KAVA AND THE SIVA

The principal difference between the dance in Samoa and in the other island groups of the South Pacific is that in the former it is an institution and in the latter—in recent times—an incidental. In years gone by the dance was an integral part of the life of every South Sea people, but through missionary and governmental influence it has practically been killed everywhere but in the Samoas. That the missionary alone could never have accomplished this the instance of these islands shows, for while the missionary's influence is no less potent there than in a number of other groups, the dance has survived his active opposition through the fact that the American government has not put its official bans upon it, as have the British in Fiji and the French in the Societies and Marquesas. The siva is as much a part of Samoan life today as it was in the time of La Perouse and the first missionaries, and as one of the few unaltered survivals of ancient times it is sincerely to be hoped that it will remain so.

As I have pointed out in writing of the dance in Tahiti, it is only on the rarest of occasions that one may see anything approaching the "real" hula in that island, and this is also true of the ancient dances of Hawaii, the Marquesas, Tongas, Fijis and all of the other South Sea islands. This is partly due to their having been repressed as immoral, and partly to the fact that, as the years go by, there are fewer and fewer natives who can perform the intricate movements of the old dances. In Samoa, however, there is no evidence of the decadence of this traditional adjunct of native expression, though certain of the grosser features of the siva are no longer seen except in out-of-the-way interior villages. This is just as well, perhaps, for it is these particular features of the dance that have brought it into disrepute in other South Sea groups and ultimately resulted in governmental interference. It is these so-called indecent movements of the siva upon which the Samoan missionaries have based their opposition to their dance, and through their gradual elimination at a time that a gradual broadening of the missionary mind is also apparent, it is not impossible that a still beautiful and uncommercialized siva may yet exist peacefully in the islands by the side of those who have hitherto steadfastly endeavoured to extirpate it as a thing accursed.

The interesting thing about the siva—and this is also true of the Samoan himself—is that it is as it always was. Certain movements may not be danced in certain villages out of deference to the feelings of the missionary or because the native himself has modified his ideas respecting their propriety, but, by and large through the islands, the siva-siva remains as it has ever been, perhaps the most beautiful and perfect interpretative dance given to the world by any race in history. The visitor who is entertained by a chief of Tutuila, Upolou or Savaii with kava drinking and a siva-siva may know that it was not in materially different fashion that, a century and a quarter ago, the Samoans of that time received the officers of the Astrolabe and Boussle in the great round of feasting which preceded the unfortunate events leading up to the tragedy of Massacre Bay. The public offering of the women to the god-like visitors on this occasion was a thing without parallel, perhaps, in modern history, but except in that one particular the Samoan kava and dancing ceremonies for distinguished visitors has probably undergone no change whatever.

It is impossible to write of the siva without mentioning kava, and as the drinking of this almost distinctively Samoan beverage is an invariable prelude to every dance, reception, parley or any native gathering of whatever character, it may be in order here to tell something of what it is and of how it is prepared and partaken.

The kava plant belongs to the pepper family. It is bushy in appearance, and the leaves, dark green and heart-shaped, are about the size of one's two hands. The stems are knotted and crooked, with joints every two or three inches. The plant is useful only between its third and fifth years, the wood being too pulpy before that time, and afterwards, too pithy and tasteless. Both stems and root are used in the preparation of the beverage, these being cut into lengths of three or four inches and split longitudinally to secure even drying in the sun. Properly prepared, it is light and pithy and of a whitish colour.

The kava plant grows in nearly every island of the South Pacific, and two or three generations ago the beverage from it was in universal use throughout those latitudes. Today it is only drunk by the Samoans and here and there in Fiji. Why it should have fallen into disuse elsewhere is not entirely clear, for except in endeavouring to discourage the preparation of the root by the old method of chewing, neither officials nor missionaries have actively opposed kava drinking. The fact that the use of kava has ceased most completely in those groups in which, like the Marquesas, Societies and Hawaiias, the natives have become strongly addicted to the use of alcoholic stimulants, either of their own or foreign manufacture, would point to the growing use of the latter as the probable reason for the loss of taste for the former. Although the Fijian native is far from being a teetotaler, the unusual power of the missionary in that group has undoubtedly prevented him from giving himself up to the toddy habit as completely as have his cousins of the Marquesas and Societies. The Samoan drinks less, and seems to care less for alcoholic stimulants than any other South Sea native, but whether this is due to the universal use of kava, or whether the universal use of kava is due to the fact that the toddy habit has never attained a foothold in his island, would be hard to say. The fact remains that the Samoan is a keen, clean liver, and that his kava, if it has not been an actual factor in developing his splendid physical powers, at least has been responsible for nothing comparable to the mental and moral havoc wrought by the insidious toddy in the other islands.

Although the Samoan drinks kava on any and all occasions that he can get some one to make it for him, yet the special function of that beverage is ceremonial. It figures in all formal gatherings, but is, perhaps, most indispensable to the reception of guests, on which occasions the prescribed ceremonial procedure varies no whit in the houses of the highest and the lowest. The moment the visitors to a native house are seated, the guest of highest rank, or the one whom it is desired especially to honour, is presented with three or four pieces of dried kava. These he perfunctorily inspects, pronounces prime, and tosses to the taupo—the official virgin of the village whose duty it is to look after the entertainment of strangers—who forthwith commences the preparation of the drink. It is at this point in the original kava ceremony that the taupo proceeded to masticate the bits of root and stem to a proper consistency to be dissolved in water, but this part of the "recipe" is no longer followed amongst the enlightened natives of the coastal villages, to whom the risks of spreading infection by such a practice have been thoroughly brought home. It is customary now to grind the root to a powder between two flat stones, although on two or three occasions I have seen ordinary perforated graters used. When thoroughly reduced, the pulverized root is thrown into the kava bowl and covered with cold water from a calabash which is held ready by one of the handmaidens.

The kava bowl is an important factor in the ceremony. It is hewn from a single piece of wood, and is usually between eighteen inches and three feet in diameter and from three to five inches deep. It preserves its equilibrium with the aid of a periphery of legs running around the outside, these varying in number from four on a small bowl belonging to a person of no especial consequence to ten on the bowl of a chief. They are made on the island of Savaii, there being no trees of a suitable nature on any of the other islands of the group. Just as a pipe gathers "colour" from smoking, so does a kava bowl accumulate a rich layer of golden enamel through frequent use. A deeply enameled bowl, on account of the traditions associated with it, is almost priceless. The true kava bowl is severely plain and unornamented; a carved or "beaded" border is a sure sign of manufacture for the tourist trade.

When there is sufficient water in the bowl to make enough drink for all present, the taupo dips in with both hands and begins squeezing the ground kava through her fingers in order that all of the strength will pass into solution. This operation continues until the floating particles are tasteless when dabbed on the tip of the tongue of the taupo, who then proceeds with the straining. This is accomplished with the aid of a sheaf of fibre from the inner bark of the hibiscus tree, called a fau. This contrivance, which is very similar in form to that invaluable aid-to-beauty called a "switch," though somewhat complicated to manipulate, seems to accomplish its purpose very thoroughly. The fibres are swept around the surface of the liquid in the bowl and brought down from all sides at once to a bunch at the deepest point, where it is folded over onto itself in such a manner as to gather and hold all of the root particles with which it comes in contact. After the liquid is squeezed back into the bowl, the fau is passed by the taupo to an attendant who shakes out the fibre with a single quick flirt under a raised coco-leaf curtain. Three or four repetitions of this operation clear the liquid in the bowl, and after giving the fau a final shake—a sinuous spiral swish above her head—the taupo casts it aside and informs the host that the kava is ready.

Upon this announcement the host passes the news on to the guests by striking the palms of his hands together with a long stiff-armed swing. This is at once taken up by every one in the house, and for a few moments there is a round of dignified and somewhat perfunctory clapping. Then the Tulafele or "Talking Chief," who acts as a sort of toast-master, launches into a flowery speech extolling the virtues of the guests, which he concludes by calling for an epu of kava for the visitor first in rank. The epu, a cup made of the half of a coconut shell, is then held over the bowl by the head handmaiden, whose duty it is to act as cup-bearer. The taupo takes up the fau with another flourish, sops it into the kava and squeezes out the saturated fibres over the waiting epu. Holding this head high, the bearer advances across the mats to the personage designated by the tulafele and puts it, with a scooping gesture, into his hand. As the proffered cup is accepted, she steps backward to her original station beside the taupo.

The guest, on receiving the kava, bows to the Chief and other dignitaries, and, with the word "man'uia,"—the equivalent of "To your health"—drinks it at a single draught. The epu is then returned to the bearer by spinning it across the mat to her feet. The Tulafele now calls the name of the guest next in rank, and the ceremony is repeated, this continuing until all have been served. There are no "second helpings."

The genealogy and rank of all Samoans are so well known that, amongst themselves, there is no question in determining the order of precedence in drinking. With foreigners present, however, the matter of rank is a complicated one. Unless a native of supreme rank, like Maatafa of Apia, who was nearer our idea of a king than any other Samoan, is to be served, it is customary to offer the first drink of kava to the most distinguished of the visitors, the next to the highest chief, the next to the second most important visitor, and so by alternation. When the almost sacred Mataafa was present, however, etiquette required that he be served first, and always from his own special epu, out of which no other was ever allowed to drink.

The hitting off of the correct order of foreign visitors, especially where several different nationalities are present, is a trying task for the tulafale, and, except on very formal occasions where inquiry is made beforehand, many amusing "reversals" occur. Several times, probably because I happened to bulk somewhat more largely against the sky-line—the Samoan, unless he stops to think, is almost sure to place brawn before brain—I was presented with the initial epu of kava in advance of the Commodore, and at one informal little party the both of us were passed over in favour of our gigantic bo'sun, Gus, who, with the easy, indolent assurance of the Viking from whom he was descended, was leaning against the post of the house, a passive spectator. On this, as on all other occasions, however, the Commodore and I had the consolation of being served before the Mater and Claribel. The Samoan is not exactly a Turk in the matter of women, but he takes care that they never stand in his own light.

The tulafale never calls a guest by his name in designating him for a drink of kava, but by some euphemistic appellation that is intended to be, and usually is, complimentary. The Commodore was always some variation of "The Great One Who Comes in His Own Ship." The Mater was usually something akin to "The Bright New Moon of the Great One," but once, when we brought her in to a talolo at Apia after a stormy passage from Tutuila, she displayed so much individuality as to inspire the observant tulafale to bestow a title all her own. "Take the kava to 'The Beautiful One Who is Sad Because of the Rocking of the Boat,'" ordered that autocrat of the epu, the translation of which so tickled the risibilities of the ever-resilient Mater that the look of sadness passed and the title lost its point forthwith. Claribel drew down an assorted lot of titles, among them being "The Watchful One," "The White Taupo" and, one day when she was wearing her pince nez, "The Four-Eyed One."

Whenever the Commodore was present—except on the two or three occasions when they mixed us up and served me first—I was always hailed as some kind of satellite of the "Great One." When appearing independently I was served under a number of nondescript titles, the most notable among which was one bestowed at a small village on the leeward side of Tutuila which I visited with my friend, Judge Gurr. The first cup on this occasion was presented to the Judge, the second to the village chief, and as the third was filled the single magic word, "Tusitala!" fell from the lips of the "Master of Ceremonies."

"A cup to the memory of the beloved Stevenson!" I told myself, a possible explanation of which flashed to my mind with the dawning recollection that the village, Fauga-sa, under a slightly altered name, had figured as the scene of one of the novelist's best stories. Athrill with interest, I waited expectantly, keen on missing no detail of the pretty observance, when, lo!—the brown Hebe of the kava cup came mincing across the mat and, with a sweep and flourish of her graceful arm, held the epu poised in front of my vacantly grinning face.

'"What's this for? Do they take me for a reincarnation of Stevenson?" I cried excitedly to the Judge, quite forgetting in the excitement of the moment what the etiquette of the occasion demanded.

"Drink the kava!" he admonished in an anxious undertone, not a little embarrassed by so flagrant a faux pas on the part of one for whom he was standing sponsor; "I'll explain in a moment."

I drained the coco shell of its spicy contents at a gulp, twirled it back to the taupo, and, as the latter began filling it for the next drink, turned inquiringly to my companion.

"No, they didn't confuse you with Stevenson," said the Judge dryly. "I merely explained to the tulafale, when he asked, that you were a scribbler of sorts, and because the nearest equivalent to that in the Samoan language is a 'Teller of Tales,' he hailed you as Tusitala when your turn for the kava arrived."

Every Samoan child begins to practise some of the simpler sivas as soon as it is old enough to notice what is going on about it, and although only the taupos and their maids are schooled in the more intricate movements of the dance, the girls of almost any household can furnish a very diverting evening's entertainment on a moment's notice. For these to refuse to dance for a stranger, even a passing wayfarer who has dropped in for an hour's rest, would be as bad as refusing him a drink of kava, and that is unthinkable. Kava and the siva are the Samoans' symbols of hospitality, from the lowest to the highest.

The beautiful symmetry of development which characterizes all Samoan girls—and especially the taupos—is due to the fact that their only exercises are dancing, walking, swimming and paddling, in all of which the muscles are used in long, easy, sweeping movements. In no Samoan dance is there anything comparable to the stiff-muscled toe-work and the frozen posturing of the modern French ballet, nor yet anything similar to the frenzied acrobatics of the Russian. There is abandon at times—reeling, rollicking, riotous abandon—but the motion of it flows and undulates and ripples in fluent rhythm like the current of a swift but unbroken river rapid. Who has not seen the siva has not realized the full meaning of the expressions "Poetry of Motion" and "Enchantment of Gesture." The grace of it is so complete, so perfect, so satisfying, that one cannot but feel that the Samoan, having failed to develop the arts of painting and sculpture, has concentrated all of his being in expressing his soul through his body.

The siva is natural because it expresses things that are natural. The heave of the sea, the rush of the surf, the rocking of a canoe, the swaying of the trees, the ripple of a stream, the movements of swimming and paddling and the ecstasies of love, all of which are reflected in the siva, are things of the dancers' daily life. The gyrations of the premiÈre danseuse on the tips of her toes suggests nothing of heaven or earth, but because the Samoan has taken his inspiration from himself and his surroundings, his dances are beautiful and normal. And as the dance, so the dancer. Because the movements of the siva are natural, the body of the taupo is natural. She is one fluent ripple of lithe flexibility from toe-tip to finger-tip, with no suggestions of the knotted muscles which disfigure the back and legs of a ballet dancer.

On the occasion of great feasts or celebrations, where large crowds are present, it is customary to dance the siva out-of-doors and in the daytime. The performers at such times are usually numerous and as spectacles the dances are, perhaps, more striking than the in-door sivas. This does not compensate, however, for the fact that most of the seductive charm of movement is lost in the glare of the sunlight, for what in the flickering torch or lamp-light is subtle allurement, in the daytime becomes bald suggestion. To catch the spirit of the siva, then, one should see it by torchlight or moonlight, or in a blending of them both.

On formal occasions the siva is danced at the conclusion of the kava ceremony. At these times there is usually a battery of deep-toned wooden drums provided, and to the pulsing throb of these and the sounding slaps of open palms upon bare thighs, the siva begins. The opening number is almost invariably a "sitting-down" dance, which is led by the taupo with a flanking of three or four of her maids on either side. For the first few moments it strikes you only as queer, the odd posturing of the garlanded, cross-legged figures, with their weavings and inter-weavings of arms and the rhythmic writhings of the glistening brown bodies. But presently it is as though the pulse of your being is beginning to beat to the throb of the drumming, and there comes a feeling of having breathed the seductive atmosphere of oil-steeped gardenia blossoms since the dawn of time. Unconsciously your hands begin striking upon your not unresponsive duck-clad thighs in unison with the blows of your neighbours, instinctively you try to blend your tremulous hum with their chesty chanting, and presently you have caught the spirit of the siva, and begin to yield yourself to, then to delight in, and finally to exult in its subtle seductions.

Then you realize that every muscle, every fibre, every nerve, every drop of blood in the gleaming red-bronze figure in the penumbra of the lamp glow is dancing. Then you know that the pirouette of that shapely chorus lady who entranced you so that last night at the Winter Garden was only a kick, a thrusting out of a snugly-stockinged, well-turned calf. But here where a member is moved it is dancing on its own account as it goes; there is motion within motion, and still more motion within that motion. Those gently swaying knees are only beating time to the throb of the drums, but in that rippling run of plastic muscles beneath the glistening skin there is a message that not the sprightliest and plumpest of Broadway favourites could kick across the foot-lights in a whole evening.

But the "sitting" sivas are essentially dances of the arms; and never were seen such arms as in Samoa. Plump without being fat, muscled without being muscular, all contour, softness and dimples, no fitter or fairer instruments of physical expression were ever fashioned. The taupo takes the lead and her motions are followed by the others as though reflected in mirrors. Now the arms are fluttering out to one side like twin streamers whipping in the wind, now they are pressed close together along the side as though wielding a paddle, now they are upraised as in supplication, now opened in invitation, now thrown out in rebuff. The firmly-moulded breasts twinkle out and disappear again behind the swishing flower garlands and the froth of flying arms.

The sitting Sivas are essentially dances of the arms

"Never were seen such arms as in Samoa"

The lamp glow flashes on the glistening undulant bodies, high-light and shadow playing hide-and-seek in the dimples of cheek and shoulder and bosom as they bend and sway to the drone of the drums. Swift lances of light dart across thigh and shoulder, fluttering pennons of light streak down the tremulous arms, coruscant streamers of light shimmer along the lacquered leaves of the garlands. It is a poem of light and motion, the incarnation of a transcript from a volume of ancient verse.

Describe the siva! Not till I've proved my right to attempt it by painting the lily and gilding refinÉd gold. It is a perfect thing of its kind, and that is enough to know.

So far as I know the Samoans do not attempt anything in the way of mimetic dances on the elaborate scale of those I have described as "staged" in the ancient crater in Tahiti. They do, however, have dances descriptive of harvesting coconuts, canoe races and swimming, while "duel" dances, in which the performers go through the motions of combat with native war knives, are features of nearly every siva. The Samoan is no less ready than the Tahitian to take advantage of the theatric effects at his disposal, and in the "standing" dances no taupo ever fails to make the most of the allurement of flitting in and out of patches of moonlight or torchlight and piquing the interest of the audience by pretending to reveal more of her charms when sheltered by the translucent curtain of the shadows.

My one most haunting memory of South Sea dancing is of the "swimming" siva as performed by a tantalizing minx of a taupo in the ghostly half-light of a grotto on the leeward shore of Tutuila. With a single native boy to act as guide and interpreter, I was proceeding by canoe and on foot from Judge Gurr's plantation at Mala-toa to Leone, on the opposite side of the island, to witness a game of native cricket. Wet, cramped and tired from three hours of steady bailing with my camera case in a dilapidated "outrigger" which had threatened to disintegrate at every lurch, we landed late in the afternoon at a tiny hamlet near the west end of the island and sought the Chief's house for rest and refreshment. Adept in the art of reviving flagging warriors, an elderly dame—the duenna of the taupo—took my tired head in her motherly lap after the native custom, made a few passes along neck and shoulder muscles with her soft magnetic fingers, and I dropped off into a deep sleep which was not broken till a round of clapping announced that kava was ready. I had heard of the magic of loma-loma in Hawaii, but this was my first opportunity to verify the claim that an hour of sleep induced by it was equal to an ordinary night's rest.

Feeling refreshed and fit but still drowsy, I called to Tofa to put my things together and get ready to take the road to Leone as soon as the kava drinking was over, hoping by a prompt start to avoid being caught in the bush after nightfall. The boy heard, but did not move from his Buddha-like pose against the rose-violet flare of the sunset.

"Fanua say that she will make swimmin' siva-siva on beach by'n'by if you stop tonight," he remarked inconsequentially, with his eyes fixed dreamily where the distant peaks of Upolou were thinning in the evening haze. "Fanua ver' fine gal."

"Who's Fanua?" I queried sleepily, beginning to drowse again as the magic fingers renewed their caressing pressure on my brow.

"Fanua taupo this villige. Ver' fine gal," Tofa replied, with the suspicion of a smile lurking at the corners of his handsome month.

My sleepy gaze wandered across to the mistress of the kava bowl. Surely that was not a "ver' fine gal," I told myself. I blinked and looked again. She was middle-aged and fat. Then I rubbed my eyes hard and tried to recall where I had seen that broad, good-natured face before. Ah—the duenna whose lap held my head when I dropped off to sleep! But how could that be when her lap was still under my head and her fingers stroking my temples? Perhaps she had a twin. I gave my eyes a final dig and turned them upwards. A lady's lap is not the point of vantage that a connoisseur would choose from which to get the most favourable view of her face, but—yes, Tofa undoubtedly was right. Fanua was certainly a "ver' fine gal," quite the finest I had seen in all these "Isles of Fair Women."

"We will start for Leone at sunrise," I directed Tofa, and sat up and emptied the proffered kava cup according to the dictates of Samoan etiquette.

It seems that the duty of loma-loma-ing the brows of tired wayfarers is a duty of the taupo which takes precedence even of kava-making, so that on the arrival of the hastily-summoned Fanua—I being then asleep—the transfer of laps was made, the duenna substituting as drink-mixer.

We pooled the contents of my knapsack and the chiefly larder and dined sumptuously on canned salmon, breadfruit-pate-de-foie-gras sandwiches, boiled taro, shrimps and bananas. This over, we smoked cigarettes—mine, all of a three-day supply—and when darkness had fallen, guided by a hunchback with a torch, set out for the dancing place by the sea. We did not stop on the smooth crescent of beach, as I had anticipated, but continued along to where it joined a cliffy promontory and gave way to a jumble of crags and rocks, against which dashed the full force of a tumultuous surf.

The night was starry but moonless. By the light of the sputtering candle-nut brand in the hand of the dwarf and an occasional spurt of phosphorescence from a shattering wave, we followed the well-worn path up among the crags to where it seemed to come to an end at an opening in the rock scarcely larger than the man-hole of an underground conduit. The hollow mutter of the sea welled up from the cavernous depths, but without pausing the hunchback dropped confidently in, showering his knotted bronze shoulders with sparks in the quick descent. Just long enough for me to clamber down beside him he held the torch, then sent it spinning, trailed by a comet-like wake of embers, over a ledge to be doused in the water which plashed below. In Stygian darkness, I was listening to the soft thuds of the feet of my companions as, one by one, they dropped down from above, when suddenly there came a crash against the seaward side of the grotto, a swirling rush of phosphorescent water rushed in and, against the fluttering waves of blue-green light that played upon the rocky walls, appeared the lithe brown body of Fanua weaving in the undulating sinuosities of the "swimming" siva.

I had just time to note that the lovely little taupo, unadorned by official head-dress or garlands, was dancing only in a scant lava-lava of tappa which encircled her waist in a precarious fringe, when the light died down and the swimming siva became for the moment a dusky silhouette against the jagged patch of star-studded purple which marked the seaward opening of the grotto. Then a soft hand sought mine and I was led through the darkness to where a thick stack of smooth mats had been piled, upon which the members of our little party were beginning to settle at their ease. As I lounged back luxuriously upon the springy pandanus, Tofa came wriggling in on one side to "make talk" for me, as he explained, while on the other gentle fingers—the mates of the guiding ones that still held my right hand in their unrelinquishing clasp—patted my cheek to soft and iterated murmurs of "alofa oi," "I like you."

"Tell the young lady on my right," I began to Tofa—and then, all unheralded, the wonder befell.

Fanua was still swimming in graceful pantomime across the purple star-patch, when a crash louder than the previous one sounded against the outer wall and the mouth of the opening was blotted by the advancing wave. Again came the flutters of tremulous light upon the dark walls, quickly to be followed by a deep-mouthed gurgling growl from immediately beneath the ledge on which we reclined. Then there was a quick rush of damp air in the grotto, and, with a great "whouf!" a bright fountain of phosphorescent spray was projected from a small hole in the rocky floor immediately in front of the swaying taupo.

Evidently this phenomenon, which occurred only with the largest waves, had been awaited by both audience and dancer. Rhythmic smiting of thighs began as the growls broke out below, and to this, and the beating of a drum improvised from a rolled mat, Fanua leapt into the jet of spouting golden mist and, for the four or five seconds during which it played, lashed out in that climacteric movement of the swimming siva in which the dancer is supposed to be riding the crest of a rushing comber. Flailing arms and flying hair represented the eddying foam, while quick, jerking forward movements of the shoulders gave the suggestion of impulse to a body that never moved from the heart of the floating cloud of luminous mist. One supreme flutter of tremulous movement, rippling up from the toes and running out at the finger tips as a series of waves of motion pulse down a shaken rope, told that the swimmer had slid from her wave-crest to the waters of the still lagoon. The jet died down as the pressure from below was released by the receding wave, but the swaying body, lined with glittering runlets of pale phosphorescence, continued to vibrate in silhouette across the star-gleams shot from the patch of heavens beyond the grotto's seaward mouth.

The jet of spray was due to the presence of a "blow-hole" in the grotto. Under the ledge which we occupied was another cave—a cavern within a cavern—and when the latter was filled by the wash from a wave the compressed air forced a jet of spume up through the small vent opening into the main grotto. The unusual brightness of the luminous fountain was due, doubtless, partly to the darkness and partly to the fact that a heavy scum of phosphorescence had accumulated in the lower cavern.

Fanua, who danced the swimming Siva by the light of
the phosphorescent waves

Dancer with head knife

Fanua reeled on through some of the quieter movements of the swimming siva in the weird blue-green glow of the half-dozen waves that came before another one big enough to start the "blow-hole" spouting arrived again. As the latter gave its premonitory growl, the shadow of a second figure appeared beside her and Tofa announced that "Fanua now dance 'Shark-he-chase-her' siva-siva."

Into the jet of golden mist launched "shark" and "swimmer" as the fountain began to play, weaving about each other in the movements of flight and pursuit. The "shark" darted and dashed and strove to seize, and the "swimmer" ducked and doubled and eluded, all within the circle of the drifting particles of glowing spray. Under, over and around each other they floated like frightened gold-fish in a globe, arms, legs and bodies weaving evanescent webs of shimmering brightness but never seeming to touch. Till the last luminous puff from the "blow-hole" they danced thus, and then, as the flickering jet died low, there came a ringing shriek, the lambent light streaks of the reeling bodies seemed to meet and mingle, and—whether by accident or intent I could not tell—went plunging over the ledge into the receding welter of light below.

My gasp of consternation was not echoed by the rest of the company. Most of them were laughing and chattering as though the "plunge to the depths" was the regular finale, and Tofa seemed to think that his laconic comment of "He shark he take her," was all that the occasion called for. And so it proved. Before another jet had spouted there came two soft thuds on the floor of the ledge, while a ripple of silvery laughter and a shower of dewy drops from a couple of vigorously shaken heads told that "shark" and "swimmer," having circled around through the surf to the beach and dropped down to the grotto through the back entrance, were waiting for the cavernous growl from beneath to sound the cue for the next number.

As in its sister dance, the hula, there always comes a stage in the siva which is not subject to the restraining influence of the presence of dignitaries, where even impressionistic description must cease, so on this occasion I have deemed it meet that the "dead-line" should be drawn at the finale of the "Shark-he-chase-her" number. I trust I have recorded enough, however, to make it clear that Tofa's suggestion to stay over and see that "ver' fine gal," Fanua, dance the swimming siva was not an unwarranted one.