October 3rd.—At dawn the island of Hong-Kong appeared to view. We slipped into the horse-shoe harbour of Victoria Town, the most beautiful and picturesque place I have ever seen. The shores of the splendid bay are crowned with long rows of tropical villas. Victoria Town is a handsome, well-built city. One can see we are in a British colony; English flags float everywhere. We got into a small boat to go ashore, and walked to the Hotel Hong-Kong, having to pass over a long bridge. The Hotel Hong-Kong is a large seven-storied building, surrounded on all sides by a gallery with about a dozen shops. I shut myself up in my room with all the blinds closed; the semi-darkness gave me a sense of coolness, but when I opened the window such a stifling breath of air flew into the room that I had to shut it hurriedly. After the hour of siesta had passed, we went up the steep funicular railway to Victoria Peak, a perpendicular mountain 1,850 feet high. The funicular creeps straight up the side of the hill; while one car creeps up the mountain, the other crawls down. In about three minutes time we found ourselves on the Esplanade, where we had palanquins to take us to the cool summit where a big hotel is built. Many travellers come here to look down from the height of the Peak upon the great harbour of Hong-Kong. A flag floated at the top of the Peak, announcing the mail-boat from Japan. The big steamer seemed from there but a black spot. Picnic parties often come to the Peak, and the hotel is always full, thanks to the temperature, which is several degrees lower than in town. We had dinner at the hotel where the food is considered very good for the English palates, but far too spiced for ours. It was long before I recovered from my first mouthful of chicken plentifully seasoned with coarse red-pepper.

We took a bright green palanquin with three men at the foot of the hill, and went at a swinging pace through the outskirts of Victoria-Town. I had all the blinds pulled up whilst we were carried through the “Happy-alley” to the cathedral. There was a long file of pretty, dark-haired señoritas marching soberly to church, holding their prayer-books devoutly in their hands, attended by black-gowned, sharp-eyed duennas. The congregation consists of diverse nationalities, and the priest is obliged to preach in four languages—in English, Portuguese, Malay and Malabar. Macaites (aborigines of Macas) abound in Hong-Kong: they are a mixture of Portuguese and Chinese. Though wearing the European costume, these half-castes remain inwardly Chinese. It is a race of degenerates, whereas cross-breeding between English and French Creoles with the Chinese, form a splendid race.

The dinner at table-d’hôte was announced for seven o’clock. We entered the large dining-room full of grand gentlemen and smart ladies in evening dress. Dinner was served at small separate tables; it consisted of oyster soup, followed by a dish of frogs, strongly spiced cari, served with hot rice, and tropical fruit for dessert, unknown in Europe: the jack-fruit, of the size and appearance of a water-melon, and a sort of great orange four times its natural size, named grape-fruit; you have it on your plate cut in two halves with ice on each, and you scoop the inside out of a lot of tiny pockets with a tea-spoon. I was glad of the coolness of the big hall; a punkah-boy on the verandah pulled drowsily at the cords that moved the great fan. The usual language spoken here between Europeans and natives is called “pigeon-English”—a mixture of English, French, and German. It was difficult to make ourselves understood by the boys. We had to explain ourselves mostly by signs.

Directly after dinner we went out in palanquins. The fare is only one dollar for the whole day. We were carried swiftly up broad streets bordered by palm trees and bamboos covered with mould because of the damp, tepid air. Queen’s Road, the principal street, is a large avenue bordered with beautiful English shops, and reminds one of London, only instead of commonplace constables, it is Punjabs—Hindoos—in big red turbans who keep order in the streets. On our way to the Botanic Gardens we saw English soldiers exercising in a large square. We admired—in the beautiful Gardens, amongst the innumerable wonders of tropical vegetation—a large basin with lotuses in full bloom. We returned to the hotel through the native quarter of the town, lined with straw huts between hedges of banana and cocoa-nut trees.

After dinner we stayed out on the veranda till nearly midnight, with Kontski and his wife, who are also stopping at Hotel Hong-Kong. An intoxicating perfume of flowers came from the garden below; only the tinkle of a fountain and the ceaseless chanting of myriads of insects tempered the stillness of the beautiful tropical night. The old mæstro is a most interesting and brilliant talker, with an unending store of anecdote and reminiscence; you could listen to him for hours. He recalled the days of his youth, and told us that at the age of four he played the piano. When he was twelve years old it was decided that he was to enter the musical profession. His father brought him to Vienna to be introduced so Beethoven, who was already half-deaf at that time. He listened to his performance with ear-trumpets to his ears, and accepted Kontski as a pupil. One day, during the lesson, a card bearing the name of Beethoven’s brother, with whom he was not on the best of terms, was brought to him. Beethoven, Rittergut-Besitzer (possessor of a feudal estate) was printed on it. The great composer greeted it with a growl. He took his note-book from his pocket, tore out a leaf and hastily scribbled on it: Beethoven, Gehirn-Besitzer (possessor of brains), and, handing it to his servant, he said: “There, give him that and tell him that I am occupied and cannot receive him.” After having studied four years with Beethoven, Kontski returned to Warsaw, where his father taught French in a college in which he ended his education, together with Chopin. The friendship between them lasted unclouded until Chopin’s death broke it.

We talked a lot of music with Kontski, who had known many celebrated artists, and had been on the best of terms with Rachel. During his stay in Paris in 1836, Kontski had been invited to a dinner-party given by Rothschild, at which many celebrities were present, famous people in the world of music: Chopin, Rossini, Liszt, Thalberg, and a host of others. After dinner the great musicians were asked to play. Thalberg complied readily, but Chopin refused point blank, saying that he had grown too heavy after the copious repast. Liszt followed his example and would not play. Then Rothschild, addressing himself to Rossini, who owed the nick-name of “Papa Rossini,” thanks to his fat and round figure, asked him to persuade Liszt to play something to them. But there was little sympathy between these two geniuses, and Rossini exclaimed perfidiously: “Liszt, mon ami, play us one of your admirable compositions which you give out ordinarily as an improvisation.” Liszt, furious to be turned into ridicule, sat down ragingly at the piano, bending his face over the keys, and began to play one of his most brilliant rhapsodies, with high technique and rare poetic insight. His performance enchanted everyone in the room except Rossini, who had not succeeded in ridiculing Liszt.

October 4th.—This morning we accompanied Kontski to a music-shop, where he went to choose a piano for his forthcoming concert. There was only a cracked old “Pleyel” for the choice. The old mæstro kept his promise and played most enchantingly some selections of “Faust” of his own transposition. I cannot understand how he could manage to get such lovely notes out of such a decrepit old instrument; by his magic touch he persuaded it to give forth delicious music. I could have listened all day long.

On our way back to the hotel, we entered a farm bearing a placard with the alluring inscription: “New Milk.” The hostess, a fat negress with an orange kerchief tied round her head, ran up to us, smiling and shewing two rows of very white teeth in a very black face. She offered tea with excellent cream and bread and butter.

We dined in haste at the hotel and walked to the quay, where we took the steam-launch belonging to the hotel to be transported to the Melbourne. I felt at home when I stepped over her familiar side. Some of the old faces were among the crew, and the head steward was the same.

At four o’clock in the afternoon we were on our way to Saigon. The steward told me that amongst the passengers on board we had Theo, the well-known French actress, accompanied by her maid, a pretty mulatto-girl, dressed in a yellow and red striped cotton frock, with a silk kerchief on her head. The dark charms of this dusky maiden conquered the hearts of a great number of the crew. European fashions reach these remote parts. Sergy’s neighbour at table, a Japanese young lady, very tall for her Liliputian race, had discarded the kimono and wears the white woman’s tailor-made dress. Many of the men in Japan get their clothes from London, as their wives do from Paris. What a pity! Soon there will be no special customs or dress left. We shall all be exactly alike.

October 5th.—The atmosphere in my cabin being unbearable, I settled down on deck, seeking refuge under an awning, with books and work, and stretched myself comfortably in my own bamboo-chair that I had bought at Hong-Kong. By my side a Portuguese girl read aloud Psalms to a group of nuns wearing white caps floating in the air, whilst her friend, a Chinese girl, did needlework. The Good Sisters had recruited both girls into their Order. They sat telling their rosaries, their lips reverently framing words of prayer; I could hear the click of their beads. The opposite side of the deck was occupied by a Chinese school, a class of about thirty little boys, their long tresses entwined with pink ribbon. The teacher stood at one end of the rank and sang a single line of his lessons, and all the children sang it after him. Then came the second line, and they repeated it.

October 6th.—The coasts of Annam are outlined on the horizon. Dark grey clouds, precursors of rain, sweep rapidly, driven by the wind which had risen suddenly, and one of these tempests of the equinox came to fall upon us. The squall lasted only a few minutes, but we couldn’t go on the deck, which was drenched by the deluge.

October 7th.—I couldn’t sleep the whole night for the heat. The temperature continues to rise; as soon as the sun gets up it is already scorching. The tropics are making themselves strongly felt. We are only 600 miles from the equator.

Towards midnight the steward knocked at my door, begging me to close the portholes in order to give room to the rope-ladder for the pilot. We are at the mouth of the river Saigon. The tide was already too low for us to enter the harbour, and we anchored outside.

October 8th.—We are moving on at last, making great windings on the river which is very narrow in these parts. All the passengers were on deck. The banks are flat, planted with high palms. Insolent black-faced monkeys gambol on the tree-tops and chat vivaciously as they scamper from branch to branch, making grimaces at us. Birds of all the colour of the rainbow are perched on the branches. One of the passengers assured me that he had perceived a crocodile, but strain my eyes as I might, I could not see the monster.