CHAPTER XLI

He slept heavily all night, and did not stir until aroused by the postman on his morning round. Martin felt tired and passive, and went through his letters aimlessly. One thin envelope, from a robber magazine, contained for twenty-two dollars. He had been dunning for it for a year and a half. He noted its amount apathetically. The old-time thrill at receiving a publisher’s check was gone. Unlike his earlier checks, this one was not pregnant with promise of great things to come. To him it was a check for twenty-two dollars, that was all, and it would buy him something to eat.

Another check was in the same mail, sent from a New York weekly in payment for some humorous verse which had been accepted months before. It was for ten dollars. An idea came to him, which he calmly considered. He did not know what he was going to do, and he felt in no hurry to do anything. In the meantime he must live. Also he owed numerous debts. Would it not be a paying investment to put stamps on the huge pile of manuscripts under the table and start them on their travels again? One or two of them might be accepted. That would help him to live. He decided on the investment, and, after he had cashed the checks at the bank down in Oakland, he bought ten dollars’ worth of postage stamps. The thought of going home to cook breakfast in his stuffy little room was repulsive to him. For the first time he refused to consider his debts. He knew that in his room he could manufacture a substantial breakfast at a cost of from fifteen to twenty cents. But, instead, he went into the Forum Cafe and ordered a breakfast that cost two dollars. He tipped the waiter a quarter, and spent fifty cents for a package of Egyptian cigarettes. It was the first time he had smoked since Ruth had asked him to stop. But he could see now no reason why he should not, and besides, he wanted to smoke. And what did the money matter? For five cents he could have bought a package of Durham and brown papers and rolled forty cigarettes—but what of it? Money had no meaning to him now except what it would immediately buy. He was chartless and rudderless, and he had no port to make, while drifting involved the least living, and it was living that hurt.

The days slipped along, and he slept eight hours regularly every night. Though now, while waiting for more checks, he ate in the Japanese restaurants where meals were served for ten cents, his wasted body filled out, as did the hollows in his cheeks. He no longer abused himself with short sleep, overwork, and overstudy. He wrote nothing, and the books were closed. He walked much, out in the hills, and loafed long hours in the quiet parks. He had no friends nor acquaintances, nor did he make any. He had no inclination. He was waiting for some impulse, from he knew not where, to put his stopped life into motion again. In the meantime his life remained run down, planless, and empty and idle.

Once he made a trip to San Francisco to look up the “real dirt.” But at the last moment, as he stepped into the upstairs entrance, he recoiled and turned and fled through the swarming ghetto. He was frightened at the thought of hearing philosophy discussed, and he fled furtively, for fear that some one of the “real dirt” might chance along and recognize him.

Sometimes he glanced over the magazines and newspapers to see how “Ephemera” was being maltreated. It had made a hit. But what a hit! Everybody had read it, and everybody was discussing whether or not it was really poetry. The local papers had taken it up, and daily there appeared columns of learned criticisms, facetious editorials, and serious letters from subscribers. Helen Della Delmar (proclaimed with a flourish of trumpets and rolling of tomtoms to be the greatest woman poet in the United States) denied Brissenden a seat beside her on Pegasus and wrote voluminous letters to the public, proving that he was no poet.

The Parthenon came out in its next number patting itself on the back for the stir it had made, sneering at Sir John Value, and exploiting Brissenden’s death with ruthless commercialism. A newspaper with a sworn circulation of half a million published an original and spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which she gibed and sneered at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a second poem, in which she parodied him.

Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had hated the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred of him had been thrown to the crowd. Daily the vivisection of Beauty went on. Every nincompoop in the land rushed into free print, floating their wizened little egos into the public eye on the surge of Brissenden’s greatness. Quoth one paper: “We have received a letter from a gentleman who wrote a poem just like it, only better, some time ago.” Another paper, in deadly seriousness, reproving Helen Della Delmar for her parody, said: “But unquestionably Miss Delmar wrote it in a moment of badinage and not quite with the respect that one great poet should show to another and perhaps to the greatest. However, whether Miss Delmar be jealous or not of the man who invented ‘Ephemera,’ it is certain that she, like thousands of others, is fascinated by his work, and that the day may come when she will try to write lines like his.”

Ministers began to preach sermons against “Ephemera,” and one, who too stoutly stood for much of its content, was expelled for heresy. The great poem contributed to the gayety of the world. The comic verse-writers and the cartoonists took hold of it with screaming laughter, and in the personal columns of society weeklies jokes were perpetrated on it to the effect that Charley Frensham told Archie Jennings, in confidence, that five lines of“Ephemera” would drive a man to beat a cripple, and that ten lines would send him to the bottom of the river.

Martin did not laugh; nor did he grit his teeth in anger. The effect produced upon him was one of great sadness. In the crash of his whole world, with love on the pinnacle, the crash of magazinedom and the dear public was a small crash indeed. Brissenden had been wholly right in his judgment of the magazines, and he, Martin, had spent arduous and futile years in order to find it out for himself. The magazines were all Brissenden had said they were and more. Well, he was done, he solaced himself. He had hitched his wagon to a star and been landed in a pestiferous marsh. The visions of Tahiti—clean, sweet Tahiti—were coming to him more frequently. And there were the low Paumotus, and the high Marquesas; he saw himself often, now, on board trading schooners or frail little cutters, slipping out at dawn through the reef at Papeete and beginning the long beat through the pearl-atolls to Nukahiva and the Bay of Taiohae, where Tamari, he knew, would kill a pig in honor of his coming, and where Tamari’s flower-garlanded daughters would seize his hands and with song and laughter garland him with flowers. The South Seas were calling, and he knew that sooner or later he would answer the call.

In the meantime he drifted, resting and recuperating after the long traverse he had made through the realm of knowledge.When The Parthenon check of three hundred and fifty dollars was forwarded to him, he turned it over to the local lawyer who had attended to Brissenden’s affairs for his family. Martin took a receipt for the check, and at the same time gave a note for the hundred dollars Brissenden had let him have.

The time was not long when Martin ceased patronizing the Japanese restaurants. At the very moment when he had abandoned the fight, the tide turned. But it had turned too late. Without a thrill he opened a thick envelope from The Millennium,scanned the face of a check that represented three hundred dollars, and noted that it was the payment on acceptance for“Adventure.” Every debt he owed in the world, including the pawnshop, with its usurious interest, amounted to less than a hundred dollars. And when he had paid everything, and lifted the hundred-dollar note with Brissenden’s lawyer, he still had over a hundred dollars in pocket. He ordered a suit of clothes from the tailor and ate his meals in the best cafes in town. He still slept in his little room at Maria’s, but the sight of his new clothes caused the neighborhood children to cease from calling him “hobo” and “tramp” from the roofs of woodsheds and over back fences.

“Wiki-Wiki,”his Hawaiian short story,was bought by Warren’s Monthly for two hundred and fifty dollars. The Northern Review took his essay, “The Cradle of Beauty,”and Mackintosh’s Magazine took“The Palmist”—the poem he had written to Marian. The editors and readers were back from their summer vacations, and manuscripts were being handled quickly. But Martin could not puzzle out what strange whim animated them to this general acceptance of the things they had persistently rejected for two years. Nothing of his had been published. He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.

After it had been refused by a number of magazines, he had taken Brissenden’s rejected advice and started, “The Shame of the Sun” on the round of publishers. After several refusals, Singletree, Darnley & Co. accepted it, promising fall publication. When Martin asked for an advance on royalties, they wrote that such was not their custom, that books of that nature rarely paid for themselves, and that they doubted if his book would sell a thousand copies. Martin figured what the book would earn him on such a sale. Retailed at a dollar, on a royalty of fifteen per cent, it would bring him one hundred and fifty dollars. He decided that if he had it to do over again he would confine himself to fiction. “Adventure,” one-fourth as long, had brought him twice as much from The Millennium.That newspaper paragraph he had read so long ago had been true, after all. The first-class magazines did not pay on acceptance, and they paid well. Not two cents a word, but four cents a word, had The Millennium paid him.And, furthermore, they bought good stuff, too, for were they not buying his? This last thought he accompanied with a grin.

He wrote to Singletree, Darnley & Co. , offering to sell out his rights in“The Shame of the Sun” for a hundred dollars, but they did not care to take the risk. In the meantime he was not in need of money, for several of his later stories had been accepted and paid for. He actually opened a bank account, where, without a debt in the world, he had several hundred dollars to his credit. “Overdue,” after having been declined by a number of magazines, came to rest at the Meredith-Lowell Company. Martin remembered the five dollars Gertrude had given him, and his resolve to return it to her a hundred times over; so he wrote for an advance on royalties of five hundred dollars. To his surprise a check for that amount, accompanied by a contract, came by return mail. He cashed the check into five-dollar gold pieces and telephoned Gertrude that he wanted to see her.

She arrived at the house panting and short of breath from the haste she had made. Apprehensive of trouble, she had stuffed the few dollars she possessed into her hand-satchel; and so sure was she that disaster had overtaken her brother, that she stumbled forward, sobbing, into his arms, at the same time thrusting the satchel mutely at him.

“I’d have come myself,” he said. “But I didn’t want a row with Mr. Higginbotham, and that is what would have surely happened.”

“He’ll be all right after a time,” she assured him, while she wondered what the trouble was that Martin was in. “But you’d best get a job first an’ steady down. Bernard does like to see a man at honest work. That stuff in the newspapers broke ’m all up. I never saw ’m so mad before.”

“I’m not going to get a job,” Martin said with a smile. “And you can tell him so from me. I don’t need a job, and there’s the proof of it.”

He emptied the hundred gold pieces into her lap in a glinting, tinkling stream.

“You remember that fiver you gave me the time I didn’t have carfare? Well, there it is, with ninety-nine brothers of different ages but all of the same size.”

If Gertrude had been frightened when she arrived, she was now in a panic of fear. Her fear was such that it was certitude. She was not suspicious. She was convinced. She looked at Martin in horror, and her heavy limbs shrank under the golden stream as though it were burning her.

“It’s yours,” he laughed.

She burst into tears, and began to moan, “My poor boy, my poor boy!”

He was puzzled for a moment. Then he divined the cause of her agitation and handed her the Meredith-Lowell letter which had accompanied the check. She stumbled through it, pausing now and again to wipe her eyes, and when she had finished, said:—

“An’ does it mean that you come by the money honestly?”

“More honestly than if I’d won it in a lottery. I earned it.”

Slowly faith came back to her, and she reread the letter carefully. It took him long to explain to her the nature of the transaction which had put the money into his possession, and longer still to get her to understand that the money was really hers and that he did not need it.

“I’ll put it in the bank for you,” she said finally.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s yours, to do with as you please, and if you won’t take it, I’ll give it to Maria. She’ll know what to do with it. I’d suggest, though, that you hire a servant and take a good long rest.”

“I’m goin’ to tell Bernard all about it,” she announced, when she was leaving.

Martin winced, then grinned.

“Yes, do,” he said. “And then, maybe, he’ll invite me to dinner again.”

“Yes, he will—I’m sure he will!” she exclaimed fervently, as she drew him to her and kissed and hugged him.

第四十一章

他一动也没动，沉睡了一整夜，第二天早晨邮差来送信才起床。他身体疲倦，情绪消沉，漫无目的地翻动着信件。有一封薄薄的信，是一家强盗杂志社寄来的，里面装着一张二十二块钱的支票。这笔钱他催了有一年半的时间，现在看到了，却无动于衷。昔日在接到出版商的支票时那种激动的心情，现在已一去不复返。这张支票与以前的支票不一样，里面不包含有希望，也不预示伟大的前程。这在他看来仅仅是张二十二块钱的支票，用这点钱可以买点东西吃。

这批信件里还有一张支票，是纽约的一家周刊寄来的。这是几个月前刊登的一首幽默诗的稿酬，总共十块钱。他突然产生了一个想法，随后便冷静地考虑了一番。他不知该干些什么，而且也不急于干什么事情。可是，总得活下去呀。再说，他还欠别人许多钱呢。如果花一笔钱买邮票，把桌下堆积如山的稿件再寄出去，这笔投资划得来吗？也许一两份稿件会被采用，那会有助于他维持生活。最后，他决定投入这笔钱，于是便跑到奥克兰银行兑换了支票，买了十块钱的邮票。一想到回去在自己的那间密不透风的斗室里做饭，他就觉得腻味。他不愿再去考虑那些债务，这对他来说可是第一次。他明明知道只花十五至二十分钱就可以做一顿丰盛的早餐，可他偏偏跑到福伦咖啡馆花两块钱去吃饭。他还给了侍者两角五分钱的小费，又用去五角钱买了一包埃及香烟。自从露丝求他戒烟以来，他这可是第一次抽烟。他现在觉得没必要再戒烟了，再说他很想过过烟瘾。花点钱有什么关系呢？本来，他花五分钱就可以买一包达勒姆烟叶和一些棕色卷烟纸，用这些能卷四十支烟——可这又怎么样呢？如今，除了能买些手头用的东西，钱对他来说毫无意义了。他没有航海图，也没有船舵，不想到任何港口停泊，只是随波逐流，尽量地躲避生活，因为生活伤透了他的心。

光阴一天天流逝，他每天夜里都睡足八个钟点。他一方面等待着寄支票来，一方面还要到日本餐馆吃饭，每顿饭花十分钱，消瘦的身子逐渐有了肉，凹陷的脸颊也日趋丰盈。他不再折磨自己，不再缩短睡眠时间、超负荷工作和学习。他既不动笔写东西，也不看书，倒是经常散步，到山里游玩，或者在寂静的公园里长时间地溜达。他没有朋友，没有熟人，也不想去结交。他没这份心思。他在等待着某种动力使他静止的生活重新活跃起来，可他不知这股动力将来自何处。目前，他的生活依然处于停顿状态，显得漫无目的、空虚和懒散。

一次，他到旧金山去找那些“真正的精英”。可是在最后的那一瞬间，当他迈入楼上的大门时，却缩了回去，转身就朝拥挤的工人区跑去。一想到自己会听到哲学大辩论，他便恐惧万分，偷偷地飞速逃走，生怕碰上一位“真正的精英”，认出他来。

他有的时候翻翻杂志和报纸，想看看《蜉蝣》究竟被糟蹋成了什么样子。《蜉蝣》引起了轰动。但那是怎样的一种轰动！每个人都读过这首诗，每个人都讨论它到底是不是诗。当地的报纸也在讨论这问题，天天都刊出一栏栏的学术性评论、滑稽可笑的社论以及读者一本正经的来信。海伦·德拉·德尔玛（被大吹大擂地封为美国最伟大的女诗人）拒绝让勃力森登和她一道骑木马[1]，写了许多公开信，声明他根本就不是诗人。

《巴特农》制造了这次轰动一时的事件，在下一期上自称自赞了一番，一边嘲笑约翰·瓦留爵士，一边从生意的角度出发，毫无心肝地利用勃力森登的逝世大做文章。一家自称销量达五十万份的报纸刊出了一首海伦·德拉·德尔玛凭灵机一动而写出的标新立异的诗，她在诗中把勃力森登挖苦、嘲笑了一通。另外，她还带着讽刺的态度，模仿勃力森登的笔调写了一首诗。

马丁非止一次为勃力森登的死感到庆幸。勃力森登生前对芸芸众生恨之入骨，而今他心中一切美好和最神圣的东西却在被芸芸众生任意糟蹋。肢解“美”的工作每天都在进行。国内的每个蠢材都乘机在报上大出风头，借着伟大的勃力森登的光，把他们那枯萎、渺小的自我在公众面前显露显露。一份报纸上刊出了这样一段话：“前不久，我们收到一位先生的来信，说他写了一首类似的诗，比勃氏的诗还要优秀。”另一份报纸则以极其严肃的口吻责难海伦·德拉·德尔玛用模仿的笔调写的讽刺诗，说道：“毫无疑问，德尔玛小姐写这首诗时，带着一种揶揄的目的，而并非完全怀着崇敬的心情，这种崇敬是一个诗人对另一个诗人，也许是最伟大的诗人所应有的。不管德尔玛小姐对《蜉蝣》的作者是否嫉妒，有一点是肯定的：她像成千上万的人们一样，被他的作品迷住了，也许有那么一天，她会试笔写他这样的诗篇。”

牧师们开始在布教时抨击《蜉蝣》。有个牧师由于坚决拥护这首诗的大部分内容，竟被冠以拥护异端邪说的罪名，逐出了教会。这部伟大的诗篇给世人带来了娱乐。喜剧诗作家和漫画家欣喜若狂，紧紧抓住这个题材不放，而社交周刊的人物动态栏目登载了许多这方面的笑话，说什么查利·弗莱沙姆曾交心地告诉阿契·吉宁斯，一个人只消把《蜉蝣》看上五行，就会动手揍一个跛子，看上十行就会跳河。

马丁却不觉得好笑，也没有气得咬牙切齿，他对眼前的现象感觉到的只是一种深深的悲哀。他的整个世界以及处于这个世界巅峰的爱情已经崩溃，与之相比，杂志界和尊贵的公众之崩溃，就算不上什么了。勃力森登对杂志的看法是完全正确的，而他马丁却苦苦探索，白白浪费了许多年头才明白过来。杂志界的内幕跟勃力森登所说的一模一样，甚至还要更糟糕些。他的一切都已经结束，他以此安慰着自己。他曾经想入非非，立下了冲天壮志，到头来却摔到了瘟疫横行的沼泽地里。塔希提的幻景——洁净、可近的塔希提——出现在他眼前的次数愈来愈多。另外还有平坦的帕乌莫土群岛以及高耸的马克萨斯群岛[2]；他时常想象着自己搭乘贸易帆船或轻巧的小船，趁黎明时分溜出帕皮提[3]的环礁，开始漫长的航程，穿过产珍珠的珊瑚岛群，直上奴加希伐岛[4]和泰奥海伊湾[5]，他知道，塔马利会在那儿杀猪欢迎他，而塔马利的那些戴着花环的女儿们则会抓住他的手，又唱又笑地为他戴上花环。南洋在召唤他，他知道自己迟早都会应召而去。

在这段时间里，他听之任之地生活着、休息着。在知识王国里走了那么远的路，而今可要恢复恢复体力了。待《巴特农》把三百五十块钱的支票寄给他，他便转手交给了勃力森登家在当地雇的那个为勃力森登料理后事的律师。他转交过支票后，拿到一张收据，同时他又为勃力森登给他的那一百块钱写了张借据。

没过多久，他就不再光顾日本餐馆了。正当他放弃战斗的时候，却时来运转啦。不过，这种转折来得太迟了些。他拆开《千年盛世》寄来的一封薄薄的信，看到一张数额为三百块钱的支票时，心里一点也不感到激动。他留意到，这笔钱是《冒险》的稿酬。他的所有欠款，包括欠那家重利盘剥的当铺的钱，总共不足一百块钱。待他把债务都清理干净，又把一百块钱交给勃力森登的律师，抽回借据，口袋里还剩下一百多块钱。他到裁缝铺做了一套衣服，还三番五次到全城最好的餐馆吃饭。他虽然仍住在玛丽亚家的那间斗室里，但邻里的孩子们看到他身着新装，就不再站在柴房顶上，或者把脑袋探过屋后的篱笆，管他叫“浪子”和“无业游民”了。

《沃伦月刊》花两百五十块钱买下了他的那篇夏威夷题材的短篇小说——《维基-维基》。《北方评论》采用了他的论文《美之发祥地》，《麦金托许氏杂志》采用了《手相专家》——他写给玛丽安的那首诗。编辑和审稿人已经度完暑假归来，稿件处理得很快。马丁摸不着头脑，不知他们到底抽了哪根筋，竟然都采用起两年来一直被他们坚决拒之门外的稿件来。他过去没出版过什么东西呀。别的地方没有人知道他的名字，即便在奥克兰，那几个自以为认识他的人，也只会把他视为声名狼藉的无政府主义者和社会主义者。所以，没法解释为什么大家都突然要起了他的货。这完全是命运在捉弄人。

《太阳的耻辱》遭到数家杂志社的退稿之后，他采纳了勃力森登生前的建议，把它寄给出版社，让它在出版社之间兜圈子。又遭到几次退稿之后，最后辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司接受了它，答应秋季出版。马丁要求预支版权税，可他们写信说这不是他们的惯例，还说这种性质的书一般都保不住本。他们怀疑，他的书销量不会超过一千本。马丁根据这个销量开始计算这本书能给他带来多少钱。零售一块钱一本，按百分之十五的版税率计算，他总共可以拿到一百五十块钱。他心想，如果能从头做起，他一定专门写小说。《冒险》的字数只有其四分之一，但《千年盛世》所付给他的稿酬却多出一倍。如此看来，他在报纸上很久以前看到的那段文章是千真万确的喽。一流杂志的确是一用稿就付酬，而且酬金丰厚。《千年盛世》给他的稿费还不止每字两分钱哩，而是每字四分钱。他们见了好的文章就不惜重金，买他的作品不就是一例吗？想到这一点，他咧嘴笑了。

他写信给辛格尔屈利·达恩莱出版公司，提出想把《太阳的耻辱》的版权以一百块钱的价格卖给他们，可对方却不愿冒这个险。这时，他并不缺钱花，因为他有几篇后期写的小说被采用，并且付了稿费。他无债一身轻，竟然在银行开了个户头，存了好几百块钱。《逾期》遭到数家杂志社的退稿之后，最终在梅瑞迪斯-罗威尔出版公司寻到了归宿。马丁想起葛特露曾给过他五块钱，想起自己曾打算以一百倍的数额偿还她；于是，他写信要求预支五百块钱的版权税。令他感到意外的是，收到的回信中果然附着这个钱数的支票，另外还有一份合同。他把支票兑换成了许多五块钱一枚的金币，然后打电话给葛特露说要见见她。

她风风火火赶来，累得气喘吁吁，上气不接下气。来时她生怕出了什么事，便把身边仅有的几块钱塞进了手提包里；她满以为弟弟遭了大难，此刻只见她跌跌撞撞跑上前来，哭泣着倒入他怀里，同时默默无语地把手提包塞给他。

“我原来想到你那儿去，”他说，“可我不想跟希金波森先生吵架。我真去了，情况肯定会那个样。”

“过一段时间他就会想开的。”她一边安慰马丁，一边却在纳闷，不知他究竟遇到了什么麻烦，“不过，你最好找份工作，安顿下来。伯纳德喜欢的是踏踏实实工作的人。他的火气都是让报上的那篇文章激起来的，以前从没见过他发这么大的脾气。”

“我不打算找工作干，”马丁笑嘻嘻地说，“你可以把这话转告给他。我不需要谋差事，这就是证明。”

他把手一抖，那一百枚金币便倾入了她的衣兜，宛若一条金光闪闪、叮咚作响的小溪。

“还记得有一次我没钱乘车，你给过我五块钱吗？这是还给你的钱，外加九十九个年龄不同但个头相等的兄弟。”

如果说葛特露来时心怀不安，那么此刻她则吓得六神无主。她深感恐惧的是，事情得到了证实。她已经不再是怀疑了，而是深信不疑。她惊恐地望着马丁，粗壮的腿儿直朝后缩，就好像那条金色的小溪烫手似的。

“全是你的了。”他笑着说。

她热泪盈眶，悲伤地念叨着：“可怜的孩子！可怜的孩子！”

他先是不解，随后猜出了令她不安的原因，便把随支票一道寄来的梅瑞迪斯-罗威尔出版公司的那封信递给了她。她结结巴巴读着信，不时停下来擦眼泪，读完之后说道：

“这就是说，这钱是正道得来的？”

“比中彩票还正当，是我挣来的。”

她慢慢地相信了，把信又仔细看了一遍。他花了很长时间才向她解释清这笔钱是通过什么样的渠道挣来的，花了更长的时间才让她明白这钱真的属于她，因为他不需要。

“我替你把钱存到银行里。”她最后说道。

“千万别这样做。这钱是你的，愿买什么就买什么。如果你不愿要，我就给玛丽亚，她知道怎么花。我劝你把钱收下，雇个用人，你自己好好休息休息。”

“我要把这事讲给伯纳德听。”她离别时说。

马丁听了一愣，但随后咧嘴笑了。

“那你就告诉他吧，”他说，“这一来，也许他又会请我吃饭了。”

“是的，他一定会——我敢肯定他准会的！”她一边激动地嚷嚷着，一边把他拉到跟前，又是亲吻又是拥抱。

* * *

[1]　希腊神话中的飞马，象征着诗人的灵感。此处喻指诗坛上的一席之地。

[2]　这两组群岛都处于南太平洋。

[3]　在塔希提岛西北端，为社会群岛首府。

[4]　马克萨斯群岛中的第一大岛。

[5]　马克萨斯群岛的首府所在地。