The really valuable bric-à-brac is costly here as elsewhere; but many charming things in common use among the people are to be picked up for a mere trifle. Even in these trinkets I find pretty proofs of their universal love of beauty.
I am proud of all my purchases and glad that I did not unnecessarily limit my luggage, especially since we have not yet made it to the focus of our shopping excursion: the silk shops!
In the silk-shops, we find the very poetry of fabrics: crepes like milky opals, with the pale iris hues of rainbows; crepes with the faint purple and rose of clear sunset skies, embroidered with wheeling flights of white storks. The shopkeeper shows us Moon-cloths, duskily azure with silver gleams; crepes, pearl-white and rich with needlework in patterns of delicate bamboo fronds or loose-petalled chrysanthemum-blossoms.
“Fairy garments all, woven of rainbows and moonbeams!” I exclaim, overcome with their beauty.
When I think I will see nothing more beautiful, out of a sweet-smelling box comes a mass of shining stuff that the low-voiced fourteenth-century-looking shopkeeper calls by three musical syllables.
The European woman watching us with amusement translates for me: “The Garments of the Dawn.”
Its threads shimmer like the crystals of dry snow, and amid its folds the whiteness blushes to rose, deepens to gold, or pales to blue, while through it here and there runs a sort of impalpable cloudiness like a morning mist.
Immediately I make up my mind. “I’ll be quick,” I say to Madge, who has already reminded me we have a train to catch. “Two gowns,” I tell the shopkeeper. “One of this,” I say, gently fingering the magical fabric. “And another in the purple. When will they be ready?” I ask, hoping I can take these reminders of fairyland with me when I leave.
Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I shall have my gowns tomorrow.
With our packages weighing us down, we run to our rooms and hastily toss our purchases onto the beds. We have lingered too long in the enchanted wardrobes, Madge and I, and are in disgrace with the others for our tardiness, which has nearly lost them the train.
Breathless, we stand before our party, making apologies for our thoughtlessness, though our smiles might give us away for the fun we have had.
“If you are to race around the world, you might consider paying attention to train schedules,” rebukes Mrs. White.
Her forthrightness catches me by surprise. I suppose I haven’t fully put myself into the race. I don’t want to be anxious during the entire trip or I’ll come home as on-edge and frantic as Nellie Bly seems to be. Yet, I best set my mind not risk missing important connections. A rebuke from my editor Mr. Walker would be ten times worse than one from haughty Mrs. White.
“Next time we may not wait for you,” remarks Mrs. Baxter, turning her back to us as she marches away, her bustle swishing to emphasize her consternation.
Mr. Mayer sends us a sympathetic smile and holds out his elbows to escort us to the station. Madge and I grin at each other. We secretly feel this Gentleman from Germany is on our side.
It is a funny train, as absurdly toy-like and doll-housey as is everything else in this country. Our destinies are committed today into the hands of a sweet-mannered gentleman in a gray kimono and an American hat, who is to guide us amid the beauties of his country's capital.
Delicious little pictures run past our car windows, astonishing us with the sudden revelation of what nonsense we have heard on the ship about the conventionality of Japanese art. In truth, the world the Japanese artist has painted has been the world just as it exists in his own country. Moreover, he has in his art caught and expressed with perfect and subtle veracity its atmosphere, the soul of things about him that has so far escaped the brush of every foreign artist endeavoring to portray the outward forms of things Japanese.
The charm of all we see from our car – the Tokaido (the great imperial highway that intersects the whole empire), the queer little farmhouses and railway stations, and even the water-soaked paddy fields, reaped of their rice – lies in the exquisite, faultless cleanliness and propriety of it all. Nothing is out of place. Nothing requires allowance and forgiveness. All is beautifully posed and arranged as if sitting to have itself instantaneously photographed.
Recognizing this attitude of expectancy, the American girl with the camera takes aim and the click of her shutter is heard in the land.
When we arrive at Tokyo one hour later, we go via horse and carriage straightaway to the residence of the American minister to deliver our young photographer, for this is where she will be remaining as a guest.
Seeing the house, Madge leans over me and says to the girl, “You’ll have no trouble staying here. You’ll live like a princess.”
The house is impressive, with a most astonishing profusion of flowery plants blooming and bourgeoning in every corner of the mansion. While we gawk, the minister's carriage drives up, accompanied with two out-runners in gorgeous native liveries of orange and blue. These out-runners accompany all folk of importance in Japan, and keep pace with the horses without fatigue. A fine, picturesque bit of medieval swagger they make.
We take our tiffin in a little latticed glove box of a teahouse, the polished daintiness of whose interior will not permit of our wearing our shoes.
What a grotesque spectacle they make – those American shoes, standing in a row just inside the entrance while we tiptoe awkwardly and shamefacedly in our stocking-feet up the stairs.
A mild diffused light shines through the paper panes, illuminating our tiny upper chamber, whose only furnishings are sweet-smelling mattings, a kakemono hanging on the wall, and a tall jar full of red-berried branches in the corner.
We are served by a moon-faced little maid in a flowered gown. She bows as she enters, bringing us copper braziers to warm our fingers and wadded rugs to sit upon, tailorwise. When I sit, I hide my feet under my skirt. All the women do likewise.
At each entry our server bows and draws in her breath. I wonder if her kimono is pulled so tightly that she has trouble breathing, or if her actions signify something in particular. In my short time here, I’ve observed customs of a national courtesy so thorough and far-reaching that even the domestic animals are civilly addressed as Mr. Cat and Mr. Dog.
Mr. Mayer, reading my mind, whispers, “She is showing us what a privilege it is to breathe the same air with us.”
Then she serves us delicious tea, sugarless and straw-colored, in tiny cups without handles, and bowls of rice across which are laid crisp, freshly broiled eels – a delightful dish that we eat with polished black chopsticks.
Madge and I hide our smiles watching our friend, Mr. Mayer, try to spear his eel. But his methods are much more effective than poor Mrs. Baxter, who will likely lose some weight while she is in this foreign land.
After we eat, the ‘rickshas race away with us quite to the other side of town – past great forts and fosses, past the Mikado's palaces and gardens, to the famous temples at Shiba.
The road is smooth and broad and overshadowed by pines. A superb gilded and lacquered gateway admits us to the temple grounds, and here the guide goes in search of a shaven-headed priest who will show us his treasures.
Immediately before us stands a lovely red temple, rich with gold and carvings and lacquered figures, and with a marble-paved veranda polished as onyx. We go to the left and climb the hill by stone steps strewn with crimson petals of the camellia blossoms.
“Our time is almost at an end,” I say reluctantly to Madge.
“I know. I wish you could alter your plans and stay here to meet Mr. Handsome.”
At the end of an avenue of tall gray stone lanterns stands the tomb of Ieymitsu, famed for consolidating the feudal system. Chivalry under his rule achieved its noblest development; Japanese arms were feared and respected abroad and at home; and under the sun of his kingly favor Japanese art blossomed into its supreme, consummate flower.
Our guide says, “Today the curios of his period are worth their weight in gold. Laying down a life of powe
r, he yearned for an immortality of beauty – to be magnificent and impressive even in death; and, choosing this spot, he spent millions in glorifying his last resting-place.”
“He had a nice taste in tombs,” comments Mr. Mayer.
The hill is clothed in pines, and the westering sun shines slantingly through making golden shadows across the path we have come. The mild-moving air has stolen red blossoms from the glossy-leaved camellia-trees and shred them upon the hoary gray lanterns and mossy stairs. Never a monarch slept among sweeter verdure, space, and calm.
The tomb has, as have all these shrines and temples, walls of a deep rich red, which three centuries have not dimmed. Above is a broad frieze of gorgeous carving – dragons, birds, lotus, and chrysanthemums tangled in fantastic intricacies, and all lacquered and gilded with such honest pains that Time's teeth cannot gnaw through the color or his breath tarnish the gold.
We stroll away in the mild sunshine and down the flower-strewn stairway. I cannot contain my joy at the grace and gorgeousness of the myriad delicate fantasies wrought out by art to soothe the king's last sleep.
“Et in Arcadia ego – I, too, have been in fairyland!” I cry to Mr. White.
He raises his eyebrows in wonder or indulgence, I cannot tell. My love of quotations is not always shared by those around me.
“It’s the title of a painting,” I explain. “A group of simple shepherds outside an extravagant tomb. By Nicolas Poussin. It means ‘even in Arcadia I am there’ spoken by Death.”
He nods. “Quite fitting,” he says. “I have one for you: ‘And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.’”
“Hebrews,” I answer, not to be outdone.
He simply smiles in return.
We finish off our visit at the great park of Uyeno, to see the sun go down behind Fujiyama, and to look out across the city's vast hive with its million or more of folk whose myriad lights begin to twinkle in the violet dusk before we board the railroad again to go back to our hotel, and I to continue on to the ship.
After regretful farewells to the charming Americans and Lieutenant McDonald, I exchange tired well wishes with Madge.
“You have my address?” she asks, stifling a yawn.
“Yes, of course. Besides, you know how to find me at The Cosmopolitan.”
“I’ll read all your articles, but I want to know about the things you won’t write about.”
I laugh. “And I want to know what you really think about Mr. Handsome.”
We embrace before parting. She goes to her hotel room and I to my stateroom. And then the visit to fairyland is over. I must pass on in my swift course and be ready for new sights and friends. We have one more glimpse of Fujiyama the next morning as Japan sinks out of sight. I’m satisfied with my gowns, now tucked away in my trunk, but as I recall my earlier rebuke from Mrs. White, I vow to do better at racing.
22
In Which Nellie Bly Enjoys The Theater And Is Stopped By The Police
EARLY NEXT MORNING, I was awakened by a Singalese waiter placing tea and toast on a small table. He was outlined by a dim light that crept in through the open glass door, which led to the balcony. He drew the table up close to my curtained bed and quietly left.
I went back to sleep but was awakened shortly by a rattling of the dishes on the table. Opening my eyes, I saw, standing on the table, quietly enjoying my toast, a crow!
“Oh!” I was about to shoo it away but changed my mind. I was not used to having toast and tea before arising, as is the custom in Ceylon, so I let the crow satisfy his appetite while I watched. When he was almost finished, he took his last bite with him and walked back through the opening in the balcony curtains and few off.
After a cool, refreshing bath, I dressed hastily and went down below. I found almost all of my friends up, some having already started out to enjoy the early morning.
“You are welcome to join us,” said one of the women I recognized from the ship. “Mr. Gregory has organized a tour while the morning is cool.” She adjusted her hat pin to ensure that her large white bonnet was firmly attached to her head.
With empty stomach, I joined the group. In a light wagon we again drove down Galle Face Road, and out past a lake in which men, women, children, oxen, horses, buffalo and dogs were sporting. It was a strange sight.
Off on a little green island we saw the laundry folk at work, beating, sousing and wringing the clothes, which they afterwards spread upon the grass to dry. Almost all of the roads through which we drove were perfect with their picturesque curves, and often bordered and arched with magnificent trees, many of which were burdened with beautiful brilliant blossoms.
“The breakwater,” pointed out Mr. Gregory, “is a good half mile in length and is a favorite promenade for the citizens of Colombo.”
Indeed, everybody seemed to be out. The white people were driving, riding, riding bicycles, or walking.
“Morning and evening you’ll see gaily dressed people walking back and forth between the lighthouse and the shore. But when the stormy season comes, the sea dashes full forty feet above this promenade. After the storms are over, they have to clean off the green slime before it can be traveled with safety,” said Mr. Gregory.
One of the very British women with us on the trip could not help but add loyally, “The Prince of Wales himself laid the first stone of this beautiful breakwater in 1875.”
“Yes, and ten years later it was finished. It is considered one of the finest in existence,” concluded Mr. Gregory.
I wanted to disagree if only for the sake of the overly-British woman, but I could not. The scene was too beautiful so I kept quiet as to not give her the satisfaction of knowing everyone agreed with her.
The next night we went to a Parsee theatre. At the entrance were groups of people, some of whom were selling fruits, and some were jinricksha men waiting to haul the people home after the performance. There was no floor in the building. The chairs were placed in rows on the ground. The house was quite well filled with native men, women and children who were deeply interested in the performance, which had begun before we reached there.
The actors were all men; Mr. Gregory had told me women never think of going on the stage in that country. The stage was not unlike any other stage, and the scenery, painted by native artists, was quite as good as is usually seen. On the left of the stage, close to the wing, was a man, sitting cross-legged on a raised platform, beating a tom-tom, a long drum beat with the hands.
The musician who presided over the tom-tom this night was dressed in a thin white material, and he wore a very large turban of the same stuff on his head. His copper-colored face was long and earnest, and he beat the tom-tom with a will that was simply amazing when one was informed that he had been constantly engaged at it since nine in the morning. If his hands did not tire, his legs did. Several times I saw him move, as if to find ease by shifting his squatting position, and every time I saw his bare feet turn up, in full view of the audience, I felt an irresistible desire to laugh.
On the right, directly opposite to the tom-tom player, was a man, whose duty it was to play a strange-looking organ. He only used one hand, the left, for playing, and with the right he held a book, which he steadily perused throughout the entire performance, reading and playing mechanically without once looking at the actors.
The actors were amusing, at least. The story of the opera was not unlike those in other countries – a tale of love and tragedy.
The lover, like all lovers, urged the girl to be his in songs that were issued through his nose for fifteen minutes at a time. The actor playing the heroine would endeavor to look shy all through this insufferably long song of nasal sound, and then “she” would take up the same refrain, and to the same tune sing back at him for the same length, and after his own style, while he would hang his head and listen. Their gestures were very few, and they usually stood in one spot on the stage. Sometimes they would embrace, but only to fall apart and sing at each other again.
We rode home from the theatre in a bullock hackery. It was a very small springless cart on two wheels with a front seat for the driver, and on the back seat, with our backs to the driver and out feet hanging over, we drove to the hotel.
The bullock is a strange, modest-looking little animal with a hump on its back and crooked horns on its head. I feared that it could not carry us all, but it traveled at a very good pace. However, not long into our trip, there was a sound of grunt, grunt, grunting that concerned me very much.
I kept peering around, checking on the health of the animal, until l found it was the driver and not the bullock that was responsible for the noise. With grunts he urged the bullock to greater speed.
The drive, along tree-roofed roads, was very quiet and lovely. The moonlight fell beautiful and soft over the land, and nothing disturbed the stillness except the sound of the sea and an occasional soldier we met staggering along towards the barracks.
Just as we turned a corner to go to the hotel, an officer rushed up, waving at our driver to stop. He caught hold of a wheel and stumbled as the hackery slowed before finally coming to a stop.
“We are under arrest!” came the translation from Mr. Gregory.
A rapid discussion ensued, with the officer pointing to the front lights. The candles in one of the lamps had burned out.
“We are driving with a dark side,” Mr. Gregory explained as he hopped out to talk with the officer. He made it right and within minutes, we continued on to the hotel instead of the jail.
The next morning, I planned to pack leisurely and then board the Oriental for the next leg of my journey. A representative found us at breakfast and halted those plans.
“I am sorry to tell you the Oriental is delayed – possibly by several days.” He smiled broadly.
Liz and Nellie Page 14