Swank's popularity on the island. Whinney's jealousy. An artistic duel. Whinney's deplorable condition. An assembly of the Archipelago. Water-sports on the reef. The Judgment.
Whinney and I were surprised to find that the islanders took Swank more seriously than they did either of us. Of course, since the Kawa's forcible entry into the atoll premier honors were Triplett's, but Swank was easily second.
The curious reason was that his pictures appealed. I think I have indicated that Swank was ultramodern in his tendencies. "Artless art," was his formula, often expressed by his slogan—"A bas l'objectif! Vive le subjonctif." Whatever that means, he scored with the Filbertines who would gather in immense numbers wherever he set up his easel.
This was due in part to his habit of standing with his back to the scene which he proposed to paint and, bending over until his head almost touched the ground, peering at the landscape between his outspread legs.
"It intensifies the color," he explained. "Try it."
Baahaabaa bestowed a title on our artist—"Maimaue Ahiiahi"—"Tattooer of Rainbows"—by which he was loudly acclaimed. Whinney and I used to sing, "He's always tattooing rainbows!" but artistic vanity was proof against such bourgeoisie.
Baahaabaa was tireless in suggesting new subjects for him to paint. One day it would be a performance of the Ataboi, the languorously sensuous dance which we had first seen in the women's compound; again he would stage a scene of feasting, at which the men passed foaming shells of hoopa from hand to hand. A difficulty was that of preventing the artist from quitting work and joining his models which Swank always justified by saying that the greatest art resulted from submerging oneself with one's subject.
"Look at Gaugin!" he used to say.
"But I don't like to look at Gaugin," I remonstrated.
Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Swank by means of his camera—foolishly, I say, though the result was one of the finest spectacles I have ever witnessed.
For days Whinney had been stalking Swank, photographing everything he painted. In a darkroom of closely woven panjandrus leaves the films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa long before the artist had finished his picture.
This naturally irritated Swank and he finally challenged the scientist to mortal combat, an artistic duel, camera against brush, lens against eye.
When the details were explained to Baahaabaa, he was in a frenzy of excitement. As judge, his decision was to be final, which should have warned Whinney, who, as the challenged party, had the right to select the subject. His choice was distinctly artful.
"I think I've got him!" he confided. "We're to do the 'lagoon at dawn.' You know what that means? Everything's gray and I can beat him a mile on gray; secondly, there won't be a gang of people around, and, thirdly, Swank simply loathes getting up early. They're all alike, these artists; any effort before noon is torture!"
"All right," said Swank, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go to bed at all."
What the camera can do in interpreting the subtle values of a delicate color scheme is here shown in the prize photograph submitted by Reginald Whinney in the great competition presided over by Chief Baahaabaa. It is rare indeed to find a beach in the Filbert Islands so deserted. An hour after this photograph was taken more than three thousand natives were assembled to witness the judging of the exhibits. In the small hours of night, the entire strand is covered with pita-oolas, or giant land-crabs, about the size of manhole covers, who crawl inland to cut down the palm trees with which they build their nests. An examination of the picture with a powerful microscope will reveal the presence on the surface of the water of millions of dew-fish enjoying their brief interval of day and dew.]
When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Swank was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In the meantime Whinney was dodging about with his camera, squinting in the finder, without finding anything—one never does—peering at the brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In Southern Peru the same gesture used to signify contempt and derision.] in a word going through all the artistic motions which should have been Swank's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got onto all fours, looking like a dromedary about to lie down, from which position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes and then began to fumble in his painting box.
"Ver' funny—ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."
"Let me get them for you," I suggested.
He waived me aside. "Gimme air."
Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Swank was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others—the "Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece, most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.
Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched the miracle of a tropical dawn.
It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.
Swank only allowed himself the use of the three primary colors—consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.
Where I saw the glowing promise of color rather than color itself, Swank saw red. Where I felt the hushed presence of dawn "like a pilgrim clad," Swank vibrated to the harmonies of pure pigment, the full brass of a tonal orchestra.
Of a sudden his color hypnotism transported him.
"Eee—yow!" he howled, brandishing a handful of Naples yellow mixed with coral which he hurled at the canvas. "Zow! Bam! Ooh, la la!" His shrieks roused his escorts and brought a rapidly swelling crowd to the dune, where, to the sound of his own ravings and the plaudits of the spectators, he finished his masterpiece.
Late afternoon of the same day was the hour agreed upon for the Judgment. Baahaabaa had sent invitations by express swimmers to all the near-by islands. He invited the entire archipelago.
The picture of their approach was interesting. Kippy haled me to the top of a tall tree whence we watched the convergent argosies, hundreds of tiny specks each bearing an outspread taa-taa of gleaming leaves. It was as if Birnam Wood had gone yachting.
"Tapa nui ekilana lohoo-a" chanted my mate.
Following her outstretched hand I discerned a group of taa-taas, arranged in wedge formation, the enclosing sides being formed by swimmers carrying a web of woven haro, in the center of which reposed a visiting chief with three or four of his wives.
An interesting example of the way in which the mind of a painter works will be found in this reproduction of the masterpiece created by Herman Swank in competition with the photograph of the same title. Both camera and painter were to reproduce the same subject, yet how differently they reacted to it. In the beauty of nature about him it is evident that the great artist felt only the dominant feature of island life, the glorious, untrammeled womanhood of the South Seas. The wild abandon, the primitive gesture of modesty, the eyes of adoration—symbolically expressed as detached entities floating about the loved one—all are present in this remarkable picture. Thus expressed, too, we may find the ever-present ocean, the waving palms and, if we seek carefully, the Kawa herself, scudding before the trade wind. Truly may this be called, as the artist prefers, the Venus of Polynesia.]
By four o'clock the beach was thronged with thousands of gleaming bodies. Festivity and rejoicing were in every eye. Shouts of welcome, bursts of laughter, and the resounding slap of friendly hand on visiting hip or shoulder, the dignified welcome of the chiefs, cries of children, dances and games, myriad details of social amity—all presented a picture of unspoiled Polynesia such as is found in the Filberts alone. When I forget it, may I be forgot.
Of course Swank, Whinney and I were objects of much curiosity—and admiration. Hundreds of times my radiant Daughter of Pearl and Coral repeated:
"Ahoa tarumea—Kapatooi Naani-Tui"—"I should like to make you acquainted with my husband, Face-of-the-Moon."
Hundreds of times did I press my chin against soft ears and submit to the same gentle greeting. Hundreds of times did I raise the welcoming hoopa-shell with the usual salutation—"Lomi-lomi,"—"May you live for a thousand years and grow to enormous size."
In a rest period Kippy and I swam to the reef where the younger set were sporting among the coral, diving for pearls which rolled on the purple floor. As I think now of the value of those milky globes, the size of gooseberries, I marvel that not a thought of covetousness crossed my mind. What were pearls to us?
"Catch!" cried Kippy, and threw a fish-skin beauty in my direction. I admired its lustre for an instant and its perfect roundness acquiredfrom the incessant rolling of the tides—then carelessly tossed it back. It slipped between Kippy's fingers.
"I'll get it," I cried, making ready to dive, but she shouted a warning.
"Arani electi. Oki Kutiaa!"-"Look out! The snapping oysters!"
Gazing down through the crystal depths into which our bauble had fallen I saw a great gaping kutiaa, the fiercest of crustacea, its shelly mouth slightly ajar, waiting for the careless hand or foot that might come within its grasp. We let the pearl go and amused ourselves by sucking the eggs of the liho, a bland-faced bird which makes its nest in the surface coral branches. [Footnote: The liho is in many respects the most remarkable fowl in existence. It is of the gallinaris or hen-family crossed with the male shad which causes the bird to produce eggs in unheard of quantity.] Here, too, we laughed over the ridiculous ratatia, that grotesque amphibian who is built like a ferry-boat, with a head at either end and swivel fins so that however he may move he is always going forward.
From these diversions the sound of singing summoned us. The Judgment was about to take place. At top speed we swam ashore and joined the crowd. For once I was glad that literature had no place in the competition, so that Kippy and I were free to watch the proceedings.
Years ago I saw the ceremonial by which the British Government conferred on the Bahia of Persia the title of "The Bab of Babs," but it was nothing compared to what I now gazed upon.
As far as the eye could reach stretched the crowd. Under a gorgeous dais of panjandrus leaves respondent with alova blossoms sat Baahaabaa, on his right Captain Triplett, on his left Hanuhonu, the ranking visitor, and all about retinues of nobles, with their superb families, groups of dancers, slim and straight as golden birches, singers, orators and athletes. It was grand opera on a titanic scale, with the added distinction of really meaning something.
Baahaabaa spoke first—in fact I think I may say that he spoke first, last and all the time. I can conscientiously claim that he is the champion long-distance orator of the world. Ever and anon he gave way to a guest but only for a moment.
"We are met," he said—I translate freely—"we are met to witness the emulation of friends." Could anything be more delicate?
"We have with us tonight, in this corner, Wanooa-Potonopoa (Whinney), the Man with his Eye in a Box" (this was plainly a reference to Whinney's camera)—"while in this corner, we have Mainaue Ahiiahi, Tattooer-of-Rainbows. Both boys are members of this island."
The applause was enormous but Swank had the grace to rise and kiss his finger-tips toward the audience which immediately put him on a friendly footing.
After a few more speeches by Baahaabaa the exhibits were unveiled. Of course, the result was foregone. I must admit that Whinney's was not hung to advantage. The two pictures were placed against tufts of haro at forty yards distance where, naturally, the detail of the photograph lost something of its effectiveness. Swank's picture on the contrary blazed like a pin-wheel. The further you got from it the better it looked.
A characteristic point in the competition was that Swank had introduced figures into his composition where no figures had existed. "What do I care?" he said to my objection. "I was there, wasn't I? And you were there? There may have been others."
A mighty roar followed the unveiling, a shout of such force that tons of breadfruit and thousands of cocoanuts fell from the adjacent trees. But it was plain to see whom the shouting was for. Then Baahaabaa made the awards and—the prizes were identical—two royal rigolos of mother-of-pearl, elaborately trimmed with corals and pendants of limpid aquamarine. What tact, what grace and charm in these identical rewards!
I am fortunate in being able to reproduce both masterpieces, so that my readers may form their own decision. Personally, Whinney's photograph seems to me to reproduce more completely my memories of "The Lagoon at Dawn." But I may be wrong. Modern artists will probably back up the certainly have been in the minority.
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