The narrow strait that leads into the Inland Sea is only a quarter of a mile wide, and after pa.s.sing through it we steam along quietly amid the most beautiful scenery we have pa.s.sed since leaving England. Everywhere are little islands, well cultivated, woody, and rocky. Rocks and hills and capes break up the vistas, and every time we turn a corner we see something better than before. The ship stops at Kobe, but, unluckily, you have got a touch of the sun and the doctor strictly forbids you to go on sh.o.r.e. Never mind, we'll soon be at Yokohama, which is far better.

By that time you are quite yourself again, and when the captain calls us up on deck you are eager to go. He points to a solid triangle of rock, sticking up out of the sea not very far distant, and as we look at it a flash of red flame spurts out into the air and something red-hot rolls swiftly down the scored sides. What does it remind you of? It is another Stromboli, of course!

"That," says the captain solemnly, "is the safety-valve of j.a.pan. If it were blocked up there's no knowing what might happen." Then he swings round and points in another direction. Clear against the soft blue of the sky we see a sharp-pointed white cloud of a very curious shape, like an opened fan upside down. It seems quite detached from everything else, merely a curious snowy fan hanging in mid-air. "Why, it's Fujiyama, of course."

So it is! The famous j.a.panese mountain seen in thousands of the country's drawings and paintings; in fact, it has come to be a sort of national signboard. Now that we know where to look we see that the white fan part is merely the snow-cap running in large streaks downward, and that this rests upon a base as blue as the sky. Henceforward we shall see Fujiyama at many hours of the day--never a wide-spreading view but Fujiyama will be there, never a long road but Fujiyama at the end of it, never a flat plain without it. So odd is the great mountain, and so much character has it, that we feel inclined to nod good-night or good-morning to it when it greets us.

Then we enter the magnificent harbour of Yokohama with its hundreds of sampans, junks, tugs, ships, steamers, and every other craft. The smaller craft surround us clamorously, and looking down upon them we see that in almost every case there is a cat on board the junks, many of them tabby or tortoise-sh.e.l.l.

"'Cat good joss,' as the Chinamen would say," remarks a man standing near us, "specially three-coloured cats. They wouldn't give a fig for our lucky black ones without a white hair."

Hundreds of coolies are now clamouring for jobs all round. They are almost all dressed in blue, and those that wear upper garments have huge hieroglyphics of gay colours on their backs--these are the signs of their trades, or trades unions, as we might say, and each man wears his with pride.

So, with a fleet of attendant boats, gaily-dressed coolies, and complacent cats surrounding us, we come to our anchorage, say good-bye to the captain with great regret, and make our plunge into this new land.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GATEWAY, j.a.pAN.]

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAND OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE

We are standing in front of a mysterious gate which is yet not a gate.

You must have seen pictures of j.a.pan many a time, and in some of them there must have been one of these curious erections. Yet how can one describe it? The Greek letter [Greek: Pi] is most like it. Imagine a giant [Greek: Pi] with a second cross-bar below the top one. In j.a.pan this is called a Torii. The one in front of us, rising like a great scaffolding far above our heads, is made of wood, but they are often of stone or metal too. They are always to be found before the entrance to a Shinto temple. There must have been some meaning in them once upon a time, but it is lost now, and they remain decorative but useless.

We have left our rickshaw and are climbing up a long, long flight of steps to a Shinto temple not far from Tokyo, the capital town of j.a.pan.

Very many of the j.a.ps are Buddhists, but it is a strange sort of Buddhism, not pure like that of the Burmans, and is mixed up with another religion called Shinto, and many of the people are Shintoists altogether. This religion is vague and mystical, with much worship of spirits, especially the spirits of the elements--earth, air, fire, and water. Everyone who is dead becomes in some degree an object of worship, and the j.a.p thinks more of his parents and ancestors than his children--his dead ancestors especially being much venerated.

When we reach the top of the steps we find ourselves suddenly in a blaze of loveliness. To the right, to the left, and all around are cherry trees, covered thickly with blossom which hangs in wreaths and rosettes and festoons as if moulded in snow. The time for the best of the blossom is a little past, and the ground at our feet is as white as the trees, indeed whiter; for just here and there the fairy display on the trees is slightly browned. The scent is very sweet, and hangs in the air like delicate perfume. In the time of blossom there are many outings and festivities in j.a.pan; people make up parties to go to the orchards, and thoroughly enjoy their beauty. Come right underneath the trees and look up, we can see the thick, heavily laden branches against the soft rich blue of a cloudless sky, and in our ears is the hum of a myriad bees. It is as if the freshness of early spring and the richness of full summer were mingled together.

As we wander on over the scented ground we notice, a little way off, a rather pathetic-looking j.a.panese in the national costume, with a flat board or book in his hand. He is looking at us earnestly, and follows on at a respectful distance behind us.

Next we come upon a quaint little garden on the lines of what we should call a landscape garden in England, but it is all on a tiny scale, as if made for dolls to walk in. There is a pond as big as a tea-tray, walks the breadth of one's foot, wee trees, gnarled with age and twisted and fully grown, but no higher than your knee. It is all so delicate and dainty and tiny that we are afraid to walk in it for fear we should spoil it; we feel thoroughly big and clumsy as Gulliver must have felt among the Lilliputians, and we expect every minute to see the rightful owners, wee men and women the size of a man's fingers, rushing out from the little summer-house with the curved roof at the end, and crying shrilly to us to go away!

Treading carefully, a foot at a time, along the miniature paths, we pa.s.s through this and go on toward the temple which now appears amid a grove of deep dark pines. The steps are worn and hollowed, and on each side of them is an astonishing red figure of a man-monster in a very ferocious att.i.tude, like that of the lions rampant seen on crests. These figures are a dark hot red and are dotted all over with white dabs; as we draw nearer to them we see that these dabs are doubled up bits of white paper sticking irregularly here and there without any arrangement. We cannot imagine what they are for, but as we stare we hear a foot crunch the gravel gently, and the little j.a.p with the board creeps up and salaams deeply, making at the same time a curious hissing noise as if he sucked in his breath. He must be very nervous.

"If the honourable sirs will allow this humble servant to explain," he begins in fluent and perfect English.

We are only too glad of his help, and not to be outdone in politeness we simultaneously raise our hats to him. He then tells us that all these paper pellets are prayers or wishes. People write down what they want on them and then moisten them in their mouths and spit them out against the images; if the paper sticks it shows the wish will be granted, if it falls to the ground then fate is against it. It is not a very beautiful custom, but perhaps not quite so bad as betel-nut chewing!

Then the j.a.p coughs nervously, and with an overwhelming apology for daring to presume so far, explains that we ought to remove our "honourable shoes" before entering the temple. Of course we do it at once, though English shoes are not meant to take off and on at every turn, and while we struggle with our laces he knocks on the woodwork of the temple, and the sliding doors slip back along grooves, showing a very aged priest who smiles and beckons us in; so we pa.s.s on, feeling all the while conscious of the mystery of a country so utterly unlike our own. Inside, the floor is covered with thick mats, so we do not miss our shoes, though we step cautiously at first. It is very dim, but gradually our eyes grow accustomed to the want of light and we see lacquered screens, and little recesses, and bronze lamps, and curious images. Though it is spotlessly clean, very different from the Hindu temple, there is a strong smell of incense or burnt flowers or something rather odd. Our friendly j.a.p has gone down on his knees and is bowing his forehead to the ground, but we are not expected to do that evidently.

Two weird figures in peaked caps, fastened under their chins by tapes, have drifted out silently from somewhere and follow us as the priest leads us round. There does not seem to be any one special shrine with a central figure for us to see; perhaps there is one, but it is not shown to foreigners. It is all vague and rather meaningless, and the carving and decoration are unsatisfying. After a while, as there does not seem to be anything more forthcoming, we drop a few coins into a bowl held out to us and prepare to go. Just as we reach the door another strange being in a peaked cap appears with tiny cups of clear amber-coloured tea on a tray, and holds them out to us. The little cups have no handles, and there is no milk in the tea, but on the tray are several rather nice-looking little cakes, only, unfortunately, they are all the colours of the rainbow--violet and green and scarlet. I utterly refuse to touch them, but the English-speaking j.a.p a.s.sures me they are "nice," so you, declaring that you are "jolly hungry," eat several and p.r.o.nounce them "jolly good." We sip the tea, which tastes utterly different from that we have at home, and bowing all round again we put on our shoes and descend the steps. I'm sure if I lived here long I should be quite fit to take a position at court, my "honourable" manners would be so much improved. There is nothing brusque or rough or rude about these people, you couldn't imagine them scrambling or pushing to get in front of others even at a big show.

A voice behind us says timidly, "Will the honourable sirs be pleased to employ this humble servant as interpreter?"

We stop and look at him. It is not a bad idea. We have felt already this morning, even in coming straight from our very Western hotel here, how helpless we are in this land where the chair-men do not speak a word of English, and where even the street names are in Chinese characters. This little man is quite una.s.suming, he would certainly be no trouble and might be very useful. When we stop he deprecatingly opens his flat book and shows us drawings in freehand of scrolls and animals that he has made. He explains that he tries to get a living by offering such designs to the shops, but that he would like better to be interpreter to us, as he wishes to perfect his English. The terms he asks are absurdly moderate. Yes, we will have him.

We engage him then and there, and he enters our service at once; there is no need for delay, for he is apparently not enc.u.mbered with anything beyond his drawing-book. He brightens up wonderfully when we say "yes."

Poor little chap, I expect he is half starved. In most countries it would be rash indeed to engage a man at sight without any sort of written "character," but there is a simplicity and honesty about this one which gives us confidence in him. I am sure he would never cheat us deliberately, anyway, I am quite ready to risk it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RICKSHAW.]

We tell him that what we want is to see something of Tokyo to-day, and then to go off into the country and try to get a glimpse of the real j.a.panese life, un-Europeanised, in some small village where we could stay at a little country inn for a day or two. He enters into the scheme at once and says that he will have the plans all ready to suggest to us this evening. Meantime he takes command, and after seeing us into our waiting rickshaws, calls up another for himself, gives the three men directions, and off we go.

As we run back to the town we notice the houses standing by themselves in the suburbs, quite good, large houses, some of them, surrounded by their own gardens, shut in by high walls so that only the sloping red-tiled roofs, curved up at the end, are visible. Some of these are two storeys high, but when we get into the town we see at first only rows and rows of one-storey houses. There are frequent earthquakes in j.a.pan, and to build many-storeyed blocks would mean frightful disaster and loss of life. As it is, the people can rush quickly out of their little homes into the streets at the first signs of a shaking.

What do you notice about the streets that strikes you most particularly?

To me it is the colouring--blue. You remember that in Burma there was practically no blue; the people wore red and pink and magenta and orange, but they seemed one and all to avoid blue. I used to think it was because they knew that blue would not suit their sallow, yellowish complexions; but the j.a.panese are just as yellow, in fact more so, for the Burmese yellow is a kind of coffee colour, and theirs real saffron, and yet the j.a.ps are very fond of blue. The coolies and work-men all dress in it, with those astonishing signs on their backs that we noticed first at Yokohama, and the shops have blue banners hanging out beside them. These are for their names--they are signboards, in fact. Instead of running across horizontally, as our writing does, the j.a.panese writing--which is the same as the Chinese, though the spoken language is different--runs vertically. A j.a.p does many things exactly the opposite way from what we do. He begins to read a book from what we should consider the end, backwards, and instead of going along, he goes up and down a line; and the long thin strips, with those mysterious cabalistic signs on them, are the shopkeepers' names and businesses. The shops are all open to the street, without gla.s.s, in this quarter; they are just what we should call stalls; most of them seem to be greengrocers' or fruiterers'. And in the first there are always prominently in front huge vegetables like gigantic radishes or elongated turnips; the people eat them largely, though to a European both the flavour and the smell are nasty. In the fish shops the funniest things to be seen are great black devil-fish, or octopuses, with their lumpy round bodies and black tentacles stretching out on all sides. They are loathsome to look at, but the j.a.ps are not the only people who use them for food; in parts of Italy the peasants eat them as a staple dish whenever they can catch them.

There are no pavements here, and the streets are very muddy after last night's heavy rain, but it doesn't seem to matter a bit to the numerous inhabitants. All those who can afford it go in rickshaws, which pa.s.s us every minute, and the others wear clogs which lift them high out of the dirt. These clogs are called _geta_, and they are the funniest footwear to be found anywhere. You would find it more difficult to get about on them than on roller-skates, but the j.a.ps are so much used to them that they trip along morning, noon, and night in them without being the least tired. They are simply little stools of wood, one flat piece being supported by two smaller ones at the toe and heel, and they are held on by straps across the foot. Men, women, and children are thus raised inches out of the mud, and patter about, ting-tang, ting-tang, all day long. Some of the women have coa.r.s.e white stockings made with a separate stall for the big toe, on the model of a baby's glove, so that the geta strap can go through.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GETA CLOGS.]

We have now got into the middle of the town where the more populous streets are. You ought to notice how the colours of the clothes differ for the different ages of the people: the grandmothers and grandfathers wear dark purples and sombre hues; the middle-aged people have soft colouring, grey greens and palish shades; and the children are very gay, in every imaginable colour and often all mixed together. The girls have all a broad sash called an _obi_, humped up in a funny way behind their bodies; in the children this becomes a great bow like the wings of a b.u.t.terfly. The people are small, and were it not for the clogs they would look smaller still; their country is not little, for j.a.pan is larger than the United Kingdom, but the people are rarely tall, and they are slenderly built, with small bones, so that being among them makes an ordinary fair-sized Englishman feel clumsy and long-limbed. Now we are in the main street of all. Here comes a tram filled with j.a.panese, all smiling and chattering and looking happy; they take life with a smile.

The houses here are larger than those we have pa.s.sed, and some are just European buildings of stone, and the shop-windows are filled with gla.s.s, and show as fine a display as in the best London shops. There are many entirely for the sale of Western things, and others for the things of the country--the beautiful embroideries and silks, and silver-work and lacquer-work and carving, which you know so well by sight at home, for it is sent over in large quant.i.ties now, and anyone can buy it in London as cheaply as here.

As we near our hotel we tell the interpreter, whose "honourable name" we have learned is Yosoji,--everything belonging to other people is "honourable" here,--that we would like to see the palace where the Emperor lives; so he gives an order to the rickshaw man, and we set out once more.

On the way we see many open s.p.a.ces and pa.s.s through a park, but when we get to the palace we find that no one is allowed to go in, and we can only drive round by the walls and moat. The Mikado, or Emperor, is worshipped by most of his people; he is in the position of a G.o.d, and it is no mere expression of speech to say that every schoolboy would be proud and glad to die for him. There is no country in the world whose people are more pa.s.sionately devoted to their fatherland than the j.a.ps.

The idea of prominent j.a.panese going about in foreign countries trying to belittle their own, or undermine her power in the countries she has won by the sword, is unthinkable.

Later in the afternoon, coming out again from our hotel, we find Yosoji waiting for us, and we tell him we want to walk about on foot to look at some of the shops. He protests, and we can see he thinks us almost out of our minds to suggest going on foot. He pleads earnestly that rickshaws are very cheap. We have to explain that it is not the money we are thinking of, but that we really prefer to go on foot. He doesn't believe it--he can't, because no j.a.panese would prefer to go on foot when he could ride. So we take no further notice of him and just walk away, leaving him to follow humbly and despairingly. We have not taken many steps when a whole flight of rickshaw men swoop across the road and are on our heels, crying out, "Rickshaw, rickshaw, shaw, shaw, r'sha,"

like our old friends the pests of Egypt. We pretend not to hear, and walk on with what dignity we can, but they follow persistently, almost trampling on our heels, and reiterating their cries all the time. They can only imagine we must be deaf and blind. The crowd grows greater, the street is getting blocked. We pa.s.s a j.a.panese policeman in a stiff and badly made uniform, and are seized with sudden hope that he will send the offenders flying, but he does nothing of the sort; he fumbles in his pocket, brings out a little text-book Of English, and laboriously reads out, "Please secure me a good rickshaw," and looks at us triumphantly as if he had solved the difficulty!

I have no moral courage; I don't know if you have more, anyway, let us take two and then they can follow us if they like, and the others will go away. Accordingly we give orders to Yosoji, who bows, only half-satisfied, and interprets our orders. The plan works, the other men slink off, and the two selected ones follow us limply at a foot's pace.

What I am really making for is a little print shop I saw as we pa.s.sed along here this morning, with a number of j.a.panese drawings in the window. They are so queer, so well done, and yet so conventional that they have a charm of their own. Here it is! Look at that extraordinary picture of the great fish breaking through a hole in the blocks of ice!

The ice _looks_ cold, it is very well done, but the little bits of spray loop up round the fish in a stiff frill of a regular pattern. Then there is that one of the sea. It gives one a tremendous idea of a heavy lowering storm with the great indigo waves curling over that doomed boat, yet the edge of every wave has a sort of lace frill on it exactly alike! I must have those to take home; they won't take up any room.

As we enter the j.a.p lady who is selling the prints gives a long hiss.

She bows profoundly, and so do we. They won't know us when we get home!

"But why did she hiss?" you ask Yosoji. He says it is a sign of respect.

Oh! I thought they were nervous! How funny! As long as they don't expect me to do it back again--I can manage the bowing when there is no one there but you to see, but if I tried to hiss I should break down in the middle! I take out my purse to pay for the print. The money here is confusing, because there are yen and sen. A yen is equal to two shillings and a halfpenny, and a sen is only the hundredth part of a yen, or about a farthing. In order to reckon the change the old lady takes up a frame with beads strung across it on wires; I believe it's called an abacus, and they use them in kindergarten schools to teach children to count. She must be an ignorant old dame, and yet she looks wholly respectable. I wonder what Yosoji thinks of it. When we look at him he is quite demure and solemn and doesn't seem to notice anything odd.

Coming out of the shop we find the dearest trio of children gazing at us. Of all the sights in j.a.pan the children are the most fascinating.

They are so funnily dressed, like the odd little j.a.p dolls English children buy. These three are clad very magnificently in kimonos of silk c.r.a.pe, very soft, and brilliantly coloured, with huge coloured sashes.

Their little heads, with straight all-round fringes of black hair sticking out like brushes, are deliciously comic. They regard us gravely and without any fear or shyness.

It is getting dark; suddenly someone lights a Chinese lantern across the street, and almost as if it were a given signal another pops out and another and another. Chinese lanterns with us are used for decoration, and it is impossible to help feeling as if it were a festival when we see them gleaming along the street among the coloured streamers.

Altogether the lanterns, the gay dresses, the smiling faces, the funny shops, the clear deep blue of a perfect evening sky seen overhead, make a glorious picture. Shut your eyes and "think back" a moment. Think of Oxford Street on a wet night when the shops are shut and the high arc-lights shine down coldly on rigid lines and bleak grey walls!

[Ill.u.s.tration: A j.a.p VILLAGE.]