stress; we want more passion.
Pain we accept, for it stings us into life. Strife we accept, for it
hardens us to strength We believe in action; we believe in desire. And
we believe that by them we shall attain." So the West broke out in me;
and I looked at him to see if he was moved. But the calm eye was
untroubled, unruffled the majestic brow, unperplexed the sweet, solemn
mouth. Secure in his Nirvana, he heard or he heard me not. He had
attained the life-in-death he sought. But I, I had not attained the life
in life. Unhelped by him, I must go my way. The East, perhaps, he had
understood. He had not understood the West.

XI

A MALAY THEATRE

It seems to be a principle among shipping companies so to arrange their
connections that the traveller should be compelled to spend some days in
Singapore. We evaded this necessity by taking a trip to Sumatra, but
even so a day and a night remained to be disposed of. We devoted the
morning to a bathe and a lunch at the Sea View Hotel, and the afternoon
to the Botanical Gardens, where the most attractive flowers are the
children and the most interesting gardeners their Chinese nurses. There
remained the evening, and we asked about amusements. There was a
bioscope, of course; there is always a bioscope; we had found one even
in the tiny town of Medan, in Sumatra. There was also an opera company,
performing the "Pink Girl." We seemed to know all about her without
going to see her. Was there nothing else? Yes; a Malay theatre. That
sounded attractive. So we took the tram through the Chinese quarter,
among the "Ah Sins" and "Hup Chows," where every one was either a tailor
or a washerman, and got down at a row of red lights. This was the
Alexandra Hall, and a bill informed us that the performers were the
Straits Opera Company. This dismayed us a little. Still, we paid our
dollars, and entered a dingy, dirty room, with a few Malays occupying
the back benches and a small group of Chinese women and children in
either balcony. We took our seats with half a dozen coloured aristocrats
in the front rows, and looked about us. We were the only Europeans. But,
to console us in our isolation, on either side of the proscenium was
painted a couple of Italians in the act of embracing as one only
embraces in opera. We glanced at our programme and saw that the play was
the "Moon Princess," and that Afrid, a genie, figured in the cast. It
was then, at least, Oriental, though it could hardly