COLOMBO
Towards night we arrived at Colombo and moored two miles off the low
coast, bordered with cocoa-nut trees crowned with green palms. A long
greystone breakwater with a round-topped tower at the end ran out into
the sea, and over it in the distance Colombo with its red-tiled houses
lay half hidden in deep green vegetation. Canoes brought on board
Singhalese merchants with stuffs and other products of the land. We see
everywhere British flags flying. We are on English ground under the
tropic sun of Ceylon. From afar we perceive Adam’s Peak, the region
where Paradise was. On the summit of the Peak there is the impress of
a gigantic foot, the first footstep of Adam out of Paradise, according
to the Christian legends, of Siva for the Brahmins, of Buddha for the
Buddhists.
The _Océanien_ is going to stop here twenty-four hours to discharge coal.
I saw Singhalese porters, with sacks on their heads, mounting on deck and
plunging down into the hold to come out again bent in two under their
loads. We walked to the Great Oriental Hotel, which stands on the quay,
quite near to the port, a large building surrounded on all sides by the
broad veranda. There are colonnades underneath the hotel with shops.
The heat and damp of Ceylon are just as terrible as in Java. I passed a
wretched night. I went to bed but not to sleep—oh, dear, no! for I just
began to doze when swarms of mosquitoes recalled me to reality very soon.
November 2nd.—I was glad to return to the _Océanien_ early in the
morning. I stood on deck until we unmoored, watching a band of bronzed
natives, in a state of almost Adamic nudity, beautifully shaped men
unconscious of immodesty, their wardrobe reduced to a rag replacing
the traditional fig-leaf swinging to and fro in a canoe and singing
“Tarra-Boumbia” at the top of their voices, with a great supply of
gesticulations and grimaces, slapping themselves energetically on the
hips at the same time.
The _Océanien_ has weighed anchor. The Isle of Ceylon decreases more and
more in the distance. The ocean is as smooth as a lake, and as blue as
the sky over us.
November 3rd.—Between Ceylon and Aden the voyage is long and tedious. The
_Océanien_ makes the trip in seven days. I had a very bad headache and
went on deck for a breath of fresh air. The ship’s doctor, a physician
without patients just now, as all the passengers are in perfect health,
appropriated the empty chair next my own and stared at me fixedly as if
he wanted to know me by heart, and then made notes in his copy-book. He
was writing a novel, in which I was to take the principal part, as it
appeared, because I had a very strong resemblance to his first love. This
doctor has kept his heart of seventeen through thrice seventeen summers.
Wherever I went, there he was, and a little manœuvring was always
necessary to prevent him from sitting near me and paying me compliments,
whilst his bulging eyes stared at me as if he had the intention to devour
me. He was ridiculous with his gallantry, having scarcely any hair on
his head. He was stout, jolly-looking and effusive, and seemed to have
stepped out of a comic opera.
Nearly everyone on board has a flirtation going on. At nightfall in nice
flirting corners, on the part of the deck far away and out of the sphere
of electricity, couples sat hand in hand deeply immersed in their eager
whispers, out of the lights of the ship’s lanterns.
November 4th.—When I mounted on deck this morning, my fat Esculapius came
up to me, and crushed my fingers in his grasp; I gave a little squeak,
for he had forgotten my rings. He had a drooping appearance, and looked
profoundly miserable and martyrlike because yesterday I avoided him and
looked the other way when he drew near. Nevertheless he took a chair in
a way that told me distinctly of his intention not to desert me, and as
I felt at the moment that I would have given anything to be deserted, I
pretended to be absorbed in a thrilling novel. A long drawn sigh which
escaped him failed to produce the intended effect. He said now in low,
mournful accents, that I made fun of him, and doubted whether I had any
heart at all.
November 5th.—We pass near the African coast, and the peninsula of
Socotra. These parts were formerly the terror of the navigators; many
ships have gone to pieces in this treacherous place, where strong
hurricanes prevail. The Portuguese sailormen have named that cape
Guardafui, which means “Be on your guard.” But the great boats of our
days laugh at the danger, though a terrible rolling and tossing is always
felt in these parts.
Sea-sickness is a very good remedy for cooling down love. My fat doctor
has become indifferent and mute. He lay stretched in his deck-chair,
looking dreadfully green in the face.