Half-Caste

(A memory, aroused by the picture of the Euronesian child, taken on Mauke, C. 1., and reproduced on the front cover of this magazine).

ONE day, in May, 1914, after sundry adventures in a smashing sea, on the reef which lay between the anchorage and the boat-harbour, Nixon and I landed upon the rarely-visited island of Mitiaro, not far from Mauke, in the Cook Islands.

It was a lovely place, and the people, clean and unspoiled Polynesians, cluster ing around us excitedly, eagerly offering their simple hospitality, seemed to fit exactly into the framework of palm girt, tropical isle, white coral beach, and blue-green lagoon.

Presently, Nick and I got away from the official doings, and strolled through the little village. It was orderly and fragrant: not a pig in sight, and every fallen palm-frond removed. I discoursed, restlessly, concerning the advantages of life in this quiet and beautiful spot.

Nick seized my arm. “Good God, Robbie—look at that!” he exclaimed.

We were opposite a little house, built somewhat in European fashion. It was buried in tropical greenery. Over the door was a dazzling mass of bougain villea.

Standing in the doorway, outlined against the dark interior, regarding us gravely, was one of the most beautiful girls we ever had seen —slim, fairly tall, perfectly proportioned, olive skin, and large, dark, expressive eyes.

She made a picture there, under the bougainvillea, I shall never forget. We just stood and stared.

She came forward, with perfect com posure, and smiled. “I am Mata,” she said. “You are from the sheep?”

She spoke good English, and her man ner was simple and trusting. She walked with us along the pathway, through the palms, and she held Nick’s hand, and chattered confidingly.

We had called at many islands, and, being regarded as rangatiras of import ance, we had received the flattering attention of many charming Polynesian ladies. Up to now, Nick had displayed merely an academic interest. He held sternly to certain ideals. The quick and flaming friendships of Polynesia did not appeal to him.

But this sweet and simple Mitiaro girl bowled him over, completely. She ques tioned him eagerly about life in his big world outside; and, as eagerly, he sought her story.

It was an oft-told tale. Eighteen years ago, a Portuguese sailor, off a Hong Kong trading-ship, had lived a while in Mitiaro, and temporarily loved the daughter of a chiefly family. Then he had wandered on, and Mata was born.

She had been reared by her mother’s family, and a missionary had taken her to Rarotonga, for a few years, where she had had an education of sorts. She was intelligent, proud of her European blood, eager for European contacts.

“But what are you going to do?” asked Nick, trying unhappily to visualise her future.

“I dunno,” she said. “I no want to stay here. They say I must take my boy—l have waited too long. But I no want these boys—l am papaldngi (a white person).”

Nick stored at the lovely thing, and

horror was upon his young face. We both knew what she meant. It was the old-time custom, in those islands, that girls, between puberty and matrimony, should take a lover, or a succession of lovers. Promiscuity was just as much expected, before marriage, as it was discouraged, after marriage.

Mata was a well-grown and beautiful seventeen. It was astonishing that, so long, she had remained chaste. She told us something of her struggle. Pride, it seemed, had up-borne her—pride in her white blood. But what was to be her fate? There were only a couple of white men there, both married. A ship came only once or twice a year to lonely Mitiaro.

She turned appealingly to Nick—me, she had quite ignored. “You take me with you,” she said. “To Rarotonga, or maybe New Zealand. I can work. I can teach school. I am cook. Oh, I no want to stay here and marry native —I am

papalangi!”

I took one look at Nick, and fled.

The dear old lad was learning, at first hand, something of the tragedy of the half-caste. * * * LATE in the afternoon, we sailed. As I waited at the boat-landing, I saw Nick and Mata coming slowly along the shore, hand in hand, under the gently-nodding trees.

Presently, he joined me and the others, at the landing. His face was grim, and he said nothing. We were surrounded by scores of Polynesian men, women and children. But Mata remained in the background, apart.

As our boats pulled away across the

lagoon, the natives sang their haunt ing songs, and cried farewells. Our party chatted happily together—it had been a pleasant, interesting day.

But Nick silently watched that slim white figure, sitting apart, under the deep-green beach trees. She did not move. I imagined her watching the papalangi go out of her life, with the same grave, sweet look as she had greeted us, in the village street.

Nick spoke bitterly in my ear. “These swine,” said he, indicating our happy, comfortable, chattering party, “think it is fine to have affairs with the Islands girls. Perhaps they do the girls no harm —certainly the girls are willing enough —but look at the results of it. Look at that tragedy back there! I shall never forget that girl, and what our rotten civilisation has done for her.”

That was twenty-five years ago; but I still can see Mata, lovely enough to grace any European assembly anywhere, sitting quietly beside the lagoon, watch ing the white men departing across the seas, and resigning herself at last to the life of a native wife and mother. —R.

Mr. Edwin Berry, of the Berry Engin eering Co., Suva, Fiji, arrived in Auck land recently by the “Mariposa”, on a short holiday.

Mr. T. B. D. Edwards, returned re cently to Suva, Fiji, where he has again taken over the management of the local station of Cable and Wireless, Ltd. Mr.

L. G. Cottew, who has been manager of the station for the past few months left the Colony for Australia on transfer by the June “Mariposa”.