children. Though left, in almost all other respects, to chance and
the guidance of its own instincts, a native child is not trusted to
eat alone. The mother's idea seems to be that, if left to itself, her
child would never eat at all, and that it is her plain duty to correct
this mistake in nature's plan. Wherefore, having prepared a mess of
rice and banana, she lays the little thing flat on its back, upon
her knees, takes some of the food between the tips of her fingers,
kneading it into a little lump, and pushes this into the baby's mouth,
cramming it down the throat with her thumb, when the baby, willy nilly,
must swallow it. Thus she goes on, the baby alternately screaming and
choking, until she judges it has had enough--is full to the brim, so to
speak, and incapable of holding another grain of rice. Then she will
set it on its feet again, dry the tears off its round cheeks, and rock
it to sleep against her breast, closefolded in the long "slendang."
A similar principle obtains in education. To watch the native
schoolmaster drilling the Koran into his pupils, is to be reminded
of the rice-balls and the maternal thumb. I witnessed the scene, the
other day, at a little school--if a framework of four bamboo-posts and
an "atap" roof deserves that name--in a native "kampong" at Meester
Cornelis.[8] I had come upon this school quite accidentally, in the
course of a ramble along the river-side. As I was making my way through
a plantation of slim young trees, all festooned with dangling lianas,
I had been conscious for some minutes of a droning and buzzing sound,
somewhere near me, and fancied it to be the humming of bees, hovering
over the lantana-blossoms that covered the steep bank of the river
with flames of red and orange, and filled the air with their pungent
scent. But, suddenly, I caught the word "Allah:" and, the next moment,
I was standing in an open space in the midst of some ten or twelve
bamboo huts. One of these, evidently, was a school; and the droning
noise I had heard proceeded from an old spectacled schoolmaster, who
was reading aloud--or, rather, chanting--from a book held in his hand.
A little boy stood in front of him, listening very attentively, and,
every time the old schoolmaster had completed a phrase, the child
repeated it in exactly the same sing-song, closing his eyes the while,
and rocking his little body to and fro. After he had finished, another
came up; there were some twelve or thirteen seated on a sort of bench,
awaiting their turn; and all of them went through the same course
of listening and repeating, the master, now and then, correcting the
intonation of some phrase. It was the Koran which they were thus
reciting in the Arabic language. In all probability, the master did not
understand a single word of Arabic; assuredly none of the boys did. But
what of that? They know it by heart, from its very first word to its
very last. They learn to mis-pronounce the Confession of the Unity of
God; and they are taught to consider themselves Mohammedans. That is
enough.
[8] A suburb of Batavia.
[Illustration: Native restaurant.]
After the early morning meal, the Javanese begin the business of the
day. In towns, where they are debarred their natural occupation,
agriculture, and where, moreover, the Chinese artisans and shopkeepers
have almost entirely ousted them from trade and commerce, the majority
of the natives, men and women, are employed as domestic servants
in the houses of European residents. Hence, but little is seen of
them during the greater part of the day. Towards four o'clock, they
reappear, and again repair to the kali or the canal for a plunge into
the tepid water. Cigarettes are lit, sirih-leaves cut up and neatly
rolled into a quid and some friendly conversation is indulged in. In
fine weather games are played.
The behaviour of Javanese at play is one of the things which strike
most strongly upon the Northerner's observation. There is nothing here
of that vociferous enthusiasm which characterises our young barbarians
at play--no shouts of exultation or defiance, no applause, no derision,
no cries, no quarrelling or noisy contest. From beginning to end of the
game, a sedate silence prevails. This is not, as might be imagined,
due to apathy and indifference--the Javanese are keen sportsmen, and
often stake comparatively important sums on the issue of a game--but
the effect of an etiquette which condemns demonstrativeness as vulgar.
Outward placidity must be maintained, whatever the stress of the
emotions, and whether circumstances be important or trivial. Hence the
apparent calm of Javanese at play, even when engaged in games that most
excite their naturally fierce passions of ambition and envy. The winner
does not seem elated, the loser is not spiteful. They are in the full
sense of the word "beaux joueurs."
During the East monsoon, when high south-easterly winds may be counted
upon, flying kites is a favorite game; and not only with boys, but with
grown men. Groups of them may often be seen in the squares and parks of
Batavia or in the fields near the town, floating large kites, shaped
like birds and winged dragons, which, in ascending, emit a whistling
sound, clear and plaintive as that of a wind-harp. They sometimes
remain soaring for days together, and strains of that aerial music,
attuned in sad "minore," float out upon every passing breath of air.
Passers-by in the street look up, shading their eyes from the sun, at
the bright things soaring and singing in the sky, and dispute much
about the melodious merits of each.
[Illustration: Breakfast in the open air.]
The paper singing-birds, called "swangan," are very popular with the
masses. But the true amateurs of the sport prefer another kind, the
"palembang" and "koenchier" kites, which do not sing but fight, or,
at least, in skilful hands, can be made to fight. These are made
of Chinese paper, and decorated with the image of some god or hero
of Javanese mythology. The cord twisted out of strong rameh fibre
is coated with a paste of pounded glass or earthenware, mixed with
starch. This renders it strong and cutting as steel wire. The aim
of each player is to make the cord of his kite, when up in the air,
cross his opponent's cord, and then, with a swift downward pull, cut
it in two: a manœuvre which requires considerable dexterity. The game
is played according to strict rules and with some degree of ceremony
and etiquette, as prescribed by the "adat"--the immemorial law of
courtesy which, in Java, regulates all things, from matters of life and
death down to the arrangement of a girl's scarf and the games which
children play. When all the kites are well up in the air, tugging on
the strained cords, each player chooses his antagonist. He advances to
within a few paces, makes his kite approach the other's, all but touch
it, swerve, and come back; having thus preferred his challenge, he
retires to the place first occupied. Thither, presently, his opponent
follows him, and, by the exact repetition of his manœuvre, signifies
his acceptance of the combat, retiring afterwards in the same stately
manner. Then the contest begins. The agile figures of the players dart
hither and thither, fitfully, with swift impulse and sudden pause, and
abrupt swerve, bending this way and that, swaying, with head thrown
back and right arm flung up along the straining cord. The groups
of spectators, standing well aside so as not to interfere with the
movements of the players, gaze upward with bated breath. And, aloft,
sparkling with purple and gold, their long streamers spread out upon
the wind, the two kites soar and swoop, swerve, plunge a second time,
slowly swim upwards again, glide a little further, and hang motionless.
The thin cords are all but invisible; the fantastic shapes high in the
air seem animated with a life of their own, wilful, untiring, eager to
pursue, and swift to escape, full of feints and ruses. Suddenly, as one
again plunges, the other, tranquilly sailing aloft, trembles, staggers,
tumbles over, and leaping up, scuds down the wind and is gone. The
severed length of cord comes down with a thud; and, as the unlucky
owner darts away after the fugitive, in the forlorn hope of finding it
hanging somewhere in the branches of a tree, the victor lets his kite
reascend and triumphantly hover aloft, straining against the wind, and
tugging upon the strong shiny cord that has come off scathless from the
encounter.
The aboriginal craving for battle and mastery, which, philosophers
tell us, is at the bottom of all our games, is even more strongly
developed in the Javanese than in the Caucasian. But the race is not
an athletic one; immemorial traditions of decorum condemn hurry and
violence of movement; and active games, such as this of flying kites,
are the exception. Even at play, the Javanese loves repose; and, when
gratifying his combative instincts, he is mostly content to fight by
proxy.
Cocks and crickets are the chosen deputies of the town-folk in this
matter; and Javanese sportsmen are as enthusiastic about them as
Spaniards about a toreador, as Englishmen about a prize-fighter.
[Illustration: Here they are: without plaything naked, and supremely
happy.]
The Government forbids the cock- and cricket-fights on account of the
gambling to which they invariably give rise. But the police are not
omniscient or ubiquitous. Where there is a will, there is a way; and,
in hidden corners, cocks continue to hack, and crickets to bite and
kick each other to the greater amusement of native sporting circles.
On the training of a game-cock, his owner spends much time, care, and
forethought. The bird's diet is regulated to a nicety: so much boiled
rice per diem, so much water, so much meat, hashed fine and mixed with
medicinal herbs. One a week, a bath is given him, after which he is
taken in his coop to a sunny place to dry; and he is subjected to a
regular course of massage at the hands of his trainer, who, taking
the bird into his lap, with careful finger and thumb, "pichits" or
shampoos the muscles of neck, wings, and legs, to make them supple and
strong. Connoisseurs arrive from compound and "kampongs" to exchange
criticisms. The age, strength, and agility of rival birds are discussed
at length and finally, when there is a sufficient number in good
condition, a match is arranged.
[Illustration: A Chinese carpenter.]
[Illustration: A Chinese Dyer.]
The amateurs arrive at the spot, each carrying his bird cooped up in
a cage of banana-leaves, through opposite openings in which the head,
shorn of its comb, and the tail protrude. A ring is formed, every one
squatting down, with his cage in front of him; and the birds are taken
out, and passed round for general inspection. After careful comparison
and deliberation, two of approximately equal strength are selected as
antagonists, and the umpire, whose office it is to arm the birds with
the trenchant steel spurs, further equalizes chances by attaching the
weapons of the weaker party to the spot where they will prove most
effective: high up the leg. The owners then take up each his own bird,
allow the two to peck at each other once or twice, put them down upon
the ground again, and, at the signal given by the umpire, let go. The
cocks fight furiously. Generally, one of the two is killed; and, almost
inevitably, both are cruelly injured by the long, two-edged knives
attached to their legs in place of the cut-off spurs.
Cricket-fights do not seem quite as brutal: the natural weapons of
the little combatants, at least, are not artificially added to; and
victory, it appears, is as often achieved by courage and skill as by
mere force. It is said that even more patience is required to train a
game-cock; and the process certainly seems elaborate.
First, there is the catching of the "changkrik." For this, the amateur
goes, after nightfall, to some solitary spot out in the fields or
woods--preferably near the grave of some Moslem saint, or royal hero,
or in the shadow of some sacred tree, the "changkriks" caught in these
consecrated places being considered much superior to those of the ditch
and garden as participating in the virtue of their habitat. Here,
then, the amateur builds some stones into a loose heap, hiding in the
midst of it a decoy "changkrik" in a little bamboo cage and retreats.
When, a little before dawn, he again approaches the spot, treading
cautiously, and shading the light of his little lantern, he is sure to
surprise quite a company of crickets gathered around the mound and
crouching under the stones, whither they have been lured by the shrill
song of the captive insect; and, if he is adroit, he may catch a score
at a time. Only the finest and strongest of these he retains; and
straightway the work of education is begun.
[Illustration: The miniature stage on which the lives and adventures
of Hindoo heroes, queens and saints are acted over again by puppets of
gilt and painted leather.]
This is not easy; for the cricket is among the most liberty-loving of
animals, and, at first, utterly refuses to be tamed. Unless the bamboo,
of which his little cage is made, be very hard and close-grained, he
manages to gnaw his way through it; and, when baulked in this attempt,
tries to shatter the walls of his prison by battering them with his
horny head, never ceasing until he has killed or, at any rate, stunned
himself. In order to tame him, his trainer throws the "changkrik" into
a basin full of water, and there lets him struggle and kick until he is
half-drowned and quite senseless; then, fishing out the little inert
body, he puts it in the palm of his hand, and, with a tiny piece of
cottonwool fastened to a "lidi"[9] begins to stroke and rub it, in a
kind of lilliputian massage. Then, pulling out a long lank hair from
the shock hidden under his "kain kapala"[10] he delicately ties it round
one of the cricket's hind legs, and hangs him to a nail, in some cool
draughty place, where the air may revive him. After a couple of hours,
perhaps, the tiny creature, dangling by one leg, begins to stir. It is
then taken down, warmed in the hollow of the hand, encouraged to stand
upon its legs, and crawl a little way, and, finally, replaced in its
bamboo cage. It does not again try to escape.
[9] Lidi:--Fibre from the stalk of the palm leaf.
[10] Kain Kapala:--Head Kerchief.
[Illustration: Scene in a Wayang-Wong Place.]
When it has thus been brought to the proper frame of mind, its real
education begins. With a very fine brush, made of grass-blossoms,
the trainer tickles its head, side, and back; a mettlesome individual
immediately begins to "crick" angrily, and to snap at the teasing
brush. After some time, he flies at the brush as soon as he sees it,
hanging on to it with his strong jaws, as to a living thing. This shows
he is in good condition for fighting. He is now, for some days, fed
upon rice sprinkled with cayenne-pepper, to "prick him in his courage;"
and then taken to the arena. His antagonist is there, in his narrow
bamboo cage, quivering with impatience under the touch of his trainer's
brush of grass-blossoms; the cages are placed over against one another;
and as soon as they are opened, the two "changkriks" rush at each
other. The one who is first thrown, or who turns tail and flies, is
beaten; and great is the glory of the victor. The Javanese often stake
comparatively important sums on fighting crickets. And there is always
a chance that the quarrel of the tiny champions may be fought out by
their owners.
* * * * *
[Illustration: The Regent of Malang's Wayang-Wong.]
To all other pleasures, the Javanese prefers that of witnessing a
performance of the wayang, the native theatre. He is an artist at
heart, loving sweet sounds, graceful movements, and harmonies of bright
colour; and all these he may enjoy at the wayang, where, in the pauses
of the drama, ballads are sung to the tinkling accompaniment of the
"gamellan," and splendidly-arrayed dancers put forth "the charm of
woven paces and of waving hands." There are several kinds of "wayang,"
each having its own range of subjects and style of acting; the most
ancient as well as the most popular, however, is the "wayang poerwa,"
the miniature stage on which the lives and adventures of Hindoo heroes,
queens, and saints are acted over again by puppets of gilt and painted
leather, moving in the hands of the "dalang," who recites the drama.
The "wayang poerwa" is best described as a combination of a
"Punch-and-Judy" show and a kind of "Chinese shadows"; and--as with the
famed shield which was silver on one side and gold on the other--its
appearance depends upon the stand-point of the spectator. A puppet show
to those in front of the screen, where the gaudily-painted figures are
fixed in a piece of banana stem, it is a Chinese lantern to those on
the other side, who see the shadows projected on the luminous canvas.
According to ancient custom, the men sit in front and see the puppets;
the women have their place behind the screen, and look on at the play
of the shadows. In fully-equipped wayangs, as many as two hundred of
these puppets are found, each with its own particular type and garb,
characteristic of the person represented.
Certain conventional features, however, are repeated throughout as
symbols of their moral disposition. Long thin noses continuing the
line of the sloping forehead, narrow, slanting eyes, and delicate
mouths, firmly shut, indicate wisdom and a gentle disposition; a
bulging forehead, short thick nose, round eyes and gaping mouth,
indicate lawlessness and violence. No difference is made between
the portraitures of gods and those of mortals; but the Titans are
distinguished by the size and unwieldiness of their body, their staring
eyes, and huge teeth, sometimes resembling tusks. The bodies and faces
are indifferently black, blue, white, flesh-coloured, or gilt; the
colour of the face, moreover, often being a different one from that of
the rest of the person. And all the figures are taken in profile.
[Illustration: The native orchestra which accompanies every
representation of the wayang.]
The stage on which these puppets are shown consists of an upright
screen of white sarong cloth. A lamp hangs from the top; at the bottom,
it has a transverse piece of banana stem, into the soft substance of
which the puppets may easily be fixed by means of the long sharp point
in which their supports terminate. The centre of the screen is occupied
by the "gunungan," the conventionalized representation of a wooded
hill, which symbolizes the idea of locality in general, and stands for
a town, a palace, a lake, a well, the gate of Heaven, the stronghold of
the Titans, in short, for any and every place mentioned in the course
of the drama. Among the further accessories of the wayang are a set of
miniature weapons, shields, swords, spears, javelins, and "krisses,"
exactly copied after those now or formerly in use among Javanese, and
often of the most exquisite workmanship, destined to be handled by the
gods and the heroes to whose hands they are very ingeniously adapted.
Nor should such items as horses and chariots be forgotten. To manœuvre
this lilliputian company of puppets is the difficult task of the
"dalang."
In continuance of the Punch-and-Judy comparison, the "dalang" should
be called the "showman" of the wayang. But he is a showman on a grand
scale. Not only does he make his puppets act their parts of deities,
heroes, and highborn beauties according to the strict canons of
Javanese dramatic art, observant at the same time of the exigencies of
courtly etiquette; but he must know by heart the whole of those endless
epics, the recitation of which occupies several nights; sometimes he
himself dramatizes some popular myth or legend; and he must always
be ready at a moment's notice to imagine new and striking episodes,
adapt a scene from another play to the one he is performing, and
improvise dialogues in keeping with the character of the dramatis
personæ. He should have an ear for music and a good voice, and possess
some knowledge of Kawi[11] to give at all well the songs written in
that ancient tongue, which announce the arrival of the principal
characters on the stage. Moreover, he conducts the "gamellan," the
native orchestra which accompanies every representation of the wayang;
and finally he orders the symbolical dance, which gorgeously-attired
"talèdèks" execute in the pauses of the drama. Manager, actor,
musician, singer, reciter, improvisator, and all but playwright, he is,
in himself, a pleiad of artists.
But the "dalang's" reward is proportionate to those exertions. He
and his art are alike held in almost superstitious respect. No one
dreams of criticizing his performances. If he wishes to travel, not
a town or hamlet but will give him an enthusiastic welcome. And, at
home, he enjoys that princely prerogative, immunity from taxes, his
fellow-citizens discharging his obligations in requital of the pleasure
he procures them by his wayang performances. If nothing else were
known about them, this one trait, it seems to me, would be sufficient
to prove the Javanese to be a people capable of true enthusiasm,
and a generous conception of life. There is something Greek in this
notion that holds the artist acquitted of all other duties towards the
community, since he fulfils the supreme one of giving joy.
[11] Ancient Javanese.
[Illustration: Wayang-Wong Players missing a Fight.]
[Illustration: Wayang-Wong Scene.]
At the same time that it is the chief national amusement, the
wayang-show is, in a sense, a religious act, performed in honour of
the deity, and to invoke the blessing of the gods and the favour
of the "danhjang dessa" and all other good spirits upon the giver of
the entertainment. The baleful influence of the Evil Eye, also, is
averted by nothing so surely as by a wayang-performance, wherefore no
enterprise of any importance should be entered upon without one of
these miniature dramatical representations being given. Domestic feasts
such as are held at the birth of a child, or at his circumcision,
seldom lack this additional grace. And a marriage at which Brahma,
Indra, and, above all, Ardjuna, the beloved of women, had not been
present in effigy, would be considered ill-omened from the beginning.
As soon as it becomes known that some well-known "dalang" will hold
a wayang-performance at such and such a house,[12] the village folk
from miles around come trooping toward the spot, trudging for hours,
or even days, along the sun-scorched, dust-choked highroads, an
enormous, mushroom-shaped hat on their head, and a handful of boiled
rice, neatly folded in a green leaf, tucked into their girdle. At one
of the numerous warongs or shops temporarily erected near the spot,
where the wayang is to be performed, they buy some bananas and a cup of
hot water, flavoured, perhaps, with green leaves of the coffee-plant,
and sweetened with the aromatic areng-sugar. And, provided with these
simple refreshments, they squat down upon the ground--the men on that
side of the wayang-screen where they will see the puppets, the women on
the other where the shadows are seen--and prepare to restfully enjoy
the drama.
[12] The wayang-screen is erected in the open air, in front of the
house.
Already the last streaks of crimson and gold-shot opal have faded in
the western skies, and the grey of dusk begins to deepen into nocturnal
blackness. The evening breeze is astir in the tall tree-tops, waking
a drowsy bird here and there among the branches; it chirps sleepily
and is still again. Aloft, a single star is seen limpid and tremulous,
like a dewdrop about to fall. And the garrulous groups around the
wayang-screen gradually cease their talk.
Now the "dalang" rising, disposes, on an improvised altar, the
sacrificial gifts--fruit, and yellow rice, and flowers, and lights
the frankincense that keeps off evil spirits. Then, as the column of
odoriferous smoke ascends, sways, and disperses through the thin, cool
air, a volley of thunderous sound bursts from the "gamellan," and the
dancers appear.