Part 24 (1/2)
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 s.h.i.+p 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, s.h.i.+ps, 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 s.h.i.+nto 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 s.h.i.+nto 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 s.h.i.+nto, and many of the people are s.h.i.+ntoists altogether. This religion is vague and mystical, with much wors.h.i.+p of spirits, especially the spirits of the elements--earth, air, fire, and water. Everyone who is dead becomes in some degree an object of wors.h.i.+p, 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, rus.h.i.+ng 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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.]