TO THE PHILIPPINES
The United States Army Transport _Hancock_ had been assigned to the
Commission for the trip from San Francisco to Manila and it was at noon
on a pleasant day in mid-April—the seventeenth—that she pulled away from
the crowded dock and headed straight for the Golden Gate and the long
path across the Pacific that leads to the other side of the world. There
were forty-five people in our party and, although most of us had met for
the first time in San Francisco, we soon became well acquainted, as
people do on shipboard, and proceeded at once to prove ourselves to be a
most harmonious company.
The _Hancock_ was the old _Arizona_, a one-time greyhound of the
Atlantic, which the Government had purchased and remodelled for service
as an army transport. A considerable fleet of such vessels plied the
Pacific at that time, carrying large consignments of troops to and from
the Philippines and, though there are not so many now, I still read with
interest of the comings and goings of ships whose old, friendly sounding
names became so familiar to us in the course of our residence in the
East. The _Grant_, the _Sherman_, the _Sheridan_, the _Thomas_, and
others, all named for great American generals, awaken memories of
interesting days. The _Hancock_ was later given up by the Army and
turned over to the Navy on account of her heavy consumption of coal. She
is now used as a recruiting ship at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
We found her very comfortable. There were few people aboard besides the
members of our party, and, as she was equipped to carry the officers and
men of an entire regiment, we found ourselves commodiously quartered.
Moreover, the commissary of the transport service had received
instructions to give us excellent fare; this, I believe, through the
thoughtful kindness of Mr. McKinley himself.
Mr. McKinley never failed to take a personal interest in the everyday
welfare of all those in his administration who came under his own
observation and we were made to feel this throughout our experience on
the Philippine Commission, while he lived. On every appropriate occasion
we were certain to receive from him some kindly compliment, a cablegram
or other communication, and it made everybody who came within range of
his influence anxious to serve him well and to make the work which was
being done satisfactory and pleasing to him. I owe to our connection
with President McKinley’s administration some of my happiest
recollections.
The men who made up the second Philippine Commission were Mr. Taft,
General Luke E. Wright of Memphis, Tennessee; Judge Henry C. Ide of
Vermont, Professor Dean C. Worcester of the University of Michigan, and
Professor Bernard Moses of the University of California. A short
introduction of my husband’s colleagues and the members of their
families who went with them to the Philippines will be necessary at this
point, because I was destined to be constantly associated with them
during four of the most interesting years of my life. Our co-operation,
social and governmental, was based upon a common purpose, and our
attachment to this purpose, as well as the bonds of friendship which
united us, were greatly strengthened by the opposition we had to meet
for some months after we reached Manila, not only from the Filipinos,
but also from the military government which the Commission was sent out
gradually to replace.
The men of the Commission, coming, as they did, from different parts of
the United States, were widely contrasted, no less in associations than
in their varied accents and family traditions.
General Wright was, and is, one of the ablest lawyers in Tennessee, and
enjoyed, at the time of his appointment on the Commission, the finest
practice in Memphis. He is a Democrat; and old enough to have been a
lieutenant in the Civil War on the Confederate side. But perhaps his
finest laurels for bravery and devotion to duty were won at the time
when he exerted himself to save Memphis in the days when she was in the
grip of a terrible epidemic of yellow fever. I don’t know the exact
year, but the epidemic was so out of control that all who could, left
the city, while General Wright remained to organise such resistance as
could be made to the spread of the dread disease.
Mrs. Wright was a daughter of the famous Admiral Semmes of the
Confederate Navy and for some time after the war she travelled with her
father in Mexico and abroad, thereby acquiring at an early age a very
cosmopolitan outlook. Admiral Semmes was a great linguist and Mrs.
Wright inherited his gift. She had learned to speak Spanish in her
girlhood, so when she arrived in Manila she had only to renew her
knowledge of the language. General and Mrs. Wright had with them their
daughter Katrina, who was then about fourteen years old, but their two
sons, one a naval officer, did not join them in the Philippines until
later.
General Wright had, on the whole, the most delightful social qualities
of anybody on the Commission. He had a keen sense of humour and could
recount a great number of interesting personal experiences with a manner
and wit which made him, always, a delightful companion. He was a devotee
of pinochle and he instructed the entire party in the game until it was
played from one end of the ship to the other. He was slow to anger, very
deliberate and kindly in his judgments, and offered at times a decided
contrast to his wife who was a little more hasty and not infrequently
founded judgments on what he would jocosely criticise as “a woman’s
reason.”
Judge Ide was born and bred a Vermonter and had many of the rugged
characteristics of the Green Mountain State, not the least among which
is a certain indefinable, but peculiarly New England caution. In
addition to a large and active law practice in both New Hampshire and
Vermont, he had banking connections through which he had gained a better
knowledge of business and finance than is possessed by the average
lawyer. Moreover, a long term as Chief Justice of Samoa had given him
diplomatic experience and a knowledge of the Polynesian races which were
to serve him well in his work in the Philippines. As Chief Justice he
exercised diplomatic and consular as well as judicial functions, and his
position brought him in close relations with the English and German
officials of the joint protectorate of the Samoan islands and in
constant social contact with the naval officers of many countries whose
ships very frequently called at Apia. He was a widower with two young
daughters.
These daughters, Anne and Marjorie, or “the two Ide girls” as they were
then popularly known, displayed no sign of Puritan ancestry or
upbringing. They were just remarkably beautiful and altogether charming
and delightful. A large part of their girlhood had been spent in Samoa;
they were the product of an intermittent, but very picturesque
education, and there was ingrained in them some of that happy-go-lucky
attitude toward life, and that freedom from useless convention which the
Occidental is not unlikely to acquire in the Orient.
These girls had, in Samoa, been great friends of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Anne, the elder, was the especial favourite of the beauty-loving invalid
and he willed to her his birthday, as can be learned from his Samoan
letters. She was born near Christmas time and had never known what it
was to have her birthday celebrated, a great deprivation in childhood.
But she now celebrates as her own the birthday of Robert Louis Stevenson
and it is, I believe, her most cherished possession.
Marjorie, whose career, ever since our first trip together, I have
followed with the greatest affection and interest, had even more of the
care-free attitude than Anne. She used to convulse us with cruelly funny
accounts of her adventures with admirers, of whom there were many, and
with descriptions of some of the strange acquaintances she made during
her travels with her father.
Among the passengers on the _Hancock_ was Dr. Kneedler, an army surgeon,
with his wife and two little girls. These little girls were exceedingly
bright and inquisitive. Young ladies and gentlemen had particular and
irresistible attractions for them and the Ide young ladies kept them
very much occupied. The Ide young ladies didn’t encourage their
attentions and this fact engendered their hostility. They therefore
referred to the Misses Ide as “them there Ides.” With their delightful
sense of humour the Ides, of course, rejoiced in the designation and in
all the thirteen years since then they have never met Mr. Taft or me
without presenting themselves as “them there Ides.”
The Misses Ide were destined to be the unrivalled belles of Manila
society for six years and then to move on to broader social spheres.
Anne was married to Mr. Bourke Cochran shortly after her father left the
Philippines, but Marjorie continued to be her father’s companion for
several years, going with him to Madrid when he was appointed Minister
to Spain and presiding over the American Legation there until she
married Mr. Shane Leslie and went to London to live.
General Wright, Judge Ide and Mr. Taft were the lawyers on the
Commission and it was felt that their familiarity with law and
governmental matters greatly enhanced the strength and preparedness of
the Commission for the work they had to do.
Mr. Worcester was an assistant professor at the University of Michigan.
He too was a Vermonter, with quite as much _fortiter in re_, but with
somewhat less of the _suaviter in modo_ than Judge Ide inherently had,
or had acquired in his Samoan experience.
Mr. Worcester was the only member of the party who had ever been to the
Philippines before. I think he had been there twice with scientific
expeditions before the Battle of Manila Bay had thrust the guardianship
of the Filipinos upon our country, and in the course of his trips, with
his fluency in Spanish as it is spoken in the Philippines, he had
acquired a very intimate knowledge of the people and their customs, as
well as of the flora and fauna of the islands. He had written a book on
the Philippines which came out at a most fortunate time, just when
Dewey’s victory had turned the eyes of the country upon that
never-before-thought-of corner of the world. This book led to his
appointment on the first Commission and his useful, loyal, courageous
and effective labours with that body led Mr. McKinley to appoint him on
the second.
He is a large, forceful man with rather abrupt manners and very decided
opinions and perhaps no greater contrast could be imagined than exists
between him and Mrs. Worcester, who, in outward seeming, is the frailest
kind of little woman, with a sweet face and engagingly gentle manners
which suggest timidity. Mrs. Worcester has proved herself to possess the
frailty of flexible steel. At that time we were quite concerned about
her, I remember, thinking she would not be able to endure the Philippine
climate even for a short period. But she has lived there from that day
to this. She has been with her husband through many experiences from
which the strongest woman would shrink, toiling with him over hundreds
of miles of mountain and jungle trail on his frequent expeditions into
the countries of the wild tribes and meeting every difficulty without
comment. She is in excellent health and is a living refutation of the
familiar exaggerations as to the effect of the climate. They had with
them two little white haired children, one of them quite delicate, who
have grown up in the Philippines strong and healthy and have received
most of their education in the schools established there under American
government.
The last member of the Commission was Professor Bernard Moses of the
political and historical department of the University of California. He
was a man of profound learning, a Connecticut Yankee, combining a very
excellent knowledge of business with his unusual qualifications as an
historian, economist and student of politics. He was especially familiar
with all Spanish-American countries, had travelled extensively in the
South American republics and had written a learned book on the
constitution of Colombia. My husband always says that he thinks Mr.
McKinley exercised the wisest discretion in the selection of all the
members of this Commission since they possessed, among them,
qualifications for every line of work in practical government and
original research.
Mrs. Moses, a graduate from the University of California, was a very
attractive woman. She had a gift for vivid description and for seeing
the funny side of every situation. Her book, “Unofficial Letters of an
Official’s Wife,” gives an interesting and accurate picture of social
life in the early days of military rule, which are known in Manila
history as “the days of the Empire” and of that period when American
civil government was in the process of organisation. Her wit sometimes
had a suggestion of the caustic in it, but she never failed to
contribute her quota to the day’s amusement.
There were many other interesting members of the party, including Mr.
Arthur Fergusson, the Spanish secretary, and Mrs. Fergusson, Mr. Frank
A. Branagan, the disbursing officer, and Mrs. Branagan, and several
private secretaries with their families.
The voyage from San Francisco to Honolulu was quite perfect. As we
sailed toward the tropics the weather gradually grew warmer and the
sheltered decks became the most attractive part of the ship. The
promenade deck of the _Hancock_ reaches from bow to stern. I believe
there is a regular term to describe such ship construction,—“decked over
all” is it?—but to me it was just a very long deck which served
unusually well for exercise. The Commission held regular business
sessions in a cabin which had been fitted up for the purpose, but when
work was over they would start on a long march around and around the
deck, covering many miles each day. My husband was especially
industrious and walked one man after another “off his feet” until,
finally, he was obliged to finish his long tramp alone. He set himself
the task of so many miles a day, so many times around the deck being a
mile, and to keep count of laps requires some concentration. His quiet
persistence in this kind of exercise was calculated to make the lazy
onlooker intensely nervous, and when I had done my modest little turn I
was always glad to indulge in a sort of counter-concentration at a whist
table, or at General Wright’s ever constant pinochle.
Altogether the days passed very pleasantly and we were a very merry and
friendly party by the time we reached Honolulu.
At Honolulu I got my first glimpse of real tropics, and I was enchanted.
It was a glorious sensation for me that April morning when I saw these
mid-Pacific islands, for the first time, rise before me out of a
white-capped sea; clear-cut in an atmosphere which seems never to be
blurred by mist.
American energy, ambition and initiative have wrought great material
changes in the islands and these, which were even then important, were
brought to our admiring attention later on. I shall always think of
Hawaii,—of the island of Oahu, rather,—as it appeared to me then when
our ship steamed past Diamond Head, skirted the high breakers of Waikiki
and made its way up through the bright waters of the bay into the
harbour of Honolulu. Honolulu is a little, modern city lying, all in
sight, against the green of a narrow, gently-sloping, peak-encircled
valley.
The Punchbowl, a spent and emptied volcano, outlined in perfect form
against the higher hills behind it, plainly tells the story of the
spectacular construction of the islands and makes it almost possible to
visualise their sudden rise from the sea. They are not very old,
according to scientific measurements of time, but they are old enough,
at any rate, to have clothed themselves in the most brilliant
luxuriance, which is the first thing to impress the traveller as his
ship sails into the harbour.
The brilliance from the ship’s deck is the brilliance of every
imaginable shade of green, massed against the towering, pointed hills
and picked into contrasts of high-light and shadow by a sun and
atmosphere peculiar to the tropics. Once ashore, the green foliage
becomes the background for a wealth of blooming flowers, flowers
everywhere, of unnumbered different varieties, with the flaming hibiscus
in every garden, striking the high note of colour. Until we left
Honolulu laden with “leis”—long festoons of flower petals which are
thrown upon the shoulders of departing friends and visitors—there were
always flowers.
And with the flowers and the foliage and the tall palm trees and the
warm tropic sunlight, there is music, the music of the native which
greets one in welcome at the dock and contributes constantly to the
spirit of festivity until the departing ship gets too far from shore to
catch the strains of the farewell song “Aloha” whose closing words:
“Until we meet, until we meet again,” linger long in the mind of the
grateful recipient of Hawaiian hospitality.
The first thing we were to learn when our ship came up into the harbour
was that the bubonic plague had been epidemic in Honolulu for a long
time. It was our first encounter with this terror of the East. There had
been seventy-one cases in all, and sixty-one deaths. Six Europeans had
contracted the disease and of these four had died. When we dropped
anchor we were at once boarded by the local health officer, Dr.
Carmichael of the Marine Hospital Service, who was accompanied by United
States Minister Sewell and Consul General Hayward. They wanted us to
land, of course, and we were very anxious to do so, but as the
quarantine was not yet raised they could not answer for the attitude of
the Japanese health officers when we got to Yokohama. Our going ashore
might result in a long detention in quarantine for ourselves and, aside
from the discomfort of this, we could not afford the delay. There was no
particular danger for us personally, since no new cases had been
reported for twenty-four days, but it was all a question of being able
to land later in Japan. It was really too much of a disappointment;
there was not a dissenting voice on that score, and Honolulu kept
getting more and more attractive as the possibility dawned on us that we
might not see it at all. But it was arranged. We sent for the Japanese
vice-Consul and explained matters to him and he finally agreed to hold
himself responsible for our breaking the quarantine, in so far as it
concerned Japan, if we would keep our ship out in the stream instead of
tying up at the dock, and permit no member of the crew to go ashore
during our stay. This we readily agreed to do and made our plans
accordingly. We, too, were to live on board the _Hancock_, but there
were any number of harbour launches put at our disposal.
We were received by the Americans in Honolulu with the utmost cordiality
and immediately found ourselves sharing the exhilarating suspense with
which the people were then awaiting the passage of the bill in Congress
which was to make the Hawaiian Islands a part of the United States. The
first thing the Commission did was to call on President Dole, of the
provisional republican government, and with him they met the Ministers
of the Treasury and the Interior, Mr. Damon and Mr. Young. Indeed, we
met all the people who had the affairs of the islands in hand and were
most delightfully entertained by them. We found them of one mind, just
anxiously waiting to be annexed to the United States. The men, who
realised the importance of our mission to the Philippines, were eager to
foregather with the Commission and discuss with them, long and
earnestly, this broad American venture and its possible effect upon the
future prosperity of the Hawaiian Islands, but in so far as I was
concerned, nothing in the way of state problems was allowed to intrude
itself upon their purely social hospitality. There were dinners and
luncheons and teas and receptions, and, in the intervals, sightseeing.
There are a number of entertaining things to do in Honolulu and while I
do not wish to make this, in any way, a book of travel, I must record my
impressions of the world as they came to me.
The Hawaiian Islands have a background of romantic history which makes
the museums, the public buildings and even the cemeteries of the capital
extremely interesting. Besides all of which there are some wonderful
views which every one must see.
The trip to Nuuani Pali is the first thing to be undertaken in Honolulu,
perhaps because it is the greatest thing on the island of Oahu. We
didn’t know what the Pali was,—had no idea. It was just _the_ place to
go, so we went,—the very first day. We drove up the valley over a
perfect road which wound in and out past beautiful, palm-shaded country
homes, and along the bank of a noisy, crystal-clear little mountain
stream, until we came to a point which looked to me like the “jumping
off place.” And it is; the “jumping off place” is the Pali. The road
turns sharp around the solid rock wall of the cliff and winds its way on
down into the valley on the other side, but it is a distinct surprise to
find that it doesn’t end right there. The Pali is the Pass of the Winds;
the meeting place of all the young hurricanes of the Pacific. They say
the winds in the Pali are never still. We were flattened out against the
wall of the cliff, our hats were torn from our heads and we had to hold
onto our coats for dear life, but before us lay one of the grandest
spectacles in the whole world. Coral-tinted, purple, rose and bright
blue sea; beetling, pointed, terrible cliffs, and a broad, green plain
running down to a surf-washed ribbon of beach; a panorama as wide as the
compass of vision. I have been back since then thinking that, on first
sight, I might have overestimated the grandeur of the Pali. But I
didn’t. It is one of the world’s great views. And it has its touch of
savage history too. It was up these hills and over the cliffs of the
Pali that King Kamehameha drove to certain death the offending hordes in
arms against his sovereignty. There was no escape for them. Once in this
pass they had either to go over the precipice or back against the spears
of the enemy. This being history, and not myth, it adds much to the
thrill of the spectacle.
After a visit to the indescribable “aquarium of the painted
fishes”—painted, I suppose, by the bright sun-rays in the coral shallows
of the tropic seas—we went, as guests of Mr. Carter, a prominent member
of the American colony, who afterward became governor of the islands,
out to Waikiki Beach for surf-bathing,—or, surf-riding, as it is more
aptly called.
Surf-riding at Waikiki Beach is a great game. In the first place the
surf there doesn’t look as if any human being would dare venture into
it; but when you see a beautiful, slim, brown native, naked save for
short swimming trunks, come gliding down a high white breaker, poised
like a Mercury, erect on a single narrow plank—it looks delightfully
exhilarating. It took me some time to make up my mind, but after
sufficient persuasion I finally decided to risk my life with the others.
Dressed in bathing suits, we were taken out beyond the line of breakers
in long canoes with outriggers and, with a native at prow and stern
armed with broad paddles to guide the craft, we rode in on the crest of
the waves. Even this modified version of the natives’ foolhardy
performance is dangerous enough. There is every likelihood of an upset
and not any of us could be said to swim expertly, so there was great
excitement when one member of the party after another was plunged, out
of depth, into the foaming and seething water. Two members of our party,
indeed, had a narrow escape, though we didn’t know it at the time.
General Wright and Judge Ide were capsized in a particularly vicious
breaker and Judge Ide at once began to make frantic efforts to attract
attention and secure aid, but in the confusion his signs of distress
were taken for indications of vast enjoyment and he would have been left
to drown if he hadn’t been washed ashore by the force of the surf.
General Wright, though much the better swimmer, had no less difficulty,
and they were both quite white and shaken when they crawled up on the
beach.
We stayed four days in this “Paradise of the Pacific,” during which we
made many interesting trips, were introduced to many strange Hawaiian
customs and were regaled with many feasts, not always, I may say,
particularly appetizing. I have had in my time, for politeness’ sake, to
eat various queer messes in all sorts of odd corners of the earth, but
to me “poi” will always be “poi”—in a class by itself. It is the true
Hawaiian dish and is offered to guests by the natives in the same spirit
of compliment with which we offer to “break bread” with our friends. It
is the custom for Americans residing in Honolulu to introduce visitors
to this dish, and the native viands which go with it, in entertainments
which are called “poi dinners,” and we were treated to as many of these
as our time would permit. “Poi” bears an unpleasant outward resemblance
to cockroach paste and, try as I would, I was never able to cultivate a
taste for it. But foreigners do learn to like it, for I found Americans
in Honolulu eating it with the greatest relish and dipping it up with
their fingers in true Hawaiian style.
On our last evening in Honolulu, after a morning of sightseeing, a
luncheon, an hour in the buffeting surf, and a large tea-party, we were
given a particularly elaborate “poi dinner” where we all sat on the
floor and at which all the guests appeared in native costume with “leis”
around their necks and in their hair. The Minister of Foreign Affairs,
Mr. Mott Smith, sent the Hawaiian Band, whose leader came out from old
Emperor William to King Kalakaua, and they serenaded us with most
wonderful Hawaiian music, interspersed, for their own pride’s sake, with
well rendered selections from the finest operas. The girls came in
flaming bright “Mother-Hubbard” dresses, crowned and covered with
“leis,” to dance for us the curious folk-lore dances of the old-time. It
was a delightful whirl of music and lights and colour—added to fish and
poi and a cramped position—but I was tired enough not to be sorry when
the time came for the singing of “Aloha Oe” and our departure for the
ship which lay out in the harbour ready to up-anchor at daybreak and
start on its way to Japan.
On the evening of the tenth of May we reached the estuary near the head
of which is Yokohama and further on is Tokyo. For at least two hours we
steamed past a low-lying shore line before we came in sight of the sweep
of steep cliff to the southward which forms the great outer harbour.
[Illustration:
NIKKO. AN ANCIENT CRYPTOMERIA AVENUE AND A GLIMPSE OF THE FAMOUS
TEMPLES
]
There was just one thing that we could really look at; one insistent,
dominant point in the landscape which caught us and held us
fascinated,—Fujiyama. I had seen Fujiyama on screens and fans and
porcelains all my life, but I had no conception of it. For one half hour
this “Queen of Mountains”—rightly called—rising thirteen thousand feet
out of sheer sea-level, perfect in form, snow-capped, majestic, blazed
for us against the western sky. Then a cloud curtain fell,—and the sun
went down.
As we steamed up close to the breakwater in the grey light of late
evening we could see nothing but the dark outlines of many ships and a
long row of substantial looking buildings, under high arc lights,
stretching along a wide, water-front street which I was afterward to
know as The Bund.
We wanted to go ashore, but it was not possible. We had to lie outside
the breakwater and wait for the doctors to come aboard. “Wait for the
doctors to come aboard;” how familiar that proceeding becomes to the
traveller among the ports of the East, and especially, of Japan. You
arrive at Yokohama and are examined there; you go just around the bend
of the coast line and arrive at Kobe and you are examined there; you go
on through the Inland Sea to Nagasaki and again you are examined.
Wherever you arrive in this land of much caution you must “wait for the
doctors to come aboard.”
But our doctors didn’t keep us waiting long. About eight o’clock half a
dozen of them, important little men with much gold lace, came smiling up
the gangway. We worried, rather, about the plague we had braved,—and we
did hope none of our crew would develop symptoms,—but, having faith in
the Japanese Vice-Consul in Honolulu, we hoped for special leniency. We
were not disappointed. They examined the ship’s company with great care,
but our examination was a mere formality, a sort of apologetic
enumeration as a matter of fact, and after giving us a clean bill of
health the doctors bowed themselves most courteously away. But we had a
narrow escape. Charlie’s nurse developed a suspicious sore throat the
very next afternoon and gave us many days of anxiety for the baby and
the other children. And, as I shall make plain further on, our anxiety
was not without cause.
In reading over my own and my husband’s letters, written on that trip to
various members of the family, I find that Charlie was very much in
evidence at all times. I suppose he was spoiled because, certainly,
everybody took a hand in his misguidance, but the spoiling process at
least kept him in high good humour, unless it happened to take the form
of secret indulgence in prohibited sweets; then I had to meet the
consequences. I find my husband writing to his brother Charles: “Charlie
continues to be as full of spirits and as determined to have his own way
as ever. We call him ‘the tornado’; he creates such a sensation when he
lands in the midst of the children on board the ship. He is very badly
in need of discipline and I long for the time to come when he will be
better able to appreciate it. Maria has become quite as much a slave to
him as Nellie and you may tell his Aunt Annie that I am still the only
hope the boy has of moral training.” This sounds so much like the
average father that I thought I ought to quote it.
When Bessie, Charlie’s nurse, was taken away from him and quarantined we
got for him a Japanese “amah” who filled him at first with indignation,
not unmixed with fear. But she was so patient, and followed him around
so much like a faithful watchdog, that he grew to be exceedingly fond of
her and straightway proceeded to exchange his small English vocabulary
for, to him, more useful Japanese words.
The first thing to claim our attention in Yokohama Harbour was the
American cruiser _Newark_, the Admiral’s flagship of the Asiatic fleet,
with Admiral Kempff aboard. As soon as we came inside the breakwater she
fired a salute of seventeen guns, and we wondered what it was all about,
until suddenly we remembered that the Commissioners had the rank of
ministers plenipotentiary and decided that it was meant for us. It was
the first time in my husband’s life that he had ever been saluted. In
his later career he reached a point where he would have been almost
willing to assume a disguise in order to escape the thunder of the
twenty-one guns that roared at him whenever he approached a naval vessel
of any kind, but I think he was rather elated by this first tribute to
his official standing.
We found later that an old friend, Captain McCalla, was in command of
the _Newark_. We had known Captain McCalla in Washington when my husband
was Solicitor General. He had been court-martialed and suspended from
the Navy for a year for striking an unruly and insubordinate sailor and
at his request Mr. Taft read the record of the court-martial. Mr. Choate
had been his counsel, but the case was given a great deal of unpleasant
publicity. He displayed such bravery at the Battle of Guantanamo, in
Cuba, that the files he had lost were restored to him. He also rendered
distinguished service in the Philippines, taking over the surrender of
one of Aguinaldo’s generals at Caygayan; and later on, in China, he was
in the van of the allied troops that relieved Peking and was severely
wounded. Being a man of broad intelligence and great enterprise he
appreciated the importance of the Philippine Commission and lost no time
in extending to them all the courtesies at his command.
Shortly after we landed and got ourselves comfortably settled at the
Grand Hotel, an ensign from the _Newark_ came to ask when the Commission
would receive the Admiral. The hour was set for this formality and when
it had been duly disposed of, Captain McCalla called on us unofficially,
with much news for our hungry ears from the big world that we had known
nothing about for eleven long days. That was before the wireless era
when going to sea was really going to sea, and seldom has the world
known a more exciting year than 1900. Grim talk about the terrible Boxer
insurrection was on every tongue and Captain McCalla told us that the
_Newark_ was lying in readiness to proceed to China at an instant’s
notice. The British were just then pressing the Boers northward in South
Africa, and our own troubles in the Philippines were by no means over.
We had nearly seventy thousand troops in the field, and we heard of
decisive engagements between the division under General Young and some
religious fanatic _insurrectos_ in northern Luzon. We found ourselves
feeling very much in touch with big events.
The Commission went out to the _Newark_ to return the Admiral’s call and
when they got back to the hotel they were full of valuable information
and advice about sightseeing in Japan, housekeeping in the Orient and
other important things. Among other bits of news they had to tell their
wives was that we would all probably be received at the Japanese
Court,—which was quite exciting.
My experience is that the most formal branch of the government service
is the naval branch. The state department may be as formal, but I doubt
it. The ceremony on board naval vessels is constant, and the severity of
the penalties for any failure to follow the regulations impresses itself
upon every naval officer. Therefore, every naval officer must have
diplomatic training and must be alert in finding out and in carrying out
the duties of polite intercourse which prevail in every country.
Captain McCalla regarded the Commissioners as pro-consuls going to an
important province, quite equal to the foremost diplomatic
representatives of the United States anywhere, and he thought it was
incumbent upon them to make the fact of their presence in Japan known at
the Imperial Court and to apply for an audience with the Emperor. It
hadn’t occurred to them. Their minds were so full of the weighty
problems confronting them at Manila that they had given no consideration
to any possible intervening formalities, and, anyhow, Mr. Taft said he
thought the Emperor wouldn’t lose much sleep if he did miss seeing them.
But this was not the proper attitude at all, and Captain McCalla,
expostulating with them for their too casual conduct, finally prevailed
upon them to communicate with the American Minister in Tokyo and ask to
have application made for the audience. They were immediately informed
that their arrival had been expected and that the matter had already
been attended to.
[Illustration:
ENTRANCE TO THE IMPERIAL PALACE GARDENS IN TOKYO
]
The Commission had only a week in Japan and, although their purpose in
stopping had been to coal ship and get some clothing suitable for the
tropic heat they were going into, they naturally were anxious to see
something of the country during their stay, so the days were filled with
expeditions around Yokohama and Tokyo and to points of interest nearby.
My sister Maria and I did not accompany them on many of these trips
because we were planning to remain in Japan for the summer and wanted to
view its attractions at our leisure.
The trip to Nikko was made memorable by Mr. Taft’s most triumphal
progress. On account of his unusual proportions he had already been an
object of tremendous interest to the Japanese.
Nikko is nearly a day’s ride from Tokyo, up in the hills to the north,
and when you get there you find that the railway station is a long way
from the hotel and that much of the distance is a steep incline. The
only kind of conveyance available is a jinricksha, and when my husband
climbed into one of these little perambulators the unfortunate coolie to
whom it belonged began to utter strange sounds. He rolled his eyes and
gesticulated frantically until he prevailed upon a second man to help
him in propelling his unaccustomed burden. But even then his excitement
did not abate. As they approached the first rise in the road some of the
villagers along the way, attracted, no doubt, by the coolie’s weird
cries, came out to stare and, as usual, remained to laugh. The little
’ricksha man began chattering and grimacing at all of them and kept it
up until he had enlisted the services of at least half the population of
the village to help him in attaining the crest of the hill.
Two days before the _Hancock_ was to start on her way toward Manila the
great event of our visit to Japan transpired. We had our audience with
the Emperor and Empress.
The first thing the ladies all asked, of course, was, “What shall we
wear?” It was a most important question. I supposed we should have to
wear evening gowns and was congratulating myself that I had a very nice
new one that would do beautifully. But only on the afternoon before the
day appointed, it was decreed that we should appear in high-necked
frocks with trains. That was more difficult,—especially the trains. I
didn’t own an afternoon frock that I considered good enough. I was going
to the tropics and had got a supply of thin white muslins and linens,
but I had nothing that would do for a cold May day in Japan. Mrs.
Wright, Mrs. Worcester and Mrs. Moses were as greatly concerned as I,
but we finally managed. I solved the problem by having a Chinese
dressmaker in Yokohama make me, overnight, a lace guimpe which I wore
with my perfectly acceptable evening gown.
Judge Ide had been particularly interested in the audience and in the
fact that the ladies would also be received and he was very much
chagrined when he found that “the ladies” meant only the wives of the
Commissioners and that he could not take with him his two beautiful
daughters. He quite lost interest in the whole proceeding, and we didn’t
blame him in the least.
The Palace in Tokyo is not a “Forbidden City” literally, as the old
palace in Peking used to be, but it looks from the outside just as
“forbidden,” or more so. It is surrounded by a wide, deep moat which is
crossed at intervals by curved and gracefully balustraded bridges. On
the other side of the moat is a high stone wall. There is nothing of the
palace to be seen except a few low, tiled roofs which peep out from the
midst of many trees. The Imperial gardens are vastly more impressive
than the palaces,—there are several within the walled enclosure,—and I
would have wanted to linger and really look at things if I had not been
so keenly interested in the experience which awaited us. Our carriage
hurried on over the beautiful drives, through the most entrancing little
artificial landscapes, past lakes full of little rock islands on which
were perched tiny pavilions with uptilted roofs and the most beautiful
polished wood and snow-white paper windows. It was all most fascinating
and much too wonderful to be merely glanced at, but it was only a few
moments before we approached a low, grey building and drew up before the
door. It didn’t look at all like a palace, but it seemed that we had
arrived.
We were ushered into a large reception room which was neither Japanese
nor European, but a curious mixture of both. The walls were of gold leaf
and were decorated with beautiful Japanese paintings in exquisitely soft
colourings, but the furniture was mostly of the heavy foreign type. It
was unexpected to say the least and I thought what a pity it was that
the Japanese had not met the European invasion in their own original and
picturesquely beautiful style, instead of trying to conform to western
customs, or rather, to engraft western customs upon their own unique
orientalism. But so it is. They either like our ugly heaviness, or think
they confer a polite compliment on us by adopting it.
We were not kept waiting long. We were separated from the men of our
party and were led into another room, much like the first, where the
Empress awaited us attended by three or four ladies of her court. We
curtseyed very low, not without difficulty on the part of most of us in
spite of much practice, and after receiving a gracious smile and bow
from Her Majesty, we were able to stand erect and observe her at our
leisure. Both she and her ladies-in-waiting were dressed in European
costume which made them look much smaller than they would have looked in
their own beautiful _kimonos_. Her Majesty’s face was sweet and almost
timid looking, and her voice was peculiarly gentle. Our conversation,
carried on through an interpreter, was commonplace in the extreme, but
her manner was pleasant and cordial. I was tremendously interested
because I had been reading Japanese history and was duly impressed with
the hoary antiquity of this court of the Son of Heaven. The Empress
addressed a few remarks to each of us, after which we curtseyed again
and retired. That was all.
Our husbands were received in a similar manner by the Emperor, though
His Majesty granted a separate interview to each of them. Mr. Taft
entered first with the Minister of the Household in charge of the
ceremony. He bowed when he entered the door, bowed again half way up the
long room, and yet again when he arrived before the Emperor. The others,
also bowing, followed close behind but remained just outside of the
audience chamber while my husband’s audience was in progress. Mr.
Nagasaki, who acted as interpreter, said that His Majesty was very much
pleased to see the Commission in Japan. Mr. Taft expressed his
appreciation of the audience. The Emperor asked if he had ever been in
Japan before. He said he had not. The Emperor asked when he was going to
leave Japan. He replied, “In two days, Your Majesty.” After which this,
his first audience with the Mikado, was at an end and he left the
chamber while the rest of the Commissioners, each in his turn, went
through the same ceremony.
After our husbands had been received by the Empress also, they rejoined
us and we were conducted through some other rooms in the palace which
interested us greatly. They all showed a curious mingling of Japanese
and European objects of art and nobody could see them without deciding
that, in that particular setting at least, the Japanese objects were far
the more beautiful.
The Japanese Court is much inclined to imitate things European and the
results are sometimes astonishing. Years later, when my husband was in
Japan without me, the Empress presented him with a tapestry for me which
had been copied from a Gobelin piece. It represented the meeting of
Columbus and Isabella, and, it shows the most exquisite workmanship, but
the faces have a curiously Oriental cast.
There is a story in connection with this tapestry which I think I must
tell. My husband was Secretary of War when it was presented to me; and I
say me with emphasis, because thereby hangs the story. He brought it
home and displayed it with great pride and satisfaction, but it was so
enormous and, from my standpoint, so useless, that I rather protested
and wondered why, as long as he was getting such a gorgeous present he
couldn’t have managed in some way to make its size correspond with my
circumstances.
“Oh, well,” said he, “never mind. I’m going to present it to the
Smithsonian Institute anyway, because you know, my dear, it is against
the Constitution for an official in the United States government to
accept any kind of favours from foreign courts.”
This was not the first time in my life that I had met the Constitution
face to face, but theretofore I had been able to accept its decrees with
what I had hoped was patriotic resignation. But now that tapestry
suddenly became to me a most desirable thing. It had been sent to me by
the Empress of Japan and I wanted to enjoy the mere possession of it,—at
least for awhile. So, as my husband would say, I took the question up
with him. I tried to convince him that I was not an official of the
United States government and that he, as an official, had nothing
whatever to do with my present from the Empress of Japan. He stood
firmly by the Constitution, as usual, and eventually I had to submit the
question for arbitration to President Roosevelt, who agreed with me that
I was a private citizen and had a perfect right to accept the gift. I
afterward hung it in one of the big wall spaces in the state dining-room
of the White House and had the pleasure of watching many a guest vainly
endeavouring to locate its origin and figure out its meaning.
We concluded our first audience at the court of Japan by signing our
names in the Imperial album, after which we went to the American
Legation to a beautiful luncheon which the Minister had arranged in our
honour. Our Minister in Tokyo then—it was some years before the Legation
was raised to an Embassy—was Mr. Buck of Georgia, a most affable and
agreeable gentleman. He had invited a number of his diplomatic
colleagues to meet us and, among others, we met for the first time Baron
and Baroness Rosen, of the Russian Legation, who were afterward with us
in Washington.
I sat on the right of the Minister and next to Baron Sanomiya, the Court
Chamberlain, who had conducted our audience. I was greatly interested in
Baron Sanomiya’s wife. She was an Englishwoman at least twice his size.
At Mr. Taft’s request the Minister had invited an old classmate of his,
Baron Tajiri Inajiro. At Yale he was known as Tajiri, and the first two
letters of both their names being “Ta” he and my husband had been
brought together in the classroom, seated alphabetically, and had
enjoyed a pleasant association. So Mr. Taft looked forward with great
pleasure to renewing the acquaintance in Japan. Baron Tajiri, like most
Japanese, was a little man, and his teeth were so formed that he was
never able to master the pronunciation of English in such a way as to
enable one to understand him easily. But he seems to have acquired at
Yale a sound knowledge of business and finance since he became Assistant
Minister of Finance under Yamagata and had taken an active part in the
change of the Japanese currency from the silver to the gold standard,
which was a great step in Japan’s progress toward a place among the
world’s powers. He had been made a life peer and sat in the Upper House.
At the luncheon he wore a frock coat which Mr. Taft felt confident he
recognised as an old college friend of the ‘seventies. In those days the
Japanese wore their “foreign clothes” only on “foreign occasions” or at
court. They kept them carefully folded up and put away, and they had not
yet come to recognise the desirability of pressing them when they took
them out for use. Also a silk hat once was a silk hat always; vintages
didn’t trouble them, and they didn’t mind in the least which way the nap
was brushed.
[Illustration:
© Harris S. Ewing.
THE STATE DINING-ROOM OF THE WHITE HOUSE, SHOWING TAPESTRY PRESENTED
TO MRS. TAFT BY THE EMPRESS OF JAPAN
]
Baron Tajiri wanted to be appointed Minister of Finance when Yamagata
retired, but he was put, instead, at the head of the Board of Audits, a
life position. Marchioness, now Princess Oyama, wife of the Field
Marshal, told my husband this on the occasion of his second visit to
Japan, and said that the disappointment had made Tajiri very much of a
recluse. In any case, Mr. Taft has never seen him again, although he has
tried to seek him out and has made inquiry about him every time he has
been in Japan.
We were very much interested in our Legation at Tokyo. It was the first
one we had ever seen that the American government owned. The house was
not what it ought to have been, but it was surrounded by spacious and
beautifully kept grounds and was so much better than the nothing that we
have in other countries that we liked to dwell upon it as an honourable
exception to the disgraceful and miserly policy pursued by Congress in
dealing with our representatives to foreign capitals.
Mrs. Wright, with her daughter Katrina, had decided to remain with us in
Yokohama for the summer, so we took a cottage together on The Bluff, a
high foreign residence section of the city, and prepared to make
ourselves most comfortable.
Two days later the Commissioners and the rest of the party went aboard
the _Hancock_ and we waved them good-bye from a harbour launch as they
steamed away toward Manila.