Part 7

But the "dalang's" reward is proportionate to those exertions. He and his art are alike held in almost superstitious respect. No one dreams of criticizing his performances. If he wishes to travel, not a town or hamlet but will give him an enthusiastic welcome. And, at home, he enjoys that princely prerogative, immunity from taxes, his fellow-citizens discharging his obligations in requital of the pleasure he procures them by his wayang performances. If nothing else were known about them, this one trait, it seems to me, would be sufficient to prove the Javanese to be a people capable of true enthusiasm, and a generous conception of life. There is something Greek in this notion that holds the artist acquitted of all other duties towards the community, since he fulfils the supreme one of giving joy.

[11] Ancient Javanese.

At the same time that it is the chief national amusement, the wayang-show is, in a sense, a religious act, performed in honour of the deity, and to invoke the blessing of the gods and the favour of the "danhjang dessa" and all other good spirits upon the giver of the entertainment. The baleful influence of the Evil Eye, also, is averted by nothing so surely as by a wayang-performance, wherefore no enterprise of any importance should be entered upon without one of these miniature dramatical representations being given. Domestic feasts such as are held at the birth of a child, or at his circumcision, seldom lack this additional grace. And a marriage at which Brahma, Indra, and, above all, Ardjuna, the beloved of women, had not been present in effigy, would be considered ill-omened from the beginning.

As soon as it becomes known that some well-known "dalang" will hold a wayang-performance at such and such a house,[12] the village folk from miles around come trooping toward the spot, trudging for hours, or even days, along the sun-scorched, dust-choked highroads, an enormous, mushroom-shaped hat on their head, and a handful of boiled rice, neatly folded in a green leaf, tucked into their girdle. At one of the numerous warongs or shops temporarily erected near the spot, where the wayang is to be performed, they buy some bananas and a cup of hot water, flavoured, perhaps, with green leaves of the coffee-plant, and sweetened with the aromatic areng-sugar. And, provided with these simple refreshments, they squat down upon the ground--the men on that side of the wayang-screen where they will see the puppets, the women on the other where the shadows are seen--and prepare to restfully enjoy the drama.

[12] The wayang-screen is erected in the open air, in front of the house.

Already the last streaks of crimson and gold-shot opal have faded in the western skies, and the grey of dusk begins to deepen into nocturnal blackness. The evening breeze is astir in the tall tree-tops, waking a drowsy bird here and there among the branches; it chirps sleepily and is still again. Aloft, a single star is seen limpid and tremulous, like a dewdrop about to fall. And the garrulous groups around the wayang-screen gradually cease their talk.

Now the "dalang" rising, disposes, on an improvised altar, the sacrificial gifts--fruit, and yellow rice, and flowers, and lights the frankincense that keeps off evil spirits. Then, as the column of odoriferous smoke ascends, sways, and disperses through the thin, cool air, a volley of thunderous sound bursts from the "gamellan," and the dancers appear.

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,[13] gleam duskily above the purple slendang that drapes the bosom. Their soft round faces are set in a multi-coloured coruscation of jewellery, a play of green and blue and ruby-red sparks, that chase each other along the coiled strands of the necklace and the trembling ear-pendants, and shine with a steadier light in the richly chased tiara. A broad silver band, elaborately ornamented, clasps the upper arm; a narrower bracelet encircles the wrist; the fingers are a-glitter with rings.

[13] A fragrant yellow unguent.

Arrived in front of the wayang-screen they pause; with the tips of their fingers take hold of the long embroidered scarfs and stand expectant of the music that is to accompany their dancing. The "gamellan" intones a plaintive melody: a medley of tinkling, and fluting, and bell-like sounds, scanded by the long-drawn notes of the "rebab," the Persian viol. Following the impulse of its rhythm, the dancers raise their hands making the scarf to float along the extended arm, and waving about the glittering silk they drape themselves in its folds as in a veil. Then, standing with feet turned slightly inwards, and motionless, they begin to turn and twist the body, bending this way and that way, with the swaying movement of slim young trees that bow beneath the passing breeze, tossing their branches. And, with arms extended and hands spread out, they mime a ballad which some of their companions are singing, the prologue to the play. This may be a fragment of that ancient Hindoo poem, the Mahâ-Bhârata; or a myth of which Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiwa are the heroes, such as there are recorded in the Manik Maja; or, again, some episode of the Ramayana; the "wayang poerwa" being dedicated to the representation of these three epics. A favourite subject, popular with the men on account of the many battles occurring in the course of the drama, and with the women because Ardjuna, the gentle hero, has the leading part, is the rebellion and defeat of the Titans.

In the first scene the gods appear on either hand of the "gunungan"; Indra and Brahma hold anxious counsel as to what course of action shall be pursued, now that the audacious Titans have dared to march against the abode of the gods; for already their armies occupy the four quarters of Heaven, and the insolent Raksasa, their king and general, fears not the arms of the gods, their deadly swords, and intolerable lances, for, his huge body--all but one hidden spot--is invulnerable. And none may conquer him, except a mortal hero, pure of all passion and sin. Sorrowfully, Brahma lift his hands. "Such a one exists not." But Indra bethinks him of Ardjuna, the gentle prince, who, having utterly forsworn the glories of warfare, the pride of worldly rank and station, and the love of women, has retired to a cavern on Mount Indra Kila; and under the name of Sang Parta--assumed instead of the kingly one of Ardjuna--leads a life of prayer and penitence, mortifying his flesh, and still keeping his constant thought fixed no Shiwa, the giver of Victory. "Maybe Sang Parta is the hero destined to overcome Niwàtakawaka."

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.

The nymphs descend on Mount Indra Kila. "The wild kine and the deer of the mountain raise their head to gaze after them as they frolic over the dew-lit grass. The cinnamon trees put forth young shoots, less red than the maidens' lips. And the boulders, strewn around Sang Parta's cavern, glisten to welcome them, as, one by one, they pass the dark entrance." But the hermit, absorbed in pious contemplations, never turns his averted head, never looks upon the lovely ones, nor deigns to listen to their wooing songs. And those seven fair queens are fain to depart, hiding their face, smarting with the pain of unrequited love.

But the gods, beholding them come back thus shamefaced and sad, rejoice exceedingly.

Now, to put Sang Parta's courage to the test. Shiwa, the terrible one assumes mortal shape; and descending on Indra Kila, defies the hermit. They fight, and Sang Parta is victor. Then Shiwa, revealing himself, praises the anchorite for his piety and his valour; and, for a reward, bestows upon him his own never-failing spear. After which he returns to the council of the gods, bidding them be of good cheer, for now it cannot be doubted any longer that Sang Parta is the hero destined to conquer the unconquerable Raksasa.

He is now summoned to the presence of the gods, and receives their command to go forth and slay the Raksasa. A goddess arms him; and a nymph whispers into his ear the secret on which the Titan's life depends: his vulnerable spot is the tip of his tongue. Sang Parta now resumes his real name; and, as Ardjuna, goes to seek Niwàtakawaka. After many wanderings and perilous adventures, in which Shiwa's miraculous spear stands him in good stead, he finally meets his destined antagonist, and defies him to single combat. For a long time they fight, each in turn seeming victor and vanquished, until, at last, Ardjuna, feigning to have received a deadly thrust, sinks down. Then, as the Raksasa, skipping about in insolent joy, shouts out a defiance to the gods, Ardjuna hurls his spear at the monster's wide-opened mouth and pierces his tongue; and the blasphemer drops down dead. The other Titans, seeing their king fallen, fly, and the gods are saved. But Ardjuna is rewarded for his exploits, the grateful gods bestowing upon him seven surpassingly fair "widadari," a kingdom, and the power of working miracles.

This drama, called Ardjuna's marriage feast, is a comparatively short one, which may be performed in the course of one night. The majority of wayang-plays, however, require three or four nights, or even a whole week, for an adequate representation; and there are some which last for a fortnight. They consist of fourteen, fifteen, or even more acts. The number of dramatis personæ is practically unlimited; new heroes and heroines constantly appear upon the scene; and, to render confusion still worse confounded, they again and again change their names. Time is annihilated, the babe, whose miraculous birth is represented in the beginning of an act, having arrived at man's estate before the end of it, and one generation succeeding another in the course of the play. Generally, too, no trace of any regular plan is discoverable. Incident follows incident, and intrigue disconnected intrigue; and, at every turn, fresh dramatic elements are introduced. So that, as the drama ceases--for it cannot in any proper sense be said to finish--characters whose very names have not been mentioned before, are making love, waging war, and holding desultory counsel about events absolutely irrelevant, and between which and those represented in the beginning of the drama, it is all but impossible to find the slightest connection.

To a Javanese, these endless plays hardly seem long enough. He never wearies of the innumerable adventures of these innumerable heroes. Titans, queens, and gods, though he has seen them represented ever since he was a child, and probably knows them by heart, almost as well as the "dalang" himself. He has no prejudice in favour of any regular intrigue, with beginning, catastrophe, and end. And, as for improbabilities, many strange things happen, day by day. And, as for time, was not the Prophet carried up to Heaven to sojourn among the blessed for a thousand years, whence returning to Mecca, and entering his chamber, he found the pitcher, which he had upset in his heavenward flight, not yet emptied of its contents? Such considerations cannot spoil his enjoyment of the wayang. Night after night, the Javanese sit, listening to the grandiloquent speeches of the heroes and their courting of queens and nymphs; discussing their opinions and principles, moral and otherwise; and, amid bursts of laughter, applauding any witticism, with which the "dalang" may enliven his somewhat monotonous text. And as, at last, they regretfully rise in the reddening dawn that causes the wayang lights to pale, visions of that heroic and beautiful world accompany them on their homeward way. The maidens would hardly be amazed to behold Ardjuna slumbering under the blossoming citron bush. And the young men think of Palosara, who, by his unassisted arm, won a royal bride and the kingdom of Ngastina.

ON THE BEACH

The million-footed crowd of travelling humanity has trodden Tandjang Priok out of all beauty and pleasantness. It is nothing now but a heap of dust rendered compact by a coating of basalt and bricks, and bearing on its flat surface some half-dozen square squat sheds, the whitewashed walls of which glare intolerably in the sunlight that beats upon the barren place all day long. But, a little further down the shore, eastwards from the harbour, the natural beauty of the country re-asserts itself. There are wide, shallow bays, where the water sleeps in the shadow of overhanging trees; sandy points, one projecting beyond the other across shimmering intervals of sea; and, alternating with open spaces where a few bamboo huts are clustered together amidst a plantation of young banana trees, great tracts of woodland that come down to the very margin of the water. In one place where the narrow beach broadens out a little, some half dozen shanties, one of which might, by courtesy, be styled a bathing-lodge, have found standing-room between the wood and the water. Some homesick exile from France has christened the handful of bamboo posts and atap leaves: Petite Trouville. In the dry season, when Batavia is parched with heat and choked with dust, people come hither for a plunge into the clear cool waves, and for some hours of blissful idleness in the shadow of the broad-branched njamploeng trees, which mirror their dark leafage and clusters of white wax-like blossoms in the tide.

The day some friends took me to see the place was one of the last in April, when the rains were not yet quite over. We had left Batavia at half-past five, when the Koningsplein was still white with rolling mists and the stars had but just begun to fade in the greyish sky. The train had borne us along some distance on our way to Tandjong Priok, ere the sun rose. Rather, ere it appeared. There had been no heralding change of colour in the eastern sky; only the uncertain light that lay over the landscape had gradually strengthened; and, all at once, at some height above the horizon a triangular splendour burst forth, a great heart of flame which was the sun. The pools and tracts of marshy ground flooded by the recent rains were ridged with long straight parallel lines of red. The dark tufts of palm trees here and there shone like burnished bronze. And where they grew denser, in groups and little groves, the blue mist hanging between the stems was pierced by lances of reddish light.

At Tandjong Priok station, we alighted amidst a crowd of natives, dock-labourers and coal-heavers, on their way to the ships. They took the road in true native style, one marching behind the other, laughing and talking as they went. And we followed them, in our jolting sadoos, along a sunny avenue, planted with slim young trees, as far as to the bend of the road; then we left it and entered the wood on the right, which we had for some time been skirting.

A rough track led through it. Our sadoos jolted worse than ever in the ruts left by the broad-wheeled carts of the peasantry. We alighted and made our way as best we could through the grass-grown clearings of the jungle. The sun was but just beginning to warm the air. White shreds of mist still hung among the tree-stems, and swathed the brushwood. The grass underfoot was white with dew, glistening with myriads of brilliant little points where the yellow sunlight touched it. The broadly curved banana leaves, and the feathery tufts of the palm trees overhead began to grow transparent, standing out in light green against the shining whiteness of the sky. There was an inexpressible vitality and exhilaration in all things, in the fine pure air, cool as well water, in the sparkle of the dew-lit grass, in the bushes with large round drops trembling on every leaf, in the pungent scent of the lantana that on every side displayed its clusters of pink, mauve and orange red blossoms. It was good to feel wet through on the tramp through the drenched tangle, to feel the blood tingling in the finger tips, the lungs full of quickening air, and the sunshine right in your eyes. It was good to be alive.

After a while, we came to a little campong, some five or six bamboo huts, grouped together in an open space of the wood. Some naked children were playing around a fire of sticks and dry leaves. Under a shed, a woman stood pounding rice in a hollowed-out wooden block, whilst another carrying a child in her slendang, talked to her. There were no men about, save one old fellow, white-haired and decrepit, who sat in his doorway, mending nets. In that sunny forest clearing, that was the one thing suggestive of the neighbouring sea.

Past the village there are several tanks of brackish water, where fish is bred for Chinese consumption. Tangles of green weed floated on the surface, which, in places, seemed to be filmed over with oily colours. A man walked along the shore, dredging. Beyond, the wood recommenced. But it was less dense there; great patches of sunlight lay on the ground, and the sky showed everywhere through the stems. As we issued out of the dappled shade, we beheld the sea.

Calm and clear, it lay under the calm clear sky, a silvery splendour suffused in places with the faintest blue. Not a ripple disturbed the lustrous smoothness. Only, out in the open, the water heaved with a scarcely perceptible swell, its rise and subsidence revealed by a rhythmic pulsation of colour--streaks of pale turquoise breaking out upon the pearly monochrome, kindling into azure and gradually fainting and fading again. To the westward the mole of Tandjong Priok and the two bar-iron light-towers, standing seemingly close together, had dwindled to a narrow dark line with, at its extreme point, two little black filigree figures delicately defined against the shimmering white of sea and sky. Near the shore, a fishing-prao, its slight hull almost disappearing under the immense white winglike sail, lay still above its motionless reflection. In the eastern distance, a group of islands, ethereal as cloudlets, hung where the sheen of the sea and the shimmer of the sky flowed together into one tremulous splendour, dazzling and colourless. The beach with a nipah-thatched hut on the right and a group of spreading njamploeng trees on the left framed the radiant vista with sober browns and greens.

The morning was still, without a breath of air; and, all around, the foliage hung motionless. Yet, as we walked over the fine grey sand, which already felt hot under foot, there came drifting down to us now and again, whiffs of a sweet subtle fragrance, as of March violets; and transparent blossoms, fluttering down, whitened the shell-strewed beach. Then njamploengs were in flower.

Looking at that dark-leaved grove on the margin of the water, I thought I had seldom seen nobler trees. Not very tall; but round and broad, great hemispheres of foliage squarely supported on column-like trunks. In their general air and bearing, in the character of the oblong leaves and their elegant poise upon the branch, they somewhat resemble the walnuts of northern countries. The colour is even richer, a vigorous bluish green, swarthy at a distance; and, when seen near at hand, as full of tender beryl-tints as a field of young oats, with watery gleams and glories playing through the depths of the foliage. For a crowning grace, the njamploeng has its blossoms, fragrant, white, and of a wax-like transparency--cups of milky light. Standing under an ancient tree, that overhung the water with trailing branches and a tangle of wave-washed roots, I could see the luminous clusters shining in that dome of dusky leafage, like stars in an evening sky. And the water in the shadow gleamed with pale reflections.

The sea that morning passed through a succession of chromatic changes. The silvery smoothness of an hour ago had been broken by a ripple, that came and went in dashes of ruffled ultra-marine. Then, here and there, purplish patches appeared, which presently began to spread until they touched, and flowed together, and the sea, all along the shore, seemed turned to muddy wine whilst, out in the open, it sparkled in a rich blue-green, rippling and flickering. At noon, the purplish brown had disappeared, and the emerald-like tints had faded and changed to an uncertain olive-green. The sky as yet retained its morning aspect, cloudless and shimmering with a white brilliancy as if all the stars of the Milky Way had been dissolved in it. Under that enduring paleness, the fitful colouring and flushing of the sea seemed all the stranger.

As the day advanced, the heat had steadily increased, and, at last, it was intolerable. About ten, when we swam out into the sea, the water, even where it grew deeper, felt tepid; a little after noon, it was warm. The windless air quivered. And the sand was so hot as to scorch our bare feet when we attempted to step out of the circular shadow of the njamploengs, where a little coolness as yet remained.

A dead quiet lay on sea and land. There was neither wind nor wave, not the thinnest shadow of a sailing cloud, to temper for an instant the unbearable glare. The foliage overhead was the one spot of colour in a white-hot universe. There must be cicadas among the leaves: I had heard them trilling, earlier in the day; but the heat had reduced them to silence. Even the black ants, crawling among the roots, and in the fissures of the rough rind of the trees seemed to move but listlessly. From where I sat, I could see, framed by the circular sweep of the hanging foliage, a stretch of beach, with some huts amidst a banana plantation, and, further down, a native boat lying keel upwards upon the sand. A lean dog crouched in the shadow, panting with tongue hanging out. No other living creature was to be seen.

The afternoon was far gone before there came a change, imperceptible at first, a gradual sobering of colour, and a growing definiteness in the contours of trees and bushes. Then, the air began to cool down. The horizon grew distinct; a curve of rich green against sunlit blue; a short ripple roughened the water; and, suddenly, the breeze sprang up, driving before it a wave that hurried and rose, and broke foaming upon the beach. The tide was coming in.