Pah-Sidin, standing in the entrance of a black and thunderous cave,
strewed kanangan flowers, and melatih, and yellow champaka, and burnt
costly frankincense, and, as the cloud of fragrant smoke ascended, he
fell on his face, and cried: "Kjaï Belorong! I invoke thee! I am poor
and utterly wretched! Do thou give me money, and I will give thee
my soul, O Kjaï Belorong!" Then, a voice, which caused the blood to
run cold in his veins, answered: "I hear thee, Pah-Sidin." He arose,
trembling, and, as he turned his head, saw that the cave was a house,
large, and splendid, and full of golden treasure. But, as he looked
closer, behold! it was built of human bodies; floor, walls, and roof
all made of living men, who wept and groaned, crying: "Alas, alas! who
can endure these unendurable pains!" And the horrible voice, speaking
for the second time, asked: "Pah-Sidin, hast thou courage?"
Pah-Sidin, at first, seemed as though he would have fainted with
horror. But soon, reflecting how he was young and strong, and the hour
of his death far off as yet, and hoping, also, that, in the end, he
might be able to deceive Kjaï Belorong and save his soul, whilst in the
meanwhile, he would enjoy great honour and riches, he answered; "Kjaï
Belorong, I have courage!" And, the voice spoke for the third time:
"It is well! Go back to thine own house now; for, soon, I will come to
thee."
So, Pah-Sidin returned to his house, and waited for Kjaï Belorong,
saying nothing of the matter to his wife. And, in the night, she came,
and sat upon the baleh-baleh, and said: "Embrace me, Pah-Sidin, for
now I am thy love." Pah-Sidin would willingly have kissed her, for she
seemed as fair as the bride of the love-god. But, looking down, he saw
that, instead of legs and feet, she had a long scaly tail; then he was
afraid, and would have fled. But Kjaï Belorong, seizing him in her
arms, said: "If thou but triest to escape, I will kill thee," and she
pressed him to her bosom so violently that the breath forsook his body,
and he lay as one dead. Then she loosened her grasp, and disappeared,
rattling her tail. But when Pah-Sidin returned to consciousness, he
saw, in the faint light of the dawn, the baleh-baleh all strewn with
yellow scales, and each scale was a piece of the finest gold.
Pah-Sidin now was as the richest Rajah: he had a splendid house, with
granaries and stables, fine horses, great plantations of palms and
jambus and all other kinds of fruit, and rich _sawahs_ that stretched
as far as a man on horseback could see. He abandoned his wife, who was
no longer young, and was worn out with care and labour; and married
the daughter of a wealthy Rajah, and three other maidens, as fair
as bidadaris. And, whenever he wished for more money, Kjaï Belorong
came to him in the night, and embraced him, and gave him more than he
had asked for. Thus the years went by in great glory and happiness,
until the hair of his head began to grow white, and his eyes lost
their brilliancy, and his black and shining teeth fell out. Then, one
night, Kjaï Belorong came to his couch, unsummoned, looked at him, and
said: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come. Follow me and I will make thee the
threshold of my palace." But Pah-Sidin made answer, and said: "Alas!
Kjaï Belorong! look at me, how lean I am! my ribs almost pierce through
the skin of my side. Assuredly, thou wilt hurt thy tail in passing over
me, if thou makest me the threshold of thy house. Rather take with thee
my plough-boy, who is young, and plump, and smooth!"
Then Kjaï Belorong took the plough-boy. And Pah-Sidin married a new
wife, and lived merrier than before. Thus ten years went by in great
glory and happiness. But, on the last night of the tenth year, Kjaï
Belorong again came to his couch, unsummoned, and looked at him, and
said: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come. Follow me, and I will make thee
the pillar of my palace." But Pah-Sidin made answer and said: "Alas!
Kjaï Belorong! look at me, how weak I am! my shoulders are so bent I
can scarcely keep the badju jacket from gliding down. Assuredly, thy
roof will fall in and crush thee, if thou makest me the pillar of thy
house. Rather take with thee my youngest brother, who is strong, and
tall, and broad of shoulders!"
Then Kjaï Belorong took the brother. But Pah-Sidin married yet another
new wife, and lived even merrier than hitherto. Thus ten more years
went by in great glory and happiness. But, on the last night of the
tenth year, Kjaï Belorong for the third time came to his couch,
unsummoned, looked at him, and spoke: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come.
Follow me, and I will make thee the hearth-stone of my palace!" And
Pah-Sidin made answer, and said: "Alas! Kjaï Belorong! look at me,
how cold I am and covered all over with a clammy sweat! Assuredly
thy fire will smoulder and go out if thou makest me the hearthstone
of thy house. Rather take with thee my eldest son, Sidin, who is
healthy, and warm, and dry!" But the wicked Kjaï Belorong, in a voice
which made Pah-Sidin's heart stand still, screamed: "I will take
none but thee, old man! and, since thou art so cold and wet, I will
bid my imperishable fire warm and dry thee!" And with these words
the demon seized Pah-Sidin by the throat, and carried him off to her
horrible abode, there to be the stone upon which her hearth-fire burns
everlastingly.
At the conclusion of this long tale, the old fisherman drew a sigh of
relief. "Such is the fate of those who let themselves be conquered by
greed and the wiles of wicked Kjaï Belorong. But I, njonja, need have
no fear. For my children are dutiful, and provide for all my wants.
Nor need any one else in this dessa fear. For we are all pious men, who
pray to the Prophet and the Toewan Allah. Thus we are safe."
Indeed, to judge from the appearance of these good-natured, frugal and
careless people, I should have fancied that the money-goddess could not
make many victims among them.
But their safety is threatened by yet another enemy,--a much more
energetic one than Kjaï Belorong to all appearance: to wit "My Lord
the Crocodile." The coast swarms with these brutes; and according to
official reports, quite a number of people are annually devoured by
them.
They infest especially the marshy country around the mouth of the Kali
Batawi, where they may sometimes be seen, lying half in the water and
half upon a mudbank, their wicked little eyes blinking in the sunlight,
their formidable jaws agape and showing the bright yellow of the
gullet. There, they wait for the carcases of drowned animals and the
offal of all kinds floating down the river. Imprudent bathers are often
attacked by them, and they even swim up the water-courses, and venture
for considerable distances inland.
The Government, some years ago, put a premium on the capture of
crocodiles, a relatively high sum being offered for a carcase. But the
measure had to be withdrawn after a while, and this, though, to all
appearance, it worked excellently well. Numbers of crocodiles were
caught and killed; not a day went by but natives presented themselves
at the police stations, exhibiting a limp carcase slung on to a bamboo
frame, which a score of coolies "pikoled"[15] along. Harassed officials
began to believe in a universe peopled exclusively by Malays and dead
or dying crocodiles; and philanthropists rejoiced over an imminent
extermination of caymans, and the consequent safety for bathers.
But there were those who understood the nature of both natives and
crocodiles, and who considered their ways; and they smiled a smile of
wisdom and ineffable pity, as they looked upon the dead saurians, and
saw that they were young. The philanthropists contended that a little
crocodile was a crocodile nevertheless, and would, in its own bad time,
be a big crocodile, and one which feasted on the flesh of men and
women and innocent children; but those wise men only smiled the more.
And, presently one of them took a philanthropist by the hand, and led
him by quiet waters, and showed him how men and women sought for the
eggs of the crocodile, and gathered them in their bosom, and watched
the young come out, and reared them even with a father's care and
loving-kindness, to the end that they might wax fat and kick, and be
bound with iron chains, and delivered over to the schout.[16]
The crocodiles now are left to multiply and replenish the shores of
Java; and nobody molests them, except now and then some adventurous
sportsman, upon whom tigers have palled, and who cares but little for
"bantengs,"[17] and holds the rhinoceros of no account. And, generally,
too, though he lie in wait for a crocodile, he catches only a fever--of
a particularly malignant kind, it is true.
[15] To pikol = to carry a load slung on a pole.
[16] A police official.
[17] The wild buffalo.
The Malays, as a rule, do not readily kill crocodiles. They believe
that the spirits of the dead are re-incarnated in these animals; so
that, what seems a repulsive and dangerous beast, may, in reality,
be an honoured father, or a long lamented bride. And they piously
prefer the risk of being devoured to the certainty of becoming
murderers. Far from injuring, they honour the "cayman" by sacrifices
of rice, meat, and fruit, which they send down the river in little
baskets of palm-leaves with a light twinkling a-top; a gift offered
whenever a child is born, to propitiate the metamorphosed ancestors
in river and sea, and implore their protection for this, their newly
born descendant. Human feelings and susceptibilities are attributed
to them which the Malay carefully abstains from wounding. He never
speaks but of "My Lord the Crocodile." And a wayang-play, such as, for
instance, Krokosono, the hero of which defeats and kills the King of
the Crocodiles, no dalang would dream of representing in a place where
caymans could hear or see it. There is one act, however, by which a
crocodile forfeits all claim to respect: and that is killing a human
being. From his supposed human nature, it evidently follows that this
is an act of malice prepense, a crime knowingly committed; and, as
such, should be punished as it would be were the perpetrator a man or a
woman--that is, with death. It would seem too as if the guilty creature
were conscious of his crime, and, sometimes, out of sheer remorse, gave
himself up to justice. At least, a story to this effect is told of a
certain crocodile, which had devoured a little girl, and this, though
the child's parents had duly offered rice and meat and fruit, at the
stated times; of which gifts this crocodile had undoubtedly had his
share. The parents, weeping, sought a hermit who lived not far from the
"dessa" or village, a wise man who understood the language of animals;
and implored him to restore at least the remains of their daughter's
little body to them, and to visit with condign punishment her brutal
murderer. The hermit, moved with pity and indignation, forthwith left
his cave, and repaired to the sea-shore. There, standing with his feet
in the waves, he pronounced the potent spell which all crocodiles
must obey. They came, hurrying, from far and near: the shore bristled
with their scaly backs ranged in serried rank and file. When all were
present, the hermit addressed them in their own tongue, declaring that
one of them had committed the unpardonable crime of murder, murder
upon an innocent child, whose parents had offered sacrifices for her
at her birth: rice and fruit and meat, of which they all had partaken,
in token of amity and good will. So abominable a breach of good faith
should not be suffered to remain unpunished. Wherefore, let him who had
perpetrated it, stand forth! But all the others, let them withdraw into
the sea! The crocodiles heard. The solid land seemed to heave and break
up, as the congregated thousands dispersed. But one crocodile remained
behind on the beach. It crawled nearer and lay down at the feet of
the hermit. And the father of the little girl, approaching, drew his
"kris," and thrust it into the creature's eyes, killing it. The holy
man then took out of the monster's jaws the necklace of blue beads,
which the little girl had worn, and handed it to the father, promising
him that, within the year, his wife would bear him another daughter,
even fairer than the lost one. But the carcase of the crocodile was
devoured by the dogs.
Something in the landscape near Petite Trouville brought back to my
memory this tale, heard from a village priest some time ago. It was a
fit scene for such events. That brown hut among the bananas might have
been the abode of the hapless little maid. The dense wood, behind,
might well shelter an anchorite, some old man, wise and humble, content
to live on wild fruit and learn from the birds among the branches and
the fish in the sea; assuredly, he would stand upon the little spit of
land that has the njamploeng on it, and the crocodiles, obedient to
his command, would raise their formidable heads from the water, and
with their serried ranks cover the shelving beach.... Very peaceful it
lay now, in the light of the setting sun. The sea shone golden. And
already, among the blossom-laden branches of the njamploeng, there
began to rustle the sea breeze, precursor of deepbreathed Night.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
OF BUITENZORG
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Javanese Sans-Souci[18] lies cradled in a fold of the undulating
country at the base of the Salak, whose blue top, twin to that of
the Gedeh, is seen, in fine weather, from the Koningsplein, rising
aerially, fresh, and pure, above the dusty glare of Batavia. The
village is pretty,--all brown atap houses and gardens full of roses,
with the wooded hill-side for a background. One may wander for hours
in the splendid Botanical Garden, reputed to be the finest in the
world, and a goal of pilgrimage for scientists from every part of the
globe. Whoever visits the place in September may combine these tranquil
pleasures with the gaiety of the annual races, and the great ball at
the Buitenzorg Club, where "all Java" dances. I went in the last week
of the month, glad to escape from the town, which, at this time of the
year, is unbearable, scorched with the heat of the east monsoon and
stifled under a layer of dust, which makes the grass of the gardens
crumble away, and turns the "assam" trees along the river and in the
squares into grey spectres. The country through which the first part
of my road lay, seemed, however scarcely desolate. Nothing but flat
monotonous fields, some altogether bare and grey, others still covered
with yellowish stubble, through which the cracks and fissures of the
parched soil showed. Here and there, a patch of green, where some
huddled brown roofs and a group of thin palm-trees denoted a native
hamlet, forlorn in the wide arid plain. Then, again, bare brown fields,
where no living creature was to be seen, except, now and then, a herd
of dun buffaloes wallowing in the ooze of some dried-up pool.
[18] Buitenzorg, literally translated, means "away from sorrow or care."
By and bye, however, the character of the landscape began to change.
The rich blue-green of the young rice-crops, seen first in isolated
squares and patches, spread all over the gradually-ascending fields.
Along the course of a rapid rivulet, a bamboo grove sprang up, lithe
stems bending a little under their cascades of waving dull-green
foliage. Then the rice-clad undulations of the ground began to rise
into little hills, green to the very top, and down the sides of which
the water, that fed the terraced fields trickled in many a twisting
silvery thread; and suddenly on the left, rose the great triangular
mass of the Salak, dull-blue in the sober evening light. It was almost
dark when the train stopped at the Buitenzorg station. It stands at
some distance from the village; and, as I drove thither, sights and
sounds reached me that denoted the hilly country. The wheels of the cab
creaked over whitish pebbles clean as gravel from the rocky riverbed.
The gardens on each side of the road were full of flowers, that gleamed
palely through the semi-darkness. The voices of passers-by, the
laughter of children at play, the tones of a flute somewhere in the
distance, sounded clear and far through the thinner air. As I entered
the village, I noticed that the houses were built of bamboo instead of
the brick, which is the usual material in the clayey lowlands.
[Illustration: Buffaloes at grass.]
[Illustration: Avenue leading to the Botanical Garden.]
It is said that these bamboo houses, covered with atap, withstand the
shock of earthquakes, frequent in this country, much better than brick
buildings with tiled roofs. However that may be, their rural aspect
harmonizes with the landscape: and they are delightful to inhabit, cool
under the noonday heat, and proof against the torrential rains, which,
at Buitenzorg, fall every day, between two and four in the afternoon. I
lived for some time in a little pavilion,--wooden floor, pàgar walls,
and a roof of atap; a pleasanter abode I never knew. It was almost like
living in a hermit's cell out in the woods. I was never sure whether
the soft creaking noises heard all night through came from the bamboo
grove in the garden, or from the bamboo in my wall. The crickets seemed
to sing in my very ears; and a faint, sweet smell pervaded the little
room, such as breathes from the leafage, dead and living, of a forest.
Like a cenobite's cell, too, my pavilion was not meant for a storehouse
of worldly treasures. Even if moths and rust did not corrupt, thieves
would have quite exceptional facilities for breaking through and
stealing them. "Breaking through" is too energetic and vigorous a term;
with an ordinary penknife, one might cut away enough of the walls to
admit a battalion of burglars. Reading, one day, a French translation
of Don Quixote, I rested the ponderous folio, which tired my arms,
against the wall. It instantly gave way, sinking in, as if it had been
a canvas awning. I do not doubt that, with my embroidery scissors, I
might have cut out an elegant open-work pattern in it.
The morning after my arrival, I was up betimes and on my way to the
Botanical Garden. It was early as yet, a little after sunrise, and
the air felt as cool and as pure as well-water. A frost-like dew had
whitened the grass; shreds of mist hung between the trees, trailed
along the hillside, and floated like low white clouds in the depths of
the ravine, where the river foamed past over the boulders of its rocky
bed. And, in the branches, the birds were twittering and singing their
little hearts out. I met some natives on the way to their morning bath
hugging themselves in the folds of the "baju," the women among them
having the "slendang" drawn over their heads. They walked at a brisk
pace, very different from the listless movements of pedestrians in the
sultry streets of Batavia. The type was of another kind, a slightly
oval face, with a thin nose somewhat aquiline in design, and very
brilliant eyes; the complexion of a clear yellowish brown, with a touch
of red in the lips. They had an elastic gait, and the free carriage of
the head peculiar to hillfolk. Some of the young girls were absolutely
pretty.
[Illustration: A Nipah Palm.]
[Illustration: The Brantas River. Malang.]
[Illustration]
I asked my way of an old woman who sat by the roadside, complacently
smoking a cigarette, and soon found myself within the gates of the
Botanical Garden, and in the celebrated waringin avenue, one of the
glories of the place. The first impression, I confess, is somewhat
disappointing. The avenue is not very long, so that it lacks the depths
of green darkness, the prospect along apparently converging parallels
of pillar-like trunks, and the bluish shimmer of light afar off, which
are the characteristic charms of woodland glades. It seems more like a
square, planted with trees on two sides of the quadrangle only,
a comparatively narrow space of shadow, abutting on the broad fields
of sunlight beyond. After a while, however, one notices the smallness
of the figures moving past the trees, men, horses, and bullock-carts.
By comparison, one begins to realize the gigantic proportions of it
all,--the length and breadth and height of the leafy vault overhead,
and the hugeness of those stupendous growths that support it, each of
them a grove in itself, congregated hundreds of trees, group by group
of stately stems crowding round the colossal parent bole. Then, bye
and bye, the sense of grandeur is succeeded by a curious impression
of lifelessness. In their vast size, their stark immobility, and
their rigid attitudes, these grey masses resemble granite peaks and
cliffs rather than trees. The aged trunks, broadbased, are riven and
fissured like weather-beaten rocks, showing gnarled protuberances
and black clefts from which ferns and mosses droop. Some, rotten to
the core--nothing left of the trunk but a fragment of grey gnarled
rind, with the fungus-overgrown mould lying heaped up against the
base--resemble boulders, covered with earth and detritus. One or two,
quite decayed, hang in mid-air, dependent from a dome of interlacing
branches, stems, and air-roots, like some gigantic stalactite from the
roof of a pillared cavern. And, aloft, the dense masses of foliage,
grey against the sunlit brilliancy of the sky, seem like the broken
and crumbling vault of this immense grotto. This strange resemblance
of living vegetable matter to inert stone ceases only when, issuing
from among the stems, one looks at the waringins from a distance, and
sees the grey multitude of boles, trunks, and stems disappearing under
spreading masses of foliage, resplendent in the sun.
[Illustration: A Hill-man.]
[Illustration: In the depth of the ravine.]
The garden is worthy of this magnificent entrance. Enthusiastic
"savants" have sung its praises in all the languages of civilization,
and, by common consent, have declared it to be the finest botanical
garden in the world, assigning the second place to famous Kew, and
mentioning the gardens of Berlin, Paris, and Vienna as third, fourth,
and fifth in order of merit. Originally, it was no more than the park
belonging to the country-house, which Governor-General Van Imhoff built
here in 1754: a house since destroyed by an earth-quake, and on the
site of which the present lodge was erected.
[Illustration: Watch-men.]
In this park, Professor Bernwardt, some eighty years ago, arranged a
small botanical garden, a "hortus" as the innocent pedantry of the
period called it. The idea was to gather in this fertile spot specimens
of all the plants and trees growing in Java, so as to afford men of
science an opportunity for studying the flora of the island. By and
bye, however, especially under the direction of Teysmann, many plants
from other countries were introduced, with a view of acclimatizing
them in Java, often with signal success. And, recently, a museum and
a library have been established, as well as several laboratories for
chemical, botanical, and pharmaceutical research. For the cultivation
of such plants as require a cool climate, gardens have been laid out
on the terraced hill-side, in ascending tiers that climb up to the
heights of Tji-Bodas, where in the early morning, the temperature is
10° Celsius. These ameliorations, for the greater part, are due to the
untiring energy of the eminent scientist now directing the garden.
[Illustration: Prinsenlaan-corner, Batavia.]
[Illustration: The beautiful tall reeds of the sugar cane, their
pennon-like leaves gleaming in the sunshine.]
[Illustration: Avenue of old waringin trees, Botanical Garden,
Buitenzorg.]