YOKOHAMA—CONTINUED
In the Settlement, back of the main street, the Chinese have an
ill-smelling corner to themselves. Their greasy walls and dirty floors
affront the dainty doll dwellings across the creek, and the airy little
box of a tea-house, whose lanterns swing at the top of the perpendicular
bluff behind them. Vermilion paper, baggy clothes, pigtails, harsh
voices, and vile odors reign in this Chinatown. The names on the signs
are curiosities in themselves, and Cock Eye, tailor, Ah Nie and Wong
Fai, ladies’ tailors, are the Poole, Worth, and Felix of the foreign
community. Only one Japanese has a great reputation as dress-maker, but
the whole guild is moderately successful, and prices are so low that the
British and French houses of Yokohama cannot compete with them.
There is a large joss-house near the Chinese consulate, and at their
midsummer, autumn, and New-year’s festivals the Celestials hold a
carnival of lanterns, fire-crackers, incense, paper-flowers, varnished
pigs, and cakes. The Japanese do not love these canny neighbors, and
half the strictures of the passport laws are designed to limit their
hold on the business of the country. The Chinese are the stronger and
more aggressive people, the hard-headed financiers of the East, handling
all the money that circulates this side of India. In every bank Chinese
shroffs, or experts, test the coins and make the actual payments over the
counters. The money-changers are Chinese, and every business house has
its Chinese _compradore_ or superintendent, through whom all contracts
and payments are made. The Chinaman has the methodical, systematic
brain, and no convulsion of nature or commerce makes him lose his head,
as the charmingly erratic, artistic, and polite Japanese does. In many
foreign households in Japan a Chinese butler, or head boy, rules the
establishment; but while his silent, unvarying, clock-like service
leaves nothing undone, the attendance of the bright-faced, amiable, and
exuberant little natives with their smiles, their matchless courtesy, and
their graceful and everlasting bowing is far more agreeable.
Homura temple, whose stone embankments and soaring roof rise just
across the creek, is generally the first Buddhist sanctuary seen by the
tourist coming from American shores. Every month it has its _matsuri_,
or festival, but sparrows are always twittering in the eaves, children
playing about the steps, and devout ones tossing their coppers in on
the mats, clapping their hands and pressing their palms together while
they pray. One of the most impressive scenes ever witnessed there was
the funeral of its high-priest, when more than a hundred _bonzes_, or
priests, came from neighboring temples to assist in the long ceremonies,
and sat rigid in their precious brocade vestments, chanting the ritual
and the sacred verse. The son, who succeeded to the father’s office by
inheritance, had prepared for the rites by days of fasting, and, pale,
hollow-eyed, but ecstatic, burned incense, chanted, and in the white
robes of a mourner bore the mortuary tablets from the temple to the
tomb. Homura’s commercial hum was silenced when the train of priests
in glittering robes, shaded by enormous red umbrellas, wound down the
long terrace steps and out between the rows of tiny shops to the distant
graveyard. Yet after it the crowd closed in, barter and sale went on,
jinrikishas whirled up and down, and pattering women and toddling
children fell into their places in the tableaux which turn Homura’s
chief street into one endless panorama of Japanese lower-class life.
Half-way up one of the steep roads, climbing from Homura to the Bluff,
is the famous silk store of Tenabe Gengoro, with its dependent tea-house
of Segiyama, best known of all tea-houses in Japan, and rendezvous for
the wardroom officers of the fleets of all nations, since Tenabe’s uncle
gave official welcome to Commodore Perry. When a war-ship is in port, the
airy little lantern-hung houses continuously send out the music of the
_koto_ and the _samisen_, the banjo, bones, and zither, choruses of song
and laughter, and the measured hand-clapping that proclaims good cheer
in Japan. Tenabe herself has now lost the perfect bloom and beauty of
her younger days, but with her low, silver-sweet voice and fascinating
manner, she remains the most charming woman in all Japan. In these
days Tenabe presides over the silk store only, leaving her sisters to
manage the fortunes of the tea-house. Tenabe speaks English, French, and
Russian; never forgets a face, a name, or an incident; and if you enter,
after an absence of many years, she will surely recognize you, serve
you sweets and thimble-cups of pale yellow tea, and say _dozo, dozo_,
“please, please,” with grace incomparable and in accents unapproachable.
Both living and travelling are delightfully easy in Japan, and no
hardships are encountered in the ports or on the great routes of travel.
Yokohama has excellent hotels; the home of the foreign resident may be
Queen Anne, or Colonial, if he like, and the markets abound in meats,
fish, game, fruits, and vegetables at very low prices. Imported supplies
are dear because of the cost of transportation. Besides the fruits of
our climates, there are the _biwa_, or loquat, and the delicious _kaké_,
or Japanese persimmon. Natural ice is brought from Hakodate; artificial
ice is made in all the ports, the Japanese being as fond of iced drinks
as Americans. Three daily English newspapers, weekly mails to London and
New York, three great cable routes, electric lights, breweries, gas,
and water-works add utilitarian comfort to ideal picturesqueness. The
summers are hot, but instead of our eccentric variations of temperature,
the mercury stands at 80°, 85°, and 90° from July to September. With the
fresh monsoon blowing steadily, that heat is endurable, however, and
the nights are comfortable. June and September are the two _nyubai_, or
rainy seasons, when everything is damp, clammy, sticky, and miserable.
In May, heavy clothing is put away in sealed receptacles, even gloves
being placed in air-tight glass or tin, to preserve them from the ruinous
mildew. While earthquakes are frequent, Japan enjoys the same immunity
from thunder-storms as our Pacific Coast.
There is no servant problem, and house-keeping is a delight. Both Chinese
and Japanese, though unfamiliar with western ways, can be trained to
surpass the best European domestics. Service so swift, noiseless, and
perfect is elsewhere unknown. Indeed, cooks as well as butlers are
adjusted to so grand a scale of living that their employers are served
with almost too much formality and elaboration. The art of foreign
cookery has been handed down from those exiled _chefs_ who came out with
the first envoys, to insure them the one attainable solace of existence
before the days of cables and regular steamships. There is a native
cuisine of great excellence, and each legation or club chef has pupils,
who pay for the privilege of studying under him, while the ordinary
kitchener of the treaty ports is a more skilful functionary than the
professional cook of American cities. Such cooks do their own marketing,
furnish without complaint elaborate menus three times a day, serve a
dinner party every night, and out of their monthly pay, ranging from
ten to twenty Mexican dollars, supply their own board and lodging. The
brotherhood of cooks help each other in emergencies, and if suddenly
called upon to feed twice the expected number of guests, any one of them
will work miracles. He runs to one fellow-craftsman to borrow an extra
fish, to another to beg an entrée, a salad, or a sweet, and helps himself
to table ware as well. A bachelor host is often amazed at the fine linen,
the array of silver, and the many courses set before him on the shortest
notice, and learns afterwards that everything was gathered in from
neighboring establishments. Elsewhere he may meet his own monogram or
crest at the table. Bachelors keep house and entertain with less trouble
and more comfort than anywhere else in the world. To these sybarites,
the “boy,” with his rustling kimono, is more than a second self, and the
soft-voiced _amahs_, or maids, are the delight of woman’s existence. The
musical language contributes not a little to the charm of these people,
and the chattering servants seem often to be speaking Italian.
After the Restoration many _samurai_, or warriors, were obliged to
adopt household service. One of these at my hotel had the face of a
Roman senator, with a Roman dignity of manner quite out of keeping with
his broom and dust-pan, or livery of dark-blue tights, smooth vest,
and short blouse worn by all his class in Yokohama. When a card for an
imperial garden party arrived, I asked Tatsu, my imperial Roman, to read
it for me. He took it, bowed low, sucked in his breath many times, and,
muttering the lines to himself, thus translated them: “Mikado want to
see Missy, Tuesday, three o’clock.” When a curio-dealer left a piece of
porcelain, Tatsu, always critical of purchases, went about his duties
slowly, waiting for the favorable moment to give me, in his broken
English, a dissertation on the old wares, their marks and qualities,
and his opinion of that particular specimen of blue and white. He knew
embroideries, understood pictures, and was a living dictionary of
Japanese phrase and fable. A pair of Korean shoes procured me a lecture
on the ancient relations between Japan and Korea, and an epitome of their
contemporary history.
Social life in these foreign ports presents a delightful fusion of
English, continental, and Oriental customs. The infallible Briton,
representing the largest foreign contingency, has transferred his
household order unchanged from the home island, yielding as little as
possible to the exigencies of climate and environment. The etiquette and
hours of society are those of England, and most of the American residents
are more English in these matters than the English. John Bull takes his
beef and beer with him to the tropics or the poles indifferently, and in
his presence Jonathan abjures his pie, and outlaws the words “guess,”
“cracker,” “trunk,” “baggage,” “car,” and “canned.” His East Indian
experiences of a century have taught the Briton the best system of living
and care-taking in hot or malarial countries, and he thrives in Japan.
In the small foreign communities at Yokohama, Kobé, and Nagasaki the
contents of the mail-bags, social events, and the perfection of physical
comfort comprise the interests of most of the residents. The friction
of a large community, with its daily excitements and affairs, the
delights of western art, music, and the drama, are absent, and society
naturally narrows into cliques, sets, rivalries, and small aims. If most
residents did not affect indifference to things Japanese, life would be
much more interesting. As it is, the old settler listens with an air of
superiority, amusement, and fatigue to the enthusiasm of the new-comer.
Not every foreign resident is familiar with the art of Japan, nor with
its history, religion, or political conditions. If the missionaries,
of whom hundreds reside in Yokohama and Tokio, mingled more with the
foreign residents, each class would benefit; but the two sets seldom
touch, the missionaries keep to themselves, and the lives of the other
extra-territorial people continually shock and offend them. Each set
holds extreme, unfair, and prejudiced views of the other, and affords the
natives arguments against both.
Socially, Tokio and Yokohama are one community, and the eighteen miles
of railroad between the two do not hinder the exchange of visits or
acceptance of invitations. When the Ministers of State give balls in
Tokio, special midnight trains carry the Yokohama guests home, as they
do when the clubs or the naval officers entertain at the seaport town.
With the coming and going of the fleets of all nations great activity and
variety pervades the social life. In the increasing swarm of tourists
some prince, duke, or celebrity is ever arriving, visitors of lesser
note are countless, and the European dwellers in all Asiatic ports
east of Singapore make Japan their pleasure-ground, summer resort, and
sanitarium. That order of tourist known as the “globe-trotter,” is not a
welcome apparition to the permanent foreign resident. His generous and
refined hospitality has been so often abused, and its recipients so often
show a half-contemptuous condescension to their remote and uncomprehended
hosts, that letters of introduction are looked upon with dread. Now that
it has become common for parents to send dissipated young sons around
the “Horn” and out to Japan on sailing vessels, that they may reform on
the voyage, a new-comer must prove himself an invalid, if he would not
be avoided after he confesses having come by brig or bark. Balls, with
the music of naval bands, and decorations of bamboo and bunting, are
as beautiful as balls can be; picnics and country excursions enliven
the whole year; and there are perennial dinners and dances on board the
men-of-war.
Those East-Indian contrivances, the _chit_ and the _chit_-book, furnish
a partial check on native servants. The average resident carries little
ready money, but writes a memorandum of whatever he buys, and hands it
to the seller instead of cash. These chits are presented monthly; but
the system tempts people to sign more chits than they can pay. This
kind of account-keeping is more general in Chinese ports, where one may
well object to receive the leaden-looking Mexicans and ragged and dirty
notes of the local banks. When one sends a note to an acquaintance he
enters it in his chit-book, where the person addressed adds his initials
as a receipt, or even writes his answer. The whole social machinery is
regulated by the chit-book, which may be a source of discord when its
incautious entries and answers lie open to any Paul Pry.
Summer does not greatly disturb the life of society. Tennis, riding,
boating, and bathing are in form, while balls and small dances occur even
in July and August. At many places in the mountains and along the coast
one may find a cooler air, with good hotels and tea-houses. Some families
rent country temples near Yokohama for summer occupation, and enjoy
something between the habitual Japanese life and Adirondack camping.
The sacred emblems and temple accessories are put in the central shrine
room, screens are drawn, and the sanctuary becomes a spacious house,
open to the air on all sides, and capable of being divided into as many
separate rooms as the family may require. Often the priests set the
images and altar-pieces on a high shelf concealed by a curtain, and give
up the whole place to the heretical tenants. In one instance the broad
altar-shelf became a recessed sideboard, whereon the gilded Buddhas and
Kwannons were succeeded by bottles, decanters, and glasses. At another
temple it was stipulated that the tenants should give up the room in
front of the altar on a certain anniversary day, to allow the worshippers
to come and pray.