ELOCUTION AND RHYTHMIC ACCENT IN HAWAIIAN SONG
In their ordinary speech the Hawaiians were good elocutionists—none better. Did they adhere to this same system of accentuation in their poetry, or did they punctuate their phrases and words according to the notions of the song-maker and the conceived exigencies of poetical composition? After hearing and studying this recitation of Kualii the author is compelled to say that he does depart in a great measure from the accent of common speech and charge his words with intonations and stresses peculiar to the mele. What artificial influence has come in to produce this result? Is it from some demand of poetic or of musical rhythm? Which? It was observed that he substituted the soft sound of t for the stronger sound of k, “because,” as he explained, “the sound of the t is lighter.” Thus he said te tanata instead of ke kanaka, the man. The Hawaiian ear has always a delicate feeling for tone-color.
In all our discussions and conclusions we must bear in mind that the Hawaiian did not approach song merely for its own sake; the song did not sing of itself. First in order came the poem, then the rhythm of song keeping time to the rhythm of the poetry. The Hawaiian sang not from a mere bubbling up of indefinable emotion, but because he had something to say for which he could find no other adequate form of expression. The Hawaiian boy, as he walks the woods, never whistles to keep his courage up. When he paces the dim aisles of Kaliuwa’a, he sets up an altar and heaps on it a sacrifice of fruit and flowers and green leaves, but he keeps as silent as a mouse.
During his performance Kualii cantillated his song while handling a round wooden tray in place of a drum; his wife meanwhile performed the dance. This she did very gracefully and in perfect time. In marking the accent the left foot was, if anything, the favorite, yet each foot in general took two measures; that is, the left marked the down-beat in measures 1 and 2, 5 and 6, and so on, while the right, in turn, marked the rhythmic accent that comes with the down-beat in measures 3 and 4, 7 and 8, and so on. During the four steps taken by the left foot, covering the time of two measures, the body was gracefully poised on the other foot. Then a shift was made, the position was reversed, and during two measures the emphasis came on the right foot.
The motions of the hands, arms, and of the whole body, including the pelvis—which has its own peculiar orbital and sidelong swing—were in perfect sympathy one part with another. The movements were so fascinating that one was at first almost hypnotized and disqualified for criticism and analytic judgment. Not to derogate from the propriety and modesty of the woman’s motions, under the influence of her Delsartian grace one gained new appreciation of “the charm of woven paces and of waving hands.”
Throughout the whole performance of Kualii and his wife Abi-gaila it was noticed that, while he was the reciter, she took the part of the olapa (see p. 28) and performed the dance; but to this rôle she added that of prompter, repeating to him in advance the words of the next verse, which he then took up. Her verbal memory, it was evident, was superior to his.
Experience with Kualii and his partner, as well as with others, emphasizes the fact that one of the great difficulties encountered in the attempt to write out the slender thread of music (leo) of a Hawaiian mele and fit to it the words as uttered by the singer arises from the constant interweaving of meaningless vowel sounds. This, which the Hawaiians call i’i, is a phenomenon comparable to the weaving of a vine about a framework, or to the pen-flourishes that illuminate old German text. It consists of the repetition of a vowel sound—generally i (=ee) or e (=a, as in fate), or a rapid interchange of these two. To the ear of the author the pitch varies through an interval somewhat less than a half-step. Exactly what is the interval he can not say. The musicians to whom appeal for aid in determining this point has been made have either dismissed it for the most part as a matter of little or no consequence or have claimed the seeming variation in pitch was due simply to a changeful stress of voice or of accent. But the author can not admit that the report of his senses is here mistaken.
A further embarrassment comes from the fact that this tone-embroidery found in the i’i is not a fixed quantity. It varies seemingly with the mood of the singer, so that not unfrequently, when one asks for the repetition of a phrase, it will, quite likely, be given with a somewhat different wording, calling for a readjustment of the rhythm on the part of the musician who is recording the score. But it must be acknowledged that the singer sticks to his rhythm, which, so far as observed, is in common time.
In justice to the Hawaiian singer who performs the accommodating task just mentioned it must be said that, under the circumstances in which he is placed, it is no wonder that at times he departs from the prearranged formula of song. His is the difficult task of pitching his voice and maintaining the same rhythm and tempo unaided by instrumental accompaniment or the stimulating movements of the dance. Let any stage-singer make the attempt to perform an aria, or even a simple recitative, off the stage, and without the support—real or imaginary—afforded by the wonted orchestral accompaniment as well as the customary stage-surroundings, and he will be apt to find himself embarrassed. The very fact of being compelled to repeat is of itself alone enough to disconcert almost anyone. The men and women who to-day attempt the forlorn task of reproducing for us a hula mele or an oli under what are to them entirely unsympathetic and novel surroundings are, as a rule, past the prime of life, and not unfrequently acknowledge themselves to be failing in memory.
After making all of these allowances we must, it would seem, make still another allowance, which regards the intrinsic nature and purpose of Hawaiian song. It was not intended, nor was it possible under the circumstances of the case, that a Hawaiian song should be sung to an unvarying tempo or to the same key; and even in the words or sounds that make up its fringework a certain range of individual choice was allowed or even expected of the singer. This privilege of exercising individuality might even extend to the solid framework of the mele or oli and not merely to the filigree, the i’i, that enwreathed it.
It would follow from this, if the author is correct, that the musical critic of to-day must be content to generalize somewhat and must not be put out if the key is changed on repetition and if tempo and rhythm depart at times from their standard gait. It is questionable if even the experts in the palmy days of the hula attained such a degree of skill as to be faultless and logical in these matters.
It has been said that modern music has molded and developed itself under the influence of three causes, (1) a comprehension of the nature of music itself, (2) a feeling or inspiration, and (3) the influence of poetry. Guided by this generalization, it may be said that Hawaiian poetry was the nurse and pedagogue of that stammering infant, Hawaiian music; that the words of the mele came before its rhythmic utterance in song; and that the first singers were the priests and the eulogists. Hawaiian poetry is far ahead of Hawaiian song in the power to move the feelings. A few words suffice the poet with which to set the picture before one’s eyes, and one picture quickly follows another; whereas the musical attachment remains weak and colorless, reminding one of the nursery pictures, in which a few skeletal lines represent the human frame.
Let us now for refreshment and in continued pursuit of our subject listen to a song in the language and spirit of old-time Hawaii, composed, however, in the middle of the nineteenth century. It is given as arranged by Miss Lillian Byington, who took it down as she heard it sung by an old Hawaiian woman in the train of Queen Liliuokalani, and as the author has since heard it sung by Miss Byington’s pupils of the Kamehameha School for Girls. The song has been slightly idealized, perhaps, by trimming away some of the superfluous i’i, but not more than is necessary to make it highly acceptable to our ears and not so much as to take from it the plaintive bewitching tone that pervades the folk-music of Hawaii. The song, the mele, is not in itself much—a hint, a sketch, a sweep of the brush, a lilt of the imagination, a connotation of multiple images which no jugglery of literary art can transfer into any foreign speech. Its charm, like that of all folk-songs and of all romance, lies in its mysterious tug at the heartstrings.
He Inoa no Kamehameha
Aia i Waipi’o [315] Paka’alana, [316]
Paepae [317] kapu ia o Liloa. [318]
He aloha ka wahine pi’i ka pali, [319]
Puili ana i ka hua ulei,
I ka ai mo’a i ka lau laau. [320]
Hoolaau [321] mai o ka welowelo.
Ua pe’e pa Kai-a-ulu o Waimea, [322]
Ua ola i ku’u kai, [323] Keoloewa, [324] e.
Footnote 315:[ (return) ] Waipi’o. A deep valley on the windward side of Hawaii.
Footnote 316:[ (return) ] Paka’alana. A temple and the residence of King Liloa in Waipi’o.
Footnote 317:[ (return) ] Paepae. The doorsill (of this temple), always an object of superstitious regard, but especially so in the case of this temple. Here it stands for the whole temple.
Footnote 318:[ (return) ] Liloa. A famous king of Hawaii who had his seat in Waipi’o.
Footnote 319:[ (return) ] Wahine pii ka pali, Haina-kolo, a mythical character, is probably the one alluded to. She married a king of Kukulu o Kahiki, and, being deserted by him, swam back to Hawaii. Arrived at Waipi’o in a famishing state, she climbed the heights and ate of the ulei berries without first propitiating the local deity with a sacrifice. As an infliction of the offended deity, she became distraught and wandered away into the wilderness. Her husband repented of his neglect and after long search found her. Under kind treatment she regained her reason and the family was happily reunited.
Footnote 320:[ (return) ] Lau laau. Leaves of plants.
Footnote 321:[ (return) ] Hoolaau. The last part of this word, laau, taken in connection with the last word of the previous verse, form a capital instance of word repetition. This was an artifice much used in Hawaiian poetry, both as a means of imparting tone-color and for the punning wit it was supposed to exhibit.
Footnote 322:[ (return) ] Ua pe’e pa Kai-a-ulu o Waimea. Kai-a-ulu is a fierce rain-squall such as arises suddenly in the uplands of Waimea, Hawaii. The traveler, to protect himself, crouches (pe’e) behind a hummock of grass, or builds up in all haste a barricade (pa) of light stuff as a partial shelter against the oncoming storm.
Footnote 323:[ (return) ] Kai. Taken in connection with Kai-a-ulu in the preceding verse, this is another instance of verse repetition. This word, the primary meaning of which is sea, or ocean, is used figuratively to represent a source of comfort or life.
Footnote 324:[ (return) ] Keoloewa. The name of one of the old gods belonging to the class called akua noho, a class of deities that were sent by the necromancers on errands of demoniacal possession.