Part 20

We shall now turn to a consideration of literature, music and dance. It is a noticeable fact that a rich literary art is much more universally distributed than well developed decorative art. While among tribes like the Bushman and the eastern Eskimo very few manufactured objects of artistic value are found, these same tribes produce an abundance of literary work. Volumes of Eskimo lore have been collected and if it did not require a most intimate knowledge of the people and an endless amount of patience to collect songs and poems, their number would undoubtedly equal that of tales. The collections of Bushman lore are also quite extended. I believe the reason for this difference is not far to seek. Decorative art requires rest and quiet, a stationary abode. There must be opportunity to continue steadily the work which requires the use of tools; or at least there must be a chance to lay it aside and to take it up again. The life of hunters is not favorable to the prosecution of such work. First of all the weapons of the hunter must be kept in order. The supply of provisions is generally so scanty or the possibility of laying by stores for future use is so limited, that the hunter is compelled to spend the greater part of every day in pursuit of the game. Little time remains for domestic work. Furthermore when camp is shifted which is frequently necessary, bulky, half finished work can be carried along with difficulty only. It is, therefore, not surprising that the household goods of the hunter are few in number and easily transported. The property of a Bushman family might be carried in two hands.

Quite different are conditions under which literary work and music develop. It might be imagined that the hunter has just as little time for poetic work, as for the manufacture of decorated articles. This opinion is based on an erroneous conception of the work of the hunter. He is not all the time following strenuously the tracks of the game, but often he resorts to trapping, or he sits still, waiting for the game to appear. The Eskimo, for instance, sits for hours by the breathing-hole of the seal. During such times his fancy is free to wander and many of his songs take shape during these moments. There are other times of enforced idleness in which manual work is impossible but when the people may give free range to their fancy. An instance of this stands out clearly in my mind: An Eskimo youth was carried away in the fall on the drifting ice. After a few days he succeeded in reaching land. During these days of danger and privation he composed a song in which he mocked his own misfortunes and the hardships he had endured, a song which appealed to the fancy of the people and which soon became popular in all the villages.[118]

[118] See Journal of American Folk-Lore, Vol. 7, p. 50.

“Aya, I am joyful; this is good! Aya, there is nothing but ice around me, that is good! Aya, I am joyful; this is good! My country is nothing but slush, that is good! Aya, I am joyful; this is good! Aya, when, indeed, will this end? this is good! I am tired of watching and waking, this is good!”

We must remember that the first condition for the development of artistic handicraft is leisure. No matter how strong the art impulse may be, it cannot find expression so long as man’s time is entirely taken up by procuring the barest necessities of life. The paleolithic hunter who painted on the walls of the caves must have been able to spare sufficient time from the labor of getting his food supply to devote himself to the joy of painting the animals of the chase. We recognize in a study of the art products of each people that the amount they produce is in direct relation to the amount of their leisure. Therefore tribes that procure their main food supply in one season and store it up for the rest of the year and who enjoy, therefore, seasons of leisure, will be found to be most productive in works of art as well as in ceremonial affairs and other manifestations of social life that do not contribute to the mere need of food and shelter.

These conditions are more easily fulfilled for those arts that do not require manual labor than for those based on industrial occupations; hence the wider distribution of literary art.

The two fundamental forms of literature, song and tale, are found universally and must be considered the primary form of literary activity. Poetry without music, that is to say forms of literary expression of fixed rhythmic form, are found only in civilized communities, except perhaps in chanted formulas. In simpler cultural forms the music of language alone does not seem to be felt as an artistic expression, while fixed rhythms that are sung occur everywhere.

We may even recognize that in all parts of the world songs are found in which the words are subordinated to music. As we sing tunes without words, either because the words are not known,—or, more significantly, on a refrain, on vocables consisting of syllables without meaning,—so songs carried along on a meaningless burden are found in all parts of the globe. They are not often recorded because the collection of material of this kind is quite novel, but the data that we have in hand prove that the connection between song and burden is universal. The Eskimo have songs carried along on the syllables _amna aya_, _iya aya_, and other similar ones. In some cases there is a certain emotional significance inherent in the burden, as on the Northwest coast of America where the songs refer to different supernatural beings, each having its own characteristic syllables: the cannibal spirit _ham ham_, the grizzly bear _hei hei_ and so on. According to the usual definition of poetry we should perhaps exclude these songs, but that is impossible because the transition from songs carried along by the burden alone and others that contain significant words is quite gradual. In many cases a single word is introduced at a definite point of the tune and the verses contain each one single word. This may be the name of the supernatural being to which the song refers.

Thus we have in British Columbia

Ham ham hamaya, He-who-travels-from-one-end-of-the-world-to-the-other ham ham. Ham ham hamaya, The-great-cannibal-of-the-north-end-of-the-world, ham ham. Ham ham hamaya, He-who-carries-corpses-to-be-his-food, ham ham.

In other songs the significant words are more elaborate. They are phrases fitted to the tunes, often by doing violence to the ordinary forms of the words. The words are controlled by the tunes. I might imitate this in the following way:

Instead of “I saw the great spirit travelling about”. We might have

I sawhaw the greaheat sp’rit tra’ling ’bout, ham ham.

This process is not quite unfamiliar to us in so far as we use the apostrophe for syllables that in ordinary speech are not slurred, when we expand a long vowel over several tones, when we utilise archaic pronunciations for the sake of the meter, or when wrong accents are introduced. Disregard for the words is found also in borrowed songs which are sung in a language that is not understood and in which the words (which are usually mispronounced) have only the value of a burden that may be connected with a certain emotion determined by the use of the song. All these forms are found everywhere and must therefore be considered the foundations of poetry.

Primitive poetry is primarily lyric, in many cases dithyrambic, and elements which express definite coherent ideas are, in all probability, later developments. Perhaps we may see here an analogy to the growth of language. In the animal world cries are primarily reactions to emotions and only indirectly designative. It seems likely that in human speech the spontaneous emotional cry preceded the designative and so much more the predicative expression, not by any means in the sense that the exclamation accounts for the origin of organized speech, but that it is probably the first form of articulation.

It must not be assumed that the control of the word by music is characteristic of all primitive song. On the contrary, in recitatives which are quite common, the words are often controlling and musical phrases are added or omitted whenever the words require it. Among the Sioux Indians we find often both tendencies; the words adapted to the tunes and the tune, on its part, adjusted to the words.[119]

[119] Frances Densmore, Teton Sioux Music, Bull. Bur. Amer. Ethnol. 61, Washington, 1918; see, for instance No. 38, p. 162.

We might express the results of our considerations in stating that song is older than poetry and that poetry has gradually emancipated itself from music.

The relation between music, words and dance are of a similar character. Primitive literary expression is often, though not by any means always, accompanied by some kind of motor activity; or certain kinds of motions may release articulations that take the form of song or of spoken words. Strong, but controlled emotion finds utterance in movements of the body and in articulation, and emotional speech releases similar movements. This may be inferred from the frequent association of song and dance, of song and games, and of that of gestures and lively speech. Dance has always remained associated with music, but with the emancipation of poetry music has lost its close association with the spoken word.

Primitive artistic prose has two important forms: narrative and oratory. The form of modern prose is largely determined by the fact that it is read, not spoken, while primitive prose is based on the art of oral delivery and is, therefore, more closely related to modern oratory than to the printed literary style. The stylistic difference between the two forms is considerable.

Unfortunately most primitive prose has been recorded in European languages only, and it is impossible to determine the accuracy of the rendering. In most of the records there is an obvious attempt to adapt it to the European literary style. Even when the material is available in the original text we may assume that, at least in the majority of cases, it does not reach the standard of excellence of the art of native narrative. The difficulty of phonetic rendering of foreign languages requires such slowness of dictation that the artistic style necessarily suffers. The number of collectors who possess complete mastery of the languages of the natives is altogether too small. The best approximation to the art of narrative of primitive people is probably found in those cases in which educated natives write down the texts, or in the records taken down by missionaries who in long years of personal, intimate contact with the people have acquired complete control of their language, and who are willing to give us just what they hear.

As an example of the difference in style between the free rendering of a story told in English by an interpreter, and the translation of a native text I give part of the Twin-Hero story of Sia, as told by M. C. Stevenson, and the same story as dictated to me in Laguna. Mrs. Stevenson[120] tells as follows: Upon visiting the plaza the twins found a large gathering and the housetops were crowded with those looking at the dance. The boys who approached the plaza from a narrow street in the village, stood for a time at the entrance. The one remarked, “I guess all the people are looking at us and thinking we are very poor boys; see how they pass back and forth and do not speak to us;” but after a while he said, “We are a little hungry; let us walk around and see where we can find something to eat.” They looked in all the houses facing upon the plaza and saw feasting within, but no one invited them to enter and eat, and though they inspected every house in the village, they were invited into but one. At this house the woman said, “Boys, come in and eat; I guess you are hungry.” After the repast they thanked her, saying, “It was very good.” Then the one said, “You, woman, and you, man,” addressing her husband, “you and all your family are good. We have eaten at your house; we give you many thanks; and now listen to what I have to say. I wish you and all your children to go off a distance to another house; to a house which stands alone; the round house off from the village. All of you stay there for a while.”

[120] Matilda Coxe Stevenson, The Sia, 11th Annual Report Bureau of Ethnology, Washington, 1894, pp. 54-55.

The Laguna version is as follows:[121]

Long ago.—Eh.—Long ago in the north in Whitehouse lived the people. At that time they had a war dance. At that time, when they were dancing, Salt-Woman and her grandsons, the Twin-Heroes, were travelling in this direction searching for a town, yes, some place where nobody would make dirt, searching for good water standing on the ground; for that they were searching. At the time they reached Whitehouse the people were having a war dance. They arrived at the east end of the town, and they climbed up the ladder, entered after having climbed down, but nobody said anything to them. Then they climbed up and out again. Again they climbed down into a house on the west and again they entered, climbing downward. Here also nobody invited them in and nobody gave them to eat. Then they climbed up going out and climbed down the ladder. Then the grandmother spoke thus, “Grandchildren, are you hungry?” said she to them. Then the Twin-Heroes spoke, “Yes,” they said to her. Then the grandmother, Salt-Woman, spoke thus, “Now let us go for the last time, climb up the house to the west.” Thus said Salt-Woman. They went westward and climbed up, then they climbed down the ladder and entered. When they had entered the Parrot People were about to eat. They said, “How is everything?”—“It is well,” said the Parrot People. “Sit down,” said the Parrot People. Then they sat down and soon they were satisfied. After a while the one who was the mother of the Parrot People spoke thus, “Give them to eat,” said she. Then they gave them to eat and they dipped out the deer meat with a chamber vessel. Then the one who was the mother spoke thus, “Take this; eat,” said she. Then Salt-Woman put her hand into the soup that had been dipped out and she stirred it with her hand and they ate and they were satisfied. Then the one who was the mother of the Parrot People took it away. She spoke thus, “I wonder why this soup is so different,” said she. Then she tasted it. Then the one who was the mother spoke thus, “Oh my, that soup is very sweet,” said the one who was the mother. Then Salt-Woman spoke thus, “Behold, go on, dip it out and give it to them and eat,” said Salt-Woman. Then she dipped out the soup and passed it about. They sat down there together. Then Salt-Woman took scabs from her body (which was salt) and she put the salt in for them. Then Salt-Woman spoke thus, “Let us continue to stir it,” said Salt-Woman. Then they stirred it and ate. Now Salt-Woman spoke thus, “I tell you this,” said Salt-Woman, “I am Salt-Woman, there is no sickness on my body. Is not this my body pure salt?” said Salt-Woman. “Now I also tell you this,” said Salt-Woman. “How many children have you and how many families of Parrot People live here?” said Salt-Woman. “Now go ahead and come in this direction,” said she, “for I am very grateful because you gave me to eat,” said Salt-Woman. Now the one who was the mother of the Parrot People went to call her relatives. She brought the whole number of them. Then she took them down and Salt-Woman spoke thus, “Are these your relatives, the Parrot People?”—“Yes,” said the one who was the mother. “Indeed,” she said, “Go ahead, take this basket and give it to me,” said Salt-Woman. Then she gave the basket to Salt-Woman and salt came off from her arms and from her feet. Then she picked it up and put it into the basket. “Take this,” said Salt-Woman, “with this you will season what you eat.” Then again she spoke thus, “Enough,” she said, “it is good, thank you. Now we shall climb up and go out from here. You stay here,” said Salt-Woman, “then, when the Twin-Heroes are ready we shall open the door after a while.” Thus spoke Salt-Woman. Then they climbed up and went away and climbed down again. After they had climbed down outside the children came and looked at them for a while. The Twin-Heroes were playing thereabouts with a shuttlecock. Then the children spoke thus, “Boy,” said they, “go ahead, bring me this shuttlecock,” said the children. Then the younger one of the Twin-Heroes spoke thus, “Go ahead,” said he, “stand there to the south under the cotton wood tree.” The children went southward. They arrived there. Then the children spoke thus, “Go ahead,” they said. “Now look out,” said the elder one of the Twin-Heroes, “I throw the shuttlecock southward.” When it arrived at the south where they stood, the shuttlecock fell down between them. Then all were turned into chaparral jays. All flew upward. Then Salt-Woman and her grandchildren went to the south. They arrived in the south. Then the elder one of the Twin-Heroes stood up. He took up his shuttlecock in his turn. The younger one said, “Now, look out, it is my turn. Let me make the shuttlecock fly to the north.”—“Go ahead,” said the elder one. The younger one made the shuttlecock fly northward. In the north it reached the plaza and when the shuttlecock fell down the people were transformed into stones. Then Salt-Woman spoke thus, “Enough,” said she, “Now go ahead to the house of the Parrot People and open the door.”

[121] Franz Boas, Keresan Texts, Publications of the American Ethnological Society, Vol. 8, p. 17.

Another example may not be amiss. Dr. Ruth Benedict recorded the following as part of the creation myth from a Zuni Indian who has a good command of English:

“The Two came to the fourth world. It was dark there; they could see nothing. They met a man; he was naked and his body was covered with green slime, he had a tail, and a horn on his forehead. He took them to his people. The Two said to them, “In the upper world there is no one to worship the sun. He has sent us down to you to take you out to the world above.” They said, “We are willing. In this world we cannot see one another, we step upon one another, we urinate upon one another, we spit upon one another, we throw refuse upon one another. It is nasty here, we do not want to stay. We have been waiting for someone to lead us out. But you must go to the priest of the north; we want to know what he has to say.”

They took them to the priest of the north. He said to them, “What is it that you have come to say?”—“We want you to come out into the upper world.”—“We are willing to go. In this world we cannot see, we step upon one another, we urinate upon one another, we throw refuse upon another, we spit upon one another. It is nasty here, we do not want to stay. We have been waiting for someone to lead us out. But you must go to the priest of the west; we want to know what he has to say.” (This is repeated for the priests of the six directions.)

Cushing[122] has rendered the same incident as follows:

“Anon in the nethermost of the four cave-wombs of the world, the seed of men and the creatures took form and increased; even as within eggs in warm places worms speedily appear, which growing, presently burst their shells and become as may happen, birds, tadpoles, or serpents, so did men and all creatures grow manifoldly and multiply in many kinds. Thus the lowermost womb or cave-world, which was Anosin tehuli (the womb of sooty depth or of growth-germination, because it was the place of first formation and dark as a chimney at night time, foul too, as the internals of the belly) thus did it become overfilled with being. Everywhere were unfinished creatures, crawling like reptiles one over another in filth and black darkness, crowding thickly together and treading each other, one spitting on another or doing other indecency, insomuch that loud became their murmurings and lamentations, until many among them sought to escape, growing wiser and more manlike.”

[122] Frank H. Cushing, Zuni Creation Myths, 13th Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, p. 381.

I think these examples demonstrate that it is not easy to discover from published material the stylistic pattern of primitive narrative. Sometimes the rendering is bald and dry owing to the difficulties of expression that the interpreter cannot overcome; sometimes elaborated in a superimposed literary style that does not belong to the original.

In free prose narrative particular stress is laid upon the completeness of the succession of events. Both Pueblo and Kwakiutl informants criticize tales from this point of view. A Pueblo will say, “You cannot say, ‘he entered the house,’ for he must first climb up the ladder, then down into the house. He must greet those present properly and receive the proper courteous reply.” None of these steps may be omitted. This is illustrated by the example of the Laguna tale referred to before (see p. 305). The Kwakiutl cannot say, “Then he spoke,” but they would say “Then he arose, spoke and said.” They do not allow a person to arrive at a place without first letting him start and travel. An epic diffusiveness, an insistence on details is characteristic of most free primitive narrative.

Besides these free elements, primitive prose contains passages of fixed form which are, to a great extent, the source of its attractiveness to the hearer. Quite often these passages consist of conversation between the actors and in these, deviations from the fixed formula, are not permitted. In other cases they are of rhythmic form and must be considered poetry, chants or songs rather than prose.

In almost all reliable collections the fixed, formal parts are of considerable importance. In a few cases, as among the Wailaki of California, the connective text disappears almost completely.

In contrast to the fullness of the free narrative these formal parts are apt to be so brief that they are obscure unless the significance of the story is known to the hearers. Examples of these are the brief tales of the Eskimo. In Cumberland Sound I recorded the following example:[123] a tale of a woman and the Spirit of the Singing-House.

“Where is its owner? Where is its master? Has the singing-house an owner? Has the singing-house a master? It has no owner.”—“Here he is, there he is.”—“Where are his feet? Where are the calves of his legs? Where are his knees? Where are his thighs?”—“Here they are, there they are.”—“Where is his stomach?”—“Here it is, there it is.”—“Where is his chest? Where is his arm? Where is his neck? Where is his head?”—“Here it is, there it is.” He had no hair.

[123] Journal of American Folk-lore, Vol. 7, (1894), p. 45.

This means that the woman felt for the supernatural owner of the singing-house. He is supposed to have bandy legs, no hair and no occipital bone. To touch his soft head is immediate death.

The same observation may be made in formulas of the Chukchee.[124]

[124] W. Bogoras, Publications of Jesup North Pacific Expedition, Vol. VIII, Chukchee Texts, p. 133.

“I call Raven. My abdomen I make into a bay. The bay is frozen. Icebound rubbish is there. All this rubbish is frozen in the ice of the bay. It is the disease of my stomach. Oh, you my stomach, you are full of pain. I make you into a frozen bay, into an old ice floe, into a bad ice floe.

“Oh, Oh! I call to Raven. You Raven travel around from very remote times. I want your assistance. What are you going to do with this bay that is frozen? Mischievous people made it freeze; you have a strong beak, what are you going to do?”