October 16th.—We see an island on our right. It is Java, the Garden of the East, one of the most splendid spots in the world, to which nature has been prodigal with beauties and wonders. In the distance we perceive the port of Batavia, the capital of Netherland India, with Dutch flags flying. It was a strange land to come to. I seemed to be in a dream all the time, and felt as if transported into another planet. It was like being in a theatre where all the scenery was real and the curtain never came down.
Our Consul—Mr. Bakounine—was on the quay. It was nice meeting someone from the part of the world I was born in. The warm and damp climate of Java had not suited our Consul; he looked very thin and white. Mr. Bakounine was extremely kind and gave all his time to us.
On the quay exemplary order reigned. The natives are treated by the Dutch as pariahs, and ruled with a hand of iron. They are not allowed to speak Dutch, and as we were not acquainted with the native language, we had the universal language, that of the signs, left to us. The Dutch also evince great contempt for the Chinese, and treat them as if they were dirt. Coolies are not permitted to ride in tramways with white-faced Europeans; only high-caste Parsees may ride with sahibs in second-class compartments.
Batavia is the reunion of three separate towns: Weltewredeu, the new town, buried in luxuriant vegetation, with low-built white houses, surrounded by verandas, groves of palm and cocoa-nut, gives one the impression of a series of villas built in a large park; the Pettah, (old town) is an agglomeration of bamboo-huts forming narrow streets, inhabited by the natives, and separated from the European quarter by a cricket-ground; the so-called Chinese Town is inhabited only by Chinamen.
We took the train, which brought us in twenty minutes to Batavia. Whilst we crossed a beautiful cocoa and palm-wood, Mr. Bakounine said that he would have exchanged willingly one single birch-tree of far-away Russia for all the palms in the world. How I understand him! I also would have gladly exchanged all this luxurious tropical vegetation and blue sky for the grey skies of dear old Petersburg.
When we arrived at Batavia, we were driven in a cab, with a native coachman on the box, to the Hôtel de Java. I had got hold of some Japanese words and kept repeating to him: “Plan, plan,” which means “go slowly.” The inhabitants were probably taking their “siesta,” during the sweltering heat of midday: troops, natives, animals, were all asleep. Batavia seemed deserted, all the houses had dropped their blinds. We only saw lizards in the streets, warming themselves in the sun.
The Hôtel de Java is a square, one storied building with an open courtyard in the middle and a veranda supported by pillars on the whole length of the front. The rooms are barely furnished, the floors covered with mats; there are wire nettings in the doors and windows to keep away the midges, who weren’t even honourable enough to wait until sunset before attacking you. There are no bells in the hotel and I grew hoarse calling the Malay “boy” for some information I wanted. With many gesticulations he began to gabble in an unknown tongue to me, and I was obliged to write down my requests on a bit of paper which the “boy” carried to the office. One may well imagine how promptly my demands were satisfied.
The veranda was full of creole ladies seeking relief from the sunshine outside and whiling away the dreary midday hours reclining in hammocks and cane-lounges, clad in loose transparent night-jackets, stockingless, with their hair in curling-pins, their discarded shoes lying on the floor. The climate makes them indolent. They enjoyed their “siesta” smoking cigarettes and drinking iced lemonade.
We had tiffin in the dining-room. The Dutch cooking does not please me. Tiffin always begins with the traditional “reistafel,” a dish of chipped meat and rice, without any seasoning to it. The meat is lean and unsavoury, and the dairy products are very bad. The cattle in Java are very small, looking more like goats than cows. The natives are not exacting in this country, cocoa-nuts serve them both as food and drink; they eat the pulp and drink the milk.
Towards evening, the town became animated; the streets were full of bustle. Europeans go out in the streets bareheaded, and seem to have forgotten their hats.
We drove in a tram through the three towns. Batavia is a city of many canals; it reminded me of Rotterdam. We saw lots of natives bathing in the Grand Canal. When passing the Portuguese Gate, we were shown a big cannon which is the object of a queer sort of pilgrimage for barren Malay women, who bring offering to the cannon in order not to remain childless in their wedded life.
October 17th.—I passed a wretched night, tossing and turning in my bed, half smothered with mosquito-curtains, which effectually keep off any little breath of air there is. In that awful heat sleep was out of the question. As soon as I lay down I felt myself devoured by quantities of famished creatures who greedily awaited their prey, and with which I fought a desperate battle, persevering in the chase with a fine sporting spirit until morning.
Batavia does not enchant me. The heat is tremendous. We have determined to-day to go and seek freshness on the wooded slopes of Buitenzorg, the summer resort of the Dutch Resident, situated a few hours out of Batavia. The railway-line from Batavia to Buitenzorg is one of the most picturesque in the world. Marvellous landscapes spread out before our admiring eyes. What vegetation! There are thick mighty palms, bananas and dense tropical jungle. The road is very steep and we ascended slowly along wide precipices, stopping only twice at neat little railway-stations. The higher we mounted the fresher the air became. We rolled now between sugar-cane, vanilla and cotton plantations, with trees covered with white flakes, and passed picturesque villas with tall cocoa-nut palms casting cool shadows on the low flat roofs. The tropical sun made the train like a furnace. After three hours’ drive we saw a settlement of low dwellings, at the foot of blue hills, half hidden in an eucalyptus forest and gigantic mimosas. It was Buitenzorg!
When we left the train, an aide-de-camp of the Resident came up to my husband and offered his carriage to drive us to the Hôtel du Chemin de Fer. The hotel is kept by a Frenchman. We entered a courtyard surrounded by several low buildings. Our apartment disappointed me by the doubtful cleanliness of its beds denuded of coverlets and sheets. Lizards were running about the ceiling and the walls. A barefooted “boy” arrayed in a white loose jacket, armed with a feather-brush and a duster, came to tidy our bedroom. He first swept the petroleum lamp (there are no candles to be had in this corner of the globe) and then began to dust our beds with the same brush. It won’t be an easy task to civilise him!
Our windows looked out into the garden. Green coffee-trees covered with white flowers and ripe fruit, peeped into our room, and a sweet musky aromatic odour pervaded the air.
The year, in all tropical countries, is divided into two seasons, summer and winter. Summer begins towards October to end in May, which is winter-time here. The wet season has set in, the season of ceaseless, abundant rain and suffocating heat. In these abominable regions, when summer ends and the intense heat of January has passed, tepid rain begins to fall every day from four to six o’clock with astonishing persistency. The air is clear and yet full of moisture; everything grows musty. If a pair of boots have not been cleaned for two days, they get covered with green mould. Leaves and branches grow now and then on the telegraph posts, transforming them into trees, which obliges the railway companies, sometimes, to use iron instead of wooden posts. Watches and all metal objects when exposed to the air become covered with rust.
October 18th.—Foreigners come rarely to Java and, except our company, there are only two Dutch families in our hotel, who arrived a few days ago from Borneo.
Snakes, centipedes and all sorts of filthy vermin abound here. One must look out for poisonous serpents hidden in the grass; they often creep into the houses. Quite recently an enormous boa, measuring over three yards, penetrated into the Resident’s courtyard, and after having regaled himself with a fowl, that he snapped up on his way, the formidable reptile crept into the Palace and coiled himself into a comfortable position under the Resident’s writing-table. One of the Dutch ladies stopping at the hotel went down into the drawing-room this afternoon to play the piano and perceived a huge cobra-capella, a serpent of the most dangerous species, taking his nap under the instrument.
I heard a dog barking under my window. It appeared to be a little subterranean animal called “Earth dog,” who barks loudly each time anyone passes before his hole.
Before dinner Sergy went to pay a visit to the Resident, who had sent his carriage for him, drawn by a team of four horses, with a Javanese coachman on the box and two barefooted footmen in splendid livery, wearing helmets.
The Resident is absolute sovereign in these parts; his surroundings transport one at the end of the nineteenth century to the epoch of feudalism. During the reception barefooted servants presented trays charged with wine and champagne, in humble attitudes, bending the knee before their master, and retreated backwards bowing very low.
The Resident invited Sergy for a drive in his carriage. They crossed large fields allotted to the culture of tobacco, cacao, pepper, indigo and coffee. A long street of small huts, with roofs that may be opened, all of the same shape and size, spreads in the coffee plantations, serving for the drying of the grains. As soon as the sun appears, the roofs are opened and the coffee grains are spread on the floor to be dried. From thence Sergy was driven to the Piradenia Gardens, containing a rich collection of queer tropical plants, trees of the rarest species, and beautiful flower-beds. To see the gardens took hours. Sergy was dazzled by the beauty of all he saw. On his way back to the hotel, a storm broke out; it was one of those formidable equatorial rains of such violence, that it seemed as if the sky was emptying itself upon the earth.
As soon as dinner was over, we went for a walk round Buitenzorg. After the shower there was a delicious perfume of plants and damp earth. We strolled through broad streets lined with huts built of bamboo and thatched with cocoa-nut leaves, hidden in the dense foliage.
October 19th.—To-day the Resident gave a grand dinner to my husband, a Lucullus-like feast. Sergy was entertained in great state by his host, who did things royally. The marble steps of the wide staircase were decorated with barefooted lackeys in showy livery and powdered wigs, standing all the way up at equal distances. The brilliantly lighted reception-rooms of the Palace were full of elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies in low dresses, showing all their jewellery and shoulders. The table was beautifully laid; before each stool stood a native servant. Champagne flowed abundantly, but Sergy was too hot to enjoy the meal, for there are no punkahs in Java, because the Dutch find that these huge fans tend to induce bald heads.
I find it a bit dull here. There is positively nothing to do in the evening but to sit on the veranda and admire the beautiful tropical night, which falls suddenly without twilight. Everything is queer in these equatorial regions. The moon is right over our heads, the sickle pointing upwards, and the shade caused by the planet spreads right under our feet.
October 22nd.—We took the train back to Batavia this morning, and put up this time at the Hôtel Niderlander, a cool white building with deep pillared verandas, carpeted with cocoa-nut mattings and strewn with tables and easy cane chairs. We sat on the veranda after dinner, listening to the band playing in Waterloo-Square, just opposite. Strolling merchants bothered us, offering their wares; we sent them off by saying “piggie,” meaning in Javanese “get off with you,” at which they beat a hasty retreat.
October 24th.—We are leaving Java to-day without regret. The hideous climate is depressing, the hot, steamy atmosphere awfully enervating. The head-manager came to knock at our door at four o’clock in the morning to inform us that it was time to go to the railway station. Mr. Bakounine and the agent of the Méssageries Maritimes rode down with us to the port, a veritable inferno, full of mosquitoes and pestered by malarial fever, in which deadly miasmas seem to evaporate from the unwholesome soil.
The Godavéri set sail at ten o’clock in the morning. Adieu, Java!
We are about twenty passengers on board. There is a young half-caste among them, the proprietor of a rich tea-estate, sent back for his health to Europe.