Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  “They say he has just arrived on the coast from the interior of Africa, and there is talk of his going home in our ship.”

  “I should very much like to make his acquaintance.”

  But we learn the government has sent down a special convoy to take him to Egypt, and we steam away without him.

  Though I never had the chance to meet Mr. Stanley, I did make the acquaintance of the British atheist. Bradlaugh proves to be a jovial person, with an astounding ingenuity in misplacing h's, and an amusing little way of confiding small details concerning himself with an air of expecting you to snatch out a notebook and jot them down as one who should later make an article for one of the reviews, “Some Confidential Talks with Charles Bradlaugh, M.P.”

  A cold west wind meets us in the Red Sea; the passengers get out their furs, and there is no more lounging on deck – one must walk briskly or sit in the sun wrapped in rugs.

  I suppose this is the way it will be from now on. I am headed home and back into winter. I wonder how cold it has been in our apartment, and if Molly has enough coal.

  I wake one night missing the throbbings of the screw and find that we are going at a snail's pace in smooth water. The moon is very dim behind the clouds, and from the porthole it would appear that we are sailing across endless expanses of sand: nothing else is to be seen.

  Morning shows a narrow ditch in a desert, half full of green water – so narrow and so shallow apparently that nothing would convince us our great ship could pass through save the actual proof of its doing so. The mighty Suez at last. After seeing it, I admit it does not measure up to my imagination.

  At one of the wider parts made for this purpose, we pass a French troopship which dips her colors and sends a ringing cheer from the throats of the red-trousered soldiers on their way to Tonquin.

  Later a dead Arab floats by in the green water, but is regarded with indifference as a common episode and merely suggestive of an imprudent quarrel overnight.

  There are some sights in the East that I shall never get used to.

  37

  In Which Nellie Bly Goes Sightseeing In Japan And Is Impressed By Another Monkey

  AFTER SEEING HONG Kong with its wharfs crowded with dirty boats manned by still dirtier people, and its streets packed with a filthy crowd, Yokohama has a cleaned-up Sunday appearance.

  Travelers are taken from the ships, which anchor some distance out in the bay, to the land in small steam launches. From here we travel by jinricksha.

  The Japanese jinricksha men were a gratifying improvement upon those I saw from Ceylon to China. They presented no sight of filthy rags, nor naked bodies, nor smell of grease. Clad in neat navy-blue garments, their little pudgy legs encased in unwrinkled tights, the upper half of their bodies in short jackets with wide flowing sleeves; their clean, good-natured faces, peeping from beneath comical mushroom-shaped hats; their blue-black, wiry locks cropped just above the nape of the neck, they offered a striking contrast to the jinricksha men of other countries.

  Rain the night previous had left the streets muddy and the air cool and crisp, but the sun creeping through the mistiness of early morning fell upon us with most gratifying warmth. We wrapped our knees with rugs while the 'ricksha men started off in a lively trot, and I observed as many Japanese as I could find.

  On a cold day, one would imagine the Japanese were a nation of armless people. They fold their arms up in their long, loose sleeves. The Japanese women seem to know nothing whatever of bonnets, and may they never! On rainy days they tie white scarves over their wonderful hair-dressing, but a fellow passenger leans over to tell me that at other times they waddle bareheaded, with fan and umbrella, along the streets on their wooden clogs.

  Talk about French heels! The Japanese sandal is a small board elevated on two pieces of thin wood fully five inches in height. They make the people look exactly as if they were on stilts. These queer shoes are fastened to the foot by a single strap running between toes number one and two, the wearer when walking necessarily maintaining a sliding instead of an up and down movement, in order to keep the shoe on.

  We are deposited at the Grand Hotel, a large building with long verandas, wide halls and airy rooms, commanding an exquisite view of the lake in front. Barring an enormous and monotonous collection of rats, the Grand would have been considered a good hotel even in America.

  At tiffin I met several people who have settled into the relaxed posture of those having spent time already in the area. A middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Clark, who sat to my left, took a keen interest in developing my knowledge of Japan.

  “The majority of the Europeans live on The Bluff in those low white bungalows,” he said pointing vaguely in that direction. “The fashion is to have great rooms and breezy verandas built in the hearts of Oriental gardens, where one can have an unsurpassed view of the Mississippi Bay, or can play tennis or cricket, or loll in hammocks, guarded from public gaze by luxurious green hedges.”

  “You seem to know what you are talking about,” I said.

  “Yes, I have been here on business for some time. I shall be joining you on your return trip to America.”

  “Where do the Japanese live?” I asked as I looked passed the veranda and out onto the street where several people in English dress were strolling, being passed by others carried on the jinrickshas. “I saw several on the ride over, but not nearly as many as I expected.”

  “They live across the canal in Shichiu, the native town. Would you like to see?” Mr. Clark asked those of us at the table. “I can arrange a show for you as well.”

  We did.

  So in the cool of the evening we went to a house that had been specially engaged to see the dancing, or geisha, girls. The Japanese houses were just as our guide thoroughly explained – like play houses built of a thin shingle-like board. The houses were prettily decorated in honor of the new year. The decorations were simple, but effective. Rice trimmings mixed with sea-weed, orange, lobster and ferns were hung over every door to ensure a plentiful year, while as sentinels on either side were large tubs, in which are three thick bamboo stalks, with small evergreen trees for background. Arches were formed over the streets with bamboo saplings covered with light airy foliage.

  At the door of the appointed house, we saw all the wooden shoes of the household, and we were asked to take off our shoes before entering.

  “Take off my shoes?” said a fashionable lady in a tone that meant it was the last thing she would agree to do.

  “Is that really necessary?” chimed in a gentleman.

  “It is the custom,” said Mr. Clark, already standing there in his stockings and looking rather absurd.

  I held my tongue, but secretly hoped the shoe-wearers would win out. Eventually, we made a compromise by putting cloth slippers over our shoes.

  The second floor had been converted into one room, with nothing in it except the matting covering the floor and a Japanese screen here and there. We sat upon the floor, for chairs there are none in Japan, but the exquisite matting is padded until it is as soft as velvet.

  It was laughable to see us trying to sit down, and yet more so to see us endeavor to find a posture of ease for our limbs. We were about as graceful as an elephant dancing.

  A smiling woman in a black kimono set several round and square charcoal boxes containing burning charcoal before us.

  “These are the only Japanese stove,” explained Mr. Clark. “They don’t have chimneys or fireplaces.”

  Afterwards she brought a tray containing a number of long-stemmed pipes–Japanese women smoke constantly–a pot of tea and several small cups.

  Impatiently, I awaited the geisha girls. In the tiny maidens glided at last, clad in exquisite trailing, angel-sleeved kimonos. The girls bowed gracefully, bending down until their heads touched their knees, then kneeling before us murmured gently a greeting which sounds like “Koinbanwa” drawing in their breath with a long, hissing suction, which, we were told, is a token of great honor.

  Th
e musicians sat down on the floor and began an alarming din upon samisens, drums and gongs, singing meanwhile through their pretty noses. If the noses were not so pretty, I am sure the music would be unbearable to one who has ever heard a chest note.

  The geisha girls posed with open fan in hand above their heads, ready to begin the dance. They were very short with the slenderest of slender waists. Their soft and tender eyes were made blacker by painted lashes and brows; their midnight hair, stiffened with a gummy wash, was most wonderfully dressed in large coils and ornamented with gold and silver flowers and gilt paper pompons. The younger the girl, the more elaborate was her hair.

  Their kimonos, of the most exquisite material, trailed all around them, and were loosely held together at the waist with an obi-sash; their long flowing sleeves fell back, showing their dimpled arms and baby hands.

  Upon their tiny feet they wore cunning white linen socks cut with a place for the great toe. I am told that when they go out they wore wooden sandals.

  The Japanese were the only women I ever saw who could rouge and powder and be not repulsive, but the more charming because of it. They powdered their faces and had a way of reddening their under lip just at the tip that gave them a most tempting look. The lips looked like two luxurious cherries.

  The musicians began a long chanting strain, and these bits of beauty began the dance. With a grace, simply enchanting, they twirled their little fans, swayed their dainty bodies in a hundred different poses, each one more intoxicating than the other, all the while looking so childish and shy, with an innocent smile lurking about their lips, dimpling their soft cheeks, and their black eyes twinkling with the pleasure of the dance.

  After the dance, the geisha girls made friends with me, examining, with surprised delight, my dress, my bracelets, my rings, my boots – to them the most wonderful and extraordinary things – my hair, my gloves, indeed they missed very little, and they approved of all. They told me I was very sweet, and they invited me to come again. In honor of the custom of my land – the Japanese never kiss – they pressed their soft, pouting lips to mine in parting.

  “How is it they know English so well?” I asked Mr. Clark as we prepared to leave, he putting his shoes back on while the rest of us removed the slippers covering our footwear.

  “English is taught in the Japan schools,” he said.

  The next day, a Japanese reporter from Tokyo came to interview me, his newspaper having translated and published the story of my visit to Jules Verne. Carefully he read the questions which he wished to ask me. They were written at intervals on long rolls of foolscap, the space to be filled in as I answered. I thought it a ridiculous system of interviewing.

  Afterward, I went with the group to Kamakura to see the great bronze god, the image of Buddha, familiarly called Diabutsu. It stands in a verdant valley at the foot of two mountains. Built in 1250 by Ono Goroyemon, a famous bronze caster, it sits Japanese style and is fifty feet in height. The face is eight feet long, the eye is four feet, and the circumference of the thumb is over three feet.

  Several people lined up to have their photographs taken, and Mr. Clark, who had his Kodak, asked if we would pose for him.

  “Of course! Come along,” I beckoned my new friends. The only regret of my trip, and one I can never cease to deplore, was that in my hasty departure I forgot to take a camera. On every ship and at every port, I met others with cameras and envied them.

  Three of us were willing and climbed up and sat comfortably on its thumb.

  “I rather like this,” said a man called Henry, tapping the thumb. “Wonder if I could have it for $50,000?”

  “Do you have a place to display it?” asked the other climber, whose name I had already forgotten.

  “I would make a place. Could you imagine it tied to the deck of the Oceanic? It would make quite a sight sailing into the harbor.”

  But we decide the image is too precious to Japan. Years ago at the feast of the god, sacrifices were made to Diabutsu. Quite frequently the hollow interior would be heated to a white heat, and hundreds of victims were cast into the seething furnace in honor of the god.

  It is different now, sacrifices being not the custom, and the hollow interior is harmlessly fitted up with tiny altars and a ladder stairway by which visitors can climb up into Diabutsu's eye, and from that height view the surrounding lovely country.

  We also visited a very pretty temple nearby, saw a famous fan tree and a lotus pond, and spent some time at a most delightful teahouse, where two little girls served us with tea and sweets.

  “Not only do the children learn English in school,” Mr. Clark explained, “but the girls are taught graceful movements, how to receive, entertain and part with visitors, how to serve tea and sweets gracefully, and the proper way to use chopsticks.”

  It is a pretty sight to see a lovely woman use chopsticks. At a teahouse or at an ordinary dinner, a long paper laid at one's place contains a pair of chopsticks. The sticks are usually whittled in one piece and split only half apart to prove that they have never been used. Everyone breaks the sticks apart before eating, and after the meal they are destroyed.

  Needing to get some of his own business taken care of, Mr. Clark arranged for several of us to go to Tokyo with a guide for one day. Their roads there are superb.

  “You have modern street cars here,” I exclaim.

  The guide laughs at my ignorance. “It is true that a little while ago we knew nothing of railroads, or street cars, or engines, or electric lighting. However, we are too clever to waste our wits to rediscover inventions known to other nations. We sent to other countries for men who understood the secrets of such things, and at fabulous prices and under contracts of three, five and occasionally ten years, brought them here where the cleverest of Japanese watched and learned. When the contract is up, it is no longer necessary to fill the coffers of a foreigner. The employee is released, and their own man, fully qualified for the work, steps into the position.”

  The more we drove, the more I realized how very progressive the Japanese people were. They clung to their religion and their modes of life, which in many ways were superior to ours, but they readily adopted any trade or habit that was an improvement upon their own.

  Several men in native costume rode by on bicycles. Then our guide pointed out a Japanese woman in European dress.

  “She is looking very swell, yes?”

  The woman wore the bodice of a European dress, which had been cut to fit a slender, tapering waist and was likely ready-made. But since the Japanese never saw a corset and their waists are enormous, the woman was only able to fasten one button at the neck, and from that point the bodice was permitted to spread.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “She is alone in her European attempts?”

  “Men in some trades have adopted European attire when it is more serviceable than their native dress. However, most women who tested the European dress found it uncomfortable and inartistic and went back to their kimonos.”

  “Where do they keep their belongings?”

  “They carry silk card cases in their long sleeves. Their sleeves are to her what a boy's pockets are to him. Her cards, money, combs, hairpins, ornaments, and rice paper are all carried in her sleeves. Her rice paper is her handkerchief.”

  One of the ladies leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I heard the women kept the European underwear, which they found more healthful and comfortable than nothing at all.”

  The best proof of the comfort of kimonos lies in the fact that the European residents have adopted them entirely for indoor wear. Only their long subjection to fashion prevents their wearing them in public.

  Before starting our sightseeing, our guide led us to a silk shop, where, thanks to Ah Cum’s teachings on commerce, I was sure he would earn a commission if any of us bought anything. The shopkeeper showed me how kimonos are made in three parts, each part an inch or so longer than the other, but he could not tempt me to purchase one.

  Thinking I was after somet
hing finer, he displayed a kimono a Japanese woman bought for the holidays. It was a suit, gray silk crepe, with pink peach blossoms dotting it here and there. The whole was lined with the softest pink silk, and the hem, which trails, was thickly padded with a delicate perfume sachet. The underclothing was of the flimsiest white silk. The whole thing cost sixty dollars, a dollar and a half of which paid for the making. Japanese clothing is sewed with what we call a basting stitch, but it is as durable as it could be if sewed with the smallest of stitches.

  We visited the Mikado's Japanese and European castles, which are enclosed by a fifty-foot stone wall and three wide moats. Moving on, the guide brought us past a forest of superb trees on our way to the great Shiba temple. At the carved gate leading to the temple were hundreds of stone and bronze lanterns, which alone were worth a fortune. On either side of the gate were gigantic carved images of ferocious aspect. They were covered with wads of chewed paper.

  “The school children must make very free with the images.” I said. A statue in New York would never be allowed to remain a target such as this.

  The guide explained, “It is not vandalism. The Japanese believe if they chew paper and throw it at these gods and it sticks, their prayers will be answered.”

  “A great many prayers must have been answered,” I replied, eyeing the mess.

  At another gate, I saw the most disreputable-looking god. It had no nose.

  “What happened to this one?” I asked the guide.

  “The Japanese believe if they have a pain or ache and they rub their hands over the face of that god, and then where the pain is located, they will be cured.”

  I can't say whether it cured them or not, but I know they rubbed away the nose of the god.

  On our way to Uyeno Park, we passed a man uttering in a plaintive melody these words: “I'll give you a bath from head to toe for two cents.”

  Shocked, I called over to our guide’s jinricksha. “Who is that man?”