House in Bali. Colin McPhee

sociability I joined them, but the combinations were endless, the rules involved, and in a little while I got up, to return inside the temple.

      Once more the priestesses had given themselves up to the soft chant of women’s voices. Soon after we came in there was a sudden cry from the oldest, and she began to toss wildly about. In a low intimate voice the priest questioned her. At first she would not answer, and cried as though her heart were breaking. Then at last she spoke, and we knew that the gods were here.

      Where did the gods actually stay while here on earth? In the tiniest objects, apparently; in stones, in bits of wood, in little golden figures. These precious objects were kept locked in the temple, to be taken out, purified and set in the shrines for the three days of the feast. At one moment this feast seemed scaled for the propitiation of giants, at the next it was like a dolls’ tea party. Images and stones were wrapped in the brightest of cloths, tied with golden sashes, set on silken cushions, while their food was set out for them in the smallest of dishes. Yet woe betide the community if the gods felt slighted and grew angry. Now, suddenly, they were titans; in their anger they spread disaster in the form of drought and epidemics of plague.

      On the afternoon of the second day the dancers from Kesiman arrived, to perform with masks one of the ancient chronicle plays that dealt with the early kings of Bali. We watched an episode from the life of the King of Bedulu, whose mask was a terrifying combination of human eyes and mouth with the snout and tusks of a boar.

      He had got the head of a pig in this way, explained Nyoman Kalér, as we stood watching. He had been born strong in magic power. When he was a child he often amused himself by cutting off his head and asking his attendant to put it back on again. One day his head rolled into the river and was carried away. In desperation the servant cut off the head of a boar and placed it on his neck. . . .

      But in the play we only saw him defeated by a prince from Java, whose name was Gaja Mada, Mad Elephant.

      On the third night, while in front of the temple the audience watched the shadow-play, the gods departed.

      The departure had been preceded by a ceremonial dance. While, from the shadows, there came the sound of animated music from the gamelan, a group of women stepped forth to dance the gabor, the presentation of offerings of wine, oil, incense; Their shoulders were bare, their breasts bound with woven scarves, and in their hair were crowded orchids, jasmine, gardenias. I recognized Nyoman’s two wives among them as they danced, seriously, tranquilly, as though in their sleep. In and out of the shrines they wove, disappearing in the shadows, emerging into the moonlight, until at last they paused before the altars, where a priestess stood, to fan the essence of the offerings in the direction of the gods.