The chief points about this hotel were the usual ones—indifferent food, absence of privacy, and horrible bathing arrangements. In Eastern countries it is usual to find a bath-room attached to the bedroom. In Java hotels people—ladies as well as men—burdened with sponges and towels, and some with soap, must cross a public court-yard and wait their turn outside the bath-room door. In this particular hotel the ordeal was especially trying, since the bathrooms were outside the office, and in the centre of a regular street where people drove past arriving and departing or calling on friends, and must perforce gaze upon that little forlorn group of scantily-clad humans on cleanliness intent. However, this hotel remains to X. one of blessed memory, since it was while there he was, through the knowledge of the language, able to render some slight service to two charming American ladies who were courageously going round the world alone. On the following day these ladies were passengers on board the s.s. Godavery en route for Hong Kong, Shanghai, Japan, Havaü, and all the places in the world apparently, excepting, alas! that little one of Pura Pura.
That last evening there happened to be a performance of an English circus, and X. went there and laughed at the jokes of an excellent clown—a cheery being whose like he had not seen for many a long year past. Fancy a clown in the jungle!
The next day he reluctantly bade farewell to the country where such a pleasant three weeks had been spent, and embarking on board the s.s. Godavery—his impedimenta increased by three ponies—the traveller steamed again for Singapore. The day after his arrival there he started for home, and some thirty-six hours later was once more seated in his verandah, listening all alone to the chanting songs of his Malay neighbours in the plain below. The moon was bright, and Pura Pura kept high revelry.
Those readers who have had the patience to follow my friend through his short holiday may leave him there—sighing perhaps with contented discontent—an excuse for grumbling—while all around is beautiful, and body and mind can revel in long chairs and books galore. There is a world perhaps, he thinks, where all are up and doing, but—like his dreams—it is very far away. Has he been to Java—he asks himself—has he ever been anywhere beyond the edge of this green turfed hill—to which are now ascending sounds of happiness from poor villagers who live among the padi fields, away there across the river, dimly seen now when the moon is high? And has he helped to make them happy?—did they always sit singing there before he or others came, or did they have to watch with Krises ready, for fear of stealthy foes—foes who crept to stab beneath the raised bamboo floors. Perhaps he, too, has aided with his mite—perhaps—who knows? And as this thought occurs, the discontent will fade, while content alone remains.
Long years has this exile lived in Pura Pura, and then when he left it for a space—to redeem a promise—he asked me to relate all that he did and saw while thus away. From Jungle to Java have I therefore followed him as a faithful chronicler and my commission is ended. But it should not be so, since there are tales of the jungle and tales of Pura Pura all worth the telling if what I think be true. For there, where life moves slowly, the incidents, which make it dwell, dwell so long that those who watch may note and read. And though that which they read, being of nature and mankind, is necessarily an old, old story, yet is the framework new, and thus with an interest all its own, able to impart a lesson to those who sit at home and speak with vague pity of peoples far away. Perhaps our traveller—to whom such a name must have seemed irony indeed—will one day ask my assistance to relate certain chapters of that life, brief glimpses of which have been afforded the reader in this little sketch.
THE
ROXBURGHE ROMANCES.
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