Dodging The

Gorgons

An Old Resident's Distressing Memories of Tahiti

THAT quality of the human mind which overlays the days of long ago with a roseate cosmetic of idealistic perfec tion often mercifully conceals scars and cicatrices—mute witnesses of manifold terrors and tribulations.

But sometimes, in our dreams, these wounds will open up afresh and we awaken to remember that life then was sometimes as troublous as in these latter times.

In the days when the “Mariposa” was the only steamer to Tahiti, and the flight from Prohibition in the States had not as yet begun, the major part of the tra vellers to this island were women. That was the dark period, before the dawn of Woman’s emancipation; so there was seldom, if ever, a feminine passenger un der the age of sixty. Most of them were of the formidable type, who preside over Civic Reform Committees in mid-western small cities. All wore the same style 01 felt hat, with a beige scarf that formed a curtain about the brim, framing their faces to make them more grim and for bidding.

The one exception was a dear old lady who, in her charming person, embodied the world of gracious living, fragrance of old lavender, good manners and sparkling wit, which was the Old South in the States before modern materialism and Babbitry destroyed it for ever.

The ladies of the beige headgear were of inquiring mind, and wished to know.

They asked more questions than an arch bishop could answer—not about the his tory and lore of the islands, but why anyone like ourselves should choose to live in this outlandish place.

Some took a lively interest in research among the mauve shadows of local life.

In such cases, we were enabled to make a speedy escape—as this is a branch of learning we have scrupulously avoided.

Usually, however, when we were cornered, we had to stay and endure the inquisition, with all the grace that we could muster.

All this was tiresome enough; but it was a mild zephyr compared with the storm which descended on us with the arrival of the writer of books.

The first sight of her aroused in us a feeling of alarm. She resembled a great aunt who, in our childhood days, was in voked by our parents to frighten us into good behaviour.

We have no memory of an introduction.

She was the type that pounces, and she pounced one evening at the hour of dinner, at the Hotel Tiare.

The awful fear that she had marked us a character in the South Sea book she was about to write, soon became a certainty.

Thereafter, an expedition to Papeete was a fearsome adventure. Notwith standing the precaution of careful scouting, from the shelter of corner buildings, of each cross street, we were frequently pounced upon from the shadowy caverns of wayside shops. At these encounters we assumed a vacant expression and acted as best we could the role of an amnesia patient. That did not deceive the authoress.

One day she remarked, brightly: “I know, now, where you live. I am coming with my note-book, and you will have plenty of time to tell me what I wish to know”.

Our demesne is bounded at the rear by an overgrown parcel of land which would make good cover for anything from a field mouse to a fallow deer. By stop watch, we found we could make this shelter, from the rear entrance of our house, in seven and three-quarter seconds.

Then we arranged what we believed to be a perpetual watch on our front gate.

The climate of the tropics is, however, hostile to that eternal vigilance which is the price of liberty.

On the afternoon of Friday (fateful day) when we were indoors, and the others of our household were variously occupied, shouts and thumps on the verandah informed us that the enemy was inside our castle walls. A glance through a rear window disclosed the driver of her carriage already prepared to lighten the boredom of waiting by conversing with the maid in the cook-house.

Now, Tahitian houses are all windows and doors, protected only by curtains.

There are no inner apartments defended by thick doors and bolts and locks. Out flanked and surrounded, our only possible hiding-place was a massive clothes-press.

Fear drove us into this stuffy refuge— and none too soon. Barely had we closed the door when a shout, “I know you are in there”, came to our ears, and the terrible woman strode in.

Members of our household, who re treated in disorder, told us later that she ransacked every room. All we can re member is that we endured heat and suf focation until the sound of the departing carriage re-assured us.

Experience has taught us to distrust rumour. When we were told of the writer’s expected departure we relaxed none of our precautions. On the sailing day, from the shelter of a stack of bagged copra, we saw that woman board the “Mariposa”; watched the ship sail out of the pass; and awaited the return of the pilot boat to verify she had not re turned on board that vessel.

Years have passed. Yet, whenever we see a felt hat and beige veil descending the gangplank from a steamer (militant old ladies still wear them) only iron self control restrains us from fleeing in panic to the sanctuary of some hidden valley

m the centre of our island.

A.C.R.