More than this, I was the guest of the only white man in a remote
district of that country. It was a particularly lovely spot, and,
being an idler for the moment, I asked my host, after a few days,
what there was of interest that I could go and see. He said he would
send a servant with me to show me a cemetery, where were buried a
number of Englishmen who, some few years before, had been killed or
died in the neighbourhood, during the progress of one of England’s
successful little military expeditions. That afternoon I was led to the
cemetery in question. I have seldom seen a more glorious succession
of pictures than were presented by the view from that lovely spot;
and never in any country have I beheld a more ideal resting-place for
the honoured dead. It did not surprise me that my host told me he had
already selected his own corner, and repeatedly made it the objective
of his afternoon walks. Within a fenced enclosure, partly surrounded by
graceful, ever-green trees, lay the small plot of carefully kept grass
which formed the burial-ground. It occupied the summit of a rising
ground commanding a magnificent view of the surrounding country. From
the gate the ground sloped steeply down to a road, and then dropped
sheer forty or fifty feet to the waters of a great, wide, crystal-clear
river, flowing over a bed of golden sand. Under this steep and lofty
bank, the base all rock, the river swirled deep and green; but it
rapidly shallowed towards the centre, and the opposite shore, seven
hundred feet distant, was a wide expanse of sand, half-circled by
great groves of palms, and backed by steep, forest-clad hills. The
river made a wide sweep here, so that, looking down on it from such
a height gave it rather the appearance of a huge lake narrowing into
the distant hills. Picturesque villages lined both banks of the river,
the houses showing splashes of colour between the trees. Boats of
quaint build--sailing, poling, paddling, rowing--passed up and down
the broad stream, giving life to the scene; while at distances varying
from three miles to thirty or more, the valley was shut in by lofty
mountains, green near by, with their garment of unbroken forest, but,
in the distance, blue as an Italian sky. I drank this in, felt it all
as a feeling, this and much more with which I will not weary you, and
then I turned to look at the grass-covered mounds and wooden crosses
that marked the graves of the exiled dead. I was standing in front of
a somewhat more pretentious headstone, which marked the resting-place
of an officer killed a few miles from this spot, when, through the
wicket, came a messenger bearing a letter for me. The cover bore many
post-marks, signs of a long chase, and here at last it had caught me
in my wanderings. I did not recognise the handwriting, but when I had
opened the letter and looked at the signature, I realised that it was
that of an old lady who was but an acquaintance, and one of whom
I had not heard for years. I read the letter, and I may confess to
some little astonishment. It told me that, hearing that I was leaving
England for a long journey, and that I should eventually arrive at
somewhere in the East, the writer wished to tell me that her daughter
(whom I hardly remembered) had married a certain soldier, that he had
been killed some time before, and was buried in some place (which she
tried indifferently to name) where there were no Europeans. If I should
ever be in the neighbourhood, would I try to find his grave, and tell
them something about it; for they were in great grief, and no one could
relieve their anxiety on the subject of their loved one’s last home.
It seemed to me a somewhat remarkable coincidence that I should, at
that moment, be standing in front of the stone which told me that,
underneath that emerald turf, lay all that was left of the poor
lady’s son-in-law, the grief-stricken daughter’s husband. The
situation appealed to my artistic instincts. I sat down, there and
then, and, with a pencil and a bit of paper, I made a rough sketch of
the soldier’s grave; carefully drawing the headstone, and inscribing
on it, in very plain and very black print, the legend that I saw in
front of me. Then I went home, and, while the situation was hot upon
me, I wrote, not to the mother, but to the widow, a little account of
what had occurred, using the most appropriate and touching language I
could think of, to describe the scene and my deep sympathy. Finally I
enclosed the little picture, which I had drawn with such a compelling
sense of my responsibilities, and the unique character of the
opportunity, to show that I was a man of rather uncommon feeling. Much
pleased with the result of my efforts, I entrusted the letter to my
friend (there was no such thing as a post-office), and we became almost
sentimental over the chastened tears with which my letter would be read
by the two poor ladies.
The mother’s letter to me had wandered about for two or three months
before it came to my hands; but I learned,--ages afterwards,--that my
letter to the daughter was a far longer time in transit; not the fault
of my friend, but simply of the general unhingedness of things in those
wild places.
The letter did at last arrive, and was handed to the widow on the
day she was married to a new husband. That is why I believe in the
quaintness of coincidences.
XXII
OF A COUNTRY-HOUSE CUSTOM
I went one morning to a hotel in London to call upon a celebrated
writer of fiction, a lady, and she told me that, as a protest against
ideas which she despised, she always locked her door when she was
talking to a man. I stayed there about two hours, but I don’t
remember whether the door was locked or not, probably not; no one,
however, tried it, and my reputation survived the ordeal. The practice
is unconventional, though innocent enough. It is much more common to
find yourself in a lady’s room, at night, in a country-house in
England, and there you may talk to a friend, perhaps to two, and even,
on occasions, smoke a cigarette, while the door is seldom locked. Do
you see any harm in it? The thing itself is so pleasant that I do not
mean to discuss with you the fors and againsts; I am satisfied that
it is often done, and that I sometimes profit by the arrangement. A
century ago, or rather more, it was common enough, if not in England,
certainly on the Continent, and the guest was sometimes present while
the lady lay in bed, or made her toilette. It is conceivable that this
custom deserved to be discouraged, and it seems to have gone out of
fashion, no doubt for sufficiently good reasons.
I was once a guest in a delightful country-house in the heart of
England, a house where nothing was lacking that could contribute to
comfort, and where the hostess was attraction sufficient to draw
visitors from the uttermost parts of the earth, and keep them with
her as long as she desired their presence. She was wayward (an added
charm), and the company came and went, and some came again, but none
remained long enough to become overpoweringly tedious or compromisingly
_épris_. It was winter, the hard earth was full of “bone,” the waters
icebound, and the face of the country white with a thick covering of
frozen snow. There were but few of us in the house, and we had been
skating on the ornamental water in a neighbour’s park, miles away.
That was the only form of exercise open to us, and we had enjoyed
it. The long walk over the crisp snow and the uneven cart tracks
of a country road, the intoxicating ease and rapidity of motion
over the glassy ice, the ring of steel on that hard, smooth surface,
how distinctly they all come back! And then the trudge home in the
gathering dusk, between the woods whose snow-laden trees looked the
very picture of winter,--it was all delightful and exhilarating, and,
if our dinner-party was small, it was certainly a merry one. When we
parted on the stairs it was close on midnight, and I was standing
enjoying the blaze of my fire and the intense cosiness of my room, when
there came a knock, and what I had thought was a cupboard-door opened
to admit the head of our charming chatelaine, with an inquiry as to my
comfort and contentment, and an invitation to put on a smoking-jacket
and have a cigarette in her snuggery. I very eagerly and gratefully
accepted that offer, and a few minutes later found myself in the most
delightfully warm, cosy, and withal artistically beautiful room the
heart and mind of woman could desire or design. This boudoir faced
the front of the house, and looking over the lawn and terraces were
three French windows, through which streamed bright rays of moonlight,
for the shutters were not closed. Within, a great wood fire blazed
on a wide hearth of olive-green tiles. Two lamps, with shades of
_vieille rose_, shed a soft glow over inviting-looking chairs, thick
carpet, tables littered with books and papers, lovely bits of porcelain
and bronze, treasures in burnished silver and dull red gold. Every
chair looked as if it were made for comfort, and the whole room said
unmistakably, “This is where I live.” I should have noted the general
effect at a glance, but I had time to appreciate the details, for, when
I entered, I found the room unoccupied. In a few minutes my hostess
appeared from her room, which opened out of this fascinating retreat,
and said--
“Well, how do you like my snuggery; is it not cosy?”
I said it was charming and delightful, and everything that good taste
and an appreciation of real comfort could make it.
“I am so glad,” she said; “will you smoke one of my cigarettes?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“Shall I light it for you?”
“That would be most kind.”
“There; now we can make ourselves quite comfortable and have a real
good chat, and no one will come to disturb us. What have you been doing
with yourself all this time? What new friends have you made? What books
have you been reading? Tell me all about everything. I think you
would be more comfortable over there; don’t worry about me, this is
my favourite seat, but I change about and never sit very long in one
place. You can imagine I am your Father Confessor, so don’t keep me
waiting; tell it all, and keep back nothing; you know I shall be sure
to find you out if you try to deceive me.”
I found a seat--not exactly where I had first wished to place myself,
but where I was put--and our chat was so mutually interesting that I
was surprised to find it was 2 A.M. when my hostess told me I must go
to bed. I must have smoked a good many cigarettes, and I have a vague
recollection that there were glasses with spiritual comfort as well;
it is probable, for nothing that any reasonable human being could want
was ever lacking there. I know that I lingered, and the white light
through the curtains drew us both to the window. Never shall I forget
the incomparable picture of that snow-covered landscape;--glittering,
scintillating under the silver radiance of a full winter moon, riding
high in a clear, grey, frosty sky. The absolute stillness of it; not
a sign of life; the bare trees throwing sharp shadows on the dazzling
whiteness of a prospect broken only by the evergreens of the garden,
the cleared stone steps of the terraces, and beyond, a small stream
winding through the narrow valley, and forming a little lake of as yet
unfrozen water, its ever rippling surface showing black and sombre
under the shadow of a high bank which shut out the moonlight. The
contrast between that outside,--the coldness, the whiteness, the sense
of far-into-the-nightness, which somehow struck one instantly; and the
inside,--the warmth, the comfort, the subtle sympathy of companionship
with a most fascinating, most beautiful, perfectly-garmented woman: it
was too striking to be ever forgotten. The picture has risen unbidden
before my eyes on many a night since then, under other skies and widely
different circumstances.
Turning away from the window, I could see through an open door into
my companion’s room, and I said, “How did you get into my room?”
“Very easily,” she answered; “there is a cupboard in the thickness of
the wall between your room and mine; it opens into both rooms, but is
at present full of my gowns, as you would have seen had you had the
curiosity to look in, and the door happened to be unlocked.”
I said I had abundant curiosity, and would gratify it when I got back.
My hostess smiled and said, “There is nothing to find out now; I have
told you all there is to tell. Good night.”
“But,” I said, “why should I go all the way round, through cold
passages, when I can walk straight through to my room by this way?” and
I pointed to the open door.
“That is very ingenious of you,” she answered; “and you are not
wanting either in the quick grasp of a situation, or the assurance to
make the most of it. You do not deserve that I should pay you such a
pretty compliment! It is too late for banter; I am getting sleepy. Good
night.”
XXIII
A MERE LIE
As the tale I am going to tell you is only a lie, you will understand
that it is not of my making; I cannot even pretend to have heard it
at first hand. The author was a scientist who lied in the intervals
between his researches. It was a relief, I suppose, after too close
contact with the eternal truths of Nature. His mental fingers seemed
to wander over the keys of an instrument of romance, striking strange
chords and producing unsuspected effects in an accompaniment to which
he sang a perpetual solo.
Amongst the most eccentric of his class the Professor would still have
been a remarkable character. No one seemed to know to what nationality
he belonged, and it was useless to ask him for any information, because
of the doubt which clouded any statement that he made. Indeed, to
put it shortly, he lied like a tombstone. When I met him his only
companion was a Papuan boy, so black that a bit of coal would have made
a white mark on him; and the Professor would affectionately stroke the
child’s head, and say that when he had grown bigger, when his skull
was fully developed, he meant to take it, and was looking forward to
the day when he could examine it carefully, inside and out, and compare
it with the skulls of certain wild tribes which, he felt certain, he
should thus be able to prove were of true Melanesian origin. He would
then sometimes relate how, during a visit to Cadiz, he took a great
fancy to the head of a Spaniard whom he met there. He thought the man
was in failing health; but as he could not waste time in the Peninsula,
he looked about for some means of hastening the possibly slow progress
of disease. The Professor soon found that the owner of the head had a
reckless and profligate nephew, with whom he scraped acquaintance. To
him the Professor said that he had observed his uncle, and thought him
looking far from well, indeed, he did not fancy he could last long,
and, explaining that he was himself an anthropologist, concerned in
scientific studies for the benefit of humanity, he arranged with the
nephew that, _when his uncle died_, the Professor should pay a sum of
£30 and be allowed to take the uncle’s head. The uncle died shortly
afterwards, and the money was paid, but the nephew, a man without
principle, buried his relative in defiance of his bargain with the
Professor.
The means by which the man of science secured full value for his
investment made one of his best stories; and some day I may tell it to
you, but, when I began this letter, I had quite a different adventure
in my mind, and I will take the liberty of asking you to suppose that
the collector of skulls is telling you his own tale in his own way.
“I was in Australia, where I had already met with some strange
experiences, the last of them a disastrous expedition into the desert,
where, when I was quite alone and a thousand miles from the nearest
habitation, I fell over two precipices, first breaking my right and
then immediately afterwards my left leg. I got back to civilisation
with some difficulty, as I had to crawl on my hands most of the way,
dragging my broken legs behind me; but what really made the journey
seem long was the fact that I had to forage for my own sustenance as
well. I was somewhat exhausted by these hardships, and was giving
myself a short holiday for rest, when Australia was moved to a pitch
of the greatest excitement and indignation by the exploits of a
daring bushranger, who set the Police and the Government at defiance,
and established such a panic in the land that a party of Volunteers
was formed, sworn to track the outlaw down and bring him in alive or
dead. I do not say that I had any ultimate designs on the man’s
head, but still the skull of a person of that type could not fail to
be interesting. So, partly as a relaxation, but mainly in the cause of
science, I joined the expedition.
“It would not interest you to describe our failures--how the man
outwitted us; how, just when we thought we had him, he would slip
through our fingers, partly by his own skill, his knowledge of the
bush, and the excellence of his horses, but mainly, I think, by the
help of sympathisers, who always gave warning of our movements and most
secret plans. I will pass over all that and take you to the final scene
in the drama.
“When we were not actually in the bush we were following our quarry
from one country-place to another, as the information we received gave
us a clue to his whereabouts. It seldom happened that we passed a night
in a town, and, when not camping out, we were billeted on the people
of the district, the wealthiest and most important of them being
too glad to place their houses at our disposal. One evening, after a
hot pursuit, feeling sure we were close upon the trail of our man,
we reached a great house where a number of guests were already being
entertained. In spite of our numbers we were welcomed with effusion,
and, after dinner, the ladies of the party took advantage of the sudden
arrival of a number of young fellows ready for anything to get up an
impromptu dance. I am not a dancing man--my time has been spent in
communion with Nature, in reading in the open book of Truth--therefore
I left the revellers and went to bed.
“We had had a long and a hard day in the saddle, and I was weary, and
must have fallen asleep almost as soon as I lay down.
“Now I must tell you what I afterwards heard from others of my party.
It was a little after midnight, and the dancing was going on with
great spirit, when I--this, of course, is what they tell me--suddenly
appeared at a door of the ball-room in my night-dress, with a rifle
in my hand, and, without hesitation, I walked through the room and
out into a verandah that led towards the back of the house. My head
was thrown somewhat back, my eyes were wide open and seemed fixed on
some distant object, while I was evidently unconscious of my immediate
surroundings.
“I fear my sudden entry into the dancing-room in such a very
unconventional dress was rather a shock to some of the ladies. I am
told that several screamed, and one or more of the older ones fainted;
but for myself I knew none of this till afterwards. It appears that,
what with astonishment at my appearance, and the necessary attentions
to the ladies whose nerves were upset, a little time elapsed before any
one thought of following me. Then some one fancied he heard the sound
of a horse’s feet, and the men of my party pulled themselves together
and made for the stables, as that was the direction I seemed to have
taken.
“I was nowhere to be seen; but a stable door was open, and my horse,
saddle, and bridle had gone. Then the matter began to look serious,
and, as my friends saddled their horses and started to look for me,
riding they hardly knew where, there were rather dismal forebodings
of the probable fate of even a fully-clad man luckless enough to be
lost in the Australian bush. It was a lovely starlight night with a
young moon, and, under other circumstances, the ride might have been
pleasant enough; but the aimlessness of the whole business was becoming
painfully evident to the searchers, when the sound of a rifle-shot was
distinctly heard at no great distance. The horses’ heads were turned
towards the direction from which the sound came, and the troop pushed
on at a brisk pace. Almost immediately, a faint column of smoke was
perceived, and as the horsemen approached the spot, the embers of a
dying fire shed a slight ruddy glow in the darkness. The word was
passed to proceed with caution, but the party was already so close that
they could see my white night-dress, as I stood with naked feet by the
side of my horse, regarding, with a half-dazed expression, the smoking
rifle which I held in my hand. Sixty yards off was the thin column of
smoke rising from the dying fire.
“I was surrounded by my friends, who all spoke at once, and fired a
perfect volley of questions at me. I said, ‘Softly, gentlemen, softly,
and I will tell you all I know about it, for indeed the situation seems
strange enough. As you know I went to bed. I slept and I dreamed. I
suppose I was over-wrought, and my mind was full of the bushranger,
for I thought I was again on his track, out in the bush, on horseback
and alone. It was night, but I seemed to be riding with a purpose, or
my horse knew where he was going, for by-and-by I was drawn towards
a thin column of white smoke, the smoke of a wood fire, and then, as
I got nearer, I caught the flickering glow of dying embers. I _felt_
the object of our search was there, and I moved forward with extreme
caution, till I had got within a hundred yards, and then I distinctly
saw the outlaw lying perfectly straight on the ground, his feet towards
the fire, and his horse hobbled hard by. I say I saw the outlaw, but
I was dreaming, and in my dream I _knew_ it was the man, though I
could not see his face. I dismounted, and, leading my horse, I got to
within sixty yards of the sleeper. Then, fearing that if I went nearer
he might wake and escape me, I took a steady aim, pulled the trigger,
and--the next instant I was wide awake standing here in my night-dress.’
“Almost before I had finished I saw men looking towards the fire, which
was no dream, and we all of us now distinctly made out the form of a
man, lying on his side, almost on his face, with his feet towards the
embers and his head by the bush. Moreover, we could both see and hear
a horse, that was evidently hobbled not very far from the sleeper.
It did not take long to surround the spot where the man lay; but, as
we rapidly closed in on the sleeper, he never stirred. A moment more
and we were beside him. A dark stream, on which the glow from the
fire seemed to shed some of its own red light, was oozing slowly from
beneath the man’s chest; and, as several hands turned his face up to
the stars and the pale moonlight, it was too evident that he was dead,
and that his life had gone out with that crimson stream which flowed
from a bullet wound in his heart.
“I did not know the man myself, but several of our party recognised
him. It was the bushranger, and, as I expected, his skull was not
without features of special interest to science.”
XXIV
TIGERS AND CROCODILES
When I first came, a visitor, to the Malay Peninsula, I was struck by
the fact that wherever I went I heard stories of tigers. If, in the
course of a day’s ride, I stopped at a village to eat my luncheon,
the people who pressed round to watch me and have a chat would always
tell me a tiger story of local and comparatively recent occurrence.
Wherever I encamped for the night, I should be sure of at least one
tale of successful attack or successful resistance, where a tiger
had filled the principal rôle. When once I understood the little
peculiarity, I took it as a matter of course, and at talking time I
used to say, “Now tell me about the tiger: what was it he did?” It may
have been accident, but it is no exaggeration to say that my question
nearly always drew forth a more or less ghastly story.
Now that my visit is nearly over, it occurs to me that, though I
have accumulated an almost endless series of more or less interesting
tales of the “low, crouching horror with the cruel fangs,” I have
not retailed any of them to you. In a certain number of cases I was
myself near enough to be able to verify details, and in others I had
means of proving main facts. One is almost bound to say that, because
tiger-stories, which are worth repeating, are almost always listened
to with incredulity, or, what is worse, with that banter which often
means, in plain words, “What I have not seen myself I decline to
believe.” That is the attitude of England to the Orient in the presence
of a tiger-story with which the auditors can claim no connection. I
said that the prevalence of these tales struck me on my first arrival.
I soon became _blasé_, and for a long time I have had no curiosity
on the subject; but I will tell you of two tiger incidents that I
personally verified, as far as I was able, and I will make no attempt
to paint in the background with local colour, in order to supply you
with finished pictures.
There is an island by the western shore of the Straits of Malacca.
You would never guess it to be an island, for it is simply a block of
mangrove-covered mud, with one side towards the sea, and the other
three sides separated from the mainland by deep but narrow lagoons
of tidal water. The only inhabitants are a few wood-cutters, Malays
and Chinese, who live in huts of mat or bark with palm-leaf roofs,
while they are employed cutting mangroves and a hard-wood palm called
_Nîbong_. The huts of the Chinese are on the ground, but the Malay
dwellings are invariably raised a few feet above the damp soil, and
to them entry is obtained by means of a ladder. These hovels are very
carelessly built; they are of flimsy materials, only intended to
last for a few months, when they are abandoned and rapidly fall to
pieces. They serve their purpose. The occupants are out from dawn till
afternoon, when they return to cook, eat, and sleep; and so, from day
to day, till the job on which they are engaged is completed, and they
can return, in the case of the Malays, to their families, while the
Chinese are probably moved to another scene of similar labour.