The imperial city of Sourakarta, commonly abbreviated into "Solo," was
the hereditary capital of the Mohammedan emperors, now mere
puppet-princes held in the iron grasp of Holland. The present Susunhan,
descended from both Hindu and Arab ancestry, maintains a brilliant
simulacrum of royal state, and his huge Kraton, far surpassing that of
Djokjacarta, contains 10,000 inhabitants. The pronounced Hindu type,
though debased and degraded, remains noticeable even amid the
all-pervading environment of squalor and disorder, which dims the
gorgeous colour and brilliant ceremonial, producing the effect of
jewels flung in the dust. A dense throng of brown humanity, clad and
unclad, walks to and fro beneath the dusky avenues of feathery
tamarinds which shield Solo from the ardour of the tropical sun. Old
crones, with unkempt locks streaming over brown and bony necks, pass
by, their wide mouths distorted and discoloured with sucking the
scarlet lumps of _Sarya_, from which the native derives unfailing
consolation, even the Javanese girl showing absolute disregard of the
disfigurement produced by this favourite stimulant. Deep moats,
lichen-stained walls, and hoary forts, invest Solo with a feudal
aspect, and the grim tower of Vostenberg menaces the Kraton with
bristling cannon, reminding the hereditary Ruler of his subserviency to
modern Holland, for only a melancholy illusion of past glory remains to
him. The dragon-carved eaves of the Chinese quarter, the open _tokos_
beneath waringen boughs, the shadowy _passer_ brightened by mounds of
richly-coloured fruits, and the stuccoed palaces of Court dignitaries,
framed in dark foliage, give character and interest to the city, where
the life of the past lingers in a series of street pictures remaining
from bygone days of pomp and show. Ministers of State walk beneath
many-coloured official umbrellas, held by obsequious attendants;
graceful _bedayas_, in glittering robes, execute intricate dances, and
_gamelon_ players discourse weird music on pipe and drum. Court
ballet-girls, known as _Serimpi_, are borne swiftly through the crowd
in gilded litters, and masked actors give _al fresco_ performances of
the historic _Wayang-wayang_, represented by living persons, for the
actual "shadow-play" is impossible in broad daylight. The colour of the
mask indicates the character assumed by the actor. The golden mask
signifies Divinity, heroes wear white, and evil spirits black or red.
Here, as elsewhere, the profile of the grotesque disguise invariably
shows either the Greek, or the hawk-nose strangely suggestive of
Egyptian origin, and which, as a variation on human physiognomy,
specially commended itself to Mohammedan thought as a skilful evasion
of an inconvenient dogma. Elsewhere the spirit of concession to alien
ideas is almost unknown, even flower and leaf being conventionalised on
those architectural monuments of Islam which form the supreme
expression of Mussulman genius. The suppression of national amusements
has ever proved a perilous step, and in the heart of this ancient
kingdom the original setting of Javanese life remained in stereotyped
form. The moving panorama of the tree-shadowed streets possesses a
strange fascination, and the light of the past lingers like a sunset
glow over the human element of the changed and modernised city. The
twang of double-stringed lutes, the tinkle of metal tubes, and the
elusive melody of silvery gongs, echo from the ages whence dance and
song descend as an unchanged inheritance. An itinerant minstrel recites
the history of _Johar Mankain_, the Una of Java, who shone like a jewel
in the world which could not tarnish the purity and devotion of one
whose heart entertained no evil thought. In the intricate byways of the
crumbling Kraton, a professional story-teller draws a squalid crowd of
women from their dark hovels and cellars, with the magic wand of
enchantment wielded by the reciter of heroic deeds from the _Panji_,
exaggerated out of all recognition by the addition of fairies and
giants, demons and dwarfs, to the simple human element of the original
story. The apathy and decay of native life, lacking all the scope and
interest common to a strenuous age, appears galvanised into some
fleeting semblance of vitality by the extravaganza presented to it, for
the language of hyperbole is the natural expression of Eastern thought,
and penetrates into mental recesses unknown and unexplored by the
relater of unvarnished facts. The quick response of the native mind to
Nature's teaching, and the wealth of tradition woven round flower and
tree, mountain and stream, foster the love of marvel and miracle in
those whose daily wants are supplied by the prodigality of a tropical
climate, for the innate poetry of the race has never been crushed out
by the weight of practical necessities.
A permit being obtained to view the interior of the Susunhan's palace
under a Dutch escort, we present ourselves at the colonnaded portico,
where the Prince Probolingo, brother of the Susunhan, receives his
visitors with simple courtesy. This descendant of a hundred kings is
simply attired in a dark brown _sarong_ and turban, the _kris_ in his
belt of embroidered velvet ablaze with a huge boss of diamonds.
Attendants, holding State umbrellas over the favoured guests, usher
them through marble-paved courts, in one of which a little prince is
seated, with furled golden umbrella behind him to denote his rank, a
group of royal children playing round him, their lithe brown forms
half-hidden in the green shadows of a great tamarind tree. A superb
marble ball-room with crystal chandeliers, forms an incongruous modern
feature of the spacious Palace, but helps to popularise the so-called
"Nail of the Universe" among the European inhabitants of Solo, by the
splendid entertainments continually given at the imperial command. The
porcelain and glass rooms convey an idea of the boundless hospitality
bestowed; the thousands of wine-glasses being especially noticeable,
for 800 guests are often invited at a time. Treasures of linen and
costly embroidery, silken hangings and velvet banners, gorgeous carpets
and mats of finest texture, are displayed to our admiring eyes, but
possession rather than enjoyment is the keynote of Eastern character,
and the bales and bundles of priceless value, kept in huge cabinets of
fragrant cedar-wood, seldom see the light of day. Long counting-houses
are crowded with native scribes, their brown bodies naked except for
_sarong_ and _kris_, the perpetual rattle of the abacus making a
deafening din, for apparently the smallest sum cannot be added up under
Eastern skies without the assistance of this wire frame with the
ever-shifting marbles. Cramped fingers move wearily over the yellow
parchments, with their long lists of undecipherable hieroglyphics, and
the turbaned heads are scarcely raised until the entrance of the Prince
necessitates the time-honoured salute of the _dodok_, the crouching
posture assumed in the presence of a superior. The needs and luxuries
of the immense royal household render the counting-house a feature of
the utmost importance. The Prince Probolingo has himself forty wives,
and a Harem in proportion to their numbers, the Susunhan's Imperial
Harem far exceeding that of his brother. Wonderful tales are told of
the fairy-like loveliness belonging to these inner palaces, with their
treasures of ivory and sandalwood, cedar and ebony, but they are
jealously guarded from intrusion, and a glimpse of their fantastic
glory seldom permitted to Western eyes. After an exhibition of
gold-encrusted litters and painted coaches of State, used in royal
processions, the Prince, a clever-looking man of forty, takes wine with
his guests. Each stand of solid silver contains six bottles, the
crouching attendants also carrying silver trays of tumblers and
wine-glasses, a gaily clad servitor with a huge silver ice-bowl
bringing up the rear. After drinking the health of His Royal Highness
in iced Rhine wine, we make our adieux, and escape from our splendid
_pajongs_ of rainbow hue on the steps of the Great Entrance, conveying
our thanks through the medium of an interpreter. These fainéant princes
learn no tongue but their own, greatly to the advantage of their Dutch
masters. The colossal incomes assigned to scions of the royal stock
only serve the double purpose of political expediency and personal
extravagance, for the luxury of a licentious Court remains unchecked,
and the idea of educating or reforming tributary princes is unknown in
Java. Territorial rights were relinquished for pecuniary gains, and the
entire Court of the Susunhan is in the pay of the Dutch, the wealth
amassed from the richest island in the world affording ample
compensation for the pensions lavishly bestowed on the former owners of
the tropical Paradise. The Dutch Resident, in his capacity of "Elder
Brother" to the indigenous race, claims the full privileges of his
assumed position, but the advancing tide of social reform has even
touched these distant shores, and the alien authority tends on the
whole to the welfare of the community. Hygienic regulations are
compulsory, and even here the traditions of Holland enjoin an amount of
whitewashing and cleaning up unique in tropical colonies. The green and
vermilion panelled _sarongs_ of Solo are renowned for their elaborate
designs, and the painting of _battek_, or cotton cloth, remains a
flourishing industry of the ancient capital. The intricate beauty of
the hand-made patterns far surpasses that of the woven fabrics
wherewith new mills and factories begin to supply the market. Centuries
of hereditary training, from the days when royal Solo was a
self-supporting city, contribute to the amazing skill of the _battek_
girls, but the elaboration of native Art is doomed to decay, for Time,
hitherto a negligeable quantity in this "summer isle of Eden," begins
to reveal a value unknown to the Javanese past, and as the poetry of
illumination vanished before the prose of the printing press, so the
painting of _battek_ must inevitably give way to the wholesale methods
of Manchester in the near future of Java, just awakening from her
spellbound sleep to the changed conditions of life and labour. An
exquisite plain, described by de Charnay as unrivalled even in Java,
surrounds Sourakarta with belts of palm, avenues of waringen, and
picturesque rice-fields of flaming green and vivid gold. Azure peaks
frame the enchanting picture. The storied heights are rich in
traditions of gods and heroes, with innumerable myths haunting the
ruined temples which cluster round the base of the mountain range, and
suggest themselves as relics of an earlier creed than Buddhism or
Brahminism. Archaic sculptures, obelisks, and gateways, massive and
undecorated, recall the architecture of Egyptian sanctuaries, but no
record exists which throws any light on the origin of the extensive
monuments of a forgotten past, though the triple pyramid of Mount Lawu
is still a place of sacrifice to Siva the Destroyer. Pilgrims climb the
steep ascent to lay their marigold garlands and burn their
incense-sticks at the foot of the rude cairn erected in propitiation of
the Divine wrath, typified by the cloud and tempest hovering round the
jagged pinnacles of the volcanic range, which frowns with perpetual
menace above the verdant loveliness of plain and woodland. The
instinctive worship seems one of those hereditary relics of a perished
faith so frequently encountered in Java; a blind impulse for which no
reason can be ascribed by the devotee, swayed by those mysterious
forces of the subconscious self which seem imperishable elements in the
brown races of the Malay Archipelago. The native Court attracts myriad
parasites, and the wealthy Chinese half-castes, or _Paranaks_ of Solo,
with their inborn commercial genius, surpass all competitors in the
pursuit of fortune. The three centuries of mixed marriages have
modified Chinese conservatism, and though the _Paranak_ is severely
taxed, and excluded from all political offices, he remains supreme in
the kingdom of finance, regarded even by the Dutch as an indispensable
factor in the complicated affairs of the island.
The great _passer_ of Solo becomes an endless delight, and the
interminable corridors, where the fumes of incense mingle with the
breath of flowers, convey strange suggestions of antiquity. Simple
meals of rice and bananas progress round cooking-pots of burnished
copper. Pink pomelo and purple mangosteen vary the repast; strips of
green banana leaf folded into cups fastened with an acanthus thorn, or
serving as plates for Dame Nature's prodigality, provide the
accessories of the feast as well as the provisions. The Javanese
populace, wonderfully free from those household cares which involve so
much time and trouble in Northern nations strenuously occupied in
keeping the wolf from the door, and left to carry out their own
inventions, have evolved numerous methods of blending the different
metals--steel and iron, brass and silver. The veinings of the _kris_,
beautiful as those of any Toledo blade, are produced by the welding of
metals steeped in lime-juice and arsenic, which destroy the iron and
retain the ingrained pattern. The chains of mingled brass and silver
show exquisite designs and a special charm of colour, in the soft
golden hue and subdued gleam of the heavy links, with their
richly-enamelled talismans of ruby and turquoise enamel. Soft voices,
tranquil movements, and courteous manners are the age-long heritage of
Malay idiosyncracy, and even in the crowded _passer_, with its horde of
buyers and sellers, noise and dispute are non-existent. It is a market
of dreamland, and though echoes of marching feet and music of native
bands remind us that we are in imperial Sourakarta, the busy hive of
the _passer_ suggests a panoramic picture of native life, rather than
the pushing, jostling crowd represented by the ordinary idea of a
market in that Western hemisphere which, in bestowing so many priceless
gifts on humanity, has taken from it the old-world grace of repose.