Notwithstanding the Chinese city that has grown up since the French occupied the country, and notwithstanding the natives who saunter along the pavements or, in wide straw hats like extinguishers, pull rickshaws, Saïgon has all the air of a little provincial town in the South of France. It is laid out with broad streets, shaded with handsome trees, and there is a bustle in them that is quite unlike the bustle of an Eastern town in an English colony. It is a blithe and smiling little place. It has an opera house white and shining, built in the flamboyant style of the Third Republic, which faces a broad avenue; and it has a Hotel de Ville which is very grand, new and ornate. Outside the hotels are terraces and at the hour of the apéritif they are crowded with bearded, gesticulating Frenchmen, drinking the sweet and sickly beverages, Vermouth Cassis, Byrrh and Quinquina Dubonnet which they drink in France, and they talk nineteen to the dozen in the rolling accent of the Midi. Gay little ladies who have something to do with the local theatre are dressed in smart clothes and with their pencilled eye-brows and rouged cheeks bring a cheerful air of sophistication to this far-distant spot. In the shops you will find Paris dresses from Marseilles and London and hats from Lille. Victorias drawn by two little ponies gallop past and motor cars toot their horns. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky and the shade is heavy with the heat and solid.
Saïgon is a pleasant enough place to idle in for a few days; life is made easy for the casual traveller; and it is very agreeable to sit under the awning on the terrace of the Hotel Continental, an electric fan just above your head, and with an innocent drink before you to read in the local paper heated controversies upon the affairs of the Colony and the faits divers of the neighbourhood. It is charming to be able to read steadily through the advertisements without an uneasy feeling that you are wasting your time and it must be a dull mind that in such a perusal does not find here and there occasion for a pleasant gallop on a hobby-horse through the realms of time and space. But I only stayed long enough to catch my boat for Huë.
Huë is the capital of Annam and I was bound there in order to see the festivities for the Chinese New Year which were to be held at the Emperor's court. But Huë is situated on a river and the port for it is Tourane. It was there then that Messageries boat–a clean white comfortable craft properly arranged for travel in hot latitudes with plenty of space and plenty of air and cold drinks–set me down at two one morning. She anchored in the bay, seven to eight kilometres from the wharf, and I got into a sampan. The crew consisted of two women, a man and a small boy. The bay was calm and the stars were shining thick overhead. We rowed out into the night and the lights on the quay seemed immensely far away. The boat was heavy with water and every now and then one of the women stopped rowing and baled it out with an empty kerosene tin. There was the shadow of a breeze and presently they put up a great square sail of bamboo matting, but it was too light a wind to help us much and the journey looked as though it would last till day-break. So far as I was concerned it might have lasted for ever; I lay on bamboo mats, smoking a pipe and now and then falling into a light doze, and when I awoke and relit my pipe the match showed me for a moment the brown fat faces of the two women squatting by the mast. The man at the tiller made a short remark and one of the women answered him. Then again in silence was complete but for the faint swish of the water under the boards on which I lay. The night was warm that with nothing on but a shirt and a pair of khaki trousers I did not feel cold and the air was as soft as the feel of flowers. We made a long tack into the night and then going about found our slow way to the mouth of the river. We passed fishing-boats lying at anchor and others silently creeping out into the stream. The banks of the river were dark and mysterious. On a word from the man the two women lowered the clumsy sail and began once more to row. We came to the quay and the water was so shallow that I had to be carried ashore on the back of a coolie. It is a proceeding that has always seemed to me both terrifying and undignified and I clung to the coolie's neck in a manner that I well knew ill became me. The hotel was just across the road and coolies shouldered my luggage. But it was barely five and still very dark and no one was awake in the hotel. The coolies hammered on the door and at last a sleepy servant opened it. The rest of them were lying about fast asleep on the billiard table and on the floor. I asked for a room and coffee. The fresh bread was just ready and my café au lait with rolls hot from the oven very welcome after that long journey across the bay, made a meal such as I have not often had the good luck to eat. I was shown a dirty, sordid little room, with a mosquito net grimy and torn, and I do not know how many commercial travellers and officials of the French government had passed through the sheets on the bed since last they were washed. I did not care. It seemed to me that I had never arrived anywhere in such romantic style and I could not but think that this must be the preface to an experience that would be memorable.
But there are places of which the only point is the arrival; they promise the most fantastic adventures of the spirit and give you no more than three meals a day and last year's films. The are like a face, full of character that intrigues and excites you, but that on closer acquaintance you discover is merely they mask of a vulgar soul. Such is Tourane.
![By Vassil (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AHarihara_Mus%C3%A9e_Guimet_897_1.jpg "By Vassil (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons")
I spent one morning there in order to visit the museum in which there is a collection of Khmer sculpture. The reader may possibly remember that when I wrote of Phnom-Penh I became strangely eloquent (for a person who does not much like others to gush and is shy of superlative) about a statue to be seen there. This was a Khmer work and now I may remind him (or tell him if like me till I went to Indo-China he never knew that Khmers or their sculpture existed) that this was a mighty nation, the offspring of the aboriginal tribes of Indo-China and an invading race from the plateaux of Central Asia, who founded a far-flung and powerful empire. Immigrants from Eastern India brought them the Sanskrit language, Brahmanism and the culture of their native land; but the Khmers were vigorous people and they had a creative instinct that enabled them to make their own use of the knowledge the strangers brought them. They built magnificent temples and adorned them with sculptures, founded it is true on the art of India, but which have at their best an energy, a boldness of execution, a fertility and a brilliant fancy to be found nowhere else in the East. The statue of Harihara* at Phnom-Penh testifies to the greatness of their genius. It is a miracle of grace. It calls to mind the archaic statuary of Greece and the Mayan sculpture of Mexico; but it has a character of its own. Those early Greek works have the dewy freshness of the morning, but their beauty is a trifle vacant; the Mayan statues have something primeval in them, the excite awe rather than admiration, for they have in them still the touch of early man who drew in the dark recesses of his caverns magic pictures to cast a spell on the beasts he feared or hunted; but in the Harihara you have a singular and enigmatic union of the archaic and the sophisticated. It has the candour of the primitive quickened by the complexity of the civilised. The Khmer brought a long inheritance of thought to the craft which had so suddenly captivated his fancy. It is as though to the England of the Elizabethan age had come, a bolt from the blue, the art of painting in oil; and the artists, their souls charged with the plays of Shakespeare, the conflict of religions at the Reformation, and the Armada, had begun to paint with the hand of Cimabue. Something like this must have been the state of mind of the sculptor who made the statue in Phnom-Penh. It has power and simplicity and an exquisite line, but it has also a spiritual quality that is infinitely moving. It has not only beauty, but intelligence.
These great works of the Khmers gain a peculiar poignancy when you reflect that a few ruined temples strewn about the jungle and a few mutilated statues scattered here and there in museums are all that remains of this mighty empire and this restless people. Their power was broken, they were dispersed, becoming drawers of water and hewers of wood, they died out; and now, the rest of them assimilated by their conquerors, their name endures only in the art they so lavishly produced.
Note* I am somewhat puzzled by the name given by the French authorities to the deity represented in this statue. I always thought that Hari and Hara were the names under which were commonly known Siva and Vishnu, and to call a god Harihara looks very much like calling a single respectable person Crosseandblackwell. But since I suppose the experts know better than I, I have referred to this statue throughout by the name they give it.
+-mymaughamcollection.blogspot.com-+ | | | | \|/ | | \~|~/ | | ,#####\/ | ,\/§§§§ | | # #\./#__|_§_\./ | | # \./ # _|_§ \./ | | # #/ # | § \ | | # # # | `~§§§§§ | +--------mmccl.blogspot.com--------+