became for Lisiansky almost a native language: he wrote his travel account in two versions—English and Russian—which differ a great deal. The British seaman Robarts, meeting Lisiansky in Nuku Hiva, immediately recognized him as a ‘proper’ British officer, while Krusenstern attracted no such praise. While Lisiansky had probably departed too far from traditional Russian values and mores to be accepted by the Russian wing of the expedition, he was destined to remain an outsider among the Baltic German officers and scientists, as Löwenstern’s scornful attitude to him clearly indicates.After their return from the expedition, this would sour his relations with Krusenstern and his attitude to ‘official’ Russia in general.Yet although at the time of departure Lisiansky’s

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service record was two years longer than Krusenstern’s and they both held the same rank, he did not object to serving under his friend’s command. Krusenstern and Lisiansky aimed to recruit the best young Russian officers into their crews. It was Krusenstern’s idea to use this expedition as a ‘nursery’ to mold a new generation of officers with experience of long circumnavigation voyages. Class barriers mattered little to him. In his book he argued, ‘Nor would Cook, Bougainville, or Nelson, have ever been what they proved to [their countries], if attention had only been paid to their birth’ (1813c:xxvii). Ethnically speaking, on the upper decks the Baltic Germans predominated.The Nadezhda had only two ethnic Russian officers: Ratmanov and Golovachev. Makar Ivanovich Ratmanov (1772–1833; fig. 3), the first lieutenant of the Nadezhda, was born in Toropets district, Pskov Province, central Russia, in the family of a landlord. He joined the Naval Cadet Corps at the age of twelve and, like Krusenstern and Lisiansky, took part in the Russo-Swedish war. Since 1793 he had served in the Russian Navy in the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, commanding ships in the squadron of the famous admiral Fedor Ushakov. ‘During the last hostilities with France,’ Krusenstern wrote, ‘he had so much distinguished himself by his courage and activity’ (1813c:10).

Figure 3.╇ Makar Ratmanov (Kruzenshtern and Fedorova 2005)



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Ratmanov’s personality may be seen in his private travel journals (Fedorova 2008). Occasional remarks in Löwenstern’s and Shemelin’s diaries show him as a red-headed man with heavy fists and a ‘thundering voice’. As the voyage progressed Löwenstern became increasingly critical of him: uneducated, rude, conceited, quarrelsome, imperious, foul-mouthed—these were just a few of the epithets he applied to Ratmanov. Somewhat haughtily he stated, ‘He would be unbearable if we were not all above him’ (2003a:35, 100, 34, 72, 276, 368–370, 277). Ratmanov undoubtedly felt that some other officers and scientists on the Nadezhda looked down upon him, with his ‘raw, coarse, unrefined’ manners of a Russian officer. In his private diary he diagnosed the cause easily: ‘I am now in what one might call a German synagogue. They look askance at me behind my back because I love the truth and speak the truth. But I will not stop.’ His diary is full of his patriotic reflections, probably provoked by his surroundings: ‘Value your beloved homeland more than anything on Earth, and whenever possible silence the scum who regret they were born Russian. Those men of wisdom seem to me either scoundrels or, if they have practiced the sciences, have worn their minds so thin that no more reason is left in them.’ He is proud to be a Russian, to be a subject of that greatest of monarchs, the wise Alexander (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:64v.–65, 15–16). Ratmanov was truly Russian in spirit. He joined the expedition as Krusenstern’s old friend from cadet school and was the only one among his officers who dared to criticize him. In spite of all his pro-Russianness and anti-German feeling, he remained Krusenstern’s true ally to the end and did not desert to Rezanov’s pro-Russian party during the Nuku Hivan revolt. This man, so ‘coarse’ and primitive in the eyes of his educated and refined companions, claimed to find solace in ‘philosophy’, and sent accounts of the voyage to the famous Russian writer and historian Nikolai Karamzin, who published some of them in the popular magazine Vestnik Evropy. He also drew travel sketches, which unfortunately are missing. After being promoted to the rank of captainlieutenant he recorded the following in his diary: ‘I . . . lock myself in my cabin and read, write or draw. I dearly regret that I have been promoted to captainlieutenant, and the officers on watch often barge in with reports and disturb my peaceful moments on this voyage’ (1803–1805a:20–20v., 65). Löwenstern saw this as laziness and evasion of his duties, but the two were made of very different stuff. Friedrich (Fedor Ivanovich) von Romberg (1774–1811), the second lieutenant, was of Baltic German origin, probably also from Estonia. After the Naval Cadet Corps he served in the Russo-Swedish war and later on the frigate Narva under Krusenstern’s command. He was obviously well Russianized, skilled in languages—Löwenstern remarked that ‘Romberg . . . works on translations’—

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and a cultivated officer: in musical improvisations on the Nadezhda he would play first violin. He corresponded with Karamzin, although Golovachev was scornful of his language: ‘You always speak so pompously that you cannot be understood at all.’ Romberg kept a private journal. His only known account of Nuku Hiva is his letter in Russian written from Kamchatka to his friends, but it is known that from Kamchatka he also sent Karamzin a detailed description of the voyage, which, unfortunately, did not appear in Vestnik Evropy (Löwenstern 2003a:307, 19, 24, 148; Romberg 1804a). Petr Trofimovich Golovachev (1777–1806), the third lieutenant, was born in the Russian north, in Olonetsk Province, and came from an impoverished family of the Russian nobility. After the Naval Cadet Corps he had served in the North Sea and Mediterranean. Krusenstern wrote, ‘I had selected him for this voyage without having seen him. He was universally approved. . . . I never found any cause to repent my choice’ (1813c:10). His papers have not been found, but from the accounts of others about his tragic involvement in the confrontation between Krusenstern and Rezanov it is possible to see that the personality of this young man, who found himself psychologically dependent on Rezanov, was shaped according to traditional Russian values (Sverdlov 2006). Hermann Ludwig von Löwenstern, or Ermolai Ermolaevich Levenshtern in Russian, (1777–1836; fig. 4), the fourth lieutenant, has recently been ‘discovered’ as an outstanding chronicler of the expedition, and his huge private journal, to which I refer throughout this book, was published in 2003. Löwenstern was born in Jendel, Estland Province, into a noble family of Baltic Germans who had lived in the area since the Middle Ages. He had his first experience of the sea when he was just fifteen and attending a local parish school: ‘I took such pleasure in the Naval Service that my fate was determined. I understood not a word of Russian. I had lessons in navigation from a Russian pilot and tried to learn.’ A diligent student, he would copy naval terminology mixed with Russian swearwords into his diary (Moessner 2003b:xix; Fedorova and Shafranovskaia 2003:533). Although his diary indicates that he mastered enough Russian to communicate with sailors and in the wardroom, throughout his naval service (1793–1815) he kept his diaries in German, which remained his main language. Still, he often recorded words and sentences in Russian as he heard them, with little attention to grammar. By contrast, the written Russian of Krusenstern and the other Baltic Germans who were educated at the Naval Cadet Corps was fluent. Löwenstern joined the navy and served in the Baltic. His attempt to enter British East India service in 1796 was not successful, but his sojourn in Britain allowed him to pursue further study of navigation and English. Returning to the Russian Navy, he served on ships in the North Sea, Mediterranean, and



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Figure 4.╇ Hermann Ludwig von Löwenstern. Private collection of Ludolf von Löwenstern, Hamburg, Germany

Black Sea, but unlike the senior officers on the Nadezhda and Neva, he did not experience combat. He continued to study navigation and passed his midshipman exams with distinction, becoming a highly skilled cartographer and draughtsman. He used his service in the navy, with its rough and often despotic ways, for extensive self-development and education: he read about the countries he visited, mastered languages, went to theaters, museums, and archaeological sites, and even took violin lessons (Moessner 2003b:xix–xxii, xxv; Fedorova and Shafranovskaia 2003:533–539). ‘To an amiable and cultivated mind, he added a very extensive and well grounded knowledge of his profession,’ Krusenstern wrote about him (1813c:10). His passionate nature combined with his habit of meticulous accuracy (seen by Russians as a specific German trait) and his devotion to truth and justice. He wrote in his diary, ‘My impetuous character comes to the fore involuntarily wherever unfairness, caprice, and egotism come into play. In such cases I am not master of myself.’ For instance, he took a dislike to Golovachev, whom he considered ‘false and sanctimonious’, but his dislike was not in any way ethnically based. His judgment of his fellow Baltic Germans was often no less severe. Six years of service in the Russian Navy allowed him to see the root of the problem. He believed that the ethos of the Naval Cadet Corps, where

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cadets had to show blind obedience to their officers, produced a culture of servility to superiors and disdain for subordinates and made officers accustomed to deception, drunkenness, and sybaritism. In 1801 Löwenstern retired from the Russian Navy and went to Paris in the hope of entering service with the French. He did not succeed, and his future seemed uncertain when the news of Krusenstern’s project reached him. ‘Krusenstern’s voyage around the world has me totally enthused. I would like to go along, for even though the Russian Navy Service is worth so little, I am still a passionate seaman,’ he wrote in his diary. He gladly accepted Krusenstern’s invitation (Löwenstern 2003a:56, 89, 51, 84; Fedorova and Shafranovskaia 2003:539; Moessner 2003b:xxii). Midshipman Fabian Gottlieb von Bellingshausen, or Faddei Faddeevich Bellinsgauzen in Russian (1778–1852), was born on Oesel (Saaremaa) Island (now Estonia) in an ancient family with the title of baron. Like many of his compatriots he loved the sea, and at the age of ten he joined the Naval Cadet Corps. Upon graduation he served in the Baltic. Vice-Admiral Khanykov recommended the eager young midshipman to Krusenstern, who found his ‘reputation as a skilful and well informed officer in different branches of navigation’ fully justified (1813c:10). Bellingshausen joined the Nadezhda and was promoted to lieutenant during the voyage. Being especially gifted at cartography and hydrography, he drew most of the expedition’s charts. Löwenstern recognized Bellingshausen’s talents, ‘clear head’, and ‘biting wit’. At the same time he remarked that the cadet corps had given him ‘a lot of falseness in his character’ and ‘little education’. However partial Löwenstern in his remarks often was, he recorded a telling episode illustrating Bellingshausen’s conformism: ‘Horner and Bellingshausen had a bitter dispute about the mail, because Bellingshausen recognized the government’s right to open letters and Horner disputed it’ (2003a:422, 370, 358). Bellingshausen did not leave a travel journal of his own, but his first South Pacific impressions left traces in the account of his own expedition to the Pacific in 1819–1821. Krusenstern also took two young cadets aboard the Nadezhda, Otto von Kotzebue (Otto Evstafevich Kotsebu) (1787–1846) and Moritz von Kotzebue (Morits Evstafevich (Avgustovich) Kotsebu) (1789–1861), the sons of the famous German writer August von Kotzebue (1761–1819). Most of his life August Kotzebue moved back and forth between his native Germany, St Petersburg, and Estonia. Otto and Moritz’s stepmother, Christina von Krusenstern, was a cousin of Krusenstern, and he later referred to August as his friend. The boys studied in the Army Cadet Corps and, at August’s request, joined the expedition as cadet volunteers at the age of fifteen and thirteen (Moessner 2003a:452). Otto, who was to lead two more expeditions to the Pacific, admit-



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ted, ‘Perhaps I was not born for a sailor: an accident, by no means calculated upon in my previous education, made me such in my fifteenth year’ (Kotzebue 1967a, 2:155). The three years aboard the Nadezhda changed his life. Besides gaining practical experience, the brothers continued their studies aboard the ship with its officers and naturalists. The ship’s navigator, Filipp Kamenshchikov, and his assistant, Vasily Spolokhov, were ethnic Russians, as was gunnery sergeant Alexey Raevsky, who received his commission during the voyage. The officers aboard the Neva were lieutenants Pavel Arbuzov (?–1837) and Petr Povalishin (1775–1852) and midshipmen Fedor Kovediaev (1777–?) and Vasily Berkh (Berg) (1781–1834). Of these, Berkh would later make his name as the historian of the Russian Navy. Unfortunately, the Marquesan part of his journal, unlike the Hawaiian, has never come to light. Surgeons, Naturalists, and the Scientific Program As mentioned above, the expedition, first conceived with trading routes in mind, very soon acquired additional scientific purposes as a result of the efforts of Krusenstern and Rumiantsev. The Russian Academy of Sciences was instrumental here. Krusenstern was elected a corresponding member not long before the departure—a symbolic gesture, since at that stage he had no publications. The expedition was provided with instructions from specialists in mineralogy, zoology, and botany and with ethnographic guidelines. In particular, in respect to ethnic history, it was suggested that the expedition should gather information on ‘the probable order in which these [lands] were populated’; they should also investigate ‘what changes various tribes of people and species of animals have undergone, and whether it is true that some of them have become extinct’.The voyagers were instructed to collect ‘clothes, weapons of war, ornaments, household utensils, tools and musical instruments’, to depict ‘folk rituals . . . and everything of artistic interest that you encounter’ (Severgin 1804:182; Barysheva and Fomenko 2001:123). While initially it was planned to employ only two graduates of the St Petersburg Institute of Commerce trained to provide accounts of the places visited, in the end the expedition was given an unprecedented team of six naturalists and surgeons of Russian and German origin. It was not easy to find them. The deputy naval minister Pavel Chichagov in his letter to Semen Vorontsov, the Russian ambassador in Britain, grumbled, Can you imagine that they are planning to travel round the world with neither the knowledge nor the means to build naval vessels? They are lacking in everything: they can’t find an astronomer,

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scientist, naturalist or respectable surgeon for the journey. With the equipment they have, even if the sailors and officers were all right, what would be the use of the whole endeavor? (Quoted from Kruzenshtern, Shafranovskaia, and Fedorova 2003:482)

At that time studies in the fields of medical and natural sciences were interconnected, and the interests and competence of naturalists and physicians often overlapped. Krusenstern’s particular concern was the health of the crew, for whose care he employed two surgeons with two assistants. They performed their duties irreproachably; none of the sailors was lost to illness during the threeyear voyage—a remarkable achievement for that time. Karl Espenberg, a doctor (1761–1822; fig. 5), joined the Nadezhda as a surgeon. A Baltic German, born in Hageri (now in Estonia), he graduated from Reval High School and went to the University of Jena in Germany; he then specialized in medical studies at Halle and received his doctorate in Erlangen. In 1797 he returned to Estonia and practiced medicine, becoming the family doctor of the Krusensterns (their estates were close to each other). Krusenstern wrote of him, ‘We had long been friends; and I may perhaps attribute to this friendship alone his resolution to undertake this voyage. I was acquainted with his skill; and, in my endeavors to preserve the health of the crew, I met with the most active assistance from him.’ Espenberg could hardly understand Russian, but he knew German and French (Levenshtern 2003b:557; Moessner 2003a:442; Krusenstern 1813c:10–11; Löwenstern 2003a:135). Krusenstern trusted Espenberg so much that in Nuku Hiva he put him in charge of barter and thus the collection of artifacts. Besides his medical observations, during the voyage Espenberg wrote a detailed account of their stay at Nuku Hiva, printed in Tilloch’s Philosophical Magazine, an influential scientific journal published in London. This important account, which shows Espenberg as a skilled writer and trained observer, is sometimes wrongly attributed to Krusenstern. Löwenstern in his journal left a vivid portrait of Espenberg. In his eyes the forty-two-year-old Espenberg was an ‘old man’ (he was indeed the oldest upper-deck participant in the expedition). ‘No one else finds the inconveniences [aboard the ship] as unbearable as Espenberg,’ Löwenstern wrote after three months at sea. ‘Dr. Espenberg pulled out one of his old vests; and, when he put it on, it almost went around his shrunken body twice, he had lost so much weight.’ Nevertheless, Espenberg remained greedy for life, be it ‘a pretty girl in the inn [who] excited the old man’s lust’, food—the constant subject of Löwenstern’s critical remarks—or Nuku Hivan skulls. But Löwenstern had to acknowledge that Espenberg ‘learnt more than the rest of us’ and that ‘aside



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Figure 5.╇ Karl Espenberg. Courtesy of the Association of Baltic Noble Corporations. Bildarchiv Foto Marburg, Germany

from his peculiarities, Espenberg is an upright man and in the main a knowledgeable doctor’ (2003a:26, 43, 18, 27, 135). Dr Moses (Moritz) Laband, the Neva’s surgeon, was born in Silesia being, probably, of Jewish origin; he received a medical degree at Halle University2 and was also elected a corresponding member of Kharkov University in the field of natural history. Of his personality we know only from Krusenstern’s account: ‘He had been recommended to me by some of my friends in St. Petersburg as a man of great knowledge, and of a most amiable character; qualities of which he gave sufficient proof during the voyage, and which made me regret that our ships were so often separated’ (1813c:11) His records of the voyage are unknown.The figures of Ivan Matveevich Sidgam (Sydham) and Alexey Mutovkin, the assistant surgeons of the Nadezhda and the Neva respectively, also remain obscure. About the former, Löwenstern remarked, ‘Sydham . . . is the only person who did not get a [coronation] medal, they’re saying because Resanoff considers him an atheist’ (2003a:158). Thanks to Rumiantsev’s support, two European scientists—the astronomer Horner and the naturalist Tilesius—were also invited, in addition to the surgeons. Johann Kaspar (Caspar) Horner, or Gorner in Russian (1774–1834;

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fig. 6), an astronomer, physicist, and mathematician, born in Zurich, belonged to the trans-European German-language scholarly world. He had studied at the University of Göttingen and worked in Jena and Hamburg. He was a student of the famous Austrian/Hungarian astronomer Franz Xavier Zach, who was a personal friend of Rumiantsev, a champion of the sciences and humanities in Russia. With Rumiantsev’s and Zach’s support he was offered the position of astronomer in the expedition, and accepted it at once (Barratt 1988:133). In addition to his own discipline, astronomy, he had broad scientific interests and contacts with European naturalists. One night in Macao, Löwenstern recorded, Horner stole the head of an executed Chinese pirate displayed on the city gates and took it to Europe for Dr Franz Joseph Gall, a German/Austrian phrenologist, to examine. Horner was a man of many talents: he played the flute and was a versatile handyman and inventor. By disposition he was friendly and agreeable. Krusenstern referred to him as ‘so excellent a man, and one whom I shall always be proud to call my friend’ (1813c:5–6), and Langsdorff remarked, ‘He won the respect and friendship of everyone by his honesty, integrity and excellence of character’ (1993:22). During the voyage Horner sent letters to Zach’s Monatliche Correspondenz. Aboard the Nadezhda he studied Russian, having around him ample material for

Figure 6.╇ Johann Kaspar Horner. Völkerkundemuseum, Universität Zürich, Switzerland



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Figure 7.╇ Gustav Schlick, WilhelmGottlieb Tilesius von Tilenau. Mühlhausen City Museum, Germany

reflection on Russian ways. In particular he toyed with the idea of describing Rezanov’s misadventures in Japan under the nom de plume ‘soldier Monakov’. Unfortunately, this cheeky plan did not eventuate (Löwenstern 2003a:380, 19, 45, 10, 86, 33, 226). Wilhelm-Gottlieb (Teofil) Tilesius von Tilenau,Tilezius in Russian (1769– 1857; fig. 7), was born in Mühlhausen in Thuringia. He studied philosophy and medicine at Leipzig University. In 1795 he visited Portugal and compiled a record of this journey, accompanied by his own drawings. In 1797 he received the degree of doctor of philosophy and in 1801 the degree of doctor of medicine in Leipzig. By that time he had published several medical works, and his fame had reached Russia. In autumn 1802, with the assistance of Rumiantsev, he was invited to participate in the Russian expedition as a naturalist. Besides his scientific accomplishments, the Russians valued Tilesius’ drawing skills. According to some sources, while in Leipzig he had attended drawing classes in the school of the artist and sculptor Adam Friedrich Oeser, the director of the Leipzig Academy of Art, but Tilesius himself never mentioned this fact, referring to himself only as a dilettante (Sondermann 2002a; Tilesius 1804:37–38). Löwenstern, though critical of Tilesius in other respects, always acknowledged the skill and speed with which he made his drawings. Tilesius’ role as an artist of the expedition became vital once it was obvious that the

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artistic abilities of Kurliandtsev, the designated artist, were far from ideal. The major artistic heritage of the expedition, the engravings in Krusenstern’s Atlas, were mostly based on Tilesius’ drawings. Krusenstern wrote about him, ‘From the artistic viewpoint the expedition will always be prized for the rich and noteworthy Atlas supplementing it, for the creation of which I am wholly indebted to the work of Mr Tilesius’ (1809:IV). The personality of Tilesius, like that of Espenberg, was not well suited to life on board ship. It is not surprising that Löwenstern was very critical of him, and by the end of the voyage they came close to fighting a duel. What annoyed him most was Tilesius’ haughtiness and lordly manners. After several weeks at sea Löwenstern remarked, ‘Tilesius finally now sees that the voyage is not being undertaken on his account, but that he was given a place on the Nadezhda on account of the voyage.’ At the same time he repeatedly noted Tilesius’ consuming passion for natural history (2003a:9, 10, 12, 14, 20, 19, 344). While Tilesius’ zoological data were widely published after his return to Europe, his travel impressions and ethnological observations were forgotten. They may be gauged from his unpublished diary, two variants of which are preserved in the archives of the Russian Academy of Sciences in St Petersburg and in those of his home town of Mühlhausen, from his other manuscripts at the State Library in Berlin, and also from his articles published in Russian and German periodicals and used extensively in this study. Horner and Tilesius were about to join the Nadezhda in Copenhagen when suddenly a third naturalist, Dr Langsdorff, appeared before Krusenstern. Georg Heinrich von Langsdorff, or Grigory Ivanovich Langsdorf in Russian (1774–1852; fig. 8), who joined the expedition at the last moment, was a German doctor and naturalist. Born in Wöllstein, Rheinhessen, he studied medicine and natural sciences at the University of Göttingen. Although initially specializing in medicine, he had broad interests in zoology, botany, and comparative anatomy. His formation as a naturalist was greatly influenced by his famous teacher Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, the naturalist and anthropologist. Later Langsdorff remarked that Blumenbach’s lectures determined his interests in natural history. After receiving his doctorate in medicine in 1797, according to Löwenstern, the young naturalist ‘traveled with a little German prince to Lisbon, was employed there by a crazy Portuguese, traveled to England and from there back to Lisbon, lived there for a time from his practice, was employed again as surgeon major by the English troops [in Portugal and Spain], and was mustered out with the peace agreement’ (2003a:15).While in Portugal, Langsdorff introduced vaccination against smallpox there and wrote a book about hospital management; he also maintained a vast range of contacts in the scientific world, particularly with French naturalists. At that time he developed



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Figure 8.╇ Georg Heinrich von Langsdorff (Langsdorff 1993: frontispiece)

a special interest in ichthyology. Some of his works in this field were published in Russia, and in 1803 he was elected a corresponding member of the Russian Academy of Sciences. On his return to Göttingen, Langsdorff learned about the Russian expedition, which excited in him ‘the ardent desire . . . to go on a longer voyage solely for natural-historical reasons’. But when he applied for a place he received the reply that Tilesius had already been taken on, and the ships were leaving St Petersburg.The same day he wrote a will to ensure the protection of his naturalhistory collections and left for Copenhagen, where the Russian ships were to stop. He arrived in time and pleaded to be accepted as a naturalist without any remuneration. Krusenstern and Rezanov were so favorably impressed with his zeal that they allowed him to join the expedition at their own expense, expecting that his formal appointment would be approved by the Russian authorities (confirmation would come only when they reached Kamchatka) (Komissarov 1975:7–16). Langsdorff’s capacities proved to be very broad—from surgical skills, which he practiced when necessary, to detailed meteorological observations, which he conducted hourly for months during the Pacific voyage, assisting Horner when the latter fell ill. He also was versatile in languages. Rezanov wrote that ‘besides his native German, he knows Latin, French, English and Portuguese’ (Komissarov 1975:43). On the voyage Langsdorff studied Russian as well.

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Relations between Langsdorff and Tilesius did not go well at first. Löwenstern chronicled the confrontation: Tilesius considers himself an important person in Europe. He and Langsdorff are continually at each other because Tilesius considers him his subordinate. Their disputes nevertheless always finish humorously. ╅╇Tilesius gives himself airs that are not his to have, calls Langsdorff Er [German: he, as used with a servant], and treats him like an underling. Then he took it upon himself to prescribe rules of conduct for him. That was too much for Langsdorff. ‘Ey!’ he said, ‘You have nothing to do with me.You are a natural scientist hired by the emperor and have to fulfill your contract. I, in contrast, am here on my own good luck, going along through the goodness of the Ambassador and the Captain, and will be collecting only for those two gentlemen. . . . Please spare me the assumption that I am here to be at your beck and call.’ ╅╇ Langsdorff and Tilesius must have a natural antipathy for each other. At any time of day, they can talk when and about anything they want to, and they are always of different opinions, always arguing heatedly. (2003a:12, 13, 57)

Finally, the expedition included the Russian naturalist Fedor Petrovich Brykin, a member of Rezanov’s retinue. He remains a somewhat enigmatic figure among the brilliant constellation of scientific personnel. His name was sometimes spelled ‘Brinken’, which is the name of a family of German nobility from Lifland Province, or ‘Brinkin’; Shemelin, Fosse, and several Russian biographical dictionaries, on the other hand, spelled his name ‘Brykin’—a distinctly Russian name. Whatever his ethnic origin, he was obviously Russian ‘in spirit’. He was educated at the St Petersburg Surgical Academy and graduated in medicine, but botany remained his favorite field. He was fluent in Latin to the degree that he attempted to introduce it as a language of communication between the naturalists aboard the ship. Soon after the European scientists boarded the ship in Copenhagen, Löwenstern remarked, ‘Brinkin and Kurlandzoff are sensitive to the fact that Tilesius and Langsdorff no longer seek their company.The German academics cannot speak the dead language fluently enough to use it with Brinkin, who is very fluent in Latin; and they cannot understand each other in the living languages’ (2003a:9). It is quite probable that Brykin remained excluded from the circle of European scientists, since Langsdorff hardly mentions him in his book. Nevertheless, Brykin success-



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fully conducted his botanical research, discovering a number of new plants in Tenerife, for example. According to the Russian Dictionary of Biography, while in Tenerife and Nuku Hiva he gathered rich collections for the ‘Academic Kunstkammer’ (Anon. 1995:390–391; Nevskii 1951:58)—the first Russian ethnographical museum in St Petersburg, founded by Peter the Great. Among the team of scientists, the natural sciences were allocated as follows: Langsdorff would see to the collection of ichthyologic and mineral samples; Tilesius had charge of entomology, ornithology, and other branches of zoology; and Brykin would deal with botany, ‘under the supervision’ of Tilesius and Langsdorff (Komissarov 1975:17; Voenskii 1895, no. 10:205). In addition, Langsdorff and Tilesius, as well as Espenberg, made a substantial contribution to the ethnological studies of the peoples in territories they visited, especially the Nuku Hivans. Nikolai Rezanov and the Russian Embassy to Japan The controversy over the leadership of the expedition, a controversy that nearly ruined the whole enterprise, was partly due to the personality of Rezanov, which encompassed diametrical opposites. Alexander Sgibnev and Konstantin Voensky, his first biographers, set the ‘intelligent, educated and refined Rezanov’ against the ‘excitable and arrogant Kruzenshtern’ (Sgibnev 1877:387; Voenskii 1895, no. 10:209). Nikolai Bolkhovitinov, the historian of Russian-American contacts, argues that Rezanov was ‘an educated and gentle man’, with a ‘broad world outlook’, ‘a real empire builder’ (1997:180–182). Löwenstern’s and Ratmanov’s private diaries, however, portray Rezanov, with whom they spent nearly two years in the confined space of the ship, quite differently: as a vulgar, bawdy, hypocritical, and vainglorious individual. Anna Surnik, a modern scholar, describes the evolution of her attitude to Rezanov thus: My lofty image of Rezanov the handsome heroic heartthrob quickly changed into something quite different. . . . What struck me most in his diaries was how foul-mouthed Rezanov was. The most harmless phrase he used was (as Putin once put it—‘waste them in a lavatory pan’) ‘I’ll put you into a lavatory pan head down’. The rest of his vocabulary was unprintable. Rezanov was a man of his time, a hard and arrogant slave-driver. (2003)

Nikolai Petrovich Rezanov, or Resanoff in some Western writings (1764– 1807; fig. 9), was indeed a product of his time and his society. Born in St Petersburg in the noble but impoverished family of a public servant, he was

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educated at home and, after a brief period of military service, in the mid-1780s became a junior clerk in the civil court in the province of Pskov, like his father. By 1803, however, he held a senior position and moved in the highest circles, as a director of the RAC, an honorary member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, and bearer of the prestigious decorations of St Anna and Commander of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem. He received the special court rank of ‘actual chamberlain’ (deistvitelnyi kamerger). In Russia, where career success was measured according to the Table of Ranks introduced by Peter the Great, Rezanov achieved level 4 (14th rank being the lowest), which corresponded to rear admiral in the navy. For comparison, Krusenstern’s and Lisiansky’s rank of captain-lieutenant was equivalent to level 8, while lieutenant (Ratmanov, Löwenstern, Romberg) corresponded to level 9. Rezanov’s career coincided with a very turbulent time in Russian history, during which Catherine the Great was succeeded by Paul I and then Alexander I, and each new tsar would conduct a fresh purge of the public service. Rezanov, surprisingly, not only climbed the service ladder rapidly but remained in favor under three successive autocrats. He even benefited from a brief rustication to Irkutsk in Siberia in 1794–1795 by marrying the fifteen-year-old daughter of Grigory Shelikhov, a wealthy merchant and seafarer, who had established

Figure 9.╇ Nikolai Rezanov. (P. A. Tikhmenev, Istoricheskoe obozrenie obrazovaniia RossiiskoAmerikanskoi kompanii i deistvii ee do nastoiashchego vremeni, St Petersburg, 1861)



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Russian settlements in Alaska and founded trading companies that later formed the basis of the RAC. Rezanov, one of his heirs, played an important role in this process and became one of the major shareholders in the RAC, which partly financed Krusenstern’s expedition. With Rezanov’s assistance, Alexander I and other members of the court also became RAC shareholders. Rezanov’s young wife, Anna, died in October 1802 after the birth of their second child. In a letter to a friend, Rezanov wrote of his anguish after his wife’s death, ‘but’, he continued, ‘His Majesty, having graciously sympathized with my situation, first suggested that I distract myself, then proposed that I embark on a voyage and expressed his wish that I should undertake a diplomatic mission to Japan’ (1994b:52). As we know, the emperor’s order followed, placing him, at least nominally, in charge of the whole expedition. Arriving on the Nadezhda at Kronshtadt on the eve of sailing, Rezanov, an experienced courtier, did not hurry to inform Krusenstern formally of his authority. Krusenstern and his officers believed that Rezanov was merely an important passenger and that his powers would be relevant to the purpose of the expedition only after their arrival in Kamchatka, Japan, and Russian America. If Krusenstern had any concerns about Rezanov’s authority, he probably dismissed them while basking in the attention of the court and senior officials. Later, in one of his letters to the emperor, Rezanov explained: ‘I did not need to read it [the instruction] out solemnly since the whole world knew about it and I, not wishing to undermine discipline and order, sought not to display arrogance, but rather to prove myself by my actions’ (Sverdlov 2006:45–46). In a way, he was right. The Japanese aboard the Nadezhda did not doubt that Rezanov was the ‘chief ’. In their accounts he was always in the foreground. Gavriil Derzhavin, the famous Russian poet, in his ode ‘Courage’ (1804), predicted that Rezanov would be the new Vasco da Gama, the explorer. It is probable that the ambiguity surrounding the leadership could have been resolved if both Krusenstern and Rezanov had been guided by common sense and goodwill and had respected each other’s areas of competence. This did not happen. Besides the obvious rivalry, the confrontation between Rezanov’s and Krusenstern’s teams was aggravated by their diametrically opposite social and cultural backgrounds. Two worlds, two Russias met aboard the Nadezhda: traditional Russian officialdom, with its age-old traditions of serfdom, autocracy, and servility; and the new breed of Russian ‘Westerners’, emancipated by their family traditions and an acquaintance with Western ways and values.Victoria Moessner, the translator of Löwenstern’s diaries, pinpoints the differences between them: ‘Resanoff seemed to lack those qualities that were second nature to Löwenstern and Krusenstern: pride but not arrogance,

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respect for others’ knowledge, introspection, decorum derived from social class, good breeding, common sense, and experience’ (2003b:xi). Even before the confrontation over the leadership had started, Löwenstern and his friends were often annoyed by the manners Rezanov had acquired at the Russian court. ‘Rezanov behaves coarsely and harshly toward his own fellow countrymen and is polite, well behaved, and obliging toward foreigners,’ Löwenstern remarked after the European scientists had joined the Nadezhda in Copenhagen. He continues: ‘It is impossible to imagine being on a ship for a long time with him, only too often does Resanoff ’s false character break out.’ Later he says, ‘The bigger his entourage, the more important he thinks himself to be’ (2003a:9, 23). By the time they reached Brazil the officers realized that Rezanov was an informer and an agent provocateur. He had written to Emperor Alexander, Löwenstern suspected, to allege that Count Tolstoi is guilty of bad language and slander against the Emperor. Rezanoff deliberately invented this falsehood in order to cause harm. If this is indeed true, then Resanoff’s slanderous tales and stories against [the Emperor’s brother] Grand Duke Constantine and the Emperor himself will also come to light. (Resanoff says he only did it in order to investigate our intentions.) (2003a:60)

Rezanov, with the ways and manners of his social environment, was out of place on board a naval vessel. According to Shemelin, during the revolt against Rezanov’s authority at Nuku Hiva, Krusenstern said to Rezanov, ‘I was subordinate to you? You are mistaken, for I respect only those people who deserve respect, unlike you. You may submit to people like yourself, but I will not’ (1803–1806:144). While caution must be exercised in treating Shemelin’s evidence, this statement seems to reflect the essence of Krusenstern’s and the other officers’ attitude to Rezanov and his world. It is confirmed by Horner’s impression that Krusenstern was unable submit ‘to the orders of a man for whom he had no respect’ (Depping 1813:264). For all that, there was more to Rezanov than the comic-opera villain. His refined manners, his fluent French, and his violin playing—along with his tall stature and blond good looks—made him attractive to many. He was clearly a gifted linguist: he learned Japanese during the voyage to Japan and later, in America, mastered Spanish in no time. Although used to the stifling atmosphere of the imperial court, in Kamchatka and Russian America he proved an able and energetic administrator, guided by high ideals (N. N. Bolkhovitinov 1997; Avdiukov, Olkhova, and Surnik 1995). How realistic his plans were, and to what degree some of his actions were justified, is another matter. One needs



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only to think of his orders for a punitive expedition against Japanese settlements on Sakhalin in 1806. Rezanov was provided with a retinue to add prestige to his diplomatic mission to Japan and to assist him in his administrative endeavors in Kamchatka and Russian America. They were to keep journals during the journey and to collect data (Rumiantsev 1960:495). Ironically, their journals, with the exception of those of the priest and the supercargoes, did not survive, but as some members of the retinue play their part in the Nuku Hiva episode, we will introduce them here too. Major Hermann Karl von Friderici, or Ermolai Karlovich Frideritsi in Russian (1779–1869), was a Russianized Baltic German from Estonia. On leaving school he joined the army and was sent to Finland for topographical and cartographical work. There he saw action during the Russo-Swedish war. In 1802 he was attached to the Russian Academy of Sciences to study astronomy, and six months later he joined Rezanov’s mission. Being interested in the natural sciences, he often worked with the expedition’s scientists. He also was engaged in cartography and did some drawings during the expedition, but his Nuku Hivan legacy is, unfortunately, unknown (Anon. 1998:230). Fedor Pavlovich Fosse (Foss), a former police officer, was also of German origin. He had some experience of Siberia and received the rank of court councillor (level 7 in the Table of Ranks) on the eve of departure. Because of his ‘police’ past he was treated by the army and naval officers on board with barely concealed contempt.We need only to read Löwenstern’s account of one ‘dispute’: Shortly after our departure from Russia, we had a dispute at table that put us on our guard. The talk was of the postal service and mainly of letters being broken open, etc. ‘Ey!’ said Councilor Fosse (who had served as a police officer in Petersburg until our departure). ‘This art (he called it nothing else and that with veneration) of unsealing letters is done nowhere else so perfectly as in Russia. I can open a well-sealed letter for you, read it, and reseal it, so that no one can easily discover it, and am willing to bet that they will not notice and discover which letter has been unsealed.’ Wonderful prospects! (2003a:60)

To the naval officers, Fosse seemed the personification of that other, official Russia, which they obviously despised. The third member of Rezanov’s retinue was a very different personality. Count Fedor Ivanovich Tolstoy (1782–1846; fig. 10), the son of an army

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officer and marshal of the nobility of Kologriv, Kostroma Province, in central Russia, was educated in the Naval Cadet Corps, and then served as a cornet in the elite Preobrazhensky Guards. After the expedition he became known as ‘Tolstoy the American’—we will return to his ‘American’ story later—and enjoyed the friendship of many Russian intellectuals. He was immortalized as the hero, sometimes the antihero, of novels, short stories, poems, and epigrams by such prominent writers as Alexander Pushkin, Alexander Griboedov, and Leo Tolstoy, his cousin once removed. Faddei Bulgarin, his contemporary, wrote about him: Count F.I.T*** was not very tall, with a thickset and powerful figure. He had a round, full, swarthy face and black hair. His black eyes glimmered like hot coals: when he was angry his eyes were frightening to behold. He was excellently educated, spoke several languages, loved music and literature, read widely, and was close to artists, writers and lovers of literature and art. He was devilishly clever and wonderfully eloquent. He adored sophistical and paradoxical argument, and it was hard to contend with him in debate. He was however, as they say, a decent fellow, ready to do anything for a friend. (2001:607)

But there was more to him. A man of strong passions, he came like a breath of fresh air into the musty world of Russian society with his eccentricity and

Figure 10.╇ Karl Reichel, ‘Fedor Tolstoy’ (Russkie portrety XVIII i XIX stoletii, vol. 3, St Petersburg, 1907)



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buffoonery and the swashbuckling style he inherited from the army traditions of the time of Catherine the Great. He was famous for his ‘wild life of drinking, gambling, womanizing and extravagant exploits of every sort’. Tolstoy was a renowned duelist, and it is believed that Krusenstern’s expedition gave him the opportunity to escape some trouble stemming from a duel with his commanding officer (Tolstoy 1983:125, 143). His contribution to the legacy of the expedition took the unusual form of eccentric tales, numerous versions of which were recorded by his contemporaries and which attract the attention of historical writers even today. These stories offer valuable insights into what lay hidden behind the conventional accounts of the other participants. The intellectual wing of Rezanov’s retinue included the naturalist Brykin, mentioned above, the artist Kurliandtsev, and the priest Gideon. The detailed instructions that Rezanov received from Rumiantsev included the collection of information about all aspects of the life of the native peoples, as well as natural phenomena. For this purpose he was assigned two artists: Prichetnikov to depict the views and ‘Academician Kurliandtsev for costumes’ (1960:495). Vasily Prichetnikov, a landscape painter, had studied in Russia and Italy and might have been an asset to the expedition, but at the last moment he was withdrawn for lack of space aboard the Nadezhda. He visited America in 1809 and died soon after that. Stepan Semenovich Kurliandtsev (1770–1822), the official artist of the expedition, was educated in the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts in St Petersburg. In 1800–1801 he received silver medals for drawings and modeling from life, and in 1803 he was awarded the formal title of academician—member of the academy—for his paintings ‘The passion of Christ’ and ‘Tancred fighting with Argantes’, on the theme of the first crusade (Tokarev 1993:28; Petrov 1864). Unlike Prichetnikov, Kurliandtsev was stronger in portrait painting than in landscapes, and it is surprising that he was chosen for the expedition, but it is possible that Alexander Stroganov, the president of the academy, who recommended him to Krusenstern, expected him to become a new William Hodges (the artist on Cook’s second voyage). Löwenstern, a capable draughtsman himself, was very critical of Kurliandtsev’s skills: ‘We absolutely cannot convince our painter, who is mainly a portrait painter, that the main thing about painting a landscape is the accurate portrayal of nature. He always sticks in so much of his own composition that we cannot recognize the spot again.’ Later he became even more critical: ‘The painter was bragging today that one could hardly name twelve artists in Russia who could be compared with him (Of 100,000 he would be the last with any right to the title of “artist”)’ (2003a:40, 84). Gideon, or Gedeon in Russian, the hieromonk,3 born Gavriil Fedotov (1770–1843), came from the family of a priest in Orel, central Russia, and was

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educated in Sevsk and Belgorod seminaries, in the same area. He received a sound education in the humanities and other subjects, including Latin, French, Russian grammar, poetry, logic, rhetoric, geography, philosophy, and theology. From 1797 he taught some of these subjects at Belgorod Seminary. In 1803 the relatively young, talented teacher was transferred to teaching duties at the Alexander Nevsky Lavra (monastery) in St Petersburg. At that time Rezanov was trying to recruit the prefect of the lavra, Evgeny Bolkhovitinov (who later became an academician and bishop of Kiev), to the expedition. Bolkhovitinov wrote to a friend, ‘Rezanov, being closely acquainted with me, invited me to join his expedition. Good luck to him! Let him play Captain Cook here, not me—I do not crave all his Oriental honors’ (Bolkhovitinov 1870:825–826). Thus Gideon was chosen to become the Russian Cook, or rather Crook, a famous missionary on the Marquesas, who will appear in our story later. He was accommodated aboard the Neva, as the Nadezhda was overcrowded with Rezanov’s retinue, and given a dual role: to serve as the expedition’s chaplain and to inspect the Russian mission in Kodiak, with particular responsibility for the mission school. The Soviet attitude to the Church, combined with rumors of Lisiansky’s annoyance at the presence of Gideon on board his ship and Tolstoy’s stories about him, have conspired to portray Gideon as a musty, old-fashioned priest with a long beard and a weakness for drink. In reality, as recent studies by Roza Liapunova and Lydia Black have shown, he was an educated, intelligent, and sensitive observer for whom religion went hand in hand with education, and he took a sincere interest in indigenous peoples. Several versions of his accounts as well as his correspondence were published in the twentieth century (Liapunova 1979; Gedeon 1994; Black 1989:vii–xiii). Finally, Rezanov’s retinue included two prikazchiks of the RAC.The most appropriate equivalent of this position is supercargo, but it should be noted that a prikazchik did not have officer’s rank, and his social standing was equivalent to that of a merchant’s assistant. (This position is also translated as clerk or commissioner.) The background of Fedor Ivanovich Shemelin, the prikazchik on the Nadezhda, was the merchant class in Tobolsk, in Siberia. He was born in about 1755 and worked for Shelikhov in the fur trade in Moscow as early as 1786. Nikolai Ivanovich Korobitsyn, his counterpart on the Neva, came from another center of traditional Russian commerce, Veliky Ustiug, in the north. While engaged in trading activities for Shelikhov and the predecessors of the RAC, they traveled extensively between European Russia and Siberia, met Chinese merchants in Kiakhta, and visited Okhotsk on the Russian Pacific coast.



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The personalities of these two represent a splendid example of a traditional Russian mentality, which, unlike that of the nobility, remained untouched by Western influence. They obviously had some education, most likely from church schools, and their world outlook was far from narrow.What they lacked in European-style education, like that enjoyed by Russian officers in the Naval Cadet Corps, they made up for by their rich experience and contacts with different people, some of them well educated. They were not simply literate but, as their journals indicate, quite at ease with the written word, although the language they used was a peculiar mixture of old-fashioned colloquial and bureaucratic styles. Shemelin’s journal, for example, has hardly any paragraph division and very few punctuation marks. Nevertheless, their language is very expressive and that of Shemelin often vivid and picturesque. Indeed, their writing skills came to the fore and developed during the voyage, when, on the instructions of the RAC, they started to keep diaries. Although Shemelin’s position made him part of the wardroom ‘society’, Löwenstern and other ‘Westerners’ aboard the ship looked down on him. ‘That fellow is in every way a complete Russian shop assistant,’ wrote Löwenstern at the beginning of the voyage. Later he added, ‘Shemelin does not deserve to be counted among civilized men.’ Add to this Shemelin’s love of liquor and his skill on the psaltery (the traditional Russian zither), and the portrait of a Siberian bear is complete. But Shemelin was no fool. He cared about the interests of the RAC and made plain his allegiance to Rezanov. In matters he saw as his domain—like trade and cargo management—he was not afraid to stand up to Krusenstern. The latter laughed at him condescendingly and ‘gave him a proper dressing down’ (Löwenstern 2003a:37, 84, 211, 37). Lisiansky’s attitude to Korobitsyn was similar. Rezanov’s mission to Japan included five Japanese seamen who had left Japan in 1789 with a cargo of rice.Their ship was caught in a typhoon and, with sails torn away and masts broken, it drifted for six months until ship and men reached the Aleutian Islands. Russian officials there took them to Okhotsk. From there they traveled to St Petersburg, where Emperor Alexander granted them an audience. To the Russians, the opportunity to return the Japanese sailors offered a pretext to develop diplomatic and trading relations with Japan. Only four of the Japanese who were not baptized—Japan was notorious for its religious intolerance at the time—agreed to return to Japan aboard the Nadezhda: Tsudayu, Gihei, Sahei, and Tadzyuro. They were accompanied by Senroku, who was baptized as Petr Kiselev and left the ship on Kamchatka; during the voyage he taught Rezanov Japanese. After their arrival in Japan the Japanese were detained and interrogated by a special commission, which recorded their accounts. As a result, in 1807 a detailed manuscript, Kankai ibun (Strange stories

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from the surrounding seas), was compiled. Scroll number 13 described their sojourn at Nuku Hiva (Otsuki 1976; Goregliad 1959).4 The Japanese account and accompanying drawings lend a new perspective to the early European views of the Marquesas. Both ships, but especially the Nadezhda, were overcrowded, so much so that Krusenstern and Rezanov had to share the captain’s cabin. Similar arrangements had been made to accommodate Joseph Banks on Cook’s Endeavour, but what worked with Banks did not work with Rezanov. Altogether there were eighty-five men aboard the Nadezhda and fifty-four men aboard the Neva. The only thing they had in common was their youth: Espenberg and Rezanov, the eldest, were forty-two and thirty-nine respectively; Krusenstern, thirty-three; and the other officers and passengers were even younger. The youngest were two cadets, the brothers Moritz and Otto Kotzebue, aged thirteen and fifteen. Their ethnic and cultural backgrounds were diverse. The lower-deck crew was mostly Russian with several Tartars and members of other minorities. The majority of the officers and naturalists were of German descent, although from widely separated regions of Europe—Switzerland, Germany, Estonia—as well as Russianized Germans from Russia. Rezanov’s retinue contained the highest proportion of Russians, though it also included Russianized Germans. The high percentage of Germans in the expedition reflected their role in Russia at that time. Germans and the German language occupied a special place in the Russian state and culture. Germans were the first Western Europeans to settle in significant numbers on Russian territory or on its borders (the Baltic territories), thus forming a bridge between the two worlds. They settled in Russian cities as skilled artisans and on the Volga as peasant-farmers; as landlords in the Baltic seaboard, they pioneered efficient agriculture well before the Russian Empire reached to the Baltic in the eighteenth century. Besides this, they played a significant role in the infant Russian world of learning and in the army and navy. Although they preserved their culture and religion, the Germans did not come to Russia as ‘colonizers’; they willingly adopted Russian culture and became loyal subjects of the Russian state. The Russian tsars traditionally married German princesses and were often themselves in large part ethnically German. As they learned Russian, the Germans often took Russian names. At the end of the eighteenth century German statehood was not yet established, and Germans willingly accepted official positions in the Russian state. Three of the foreigners in the expedition—Langsdorff, Tilesius, and Horner—were members of the Russian Academy of Sciences and maintained contact with Russia, in varying degrees, after the completion of the expedition. The divide between ‘German’ and ‘Russian’ is a subtle one. In Russian historiography of the voyages of discovery as well as in the public mind, the



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attitude to ‘Germans’ in Russian service has two poles. In Soviet times, when the Soviet Union sought to appropriate the heritage of the Russian Empire, biographers took care to avoid mentioning, let alone discussing, the ethnic origins of the voyagers; they were referred to as ‘Russian-born’. Currently, in popular publications the opposite tendency is apparent: all voyagers with German names are marked as alien and those of true Russian or Ukrainian origin given prominence. A study of the Estonian-born ‘Germans’ from the Nadezhda—Krusenstern, Romberg, Löwenstern, Bellingshausen, the Kotzebues, Espenberg, and Friderici—indicates that the extent of their Russianlanguage knowledge, their allegiance to the Russian state, and their acceptance of the Russian mentality ranged over a wide spectrum. Löwenstern, for example, knew not a word of Russian until the age of fifteen, in spite the fact that his family had lived in Russian territory for generations; he preserved his ‘German’ values all his life. Espenberg could hardly speak Russian at all and communicated with Rezanov in French. Krusenstern, with similar ancestry, accepted the Russian state and its ways as his own. The same applies to the Kotzebue brothers, who came from the family of a recent German emigrant to Russia. On the other hand, the cultural identity of Romberg, and of Berkh from the Neva, was essentially Russian in spite of their German surnames. Ratmanov’s comparison of the Nadezhda with a ‘German synagogue’ is supported by Langsdorff’s remark that he and Tilesius at no time felt themselves linguistically handicapped until they reached Kamchatka. But Langsdorff did pick up one Russian phrase: recording the insulting Nuku Hivan expression ‘sleep with your mother’, he philosophically commented, ‘It is remarkable how this notion, the most common oath among the Russians, is found here on Nuku Hiva’ (1993:142, 126). With regard to the ethnic diversity aboard the vessels, it should be stated that throughout this book the word ‘Russian’, applied to the expedition, the crews, and the scientists, is used in the broadest sense of the term, meaning that the expedition was organized and supported by the Russian state. At the same time, the ethnic origins and, more broadly, the cultural origins of the voyagers are of great importance in this story, as they often colored their perceptions and accounts. Our brief acquaintance with the members of the expedition suggests that there was a clear divide between the emancipated participants, predominantly German in origin, the ‘Westerners’, and a more traditionally oriented Russian group, which may be called by analogy the ‘Easterners’. These two camps roughly coincided with the rift caused by the confrontation between Krusenstern and Rezanov, but the coincidence is not close. Personalities as complex as Lisiansky and Ratmanov do not lend themselves to such a crude classification.

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A Russian La Pérouse, a Russian Cook To understand what happened to this cross-section of Russian society at Nuku Hiva we have to look more closely at the voyage in the context of its time. The Russian voyagers felt themselves to be the direct heirs of the legendary Cook and La Pérouse. This feeling came not only from the books they had read; the presence of their predecessors was still in the air and their trail still fresh, so the Russian expeditioners had an enhanced sense of their own mission: to write a new page in the great history of Pacific explorations. ‘If La Pérouse boasts that he sailed from Brest to Madeira in two weeks, what should we say having sailed in two weeks from Falmouth to Tenerife?’ Romberg wrote, showing pride in their first achievement (1804a:36v.). On reaching the island of Santa Catarina, off the Brazilian coast, Ratmanov reflected, ‘We anchored at the very spot where La Pérouse once stood. We are here just like him’ (1803–1805a:28v.). Romberg, proud to have arrived safely in Brazil, wrote, ‘I remembered Anson who arrived here from Portsmouth with many of his crew sick, and having lost several men on the voyage; and I remembered the unfortunate La Pérouse, whose ship had lain at the very spot where we dropped anchor. They were great seafarers, but with God’s grace let us not meet their fate! . . . What have we to fear, though, having Captain Krusenstern and the Russians on board?’ (1804b:470, 472). In Kamchatka they came into physical contact with the place where their great predecessors had stood not so long ago. There, under a half-dead birch tree, they discovered a wooden box and a memorial copper plaque, which was placed by La Pérouse on the grave of Captain Charles Clerke, Cook’s companion, who guided the ships to Kamchatka after Cook’s death in Hawai‘i. Ratmanov erected a new monument on the grave. Not long before that another branch of the expedition, under Lisiansky, visited Kealakekua Bay where Cook, that ‘truly great man, lost his life’ (Löwenstern 2003a:120–121, 356, 361; Barratt 1987:61, 153–154). Sometimes they could even engage with the earlier explorers directly. At Tenerife they met Hyacinthe Murat, the third lieutenant aboard the Solide (captained by Etienne Marchand), who had explored the Marquesas in 1791. Löwenstern referred to him as a ‘kind man’, who at the time of their meeting was serving as ‘the captain of a French East Indian ship’. In Canton they met officers from Port Jackson who had been in contact with William R. Broughton, George Vancouver’s companion, and Matthew Flinders (2003a:32, 396). It is a widely held view that in matters of maritime exploration James Cook was the Russians’ supreme hero. Glynn Barratt, for instance, states that ‘for a quarter century after his death, James Cook remained the great exemplar



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for the Russians of the leader of a voyage of discovery. For Kruzenshtern he was “the great Cook”. . . . Never was France’s influence to equal England’s in St Petersburg and Kronstadt where the scientific voyage and the seaborne exploration were concerned’ (1987:20). The comments of Terence Armstrong are more reserved: ‘Krusenstern held the highest opinion of Cook . . . chiefly for his navigational skills’ (1979:123). My acquaintance with a wide variety of sources connected with the Russian expedition suggests that the influence of French travel literature, and particularly the heritage of La Pérouse, should not be underestimated. French, rather than English, was the principal ‘language of culture’ among the Russian upper classes. Even Cook’s travels were translated into Russian from their German and French versions, not from the English originals. La Pérouse’s name appears in many Russian texts of the time. For instance, the academician Nicholas Fuchs (Nikolai Fuks) in his letter to Rezanov on the eve of departure wrote, ‘Russia too has her own Columbuses, Cooks and La Pérouses’ (1803). Nikolai Rumiantsev’s instructions to Krusenstern contain numerous references to the explorations in the Pacific by Clerke, La Pérouse, Lesseps, Fleurieu, Cook, Vancouver, and others. La Pérouse’s name occurs five times and Cook’s only once (1812). Similarly, La Pérouse is mentioned more often than Cook in Löwenstern’s journal; and Ratmanov, who is critical of Cook, refers to La Pérouse as ‘the most celebrated of seafarers’ (1803–1805a:25v.). Throughout the voyage the Russians constantly compared their topographical observations with those of Cook, La Pérouse, and Bligh. The library that circumnavigated on board the Nadezhda provides interesting material on prior Russian knowledge of peoples of the South Pacific. Langsdorff referred to it as a ‘selective but large library on board containing, in particular, travel literature and maps, which Captain von Krusenstern in his own polite and friendly manner invited all of us to use’ (1993:4). Olga Fedorova (2004), the chief librarian of the Central Naval Library in St Petersburg, has recently identified the Nadezhda’s collection in that library’s holdings. It consists of more than 120 volumes. The library had L’histoire générale des voyages by La Harpe; Découvertes des français en 1768 et 1769 . . . by Fleurieu (Paris, 1790); An Historical Collection of the Several Voyages and Discoveries in the South Pacific Ocean by Alexander Dalrymple (London, 1770–1771), and other works that provided information about all the major South Pacific voyages of earlier years. La Harpe’s collection included a French translation of Cook’s and the Forsters’ journals. Although Cook’s and the Forsters’ accounts were the cornerstones of Russian knowledge of the Pacific, the range of their reading was very wide and far from Anglocentric. ‘Our passengers have used their spare time to read

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descriptions of voyages by Cook, Marchand, Anson, La Pérouse, etc. If something unusual happens, disagreements, debates and tub-thumping arguments break out in the cabin. They have not correctly digested what they have read and argue into the day,’ Löwenstern wrote dismissively in his diary on the way to the Marquesas. In another place he remarked, ‘Resanoff compares himself with Lord Makartency [George Macartney]. Our voyage has more similarities with that of d’Entrecasteaux; but let us hope that ours will end more happily’ (2003a:78, 90). Besides Cook’s journal, the literature on the Marquesas available to the voyagers during the expedition included most of the published accounts, such as those by Alvaro de Mendaña, Etienne Marchand, and Richard Hergest, as well as William Wilson’s A Missionary Voyage to the Southern Pacific Ocean (London, 1799). As was often the case, the Russians had access to Hergest’s journal (originally published in English) only in the French editions aboard the Nadezhda: Voyage de découvertes a l’Océan Pacifique by George Vancouver and Voyage autour du monde by Charles Fleurieu; the latter included Marchand’s account as well (Fedorova 2004). They had similarly comprehensive access to earlier voyagers’ accounts of Tahiti and Easter Island. When considering the influence of earlier explorers, it is important to bear in mind the critical attitude of the Russians to their predecessors and their determination to make their own independent contribution to the field of Pacific exploration. In Europe at the end of the eighteenth century, Russia’s capacity in the field of circumnavigation and exploration of the Pacific was clearly not rated highly. When George Forster was invited to join the proposed Russian expedition led by Grigory Mulovsky, his father, Johann Reinhold Forster (who, like his son, had sailed with Cook on his second voyage), wrote to him in 1787, I am really afraid that under the command of a Russian, who seldom leaves his natural ferocity . . . you may not [sic] suffer much on this expedition, perhaps be destroyed by the hardships, frettings, want of conveniences, Scurvy . . . & other miseries attending a Russian expedition, with the worst of Seamen, bad accommodations, wretched Barbers instead of Surgeons, indifferent, inexperienced, ignorant, overbearing Officers; in a Sea where they are utter strangers. (Hoare 1976:265)

Some Russians officials themselves had a similar critical attitude to their fellow countrymen. In a letter to Vorontsov, the Russian ambassador in Britain, the deputy naval minister Chichagov predicted that ‘they are taking on more



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than La Pérouse, who encountered not a few difficulties even though he and his companions had many more possibilities at their disposal. I do not hold hopes that this will end well.’ Vorontsov, in response, remarked about Lisiansky, whom he had met in London, ‘This Mister Captain is just as thoughtless as he is presumptuous. His name will never be seen alongside those of Cook and Phipps.’ Significantly, both letters were written in French (Kruzenshtern, Shafranovskaia, and Fedorova 2003:482). But a quite different attitude was developing in Russian society. The historian Nikolai Karamzin wrote in connection with the expedition of the different moods that it produced. He compared the Russian cosmopolitans, the Anglophiles, and Francophiles, who ‘think that Russians should stay at home’, with Peter the Great, who thought differently because ‘he was Russian in his soul and a patriot’. Karamzin argued that ‘we stand on land, on Russian land at that, and view the world not through the spectacles of systematics, but with our naked eyes’ and that Russia needed to develop its fleet and industry, while building reserves of initiative and courage (1803:167–171). In the Russian view, the key to the difference between them and their foreign predecessors lay in their humane attitude towards the indigenous peoples (which was far from the truth in respect to the Russian advance in Siberia and the Far East). Karamzin believed that Russians traveled to new lands not as ‘predators or tyrants’, but as ‘friends of humanity’, as ‘curious observers of Nature; who come ashore with instruments of Science, not death’ (1803:166). Ivan Zakharov, a senator, writer, and translator, in his last letter to Rezanov before the expedition sailed, wrote in his typically exalted style, ‘Sail, Russian da Gama! Sail with the same zeal into the arena of toil and glory as did the Columbuses, Vespuccis and Albuquerques. But, sent by the most philanthropic sovereign, deliver not storms and hatred—deliver peace and harmony, . . . herald to the savage people the sovereign’s blessing in his wise laws’ (1803). Fuchs in his letter to Rezanov similarly argued that ‘the savage deprived of science and art still has a soul’ (1803). Rumiantsev’s detailed instruction to Rezanov emphasized the need to protect the indigenous peoples of Alaska against the arbitrary rule of local Russian officials and colonists (1960:493–495). The members of the expedition shared these sentiments in full. It is not surprising that Ratmanov wrote in his diary even before reaching the South Pacific: Cook was great not in all the respects concerning his voyages, but only in some of them. . . . When one considers what he did for the human race, one cannot help being horrified! During the discovery of the different peoples of the Southern Ocean, he shot and cut off the ears of people who worshipped him almost as a god and did not

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resist him in any way. The end of the life of this seafarer proves his despicable character and crude upbringing. (1876:910–911)

Otto Kotzebue was similarly critical of Cook’s ‘thoughtless severity’, remarking, ‘Had he been a philanthropist, as well as a great navigator, he would not have lost his life at O Wahi’ (1967a, 2:173–174). Because of the pioneering nature of this expedition all the participants kept diaries. ‘According to Tschitschagoff’s [Chichagov’s] directions, every officer has to hand in his journal after the completion of the campaign’, Löwenstern reported. Members of Rezanov’s retinue, as mentioned above, had to keep their journals too. In April 1805 Löwenstern reflected on the situation: ‘We have so many onboard who would like to be the Forsters and Fleurieus of the Russian expedition that we already have a horror of the fumes and vapor that will appear in print after our return. . . . There are as many journals as people onboard’ (2003a:368, 307). The idea of intellectual property at that time was not what it is today. The members of the expedition employed by the Russian state and the RAC were expected to contribute collectively to the results. The three major reports—by the two captains and by Rezanov—drew liberally on data provided by other members of the expedition. Rezanov, who did not emerge from his cabin at Hawai‘i, nevertheless compiled a fairly comprehensive report on the island, most probably based on the observations of members of his retinue. Moreover, it was incumbent upon the scientists and officers to provide their materials to him as head of the expedition. At the beginning of the voyage Löwenstern recorded, ‘Resanoff demanded that Tilesius give him a duplicate of every specimen he had examined and the same of Horner. “Friderici,” he said, “I am demanding the sea journal from Krusenstern.”’ On the way to Kamchatka Löwenstern wrote, ‘Rezanov gave us to understand that he would collect all of our papers upon our return’, adding in Estonian ‘Kus Lammas!’ (i.e., What a ram!) (2003a: 35, 117). To Krusenstern’s credit, it should be mentioned that the naturalists’ accounts published in the third volume of his Voyage always have proper acknowledgments; at the same time, he and Lisiansky very seldom acknowledged the data collected by other members of the expedition. Löwenstern captured well the customary wardroom activities of the officers and scientists on board the Nadezhda: Since the small cabins are too dark, everyone works in the wardroom. Today, the following sat around the table covered by green baize: Resanoff, who was studying the Japanese language and now and then recited loudly. Langsdorff, who was teaching Count Tolstoi and Fosse



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English, as if they were alone in the cabin. Friderici was drawing a map of Santa Cruz. Tilesius was writing in his journal. Doctor Espenberg was giving the two Kotzebues a lesson in arithmetic and finding they were making a lot of mistakes. Horner was making astronomical calculations. Bellingshausen was drawing the Nadezhda. Romberg was leaning against his cabin door playing the violin with a damper. Brinkin was reading Latin under his breath. The painter was leaning against the wall staring vacantly at the goings-on. Since the cacophony was unbearable, I retired to my cabin and set down on paper what everybody was doing. (2003a:28)

This tableau also suggests that the drawings were produced in similarly ‘public’ conditions aboard the expedition ships. Besides Kurliandtsev and Tilesius, nearly all the voyagers in those prephotography times tried their hand at drawing, which, incidentally, was a subject taught to future officers at the Naval Cadet Corps. Löwenstern, Bellingshausen, Ratmanov, Friderici, Langsdorff, Horner, Lisiansky, and Berkh were all known to draw, and their sketches circulated in the wardroom. Victoria Moessner suggests that ‘members of the expedition did share and exchange their drawings from the voyage, just as we do today with photographs.’ Frieder Sondermann, who has studied the artistic legacy of the expedition, especially their Japanese drawings, argues that ‘there was so much copying of materials going on on board and later, and Tilesius copied his own sketches several times, that we have to reconsider what the term ad naturam pinxit [painting from life] means.’ He also documents a number of instances when Tilesius finished drawings begun by his companions. The genealogy of the pictures produced by the voyagers, their individual and collaborative efforts, need further investigation. The major corpus of Tilesius’ drawings is well established. Many were published in Krusenstern’s Atlas, or preserved, with his sketches, in archives in Moscow, St Petersburg, and Leipzig. Langsdorff’s drawings are also well known, having been published in his book, while some of the originals are preserved in the Bancroft Library (University of California, Berkeley). Some engravings in his Remarks make reference to the artist who drew the original sketch; others do not, but in many cases a contribution by Tilesius may be assumed. Löwenstern’s journal, on the other hand, contains numerous unsigned pictures of disputable origin. While the sketches and captioned drawings are undoubtedly his, a number of watercolors now glued to the pages of his journal seem to be the work of an experienced artist. Victoria Moessner suggests that ‘when one compares the range in the quality and style of the drawings and watercolors in the diary, one has to ask which ones can be attributed to Löwenstern or some-

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one else, namely Tilesius’ (2003b:xxiv–xxv). Still, without further investigation, there are no persuasive grounds to attribute all the Marquesan watercolors in Löwenstern’s journal to Tilesius. None of them bear Tilesius’ signature, and in any case Löwenstern and Tilesius were at odds during most of the voyage. However, Frieder Sondermann points out that they overcame their differences ‘immediately after the suicide of Golovachev at St Helena, and Tilesius even offered him some more illustrations later on’ (2002a; 2000; e-mail 12 April 2007).

No God but the Sails On 26 July (7 August) 1803 the ships left Kronshtadt. They called at Copenhagen and Helsingör in Denmark and Falmouth in England. In October they reached Tenerife in the Canary Islands, crossed the equator on 14 (26) November, and from 9 (21) December 1803 to 23 January (4 February) 1804 stayed on Santa Catarina Island in Brazil. From there they proceeded around Cape Horn and into the Pacific. The private diaries and letters of the voyagers provide a perspective on the events along the way and the mood on board the ships. These events and the mood are relevant for the light they may throw upon the expedition’s Marquesan sojourn. For Rezanov and most of his retinue this voyage was their first excursion abroad. Their patriotism, which had received a substantial boost when they left Kronshtadt, seen off by the emperor and other high-ranking officials, receded as Europe offered its temptations. Some vignettes of their encounter with the West provide material for a study of sexual repression and the role of sexual novelty. Prostitution, although existing in Russia, was frowned upon by the authorities. Once abroad, the Russians made the most of their freedom from the conventions and discipline of home. Löwenstern and Ratmanov, though none too prudish in their diaries, were shocked by Rezanov’s behavior in Copenhagen, as their comments show: Resanoff . . . is not ashamed to visit places with his Star (which he does not know how to wear since he did not earn it through merit) whose names I am ashamed to mention. On the streets, he opens his yap at every sign as if he were seeing a rarity. This behavior says a lot. . . . [H]ad I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it. In the Summer Garden Resanoff forgot himself so completely that he, with Star and Order ribbon, ran after street girls and later climbed to the top floor of several houses. . . . Resanoff can talk about nothing else but girls and bawdy. (Löwenstern 2003a:8, 10)



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Upon our arrival Mr Rezanov and Fosse took lodgings ashore to the great dishonor of the Russians—with his Star and key he carried on with women of ill repute in the streets and the Royal Gardens. I had to remind him a number of times of his rank or tell him to take off his decorations. (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:3–3v.)

Rezanov was then mourning the death of his young wife. According to Bellingshausen, Krusenstern’s reason for calling at Falmouth rather than Portsmouth was to keep his men away from the Portsmouth prostitutes: ‘Only a few vessels touch at Falmouth, and therefore there are fewer prostitutes in that town’ (1945:44). But even here Ratmanov, forgetting his beloved in Russia, managed to find his share of nocturnal pleasures. He went ashore with Romberg, who spoke some English (1804a:35), and met two women on the outskirts of the town: ‘Under the bright moonlit sky, we had the pleasure to partake of the weakness of the fair sex we so often adore. After this we found out that they were the wives of two leading merchants of the town, who were away on business.’ Ratmanov also remarked that in Copenhagen Count Tolstoy, ‘in the two days that he was ashore, received a disease common for his years’ (1803–1805a:7v.–8v.; 3v.), while surgeon Espenberg wrote that ‘many in Copenhagen caught the disease’ (1812:285). In Tenerife sexual adventures took the more traditional form of flirting with Madam Armstrong and Madam Couves’ daughters. ‘Moritz Kotzebue has fallen so in love with little Delphine [Couves] that, with tears in his eyes, he climbed up to the top of the mainmast so that he might possibly see that beloved girl one more time,’ Löwenstern wrote about their departure (2003a:25). Madam Armstrong had more serious admirers: according to Ratmanov she was ‘a pretty coquette and, as it seems, has turned the heads of many of our men. For on the last day of our stay here, the ambassador gave her a gift of fashionable brocade for a dress, our captain a pair of fine shoes, and Lisiansky—all the best scented tea’ (1803–1805a:10v.–11). In Brazil propriety was less in evidence: Our Sir Ambassador, living with his entourage in the town, did little to uphold the honor of our nation. . . . Fosse and Frideritsi fell in love in the most lowly manner. Berkh, the midshipman from the Neva, had no honor left whatsoever. On the day before we set sail, he brought guests and lovers on board—his own and Frideritsi’s. Well, they danced till 2 in the morning and when they left, it was revealed that they had stolen some of Captain Lisiansky’s possessions. Moreover, while our ambassador stayed on shore he was divested of

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49 thalers and a golden snuff-box. . . . I overheard that one of them served as an agent for our Grand Ambassador, supplying him with white and black women of ill repute. And I bet that snuff-box is with him now. (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:33–34)

As we see, sexual experience here is now enriched by a new, exotic element, in the form of black prostitutes, but the open sexual adventures of some members of the expedition, especially Rezanov, are seen as something shameful. Ratmanov’s private journal suggests that he too was not immune to the temptations of the new world. One of his ‘observations’ from Brazil reads as follows: ‘The hostesses sit at the dinner table, tits out and hanging so low that they reach the plates and splash around in them’ (1803–1805a:33). Two exotic places the Russians visited, the Canary Islands and Santa Catarina, were their first encounter with different races. Only Krusenstern and Lisiansky had observed racial variety before, having visited distant continents on British ships. The novelty of these contacts can be gauged from the reports of the Russian voyagers: On the trip to the botanical garden in Orotava, our traveling companions came across a Moor. Tilesius stopped the African and began to speak Latin with him with such decorum, as if the African could understand him. The other gentlemen laughed so hard they had to hold their sides. (Löwenstern 2003a:26) I have had an opportunity of making a very droll observation. Wherever we touched where we did not understand the language, each person endeavoured to remedy that defect by the language of which he understood the least. One of our naturalists spoke Russian to the inhabitants of Nukahivah; the sailors spoke Portuguese; but in Brasil they had spoken English and Danish. A droll fellow, of the name of Kurganov, endeavoured to make his way with German, of which he understood only two words: Wollen Sie? Will you? (Espenberg 1805c:122)

When they encountered African slaves, the Russians seem to follow Karamzin’s behest: ‘We . . . view the world not through the spectacles of systematics.’ They did not categorize them on racial grounds but saw them as human beings. For instance, Ratmanov wrote in his diary, ‘In some places sheep are valued more than blacks, and these blacks are human beings like us’ (1803–1805b:13).



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‘The Moors are treated like cattle,’ wrote Löwenstern, who goes on to give a summary of Brazil’s racial diversity: ‘Here you find white and black people, yellow, copper-colored and olive-colored. Mulattos have European fathers and black mothers, Mestizos European mothers and black fathers. The children of two Moors born in Europe or America are called Creoles’ (2003a:45, 50). Brazil represented a kind of threshold to the indigenous worlds that they were going to study. The real ‘children of nature’ were awaiting them beyond Cape Horn, in the South Pacific. In the meantime relations on board were deteriorating. Krusenstern and his officers treated Rezanov as a passenger and did nothing to conceal their disdain. Löwenstern records a typical squabble: Today, Resanoff was angry because we made plain that we would not be sailing to Madeira. He could not understand wherefore and why, and that made him even angrier. . . . ‘What reasons can you give for our not going to Madeira?’ asked Resanoff. ‘I have to know in order to be able to report to the emperor.’ ╅╇ ‘No other,’ said Krusenstern, ‘than ones I have considered good. By the way, the emperor will not care at all to know why we sailed to Tenerife and not to Madeira.’ Resanoff fell silent. (2003a:21)

Rezanov’s orders, of which Krusenstern still knew nothing, stated that he was to determine the ports of call jointly with Krusenstern. On arrival at Tenerife Rezanov at last informed Krusenstern of his powers as head of the expedition. Krusenstern’s reaction was fully predictable. ‘The captain, however, said to him that it was wrong of him to have accepted this указ [edict] from the emperor, since he was in no way able to fulfill its conditions, since he should have asked the captains whether they also would have wanted to sail under the command of a chamberlain.’ Rezanov ‘begged the captain’s pardon at that time to prevent a counter-complaint’, and in the meantime sent his own complaint about Krusenstern to the emperor (Löwenstern 2003a:25, 50). The crossing of the equator was the only moment when relations between the two parties were somehow patched up. ‘A feeling of national pride awakened in every breast. Even the hearts of us foreigners beat faster,’ Langsdorff wrote (1993:14). Löwenstern left a lively description of their celebrations: The ship’s bell had barely rung when the Neva turned, sailed past us, and gave us three cheers which, touched, we returned. Why we were all moved to tears we did not know ourselves. Kurganoff was dressed

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as Neptune, and, after Krusenstern had baptized him, he was given the duty of baptizing his comrades.You could see from the costume that our Neptune was a Russian, because he had decorated himself in sheepskins that had been put out to dry on the forecastle; and, ignoring the fact that he was dying from the heat, he did not turn down the brandy offered him by others. . . . After the meal, Krusenstern was hoisted aloft with three cheers. Then Resanoff had to have the same honor. And unexpectedly we lieutenants on watch also found ourselves being tossed joyfully into the air and turning salto mortales. Resanoff was completely drunk, and ‘Hurrah for Krusenstern!’ was the only thing he could babble. Everyone was happy and joyous, and only the Nadezhda was sober. (2003a:33)

Meanwhile, although nothing had been said officially to the officers, word of Rezanov’s instructions had spread, and in private conversations with some of them he explained his true position and took soundings to see who would support him. He did more than that: he conceived a bizarre and far-reaching plan—rather than complete the circumnavigation, he decided to place the Nadezhda at the disposal of the RAC in Russian America, in which case most of the officers would proceed to St Petersburg overland via Siberia. Rezanov considered the Nadezhda’s third lieutenant, Golovachev, who treated him with respect, as a possible candidate to command the ship (Sverdlov 2006:73–74). Thus Krusenstern’s venture would be brought to an inglorious end. Even without any knowledge of this plan, Krusenstern found himself in a desperate situation—he was reduced to being commander ‘of the sails and nothing more’, and his officers to just ‘carters’ (Löwenstern 2003a:53, 125). This was not what they hoped for when they left Russia. In Brazil it became obvious to all on board that the parties could not be reconciled and that conflict would continue. Löwenstern wrote in his diary: The emperor is going to be surprised to get so many petitions from Brazil. Resanoff is writing on land. The captain is requesting justice and protection. Resanoff is making no secret at all of his intention to denounce us all. That is in character for him. May the hangman take him! . . . Today, Krusenstern showed me a letter or petition he is thinking of sending to the emperor. Espenberg had written a very nice letter in French, and Krusenstern, after weighing his own effort, put one on paper completely in Russian. May the emperor receive the letter! (2003a:47)



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The conflict now engulfed all on board, even the foreigners. Horner wrote of the situation in a secret letter to Zach (Krusenstjern 1991:282–283).Tilesius, who considered Krusenstern to be ‘the most honest man with the best of hearts and the widest knowledge’, was mistrusted by Rezanov, who suspected him of belonging to Krusenstern’s ‘party’ (Sondermann 2002b:74). Members of Rezanov’s retinue also added their voices. The naturalist Brykin wrote to his friend Dashkov, ‘As for my endeavors in natural history, I have to admit that it is the least of my worries now. The one thing occupying my mind is to get back to Russia alive. After the insolence Captain Krusenstern exhibited towards Nikolai Rezanov, insolence I shall not describe because you will find out about it regardless, we, who keep to the right side of the law, should beware’ (1995:100). Fedor Shemelin was, predictably, on the ‘lawful’ side too. He wrote two denunciations to the Board of Directors of the RAC. One was of an economic nature alleging wasteful management by Krusenstern (1803a). The other was a political denunciation: These gentlemen have taken for granted that it is their right to show no honor to anyone but themselves. Their outrageous arrogance, their vanity and rudeness, increasing with every day that we sail further away from Europe, has finally exceeded all bounds. . . . They dare to broach subjects in his [Rezanov’s] presence that consist only of carping directed towards not only the fatherland, the government and its sovereigns, but even the creator himself. In their opinion they have no God but the sails. (1803b:1–2, 4)

Krusenstern, reported Shemelin, did not put a stop this ‘free-thinking’ talk. Tilesius, from the opposite quarter, wrote critically of Rezanov, who demanded ‘slavish obedience that destroyed all intellectual freedom’ (Sondermann 2002b:74). In spite of his ‘crudeness’, Shemelin perfectly caught the dominant mood aboard the ship—the further their sails carried them from Russia, the freer they became from the grip of the Russian state. Shemelin, Rezanov, and their ilk—the personification of that state—provoked nothing but revulsion in the officers. Once, at supper in the wardroom, after Shemelin had tried to stop the officers’ making scornful jokes about their employer, the RAC, Romberg approached him on the quarterdeck swearing, and threatened that he would find himself over the side if he ever dared to use that tone with them again. And as he strode back to the ‘gentlemen’ officers he added ‘that if he [Romberg] were the captain, he would never have let such a lowborn muzhik [peasant]

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share their table and would have whipped him with the cat-o’-nine-tails’. Yet this muzhik had feelings too: ‘I am often brought to tears, although I am not prone to them by nature’, he wrote in his letter to the RAC (Shemelin 1803b:4). Having been humiliated by ‘better’ society, he proceeded to vent his anger on Korobitsyn, the Neva’s supercargo, by sending a denunciation to the RAC in which he claimed that the latter was too lazy to write a report and had scorned Shemelin’s attempts to impose his authority as a senior supercargo (1803c). While the confrontation between Krusenstern and Rezanov was unfolding as a tragedy, that between Shemelin and Korobitsyn smacked of farce. There were other conflicts brewing. Count Tolstoy, who was supposed to lend weight to Rezanov’s mission with his title and good breeding, turned out to be the enfant terrible of the expedition, antagonizing all on board. They had not yet reached Copenhagen when Tolstoy came close to challenging Fosse, whom he despised for his former service with the police, to a duel. Soon Rezanov gathered that ‘Tolstoi always eats a second time with the officers on duty in order to finish the wine and brandy that was left.’ Sensing straightaway that Tolstoy was not ‘his’ man, Rezanov even suggested leaving him behind in Copenhagen, but this was not done (Löwenstern 2003a:7). With his brash manner Tolstoy was closer to the naval officers than to Rezanov’s retinue: ‘Count Tolstoy of the Preobrazhensky Guards is a young man who seems like one of us’, wrote Ratmanov, recording his first impressions in his diary (1803–1805a:2). Tolstoy is ‘taking the side of the naval officers’, the watchful Shemelin noted (1803b:3). After leaving Tenerife, Löwenstern remarked, ‘Our freeloaders Count Tolstoi and Chamberlain Fosse turned the first gambling cards today’ (2003a:28).There is some irony in Tolstoy’s leading role here, since he was notorious as a cardsharper himself (Tolstoy 1983:136). Yet he had his own notions of honor: when Rezanov tried to win him over and confided to him on the way to Brazil his plot against Krusenstern, Tolstoy disclosed this to the latter and repeated it in the presence of Rezanov and Krusenstern (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:26; Kruzenshtern 1919b:58–59). This bound all three in a weird triangle. In Brazil Tolstoy became embroiled in a new conflict, this time with the artist Kurliandtsev. This conflict had an irreversible effect on the expedition’s pictorial heritage. ‘The painter, who is a big poltroon, . . . to avoid a duel went to the captain and complained about Tolstoi,’ Löwenstern recorded (2003a:49–50). Kurliandtsev also complained to Rezanov. The last straw came when Kurliandtsev said to Krusenstern in public ‘that a person’s life was not safe on the Nadezhda and that it looked like a kaback [tavern or colloquially a pigsty] and was one’. Kurliandtsev thus offended the officers’ honor, and they barred him from the wardroom and from eating his meals there with



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them. Krusenstern, who shared his captain’s cabin with Rezanov, gave orders to have it partitioned so that Kurliandtsev could not enter his part of the cabin when he visited Rezanov. Kurliandtsev was readmitted to ‘society’ only seven weeks later, when he publicly asked for pardon, but Krusenstern never forgave him, and his cabin remained out of bounds to Kurliandtsev (Löwenstern 2003a:51, 58, 69, 65, 78–79; Ratmanov 1803–1805a:36–37v.). Not surprisingly, Krusenstern had no wish to obtain his drawings when he prepared his Atlas for publication. Thus far the officers’ sympathies were still on the side of Tolstoy. Krusenstern even found an occupation for him: he could train the crew in marksmanship (1813c:102). However, during the long passage across the Pacific, Tolstoy was more and more ostracized by his shipmates. Löwenstern wrote in his diary: ‘Count Tolstoi is actually an ignoramus; acts worldly wise and thinks he is superior to all of us in breeding. If one takes stupid boldness and coarseness for decorum, then he is right’ (2003a:84). Later, in Russia, Tolstoy would transform his mishaps on the voyage into a series of anecdotes in which real events were intertwined with wild fantasies. One of them concerned the first leg of the voyage and went as follows: There was, for example, an old priest, Father Gedeon, on board to provide spiritual solace to the ship’s company. His weakness was that he was overfond of the bottle. On one occasion Tolstoy joined him in a drinking bout, which ended with the priest flat on his back and sound asleep. Tolstoy then proceeded to stick the old man’s beard to the deck with a large blob of wax, on which he impressed the Captain’s seal which he had purloined from his cabin. When the poor priest awoke Tolstoy warned him to take care not to break the great seal, with its official two-headed eagle, lest he commit treason. In the end it was the beard that had to be cut off and left sealed to the deck. (Tolstoy 1983:127)

This story became very popular in Russian fiction and is often used to portray Gideon. In reality they did indeed converse at length in Brazil but in different circumstances: On the first holiday, the priest Edion, at the captain’s request, read a mass on the Nadezhda. In the evening, the priest had secretly talked with Tolstoi for an exceedingly long time. Today, Tolstoi told us the entire discussion. Edion, at Resanoff’s request, sought to sharpen Count Tolstoi’s conscience and hoped through his eloquence to get

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that lost sheep to confession. He pointed out to the count how bad things were, how much he had failed in his duties to his chief, what consequences that might have, etc. He preached on deaf ears and had to muster all of his patience and perseverance not to fall out of his role, for he himself cannot deny that Resanoff needs spiritual chastisement more than Tolstoi. (Löwenstern 2003a:51)

Tolstoy’s tall story was clearly designed to avenge the humiliation of being admonished by the young priest. Shemelin in his denunciation was the first to sense that Tolstoy’s unconventionality ran deeper than mere pranks and dueling: ‘It would be hard to find another man as corrupt as the Count; he is an atheist, an ingrate and an insolent calumniator of his fatherland and all that is sacred. By him you may judge Krusenstern, who chose him as his tool’ (Shemelin 1803b:5). But his pranks were sometimes spectacular.While in Brazil Tolstoy bought a macaque, which will reappear later.

In Search of Discoveries and Fame In spite of the tensions on board, the members of the expedition did not neglect their duties; on the contrary, they worked with enormous zeal. Glynn Barratt presents a concise picture of their occupations: Almost immediately after their departure from the port of Santa Cruz . . . Kruzenshtern imposed a strict and rigorous routine on the companies of both ships. Henceforth nothing but disaster was to halt the clockwork rounds of testing, sampling, reckoning, and measurement that now engrossed the energies of Horner and the German naturalists. Reckonings of latitude and longitude; checking of compasses and other instruments; testings of air and water temperature, humidity, ship’s headway, and water content; and botanizing. (1988:18)

In those turbulent days Krusenstern started to work on the major project of his life—the Atlas of the Southern Sea. Löwenstern describes the days of its inception: Descriptions of voyages have piled up. One would need years to read them all. The confusion of names in the South Seas causes a lot of errors, and, since every country calculates longitude based on its capital city, errors arise in determining coordinates. Krusenstern



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has begun to sever this Gordian knot and has already filled several notebooks. (2003a:85–86)

They certainly aspired to make their own discoveries too. Rumiantsev in his parting letter to Krusenstern expressed the hope that they would discover new lands for ‘the glory of Russia and your own’. He concluded the instruction on a challenging note: ‘I look forward to the day when, after your glorious voyage, your name will join the names of the greatest seafarers’ (1812:408, 411). A long delay in Brazil, where they had to replace the Neva’s rotten masts, and later a leak in the Nadezhda’s hull, discovered in the Pacific, made them hurry to Kamchatka rather than undertake Pacific explorations. Krusenstern wrote, ‘This determination of sailing direct to Kamtschatka, deprived me, indeed, of the hopes of making any discoveries, with which I had long diverted my imagination, and for which I had besides already laid my plan’ (1813c:102). Löwenstern also spoke about this disappointment: ‘When I read many of the accounts of voyages, I have to envy the freedom granted to all the leaders of expeditions in the choice of route and allocation of time’ (2003a:350). The Nadezhda managed only one stop in the South Pacific, at Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas. Luckily for subsequent Marquesan studies, the voyagers poured all their energies into the exploration of this island and its inhabitants. Their visit to the Marquesas was planned not long before they set sail from St Petersburg, but Rezanov’s first letter (3 April 1803) breaking the news about his participation in the expedition to Ivan Dmitriev, his friend the writer, did not mention the Marquesas: ‘My voyage leads from Kronshtadt to Portsmouth, from there to Tenerife, then to Brazil and, rounding Cape Horn, to Valparaiso and the Sandwich Islands [Hawai‘i]’ (1994b:52). Rezanov’s instruction, drafted by Rumiantsev and dated 10 July 1803, suggested the following halts on the southern leg of the voyage: Rio de Janeiro,Valparaiso, the Mendoza Islands [Marquesas], and the Sandwich Islands, with the proviso that it was up to Rezanov and Krusenstern to make adjustments if necessary (Rumiantsev 1960:492). Krusenstern’s orders from the directors of the RAC (29 May 1803) were more detailed, listing stops at Santa Catarina Island, the Marquesas, and the Sandwich Islands.The purpose of the Marquesan stop was ‘for respite and recuperation on one of the islands of the Marquesas . . . lying near the equator, abounding with fruit, livestock, and other resources’ (RAC 1803). Before departure from Russia, Krusenstern provided Lisiansky with a list of rendezvous points, including Valparaiso and ‘Port De la Madre de Dios on [Santa] Christiana Island, one of the Marques de Mendoza Islands’ (Kruzenshtern 1803). ‘Port De la Madre de Dios’ was the name given by Mendaña to Vaitahu Bay on Tahuata Island. Cook, who had called there on his second voyage, named it Resolution Bay.

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At this stage, when South Pacific staging posts were being planned in St Petersburg, the Marquesas were thought of only as a point lying close to the proposed route, suitable for victualling. In the course of the conflict in Brazil the situation changed.Two new factors came into play. Fearing that Rezanov would send new complaints to the emperor if they called at Valparaiso, Krusenstern opted to go directly to the Marquesas, which had no communication with the outside world (Löwenstern 2003a:74).The second effect of Brazilian troubles was Krusenstern’s dissatisfaction with the Brazilian stop with respect to ‘discoveries’ or even data collection. In his account he no more than hints at this: ‘Circumstances of an unpleasant nature made my presence on board necessary almost constantly, and prevented my obtaining any accurate knowledge on the state of this colony.’ Luckily for science, he chose as rendezvous/victualling points two previously charted but little explored islands: Easter Island and Port Anna Maria on Nuku Hiva Island.These would yield opportunities for ‘discoveries’.While in Brazil, he accordingly amended his orders to Lisiansky, replacing Tahuata Island with Nuku Hiva, ‘one of the new Marquesas Islands’ (1813c:70, 83–84). Westerly winds kept the Nadezhda from making landfall at Easter Island. This was a great disappointment to all the scientists on board. Lisiansky had better luck: while waiting for the Nadezhda, he spent several days cruising near Easter Island. The results of his team’s observations are discussed in Glynn Barratt’s study (1988:xi–xx). For Krusenstern the only hope now was Nuku Hiva. In his letter from Kamchatka he wrote, ‘The account of our residence at the island of Nukahivah, respecting the nature and inhabitants of which nothing has yet been known in Europe is the only thing new that you can expect. The Sandwich islands are too well known for me to regret having been prevented by want of time from touching at them’ (1805:3–4). They were conscious of the great pressure placed upon them by their mission. Krusenstern reflected at the beginning of the voyage: I fancied that the eyes of the civilized part of Europe were fixed upon me. The success or failure of our undertaking was to decide my reputation, and the latter would cast a shadow on my name, which would in some degree be extended to my country. Those who delight in censuring and vilifying Russia would have triumphed over an unfortunate event, and the first attempt, if it had failed, might for a long time have prevented any similar undertaking. (1813c:37–38)

‘Discoveries’ were one of the ways to ensure success, whatever conflicts might have occurred. They sought discoveries in different ways. Krusenstern chose the routes at least a few degrees away from his predecessors and promised



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a handsome reward to the first who discovered new land (1813c:103–104). Lisiansky, as his officers discovered later, ‘deliberately . . . recorded incorrect longitudes and latitudes, so that no one else could make use of the discoveries he was making for the American company’ (Löwenstern 2003a:381). ‘Discoveries’ in the field of natural history provoked similar passions. Löwenstern recorded a number of characteristic squabbles: Langsdorff and Friderici are greedy for animals and plants. If someone catches something and gives it to them, they are not ashamed to claim that they caught it, as if that established their proprietorial right. Today, Bellingshausen caught a water insect. Friderici took it to inspect and kept it. A dispute arose and harsh words were exchanged: ‘You are lying’ and ‘Shut up!’ which, granted, sounds better in Russian. It seemed as if Friderici were ashamed to thank a man who had gladly done him the favor of giving him the little animal. (2003a:39) Today, Tilesius asked Langsdorff to show him his drawings. He barely had hold of them when he began copying them, giving the animals which Langsdorff had named and described new and unsuitable names, and saying very loudly that he intended to write and publish a monograph about these animals. (That would have formally been robbery.) A heated argument was unavoidable. The coarse behavior of the two doctors, their coarse expressions, their swearing caused us all to be silent and thus to stop this feud too. (2003a:90)

Likewise, Rezanov aimed to stay at the forefront in the field of natural history. In Kamchatka, after the reconciliation, he produced ‘a lot of stuffed birds the hunter had shot and collected, and all of them have not yet been named, inspected, and described, because no one had seen them since our departure from Brazil.The hunter had stuffed them all under express orders not to show them to Tilesius under any circumstances. Strange behavior’ (Löwenstern 2003a:147). They set out seeking discoveries and fame. The further they went the more their minds turned to fame. Rezanov honestly explained the cause of their conflicts in his letter to the emperor from Kamchatka: ‘I have to admit to your Imperial Majesty that the cause of it all was the desire for fame and fame alone, which blinded the eyes of us all to such an extent that it seemed we could steal that fame from one another’ (1994a:90). Tenerife and Brazil could not offer what they sought, but ahead lay the Marquesas, Nuku Hiva, Port Anna Maria, and a real opportunity to find it.

Part II

Nuku Hiva

A lone white sail shows for an instant Where gleams the sea, an azure streak. What left it in its homeland distant? In alien parts what does it seek? â•… —Mikhail Lermontov, The Sail â•…â•… (Translated by Irina Zheleznova)

Sighting the Other: Expectations and Apprehensions At daybreak on 24 April (6 May) 1804, after three months at sea, they sighted land. This was Hood (Fatu Huku) Island, earlier discovered by Cook. Further to the south they could make out Dominica (Hiva Oa) Island, discovered by Mendaña. By noon they were steering along the south coast of Riou (Ua Huka) Island, described by Hergest.The officers and passengers poured onto the deck. The islands they knew from the accounts of earlier voyagers arose from the sea in front of them. Krusenstern, Horner, and Löwenstern took altitudes of the sun to ascertain the islands’ latitude. Tilesius made sketches of the shoreline. Ua Huka with its ‘bare appearance and steep, abrupt, peak-shaped cliffs did not provide us with any great pleasure’, wrote Langsdorff (1993:55). They sailed to Nuku Hiva, the place of their rendezvous with the Neva. ‘About five in the afternoon we perceived Nukuhiwa wrapt in fog,’ Krusenstern recorded (1813c:105–109). Night fell with heavy rain and wind.With sails furled, they spent the night in the vicinity of Nuku Hiva, filled with expectation and apprehension. Although the Russian voyagers had quite extensive knowledge of Polynesia in general and the south Marquesan group in particular, the only account they had of Nuku Hiva was Hergest’s brief report. Krusenstern used it as a guide while they approached the island and chose a bay to anchor in. Hergest’s 56



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favorable impression—‘The country seemed to be highly cultivated, and was fully inhabited by a civil and friendly race of people, readily inclined to supply whatever refreshments their country afforded’ (Fleurieu 1969, 2:210)—clearly influenced Krusenstern’s choice of it for the rendezvous with the Neva. The expectations of the educated members of the expedition were expressed by Langsdorff: ‘Longingly, after our long, tiresome voyage, we sought those fertile, South Sea island valleys filled with excellent breadfruit trees, coconuts and bananas so highly praised by Cook, Forster and others’ (1993:55).The condition in which the weary Russians approached Nuku Hiva added to the eagerness of their anticipation. It happened that they sighted Nuku Hiva on Easter Sunday, the holiest day of the year in the Russian Orthodox calendar, which added to the festive mood. ‘Today is the day of the Resurrection of our Lord, and we at last rejoiced in seeing land, which, after our 92-day voyage and because of our lack in victuals, seemed very pleasant and promised to restore our depleted strength,’ Rezanov wrote in his account (1825, no. 65:387). Löwenstern recorded in his diary for that day, ‘While you, my dear brothers and sisters, are enjoying Easter Sunday and have plenty of eggs and all of the rest, we have to be content with a piece of salt meat and got, in honor of the day, a double portion of putrid water. . . . The sight of land was enough to delight us, and the hope of soon having plenty of fresh water gave us renewed courage’ (2003a:91). The ship’s ‘putrid water’, compared with the ‘Nuku Hivan springs’ gripped Shemelin’s imagination too (1816:105). Langsdorff graphically describes the sense of anticipation: ‘The closer we came to it, the more our curiosity grew. Through our telescopes we surveyed the southeastern coast, which was quite close, with the greatest of attention’ (1993:55). This, their first ‘untamed’ land, aroused a boyish excitement deep within them. Perhaps they all shared the emotions of young Moritz Kotzebue, who wrote to his father after the first leg of the voyage about ‘a wonderful new world’, in which ‘you involuntarily see yourself as a character in A Thousand and One Nights’ (Kotsebue 1806:263–264). Even the reserved Ratmanov admitted that ‘all [his] childhood dreams had drawn [him]’ to these islands (1876:1332). The islanders, whom they were soon to meet, were also part of these expectations. ‘With what impatience and anticipation we desired, for the first time, to witness with our own eyes a people without morals, without laws and without faith, governed by nature alone, whom enlightened peoples call barbarous,’ Shemelin wrote (1803–1806:114–114v.). Similarly, Ratmanov expected to encounter ‘the islanders of the Pacific Ocean, [living] in their innate simplicity in poor and blameless hovels’ (1803–1805a:35v.). These accounts are especially valuable as they are from the unedited journals written at the time.

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Rezanov, too, recorded the men’s ‘impatience to see these true children of nature’ (1825, no. 65:391). This Easter Sunday, on the eve of landing at Nuku Hiva, Krusenstern issued his famous instruction concerning the treatment of the native people. This instruction was to become the moral credo for subsequent Russian expeditions: The principal object of our calling at the Marquesas Islands is to water and take on fresh provisions. Though we might well accomplish all this even without the natives’ goodwill, risks both to them and to us prevent our having recourse to any such approach; and I am certain that we Russians will depart from the shores of a tranquil people not having left behind a bad name for ourselves. . . . We . . . shall endeavor, by our humane conduct, to inspire a lively sense of thankfulness towards ourselves and so to prepare, for our countrymen who follow us, a people aflame with friendship for the Russians. (Kruzenshtern 1804b; cited from Barratt 1987:25; 1981:119)

In his journal Krusenstern wrote, ‘So long as they [the islanders] conducted themselves in a friendly manner towards me, I certainly should do no one any injury, and I trusted we should part good friends’ (1813c:124). This did not mean that the officers did not make precautionary preparations. Count Tolstoy, as we remember, conducted firing exercises with the crew on the way to Nuku Hiva, while Löwenstern wrote on the eve of their arrival, ‘Since we will probably see land tomorrow, today we have made preparations to defend ourselves against the savages. The cannon have been loaded with ball and grape-shot, muskets, pistols and sabers cleaned, cartridges filled, etc.’ (2003a:90). The Nuku Hivans, unlike the Russians, had had some contact with the Other—the Europeans. These included seamen from visiting ships, a missionary, and several beachcombers—that is, seamen stranded on their island. Joseph Ingraham on the American trading vessel Hope was the first outsider to sight Nuku Hiva in April 1791, although he did not approach the island. Several other ships rediscovered the island in 1791–1793. The French merchant ship Solide (captain Etienne Marchand) passed by the island two months after Ingraham. The British supply ship Daedalus (captain Richard Hergest) approached Comptroller Bay and Taiohae Bay and made a brief shore visit to the latter, which they named Port Anna Maria (Fanning 1924:123, 139). The American sealing ship Jefferson (captain Josiah Roberts) cruised off the western side of the island. Between 1798 and 1803 half a dozen British and American whaling and sealing ships called at Taiohae and Comptroller bays.



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The arrival of the Other was still an exciting event for the Nuku Hivans, but their anticipation was mixed with apprehension, as they had often experienced atrocities during previous visits. In the best cases, firearms were discharged to intimidate them and hostages were taken to ensure the safe return of shore visitors or of a stolen item, as happened, for example, during Edmund Fanning’s visit on the Betsy in 1798. The following year, when the British whaling ship New Euphrates called at Nuku Hiva (Comptroller Bay, in the territory of the Taipi tribe), ‘all the able seamen went on shore and refused to come back on board. . . . Captain Glasspoole kept some islanders as hostages on board ship’ until all runaways were returned. A visit by the London to the same bay soon after these events was marked by bloodshed when a young woman was killed by a shot fired at a thief (Robarts 1974:50, 55; Crook 2007:149). The least known and the most violent was the second visit of the Daedalus to Taiohae in February 1793 on its way to Sydney. After the initial welcome the natives became ‘troublesome and daring’; as punishment the visitors wounded the ‘king’s brother’ and, believing that they were about to be attacked by warriors in canoes, ‘fired away on all quarters’. ‘How many we kill’d or wounded, I neither know or care, but I wish we had killed the whole of the scoundrels’, wrote one participant of the events (Anon. 1957:23–27). The Russian visitors recorded the islanders’ memories of such incidents. Here Lisiansky recounts the killing of the ‘king’s brother’: They are very much afraid of fire-arms, the destructive power of which they learned some time since from an American ship, from which a shot was fired that killed one of the royal family, whilst he was swimming about with a great many others of his countrymen. The circumstance was this: One of the islanders threw a bread-fruit on board, which struck the captain, who was walking on the quarterdeck. The sentinel, seeing this, instantly discharged his musket, and, missing the guilty person, unfortunately shot a brother of the king. This has produced such an effect, that the sight alone of fire-arms is sufficient to keep the whole island in awe. (1814:88)

Before learning of this tragic episode, he had witnessed the impression made by firearms on the islanders during his brief stop on the eastern shore of Nuku Hiva, on his way to join the Nadezhda at Taiohae. Gideon, on the Neva, wrote, ‘Their initial confusion was occasioned by the sight of our sentries standing on the quarterdeck.They pointed to their guns calling them puga’ (1989:21). Korobitsyn also reports that armed guards ‘seemed terrifying to them’ (1952:152). Krusenstern graphically describes a similar episode at Taiohae: ‘The king’s

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brother happened to be on board when a cannon was fired; he immediately cast himself on the deck, clung round the Englishman Roberts who stood near him; the greatest dread was painted in his countenance, and he repeated several times with a feeble voice: Matte, Matte [death]’ (1813c:171). Krusenstern also recorded fresh memories in Taiohae of an incident when, about eight months before the Russian visit, an American captain had put one of the king’s relations in irons (1813c:123). Ratmanov observes that the natives ‘were astonished that we did not kill them with our puga (guns), as did our predecessors’ (1876:1332). The Marquesan word puhi, which Russians heard as puga, pooi (Lisiansky 1814:324), and pūi (Langsdorff 1993:118) probably had the original meaning ‘to blow’. Under the influence of the first contacts with Europeans, the word acquired broader meaning. By the time of Crook’s visit in 1799 it meant ‘to shoot’ and ‘a gun’ (1998:44). According to Robarts, who was at Nuku Hiva in 1800–1806, pu phe meant ‘cannon’, ‘musket’, and ‘bullet’ (1974:317).The word obviously had a collective meaning denoting different things associated with European firearms and, even more broadly, the materials from which they were made. Thus Crook recorded specifically Nuku Hivan meaning of puhipuhi— ‘iron’ and ‘iron nail’. Lisiansky (1814:324) and Langsdorff (1993:123) referred to iron nails as poohi-poohi and pūïpui too. The third party—one that would have a role in the voyagers’ contacts with the natives—consisted of two beachcombers, Joseph Kabris (or Jean-Baptiste Cabri) (1780–1822) and Edward Robarts (ca. 1771–ca. 1832). Altogether, by the time of the Russian visit, at least four Europeans had lived on the island for some time. The first to settle on the island was Rev. William Pascoe Crook (1775– 1846) from the London Missionary Society. He traveled on the Duff with some missionaries to Tahuata Island in 1797. His stay there was not a success, and in May 1798 Captain Fanning called at the island on the Betsy and took him to Nuku Hiva, where he settled at Taiohae valley with the family of Kiatonui, a local chief. He left seven months later, in January 1799, on the whaling ship Butterworth, which visited Nuku Hiva with another whaling vessel, the New Euphrates. Kabris, a Frenchman, arrived at Nuku Hiva at about this time, soon after Crook had left. According to Kabris’ biographer Jennifer Terrell, ‘He was born in Bordeaux in 1780 and went to sea as a common sailor at the age of fourteen. He was taken prisoner by the English, possibly in . . . 1795. . . . After a period on the hulks at Portsmouth he was allowed . . . to take ship in an English whaler fitted out for the South Seas’ (1982:101). The exact circumstances of his arrival at Nuku Hiva are not clear. According to Kabris’ own account, their



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English whaling ship was wrecked and he, with the ship’s cook, drifted on a raft to a nearby island—clearly Nuku Hiva (1982:106, 112). Tilesius believed that Kabris had lived on the island for seven years (i.e., since 1797), after deserting a European ship when still a boy (1806b:105–106; 1821:186). Krusenstern gathered that Kabris, then a boy of fifteen, had arrived on Tahuata Island seven years previously on an English ship, while Robarts had arrived a year before him (1804a:61v.). Shemelin recorded very different information, derived from a remark by Robarts: that Kabris arrived a year before him (1803–1806:115v.). Kabris himself claimed that he was on the island for nine years. At the same time, the first documented reference of Kabris’ presence in the Marquesas is dated January 1799 when, according to Robarts, he deserted the whaling ship London at Tahuata Island and later moved to Nuku Hiva (1974:68). Kabris’ companion the cook is not mentioned in any other accounts. Robarts himself deserted from the New Euphrates during its call at Tahuata in December 1798. In about 1800 he moved to Nuku Hiva. Landing at Comptroller Bay, he found two other castaways—Kabris and Walker, an Englishman. Of the latter, Robarts reported, ‘He informd me he had been left on the Island of Masafuero about two years and a half before by an American ship to procure seal skins, but the ship not returning at or near the time appointed he had got his passage of the Isle.’ Walker had a small house where he lived by himself, and Robarts remarked that ‘he could not speak a word of the language’ even though he had already been in the Marquesas for two and a half years. His main treasure was a musket. Later he moved to Taiohae but, still unable to learn the language, left in 1801 aboard the Minerva, taking the musket with him, to Robarts’ disappointment (1974:99–100, 106–108, 112–114). Thus, at the time of the Russian visit the only Europeans on the island were Kabris and Robarts, who lived at Taiohae Bay. Dening supposes that Kabris lived with the Taipi tribe at Taipivai Valley rather than with the Tei‘i tribe at Taiohae (2004:305, 314). Although Kabris was indeed in Comptroller Bay when Robarts landed there about 1800, there is no other evidence that Kabris stayed there during the following years. On the contrary, there are good grounds to suppose that he made his home at Taiohae. He himself said that ‘quaitenouiy’ (i.e., Kiatonui) was the chief of the tribe he belonged to (1982:108). Soon after the Nadezhda anchored in Taiohae he came aboard, accompanying Kiatonui as his close associate/interpreter, which would be highly improbable if he belonged to the hostile Taipi tribe. Finally, none of the numerous Russian accounts suggest that Kabris lived outside Taiohae among the Taipi; on the contrary, Shemelin remarked that, during the first contact, Roberts told them that ‘here, under the protection of the king of this Bay, lives one more European’ (i.e., Kabris) (1816:107).

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These beachcombers, as well as Crook, were almost entirely deprived of European material culture. Rather than try to convert the islanders to the attainments of their own society, they adapted to the islanders’ way of life. Crook did attempt his European ways after landing at Tahuata, bringing with him his Bible, an encyclopedia, and other books, implements, and garden seeds; but when he fled the island eleven months later, he came aboard the Betsy dressed as a native. When Fanning put him ashore at Nuku Hiva, he provided the missionary with a Bible, a musket, a dog, and a few tools and items for barter. Crook had a native-style house built for him near that of the ‘King’ and studied the Marquesan language (Wilson 1799:142; Fanning 1924:144; Crook 2007:138–142). Robarts and Kabris also adopted the native way of life, and both of them, especially Kabris, became fluent in the Marquesan language. While Robarts and Crook retained at least a mental margin of European values around themselves, Kabris, it seems, had converted to the Marquesan system of values entirely. Broadly speaking, despite the presence of the beachcombers, Marquesan society had not yet been undermined by European interference, and the islanders saw the arrival of the ship as an event of the utmost importance. The go-betweens played a vital part in the contacts between these two worlds. Of Robarts Krusenstern wrote: He offered me his service, which I readily accepted, being glad to procure so good an interpreter. . . . In the short stay I proposed making here, it would have been well nigh impossible for us to acquire any positive knowledge of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. Without an acquaintance with their language, all our observations would have been reduced to conjecture, generally proving incorrect. (1813c:111)

Similarly, Tilesius remarked, ‘Through these two Europeans we gathered much information about these islanders, which would have been lost to us without their assistance’ (1806b:106). Robarts and Kabris, each in his own way, were well suited to this role. Robarts had lived for four years at Nuku Hiva and was related to Kiatonui’s family by marriage and exchange of names. He was expert not only in the Marquesan language but in social etiquette as well. Equally important was that, in spite of looking like a ‘white savage’, he remained a dignified Englishman to the core. He considered himself more than an ordinary sailor, and this self-image allowed him to mix with educated Russians and ‘enlighten’ them authoritatively on local conditions and customs.



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His concerns with respect to visiting ships are well articulated in his Marquesan Journal. He knew the dangers that contact between European visitors might bring to both sides and considered it his duty to facilitate understanding and to prevent bloodshed and ‘horrid actions’: ‘I could do more with a wave or beckon of the hand than the force of arms could accomplish,’ he reflected after the departure of an American whaling vessel (1974:131, 103, 126). The visit of a ship, especially the exploratory expedition of two Russian ships, was a high point in his secluded life on the island. Robarts was not a passive go-between, no mere interpreter from one language to another; as may be seen in Russian accounts, he actively influenced Russian attitudes to the Nuku Hivans. Joseph Kabris was also more than a go-between and interpreter. According to Tilesius he was ‘useful to us more on account of his promptness and compliancy, rather than as an interpreter’ (1806b:106). At the same time Kabris, rather than keeping events under control like Robarts, behaved like a Nuku Hivan. He obviously was not guided by such lofty ideals as Robarts, but in his own way he too aimed to facilitate understanding. Expectation mingled with apprehension was the feeling shared by all three parties—Russians, Nuku Hivans, and beachcombers—as the Nadezhda sailed towards Taiohae Bay. Their worlds were about to meet in an encounter that would last twelve days, but whose effects would endure for centuries.

DAY 1

encounter 25 April (7 May) 1804

‘I had the honor of Being an English man’ In the morning the fog lifted, and as the Nadezhda sailed along the southern coast, Nuku Hiva emerged in all its formidable beauty. Its volcanic mountain chains reminded Tilesius of ‘towers, turrets, spires and the sharp roofs of an old city’. When they approached closer they noticed that ‘the stern bald rocks of black-grey color . . . were enlivened by numerous snow-white waterfalls shining like silver, falling from high cliffs into the green valleys below’ (1803–1804:63) (fig. 11). Near Comptroller Bay two boats with Lieutenant Golovachev and Kamenshchikov, the ship’s navigator, were sent ahead of the ship to sound the bottom. Near the entrance to Taiohae (Anna Maria) Bay a native boat approached them. The events of this first day were described by nine participants of the expedition (and in many cases in several variants). Espenberg, the surgeon, provided the most detailed account, which conveyed the excitement of the moment: When the boats were about a verst distant from us, we observed a canoe making towards them. Our expectation was now at its height:

Figure 11.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Comptroller Bay’. Gouache and ink on paper. Archives of the Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg, Russia, IV-1–800a:71

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we saw the canoe approach the first boat, and in a few minutes both of them rowed off together: our boat proceeded forwards, and the canoe, which steered for the ship, approached the second boat. We could now plainly perceive that all the people in it were naked: one of them, who was of a somewhat lighter colour, we took to be their chief or king; for we are told by navigators that the higher ranks have a whiter colour. This person stepped into our boat, and the crew of our ship all exclaimed, ‘The king! The king!’ The boat and the canoe then both rowed towards the ship. (1805c:6)

The excitement on the ship reached its height when the fearless lightcolored ‘king’ sprang onto the deck of the ship, and, while the voyagers were still in thrall to ‘their first burning curiosity to observe the native’, they were astonished ‘to hear the savage speaking to the captain and realize that they understood each other’, Shemelin recorded in his journal (1803–1806:114v.). According to Tilesius, the visitor ‘started speaking English with extraordinary speed’ (1806b:90). The same event may be seen from another perspective, that of Robarts, who wrote in his Marquesan Journal: As I was bathing at the Back of my house early one morng, my people on the mountains gave the alarm that a ship was in sight. I ran to the Beach. My canoe was mand. When I got there, I got in and away we pulld out of the Bay and got sight of the ship. My canoe being well mand, [we] soon got near to the Boat, which was sounding a head of the ship. They took me out of the canoe into the boat. The officer gave me a bit of red cloth, a few fish hooks & some nails, he thinking I was a native. This diverted me, nor did I undeceive them untill after I got on board. My beard was very long; it coverd my breast, for I had not been shaved for about 3 years. My skin [was] tand with the sun. No one on board thought but that I was a native. The Capt & his officers viewd me. (1974:129–130)

It was his beard and the color of his skin, he believed, that deceived the visitors. But other features struck the observers more forcefully. Shemelin wrote in his journal, ‘The Lieutenant [Golovachev] reaching the ship introduced the savage to the Captain. We all looked at the newcomer, who was speckled over his body by brownish-blue geometrical figures, perpendicular and slanting lines and strips, triangles, quadrangles with different patterns inside, spots and lattices’ (1803–1806:114v.). Several others reported similar impressions: ‘The

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boat came alongside the ship; all the natives were naked and speckled with patterns, and one of them, entering the ship, surprised us even more when he started to speak English’ (Rezanov 1825, no. 65:391–392). ‘We were more than surprised to discover a naked tattooed Englishman among the savages’ (Löwenstern 2003a:92). ‘He was almost entirely naked, having only a narrow girdle tied round his middle, and was tatooed on the breast’ (Espenberg 1805c:6–7). ‘The Englishman, . . . completely seemed to have accepted the national costume and customs of the native’ (Horner 1805:151). Tilesius remembered another feature: Robarts kept his letter of introduction from the English captain Mayhew Folger ‘tied with two knots in his hair as is customary among the natives’. In his earliest published account, Tilesius described him as ‘a man of medium stature, not painted [i.e., not tattooed], though his hair was dressed the same as the natives, and he was naked with a loincloth in front’ (1821:186; 1804:1; 1806b:90). Shemelin added to his portrait that ‘he wasn’t of large stature, lean, with grey eyes and dark blond hair, while his face was completely European’ (1816:106). What is remarkable in these accounts is the discrepancy concerning Robarts’ tattoo. Moreover, Krusenstern, Langsdorff, and Ratmanov do not mention his tattoo at all in their descriptions of this encounter. The Japanese on board the ship saw Robarts and Kabris quite differently: ‘There were two people canoeing in the local boat towards this ship. Different from the islanders, they were naked and tattooed on both thighs.Their hair was plaited in the Chinese fashion and they wore loincloths’ (Otsuki 1976:164). The chain of Japanese associations is quite obvious—they look different, the Chinese look different, the islanders bear some resemblance to Chinese. All these discrepancies exemplify the well-known phenomenon that eyewitness reports of the same event can vary widely, especially when people confront the unusual in an agitated state of mind. Even later, when the excitement of the first meeting had subsided to be replaced by more dispassionate observation, the two most reliable observers, Langsdorff and Tilesius, produced very different accounts of Robarts’ tattoo. According to Langsdorff, Robarts ‘had only a small square about six inches long and four inches wide tattooed on his chest’, the sign of belonging to the retinue of Chief Kiatonui (1993:79). In a much later work of natural history published in Russian, Tilesius mentioned that Robarts had a fish tattooed on his body together with the ‘figure of a heart pierced by an arrow, which he ordered to be done by the day of his marriage’. Otherwise, apart from the fish, he ‘had no other usual Nukahivan decorations, which covered the whole body of the Frenchman’ (1821:188). This example demonstrates that the voyagers’ testimony might often be lacking in precision.



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But we return to the deck of the Nadezhda. Robarts himself was no less bewildered than the voyagers: My ears was filld with the sound of several languages,Viz, French, dutch, Rush, german and sweeds. I could not tell what to make of them. The ship, I Knew, had been an English sloop of war from her build. I made sighns for them to hoist their Colours, for I thought she was a french privateerer. However, they hoisted Rushian Colours. I then spoke to them in Broken Rush. They all stared at me. A french Gentleman on board ask me could I speak french. I answerd him in that language: ‘Yes, a little.’ The Capt then askd me in Rush what country man I was. I told [him] I had the honor of Being an English man. He spoke tolerable good English. (1974:130)

Robarts’ brief account of himself, made to the Russian voyagers and supported by ‘various letters of reference from other ship captains attesting to the man’s honest and helpful service’ (Langsdorff 1993:56) (which, according to Tilesius, he disentangled from his Nuku Hivan–style hair ‘horns’), was heard by the visitors with great interest and recorded in at least eight of their reports, but again, as in the description of his tattoo, there are striking discrepancies.The best known is Krusenstern’s account: This Englishman, whose name was Roberts, told us that he had been seven years upon the island, and two years previously in that of Santa Christina; that he had been put on shore on the latter, out of an English merchant ship, the crew of which had mutinied against their captain, and could not prevail upon him to join their party; and in Nukahiwa he had lately married a relation of the king’s, by which he acquired great consideration; so that it would be very easy for him to be of assistance to us (1813c:111).

There was no uniformity concerning the length of Robarts’ stay at Nuku Hiva in the Russian accounts: it varied between six and ten years (in reality he had been on Nuku Hiva for barely four years). The circumstances of his desertion also varied. Rezanov (1825, no. 65:392) and Löwenstern (2003a:92) recorded that, when he refused to join the mutineers aboard the ship, they decided to murder him, and he fled for his life.The cautious Rezanov expressed some doubt about this story, and Ratmanov believed that the sailors themselves had put him ashore (1876:1327).Tilesius claimed that Robarts ‘liked the spot so much, that he persuaded his captain to give him discharge and to prove this was

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done voluntarily he produced a good conduct certificate’ (1806b:91; 1804:1). Shemelin added some new features to the latter version: ‘Before he served as sailor on merchant ships, vagabonded all over the world, and, they say, was even at our St Petersburg, finally he voluntarily remained here to live with the savages’ (1803–1806:115). While all the Russians noted that Robarts was related to the ‘king’ by marriage and that this contributed to his respected position, they were vague about the relationship of Robarts’ wife to Chief Kiatonui. She was referred to as ‘a relation of the king’, ‘a woman of the king’s family’, Kiatonui’s daughter and even granddaughter. In reality she was Kiatonui’s sister, whose name Robarts recorded as ‘Ena-o-ae-a-ta’ (1974:122–123). Robert Suggs has reconstructed this name as Hinahoata, meaning ‘reflection of the moon’ (2008:1). According to a Japanese account Robarts and Kabris ‘drifted to this island ten years ago, and had no ship on which to return. While spending days and months there, they became husbands of the queen of the island and settled there’ (Otsuki 1976:164). It is not clear from the Japanese text whether ‘the queen’, that is, Kiatonui’s wife, is meant, or ‘queens’, in the plural. However incredible the first option might seem, it is supported by a remark in Löwenstern’s journal: ‘Every savage has a woman who is duty bound to be true to him as long as he is present. “That is the reason why,” said the Englishman, “I also gave the queen a child five years ago”’ (2003a:93). Robarts in his own journal was more discreet and never referred to his liaisons openly. Although Robarts in his account did not mention that he had a native name, Russians recorded it as Tuti Budoni (Löwenstern 2003a:102), Chutta Budona (Rezanov 1825, no. 65:392), and Tutta Budona (Shemelin 1816:107). Suggs reconstructs the name as Tuteputona, meaning ‘“raise the shell trumpet” (in a call to war). Putona is the Hiva Oa dialect form of the word putoka, denoting a shell trumpet made from the Charitonia tritonis shell’ (2008:3). In addition, he had the name Pakouteie, which he received by exchanging names with Kiatonui’s grandson (Robarts 1974:101, 108). Robarts’ hour had come at last.These cultured visitors were very different from the rough captains of the American whaling ships he had so far received in his voluntary capacity as the Taiohae pilot. The dignity with which this tanned and tattooed man with his horned coiffure put his conditions before the captain may be felt in his Journal: I then begd leave to make one observation: That was, as I could speak but very little of the Rushian Language, I could not Keep his men in any proper order on shore, but, if he pleasd, I would give him my plan of conducting the Duty on shore. . . . He was very well pleasd. I gave



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him my instructions. He then gave his Officers my shore rules for working or for men on liberty.

Returning to the beach, where great numbers of islanders had assembled, Robarts addressed them, begging them, not to forfeit my esteem & good will. As I could not go about the valley with the officers in scearch of Plants, curiosities, flies, insects, etc., [for the reason] that I had to attend the wood and watering parties, [I] begd they would not be troublesome to the strangers, or to follow after them in crouds, as it might alarm them, altho no harm was meant. To this they promised the strictest obediance. By this means only a few boys would go with the Botanists about the Valley, which renderd their rescearches comfortable. (1974:131–132)

Though he might seem to sound self-important in his Journal, his role in ensuring that the Russian visit passed smoothly and obtained significant scientific results was in fact crucial. Thanks to him, the Russian visit differed greatly from previous European visits to Tahuata and Nuku Hiva and from subsequent visits, which were plagued with violence and misunderstanding, like that of the U.S. Navy captain David Porter in 1813. The journal that Robarts would eventually write many years later in faraway India would remain forgotten for decades, but the man himself is caught like a shadowy image on a photographic plate from the very moment he first stepped aboard the Nadezhda and into the Russian accounts.

‘Children of nature in all their beauty’ While the men from the Nadezhda swarmed around Robarts, the Nuku Hivans were no less interested in their visitors. Espenberg recounts: The canoe rowed past the ship, and the men addressed to us a kind of speech. The index finger of their right hand was always stretched out, and they moved it towards us nearly in the same manner as when a person threatens. Mr. Roberts . . . informed us that this motion was an assurance of friendship. (1805c:7)

Tilesius remarked that Robarts persuaded the natives from the canoe to come aboard the ship. ‘Although these slaves of the powerful Robarts’, Tilesius adds, ‘were intrigued to see us at close range, they dared to come aboard the

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ship only with great fear and apprehension. They crawled [on the deck] like animals. All our attempts to encourage them to stand upright were in vain. Robarts assured us that the majority of them were members of the King’s family’ (1806b:91–92). Ratmanov (1803–1805a:39) and Espenberg added that the first native to climb aboard the ship was the king’s brother. This brother, a man of high position, would appear more than once in the voyagers’ accounts and would be portrayed by Tilesius. Espenberg continues, ‘We endeavoured to inspire him with courage; patted him, and called him our tayo. We firmly believed that this word signified friend, but this is not the case’ (1805c:7). (The Marquesan word for a friend is hoa.) The Russians had picked up this word from Fleurieu’s account of Marchand’s visit to the Marquesas (Fleurieu 1969, 1:32) but later suspected that he had taken this word from Bougainville’s famous account of his first contact with Tahitians. But linguistic difficulties were soon put aside as the natives overcame their fear and their attention ‘was much attracted by our fowls, and some small papajays from Brazil: they squatted down before them and stared at them with their mouths wide open’ (Espenberg 1805c:7). Meanwhile, as Robarts was piloting the ship to an anchorage near the eastern shore of the bay, the Russians discovered what a stir their arrival had caused among the islanders. Tilesius wrote, ‘Hardly had we entered the bay and dropped anchor when we saw a great number of natives swimming towards us. . . . With noisy shouts and laughter they surrounded our ship’ (1806b:92). The impressions of this new world seemed to overwhelm the voyagers’ senses. Tilesius spoke of ‘an extremely strange, unusual impression’ (1806b:90). Löwenstern wrote in his journal, ‘The impression of childish behavior, noise and the general unusual sight of these amphibians was incomparable’ (2003a:92). Langsdorff echoed this: ‘The noise, laughter, and romping of those eternally happy people were indescribable’ (1993:58).The festive atmosphere enveloping the ship may be seen in the grumbled complaints of Löwenstern, one of the few who had to continue to perform his naval duties: ‘Golovatscheff got our anchor all entangled when we wanted to drop anchor. I had to shout myself hoarse today until his mistake was corrected, and worked like a horse amidst the curiosity of our sailors, the din made by the savages, and the commotion of our excited passengers’ (2003a:92). Soon the Nuku Hivans, old and young, men and women ‘surrounded the ship, and their number gradually increased till the whole place swarmed with them’ (Espenberg 1805c:7). ‘We had the ineffable pleasure of observing these children of nature in all their beauty. Their manner, their grace and ease in swimming fascinated all of us endlessly’ (Shemelin 1816:110).



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After the first impressions, the natives and voyagers moved on to the next stage of mutual discovery—exchange and communication. Victuals were not the only commodity the islanders brought to the ship. ‘Up to twenty five or thirty young native girls and unmarried women’ surrounded the ship, according to Shemelin’s published account (1816:110). ‘Unmarried women’ is obviously his attempt to reconcile his sympathetic attitude to the new world with the tenets of European morality. In the original version of his journal he is extremely open: There were a lot of young wenches swimming among the islanders who tried to sell their charms more zealously than the others, bending and putting their body in such positions so as to show better all those shameful parts of the body which can kindle lust in the foreigners looking at them, increasing the noise with their unceasing boisterous laughter. The savage men pointing to the wenches made such signs with their fingers, which meant the same thing that the wenches wanted, repeating uka, uka which means copulation with women. (Shemelin 1803–1806:119–119v.)

Espenberg depicted the whole scene in the context of communication: They [the natives] seemed highly gratified, kept continually laughing, and did every thing in their power, by gestures and tricks of every kind, to attract our attention. They threw themselves into all sorts of postures, lay sometimes on one side and sometimes on their back, elevated their legs, &c. The women in this respect did not yield to the men; and the object of their pantomime might easily be comprehended. When a piece of a coco-nut was thrown at them from the ship, or when any of the sailors spat down upon one of them, the astonished savage immediately became an object of laughter to the rest. (1805c:7–8)

It seems that the Nuku Hivans were not offended by the behavior and manners of the sailors; they saw those actions as part of the communication process, and laughter eased any awkwardness.

Barter without ‘Freedom of Trade’ But one thing was more attractive than this tempting exotic world—fresh food. Here Shemelin gives the most detailed account:

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They brought us coconuts, bananas, bread fruits and sugar-cane; they crowded on both sides of the ship and each aimed to sell their goods before the others, and each wanted us to understand him especially, and in order to attract our attention they made all sorts of grimaces and gestures, employing their heads, eyes, mouths, tongues, hands and indeed their whole bodies, and added emphasis to these by shouting at the tops of their voices words consisting of vowels such as o! ai! ei! ou! and so on. (1816:110–111)

Later the voyagers would pick up a number of actual Nuku Hivan words from the islanders, making communication easier without any intermediaries. In the meantime Robarts stepped in and helped to organize surprisingly orderly barter. Shemelin, as supercargo, chronicled it: In place of coins we used pieces of iron broken from old barrel hoops 2 vershok [about 9 cm] or less in length. For 5 or 6 coconuts we gave one piece, two or three bunches of bananas had the same price; but as coconuts and banana bunches differed in size, we paid with bigger or smaller pieces. (1803–1806:119v.–120)

At first glance this barter seems to have been conducted in a purely businesslike manner, with one commodity being immediately reciprocated with another commodity of an equivalent value. But was it? Krusenstern observed the same scenes and noticed the islanders’ special respect for iron hoops: The only things we could give them in exchange were pieces of old iron hoops, four or five inches long, with which I had supplied both ships for this purpose while we lay at Cronstadt. . . . They shewed a childish joy on receiving even a small piece of iron hoop, and usually evinced their satisfaction by a loud laugh, displaying their newly acquired riches with an air of triumph to their less fortunate companions, who swam round the ship. This expression of pleasure was perhaps a proof of the little opportunity which they have hitherto had of procuring this valuable metal. (1813c:113)

The Russians were yet to discover that these iron hoops, their principal item of barter, which they stocked beforehand, drawing on the experience of earlier voyagers, were not simply a commodity to the islanders. Meanwhile the visitors continued to enjoy new delights. Instead of the foul water they had had to drink for weeks, this evening they were able to try



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the native drink. According to Tilesius, ‘by evening the whole deck was covered in coconuts’ (1806b:102). Shemelin recorded in his journal: As evening came on our barter ended. We had bought on this day near two hundred coconuts and bunches of bananas—up to ten bananas each—and a quantity of bread-fruit. Our main exercise of the day was centered around the coconuts: everyone wanted to quench his thirst with sweet and refreshing coconut juice, but we did not know how to handle them, how to remove the husk, thickly knotted with woody fibers, and extract that pleasant drink; we nevertheless without this knowledge set about trying to extract the juice in whichever way we could, or whichever way we could think of, and eventually succeeded. (1803–1806:120–120v.) In the evening for dinner we were served stewed bread-fruit, an apple-like fruit, which has delicious and nutritious white flesh closely resembling European wheat bread in taste. (1816:112)

The festive atmosphere was not affected even by Krusenstern’s written order, which he prepared on the eve of arrival at Nuku Hiva and this evening read to all on the quarterdeck, applying his reading of his predecessors’ experience and anticipating what might happen: It will be very natural if, on our arrival, unfamiliar objects provoke in many the desire to have them.You, for your parts, would gladly barter European goods for the various curios of these people. But lack of caution might have undesirable results: the natives, anxious [‘greedy’ in the Russian original] to acquire objects of ours and getting them in plenty in exchange for things of little value for them, would no doubt end by wanting objects that we could not surrender before they would satisfy our genuine needs. (Kruzenshtern 1804b; translation cited from Barratt 1987:25)

Soon after arrival he realized that the most necessary commodity, meat, was not easily obtainable and made further amendments to his instructions. He wrote in his account: As I understood that very few hogs were to be had, I gave out that these alone should be considered as payment for axes and hatchets. In order to facilitate the purchase of provisions, I forbade the crew,

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immediately upon my arrival, to barter for any thing, but more particularly for curiosities, with the natives; . . . I appointed Lieutenant Romberg and Dr. Espenberg to manage the barter, and they alone were permitted to purchase provisions, conceiving this to be the only means of preserving order (Kruzenshtern 1813c:114)

This seemingly reasonable care for the vital needs of the expedition clashed with the lure of the exotic world around it. Soon passions would erupt among the expedition members and culminate in what will be later described as a revolt. Dissatisfaction began to brew from the moment Krusenstern’s order was announced. Rezanov would write later in his complaint, ‘The captain, out of politeness, should have informed me of his order from the outset, but as he had a lasting disrespect for the authorities, which were used to his insults, and as the order had real benefit, I did not utter a word against it’ (1804a:1). Shemelin in his published account mentioned the benefits of the order: The order is highly reasonable and beneficial; and the Captain foresaw that a premature freedom of trade with the local inhabitants would firstly lower the price of our iron currency . . . and secondly that an unreasonable ambition in obtaining curios will surely result in jealousy and competition against each other. The imparting of good objects for islander trinkets will cause, contrary to the communal benefit, the price for all things sold by the islanders, and especially foodstuffs, to rise. (1816:113)

Shemelin was clearly opposed to free barter and in favor of total ‘state’ control. The only problem was that he did not believe that Krusenstern represented the interests of the ‘state’. In his unpublished journal he wrote indignantly that the proper course would have been to let him supervise the trade, since he was the supercargo of the RAC, in charge of goods used for barter. His second point of criticism was of a less personal nature: Moreover, Mr. Kruzenshtern should not have restrained or limited his instruction to foodstuffs especially; his embargo ought to have also encompassed those objects which in their rarity or fine craftsmanship are worthy of constituting a collection in the Imperial Kunstkammer. Thus no-one would dare to acquire anything for himself from the islanders before an appropriate quantity is procured both for the Kunstkammer and the board of the Russian-American Company. (1803–1806:120v.–121v.)



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In simple terms, he was of the opinion that he and his ‘Superior’, Rezanov, should have received the exclusive right to acquire curios ahead of naturalists, officers, and crew.

‘Bonjour’: Enter Monsieur Kabris This long day held other events in store. After the ‘king’s brother’ had safely gone ashore with gifts, he brought back to the ship ‘the king’ himself; but before the latter stepped aboard the ship, the Russians were to experience one more surprise. As Ratmanov relates, ‘The king’s boat had not yet pulled up when a man jumped out. He swam up to the ship, rushed onto the deck and greeted us with the words “Bonjour”. He was another European—a Frenchman’ (1876:1327). Before resuming the account of the royal visit, some detail is required on the impression Kabris made on the Russians (fig. 12). His French by this time evidently did not go much further than this initial ‘Bonjour’. Espenberg was disappointed. He did not know English and hoped to enjoy some French conversation. ‘This Frenchman had so much forgotten his mother tongue, that he was become a real savage’ was his conclusion (1805c:8). Löwenstern had a similar initial impression. Later he added in his journal, ‘The Frenchman is a complete savage. Only his nasty character and the few vulgar French ditties he still knows show that he may well be a Frenchman’ (2003a:92, 101). Langsdorff also believed that ‘physically and morally, he had gone wild’ (1993:97). While the initial reaction of the visitors to Robarts as a savage was quickly superseded (Tilesius’ account of the first day speaks of Robarts’ ‘delicate feeling of honor’ [1803–1804:63]), the view of Kabris as ‘a real savage’ remained and deepened. It is possible that his loss of language—Kabris had forgotten his French but could communicate in English—and the fact that he was heavily tattooed were only contributing factors in this discrepancy in attitudes. The decisive factor was Kabris’ inner transformation, about which Joanna White says, ‘Some beachcombers not only deliberately conformed to local manners and customs as a practical strategy but took on local symbolic and cultural references as their own. Joseph Kabris is a striking case in point’ (2005:83). Similarly, Dening comments, on the basis of Espenberg’s initial reaction (1805c:8), ‘He had learnt to lose his own otherness on the beach. He laughed like a native’ (2004:36). Five years later, on the other side of the globe, Kabris’ Russian friend Faddei Bulgarin would remark about him, ‘He had a cat-like air about him. When he smiled it seemed that he wanted to bite you’ (2001:663). Indeed, having come to live with the people of Nuku Hiva in his late teens, Kabris unreservedly accepted their world as his own. His tattoos were

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Figure 12.╇ R. Cooper after Aleksandr Orlowski, ‘Jean Baptiste Cabri’. Engraving (Langsdorff 1993:pl. 6)

for him ‘a mark of manhood’, which made him ‘belong to the tribe’ (Kabris 1982:108–109). Each element of those tattoos had social meaning for him. In contrast, Robarts had the square on his chest, which signified that he belonged to Kiatonui’s retinue, only as a matter of survival during famine: ‘Roberts assured me that he never would have entered this association, had he not been driven to it by extreme hunger,’ Krusenstern reports (1813c:160). Like Robarts, Kabris plainly enjoyed high social status. He was married



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twice, and although in his memoirs he claimed to have married Kiatonui’s daughter (1982:111), Langsdorff believed that his wife was not of high lineage and that he lived under the protection of a ‘lesser’ chief with whom he had exchanged names (1993:63). His ‘influence’ then must have been on his own account [Terrell, his biographer, concludes]. His particular strength seemed to be in the physical and mental skills of warfare. He learned and excelled in Marquesan techniques, was cunning, agile, courageous and resourceful, with the capacity to sustain the rigours and exactions of his chiefly position. He had killed men in battle and by stealth (three, he told Krusenstern), though he claimed consistently that he had never eaten human flesh. (Terrell 1982:103)

Kabris’ native names were recorded as being ‘Shua-Tsgou’ (Shemelin 1803– 1806:116) and ‘Ekhoi’ (Löwenstern 2003b:126); the latter, according to Suggs, might be ‘He‘eko‘i’, meaning ‘a fast marcher’ or ‘Speedy’ (2008:4). Russian sources suggest that it was not only military valor that protected Kabris. Ratmanov noted that Kabris, ‘like the Englishman, was adopted by the king’ (1876:1327) (meaning Kiatonui). Löwenstern believed that ‘the king is taboo; i.e., he may not be killed, and everyone who has exchanged names with him has the same rights as he does. That is the case with both the Englishman and Frenchman and protects them from assassination.’ Löwenstern further remarked that ‘only a foreigner has the right to play the role of a taboo man or one possessed. John [sic], the Frenchman, was astute enough to have made himself taboo in all of the valleys and inlets’ (2003a:102, 106).This suggests that Kabris might have drawn his protection from both his status as a European and as one ‘possessed’ (that is, given to shamanistic trances). Espenberg believed that Robarts, too, having exchanged names with Kiatonui, was under taboo protection ‘so that no one durst do him any hurt’ (1805c:13). As for Kabris’ martial skills, he was a singular phenomenon indeed. Faddei Bulgarin, a Russian journalist, who knew Kabris well at Kronshtadt in 1809, wrote that ‘Kabris was of short stature, lean, swarthy, with irregular features disfigured by tattooed patterns of dark blue color.’ Bulgarin wondered how he, with his slight build, could have won over the sturdy and well-muscled islanders. ‘I took not by force, but by adroitness’, Kabris explained, graphically describing how he would crawl and leap on the enemy from ambush; none would be able to outrun him, and when surrounded he would ‘dodge like an eel and, having a knife in each hand, would slit their bellies open’. Kabris also confessed to Bulgarin and Count Tolstoy, although he denied it to Krusenstern, that he

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had taken part in cannibalistic feasts. ‘He even assured me that human flesh is delicious and tastes like buzhenina [baked pork]’ (Bulgarin 2001:663–664, 673). This account is anecdotal, of course, but adds color to Kabris’ portrait and the impression he made on his contemporaries. The Russians discovered that Robarts and Kabris were bitter enemies. Robarts, according to his Journal, believed the ‘french boy’ to be a vile and treacherous person (1974:99–100) and warned the visitors about Kabris almost immediately: ‘This Frenchman he described as his bitterest enemy, who omitted nothing to blacken him in the eyes of the king and the islanders, and had often, he added, made attempts against his life’, wrote Krusenstern (1813c:111). The Russians did not take Robarts’ warnings seriously. They supposed that the cause of the antipathy between the Englishman and the Frenchman was the animosity between their nations. Löwenstern, moreover, saw them as two opposites: ‘The Englishman, who is respectable, and the Frenchman are enemies since he, to all appearances, is a good-for-nothing’ (2003a:92). Rezanov wrote of the confrontation with characteristic Russian feeling for the plain man: ‘We, seeing that he [Kabris] was a simple and guileless man, concluded that some sort of displeasure on Robert’s part was the cause of his slander. They were reconciled immediately and both stayed on our ship’ (1825, no. 65:396). Nevertheless, Tilesius recorded that Robarts, forced to reconcile on Krusenstern’s insistence, maintained that ‘it would be easier to make the rocks of Nukahiwa Island flat than to bring the Frenchman to a lasting peace’ (1803–1804:63). It is remarkable that it was Kabris’ French origin rather than his transformation into a Nuku Hivan and acceptance of the ways of the natives that still mattered for Robarts.

Kiatonui Tapega, the King of the Valley Kabris, with his ‘Bonjour’, was followed by the ‘king’.This ‘king’, Kiatonui, was the central figure in the early contact history of Nuku Hiva. This prominent haka‘iki was customarily referred to as ‘king’ by the visitors, and I preserve their terminology. Many voyagers before and after the Russian visit have described him, including Crook, Robarts, and Porter, but no particular visual imagery has previously been associated with him. The participants in the Russian expedition broke new ground in this respect. The most interesting representations of Kiatonui are two portraits from Löwenstern’s journal. As mentioned above, the authorship of watercolors in the journal is disputable and needs further study, but the rather crude face and figures on these two watercolors suggest that Löwenstern could have painted them. The first image captures the moment when Kiatonui approached the ship standing in a canoe (fig. 13). The second



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Figure 13.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Taiohai in Nukuhiva’. Watercolor. Estonian Historical Archives (EHA), Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:76

image, inscribed ‘Kätenuä’, is his full-length portrait (fig. 14). The artist managed to capture the individuality of this important man and the solemnity of the moment. The grave, imposing, slightly corpulent man, probably in late middle age, depicted in the act of presenting a kava plant (Piper methysticum), is certainly more than a curiously decorated savage. Although naked, he seems to be richly dressed—in tattoos. There are textual accounts referring to this moment as well. Romberg briefly remarked in a letter to his friends, ‘The naked king came to visit us with a plant in his hand’ (1804a:37). Tilesius provided further details: A big pirogue pulled up to our ship. An exceptionally corpulent and completely tattooed man with a thick neck was standing in the bow. His body was of a dark-blue color. This fat man is called the King of the valley. . . . His name is Kettenue, Tapega. The latter is his title, which means right hand. In his right hand was a pepper plant, from which an intoxicating drink is made; this plant signifies peace and friendship. (1806b:106–108)

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Figure 14.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Kätenuä’. Watercolor and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:78

According to Suggs, his name should be spelled Kiatonui, which means ‘Big Outtrigger Beam’ (2008:1). Shemelin’s lively sketch was especially detailed: The king seemed to be over fifty already, he was stately and of large stature. Unlike his bold and talkative retinue, he was distinguished by modesty and a reticence which lent him an air of some dignity. . . . His questions about the things around him were brief, his answers even briefer. . . . The things which he was probably seeing for the first time in his life hardly sparked his curiosity. To all the practical things he preferred a big mirror in the Captain’s cabin; he approached it with a joyful air and looked at himself in it from head to toe, stretching out his hands, bending this way and that, turning his sides and



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back to it and seeming to admire with delight his patterned skin, which was all speckled with circles, ovals, broad and narrow stripes and hatching so thickly that there was not even a fingernail-sized spot on his body that was clear of black dots, so that the King thus elaborately adorned seemed to be a true native of Angola. (1816:108; 1803–1806:116v.–117)

Shemelin’s feelings were obviously in disarray: his inborn respect for lawful authority was challenged by Kiatonui’s naked tattooed skin. His confusion shows in the African analogy, expressing what Bronwen Douglas describes as ‘ingrained aversion to the stereotyped figure of “the Negro”’ (2005:49). Nevertheless, Shemelin’s sympathy for the ‘children of nature’ predisposed him to portray Kiatonui’s visit with respect and courtesy tinged with gentle humor. The islanders’ reaction to the European world opening before them aboard the ship is noteworthy. Rather than immediately exploring the variety of novel objects, they choose to engage with what is familiar from their perspective—the reflection in the mirror of their own bodies and birds aboard the ship. Similarly, they could easily absorb the visitors’ gifts into their own system of ceremonial relations with outsiders. The Russians responded accordingly. For the gift-giving ‘ceremony’ Kiatonui and his brother were invited into the captain’s cabin where the king received a piece of red pestriad—roughly woven cloth usually home-produced by Russian peasants. A similar piece was given to Kiatonui’s brother, while his retinue received pieces of new sailcloth and knives made by the ship’s blacksmith from barrel hoops. Krusenstern also gave Kiatonui a hatchet and a mirror (Shemelin 1803–1806:118). The Russians noticed that Kiatonui was extremely pleased to receive the gifts and accepted them with all due ceremony; for instance, ‘he immediately bound round his loins’ the cloth (Krusenstern 1813c:115). According to Romberg, when Kiatonui returned to the shore he demonstrated the gifts to his people (1804a:37). The Russians, who bartered with the ordinary islanders directly (one commodity for another), in relations with the elite preferred ‘expansive and openended contact’, to use Thomas’ expression (1991:90). Krusenstern remarked in respect of his gifts, ‘Roberts advised me not to be so generous, telling me that not one of them, not even the king, would ever make me any return for them. . . . As I did not expect anything in return and was giving things of little value to them, I did not follow his advice’ (1813c:115; 1809:144). The Russians gave gifts to encourage goodwill and to secure support and services rather than to receive equally priced commodities. That is why Krusenstern was so insistent in conveying his position to Kiatonui:

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When he [Kiatonui] returned upon deck he was struck with the appearance of some small Brazil parrots, at which he expressed his pleasure and astonishment in no very moderate terms, sitting himself down, and considering them for some minutes. I conceived that I should ensure his friendship by making him a present of one; and Roberts, who blamed my liberality, appeared to have conveyed my offer to him in improper terms, for the next day a hog was brought to me in exchange for it. (1813c:115)

Robarts may not have been to blame for misinterpretation, as the gift was of high value from the Marquesan point of view. Krusenstern’s parrot had red feathers, and although the Russians knew about the special attitude of Pacific Islanders to the color red, they did not suspect, as Thomas points out, ‘that feathers were intimately associated with gods and demi-gods, who were supposed to be born as bloody miscarriages, covered in feathers’ (2003:226). Kabris’ behavior was remarkably similar to that of the Nuku Hivans in this respect, as Espenberg’s sketch suggests: I once gave him a good new shirt, but he immediately bartered it with one of the sailors for a red flannel jacket. When I told him that he had suffered himself to be cheated, he would not listen to me. As soon as he went on shore he put on the jacket, and with feathers on his head and a lance in his hand danced on an eminence, capering and jumping in a most extraordinary manner. Several of the natives then wished to accompany him, in order that they might go to war. (1805c:116)1

In singling out the elite and bestowing gifts upon them, the Russians followed the pattern set by other voyagers. Unlike direct barter (commodity for equally valued commodity), the exchange of gifts is a sophisticated process involving commodities of unequal nature and value, often delayed in time and always following ritual protocol. Captain Fanning’s sojourn at Taiohae Bay in 1798 was successful largely because, although he kept hostages on board during his visit to Kiatonui’s abode, he arranged the visit, on Crook’s advice, with extravagant ceremony. For instance, a metal plate on a crimson ribbon—‘a medal’—was wrapped in paper, delivered by a special steward, and solemnly handed to the young ‘king’. His description of the ceremony surrounding his shore visit occupies seventeen pages in his book (Fanning 1924:121–138). The Russians also grasped intuitively the difference between barter and gift exchange, but inevitably some blunders occurred. From the



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Russian perspective, the Nuku Hivans made blunders too, as will be seen below. Before Kiatonui bade farewell to the ship he had one more new experience, a Russian tea ‘ceremony’. By that time tea, originally from China, had become popular among the upper classes in Russia and was seen as an important element in the reception of a distinguished visitor. ‘The king’ and his brother were invited to the wardroom. Shemelin, with much attention to detail, describes the event: They were seated at the table and offered a cup of hot tea each. They had no idea what to do with the tea, though they saw how the others were drinking it. Their inability in this respect was such that they were quite unable even to try and imitate any of us. We wanted our guests to taste our beverage but, seeing their inaction, were obliged to pour some tea into saucers and bring it to their mouths, offering it from our hands as one might to little children. In this way they drank two cups each, after which they did not want any more. Meanwhile the King noticed that some sort of white powder was poured into the cups, and wanted to know what it was. To satisfy his curiosity we handed him a spoonful of the latter to taste. It was sugar, and he liked it so much he unceremoniously seized the spoon from the hands of the Lieutenant who was treating him and without so much as a byyour-leave plunged it into the sugar-bowl and started eating the sugar with such voracity and rapidity that one spoonful after another flew into his mouth. Had we not stopped him, he would have been ready to empty the whole bowl. (1816:109)

Shemelin adds that when the king was leaving, he was handed a few zolotnik2 of sugar wrapped in a paper as a ‘sweet treat’ (gostinets) for the queen (1816:110). This statement, couched in old-fashioned Russian vocabulary, reflects a genuine and heartfelt hospitality, shorn of any irony. The first encounter brought out differences in the attitudes of the members of the expedition to the Nuku Hivans.The Westerners on board, the European scientists, were condescending: When we asked about the chief or head of the island, he [Robarts] said a king ruled there. His brother had come with him in the canoe traveling alongside our ship. That seemed ridiculous to us, so we immediately permitted his royal majesty to come on board. (Langsdorff 1993:56–57)

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This fat man is called the King of the valley. . . . Every valley has such a king, who can instantly be recognized by his long house with two chambers, by his numerous calabashes, . . . spears, clubs, arrows, slings, bread-fruits and coconuts, as well as by his fat neck and well fed belly. (Tilesius 1806b:107)

By contrast, the Easterners, the Russian contingent, represented by Shemelin and Rezanov, referred to Kiatonui with respect, even when describing comical situations. Later we shall observe the same attitude in the account of Gideon, from the Neva. Krusenstern’s attitudes were neither satirical nor wholly respectful: he dealt with Kiatonui as he would with an official administrator. As the captain he was responsible for the lives of the members of his expedition, and Kiatonui was the key to good relations and hence their safety: ‘I did not fail to draw the king’s attention to the size of our ship and the number of our guns, assuring him, at the same time, that I had no wish to employ them against his subjects; but that he must recommend to them, in the strongest terms, not to drive us to violent measures.’ He adds: ‘At this time I imagined that the king’s authority here was equal to that of the sovereigns of the Sandwich and Society Islands; but I was soon convinced of the contrary’ (1813c:115). This disappointment with the king’s powers would shape Krusenstern’s changing attitude to Kiatonui later. The voyagers preserved Kiatonui’s response as well. ‘He looked at everything with amazement and said a few words to Robarts, who translated them to us: the Captain must be the greatest and the mightiest King’ (Tilesius 1806b:108). Whether Kiatonui was subsequently as disappointed as Krusenstern will shortly be seen.

Night Pleasures, Expected and Unexpected At length the sun set behind the rugged mountains. Robarts laconically recorded in his memoirs, ‘Dinner was on table. The Capt sent for me to dine. I went to dinner. It was eveng. After dinner I went on deck and got a bed made up, as I always made it a rule to sleep on deck’ (1974:132). But that night the deck was the scene of more vigorous activity than sleep. Here is Krusenstern’s report: At sunset all the men without exception went on shore; but about 100 of the females still remained near the ship, round which they had been swimming during five hours. In this time they had made use of every art in their power to declare the object of their visit, nor could they doubt that their wishes were understood, since neither their



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pantomime nor their attitudes could be mistaken. . . . It scarcely began to grow dark when these poor creatures begged in so pitiful a manner to be taken on board, that at last I gave my consent. I had the less need for caution on this head, as I had not a single venereal patient on board, and Roberts assured me that this disease was hitherto unknown in the island. (1813c:115–116)

In the Russian version of his account he evasively explains that ‘bounds’ were set ‘so that the crew wouldn’t take their [the women’s] admission onto the ship as a reason to revel in their voluptuousness’ (1809:145); the Soviet edition of his travels expunged this section altogether. But in his unpublished journal, besides ‘compassion’, Krusenstern provided a more down-to-earth reason: ‘I did not want to be tyrannical and harsh to the men, who had every reason to expect some small reward after such an exhausting thirteen-week voyage’ (1804a:45). Nevertheless, the sexual encounters during this visit are still depicted by some scholars as the Russian commander’s ‘military-style solution’ (O’Brien 2006:92). But was this really so? Of course, members of the expedition in their published accounts did their best to present this delicate issue as discreetly as possible. Robarts was even more prudent.When writing his memoirs years later, he came across one of the first Russian accounts of the expedition—by Espenberg—in the Philosophical Magazine, and took great exception to it: ‘As to women, I would not allow any to go on Board on account of the holy paintings that was on board each ship. . . .There is a wide Difference between a visit to look at the ship and those who would swim on board and stay till morng’ (1974:139). However, several members of the expedition report Robarts giving quite opposite advice, of which Rezanov gave a restrained summary: Finally, having seen off our savage guests, we told them to tell any islanders swimming around the ship to return to shore for the night. They obliged, but the women refused to go under any pretext, and begged to be admitted on board. Roberts said that according to the local custom we were required to make a concession to the savages, so in order not to disappoint them our sailors received the guests. (1825, no. 66:73)

The Japanese on board left a more explicit account: When the ship anchored at the island for supplies of water and wood, . . . islanders gathered around the ship both day and night. They paid

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no heed to the voyagers on the ship and kept up their clamor, so the captain and others asked these people [Robarts and Kabris—E.G.] to send the islanders away and get supplies from the island. They advised that if the women were allowed on board to fornicate with the sailors and to receive trifling gifts, the officers would achieve their purpose. . . . The commanders acknowledged their advice, and the sailors also understood and did what they were advised. The women were given iron hoops and happily took them home. After that, both men and women willingly helped the people on board and supplied water from the land. (Otsuki 1976:164–165)

While the ‘compassionate’ Krusenstern, Rezanov, and Shemelin (in the published version of his journal) stated that the women were taken aboard out of pity, the ironic Langsdorff had another excuse: ‘The beauties of the island were so extremely importunate to be permitted to come on board, and urged their importunities with so much noise, that, merely for the sake of getting rid of them, and being left quiet awhile, we were obliged to grant some of them free access to the ship.’ He stressed, however, that only the sailors enjoyed the favors of the women: ‘Soon one siren after another disappeared with a sailor in hand to the inner parts of the ship’ (1813:93; 1993:59). Accounts by the voyagers not intended for publication say that the bacchanalia swept up nearly all aboard the ship. Shemelin in the unpublished version of his journal graphically describes how each night the women surrounding the ship ‘rose up from the water revealing their natural beauties, . . . continually repeating the words uka, uka, meaning love’. He goes on: They did not at all resist being taken onto the ship, and the Captain did not oppose the same. Naturally the better ones served as entertainment for the officers, while the rest were put at the disposal of the sailors; for providing amorous joys the women were rewarded with nails, pieces of iron hoops and sailors’ brass buttons, and however small these gifts were the islanders were pleased with them. (1803–1806:124–125)

Löwenstern’s diary suggests that the Russians came here with some knowledge about Marquesan sexual customs. His account of their first night at Nuku Hiva, from which sexual references were removed with a razor, has a number of still readable words from William Wilson’s depiction of the misfortunes of a missionary at Tahuata, William Harris, who had arrived on the Duff with Crook. Harris had stayed on shore and shown no intention of responding



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to the women’s sexual advances, so they ‘became doubtful of his sex’. He fled the island in terror one night when they attempted to investigate his maleness (Wilson 1799:141–142).3 The Russian experience contrasts sharply with Harris’ chastity, but the only evidence of this lies in five lines cut from Löwenstern’s journal. ‘The deck,’ he wrote the next morning, ‘where our gentlemen had made themselves comfortable with the savage wenches in happy promiscuity, looked like a hospital ship’ (2003a:93).The following sentences were also cut out. Later he gave a detailed account of the routine of these night visits: During our stay in Nukahiva, it would have been impossible to prevent our men from fraternizing with the savage girls, and to keep this from happening in secret the captain permitted the girls to come on board every other day. This was done with the greatest orderliness. After the ship had been made taboo with a cannon shot, loud calls went out from the ship: ‘Wahina e he!’ [Come on, girls!] Half an hour later, thirty to forty girls and women came swimming up, were allowed to board in an orderly fashion and lined up in a row. Now everything on board that had hands and feet came and picked a partner for himself. Those remaining had to go overboard again. It was no use them pointing to their uka eh! Insulted, they swam back to the shore. Not much sleeping was done during the night. In the morning before the taboo was raised, the women were lined up again, counted, their presents admired, and then they swam ashore like ducks. About halfway there, the savages came to meet them and take their acquisitions, etc. from them. (2003a:108)

Krusenstern in his journal claims that he ‘set bounds to this favor, and, after the second day, no females were admitted into the ship’ (1813c:116). This contradicts other accounts. Shemelin, for example, in his private journal, describes female visits on the third night of their stay (1803–1806:125). It is clear that Krusenstern was trying to rewrite the past and eliminate events that sat uneasily with his notions of sexual morality. While much can be learned about the voyagers’ nighttime entertainments, there is one subject none of them dared to discuss openly, even in their private diaries—their relations with prepubertal girls. Disconnected jottings in their accounts suggest that from the first night their visitors included very young girls. Tilesius puts it discreetly: ‘In the evening, when the crowd of savages began to disperse, women and wenches with eight- to ten-year-old children came to the ship and stayed the night. They were very happy with the hospi-

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tality’ (1806b:103). Espenberg said in his letter to the Philosophical Magazine, ‘Children of the age of nine or ten came on board our ship, many of whom were married’ (1805c:9). The middle part of this sentence appeared only in his German original: ‘they looked like our children and were still unformed, however this did not prevent them from taking part in all that was possible. In experience they yielded to none’ (1805b, no. 38:150–151). Describing the first night, Langsdorff seemed to offer justification for sex with young girls: We were more than a little surprised to see among the girls who had rushed aboard of their own accord several who were barely eight or nine years old. . . . They were gay, happy things, taking their youthful charms to market, enjoying themselves as much as their older playmates. By expressly asking, I learned from Roberts . . . that it would be considered a disgrace for girls if men despised them and they could not distribute their favors. The more lovers an unmarried girl has had, the more highly she is prized. (1993:59)

Krusenstern’s description of the first night when he ‘gave [his] consent’ for the ‘poor creatures’ to stay for the night is followed in his journal by a passage (cut from the Russian version of his book) about one such girl: But what excited in me no less astonishment in a physical sense, than horror in a moral point of view, was a child not more than eight years of age, who shewed as little moderation in granting her favours as her sisters of eighteen or twenty. I considered this unfortunate object for some time with a mixture of pity and disgust. In every respect a perfect child, laughing and playing with the feelings so natural to that state, she appeared not to have the least sense of her melancholy situation. (1813c:116)

Unlike his other accounts, these observations of the girl are given without any reference to the locality—understandably, if this happened on the deck of his own ship. Lee Wallace, exploring this incident, comments: But perhaps we can look at this ‘melancholy situation’ another way and ask how it is that this male observer can be so indifferent to the lure of nympholepsy, how it is he can be so sure that the excitation he felt, the ‘horror’ and the ‘astonishment’, were in keeping with ‘a moral point of view’ and not indexial to a less blameless investment in the event. After all, the commander’s scrutiny does not seem sco-



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pophilic, least of all to him. His commentary maintains the avuncular tone of the voice-over, and as a bedside manner, it is its own alibi; he cannot be guilty of an accessory arousal not because he was not at the scene of the outrage but because he was and—in all innocence—he told us so. (2003:64)

Krusenstern was obviously not the only one whose thoughts and feelings were in disarray that night. An important feature of Marquesan sexual life was its openness and, often, its collective nature, with spectators present and urging one another on—whether in sex in a family hut, or among a group of children playing at adult ways, or in ka‘ioi youth groups performing during communal feasts (Suggs 1966). The voyagers’ book learning about the shipboard activities of their predecessors could not prepare them for one thing: they were to be not consumers of sex services but participants, and participants in the Marquesan way. Being viewed publicly as sexual objects and engaging in public sexual activity on deck or on shore, with no retreat into puritanical privacy, was a novel experience for the visitors. Pleasure and shame, fun and guilt were intermingled and enacted in public, and more was to come. But how did the Nuku Hivans themselves view these sexual relations with the strangers? The visitors at first thought they knew why the women were so eager to offer their favors. They say that they were rewarded with ‘bottles, broken pots, porcelain, bright little pieces of cloth’, ‘small pieces of iron, old nails and brass buttons, tying threads to the latter and hanging them around their necks like pearls’ and marveled how ‘highly pleased the women were with these gifts’ (Langsdorff 1993:60; Shemelin 1816:113; Ratmanov 1803–1805b:24). Moreover, Krusenstern saw the main ‘evil’ in the greed of the native men: I think myself not incorrect in stating, that this debasement of the female sex is less occasioned by levity or ungovernable passion in them, than by their duty to the unnatural and tyrannical orders of their husbands and fathers, who sent off their wives and daughters to procure small pieces of iron and other trifles, and in the morning were seen swimming out to meet them and take possession of the treasures which they had obtained. (1813c:116)

Later the voyagers realized that these night visits were more than ‘sex-asbarter’ for iron hoops.4 As Löwenstern recorded in his diary, ‘The Englishman claimed they considered it an honor for their women to have been applauded on our ship’ (2003a:93). Langsdorff remarked that ‘the husband seemed to

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promote the virtues of his wife, the brother of his sister, the father of his daughter, and the lover of his beloved’ (1993:58). Attracting the visitors’ attention with the charms of their women was a kind of a sport. Romberg, who speaks of the ‘lewd’ life (by European standards) of eight-year-old girls, says that ‘here this is a vanity’ (1804a:37v.). The Russians would feel this even more forcefully when they visited Hakaui Bay a few days later. Krusenstern wrote of the women there: Their pantomime being so supplicating and at the same time so expressive, as to render it impossible to mistake their meaning. The people who stood around approved in the highest degree of their grimaces; they appeared to have been called upon to play this part, and I must do them the justice to say, that, in the spirit of the female sex in this quarter of the globe, they played it remarkably well. (1813c:132–133)

Whatever the Russian interpretation, to the Nuku Hivans this copulation with the visitors was not merely for the pleasure of the visitors, whom they might regard as supernatural beings, not mere prostitution for iron hoops or an answer to the call of sexuality. For the women and their families it was probably above all a matter of prestige, ambition, and competition. In fact, they were not so different from women in Europe, where, however, the sexual component was less public. Finally, as Langsdorff put it, ‘the goddess of the night with her dark veil covered everything that might have happened. Thus ended the first day of our stay, with new, wonderful scenes we had never before experienced’ (1993:59–60).

DAY 2

discovery

26 April (8 May) 1804

The Naturalist’s Gaze, the Royal Gaze The next day the idyll continued. The supercargo Shemelin recorded in his journal: On the dawn of the 26th, while the sun was still behind the tall peaks of the island and only the birds were beginning to stir, the loud voices of hundreds of kind islanders around the ship awoke us from our sleep and announced their second arrival. We saw with joy much more island produce . . . and started bartering. The whole day was spent in buying more coconuts, bananas and bread fruit. (1803–1806:121v.–122)

This activity round the ship became part of the islanders’ routine. Espenberg recorded: Many of them swam off early in the morning to the ship, with their forenoon’s repast, consisting of coco-nuts, which they ate in the water, and returned on shore late in the evening. Others had both their hands full of different articles, which they wished to barter with us, or which they had procured from us. These they held up, and swam for several hours merely with their feet. (1805c:12)

The Nuku Hivans’ prowess at swimming astonished the Russians. ‘I saw with my own eyes 6 and 8 year olds and 50 or 60 year old men, who swam around the ship for hours on end,’ Tilesius wrote (1806b:103). He believed that ‘these islanders could be called true amphibians, as they can live for as long and as freely in water as on land’; their agility in the water was a most valuable asset to him and the other naturalists as ‘they fished out for us the most amazing and rarest sea creatures, which they could easily catch in a matter of minutes’ (1821:185). Among Tilesius’ discoveries was Balistapus tilesius, a detailed 91

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account of which he published in the Proceedings of the Russian Academy of Sciences, describing how he assembled his collection of marine fauna, and in a book. He acknowledged that with the assistance of Robarts and Kabris he managed to record much data about the natural world provided by the islanders (1813; 1821:185–187). As mentioned above, it was Robarts who made the necessary arrangements for the naturalists to roam safely on the shore, explaining to the islanders the purpose of the expedition and requesting that they respect the naturalists’ privacy. Seeking safety in numbers, Langsdorff and Tilesius set aside their differences and, in company with ‘Major Friederici’, as Langsdorff addressed him, embarked on walks about the valleys (Langsdorff 1993:71). Espenberg was obliged to remain on board the ship, having been placed in charge of barter by Krusenstern, while the naturalist Brykin ventured ashore only once. Ratmanov remarked that ‘some of the naturalists, collecting island plants, would venture out some distance in pairs or by themselves. No insult was directed either towards us or the islanders’ (1803–1805a:46v.). The astronomer Horner admitted that ‘in the beginning we wanted to set up our observatory on land, but the Englishman, who knew these people better, advised us against this for convincing reasons.’ Yet Horner seemed to be at ease in his contacts on shore, remarking about the islanders, ‘They are unusual creatures, true children of nature, who can easily be managed with strictness and humor. It is necessary only to instill in them a feeling of powerlessness’ (1805:152–153). Langsdorff, in his botanical account, admitted their fears: ‘The inhabitants of this small archipelago are very cruel cannibals. That is why we had to observe all precautions. We could conduct excursions into the interior of the island only in large groups and well armed, so we were always severely restricted and could not even collect what we found on the way’ (Langsdorff and Fischer 1810:2). At the same time Langsdorff’s ‘Vocabulary from the Island of Nukahiva’ provides evidence that there were also more relaxed moments. Besides the expected words for parts of the body, animals, plants, artifacts, and so forth, it shows the naturalists in action: establishing contact (‘what is your name?’, ‘kissing with noses’, ‘we want to be friends’), overcoming the islanders’ apprehension (‘to be afraid’, ‘I am not afraid’, ‘to approach’), soliciting information (‘what is that?’, ‘tell me the name of the country’, ‘what are you making?’, ‘show me’, ‘sing something’), enjoying hospitality (‘open the cocoa-nut’, ‘give me something to drink’, ‘take a fan in order to cool yourself off’), exploring with a native guide (‘follow me’, ‘to climb down’, ‘to climb up’, ‘to arrive’, ‘don’t make noise’, ‘fetch it for me’). It differs from Lisiansky’s vocabulary, which was oriented more towards barter and onboard communication, and includes expressions that Lisiansky did not dare to include: ‘to love a



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woman’, ‘to sleep’, ‘sleep with me’ (Langsdorff 1993:115–128). The privilege of the naturalist’s gaze! Krusenstern’s morning started in an unexpected way: ‘The whole royal family did not fail to come on board by seven. I led them all into my cabin to make them a present. A portrait in oil of my wife struck them particularly, and they stood for a long time before it with every symptom of pleasure and surprise, pointing out to each other the curled hair, which they consider as a great beauty’ (1813c:117). Whereas Kiatonui when visiting his cabin the day before had posed narcissistically in front of the mirror, today the behavior of the male members of the royal family oddly mirrored that of the Russians with the native women. Just as Krusenstern had devoured with his eyes a ‘perfect child’ engaged in sex, now the naked tattooed natives were devouring with their eyes, ‘with every symptom of pleasure’, his wife’s image in front of him. In his unpublished journal Krusenstern was even more explicit about the reactions of his visitors: ‘they said that if they had known such a woman before, they would no longer look at their women’ (1804a:40). He had not stopped himself the previous day, and today, clearly taking some pleasure or pride in this display, he did not stop them. Instead he accepted their invitation to visit their home and their wives. He still believed himself to be a detached observer, immune to the temptations of the Nuku Hivan world.

A Visit to Kiatonui, Taboo, and Local Protocol That morning Krusenstern could apply his reading on Polynesian customs for the first time. To keep islanders away from the ship during his shore visit they ‘fired off some cannon, and hoisted a red flag, when the ship was declared tahbu, and all trade immediately ceased.’ In a footnote he adds, ‘I conceive it unnecessary to explain the word tahbu, which is sufficiently known by Captain Cook’s voyages’ (1813c:117).The Nuku Hivans understood the message and kept their distance—reluctantly—from the ship. Besides this particular taboo banning any visits to the ship, Krusenstern imposed a general taboo, according to Espenberg, ‘for all the islanders to come on board the ship, those only who brought hogs to the ship were excepted’. This taboo lasted, according to Löwenstern, for two days, and was lifted on the fourth day of the voyagers’ stay. Another taboo was imposed every evening: a cannon was fired to indicate that the ship was taboo for the night (women excepted, as we have seen) and all activities around it must cease (Espenberg 1805c:13; Löwenstern 2003a:95, 108). In reality the notion of taboo, which the Russians learned from Cook’s voyages and successfully applied in practice, had more complex social ramifications. Thomas has pointed out the confusion arising ‘from a transference to

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eastern Polynesia of what are essentially western Polynesian notions of tapu, which were made known in Europe through the publication of Cook’s voyages’. While in the west tapu often referred to restrictions—and the Russian voyagers in the above examples understood it as such—in the Marquesas ‘this type of restriction was a rahui or ‘ahui and had no connection with the larger tapu system’ (Thomas 1990:205).1 During the following days the Russians’ limited understanding of taboo as a prohibited place or action developed to a point that allowed Espenberg to say, ‘Taaboo is the magic word here, in which are comprehended all their religious, political, and moral laws’ (1805c:12). On learning of these broader implications, Langsdorff lamented, ‘Had Roberts and Cabri been educated, we probably could have collected more important contributions to the subject’ (1993:86). Shemelin too, in his own way, noticed the depth of this notion: ‘The word taboo is sacred for any islander, and he reveres it with fear and awe; the cause of which is in their religion’ (1816:129). Ratmanov, observing tabooed trees, explained: ‘If an islander is angry with another, he tries to punish him by placing a taboo on his fruit tree or pig, . . . adding moreover that the tree or pig is inhabited by the soul of a human.’ From this he drew an unexpected conclusion: ‘Civilized ones! . . .You kill or mutilate one another for a trifle. Do not be ashamed to follow the example of the savages, who respect man more than you do’ (ca. 1808:15). The voyagers collected rich data about the general characteristics of taboo and its practical application, some aspects of which will be taken up below. At about 10 o’clock a party consisting of Krusenstern, Rezanov, and most of the officers departed the ship. A shore visit, away from the safety of the ship, was always a challenge for both sides. Kiatonui’s family had already had the experience of leaving family members as hostages aboard ships to ensure the safe return of the visitors. The Russians did not apply such tactics, but they went well armed: ‘I therefore took a boat with me besides my barge, of which all the men as well as the officers were armed, the former with a brace of pistols and a sabre, and six of them with fire-arms’ (Krusenstern 1813c:118). In spite of two gunshots fired as a salute to the departing boats by Ratmanov, who stayed on board, a good-natured atmosphere prevailed. ‘While we were lowering the launch and rowing boat the people swimming around us all shouted “Vagina!”’ (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:40). This must have been “Wahina” or woman, the memories of the night still being fresh. Espenberg continued the story: ‘Having landed with great difficulty, on account of the strong surf, the people surrounded us with every token of joy: they ran round us singing and dancing, while Keatonui’s paternal uncle, who, however, was always called his father, kept them in order with a long pole, but without ever striking any of them’ (1805c:9).



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When Kiatonui was young his father had perished in the sea, and his father’s brother, Puakahu, had married Kiatonui’s mother, Putaha‘e (according to Suggs, these names mean ‘flower robe’ and ‘door of the house’) (2008:1).This ‘paternal uncle’ is often mentioned by the Russians, as he would visit the ship several times a day for barter.Tilesius described him as ‘a man advanced in years, but still extremely brisk and the first warrior in the valley. He had a bandage over one of his eyes which covered a fresh wound he had received in the last battle. He was quite tall, short in words but fast in action, so it was impossible to take his exact portrait’ (1804:13; 1806b:108–109). Krusenstern remarked that ‘the features of his countenance displayed the marks of an intrepid and determined character’ (1813c:118). Rezanov commented on the respect he enjoyed among the islanders (1825, no. 66:74), while Shemelin recorded some anecdotal evidence: ‘They say that under the previous king of Taio-Goe Bay, the father of the present king Katanove, the wars with their neighbors happened more often.They say the cause was that he was fond of human brains. He is still alive, and although he is seventy, he is so fit, brave and courageous that he still partakes in warfare’ (1816:136). Unfortunately, this grand old man cannot be identified in the pictures available. Led by the uncle for the last five hundred paces, Krusenstern recounts, they were ceremoniously brought into a long narrow building, in which the king’s mother, and all his relations of her sex, were seated in a row, and appeared to be expecting us; . . . I was forced to sit down in the middle of the royal ladies, who all examined me with a great deal of curiosity, holding my hand by turns clasped within their’s, and only dropping it to examine my clothes, the embroidery of my uniform, my hat, &c. There appeared so much frankness in all their countenances, that I was in the highest degree prepossessed in their favor, and presented them with some buttons, knives, scissars, and other trifles, which I had brought with me; but they did not appear to derive that pleasure from them which I had expected, and they seemed much more occupied with us than with our presents. (1813c:118–119)

Here Krusenstern the observer finds himself being observed, and unexpectedly enjoys the experience. The ‘invisibility of the imperial male’, to use Lee Wallace’s expression, was on the point of foundering. However critical Krusenstern might later have been of Kiatonui himself, the sincerity and naivety of the women obviously won his heart. In his journal, where he was more open than in the published text, he remarked that he felt reluctant to leave the royal

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ladies. He also admitted a strange sensation: ‘There were so many new and striking things around me that I could not concentrate on anything for long’ (1804a:40v.–41). After visiting the main dwelling, Krusenstern continued, ‘the king led us, accompanied by all his relations, to another building about fifteen paces from the first, and which is appropriated to their meals’ (1813c:119–120). Espenberg added, ‘He then conducted us into another house adjacent, but as it was taabooed none of the natives durst follow us.The place on which this house stood was elevated, and paved with stones’ (1805c:9).Then, according to Krusenstern, ‘Mats were immediately spread, upon which we seated ourselves, and our hosts seemed all so rejoiced at having us with them, that they knew not in what way to evince their satisfaction. One fetched us cocoa-nuts, a second bananas, a third water, while several of them sat down and fanned us’ (1813c:120). He removed from the published text reference to the fact that he was honored to be fanned by Kiatonui himself, as his journal reveals. Kiatonui reciprocated the previous day’s treat of tea and sugar with equal hospitality.

Discovering the Social Structure of Nuku Hiva This was the beginning of the Russian journey into the complex world of Nuku Hivan social organization. By the time they left the island ten days later the mariners would be able to make some judgments about it. Their accounts were based not only on explanations provided by Robarts and Kabris, but on their own observations as well. At the time of the Russian visit, Taiohae Bay was densely inhabited. According to Robarts’ estimate, it numbered eight hundred warriors, which meant that the total population would number about twenty-four hundred inhabitants. Krusenstern considered that this figure was too great by one-third (1813c:177). Tilesius estimated the population at fourteen hundred inhabitants, living in a hundred houses (1804:3). Shemelin, on the other hand, with reference to Robarts, claimed that there were twelve hundred males in the domain of Kiatonui (1816:129–130). The microcosm of Taiohae, inhabited by the Tei‘i people, consisted of five subtribes living in the valley between the low spurs of the high mountain walls encircling the bay, a volcanic caldera. Thomas in his study of Taiohae social structure remarked that this geographic fact was of some social consequence, because the four or five valley groups which made up the larger Tei‘i tribe occupied an ambiguous position between subordinate subtribes and autonomous units. On some occasions it seems to have been clear that one chief



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was recognized as the leader of several subtribes whereas in other instances the smaller groups had separate haka‘iki. (1990:37)

At the end of the eighteenth century, Kiatonui, the heir of two prominent families of chiefs and priests from the valley, was recognized as the major haka‘iki of the whole valley and, according to Crook, ‘a greater Chief than any other in the Island’ (2007:132). Dening argues that ‘Keattonnue did not inherit his property and title through strict primogeniture, but by adjustments of this rule to the realities of political power’ (Dening in Robarts 1974:327, 329). The Marquesan system of chieftainship was somewhat complicated. It is not surprising that Crook wrote of it that ‘the classes into which these islanders are distinguished . . . are numerous, burdensome and indispensable’ (2007:53). The lack of a rigid social structure and, often, of visible tokens of power, such as dress and decorations, led to some confusion in the observations of the Russian voyagers. Moreover, coming from a society with strict social hierarchy headed by a hereditary, divinely anointed autocrat, the Russians tended to see Marquesan authority in terms of their own experience and attitudes to power. Constant contacts with Kiatonui, his relatives, and his ‘court’ and household provided the Russians with an ideal vantage point for their observations. The question of the extent of the power of the ‘king’ was central to them, and here they all agreed that this power was of limited nature: ‘The form of government is any thing rather than monarchical; the king is not to be distinguished either by his dress or by his ornaments from the lowest of his subjects: they laugh at his orders’ (Krusenstern 1813c:165). ‘He is just the shadow of a king’ (Tilezius 1806b:107). ‘Unless the King’s orders . . . are for public benefit, they are disregarded’ (Shemelin 1816:130). ‘As for the King’s power, although his authority has the royal title, he cannot issue any absolute and imperious order without the consent of the people’ (Korobitsyn 1952:156). ‘Though their kingly dignity is, to outward appearance, more fictitious than real, they enjoy great privileges’ (Lisiansky 1814:80). While they could not deny the important role of the ‘king’ in the social hierarchy, their explanations of and their attitudes to this phenomenon were quite different. The Westerners (Krusenstern, Tilesius, Langsdorff) placed their focus on the material basis of the king’s power. Langsdorff, for instance, wrote: This headman, the so-called king of a valley, owns and probably inherited many breadfruit trees and coconut and banana groves. As a result, he is in a position to feed many people who, for this reason, place themselves under his protection, but still, so that each person is his own judge. (1993:86)

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The Easterners, on the other hand, put forward a more abstract basis, such as hereditary succession of rank (Gideon, Lisiansky, Korobitsyn), belief in the sacred nature of the king’s power (Gideon, Shemelin), and, the most remarkable of all, the subjects’ love and respect for a ruler who cared for their welfare (Shemelin, Lisiansky, Ratmanov). Shemelin, for instance, wrote: And although these sovereigns do not have the power to punish their subjects for any fault, they are considered sacred. [Their subjects] love them, and when the kings are endangered during war or other calamities, they protect them to the death. The king’s taboo is likewise sacred, and the kings with the assistance of the priests use the taboo to have their orders implemented, for their own and the common benefit. (1816:130)

All the Russians noticed that the Nuku Hivan landscape—mountain valleys—determined the tribal structure of its people. ‘All the inhabitants of the island are divided into as many kingdoms as there are bays, and these are always feuding with one another,’ Ratmanov wrote (1803–1805a:44v.). Shemelin tried to summarize Nuku Hivan social structure within a tribe, giving an acceptably accurate picture: The people of Taiohae Bay are divided into three social classes. The first is the higher class, superior by birth, services and descent from the kings. The second consists of the priests and is descended from the first, while the third is made up of the common people. Thirty men from the first class comprise the king’s council, serve as war leaders and assist in the political governance of the people. (1816:130)

He also noted the family-based private land-holding system, remarking that numerous rivers and rivulets running through the Taiohae valleys separated blocks of land where each family group held its property ‘not encroaching on the territory of others’ (1803–1806:135). Lisiansky remarked that the islanders owned property by succession or by acquisition. He noticed the difference between rich and poor; some of the latter were, he believed, ‘extreme paupers’ (1977:72). Krusenstern adhered to the opposite view, believing that the ‘personal beauty’ of the Nuku Hivans was not restricted to the noble class as in some other Oceanic societies because they all enjoyed access to natural resources. He argued that ‘the hitherto but little enlightened Nuka-hiwer does not acknowledge in the person of his king, a tyrant to whom he must sacrifice



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his best power and abilities, without daring to consider his own preservation, or that of his family’ (1813c:151–152). Krusenstern’s tyrant king, Tilesius’ fat king, and Shemelin’s beloved king—these varied images, inspired by the personality of Kiatonui and reflections about the role of authority, all owe something to extrapolations from the voyagers’ experience and their attitudes to authority.

Individuals behind the ‘National Physiognomy’ For Tilesius this visit to Kiatonui’s household was the beginning of his work on the portrait gallery of Kiatonui’s ‘court’. He wrote in his journal, ‘I have drawn very exactly him [Kiatonui], his brother Puiennui . . . , his nephew Omau Dei, his son Tamatoi and his warrior or companion . . .Taputaya Mufau’ (1804:3). In fact, plate XV in Krusenstern’s Atlas, entitled in German ‘National Physiognomien aus Nukahiwa’ (fig. 15), is a collective portrait of the ‘king’s court’, showing the principal members of his family in their respective positions. Although the portraits bear no individual captions, Tilesius’ sketchbook painstakingly records the names and positions of those portrayed, and the records are further supplemented by the remarks in his journal. In his work on this and other plates Tilesius aimed to reconcile two approaches: the artist’s and the naturalist’s. On the one hand, he portrayed

Figure 15.╇ Ignaz Sebastian Klauber after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘National physiognomy from Nukahiva’. Colored engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 15)

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his personal acquaintances, individuals, and proudly remarked in his journal, ‘My traveling companions, who knew these people as well as I did, agreed that I have drawn their heads very successfully’ (1804:3). Moreover, Krusenstern praised Tilesius’ ‘great talent to not only observe in everything a perfect sameness, but to vividly portray the character of the person being depicted’ (1812:III). On the other hand, in compliance with the scientific expectations of the time, Tilesius had to provide for the Atlas images of an anthropological nature, portraits of ‘typical’ representatives of different peoples and races. He took pride in his achievements in this area too. He wrote about this as ‘national physiognomy’—a very broad notion, which he formed under the influence of Blumenbach; he was especially interested in facial features and expression, skin color, and the shape of the head and its parts (Tilesius n.d.:1). He exhibited a similar duality—working as both artist and naturalist—in portraying, for example, the Japanese, as Frieder Sondermann has shown (2002a). In addition to these responsibilities,Tilesius was expected to present the images in conventional neoclassical style. It is not surprising that Tilesius’ drawing of ‘Kettenue’ in his sketchbook (1803–1806:70v.; Govor 2005:55) uses classical conventions to an anthropological end: to represent a typical member of a particular ethnic group rather than an individual personality. The drawing, made into an engraving, is the central figure in the upper row of plate XV. In the Russian edition of the Atlas the German engraver in Russian service, Ignaz Sebastian Klauber, added tattoo designs to Kiatonui’s shoulder that were lacking in Tilesius’ drawing but presumably were meant to contribute to the solemnity of the ‘king’.The image differs markedly from Löwenstern’s watercolor of ‘Kätenuä’ (see fig. 14), which has more of an individual aura about it but is probably less ‘authentic’ in respect to Kiatonui’s tattoo. The man on the left of Kiatonui is his brother, whose name Tilesius recorded as Puiennui and Pienui (Tilesius 1803–1806:72v.; Govor 2005:57), which, according to Suggs’ reconstruction, was Puhinui, meaning ‘big moray eel’ (2008:1). It is hard to say with certainty which of Kiatonui’s nine brothers he might have been, but it is likely that this is the same ‘king’s brother’ mentioned by nearly all the Russian voyagers. Analysis of the Russian accounts suggests also that he ranked next to Kiatonui in importance. Just after the Nadezhda anchored, ‘the king’s brother’ became its first visitor. He visited the ship soon afterwards in Kiatonui’s retinue, and only he and Kiatonui himself were given tea in the captain’s cabin. Rezanov commented that they were tattooed more than the others (1825, no. 65:394). Lisiansky mentioned that ‘the brother of the king of Tayohaia married the daughter’ of the neighboring chief to the west of the valley, and that this union had ended the warfare between the two districts



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(1814:80). Tilesius also observed that ‘the King’s brother’ lived in the valley to the left of Taiohae, over the mountain (1804:3). If this is correct, he could be identical with Kiatonui’s younger brother, Tamate, who, according to Crook, was their mother’s favorite; she ‘has endowed him with land in the Valley called Ouwaouka [Uauka], larger than the private property of the Chief [Kiatonui]. He distinguishes himself as leader of the Mattatoetoe class’ (2007:134). Another important personage is represented in a full-face portrait—head, shoulders, and chest—on the right in the upper row. The original drawing by Tilesius in his sketchbook has the inscription ‘Omau Dei der Neffe des Königs auf Nukahiwah’ (that is, the king’s nephew) (1803–1806:72v.; Govor 2005:57). He can be identified as Moate‘i‘i, the husband of Kiatonui’s daughter Tahatapu and the son of the chief of Hapa‘a valley, rather than a nephew of the ‘king’. Suggs reconstructs his name as ‘ferocious or powerful assistant to the high priest’ (2008:2). Tilesius said of him: ‘the king’s nephew, of whom . . . I have drawn a portrait, was always dressed in a bast mat instead of cloth’ (1806b:95). Krusenstern seems to have written about the same man: ‘Mats are sometimes used among them, and the king’s son-in-law, though he indeed was the only person, always came to the ship in one of a very coarse kind’ (1813c:157). He added: A fortunate union has set the inhabitants of Tayo Hoae at peace with those of another valley in the interior, the king of which is called Mau-day, (signifying head of the warriors). . . . He married the daughter of Kettenowee, and as no naval war can be carried on between them, they live in a state of perfect peace. Mau-day was almost always in Tayo Hoae, and after Mau-ha-u [Ma‘uhau] and Bauting [Pahutini] was the handsomest man we saw; he was likewise one of our daily guests. (1813c:169)

Krusenstern remarked in his journal that ‘Moudey’ was about thirty-five years old (1804a:42v.). Fortunately, the iconography of Moate‘i‘i is not limited to Tilesius’ drawing and the engraving based on it. I believe that this ‘handsome’ man was the model for Langsdorff’s full-length portrait published in his Remarks as ‘An inhabitant of the island of Nukahiva’; this is one of the most celebrated of all portraits of tattooed Nuku Hivans (fig. 16). Langsdorff commented that ‘this sketch is of a man of about thirty, on whom all of the tattoos are the clearest. Later, one figure is tattooed over another so that the lines blur greatly and the whole body takes on a negroid appearance as can be seen on the horizontal stripes over the stomach’ (1993:261, pl. 7).

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Figure 16.╇ Georg Langsdorff, ‘An inhabitant of the island of Nukahiva’. Ink and wash. Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley (PIC 1963.002:1006)

Tilesius, who could be the artist who drew the original sketch published by Langsdorff, remarked years later that this was a portrait of a priest (1828:163). This is consistent with the name Moate‘i‘i, as reconstructed by Suggs. Löwenstern’s journal also contains two full-length watercolors of a figure who can be identified as Moate‘i‘i. In one of these he is holding a spear (fig. 17), and in the other he is preparing to throw it (fig. 18). While the schematic features of the first picture suggest that the artist could have been Löwenstern himself, the refined expressionism of the second suggests that it could have been made by Tilesius or with his assistance. Finally, Tilesius produced a new drawing of a seated Moate‘i‘i, which was engraved for publication in the Allgemeine Musika-

Figure 17 (top left).╇ Hermann Löwenstern, Drawing of a Nuku Hivan (standing). Watercolor and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:242v. Figure 18 (top right). Wilhelm Tilesius (?), Drawing of a Nuku Hivan (throwing a spear). Watercolor and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:93 Figure 19 (left). Anon. after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Marquesan Islander from Nukahiva’. Colored engraving. National Library of Australia, Rex Nan Kivell Collection, PIC U5802 NK6612

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lische Zeitung (1805:tab. II). The colored engraving is held in the National Library of Australia (fig. 19). Later Tilesius wrote that the islander depicted was ‘Omaudei, nephew of king Kettenue’ (1828:163). These five portraits of one man made by three artists who were on the scene at the same time depict a number of key elements of his tattoo in similar fashion: the shield on the chest with two ovals on the sides; similar ovals on the shoulders; the ‘necklace’; the thickly tattooed ‘neck collar’ with an opening at the front; and the line across the nose evolving into a darkened segment on the lower left part of the face. Langsdorff’s and Löwenstern’s drawings are also similar in the composition of the torso and leg decorations. But a close look at the tattoo elements reveals numerous discrepancies. The shape and contents of the chest shield, for example, change from picture to picture; the content of the ovals also changes; one ‘necklace’ triples.The blackening around the eye, which is present in four drawings, is absent from the most detailed portrait by Tilesius. At the same time, only the latter portrait has an unusual sign resembling an anchor in a semicircle on the forehead. The engraving of ‘Omaudei’, illustrating Tilesius’ German article, is the most controversial. The text was aimed at a broad readership and sprinkled with exotic tales, while the motifs depicted in the engraving are a concoction of fantasies, particularly the spirals and concentric circles on the torso. This engraving diverges dramatically from Tilesius’ original sketch of ‘Omau Dei’. This abundant and varied iconography of one man is a rare case in the history of early representations of Polynesian tattoos. Each of these portraits taken in isolation seems reliable. But a comparison of different media and different artists’ impressions of the same person raises serious doubts about the accuracy of the tattoo motifs depicted and, more generally, about the validity of excessively literal interpretations of the detail shown of Polynesian tattoos in representations from the prephotographic era. Later researchers have uncritically taken for granted the accuracy of the tattoo elements reproduced in the best known of the engravings—Tilesius’ ‘Omaudei’ and Langsdorff’s ‘An inhabitant of the island of Nukahiva’—and have painstakingly analyzed them as exact images of ‘traditional’ tattoo (Steinen 1925–1928, 1:92, 140–141; Ottino-Garanger 1998:139–140). At most, however, such representations can be taken as approximate variations on a theme, and one can only surmise which is the truest to life—or, indeed, whether any one is ‘true’. Moreover, several of these drawings have their origin in the works of Jean Piron, an obscure artist, who accompanied Bruny d’Entrecasteaux’s expedition to the South Pacific in search of La Pérouse (see the analysis of Piron’s images in Douglas 1999a:73–83). Piron’s drawings, influenced by the conventions of neoclassicism, were published in Jacques Labillardière’s Atlas pour servir à la rela-



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Figure 20.╇ Jacques Louis Copia after Jean Piron, ‘Savage of the Admiralty Islands’. Engraving (Labillardière 1800:pl. 3)

tion du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse (1800, pls. 3, 5, 35), which apparently was aboard the Nadezhda and provided a template for the voyagers’ pictorial representations. Thus, the figure of Piron’s ‘Savage of the Admiralty Islands’ holding a paddle in his left hand (fig. 20) was used by Langsdorff for his ‘An inhabitant of the island of Nukahiva’ (see fig. 16), by Löwenstern (see fig. 17), and by Tilesius for ‘A so-called priest or distinguished savage’ (we will return to this personage later) (fig. 21). It is interesting to note that the waistband on the figure drawn by Piron was woven into Nuku Hivan tattoo patterns by both ‘copyists’—Langsdorff and Tilesius.

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Figure 21.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘A so-called priest or distinguished savage of the Marquesan Island of Nuku Hiva in decoration’. Gouache, ink, and pencil. Institut für Ethnologie der Universität Göttingen, Germany, Völkerkundliche Sammlung, Sammlung Cook/Forster

The figure of Piron’s ‘Savage of New Caledonia throwing a javelin’ (fig. 22) (probably inspired by a Greek sculpture of Zeus) was painstakingly reproduced in the Nuku Hivan throwing a spear in Löwenstern’s journal, where the club in the left hand of the New Caledonian was reduced to an unfinished stick in the left hand of the Marquesan (see fig. 18). Finally, Piron’s man sitting on a flat rock from the ‘Savages of Van Diemen’s Land, fishing’ (fig. 23) was incorporated into Tilesius’ group of two women and a man (fig. 24); the latter later evolved into the seated ‘Omaudei’ (see fig. 19).

Figure 22 (left).╇ Jacques Louis Copia after Jean Piron, ‘Savage of New Caledonia throwing a javelin’. Engraving (Labillardière 1800:pl. 35) Figure 23 (bottom).╇ Jacques Louis Copia after Jean Piron, ‘Savages of Van Diemen’s Land, fishing’. Engraving (Labillardière 1800:pl. 4). National Library of Australia, PIC U8147/4 NK3030

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Figure 24.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of two women and a man. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:73v.)

*â•… *â•… * After a visit lasting half an hour the voyagers left Kiatonui’s abode, shown out by Puakahu, and made their way to the ship surrounded by rejoicing crowds of islanders. The procession was led by three sailors with firearms, and another three brought up the rear. Soon the officers were back in the safety of the ship. The only casualty of this visit was Councillor Fosse. Surgeon Espenberg wrote in his report: It was unbearably hot; the heat must have been nearly 30 [degrees Réaumur];2 it was a pity we did not have a thermometer with us. Around midday we returned to the ship. While we were having tea, we were alarmed by Councillor Fosse, who fell with a cry to the deck in an apoplectic seizure, having been affected by the great heat on the shore. (1812:293)



This heat would have its effect on all of them very soon.



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Water, Wood, and Communication In the meantime another important enterprise was under way. When landing that morning, Krusenstern and his officers had examined the water in a stream nearby and found it good for filling the ship barrels. Löwenstern’s map allows us to indicate the spot with certainty (fig. 25). It was the stream called Vaitu, situated in the northeastern bend of the bay, near the present local wharf, not far from the hill where Captain Porter would build his ‘Madisonville’ in 1813 and the French would build Fort Collet in 1842. The environs of this cove became the center of contact between the Nuku Hivans and the visitors. After the successful tabooing of his ship, Krusenstern wanted to place a taboo on the watering place as well. Löwenstern reports: ‘The Englishman promised to make the source of water and the observation place taboo’

Figure 25.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Taiohai Bay’. Pencil and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:88

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(2003a:93). Similarly, Captain Fanning had asked Kiatonui to taboo the stream in 1798, to prohibit the islanders from bathing in it while the ship’s casks were being filled (1924:117–119). Krusenstern may have wanted to use taboo merely to keep the crowds away from his men while they were ashore. In any case his request was not granted, as Langsdorff wrote: ‘He [Kiatonui] had so little influence over the other inhabitants that, at Captain von Krusenstern’s request, he could not even keep the crowd of people away from our watering-place or make it taboo’ (1993:85; 1812, 1:113). Fanning’s successful example suggests that Kiatonui did have the power to impose a taboo, so the reasons for Krusenstern’s failure might be different. Löwenstern’s sketches of the watering and landing sites (figs. 26, 27) show the extreme precautions taken by the Russians.Their sentries armed with rifles and sabres, under the command of an officer, stand along the bank ready to repel a possible attack, while the tattooed natives swarm around the barrels. Löwenstern’s images, where tropical nature is hardly pictured, concentrate on cross-cultural contact. They seem to illustrate Dening’s notion of ‘the beach’ as a border each side has to cross (2004). Textual accounts suggest that the scene, viewed from different perspectives, had other dimensions as well. Robarts left his compressed account of the shore works, which he organized for the Russians: Two boats was mand, one for wood, the other for water. I employd the natives in filing the water and carrying the wood, a fresh gang to every boat load; for had I employd one gang of natives, it might cause envy. So I was wiling to give a fair chance to as many as I could.

Figure 26.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Watering place’. Watercolor. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:81



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Figure 27.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Landing place’. Watercolor. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:80

By this means I securd the good will of the poor people. I allowd 20 natives to carry the Long boat Load of wood and about 25 to fill & swim of [sic] the casks of water to the boat. The water was raffted of to the ship [with] each boat load. One peice of good iron hoop [was given] to every man employd. (1974:132)

While Robarts described the water collection from an English perspective of fair play, the Russians saw in it above all the friendliness and helpfulness of the Nuku Hivans: The natives lent every possible assistance to our people; they filled the casks, and swam with them back through the surf; nor would it, without their help, have been possible for us to have procured more than one boat load of water in a day; and even then not without great exertions on the part of our men, and the risk of endangering their health. With the assistance of the natives we could with great facility send off the boat three times in the day, while our people had only to attend to and watch them . . . and this convenient mode of obtaining water cost us each time no more than a dozen pieces of broken iron hoop, about five inches long. (Krusenstern 1813c:120)

Moreover, while Robarts saw the natives as individuals competing for remuneration, the Russians stressed the collective side of this work and the joyful atmosphere surrounding it. Espenberg relates: When we gave any of them work to perform, it was a kind of festival to them. . . . It required five or six of our sailors to accomplish what

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one of these natives could do seemingly in sport. . . . The piece of iron which he obtained as a reward for this service he showed with a great deal of laughter to his companions standing on the shore, who then burst out into loud laughter also. (1805c:11)

Gideon, who arrived a few days later on the Neva, had similar impressions: They carried the barrels through the surf on their backs, and found in this even some kind of sport. As the sailors were hoisting the barrels aboard the ship by means of the capstan, King Tapega Katenui arrived, in company with all his kinsmen and notables. Our newly arrived guests, seeing the sailors engaged in this work, decided that it was a game and suddenly joined in, singing in their own manner. Our Tartar, Bek-Murza Iusupov began to accompany them on the volynka [bagpipe], their most favored and marveled at instrument. (1989:22–23)

As the sailors and islanders worked together at these tasks they learned to communicate without interpreters, and although apprehension was always present in some form, laughter formed a language they could all understand. Löwenstern, who supervised the shore works the following day, describes one such interaction in his diary: His imperial majesty paid me the honor of a visit. His brother and other relatives did not find it beneath their dignity to help me fill [barrels] with water and float the felled timber to me on the longboat. . . . These people are good-natured and eager to help. Only one of them went after one of my men (a tiny sailor), grimacing and clenching his fist as if he intended to hit him. When we were chopping wood, they were much more respectful because the effective blows of our axes amazed them. One fellow had raised a beam onto his shoulder and acted as if he wanted to drop it on one of our men who had slipped and fallen. This scene caused general laughter among the savages. I took an ax and acted as if I wanted to split the beam on his shoulder (I cannot call the thing that this Hercules was carrying anything else). Now the object of their amusement changed, and my savage carried his burden to the boat accompanied by general laughter. (2003a:94–95)3



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It is noteworthy that the day before this experience Löwenstern had remarked in his diary (most likely under the influence of Robarts’ tales), ‘The people are deceitful and wily’ (2003a:93). One day ashore was enough to change his attitude. He observed that, after working hard to earn a piece of iron hoop, the natives turned even the payment procedure into a sport: ‘All of the savages crowded around the boat, grabbed it and held it tight, so that I found it necessary to hit their fingers. All of this was intended primarily to obtain two pieces of iron instead of one in the confusion’ (2003a:95).

Gifts and Misunderstandings While the watering exercise unfolded on shore, the ship remained the center of barter and temptation for the islanders. ‘The savages are becoming burdensome,’ Löwenstern recorded in his journal. ‘One of them stole a washbasin and a pair of scissors out of Resanoff’s cabin by climbing up the side of the ship. Other thieves followed him. We have had to chase them off in a boat’ (2003a:94). Shemelin wrote about the same episode: ‘One agile savage, having clambered up the side of the ship and into the Captain’s cabin, managed to steal a shaving bowl, and although he was spotted the masters did not want to start an argument over an item of so little value, and let the thief have it’ (1816:136). Krusenstern was inclined to blame Rezanov’s servant for oversight rather than to punish the islanders (1804a:41v.). The Japanese spotted the erupting tension too, but, characteristically, they saw Rezanov as the peacemaker: ‘The crowd of men and women beside the ship made an incredible noise day and night.When the sailors tried to restrain them, the Ambassador stopped them, saying we could not tell what these extraordinary islanders might do, and ordered them to be treated kindly’ (Otsuki 1976:164). The Russians took a lenient view of such minor incidents because they were eager to achieve their main purpose—the acquisition of livestock, which they desperately needed for the onward journey. And here we return to the complex area of gift exchange, instigated by the Russians on the previous day with the inevitable blunders. Löwenstern recorded the events of that morning in his diary: At daybreak, the noise began again. Only by gunshots could we keep the bothersome savages away from the ship. We were visited by several men called kings and priests who brought gifts of bananas, pigs, and coconuts and were the only ones permitted onboard. For

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the whole day a lot of them swam around the ship without taking a rest. At eleven o’clock in the morning, we raised a red flag upon the captain’s order, and by a cannon shot we put a taboo on the ship. (2003a:93)

It is possible that, because of the confusion around the ship, the ‘kings and priests’ who came with ceremonial gifts were mixed up with the commoners and were not admitted on board, or were stopped by the ‘taboo’. We may only imagine the implications of such discourtesy. And it may be that the response was not long in coming. After a lucky bargain, in which two pigs were acquired in exchange for two hatchets, pigs suddenly disappeared from the market. Shemelin believed that this was because of the poor quality of the Russian hatchets, compared to the larger English axes that the natives already possessed: ‘One such was brought onto the ship by the King himself, who said it was blunt from extensive use and he wanted us to sharpen it on our grindstone. It was more likely, however, to show us that they have better things than those we were willing to trade for their livestock (1803–1806:122v.). In spite of all his sympathy for Kiatonui, Shemelin appears to be deeply offended by his behavior. In the Russian tradition the recipient of a gift should not hint that it is less than perfect. He recorded with irritation their disappointment in Marquesan reciprocality: ‘We expected that the King, having a need for iron or other things of ours, would bring a few pigs to the ship for barter. He has already been on the ship twice today, but he does not seem to have the slightest inclination of selling us his livestock’ (1816:114). Similar disappointment—on both sides—may be seen in Löwenstern’s diary entry a few days later: In the afternoon, Kätenuä, the king, brought our captain a pudding made from breadfruit and coconut. At first, there were prejudices against this dish, but it tasted quite good. His Imperial Majesty was very angry with Roberts (that’s the name of the Englishman) because he wanted to have a pair of scissors and did not get them. We continually ask for pigs, and the savages do not bring us any. And he wanted the scissors for the pudding. (2003a:96)

Kiatonui’s displeasure may have been caused by his suspicion that Robarts did not convey properly that the pudding was a gift for which suitable reciprocation was expected. The Russians did not take the hint, and Kiatonui did not supply any pigs.

DAY 3

immersion 27 April (9 May) 1804

The Neva at Ha‘atuatua Bay Meanwhile the Neva, having been separated from the Nadezhda soon after Cape Horn and after waiting a few days for it near Easter Island, was making its way to Nuku Hiva. On the evening of the previous day the Neva came close to Point Matauaoa on the northeast extremity of Nuku Hiva. It spent the night far off shore and in the morning sailed south along the eastern coast of the island, trying not to approach too close to the uncharted shore. They had sighted Ha‘atuatua Bay (south of Point Matauaoa) but could not see any dwellings and did not enter the bay; Lisiansky, it seems, did not realize that he had discovered an uncharted bay. Soon they reached the eastern tip of the island, Point Toea; at that moment they saw a boat with eight islanders approaching the ship. While the first contact between the islanders and the Nadezhda was under the control of Robarts from the beginning, the Neva’s experience provides detailed data of contact with the Nuku Hivans without intermediaries. Three voyagers left accounts of this contact—Lisiansky (Russian and English versions), Korobitsyn, and Gideon (several versions). These materials are especially important as the inhabitants of the eastern coast of Nuku Hiva, unlike those of the Taiohae and Taipi valleys, had had hardly any contact before the Russian visit. Nor did they attract the attention of visitors in subsequent decades. Gideon is the only one to indicate that the islanders were from ‘the northeastern bay of the island’ (1989:21). According to Lisiansky, ‘When at a short distance from us, one of the company sounded a large conch, while another waved a piece of white cloth. Thinking these to be tokens of friendship, I ordered, in return, a white handkerchief to be waved, and a white flag hoisted’ (1814:64). Korobitsyn and Gideon also report this communication, adding that the islanders brought bunches of bananas and other fruits. Lisiansky continues: ‘As soon as the boat came up to the ship and we signalled for the islanders to board, they leaped into the water and climbed onto the ship with great agility, 115

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using ropes thrown over to them’ (1977:59). The Russians were impressed by the friendliness of the visitors. They entered the ship with ‘smiling countenances’, according to Gideon (1989:21). They ‘behaved in as free and amicable a manner as if they had lived amongst us all their lives’, remarked Lisiansky (1814:64). The only thing that provoked their apprehension was the armed guards. ‘They all pointed to the armed guards who were posted at the gangways and who seemed terrifying to them’, Korobitsyn noticed (1952:152). The islanders had clearly learned the devastating power of firearms, though perhaps only by hearsay. Lisiansky goes on, ‘The sailors, driven by curiosity, surrounded them [the islanders], but this did not in the least interrupt their singing, dancing, and other wild testimonies of joy.’ ‘For each trifle,’ Lisiansky would ‘give them a knife or a nail with which they were very pleased, especially with the former’ (1977:59–60; 1814:64). Sailors, who usually do not figure in the voyagers’ accounts, in this case contributed to the festive atmosphere by staging their own performance on the volynka. Gideon tells us, ‘However, they [the islanders] were most astonished, so that it is even difficult to depict the same, by the Russian village musical instrument called the volynka. As they listened to the song music being played upon it, they marveled and grew shy, jumped around and shouted’ (1989:22). This spontaneous communication established with the help of music is noteworthy. As mentioned above, the Russian bagpipes would soon sound again at Taiohae, accompanying the teamwork of natives and sailors as they loaded water barrels onto the Neva. In the meantime Lisiansky had to remain alert. ‘Observing that four more canoes were hurrying from the shore, I ordered our present visitors to leave us; and in a moment they all jumped overboard, one after another. As soon as the new visitors arrived, those who left us made a most tumultuous noise; and, displaying our presents, vociferated, repeatedly, the word cuanna’ (1814:64). In reply to my query about this word, Professor Robert Suggs wrote, ‘The word koana means to obtain, to receive, to find, or to be able. The Marquesans were basically saying, with glee: “We’ve got these things!” or, more colloquially: “Look what we’ve got!”’ At the end of his letter, Professor Suggs adds, ‘I feel a very close tie to the prehistoric population of Ha‘atuatua. So this one word comes to me from them across the centuries, thanks to Kapt. Lt Yu. Lisiansky’ (e-mail 23 March 2007). Korobitsyn estimated that there were about fifty islanders in the boats approaching the ship. Among the new party Lisiansky spotted ‘a chief, who held a long stick, to which was fastened a bunch of bananas [‘a bunch of dry banana-tree leaves’ in the Russian original], a piece of white cloth manufactured on the island, and a square fan’. Lisiansky was fearful of being ‘surrounded



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by too many of these savages’, and this time invited only a few of the visitors aboard, including the ‘chief’: As soon as he [the chief ] was on the quarter-deck, he sat himself down, and presented me with the bunch of bananas, and the cloth that had been fastened to the stick. I was going to put on his head a cap of striped stuff; but he refused the honor, and begged a knife, which was given him, as well as a copper coin to use as an earring. One of my officers showed him a small looking-glass, which delighted him so much that the officer had to leave it to him. Our new guests behaved with the same familiarity as the preceding ones. They were all perfectly honest in the exchange of articles, and so docile, that no one left the ship without asking my permission. (1814:64–65; 1977:60)

Friendly contact was easily established in spite of the unusual appearance of the visitors. Korobitsyn wrote, ‘As to their physical constitution, they were all rather virile and well-proportioned, but their bodies as well as their faces were mottled with various figures incised with black pigment’ (1952:152). Gideon mentions that ‘all were naked, except for a few, . . . but all the men had the tip of their genital organs tied with a bark string. Some had their entire bodies tattooed or decorated in various ways, according to their taste. Some held in their hands large fans.The heads of all were bare, the hair cropped’ (1989:21). It is interesting to note that according to Gideon not all of the visitors were tattooed, and none of the Russians mentions the ‘horned’ hairstyle, so popular at Taiohae. Among the goods the visitors brought aboard were, Gideon recorded, ‘a small quantity of cloth, bananas, sugar cane, and coconuts’. But it seems that for both sides mutual discovery was of greater interest than barter (as had happened at Taiohae). The Russians did their best to impress the islanders with the commodities of their own world: ‘We offered them some white Tenerife wine, but they did not drink it; neither did they snuff the tobacco’ (Gideon 1989:21). Another thing attracted the visitors: ‘I [Lisiansky] showed them fowls and pigs; the fowls they called moa, and the pigs boaga, intimating by signs that there were plenty of both on shore; but, from their surprise at the sight of our sheep and goats, I inferred that they had never till then seen such animals.’ Moreover, obviously using sign language the islanders managed to convey a rather complex message: ‘the locals earnestly asked us to stay, assuring us that there were neither swine nor vegetables in Taiohae.’ Lisiansky, who was hurrying to rendezvous with the Nadezhda ‘could not comply with their request’ (1814:65–66; 1977:60).

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At the end of their visit the Russians ‘loaded our guests with gifts of iron articles and other things, which they accepted with great delight’.The islanders responded in their own way: ‘In return, they entertained us with their songs, accompanied by various contortions, and by beating in time the right palm upon left shoulder’ (Gideon 1989:21–22). ‘As a token of gratitude they did not fail to display their proficiency in exercising their bodies to the accompaniment of handclapping and singing in their native tongue. Then they departed from our ship in their boats, quietly and in a state of perfect satisfaction’ (Korobitsyn 1952:152). Brief though it was, this visit reveals much about the Russians’ attitudes and their expectations of the islanders and demonstrates their ability to establish friendly contact without language or intermediaries. At the same time it testifies to a good-natured openness towards white-skinned visitors on the part of the islanders, who had not experienced European atrocities. The Neva continued on its way south along the eastern shore: ‘At 6 o’clock in the afternoon we went around the southern promontory of the island, where there was a bay suitable for anchoring. But, because we were unfamiliar with the entrance to the bay and because of the lateness of the hour, we lay to the S., tacking about all night’, Korobitsyn recorded (1952:152–253).The bay he mentioned was obviously Comptroller Bay. The news that the Neva was approaching the southeast point reached the Nadezhda almost immediately—the natives had sighted it from the mountains and informed Krusenstern via Robarts.

Ma‘uhau, the Firemaker to the King In Taiohae the day was spent in work, barter for food, and taking on supplies of water and wood. The embargo imposed by Krusenstern on free trade was still in force when the Nuku Hivans, as if to tease the voyagers, brought a variety of their wares. According to Shemelin there were well-preserved skulls with the lower jaw still intact (the eye holes adorned with carved mother-of-pearl), headdresses, necklaces, a variety of weapons ‘artfully crafted from hard redbrown or black wood’, and white and yellow tapa cloth. ‘Perhaps,’ he reflected, ‘many wanted to have the items the islanders offered them, but no one dared to disobey the Captain’s orders and buy anything for himself ’ (1803–1806:123; 1816:114–115). But as the desired pigs had not been delivered, in the evening Krusenstern lifted the ban. At night, besides the usual female visitors, the Russians had male company, and here we enter the somewhat speculative ground of the voyagers’ response to Marquesan masculinity in general, and homosexual connotations in particular. Löwenstern wrote:



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We kept Muhau onboard overnight and served him food in our manner. His behavior is so natural and unaffected that we had to admire him rather than deride him. He ate all of our dishes with a knife and fork as he saw us doing. When, however, he came to a coconut, he did not know how to get at it without using his teeth. After we had let him know he should do the customary thing with the nut, he did so in the wink of an eye, to our astonishment. He split the husk with his fist, ripped it off with his teeth, knocked a round hole in the nut with the knuckle of his first finger, drank the water, and then held the whole nut between his knees and broke it with both hands—all of that in the wink of an eye. (2003a:95; 2005:163)

Ma‘uhau was an outstanding figure whose likeness we may study in the surviving portraits. The upper row of plate XV in Krusenstern’s Atlas (see fig. 15) includes a profile of a man who seemingly broke the mold of Kiatonui’s relatives by virtue of his curly hair, without ‘horns’. The inscription over this portrait in Tilesius’ sketchbook reads ‘Taputakaya Muf äu’ (1803–1806:71v.; Govor 2005:58). Langsdorff referred to him as ‘Mau-ka-u, or Mufau Taputakaya’, others as ‘Mau-ha-u’, ‘Muhau’, ‘Maugau’, and ‘Mugau’. Willowdean Handy reconstructs his name as Ma‘uhau, meaning ‘upright hibiscus tree’ (1973:xix). The Russians admired ‘his strength, the proportions of his muscles and all of his individual parts’.Tilesius measured every part of his body and sent the details to the German comparative anatomist Johann Friedrich Blumenbach in Göttingen. Blumenbach ‘compared Mufau to the Apollo in Belvedere. He discovered in the evidence given him something no one suspected—that this masterpiece of Greek creative art, uniting everything admired as the ideal of male beauty, has the same proportions and relationships as our Mufau, an inhabitant of Nukahiva’ (Langsdorff 1993:69–70). Independently of the scientists, Shemelin, who went on an excursion around the island with ‘Mugau’, wrote, ‘His limbs were so well proportioned that sculpture and art depicting human perfection would never find a better example than this Nukahivan Hercules’ (1816:118). It is likely that the famous colored engraving of the ‘Man from Nuku Hiva Island’, depicted with a club, u‘u, on his right shoulder and a gourd in his left hand in Krusenstern’s Atlas (fig. 28), is also a portrait of Ma‘uhau. Krusenstern considered Ma‘uhau to be ‘one of the handsomest men that ever existed’ (1813c:153), and in the Russian edition of his Voyage he added, ‘The attached drawing will show his perfect, colossal physique more clearly’ (1809:188). It is clear that he meant this engraving because versions of it illustrate both the German and English editions of Krusenstern’s Voyage. There is no original full-

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length drawing of Ma‘uhau in Tilesius’ sketchbook, although there is a sketch of a man’s head wearing a headdress made from pigs’ teeth, similar to that in the engraving of Ma‘uhau (fig. 29). His face is depicted with no tattoo at all, probably because in this instance the artist was more concerned to show the man’s ornamentation and facial expression. Another colored engraving in the Atlas— ‘Bust portrait of a man from Nuku Hiva Island’ (fig. 30)—may have its origins in Tilesius’ drawing of Ma‘uhau in his sketchbook and in the collective portrait

Figure 28.╇ Egor Skotnikov and Ignaz Sebastian Klauber after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Man from Nuku Hiva Island’. Colored engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 10)



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Figure 29.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of a man’s head wearing a headdress made from pigs’ teeth. Gouache (Tilesius 1803–1806:81v.) Figure 30.╇ Egor Skotnikov after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Bust portrait of a man from Nuku Hiva Island’. Colored engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 8)

of Kiatonui’s family (see fig. 15). The subjects have the same curly, ‘unhorned’ hair, facial tattoos, and athletic physique. This could be a manifestation of Tilesius’ evolving from individual portrait drawing towards a generalized ‘national physiognomy’. A colored drawing by Tilesius that recalls Ma‘uhau from the Atlas is preserved among Blumenbach’s papers in Göttingen (Hauser-Schäublin and Krüger 1998:78). Tilesius entitled this drawing ‘A so-called priest or distinguished savage of the Marquesan Island of Nuku Hiva in decoration’ (see fig. 21). It is probable that Tilesius sent this drawing to Blumenbach with his description of Ma‘uhau’s figure, or it might be a combination of Ma‘uhau’s body with a priest’s head in its splendid headgear.The man is holding the same club in his right hand while his outstretched left hand grasps a faintly outlined vertical spear.The genealogy of this figure can be traced back to Piron’s ‘Savage of the Admiralty Islands’ (see fig. 20), discussed above, where the islander is holding a paddle in his left hand. The meticulously prepared color engraving of Ma‘uhau in Krusenstern’s Atlas by Egor Skotnikov and Klauber became canonical. The engraving by J. A. Atkinson in the English edition of Krusen-

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stern’s Voyage is poorer and more schematic (1813c:frontispiece). It simplifies many details of the tattoo, especially on the torso. The differences between the Göttingen colored drawing and the engraving in the Atlas are more important: the tattoos, though uniform in general, have numerous divergences, especially in the middle and lower part of the torso, which cannot be explained by simplification, as in Atkinson’s variant, but most likely resulted from the engravers’ exercise of artistic license. Moreover, Tilesius’ drawing of Ma‘uhau’s head is quite different from that of the full-length representations. Thus, despite this rich iconography of a particular person, it is impossible to say which, if any, of the representations corresponded most closely to the reality. In principle, however, greater verisimilitude is to be assumed in an artist’s field sketches and then in his reworked drawings than in engravings. It was no accident that Ma‘uhau was depicted among the members of Kiatonui’s family. The visitors learned that he was the ‘firemaker to the king’, that is, the queen’s pekio, ‘secondary husband’. This peculiar position amused the Russians, who were pleased by this elevation of virility and valor. Even the reserved Krusenstern wrote of the custom with subtle irony: ‘a firemaker . . . must, in every sense, represent his [king’s] person with the queen, who finds in him a second husband during the absence of the first. He is the guardian of her virtue, and his reward the enjoyment of that which he has to protect’ (1813c:167). In his unpublished journal Krusenstern was more specific, remarking that ‘the king has three such substitutes; he considers it better to share a husband’s duties with one than with 20’ (1804a:47). In 1799, according to Crook, ‘the chief’s Pekkeyo’ was Peueinui, a member of the tapu, ‘restricted’, ‘forbidden’, class who owned large properties; he was also a toa, ‘head warrior’, in the Tei‘i tribe (2007:132). Thomas argued, however: Crook . . . noted that a pekio came to ‘belong’ as much to the husband, or the husband’s part of the family, as to the wife and the wife’s, and this perhaps explains why Peueinui was spoken of as Keatonui’s pekio. The roles of chief and head warrior were sometimes shared by the same individual, which perhaps explains why the ornaments which Peueinui wore into battle actually belonged to Keatonui. . . . It was exceptional for a prominent man such as a head warrior to act as a pekio. (1990:41)

It is therefore tempting to identify Ma‘uhau with Peueinui because Ma‘uhau, according to the Russians, combined the duties of pekio with a prominent position in Kiatonui’s household and was an outstanding warrior. Krusenstern remarked several times on Ma‘uhau’s glory as ‘the strongest and



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most intrepid’ warrior (1813c:153, 165, 167, 168). Tilesius referred to him as Kiatonui’s ‘warrior or companion, a big and very handsome young man, like an Apollo’ (1804:3). The Russians did not refer to him as a toa, but they did not know this term for head warrior, although Lisiansky realized that toa meant brave (1814:323). The only contradictory detail is Langsdorff ’s impression that Ma‘uhau was twenty years old in 1804 (1993:69)—thus it is doubtful that he could have been toa in 1799 during Crook’s visit. Shemelin was less definite, referring to him as ‘a young islander’ (1816:118), and Löwenstern called him just ‘a big fellow’ (2003a:102).1 Moreover, the fact that his intricate tattoo seems to have been complete at the time of the Russian visit suggests that he must by then have been older than twenty. Ma‘uhau was readily accepted aboard, becoming a go-between and a guide for the Russians in their communication with the islanders. Besides lending practical assistance, he had about him an aura of bold masculinity. Langsdorff wrote: Mufau, who had never been on a European ship, climbed the big mast several times of his own accord and jumped for fun and to the astonishment of the spectators into the ocean. Captain von Krusenstern had him called back when he was about to jump from the top yard. We could not stand to watch him without shuddering in amazement as he balanced for several seconds at such a height with his feet pulled in tight against his body in order to keep his head up, and how the force of his fall and the weight of his body caused him to dive so deeply that he only appeared again on the surface of the water several seconds later. (1993:111)

Löwenstern recorded another episode: They [islanders] would grab the line with one hand and a foot and with one swing they were on the ship as if we had lowered a ladder. Muhau stayed on the side of the ship for a whole hour, while holding himself with one hand, the toes of a foot on the line, and conducted trade, counted tokis [iron hoops], and received coconuts and breadfruit. (2003a:104)

The Marquesan Body and Eroticism The voyagers’ fascination with Ma‘uhau was part of what had struck the Russians’ eye from the very beginning—the masculinity of this Marquesan world.

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The corpus of Russian accounts of the Marquesan body is very rich. On the one hand, their accounts are a further development of the observations and conclusions of their predecessors, which they knew well: Mendaña, Cook, the Forsters, Marchand, and Wilson. On the other, they express disagreement, supported by their own observations and impressions, with previous observers and the established stereotypes.The Russians concurred with Cook’s view that the Marquesans were ‘the finest race of people in this Sea’ but preferred, like Forster, to speak of the ‘beauty’ of Marquesan men, and praised them as the most beautiful nation in the whole world. The high level of education among the expedition members set a new pattern: comparisons now appeared, especially among the ‘Westerners’, of the Nuku Hivans with Greek sculpture. Tilesius argued, ‘Here I have proved by measuring a man that the beautiful forms of the Ancients, the Warrior, Apollo, Antinous, Laocoon and Hercules, are no mere ideals of beauty; all these ancient forms . . . still exist in Nuku-Hiva’ (1821:185). ‘Many a one could have been compared to the master-works of ancient art and certainly would have lost nothing in the comparison,’ Langsdorff echoed (1993:69). ‘Handsome people, each savage could serve as a model for an Apollo Belvedere,’ Löwenstern added. He had also ‘seen many of the savages with Roman noses’ (2003a:92, 101). Describing the male body, the Russians go further than Cook and Forster, who had written about the islanders’ ‘fine shape’, ‘regular features’, and tall stature. The Russians depict the Nuku Hivans as robust, agile, virile men of fine bearing, and elaborate these features on the basis of their own observations. Gideon, for instance, adds a new dimension to the celebration of their masculinity, remarking that the men ‘boasted’ of ‘battle scars received in the wars . . . just like the old European soldiers do, and displayed their scars for us’ (1989:23). But while the educated Westerners turned to classical warriors, the less versatile Shemelin drew from his own experience, considering that ‘if one were to look for similarities with other peoples, it would seem that their faces are an amalgamation of different peoples. They have similarities with the faces of Turks, Georgians and our Don Cossacks’ (1816:127). In the Russian mind these three nations are perceived as warriors. The Japanese, by contrast, though seeing the same male shapes, received a quite different impression: ‘They are robust. The men are seven feet tall and tattooed from head to toe. Their genitals were exposed and the foreskin was pulled and tied with a sort of string.’ They reminded them of the Japanese monsters called kijin (Otsuki 1976:164–165). Artists illustrating Kankai ibun on the basis of sailors’ descriptions depicted the Marquesan male as an ugly, beastlike creature whose muscles, though clearly visible, conform neither with European nor Japanese notions of beauty and harmony (fig. 31).



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Figure 31.╇ Japanese drawing of Marquesans. Gouache and ink on paper. ‘Kankai ibun’ manuscript, pt. 14, Waseda University Library

Thus, in the absence of a rigid stereotype, the three groups of observers— Westerners, ethnic Russians, and Japanese—saw the Marquesan body very differently, associating it with warriors known in their cultures—Greek gods, Cossacks, and Japanese monsters. The voyagers were clearly quite carried away by the virtues of masculinity, and when they came to describe the women they saw them in very different terms: ‘The women are not at all as comely as the men, and it is indeed hard to believe that they come from the same tribe’ (Tilesius 1806b:105). ‘I must say that, however much earlier writers praised the fair sex for its beauty, we found quite the opposite. The women here are so plain that they can be safely described as ugly’ (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:41v.–42). ‘Their wives are far behind

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their men, lacking the attractiveness of European women. . . . One seldom sees a face of soft features, only unreserved gaiety, nature and wildness can be read in their faces’ (Horner 1805:152). Langsdorff considered that their bodies were ‘debilitated by premature licentiousness’ (1813:112); Krusenstern, Romberg, and Espenberg similarly connected defects in the women’s stature with their premature ‘lewdness’. Perhaps the visitors’ troubled consciences played a part here. Characteristically they contrasted the women of ‘lower class’, who came aboard the ship at night, with those ‘of distinction’, finding the latter more handsome. By contrast, Fleurieu, summarizing the attitudes of the early voyagers to the Marquesas, wrote about ‘a pledge of the truly-remarkable beauty of the women’ (1969, 1:105 and the following). American impressions of women of Tahuata in 1791 were similar: ‘beautiful and engaging’ (Ingraham), ‘the most beautiful people I ever saw’ (Dorr) (Ingraham 1971:46, 47). Like the Russians, Porter at Taiohae in 1813 was critical of the women’s ‘graceless walk and a badly shaped foot’ (D. Porter 1970:59). The male body, like the female body, stirred sexual connotations in the male voyagers. Ratmanov in his private journal records his reflections: ‘The men are stately and tall with handsome European and Asian features, and one may believe that some European ladies, if they were to visit these islands, would not regret the hardships endured during such a long voyage, because here they would be able to satisfy their unrestrained lust’ (1803–1805a:42). The prurience that enveloped the visitors can be attributed to the nakedness, as the Russians saw it, of many of the Nuka Hivan men, who wore not even a loincloth: ‘even this girdle is not worn by all the Nukahiwers,’ Krusenstern lamented, ‘for the handsome Mau-ha-u, for instance, always affected to go naked; and, although on two occasions I presented him with a girdle, he came on board the next time without it’ (1813c:156–157). Shemelin, Korobitsyn, and others testified that the custom of going naked was widespread, and the islanders ‘do not even consider their nakedness worthy of reproach’ (Korobitsyn 1952:154). Although the Nuku Hivans in the iconic Russian images cover their nakedness with odd-looking loincloths, the visitors produced other drawings showing completely nude males. Espenberg, for example, taking advantage of the protection of the ‘naturalist’s gaze’, sent August Kotzebue a drawing of a man ‘in puris naturalibus’ without ‘a clownish bandage’, remarking, ‘none of them is so hideously shameless, so this must have been a very young boy’ (1805a). While the fate of Espenberg’s drawing is unknown, Löwenstern’s ‘Kätenuä’, discussed above, is a graphic example of this latent eroticism where, as if modestly, his genitals are covered by his hand (see fig. 14). Löwenstern’s Marquesan with a spear also seems to cover his



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genitals with his hand, which suggests that the loincloth may have been a late addition (see fig. 17). There was, however, one part of the male body on which privacy was strictly observed. Lisiansky left this account: I observed instances of the prepuce being drawn forward over the glans and tied with a string, the ends of which hung down about four inches. To this string much value seemed to be attached; for it happened that the king’s brother, in coming on board my ship, had the misfortune to lose it, and his anxiety upon the occasion was extreme. As he stepped on the gangway, he eagerly covered the untied part with his hands, and made earnest signs for a piece of rope-yarn; till he had received which, and restored the part to its previous state, he appeared as if incapable of moving from the spot where the accident happened. (1814:86)

Gideon gives a similar account: ‘Should this string, unexpectedly, loosen and fall off, they, in great confusion, red in the face, hurry and squat, put their hands between their legs, and turning away, fix it’ (1989:24). This clash of notions of ‘nakedness’ shows the visitors’ inability to appreciate that ‘nakedness’ may differ in different cultures, although they noticed that Nuku Hivan men were embarrassed when seen without their prepuce string. While the Russians viewed these ‘naked bodies’, as they saw it, including their private parts, they sometimes found themselves in the position of being observed. Löwenstern graphically describes this erotically charged gazing accompanied by bursts of laughter, which he observed during his supervision of the watering and wood-cutting chores: Most of them go about completely naked. They bind up their foreskin with a string. If it is missing, and the glans is showing from under the foreskin, then the fellow is undressed and causes general laughter. If our sailors bathed, then there was no end to the savages’ laughter. If on land a savage’s string came loose, embarrassed, he immediately went into the bushes and tied it up and returned out of the bushes with the very saucy conviction that he was dressed. (2003a:108–109; 2005:183–184)

Shemelin’s private diary describes a notable incident when the Russian notions of modesty were ‘tested’ by a Nuku Hivan:

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One jokester played a magnificent trick on us, and one especially rude to boot. He had nothing in his hands, but having swum up to the ship and grabbed a dangling rope with one hand, he bulged out his belly and, holding his penis, proceeded to offer it for sale to Krusenstern, who happened to be standing there. There was no escape. Krusenstern laughed and walked away. (1803–1806:154v.–155)

On another occasion an exhibition of a sailor urinating aboard the ship was immediately noticed with disapproval: ‘the modest beauties who swam round our ship, expressed a great degree of horror, when the accidental wants of one of the crew shocked their eyes with such a sight; and Roberts confirmed this notion, adding, that the women of Nukahiwa are quite obdurate with regard to those who do not observe this fashion’, Krusenstern recorded (1813c:156). Nuku Hivan scanty dress was in odd contrast to the visitors’ heavy broadcloth dress—tight, white trousers and dark green, close-fitting, swallow-tailed uniforms.The dress of the civilians on board was similar in style. Bellingshausen later remembered that ‘several of the scientists did not change their frieze suits even under the equator’ (1945:46). Their journals and drawings do not mention any instances of their bathing or swimming. On the contrary, the drawings suggest that they wore their heavy clothing all the time. This was not appropriate attire for Nuku Hiva, where modern European tourists can hardly endure any activities away from an air-conditioned room or from the water during the midday hours. We may recall Fosse’s collapse after the shore excursion, mentioned above. The visitors’ writings do not admit any temptation to free their own bodies and bathe in the bay with the local ‘amphibians’. This is not surprising as they perceived their dress as the essential mark of their ‘civilization’, rather like a Nuku Hivan tattoo, but perhaps their preoccupation with Nuku Hivan ‘nudity’ was an inverted indication of a latent desire to liberate their own bodies.

Speaking of the Unspeakable While the pattern of heterosexual encounters (between Polynesian women and European men) had been set by the voyages of Bougainville and Cook, the discovery of a male sexuality was something the Russians might not have been prepared for. However, the notion of homosexuality, if not the word, was not new to them. Brought up in the secluded environment of the Naval Cadet Corps, many young officers were aware of this ‘vice’. Aboard the ship, confined for months in exclusively male company in an enclosed space, these tendencies had ample opportunity to develop. Löwenstern records that aboard



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the Nadezhda, Count Tolstoy tried to corrupt young Kotzebue and some sailors and later, very probably, Kabris. Tolstoy’s homosexuality might have been part of a flamboyant pose. The depictions of Tolstoy in literature have failed to comment on it. But apart from Löwenstern’s quite explicit remarks (2003a:89, 90, 114), we may ponder the meaning of Pushkin’s bitter epigram on Tolstoy (1821), ‘who in years past / would stagger the four corners of the globe / with his debauchery’ (Tolstoi 1990:33). ‘To stagger’ the flamboyant male society in which both Pushkin and Tolstoy moved, the ‘debauchery’ would need to be truly exceptional and go beyond mere carousing or nights spent with native girls on islands in the South Seas. And indeed Grabbe, another of Tolstoy’s contemporaries, referred to him unambiguously as ‘a representative of a school of immorality and debaucher of many Moscow young men’ (Tolstoi 1990:51). Phillip Vigel, a well-known homosexual, met Tolstoy in summer 1805 near Kazan, when the latter was returning to Moscow after his Pacific misadventures and Vigel was traveling with his companions in the opposite direction. He wrote of this fleeting contact in his memoirs with barely concealed feeling: He surprised us by his appearance. His head bore a crop of thick, curly black hair; his eyes, probably as a result of the heat and dust, appeared bloodshot; his rather melancholy expression appeared troubled and his very quiet manner of speaking frightened my companion. I don’t understand why I didn’t feel the least fear, but on the contrary a strong attraction. He stayed a little while with us, and talked in a very normal though extremely plain manner, but so intelligently that I felt disappointed that he was leaving and not going on with us. Possibly he noticed this, as he was warmer towards me than the others. (1928:238)

Leo Tolstoy described him similarly, as ‘an extraordinary, outrageous, attractive man’ (Tolstoy 1928–1959, 34:393). The presence of such a man aboard the Nadezhda was enough to stir unexpected feelings in the men around him. The detailed measurements and drawings of Ma‘uhau as well as the numerous meticulous drawings of other islanders, the admiration of the tattooed male body, where each figure of the tattoo is matched to a particular muscle—all this may be seen as indicating stirrings of homoeroticism in the voyagers. Espenberg’s analogy is revealing: ‘These people have remarkably pliable limbs, not like those of young chamber-maids in Europe, but rather like those of children aged between 5 and 6 years’ (it is not surprising that the end of this sentence was deleted from Espenberg’s letter in the Philosophical Magazine) (1805b, no.

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37:146–147).The visitors’ accounts betray moments when they craved physical contact with handsome males: ‘At our arrival we wanted to run our hands over the heads of some of the handsome men,’ Langsdorff casually remarked in a scholarly passage about taboo (1993:87). Count Tolstoy, who became a social outcast during the voyage, dared to bring to the surface what was merely latent in the others. There is an anecdotal account of his relations with Kiatonui based on his own tales, which suggests an unexpected twist: By some means he acquired an extraordinary ascendancy over the hospitable King of Nuku Hiva, whom he trained to run by his side on all fours like a dog. Shouting ‘Fetch, fetch!’ Tolstoy would throw a piece of wood into the sea, whereupon His Majesty would dash in and come gamboling back with the trophy between his teeth. (Tolstoy 1983:126, based on Kamenskaia 1894:43)

There is no reference to any such intimacy between the two, or to any such humiliation, in the records of other expedition members; and when we remember the respect the Russians had for Kiatonui, it seems quite probable that Tolstoy made up this story in response to his own unfulfilled desires.

‘Cannibal Dances’ The Russian discovery of the celebrated Marquesan masculinity came with another discovery: these men were not just warriors; they were apparently cannibals. Robarts and Kabris wasted no time in dispelling illusions about ‘children of nature’, and the visitors took the warning seriously.The attractive, sometimes chillingly attractive, masculinity was inseparable from the natives’ reputation for cannibalism. This dreaded knowledge put the visitors under constant strain. Rezanov wrote about their first night at Taiohae: ‘Throughout the night we saw many fires and savages shouting and slapping their shoulders with their hands, which showed they were making merry. Armed sailors were posted around the ship, who gave each other signals and fired the cannon from time to time to show the savages that we were ready to repel any attack’ (1825, no. 66:73–74). Krusenstern, behind the thin board now separating his half of the cabin from that of his bitter enemy, Rezanov, was stirred at night by the same sounds. In his account the Nuku Hivan dances and the enormous drums, which ‘rouse their passions’, are mingled with his reflections on men, ‘who murder their wives and children with the greatest indifference’ (1813c:176). His wife, looking down at him from the portrait on the opposite wall of the cabin in



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the flickering candlelight, was the only witness of his suspense during these nights. In spite of the comforts provided by the visiting women, these warrior songs sounding on the shore each night so impressed the visitors that, according to Löwenstern, ‘we imitated the savages, played their music, hitting our hollow hands against the angles of our bent arms in accompaniment to the sailor’s songs, etc.’ (2003a:101). In daytime, according to Krusenstern’s unpublished journal, ‘often several boats rowed around the ship with the islanders singing and beating time; this was probably a sign of their goodwill, with which they wanted to please us’ (1804a:48). The voyagers were swayed by these rhythms until they reached Kamchatka and acquired a new favorite there—the Kamchadal bear dance (Löwenstern 2003a:148). The first account of Tilesius, and one of the first to reach Europe, was about these nocturnal songs of the supposed cannibals. He recorded the words and music of one of them—about an enemy whom they were about to kill: A crowd of young men, from 200 to 600 in number, were slapping the hollow between their chests and their arms with their palms and creating a loud sound resembling a bell tolling. These sounds were accompanied by a rhythmic song. . . . At the same time another hundred or so men were clapping their hands. When a great victory or rich spoils of war occasion exceptional feasting and dancing, four drums are brought from the Morai, and they beat these to the same rhythm. To accompany this music they dance and sing only a melancholy choral melody.

The melody reminded Tilesius of Russian songs but it was more sad and mournful—an impression that was all the stronger, Tilesius remembered, when the song was heard from a distance. In untold torment I spent the whole night, throughout which these apparently kind-hearted people danced for my pleasure. I suffered for the sole purpose of discovering something about their music. They, on the other hand, were very jolly and amused themselves with dances consisting of crude, clumsy and irregular jumps, also making alternately quite swift and slow movements with their outstretched arms. (1812:393, 396; 1805:261–270)

When I stayed at Taiohae in November 2003, the sound of the night drums would pierce the sleepy township and reach up into the hills. At first I was

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reluctant to go into town as that morning we had already seen a performance by schoolchildren, dressed in ‘native’ skirts, for the crowd of tourists from a visiting cruise ship. ‘They are just pretending to be savages for the tourists,’ my ten-year-old son Raphael remarked uncompromisingly. The cruise ship left at sunset, but the night drums did not stop, and we decided to follow the sound until we reached the very spot on the shore where Tilesius must have stayed all night with the dancers. We saw local teenagers, some of them covered with elaborate tattoos, performing the dances Tilesius described. They leaped first as if unwillingly and with restraint, but gradually with increasing verve and feeling until there was nothing but the rhythm of the drums and the young male bodies celebrating their masculinity in one united impulse under the southern stars. Now they were indeed dancing for themselves rather than for tourists, and only the voice of their artistic director brought the few onlookers and me back to reality. The dancers were local high school students preparing for the Marquesan Arts Festival at Hiva Oa in December. The ‘cannibal dances’ that disturbed the Russians during the hot Nuku Hivan nights were not for tourists either. They were part of a world that the visitors were drawn to but at the same time fearful of, a world that was already taking its toll on the visitors. Cannibalism in Oceania has been the subject of much debate, particularly in postcolonial discourse such as Obeyesekere’s critical work on European texts about cannibalism (2001). Although there is evidence of an archaeological and anthropological nature, apart from travelers’ accounts, for the practice of cannibalism among the Polynesians, including the Marquesans, it is inconclusive insofar as motivation is concerned and cannot help determine the circumstances in which cannibalism occurred or the role played by hunger (Dening 1980:247–249). While Russian accounts certainly do not resolve the debate about Marquesan cannibalism, they provide revealing material for the genealogy of travelers’ reactions and tales. Their main source was the ‘testimonies’ of Robarts and Kabris, supplemented by circumstantial evidence gathered by the visitors, such as the pierced skulls of slain enemies, the words of the ‘cannibal song’ recorded by Tilesius, and, one presumes, the tall stories of the islanders themselves—about Kiatonui’s uncle’s partiality to human brains, for example. It is notable that the voyagers’ response to the rumors of Nuku Hivan cannibalism was ambivalent. The immediate reaction, unlike the later reports by Krusenstern and Langsdorff, is particularly revealing. Löwenstern wrote in his diary, ‘That the islanders eat their enemies’ flesh is all too true. They preserve the skulls and hair as a sign of victory. We bought several such skulls. If it is indeed true that in the rage of war civilized Europeans are not ashamed of eating their



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enemies’ flesh, then how can the savages be reproached for it if it is a law for them’ (Löwenstern 2003a:107; 2005:181–182). He and Gideon remarked on the limited, ceremonial nature of this cannibalism: ‘Lest their feasts be too lavish, hostilities always end as soon as they have taken just a few prisoners, so that they have time to devour them (Löwenstern 2003a:101). ‘Such battles are settled with the death of two or three persons, who are then eaten in the course of solemn rites’ (Gideon 1989:25). These comments express none of the disgust that was common in European depictions of ‘cannibals’ at the time. Ratmanov in his diary noted a more controversial form of cannibalism, which he also seems to accept: ‘Two years ago there was a poor harvest of fruit, which constitutes the islanders’ staple diet.They then killed some women and children, whom they ate. . . . I believe, however, that this is done only in exceptional circumstances, as their actions and appearance prove their kindheartedness (1803–1805a:45v.). In another version of his diary he added, ‘For these unenlightened people this is pardonable’ (1803–1805b:24). Fear is often mingled with speculation about the taste of human flesh: ‘You can’t make a step here unarmed: they are afraid of guns, which are the only safeguard against being eaten, as they eat all of their captives with much ceremony and are greatly fond of doing so’ (Romberg 1804a:37). Shemelin, who believed that cannibalism was limited to trophies of war, remarked that the enemy’s brain was considered the supreme delicacy (1816:133), while Espenberg developed this further, claiming that the islanders ‘consider human flesh as a great delicacy, and prefer it to that of their hogs’ (1805c:10). Tilesius’ remarks on the subject are dominated by his admiration for the islanders’ appearance. ‘They are tall, slender and very kind-hearted, although they greedily devour their enemies’ (1812:396). The same contrast underlies Lisiansky’s restraint: ‘Considering the mild temper [in the Russian variant, ‘kindness’—E.G.] of the inhabitants of this island, it is difficult to believe that they are cannibals’ (1814:87; 1977:75). Disbelief and belief, fear of being eaten, and thoughts of the delicate taste of human flesh;2 the ways of the cannibals, and their handsome appearance, kindness, and courage—all of these indicate the ambiguity of the Russian reactions. In the books they wrote later, Langsdorff and Krusenstern devoted whole sections to Marquesan cannibalism—in fact, they were the first to break this news to the European reader—but their attitudes were poles apart. ‘Langsdorff relishes the anthropophagy of the islanders; his descriptions of cannibalism are positively erotic. For him, cannibalism is a tasty and addictive pleasure,’ writes Caleb Crain in his study of the congruence of homosexuality and cannibal-

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ism (1994:31). Even if Crain’s description seems a little colorful, Langsdorff did indeed have unconventional attitudes. Incidentally, his book was identified as a source for Melville’s Typee, which explores a beachcomber’s reaction to these practices in Nuku Hivan society (Dening 2004:93). Krusenstern, on the other hand, wrote with disgust: ‘In times of famine the men butcher their wives and children, and their aged parents; they bake and stew their flesh, and devour it with the greatest satisfaction’ (1813c:181). He did not mince words in presenting Marquesan cannibalism as a repulsive practice, and arrived at the uncompromising conclusion that ‘they do not exhibit the least traces of good inclinations and, without doubt, deserve to be called not people but wild animals’ (1809:221). While Langsdorff was not ashamed to identify vestiges of cannibalism in his own culture, Krusenstern vehemently dissociated himself from the custom, denying the islanders the sympathy advocated by Cook, the Forsters, and others. It should be noted that all the Russians refer to the tales of Robarts and Kabris about cannibalism, particularly to the butchery of family members during a recent famine, as their only source about the practice. The difference between Langsdorff ’s and Krusenstern’s reactions may be attributed to the fact that the main authority for the former was Kabris, with his almost Nuku Hivan approach to cannibalism, while Krusenstern relied on Robarts, to whom the practice was unspeakable. It is striking that Robarts in his detailed Marquesan Journal does not mention cannibalism at all.The horrific account he gave to the voyagers may have been prompted by the vain hope of receiving ammunition from them. (Nor did he mention in his journal the fact that he asked for ammunition.) But besides having different informants, the two voyagers adopted radically differing perspectives. While Langsdorff ’s ‘naturalist’s gaze’ could remain ‘untainted by the scandal of desire’ (Wallace 2003:75), be it homoeroticism or anthropophagy, Krusenstern almost appears to be resisting the temptations of the South Seas world in general, and some of those experienced in Nuku Hiva in particular. The particular bitterness towards Kiatonui, which emerges in the final chapter of Krusenstern’s Nuku Hivan account, may stem from his own shame at behaving in a ceremonial way with the ‘king’ as with an equal, in spite of hearing Robarts’ cannibal tales about him. Or could it be the disturbing memory of the ‘royal’ gaze at the portrait of his wife, which Krusenstern did not prevent? After all, he made a strange request to Tilesius, asking him to draw the Nuku Hivan cannibal dances and write down the music, arranged for fortepiano. These he sent to his young wife, together with his diary (Krusenstern 1813c:160–161; Tilesius 1804:37). Krusenstern did not know that he had a predecessor who had experienced a similar disarray of feelings after his Marquesan sojourn. This was the



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missionary Crook, a ‘serious and steady’ young man. Fleeing Tahuata Island in 1798, after spending a year there, he repented, ‘I desire to blush and be confronted before the Lord for ever temptation has been of such strange sort that I am perswaded it would be the greatest presumption in any one knowing them to encounter’ (1798). Both Crook and Krusenstern fled their Marquesan demons.

Postscript: Count Tolstoy and His Ape Count Tolstoy knew better ways to confront his demons: he had the happy knack of turning any tragedy into a farce. Here some of the stories about him and his ape are relevant. Feodor Tolstoy took with him on the voyage an ape, described later by a cousin as ‘an orang-outang, clever, agile and enterprising as a human’. He was inordinately fond of this pet, and it was later alleged that it became one of his innumerable mistresses. Be that as it may, the ape was certainly highly intelligent and active. When Kruzenstern was on shore, presumably at Hawaii, Tolstoy and his ape tiptoed into his cabin. There the irresponsible young nobleman took out a stack of the Captain’s notebooks and other writing materials, set them on the table and placed a clean sheet on the top. This he proceeded to blot and stain with ink, then screwed it up and placed it in his pocket. The ape watched attentively, and when the Count left the cabin set to work on the remaining papers. When Kruzenstern returned he found his strange visitor had destroyed most of his valuable records.

At the first opportunity, the tale continues, Krusenstern put the troublesome count and his ape on a deserted coast or island.Tolstoy ‘raised his hat and bowed with ostentatious politeness to the departing Kruzenstern’, and proceeded with the ape into the wilderness (Tolstoy 1983:127–128; Kamenskaia 1894:43–44). According to another anecdote,Tolstoy, being stranded on the island, ate his ape during his first days there. In yet another version he ate it earlier, on the ship: ‘Allegedly, as soon as a lack of victuals was experienced on the voyage, he shot his beloved female ape, then roasted and ate her.’ In other tales he would vehemently deny eating her and declare that she was his mistress (Grudev 1898:437; Vigel 1928:238; Tolstoi 1990:12–13, 16; Tolstoy 1971:4–6). There is abundant material here for students of the congruence of eroticism and cannibalism (cf. Crain 1994:35–38). All this is a garbled reflection of Tolstoy’s unusual experiences during his

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Nuku Hivan sojourn. The reality was more prosaic and sad. Löwenstern wrote in his diary after the departure from Nuku Hiva: Count Tolstoi bought a long-tailed monkey in Brazil. . . . The count was its master, which meant it had no master. . . . Kisselev, one of the Japanese, took it under his protection as a source of fun and laughter; and for a long time all was quiet as it was tethered again. A little while ago it got loose again and caused trouble in every cabin with its uninvited visits. Since the harness around its body had torn loose, it was difficult to catch. One morning, Dr. Horner seized it by the tail when it had made itself at home without invitation in his cabin. Tolstoi, who wanted to tie a rope around its body, got bitten, and he threw the poor animal so hard onto the deck that because of its serious injuries the count had to kill it. (2003a:106–107; 2005:180)

The anatomy of Tolstoy’s tales becomes visible when they are set against Löwenstern’s account. The small monkey depicted by Tilesius in the Atlas (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. VI) turns into a large ape or orangutan, a substitute for a ‘man of nature’. Horner, who was on good terms with all on board, is replaced by Tolstoy’s sworn enemy, Krusenstern; and the monkey’s accidental death unleashes in Tolstoy an insatiable thirst for exotic eroticism, linked with cannibalism. This ‘immoral’ man dared to say what others feared to think. Fedor Tolstoy’s monkey would later surface in the drafts of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, where Fedor Tolstoy made a contribution to the character of Dolokhov, a debauched duelist. Dolokhov confides to Anatoly Kuragin, ‘I loved an ape: it’s all the same. Now I love beautiful women’ (Tolstoy 1928–1959, 13:821).

DAY 4

tattooing

28 April (10 May) 1804

The Neva Arrives at Taiohae In the morning the Neva made towards the entrance of Taiohae Bay. To the joy of the voyagers they soon sighted a yawl, which ‘bore Lieutenant Golovachev and four sailors from the Nadezhda, together with one of the islanders, who were all coming to see us’, Korobitsyn wrote (1952:153). Gideon remarked that the islander was ‘of most imposing height’ (1989:22). This may have been Ma‘uhau, who had spent the previous night aboard the Nadezhda. As the wind dropped, the Neva was slowly steered to its anchorage. By 6 p.m. it was finally anchored in the middle of the bay, to the west of the Nadezhda. Lisiansky wrote that in the meantime he went on board the Nadejda to pay my respects to Captain Krusenstern, with whom I found the king of the bay and a great number of islanders, who were entirely naked. His majesty differed in no respect from his subjects, except that his body was more punctured or tattooed. I had the good fortune to please the king at first sight; he called me Too, and promised to pay me a visit as soon as possible. (1814:66)

Similarly, Lisiansky pleased Robarts, who referred to him with respect and intimacy—Sir Geo (i.e., Sir George, the English equivalent of Lisiansky’s first name, Urey). Robarts’ account adds a different perspective to the events and suggests that the perception of the visitors by the locals differed from the visitors’ self-perception. Robarts recalled: This Ship was the Neva Belonging to the Empr of Rushia, Sir Geo Lysiansky, Commdr. He receivd me in a very polite manner. I soon found the difference between these two Commanders, for I was scarcely on Board when I was accommodated with a new shirt & trowsers and a morng gown. Not that I was in want, for I had several 137

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changes on shore, but I never wore them. I allways wore a turban & bandages round my waist, but it shewd a Kind, generous spirit. . . . Sir Geo . . . askd me would I assist him as I had the other ship. I answerd that I was happy to serve him in the Important duty he was employd in. He then begd I would favor him with my company of an Eveng in his own cabin. At lenght supper was ready. Sir Geo very politely conducted me down to supper into a commodious, long dineing room. The officers all came to supper, about 12 in number. After supper I went with Sr Geo into a Spacious cabin. The conversation was various. I had been at St Petersburgh in Rusiah and Knew several Gentlemen that Sr Geo. was acquainted with. Some excellent beer was brought. (1974:133)

Robarts appreciated the spirit of equality with which Lisiansky treated his exotic assistant. Indeed, the atmosphere aboard the Neva, away from Rezanov’s retinue and the European savants, was more typically naval. Her officers’ generous treatment of Robarts continued: It growing late, I beg leave to retire. My haveing the charge of two ships, [I] could not sleep much. I went on Deck. The first Lieut informd me that when I wish to rest that a cabin below was prepard for me. I thankd him. I told him that I allways made it a point to sleep on deck, as the natives swim about the bay in the night time with small netts—two men to a nett to catch fish. They might be fird on in a mistake. He then orderd the Color Bag to be brought up. The bag being brought, he then took out the Colours. He calld for a clean sheet that was put under me. The french colours he placed at my feet, the Rushian flag for my counterpain and the English Jack for my canopy. He spoke very good English. I returnd him many thanks for his Kindness, and [said] that I should remember him when many Leagues apart. (1974:133)

The first lieutenant who spoke such good English was Pavel Arbuzov, born in the central Russian provincial town of Toropets. By contrast, Krusenstern’s English—and Krusenstern had spent years serving in the Royal Navy— Robarts found ‘tolerable good’. Later he summed up: I was better accommodated and more comfortable on board the Neva, as there was no pride in Sr Geo. [He] was affable, mild and [had] a something in his manner that claimd my respect and esteem.



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Ceartainly he had the advantage of haveing in his youth been brought up among English gentlemen of the Royal Navy. Capt K. had been brought up in the Navy of Rushia—a wide odds. (1974:137–138)

Clearly the officers’ treatment of him influenced his attitude to the members of the expedition in all respects. The atmosphere on the Neva pleased Robarts in other ways too. Whereas on the Nadezhda night visits by the local women had become routine (not without his prompting), Lisiansky on the Neva placed a ban on night visits from the very first evening: ‘There were women amongst them; but it was signified to them, that I had resolved to admit none of their sex on board till the ship should be ready for sea, and at sun-set they swam back with the rest’ (1814:67). The reason was probably pressure from Gideon on board the Neva. Robarts remarked, ‘The Clergy man on Board the Neva also forbid women comeing on Board in the night time’ (1974:139).

Free Trade On this day Krusenstern’s strict ban on barter, from which only foodstuffs were exempted, was lifted.1 The only formal restriction that remained was a ban on payment with axes or hatchets. These were to be reserved as payment for pigs only. Now the officers, scientists, and all others aboard could use their own resources to barter for artifacts and natural curios. Rezanov gave Shemelin instructions to acquire artifacts in two or even three copies, intending to present collections to the Imperial Kunstkammer and the Central Board of the RAC, which was financing the expedition. As mentioned previously, Shemelin, an experienced merchant, feared that competition for ‘trinkets’ that were rare in Europe would raise the prices for foodstuff, but what happened was even worse. Here he describes the atmosphere on deck: The manropes on both sides of the ship were occupied by doctor Espenberg and Lieutenant Romberg, who had been instructed to purchase provisions. Pacing from one side of the ship to the other, they zealously guarded their positions and blocked the gangways with their bodies, thus preventing others from bartering with the islanders. If they did make an exception, it was only for their officers; everyone else called from the quarterdeck, waistdeck, bow and stern to passing islanders, holding out sellable trinkets of all kinds. Sometimes one item took the fancy of two or three people, and no one wanted to give it up to the others. (1816:116; 1803–1806:125v.–127v.)

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Löwenstern briefly recorded about that day that ‘Espenberg had a hefty dispute with Langsdorff because of a skull that they both wanted’ (2003a:96). While competing for Marquesan artifacts, the visitors experienced for themselves the passion of acquisition of ‘prestige’ goods, which had particular value for the different expedition members. Krusenstern and Lisiansky dreamt, perhaps, of Cook’s laurels, the naturalists, of scientific appropriation of the indigenous world modeled by Banks and the Forsters’ studies; Rezanov and Shemelin were concerned to please their patrons (the emperor and the RAC), and the officers and ‘passengers’ sought souvenirs of their exotic voyage. On that first day of ‘free trade’ the Russian buyers got so carried away that, from the thrifty Shemelin’s point of view, they began to pay grossly inflated prices: Our buyers, regrettably, had no cheap items (apart from beads and buttons) to barter for the islanders’ trinkets, such as—among handcrafted items—slings, cloth, headdresses decorated with red seeds, necklaces made from pigs’ teeth and other base materials, and—among natural products—simple and conical shells, coral, etc. But as the islanders did not respect either beads or shiny buttons, and refused to take them for any of their items, we were forced to pay for everything with pieces of iron, English clasp knives of differing size, razors, chisels and other woodworking instruments. (1816:116–117)

In his manuscript he gives examples of barter: For five or six small shells, a sling, or two carved seashells like the ones the savages wear in their ears, we readily bartered iron and well-made iron items such as small chisels, hammers of differing size with an axe blade on one side, and pocket knives. When the shells were larger, or for anything else of better quality, we did not spare even the large English clasp knives. (1803–1806:127v.–128)

The only commodities the visitors had to refrain from using for barter were axes or hatchets and iron barrel hoops.The exclusion of iron hoops, while more valuable items such as knives were traded, is especially noteworthy. As mentioned earlier, Krusenstern had obtained iron hoops in quantity at Kronshtadt as part of the RAC’s cargo and believed that he, as head of the expedition, had the exclusive right to use these and other company property for the expedition’s needs. Rezanov, though believing that he was the head of the expedition, had kept silent for the time being. It is interesting that both Shem-



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elin and Krusenstern sensed something special about iron hoops. Shemelin wrote: In the early morning, when the islanders did not yet know the extent of our greed to obtain their wares, some pieces of broken iron hoops serving in this place as coinage would have much helped me in the purchase of a few items for the Imperial Kunstkammer and the Board [of the RAC], but the Captain forbade me to use them. (1803–1806:128v.; emphasis added)

Rezanov’s complaint to Pavel Koshelev, the governor of Kamchatka, also refers to Krusenstern’s ban on the use of iron hoops: When I myself was trading pieces of iron for seashells, the Captain came up to me and said that iron was necessary for the ship’s needs, and told me to barter knives instead. I started bartering knives but could not obtain anything in exchange for them, and however much I pleaded that it was not for me but for the Imperial cabinet [Kunstkammer], my pleas not only went unheard, but [the curios] were snatched from the hands of those who had my orders concerning bartering. (1804a:1; emphasis added)

The controversy over the iron hoops continued the next day when Shemelin decided to go ashore away from the competition on the ship. A thrifty supercargo, he intended to use ‘knives, scissors and drills’ to barter for more valuable artifacts. Iron hoops, he believed, would do for shells and other ‘trifles’. He asked Krusenstern’s permission to take ten pieces of iron hoop with him and was met with refusal. It is interesting to listen to arguments of both sides in the following discussion. According to Shemelin, Krusenstern argued that he would not allow anyone to use iron in bartering for useless trinkets, insisting that it was needed in trading for provisions for the ship’s crew, whose health and well-being he held above everything else. ‘You,’ he said to me, ‘have knives, axes, and other items, which you can use for anything you desire.’ I replied that of the things he had listed axes cost 70 kopeks, while knives cost more than a ruble,2 and that a piece of iron was worth no more than a single coin [kopek], so would it not be wiser to use the iron for the purchase of island handicraft, and keep the knives and other items to obtain livestock and various provisions?

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Shemelin further argued that the ‘free trade’ of the previous day had undermined the value of iron hoops in the islanders’ eyes: ‘Has it not come to your attention,’ I added, ‘that yesterday the savages did not want to take those very same pieces of iron even for coconuts. Instead they scraped or patted their chins and heads, repeating the word togi and showing by this that they needed not iron but knives and razors.’ (1803–1806:132–133v.)

Krusenstern’s belief in the special value of iron hoops in spite of the sound commercial appraisal by Shemelin is noteworthy. Krusenstern was obviously influenced by the experience of his famous predecessors. The islanders, for their part, also took an active position in the question of exchange. The visit of two Russian ships whose crews were eager to take all their valuables—foodstuffs, artifacts, natural curiosities, female charms, male labor, and even tattoos—was the biggest event in their commercial experience so far.They already knew the value of iron and the iron tools that they expected to receive from the visitors, and they adapted their vocabulary to these new notions. Shemelin’s togi, cited above, could be two different words—kohe and toki. According to Crook’s (1998:29, 48) and Robarts’ (1974:317) vocabularies, the meaning of kohe evolved from bamboo to a piece of bamboo used as a knife, and, finally, to a European knife. Toki evolved from adze to axe, including the European axe or hatchet and the chisel, thus becoming a collective noun denoting the whole class of iron implements. The Russians heard and understood these words differently. Lisiansky at Ha‘atuatua Bay understood koge (cohi) as knife, and in his ‘Vocabulary of the language of Noocahiva’ he recorded knife as goggi or gooa. Toké, according to his vocabulary, meant iron and ‘small piece of iron’, while toké tooé meant iron axe, as distinct from toké maooé—stone axe (1814:64, 323–324; 1977:60). Similarly, Langsdorff’s ‘Vocabulary from the Island of Nukahiva’ recorded tokï as both iron and axe, cohe as dagger, and koche as knife (1993:116, 118, 122). Shemelin supposed that togi meant knives or razors rather than iron hoops, but Löwenstern, like Lisiansky and Langsdorff, assumed that toki meant ‘piece of old iron’ (i.e., piece of iron hoop) in one case and an axe in another (2003a:98; 2005:164). Korobitsyn believed that toki meant iron and kogi, knife (1952:158). The Nuku Hivan expression for iron hoops appears in René Dordillon’s dictionary, compiled in the second half of the nineteenth century, as tutu puhipuhi or tutu paa paa, where tutu meant hoop and puhipuhi had its probable origin in the collective noun for firearms and their material, as discussed above (1931:418, entry: tutu). The Russians did not record this expression, most likely because it was only just emerging at the time



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of their visit; neither Crook nor Robarts recorded it in their vocabularies either. Nevertheless, as mentioned above, both Crook and Lisiansky recorded puhipuhi as an iron nail. The overnight change in the availability of goods offered by the visitors for barter—the appearance of iron implements like knives, penknives and chisels— and acceptance of native implements in return, which had not happened on the previous days, caused the Nuku Hivans to reevaluate the only goods they had received so far—iron hoops and axes or hatchets (the latter for pigs only). Was Shemelin’s impression that the day of ‘free trade’ had undermined the value of iron hoops correct? It is likely that the reaction of the Nuku Hivans was far more complex. Shemelin himself observed that iron hoops were already taking the place of money, but he did not suspect that his and the islanders’ notions of money and value might be different. We will follow the matter of the iron hoops as the story of the Russian visit unfolds. That day all attempts by Shemelin to acquire artifacts for the Kunstkammer and the RAC were literally blocked by his more powerful competitors. He believed that those competitors were conspiring against Rezanov, and he did not hide his irritation in his diary: Today with the assistance of the Englishman Roberts . . . the best things filled the cabinets of Krusenstern and his favorite, Doctor Essenberg [sic]. The captain’s cabin had items including weaponry of different kinds, and of such good quality, finely carved and made from the choicest wood; weaponry so fine that finer could not be found anywhere on the island; while Essenberg’s collection included curios of an anatomical nature such as human skulls, decorated in places with mother of pearl, and other items worthy of interest. (1816:117; 1803–1806:130v.)

So the skull over which Espenberg argued with Langsdorff fell into the hands of the former. Even before the ban on free barter was lifted, Krusenstern had acquired five skulls at the request of Professor Justus Christian von Loder, a German anatomist (Krusenstern 1804a:42). The skulls that Shemelin had eyed greedily the day before had clearly become one of the most prized trophies. Tilesius lamented in his journal: ‘I would have had the opportunity to bring home for my scientist friends some very good skulls of Marquesan savages, if only everybody else on board had not wanted to collect them, and if some who had no use for them whatever had not forestalled me’ (1804:4). His drawing of three skulls was engraved in Krusenstern’s Atlas (1813b:pl. XIX), and Langsdorff’s ‘Young Nukahivan not completely tattooed’ was also depicted with

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such a skull (fig. 32). Langsdorff later described the custom of turning enemies’ skulls into symbols of valor: The victor or hero who has killed the enemy receives the head. He immediately severs it from the body, widens the opening at the back of the skull and drinks the blood and eats the brain. The skull is cleaned of all flesh, and decorated with pig bristles. The lower jaw is ingeniously fastened to the skull by a ribbon made from coconut fibers. During our stay, we had the opportunity to trade for several such skulls. (1993:98)

Figure 32.╇ Anon. after Georg Langsdorff, ‘Young Nukahivan not completely tattooed’. Engraving (Langsdorff 1993:pl. 8)



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Lisiansky’s description is similarly graphic: ‘We received from them a few human skulls, some of which were staved in with stones.We bartered our knives for these trophies of their bestial and inhuman victories’ (1977:75). A confrontation between the two parties—Krusenstern’s and Rezanov’s— over these trophies was brewing, but several more days passed before it took place.

Tepootu, Tatovka, Tattoo The pierced skulls were not the only commodity the Russians were eager to obtain from Nuku Hivans. The Marquesan tattoo also became an important ‘prestige’ item for them. Löwenstern’s diary suggests that by the fourth day, tattooing aboard the Nadezhda was gaining momentum: ‘I had my arm tattooed today. The savages are very adept at it,’ he recorded (2003a:96). Tattoo practices provoked much interest among the voyagers. All the diarists wrote accounts of it, and some made drawings. The Russian expedition was the first to bring to Europe the most spectacular Polynesian tattoos, providing pictures of Nuku Hivans tattooed from top to toe and detailed written accounts. The voyagers knew of the Polynesian tattoo from their predecessors’ observations, and the Polynesian word tatau was brought to Europe by French and British voyagers in the early 1770s. German-speaking members of the expedition used the German form of this word and its derivates in their journals and letters, with some inconsistency in spelling: ‘Tatuirung’, ‘tatowiren’ (Tilesius), ‘tattuiren’ (Espenberg), ‘tatuirt’ (Horner, Löwenstern), ‘tatowirung’ (Langsdorff). Tilesius also uses ‘Punctirung’ as an explanation or synonym. The journals, letters, and accounts of the Russian speakers show more variety. They, too, give derivatives of the word tatau, adding to it Russian prefixes and suffixes to produce the verbs ‘vytotuvat'’, ‘istatuit'’, ‘tatuirovat'’, and the noun ‘tatovka’ (Gideon, Korobitsyn, Rezanov). But as the term was so novel, they used four other verbs, sometimes in combination with the Russian derivatives of the tatau. The most popular were ‘pestrit'’ and ‘ispesshchriat'’—to speckle all over (Gideon, Romberg, Shemelin, Rezanov, Lisiansky, Krusenstern). The others were ‘raspisyvat'’— to paint all over (Ratmanov, Shemelin, Krusenstern), ‘nasekat'’—to incise (Ratmanov, Rezanov, Korobitsyn) and ‘nakalyvat'’—to puncture (Shemelin, Lisiansky). The noun derived from the last of these, ‘nakolka’, is still in informal use for tattoo. The Russian expedition was the first to learn the Marquesan expression for tattooing, te patu tiki—wrapping in images. While their predecessor Crook recorded it as patau (2007:59), Tilesius heard it as tepootu or tapoutu (1803–1806:8; 1804:4), Lisiansky wrote that the Marquesan

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word for tattoo was teeka, and Langsdorff had the verb ‘to tattoo’ as pīkipatu (1993:126). Finding themselves surrounded by tattooed bodies, the visitors soon fell under their spell. Lisiansky admitted, ‘The practice of tattooing appeared to me very ridiculous at first; but when accustomed to it, those who had the most figures I thought the most comely’ (1814:85). In the Russian version he uses the word ‘beautiful’ (1977:74), which in fact recurs in most of the Russian accounts. ‘The savages are exceedingly beautifully tattooed,’ Löwenstern records in his diary after the first encounter (2003a:92). Earlier attitudes to the aesthetics of tattooing, summarized by Fleurieu, go no further than ‘not disagreeable to the eye’ or ‘by no means unbecoming to men’ (1969, 1:100, 101). Probably the peaceful beginning of the Russian visit contributed to their perception of the tattoo as a thing of beauty. They also recognized that tattooing was governed by its own artistic rules: ‘Their bodies, in accordance with an ancient custom, are tattooed all over, or incised with various figures in black pigment, drawn according to the principles of artistic proportion’ (Korobitsyn 1952:154). ‘The natives, whom we saw for the first time, were naked and painted with great art’ (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:38v.). Rezanov remarked that ‘the men speckled their whole bodies and even their faces with perfectly composed symmetrical patterns’ (1825, no. 65:394). Shemelin was especially enthusiastic: Though their drawings [i.e., tattoo] are of their own taste, they are so regular and suit each part of the body so well that one cannot imagine anything better. . . . Women do not disfigure their bodies, but occasionally pierce small lines on their lips and near their nostrils and also the back of their hands and fingers so finely, clear and beautifully, that their hands look as if dressed in stamped, flesh-colored kid gloves. (1816:131)

The Japanese representation of Marquesan tattoos was very different. Although there is some regularity in the patterns, the general impression is of a chaotic blackening of the body, with little correspondence to its structure or the form of the muscles (see fig. 31). Tattooing was bound up with the masculinity of the Marquesan body, which so much attracted the Russians, who compared the patterns with ancient armor: ‘They form regular designs on the body, like a knight’s armor’ (Ratmanov 1876:1328). ‘The rich and the notable have their entire bodies tattooed in the manner of ancient Roman knightly garments’ (Gideon 1989:21). ‘On their shoulders and buttocks they mostly have patterned circles. . . . On the chest



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they have a sort of gorget (which the Romans had on their chest armor); on their arms and thighs there are figures formed by spiral lines; on the face there have intersecting lines; the eyes are encircled, or one eye is surrounded by a dark rectangle; on the lips there are radial lines etc.’ (Tilesius 1806b:100). Tilesius also compared the designs with arabesques and Etruscan figures (1812:397). The Russians observed differences in tattoos according to sex, age, and social status. ‘Boys and women have only their arms and legs painted [tattooed], sometimes only their arms,’ Tilesius wrote (1806b:98). This is a remarkable observation as, according to later evidence, the tattooing of young men, the ka‘ioi, or supporters of a chief ’s son, began with the mouth and face, while ‘the feet of the ka‘ioi were not tattooed’ (Gell 1993:198). Langsdorff gave the age when the tattooing of boys started as twelve or thirteen years (1811:11). All the Russian diarists commented on the women’s ‘gloves’, while Ratmanov noticed that the women had their palms tattooed as well (1876:1328). Gideon left an interesting record of women ‘with no tattooing except for a few small lines along the lips and on the eyelids which indicate the married state and that of child-bearing’ (1989:24). Although agreeing on the universality of tattooing, Shemelin noted that ‘there are many people, especially young people, who do not have a single line on them yet’ (1816:131). The visitors identified a correlation between the increased density of tattoos and the age and social status of the bearer. The ‘Easterners’ were more inclined to see tattoos as a sign of social distinction: ‘The nobility have special marks which distinguish them from the commoners’ (Shemelin 1816:131). ‘Tattooing is regarded by them as the finest form of ornamentation and a distinguishing mark of their pre-eminence’ (Korobitsyn 1952:154). ‘Tattooing is considered among them as a matter of great distinction, and the rich and the notables pay for it dearly’ (Gideon 1989:23). Krusenstern took a similar view: ‘The lower classes are less tatooed, and many of them not at all; and it is therefore not improbable that this ornament serves to point out a noble, or, at any rate, a distinguished personage’ (1813c:155). Langsdorff was more circumspect: ‘Many of them try to obtain recognition through symmetrical tattoos in just the same way as many among us do with expensive clothing. Thus, members of the upper class especially do it, since they alone have the means to pay for it’ (1993:75–76). In the Russian variant of his account he is even more definite: ‘Our interpreters persuaded us that pre-eminence or distinction consists neither in the application of the designs themselves, nor in their particular features; but one who pays the artist well receives a design corresponding to the payment’ (1810:106). Here a remark in Tilesius’ letter from Kamchatka is pertinent: ‘In each valley there is only one tattooist’ (1806a:494). He did not return to this subject in

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his later writings, while the accounts of the other visitors, especially Langsdorff, suggest that a number of tattooists, whose art varied in quality, practiced among the Taiohae people. But Tilesius may not have been altogether wrong; he may have understood that a tattooist’s position in Nuku Hivan microcosm was a singular one, that tattooists were more than just artisans competing with each other for the market, and that the art of tattooing was part of the social system, rather than a mere commodity. Besides its social role, some of the voyagers proposed other functions for tattoos. Tilesius believed that the natives ‘consider patterns on the body as marks of fashion’, that they decorate the body with tattoos ‘out of vanity’, and that tattoos serve them as ‘a sort of clothing’. At the same time, he noted other significant factors: ‘During warfare, on days of victory, when eating human flesh, on birthdays, marriages, funerals etc. they tattoo particular figures each time, to match the event.’ This he exemplified with his own observation: ‘The behavior of these people is childish; each beautiful color and unusual sight excites their senses and provokes their curiosity. This happened with our fish, which the tattooist tattooed on his body as a symbol of his art.’ Tilesius was then studying and drawing a new species of fish, Balistes, which the islanders had caught for him. He remarked that drawings of this fish and of sharks are often found on different products (1806b:100–101; 1821:187–188; 1812:397). But in this particular case it seems that the tattooist was responding directly to the voyagers’ unusual interest in the fish by tattooing it on his body. By the late 1820s, Tilesius had systematized his Nuku Hivan observations and materials into a profound study of the origins of social life and the state. It included a detailed discussion of the meaning of the different figures used in Nuku Hivan tattoos. These he had ‘copied from the skin of Nuku Hivans and later learned from Roberts and Cabri their meaning and purpose’. He also stressed the similarity of tattoo elements with patterns that appeared on boats, clubs, paddles, stilts and ‘etuas’, or Nuku Hivan memorials. This persuaded him that a ‘tattoo was not just a decoration or substitute for clothes or insignia of rank as many voyagers believed’, but a peculiar form of pictography used to record legal contracts and obligations on the bodies of the participants. He seemed to have abandoned his own earlier view of the functions of tattoos, and now took Langsdorff severely to task for his remarks on their ornamental role (1828:164–165, 144–146 and passim). His meticulous study, now almost forgotten, was revolutionary for its time, and his comments on the meaning of tattoo figures retain their significance to this day. Langsdorff’s description of ‘feasting societies’ united by a shared tattoo figure is well known, but there are occasional discrepancies between the English and Russian versions. The English version of his account says that at times



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when food is scarce a wealthy man ‘gives his hungry brothers free board. At that time all of those present are tattooed with a particular figure’ to commemorate the event (1993:78).The Russian version says only that ‘all participating receive a tattoo, according to their wishes’ (1810:109). It is interesting that Langsdorff ’s conclusion—‘all of the brothers afterwards must help all of the others with foodstuffs, if they are able to, during a period of famine in the future—help and help alike: one of the most logical orders of free masonry on earth’—was censored in the Russian version. Three other members of the expedition—Krusenstern, Espenberg, and Rezanov—also referred to this custom. Krusenstern observed in his journal that both Robarts and Kabris belonged to Kiatonui’s feasting society, whose members were distinguished by a black rectangle on their chests (1804a:41). Although Krusenstern’s book contains no information on Kabris’ membership, this mark is clearly visible in the portrait of Kabris in Langsdorff ’s book. Rezanov set down his understanding of the custom: They are extraordinarily fond of tattooing or piercing their bodies. Inventing a design, they invite all who would like to decorate themselves in the same way to partake in eating a pig with them on the appointed day. Those who share the same design come to the meal and the society decorated with the same mark shares the feast and seals mutual friendship. Some are tattooed from head to foot and, having various marks, participate in all societies. Women follow the same custom among themselves, but as pig is taboo for them they have few tattoos. (1825, no. 66:88–89)

While Langsdorff ’s account is more accurate, Rezanov’s independent description of this custom suggests that the facts about feasting societies came to the Russians from different sources. Langsdorff also recorded that a woman participating in a feast in honor of a wealthy woman, given by that woman’s husband, would imitate the tattoo design that she had done on this occasion (1993:78). Besides the classical account by Langsdorff, many other expedition members described the tattoo procedure itself. There are a number of discrepancies in their observations.While Langsdorff wrote that the tattooing instrument was made out of ‘the wing bones of the tropic bird (Phaëton aethereus)’ ‘stuck at an acute angle into a finger-thick piece of bamboo’ (1993:76), Ratmanov believed that it was made from a reed or bamboo with five or ten sharp prongs ‘similar to what we use to rule note lines’ (1876:1328; 1803–1805a:48), and Gideon wrote of ‘an instrument with a tiny toothed edge made out of a shell’ (1989:23). Rezanov and Tilesius also referred to bones. Tilesius described them as ‘cylindrical half-split bird’s bones with five sharpened teeth as a comb’ and added,

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‘I wanted to buy such a tool, but the excessive curiosity with which some of my companions rushed to obtain true and fictitious memorabilia prevented me from this’ (1806b:98, 99). Concerning the pigment used, again there is a variety of observations. Ratmanov referred to ‘black or green dye’ (1803–1805a:48). Krusenstern said that the Nuku Hivans ‘rubbed into the skin different colors, usually black, which after some time takes on a dark-blue tinge’, also mentioning that the women’s hands and arms were tattooed in ‘black and yellow’ (1809:190; 1813c:155, 119). Gideon also mentions dark blue (1989:24), while Korobitsyn in one variant of his manuscript has ‘black pigment’ and in another ‘blue’ (1952:154). Rezanov speaks of rubbing in ‘black ointment prepared from coconuts’ (1825, no. 66:83). The inconsistency in the representation of tattoo patterns, seen above in the example of Kiatonui’s and Moate‘i‘i’s portraits, may create the impression

Figure 33.╇ Georg Langsdorff, Drawing of Nukuhivan with unfinished tattoo. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper. Private collection of Achim and Renate von Rappard, Hannover, Germany



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that the voyagers’ reproductions cannot be relied upon. While this may be correct in respect of the end product, the iconic engravings of tattooed Nuku Hivans, the expedition’s artists did take care to reproduce the exact patterns and components of the tattoos in their field sketches.Thus, the famous engraving ‘A young Nukuhiwan not completely tattooed’, published in Langsdorff ’s book, possibly with some input from Tilesius (see fig. 32), was based on Langsdorff’s sketch preserved by Achim and Renate von Rappard (fig. 33). This affords a rare opportunity to observe Langsdorff ’s creative process. A comparison of the two images shows the clumsy authenticity of the sketch giving way to the refined aesthetics of the engraving. The tattooed expanses of the man’s back and thighs in the sketch are replaced in the engraving by elegant oval and linear outlines, which provided frames for the tattoos. While the engraving suggests that the tattoo figures were planned well beforehand for the whole body, the sketch implies that preliminary ‘drafting’ took place to a far lesser extent, if at all. The sketch may, after all, be an unfinished work that Langsdorff deliberately transformed into the ‘not completely tattooed’ Nuku Hivan. Both Langsdorff and Tilesius made plates of tattoo figures and recorded their native names and meanings; the authenticity of these is confirmed by other sources, and their work was widely used in Ottino-Garanger’s study (1998).

‘The tattooist has the upper hand on the ship’ Finding themselves in a society where tattoos constituted one of the most important of personal attributes, the Russian voyagers were tempted to try it themselves.The practice of acquiring tattoos while traveling was already spreading in Europe. In 1812 Langsdorff remarked in his book, ‘Among Europeans, pilgrims to the Holy Sepulcher and sailors of almost all European nations . . . are found . . . traces of the custom which serves either as a souvenir of some place or even as the concept of physical beauty’ (1993:75). Russian mariners, unlike those of Europe and America, had not yet been exposed to this relatively new fashion, owing to the general isolation of Russia. As we read Russian accounts, we can witness the inception of this novel practice among them. Löwenstern, having his tattoo made on the fourth day at Nuku Hiva, could record that three days later, ‘the tattooist has the upper hand on the ship. The savage works from morning to evening. Even Krusenstern has had himself tattooed’ (2003a:98). As in the case of the women’s nighttime visits, Krusenstern clearly made concessions to public demand and allowed a native tattooist to work aboard the ship. He wrote in his book, ‘There are some great masters of this craft among the Nukuhivans. One of them, who was on board the ship throughout our stay here, found much employment for himself, as almost all the

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men invited him to have a pattern done in accordance with his art’ (1809:191, 1813c:155–156), while Tilesius remarked, ‘One of the artists often visited our ship and nearly all the sailors and even some of our officers and travelers had different figures made on them’ (1806b:98). Langsdorff wrote that ‘this new experience enthralled’ nearly everyone on board (1811:11). In 1810 a Russian magazine stated on the basis of anecdotal evidence that ‘one of these artists made himself a fortune aboard the Neva and Nadezhda, being engaged all the time. Hardly was there a sailor, and even an official, who would not put him to use’ (Anon. 1810, no.18:258–259). What was tattooed reveals the reasons for this passion, which enveloped all aboard. Some, including Krusenstern and Ratmanov, had the tattooist make conventional inscriptions. Tilesius remarked that the tattooist would copy words written for him in Russian and Latin characters (1806b:99). The Japanese recorded that ‘the sailors employed islanders to make Russian letters on their arms, stating in which year and month they arrived on this island’ (Otsuki 1976:165). The variety of tattooed designs was not limited to such inscriptions. Ratmanov wrote, ‘Many of our officers and men had small figures tattooed on their arms’ (1803–1805a:48v.). Krusenstern mentioned ‘patterns done in accordance with the natives’ art’ (1809:191). Tilesius, observing a tattooist at work on board the ship, reported, ‘I often saw him puncturing figures he knew from memory, without any guide lines’ (1806b:99). Langsdorff mentioned that the visitors ‘would have a bracelet, a name or a figure tattooed on them as a memento’ (1811:11). He himself had a figure meaningful for him tattooed on his arm (we will return to this later). Indigenous Nuku Hivan patterns were so much in favor probably because of the visitors’ fascination with the male body and aspiration ‘to try on the skin’ of the beautiful native males. They were prepared to endure the pain and fear, which, they accepted, was an essential part of this ritual. Otto Kotzebue remembered that the ship’s navigator, Filipp Kamenshchikov, ‘a tall, robust man, fainted when he had his arm a little tattooed’. ‘This pain must be very considerable,’ he remarked, which suggests that he was one of the few who was not tattooed at Nuku Hiva, being too young (1967b:113). Later he hoped to make up for it in the Marshall Islands, which he visited with his own expedition on the Riurik, but he did not succeed, as the islanders, for various reasons, kept postponing the tattooing operation. The story of Count Fedor Ivanovich Tolstoy is of particular interest here. It is sometimes claimed that he was taken on board in place of another Tolstoy, Fedor Petrovich, who later became a famous painter, but Fedor Ivanovich brought back an art work of his own from the expedition—his own body, covered with elaborate tattoos, including his private parts, which he would



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exhibit in male company. Leo Tolstoy, who wanted to write a book about him, remarked in 1865 of ‘that Tolstoyan wildness that’s common to us all. Not for nothing did Fedor Ivanovich have himself tattooed’ (Tolstoi 1990:62; Tolstoy 1983:145). Courage was one of the few virtues Tolstoy could not be denied. The Russian enthusiasm for tattooing coincided broadly with the European reactions of the time, as studied by Joanna White (2005:72–77). This is remarkable since Russian sailors, as noted above, had hardly been exposed to this custom, having little contact with other seamen who had visited the Pacific islands. The Russian voyagers’ accounts contain some indications of the Nuku Hivans’ response to the visitors’ interest in their body decoration, as well as mention of the Nuku Hivans’ adoption of new technologies. In addition to the story of the tattooing of Balistes in response to Tilesius’ interest, there is another story, recorded by Romberg: ‘On the Neva one native saw some red lead. Excited, he paid six coconuts to be allowed to paint his face with it. He was very happy and thus impressed his king’ (1804a:37v.). The Russian captain Golovnin, visiting Tanna Island in the New Hebrides (now Vanuatu) in 1809, also reported the islanders’ wish to exchange decorations with the visitors. On the first day of his visit some islanders brought him a gift of local pigments and encouraged him to paint his face. Golovnin reciprocated by painting the natives’ faces on demand, using the ship’s paints (Barratt 1990:52, 59).

DAY 5

heresy

29 April (11 May) 1804

The Neva at Taiohae At daybreak on their first day at Taiohae, Lisiansky had difficulty in enforcing his ruling on the nonadmission of women: As soon as it was light, we were surrounded by a still greater multitude of these people. There were now a hundred females at least; and they practiced all the arts of lewd expression and gesture, to gain admission on board. It was with difficulty I could get my crew to obey the orders I had given on this subject. Amongst these females were some not more than ten years of age. But youth, it seems, is here no test of innocence; these infants, as I may call them, rivalled their mothers in the wantonness of their motions and the arts of allurement. (1814:67, 69, 68; 1977:62)

Temptations having been kept at bay for the moment, the crew of the Neva were engaged in collecting water for the ship. This operation was managed by Robarts, who recorded in his laconic account: ‘was up before day light, calld all hands, and the Boats was out by day light. I went on shore calling for the other boats and got the 4 boats loaded and went on Board the Neva to breakfast. After breakfast went on shore, made two trips with 4 Boats and returnd to dinner’ (1974:134). In spite of the uncompromising attitude to women, the general atmosphere on the Neva seems to have been more open and hospitable to visitors. When the sailors who had to lift the barrels aboard could hardly endure the heat, Lisiansky ‘called the islanders to our assistance. This produced great joy amongst them; and the capstern [sic] was manned in an instant’ (1814:69). In the Russian version of Lisiansky’s journal, his promise of a nail to each if they worked well made them so joyful that the Russians ‘could hardly restrain them from running around the deck’ (1977:62). ‘The king’, his uncle, and other relatives who were aboard the Neva on a visit cheerfully joined in the work, while 154



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one of the Russian sailors accompanied their efforts on the bagpipes. ‘After the business was over’ the islanders received their nails and ‘leaped into the sea with cries of joy’. Gideon, like Shemelin, wrote about Kiatonui with sincere sympathy: ‘This king is very obliging. He, with his own hands, brought us coral . . . from the water, and various shells’ (1989:26). The islanders visiting the Neva soon discovered a new attraction: Lisiansky recorded that the king’s attendants after his departure ‘begged to be shaved, having been told by one of their countrymen that the operation was much easier and more pleasant with a razor than with their shells’ (1814:69). The voyagers may have understood this as merely a matter of comfort and convenience, but there was more to it. To the Nuku Hivans the head was taboo and, according to Robarts, the shaving procedure in Nuku Hivans’ eyes was a sacred ritual. As he described it, when one man shaved another’s head, both took off their bandages and went to the family burial ground, where the shaving was performed and the hair hidden carefully under a stone (1974: 269).The natives’ decision to allow the visitors to shave them, along with the adoption of new materials for bodily decoration, may have had some sacred connotations. Langsdorff described an incident in which Kiatonui, who was shaved the following day, touched a visitor’s head: he stopped in astonishment ‘in front of one of our naval officers. Using signs he asked him to stand still. With pointed fingers and nails he wanted to pluck out a little hair from the inside of the officer’s nose’ (1993:73). Lisiansky recorded at the end of the day: ‘It should be said in praise of these islanders that we had as yet no reason to complain of misconduct on their part, they were very honest.’ Kiatonui’s scrupulous honesty did not pass unnoticed either. When Lisiansky, refusing to accept Kiatonui’s pigs in exchange for two sheep the Russians had aboard, offered him as a present . . . some axes, knives, and other articles . . . he would only take a striped cap, observing, as he refused the rest, that such precious things could not be accepted, till he had something to give me in return. He immediately sent on shore his canoe, which soon returned with fifty cocoa-nuts, for which, in addition to what I had before given, I made a present to the uncle of an axe and three knives.

The Russians obviously enjoyed this spirit of mutual generosity. On another occasion that day Lisiansky, being unable to part with his green parrot, for which Kiatonui offered him ‘two large pigs’, ‘to keep his majesty in good humor . . . gave him a quantity of sugar, of which I knew he was extremely fond’ (1814:67–69).

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The voyagers’ wish to please Kiatonui by offering him gifts, while expecting him and his ‘subjects’ to supply pigs in quantity, put him in a difficult situation. We may remember how on the day of the Nadezhda’s arrival Krusenstern gave his red parrot to Kiatonui as a gift and asked Robarts to make clear to Kiatonui that it was a gift. Kiatonui nevertheless reciprocated with a hog. The Russians, not fully appreciating the difference between gift giving and trade in Polynesian society, began to confuse these practices. Kiatonui, wise politician though he was, could not be expected to realize that the Russians’ gifts implied a certain pressure. Thomas in his study of South Pacific exchange remarked, ‘Keatonui was no doubt bothered by the pressure to supply pigs and did not want to become indebted’ (1991:96–97). Similarly, Kiatonui was reluctant to ‘receive anything in return’ when he brought abundant gifts from his family during Fanning’s visit in 1798 (Fanning 1924:137–138). This reluctance to enter into relations that he could not maintain was probably why, to the visitors’ surprise, ‘Ketenue gave his name to Captain Krusenstern, but assumed none in return.’ Espenberg in his account of this event suggests that Cook was wrong to assume that name exchanges were always reciprocal and served to taboo both parties against mutual threats (1805c:122).

The Discovery of Hakatea Bay—Intermezzo The Russians on the Nadezhda had an important mission that day. Krusenstern had charged Löwenstern with making a topographical survey of Taiohae Bay and the southern coast of Nuku Hiva west of this bay. According to his journal, Krusenstern had learned from Robarts a few days earlier that ‘about 1½ Mile from here is a small Bay where a ship may heave down, but the entrance is very narrow; Tayore it is called’ (1804a:45). Löwenstern; Bellingshausen, noted for his cartographic skills; and Horner, the astronomer, left at dawn. Löwenstern recorded in his journal: The rough steep cliffs cannot be climbed. The surf prevents entrance into the little bays. We found only one inlet surrounded by cliffs that could probably be used for a ship in need of repairs. We charted the inlet. The change of [diet] had its effect upon our health because all three of us were sick. And, after having worked the whole day, we returned to our ship from our journey at six o’clock. (2003a:96)

The bay that the voyagers had discovered is known today as Hakatea Bay, the gateway to the beautiful Hakaui Valley. This bay was the first Russian discovery in the South Pacific and would come to occupy a special place in the



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story of Russian engagement with the South Seas. In years to come it would acquire its own enchanting and tragic aspects, but in the meantime the young officers Löwenstern and Bellingshausen, battling debilitating bouts of diarrhea, were heroically charting its rocky shores under the burning sun. Löwenstern, the senior officer of the party and Krusenstern’s closest associate, had every reason to expect that the bay would be named after him. But events on board the Nadezhda two days later thwarted these expectations.

Shemelin’s Party on Shore and ‘the Man of Nature’ The commanders regulated all Russian shore visits. Only the naturalists—Tilesius and Langsdorff, occasionally accompanied by Friderici and Espenberg— were free to roam the shore. The sailors could go ashore only in watering or woodcutting parties or as guards accompanying officers. As for the officers and Rezanov’s retinue, they could go ashore only in a party on ‘official’ visits. Robarts later stressed that Krusenstern ‘was only twice on shore’ (1974:139). Exception was made only for duties such as supervising a watering party, which allowed Löwenstern, for example, to spend some time ashore. The Japanese aboard the Nadezhda, who most likely had no chance at all to go ashore, believed that ‘the captain did not permit anyone to go ashore out of fear of the natives’ (Freiberg 1896:290). Rezanov in his report to the emperor also dramatized the situation, stressing that at Nuku Hiva ‘our sailors obtained drinking water from the savages under the protection of an armed detachment’ (1994a:88). Clearly, routine precautions were taken, but thanks to Robarts’ mediation and the friendly relations the voyagers established with Kiatonui, they did not need to resort to any drastic measures, like keeping hostages aboard the ship while on shore, as Captain Fanning from the Betsy did in 1798. At the same time restrictions on shore visits could also be provoked by personal hostilities among the passengers and crew, as the case of Gideon suggests. Lisiansky was irked by his presence on the Neva from the very beginning. ‘Lisiansky fought tooth and nail against taking the priest but had to in the end,’ Löwenstern recorded while the expedition was still in Kronshtadt (2003a:4). In Nuku Hiva Lisiansky would not allow Gideon to make shore visits, probably because of his hostility towards the priest, or perhaps in retaliation for Gideon’s prohibition of women on the Neva at night.Whichever it was, Gideon would soon retaliate writing in his complaint to the church authorities, ‘While in the Marquesas Islands, he ordered the crew not to permit me to go ashore because the evening before, returning from the ship Nadezhda, [I] did not go to the Captain’s cabin to report my return to him in person, although it was made known to the officer of the watch’ (1989:81–82).

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In this light the prolonged shore visit of Shemelin’s party, which included the artist Kurliandtsev, the naturalist Brykin, and the hunter Petr Filippov, is especially interesting. This group reflects the attitudes of the ethnic Russian wing, which so far has remained silent in the accounts of the expedition published in the West. Ailing from the lack of fresh air in his squalid gunner’s cabin with tiny portholes, in the hull below the officers’ cabins, Shemelin received approval to go ashore from Rezanov, who wanted him to barter for curios away from the competition that surrounded them on the ship. Shemelin left two detailed accounts of this day in the published and unpublished versions of his journal. Brykin, who accompanied him, was also going ashore for the first time in Nuku Hiva. Löwenstern relates a story about Brykin’s experience at Nuku Hiva that may explain why his Marquesan stay was not very fruitful: Brinkin is a tall, strong, fat fellow with shining white skin. The people who came on board at Nukahiva found that fat bosom so much to their liking, that they could not stop running their hands over him, and, according to their words, their mouths were watering. This made Brinkin so fearful that he was the only man who did not go ashore in Nukahiva, so that he would not be eaten by the cannibals. Neither curiosity nor persuasion could move him to go on land. (2003a:153)

While the islanders might have been making a joke, a tinge of the congruence of homosexuality and cannibalism as discussed by Crain (1994:31) should not be excluded. Shemelin’s journal is the only testimony to suggest that at least once Brykin did overcome his fears and venture ashore. When going ashore the voyagers took all necessary precautions: ‘We were armed with pistols and sabres just in case’, Shemelin wrote. But their main protection was Ma‘uhau, who accompanied them on this excursion. ‘This man is three arshins tall1 and exceptionally strong.’ According to Shemelin, the party disembarked at a distance of about two kilometers from Kiatonui’s residence. If his estimate is correct, the landing point was most likely in the bay south of Fort Collet. Shemelin remarks that on their way the shore was covered with pieces of granite, volcanic rock, quartz, and slate, which is especially characteristic of the geology around Fort Collet. As they were walking along the shore, Ma‘uhau entertained them by using his sling to propel five-pound stones ‘an incredible distance, and when he threw them up they disappeared out of sight’. On reaching Kiatonui’s home the Russians met ‘his whole family, his wife, daughters and grandchildren’. They were invited in and spent about half



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an hour there, giving a pair of scissors and a copper comb to ‘the Queen’ and colored beads to ‘the other ladies’. Kurliandtsev made a drawing of Kiatonui’s residence, and the visitors left (Shemelin 1816:118–119). The events of this day surfaced in the documents of the Academy of Fine Arts in St Petersburg at least twice. In 1818 Kurliandtsev applied for financial support, referring to his work on the portrait of ‘Katenue, king of Taiogai’. The following year he submitted the painting as a gift to Alexander I.The emperor’s officials thought it ‘rather weak’ and returned it to Kurliandtsev. Its subsequent fate, like that of the rest of his pictorial legacy, remains unknown (Tokarev 1993:28; Petrov 1864:133–134). But now, as the little group penetrated further into the Nuku Hivan paradise, the shadow of the conflict brewing on the Nadezhda lifted for a while. Led by Ma‘uhau they went up the Meau Valley, where, according to Shemelin, ‘another palace of King was situated. On the way we saw many buildings similar to the King’s: the best belonged to the nobility of his court, the others— to the commoners.’ Walking in the dense shade of the trees from one settlement to another, the Russians forded numerous rivulets and brooks, which, Shemelin believed, served as natural borders between the properties of different families. He was impressed by structures of three types, which he described in detail: houses on massive stone foundations, embankments paved with stone along the streams, and tohuas—large public squares, rectangular in shape and paved with stones, used for public gatherings, ritual events, and entertainment. He stressed that if they saw similar structures in the ‘cities of enlightened peoples’ they would assume that the work had been done with the aid of mechanical equipment. Here it was achieved solely by collective work and the strength of human hands (1816:119–120; 1803–1806:135–136). At length they chose a camping site near a settlement, and while Kurliandtsev drew and Brykin botanized, Shemelin relaxed in the shade of a tree. He remembered: Several young beautiful women, drawn to me by curiosity, came up and sat around me in a circle. I hugged their children, and they, soon getting used to me, boldly and fearlessly started playing with me. Some of the kind women treated me to bananas, and others offered me coconut juice diluted with water, with which I pleasurably quenched my thirst. Two of those who were treating me tried to hint to me that they expected something in recompense, and I gladly presented them with copper combs, and gave the others three bright metallic buttons each. (1816:122)

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He watched men climbing the coconut trees to pick coconuts, lifting heavy bunches of bananas or breadfruit, or gardening in their vegetable gardens. The air around him, he wrote, was filled with the fragrance of the lush red flowers adorning the bushes, the purling of fresh water springs, and singing birds. ‘Our curious eyes could nowhere see ugly ruins or rotting and fetid heaps infesting the air with their stench’ (1816:120–121). Gideon, another ‘Easterner’, likewise praised the islanders’ ‘cleanliness’ (1989:24). Watching the islanders in their natural surroundings, away from the bustle around the ships, Shemelin admired the simple natural harmony of their world: ‘This is the most splendiferous garden of nature, flourishing under the zealous care of its Nuku Hivan masters’ (1816:121). Like Shemelin, Langsdorff was impressed by the Nuku Hivans’ architectural achievements, which he likened to those of the Romans: ‘We have to admire the skill, given their situation, with which the inhabitants put together such large stones, which ten to twelve men can barely carry or roll, so artfully and beautifully without cement or mortar that they represent true Roman walls which would do honor to a European architect’ (1993:83). For Shemelin this was more than dexterity in construction. Everything he had heard about the islanders and their ways led him to expect to find the ‘unenlightened customs and wild manners of these man-eaters, unknowing of the laws to respect authority and lacking respect for one another’. In bewilderment he tried to reconcile this preconception with what he actually saw, and enquired, ‘In order to achieve such things, is it not necessary to possess art, patience in creation, united strength and harmony?’ (1816:120–121). This was as far as his rebellion against European preconceptions was allowed into his published account. In his private diary, written while his impressions were fresh, we can see a soul tormented by the intrigues and humiliation he had experienced aboard ship. At last he was far from his squalid cabin and the ‘haughty voices which seek only to rule and not to oblige’ and the ‘scornful looks directed towards me, looks which can no longer reach me and pierce my heart’. Here in the fragrant garden of nature, among ‘wild and uncivilized islanders, who are nevertheless amicable, gentle and hospitable people’, he was overwhelmed by a ‘heretical’ sentiment: ‘I would not wish . . . them to be more enlightened than they are. For their well-being they do not need more than their natural simplicity, by which they are always guided.’ Without the benefit of enlightenment from Western philosophy, Shemelin had discovered by himself the ideal of the noble savage, of natural man, as he lay on the soft turf of the Meau Valley.These he set against ‘the Enlightened of our century’ with their vices, now personified for him by the educated society on the Nadezhda. But he was roused from his reverie by



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his companions, who were in haste to take the boat back to the ship. All he could do was to sigh and say to himself, ‘Well, Shemelin, you can no longer remain here. Fate has allocated these peaceful dwellings to the savages, while you must return to the civilized peoples’ (1803–1806:137v.–139v.). Shemelin was not alone in his feelings. Had he been accepted into the ‘educated’ society of the Nadezhda, he would have discovered similar views in different quarters. Ratmanov said of the islanders that ‘these vile enlightened ways have not reached them, and this explains their good nature’ (1803– 1805a:46v.). Lisiansky and Langsdorff were similarly sympathetic to the ‘children of nature’. Tilesius believed that the Nuku Hivans ‘were completely akin to children left to the care of nature, who live freely and wander wherever they please’ (1806b:103). Horner’s attitudes are revealed in his drawing of Nuku Hivan Eden. It depicts what was probably the same watering place sketched by Löwenstern. But unlike Löwenstern’s tense ‘beach crossing’ as seen from the sea, Horner looks at the islanders’ microcosm from well inside the shore. Horner’s shore, unlike Löwenstern’s beach where vegetation was hardly ‘cited’, celebrates the lush tropical greenery (fig. 34). The only real opposition to such sentiments came from Krusenstern and Espenberg, and mainly under the influence of Robarts’ tales. Espenberg did not

Figure 34.╇ Johann Horner, Taiohae. Gouache and watercolor on paper. Völkerkundemuseum, Universität Zürich, Switzerland, Reise-skizzen, Nr. 820-2-06

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fail to notice the Nuku Hivans’ archetypical Arcadian way of life: ‘These islanders spend their time properly in a state of indolence, and employ themselves only in dancing or ornamenting their persons. When any of them set about making tackle for catching fish, a girdle, or club, the work is speedily completed. On the whole, none of them, properly speaking, have any particular occupation.’ However, influenced by Robarts, he formed a negative opinion of ‘the man of nature’: The Englishman, Roberts, cautioned us not to place any confidence in these islanders; to be always on our guard, and, when any of them offended us, to shoot them immediately: he assured us that this would produce no bad consequences, and that the rest would give themselves no trouble about it. Such are the islanders of the South Seas, so celebrated for their mildness and humanity! . . . It is mere folly to consider the man of nature, as he is called, as better and more benevolent than the man who has been civilized. (1805c:11)

Leaving philosophy to the philosophers, Shemelin managed during that day to barter ‘several pieces of weaponry, a couple of oars, and a human skull decorated in places with mother of pearl’, several pieces of cloth, and ‘decorations which were worn on the head or neck’. Rezanov was well pleased with this result (1816:122; 1803–1806:134).

DAY 6

tension

30 April (12 May) 1804

Barter and Laughter By the sixth day the islanders seemed to be at ease with their visitors; some of the novelty might have worn off the barter, but it did not become a purely business operation—the typical exuberance of Polynesian socializing ensured that. At noon Kiatonui visited the Neva. Lisiansky wrote: During this visit, a circumstance took place of a seriocomic nature. One of my midshipmen [Berkh], in examining the oar of a canoe that I had purchased, happened to let it fall, and it struck against the head of the king, who was sitting on the deck. His majesty immediately fell down, and began to make the most extraordinary wry faces, as if in great pain. The accident mortified me so much, that I reprimanded the young man a little severely for his carelessness. He was himself considerably alarmed; and, in apologizing, presented the king with a small piece of iron. This changed the scene; his majesty burst into a loud laugh, and expressed by signs, how cleverly he had deceived us, and that he was not in the least hurt. This scene over, the king went on shore in high spirits, and I was myself not a little pleased that the accident terminated as it did. (1814:70)

Lisiansky, though alarmed, probably did not fully realize how grave the incident might have been. Touching another’s head, let alone the head of such an important man as Kiatonui, was a taboo (Langsdorff 1993:87). In this light Kiatonui’s reaction shows a wise and resourceful man. By turning the incident into a practical joke of his own he avoided conflict without compromising his authority in the eyes of his people. Soon another incident would show both sides how fragile their relations really were. Meanwhile the barter and joking continued. Shemelin, highly critical of the ‘free trade’ finally permitted by Krusenstern, wrote in his account: 163

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The islanders noticed that for mere trinkets—of no value or use to any of them—we would trade objects very helpful for them and by their reasoning quite expensive, so they all left their coconuts and rushed off to find for us rarities of nature. Not bothering to inquire about our taste in the matter, they boldly concluded that any old rubbish would be fitting for us, and without any discrimination dragged up for barter whatever they could find, whether in the water, on the shore or in the forest. It is laughable what rarities the islanders would grace us with in those days. One, having tied a few live mice to a stick, tried to sell them for a good price; another ripped up a bag of worthless grass and tried to haggle for something made of iron; a third brought us some broken and ruined seashells or a rock lying on the shore. For all these products of their island they demanded exclusively razors and knives, not even bothering to look at small pieces of iron, which they previously favored. (1816:123)

Shemelin referred to the similar experience of Cook at ‘Amsterdam Island’ (i.e., Tonga). Thomas comments that there ‘the indiscriminate enthusiasm appeared ridiculous to the Tongans who parodied the marines’ (2003:206). At Nuku Hiva the Russians had experience with a constantly fluctuating ‘market’ that responded to their enthusiasm in unexpected ways. Löwenstern described another practical joke with an edifying outcome: A savage came swimming up with a decorative white object on his neck. Moritz thought it was a tooth and gave him a sacking needle for it. The exchange had barely been completed when the savage broke out in loud laughter, since what he had sold was a peeled banana which he had deceptively hung around his neck. After he had stopped laughing, he swam back to the ship and was honest enough to give back the needle. But he was told to keep it as a gift. (2003a:96; 2005:164–165)

Lisiansky’s ‘Vocabulary of the language of Noocahiva’ affords some insight into the patterns of language used during the barter and communication on board and on shore. Naturally it includes expressions necessary for barter (‘Give me’, ‘Take this’, ‘I will give you some iron’), a list of European wares (bottle, button, iron, knife, axe), and Marquesan foodstuffs including hog (booaga). It also contains some more elaborate instructions: ‘Follow me’, ‘Do not come here’, ‘Go and bring it here’, ‘Catch and bring him here’. At the same time the vocabulary indicates that contact with the islanders went far beyond barter. It



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includes expressions of hospitality and friendship: ‘Friend’, ‘How do you do?’, ‘Sit down here’, ‘Will you eat?’, ‘I am hungry’, ‘Will you sleep on board?’ As women were not allowed on board the Neva, the latter expression suggests that Ma‘uhau’s spending a night aboard the Nadezhda was not unique. The vocabulary also has a range of expressions that might be of use in controlling and resolving delicate situations: ‘You are an honest man’, ‘Do not be angry’, ‘Hold your tongue’, ‘Go away’, ‘Go to the devil’, ‘Have you not stolen something?’, ‘Do not touch that gun, it will kill you’. Finally, the vocabulary shows that the Russians used language to collect data without the assistance of Robarts and Kabris.There are such questions as ‘What is that?’, ‘What do you call it?’, ‘Who is that?’, ‘Where is your king or chief?’, ‘Where do you go?’, ‘Why?’ (One wonders how the Russians could understand the answer to this last question.) It even reveals an attempt at independent field study: ‘Do you eat your enemy?’ (1814:323–325).

War or Peace? The events of that afternoon, which so nearly led to tragedy, made clear the fragility of the developing trust between islanders and the visitors. In the morning Kiatonui, besides visiting Lisiansky, came aboard the Nadezhda where ‘he had been shaved and washed with perfumed water, which seemed to make him infinitely happy’. Allowing the strangers to shave him meant breaking a centuries-old tradition, as mentioned above, and this may have had an unpredictable effect upon him. Krusenstern describes subsequent events: While I was at dinner, the officer of the watch [Löwenstern] informed me that the king, who scarce an hour before had gone on shore, had returned, accompanied by another person, with a hog, for which he demanded a small parrot. In about ten minutes I went upon deck, and found that the owner of the hog was already gone, the parrot not having been immediately delivered to him. This surprised me, and being very anxious to have the hog, I requested the king would call back the impatient vendor; he appeared not to mind the king’s orders, and paddled the faster on shore. (1813c:122–123)

Krusenstern’s account as reported by Lisiansky indicates that the reaction of the islanders was not unprovoked: ‘the officers being at dinner, there was nobody to receive him [Kiatonui] on deck, he was so much displeased, that he ordered the pig to be taken back again’ (Lisiansky 1814:70). The Russian ver-

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sion of Krusenstern’s journal mentioned that the owner of the pig also became ‘angry’ (1809:153). Löwenstern adds that communication between Kiatonui and Krusenstern was conducted through Kabris (2003a:96). Krusenstern continued, ‘Immediately after, one of the king’s attendants leaped over board, and swam after the boat, to persuade the man, as the Frenchman assured me, to bring the hog back; but this was not the case, for, as I afterwards learned, he was gone on shore with the news of my having put the king in irons.’ Krusenstern’s enquiry the next day about the cause of the false report pointed to Kabris’ interference: ‘He [Kiatonui] assured me that he had never feared I should use him ill; but that the Frenchman had told him I should put him in irons without fail unless the hog was brought on board; and this he had believed: my suspicion therefore of the Frenchman was verified’ (1813:126). Löwenstern recorded the next day that ‘the Frenchman was the cause of yesterday’s commotion’ (2003a:98). Krusenstern believed that ‘the Frenchman, from some malicious reason, perhaps envy at the Englishman’s being preferred to him, had endeavoured to create a dispute between us, expecting to derive some advantage from it’ (1813c:122). But taking into account that Kabris had nearly forgotten French, had very little English, and did not speak Russian or German, which were the languages of communication aboard the ship, he may genuinely have failed to understand exactly what Krusenstern’s orders were and acted as he thought best, resorting to intimidation in order to persuade the islanders to bring back the hog without much thought for the consequences. Faddei Bulgarin gives a quite different anecdotal account of these events, as recounted to him by Kabris himself: Hearing the name of Krusenstern, Kabris ground his teeth furiously, indignant at the fact that Krusenstern, believing his enemy the Englishman, had taken him [Kabris] away from the blessed island and portrayed him in a disreputable manner in his book. Kabris further asserted that the accusation that he wanted to incite the islanders to revolt against the Russians was completely unfair, and that the king of Nuka Hiva placed all the blame on him under the influence of the Englishman in order to redeem himself in front of Krusenstern. (2001:664)

Whatever sparked the rift, the consequences were not long in coming. ‘The people immediately armed themselves. Everyone appeared with slingshots, clubs, and spears in their hands, and, as a signal to do battle, they jumped up and down, clapping together stones they had in their hands’ (Löwenstern 2003a:96; 2005:165). Their outrage found a focus in the crew of the launch



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from the Neva, which at that moment was on a watering mission near Vaitu stream. It numbered six men under the command of Lieutenant Petr Povalishin. Although they were armed, the situation was critical. By Ratmanov’s estimate, the Russian party was soon surrounded by five hundred armed men who ‘did not start fighting but confined themselves to threats’ (1876:1329). According to a report Lisiansky received from Povalishin, the islanders ‘threatened, if their chief was not immediately released, to put Roberts, who was attending the launch, to death’ (Lisiansky 1814:71). Robarts, risking his own life, tried to persuade the enraged crowd to let the launch leave. It is interesting that, although Robarts in his Marquesan Journal was often inclined to overestimate his own role, he made no mention whatever of his decisive role in this stand-off. At that critical moment the Nadezhda’s yawl was bringing Kiatonui ashore. As soon as he noticed the armed crowd he leaped into the water, swam to his subjects, and persuaded them that no harm had been done to him. ‘They obeyed immediately and sat down,’ Ratmanov recorded (1803–1805a:46v.). The conclusions the Russians drew from this episode indicate that they were inclined to treat the islanders with sympathy and understanding, within the limits of the standards of the day. Lisiansky wrote, ‘This conduct of the islanders was a little grating to us; but we showed no resentment, considering them as uneducated children of Nature, who suffered their passions to run away with their judgment, and force to carry it over reason’ (1814:71). Löwenstern also saw the episode as ‘proof how careful one has to be in dealing with these children of nature’ (2003a:97). Ratmanov drew a particularly unexpected conclusion: ‘This occurrence made us realize that savages are able to love their good kings no less than enlightened nations’ (1876:1329–1330). This recalls the reflections of another ‘Easterner’, Shemelin, the previous day. Krusenstern, pondering the islanders’ reaction, drew a parallel with recent events on the island: ‘A few days before this the king’s brother had asked me why I did not put some one in irons, as an American had done by one of the king’s relations’ (1813c:123–124). The day ended with a rather ambiguous incident, at which Krusenstern took umbrage. Later he wrote: On every visit I made the king presents, certainly of no great value in themselves, but of some importance to a Nukahiwer; yet he did not even once bring a cocoa nut in return; and when, upon the misunderstanding which . . . nearly led to a dispute, he came on board and brought me a pepper plant as a proof of reconciliation; he seemed even to regret this present, and in about half an hour afterwards asked me, in case I should make no use of it, to return it to him.

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From the Russian point of view this was uncivil, and it is no wonder that Krusenstern saw it as an example of Kiatonui’s ‘want of liberality, or rather of his greediness’ (1813c:160). However, Krusenstern seemed to have forgotten about Kiatonui’s previous gifts, including his return gifts (e.g., a pig for the parrot). As for Kiatonui’s reaction, we can only speculate on his reasons. It may be that after Krusenstern’s blunders in ceremonial matters, Kiatonui no longer saw him as an equal partner or considered it unsafe to leave the sacred plant with him; or that, with the ceremony over, there was no reason to waste the valuable plant. As for the Nuku Hivans, the events of this day show that, however friendly and relaxed they might have seemed during the barter and watering engagements, the arrival of strangers was a highly charged cultural event. The initial fear experienced by the Nuku Hivans, when the voyagers struggled to raise their first visitors from their knees on the Nadezhda, did not last long. The visitors, although possessing terrifying puhi and abundant goods, did not seem to fit the role of formidable gods descending from the sky, so the islanders’ fear gave way to a more secular attitude. At the same time they did not fit into the Nuku Hivans’ social structures and patterns, being neither friend nor foe.

Dikie, Wilden, and Zeika Zeika The events of this day and Shemelin’s reflections on the previous day require us to look more closely at the terminology the expedition members used to refer to the islanders. Their accounts published in Russian, German, and English in most cases use neutral terms—‘inhabitants’, ‘native inhabitants’, and ‘islanders’. These are the only terms applied by Gideon and Korobitsyn. None of them used the term ‘Indians’, which sometimes was applied to South Pacific islanders in that period. (In a few cases the word ‘Indians’ appears in Krusenstern’s English text, but this is an addition by the translator). None of the voyagers used the term ‘Negro’, which navigators sometimes applied to the islanders.The Russians reserved this term for the black Africans they saw in Brazil. Instead the voyagers introduced a new term: ‘Nuku Hivans’ (spelled as ‘Nukagivans’ and ‘Nukahiwers’). In Krusenstern’s and Lisiansky’s accounts it appears from day seven, when they had become familiar with the islanders. Besides the neutral terms, the voyagers used some terms that expressed an implied judgment such as the equivalents of the English words ‘savage’ and ‘wild’. The corresponding Russian words are the noun dikar (a savage) and the collective adjective dikie (the wild) used as a noun—the latter being less negative in its connotations than the former. The Germans used die Wilden



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(plural) and der Wilde (singular), both of which have milder connotations than the English ‘savage’ and Russian dikar, corresponding roughly to the Russian adjective dikie. Krusenstern and Lisiansky when writing in Russian did not use dikar at all and used dikie very sparingly, only when referring to the natives as a potential threat or stressing their primitive nature. Numerous ‘savages’ in the English translation of Krusenstern’s book correspond to the more neutral German Wilden or were added by the translator. Langsdorff used Wilden/Wilder very sparingly, for generalized contrasts, hardly ever applying it when relating his immediate observations. However, the Russian voyagers’ use of ‘wild’ and ‘savage’ was broader than this. Ratmanov, Rezanov, and Shemelin, like Krusenstern and Lisiansky, used dikie as the opposite of ‘the enlightened’ and when referring to the danger they presented. But it is noteworthy that they also made much use of dikie in a neutral sense—as a synonym of ‘inhabitants’ or ‘islanders’. At the same time, they never used dikar and rarely applied dikie to individuals. Löwenstern in his journal, furthermore, used Wilden and Wilder as the main term (about two hundred times). In the context of his journal, this word loses its pejorative tinge, but when rendered into English as ‘savage’ and ‘savages’ and cited out of context it might sound more derogatory than he himself meant it to be. Similarly, Russian translations of Tilesius’ works most commonly referred to the islanders as dikie and occasionally dikar with minimal judgmental intent. An interesting testimony is provided by the Japanese aboard the Nadezhda. They mention that the Russians called the islanders zeika zeika, which was an approximate Japanese phonetic rendering of Russian dikar. The Japanese themselves referred to the islanders as kijin, which means ‘devil-people’ or ‘monsterpeople’ and seems to have even more negative connotations than ‘savage’, as may be seen in their drawings (Otsuki 1976:164, 165).1 This variety of terms used by the voyagers suggests that the terminology does not necessarily reflect their attitudes; it may be determined by the habits of mind of a particular writer, further adjusted when the text was prepared for publication.

DAY 7

temptations 1/13 May 1804

A New Visit to Kiatonui The tension of the previous day could not be set aside at once. ‘Throughout the night we had seen fires in different places,’ wrote Krusenstern, ‘and in the morning no one came on board with cocoa-nuts as usual, from all which we concluded that the public mind was not very quiet’ (1813c:124). ‘Notwithstanding these tumultuous symptoms, I ordered the launch to be dispatched again the next morning for water’, wrote Lisiansky, ‘and I proposed to captain Krusenstern our paying a visit to the king. At eight o’clock we set out, thirty in number, with Roberts for our guide’ (1814:71). This was the biggest Russian visiting party, including both captains, Rezanov and his retinue, all officers free from duty, and the naturalists. All carried arms, and half of the party of thirty to forty consisted of armed sailors, as a precautionary measure. The watering party, eighteen men and two officers, which went ashore an hour earlier, comprised ‘the crews of the two long-boats, both of which were fitted with a couple of one pounder swivel guns.’ ‘We might therefore have bid the whole island defiance, in case of any hostile attempt against us,’ remarked Krusenstern (1813c:124). This was a formidable demonstration of force, intended to secure the restored peace. This was clearly one of the essential objectives of the excursion. At the same time, Shemelin remarked that the visit was ‘on invitation of their king who promised to show us some of their sacred places’ (1803–1806:139v.). Similarly, Löwenstern recorded in his diary that the aim was to visit a morai (burial place) (2003a:97). The landing place, usually bustling, was deserted this morning when the Russians made their way to Kiatonui’s residence, led by Robarts. Along the way, however, crowds of islanders assembled and began accompanying them. They were taking this route for the second time, but this time the accounts of Krusenstern and Lisiansky were more detailed. Krusenstern wrote: We proceeded directly to the king’s house, which was situated in a valley about a mile off. The way thither led through a copse of cocoa 170



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trees, bread-fruit, and birch trees; the grass grew so luxuriantly that it reached to our knees, and incommoded us very much as we walked; at length we came to a foot-path, where were several marks of an Otaheite custom, not very favorable to the cleanliness of the Nukahiwa people. From thence a hollow way, filled with rain-water up to our ankles, led us to a path, which was kept with the greatest cleanliness. We here entered a romantic, beautiful country, and found ourselves in a large forest, that seemed to reach to the chain of mountains behind. The greatest part of the trees in this forest were apparently about seventy or eighty feet high, and chiefly cocoa and bread-fruit trees, as was easily to be distinguished by the fruit with which they were all loaded. Several winding rivulets, that rushed with considerable noise and rapidity from the mountains, and whose beds of large broken rocks formed the most beautiful cascades, crossed each other and watered the habitations of the valley. (1813c:124–125)



Lisiansky added: Our way at first was along the beach, and then through a grove of cocoa-nut and bread-fruit trees. Having passed some poor cottages, we reached the house of the king’s brother, where we stopped for a while to repose ourselves . . . As we proceeded, there were many springs of water on the way, and the path being narrow, we were wet and dirty before we reached the place of destination. (1814:71)

The road the voyagers followed was the same road that encircles Taiohae Bay from its east to its west side and turns up the Meau Valley. The rivulets they crossed on the way were the Vaikeu and the Meau. The Russian accounts clearly indicate that Kiatonui’s residence was some distance from the shore, in the area where the cathedral is now situated and where the remains of numerous stone platforms are still visible. The modern paepae Piki Vehine replicating Kiatonui’s house is closer to the shore than his original residence. The cultivated land along their route prompted some philosophical reflections in Krusenstern, as in Shemelin a few days earlier: In the vicinity of these habitations, a number of plantations of taroroot and cloth-mulberry, laid out in great order, and surrounded with a neat enclosure of white staves, bore the appearance of belonging to a people who had already carried cultivation to a considerable extent; and these delightful prospects assisted a great deal in removing the

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unpleasant sensations we experienced upon reflecting, that we were amidst the dwellings of cannibals, capable of the greatest crimes, and who commit the most unnatural acts without hesitation, or, indeed, without perceiving within them those calls of nature to which even wild beasts are awake. (1813c:125)

Kiatonui greeted the visitors, Krusenstern says, ‘about one hundred paces from his dwelling, whither, after a hearty welcome, he accompanied us’ (1813c:125). Lisiansky gives one of the most detailed descriptions of Kiatonui’s abode, ‘a building resembling a summer-house’ and its interior: The foundation was of stone. The sides were constructed with poles, placed horizontally one upon another, some of which were moveable, to admit air and light. The roof, which was covered with leaves of the bread-fruit tree, had only one slope. The front of the building had a door in the middle, about five feet high and three broad. The inside of this edifice was divided lengthwise into two parts, by means of a large piece of wood, like a beam or rafter, placed on the floor. The division furthest from the entrance was covered with mats, spread upon clean dry grass, and answered the purpose of bed-chamber and drawingroom. The walls of the building were hung on the inside with several domestic utensils, made of the calabash; and with stone axes, pikes, clubs, and other instruments of war. In one corner of the room was a curious sort of drum, made of the hollowed trunk of a tree, and covered with the skin of the shark. Adjoining to this habitation was a small store-room, the entrance of which was from within, and so narrow and low, that it was difficult to creep through it. There was also another tolerably large building or room, apart from the house, where his majesty, on particular festivals, takes his meals. (1814:72; 1977:63)

The Goddess of the Bay As during the first visit, the Russian accounts singled out among the members of Kiatonui’s family some of the more important personages. The Russian version of Lisiansky’s account is the most detailed: ‘Here we found the king, queen, their daughter and son and a number of relatives and courtiers; among them was a young woman, who is revered as the goddess of this island’ (1977:64). In the English version he says, ‘Several of the royal family were present, and in particular the king’s daughter-in-law, called the Goddess of the Bay. I questioned this goddess, by means of Roberts, concerning the customs and



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manners of the country’ (1814:72–73). In the Russian version of his account he adds, ‘From her manner it was instantly apparent that she was trying in every way to behave in accordance with the respect shown to her’ (1977:64). From Crook and other sources we know that Kiatonui had several daughters and sons.The Russian account shows that they considered the daughter and the son among the most important personages. After the first visit Krusenstern wrote, ‘The king’s daughter, a young woman of about twenty-four years of age, and his daughter-in-law, who seemed a few years younger, were both of a remarkably good appearance, which even in Europe would not have been denied’ (1813c:119). The daughter was Tahatapu, the wife of Moate‘i‘i, who lived at the time of the Russian visit in Kiatonui’s household and was the subject of drawings by Tilesius and others. The identity of the daughter-in-law, mentioned by several of the Russians, may also be established. According to Krusenstern, Kiatonui’s son was ‘married to the daughter of the king of the Tai-pihs’ (Taipi), who was brought to Taiohae by sea, thereby ending the sea warfare between the two tribes (1813c:169). Lisiansky recorded that the handsome ‘Anataena’ ‘was a daughter of the king of another bay in the island, called Houmé, and owed her title of divinity to her marriage’ (1814:75). As we shall see, she occupied a special place in Lisiansky’s heart. His ‘Anataena’ must have been Hinate‘ani of Ho‘oumi, the wife of Kiatonui’s eldest son, Tuitou‘a. The name, according to Suggs’ reconstruction, means ‘Hina of the heavens’ (Hina was the moon goddess in Polynesian pantheon) (2008:2). Hinate‘ani was described by Crook in 1798 as ‘a middle-aged woman . . . contracted to Duetouwa, . . . who is still a boy. His place is, of course, supplied by her pekkeyo, and she has discovered such a love of variety, as already to have lived with 40 several persons in this character.’ Crook’s unsympathetic portrayal of her as a lewd woman of middle age, living with a boy in an unnatural union (a ‘monstrous custom’ from a European standpoint), seemed beyond dispute. Russian accounts provide enough evidence to give some justice to Hinate‘ani and this marriage. Six years after Crook’s visit, Krusenstern judged her to be a few years younger than Kiatonui’s daughter Tahatapu, aged twentyfour. Lisiansky saw her as a handsome young woman. It is likely that she inspired Tilesius’ portrait ‘Woman in yellow cloth’, but we will turn to pictorial representations of Hinate‘ani at a later point (fig. 35). Crook may have deliberately exaggerated the age difference in this marriage. Captain Fanning, who brought Crook to Nuku Hiva in May 1798, gave the following portrait of Tuitou‘a, whom Crook considered still a boy ‘of 12 or 13 Years of age’ (2007:132): ‘the young king, a very handsome, good looking, stout and round limbed young man, of about fourteen years of age, possessing

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Figure 35.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Woman in yellow cloth’. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:cover verso)

a striking and pleasing countenance, open and graceful manners, and an address at once easy, and bespeaking him to be of royal parentage’ (1924:129). It is possible to identify his visual representation as well.Tilesius, as mentioned, said that he drew portraits of Kiatonui, his brother, son, nephew, and Ma‘uhau, referring to the son as ‘Tamatoi’ (1804:3). His drawing of Kiatonui’s profile is accompanied by a portrait of a young man with the caption ‘Tamatoi’ (1803–1806:70v.; Govor 2005:55). This pair appears in the center of plate XV, the collective portrait of Kiatonui’s family (see fig. 15). The young man occupies an important position in this plate, as befits the heir to a king.Thus it is tempting to conclude that Tilesius’ ‘Tamatoi’ is identical with Kiatonui’s eldest son, Tuitou‘a (Crook recorded this name as Duetouwa). Suggs reconstructs his name as ‘He who braids the rope’ (2008:2). There was one more point that Crook and later commentators ignored— the islanders’ deep respect for Hinate‘ani as a goddess, on which the Russian voyagers are unanimous. Löwenstern recorded in his diary, ‘The eldest son of



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the king here is married to one of the daughters of a neighboring chief. This marriage has made all wars on the water taboo (i.e., between these two tribes); after the death of this princess, her spirit will be the protective spirit for this island, and alive she is considered a saint’ (2003a:101; 2005:170–171). Lisiansky provides more detail (this passage is missing in the English version of his book): She is the daughter of the king who owns the bay of Houme, and her name is Ana-Taena. War raged almost continuously between her father and father-in-law, both on land and sea; but since the son of king Katonua [Kiatonui] wed the daughter of the king of Houme Bay, the war at sea has ceased, because the bride arrived by sea. . . . If she dies in this valley, there will be eternal peace. The islanders liked the agreement so much that they unanimously pronounced the perpetrator of the peace a goddess, and moreover agreed to revere her children as divinities. (1977:65)

Her first son, Pakouteie, fifteen months old at the time of Crook’s visit, ‘being a namesake of the Chief ’, was ‘considered as heir apparent to his dignity’ (Crook 2007:133). (Pakouteie was another name of Kiatonui). On his arrival, Crook exchanged names with this child at Kiatonui’s request. Six years later, during the Russian visit, the voyagers were shown Kiatonui’s granddaughter, then eight to ten months old, ‘who, as well as all the children and grandchildren of the king’s family, is looked upon as etua, a deity. She had a house of her own, to which her mother, grandmother, and her nearest relations alone were allowed free admittance; the house being to all others tahbu. The king’s youngest brother had this young goddess, a child, in his arms’ (Krusenstern 1813c:126). Lisiansky believed that it was her uncle who looked after her, and that the child’s mother was Hinate‘ani (1814:73). Pa‘etini, Kiatonui’s first-born granddaughter, daughter of Tahatapu and Moate‘i‘i, was treated in a similar way, according to Crook.

A Visit to a Morai ‘After resting, and refreshing ourselves with cocoa-milk, we went, under the guidance of Roberts, to a morai or burial-place,’ Krusenstern continued, ‘. . . passing by some mineral springs, of which there are several here.The morai was situated on the top of a pretty high hill, which it cost us some trouble to climb, as the sun was near its height; it was in a thick wood, interwoven with bindweed, and seemed to be nearly impassable’ (1813c:126–127). Rezanov stresses the difficulties even more: ‘We followed tracks through complete wilderness, and

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passed many of the king’s huts, serving him on this land of his as rest-houses, where we were treated to coconuts.We climbed mountains, descended into valleys abounding with fruit trees, and finally reached the Morai’ (1825, no. 66:90). Although the Marquesan word for the sacred burial ground was me’ae while the Tahitian was marai or morai, it is interesting to note that the Russian accounts consistently use the form morai. Only Lisiansky in his vocabulary referred to ‘burying-ground’ as meray. Other early Nuku Hivan sources have a variety of spellings: moria (Robarts), maraie (Kabris), mari (Crook), morai (Porter). Thanks to a meticulous engraving ‘View of Morai or Cemetery at Nukagiva Island’ in Krusenstern’s Atlas, this morai became an icon of Nuku Hiva’s spiritual past, and it is important to consider its location. It was clearly a mortuary me’ae. Robarts mentioned that he took the Russians to ‘the Grand Moria (their place of worship)’ (1974:134). Rezanov referred to it as ‘the Morai, or Royal Cemetery’ (1825, no. 66:90). Espenberg remarked that they visited ‘the morai, which is here called wahitaaboo’ (1805c:9). Krusenstern provides further clues: Near the morai was the priest’s house, whom however we did not find there. Every family has its separate morai: the one we visited belonged to the priests; and without Roberts, who reckons himself one of this, as well as of the king’s family, we should perhaps not have seen any, for they are unwilling to shew them. In general they lie a good way inland upon hills; but this was an exception, not being far distant from the beach. (1813c:127)

Ralph Linton, an ethnologist of the Bayard Dominick expedition, which visited the Marquesas Islands in 1920–1921, in his account ‘Archaeology of the Marquesas Islands’ provided descriptions of a number of tohua and me‘ae in the Meau Valley of Taiohae. All of them were around the territory of the Catholic Mission on level ground and only one, the me‘ae of Takahau Autea (site 19), was ‘situated on the crest of a low semidetached hill behind Meau Valley, said to have been the residence of a priest named Veketu’ (1925:110–111). Suggs, who conducted further archaeological studies in the area in the 1950s, concluded that ‘Me’ae Kakahoautea (Linton’s site 19, erroneously recorded as Takahau Autea) is a complex of six paepae on a ridge above Meau Valley. The second highest paepae on the ridge was originally the temple, according to informants. In the veranda of this paepae a walled pit, surrounded by a low stone wall, was found’ (1961:26). It is most likely that Kakahoautea was the morai visited by the Russians, but as we will see, Tilesius’ engraving was not an exact representation.





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The morai itself disappointed the visitors. Lisiansky recorded: We visited a burying-ground, which, I must confess, was by no means equal to my expectation. It contained but a few wooden statues, rudely carved, while cocoa-nut shells were strewed in such abundance on the ground, that we were greatly incommoded by them. Roberts informed us, that sacrifices to the dead consisted here of cocoa-nuts; and I observed one quite fresh, on the head of a statue, that was erected over a grave. I observed also the remains of a dead body, exposed on a simple board, supported by poles, under a roof of leaves. A considerable period must have elapsed since the body was placed there, as the skeleton only remained. The most pleasing sight in the burying-ground was a kind of monument lately erected to one of their deceased priests. It was constructed in a very handsome manner, was ornamented exteriorly with green leaves of the cocoanut tree, and had an altar within, of by no means a savage appearance. (1814:73–74)

The Russian version of Lisiansky’s account provides additional details: ‘constructed from leaves of cocoa-nut tree, woven quite well, like a pavilion; with a pedestal in the middle, in front of which there was an altar made from the

Figure 36.╇ Kozma Czeski after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘View of morai or cemetery at Nukagiva Island’. Engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 16)

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Figure 37.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of morai. Ink on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:80)

same leaves’ (1977:64). This ‘pavilion’ standing on the stone foundation with its woven walls and roof appears in Tilesius’ sketchbook and on the engraving in the Atlas. In the drawing he explains that the house is used to store four drums, two big and two small ones, and in the engraving he placed Krusenstern inside the house, exploring it (figs. 36, 37). Rezanov also wrote that ‘near the cemetery was a hut inside which we saw a few drums, used in their funeral processions and dances’ (1825, no. 66:90–91). Shemelin, though not included in the party, recorded from the accounts of the others that ‘there was a drum, made from a tree trunk six quarters of an arshin [i.e., 107 cm] long, covered in fish skin. On these the savages use not drumsticks but their own palms; the sound of the drum is loud and agreeable’ (1816:128). Krusenstern described another structure: ‘pillars wrapt up in cocoa-leaves



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and a white cotton stuff. We were curious to learn what was the intention of them; but could obtain no answers to our inquiries, than that they were tahbu’ (1813c:127). Tilesius made several sketches and drawings of these pillars, which were also incorporated in the engraving, and remarked in his sketchbook that they were signs of new burials (1803–1806:7, 80, 80v.). Rezanov described one other structure of note: ‘a hut resembling a roof, near which stood a carved wooden idol, and a short distance away another one made from stone, even more crudely carved’ (1825, no. 66:90). This hut, apparently a rooflike structure without vertical walls, can be distinguished in the engraving as well. Moreover, it appears on two drawings by Tilesius with his remarks that this was a grave of a ‘king’ (1803–1806:80v.). Rezanov’s account of a stone anthropomorphic figure is the earliest known record of the use of

Figure 38.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of ancestral stone in morai. Gouache, watercolor, and ink on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:83v.)

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Figure 39.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Moray of family of priests in Nukahiwa’. Gouache. Universität Leipzig Kustodie, Germany, 69/TIL

Figure 40.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of Hakaui Bay. Gouache and ink on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:77 v.)

this medium in Nuku Hiva. Edwin Ferdon believed that the first reference to stone idols was made by Porter in 1813 (1993:38). Tilesius drew this stone figure describing it as an ‘Ancestral stone’ (fig. 38). Tilesius made a number of sketches of the morai and its various structures, including the anthropomorphic figures and drums. The product of his sketches was two quite different morai. One is the spectacular engraving in the Atlas, which incorporated the gouaches from his sketchbook (1803–1806:80, 80v.,



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83v., 79, 78v.) (see fig. 36), the other a drawing of a small rectangular morai, based on the rough outline in his sketchbook (1803–1806:7).This drawing was not published and is preserved in Tilesius’ collection at the University of Leipzig (fig. 39). One may wonder which of the two me‘aes is the more ‘authentic’. It is noteworthy that while the Russian accounts corresponded to Tilesius’ sketches and the engraving, the landscape on the latter, featuring mountain crags with quaint rock formations, did not match the mountain slopes of Taiohae. It is likely that in this engraving Tilesius blended details from the Taiohae me‘ae with landforms in Hakaui Valley, which he visited a few days later. The distinctive rock that appears on the left of the engraving, behind the man holding the stilts, resembles an unusual cliff at the top of the central spur in Hakaui Valley, which Tilesius drew in all its beauty in his sketchbook (fig. 40). The view in this engraving may have been taken in a north-south direction. Tilesius also visited a morai at Hakaui, and its elements could have been incorporated into the engraving or the Leipzig drawing (1804:1).

Etua, Tau‘a, and the Possessed The visit to the morai was the high point of the shore excursion. The voyagers felt that the exhausting trek was fully rewarded, such was their interest in the religious life of the ‘primitive’ peoples. Since Crook’s materials remained unpublished, the Russian descriptions of Nuku Hivan religion and ritual were the first to be brought to a European audience. But besides the well-known accounts by Langsdorff, Krusenstern, and Lisiansky, discussed in Ferdon (1993:41–51), the numerous observations left by other members of the expedition are revealing, and it is important to view them as a whole. Russian knowledge of Nuku Hivan religion was based on their conversations with Robarts and Kabris and their own observations. Krusenstern, incidentally, was somewhat critical of Robarts in this respect: ‘Roberts was able to give me but very little insight into the religious opinions of his new countrymen, probably because their ideas are but confused upon this head; although perhaps he had not troubled himself to obtain any knowledge of them’ (1813c:172). Kabris, on the other hand, had ‘gone native’ to such an extent that he firmly believed in Nuku Hivan witchcraft and practiced it himself, thus providing extensive fieldwork opportunities for Langsdorff and Espenberg during his voyage with the Russians and their stay in Kamchatka. The absence of notable sacred structures comparable to churches or mosques did not deter the voyagers from acknowledging that the Nuku Hivans had religion. Shemelin wrote, ‘They do not have any specific temples devoted to a deity; their notion of this high subject is the same as on the Society and

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Friendship islands and is probably rather ill defined. Only the awe exhibited towards the Morai (their cemetery), where they bury their dead, suggests that they do venerate something as a deity, but what form this takes is unknown’ (1816:128). The priests of Nuku Hiva were another obvious manifestation of a religious life. Rezanov remarked, ‘We did not notice any religion, except some superstition exhibited towards their priest and a blind obedience to the word Taboo’ (1825, no. 66:86). Nevertheless, the visitors were aware of the complex notion of etua. Lisiansky recorded the Nuku Hivan word for God as heytoo or eytoo (1814:324), while Shemelin gathered that ‘the word Etua signifies for them the supreme deity, and they see Etua in many other entities, for example: the souls of the king and his relatives and the high priest are all Etuas, they revere even the souls of Europeans as supreme beings’ (1816:129). Krusenstern also believed that ‘a confused notion of a higher being, whom they call Etua, does indeed exist among them, but of these there are several kinds; the spirit of a priest, of a king, or of any of his relations, being an etua. They likewise consider all Europeans as such’ (1813c:171). Tilesius spoke of an even broader notion of etua: ‘Etuas are wooden statues representing ugly human figures, standing on their morais and cemeteries. . . . The word Etua means prince, deceased, ghost, and so on’ (1821:187). This attempt to grasp the breadth of the complex notion of etua, which had no exact parallel in the European tradition, is notable, while Russian remarks that Europeans were considered as etua might have their origins in the writings of their predecessors, especially Cook. The voyagers’ impression that the indigenous peoples considered them gods has been the subject of deconstruction in recent debates (see, for instance, the analysis by Robert Borofsky [1997]). And, indeed, the pragmatic Horner had a more practical explanation of the islanders’ special attitude to Europeans: ‘Our firearms made them believe that we were magicians, which made them respect us; and due to our iron tools we acquired their friendship’ (1805:152), while Krusenstern concluded that their attitude to Europeans evolved with time. He remarked that Robarts ‘often expressed his fear of being taken in the next war and devoured. In all probability he was at first considered like every other European, as etua, and only seven years acquaintance with him had worn away the lustre of his divinity’ (1813c:172). To the facts concerning the sanctity of the ‘king’ and his family, mentioned in the Russian accounts, Gideon’s interesting conclusion may be added: ‘Each king rules throughout his life in the name of his successor.The latter even is regarded as a deity, and his wife as a goddess’ (1989:25). This would explain the greater reverence accorded to the chief ’s children and grandchildren than to the person of the chief himself.



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The voyagers also noted the protective role of the spirits of the dead. Löwenstern wrote, ‘Every valley has a free house for poor girls with nothing to their names. The deceased from a house is its protective spirit’ (2003a:100). This is probably the earliest evidence of a house for pokoehu—groups of lowerclass adolescent girls, similar to ka‘ioi, or groups of young males, wandering from place to place and performing during feasts.1 Löwenstern also remarked on a custom he probably observed himself: ‘“Natatu, for the soul”, that is, if a savage eats something, he throws a piece away every time and says, “Natatu, also something for you, my protective spirit”’ (2003a:102). Langsdorff in his vocabulary recorded the same word as natetu with the gloss ‘to call for the spirit of a person for whom one is offering something up’ (1993:116).The same custom was described by Crook: ‘naming an Atua’ (2007:65); by Kabris: ‘as a gift to the sun’ (1982:111); and by Robarts: ‘Please god to give’—‘Na,Tha, ‘a, tu ah’ (1974:317). In fact ‘Natatu’, according to Suggs, is ‘Na te atua = for the god (or ancestor since most of the gods were deified ancestors). The food was thrown to honor or appease the god.’ He remarks that protective spirits, pa‘io‘io, were not the same as atua/etua (e-mail 10 December 2008). By ‘priests’ the Russians meant tau‘a, inspirational priests-shamans, and here their firsthand impressions, verbal and pictorial, are of special interest. Löwenstern’s comment was concise: ‘They [the priests] are decorated with feathers and usually are the most impudent and insolent among the savages’ (2005:167). Tilesius gave the following description: ‘A necklace of pig’s teeth is worn on the head as well, especially by priests. None is more cunning among these natives than their priests. . . . From such a priest, who had a special expression on his face, and was of good stature as well, I took a portrait, which, together with the others, I gave to Mr Krusenstern. During our first visit to Kamchatka he sent it to St Petersburg’ (1806b:96–97). Tilesius’ sketchbook contains a gouache of a man’s face with headdress, decorated with boar’s teeth, and a half-length pencil portrait of a man decorated with feathers and a gorget of red beans (1803–1806:81v., 85). Elements from these studies (headdress, gorget, ear decorations made of shells) were later incorporated into the full-length watercolor portrait ‘A so-called priest or distinguished savage of the Marquesan Island of Nuku Hiva in decoration’, which found its way into Blumenbach’s collection. At the same time the body of this priest, as discussed above, has numerous similarities to Ma‘uhau’s portrait from Krusenstern’s Atlas. Besides this, plate XV in the Atlas shows two figures wearing ‘priestly decoration’—the second man from the left in the lower row with the necklace of boars’ teeth, with ‘a special expression’ on his face, and the first from the left in the upper row, in a feather headdress. These portraits are another example of Tilesius’ struggle to combine precise

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portraits of individuals with his understanding of his task as depicting a typical national physiognomy. Several Russian accounts relate to high-ranking priests: They have a priest who exerts a lot of authority over the people, and whose dreams and ravings are revered by the islanders as revelations. The King himself cannot do without him in many cases. This priest, using the reverence of the people, in counsel with the King, announces the will of the venerated deity and incites the people either to war or to peace with their neighboring tribes. Near the King’s palace is located a special mansion into which no one is admitted, it is called Taboo or prohibited; the King and the high priest sometimes seclude themselves inside the same and engage themselves in important and secret matters. The high priest is the only one who can impose a general Taboo, which even the King himself cannot break. (Shemelin 1816:128–129) There is a powerful priest who masterfully retells his dreams and according to them calls for either war or peace. (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:44v.–45) There is on the island a priest who is greatly respected, called Tufinigoho. (Rezanov 1825, no. 66:80)

Löwenstern recorded that the name of the high priest was Dovatia (2003a:102), while Krusenstern wrote, ‘During our stay in Tayo Hoae . . . the high priest [was] lying at the time dangerously ill, and very little hopes being entertained of his recovery’ (1813c:171). Six years before the Russian visit, Crook had written that there were three tau‘a at Taiohae: Touwattea [Taua Tia], ‘a middle aged man’ with significant property; Pihhonu [Paehonu], ‘an elderly man’ who was ‘at the head of the Priests’; and ‘a young man, named Houtabbu [Hautapu], . . . who is remarkably versed in the traditions’ (2007:135).The priest who lay dying at the time of the Russian visit was probably the elderly Paehonu. Crook’s Touwattea is probably the same person as Löwenstern’s Dovatia, while Rezanov’s ‘Tufinigoho’ may be a corruption of tuhuna ota ogo—a separate class of priests involved in ceremonial rituals and offerings—as distinct from tau‘a— inspirational priests.2 The ‘Westerner’ and ‘Easterner’ groups of expedition members had differing views on the role of the tau‘a. While the Easterners—Shemelin, Rezanov,



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Ratmanov, and Gideon—wrote about Nuku Hivan religion with respect, the European scientists and emancipated Russian Westerners like Krusenstern and Espenberg treated the tau‘a ironically. In the tradition of European religious enlightenment, they maintained that the tau‘as merely enjoyed feasting on pork in return for their services, or, worse, that they enjoyed human flesh: They perform burials and make sacrifices in the form of immolation of pigs, which they then appropriate. They are in charge of native dances, give advice about war and peace, and keep people in the tenets of superstition using different tricks and deception; they are the most powerful among others not only in their slyness, but in their wealth as well, which they quickly acquire through deception. (Tilesius 1806b:96–97) In all probability [their religion] serves only as a pretext for insuring a life of safety (the person of a priest is tahbu) to some of them, who by their absurdities, often bordering upon the most horrid crimes, find means to make the rest consider them as a necessary and holy class of men. (Krusenstern 1813c:171) The Nukahivans undeniably eat their friends if pressed by hunger and by their enemies from hatred or custom. The tauas do even more by often lusting for human flesh from lasciviousness and lickerishness. They deliberately act as if a spirit has possessed them (they do this, of course, in places and on occasions where many people have gathered). Using tricks and pretended convulsions, they seem to sink into a dead sleep for a short period of time. They then wake up suddenly and tell the spectators what the spirits in their dreams have inspired and dictated to them. (Langsdorff 1993:97)

Much later, in an article written in 1828, Tilesius added a theory to his field observations, arguing that the form of government in Nuku Hiva was a peculiar sort of theocracy (1828:146–153). The aspects of Nuku Hivan religious practices that the Russians described in their accounts, mostly on the basis of Robarts’ tales, were sorcery, sacrifices, and funeral rites, which are well known to anthropologists (Ferdon 1993:43–45, 49–50). Löwenstern provides firsthand evidence of a less documented practice—a taboo protecting the ‘possessed’. He wrote in his diary:

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In order for someone to make himself taboo among the savages he has to jump around in the valley like a madman shouting the king’s name. That means that he is possessed by the king’s spirit and [has become] taboo. Only a foreigner has the right to play the role of a taboo man or one possessed. . . . The taboo man we saw in Taiohai was a foreigner who had to play the role in order not to be killed. (2003a:106)

By ‘foreigner’ he evidently means here a Marquesan from another tribe. Löwenstern’s emotionally charged drawing of the ‘tabu-man’ depicts this individual (fig. 41). Of the same ceremony Espenberg wrote, ‘There is a particular ceremony by which people can make themselves taaboo. It consists in bind-

Figure 41.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Tabu-man’. Gouache. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:95



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ing feathers around the head, dancing and singing, and declaring that they desire to have Ketenue’s name. While this ceremony lasts, they are safe from all harm’ (Espenberg 1805c:13). This account clearly relates to the period of initial possession experienced by a person who will become a tau‘a. Thomas refers to this practice: ‘The initial period of possession was uncontrolled and dangerous. While the tau‘a was running around, the whole valley was tapu’; . . . the possessed individual would travel to other valleys, performing in the same way’ (1990:111). It is clear that the Russian accounts discussing the correlation between taboo protection and possession confuse cause and effect.

Temptations of One Sort . . . But this shore excursion was not only about mortuary me‘ae and cunning tau‘as. The other attractions of the South Sea ‘paradise’ were ever-present. The same day Tilesius, after painstakingly drawing all the details of the me‘ae, made a gouache of a bucolic scene of two women and a tattooed man amongst luxuriant vegetation (see fig. 24). It is likely that the same characters appear on the adjacent picture in his album, dated the following day; this latter has two other males and a child added (fig. 42). All are naked (this was Tilesius’ private sketchbook, and he felt no need to camouflage their nudity or his interest in it). These are ordinary people, as the Russians had the impression that high-born

Figure 42.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, Drawing of a group. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:74 v.)

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Figure 43.╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Titkia Wobusi. Nuka Hivan girl in ball toilet’. Gouache and ink on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:72)

women usually wore some clothing. The female with the child is middle-aged, while the other woman is depicted in all the beauty of youth. Below the young female, the gouache bears the inscription ‘Titkia Wobusi’, written by Tilesius as if for himself, the words discreetly placed against the vegetation.The same words appear as the title of Tilesius’ undated bust portrait ‘Titkia Wobusi. Nuka Hivan girl in ball toilet’ (fig. 43). This was clearly the name of the girl who personified the harmony of unadorned female beauty and the tropical nature around her. The meaning of her name, scribbled down by Tilesius on that blissful day, would not be recovered for two hundred years, until I sent the two pictures to Robert Suggs. He restored meaning to the words Tilesius had heard from the Nuku Hivans as ‘titi kaki’oko puhi’.This should be translated as ‘Titi (who) loves a puhi headdress’, where ‘titi’ means ‘petrel’ and ‘puhi’ means ‘a woman’s headdress in which the hair is pulled into a topknot and feather plumes are worn’, which is exactly how her hair was dressed for a special occasion and captured in the bust portrait (e-mail 18 April 2007). Tilesius’ watercolors drawn in his field sketchbook as if from nature, with date and other attributes of the genre, in fact had a more complex genealogy. He ‘quoted’ the figures for these two plein air compositions from Piron’s drawings of Tasmanians: ‘Savages of Van Diemen’s Land, fishing’ (see fig. 23) and ‘Savages of Van Diemen’s Land, preparing their repast’ (Labillardière



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1800:pl. 5). However, this is not an exact reproduction of Piron’s neoclassical bodies set in a conventional subtropical landscape. Tilesius’ watercolors are a step forward, an attempt to convey some of the specifics of Nuku Hiva. He goes beyond merely replacing the Tasmanians’ woolly hair with the Marquesan ‘horned’ hairstyle and adding tattoo marks to the men’s bodies. The dynamism, robustness, and virility of Piron’s ‘men of nature’ is softened in Tilesius’ representation by the intimacy of his tropical setting and mild color scheme. In Piron’s ‘Fishing’ composition, an athletic female figure standing with a basket appears to be a mirror image of Botticelli’s Venus. This figure evolved into Tilesius’ Titkia Wobusi, miniature and gentle. Two female figures on the second watercolor and the bust portrait of ‘Titkia Wobusi’ seem to be inspired by a pair of female engravings by Piron—‘Woman of Amboyna’ and ‘Woman of the Friendly Islands’ (Labillardière 1800:pl. 30). But here we can speak only of inspiration, rather than imitation, in respect to posture, gestures, and facial expression. The tropical idyll depicted by Tilesius was probably prompted by a visit to Robarts’ home as the voyagers made their way back to the shore. Lisiansky wrote, Our walk to the habitation of Roberts was extremely pleasant, as it extended along an eminence, from whence we had a beautiful view of our ships in the bay, and the plantations of the natives in the valleys.3 Though the house was not so large as many we had passed, it was well adorned on the outside with different kinds of fruittrees, which afforded us, after our fatigue, a very acceptable repast. (1814:73)

Krusenstern, who noted in his unpublished journal that ‘one could not imagine a more romantic place’ (1804a:52v.), also enjoyed the visit: [The house] was built after the fashion of the island, was quite new, and stood in the midst of a wood of cocoa trees. Upon one side flowed a small stream, and upon the other, in the middle of a rock, was a spring of mineral water. We all seated ourselves round his house on the rocks which formed the banks of the rivulet, and refreshed ourselves, in the shade of the lofty cocoa trees after our walk, which, owing to the extreme heat, had greatly fatigued us. About twenty of the islanders were busied throwing down cocoa-nuts from the trees, which others cleared of the husks, and broke with great skillfulness. The kernel quieted the hunger we began to feel, and we quenched

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our thirst with the fine cold milk, which was extremely refreshing. (1813c:127, 128)

One other person contributed to the idyll: Robarts’ wife. Krusenstern remarked in his account that she was ‘a pretty young woman of about eighteen years of age’ (1813c:127–128). For Robarts the introduction of his beloved wife to the distinguished visitors was a moment of triumph: ‘On their return, I call at my house, but did not say that I livd there. When we came to the house, my consort came to wellcome them. Sr Geo view her attentively. She was then far gone in her pregnancy. He then said who is the husband of this Lady. I smild and said: “Your humble servant”.’ Earlier Robarts told in his journal about meeting his future wife: ‘One day I was returning from up the valley. I espyd a fine figure of a young lady Just as she was comeing out of the water from bathing. . . . I viewd her with a partial eye.’ She was Kiatonui’s young sister. Later Robarts wrote, ‘King gave me his own sister—Ena-o-ae-a-ta [Hinahoata], to be my bride, as a small token of his esteem; I have ever since thought it a great one.’ And indeed soon she would ‘forsake her country, friends and relations’ to follow her husband all over the globe and go prematurely to her grave in India in 1813 (1974:134, 122–123, 325, 210). But that was still far in the future, and in the meantime he was proud to show the visitors his loving young wife, soon to deliver his child, the house he had built with his own hands, and the grove of fruit trees he had planted—his Arcadian Paradise: Matts was brought to sit on, And young cocoa nutts was opend to procure their delicious sweet, cool water to drink. I then conducted Sr Geo, his Surgeon and a gentleman of the party, who was an Embassador from france4 to see a spring of the most pleasant water I ever drank. They all drank of the water. The Embassador took a second draught and said it was the finest water he ever drank. Sr Geo took several Gallons to present to his Royal Master. We returnd to our matts. The party was much pleasd with the cool retreat shaded with plantain trees of my own planting. Sr Geo in the way of conversation says to me: ‘Mr Robarts, you seem to be compleatly happy in this remote part of the world.’ I answerd in respect of my choice of a companion thro life I was truly happy, but yet that happiness was embitterd by their continual wars, which was out of my power in my present situation to put a final stop to. (1974:134–135)

This Arcadian vision may well have held some appeal for the visitors. Moreover, Hinahoata had dispensed with the potent deterrent that the other



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island women presented to their sensitive noses: ‘Roberts’ wife . . . seemed in some measure to have departed from the custom of her country, and, in our opinion, very much to her advantage; for she had not rubbed her body over with cocoa-oil, which, although it gives great lustre to the skin, produces a very powerful smell,’ Krusenstern remarked (1813c:128), and Lisiansky even invited Robarts’ ‘royal consort’ to visit his ship. There was also an earthier side to the attractions of this Arcadia. Löwenstern reports an incident that probably took place the afternoon after their return to the shore: We were on the shore standing in a circle in Nukuhiva deliberating, when suddenly a female savage came into the circle and stared at Krusenstern because he is the tallest and pointed to her uka. Since he did not react, she went away and came back immediately smeared with coconut oil, and we could see that she now believed herself irresistible. We all laughed, and so did our sailors, and they are none too particular. No sooner had Krusenstern said to one of the oarsmen, ‘Help yourself, if you want to,’ than my sailor was off with her, and five steps from us, behind a bush, he sacrificed to Venus. (2003a:108)

The sailors were not at all abashed by the openness of Nuku Hivan sexual behavior, as can be seen in this thinly veiled comment by Löwenstern: ‘Our sailors do not deny themselves anything. They even try it out in the water to see if it is possible’ (2003a:98). The behavior of the officers was different. Following Cook, Krusenstern in his published account protects himself with the ‘invisibility of the imperial male’. But, Lee Wallace argues, ‘As soon as the male European becomes himself available to sexual visualisation, then he simultaneously becomes imbricated in circuits of desire which are more promiscuous in their effects and which give the lie to imperial omnipotence and abstraction’ (2003:67). Krusenstern was probably one of the few who resisted the temptation of this erotic world and remained faithful to his beloved wife, waiting for him in Russia with their baby son, Otto. Her portrait in oils on the wall of his cabin, which so fascinated Kiatonui and his family, served as his defense (a surer defense than the ‘holy paintings’ to which Robarts referred). Still, the temptation of this world was manifestly so strong that he resorted to another—rather unconventional—form of defense: that afternoon he had his wife’s name, Julia, tattooed on his hand by a native tattooist whom he allowed to stay aboard the ship (Löwenstern 2003a:98; Ratmanov 1803–1805a:48v.).The eroticism of the Marquesan world that enveloped him broke through in the unpublished version of his journal,

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where he recorded, ‘I am almost of the opinion that the process of tattooing provokes in them a lascivious sensation; they lie on their mats, drink kava and let themselves be tattooed’ (Krusenstern 1804a:52). Langsdorff, another apparently detached observer, recorded watching embarrassed women who had lost their loincloths while swimming: ‘They were taking small steps, barely putting one foot in front of the other, bent over with their knees and thighs pulled in and held tightly together while they were trying to use their hands to replace the leaves.Their position, resembling the Venus de Medici, offered a philosophical observer of mankind a beautiful spectacle’ (Langsdorff 1993:59). He too carried his own amulet on his skin. According to Tilesius (1828:160), he had tattooed on his arm a figure called ‘Te ioe hinenau’ (te a‘ahinea‘o, ‘beloved’), a love symbol that Langsdorff described as a ‘sign of wishing to be beloved’ (1813:xv; 1811:11; Ottino-Garanger 1998:251). Ratmanov, who had also left behind his ‘dearest’, is quite explicit in his account describing the sensations he experienced while undergoing the operation: I had the inscription done in a semicircle on the left side of my chest above my heart: ‘Je suis à vous’—‘I am yours’. All officers felt pain. But I, having given my heart to you, my angel, was so excited making this sacrifice to you in this remote and savage part of the world, my darling, that I did not feel pain and felt that underneath my trembling heart says: ‘Yes, I really belong to her.’ (1803–1805a:48v.–49)

Was he atoning here for the sin of betraying his ‘angel’ with the native ‘naiads’? His evasive remarks suggest that he was more than a mere observer of the nightly revels: ‘And I advise not to try to see them, but instead to maintain a good opinion of them, like that previously formed from the stories of explorers. I have seen them once and never want to see them again, for they are very, very bad indeed . . . ’ (1876:1328). Although in another version of his diary he claims that ‘I did not honor any of them’, refusing even the queen, her younger sister and her daughter (ca. 1808:14v., 15v.), his ellipsis suggests the opposite. Rezanov was also in a difficult situation. As we have seen, he was obsessed with sexual desires and had been seeking sexual novelties since the beginning of the voyage. Now, in the wake of his confrontation with Krusenstern, he could hardly dare to jeopardize his position further by bringing girls to his cabin. It was separated from the uncompromising captain by no more than thin paneling. There are lines in Krusenstern’s threatening letter to Rezanov that clearly indicate Krusenstern’s attitude: ‘Do you suppose that because in Copenhagen you spent all your evenings in the lowest of whorehouses, to the



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astonishment of the whole city, you have thereby earned particular respect?’ (1804d:129v.). Could it be that this self-imposed continence in the face of temptation coupled with the great heat prepared the ground for the conflict that was to erupt the next day? Again Count Tolstoy was the only one who was not ashamed to give voice to their desires during those eventful days. ‘When in 1842 the newspapers were filled with accounts of friction between the British and French in the South Pacific, the old Count observed that he had reason to believe that the current Queen Pomare of Tahiti was his daughter’ (Tolstoy 1983:130). It mattered little that the time and place did not match.

. . . and of Another While the exhausted party explored the island and then made their way back to the ship in the noonday heat, life on board ship followed its usual routine. The islanders gathered on the shore around the watering party and brought goods for barter as if nothing has happened the day before. If Löwenstern, who supervised the watering party on shore, had to take some precautions this was because of the islanders’ enthusiasm rather than any hostility. He wrote in his diary: Today, from the longboat, I had a falconet fired when we were filling up water in order to restrain the savage’s pushiness. The shot had barely gone off when a whole bunch of them dropped to the ground from fright, and, when I showed several how unnecessary that was, they got up again and began to laugh and went after those who had streaked away from it. They have a lot of respect for the puhi. (2003a:98)

The budding conflict resolved in laughter, just as it had during the first encounters. The atmosphere was so peaceful that when the barrels were ready Löwenstern went for a walk to see the nearby dwellings of the islanders, as he was disappointed at being unable to join the major excursion with Krusenstern. But his stroll proved less idyllic.While he was away one of the grapplings of the launch ‘had been cut away under water, and carried off in so dextrous a manner, that neither the quarter-master nor the bargemen could conceive how it had disappeared. In this wily business they [the islanders] must have employed the knives we had distributed among them; showing us thereby that they well knew how preferable our instruments, made of iron, were to theirs, made of stone or shells,’ Lisiansky wrote (1814:74). Besides this setback, other duties awaited the officers. ‘We tarred all of the ropes and sheathing today,’ Löwen-

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stern wrote (2003a:98); another team was collecting corals on Krusenstern’s orders. But the one who most enjoyed the officers and naturalists’ absence that morning was Shemelin. He recorded in his private journal: In the absence of my superior and without any customers, I was left free to barter with the savages; first I bought a large conch, which is used by the islanders as a war trumpet and produces a loud and strange sound resembling the roar of wild animals. It is decorated with human hair, as is all their weaponry; and second, a human skull and a few weapons; for these I bartered three small hatchets and a few clasp-knives. I was very pleased with my acquisition and hoped that my superior would also be happy with it. (1803–1806:140–140v.)

His joy was short-lived. Soon after Krusenstern and the others returned from the shore excursion ‘deeply exhausted from the heat and a long walk’, Shemelin was informed of Krusenstern’s demand to submit all axes that remained in his hands to clerk Grigory Chugaev. Shemelin, perfectly aware that ‘these arrows were aimed straight into his [Rezanov’s] heart’, complained to the latter (1803–1806:140v.–142v.). The conflict was about to erupt. The atmosphere on the Neva that afternoon was more peaceful. Lisiansky wrote: Soon after my arrival on board, the king returned my visit and brought with him a pig, and a stone axe, in exchange for two of my iron axes. As we were just going to dinner, I invited his majesty to partake of it. Of our several dishes he preferred that of pancakes with honey, which he relished so much, that the whole of what was served up was dispatched in an instant. His relish of the pancakes was no matter of surprise to me, being aware that savages in general, like children, are fond of sweet things the first time of tasting them; but when I saw him drink port wine, glass for glass, with us, I own I was astonished: he afterwards, however, felt the effects of it in their full force. (1814:74–75)

In the Russian version Lisiansky says, ‘Although he winced, he drank the glasses of port to the last drop’ (1977:65). Robarts as usual preferred to stress gentlemanly relations: ‘The eveng was spent in conversation on different subjects with Sr Geo’ (1974:135). The introduction of alcohol by the Russian visitors left its mark in Nuku Hivan mythology. We will return to this story later.

DAY 8

catharsis 2/14 May 1804

A Visit to the Neva by ‘Royal’ Females This day became a kind of catharsis after the tensions of the previous day. On the Neva, matters were successfully resolved. As we remember, Gideon on the Neva forbade Lisiansky to tolerate nightly frolics of the kind that took place on the Nadezhda. Women were not allowed on board at night. While the sailors, as Löwenstern remarked, could have relationships while ashore with a watering party, the Neva’s officers found themselves deprived of both the opportunity and the environment for any sexual adventures, and may well have envied their colleagues on the Nadezhda. The matter of rivalry and prestige attaching to sexual success, which we have noticed among Marquesan women, was no less important for the male visitors.To remain innocent on the island of Cythera, as they saw it, was not their intention. The distaff side of the royal family might have felt similarly deprived. Although enjoying the honor of entertaining the distinguished visitors at home and receiving from them especially valuable presents like fine cloth, mirrors, or scissors, they, unlike lower-ranking women who could swim to the ship and, if chosen, witness some wonders aboard, were forbidden by taboo from entering a canoe or swimming in the bay. Thus, when Lisiansky ‘received from the queen a message, that if I would send my boat on shore, she would come with some of her relations to see me’, he ‘complied with this agreeable request immediately’ (1814:75). It is interesting to note that, like Robarts, the islanders sensed the more easy-going attitude of Lisiansky and chose to visit his ship rather than the Nadezhda. Or perhaps a bond was already forming between him and ‘the Goddess of the Bay’ with whom he had enjoyed an interesting conversation the previous day. There are four firsthand accounts of this visit: by Robarts, Lisiansky, Korobitsyn, and an anonymous officer. They diverge in style, attitudes and content. Robarts’ ceremonious style gives the events the aura of a ‘proper’ royal visit: Next day I went on shore after Breakfast. First I calld on my spouse, next on the Ladies of the royal family. I found them dressing. I askd 195

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them where they was going. They answerd to see the Ship, for they had never been on board of ship before. I was well pleasd. They was all ready. I took the Queen & her daughter in law in each arm. The rest of the ladies followd. When we came to the Beach, Sr Geo could see us with the spy Glass. The Barge was sent imedately. I handed the Ladies into the Barge, and by the time we reachd the Ship the chair was ready to hoist the ladies on board. Sr Geo attended the gangway with his first Lieut to receive the ladies. (1974:135)

The first lieutenant to receive the ladies together with Lisiansky was Pavel Arbuzov, who had treated Robarts so kindly on his first night aboard the Neva. Korobitsyn believed that ‘the king of that bay, Tapega Katenuy, asked the captain through an interpreter that his family be allowed to look over the ship’, and the Russians had agreed ‘out of a desire to please him’. He listed the visitors as ‘the queen, her daughter, her daughter-in-law, and her niece’, and went on, ‘They were dressed sumptuously, . . . and were be-daubed with a goodly quantity of orange-colored grease’ (1952:158). Lisiansky, like others of the voyagers, complained that ‘our royal guests . . . had their bodies smeared with oil of cocoa-nut, mixed with a kind of yellow paint, which affected our olfactory nerves in no very agreeable way.’ However, he seemed prepared to put up with the inconvenience: ‘this could no more be dispensed with by a Marquesan woman, when full-dressed, than rouge and eau de Cologne by an European lady of fashion’ (1814:75). Here it will be useful to look more closely at the female portrait gallery of Marquesan women made by Tilesius and consider who might have been their models.Tilesius’ sketchbook contains four fine gouaches of women.The first is ‘Ukea Wahini Nuka Hivan aristocrat’, drawn with her head and breast draped in cloth (fig. 44). This portrait was later engraved with tattooed lips in plate XV of Krusenstern’s Atlas. The second is ‘Nuku Hivan with palm branch’, depicted with the inner side of her wrist tattooed (fig. 45). The third is ‘Woman in yellow cloth’, drawn with tattooed hand and wrist (see fig. 35). This gouache became an engraving in Krusenstern’s Atlas with a tattoo added to the lips (fig. 46). Finally, there is Titkia Wobusi, mentioned above (see fig. 43). Tilesius’ focus on depicting the key members of Kiatonui’s family allows us to surmise that these drawings also represented close relatives of the ‘king’. Kiatonui’s wife, Tahiatai‘oa, can be excluded as the elaborate tattoo on her hand copied by Langsdorff does not remotely resemble the wrist tattoos shown in the three portraits (1993:pl. 9, fig. 18). Nor was she any longer young; Krusenstern had the impression that she was about fifty years old (1804a:40v.).

Figure 44 (top left).╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Ukea Wahini Nuka Hivan aristocrat’. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:24) Figure 45 (top right).╇ Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Nuka Hivan with palm branch’. Gouache, ink, pencil, and watercolor on paper (Tilesius 1803–1806:86) Figure 46 (left).╇ Egor Skotnikov after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Bust portrait of a woman from Nuku Hiva Island’. Colored engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 9)

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Kiatonui’s daughter and daughter-in-law seem more likely models for these gouaches. Commenting on their beauty, Krusenstern remarked, ‘Their bodies . . . were neither colored nor tatooed; but half of the arm and hand was tatooed black and yellow, which gave them the appearance of short gloves, such as our ladies used formerly to wear’ (1813c:119). The daughter visiting the ship was undoubtedly Tahatapu, Kiatonui’s eldest daughter. Krusenstern in his journal judged her to be twenty-four years old and recorded her name as ‘Touda-Etua’, believing that it meant ‘arrival of the gods’ (1804a:42v.). She was given this name on reaching maturity, on the occasion of the first visit to the island by a European ship, which was probably Hergest’s visit in 1792. Suggs recognized in this name the Marquesan phrase tau te etua, ‘the etua comes ashore’, while the name Tahatapu means ‘sacred place’ (2008:2).The daughter was the wife of Moate‘i‘i, who lived in Kiatonui’s household at the time of the Russian visit. Her husband was the subject of drawings by Tilesius and others. It seems likely that she was the model for the solemn-looking portrait ‘Ukea Wahini Nuku Hivan aristocrat’. Ukea is probably a corrupted Marquesan word meaning ‘head’, while wahini means ‘woman’. She may also figure in the ‘Nuku Hivan with palm branch’, though the shape of her face has become less oval and more round. Hinate‘ani of Ho‘oumi, Lisiansky’s ‘Goddess of the Bay’, is the most likely inspiration for Tilesius’ drawing ‘Woman in yellow cloth’. In both the drawing and the engraving based on it, she is depicted as playful and attractive though with a slight double chin, denoting that she was no longer young. But we return to the respectful account left by Robarts, now in his role of royal interpreter: As soon as the Queen got on Board, she askd where was the guns. I shewd her them. She admird them much. Sr Geo order a salute to be fired. This alarmd the Ladies, but they was very much pleasd. Next the Queen askd where was the pumps. I shew her them. People was calld to work the pumps. This she admired very much. Next [it] was a garden in the Quarter deck [that] took her notice. Then Sr Geo conducted them into the Dineing room, & Great Cabin. ‘Now’, says Sr Geo, ‘Mr R., you have brought the ladies unawares. What shall we give them to refresh with? Will they drink wine?’ I said no, but with his leave I would find something. I then desired the servants to bring some whole buiscutts and some sugar and water in tumblers. The Queen and all the ladies was extreamly delighted. The Queen was remarking to me how neat & clean every thing was and pointing with her finger. Sr Geo askd me what she was saying of. I told



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him, and in his name I returnd her thanks for the compliment. Next was the cooks appartment, but it being below, so full of smoke, her Majesty could not enter. The side cabin doors was all opend. The snugness of the Cabins took her notice. The Ladies On takeing their leave requested that in their names I would return Sr Geo their thanks for his polite attention & wishd him a save return to his country. (1974:134–135)

Lisiansky was briefer: ‘They remained with us a considerable time, and were regaled with tea, sweetmeats, and other delicacies. Our presents of knives, scissars, and looking-glasses, however, pleased them most, and especially the Goddess of the Bay, who was so enchanted with her reception, that she appeared unwilling to leave the ship.’ (The last words are missing in the Russian version.) He adds at the end of his account, ‘These personages having left us, I granted to other females the long desired permission to visit the ship and satisfy their curiosity’ (1814:75). As we know from accounts written on the Nadezhda, it was not simply a matter of female curiosity and male compassion. Korobitsyn, the supercargo, looked after the gifts, while observing the royal reactions: For propriety’s sake we loaded the ladies with gifts such as scissors, small mirrors, and beads. They accepted all these things without much ado and without any expression of thanks. Their whole interest was centered on receiving four-inch pieces of hoop-iron and knives. We were not remiss in gratifying their desires and gave them each an additional piece of iron and a small knife. These last gifts of ours so excited our guests’ admiration that they were even ready to execute a dance on our quarter-deck and volunteered, through an interpreter, to grant us audiences. So it happened that our guests, availing themselves of the gifts, which they found quite desirable, and of the entertainment we gave them, departed from the ship on our yawl in a state of perfect delight. (1952:158)

Finally, there is the story told by one of the officers, which appeared in the Russian magazine Northern Mercury soon after the Neva’s return to Russia: Once the queen with her daughter and daughter-in-law decided to visit the Neva, and as the latter two were real beauties their visit was very welcome. After the standard treats and presents, the daughterin-law with the daughter were taken by some officers to their cabins

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where they with great delight surrendered to their will. The queen, seeing and understanding all of this, did not make the least resistance, in the hope that she would be invited by somebody as well. But as she was nearing forty, and all her attractive charms had deserted her, no-one graced her with the expected invitation. This enraged her to such an extent that, while she received twice as many gifts as the other two, she immediately demanded to leave the ship and never again visited the spot where she had been dealt such a cruel offence. The simpleton king, however, coming to the ship the next day, tried to find out in whose cabins his children had been and asked the hosts how they had found the girls, and if they wanted to make their acquaintance again. (Anon. 1810:263–264)

This might seem a tall story were it not for similar direct and indirect hints dropped by others. Lisiansky, who considered that ‘the handsomest of my party was certainly the Goddess’, wrote about the last visit of Kiatonui on the eve of departure: ‘The king remained on board with me till it was dark. He was very facetious upon the visit the ladies had made me, observing repeatedly how uncommonly satisfied they had been with our treatment, and especially the Goddess, round whose neck I had tied a piece of gold twist’ (1814:75–76). He could hardly say more in his published account, but Löwenstern recorded the following in his private journal the next day: ‘This saint Dulcinea has, nevertheless, for a piece of iron brought her allurements to market on the Neva’ (2003a:101). Gideon in the report to his superiors was unsparing of Lisiansky, who had been so hostile towards him. He told of the visit to the ship by the royal women, and of the ‘Captain’s cabin, which for this occasion was very well appointed’, and he added an incriminating sentence: ‘Next day, the king himself arrived to ask the Captain for posy [bridewealth], for the visit by the Queen and his daughter-in law’ (1989:26). Krusenstern remarked about the queen’s ‘morals’ when commenting on the duties of her pekio: ‘The herculean Mau-ha-u filled this post near the queen of Tayo Hoae; but he certainly did not merit the confidence of his sovereign, for he appeared to be a very bad guardian of the morals of his wife’ (1813c:167). Ratmanov reports the following exchange with the queen during the visit to Kiatonui the previous day: ‘I presented the queen a mirror, and looking in it she nearly lost her head from delight and kept asking me if I had really given it to her and would I not demand it back. For this present she offered me herself, her sister and her daughter, but I delivered her of that favor’ (1876:1330). It was not sexual needs as such that the women aspired to satisfy; rather it was, as we have seen, a matter of prestige. When all the king’s subjects were



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boasting of their visits to the ship, how could the royal family lag behind? In this context the outrage of the aging ‘queen’ is only human, and the two independent reports of Kiatonui’s pride in having the charms of his daughter and daughter-in-law recognized are clearly significant.

Iron Hoops and Native Hogs Another striking point that emerges from these accounts is Korobitsyn’s testimony that the royal women were eager to obtain iron hoops. This is supported by Löwenstern’s remark about the aim of the ‘Goddess’s’ visit—‘for a piece of iron’. Iron, was, of course, an important European commodity. Krusenstern remarked that ‘the smallest piece of iron that they received from us, they instantly fastened to a handle, after sharpening the edge of it’, and stressed that the Nuku Hivans’ ‘eagerness after iron [was] so very great’ (1813c:162). Rezanov learned that a war with the people of Comptroller Bay was expected in a month, and ‘to this end the islanders eagerly bartered for iron, to sharpen it into spearheads to kill their enemies’ (1825, no. 66:81). Moreover, since the iron hoops had a functional similarity to the islanders’ traditional tools, they were likely to provoke more demand than completely novel implements (cf. the interest in red feathers, discussed previously). Thomas, however, argues that in general the demand for iron on the Marquesas was rather limited: ‘Marquesans were not “crazy to get” axes or knives. They did not engage in much swidden agriculture, and their demand was perhaps limited to relatively few tools which would have been used in canoe building, house construction, and wood carving’ (1991:97). Krusenstern’s account suggests that iron tools were quite common already: ‘The latter [stone axe] they never use but in the total absence of all European tools’ (1813c:178). It is nevertheless likely that iron hoops, which broke and wore out, might have been much needed in the households of low-ranking islanders. The royal family, however, had little need for iron hoops as tools, since by that time they had received numerous axes, chisels, and knives from the Russians and from previous visitors. For the royal women, then, iron hoops were less a practical necessity than a symbol, signifying, perhaps, their visit to the ship. The day before, Löwenstern, after staying on shore and observing the barter, recorded the following: ‘The concept of trade is just beginning to form here. . . . They demand a toki (piece of old iron) for a red bean just as for a club and often prefer this piece of iron instead of a well-scoured knife’ (2003a:98). It is not deception or ignorance about inequality of value between a red bean and a club. We are probably witnessing the birth of the notion of iron hoops as money, as universal equivalent. If others have already obtained an iron hoop, it

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is better to demand one whether you need it or not. Korobitsyn noted, in connection with the islanders’ assistance in delivering barrels of fresh water, ‘They would not take anything for all their great efforts, except some 4-inch bars of hoop-iron. Everything else, even the finest objects, did not seem to them to be any recompense for their toil at all’ (1952:155).The other supercargo, Shemelin, also complained that islanders had no interest in such attractive things as ‘shiny buttons, multi-colored glass bugles, necklaces, beads, . . . gimlets, flint-and-steel and scissors’ (1803–1806:128–129). In the minds of the islanders, iron hoops may have acquired some features of prestige goods. We may recall Krusenstern’s evidence that, on acquiring an iron hoop, the islanders ‘evinced their satisfaction by a loud laugh, displaying their newly acquired riches with an air of triumph’ (1813c:113), which is confirmed by Espenberg: ‘When any of them had obtained, as the price of their wares, a small piece of iron, or an old nail, they burst out into an immoderate fit of laughter; the reason of which, as [it] appeared, was, that they thought we had been most egregiously cheated’ (1805c:8). Iron barrel hoops were brought by all the visiting ships that came to them from another world, and were used for barter only with the authority of the captains. (The Nuku Hivans might have noticed that Krusenstern prohibited their use in barter for artifacts on the day of free trade.) There must therefore be more to these iron hoops than their utilitarian application as a wood-carving tool. Krusenstern’s attempts to regulate the dispensing of iron hoops might have further contributed to their extra value, in the Marquesan rather than the European sense. Fleurieu wrote about the similar experiences of the French on Tahuata Island in 1791: ‘Nails at first excited their wishes; they would have nothing but nails in exchange: and it was not because they were acquainted with their utility and employment, for the only use that they made of them, was to wear them as ear-pendants . . . ; to nails succeeded looking-glasses; to these whistles; to the last, small knives’ (1969, 1:127). Ingraham, who visited Tahuata several months before the French, also reported varying preferences: ‘Knives and nails they took but without seeming to know their real value. . . . Bits of iron hoops, so much valued at the Sandwich islands, they would not take in exchange for anything’ (1971:55–56). It is possible, then, that there were other reasons for the voyagers’ failure to obtain pigs in quantity, beyond rational commercial ones such as scarcity of livestock. In Nuku Hiva, as in many South Pacific islands, pigs were also prestige goods, not to be traded simply as pork.When a pig changed hands or was killed by its owner, this was part of a special social or spiritual event such as the rituals of birth, marriage, or death, or payment to a tahuna for tattooing or to a tau‘a for a cure.1 The Russians’ refusal to accept anything but pigs for hatchets may



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have triggered unexpected associations in the minds of the Nuku Hivans, who might have wondered if it was safe to exchange this special object, even for a much-coveted hatchet. It is no accident that the Russians observed a number of cases when the owner of a pig brought one to the ship but, after some hesitation, decided not to sell it.This, as we have seen, was the cause of an incident on the sixth day that nearly sparked a conflict, and on the ninth day the following incident occurred during a Russian visit to Hakaui Bay: There were several larger plantations of the taro root and cloth mulberry, and, what constituted their chief wealth, a number of hogs, but of these they were equally avaricious,2 and we could not purchase any. The king of the valley, whose name was Bauting, . . . was the only one who brought a hog for sale; but he could not prevail on himself to part with his treasure, and after having concluded his bargain four times, and at last on very advantageous terms to himself, he immediately repented of it and returned us our goods, though he was highly pleased with them. (Krusenstern 1813c:131–132) Although there were plenty of hogs here, we could not get a single one. The King promised to barter us a hog for an axe, but he later reconsidered. (Lisianskii 1977:66)

In the few cases when the Russians did succeed in obtaining a pig it was in exchange for similarly prestigious goods—red feathers: Notwithstanding all our exertions we could not succeed in procuring hogs. In three days we had got but two, of which one was a present made in return for a parrot, and the other we received in exchange for a big axe. (Krusenstern 1813c:121; 1809:151) During our whole stay there we were able to obtain five pigs, in exchange for two large Brazilian ducks, which seemed an attractive transaction to them since they entertained the hope that the ducks would hatch ducklings with red feathers. They were led to this belief by their having seen a parrot on our ship. (Korobitsyn 1952:156)

Similarly,Tahuata’s ‘chief ’ offered his large hog for the ship’s cat during Marchand’s visit in 1791 (Fleurieu 1969, 1:51), and a large quantity of red feathers offered by one of the gentlemen in Cook’s expedition in Tahuata had ruined the barter established there (Cook 1968:368–369; Thomas 2003:226).

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The observant Shemelin thought that hogs were probably not scarce but ‘the cunning islanders, to avoid revealing to us the abundance of their livestock, moved it away from the villages into another location’ (1816:134). Langsdorff was one of the few to come close to the reality: ‘During our stay on Nukahiva, we unfortunately had only been able to get a few pigs by barter, partially because the inhabitants demanded too high of a price and partially because they did not like to do without them at their frequent feasts and other amusements’ (1993:131).The Russians, like other Europeans of the time, were ill-prepared to grasp the full complexity of exchange in traditional Polynesian society. Unluckily for them, their Eurocentrism came close to wrecking an expedition that had had promising beginnings.

Barter or Trade? While Lisiansky was entertaining his royal visitors on the Neva, events aboard the Nadezhda were taking a dramatic turn. Shemelin’s success in securing first-rate artifacts in the absence of competition, coupled with Krusenstern’s exempting all axes from Shemelin’s care, was the last straw. The problem was not the barter for curios itself—Krusenstern had lifted his ban on this several days previously—but the use of axes for barter. Löwenstern states this clearly in his diary: ‘Mr. von Krusenstern had ordered and repeated several times that only foodstuffs should be bought for old iron and axes. Schemelin, ignoring this, bought (even though we have few axes) several things for axes, as he says, for Resanoff. Everyone has permission to buy whatever he wants for knives, scissors, mirrors, buttons, etc.’ (2003a:99).Thus Löwenstern ranks iron hoops along with axes as prime commodities, while knives and scissors are classed as secondrate goods. Rezanov in his complaint to Koshelev mentioned that Krusenstern had ordered him to use knives rather than iron hoops for barter, but Rezanov and Shemelin considered that they had the right to use property belonging to the RAC, especially as they did so in the name of science. They were acquiring artifacts for the Imperial Kunstkammer, and Rezanov had full authority over RAC property, besides being in overall charge of the expedition itself. While this latter authority plainly conflicted with Krusenstern’s, his authority in the area of economic and trade was beyond dispute. Yet Rezanov and Shemelin refrained from using axes for barter until that last day. The arguments of the opposite side are expressed by Ratmanov, who claimed that Shemelin ‘began to sell axes to the savages for trinkets, thereby completely stopping the acquisition of pigs’ (1876:1331). This was not really correct: Shemelin bartered not for trinkets but for artifacts of the highest quality, which are now the pride of the Kunstkammer’s collection. And the unwillingness of the Nuku Hivans to



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barter their sacred commodity—pigs—was not Shemelin’s fault, as has been shown. Rather it was the failure of two different mentalities—Russian and Nuku Hivan—to understand each other. Krusenstern’s Eurocentrism, paradoxically, led him to breach the RAC instruction, without his realizing it. The supplement to clause 16 of that instruction, issued to Krusenstern after Rezanov was included in the expedition, stated incontrovertibly that Rezanov was to be in charge of ‘all trading operations’ and that Krusenstern was ‘to be guided by his [Rezanov’s] advice in all matters which are for the benefit and interests of ’ the RAC (RAC 1803:15). It is unlikely that Krusenstern would have questioned Rezanov’s powers in this field at Kamchatka or Japan, but in his view, clearly, barter with Nuku Hivans was not a ‘trading operation’. He had approached the island in the belief that he could take on water and fresh provisions ‘even without the natives’ goodwill’, but for humanitarian reasons he preferred not to do so (Barratt 1987:25). He firmly believed that the victualling of the expedition was his prerogative and his alone. But what followed was unquestionably trade, and very enthusiastic trade on both sides; still, Krusenstern hampered all Rezanov’s attempts to discharge his obligations—to buy artifacts for the RAC and the Kunstkammer. Krusenstern’s failure to make reasonable adjustments to his ban on exchanging axes and iron hoops for anything but pigs aggravated the situation to the limit. As he approached Nuku Hiva, Krusenstern expected that the islanders would be greedy ‘to acquire objects of ours,’ but in fact the principal difficulty for the visitors was not the islanders’ greed but their own. Shemelin had remarked a few days earlier, ‘Many items were acquired today, and just as many good iron items were given to the inhabitants. With the assistance of the Englishman Roberts the best things filled Krusenstern’s cabinet’ (1803– 1806:130v.). If Krusenstern wanted to take a collection to the emperor and the Kunstkammer he would obviously prefer to do so in person, rather than as Rezanov’s assistant. The situation on the Neva was similar. Korobitsyn, the RAC supercargo, recorded in his notes that Lisiansky had given orders that only he had the right to barter for artifacts. For this purpose he used iron hoops, knives, and axes belonging to the RAC, but, according to Korobitsyn, ‘almost all of the best items were appropriated by Captain Lisyansky himself ’ ‘in his greediness’ (1952:214). Rezanov in his letter to the emperor also spoke of greed: ‘I began to collect rarities for the Academy, but they gave me no opportunity and greedily filled their own cabinets’ (1805:4).We can only agree with Rezanov’s later conclusion, cited above, that the cause of their discord was ‘the ambition for fame and fame alone’ (1994a:90). He himself was no exception.

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The Russian Revolt Meanwhile the sun was rising, and when Krusenstern came up to Rezanov on the quarterdeck later that morning as if nothing had happened and invited him to come and select for himself the best corals that had been collected the day before, Rezanov lost his temper.The following dialogue is from his accounts of the events, but it is confirmed by the journals of Ratmanov, Löwenstern, and Shemelin. Rezanov delivered the opening shot: ‘Aren’t you ashamed of behaving so childishly and pleasing yourself by not giving me the opportunity to accomplish my duties?’ ╅╇ ‘How dare you tell me that I am childish?’ ╅╇ ‘I very much dare, my good sir, because I am your superior.’ ╅╇ ‘You my superior! How can this be? Do you know that I will deal with you in ways you can’t imagine?’ ╅╇ ‘No, I don’t know; are you thinking about keeping me in the forecastle, like Kurliandtsev? The sailors won’t obey you, and I assure you that if you but touch me, you will be stripped of all your ranks.’ (1804a:2)

Rezanov’s reference to the sailors is significant. He later wrote in his complaint to the emperor, ‘As we approached the Marquesas, the sailors told me that it was decided that I should be killed, and that I should not go ashore, but do I value my life? I went with the party, having by my side people known to me. They wanted to kill me in my cabin, but the sailors protected me by setting up a secret watch, while I slept with loaded pistols in hand’ (1805:4). It is clear that the attitude of the ships’ officers gave him grounds to believe in the assassination plot, even if this plot existed only in his inflamed imagination. But we need to bear in mind that Kurliandtsev was indeed ostracized by the officers and banned from the wardroom after he complained about Tolstoy’s pranks, while Romberg threatened to throw Shemelin over the side. Shemelin’s account provides some lively details of this skirmish: The imprudent Krusenstern, while his Superior was justly reproaching him, completely lost his temper. Pacing up and down the quarterdeck, running up to his Superior and interrupting him a hundred times over, he shouted that no-one could order him around, that he didn’t care about the Kunstkammer or the Board, that he despised such whims and didn’t give a damn about them, and that the iron and



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axes were needed for provisioning the crew, the health of whom he puts above such trifles. (1803–1806:143–143v.)



Rezanov retired to his cabin. He continued in his account: A short while later the captain ran in like a madman, shouting, ‘How did you dare say that I am childish? Do you know what the quarterdeck is? You will see what I will do to you.’ Seeing his raving, I called Court Councillor Fosse, Titular Councillor Brykin and the academician Kurliandtsev and ordered them to stay in the cabin and protect me from further insolences which were promised to me. (1804a:2)

Shemelin had publicly expressed his loyalty to Rezanov during the previous heated exchange on the quarterdeck. He ‘went up to Krusenstern and said to him openly that he would have nothing to do with him and viewed Resanoff as his boss’ (Löwenstern 2003a:99). The battle lines were drawn. We have seen how the Russians, through ignorance, offended Kiatonui at least twice in front of his people.3 His wit and life experience helped him to resolve a difficult situation without resorting to conflict or compromising his dignity. A similar situation now arose on the quarterdeck of the Nadezhda. The quarterdeck was the venue for ceremonial events, the sacred space on board the ship; whatever was said there acquired additional weight by being performed in the public domain. If, as Shemelin put it, the officers had ‘no God but the sails’, the quarterdeck was their chapel, and Rezanov had defiled it. Immediately after the conflict Löwenstern wrote, ‘The [quarter]-deck has the same rights as in a courtroom and nobody may insult the captain to his face on his own ship in front of his entire crew. Now Resanoff must justify himself ’ (2003a:99). The public challenge to Krusenstern’s honor and authority could now be resolved only in public. Krusenstern went to the Neva and brought Lisiansky and Berkh to his ship. ‘The others from the Neva did not come,’ noted Rezanov (1805:5), believing that they were loyal to him. But there could have been another reason: at that very moment, after the queen’s visit to his ship, Lisiansky had allowed other women on board. The sun by that time was at its height. Krusenstern assembled the officers on the quarterdeck and, according to Shemelin’s diary, declared, ‘“Gentlemen! I am no longer your commander and cannot command you. Nikolai Petrovich Rezanov has this morning here on the quarterdeck proclaimed himself Commander”’ (1803–1806:145v.–146). Löwenstern recorded his words as follows: ‘His Excellency, Chamberlain Resanoff has said to me publicly, “You are acting

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childishly! You are going to be degraded to a sailor.” In view of this, I cannot continue with the command’ (2003a:99). The officers’ assembly started their investigation. Krusenstern’s credentials were examined. First Lisiansky read out the RAC Instruction, omitting, according to Shemelin, all those clauses that limited Krusenstern’s powers (particularly the supplement to clause 16). ‘“Gentlemen!” he [Lisiansky] went on, “do you think this is enough to recognise your Captain as the Commander?” “Enough, enough!” everyone shouted. “Nothing more is needed.”’ Then followed another trump card: Lisiansky read out the Instruction of Nikolai Rumiantsev, the minister of commerce. The peculiar ‘PR’ slant in Lisiansky’s reading did not escape the watchful Shemelin: If at that moment an onlooker had happened to see their grand behavior, he would have split his sides laughing, or else would have thought they had completely taken leave of their senses. He would have seen with what thoroughness, expression and eloquence Captain Lisiansky read; in that moment he resembled a preacher, trying to impress the power of his sermon on the hearts of his audience. He always paused when the minister of commerce addressed Krusenstern, calling him Kind Sir. ‘Here,’ he exclaimed, pausing, ‘with what reverence does the minister treat a person,’ pointing to the captain, ‘whom he considers worthy of his respect and that of others.’ (1803–1806:148)

Then Krusenstern, ‘not allowing their [the officers’] enthusiasm to wane’ (Shemelin 1803–1806:148v.), suggested summoning Rezanov to the quarterdeck to produce his instructions and to support his claim that, as Ratmanov put it, ‘he was the head of everyone and everything’ (1876:1331) and, as Rezanov saw it, ‘to judge him’. As in an epic tale, they summoned him three times. Romberg went to him first: ‘Go up to the quarterdeck, if you please. The officers of both ships are waiting for you.’ ╅╇ Lying, nearly at the last of my strength, I answered that I could not follow his order. ╅╇ ‘Aha! So you’re well enough for abuse, but as soon as it comes to a trial, you are ill.’

Then ‘the captain came running with the words,



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‘Come and bring your instructions; neither vessel knows who’s in charge, and I don’t know what to do.’ ╅╇ I answered, ‘I’ve already had enough of your abuse, I am not obliged to bring them the Emperor’s orders. They concern you, not the officers, and I want you to leave me in peace.’ (Rezanov 1804a:2)

And finally, Löwenstern reports, Ratmanoff said in a thundering voice, and we agreed, ‘You have to think that he is a “самозванец” (someone who gives himself rank and title), and, if that is the case then, he should be considered crazy and locked in his cabin.’ Since all of the doors and windows were open, Resanoff must have heard it. (2003a:100)

Feeling reached such a pitch that the officers resolved, according to Shemelin, ‘that if he [Rezanov] did not come up onto the quarterdeck, it should be recorded into the ship’s log, and he should be dealt with as the officers saw fit’ (1803–1806:149). Rezanov overheard exclamations such as “Why be afraid? We’ll sort him out!” (1804a:2). ‘Pale and white’, in ‘shoes without stockings, in pants and a jersey’, ‘completely slovenly’, Rezanov finally came to the quarterdeck (Löwenstern 2003a:99; Ratmanov 1803–1805a:43v.; 1876:1332). He did, however, order Krusenstern to take off his hat. Then he stood at the stairs and read out the emperor’s instructions. The ten-month intrigue was at an end. The most detailed account of what followed is Rezanov’s own letters to Koshelev and the emperor.Though some historians tend to mistrust him, in this case he probably did not exaggerate. A convoluted record in Löwenstern’s diary confirms Rezanov’s account: ‘Resanoff got to hear a lot of truths that made his hair stand on end, and we would have been bold enough to tell him that to his face with the emperor present. Resanoff ’s instructions and Krusenstern’s contradict each other from beginning to end’ (2003a:99). But we should listen to Rezanov himself: When I had read out the supreme instruction issued to me, I heard laughter and questions: ╅╇ ‘Who signed it?’ ╅╇ I answered: ‘Your Emperor, Alexander.’ ╅╇ ‘But who wrote it?’ ╅╇ ‘I do not know,’ I said.

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╅╇ ‘That’s the point: you do not know,’ Lisiansky shouted. ‘We want to know who wrote it, and as for the signature, we ourselves know well that he will sign anything.’ ╅╇ Finally, everybody except Lieutenant Golovachev came up to me and said, ‘I would not have sailed with you [as commander of the expedition].’ Their last words were: ‘Leave us, leave us with your orders! We have no leader but Krusenstern.’ (1804a:3)

This public manifestation of the officers’ loyalties was preceded by a very important discussion. Shemelin recorded it in detail: ‘Why didn’t you reveal this instruction at the roadstead in Kronshtadt?’ everybody shouted, both captains and lieutenants. Captain Lisiansky was the first who dared to say that had he known about this instruction beforehand, he would never have agreed to sail under his [Rezanov’s] command, and the Emperor himself could not have induced him to. Then Lieutenant Ratmanov said the same, and after him all the other officers: ‘I wouldn’t have gone either. I would have done the same.’ The Superior [Rezanov] objected to this in a firm voice, and turning to Krusenstern he said: ‘In this very place back in the Kronshtadt roadstead, and in many other cases I announced and read out [the instructions], but now you deny it.’ ‘No, I never read them,’ said Krusenstern haughtily, ‘and even if I did, you forgot your duty and never read them to the lieutenants.’ ‘You should have done,’ everybody shouted. Livid with fury, more insolent and shameless than the others, Captain Lisiansky strode up to the Superior, jabbed his finger in his chest and dared to say, ‘I know,Your Excellency, how you received these orders, and aren’t you ashamed that you wrote them yourself, for no-one else could know all the details that were in them.’ (1803–1806:149v.–150v.)

This raises an important psychological and legal issue. Rezanov himself, a high-ranking official, indeed was not obliged to read out the emperor’s instruction in front of the officers at Kronshtadt, let alone at Nuku Hiva. Nevertheless, the instruction needed to be declared to Krusenstern by a senior official, of ministerial standing, and it would then have been incumbent upon Krusenstern to inform the officers of its implications before sailing. Krusenstern in his letter to the emperor from Kamchatka emphatically stated, ‘I have left Russia not knowing, that I and all my officiers were to be at his disposal, he did not proclaim it on coming on board, but he kept it an Secret till



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our Arrival upon Teneriffe. I declare solemnelly that till then I was entirely ignorant of it’ (1804c; quoted from Sondermann 2002b:70). Löwenstern’s diary confirms this (2003a:25). At the same time, Shemelin’s and Rezanov’s accounts insist that Rezanov informed Krusenstern about the instruction at Kronshtadt roadstead. At Kamchatka, during the investigation of the revolt, Rezanov again stated publicly that he had shown the instruction to Krusenstern at Kronshtadt. Krusenstern, significantly, did not deny it but said that he had not read the instruction then (Rezanov 1805:2; Sgibnev 1877:389). This concurs with the account in Shemelin’s journal. Could it be that Rezanov showed Krusenstern a different version of the instruction or that Krusenstern had certain—perhaps vague—suspicions about Rezanov’s position on the eve of sailing, but realized that if he discussed the matter with the officers they might refuse to go, and thus his expedition would end before it had begun? Moreover, it would mean publicly disobeying the emperor’s orders on the eve of departure. Rezanov, for his part, had no wish to probe the officers’ leanings either: if they refused to sail under his command, the public scandal would be the ruin of his career. Fearing the answers, both preferred not to ask questions. In the meantime Rezanov’s torments on the quarterdeck continued: Some jeered. ‘So he’s also supposed to be the Company’s manager.’ ‘Well then!’ cried Lisiansky, ‘I have Korobitsyn! He’s half-manager and half-clerk too!’ Lieutenant Ratmanov added, ‘Let him be the manager in his bunk! He’s a prosecutor who doesn’t know the rules about when to proclaim his instructions,’ and swore loudly: ‘Nail the brute up in his cabin!’ . . . I retired to my cabin and collapsed. (Rezanov 1804a:3; 1805:5)

These are just a few extracts from Rezanov’s letters to Koshelev and the emperor. Rezanov indeed was a fine stylist, and this scene in his presentation almost parallels the passion of Christ. It is likely that only the emperor’s signature on the instruction or Rezanov’s timely retirement to his cabin saved him from a lynching. Had his instruction been forged, as Ratmanov and others suspected, the officers ‘would have dealt with him as with a troublesome impostor’. A despairing Ratmanov recorded in his diary, ‘So it appeared that on these islands, towards which all my childhood dreams had drawn me, I had found a new and unworthy authority. . . . The instruction was, however, signed by Alexander’s hand, and we obey it with awe’ (1876:1332), but the officers did not really accept Rezanov’s authority. They insisted that, as they had not been told about Rezanov’s instruction at the time of departure, they were not bound

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by it now, and on arrival to Kamchatka they would apply to return overland to the capital to put their case to the government. A conflict that had begun as a simple dispute over the Nuku Hivan warriors’ clubs and skull trophies got out of control and turned into an open rejection of the authority of the emperor’s representative on board—of the emperor himself. Later, in Kamchatka, Rezanov would accuse them of mutiny, threatening them with the scaffold. How could all this have happened? Of course, the confusion caused by the ambiguous and contradictory instructions given to Krusenstern and Rezanov was the main reason, yet perhaps Nuku Hiva itself was another. Was it not significant that this conflict erupted not, say, in Brazil but at Nuku Hiva? This was the island of their childhood dreams, of naked warriors bursting with masculinity, their unbridled couplings under the southern stars. This island, well beyond the sway of Russian imperial power, awakened in them their suppressed desires to be real men—to be warriors, men who stick together, men who confront their fears and enemies, men who take what they want. Coming to this island to observe ‘savages’, they had discovered the savage within themselves. And it was Krusenstern’s party that won this battle in the end. All those in the failed party—Rezanov, Golovachev, Brykin, and Fosse—would die within a few years.

Postscript to Day 8 High drama and farce often go together, and this day was no exception. Count Tolstoy, the eternal jester, nearly spoiled the high drama of the moment on the quarterdeck: when Krusenstern declared that he could not remain in command any longer, Tolstoy naively exclaimed, ‘Well, Ivan Fedorovich! If you can no longer remain in command, I will certainly have to submit to the command of Nikolai Petrovich [Rezanov] again.’ He was curtly put in his place by Ratmanov. But Rezanov gratefully welcomed even this clowning by Tolstoy: ‘Count Tolstoy rushed to defend me but they stopped him’ (1805:5). Rezanov was ready by now to enlist even Tolstoy as a supporter, in spite of his previous complaints to the emperor and to the RAC authorities about Tolstoy’s sins. Later that day Tolstoy, ‘seething with a desire for revenge’, challenged Ratmanov to a duel. If Ratmanov had accepted the challenge he might have had the honor to be the first Russian buried in Nuku Hivan soil. Luckily he reasonably declined the challenge and instead gave the indignant count a vulgar hiding with his fists (Shemelin 1803–1806:152–153). One may wonder what the Nuku Hivans thought of their Russian visitors as they watched their strange activities and the noisy squabble on the quarterdeck. Did they still consider them to be etua, if indeed they ever had?



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And then life went on; the officers returned to their duties. ‘In the afternoon, I rowed with Horner around the inlet in order to chart it,’ Löwenstern wrote (2003a:100). Tilesius may have missed the whole episode as he was busy on the shore, drawing an idyllic group of Nuku Hivans with Titkia Wobusi among the lush vegetation and painstakingly copying the pattern on a tattooed arm (Tilesius 1803–1806:74v., 75).

DAY 9

dislocation 3/15 May 1804

Port L. With the conflicts and troubles of the three previous days behind him, Krusenstern returned to the plans he had hatched on hearing Löwenstern’s favorable account of the newly discovered bay lying three miles to the west of Taiohae, now known as Hakatea Bay. They would explore it further, and he had hopes of obtaining more provisions there, especially some pigs.The voyagers from the Nadezhda set off in the launch in a party that included Krusenstern, Löwenstern, Golovachev, and the European scientists Horner, Langsdorff, and Tilesius. They were followed by the Neva’s boat with Lisiansky, Povalishin, the surgeon Moritz Laband, the navigator Danilo Kalinin, and Korobitsyn, the supercargo. The indispensable Robarts did not fail to accompany them. A few years previously he had lived in this bay for four months with his ‘royal relations’. It is interesting that in his account he viewed this trip more as a gentlemen’s picnic outing than naval reconnaissance: ‘Every thing being compleated, the next day was appointed for a party of pleashure. . . . We set out with a fine Breeze to a harbour a few miles distant to view the rock & curiosities to be seen among them’ (1974:136). By 10 o’clock, after a voyage of an hour and a half, the party entered the bay. For the Russians this was an important strategic matter. Nuku Hiva could have become an important revictualling point on the route from Cape Horn to Russian America.Taiohae Bay would have suited this purpose quite well, but suddenly its attractions were eclipsed. Setting out for this ‘party of pleasure’, the Russians tried not to show the distress they all felt after the previous day’s revolt, but the absence of Rezanov, who had locked himself in his cabin, and all members of his retinue was too obvious to ignore. Could it be that these emotions colored their perceptions of this day? They now saw their previous station at Taiohae Bay through dark glasses and unstintingly praised the newly discovered bay instead. The major advantage of Hakatea Bay was that its eastern cove was completely landlocked without much surf, and it was quite deep close to the shore. 214



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This made it a convenient station for unloading a ship in need of repairs, while at Taiohae, Krusenstern argued, ‘the landing, on account of the heavy surf, is extremely difficult’ (1813c:130). But the strategic consideration was paramount: The chief advantage which this bay possesses over the others is, that, as you can anchor about a hundred fathoms from the land, the king’s house and all the habitations of the valley lie so completely under the guns of the ship, as to render an attack on the part of the natives quite impossible. This same reason makes it unnecessary to send a covering party with any boat going on shore, as you must do in Tayo Hoae, where the ship cannot anchor within less than a mile and a half of the beach. (1813c:130)

Moreover, Krusenstern believed that if the islanders contemplated a sudden attack they would be exposed while approaching the shore over the hills. He also argued that ‘a green flat resembling a most beautiful bowling-green’ in the eastern cove was the ideal place for ship’s hospital and observatory, while at Taiohae ‘the shore being either swampy or covered with large stones, renders it necessary to go inland in order to feel the beneficial effects of a wholesome land air’ (1813c:129, 130). The accounts of Lisiansky, Ratmanov, and Korobitsyn were similarly enthusiastic. Korobitsyn claimed that ‘the inner bay has room for as many as ten ships of the line without any crowding’ (1952:159). Besides all the strategic and naval advantages, the voyagers admired the ‘lofty and perpendicular rocks of a very wild but beautiful appearance’ surrounding the bay (Krusenstern 1813c:129). Tilesius’ drawing of the bay, later published in Krusenstern’s Atlas, greatly dramatized the towering crags and made the bay resemble a fiord (Tilesius 1803–1806:77v., 78; Kruzenshtern 1813b:XIV). Another engraving, by the French artist Victor Danvin, clearly based on Tilesius’ drawing, dramatized it even further (Domeny de Rienzi 1836:226–227). This magnificent bay deserved a special name. Krusenstern wrote, ‘The natives had no particular name for this harbour, but they call the vale in which the houses are situated, Schegua. I have therefore named it Port Tschitschagoff in honor of the minister of marine’ (1813c:131). Thus the bay was baptized with the scarcely pronounceable name Tschitschagoff (better transliterated as Chichagov), rather than those of its discoverers, the young officers Löwenstern and Bellingshausen and the astronomer Horner. In fact, as his unpublished journal indicates, Krusenstern initially named the bay Port L., either after Löwenstern or Lisiansky, but in the end he opted for the more opportunistic name

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of Chichagov (1804a:55, 55v.). Petr Vasilevich Chichagov (1762–1849) at the time of the departure of the expedition held the position of deputy naval minister. In 1807 he was promoted to naval minister and admiral. According to a modern Russian gazetteer, Krusenstern also named Temokomoko Point, which closed Chichagov Bay from the southwest, after Chichagov. But that was not all. The following year Krusenstern would give his name to a point on Kyushu Island in Japan (now Sata-misaki), and in the same year Lisiansky would name an island (now Chichagof) in the Alexander Archipelago in Russian America. Later two participants in the previous day’s mutiny—young Otto Kotzebue and Faddei Bellingshausen—would commemorate Chichagov by naming after him some islands they had discovered: Erikub Atoll (Marshall Islands, 1817) and Tahanea Atoll (Society Islands, 1820) (Maslennikov 1986:229). This seems to show more than usual respect to a senior government official. Consciously or unconsciously the captains may have been seeking a protector in the forthcoming trials, and hoping to enlist his support. Chichagov indeed appreciated Krusenstern’s gesture; in April 1805 he replied, ‘It was pleasing to see that you, upon discovering a hitherto unknown harbor on the island of Nukagiva, remembered me and in some way made me part of the immortality which our grateful posterity will of course justly record in their chronicles’ (1805). The voyagers nevertheless took care to preserve the native toponyms. Krusenstern recorded the name of the valley around the western cove as Shegua (Schegua in the English version of Krusenstern’s book) (1813c:130), Lisiansky as Zhegaue ( Jegawe in his English text) (1977:66; 1814:76), while Korobitsyn (1952:158) and Gideon (1989:23) wrote of Zhegau Bay and Löwenstern of Gekauve Bay (2003a:102). Langsdorff’s and Tilesius’ records are especially valuable for the restoration of the local toponyms. According to Langsdorff, the native name of Port Tschitschagoff was Hapoa, while the valley near this harbor ‘is called Schegua and another one bordering on it nearby Ihanahui’ (1993:68). Tilesius writing in German recorded the native toponyms as Tschequa for the valley, Janaue (or Janaui) or Schanaui for the bay, Hautupa (Aautapa) valley for the eastern cove, and Tabra valley with A Capa village for the western cove, adding that they named the high rock wall closing the valley from the west ‘Tschequa gothic church’ (1804:1–2; 1803–1806:8, 10v.). The western cove and the valley running north from it are known today as Hakaui. Clearly the visitors’ Shegua-Zheguae-Gekauve-Tschequa and Ihanahui-Janaui-Schanaui were an attempt to record native names, which shows ‘how difficult it must be for a foreigner to convey the correct sounds’, as Langsdorff himself admitted (1993:67). At the same time his ‘Hapoa’ could hardly be derived from ‘Hakatea’, the name by which the eastern cove and often the whole bay are known today. He may have recorded a native name for the bay that is now forgotten.



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‘Port Tchitchagoff ’ did not live up to the expectations invested in it by its Russian explorers. On the contrary, it became a symbol of wilderness. Among modern yachtsmen it is known as Daniel’s Bay, after a sculptor who lived there alone with his wife for thirty years. In 1999 when an American film crew were looking for a totally unspoiled spot for their Survivor series, they resettled Daniel to Hakaui Valley, bulldozed his home, and used Daniel’s Bay for filming. When I visited the bay in 2003 there were just four families living at Hakaui.

Hakaui Valley It was quite different when the Russians landed there in 1804. Krusenstern recorded: Our arrival seemed to have given universal satisfaction; every one smiled upon us, and we did not remark any disorderly shouting or impertinent curiosity, although we were the first Europeans who had ever landed among them. They all brought bananas and breadfruit for sale, for which we gave them small pieces of old iron hoop. (1813c:132)

Korobitsyn added further details: Upon our arrival we fired a falconet from our launches. Immediately there gathered at the place where we were preparing to land a crowd of natives of both sexes who manifested the same manners and way of life as the inhabitants of the other bays. When we came off our launches, we received, through our interpreter, an invitation to pay a visit to the king of that bay. There we laid out the dinner we brought along and spent a while procuring some of the native products from the inhabitants. Our unexpected arrival, however, aroused such extraordinary curiosity on their part that they did not bother in the least to assemble any of the plants that might have been used in the exchange with us, but every one of them tried his best to be merely a spectator. (1952:159)

An engraving by Tilesius records the moment when the falconet was fired from the launch and the islanders began to gather on the shore (fig. 47). Curiously, Danvin/Shovannes’ engraving depicting the same shot from the boat turned the launch into a native pirogue with raised prow, while the Russian

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Figure 47.╇ Kozma Czeski after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘View of the shore near Port Chichagov’. Engraving (Kruzenshtern 1813b:pl. 14)

visitors sitting in the launch were transformed into some sort of Indians with pyramid-like coiffures (Domeny de Rienzi 1836:226–227). The ‘king of the bay’, at whose abode the voyagers had their picnic, was ‘Bauting’ (Krusenstern’s spelling) or ‘Kaettenue Totei’ (Tilesius’ spelling); Crook referred to him as ‘Poutinne’ (2007:135), while Suggs reconstructed his name as Pahutini, meaning ‘many drums’ (2008:4). Krusenstern remarked that Pahutini, ‘notwithstanding his age, for he certainly was not less than fifty, was still extremely handsome’, and his ‘gigantic stature rendered him very conspicuous’ (1813c:153, 132). ‘The king of that bay is rather tall, and very manly in appearance, and I have seen few like him,’ echoed Korobitsyn (1952:159). He disappointed the Russians in one respect only: by refusing to part with his treasured hog, although a bargain for it was concluded four times. Tilesius recorded in his journal that the king had an attractive longhouse on a paved ‘Tabuplazze’, with adjoining garden surrounded by a stone wall and abundant breadfruit, bananas, and coconut trees as well as sweet potatoes, yams, sugarcane, and some flowers (1804:2). After the refreshment at Pahutini’s house, which was not far from the shore, the Russians ‘proceeded up the little stream, on both sides of which there



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are considerable settlements extending for a distance of almost one Italian mile’, being all the time ‘surrounded by swarms of islanders who would follow [them] around’, according to Korobitsyn (1952:159, 160). The Hakaui Valley, now one of the major tourist attractions of Nuku Hiva, lies along the meandering river Vai‘oa,1 which winds its way down a steep-sided gorge. At a distance of about three kilometres from the shore there is a waterfall, the third highest in the world. Krusenstern wrote that this waterfall was ‘particularly remarkable, nor would it be easy to meet with any thing more beautiful. The bed of this waterfall appeared to be several fathoms wide, and the water was precipitated from a rock, the height of which might be estimated at 2000 feet; this cascade, which was visited by Dr.Tilesius and Dr. Langsdorff, forms the river that empties itself into Port Tschitschagoff ’ (1813c:144). The river Vai‘oa, in reality little more than a stream, also charmed the visitors: ‘The rivulet flowing at the foot of a chain of lofty mountains through the valley, and which was rendered more beautiful by the abrupt descent of its bed, added certainly very much to the appearance of this place’ (Krusenstern 1813c:131). Krusenstern (1804a:53v.) and Lisiansky (1814:76; 1977:66) ‘gave the name of Little Neva’ (Nevka in Russian) to this ‘beautiful’ rivulet, after the branch of the Neva River in St Petersburg. This naming, which did not find its way onto any maps, was obviously prompted by the appeal of the site, rather than by the pragmatic considerations that produced ‘Port Chichagov’. According to Robarts’ estimate, recorded by Krusenstern, the Hakaui Valley had five hundred warriors (1813c:177). Tilesius believed that the valley had twelve hundred inhabitants with at least a hundred houses; some of the houses were built on posts with storage space underneath (1804:2–3). In general the visitors had the impression that the people of this valley were better off than those at Taiohae and ‘the men also wore a much better appearance’. They stressed the friendly disposition of the people: ‘In spite of the size of the crowds, we were never aware of anything disagreeable or rude in their behavior toward us,’ Korobitsyn wrote (1952:160), while Lisiansky referred to the people there as ‘kind’ (1977:69). The Russians were particularly impressed by the Hakaui women. Krusenstern wrote: The women of this valley were very different from those of Tayo Hoae; they were invariably better dressed, and two of them might really be reckoned very handsome; none of them were quite naked, but all were wrapt up in long shawls of a yellow color, and were particularly distinguished from their neighbors by a piece of white stuff which they wore with much taste as a turban, and which was very becoming to them. (1813c:132)

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He noticed another interesting detail: when the voyagers landed, the women were not smeared with cocoa oil as ‘their curiosity to see us having perhaps prevented them from adorning themselves; but when after a few [hours] we returned to Schegua they received us with much greater splendour’. Even the women’s ‘supplicating’ and ‘expressive’ pantomime of sexual advances to the Russian visitors, approvingly supported by the audience, did not provoke the usual moralizing from Krusenstern: ‘I must do them the justice to say, that, in the spirit of the female sex in this quarter of the globe, they played it remarkably well’ (1813c:131–133; 1809:165). Had he begun to accept this natural attitude to sex, or had the catharsis of the previous day somehow relieved his tension? Three Russian accounts describe tohuas they saw in the valley. According to Krusenstern one tohua was about a hundred paces from the king’s house, a large even space, in front of which was a stone construction about a foot high and near a hundred fathoms long, displaying a degree of skill approaching to which we had seen nothing in Tayo Hoae. The foundation-stones were laid very even, and so closely united that no European workman could have joined them better: Roberts told us that this platform served the spectators as a seat at their great dances. (1813c:133)

Löwenstern remarked that ‘the dance-floor place in this valley was a roomy square raised by stones and surrounded by huts’ (2003a:100).The most detailed description of the ‘public dance hall’ is by Korobitsyn, who noted that it was ‘constructed in the manner of a four-cornered fortress, resting on a stone foundation four feet high, with walls twenty-five feet thick. Entrance is by way of small stone steps like estrades, built in a few places, which lead up into the interior. The dance hall is about 350 feet long and 210 feet wide. The exterior walls are quite evenly laid out’ (1952:159). As there are some discrepancies in the accounts, it may be that the Russians visited different tohuas. Krusenstern most likely wrote about the tohua of Ponaouoho situated on the beach near ‘the king’s house’, while Korobitsyn’s tohua appears in his account in the context of their walk up the valley. There were at least two other tohuas on the western bank of the stream according to Linton’s archaeological survey (1925:108–109). Korobitsyn left a detailed account of Hakaui’s me‘ae: Their sepulchral places are also quadrangular, with a stone platform eight feet high, on top of which are placed carved wooden statues,



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two on the very edge of the walls and one in the middle, all three being parallel to each other. On the heads of the statues rests a fairly thick, round beam which, according to the natives’ custom of offering, is hung with all kinds of baubles. From an examination of their sepulchral places it would appear that the bodies of the deceased are often burned. (1952:159)

Tilesius also mentioned his visit to a morai in his journal.Years later, in an article, he added that there were numerous stone etuas about which he learned much from Robarts. He believed that the pictographic signs carved on the etuas represented the great deeds of the priests and chiefs (1828:176). Langsdorff ’s ‘A view of an inhabited valley on Nukuhiva’ (fig. 48) may have been inspired by the visit to Hakaui. The mountain landscape, at least, matches this valley more closely than Taiohae. It depicts six Europeans engaged in courting women and bartering for skulls. Confirming the common practice of borrowing and sharing between the expedition’s artists, elements of

Figure 48.╇ Anon. after Georg Langsdorff, ‘A view of an inhabited valley on Nukuhiva’. Engraving (Langsdorff 1993:pl. 10)

Figure 49.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Nukahiva. Tabu tree’. Gouache and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:84

Figure 50.╇ Hermann Löwenstern, ‘Morai. Nukahiva. Houses’. Gouache and ink on paper. EHA, Tartu, Estonia, 1414-3-3:86



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Langsdorff’s engraving can be found in Löwenstern’s drawings entitled ‘Nukahiva. Tabu tree’ (fig. 49) and ‘Morai. Nukahiva. Houses’ (fig. 50). Löwenstern’s ‘Morai’, in turn, borrows from Tilesius’ Leipzig variant of ‘Morai’ and drawings from his sketchbook ad naturam (see fig. 39). At the same time Löwenstern’s ‘Morai’ coincides almost exactly with Korobitsyn’s description, suggesting that Löwenstern depicted one of the me‘ae at Hakaui, as he did not have the opportunity to visit the me‘ae at Taiohae with the Russian party two days earlier.

Crossing the Mountains At four o’clock in the afternoon, after six hours at Hakaui, the voyagers boarded their longboats to return to their ships. This time the wind was against them, and it took them four hours to reach their ships at Taiohae. Some in the party, however, chose not to take the longboats. Robarts wrote, ‘We was about to depart. Two of the Naturalists wishd to return over land. They askd me to go with them. I answerd that I had no objection, provided Sr Geo gave leave. Leave was askd and granted’ (1974:136). It is curious that Robarts was persuaded that Lisiansky (Sir George) rather than Krusenstern was the head of the expedition and the naturalists were in his charge. Löwenstern remarked in his diary, ‘When we wanted to return, several expressed the wish to go back by land. Lisianski talked a lot against it.Tilesius and Langsdorff decided nevertheless to go on foot. I would have liked to go with them, but I had come with the longboat and had to return with her’ (2003a:100). Robarts continues his account of a somewhat arduous trek: We set out. I took the nearest road over the mountains. My consorts made but a poor hand of traveling over land. We had not got half way before they complaind that they was footsore and could go no further. They had their shoes on: I had none. Night was comeing on. It began to rain. One lookd at the other till one of them began to cry. I thought to myself: ‘If this man crys for this trifle, what would he do if he had the smallest part of what I had gone thro to encounter with?’ I was highly diverted within myself, for, had his sorrow flowd from any real cause, I should have pitied him. ╅╇ However, I cheerd them up and bid them not to be uneasy, but to sit there a short time, and I would return. They thought I was going to desert them. However, I set out and in a short time returnd with three stout men. One carried their bag of botany and box of Butterflies, etc; the other two clapt them on their shoulders like a couple of sheep. The rain abated. We decended down the rock and

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arrivd at a plantation belonging to the King. Here was a good house for the reception of the Royal family in the Bread fruit season. (1974:136–137)

Tilesius remarked in his journal that ‘there were more than 20 people in the royal house, in which they slept this night’, but did not provide any other details of their dramatic trek (1804:12). Langsdorff was also discreet, claiming that ‘to conduct observations in the field of natural science we dared to stay all night in the house of the chief, trusting the goodwill of the savages’ (Langsdorff and Fischer 1810:2). Meanwhile, Robarts considered that his mission was not yet over: I got a line from one of them Just saying they was safe. I had a double barreld gun with me. I loaded it with powder to make a signal for the boat when I reachd Tio foie. I set out thro a wood. It raind very hard, accompanyd with heavy lightning. Loud thunder is not heard at these Islands; a distant sound is only heard. I reachd Tio foie. My gun locks was securd from the rain. I fird twice. At lenght the ships boat came. It still raining very hard, I got on board of Capt Kraulestern ship. I found him in great concearn as to the safety of his two officers. I gave him the note and informd him of the whole of our adventure. He laughted heartily, but blamed me for comeing thro the storm in the night. I answerd I thought he would be uneasy [and this] caused me to come. I retired and got a towel to dry myself. I had nothing on, only my bandage. I left my shirt & trowsers behind me to prevent catching cold. Then I went into the dineing room and got a glass or two of Hollands gin to drink to Keep out the cold. I got supper and spent the Eveng with several of the officers. They could speak but a word here and there of english, and my broken french, Dutch & Rush made a patcht up conversation. The storm was over. I went on deck to sleep. (1974:137)

The Russians were lucky indeed to meet a man like Robarts, who after spending all day walking and crossing the mountains was still able to entertain them in the evening in ‘broken Rush’.

Félicité’s Story In Nuku Hiva in 2003 my ten-year-old son and I planned to repeat the naturalists’ overland journey. A few hours in the Nuku Hivan climate made me



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realize that I could not tackle such a journey, especially as there was no Robarts to take care of the new Russian adventurers. Instead we went to Hakaui in a motorboat with Eric Bastard. At Hakaui cove we met Félicité Kimitete, the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of Kiatonui. She told us a story that her ancestors had handed down. The leader-woman of Hakaui, her name was Tau‘a Matareva, went aboard the Russian ship. She was treated there with vodka or rum and when she went ashore she was affected by the drink and was swaying on the way. The Russians gave her two goats as well, and as she was going to her house swaying on the way with these two strange animals the people ashore were horrified and they thought that these were etua. (Interview 8 November 2003)

Suggs suggests that the name Tau‘a Matareva means ‘priestess with eyes of inexhaustible power’. He heard another version from Félicité, with some differences in the detail: Her story was that ‘the Russians’ came ashore, under the influence of alcohol. . . . They brought two goats with them. At a point not far up the road from Félicité’s house, marked today by a rather large tree, they met the high priestess of the valley and gave the goats to her. The goats were preserved because the Marquesans thought they were etua. (Letters 5 and 23 November 2006; 18 June 2007)

Russian accounts do not confirm these stories, but it is important that all the key elements of the interaction between the chiefs’ family members and the Russian visitors are present in eclectic form.Tahiatai‘oa, Kiatonui’s wife, did visit the Neva, but she was the ‘queen’ of Taiohae rather than Hakaui, although her name, as Krusenstern discovered, did mean ‘heiress of the bay of Tai‘oa’ (i.e., Hakaui) (1804a:42v.), while the ‘queen’ of Hakaui was her sister U‘uhui. It was Kiatonui who experienced the effects of alcohol after staying on the Neva for dinner, and it is quite possible that it was the first taste of European alcohol in his life, as there is no evidence in the accounts of the previous visitors that they offered him spirits.The Russians had goats but did not give them to the Nuku Hivans, yet goats remain pertinent to this tale, as Pahutini, the chief of Hakaui, had brought a goat from Tahuata Island in 1798. According to Crook’s account, he was traveling around Nuku Hiva triumphantly exhibiting his unique acquisition. Pahutini was the husband of U‘uhui and entertained the voyagers at his home. Félicité believes that big paepae not far from the shore was

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the foundation of the chief ’s house. Her family used this paepae for their hut in the twentieth century. According to Mgr Le Cléac’h, the Nuku Hivans have similar tales about other early European captains who brought them a horse, a cow, or a sheep (Interview 9 November 2003). In these tales the early European visitors appear as cultural heroes, bringing domestic animals to the people. At the same time they possess some of the features of a Maui-like trickster.They show the effects of drinking alcohol, for example. (Félicité laughed as she imitated the way Tau‘a Matareva walked: ‘Comme ça’.) The Nuku Hivan belief that Europeans were etua is given a new twist here: it is the goats, rather than the people who brought them, that are taken to be etua.

DAYS 10–12

parting

4/16–6/18 May 1804

Preparing to Sail The sailing date was set as 17 May, and on 16 May they were to finish sundry shore tasks. ‘On the 16th May we had completed our supply of wood and water,’ Krusenstern recorded (1813c:133). But peace did not reign undisturbed; the tensions of the previous days had taken their toll on all of them. Löwenstern wrote: After Tilesius and Langsdorff had slept on land, they came to the watering place where Golovatscheff was working. Tilesius immediately demanded of Golovatscheff a boat so that he could go to the ship. Golovatscheff had to deny him his request. As a result, the councilor became coarse. Upon his return, Golovatscheff lodged a complaint with the captain about Tilesius. (2003a:101)

Golovachev was the only officer not to join the mutiny against Rezanov. Two years later, when Golovachev took his own life on St Helena, he left a message addressed to Tilesius, in which among other accusations, he wrote, ‘Councilor Tilesius! . . . your accusations that I did not take you to the ship in Nukahiva . . . your petty insults in the wardroom . . . those are the reasons! . . . You are to blame for my death.’ Löwenstern’s comments relate to another similar incident: ‘In Nukahiva, Tilesius was late as always. Golovatscheff did not wait for him and left him on land because an hour later a boat was to be sent. Tilesius reached the ship in the evening in a towering rage’ (2003b:449–450; 2003a:417–418). As Golovachev left numerous accusations against nearly all members of the expedition, Tilesius did not have to consider himself the sole cause of his suicide. According to Löwenstern, while crossing the mountains the previous afternoon ‘Tilesius, tired from climbing over the rocks, had fallen and injured himself’ (2003a:100). His injuries kept him bedridden during the subsequent voyage to Kamchatka (Espenberg 1812:297), but on this day, his last day at 227

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Nuku Hiva, he made one more shore visit. Two gouaches in his album bear this date and are made inside the front and back cover of his album, as he was short of paper. These portraits, ‘Woman in yellow cloth’ and ‘Nuku Hivan with palm branch’, celebrate the Nuku Hivan symbols of peace (a gesture in the first case, a palm frond in the second) and untrammeled eroticism (Tilesius 1803–1806:cover v., 86). They might have been inspired by the Goddess of the Bay, Hinate‘ani, or the priestess at Hakaui. That was the last memento of the temptations of the island that Tilesius was to take with him. Löwenstern was also busy: Shortly after noon, I went on land with Horner to take the noonday reading. We had the hunter with us. He shot several birds. The savages considered him someone worthy of respect. They watched him with awe and served him as pointer dogs. Since all of the savages were running after the hunter, we two were able to make our observations undisturbed. (2003a:101; 2005:172)

This hunter, Petr Filippov, had already accompanied Shemelin’s party on shore a few days earlier. Another person who captured the imagination of the Nuku Hivans was the ship’s blacksmith, Mikhail Zviagin. Löwenstern recorded, ‘The savages especially like our forge. The smithy always has something to do. The king can watch the work for hours, especially when he has brought an old hatchet to be repaired’ (2003a:101). Shemelin reported this episode: ‘The king, having brought aboard the ship a large English axe, boasted that as he and his islanders had enough of such axes, they didn’t have a need for ours. His axe was blunt and the king wanted to sharpen it on our whetstone.’ Kiatonui had to turn the grindstone himself as there was no sailor free from duty at that moment: ‘He turned the heavy stone with such speed and agility which could not be expected from a man fifty years old. The officer on the watch, seeing that the king’s body was pouring with sweat, out of respect to his old age, ordered a sailor who had arrived from the shore to finish the job’ (1816:124–125). The journal of the unsentimental Löwenstern seems to betray his growing sympathy with ‘die Wilden’. On this day he observed, ‘The savages’ features are not all unpleasant. Omai, the king’s son, is an adroit young fellow with a fiery look’ (2003a:101). Robarts’ duties were also coming to an end. He reports that in the morning Lisiansky



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asked if I should like to go to Kamsestchkay. Or he would take me to Rushia. (If I had accepted this offer, I have often thought it would have made my fortune, but its now no time to relent. What we never had we never lost). I took up the chart to look as to the climate, and, finding that by the time that the Ships would reach there it would be extreamly cold, I thankd him for his Kind offer, [but said] that my consort was too far gone in her pregnantcy and that a sudden change of climate might endanger her life. However, he made a handsome present of several things which was of value to me. On my going on shore, Capt Kraulestern waved to me. I went on board. He askd me what Sr Geo had given me. I informd him. He also made me a good present and gave me a very handsome sword, but in my hurry I left it behind me. (1974:138)

Lisiansky wrote about his gifts: I rewarded Roberts for his services, with linen, pieces of iron, and other articles that were useful to him in his present situation. I also left with him a quantity of garden seeds, which he promised to cultivate. Gunpowder was the only thing I refused him; for it was a law with me, not to suffer a single grain of this dangerous commodity to be given to the islanders. (1814:76–77)

Krusenstern’s journal also confirms that ‘Roberts requested both myself and Captain Lisianskoy, in the most pressing terms, to let him have a brace of pistols, a gun, some balls, powder and shot’, which Krusenstern declined for the same reasons (1813c:174). Nevertheless, the Russians acquainted the Nuku Hivans with the effect of gunpowder, as Lisiansky relates: As this was to be the last day of our stay, I ordered, at night, some rockets to be let off to find out what the islanders would think of them. The king assured me that the people were exceedingly amazed, and however hard Roberts tried to persuade them that the rockets were let off purely for their amusement, all the savages on the shore at the time were frightened to death. They verily believed that we had the power of sending up stars, and that these luminaries, after disappearing in the sky, returned to us to be sent up again. (1814:77; 1977:67)

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Treacherous Bay, Treacherous People At daybreak on 17 May the ships weighed anchor while their new friends— Ma‘uhau, Robarts, and Kabris—came aboard the Nadezhda to bid them a last farewell. Sailing into a gusting headwind, they managed to get halfway across the bay before the wind suddenly ‘became so variable as to oblige us at every moment to put the ship about. The current carried [the Nadezhda] more and more to the westward’, towards the jagged rocks surrounded by fierce surf. The fact that the Nadezhda had already unfurled its sails aggravated the situation. Lisiansky on the Neva was not under sail and was slowly warping at that moment. The two warping boats, which tried to hold the Nadezhda back, were of no avail: ‘the ship, as if she were crack-brained, obeyed neither the tow nor the pilot nor the rudder nor the sails.’ The anchor stopped the ship only meters from the western shore when they could ‘already distinguish separate blades of grass’. One violent squall could have spelled disaster. ‘There is no point in describing the horror which struck all of us: another minute, and the ruin of the ship would have been inevitable.’ Even Rezanov, who had locked himself in his cabin since the mutiny, suddenly emerged to assess the situation.The danger had not yet passed: ‘The gusts of wind, coming quickly one after the other, threatened to smash us at any moment in the surf ’ (Krusenstern 1813c:134; Shemelin 1816:136[a]; Löwenstern 2003a:102–103; Horner 1805:153). If they were wrecked there was little hope of survival given the surf, the sharp rocks, and the underwater currents. And another danger threatened. ‘In less than two hours a number of the islanders had assembled on the beach nearest to the ship, all armed with clubs, axes, and spears. Never had they appeared in such a warlike state. What then could be their intention but to plunder and murder us?’ Krusenstern reflected (1813c:182; 1809:220). Shemelin describes the armed islanders ‘climbing down by easy places nearer to the ship, . . . some of them were already in the water and were swimming near the ship, waiting for the moment when they could apply their villainy at the time of our doom’ (1816:136[a]). Now, when the voyagers were close to ‘shipwreck . . . on this island inhabited by cannibals’, as Langsdorff put it (1993:132), their feelings differed greatly from those initial expectations of seeing ‘true children of nature’, with which they had approached the island eleven days previously. Krusenstern, whose good intentions were apparent in his instruction written on the eve of arrival, according to which he aimed to protect the ‘peace-loving’ islanders and cultivate ‘a people aflame with friendship for the Russians’ (Barratt 1981:119), realized that they had failed. Or, rather, he believed, the islanders had failed: ‘Nor did we ourselves want a proof of their being denied every feeling of justice and goodness; for although, dur-



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ing our stay, no one had ever shewn them the least illwill, but, on the contrary, every possible kindness, in order to inspire them with benevolence, if not with gratitude, our conduct seemed to have quite a different effect upon them’ (1813c:181). The chill of those moments when they seemed about to be thrown onto the rocks would reemerge years later, when he wrote his reflections on the character of the Nuku Hivans. He declared there that his preconceptions, his own favorable impressions of the islanders as honest, friendly and helpful people, were all wrong. ‘Fear alone prevents their murdering and devouring every stranger who arrives,’ he now wrote, seeing no redeeming human qualities in them, convinced that ‘they have neither social institutions, religion, nor humane feelings in any degree whatever,—in a word, that no traces of good qualities are to be found among them; that they undoubtedly belong to the very worst of mankind, and at any rate that no one can quarrel with me for calling them savages’ (1813c:181–182). All his arguments were based on the tales of cannibalism heard from Robarts and Kabris and on the pierced skulls, rivalry over which had nearly brought their expedition to ruin. In reality the behavior of the islanders that day was more ambiguous. While Krusenstern believed that ‘the Frenchman too, who came on board at that moment, acquainted us with the hostile intentions of the inhabitants, and of the whole valley’s being in an uproar’ (1813c:182), Langsdorff heard quite the opposite: He [Kabris] told us that our ship’s position had looked very dangerous from the eastern side of the bay. The rumor had spread through the valley that we could not escape being shipwrecked. That is why so many islanders had gathered on the shore with the sole intention of immediately saving us and all our valuables from the expected shipwreck. (1993:132)

Langsdorff had also noticed incidents that did not fit the cannibal image: Probably they [islanders] were little aware of the danger we were in because one of the spectators, accompanied by a girl, dived from a steep cliff into the boiling surf where the water crashed up about twenty foot, and as usual offered us the favors of the person (perhaps his wife). Another woman came happily swimming up. When no one paid any attention to her, she swam back to the shore with a bunch of banana that had happened to fall overboard. (1993:132)

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The fate of this bunch of bananas, which fell overboard from the stern when the ship was held by its anchor, were also noticed by Shemelin, who grumbled, ‘The savages swimming nearby picked them up and not only did not return them to us but ate them all before our eyes, guffawing heartily.’ This he interpreted as the greed of the natives, who ‘never returned even worthless trifles which had fallen into their hands’ (1816:137, 136[a]). This carnival atmosphere around the ship, which was about to shipwreck, and the devouring of food belonging to the etua, the voyagers, to the accompaniment of Homeric laughter, might have been of a sacral rather than pragmatic nature, something along the lines of the symbolic yearly battle of Hawaiian chiefs with akua Lono (Sahlins 1981).

Warping, and the Last Visitors Krusenstern’s reflections on the evil nature of the Nuku Hivans probably came later. For the moment he had to concentrate on preserving his ship. ‘We immediately carried out a kedge anchor,’ he wrote, ‘and began to warp into the middle of the bay, when on a sudden a gust of wind sprang up, which was at first too violent for our small anchor and forced us to let go another’ (1813c:134). The Nadezhda fired a signal to get help from the Neva, which, although also caught in the shore current, had managed to halt further from the rocks, not having set the sails. Lisiansky sent his boat with eight sailors. The two boats together carried a warp anchor weighing about 125 kilograms away from the shore and, having secured it, hauled the Nadezhda towards it by a 200-meter hawser, repeating this procedure several times. The heavy swell and extreme heat made this task especially laborious and dangerous. The warping lasted for about four hours; not until four o’clock was the Nadezhda a safe distance from the shore. The crew were so exhausted, having been constantly at work since four o’clock in the morning, that Krusenstern decided to give them a night’s rest, anchoring in the bay (Shemelin 1816:137; Löwenstern 2003a:103). Kabris and Robarts came on board once again to say their last farewells. The former, according to Langsdorff, asked for some European trifles for himself and his wife. . . . Toward evening we took leave of Roberts, who was taken ashore in a small boat. We gave Cabri the friendly advice that he also should use the opportunity to leave since we would possibly sail in the night if a favorable wind arose. Despite this he stayed on board and assured us he could very comfortably swim to the nearby shore at our departure. (1993:132)



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For him that decision proved fatal. The Neva, in the meantime, was slowly warping towards the entrance of the bay. It had visitors too: Kiatonui ‘with his retinue’, who stayed on board until dark. For the last time Lisiansky was absorbed in matters that had claimed so much of his attention during his week at Taiohae. While Kiatonui was teasing him about the visit of the royal ladies to the Neva and Lisiansky’s fondness for ‘the Goddess’, one of the cables gave way. Immediately the king sent his canoe on shore for a diver, to assist us in recovering it. This was by no means necessary, as we could easily have found it with our grapplings; but the king’s intentions were so friendly, that I did not oppose them; and, in recompence, I gave both him and the diver some pieces of iron, which pleased his majesty so much that he left the ship in high glee; though he took no leave of us, but jumped overboard, as in every preceding instance, and swam to the shore. (Lisiansky 1814:95–96; 1977:66–67)

The piece of iron, on top of numerous axes, hatchets, and knives, that Kiatonui had already received and that so delighted him, concludes the story of the mysterious power of the iron barrel hoops. As to their conversation, one wonders how Lisiansky and Kiatonui could discuss women without Robarts, but perhaps they did not need the puritanical Robarts after all. Beneath Lisiansky’s jovial tone, his warm feelings for Kiatonui are evident, the same mutual feelings that were apparent when Lisiansky had just arrived and Kiatonui gave him the name Too. Meanwhile, the men from the Neva, having rescued the Nadezhda, resumed warping their own ship; at ten o’clock they reached the entrance of the bay, and, catching a fresh wind, the Neva set sail towards the open sea, where she hove to and waited for daybreak and the Nadezhda. On the Nadezhda Löwenstern, the only one awake, recorded in his diary the troubles of this eventful day: The danger is over, thank goodness. We could have suffered a catastrophe today. Everyone is lying in Morpheus’ arms. Only I sit here and smoke my pipe of tobacco half-drunk with sleep. The work begins again tomorrow at daybreak and, let’s hope, more the way we want it to than today. We are not going to forget Taio-hai very easily. (2003a:103)

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Departure, Tears, and Joys At dawn on 18 May the men of the Nadezhda in two yawls started the backbreaking task of warping again. At the moment when they anchored their warp at a distance of two cable lengths (about 370 meters) and the Nadezhda weighed anchor, suddenly ‘a strong, uneven gust of wind arose’ and began to push the ship towards Motu-Nua Island, which guards the entrance to Taiohae Bay. Krusenstern immediately made a decision: the cable was cut, the sails set, and within minutes the ship sailed into the open sea, away from the treacherous shore, leaving the two yawls with their men behind and Kabris still on board the Nadezhda. The crew of the Nadezhda looked with anguish at the tiny yawls struggling with the high waves, at times disappearing into the troughs between the billows. Only after reaching the safety of the open sea did the Nadezhda heave to and send ‘for their rescue an eight-oared boat with brave and experienced seamen’. After a long tormenting wait they were all hoisted safely aboard (Langsdorff 1993:133; Shemelin 1816:138–139). But for Kabris it was a different story. Krusenstern seems to be very definite on the circumstances of his stay: As the bad weather made me anxious to get clear of the land as soon as possible, I was obliged to carry the Frenchman, Joseph Cabritt, who had come on board late the preceding evening, and had kept out of sight, to sea with me. He appeared rather to rejoice at, than to regret, this circumstance, and I firmly believe he came on board with the intention of sailing with us: Roberts was thus, without thinking of it, delivered from his bitterest enemy. (1813c:135)

Krusenstern’s suspicions of Kabris’ intentional stowing away on the ship seem to be biased. It should be mentioned that the hazards of the Nadezhda’s departure and the officers’ errors were played down in his journal in comparison with the accounts of other participants such as Langsdorff, Shemelin, and Lisiansky. In the German edition of his book, Krusenstern was less definite, remarking that he ‘almost believed’ that Kabris intended to sail with them, while the remark about Kabris keeping out of sight aboard the ship is not included in the Russian version of his book. Kabris in his own account said that Krusenstern ‘with brute force kept me on board and took me to St Petersburg to present me to the Emperor Alexander’ (1982:112). In Russia, in his conversations with Bulgarin, Kabris maintained that ‘Kruzenshtern did this by the request of his [Kabris’] enemy, the Englishman Roberts’ (Bulgarin 2001:663). Though oversuspicious of



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Krusenstern’s intentions, Kabris had reason to believe that Robarts was plotting against him. Krusenstern himself remarked elsewhere that ‘Roberts frequently asked me to land his enemy, Joseph Cabrit, the Frenchman, upon one’ of the uninhabited islands south of Nuku Hiva (1813c:141). Other witnesses did not suspect Kabris of ill intentions. Langsdorff, as mentioned above, remarked that on coming aboard Kabris ‘asked for some European trifles for himself and his wife’, which suggests that he had no intention of leaving the island. Langsdorff further testifies that, as the ship hurriedly made for the open sea, ‘Cabri asked to be taken ashore by boat because it had become impossible to swim to the island in such high seas. Everyone was so concerned with the ship’s safety that little notice could be given his request. He also asked in vain for a large piece of board to use to swim to land’ (1993:133). Espenberg reports that ‘we had forgotten to send him on shore’ (1805c:118), and Löwenstern wrote, ‘It was too late and too far from land to give him a boat. We offered him a board, but, since he was too afraid to risk using it because of the sharks that could eat him up along the way, he stayed with us’ (2003a:104). Kabris was shedding tears of despair as the Nadezhda left the island. ‘The thought of his beloved young wife, heavy with the fruit of his love, deepened his sorrow and anguish all the more,’ said Shemelin, who went on to say, ‘but as Kabrit was frivolous and flighty, it turned out that his sadness continued only until we lost the island from view; from day to day after that he became more and more cheerful, until eventually it seemed he had quite forgotten about it’ (1816:139–140). Symbolically, the famous portrait of Kabris published by Langsdorff depicts him standing on the eastern shore of the bay, somewhere near the spot now known as Fort Collet, from where he swam to the ship for the last time (1993:pl. 6). In the background is the rocky western shore and Motu-Nua Island, on which the Nadezhda so nearly came to grief as it carried him away forever. While the Nadezhda was hoisting the boats and setting sail to the west, Tilesius used his last chance to sketch the coastline—the entrance to Taiohae Bay, with the rocks on which they were nearly wrecked; the mountain peaks; the waterfall; Ho‘oumi Bay to the east (which they did not visit); and Hakaui Bay. In his gouaches the island looks somber, gloomy, and mysterious, with little of the tropical paradise about it. On the general view of the island from the east he records the native names of nearby islands seen from Nuku Hiva (by that time Kabris had come to terms with his situation and could provide the necessary information) (1803–1806:8v.–10v.). A strong wind was filling the topsails. Having hoisted the yawls, the Nade-

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zhda at last steered towards Hawai‘i and Kamchatka under full sail. The Neva, which had spent the night hove to between Ua Pu and Nuku Hiva, joined it. Lisiansky had to abandon his original plan: ‘I intended to have steered to the northward, under the idea of ascertaining the position of the cape I had seen on the 8th instant, on the north side of the island; but observing captain Krusenstern to bear away to the west-south-west, I abandoned my design’ (1814:96). By following his commander he lost his chance to develop further his ‘discovery’ of the northeastern coast of Nuku Hiva. ‘Now it was back to the usual work: measuring angles, taking soundings, making observations, etc.’, Löwenstern recorded in his diary that day (2003a:104). Soon Nuku Hiva disappeared below the horizon. Meanwhile, Robarts at Taiohae, watching the Nadezhda sailing at speed through the dangerous passage out of the bay, had every reason to say, ‘to my heart felt satisfaction, [I know] that I had compleated the duty of these two Ships to my wish’ (1974:139). The voyagers were indeed pleased with his practical assistance and impressed by his personality and his attitude to the Nuku Hivans. Krusenstern regarded him as an enthusiast or a dreamer (Schwärmer in the German original), praising his ‘kind heart’ and stressing that he had by degrees acquired that esteem from the savages . . . and he had more influence over them, than any of their most distinguished warriors. To the king he had become particularly necessary, and I have no doubt that he would effect more good than the missionary Crook, who remained for some time upon this island, was able to perform; for the latter had no other idea than that of converting the Nukahiwers to Christianity, without recollecting that it was first necessary to make them men: for this purpose Roberts appears to me more proper, as well on account of the example he afforded, and of his activity, as the esteem which they universally bore him, than either Crook or any other missionary whatever. (1813c:175)1

Robarts, hardly thinking that soon the Russian voyagers would make him famous all over Europe, was climbing the hill to his house. A few years earlier, when he bid farewell to his first ship and resisted the temptation to leave with it, he had suddenly felt very sad on seeing himself as ‘an exile from all that is dear to me’. By now he had learned to be content with what he had: Haveing had very little sleep for about 12 or 13 Nights, [and] my days was mostly spent in the heat of the sun, [I] find myself much fatigued. I rest myself at home a few days to enjoy a drop of old Jamaica Sr



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Geo had made me a present of. And, as the Bread fruit was nearly fitt for gathering, I dug a new store pitt ready to receive my crop of fruit. And on May 27th, 1804, Just after sun rise, my royal consort was deliverd of a fine daughter. (1974:126, 140)

He was indeed happy in his South Sea idyll. Unfortunately, it would not last long: within two years he would have to leave it and to roam the world with his beloved family in search of a piece of bread. And like his bitter enemy Kabris, he would never forget his blessed and troubled sojourn at Nuku Hiva.

Part III

From Nuku Hiva to Russia

We are not going to forget Taio-hai very easily. â•… —Löwenstern, The First Russian Voyage around the World Les Marins écrivent mal, mais avec assez de candeur. â•… —De Brosses

The Voyage to Kamchatka Although the voyagers had left Nuku Hiva behind, those twelve eventful days dominated their minds for a long time. As Löwenstern wrote on 9/21 May, ‘Everyone is busy catching up on things left undone. Landscapes, plants, animals, fish, etc, are being sketched. Bellingshausen, Horner, and I are charting our angles that we measured and putting them together as best we can. A couple of maps are finished, but there is still enough work left to do.’ Throughout the following weeks Löwenstern added to his diary more Nuku Hivan notes, which he had had no time to record while he was there. Kabris, although outwardly reconciled, did not resign himself to his fate. Löwenstern recorded, ‘The Frenchman flatters himself with the hope of being taken back to Nukahiva from the Sandwich Islands on an American ship. He is nevertheless in a good mood and works as a sailor quite adroitly in the hope of being able to earn his bread in Europe as a sailor, in case he cannot find a way to return to Nukahiva’ (2003a:104). Besides Kabris there was one more Nuku Hivan inhabitant aboard the Nadezhda—a metallically shining lizard, which shed half its tail when an overeager Tilesius grabbed it for his collection. He put it in a jar to see if its tail would regenerate and cared for his unusual pet all the way to Kamchatka. At times he felt himself little better than the lizard in its glass jar. The temperature 238



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in his cabin in the hull would reach 37 degrees Celsius, and because of the high waves, it was impossible to open the porthole. He ‘could not stay more than 5 minutes there without being soaked with sweat’. He tried to sleep on the deck, but gave up because of torrential rains and sailors tripping over his injured legs (1804:6–7, 22–23). Langsdorff, his younger competitor, lost none of his zeal for discovery, though he too suffered from the climate: ‘Langsdorff with bare arms fished for sea animals for a while from one of our boats. The rays of the sun burned his arm so badly that it was covered with blisters. Langsdorff ’s burned arm is very painful’ (Löwenstern 2003a:115).Tilesius’ injuries, however, increasingly kept him to his bed. One day, when he came on the quarterdeck, he nearly collapsed. Espenberg was alarmed to see the first symptoms of scurvy and did his best to treat his colleague (Espenberg 1812:297–298). One of the Tilesius’ first accounts of Nuku Hiva contained his description of his shiny lizard, the silent witness of his sufferings. Could this be the origin of E. T. A. Hoffmann’s story ‘The Golden Pot’, in which a hapless student is entombed under glass and falls in love with an enchanted golden-green serpent? Incidentally, an echo of the rivalry between Tilesius and Langsdorff may have found its way (via Adalbert Chamisso and Otto Kotzebue) into Hoffmann’s story ‘Haimatochare’ (1819), with its weird world of sexualized naturalist pursuits in the symbolic expanse of the South Seas, on the island of O-Wahu.1 Unlike Hoffmann’s hero,Tilesius survived the ordeal, but twelve days after the departure from Nuku Hiva, the hardships of the voyage claimed their first victim: Rezanov’s cook, Neiman (Neumann), died of consumption aggravated by the tropical heat. All the voyagers suffered from the meager diet, consisting mostly of salted meat and ‘almost inedible’ peas. After Tilesius’ collapse, they all felt the threat of the dreaded scurvy. Espenberg believed that one of the causes of scurvy was worry, and this was exactly the mood on board after the mutiny at Nuku Hiva. Rezanov stayed locked in his cabin. ‘We have not caught sight of Resanoff since the last incident in Taiohai. He is probably thinking of revenge,’ wrote Löwenstern. ‘With our hearts filled with vexation toward Resanoff we have become dulled to anything that could cause us joy’ (2003a:105). Meanwhile Rezanov, according to Shemelin, ‘had swellings in his gums and legs . . . and complained about constant headaches and an upset stomach caused by the crude diet’, but Espenberg did not visit him. Shemelin himself, after another argument with Krusenstern, nearly collapsed, as he wrote in his diary (1803–1806:157). Krusenstern was fretting too although he, of course, did not leave notes of it. On 27 May (8 June) 1804 the voyagers approached Hawai‘i, where they expected to barter for provisions. They did not anchor but coasted along the island. The barter was unsuccessful; Hawaiians did not bring much food, and

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they were not interested in the goods the Russians offered for barter. The few islanders who came out to the ships disappointed the visitors. Löwenstern wrote, ‘The people are ugly colored, tiny of stature, all scabby, and almost all of them are missing their two front teeth. Many of them had open sores’ (2003a:110). The memory of the Nuku Hivans, who now became the voyagers’ yardstick, was still fresh in their minds. ‘Both sexes, especially the men, are inferior compared to the Marquesans. I would not recommend a visit to these islands to curious European ladies,’ wrote Ratmanov, continuing his unconventional fantasies about the possible attractions of the islanders for European women (1803–1805a:50–50v.). The tattoos, which had made such an impression on the voyagers when they first reached Nuku Hiva, had already become in their eyes a vital component of masculinity and beauty. Krusenstern, for example, thought the Hawaiians ‘a hideous race of people’ compared to the Nuku Hivans, and ‘their bodies lack the ornamentations that so artfully decorate the Nuku Hivans’ (1809:236). The women, predictably, ‘could not compare with any of the Marquesan girls’ (Löwenstern 2003a:110).Young Lieutenant Berkh had the impression that ‘the women of the Marquesas islands are much better looking and far more respectable and modest than their Hawaiian counterparts, as Europeans visit their islands less frequently’ (1818:163). Shemelin similarly testified that because ‘the caresses and charms of the Nuku Hivan beauties haven’t left the hearts of our Adonises’, a ‘greyish-buff Hawaiian beauty’ of thirteen or fourteen brought aboard the ship was rejected—all eyes were fixed on a suckling piglet in the next boat (1803–1806:171v.–172).2 Here the ships parted; the Neva proceeded to the island of Kodiak in Russian America, while the leaking Nadezhda made haste to Kamchatka. Seeing the skin diseases of the Hawaiians, Kabris preferred to remain aboard the Nadezhda. ‘The tattooed Frenchman is staying with us. He did not like the scabby Sandwich Islanders,’ Löwenstern wrote (2003a:113); and Rezanov added, ‘He feared they might eat him, nor could he even understand their language. His pronunciation and theirs sounded similar to us, but they could not make each other out’ (1825, no. 67:253). Although his social status now was that of a sailor—‘He was allocated sailor rations at the Company’s expense,’ according to Shemelin (1816:140)—Kabris remained an amusing presence for the upper deck. Löwenstern recorded in his journal soon after they left Hawai‘i: ‘Count Tolstoi has not stopped playing his bad tricks. Since his designs for the Kotzebues and several sailors have not worked, he now has undertaken to teach the half-tattooed John European customs. Fosse overheard him last night on the observation post where he had encamped because it was cooler.’ Whether in homosexuality or in other things, these two rebels seemed to find much in common. ‘Our Frenchman never loses his good spirits,’ Löw-



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enstern added (2003a:114, 117). The scientists did not avoid Kabris’ company either. ‘He soon recovered his French, and made use of expressions which he could not have learnt from us, as we were not acquainted with them, such as the names of the different sails, &c.,’ Espenberg wrote from Kamchatka, giving some details of conversations with Kabris (1805c:116–117). Langsdorff too would spend some time with him: I have to confess, however, that I placed less value on the Englishman’s information than on the Frenchman’s, because the latter had been living there longer. He was so very much like the savages that I can say that I found only very little difference between his habits, way of living and thinking and those of the natives. . . . He lived with the daughter of one of the lesser chiefs or propertied men of the island. He dealt with her family and the rest of the Nukahivans on an exceedingly intimate footing. The Englishman Roberts, in contrast, lived more apart from the natives. As far as we could see, he did not speak the native language very well. In my opinion, he was less acquainted with the native customs and even seemed rather indifferent toward them. (1993:63)

Robarts’ Marquesan Journal proves that doubts about his language abilities and the charge of ‘indifference’ to the people were unfounded, but Kabris indeed had much value and became for Langsdorff less a detached informant than the object of field studies.

Reconciliations, Genuine and Otherwise On 3/15 July 1804 the Nadezhda reached Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Rezanov for the first time since their departure from Nuku Hiva emerged from his cabin and disembarked in full dress uniform. He immediately dispatched an urgent report to Pavel Koshelev, the governor-general of Kamchatka, about the officers’ mutiny aboard the ship. He planned to return overland to St Petersburg to seek the emperor’s justice. Krusenstern and his officers also wanted to travel overland, with the same purpose. For twenty-six days they were left in suspense, waiting for Koshelev to arrive. When he finally arrived with a detachment of soldiers, Rezanov exploded and shouted at Krusenstern, ‘“You brigand! Mutineer!”’ adding, according to Löwenstern, ‘“Clap him in irons! . . . I’m going to have a gallows built here, and one of you has to hang from them.”’ He also threatened Espenberg, Krusenstern’s friend: ‘“You’re never going to leave Kamchatka”’ (Löwenstern 2003a:136–137; 2003b:156–157; see also Ratmanov

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1803–1805b:52v.). This was an unheard-of insult. Krusenstern surrendered his sword to Rezanov with the words, ‘I demanded to be arrested and shackled and taken to Petersburg if Resanoff ’s charges were accepted’ (Krusenstern, quoted in Moessner 2003a:452). ‘It is heartbreaking to see Krusenstern crying, and indeed today he was moved to tears by thoughts of his wife and child,’ Löwenstern recorded from another perspective (Löwenstern 2003a:137). For four days a state of uncertainty prevailed. Then Rezanov, with Koshelev’s mediation, proposed reconciliation so that the ships could sail on to Japan and complete their mission. After consultations with his officers and Espenberg, Krusenstern accepted the proposal. His primary motivation was patriotic: ‘In my opinion our good emperor’s objective was not achieved at all. . . . His nation is becoming the laughing stock of Europe. . . . All of Russia had to suffer because Resanoff insulted me. It was my duty to sacrifice myself.’ There exist, however, two contradictory versions of the conditions of this truce. Krusenstern believed that ‘Resanoff finally owned that he was wrong’ and insisted that it was the naval officers’ party that dictated the terms: ‘I demanded he should request pardon of the emperor for having insulted me and that he should do the same of me in the presence of all of the officers. That he did immediately. He confessed he had acted rashly, and he asked that everything be forgotten’ (Krusenstern, quoted in Moessner 2003a:452). Löwenstern’s diary (2003a:140–141) and Horner’s account (Depping 1813:265) confirm that the latter condition was fulfilled. According to the account of the mediator, Pavel Koshelev, Rezanov apologized and accepted Krusenstern’s demands (2003:218). The Russian historian Sgibnev gives a very different account: ‘However much Krusenstern tried to justify his actions, when he and Rezanov were brought face to face [before Koshelev] and Koshelev intended to suspend Krusenstern from command of the vessel, he admitted his guilt. . . . Rezanov agreed to forget the preceding events on condition that Krusenstern and the officers who had insulted him apologized to him in Koshelev’s presence.’ Sgibnev based his account on Rezanov’s notes, which are no longer available (1877:388–389). There is a third version from an unbiased eyewitness, Captain Ivan Fedorov, who arrived in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky with Koshelev. Fedorov reports, ‘By common consent the main reason for the disagreement was Count Tolstoy. . . . It was decided to leave him on Kamchatka’ (1913:461). Whatever the truth of the matter, it is clear that the parties had set aside their Nuku Hivan fervor and uncompromising opposition in favor of insincere Russian apologies in order to keep up appearances. The truce did, however, achieve its main purpose: the voyage could resume. On 25 September (6 October) 1804 the Nadezhda sailed with its dip-



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lomatic and trade mission to Japan. The visit fell short of expectations placed on it, and after spending over six months as honorary hostages in Nagasaki, the Russians returned to Kamchatka in May 1805. There was no open confrontation between the parties. The passions of Nuku Hiva remained suppressed, but both parties realized that they could not share the same vessel any longer. So far they had received no response from the emperor concerning their bitter row over the leadership. Finally, Rezanov wrote a secret denunciation to the emperor, setting forth full details of the Nuku Hivan ‘mutiny’ (it had been a condition of the truce a year earlier that his first complaint should be publicly destroyed), and left for Russian America to continue his mission (Rezanov 1805). Langsdorff seized the opportunity to pursue his ethnographic and scientific studies, joining Rezanov as his doctor. Krusenstern, anticipating a new blow from Rezanov, wrote to the RAC and Nikolai Novosiltsev, the close associate of the emperor and the head of the Academy of Sciences, about the circumstances of the conflict and asked to be court-martialled upon return so that he could defend his honor (1919a:53–57; 1962:98–99). When Rezanov had left for America, Krusenstern sailed on the Nadezhda to explore Sakhalin further. He honored his officers and naturalists by naming after them various capes and mountains of Sakhalin, as well as some peaks on the Japanese islands. Rezanov and the members of his retinue, including the opportunist Langsdorff, were naturally overlooked. Two months later, returning to Kamchatka in August 1805, Krusenstern rejoiced to find letters from his ‘too gracious monarch’ in which ‘the emperor was pleased, in the most gracious terms, to express his satisfaction with’ him and awarded him the highly valued Order of St Anne (second degree) (Krusenstern 1813c, 2:196–197). The emperor also made Rezanov a present of a gold snuffbox studded with diamonds and decorated with the imperial monogram; he also promised to make Rezanov’s son an imperial page boy. Krusenstern did not know that this same mail delivery, brought from St Petersburg by a special military courier, also contained a letter from Rumiantsev to Rezanov with an effusive response to his complaints: ‘His Imperial Majesty entertains pleasurable hopes that it [the expedition] will complete its exploit under the leadership of Your Excellency in the same desirable circumstances as those when it left Kronshtadt’ (1962:96–97). Did this mean that Rezanov’s role as the leader of the expedition was reconfirmed and the authorities saw nothing wrong with the contradictory instructions? Were they simply unwilling to lose face? Or was their intention to encourage both parties to secure an official commendation by new discoveries and exploits? Despite the conflict and contumely in Kamchatka and later during the long stay in Japan, the members of both camps wrote letters and accounts of

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their voyage to send to Russia and Europe. Naturally, Nuku Hiva, the only previously unexplored region on their route, took pride of place in their travelogues. The first publications featuring the Russian visit appeared as early as 1805. These were Horner’s letter to Zach, Espenberg’s account of Nuku Hiva in Voigt’s Magazin der Naturkunde and its English variant with Krusenstern’s introduction in the Philosophical Magazine, and Tilesius’ ‘Cannibal song’ in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung. Curiously, the first account published in Russia was based on Shemelin’s journal; it appeared anonymously in the St Petersburg literary magazine Lyceum in 1806 (Anon. 1806a). It was followed by Tilesius’ detailed description of their arrival at Nuku Hiva in the St Petersburg Technological Journal, which unfortunately remained unfinished (1806b), and a short report in German about the inhabitants of Nuku Hiva in the Magazin der Naturkunde, which included a description of the lizard and a picture of it (1806a). In addition, during their first stay at Kamchatka, Tilesius dispatched about sixty drawings to St Petersburg, some of them featuring Nuku Hiva (Tilesius 1804:35–37). The second batch of Tilesius’ drawings was nearly lost. After the Nadezhda’s return to Kamchatka from Japan in summer 1805, Krusenstern, ‘to secure the fruits of our voyage against any accident on our return’, sent their maps, his articles, and Tilesius’ drawings by military courier overland to St Petersburg. The ship that was to take them to Okhotsk struck a sandbank and was stranded in Kamchatka. The precious cargo was saved, although it reached the Academy of Sciences in St Petersburg only in May 1806 (Krusenstern 1813c, 2:197). Rezanov’s activities in Russian America are well known: he inspected Sitka, wrote proposals, and compiled vocabularies of tribal languages (Avdiukov, Olkhova, and Surnik 1995:279–336).While visiting California he won the heart of the young Concepción de Arguello (Conchita), the daughter of the Spanish commandant of San Francisco. Langsdorff was also captivated by the California beauty. Having become engaged to Conchita, Rezanov set out to St Petersburg to seek the emperor’s approval to marry a Catholic; he saw this marriage as a way of reinforcing Russian contacts with the Spanish colonies in the Americas. On his way across Siberia he fell ill; he died in Krasnoiarsk on 1 March 1807. Not long before his death he confided his feelings for his late wife, Anna, and Conchita to his brother-in-law: ‘My love rests in the Nevsky [Cemetery] under a marble tombstone, while this is the consequence of my enthusiasm and my latest sacrifice to the Fatherland.’ Between the two—his wife and Conchita—were ‘white and black women’ in Brazil (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:33–34), his interest in Japanese ‘ladies of pleasure’ (Löwenstern 2003a:204), and a twelve-year-old Tlingit girl whom he kept while staying in New Archangel (Black 2004:132; Rezanov 1841:7). He had come close to



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betraying his last love on his deathbed, but he added, ‘Contensia [sic] is as sweet as an angel, kind-hearted and loves me; and I love her and cry as there is no place in my heart for her’ (Avdiukov, Olkhova, and Surnik 1995:640–647). She remained true to his memory and never married, finally retiring to a convent (Iversen 1998). The widespread dislike of Rezanov among his fellow voyagers has not been enough to outweigh the popular Russian view of this mysterious romance, made famous by writers as different as Bret Harte and Andrei Voznesensky, whose ‘Avos’ captured the hearts of thousands. It was above all Conchita’s love for Rezanov that ensured his immortality. Langsdorff, who studied Rezanov closely during their travels in America, took a less favorable view. In his letters to Krusenstern he referred to him as ‘the arch scoundrel’ and an ‘ignoramus [who] did not have the slightest feeling for science’, and fervently hoped that ‘the deceased . . . may now be answering before God’s judgment seat for all of his cruelties and heinous deeds’ (quoted in Sondermann 2002b:72). In the meantime, the Nadezhda and the Neva were reunited in China in late 1805. After trading operations, which did not bring the expected success, the expedition left for St Petersburg. The last tragic aftershock of the Nuku Hivan revolt occurred on St Helena, in the South Atlantic, when Lieutenant Golovachev—the only officer who did not doubt Rezanov’s credentials—took his own life. The strain of the broken relationships with his fellow officers was aggravated by the hardships of the voyage. His letters addressed to the officers suggest that he was emotionally and mentally disturbed. ‘As crazy as this letter is,’ Löwenstern commented on Golovachev’s letter to Krusenstern, ‘its beginning brought Krusenstern to tears.’ Golovachev asked to have a package delivered to ‘His Imperial Majesty’ with a letter that, he claimed, ‘shows all the events in their true light’. ‘We are approaching our fatherland with trepidation,’ wrote Löwenstern. ‘Krusenstern’s and our enemies may triumph. In addition to all of the intrigues, accusations, and slander, etc., now comes Golovatscheff ’s death. The letters he has left behind will play no little part, if the three-year-long strife should be submitted to a judicial investigation’ (2003a:416–419). Golovachev’s breakdown was hardly exceptional. Three years’ confinement in their floating prison, albeit a prison of their own choosing, and the strain of a forthcoming investigation had affected all of them. Ratmanov’s diary also indicates a disturbed state of mind. Löwenstern’s journal records a number of other instances of mental fragility among the voyagers, in particular Romberg, Rezanov, and Shemelin. Lisiansky’s decision to sail nonstop from Canton to Portsmouth, omitting a planned rendezvous with the Nadezhda at St Helena, was another blow to Krusenstern. Lisiansky claimed to have set a record, never before achieved, and

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by doing so he reached St Petersburg two weeks ahead of Krusenstern, on 22 July (5 August) 1806. Lieutenant Povalishin complained that the captain set unjustified restrictions on water (Kruzenshtern and Fedorova 2005:17), but what did it matter when glory was at stake? Later Krusenstern wrote to Horner, ‘This happens more than once a year. If anyone is so brazen as to tell such bare-faced lies the local press will laud him to the skies for his miraculous achievement’ (1813a). Although his published journal makes no mention of any rivalry, he did not conceal another significant cause of his displeasure with Lisiansky: ‘Having received positive information here [at St Helena] of the declaration of war between Russia and France, I regretted very much that Captain Lisianskoy, in neglect of my positive orders, should have passed without touching at St. Helena. Our mutual safety required that we should not separate’ (1813c, 2:392). For safety reasons Krusenstern chose a path around Scotland, arriving at St Petersburg on 7/19 August 1806 to discover that the Neva had stolen all the honors: they had so many visitors and ‘so insatiable [was] their desire of learning the particulars of our voyage, that for several days,’ Lisiansky remembered, ‘I was nearly exhausted by fatigue, and could scarcely find time for the necessary meals, or for sleep’ (1814:316). Löwenstern commented acidly, ‘The Neva . . . had the honor of seeing the Dowager Empress on board. And she presented every officer with a gold [snuff ]-box as a gift. We arrived later and went away empty handed’ (2003a:437). The emperor himself visited both ships and, in spite of Rezanov’s latest denunciations, his address to Krusenstern published in the St Petersburg Herald made his position abundantly clear: ‘Having accomplished your voyage round the world with all the success expected of you, you have justified the high opinion of yourself due to which you were by OUR will entrusted the chief leadership of the expedition’ (Kruzenshtern, Shafranovskaia, and Fedorova 2003:502). It is noteworthy that Rezanov was at that time still alive and about to return to St Petersburg overland after his exhausting mission in Russian America, but the emperor had plainly made up his mind. What lay behind this decision—his tête-à-tête with Krusenstern and his favorable impression of the integrity of the captain? Or had he perhaps realized that there could be only one James Cook, a naval officer, not a government official, and that his James Cook was Krusenstern? Whatever the case, Alexander I rescued Krusenstern’s reputation as the ‘Russian Cook’. Löwenstern concluded his journal with this statement: ‘The emperor ordered the controversies with Resanoff to be forgotten and Golovatscheff ’s letters to be destroyed unread, because Golovatscheff doubted that he would find justice in his fatherland’ (2003a:437). Any reference to confrontation was removed from all Russian published accounts. The reports that appeared in Russian periodicals as



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early as 1806 referred to Krusenstern as the leader of the expedition (Anon. 1806b:94). Rezanov’s premature death further facilitated the portrayal of the expedition as a tale of unalloyed glory, at least for the time being, and the mutiny was passed over in silence.

Travelers’ Tales, Travelers’ Lives Krusenstern, reunited with his beloved wife and son, spent several years preparing the expedition materials for publication. He wrote two versions of his Voyage Round the World, one in German and one in Russian. Although German was Krusenstern’s preferred written language, he could write in Russian very well.The Russian edition of his voyage, published before the German one, does not include any references to a translator of the text, and it can be assumed that Krusenstern translated (or wrote the Russian version) himself. Moreover, the discrepancies in the two versions suggest that the writer was often rather free when seeking an appropriate form of expression in German and in Russian. At the same time, the Russian version clearly shows some ‘input’ from a Russian editor or censor. The first two volumes of the Voyage comprised a chronological account, while the third consisted of scientific papers by Tilesius, Horner, Espenberg, and Krusenstern. Both versions were published in St Petersburg—the Russian in 1809–1812 by the Naval Printer, the German in 1810–1812 at the author’s expense. Another German version appeared in a cheaper edition in Berlin in 1811–1812, with an additional paper by Langsdorff on Nuku Hivan tattooing. The first two volumes of the German edition were translated into English (1813), French (1821, with Krusenstern’s additions), and several other European languages. The luxurious edition of Krusenstern’s Atlas of the Voyage Round the World was published in St Petersburg in Russian (1813) and in German (1814). It included maps made by Bellingshausen, Löwenstern, and Horner and engravings made from the drawings of Tilesius. Krusenstern’s account was widely popularized in Russia and Europe. Beginning in 1810, extracts from it, and especially the Nuku Hivan section, were published in the Russian journals Northern Mercury and Historical, Statistical and Political Journal (a Russian version of the Hamburg Political Journal), and the German journals Allgemeine Geographische Ephemeriden, and Journal für die neuesten Land- und Seereisen. According to a bibliography compiled by Frieder Sondermann, the number of contemporary publications in German about the expedition far exceeded the number of those in Russian. While aboard the Nadezhda Krusenstern started another project—a systematic charting of the South Pacific, with historical and hydrographical comments. The results of this painstaking study were published in German as

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Beyträge zur Hydrographie der grössern Ozeane (1819) and as Atlas of the Southern Sea (Atlas de l’Océan pacifique) in Russian (1824) and French (1824–1827). Failing eyesight, which afflicted the captain during the expedition, prevented him from participating in further circumnavigation ventures, but he was instrumental in organizing Otto Kotzebue’s and Bellingshausen’s voyages to the Pacific. In 1827–1842 he was director of the Naval Cadet Corps, where he himself had started his naval training in 1784, and introduced his humane views and ideas in Russian naval practice. He retired with the rank of admiral and died in his beloved Reval (Tallinn) in 1846. Despite an outwardly successful career, Krusenstern never came to terms with the official silence over the challenge to his leadership sparked by the instructions given to Rezanov, their standoff at Nuku Hiva, or Rezanov’s insult to his honor. In his letters to Horner he wrote, ‘There are so many things . . . which deserve to be made known, not so much for the sake of the present, but rather that of the future; in twenty or thirty years’ time many things will appear in a quite false light if there are no authentic sources to disprove them.’ He also mentioned facts that might prove embarrassing to the emperor and that he ‘thought it best consign to oblivion’ out of his great respect for him, ‘the more so since the venture has ended well’ (1810). Otto Kotzebue, during his voyage of 1816–1817, named two atolls— Tikahau (Tuamotu Islands) and Ailuk (Marshall Islands) and a cape in Alaska after Krusenstern, his first teacher. Lisiansky also named after Krusenstern a reef he discovered south of Midway Island on his way to China in 1805, but relations between the two captains soured after their return. Although sharing equal honors with Krusenstern, Lisiansky felt himself underrated by Russian officialdom and the Baltic naval milieu. In 1809 he retired from the service and set about compiling his account of the voyage. His manuscript was rejected on the grounds of poor Russian, and in the end, unlike Krusenstern, he was able to publish it only at his own expense, in 1812 (Barratt 1987:201–202). In 1814 the English version in the author’s translation appeared in London. He spent the rest of his days at his country estate and died in 1837. Lisianski Island in the Hawaiian chain, which he discovered in 1805, still bears his name. Although all the naval officers kept journals, none of these was published during their lifetime.The only exception is Berkh’s Hawaiian notes. Nevertheless, the journals were preserved, rewritten, and circulated among their families and friends. Ratmanov’s journal exists in three versions, of which the one in the Russian National Library is the most authentic and immediate, while the others underwent rewriting and further editing. Löwenstern rewrote his voluminous journal himself in about 1813, but there are no grounds to question its



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authenticity. Romberg died in 1811, and the fate of his archive (he is known to have been a prolific writer) remains unknown. Two young participants in the expedition, Bellingshausen and Otto Kotzebue, returned to the Pacific as commanders of their own expeditions. Kotzebue on the Riurik (1815–1818) and the Predpriiatie (1823–1826) made numerous discoveries in the South and Central Pacific, as well as exploring the approaches to the passage between Asia and America. Bellingshausen on the Vostok (1819–1821) explored the South Pacific and the Antarctic region and was among the discoverers of the Antarctic mainland. Bellingshausen’s and Kotzebue’s journals describing these expeditions were published, unlike their journals of their first voyage with Krusenstern, which have not so far come to light. However, their first South Pacific impressions would resonate in their later books. In 1820, when Bellingshausen brought the Vostok to Tahiti and anchored in Matavai Bay, memories of a similar Pacific bay, Taiohae, seemed to overwhelm him, so closely does his description echo the Paradise Lost of Nuku Hiva. On top of this, Bellingshausen met a replica of Robarts, the beachcomber of Nuku Hiva—a sailor called Williams, who had worked for the RAC for several years and spoke Russian. By a further coincidence, Williams was married to a ‘beautiful young native girl’ from Taiohae at Nuku Hiva (Bellingshausen 1945:262–263).3 Dreams of what might have been colored Bellingshausen’s account. Perhaps this dream had haunted him since his visit to Robarts’ home sixteen years earlier. He did not say. Kotzebue and Bellingshausen marked their mutual friendship by naming islands in the Society Islands group after each other: Bellingshausen (MotuOne) and Kotzebue (Aratika). Kotzebue also paid tribute to other friends by naming capes and an island on the America northwest coast after Espenberg, Löwenstern, and Ratmanov. On their return, the expedition’s German-speaking scientists linked their careers closely with Russia.Tilesius and Horner were appointed adjunct professors of natural history and astronomy respectively in the Academy of Sciences. Tilesius was honored with a title in the nobility and the position of academician. Initially, he planned to publish his own account of the voyage, as his letters to the French editor Leclerc (published in the Annales des voyages 1810) suggest. Unfortunately, this plan did not eventuate. His observations in the field of natural history appeared as Naturhistorische Früchte der ersten . . . Erdumseeglung . . . in 1813 and were supplemented by numerous articles in academic journals. The same year his drawings appeared in Krusenstern’s Atlas. He spent the years that followed preparing detailed comments to accompany each picture. In 1819 he submitted the volume for publication to August Kotzebue in Weimar, just

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on the eve of Kotzebue’s assassination by a fanatical student who opposed his antidemocratic views. The manuscript was never published, and its fate remains unknown. Tilesius’ journal and other materials, however, did preserve some of his Nuku Hivan pictures. His journal, which has never been published either, survived; two versions are held in separate archives, one in St Petersburg and one in Mühlhausen. Whereas the St Petersburg version ends with the arrival of the expedition at Nuku Hiva, the Mühlhausen version covers the whole voyage. He also used materials from his journal for lectures at Göttingen University.4 In 1814 Tilesius returned to Germany, where he resumed his Nuku Hivan studies, discussing the role of tattoo in the system of social relations in polemics with Langsdorff; but unlike the latter, Tilesius’ role in the field of ethnography was, until recently, almost forgotten. Horner tried to arrange an expedition to Brazil, while staying in St Petersburg after returning from the Pacific voyage, but being unable to secure financial support in Russia he left for Europe. Unfortunately, his plans for this expedition never eventuated. He remained a corresponding member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, settled in his native city of Zurich, and worked as a teacher. His ethnographic collection and pictorial heritage have been rediscovered recently by Philippe Dallais in the Ethnographic Museum of Zurich University. Langsdorff, who left the expedition after the visit to Japan and went with Rezanov to Russian America and California, made his own way to Kamchatka in 1806 and spent months studying the Russian Far East and Siberia. When he reached St Petersburg in March 1808, he was appointed adjunct professor of botany of the Academy of Sciences and took out Russian citizenship. He wrote a detailed study of Kamchatka and proposed a number of sociopolitical reforms; there were even plans to appoint him governor of Kamchatka. One of Langsdorff’s first published works was his study of Nuku Hivan tattoos, published first in Russian (1810) and later in German with Blumenbach’s introduction (1811). Later, in 1812, besides his botanical observations, Plantes recueillies pendant le voyage des Russes autour du monde (Langsdorff and Fischer 1810), Langsdorff published the major account of his travels for the general reader, Bemerkungen auf einer Reise um die Welt in den Jahren 1803 bis 1807. An English translation (1813), with significant interventions by the translator, appeared a year later and became, with Krusenstern’s and Lisiansky’s books, a standard source on Nuku Hivan ethnography. A recent translation by Victoria Moessner (1993) brings Langsdorff to the English-speaking reader without such intervention. Langsdorff was more successful than Horner in pursuing his interest in Brazilian studies. Between 1812 and 1830 he served as Russian consul in Brazil. Kotzebue and Bellingshausen, his friends from the Nadezhda, always enjoyed



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his hospitality and assistance there, as did other Russian voyagers visiting Brazil. His zeal for discoveries led him to organize two expeditions into the Brazilian interior.The hardships endured during the second of these, including a tropical fever, left him with a serious psychiatric illness from which he never recovered. He returned to his native Freiburg in 1830 and died there in 1852 (Komissarov 1975). The contribution of the Rezanov camp to the legacy of the expedition was more limited. Although Rezanov’s journal and his Russian-Japanese dictionary reached the Academy of Sciences soon after his death, the first part of his journal was published only in 1822–1825, and the location of the original manuscript is now unknown. The abridged and edited version of Shemelin’s journal was published in St Petersburg in 1816–1818, and publication in the popular periodical the Russian Invalid followed in 1823, while his manuscript, which differs greatly from the published versions, was preserved in the Russian National Library. The fair copy of Korobitsyn’s journal was discovered in a secondhand bookshop and published in 1944 by E. I. Gleiber, with additions from the original version of his manuscript, and translated into English. The observations of Gideon, who returned to Russia after three years spent working in Russian America, were published only recently. According to Rezanov’s nephew Pavel Korsakov, Fosse died soon after his return to St Petersburg (Rezanov 1841:4). The fate of Brykin, the expedition’s Russian naturalist, and Kurliandtsev, the artist, who left the Nadezhda in Kamchatka to travel overland to the capital, was particularly sad. The reason given for Kurliandtsev’s departure was kidney stones, while Brykin was dispatched by Rezanov to take care of Kurliandtsev on the journey across Siberia. Rumor had it, however, that Kurliandtsev was feigning illness (Ratmanov 1803–1805a:62v.). It is likely that their departure was a consequence of their confrontation with the officers and scientists, who ostracized them. Kurliandtsev, after all, had been banned from the wardroom for several weeks on the way to Nuku Hiva. This premature withdrawal from the expedition, which meant no glory and no pension, in addition to a hazardous journey, was a cause of great distress for them. On leaving the Nadezhda, Kurliandtsev ‘had broken everything breakable and hacked the furnishings of his cabin to pieces’ (Löwenstern 2003a:147, 151). At the end of 1804 Brykin reached St Petersburg, while Kurliandtsev stayed in Kazan. ‘Since that time’, according to the Russian Biographical Dictionary, ‘nothing is known either about Brykin or his valuable herbarium, collected during the course of the voyage, or his scientifically important memoirs, which had not been published and whose location was unknown’ (Anon. 1995:390–391). The cause of this silence was Brykin’s sudden death. Fosse was

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informed in April 1805 that Brykin had fallen ill and died on arrival in St Petersburg. This, he commented, ‘could hardly have been expected, judging by his state of health’ (1994:133). In fact, as Löwenstern recorded after the expedition, ‘Brinkin poisoned himself after his return to Petersburg’ (Moessner 2003a:452). Kurliandtsev remained in Kazan, where he taught drawing in the Kazan Orthodox Academy (1809–1814), and later returned to St Petersburg. Although his pictures have not so far been located, there is much evidence to suggest that he brought his Nuku Hivan drawings and paintings to Russia. Although Langsdorff remarked that Kurliandtsev ‘had not drawn a single interesting sketch of our trip’ (1993:144), the artist later donated twenty paintings made during the voyage to the Kazan Orthodox Academy. These disappeared without a trace. On returning to St Petersburg he applied to the Academy of Fine Arts for financial support while he completed his art works from the voyage; later, in 1819, he made a failed attempt to present a portrait of Kiatonui to the emperor. Destitute, he suggested that the academy might buy his paintings, and sought its support in an application for a pension, which the other members of the expedition received. Support was declined because he had not completed the voyage, and he died in obscurity in 1822, leaving a widow and two sons. Was she able to sell his paintings to survive? Or did they find their way to the academy? If they did, there is still some hope that they will surface some day (Tokarev 1993:28; Petrov 1864:133–134; information from Ahmed Salakhly in Moessner 2003a:444; e-mail from Father Kirill [Iliukhin], Kazan, 7 August 2006). Krusenstern was plainly not interested in the materials of Brykin, Friderici, or Kurliandtsev. He makes no mention of them in his account of the expedition or in the Atlas. The names of Kurliandtsev and Brykin head the long list of Russians whose South Pacific voyages led only to obscurity. The collections of Marquesan artifacts brought back by the Russian expedition traveled by various routes through Russia and its museums. They were divided among the Admiralty Museum, the Kunstkammer, and the RAC in St Petersburg, and the Rumiantsev Museum in Moscow. Some artifacts remained in private hands as well. At present the two main repositories of Marquesan collections are the Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography (Kunstkammer) in St Petersburg, which has over thirty artifacts, and the Anthropology Museum of Moscow University, with twenty items. Some of the St Petersburg artifacts have been studied by Steinen (1925–1928), and an inventory was compiled by Rozina (1963), while those in Moscow were reviewed by Govor and Novikova (1989). A detailed inventory of the whole collection and a further search for the Marquesan artifacts in Russian museums—for



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example, Rezanov’s collection—remain to be undertaken. Nevertheless, even now it would be correct to say that this is the largest collection of fundamental importance among the early collections from the Marquesas. Although these items mostly lack their original documentation, the key to the original collection lies in the early museum inventories, the detailed plates of artifacts in Lisiansky’s Atlas and Langsdorff ’s Voyages, and the drawings of some material objects in Krusenstern’s Atlas. The collections include the most spectacular Marquesan artifacts—clubs, oars, stilts, adzes, headdresses, gorgets, necklaces, fans, and earrings as well as skulls.

‘The Wild Frenchman’ These writings, drawings and artifacts brought fame to the expedition, but its renown was greatly enhanced by two of its participants, Kabris and Count Tolstoy—and no wonder, as these two men came to be seen as Russian beachcombers, a by-product, at once tragic and comical, of the expedition. Kabris was to play a predominantly tragic part—a Frenchman with the soul of a Marquesan, washed up on the Russian shore—although there was always a comic element present in his story as well. His exotic aura would place him at times in the very privileged position of a Russian ‘Omai’—the first Tahitian to be brought to England by the Cook expedition. He later claimed that ‘the captain . . . told me that I was kidnapped to be presented to the Tsar Alexander as a valuable object to stimulate his curiosity and to prove to him he had visited the people of remote islands’ (Fur 2001:39). Rezanov, as soon as he was reconciled with Krusenstern in Kamchatka, in his letter to the emperor did not forget to present Kabris as a kind of trophy of the expedition: ‘I find it my duty to inform your Imperial Highness about my delivering to Kamchatka a new citizen.’ He added, ‘Here, in Kamchatka, he grew fond of General Koshelev and decided to stay’ (1804b).Tilesius also remarked that in Kamchatka Kabris ‘remained in the service of His Excellency the Governor General Koshelev’ (1806b:106). Kabris was able to earn his keep, for example by entertaining the Nadezhda’s officers and the local garrison at Koshelev’s party, where he performed some dances of the Nuku Hivan savages (Löwenstern 2003a:151). Rezanov was enraptured with the idea of a Russian Omai. Returning to Russia after his American voyages, he took with him a Sandwich Islander named Tika, whom he wanted to acquaint with the wonders of Europe and ‘to present to the emperor’.This was the person he worried about on his deathbed in Krasnoiarsk, according to his companion Fedor Panaev (1810:81). From Krasnoiarsk Tika made his way to European Russia and, as Shemelin remembered, was

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in St Petersburg and in the care of the government, as desired by His Majesty the Emperor. He has accepted the Christian faith and is known, after his godfather, as Vasilii Fedorovich Moller. Moller has been taught to read and write Russian and is now studying shipbuilding and other sciences, including grammar, law, sacred history, arithmetic, geography, history, English, marine draughtsmanship, civil architecture, and sketching. (quoted from Barratt 1988:102)

In 1816 Moller was returned to the Pacific by the Kutuzov. After the Nadezhda’s departure for Japan, Kabris did not set off for St Petersburg at once with Kurliandtsev and Brykin; instead, he lingered in Kamchatka for nearly a year. Bulgarin claimed that he made his way to European Russia with Count Tolstoy. Tolstoy was one of the few who tried to bring Kabris back to civilization, and these two social outcasts were indeed two of a kind, but this story is not supported by Vigel’s memoirs.Vigel, who met Tolstoy, returning from Kamchatka, near Kazan in June 1805, does not mention Kabris as his traveling companion. Robert Ker Porter, an English traveler, met Kabris in Moscow in December 1806 and remarked that Kabris ‘has been a few weeks only arrived. . . . He was forwarded from Kamtschatka hither, by a passport from governor to governor’ (R. K. Porter 1809:276). By the time of his arrival in European Russia, Kabris knew very well what the elite of Russia expected of him. One of his guises was that of a noble Marquesan prince. Langsdorff remarked: ‘The story of his marriage with a princess of Nukahiwa, and the detail of his exploits on that island, are now so intermixed with the new ideas he has acquired in Europe, that any one who heard him relate them would be disposed to think himself listening to a second Munchausen’ (1813:xiv). These anecdotal accounts of him say much about Russian and European engagement with the exotic world of Nuku Hiva and—more broadly—the South Seas. Kabris’ tattoo played an important role in the promotion of this world: ‘The extraordinary fate of this man, and the novel appearance of his tattooed body,’ wrote Langsdorff, ‘attracted the attention of every one. Both at Moscow and at St. Petersburg he exhibited upon the stage the dances of the savages, and was considered by all the great people of the country as a real curiosity’ (1813:xiv). Porter, the traveler mentioned above, met Kabris in Moscow at the palace of ‘Count Razumofsky’, Kabris’ protector.5 Kabris’ tattoos—‘the whole of the left side of his forehead, and below his eye, was one dark mass of tattoo’—which, Porter believed, were ‘confined to chiefs alone’, impressed the Englishman: ‘To me there is something very admirable in the idea of a fine male figure without any other covering than these beautiful enamellings: his



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feathered crown and bow and quiver, seemed to apparel him like a savage god’ (1809:271). Kabris perfectly satisfied Porter’s exotic expectations. His Kabris is an idealized white noble savage who, among other things, ‘put a stop to the practice of devouring the prisoners taken in war’ (R. K. Porter 1809:272). (On his return to ‘civilization’, Kabris had clearly learned to tell people what they wanted to hear.) A further romanticized version of Porter’s account was made by Jane Porter, his sister. Her Kabris had the title ‘Prince Laonce’. He was married to the king’s daughter, whom he dearly loved: ‘I was then beloved! Honored! Master of all around me.’ Kabris apparently reinvented and embellished his own life in his stories. His failure to leave the departing ship in time was transformed into an act of self-sacrifice: he piloted the ship out of harbor on a stormy night, and the cruel captain would not help him to get ashore. Porter’s Kabris ‘when he talks of his wife’ still ‘throws himself along the ground . . . weeps with all the bitterness of hopeless sorrow. But when he names those who brought him away, indignation, reproaches, accusations seem to inflame him to madness; and he walks from side to side with an energy of step, and vehemence of action perfectly savage, but wonderfully striking and grand’ ( J. Porter 1829). The latter, at least, is easy to believe. Porter met Kabris when ‘he was in his way to St Petersburg meaning to lay his case before the Emperor’ (1809:276). Kabris, by his own account, was eventually presented ‘to the Emperor Alexander, who heaped kindness upon’ him (1982:112). In another version he added that the emperor admired his tattoos. According to Löwenstern, ‘the Marquesan John’ appeared in St Petersburg in February 1807, and his ‘tattooed face provoked a lot of excitement. The emperor granted him pension of 100 rubles per month’ (1807). Soon after that the emperor issued orders to Captain Vasily Golovnin, who was departing to the Russian Far East in July 1807, to deliver ‘the Frenchman Kabris, brought to Russia by Captain Krusenstern’ to the Marquesas if ‘circumstances permit’. Golovnin commented that ‘the Frenchman afterwards decided against returning to the above-mentioned islands and stayed in St Petersburg’ (1961:49). Horner, being in St Petersburg, also noted that ‘our scapegrace’ had become ‘a celebrity’ there. In July he reported to Krusenstern that Kabris preferred to stay in St Petersburg because in Nuku Hiva ‘he will be nothing’ (1807:11, 30). Kabris was not offered another chance: Russian-English political differences and Russian-French hostilities started soon after that, putting an end to Russian Pacific voyages until 1813. Langsdorff said of Kabris’ life during those years, ‘His dexterity in swimming, in which he is scarcely excelled by the natives of Nukahiwa themselves, has procured him the appointment of teacher of swimming to the corps of

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marine cadets at Cronstadt’ (1813:xiv). Horner learned of Kabris’ appointment, with a generous salary of 400 rubles including lodgings, in August 1807. He passed this information to Krusenstern, adding, ‘This should settle the matter’ (1807:38). Soon after that, in about 1809, Kabris met Faddei Bulgarin, a twenty-yearold cadet ‘exiled to Kronshtadt’ for his satirical verses. Bulgarin, like Kabris, was a man of many identities, whose life resembled a picaresque novel. Years later he would become a journalist, infamous for his conservative position and denunciations to the authorities, but in the meantime he felt at home with Kabris, a social outcast like himself. Bulgarin remembered: This wild Frenchman talked in broken Russian-French; mixing in words of the savages with whom he lived for a long time, and explaining with signs what he couldn’t express in words. Nevertheless the basis of his language was French and he was very pleased when he could find a person with whom he could talk in French, which is why he enjoyed my acquaintance. . . . Most amazing was the fact that this wild degenerate had a charming wife, a French lady from a fashionable St Petersburg boutique! . . . She did not confide in me what it was that impelled her to choose a savage as a husband. She always replied ‘C’était une idée! c’est comme ça!’ I visited Kabris almost every day, and spent my evenings at his house. I do not know what drew me more: the singularity of the husband, or the pretty eyes of his wife! (2001:662–663)

Using facts extracted from Kabris’ tales, Bulgarin embroidered them to pass the weary hours in Kronshtadt. According to one story, a jealous Kabris asked Bulgarin one day to help him kill NN, an officer who had written a love letter to his wife. When Bulgarin tried to reason with him, he exclaimed, ‘God at Nuku Hiva allows the killing of enemies’ (2001:668–671). He even offered to cook NN, and tried to bring Bulgarin round by telling him of the delicious taste of human flesh. Bulgarin remarked that ‘Jesuits who were then staying in St Petersburg educated Kabris in his forgotten Christian faith, but he didn’t understand anything and confided in me that he remained of the same beliefs’ (2001:667). It is clear that with young Bulgarin, Kabris did not try to play the ‘noble savage’ in the way he did with Porter. When the situation became serious, Bulgarin broke the news to a general, who decided that ‘it would be best to send one of the rivals out of Kronshtadt. Kabris was needed to teach swimming to the naval cadets and to unlock the underwater sluicegates, but it is



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easy enough to do without one sublieutenant.’ Thus the unfortunate NN was dispatched to provincial Vologda (2001:673). In another tale Kabris’ trust in Bulgarin leads to an unexpected outcome. On being summoned to the naval cadet office in St Petersburg, Kabris said to Bulgarin: ‘I am off to St Petersburg, and want to present you with a token of my friendship,’ said Kabris, standing up and taking me by the hand. ‘It is the custom on my beloved island of Nukagiva for a husband going on a long journey and leaving his wife at home to bequeath her to a friend, transferring to him all his rights, even the power over her life or death. I transfer to you all my rights!’

Bulgarin’s enjoyment of the Nuku Hivan custom was soured by the fact that Kabris left his poor Ariadna with just one ruble, and Bulgarin had to support her out of his own meager resources (2001:708–709). Bulgarin believed that Kabris later left for France with his wife, where he was ‘driven to the edge, as I later discovered. He exhibited himself for money in sideshows and fairs under the name of The Wild Kamchadal [sic]. He died before I arrived in France. His wife became a dame du comptoir in a coffee house in Milan’ (2001:710). According to French biographies of Kabris, ‘In 1817, after the restoration of the French monarchy, he returned to France and tried unsuccessfully to persuade Louis XVIII to help him back to Nukuhiva. . . . He showed off his tattoos and Marquesan dances to raise money to live, and to put by for his journey,’ touring France in order to do so (Terrell 1982:105). By that time the myth of the Noble Savage had lost its novelty and, as Yves De Fur argues, Kabris turned the myth inside out. Unlike the Tahitians, he could not be seen as an incarnation of the myth and, paradoxically, his tattooed skin laid it bare. In contrast to Reynolds’ portrait of Omai, in which the Tahitian is pictured in antique draperies, Kabris, a Marquesan, appears as no more than a veneer of wonder and delight. His tattoos define him as somewhere between the low-class disreputable sailor and the savage. (2001: 41–42)

In the accounts of his life published at that time, he tried to eke out the remnants of this myth mixed with his Marquesan ‘royal’ connections, but to no avail. In 1822 he died at Valenciennes in misery (Dening 2004:31–34).

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Tolstoy the American While Kabris assumed the role of a noble Marquesan prince, Count Tolstoy returned from the expedition as ‘Tolstoy the American’, extensively decorated with tattoos.That was another peculiar beachcomber but with a twist as Tolstoy’s American identity as well as his American adventures were imaginary. His tales were filled with Russian derring-do, and as Shemelin wrote in his denunciation from Brazil, ‘He was always ready with a scathing jibe’ (1803b:3). Something about Tolstoy apparently responded so artfully to the deep-seated desires of the Russian soul that his tales remain very popular even today, being retold by modern authors with little concern for their connection to the actual events. As mentioned above, at the very start of the expedition Tolstoy fell out with the official Russian wing, that is, with Rezanov and his retinue, to which he was formally attached. The judicious Shemelin commented prophetically, ‘His Lordship gave no thought to the consequences’ (1803b:3), but even if he had, his thoughts would have been unconventional. When Ratmanov, Krusenstern, and the other officers ostracized him after the mutiny, he seems to have become unstable, and this condition was probably aggravated by the accidental death of his macaque. Löwenstern wrote soon after the departure from Hawai‘i, ‘Tolstoi is crazy. He hatches new stories every day. First, he wanted to stay on the Sandwich Islands; now, he is saying that he is going to kill Resanoff and then set fire to the Nadezhda and some such crazy stories’ (2003a:113). This is confirmed by Rezanov’s request to Koshelev to investigate ‘if Count Tolstoy wanted to stay on the Sandwich Islands and what the reason for this was’ (Sgibnev 1877:389). Tolstoy also boasted that the crew, dissatisfied with Krusenstern, ‘will do whatever I want them to’ (Löwenstern 2003a:114). Improbable though it seems, the crew were indeed pawns in the hands of Krusenstern’s opponents. The officers later discovered that ‘in order to entice the sailors, Resanoff has promised them their discharge upon our return, and he promises them rewards and favors in addition, but always while denigrating Krusenstern and us officers in their eyes. Our sailors could not stomach that, and that is why they have told us everything’ (Löwenstern 2003a:250). To the last moment Tolstoy held on to his hope that Krusenstern would appreciate his animosity towards Rezanov, but Krusenstern plainly wanted to dissociate himself from the troublesome count, advising him ‘to stay in Kamchatka on account of his illness and thus prevent problems and difficulties’. In Kamchatka, after Rezanov’s threat that the count would end his life in the mines, Tolstoy finally ‘admitted his wrongs to Resanoff in writing, formally listed all of his offenses, and, in so doing, has pronounced his own judgment’, according



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to Löwenstern (2003a:113–114, 138). After the reconciliation, Rezanov used Tolstoy as a scapegoat, portraying him as the major source of the conflict. In his letter to Ivan Selifontov, the governor-general in Irkutsk, he wrote, ‘I am also returning count Tolstoy, a cornet in the Preobrazhensky Guards, who has sown the seeds of discord in the entire expedition, and I most obediently beseech your Excellency, when he arrives in Irkutsk, to take appropriate measures to ensure that he will not reside in Moscow and that he actually returns to his unit’ (Voenskii 1895, no. 10:215–216). In his letter to the emperor Rezanov was less categorical: ‘This enthusiasm [for glory] affected unfortunately sublieutenant count Tolstoi. His youth was the cause of it. When the zeal of all of us to work unselfishly made mutual confidence return, he became the victim of his actions. In sending him back, I beg for him Your Imperial Majesty’s pardon, because it is hard for a sensitive heart to be deprived of a share in a great and glorious exploit’ (1994a:90). Löwenstern commented, ‘The only one who is despised, rejected, and damned by all is Count Tolstoi. He is staying behind’ (2003a:140). He returned to Russia a year later as ‘Tolstoy the American’. Bulgarin provides a summary of accounts circulating about him at that time: When he intervened in an argument between Krusenstern and Captain Lisiansky, Count F.I.T.*** so exasperated the kind and modest Krusenstern that the latter left him behind in our American colonies, and did not take him on the return journey of the Nadezhda and Neva to Russia. Count F.I.T*** spent some time in America, traveled out of boredom around the Aleutian Islands, visited the wild Galoshi tribe [i.e., the Tlingit—E.G.], with whom he went hunting, and returned by land to Russia by way of the port of Petropavlovsk. ╅╇ After that he was nicknamed the American, because at home he dressed in Aleutian-style clothes and his walls were hung with the wares and weapons of the savages who lived in the neighborhood of our American colonies. Count T*** told many stories about his American adventures, even claiming that the Galoshi invited him to be their czar! (Bulgarin 2001:606)

But did Tolstoy really visit America? When the Nadezhda returned to Kamchatka from Japan in May 1805, Tolstoy had clearly left. Koshelev said of him, ‘He is pleasant company but an immoral dog. It took a lot of effort to get rid of him after your departure for Japan’ (Löwenstern 2003a:334). If Tolstoy had traveled to the Aleutians or Alaska in the meantime, Koshelev, an official whose duty it was to make sure that army officers returned to their units, would

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have discussed this offense with Tolstoy’s former superior. Furthermore, as the ocean around Kamchatka freezes between October and April, Tolstoy would have had little opportunity to take ship after the Nadezhda’s departure. It is most likely that he spent the winter of 1804/5 in Kamchatka or the adjoining area and started his journey across Siberia in spring 1805. This is confirmed by the fact that Vigel met him near Kazan in June 1805. The circumstances and geography of Tolstoy’s travels varied in different tales—an uninhabited island, America, Sitka, the Aleutians—and even found their way into Alexander Griboedov’s famous play Woe from Wit: A night-time robber and a duel fan, He was in exile in Kamchatka, no surprise, From there he returned an Aleutian man. He’s a rogue: with clever men it can’t be otherwise.

Tolstoy, on hearing these lines, suggested amending them to ‘the Devil took him to Kamchatka’, because, he explained, ‘he was never in exile there’ (Tolstoi 1990:54). Tolstoy’s extensive tattoos seem to be the only grain of truth in his otherwise spurious exotic aura. It is possible to distinguish the edge of a tattoo on Tolstoy’s left hand in the portrait made by Karl Reichel, but even here there are inconsistencies. There is no doubt that he started his tattoo collection in Nuku Hiva, but his tattoos seem too extensive to have all been made during their short stay there. He certainly could have added some Far Eastern/Siberian tattoos to his collection, but the style of the latter differs from what Tolstoy seems to have sported. Could it be that his additional decorations were done by Kabris, with whom he stayed for several months in Kamchatka? Although there are no other indications that Kabris was a tattooist, it is known that he was extremely well versed in Marquesan culture. Tolstoy’s heavy tattoos and ‘American’ aura made up, in a way, for the humiliating fiasco of his role in the expedition. His opponent, naturally, was Krusenstern. According to one story, on the very day of Tolstoy’s return to the capital he learned that Kruzenstern was giving a ball. Clothing his tattooed body in evening dress, he appeared in the hall. Kruzenstern could scarcely believe his eyes. ‘Count Tolstoy, can it be you?’ ‘As you see,’ replied ‘The American’ dryly, ‘I was so happy on the island where you dumped me that I quite forgave you, and have come here to thank you.’ (Tolstoy 1983:130)



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In reality Tolstoy arrived a year before Krusenstern and, as a result of Rezanov’s complaints, was transferred from the crack Preobrazhensky Guards ‘to garrison duty at the remote fortress of Nyslott in the Finnish lakes’ (1983:130). Exhibition of his tattooed body, including some parts for men only, became a dinner entertainment and everlasting source of attraction, probably for ladies especially. His niece, Maria Kamenskaia, remembered one such exhibition: Feodor Ivanovich, it appeared, was quite happy with grandpa’s request, and with a smile began to unbutton his black frockcoat. . . . He undid his shirt-studs, and bared and swelled out his chest. Everyone at the table stood up in their places and gazed attentively at it: it was completely covered in tattoos. In the very middle sat in a ring some sort of big multi-colored bird, rather like a parrot, in a red and blue hoop. When everyone had gazed his fill on the designs on his chest, Feodor Ivanovich Tolstoy took off his frock coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves: both arms were likewise completely tattooed, with snakes and other wild designs entwined around them. The ladies sighed and gasped without ceasing, and asked solicitously: ‘Wasn’t it very painful, Count, when those savages tattooed you? How did they pick out the designs? Oh, what suffering!’ When Feodor Ivanovich had finished with the ladies, the gentlemen took him upstairs to grandpa’s surgery, and there once again undressed him and inspected him from head to foot. (Tolstoy 1983:141)

How accurate Kamenskaia’s impressions of Tolstoy’s decorations are is open to question. It is unfair to expect an accurate account of an extensive body tattoo from a person overwhelmed by the sensory experience of seeing it for the first time. We have already seen this in the case of Russian accounts of Robarts’ tattoos. If Kamenskaia was correct, the multicolored parrot in a hoop could not have come from Nuku Hivan or northern Pacific traditions. It could have been a design made ‘to order’ for Tolstoy on his way home. Tolstoy’s unconventional and passionate nature determined his career in years to come. It was said that he killed eleven men in duels, was reduced to the ranks several times, but had his commission restored in 1812 for his bravery during the battle of Borodino. The stories that he put about included one in which Alexander Pushkin was whipped at a police station. On hearing this, Pushkin was so incensed that he resolved to challenge Tolstoy to a duel. Luckily for Pushkin, a reconciliation was achieved, and they became so close that Pushkin even relied on Tolstoy to convey his marriage proposal to Nataly Goncharova. When Tolstoy finally married, this too was a public outrage: his bride

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was his Gypsy mistress. It is believed that by the end of his life he had left his gambling and cardsharping behind him, and died a pious man. He left his mark in Russian literature by figuring in works by Alexander Pushkin, Alexander Griboedov, and Leo Tolstoy. The story of the first Russian visit to Nuku Hiva suggests that the legacy of those twelve days went far beyond the contributions the voyagers made to knowledge of geography, natural history, and ethnography.The islands and their indigenous people produced their own far-reaching and unforeseeable effect upon the visitors. Their expectations and apprehensions, suppressed desires and new sensations all came together.Their hurried departure from the treacherous Taiohae Bay, when they literally had to cut away their anchors, is charged with grim symbolism. They were fleeing from the breaking armor of their ‘Eurocentrism’ and their rediscovered inner selves. None of them was ever to return to Nuku Hiva, but they could all subscribe to Löwenstern’s words: ‘We are not going to forget Taio-hai very easily.’ They never did. The Nuku Hivan sojourn became the high point of their stories and scholarly accounts. In essence, the members of the Russian expedition, rather than Meñdana, Cook, and Marchand, opened up the unique world of the Marquesas to European science, while their tales provided ample food for the metropolitan imagination.Their systematic scholarly descriptions were reinforced by the rich pictorial representations that illustrated their books and articles, by artifacts brought to museums, and by two live ‘exhibits’: Kabris and Count Tolstoy with their tattooed skin. The expeditioners became Russian James Cooks and La Pérouses, paving the way to the Pacific for the two dozen Russian expeditions that traversed the South Pacific between 1807 and 1835. The story of one such expedition will conclude this study.

Epilogue

Nuku Hiva Revisited

In 1817 Langsdorff was entertaining officers from the Russian naval sloop Kamchatka on his Brazilian estate. Her captain, the famous seafarer Vasily Golovnin, was accompanied by several junior officers, including Fedor Matiushkin, Fedor Lütke, and Ferdinand Wrangel (Vrangel), who dreamed of adventures at sea. Lütke, when Golovnin agreed to take him on the voyage, ‘pounced on any and all travel accounts he could find in Sveaborg. [He] had read Krusenstern, Lisiansky, Sarychev, Cook, Anson’ (Shur 1971:83). To join the expedition, the young Wrangel absconded from a naval vessel at Reval and went to Kronshtadt at his own risk. There he managed to persuade Golovnin to take him on at the last moment. Now they were on the threshold of their dream. Langsdorff ’s tales of the South Pacific, of the Marquesas, were naturally among the subjects of discussion, as Golovnin planned to call there. In fact, he had planned to visit the Marquesas as early as 1807, during his first voyage on the Diana. Nuku Hivan cannibalism must have been a recurrent topic in these conversations; Lütke recorded in his diary that they ‘believed that the first thing that they would cast eyes upon after a lengthy voyage will be some kind of tattooed Nuku Hivan, gnawing on a human bone’ (Shur 1971:113). The plans were altered and they sailed past the Marquesas without stopping, but the chilling lure of Nuku Hiva had been planted in the young hearts. In 1825 Wrangel took his own ship, the Krotky (Gentle),1 to the Pacific. Behind him lay four years spent exploring Russia’s northern seas. His officers came from this expedition and from the Kamchatka voyage and included Matiushkin, a close friend of Alexander Pushkin since their school days at the Tsarskoe Selo Lycée, Dr August Kyber, and his navigating officer, Prokofy Kozmin. Wrangel’s friend Lütke was also preparing for his own expedition. In April 1826 the Krotky was sailing towards Nuku Hiva, following Krusenstern’s route. Wrangel chose to make a halt at Port Chichagov, so highly extolled by Krusen263

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stern, where Wrangel believed ‘the inhabitants were pleasant and obliging’ (56). The only Russian ship to visit this port since Krusenstern was the RAC vessel Suvorov, which anchored at Port Chichagov in March 1818, but its captain, Zakhar Ponafidin, did not leave any account of his visit (Ivashintsov 1980:35). Guided by Krusenstern’s map, Wrangel entered the magnificent bay. It was like entering a book known and loved since youth: the high rock wall surrounded the quiet waters of the bay, and a crowd of islanders swarmed round the ship, including women who ‘shamelessly offered the sailors their charms’. There was even a young bright islander called ‘Guta’, reminiscent of Ma‘uhau, who showed them a ‘piece of paper inscribed with the Otahitian alphabet’ that he had received from previous visitors. Wrangel ‘let him stay on board, he worked willingly with the sailors and was helpful on shore. He was liked so much by all on board that he was given a full suit of European clothing, which he wore eagerly’. The rediscoveries continued: a brook with sweet water in the eastern cove with its sandy shore and the stream baptized Nevka by Lisiansky in the western cove, in the picturesque and densely inhabited valley. Wrangel praised ‘the meek behavior and helpfulness of the islanders’ who assisted them with watering and cutting firewood. Like Krusenstern and Lisiansky before him, Wrangel exchanged friendly visits with an elderly airiki (chief ) of the valley, ‘Magedede’ (Makate‘ite‘i), remarking on his ‘limited power’, and with the influential taua (priest) ‘Togoyapu’ (Tokoi‘apu‘u) (names as reconstructed by Suggs [2008:4–5]), a man of sixty bedecked with a ‘necklace of walrus teeth’ (obviously whale teeth—E.G.), and his wife. Even beachcombers appeared, seeming to have emerged from the pages of Krusenstern’s book: two men came the next day from Taiohae, one of them named Johns, the other James Reardon. Following the humane example set by his predecessors—Krusenstern, Kotzebue, Bellingshausen, and Lazarev—Wrangel showed the islanders every kindness and respect. He entertained the distinguished visitors on board with music and food, and offered gifts and fair pay to those islanders who assisted them on shore (57, 58, 59, 60, 61). Everything resembled his favorite books, and yet it was different. The paradise they had found crumbled away with every passing minute. Makate‘ite‘i, Tokoi‘apu‘u, and his son ‘Otomogo’ (To‘omoko) (Suggs 2008:4) refused gifts from the Russians, being interested only in gunpowder and guns. ‘I showed them axes, different cloths and baubles,’ the idealistic Wrangel wrote in despair, ‘and tried to convince them that we were ready to pay generously with these items, but made clear that they would receive neither gunpowder nor guns from us.’ ‘Clubs, spears and the like are hardly used, having been replaced by firearms,’ he reflected after the visit. Their beachcombers, unlike Robarts and Kabris, were rotten with venereal disease, and Dr Kyber began to treat them.



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They were followed by another beachcomber of a new type, Pedro, an Indian from Buenos Aires who earned his living in Nuku Hiva by repairing firearms for the islanders. Even the dances that the islanders performed for them seemed to be hollow, and at the end of the day the islanders asked for rum. With this request Wrangel complied (59–60, 84, 74–75, 63). But the atmosphere was heavy with unease, which penetrated everything. Wrangel tried to maintain his optimism and his belief in Tokoi‘apu‘u’s and the islanders’ honesty. He even engaged in gift giving, offering gifts first (he had learned that coats and red hats were of some value among the elite) and allowing the reciprocal gifts of pigs to be postponed. In the meantime ‘Togoyapu and his retinue’ left the village and camped in the eastern cove, opposite the ship. The next day the watering place was mobbed by women, and Wrangel’s protest against ‘the shameless trade in women’ made Tokoi‘apu‘u and especially his wife angry. This incident was followed by an outbreak of pilfering, and the officers supervising the watering place complained of the insolence of Tokoi‘apu‘u’s associates. Nevertheless, Dr Kyber ventured on an excursion into the mountains with Guta, Pedro, and three Russian sailors. In the mountains they were confronted by two armed men who demanded gunpowder, but seeing that the six were unarmed, they finally let them go.The expected pigs were not delivered, but Wrangel again complied with the request for rum. The next day, according to his published journal, he invited Tokoi‘apu‘u, accompanied by another taua, Keotete from Taiohae Bay, aboard the ship, where he entertained them with music and food and let them stay overnight. The next morning, the eighth day of the Russian stay, Tokoi‘apu‘u refrained from accepting the gifts, except for Kyber’s dark frock coat, explaining that his return gifts were not ready yet, and left for the shore. Keotete, according to the journal, remained on board ‘to guard the gifts’ (64, 65, 66–67, 68–69). Soon a large roasted pig wrapped in green leaves was brought to the beach, accompanied by islanders bearing green saplings. Thirty women swam out to the ship singing songs (whether they were allowed on board remains unclear). At last Tokoi‘apu‘u signaled for a boat (the Russians usually gave him a lift to get to the ship), indicating that the gift was ready. The ship was anchored 350 meters from the northern shore, and a boat with four sailors under the charge of Midshipman Adolph Deibner and accompanied by James Reardon as an interpreter was dispatched to the shore. Wrangel instructed them not to get within 60 meters of the shore and to use firearms only in self-defense (69–71). Wrangel watched through his spyglass as the boat anchored and the pig was brought to the boat accompanied by Tokoi‘apu‘u in Kyber’s frock coat. He turned his eyes away for a minute and suddenly heard Kozmin’s cry from

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the deck: ‘Our lads are under attack!’ What followed was a tactic used by the Pacific islanders in various locations: they would approach the boat with apparently friendly intent, then suddenly cut its anchor, haul it ashore, and set about butchering the men in it. The Russians had no chance to fire so much as a single shot. Deibner, who insisted that their weapons should be kept under the benches of the boat and dismissed Reardon’s warnings that there were no women on shore, managed only to shout, ‘Lads, it’s my fault, save yourselves, let them kill me!’ He and Timofeev were killed instantly. Zonov and James Reardon managed to jump into the water and swim to the ship; Nekrasov and Lysukhin kept on fighting with a bayonet and the boat’s tiller until Nekrasov was killed and Lysukhin overpowered (71, 79–80). Lieutenant Lavrov, who rushed to the rescue in a longboat, was fired on, and one of his sailors, Gavrilov, was killed. Returning fire, they managed to pull Zonov and Reardon from the water and make their way back to the ship under fire. By that time about four hundred people had gathered on the beach. Wrangel ordered cannon fire with case shot, which for a moment dispersed the crowd and allowed Lysukhin to jump into the water. By this time Lieutenant Matiushkin in a six-oar boat ventured to his rescue, also under fire. Luckily Lysukhin, despite sixteen wounds to his head and body, including a broken spear end in his back, reached the boat and survived to tell the tale. He reported that the fiercest among the attackers was Guta, to whom the Russians ‘had earlier shown much kindness and bestowed many gifts’ (71–72, 80). But that was not all. While the natives carried the bodies of Deibner, Timofeev, and Nekrasov into the forest, Wrangel realized that they all were trapped in what Krusenstern had believed to be one of the safest harbors on the island.Without a wind the only way out was by warping past the two headlands guarding the exit. In the meantime, the islanders spread out along the hills surrounding the bay and fired at the ship and boats indiscriminately. Wrangel had good reason to believe that warriors of several valleys had joined the assault and that war canoes from other bays were on their way. Prompt action was called for. Wrangel ordered cannon fire with ball then case shot to keep the natives at bay while Kozmin, his navigating officer, rowed to the narrow entrance to drop a warping grapnel. Musket balls were whistling all around his longboat, but Kozmin and his men remained unscathed. Using its warping cable, with a light breeze behind it, the Krotky finally left the treacherous bay. The ten-hour ordeal was over. Fires burned all night along the shore all the way from Port Chichagov to Taiohae.The purpose of these, the Russians believed, was to roast their murdered mates (72–77; Nizovtsev 1903, no. 44:3). From the beachcombers, who were still on board, Wrangel learned of other cases of ‘the treachery of these islanders, these innocent children of nature



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as some refer to them’. For instance, a year earlier Tokoi‘apu‘u had applied a similar tactic to an American merchantman, and two years earlier similar incidents had occurred in Taiohae and Ho‘oumi bays. Although the words ‘cannibals’ and ‘monsters’ now occasionally replaced the neutral ‘islanders’ in Wrangel’s account, he did not blame their nature as such. He believed that the attack was provoked by the memory of a Russian ship that had visited Taiohae nine months ago—so Reardon informed him—and taken all the pigs by force. (The only proof that the ship was Russian was the clay pipes left by the sailors.) Wrangel suspected another reason: he told of events beginning with Porter’s visit in 1813 and the introduction of firearms. By 1826 guns were playing the role of currency: one firearm equaled a boatload of sandalwood or five pigs. Wrangel also reported that the visitors had infected the islanders with venereal diseases and ikania, a form of leprosy. Wrangel concluded, ‘After such events had embittered them against Europeans, who themselves provided them with the tools for revenge and no longer cared to put an end to this evil, . . . can it be expected that the Nuku Hivans will remain the same as they were when Europeans could keep them at bay purely through fear!’ (81–82, 77, 61–62, 74, 82–84). At the end of his account, Wrangel drew up the balance sheet of their gains and losses.They acquired 12 pigs, 19 chickens, 1,175 coconuts, 54 bunches of bananas, and 220 breadfruit. They fired 70 cannonballs, 130 canister shots, and 764 musket balls. This was not at all what they had expected when they approached this beautiful island. In the published journal Wrangel remarked only that they were all deeply affected to lose ‘a first-class officer, a dear friend and three excellent men from our small crew’ (77, 84, 80–81). In a letter to his friend Lütke he confessed that ‘the memory alone of that sad event made him shudder and to the end of his days would leave a deep wound’ (Pasetskii 1975:123). Thus the Krotky’s visit was a melancholy echo of Krusenstern’s. Whereas Krusenstern had approached Nuku Hiva on Easter Sunday, full of expectations, the Krotky massacre happened on Good Friday. On Saturday, still near Nuku Hiva, they buried Gavrilov at sea and prayed for their lost friends. Easter Sunday was a day of mourning. After the service Matiushkin locked himself in his cabin and, mixing Russian and French words with tears, scribbled on a sheet of paper about his friend Deibner: ‘He is gone! He is gone! Poor Adolphe, dead at nineteen, and killed in such an appalling manner, burned and eaten by the cannibals! In vain I seek the words to express what I feel. Tears fill my eyes and I can hardly hold them back’ (1826:8). Like Krusenstern they brought their Nuku Hivan trophies to Kamchatka, but these were grim trophies—two English beachcombers rotten with venereal disease, “Indian Pedro,” and the

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Marquesan priest Keotete, who was on board the Krotky before the massacre (78; Nizovtsev 1903, no. 49:3). Unlike Kabris’, his fate is unknown. That was the end of the Russian romance with Nuku Hiva. Krusenstern’s fears of treacherous cannibals belonging to ‘the very worst of mankind’ seemed to have been realized. Historical investigations have ways of leading us down all sorts of paths, sometimes at the same time. After I’d completed writing this story, I discovered the logbook of the Krotky. The account of the massacre in this logbook agrees with that in Wrangel’s published journal, but just before that there are two lines in the logbook that offer the tantalizing prospect of a different emphasis for this story. ‘On 15 April, the islanders’ priest was held on board because of deceit in the bartering of pigs. At 7.30 a.m. on the 16th, the detained priest was put ashore, leaving one of the natives with us as a hostage and promising to send the pigs on’ (Ivashintsov 1980:84; Nizovtsev 1903, no. 44:2). Perhaps we shall never know where the truth lay or how blame should be attributed, but at least we are reminded that the dealings between men are always shaded in ambiguities. We may not be able to finally judge the past, nor should we. We can at least accept that the men of Nuku Hiva, confronted by the tide of European ills threatening to submerge their culture and way of life, saw no choice but to react as they had always done—as warriors. And equally, on the other side, there was then little choice for the Russians, having entered this strange, other world, but to become warriors too.

Notes

Part I: From Russia to Nuku Hiva 1.╇ All references to Krusenstern 1813c are to vol. 1 unless otherwise noted. 2.╇ Information from R. Haasenbruch, archivist from the Halle University archives. 3.╇ Hieromonk—Orthodox priest who is also a monk. 4.╇ Another version of Kankai ibun was published in Germany (Anon. 1898) and translated into Russian by Turkovskii (1898) and by Freiberg (1896).

Part II: Nuku Hiva Day 1 1.╇ Cf. Kiatonui’s fancy for the red flannel shirt during his first visit aboard the Betsy in 1798 (Fanning 1924:114). 2.╇ zolotnik—4.25 g. 3.╇The origin of the text erased from Löwenstern’s diary was suggested by Olga Fedorova (Levenshtern 2003b:116–117). 4.╇ Cf. Chappell’s observation: ‘The transition from sex-as-intercultural exchange to sex-as-barter to “prostitution” was probably more “entangled” than a discrete sequence’ (1992:135). While women did not visit Cook’s ships at Tahuata, they willingly came aboard the ships of the following voyagers and, parting with the French (Marchand’s expedition in 1791), they were crying (Fleurieu 1969, 1:51). They were similarly upset in Taiohae when Porter departed in 1813 (D. Porter 1970:60, 138).

Day 2 1.╇ See also chapter ‘Disentangling Tapu’, pp. 60–73. 2.╇ 30 degrees Réaumurâ•›=â•›38 degrees Celsius. 3.╇ Cf. Fanning’s account of a steward from the Betsy (1798) who ‘made him269

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Notes to Pages 123–202

self the laughing stock of all the natives’ by screaming at a sudden fright; only when he joined in did the laughter cease (1924:126–127).

Day 3 1.╇ Porter, notable for his weird spelling of native names, might have been writing about the same individual in 1813: ‘the chief warrior, named Mouina . . . was a tall, well-shaped man, of about thirty-five years of age, remarkably active, of an intelligent and open countenance’ (D. Porter 1970:28). 2.╇The voyagers were craving meat after the three-month nonstop passage from Brazil. Several entries in Löwenstern’s diary graphically depict the greed for food on board the Nadezhda (2003a:80–81, 83, 86, 88, 91).

Day 4 1.╇There is some confusion about the dates. Shemelin’s account is the only source to give precise dates, and he dates the day of free trade as 27 April, but according to his journal it was the day the Neva arrived (1803–1806:127). As the date of the Neva’s arrival is exactly known, Shemelin may have confused the date, and the actual day of ‘free trade’ may have been 28 April. Löwenstern wrote that on 27 April the ship was still tabooed. 2.╇ 1 ruble = 100 kopeks.

Day 5 1.╇ One arshin equals 28 inches.This would make Ma‘uhau 213 cm tall. According to Tilesius’ precise measurements, Ma‘uhau was six feet two inches tall (Parisian measurement system; pied de roiâ•›=â•›32.48 mm) or exactly 2 meters (1806a:495).

Day 6 1.╇ I am grateful to Makiko Kuwahara and Christoph Hoeffken for assistance with this Japanese text.

Day 7 1.╇ Crook described the groups of entertainers as purely male, but according to later sources both sexes lived together. See Ferdon 1993:76 and Suggs 1966:95–96. 2.╇ See, for example, Ferdon 1993:41. Touwattea was most likely still alive in 1813 during Porter’s visit (D. Porter 1970:29). 3.╇ Robarts’ house was situated somewhere to the west of the Pakiu Valley (information from Mgr Le Cléac’h). 4.╇ He gave this title to Rezanov probably because the latter spoke French rather than English.

Day 8 1.╇ See Nicholas Thomas (1991:97): ‘pigs were singular creatures to be substituted, with difficulty, for other special things, or not substituted at all.’



Notes to Pages 203–263

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2.╇ In the Russian version Krusenstern says that they ‘treasure their pigs enormously’ (1809:163). 3.╇When Berkh dropped an oar on Kiatonui’s head and the episode with the seller of the pig returning to the shore the day before.

Day 9 1.╇ I am grateful to Robert Suggs for information about the local name of the river.

Days 10–12 1.╇The words ‘kind heart’ appear only in the Russian version of his journal (1809:213–214).

Part III: From Nuku Hiva to Russia 1.╇ I am grateful to Frieder Sondermann for drawing my attention to Hoffmann’s ‘Haimatochare’ story. 2.╇ On the Russian visit to Hawai‘i, see Barratt 1987. 3.╇ For a summary of Russian accounts about Williams, see Barratt 1992:112, 137, 159, 180. 4.╇ On Tilesius’ commentaries relating to the pictures in the Atlas, see Tilesius 1819. I am grateful to F. Sondermann for information about Tilesius’ manuscripts and proposed publications. 5.╇ Count Alexei Kirillovich Razumovsky (1748–1822), the statesman, scholar, and botanist famed for his garden with exotic plants near Moscow, to whom Langsdorff brought seeds of exotic plants from the voyage.

Epilogue 1.╇The material in this section is from Vrangel 1828:55–85 except where noted otherwise.

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Index

Page numbers in boldface type refer to illustrations. Academy: of Fine Arts, St Petersburg, 33, 159, 252; of Sciences, Russian, 19, 24–25, 28, 31, 36, 205, 243, 244, 249–251, 274; Surgical, St Petersburg, 26 Admiralty Islands, 105, 121 Albuquerque, Afonso de, 41 Alexander I: attitudes to, 15, 41, 209–212, 242, 248; and the expedition, 1–3, 11, 29, 159, 246, 252; and Kabris, 234, 253, 255; and leadership dispute, 2, 3, 29–30, 47–48, 54, 55, 205–206, 209–212, 241–243, 246, 248, 259 Anson, George, 38, 40, 263 Arbuzov, Pavel, 19, 138, 196 Arguello, Concepción de (Conchita), 4, 244–245 Atkinson, J. A., 121–122 Banks, Joseph, 36, 140 Barratt, Glynn, 6, 38–39, 52, 54 barter, 71–75, 91, 114, 116–117, 118, 164, 194; for artifacts, 73, 74, 118, 139–141, 143–145, 150, 158, 162, 194, 204–205; for firearms, 264–267; Krusenstern’s instructions, 58, 73–74, 118, 139–141, 202, 204; for pigs, 73, 114, 118, 165–166, 202–

205, 218, 265, 270n. 1, 271n. 2; and Rezanov-Krusenstern confrontation, 73–74, 140–141, 143–145, 194, 204– 205, 239, 241–243; Shemelin’s attitudes to, 72–75, 91, 118, 139–143, 164, 194, 202, 204–205; supervision by Romberg and Espenberg, 73, 92, 139. See also gift exchange; iron hoops Bastard, Eric, ix, 225 beachcombers: James Reardon (1826), 264–267; Johns (1826), 264, 267; Pedro (1826), 265–267; Walker (early 1800s), 61; Williams (1810–1820s), 249, 271n. 3. See also Kabris, Joseph; Robarts, Edward Bellingshausen, Fabian Gottlieb von (Bellinsgauzen, Faddei Faddeevich): biographical notes, 4, 18, 216, 248–250; on board, 45, 55, 128, 264; drawing and mapping, 9, 43, 156, 238, 247; at Nuku Hiva, 156–157, 215; personality, 18; writings, 18 Berkh (Berg),Vasily, 13, 19, 37, 43, 163, 207, 240, 248, 271n. 3 Black, Lydia, 5, 34 Bligh, William, 39 Blumenbach, Johann Friedrich, 24, 100, 119, 121, 183, 250

289

290

Index

Bolkhovitinov, Evgeny, 34 Bolkhovitinov, Nikolai, 6, 27 Borofsky, Robert, 182 Bougainville, Louis Antoine de, 1, 14, 70, 128 Brazil, 30, 38, 44–55, 136, 168, 212, 244, 250–251, 263; Rio de Janeiro, 53; Santa Catarina Island, 38, 44, 53 Brinken (Brinkin), Fedor. See Brykin, Fedor Petrovich Britain, 10, 24, 44, 45, 60, 253; explorers, 1, 8–9, 38, 58, 59, 145; Falmouth, 38, 44, 45; London, 41; Portsmouth, 38, 45, 53, 60, 245; publications on the expedition, 11, 13, 20, 119, 121, 148–149, 168, 169, 244, 247, 248, 250; Russian connections with, 10–11, 13, 16, 19, 39–40 British Royal Navy, 10–11, 13, 138–139 Broughton, William R., 38 Brykin, Fedor Petrovich: biographical notes, 2, 26–27, 251–252; on board, 33, 43, 49; and leadership dispute, 49, 207, 212; as naturalist, 27, 251; at Nuku Hiva, 92, 158–159 Bulgarin, Faddei, 32, 75, 77–78, 166, 234, 254, 256–257, 259 Cabri, Jean-Baptiste. See Kabris, Joseph Calendar: Gregorian, xi; Julian, xi Campbell, Roderic, x Catherine the Great, 10, 28, 33 Chamisso, Adalbert, 239 Chichagov, Pavel, 19, 40–41, 42, 215–216, 219 China, 1, 10, 83, 245; Canton, 38, 245; Kiakhta, 34; Macao, 22 Chinese, 22, 34, 66 Clerke, Charles, 38, 39 collections. See expedition, materials produced Columbus, Christopher, 39, 41 Cook, James, attitudes to, 14, 34, 38–39,

41–42, 156; exploration in the Pacific, 53, 56, 203, 269n. 4; Russian knowledge of, 39–40, 57, 93–94, 124, 164, 182, 263; Russian parallels with, 1, 36, 134, 140, 191, 246, 253, 262 Copia, Jacques Louis, 105, 107 Crain, Caleb, 133–134, 135, 158 crania, collection of, 22, 118, 132, 140, 143–145, 194, 221, 253 Crook, William Pascoe: on Marquesan language, 60, 62, 142–143, 145, 176; at the Marquesas, 60, 86, 134–135; and Nuku Hivan culture, 62; and Nuku Hivans, 82, 97, 101, 122, 173–175, 183, 184, 218, 225, 236, 270n. 1; writings, 78, 181 Czeski, Kozma, 177, 218 Dallais, Philippe, 250 Dalrymple, Alexander, 39 Danvin,Victor, 215, 217–218 Dashkov, A. A., 49 Deibner, Adolph, 265–267 Dening, Greg, ix, 1, 7, 8, 9, 61, 75, 97, 110, 132, 134, 257 Denmark: Copenhagen, 24, 25, 26, 44–45, 50, 192–193; Helsingör, 44 Derzhavin, Gavriil, 29 Dmitriev, Ivan, 53 Dominick, Bayard, 176 Dordillon, René, 142 Douglas, Bronwen, ix, x, 6, 8, 81, 104 Easter Island, 40, 54, 115 encounters of Nuku Hivans with Europeans: assistance to the visitors, 110–112, 123, 154; attacks on vessels, 265–267; attitude to Europeans, 182, 212, 226; behavior of Nuku Hivans aboard the ship, 81, 116–117, 119, 154–155; communication between, 71, 72, 142, 164–165; earlier con-



Index

tacts, 58–59; fear of Russians, 69–70, 168, 229; and firearms, 59–60, 61, 116, 193, 229, 264–267; formalities observed, 79, 81; without intermediaries, 115–118; joy and laughter, 70–71, 94, 112, 116, 127, 154, 163–164, 193, 202, 217, 232; myths about Russian visit, 6, 194, 225–226; theft, 113, 193, 265. See also barter; gift exchange encounters of Russians with Nuku Hivans: attitudes to Nuku Hivans, 58, 70, 91–92, 111–113, 155, 160–162, 167, 168–169, 171–172, 230–231, 264–268; eroticism, 191, 228; fears of Nuku Hivans, 92, 94, 110, 116–117, 130, 132–133, 157–158; historiography of, 6; homoeroticism and homosexuality, 126–130, 133–136; preconceptions about Nuku Hivans, 57–58. See also lower-deck crew; Nuku Hivans: ‘nakedness’ of; women and girls of Nuku Hiva Entrecasteaux, Bruni d’, 40, 104 Espenberg, Karl, 21; anthropological studies, 27, 143, 181; biographical notes, 20, 249; on board, 43, 45, 46, 48, 239; drawings by, 126; at Nuku Hiva, 64, 74, 92, 157, 176, 190; on Nuku Hivans, 69–71, 85, 88, 91, 93–94, 96, 112, 126, 129, 143, 145, 149, 156, 161–162, 185–187; personality, 20–21; and Robarts and Kabris, 66, 75, 77, 181, 241; writings, xi, 6, 20, 244, 247 Estonia, 15, 18, 31, 36, 37; archival materials in, ix, 273; Hageri, 20; Haggud (Hagudi), 9; Oesel (Saaremaa) Island, 18; Reval (Tallinn), 9, 20, 248, 263 expedition, materials produced: archival, ix, 5–6, 248–251; correspondence, 5, 16, 34, 48–50, 88, 243–246, 248,

291

249; ethnographic collections, 27, 74, 139, 204–205, 250, 252–253 (see also barter: for artifacts; crania; Kunstkammer); multilingual, x, xi, 5, 36; pictorial, 2, 8, 23–24, 36, 43–44, 51, 78–79, 99–104, 110, 119–122, 126, 145, 150–151, 159, 161, 174, 177–181, 183, 186–188, 196–198, 215, 221–223, 244, 247, 249, 250, 252, 262 (see also genealogy of images); publications, 5, 22, 244, 247–251; tales and anecdotes, 2, 7, 33, 51, 130, 132, 135–136, 225–226, 254–261; travel journals, 5, 16, 19, 31, 35, 42, 244, 248–249, 250, 251 expedition, Russian, in the Pacific: anthropological studies, 19, 27, 119, 143–144; differing West-East views, 13, 37, 83–84, 97–98, 124–125, 147, 158, 159, 184–185; and discoveries, 6, 53–55, 91, 115, 156–157, 212, 214–216, 236, 243, 248; and diplomatic mission to Japan, 1, 3, 29, 35, 242–243; ethnic composition, 4, 14–21, 37; historiography of, 3–7; history and organization of, 1–3, 10–12; homosexuality on board, 128–129, 240; instructions for, 3, 19, 39, 42, 53–54, 205, 208–212; and knowledge of the Pacific, 38–40; leadership dispute, 2–5, 29–30, 47–52, 192–193, 206–212, 239, 241– 243, 246–247, 248; library on board, 39; and members’ rivalry, 26, 42, 54–55, 73–75, 139–145, 204–212, 239, 245–247, 248; in popular culture, 4–5, 27, 245; sexual encounters, 44–46, 84–90, 191–193, 199–200; silence about problems, 2–3, 247, 248; surgeons, 20–21. See also encounters of Russians with Nuku Hivans; languages: used on board; naturalists; ships: Nadezhda, Neva

292

Index

Fanning, Edmund, 59, 60, 62, 82, 110, 156, 157, 173, 269nn. 1, 3 Far East, 10, 41, 250, 255, 260 Fedorov, Ivan, 242 Fedorova, Olga, ix, 5, 39, 269n. 3 Fedotov, Gavriil. See Gideon Ferdon, Edwin, 8, 180, 181, 270nn. 1, 2 Fleurieu, Charles, 39, 40, 42, 57, 70, 126, 146, 202, 203, 269n. 4 Flinders, Matthew, 38 Folger, Mayhew, 66 Forster, George, 39, 40, 42, 124, 134, 140 Forster, Johann Reinhold, 39, 40, 42, 124, 134, 140 Fosse (Foss), Fedor Pavlovich, 31, 42–43, 45, 50, 108, 207, 212, 240, 251 France, 10, 14, 18, 246, 255, 257; archival sources, ix, 273; Bordeaux, 60; colonization of the Marquesas, 109, 193; explorers, 1, 8, 9, 39, 145, 202, 269n. 4; Paris, 18; publications on the expedition, 3, 247, 248, 249; Russian connections with, 18, 39–40, 41; Valenciennes, 257 Friderici, Hermann Karl von (Frideritsi, Ermolai Karlovich), 31, 37, 42, 43, 45, 55, 157 Fuchs (Fuks), Nicholas, 39, 41 Fur,Yves de, 257 Gall, Franz Joseph, 22 Gama,Vasco da, 29, 41 Gavrilov, 266, 267 Gedeon. See Gideon Gell, Alfred, 8, 147 genealogy of images, 43, 101–108, 119– 122, 150–151, 177–181, 188–189, 196, 215, 217–218, 221–223 Germans: Baltic, 9, 14–16, 36; ethnic, in the expedition, 4, 6, 7, 9, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 22, 24, 31, 36–37; Russianized, 15, 31, 36–37; and Rus-

sians, differences between, 13, 15, 17, 36–37, 248 Germany, 18, 20, 250; archival sources, ix, 5, 8, 24, 273–274; Berlin, 24; Erlangen, 20; Freiburg, 251; Göttingen, 22, 24, 25, 119, 121, 250; Halle, 20, 21; Hamburg, 22; Jena, 20, 22; Leipzig, 23, 43, 181; Mühlhausen, 23, 24, 250; publications on the expedition, 3, 24, 104, 119, 244, 247, 250, 269n. 4; Russian connections with, 36–37, 39; Silesia, 21; Weimar, 249–250; Wöllstein, 24 Gideon: biographical notes, 33–34; on board, 51–52; on Nuku Hivans, 59, 112, 115–118, 124, 127, 133, 137, 145–147, 149–150, 155, 160, 168; and Nuku Hivan women, 139, 147, 157, 195, 200; relations with Lisiansky, 2, 13, 34, 157, 195, 200; writings, 5, 34, 251 gift exchange, 81–82, 113–114, 155–156, 159, 167–168, 265 Glasspoole, Henry, 59 Gleiber, E. I., 251 Golovachev (Golovatscheff), Petr Trofimovich, xi, 2, 16, 17, 44, 48, 64, 65, 70, 137, 210, 212, 214, 227, 245–246 Golovnin,Vasily, 153, 255, 263 Gorner, Johann Kaspar. See Horner, Johann Kaspar Gorodnitsky, Alexander, 4 Govor, Elena, 252 Grabbe, Pavel, 129 Griboedov, Alexander, 32, 260, 262 haka‘iki (chieftain), 7, 78, 97, 116–117, 182, 221. See also Kiatonui; Pahutini Handy, Willowdean, 119 Harris, William, 86–87 Harte, Bret, 245 Hawai‘i, 19, 42, 53–54, 135, 236, 238– 240, 258, 271n. 2; Kealakekua Bay,



Index

38; Krusenstern Reef, 248; Lisianski Island, 248 Hawaiian islanders, 84, 232, 239–240; in Russia, 253–254 Hergest, Richard, 40, 56–57, 58, 198 Hoeffken, Christoph, 270n. 1 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 239, 271n. 1 Horner, Johann Kaspar, 22; biographical notes, 21–22, 249, 250; on board, 11, 42, 43, 49, 52, 56, 136, 238; drawings by, 43, 161; and leadership dispute, 242; at Nuku Hiva, 156, 213, 214, 215, 228, 213; and Nuku Hivans, 92, 126, 182; personality, 18, 22–23; writings, 6, 242, 244, 247, 255, 256 human difference: Africans (Moors), attitudes to, 46–47; indigenous people and Russian attitudes to, 41–42; Negro analogy, 81, 101; pictorial representations, 100; races, 46–47; and slaves, 46–47; terminology used, 168–169 India, 10, 11, 69, 190 Ingraham, Joseph, 58, 126, 202 iron hoops: and barter, 72, 140–143, 201–202; as ‘currency’, 141, 143, 201–202; in Marquesan language, 142–143; as prestige goods, 201–202, 204; as remuneration for work, 111–113, 202; as reward for sex, 86, 89; and ‘royal’ family, 199–201, 233; varying attitudes to, 143, 164, 202 Japan, 1, 29, 205, 242; Nagasaki, 243; Russian Embassy to, 1, 3, 29, 35, 242–243; Russian stay at, 243, 244; Sata-misaki (Kyushu, Chichagov) Island, 216 Japanese: drawings by, 36, 124, 125; on members of expedition, 29, 157; on Nuku Hivans, 66, 85–86, 113, 124–125, 146, 169; passengers of

293

expedition, 6, 29, 35; portrayal by Tilesius, 43, 100; on Robarts and Kabris, 66, 68; writings, 6, 35–36. See also Kiselev, Petr ‘Juno and Avos’, rock opera, 4–5, 245 ka‘ioi and pokoehu, male and female adolescent groups, 89, 147, 183, 270n. 1 Kabo, Raphael, ix–x, xi Kabo,Vladimir, v, ix, xi Kabris, Joseph, 76; biographical notes, 2, 60–63, 253–257; and cannibalism, 77–78, 130–134, 231, 255, 256; in France, 257; knowledge of languages, 75, 166, 240–241, 256; and Nuku Hivan culture, 62, 63, 75–78, 82, 181, 241, 253, 260; and Nuku Hivans, 86, 147–148, 183; in Russia, 253–257; and Russian visitors, 63, 75–78, 92, 129, 166, 181, 230–232, 234–235; tales and writings by, 6, 166, 234, 253, 254–257; tattoo, 75–76, 149, 254–255, 257; trip to Russia, 238, 240–241 Kamchatka: expedition at, 16, 25, 29, 30, 31, 35, 37, 38, 131, 183, 243–244, 250, 251; Kabris at, 181, 253–254, 260; Krotky at, 267; leadership dispute at, 2, 55, 205, 210–212, 241– 243; Robarts’ decision not to go to, 229; Tolstoy at, 242, 254, 258–260 Kamenshchikov, Filipp, 19, 64, 152 Kamenskaia, Maria, 261 Kankai ibun, 35–36, 124, 269n. 4 Karamzin, Nikolai, 15–16, 41 Kätenuä (Ketenue, Keatonui). See Kiatonui kava, 79, 167–168, 192 Kiatonui, chieftain of Taio Hae, 7, 97; and beachcombers, 60, 61, 68, 75, 77; contacts with Russians, 78–84, 93, 95–96, 112, 114, 130, 134, 137, 154–156, 163, 165–168, 194, 196,

294

Index

200, 207, 228, 233; imagery of, 78–80, 79, 80, 99, 100, 159, 252; and Nuku Hivans, 97, 110, 149, 167, 184, 186–187, 229; Russian visits to, 93, 94–96, 108, 158–159, 170–175; tattoo, 79, 81, 100, 137 Kiatonui’s family, 70, 93, 94–96, 99, 112, 158–159, 195, 224; granddaughter, 175; Hinate‘ani (Anataena), daughter-in-law, 172–175, 174, 197, 195– 201, 228; Ma‘uhau (Mufau Taputakaya), secondary husband, 99, 101, 118–120, 120, 121–123, 126, 129, 137, 158–159, 200, 230; Moate‘i‘i (Omau Dei, Mau-day), son-in-law, 99, 101–102, 102, 103, 104–106, 173, 175, 198; Pa‘etini, granddaughter, 175; Pakouteie, grandson, 68, 175; Peueinui, secondary husband, 122; Puakahu, paternal uncle, 94–95, 108, 132, 154; Puhinui (Tamate?), brother active during Russian visit, 60, 70, 75, 81, 99, 100–101, 112, 127, 167, 171; Putaha‘e, mother, 95, 101; Tahatapu, daughter, 101, 172–173, 175, 192, 197, 196–201; Tahiatai‘oa, wife, 68, 83, 158–159, 172, 192, 195–196, 198–201, 225; Taiohia, brother killed during Daedalus’ visit, 59; Timauteii, father, 95; Tuitou‘a (Duetouwa), son, 99, 172, 173–174 Kimitete, Félicité, ix, 225 Kimitete, Simeon, ix Kiselev, Petr, 35, 136 Klauber, Ignaz Sebastian, 99, 100, 120, 121 Komissarov, Boris, 6 Korobitsyn, Nikolai Ivanovich: and barter, 205, 211; biographical notes, 34–35; on board, 50; on Marquesan language, 142; and Nuku Hivans, 59, 97–98, 115–118, 126, 137, 145–147, 150, 168, 196, 199, 201–203, 214–

220, 223; personality, 35; writings of, 6, 35, 115, 251 Korsakov, Pavel, 251 Koshelev, Pavel, 141, 204, 209, 211, 241–242, 253, 258, 259 Kotzebue, August von, 18, 126, 249–250 Kotzebue, Moritz von (Kotsebu, Morits Evstafevich [Avgustovich]), 18–19, 36, 37, 43, 45, 57, 129, 164, 240 Kotzebue, Otto von (Kotsebu, Otto Evstafevich), 9, 18–19, 36, 37, 42, 43, 129, 152, 216, 239, 240, 248–249, 250, 264 Kozmin, Prokofy, 263, 265–266 Krusenstern, Adam Johann von, 10; biographical notes, 9–11, 247–248, 252; on board, 39, 47–52, 135–136, 183, 216, 239–240, 244, 258–261; as commander of expedition, 45, 53– 54, 56–58, 84, 109–110, 140–142, 156–157, 194, 223–224, 245–247; on expedition members, 11–12, 14, 16, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 24, 100, 236; and Kiatonui and his family, 81–82, 84, 93, 95–96, 101, 109–110, 122, 156, 167–168, 173; at Nuku Hiva, 151–152, 157, 165–166, 170–172, 189–190, 214, 227, 230, 232, 234; on Nuku Hiva, 59–60, 215–217, 219; and Nuku Hivans, 111, 119, 128, 130–135, 168–169, 201–205, 217–220, 230–231; and Nuku Hivan women, 84–90, 191–192, 196, 198, 200, 219–220; as organizer of expedition, 1–4, 10–11; personality, 11, 13, 27, 29–30, 37, 38, 138–139, 248; on Robarts and Kabris, 61, 76–78, 166, 176, 181, 182, 189–190, 229, 231, 234–236, 255–256; writings, 5, 9, 42, 52–53, 119, 168–169, 244, 247–250. See also barter; expedition, Russian: leadership dispute Krusenstern, Christina von, 18



Index

Krusenstern (Taube), Julia, 10–11, 93, 130–131, 134, 191, 242, 247 Krusenstjern, Ewert von, 5 Kruzenshtern, Alexey, ix, 5 Kruzenshtern, Ivan Fedorovich. See Krusenstern, Adam Johann von Kunstkammer, St Petersburg, collections for, 27, 74, 139, 141, 204–206, 252 Kurliandtsev (Kurlandzoff), Stepan Semenovich: biographical notes, 33, 252; on board, 2, 43, 50–51, 206, 251; drawing, 24, 33, 51, 159, 252; and leadership dispute, 207; at Nuku Hiva, 158–159 Kuwahara, Makiko, ix, 270n. 1 Kyber, August, 263–265 Laband, Moses (Moritz), 21, 214 Labillardière, Jacques, 104–105, 188–189 La Harpe, Jean-François de, 39 Langsdorff, Georg Heinrich von (Langsdorf, Grigory Ivanovich), 25; as anthropologist, 2, 27, 94, 241, 243, 250; biographical notes, 24–25, 36, 250–251; on board, 42–43, 47, 56, 57, 239, 243–244, 271n. 5; drawings by, 8, 43, 101–102, 143–144, 150–151, 196, 221–223, 235; on expedition members, 22, 245; on Marquesan language, 60, 92–93, 142, 146, 183, 216; as naturalist, 24–27, 55, 92, 223–224, 239, 243, 250; at Nuku Hiva, 56–57, 92–93, 152, 192, 216, 219, 223–224, 234; and Nuku Hivans, 70, 83, 97, 110, 123–124, 133–134, 143–151, 160–161, 185, 204, 230–231, 263; and Nuku Hivan women, 86–90, 126, 192; personality, 26, 37; and Robarts and Kabris, 66–67, 75–77, 181, 232, 235, 241, 254–256; writings, xi, 92–93, 247, 250 Languages: in Russia, 36–37, 39; used on

295

board, 26, 37, 42–43, 46, 67. See also Marquesan language Languages, competence in: Arbuzov, 138; Brinkin, 26; Espenberg, 20, 37, 48, 75; Gideon, 34; Horner, 22–23; Korobitsyn, 35; Krusenstern, 9, 16, 48, 138, 247; Langsdorff, 25; Lisiansky, 13, 248; Löwenstern, 16; Rezanov, 30, 35, 42, 270n. 4; Romberg, 15–16, 45; Shemelin, 35. See also Kabris: knowledge of languages; Robarts: knowledge of languages La Pérouse, Jean-François de Galaup de, 1, 38–41, 104–105, 262 Lazarev, Mikhail, 4, 264 Le Cléac’h, Mgr, ix, 226, 270n. 3 Lesseps, Jean-Baptiste Barthélemy de, 39 Levenshtern, Ermolai Ermolaevich. See Löwenstern, Hermann Ludwig von Liapunova, Roza, 34 Lichtenstein, Burgl, ix Linton, Ralph, 176, 220 Lisiansky, Urey (Yury), 12; biographical notes, 11–13, 248; as commander of ship, 2, 4, 11–13, 38, 53–55, 115– 117, 157, 216, 230, 236, 245–246; and leadership dispute, 207–211; mapping and drawings by, 9, 43; on Marquesan language, 60, 92, 116, 123, 142–143, 145–146, 164–165, 176, 182, 216; at Nuku Hiva, 137, 170–172, 189, 205, 214–215, 219, 223; and Nuku Hivans, 59, 97–98, 100, 115–117, 133, 140, 145–146, 154–155, 161, 163, 167–169, 177, 193–194, 219; and Nuku Hivan women, 139, 154, 157, 173, 175, 195–196, 199–200, 233; personality, 12–14, 35, 37, 41, 138–139, 157, 248; and Robarts and Kabris, 137–138, 189, 191, 228–229; writings, xi, 6, 42, 92, 248, 250, 253 Loder, Justus Christian von, 143

296

Index

London Missionary Society, 60 Löwenstern, Hermann Ludwig von, 17; biographical notes,16–18, 249; on board, 38–40, 42, 45, 50–51, 52–55, 56, 128–129, 136, 236, 238–241, 245–246, 258; drawings by, 6, 43–44, 78–79, 100, 102–106, 109–111, 126–127, 161, 222–223; on expedition members, 11–13, 15–18, 20–21, 23–24, 26–27, 30–31, 33, 35, 44, 50, 157, 240, 251–252, 258–259; on leadership dispute, 47–48, 206–211, 239, 241–242; at Nuku Hiva, 70, 109–110, 131, 145, 151, 156–157, 165–166, 204, 213–216, 223, 227–228, 233; on Nuku Hivans, 70, 109–114, 118–119, 123–124, 132–133, 145–146, 167, 169, 183– 186, 201, 220, 228; on Nuku Hivan women, 68, 86–87, 89, 191, 200; personality, 17, 29–30; on Robarts and Kabris, 67–68, 75, 77–78, 235, 238, 240, 253, 255; writings, xi, 5–6, 16, 238, 248–249 Löwenstern, Ludolf von, 17 lower-deck crew: Bek-Murza Iusupov, 112; commanders’ attitudes towards, 11, 12–13, 20, 258; Danilo Kalinin, 214; Fedor Kovediaev, 19; Grigory Chugaev, 194; interaction with Nuku Hivans, 112, 116, 127–128, 154–155, 157; Ivan Kurganov, 46, 47; and Nuku Hivan women, 85, 86, 191, 195; Petr Filippov (hunter), 55, 158, 228;Vasily Spolokhov, 19; and the voyage, 46, 48, 206 Lütke, Fedor, 263, 267 Macartney, George, 40 Marchand, Etienne, 38, 40, 58, 70, 124, 203, 262, 269n. 4 Marquesan language, 60, 62, 92–93, 116, 123, 142–143, 145–146, 164–165,

176, 183; native toponyms, 215–216 Marquesas Islands, 56; discovery and exploration of, 8, 38, 56, 58–59, 156–157; Fatu Huku (Hood) Island, 56; Hiva Oa (Dominica) Island, 56, 68, 132; plans of Russian visit to, 53–54; Tahuata (Santa Christiana) Island, 53–54, 60, 61, 62, 67, 69, 86, 126, 135, 202, 203, 225, 269n. 4; Ua Huka (Riou) Island, 56; Ua Pu, 236. See also Nuku Hiva Island Marshall Islands, 152; Ailuk (Krusenstern) Atoll, 248; Erikub (Chichagov) Atoll, 216 Masafuero Island, 61 Matiushkin, Fedor, 263, 266, 267 Melville, Herman, 134 Mendaña, Alvaro de, 40, 53, 56, 124 Moessner,Victoria, ix, 5, 29, 43–44, 250 Moller,Vasilii Fedorovich (Tika), 253–254 Mulovsky, Grigory, 10, 40 Murat, Hyacinthe, 38 Mutovkin, Alexey, 21 names of Nuku Hivans: exchange of, 62, 77, 156, 175; reconstruction of, 68, 77, 80, 95, 100, 101, 102, 119, 173, 174, 188, 198, 218, 225, 264 naturalists: in the expedition, 21–27, 52, 55; at Nuku Hiva, 69, 91–93, 157, 159, 223–224. See also crania Naval Cadet Corps, 9–10, 11, 13–18, 32, 35, 43, 128, 248, 256–257 Neiman (Neumann): cook, 239 Nelson, Horatio, 14 Nevsky,Vladimir, 3–4 New Caledonia, 106 North America, 1, 151, 249; California, 43, 244, 250; explorers, 8, 58; Russian visits to, 10, 11, 33, 258–260;



Index

ships at the Marquesas, 58–61, 63, 68, 126, 167, 238, 267. See also Russian America Novikova, Natalia, 252 Novosiltsev, Nikolai, 243 Nuku Hiva Island, 64; causes of Russian visit to, 54; deserters at, 59, 60–63; in the European popular imagination, 7; mapping of, 8–9, 18, 109, 156, 213, 247; native toponyms, 215–216; place naming, 215–216, 219; and Russian expectations of, 54, 56–58; and Russian mutiny, 2, 212. See Marquesas Islands: discovery and exploration Nuku Hiva Island, geographical locations: Comptroller Bay, 58, 59, 61, 64, 118, 201; Daniel’s Bay, 217; Fort Collet, 109, 158, 235; Ha‘atuatua Bay, 115–118, 142; Hakatea Bay (Port Chichagov), 156, 214–217, 218, 263–268; Hakaui Bay and valley, 90, 156, 180, 181, 203, 216–223, 221, 222, 235; Hapa‘a Valley, 101; Ho‘oumi Bay, 173, 175, 235, 267; Madisonville, 109; Meau Valley, 159, 160, 171, 176; Motu-Nua Island, 234, 235; Pakiu Valley, 270n. 3; Taiohae Bay and valley, 61, 79, 96, 98, 156, 160, 161, 214–215, 219, 235, 267; Temokomoko (Chichagov) Point, 216;Vai‘oa (Nevka) River, 218–219, 264;Vaitu stream, 109, 110, 111, 167 Nuku Hivan persons: ‘Guta’, 264–266; Titi kaki’oko puhi (Titkia Wobusi), 187, 188, 196, 213; To‘omoko, 264. See also Kiatonui, chieftain of Taio Hae; Kiatonui’s family; Pahutini, chieftain of Hakaui Valley; religion: priests; Robarts: and Hinahoata Nuku Hivans: body compared to classical forms, 106, 112, 119, 124–125,

297

146–147, 189, 192, 200; and cannibalism, 130–134, 158, 165, 171–172, 185, 230–231, 263, 266–268; dancing and singing, 82, 94, 112, 116, 118, 130–132, 134, 162, 178, 185, 187, 199, 220, 253, 254, 257, 265; masculinity, 123–126, 130, 146, 240; ‘nakedness’ of, 117, 126–127, 137, 187; physical abilities of, 91–92, 123; physical appearance of, 98, 117, 119, 123–128, 240; population estimates, 96, 219; social structure, 84, 96–99; Taipi tribe, 59, 61, 115, 173; Tei‘i tribe, 61, 96. See also encounters; haka‘iki (chieftain); ka‘ioi and pokoehu; kava; Marquesan language; pekio; religion; taboo; tattoo; tohua; women and girls of Nuku Hiva Obeyesekere, Gananath, 132 Oeser, Adam Friedrich, 23 Omai (Mai), Tahitian, 253, 257 Ottino-Garanger, P. and M.-N., 8, 104, 151 Pahutini (Bauting, Poutinne), chieftain of Hakaui Valley, 101, 203, 217–218, 225–226; U‘uhui, his wife, 225 Panaev, Fedor, 253 Paul I, 11, 28 pekio, secondary husband, 122–123, 173, 257 periodicals: Allgemeine Geographische Ephemeriden, 247; Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 102, 104, 244; Historical, Statistical and Political Journal, 247; Journal für die neuesten Land- und Seereisen, 247; Lyceum, 244; Magazin der Naturkunde, 244; Monatliche Correspondenz, 22; Northern Mercury, 247; Russian Invalid, 251; St Petersburg Herald, 246; Technological Journal, 244; The Philosophical Magazine, 20,

298

85, 88, 129, 244; Vestnik Evropy, 15, 16 Peter the Great, 27, 28, 41 Phipps, Constantine John, 41 Pierce, Richard, 6 Piron, Jean, 104–107, 121, 188–189 Polynesians, 93, 94, 104, 128, 132, 145, 156, 163, 173, 204 Pomare, Queen, 193 Ponafidin, Zakhar, 264 Port Anna Maria, 54, 55, 58 Porter, David, 69, 78, 109, 126, 176, 180, 267, 269n. 4, 270nn. 1, 2 Porter, Jane, 255 Porter, Robert Ker, 254–255 Portugal, 23, 24 Povalishin, Petr, 19, 167, 214, 246 Prichetnikov,Vasily, 33 Pushkin, Alexander, 32, 129, 261–262, 263 RAC. See Russian-American Company race. See human difference Raevsky, Alexey, 19 Rappard, Achim von, ix, 150–151 Rappard, Renate von, ix, 150–151 Ratmanov, Makar Ivanovich, 14; biographical notes, 14, 249; on board, 38, 44–46, 50, 240, 245, 258; drawing by, 15, 43; on expedition members, 27, 45, 50, 251; on explorers, 39, 41–43; and leadership dispute, 206–212, 241; at Nuku Hiva, 57, 92, 152, 204, 215; on Nuku Hivans, 57, 60, 70, 94, 98, 125–126, 133, 145–147, 149–150, 161, 167, 169, 200; personality, 15, 37; on Robarts and Kabris, 66–67, 75, 77; writings, 5, 6, 248 Razumovsky, Alexei Kirillovich, 254, 271n. 5 Reichel, Karl, 32, 260 religion, 98, 181–187: etua, deity, 148,

Index

175, 182, 183, 225–226; me‘ae (morai), burial ground, 131, 170, 175–182, 177, 178, 179, 180, 220–221, 222, 223; ‘possession’, 77, 185–187, 186. See also taboo religion and tau`a, priests, 7, 97, 98, 105, 113–114, 121, 176–177, 182–185, 221; Hautapu, 184; Keotete, 265, 267–268; Moate‘i‘i, 101, 102; Paehonu, 184; Tau‘a Matareva, 225, 228; Taua Tia (Touwattea, Dovatia), 184, 270n. 2; Tokoi‘apu‘u, 264–265, 267, 268; ‘Veketu’, 176 Rezanov (Resanoff), Nikolai Petrovich, 28; biographical notes, 27–28; on board, 39, 41, 42, 44–51, 138, 239–240, 258–259, 261; diplomatic mission to Japan, 1, 23, 29, 31, 242–243; in North America, 243–245, 246; at Nuku Hiva, 57, 94, 157–158, 162, 170, 175–176, 190, 192, 214, 230, 270n. 4; on Nuku Hivans, 58, 85–86, 95, 100, 113, 130, 145–146, 149–150, 169, 178–180, 182, 184–185, 201; personality, 27–30, 244–245, 253; on Robarts and Kabris, 66–68, 78, 240, 253; role in expedition, 1–4, 34, 42, 53, 55; writings, 5, 42, 251. See also Arguello, Concepción de; expedition, Russian: leadership dispute; ‘Juno and Avos’ Rezanova (Shelikhova), Anna, 28–29, 45, 244 Robarts, Edward: animosity for Kabris, 78, 166, 234–235; assisting visitors, 62–63, 68–70, 72, 92, 109–111, 118, 143, 154, 156, 167, 170, 172, 175–176, 214, 221, 223–224; biographical notes and personality, 60–63, 65–69, 189–190, 236–237, 270n. 3; and Hinahoata (Ena-o-aea-ta), his wife, 68, 190–191, 195, 229, 237; influencing the Russians,



Index

63, 113, 130–134, 161–162, 231; knowledge of languages, 65–67, 68, 224; on Marquesan language, 60, 142–143, 176, 183, 243; and Nuku Hivan culture, 62, 65–68, 176, 181–182, 243; and Nuku Hivans, 60, 63, 69, 96, 114, 138, 147–148, 177, 181, 185, 219, 220, 229, 236; and Nuku Hivan women, 68, 85–86, 88, 89, 128, 139, 195–196, 198–199; on the Russian visit, 13, 65, 67–69, 84, 137–139, 190, 194, 195, 223–224, 228–229, 236; tattoo, 65–66, 76, 149; writings, 6, 69, 134, 167 Roberts, Josiah, 58 Roberts, Englishman. See Robarts, Edward Romanzoff, Nicolas. See Rumiantsev, Nikolai Romberg, Friedrich von (Fedor Ivanovich): biographical notes, 15–16, 249; on board, 38, 43, 49, 206, 245; and leadership dispute, 208; at Nuku Hiva, 74, 139; on Nuku Hivans, 79, 81, 90, 126, 133, 145, 153; personality, 37, 43; writings, 6, 16, 249 Rozina, Liubov, 252 Rumiantsev, Nikolai, 1, 3, 19, 21–23, 33, 39, 41, 53, 208, 243 Russian America, 29, 30, 31, 48, 214, 243–245, 246, 250, 251, 259; Alaska, 6, 29, 41, 248, 259; Aleutian Islands, 35, 259–260; Cape Krusenstern, 248; Chichagof Island, 216; Kodiak Island, 34, 240; New Archangel, 244; Sitka, 244, 260. See also RussianAmerican Company Russian-American Company: activities in the Pacific, 1, 6, 28–29, 34, 249, 264; and expedition, 29, 35, 42, 49–50, 53, 74, 139–141, 204–205,

299

252; and leadership conflict, 48–49, 208, 212, 243 Russian Empire: Belgorod, 34; Irkutsk, 28, 259; Kazan, 129, 251, 252, 254, 260; Kiev, 34; Krasnoyarsk, 244, 253; Kronshtadt, 1, 2, 9, 29, 44, 77, 140, 157, 210–211, 256, 263; Moscow, 4, 34, 43, 129, 252, 254, 271n. 5; Nezhin, 13; Okhotsk, 34, 35, 244; Olonetsk, 16; Orel, 33; Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, 241–242, 259; Pskov, 28; Sakhalin Island, 31, 243; Sevsk, 34; St Petersburg, 2, 3, 9, 26, 27, 31, 34, 35, 39, 43, 68, 138, 159, 219, 234, 244, 246, 247, 250–252, 254–257, 274–275; Tobolsk, 34; Toropets, 14, 138;Veliky Ustiug, 34. See also Estonia; Far East; Kamchatka; Russian America; Siberia Salmond, Anne, 7 Sandwich Islands. See Hawai‘i Selifontov, Ivan, 259 Senroku. See Kiselev, Petr Sgibnev, Alexander, 27, 242 Shafranovskaia, Tamara, ix, 5, 6 Shelikhov, Grigory, 28–29, 34 Shemelin, Fedor Ivanovich: biographical notes, 34–35; on board, 49–50, 239–240, 245, 253–254, 258; and leadership dispute, 206–212; at Nuku Hiva, 57, 170, 178, 194, 234; on Nuku Hivans, 57, 70–71, 80–81, 83, 86–87, 94–99, 114, 118, 123, 124, 126, 127–128, 133, 145–147, 158–162, 169, 181–182, 184–185, 228, 230, 232; personality, 35, 160; on Robarts and Kabris, 61, 65–66, 68, 235, 240; writings, 5, 6, 30, 35, 158, 244, 251, 270n. 1. See also barter: Shemelin’s attitudes ships: Betsy, 59, 60, 62, 157, 269nn. 1, 3; Butterworth, 60; Daedalus, 58–59;

300

Index

Diana, 263; Duff, 60, 86; Endeavour, 36; Hope, 58; Jefferson, 58; Kamchatka, 263; Krotky, 2, 263–268; Kruzenshtern, 4; Kutuzov, 254; London, 59, 61; Minerva, 61; Nadezhda, 1, 5, 14, 29–30, 33–37, 39–40, 42–43, 47–51, 53–54, 137, 204, 207, 230–234, 240, 243, 245–246; Neva, 1, 11–12, 19, 36, 53–54, 57, 115–118, 137–139, 153–155, 194–201, 225, 230, 240, 245–246; New Euphrates, 59, 60, 61; Predpriiatie, 249; Riurik, 152, 249; Solide, 38, 58; Suvorov, 264; Vostok, 249 Siberia, 28, 31, 34, 41, 48, 244, 250, 251, 260 Sidgam (Sydham), Ivan Matveevich, 21 Skotnikov, Egor, 120, 121, 197 Society Islands, 84, 181–182; Aratika (Kotzebue), 249; Motu-One (Bellingshausen), 249; Tahanea (Chichagov, Tchitschagoff) Atoll, 216 Sondermann, Frieder, ix, 5, 23, 43–44, 49, 100, 247, 271nn. 1, 4 South Africa, 10, 11 South America: Cape Horn, 1, 44, 53, 115, 214;Valparaiso, 53–54. See also Brazil Steinen, Karl von den, 8, 252 St Helena, Island, 2, 44, 227, 245–246 Suggs, Robert, ix, xi, 68, 77, 80, 89, 95, 100, 101, 102, 116, 173, 174, 176, 183, 188, 198, 218, 225, 264, 270n. 1, 271n. 1 Surnik, Anna, 27 Sverdlov, Leonid, 5 Switzerland, 36; archival sources at, 275; Zurich, 22, 250 taboo, 77, 93–94, 96, 98, 110, 155–156, 163, 175, 182, 184–187, 195; application by the Russian visitors, 87, 93, 109–110, 114

Tahiti, 40, 70, 171, 176, 193, 249, 253, 257, 264. See also Omai; Pomare, Queen Tanna Island, New Hebrides, 153 tattoo, 117, 123, 145–153, 196–198, 247, 249, 250; attitudes to, 81, 129, 146– 148; tattooing of Russians, 151–153, 190–191; terminology for, 145–146. See also Kabris: tattoo; Kiatonui, chieftain: tattoo; Robarts, tattoo Tenerife, Canary Islands, 27, 38, 44–47, 53, 55; Santa Cruz, 42, 52 Terrell, Jennifer, 60, 77, 257 Thomas, Nicholas, ix, 7, 8, 81, 82, 93–94, 96–97, 122, 156, 164, 187, 201, 270n. 1 Tilesius von Tilenau (Tilezius), WilhelmGottlieb (Teofil), 23; as anthropologist, 27, 100, 143, 250, 270n. 1; biographical notes, 23, 249–250; on board, 43, 46, 238–239; drawings by, 6, 23–24, 43–44, 56, 99–108, 119–122, 134, 136, 143, 148, 151, 173–174, 176–181, 183–184, 187– 189, 196–198, 213, 215, 217–218, 223, 228, 235, 244, 247, 249–250, 271n.4; on expedition members, 49; on Marquesan language, 145, 216, 218; as naturalist, 27, 55, 91–92, 157, 223–224, 238–239, 249; at Nuku Hiva, 64, 73, 214, 219, 223–224, 227; on Nuku Hivans, 69–70, 79, 84, 87, 91, 95–97, 99, 123–125, 131–133, 143, 145, 147–153, 161, 167, 182–183, 185–186, 218–219, 221; personality, 24, 26; on Robarts and Kabris, 61–63, 65–67, 75, 78, 92, 253; writings, 2, 5, 6, 24, 92, 99, 239, 244, 247 tohua (paved public square), 159, 176, 220 Tolstoy (Tolstoi), Fedor Ivanovich, 32; biographical notes, 31–32, 259–260; on board, 30, 42–43, 45, 50–52, 58,



Index

129; and Kabris, 77, 240, 254; and leadership dispute, 212, 242, 258– 259; at Nuku Hiva, 152–153, 193; and Nuku Hivans, 130; personality, 32–33, 51, 129–130; tales by and about, 2, 34, 51–52, 130, 135– 136, 193, 258–262; tattoo, 258, 260–261 Tolstoy, Leo, 32, 129, 136, 153, 262 Tonga (Friendly) Islands, 164, 181–182, 189 Tschitschagoff, Pavel. See Chichagov, Pavel Tschitschagoff Port. See Nuku Hiva Island: Hakatea Bay (Port Chichagov) Tuamotu Islands: Tikahau (Krusenstern) Island, 248 Universities: Göttingen, 22, 24, 250; Halle, 21, 269n. 1; Jena, 20; Kharkov, 21; Leipzig, 23, 181; Zurich, 250 Vancouver, George, 38, 39, 40 Vespucci, Amerigo, 41 Vigel, Phillip, 129, 135, 254, 260 Voensky, Konstantin, 27

301

Vorontsov, Semen, 19, 40–41 Voznesensky, Andrei, 5, 245 Wallace, Lee, 88, 95, 134, 191 wars: Anglo-French (1792–1798), 10; Great Patriotic (1941–1945), 3–4; Russian-French (1805–1814), 246, 255; Russo-Swedish (1788–1790), 9–11, 14, 15, 31 Washington, George, 10 White, Joanna, 75, 153 Wilson, William, 40, 86–87, 124 Windle, Kevin, x, xi Women and girls of Nuku Hiva: prepubescent girls and sex, 87–90; physical appearance of, 125–126, 219–220, 240; Russians on sexual customs of, 88–90; sexual customs of, 71, 154, 191, 220, 264, 265; shore encounters with, 159, 191, 219–220; visits to the ships, 84–90, 139, 154, 195–196, 198–201, 207, 269n. 4. See also pekio Wrangel (Vrangel), Ferdinand, 263–267 Zach, Franz Xavier, 11, 22, 49, 244 Zakharov, Ivan, 41

About the Author

E l e n a G o v o r is a research fellow at the Division of Pacific and Asian History at the Australian National University. She received a Ph.D. in history from the Australian National University in 1996. She has published widely in Russia and Australia, including the books Russian Sailors and Travellers in Australia, with Alexander Massov; Australia in the Russian Mirror: Changing Perceptions, 1770–1919; My Dark Brother: The Story of the Illins, a Russian-Aboriginal Family; and Russian Anzacs in Australian History.

Production Notes for Govor | Twelve Days at Nuku Hiva Cover design by Julie Matsuo-Chun Text design by University of Hawai‘i Press production staff ╅╇ with display type in Trajan Pro and text type in Bembo Composition by Santos Barbasa Jr. Printing and binding by the Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group Printed on 60 lb. Text White Opaque, 426 ppi.

ELENA GOVOR

pac i f i c h i s to ry

{ Continued from front flap }

Of related interest the tumultuousÂ�events of the Russians’ stay in Nuku Hiva; the course of the mutiny, its resolution and aftermath; and the extent and nature of the contact between Nuku Hivans and Russians. Govor draws directly on the writings of

Tahitians, Europeans, and the Ecological Exchange

GOVOR

JE N N Y N E WE LL

2010, est. 336 pages, illus. Cloth: ISBN 978-0-8248-3281-0 When Captain Samuel Wallis became the first European to land at Tahiti in June 1767, he left a British flag on shore along with three guinea hens, a pair of turkeys, a pregnant cat, and a garden planted with peas for the chiefess Purea. Bougainville, Cook, Boenechea—all planted seeds of vegetables, grains, and fruit from Europe and elsewhere and gave breeding pairs of cattle, goats, sheep, and poultry to island chiefs. In turn, they were sent away with great quantities of important island resources, including valuable and spiritually significant pigs, trees, and fish. What did these exchanges mean? What was their impact? The answers are often unexpected. They also reveal the ways islanders retained control over their societies and landscapes in an era of increasing European intervention. Trading Nature explores—from both the European and Tahitian perspective—the effects of “ecological exchange” in Tahiti from the mid-eighteenth century to the present day.

jacket illustrations Top, Johann Horner, Taiohae; bottom, Egor Skotnikov and Ignaz Sebastian Klauber after Wilhelm Tilesius, ‘Man from Nuku Hiva Island’. jacket design Julie Matsuo-Chun

is research fellow at the Division of Pacific and Asian History at the Australian National University. ELE NA GOVOR

UNIVERSITY of HAWAI‘I PRESS Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888

ISBN 978-0-8248-3368-8

90000

9 780824 833688 www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

T WELVE D AYS AT N UKU H IVA

the participants themselves, many of whom left accounts of the voyage. Those by the ships’ captains, Krusenstern and Lisiansky, and the naturalist George Langsdorff are well known, but here for the first time, their writings are juxtaposed with recently discovered textual and visual evidence by various members of the expedition in Russian, German, and Japanese—and by the Nuku Hivans themselves. Two sailor-beachcombers, a Frenchman and an Englishman who acted as guides and interpreters, later contributed their own accounts, which feature the words and opinions of islanders. Govor also relies on a myth about the Russian visit recounted by Nuku Hivans to this day. With its unique polyphonic historical approach, Twelve Days at Nuku Hiva presentsÂ�an innovative cross-cultural ethnohistoryÂ�that uncovers new approachesÂ� to—and understandings of—what took place on Nuku Hiva more than two hundredÂ�years ago.

TRADING NATURE

12 TWELVE

DAYS AT NUKU HIVA RUS S I AN E NCO UNT E RS AND M U T IN Y IN T H E SO U T H PA C IF IC

in august 1803 two russian ships, the Nadezhda and the Neva, set off on a round-the-world voyage to carry out scientificÂ�exploration and collect artifacts for Alexander I’s ethnographical museum in St. Petersburg. Russia’s strategic concerns in the north Pacific, however, led the Russian government to include as part of the expedition an embassy to Japan, headed by statesman Nikolai Rezanov, who was given authority over the ships’ commanders without their knowledge. Between them the ships carried an ethnically and socially disparate group of men: Russian educated elite, German naturalists, Siberian merchants, Baltic naval officers, even Japanese passengers. Upon reaching Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas archipelago on May 7, 1804, and for the next twelve days, the naval officers revolted against Rezanov’s command while complex cross-cultural encounters between Russians and islanders occurred. Elena Govor recounts the voyage, reconstructing and exploring in depth { Continued on back flap }