and prismatic gradations of gloom fill the cottages placed on the little
elevations, and only a few people gracefully move about--just enough in
number: and all with a classic action that comes of not frequenting
foreigners. Snatches of song, and cadences come alternately from
different corners or from under trees, and as I said all this is lit
with a mysterious glow.
Besides, in the day there have been few people; some little girls only
in our guest-home and the chief who with his whitened hair, strong jaw,
and sloping forehead has a fair look of the “Father of our Country.”
In the presentation of food, a necessary ceremony, only a dozen men have
appeared, nobodies in particular: and before them has capered a naked
being in green leaves, as to his hips and head, who has danced with his
back toward us, keeping the line in order, and who looks at a distance
like the Faun of the Greek play in the Pompeian pictures. Then they have
all rushed forth and cast down their small presents, taro and
bread-fruit and cocoanuts, in palm baskets and as suddenly disappeared;
while the _tulafale_, an old gentleman of the old school, making,
according to old fashion, a great curve of pace that shook out his stiff
bark cloth drapery, has slipped out and taken his place, leaning on a
staff, his official fly-flapper balanced on his shoulders. These people
of importance, and one I think of great dignity, have squatted down on
the grass, and another has seated himself on the great war drum under
the bread-fruit trees. Then a long speech has been made, with praise of
us and of our country that has rescued Samoa, and thanks to God and
prayers for our good health, etc., etc., all in a clear voice, not loud
at all, just enough to reach us, no more; and with a Samoan accent upon
the end of each phrase where some important word is skilfully placed.
All this we listen to and witness from our little house, whose posts are
garlanded with great bunches of red hibiscus flowers and white gardenia
and many leaves, and the effect is partly that of some living fresco in
imitation of the antique, partly that of an opera in the open air. But
if this is real, then the modern painted pictures of open-air life with
the nude and with drapery are false. Our French and English and German
brethren do not know what it is.
Apart from the light and its peculiar clearness, Delacroix alone, and
sometimes Millet, have understood it; and no one of the regular schools
of to-day. Back of these, of course, all the classics are recalled from
Watteau and Rubens and the Spaniards to the furthest Greek.
So that the little episode that worries Seumanu is full of fun and of
charm and of instruction to us. Its scale is so small that we can grasp
it. There are but half a dozen actors, and a small set scene. In front
of us, sitting so close to our house, on its pebble slope, that his
figure is cut partly off, sits one of the crew, who, when all is over,
and the speech has been duly acknowledged by Seu as our spokesman, will
count over the presents, and in a loud voice will announce their number
and their origin: So many cocoanuts from so and so--so many chickens
from so and so--etc.
* * * * *
Two mornings ago we left Vaiala, and rowed westward within the reefs,
along the north coast of our island of Upolu, off which, within a couple
of miles, lies the little Manono from which I write. Twice we stopped
in this enemy’s country, that is to say, among adherents of the former
king or head chief set up by the Germans. There was all the charm that
belongs to the near coasting of land in smooth waters: the rise and fall
of the great green reflections in the blue satin of the sea inside of
the reef; the sharp blue outside of the white line of reef all
iridescent with the breaking of the surf; the patches of coral, white or
yellow or purple, wavering below the crystal swell, so transparent as to
recall the texture of uncut topaz or amethyst; the shoals of brilliant
fish, blue and gold-green, as bright and flickering as tropical
hummingbirds; the contrast of great shadows upon the mountain, black
with an inkiness that I have never seen elsewhere; the fringes of golden
or green palms upon the shores, sometimes inviting, sometimes dreary.
And our rowers in their brightest waist cloths, with great backs and
arms and legs, red and glistening in the sun that wet them even as much
as the cocoanut oil with which they were anointed. And when tired with
sitting, they lie stretched out and confidently rest against the giant
Seumanu’s great thigh and hip, while he occasionally patted his sleepy
weaker brother, La Taēlē.
Still, beauty of nature, and plenty of soft air do not prevent fatigue,
even if they soothe it, and I was glad when in the afternoon we had
reached Leulumoenga--our final halt--a village type of Samoa, spread all
over the sandy flat of the back beach, and half hidden in trees. As we
came up the shelving beach, children and women came down to meet us, and
watched us curiously. Among them, in their new dignity of fresh
tattooing, a few youngsters eyed us from further off, moving little
owing to the pain of the continued operations--haggard and fevered
looking, and brushing away nervously, with bunches of leaves or
fly-flaps, the insects that increased their nervousness. For tattooing
is no pleasant matter. The entire surface from hip to knee is punctured
with fine needlework. The patient stands what he can, rests awhile and
recovers from his fevered condition; then submits again, until slowly he
has received the full share. Nor does he shirk it--it is his usual entry
into manhood; without it the girls are doubtful about him, and he is
somewhat looked down upon. The present king, brought up by missionaries,
and accepting many of their prejudices, had not been tattooed in his
youth.
* * * * *
During the few hours of our stopping we returned the call of Father
Gavet, one of the French missionaries, and saw his new church that is to
replace an older one destroyed by the great hurricane. It is of coral
cement, like most South Sea churches, a beautiful material when it
blackens with time. I hope they will transfer some of the old carvings
from the earlier church; which, made by early converts, have a faint
look of good barbaric art--so good--oh, so good--compared to what the
good missionaries get from those centres of civilization called Paris,
London and Berlin!
* * * * *
In the latest afternoon, with coolness and rays of heat and light, we
rowed further along the coast to Satapuala, where we were to rest in the
great guest-house, under the protection of the chief’s sister, the
_taupo_.[11] It was all like little Nua on a great scale, and with more
elaborate preparations. We had soft mats to lie upon and later more
again to be beds. Nor did our hostess abandon us until the last moment,
when we were apparently satisfied with our lair, and according to
far-off western habits had officially “retired.”
Her decoration of the guest-house, for which she duly apologized as poor
and unworthy of our visit, was really beautiful. Palm branches all green
and fresh and glistening covered the entire roof and its supports, even
the great curved posts of the centre being wrapped in the great leaves,
which curved with new lines around the simpler circle of the big tree
trunks. Here and there great bunches of white gardenia and of the red
hibiscus were fastened into the folds and interstices of the leaves and
stems.
At night when her brother, the young chief, a famous dancer, had
arrived, the dream of Robinson Crusoe which had begun enveloping me in
the afterglow, as I wandered about in the sandy spaces among the palms
and bread-fruit, became more and more complete. The dances were all
pictures of savage life. There were dances of the hammer and of
gathering the cocoanuts by climbing, and then breaking them; and of the
war canoes, with the urging of the steersman and the anxious paddling of
the crew; and a dance of the Bath, in which the woman splashed water
over her pursuer, as she moved with great stretching of arms as of
swimming. The beating of time on the mats gave, in its precision of
cadence and the sharpness of its sound, an illusion that seemed to make
real the great blows struck by the dancers, whose muscles played in an
ebb and tide, under the brilliant light of the cocoanut fire made in the
pit near the centre post.
In these and in others our hostess scarcely took part. Most of the time
she sat by us--a tall and big chiefess, elegant at a distance, grave and
disdainful--but we were in an enemy’s country and the slight scorn
seemed quite refined. Still more becoming to an evening with Robinson
Crusoe’s friends were the costumes worn in the wild dances: the great
girdles of purple and green and red leaves, the red fruit of the
necklaces, the silver shells of red flower in the hair of the women; the
fierce military headdresses of the men; the bark-cloth drapery moving in
stiff folds, and more than all the oiled limbs and bodies glancing
against that wild background of green leaves (spotted with red and
white), whose reflections glittered like molten silver as they turned
around posts and central pillars. Outside, the moonlight was of milky
whiteness increased by the whiteness of the sandy beach mixed with a
firm white clay. Upon this the sea made a faint wash of _no_ colour, in
which floated our white boats and the reflections of the silvery clouds
that deepened all the sky to seaward outside of the white reef.
Late in the evening of our arrival we crossed over the little village
green, which is studded with houses and groups of trees, each house,
each mass of foliage set apart, either high on some mound to which steps
may lead, or upon a slightly swelling rise, as if in some park, some
pleasure garden where all had been thought of and gradually arranged.
And so, I suppose, it has been here in all the centuries that have been
spent in moulding this littlest village into a shape to suit its people,
their needs, their comforts or their likings. And that must be partly
the cause of the recall of artistic success and perfection in this
rustic scene. All has taken as much time
[Illustration: SWIMMING DANCE, SAMOA]
and attention as the most complicated European mass of buildings, be
they cathedrals or palaces--only the art has little shape but what
nature gives it. All the more has nature caressed and embellished and
favoured this elemental, unconscious attempt of man.
In the end of the long twilight, with the rose colour still floating in
the upper sky, the little place looked more coquettishly refined than
ever. Here and there the lights within the huts, often rising and
falling in intensity with the blaze of the cocoanut fire, modelled the
steps outside or the posts, touched trees and branches far away or near,
and made pictures of family groups within, garlanded and flower adorned.
The larger house to which we went was adorned with flowers and all lit
up. More people were crowded in it than the little village contained;
for the island had sent visitors and performers for the dances which
were to entertain us. I shall not describe them. But they were of course
interesting, not only for what one liked but for what one did not like,
and for our being with others who looked on. The spectators are
inevitably part of yourself, as of the show, and in so far, the very way
in which I looked on was a new charm.
There was among the dancers a young chief, serious as an Indian prince,
who danced gymnastics, and ended with primitive buffoonery that seemed
to delight his hearers. At the other end of the scale was a hunchback
dwarf, who played realistic scenes so well as to be repulsive. But all
this was a lesson. I shall certainly see all about me, in this form of
civilization necessitating health and strength, or their appearance, a
great line drawn between those who suffer or are weak, and those who are
not--a visible line. As yet there is no place for my hunchback’s
intelligence, except this buffoonery.
Later we left the dancers and wandered in wide moonlit paths among
banana trees. There we came across our young chief looking now as if
such a person never could have so demeaned himself, even from political
reasons.
We exchanged _alofas_ and compliments, and he placed his garlands in
sympathy around my neck. He is a beauty, and his father is one of the
tallest and biggest, as was his sister, who was once _taupo_.
This morning I have wandered with Seumanu for a few miles, to show
ourselves. We pass other villages where we are greeted, and where at one
time our yesterday’s friend, the old _tulafale_, canters out of his
house in a circle, according to ancient fashion.
We see a great war canoe under its shed, and the remains of a high wall
that encircles the island and was an old protection in war.
Much should I like to remain, but we shall have to go at once, for--as
I feared--we are not here really for pleasure, but we are entangled in
the quasi-necessary political advantages of being seen where there is
“influence.” But this, I feel, is the kind of place I want to see--out
of the way--out of use--where usages linger, and where the landscape is
influenced by man so as to become a frame; as it was in little Nua on
the island of Tutuila where we first landed upon our first morning in
the South Seas.
For a thousand years, probably two thousand, perhaps three--for an
indefinite period--these people of this smallest island have lived here
and modified nature, while its agencies have as steadily and gently
covered again their work. So that everything is natural, and everywhere
one is vaguely conscious of man. Hence, of any place that I have seen,
this is the nearest to the idyllic pastoral; it is not so beautiful as
it is complete.
Iva in Savaii, Oct. 26, ’90.
I am writing in early afternoon, a hot afternoon, after a morning at
sea. Opposite me in the circular Samoan house are a couple of persons of
importance, a local governor, some four or five chiefs, all ranged
against the pillars of the building, as I too am leaning against one.
Seumanu and some of our acquaintances are to one side; opposite me, a
grave young girl is moving her hands in the great _kava_ bowl from
which she hands the strainer of bark filaments to a reddened haired
young man whose head flames in the sun outside, against the background
of green banana leaves. Next her a big fellow keeps grating more _kava_;
and another fills the big bowl with water, making big red spaces in the
reflection of the sunlight, that streams in on that side. Small parcels
of presents of food have been brought in and lie about on their side.
Much _kava_ has already been drunk and more is being prepared as more
and more chiefs come in. Everything except the picture before me is in
shade. Conversation, probably politics, is going on slowly, in the usual
low tones, with an occasional high-voiced interjection from some less
important member. The village orator, with his fly-brush over his
shoulder, has long ago made his lengthy speech of welcome, and as we are
told to do as we please I write to you, in the interval of watching the
faces of the men, or the circular movement of the girl’s hands dipping
in the big bowl, or running around its wide rim, when she wipes it,
before passing the strainer to be squeezed out. The orator watches me
suspiciously occasionally, but there is general confidence and peace,
that we much need, for the heat is great and our sea trip was rough and
hot. As I write, I hear my name _La Faelé_ called out, and the _kava_
bearer comes to me with the usual swing. But I fear the _kava_, and
merely accept the bowl and return it undrunk according to form. Then
many of the circle disappear--to church--the bell is ringing and little
children half-naked, small creatures toddling along are already in the
doorway; apparently all the neighbourhood are beginning to file toward
it gravely, most of the women with hats that do not become them. Even a
little girl-child, with nothing but a band around her little fat waist
for a drapery, steps along with difficulty, a big hat on her head. This
is Sunday conventionality: all the congregation are dressed, even the
half-naked chiefs, who had left us, reappear from their huts, with white
jackets, and pass on gravely in the procession at a distance. And the
Sunday hymns add to the drowsiness of the Sunday afternoon.
This morning when we left the little island of Manono, some five or six
miles away, people were going to church but to a different call from
that of this absurd little bell. A big war drum, a long cylinder of tree
cut lengthwise, was beaten in the oldest, most primitive manner, some
way as ancient as man himself. A man bent down over this big wooden
trough, that lay like an old log in the grass, and beat it from the
inside, with one of the big hard stones that lay in it. The sound was
unearthly, I ought to say _uncanny_, and nothing more savage, more a
type of the war of the savage could be imagined; and it seemed fitting
that this war usage, turned now to the call of Divine Peace, should
still remain in the warlike little island, once the petty tyrant of the
little group. Right alongside, near the great wall built for war, whose
remains surround the island, marks of destruction recalled the exploits
of the German warship _Adler_, that now lies stranded by the great
hurricane, in Apia harbour, and whose crew were saved in part by the
people they were killing, and especially by the brave giant, in whose
boat we have been travelling. Indeed, there was an element of comedy
quite Polynesian, even if atrocious, in the danger the Samoan rescuers
ran of being fired at from the beach while they saved their enemies in
the sea. But we made the first part of our trip to-day, in a native
boat, for Seumanu’s was rather too fine, and too heavy to be risked in
the entering of the curious harbour that we first made. This was
Apolima, “the open hand”--a small, very small island about a mile out
from Manono; the upper part of a submerged volcano cone, broken down on
one side, so that there is an entrance. We soon reached the great wall
of soft brown rock, which crowned with cocoanut palms and half covered
with vegetation opens suddenly, leaving a small passage through rocks,
just wide enough for our boat, skilfully paddled in the great blue wave
that swung us in. Then jumping out, half of our men caught the side of
the boat, to prevent our being dragged back by the returning swell, and
we were pushed and dragged around a corner inside of the rocks. The tide
was low and we were carried ashore on the men’s backs, through coral
rocks that spotted the floor of the small lagoon inside.
The place was just what you might imagine; a little amphitheatre of
green, the high reddish rocks standing on each side at the entrance, and
between them, a great bank of rock, over which the surf broke so as to
hide the little break through which we had come.
As we looked, three great palms stood up against this distance, planted
on the higher ground that is all green, and leaning toward the sea as is
their (loving) habit. Huts stood about with bread-fruit trees, and
further back we were led to a little pool that supplied the place with
scant water. Further back yet, the slope was all covered with trees, and
after walking a little way, slipping along the greasy banks, and walking
up the sloping timber notched with cuts to make stairs, and returning by
another that made a level bridge across an empty channel, I sat down to
wait for Mr. Sewall, who had walked up to the ridge, and I had time to
make a sketch. All this took us a little more than a couple of hours
while Seumanu’s boat was beating outside, in a fair N. E. wind. At last
we were paddled out in the great wave that washed in and out, and with
the swing that belongs to the balancing of a boat in a narrow tide-way.
And we kept in the dance until we reached Seumanu’s boat, invisible for
some minutes behind the blue waves. Then we ran alongside, and we
scrambled in, exchanging good-byes--_tofa_--with the chief of the lost
hand, who had taken us thus far. Within the next hour Seumanu’s boat had
come to the outer reef off Savaii, in front of the landing of Iva. But
there we had to wait at anchor. The water was too low inside the reef,
so that we remained in the thin blue-green tide, that seemed to show
everything in it, until a smaller boat came out to us, with Selu, the
chief, and we were taken in. We landed among black rocks, within a few
feet of a little scanty road, and clambering over a stile of rocks, at
some part of the long black fence of stones in front of us, we found a
village, which spread higher up and far back behind the trees, with
spaces between houses; banana, palm and bread-fruit trees, dispersed as
if for ornament or making little patches of plantation. There was a big
church of the usual formless kind, not as handsome as the thatched ones
with circular ends, that are certainly the types one would prefer. And
so we walked up to the house, where we were to listen to speeches and
the Consul to make one. Since I have begun to write, all has become more
quiet, and I shall merely use my afternoon to make a few notes; we
shall sleep in another house belonging to the Governor and be near, I
think, to the chief, whose name is or was Selu, for lately he tells me
that he has had the name of Anai given him, and we try to make out
together just how near these changes come to the forms of the Western
world. This is not a title properly, but as it were a name embodying
rights that go to descent; for these men with titles apparently elective
are noblemen who form an aristocracy of government and are usually to be
distinguished externally by their size or manner as well as by little
symbols or expressions of superiority. Anai tells me that of the many
chiefs here, whom we have seen or will see, he and another, alone are
the “political” superiors, as he expresses it; that is to say, he goes
on, that they alone talk in public about such matters (I suppose in the
way of decision), and that others would be checked if moving. Thus, that
to him and to his mate alone the making of war, or as he expresses it,
the allowing the “shedding of blood” is devolved. This chief is a most
interesting and sympathetic person, speaking English very well, though
apparently a little wanting in practice, with a pleasant, handsome face,
resembling some Japanese types, interested in missionary matters, a
strict church member, and showing much interest in foreign matters
throughout the world; we talked of the civil war, and of the prospects
of the republic in France, and of the universal “striking” now going
on, as we might anywhere; and I am sure that Anai was “posted” to a
later date than we, for the Consul had handed to him the files of the
_Herald_ for the last few months, while we had almost entirely abstained
from that indigestive form of reading. Anai has explained to us that
this being Sunday we shall have no reception, but that to-morrow there
will be a formal reception, called _talolo_, and giving of presents, and
that there will be dances. So that we shall spend this evening quietly,
with a bath in the pool of fresh water, that is open to the sea, and try
to rest.
On Savaii, Oct. 30, 1890.
We are settled here for an uncertain time, perhaps three days. This is
the political capital of Samoa, and we are occupying the house of the
great orator of the islands, important by his influence, though not so
great a chief as several others by descent or by control, or even by
physical superiority, that great proof of eminence in communities like
these, where the chiefs seem to have reserved for themselves a size and
weight that recall the idea of heroic days. Certainly the first time
that I saw a well-chosen dozen together, as I did two days ago at our
last resting place, all sitting spaced out, as if for a decoration on a
frieze, silent and indifferent, or speaking occasionally without raising
their voices, with heavy arms resting on great thighs, and with the
movement of neck and shoulders of men conscious of importance, the
recall of Homeric story made me ask myself which one might be Ajax, and
which the other, and if such a one might do for Agamemnon. Fine too, as
some of the heads were, they were only relatively important, as with the
Greek statues that we have, and that we know quite well and intimately,
even though their heads be missing. The whole body has had an external
meaning, has been used as ours is no longer, to express a feeling or to
maintain a reserve which we only look for in a face.