Java, Facts and Fancies

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 "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.

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 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.

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 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 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."

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 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] 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.

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.

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,[B] 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.

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,[C] 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.

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.

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,—when it was as yet dry land—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 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.

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, and what became of him after he had prayed to the evil sprite? Here is the tale, as the old fisherman gave it me.

He was a poor man, Pah-Sidin, unlucky in whatever he undertook, and so utterly ignorant as not to know one single "ilmu."[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.

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, 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?"

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."

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, 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.

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 sawahs 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!"

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 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!"

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.

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 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."

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.

But their safety is threatened by yet another enemy,—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.

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.

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"[B] along. Harassed officials began to believe in a universe peopled exclusively by 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.[C]

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,"[D] and holds the rhinoceros of no account. And, generally, too, though he lie in wait for a crocodile, he catches only a fever—of a particularly malignant kind, it is true.

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 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—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 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.

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 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.