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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43665 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Java, Facts and Fancies, by Augusta de Wit</h1>
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      Note:
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      Images of the original pages are available through
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      <a href="http://archive.org/details/javafactsfancies00witarich">
      http://archive.org/details/javafactsfancies00witarich</a>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>
<div class="body">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[I]</a></span></p>
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<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[II]</a><br /><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[III]</a></span></p>

<h1 class="space-above"><span class="gesperrt">JAVA</span><br /><br />
<small>FACTS AND FANCIES</small>
</h1>

<p class="space-above center"><small>BY</small></p>

<p class="space-above center gesperrt">AUGUSTA DE WIT</p>


<p class="space-above center"><i><small>WITH 160 ILLUSTRATIONS</small></i></p>

<p class="center gesperrt space-above">LONDON<br />
CHAPMAN &amp; HALL, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span></p>
<p class="center"><small>1905</small></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[IV]</a><br /><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[V]</a></span></p>

<p class="introduction">
<span class="smcap">When</span> the Lady Dolly van der
Decken, in answer to questions about
her legendary husband's whereabouts,
murmured something vague about
"Java, Japan, or Jupiter," she had
Java in her mind as the most "impossible"
of those impossible places.
And, indeed, every schoolboy points
the finger of unceremonious acquaintance
at Jupiter; and Japan lies transparent
on the egg-shell porcelain of many an elegant tea-table.
But Java? What far forlorn shore may it be that owns the strange-sounding
name; and in what sailless seas may this other Ultima
Thule be fancied to float? Time was when I never saw a globe&mdash;all
spun about with the net of parallels and degrees, as with some
vast spider's web&mdash;without a little shock of surprise at finding
"Java" hanging in the meshes. How could there be latitude and
longitude to such a thing of dreams and fancies? An attempt at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span>
determining the acreage of the rainbow, or the geological strata of
a Fata Morgana, would hardly have seemed less absurd. I would
have none of such vain exactitude; but still chose to think of Java
as situate in the same region as the Island of Avalon; the Land
of the Lotos-Eaters, palm-shaded Bohemia by the sea, and the Forest
of Broceliand, Merlin's melodious grave. And it seemed to me that
the very seas which girt those magic shores&mdash;still keeping their
golden sands undefiled from the gross clay of the outer world&mdash;must
be unlike all other water&mdash;tranquil ever, crystalline, with a
seven-tinted glow of strange sea-flowers, and the flashing of jewel-like
fishes gleaming from unsounded deeps. And higher than elsewhere,
surely, the skies, blessed with the sign of the Southern
Cross, must rise above the woods where the birds of paradise nestle.</p>

<p>Where is it now, the glory and the dream? The soil of Java is
hot under my feet. I know&mdash;to my cost&mdash;that, if the surrounding
seas be different from any other body of water, they are chiefly so
in being more subject to tempest, turmoil, and sudden squalls. I
find the benign influences of the Southern Cross&mdash;not a very brilliant
constellation by the way&mdash;utterly undone by the fiery fury of the
noonday-sun; and have learnt to appreciate the fine irony of the
inherited style and title, as compared with the present habitat, of
the said Birds of Paradise. And yet&mdash;all disappointing experience notwithstanding,
and in spite of the deadly dullness of so many days, the
fever of so many sultry nights, and the homesickness of all hours&mdash;I
have still some of the old love for this country left; and I begin
to understand something of the fascination by which it holds the
Northerner who has breathed its odour-laden air for too long a time;
so that, forgetting his home, his friends, and his kindred in the gray
North, he is content to live on dreamily by some lotos-starred lake;
and, dying, to be buried under the palm-trees.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Augusta de Wit.</span><br />
</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="FIRST_GLIMPSES" id="FIRST_GLIMPSES">FIRST GLIMPSES</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img008" id="img008"><img src="images/img008.jpg" width="400" height="563" alt="A 'brownie' of that enchanted garden that men call Java" /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A "brownie" of that enchanted garden that men call Java."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter space-above">
  <a name="img009" id="img009"><img src="images/img009.jpg" width="600" height="259" alt="Batik-pattern" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">My</span> first impression of Java was not that of effulgent
light and overpowering magnificence of colour, generally
experienced at the first sight of a tropical country; but,
on the contrary, of something unspeakably tender,
ethereal, and soft. It was in the beginning of the
rainy season. Under a sky filmy with diaphanous fleecy
texture, in which a tinge of the hidden blue was felt
rather than seen, the sea had a pearly sheen, with
here and there changefully flickering white lights, and
wind-ruffled streaks of a pale violet. The slight haziness
in the air somewhat dulled the green of innumerable
islets and thickly-wooded reefs, scattered all over the
sea; and, blurring their outlines, seemed to lift them
until they grew vague and airy as the little clouds of
a mackerel sky, wafted hither and thither by the
faintest wind. In the distance the block of square
white buildings on the landing-place&mdash;pointed out as
the railway station and the custom houses&mdash;stood softly
outlined against a background of whitish-grey sky and
mist-blurred trees.</p>

<p>Slowly the steamer glided on. And, as we now
approached the roadstead of Batavia, there came swimming
towards the ship numbers of native boats, darting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
out from between the islets, and diving up out of the
shadows along the wooded shore, like so many waterfowl.
Swiftest of all were the "praos'" very slight
hulls, almost disappearing under their one immense
whitish-brown sail, shaped like a bird's wing, and
thrown back with just the same impatient fling&mdash;ready
for a swoop and rake&mdash;so exactly resembling sea-gulls
skimming along, as to render the comparison almost a
description. On they came, drawing purplish furrows
through the pearly greys and whites of the sea. And,
in their wake, darting hither and thither with the jerky
movements of water-spiders, quite a swarm of little
black canoes&mdash;hollowed-out tree-trunks, kept in balance
by bamboo outriggers, which spread on either side like
sprawling, scurrying legs. As they approached, we saw
that the boats were piled with many-tinted fruit, above
which the naked bodies of the oarsmen rose, brown
and shiny, and the wet paddle gleamed in its leisurely-seeming
dip and rise, which yet sent the small skiff
bounding onward. They were along-side soon, and the
natives clambered on board, laden with fragrant wares.
They did not take the trouble of hawking them about,
agile as they had proved themselves, but calmly squatted
down amid their piled-up baskets of yellow, scarlet,
crimson, and orange fruit&mdash;a medley of colours almost
barbaric in its magnificence, notwithstanding the soberer
tints of blackening purple, and cool, reposeful green;
and calmly awaited customers. Under the gaudy kerchiefs
picturesquely framing the dark brows, their
brown eyes had that look of thoughtful&mdash;or is it all
thoughtless?&mdash;content, which we of the North know
only in the eyes of babies, crooning in their mother's
lap. And, as they answered our questions, their speech
had something childlike too, with its soft consonants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
and clear vowels, long-drawn-out on a musical modulation,
that glided all up and down the gamut. They
had a great charm for me, their flatness of features and
meagreness of limbs notwithstanding; and I thought,
that, if not quite the fairies, they might well be the
"brownies" of that enchanted garden that men call Java.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img012" id="img012"><img src="images/img012.jpg" width="600" height="335" alt="Fishing-praos, their diminutive hulls almost disappearing under the one tall whitish-brown sail, shaped like a bird's wing and flung back, as if ready for a swoop and rake." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Fishing-praos, their diminutive hulls almost disappearing under the one tall whitish-brown sail, shaped like a bird's wing and
flung back, as if ready for a swoop and rake."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img013" id="img013"><img src="images/img013.jpg" width="600" height="352" alt="The ship lay still, and we trod the quay of Tandjong Priok." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The ship lay still, and we trod the quay of Tandjong Priok."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But alas! for day-dreaming&mdash;the gruff authoritative
voice of the quartermaster was heard on deck; and&mdash;after
the manner of goblins at the approach of the
Philistine&mdash;all the little brownies vanished. They were
gone in an instant: and, in their pretty stead, came
porters, cabin-stewards with trunks, and passengers in
very new clothes. For we were fast approaching; and,
presently, with a big sigh of relief, the steamer lay
still, and we trod the quay of Tanjong Priok.</p>

<p>It would seem as if the first half hour of arrival
must be the same everywhere, all the world over; but
here, even in the initial scramble for the train, one
notices a difference. There is a crowd; and there is no
noise. No scuffling and stamping, no cries, no shouting,
no gruff-voiced altercations. All but inaudibly the barefooted
coolies trot on, big steamer-trunks on their
shoulders; they do not hustle, each patiently awaiting
his turn at the office and on the platform; and, as they
stand aside for some hurrying, pushing European, their
else impassible faces assume a look of almost contemptuous
amazement. Why should the "orang blanda"<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a>
thus discourteously jostle them? Are there not many
hours in a day, and many days to come after this?
And do they not know that "Haste cometh of the evil?"</p>

<p>The train has started at last, and is hurrying through
a wild, dreary country, half jungle, half marshland.
From the rank undergrowth of brushwood and bulrushes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>rise clumps of cocoanut palms, their dark shaggy crowns
strangely massive above the meagre stems through which
the distant horizon gleams palely. In open spaces young
trees stand out here and there, half strangled in the
festoons of a purple-blossomed liana that trails its tendrilled
length all over the lower shrub-wood. Thickets
of bamboo bend and sway in the evening wind.</p>

<p>To the right stretches a long straight canal, dull as
lead under the lustreless sky; the breeze, in passing,
blackens the motionless water, and a shiver runs through
the dense vegetation along the edge&mdash;broad-leaved bananas,
the spreading fronds of the palmetto, and mimosas
of feathery leafage, above which the silver-grey tufts
of bulrushes rise. After a while the jungle diminishes
and ceases; and a vast reach of marshy country stretches
away to the horizon. We neared it as the sun was
setting. Though it had not broken through the clouds,
the fiery globe had suffused their whiteness with a
deep, dull purple as of smouldering flames. A tremulous
splendour suddenly shot over the rush-beds and rank
waving grasses of the marshy land; the shining reed-pricked
sheets of water crimsoned; and along the canal
moving like an incandescent lava stream, the broadly
curving banana leaves seemed fountains of purple light,
and the palmetto and delicate mimosa fronds grew
transparent in the all-pervading rosiness&mdash;almost immaterial.
Even after the burning edge of the sun,
perceived for a brief moment, had sunk away, these
marvellous colours did not fade; softly shining on they
seemed to be the natural tint of this wonderful land&mdash;independent
of suns and seasons. Then, all at once,
they were extinguished by the rapidly-fallen dusk, as
a fire might be under a shower of ashes; and, a few
minutes after, it was night.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p>

<p>At the lamplit station of Batavia I hailed one of the
vehicles waiting outside&mdash;a curious little two-wheeled
conveyance, which, with its enormous lanterns, airily
supported roof, and long shafts between which a
diminutive pony trotted, looked like a fiery-eyed cockchafer
that darts about, moving its long antennae. I
hoisted myself on to the sloping seat, and, for some
time was driven through an avenue, the trees on either
side of which made a cloudy darkness against the pale
strip of sky overhead. There was an incessant high-pitched
twittering of birds among the leaves; and, every
now and then, a fragrance of invisible flowers came
floating out on the windless air. We passed a tall
building, shimmering white through the darkness&mdash;the
Governor-General's palace I was told. Then the horse's
hoofs clattered over a bridge, and, past the turn of the
road, a long row of brilliant windows flashed up, with
a white blaze of electric light in the distance.</p>

<p>Past the resplendent shop-windows on the left side
of the street&mdash;the other remaining dark, featureless&mdash;a
leisurely crowd moved; open carriages, bearing ladies
to some evening entertainment, bowled along; a many-windowed
club-building blazed out; a canal shone with
a hundred slender spears of reflected light&mdash;I had reached
my destination, the suburb of Rijswijk.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1">[A]</a> "People from Holland" the name for Europeans generally.</p>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img017" id="img017"><img src="images/img017.jpg" width="400" height="92" alt="Sekin. (Interior of Sumatra)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img018" id="img018"><img src="images/img018.jpg" width="231" height="600" alt="Four-armed Çiva" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="A_BATAVIA_HOTEL" id="A_BATAVIA_HOTEL">A BATAVIA HOTEL</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img020" id="img020"><img src="images/img020.jpg" width="261" height="600" alt="Lamp.&mdash;Garuda the Sun-Bird in the shape of a winged woman" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img021" id="img021"><img src="images/img021.jpg" width="600" height="230" alt="Landing of a Hindoo Ship.&mdash;Relief to Boroboedoer (Java)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">If</span>, in this commonplace-loving age, there be one thing
more commonplace and utterly devoid of character than
another, it is a hotel. Hotels! where are railroads there
are they. The locomotive scatters them along its shining
path together with cinders, thistleseeds, and tourists.
They are everywhere; and everywhere they are the same.
The proverbial peas are not so indistinguishably alike.
Surely, a whimsical imagination may be pardoned for
fancying a difference between the pods "shairpening"
in some Scotch kailyard, the petits-pois coquettishly
arranged in Chevet's shop-window, and the Zuckererbsen
mashed down to a green pulse in some strong-jawed
Prussian's plate&mdash;a difference, the far and faint and
fanciful analogy to the more obvious one between the
gudeman, the French chef, and the Königlich Preussischer
Douanen Beamten Gehilfe who own the said peas. But
a hotel, on whatever part of Europe it may open its
dull window-eyes, has not even a name native of the
country, and declaring its citizenship. The genius
of speech despairs of making a difference in the
name, where there is none in the thing; and thus, from
Orenburg to Valentia, and from Hammerfest to Messina,
a hôtel is still called a hôtel, and the traveller still
expects and finds the same Swiss portier and the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
red velvet portières, the same indescribable smell of
sherry, stewed-meat, and cigars in the passages, the
same funereally-clad waiters round the table d'hôte, and
the same dishes upon it. Thus I thought in my old
European days. But, since, I have come to Java, and
I have seen a Batavia hotel&mdash;<i lang="in" xml:lang="in">a rumah makan</i>. Ah!
that was a surprise, a shock, a revelation&mdash;I would say
<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"un frisson nouveau"</span> if Batavia and shivering were
compatible terms. <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"Un étouffement nouveau"</span> better
expressed my sensations, as it flashed upon me in full
noon-day glory. Noon is its own time, its hour of
hours, the instant when those opposing elements of
Batavia street-life&mdash;the native population most conspicuous
of a morning, and the European contingent preponderant
in the evening&mdash;attain that exact equipoise
which gives the place its particular character; and when
the conditions of sky, air, and earth are attuned to truest
harmony with it.</p>

<p>The great, strong, full noon-day sun beats on the
stuccoed buildings, heating their whiteness to an intolerable
incandescence. It has set the garden ablaze, burning
up the long grey shadows of early morning to round
patches of a charred black, that cling to the foot of the
trees; and making the air to quiver visibly above the
scorched yellow grass-plots. Among their dark leafage,
the hibiscus flowers flare like living flame; and the red-and-orange
blossoms, dropping from the branches of the
Flame of the Forest, seem to lie on the path like
smouldering embers. Through this blaze of light and
colour, move groups of gaudily-draped natives&mdash;water-carriers,
flower-sellers, fruit-vendors, pedlars selling silk
and precious stones&mdash;their heads protected from the sun
by enormous mushroom-shaped hats of plaited straw,
and their shining shoulders bending under a bamboo yoke,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
from the ends of which dangle baskets of merchandise.
Small, brown, chubby children, a necklet their one article
of wear, are gathering the tiny, yellow-white blossoms
that bespangle the grass under the tanjong trees.
Grave-faced Arabs stride past. Chinamen trudge along&mdash;lean,
agile figures&mdash;chattering and gesticulating as they go.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img023" id="img023"><img src="images/img023.jpg" width="600" height="478" alt="A seller of fruit and vegetables his baskets dangling from the ends of a bamboo yoke." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A seller of fruit and vegetables his baskets dangling from the ends of a bamboo yoke."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But, among the crowd of orientals, no Europeans are
seen, save such as rapidly pass in vehicles of every
description, from the jolting dos-à-dos onwards&mdash;with
its diminutive pony almost disappearing between the
shafts&mdash;to the elegant victoria drawn by a pair of big
Australian horses. But, even when driving, the noon-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>day heat is dangerous to the Westerner; and the European
inmates of the hotel are all in the dark cool
verandahs, enjoying a dolce far niente enlivened by
chaffering with the natives and drinking iced lemonades,
the ladies&mdash;here is another surprise for the newcomer!&mdash;all
attired in what seems to be the native dress of
sarong and kabaya! A kabaya is a sort of dressing-jacket
of profusely-embroidered white batiste, fastened
down the front with ornamental pins and little gold
chains; and under it is worn the sarong, a gaudily-coloured
skirt falling down straight and narrow, with
one single deep fold in front, and kept in place by a
silk scarf wound several times round the waist, its ends
dangling loose. With this costume, little high-heeled
slippers are worn on the bare feet; and the hair is done
in native style, simply drawn back from the forehead,
and twisted into a knot at the back of the head. Altogether,
this style of attire is original rather than
becoming.</p>

<p>And, if this must be confessed of the ladies' costume,
what must be said of the garb some men have the
courage to appear in? A kabaya, and&mdash;may Mrs. Grundy
graciously forgive me for saying it! for how shall I
describe the indescribable, save by calling it by its own
by me never-to-be-pronounced name?&mdash;A kabaya and
trousers of thin sarong-stuff gaily sprinkled with blue
and yellow flowers, butterflies, and dragons!</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img025" id="img025"><img src="images/img025.jpg" width="509" height="600" alt="Pine-apples and mangosteen, velvety rambootan and smooth-skinned dookoo." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Pine-apples and mangosteen, velvety rambootan and smooth-skinned dookoo."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But all this is only an induction into that supreme
mystery, celebrated at noon, the rice-table. Here is
indeed, <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"un étouffement nouveau."</span> All things pertaining
to it work together for bewilderment. To begin with;
it is served up, not in any ordinary dining-room, but
in the "back gallery," a place which is a sight in itself,
a long and lofty hall, supported on a colonnade, between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
the white pillars of which glimpses are caught of the
brilliantly-flowering shrubs and dark-leaved trees in the
garden without. In the second place, it is handed round
by native servants, inaudibly moving to and fro upon
bare feet, arrayed in clothes of a semi-European cut,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
incongruously combined with the Javanese sarong and
head-kerchief. And, last not least, the meal itself is
such as never was tasted on sea or land before. The
principal dish is rice and chicken, which sounds simple
enough. But on this as a basis an entire system of
things inedible has been constructed: besides fish, flesh,
and fricassees, all manner of curries, sauces, pickles,
preserved fruit, salt eggs, fried bananas, "sambals" of
fowl's liver, fish-roe, young palm-shoots, and the gods
of Javanese cookery alone know what more, all strongly
spiced, and sprinkled with cayenne. There is nothing
under the sun but it may be made into a sambal;
and a conscientious cook would count that a lost
day on which he had not sent in at the very least
twenty of such nondescript dishes to the table of
his master, for whose digestion let all gentle souls
pray! And, when to all this I have added that these
many and strange things must be eaten with a spoon
in the right hand and a fork in the left, the reader
will be able to judge how very complicated an affair
the rice-table is, and how easily the uninitiated may
come to grief over it. For myself, I shall never forget
my first experience of the thing. I had just come in
from a ride through the town, and I suppose the glaring
sunlight, the strangely-accoutred crowd, the novel sights
and sounds of the city must have slightly gone to my
head (there are plenty of intoxicants besides "gin"
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vide</i> the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table). Anyhow, I
entered the "back gallery" with a sort of "here-the-conquering-hero-comes"
feeling; looked at the long
table groaning under its dozens of rice-bowls, scores of
dishes of fowls and fish, and hundreds of sambal-saucers,
arrayed between pyramids of bananas, mangosteens, and
pine-apples, as if I could have eaten it all by way of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>"apéritif;" sat me down; heaped my plate up with
everything that came my way; and fell to. What
followed I have no words to express. Suffice it to say,
that in less time than I now take to relate it, I was
reduced to the most abject misery&mdash;my lips smarting
with the fiery touch of the sambal; my throat the more
sorely scorched for the hasty draught of water with
which, in my ignorance, I had tried to allay the intolerable
heat; and my eyes full of tears, which it was
all I could do to prevent from openly gushing down
my cheeks, in streams of utter misery. A charitable
person advised me to put a little salt on my tongue,
(as children are told to do on the tail of the bird they
want to catch). I did so; and, after a minute of the
most excruciating torture, the agony subsided. I gasped,
and found I was still alive. But there and then I
vowed to myself I would never so much as look at a
rice-table again.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img027" id="img027"><img src="images/img027.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="The big kalongs hanging from the topmost branches in a sleep from which the sunset will presently awaken them." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The big kalongs hanging from the topmost branches in a sleep from which the sunset will presently awaken them."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>I have broken that vow: I say it proudly. It is but
a dull mind which cannot reverse a first opinion, or
go back upon a hasty resolve. And now I know <em>how</em>
to eat rice, I love it. Still, that first meal was a shock.
It suddenly brought home to the senses what up to
that minute had been noted by the understanding only:
the fact of my being in a new country. The glare of
the garden without, the Malay sing-song of those dark
bare-footed servants, the nondescript clothes of the other
guests, united with the tingling and burning in my
throat to make me realise the stupendous change that
had come over my universe, the antipodal attitude of
things in Europe and things in Java. I had the almost
bodily sensation of the intervening leagues upon leagues,
of the dividing chasm on the unknown side of which
I had just landed. And it fairly dizzied me.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>

<p>Now, the natural reaction following upon a shock of
this kind throws one back upon the previous state of
things&mdash;in the case the ways and manners of the old
country&mdash;and one stubbornly resolves to adhere to them.
But, though this may be natural, it is not wise. I, at
least, soon discovered for myself the truth of the old
sage's saw: <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"Vérité en deçà des Pyrénées, erreur en
delà,"</span> as applied to the affairs of everyday life; the
more so, as oceans and broad continents, the space of
thousands of Pyrenean ranges, separate those hither
and thither sides, Holland and Java. The home-marked
standard of fit and unfit must be laid aside. The soul
must doff her close-clinging habits of prejudiced thought.
And the wise man must be content to begin life over
again, becoming even as a babe and suckling, and
opening cherub lips only to drink in the light, the leisure,
and the luxuriant beauty of this new country as a rich
mother's milk&mdash;the blameless food on which to grow
up to (colonial) manhood.</p>

<p>But to return to that first "rice-table." After the
rice, curries, etc. had been disposed of, beef and salad
appeared, and, to my infinite astonishment, were disposed
of in their turn, to be followed by the dessert&mdash;pine-apples,
mangosteens, velvety "rambootans," and an exceedingly
picturesque and prettily-shaped fruit&mdash;spheres
of a pale gold containing colourless pellucid flesh&mdash;which
I heard called "dookoo." Then the guests began to
leave the table, and I was told it was time for the
siesta&mdash;another Javanese institution, not a whit less
important, it would appear, than the famous rice-table&mdash;and
vastly more popular with newcomers. Perhaps,
the preceding meal possesses somniferous virtue; or,
perhaps, the heat and glare of the morning predispose
one to sleep; or, perhaps&mdash;after so many years of com<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>plaining about "being waked too soon"&mdash;the sluggard
in us rejoices at being bidden in the name of the natural
fitness of things, to "go and slumber again." I will
not attempt to decide which of those three possible
causes is the true one; but so much is certain: even
those who kick most vigorously at the rice-table, lay
them down with lamb-like meekness to the siesta. I
confess I was very glad myself to escape into the coolness
and quiet of my room. Plain enough it was, with
its bare, white-washed walls and ceiling, its red-tiled
floor and piece of coarse matting in the centre, its
cane-bottomed chairs. But how I delighted in the
absence of carpets and wall-papers, when I found the
stone floor so deliciously cool to the feet, and the bare
walls distilling a freshness as of lily-leaves! The siesta
lasted till about four. Then people began to hurry past
my window, with flying towels and beating slippers,
marching to the bath-rooms. And, at five, tea was
brought into the verandah.</p>

<p>Then began the first moderately-cool hour of the day.
A slight breeze sprang up and wandered about in the
garden, stirring the dense foliage of the waringin-tree,
and making its hundreds of pendulous air-roots to gently
sway to and fro. A shower of white blossom fluttered
down from the tanjong-branches, spreading fragrance
as it fell. And, by and by, a faint rosiness began to
soften the crude white of the stuccoed walls and colonnades,
and to kindle the feathery little cirrus-clouds
floating high overhead, in the deep blue sky where the
great "kalongs" were already beginning to circle.</p>

<p>At six it was almost dark.</p>

<p>The loungers in the verandah rose from their tea, and
went in. And, some half-hour later, I saw the ladies
issue forth in Paris-made dresses, the men in the garb<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
of society accompanying them on their calls, for which
I was told this was the hour. The "front gallery" of
the hotel, a spacious hall supported on pillars, was
brilliantly lit. A girl sat at the piano, accompanying herself
to one of those weird, thrilling songs such a Grieg
and Jensen compose. And when I went in to the eight-o'clock
dinner, the menu for which might have been
written in any European hotel, I had some trouble in
identifying the scene with that which, earlier in the day,
had so rudely shocked my European ideas. I half believed
the rice-table, the sarongs and kabayas, and the
Javanese "boys" must have been a dream, until I was
convinced of the contrary by the sight of a lean brown
hand thrust out to change my plate of fish for a helping
of asparagus.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img032" id="img032"><img src="images/img032.jpg" width="275" height="600" alt="Ivory Mortar and Pestle, decorated with representations of scenes from the Life of Krishna" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="THE_TOWN" id="THE_TOWN">THE TOWN</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img034" id="img034"><img src="images/img034.jpg" width="279" height="400" alt="Mask used by Topeng-players" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img035" id="img035"><img src="images/img035.jpg" width="600" height="242" alt="Wayang 'bèbèr', drawing, representing the story of Djaka Prataka" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is only for want of a better word that one uses
this term of "town" to designate that picturesque
ensemble of villa-studded parks and avenues, Batavia.
There is, it is true, an older Batavia, grey, grim and
stony as any war-scarred city of Europe&mdash;the stronghold
which the steel-clad colonists of 1620 built on the
ruins of burnt-down Jacatra. But, long since abandoned
by soldiers and peaceful citizens alike, and its once stately
mansions degraded to offices and warehouses, it has sunk
into a mere suburb&mdash;the business quarter of Batavia&mdash;alive
during a few hours of the day only, and sinking
back into a death-like stillness, as soon as the rumble
of the last down-train has died away among its echoing
streets. And the real Batavia&mdash;in contradistinction to
which this ancient quarter is called "the town"&mdash;is
as unlike it as if it had been built by a different order
of beings.</p>

<p>It is best described as a system of parks and avenues,
linked by many a pleasant byway and shadowy path,
with here and there a glimpse of the Kali Batawi gliding
along between the bamboo groves on its banks, and
everywhere the whiteness of low, pillared houses, standing
well back from the road, each in its own leafy garden.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
Instead of walls, a row of low stone pillars, not much
higher than milestones, separates private from public
grounds, so that from a distance one cannot see where
the park ends and the street begins. The shadow of
the tall trees in the avenue keeps the garden cool, and
the white dust of the road is sprinkled with the flowers
that lie scattered over the smooth grass-plots and shell-strewn
paths of the villa.</p>

<p>Among the squares of Batavia, the largest and most
remarkable by far is the famous Koningsplein. It is
not so much a square as simply a field, vast enough
to build a city on, dotted from place to place by
pasturing cattle, and bordered on the four sides of its
irregular quadrangle by a triple row of branching
tamarinds. From the southern distance two aerial
mountain-tops overlook it. The brown bare expanse
of meadowy ground, lying thus broadly open to the
sky, with nothing but clouds and cloudlike hill-tops
rising above its distant rampart of trees, seems like a
tract of untamed wilderness, strangely set in the midst
of a city, and all the more savage and lonely for these
smooth surroundings. Between the stems of the delicate-leaved
tamarinds, glimpses are caught of gateways and
pillared houses; the eastern side of the quadrangle is
disfigured by a glaring railway-station; and, notwithstanding,
it remains a rugged solitary spot, a waste,
irreclaimably barren, which, by the sheer strength
of its unconquered wildness, subdues its environment
to its own mood. The houses, glinting between the
trees, seem mere accidents of the landscape, simply
heaps of stones; the glaring railway-station itself sinks
into an indistinct whiteness, dissociated from any idea
of human thought and enterprise.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img038" id="img038"><img src="images/img038.jpg" width="600" height="357" alt="A triple row of branching tamarinds." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A triple row of branching tamarinds."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img039" id="img039"><img src="images/img039.jpg" width="600" height="366" alt="The idyllic Duke's park, very shadowy, fragrant, and green." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The idyllic Duke's park, very shadowy, fragrant, and green."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Now and then a native traverses the field, slowly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>moving along an invisible track. He does not disturb
the loneliness. He is indigenous to the place, its natural
product, almost as much as the cicadas trilling among
the grass blades, the snakes darting in and out among
the crevices of the sun-baked soil, and the lean cattle,
upon whose backs the crows perch. There is but one
abiding power and presence here&mdash;the broad brown
field under the broad blue sky, shifting shades and
splendours over it, and that horizon of sombre trees
all around.</p>

<p>This vast sweep of sky gives the Plein a tone and
atmosphere of its own. The changes in the hour and
the season that are but guessed at from some occasional
glimpse in the street, are here fully revealed. The light
may have been glaring enough among the whitewashed
houses of Ryswyk and Molenvliet&mdash;it is on the Plein
only that tropical sunshine manifests itself in the plenitude
of its power. The great sun stands flaming in the
dizzy heights; from the scorched field to the incandescent
zenith the air is one immense blaze, a motionless flame
in which the tall tamarinds stand sere and grey, the
grass shrivels up to a tawny hay, and the bare soil
stiffens and cracks.&mdash;The intolerable day is past. People,
returning home from the town, see a roseate sheen
playing over roofs and walls, a long crimson cloud
sailing high overhead. Those walking on the Plein
behold an apocalyptic heaven and a transfigured earth,
a firmamental conflagration, eruptions of scarlet flame
through incarnadined cloud, runnels of fire darting
across the melting gold and translucent green of the
horizon; hill-tops changed into craters and tall trees
into fountains of purple light. And many are the nights,
when, becoming aware of a dimness in the moonlit air,
I have hastened to the Koningsplein, and found it whitely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
waving with mist, a very lake of vapour, fitfully heaving
and sinking in the uncertain moonlight, and rolling airy
waves against a shore of darkness.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img042" id="img042"><img src="images/img042.jpg" width="600" height="419" alt="The Business-quarter of Batavia." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The Business-quarter of Batavia."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The seasons, too&mdash;how they triumph in this bit of
open country! When, after the devouring heat of the
East monsoon, the good gift of the rains is poured down
from the heavens, and the town knows of nothing but
impracticable streets, flooded houses, and crumbling
walls, it is a time of resurrection and vernal glory for
the Plein. The tamarinds, gaunt gray skeletons a few
days ago, burst into full-leaved greenness; the hard,
white, cracked soil is suddenly covered with tender grass,
fresh as the herbage of an April meadow under western
skies. In the early morning, the broad young blades
are white with dew. There is a thin silvery haze in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
the air, which dissolves into a pink and golden radiance,
as the first slanting sunbeams pierce it. And the tree
tops, far off and indistinct, seem to rise airily over
hollows of blue shade.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img043" id="img043"><img src="images/img043.jpg" width="420" height="600" alt="A footsore Klontong trudging wearily along." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A footsore Klontong trudging wearily along."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Not far from the Koningsplein there is another square,
its very opposite in aspect and character&mdash;the idyllic
Duke's Park very shadowy, fragrant, and green. One
walks in it as in a poet's dream. All around there is
the multitudinous budding and blossoming of many-coloured
flowers, a play of transparent bamboo-shadows
that flit and shift over smooth grassplot and shell-strewn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
path, a ceaseless alternation of glooms and glories. Set
amidst tall dark trees, whose topmost branches break
out into a flame of blossom, there stands a white pillared
building, palace-like in the severe grace of its architecture.
Is it the Renaissance style of those gleaming columns
and marble steps, or that name of "the Duke's Park,"
or both, that stir up the fancy to thoughts of some sixteenth-century
Italian pleasaunce, such as Shakespeare
loved as a setting for his love-stories? A Duke as gentle
as his prince of Illyria, Olivia's sighing lover, might have
walked these glades, listening to disguised Viola as, all
unsuspectedly, she wooed him from his forlorn allegiance.</p>

<p>The irony of facts has willed it otherwise.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img045" id="img045"><img src="images/img045.jpg" width="600" height="436" alt="The Chinese quarter." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The Chinese quarter.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>A duke it was, sure enough, who stood sponsor to
the spot. But as (according to French authorities) there
are fagots and fagots, even so there are Dukes and
Dukes&mdash;and vastly more points of difference than of
resemblance between Viola's gentle prince, and the
thunderous old Lord of Saxen-Weimar, to whose rumbling
Kreuzdonnerwetters and Himmel-Sakraments this
abode of romance re-echoed some fifty years ago. A
distant relative to the King of the Netherlands, he was
indebted to his Royal kinsman's sense of family duty
for these snug quarters, a very considerable income
(from the National Treasury) and the post of an Army
Commander, which upheld the prince in the pensioner.
His tastes were few and simple, and saving the one
delight of his soul, a penurious youth, and the hardships
of the Napoleonic supremacy having so thoroughly
taught him the habit, that it had become a second
nature to him; and would not be ousted now by the
mere fact of his having become rich. He was proud
of his parsimony too, prouder even than of his swearing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
remarkable as it was; and, amidst the pomp and circumstance
he had so late in life attained to, neglected
not the humble talents which had solaced his less
affluent days. So that, looking upon the many goodly
acres around his palace, lying barren of all save grass,
flowers, blossoming trees, and such like useless stuff,
he at once saw what an unique opportunity it would
afford him for the exercise of his favourite virtue. And,
setting about the matter in his own thorough-going
way, he cut down the trees, ploughed up the grassplots,
and had the grounds neatly laid out in onion-beds, and
plantations of the sirih, which the Javanese loves. Here
one might meet the Duke of a morning&mdash;a portly, bald-pated,
red-faced old warrior with a prodigious "meerschaum"
protruding from his bristling white beard,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
stars, crosses, and goldlace all over his general's uniform,
and a pair of list slippers on his rheumatic old toes.
An orderly walked behind him, holding a gold-edged
sunshade over his shining pate. And, every now and
then, the Duke would stop to look earnestly at his
crops; and, stooping with a groaning of his flesh, and
a creaking of his tight tunic, straighten some trailing
plant, or flick an insect off the sirih leaves.</p>

<p class="poem">
"The Duke was in his kitchen-garden,<br />
A counting of his money,"
</p>

<p class="postpoem">as one might vary the nursery rhyme.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img046" id="img046"><img src="images/img046.jpg" width="600" height="392" alt="The West monsoon has set in, flooding the town." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The West monsoon has set in, flooding the town."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>For money it was he counted, when he gazed so
long and earnestly at his vegetables&mdash;the alchemy of
his thrifty imagination turning every young stalk and
sprouting leaflet into a bit of metal, adorned with his
Royal kinsman's effigy. And when the green pennies-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>to-be were plentiful, well content was the gardener;
and if not&mdash;"Mountains and vales and floods, heard Ye
those oaths?" Tradition has kept an echo of them.
They were something quite out of the common order, and
with a style and sound so emphatically their own as to
baffle imitation, and render description a hopeless task.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img047" id="img047"><img src="images/img047.jpg" width="600" height="475" alt="The Kali Batawi on its way through the Chinese quarter." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The Kali Batawi on its way through the Chinese quarter."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Nor did this originality wear off as, in the course of
time, the worthy Duke began to forget the language of
the Fatherland. For, losing his German, he found not
his Dutch, and the expressions he composed out of such
odds and ends of the two languages, as he could lay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
tongue to, would have astonished the builders of Babel
Tower. Fortunately, however, his anger was as short-lived
as it was violent, and, when the last thunderclap
of Kreuzmillionen Himmels Donnerwetter had gradually
died away in an indistinct grumbling, he would summon
his attendant for a light to rekindle his pipe with a
"come now, thou black pigdog" that sounded quite
friendly. A kind-hearted old blusterer at bottom, he
treated his dependents well and never sent away a
beggar pennyless. "Doitless" I should have written, for
his donations never exceeded that amount.</p>

<p>There is a tale of an A. D. C., his appointed almoner
for the time, having one day come to him with a subscription-list
on which the customary doit figured as
His Serene Highness the Duke of Saxen Weimar's contribution;
and hinting at what he considered the disproportion
between the exiguity of the gift, and the
wealth and worldly station of the giver. He must have
been a very rash A. D. C. The Duke turned upon him
like a savage bull. And, after a volley of oaths: "Too
little!" he roared: "Too little!" and again, "Too little!
I would have you know, younker! that a doit is a great
deal when one has nothing at all!"</p>

<p>It was a cry de profundis&mdash;laughable and half contemptible
as it sounded, the echo from unforgotten
depths of misery.</p>

<p>He had known what it meant "to have nothing at
all." Wherefore, and for those winged words in which
he uttered the knowledge, let his onion-beds be forgiven
him. Of the outrage he committed, only the memory
is left&mdash;the effects have long since been obliterated:
bountiful tropical nature having again showered her
treasures of leaf and flower over the beggared garden,
and re-erected in their places the green towers of her trees.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img049" id="img049"><img src="images/img049.jpg" width="434" height="600" alt="Entrance to a rich Chinaman's House." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Entrance to a rich Chinaman's House.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Rijswijk, Noordwijk, and Molenvliet, the commercial
quarters of Batavia, are more European in aspect than
the Koningsplein; the houses&mdash;shops for the most part&mdash;are
built in straight rows; a pavement borders the
streets, and a noisy little steam-car pants and rattles
past from morning till night. But, with these European
traits, Javanese characteristics mingle, and the resulting
effect is a most curious one, somewhat bewildering
withal to the new-comer in its mixture of the unknown
with the familiar. Absolutely commonplace shops are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
approached through gardens, the pavement is strewn
with flowers of the flame-of-the-forest: and, at the street-corners,
instead of cabs, one finds the nondescript sadoo,
its driver, gay in a flowered muslin vest and a gaudy
headkerchief, squatting cross-legged on the back seat.
Noordwijk is unique, an Amsterdam "gracht" in a
tropical setting. Imagine a long straight canal, a gleam
of green-brown water between walls of reddish masonry&mdash;spanned
from place to place by a bridge, and shaded
by the softly-tinted leafage of tamarinds; on either side
a wide, dusty road, arid gardens, sweltering in the sun,
and glaring white bungalows; the fiery blue of the
tropical sky over it all. Gaudily-painted "praos" glide
down the dark canal; native women pass up and down
the flight of stone steps that climbs from the water's
edge to the street, a flower stuck into their gleaming
hair, still wet from the bath; the tribe of fruitvendors
and sellers of sweet drinks and cakes have established
themselves along the parapet, in the shade of the
tamarinds; and the native crowd, coming and going all
day long, makes a kaleidoscopic play of colours along
the still dark water.</p>

<p>From the little station at the corner of Noordwijk
and Molenvliet, a steam-car runs along the canal down
to the suburbs; every quarter of an hour it comes past,
puffing and rattling; and every time the third-class
compartment is choking full of natives. The fever and
the fret of European life have seized upon these leisurely
Orientals too. They have abandoned their sirih-chewing
and day-dreaming upon the square of matting in the
cool corner of the house, the dusty path along which
they used to trudge in Indian file, when there was an
urgent necessity for going to market; and behold them
all perched upon this "devil's engine," where they cannot
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>even sit down in the way they were taught to, "hurkling
on their hunkers."</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img051" id="img051"><img src="images/img051.jpg" width="600" height="420" alt="A glimpse of the river as it glides along between the bamboo groves of its margins." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A glimpse of the river as it glides along between the bamboo groves of its margins."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The skippers and raftsmen are more conservative in
their ways&mdash;owing, perhaps, to their constant communion
with the deliberate stream, which saunters along
on its way from the hills to the sea, at its own pace.
They take life easily; paddling along over the shifting
shallows and mud-banks of the Kali (river) in the same
leisurely way their forbears did; conveying red tiles,
bricks, and earthenware in flat-bottomed boats; or
pushing along rafts of bamboo-stems, which they have
felled in the wood up-stream. As they come floating
down the canal, these rafts of green bamboo, with the
thin tips curving upwards like tails and stings of venomous
insects, have a fantastical appearance of living,
writhing creatures, which the native raftsman seems to
be for ever fighting with his long pole. After dark, when
the torch at the prow blazes out like the single baleful
eye of the monstrous thing, the day-dream deepens into
a nightmare. And, shuddering, one remembers ghastly
legends of river-dragons and serpents that haunt the sea,
swimming up-stream to ravish some wretched mortal.</p>

<p>The native boats appeal to merrier thoughts. With
the staring white-and-black goggle eyes painted upon
the prow, and the rows of red, yellow, and green
lozenges arranged like scales along the sides, they
remind one irresistibly of grotesque fishes for those
big children, the Javanese, to play with&mdash;at housekeeping.
For keep house they do in their boats.
They eat, drink, sleep, and live in the prao. A roof of
plaited bamboo leaves helps to make the stern into the
semblance of a hut; and here, whilst the owner pushes
along the floating home by means of a long pole and
a deal of apparent exertion, his wife sits cooking the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
rice for the family meal over a brazier full of live
coals; and the children tumble about in happy nakedness.
Javanese babies, by the way, always seem happy.
What do they amuse themselves with, one wonders? They
do not seem to know any games, and playthings they have
none, except the tanjong-flowers they make necklaces
of, and perchance some luckless cockroach, round whose
hindmost leg they tie a thread to make him walk the
way he should. Their parents, Mohammedan orthodoxy
debars them from the society of their natural companions&mdash;dogs;
and, as for cats, that last resource of unamused
childhood in Europe, they hold them sacred,
and would not dare to lay a playful hand upon one of
them. Yet, there they are&mdash;plaything-less, naked, and
supremely happy.</p>

<p>Their parents, for the matter of that, are exactly the
same; they seem perfectly happy without any visible
and adequate cause for such content. As long as they
are not dying&mdash;and one sometimes doubts if Javanese
die at all&mdash;all is well with them. The race has a special
genius for happiness, the free gift of those same inscrutable
powers who have inflicted industry, moral sense,
and the overpowering desire for clothes upon the unfortunate
nations of the North.</p>

<p>Following the left-ward bend of the canal, past the
sluice, and the Post Office,&mdash;the most hideous structure
by the bye that ever disfigured a decent street&mdash;one
comes to the bridge of Kampong Bahru; and, crossing
it, suddenly finds oneself in what seems another quarter
of the globe. Tall narrow houses, quaintly decorated
and crowned with red-tiled roofs, that flame out against
the contrasting azure of the sky, stand in close built
rows; the wide street is full of jostling carts and vans,
fairly humming with traffic; and the people move with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
an energy and briskness never seen among Javanese.
This is the Chinese quarter. There are three or four
such in the town, inhabited by Chinese exclusively.
This habit of herding together&mdash;though now a matter
of choice with the Celestials&mdash;is the survival of a time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
when Batavia had its "camp" as mediæval Italian cities
had their Ghetto: a period no further back than the
beginning of the last century.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img056" id="img056"><img src="images/img056.jpg" width="600" height="374" alt="Procession at the funeral of a rich Chinaman." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Procession at the funeral of a rich Chinaman.</p>
  </div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img057" id="img057"><img src="images/img057.jpg" width="600" height="377" alt="Funeral Procession on its way to the Chinese Cemetery." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Funeral Procession on its way to the Chinese Cemetery.</p>
  </div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img059" id="img059"><img src="images/img059.jpg" width="439" height="600" alt="Burning of symbolical figures at a Chinese funeral." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Burning of symbolical figures at a Chinese funeral.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>At that time, when Chinese immigration threatened
to become a danger to the colony, the then Governor-General,
Valckenier, took some measures against the
admittance of destitute Chinese, which, however well-designed,
were so clumsily executed as to spread the
rumour that the Government intended to deport even
the Chinese residents of Batavia. A panic broke out
among them, and then a revolt, in which they were soon
joined by their countrymen from all over the island.
After a desperate struggle, atrocities innumerable both
suffered and inflicted, a siege sustained, and an attack
of fifty and odd thousand beaten back by their two
thousand men, the Hollanders succeeded in putting down
the rebellion, and the enemy fled to the woods and
swamps of the lowlands around Batavia. A few months
later, however, a general amnesty having been granted,
such of them as had escaped from famine and jungle-fever
returned, and a special quarter was assigned to
them, where it would be easy both to protect and to
control them. There they have since continued to live.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img061" id="img061"><img src="images/img061.jpg" width="600" height="406" alt="The deliberate stream sauntering along at its own pace on its way from the hills to the sea." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The deliberate stream sauntering along at its own pace on its way from the hills to the sea."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The houses of some rich Chinamen in the Kampong
Bahru neighbourhood are truly splendid; the most modest
ones still have an air of comfort. According to the ideas
of the inhabitants, there are none absolutely squalid.
All these houses are, at the same time, shops. They
are, in a way, wonderful people, these sons of the
Celestial Empire, merchants, in one way or other, all of
them. There is, of course, a difference. There is the
foot-sore "klontong" trudging trough the weary streets
all day, and shaking his rattle as he goes, to advertise
the reels of cotton and the cakes of soap in his wallet;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>and, again, there is the portly millionaire, who entertains
army officers and civil servants in his own profusely-decorated
mansion; but the difference is one in degree
only, not in kind. Amid the pomp and circumstance of
the one condition, and the squalor of the other, the
individualities are the same, the attitude of mind and
the habits of thought identical, the sum and substance
of a Chinaman's life in Java being expressed in "the
making of bargains." He could as soon leave off breathing
as leave off buying and selling; trading seems to be
his natural function. And this, one fancies, is the great
difference between his race and ours; and the true secret
of their superiority as money-makers. A Caucasian, if
he is a merchant, is so with a certain part of his being
only&mdash;during certain hours of the day, in his own office.
A Chinaman is a merchant with his whole heart, his
whole soul, and his whole understanding, a merchant
always and everywhere, from his cradle to his grave,
at table, at play, over his opium-pipe, in his temple.
Trade is the element in which he lives, moves, and has
his being. His thoughts might be noted in figures. The
world is to him one vast opportunity for making money,
and all things in it are articles of trade; which, in
Chinese, means gain to him, and loss to everybody else.
He has few wants, infinite resources, and the faith (in
himself) that removeth trading towns. Small wonder
if he succeeds.</p>

<p>I fancy it would be quite a practical education in
the principles of business, to watch the career of one
of these Chinamen, from the hour of his arrival at
Tanjong Priok onward. At first, you see him trudging
along with a wallet, containing soap, sewing cotton,
combs, and matches. After a few months, you find
him in your compound surrounded by the whole of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
your domestic staff, to whom he is selling sarong cloth
and thin silks. When a year has gone by, a coolie
trudges at his heels panting under a load of wares, the
samples of which he subjects to your approval with
the most correct of bows. Have but patience, and you
will find him in a diminutive shop, where somehow he
finds place for a settee in the corner, a mirror on the
wall, and all around such a collection of articles as
might fitly be termed an epitome of material civilization.
Nor does he stop in that tiny shop. A few years later,
he will be taking his ease behind the counter of a
spick-and-span establishment in the camp; and, if, by
chance, you get a glimpse of his wife, you will be
astonished at the size of the diamonds in her shiny
coil of hair. Our friend is on the high road to prosperity
now, which leads to a big house separate from the shop.
Before he is fairly fifty, he has built it, high and spacious,
with an altar to the gods and to the spirits of his
ancestors set in the midst of it, and a profusion of
fine carving and gilding, of embroidered hangings and
lacquered woodwork all around. He will invite you for the
New Year's festivities now, and, if your wife accompanies
you, introduce you to his spouse, resplendent as the
rainbow in many-tinted brocades, and more thickly
covered with diamonds than the untrodden meadow
with the dews of a midsummer night. He talks about
the funeral of his honoured father, which cost him
upward of three thousand pounds sterling; and he will
ask your advice, over the pine-apples and the champagne,
about sending his son to Europe in one of his own
ships, that the youth may see something of the world,
and, if he so list, be entered as a student at the famous
university of Leijden.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="A_COLONIAL_HOME" id="A_COLONIAL_HOME">A COLONIAL HOME</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img066" id="img066"><img src="images/img066.jpg" width="160" height="600" alt="Bamboo case. (Java: Preanger Regencies)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img067" id="img067"><img src="images/img067.jpg" width="600" height="306" alt="Batik-pattern" /></a>
</div>

<p>"<span class="smcap">It</span> is the North which has introduced tight-fitting
clothes and high houses." Thus Taine, as, in the streets
of Pompeii, he gazed at nobly-planned peristyle and
graceful arch, at godlike figures shining from frescoed
walls, and, with the vision of that fair, free, large life
of antiquity, contrasted the Paris apartment from which
he was but newly escaped, and the dress-coat which
he had worn at the last social function. And a similar
reflection crosses the Northerner's mind when he looks
upon a house in Batavia.</p>

<p>I am aware that Pompeii and Batavia, pronounced
in one breath, make a shrieking discord, and that, between
a homely white-washed bungalow, and those
radiant mansions which the ancients built of white
marble and blue sky, the comparison must seem preposterous.
And, yet, no one can see the two, and fail
to make it. The resemblance is too striking. The flat
roof, the pillared entrance, the gleam of the marble-paved
hall, whose central arch opens on the reposeful
shadow of the inner chambers, all these features of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
classic dwelling are recognized in a Batavia house.
Evidently, too, this resemblance is not the result of
mere mechanical imitation. There are a consistency
and thoroughness in the architecture of these houses, a
harmony with the surrounding landscape, which stamp
it as an indigenous growth, the necessary result of the
climate, and the mode of life in Java, just as classic
architecture was the necessary result of the climate and
the mode of life in Greece and Italy. If the two styles
are similar, it is because the ideas which inspired them
are not so vastly different. After all, in a sunny country,
whether it be Europe or Asia, the great affair of
physical life is to keep cool, and the main idea of the
architect, in consequence, will be to provide that coolness.
It is this which constitutes a resemblance between
countries in all other respects so utterly unlike as Greece
and Java, and the difference between these and Northern
Europe. In the North, the human habitation is a fortress
against the cold; in the South and the East, it is
a shelter from the heat.</p>

<p>There is no need here of thick walls, solid doors,
casements of impermeable material, all the barricades
which the Northerner throws up against the besieging
elements. In Italy, as in Greece, Nature is not inimical.
The powers of sun, wind, and rain are gracious to
living things, and under their benign rule man lives as
simply and confidingly as his lesser brethren, the beasts
of the fields and forests and the birds of the air. He
has no more need than they to hedge in his individual
existence from the vast life that encompasses it. His
clothes, when he wears them, are an ornament rather
than a protection, and his house a place, not of refuge,
but of enjoyment, a cool and shadow spot, as open to
the breeze as the forest, whose flat spreading branches,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>supported on stalwart stems, seem to have been the
model for its column-borne roof.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img069" id="img069"><img src="images/img069.jpg" width="600" height="392" alt="'Compound' of a Batavia house." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Compound" of a Batavia house.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The Batavia house, then, is built on the classic plan.
Its entrance is formed by a spacious loggia, raised a
few steps above the level ground, and supported on
columns. Thence, a door, which stands open all day
long, leads into a smaller inner hall, on either side of
which are bedrooms, and behind this is another loggia&mdash;even
more spacious than the one forming the entrance
of the house&mdash;where meals are taken and the hot hours
of the day are spent. Generally, a verandah runs around
the whole building, to beat off both the fierce sunshine
of the hot, and the cataracts of rain of the wet, season.
Behind the house is a garden, enclosed on three sides
by the buildings containing the servants' quarters, the
kitchen and store rooms, the bath-rooms, and stables.
And, at some distance from the main building and
connected with it by a portico, stands a pavilion, for the
accommodation of guests;&mdash;for the average Netherland-Indian
is the most hospitable of mortals, and seldom
without visitors, whether relatives, friends, or even
utter strangers, who have come with an introduction
from a common acquaintance in Holland.</p>

<p>It takes some time, I find, to get quite accustomed to
this arrangement of a house. In the beginning of my stay
here, I had an impression of always being out of doors
and of dining in the public street, especially at night,
when in the midst of a blaze of light one felt oneself an
object of attention and criticism to every chance passer-by
in the darkness without. It was as bad as at the
ceremonious meals of the Kings of France, who had their
table laid out in public, that their faithful subjects might
behold them at the banquet, and, one supposes, satisfy
their own hunger by the Sovereign's vicarious dining.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p>

<p>In time, however, as the strangeness of the situation
wears off, one realises the advantage of these spacious
galleries to walled-in rooms, and very gladly sacrifices
the sentiment of privacy to the sensation of coolness.</p>

<p>For to be cool, or not to be cool, that is the great
question, and all things are arranged with a view to
solving it in the most satisfactory manner possible.
For the sake of coolness, one has marble floors or
Javanese matting instead of carpets, cane-bottomed
chairs and settees in lieu of velvet-covered furniture,
gauze hangings for draperies of silks and brocade. The
inner hall of almost every house, it is true, is furnished in
European style&mdash;exiles love to surround themselves with
remembrances of their far-away home. But, though
very pretty, this room is generally empty of inhabitants,
except, perhaps, for an hour now and then, during the
rainy season. For, in this climate, to sit in a velvet
chair is to realize the sensations of Saint Laurence,
without the sustaining consciousness of martyrdom.&mdash;For
the sake of coolness again, one gets up at half-past
five, or six, at the very latest, keeps indoors till sunset,
sleeps away the hot hours of the afternoon on a bed
which it requires experience and a delicate sense of
touch to distinguish from a deal board, and spends the
better part of one's waking existence in the bath room.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img073" id="img073"><img src="images/img073.jpg" width="513" height="600" alt="The servants' kitchen." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The servants' kitchen.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Now, a bath in Java is a very different thing from the
dabbling among dishes in a bedroom, which Europeans
call by that name, even if their dishes attain the dimensions
of a tub. Ablutions such as these are performed as a
matter of duty; a man gets into his tub as he gets into his
clothes, because to omit doing so would be indecent. But
bathing in the tropics is a pure delight, a luxury for
body and soul&mdash;a dip into the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fountaine de Jouvence</i>,
almost the "cheerful solemnity and semi-pagan act of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
worship," which the donkey-driving Traveller through
the Cevennes performed in the clear Tarn. A special
place is set apart for it, a spacious, cool, airy room
in the outbuildings, a "chamber deaf to noise, and all
but blind to light." Through the gratings over the door,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
a glimpse of sky and waving branches is caught. The
marble floor and whitewashed walls breathe freshness,
the water in the stone reservoir is limpid and cold as
that of a pool that gleams in rocky hollows. And, as
the bather dips in his bucket, and send the frigid
stream pouring over him, he washes away, not heat
and dust alone, but weariness and vexatious thought
in a purification of both body and soul, and he understands
why all Eastern creeds have exalted the bath
into a religious observance.</p>

<p>Like the often-repeated bath, the rice table is a Javanese
institution, and its apologists claim equal honours
for it as an antidote to climatic influences. I confess
I do not hold so high an opinion of its virtues, but I
have fallen a victim to its charms. I love it but too
well. And there lies the danger, everybody likes it far
too much, and, especially, likes far too much of it. It
is, humanly speaking, impossible to partake of the rice
table, and not to grossly overeat oneself. There is something
insidious about its composition, a cunning arrangement
of its countless details into a whole so perfectly
harmonious that it seems impossible to leave out a single
one. If you have partaken of one dish, you must partake
of the rest, unless you would spoil all. Fowl calls to
fowl, and fish answers fish, and all the green things
that are on the table, aye, and the red and the yellow
likewise, have their appointed places upon your plate.
You may try to escape consequences by taking infinitesimal
pinches of each, but many a mickle makes a
muckle, and your added teaspoonfuls soon swell to a
heaped-up plate, such as well might stagger the stoutest
appetite. Yet, even before you have recovered from
your surprise, you find you have finished it all. I do
not pretend to explain, I merely state the fact.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>

<p>Records have survived of those Pantagruelic feasts
with which the great ones of the mediæval world
delighted to celebrate the auspicious events of their lives,
and the chronicler never fails to sum up the almost
interminable list of the spices and essences with which
the cook, on the advice of learned physicians, seasoned
the viands, in order that, whilst the grosser meats satisfied
the animal cravings of the stomach, those ethereal
aromatics might stimulate the finer fluids, whose ebb
and flow controls the soul, and the well-flavoured dishes
might not only be hot on men's tongues but eke "prick
them in their courages." They pricked to some purpose,
it seems. And, if the spice-sated Netherlands-Indian is
a comparatively law-abiding man, it must be because
battening rice counteracts maddening curry. But for
this providential arrangement, I fully believe he would
think no more of battle, murder, and sudden death than
of an indigestion, and consider a good dinner as an
ample explanation of both.</p>

<p>Now, as to what they clothe themselves withal. Taine's
opinion concerning tight fitting clothes has been mentioned&mdash;viz:
that they are an invention of the North. A
fortnight in Batavia will explain and prove the theory
better than many books by many philosophers; and,
moreover, cause the most sartorially-minded individual
to consign the "invention" to a place hotter than even
Java. Like the habitations, the habits of European
civilization are irksome in the tropics; and, for indoor-wear
at least, they have suffered a sun-change into
something cool and strange&mdash;into native costume modified
in fact. Now, the outward apparel of the Javanese
consists of a long straight narrow skirt "the sarong"
with a loose fitting kind of jacket over it,&mdash;short for
the men, who call it "badjoo," and longer for the women<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
who wear it as "kabaya": which garments have been
adopted by the Hollanders, with the one modification
of the sarong into a "divided skirt" for the men, and
the substitution of white batiste and embroidery for the
coloured stuffs of which native women make their
kabayas, in the case of the ladies. On the Javanese, a
small, spare, slightly-made race, the garb sits not ungracefully;
narrow and straight as it is, it goes well with
contours so attenuated. But on the sturdier Hollander
the effect is something appalling. An adequate description
of the men's appearance in it would read like a
caricature; and though, with the help of harmonious
colours and jewellery, the women look better when
thus attired, the dress is not becoming to them either,
at least in non-colonial eyes. The æsthetic sense shies
and kicks out at the sight of those straight, hard, unnatural
lines. Modern male costume has been held up
to ridicule as a "system of cylinders". The sarong and
kabaya combine to form one single cylinder, which
obliterates all the natural lines and curves of the feminine
form divine, and changes a woman into a parti-coloured
pillar, for an analogy to which one's thoughts revert to
Lot's wife. But, though utterly condemned from an
artistic point of view, from a practical one it must be
acquitted, and even commended. In a country where
the temperature ranges between 85° and 95° Fahrenheit
in the shade, cool clothes which can be changed several
times a day, are a condition not merely of comfort, but
of absolute cleanliness and decency, not to mention
hygiene. For it is a noteworthy fact that the women,
who wear colonial dress up to six in the evening, stand
the climate better than the men, who, in the course of
things, wear it during an hour or an hour and a half
at most, in the day. And it must be admitted that both
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>men and women enjoy better health in Java, under this
colonial regime of dressing than in the British possessions,
where they cling to the fashions of Europe.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img077" id="img077"><img src="images/img077.jpg" width="600" height="442" alt="Native Servants." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native Servants.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>As for the children, they are clad even more lightly
than their elders, in what the Malay calls "monkey-trousers",
chelana monjet, a single garment, which, only
just covering the body, leaves the neck, arms, and legs
bare. It is hideous, and they love it. In German picture-books
one sees babes similarly accoutred riding on
the stork, that brings them to their expectant parents.
Perhaps, after all, monkey-trousers are the paradisiacal
garment of babes; and it is a Wordsworthian recollection
of this fact, that makes them cling to the costume so
tenaciously.</p>

<p>One cannot speak of an "Indian" child, and forget
the "babu," the native nurse, who is its ministering
spirit, its dusky guardian angel, almost its Providence.
All day long, she carries her little charge in her long
"slendang," the wide scarf, which deftly slung about
her shoulders, makes a sort of a hammock for the baby.
She does not like even the mother to take it away from
her; feeds it, bathes it, dresses it prettily, takes it out
for a walk, ready, at the least sign, to lift it up again
into its safe nest close to her heart. She plays with
it, not as a matter of duty, but as a matter of pleasure,
throwing herself into the game with enjoyment and
zest, like the child she is at heart; so that the two may
be seen quarrelling sometimes, the baby stamping its
feet and the babu protesting with the native cluck of
indignant remonstrance, and an angry "Terlalu!" "it
is too bad!" And, at night, when she has crooned the
little one to sleep, with one of those plaintive monotonous
melodies in a minor key, which seem to go on for
ever, like a rustling of reeds and forest leaves whilst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
the crickets are trilling their evensong, she spreads her
piece of matting on the floor, and lies down in front
of the little bed, like a faithful dog guarding its master's
slumbers.</p>

<p>As for the other servants, their name is Legion. A
colonial household requires a very numerous domestic
staff. Even families with modest incomes employ six
or seven servants, and ten is by no means an exceptional
number. The reason for this apparent extravagance is,
that, though the Javanese is not lazy&mdash;as he often and
unjustly is accused of being&mdash;yet he is so slow, that the
result practically is the same, and one needs two or
even three native servants, for work which one Caucasian
would despatch in the same time.</p>

<p>All these have their own quarters in the "compound"
and their own families in those quarters; they go "into
the house" as a man would go to his office; coming
home for meals, and entertaining their friends in the
evening, on their own square of matting, and with their
own saffron-tinted rice, and syrup-sweetened coffee.</p>

<p>Such then, is the setting of every-day existence in Java.</p>

<p>As for the central fact, it is less interesting than its
circumstances, in so far as it is more familiar. The
three or four great conceptions which determine the
home-life of a people&mdash;its ideas social, ethical, and
religious concerning the relations between parent and
child, and between men and women&mdash;are too deeply
ingrained into its mental substance to be affected by
any merely outward circumstances. Therefore, home-life
among the Hollanders in Java, is essentially the
same as among Hollanders in their own country. Still
there is difference, that it has more physical comfort,
and less intellectual interest. The climate, it seems to
me, is in a high degree responsible for both these facts.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img081" id="img081"><img src="images/img081.jpg" width="371" height="600" alt="Native gardener." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native gardener.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>A continual temperature of about 90 degrees is not
favourable to the growth of the finer faculties, in
Northerner's brains at least. The little band of eminent
men who have gone up from Java to shine in Dutch
Universities must be regarded as a signal exception
to a very general rule. Besides, the heat is so grave
an addition to the already heavy burden of the day,
that one requires all one's energies, both of body and
soul, to conscientiously discharge one's ordinary duties;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
and there is no surplus left to devote to literary, artistic,
or scientific pursuits. There are no theatres, no operas,
no concerts, no lectures, no really good newspapers,
even, in Java. There could not be, where there is so
little active public life. So that a man's one relaxation
after a hard day's work&mdash;unless he looks at dances and
dinners in that light&mdash;must be found in his own house.</p>

<p>One continually hears the phrase in the East,
"our house is our life." Naturally, therefore, the
house is made as pleasant as possible, and as comfortable,
not to say luxurious. Incomes are proportionately
very much higher in Java than in Holland&mdash;without
financial advantage as an incentive nobody
would accept life under tropical conditions&mdash;and the
better part of the money is spent on good living in the
majority of cases. Even families of comparatively
moderate means have a roomy house, a sufficient domestic
staff, and keep a carriage and a good table.</p>

<p>And as to the heat, which assuredly is a discomfort,
and no trifling one, the accepted mode of life does much
to palliate it, not only by the regime of housing, feeding,
and dressing, but almost as much by the way the
day is divided. Work is begun early, so as to get as
much as possible done in the cool hours; between nine
and five everybody keeps indoors; and those who can
snatch an hour of leisure after the one o'clock rice-table,
spend it in a siesta. Only in the early morning,
and in the evening does one see Europeans about. Not
even the greatest enthusiast for cricket and tennis dare
begin games earlier than half-past four.</p>

<p>Formerly this was different.</p>

<p>On old engravings, one may see the tall sombre
houses which the first colonists built on those "grachts"
now long since demolished. One may mark them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
walking home from a three hours' sermon in broadcloth
mantles, and velvet robes, giving solemn entertainments
in their trim gardens along the canal, with the sun in
noon-day glory over-head, and generally ignoring the
trifling differences between Amsterdam and Batavia.
They fought very valiantly for their ancestral customs;
but very few returned to tell of the fight.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img083" id="img083"><img src="images/img083.jpg" width="239" height="600" alt="Native footboy." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native footboy.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Since, people have reflected that a live Netherland-Indian
is better then a dead Hollander. And, giving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
up a fight, in which defeat was all but certain, and
success worse than useless, they have effected a compromise
with the climate. In Java they do as Java
does, from sunrise to sunset. But, with the congenial
cool of the evening, they resume their national existence,
the garb, the manners and the customs of Holland. At
seven there is a general "va et vient" of open carriages
bearing women in light dresses, and men in correct
black-and-white to a "reception" in some brilliantly-lighted
house; and for a few hours, the life of Home
is lived again.</p>

<p>Outside is the black tropical night, heavy with the
scent of invisible blossoms, pricked here and there by
the yellow spark of some trudging fruitvendor's oilwick.
The small fragment of Europe with that tall-colonnaded
marble-paved loggia, with its gliding figures of men
and women, is, stands an Island of Light among the
waveless seas of darkness.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img084" id="img084"><img src="images/img084.jpg" width="600" height="245" alt="Sacred gun near the Amsterdam gate, Batavia." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Sacred gun near the Amsterdam gate, Batavia.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="SOCIAL_LIFE" id="SOCIAL_LIFE">SOCIAL LIFE</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img086" id="img086"><img src="images/img086.jpg" width="400" height="314" alt="Brass flower-pot, modern (Java: Resid of Surabaya)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img087" id="img087"><img src="images/img087.jpg" width="600" height="236" alt="Wayang bèbèr, drawing, representing the story of Djaka Prataka." /></a>
</div>

<p>The social life of Batavia has a physiognomy of its
own; curious enough in some of its features. But it is
not this which strikes the new-comer most forcibly. In
certain Byzantine mosaics, the figure represented is
entirely eclipsed by the magnificence of the background:
the eye must grow accustomed to the splendour of the
gold and precious stones surrounding it, before it can
take in the lines of the face. In a similar manner, no
surmise can be formed as to the character of Batavia
social life before the charm has, at least in part, passed
off, which its setting casts over the critical faculties. It
moves in romance; it is surrounded by beauty; its conditions
and circumstances are in themselves a source of
delight. It would seem almost enough for a feast, in
the cool of the evening, to sit under the verandah,
marking on the gleaming marble floor half-reflections
as in tranquil waters under a tranquil sky seen from
afar; and the rich strange green, relieved against blackness,
of the plants on the steps outside, their every leaf
and shoot shone upon by the lamplight, standing out
sparkling against the ebon wall of night. From without,
there comes the chirping of crickets, and the deepbreathed
fragrance of flowers&mdash;tuberose, gardenia and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
datura, nocturnal blossoms. Framed between pillars
and architrave, great rectangles of sky are seen, interstellar
azure, and the countless scintillation of stars.
Environings such as these shed a grace and dignity even
over the actions of daily life. When the scene is in
itself fair, it is transfigured into what seems the vision
of a poet.</p>

<p>Shortly after my arrival, I was invited to a ball at
the palace. I was at the time staying with friends in
the Salemba quarter; and we had a drive of nearly an
hour through avenues of tall waringin trees. There
was no wind, not the faintest breath of air; all that
world of leaves stood unstirred; summits broad as hilltops,
and cascades of massive foliage, making a blackness
against skies all limpid with diffused starlight. Between
the vaguely-discerned stems, the little lights, which fruit
vendors keep twinkling all the night through, would
now and then flare up, and a reddish arm be revealed,
the portion of a face, and some fruits in a basket.
Once, too, we saw the shining of a fire with some native
watchmen crouching around it, their faces strangely
distorted in the ever-writhing and shifting light. One of
them shouted out a hoarse "who goes there?" That was
the only sound I heard all the time. Silence and night
all around; and overhead, like some pale river winding
along between shores of darkness, the gleaming course
of the sky between the dark waringin-tops. We might
have been in the heart of a woodland, miles away from
the populous city, when suddenly the horses turned a
corner, and there burst upon us the great white blaze
of the palace, shining beyond intervening darknesses. It
seemed like a low-hanging lightning-cloud, with myriads
of little flames, like sparks of Saint-Elmo's fire hovering
around, above, and underneath. Those aloft hung im<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>movable: the steadfast stars; lower down, immovable
too, a wide-swung circle of seemingly larger luminaries
defining a tract of darkness; within that flame-bound
space, trembling hither and thither, fitful will-o'-the
wisps; and, without the shining boundary, rushing lights
that darted by and suddenly stood, and then with jerks
and stops drew ever nearer to the great effulgent cloud.
The lights of stars, lanterns, oil-wicks, and carriage-lamps
seemed all to have been scattered from that central
glow. As we drew nearer, its cloudlike aspect changed
to the semblance of an alabaster grotto, the fire in its
white core streaked with lines of black; and these lines
broadened and lengthened until they grew into solid
shafts; when the columns of the loggia stood revealed,
rising from the height of a marble terrace.</p>

<p>I ascended the white steps. I was in the very heart
of the light. The pillars, the floor, the walls, and the
ceiling seemed to be made of light. And, suddenly, I
had a sense of home-coming. Why, I knew all this
very well! I had known it for years, for ever so long,
ever since the time when I listened to fairy tales, and
in the beautifully-bound book&mdash;I must not touch it, and
I kept my hands behind my back to withstand the
temptation&mdash;was shown the picture of the castle where
the Sleeping Beauty lived. At night, lying wide awake
up to quite nine o'clock, I saw it as plain as could be,
growing up around the lamp, with the groundglass shade
for a cupola. Later on, when I could read myself,
and also climb trees as the boys in the village had
taught me, sitting all through the drowsy summer
afternoons in the forked branch of an old, crooked
pear-tree, with Hans Andersen's tales on my knees, I
rebuilt the Castle on a bolder scale for the Little
Mermaiden. Alas! she was never to live there! Until,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
at last, when Romeo crossed the threshold, and Juliet
turned and stood at gaze, a burst of music flooded the
widening halls, entwined couples moved like flowers
that sway in the evening wind, and, between the tall
columns, I caught a glimpse of the sky and "all the
little stars." Now, I had entered the palace myself.
The great La France roses, and the Maréchal Niel that
fell in showers of gold over the edge of the marble
urns, had budded in my dream-garden. The music
played; and in the vast hall I knew so well, the polonaise
began to unwind its slow coils, with a flash of
goldlace and of diamonds, a gleaming of bare shoulders,
and a wavy movement of silken trains, whose hues
enriched the pale marble underfoot.... "We should
move into this place, I think," said my partner.</p>

<p>Since then, I have been to many entertainments. It is
but honest to say that at some I have enjoyed myself
exceedingly, pouring rains, and the croaking of frogs,
almost in the house, notwithstanding; and that at
others I have felt my eyes burning with tears of suppressed
yawning. It is true this has not happened
often; but, when it has, not all the stars in their courses,
nor all the constellations in their fixed places, could
inspirit me; and the perfume of the tuberoses gave me
a headache. I look at these things by gas-light now;
and some of them I find curious and not altogether
beautiful. One especially: the official character of social
life in the best circles. It seems as if discipline regulated
matters of pleasure as strictly as matters of business.
A man will go to his chief's party as he would
to his office of a morning, never dreaming of staying
away; and imposing old ladies resent the presence
of the wrong partner at a whist table, as if it were
an obstacle in their husband's career. It is as if they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
could not, even for one evening, forget the struggle
for existence, and as if they regarded a dinner or a
dance as an engagement with the enemy; a brisk assault
to carry by storm some place that has long stood a
regular siege&mdash;a lively skirmish in which everything
that comes to hand is a weapon for either attack or
self-defence. One cannot be too well equipped, in this
great battle of official life. Intellect is an excellent
weapon, but it is not the only one; and though zeal
is indispensable, it is not enough. There are too many
intelligent and conscientious men jostling each other
already. To pass them by, the ambitious man must
be more than merely intelligent and conscientious. He
must choose some special talent&mdash;any talent provided
it be special. Where merits are equal, the supererogatory
decides the contest. For a man at all well born and
well bred, accomplishments of the social order are the
easiest to acquire; besides, these seemingly futile things
are in reality most important. It is the men of the
world who get the good places; while stay-at-home
drudges may after ten years still stay at home and
drudge. Accordingly, social accomplishments are what
a wise man will strive to acquire. And, before anything
else, let him see that he plays a good game of
cards. All elderly gentlemen like cards; all chiefs of
departments are elderly gentlemen; therefore, all chiefs
of departments like cards. Hence these many and long-drawn-out
parties, where one sits at little green tables
until, dear God! those very tables seem asleep, and the
faint heart is all but lying still. And hence the patience
and the stoical courage, with which ambitious men
endure the trial. Though, to the superficial observer,
they are only taking their pleasures laboriously, they
take better things than their pleasure: a chance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
preferment. They have heard ballads being sung and
said about the man who stormed the high places with
his chair for a steed and a pack of cards for shield
and spear, and utterly defeated and drove out the
garrison of quill-armed men. These things have been.
And once upon a time, there was a Head of Department,
who held the official virtues to be statistics,
discipline, and cards: but the greatest of these was
cards. By his play, he judged a man. A woman he
did not judge at all, conceiving her to be a non-card-playing
being. And a woman sitting down to a game,
notwithstanding her declared and organic inability, was
to him the abomination of desolation. But let young
civil servants come to him! And happy that young
civil servant who could, and would, and did stand up
to him, and even defeat him utterly, to the greater
glory of cards! For this man was a truly great soul;
and he preferred the honour of the game very far indeed
to his own as a player.</p>

<p>Still, as all roads lead to Rome, so a good many lead
to preferment. If one great man loves cards, another
is partial to a good dinner, and most affable over paté
de foie gras and a bottle of Burgundy. And a third&mdash;this
one, presumably, the proud father of pretty daughters&mdash;has
a predilection for dances. So that a man may
choose his own path upwards; and, if he will not play,
why, he may dance.</p>

<p>And dance they do in Batavia, with fervour and
assiduity. On east-monsoon nights, when the very
crickets judge it too hot for the exertion of chirping,
snatches of Strausz waltzes may be caught floating out
on the heavy air; and luminous shapes be seen twirling
in some brilliantly-lighted front-gallery. Out of every
ten persons you meet, nine are enthusiastic waltzers;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
and the fieriest fanatic of them all is sure to be a young
civil servant thus "with victory and with melody"
pursuing his upward path to the heights of official
honours. Nothing arrests him in his career. The
gallery too narrow for his evolutions does not exist.
One exhausted partner after another he has led back
to her mamma and the restorative champagne-cup, and
his ardour is not a whit abated, though his hair seems
to be sprinkled with diamond-dust, and its cheeks have
sunk to the pallor of that wilted lily, his collar&mdash;the
last of the posy gathered at home, and thrown away
drooping into a corner of the dressingroom, off the
verandah. This is sublime courage, indeed. As one
looks at him, one is reminded of Indian braves, who,
at the first outburst of the war-hoop, put on their very
best paint and shiniest mocassins, and hurry to the
gathering of the chiefs, there to dance the war-dance;
not inelegantly, nor without hidden meaning: each
prance and twirl a prophecy of scalp-wreathed triumphs.</p>

<p>But dancing&mdash;like virtue&mdash;may be argued to be its
own reward. And, as such, it but partially fits into
the system of amusements considered as a means to
preferment. For the triumph of the principle, commend
me to a reception. Each great man's day&mdash;for it is
his, observe, and not his wife's&mdash;is announced beforehand
in the newspapers, or printed, one in a long list,
on a separate slip of paper, which you must stick up
in the corner of your mirror, so that there shall be no
pretext for ignorance. To make assurance doubly sure,
you put a pencil mark against the name and "day"
of your own particular great man. On the appointed
date, as the clock strikes seven, you go. From afar
you see the blaze of his front gallery; the drive shines
with multitudinous carriage-lamps, and every now and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
then, as another vehicle draws up, the master of the
house is seen descending the verandah-steps, to help
some lady to alight from her carriage, with grave courtesy
offering her his arm to conduct her towards the
hostess. She rises, extends a welcoming hand, begs her
newly-arrived guest to be seated, and resumes a languid
conversation with the great lady at her right. Unless,
indeed, the new arrival be a greater lady, in which case
the former occupant will cede to her the place of honour,
and content herself with the next. Soon, around the
big marble-topped table, the circle is drawn, one-half
of it shining like the rainbowed sky; the other black
as innermost darkness; one semi-circle of women; another
of men; as strictly separated as we are taught
that the sheep and goats shall be, on a certain day. I
cannot but think that the men must be conscious of
the fact, and its dire symbolism. For, as often as not,
they get up, and stand unhappily together in the farthest
corner of the verandah, and, with cigars and cigarettes,
make little clouds to hide themselves from the children
of the light shining afar off, and drink sherry out
of little glasses, in deep meditation. Until, suddenly,
the booming of the eight o'clock gun breaks the spell.
Every watch is taken out of every waistcoat-pocket,
and set aright. Every countenance brightens, and the
greatest man of all&mdash;"not Lancelot, nor another,"
for his life!&mdash;catching a look from his lady, sitting
mournful in her place, steps forward, and boldly claims
her for his own again. Then the others follow, the
host still conducting each fair one back to her carriage;
and in another moment the verandah is left desolate,
and that reception is a thing of the past.</p>

<p>Not more than two or three of the guests have
interchanged a word with either host or hostess beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
the conventional phrases of welcome and good bye; and
unless some members of the same coterie have been
sitting together,&mdash;Batavia society is as full of coteries
as a pine-apple is of seeds&mdash;they have not had much
conversation among themselves either. Of pleasure,
there has been nothing, of profit so much as may be
derived from seeing and being seen. It is almost as it
was at the Court of Louis XIV. Acte de présence has
been made: and that is all; but, as it seems, it is enough.
This is, indeed, a triumph of the bureaucratie principle.</p>

<p>In "Java"&mdash;as the Batavians call the rest of the
island, in curious contradistinction to the capital&mdash;this
principle rules with even greater despotism: it assumes
the importance of an article of faith. Batavia, after
all, that "suburb of the Hague," is too much influenced
by the manners and opinions of the Mother Country to
be accounted a colonial town. And, among the colonial
ideas it is gradually discarding, is that one of the
extreme importance and supereminence of office. In
Holland, society metes with a different measure. And
the knowledge, perpetually forced on him, that the
Honourable of Batavia must sink into plain Mr. Jansen
or Smit of the Hague, is sobering enough to keep the
vanity of even the most arrogant official within decent
limits. Not to mention the fact that, among his fellow-citizens,
there is a large proportion of non-officials, not
at all eager to acknowledge even his temporary superiority.
But in "Java," where communication with the
civilized world is much less frequent and much more
difficult, old colonial notions have retained their pristine
vigour. The "Resident" of a little Java station is still
very much what his predecessor, the "Merchant," was
in the days of the East-India Company: a veritable little
king. The gilt "payong" held over his head on official<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
occasions seems a royal canopy, and his gold-laced
uniform-cap a kingly crown in the eyes of his temporary
subjects. The native chiefs revere him as their "elder
brother." His own subordinates naturally look up to
him. The planters, who, in their transactions with the
native population&mdash;bad keepers of contracts, on the
whole&mdash;are dependent upon his decision, need to be,
and to continue on good terms with him. And when
it is further taken into consideration that the social life
of the station must be exactly what he chooses to make
it, it will be evident why even absolutely independent
persons should seek to be in his good graces. Thus the
man lives in an atmosphere of adulation. If there be
a lack of humour or an abundance of vanity in his
composition, he will take his pseudo-royalty seriously,
and strictly exact homage. But, in the opposite case,
and even when he is averse to it, it will be still pressed
upon him. An anecdote illustrating this was told me,
the other day, by an official, himself the object, or, as
he put it, the victim, of this particular kind of hero-worship.</p>

<p>He was driving at a rapid pace, down a precipitous
road, when the horse stumbled and fell, his light dogcart
was upset, and he himself flung out of the seat.
He had barely recovered from the stunning fall, when
he caught sight of his secretary&mdash;who had been following
in his own carriage&mdash;coming bounding down the
steep road like a big india-rubber ball, rolling over and
over in the dust. "Hullo, Jansen! have you been upset,
too?"&mdash;"No, Resident," sputters the fat little man,
scrambling to his feet again, "but I thought, the R-Resident
l-l-leaps, I leap, too!"</p>

<p>And here is the pendent:</p>

<p>In the latest cholera-scare, an old lady, the widow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
of a comptroller, had been left the sole European resident
of her station, all the others having left for the hills.
The Resident, surmising inability to meet the expenses
of travel to be the reason of her staying on, offered to
convey her to a bungalow in the hills, which his own
family was then occupying. The old lady came to
thank him for the proposal. But she could not, she
said, accept it. She judged her hour had come; and
she was not afraid of death. Only one favour she would
beg from the Resident. It should be remembered that
her husband had been a comptroller, and that, as his
widow, she was in rank superior to all the European
inhabitants of the station, coming second after the Resident
himself. Now her request was this; would the
Resident be so good as to leave written instructions, in
case they both should die, to the effect that her grave
should be dug next to his?</p>

<p>One would expect such an excess of bureaucratic
etiquette to breed dullness and constraint unspeakable.
And it certainly somewhat galls the new-comer. But
it is all an affair of custom, and, after a while, these
ceremonious manners come to seem as natural and
necessary as the ordinary courtesies of life, and not a
whit more detrimental to the pleasantness of social
intercourse. Indeed, one sometimes sees positions reversed,
and Netherland-Indians accusing Hollanders of
stiffness. And it must be owned that the new-comer
in Batavia Society, is struck by a certain grace and
easiness of manner that contrasts forcibly with the somewhat
frigid reserve of the typical Hollander: as forcibly
as a seventeenth-century family mansion on the Heerengracht,
solid, imposing, and gloomy as a fortress, contrasts
with an airy Batavia bungalow, where birds build their
nests on the capitals of the columns, and the whiteness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
of the floor is tinged with slanting sunbeams and reflections
of tall-leaved plants. And, analogous contrasts meet
one at every step. Life here has less dignity than it
has in the mother country; but it has more grace. Of
its&mdash;real or seeming&mdash;necessaries, not a few are lacking.
But what was that saying about the wisdom of striving
for the superfluities, and caring naught for the necessaries
of life? Existence in Netherland-India is based
upon this principle. The superfluous is striven for&mdash;the
richness and the romance of things: and everyday-life
is the more acceptable for it. The comparatively
poor in the colony fare better than the comparatively
rich at home. They have more leisure, greater comforts,
and better opportunities for amusement. Hence, the
prevalence of "mondain" manners.</p>

<p>Hospitality is another characteristic of the average
Netherland-Indian. In the mother country, a man's
house is his castle; but in Java it is the castle of his
guest. And his guest is practically, whoever likes, a
relation, a friend, a mere acquaintance, an utter stranger,
his name not so much as heard of before, who comes
"to bring the greetings of a friend"&mdash;as the pretty, old
fashioned phrase has it: and he will meet with the
most cordial of welcomes. People are not content with
simply receiving a guest: they feast him. And, when
hospitality is offered, it is meant, not for days, but for
weeks. To stay for two or three months at a friend's
house is nothing out of the common; and this not for
a single person merely, but for a whole family&mdash;parents,
servants, and all. I know I am speaking within the
mark: having myself been one of nine guests, four of
whom had been staying for some weeks already at a
hospitable house in Batavia. And in "Java"&mdash;where
hotels are bad and railways few and far between, it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
by no means rare to find an even more numerous company
foregathered at the house of the Resident, who
thus "does the honours" of an entire district; or at
the bungalows of rich planters, jealously competing with
the official for what they consider the privilege rather
than the duty of hospitality. They exercise it in a
truly princely way. A well-known tea-planter, some
time ago, celebrating his silver wedding, commemorated
the event by an entertainment, which lasted for three
days, and to which a hundred and fifty guests were
invited. Bamboo huts had been erected for those who
could not be accommodated in the house; barns were
converted into ball-rooms and dining-halls; and the
native population of half the district came and was
welcomed to its share of the feast.</p>

<p>This, of course, is a signal instance; but the tendency
which it illustrates is a very general one, so much so,
in fact, that it has influenced domestic architecture, and
rendered the pavilion (the colonial equivalent for our
"spare room") as indispensable a part of the house as
the bath-room and the kitchen.&mdash;Sometimes indeed the
pavilion is let. But generally it remains dedicated to
the uses of hospitality, and still awaits the "coming
and going man," as the Dutch phrase has it. At its
door welcome for ever smiles, and farewell goes out
weeping.</p>

<p>Welcome. Farewell. Here, in Batavia, the short
significant words ever and again fall upon the ear,
recurrent in conversations as the deep, dominant bass-note
that sends a repeated vibration through all the
changes and modulations of a melody; far off and
distinct, as the moan of circling seas, heard in the
central dells of an island where the clear-throated
thrushes sing. The sensation of the temporary, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
transitory, and the uncertain that thrills the atmosphere
of a sea-port is in the air of this seemingly-quiet inland
town. It is a common saying here, that one should not
make plans for more than a month beforehand. But
even a month seems almost too bold a reaching into
futurity, when every day is full of chances and changes,
and the aspect of things alters over-night. A promotion,
an attack of fever, a fluctuation in the sugar or
tobacco-market, a letter from Holland&mdash;and friends are
separated, homes broken up, and careers changed.</p>

<p>The effects of this living on short notice, if I may so
call it, are perceptible in everything pertaining to colonial
customs, ideas, and society. I entered, the other
day, one of those ancient mansions long ago degraded
to offices of "the old city." The armorial bearings of
the patrician, who built it in the beginning of the
century, still ornament the entrance. There are stucco
mouldings over the doors that lead into the great, half-dark
chambers. A trace of gold and bright colours is
still discernible on the blinds of the tall lattice windows,
the glass of which shines with the iridescent colours
that so many days of sunshine and of rain have wrought
into it; and the great staircase has an oaken balustrade
richly sculptured in the style of the 17th century. The
paint might be gone, the mouldings choked with dust
and cobwebs, the sculptured ornaments of the balustrade
defaced; but there was not a stone loose in those
massive old walls nor a plank rotten in the floor. Yet,
it had been abandoned. And so has the conception of
life, of which it was the visible and tangible expression.
Much hard-and-fastness of tradition and convention has
been done away with. Where circumstances change so
frequently opinions must likewise change. As a result
a certain liberality of thought has come to be a char<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>acteristic of colonial society. There is something generous
and truly humane in the opinions one hears currently
professed, and the courage to act up to these convictions
is not wanting. But on the other hand delicacy, chivalry,
and what one might call the decorum of the heart, are
on the whole sadly wanting. The general tone is somewhat
"robustious"; this is perhaps an effect of the
climate and soil. On the whole, and to give a general idea
of Batavia society, I fancy one might compare it to that
of some rich provincial town. There is the same eagerness
for precedence, the same intimacy and tattle and
neighbourly kindness, the same high living and plain
thinking. But, in the little provincial town, there is not
such freedom from narrowness and prejudice, nor is there
so much hard work done under such unfavourable
circumstances, nor so much home sickness and anxiety
and lonely sorrow so bravely borne, as in Batavia.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img101" id="img101"><img src="images/img101.jpg" width="600" height="187" alt="Mandau." /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img102" id="img102"><img src="images/img102.jpg" width="400" height="414" alt="Raksasa (Demon)" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="GLIMPSES_OF_NATIVE_LIFE" id="GLIMPSES_OF_NATIVE_LIFE">GLIMPSES OF NATIVE LIFE</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img104" id="img104"><img src="images/img104.jpg" width="400" height="492" alt="Mask used by Topeng-players" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img105" id="img105"><img src="images/img105.jpg" width="600" height="294" alt="Creese. (Java)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">A just</span> appreciation of sentiments and motives repugnant
to our own is among the most difficult of intellectual
feats. The Germans express their sense of
this truth by a concise and vigorous, if not altogether
elegant saying: "No man can get out of his own skin,
and into his neighbour's." A difference of colour between
the said skins, it may be added, withholds even
adventurous souls from attempting the temporary transmigration.
And the wisdom of nations, brown and
white, sanctions this diffidence. In Java Occidentals and
Orientals have been dwelling together for about three
centuries. They have become conversant with each
other's language, opinions, and affairs; they are brought
into a certain mutual dependence, and into daily and
hourly contact; there is no arrogance or contempt on
the one side, no abject fear or hatred on the other; no
wilful prejudice, it would seem, on either. But the
Hollanders do not understand the Javanese, nor do the
Javanese understand the Hollanders, in any true sense
of the word. So that it seems the part of wisdom to
acknowledge this at the outset, merely stating that the
notions of nice and nasty, fair and foul, right and
wrong, such as they obtain among the two nations are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
antagonistic. Anyway, on the part of a casual observer,
such as the present writer, any further criticisms would
be presumptuous and almost inevitably unjust; therefore,
they will be refrained from.</p>

<p>But, whereas I freely confess that the inner life of
the Javanese has remained hidden from me, their outward
existence has become familiar enough. The Javanese
practically live out-of-doors. They take their bath
in the river; perform their toilet under some spreading
warigin tree, hanging a mirror as big as the hand on
the rugged stem; and squat down to their meal by the
roadside. After nightfall, dark figures may be discerned
around the stalls of fruit-vendors, fantastically lit up
by the uncertain flame of an oil-wick. And, in the dry
season, they often sleep on the moonlit sward of some
garden, or on the steps of an untenanted house.</p>

<p>This life seems strange to us Northerners, self-constituted
prisoners of roofs and walls. But we have only
to look at a Malay, and the intuitive conviction flashes
on us, that it is eminently right and proper for him to
live in this manner. He is a creature of the field. His
supple, sinewy frame, his dark skin, the far-away look
in his eyes, the very shape of his feet, with the short,
strong toes, well separated from one another&mdash;his whole
appearance&mdash;immediately suggest a background of trees
and brushwood, running water, sunlit, wind-swept spaces,
and the bare brown earth. And the scenery of Java
with its strange colouring, at once violent and dull, its
luxuriant vegetation, and its abrupt changes in the midst
of apparent monotony, lacks the final, completing touch
in the absence of dusky figures moving through it.
Landscape and people are each other's natural complement
and explanation. Hence, the picturesque and
poetic charm of the Javanese out-of-doors.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img107" id="img107"><img src="images/img107.jpg" width="600" height="485" alt="The River-Bath." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The River-Bath.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>One of the most fascinating scenes is that of the bath
in the river, soon after sunrise: at Batavia, I have
frequently watched it from the Tanah Alang embankment.
The early sunlight,&mdash;a clear yellow, with a
sparkle as of topazes in it&mdash;makes the dewy grass to
glisten, and brightens the subdued green of the tamarind-trees
along the river; between the oblique bars of
shadow the brownish water gleams golden. On the
bank, scores of natives are stripping for the bath. The
men run down, leap into the stream, and dive under;
as they come up again, their bare bodies shine like so
many bronze statues. The women descend the slope
with a slower step; they have pulled up their sarong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
over the bosom, leaving their shapely shoulders bare to
the sun. At the edge of the water they pause for an
instant, lifting both arms to twist their hair into a knot
on the summit of the head; then, entering, they bend
down, and wet their face and breast. Young mothers
are there, leading their little ones by the hand, and
coaxing them step by step further into the shallow stream.
Crowds of small boys and girls have taken noisy possession
of the river, plunging and splashing and calling
out to each other, as they swim about, kicking up the
water at every stroke of their sturdy little feet.
Half hidden in a clump of tall-leaved reeds by the
margin, young girls are disporting themselves, making
believe to bathe, as they empty little buckets, made of
a palmleaf, over each other's head and shoulders, until
their black hair shines, and the running water draws
their garments into flowing, clinging folds, that mould
their lithe little figures from bosom to ankle. Then,
perhaps, all of a sudden, a bamboo raft will appear
round the bend of the river; or a native boat, its inmates
sitting at their morning meal under the awning; and
some friendly talk is exchanged between them and the
bathers, as the craft makes its way through the slowly-dividing
groups. One day I saw a broad, brick-laden
barge, that had thus come lumbering down the stream,
run aground on the shallows; the men jumped out, and
began pulling and shoving to get it afloat again. The
water dripped from their tucked-up sarongs, and their
backs gleamed in the sunshine, as, almost bent double,
they urged the ponderous thing forward. But still, the
bright red heap remained stationary. Suddenly, a young
boy, who had just stripped for the bath came down the
embankment with a running leap, and giving the boat
a sudden sharp push, sent it darting forward. Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
he stood up, laughing, and shook back the shock of
black hair which had fallen over his eyes. He looked
like a dusky young river god, who out of his kindness
had come to assist his votaries.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img109" id="img109"><img src="images/img109.jpg" width="600" height="492" alt="A laundry in the river." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A laundry in the river.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The flower-market too is a scene of idyllic grace,
when, after their early bath in the river, the women
come trooping thither, and stand bargaining, their hands
full of red and pink roses, creamy jessamine, and tuberoses
whiter than snow. The Javanese have a great
love of flowers, though, apparently, they take no trouble
to raise them in their gardens. In Batavia, at least, I
never saw any growing near their cottages in the kampong;
save perhaps the sturdy hibiscus in hedges, and that large<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
white, odoriferous convolvulus which the wind sows along
roadsides and hedgerows&mdash;the "beauty-of-the-night."
And they do not seem to care for a handful of flowers
in a vase, to brighten the semi-darkness of their little
pàgar huts.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img110" id="img110"><img src="images/img110.jpg" width="600" height="423" alt="Native lady travelling in her litter." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native lady travelling in her litter.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img111" id="img111"><img src="images/img111.jpg" width="600" height="378" alt="A Litter." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Litter.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But the women are hardly ever seen without a rosebud
or tuberose-blossom twined into their hair, and the men
not unfrequently have one stuck behind the ear, or
between the folds of their head-kerchief. As for the
children; their bare brown little bodies are hung with
tandjong wreaths. The plucked-out petals of all manner
of fragrant flowers are used to scent the water which
the women pour over their long black hair, after washing
it with a decoction of charred leaves and stalks; and,
together with ambergris, and a sweet smelling root, called
"akhar wanggi," dried flowers are strewn between the
folds of their holiday-attire. Like all Orientals, the
Javanese are excessively fond of perfumes, which, no
doubt, partially explains their profuse use of strongly-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>scented flowers. But that, apart from the merely sensual
enjoyment of the smell, they prize flowers for the pleasure
afforded to the eye by their tints and shapes, is proved
by the frequency with which floral designs occur on
their clothes and ornaments. The full globes of the
lotos-buds, the disc of the unfolded flower with leaves
radiating, its curiously-configurated pistil, are recognized
again and again on the scabbards and handles of the
men's poniards and on the girdle-clasps and the large
silver kabaya-brooches of the women. The fine cloth
for sarongs is decorated with fanciful delineations of the
flowers that blow in every field and meadow, their calixes
and curly tendrils sprouting amidst figures of widemouthed
dragons, fanged and clawed. Moreover, for
their hidden virtues, and the sacred meanings of which
they are the symbol, flowers are by the natives associated
with all the principal acts and circumstances of their
lives&mdash;with joy and sorrow and ceremony, and the service<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
of the gods. When the village folk, donning their holiday-attire,
go forth to the festive planting of the rice, or the
gathering, stalk by stalk, of the ripe ears, they wear
wreaths of flowers twined in their hair. At the feast
of his circumcision, the boy is crowned with them. They
are the chief ornament of lovers on their marriage day&mdash;gleaming
in the elaborate head dress of the bride, and
dangling down as a long fringe from the groom's golden
diadem; wreathing the scabbard of his poniard; and
girdling his naked waist, all yellow with boreh powder.
They are brought in solemn offering to the dead, when,
on the third, the seventh, the fortieth, the hundredth,
and the thousandth day, the kinsmen visit the grave of
the departed one, to pray for the welfare of his soul,
and in return implore his protection, and that of all the
ancestors up to Adam and Eve, the parents of mankind.
And lastly, flowers are thought the most acceptable
offering to the gods, the ancient gods whom no violence
of Buddhist or Mohammedan invader has succeeded in
ousting from that safe sanctuary, the people's heart,
which they share now, in mutual good-will and tolerance,
with the Toewan Allah, "besides whom there is
no God." Under some huge waringin tree, at the gate of a
town or village, an altar is erected to the tutelary genius
the "Danhjang Dessa," who has his abode in the
thick-leaved branches. And the pious people, whenever
they have any important business to transact, come to
it, and bring a tribute of frankincense and flowers, to
propitiate the god, and implore his protection and
assistance, that the matter they have taken in hand
may prosper. On the way from Batavia to Meester
Cornelis, there stands such a tree by the road-side, an
immense old waringin, in itself a forest. And the rude
altar in its shade, fenced off from the public road by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
a wooden railing, from sunrise to sunset is fragrant
with floral offerings.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img113" id="img113"><img src="images/img113.jpg" width="600" height="440" alt="The Market at Malang." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The Market at Malang.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>There are several flower-markets in Batavia. But
I have taken a particular fancy to the one held at
Tanah Abang. Its site is a somewhat singularly chosen
one for the purpose, near the entrance to the cemetery,
and in the shadow of the huge old gateway, the superscription
on which dedicates the place to the repose of
the dead, and their pious memory. In its deep, dark
arch, as in a black frame, is set a vista of dazzling
whiteness, plastered tombstones, pillars, and obelisks
huddled into irregular groups, with here and there a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
figure hewn in fair white marble soaring on outstretched
wings, and everywhere a scintillation as of
molten metal&mdash;the colourless, intolerable glare, to which
the fierce sunlight fires the corrugated zinc of the roofs
protecting the monuments.</p>

<p>But on the other side of the gateway there are restful
shadows and coolness. Some ancient gravestones pave
the ground, as if it were the floor of an old village
church&mdash;bluish-grey slabs emblazoned with crests and
coats-of-arms in worn away bas-relief. Heraldic shapes
are still faintly discernible on some; and long Latin
epitaphs, engraved in the curving characters of the
seventeenth century, may be spelt out, recording names
which echo down the long corridors of time in the
history of the colony; and, oddly latinized, the style and
title bestowed on the deceased by the Lords Seventeen,
rulers of the Honourable East India Company&mdash;the Company
of Far Lands, as in the olden time it was called.</p>

<p>Hither, before the sun is fairly risen, come a score
of native flower-sellers, shivering in the morning air,
who spread squares of matting on the soil, and, squatting
down, proceed to arrange the contents of their heaped-up
baskets. The bluish-grey gravestones, with the coats
of arms and long inscriptions, are covered with heaps
of flowers: creamy Melati as delicate and sharply-defined
in outline as if they had been carved out of
ivory; pink and red Roses with transparent leaves, that
cling to the touch; Tjempakah-telor, great smooth globes
of pearly whiteness; the long calixes of the Cambodja-blossom,
in which tints of yellow and pink and purple
are mixed as in an evening sky; the tall sceptre of
the Tuberose, flower-crowned; and "pachar china,"
which seems to be made out of grains of pure gold.</p>

<p>Some who know the tastes of the "orang blandah"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
have brought flowering plants to market, mostly Malmaison
Roses and tiny Japanese Lilies, just dug up, the
earth still clinging to their delicate roots; or they sit
binding wax-white Gardenias, violet Scabiosa, and leaves
as downy and grey as the wings of moths, into stiff
clumsy wreaths; for they have learnt that the white
folks choose flowers of these dull tints to lay upon the
tombs of their dead. And there is one old man, brown,
shrunken, and wrinkled, as if he had been made out
of the parched earth of the cemetery, who sells handfuls
of plucked-out petals, stirring up now and then,
with his long finger, the soft, fragrant heap in his
basket&mdash;thousands of brilliantly-coloured leaflets.</p>

<p>About seven o'clock, the customers, almost exclusively
women, arrive, fresh from their bath in the neighbouring
river. They form picturesque groups on the
sunny road, those slender figures in their bright-hued
garments, pink, and red, and green, their round brown
faces and black hair, still wet and shining, framed in
the yellow aureole of the payong<a name="FNanchor_A_2" id="FNanchor_A_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_2" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> which they hold
spread out behind their head. And the quiet spot in
the shadow of the cemetery gate is alive with their
high-pitched twittering voices, as they go about from
one flower-seller to another, bargaining for Jessamines,
Orange-blossoms, and tiny pink Roses, which, with deft
fingers, they twist into the glossy coil of their "kondeh."</p>

<p>Javanese women are most pardonably proud of their
hair. It is somewhat coarse, but very long and thick
and of a brilliant black, with bluish gleams in it; and
it prettily frames their broad forehead with regular,
well-defined curves and points. They take great care
of it, too, favourably contrasting, in this respect, with
European women of the lower classes, though some of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>their methods, it must be owned, are repugnant to
European notions of decency. As they bathe, and sleep,
and eat in public, so, in public, they cleanse each
other's hair. A woman will squat down in some shady
spot by the roadside, and, shaking loose her coiled-up
hair, submit to the manipulations of a friend, who parts
the strands with her spread-out fingers, and removes ...
superfluities, with quick monkey-like gestures. What
would you have? "The country's manner, the country's
honour," as the Dutch proverb hath it. This particular
way of cleansing the hair is a national institution among
the Javanese. And, as such, it is celebrated in the
legends of the race, and in the tales of the olden time,
which are still repeated, of an evening, among friends.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img116" id="img116"><img src="images/img116.jpg" width="600" height="424" alt="Street-Dancers." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Street-Dancers.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img117" id="img117"><img src="images/img117.jpg" width="600" height="421" alt="Musicians." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Musicians.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The scholar of the party, by the light of an oil-wick,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>reads from a greasy manuscript which he has hired
for the evening at the price of one "pitji."<a name="FNanchor_A_3" id="FNanchor_A_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_3" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> It is the
story of the beautiful beggarmaid, who wanders from
village. She does not know her own name or who
were her parents, having, in infancy, been stolen by
robbers. One day, she comes begging to the gates of
the palace. The Rajah orders the guards to admit the
suppliant, and his Raden-Ajoe<a name="FNanchor_B_4" id="FNanchor_B_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_4" class="fnanchor">[C]</a> causes a repast to be
prepared for her. They are kind towards those in
affliction, having known great sorrow themselves: for
their only child a daughter, mysteriously disappeared
years and years ago; and now they are old and childless.
The Rajah, gazing upon the stranger, frequently
sighs: his daughter would have grown up to be a
maiden as fair, if she had lived. And the Raden-Ajoe,
taking her by the hand, bids her sit down, and
unloose those glossy locks, worthy to be wreathed with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
the fragrant blossom of the asana. She herself will
cleanse them. Then, as she parts the long braids, ah!
there upon the crown, behold the cicatrice which her
little daughter had! The long-lost one is found again.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img118" id="img118"><img src="images/img118.jpg" width="443" height="600" alt="The native cithara and violin." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The native cithara and violin.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img119" id="img119"><img src="images/img119.jpg" width="360" height="600" alt="Clasp for fastening a kabaya in front." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Clasp for fastening a kabaya in front.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>In Javanese fairy tales the long locks of nymphs and
goddesses are treasured as talismans by the hero who
has been fortunate enough to obtain one. There is
great virtue for instance, in the long hair of the Pontianak,
the cruel sprite that haunts the waringin tree.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
Have you never seen her glide by, white in the silver
moonlight? Have you never heard her laugh, loud
and long, when all was still? She is the soul of a
dead virgin, whom no lover ever kissed. And now she
cannot rest, because she never knew love; and she
would fain win it yet; though not in kindness now,
but in spite and deadly malice. She sits in the branches
of trees, softly singing to herself as she combs her long
hair. And when a young man, hearing her song, pauses
to listen, she meets him, in the semblance of a maid
fairer than the bride of the Love-god, and raises soft
eyes to him and smiling lips. But, when he would
embrace her, he feels the gaping wound in her back,
which she had concealed under her long hair. And,
as he stands speechless with horror, she breaks away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
from him with a long loud laugh, and cries: "Thou
hast kissed the Pontianak, thou must die!" And, ere
the moon is full again, his kinsmen will have brought
flowers to his grave. But, if he be quick-witted and
courageous, he will seize the evil spirit by her flying
locks; and, if he succeeds but in plucking out one
single hair, he will not die, but live to a great age,
rich, honoured, and happy, the husband of a Rajah's
daughter and the father of Princes.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img121" id="img121"><img src="images/img121.jpg" width="600" height="426" alt="A Native Restaurant in its most compendious shape." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Native Restaurant in its most compendious shape.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Some men are fortunate, however, from their birth,
and do not need the Pontianak's long hair; that is
because their own grows in a peculiar manner, from
two circular spots near the crown. To the owner of
such a "double crown," nothing adverse can ever happen.
All his wishes will be fulfilled, and he will prosper in
whatever matter he sets his hand to.</p>

<p>Again, it is not men alone who are thus visibly
marked by fate. In the crinklings of the hair on a
horse's neck, the wise read plain signs of good or bad
fortune by which it is made manifest whether the horse
will be lucky and carry his rider to honour and happiness,
or unlucky and maim or even kill him. That is
the great point about a horse: the way in which the
hair on his neck grows. If therefore you should find
the auspicious sign on him, buy the animal, whatever
may be the price and however old, ugly, or weak he
may seem to the ignorant. But, if you find the sign
of ill-luck, send him away at once, and cause the
marks of his hoofs to be carefully obliterated from the
path that leads to your door; for if you neglect this
precaution, great disaster may be brought upon you and
all your house. Reflect upon this, and the true significance
of the history of Damocles will be revealed to you.
In truth, all fortune, good or bad, hangs by a single hair.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img123" id="img123"><img src="images/img123.jpg" width="600" height="437" alt="For the morning and evening meal he prefers the open air and the cuisine of the warong." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>For the morning and evening meal he prefers the open air and the cuisine of the warong.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>After the bath, the Javanese proceeds to take his
morning meal; and this, again is a public performance.
The noon repast&mdash;the only solid one in the day&mdash;is
prepared and eaten at home. But, for the morning
and evening meals, the open air and the cuisine of the
warong are preferred. The warong is the native restaurant.
There are many kinds and varieties of it: from
its most simple and compendious shape&mdash;two wooden
cases, the one containing food, prepared and raw, the
other, a chafing-dish full of live coals, and a supply
of crockery&mdash;to its fully-developed form, the atap-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>covered hut. There, a dozen, and more customers hold
their symposia presided over by the owner, who sits
cross-legged on the counter amid heaps of fruit, vegetables,
and confectionery. All manner of men meet
here: drivers of sadoos or hack carriages, small merchants,
artizans, Government clerks, policemen, water-carriers,
servants, hadjis,<a name="FNanchor_A_5" id="FNanchor_A_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_5" class="fnanchor">[D]</a> not to mention the "corresponding"
womankind. They talk, they talk! and they laugh!
The affairs of all Batavia are discussed here&mdash;matters
of business, intrigue, love, money, office, everything,
material to make a Javanese Decamerone of, if a
Boccaccio would but come and put it into shape.
There are several of these warongs about Tanah-Abang
and the Koningsplein, and, of course, in the native
quarters. But the smaller, portable ones are found
everywhere: by the river-side, at the railway stations,
at the sadoo-stands, along the canals, at the corners
of the streets; and they seem to do a thriving business.</p>

<p>Each of these itinerant cooks has his own place on
the pavement or in the avenue, recognised as such by
the tacit consent of the others. Hither he comes trudging,
in the early morning, carefully balancing his cases
at the end of the long bamboo yoke, so as not to break
any of the dozens of cups, glasses, and bottles on his
tray; then, having disposed his commodities in the
most appetizing manner, he stirs up the charcoal in
the chafing-dish, and begins culinary operations. One
of these is the preparation of the coffee, which consists
of pouring boiling water upon the leaves, instead of
the berries, of the coffee tree, after the manner of
some Arab tribes. Sometimes, however, the berries
also are used, and the infusion is sweetened with lumps
of the dark-brown, faintly flavoured sugar that is won
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>from the areng-palm. Then the rice&mdash;the principal
dish of this, as of any other meal&mdash;is boiled in a conical
bag of plaited palm fibre; and, when ready, is
made up into heaped-up portions, with, perhaps, a bit
of dried fish and some shreds of scarlet lombok<a name="FNanchor_A_6" id="FNanchor_A_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_6" class="fnanchor">[E]</a> stuck
on the top. This is for the solid part of the repast;
the dessert is next thought of. It is ready in the portable
cupboard&mdash;the thrifty wife of the vendor having
risen long before dawn to prepare it&mdash;and is now set
forth, on strips of torn-up banana-leaf, as on plates
and saucers; green and white balls of rice-meal, powdered
over with rasped cocoa-nut, orange cakes of Indian
corn, shaking pink jellies, and slices of some tough
dark-brown stuff. The cool fresh green of the banana-leaf
makes the prettiest contrast imaginable to all these
colours, its silky surface and faint fragrance giving, at
the same time, an impression of dainty cleanliness such
as could never be achieved by even the most spotless
linen and china of a European dining-table.</p>

<p>The Javanese are very frugal eaters. A handful of
rice with a pinch of salt, and, perhaps, a small dried
fish being sufficient for a day's ration. Of course, we,
Europeans, confessedly, eat too much. But how grossly
we over-eat ourselves, can only be realized on seeing
a Javanese subsisting on about a tenth part of our
own daily allowance, and doing hard work on that&mdash;labouring
in the field, travelling on foot for days together,
and carrying heavy loads without apparent
over-exertion.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img126" id="img126"><img src="images/img126.jpg" width="400" height="466" alt="A kitchen." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A kitchen.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>However, though so abstemious in the matter of
solid food, they are excessively fond of sweetmeats. I
have often watched a party of grown men and women,
seated on the low bench in front of a warong, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
eating kwee-kwee<a name="FNanchor_A_7" id="FNanchor_A_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_7" class="fnanchor">[F]</a> with perfectly childish relish, or
bending over a stall, gravely comparing the respective
charms of white, pink, and yellow cakes; hesitating,
consulting the confectioner, and at last solving the
difficulty by eating a little of everything. Whatever
ready money they may chance to have, is spent either
on personal adornment or on sweetmeats; and on festive
occasions, they will pawn their furniture rather than
deny them selves the enjoyment of more cakes, jellies,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
fruit and syrups than they can partake of without
making themselves sick and sorry.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img127" id="img127"><img src="images/img127.jpg" width="600" height="424" alt="A native restaurant in its simplest and most compendious shape." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A native restaurant in its simplest and most compendious shape.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Nor do they show more discretion in the matter of
the dieting of their 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&mdash;is full to the brim, so to speak, and incapable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>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&mdash;if a framework of four bamboo-posts and an
"atap" roof deserves that name&mdash;in a native "kampong"
at Meester Cornelis.<a name="FNanchor_A_8" id="FNanchor_A_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_8" class="fnanchor">[G]</a> 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&mdash;or, rather, chanting&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img129" id="img129"><img src="images/img129.jpg" width="600" height="398" alt="Native restaurant." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native restaurant.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;the Javanese are keen sportsmen,
and often stake comparatively important sums on
the issue of a game&mdash;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 <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"beaux joueurs."</span></p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img131" id="img131"><img src="images/img131.jpg" width="600" height="362" alt="Breakfast in the open air." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Breakfast in the open air.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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"&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img135" id="img135"><img src="images/img135.jpg" width="600" height="419" alt="Here they are: without plaything naked, and supremely happy." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Here they are: without plaything naked, and supremely happy.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img136" id="img136"><img src="images/img136.jpg" width="600" height="567" alt="A Chinese carpenter." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Chinese carpenter.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img137" id="img137"><img src="images/img137.jpg" width="523" height="600" alt="A Chinese Dyer." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Chinese Dyer.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The amateurs arrive at the spot, each carrying his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img139" id="img139"><img src="images/img139.jpg" width="600" height="362" alt="A miniature stage" /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>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.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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"<a name="FNanchor_A_9" id="FNanchor_A_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_9" class="fnanchor">[H]</a> 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"<a name="FNanchor_B_10" id="FNanchor_B_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_10" class="fnanchor">[I]</a> 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img142" id="img142"><img src="images/img142.jpg" width="600" height="403" alt="Scene in a Wayang-Wong Place." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Scene in a Wayang-Wong Place.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>When it has thus been brought to the proper frame
of mind, its real education begins. With a very fine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_2" id="Footnote_A_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_2">[A]</a> The payong is an umbrella, quite flat when spread out, of yellow oiled paper.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_3" id="Footnote_A_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_3">[B]</a> About twopence.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_B_4" id="Footnote_B_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_4">[C]</a> Chief wife.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_5" id="Footnote_A_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_5">[D]</a> Title given to those who have performed the pilgrimage to Mecca.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_6" id="Footnote_A_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_6">[E]</a> The seed-capsules of the red pepper-plant.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_7" id="Footnote_A_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_7">[F]</a> Malay for "cakes."</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_8" id="Footnote_A_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_8">[G]</a> A suburb of Batavia.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_9" id="Footnote_A_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_9">[H]</a> Lidi:&mdash;Fibre from the stalk of the palm leaf.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_B_10" id="Footnote_B_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_10">[I]</a> Kain Kapala:&mdash;Head Kerchief.</p></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img143" id="img143"><img src="images/img143.jpg" width="600" height="406" alt="The Regent of Malang's Wayang-Wong." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The Regent of Malang's Wayang-Wong.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The "wayang poerwa" is best described as a combination
of a "Punch-and-Judy" show and a kind of "Chinese
shadows"; and&mdash;as with the famed shield which was
silver on one side and gold on the other&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img145" id="img145"><img src="images/img145.jpg" width="600" height="365" alt="The native orchestra which accompanies every representation of the wayang." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The native orchestra which accompanies every representation of the wayang.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
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<a name="FNanchor_A_11" id="FNanchor_A_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_11" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img150" id="img150"><img src="images/img150.jpg" width="600" height="416" alt="Wayang-Wong Players missing a Fight." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Wayang-Wong Players missing a Fight.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img151" id="img151"><img src="images/img151.jpg" width="600" height="449" alt="Wayang-Wong Scene." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Wayang-Wong Scene.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>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.</p>

<p>As soon as it becomes known that some well-known
"dalang" will hold a wayang-performance at such and
such a house,<a name="FNanchor_A_12" id="FNanchor_A_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_12" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> 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&mdash;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&mdash;and prepare to restfully
enjoy the drama.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>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.</p>

<p>Now the "dalang" rising, disposes, on an improvised
altar, the sacrificial gifts&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Slowly they advance, in hand-linked couples, gliding
rather than 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,<a name="FNanchor_A_13" id="FNanchor_A_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_13" class="fnanchor">[C]</a> 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img155" id="img155"><img src="images/img155.jpg" width="600" height="592" alt="Scene from a Wayang-Wong Play." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Scene from a Wayang-Wong Play.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;all but one hidden spot&mdash;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&mdash;assumed instead of the kingly one of
Ardjuna&mdash;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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img158" id="img158"><img src="images/img158.jpg" width="600" height="342" alt="'Topeng' played by masked actors." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Topeng" played by masked actors.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img159" id="img159"><img src="images/img159.jpg" width="600" height="408" alt="'Topeng' actors." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Topeng" actors.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img161" id="img161"><img src="images/img161.jpg" width="600" height="422" alt="Slowly they advance gliding rather than walking." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Slowly they advance gliding rather than walking.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>But the gods, beholding them come back thus shamefaced
and sad, rejoice exceedingly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img162" id="img162"><img src="images/img162.jpg" width="600" height="423" alt="Street-dancers." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Street-dancers.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img163" id="img163"><img src="images/img163.jpg" width="600" height="419" alt="The dancers stand listening for the music." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The dancers stand listening for the music.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img165" id="img165"><img src="images/img165.jpg" width="600" height="381" alt="A Wayang representation." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Wayang representation.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>He is now summoned to the presence of the gods,
and receives their command to go forth and slay the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img166" id="img166"><img src="images/img166.jpg" width="600" height="384" alt="A Wayang representation." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Wayang representation.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
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&mdash;for it cannot in
any proper sense be said to finish&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
those represented in the beginning of the drama, it is
all but impossible to find the slightest connection.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img167" id="img167"><img src="images/img167.jpg" width="575" height="600" alt="Wayang dancers." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Wayang dancers.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_11" id="Footnote_A_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_11">[A]</a> Ancient Javanese.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_12" id="Footnote_A_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_12">[B]</a> The wayang-screen is erected in the open air, in front of the house.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_13" id="Footnote_A_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_13">[C]</a> A fragrant yellow unguent.</p></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="ON_THE_BEACH" id="ON_THE_BEACH">ON THE BEACH</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img170" id="img170"><img src="images/img170.jpg" width="400" height="383" alt="Wooden model of a boat" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img171" id="img171"><img src="images/img171.jpg" width="600" height="256" alt="Batik-pattern" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Past the village there are several tanks of brackish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;when it was as yet dry land&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
and what became of him after he had prayed to the
evil sprite? Here is the tale, as the old fisherman gave
it me.</p>

<p>He was a poor man, Pah-Sidin, unlucky in whatever
he undertook, and so utterly ignorant as not to know
one single "ilmu."<a name="FNanchor_A_14" id="FNanchor_A_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_14" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> 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.</p>

<p>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,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>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?"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <i lang="in" xml:lang="in">sawahs</i> 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!"</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But their safety is threatened by yet another enemy,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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"<a name="FNanchor_A_15" id="FNanchor_A_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_15" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> along. Harassed officials
began to believe in a universe peopled exclusively by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>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.<a name="FNanchor_B_16" id="FNanchor_B_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_16" class="fnanchor">[C]</a></p>

<p>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,"<a name="FNanchor_C_17" id="FNanchor_C_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_17" class="fnanchor">[D]</a>
and holds the rhinoceros of no account. And,
generally, too, though he lie in wait for a crocodile, he
catches only a fever&mdash;of a particularly malignant kind,
it is true.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
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&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_14" id="Footnote_A_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_14">[A]</a> Charm to conjure good fortune.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_A_15" id="Footnote_A_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_15">[B]</a> To pikol = to carry a load slung on a pole.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_B_16" id="Footnote_B_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_16">[C]</a> A police official.</p>
<p><a name="Footnote_C_17" id="Footnote_C_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_17">[D]</a> The wild buffalo.</p></div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img187" id="img187"><img src="images/img187.jpg" width="600" height="191" alt="Balinese crease" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img188" id="img188"><img src="images/img188.jpg" width="286" height="600" alt="Padi-Reaper" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="OF_BUITENZORG" id="OF_BUITENZORG">OF BUITENZORG</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img190" id="img190"><img src="images/img190.jpg" width="269" height="600" alt="Laksjmi seated on a lotos-cushion" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img191" id="img191"><img src="images/img191.jpg" width="600" height="383" alt="Batik-pattern taken from a Head-kerchief" /></a>
</div>

<p>The Javanese Sans-Souci<a name="FNanchor_A_18" id="FNanchor_A_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_18" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> 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,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>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.</p>

<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img194" id="img194"><img src="images/img194.jpg" width="600" height="295" alt="Buffaloes at grass." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Buffaloes at grass.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img195" id="img195"><img src="images/img195.jpg" width="600" height="421" alt="Avenue leading to the Botanical Garden." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Avenue leading to the Botanical Garden.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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,&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
not doubt that, with my embroidery scissors, I might
have cut out an elegant open-work pattern in it.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img200" id="img200"><img src="images/img200.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="A Nipah Palm." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Nipah Palm.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img201" id="img201"><img src="images/img201.jpg" width="421" height="600" alt="The Brantas River. Malang." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The Brantas River. Malang.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img203" id="img203"><img src="images/img203.jpg" width="300" height="397" alt="A Javanese" /></a>
</div>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
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,&mdash;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&mdash;nothing
left of the trunk but a fragment of grey gnarled
rind, with the fungus-overgrown mould lying heaped up
against the base&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img204" id="img204"><img src="images/img204.jpg" width="358" height="600" alt="A Hill-man." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Hill-man.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img205" id="img205"><img src="images/img205.jpg" width="600" height="480" alt="In the depth of the ravine." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>In the depth of the ravine.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img207" id="img207"><img src="images/img207.jpg" width="497" height="500" alt="Watch-men." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Watch-men.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img208" id="img208"><img src="images/img208.jpg" width="600" height="490" alt="Prinsenlaan-corner, Batavia." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Prinsenlaan-corner, Batavia.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img210" id="img210"><img src="images/img210.jpg" width="600" height="422" alt="The beautiful tall reeds of the sugar cane, their pennon-like leaves gleaming in the sunshine." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The beautiful tall reeds of the sugar cane, their pennon-like leaves gleaming in the sunshine.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img211" id="img211"><img src="images/img211.jpg" width="600" height="426" alt="Avenue of old waringin trees, Botanical Garden, Buitenzorg." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Avenue of old waringin trees, Botanical Garden, Buitenzorg.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But, that morning, as I wandered through the tall
avenues of the Buitenzorg Park, the thought of its im<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>portance as a scientific institution disappeared before
the perception of its exquisite loveliness. Not a beauty
of line and colour merely: it has these&mdash;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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img214" id="img214"><img src="images/img214.jpg" width="446" height="600" alt="A cactus in flower." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A cactus in flower.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img216" id="img216"><img src="images/img216.jpg" width="600" height="477" alt="Gum tree, Botanical Garden, Buitenzorg." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Gum tree, Botanical Garden, Buitenzorg.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img217" id="img217"><img src="images/img217.jpg" width="436" height="600" alt="Palm trees in the Botanical Garden." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Palm trees in the Botanical Garden.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Here and there through gaps in the trees came a
sudden glimpse of the distant valley, with the river
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>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&mdash;or rather the streamlet into which it
narrows at one end&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img220" id="img220"><img src="images/img220.jpg" width="422" height="600" alt="A waringin-tree." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A waringin-tree.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img222" id="img222"><img src="images/img222.jpg" width="416" height="600" alt="A path leading from sunshine into dappled shade and from shade into sunshine again." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A path leading from sunshine into dappled shade and from shade into sunshine again.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img223" id="img223"><img src="images/img223.jpg" width="317" height="600" alt="A bamboo-grove where was an incessant rustling and waving of foliage though no wind." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A bamboo-grove where was an incessant rustling and waving of foliage though no wind.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img225" id="img225"><img src="images/img225.jpg" width="600" height="417" alt="Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering, bullock-drawn pedati, which creaks along the sun-scorched roads." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering, bullock-drawn pedati, which creaks along the sun-scorched roads.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>This field of radiant lotus blossoms, and the sombre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
of the Gedeh-crater surrounds, as an impregnable bulwark,
the palace and temple courts.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img228" id="img228"><img src="images/img228.jpg" width="422" height="600" alt="Palm trees and Arancaria." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Palm trees and Arancaria.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img229" id="img229"><img src="images/img229.jpg" width="422" height="600" alt="A tall gloomy avenue of kenari trees, the sky but faintly showing through their sombre branches." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A tall gloomy avenue of kenari trees, the sky but faintly showing through their sombre branches.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img231" id="img231"><img src="images/img231.jpg" width="600" height="465" alt="Submerged rice-fields." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Submerged rice-fields.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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"&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
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&mdash;which is Javanese for mosque&mdash;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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
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&mdash;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 sep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>arated 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img233" id="img233"><img src="images/img233.jpg" width="600" height="433" alt="Bamboo bridge near Batu Tulis." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Bamboo bridge near Batu Tulis.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img235" id="img235"><img src="images/img235.jpg" width="600" height="413" alt="Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img236" id="img236"><img src="images/img236.jpg" width="429" height="600" alt="Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Bamboo bridge across the Tji-taroon.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>From these memories of an empire overthrown, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
religion smitten with the edge of the sword, and a
love stronger than death&mdash;"old unhappy far off things
and battles long ago"&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
that high festival of Philistinism in Java, the Buitenzorg
races, both amusing and full of interest. The crowded
Stands gave one an <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">"impression d'ensemble"</span> of society
in the colony, such as would be expected in vain on
any other occasion&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_18" id="Footnote_A_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_18">[A]</a> Buitenzorg, literally translated, means "away from sorrow or care."</p></div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img237" id="img237"><img src="images/img237.jpg" width="400" height="394" alt="Brass water-kettle" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img238" id="img238"><img src="images/img238.jpg" width="400" height="403" alt="Copper Dish, decorated with Wayang-figures" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="IN_THE_HILL_COUNTRY" id="IN_THE_HILL_COUNTRY">IN THE HILL COUNTRY</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img240" id="img240"><img src="images/img240.jpg" width="442" height="600" alt="Javanese girl" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img241" id="img241"><img src="images/img241.jpg" width="600" height="392" alt="Relief to Boroboedoer" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">Among</span> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p>

<p>The Preanger district, in which Garoot, Bandong, and
Tjandjoor are situated&mdash;the "Garden of Java" as it is
fitly named&mdash;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,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>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&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
lakes of green, and blue, and yellow, and pure white
water sparkle in the sunlight, and the nights are frosty.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img243" id="img243"><img src="images/img243.jpg" width="411" height="600" alt="A village couple." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A village couple.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;a
landmark to sailors.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img247" id="img247"><img src="images/img247.jpg" width="600" height="424" alt="Near Garoot." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Near Garoot.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>From Batavia, the way thither leads through some
of the loveliest scenery in Java&mdash;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&mdash;the friend whom I accompanied
to her home among the hills, and myself&mdash;reached
this stage of our journey, the day was still
young. The summits of the hills, which bound the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>plain on the west, had already assumed their sober day
colours&mdash;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&mdash;like an insipid fruit&mdash;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.</p>

<p>The road lay straight before us&mdash;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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img252" id="img252"><img src="images/img252.jpg" width="361" height="600" alt="'A brownie of that enchanted garden that men call Java.'" /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A brownie of that enchanted garden that men call Java."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img253" id="img253"><img src="images/img253.jpg" width="299" height="600" alt="Girl from the Preanger Country." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Girl from the Preanger Country.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img255" id="img255"><img src="images/img255.jpg" width="346" height="600" alt="Javanese of higher class." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Javanese of higher class.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Meanwhile, we had changed horses at a "gladak"&mdash;a
nondescript wooden shed&mdash;stable, barn, and hostelry
for native wayfarers in one&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>After this steep hill, the ascent became easy and
gradual, and the ponies trotted on at a good round
pace. The road still kept zig-zagging between steep
hill-sides, densely overgrown with nipah-palm, banana,
and dark-leaved brushwood, which shut out the view
of the landscape. And I remember no noteworthy
incident, except the passing of a native market, a
"passar," in a spot where the road broadened a little,
and where an impetuous brook, that came bounding
down the hillside, spouted from a sort of primitive
aqueduct made of bamboo. Half a score of naked
children were bathing themselves under the icy "douche,"
whilst their parents stood bargaining and chaffering at
the narrow booths that adhered to the steep hillside
like swallows' nests to a house-wall. As we approached,
the whole company, men, women, and children, squatted
down with one accord, as if they had been so many
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>puppets pulled by a string. One very fat baby, his
fists and his mouth full of sweetmeats, stood staring
at us in round-eyed surprise; but his mother managed
to catch him and draw him to his little haunches, just
in the nick of time; and the whole company remained
in this crouching posture until our carriage rounded
the bend of the road.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img257" id="img257"><img src="images/img257.jpg" width="400" height="600" alt="Girl from Kadoo." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Girl from Kadoo.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img259" id="img259"><img src="images/img259.jpg" width="430" height="600" alt="Women pounding rice." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Women pounding rice.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img260" id="img260"><img src="images/img260.jpg" width="600" height="410" alt="The rapids of the Tjitaroon." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The rapids of the Tjitaroon.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>At Batavia, where the manners of the natives have
suffered a change&mdash;a change for the worse, as some
maintain&mdash;by contact with Europeans, I had never witnessed
this peculiar mode of salutation. And I confess
I was painfully impressed by it, the more so as my
friend warned me that native etiquette forbade my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
acknowledging the humble greeting by so much as a
nod. I do not know whether it was the abjectness of
their semi-prostration, or the seemingly gratuitous insolence
of our thus ignoring it, that I felt as the more
acute humiliation to human dignity. But, after all, the
only way to rightly judge the manners and customs
of a country is to look at them from the point of view
of the natives; and, to a Javanese, there is nothing undignified
in a salutation which impresses us as slavish.
He squats down, just as a European rises, in the presence
of a superior. It is a token of respect; nothing more.
And the superior's apparent unconsciousness of this
greeting no more implies rudeness on his part than the
familiar nod with which in Europe a gentleman might
answer a labourer's or artisan's raising of his cap. "The
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>way of the land, the honour of the land," as the Dutch
proverb puts it.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img262" id="img262"><img src="images/img262.jpg" width="419" height="600" alt="Pangeran Adipati Mangkoe Boemi (Djokjakarta)." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Pangeran Adipati Mangkoe Boemi (Djokjakarta).</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img263" id="img263"><img src="images/img263.jpg" width="414" height="600" alt="Javanese Lady." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Javanese Lady.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img265" id="img265"><img src="images/img265.jpg" width="600" height="423" alt="Waterfalls." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Waterfalls.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img266" id="img266"><img src="images/img266.jpg" width="425" height="600" alt="The Tji-mahi falls." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The Tji-mahi falls.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img267" id="img267"><img src="images/img267.jpg" width="600" height="542" alt="Waterfall" /></a>
</div>

<p>On the point of etiquette, the Javanese, moreover,
are infinitely more punctilious than any western people
of our period. I believe they might even be said to
surpass the Spaniards of the time of Philip II, in the
elaborateness of their code of manners and in their
strict adherence to its requirements. Every possible
circumstance and occurrence in life have been foreseen,
and the appropriate conduct noted down in the unwritten
law of the "adat"; the attitude, the gesture,
and the set phrase, are all prescribed, down to the
smallest detail. Nor is it a question of phraseology
only; the very language is subject to the regulations
of the adat, which distinguishes three separate and
altogether different kinds of Javanese, according as a
man speaks to his superior, his equal, or his inferior.
For speech to one higher in rank, there is the "Kromo";
commands to a subordinate are given in "Ngoko";<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
friends familiarly converse in a third idiom into which
elements of the other two enter. The theory of these
three kinds of Javanese is a science by itself, and one
not easily acquired by a westerner. At the same time,
it is imperatively necessary to him, if he would gain
the esteem of the natives; for the use of a Ngoko word
when a Kromo term should have been employed, would
mark the offender with an indelible brand of vulgarity
and ill-breeding. When the Bible was being translated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
into Javanese, this peculiarity of etiquette proved a
considerable difficulty; and the missionaries had to consult
countless authorities and compare a thousand precedents,
before they could settle the question whether Christ
should address Pilate in Kromo or in Ngoko, or in the
third idiom. A solecism would have fatally injured the
"prestige" of the new religion: and its ministers could
not have escaped the accusation of being "koerang
atjar" which being translated into English means
"ill-bred." It was in order to avoid this qualification,
that my friend and I seeing the country folk at the
"passar" squat down in the dusty road, passed on,
without so much as looking at them.</p>

<p>Towards eleven o'clock, we reached the highest point
of our journey&mdash;a ledge upon the mountain-side called
Njadas Pangeran. Here, the hills on our right suddenly
fell away, and the broad green plains of Cheribon lay
disclosed, dazzling with sunlight and living water. At
our feet, away far below, lay a brown hamlet in the
midst of sawahs, like a lark's nest in a field of clover;
and the hills through which we had threaded our way,
since dawn, hung in the western distance like massy
clouds, tinted with brown and violet, and an exquisite
pale, half-transparent blue. We paused here for some
minutes, to rest the horses, whilst we gathered armsful
of a splendid orchid which grew in profusion on the
hillside&mdash;great shiny snow-flakes of blossoms, with a
touch of carmine on the curling petals; and then resumed
the journey along a road which steadily sloped to the
bottom of the valley. A muddy river runs through it,
which we crossed on a primitive kind of ferry&mdash;the
carriage, horses, and all standing on a raft, which a
score of natives dragged and pushed across the shallow
water. On the other bank, the road began to ascend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
again; we had reached the base of Tjerimai, and a drive
of some two or three hours more, along a smooth road
that passed by prosperous sugarcane plantations waving
in the breeze with thousands of glossy green streamers,
brought us at length to our destination&mdash;the little
bamboo cottage upon the hillside, whither my friends
repaired for a spell of coolness and a breath of
mountain air, when the heat rendered the sojourn on
their estate in the plains unendurable. It was about
four in the afternoon when we entered the garden gates,
and the air was as fresh as in the early morning. The
breeze rustled through the tall flower-laden njamploeng-trees
on the roadside; there was a smell of water and
moist stones in the air; I heard the murmur of a brook
over its rocky bed. This was the country of which hot,
dust-stifled Batavia was the capital. The thing seemed
scarcely credible.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img270" id="img270"><img src="images/img270.jpg" width="600" height="121" alt="Pedang" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="IN_THE_DESSA" id="IN_THE_DESSA">IN THE DESSA</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img272" id="img272"><img src="images/img272.jpg" width="509" height="600" alt="Ganeça.&mdash;The God of Wisdom" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img273" id="img273"><img src="images/img273.jpg" width="600" height="229" alt="Priests with their Guru or Teacher" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="smcap">Our</span> bungalow on the Tjerimai hillside was situated
in the near neighbourhood of a native dessa. But we
had been there for some time, before I became aware
of the fact. And my first glimpse of the village was
a surprise as fascinating as it was sudden.</p>

<p>It chanced in the course of a cool clear morning, as
we rode along on our way to the sacred grove of
Sangean and the legend-haunted lake in its shadow.</p>

<p>We had been skirting for some time what seemed
to be an unusually dense bamboo-wood, when suddenly,
in the wall of crowded stems, there appeared a breach
and framed in it, lo! a prospect of brown huts, with
flowering fruit-trees set between, and a well-kept road
in the middle, on which a score of children were playing
about. A plough-man came along, driving a pair of
grey buffaloes before him, women were coming and
going, carrying waterpitchers and piled up baskets of
fruit on their erect heads; it was a busy hamlet in the
heart of the wood.</p>

<p>We entered, passing from the sunny hillside into
the green twilight among the trees, and out again upon
the village road, flecked with changeful lights and
shadows. It was trim and clean as a gardenpath.
The huts on either side of it had a prosperous look,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
each standing in its own patch of ground, surrounded
by fruit-trees&mdash;mangoes, bananas and djamboos that
turned the soil purple with their fallen blossoms. The
rice-barns shaped like a child's cradle, narrow at the
base, and broadening out towards the top, were full
of sweet new rice and in the sheds sleek dun-coloured
cattle stood patiently chewing the cud.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img274" id="img274"><img src="images/img274.jpg" width="390" height="600" alt="Raised shed from which the ripening fields are watched." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Raised shed from which the ripening fields are watched.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>I saw no men about, they were probably at work
on the outlying ricefields. But here and there, under
the pent-roofs of the houses, women sat at their looms
busily weaving sarong-cloth. And on the doorsteps
plump brown babies were rolling about.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img276" id="img276"><img src="images/img276.jpg" width="600" height="418" alt="Gunungan, or Pile of Sacrificial Food" /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Gunungan, or Pile of Sacrificial Food, as offered by women on Garebeg Mulud, the feast of the nativity of
Nabi Muhamed, the Great Prophet.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img277" id="img277"><img src="images/img277.jpg" width="600" height="371" alt="A native official and his followers." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A native official and his followers.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span></p>
<p>One hut we passed, where a very old man sat playing
with a tiny baby, so exceedingly pretty, that we could
not help stopping to admire it. With a proud smile
he told us it was his great-grand-child. Its father and
mother were living with him, and so indeed were all
the other members of his numerous family, sons and
daughters and grandsons and granddaughters who,
each in turn, had wedded and brought a wife or a
husband to the parental home.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img279" id="img279"><img src="images/img279.jpg" width="434" height="600" alt="Rice-barn shaped like a child's cradle." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Rice-barn shaped like a child's cradle.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>"There are over a score of them" said the patriarch
proudly. To him had, in truth, been granted the prayer,
which, on their wedding-day Javanese couples put up
to the gods "Give us a progeny like to the spreading
crown of the waringin tree." And the venerable sire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
trusting in his helpless old age to the love and piety
of his children, reminded one of the parent trunk,
which, when decaying, is upheld by the stalwart young
trees that have sprung up around it.</p>

<p>We asked after his family. The children, the old
man answered, were all out in the fields; no hands
could be spared from the work just now. Only his
youngest grand-daughter, the baby's mother, had stayed
in the house, to look after the little one, and cook
the familydinner. Yonder she was, at her bâtik-frame,
painting the sarong-cloth with flowers and butterflies.
The girl looked up as he spoke, turning a pretty face
on us; and smiled.</p>

<p>"Ah! happy those that live among the woods and
fields, if they but knew their happiness...." It seemed
to me that these dessa-folk knew theirs.</p>

<p>And I filled my eyes and my heart with the scene
before me&mdash;the low, brown roofs amidst the fruittrees,
the merry-eyed children at play, the leisurely comings
and goings of the women upon their daily occupation,
with the rustling coolness and the soft green light of
the bamboo leafage over it all; gathering all the gladsome
beauty of it, that it might keep fresh and fragrant
my thoughts, when I should have returned to the world
outside, to the weariness, the fever and the fret to which
we of the conquering race have condemned ourselves.</p>

<p>As we rode on, and the wood-enshrined hamlet disappeared
among the folds of the hillrange, like the
beautiful day-dream it all but seemed to me, I learnt
that it was but a fair type of the prosperous dessa,
such as it is found throughout the length and breadth
of Java.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img281" id="img281"><img src="images/img281.jpg" width="600" height="442" alt="A progeny like to the spreading crown of the waringin-tree." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"A progeny like to the spreading crown of the waringin-tree."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The plan and general appearance of these native
villages are always the same&mdash;a cluster of huts, each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
standing in its own patch of ground, surrounded by a
quick-set hedge; a main road from which numerous
bye-paths diverge, leading through; in the centre an
open square, shaded by waringin trees, fronting the
mosque; then, surrounding the whole, a dense plantation
of bamboo trees, which completely hides the village
from sight. Around stretch meadows, ricefields, and
plantations of nipahpalm, which, in many cases, are the
property of the community.</p>

<p>Where this particular form of proprietorship obtains,
the village authorities assign portions of the communal
fields in usufruct to such inhabitants of the dessa as
will pledge themselves in return to pay certain taxes,
and to perform certain duties entailed by the possession
of landed property; the principal of which are, keeping
the roads and irrigation works in repair, and guarding
the gates or patrolling the streets at night. Moreover
in all matters touching the cultivation of these fields,
they are obliged to observe the prescriptions of the
"adat," and such regulations as the village authorities
may deem proper to make.</p>

<p>Very strict supervision is excercised in this matter,
so as to prevent the occupant from exhausting, either
through ignorance or neglect, the field, which, at the
expiration of his lease, will be allotted to another
member of the community. Disobedience to the commands
of the village authorities is punishable by forfeiture of
the right of occupation.</p>

<p>In most districts, this communal right alternates with
private proprietorship.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img284" id="img284"><img src="images/img284.jpg" width="422" height="600" alt="Sellers of rice." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Sellers of rice.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>According to the ancient custom, which has been
ratified by the Colonial Regulations, whosoever, of his
own free will, reclaims a piece of waste ground, by
that act acquires the possession of the same, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
right to transmit it to his heirs, the "hereditary individual
right," as the legal term is. Any native, desirous to
obtain land on these terms, can apply for permission to
the Government, which, having taken the place of the
ancient Sultans is considered as the "Sovereign of
the Soil." This permission is never refused. So that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
under the communal regime as under the system of
hereditary individual ownership, anyone who has the
will to work is sure of being able to earn a sufficiency
for himself and his family. There need be no unemployed:
there are no paupers in our sense of the word. It
should be added, that the right of usufruct under the
system of communal possession, can be converted into
that of "hereditary individual ownership." But the inherited
communistic sentiment is so strongly developed
in the people of the dessa, that they but rarely, if ever,
avail themselves of the facilities, which the law offers
them in this respect; they prefer that the community
should own the soil.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img285" id="img285"><img src="images/img285.jpg" width="600" height="404" alt="Women dyeing sarong-cloth." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Women dyeing sarong-cloth.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img287" id="img287"><img src="images/img287.jpg" width="600" height="415" alt="Woman picking cotton, and man plaiting a sieve." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Woman picking cotton, and man plaiting a sieve.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>As might be expected the principle of solidarity which
pervades these laws and customs, manifests itself even
more strongly in the domestic life of the dessa-folk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img288" id="img288"><img src="images/img288.jpg" width="421" height="600" alt="A Javanese family." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A Javanese family.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img289" id="img289"><img src="images/img289.jpg" width="600" height="399" alt="Mat-plaiting." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Mat-plaiting.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The ties of kinship&mdash;though not those of marriage&mdash;are
much respected by them. Parents are so absolutely
sure of the love and filial piety of their children, that
they often, as they grow older, abandon all their property
to them, content to live for the remainder of their days
as their sons' and daughter's pensioners. And even the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
most distant relation, who, like the nearest, is termed
brother or sister, may count, in case of need, upon
assistance and hospitality. Parents are free to bequeath
their property as they like; and they sometimes give
everything to the first-born son or daughter, without
any of the other children protesting. But, just as frequently,
the heritage is left to all the descendants in
common, when the paternal house is enlarged, so as to
afford room for all the married sons and daughters and
their families; and the produce of the fields is equally
divided amongst them, as they equally divide the labour
and the toil. Thus, through all chances and changes,
the communistic principle is still maintained in the small
community of the family, as in the greater one of the
dessa. And indeed it may be said that the dessa is but
the enlarged paternal house of the Javanese. All the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
inhabitants of it are his kinsfolk and nearest of blood,
whose interests are his own, whose prosperity or misery
is bound up with his, and who are his natural allies in
defending the common inheritance against the stranger.
The bamboo enclosure which defines and defends the
dessa and the environing fields&mdash;the common possession
of all&mdash;are the symbols and the outward visible signs
of this.</p>

<p>Such then are the conditions which determine the
existence of the Javanese husbandman&mdash;a happy life on
the whole, exempt from hardship, excessive toil and
care, and not without dignity or idyllic grace.</p>

<p>The dessa-man has to work, certainly, but he need
not slave; a very moderate exertion is sufficient to
procure him what food and raiment he wants. His
neighbours are his next of kin, and spite occasional
bickerings, his helpful friends. He has himself chosen
the village-chief to whose authority he defers, and is
free to follow that ancestral law of the adat, which,
to him, is the embodiment of supreme wisdom and
justice. And as he goes about his daily business, his
labour in wood and field, still keeping time to the
recurrent rhythm of the seasons, is graced by many a
ceremony and religious rite, which while honouring
the gods, rejoices the hearts of the worshippers.</p>

<p>At these religious festivals called "Sedeka," sacrifices
of flowers and fruits are offered to the deity and the
ancient, naïve idea, that which is pleasant to human
beings must also be acceptable to the gods, causes the
Javanese to lay on his altar offering of the eatables he
is fondest of himself. Such as spice-flavoured rice and
all manner of sweetmeats.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img292" id="img292"><img src="images/img292.jpg" width="600" height="429" alt="A bamboo hut." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A bamboo hut.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img293" id="img293"><img src="images/img293.jpg" width="600" height="448" alt="Weighing rice-sheaves." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Weighing rice-sheaves.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img295" id="img295"><img src="images/img295.jpg" width="342" height="600" alt="Native official." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native official.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>In this he does but as Jews and Greeks did before
him. But there is a distinguishing detail about Javanese
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>sacrificial rites,&mdash;a feature, which one is never quite sure
whether to call eminently spiritual or naïvely gross and
selfish. Of the food offered they believe the deity to
enjoy the savour only; the celestial being disdains the
material part. And so the worshippers, after a decorous
interval of waiting, when they may suppose the invisible
and imponderable essence of the meal to have been
absorbed by the god, make a cheerful repast on the
visible and ponderable parts left on the altar, thus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
combining piety and high living in one and the same
act. In Java, if anywhere, it may be said, that, when
the gods are honoured the people fare well.</p>

<p>It would be somewhat invidious to inquire whether
piety or appetite be the impelling motive; but, from
whatever cause, the Javanese are most assiduous in
the performance of sacrificial rites. Not only are the
cardinal events of human existence, births, marriages
and deaths, and the recurrent epochs of the agricultural
year honoured with solemn observances, but any and
every incident of daily existence is made the occasion
of a "Sedeka."</p>

<p>Sedeka is offered on setting out on a journey, on
entering into any contract or agreement, on moving
into a new house, on taking possession of a newly-acquired
field: the sacrifice being oftenest dedicated to
the "Danhjang dessa," tutelary genius of towns and
villages; to the spirits who render the soil fertile; to
the goddess Sri, protectress of the rice crops; and to
all the ancestors, up to Father Adam and Mother Eve.
Then too, side by side with these benignant deities,
the wicked "seitans" and djinns are worshipped, the
princes of the air, as powerful for evil as Sri and the
Danhjang Dessa are for good. It is they who send
plagues and pestilence, who make the babe to die at
its mother's breast, and the buffalo to drop dead on
the half-ploughed field; who cause fires to destroy
villages, and floods to sweep away the standing crops;
and who seduce men to theft, deceit, robbery, and
violence. Since, then, they are so powerful for harm,
it is wise to keep on terms of amity with them, and
give even the Devil his due, bringing him the appointed
sacrifices of eggs and yellow boreh-unguent and jessamine
blossoms.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p>

<p>These evil spirits, it should be noted, are exceedingly
jealous, and one should never glory in the possession
of any desirable thing, such as good health, riches, power,
or, above all, fine children, lest in their spite, they should
turn these blessings into curses. But humility, or still
better contempt of the things men generally covet,
conciliates them. Wherefore a Javanese mother will
often call her child, more particularly if it be remarkable
for grace and beauty, by a name implying that
it is hateful, ugly and altogether worthless.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img297" id="img297"><img src="images/img297.jpg" width="600" height="397" alt="Preparing the village field." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Preparing the village field.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img298" id="img298"><img src="images/img298.jpg" width="453" height="600" alt="Native nobleman and his wife." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native nobleman and his wife.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Among the saints of El-Islam, Joseph the father of
the Christian prophet Jesus, is the one whom Javanese
matrons venerate above all others; from him they
implore the gift of beauty for their children. Nor do they
implore in vain. Javanese babies are absolutely charming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
The brilliancy of their black eyes, and the dusky tints
of their soft skin give their round little faces a piquancy
altogether fascinating. The blue eyes, fair hair and
pale complexion of European children seem insipid by
comparison. Now and then one sees faces amongst
them, innocent and earnest as those which on Murillo's
canvases surround the Madonna in cloud-like clusters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
But alas! these heavenly memories fade soon. The suns
of a few East monsoons utterly wither them. Villon,
could he see the grown-up youths and maidens of Java,
would vary his melancholy refrain about fair dead
ladies. "But where are the babes of yester-year?"</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img299" id="img299"><img src="images/img299.jpg" width="455" height="600" alt="Pilgrims returned from Mecca." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Pilgrims returned from Mecca.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p>

<p>Among adults beauty is as rare as, among children,
it is common. So that after all, it seems Saint Joseph
takes the prayer for fine children "at the foot of the
letter" and answers the petition in a somewhat ironical
spirit.</p>

<p>Of the many "Sedeka's" which grace the agricultural
year, those connected with the cultivation of the rice-plant
are the most important. Java is essentially what,
according to tradition, its ancient name betokens&mdash;the
Land of the Rice. The whole island is one vast rice-field.
Rice on the swampy plains, rice on the rising
ground, rice on the slopes, rice on the very summits
of the hills. From the sod under one's feet to the uttermost
verge of the horizon, everything has one and the
same colour, the bluish green of the young, or the
tawny gold of the ripened rice. The natives are all,
without exception, tillers of the soil, who reckon their
lives by seasons of planting and reaping, whose happiness
or misery is synonymous with the abundance or
the dearth of the precious grain. And the great national
feast is the harvest home, with its crowning ceremony
of the Wedding of the Rice.</p>

<p>In order to approximately understand the meaning of
this strange rite, it should be borne in mind that a
Javanese, similar in this respect to the ancient Greek,
believes all nature to be endowed with a semi-divine
life. To him a tree is not a mere vegetable, nor a rock
a mere mass of stone, nor the sea a mere body of water,
any more than he regards a human being as a mere
aggregate of flesh, blood, and bone. A hidden principle
of life, invisible, imponderable, and powerful for good
or evil animates the seemingly inert matter. In this
sense, a Javanese believes in the <em>soul</em> of a plant or a
rock almost as he believes in the soul of a human<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
being. And this soul he endeavours to propitiate with
prayers, libations and offerings of fruit and flowers.
Hence the frequent altars under old waringin-trees, in
which the Danhjang dessa, tutelary genius of towns
and villages, is believed to dwell. Hence the solemn
sacrifices to the Lady of the Sea, Njai Loro Kidoel, who
has her shrine on the rocky south-coast. And hence
too the rites in honour of Dewi Sri, the Javanese
Demeter, whose soul animates the rice-plant,&mdash;rites
which culminate in the Wedding of the Rice.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img301" id="img301"><img src="images/img301.jpg" width="390" height="600" alt="A scholar." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>A scholar.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></p>

<p>At every Harvest-Home this mystical ceremony, the
Pari Penganten, is celebrated; and the manner of its
conducting is as follows:</p>

<p>As soon as the owner of a field sees his rice ripening,
he goes to the "dookoon-sawah" literally, the "medicine
man of the rice-field," to consult him as to the day and
hour when it will be meet to begin the harvest. This
to a Javanese, is a most important matter, and it
requires all the astrological, necromantic and cabalistic
knowledge of the dookoon-sawah to settle it. For there
are many unlucky days in the Javanese year, and any
enterprise begun on such a day is doomed to inevitable
failure. After long and intricate calculations, into which
the cabalistic values corresponding to the year, the
month, the day, and the hour enter, an acceptable date
is at last fixed upon by the dookoon-sawah, on which
the selection of the Rice-Bride and Bridegroom is to
take place.</p>

<p>On the appointed day, having first solemnly consecrated
the field by walking round it with a bundle of
burning rice-straw in his hand, and by the planting
of tall glagahstalks at each of the four corners, invoking
Dewi Sri as he does so,&mdash;the dookoon begins to search
for two stalks of rice exactly equal in length and
thickness, and growing near each other. When these
are found, four more are hunted for, two pairs of
absolutely similar ears of rice. The first couple are
the Bride and Bridegroom; the four others the bridesmaids
and the "best men," (if the term may be
used to designate what the French call garçons d'honneur.)
These couples are now tied together as they
stand, with strips of palm-leaves, and the doekoen
invokes on them the blessing of Dewi Sri. Then he
addresses the Rice-Bride and the Rice-Bridegroom, asking
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>them, each in turn, whether they accept each other
as husband and wife, and answering for them. The
marriage now is concluded; the stalks are smeared
with yellow boreh-unguent, decorated with garlands,
and shaded from the sun by a tiny awning of palm
leaves, whilst the stalks round about are cut off.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img303" id="img303"><img src="images/img303.jpg" width="600" height="435" alt="Filling the village field." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Filling the village field.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img305" id="img305"><img src="images/img305.jpg" width="442" height="600" alt="Rice-barn." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Rice-barn.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Now the dookoon, the owner of the field and his
family, all those who have in any way helped in preparing
the "Sawah," or planting the rice, sit down to
a "Slamettan," a repast which is at the same time a
sacrifice to the gods, and a further celebration of the
marriage just contracted; and, at the end of the banquet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
the doekoen, rising up, solemnly declares that the hour
of the harvest has come.</p>

<p>Now, it is the kindly custom of Javanese land-owners
to invite to the harvest-feast all who, during the past
month, have taken any part, however slight, in the
cultivation of the Sawah. And as, under so elaborate
a system of agriculture as is demanded by the growing
of rice, these are necessarily many, the Pari Penganten
is a feast for the whole "dessa" as well as for a single
family. The men leave their work in the shops or the
market, the women lay down the sarong-cloth on which
for weeks and weeks they have been patiently tracing
elaborate patterns with wax, and blue and brown
pigment; and all, in holiday attire and with flowers
wreathed in their hair or stuck into a fold of their
head-kerchief, repair to the ripe rice-field.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img306" id="img306"><img src="images/img306.jpg" width="600" height="367" alt="Peasant ploughing." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Peasant ploughing.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The dookoon-sawah is the first to enter it; and, as
he does so, he in this wise greets the spirits of the field.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img307" id="img307"><img src="images/img307.jpg" width="600" height="327" alt="Rice on the swampy plains." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Rice on the swampy plains.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p>

<p>"O! thou invisible Pertijan Siluman! do not render
vain the labour I have bestowed upon my sawah! If
thou dost render it vain, I will hack thy head in two!
Mother Sri Penganten! hearken! do thou assemble and
call to thee all thy children and grand-children! let
them all be present and let not one stay away! I
wish to reap the rice. I will reap it with a piece of
whetted iron. Be not afraid, tremble not, neither raise
thine eyes! All my prayers implore thy favour and
gracious protection. Also, I propose to prepare a sacrificial
repast, and dedicate it to the spirits that protect
this my sawah; and to the spirits that protect the four
villages nearest to this our village, and also to Leh-Saluke
and Leh-Mukalana!"</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img309" id="img309"><img src="images/img309.jpg" width="600" height="327" alt="The produce of the fields is equally divided amongst them as they equally divide the labour and the toil." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The produce of the fields is equally divided amongst them as they equally divide the labour and the toil."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Having pronounced this invocation, he cuts off the
ears which represent the Rice-Bride and Bridegroom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
and their four companions, and the reapers begin their
work. The implement they use is best described as a
cross-hilted dagger of bamboo, having a little knife
inserted into the wooden blade; the reaper, holding
the hilt in the fingers of his right hand, with the
thumb presses the rice-stalk against the small knife,
severing the ear, which he gathers in his left hand;
and thus he cuts off each ripe ear separately with a
gesture as delicate as if he were culling a flower. The
whole rice harvest of Java is reaped in this manner.</p>

<p>The loss of time may be imagined. The Government
has, again and again, tried to introduce the use of the
sickle and more expeditious methods, but in vain. In
all things, the Javanese love to do as their fathers did
before them; and, in this particular matter of the reaping
of the rice, their attachment to ancestral customs
is still further strengthened by a religious sentiment.
The Dewi Sri herself they believe, having assumed the
shape of a gelatik or rice-bird, which broke off the
ripe ears with its bill, taught mortals the manner in
which it pleased her that her good gift of the rice
should be gathered. And accordingly, her votaries to
the present day do gather in thus, culling each ear
separately. In their opinion, to use a sickle would be
to show a wanton disrespect to the goddess, and a
contempt of her precious gift, as if it were not worth
gathering in a seemly manner; a sacrilege which the
outraged deity would not fail to avenge by famine and
pestilence. On the other hand, what would they gain
by departing from their ancestors' honoured custom,
and adopting instead the manners of the men from
Holland? "Time," these men respond. But then, that
means nothing to a Javanese. He no more wants to
"gain time" than he wants to "gain" fresh air or
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>sunlight. It is there; he has it; he will always have
it. What absurdity is this talk of "gaining" an assured
and ever-present possession?</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img311" id="img311"><img src="images/img311.jpg" width="600" height="428" alt="Flooded rice-fields." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Flooded rice-fields.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>The idea of time as an equivalent for a certain
amount&mdash;the greatest possible&mdash;of labour performed,
is essentially occidental. A Javanese not only does not
understand it, but he shrugs his shoulders and smiles
at the notion. He does not see what possible relation
there can be between a day and what these white men
call a day's work. He works, undoubtedly; but he
works in a quiet deliberate fashion, for just so long as
he thinks pleasant, or fit, or when the monsoon threatens,
unavoidable; and then he stops; and, if the task be
not finished, well, it may be finished some future day.
There is no cause why any ado should be made about
it. Everything in time. And let us remember that
haste cometh of the evil.</p>

<p>At last, however, the harvest is reaped, and the hour
has come for the Rice-Bride and Bridegroom to repair
to their new home. The two reapers on whom devolves
the honourable duty of conducting them thither, don
their very best clothes for the occasion, and daub their
faces with yellow boreh-unguent. Then to the strains
of the gamelan and followed by all the reapers, men
and women in solemn procession, they carry the garlanded
sheaves to the house of the owner of the field. He
and his wife meet them in the doorway; and, in set
phrase, they inform the Rice-Bride and Bridegroom
that the house is swept and garnished, and all things
ready for their reception. The procession then wends
its way to the granary, where a small space, surrounded
by screens and spread with clean new matting,
represents the bridal chamber.</p>

<p>The Rice-Bride and Groom and their "maids and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
youths of honour" are introduced into this miniature
room, the other sheaves are piled up in the loomboong
(rice-born) and when the whole harvest is stored, the
dookoon-sawah pronounces the prayer to the Goddess Sri.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img314" id="img314"><img src="images/img314.jpg" width="600" height="580" alt="The men, with the father of the bride at their head, come for the bridegroom, to conduct him to the mosque." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The men, with the father of the bride at their head, come for the bridegroom, to conduct him to the mosque."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>"Mother Sri Penganten, do thou sleep in this dark
granary, and grant us thy protection. It is meet that
thou shouldst provide for all thy children and grandchildren."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img315" id="img315"><img src="images/img315.jpg" width="600" height="571" alt="With measured steps the two advanced towards each other, and whilst yet at some distance paused." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"With measured steps the two advanced towards each other, and whilst yet at some distance paused."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>Then the door of the loomboong is locked; and during
forty days none dare unlock it. At the end of that
time the honey-moon of the Rice-Bride and Bridegroom
is supposed to be over. The owner of the field comes
to the loomboong, unlocks the door, and in set phrase
invites the couple to an excursion on the river. "The
boat," he says, "lies ready; and the rowers know how
to handle the oars." With this comparison the process
of husking the grain is designated.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>

<p>The sheaves are laid in the hollowed-out tree-trunk
which serves as a kind of mortar, and the women,
bringing down the long wooden pestles in a rhythmic
cadence husk the rice. And this is the end of the Pari
Penganten.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img316" id="img316"><img src="images/img316.jpg" width="600" height="421" alt="Humbly kneeling down, the bride proceeded to wash the bridegroom's feet, in token of loving submission." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"Humbly kneeling down, the bride proceeded to wash the bridegroom's feet, in token of loving submission."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>But, as the proverb has it, "of a wedding comes a
wedding" and this mystic marriage of the rice invariably
proves the prelude to marriages among the young folk
of the dessa, who have met and wooed and won one
another during the long days of common work and
play in the ripe rice-field. During our stay on the
Tjeremai hill-side we had occasion to convince ourselves
of this. The Pari Penganten was but just over when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
we arrived; and already several marriages were being
arranged in the dessa, among the number that of the
headman's pretty daughter to a good-looking youth,
her remote cousin.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img317" id="img317"><img src="images/img317.jpg" width="600" height="414" alt="Bride and bridegroom sitting in state." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Bride and bridegroom sitting in state.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>As a preliminary the village scholar had been consulted
as to the young couple's chances of happiness;
and he having declared the cabalistic meaning of their
united initials to be "a broadly-branching waringin-tree"
which is the symbol of health, riches and a numerous
progeny, the parents, reassured as to the future of their
children, had begun negotiations about the dowry. This,
it should be noted, is given by the family of the future
husband.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img318" id="img318"><img src="images/img318.jpg" width="524" height="600" alt="The wedding-guests on their procession through the village." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>The wedding-guests on their procession through the village.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>After a great deal of haggling and protesting, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
had at last agreed upon a sum about half-way between
the amount originally offered by the bridegroom's parents
and that demanded by the father of the bride. In due
course, then, the youth had sent the customary presents
of food, clothes, and domestic utensils to the house of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
his bride. And now he was busy preparing himself
for the great day. He had had his teeth filed almost
to the gums, and blackened till they shone like lacquer,
so that his enthusiastic mother and sisters compared
his mouth to the ripe pomegranate, in which the black
seeds show through the red flesh. And, day by day,
he went to the village-priest to recite to him the words
of the marriage-formula, which he did, sitting up to
his chin in the cold water of the tank behind the
mosque, the priest standing over him, Koran in hand.
The bride, on her side, had been living on a diet of
three tea-spoonfuls of rice and a glass of hot water
per diem, so as to lose flesh and&mdash;according to Javanese
notions&mdash;gain beauty against the happy day; and to
the great satisfaction of her family she was now so
thin, that they could almost see the flame of the oilwick
shining through her.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the entire population of the dessa was
busy with preparations for the marriage-feast. The
women might be seen all day long, under the pent-roof
of the bride's house and in the kitchen, pounding rice,
boiling vegetables, broiling fish, roasting goats' flesh,
and mixing all manner of condiments for the innumerable
dishes, which figure at a Javanese repast. And
the young men were chopping wood and carrying water
as if for their livelihood.</p>

<p>At length the wedding-day arrived.</p>

<p>The sun had hardly risen when already the women
of the village were up and stirring, hastening on their
way to the house of the bride, whom they were to
assist at her toilet. This was a most complicated affair,
the girl's hair having to be dressed in a curious and
elaborate fashion, requiring much twisting and coiling
of oil-saturated tresses, interwoven with wreaths of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
jessamine blossom, and fixed with large ornamental
pins; and a row of little curls must be painted on the
forehead with black pigment. Furthermore the face
must be carefully whitened with rice-powder, and the
shoulders and arms anointed with yellow boreh-unguent.
It need hardly be said that it required the whole morning
to bring these many and delicate operations to a
satisfactory end.</p>

<p>The men, meanwhile, with the father of the bride
at their head, had gone to the house of the bridegroom,
to conduct him in solemn procession to the mosque,
where the priest was to perform the marriage-ceremony
between him and the representative of the bride; for,
according to Javanese notions, a woman has no business
at a wedding&mdash;least of all at her own. From the
mosque the groom then returned to his own house,
where he proceeded to a toilet hardly less elaborate
than that of his bride. After a considerable time, he
issued forth again, resplendent with boreh-unguent,
garlands of jessamine-blossoms and silver ornaments.
He mounted a richly caparisoned pony, which his
"youth of honour" held ready for him; and, at the head
of the procession, triumphantly rode to his bride's house,
where the guests were waiting, my friends and I among
the number, to witness the meeting of the newly-wedded
pair.</p>

<p>As the bridegroom drew rein in front of the house,
the bride supported by two maids of honour, slowly
came out of her chamber. With measured steps the
two advanced towards each other; and whilst yet at
some distance paused. Two small bags of sirih-leaves
containing chalk and betel-nuts were handed them;
and with a quick movement each threw his at the
other's head. The bride's little bag struck the groom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
full in the face. "It is she that will rule the roost,"
said one of the women, chuckling. And I fancied I
saw a gleam of satisfaction pass over the bride's demure
little face, half hidden though it was by the strings of
beads and jessamine flowers dependent from her head
dress. The next moment however, she had humbly
knelt down on the floor. One of the bridesmaids handed
her a basin full of water, and a towel; and she proceeded
to wash her husband's feet, in token of loyalty and
loving submission.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img321" id="img321"><img src="images/img321.jpg" width="600" height="443" alt="The men sat down to a repast." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>"The men sat down to a repast."</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>When she was done, he took her by the hand, raising
her; and led her towards the middle of the apartment,
where a piece of matting was spread on the floor. On
this she squatted down, holding up a handkerchief; and
the bridegroom threw into it some rice, some "peteh"-beans
and some money, symbolising the sustenance
which he bound himself to afford her. The symbolical
ceremonies were then concluded by his sitting down
next to her, and putting three spoonfuls of rice, knead<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>ed into little balls, into her mouth, after which he ate
himself what was left in the dish. The solemn part
of the proceedings being now over, the festivities began.</p>

<p>As a preliminary, the bridal party was to go in solemn
procession through the village; and they were marshalled
in order before the door.</p>

<p>A curious cortege it was. At the head appeared two
"barongans" the images of a giant
and a giantess, carried on the
shoulders of men who were hidden
in the large framework; then
came the gamelan orchestra, bells,
drums, kettles, viols and all; next
a group of men mounted on hobby-horses,
and beating on the sonorous
"angkloeng."<a name="FNanchor_A_19" id="FNanchor_A_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_19" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> After these
came some half dozen women,
carrying the bridal insignia&mdash;paper
birds, bunches of green leaves and
paper flowers, and tall fans made
of peacocks feathers. A group of
priests followed, beating tambourines
and chanting a sort of epithalamium.
Next came the bride
and her maidens in a litter, carried
upon the shoulders of four men;
and immediately after her the
bridegroom on horseback followed
by a group of musicians. The wedding-guests brought
up the rear.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img322" id="img322"><img src="images/img322.jpg" width="255" height="600" alt="Native policeman." /></a>
  <div class="figcaption">
    <p>Native policeman.</p>
  </div>
</div>

<p>In this order the procession took the road; went
round the dessa twice; and finally halted at the house
of the bridegroom.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span></p>

<p>The father appeared in the door, as soon as he heard
the music approaching; came out to meet the procession;
and advancing towards the litter of the bride,
lifted her out of it, and carried her into the house,
where the bridegroom's relations were seated in a circle
to receive her. To these she was now, with great
ceremony, introduced as the daughter of the house,
whilst she and the bridegroom saluted every member
of the assembly in turn, by kneeling down and kissing
his or her feet.</p>

<p>The guests were then invited to enter, and the men
sat down to a repast, at which the women served them,
whilst the bride and bridegroom took their meal together,
separately from the rest.</p>

<p>We took advantage of the momentary bustle to slip
away unobserved. There was not a soul to be seen
on the moonlit village street; the huts were dark and
silent; and at the entrance of the village the watchman
on duty for the night had left his post vacant.</p>

<p>A din of laughter and buzzing voices pursued us as
we descended the hill-path to our bungalow. And all
that night, long after the last cricket had ceased his
song we heard the thin clear notes of the gamelan
resounding from the heights.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_A_19" id="Footnote_A_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_19">[A]</a> An instrument composed of a series of graduated bamboo tubes.</p>
</div>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img323" id="img323"><img src="images/img323.jpg" width="600" height="168" alt="Mandou" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img324" id="img324"><img src="images/img324.jpg" width="309" height="600" alt="Vishnu the preserver" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</a></h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img326" id="img326"><img src="images/img326.jpg" width="311" height="400" alt="Javanese Type" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img327" id="img327"><img src="images/img327.jpg" width="600" height="319" alt="Crease. (Java)" /></a>
</div>


<p>As I write these lines&mdash;adding a last touch to the
slight sketches in which I have endeavoured to render
my impressions of this country&mdash;the shrill whistle of
steam and the thudding and panting of powerful engines
are in my ears, and I see the radiant sky blackened
by volumes of smoke. The "campaign" has begun in
the Cheribon plains. In endless file the lumbering,
buffalo-drawn "pedatis"<a name="FNanchor_A_20" id="FNanchor_A_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_20" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> creaking under the load of
luscious green sugar-cane, jolt along upon the dusty
road, on their way to the factory yonder,&mdash;a great,
square, ungainly building, all around which there is a
stir and bustle of dark figures, like the swarming of
ants around an ant-hill. The gate is thrown wide; tall
black shapes loom through the semi-darkness of the
interior; and, now and then, the sudden flare from a
furnace reveals the bulging, sooty-black mass of a
boiler, or the contour of the gigantic wheel slowly
revolving. The nauseous smell of the boiling syrup
taints the air.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p>

<p>I went to the mill, the other morning, to watch the
transformation of the beautiful tall reeds, which, only
a few hours ago, so gaily fluttered their pennon-like
leaves in the wind and sunshine without, into a shapeless
pulp, and a turbid viscous liquor. The "mandoor"
showed me the first sugar-bags of the season. I looked
at them with some interest beyond that which they
deserved in themselves. We were to be companions
on the journey westwards, and already the steamer
which was to convey us hence, was riding at anchor
in the roadstead of Cheribon.</p>

<p>Last impressions, it is said, are the strongest, and
those which ultimately fix the mental images. If so, I
will remember Java, years hence, not as the fairy-land
it seemed to me only yester day, in the sylvan solitudes
of Tjerimai, but as a busy manufacturing country,
prosperous and prosaic.</p>

<p>I will remember a rich soil, an enervating climate,
alternating droughts and inundations and fever-breathing
monsoons; a mode of life, comfortable and even
luxurious, but monotonous in the extreme, which taxes
to the utmost both mental and physical energies. I
will think of white dusty towns by yellow muddy
rivers; of hills, and vales, and marshy lowlands overgrown
with thick, sprouting rice; of admirable irrigation
works; of a system of political administration,
apparently wise and equitable and conducive to the
well-being of a prosperous native population. And I
will be at a loss how to reconcile all these hard solid
facts about Java with the airy fancier, the legends and
the dreams, which must still, as with white splendours
of zodiacal light, illumine my thoughts of the beautiful
island.</p>

<p>It seems impossible that both should be true. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
yet, I know that the fancies are every whit as real
and living as the facts, that the poetry and the romance
are as faithful representations of things as they are, as
the driest prose could be.</p>

<p>Even now, whilst in the factory yonder, fires roar,
engines pant, and human beings sweat and toil, to
change the dew-drenched glory of the fields into a
marketable commodity some hamlet in the plains is
celebrating the Wedding of the Rice with many a
mystic rite. Some native chief, celebrating the birth of
a son, welcomes to his house the "dalang," the itinerant
poet and playwright, who on his miniature stage, represents
the councils of the Gods, and the adventures, in
war and love, of unconquerable heroes, and of queens
more beautiful than the dawn. And in the sacred grove
of Sangean on Tjerimai, the green summit of which
dominates the southern horizon, some huntsman, crouching
by the shore of the legend-haunted lake, invokes
the Princess Golden Orchid, and her saintly brother,
Radhen Pangloera, who live in a silver palace deep
down in the shining water, and who shower wealth,
honour, and long life upon the mortal, who pronounces
the names the spirits of the lake know them by. Nay&mdash;on
this very estate, amid the smoke of the factory-chimneys
romance still holds her own. The mythopœic
fancy of the country-folk has enthroned a "danhjang,"
tutelary genius of the field, in the branches of an
ancient waringin-tree out in the fields. On their way
to the mill, men and women pause in its shade, to
hang little paper fans on the branches, or deposit on
the humble altar jessamine blossoms, yellow "boreh"
unguent and new-laid eggs in homage to the agrestic
god. Now, the waringin tree stands in a field of sugarcane,
where its wide-spreading roots exhaust the soil,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>
and its broad shadow kills the young plants within an
ever expanding circle. Clearly, it should be cut down.
But the owner of the estate, warned by recent events,
wisely forbears. He chooses to put up with these inconveniences,
rather than expose himself and his property
to the revenge which the votaries of the Danhjang
would undoubtedly take, if a sacrilegious hand were
laid on his chosen abode. And so, the Sacred Waringin
thrives and flourishes in the midst of the plantations
of sugar-cane, a fit symbol of the romance which, in
this island, pervades all things, even those the most
prosaic in appearance.</p>

<p>It is this, I believe, this constant intrusion of the
poetic, the legendary, the fanciful into the midst of
reality, which constitutes the unique charm of Java.
This is the secret of the unspeakable and irresistible
fascination by which it holds the men of the north,
born and bred among the sterner realities of European
civilisation. A spell which becomes so potent as to
countervail ills which otherwise would prove unbearable;
and to temper, with a regret and a strange sense of
want, the joys of the exile's home-coming.</p>

<p>And this, too, is the reason why, to me as to so
many who have beheld Java not with the bodily eye
alone, it must still remain a land of dreams and fancies,
the Enchanted Isle where innocent beliefs and gladsome
thoughts, such as are the privilege of children and
childlike nations, still have their happy home.</p>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_A_20" id="Footnote_A_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_20">[A]</a> Carts the wheels of which are wooden discs.</p></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img331" id="img331"><img src="images/img331.jpg" width="600" height="325" alt="A seller of Peruvian bark" /></a>
</div>

<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</a></h2>

<table id="illus" summary="illustrations">
  <tr>
    <th></th>
    <th></th>
    <th class="smallheader">PAGE</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img001">Mask used by Topeng-players</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">I</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_v">Batik-freme for the exclusive use of ladies of quality</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">V</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img008">A "brownie" of that enchanted garden that men call Java</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">2</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img009">Batik-pattern</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">3</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img012">"Fishing-praos, their diminutive hull almost disappearing under the one tall
whitish-brown sail, shaped like a bird's wing and flung back, as if ready for a swoop and rake"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">6</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img013">"The ship lay still and we trod the quay of Tandjong Priok"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">7</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img017">Sekin. (Interior of Sumatra)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">11</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img018">Four-armed Çiva</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">12</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img020">Lamp.&mdash;Garuda the Sun-Bird in the shape of a winged woman</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">14</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img021">Landing of a Hindoo Ship.&mdash;Relief to Boroboedoer (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">15</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img023">"A seller of fruit and vegetables his baskets dangling from the end of a bamboo yoke"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">17</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img025">"Pine-apples and mangosteen, velvety rambootan and smooth-skinned dookoo"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">19</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img027">"The big kalongs hanging from the topmost branches in a sleep from which the sunset will presently awaken them"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">21</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img032">Ivory Mortar and Pestle, decorated with representations of scenes from the Life of Krishna</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">26</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img034">Mask used by Topeng-players</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">28</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img035">Wayang "bèbèr", drawing, representing the story of Djaka Prataka. (Vide: Vreede Catalogue of Javanese and Madurese MS. Leiden 1892, page 196)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">29</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img038">"A triple row of branching tamarinds"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">32</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img039">"The idyllic Duke's park, very shadowy, fragrant and green"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">33</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img042">The business quarter of Batavia</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">36</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img043">A footsore Klontong trudging wearily along</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">37</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img045">The Chinese Quarter</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">39</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img046">"The West-monsoon has set in, flooding the town"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">40</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img047">"The Kali Batawi on its way through the Chinese Quarter"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">41</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img049">Entrance to a rich Chinaman's House</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">43<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img051">"A glimpse of the river as it glides along between the bamboo groves of its margins"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">45</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img056">Procession at the funeral of a rich Chinaman</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">50</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img057">Funeral procession on its way to the Chinese Country</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">51</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img059">Burning of symbolical figures at a Chinese Funeral</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">53</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img061">"The deliberate stream sauntering along at its own pace on its way from the hills to the sea"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">55</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img066">Bamboo case. (Java: Preanger Regencies)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">60</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img067">Batik-pattern</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">61</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img069">"Compound" of a Batavia House</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">62</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img073">The servants' kitchen</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">67</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img077">Native servants</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">71</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img081">Native gardener</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">75</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img083">Native footboy</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">77</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img084">Sacred gun near the Amsterdam-gate, Batavia</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">78</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img086">Brass flower-pot, modern (Java: Resid of Surabaya)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">80</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img087">Wayang bèbèr, drawing, representing the story of Djaka Prataka. (Vide: Vreede, Catalogue of Javanese and Madurese MS. Leiden 1892. page 196)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">81</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img101">Mandau. (S. E. Borneo)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">95</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img102">Raksasa (Demon)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">96</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img104">Mask used by Topeng-players</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">98</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img105">Creese. (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">99</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img107">The River-Bath</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">101</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img109">A Laundry in the River</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">103</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img110">Native Lady travelling in her Litter</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">104</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img111">A Litter</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">105</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img113">The Market at Malang</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">107</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img116">Street-Dancers</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">110</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img117">Musicians</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">111</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img118">The native cithara and violin</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">112</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img119">Clasp for fastening a kabaya in front</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">113</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img121">A native restaurant in its most compendious shape</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">115</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img123">"For the morning and evening meal he prefers the open air and the cuisine of the Warong"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">117</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img126">A kitchen</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">120</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img127">A native restaurant in its simplest and most compendious shape</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">121</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img129">Native restaurant</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">123</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img131">Breakfast in the open air</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">125</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img135">"Here they are: without playthings naked and supremely happy"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">129</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img136">A Chinese Carpenter</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">130</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img137">A Chinese Dyer</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">131</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img139">"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"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">133</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img142">Scene in a Wayang-Wong Place</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">136<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img143">The Regent of Malang's Wayang-Wong</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">137</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img145">The native orchestra which accompanies every representation of the Wayang</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">139</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img150">Wayang-Wong Players missing a Fight</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">144</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img151">Wayang-Wong Scene</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">145</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img155">Scenes from a Wayang-Wong Play</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">149</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img158">"Topeng" played by masked actors</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">152</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img159">"Topeng" actors</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">153</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img161">"Slowly they advance gliding rather than walking"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">155</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img162">Street-dancers</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">156</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img163">"The dancers stand listening for the music"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">157</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img165">A Wayang representation</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">159</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img166">A Wayang representation</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">160</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img167">Wayang dancers.</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">161</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img170">Wooden model of a boat (majang.&mdash;Java: Res. of Japara)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">164</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img171">Batik-pattern</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">165</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img187">Balinese crease.&mdash;Stabbard made of "Kajoe pèlèt"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">181</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img188">Padi-Reaper.&mdash;Java</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">182</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img190">Laksjmi seated on a lotos-cushion</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">184</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img191">Batik-pattern taken from a Head-kerchief</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">185</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img194">Buffaloes at grass</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">188</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img195">Avenue leading to the Botanical-garden</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">189</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img200">A Nipah Palm</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">194</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img201">The Brantas-River.&mdash;Malang</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">195</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img203">A Javanese</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">197</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img204">A Hill-man</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">198</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img205">"In the depth of the ravine"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">199</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img207">Watch-men</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">201</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img208">Prinsenlaan-corner, Batavia</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">202</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img210">"The beautiful tall reeds of the sugar-cane, their pennon-like gleaming in the sunshine"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">204</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img211">Avenue of old Waringin-trees, Botanical-garden, Buitenzorg</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">205</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img214">A cactus in flower</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">208</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img216">Gum tree, Botanical-garden, Buitenzorg</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">210</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img217">Palmtrees in the Botanical-garden</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">211</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img220">A Waringin-tree</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">214</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img222">"A path leading from sunshine into dappled shade and from shade into sunshine again"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">216</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img223">"A bamboo-grove where was an incessant rustling and waving of foliage though no wind"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">217</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img225">"Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering, bullock-drawn pedati, which creaks along the sun-scorched roads"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">219</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img228">Palm trees and Arancaria</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">222</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img229">"A tall gloomy avenue of Kenari-trees, the sky but faintly showing though their sombre branches"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">223<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img231">Submerged rice-fields</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">225</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img233">Bamboo-bridge near Batu-Tulis</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">227</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img235">Bamboo-bridge across the Tjitaroon</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">229</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img236">Bamboo-bridge across the Tjitaroon</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">230</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img237">Brass water-kettle.&mdash;Java: Res. of Surabaya</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">231</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img238">Copper Dish, decorated with Wayang-figures</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">232</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img240">Javanese girl</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">234</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img241">Relief to Boroboedoer</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">235</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img243">A village couple</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">237</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img247">Near Garoot</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">241</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img252">A "brownie" of that enchanted garden that men call Java</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">246</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img253">Girl from the Preanger-Country</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">247</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img255">Javanese of the higher class</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">249</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img257">Girl from Kadoo</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">251</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img259">Women pounding rice</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">253</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img260">The rapids of the Tjitaroon</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">254</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img262">Pangeran Adipati Mangkoe Boemi (Djokjakarta)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">256</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img263">Javanese Lady</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">257</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img265">Waterfalls</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">259</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img266">The Tjimahi falls</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">260</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img267">"Through the darkling stillness of the grove there break the splendour and the sound of living water"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">261</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img270">Pedang. (Interior of Sumatra)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">264</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img272">Ganeça.&mdash;The God of Wisdom</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">266</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img273">Priests with their Guru or Teacher</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">267</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img274">Raised shed from which the ripening fields are watched</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">268</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img276">Gunungan, or Pile of Sacrificial Food, as offered by women, on Garĕbĕg Mulud, the feast of the nativity of Nabi Muhamed, the Great Prophet. (Vide: Groneman, "the Garĕbĕg". The Hague 1895, page 33)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">270</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img277">A native official and his followers</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">271</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img279">Rice-barn shaped like a child's cradle</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">273</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img281">"A progeny like to the spreading crown of the waringin-tree"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">275</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img284">Sellers of rice</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">278</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img285">Women dyeing sarong cloth</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">279</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img287">Woman picking cotton, and men plaiting a sieve</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">281</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img288">A Javanese Family</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">282</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img289">Mat-plaiting</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">283</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img292">A bamboo hut</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">286</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img293">Weighing rice-sheaves</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">287</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img295">Native official</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">289</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img297">Preparing the village field</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">291</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img298">Native nobleman and his wife</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">292</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img299">Pilgrims returned from Mecca</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">293<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img301">A scholar</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">295</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img303">Filling the village field</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">297</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img305">Rice-barn</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">299</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img306">Peasant ploughing</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">300</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img307">Rice on the swampy plains</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">301</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img309">"The produce of the fields is equally divided amongst them as they equally divide the labour and the toil"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">303</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img311">Flooded rice-fields</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">306</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img314">"The men, with the father of the bride at their head, had come for the bridegroom, to conduct him to the mosque"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">308</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img315">"With measured steps the two advanced towards each other, and whilst yet at some distance paused"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">309</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img316">"Humbly kneeling down, the bride proceeded to wash the bridegroom's feet, in token of loving submission"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">310</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img317">Bride and bridegroom sitting in state</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">311</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img318">The wedding-guests on their procession through the village</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">312</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">+</td>
    <td><a href="#img321">"The men sat down to a repast"</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">315</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img322">Native Policeman</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">316</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img323">Mandou (S. E. Borneo)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">317</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img324">Vishnu the preserver, four-armed, standing on a lotos-cushion, lotos-plants to his right and left, under which two women standing: Laksjmi and Satiavana the Consorts of the God. (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">318</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img326">Javanese Type</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">320</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img327">Crease. (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">321</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img331">A seller of Peruvian bark</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">325</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img335">Crease. (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">329</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img336">A Malay</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">330</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img337">Crease. (Java)</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">331</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">*</td>
    <td><a href="#img338">Kartakeya Çiva's Son, the War-God, seated on a pea-cock</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">331</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#img339">Cock-fighting</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">332</td>
  </tr>
</table>


<p class="center">The illustrations marked * are taken from originals in the Leyden Ethnographical
Museum, those marked + from the Haarlem Colonial Museum.</p>

<p class="center">Vide also: H. H. Juynboll, "Das Javanische Maskenspiel" in: Intern. Archiv.
für Ethn. XIV 41.</p>

<p class="center">L. Serrurier, De Wayang Poerwâ. Eene ethnologische studie. Leiden 1896.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img335" id="img335"><img src="images/img335.jpg" width="600" height="136" alt="Crease. (Java)" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img336" id="img336"><img src="images/img336.jpg" width="305" height="400" alt="A Malay" /></a>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img337" id="img337"><img src="images/img337.jpg" width="600" height="193" alt="Crease. (Java)" /></a>
</div>


<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h2>

<table style="width: 100%" id="tableofcontents" summary="contents">
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#Page_v">PROLOGUE</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">v</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">I.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_1">FIRST GLIMPSES</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">1</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">II.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_13">A BATAVIA HOTEL</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">13</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">III.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_27">THE TOWN</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">27</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">IV.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_59">A COLONIAL HOME</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">59</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">V.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_79">SOCIAL LIFE</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">79</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">VI.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_97">GLIMPSES OF NATIVE LIFE</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">97</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">VII.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_163">ON THE BEACH</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">163</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">VIII.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_183">OF BUITENZORG</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">183</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">IX.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_233">IN THE HILL COUNTRY</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">233</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right">X.</td>
    <td><a href="#Page_265">IN THE DESSA</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">265</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#Page_319">EPILOGUE</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">319</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="right"></td>
    <td><a href="#Page_325">ILLUSTRATIONS</a></td>
    <td class="tdpagenr">325</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img338" id="img338"><img src="images/img338.jpg" width="311" height="400" alt="Kartakeya Çiva's Son, the War-God, seated on a pea-cock" /></a>
</div>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><small>Printed in Holland</small></span></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
  <a name="img339" id="img339"><img src="images/img339.jpg" width="400" height="383" alt="Cock-fighting" /></a>
</div>

<hr class="chap"/>
<div class="tnote"><p style="text-align: center;font-weight:bold;">Transcriber's Notes:</p>
<p>Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p>
<p>The usage of hyphenated words in this text is inconsistent. This was retained.</p>
<p>The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.</p>

<ul id="corrections">
<li><a href="#Page_vi">Page VI</a>:<br />
breathed its odour-laden air for <span class="correction">to</span> long a time;<br />
breathed its odour-laden air for <span class="correction">too</span> long a time;</li>
<li><a href="#Page_vi">Page VI</a>:<br />
he is content to live on <span class="correction">dreamely</span> by some<br />
he is content to live on <span class="correction">dreamily</span> by some</li>
<li><a href="#Page_18">Page 18</a>:<br />
<span class="correction">immates</span> of the hotel are all<br />
<span class="correction">inmates</span> of the hotel are all</li>
<li><a href="#Page_18">Page 18</a>:<br />
Pine-apples and mangosteen, <span class="correction">velvetry</span> rambootan<br />
Pine-apples and mangosteen, <span class="correction">velvety</span> rambootan</li>
<li><a href="#Page_26">Page 26</a>:<br />
a spacious hall supported on pillars, was <span class="correction">brillantly</span> lit.<br />
a spacious hall supported on pillars, was <span class="correction">brilliantly</span> lit.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_38">Page 38</a>:<br />
such as <span class="correction">Shakspeare</span> loved as a setting<br />
such as <span class="correction">Shakespeare</span> loved as a setting</li>
<li><a href="#Page_54">Page 54</a>:<br />
Funeral Procession on its way to the Chinese <span class="correction">Cimetery</span>.<br />
Funeral Procession on its way to the Chinese <span class="correction">Cemetery</span>.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_57">Page 57</a>:<br />
the attitude of mind and the habits of <span class="correction">though</span> identical<br />
the attitude of mind and the habits of <span class="correction">thought</span> identical</li>
<li><a href="#Page_57">Page 57</a>:<br />
He could as soon leave off breathing as leave <span class="correction">of</span> buying and selling<br />
He could as soon leave off breathing as leave <span class="correction">off</span> buying and selling</li>
<li><a href="#Page_61">Page 61</a>:<br />
the Northerner's mind when <span class="correction">the</span> looks upon a house<br />
the Northerner's mind when <span class="correction">he</span> looks upon a house</li>
<li><a href="#Page_65">Page 65</a>:<br />
and supported on <span class="correction">colums</span><br />
and supported on <span class="correction">columns</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_76">Page 76</a>:<br />
a sufficient <span class="correction">domiestic</span> staff<br />
a sufficient <span class="correction">domestic</span> staff</li>
<li><a href="#Page_81">Page 81</a>:<br />
and the deepbreathed <span class="correction">fragance</span> of flowers<br />
and the deepbreathed <span class="correction">fragrance</span> of flowers</li>
<li><a href="#Page_84">Page 84</a>:<br />
almost in the house, <span class="correction">nothwithstanding</span>;<br />
almost in the house, <span class="correction">notwithstanding</span>;</li>
<li><a href="#Page_91">Page 91</a>:<br />
nests on the capitals of the <span class="correction">columms</span>,<br />
nests on the capitals of the <span class="correction">columns</span>,</li>
<li><a href="#Page_92">Page 92</a>:<br />
analogous <span class="correction">contasts</span> meet one at every step<br />
analogous <span class="correction">contrasts</span> meet one at every step</li>
<li><a href="#Page_92">Page 92</a>:<br />
<span class="correction">Thy</span> have more leisure,<br />
<span class="correction">They</span> have more leisure,</li>
<li><a href="#Page_92">Page 92</a>:<br />
a friend, a mere <span class="correction">acquintance</span>, an utter stranger,<br />
a friend, a mere <span class="correction">acquaintance</span>, an utter stranger,</li>
<li><a href="#Page_106">Page 106</a>:<br />
invader has <span class="correction">suceeded</span> in ousting from<br />
invader has <span class="correction">succeeded</span> in ousting from</li>
<li><a href="#Page_109">Page 109</a>:<br />
wax-white Gardenias, violet <span class="correction">Seabiosa</span>, and leaves<br />
wax-white Gardenias, violet <span class="correction">Scabiosa</span>, and leaves</li>
<li><a href="#Page_109">Page 109</a>:<br />
the soft, <span class="correction">fragant</span> heap in his basket<br />
the soft, <span class="correction">fragrant</span> heap in his basket</li>
<li><a href="#Page_109">Page 109</a>:<br />
figures in their <span class="correction">brigh-hued</span> garments<br />
figures in their <span class="correction">bright-hued</span> garments</li>
<li><a href="#Page_112">Page 112</a>:<br />
the <span class="correction">fragant</span> blossom of the asana.<br />
the <span class="correction">fragrant</span> blossom of the asana.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_121">Page 121</a>:<br />
the guidance of its own <span class="correction">insticts</span><br />
the guidance of its own <span class="correction">instincts</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_129">Page 129</a>:<br />
<span class="correction">a Englismen</span> about a prize-fighter.<br />
<span class="correction">as Englishmen</span> about a prize-fighter.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_131">Page 131</a>:<br />
and the tail <span class="correction">protude</span>.<br />
and the tail <span class="correction">protrude</span>.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_138">Page 138</a>:<br />
figures are fixed in a piece of <span class="correction">bananastem</span><br />
figures are fixed in a piece of <span class="correction">banana stem</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_142">Page 142</a>:<br />
and <span class="correction">posess</span> some knowledge of Kawi<br />
and <span class="correction">possess</span> some knowledge of Kawi</li>
<li><a href="#Page_147">Page 147</a>:<br />
that some <span class="correction">well-know</span> "dalang" will hold<br />
that some <span class="correction">well-known</span> "dalang" will hold</li>
<li><a href="#Page_150">Page 150</a>:<br />
the pride of <span class="correction">wordly</span> rank and station<br />
the pride of <span class="correction">worldly</span> rank and station</li>
<li><a href="#Page_155">Page 155</a>:<br />
that we <span class="correction">many</span> know surely.<br />
that we <span class="correction">may</span> know surely.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_156">Page 156</a>:<br />
thus shamefaced and sad, rejoice <span class="correction">exeedingly</span>.<br />
thus shamefaced and sad, rejoice <span class="correction">exceedingly</span>.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_159">Page 159</a>:<br />
as Ardjuna, goes to seek <span class="correction">Niwâtakawata</span><br />
as Ardjuna, goes to seek <span class="correction">Niwàtakawaka</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_160">Page 160</a>:<br />
called Ardjuna's <span class="correction">marrage</span> feast<br />
called Ardjuna's <span class="correction">marriage</span> feast</li>
<li><a href="#Page_165">Page 165</a>:<br />
In one place <span class="correction">were</span> the narrow beach broadens<br />
In one place <span class="correction">where</span> the narrow beach broadens</li>
<li><a href="#Page_166">Page 166</a>:<br />
of the broad-branched <span class="correction">nyamploeng</span> trees<br />
of the broad-branched <span class="correction">njamploeng</span> trees</li>
<li><a href="#Page_167">Page 167</a>:<br />
cool <span class="correction">a</span> well water<br />
cool <span class="correction">as</span> well water</li>
<li><a href="#Page_167">Page 167</a>:<br />
one old fellow, white-haired and <span class="correction">decrepid</span><br />
one old fellow, white-haired and <span class="correction">decrepit</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_168">Page 168</a>:<br />
a group of <span class="correction">island</span>, ethereal as cloudlets<br />
a group of <span class="correction">islands</span>, ethereal as cloudlets</li>
<li><a href="#Page_169">Page 169</a>:<br />
whitened the <span class="correction">shell-strewd</span> beach<br />
whitened the <span class="correction">shell-strewed</span> beach</li>
<li><a href="#Page_169">Page 169</a>:<br />
Then <span class="correction">jamploengs</span> were in flower.<br />
Then <span class="correction">njamploengs</span> were in flower.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_169">Page 169</a>:<br />
its blossoms, <span class="correction">fragant</span>, white, and of<br />
its blossoms, <span class="correction">fragrant</span>, white, and of</li>
<li><a href="#Page_171">Page 171</a>:<br />
erected his "tero," the <span class="correction">piable</span> bamboo palisade<br />
erected his "tero," the <span class="correction">pliable</span> bamboo palisade</li>
<li><a href="#Page_173">Page 173</a>:<br />
weaving and <span class="correction">batikking</span> sarongs<br />
weaving and <span class="correction">batiking</span> sarongs</li>
<li><a href="#Page_176">Page 176</a>:<br />
For my <span class="correction">childern</span> are dutiful<br />
For my <span class="correction">children</span> are dutiful</li>
<li><a href="#Page_186">Page 186</a>:<br />
The gardens on each side the road<br />
The gardens on each side <span class="correction">of</span> the road</li>
<li><a href="#Page_220">Page 220</a>:<br />
the Gedeh-crater <span class="correction">surrouds</span>, as an impregnable bulwark<br />
the Gedeh-crater <span class="correction">surrounds</span>, as an impregnable bulwark</li>
<li><a href="#Page_226">Page 226</a>:<br />
a <span class="correction">tender-pettalled</span> flower to a rock<br />
a <span class="correction">tender-petalled</span> flower to a rock</li>
<li><a href="#Page_236">Page 236</a>:<br />
The gardens are <span class="correction">fragant</span> with mignonette<br />
The gardens are <span class="correction">fragrant</span> with mignonette</li>
<li><a href="#Page_239">Page 239</a>:<br />
where four <span class="correction">wounderful</span> lakes of green<br />
where four <span class="correction">wonderful</span> lakes of green</li>
<li><a href="#Page_243">Page 243</a>:<br />
with the <span class="correction">rhytmic</span> click-clack of the wooden pestles<br />
with the <span class="correction">rhythmic</span> click-clack of the wooden pestles</li>
<li><a href="#Page_254">Page 254</a>:<br />
"<span class="correction">They</span> way of the land, the honour of the land,"<br />
"<span class="correction">The</span> way of the land, the honour of the land,"</li>
<li><a href="#Page_267">Page 267</a>:<br />
Our <span class="correction">bungalaw</span> on the Tjerimai hillside<br />
Our <span class="correction">bungalow</span> on the Tjerimai hillside</li>
<li><a href="#Page_267">Page 267</a>:<br />
in the near neighbourhood <span class="correction">af</span> a native dessa<br />
in the near neighbourhood <span class="correction">of</span> a native dessa</li>
<li><a href="#Page_267">Page 267</a>:<br />
a <span class="correction">prosprect</span> of brown huts<br />
a <span class="correction">prospect</span> of brown huts</li>
<li><a href="#Page_268">Page 268</a>:<br />
Raised <span class="correction">shad</span> from which the ripening fields are watched.<br />
Raised <span class="correction">shed</span> from which the ripening fields are watched.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_277">Page 277</a>:<br />
Around stretch meadows, ricefields, and <span class="correction">plantions</span> of nipahpalm<br />
Around stretch meadows, ricefields, and <span class="correction">plantations</span> of nipahpalm</li>
<li><a href="#Page_277">Page 277</a>:<br />
in return to pay certain <span class="correction">taxas</span><br />
in return to pay certain <span class="correction">taxes</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_289">Page 289</a>:<br />
detail about Javanese <span class="correction">sacrifical</span> rites<br />
detail about Javanese <span class="correction">sacrificial</span> rites</li>
<li><a href="#Page_292">Page 292</a>:<br />
European children seem <span class="correction">insiped</span> by comparison<br />
European children seem <span class="correction">insipid</span> by comparison</li>
<li><a href="#Page_293">Page 293</a>:<br />
<span class="correction">Pelgrims</span> returned from Mecca<br />
<span class="correction">Pilgrims</span> returned from Mecca</li>
<li><a href="#Page_294">Page 294</a>:<br />
takes the prayer for fine <span class="correction">childeren</span><br />
takes the prayer for fine <span class="correction">children</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_300">Page 300</a>:<br />
under so <span class="correction">eleborate</span> a system of agriculture<br />
under so <span class="correction">elaborate</span> a system of agriculture</li>
<li><a href="#Page_307">Page 307</a>:<br />
for the Rice-Bride and <span class="correction">Bridegoom</span> to repair<br />
for the Rice-Bride and <span class="correction">Bridegroom</span> to repair</li>
<li><a href="#Page_307">Page 307</a>:<br />
and all <span class="correction">thing</span> ready for their reception<br />
and all <span class="correction">things</span> ready for their reception</li>
<li><a href="#Page_315">Page 315</a>:<br />
And I fancied <span class="correction">a</span> saw a gleam of satisfaction<br />
And I fancied <span class="correction">I</span> saw a gleam of satisfaction</li>
<li><a href="#Page_315">Page 315</a>:<br />
The symbolical <span class="correction">ceromonies</span> were then concluded<br />
The symbolical <span class="correction">ceremonies</span> were then concluded</li>
<li><a href="#Page_322">Page 322</a>:<br />
of a system of political <span class="correction">admistration</span><br />
of a system of political <span class="correction">administration</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_324">Page 324</a>:<br />
if a <span class="correction">sacriligious</span> hand were laid on his chosen abode<br />
if a <span class="correction">sacrilegious</span> hand were laid on his chosen abode</li>
<li><a href="#Page_327">Page 327</a>:<br />
<span class="correction">*Copper Dish, decorated with Wayang-figures</span><br />
<span class="correction">Wayang dancers.</span></li>
<li><a href="#Page_328">Page 328</a>:<br />
Raised <span class="correction">shad</span> from which the ripening fields are watched.<br />
Raised <span class="correction">shed</span> from which the ripening fields are watched.</li>
<li><a href="#Page_329">Page 329</a>:<br />
Bride and <span class="correction">bridegoom</span> sitting in state<br />
Bride and <span class="correction">bridegroom</span> sitting in state</li>
</ul>
</div>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43665 ***</div>
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