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which chants accompanying and explanatory verses as the action
proceeds. Great princes maintain their own private topeng troupes,
and in their palace presentations, and always in the presence of
native royalties, the actors go without masks. The topeng’s gamelan
consists of two sets of the circles of tiny gongs (gong or agong, a
pure Javanese word and instrument), that are struck with wooden
sticks, and two wood and two metal gambang kayu (wood and metal
bars of different length and thickness mounted on a boat-shaped
frame), or native xylophones, to which single instrument the name
“gamelan” is so often given in the West.
The common wayang-wayang of the people is a modification of
the same masked or puppet drama that was in vogue long before the
Mohammedan conquest. As the religion of Islam forbade the
representation of the human figure, the susunhan ordered the
puppets to be so distorted that the priests could not call them images
of human beings, and that even then only their shadows, thrown on
a curtain, should be seen. Hence the exaggerated heads, the beaks
and noses, of the cardboard jumping-jacks which, pulled by unseen
strings, serve to maintain an interest in the national history and
legends, and by preludes and lines, chanted in classic Kawi,
preserve acquaintance with the literary language among the
common people. There is a form of wayang-wayang half-way
between this puppet-show and the real drama, in which the actors
themselves are visible, wearing distorted masks; but the plays are of
modern times, in the common dialect, and the manager often
improvises his lines and scenes as the play progresses. With these
popular dramas there rank the performances of the graceful bedaya,
or dancing-girl, whose tightly folded sarong, floating scarf-ends,
measured steps, outward sweep of the hand, and charming play of
arm and wrist recall the Japanese maiko. Although the winsome
bedaya is sculptured on Boro Boedor’s recording walls, there is
nothing there to indicate the puppet-play, nor anything from which it
might have evolved, although from other records ethnologists claim
that the Javanese possessed this dramatic art when the Hindus
came. A love of the drama in the form of the topeng and the wayang-
wayang was so ingrained in the tastes and fixed in the customs of
the people that the Mohammedan conquerors could not suppress
those popular amusements, and were finally content to modify them
in trifling points. The Dutch were also wise enough never to interfere
with these harmless pleasures of the people, the greatest distraction
and delight of these sensitive, emotional, innately esthetic and
refined Javanese, who will sit through shadow-plays for half the
night, and are moved to frenzy and tears by the martial and romantic
exploits of their national heroes.
All of society,—the two hundred of Djokja’s superior circle,—
European and native together, gathered at the Societeit’s marble hall
on the night of the topeng. That exalted being, the resident, entered
in his modestly gilded uniform; and all the company rose, and stood
until he and Prince Pakoe Alam had advanced and seated
themselves in the two arm-chairs placed in front of the chairs of the
rest of the audience. “Our best people are all here to-night,” said our
amiable table d’hôte acquaintance of the Hotel Toegoe; and we
looked around the lofty white hall, where row upon row of robust,
prosperous-looking Europeans sat in state attire. All the men wore
heavy cloth coats, either richly frogged military jackets or the
civilian’s frock or cutaway, only a few wearing conventional black
dress-coats, and none the rational white duck clothes of the tropics.
The Dutch ladies were dressed in rich silks, brocades, and even
velvets, and fanned vigorously as a natural consequence, while
more of mildew fumes than of sachet odors came from these heavy
cloth and silk garments, whose care and preservation are so difficult
in the tropics. One was reminded of those tropical burghers in
crimson velvet coats who received Lord Macartney and Staunton in
a red velvet council-room at Batavia just one century before. The
native officers and their families were naturally more interesting to a
stranger—splendid-looking Javanese men, who stood and walked
like kings, all wearing the battek kerchief or turban folded in myriad
fine plaitings, richly patterned sarongs, and the boat-handled kris
showing at the back of the short black military jacket. Many of these
native officials had constellations of stars and decorations pinned to
their breasts, and their finely cut features, noble mien, and graceful
manners declared them aristocrats and the fine flower of an old race.
Their wives, shy, slender, graceful women in clinging sarongs and
the disfiguring Dutch jacket, wore many clasps and buckles and
jeweled knobs of ear-rings. They seemed to have inherited all the
Hindu love of glittering, glowing jewels, and the Buddhist love of
flowers and perfumes, each little starry-eyed, flower-like woman
redolent of rose or jasmine attar, and wearing some brilliant blossom
in the knot of satin-black hair. The women had thrust their pretty
brown feet into gold-heeled mule slippers, that clicked musically on
the tiles as they walked, while the children comfortably rubbed their
bare feet on the cool white floor.
A few Chinese families, nearly all of them Paranaks, or half-
castes, to the island born, were there; the women in gay
embroidered satins, jeweled and diamonded out of all reason, and
the children gay as cockatoos and parrakeets in their bright little
coats and caps and talismanic ornaments. Rows of shadowy, silent
natives, opas, lantern- and pajong-bearers, and attendants of every
kind, crouched in rows among the great columns of the portico—
gallery gods who squatted spellbound, rapt, and freely tearful in their
enjoyment of the splendid topeng produced that night.
Rain blurred the landscape for all of the half-hour run from Tjibatoe
down to Garoet, and we lost the panorama of splendid mountains
that surround the great green Garoet plain, embowered in the midst
of which is the town of Garoet, a favorite hill and pleasure-resort of
the island. We did catch glimpses now and then, however, of dark
mountain masses looming above and through the clouds, and of
flooded rice-fields and ripening crops, with scarecrows and quaint
little baskets of outlooks perched high on stilts, where young Davids
with slings lay in wait for birds. Boys leading flocks of geese, and
boys astride of buffaloes made other pictures afield, and in the
drizzling rain of the late afternoon we were whirled through the
dripping avenues to the Hotel Hork, home of Siamese royalties and
lesser tourists, health- and pleasure-seekers, who visit this volcanic
and scenic center of the Preanger regencies.
Our sitting-room porch at this summer hotel, with an endless
season, looked on a garden, whose formal flower-beds, bordered
with stones and shells, classic vases, and other conventions of their
kind, reminded one at once of by-places in Europe; and so also did
the bust of Mozart and the copy of Thorwaldsen’s “Venus,”—until
one noted their protecting palm- and mango-trees. This Garoet hotel
is one of the institutions of Java, and the Vrouw van Hork and her
excellent Dutch housekeeping are famed from Anjer Head to
Banjoewangi. All the colonial types were represented at the long
table d’hôte, and every language of Europe was heard. There were
always nice neighbors at table, able and anxious to talk English, and
the cheery Dutch ladies were kindness and friendliness personified.
At no other resort on the island did we receive such a pleasant
impression of the simplicity, refinement, and charm of social life in
the colony. But, although two thousand feet above sea-level, in a
climate of mildly tempered eternal spring, the ladies all wore the
sarong and loose dressing-sacque in the morning, as in scorching
Batavia or lowland Solo. Even on damp and chilly mornings, when a
light wrap was a comfortable addition to our conventional muslin
gowns, the Garoet ladies were bare-ankled and as scantily clad as
the Batavians; and there were shock and real embarrassment to me
in seeing in sarong and sacque the dignified elderly matron who had
been my charming dinner neighbor the night before.
There is an interesting passer at Garoet, and besides the lavish
display of nature’s products, there are curious baskets brought from
a farther valley, which visitors compete for eagerly. The town square,
or overgrown village green, is faced by the homes of the native
regent and the Dutch resident, and by the quaint little messigit, or
Mohammedan mosque. The last mufti, or head priest of the prophet,
at Garoet was a man of such intelligence and liberality that he had
but one wife, and allowed her to go with face uncovered, to learn
Dutch, and to meet and freely converse with all his foreign visitors,
men as well as women. Travelers brought letters to this mufti and
quoted him in their books, but since his death the more regular,
illiberal order has ruled at Mohammedan headquarters.
The great excursion from Garoet is to the crater of Papandayang,
a mountain whose extended lines (fifteen miles in length by six in
breadth) match its syllables; which has been in vigorous eruption
within a century; and which still steams and rumbles, and, like the
Goenoeng Goentor, or “Thunder Mountain,” across the plain, may
burst forth again at any moment. At the last eruption of
Papandayang, in 1772, there was a great convulsion, a solid mass of
the mountain was blown out into the air, streams of lava poured
forth, and ashes and cinders covered the earth for seven miles
around with a layer five feet thick, destroying forty villages and
engulfing three thousand people in one day. The scar of the great
crater, or “blow-out hole,” near the summit of the mountain, is still
visible from the plain, and the plumes and clouds of steam
ascending from it remind one of its unpleasant possibilities. We
made a start early one rainy morning, and drove twelve miles across
the plain, along hard, sandy white roads, continuously bordered with
shade-trees. The frequent villages were damp and cheerless, and
the little basket houses, that the people weave as they would a hat,
were anything but enviable dwellings then. The sling-shooters’
sentry-boxes throughout the fields—perches where men or boys sat
to pull sets of strings that reached to scarecrows far away—
suggested too much of clammy, rheumatic discomfort to seem as
picturesque as usual—strange little Malay companion pieces to the
same boxes on stilts that one sees perched in the rice-fields of Hizen
and the other southern provinces of Japan.
TRANSPLANTING RICE.