o’clock, and passed the two islands, large blocks of green and brown on
the green and blue water. We came here first, pulling through the reef,
straight to the enormous beach, where our eyes were at once charmed by
the theatrical, or should I say geological absurdity which divided it,
cutting it right down from the steep hills behind, to the water’s edge.
This was a little waterfall of three cascades tumbling over some small
rocks projecting far across the beach, so that the water had, as it
were, a stone conduit upon which it was carried from the mountain to the
sea. It was an absolute set piece, quite practicable, and if ever I have
to design for scenery, here is a little natural object all ready to
hand. The copy could be supplied with real water, just as this one is,
and the palm trees growing upon it would conceal the machinery as they
do here, only--if ever I do it, I shall be told that it is
unnatural--just as it looks here. Why does the water run on knife edges,
instead of taking the easier lines of depth, and tearing up the sand
for a bed? I might explain how, for Atamo is full of geology, and it is
not as mysterious, of course, as it looks. But I give it up, and content
myself with sketching the little girl between the posts opposite me.
We are in the _faletele_ (guest-house) quite near the water. Some thirty
feet off from us cocoanuts hang over the beach and the sea. Right behind
us are rocks upon which is perched a new and handsome Samoan house,
half-hidden in the green of trees. A promontory, finished by a little
island with palms, cuts off the further end of that long beach which is
divided by the cascade with its rocks and palms. Toward us, on one side,
falls the column of water, which ploughs a little canal into the sea.
There our men are bathing, standing up under the falling water, and
later I shall be there too. The other end of our bay, near us, rounds
away behind trees, and a mound, upon which is a fishing hut under palms.
In our house the central beams that support the roof, come together like
a V. All the posts and beams are decorated with flowers and leaves, and
in the centre, near the great branching post, stands a table covered
with _siapu_ (bark cloth) and with flowers in pots, as on an altar, say
a Buddhist table altar. Some of our men are dragging up the boats, but I
am too lazy to turn to see them place them under the shelter of the
cocoanuts. The _taupo_, is looking at me while I am writing, or at Atamo
similarly occupied. She is bored, but I can’t help it. I could not
entertain her if anything depended upon it. It ought to be cool, but the
beach sends up hot waves of air, and my _taupo’s_ cocoanut oil melts
into it languidly. The name of the place is “A Break Between Waves,” and
the name of the _taupo’s_ brother, that heavy youngster, who is talking
to Seu at the boats, is Break Love. There is a connection that I feel,
but you had better make it out yourself. If the chief is heavy, the
_taupo_ is clever, and makes herself agreeable. Her sister helps her in
every attempt. They are not as dignified as one can remember, and
perhaps had we kept to another line of travel, and visited higher types
of aristocracy, it might have been different. But they are easily amused
and talk much, and are great beggars--and gently, are willing in the
same way to marry us, one of them proposing to marry us both herself,
and even asking at the last moment, “Are you going away? I thought you
would have married me this morning.” All this is joke, with perhaps a
look to possibilities: for do I not remember how two little _taupos_
very missionary, far back in Savaii, changed their little easy manners
to seriousness, and almost aggressiveness, when some madcap hinted that
we were on a wife-hunt, and had come all this way for it. Those two
little pieces would not allow the liberties of five minutes before, nor
would they let me go without having catechised me seriously as to these
chances--to which they were willing to submit; but they wished
beforehand to know whether there was anything in it.
We had a _siva_ at night, in which our young lady figured with the great
grenadier’s cap that looks so savage and soldierly, and which is really
becoming, the heavy faces growing gentle and refined under this heavy
contrast. But it is painful to wear, being bound on tight, and how our
_taupo_ could stand it for three hours, as she did, I know not. She
danced and sat down alongside of us alternately for nearly four mortal
hours. Through all the dances there was a great display of pantomime,
mostly comic, made none the less by the gravity of some of the
performers who acted in reality as a dancing chorus; so that right
through the crowd of delirious young men and women passed in and out a
fine old Roman senator--I cannot better define him, who never smiled and
who wore his drapery as do the antique statues, and whose mind evidently
saw other meanings in the steps than did the other dancers. I could
almost have wished that there had been some meaning in this accident,
some deep, deep thought in this tragedy woven into the cloth of the fun,
but I believe that it was merely the pleasure taken by the old man in
feeling that his limbs were as vigorous and as supple as long ago. And
we went to bed, the entire company remaining alive and interested for
several hours after our succumbing to sleep. I could hear late in the
night Charley and the _taupo_ crunching sugar-cane and whispering while
Charley, during the whole evening, had lain sound asleep. But sitting up
late in the moonlight is Samoan. Before I fell asleep, my mind went over
some of the historical developments of the theatre. I have certainly
been instructed that at the beginning complete realistic performance is
impossible. And yet I had been listening to a play in which every
possible combination of a _fin de siècle_ manner of looking at things
had been slowly and elaborately combined. Was it then that this society
in which I am now living, savage as it seems to us, is really a very
modified form of an ancient structure of life? Or did these good people,
when they sailed from the dim Havaiki, bring already, in their habits of
mind, modified trainings of earlier civilization? Any similar views
would please me, but I should be better pleased to consider that the
rules have not been accurately defined and that we don’t yet really know
enough about it.
* * * * *
This story of nothing I conclude to-day at Falealili, as we get further
on. We were overwhelmed with gifts at parting, so much so as to make us
feel as if perhaps the only fair thing would be to marry one of the
girls, as an adequate return. Then with the return gifts we might have
run away.
A wife brings mats usually, and gives much support, as is well known by
one young gentleman I hear of, a captain of some schooner, who has wives
in different places. Each of them in turn supports him when he appears,
and as long as his visits are regular, and there is no preponderance or
excess or skimping in his remainings, everything goes well, and there
seem to be no jealousies. In fact, I think that the having to provide
would be a great reducer of those sentiments that flourish most where
there is idleness and pampering. Let us say that the subject is too
complicated, for I feel already as if I had carried over too much of
this letter into the next one. I am concluding now twenty-four hours
later, at Falealili, while waiting for letters, and appearing to listen
to the complimentary speeches of a _tulafale_ who rejoices in the name
of “Tuiloma, King of Rome.” He has a good deal of style, but not enough
for such a name, while the chief of Lepa, who drops in to explain his
reasons for being absent during our visit, has a fine head and makes a
pretty good picture. He has fought against Seu, and they talk over old
times. I am told that he fought well, and he looks martial, as I have
tried to hint above. Otherwise there is nothing to speak of, at least
for me, for I am miserable. It is very hot, and I feel the want of air.
I have tried to sketch two little girls making wreaths near by, and they
have been driven away to let some _tulafale_ come in and make the
ordinary speeches, to which Seu listens with his usual impassive manner.
If he is bored no one would know it. Much laughter goes on after the
ceremonies. But nothing can restore the little girls. One is a
half-breed--very light, her already fair hair bleached with Samoan
liming, and she has grey eyes and a very Samoan face. Her father is dead
and she lives absolutely like a Samoan. I follow her movements, trying
to detect some differences in this little creature, whose fate might
have been just as much the other way. All that I can notice is that
while I sketch she moves less than the others, and is content with fewer
gestures. The fluidity of the pure brown blood is not quite there. I
have told you, I suppose, often enough, how difficult it is to catch
them in a drawing, unless they are asleep. I have never been able to get
a whole minute for any position. Seu sometimes remains quiet for a few
minutes, and some of the greater people or men of character are disposed
to be steady. But usually it is perpetual movement skilfully disguised
under an appearance of quiet. The half-breed was, as I said, more quiet
and steady than her darker companions: our little half-breed
Charley--sometimes referred to by the old joke of Charley Yow, the Boy
Fiend--who serves as interpreter and boy-of-all-work, being a boy, is
still more restless than any of our boys. He will lie asleep absolutely
as if dead, but if awake he must wriggle. He bends over in true Samoan
way, but as he has neither Samoan grace nor strength, I half expect to
see him put his head between his legs, dog-fashion, so as to be able to
take a convenient look up his back. He plays with his toes and rubs his
fingers meditatively, with the European side of his mind, on the rims of
our glasses and saucers. Even the rainwater gets a taste of cocoanut oil
when he has been about. Yet he is clearly “Faá Samoa,” and lazy as he is
and pleased at playing with his fingers on a string tied round his nose,
or trying the edge of a knife, he is serviceable as a Samoan. When we
put him to the task of interpreting a little Samoan poem a few days ago,
he showed an unwilling capacity of mind not unlike what I could remember
of schooldays when we had to put Chaucer into modern English, and when
we bent all our energy into avoidance. The future of the half-breed is
an interesting question here, but too much for my present dreaming.
December 6th.
Later, last evening, during which I was absolutely idle like Charley,
and unlike Charley, because I was not well, we had a sort of abbreviated
domestic _siva_. We were politely asked if we should like one, and as
politely we explained that we were determined to go to bed early, but
that we should dislike to interfere, and would look on as long as we
were not too sleepy. The little daughter of the _tulafale_, herself the
_tulafale_ (spokeswoman) of the chief’s daughter, who is the _taupo_,
explained to us that being “Misionali,” she could not figure in it nor
be present, and if she were Misionali I think she did as well. The
_siva_ was sung sotto voce, and danced softly by three or four women,
probably with reference to not disturbing while we looked on--in some
curious confusion of meaning. The _taupo_, who is very stolid, with the
expression of a judge of the Supreme Court, danced with nothing on but
her _tipuka_ or upper garment, put about her waist, so that the hole
through which the head is put in this variety of “poncho” exposed the
least polite parts of her back. And as I referred to her gravity of
expression, or want of expression, by an allusion to the expressionless
look of a judge on the bench, I might slip in here a pretty anecedote of
the bright little daughter of one of our celebrities, from whom you will
see that she inherits. Last winter her father gave her a chance to see
the cabinet officers together, and on her return she was asked, “Well,
were they nice?”
“Not nice, but funny!” she said.
Well, so with the dance; and danced by the virgin of the village and her
chaperon it had a curious side. And it was funny enough, with the fun
underscored and interlined and underlined, as it were, by verbal
comment. Apparently the true dances that are not played are innocent as
well as beautiful, but when the drama comes in, the dance follows the
usual history of the drama.
This is a great missionary centre, and to-morrow will be Sunday, a day
on which we shall have to rest because the people here are sabbatarians
of a very strict kind, and do not approve of travelling on the Sabbath.
Our men tell us things of the habits of travelling; they are all, Seu’s
men and ours, except our two _tulafales_, whose behaviour is all that
one could ask for, young gentlemen whose glory consists in the constant
and sometimes successful assault of feminine virtue. As they explain it,
they would be laughed at at home, if they could boast of no conquests
during the trip; but owing to this being an “European malaga,” because
we are European, they are on relative good behaviour; so that they lead
in prayer and sing hymns, and are in other matters quite good boys. I
have no doubt also that besides the fact that Saturday night and Sunday
will give them plenty of feminine society, they also do not think that
it’s quite the proper thing to travel on Sunday.
So you see that one can go far and see the same thing, and that, as I
told you in Japan, the world is fairly round. Expressions vary, but the
meaning is the same.
[Illustration: TWO TAUPOS DANCING A “GAME OF BALL.” SAMOA]
I am writing now from the next station called Vao Vai, “Between Waters,”
a queer little place looking like some African possibility. Little
houses are bunched together near a little river close by us, and in
front of us, seen through trees, far out, is a little island full of
palms, which the _taupo_ tells me, is used as a resort for sick people
who go out to get fresher air. She herself explains that we shall have
no _siva_ because they are sad for the loss of a young man, a
half-brother of hers, brother of the _taupo_ whose dance and dress I
described above, and who was the _taupo_ of the preceding village. Our
good girl is missionary besides, which will secure us the greater rest
from _sivas_. Her brother’s death was explained to us last night. He had
gone over to Malua, where is the theological school, on a trip, with
only one attendant, and fell ill and died here on his return, having,
they assured me, been beaten to death by devils. So he said himself
before death, and in proof of it, his body was sore. Moreover, just
before his death, he ran out into the woods, in the dark. But being
caught by the leg, by some _tulafale_ or person of importance, and asked
who he was, he gave his father’s name, thus proving beyond a doubt that
he was possessed by his father’s ghost, I have not yet been able to get
the connection between his father’s spirit and those who beat the son to
death. But that may turn up yet, for the subject is in everybody’s
mouth. I ought, perhaps, to add that the young chief had had a cold
before, with inflictions of pneumonia, and had been somewhat relieved by
medicine from the Catholic priest at some adjoining station, but the
devils were too much for him.
* * * * *
To this little hut, looking out toward the enormous space of the sea,
nothing growing in front of us but two half-cut-down bread-fruit trees,
on the line of the horizon and the little island just outside of the
reef, and the long line of breakers extending right and left and as far
as one can see--have just come your letters carried to me across the
mountains, in a great rain. I have been in some anxiety for them, for I
had had only partial news since September 5th, which was three months
ago. Newspapers have also come from San Francisco and from Auckland,
giving telegraphic news as far as November 17th, from San Francisco to
November 6th; so that our evening is full of incident. There has been a
political change through the elections at home that alters the positions
of persons, and gives one a sort of feeling that all is not Samoan
peace. And the financial news affects us with doubt as to long delays,
for drafts on the Barings, or on any one, indeed, will not be quite as
easy to use in these little communities. So that this event is a turning
point to me out of the world, as well as to the great people in it. To
increase the resemblance to home, where
[Illustration: FROM OUR HUT AT VAO-VAI, SAMOA]
little habitual matters accompany great ones, we find in this little far
out-of-the-way place fresh butter for the first time in many months, and
milk. So that with Awoki’s cooking, we interrupt for this evening and
to-morrow morning, the course of our Samoan food. It is amusing to
notice what importance this event has assumed, and to realize that
to-morrow, Sunday, will be so much more pleasant for this little change.
Sunday.
This morning I watched from behind my mosquito-bar, where I was
pretending to sleep, the procession of people going to church for the
second time. I had been waked at dawn by the little bell, which sounded
like a steamboat call for all aboard. Against the background of the sea
filed continuously the parishoners, grown people and children, most of
the women with the hats that belong to their idea of church. But among
them were some women with “fine mats” around their waists, that
contrasted with the queer European headdress apparently made only for
this and similar markets. These contrasting individuals were, I was
told, the watchers upon the dead man of whom I spoke, he who was killed
by devils in the woods. These fine mats were their guerdon--for he was a
chief’s son. Had he been the chief, my informant said, mourning would
have been general; the people would have had half their hair cut, and
this would be done perforce to such as neglected it. With this
information I woke up officially, just as I saw our men filing away to
church. Later they came back to ask for canned salmon for their girls.
Nothing has occurred. I have sketched most of the time. Atamo has been
over to see the little islands, for the pleasure of paddling in a canoe.
The _taupo_ did not go, whether from missionary sabbatical feeling, or
whether she was afraid, or whether the men would not let her, for they
said that a woman did not know how to take care of a boat over a surf;
rather an ungallant way of looking at it, for the women we have known,
pretty generally paddled about well enough inside the reef. Our little
_taupo_, who was very nice and quiet, spent most of the evening playing
with the men. I have spent the day in intellectual idleness, as I told
you, as the place is very small, being half surrounded by a little
river, and crowded with small houses. I have moralized in a depressed
way, and in this direction: would we at home, if things were clean
enough about us to deceive us, find it amusing to sit in an Irish
shanty, as we do now in this one? We should have pigs about and
occasional dogs, and kind, ugly old women and some politics. And the
resemblance grows more and more as I look at it from the dirty point of
view. Things are thrown out of doors to the pigs, who are so convenient
to put things into you wish to get rid of, as Mrs. Bell used to say.
And the ducks wander about everywhere, and I watch the way the pigs eat
cocoanuts, etc.
The chief and the others, the _tulafales_, have made speeches and drunk
_kava_ over and over again, all day, in an unofficial manner. And I am
so sleepy, so sleepy that I almost fell off my chair, for I have a chair
or camp stool--during evening prayers.
December 8th. Saagapu.
Anagapu is the name of the chief.
We are a little further along the coast, having passed through a
dangerous reef, and waiting for a better tide, which we shall have
to-morrow. The village is large, laid out handsomely in length, a little
tedious in its regularity, well planted with trees, and with swamps
behind and on the two sides that confine it. We have had the longest
_tulafale_ talk that I have ever suffered from, and I am prostrated with
weariness and with sultriness of the air. We had feared heavy rain and
looked with anxiety at two great water-spouts circling in the hills as
we sailed along. There is an arrangement of mountains just behind us,
probably some ancient crater, that looked as if it must be always in a
boil of rain. There is nothing to do, fatigued as I am, but to go to
sleep, and try to brighten up for a _siva_ that I foresee. The people
are many. There are lots of children, and girls who strut about careless
of their lava-lavas, for this is a place unfrequented by foreigners and
by the elegant people of Apia. I see two blacks, or Solomon islanders,
dressed in lava-lavas in the Samoan way, who have taken refuge here,
having escaped from the German plantation further on, which we hope to
reach to-morrow evening. The chief tells me that they are quiet and
well-behaved, and that they go to school like the others about them. All
these blacks work harder than the Polynesians, and even their anxiety of
look, as they come with hesitation toward us has a sort of possibility
of action that I do not find in the browns of a similar class. I need
not have suffered so much from the conventional speeches. Our host, on
my waking from an attempt at sleep, stretches himself against the post
nearest to me, and breaks out in most vernacular English, stating that
he has been a little everywhere, and has been away from home for some
twenty years. He has been as far as New York, which he says is not a
good place for a sailor; in China many times, in Japan, in India, in
France, in England, etc. He has conversed with the American Indians and
states that he can understand their “lingo,” as he names it, from its
similarity to the Pacific tongues spoken by the Polynesian. He has
theories on these subjects, and believes
[Illustration: TULAFALES SPEECH MAKING. VAO-VAI, SAMOA]
that there is a connection of race between the Hawaiians and the Samoans
and Tahitians, and he extends it to the Malays in the west, and the
American Indians in the east. And as I listen to him, I keep thinking
that the story of the entire Pacific is probably the only explanation of
the Polynesian. I should like to hear more, but personages of importance
again come in and more talk of the society kind recurs. Later we are
asked if we wish a _siva_. We hesitate for every reason. First, we hear
rumours of a _siva_ being prepared for us further back in some place
already passed, owing to some letters of Tofae that announced us.
Secondly, we are not impressed by our _taupo_, who besides want of
beauty has also a discontented look which in some grotesque way reminds
me of modern English high-art pictures--something grumpy. Then I have
made up my mind to have a good sleep if possible; so that we say yes, if
only the _siva_ can be in another house; then we add that if we are too
tired we propose to leave. We find, as usual, our boat crew extremely
interested in the subject and in the performers, and the neat little
house where we go in the dark is absolutely filled with spectators. A
place has been set apart for us, filled by our two camp stools, and we
are in time. The performers are full of anxiety to begin, and suddenly
enters our _taupo_. In the dim light her sullenness looks like calm, her
big headdress covers enough of her face to make the lines look
delicate; and she comes in with a sort of hop of assurance, and throws
herself down an entirely different person. She has authority and grace,
and the “I don’t know what” that belongs to any one completely sure of a
good professional standard. And she smiles with excitement, her smile
widening with the cocoanut oil upon her face. And so the _siva_ was full
of fire, and danced in splendid time. Then we were able to leave and
managed to get a good night’s rest. The floor when it is well covered
with mats makes an excellent bed, and when one is sure and protected
from mosquitoes everything else fades easily into sleep. In the morning
we had a short talk with our host, who complained that he could not get
away again to his wanderings. Samoa might be a good place enough, but he
was bored. He had to submit, however, to the head of the family, who
refused to give him leave. The old man, as he called him, using our
phrase, kept him confined to his chiefdom. Family authority was thus
vested in his uncle, our friend Seu, _who had the name_, and though the
chief’s authority was his own for his chiefdom, outside of that the head
of the family was master. This was the Roman law in its integrity; our
chief personally was as a son, and only free when exercising a function.
Even were he required to leave and come to his uncle in Apia, he should
have to do so, just as he was bound not to go off as a sailor again.
[Illustration: TAUPO DANCING THE STANDING SIVA. SAMOA]