Bowed out and baffled, the traveller returned to his hotel. The situation was now growing serious, for the train to Soempioeh went in half-an-hour, and, after paying his bill, there would be no money for the fare, even could he start penniless. As a forlorn hope X. sallied forth in the sun to pay one more visit to the post-office. This building was closed, and the hard-worked officials had retired to their private apartments in the back premises. Bold to desperation, the visitor skirted round the post-office and peered into the privacies beyond. Seeing an open door he walked in, and found the chief official in his shirt sleeves partaking of his midday meal. With profuse apologies for his intrusion, X. stated his anxiety about his remittance, and rather feebly asked the officer if he were "quite sure" the letter had not come. "Quite sure," grumbled the official in excellent English, "but to satisfy you I'll let you come and look yourself." X. almost begged him not to take what surely must be superfluous trouble, but, luckily, refrained, and accompanying the officer into the post-office, walked towards a pile of papers stacked in pigeon-holes. "There," exclaimed his guide, "see—see for yourself"; and he did, for on the top lay a blue envelope duly registered and addressed to himself.

Thus the hotel bill was paid, and he caught the train to Soempioeh. There he was met by Abu and messengers from the Wodena, who accompanied him to that officer's house.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE QUEST SUCCESSFUL—THE WODENA'S HOUSE.

The Wodena's house was a comparatively large building made with alang-lalang walls,[4] and the floor on a level with the ground. The entire front of the house was open, though the overhanging eaves of the roof kept out the glare. In the foreground three tables with corresponding chairs were ranged stiffly, as though in a hotel verandah. In one corner was a little cupboard kind of compartment, which X. found was his bedroom.

There was no attempt to cover the floor of bare earth with mats, as would have been the case in even poor Malay houses. At the back of the one large sitting room stood an imposing long table. The outlook of the house was on to some untidy waste land covered with long grass—rather an unusual sign of slovenliness in a country of such universal neatness. Close by a new house was in course of construction for Government use. This building had the somewhat strange combination of alang-lalang walls and a tiled roof. The host who welcomed X. to his house was, as has been said, the Wodena, or local head native magistrate. A Malay in such a position would most certainly have had a courteous manner and have probably been an agreeable companion. This official, though he evidently intended to be cordial, was awkward and seemingly stupid. He also spoke bad Malay, and seemed an ill-educated man for such a position. He wore a terrible old sun-helmet on his head, and presented a grotesque appearance.

After having tea his host took X. for a walk round to show him the place, and all the people crouched on the ground as they passed. The followers in uniform walked after them, occasionally shouting at those who did not promptly go to earth, while hurrying their movements with insinuating prods from the poles of office. The few Chinese who were met, bowed low like ladies to a royalty, which was a somewhat startling experience to X., so recently from Singapore, where Chinamen jostle Europeans from the side walks and puff bad tobacco in their faces as they pass. Apropos of this it might be mentioned here that a high Dutch official in Java stated that he considered that the way the Chinese in Singapore were allowed to treat the Europeans was "nothing less than a disgrace to civilization." In the Singapore local press at the time of writing there is now appearing a series of indignant letters from a Chinaman in Selangor who signs himself as "Speaking Pig Tail." This scribe complains to "Mr. Editor" that he has not the same rights as a European. I wonder what "Speaking Pig Tail" would say to the above-mentioned Dutch official.

However these particular Chinese in Soempioeh bowed many inches low to the Wodena, while X. with bland self-consciousness appropriated a certain length to himself as the only white man in the place.

This walk at Soempioeh was full of interest, and the Wodena kindly replied to the best of his ability to all the questions asked. The whole country round was one vast expanse of padi, valleys and hills alike so far as the eye could reach, and it seemed to X. that no population could be sufficiently dense to consume such an apparently unlimited supply, but the Wodena assured him that none was ever exported. The town presented a busy scene of great activity, as there was evidently a country fair in full swing, and rows of people lined the roadside selling quaint cakes and fruit, and here and there a stall was gay and sweet-smelling with little heaps of gathered rose leaves and yellow blooms of fragrant chimpaka. The Wodena and his visitor called on the chief Chinese of the town, of which race he informed him there were two hundred all told. These people scarcely resembled the Chinamen as known to X., since they had all been born and bred in the neighbourhood, and not one of them had experience of life beyond the island of Java. The head Chinaman produced various curios—so considered—for inspection, these being sent for from the pawn-shops close by. The Wodena volunteered the information that large quantities of opium were consumed in the district. This meant, as there were no Chinese, the habitual use of this drug amongst the people. After this walk the little procession wended its way back to the Wodena's house. Dinner that night proved a weird meal, as Usoof, who cooked, had gone to the neighbouring village of Tambak, where he found his mother dwelt, and Abu, who had never cooked anything more complicated than rice, tried his 'prentice hand. The next day was Sunday, and the weekly fair was at its height till twelve noon. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were packed tightly together, line after line, under little sheds, selling sarongs and cloths of every conceivable colour, with hats, mats, and native ornaments of all descriptions. It was an animated scene, and one not easily forgotten, and this was the first time, if the Wodena was to be believed, that any white man had seen it. Be that as it may, or perhaps as it may not, X. allowed himself the satisfaction of believing that it was the first time that any Englishman had seen it.

After the fair the traveller returned home, and there received a visit from Usoof and his mother. He had found her, and the object of his journey to Java was accomplished. It appears that he had met her while walking along a path by the river, which his awakened memory recalled would lead him to his home. And she, noting his unusual dress and stranger-like appearance, stopped to ask whether he had any news of her son who many years ago had gone away to Singapore, and to whom she had so frequently written, receiving no reply. She feared he was dead, but as the kind stranger came from foreign parts it was possible that amongst the colony of Javanese in Singapore he might have heard of her long-lost son.

Such was the meeting, and a dramatic and successful climax to what had seemed a somewhat forlorn quest. Had I the pen of a Swettenham or a Clifford, those sympathetic spinners of delightful tales of a race whose childish faith so lends itself to story, I might here find material for pages of a charming romance. But in reality there was little romance about Usoof, rather a sturdy honesty and affection, as he brought his poor mother in her humble attire and presented her to his Tuan, who, at that moment, bored to death by his kind host, who would not cease to entertain him by sitting by him in attentive silence, would have welcomed any diversion as a boon.

But the poor lady, according to the custom of the country, could only prostrate herself outside the house nor venture nearer than some dozen yards, probably regarding her new-found son, who stood upright, as some knave who courted death.

This system of obeisance had been rather embarrassing to X., since all the retainers of his host stooped low and crept about while his own attendants had maintained their usual attitudes with occasional lapses from the perpendicular. For there had been intervals over night when, realizing his conspicuous position, Abu had wandered about awkwardly doubled up, and offered cigarettes and liquid refreshment from somewhere among the legs of the table, startling his master by his sudden cat-like appearance in unexpected places, while there was that in his eye which said, "Do not expect this sort of thing to continue when we get you home."

CHAPTER XIX.
A VILLAGE HOME IN JAVA.

To Usoof and his mother the great Wodena was kindness itself, and conversed with them in Javanese with much affability. X. wishing to see a real country village, and obtain speech with its people, away from the all-subduing eye of the local authority, promised to go that afternoon and visit the good lady in her ancestral home, and a few hours later he took the train for the next station, Tambak. No European had ever done such a thing before apparently, and there was quite a fuss at the station to find a first or even a second-class ticket. And during the search the railway officials displayed the most naive curiosity, and questioned the traveller without restraint. Arrived at Tambak X. descended, and immediately the station-master hurried forward and politely assured him that he had made a mistake, since Gombong, the large town, was the next station but one. He obviously could not believe it possible that any European should get out at Tambak on purpose, and regarded the polite insistence of X. that he knew where he wanted to go as evidence of some sort of want of sanity, to be passed over as harmless. Gesticulating and ejaculating, the worthy gentleman collected quite a little crowd of gazers as the white man, followed by Usoof, sauntered out of the station. Once out of sight, the station-master would have been intensely gratified to see X., who did not really in the least know where he was going, turn round and ask his follower the way. So they branched off to the left and wended their route along the banks of a noisy river, beneath the shade of huge trees which formed an avenue by the side of the water. On their right lay the endless padi fields of early green and ripening gold, all equally shimmering in the sun. This combination of ripe padi, side by side with newly sown, forms a striking feature of Javanese agriculture. While gazing upon this warm picture, and congratulating himself that someone had had the forethought to plant this pleasant row of trees, the voice of Usoof from the rear announced that they must now turn to the right. To turn to the right naturally meant to go across that sunlit plain. The hand of X. involuntarily went up to his stiff stand-up collar, and though he could not see the face of his attendant, he was aware through his back that he smiled. So climbing a rustic stile they branched off to the right and walked across the padi, where the lurid light was zigzagging above the corn. Presently the red roofs of a village were in sight, and once more the voice of Usoof spoke to introduce his birthplace. This was interesting, as was the additional information that the little river they had now to cross was the boundary of his ancestral land. The house they had come all this way to see was deep in the shadow of countless fruit trees, over which towered palms of considerable age. The green turf so scrupulously neat, and the little group of buildings set round the central house, all combined to make a picturesque scene.

In the front of these cottages, on the green turf, was the reception house—a square building, surrounded by benches with a table in the middle.

Here the stranger was escorted by a crowd of Javanese, cousins and sisters and brothers and aunts, without number—for it seemed less of a family than a tribe which had come together to do him honour. Then the guest was seated in the place of state, and fruit of many kinds in large brass dishes was set before him. It was truly a pleasant spot, and there was additional satisfaction in the thought that with so little to guide them they had been able to light upon it without lengthy search. Then ensued a conversation, during which the visitor learnt and imparted many things. Amongst the former he heard that once before, when the railway was being made, a white man had been seen in the neighbourhood, but the present occasion was the first, when the village had beheld one close. And this stranger told them of the Malays and his life amongst them, and how their houses and customs resembled theirs, while Usoof, alone venturing to remain upright, acted as interpreter as a swarm of young brown relations clasped his hands and ruthlessly robbed him of his watch and chain, his brass buttons, and all the loose coins in his pockets. Then X., who has a material mind, asked to see the title deeds of their lands, which were produced and inspected, and they were instructed how to proceed, so that when the time came the absent Usoof, as the eldest son, should obtain his fair share of the inheritance. Then, as the shadows were lengthening, and the zigzags on the padi had given way to a soft and mellow light fanned by an evening breeze, X. gave the signal to depart and announced that farewells must be made. Hurrying over his own, he wandered towards the river so that he might not witness the anguish of the mother bereaved anew of her long lost son, but he could not escape hearing the sounds of sobs which arose behind him. And the little procession of two—the European with his limp collar, and the Javanese bereft of all his finery—started once more across the plain. But the procession grew and grew, as one by one the fond relations hurried after it for one more glimpse or one more word for the departing brother. Then the traveller began to feel as near a brute as ever in his life before, and suggested to Usoof that he should bid him good-bye and return for good to the bosom of his weeping family. But this he declined to do, and at the rustic stile the actual parting came. Arrived at the train, the good station-master was still on the look-out and walking around as though something unusual had happened, but, tired and hot, X. parried his questionings with some abruptness. But the interviewer was as persistent as if he were on the staff of a London evening paper, and after producing an inverted wheelbarrow, which he offered X. as a seat, went to his house for a whisky and soda—called by the natives "Dutch water." After that walk in the sun, his whole physical and nervous system disorganized by the deglutition of strange fruits and condiments, and by witnessing heartrending family farewells, an unexpected whisky and soda, when such a restorative had seemed as unobtainable as the very moon which was beginning to appear, was welcome indeed. The station-master was at once the master of the situation, and the hitherto taciturn Englishman, his thirst assuaged and his limbs at rest, became as communicative as a star of the profession, and answered all questions as fully and docilely as a willing witness in the hands of his own counsel.

CHAPTER XX.
BACK TO THE JUNGLE.

Arrived at the house of the Wodena, the traveller had to submit to more pumping, nor would his host rest until he knew, or was persuaded he knew, each word which X. had written in his letter of thanks to the Assistant Resident at Tjilatjap. That night it was very hot, and it was borne in upon the sleepless traveller that he had exhausted the resources of the place. Therefore at an early hour next morning his miscellaneous fairings were packed, the cost of his entertainment liberally repaid, and accepted without demur, and the visitors, after earnestly commending the picturesque little village at Tambak to special official protection, departed for the station. X. had intended to now perform the usual round and visit the temples at Djaokjakerta, Solo and Semarang, but when almost in the act of asking for his ticket, a spirit of revolt infected him, and he rebelled at the thought that he must go here and there just because all others did, when his inclinations really called him elsewhere, for his inclinations were bidding him go back to the cottage in the hills, where the tea and coffee grew. And so without hesitation he took his ticket and sent a telegram to announce his intended return. Bandong was to be the first halting-place, which meant travel in that crawling train from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., and stopping at twenty-eight stations on the way. There was no first-class compartment and the seats of the second-class were hard and narrow, and the cramped space after the first few hours became almost unbearable. Things looked brighter, the guard flattered the hopes of passengers by asking who would buy tickets for lunch at some halting-place further on, so that he could telegraph for the meal to be prepared. Hope is eternal, and experience of Java hotels had not yet robbed the traveller of the fond pleasure of anticipation. The Swindon of the line was reached, and there, sure enough, was a table spread with food. After the first bite of the first dish X. realized sadly that he had been done, since it would have been impossible to make any impression on that meat with aught less forcible than an axe. Thus, with reluctance, his portion, albeit paid for in advance, was relinquished, to be again paid for probably and again to flatter and deceive some other passing and hungry stranger. The remainder of the journey proved agreeable, thanks to the companionship of a young officer who, invalided home from the Lomboh war, was en route to Buitenzorg, where he lived. This poor warrior had undergone a time of much hardship, and related how he and his men had slept shelterless on the wet ground and for nights had nothing but rice to eat. And this only half a day's journey from the principal port in Java, and with as much money collected for aid to the soldiers as would have, if necessary, paid for the whole cost of the war. This companion told many interesting anecdotes of the war, and related some almost incredible tales of the treachery and ingratitude of the natives.

The Englishman also availed himself of this opportunity for hearing something of social etiquette in time of peace, and the unwritten rules which guided those attending entertainments where Dutch and natives met. As for instance, when the Sultan of Djoedja gives a ball, each official must stand upon a step, high or low, in proportion to his rank, while the Resident is met and escorted to the same lofty altitude as the Sultan, on the top.

To the Governor-General, however, the Sultan must do obeisance.

This might be a convenient place to mention the great regard officially paid to caste. Reverence for rank amongst the people is fostered and aided by their rulers, and if a man of position is ever suspected or accused so that inquiry becomes necessary, it must take place with closed doors and in private.

That night the party lay at Bandong (fresh from reading the "Red Cockade" its language seems the most descriptive). The train reached that considerable town at dusk. Here the traveller had the good fortune to again meet his friend the President of the Landraad, and was introduced by him to the Club. Being introduced to the Club meant being separately introduced to every member then in it, with that punctilious formality which X. had observed in Batavia. The hotel at Bandong was the best which the traveller had yet visited, and, contrary to expectation, dinner was warm and comforting. The others of the party, however, Usoof and Abu, were not so fortunate, for they had no means of getting anything to eat. It was not permitted them to go out after dark without lights, and they could not get lights. Added to this it was raining hard. The hotel apparently could not supply natives with food at such an hour, and it was necessary for them to go and look for it. This sad story greeted X. when his own dinner was done. But the kind President of the Landraad cut the knot of this dilemma and soon provided a caterer, protector, and guide for the hungry pair.

As usual next morning, the time fixed for the train to leave was very early, and other trains were starting too, and of these Abu selected the one on the point of departure for Maos in which to stow all the portable luggage—no small amount—and this was only rescued as the train was actually on the move. This, of course, necessitated hurried action, making those who hurried hot. Then the scene at the ticket window was scarcely to be described. For a country where, in public, such a gulf is fixed between Europeans and natives, it is a strange thing to find the one aperture for the purchase of tickets, besieged by a serging clamouring throng of both races, and no one had any idea of waiting his turn. X. attempted to force his way to the little window, but as he stopped to observe the rules of the game, as played in civilized countries of the West, he was each time passed over, when the tickets were almost in his grasp. At length, disgusted at having to take part in such a scene, he retired. Then Usoof, with much insinuation of elbows and words in Javanese (words such as his mother may not have approved), managed to obtain tickets just in time to catch the train. This train duly landed them at the familiar little station, where, as before, the ponies waited them to carry them up that hill of wonderful views. At the station the traveller parted with his companion, the invalid officer, after accepting a kindly invitation to lunch with him at Buitenzorg on his way through to Batavia.

No need to repeat myself in describing those few extra days spent at the cottage in the hills. And they also resembled the last ones in that they went too quickly.

The hearty welcome received was, the visitor liked to think, rendered even warmer by the fact that he was able to assure his busy host that the young tea plants had most certainly grown a little in his absence.

The day soon came when X. was nearing the limits of his leave and must start for Batavia. The always early train reached Buitenzorg in the morning, and there, where on his first visit he had felt so lonely, the traveller was met by his soldier friend and driven by him to the home of his fiancée. That reception, and its pleasant sequel of a home-like lunch, is one of the most agreeable of the recollections which X. now preserves of the town. Though he felt inclined to take the welcome all to himself, yet in his heart he knew that it was in great manner due to the fact that he was even remotely connected with the safe return of one whom the household considered as a son.

After lunch the host, bravely clad in uniform, took his guest to see the barracks. These buildings seemed as clean and comfortable as could be expected in a tropical climate. The extreme youth of some of the men was so noticeable that the visitor could not but observe it, and he learnt that this was accounted for by the fact that they could enlist at the age of sixteen. Another item of information was that one-third of the army in Java was composed of people of other nationalities. In the native corps there is never any difficulty in obtaining recruits.

After inspecting the barracks a visit was made to the gaol. This over they drove to the Club for the much-needed refreshment of "Dutch water" with something in it. The Club was a fine building, but there was no time left to enjoy its luxurious lounges, and in a very short time X. was bidding farewell to his good friend and steaming once more towards Batavia.

Arrived in the capital, the traveller thought it best to widen his experience by driving to an hotel other than the one of electric light. This was also a huge building at the end of a regular street of rooms, all looking out on to the main verandah. As this look-out provided the only light, the majority of the occupants kept open both doors and windows, and a walk along the verandah was like some panorama of dressing in all its stages.

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.

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