AN OFFICIAL CALL.
After luncheon X. took a drive. All the most noteworthy features of
Batavia are duly set forth in guide books, and it is therefore only
advisable to mention those few points of difference from an English
colonial town which seemed to the traveller worthy of note. The
principal one was that all the residents' houses were built along the
side of the high road; there were no secluded mansions standing in their
own grounds as in Singapore. All the houses were obtrusively _en
evidence_, so much so, that people, socially inclined, take their
evening drive and note at a glance, by the lights displayed, who is at
home and ready to receive. Those not prepared to entertain sit in
semi-darkness. The houses seemed as devoid of privacy as were the
verandahs of the hotels. Planted on each side of the road were huge
towering trees testifying by their presence that the town was not of
mushroom growth. No Europeans were met; this was understood later when
it was explained that at this hour of the day they were all asleep. At
first it seemed that there were no shops, but closer observation
discovered them under the same roof as some of the private dwellings,
standing detached away from the road. The English Church wore a deserted
aspect, closed and uncared for. Possibly the driver libelled the
community when he informed the traveller that it was never used. The
ordinary carriage is a _dos-à-dos_, a most uncomfortable conveyance like
an Irish car turned end on, but excellent carriages are provided by the
hotels.
Later our traveller proposed to call upon the Resident--the chief
authority in the place--and present his letters of introduction. He had
been told that he must not call before 7.30 in the evening, and also
that he must wear dress clothes. It seemed an outrageous thing to do, to
put on dress clothes in broad daylight in an hotel and to go out about
dinner time to call, and when he summoned Usoof to assist him, that
grave-faced individual did so with a kind of silent pity for his master
compelled to do unaccountable things in a land of strangers.
However, when X. had arrayed himself, as though he were dining out, his
heart failed him. He felt it was impossible to go to the house of a
stranger like this just at the hour for dinner without appearing as
though he hoped he would be asked to stay for that meal. And so he
shamefacedly untied his white tie and asked Usoof to provide him with a
morning coat. This apprehension might have been spared, however; the
call was never actually paid, for, in the drive that led up to the house
of the Resident, he met a carriage coming out containing a gentleman and
three ladies. This turned out to be the Resident with his wife and
daughters. It was an agreeable surprise to find that the carriage
stopped, and the traveller had the somewhat difficult task of
introducing himself and explaining his appearance in the dark. The
Resident, who spoke excellent English, was most cordial and kind. He
regretted that he was not at home to receive the intended visit, but he
was obliged to attend a reception given in honour of the General, the
hero of the Lomboh War. Then the great official expressed a hope that X.
had secured his permit, and told him that he must renew it when he
reached Buitensug, which was the limit of his jurisdiction. X. noticed
that the Resident was not in dress clothes and mentally congratulated
himself that he wore none either, or most certainly as the carriage
drove away he would have looked like a person disappointed of a dinner.
The hotel was most gorgeously illuminated with electric light, and the
marble dining hall was extravagantly lurid. Had X. consulted his
convenience he would certainly have worn his black sun spectacles, but
actually feared to alarm his followers by exhibiting any further
tendency to eccentricity on their first day in a strange country, and so
he resigned himself to blink owlishly throughout the meal. The absence
of a punkah, a necessity to which he was accustomed, was also a trial.
However, there was little fear of getting hot by over indulgence at the
table, as the chilly cocoanut-oily viands were excellent checks to any
imprudent display of appetite. Towards the end of the repast the
proprietor of the hotel informed X. that the Resident of Batavia wished
to speak to him through the telephone. If there is one place where he
exhibits himself in an unfavourable light it is in front of that
horrible, muttering, jibbering instrument, when, after the introductory
"Who's there?" and information as to who you are repeated _ad nauseam_,
there rumble to your ear the most exasperating sounds, so full of
meaning and yet conveying nothing, until it seems as though the person
at the other end were mocking you, and the tone of his voice gets so
irritating that you long to throw down the tubes and make a rush at him.
However, on this occasion X. wisely left the whole matter in the hands
of the proprietor, who presently informed him that the Resident invited
him to an open air concert given at the Concordia Club in honour of the
General, then the man of the hour, and, if he would care to come, an
English friend would presently call for him at the hotel. The only
possible answer to such a welcome invitation was duly transmitted.
X. has, according to his own account, all his life been a most fortunate
individual. Wherever he went he has always, as the phrase has it,
"fallen on his feet." On this expedition his luck did not desert him,
and on the appearance of his fellow countryman which took place (to be
exact in speaking of an event now historical) at 9 p.m., there commenced
a new departure which forged a first link in the chain of events which
was to happily land him in the most beautiful country that he had ever
yet beheld. X. has always thought of telephones more kindly since.