walking, with so gentle a motion that it never stirs the folds of
their trailing robes, gathered at the waist by a silver clasp. Their
bare shoulders, anointed with boreh,[13] gleam duskily above the purple
slendang that drapes the bosom. Their soft round faces are set in a
multi-coloured coruscation of jewellery, a play of green and blue and
ruby-red sparks, that chase each other along the coiled strands of the
necklace and the trembling ear-pendants, and shine with a steadier
light in the richly chased tiara. A broad silver band, elaborately
ornamented, clasps the upper arm; a narrower bracelet encircles the
wrist; the fingers are a-glitter with rings.
[13] A fragrant yellow unguent.
[Illustration: Scene from a Wayang-Wong Play.]
Arrived in front of the wayang-screen they pause; with the tips of
their fingers take hold of the long embroidered scarfs and stand
expectant of the music that is to accompany their dancing. The
"gamellan" intones a plaintive melody: a medley of tinkling, and
fluting, and bell-like sounds, scanded by the long-drawn notes of the
"rebab," the Persian viol. Following the impulse of its rhythm, the
dancers raise their hands making the scarf to float along the extended
arm, and waving about the glittering silk they drape themselves in its
folds as in a veil. Then, standing with feet turned slightly inwards,
and motionless, they begin to turn and twist the body, bending this
way and that way, with the swaying movement of slim young trees that
bow beneath the passing breeze, tossing their branches. And, with
arms extended and hands spread out, they mime a ballad which some of
their companions are singing, the prologue to the play. This may be
a fragment of that ancient Hindoo poem, the Mahâ-Bhârata; or a myth
of which Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiwa are the heroes, such as there are
recorded in the Manik Maja; or, again, some episode of the Ramayana;
the "wayang poerwa" being dedicated to the representation of these
three epics. A favourite subject, popular with the men on account of
the many battles occurring in the course of the drama, and with the
women because Ardjuna, the gentle hero, has the leading part, is the
rebellion and defeat of the Titans.
In the first scene the gods appear on either hand of the "gunungan";
Indra and Brahma hold anxious counsel as to what course of action
shall be pursued, now that the audacious Titans have dared to march
against the abode of the gods; for already their armies occupy the four
quarters of Heaven, and the insolent Raksasa, their king and general,
fears not the arms of the gods, their deadly swords, and intolerable
lances, for, his huge body--all but one hidden spot--is invulnerable.
And none may conquer him, except a mortal hero, pure of all passion
and sin. Sorrowfully, Brahma lift his hands. "Such a one exists not."
But Indra bethinks him of Ardjuna, the gentle prince, who, having
utterly forsworn the glories of warfare, the pride of worldly rank
and station, and the love of women, has retired to a cavern on Mount
Indra Kila; and under the name of Sang Parta--assumed instead of the
kingly one of Ardjuna--leads a life of prayer and penitence, mortifying
his flesh, and still keeping his constant thought fixed no Shiwa, the
giver of Victory. "Maybe Sang Parta is the hero destined to overcome
Niwàtakawaka."
[Illustration: "Topeng" played by masked actors.]
[Illustration: "Topeng" actors.]
And the other gods, divided between hope and fear, answer: "Let us put
his virtue to the test, that we may know surely." Among the heavenly
nymphs, "the widadari," there are seven, the fairest of all, famous
for many victories over saintly priests and anchorites, whom, by a
smile, they caused to break the vows they had vowed, and forsake the
god to whom they had dedicated themselves. These now are sent to tempt
Ardjuna. If he withstand them, he will be, indeed, victor of the god of
Love.
[Illustration: Slowly they advance gliding rather than walking.]
The nymphs descend on Mount Indra Kila. "The wild kine and the deer of
the mountain raise their head to gaze after them as they frolic over
the dew-lit grass. The cinnamon trees put forth young shoots, less red
than the maidens' lips. And the boulders, strewn around Sang Parta's
cavern, glisten to welcome them, as, one by one, they pass the dark
entrance." But the hermit, absorbed in pious contemplations, never
turns his averted head, never looks upon the lovely ones, nor deigns
to listen to their wooing songs. And those seven fair queens are fain
to depart, hiding their face, smarting with the pain of unrequited love.
But the gods, beholding them come back thus shamefaced and sad, rejoice
exceedingly.
Now, to put Sang Parta's courage to the test. Shiwa, the terrible one
assumes mortal shape; and descending on Indra Kila, defies the hermit.
They fight, and Sang Parta is victor. Then Shiwa, revealing himself,
praises the anchorite for his piety and his valour; and, for a reward,
bestows upon him his own never-failing spear. After which he returns
to the council of the gods, bidding them be of good cheer, for now it
cannot be doubted any longer that Sang Parta is the hero destined to
conquer the unconquerable Raksasa.
[Illustration: Street-dancers.]
[Illustration: The dancers stand listening for the music.]
[Illustration: A Wayang representation.]
He is now summoned to the presence of the gods, and receives their
command to go forth and slay the Raksasa. A goddess arms him; and
a nymph whispers into his ear the secret on which the Titan's life
depends: his vulnerable spot is the tip of his tongue. Sang Parta now
resumes his real name; and, as Ardjuna, goes to seek Niwàtakawaka.
After many wanderings and perilous adventures, in which Shiwa's
miraculous spear stands him in good stead, he finally meets his
destined antagonist, and defies him to single combat. For a long time
they fight, each in turn seeming victor and vanquished, until, at last,
Ardjuna, feigning to have received a deadly thrust, sinks down. Then,
as the Raksasa, skipping about in insolent joy, shouts out a defiance
to the gods, Ardjuna hurls his spear at the monster's wide-opened mouth
and pierces his tongue; and the blasphemer drops down dead. The other
Titans, seeing their king fallen, fly, and the gods are saved. But
Ardjuna is rewarded for his exploits, the grateful gods bestowing upon
him seven surpassingly fair "widadari," a kingdom, and the power of
working miracles.
[Illustration: A Wayang representation.]
This drama, called Ardjuna's marriage feast, is a comparatively short
one, which may be performed in the course of one night. The majority of
wayang-plays, however, require three or four nights, or even a whole
week, for an adequate representation; and there are some which last for
a fortnight. They consist of fourteen, fifteen, or even more acts. The
number of dramatis personæ is practically unlimited; new heroes and
heroines constantly appear upon the scene; and, to render confusion
still worse confounded, they again and again change their names. Time
is annihilated, the babe, whose miraculous birth is represented in the
beginning of an act, having arrived at man's estate before the end of
it, and one generation succeeding another in the course of the play.
Generally, too, no trace of any regular plan is discoverable. Incident
follows incident, and intrigue disconnected intrigue; and, at every
turn, fresh dramatic elements are introduced. So that, as the drama
ceases--for it cannot in any proper sense be said to finish--characters
whose very names have not been mentioned before, are making love,
waging war, and holding desultory counsel about events absolutely
irrelevant, and between which and those represented in the beginning
of the drama, it is all but impossible to find the slightest connection.
[Illustration: Wayang dancers.]
To a Javanese, these endless plays hardly seem long enough. He never
wearies of the innumerable adventures of these innumerable heroes.
Titans, queens, and gods, though he has seen them represented ever
since he was a child, and probably knows them by heart, almost as
well as the "dalang" himself. He has no prejudice in favour of any
regular intrigue, with beginning, catastrophe, and end. And, as for
improbabilities, many strange things happen, day by day. And, as
for time, was not the Prophet carried up to Heaven to sojourn among
the blessed for a thousand years, whence returning to Mecca, and
entering his chamber, he found the pitcher, which he had upset in his
heavenward flight, not yet emptied of its contents? Such considerations
cannot spoil his enjoyment of the wayang. Night after night, the
Javanese sit, listening to the grandiloquent speeches of the heroes
and their courting of queens and nymphs; discussing their opinions
and principles, moral and otherwise; and, amid bursts of laughter,
applauding any witticism, with which the "dalang" may enliven his
somewhat monotonous text. And as, at last, they regretfully rise in the
reddening dawn that causes the wayang lights to pale, visions of that
heroic and beautiful world accompany them on their homeward way. The
maidens would hardly be amazed to behold Ardjuna slumbering under the
blossoming citron bush. And the young men think of Palosara, who, by
his unassisted arm, won a royal bride and the kingdom of Ngastina.
ON THE BEACH
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The million-footed crowd of travelling humanity has trodden Tandjang
Priok out of all beauty and pleasantness. It is nothing now but a
heap of dust rendered compact by a coating of basalt and bricks, and
bearing on its flat surface some half-dozen square squat sheds, the
whitewashed walls of which glare intolerably in the sunlight that beats
upon the barren place all day long. But, a little further down the
shore, eastwards from the harbour, the natural beauty of the country
re-asserts itself. There are wide, shallow bays, where the water sleeps
in the shadow of overhanging trees; sandy points, one projecting beyond
the other across shimmering intervals of sea; and, alternating with
open spaces where a few bamboo huts are clustered together amidst a
plantation of young banana trees, great tracts of woodland that come
down to the very margin of the water. In one place where the narrow
beach broadens out a little, some half dozen shanties, one of which
might, by courtesy, be styled a bathing-lodge, have found standing-room
between the wood and the water. Some homesick exile from France
has christened the handful of bamboo posts and atap leaves: Petite
Trouville. In the dry season, when Batavia is parched with heat and
choked with dust, people come hither for a plunge into the clear cool
waves, and for some hours of blissful idleness in the shadow of the
broad-branched njamploeng trees, which mirror their dark leafage and
clusters of white wax-like blossoms in the tide.
The day some friends took me to see the place was one of the last in
April, when the rains were not yet quite over. We had left Batavia at
half-past five, when the Koningsplein was still white with rolling
mists and the stars had but just begun to fade in the greyish sky. The
train had borne us along some distance on our way to Tandjong Priok,
ere the sun rose. Rather, ere it appeared. There had been no heralding
change of colour in the eastern sky; only the uncertain light that lay
over the landscape had gradually strengthened; and, all at once, at
some height above the horizon a triangular splendour burst forth, a
great heart of flame which was the sun. The pools and tracts of marshy
ground flooded by the recent rains were ridged with long straight
parallel lines of red. The dark tufts of palm trees here and there
shone like burnished bronze. And where they grew denser, in groups and
little groves, the blue mist hanging between the stems was pierced by
lances of reddish light.
At Tandjong Priok station, we alighted amidst a crowd of natives,
dock-labourers and coal-heavers, on their way to the ships. They took
the road in true native style, one marching behind the other, laughing
and talking as they went. And we followed them, in our jolting sadoos,
along a sunny avenue, planted with slim young trees, as far as to the
bend of the road; then we left it and entered the wood on the right,
which we had for some time been skirting.
A rough track led through it. Our sadoos jolted worse than ever in the
ruts left by the broad-wheeled carts of the peasantry. We alighted and
made our way as best we could through the grass-grown clearings of the
jungle. The sun was but just beginning to warm the air. White shreds
of mist still hung among the tree-stems, and swathed the brushwood.
The grass underfoot was white with dew, glistening with myriads of
brilliant little points where the yellow sunlight touched it. The
broadly curved banana leaves, and the feathery tufts of the palm
trees overhead began to grow transparent, standing out in light green
against the shining whiteness of the sky. There was an inexpressible
vitality and exhilaration in all things, in the fine pure air, cool as
well water, in the sparkle of the dew-lit grass, in the bushes with
large round drops trembling on every leaf, in the pungent scent of
the lantana that on every side displayed its clusters of pink, mauve
and orange red blossoms. It was good to feel wet through on the tramp
through the drenched tangle, to feel the blood tingling in the finger
tips, the lungs full of quickening air, and the sunshine right in your
eyes. It was good to be alive.
After a while, we came to a little campong, some five or six bamboo
huts, grouped together in an open space of the wood. Some naked
children were playing around a fire of sticks and dry leaves. Under
a shed, a woman stood pounding rice in a hollowed-out wooden block,
whilst another carrying a child in her slendang, talked to her. There
were no men about, save one old fellow, white-haired and decrepit, who
sat in his doorway, mending nets. In that sunny forest clearing, that
was the one thing suggestive of the neighbouring sea.
Past the village there are several tanks of brackish water, where fish
is bred for Chinese consumption. Tangles of green weed floated on the
surface, which, in places, seemed to be filmed over with oily colours.
A man walked along the shore, dredging. Beyond, the wood recommenced.
But it was less dense there; great patches of sunlight lay on the
ground, and the sky showed everywhere through the stems. As we issued
out of the dappled shade, we beheld the sea.
Calm and clear, it lay under the calm clear sky, a silvery splendour
suffused in places with the faintest blue. Not a ripple disturbed the
lustrous smoothness. Only, out in the open, the water heaved with a
scarcely perceptible swell, its rise and subsidence revealed by a
rhythmic pulsation of colour--streaks of pale turquoise breaking out
upon the pearly monochrome, kindling into azure and gradually fainting
and fading again. To the westward the mole of Tandjong Priok and the
two bar-iron light-towers, standing seemingly close together, had
dwindled to a narrow dark line with, at its extreme point, two little
black filigree figures delicately defined against the shimmering white
of sea and sky. Near the shore, a fishing-prao, its slight hull almost
disappearing under the immense white winglike sail, lay still above its
motionless reflection. In the eastern distance, a group of islands,
ethereal as cloudlets, hung where the sheen of the sea and the shimmer
of the sky flowed together into one tremulous splendour, dazzling and
colourless. The beach with a nipah-thatched hut on the right and a
group of spreading njamploeng trees on the left framed the radiant
vista with sober browns and greens.
The morning was still, without a breath of air; and, all around, the
foliage hung motionless. Yet, as we walked over the fine grey sand,
which already felt hot under foot, there came drifting down to us now
and again, whiffs of a sweet subtle fragrance, as of March violets;
and transparent blossoms, fluttering down, whitened the shell-strewed
beach. Then njamploengs were in flower.
Looking at that dark-leaved grove on the margin of the water, I thought
I had seldom seen nobler trees. Not very tall; but round and broad,
great hemispheres of foliage squarely supported on column-like trunks.
In their general air and bearing, in the character of the oblong leaves
and their elegant poise upon the branch, they somewhat resemble the
walnuts of northern countries. The colour is even richer, a vigorous
bluish green, swarthy at a distance; and, when seen near at hand, as
full of tender beryl-tints as a field of young oats, with watery gleams
and glories playing through the depths of the foliage. For a crowning
grace, the njamploeng has its blossoms, fragrant, white, and of a
wax-like transparency--cups of milky light. Standing under an ancient
tree, that overhung the water with trailing branches and a tangle of
wave-washed roots, I could see the luminous clusters shining in that
dome of dusky leafage, like stars in an evening sky. And the water in
the shadow gleamed with pale reflections.
The sea that morning passed through a succession of chromatic changes.
The silvery smoothness of an hour ago had been broken by a ripple,
that came and went in dashes of ruffled ultra-marine. Then, here and
there, purplish patches appeared, which presently began to spread until
they touched, and flowed together, and the sea, all along the shore,
seemed turned to muddy wine whilst, out in the open, it sparkled in a
rich blue-green, rippling and flickering. At noon, the purplish brown
had disappeared, and the emerald-like tints had faded and changed to
an uncertain olive-green. The sky as yet retained its morning aspect,
cloudless and shimmering with a white brilliancy as if all the stars of
the Milky Way had been dissolved in it. Under that enduring paleness,
the fitful colouring and flushing of the sea seemed all the stranger.
As the day advanced, the heat had steadily increased, and, at last, it
was intolerable. About ten, when we swam out into the sea, the water,
even where it grew deeper, felt tepid; a little after noon, it was
warm. The windless air quivered. And the sand was so hot as to scorch
our bare feet when we attempted to step out of the circular shadow of
the njamploengs, where a little coolness as yet remained.
A dead quiet lay on sea and land. There was neither wind nor wave, not
the thinnest shadow of a sailing cloud, to temper for an instant the
unbearable glare. The foliage overhead was the one spot of colour in
a white-hot universe. There must be cicadas among the leaves: I had
heard them trilling, earlier in the day; but the heat had reduced them
to silence. Even the black ants, crawling among the roots, and in the
fissures of the rough rind of the trees seemed to move but listlessly.
From where I sat, I could see, framed by the circular sweep of the
hanging foliage, a stretch of beach, with some huts amidst a banana
plantation, and, further down, a native boat lying keel upwards upon
the sand. A lean dog crouched in the shadow, panting with tongue
hanging out. No other living creature was to be seen.
The afternoon was far gone before there came a change, imperceptible
at first, a gradual sobering of colour, and a growing definiteness in
the contours of trees and bushes. Then, the air began to cool down.
The horizon grew distinct; a curve of rich green against sunlit blue; a
short ripple roughened the water; and, suddenly, the breeze sprang up,
driving before it a wave that hurried and rose, and broke foaming upon
the beach. The tide was coming in.
It was as if the inspiriting hour, that changed the face of land
and sea, made itself felt also in the little brown huts under the
trees, stirring up the folk into briskness and activity. Merry voices
and the cries of children mingled with the sound of hammer strokes,
reverberating along the wooded beach. Among the trees, I could discern
the figure of a man bending over his boat, tool in hand; and a woman
coming out of her door with a bundle of clothes under one arm. Where
the lengthening shadow of the njamploeng trees fell on the sunny water,
two young girls were bathing; somewhat further down, a swarm of naked
urchins waded through the shallows, in search of mother-of-pearl.
The yellow sunlight shone on their little brown bodies, and made the
ripples sparkle around them as they splashed hither and thither,
feeling about with their feet for the flat sharp shards which the tide
leaves buried in the sands. Standing still for an instant, when they
had found one, they balanced on one foot, whilst, with the clenched
toes of the other they picked up the shiny piece, with a supple,
monkey-like movement. Presently, along came an old man, in a straw
topee broad-rimmed hat and a faded reddish sarong, who entered the
sea, and waded towards the spot, where, that morning,--when it was as
yet dry land--he had erected his "tero," the pliable bamboo palisade,
which, arranged in the shape of a V, with the opening towards the
shore, serves as a trap for fish. The hurdle was all but overflowed
now, only the points of the bamboo stakes emerging above the rising
tide, like the rigging of some wrecked and sunken ship. The old man
gave it a shake, to assure himself of having driven it deep enough down
into the sand, to withstand the impact of the waves; and, satisfied
upon this point, limped away again, with the air of a man who had
finished his day's work. He might lie down on his baleh-baleh now, and
peacefully smoke his cigarette. Whilst he was taking his ease, the sea
would provide for his daily fish. In a few minutes, the tide would
have submerged his "tero," and the heedless fish would swim across it;
and, as the water ebbed away again, they would be driven against the
converging sides of the lattice-work, and, presently, be left gasping
upon the bars. Then, the women of the village would come with their
baskets, and gather the living harvest, as they might a windfall of
ripe fruit; and his grandson, out at sea now, with the other young men,
would hang two full baskets to his bending yoke, and with the fire-car
go to Batavia, there to sell the fish for much money, a handful of
copper doits. Even, if he had caught "kabak" which the orang blandah
like, and "gabus," of which the rich Chinese are fond, the boy might
bring him home some silver coins. And his grand-daughter would salt and
dry in the sun the smaller fry, and make "ikan kring" for him and all
the household.
Happy the man who has dutiful children! In his old age, when he is
able no longer to earn his sustenance, he will not want; he need not
beg, nor borrow from the kampong folk; and he will not be tempted to
invoke Kjaï Belorong, the wicked goddess of wealth, who, in exchange
for riches, demands men's souls. Do not all in this kampong know of
Pah-Sidin, and what became of him after he had prayed to the evil
sprite? Here is the tale, as the old fisherman gave it me.
He was a poor man, Pah-Sidin, unlucky in whatever he undertook, and so
utterly ignorant as not to know one single "ilmu."[14] So that, though
his wife worked from morning till night, weaving and batiking sarongs,
and tending the garden and the field, and selling fruit and flowers,
things went from bad to worse with him. And at last, there was not a
grain of rice left in the house, and the green crop in the field was
the property of the usurer. His wife, weeping, said: "O Pah-Sidin!
how now shall we feed and clothe our little ones, Sidin, and all the
others?" But he, vexed with her importunities, and weary of fasting
and going about in faded clothes, without a penny to buy sirih or
pay his place at a cock-fight, said: "Be silent! for I know where to
find great wealth." Then he went away, and walked along the shore for
many days, until he came to a place where there were great rocks, and
caves in which the water made a sound as of thunder. Here lives the
dread goddess, Njai Loro Kidul, the Virgin Queen of the Southern Seas,
whom the gatherers of edible birds' nest invoke, honouring her with
sacrifices before they set out on their perilous quest. And here, too,
lives her servant, wicked Kjaï Belorong, the money-goddess.