The Moon and Sixpence
always alert for the affairs of her kitchen, fell on some action of the
Chinese cook which aroused her violent disapproval. She turned on him
with a torrent of abuse. The Chink was not backward to defend himself,
and a very lively quarrel ensued. They spoke in the native language, of
which I had learnt but half a dozen words, and it sounded as though the
world would shortly come to an end; but presently peace was restored
and Tiaré gave the cook a cigarette. They both smoked comfortably.
“Do you know, it was I who found him his wife?” said Tiaré suddenly,
with a smile that spread all over her immense face.
“The cook?”
“No, Strickland.”
“But he had one already.”
“That is what he said, but I told him she was in England, and England
is at the other end of the world.”
“True,” I replied.
“He would come to Papeete every two or three months, when he wanted
paints or tobacco or money, and then he would wander about like a lost
dog. I was sorry for him. I had a girl here then called Ata to do the
rooms; she was some sort of a relation of mine, and her father and
mother were dead, so I had her to live with me. Strickland used to come
here now and then to have a square meal or to play chess with one of
the boys. I noticed that she looked at him when he came, and I asked
her if she liked him. She said she liked him well enough. You know what
these girls are; they’re always pleased to go with a white man.”
“Was she a native?” I asked.
“Yes; she hadn’t a drop of white blood in her. Well, after I’d talked
to her I sent for Strickland, and I said to him: ‘Strickland, it’s time
for you to settle down. A man of your age shouldn’t go playing about
with the girls down at the front. They’re bad lots, and you’ll come to
no good with them. You’ve got no money, and you can never keep a job
for more than a month or two. No one will employ you now. You say you
can always live in the bush with one or other of the natives, and
they’re glad to have you because you’re a white man, but it’s not
decent for a white man. Now, listen to me, Strickland.’”
Tiaré mingled French with English in her conversation, for she used
both languages with equal facility. She spoke them with a singing
accent which was not unpleasing. You felt that a bird would speak in
these tones if it could speak English.
“‘Now, what do you say to marrying Ata? She’s a good girl and she’s
only seventeen. She’s never been promiscuous like some of these girls—a
captain or a first mate, yes, but she’s never been touched by a native.
_Elle se respecte, vois-tu._ The purser of the _Oahu_ told me last
journey that he hadn’t met a nicer girl in the islands. It’s time she
settled down too, and besides, the captains and the first mates like a
change now and then. I don’t keep my girls too long. She has a bit of
property down by Taravao, just before you come to the peninsula, and
with copra at the price it is now you could live quite comfortably.
There’s a house, and you’d have all the time you wanted for your
painting. What do you say to it?”
Tiaré paused to take breath.
“It was then he told me of his wife in England. ‘My poor Strickland,’ I
said to him, ‘they’ve all got a wife somewhere; that is generally why
they come to the islands. Ata is a sensible girl, and she doesn’t
expect any ceremony before the Mayor. She’s a Protestant, and you know
they don’t look upon these things like the Catholics.’
“Then he said: ‘But what does Ata say to it?’ ‘It appears that she has
a _béguin_ for you,’ I said. ‘She’s willing if you are. Shall I call
her?’ He chuckled in a funny, dry way he had, and I called her. She
knew what I was talking about, the hussy, and I saw her out of the
corner of my eyes listening with all her ears, while she pretended to
iron a blouse that she had been washing for me. She came. She was
laughing, but I could see that she was a little shy, and Strickland
looked at her without speaking.”
“Was she pretty?” I asked.
“Not bad. But you must have seen pictures of her. He painted her over
and over again, sometimes with a _pareo_ on and sometimes with nothing
at all. Yes, she was pretty enough. And she knew how to cook. I taught
her myself. I saw Strickland was thinking of it, so I said to him:
‘I’ve given her good wages and she’s saved them, and the captains and
the first mates she’s known have given her a little something now and
then. She’s saved several hundred francs.’
“He pulled his great red beard and smiled.
“‘Well, Ata,’ he said, ‘do you fancy me for a husband.’
“She did not say anything, but just giggled.
“‘But I tell you, my poor Strickland, the girl has a _béguin_ for you,’
I said.
“I shall beat you,’ he said, looking at her.
“‘How else should I know you loved me,’ she answered.”
Tiaré broke off her narrative and addressed herself to me reflectively.
“My first husband, Captain Johnson, used to thrash me regularly. He was
a man. He was handsome, six foot three, and when he was drunk there was
no holding him. I would be black and blue all over for days at a time.
Oh, I cried when he died. I thought I should never get over it. But it
wasn’t till I married George Rainey that I knew what I’d lost. You can
never tell what a man is like till you live with him. I’ve never been
so deceived in a man as I was in George Rainey. He was a fine,
upstanding fellow too. He was nearly as tall as Captain Johnson, and he
looked strong enough. But it was all on the surface. He never drank. He
never raised his hand to me. He might have been a missionary. I made
love with the officers of every ship that touched the island, and
George Rainey never saw anything. At last I was disgusted with him, and
I got a divorce. What was the good of a husband like that? It’s a
terrible thing the way some men treat women.”
I condoled with Tiaré, and remarked feelingly that men were deceivers
ever, then asked her to go on with her story of Strickland.
“‘Well,’ I said to him, ‘there’s no hurry about it. Take your time and
think it over. Ata has a very nice room in the annexe. Live with her
for a month, and see how you like her. You can have your meals here.
And at the end of a month, if you decide you want to marry her, you can
just go and settle down on her property.’
“Well, he agreed to that. Ata continued to do the housework, and I gave
him his meals as I said I would. I taught Ata to make one or two dishes
I knew he was fond of. He did not paint much. He wandered about the
hills and bathed in the stream. And he sat about the front looking at
the lagoon, and at sunset he would go down and look at Murea. He used
to go fishing on the reef. He loved to moon about the harbour talking
to the natives. He was a nice, quiet fellow. And every evening after
dinner he would go down to the annexe with Ata. I saw he was longing to
get away to the bush, and at the end of the month I asked him what he
intended to do. He said if Ata was willing to go, he was willing to go
with her. So I gave them a wedding dinner. I cooked it with my own
hands. I gave them a pea soup and lobster _à la portugaise,_ and a
curry, and a cocoa-nut salad—you’ve never had one of my cocoa-nut
salads, have you? I must make you one before you go—and then I made
them an ice. We had all the champagne we could drink and liqueurs to
follow. Oh, I’d made up my mind to do things well. And afterwards we
danced in the drawing-room. I was not so fat, then, and I always loved
dancing.”
The drawing-room at the Hôtel de la Fleur was a small room, with a
cottage piano, and a suite of mahogany furniture, covered in stamped
velvet, neatly arranged around the walls. On round tables were
photograph albums, and on the walls enlarged photographs of Tiaré and
her first husband, Captain Johnson. Still, though Tiaré was old and
fat, on occasion we rolled back the Brussels carpet, brought in the
maids and one or two friends of Tiaré’s, and danced, though now to the
wheezy music of a gramaphone. On the verandah the air was scented with
the heavy perfume of the tiare, and overhead the Southern Cross shone
in a cloudless sky.
Tiaré smiled indulgently as she remembered the gaiety of a time long
passed.
“We kept it up till three, and when we went to bed I don’t think anyone
was very sober. I had told them they could have my trap to take them as
far as the road went, because after that they had a long walk. Ata’s
property was right away in a fold of the mountain. They started at
dawn, and the boy I sent with them didn’t come back till next day.
“Yes, that’s how Strickland was married.”
Chapter LII
I suppose the next three years were the happiest of Strickland’s life.
Ata’s house stood about eight kilometres from the road that runs round
the island, and you went to it along a winding pathway shaded by the
luxuriant trees of the tropics. It was a bungalow of unpainted wood,
consisting of two small rooms, and outside was a small shed that served
as a kitchen. There was no furniture except the mats they used as beds,
and a rocking-chair, which stood on the verandah. Bananas with their
great ragged leaves, like the tattered habiliments of an empress in
adversity, grew close up to the house. There was a tree just behind
which bore alligator pears, and all about were the cocoa-nuts which
gave the land its revenue. Ata’s father had planted crotons round his
property, and they grew in coloured profusion, gay and brilliant; they
fenced the land with flame. A mango grew in front of the house, and at
the edge of the clearing were two flamboyants, twin trees, that
challenged the gold of the cocoa-nuts with their scarlet flowers.
Here Strickland lived, coming seldom to Papeete, on the produce of the
land. There was a little stream that ran not far away, in which he
bathed, and down this on occasion would come a shoal of fish. Then the
natives would assemble with spears, and with much shouting would
transfix the great startled things as they hurried down to the sea.
Sometimes Strickland would go down to the reef, and come back with a
basket of small, coloured fish that Ata would fry in cocoa-nut oil, or
with a lobster; and sometimes she would make a savoury dish of the
great land-crabs that scuttled away under your feet. Up the mountain
were wild-orange trees, and now and then Ata would go with two or three
women from the village and return laden with the green, sweet, luscious
fruit. Then the cocoa-nuts would be ripe for picking, and her cousins
(like all the natives, Ata had a host of relatives) would swarm up the
trees and throw down the big ripe nuts. They split them open and put
them in the sun to dry. Then they cut out the copra and put it into
sacks, and the women would carry it down to the trader at the village
by the lagoon, and he would give in exchange for it rice and soap and
tinned meat and a little money. Sometimes there would be a feast in the
neighbourhood, and a pig would be killed. Then they would go and eat
themselves sick, and dance, and sing hymns.
But the house was a long way from the village, and the Tahitians are
lazy. They love to travel and they love to gossip, but they do not care
to walk, and for weeks at a time Strickland and Ata lived alone. He
painted and he read, and in the evening, when it was dark, they sat
together on the verandah, smoking and looking at the night. Then Ata
had a baby, and the old woman who came up to help her through her
trouble stayed on. Presently the granddaughter of the old woman came to
stay with her, and then a youth appeared—no one quite knew where from
or to whom he belonged—but he settled down with them in a
happy-go-lucky way, and they all lived together.
Chapter LIII
“_Tenez, voilà le Capitaine Brunot_,” said Tiaré, one day when I was
fitting together what she could tell me of Strickland. “He knew