I
OSAKA-KYOTO RAILWAY.
April 15, 1895.
Feeling drowsy in a public conveyance, and not being able to lie
down, a Japanese woman will lift her long sleeve before her face
ere she begins to nod. In this second-class railway-carriage
there are now three women asleep in a row, all with faces
screened by the left sleeve, and all swaying together with the
rocking of the train, like lotos-flowers in a soft current. (This
use of the left sleeve is either fortuitous or instinctive;
probably instinctive, as the right hand serves best to cling to
strap or seat in case of shock.) The spectacle is at once pretty
and funny, but especially pretty, as exemplifying that grace with
which a refined Japanese woman does everything,--always in the
daintiest and least selfish way possible. It is pathetic, too,
for the attitude is also that of sorrow, and sometimes of weary
prayer. All because of the trained sense of duty to show only
one's happiest face to the world.
Which fact reminds me of an experience.
A male servant long in my house seemed to me the happiest of
mortals. He laughed invariably when spoken to, looked always
delighted while at work, appeared to know nothing of the small
troubles of life. But one day I peeped at him when he thought
himself quite alone, and his relaxed face startled me. It was not
the face I had known. Hard lines of pain and anger appeared in
it, making it seem twenty years older. I coughed gently to
announce my presence. At once the face smoothed, softened,
lighted up as by a miracle of rejuvenation. Miracle, indeed, of
perpetual unselfish self-control.