Читать книгу Elements of Folk Psychology - Wilhelm Max Wundt - Страница 18

Though mythological thinking, particularly on the level of belief in demons and magic, has but slight connection with later science, it stands in close relation to the beginnings of art. This relation appears, among other things, in the fact that the simplest forms of the one are connected with the simplest forms of the other. This connection is twofold. Ideas of magic are, in a certain sense, projected into the products of art; art, on the other hand, being the means whereby mythological thinking finds expression, reacts upon magical ideas and brings about an enhancement of their motives. This is particularly apparent, in the beginnings of art, in the fact that, as viewed by civilized man, primitive peoples have brought but one art to a high degree of perfection, the art of dancing. For no other form of artistic expression is early man better endowed. His body is incomparably more supple than that of civilized races. The life of the forest, the climbing of trees, and the capturing of game qualify him for performances that would prove difficult to a modern art-dancer. All who have witnessed the dancing of men of nature have marvelled at their great skill and dexterity, and especially at their wonderful ability in respect to postures, movements, and mimetic expression. Originally, the dance was a means for the attainment of magical ends, as we may conjecture from the fact that even at a very early stage it developed into the cult dance. Nevertheless, from the very beginning it obviously also gave rise to pleasure, and this caused it to be re-enacted in playful form. Thus, even the earliest art ministered not only to external needs but also to the subjective life of pleasure. The direct source of the latter is one's own movements and their accompanying sensations. The dance of the group enhances both the emotion and the ability of the individual. This appears clearly in the dances executed by the inland tribes of Malacca. These peoples do not seem to have any round dances. The individual dancer remains at a fixed spot, though he is able, without leaving his place, to execute marvellous contortions and movements of the limbs. These movements, moreover, combine with those of his companions to form an harmonious whole. They are controlled, however, by still another factor, the attempt to imitate animals. It is true that, on the primitive level proper, the animal does not play so dominant a rôle as in later times. Nevertheless, the imitation of animals in the dance already foreshadows the totemic period. Some individuals are able, while remaining at a fixed spot, to imitate with striking life-likeness the movements of even small animals, and this is regarded as art of the highest order. Yet the animal-mask, which is later commonly used in cult and magic, is here as yet entirely lacking. These very mimic and pantomimic dances, however, unquestionably bear the traces of magic. When the Veddah imitates game-animals while executing his dance about the arrow, the arrow is without doubt regarded as a means of magic, and we may conjecture that the game-animals that are struck by an arrow are supposed actually to succumb as a result of this mimetic performance.

Among primitive peoples, the dance is not, as a rule, accompanied by music. At most, means of producing noise are introduced, their purpose being to indicate the rhythm. The simplest of these noise-instruments consists of two wooden sticks that are beaten together. The drum is also common at a very early time; yet it was probably introduced from without. The real musical accompaniment of the dance is furnished by the human voice in the dance-song. It would, of course, be wrong to suppose that because the dance originally served purposes of magic, the dance-song was a sort of primitive cult-song. Of such songs as the latter no traces occur until later. The contents of the early songs are derived from the most commonplace experiences of life. The songs really consist of detached fragments of purely descriptive or narrative prose, and have no inner connection with the motives of the dance. That which characterizes them as songs is the refrain. One might say without qualification that this poetic form of speech begins with the refrain. The song has grown up out of selected natural sounds. Anything that has been done or observed may serve as content of the song. After such material has once been employed, it is continually repeated. Thus it becomes a folk-song that is sung particularly during the dance. The melody is of a very monotonous character; could it be translated into our notes, we would find that in the songs of the Veddahs or of the inland tribes of Malacca, the melody moves at most within the range of a sixth. Moreover, there is an absence of harmonic intervals, so that, not having been phonographically recorded, the songs cannot be reproduced in our notes except with great uncertainty. Of their content, the following illustrations may give us some idea. One, of the songs of the Veddahs runs as follows:—

The doves of Taravelzita say kuturung.

Where the talagoya is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind,

Where the memmina is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind,

Where the deer is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind.

On a somewhat higher level stands the following song of the Semangs. It refers to the ring-tailed lemur (macaco), a monkey species very common in the forests of Malacca; by the Semangs it is called 'kra':—

He runs along the branches, the kra,

He carries the fruit with him, the kra,

He runs to and fro, the kra;

Over the living bamboo, the kra,

Over the dead bamboo, the kra; He runs along the branches, the kra, He leaps about and screams, the kra, He permits glimpses of himself, the kra, He shows his grinning teeth, the kra.

As is clear, we have here simply observations, descriptions of that which the Semang has seen when watching the lemur in the forest. This description, of course, serves only as the material for the music of speech; that which is really musical is the refrain, which in this case consists simply of the word kra. This music of speech exalts and supplements the dance; when all parts of the body are in motion the articulatory organs also tend to participate. It is only the modern art-dance which has substituted an instrumental accompaniment for the voice and has thus been able to suppress the natural expression of emotions. But, even in our culture, the emotions receive active, vocal expression in the folk-dances of our villages.

Musical instruments, in the strict sense of the word, are almost unknown to primitive man. Where somewhat complex forms occur, they appear to have been imported. Such, for example, is the bamboo nose-flute, occasionally found among the inland tribes of the Malay Peninsula. The nose-flute is similar to our flutes, except that it is blown from above instead of from the side, and is not played by means of the mouth, but is placed against one of the nostrils, so that the side of the nose serves as the tone-producing membrane. It has from three to five holes that may be covered with the fingers. This instrument is a genuine product of Melanesia, and was doubtless acquired from this region by the Malayan tribes. Of earlier origin, no doubt, are stringed instruments. These are to be found even among primitive peoples. The forms that occur in Malacca have, in this case also, obviously come from Oceania. But, on the other hand, an instrument has been found among the Bushmen and the neighbouring peoples which may be regarded as the most primitive of its kind and which throws important light on the origin of musical instruments of this sort. A bow, essentially similar to that which he employs in the chase, affords the Bushman a simple stringed instrument. The string of the bow now becomes the string of a musical instrument. Its tones, however, cannot be heard distinctly by any one except the player himself. He takes one end of the bow between his teeth and sets the string into vibration with his finger. The resonance of the bones of his head then causes a tone, whose pitch he may vary by holding the string at the middle or at some other point, and thus setting only a part of the string into vibration. Of this tone, however, practically no sound reaches the external world. On the other hand, the tone produces a very strong effect on the player himself, being powerfully transmitted through the teeth to the firm parts of the skull and reaching the auditory nerves through a direct bone-conduction. Thus, then, it is a remarkable fact that music, the most subjective of the arts, begins with the very stringed instruments which are the most effective in arousing subjective moods, and with a form in which the pleasure secured by the player from his playing remains purely subjective. But, from this point on, the further development to tone-effects that are objective and are richer in gradations is reached by simple transitions effected by association. The one string, taken over from the bow used in the chase, is no longer sufficient. Hence the bridge appears, which consists of a piece of wood whose upper side is fastened at the middle of the bow and whose lower side is toothed for the reception of several strings. The strings also are perfected, by being made of threads detached from the bamboo of which the bow is constructed. Then follows a second important advance. Instead of taking the end of the bow in his mouth and using his own head as a resonator, the player makes use of a hollow gourd and thus renders the tone objectively audible. The best and most direct point of connection between the gourd and the bow proves to be the end of the stick that carries the bridge. It is now no longer the head of the player that furnishes the resonance, but the substituted calabash. In its external appearance the calabash resembles the head—indeed, upon other occasions also, it is sometimes regarded as a likeness of the head, and eyes, mouth, and nose are cut into its rind. Thus, the association of the gourd with the head may possibly have exerted an influence upon this step in the development of the musical instrument. Perhaps the inventor himself did not realize until after the artificial head came into use that he had made a great advance in the perfection of his instrument. His music was now audible to others as well as to himself.

Another instrument also, the bull-roarer, dates back to the beginnings of music, though its development, of course, differed from that of the zither. The bull-roarer, indeed, is an instrument of tone and noise that is to be found only among relatively primitive peoples. True, it does not reach its highest development among those peoples who, from a sociological point of view, occupy the lowest plane of culture; it becomes an instrument of magic, as we shall see, only within the totemic culture of Australia. Nevertheless, there has been discovered, again among the Bushmen, a form of bull-roarer of an especially primitive character. Doubtless that which led primitive man to the invention of the zither was the tone which he heard in his everyday experience in war or in the hunt when he applied an arrow to his bow. No doubt, also, it was the whirring noise of the arrow, or that, perhaps, of the flying bird which the arrow imitates, that led him to reproduce this noise in a similar manner. Indeed, in South Africa, the bull-roarer, though, of course, used only as a plaything, occurs in a form that at once reminds one of a flying bird or arrow. The feather of a bird is fastened at right angles to a stick of wood. When the stick is vigorously swung about in a circle, a whistling noise is produced, accompanied, particularly when swung with great rapidity, by a high tone. This tone, however, is not capable of further perfection, so that no other musical instrument developed from the bull-roarer. The contrary, rather, is true. In other forms of the bull-roarer in which the feathers were displaced by a flat wooden board—whose only resemblance to a bird was a slight similarity in form—the noise was more intense but the tone less clear. For this reason the bull-roarer soon lost its place in the ranks of musical instruments and became purely an instrument of magic, in which function also it was used only temporarily. In many parts of the world, moreover, there is a similar primitive implement, the rattle, whose status is the same as that of the bull-roarer.

It was in connection with ideas of magic and of demons that formative art or, as it would perhaps be truer to say, the elements from which this art proceeded, was developed. Such art was not unknown even to the primitive peoples of the pretotemic age. If anywhere, it is doubtless among the primitive tribes of Malacca and Ceylon that we can, in some measure and with some certainty, trace formative art to its earliest beginnings and to the causes back of these. The Bushman must here be excluded from consideration, since, as we shall see, he was clearly affected by external influences. The Veddahs, as well as the Senoi and Semangs, are familiar with only the simplest forms of linear decoration. Yet this makes it evident that simple lines, such as can be produced by cutting or by scratching, form the starting-point of almost all later development. Here again it is the bamboo that is utilized, its wood being a material suitable for these simple artistic attempts. Its connection with art is due also to the fact that it is used in the manufacture of implements and weapons, such as the bow and the digging-stick, and, later, the blow-pipe and the flute. As important objects of adornment, we find the combs of the women, which, among the Malaccan tribes, are extremely rich in linear decorations. At first, the dominant motive is the triangle. Just as the triangle is the simplest rectilinear figure of geometry, so also is it the simplest closed ornamental pattern. The weapons not infrequently have a series of triangles included within two parallel straight lines. This illustrates in its simplest form the universal characteristic of primitive ornaments, namely, uniform repetition. The pattern later becomes more complicated; the triangles are crossed by lines between which there are spaces that are also triangular in form. Such figures are then further combined into double triangles having a common base, etc. These are followed by other forms, in which simple arcs take the place of straight lines. For example, an arc is substituted for the base of each triangle, again with absolute uniformity. Finally, the arc, in the form of the segment of a circle, is utilized independently, either in simple repetition or in alternation. These simple designs then become increasingly complex by the combination either of the forms as a whole or of some of their parts. This multiplication of motives reaches its most artistic development in the women's combs found among the tribes of the Malay Peninsula. The comb, in some form or other, is a very common article of adornment among peoples of nature. But it is just in the form in which it occurs among the Senoi and Semangs that the comb gives evidence of having originally been, at most, only incidentally an article of adornment and of having only gradually come to be exclusively a decoration. In shape, it is like the women's combs of to-day. The teeth are pointed downwards, and serve the purpose of fastening the hair. The upper part forms a broad crest. But among these peoples the crest is the main part of the comb, the function of the teeth being merely to hold it to the head. For the crest is decorated in rich profusion with the above-mentioned ornamentations, and, if we ask the Semangs and the Senoi what these mean, we are told that they guard against diseases. In the Malay Peninsula, the men do not wear combs, evidently for the practical reason that, because of their life in the forest and their journeys through the underbrush, they cut their hair short. In other regions which have also evolved the comb, as in Polynesia, such conditions do not prevail; the comb, therefore, is worn by both men and women. In this, its earliest, use, however, the comb as such is clearly less an object of adornment than a means of magic. It serves particularly as a sort of amulet, to protect against sickness-demons. For this reason the ornamental lines in their various combinations are regarded as referring to particular diseases. The marks which a Semang woman carries about with her on her comb are really magical signs indicating the diseases from which she wishes to be spared. The head would appear to be a particularly appropriate place for wearing these magical signs. It is to magical ideas, therefore, that we must probably look for the origin of this very common means of adornment. In Malacca, indeed, the combs are carefully preserved; the drawings made upon them render them, as it were, sacred objects. But it is impossible to learn directly from the statements of the natives just how primitive articles of adornment came to acquire the significance of ornaments. Our only clue is the fact that the decorations on the bows and blow-pipes are supposed to be magical aids to a successful hunt; for, among the representations, there are occasionally those of animals. This fact we may bring into connection with observations made by Karl von den Steinen among the Bakairi of Central Brazil. This investigator here found remarkable ornamentations on wood. All of these were of a simple geometrical design, just as in the case of other primitive peoples, yet they were interpreted by the natives not as means of magic but as representations of objects. A consecutive series of triangles whose angles were somewhat rounded off, was interpreted as a snake, and a series of squares whose angles touched, as a swarm of bees. But the representations included also other things besides animals. For example, a vertical series of triangles in which the apexes pointed downwards and touched the bases of the next lower triangles, was regarded as a number of women's aprons—the upper part was the girdle, and, attached to this, the apron. In a word, primitive man is inclined to read concrete objects of this kind into his simple ornamental lines. That we also can still voluntarily put ourselves into such an attitude, is testified to by Karl von den Steinen himself, when he tells us that he succeeded without particular effort in discovering similar objects in certain simple ornamentations. We here have a case of the psychical process of assimilation. This is characteristic of all consciousness, but, as might be supposed, from the fact that primitive peoples live continuously in the open, it is more strongly in evidence among them than among civilized races.

But the question now arises, Which came first? Did the Bakairi really wish to represent snakes, bees, women's aprons, etc., and reduce these to geometrical schematizations? Or did he, without such intention, first make simple linear decorations, and later read into them, through imaginative association, the memory images of objects? The latter is doubtless the case. For it is much easier first to draw simple lines and then to read complicated objects into them than it is, conversely, to reduce these pictures at the outset to abstract geometrical schemata. Indeed, when the Bakairi wishes to draw real objects, he proceeds just as our children do: he copies them as well as he can. For example, the Bakairi occasionally draws fishes in the sand for the purpose of marking out a path, or he attempts to reproduce men and animals in a way strikingly similar to our children's drawings. Evidently, therefore, it was not inability to draw the objects themselves that gave rise to these primitive geometrical decorations. The decorations came first, and the memory images of the objects of daily perception were then read into them. The answer, however, to the question as to why primitive man produces decorations at all, is easily found by calling to mind the motives discernible in such uniform and simple series of figures as the triangles and arcs which the Senoi and the Semangs cut into bamboo. Because of the character of his locomotor organs, primitive man repeats the movements of the dance at regular intervals, and this rhythm gives him pleasure. Similarly, he derives pleasure even from the regularly repeated movements involved in making the straight lines of his drawings, and this pleasure is enhanced when he sees the symmetrical figures that arise under his hand as a result of his movements. The earliest æsthetic stimuli are symmetry and rhythm. We learn this even from the most primitive of all arts, the dance. Just as one's own movements in the dance are an æsthetic expression of symmetry and rhythm, so also are these same characteristics embodied in the earliest productions of pictorial art—in the beginning indeed, they alone are to be found. The primitive song comes to be a song only as a result of the regular repetition of a refrain that in itself is unimportant. As soon as primitive man produces lines on wood, his pleasure in rhythmic repetition at once leads him to make these symmetrical. It is for this reason that we never find decorations that consist merely of a single figure—a single triangle, for instance—but always find a considerable number of figures together, either above one another, or side by side, or both combined, though the last arrangement occurs only at a somewhat more advanced stage. If, now, these decorations are more and more multiplied by reason of the increasing pleasure in their production, we naturally have figures that actually resemble certain objects. This resemblance is strengthened particularly by the repetition of the figures. A single square with its angles placed vertically and horizontally would scarcely be interpreted as a bee, even by a Bakairi; but in a series of such squares we ourselves could doubtless imagine a swarm of bees. Thus there arise representations resembling animals, plants, and flowers. Because of their symmetrical form, the latter particularly are apt to become associated with geometrical designs. Yet on the whole the animal possesses a greater attraction. The animal that forms the object of the hunt is carved upon the bow or the blow-pipe. This is a means of magic that brings the animal within range of the weapon. It is magic, likewise, that affords the explanation of the statement of the Senoi and the Semangs that the drawings on the combs of their women are a means of protection against diseases. These two sorts of purposes illustrate the two forms of magic that are still exemplified on higher cultural levels by the amulet, on the one hand, and the talisman, on the other—protection from danger, and assistance in one's personal undertakings. Now it is easy to understand how especially the complicated decorations on the combs of the Malaccan tribes may, through the familiar processes of psychical assimilation, come to be regarded as living beings, in the form either of animals or of plants, and how these forms in turn may come to be interpreted as sickness-demons. For, these demons are beings that have never been seen; hence the terrified imagination may all the more readily give them the most fantastic shapes. Indeed, we still find examples of this in the more elaborate pictures of the art of some semi-cultural peoples. Thus also are explained many of the masks used among the most diverse peoples. It is almost always grotesque animal or human masks that are employed to represent fear-demons. The freer the sway of the imagination, the easier it is to see the figure of a demon in any decoration whatsoever. The multiplicity of the ornamental drawings, moreover, meets the need for distinguishing a great number of such demons, so that a woman of the Senoi or the Semangs carries about on her head the demoniacal representation of all known diseases. For, according to an ancient law of magic, the demon himself has a twofold rôle—he both causes the sickness and protects against it. Just as a picture is identified with its object, so also is the drawing that represents or portrays the sickness-demon regarded as the demon itself. Whoever carries it about is secure against its attack. Both magic and counter-magic spring from a common source. The medicine-man who exercises counter-magic must also be familiar with magic. The two are but divergent forms of the same magical potency that has its birth in the emotions of fear and terror.

In summary of what we have thus far learned with regard to the art of drawing among primitive men, it may be said that this art is throughout one of magic and adornment. These are the two motives from which it springs, and which, apparently, co-operate from the outset. The mere drawing of lines in regular and symmetrical repetition is due to that regularity of movement which also finds expression in the dance and, even prior to this, in ordinary walking and running. But the artist himself then attributes a hidden meaning to that which he has created. Astonishment at his creation fuses with his pleasure in it, and his wonder at the picture that he has produced makes of it, when animated and retransformed by the imagination, a magical object. The pictures carried about on the person, or wrought on an object of daily use, assist in guarding against diseases and other injuries, or they assure the success of the weapon and the implement.

In view of these characteristics of a purely magical and decorative art, it may perhaps at first glance cause surprise that there should be a people which, although primitive in other essential respects, has far transcended this stage in artistic attainment, and has, apparently, followed an entirely different direction in its pathway to art. Such are the Bushmen. The primitive tribes mentioned above show no traces of an art of drawing; beyond suggestions of a single object, it is absolutely impossible to find representations of objects and their groupings such as are common in the pictures of the Bushmen, which portray particularly animals and, to a less extent, men. This is all the more significant in view of the fact that, while the Bushmen also decorate their weapons and utensils with magical and ornamental designs, these are of far less importance than in the case of the primitive tribes referred to above. The painting of the Bushmen, however, is obviously neither magical nor decorative in character. Originally these pictures seem to have been drawn in caves; at any rate, it is here that many of them have been found. We have already indicated the importance of this primitive dwelling for the beginnings of a memorial art. When external impressions are absent, as in the cave, the imagination is all the more impelled to preserve memories in self-created pictures. The simpler of these resemble, in their characteristics, the drawings and paintings of present-day children. But we can plainly distinguish the more primitive work from that which is more advanced; the latter frequently reproduces its objects with accuracy, particularly animals, such, for example, as the elk and also the giraffe, which is a favourite object, probably because of its long neck. Occasionally, indeed, a quadruped is still represented in profile with only two legs, but most of the pictures are certainly far beyond this childish mode of drawing. In general, mineral pigments were used from the very outset, particularly red iron ore, blue vitriol, etc. We also find mixtures of pigments, so that almost all colours occur. Now it might, of course, be supposed that such a picture of an animal has the same significance as attaches to the drawing occasionally executed on the bow of a primitive man for the purpose of magically insuring the weapon of its mark. But the very places where these paintings occur, far removed as they are from chase and battle, militate against such a supposition. An even greater objection is the fact that the more perfect pictures represent scenes from life. One of them, for example, portrays the meeting of Bushmen with white men, as is evident partly from the colour and partly from the difference in the size of the figures. Another well-known picture represents the way in which the Bushmen steal cattle from a Bantu tribe. The Bantus are represented by large figures, the Bushmen by small ones; in a lively scene, the latter drive the animals away, while the far-striding Bantus remain far in the rear. The picture reveals the joy of the primitive artist over the successful escapade. This is not magical art, but plainly exemplifies the first products of a memorial art. The one who painted these pictures desired first of all to bring before his memory that which he had experienced, and he doubtless also wished to preserve these scenes to the memory of his kinsmen. This is memorial art in a twofold sense. Memory renews the experiences of the past, and it is for memory that the past is to be retained. But this art also must still be classed as primitive, for it has not as yet attained to the level of imitative art. It is not an art that reproduces an object by a direct comparison of picture with copy. This is the sense in which the present-day portrait or landscape painter practises imitation. Even where the primitive era transcended a merely magical or decorative art, it did not advance beyond memorial art. The Bushman did not have the objects themselves before him, but created his pictures in accordance with his memory of them. Moreover, suited as the cave is to the development of a memorial art, it of itself makes imitative art impossible. But how can we account for the fact that the primitive tribe of Bushmen attained to a level of art whose exclusion of magical motives ranks it as relatively advanced, and which must be estimated all the more highly because it is not shared by the neighbouring African tribes? The Hottentots, for example, no less than the Bechuanas and the Bantus, are inferior in artistic accomplishments to the Bushmen, although the culture of the latter is in other respects far below the level of that of the former. May we say of this memorial art what seems probable as regards the magical and decorative art of the inland tribes of Malacca and of Ceylon, namely, that it arose independently from the same original motives as the dance? The answer to this question depends primarily upon the antiquity of these art productions. Do they date back to an immemorial past, as we may suppose to be the case with the decorations of the Veddahs and the Malaccan tribes? There are two considerations, principally, that prove the contrary, namely, that they are relatively recent creations. In the first place, the paintings present the pictures of animals, in particular of the horse and the sheep, with which the Bushman has been acquainted at farthest since the latter part of the eighteenth century. True, these animals were brought into Cape Colony as early as the seventeenth century; it was clearly not until later, however, that the Bushmen became familiar with them. A second consideration is the remarkable circumstance that these primitive painters employ essentially the same tools as the Europeans. This art has now, indeed, almost disappeared, the race having been crowded back and depleted. But the remains show that the painters possessed a stone plate on which they mixed their paints and also a stone pounder with which the mixing was done—that is, a palette and a pestle. Indeed, for applying the colours they occasionally utilized a paint-brush made of fine splinters of bone, though some, no doubt, were content to do this with the fingers.

These are all signs which certainly suggest a not very distant past. Moreover, art products cannot resemble each other in so many respects without having some connection in origin. Added to this is the fact that the very character of such pictures as are still in existence scarcely allows us to regard them as more than sixty to seventy years old. From all of this we must conclude that this art is not primitive at all, but was imported, resembling in this many other things that gain entrance into the life of a primitive tribe. If the essential elements of the Biblical account of the Creation reached the Andamanese, who in other respects are primitive, why may we not also suppose that a wandering European artist at one time came to the Bushmen, even before any other elements of European culture had become accessible to them? Nevertheless, the fact that this painting exists indicates the presence of a remarkable talent. This brings us to our last problem in the psychology of primitive man, to the question concerning his mental equipment in general.