The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature
Page 28
August brightened from the first day. She was a different girl altogether. ‘I never saw such a change in a girl,’ said the young schoolmistress, and one or two others. ‘I always thought she was a good girl if taken the right way; all she wanted was a change and kind treatment.’ But the stolid old Maori chairman of the school committee only shrugged his shoulders and said (when the schoolmistress, woman-like, pressed him for an opinion to agree with her own), ‘You can look at it two ways, Mrs Lorrens.’ Which, by the way, was about the only expression of opinion that the teacher was ever able to get out of him on any subject.
August worked and behaved well. She was wonderfully quick in picking up English ways and housework. True, she was awkward and not over cleanly in some things, but her mistress had patience with her. Who wouldn’t have? She ‘couldn’t do enough’ for her benefactress; she hung on her words and sat at her footstool of evenings in a way that gladdened the teacher’s sentimental nature; she couldn’t bear to see him help his wife with a hat-pin or button—August must do it. She insisted on doing her mistress’ hair every night. In short, she tried in every way to show her gratitude. The teacher and his wife smiled brightly at each other behind her back, and thought how cheerful the house was since she came, and wondered what they’d do without her. It was a settled thing that they should take her back to the city with them, and have a faithful and grateful retainer all their lives and a sort of Aunt Chloe for their children, when they had any. The teacher got yards of copy out of her for his ‘Maori Sketches and Characters’, worked joyously at his romance, and felt great already, and was happy. She had a bed made up temporarily (until the teacher could get a spring mattress for her from town) on the floor in the dining-room, and when she’d made her bed she’d squat on it in front of the fire and sing Maori songs in a soft voice. She’d sing the teacher and his wife, in the next room, to sleep. Then she’d get up and have a feed, but they never heard her.
Her manners at the table (for she was treated ‘like one of themselves’ in the broadest sense of the term) were surprisingly good, considering that the adults of her people were decidedly cow-like in white society, and scoffed sea-eggs, shell-fish, and mutton-birds at home with a gallop which was not edifying. Her appetite, it was true, was painful at times to the poetic side of the teacher’s nature; but he supposed that she’d been half-starved at home, poor girl, and would get over it. Anyway, the copy he’d get out of her would repay him for this and other expenses a hundredfold. Moreover, begging and borrowing had ceased with her advent, and the teacher set this down to her influence.
The first jar came when she was sent on horseback to the town for groceries, and didn’t get back till late the next day. She explained that some of her relations got hold of her and made her stay, and wanted her to go into public-houses with them, but she wouldn’t. She said that she wanted to come home. But why didn’t she? The teacher let it pass, and hoped she’d gain strength of character by-and-by. He had waited up late the night before with her supper on the hob; and he and his wife had been anxious for fear something had happened to the poor girl who was under their care. He had walked to the treacherous river-ford several times during the evening, and waited there for her. So perhaps he was tired, and that was why he didn’t write next night.
The sugar-bag, the onion-basket, the potato-bag and the tea-chest began to ‘go down’ alarmingly, and an occasional pound of candles, a pigeon, a mutton-bird (plucked and ready for Sunday’s cooking), and other little trifles went, also. August couldn’t understand it, and the teacher believed her, for falsehood and deceit are foreign to the simple natures of the modern Maoris. There were no cats; but no score of ordinary cats could have given colour to the cat theory, had it been raised in this case. The breath of August advertised onions more than once, but no human stomach could have accounted for the quantity. She surely could not have eaten the other things raw—and she had no opportunities for private cooking, as far as the teacher and his wife could see. The other Maoris were out of the question; they were all strictly honest.
Thefts and annoyances of the above description were credited to the ‘swaggies’ who infested the roads, and had a very bad name down that way; so the teacher loaded his gun, and told August to rouse him at once, if she heard a sound in the night. She said she would; but a heavy-weight ‘swaggie’ could have come in and sat on her and had a smoke without waking her.
She couldn’t be trusted to go a message. She’d take from three to six hours, and come back with an excuse that sounded genuine from its very simplicity. Another sister of hers lay ill in an isolated hut, alone and uncared for, except by the teacher’s wife, and occasionally by a poor pa outcast who had negro blood in her veins, and a love for a white loafer. God help her! All of which sounds strange, considering that Maoris are very kind to each other. The schoolmistress sent August one night to stay with the sick Maori woman and help her as she could, and gave her strict instructions to come to the cottage first thing in the morning, and tell her how the sick woman was. August turned up at lunch-time next day. The teacher gave her her first lecture, and said plainly that he wasn’t to be taken for a fool; then he stepped aside to get cool, and, when he returned, the girl was sobbing as if her heart would break, and the wife comforting her. She had been up all night, poor girl, and was thoroughly worn out. Somehow the teacher didn’t feel uncomfortable about it. He went down to the whare. August had not touched a dishcloth or broom. She had slept, as she always did, like a pig, all night, while her sister lay and tossed in agony; in the morning she ate everything there was to eat in the house (which, it seemed, was the Maori way of showing sympathy in sickness and trouble), after which she brooded by the fire till the children, running out of school, announced the teacher’s lunch hour.
August braced up again for a little while. The master thought of the trouble they had with Ayacanora in Westward Ho, and was comforted, and tackled his romance again. Then the schoolmistress fell sick and things went wrong. The groceries went down faster than ever, and the house got very dirty, and began to have a native smell about it. August grew fat, and lazy, and dirty, and less reliable on washing-days, or when there was anything special to do in the house. ‘The savage blood is strong,’ thought the teacher, ‘and she is beginning to long for her own people and free unconventional life.’ One morning—on a washing-day, too, as it happened—she called out, before the teacher and his wife were up, that the Maoris who supplied them with milk were away, and she had promised to go up and milk the cow and bring the milk down. The teacher gave her permission. One of the scholars usually brought the milk early. Lunch-time came and no August, no milk—strangest of all, only half the school children. The teacher put on his hat, and went up to the pa once more. He found August squatted in the midst of a circle of relations. She was entertaining them with one of a series of idealistic sketches of the teacher’s domestic life, in which she showed a very vivid imagination, and exhibited an unaccountable savage sort of pessimism. Her intervals of absence had been occupied in this way from the first. The astounding slanders she had circulated concerning the teacher’s private life came back, bit by bit, to his ears for a year afterwards, and her character sketches of previous teachers, and her own relations—for she spared nobody—would have earned a white woman a long and well-merited term of imprisonment for criminal libel. She had cunningly, by straightforward and unscrupulous lying, prejudiced the principal mother and boss woman of the pa against the teacher and his wife; as a natural result of which the old lady, who, like the rest, was very ignorant and ungrateful, ‘turned nasty’ and kept the children from school. The teacher lost his temper, so the children were rounded up and hurried down to school immediately; with them came August and her aunt, with alleged explanations and excuses, and a shell-fish. The aunt and sisters said they’d have nothing to do with August. They didn’t want her and wouldn’t have her. The teacher said that, under those circumstances, she’d better go and drown herself; so she went home with them.
Then various petty annoyances were tried. The teacher is firmly convinced that certain animal-like sounds round the house at night were due to August’s trying to find out whether his wife was as likely to be haunted as the Maoris were. He didn’t dream of such a thing at the time, for he did not believe that one of them had the pluck to venture out after dark. But savage superstition must give way to savage hate. The girl’s last ‘try-on’ was to come down to the school fence, and ostentatiously sharpen a table-knife on the wires, while she scowled murderously in the direction of the schoolmistress, who was hanging out her washing. August looked, in her dark, bushy, Maori hair, a thoroughly wild savage. Her father had murdered her mother under particularly brutal circumstances, and the daughter took after her father.
The teacher called her and said: ‘Now, look here, my lady, the best thing you can do is to drop that nonsense at once’ (she had dropped the knife in the ferns behind her), ‘for we’re the wrong sort of people to try it on with. Now you get out of this and tell your aunt—she’s sneaking there in the flax—what I tell you, and that she’d better clear out of this quick, or I’ll have a policeman out and take the whole gang into town in an hour. Now be off, and shut that gate behind you, carefully, and fasten it.’ She did, and went.
The worst of it was that the August romance copy was useless. Her lies were even less reliable and picturesque than the common Jones’s Alley hag lie. Then the teacher thought of the soft fool he’d been, and that made him wild. He looked like a fool, and was one to a great extent, but it wasn’t good policy to take him for one.
Strange to say, he and others had reason to believe that August respected him, and liked him rather than otherwise; but she hated his wife, who had been kind to her, as only a savage can hate. The younger pupils told the teacher, cheerfully and confidently, that August said she’d cut Mrs Lorrens’ throat the first chance she got. Next week the aunt sent down to ask if the teacher could sell her a bar of soap, and sent the same old shilling; he was tired of seeing it stuck out in front of him, so he took it, put it in his pocket, and sent the soap. This must have discouraged them, for the borrowing industry petered out. He saw the aunt later on, and she told him, cheerfully, that August was going to live with a half-caste in a certain house in town.
Poor August! For she was only a tool after all. Her ‘romance’ was briefly as follows:—She went, per off-hand Maori arrangement, as ‘housekeeper’ in the hut of a labourer at a neighbouring saw-mill. She stayed three months, for a wonder; at the expiration of which time she put on her hat and explained that she was tired of stopping there, and was going home. He said, ‘All right, Sarah, wait a while and I’ll take you home.’ At the door of her aunt’s house he said, ‘Well, good-bye, Sarah,’ and she said, in her brooding way, ‘Good-bye, Jim.’ And that was all.
As the last apparent result of August’s mischief-making, her brother or someone one evening rode up to the cottage, drunk and inclined to bluster. He was accompanied by a friend, also drunk, who came to see the fun, and was ready to use his influence on the winning side. The teacher went inside, brought out his gun, and slipped two cartridges in. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said. ‘Now then, be off, you insolent blackguards, or I’ll shoot you like rabbits. Go!’ and he snapped his jaw and the breech of his gun together. As they rode off, the old local hawk happened to soar close over a dead lamb in the fern at the corner of the garden, and the teacher, who had been ‘laying’ for him a long time, let fly both barrels at him, without thinking. When he turned, there was only a cloud of dust down the track.
. . . . .
The teacher taught that school for three years thereafter, without a hitch. But he went no more on Universal Brotherhood lines. And, for years after he had gone, his name was spoken of with great respect by the Maoris.
(1897)
John P. Ward, from Wanderings with the Maori Prophets, Te Whiti and Tohu: Being Reminiscences of a Twelve Month Companionship with them, from their Arrival in Christchurch in April, 1882, until their Return to Parihaka in March, 1883
Well, in due time we reached the Exhibition Building. Te Whiti could not understand the style of architecture, nor could I explain it properly to him until he had seen it. The two promoters, Messrs Joubert and Twopenny, were awaiting us, and no doubt our long stay and conversation at the railway station at Addington had rather tried the patience of these two genial gentlemen, for we were not received in anything like the state I was led to expect. There was not even a speech, such as ‘Welcome, O illustrious seer,’ &c., &c. There was nothing, and all my furbishing up of choice and classical Maori for the occasion was thrown away, or rather useless, for I had no opportunity of throwing it away. I had to keep it in store for some more fitting occasion. But then, when or where will a more fitting occasion than a visit to ‘the world’s fair’ turn up? Alas, never. Oh, Messrs Joubert and Twopenny, what have you to answer for! I think, or fancy, I observed a talking look steal over Mr Jourbert’s countenance, as if he was really anxious to get rid of some of the bottled up eloquence that was simmering over in him. As for his ‘pardner’, he was all smiles and bows. But Mr Beetham pushed past all obstructions into the building, and I graciously followed with the prophets, and so we lost the chance of airing our eloquence. Unfortunately, there was quite a crowd in the Building, and much interest in the many and varied sights around us was lost owing to the concourse of people being seized with an anxiety to get a look at the prophets. We were followed round about, and, like a snowball, ‘our tail’ kept getting larger as we proceeded. Of course, my friends the natives could see that the people were intent on them, and consequently, native like, their feelings of wonder and delight changed to those of cold and stolid indifference, such as only a Maori can show. Mr Beetham and myself were much grieved at seeing this, as but for the quizzing they received my friends would have enjoyed themselves immensely. If those otherwise very good people would only consider how unhappy they make my friends by thus rudely gazing and following them about, and showing their oppressive attentions, so to speak, I think, as English men and women, they would not do it. Their conduct, at all events, does not enhance Te Whiti’s opinion of Europeans, 300 or 400 of whom received him and followed him about. Of course these good people think, Oh, he is only a Maori, he won’t mind; but they don’t think that ‘this Maori’ is one of ‘Nature’s own gentlemen’ in courtesy and manner, and while he greets them with a smile, he pities their ill manners, and puts them down as a lot of ignorant people (nga tangata tutua), the greatest reproach a Maori can give any section of a people or tribe. Even gentle women would crush up to us, saying, ‘I will see him; who will stop me?’ Te Whiti would on such occasions smile at me, saying, ‘Well Ward, what is there different in me from other men, that that woman wants to see me. I am the same as others of God’s work.’ I was too much ashamed to answer him, and so we pushed on, elbowing our way through a crowd, which at last got so oppressive that we went into a pavilion where the armless lady and a celebrated learned pig, Bismarck by name, were ‘on show’. The armless lady was quite a phenomenon in her way. She can sew and knit, besides writing a good foot (you can’t call it a hand, that is certain) all with her toes. She very
graciously presented each of my friends with a photograph, bearing her autograph on the back. Bismarck, too, like his illustrious namesake, appeared to be omniscient; thus he acquainted the small audience present that Te Whiti and Tohu were honouring him (Bismarck) with their attendance; besides proving himself a deft hand at euchre. From Bismarck we went into Mr Woodroffe’s pavilion […]