passing it to me, she much less disdainfully assured me that all her
dancing was _leanga_ (bad). And she softened a little, and seemed
distressed about our quarrel about her ring, taking off all her rings
and throwing them away to her guardian matron, perhaps for fear of being
reproved for giving too much for too little, for we had given as yet but
little--only cigars, tobacco, and trifles; and I asked myself whether
the dramatic artist was counting up her possible gains, as others do.
Meanwhile, the other girls lay close to us, in the confidence of
good-nature; all anxious to make the best impression, a curious example
of the wilful charming of woman--and Sifá talked and smiled, and moved,
or rather floated, in her place like a maiden siren flirting. Many
confidences were exchanged without either side understanding one word
said. Each girl wrote something in Awoki’s note-book, or helped our
making a dictionary. Sifá even summing up figures to prove her
possession of the three R’s, a confusing addition of accomplishments to
the dancing and conventionalities we had seen. But I am told that all
read and write, with no book but the Bible. Then between the curtains of
mats Uatea disappeared contrary to what I supposed etiquette, but, of
course, I knew nothing. The others bade us good-night, not without
begging one of us to share their hut, and we slipped out into the dark,
while the mats were arranged for our rest. The storm clouds still
covered the sky--only a few stems of the cocoanut glistened, and the
white bar of the surf made a hard line in the shadow. Some vague, light
forms were those of sitters beneath the trees whispering, or talking
low, for all through our day there had been no voices raised except our
own, or the surly growl of the captain--or the chant that had
accompanied the dances; all other talk had been soft and flowing, with
low voices, almost inaudible to us when distant, adding again to the
peace and softening charm.
We lay down on the mats with our heads toward the centrepost; a large
mosquito bar of thin bark cloth, big enough for a small room, was let
down upon us, the light of the lamp shining through it, and draped in my
Japanese kimono, I fell asleep, in spite of the few mosquitoes
imprisoned with us. No noise from the rest of the house had arisen, all
was still; we were as much isolated as if we had been in a built-up
room. Late or early, I think I heard the snore of the captain, but all
is empty in my mind until I recollect feeling the morning light and saw
some shadows pass. As I stepped out, I saw Sifá move out, stretching her
arms, as she moved toward a little path. Then issued the captain, with a
formidable yawn, and looked at the sky for presages of weather, and took
the same little path, I suppose toward the bathing pool, or spring, or
rivulet of fresh water, that might be in the hollow.
And there came up to the house Uatea, the “Chiefess,” looking just the
same, and appeared to understand that we were for a bath, as she made
the motions of washing her chest. We went to the sea, finding no good
place for a bath--it was evidently far off--and I take it that they
bathe in fresh water--the luxury of hot climates. For they all seemed to
be extremely clean and neat, from the men whom I had first seen at sea,
to the girls with limbs rubbed with cocoanut-oil and smelling of the
aromatic fruit (the pandanus) that their garlands were made of. Our bath
was not a full success--we dared not go out into the surf that rolled
turbid waves upon the deep, black volcanic sand of the beach; but the
water was warm and soothing, and as I began putting on my clothes, a
tall girl of the preceding night came up and sat down beside me on the
rock, with an evident seeking for an interview. Notwithstanding my
unaccustomed embarrassment, I managed to make out that she was uncertain
and perplexed as to the legality of her capture of my handkerchief the
night before, and though I told her to keep it, she was still doubtful.
Uatea had had one; was she to have the same as Uatea? At last she left
me, reassured--I had no more interest--and I saw her go along the shore
passing far off the better bathing
[Illustration: UATEA DANCING THE SITTING SIVA]
spot of fresh water, and then disappearing behind distant palms.
Breakfast was ready when we reappeared; after us Uatea ate and drank our
tea, and wondered at our use of “tea-balls.” The captain explained that
there might be wind enough “now and again,” and that any moment ought to
see us off. Sifá and Tuvále gathered about Adams; I smoked my last
cigar, for all with our other tobacco were gone--while Uatea asked
coldly what I had done with the ring she gave me, as it was no longer on
my finger. More and more she withdrew into herself, more and more the
“Chiefess” looked as if expecting or anxious or troubled, as to whether
an equivalent would be serious enough. But we gave the largest sum that
the captain dared to hint at--anything would have seemed cheap. The
night before I could understand the _throwing of jewels_; of money, of
any reward to express thankful admiration. The “Chiefess” extended a
languid hand--her eyebrows rose, a short “_f’tai_” dropped, as if
obligatory from her lips--(the proper form I knew already was
“_faafe’tai_”)--she gave us her hand with a frigid “_alofa_,” and with
Sifá and Tuvále lingering, we walked to our boat. Long after we had set
sail we could see them wave their drapery as good-bye. Far off, along
the beach, from the hut of the tall girl-thief, my own handkerchief was
waved--but even with the glass I saw no more of Uatea.
Peace to thee, O soul of the “virgin of the village,” if I have made
thee but a thrifty prima donna, or like the King Solomon of Djami, the
Persian poet, caring only for realities that pay--it is the part of
those born to be rulers.
And now we had pulled out of the breakers, through the narrowest of
openings, and were on board the little schooner; the great blue sapphire
waves lifted us and sank us, and came up against the blue horizon, or
against the tall green cliffs; and once more we saw, in the hollow of
the sea, or lifted against the sky, the native boat pushed on by
rhythmic paddles, making a red line of naked men against the blue of the
sea or the blue of the sky. We have been four hours and a half beating
out of this little cove, and have just rounded the isolated rock of the
cape, of which I send you a sketch. If I could only send you the
colour!--blue and green--a little red and black in the rocks--the white
and violet haze of the surf; all as if elementary, but in a tone that no
painter has yet attempted, and that no painter that I know of would be
sure of; the blue and green that belongs to the classics; that is
painted in lines of Homer; that Titian guessed at, once, under a darker
sky; and far off the long sway and cadence of the surf like the movement
of ancient verse--the music of the Odyssey. We are off some little
village on the shore; the boat has gone to get other passengers, while
I try to finish this account of our first day on land in the South Seas,
and to make it live for you by long accumulation of detail. If, through
it all, you can gather my impression, can see something of an old
beauty, always known, in these new pictures, you will understand why the
Greek Homer is in my mind; all Greece, the poetry of form and colour
that comes from her, as well as her habits; just as the Samoan youngster
who rose shining from the sea to meet us, all brown and red, with a red
hibiscus fastened in his hair by a grass knot as beautiful as any carved
ornament, was the Bacchus of Tintoretto’s picture, making offering to
Ariadne. The good people of the steamer may not have seen it, nor the
big white English girl who bought some trifle from him--but it is all
here for me--and there will soon come a day when even for those who
care, it will be no more; when nowhere on earth or at sea will there be
any living proof that Greek art is not all the invention of the
poet--the mere refuge of the artist in his disdain of the ugly in life.
What I have just seen is already to me almost a dream. So I turn to my
Japanese, Awoki, and ask him--“It was like the studio, Awoki, was it
not? but all fine; no need of posing?” And Awoki says “Yes,” whether he
understands me or not, and I think of you and of the enclosed studio
life that tries to make a little momentary visitation of this reality.
The fitness and close relation of all I have seen makes a something like
what we strive to get through art, and my mind turns toward the old
question, “How does what we call art begin?” These people _make_ little;
the house, the elementary patches upon their bark cloth, the choice of a
fine form for tombs, is all the art that is exterior of themselves and
of their movements, into which last they have put the feeling for
completeness and relation, that makes the love of art.
Is it necessary for going further that some one should be born, to whom,
gradually, an unwillingness to assume the responsibility of action,
which the ruler and the priest take willingly, should grow into a
dislike of the injustice of power, and a distrust of the truthfulness of
creeds, so that he must make a world for himself, unstained and free
from guilt or guile? I have begun to imagine for myself some such soul,
born in early communities, who might have lived long ago anywhere and
have been the hero of some such primitive obscure conflict; but I can
see tossing on blue waves, the boat that brings from the shore our new
companions, Lieutenant Parker and Consul-General Sewall, who have been
on a visit to the harbour of Pango Pango--and in a few minutes they and
their white coats will be aboard.
You will by this time wish to know how we are living. We are settled
definitely, for headquarters, at Vaiala, a little way from Apia, from
which a little river separates our part of the land. Further on, another
small river closes out the territory, and separates us from Apia.
The small river that separates us from the beginnings of the village
capital, Apia, is spanned by a little bridge--little because consisting
of a few planks, and a handrail to one side, but otherwise a very long
gangway. This I believe is kept in repair by the municipality of Apia,
and is probably the cause of much discussion in the way of spending
money. Occasionally it is washed away, and then we swim our horses
across, to the discomfort of my best yellow boots, which I feel are a
distinctive mark in my visits to people in Apia. At times the
municipality provides a ferry-boat. This so far has been manned by one
of those convicts who are puzzles in South Sea economics. He had been
taken away from some other chores of supposed hard work. After the first
day of ferrying, which was productive of various small trips, this
criminal had fallen back on the customs of his country, and on that
essential communism which is the basis of their actions and of much of
their thinking. He had a hut erected for him, so as to rest in the
shade, and there he spent most of his time consuming bananas or
accidental gifts of food, and courted and caressed by village maidens,
who adorned him with flowers and anointed him with cocoanut oil.
Meanwhile the smaller and less important members of his family did the
work of ferrying in the sun. It was all the same, he was vicariously
being punished. This is the keynote of all I shall ever tell you here.
There is the tendency to let not only property remain undivided, but
also injury or gain. A little anecdote told me by a clergyman, who had
it from a friend in Fiji, where things are still more so, gives this
intellectual position. The Fiji clergyman had been shocked at a horror
perpetrated by some of his parishioners. The dog of some person in a
neighbouring village had been killed; some of the aggrieved had sallied
forth, and meeting some person who belonged to the village guilty of
holding the dog murderer, had thereupon incontinently killed him. An
“old hand,” that is to say, a white man conversant with South Sea
habits, explained to the clergyman the naturalness of the deed. He
said--forgive the vernacular--“See here; if Jim and me gets into a
fight, and Jim plunks me in the head, I don’t wait till I can get in a
blow at Jim’s head: I hit him where I can.” One community had lost a dog
and the other had lost a man. This is a dreadful example of the idea,
and I almost regret introducing it into my description of this idyllic
passage of my life. But we are on the road to Apia, which, like all
white men’s places in such countries, has a taint of brutality remaining
from the day of the beachcomber.
It is an orderly little place strung along what might be called a street
or two, the main one of which is on the beach, and goes by that name.
There are stores, a few hotels and drinking places, warehouses and
residences of the consuls, and further on native residences, etc. There
are churches too, and a Catholic cathedral of somewhat imposing
dimensions; but the churches are those of an ugly village, and no longer
have that natural look of the church by our own village of Vaiala, for
instance, which has really a character not contradictory to its
surroundings.
Further back and right and left all is Samoan and native. We are just by
the shore, here fringed with trees and palms, and only some six feet
above the inland sea of the reef that spreads right and left before us.
In the few great storms that have come upon us in the night, it was not
difficult to imagine the beating of the rain against the door of our
sleeping house to be the first splashing of some great waves passing
over with the roar of the surf outside.
From under the shadows of trees, I see canoes pass close to the shore,
visible at intervals between the trees that border it; they seem, like
all that happens about us, part of a theatre scene: red bodies glisten
in white or coloured drapery, adorned by flowers and leafage; and songs
are carried along with the stroke of the paddles, as in an ideal opera.
Blue sea outside; green inside.
The little village stretches along a very short distance, apparently not
made of more than a couple of dozen of huts or Samoan houses, with a
double village green, here and there planted with trees and broken into
and backed on the shore side by plantations of bananas.
Further back the mysterious “bush,” into which I have not yet wandered.
Just outside, near the shore, and with a little garden, the Consul has
built a new and commodious southern house, with enormous verandas,
dropped like a piece of Europe among the native forms; there we
breakfast and dine; while in the village a few yards off we have
borrowed a large, comfortable hut,[2] in which we spend the day,
receiving visitors, writing, or painting,[3] and at night we occupy a
little building of our own European kind, with just place for our two
rooms and beds. It is next to Tofae, the chief’s hut; so that we are
both physically and morally under Tofae’s protection. This we insist
upon; we are no strangers gadding about, we are chiefs on a visit, and
we appeal to the care of our fellows responsible for us. So that doors
and trunks and boxes are all open; every one is free to inspect and
responsible to the
[Illustration: BOY IN CANOE PASSING IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE. VAIALA,
SAMOA]
chief. Even very lately, when the criminal--the prisoner condemned for
stealing the consular flag halyards--who is imprisoned by being detained
within the half mile of the village, and who is under Tofae’s
wardship--even when this confirmed bad man is found looking through all
my property, from sketch-books to night pajamas, I feel quite safe that
nothing will be missed through him. Only two silk handerchiefs have
disappeared since I have been on the island, and I can’t be sure whether
they were lost here or in some of our long trips by sea and land. But
Tofae takes the fact to heart, and will, I know, make me some present
many times more valuable, to wipe out this possible blot upon the
escutcheon.
At the earliest dawn there is motion in the village that I do not hear.
The soft grass, cleanly trimmed, which covers all the village space,
brings no echo from bare feet. But from the very first morning on the
small verandah, no bigger than a large table, I hear a patter of feet
that wakens me. If I look out, one or more of the girls of the village,
our nearest neighbours, is seated there in a corner, ready to bid good
morning, and looking occasionally into the open window, to see if I am
still abed! Sometimes their shadows, as they pass, break the half light
which keeps me in a doze.
When I rise I have to get accustomed to the mild curiosity that inquires
after my mode of dressing. Still, as days go on, I become less the
fashion, and can go out to my bath, in my Japanese gown, without
stepping over a côterie of gentle maidens. If I get up with the dawn,
that slowly lights up the great spaces above the trees, I can see first
some figures pushing back the mats that form the only walls of the
surrounding huts, stretching their arms, then perhaps, in their simplest
wraps, fading away in the uncertain light! They are going to the
obligatory bath; not to the salt water in front of us, which they do not
look upon as cleansing, but to pools back in the bush, or the little
river further off.
With the first half-sleepy motion begins the weeding around the huts, a
perpetual task carried on at all odd times. For among these savages, so
far as they are not spoiled by the European, the lawn and greenery about
the village are tended with extreme care. Many a time, in places that
are far away and more strictly barbarous, I have been reminded of the
neatest Newport lawns. This is one of the unexpected charms, one of the
many things that give everything a look difficult to explain, a look of
elegance in the wildness. But we must remember that these good people
have always been here, that from immemorial time they have tended what
seems to us accidental nature; culture and care and the tropical wild
growths are constantly interchanged. That is the South Sea note.
Later on I see some of the men return from their short hour’s work at
their wet patches of the taro plant, which, with the bread-fruit,
represents the staples of bread and cereals both. In this kindly nature,
such culture is no more than a gentle exercise. I see even the great
Mataafa, the rival of the King Malietoa, and the greatest personage of
all islands, returning from his daily task like any commoner, often
stripped to the waist, wearing nothing but the wrap along the loins and
legs, which they call the _lava-lava_.
After our morning coffee, made of the island bean whenever we are
fortunate enough to get it, for we find it better than any brought from
Java, we adjourn with the first heat of the early morning to our big
Samoan hut. This is next to Mataafa’s, in the centre of the village. By
this time most of our neighbours have begun to rest, and will keep
steadily quiet for a large part of the day; unless they visit, or unless
some special duty calls.
If we are very early, we may still find in our Samoan hut our pretty
friend Fangalo, who lives with our neighbours nearer Apia, and whose
simple task it is to place flowers about the tables upon which we write
or paint, or upon the shelf that connects the great centre posts of the
hut, where hang the cocoanut water bottles, and are placed the rolls of
native cloth, or extra mats for softer resting.
Taēlē, which means bath, the gentle sister of our landlord, if I can so
call him, has already seen that everything is in order, and all the mats
that cover the pebble floor are properly disposed. Taēlē wishes good
morning, and leaves fruit as presents and hangs the great branches of
yellow or green bananas. She stays but little, even when pressed, though
she is curious as to why we write so much and what we mean in general.
She does not quite approve of us; we ask strange questions: we are not
preachers--we are seen writing on Sundays: we are not looking for wives.
We may be _aitu_--spirits in disguise.
Taēlē’s sweet face is always sad--exceptionally so here where good
nature marks most young faces. In that she is not Samoan nor properly
Polynesian. But she has gone through much. She was the Samoan wife of
the former British consul, Churchward, who left her with her little boy
when he was promoted to other appointments. Not that she would have gone
with him, I think: the Polynesian rarely understands living anywhere
else than in his islands--his own island makes the world. Here Taēlē
sits on some rock-edge by the water, and looks out to the far-off sea. I
see her so almost every evening.
According to true Polynesian habits, the little child has been adopted
by our chief, Tofae, who is devoted to him and allows him great
liberties. So that Taēlē has no practical trouble about little George,
who lives Samoan way, and, a son of chiefs by birth and adoption,
bullies the less important babies.
The other girls, who come in often to see us, and who are occasionally
encouraged by little amenities and presents, are not at all sad. Otaota,
the daughter of the preacher, who is himself of sacred descent, if I may
so explain it, is not even over-bashful, to the great scandal of Taēlē,
who is nothing if not Sunday school. She is willing to pose for her
portrait without her upper wraps, though she is no longer the exquisite
brown statue that she must have been two years ago. But Otaota is a
young woman of the world, and who knows?--perhaps these strangers may be
serious in their attentions.
Important people, of course, come in to see us, but more frequently in
the afternoon. Of chiefs there are many about us, and Patu, Tofae’s
brother, is a great chief and has been a great warrior; so that I am not
surprised at his curious resemblance to General Sherman.
From all these good people my companion, and I also in a small way,
obtain slowly, by driblets, the explanation of what they really are.
Slowly they unfold the extraordinary differences which make their ways
always misfit ours! Their social words have really no equivalent in
ours; their ideas remain a puzzle to whomsoever insists upon our having
a common basis to start from.
I have forgotten to describe what the Samoan hut, called the Samoan
house, is like. Ours is a handsome one, not exactly the finest, but
still very well built. Its plan is a long oval. Its length is not far
from fifty feet; its greatest height something like twenty. It is set
upon a foundation of stones, and its flooring of fine pebbles is only
raised a few inches above the ground, which slopes in all directions
from it. It is made of a series of high posts placed at considerable
distances from each other, in the shape of an ellipse. They are
connected at the top by a series of double beams, which receive great
rafters running from every set of posts to the peaked centre. These
rafters are connected by other great rafters and tie beams. At the
centre they are supported by two or more great pillars, which at
intervals are braced together. Beside these pillars, in the direction of
each end of the house, are two holes in the ground; made to receive the
cocoanut fire used for lighting, or for the slight warmth that is
occasionally needed. Walls there are none in the true Samoan house. Mats
of the cocoanut leaf hang from the cross-beams, between the posts, to
the floor, or rather to the edge of large stones that make a sort of rim
to the building, and serve to steady the posts and keep off the wash of
the rain. In certain very elegant buildings some of these openings,
instead of being filled with these movable mats that are pulled up or
down for protection from light or rain, are enclosed by a fine wattling.
It is a manner of limiting the numbers of entrances, which otherwise,
you see, would be a little everywhere.
In such a residence as that of Mataafa, a great man, a sovereign prince
and sacred personage, no one would think of entering otherwise than at
some defined place.
For the furniture of our residence and that of other people, mats of
different degrees of fineness are spread upon the small fine pebbles
that make the floor. If we want great elegance and great comfort, we put
on more and finer mats. Some of the furniture lies about; some of it
consists in the Samoan pillow, a long bamboo, supported at the ends by
four little sticks. There are also boxes in which clothes are put away.
There are large rolls of native cloth called _tappa_. Some of it is made
up into curtains to be used as screens and partitions. Sometimes, but
not in our hut, these curtains are made into indoor tents for keeping
off the mosquitoes, and, otherwise, increasing privacy. All these things
are stowed away among the rafters, or upon the sticks curved like tusks,
which project beyond the centre posts and serve to brace them.
For our European habits we have two tables and three chairs. Most of
the day when we are idle we sit on the mats with our guests. But working
is better done at the accustomed table.