“Fools, Liars And Degenerates.”

[Letter to the Editor from Julian Hillas, author of South Seas novels (Captain.

R. Julian Dashwood, O.M.V.), of Rakahanga, Cook Islands.]

Permit me, as the author of a recent South Sea novel, to lift my pen in the face of your editorial hurricane of last February.

Here on Rakahanga, mail reaches us approximately every three or four months, consequently, I have only just seen the issue referred to, and which, incidentally, also contains the “cri du coeur” of Author Frisbie, whose own book, “Puka Puka” is not altogether im mune from those exaggerations which he finds so objectionable in the work of others.

I have spent over three years in the Cook Group, and while no one is more genuinely in sympathy with the real life of the Islands than myself, I am neither hysterical nor hypocritical about it. Neither am I specially foolish, unduly mendacious nor notably degenerate.

Nevertheless, I endorse —with certain reservations —the main attitude taken by those authors whom you and Mr. Frisbie have seen fit to attack. Principal of these reservations is Trader Tom Richards’ “White Man, Brown Woman.”

What Mr. Frisbie says about this book and its author is perfectly true, particu larly his remarks on Manihiki, an island which I happen to know personally.

I notice that while you give promin

ence to the Rev. William Raton’s opinion of “Deep Water and Shoal,” you ap parently disregard the obvious fact that as a leading figure in the International Missionary Society, he could hardly be expected to clap the author on the back.

Mr. W. A. Robinson and I were the fel low-guests of a Rarotongan planter in 1929, and he did not then strike me as a young man likely to draw a very long bow; and, although I am unacquainted with the places mentioned in your edi torial, his views on those which I do know were peculiarly fresh and invigor ating.

But to continue. In his article, “The South Sea Myth,” Critic Frisbie derides the suggestion that on one of the quieter islands a European can live on ten dol lars a month —about £3 at present ex change. Nonsense! Mr. Frisbie, who formerly posed as “an epicurean beach comber . . . without a thought for the white man’s code of ethics.” (I quote from his own book), should know better.

On any island of the Cook Group an adaptable man, handy with tools and moderate in all his appetites, could live on £3 a month and suffer no hardship.

I know, because I have done it on less.

But I will add that he would require official permission to make the attempt, as well as some knowledge of local con ditions.

Heap calumny and abuse on the living by all means, but spare the dead. They are defenceless. Frederick O’Brien’s books may occasionally read like serial menus of strange dishes, but he knew his subject; and it is doubtful if Robert Dean Frisbie will ever achieve anything like as faithful an island atmosphere as O’Brien effected in “White Shadows”.

And when he would belittle the late Robert Keble’s “Numerous Treasure” — probably the soundest psychological study of a modern Polynesian girl’s mentality—he shows the littleness of a very little man.

Which brings us to the question of what is really wanted from writers of South Sea fiction or semi-fiction? Is it the soul-solacing prose of Stevenson or —and God forbid! —the sentimental sim perings of Miss Beatrice Grimshaw?

Should not a book be a mirror reflecting the character, thoughts, actions and set tings of fictitious people, composite pic tures built on a thorough, first-hand knowledge of the Islands and the various types found therein?

Naturally, an author sees things from his own point of view and writes ac cordingly; he will either be pro or anti native, deplore the work of missionaries or laud it to the skies, condemn or com mend Administration according to his temperament, preference and experience.

And, in reading his book, let us remem ber that a penny has two sides and that it is pretty well impossible to see both of them at once.

But that is no excuse for sensational flights of fancy. None whatsoever. No matter in what direction his tastes lie, the writer of South Sea stories can al ways lay his hand on a vast mountain of ebullient but quite authentic material.

It is there in sufficient quantity to sat isfy anyone. If you or your contributor doubt this, I am willing to supply—gratis —a series of articles dealing with the Cook Islands which will, I think, sub stantiate my claim.