among the most difficult of intellectual feats. The Germans express
their sense of this truth by a concise and vigorous, if not altogether
elegant saying: "No man can get out of his own skin, and into his
neighbour's." A difference of colour between the said skins, it may be
added, withholds even adventurous souls from attempting the temporary
transmigration. And the wisdom of nations, brown and white, sanctions
this diffidence. In Java Occidentals and Orientals have been dwelling
together for about three centuries. They have become conversant with
each other's language, opinions, and affairs; they are brought into a
certain mutual dependence, and into daily and hourly contact; there
is no arrogance or contempt on the one side, no abject fear or hatred
on the other; no wilful prejudice, it would seem, on either. But
the Hollanders do not understand the Javanese, nor do the Javanese
understand the Hollanders, in any true sense of the word. So that it
seems the part of wisdom to acknowledge this at the outset, merely
stating that the notions of nice and nasty, fair and foul, right and
wrong, such as they obtain among the two nations are antagonistic.
Anyway, on the part of a casual observer, such as the present writer,
any further criticisms would be presumptuous and almost inevitably
unjust; therefore, they will be refrained from.
But, whereas I freely confess that the inner life of the Javanese has
remained hidden from me, their outward existence has become familiar
enough. The Javanese practically live out-of-doors. They take their
bath in the river; perform their toilet under some spreading warigin
tree, hanging a mirror as big as the hand on the rugged stem; and squat
down to their meal by the roadside. After nightfall, dark figures may
be discerned around the stalls of fruit-vendors, fantastically lit up
by the uncertain flame of an oil-wick. And, in the dry season, they
often sleep on the moonlit sward of some garden, or on the steps of an
untenanted house.
This life seems strange to us Northerners, self-constituted prisoners
of roofs and walls. But we have only to look at a Malay, and the
intuitive conviction flashes on us, that it is eminently right and
proper for him to live in this manner. He is a creature of the field.
His supple, sinewy frame, his dark skin, the far-away look in his
eyes, the very shape of his feet, with the short, strong toes, well
separated from one another--his whole appearance--immediately suggest
a background of trees and brushwood, running water, sunlit, wind-swept
spaces, and the bare brown earth. And the scenery of Java with its
strange colouring, at once violent and dull, its luxuriant vegetation,
and its abrupt changes in the midst of apparent monotony, lacks the
final, completing touch in the absence of dusky figures moving through
it. Landscape and people are each other's natural complement and
explanation. Hence, the picturesque and poetic charm of the Javanese
out-of-doors.
[Illustration: The River-Bath.]
One of the most fascinating scenes is that of the bath in the river,
soon after sunrise: at Batavia, I have frequently watched it from the
Tanah Alang embankment. The early sunlight,--a clear yellow, with a
sparkle as of topazes in it--makes the dewy grass to glisten, and
brightens the subdued green of the tamarind-trees along the river;
between the oblique bars of shadow the brownish water gleams golden.
On the bank, scores of natives are stripping for the bath. The men run
down, leap into the stream, and dive under; as they come up again,
their bare bodies shine like so many bronze statues. The women descend
the slope with a slower step; they have pulled up their sarong over
the bosom, leaving their shapely shoulders bare to the sun. At the edge
of the water they pause for an instant, lifting both arms to twist
their hair into a knot on the summit of the head; then, entering,
they bend down, and wet their face and breast. Young mothers are
there, leading their little ones by the hand, and coaxing them step
by step further into the shallow stream. Crowds of small boys and
girls have taken noisy possession of the river, plunging and splashing
and calling out to each other, as they swim about, kicking up the
water at every stroke of their sturdy little feet. Half hidden in a
clump of tall-leaved reeds by the margin, young girls are disporting
themselves, making believe to bathe, as they empty little buckets,
made of a palmleaf, over each other's head and shoulders, until their
black hair shines, and the running water draws their garments into
flowing, clinging folds, that mould their lithe little figures from
bosom to ankle. Then, perhaps, all of a sudden, a bamboo raft will
appear round the bend of the river; or a native boat, its inmates
sitting at their morning meal under the awning; and some friendly talk
is exchanged between them and the bathers, as the craft makes its way
through the slowly-dividing groups. One day I saw a broad, brick-laden
barge, that had thus come lumbering down the stream, run aground on
the shallows; the men jumped out, and began pulling and shoving to
get it afloat again. The water dripped from their tucked-up sarongs,
and their backs gleamed in the sunshine, as, almost bent double, they
urged the ponderous thing forward. But still, the bright red heap
remained stationary. Suddenly, a young boy, who had just stripped for
the bath came down the embankment with a running leap, and giving the
boat a sudden sharp push, sent it darting forward. Then he stood up,
laughing, and shook back the shock of black hair which had fallen
over his eyes. He looked like a dusky young river god, who out of his
kindness had come to assist his votaries.
[Illustration: A laundry in the river.]
The flower-market too is a scene of idyllic grace, when, after their
early bath in the river, the women come trooping thither, and stand
bargaining, their hands full of red and pink roses, creamy jessamine,
and tuberoses whiter than snow. The Javanese have a great love of
flowers, though, apparently, they take no trouble to raise them in
their gardens. In Batavia, at least, I never saw any growing near their
cottages in the kampong; save perhaps the sturdy hibiscus in hedges,
and that large white, odoriferous convolvulus which the wind sows
along roadsides and hedgerows--the "beauty-of-the-night." And they do
not seem to care for a handful of flowers in a vase, to brighten the
semi-darkness of their little pàgar huts.
[Illustration: Native lady travelling in her litter.]
[Illustration: A Litter.]
But the women are hardly ever seen without a rosebud or
tuberose-blossom twined into their hair, and the men not unfrequently
have one stuck behind the ear, or between the folds of their
head-kerchief. As for the children; their bare brown little bodies
are hung with tandjong wreaths. The plucked-out petals of all manner
of fragrant flowers are used to scent the water which the women pour
over their long black hair, after washing it with a decoction of
charred leaves and stalks; and, together with ambergris, and a sweet
smelling root, called "akhar wanggi," dried flowers are strewn between
the folds of their holiday-attire. Like all Orientals, the Javanese
are excessively fond of perfumes, which, no doubt, partially explains
their profuse use of strongly-scented flowers. But that, apart from
the merely sensual enjoyment of the smell, they prize flowers for the
pleasure afforded to the eye by their tints and shapes, is proved by
the frequency with which floral designs occur on their clothes and
ornaments. The full globes of the lotos-buds, the disc of the unfolded
flower with leaves radiating, its curiously-configurated pistil, are
recognized again and again on the scabbards and handles of the men's
poniards and on the girdle-clasps and the large silver kabaya-brooches
of the women. The fine cloth for sarongs is decorated with fanciful
delineations of the flowers that blow in every field and meadow, their
calixes and curly tendrils sprouting amidst figures of widemouthed
dragons, fanged and clawed. Moreover, for their hidden virtues, and
the sacred meanings of which they are the symbol, flowers are by the
natives associated with all the principal acts and circumstances of
their lives--with joy and sorrow and ceremony, and the service of the
gods. When the village folk, donning their holiday-attire, go forth to
the festive planting of the rice, or the gathering, stalk by stalk,
of the ripe ears, they wear wreaths of flowers twined in their hair.
At the feast of his circumcision, the boy is crowned with them. They
are the chief ornament of lovers on their marriage day--gleaming in
the elaborate head dress of the bride, and dangling down as a long
fringe from the groom's golden diadem; wreathing the scabbard of his
poniard; and girdling his naked waist, all yellow with boreh powder.
They are brought in solemn offering to the dead, when, on the third,
the seventh, the fortieth, the hundredth, and the thousandth day,
the kinsmen visit the grave of the departed one, to pray for the
welfare of his soul, and in return implore his protection, and that
of all the ancestors up to Adam and Eve, the parents of mankind. And
lastly, flowers are thought the most acceptable offering to the gods,
the ancient gods whom no violence of Buddhist or Mohammedan invader
has succeeded in ousting from that safe sanctuary, the people's
heart, which they share now, in mutual good-will and tolerance, with
the Toewan Allah, "besides whom there is no God." Under some huge
waringin tree, at the gate of a town or village, an altar is erected
to the tutelary genius the "Danhjang Dessa," who has his abode in
the thick-leaved branches. And the pious people, whenever they have
any important business to transact, come to it, and bring a tribute
of frankincense and flowers, to propitiate the god, and implore his
protection and assistance, that the matter they have taken in hand may
prosper. On the way from Batavia to Meester Cornelis, there stands such
a tree by the road-side, an immense old waringin, in itself a forest.
And the rude altar in its shade, fenced off from the public road by
a wooden railing, from sunrise to sunset is fragrant with floral
offerings.
[Illustration: The Market at Malang.]
There are several flower-markets in Batavia. But I have taken a
particular fancy to the one held at Tanah Abang. Its site is a somewhat
singularly chosen one for the purpose, near the entrance to the
cemetery, and in the shadow of the huge old gateway, the superscription
on which dedicates the place to the repose of the dead, and their pious
memory. In its deep, dark arch, as in a black frame, is set a vista of
dazzling whiteness, plastered tombstones, pillars, and obelisks huddled
into irregular groups, with here and there a figure hewn in fair white
marble soaring on outstretched wings, and everywhere a scintillation
as of molten metal--the colourless, intolerable glare, to which the
fierce sunlight fires the corrugated zinc of the roofs protecting the
monuments.
But on the other side of the gateway there are restful shadows and
coolness. Some ancient gravestones pave the ground, as if it were the
floor of an old village church--bluish-grey slabs emblazoned with
crests and coats-of-arms in worn away bas-relief. Heraldic shapes are
still faintly discernible on some; and long Latin epitaphs, engraved
in the curving characters of the seventeenth century, may be spelt
out, recording names which echo down the long corridors of time
in the history of the colony; and, oddly latinized, the style and
title bestowed on the deceased by the Lords Seventeen, rulers of the
Honourable East India Company--the Company of Far Lands, as in the
olden time it was called.
Hither, before the sun is fairly risen, come a score of native
flower-sellers, shivering in the morning air, who spread squares of
matting on the soil, and, squatting down, proceed to arrange the
contents of their heaped-up baskets. The bluish-grey gravestones, with
the coats of arms and long inscriptions, are covered with heaps of
flowers: creamy Melati as delicate and sharply-defined in outline as if
they had been carved out of ivory; pink and red Roses with transparent
leaves, that cling to the touch; Tjempakah-telor, great smooth globes
of pearly whiteness; the long calixes of the Cambodja-blossom, in which
tints of yellow and pink and purple are mixed as in an evening sky; the
tall sceptre of the Tuberose, flower-crowned; and "pachar china," which
seems to be made out of grains of pure gold.
Some who know the tastes of the "orang blandah" have brought flowering
plants to market, mostly Malmaison Roses and tiny Japanese Lilies,
just dug up, the earth still clinging to their delicate roots; or they
sit binding wax-white Gardenias, violet Scabiosa, and leaves as downy
and grey as the wings of moths, into stiff clumsy wreaths; for they
have learnt that the white folks choose flowers of these dull tints
to lay upon the tombs of their dead. And there is one old man, brown,
shrunken, and wrinkled, as if he had been made out of the parched earth
of the cemetery, who sells handfuls of plucked-out petals, stirring
up now and then, with his long finger, the soft, fragrant heap in his
basket--thousands of brilliantly-coloured leaflets.
About seven o'clock, the customers, almost exclusively women, arrive,
fresh from their bath in the neighbouring river. They form picturesque
groups on the sunny road, those slender figures in their bright-hued
garments, pink, and red, and green, their round brown faces and
black hair, still wet and shining, framed in the yellow aureole of
the payong[2] which they hold spread out behind their head. And the
quiet spot in the shadow of the cemetery gate is alive with their
high-pitched twittering voices, as they go about from one flower-seller
to another, bargaining for Jessamines, Orange-blossoms, and tiny pink
Roses, which, with deft fingers, they twist into the glossy coil of
their "kondeh."
[2] The payong is an umbrella, quite flat when spread out, of yellow
oiled paper.
Javanese women are most pardonably proud of their hair. It is somewhat
coarse, but very long and thick and of a brilliant black, with bluish
gleams in it; and it prettily frames their broad forehead with regular,
well-defined curves and points. They take great care of it, too,
favourably contrasting, in this respect, with European women of the
lower classes, though some of their methods, it must be owned, are
repugnant to European notions of decency. As they bathe, and sleep, and
eat in public, so, in public, they cleanse each other's hair. A woman
will squat down in some shady spot by the roadside, and, shaking loose
her coiled-up hair, submit to the manipulations of a friend, who parts
the strands with her spread-out fingers, and removes ... superfluities,
with quick monkey-like gestures. What would you have? "The country's
manner, the country's honour," as the Dutch proverb hath it. This
particular way of cleansing the hair is a national institution among
the Javanese. And, as such, it is celebrated in the legends of the
race, and in the tales of the olden time, which are still repeated, of
an evening, among friends.
[Illustration: Street-Dancers.]
[Illustration: Musicians.]
The scholar of the party, by the light of an oil-wick, reads from
a greasy manuscript which he has hired for the evening at the price
of one "pitji."[3] It is the story of the beautiful beggarmaid, who
wanders from village. She does not know her own name or who were her
parents, having, in infancy, been stolen by robbers. One day, she
comes begging to the gates of the palace. The Rajah orders the guards
to admit the suppliant, and his Raden-Ajoe[4] causes a repast to be
prepared for her. They are kind towards those in affliction, having
known great sorrow themselves: for their only child a daughter,
mysteriously disappeared years and years ago; and now they are old and
childless. The Rajah, gazing upon the stranger, frequently sighs: his
daughter would have grown up to be a maiden as fair, if she had lived.
And the Raden-Ajoe, taking her by the hand, bids her sit down, and
unloose those glossy locks, worthy to be wreathed with the fragrant
blossom of the asana. She herself will cleanse them. Then, as she parts
the long braids, ah! there upon the crown, behold the cicatrice which
her little daughter had! The long-lost one is found again.
[3] About twopence.
[4] Chief wife.
[Illustration: The native cithara and violin.]
[Illustration: Clasp for fastening a kabaya in front.]
In Javanese fairy tales the long locks of nymphs and goddesses are
treasured as talismans by the hero who has been fortunate enough to
obtain one. There is great virtue for instance, in the long hair of
the Pontianak, the cruel sprite that haunts the waringin tree. Have
you never seen her glide by, white in the silver moonlight? Have you
never heard her laugh, loud and long, when all was still? She is the
soul of a dead virgin, whom no lover ever kissed. And now she cannot
rest, because she never knew love; and she would fain win it yet;
though not in kindness now, but in spite and deadly malice. She sits
in the branches of trees, softly singing to herself as she combs her
long hair. And when a young man, hearing her song, pauses to listen,
she meets him, in the semblance of a maid fairer than the bride of the
Love-god, and raises soft eyes to him and smiling lips. But, when he
would embrace her, he feels the gaping wound in her back, which she
had concealed under her long hair. And, as he stands speechless with
horror, she breaks away from him with a long loud laugh, and cries:
"Thou hast kissed the Pontianak, thou must die!" And, ere the moon is
full again, his kinsmen will have brought flowers to his grave. But, if
he be quick-witted and courageous, he will seize the evil spirit by her
flying locks; and, if he succeeds but in plucking out one single hair,
he will not die, but live to a great age, rich, honoured, and happy,
the husband of a Rajah's daughter and the father of Princes.
[Illustration: A Native Restaurant in its most compendious shape.]
Some men are fortunate, however, from their birth, and do not need the
Pontianak's long hair; that is because their own grows in a peculiar
manner, from two circular spots near the crown. To the owner of such a
"double crown," nothing adverse can ever happen. All his wishes will be
fulfilled, and he will prosper in whatever matter he sets his hand to.
Again, it is not men alone who are thus visibly marked by fate. In the
crinklings of the hair on a horse's neck, the wise read plain signs
of good or bad fortune by which it is made manifest whether the horse
will be lucky and carry his rider to honour and happiness, or unlucky
and maim or even kill him. That is the great point about a horse: the
way in which the hair on his neck grows. If therefore you should find
the auspicious sign on him, buy the animal, whatever may be the price
and however old, ugly, or weak he may seem to the ignorant. But, if you
find the sign of ill-luck, send him away at once, and cause the marks
of his hoofs to be carefully obliterated from the path that leads to
your door; for if you neglect this precaution, great disaster may be
brought upon you and all your house. Reflect upon this, and the true
significance of the history of Damocles will be revealed to you. In
truth, all fortune, good or bad, hangs by a single hair.
[Illustration: For the morning and evening meal he prefers the open air
and the cuisine of the warong.]
After the bath, the Javanese proceeds to take his morning meal; and
this, again is a public performance. The noon repast--the only solid
one in the day--is prepared and eaten at home. But, for the morning
and evening meals, the open air and the cuisine of the warong are
preferred. The warong is the native restaurant. There are many kinds
and varieties of it: from its most simple and compendious shape--two
wooden cases, the one containing food, prepared and raw, the other,
a chafing-dish full of live coals, and a supply of crockery--to its
fully-developed form, the atap-covered hut. There, a dozen, and more
customers hold their symposia presided over by the owner, who sits
cross-legged on the counter amid heaps of fruit, vegetables, and
confectionery. All manner of men meet here: drivers of sadoos or hack
carriages, small merchants, artizans, Government clerks, policemen,
water-carriers, servants, hadjis,[5] not to mention the "corresponding"
womankind. They talk, they talk! and they laugh! The affairs of all
Batavia are discussed here--matters of business, intrigue, love,
money, office, everything, material to make a Javanese Decamerone
of, if a Boccaccio would but come and put it into shape. There are
several of these warongs about Tanah-Abang and the Koningsplein, and,
of course, in the native quarters. But the smaller, portable ones are
found everywhere: by the river-side, at the railway stations, at the
sadoo-stands, along the canals, at the corners of the streets; and they
seem to do a thriving business.
[5] Title given to those who have performed the pilgrimage to Mecca.
Each of these itinerant cooks has his own place on the pavement or in
the avenue, recognised as such by the tacit consent of the others.
Hither he comes trudging, in the early morning, carefully balancing his
cases at the end of the long bamboo yoke, so as not to break any of the
dozens of cups, glasses, and bottles on his tray; then, having disposed
his commodities in the most appetizing manner, he stirs up the charcoal
in the chafing-dish, and begins culinary operations. One of these is
the preparation of the coffee, which consists of pouring boiling water
upon the leaves, instead of the berries, of the coffee tree, after
the manner of some Arab tribes. Sometimes, however, the berries also
are used, and the infusion is sweetened with lumps of the dark-brown,
faintly flavoured sugar that is won from the areng-palm. Then the
rice--the principal dish of this, as of any other meal--is boiled in
a conical bag of plaited palm fibre; and, when ready, is made up into
heaped-up portions, with, perhaps, a bit of dried fish and some shreds
of scarlet lombok[6] stuck on the top. This is for the solid part of
the repast; the dessert is next thought of. It is ready in the portable
cupboard--the thrifty wife of the vendor having risen long before dawn
to prepare it--and is now set forth, on strips of torn-up banana-leaf,
as on plates and saucers; green and white balls of rice-meal, powdered
over with rasped cocoa-nut, orange cakes of Indian corn, shaking pink
jellies, and slices of some tough dark-brown stuff. The cool fresh
green of the banana-leaf makes the prettiest contrast imaginable to
all these colours, its silky surface and faint fragrance giving, at
the same time, an impression of dainty cleanliness such as could never
be achieved by even the most spotless linen and china of a European
dining-table.
[6] The seed-capsules of the red pepper-plant.
The Javanese are very frugal eaters. A handful of rice with a pinch of
salt, and, perhaps, a small dried fish being sufficient for a day's
ration. Of course, we, Europeans, confessedly, eat too much. But
how grossly we over-eat ourselves, can only be realized on seeing a
Javanese subsisting on about a tenth part of our own daily allowance,
and doing hard work on that--labouring in the field, travelling on
foot for days together, and carrying heavy loads without apparent
over-exertion.
[Illustration: A kitchen.]
However, though so abstemious in the matter of solid food, they are
excessively fond of sweetmeats. I have often watched a party of grown
men and women, seated on the low bench in front of a warong, and
eating kwee-kwee[7] with perfectly childish relish, or bending over
a stall, gravely comparing the respective charms of white, pink, and
yellow cakes; hesitating, consulting the confectioner, and at last
solving the difficulty by eating a little of everything. Whatever ready
money they may chance to have, is spent either on personal adornment or
on sweetmeats; and on festive occasions, they will pawn their furniture
rather than deny them selves the enjoyment of more cakes, jellies,
fruit and syrups than they can partake of without making themselves
sick and sorry.
[7] Malay for "cakes."
[Illustration: A native restaurant in its simplest and most compendious
shape.]