sees the mountains of the dim interior. There we rested at midday, and I
lay on the mats, ill and tired, while Charley explained to the young
woman of the house, wife of the native teacher, the meaning of a large
sheet of the spring fashions of this year, which she had pinned up, with
many other pictures from newspapers, upon the screen that divided the
house. Her husband was away, attending the great meeting or Fono at
Malua, the missionary school, where the toleration or rejection of the
_siva_ has been, or is being discussed. I am told now that the native
clergy have held their own; and that though not reproving their white
brethren, they have not quite concurred in a full freedom of toleration,
but have arranged some middle term by which the question will be always
limited to individual cases.
Later in the afternoon I sketched at the waterfall, in that curious
silence filled with the sustained sound of rushing water, that belongs
to such places, within which a faint, sharper thrill was the gliding of
the surf upon the beach behind it. The place was shaded in its own
shade, thrown over it by the hills that enclose and make it. Here and
there, the sun caught the roll of the water, and the distant valley and
mountains behind it were all floating in hot light and moisture that
came down in great gusts with wafts of heat.
In the evening we came into this beautiful bay with high mountains on
either side, and fringes of lower land. The bay, as its name indicates,
is a very long one, running far inland. The site we are in is charming,
the great mountains right behind us, and from their lower sides, long
waterfalls creep down the cliffs and glisten through the top branches of
the palms. Around us all is covered with trees. I have lounged and
slept as much as possible. Atamo has begun to paddle a canoe, taking out
the _taupo_ with him. She has been very nice to us, doing her best with
food, and seeing us to bed, and being in early to see us get up, and
doing her duty generally and pleasantly. And she has given us _sivas_.
We had met her before at Seu’s feast; we felt mutual good will, so that
she was prepared. Her devotion to Atamo is great, and as I said, she has
done her best by our food, which we managed this time with Awoki’s help.
Through her eyes we saw one evening the resemblance of the light carried
on the reef by the phantom of the lady who appears when night fishing
goes on. You may remember, how she (as do others of the dead, or certain
spirits perhaps--they are all confused in the Polynesian mind) fishes
silently in the crowd of the canoes, or alongside of some single
occupant--and then suddenly, when detected or suspected, disappears with
the dawn that clears all our doubts away. Of this apparition some here
say that she has her own canoe apart, just out of reach--some say that
she walks on the water--but when she is followed, she makes for the
shore, then is lost in the trees, and soon her lantern is seen going far
up into the trackless mountain. There no one likes to follow at night.
The dark for the Polynesian has terrors uncertain, natural enough, for
the dark here is uncanny, and when plunged in its terrors the brown man
does not like to add a definite influence or a name of ill omen. The
belief in what might be called a lower supernatural is still strong:
Christianity does well enough for the great needs, but something else is
wanted for the smaller fears and dangers--the things about us at every
moment; and it has interested us to draw out the small beliefs of this
unimaginative and very practical race, who on one side are so much
christianized. I wish that I could recall for you the scene in which we
heard this story. The hollow silence between the mountain in the
night--the water dark before us between darker trees. The dark shadows
of the mountains, across the bay--the long glistening line of reflected
starlight rolled up with a splash upon the beach that broke the quiet
shiver of the palms. And then the one light, far out on the reef which
caught the look of our maiden and drew the legend from her. I regret so
much that my constant fatigue prevents my noting some of all this for
you, and that I give you, too, no better description of what I see. The
place is well worth some talk--even if it were nothing but a memorandum
of the pretty _talolo_, or presentation of food, in which two or three
dozen girls brought up the presents of taro and fruit, and threw them
before us, filing out of the green trees, and disappearing again within
them.
Ulutogia (part of Aliipata) Dec. 2d.
We are at a charming place in the town of Aliipata, which seems to
stretch indefinitely for miles along the shore. We have had two
invitations to stop; one from Mataafa, and one from Tofae, who both have
their connections here, but we have pushed further on, and are now at
the house of a chief, whose name is Sagapolu, as I make it out.
Before us, to sea, over a great spread of blue, are two blue cones,
little spots that belong to Tutuila. Near us are rocky islands--two of
them outside of our reef. We came in on the blue swell that hid
everything, and then pulled hard over the boiling of the surf, in the
charm that covers danger. The morning was lovely on the water, and we
raced with our other boats. We had said good-bye to our friends in
Fagaloa, who the night before had given us a _siva_, not a prolonged
one, well done by the girls, and accompanied curiously by the
two-year-old daughter of the chief, who followed seriously the
performance, and beat time or caught up with the gestures of the older
people. Nothing could be stranger, and a more complete proof of the
_siva’s_ being a natural expression. No one noticed the child as
anything extraordinary, except by an occasional smile. Our crew was
asked to perform, and the villagers and the _taupo_ gave the preference,
and she was right, to our men. The girls always seem anxious to see the
men’s dances; a compliment not always returned by the men. The rising of
the moon saw us to bed, and we tried to sleep late, fearing the hard day
that has just passed over us.
Here, so far, all has been as usual. The house is far from others, all
in the open, with palm trees some way off. At one end of the room is a
reading desk, and the ruined walls of the church near by, explain that
this house is used as a temporary chapel. At the other end, is a table
covered with costly mats, upon which are flowers in glass bottles, and
there are two big settles and two big chairs, covered with shaggy white
mats made from the fibres of the _fao_ tree; all this furniture upon
beautiful sleeping mats.
We have had a complimentary speech from the _tulafale_, the old chief,
who is thin and emaciated and extremely dignified, and has given us
_kava_; and I have learned that Seumanu has a _kava_ name of Tauamamanu
Vao (fighting with beasts of the field), when _kava_ is called out for
him; the _taupo_ has come in to make it, and Samau of our boat, and
Tamaseu of Seumanu’s, both _tulafales_, have come in to share it. There
has been a spread of Samoan fare, apparently good, but I feel prudent
and have taken little _kava_, and have been only a beholder of the
feast.
The _taupo_, who is very young, is very silent, even when Atamo says
that he is writing home about her.
They are sitting together, he absolutely immersed in his writing, a feat
of which he is always capable apparently, and she is wiping her face on
a new silk scarf of blue and red which he has given her, so that it has
already caught the shine of the cocoanut oil.
Another little girl has singled me out, and has come to make friends,
but I can only give her lollipops, that are handed away almost
immediately, like my biscuit, to the smaller children. I have invited my
fate, for I smiled at this beginning of _taupodom_, when she came in,
almost closing her eyes from anxiety, to put a Samoan pillow for me on
the pile of sleeping mats that had been spread for us to take a nap. Seu
is having his back punched by an elderly lady, and peace and the flies
reign over all. Here is a curious fact; one would think that with their
habits of sitting and lying about, these people would remain in
position, but it is only when they are sleeping very soundly that one
can find them steady, unless it be a Tulafale officiating, or a chief
sitting for dignity. The foot that does not press the ground is simply
waggled interminably. Try it for part of a minute and see how difficult
it is; and then you will realize that people who can move the foot for
ten or twelve hours a day, may be able to dance when sitting, with an
ease that only a juggler knows about his fingers.
Meanwhile, the sky is blue, with innumerable white clouds;--the sun
smiles down on the banana grove behind us, and in front of it a little
veil of light drops shows that it is raining overhead. The smoke from
the house near us bends down lazily over the roofs, and Seu’s _tulafale_
and one of our men, are beating a tune on the two great war drums.
_Lali_ is the name of the beating of a tune. One two, two--two, and so
on, weird enough and rather tiresome. Such are the intervals of their
naps, for they have had three hours of solid rowing this morning, and
they need rest. At this moment the old chief comes in and talks about
the music--praising the accentuation. These drums are near his house,
say some twenty feet off, and are very large; gigantic troughs of old
wood.
Then he calls across space for his daughter to make _kava_ again; this
is the third time within just three hours, but this time the _kava_ will
be chewed and not grated, as Atamo has asked for it.
Meanwhile a discussion on the name of the daughter: it is Mo Niu Fataia,
if I get it right; it does not matter. Her name represents the fact that
a place called Fataia, which we passed yesterday, has wild cocoanuts
growing upon it that roll useless into the sea: hence her name. “The
plenty of cocoanuts, of Fataia, that you don’t get.” It is this little
word Mo that means “plenty that you don’t get.” Niu is cocoanut. You
will notice all through, so far, how often names for people are
arbitrary and accidental. Otaota, the beautiful daughter of the
missionary person, is called Rubbish. Fagalo, who slipped the waterfall,
is Forgetful, and so on. We have Smell Smoke Namuasua (or Cook-house, as
Samasoni translated it) in our boat’s crew. In the early traditions,
such and such an early divine heroine names her children by things that
occur at their birth. One, I remember of “Carpenter’s Tools Rattling in
a Basket.” The Bible is dipped into at random for names, and yesterday I
talked to young Miss Kisa, which sounds like Kiss Her, but is Kish “who
killed Saul.” (My _taupo’s_ statement, the usual Bible may run
otherwise.) I cannot make out whether good luck follows these sortes
biblical.
At this very moment I see coming to me a young lady who wears a black
mat and a mop of yellow hair and nothing else, not even a collar. She is
late, having been at church. She is the official _taupo_, the other one
only taking a momentary place, and she is the daughter of the chief, and
has brought presents of rings and of _tappa_; and her name is Faatoe,
which means all agree, “Leave something in the basket” (when all are
helping themselves), and I think this is a very fair addition to our
stock of names.
All this time the others to whom she is added are getting the _kava_
ready carefully, gravely, chewing the root to extract its juice. There
is a big row of _kava_ people or attendants--all pensive; one man, two
_taupos_, another man of _ours_, a little girl, and another of our
men--no--there are a few others who are around the corner so that I
can’t see them.
* * * * *
Then I went for a long walk on the seashore. The sun was setting; only
toward Apolima was the sky at all clear. Over one of the islands to the
north, cloud and mist threatening immediate rain, made a large veil that
hung far up and melted its violet lace over the island. The sea was of
the fairy green that the inside of the reef takes in rain, spotted with
violet where the coral lay. With me walked on one side my little girl,
her upper garment fluttering, her young, long brown arms and legs
glistening in the sun. She smiled at me for all talk, for English she
knew not. On the other side, a hunch-backed dwarf, Japhet by name, with
yellowed crispy hair, naked to the waist, a garland of red fruit hanging
down on him, to meet the blue drapery about his loins--his bare legs and
tattooed thighs glistening also in the light. Their company meant
kindness and the _habit of accompanying a chief_--and they were kindly
certainly, and meant to please and serve. Neither you nor I could have
invented a more curious combination, and one of which I should like to
have either a drawing or a photograph, that it may serve for the ends
of my life. If instead of me and my linen helmet, and trousers kept up
by a sash we had had one of the Spaniards, who ages ago, perhaps, landed
in the unknown neighbouring island of the Gente Hermosa, the “Beautiful
People”--some bearded man with butgonett, and velvet hose and jerkin,
the picture might have been that of a knight-errant in fairyland. Such a
faraway image it made to me, as I looked down either way to the earnest
face of the dwarf framed in the fruits of his garland, or the politely
anxious eyes and moving bosom of the young virgin of the village, as we
stalked on almost abreast, in the silence, making threefold tracks of
very different shapes in the smooth wet beach; until the rain broke
down, and then I ran back, supported and clung to by my improbable
companions.
As the day closes it is still raining. A sort of glow is in the grey of
the rain, so that it reddens all the shadows among the trees. Far off
toward Tutuila there is high up a great opening where the sky is as of
an apple-green that has been washed with the lavender of the rain
clouds: big cumulous clouds round out, made gold by the sunset.
The light fades away, and all becomes blurred except always the cumulus
in the distant green sky. The lamps are lit and we turn to dinner.
In the evening afterward we got to talking about the legends and
superstitions, and we were for a long time merely getting about it.
There had been a promise to have something written out for us of old
verses, and then songs were sung, ordered from a number of girls.
These were mostly poems concerning the son of the old chief, who died in
the last war, and about whom, says Maua, he is always thinking. I
watched his face and sketched it while he sat and listened. He is as
striking as an Arab chief, with the orbital bones projecting like a
camel’s from out of his face, so as to make a great line of light or
dark around the looking part of the visage. His head recedes far up, and
his long beard drops on his thin chest. This death of his son has
affected him more and more, so as to make him slightly insane.
Maua says that he was once “the baddest man in all Samoa,” and that he
was the greatest dancer, and that he had invented many dances, and that
he might be tempted to-day to dance, if only we could find some person
to accompany him with songs to suit. I think that Maua is wrong, for the
chief has become missionary, and is quite absorbed in that sort of
thing. As I was saying, he has a splendid, fanatic, Arab head; and so
the evening has closed with the old chief’s listening to these memories
of his son. I am frightfully tired with listening to the legends
struggled for. Perhaps a verse or so of some of the songs might be
worth saving out of this wreck of dreaminess. It was a pure,
complimentary, Samoan idea, poetic only perhaps because we cannot help
translating the feeling as well as the words; it was about a chief the
singer sang--a young and handsome chief--and she said how natural it was
for the girls to wish for the hero’s notice, “for the very winds that
blew belonged to him, coming as they did from his ancestral island that
lies to windward.” But our friends are not poetic, I feel sure. They are
intensely practical and full of common sense; they make poetry for _me_.
And they are restful--and I--am sleepy, as I said before.
Wednesday Afternoon.
This morning, while it was raining, the old chief talked of the spirits
that once ruled. We are told that the chief believes yet in these ideas,
but I cannot make it out distinctly, neither one way nor the other. He
is missionary now, and as we take his portrait, wishes to hold the
prayer-book in his hand. But he tells me there are people who control
the spirits (devils, our interpreter and we have called them--_aitu_)
and that they predict things and recover property, bringing evil upon
him who has erred until he acknowledges. And this power is not given to
any man by inheritance, it cannot fall upon a plebeian, neither the son
nor nephew of chief or priest, if indeed there were priests, for this
he denies. He says that his people prayed, making oblations to the
deities of the village and of the household, and that when these were
collected together, they were eaten by _them_, which, he says, means by
those who collected--not the priests, but the family or those attached
to the chief, who thought it time for such offerings. And these were
given to the bush, if it were for the bird divinity; to the sea, if the
divinity was the cuttlefish. His was the cuttlefish, and his family did
not eat it. All this, of course, you know more or less of; what I say is
of no value except insomuch that I heard it myself. To know all here
would require to be master of the language, not to be confined by
missionary ideas, nor to be connected with such--and after all that, to
have a very receptive, a very acute, and a very truthful mind. There are
such people in the world, but you or I do not find them usually writing
books, and judging questions for others. These soundings of the savage
mind are Atamo’s properly; he is patient beyond belief; he asks over and
over again the same questions in different shapes and ways of different
and many people, and keeps all wired on some string of previous study in
similar lines. But everywhere one comes right against some secret
apparently, something that cannot be well disentangled from annoyance to
the questioned one. For instance, in the question of genealogy, Seumanu
told us that had he been interrogated some years ago in such a
direction he should have struck the questioner down on the spot. Still
we have hope, and if any one can manage it, Atamo will. Web after web I
have seen him weave around interpreter and explainer, to get to some
point looked for, which may connect with something we have already
acquired. As many time as the spider is brushed away, so many times he
returns.
* * * * *
This morning talk of the world of bad spirits that do harm to man
suggested to me an opening toward a side I had never read of or heard
of. Were there spirits that did good as well as spirits that did harm?
There I had a door for home history. Yes, there were such, and no
further than here: his son had had such a spirit, who went about with
him and looked after him, protected him from harm (apparently from woman
a good deal; and took, in such cases--as even with us--the shape of some
other woman). Sometimes this protection would be sudden; when he was in
the way of harm, a good spirit would appear and drive away those that
might harm him, and would sometimes lead him personally away--_prevent_
him--as the old word goes. And all knew that he was so protected; the
spirit had been seen and would only disappear when suspected. Otherwise,
any one might take the same for mortal man or woman--as in Homeric
story, where Nestor speaks and acts, but it is Athens all the same. And
had this spirit, or such a spirit, invariably an action only for good?
Certainly--and nothing had ever contradicted such a view. And yet--only
once, the good spirit had killed a man, but it was for protection
always, as a guardian. Then, of course, I could ask no further. As you
see, analogies keep coming up, our ideas easily dropping into theirs,
and _informing_ them--probably.
And had these spirits and others been apparently existing out of the
world of humanity?
The dead became spirits and fought anew the old battles, with a
knowledge of the present; as when a chief _aitu_, known by name, some
weeks ago refused to participate in a spirit war urged on by a feminine
spirit. “No,” he said, “I have been missionary, but if I am attacked I
can defend myself. Go on with your war; if you are successful you do not
need me; if you are pursued too far, and into my territory, I shall be
here.”
Nene is the name of this male _aitu_ who has “joined the church.” ...
And the dead killed at sea turn into fish, into turtles, into sea-life.
Now how to clear these from the original spirits existing of themselves?
There was one, Tangaloa, who, our friend said, might be supposed to be a
distorted vision of the true God. But that you know as well as I.
Here the talk drifted away to a question that, as you see, naturally
connects. Were offerings made to spirits as being ancestors? Were
offerings made to ancestors? No; of that they were sure--not even if
Hawaii was different. And they did not care if the black pig meant
anything in Oahu--to them (and the white teeth shone) it was only good
to eat. If it crossed them in war excursions, it was only good to kill,
but the bird and the cuttlefish, they were not to be hurt; and the bird
might mean a good deal to them as it gave them omens by its
flight--according to its favourable direction or the reverse, or by its
cry. But they had, above all, a great divine omen, the rainbow--which
presided over all. When for the people here it was bent over Tutuila,
then things were against them; if it stood against them they were not to
go into the war, but wait. It, however, it went with them, its end
turned toward the enemy, then they were protected by it, and had victory
promised them.
We passed the morning in such talk. Then we sailed out to the little
island of Nuu Tele opposite, an old crater, and waited a while, while
Atamo explored it, thinking to find out matters which might affect
present theories. He found raised beaches, stratified, and shells and
pebbles in the rock, so that it was mud once, and forced up and not
submerged, all to the greater confusion and defeat of Mr. Darwin. But as
these triumphs are out of my line of momentary record, I have only to
say that I found in the little savage girl-wife of our momentary host
the type of little Sifa of Tutuila, which had almost been lost to us.
The usual Samoan face is heavy and not wild, suggests good nature and
practical views; poetry is not in them but from them. It is we who put
it there, because their bodies mean to us possibilities of expression
which we associate with intentions that have not yet been developed in
them. Nerves they have not; it is only occasionally that one recognizes
any permanent tendency to emotion, often by some trifle that is not
always pleasant, as in the sadder face of some dwarf or joker, or as in
our host’s face, over which great sorrow has passed--or perhaps again in
such a “chevalier” as Mataafa, whose character is rare the world over.
Our day passed pleasantly, and as I write, the other end of the room is
filled with all these good people lying in a jumble together; Maua and
the _taupo_ who is pulling at him and lying on him in part; another
girl’s head under hers, while all their feet run up on the posts. Others
yet, lying flat, continue the circle, singing together, and sometimes,
without rising, beating a _siva_ movement on their own breasts or on
each other’s. Four of our men, of the biggest, sit far away in the dark,
with crossed legs, upright, immovable, like Egyptian statues: or, as
[Illustration: SAMOAN GIRL CARRYING PALM BRANCH]
I close my letter, like sphinxes, have bent down to the ground from
their hips, all lost in the dark, with large heads and shoulders and
outstretched arms.
Lepa, Thursday, Dec. 4th.