The buzzing and humming of the people around us is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. And they all seem to be patiently and continuously busy. New York was more crowded than New Orleans, which was more crowded than our family plantation. But this! Even the children are as the flies in number and activity.
The place smells violently: of opium, of the dried ducks and fish hanging exposed for sale in the sun, of frying pork and sausages, and of the many strange-looking meals being cooked on hissing braziers in the streets and in doorways.
There is no lack of color. The shops are faced with a broad fretwork richly gilded, and the long perpendicular signs are ornamentally lettered with large black characters. Every house is lime-washed some strong tint, and the whole leaves upon the eye the color-impression one gets from Chinese porcelains – of sharp green, gold, crimson, and blue; all vigorous, definite, and mingled with grotesque tastefulness.
Despite all our attempts, I find nothing special to add to my souvenirs, save a small porcelain bowl to place on my dressing table and prove I have been here.
28
In Which Nellie Bly Finds Herself Halfway Around The World And Makes A Hasty Purchase
WHEN I CAME on deck next morning, the ship lay alongside the wharf, and naked Chinese coolies carrying, two by two, baskets of coal suspended between them on a pole, were constantly traversing the gang-plank between the ship and shore, while in little boats about were peddlers with silks, photographs, fruits, laces and monkeys to sell.
Dr. Brown, the young Welshman named Bryce, and I hired a gharry, a light wagon with latticed windows and comfortable seating room for four with the driver's seat on the same level outside. They are drawn by a pretty spotted Malay pony whose speed is marvelous compared with its diminutive size.
The people here, as at other ports where I stopped, constantly chew betel nut, and when they laugh, one would suppose they had been drinking blood. The betel nut stains their teeth and mouthfuls blood-red. Many of the natives also fancy tinting their fingernails with it, as does our driver. It is a custom that takes getting used to.
We drove along a road as smooth as a ballroom floor, shaded by large trees, and made picturesque by native houses built on pins in marshy land on either side. There are no sidewalks, and blue and white paint largely predominate over other colors.
We passed several lots filled with odd round mounds with walls shaped like horse-shoes. A flat stone where the mound ends and the wall begins bears an inscription done in colored letters.
“Are those graveyards?” I ask, swiveling around for a better look. There were a great number of them, all generously filled.
“I believe they are,” said Dr. Brown.
Further along, through latticed windows we got occasional glimpses of peeping Chinese women in bright gowns, Chinese babies bundled in shapeless, wadded garments, while down below through widely opened fronts we could see people pursuing their trades.
Our driver stops and points to a man getting a haircut in the open street. Apparently, a chair, a comb, a basin and a knife are all the tools a man needs to open shop, and he finds as many patrons if he sets up shop in the street as he would under shelter. From the number we see, barbering must be the principal trade.
Sitting doubled over, his head was shaven back almost to the crown, where a spot about the size of a tiny saucer was left to bear the crop of hair which forms the pigtail. When braided and finished with a silk tassel, the man’s hair is “done” for the next fortnight.
We visited a most interesting museum and saw along the suburban roads the beautiful bungalows of the European citizens. People in dog-cart carriages with a driver in front and passenger facing back and wheelmen on bicycles crowded the splendid drives. Nothing is patronized more than the 'rickshas in Singapore, and while they are to be had for ten cents an hour, it is no unusual sight to see four persons piled in one jinricksha and drawn by one man.
We found the monkey cage, of course. There was besides a number of small monkeys, one enormous orangutan. It was as large as a man and was covered with long red hair.
While seeming to be very clever, he had a way of gazing off in the distance with wide, unseeing eyes, meanwhile pulling his long red hair up over his head in an aimless, insane way that was very fetching.
“Shall I give him a nut?” asked Dr. Brown.
“Oh, do!” I encouraged.
“He’d like it,” added Bryce.
The doctor held up a peanut, and the orangutan stopped playing and lumbered over. But the doctor held his fingers away from the bars. “What if he takes hold of my fingers in the bargain?”
The grating was too small for the old fellow to get his hand through, but he did not intend to be cheated of his rights, so he merely stuck his lips through the gratings until they extended fully four inches.
“Ha!” I had heard of mouths, but that beat anything I ever saw, and I laughed until the old fellow actually smiled in sympathy. He got the nut.
The doctor also offered him a cigar. He did not take it, but touched it with the back of his hand, afterwards smelling his hand, and then subsided into that dreamy state, aimlessly pulling his hair up over the back of his head.
“I need to send my telegram,” I said, though not really wanting to leave the place.
At the cable office, in the second story of a building, I found the agents conversant with the English language. They would accept American silver at par, but they did not care to handle our other money.
The bank and post office were open places on the ground floor with about as much comfort and style as is found in ordinary wharf warehouses. Chinese and English are employed in both places.
We had dinner at the Hotel de l'Europe, a long, low, white building set back in a wide, green lawn, with a beautiful esplanade, faced by the sea, fronting it. Upon the veranda were long white tables where a fine dinner was served by Chinese waiters.
On our return from the Governor's House, we heard a strange, weird din as of many instruments in dire confusion and discord.
“A funeral,” our Malay driver announced.
“Indeed! If that is the way you have funerals here, I'll see one,” I said.
So he pulled the gharry to one side, where we waited eagerly for a funeral that was heralded by a blast of trumpets.
First came a number of Chinese men with black and white satin flags which, being flourished energetically, resulted in clearing the road of vehicles and pedestrians. They were followed by musicians on Malay ponies, blowing fifes, striking cymbals, beating tom-toms, hammering gongs, and pounding long pieces of iron, with all their might and main.
Men followed carrying on long poles roast pigs and Chinese lanterns, great and small, while in their rear came banner-bearers. The men on foot wore white trousers and sandals, with blue top dress, while the pall-bearers wore black garments bound with blue braid. There were probably forty pall-bearers.
The casket, which rested on long poles suspended on the shoulders of the men, was hidden beneath a white-spotted scarlet cloth with decorations of Chinese lanterns or inflated bladders on arches above it.
The mourners followed in a long string of gharries. They were dressed in white satin from head to toe and were the happiest looking people at the funeral. We watched until the din died away in the distance when we returned to town as delighted as if we had seen a circus parade.
“I would not have missed that for anything,” Dr. Brown said to me.
“You could not,” I replied laughingly, “I know they got it up for our special benefit.”
And so laughing and jesting about what had to us no suggestion of death, we drove back to see the temples.
We stopped at the driver's humble home on our way to the ship, and I saw there on the ground floor his pretty little Malay wife dressed in one wrapping of linen and several little brown naked babies. The wife had a large gold ring in her nose, rings on her toes and several around the rim of her ears, and gold ornaments on her ankles. At the door of thei
r home was the most adorable monkey.
I had resisted the temptation to buy a boy at Port Said and also smothered the desire to buy a Singalese girl at Colombo, but when I saw the monkey, my will-power melted, and I began to bargain straightway for it.
“Fifty cents?” I started out, the price for the scrawny monkeys being offered off the boats at the harbor.
“Is fine monkey. Strong as a man.” The driver made a muscle with his arm. “Five dollars.”
“Will the monkey bite?” I asked the driver.
“He took it by the throat, holding it up for me to admire as he replied, “Monkey no bite." But he could not under the circumstances.
“Are you sure?” cautioned Dr. Brown. “You are only halfway through your journey. He might be a bother.”
Bryce said nothing and barely contained a bemused expression.
The monkey made cute eyes at me and reminded me of little Homie, the Skye terrier from the first leg of my journey. He looked hearty enough to last the voyage, and wouldn’t he be something to talk about back home?
“If he becomes a bother, he can join the menagerie in Central Park,” I announced, the doctor’s disapproval having pushed me over the edge.
We came to an agreement at three dollars, and the driver produced a cage for me to carry away my monkey. The monkey squawked angrily when the door closed, and he bounced from side to side, testing the strength of his cell. After he settled down with the swaying of the gharry, I fed him a peanut and as he reached out to take it, he scratched my finger.
“That better have been an accident,” I warned him. He blinked back innocent monkey eyes at me and peeled open the nut.
“What shall you call it?” asked the doctor. “Phileas? Or Fogg? In honor of your adventure.”
I shook my head. The monkey didn’t look like either. “Passepartout? Fogg’s servant. No, the name is too long. There is a subplot with a detective who follows Fogg, convinced he is a bank robber. His name is Fix.”
The doctor made a sour face. “Do you have anyone following you around?”
“I should hope not!” I exclaimed. “I’m no bank robber.”
29
In Which Elizabeth Bisland Leaves Hong Kong Three Days Early And Enjoys Some Good British Food
A MESSENGER CAME to the door for me just as we were sitting down to breakfast.
“Bad news,” says Mr. Braun as he joins us. “The Preussen has arrived, but it broke its screw as it entered the harbor.”
“The ship needs a new propeller? Will it take long to fix?” I ask in dismay.
“Too long for you,” he says.
“We aren’t scheduled to sail for another three days. Perhaps it won’t affect me at all. The Preussen is known for its early arrivals, so even if we are a few hours delayed, she could make it up on the trip.”
Mr. Braun’s lips form a line. “We better take you to the O & O office and see what they can do for you.”
Mrs. Braun looks at me with sympathetic eyes, and suddenly my stomach lurches as if I were still rolling on the waves. Ever since sightseeing in Japan, I’ve not been able to break out of the relaxed role of tourist. But, when faced with a delay, my purpose prickles me in the stomach, waking me up to how tightly I’m scheduled.
“Eat first, then we’ll decide what you should do,” advises Mrs. Braun, passing me the basket of breads.
We learn that a Peninsular and Oriental steamer sails that day. I am advised to go in her as far as Ceylon. With barely time to think, I send a quick cable to the Cosmopolitan to let them know my change of plans.
So on the morning of the 18th of December I find myself on the deck of the slower Thames, surrounded by the charming friends and acquaintances of this Hong Kong episode, who have come to give me a final proof of their goodness, and wish me speed on my journey.
This boat is as polyglot as the land I have just left and swarms with queer people. The sailors are Lascars, clad in close trousers and tunics of blue cotton check and red turbans. Many of the Parsees in their purple coal-hods come aboard to bid farewell to a parting friend.
One of the Highlanders is going home, and his comrades have brought the pipes to give him a last tune. Grief and Scotch whiskey move them finally to “play a spring and dance it 'round” in spite of the heat, which brings the sweat pouring down their faces.
Sampans cluster about with pretty little Chinese dogs, bamboo steamer chairs, and canary birds for sale, driving a few final bargains.
“I can’t help but mourn our three lost days, but I know you must make haste while you can,” says Mrs. Braun.
“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed every moment and should like to repay the kindness should you visit America again.”
The bell warns them all away, and I wave goodbye to my friends and to the beautiful city with the keenest regret. The fifth stage of my journey has begun under the shadow of the Union Jack.
Hong Kong vanishes in a haze of sunlight. My head swims with a glorious confusion of tropic splendors, and there is no room or capacity in it for more impressions just now. Being desperately tired – worn out with delights, I go below in search of a bed.
It is a beautiful ship, like a fine yacht in its spacious commodiousness. Here and there hang canary cages thrilling with song. Narcissus bulbs in bowls are abloom with fluttering white flowers, and everywhere are deep-colored jars full of palms and ferns.
The space assigned to me is a large, pleasant white room, from which a great square lifts up outward on the water-side, leaving me on intimate terms with the milky, jade-tinted sea. Beneath this window is a broad divan, and here, laved in tepid sea winds and soothed by rippling whispers against the ship's side, I close my eyes seeking the languorous, voluptuous sleep of the tropics.
Later, at the Captain’s table, I meet a charming little old lady from Boston, Mrs. Kelly. She is widowed these last ten years and has spent the last two traveling the East with her son Robert.
“You are traveling alone?” he asks, a critical edge to his voice. “A lady unchaperoned?”
“Yes,” I reply curtly to end our conversation before it even begins. I am not surprised that he is unmarried.
“Have you been to Boston?” Mrs. Kelly asks me as a waiter places roast beef with Yorkshire pudding (which is not pudding as I know it!) in front of me. She doesn’t seem to care I am traveling alone.
“No, ma’am, I never had the pleasure.” But I would have the pleasure of this excellent food.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand before I can lift my fork. “You must when you get back. Visit the Common. It’s the country’s oldest park. Mr. Kelly and I would walk there after listening to Phillips Brooks preach.” She blinks back tears. “It’s too bad you will never hear him preach,” she tells me. “He was a great man. The whole of Boston mourned his passing.”
I am unsure if her emotions are attached to the passing of her husband or the famous preacher. I decide both as she continues throughout the main course to link the two men in conversation about Boston. Her two years of travel, if meant to help her move on, have not diminished her love for either.
“You must visit Trinity Church when you come,” she continues, as if she and I have already agreed to meet up once our travels are finished. “Of course, it’s not the original on account of the Great Fire of ’72. But the new one is a beautiful stone church. Phillips Brooks had it built, you know. Mr. Kelly was on the building committee and helped with the fundraising.”
A man on the other side of her son snaps his fingers. “Phillips Brooks. I’ve been trying to place the name, and I just remembered. He is the man who penned the words to O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Mrs. Kelly beams. “Yes, the very same.” She directs her dialogue towards the interested party, and I am free to observe the remainder of the table over a delight called Waterloo pudding (another pudding, only this one I recognize) that some quiet waiter has placed in front of me.
We are the only two women on the passenger list; so the British atmosp
here has a pronounced masculine flavor, but despite even this limitation it is interesting. Noting the men around me, I can’t help wondering if Mr. Wetmore had had any idea as to the makeup of British ships, if he would have insisted on traveling as my chaperone after all. Or perhaps my sister would have.
The men, from captain to cook, are fine creatures. Their physical vigor is superb – such muscles! Such crisply curled hair! Such clear ruddy skins, white teeth, and turquoise eyes. (How is that for details, Molly?) They are flat-backed and lean-loined; they carry their huge shoulders with a lordly swagger; they possess a divine faith in themselves and in England; and they have such an astonishing collection of accents.
No two of them speak alike: the burly bearded giant three places off from me at table speaks with a broad Scotch drawl; the handsome, natty fourth officer with the black eyes and shy red face who sits opposite, in white duck from head to heel, has a bit of a Yorkshire burr on the tip of his tongue; the Ceylon tea-planter talks like a New-Yorker, and there are fully a dozen variations more between his accent and that of the tall young blond, whose fashionable Eton and Oxford inflections leave one speechless with awe and admiration of their magnificent eccentricities.
Very quickly, the menu becomes of daily interest, for here I become for the first time familiar with food upon which the folk of the English novels are fed. I learn to know and appreciate the sugary Bath bun and the hearty Scotch scone.
I make the greatly-to-be-prized acquaintance of the English meat pie, including a favorite of Dickens’s character Mr. Weller, the “weal and 'ammer,” a veal-and-ham pie, and I recognize touching manifestations of British loyalty in the sweets christened impartially with appellations of royalty: Victoria jelly-roll, Alexandra wafers, and Beatrice tarts. Waterloo pudding is one of our favorite desserts, and other British triumphs and glories adorn the bill of fare from time to time.
If I could pass the remainder of my time around the world in this manner, I would be content. But the captain does not agree to my plan. Apparently he has a schedule to keep that does not include personally sailing me back to New York.
Liz and Nellie Page 18