Of course all Indians should not be forced into the same mould.
Let us try to give each his chance to develop what is best in
him. Moreover, let us be wary of interfering overmuch with
either his work or his play. It is mere tyranny, for instance,
to stop all Indian dances. Some which are obscene or dangerous
must be prohibited. Others should be permitted, and many of
them encouraged. Nothing that tells for the joy of life, in any
community, should be lightly touched.
Roosevelt: A Booklover’s Holidays.
When I first read this, I thought of and began to compare the different
types of Indian dances and ceremonies I had witnessed: the Butterfly,
Basket, and Corn dances, the Snake and Flute Dances of the Hopi; the
Medicine Sings, and squaw dances, and the Ye-be-chai of the Navajo; the
colorful pageants of the Pueblos, after Catholic Mass is celebrated on
the name-days of their patron saints, and the fiesta begins; the
memorial ceremony of the Mohave, and their cremation of the dead. And
those slam-bang, whirlwind dances of the Sioux.
Some of these were commemorative; some were fixed ceremonials; some
were of little moment; some seemed nothing more serious than
masquerades; some were filled with superstition and had just a touch of
smoldering fanaticism under the veneer of paint and feathers. A few
were social gatherings, a break in the monotony of existence, having in
them “the joy of life.” And while all of the native dances should have
thrown around them a thin line of supervision and restraint, many of
them should be by no means “lightly touched.”
The Snake Dance may be dangerous, and it is certainly revolting at
first sight. And perhaps it should be prohibited. That is a point of
view. I am not thoroughly convinced of its danger to Indians, since I
never heard of a Hopi dying from snake-bite. I saw so many Snake Dances
that the edge has been dulled from my original thrill. If tourists were
denied the pleasure of seeing it, I believe the ceremony would soon
languish, and pass away entirely with the going of the elders from the
mesa stage. Certainly I sought to prevent its perpetuation through the
initiation of children, but without result, for I was unsupported in
this, and alone I feared my inability to stifle a pagan war.
But of those things that should be dealt with gently, the tiny shows
that the vacationist seldom sees and the Bureau has never heard of, I
recall the Dance of the Dolls.
One afternoon, at First Mesa, I came along a trail toward the witch’s
camp, meaning to start for home once the team was harnessed. I met an
Indian of the district walking with my interpreter, and was about to
give direction concerning the horses when the latter said:—
“He wants you to stay and see the Dolls’ Dance.”
Now I had quite a collection of Hopi dolls, those quaint figurines
carved with some skill from pieces of cottonwood, and dressed in the
regalia of twig and feather and fur to represent the various katchinas
of the clans. But I had never heard of a dance devoted to these little
mannequins.
“What sort of dance is that?” I asked.
“It is called the Dolls-Grind-Corn dance,” he replied.
“When—to-morrow?” thinking of those monotonous open-air drills, having
various names but scarcely to be distinguished one from the other.
“No. To-night, in the kiva.”
This interested me. I could see that the interpreter longed to remain
overnight among his people, and to take in this show.
“Well,” I said, “is it worth climbing that mesa in the dark?”
“I think you would like it,” he answered; “it is a funny little dance,
and the children go to see it.”
So I did not order up the team.
After supper, when the twilight had faded into that clouded blackness
before the stars appear, I scrambled after my guide up the mesa trail.
When we reached the end of that panting climb, the houses of the people
were murkily lighted by their oil lamps, but most of the householders
were abroad, going toward the various kivas. To the central one we
went, and down the ladder.
The place was lighted by large swinging lamps, borrowed for the
occasion from the trader, lamps that have wide tin shades and may be
quickly turned to brilliancy or darkness by a little wheel at the side.
I had expected to find it a gloomy place, whereas they had arranged
something very like the lighting of a theatre. It was a trifle
difficult to find a place in that crowded vault. The far end was kept
clear, but the two long sides and the ladder-end were packed with Hopi
women and their little ones. Just as I have seen in our theatres, the
children could scarcely repress their nervous interest, now sitting,
now standing on tiptoe, turning and watching, as if this would hasten
matters.
I seated myself on the lower rung of the ladder, believing this place
would be most desirable from my point of view, because from it I had a
view of the kiva’s centre and could most easily make my way to the
upper air when things became too thick. A crowded kiva is rather
foreign in atmosphere when filled to its capacity and with lamps going.
But I soon found that I would be disturbed. From above came the noise
of rattles and the clank of equipment, calls and the shuffling of feet.
A line of dancers descended upon me. I moved to let them pass into the
lighted centre-space. They were garbed in all the color and design of
Hopi imagination, and wore grotesque masks. They lined up, and I sensed
that their mission was one of merrymaking. Two clowns headed the band,
and soon had the audience convulsed. They hopped about, postured, and
carried on a rapid dialogue. There was a great deal of laughter.
I had my usual experience in trying to gain a knowledge of the show
through an interpreter, quite the same as that lady who accompanied an
attaché to hear a speech by Bismarck in the Reichstag. You will
remember that the visitor kept demanding interpretation, whereas the
attaché remained silent, intently listening, as the Iron Chancellor
droned on, monotonously voluble.
“What does he say?” asked the visitor for the fifth time.
“Madam,” replied the attaché, “I am waiting for the verb!”
And that is about as far as I ever got toward exact knowledge of the
clowns in any dance. I have tried it many times. The interpreter always
enjoyed the show for himself, first, and left me in outer darkness.
Occasionally he would attempt to explain some part of the horseplay in
progress, probably such simple portions as he thought my feeble
intellect would rise to.
“You see,” he would begin, pointing, “he is one of the uncles!”
And apparently there are always two, paternal and maternal, I suppose.
The uncle is the great man of the Hopi family. The father does not
amount to much—he can be divorced in a jiffy and, while the mother is
the household boss, she is always dominated by the grandmother, if
living, and dictated to by the uncle in matters concerning alliances
with other families. Perhaps one should call him a social arbiter. He
has a great deal to say about weddings, marriage portions, and the
like. Whenever I have watched the clowns at these smaller dances, and
have asked their rôles in the play, invariably they have been of the
uncles. Perhaps the Hopi in this manner square themselves at the
expense of the family martinet.
I could not see that there was anything to cause suspicion of evil in
this little scene. In old Navajo dances the clowns would often engage
in dialogue that interpreters feared to translate. This is the charge
too against the clowns of certain Pueblo and Zuni dances; and the
clowns of the Hopi have been known to indulge in antics that were not
elevating. I cannot bring myself to believe, however, that the clowns
of the Dolls’ Dance were relating anything other than crude witticisms,
for the little children laughed as loudly as the others, and it seemed
sheer fooling. Had a slapstick been in evidence, I should have been
sure of the nature of the proceedings; but the Indians have not
developed exactly this form of humor.
Then the dancers filed out, up the ladder, and away.
“They go to another kiva,” said my companion.
And almost immediately came another and different set of fun-makers.
They took the centre of the kiva and soon had all laughing at similar
jokes and grimaces. So, I thought, the old tiresome reel over again, to
be continued throughout the night. For I had seen this dancing in
relays last an entire day, only stopping for hasty meals and new
costumes or make-up, and to one who does not understand the differences
in scenes it becomes an intense boredom. As I once heard a man remark:
“They are three days making ready for one day’s dancing, and the rest
of the week getting over it.” This critic was not too severe, for there
is much to be said about the time lost in Hopi spectacles, when one is
seriously engaged in thrusting them along the pathway of progress. I
arose and was about to depart; but my interpreter pulled me down.
“Wait!” he urged. “They will put out the lights.”
This time the dancers did not leave the kiva. One of them came to the
lamp just above me, and at a signal all the lights were dimmed. The
kiva was in thick darkness. One could hear childish sighs of
expectation. Perhaps the lights were off for thirty seconds, although
it did not seem so long. Then they flared up, to reveal a curious
little scene that had been constructed in the dark. I had not noticed
that the dancers packed anything in with them. The setting may have
been in that crowded kiva all the time; but where had it been
concealed?
At any rate, it was a queer little show, quite like that of our old
friend Punch. There was a painted screen of several panels, and in the
centre ones were two dolls, fashioned to represent Hopi maidens. Before
each was the corn-grinding metate. And farther extended on the floor
before them and their stone tubs was a miniature cornfield—the sand,
and the furrows, and the hills of tiny plants.
Hardly had the first sigh of pleased surprise from the children died
away, when, even to my astonishment, the dolls became animated, and
with odd life-like motions began to grind corn, just as the women grind
daily in the houses of the villages, crushing the hard grain between
the stone surfaces of the metate and the mano. These mannequins worked
industriously, and with movements not at all mechanical. Then a little
bird fluttered along the top of the screen, piping and whistling.
Shrills of delight from the youngsters, to be followed by audible
gasps, for from a side panel came twisting a long snake, to dart among
the corn hills of the scenic field, and then to retreat backward
through the hole from which it had appeared. These actions followed
each other in quick succession. The fellow behind the screen was quite
skillful in working his marionettes for the delight of those children
of the tribe.
Perhaps in all this there was some deep-laid symbolism, checking
rigidly with the North Star and the corn harvests of the past and
future. Perhaps it was a primitive object-lesson, to encourage thrift
and industry as a bulwark against famine. But if you ask me, I saw in
it exactly a repetition of the district schoolhouse or the country
chapel at holiday time, when Cousin Elmer obliges with a droll
exhibition of whiskers and sleighbells and cotton snowflakes. Sometimes
the Hopi at these festivals for children give them presents too, and a
handful of piki-bread bestowed by a clown, however bizarre his facial
appearance, has all the gift-wonder of our childhood Santa Claus and
his treasure-pack.
Touch gently! They—all children will be gone soon enough. A little
while and you can rest from anæmic policies and sophist sermons. The
Desert will be lonely without its simple shepherds and their simple
customs. Those who strain to inherit it, through legislation, will pack
with them no poetry and attract no culture. Great cattle- and
sheep-camps, monopolies, grimy oil-rigs, and yawning coal-drifts will
mar the Desert. A few old books, a few paintings,—their creators gone,
too,—will picture what you once possessed, and experimented with, and
auctioned off. For one Shelton, discredited perhaps by a clamor of
sanctimonious mediocrity, you have entrusted these people and their
empire to twenty Bumbles. Twice you have sought to partition their
community life, to make swift the end, to hasten the advent of the
speculator who follows estates and bids for the possessions of the
dead. At length,—because at length you will succeed in selling the
desert heritage,—there will be only the museum case, and dust, and a
ticket.
The days of approach to a major celebration in the Desert, such as the
Snake Dance, were passed in a ferment of preparation and a stew of
unrest. All employees would be imposed on in one way or another. Some
would be called on to act as stewards, others would surrender their
quarters to house unappreciative idlers. And certainly the men would
have to drag cars from muddy sloughs, ferry them across dangerous
washes, repair them when broken, and perhaps by main strength push some
into havens of rest. Certain camps would have to be arranged, and some
supplied. No! we did not welcome these extra duties, so often repaid
with meagre thanks.
But we did enjoy meeting cordial people, both neighbors and visitors,
who, catching the holiday freedom of the moment, invigorated by the
tonic of the fresh desert air, gave us entertainment of a kind that was
relief from long monotonies.
The Snake Dance ends very close to sunset. The crowds leave the
mesa-top, down the trails afoot or mule-back, down the rocky roads in
rough wagons, a scrambling multitude. The sun is gilding the western
walls of First Mesa, throwing the east-side roads and trails in shadow,
and above, the ruined crest of the headland loom black in a gorgeous
halo. The farther eastern valley is bathed in a strange lemon light.
The far-away northern capes gleam luminously in scarlet and gold, and
then suddenly are gone. Huh-kwat-we, the Terrace of the Winds, pales in
lavender and grayish green. Twilight, with its mysterious desert hush,
steals over Hopi-land. Something has been fulfilled in accordance with
an ancient prophecy. The desert gods have been appeased.
Soon it is dark, and stars appear as vesper candles. And then, all
about the foot of the great fortress-like mesa, lighting the sand
dunes, gleaming warmly through the peach trees, grow camp-fires. Where
is usually a heavy silence at evening, broken only by sheep bells, now
one hears laughter, many voices, the sound of the chef at work; and the
smell of cooking rises. Coffee and bacon, desert fare, spread their
aroma, and a ravenous hunger comes to one. Here is a tiny group about a
tented auto, there amid horses and harness and camp dunnage are thirty
around one board. “Come and get it!”
I recall incidents of my introduction to these scenes. Armijo, the
trader’s relative, had brought his treasured violin. I heard its tones
from the trail, and when I came to Hubbell’s camp, there a group of
them, musicians of the posts, were making ready to match their skill
against the melody that tourists bring. Supper put away, the concert
began.
“How do you like this?” asked the master of the bow, and as he swept
the strings, that saddest of memory songs cried poignantly, a song fit
for a desert night and a desert camp: La Golondrina! Such harmonies of
double-stopping I had seldom heard. It seemed to me—or was it desert
magic?—that Kreisler could do no more. Silence. And then applause from
fifty camps.
And Ed’s guitar. Soon the lilting airs of old fandangos would sing
through the stunted trees, and one could imagine that the long-dead
children of the padres made fiesta.
“Now, Doctor,” said someone.
“What do you play, Doctor?” I asked.
“I play the banjo,” he replied—I thought with a shade of mockery in his
voice. Now I had just heard the Spaniard’s violin sob a song that had
swept a nation, and Ed’s lightsome Mexican airs were no mean music for
a summer camp. Night, under the old trees and in the shadow of the mesa
of the gods, brings the romance of serenades, especially soothing after
a long, tiresome day.
But—a banjo! That thumpety, plankety, plunkety thing! I was sorry I had
spoken. He would oblige with something to fit clogs and the levee, and
the whole atmosphere of that evening would vanish, never to return! The
doctor opened a case.
“What would you like to hear?”
That is a terrible question from a banjoist, isn’t it?
“Well—what do you play?”
“Oh! the—anything—popular classic stuff. Now there’s the Melody in F or
Mendelssohn’s Spring Song, Schubert’s Serenade, the Fifth Nocturne—”
“Great God!” I cried. “On a banjo!”
I think he pulled this little joke on all strangers, for, after
allowing it thoroughly to soak in, he brought that wonder instrument
closer to the fire and began strumming the strings of it until its
resonant cadences hushed all the noises of the camps. Then, softly
through the grove, sounded the Melody in F, in organ tones.
Of course you will perceive that I am no musician and no critic. I have
not the ear of the one, nor the language of the other. I am simply one
of those who like to hear what I like—hopeless. The Andante from the
Sonata Pathétique haunted and eluded me for years and, but for a
wandering pianist disguised as an investigator, I might have classed it
with a dream. Sordid duties dull one to accept coarser things on a
phonograph.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “I have played through the East and on Canadian
circuits, but I don’t care for the stage. I took up concert work,
traveling with glee clubs and orchestras, but that wasn’t much better.
Hurried life. I like the quiet places.”
And he was a doctor in the Indian Service!
Someone called: “Play it again!” And he played it again—on a banjo!
Down under the hill were camped a bunch of troubadours that once had
trooped with a second company, passing as the Original New York Cast.
By the light of a lantern they played accompaniments on an old
melodeon, dragged from the schoolhouse. A rousing chorus, and then a
tenor voice: the Irish Love Song. Followed a roar of applause that
brought drowsy Indians to the mesa edge. Strange Americanos! Strange
Bohannas, who mock at drums and chanting, and who then make such queer
music and many cries.
And by midnight the fires would die down, one by one, to mere glows.
The pueblo lights, high up along the mesa cornice, would be blotted
out. Beyond the camps, only the sound of horses munching, the bray of a
desert nightingale from the upper corrals, or the canter of a mounted
policeman through the sand, as he gave a last look around before
rolling in his blanket. Then silence under the dark star-strewn sky, a
tranquil desert silence, to be broken, perhaps—who knows?—by ghostly
sandals, as the padre walked to see that curious company, asleep in his
one-time garden, guests of a pagan feast.