Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  The water-road is full of folk. Tall Hindus go by leading little cream-white bulls with humped necks, which drag rude carts full of merchandise or fruits – pineapples, mangoes, and coconuts. English officials spin past in dog-carts with barefooted muslin-clad grooms up behind, and wealthy unctuous Chinese merchants bowl about in ‘rickshas.

  Nearly all foot-passengers are half or three-quarters naked. It is an open-air museum of superb bronzes, who, when they condescend to clothe themselves at all, drape in statuesque folds about their brown limbs and bodies a few yards of white or crimson cloth, which adorns rather than conceals.

  Mrs. Kelly squeezes my hand, and we both gasp for breath as there suddenly emerges from a side street what appears to be a fat old lady coming from the bath, her gray hair knotted up carelessly and a towel as her only costume.

  Mr. Maddock chuckles. “You’ve never seen the conventional Malay business attire, have you?”

  We continue to gape in wonder, though in reality there is no cause for alarm. The dignified elderly Malay merchant continues on his way, unaware of the surprise he has given us.

  Everyone has long hair and wears it twisted up at the nape of the neck; this, with the absence of beards and the general indeterminateness of attire, makes it difficult to distinguish sexes.

  The lower class of work people are black, shining, and polished as Indian idols. At work they wear only a breechcloth, but when evening comes, they catch up a square of creamy transparent stuff, and by a twist or two of the wrist, fold it beautifully and loosely about themselves, and with erect heads tread silently away through the dusk – slender, proud, and mysterious-eyed.

  The Malays are of an exquisite bronze, gleaming in the sun like burnished gold. They have full silken inky hair, very white teeth, and dress much in draperies of dull-red cotton, which makes them objects delicious to contemplate. Mingled with all these is the ubiquitous Chinese man in a pair of short loose blue breeches, his handsome muscular body shining as satin.

  We reach the hotel at last, its gloom, its cloistered arcades and great dark rooms pleasant enough as a refuge from the sun. I wonder if Nellie Bly is about the place, or if we have already crossed paths unknowingly. Do I look for her or not? I should not like to see her as I imagine what a meeting that would be!

  The dining room, a great vaulted hall through the centre of the building, is level with the earth, paved with stone and without doors, opening upon the veranda through three archways. Without windows, one can scarcely distinguish anything at first entrance from the glare outside; but presently we find the place full of tables of green and growing plants, and two huge punkahs waving slowly overhead, making a cooling breeze.

  We are served by Hindus in garments and turbans of white muslin, who have slender melancholy brown faces, and eyes that shine through wonderful lashes with the soft gleamings of black jewels. I can scarcely eat my tiffin for delight in the enchanting pathetic beauty, the passionate grace and sadness, of the face of the lad who brings me butter in a lordly dish, the yellow rolls laid upon banana leaves, and serves me curry with a spoon made of a big pink shell.

  Everyone is in lily white from head to heel, like a bride or a debutante – white duck trousers and fatigue jacket, white helmet, and white shoes.

  This is the dress of two junior officers sitting next to us with heads like canary birds, and the sappy red of English beef still in their cheeks, just out from home for their first experience of Eastern service. They are full of energy, interest, and enthusiasm; they order beer and beef and mop their hot faces from time to time, listening meanwhile with profound respect to the words of their superior officer, who condescends to tiffin with them and to give them good advice.

  His dress is similar to theirs, save for the gold straps on his shoulders, but all the succulent English flesh has been burned off of him long ago, and left him lean, tawny, and dry. He quenches his thirst with a little iced brandy and soda, eats sparingly of curry and fruit, and seems not to feel the heat much.

  He has no enthusiasms, he has no interests except duty and the service, and he does not think any brown or yellow person in the least pretty or pleasant. His advice to the youngsters, while valuable, is patronizing and full of disillusionment.

  “Those lads look rather put out by the advice,” whispers Mr. Maddock.

  I startle, not aware that anyone else but me was eavesdropping, a rather shameless habit of writers. “No, in fact it falls somewhat coldly upon their youthful ardor,” I reply.

  Over tiffin the blond Mr. Beacham outlines his plans for us, and please call him Leslie. He is delighted to show us around in the cooler temperature of the morning, so we go off our separate ways to avoid melting on the spot.

  My room is a huge dim apartment with a stone floor opening directly upon the lawn and into the dining room, and has only slight jalousies for doors; but no one peers or intrudes. The bed is an iron frame; the single hard mattress is spread with a sheet, and there are no covers at all. Even the pillow is of straw. My bathroom, a lofty flagged chamber, opens into this one, and contains a big earthenware jar which the coolies will fill for me three times a day, and into which I plunge to rid myself of the burning heat.

  Temporarily cooled, I take to writing down my thoughts of Singapore thus far, followed by a lengthy letter to Molly on paper so thin I am afraid my fountain pen will scratch it to bits. I briefly contemplate including a note for Molly to send on to Mr. Wetmore but change my mind. Her teasing would be merciless. I should have copied down his address before I left.

  That night I get into bed and blow out the candle. It is odd to lie in bed with no sheets, although the air is so stifling, one is not necessary. Immediately I hear what sounds like some great animal stalking about. I am cold enough now – icy, in fact. What can it be?

  They tell me tigers come over from the mainland and carry off on an average one person a day. This is probably a tiger.

  He could easily push open those blind doors and walk in! He is coming towards the bed with heavy stealthy rustlings. Now I wish for a sheet to draw up over me. The room is hot, utterly black and still, save for the sound of those feet and the loud banging of my heart against my ribs.

  The hotel seems to be dead, so horribly silent it is. Has the tiger eaten every one else already?

  The darkness is of no use; he can see all the better for that, so I will strike a match and at least perish in the light.

  As the blue flame on the wick's tip broadens, I meet the gaze of a frightfully large, calm gray rat who is examining my shoes and stockings with care. He regards me with only very faint interest and goes on with his explorations through all my possessions. He climbs the dressing-table and smells critically at my hat and gloves.

  This is almost as bad as the tiger, but as I have no intention of attacking this terrible beast and my notice appears to bore him, I blow out the candle and go to sleep, leaving him to continue those heavy rustlings which so alarmed me.

  The next morning I meet up with my group, minus the son Mrs. Kelly has left behind because he is not interested in sightseeing today.

  “Did you sleep well?” asks Mrs. Kelly. “My room was terribly hot.”

  I tell her about my tiger-rat, and her eyes go wide with the tale. I fear she might not sleep tonight.

  Meanwhile, the men secure an open carriage with two fine bronzes in muslin and turbans on the box, and we go for a drive. Leslie takes us first to call at a great white airy stone bungalow, set on a hill where resides the chief of police, another English officer clad in white and as brown and lean as are all who have seen long service here.

  He gives a command in Malay to his khitmagar, and we are served with tea in the Chinese fashion.

  “You speak like a native,” I comment.

  He sets down his cup. “When they need an English official, they usually send me. I am quite knowledgeable of the Malay tongue and character. For example, I am sent to conduct negotiations with the sultan of Jahore, a potentate who often grows restles
s.”

  Leslie laughs. “No one who goes with him can understand what he says to the sultan. But he always comes back with the desired concessions, and so we suppose he speaks the language convincingly and with eloquence.”

  “In my many years here in the East, I’ve learned to display a great gentleness of voice and manner,” says the chief of police.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” cuts in Leslie. “Underneath all that gentleness, they can sense his iron will. The natives regard him with undisguised respect and fear.”

  The chief of police does not respond but sits back, squaring his shoulders, and we are all quite inclined to agree with Leslie.

  From the chief of police’s gates, the road turns towards the botanical gardens, a great park where wide red ways wind through shaven lawns and under enormous blossoming trees. Every plant one knows as exotic is here quite at home – the giant pads of the Victoria regia pave the moats with circles of emerald, and the lotus lifts its rose-flushed cups from glassy pools where swans float in shadow.

  We leave the carriage and pace through the translucent green twilight of the orchid houses built of wire gauze, the plants needing no protection here, where for six thousand years or so the thermometer has been ranging between seventy-five and ninety-five degrees of heat. The place is full of strange unfamiliar perfumes and grotesque blossoms, ghostly white, pallidly purple, and writhen into fantasticalities of scarlet.

  Our carriage waits for us in the shade of a blooming tree, and, returning, we find it sprinkled with small golden trumpets poignantly sweet.

  “What a mess,” says Mr. Maddock as he clears the seats.

  On the way home, we pass the governor's palace with its wonderful palms and bamboos, and it is upon this road that we come suddenly upon a race of brown goddesses. We pass one alone, then two, then several more going singly along the wide road shaded by enormous trees. They are very tall, with round slender limbs. Their garments – a long scarf of thin white wrapped firmly about the hips, drawn lightly over the bosom and crossing the back from shoulder to waist – but half conceal beneath the semi-transparent drapery the fine outline of breast and hip, clear and firm as ancient statues, and warmly brown with a curious faint bloom – almost as of a grape – upon the skin.

  “Who are they?” I ask Leslie.

  “They are called Klings. Transplants from Pondicherry, the fragment of India still retained by France.”

  Mr. Maddock adds, “They are a race famous throughout India for the astonishing beauty of its women.”

  Mrs. Kelly dug into her sack. “I shall like a picture of one,” she said.

  “I’m afraid not,” says Leslie, pushing closed her sack. “They will not allow themselves to be photographed.”

  As they go forward, lightly and fleetly, on their slim bare feet they have the proud, upstanding grace of palms, and with a strange sinuous motion make all their heavy anklets and bangles tinkle like little bells and a wave of fluent movement stir their garments from throat to heel. The ripples of their hair, drawn back from the broad brown brows and knotted in silken abundance at the nape, glitter like polished jet, and the fine, haughty, dark features lit with little points of gold – tiny studs set in the high nostrils and the upper rims of the little ears.

  HALF-PAST FOUR! The ship is about to sail. We have wandered through the shops and museums and have returned once more to our old quarters after thanking Leslie for his hospitality.

  Tiny canoes cluster about the vessel, full of beautiful shells of which one can buy a boat-load for a dollar. Other canoes hold small Malays ranging from three to seven years of age, all naked save for the merest rag of a breechcloth, all pretty as little bronze curios, and all shouting in shrill chorus for coins.

  “Let’s give them what they ask,” I say to Mrs. Kelly.

  A few shillings changed into the native currency procure a surprising number of small pieces of money, which we fling into the clear water.

  “Look!” I point as the boys plunge over after these coins with little splashings like frogs, and wiggle down swiftly to the bottom, growing strange and wavering of outline and ghostly green as they sink. They are wonderfully quick to seize the glinting coin before it touches the sands below, and come up wet, shining, and showing their white teeth. We play at this game until the whistle blows, and then sail away, leaving Leslie waving his handkerchief to us from the shore.

  An hour later, we are still steaming near the palm-fringed coast. There is a sudden cry and struggle forward – a naked body with manacled hands shoots outward from the ship's side and disappears in a boiling circle of foam. A Chinese prisoner, being transported to Penang, has knocked down his guards and taken to the water.

  The engines are reversed and a life-buoy thrown overboard, but he does not appear. After what seems a great lapse of time, a head shows a long distance away and moves rapidly towards the shore. Evidently he has slipped his handcuffs and can swim.

  A boat is lowered full of Lascars very much excited, commanded by the third officer, a ruddy young fellow – calm and dominant. They pursue the head, but it has covered more than half the distance, some two miles, between us and the shore before it is overtaken. There is some doubling back and forth, an oar is raised in menace, and the fugitive submits to be pulled into the boat.

  I am standing by the gangway when he returns. He is a fine, well-built young fellow.

  “What has he done?” I ask an Englishman standing nearby.

  “Forgery. He is to be turned over to the native authorities against whom he has offended.”

  “And what will they do to him?” I wonder aloud, that he would risk drowning in handcuffs.

  “Their punishments are terrible.” He glances at me and appears to check his words. “Prisoners receive no food and must depend upon the memories and mercies of the charitable.”

  One of the Lascars holds him by the queue as he mounts the steps. He is wet and chilled and has a face of stolid despair.

  They take him forward, and I see him no more.

  IT IS CHRISTMAS Day – still very hot and not like Christmas in New York at all; and off to our right are to be seen from time to time the bold purple outlines of the coasts of Sumatra. The ship is decorated with much variegated bunting, and the servants assume an air of languid festivity; but most of us suffer from plaintive reminiscences of home and nostalgia.

  “A Merry Christmas to you!” greets the Captain enthusiastically to the table. He sits down and we get about the business of celebrating. We pull Christmas crackers, as in the holidays at home, and from their contents I am loaded with paste jewels and profusely provided with poetry in brief segments and of an enthusiastically amatory nature.

  My poem says:

  To thee, my Love, to thee –

  So fain would I come to thee!

  And the water’s bright in a still moonlight,

  As I look across the sea.

  A sudden ache fills my heart. All my loved ones are across the sea. I’ve never spent a Christmas alone, and the feeling is so very un-Christmas like, even though celebrating the coming of the Christ child is at the center of Christmas, the feeling is not the same without family to share it.

  I blink back tears and go to offer a smile to Mrs. Kelly. Tonight, she shall be my family, as are the others seated around me. Her eyes have also filled with unshed tears. I reach out and squeeze the dear lady’s hand as she has so often done to mine. “What does your poem say?”

  She shakes her head, like she cannot trust her voice to read it. I take the slip of paper and read aloud for the table:

  In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died,

  Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along;

  And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried

  In pages which to that dear past belong.

  The men take turns saying their poems, unaware of the quiet suffering of Mrs. Kelly’s thoughts of her departed husband. But they lighten the mood as they read their love poems in dramatic fashion in th
e absence of their sweethearts.

  There is a splendid plum-cake for dinner, with a Santa Claus atop, huddled in sugar furs despite the burning heat. The evening ends on a cheery note, but several of us retire early, ready for the day to be over and to move on to the coming of the New Year when we will be reunited with those loved ones.

  33

  In Which Nellie Bly Visits A Leper Colony And Eats Christmas Luncheon In The Temple Of The Dead

  THE O. AND O. agent escorted me to the ship Powan, on which I was to travel to Canton for the day. He gave me in charge of Captain Grogan, the Powan's commander, an American, who has lived for years in China. A very bashful man he was, but a most kindly, pleasant one. I never saw a fatter man, or a man so comically fattened. A wild inclination to laugh crept over me every time I caught a glimpse of his roly-poly body. Then thoughts of how sensitive I am concerning remarks about my own personal appearance, in a measure subdued my impulse to laugh.

  I have always said to critics who mercilessly write about the shape of my chin, or the cut of my nose, or the size of my mouth, and such personal attributes that can no more be changed than death can be escaped: “Criticize the style of my hat or my gown, I can change them, but spare my nose, it was born on me.”

  Remembering this, and how nonsensical it is to blame or criticize people for what they are powerless to change, I pocketed my merriment, letting a kindly feeling of sympathy take its place.