Okura was sent to me by Jack Owen, a friend of mine in Japan. Jack said
that Okura was taking two years off to study democracy, and would I
steer him around. I was delighted. I offered Okura his choice of the
great democratic scene, with myself as obedient personal conductor. He
was very nice about it in his perfect silver-and-gray manner, and he
asked if we could begin with Newport. I suspected a joke, but his eye
never twinkled, and so to Newport we went.
The dirty little Newport railway station interested Okura. So did the
choked throat of Thames Street, with its mad crush of motors and
delivery wagons and foot passengers, and the riotous journey from the
meat market to the book shop and from the chemist's to the Boston Store.
I explained to Okura that this was not really Newport, only a small
sample of the ordinary shopping country town, with the real
exquisiteness of Newport tucked away behind. Okura clucked an acceptance
of this remark, and our car wove its difficult way through the narrow
lane till we returned to Bellevue Avenue.
The name Bellevue Avenue had to be expounded to Okura. He expected a
belle vue, not a good plain plutocratic American street. When I told him
what to expect, however, he was intensely occupied with its exhibition
of assorted architecture, and he broke into open comment. "So very
charming!" he cried politely. "So like postcards of Milwaukee by the
lake!" I enjoyed his naive enthusiasm and let it go.
He wanted to know who lived on the avenue, and I told him all the names
I could think of. He had heard many of them, the samurai of America
being known to him as a matter of course, and he picked up new crumbs of
information with obvious gratitude.
"Vanderbilt? Oh, yes." That was old. So were Astor and Belmont.
After a while Okura wrinkled his brow. "I do not see the McAlpin
mansion."
"The McAlpins? I have never heard of them," I murmured indulgently.
"But that is one name I think I remember correctly," Okura answered with
visible anxiety. "The Bellevue-Astors, the Bellevue-Belmonts, the
Bellevue-Stratfords? Please forgive me, I do not understand. Are not the
McAlpins also Bellevue-McAlpins?"
It was hard to convince Okura that this was not a Valhalla of hotel
proprietors, but at last he got it straight. We went back again as far
as the Casino, and I took him in to see the tennis tournament.
Unknown to Okura, I was forced to take seats up rather far--well, to be
frank, among the Jamestown and Saunderstown people. But happily we had
Newport in the boxes right below us. Some of the ladies sat facing the
tennis, some sat with their backs to it, and a great buzz of
conversation reverberated under the roof of the stand and billowed on to
the court. On the court two young men strove against each other with a
skill hardly to be matched in any other game, and occasionally, when
something eccentric or sensational happened, a ripple passed through the
crowd. But the applause was irregular. People had to be watched and
pointed out. It was important to note which human oyster bore the
largest pearl. The method of entry and exit was significant, and
significant the whole ritual of being politely superior to the game.
Okura was fascinated by the game, unfortunately, and there was so much
conversation he was rather distracted.
"I hope it does not annoy you?" I asked him.
"Oh, not at all, thank you very much. It is so democratic!"
At this point the umpire got off his perch, and came forward to entreat
the fine ladies.
"I have asked you before to keep quiet," he wailed. "For God's sake,
will you stop talking?"
"How very interesting," murmured Okura.
"Yes," I said, "the religious motif."
"Ah, yes!" he nodded, very gravely.
Later on his compatriot Kumagae was to play, and we decided to return to
the tournament; but first we took ourselves to Bailey's Beach.
Bailey's Beach is a small section of the Atlantic littoral famous for
its seaweed. The seaweed is of a lovely dark red color. It is swept in
in large quantities, together with stray pieces of melon-rind and other
picnic remnants, and it forms a thick, juicy carpet through which one
wades out to the more fluid sea. By this attractive marge sit the ladies
in their wide hats and dresses of filmy lace, watching the more
adventurous sex pick his way out of the vegetable matter. In the
pavilion of the bathhouses sit still less adventurous groups.
It took some time to explain to Okura why this beach, once devoted to
the collection of seaweed for manure, should now be dedicated to
bathing. But he grasped the main point, that it was a private beach.
"Forgive me," he said, "I see no Jews."
"That's all right," I answered. "You are studying democracy. There are
no Jews here. None allowed."
"Oh!" he digested the fact. Then his eye brightened. "Ah, you have your
geisha girls at the swim-beach. How very charming!"
"No," I corrected him. "Those are not our geisha girls. That is the
'shimmy set.' You know: people who are opposed to the daylight saving
act and the prohibition amendment."
"Oh, I understand. Republicans," he nodded happily.
As the Servants' Hour was approaching at Bailey's Beach, and as I had no
good explanation to give of it to Okura, I thought we might walk along
by the ocean before lunch. Okura was entranced by the walk, and by the
fact that it ran in front of these private houses, free to the public as
to the wind. Once or twice we went down below stone walls, with
everything above hidden from us, but this was exceptional. Okura thought
the walk a fine example of essential democracy.
"And what are those long tubes?" he asked, as we gazed out toward
Portugal.
"Sewer pipes," I said bluntly, looking at the great series of excretory
organs that these handsome democratic mansions pushed into the sea.
"Are they considered beautiful?" asked Okura.
"Quite," I told him. "They are one of the features provided strictly for
the public."
"So kind!" said the acquiescent Japanese.
We went to lunch with a friend of mine whose plutocracy was not entirely
intact, and but for one instructive incident it was an ordinary
civilized meal. That incident, however, shall live long in my memory
because of my inability to interpret it to Okura.
We had just finished melon, the six of us who sat down, when the third
man was called to the telephone.
He came back, napkin in hand, and said to his hostess, "I'm awfully
sorry, I've got to leave."