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