Buitenzorg Park, the thought of its importance as a scientific
institution disappeared before the perception of its exquisite
loveliness. Not a beauty of line and colour merely: it has these--the
park is admirably arranged, in broad effects of light and shadow,
dark hued groves and avenues contrasting with sunny expanses of lawn
and copse and mirroring lake; but there is something over and above
all this, an element of beauty as subtle and elusive as the transient
sparkle of a sun-beam, or the fitful comings and goings of the summer
wind. Perhaps it was the extraordinary brilliancy of the colours, and
the shimmer in the rain-saturated atmosphere; or perhaps it was the
profound quietude all around, a stillness so perfect that it seemed it
must endure for ever. I do not know what may have been the elements
that made up the nameless charm. But I yielded myself up to it; and it
seemed to me, as if I were walking in a dream, amidst objects at once
unreal and singularly distinct. For a long time I sat by the shore of
a little lake, that had an islet in the midst of it, all overgrown
with brushwood, and great tangles of liana, that opened hundreds of
pale violet flowers to the sunlight; in the centre there rose a group
of young palms, of the sort that has a bright red stem; and all these
colours, the many-tinted green and the lilac and the scarlet were
mirrored so vividly in the clear water as to almost make the reflection
seem brighter than the reality.... By and by, following a path that
wandered out of sunshine into chequered shadow, and out of shadow into
sunlight again, I came to a vast sweep of meadowy ground, where herds
of reddish deer were feeding as peacefully as in a forest clearing.
Presently I found myself in a great dim avenue of kenari-trees, through
whose sombre branches the sky showed but faintly; and anon in a bamboo
grove where there was a continual rustling and waving of leaves though
not the slightest breath of wind could be felt to stir the air.
[Illustration: A cactus in flower.]
[Illustration: Gum tree, Botanical Garden, Buitenzorg.]
[Illustration: Palm trees in the Botanical Garden.]
Here and there through gaps in the trees came a sudden glimpse of the
distant valley, with the river shining between the light-green
rice fields, and beyond the encircling hills. Everywhere, too, the
presence of living water made itself felt, in the cool damp air, and
in the delicious smell of moist earth, wet stones, and water-plants.
And I would suddenly catch the silvery gleams, between the bushes, of
a brooklet hurrying past over its pebbly bed, and foaming in small
cascades that be-sprinkled the ferns and tall nodding grasses upon
the bank with scintillating spray. Here and there, I heard the murmur
and tinkle of a fountain; and I passed by quiet ponds and lakelets,
dark green in the shadow of overhanging trees. One of these sheets of
water--or rather the streamlet into which it narrows at one end--is
completely overgrown with white lotus flowers; and a sight more
exquisitely beautiful cannot be imagined. It burst upon me suddenly,
as I came out of a long, dark avenue; and, at first, I could not
make out what that white splendour was. It seemed to float like a
luminous summer cloud, like a snowy drift of morning mist. A breath
of wind arose, and the even splendour trembled and seemed to break
up into hundreds of white flames and sparks, that for an instant all
blew one way, and then shot up again, and stood steadily shining. As
I came nearer, I discerned the great, round white flowers, radiant
in the sunshine. The circular, purplish brown leaves spread all over
the surface of the water, covering it from bank to bank. And, out of
these heaps of bronze shields, there rose the straight tall stems,
like lances, with the white flame of the flower breaking out at the
top--sparks of St. Elmo's fire, such as, on that memorable night,
tipped the spears of the Roman cohorts, on their march to battle and
victory.
[Illustration: A waringin-tree.]
[Illustration: A path leading from sunshine into dappled shade and from
shade into sunshine again.]
[Illustration: A bamboo-grove where was an incessant rustling and
waving of foliage though no wind.]
[Illustration: Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering,
bullock-drawn pedati, which creaks along the sun-scorched roads.]
This field of radiant lotus blossoms, and the sombre and solemn
waringin avenue, contrasting glories, seem to me to be the crowning
beauties of the Buitenzorg garden. The name of Buitenzorg, by the bye,
is an innovation. Natives still call the town by its ancient name of
Bogor, which it bore in the glorious age when it was the capital
of the Hindoo realm of Padjadjaran. A Muslim conqueror, Hassan Udin,
son of the Sheik Mulana, destroyed it; and a new town was reared on
the ruins, but legends of its bygone glory still haunt the imagination
of the country folk. In the tales which they repeat to one another
of an evening, the splendour of the ancient empire, and the wisdom
and unconquerable valour of its founder are still remembered. Tjioeng
Wonara was his name; and his son and successor, the victorious Praboe
Wangi, was even greater than he. In the craggy hill-tops of the Gedeh
range, popular tradition sees the ruins of the splendid palace he built
himself on the heights; the hall where the throne of gold and ivory
stood; the temple, where he worshipped the gods; the domes of his
harem; and the battlemented towers which his unconquerable warriors
kept against the world, a thousand years ago. The southern wall of
the Gedeh-crater surrounds, as an impregnable bulwark, the palace and
temple courts.
The Hindoo period, however, has left in this neighbourhood records
more authentic than Praboe Wangi's fancy-built palace on the heights.
Near a native kampong, which derives its name from this proximity, the
so-called Batu Tulis is found, a field covered with a quantity of stone
slabs, some lying prone, others still upright, adorned with figures in
bas-relief and covered with inscriptions. The legend on the largest of
these memorial tablets, traced in ancient Javanese characters, has been
deciphered; it celebrates the virtues and victories of a Hindoo king.
And the worn-away superscriptions and rude effigies discernible on the
other stones probably commemorate contemporary princes and warriors.
The Bogor country-folk greatly venerate these relics of a glorious past.
[Illustration: Palm trees and Arancaria.]
[Illustration: A tall gloomy avenue of kenari trees, the sky but
faintly showing through their sombre branches.]
[Illustration: Submerged rice-fields.]
Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering, bullock-drawn
"pedati," which creaks so leisurely along the sun-scorched roads;
labourers on their way to the rice fields, the light wooden ploughshare
across their shoulders, driving the patient yoke of oxen before them;
women from the hill-villages around, who come to the Bogor market in
holiday attire, a chaplet of jessamine blossoms twisted into their
"kondeh"--all turn aside from the road, to murmur a short prayer, and
offer a handful of flowers, of frankincense and yellow boreh unguent,
or even Chinese joss-sticks and small paper lanterns on the consecrated
spot. Whether this be an act of homage to those ancient kings and
heroes, whose rude effigies adorn the stones, and whose spirits are
believed still to haunt the spot; or simply a fetishistic adoration
of these blocks of granite and the curious signs engraved thereon, it
is difficult to decide; the worshippers themselves hardly seem
to know. When asked, they reply that they do as their fathers did
before them, and so, therefore, must be right; unless, indeed, they
merely smile, and offer the somewhat irrelevant remark that they are
true Moslemin. This, indeed, every native of Java (save such few as
have been converted to the Christian religion) professes himself to
be. And, in a measure, the Javanese are Mohammedans; they recite the
Mohammedan prayers and Confession of Faith, go to the Messigit--which
is Javanese for mosque--when it suits them, keep the Ramadan very
strictly; also, if they can afford it, they perform that most sacred
duty of the Mohammedan, the Mecca pilgrimage, and, returning thence,
live for ever on the purses of their admiring co-religionists. But
for the rest, one may apply to them Napoleon's dictum concerning the
Russians--mutatis mutandis. Scratch the Muslim, and you will find
the Hindoo; scratch the Hindoo, and you will find the fetish-adoring
Pagan. In the same way, too, as they confuse religious beliefs, they
distort historical facts and traditions so as to make them tally with
the prevalent opinions of the day. This Batu Tulis, for instance;
though they venerate it as a record of the Hindoo empire, they yet,
at the same time, honour it as a monument of the Mohammedan conquest.
According to them, these roughly-fashioned stones, of which, they say,
there are over eight hundred dispersed throughout the neighbourhood,
are the transformed shapes of Siliwangi, last King of Padjadjaran, and
his followers, who, in this spot, their last refuge on flight from the
victorious Muslim hosts, were turned into stones by Tuan Allah, as a
punishment for their persistent refusal to embrace El-Islam; and the
superscription celebrating the Hindoo prince they make out to be the
record of this miracle. A touch of romance clings to the grim legend
like a tender-petalled flower to a rock. It concerns the impress of
a foot, visible on one of the slabs, and a fair princess who left it
there, many centuries ago. Alone of all that multitude that fled with
Siliwangi, she, the consort of valiant Poerwakali, his son, escaped the
general doom, through the influence of an Arab priest who had converted
her to the true religion. She could not, however save her husband,
whom, before her very eyes, she saw turned into a stone. But, in her
faithful heart, love could not die, though the loved one was dead. The
victor, vanquished in his turn by her incomparable beauty, implored her
in vain. She would not be separated from her husband's inanimate
shape, and, building herself a little hut under the waringin trees,
she still, day by day, repaired to the stone, which bore Poerwakali's
semblance, with sacrifices and prayers, and tears. And, often, in a
transport of love and grief, she would throw her arms about the inert
mass, closely embracing it, and, into its deaf ear, murmur soft words,
and vows of eternal loyalty, and bitter-sweet memories of the days that
were no more. Her tears, still flowing, fell on the stone underfoot,
day by day, month by month, year by year, until at last it became soft
and yielding as clay, and received and retained the impress of those
tender feet, which for so long had known no other resting place.
[Illustration: Bamboo bridge near Batu Tulis.]
[Illustration: Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon.]
[Illustration: Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon.]
From these memories of an empire overthrown, a religion smitten with
the edge of the sword, and a love stronger than death--"old unhappy
far off things and battles long ago"--suggested by Batu Tulis, to the
gaiety of the Buitenzorg races is a wide step. But our modern souls
have grown accustomed to these sudden transitions. In Java, more than
in any other country, one must be prepared at any moment to pass from
the fairy lands forlorn of history, to contemporary Philistia. Let
me hasten to add, in justice, that I found that high festival of
Philistinism in Java, the Buitenzorg races, both amusing and full of
interest. The crowded Stands gave one an "impression d'ensemble" of
society in the colony, such as would be expected in vain on any other
occasion--formal functionaries and business men from the hot towns with
their exquisitely dressed, palefaced wives and daughters, mingling with
sunburnt planters from the interior, and rosy-cheeked girls from the
neighbouring hill-stations, in white muslin frocks, brightened up by
flowers such as those grown at home. And the spectacle of the races,
exciting in itself, is rendered the more interesting by the changes and
transformations which an essentially northern sport has suffered under
the sun of the tropics--by the substitution of Sandalwood and Battak
ponies for horses, of native syces, who clutch the stirrup with bare
toes, for jockeys, and of silent multitudes brightly garbed, for the
black-coated crowds that shout and huzza at Epsom or Longchamps.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IN THE HILL COUNTRY
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Among other Western ideas and institutions, the Hollanders have
imported into Java that of health-resorts. Erstwhile lonely hills now
bear hotel and "pavilions" upon their disforested summits; picnics
are held in glades where, a few years ago, the timid antelopes fed;
and Strauss's waltzes have reduced to silence the noisy cicadas. In
the country south and east of Batavia, in the Gedehhills, and in the
Preanger district, there are several of these hill-stations. There, the
air is pure and cool, in the months when the hot east monsoon scorches
the plains. There is Tji-Panas, Tji-Bodas, Sookaboomi, Sindanglaya,
Tjandjoor, the country round about Bandong, and, somewhat farther east,
Garoot, all of which places are easily accessible from Batavia. The
hotels are generally airy, roomy, and clean, if not elegant; the food
is fairly good, and the charges moderate, about four dollars a day, the
average rate throughout Java.
The Preanger district, in which Garoot, Bandong, and Tjandjoor are
situated--the "Garden of Java" as it is fitly named--in more than
one respect reminds the traveller of the hillcountry. There is the
same clearness in the profiles of the mountain-ranges; the same
transparency of the air, which causes distant objects to appear quite
near, and reveals their contour rather than their modelling; the
same jewel-like sparkle in the colouring of the landscape, in the
clear-hued green of valley and hillside, in the changeful hues of the
water, and in the blue, opal, and roseate violet of the distances
under an azure sky. The thin pure air is as wellwater; in the evenings
one has to kindle a fire in order to keep warm; and walks of several
hours cause neither heat nor fatigue in this bracing climate, which
makes even natives quicken their naturally slow movements, and which
tinges their brown complexions with a flush of healthy red. In the
fields, corn is seen instead of rice, and, in places, golden wheat
waves. The gardens are fragrant with mignonette, heliotropes, and
carnations; mossroses flourish, velvety pansies, geraniums, fuchsias,
phlox in all its countless varieties of brilliant colours, and the
tender forget-me-nots of northern brooksides. Strawberries, along with
clusters of the blue and white grape show between the dense foliage
of the vines. At certain seasons of the year, the hills are purple
with the blossoms of the rasamala tree,--a magnificent growth which
throws out its first branches at a height of a hundred feet, and the
summit of which reaches an altitude of a hundred and eighty. The most
splendid orchids are found in the woods side by side with mushrooms
of extraordinary dimensions, some of three feet in diameter, and of
strange and brilliant colours. On all sides, too, there is sparkle
of living water as limpid as the air itself, leaping down the rocky
hill-sides in innumerable cataracts and shining in broad tranquil lakes
that mirror the encircling hill-tops and the clouds sailing overhead.
As one reaches higher levels, from about four thousand feet above the
sea level to six thousand and upwards, the changes in the landscape
become more and more marked. The Flame of the Forest, the kambodja,
the champaka, and all the countless host of large-flowered trees,
characteristic of the tropics, disappear. The type of the foliage
changes: it is less fantastic in shape, less luxuriant, and differently
tinted from the leafage of the lowland forests. To the sombre green
of the plains, which under the glaring sunlight, assumes tones of an
almost blackish blue, succeeds a vivid emerald, touched with tender
yellow. Then come dense forests of "tjemara", a coniferous tree, the dim
greyish foliage of which resembles a drift of autumnal mist; and, by
and bye, trees of the oak and chestnut kind appear, and the maple that
balances its fan-like leaves on bright red stalks. Violets open their
purple chalices in mossy hollows. On the cloudy mountain heights of
Tosari, one may gather flowers such as grow on the Alps. The scenery
here is grand beyond description--a landscape of vast hill ranges,
cataracts, and precipices, and heaving seas of cloud. The temperature
is almost too low; big fires are kept burning all day in the hotel,
through the verandahs of which the clouds float past. The one thing
that still reminds the traveller of the tropics is the wonderful
splendour of the orchids that grow here. In the fourth zone, at an
altitude of from seven thousand to ten thousand feet, the orchids, too,
disappear. A European vegetation covers the summits of the mountains
and the chill "plateau" of the Djeng, where four wonderful lakes
of green, and blue, and yellow, and pure white water sparkle in the
sunlight, and the nights are frosty.
[Illustration: A village couple.]
These wonders of the Javanese hill-country are well known, from the
descriptions of many able pens, and from the enthusiastic reports of
travellers. But, here and there, in the folds of the lower hills, there
are pleasant nooks and corners, all but ignored of the multitude, and
hardly inferior in beauty to these famous sites, albeit beauty of a
very different character. And, among these places, the idyllic grace of
which has not yet been marred by railroads and hotels, few can surpass
in loveliness the country round about Tjerimai, where it was my good
fortune to spend several pleasant days, last June.
Tjerimai, a spur of the lofty Preanger range, is situated on the
confines of the Preanger Regencies and the Cheribon district, the
broad green plains and marshy coast of which its finely shaped summit
dominates--a landmark to sailors.
[Illustration: Near Garoot.]
From Batavia, the way thither leads through some of the loveliest
scenery in Java--past Buitenzorg and Bandong, straight across the
Preanger. Rantja-ekkek, a village in the vast plain which begins an
hour or so east of Bandong, is the last railroad station on the route.
There, the noise, the hurry, and the bustle of western civilization
cease, as if arrested by some invisible barrier; and the traveller
enters the real Java, the Java of the Javanese, the tranquil land of
plenty, the inhabitants of which lead their leisurely lives without
much more thought of the morrow than the tall gandasoli lilies of their
fields. When we two--the friend whom I accompanied to her home among
the hills, and myself--reached this stage of our journey, the day was
still young. The summits of the hills, which bound the plain on
the west, had already assumed their sober day colours--greyish brown
and dark green. But the distant eastern range stood out in violet
gleams against a sky of crimson and orange; and the intervening plain
was a lake of whitish, waving mist. The air had a peculiar, sweetish
taste--like an insipid fruit--which reminded me of early autumn
mornings at home. It was cold, too. Our native servants went with head
and shoulders wrapped up: and the breath of the ponies waiting for us
at the station made little clouds about their heads. We were grateful
for the plaids which we found in the carriage.
The road lay straight before us--a long white streak through the soft
misty green of the plain. As we drove along, the pink sheen, which
rested on the hazy hillside to our left, like a handful of scattered
roses, began to spread and glide down into the valley, kindling as it
flowed, until the whole vast vapoury plain was suffused with purple.
The mist began to dissolve, and float upwards in little crimson drifts.
Suddenly, the great golden sun leaped up from behind the eastern
summits, and day streamed in upon us. The country-folk had already
begun the labours of the day. Children met us on the road, driving
powerful grey buffaloes before them; in a hamlet which we passed, the
women were pounding rice, breaking the silence of the morning with the
rhythmic click-clack of the wooden pestles. And, here and there, groups
of labourers moved through the rice fields, weeding. Overhead, larks
were soaring and singing; it was the first time I had heard their sweet
shrill note in Java. After a while, a partridge flew up with a whirr of
hurrying wings, almost from between the hoofs of the horses. They are
plentiful in this neighbourhood. At certain seasons of the year, large
parties of sportsmen assemble here to shoot them.
On starting from the railway station, I had thought that, in half an
hour or so, we should have reached the hill-range, which bounded the
plain in the north. But the clear atmosphere has a perspective of
its own, confusing to eyes unaccustomed to it. After about two hours
of rapid driving we were still in the valley--on either side of us,
immense tracts of soft bluish green, full of the thousand lights and
shades that form the peculiar beauty of these terraced rice-fields;
and, all around, the circling summits which seemed no sensibly nearer
than at first.
At every turn of the road, I expected to reach the base of the hills.
And again and again, they appeared to recede as we advanced, until
the fancy was stirred to the idea of some magic wall environing the
captive, withersoever he might turn; and the wish to find an exit
out of this hill-bounded plain grew almost to a fever. At length, we
reached it--a narrow defile between two steep green heights; and the
road began to climb. Here, in the deep glens and valleys, the air was
notably cooler than on the sunlit plain. Where the road broadened, it
was shaded by tall njamploeng trees, which strewed the ground with
their white transparent blossoms; and their faint fresh odour, which
reminded one of the scent of March violets, perfumed the breeze.
[Illustration: "A brownie of that enchanted garden that men call Java."]
[Illustration: Girl from the Preanger Country.]
[Illustration: Javanese of higher class.]
Meanwhile, we had changed horses at a "gladak"--a nondescript wooden
shed--stable, barn, and hostelry for native wayfarers in one--with a
spacious thoroughfare leading right through it. And our shaggy ponies
trotted along with a right good will, until they came to a sudden
stand at the bottom of a hill. "Gladakkers," as these ugly little
animals are called, are notorious for freakishness and perversity, and
often, without any apparent reason, will stand stockstill in the
middle of the road, and refuse to move another step. But this time,
as I soon found, they were moved by no such perverse whim; they knew
their duty, and that the dragging of carriages up this particular hill
was in no way a part of it. When the syce had unharnessed them, they
turned aside, and began to crop the dewy grass by the way-side, as
if work were over for that day. And, presently, their substitutes, a
pair of powerful grey buffaloes, appeared goaded on by their owner.
Slowly, the majestic brutes descended the hill, bending a broad
splendidly-horned head and an enormous neck under a triangular bamboo
yoke, and sending forth the breath in clouds from their large nostrils.
They drew the carriage up hill without any apparent effort, still
moving onward with that same slow, strong, steady gait, which neither
the impatient shouts of our syce, nor the goad which their owner plied,
could make them accelerate one whit. At the summit they halted of
their own accord; and, as soon as they felt their necks free of the
harness, turned and departed. As they passed me, the curved horn of the
one just grazing my shoulder, they seemed to me the personification
of resistless strength, unconscious of its own power, and patiently
subservient. Their large beautiful eyes had a look of meekness most
pathetic in so tremendous a creature.