HONG-KONG
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.