facing the guests. An elder of the church arose and with a
solemnity befitting a burial, read a sermon on domestic happiness
and some forty or fifty congratulatory telegrams. After an hour or
so of this and several speeches, cake was passed around, and it was
over. At the maid's request I gave her an "American watch with a
good engine in it" and my blessing with much love in it, and went
back to work. Do not for a minute imagine that because I am not a
regularly ordained missionary-sister, that I am not working. The
fact is, Mate, the missionaries are still afflicted with the work
habit, and so subtle is its cheerful influence, it weaves a spell
over all who come near. No matter what your private belief is, you
roll up your sleeves and pitch right in when you see them at it,
and you put all your heart in it and thank the Lord for the
opportunity to help.
The fun begins at 5:30 in the morning, to the merry clang of a
brazen bell, and it keeps right on till 6 P.M. For fear of getting
rusty before sunrise, some of the teachers have classes at night.
I would rather have rest. I am too tired, then, to think.
I have put away all my vanity clothes. No need for them in
Hiroshima and in an icy room on a winter's morning, I do not stop
to think whether my dress has an in-curve or an out-sweep. I fall
into the first thing I find and finish buttoning it when the family
fire in the dining-room is reached. A solitary warming-spot to a
big house is one of the luxuries of missionary life.
In between times I 've been cheering up the home sickest young
Swede that ever got loose from his native heath. So firmly did he
believe that Japan was a land where necessity for work doth not
corrupt nor the thief of pleasure break through and steal, he gave
up a good position at home and signed a three-years' contract with
an oil firm. Now he is so sorry, all the pink has gone out of his
cheeks. Until he grows used to the thought that living where the
Sun flag floats is not a continuous holiday, the teachers here at
school take turns in making life livable for him.
His entertainment means tramps of miles into the country, sails on
the lovely Ujina Bay and climbs over the mountains. In the
afternoon the boy is so in evidence, we almost fall over him if we
step. Yesterday in desperation I tied an apron on him and let him
help me make a cake. Even at that, with a dab of chocolate on his
cheek and flour on his nose, his summer sky eyes were weepy
whenever he spoke of his "Mutter." I have done everything for him
except lend him my shoulder to weep on. It may come to that.
There is hope, however. One of our teachers is young and pretty.
Jack, in a much delayed epistle, tells me thrilling and awful
things about the plague; says he walks through what was once a
prosperous village, and now there is not a live dog to wag a
friendly tail. Every house and hovel tenantless. Often unfinished
meals on the table and beds just as the occupants left them. A
great pit near by full of ashes and bones tells the story of the
plague come to town, leaving silent, empty houses, and the
dust-laden winds as the only mourners.
The native doctors gave a splendid banquet the other night. With
the visiting doctors in full array of evening dress and
decorations. Jack says it looked like a big international flag
draped around the table. Everybody made a speech and Jack has not
stopped yet shooting off fireworks in honor of that Englishwoman.
Well, maybe _I_ should have studied science. It is too late now.
Besides, I have Uncle on my hands, and I have to commit to memory
pages on color printing that run like this: "Fine as a single hair
or swelling imperceptibly till it becomes a broken play of light
and shade or a mass of solid black, it still flows, unworried and
without hesitation on its appointed course."
Sada San is coining down nest week. I am looking forward to it
with great delight and hunting for a plan whereby I can help her.
Suppose Uncle should give me a glad surprise and come too!
HIROSHIMA.
_My dear Best Girl_:
If ever a sailor needed a compass, I need the level head that tops
your loving heart. I am worried hollow-eyed and as useless as a
brass turtle.
It has been days since I heard from Jack. When he last wrote, he
was going to some remote district out from Mukden. I dare not
think what might happen to him. Says he must travel to the very
source of the trouble.
If Jack really wanted trouble he could find it nearer home. Is n't
it like him, though, with his German education, to hunt a thing to
its lair? I suppose when next I hear from him, he will have
disappeared into some marmot hole at the foot of a tree in a
Siberian forest.
Sada is here. A pale shadow of her former radiant self. She is in
deadly fear of what Uncle has written he expects of her when she
returns.
For the first few days of her visit, she was like an escaped
prisoner. She played and sang with the girls. The joy of her
laughter was contagious. Everybody fell a victim to her gaiety.
We have been on picnics up the river in a sampan where we waded and
fished, then landed on an island of bamboo and fern and cooked our
dinner over a _hibachi_. We have had concerts, tableaux and
charades, here at the school, with a big table for the stage and a
silver moon and a green mosquito-net for the scenery.
In every pastime or pleasure, Sada San has been the moving spirit.
Adorably girlish and winning in her innocent joy, I grow faint to
think of the rude awakening.
She has talked much of Miss West and their life together; their
work and simple pleasures.
To the older woman she poured out unmeasured affection, fresh and
sweet. Susan made a flower garden of the girl's heart, where, if
even a tiny weed sprouted it was coaxed into a blossom. But she
gave no warning of the savage storms that might come and lay the
garden waste.
Well, I 'm holding a prayer-meeting a minute that the rosy ideals
of the visionary teacher will hold fast when the wind begins to
blow.
I found Sada one day on the bed, a crumpled heap of woe; white and
shaking with tearless sobs. Anxious to shield her from the
persistent friendliness of the girls, I persuaded her to come with
me to the old Prince's garden, just back of the school.
She had heard from Uncle. For the first time he definitely stated
his plans. Hara, the rich man, had sent to him a proposal of
marriage for Sada! Of course, said Uncle, such an offer from so
prosperous and prominent a man must be accepted without hesitation.
It was wonderful luck for any girl, said dear Mura, especially one
of her birth. Nothing further would be done until she returned,
and he wished that to be at once.
Not a suggestion of feeling or sentiment; not a word as to Sada's
wishes or rights. If these were mentioned to him, he would
undoubtedly reply that the rights in the matter were all his. As
to feelings, a young girl had no business with such things. His
voice would be courteous, his manner of saying it would fairly
puncture the air.
His letter was simply a cold business statement for the sale of the
girl. When I looked at the misery in her young eyes, I could
joyfully have throttled him and stamped upon him. I wished for a
dentist's grinding machine and the chance to bore a nice big hole
into each one of his white, even teeth.
She knows nothing of the man Hara except that he is coarse and
drinks heavily. The girls in the tea-house always seemed afraid
when he came. Vague whispers of his awful life had come to her.
What was she to do? She had no money, no place to go, and Uncle
was the only relative she had in the world.
Mate, I heard a missionary speak a profound truth, when he said
that no Japanese would ever be worth while till all his relatives
were dead. Their power is a chain forged around individual freedom.
She had such loving thoughts of Uncle, Sada sobbed, before she
came. She longed to make his home happy and be one of his people.
She loved the beautiful country of her mother and craved its
friendship.
Miss West had drilled it into her conscience that marriage was
holy, and impossible without love. (Bless you, Susan!) She wanted
to do her duty, but she _could not_ marry this man whom she had
never seen but once, and had never spoken to.
She knew the absolute power the law of the land gave Uncle over
her. She knew the uselessness of a Japanese girl struggling
against the rigid rules laid down by her elders. She knew
resistance might bring punishment. Well, Mate, I do not care ever
to see again such a look as was in Sada's eyes as she turned her
set face to me and forced through her stiff lips a stony, "I
won't!" But I thanked God for all the Susan Wests and their
teachings.
In spite of the girl's unhappiness, there was a thrill in the
region of my heart. Of her own free will Sada San had decided.
Now there was something definite to work upon. In the back of my
brain a plan was beginning to form. Hope glimmered like a
Jack-o'-lantern.
It was late evening. A flaming sunset flushed the sky and bathed
the ancient garden of arched bridges and twisted trees in a pinkish
haze. The very shadows spelled romance and poetry. It was wise to
use the charm of the hour for the beginning of my plan.
I drew Sada down beside me, as we sat in a queer little play-house
by the garden lake.
In olden times it had been the rest place of the Prince Asano, when
he was specially moved to write poetry to the moon as it floated
up, a silver ball in a navy-blue sky over "Three Umbrella
Mountain." Had his ghost been strolling along then, it would have
found deeper things than, "in the sadness of the moon night beholds
the fading blossom of the heart," to fill his thoughts.
I led the girl to tell me much of her life in Nebraska; of her
friends and their amusements. Hers had been the usual story of any
fresh wholesome girl. The social life in a small town had limited
her experiences, but had kept her deliciously naive and sweet.
For the first time in our talks, she avoided Billy's name. I
hailed it as a beautiful sign. I mentioned William myself and
delighted in her red-cheeked confusion. I gently asked her to tell
me of him.
She and Billy had gone to school together, played together and he
always seemed like a big brother to her. Once a boy had called her
a half-breed and Billy promptly knocked him down and sat on his
head while he manipulated a shingle.
Another time when they were quite small, the desire of her heart
was to ride on the tricycle of a rich little boy who lived across
the street. But the pampered youth jeered at her pleadings and
exultingly rode up and down before her. Billy saw and bided his
time till the small Croesus was alone. He nabbed him, chucked him
in a chicken-coop and stood guard for an hour while Sada rode
gloriously.
Through college they were comrades and rivals. Billy had to work
his way, for he was the poor son of an invalid mother. From
college he had gone straight to a firm of rich manufacturers and
was now one of the big buyers.
He had pleaded with her not to come to Japan. He loved her. He
wanted her. When she had persisted, he was furious and they had
quarreled. But she had thought she was right, then; she did not
know how dear Billy was, how big and splendid. She had written to
him but seldom, nothing of her disappointment. Maybe he had
married. She could not write now. It would be too much like
begging, when she was at bay, for the love she had refused when all
was well. No, she _could not_ tell him.
We talked long and earnestly in that old garden, and the wind that
sifted through the pine-needles and the waxy leaves was as gentle
as if the spirit of Susan West had come to watch and to bless.
I gained a half promise from her that she would write to Billy at
once, but I didn't stop there.
Unsuspected by Sada I learned his full address, and Mate, I wrote a
letter to the auburn-haired lover in Nebraska, in which I painted a
picture that is going to cause something to happen, else I am
mistaken in my estimate of the spirit of the West in general and
William Weston Milton in particular.
I told him if he loved the girl to come as fast as steam would
bring him; that I would help him at the risk of anything, though I
have no idea how. I have just returned from a solitary promenade
to the post-office through the dark and lonely streets, so that
letter will catch to-morrow's American mail.
Sada told me that for some reason she had never mentioned Billy's
name to Uncle. Now isn't that a full hand nestling up my
half-sleeve? Uncle thinks the way clear as an empty race-track,
and all he has to do is to saunter down the home stretch and gather
in the prize-money.
Any scruple on the girl's part will be relentlessly and carelessly
brushed aside as a bothersome insect. If she persists, there is
always force. He fears nothing from me. I am a foreigner--from
his standpoint too crudely frank to be clever.
He doubtless argues, if he gives it any thought, that if I could I
would not dare interfere. And then I am so absorbed in
color-prints! So I am, and, I pray Heaven, in some way to his
undoing. The child has no other friend. Shrinkingly she told me
of her one attempt to make friends with some high-class people, and
the uncompromising rebuff she had received upon their discovering
she was an Eurasian. The pure aristocrats seldom lower the social
bars to those of mixed blood. I wonder, Mate, if the ghost of
failure, who was her father, could see the inheritance of
inevitable suffering he has left his child, what his message would
be to those who would recklessly dare a like marriage?
Sada goes to Kioto in the morning. She promises not to show
resistance, but to keep quiet and alert, writing me at every
opportunity.
I am sure Uncle's delight in securing so rich a prize as Hara will
burst forth in a big wedding-feast and many rich clothes for the
trousseau. I hope so. Preparation will take time. I would rather
gain time than treasure.
I put Sada to bed. Tucked her in and cuddled her to sleep as if
she had been my own daughter.
There she lies now. Her face startlingly white against the mass of
black hair. The only sign of her troubled day is a frequent
half-sob and the sadness of her mouth, which is constantly reading
the riot act to her laughing eyes in the waking hours.
Poor girl! She is only one of many whose hopes wither like
rose-leaves in a hot sun when met by authority in the form of
tyrannical relatives.
The arched sky over the mountain of "Two Leaves" is all a-shimmer
with the coming day. Thatched roof and bamboo grove are daintily
etched against the amber dawn. Lights begin to twinkle and thrifty
tradesmen cheerfully call their wares.
It is a land of peace, a country and people of wondrous charm, but
incomprehensible is the spirit of some of the laws that rule its
daughters.
_Mate dear_:
One of my girls, when attached with the blues, invariably says in
her written apology for a poor lesson, "Please excuse my frivolous
with your imagination, for my heart is warmly." So say I.
I am sending you the crepes and the kimono you asked for. Write
for something else. I want an excuse to spend another afternoon in
the two-by-four shop, with a play-garden attached, that should be
under a glass case in a jewelry store. The proprietor gives me a
tea-party and tells me a few of his troubles every time I go to his
store. Formerly he kept two shops exclusively for hair ornaments
and ribbons.
He did a thriving trade with schoolgirls. Recently an order went
out from the mighty maker of school laws to the effect that
lassies, high and low, must not indulge in such foolish
extravagances as head ornaments. The ribbon market went to smash.
The old man could not give his stock away. He stored his goods and
went to selling high-priced crepes, which everybody was permitted
to wear. Make another request quickly. I would rather shop than
think.
Also, if you need any information as to how to run a
cooking-school, I will enclose it with the next package.
Since the war, scores of Japanese women are wild to learn foreign
cooking. On inquiry as to the reason of such enthusiasm, we found
it was because their husbands, while away from home, had acquired a
taste for Occidental dainties. Now their wives want to know all
about them so they can set up opposition in their homes to the many
tea-houses which offer European food as an extra attraction. And
depend upon it, if the women start to learn, they stick to it till
there is nothing more to know on the subject.
I was to furnish the knowledge and the ladies the necessary
utensils, but I guess I forgot to mention everything we might need.
The first thing we tried was biscuit. All went well until the time
came for baking. I asked for a pan. A pan? What kind of a pan?
Would a wash pan do? No, if it was all the same I would rather
have a flat pan with a rim. Certainly! Here it was with a rim and
a handle! A shiny dust-pan greeted my eyes. Well, there was not
very much difference in the taste of the biscuit.
The prize accomplishment so far has been pies. Our skill has not
only brought us fame, but the city is in the throes of a pie
epidemic. A few days ago when the old Prince of the Ken came to
visit his Hiroshima home, the cooking-ladies, after a few days'
consultation, decided that in no better way could royalty be
welcomed than by sending him a lemon pie. They sent two creamy
affairs elaborately decorated with meringued Fujis. They were the
hit of the season. The old gentleman wrote a poem about them
saying he ate one and was keeping the other to take back to his
country home when he returned a month hence. Then he sent us all a
present.
We have had only one catastrophe. In a moment of reckless
adventure my pupils tried a pound cake without a recipe. A pound
cake can be nothing else but what it says. That meant a pound of
everything and Japanese soda is doubly strong. That was a week ago
and we have not been able to stay in the room since.
Good-by! The tailless pink cat and the purple fish with the pale
blue eyes are for the kiddies.
I am inclosing an original recipe sent in by Miss Turtle Swamp of
Clear Water Village:
Cake.
1 cup of _Desecrated_ coconut
5 cup flowers
1 small spoon and barmilla [vanilla]
3 eggs skinned and whipped
1 cup sugar
Stir and pat in pan to cook.
HIROSHIMA, December, 1911.
_Mate_:
I would be ashamed to tell you how long it is between Jack's
letters. He says the activity of the revolutionists in China is
seriously interfering with traffic of every kind. All right, let
it go at that! Now he has gone way up north of Harbin. In the
name of anything why cannot he be satisfied? England is with him.
I do not know who also is in the party. Neither do I care. I do
not like it a little bit. Jealous? The idea. Just plain furious.
I am no more afraid of Jack falling in love with another woman than
I am of Saturn making Venus a birthday present of one of his rings.
The trouble is she may fall in love with him, and it is altogether
unnecessary for any other woman to get her feelings disturbed over
Jack.
I fail to see the force of his argument that it is not safe nor
wise for any woman in that country, and yet for him to show wild
enthusiasm over the presence of the Britisher. No, Jack has lost
his head over intellect. It may take a good sharp blow for him to
realize that intellect, pure and simple, is an icy substitute for
love. Like most men he is so deadly sure of one, he is taking a
holiday with the other.
Of course you are laughing at me. So would Jack. And both would
say it is unworthy. That's just it. It is the measly little
unworthies that nag one to desperation. Besides, Mate, I shrink
from any more trouble, any more heart-aches as I would from names.
The terror of the by-gone years creeps over me and covers the
present like a pall.
There is only one thing left to do. Work. Work and dig, till
there is not an ounce of strength left for worry. I stay in the
kindergarten every available minute. The unstinted friendship of
the kiddies over there, is the heart's-ease for so many of life's
hurts.
There are always the long walks, when healing and uplift of spirit
can be found in the beauty of the country. I tramp away all alone.
The little Swede begs often to go. At first I rather enjoyed him.
But he is growing far too affectionate. I am not equal to caring
for two young things; a broken-hearted girl and a homesick fat boy
are too much for me. He is improving so rapidly I think it better
for him to talk love stories and poetry to some one more
appreciative. I am not in a very poetical mood. He might just as
well talk to the pretty young teacher as to talk about her all the
time.
I have scores of friends up and down the many country roads I
travel. The boatmen on the silvery river, who always wave their
head rags in salute, the women hoeing in the fields with babies on
their backs, stop long enough to say good day and good luck. The
laughing red-cheeked coolie girls pause in their work of driving
piles for the new bridge to have a little talk about the wonders of
a foreigner's head. With bated breath they watch while I give them
proof that my long hatpins do not go straight through my skull.
The sunny greetings of multitudes of children lift the shadows from
the darkest day, and always there is the glorious scenery; the
shadowed mystery of the mountains, a turquoise sky, the blossoms
and bamboo. The brooding spirit of serenity soon envelops me, and
in its irresistible charm is found a tender peace.
On my way home, in the river close to shore, is a crazy little
tea-house. It is furnished with three mats and a paper lantern.
The pretty hostess, fresh and sweet from her out-of-door life,
brings me rice, tea and fresh eel. She serves it with such
gracious hospitality it makes my heart warm. While I eat, she
tells me stories of the river life. I am learning about the social
life of families of fish and their numerous relatives that sport in
the "Thing of Substance River"; the habits of the red-headed wild
ducks which nest near; of the god and goddesses who rule the river
life, the pranks they play, the revenge they take. And, too, I am
learning a lesson in patience through the lives of the humble
fishermen. In season seven cents a day is the total of their
earnings. At other times, two cents is the limit. On this they
manage to live and laugh and raise a family. It is all so simple
and childlike, so free from pretension, hurry and rush. Sometimes
I wonder if it is not we, with our myriad interests, who have
strayed from the real things of life.
On my road homeward, too, there is a crudely carved Buddha. He is
so altogether hideous, they have put him in a cage of wooden slats.
On certain days it is quite possible to try your fortune, by buying
a paper prayer from the priest at the temple, chewing it up and
throwing it through the cage at the image. If it sticks you will
be lucky.
My aim was not straight or luck was against me to-day. My prayers
are all on the floor at the feet of the grinning Buddha.
Jack is in Siberia and Uncle has Sada. I have not heard from her
since she left. I am growing truly anxious.
January, 1912.
_Dearest Mate_:
At last I have a letter from Jack. Strange to say I am about as
full of enthusiasm over the news he gives me as a thorn-tree is of
pond-lilies.
He says he has something like a ton of notes and things on the
various stunts of the bubonic germ in Manchuria when it is feeling
fit and spry. But he is seized with a conviction that he must go
somewhere in northwest China where he thinks there is happy
hunting-ground of evidence which will verify his report to the
Government. Suppose the next thing I hear he will be chasing
around the outer rim of the old world hunting for somebody to
verify the Government.
There is absolutely no use of my trying to say the name of the
place he has started for. Even when written it looks too wicked to
pronounce. It is near the Pass that leads into the Gobi Desert.
Jack wrote me to go to Shanghai and he would join me later. I am
writing him that I can't start till the fate of Sada San is settled
for better or for worse.
NANKOW, CHINA. February, 1912.
_Mate_:
News of Jack's desperate illness came to me ten days ago and has
laid waste my heart as the desert wind blasts life. I have been
flying to him as fast as boat and train and cart will take me.
The second wire reached me in Peking last night. Jack has typhus
fever and the disease is nearing the crisis. I have read the
message over and over, trying to read between the lines some faint
glimmer of hope; but I can get no comfort from the noncommittal
words except the fact that Jack is still alive. I am on my way to
the terminus of the railroad, from where the message was sent. I
came this far by train, only to find all regular traffic stopped by
order of the Government. The line may be needed for the escape of
the Imperial Family from Peking if the Palace is threatened by the
revolutionists.