was only a brief impression, a mere indication that he had given, but with it the masks on the wall seemed to take on depth and meaning.
But the masks, I said. When would they be used?
There were three different theatres, he explained, three different kinds of actors. In one theatre you see the actors as ordinary men; in the second they are masked. In the third the actors are simply shadows thrown upon a screen, the shadows of little puppets, operated by a single man who recites and improvises around the ancient tales.
I had read about this mysterious little theatre perhaps the most ancient of all, claimed by some to have its origin in rites in which the shades of the departed were called back to this world. Even to-day much of the magic atmosphere, it seemed, remained, for Nyoman talked of the great care taken of the puppets and the offerings which must be made for them before a play could be given.
I must see a shadow-play, I said. I’ve been in Kedaton two weeks and not yet seen one.
It is not often the village is so quiet, he said. We sat there talking. From the kitchen came the sound of a broken glass, followed by the familiar outburst of scolding.
I was hoping Madé Tantra would come again, I said. As yet I have no friends here in Kedaton.
I will tell him, said Nyoman. He rose, and after saying goodbye walked down the path beneath the trees to the roadway.
A SHADOW-PLAY
ONE MORNING AS I RETURNED home from a walk in the ricefields, I entered the gate of the Temple of the Dead which lay at the edge of the graveyard beyond the village. A wall ran round a small group of pavilions and shrines set out in order along the sides of the courtyard. The stone bases were carved, and inlaid with Chinese porcelain plates. Between the altars grew flowering shrubs, and in a corner a twisted frangipani leaned forward, its naked branches bursting with starry blossoms. The courtyard was swept clean, immaculate except for the newly fallen flowers that shone like bits of paper on the black earth. There was an atmosphere of peace, silence and decay, of neglect and loving care. Gold and lacquer had tarnished, thatch had worn, while moss and mould crept over the vines and leaves that sculptors had once cut into the stones.
In the walls reliefs were filled with little figures—animals, fishes, humans, birds. In a baroque jungle of plants and scrolls heroes made war against demons, made love to maidens. Elegant and archaic, mystic and sensual, they moved in a shallow world which, however, was given infinite perspective by the ever-changing shadows cast by the sun. Between heroic episodes were scenes from daily life. Here the artist had turned from mythology to the joys of reporting. Men slew pigs, played flutes and gongs, fished and made exuberant love. Their activities had been recorded with an observant eye and an obvious love for detail, detail that seemed miraculous when I touched the stone that had been cut. Nets had mesh; flowers, stamens; vine trendrils stood out in actual spirals. I felt that if an earthquake should destroy them, these walls would quickly be built once more, carved with the same antlike patience.
As I passed the market I met Nyoman and Made Tantra. We sat for a while at the counter of the Javanese coffee-stall, piled with fruit and gaudy cakes, while Nyoman told me there would be a shadow-play that night in Kuta, a half-hour’s drive away.
Will you go, Nyoman?
No, I must teach.
Perhaps Madé Tantra would like to come with me?
Madé Tantra spoke at last: Yes, I should like to.
I said that Sarda would call for him in the car on his way to the house that evening. We finished our coffee and left.
It was late in the evening when we arrived, and the performance was about to begin. Around the clearing in front of the men’s clubhouse a hundred oil-lamps glowed on a hundred little tables. Some of these were for gambling, and the men sat around them noisily betting and banging down coins. Behind others sat the saleswomen with their sweets and bottles of arac. The air was filled with the scent of flowers that lay spread among the wares, to be sold to those seized with the sudden desire to make themselves attractive.
In a booth to one side was a lighted screen, and on the ground in front the people sat, waiting for the play to begin. From behind the screen came the sound of soft, swift music. I went to the back, to find a small crowd collected to watch the dalang (the operator) set up the puppets.
Half in trance he sat there cross-legged, close to the screen, beneath the light of a flaring oil-lamp that swung above his head. With careful deliberation he took a figure from the box, studied it, lovingly arranged its arms. At last he handed it to an assistant, to search for another in the box that was packed with figures.
The little puppets reminded me of the carvings I had seen that morning in the temple walls. They had the same delicacy, the same two-dimensional style; but instead of being cut in stone they had been chiselled out of thin leather and the details of their costumes stamped in tiny holes and slashes. They were not flexible, for only the arms moved, jointed at the shoulder and elbow. They were controlled by thin sticks attached to the hands; another stick ran down the centre of the body to brace it, and stuck out to act as handle. The puppets were so pierced with holes that when held against the light they were like lace. They were painted in gold and bright colours, and when the light fell on them they sparkled iridescently.
One by one the assistants took them—gods and demons, mortals, animals and little properties—and set them in their correct place to the right or left of the screen. This was significant. Gods went to the right, demons to the left, mortals to either side, according to their character. At last only a small space remained in the centre of the screen for the dramatic action. The puppets stood huddled at the sides, and from the outside the screen seemed framed in a tangled forest of shadows. In the centre the lamp glowed dimly through the screen, a mystic flame, disembodied.
At last the dalang was ready. He folded his hands, closed his eyes, and his lips moved silently. He was pronouncing to himself certain magic formulas, so that (a) his voice might be sweet, (b) his jokes meet with success, and (c) his performance be pleasing to all—to the gods and to mortals, male, female and hermaphrodite.
He stopped. Between the toes of one foot he held a small block of wood, which he struck against the puppet box several times as signal that the play would begin. I went outside to sit among the crowd and see the play in black and white.
From behind the screen came the voice of the dalang as he changed in old Javanese the introduction; the phrases rose like an incantation, as though he were summoning the shadows from another world. At last his voice grew still, the music stopped; the screen was a luminous rectangle in the dark, and behind it the little shadow-figures now began to appear. They came and went like moths flying across a beam of light.
At first there was little action. The exposition was an endless dialogue between two rival princes. (The play was from the wars of the Pandawas, said Tantra. He couldn’t say what part.) They stood there, facing each other, punctuating their speeches with a slight movement of their long, outstretched arms. Their voices gently rose and fell like the breathing of a sleeper, but suddenly they would grow sharp, stridently falsetto, frigid and vicious with hate. The arms rose with sinister restraint, denouncing with swift, menacing gestures.
But now the clowns appeared. There were two pairs, each pair devoted attendants to a prince. From behind their heroes they threatened each other grotesquely. Their voices were insinuatingly intimate and oily. When an attendant spoke to his prince he raised his arms in a sembah of respect. And yet his voice seemed to be slyly mocking, for when he spoke the audience laughed loudly at his lines.
The scene changed. A tender dialogue took place between prince and princess. Back and forth the shadows swam, eclipsing each other, becoming one in a brief embrace. The dalang’s voice was now honey-sweet, incredibly feline and erotic. But again the clowns appeared, this time male and female attendants. Their love-making was scandalous, and the climax held a great surprise. The figure of the male servant was jointed at more places than the arms, for suddenly an enormous phallus sprang out. In the uproarious laughter of the crowd there rose falsetto catcalls from the boys and high nasal cries from the women, exaggerated and sardonic.