_The Hopi Snake Dance_
The Hopi country is in Arizona, next the Navajo country, and some
seventy miles north of the Santa Fé railroad. The Hopis are Pueblo
Indians, village Indians, so their reservation is not large. It
consists of a square track of greyish, unappetising desert, out of
which rise three tall arid mesas, broken off in ragged, pallid rock.
On the top of the mesas perch the ragged, broken, greyish pueblos,
identical with the mesas on which they stand.
The nearest village, Walpi, stands in half-ruin high, high on a narrow
rock-top where no leaf of life ever was tender. It is all grey, utterly
dry, utterly pallid, stone and dust, and very narrow. Below it all the
stark light of the dry Arizona sun.
Walpi is called the “first mesa.” And it is at the far edge of Walpi
you see the withered beaks and claws and bones of sacrificed eagles, in
a rock-cleft under the sky. They sacrifice an eagle each year, on the
brink, by rolling him out and crushing him so as to shed no blood. Then
they drop his remains down the dry cleft in the promontory’s farthest
grey tip.
The trail winds on, utterly bumpy and horrible, for thirty miles, past
the second mesa, where Chimopova is, on to the third mesa. And on the
Sunday afternoon of August 17th black automobile after automobile
lurched and crawled across the grey desert, where low, grey, sage-scrub
was coming to pallid yellow. Black hood followed crawling after black
hood, like a funeral cortège. The motor-cars, with all the tourists,
wending their way to the third and farthest mesa, thirty miles across
this dismal desert where an odd water-windmill spun, and odd patches of
corn blew in the strong desert wind, like dark-green women with fringed
shawls blowing and fluttering, not far from the foot of the great,
grey, up-piled mesa.
The snake dance (I am told) is held once a year, on each of the three
mesas in succession. This year of grace 1924 it was to be held in
Hotevilla, the last village on the furthest western tip of the third
mesa.
On and on bumped the cars. The lonely second mesa lay in the distance.
On and on, to the ragged ghost of the third mesa.
The third mesa has two main villages, Oraibi, which is on the near
edge, and Hotevilla, on the far. Up scrambles the car, on all its
four legs, like a black-beetle straddling past the schoolhouse and
store down below, up the bare rock and over the changeless boulders,
with a surge and a sickening lurch to the sky-brim, where stands the
rather foolish church. Just beyond, dry, grey, ruined, and apparently
abandoned, Oraibi, its few ragged stone huts. All these cars come all
this way, and apparently nobody at home.
You climb still, up the shoulder of rock, a few more miles, across the
lofty, wind-swept mesa, and so you come to Hotevilla, where the dance
is, and where already hundreds of motor-cars are herded in an official
camping-ground, among the piñon bushes.
Hotevilla is a tiny little village of grey little houses, raggedly
built with undressed stone and mud around a little oblong plaza, and
partly in ruins. One of the chief two-storey houses on the small square
is a ruin, with big square window-holes.
It is a parched, grey country of snakes and eagles, pitched up against
the sky. And a few dark-faced, short, thickly built Indians have their
few peach trees among the sand, their beans and squashes on the naked
sand under the sky, their springs of brackish water.
Three thousand people came to see the little snake dance this year,
over miles of desert and bumps. Three thousand, of all sorts, cultured
people from New York, Californians, onward-pressing tourists, cowboys,
Navajo Indians, even negroes; fathers, mothers, children, of all ages,
colours, sizes of stoutness, dimensions of curiosity.
What had they come for? Mostly to see men hold _live rattlesnakes_ in
their mouths. “_I never did see a rattlesnake, and I’m crazy to see
one!_” cried a girl with bobbed hair.
There you have it. People trail hundreds of miles, avidly, to see this
circus-performance of men handling live rattlesnakes that may bite them
any minute--even do bite them. Some show, that!
There is the other aspect, of the ritual dance. One may look on from
the angle of culture, as one looks on while Anna Pavlova dances with
the Russian Ballet.
Or there is still another point of view, the religious. Before the
snake dance begins, on the Monday, and the spectators are packed thick
on the ground round the square, and in the window-holes, and on all
the roofs, all sorts of people greedy with curiosity, a little speech
is made to them all, asking the audience to be silent and respectful,
as this is a sacred religious ceremonial of the Hopi Indians, and not
a public entertainment. Therefore, please, no clapping or cheering or
applause, but remember you are, as it were, in a church.
The audience accepts the implied rebuke in good faith, and looks round
with a grin at the “church.” But it is a good-humoured, very decent
crowd, ready to respect any sort of feelings. And the Indian with his
“religion” is a sort of public pet.
From the cultured point of view, the Hopi snake dance is almost
nothing, not much more than a circus turn, or the games that children
play in the street. It has none of the impressive beauty of the Corn
Dance at Santo Domingo, for example. The big pueblos of Zuni, Santo
Domingo, Taos have a cultured instinct which is not revealed in the
Hopi snake dance. This last is grotesque rather than beautiful, and
rather uncouth in its touch of horror. Hence the thrill, and the crowd.
As a cultured spectacle, it is a circus turn: men actually dancing
round with snakes, poisonous snakes, dangling from their mouths.
And as a religious ceremonial: well, you can either be politely
tolerant like the crowd to the Hopis; or you must have some spark of
understanding of the sort of religion implied.
“Oh, the Indians,” I heard a woman say, “they believe we are all
brothers, the snakes are the Indians’ brothers, and the Indians are the
snakes’ brothers. The Indians would never hurt the snakes, they won’t
hurt any animal. So the snakes won’t bite the Indians. They are all
brothers, and none of them hurt anybody.”
This sounds very nice, only more Hindoo than Hopi. The dance itself
does not convey much sense of fraternal communion. It is not in the
least like St. Francis preaching to the birds.
The animistic religion, as we call it, is not the religion of the
Spirit. A religion of spirits, yes. But not of Spirit. There is no One
Spirit. There is no One God. There is no Creator. There is strictly no
God at all: because all is alive. In our conception of religion there
exists God and His Creation: two things. We are creatures of God,
therefore we pray to God as the Father, the Saviour, the Maker.
But strictly, in the religion of aboriginal America, there is no
Father, and no Maker. There is the great living source of life: say
the Sun of existence: to which you can no more pray than you can pray
to Electricity. And emerging from this Sun are the great potencies,
the invincible influences which make shine and warmth and rain. From
these great interrelated potencies of rain and heat and thunder emerge
the seeds of life itself, corn, and creatures like snakes. And beyond
these, men, persons. But all emerge separately. There is no oneness, no
sympathetic identifying oneself with the rest. The law of isolation is
heavy on every creature.
Now the Sun, the rain, the shine, the thunder, they are alive. But they
are not persons or people. They are alive. They are manifestations of
living activity. But they are not personal Gods.
Everything lives. Thunder lives, and rain lives, and sunshine lives.
But not in the personal sense.
How is man to get himself into relation with the vast living
convulsions of rain and thunder and sun, which are conscious and
alive and potent, but like vastest of beasts, inscrutable and
incomprehensible. How is man to get himself into relation with these,
the vastest of cosmic beasts?
It is the problem of the ages of man. Our religion says the cosmos is
Matter, to be conquered by the Spirit of Man. The yogi, the fakir,
the saint try conquest by abnegation and by psychic powers. The real
conquest of the cosmos is made by science.
The American-Indian sees no division into Spirit and Matter, God and
not-God. Everything is alive, though not personally so. Thunder is
neither Thor nor Zeus. Thunder is the vast living thunder asserting
itself like some incomprehensible monster, or some huge reptile-bird of
the pristine cosmos.
How to conquer the dragon-mouthed thunder! How to capture the feathered
rain!
We make reservoirs, and irrigation ditches and artesian wells. We make
lightning conductors, and build vast electric plants. We say it is a
matter of science, energy, force.
But the Indian says No! It all lives. We must approach it fairly,
with profound respect, but also with desperate courage. Because man
must conquer the cosmic monsters of living thunder and live rain. The
rain that slides down from its source, and ebbs back subtly, with a
strange energy generated between its coming and going, an energy
which, even to our science, is of life: this, man has to conquer. The
serpent-striped, feathery Rain.
We made the conquest by dams and reservoirs and windmills. The Indian,
like the old Egyptian, seeks to make the conquest from the mystic will
within him, pitted against the Cosmic Dragon.
We must remember, to the animistic vision there is no perfect God
behind us, who created us from his knowledge, and foreordained all
things. No such God. Behind lies only the terrific, terrible, crude
Source, the mystic Sun, the well-head of all things. From this mystic
Sun emanate the Dragons, Rain, Wind, Thunder, Shine, Light. The
Potencies or Powers. These bring forth Earth, then reptiles, birds, and
fishes.
The Potencies are not Gods. They are Dragons. The Sun of Creation
itself is a dragon most terrible, vast, and most powerful, yet even so,
less in being than we. The only gods on earth are men. For gods, like
man, do not exist beforehand. They are created and evolved gradually,
with æons of effort, out of the fire and smelting of life. They are the
highest thing created, smelted between the furnace of the Life-Sun, and
beaten on the anvil of the rain, with hammers or thunder and bellows
of rushing wind. The cosmos is a great furnace, a dragon’s den, where
the heroes and demi-gods, men, forge themselves into being. It is a
vast and violent matrix, where souls form like diamonds in earth, under
extreme pressure.
So that gods are the outcome, not the origin. And the best gods that
have resulted, so far, are men. But gods frail as flowers; which have
also the godliness of things that have won perfection out of the
terrific dragon-clutch of the cosmos. Men are frail as flowers. Man is
as a flower, rain can kill him or succour him, heat can flick him with
a bright tail, and destroy him: or, on the other hand, it can softly
call him into existence, out of the egg of chaos. Man is delicate as a
flower, godly beyond flowers, and his lordship is a ticklish business.
He has to conquer, and hold his own, and again conquer all the time.
Conquer the powers of the cosmos. To us, science is our religion of
conquest. Hence through science, we are the conquerors and resultant
gods of our earth. But to the Indian, the so-called mechanical
processes do not exist. All lives. And the conquest is made by the
means of the living will.
This is the religion of all aboriginal America, Peruvian, Aztec,
Athabascan: perhaps the aboriginal religion of all the world. In
Mexico, men fell into horror of the crude, pristine gods, the dragons.
But to the pueblo Indian, the most terrible dragon is still somewhat
gentle-hearted.
This brings us back to the Hopi. He has the hardest task, the
stubbornest destiny. Some inward fate drove him to the top of these
parched mesas, all rocks and eagles, sand and snakes, and wind and sun
and alkali. These he had to conquer. Not merely, as we should put it,
the natural conditions of the place. But the mysterious life-spirit
that reigned there. The eagle and the snake.
It is a destiny as well as another. The destiny of the animistic soul
of man, instead of our destiny of Mind and Spirit. We have undertaken
the scientific conquest of forces, of natural conditions. It has been
comparatively easy, and we are victors. Look at our black motor-cars
like beetles working up the rock-face at Oraibi. Look at our three
thousand tourists gathered to gaze at the twenty lonely men who dance
in the tribe’s snake dance!
The Hopi sought the conquest by means of the mystic, living will that
is in man, pitted against the living will of the dragon-cosmos. The
Egyptians long ago made a partial conquest by the same means. We have
made a partial conquest by other means. Our corn doesn’t fail us: we
have no seven years’ famine, and apparently need never have. But the
other thing fails us, the strange inward sun of life; the pellucid
monster of the rain never shows us his stripes. To us, heaven switches
on daylight, or turns on the shower-bath. We little gods are gods of
the machine only. It is our highest. Our cosmos is a great engine. And
we die of ennui. A subtle dragon stings us in the midst of plenty.
_Quos vult perdere Deus, dementat prius._
On the Sunday evening is a first little dance in the plaza at
Hotevilla, called the Antelope dance. There is the hot, sandy, oblong
little place, with a tuft of green cotton-wood boughs stuck like a
plume at the south end, and on the floor at the foot of the green, a
little lid of a trap-door. They say the snakes are under there.
They say that the twelve officiating men of the snake clan of the
tribe have for nine days been hunting snakes in the rocks. They have
been performing the mysteries for nine days, in the kiva, and for two
days they have fasted completely. All these days they have tended
the snakes, washed them with repeated lustrations, soothed them, and
exchanged spirits with them. The spirit of man soothing and seeking
and making interchange with the spirits of the snakes. For the snakes
are more rudimentary, nearer to the great convulsive powers. Nearer
to the nameless Sun, more knowing in the slanting tracks of the rain,
the pattering of the invisible feet of the rain-monster from the sky.
The snakes are man’s next emissaries to the rain-gods. The snakes lie
nearer to the source of potency, the dark, lurking, intense sun at
the centre of the earth. For to the cultured animist, and the pueblo
Indian is such, the earth’s dark centre holds its dark sun, our source
of isolated being, round which our world coils its folds like a great
snake. The snake is nearer the dark sun, and cunning of it.
They say--people say--that rattlesnakes are not travellers. They haunt
the same spots on earth, and die there. It is said also that the
snake-priests (so-called) of the Hopi, probably capture the same snakes
year after year.
Be that as it may. At sundown before the real dance, there is the
little dance called the Antelope Dance. We stand and wait on a
house-roof. Behind us is tethered an eagle; rather dishevelled he sits
on the coping, and looks at us in unutterable resentment. See him,
and see how much “brotherhood” the Indian feels with animals--at best
the silent tolerance that acknowledges dangerous difference. We wait
without event. There are no drums, no announcements. Suddenly into the
plaza, with rude, intense movements, hurries a little file of men. They
are smeared all with grey and black, and are naked save for little
kilts embroidered like the sacred dance-kilts in other pueblos, red and
green and black on a white fibre-cloth. The fox-skins hang behind. The
feet of the dancers are pure ash-grey. Their hair is long.
The first is a heavy old man with heavy, long, wild grey hair and
heavy fringe. He plods intensely forward, in the silence, followed
in a sort of circle by the other grey-smeared, long-haired, naked,
concentrated men. The oldest men are first: the last is a short-haired
boy of fourteen or fifteen. There are only eight men--the so-called
antelope-priests. They pace round in a circle, rudely, absorbedly,
till the first heavy, intense old man with his massive grey hair
flowing, comes to the lid on the ground, near the tuft of kiva-boughs.
He rapidly shakes from the hollow of his right hand a little white
meal on the lid, stamps heavily, with naked right foot, on the meal,
so the wood resounds, and paces heavily forward. Each man, to the boy,
shakes meal, stamps, paces absorbedly on in the circle, comes to the
lid again, shakes meal, stamps, paces absorbedly on, comes a third time
to the lid, or trap-door, and this time spits on the lid, stamps, and
goes on. And this time the eight men file away behind the lid, between
it and the tuft of green boughs. And there they stand in a line, their
backs to the kiva-tuft of green; silent, absorbed, bowing a little to
the ground.
Suddenly paces with rude haste another file of men. They are naked, and
smeared with red “medicine,” with big black lozenges of smeared paint
on their backs. Their wild heavy hair hangs loose, the old, heavy,
grey-haired men go first, then the middle-aged, then the young men,
then last, two short-haired, slim boys, schoolboys. The hair of the
young men, growing after school, is bobbed round.
The grown men are all heavily built, rather short, with heavy but
shapely flesh, and rather straight sides. They have not the archaic
slim waists of the Taos Indians. They have an archaic squareness, and
a sensuous heaviness. Their very hair is black, massive, heavy. These
are the so-called snake-priests, men of the snake clan. And to-night,
they are eleven in number.
They pace rapidly round, with that heavy wild silence of concentration
characteristic of them, and cast meal and stamp upon the lid, cast
meal and stamp in the second round, come round and spit and stamp in
the third. For to the savage, the animist, to spit may be a kind of
blessing, a communion, a sort of embrace.
The eleven snake-priests form silently in a row, facing the eight
grey-smeared antelope-priests across the little lid, and bowing forward
a little, to earth. Then the antelope-priests, bending forward, begin
a low, sombre chant, or call, that sounds wordless, only a deep,
low-toned, secret Ay-a! Ay-a! Ay-a! And they bend from right to left,
giving two shakes to the little, flat, white rattle in their left hand,
at each shake, and stamping the right foot in heavy rhythm. In their
right hand, that held the meal, is grasped a little skin bag, perhaps
also containing meal.
They lean from right to left, two seed-like shakes of the rattle
each time and the heavy rhythmic stamp of the foot, and the low,
sombre, secretive chant-call each time. It is a strange low sound,
such as we never hear, and it reveals how deep, how deep the men are
in the mystery they are practising, how sunk deep below our world,
to the world of snakes, and dark ways in the earth, where are the
roots of corn, and where the little rivers of unchannelled, uncreated
life-passion run like dark, trickling lightning, to the roots of the
corn and to the feet and loins of men, from the earth’s innermost dark
sun. They are calling in the deep, almost silent snake-language, to the
snakes and the rays of dark emission from the earth’s inward “Sun.”
At this moment, a silence falls on the whole crowd of listeners. It
is that famous darkness and silence of Egypt, the touch of the other
mystery. The deep concentration of the “priests” conquers, for a few
seconds, our white-faced flippancy, and we hear only the deep Háh-ha!
Háh-ha! speaking to snakes and the earth’s inner core.
This lasts a minute or two. Then the antelope-priests stand bowed and
still, and the snake-priests take up the swaying and the deep chant,
that sometimes is so low, it is like a mutter underground, inaudible.
The rhythm is crude, the swaying unison is all uneven. Culturally,
there is nothing. If it were not for that mystic, dark-sacred
concentration.
Several times in turn, the two rows of daubed, long-haired, insunk men
facing one another take up the swaying and the chant. Then that too is
finished. There is a break in the formation. A young snake-priest takes
up something that may be a corn-cob--perhaps an antelope-priest hands
it to him--and comes forward, with an old, heavy, but still shapely
snake-priest behind him dusting his shoulders with the feathers,
eagle-feathers presumably, which are the Indians’ hollow prayer-sticks.
With the heavy, stamping hop they move round in the previous circle,
the young priest holding the cob curiously, and the old priest prancing
strangely at the young priest’s back, in a sort of incantation, and
brushing the heavy young shoulders delicately with the prayer-feathers.
It is the God-vibration that enters us from behind, and is transmitted
to the hands, from the hands to the corn-cob. Several young priests
emerge, with the bowed head and the cob in their hands and the heavy
older priests hanging over them behind. They tread round the rough
curve and come back to the kiva, take perhaps another cob, and tread
round again.
That is all. In ten or fifteen minutes it is over. The two files file
rapidly and silently away. A brief, primitive performance.
The crowd disperses. They were not many people. There were no venomous
snakes on exhibition, so the mass had nothing to come for. And
therefore the curious immersed intensity of the priests was able to
conquer the white crowd.
By afternoon of the next day the three thousand people had massed
in the little plaza, secured themselves places on the roofs and in
the window-spaces, everywhere, till the small pueblo seemed built of
people instead of stones. All sorts of people, hundreds and hundreds
of white women, all in breeches like half-men, hundreds and hundreds
of men who had been driving motor-cars, then many Navajos, the women
in their full, long skirts and tight velvet bodices, the men rather
lanky, long-waisted, real nomads. In the hot sun and the wind which
blows the sand every day, every day in volumes round the corners, the
three thousand tourists sat for hours, waiting for the show. The Indian
policeman cleared the central oblong, in front of the kiva. The front
rows of onlookers sat thick on the ground. And at last, rather early,
because of the masses awaiting them, suddenly, silently, in the same
rude haste, the antelope-priests filed absorbedly in, and made the
rounds over the lid, as before. To-day, the eight antelope-priests
were very grey. Their feet ashed pure grey, like suède soft boots: and
their lower jaw was pure suède grey, while the rest of the face was
blackish. With that pale-grey jaw, they looked like corpse-faces with
swathing-bands. And all their bodies ash-grey smeared, with smears of
black, and a black cloth to-day at the loins.
They made their rounds, and took their silent position behind the
lid, with backs to the green tuft: an unearthly grey row of men with
little skin bags in their hands. They were the lords of shadow, the
intermediate twilight, the place of after-life and before-life, where
house the winds of change. Lords of the mysterious, fleeting power of
change.
Suddenly, with abrupt silence, in paced the snake-priests, headed by
the same heavy man with solid grey hair like iron. To-day they were
twelve men, from the old one, down to the slight, short-haired, erect
boy of fourteen. Twelve men, two for each of the six worlds, or
quarters: east, north, south, west, above, and below. And to-day they
were in a queer ecstasy. Their faces were black, showing the whites
of the eyes. And they wore small black loin-aprons. They were the hot
living men of the darkness, lords of the earth’s inner rays, the black
sun of the earth’s vital core, from which dart the speckled snakes,
like beams.
Round they went, in rapid, uneven, silent absorption, the three rounds.
Then in a row they faced the eight ash-grey men, across the lid. All
kept their heads bowed towards earth, except the young boys.
Then, in the intense, secret, muttering chant the grey men began their
leaning from right to left, shaking the hand, one-two, one-two, and
bowing the body each time from right to left, left to right, above the
lid in the ground, under which were the snakes. And their low, deep,
mysterious voices spoke to the spirits under the earth, not to men
above the earth.
But the crowd was on tenterhooks for the snakes, and could hardly wait
for the mummery to cease. There was an atmosphere of inattention and
impatience. But the chant and the swaying passed from the grey men to
the black-faced men, and back again, several times.
This was finished. The formation of the lines broke up. There was a
slight crowding to the centre, round the lid. The old antelope-priest
(so-called) was stooping. And before the crowd could realize anything
else a young priest emerged, bowing reverently, with the neck of a
pale, delicate rattlesnake held between his teeth, the little, naive,
bird-like head of the rattlesnake quite still, near the black cheek,
and the long, pale, yellowish, spangled body of the snake dangling
like some thick, beautiful cord. On passed the black-faced young
priest, with the wondering snake dangling from his mouth, pacing in the
original circle, while behind him, leaping almost on his shoulders, was
the oldest heavy priest, dusting the young man’s shoulders with the
feather-prayer-sticks, in an intense, earnest anxiety of concentration
such as I have only seen in the old Indian men during a religious dance.
Came another young black-faced man out of the confusion, with another
snake dangling and writhing a little from his mouth, and an elder
priest dusting him from behind with the feathers: and then another,
and another: till it was all confusion, probably, of six, and then
four young priests with snakes dangling from their mouths, going round,
apparently, three times in the circle. At the end of the third round
the young priest stooped and delicately laid his snake on the earth,
waving him away, away, as it were, into the world. He must not wriggle
back to the kiva bush.
And after wondering a moment, the pale, delicate snake steered away
with a rattlesnake’s beautiful movement, rippling and looping, with
the small, sensitive head lifted like antennæ, across the sand to the
massed audience squatting solid on the ground around. Like soft, watery
lightning went the wondering snake at the crowd. As he came nearer, the
people began to shrink aside, half-mesmerised. But they betrayed no
exaggerated fear. And as the little snake drew very near, up rushed one
of the two black-faced young priests who held the snake-stick, poised a
moment over the snake, in the prayer-concentration of reverence which
is at the same time conquest, and snatched the pale, long creature
delicately from the ground, waving him in a swoop over the heads of the
seated crowd, then delicately smoothing down the length of the snake
with his left hand, stroking and smoothing and soothing the long,
pale, bird-like thing; and returning with it to the kiva, handed it to
one of the grey-jawed antelope-priests.
Meanwhile, all the time, the other young priests were emerging with
a snake dangling from their mouths. The boy had finished his rounds.
He launched his rattlesnake on the ground, like a ship, and like a
ship away it steered. In a moment, after it went one of those two
young black-faced priests who carried snake-sticks and were the
snake-catchers. As it neared the crowd, very close, he caught it up
and waved it dramatically, his eyes glaring strangely out of his black
face. And in the interim that youngest boy had been given a long,
handsome bull-snake, by the priest at the hole under the kiva-boughs.
The bull-snake is not poisonous. It is a constrictor. This one was
six feet long, with a sumptuous pattern. It waved its pale belly, and
pulled its neck out of the boy’s mouth. With two hands he put it back.
It pulled itself once more free. Again he got it back, and managed to
hold it. And then, as he went round in his looping circle, it coiled
its handsome folds twice round his knee. He stooped, quietly, and as
quietly as if he were untying his garter, he unloosed the folds. And
all the time, an old priest was intently brushing the boy’s thin
straight shoulders with the feathers. And all the time, the snakes
seemed strangely gentle, naive, wondering, and almost willing, almost
in harmony with the men. Which of course was the sacred aim. While the
boy’s expression remained quite still and simple, as it were candid, in
a candour where he and the snake should be in unison. The only dancers
who showed signs of being wrought-up were the two young snake-catchers,
and one of these, particularly, seemed in a state of actor-like uplift,
rather ostentatious. But the old priests had that immersed, religious
intentness which is like a spell, something from another world.
The young boy launched his bull-snake. It wanted to go back to the
kiva. The snake-catcher drove it gently forward. Away it went, towards
the crowd, and at the last minute was caught up into the air. Then this
snake was handed to an old man sitting on the ground in the audience,
in the front row. He was an old Hopi of the Snake clan.
Snake after snake had been carried round in the circles, dangling by
the neck from the mouths of one young priest or another, and writhing
and swaying slowly, with the small, delicate snake-head held as if
wondering and listening. There had been some very large rattlesnakes,
unusually large, two or three handsome bull-snakes, and some racers,
whipsnakes. All had been launched, after their circuits in the mouth,
all had been caught up by the young priests with the snake-sticks,
one or two had been handed to old snake-clan men in the audience, who
sat holding them in their arms as men hold a kitten. The most of the
snakes, however, had been handed to the grey antelope-men who stood
in the row, with their backs to the kiva bush. Till some of these
ash-smeared men held armfuls of snakes, hanging over their arms like
wet washing. Some of the snakes twisted and knotted round one another,
showing pale bellies.
Yet most of them hung very still and docile. Docile, almost
sympathetic, so that one was struck only by their clean, slim length of
snake nudity, their beauty, like soft, quiescent lightning. They were
so clean, because they had been washed and anointed and lustrated by
the priests, in the days they had been in the kiva.
At last all the snakes had been mouth-carried in the circuits, and had
made their little outrunning excursion to the crowd, and had been
handed back to the priests in the rear. And now the Indian policemen,
Hopi and Navajo, began to clear away the crowd that sat on the ground,
five or six rows deep, around the small plaza. The snakes were all
going to be set free on the ground. We must clear away.
We recoiled to the further end of the plaza. There, two Hopi women were
scattering white corn-meal on the sandy ground. And thither came the
two snake-catchers, almost at once, with their arms full of snakes. And
before we who stood had realized it, the snakes were all writhing and
squirming on the ground, in the white dust of meal, a couple of yards
from our feet. Then immediately, before they could writhe clear of each
other and steer away, they were gently, swiftly snatched up again, and
with their arms full of snakes, the two young priests went running out
of the plaza.
We followed slowly, wondering, towards the western, or north-western
edge of the mesa. There the mesa dropped steeply, and a broad trail
wound down to the vast hollow of desert brimmed up with strong evening
light, up out of which jutted a perspective of sharp rock and further
mesas and distant sharp mountains: the great, hollow, rock-wilderness
space of that part of Arizona, submerged in light.
Away down the trail, small, dark, naked, rapid figures with arms held
close, went the two young men, running swiftly down to the hollow
level, and diminishing, running across the hollow towards more stark
rocks of the other side. Two small, rapid, intent, dwindling little
human figures. The tiny, dark sparks of men. Such specks of gods.
They disappeared, no bigger than stones, behind rocks in shadow. They
had gone, it was said, to lay down the snakes before a rock called the
snake-shrine, and let them all go free. Free to carry the message and
thanks to the dragon-gods who can give and withhold. To carry the human
spirit, the human breath, the human prayer, the human gratitude, the
human command which had been breathed upon them in the mouths of the
priests, transferred into them from those feather-prayer-sticks which
the old wise men swept upon the shoulders of the young, snake-bearing
men, to carry this back, into the vaster, dimmer, inchoate regions
where the monsters of rain and wind alternated in beneficence and
wrath. Carry the human prayer and will-power into the holes of the
winds, down into the octopus heart of the rain-source. Carry the
corn-meal which the women had scattered, back to that terrific, dread,
and causeful dark sun which is at the earth’s core, that which sends us
corn out of the earth’s nearness, sends us food or death, according to
our strength of vital purpose, our power of sensitive will, our courage.
It is battle, a wrestling all the time. The Sun, the nameless Sun,
source of all things, which we call sun because the other name is
too fearful, this, this vast dark protoplasmic sun from which issues
all that feeds our life, this original One is all the time willing
and unwilling. Systole, diastole, it pulses its willingness and its
unwillingness that we should live and move on, from being to being,
manhood to further manhood. Man, small, vulnerable man, the farthest
adventurer from the dark heart of the first of suns, into the cosmos
of creation. Man, the last god won into existence. And all the time,
he is sustained and threatened, menaced and sustained from the Source,
the innermost sun-dragon. And all the time, he must submit and he must
conquer. Submit to the strange beneficence from the Source, whose ways
are past finding out. And conquer the strange malevolence of the
Source, which is past comprehension also.
For the great dragons from which we draw our vitality are all the time
willing and unwilling that we should have being. Hence only the heroes
snatch manhood, little by little, from the strange den of the Cosmos.
Man, little man, with his consciousness and his will, must both submit
to the great origin-powers of his life, and conquer them. Conquered by
man who has overcome his fears, the snakes must go back into the earth
with his messages of tenderness, of request, and of power. They go
back as rays of love to the dark heart of the first of suns. But they
go back also as arrows shot clean by man’s sapience and courage, into
the resistant, malevolent heart of the earth’s oldest, stubborn core.
In the core of the first of suns, whence man draws his vitality, lies
poison as bitter as the rattlesnake’s. This poison man must overcome,
he must be master of its issue. Because from the first of suns come
travelling the rays that make men strong and glad and gods who can
range between the known and the unknown. Rays that quiver out of the
earth as serpents do, naked with vitality. But each ray charged with
poison for the unwary, the irreverent, and the cowardly. Awareness,
wariness, is the first virtue in primitive man’s morality. And his
awareness must travel back and forth, back and forth, from the darkest
origins out to the brightest edifices of creation.
And amid all its crudity, and the sensationalism which comes chiefly
out of the crowd’s desire for thrills, one cannot help pausing in
reverence before the delicate, anointed bravery of the snake-priests
(so-called), with the snakes.
They say the Hopis have a marvellous secret cure for snake-bites. They
say the bitten are given an emetic drink, after the dance, by the old
women, and that they must lie on the edge of the cliff and vomit,
vomit, vomit. I saw none of this. The two snake-men who ran down into
the shadow came soon running up again, running all the while, and
steering off at a tangent, ran up the mesa once more, but beyond a
deep, impassable cleft. And there, when they had come up to our level,
we saw them across the cleft distance washing, brown and naked, in a
pool; washing off the paint, the medicine, the ecstasy, to come back
into daily life and eat food. Because for two days they had eaten
nothing, it was said. And for nine days they had been immersed in the
mystery of snakes, and fasting in some measure.
Men who have lived many years among the Indians say they do not believe
the Hopi have any secret cure. Sometimes priests do die of bites, it
is said. But a rattlesnake secretes his poison slowly. Each time he
strikes he loses his venom, until if he strikes several times, he has
very little wherewithal to poison a man. Not enough, not half enough
to kill. His glands must be very full charged with poison, as they are
when he merges from winter-sleep, before he can kill a man outright.
And even then, he must strike near some artery.
Therefore, during the nine days of the kiva, when the snakes are
bathed and lustrated, perhaps they strike their poison away into some
inanimate object. And surely they are soothed and calmed with such
things as the priests, after centuries of experience, know how to
administer to them.
We dam the Nile and take the railway across America. The Hopi smooths
the rattlesnake and carries him in his mouth, to send him back into the
dark places of the earth, an emissary to the inner powers.
To each sort of man his own achievement, his own victory, his own
conquest. To the Hopi, the origins are dark and dual, cruelty is coiled
in the very beginnings of all things, and circle after circle creation
emerges towards a flickering, revealed Godhead. With Man as the Godhead
so far achieved, waveringly and for ever incomplete, in this world.
To us and to the Orientals, the Godhead was perfect to start with,
and man makes but a mechanical excursion into a created and ordained
universe, an excursion of mechanical achievement, and of yearning for
the return to the perfect Godhead of the beginning.
To us, God was in the beginning, Paradise and the Golden Age have been
long lost, and all we can do is to win back.
To the Hopi, God is not yet, and the Golden Age lies far ahead. Out of
the dragon’s den of the cosmos, we have wrested only the beginnings of
our being, the rudiments of our Godhead.
Between the two visions lies the gulf of mutual negations. But ours was
the quickest way, so we are conquerors for the moment.
The American aborigines are radically, innately religious. The fabric
of their life is religious. But their religion is animistic, their
sources are dark and impersonal, their conflict with their “gods” is
slow, and unceasing.
This is true of the settled pueblo Indians and the wandering Navajo,
the ancient Maya, and the surviving Aztec. They are all involved at
every moment, in their old, struggling religion.
Until they break in a kind of hopelessness under our cheerful,
triumphant success. Which is what is rapidly happening. The young
Indians who have been to school for many years are losing their
religion, becoming discontented, bored, and rootless. An Indian
with his own religion inside him _cannot_ be bored. The flow of the
mystery is too intense all the time, too intense, even, for him to
adjust himself to circumstances which really are mechanical. Hence his
failure. So he, in his great religious struggle for the Godhead of man,
falls back beaten. The Personal God who ordained a mechanical cosmos
gave the victory to his sons, a mechanical triumph.
Soon after the dance is over, the Navajo begin to ride down the Western
trail, into the light. Their women, with velvet bodices and full, full
skirts, silver and turquoise tinkling thick on their breasts, sit back
on their horses and ride down the steep slope, looking wonderingly
around from their pleasant, broad, nomadic, Mongolian faces. And the
men, long, loose, thin, long-waisted, with tall hats on their brows and
low-sunk silver belts on their hips, come down to water their horses
at the spring. We say they look wild. But they have the remoteness of
their religion, their animistic vision, in their eyes, they can’t see
as we see. And they cannot accept us. They stare at us as the coyotes
stare at us: the gulf of mutual negation between us.
So in groups, in pairs, singly, they ride silently down into the lower
strata of light, the aboriginal Americans riding into their shut-in
reservations. While the white Americans hurry back to their motor-cars,
and soon the air buzzes with starting engines, like the biggest of
rattlesnakes buzzing.