It was a glorious afternoon in August and the green at Santjoemeh presented a pleasant and most animated appearance. The military band was performing a selection of music and numbers of carriages were slowly moving about among a crowd of pedestrians. The fine turf which, during the west monsoon, gives the square so fresh and pleasant an aspect, was now completely dried up and burnt to a uniform dark brown tint, while here and there the soil, which mostly consists of red clay, was gaping open in wide fissures under the scorching influence of the tropical sun.  
But at that hour in the afternoon, the sun had already run a considerable portion of his daily course, and was casting his slanting rays through the tops of the tall kanarie trees which, with their dark and glossy foliage, enclose the green as in a frame of verdure. The north-easterly monsoon was blowing freshly along the coasts of Java; it was rustling in the leaves, in the branches, and even far inland it was making its cooling influence felt, pleasantly tempering the heat of the day.
 
The whole of Santjoemeh was astir. Europeans, natives, [381]Chinamen and Arabs were walking about in motley groups. Every one seemed bent upon enjoying the music and upon breathing his share of the deliciously cool evening air.
 
The Resident van Gulpendam and his wife, as charming as ever, had driven up the green in a handsome landau drawn by a pair of splendid horses. They were very busy exchanging greetings and nods on all sides; and distributing their most affable smiles among their friends and acquaintances. Officials of all kinds and of all grades were there and the leading men of commerce; all these, accompanied by their wives and daughters, sauntered about laughing, talking, or enjoying the music.
 
We just now said all Santjoemeh was astir. But yet anyone who was well acquainted with the European world at Santjoemeh—and really it was not very difficult in that small inland town to become tolerably well known to everyone of any social importance—could not help noticing that one small group was wanting; a group which, by reason of its youth, its wit and gaiety, always was wont to impart a certain flavour of mirth to all these gatherings; a group which used to attract the brightest eyes and win the most beaming smiles—this little group was, on the present occasion, conspicuous by its absence.
 
“What can have become of Edward van Rheijn?”
 
“Where is Leendert Grashuis?”
 
“Where can August van Beneden have got to?”
 
Such were the inquiries which might be heard on every side.
 
“Yes, and Grenits, where is he? What has become of our merry Theodoor?”
 
“Theodoor? Why, don’t you know—he is in the lock-up?”
 
“Oh, yes, of course, I had quite forgotten; he is in for ten days, eh?”
 
“Ah! well then, you hardly need ask where the others are to be found.”
 
“They are keeping him company you may be sure—cela va sans dire.”
 
“They are faithful friends these four.”
 
“Faithful, you call them? I tell you their devotion to each other is positively edifying. They are simply inseparable.”
 
“Hallo!” cried another, “there goes Mokesuep!”
 
“I say, just look; now he is making his bow to the Resident. What a magnificent sweep—his hat almost touches the ground!”
 
“And what a charming smile the fair Laurentia is giving him.”
 
“I should rather think so. In that late business of Lim Ho—” [382]
 
“Come, I say! no scandal if you please!”
 
“Scandal you call it; why, all Santjoemeh is talking about it!”
 
“Mokesuep,” cried another, “won’t go and pay Grenits a visit, I bet!”
 
“He had better not show his nose there; he would find himself in queer street, I fancy!”
 
“Yes, that he would; and no more than he deserves—the scoundrel!”
 
“Look at him now, shaking hands with the Assistant Resident.”
 
“He is only a new chum—as soon as he has got to know the fellow—”
 
“Why, then he will do just exactly as the Resident does; he will follow his lead, you will see.”
 
“Well, well,” remarked another, “such fellows have their value.”
 
“Come gentlemen, do keep quiet; let us listen; they are just striking up Le lever du soleil.”
 
“The lever of what did you say? That’s a good joke—the sun is just setting.”
 
“Do be quiet, I want to hear the music.”
 
It was the last piece on the programme, and at the moment when a brilliant fugue seemed to celebrate the rising of the orb of day—the actual sun was disappearing behind the hills to the west of Santjoemeh.
 
“Just twelve hours out!” cried one, “either the sun or the bandmaster must have been having a drop too much!”
 
A very few minutes afterwards the green was deserted.
 
However, the frequenters of the Sunday afternoon concert, had been quite right in their surmise. Van Nerekool, van Beneden and van Rheijn—the three “vans,” as the wits of Santjoemeh loved to call them, had indeed gone to the prison to pass the afternoon and evening, with their friend Grenits. He, poor fellow, had been condemned to ten days’ imprisonment and he had already been in durance vile for some time.
 
As soon as they had had their bath after the usual siesta, they had started for the prison, and at that hour the sun was still high and the streets were almost deserted. They were true friends and they cheerfully gave up these hours of amusement, which were indeed the most pleasant of the whole week, to the poor prisoner. It was a sacrifice, however, which brought its own reward.
 
The apartment in which the young men were on that afternoon [383]assembled, did not by any means wear a dismal appearance, it suggested anything rather than a prison cell. The room was of moderate size and perfectly square. On either side of the door two large windows admitted light and air, and these could be closed by means of Venetian blinds. The door gave access to a tolerably wide verandah, the architraves of which rested on pillars in the Doric style; and this gallery was common to four other similar apartments which served the same purpose as that for which Grenits was immured—namely to deprive their occupants, for the time being, of liberty.
 
That verandah looked out upon a small but cheerful looking quadrangle, very tastefully laid out in grass plots and planted with flowering shrubs all covered with gay and many-coloured blossoms.
 
The little square was enclosed by the buildings which formed the jail, one of its sides being occupied by the governor’s house, a building which had a double row of pillars and whose spacious front-gallery was enlivened by a splendid collection of roses of all kinds, amongst which the thick double Persian rose, the fair Devoniensis, the Souvenir de la Malmaison and the fragrant tea-rose were conspicuous.
 
The room occupied by Grenits was very prettily furnished. It had a good table, a very comfortable seat something like a garden seat, and half-a-dozen chairs; all these of the best native workmanship. The walls were hung with four or five fairly good pictures, and a handsome lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The floor was almost entirely covered with tiles and these again were hidden by matting of the finest texture. But the most elegant piece of furniture the room contained was undoubtedly the piano which van Beneden had sent to the prison for his friend’s amusement. The bedroom, no less tastefully furnished than the apartment we have attempted to describe, was immediately adjacent to the sitting-room—so that Grenits had not much reason to complain, and his captivity was not very irksome. Said Grashuis, as he entered and looked around:
 
“Why, old fellow! this looks really very comfortable. This is the first time I have ever been inside a prison, and I had no idea the Government took such good care of the criminals it has to keep under lock and key.”
 
“That’s all you know about it!” laughed van Rheijn, “you ought to go and inspect the other side.” [384]
 
“Where? on that side?” asked Grashuis as he pointed to the governor’s house.
 
“No, no,” said van Beneden, “yonder in that wing, that is where you ought to go and have a look. That would make you sing a different tune.”
 
“Shall we go?” cried Leendert as he rose from his seat.
 
“Thank you, much obliged—the smell would soon drive you away. The poor native prisoners lie there huddled together in a space miserably too small for them. The only furniture you would see there is a wretched bench or two, which in filthiness so closely rivals the floor, that the original colour of both has long since disappeared. At nightfall some further ornaments are introduced in the shape of sundry representatives of the tub family—and these utensils presently contribute their fragrance to the already pestilent atmosphere. The prisoners have but a very scanty allowance of air and light, admitted through two small heavily barred openings. The walls are supposed to be white-washed; but are smeared all over with blotches of blood, produced by mosquitoes and other still fouler insects crushed against them by the human finger, and are covered with sirih-spittle and other nameless abominations. All things considered, I believe you will give me credit for acting the part of a friend in strongly dissuading you from paying a visit to that horrid den.”
 
“Yes, August is quite right,” remarked Grenits. “I ventured to go and have a look at the place yesterday, and I have not yet got over my feelings of disgust. But come, let us change the subject. Edward, your boy has just now brought me a parcel.”
 
“Yes, I sent him with it, where is it?”
 
“It is there, just over there on the piano.”
 
“My friend,” said van Rheijn as he deliberately opened the parcel, “here you have a brand-new bedoedan. You see the bowl is perfectly pure and the stem has never been used. And here is a small quantity of the very best tjandoe—prime quality as Grenits might say.”
 
“Oh yes,” said Beneden—“that is, I suppose, for our experiment, is it not? How much opium have you there?”
 
“This little box contains about twenty-five matas.”
 
“How much may that be?”
 
“Let me see! That comes to about one centigramme.”
 
“But is that enough?” asked Grashuis.
 
“Enough? Yes, Leendert, too much!” replied van Rheijn. [385]
 
“Yet Miklucho-Maclay, in his well-known experiment consumed one hundred and seven grains.”
 
“Well, if you reckon it up as I have done, you will find that a hundred and seven grains come to only eighteen matas and a fraction.”
 
“Very good, in that case we might begin at once.”
 
“Now please don’t be in such a hurry,” put in van Rheijn.
 
“Why should we put it off?” asked Grashuis. “We have now a few quiet hours before us, such an opportunity may not recur.”
 
“But, I take it,” objected van Nerekool, “our object is not merely to observe the sensations which opium smoking produces.”
 
“Methinks,” interrupted Grashuis, “that there has never been a question of anything else.”
 
“That may be so,” replied van Nerekool; “but yet I fancy we must all have some further object in view. Speaking for myself, I should be very sorry indeed to have anything to do with an experiment, whereby—well, how shall I best express myself?—whereby merely the animal side of the question is to be considered.”
 
“Yes, and so should I,” cried van Beneden.
 
“And so say I,” added van Rheijn.
 
“Yet,” remarked Grenits, “even from that low point of view the problem would be worth studying. Don’t you remember what we saw in the den at Kaligaweh?”
 
“Bah! bah!” cried all in disgust.
 
“Come, no more of that,” said van Nerekool very seriously. “If your experiment is to reproduce any scenes like those—then I will take no part in it.”
 
“That is exactly my opinion,” said van Rheijn, “and I am anxious therefore to give to our investigation a totally different aspect, and to conduct it on strictly scientific principles.”
 
“Very well,” observed Grashuis; “but who is to conduct this scientific investigation—to do that we need a man of science.”
 
“Yes,” said van Beneden, “we are no doubt most competent representatives of the judicial, the civil, the mathematical and the commercial branches of the community; but we do not represent the faculty.”
 
“Just so,” replied van Rheijn; “but I have made provision for that?” [386]
 
“In what way?”
 
“I have invited Murowski to join us.”
 
“What? Murowski the Pole?” cried one.
 
“Murowski the snake-charmer?” said another.
 
“Murowski the butterfly hunter?” cried a third.
 
“Yes, gentlemen, Murowski, our learned medical officer. But, if you please, a little more respect for that high-priest of science. Do not, pray, forget that he is the most celebrated entomologist India has ever possessed and that is, I think, saying a good deal in these days when every little German prince gives his paltry decorations and family orders for any complete—or incomplete—collection of insects, or for a bowl of disgusting reptiles tortured to death in arrack. And, further, please not to forget that he is a most earnest observer of all scientific phenomena, a man whose very name will impress upon our séance that stamp of learning which it will need if it is to go forth to the world of science as a noteworthy experiment. Our Pole was in ecstasies when he heard of our experiment, and when I asked him to undertake the management of it, he promised to bring his thermometers, his stethoscopes—You will see what a dose of learning he will give us!”
 
“That’s all very fine;” said Grenits, “but meanwhile he has not turned up.”
 
“Perhaps,” suggested van Beneden, “he is hunting butterflies.”
 
“Excuse me,” replied van Rheijn, “in addition to his other merits, the man is also a great lover of music. Nothing in the world would induce him to miss the afternoon concert on the green, moreover he is deeply smitten with Miss Agatha van Bemmelen, and she, no doubt, is there in the family coach.”
 
“Oh, ho!” said Grenits, “that is a pretty little butterfly, she has money too.”
 
“Oh, yes, your Poles are no fools.”
 
“But how long will he be?”
 
“He has promised me,” replied van Rheijn, “to join us as soon as the music is over; and he is the man to keep to his word.”
 
“Meanwhile we might get up a little music on our own account,” suggested van Beneden.
 
“You see,” said Grenits pointing to the piano, “Charles is at his post already.” [387]
 
Van Nerekool, who had taken but little part in the conversation, had, in fact, risen and gone to the piano. At first, in an absent kind of way, he struck a few chords; but presently, under the influence of thoughts which always reverted to Anna, he had struck up L’absence of Tal. The room soon was filled with melancholy strains and sentimental............