I am Sa Luia. I come from Mulifanua, at the lee end of Upolu in Samoa. My father was not only the chief of Mulifanua, but has great lands in the Atua district on the north side of Upolu—lands which came to him through my mother, who died when I was but a week old—and from these lands he had his name, Pule-o-Vaitafe (Lord of many Rivers).
Now it is not well for a daughter to speak unkindly of her father; but this what I now say is true. My father, though he was so rich a man, was very cruel to those who crossed his path, and though he was a brave man in battle, his heart was shrunken up by reason of his avarice and his desire to grow richer, and all Samoa, from Manna in the east to Falealupo in the west, spoke of him as Pule-lima-vale—“Pule the close-fisted”—or Pule fata-ma'a—“Pule the stony-hearted.” Yet all this gave him no concern.
“What does it matter to me?” he said to his brother Patiole one day, when Patiole, who was a chief of Manono, reproached him for his meanness in sending away some visitors from Tutuila with such scanty presents that all the people of Mulifanua were ashamed. “What does it matter to me what people say of me? This malaga (party of visitors) from Tutuila are eaten up with poverty. Why should I give them fine mats, and muskets and powder and bullets? Am I a fool? What return can they make to me?”
“They came to do thee honour,” said my uncle, putting his hand across his eyes out of respect to my father, who was of higher rank than he, and speaking softly. “They are thy dead wife's relatives, and are of good blood. And thou hast shamed them—and thyself as well—by sending them away empty-handed.”
My father laughed scornfully. “What care I for my dead wife's relatives! I have no need of them, and want them not. When I took the daughter of Mauga to wife, Mauga was a great man. Now he and his people are broken and dispersed. Let them go and eat grass or wild yams like pigs. I, Pule-o-Vaitafe, want no needy dependents.”
“Thou art a hard man,” said my uncle, bending his forehead to the mat on which he sat.
“And thou art a fool,” replied my father; “if thy heart pains thee of this, why dost thou not give them all that they wish?”
“Because for me, thy brother, to do so, would put shame on thee, for 'tis thy place and thy honour as head of our family to help these people who have fallen on evil days through warfare,” said my uncle sadly.
“Thine then be the place and the honour,” said my father scornfully. “I will not begrudge thee either. Naught will I have to do with broken men. Farewell.”