Facts and fancies about Java

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Glimpses of Native Life in the Streets.

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 waving paces and of swaying hands.’ There are several kinds of ‘wayangs,’ each having it own range of subjects and style of acting: the most ancient as well as

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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.

The ‘wayang poerwa’ is best described as a combination of a ‘Punch-and-Judy’ show and a kind of ‘Chinese shadows:’ and - as with the famed shield which was silver on one side and gold on the other - its appearance depends upon the standpoint 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, us many as

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two hundred of these puppets are found, each with its own particular type and garb, characteristic of the person represented.

Certain conventional features, however, are repeated throughout as symbols of their moral disposition. Long thin noses continuing the lien 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 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.

The stage on which these puppets are

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shown consists of an upright sereen 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 into 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. It thus does the duty of the modern ‘coulisse,’ or, better still, of the Shakspearian sign board which apprised the spectators that ‘Thys was a wode,’ or ‘Thys was a tonne.’ Among the further accessories of the wayang are a set of miniature weapons, shields, swords, spears, javelins, and ‘krises,’ exactly copied after those now

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or formerly in use among the 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 manoeuvre this lilliputian company of puppets made into actors is the difficult task of the ‘dalang.’

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 high-born 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 epies, the recitation of which occupies several nights: sometimes he himself dramatizes some popular myth or legend, and he must always be ready at a moment's notice

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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 personae. He should have an ear for music and a good voice, and possess some knowledge of Kawi 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 ‘talèèks’ 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.

But the ‘dalang's’ reward is proportionate to these exertions. He and his art are alike held in almost superstitious respect. No one dreams of criticizing his performances. If he wishes

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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 State, if he fulfils the supreme one of giving joy.

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

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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 Brama, 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,^* 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

* The wayang-screen is erected in the open air, in front of the house.

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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.

Already the last streaks of erimson 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.

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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,^† gleam duskily above the purple slendang that drapes the bosom. The round blunt-featured faces are set in a multicoloured 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 brow-encireling tiara.

† A fragrant yellow unguent.

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A broad silver band, elaborately ornamented, clasps the upper arm: a narrower bracelet encircles the wrist: the fingers are a-glitter with rings.

Arrived in front of the wayang-screen they pause; with the tips of their fingers, they take hold of the long, gold-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, sounded by the long-drawn notes of the ‘rebab,’ the Persian viol. And, following the impulse of its rhythm, the dancers raise their hands making the scarf to float along the extended arm, waving about the glittering silk and draping 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 thin young trees that bow beneath the passing breeze, tossing their branches.

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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 Brama, Vishnu, and Shiwa are the heroes, such as these 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 defent of the Titans.

In the first scene on either hand of the ‘gunungan,’ the gods appear: Indra and Brama hold anxious counsel as to what course of action shall be pursued, now that the andacious Titans have dared to march against the abode

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of the gods; and 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, expect a mortal hero, pure of all passion and sin.

Sorrowfully, Brahma lifts 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 on Shiwa, the giver of Victory. ‘Maybe Sang Parta is the hero destined to overcome Niwatakawaka.’

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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 be 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

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head, never looks upon the lovely once, nor deigns to listen to their wooing songs. And those seven fair queens are fain to depart, hiding their faces, and 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, 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 Raksasa. A

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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 Niwâtakawata. After many wanderings and perilous adventures, in which Shiwa's miraculous spear stands him in good stead, he finally meets his destined antagonist, 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. And, as Raksasa, skipping about in insolent joy, shouts out a defiance of 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 save. But Ardjuna is rewarded for his exploits, the grateful gods bestowing upon him seven surpassingly fair

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‘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 personae is practically unlimited; new heroes and heroines constantly appear upon the scene; and, to render confusion still more 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

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on 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 prejudices in faveur of any regular intrigue, with beginning, catastrophe, and end. And, as for improbabilities, many strange

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things happen, day by day. And, as for time, was not the Prophet carried up to Heaven, and did he not sojourn among the blessed for a thousand years: and then, again, did he not return to Mecca, and, entering his chamber, found the ewer, 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 blos-

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soming citron bush. And the young men think of Palosara, who, by his unassisted arm, won a royal bride and the kingdom of Ngastina.

For details about the wayang, I am indebted to that standard-work ‘De Wayang’ by Serrurier; and, for the translation of the drama of Ardjuna's marriage-feast, to Professor Veth's Java, and to essays by Mechelen and Meyer.