Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  “Shoe checks.”

  The girl gapes her mouth open, looking from her own dainty leather boots with endless buttons to the many sandals hanging on rows of pegs by the door. “Must we take our shoes off?”

  “It is custom,” remarks Mr. White. “In every house in Japan, one enters in stocking-feet.”

  “Do not worry, miss,” assures Lieutenant McDonald. “As foreigners, you will be allowed to retain your shoes.”

  I am glad the girl asked because I don’t want to take off my shoes, either. None of us women do.

  The interior is large and lofty. The common folk occupy the level floor of the pit, marked into squares, where family parties sit on small wadded rugs, and are quite at home, bringing their little charcoal braziers to warm their fingers, furnish lights for their tiny pipes, and keep the teapot steaming.

  The galleries on two sides are divided into matting-lined boxes, one of which they furnish with chairs, seeing that we display small skill in sitting on our heels.

  We enter during an entr'acte; and a bright crepe curtain sways lightly in the draught. The men in the pit are smoking or curled up in their rugs snatching a nap, while the women drink tea and gossip, and the children romp all over the house.

  High up from latticed boxes on either side of the stage comes the sound of the samisen and other stringed instruments that make a soft, plaintive, and pleasing music.

  “The play has been going on for three weeks and is to end tonight,” says Lieutenant McDonald.

  A gong sounds, the children are recalled, the men wake, and the curtain being pulled aside shows the front of a Japanese house.

  Two maids appear from a side door and wait respectfully on their hands and knees for the entrance of their mistress, played by a man very skillfully painted and gorgeously arrayed, but somewhat too masculine to satisfactorily represent the babyish roundness of the real thing.

  We rely on the actions of the characters to surmise the plot, and I get swept up in the costumes and expressions of the actors. I should like to see how it all turns out, but the countenance of Mr. Mayer is growing wan, and Mr. White, who has no chair, is becoming distinctly cross, and so we go home.

  The shops are shut by this time, and we see some curious little domestic episodes shadowed on the paper window-sashes when householders thoughtlessly pass between them and the lamp. The European town is flooded with a high tide of moonlight, and we are, it seems, the only ones awake, sweeping in a long, swift line through the streets in our silent fairy carriages with the rosy lantern swinging.

  In my journal that night I write:

  Sailing so long due west, we had at last reached the East. The real East, not east of anywhere, but the East . . . the birthplace of Man, and of his Religions . . . of Poetry and Porcelains, of Tradition, and of Architecture. And I who had come to it from the country of common-sense, of steam-ploughs and newspaper enterprise, bowed my head reverently in the portal of this great Temple of the World, awed by its mysterious age and vastness.

  My heart within me is stirred, and I am led to great recklessness in the use of capital letters.

  20

  In Which Nellie Bly Makes A Purchase And Accidentally Relaxes

  ABOUT NINE O'CLOCK in the morning, we anchored in the bay at Colombo, Ceylon. The island, with its abundance of green trees, was very restful and pleasing to our eyes after the spell of heat we had passed through on the ocean coming from Aden.

  We had already made preparations to go ashore, and as we came slowly into the small harbor among the beautiful ships lying at anchor, we all stood impatiently on deck waiting for the first opportunity to desert the ship.

  Mr. Gregory offered to be my escort during our jaunt on land. He said that he would give me a novel experience, and also show me a small boat that traveled faster than a steam launch, which the other passengers were taking to shore. Since he was a traveler of vast experience, having averaged a yearly tour of the world for several years, and knows the eastern countries as he knows his home, I looked forward to the adventure.

  Still, when I saw the boat in which he intended to take, I rather doubted his judgment. The boat was a crudely constructed thing, probably five feet in length, balanced by a log the length of the boat and fastened out by two curved poles, probably three feet from the side. Two seats in the middle of the boat faced one another, shaded by a bit of coffee sack that had to be removed for passengers to get in. These boats were called outriggers by tourists, but catamarans by the people of Ceylon.

  “You look nervous,” said Mr. Gregory.

  I simply raised my eyebrows, doing my best to maintain the unflappable nature of my fictional rival, Phileas Fogg. No queer form of travel ever got him down.

  “Don’t be. Catamarans are used by the native fisherman. They are so seaworthy and secure against capsizing that no case of an accident has ever been reported.”

  Two men sat at either end of this peculiar boat with one paddle each and with only slight exertion sent the boat cutting through the water. In a few moments we had distanced the steam launch and had accommodations engaged at the hotel before the launch had landed its passengers.

  The Grand Oriental was a fine, large hotel, with tiled arcades, corridors airy and comfortable, furnished with easy chairs and small marble topped tables which stood close enough to the broad armrests for one to sip the cooling lime squashes or the exquisite native tea, or eat of the delicious fruit while resting in an attitude of ease and laziness.

  Most of the jewelry bought and sold in Colombo is sold in the corridor of this hotel. Merchants bring their wares with them and tourists find it pleasanter than visiting the shops.

  In this lovely promenade the men smoked, consumed gallons of whiskey and soda and perused the newspapers, while the women read their novels or bargained with the pretty little copper-colored women who came to sell dainty handmade lace, or with the clever, high-turbaned merchants who would snap open little velvet boxes and expose, to the admiring gaze of the charmed tourists, the most bewildering gems.

  There were deeply-dark emeralds, fire-lit diamonds, exquisite pearls, rubies like pure drops of blood, the lucky cat's-eye with its moving line, and all set in such beautiful shapes that tempt all alike.

  No woman who lands at Colombo ever leaves until she adds several rings to her jewel box, and these rings are so well known that the moment a traveler sees one, no difference in what part of the globe, he says to the wearer, inquiringly: “Been to Colombo, eh?”

  Mr. Gregory helped me pick out a ring and bargained a good price for it.

  For the first time since leaving America, I saw American money. It is very popular in Colombo and commands a high price – as jewelry! The diamond merchants like to put a ring through American twenty-dollar gold pieces and hang them on their watch chains for ornaments.

  “The richer the merchant, the more American gold dangles from his chain.” said Mr. Gregory.

  I saw some men with as many as twenty pieces on one chain.

  “Shall we go to tiffin?” he asked as I admired my new ring now firmly on my finger.

  He led the way into the dining hall, pleasant in its coolness, interesting in its peculiarities. It matched the other parts of the hotel with its picturesque stateliness. The small tables were daintily set and richly decorated daily with the native flowers of Colombo, rich in color, exquisite in form, but void of perfume.

  From the ceiling were suspended embroidered punkas, long strips of cloth fastened to bamboo poles that were suspended within a short distance of the tables. They were kept in motion by a rope pulley, worked by a man or boy, sending a lazy, cooling air through the building.

  Singalese waiters were employed, and were interesting to the Westerner. They were small of stature and fine of feature, some of them having very attractive, clean-cut faces, light bronze in color. They wore white linen apron-like skirts and white jackets. Noiselessly they moved over the smooth tile floor, in their bare, brown feet.

  It was some time be
fore I could tell a Singalese man from a Singalese woman. It is not difficult to distinguish the different sexes after one knows that the Singalese men wear a tortoise shell comb comb, which was as distinct a feature of their dress as men's trousers in America. Singalese women would not think of donning this little comb any more than a sensitive American woman would think of wearing men's apparel.

  I ordered some real curry, the famous native dish of India. I had been unable to eat it on the Victoria, but those who knew said it was a most delicious dish when prepared rightly, and so I tested it on shore.

  First a divided dish containing shrimps and boiled rice was placed before me. I put two spoonfuls of rice on my plate, and on it put one spoonful of shrimps; there was also chicken and beef for the meat part of the curry, but I took shrimps only.

  Then was handed me a much divided plate containing different preserved fruits and other things hot with pepper. At Mr. Gregory’s instruction, I partook of three of this variety and put it on top of what had been placed first on my plate.

  Last came little dried pieces of stuff that we heard before we saw, its odor was so loud and unmistakable. They called it Bombay duck. It is nothing more or less than a small fish, which is split open, and after being thoroughly dried, is used with the curry. One can learn to eat it.

  After all this was on the plate it was thoroughly mixed, making a mess very unsightly, but very palatable, as I found.

  “I have a story that is told of the Bombay duck,” said Mr. Gregory once everyone had tried it. “The Shah of Persia was notified that some high official in India intended to send him a lot of very fine Bombay duck. The Shah was very much pleased and, in anticipation of their arrival, had some expensive ponds built to put the Bombay ducks in!”

  We all smiled in anticipation of the punch line, now that we knew about Bombay duck.

  “Imagine his consternation when he received these ill-smelling, dried fish!”

  We clapped in appreciation, and Mr. Gregory nodded modestly at our praise. We continued in our delicious meal, Mr. Gregory entertaining us with stories he had heard on his travels.

  After tiffin we drove along the smoothest, most perfectly made roads I ever saw. They seemed to be made of red asphalt, and I was told that they were constructed by convicts. We ended up at Mount Lavania, the castle-like building glistening in the sunlight when we had entered the harbor. It was a fine hotel situated on an eminence overlooking the sea, and was a favorite resort during the hot seasons. It was surrounded by a smooth green lawn and faced the blue sea, whence it gets a refreshing breeze all the year through.

  Later, after dinner, everybody at the Grand Oriental Hotel went out for a drive, the women, and many of the men going bareheaded. Driving through the town, down the wide streets, past beautiful homes set well back in tropical gardens, to the Galle Face drive that runs along the beach just out of reach of the waves that broke on the sandy banks with a more musical roar than I ever heard water produce before.

  The road lay very close to the water's edge, and by the soft rays of the moon its red surface was turned to silver, the deep blue of the sea was black, and the foamy breakers were snow drifts. In the soft, pure light we would see silent couples strolling along arm and arm, apparently so near the breakers that I felt apprehensive lest one, stronger than the others, should catch them unawares and wash them out to that unknown land where we all travel to rest.

  Lounging on the benches that face the sea were occasional soldiers in the Queen's uniform, whom I looked at anxiously, unable to tell whether their attitude of weariness bespoke a rest from labor or hungry homesickness.

  Mr. Gregory pointed out a native standing waist deep fishing in the roaring breakers. “Many of the fish bite more freely after night.”

  That may be true, but how easily the fisherman might be washed away, and no one would be the wiser until his absence was noticed by his friends.

  Where the Galle Face drive merged into another road, stood the Galle Face Hotel surrounded by a forest of palm trees. Several of us went out on the stone-floored and stone-pillared veranda to lounge on long-bottomed, easy chairs. From our perch we could see through the forest of tall palms where the ocean kisses the sandy beach. And while listening to the music of the wave, the deep, mellow roar, I let my mind drift–drift out on dreams that bring what life has failed to give; soothing pictures of the imagination that blot out for a moment the stern disappointment of reality.

  I don’t know why I was feeling so melancholy in such a lovely place. Mother might say I was homesick. She would have loved to lounge here with me, feeling the cooling breeze on her face. She had had a hard life and wouldn’t this be nice for her?

  Why was life so hard? Why did one have to scrap for everything? My father dying and leaving my mother near penniless while the courts divided his estate amongst the adult children from his first marriage was cruel enough. With little ones still underfoot, Mother must not have been thinking straight when she married the tyrant who became my drunken stepfather. He nearly broke Mother before she got away. I was glad as a teenager to testify in court against him. If we’d had the money I would have gone on to become a teacher. But then, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting halfway around the world in a lounge contemplating deeper meanings. Which life would have been better?

  By my own strivings I had made it in the newspaper business, and I was prouder than proud of that. My editor didn’t confine me to the society pages but gave me the freedom to come up with my own ideas.

  Still, there was something missing.

  I was restless. Even on a trip around the world, I was restless, increasingly so as I began to feel rested. My mind had ceased its relentless striving, racing, and I could see and appreciate the beauty around me. Yes, I still had telegrams to send off and articles to write. And write I would, about the food, the waves, the people.

  I lay my head back and took a deep breath, trying to clutch back the peaceful rest of this paradise. But, when the dreams fade away, one can drown the sigh with the cooling lime squash which the noiseless, barefooted, living bronze has placed on the white armrest.

  I smiled him my thank-you, then watched the jinrickshas come silently in through the gas-lit gate, the naked black runners coming to a sudden stop, letting the shafts drop so the passenger can step out.

  As it turned to a sweet, dusky night, I only half heard Mr. Gregory’s words as they mingled with the sound of the ocean. He was asking something about my plans after my trip, but my attention was on a couple standing close together, face bending over a face up-turned, hand clasped in hand and held closely against a manly heart, standing, two dark figures, beneath an arch of the veranda, outlined against the gate lamp.

  At first, caught up in the romance of the land, I felt a pinch of longing, wondering if I would ever be the girl standing in such a pose. After several indulgent moments, my emotions expanded to allow a little sympathy for them as they were clearly wrapped in that delusion that makes life heaven or hell, that forms the foundation for every novel, play or story. They stood such until a noisy new arrival wakened her from blissful oblivion, and she rushed, scarcely waiting for him to kiss the hand he held, away into the darkness.

  Sighing again, I took another sip of my lime squash and turned to answer Mr. Gregory.

  21

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Almost Misses Her Train, But Secures A Silk Dress

  AT BREAKFAST WE gather our now-familiar little traveling family and discuss our plans for a day trip into Tokyo. The rest are content to lounge at the hotel until it is time, but Madge and I go shopping.

  Lieutenant McDonald, magnificent in brown cords and laced Russia-leather riding boots, offers us his pony carriage. “It will be a more comfortable ride,” he insists.

  But we scoff at anything less foreign than a jinricksha and set off together for Benton-dori, the fashionable shopping street of Shichiu. A nipping air blows among the rose trees in the court as we leave and I hug myself to trap any body heat from escaping.
I’ve worn my warmest ensemble, and once we get moving, I’m sure it will be enough.

  In spite of the drop in the thermometer, the spirits of the public in general appear in no way chilled. However, their bare feet in straw sandals look red and uncomfortable, and I am glad for my European style of boot that keeps my feet warm. At least the native people have added three or four more cotton-wadded kimonos to their costume, and they can tuck their chilly fingers away in their ample sleeves, and thus laugh at the passing discomfort.

  We wander from shop to shop and are received with an air of affectionate friendliness everywhere. We warm our fingers at many different braziers, and might drink little thimble-cups of tea at every hospitable place of business were we so minded.

  “Oh, Elizabeth, I must stop here,” says Madge at a display of porcelain. To view the wares, we sit on the edge of the little platform that forms the floor of the shop.

  I eye a beautiful vase painted with a delicate landscape of Fujiama. “You must have something to keep the flowers your suitor will no doubt be presenting you with day after tomorrow.”

  At this, Madge blushes! Her heart has given her away.

  “You are looking forward to meeting Mr. Handsome-and-Witty-and-Caring after all. Don’t lie to me, Madge. I’ve known you for endless days now, and I’ll be able to tell.”

  She ignores me as she begins to bargain with the amiable shopkeeper seated on his own heels and within easy reach of all his goods. He speaks in Pidgin English and is pleased that Madge does not bargain much at all.

  Though we have been instructed not to pay more than half that is asked, the prices are so delightfully low that we give them joyfully and without haggling. Lieutenant McDonald will not be pleased with us.

  Our shopping thus reminds me of when we were kids and my siblings and I would “keep store” in the nursery. One child would “sell” one's toys for astonishing sums to wealthy playmates whose purses were bursting with scraps of torn envelopes – fiat money of arbitrary value.