“The Tahitian is, first, a coward, afraid to fight the white; but if he can, in a group or by secret, kill or hurt you, he will.  He is treacherous, and the more he pretends to be your friend, the more he connives to cheat you.  I should have said first of all that he is lazy, but that is not to be disputed.  He was corrupt to begin with, and religion accentuates every evil passion in him.  He is a profound hypocrite, and yet a puritan for observance of the ceremonies and interdictions of his faith.  He has more guile than a Japanese guide, and in land deals can skin a Moscow Jew.  He will sell you land and get the money, and later prove that his father or brother is the real owner, and that relation will do the same, and you will pay several times for the same land.  In the Paumotus, where the missionaries are like a swarm of gnats, this deception is threefold as bad.”

“But the Tahitians are at least generous,” I broke in.

Stroganoff combed his whiskers with a twig of the flamboyant tree under which we sat.  He glared at me.

“Generous!  If you have money they will overwhelm you with presents, looking for a double return; but if you are poor, they will treat you as dirt under their feet.  I know, for I am poor, and I live among them.  They are like those mina birds here, which will steal the button off your coat if you do not guard it.”

“Does not Christianity improve them?”

“No.  The combats between Protestants, Catholics, and Mormons ended all hope of that.  They are never sincere except when they become fanatics, and even then they never lose their native superstitions.  Beliefs in the ghosts of Tahiti, the tupapau, ihoiho, and varua ino, are common to all of them.”

“My dear Mr. Stroganoff,” I expostulated, “your czars believed in icons.  My grandmother believed in werewolves and banshees, and we burned blessed candles and sprinkled holy water in our houses on All Souls’ night to keep away demons.  I have seen a clergyman, educated in Paris and Louvain, exorcising devils with bell, book, and candle in Maryland, in one of the oldest and proudest cities of the United States.  I have seen the American Governor-General of the Philippines carrying a candle in a procession in honor of a mannikin from a shrine at Antipolo, near Manila.  Why, I could tell you—­”

“Please, please, let me talk,” Ivan Stroganoff interrupted.  “What I say is true, nevertheless.  The Tahitian has not one good quality.  He is not to be compared with the American negro for any desirable trait.”

“Do you know the negro?” I asked.

The old man grunted.  He relit his cigar, now only an inch long, and said: 

“I was on the Merrimac when she fought the Monitor in two engagements.  I was a sailor on other Confederate men-of-war.  I was one of Colonel Mosby’s guerillas, and was wounded with them.  I have lived thirteen years in the United States.  I know the coon well.  I fought to keep him a slave.”