The Starry Threshold
The only visible reminder which I have now of my residence on "the
island where the souls were eaten" is a pocket notebook of penciled
comment, with a dozen pages, blank and fair, at the back--in
themselves a reminder of the fragmentary nature of that adventure
in solitude, of the blank pages at the close of every chapter of
experience, awaiting the final comment which is never set down. It
is a small notebook of Chinese manufacture, with a pretty fantasy
of flowers woven through the word "Memoranda," and butterflies with
wings of gold-and-blue hovering over it, meant to suggest, perhaps,
that one's memories, however happy or however seemingly enduring, are
as ephemeral as they and must soon fade and die. But I am not willing
to accept such a suggestion, to believe that I can ever forget even
the most trivial of the events which took place at Rutiaro or at
Soul-Eaters' Island. By some peculiar virtue of their own they stand
out with the vividness of portions of childhood experience which
remains fixed in the memory when other more important happenings have
been long forgotten.
The casual reader of the notebook would never guess this from the
comment written there. Did he know the length and the nature of my
residence at the atoll, he would be surprised, merely, that with so
much leisure for observation there should be such poverty of recorded
fact. I, myself, am surprised and a little appalled when I think how
the weeks slipped by, leaving me nothing to show for them. I became a
spendthrift of time. I was under the delusion that my own just share
of it had been immeasurably increased, that in some unaccountable way
I had fallen heir to a legacy of hours and days which could never
be exhausted. The delusion was of gradual growth, like the habit
of reverie which fastens itself at last upon the most restless of
wanderers among the atolls. In the beginning I was full of business.
I remember with what earnestness of purpose I wrote on the first
page of the notebook, "Rutiaro: Observations on Life and Character in
the Low Archipelago." I had ambitious plans. I meant to go back and
forth between my hermitage and the village island, notebook in hand,
saying, "_Eaha tera?_" ("What is that?"), "_Nafea ia parau Paumotu?_"
("How do you say this in Paumotuan?"). And when I had learned the
language and had completed my studies of flora and fauna I was to
be the Boswell of the atoll, curious, tireless, not to be rebuked by
the wind rustling the fronds of the palms nor by the voice of the sea
when the wind was low, saying, "Sh-h-h, sh-h-h," on thirty miles of
coral reef.
But I was rebuked--or so it seemed to me--and now, I fear, the
learned monograph is never to be written. A faltering purpose is
plainly indicated in the notebook. It becomes apparent in the first
observation on "The Life and Character of the Paumotuans," which
reads:
Before the starry threshold of Jove's court
My mansion is; where those immortal shapes
Of bright aërial spirits live ensphered
In regions mild, of calm and serene air.
The president of the Polynesian society would say, and rightly, no
doubt, that this is not germane to the subject. But at the time I
wrote it it was so accurately descriptive of the place where my house
stood that it might have been embodied with scarcely the exchange
of a word in an exact real-estate announcement of the location of my
property. I set it down one evening in early summer, the evening of
my first day's residence at Soul-Eaters' Island. The completion of
my house had been celebrated with a feast, and toward midnight I was
left alone, watching the departure of the last of the villagers, who
were returning in their canoes along the ocean side of the atoll. The
sea was as calm as I have ever seen it, and as they went homeward,
dipping their paddles into the shining tracks of the stars, my guests
were singing an old chant. It was one of innumerable verses, telling
of an evil earth spirit in the form of a sea bird which was supposed
to make its home on the _motu_, and at the end of each verse the
voices of the women rose in the refrain which I could hear long after
the canoes had passed from sight:
"_Aué! Aué!
Te nehenehe é!_"
("Alas! Alas!
How beautiful it is!")
a lament that a spirit so vindictive, so pitiless, should be so fair
to outward seeming.
Standing at the starry threshold, listening to the ghostly refrain,
I translated its application--its meaning, too--from the bird to
the island where, perhaps, I would one day see it in my rambles.
I regretted that it was so inaccessible, so remote and hidden from
the world, as though that were not more than half the reason for its
untarnished beauty. It is a maudlin feeling, that of sadness at the
thought of loveliness hidden from appraising eyes; and I am inclined
to think that it springs, not so much from an unselfish desire
to share it, as from a vulgar longing to say to one's gregarious
fellows: "See what I have found! Can you show me anything to equal
it in beauty, you dwellers in cities?" Whatever its source in this
case, I was glad that it passed quickly. No tears stained my pillow,
even though I knew that Rutiaro could never be the goal of Sunday
excursionists. But I was not quite easy in mind as I composed myself
for sleep. I had made a poor beginning as a diarist. The first
entry was fanciful and, furthermore, not my own. What original
contribution to truth or beauty could I make as a result of the day's
events? Finally I rose, lit my lamp, and wrote, underneath the Comus
quotation:
"The Paumotuans are very fond of perfume. This is probably due to
the fact that their islands, being scantly provided with flowers
and sweet-smelling herbs, they take this means of satisfying their
craving for fragrant odors."
Alas! Alas!
How erroneous it was!
that observation. But I thought when I made it that it was based upon
a careful enough consideration of the facts. During the afternoon
I had distributed some gifts among my guests, chiefly among the
children. I had some bolts of ribbon and dress goods, some earrings
and bracelets, thinly washed in gold, which I had bought, on credit,
of Moy Ling, the Chinaman, and I had been saving them for just such
an occasion as the feast at Soul-Eaters' Island. I also had a case
of perfume which Moy had been very reluctant to part with--perfume
and toilet waters in fancy bottles, with quaint legends printed on
the labels--"June Rose," which the makers admitted had "as much body
as higher-priced perfumes"; "Wild Violet: Like a faint breath from
the forest floor"; "Khiva Bouquet: The Soul of the Exquisite Orient";
etc. This gift was greatly coveted. Pinga immediately took charge of
the three bottles I had given his daughters and packed them carefully
in a _pareu_, together with a bottle of bay rum presented to him
by virtue of his office as village barber. Rangituki went among
her grandchildren scolding and rating, until she had made a similar
collection, and in a short time all of the perfume was in the hands
of a few of the older people. This seemed to me rather high-handed
procedure, but it was not my place to interfere with parental and
grandparental authority. And it was as well, perhaps, that the
children should be restrained. Otherwise they would have saturated
their clothing and their hair, and the atoll would have smelled to
heaven or very near it.
I thought no more of the episode until the following Sunday when
I went to church at the village. A combined service of Latter Day
Saints and the Reformed Church of Latter Day Saints was being held,
an amicable arrangement which would have scandalized the white
missionaries of those rival denominations. But at Rutiaro Saints
and Reformed Saints live together peaceably enough and, being few in
numbers, they often join forces for greater effect in the _himines_.
The meeting was held in the Reformed church, a sightly structure
built entirely of _niau_--the braided fronds of coconut palms--and
the earthern floor was covered with mats of the same material. At one
end of the room there was a raised platform and a deal table which
served as a pulpit. The walls lengthwise were built to prop open
outward, giving free circulation to the air and charming views of the
shaded floor of the island and the blue waters of the lagoon.
The church was full, the men sitting on one side and the women on the
other, according to island custom, and the children playing about
on the floor between the benches. Many of the older people, too,
sat on the floor with their backs to the posts which supported the
roof. Interest lagged during the intervals between the singing, and
although Huirai was preaching in his usual forceful, denunciatory
manner, I found my own thoughts wandering on secular paths. Of a
sudden it occurred to me that June Rose should be discernible among
the women of the congregation if it had as much body as had been
claimed for it. But I could not detect its presence nor did the
faintest breath reach me from the forest floor. I was conscious only
of the penetrating odor of drying copra which came through the open
windows and the not unpleasant smell of coconut oil.
What had become of the perfume, I wondered. On Sunday, if at all, it
should have been in evidence, for the women were in white dresses and
before coming to church had made their most elaborate toilet of the
week. But Huirai was warming to his theme and demanded attention, at
least from me, not having heard him preach before. He had removed
his coat and was perspiring and exhorting in a way which would
have pleased the most devout and gloomy of missionaries. He had a
peculiar oratorical manner. His face foretold clearly the birth of
an idea. One could read there the first vague impulse in the brain
which gave rise to it; see it gathering lucidity, glimmering, like
heat lightning on a summer evening, in his cloudy mind, until it
was given utterance in a voice of thunder, which rumbled away to
silence as the light of creation died out of his eyes. Then he would
stand motionless, gazing on vacancy, profoundly unself-conscious,
as though he were merely the passionless mouthpiece of some higher
power. The abruptness of his outbursts and his ferocious aspect when
delivering them were disconcerting; and it was even worse when, at
intervals, his eyes met mine. Even though he were in the midst of a
sentence he would pause and his face would beam with a radiant smile,
in striking contrast to the forbidding scowl of the moment before.
Remembering his mission, he would then proceed in his former manner.
Without understanding his discourse, one would have said that he was
condemning all of his auditors, who had evidently been guilty of the
most frightful sins. But this was not the case. His sentences were
short and in the periods of silence between them I had time to make a
translation.
"_Ua taparahi Kaina ia Abela_ (Cain killed Abel).... Why did he
kill him?... Because he was a bad man, a very bad man--(_taata
ino roa_).... He was jealous of Abel, whom God loved because he
willingly brought him gifts from his plantation.... Abel did not keep
everything for himself.... He said to God, '_Teie te faraoa na Oe_'
('Here is bread for you').... He gave other things, too, many things,
and he was glad to give them."
Huirai talked at great length on this theme, the members of the
congregation sometimes listening and sometimes conversing among
themselves. They had no scruples about interrupting the sermon.
While Huirai was awaiting further inspiration hymns were started by
the women and taken up at once by the others. Pinga, who sang bass
parts, rocked back and forth to the cadence, one hand cupped over his
right ear, the better to enjoy the effect of the music. Rangituki,
who went to the different churches in turn, because of the _himines_,
had one of her granddaughters in her lap, and while she sang made a
careful examination of the child's head, in search of a tiny parasite
which favored that nesting place. Nui-Vahine sat with her breast
bare, suckling a three-months-old baby. Old men and women and young,
even the children, sang. Huirai alone was silent, gazing with moody
abstraction over the heads of the congregation as he pondered further
the ethical points at issue in the Cain and Abel story.
I had witnessed many scenes like this during the months spent in
cruising among the atolls on the _Caleb S. Winship_--scenes to
interest one again and again and to furnish food for a great deal
of futile speculation. How important a thing in the lives of these
primitive people is this religion of ours which has replaced their
old beliefs and superstitions? It would be absurd to say, "how
fundamental," for religious faith is of slow growth and it was only
yesterday, as time is counted, that the ship _Duff_, carrying the
first missionaries who had ever visited this southern ocean, came to
anchor at Tahiti. One of Huirai's remarks called to mind an account I
had read of that first meeting between Christian missionaries and the
heathen they had come to save. It is to be found in the narrative of
the _Duff's_ three years' voyage in the south Pacific, published in
1799, by the London Missionary Society:
_Sunday, March 5, 1797._
The morning was pleasant, and with a gentle breeze we had, by
seven o'clock, got abreast of the district of Atahooroo, whence we
saw several canoes putting off and paddling toward us with great
speed; at the same time it fell calm, which, being in their favor,
we soon counted seventy-four canoes around us, many of them double
ones, containing about twenty persons each. Being so numerous, we
endeavored to keep them from crowding on board; but, in spite of
all our efforts to prevent it, there were soon not less than one
hundred of them dancing and capering like frantic persons about our
decks, crying, "_Tayo! Tayo!_" and a few broken sentences of English
were often repeated. They had no weapons of any kind among them;
however, to keep them in awe, some of the great guns were ordered to
be hoisted out of the hold whilst they, as free from apprehension
as the intention of mischief, cheerfully assisted to put them on
their carriages. When the first ceremonies were over, we began to
view our new friends with an eye of inquiry; their wild, disorderly
behavior, strong smell of coconut oil, together with the tricks
of the _arreoies_, lessened the favorable opinion we had formed
of them; neither could we see aught of that elegance and beauty in
their women for which they have been so greatly celebrated. This at
first seemed to depreciate them in the estimation of our brethren;
but the cheerfulness, good nature, and generosity of these kind
people soon removed the momentary prejudices.... They continued
to go about the decks till the transports of their joy gradually
subsided, when many of them left us of their own accord.... Those
who remained, in number about forty, being brought to order, the
brethren proposed having divine service on the quarterdeck. Mr.
Cover officiated; he perhaps was the first that ever mentioned with
reverence the Saviour's name to these poor heathens. Such hymns
were selected as had the most harmonious tunes--first, "O'er the
Gloomy Hills of Darkness"; then, "Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow"; and
at the conclusion, "Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow."...
The whole service lasted about an hour and a quarter.
How clear a picture one has of the scene, described by men whose
purity of faith, whose sincerity of belief, were beyond question.
But one smiles a little sadly at the thought of their austerity,
their total lack of that other divine attribute--a sense of humor.
"_Tayo! Tayo!_" ("Friend! Friend!") the Tahitians cried, and the
missionaries, to requite them for their kindly welcome, organized
a prayer meeting an hour and a quarter in length, and sang, "O'er
the Gloomy Hills of Darkness." It was a prophecy, that song. The
Tahitians and others of the Polynesian family have gone far on that
road since 1797.
Of course one doesn't blame the missionaries for this; but it seems
to me that the chief benefit resulting from the Christianizing
process is that it has offset some of the evils resulting from
the rest of the civilizing process. This was not the opinion of
Tino, supercargo of the _Caleb S. Winship_, however. I remember a
conversation which I had with him on the subject, when Rutiaro itself
lay within view, but still far distant. For the sake of argument I
had made some willfully disparaging remark about traders, and Tino
had taken exception to it.
"You're wrong," he said. "You know as well as I do--or maybe you
don't--what these people used to be: cannibals, and not so many years
ago at that. I don't suppose you would call it a genteel practice?
Well, what stopped it? I'll tell you what stopped it--tinned beef."
That was a new angle of vision to me. I said nothing, but I thought
I could detect a hint of a smile in his eyes as he waited for the
statement to sink in.
"I have had some fun in my time," he went on, "arguing this out with
the missionaries. I say tinned beef and they say the four gospels.
Can't be proved either way, of course. But suppose, right now, every
trading schooner in the archipelago was to lay a course for Papeete.
Suppose not one of them was to go back to the atolls for the next
twenty-five years. Leave the people to themselves, as you say, and
let them have their missionaries, with the Golden Rule in one hand
and the Ten Commandments in the other. What chance would they have of
dying a natural death? The missionaries, I mean. About as much chance
as I have of getting old Maroaki at Taka Raro to pay me the eight
hundred francs he owes me.
"What makes me laugh inside is that the missionaries are so serious
about the influence they have had on the natives. I could tell them
some things--but what would be the use? They wouldn't believe me.
Just before we left Papeete this time I was talking to one of the
Protestants. He told me that his Church had two thousand converts
in French Oceania, while the Catholics had only around six hundred,
I believe it was. I said that I knew how he could get that extra
six hundred into his own fold, and probably a good many more if he
wanted to. All he had to do was to charter my schooner, load her with
Tahiti produce--bananas, mangoes, oranges, breadfruit; he needn't
take a single gallon of rum unless he wanted to. Then we would make
a tour of the islands, holding church festivals, with refreshments,
at every one; and at the end of the cruise I would guarantee that
there wouldn't be a Catholic left in all the Paumotus. He didn't take
to the plan at all, and of course it did have one weak point--if
the Brothers tried the same game they would have just the same
success, and nobody could tell from one week to the next which were
Protestants and which were Catholics.
"That's about what happened at Taka Raro the last time I was down
there. The population is supposed to be divided about half and
half between the Latter Day Saints and the Catholics. There are no
missionaries living on the island. The head churches in Papeete send
their men around when they can to see how things are going with their
flocks. That is usually about once a year for each of them. Boats
don't often put in at Taka Raro. I've been there only four times in
ten years, myself, and the last time I brought down a young fellow
from the Protestant crowd. He had been with me the whole cruise,
holding services at the islands where I had put in for copra. I
hadn't gone to any of them, but at Taka Raro I felt the need of some
religion. I had spent the whole day chasing that Maroaki I spoke
about. The old rascal has owed me that eight hundred francs since
nineteen ten. He is an elder in his church too. The minute he makes
out my schooner standing in toward the pass off he goes on important
business to the far end of the lagoon. I went after him that day,
with my usual luck. He wasn't to be found, and I came back to the
village feeling a bit ruffled up.
"It was just time for the meeting, and I decided that I might as
well go as to loaf around finding that old hypocrite while my copra
was being loaded. The church was packed when I went in. There wasn't
a Catholic in the village that evening. All of those who had been
Catholics were taking part in the _himine_ and singing the Protestant
songs as well as the Latter Day Saints'. No one seemed to pay
much attention to the sermon, though. The young missionary didn't
understand the language very well, and the preaching was hard for
him. But he seemed to feel pretty good about the meeting, and when
we left, the next day, he went down to the cabin to write a report
of the progress his church had made at Taka Raro. He must have had
a lot to say, for he was at it all the morning. He didn't know that
we passed the _Ata_ just after we got out of the pass. That made
me feel good, for Louis Germaine, her skipper, has been a rival of
mine for years, and I had every kilo of dry copra there was on the
island. I got the megaphone and was about to yell, 'Good luck to you,
Louis!' when I saw that he had a missionary aboard, too--a priest
with a knee-length beard and a black cloak; so I only waved my hand
and Louis shook his fist and shouted something I couldn't make out.
I was going to the westward, stood close inshore, and passed the
village from the outside an hour later. The priest hadn't lost any
time getting his congregation together. Since there was no copra to
be bought, I suppose Louis told him he had to get a move on. There
had been another religious landslide. I was sure of that from the
singing, which I heard clear enough, the wind being offshore. Great
singers these Paumotuans, and it doesn't make very much difference to
them whether the song is 'Happy Day' or 'Jerusalem, the Golden.' Of
course I didn't say anything to my missionary. As the old saying is,
'What you don't know won't hurt you.'"
This conversation with Tino was running through my mind as I
strolled down the village island after the service. Tino, I decided,
was prejudiced. His was the typical trader's point of view. I had
heard many other incidents which bore him out in his findings, but
they came usually from men interested in exploiting the islands
commercially. Huirai's exposition of the old biblical story--was that
merely the result of a prolonged tinned-beef crusade? Remembering
the kind of sacrifice which was discussed, very likely on this very
island, in the days of pure heathendom, such a conclusion seemed
fantastical. No, one must be fair to the missionaries. Perhaps they
were over-zealous at times, oversanguine about the results of their
efforts--so were all human beings in whatever line of endeavor; but
their accomplishment had been undeniably great. Here were people
living orderly, quiet lives. They didn't drink, although in the early
days of their contact with civilization--until quite recently, in
fact--there had been terrible orgies of intoxication. To overcome
that was, in itself, a worthwhile accomplishment on the part of
the Church. Only a few weeks before I had met Monsieur Ferlys, the
administrator of the Paumotus, at Taenga. "The reign of alcohol is
over," he had said to the islanders there--strange words, coming from
the lips of a Frenchman. There was to be no more rum nor gin nor wine
for any of the Paumotuans. Henceforth, any trader found selling it or
any native drinking it was to be severely punished.
I continued my walk to the far end of the island and, selecting a
shady spot, sat down to rest. The pressure of a notebook in my hip
pocket interrupted my examination of the problem, "The missionary
_versus_ the trader as a civilizing influence." I was reminded that
I had made no recent observations on the life and character of the
Paumotuans, and the recollection was annoying. Was I never to be able
to pursue, in indolence, my unprofitable musings? Why this persistent
feeling that I must set them down in black and white? Why sully the
fair pages of my notebook? Words, words! The world was buried beneath
their visible manifestations, and still the interminable clacking of
innumerable typewriters, the roar of glutted presses. In the mind's
eye I saw magnificent forests being destroyed to feed this depraved
appetite for words, which were piled mountain high in libraries;
which encumbered all the attics in Christendom. Words, blowing about
the streets and littering the parks on Sundays; filling the ash
carts on Mondays. "No," I thought, "I will no longer be guilty of
adding to the sum of words. I'll not write my learned monograph." But
that inner voice, which itself is a creature born of many words--an
artificial thing, however insistent its utterance--spoke out loud
and clear: "You idler! You waster of your inheritance of energy! You
throwback to barbarism--write!"
"But why?" I replied. "Tell me that! Why?"
"Sir, because it is your vocation. And have you no convictions?
Your grandfather had them, and your great-grandfather, and those
missionaries of the _Duff_ you have been thinking about. Ah! the
decay of convictions in this age! The lack of that old sublime belief
in something--anything! Now then, I have come down to you through
a long line of ancestors, and I don't mean to die through lack of
exercise. You may not believe in me, but you've got to obey me.
Write!"
I know that I should have no peace until I did, so I drew forth my
notebook and, in line with my thoughts of a moment before, wrote,
underneath the last observation on perfume: "The sale and consumption
of alcoholic beverages among these islands is now prohibited by law.
It is strange to find such legislation in territory under French
administration. Is the prohibition movement to become world-wide,
then? Is the reign of alcohol doomed in all lands?"
Exhausted by the mental effort, but somewhat easier in conscience, I
replaced the notebook in my pocket. It was pleasant then to let the
mind lie fallow or to occupy it with the reception of mere visual
impressions. At length, although I didn't sleep, I was scarcely more
animate then the fluted shell lying close by on the beach or the
_kopapa_ bushes which formed a green inclosure around my resting
place.
Something whirled through the air over my head and fell with a light
splash in the water before me. I sat gazing at it without curiosity,
hardly moved, so slowly does one come out of the depths of dreamless
reverie. Little waves pushed the object gently shoreward until it
lay, rolling back and forth in a few inches of clear water. "What!"
I shouted. I didn't actually shout--I didn't open my lips; but the
shock of astonishment seemed vocal--as loud as a blare of trumpets or
a clash of cymbals. Before me lay a prettily fashioned bottle, half
filled with sea water, and the label on it read, "Khiva Bouquet: The
Soul of the Exquisite Orient." "Impossible!" I thought. "I am three
miles from the village and no one lives at this end of the island."
Then I heard voices or, better, one voice which I recognized as that
of Rangituki. She was talking in a low monotone, her most effective
manner when reciting one of her interminable stories of former days.
Cautiously I pushed aside the bushes and looked through. Rangituki
was sitting about twenty yards away, in the midst of a company
of five. Pinga was one of them and Tevai another--both fathers of
families and both much concerned, a few days earlier, lest their
children should waste the perfume I had given them. Pinga took a pull
at a bottle which I identified as belonging to Wild Violet. He made
a wry face as he did it, but he took another and then another, before
he set it down. The wind was toward me, and as the corks popped--or,
more accurately, as stoppers were lifted--I was forced to admit that
June Rose had body, impalpable, perhaps, but authentic.
I passed the furtive revelers unnoticed by going along the lagoon
beach, keeping under the screen of _kopapa_ bushes. Should I tell
Puarei, the chief, of this evasion of the law? I decided that I would
not, for he was a stern man and would punish the culprits severely.
After all, on an island where there were so few distractions, what
was a little perfume among friends?
All of which proves plainly enough, it seems to me, the folly of
keeping a notebook; at any rate, the folly of jumping hastily to
conclusions.
Or perhaps, more important than this, it gives further light on the
vexed question, Does prohibition prohibit?
* * * * *
I find no other observations on Paumotuan life and character, under
this date, unless the word, "_Mama-faaamu_" scribbled on the margin
of a leaf, may be regarded as a discouraged hint at one; a suggestion
for a commentary on a curious Polynesian relationship, when--and only
when--I should have had time to gather all of the available data
concerning it. This relationship has to do with the transfer of a
child, or children, from the original blood parents to another set
known as "feeding-parents." My interest in the practice dates from
the moment when I made my first notebook reference to it, and it was
aroused in a very casual, leisurely fashion. For this reason it will
be best, I think, to tell the story of it in a leisurely way.
Returning to the village from the scene of the perfume orgy, I found
the church still occupied, although the service was long over.
The benches had been stacked in one corner; the mats shaken out
and spread again on the floor, where fifteen or twenty people were
reclining at ease or sitting native fashion--some of them talking,
some sleeping, some engaged in light tasks such as hat weaving and
the fashioning of pearl-shell fish hooks; others in the yet more
congenial task of doing nothing at all. It was the practice, on
Sunday, for the village to gather at the Reformed church, which they
felt at liberty to use for secular as well as for sacred purposes,
for it was a native-built structure, with walls and roof of thatch,
like those of their own houses. The two other churches were never
so used. They were frame buildings, in the European or American
style of church architecture, with formal furnishings and windows of
colored glass. To have done any sort of work in either of them would
have been regarded as a serious offense, certain to be followed by
unmistakable evidence of divine displeasure. As Tuina once told me,
sores, illness, even death might result as a punishment for such
desecration.
I was thinking of this and other primitive reactions to
ecclesiastical furniture, and my hand was faltering toward my
notebook pocket when Huirai's little daughter, Manava, entered the
church, carrying a white cloth which she spread on the pulpit table.
She returned a moment later with a tin of sardines, some boiled rice
on a _kahaia_ leaf, and a bowl of tea. I was Huirai's guest for the
day, and had been anxiously awaiting some evidence that food was
on the way; but I had not expected that it would be served in the
church. I had not eaten a church dinner since boyhood, and, strangely
enough, the memory of some of those early feasts came back to me
while Manava was setting the table. As one scene is superimposed
upon another on a moving-picture screen, I saw an American village
of twenty years ago--a village of board sidewalks and quiet, shaded
streets bright with dandelions, taking ghostly form and transparency
among the palms of Rutiaro. Two small boys walked briskly along,
ringing hand bells, and shouting, "Dinner at the Pres-by-terian
church ri-i-i-ight awa-a-a-ay." The G. A. R. band--a fife, two tenor
drums, and one bass--played outside the church where the crowd was
gathering, and horses, attached to buggies and spring wagons, were
pawing the earth around the hitching posts. Then Mrs. MacGregor
appeared in the doorway, her kindly face beaming the warmest of
welcomes. "Come on in and set down, folks. Everything's all ready."
Members of the Ladies' Relief Corps--mothers of large families,
used to catering for large appetites--hurried back and forth with
platters of roast turkey and chicken, roast beef, mashed potatoes
of marvelous smoothness and flakiness--with everything in the way of
food which that hospitable Middle-Western country provides. I heard
the pleasant talk of homely things, smelled the appetizing odors,
saw plates replenished again and again. Throughout the length of the
tables old-fashioned gravy boats sailed from cover to cover--but I
spared myself further contemplation of the scene, further shadowy
participation in a feast which cost the affluent but a quarter, and a
bell ringer nothing at all. The vision faded, but before it was quite
gone I heard a voice saying: "Land sakes! You boys ain't eating a
thing! Have some more of these dumplings? What's the matter with your
appetites? Ain't you feelin' well?" It seemed a thousand years away,
that voice; and no doubt it was, and is, even farther than that.
Church dinners at Rutiaro were not such sumptuous affairs. They were
not, in fact, an integral part of the community life. In so far as
I know, this was the only one ever held there and was the result of
Huirai's peculiar notions of the hospitality due a white man. I told
him that I was not accustomed to dining in churches at home, even on
Sunday, and, furthermore, that I liked companionship at table. But
he was not convinced, and he refused to join me. He and his family
had already eaten, he said; so I sat on a box at the pulpit table,
partaking of a solitary meal, and got through with it as quickly as
possible.
I smiled inwardly at the thought of the inheritance of prestige,
granted me without question, at Rutiaro, merely because I was the
sole representative there of a so-called superior race. No white
wasters had preceded me at the atoll. This was fortunate in a
way, for it gave me something to live up to--the ideal Rutiaroan
conception of the _popaa_--white man. Huirai was partly responsible
for the fact that it was ideal. His tales of San Francisco--which, to
the Paumotuan, means America--had been steadily growing in splendor.
He seemed to have forgotten whatever he may have seen there of
misery or incompetence or ugliness. All Americans were divinities
of a sort. Their energy was superhuman; their accomplishment, as
exemplified in ships, trains, buildings, automobiles, moving-picture
theaters--beyond all belief unless one had actually seen those
things. And the meanest of them lived on a scale of grandeur far
surpassing that of the governor of the Paumotus at Fakavava. Yes, I
had something to live up to at Rutiaro. The necessity was flattering,
to be sure, but it cost some effort and inconvenience to meet it.
I didn't dare look as slack as I often felt, both mentally and
physically. I could not even sit on the floor, or stretch out at
my ease, when in a native house; and I was compelled, when eating,
to resume the use of my two-pronged fork and the small tin spoon,
although it was much simpler and easier to eat with my fingers as the
rest of them did.
Having finished my meal, I took what comfort prestige permitted by
placing my box by the wall and leaning back against a post. Takiero,
a woman of barbaric beauty, was sitting near by playing, "Conquer
the North" on my ocharina. I taught her the air in an unguarded
moment and had been regretting it ever since. Hunga, her husband,
lay at her side, his strong, fine limbs relaxed in sleep. I would
have given all my gratuitous prestige as a _popaa_ to have exchanged
legs or shoulders or girth of chest with him. It was at about this
time, as I remember it, that my thoughts turned to the subject of
feeding-parents. Nui-Vahine was present, still--or again--nursing
the three months' old baby. It belonged, as I knew, to Takiero,
who appeared to be quite capable of nourishing it herself. Why had
she given it to Nui-Vahine? And why had Hunga, the father of the
child, consented to this seemingly unnatural gift? The transfer of
parenthood had been made a month earlier, since which time Takiero
and her husband had shown only a slight, proprietary interest in
their offspring. Takiero sometimes dandled it on her knee, as any
woman might the child of some one else; but no one would have guessed
that she was the mother of it. Nui-Vahine fed, clothed, and bathed
it, and her husband, Nui-Tane, was as fond of it as she herself. They
kept the child at their house, and between them made as much fuss
over it as though it were their own flesh and blood. What could have
been the origin of this strange practice of parenthood by proxy? It
was a common one throughout eastern Polynesia. I had seen a good many
instances of it in the Cook islands, the Marquesas, and the Society
group. Here was a subject worthy of an important chapter in the Life
and Character monograph, and I decided that I might as well begin my
researches at once.
Takiero reluctantly left off her playing and placed herself in a
receptive mood. Why, I asked, had she given her child to Nui-Vahine?
Her reply was, because Nui-Vahine had asked for it. "But, see here,
Takiero," I said, "I should think that you and Hunga would want
to keep your own baby. It is none of my business, of course. I
ask you only because I would like to get some information on this
feeding-parent custom. Can't you feed it yourself? Is that the reason
you gave it away?"
I blundered atrociously in asking that question. Without meaning to,
I touched her pride as a woman, as a mother. Takiero looked at me for
a moment without speaking. Then she tore open her dress and gave me
absolute proof--not that I wanted it--of her ability to nurse her own
or any other child. Following this, she went over to where Nui-Vahine
was sitting, snatched the baby from her arms, and almost smothered
it against her body. She fondled it, kissed it, covered it with her
magnificent hair. I had never before seen such a display of savage
and tender maternal passion.
By that time Nui-Vahine had recovered from her astonishment and came
to the defense of her own. Her month of motherhood gave her claims
to the child, apparently, and she tried to enforce them physically.
Takiero stood her ground, her black eyes flaming and, holding the
baby in one arm, pushed Nui-Vahine away with the other. I expected
to see hair flying, but, luckily, both women found their tongues
at the same moment. They were like--they were, in fact--two superb
cats, spitting at each other. The torrent of words did not flow
smoothly. It came in hot, short bursts, like salvos of machine-gun
fire, and, curiously enough, it was almost pure Paumotuan, not the
hybrid Paumotuan-Tahitian commonly used in their temperate speech.
It bristled with snarling ng's, with flintlike k's from which fire
could be struck in passionate argument. Other women took sides in
the quarrel. Had I poked an inquisitive pencil into a wasps' nest
the effect could hardly have been more disconcerting. Hunga was
awakened by the angry voices and looked on with sleepy perplexity.
Nui-Tane grinned reassuringly, as much as to say: "Don't be upset.
You know what women are." Finally, Puarei, the chief, who had been an
impassive spectator, bellowed out a command for silence. The tumult
subsided at once, and the fury of the women with it. Five minutes
later everything was as it had been before. Hunga was sleeping and
Nui-Tane polishing a pearl-shell fish hook; Nui-Vahine had the
baby and Takiero the ocharina. Neither of them showed the least
resentment, either toward me or toward each other. In intensity and
briefness the gust of passion which swept through the little church
was precisely like the squalls of wind and rain which darken the seas
of the Low Archipelago in the midst of the hurricane season, which
burst almost from a clear sky and then as suddenly melt into pure
sunlight again.
When I left the village to return to Soul-Eaters' Island Takiero
was still playing the old border ballad on my ocharina. It had
once been my favorite air for that instrument. I first heard it in
northern France on a blustering winter evening when a brigade of
English regiments was marching, under heavy shell fire, into one of
the greatest battles of the war, to the music of pipes and drums.
Humming the air now, although I still feel a tightening of the
nerves, a quickening of the pulses, it is not because of the old set
of associations. They have been buried forever beneath a newer set.
The village at Rutiaro comes into view, and I see Takiero, clutching
a baby against her naked breast, standing in the midst of a crowd of
turbulent women.
Should there be some other Polynesian scholar who wishes to pursue
farther an inquiry into a curious practice of child adoption I would
advise extreme caution at an atoll far on the southeasterly fringe of
the Low Archipelago.
The place may easily be identified; for he will find there a young
woman of barbaric beauty who will be playing "Conquer the North" on
an ocharina.
[Illustration]