Just after the president had taken his seat, August van Beneden made his appearance in his barrister’s gown; and, by the chairman’s direction, sat down at the end of the table by the side of the Chinese major. At that moment the pandoppo of the regent’s house offered an interesting and most curious spectacle. It was a wide roomy shed the lofty roof of which was supported by eight pillars, and completely open on all sides. In order to temper the glare of the sunlight, and also to exclude the prying looks of the public outside, the spaces between the pillars were hung with green kreés or mats, while the members of the court had the further protection of a canvas screen stretched behind them. Behind the judges some Javanese servants were squatting. These men bore the pajoengs of the Javanese chiefs, and though these umbrellas were closed, yet their bearers held them aloft in such a manner that they could plainly be seen behind the backs of their masters. As the native court was then sitting; and taken as typical of the entire judicial system as regards the native inhabitants of the island of Java, it presented a strange combination of those three leading principles which the Dutch Government has, sometimes in greater sometimes in lesser degree, but always very cleverly, managed to unite. First there was the European law represented by the person of the President; in the next place the native usage was respected which demands that both the judges shall be Javanese chiefs or nobles of the highest rank; and in the third place there was the Mohammedan law represented by the panghoeloe whose office it was to enforce due respect for the injunctions of the Koran.
Between the platform and the first row of chairs there was a considerable open space which, however, was not protected by any kind of railing. To the right and left of the platform stood a pair of native police oppassers in their bright yellow uniform and with side-arms dangling from bright yellow belts. The poor fellows cut a sorry figure as they stood there, they were quite taken aback at the sight of so large a crowd.
Fair Laurentia had taken her seat on the middle chair of the first row. As njonja Resident this place of honour belonged to her, and by her side she had placed two of her most intimate friends. Close around these clustered the most fashionable and important inhabitants of Santjoemeh, or such as considered themselves the most important; and behind these again came the miscellaneous crowd which filled the pandoppo from end to end. The conversation, however, now that the judges had entered, was carried on in whispers or in a low undertone.
Edward van Rheijn, Charles van Nerekool and Leendert Grashuis, we hardly need say, were present in the third or fourth row of chairs among a number of their young friends and acquaintances—the jeunesse dorée of Santjoemeh. Thus they had an excellent view of the proceedings.
“Look at that Thomasz,” said van Rheijn, “what an ass the fellow is making of himself with Laurentia!”
“Yes, yes,” quoth Grashuis, “he is making hay while the sun shines.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” remarked one of the young men present, “it seems to me that just now he is pretty well at home at the Residence.”
“There are very queer rumours afloat about him,” whispered another.
“Rumours!” said van Rheijn testily, “why, in Santjoemeh, the air is always full of rumours. What would Santjoemeh be without its chronique scandaleuse?”
“If people will behave themselves in that way!”