ART AND CULTURE
The relation between the evolution of artistic expression and
social development as illustrated by the Moï and the
Laotians--The intimate connection between Music, Dance and
Stage--A Moï orchestra and war dance--Deficiencies in the sense
of sound due to lack of artistic education--The effect of a
gramophone--Predominance of the analytical over the synthetic
faculty--Exaggerated respect for form--Impression produced by
the stereoscope--Decorative arts--Sports, fêtes, and public
amusements--Extensive use of marks for ritual and other
purposes.
It has often been said that the craving for æsthetic expression,
inherent in human nature, lies dormant until men have taken their
first steps in the path of civilization, but that after that stage has
been passed its own growth is commensurate with the advance that is
made.
Whatever may be the truth of this, it is undoubtedly illustrated by a
comparison between the artistic intelligence of the uncivilized Moï of
Annam and that of his immediate neighbour, the Laotian.
The former, living among a society which exhibits few traces of
organization or corporate existence, seems totally innocent of any
desire to exploit his æsthetic emotions for the benefit of others. If
he sings, it is for the good of his own soul, not for the
entertainment of his neighbours. His song consists of a rhythmic
cadence produced either by a series of inarticulate sounds or by a
meaningless repetition of an interjection, a syllable, or a word. He
is not sociable, much less altruistic. Why, then, should he give
himself the trouble of manœuvring his feet or acting a scene for
the sole benefit of the spectators? Accordingly these two artistic
manifestations, dancing and music, are almost unknown among the Moï.
The Laotian, on the other hand, is a gregarious animal and likes
nothing better than to express his sociable instincts in public
rejoicings of all kinds. He is not satisfied with song by itself but
accompanies his outbursts with pantomime of various kinds, and also
dances which are intended to recall the past or provoke desire. The
favourite scenes which are represented are an elephant hunt or a
combat, if the feelings to be relieved are particularly warlike. If,
however, the singer-dancer-actor is in peaceful mood the scenes
enacted will be those of ploughing, sowing and harvest. These mock
plays vary greatly with the degree of civilization to which each group
has arrived.
It has been said that music usually excites the listener to movement
or action. This is probably because, originally, music was always
associated with miming and dance, and the effect is still felt after
the cause has disappeared. However that may be, music has always
inspired to high deeds, whether by acting as an intellectual
stimulant to the listener whose brain dwarfs his muscles, or as a
physical stimulant to the listener in whom matter dominates mind.
Music inspired Dante to some of his greatest poems and John Stuart
Mill to some of his profoundest and most original philosophical
speculations.
One explanation of the fact that song is the first artistic
manifestation of primitive man is the probability that his first
articulate utterances were either cries or actually sung. Even to-day
a child which is completely isolated from birth will be able to sing
but will never learn to talk. All mothers know that a child's first
cries are attempts to sing. Only after the lapse of a year does it
accustom itself to employ the speaking voice. It does not seem
altogether presumptuous, therefore, to believe that in the infancy of
man Music was the æsthetic imitation of his first vocal utterances.
Later, man realized that it was possible to add volume and variation
by accompanying the sounds with rhythmical beats produced by some
object within reach. Of such objects are the familiar stick, with
which the aborigines of Australia mark time, and the heel of the Moï
dancer which sets the measure for a warlike march with its regular
taps on the ground.
Soon other embellishments follow. The gourd finds itself the rustic
tom-tom, a popular instrument among the Moï as among the native races
of Africa. The hollow bamboo stalk appears in all the glory of a
flute. Finally, the orchestra makes its bow with the invention of
stringed instruments and gradually supersedes the human voice, which
it was originally only designed to accompany.
The evolution I have outlined was brilliantly illustrated in Greece,
where we can easily follow the successive stages by which Music
liberated itself from the trammels of Dance and Pantomime and emerged
as a self-contained art of its own.
There is little to be said about the Moï dancing, which shows lack of
imagination and invention. The funeral and war-dances are
characterized by conventional steps with few features of distinction,
a fact which corroborates the view expressed above that artistic
development follows in the path of civilization.
The orchestra comprises various instruments which can be used both for
purposes of solo and accompaniment. The lower parts are entrusted to a
wooden box measuring a yard across, with a series of holes over which
a buffalo skin is tightly stretched. The volume of sound is augmented
by metal buttons secured to nails distributed over the surface of the
instrument, as also by bells of different sizes. This discordant and
formidable sound-box is vigorously thumped with a mallet and
accompanied by brass or copper gongs, which are frequently hung from
the roof and played like bells. The "Radé" and "Djarai" groups also
use wooden or metal discs joined in pairs, which are clashed together
after the manner of cymbals.
The instruments to accompany the voice are various species of fifes
and flutes, of which the most popular consists of five or six bamboo
tubes of different lengths soldered with clay to a large gourd.
Each district has its favourite tunes which gradually become
recognizable to the European ear and, though at first they seem devoid
of all musical qualities, it is surprising how soon a particular
rhythm or melody fixes itself on the mind and tickles the fancy.
Singing seems to be a form of diversion confined to the women. On the
other hand, a woman in an orchestra is an exceptional phenomenon, and
it is only on rare occasions that she is allowed to take part even in
a dance. The song seems to be nothing more than an emission of sounds
having no musical relation to each other whatever. It is a monotonous
recitative, broken only by more or less passionate interjectional
explosions. The series of notes is dependent solely on the singer's
sweet will. She seems to have no idea of what she is singing, for
frequently when a particular phrase caught our fancy and we asked for
it again she confessed her utter inability to repeat it. The sounds
are harsh and piercing, and usually recall the cries of wild beasts.
Strange though it may sound, it is nevertheless true that the hearing
of the Moï is extremely quick and well trained. He can recognize the
ticking of a watch ten yards away and the sound of a rifle at a
distance of four miles. Of course there is all the difference between
having quick hearing and a good ear for music. The latter quality
depends, not on the physical construction of the organ, but on
artistic education, in which the Moï have always remained lacking.
It is an old saying that the savage always prefers something which
appeals to him by its violence. The more harsh and strident are the
sounds the more they will appeal to his musical taste. To put this
theory to the proof we frequently tested the native preferences with
our gramophone.
No one could imagine the curiosity aroused in the village the first
time we gave a concert on this instrument. Our geodetical operations
were in full swing and, apart from the interest created by these, we
had gathered huge audiences of women and children by filling up the
intervals of our work with impromptu performances for their benefit.
Our main "turns," which never varied, but of which they never seemed
to grow weary, were as follows. We used to light a cigarette from a
distance by means of a magnifying glass, or show them a compass of
which the needle seemed to move exactly where and when we pleased.
Other objects of immense popular interest were our watches with their
mysterious ticking, the cork-screw of a wonderful eight-bladed knife,
and, marvel of marvels, the astronomical telescope which made it
possible to recognize a friend at a distance of more than three
hundred yards and which compelled him to walk on his head!
In view of these wonders our fame spread abroad, and when our concert
was announced each man told his neighbour that a trick yet more
marvellous than any yet seen was about to be performed by the bearded
strangers with pockets bulging with tobacco!
In a very short time the huts were empty though the heat was
appalling. Even the village sluggards left their perpetual siesta, and
in many cases women and children brought their menfolk by main force.
No one was allowed to remain behind on so important an occasion. Soon
the audience was gathered round us, the children in front, the mothers
squatting in groups, the warriors standing about with an affected air
of lofty indifference. A lively dispute as to the choice of records
roused public interest to fever heat, and as no two of us thought
alike, each holding out for his favourite piece, we settled the vexed
question by drawing lots. The choice fell on the "Spring Song," which,
however, met with little favour. The audience evidently had no opinion
of Mendelssohn. The small children made for their mother's arms in
terror and were only consoled with difficulty. The general feeling was
one of astonishment passing to displeasure. We hastily took off that
record and replaced it by a hunting-chorus well sprinkled with the
blare of horns. This met with a most enthusiastic reception.
The standard and canons of musical taste among the Moï were thus
brutally revealed to us. We took the hint at once. The beautiful
collections of chamber-music which had so often charmed our ill-temper
with its memories of far-away France were hastily dismissed to the
bottom of the box. We put on all the loudest band records we had and
then raided our stock for selections on all the noisiest instruments.
The neighbouring forest was soon echoing the strident notes of
xylophone, banjo, ocarina and trombone. We went to the music-halls and
called on the singers and whistlers, and when the interval was
announced after "Fou Rire," the entire audience went off almost
convulsed with attempts to imitate it.
Quite recently we prevailed on the Chief of a neighbouring tribe to
allow us to make a record of his speeches at a wedding-feast to which
we had been invited. Without giving any warning we then turned on the
disc. The audience pricked up its ears and seemed intensely interested
to hear the well-known voice under such novel circumstances. Suddenly,
before the record was half-way through, a slave seized hold of a jar
of spirits and tried to empty its contents down the trumpet of the
instrument. It took all my strength and eloquence to dissuade him from
this fell purpose. The audience, however, seemed to take his
intervention as a matter of course. The explanation of this unforeseen
attack was simple. The gramophone, faithfully recording the utterances
of the chief, had demanded, on its own behalf, something to drink!
After this, of course, we had to go through our repertoire, at the end
of which an escort appeared to take the marvellous apparatus home. The
grateful audience surpassed by smothering it with wrappings of all
kinds. They would rather have died than allow such angelic voices to
run the risk of catching cold.
Another explanation of their tastes in music is the love of
exaggeration in any and every form which seems to sway the savage. The
sound that pleases him must be explosive. A colour must be brilliant,
an outline striking or grotesque. The more we examined examples of
their decorative art, a branch of activity for which the Moï display
real aptitude, the more we realized their over-emphasis of the
dominant lines. Another characteristic, common among all races with a
low standard of culture, is their repugnance to leave bare places in a
scheme of decoration. There are no such things as contrast, foil, or
background. Each part of the design has as much importance as any
other. If they decorate a room, for example, they do not leave the
smallest space without treatment of some kind. It follows from this
that the Moï, as critic, is concerned solely with details and has no
thought of the inward meaning or larger significance of a composition.
I frequently demonstrated the truth of this observation by the
following experiment. When I visited a new group I used to make a bid
for popular favour by a generous distribution of tobacco to the few
children who overcame their alarm at my beard and strange costume.
Thus encouraged, they soon flocked round when I drew out my pocket
stereoscope and a box of slides consisting of photographs of children
of the neighbouring tribes, taken at a moment when these restless
rascals were still. The astonished exclamations of my juvenile
audience soon brought their mothers, grandfathers, and even some of
the less shy sisters on the scene. The men, of course, were either out
hunting or busy with a siesta which must on no account be interrupted.
A circle was formed round me and every one had a look in turn.
"What a big nose!" said number one. "There's the red mark of betel on
his mouth," he continued. "Look at the lovely white ring in his ear!
Why, it's a whole head! I believe it's 'Little Buffalo' who came here
with his father for the last harvest!"
He was right. It was indeed "Little Buffalo," whose resemblance was
thus not established before our savage had examined every detail of
his face.
Shouts of laughter greeted the discovery and it was plain that they
all really thought "Little Buffalo" was there in the flesh. They all
put out their hands to feel him, and great was the amazement when they
only touched the back of the card. My box of slides soon acquired a
baneful reputation as the abode of Spirits.
[Illustration: A Medical Examination.]
[Illustration: Looking through the Stereoscope.]
[Illustration: Three Boys of our Native Guard.]
One day a woman came to see me to announce that her baby had died a
few days after I had taken its photograph. I was hardly surprised,
for the child was very ill at the time.
"Great Master," she said, "my baby is in your box. Please give me
another at once, but this time it must be one already brought up."
She was astounded when, to grant her request, I sent her off to her
husband!
Doctor O. Munsterberg, in an interesting study, has advanced the view
that in its origin art is nothing but realism. It is undoubtedly true
that the savage mind seems entirely preoccupied with the concrete, and
entirely incapable of comprehending abstract ideas. It is equally true
that we have changed our methods of teaching the natives in the light
of this discovery and that the results obtained illustrate the
inevitable failure of our old system. No one doubts that a child
learns to reproduce a drawing of some familiar object far more easily
than a symbol, such as a letter of the alphabet, which is not
identified with anything having a concrete existence.
The art of the Moï is nothing if not realistic. It is also solely and
totally utilitarian, since it is confined to industrial use. The
figures employed for ornamentation are invariably taken from the
animal or vegetable world with which they are familiar. For instance,
popular subjects for reproduction (not without remarkable
transformations) are the tracks of a hen in the dust, the marks on the
skin left by the bristles of a boar, the teeth of a saw, the scales of
a turtle, or the crested ridge of a fish's back. It will be recalled
in this connection that many of these signs are adopted as tribal or
proprietary symbols.
The favourite objects for decoration are pipes, quivers and drinking
horns. When the artist has finished his design he smears blood over
the subject, both to throw up the outlines of the figure and also to
add a touch of violent colour.
Sculpture is still in its infancy. In many of the cemeteries the
traveller will find figures of seated women, their hair lank and
dirty, supporting their elbows on their knees and covering their faces
with their hands. These are the widows, who, in a truly life-like
attitude of desolation, weep for the departed. The impression of
reality is heightened by covering their heads with human hair and
their bodies with ragged clothing.
There is a close kinship between the art of the Moï and that of the
uncivilized peoples of the Malay Peninsula, another proof that all
these races are branches of the same stock. Their art exhibits the
same sense of proportion, the same boldness of design, the same horror
of empty spaces which is revealed by the overloading of ornament and
exaggeration of form.
The Moï by nature is easy-going and idle and displays such energy as
he has in devising fresh amusements. The prime distraction for him,
however, remains the opening of a jar of spirits of rice.
Certain games of skill are in vogue, of which the most interesting is
a form of fencing in which skill seems to blend with a good deal of
flourish. The two combatants are armed with wooden sabres, smeared on
the sharper edge with buffalo's blood so as to leave a mark wherever
it touches. The point is blunted and cannot be used by the laws of the
game. Unlike the European rules, it is not prohibited to strike the
lower half of the adversary's body. Accordingly, the fencers do not
maintain any fixed stance, but revolve about a central point and use
their legs to ward off hostile passes. It is quite usual to see all
four limbs requisitioned in an emergency. A high standard of acrobatic
agility and sureness of eye and hand is attained.
A few of the Moï who have lived among the Laotians have brought back
to their countrymen various borrowed amusements and, among them,
primitive stage-plays. Of the plots of these, which are destitute of
imagination or construction, the following is typical.
A few girls walk about under the watchful eyes of their parents. A
stranger appears and tries to carry off an unsuspecting damsel. A free
fight ensues, in the course of which the ravisher is vanquished and
pretends to fly, but as soon as the pursuit slackens he returns, waits
for a favourable moment, and catches his prey round the waist.
Shrieks for help! The lady faints!
The evil deed seems about to be crowned with success when a Spirit
appears, strikes the bold wrongdoer to the ground, and leaves him
lifeless at his intended victim's feet.
The women's parts are taken by boys in accordance with the unwavering
rule throughout the Far East that females may not appear in any
dramatic representation.
The Moï celebrate New Year's Day with a festival that lasts at least
seven days. During this period etiquette requires that seven
buffaloes, seven pigs, seven goats and seven white cocks should be
consumed and this formidable fare is washed down, in accordance with
the rites, with the contents of seven jars.
All the neighbours of the Laotians follow that race in the details of
their observance of these ceremonies, which are called by their
Laotian name of "the Festival of the Dead Year." The participants are
formed up in a long procession. The girls sprinkle perfumed water on
the boys they like and throw mud at those they dislike. Both the
favoured and the despised recipients of these attentions take them
with good humour as being part of the day's work. Actors then appear
dressed to represent our First Parents. According to legend these two
worthies, in the beginning of the world, were covered with thick hair
like the beasts. Accordingly, the performers wear a covering made of
innumerable strips of bamboo.
The actors who play Adam, Eve, and the Dragon, cover their heads with
black wooden masks representing grinning devils with horrible fangs,
enormous ears and a tangled mane reaching the ground. So far from
exciting fear or even curiosity, however, these blood-curdling
apparitions are greeted with a universal shout of merriment. A curious
pantomime follows. The three performers fall on their knees, raise
their right arms, and manipulate the movable lower jaw of their masks
while delivering in concert a wonderful harangue, in the course of
which they extol the virtues and voice the most intimate desires of
each member of the audience. The last words are a wish for a Happy New
Year to the village and every living creature within it.
Amid the riotous plaudits of the crowd the actors then retire with a
profusion of bows and capers.
All savage races are familiar with the use of horrifying masks to
heighten the effects of religious rites. The fetish worshippers of
Africa regard them as an indispensable accessory to the due
performance of the ceremonies, and every traveller has seen the
performers in ritual dances adorned with their grotesque headgear.
Sometimes the masks have special characteristics to connote the racial
peculiarities of those who wear them. The Moï masks, for example, are
remarkable for their long flowing hair and it may well be because this
people believe that their ancestors were a hairy race.
It is quite usual for the masks to commemorate some ethnical
peculiarity which distinguishes the group.
In Egypt the King usually adorned himself with a mask of the
animal-god from whom he claimed descent.
The visitor to the Trocadero in Paris will see statues of the Kings of
Dahomey represented as sharks, their bodies covered with scales. The
British Museum contains a number of bronze reliefs whereon the King of
Benin appears as half shark and half man.
In short, in countries savage or civilized, masked dances are nothing
but crude attempts to dramatize popular myths, and accordingly the
actors play the rôles either of animals or the legendary heroes with
whom they battled.