Street-Dancers.
Musicians.
The scholar of the party, by the light of an oil-wick, reads from a greasy manuscript which he has hired for the evening at the price of one "pitji."[B] It is the story of the beautiful beggarmaid, who wanders from village. She does not know her own name or who were her parents, having, in infancy, been stolen by robbers. One day, she comes begging to the gates of the palace. The Rajah orders the guards to admit the suppliant, and his Raden-Ajoe[C] causes a repast to be prepared for her. They are kind towards those in affliction, having known great sorrow themselves: for their only child a daughter, mysteriously disappeared years and years ago; and now they are old and childless. The Rajah, gazing upon the stranger, frequently sighs: his daughter would have grown up to be a maiden as fair, if she had lived. And the Raden-Ajoe, taking her by the hand, bids her sit down, and unloose those glossy locks, worthy to be wreathed with the fragrant blossom of the asana. She herself will cleanse them. Then, as she parts the long braids, ah! there upon the crown, behold the cicatrice which her little daughter had! The long-lost one is found again.
The native cithara and violin.
Clasp for fastening a kabaya in front.
In Javanese fairy tales the long locks of nymphs and goddesses are treasured as talismans by the hero who has been fortunate enough to obtain one. There is great virtue for instance, in the long hair of the Pontianak, the cruel sprite that haunts the waringin tree. Have you never seen her glide by, white in the silver moonlight? Have you never heard her laugh, loud and long, when all was still? She is the soul of a dead virgin, whom no lover ever kissed. And now she cannot rest, because she never knew love; and she would fain win it yet; though not in kindness now, but in spite and deadly malice. She sits in the branches of trees, softly singing to herself as she combs her long hair. And when a young man, hearing her song, pauses to listen, she meets him, in the semblance of a maid fairer than the bride of the Love-god, and raises soft eyes to him and smiling lips. But, when he would embrace her, he feels the gaping wound in her back, which she had concealed under her long hair. And, as he stands speechless with horror, she breaks away from him with a long loud laugh, and cries: "Thou hast kissed the Pontianak, thou must die!" And, ere the moon is full again, his kinsmen will have brought flowers to his grave. But, if he be quick-witted and courageous, he will seize the evil spirit by her flying locks; and, if he succeeds but in plucking out one single hair, he will not die, but live to a great age, rich, honoured, and happy, the husband of a Rajah's daughter and the father of Princes.
