Monumental Java

If this book needs an apology, it is one to myself for taking the public at large into the confidence of cherished recollections. The writing was a diversion from studies in a quite different direction and letting my pen go, while living again the happy hours I spent, between arduous duties, with the beautiful monuments of Java’s past, I did nothing but seek my own pleasure. Should it turn out that my personal impressions, given in black and white, please others too—so much the better. In any case they must be taken for what they are: a beguilement of lone moments of leisure.

Whoever find them readable, they will not satisfy, I hope, a certain class of critics; those, I mean, who extend the paltry rule of mutual admiration, nul n’aura de l’esprit que nous et nos amis, to any field they claim their own and “of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.” Desirous, I must confess, to stimulate their flattering disapproval, I hasten to admit in advance my many shortcomings, a full list of which they will doubtless oblige me with in due process of censorious comment. My work sets up no pretence to completeness: there is no full enumeration of all the Hindu and Buddhist temples known by their remains; there are no measurements, no technical details, no statistics—a great recommendation to my mind, as Dutch East Indian statistics go. I am not guilty of an ambitious attempt to enrich the world with an exhaustive treatise on ancient Javanese architecture and sculpture—far be it from me to harbour such an audacious design! I disclaim even the presumption to aspire at being classed as a useful companion on a visit to the island; I deny most emphatically that I intend to swell the disquieting number of tourists’ vade-mecums already up for sale, clamouring for recognition, and, horribile dictu, scores more coming! Be they sufficient or insufficient, qualitatively speaking, I am not going to increase their quantity.

So much for what this book is not. What it is, I could not help making it, choosing from the material stored in my memory; reliving, as fancy dictated in long northern winter evenings, the sunny spells between 1874 and 1903 when I might call Java my home; resuming my walks in the charming island pleasance of the East, fain to leave the congested main roads and disport myself along by-paths and unfrequented lanes where solace and repose await the weary wanderer. The undertaking, somewhat too confidently indicated by the title, tempted to excursions off the beaten historical, geographical and archaeological tracks, which perhaps will contribute to a better understanding of the monuments described in their proper setting, their relations to natural scenery and native civilisation, but certainly do not tend to conformity with the regulation style of compositions of the kind. Invoking the aid of Ganesa, the sagacious guide, countenancer of poor mortals in creative throes—for, thank Heaven! the fever of production is indissolubly one with the anguish that heightens its delights,—I never hesitated in letting the idea of self-gratification prevail, even when the question of illustration arose after the plan had ripened of inviting indulgent readers to partake. In this respect too I struggled free from anxious deliberation: Wer gar zu viel bedenkt, wird wenig leisten. And, Ganesa aiding, the following kaleidoscopic view of the land I love so well, was the result of my delicious travail.

Looking for the flowers in the ill-kept garden of Java, the delinquencies of the gardeners could not be ignored and here I touch the unpleasant side of the recreation I sought, especially disagreeable when proposing to strangers that they should share; but a picture needs shade as well as light to become intelligible. And to paint true to life the picture of Dutch East Indian passivity (activity only in vandalism!) regarding treasures of art inconvertible into cash, shade ought to be preponderant and light relegated to the subordinate place of a little star glimmering dimly in the darkness, a little star of hope for the future. Disinclined, however, to spoil my pleasure by dwelling on the tenebrous general aspect of governmental archaeology in the past, I have no more than mentioned such disgraceful incidents as the Mendoot squabbles, and omitted, e.g., all reference to such ludicrously heated controversies as that about the kala-makara versus the garuda-naga ornament, exhaustive of the energy which the officially learned might have employed to so much greater advantage by rescuing the venerable temples they fought over, from decay and willful demolition.

The neglect of the ancient monuments of Java has been nothing short of scandalous, the evil effects of the habitual languid detachment of the colonial authorities from the business they are supposed to look after, being, in their case, intensified by acts of dilapidation which even a Government centuries back on the road of enlightenment would have checked,[1] not to speak of downright plunder and theft. The more honour deserve men like Junghuhn among the dead and Rouffaer among the still living, who lifted their voice against the intolerable negligence which hastened the ruin of some of the finest existing specimens of Hindu and Buddhist architecture. At last, in 1901, an Archaeological Commission was appointed, whose labours were directed by Dr. J. L. A. Brandes, their head and soul. After his regretted death in 1905, he was succeeded by Dr. N. J. Krom, who has no easy task in fanning the spark, struck by his predecessor from the hard flint of official laisser-aller into a steady, bright flame of real, continuous solicitude for the country’s antiquities.

Antiquities, except when sold, do not bring money to the exchequer, and the Dutch Government’s most holy colonial traditions are diametrically opposed to expenses without promise of immediate pecuniary profit. If sympathies in matters alien to that prime purpose are miraculously aroused, such interest, revealing itself at the very best by fits and starts to serve ambitious schemes, soon flags and dies. Especially in Dutch East Indian enthusiasm for enterprises financially uncommendable, the adage holds good that tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe. The efforts of the Archaeological Commission can be traced only at the respectful distance of at least a couple of years, the drowsy dignity of red-tapeism putting as long a space as possible between the vulgar gaze of the unofficially curious and the official accounts of things accomplished, meetly compiled, arranged, amended, corrected, revised, purged, padded and bolstered up by the editing experts of successively the circumlocution offices at Batavia, Buitenzorg and the Hague. The reports, published in this manner, whatever they represent as having been done, lay no stress, of course, upon what has been left undone, upon the architectural marvels unprovided for, still suffered to crumble away, to be stripped and demolished, the valuable statuary and ornaments to be carried off piecemeal by unscrupulous collectors, the lower priced stones they left, sculptured or not, by the builders of private dwellings and factories, of Government bridges, dams and embankments.

The illustrations, inserted to explain, imperfect though it be, the charm of the temple ruins I treated of, are reproductions of photographs, taken for the Dutch East Indian Archaeological Service, I obtained from Messrs. Charls and van Es at Weltevreden, by courtesy of Dr. N. J. Krom, and of photographs taken for the Centrum Company at Batavia, and by Mr. C. Nieuwenhuis and the late Cephas Sr. at Jogjakarta. The work of restoration can be appreciated from the photo-prints of the chandi Pawon and, with respect to the chandis Mendoot and Boro Budoor, from those facing pp. 215 and 280; they are the numbers 24 and 40 on the list of the illustrations, and I owe them to Major T. van Erp, also through the intermediary of Dr. Krom. My indebtedness for the text so far as it does not rest on personal observation and information obtained in the localities referred to, is a very large one to many authors on many subjects separately specified in the notes. Concerning the historical parts, I beg leave to state that my readings on controversial points have been determined by a careful sifting of the most acceptable theories advanced, at the risk of critics of the stamp alluded to, proving my preferred records absolutely inadmissible. If so, I having pulled the long bow À l’instar of the annalists and chroniclers of ancient Java, and consequently being shown up for indicating the way in which things did not happen and could not have happened, instead of sticking to the historical truth agreed upon until one of the hall-marked omniscient makes a name for himself by inducing the others to agree upon something else, my sin falls back on the shoulders of the savants prone to lead their admirers astray by their occasional imitation of the eminent historian at whose inborn disrespect for facts Professor Freeman used to poke fun. I am afraid that the system of transliteration I adopted, will also meet with scant recognition in the same quarter, but finding none that, strictly carried through, adjusts itself equally well to the exigencies both of Javanese and Malay names and expressions, I shall adhere to this one until taught better.

This must suffice for a preface if, indeed, it does not exceed the measure allowed by my readers’ patience. Knowing Java, they will, however, excuse my fervour in introducing reminiscences of beauty breathing scenes which, once enjoyed, linger like delights in memory

... the memory of a dream,
Which now is sad because it hath been sweet.

Not knowing Java yet, they will forgive later, when they have visited the matchless old shrines, images of her past and symbolic of her hopes for blessings hidden in the womb of time, when they have tried to read the riddle of her children’s destiny in the Boro Budoor

... seated in an island strong,
Abounding all with delices most rare.

J. F. S.

Edinburgh.

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