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Facts and fancies about Java (1898)

Facts and fancies about Java

(1898)–Augusta de Wit–rechtenstatus Auteursrecht onbekend

Vorige Volgende

Glimpses of Native Life.

A just 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 this 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 side. But Hollanders do not understand the Javanese, nor do 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 antagonistic. Anyway, on the part of a casual observer, such as the present scribe, any further criticisms would be presumptuous and almost inevitably unjust: wherefore, such will be refrained from.

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 waringin 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.

This life seems strange to us Northerners, self-constituted prisoners under roofs and within 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 thus to live. 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 - his whole appearance - 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, otherwise, the final, completing touch by the absence of dusky figures moving through it. Landspace and people are each other's natural complement and explanation. Hence, the picturesque and poetic charm of the Javanese out-of-doors.

One of the most fascinating scenes is that of the bath in the river, soon after sunrise, such as, at batavia, I have repeatedly witnessed from the Tanah Abang embankment. The early sunlight - a clear, cool, yellow - with a sparkle as of topazes in it, brightens, the subdued green of the ‘asem’ trees along the riverside, and makes

the short wet grass glisten. The brown water of the Kali Batawi gleams golden between the oblique bars of shadow: and the bodies of the bathers, stripped to the waist, gleam like bronze statues. Small boys and girls swim about, kicking up the water as they go. Women stand, graceful and erect, in the clinging transparent folds of their sarongs, pulled up over the bosom, and drawn tight under the arms, leaving free the shapely shoulders. I once saw two young girls thus attired, half hidden in a clump of tall-leaved reeds, pouring water over one another's head from little buckets made of an areng-leaf. Their back hair shone, and their garments were drawn by the running water into clinging flowing folds that moulded their lithe little figures from bosom to ankle. At the sound of my footsteps, one of them looked up, lifting a childish face, and large quiet eyes, as unconscious as a fawn's. But her compassion, saying something, made

her turn her head, and look down the river. And, as I followed her glance, I saw another picturesque group - some six or eight men tugging and shoving at a broad, brick-laden barge, which had run aground on the shallow bed of the kali (river). The water dripped from their legs and 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 been skipping on the embankment, came down with a running leap, and, giving the boat a sudden sharp push, sent it darting forward. Then, he stood up, laughing, and shook back the shock of back hair which had fallen over his eyes. He looked like a dusky young river god, who out of kindness had come to assist his votaries.

The flower-market is a scene of idyllie 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 jessamines, and tuberoses whiter than snow. The Javanese have a great love of flowers, thought, 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 white, odoriferous convolvulus which the wind sows along roadsides and hedgerows - 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.

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 headkerchief. As for the children, their bare brown little bodies are hung with tandjong wreaths. The pucked-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 decoetion of charred leaves and stalks; and, together with ambergris, and a sweet, smelling root, called ‘ahkar wanggi,’ 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 strong-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 chalices and early 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 circumtances of their lives - with joy and sorrow and ceremony, and the service 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 for their marrage day - gleaming in the elaborate head-dress of the bride, and dangling down as a long fringe from the groom's golden diadem: the scabbard of his poniard, too, is wound about with chaplets of flowers: and a heavy

garland girdles his naked waist, all yellow with ‘boreh’ powder. To the dead on the third, the seventh, the fortieth, the hundredth, and the thousandth day after the burial, a tribute of flowers is brought by the relations, who pray for the welfare of their kinsman's soul, and in return implore his protection together with that of all their ancestors up to Adam and Eve who are especially venerated.

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 - and the share it now, in mutual good-will and tolerance with the Toewan Allah, ‘beside 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, when-

ever 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 roadside, an immense old waringin, in itself a forest. And the rude altar in its shade, fenced off from the public road by a wooden railing, from sunrise to sunset is fragrant with floral offerings.

There are several flower-markets in Batavia. But I have taken a particular fancy to the one held at Tanah Abang, not far from the bend in the river, where I saw my two little naiads frolicking among the rushes. Its site is a somewhat singularly chosen one for the purpose, near the entrance of 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 to their pious memory. In its deep, dark arch, as in a black frame, is set a vista of dazzling white-blastered tombstones, pillars, and obelisks huddled into irregular groups, with here and there a figure hews in fair white marble soaring on outstretched wings, and everywhere a scintillation as of molten metal - the colourless, intolerable glare to which the fiece sunlight fires the corrugated line of the roofs protecting the monuments.

But on the hither side of the gateway there are restful shadow and coolness. Some ancient gravestones paved the ground, as if it were the floor of an old village church - bluish-grey stabs emblazoned with erests and coast-of-arms in worn away bas-relief. Heraldie beasts are still faintly discernible on some, and long Lating epitaphs, egraved 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, the Company of Far Lands, as in the olden time it was called.

Hither, before the sun is fairly risen, come a score of native flower-sellers, shivering in the new 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 coasts of arms and long inscriptions, are covered with heaps of 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 calices of the cambodija-blossom, in which tints of topaz-yellow and pink and purple are mixed as in an evening sky - the tall sceptre of the tuberose flower-

crowned, - and ‘parchar china,’ which seems to be made out of grains of pure gold.

Some who know the tastes of the ‘orang blandah’ have brought flowering plants to market, mostly Malmaison rose and tiny Japanese lilies, just dug up, the earth still clinging to their delicate roots: or they sit binding into stiff clumsy wreaths: wax-white gardenias, violet scabissa, and leaves as downy and grey as the wings of moths: for they have learnt that the white folks choose flowers of these dull tints to lay upon tombs of their dead. And there is one old man, brown, shrunken, and wrinkled, as if he were made 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 - thousands of brilliantly-coloured leaflets.

About seven o'clock, the customers, almost exclusively women, arrive, fresh from their bath in the neighbouring

river. They from picturesque groups on the sunning 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,* and 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 flowerseller to another, bargain for jessamines, orange-blossoms, and tiny pink roses, which, with deft fingers, they twist into the glossy eoil of their ‘kondeh,’ or knotted hair.

Javanese women are most pardonably proud of their hair. Its 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 repect, with European wome of the lower classes, though some of their methods, it must be owned, are repugnant to European notions of decency. For, as they bathe, and sleep, and eat in public, so, in public, they clease 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 to stands with her spreadout 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 haths it. This particular way of cleasing the hair is a national insititution among the Javanese, and, as such, celebrated in the legens of the race, and in the tales of the olden time, which are still repeated, of an evening, among friends.

The scholar of the party, by the light of an oil-wick, reads from a greasy

manuscript, which he has hired for the evening at the price of one ‘pitji.’† It is the story of the beautiful beggarmaid, who wanders from village to 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 (queen) 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 not they are old and childless. The Rajah, gazing upon the stranger, frequently sighs: his daughter would have grown up to the 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 the fragrant

blossom of the asana. She herself will clease them. Then, as she parts the long braids, ah! there upon the crown, is the cicatrice which her little daughter had! The long-lost one is found again. Then, when the exclamations of massa! and astâga! provoked by this recital of themaiden's wonderful history, have subsided, one or another of the audience, perhaps, mumurs something about fortune and good luck, and how it may be secured by the possession of one single long hair. Say it very softly, not a mortal woman's. Have your never seen the Pontianak glide by, white in the white 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: but not in kindness now, but in spite and deadly malice. She sits in the branches of trees, softly singing to herself, combing 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 from him with a long loud laugh, and cries: ‘Thou has 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 singe 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.

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. Again, it is not men alone that are thus visibly marked by fate. In the crinklings of the hair on a horse's neck, plain signs of good or bad fortune may be read by the wise: whether the horse will be lucky and earry his rider to honour and happiness, or unlucky and maim or even kill him, may thus be known. That is the great point about a horse the way in which the hair on his neck is crinkled. If, then, 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 causes the marks of his hoofs to be carefully obliterated

from the path that leads to your door. 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 fortunes, good or bad, hang by single hairs.

After the bath, the Javenese proceeds to take his morning meal; and this, again, is a public performance. The noon repast - the only solid one in the day - 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 - two wooden cases, the one containing food, prepared and raw; the other, a chasingdish full of live coals, and a supply of crockery - to its fully-developed form, the atap-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,* not to mention the ‘corresponding’ womankind. They talk, they talk! and they laugh! The affairs of all Batavia are discussed here - matters of business, intrigue, love, money, office, everything material to make a Javanese Decameron of, if a Doccacio 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.

Each of these itinerant cooks seems to have 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 coffee - simply boiling-water poured 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 from the areng-palm. Then the rice - the principal dish of this, as of any other meal - 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† 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 - the thrifty wife of the vendor having risen long before dawn to prepare it - and is now set forth, on strips of torn-up banana-leaf, as on plats and saucers, green and white balls of rice-meal, powdered over with rasped coconut, 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.

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 - labouring in the field, travelling on foot for days together, and carrying heavy loads without apparent over-exertion.

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 eating kwée-kwée‡ 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 have is spent either on personal ornaments or on sweetmeats: and, on festive occasions, they will often pawn necessary articles of furniture and dress rather than deny themselves the enjoyment of more cakes, jellies, dried fruit, and sweet syrups than they can partake of without making themselves very sick and sorry. The ancient naive idea that what is pleasant to human beings must also be acceptable to the gods, causes the Javanese to bring offerings of the rice, and the sweetmeats he is so fond of himself, to the shrine of his deities. In this, he does but as the Jews and Greek have done before him. But there is one detail about the Javanese sacrificial rites, which distinguishes them from those of every which one is never quite sure whether to call eminently spiritual, or naively selfish. Of the food offered, they believe the deity to enjoy the savour

only. The celestial being disdains the grosser material part; and 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 good, make a cheerful repast on the visible and ponderable parts left on the altar: thus combining piety and high living in one and the same act. In Java, if anywhere, it may be said that, when the gods are feared, the people fare well!

It would be somewhat invidious to inquire whether appetite or piety be the impelling motive: but, from whatever cause, the Javanese are most assiduous in the performance of sacrificial rites. Not only are those cardinal events of human life: marriages, births 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 for a ‘sedeka,’ or religions feast. ‘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 Adam and Eve. But the worship of these benevolent deities does not exclude that of the malignant ‘seitans’ and ‘djinns,’ the powers of the air, who are as powerful for evil as the others are for good. It is they who send plagues and pestilence, who make the babe die at its mother's breast, and make the buffalo 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 be on good terms with them, and to let the Devil himself

have his meed of rice, fruit, and incense. Also, the evil spirits being exceedingly jealous, one should never glory in the possession of any desirable thing, such as riches, good health, power, or, above all, fine children: for that might provoke them into turning all these blessings into curses: whereas humility or, still better, contempt of the things men generally covet, conciliates them. This is one reason why very handsome children are often called by names implying that they are hateful, ugly, and altogether worthless. Among the saints and prophets of El-Islam, Saint Joseph is particularly venerated by matrons, who implore from him the gift of beauty for their offspring. Nor do they implore in vain. Javanese babies are absolutely charming. 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 skin of European children seem insipid by comparison.

And, now and then, faces are seen, akin to those that shine on Murillo's canvases, innocent and earnest, surrounding the Madonna in cloud-like clusters. But alas! these heavenly memories fade soon. The suns of a few east-monsoons utterly wither them. ‘Where are the cherubs of yester year?’ as Villan might vary his melancholy refrain could he see the grown-up youths and maidens of Java. Among adults, beauty is as rare as among children it is common. So that, after all, it would seem St. Joseph takes the prayer for fine children ‘at the foot of the letter,’ and answers the petition in a somewhat ironical spirit.

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 - is full to the brim, so to say, and incapable of holding another grain of rice - when she will set it on its feet again, dry the tears off its round cheeks, and rock it to sleep against her breast close-folded in the long ‘slendang.’.

A similar principle seems to obtain 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 - if a framework of four bamboo-posts and an ‘atap’ roof deserves that

name - in a native ‘kampong’ at Meester Cornelis.* I had come upon the school quite accidentally, in the course of a ramble along the river-side. As I was making my way through a plantation of thin 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 place, 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 - or, rather, chanting - 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 they went through the same 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 knew 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 Moslemin. That is enough.

After the early morning meal, the Javanese begin the business of the day.

In towns, where they are debarred from 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 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 re-appear, and again repair to the kali or the canal for a plunge into the tepid water. Cigarettes are lit, sirih-plugs cut up and neatly rolled, and some friendly conversation indulged in. In fine weather, games are played.

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 - 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 - the Javanese are keen sportsmen, and often stake comparatively important sums on the issue of a game - 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 must 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 ‘beaux joueurs.’ During the east monsoon, when high south-easterly winds may be counted upon, flying kites is a favourite 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 like that of a wind-harp. They sometimes remain soaring for days together: and strains of that aerial music, attuned in sad ‘minore,’ float out upon every passing breath of air. And passers-by in the street look up, shading their eyes from the sun, at the bright things soaring and singing in the blue heights; and dispute much about the melodious merits of each.

The paper singing-brids, 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, and the cord, of strong rameh-fibre, is coated with a paste

of glass or earthenware, pounded fine and mixed with starch. 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 manoeuvre which requires considerable dexterity. The games is played according to strict rules and with some degree of ceremony and etiquette, as prescribed by the ‘adat’ - 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 searf 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 manoeuvre,

signifies his acceptance of the combat; retiring afterwards in the same stately manner. And the contest begins. The agile figures of the players dart hither and thither, fitfully, with swift impulse and sudden pause, and abrupt swerve, so sure, so graceful, bending this way and that, swaying, with head thrown back and right arm flung up along the straining glistening cord, the long coils hanging from the outstretched left hand. The groups of spectators, standing well aside so as not to interfere with the swift movements of the player, 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 thin fantastic shapes high in the air seem animated with a life of their own, wilful, untiring, swift to pursue, and quick to escape, and ardent,

full of feints and ruses. Suddenly, as one again plunges, the other, tranquilly sailing aloft, trembles, staggers, tumbles over, and then, 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 re-ascend and hover aloft, straining against the wind, tugging upon the strong shiny cord that has come off scathless from the encounter.*

The aboriginal eraving 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, is content to fight by proxy.

Cocks and crickets are the chosen deputies of the town-folk in this matter, and are objects of as much enthusiastic loyalty on the part of Javanese members of the fancy as ever bull-fighter won in Spain or prize-fighter in England. The Government forbids these cock and cricket fights on account of the gambling to which they invariably give rise. But the police is 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. 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. Once 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 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 both supple and strong. Connoisseurs arrive from compounds and ‘kampongs’ to exchange criticisms. The age, strength, and agility of rival birds are discussed at length and compared: and, finally, when there are a sufficient number in good condition, a match is arranged.

The amateurs arrive on the spot with their birds cooped up in a sort of cage of banana-leaves, the head shorn of its comb, and the tail protruding out of narrow apertures. 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 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 those 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 give 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.

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

adroitness and speed as by mere force. It is said that even more patience is required to train a cricket than to train a game-cock; and the process certainly seems elaborate. 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 - preferably near the grave of some Muslim saint, or royal hero: or in the shadow of some sacred tree. The ‘changkriks’ caught in consecrated places are much superior to those of the ditch and garden: they participate in the virtue of their habitat. There, 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 and crouch-

ing under the stones, whither they have been lured by the shrill song of the captive insect; and, if he is adroit, may catch a score at a time. Only the finest and strongest of these he retains: and straightway he begins the work of education. 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 fine, 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 heed, 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 picee of cotton-wool fastened to a

‘lidi,’* 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’† he delicately ties it round one of the cricket's hind legs, and hangs it 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.

When it has thus been brought to the proper frame of mind, its real education begins. With a very fine 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 its 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 is 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 are opened, and the two ‘changkriks’ rush at each other. The one who is first thrown, or who turns tail and flies, is beaten: and great is the glory of the victor. On fighting crickets as well as on cocks, the Javanese often stake comparatively important sums. And there is always a chance that the quarrel of the former may be fought out by the latter not without serious consequences.


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