After luncheon we set off in six rikshas to explore the city of Colombo. Our men-horses trotted off at full speed, regardless of my protestations. The principal streets are planted with great overhanging trees and bordered with beautiful several-storied houses. Opposite the shipping office, in the heart of the European section, lay Gordon Gardens, a park full of flowers and grateful shade, the rendezvous of the elite of the city, white and brown. We went down the smooth red road that lies almost level with the sea, with emerald, velvety grass and cool shady bungalows. In the distance towered the Queen’s House, Governor Black’s residence, set well back from the broad highway in a grove of palms, a spacious, imposing edifice, where large entertainments are given. The governor, for the moment, was away on tour to some distant district of the island. We met on our way covered waggons drawn by two little hump-necked, strangely tattooed bullocks, and elegant dog-carts driven by English women. Dark came on suddenly and our riksha-men stopped to light their paper-lanterns, and hurried us back to the hotel. The second dinner-bell sounded as we entered the dining-room, as big as a cathedral and ventilated by twelve punkahs.
July 9th.—Our boat does not leave for another ten days; we will profit by it and go on a trip to Kandy, the ancient city of the sovereigns of Ceylon, situated in the hills some 2,000 feet above the level of the sea, which can boast of a climate in many respects superior to that of Colombo.
A Singhalese boy brought in my coffee very early in the morning, and tried to explain to me that the train for Kandy left at 8 o’clock. It took some time for both of us to make ourselves understood, for I addressed the boy in English and he replied in Malay language; however, with a good deal of pantomime, we got along somehow.
It is a three hours’ ride from Colombo to Kandy. Ceylon wears rightly the title of the “Switzerland of the Tropics;” only fairy islands can surpass the scenery. I could but gaze and gaze, and felt what poor things words had suddenly become. A riot of luxuriant tropical vegetation spread out on every hand, and aromas of strong smelling flowers scented the air. A series of moving pictures glided past us. We are rolling through fields of lotuses, sugar-cane plantations and vast plots of ground planted with coffee-trees, with shining leaves like porcelain, cut small to facilitate the gathering of the fruit. Cocoa and date-palms and bread-fruit are at your service, all you have to do is to pick the fruit—and luncheon is ready. The train is speeding along thick bamboo-clumps, through which peered the red-tiled roofs of bungalows and negro villages with palm-thatched huts shaded by immense banana-trees. We are in the harvest season. In the fields men and women were at work, occupied in gathering in the coffee. Natives sitting in ox-waggons drive slowly along the road. Here is an enormous elephant covered over with a rich carpet, carrying four natives on his back. The huge animal’s offspring, a baby-elephant as big as a bull, is running clumsily alongside. The railway stations are hidden amid cocoa-palms. On the platforms water-carriers and fruit-sellers briskly plied their trades. At one of the stoppages a Hindoo in white skirts came up to offer us bananas and cocoa-nuts full of milk, and red juicy fruit which I found very tasty; but I was awfully disgusted when I learned that it was the fruit of the castor-oil plant. Our train was moving away when a negro boy thrust into my lap, through the window, a small serpent of tender green colour, which I took at first for a blade of grass. Though these reptiles are quite inoffensive, I didn’t like the present. The ascent began. We climbed on steadily into the cooler regions. The steamy atmosphere was left behind, we were welcomed now by draughts of delicious air. We are crossing a thick-set wood, and are in the mysterious primitive jungle which the foot of man has seldom penetrated, and where elephants and tigers wander about. The train continues to wind its way upwards to the mountains, plunging through numerous tunnels. Coming out of them we see the road which we had just crossed just beneath us now. The place is rightly named “Sensational Rock”—it is a succession of precipices and torrents. We are rolling along ledges cut in the rock, twisting and turning above sheer abysses.
When we arrived at Kandy, we ran on the platform in pursuit of our luggage, which a swarm of vociferous natives had confiscated and carried off. Having overtaken them, we climbed into an omnibus which brought us to Queen’s Hotel, situated on the shore of a miniature lake.
After lunch we went to see the Pyradenia Gardens, about six miles from Kandy, situated on the right bank of the river Manhavilla-Ganga. These gardens are renowned for their splendid flowers. There are trees as high as ship-masts and strange plants with large blossoms monstrous of shape and gorgeous in colour. Most things are highly coloured as in Java: birds, butterflies and luxuriant vegetation. I am not sent easily into fits of ecstasy, nevertheless I admired everything until my vocabulary of exclamations was exhausted and my head whirled.
We were back for dinner at the table d’hôte. We had just finished our meal under the cooling caresses of the punkah and were going up to our room to take a siesta, when a boy announced to us that Hindoo snake-charmers were going to give a performance on the veranda. We were amazed by their startling experiments. They played the flute to their reptiles, who crawled out of a basket and rolled round their bodies, and they juggled with them as with balls. After that the jugglers performed the astonishing feat of producing spontaneous vegetation. They made a tree grow from seed to foliage before our eyes; they dug a fruit-stone into a little heap of sand, making cabalistic signs with their wand, and the stone grew visible and soon became a shrub covered with branches and leaves!
July 10th.—Directly after breakfast Sergy went into the mountains to see the sacred elephants. He was shown a pair of huge savage animals recently caught in these parts.
When my husband returned, we went to visit the famous Hindoo temple where the Tooth of Buddha is preserved, braving the scorching tropical sun, whose rays fell just over our heads, so that I didn’t see my shadow, but only the circle of my umbrella. Tradition says, there was found in Burma one of the teeth of Gautama (Buddha). An embassy from the King of Burma bore the relic to Ceylon, and over it was erected the celebrated Temple of the Tooth. Kandy is a holy city; Buddhists not merely of Ceylon, but of India and the equatorial islands, make pilgrimages to the ancient shrine, which is an object of veneration for the four hundred million of Buddhists inhabiting Asia. The Kings of Siam and Burma contribute to the keeping up of the temple, in sending rich gifts to the priests every year.
The streets were alive with crowds on their way to the temple, a structure of grey stone with a red roof, set in a lotus grove on the shores of a lake. A large avenue leads to the courtyard of the temple, the ground all strewn with white sweet-smelling jasmine flowers, which deadened the sound of our steps. Within the gates, under the vaulted archways, crowds of people gathered around a dozen of Singhalese, devoted to the sale of candles, the white sacred flowers to be laid in the lap of the statue of Buddha. Flaming torches burnt at the entrance of the temple. The whole spectacle was fantastical, just like a decoration of Lakmĕ. Under the portico of the temple, a band of native musicians beat loudly the tom-tom and buck-skinned calabashes. On the top of the broad steps leading into the interior of the temple, we removed our shoes and were taken over the temple by apathetic saffron-robed bonzes (Buddhist priests) with shaven heads, and arms and feet bare. They led us by way of many tile-paved corridors lit by lamps suspended from roofs of arabesque cedar-wood, and strongly incensed candles. The temple is of marvellous richness; the altar and the doors are of carved ivory, large frescoes cover the walls representing hell with flames, devils and so on. In every nook and corner we saw the effigies of Buddha. There was an important service in the temple just now. A group of bonzes, after having washed their heads and their feet, advanced towards the sacred relic, suspended in a tabernacle over a symbolic lotus flower with golden petals studded with precious stones. The chief priest fell on his knees, muttering a prayer, and then drew from the tabernacle a gold casket, from it he took a second then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. With the opening of every box the priests repeated their genuflexions. There appeared at last the innermost, and soon the receptacle, set with diamonds and rubies. Then the priests carefully opened and discovered to view an enormous tooth yellow with age, which assuredly never grew in any human mouth. During the whole time the tom-toms and other barbarian instruments made a horrible noise. Two simple rules govern the production of native music—First: make as much noise as possible all the time; and, second, to heighten the effect, make more. There was a heavy perfume of flowers and incense—very enervating—inside the temple, which made us hurry away. Buddhist priestesses, with shaved heads like the priests, dressed in long yellow robes, accompanied us to the door, throwing at us sacred flowers, jasmine and lotuses. Crowds of Brahmin beggars, demanding money, were gathered in the porch.