The People of the Polar North/Chapter 6
Erè was not a notable sportsman; it was said of him that he rowed a kayak covered with the skins of another's catch; and that was not befitting a man!
He was young and strong, but idle; and in addition to that, married to an elderly and stout widow. They slept together in a corner of his father's house, and it was rarely that they managed to be awake at the hour when fishermen start out to sea. Then they would hang about all day in idleness, until it was evening again.
The boys of the village had bestowed upon him the ironic nickname of "the strong man"; when Erè heard it, he usually struck whomsoever was nearest to him.
Apart from this, he was generally in excellent humour. He was the son of the great Sorqaq, and the brother of the best seal-catcher in the village, Majaq; why should he over-exert himself? In any case there would be food enough for the winter.
But if by any chance he did go out seal-catching, he nearly always had meat with him on his return; but it was from the division, be it observed, of the other men's catch; for he had a remarkable faculty for turning up where any game had been secured.
Once, though, he had an unlucky adventure. He was out after walrus, with some of the others, late in the autumn, when snow had already fallen inland. The seal-hunters had got hold of a large walrus, and were just trying to kill it with their harpoons. Erè got too near, and the animal hurled itself at him. His kayak capsized immediately, and, as he disappeared below the surface, the walrus betook itself off. His companions hauled 
But, as I have said, it was exceedingly seldom that he exposed himself to danger or inconvenience.
It was this man whom Aleqasina, the widow, had taken. She had four children by her former marriage, and it was no such easy matter to find them a protector; she would have to be careful in her choice. And so, when Erè had come to her one night, she had kept him. They were very fond of each other; they could nearly always be seen in their own corner of Sorqaq's house with their arms round each other, or in some affectionate attitude. They laughed and gambolled like a pair of wanton children, and were the most frequent of our visitors. But then, they had the most time.
There was an animal lack of restraint about their intercourse and affection which at times vented itself in the most savage outbreaks. The Eskimos are much like animals. The men love their wives; but when the fancy takes them, when they are satiated with love, they maltreat them in a manner that we civilised men would consider brutal. But, say the Eskimos, if affection is to be kept alive, the woman must feel occasionally that the man is strong.
I was sitting in our tent one day with a few guests, when an angry shout broke the silence in the village. The voice was a man's.
"My knife!" he shouted. "Thou hast forgotten to sharpen my knife!" We peeped through the hangings of the tent and saw young Erè, red and excited, dragging his fat wife after him; he had seized her by the hair and was pulling her towards the plain at the back of the tents. Aleqasina was white with rage and pain, but trudged along after him without opening her lips.
One of the guests in our tent was the brother of the ill-used Aleqasina, handsome Sitdluk. When I saw Erè, laughing scornfully, drag his suffering victim past our tent, a hot, civilised anger had been roused within me at this ill-treatment of "a weak woman"; an inherited impression that I, in my capacity as man, must come forward as the champion of the unfortunate one, made my cheeks burn, and in fancy I already saw, with glee, the cruel husband biting the dust. Then I looked at her brother, thinking to recognise in him the same pleasant indignation, which should vent itself in a gay little battle. Our eyes met,—but Sitdluk was laughing, laughing till his hair fell down over his face. He had guessed my thoughts.
"Let them make up their own differences," he said; "up here people never mix themselves up in quarrels between a man and his wife."
"Yes; but she is your sister!" I replied.
But Sitdluk only roared.
"My sister is a woman, like all the rest of them, I suppose; and women must be punished occasionally, to make them obedient. You can hear for yourself that Aleqasina refused to sharpen her husband's knife."
Strangely ashamed, I relinquished my warrior's attitude, feeling that it were better to hide my knightly indignation until I was once more among my fellow-countrymen, who could digest it. And, dear me—a quarrel between affectionate Eskimos was quite as interesting an experience as the conjurations of a magician! And I had come up here, first and foremost, for the impartial study of life under other conditions than those to which I was accustomed.
I soon perceived that imported ideas of right and wrong had very nearly betrayed me into an altogether unjustifiable interference in a private difference between two people. And the following is an absolutely historic account of the little human drama that was played out before me, with only such omissions as common decency demands.
"It is well that thou hast refused to obey!" cried Erè; "for a long time thou hast wanted to feel who is master!"
As soon as they were out on the level, he gave her a blow that threw her off her feet.
"Kill me! Oh no! you dare not! Oh no! you are too great a coward! You dare not, because of my relations!" taunted Aleqasina.
But Erè placed his foot exultingly on her body, and laughed, well satisfied at her powerlessness.
"Refuse to obey another time and you will know how I take disobedience."
He said it quite quietly, almost caressingly, to annoy her; and then he began moving his foot backwards and forwards across her body. I shuddered when I saw him; for I knew that Aleqasina was soon to be a mother.
"Yes, tread on me! Kill your child!" she screamed, laughing wildly, as he hastily withdrew his foot. "You are crimson with anger, and yet you dare not hurt me! You are afraid!" she taunted him again.
Then the man lost control of himself and rushed at her, striking her across the face.
Aleqasina did not utter a sound, but she got up and walked towards the rocks. The man stood looking after her.
"Where are you going to?" he called out, anger having made him short of breath.
Aleqasina turned round and said quietly—
"Find another wife to ill-treat. I am not coming back."
"Ah! then you have not had enough yet," replied Erè, and ran after her again, seizing her by the hair, and dragging her backwards towards the tents.
"Women's whims! It is quite amusing to cure them of them!" he said, as the woman still kept silence. And, convinced that she was cowed, he was on the point of letting fly his manly rage, when, like a flash, she sprang at him and struck him such a violent blow in the side with her two fists, that he fell down with a howl.
When anything special is going on, there are always a number of invisible spectators, who steal up quietly, that they may be able to report the event afterwards; but they prefer to be out of sight.
Just in this way, when Erè had been knocked down by his wife, ever so many jumped out from the tents, giggling, and one half-grown boy even had the impertinence to call out, "The strong man has been knocked down by a woman!" Poor Aleqasina! She paid dearly for her victory. She was flung savagely to the ground, and, when she rose again, blood was pouring from her nose.
Suddenly she seized a large stone, and threw it, with great force, in the direction of the tents. The stone hit one of Erè's dogs, which crawled under a sledge, yelping.
"What are you stoning my dogs for?" cried the man.
"What do I care about your dogs? The stone missed, but it was intended for you!" she replied.
Fresh access of fury! Aleqasina thrown down and ill-treated again.
Despite all the pain, the woman preserved her imperturbable calm, and did not utter a word of complaint.
And Erè, who by this time had quite lost his balance, began, without any reason whatever, to stone all his dogs, and made them tear about the place, whining and barking.
Then he seized the precious knife, which had been the innocent cause of the whole uproar, broke it across his knee, and flung it into the sea. This relieved his mind sufficiently to allow him to enter the tent, and leave his wife unmolested further. She followed him slowly.
An hour later, the couple could be heard laughing confidentially, as though nothing had occurred between them; and somewhat later, when I peeped in at them, they were lying affectionately asleep, with their arms round each other.
By night the tale was all over the village. Every spectator had something to say on the matter; and, if there was some divergence in the accounts of the various details, all were agreed as to the result of the event.
"Fancy!" they said, giggling; "Erè was thrown by his wife—pfui!—by a woman!"
When anything unusual had happened, and you wished to hear of the matter from various points of view, you had only to go down to Tâterâq (the Kittiwake). He was the animated newspaper of the place, but, in contrast to the usual run of newspapers, he included every shade of opinion in his reports, inasmuch as he always salted his accounts with: "He said . . . but such another thought that . . . and then so and so said . . ."; in this wise, it is also true, he avoided saying what he thought himself, which was prudent of him.
Tâterâq was a palsied man, who lay out on his sledge, day and night, all through the summer; nothing that happened as far as his eyes could reach escaped his vigilance, and when he called out, as he occasionally did, you were quite certain to see the whole place bestir itself; everybody knew that the helpless man on the sledge had nothing to do but wait for something to happen.
And should there be a paucity of happenings now and again, he would take refuge in his dreams, which often augured remarkable things; and in this way he succeeded in keeping the interest of the public in himself alive.
I was very much impressed by what had just happened, when I went down to him. And, as I was very anxious to get him to say what he thought on the matter, I informed him that it was the first time in my life that I had ever seen a woman struck.
Tâterâq opened his eyes wide and stared at me; he was convinced that I was making fun of him. But when he had heard me repeat my assertion, there was sympathy in his voice as he replied—
"Well, then, how do you manage to keep your women in order? Or is it perhaps they who are the masters in your country?"
Thereupon we exchanged our views on the subject, to find that they did not quite coincide. He spoke with great dignity; still, there was some trace of bitterness in his remarks.
"Women have to be provided for," he explained, "and it is we who have to do the providing. They cling to us because we give them food and clothing. See! when I was well and strong, and caught seals in abundance, I had a wife who was very fond of me. And then the Evil Fate laid its grip upon me, and my body died. Then I had to be content to eat what others caught, and see! my wife ran away, and let herself be taken by one who could feed her better—ha! that is what they are like,—but if we are to be the providers, then we must be the masters too. And if the woman gets fancies into her head, then she must be beaten; that will bring her to her senses again.
"Women can be a nuisance, when you have not got them under control. And if you punish them, you must know, too, where to draw the line. Mistakes on either side the line can be unfortunate."
And, to show me that his opinions were based on "the wisdom of his forefathers," he told me the following story, which had become a legend.
They relate that Navaranapaluk was descended from cannibals. When she was grown up, she was given in marriage to some who did not eat men.
It was the middle of winter, and her relations were exceedingly sorry for her, when they saw her arrive on foot; and so they agreed to attack the tribe that she now belonged to.
They set off, and arrived at the village at a time when all the men were away; there were only women at home, so they fell upon them and murdered them; only three escaped.
One of them had thrown over herself the skin that she was just dressing; the second had turned a dog's-meat trough over herself; and the third had hidden in a shed where meat was stored.
When the men came home they found all their women killed, and their suspicions were aroused when they found that Navaranapaluk was missing.
And great was their anger, for the assassins had impaled the women on long stakes, so that the stakes pierced their bodies.
At once they prepared to attack their enemies, and began to make large numbers of arrows.
The three women who were left, plaited the sinew-thread with which the heads of the arrows were to be fastened on; and they plaited with such ardour that there was no flesh left on their finger-tips, and the bones projected. One of them died from loss of blood.
When they were well equipped, they set off, and hid behind large stones, above the houses of their enemies.
The assassins, after their return home, had expected the avengers every day; so their women took turns to watch.
It is said that one old woman had a remarkable dream. She dreamt that two lice were fighting on her head. And when she told it to the others, they all thought that the avengers must be in the neighbourhood. So they all gathered together in one house to ask counsel of the spirits. And when the incantation was well under way, a dog on the roof suddenly began to bark.
The men rushed out, but by then their enemies had surrounded the house, and they accomplished their vengeance by shooting all the men down with arrows. It was only when there were none left that they chose wives from among the widows, and took them home.
But two of them seized Navaranapaluk by the hand and ran off with her.
And she, who thought they were competitors for her hand, called out—
"Which of you! which of you!"
But the men only laughed, without replying, and ran on with her.
Then suddenly they cut off both her arms with a knife.
The blood streamed from the stumps, and Navaranapaluk ran on a little way; and then she looked as if she had arms of blood.
But soon she fell, and died from loss of blood.
They treated her thus because she was a liar.
I heard the story from those who arrived from the other side of the sea.
Thus far Tâterâq and his forefathers.
A superficial consideration of the position of woman in Eskimo society might induce one mistakenly to believe that she leads exclusively a cowed and unhappy existence. If you refer to the legends, which record the experiences of many generations, you find that no small number of them begin with relating how "once there was a woman, who—as is you know customary—was very badly treated by her husband, and so one day she ran away to the hills." And, living amongst them, you see for yourself that cruel blows are not infrequent. But certainly no one would be more astonished than she herself, if any one came to the Eskimo woman and pitied her; for her body is strong and healthy, her heart light, and her mind well-balanced; and so life seems to her worth living, and admirably and sensibly arranged. She herself has no consciousness whatever of being man's drudge.
Women mean all this. That they are indispensable to the maintenance of the social fabric they know quite well; and they are proud of it.
Nor is a wife merely "a thing you take." Grave responsibilities accompany marriage: if the woman has old parents who can no longer look after themselves, the man must undertake the charge of them; and if he marries a widow, he must feed and clothe her children.
In ordinary life, moreover, one does not see much of man's vaunted power over life and limb. Women have a way of their own of getting what they want, both in small things and great. And if you want a man to do anything for you, it is always well first to win his wife over to your cause.
The domestic life of the Eskimos flies past in a succession of happy days. If you stop to listen outside a hut, you will always hear cheerful talking and laughter from within.
We are so quick to judge the men, because they strike; and we are sorry for the women, who get a black eye now and again as the result of a little temper. But we forget that we civilised men, by a poisoned word, can often strike harder and more brutally than the Eskimo with his fist.
There is only one thing in which the woman is not allowed any voice whatever, and that is in sexual matters. She is the absolute property of man, who, by the customs of his society, may lend her away for a night, or longer, without in the least taking her wishes into consideration.
It is generally on hunting expeditions that the men agree to exchange wives for a night, but to the woman herself they say nothing at all about it on their return home; it is only when the woman sees a strange man lie down on her couch, and her own husband go to another house, that she understands the exchange. Women are never exchanged out of the house for a night. It is the men who change couches.
This wife-changing can sometimes play quite a useful part. Thus, if a man has to go away on a long hunting expedition, and he wants a woman with him, he can, if his own wife, for instance on account of pregnancy, is unfitted to endure the hardships of an expedition by sledge, lend her to a man who is remaining, and in return receive his.
But it may likewise happen that a young wife is homesick for friends and family who live a long way off; if her husband is willing to humour her, but does not himself wish to undertake the journey, a man fond of travelling will often announce himself as agreeable to take the other on her visit, leaving his own wife as hostage.
Finally, wife-changing can always be applied as a means of correction with over-capricious women. When a marriage becomes "disturbed," the man often exchanges his wife for an indefinite period. It is asserted that the two are soon anxious to be together again; for a man generally discovers that his own wife is in spite of all the best.
Children who are born during an exchange remain with the mother until they no longer require her care.
It sometimes happens that a woman will refuse, with tears, to be exchanged, but that is rare. Then the husband beats her as a punishment.
Polygamy occurs, but it is rare, as there are too few women.
In a man's choice of a wife the feelings are not taken into account; considerations of convenience and common sense alone carry weight. Affection comes as the result of living together.
On the whole, I have retained the pleasantest impression of the mutual relations between man and woman. If we can take their own social and moral ideas as the basis of our judgment, it must be conceded in their favour that their life is happier and more free from care than that of civilised people in general. Life has no bitter disappointments in store for them, because they are not brought up to believe in theories which in practical life collapse.
There is only one woman whom I pity among the Polar Eskimos—the woman who has no children.
Sâmik, or "The Left-handed," was the richest man in his tribe.
He was the owner of three Winchester rifles, a doublebarrelled fowling-piece, a tool chest with a saw, plane, file, axe and knives, a whaler's sloop, and a little yawl. He had accompanied Robert Peary on his Polar expeditions, and his riches were the reward of the great services he had rendered his white master.
But in addition to all his precious treasures, he likewise owned all that the Eskimos usually possess, sledges, dogs, a tent and kayaks.
All travellers who arrived at his village were invited by him to great banquets of Polar bear meat, of walrus or reindeer; and there was always enough and to spare for every one who entered his house.
It was said of him that his flesh-pits saw two suns rising without emptying, for neither men nor dogs could eat in one winter what he was able to bring down in the hunting season.
But despite all his riches, "The Left-handed" was not a happy man he was childless.
Once, it is true, he had had a son, but his wife had died soon after it was born. The little one had lived a few days, but, as there was no one to be found who could give it milk, it had quickly faded away. Sâmik could not bear to see his son suffer, and one day, as he lay there whimpering, he had picked him up in his arms and strangled him, out of compassion.
It was not long before he took another wife, and of course she was the best "parti" in the tribe. The young and beautiful Eqariussaq was a much-travelled lady; she had been with Peary in America.
"The Left-handed" was now joyful and happy with his new wife—until he discovered that she could give him no child.
Beautiful Eqariussaq was barren. From the day that that dawned upon him, Sâmik conceived an extreme contempt for his young wife, and life between them was no good thing.
As Sâmik simultaneously fell in love with the sixteen-year-old Arnaruniaq, who was the wife of Alattaq, the magician, he grew more and more unkind to Eqariussaq, whom he often beat in savage fits of passion. But Eqariussaq suffered him to ill-treat her and did not run away, because, in spite of everything, she would not hear of any other husband than Sâmik. One fine day, however, she was obliged to leave her husband's house. Sâmik exchanged her for an indefinite period to Alattaq, who, as a compensation, received the loan of one of his rifles.
It was said among the people that Alattaq, who had the reputation of being a great magician, would exercise his magic over Eqariussaq, so that she would be able to give her husband children.
Alattaq was good to her: he was a huge, peaceful giant, who would not have hurt anybody. But Eqariussaq ran away from him and went back to her husband nearly every day, imploring him to let her return home. Sâmik, however, was deaf to her appeals.
Towards the end of the dark season, shortly before our departure southward, I paid a visit to the village where Sâmik lived.
As usual, he immediately invited the new arrivals to meat, together with the inhabitants of the village. Arnaruniaq was hostess. Later on in the evening all the men and women collected for drum-songs, and duets were sung till far into the night.
When at last, gleeful and in festive mood, we groped our way out through the entrance to go to our house and sleep, I heard sobbing behind the houses, and followed the sound. Out in the snow sat Eqariussaq, crying. I tried to talk to her, but she only shook her head, without replying.
Next day every one knew that Sâmik, when she came into his house in the evening, had picked up his axe and thrown it at her. It had hit her and broken one of the bones in her foot.
"Fool!" people said, "not to be able to keep away from him!"
Poor, barren woman! She lay for weeks suffering frightful pain in her crushed foot.
But when the day came that she was able to get up again and walk, she will only have crawled back to the man who was ready to beat her and injure her.