Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  Mrs. Braun presses her hand over her heart. “Oh, you poor dears. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Yes, well, it was more shocking to Mother than to us children. We thought it exciting. Naming houses is such a lovely practice. I’ve already picked out a name for my own house one day, and I hope it is agreeable to the architecture or I shall have to think of another. Greenway Rise. Do you like it?”

  “A beautiful name. I can picture a verdant hill surrounded by a small forest of pines,” says Mrs. Bauer.

  “Yes, exactly,” I say. “Now I only need to find such a place. It won’t be in the city.”

  The tram stops, and we step out onto the windy hillside, holding onto our hats. The view is everything they told me it would be. From here we can see how the water winds deeply inland between the hills and flows around island mountains ringed with girdles of foam. Treeless mountains rise out of the green waters. They are broken and rugged; their naked sides show tawny as a lion’s hide.

  “This must be the most beautiful harbor in the world,” I gasp.

  “Only at Rio Janeiro and Sydney is there a harbor whose beauty compares to this,” says Mrs. Bauer.

  The man in charge of the windy signal station comes out and explains to us the various ways in which the town is warned of the coming of vessels, and also introduces us to an extremely low-spirited and discontented-looking lady with battered features who turns her back on us and stares in unwinking disgust out to sea.

  She was once the proud and gilded figure-head of the Princess Charlotte, wrecked in these waters long since, and plainly resents what she looks upon as her fall in life, brought up on land to assist a low signal officer.

  Our chairs have come up another way, and we are to be carried down the long winding road that sinks by slow stages to the town. During the first stage we are in full sunlight, passing under the walls of the white palace-like bungalows with smooth-shaven tennis courts where ruddy-cheeked, young Englishmen toss the balls to fair-haired English girls.

  Then the road – the earth here is a thousand beautiful shades of buff and rose – winds about to the east, and we pass into the shadows. A tiny Greek church with a sparsely-populated graveyard clings to the declivity above us, and from far below comes the faint cool sound of waters foaming round the foot of the hills.

  The sun has set; only the utmost heights are gilded now, and the twilight deepens on our path. We swing around the hills – in and out, and down, down, with smooth, easy motion – to the regular pad, pad, pad of the bearers’ feet.

  Here and there in the dusk we discern the scarlet turbans of Sikh warders, standing motionless as bronze statues. Below in the harbor the lights of the town, the ships, and the flitting sampans sparkle through the faint evening mist like multitudinous fireflies. How am I to think of racing when confronted with sights such as these?

  26

  In Which Nellie Bly Unwittingly Uncovers Another Woman’s Beauty Secret

  THE FIFTH DAY out, a Monday, we anchored at Penang, or Prince of Wales Island, one of the Straits Settlements. As the ship had such a long delay at Colombo, it was said that we would have but six hours to spend on shore. With an attentive chap named Maury as escort, I made my preparations and was ready to go the moment we anchored.

  We went ashore in a sampan. The Malay oarsman rowed hand over hand, standing upright in the stern, his back turned towards us as well as the way we were going. Frequently he turned his head to see if the way was clear, plying his oars industriously all the while. Once landed he chased us to the end of the pier demanding more money, although we had paid him thirty cents, just twenty cents over and above the legal fare.

  After hiring a carriage we drove to where a waterfall comes bounding down the side of a naturally verdant mountain which has been transformed, half way up, into a pleasing tropical garden. The picturesque waterfall is nothing marvelous. It only made me wonder from whence it procured its water supply, but after walking until I was much heated, and finding myself just as far from the fount, I concluded the waterfall’s secret was not worth the fatigue it would cost.

  On the way to the town we visited a Hindu temple. Scarcely had we entered when a number of half-clad, barefooted priests rushed frantically upon us, demanding that we remove our shoes. However, the temple being built open, its curved roof and rafters had long been utilized by birds and pigeons as a bedroom. Doubtless ages had passed over the stone floor, but I could swear nothing else had, so I refused emphatically and unconditionally to un-boot myself. I saw enough of their idols to satisfy me. One was a black god in a gown, the other was a shapeless black stone hung with garlands of flowers, the filthy stone at its base being buried ‘neath a profusion of rich blossoms.

  English is spoken less in Penang than in any port I visited. A native photographer, when I questioned him about it, said:

  “The Malays are proud, Miss. They have a language of their own and they are too proud to speak any other.”

  That photographer knew how to use his English to advantage. He showed me cabinet-sized proofs for which he asked one dollar each.

  “One dollar!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “That is very high for a proof.”

  “If miss thinks it is too much, she does not need to buy. She is the best judge of how much she can afford to spend,” he replied with cool impudence.

  “Why are they so expensive?” I asked, nothing daunted by his impertinence.

  “I presume because Penang is so far from England,” he rejoined, carelessly.

  A Chinese joss-house, the first I had seen, was very interesting. The pink and white roof, curved like a canoe, was ornamented with animals of the dragon tribe, with their mouths open and their tails in the air. The straggling worshippers could be plainly seen from the streets through the arcade sides of the temple. Chinese lanterns and gilt ornaments made bright the dark interior.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said, leading Maury through the door.

  Little josses or idols, with usual rations of rice, roast pig and smoldering joss-sticks disbursing a strangely sweet perfume, were no more interesting than a dark corner in which the superstitious were trying their luck, a larger crowd of dusky people than were about the altars. In fact, the only devotee was a waxed-haired Chinese woman, with a babe tied on her back, bowing meekly and lowly before a painted, be-bangled joss.

  Some priests with shaven heads and old-gold silk garments, who were in a summer-house in the garden, saw us when we were looking at the gold-fish ponds. One came forth, and, taking me by the hand, gracefully led me to where they were gathered.

  They indicated their wish that we should sit with them and drink tea with them, milkless and sugarless, from child-like China cups, which they re-filled so often that I had reasons for feeling thankful the cups were so like unto play-dishes. We were unable to exchange words, but we smiled liberal smiles at one another.

  Mexican silver is used almost exclusively in Penang. American silver will be accepted at the same value, but American gold is refused and paper money is looked on with contempt.

  The Chinese jinricksha men in Penang, compared with those in Colombo, are like over-fed pet horses besides racers in trim. They were the plumpest Chinese I ever saw; such round fat legs and arms!

  When we started back to the ship, the bay was very rough. Huge waves angrily tossed our small boat about in a way that blotted the red from Maury’s cheeks and caused him to hang his head in a care-for-nothing way over the boat’s side.

  It was a reckless spring that landed us on the ship’s ladder, the rolling of the coal barge helping to increase the swell which had threatened to engulf us. Hardly had we reached deck when the barge was ordered to cut loose; even as this was being done the ship hoisted anchor and started on its way.

  Almost immediately there was a great commotion on board. About fifty ragged black men rushed frantically on deck to find that while depositing their last sacks of coal in the regions below, their barge and companions had cast off and were rapidly nearing t
he shore.

  Then followed dire chattering, wringing of hands, pulling of locks and crying after the receding barge, all to no avail. Despite the efforts of those on it, the barge was steadily swept inland.

  “They’ll never get back. The tide is coming in too strong,” said Maury, finally recovering some color.

  The captain appeased the coolies’ fears. “You can go off in the pilot’s boat.”

  “But how? In these waves?” I asked. “This we must see.” I pulled Maury with me.

  They first tried to take the men off without slowing down, but after one man got a dangerous plunge bath and the sea threatened to bury the tug, the ship was forced to slow down.

  Some coolies slid down a cable, their comrades grabbing and pulling them wet and frightened white on to the tug. Others went down the ladder, which lacked five feet of touching the pilot boat. Those already on board would clutch the hanging man’s bare legs, he meanwhile clinging despairingly to the ladder, fearing to loosen his grasp and only doing so when the ship officers would threaten to knock him off.

  The pilot, a native, was the last to go down. Then the cable was cast off and we sailed away seeing the tug, so overloaded that the men were afraid to move even to bail it out, swept back by the tide towards the place where we had last seen the land.

  I HAVE ALWAYS confessed that I like to sleep in the morning as well as I like to stay up at night, and to have my sleep disturbed makes me as ill-natured as a bad dinner makes a man. At first, I had a cabin down below, and I found little rest owing to the close proximity of a nurse and two children whose wise parents selected a cabin on the other side of the ship. After I had been awakened several mornings at daybreak by the squabbling of the children, I cherished a grudge against the parents. They could rest in peace.

  The mother made some show of being a beauty. She had a fine nose, everybody confessed that, and she had reduced her husband to such a state of servitude and subjection that she needed no maids.

  The fond father of these children had a habit of coming over early in the morning to see his cherubs, before he went to his bath. I know this from hearing him tell them so. He would open their cabin door and in the loudest, coldest, most unsympathetic voice in the world, yell: Good morning. How is papa’s family this morning?”

  A confused conglomeration of voices sounded in reply; then he would shout: “What does baby say to papa? Tell me, baby, what does baby say to papa?”

  “Papa!” would answer back the shrill treble.

  “What does the moo-moo cow say, my treasure; tell papa what the moo-moo cow says?”

  To this the baby would make no reply and again he would shout: “What does the moo-moo cow say, darling; tell papa what the moo-moo cow says?”

  If it had been once, or twice even, I might have endured it with civilized forbearance but after it had been repeated, the very same identical word every morning for six long weary mornings, my temper gave way and when he said: “Tell papa what the moo-moo cow says?”

  I shouted frantically: “For heaven’s sake, baby, tell papa what the moo-moo cow says and let me go to sleep.”

  A heavy silence, a silence that was heavy with indignation and surprise, followed, and I went off to sleep. The fond parents did not speak to me after that. They gazed on me in disdain and when the woman got seasick, I persuaded an acquaintance of hers to go in and see her one day by telling her it was her Christian duty.

  The fond mother would not allow the ship doctor to see her although her husband had to relate her ills to the doctor and in that way get him to prescribe for them. I knew there was something she wished to keep secret.

  The friend, true to my counsel, knocked on the door. Hearing no voice and thinking it lost in the roar of the ocean, she opened the door. The fond mother looked up, saw, and screaming buried her face in the pillows. She was toothless and hairless!

  The frightened Samaritan did not wait to see if she had a cork limb. I felt repentant afterwards and went to a deck cabin where I soon forgot the moo-moo cow and the fond parents. But the woman’s fame as a beauty was irrevocably ruined on the ship.

  It was so damply warm in the Straits of Malacca that for time first time during my trip I confessed myself uncomfortably hot. It was sultry and foggy and so damp that everything rusted, even the keys in one’s pockets, and the mirrors were so sweaty that they ceased to reflect.

  The second day out from Penang we passed beautiful green islands. There were many stories told about the straits being once infested with pirates, and I regretted to hear that they had ceased to exist, I so longed for some new experience.

  We expected to reach Singapore that night. I was anxious that we should – for the sooner we got in, the sooner we should leave – and every hour lost meant so much to me.

  The pilot came on at six o’clock. I waited tremblingly for his verdict. A wave of despair swept over me when I heard that we should anchor outside until morning, because it was too dangerous to try to make the port after dark.

  Worse, is that the mail contract made it compulsory for the ship to stay in port twenty-four hours. Now, I was wasting precious time lying outside the gates of hope, as it were, merely because some coolies at Penang had been too slow. These wasted hours might mean loss of my ship at Hong Kong; they might mean days to my record; they might mean forfeiture of the race.

  27

  In Which Elizabeth Bisland Meets The Businessman Who Is In The Midst Of Reshaping Hong Kong

  “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure dome decree –”

  – Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  * * *

  KUBLA KHAN COMES to tiffin one day – a handsome dark gentleman of forty years or so, with very white teeth and eyes like black velvet. Clad in extremely well-fitting London clothes, in his soft, slow voice he signifies that on the morrow he will take us to see the pleasure dome – not yet entirely complete. Kubla Khan was his name in Xanadu, the summer capital of the ancient Mongol ruler of course, but in Hong Kong, for the sake of convenience and brevity, he is called Catchik Chater.

  Mr. Bauer and he have several business dealings, and my friend is eager to introduce me to this forward-thinking man.

  “Miss Bisland, a pleasure to meet you. Ulrich tells me you are in a race around the world?”

  “Yes, I am.” His straightforward manner makes me want to be straightforward as well. “I left New York on November 14 and plan to make it back in less than 75 days.”

  “Are you a seasoned traveler? Have you been to Hong Kong previously?”

  “I must confess this is my first trip of this nature, and I find Hong Kong to be lovely. The company especially so.”

  “I have traveled extensively myself, you know, but there is no place I’ve loved quite like this. The longer I stay, the more it grows into me. I am a British subject, born in India, and have a certain mixture of Greek and Armenian blood in my veins.”

  Naturally in Xanadu his rank and pedigree were far more complicated.

  “I decided to come to Hong Kong twenty years ago, with nothing but a wooden trunk. Through hard work, I’ve made enough to sustain me and better the economic climate here in Hong Kong.”

  “He’s being modest,” broke in Mr. Braun. “It was he who made the long waterfront at Kow-Loon, rescuing it from the sea, and covered it with great godowns filled with merchandise of the East, and it is he who is proposing the same feat on the opposite side of the harbor.”

  “Yes, there is much work left to be done.” He lowered his voice. “Electricity, my dear.” He held out his elbow for me to take. “Come. I’ll show you a little of what we’ve managed to accomplish in this fair land.”

  He took us first to see his docks and godowns, resounding with the loud clangors of trade, and then through the grassy Kow-Loon plains, by a wide red road shadowed with banana trees to this lordly pavilion set on the crest of many flowering terraces – its pale-yellow outlines cut cameo-like against the burning blue of the sky. To the right is the
naked side of a hill all deep-tinted buff warmed with red, and everywhere else a sea of satin-leaved tropical foliage.

  After having interested himself more or less in the banks, the shipyards, and manufactures of various sorts, he now felt prepared to erect in China a repetition of the Xanadu pleasure dome.

  The centre of the pavilion is a great banqueting hall with domed roof thirty feet above the tessellated pavement. The walls are frescoed in the same deep cream color of the exterior, touched here and there with blue and rose and gold. Twenty lofty arched doors open to the veranda, from whence beyond the roses of the terrace one sees the glitter of the green waters of the harbor. At each end of the banqueting hall opens a drawing room set with mirrors and lined with divans. Beneath are tiled bathrooms, needed in this hot climate after using the tennis courts and bowling alleys.

  Here Kubla Khan's guests come – come by twenties and fifties – and feast splendidly on high days and holidays and on hot star-lit tropical nights. It is like the sumptuous fancy of some splendid Roman noble, pro-consul of an Eastern province. The pavilion for the moment is in the hands of workmen, so we may not dine there; but we do dine with the Khan in his town house, eating through many courses, drinking many costly wines, and served by a phalanx of tall Celestials in rustling blue gowns.

  We leave after viewing his extensive art collection. “Be sure to visit the shops before you leave. You’ll see why my collection has so easily expanded.”

  The next day we take the Khan’s advice and go to the shops to turn over costly examples of Chinese art.

  We come home through the many-colored ways of the native town, steep streets that climb laboriously up and down stairs, and so narrow that there is hardly room for our chairs to pass through the multitudes who swarm there.

  “They average sixteen hundred residents to the acre in this part of the town,” says Mr. Braun.