IN A JAPANESE INN
If we received a slight shock when we saw the woman in the shop adding
up by the help of beads, what about the booking-clerk at the station? He
seems unable to give the simplest change without this sort of reckoning.
Comic, isn't it? Picture the clerks at Euston fumbling away at their
beads while an impatient throng elbowed one another before the
pigeon-hole!
The station is quite small, merely a shed with a wooden roof set on
posts. We are going second-class and taking Yosoji with us, so that we
shall see some of the native life.
The trains are corridor, with the seats lengthwise and across the ends.
Many of the Japs are sitting sideways on them with their feet tucked
under them,--they are not used to have them hanging down,--but one grand
gentleman, directly opposite to us, is quite European in his top hat
and long coat, and his feet are on the floor as to the manner born.
We have not been long started before he begins to fidget and shuffle,
and presently he hauls up a wicker basket beside him, undoes it, and
fishes out a very nice dark purple kimono. His top hat goes into the
rack. His collar, tie, and stud disappear. His coat comes off and is
carefully folded on the seat. We watch the gradual unpeeling with an
absorbed interest, wondering how far it will go. Luckily there are no
ladies present! We can stare as much as we like without being rude,
because everyone else in the carriage has their eyes fixed with a
straight unwinking stare upon us. It is difficult to realise that we are
more entertaining to them than the gentleman who is disrobing himself
with ineffable dignity in public, is to us.
He has now slipped on the kimono over his remaining garments, there is a
little twist, and a slight, a very slight struggle, and in some
miraculous way the rest of his European outfit glides off underneath the
kimono, neatly folded. It is like a conjuring trick! Last of all come
off the boots also, and with his stockinged feet tucked up under him he
sits transformed into the Complete Jap. Judging from the lack of
interest taken in the performance by his fellow-countrymen, it must be
quite a usual thing to undress in trains.
Having finished his task the gentleman on the seat turns to us and asks
innumerable questions. Where have we come from? Where are we going to?
How do we like Japan? Is it not a very poor, mean country compared with
the glorious and august land we belong to? All this is interpreted by
Yosoji, who no doubt puts our answers into the flowery language Japanese
courtesy demands; for instance, when I say that I like Japan very much,
I am sure, from the breathless sentence that follows, that he is saying
that the strangers think the honourable country of Japan far more
beautiful and wonderful than their own poor land. The man opposite does
not for a moment think really that England is to be compared with Japan,
but in Japan people are taught to talk like that, and must often think
us very rude and abrupt.
It is not a long journey, and after an hour or so of passing through
pretty, hilly country, with many bushy pine trees dotted about, we stop
at a station which Yosoji says is our destination. It is a good thing we
have Yosoji with us, for certainly we could never have discovered the
name of the station for ourselves. We see a long scroll covered with
Chinese characters, and other smaller scrolls ornamented in the same
way, these are, of course, the name of the station and the inscriptions
on various waiting-rooms, but they leave us none the wiser. I ask Yosoji
how any European travelling alone could discover where he had got to,
and he smilingly points out a board at the extreme end of the station
with some of our own lettering on it. No one could possibly see it from
the incoming train.
We still feel absurdly big as we get out of the little train on its
little narrow gauge line and wait while Yosoji captures our luggage from
the van. It is packed in great baskets which fit into each other like
two lids; we see them in England often, but there they are rather looked
down upon, here they are quite the correct thing. Indeed, among all the
luggage in the van there is no trunk or wooden or tin box at all, only a
great pile of such baskets of all sizes, mingled with a few bundles
simply tied up. When our belongings are rescued and identified they are
stowed away in a rickshaw by themselves, while we three mount in three
others and set off for far the most interesting part of the journey. At
first the road is quite good, and the men trot away contentedly, the
big hats bobbing up and down before us. What do these hats remind you
of? To me they are exactly like the lids of those galvanised dustbins
you see put out in streets for the dustmen at home.
[Illustration: PORTERS, JAPAN.]
The air is brilliantly fresh and sweet; we pass along by pine trees of
many sorts, and between them see the fresh green of the feathery
bamboos; these two colours, the dark blue-green of the pines and the
brilliant yellow-green of the bamboo, are seen everywhere in Japan. Then
there are avenues of red-stemmed trees called cryptomeria, we should say
cedars, with dark heads spreading out at the top of their immense
branchless stems. We see squirrels leaping about and scuttering up the
trunks. Then we go across open spaces, which are like an emerald sea,
for they are the brightest green you can imagine, the green of the
growing paddy, which is cultivated here as in Burma. There are men
dressed in garments of glorious blue, like those we saw in Egypt, hoeing
and watching the important crops. Then we plunge into cool woods and
follow little paths up and down, and when we want to get out and walk,
feeling lazy brutes to sit still and let a fellow-creature haul us
uphill, Yosoji says no, it would hurt the feelings of our men, who would
imagine we thought them poor weak things and scorned them.
We twist down to a wooden bridge, dark maroon in colour, and built in
one single span across a raging, leaping stream that dashes and splashes
merrily far below. At the other end is one of the picturesque roofed
arches or gates that the Japanese are so fond of, with its rich red
tiles curved up at the corners. Not far on we catch a glimpse of a
waving sheet of blue, a mass of flowers growing wild on a hillside, and
in sight of it, but still in the shade of the trees, we sit down for
lunch and to give the coolies a rest.
Several times during the run we have noticed shrines with images of
little foxes before them, some clean and new, but some weather-worn and
grown over with lichen. As Yosoji unpacks the lunch he tells us these
are Shinto shrines put up in honour of the god of rice. It seems very
appropriate to hear this now, just as we are going to fare merrily on
hard-boiled eggs, a tiny chicken, and plenty of rice, finishing up with
those astonishing bright-coloured cakes, which we have learnt to eat
without fear. We rest a long time, and all except you smoke contentedly,
watching the blue films curl upward under the still foliage; and then up
and on once more.
[Illustration: OUR DINNER IN A JAPANESE INN.]
It is nearly five o'clock before we reach our destination, a little
village, with a rather famous inn, not very far from the sea. In fact,
as we approach we can see the blue water shining out only about a mile
away across a flat expanse broken by hummocky sandhills. The village is
one long straggling street of thatched huts, rather like huge beehives,
with broad eaves. Our rickshaw men, who have been showing signs of
exhaustion, make a gallant effort at the last, and run us up to the door
of the inn in fine style. The inn stands on legs raised a foot or two
from the ground, and is well built, with solid wooden posts and a tiled
roof. It is two storeys high and has verandahs round both floors.
As our men let down the shafts of the chairs for us to alight, two women
and a man in native dress come out on to the verandah, and immediately
fall down on their faces before us, with their foreheads on the ground.
I don't know how you feel about it, but not having been born in the
purple this sort of thing is embarrassing to me, and I wish they
wouldn't! I have a vague idea that I ought to rise to the occasion by
taking their hands and saying, "Rise, friend, I also am mortal," or
something like that!
Yosoji, of course, does all the talking, and with a great deal of bowing
and volumes of flowing language, arranges for us to stay here the night,
requesting us to pass on into the house. In the porch it is evidently
expected that we should take off our boots, so we do, and they are
stowed away in a little pigeon-hole, while we are offered instead large
and awkward pairs of slippers like those we had at the mosques. You
reject them, preferring stocking feet, and you have the best of me, for
the next move is to go up a very slippery ascent like a ladder that is
trying to grow into a staircase. While you hop along gaily I leave one
slipper behind on the last rung, and in trying to recover it slip and
bark my shin! However, when it is retrieved, I take off the other and,
carrying them both in my hand, mount quite easily.
[Illustration: FUJIYAMA.]
The room we go into is specklessly clean, and through the wide sliding
panels, which are open on to the verandah, we see a glimpse of the blue
sea. The floor is made of mattresses in wooden frames neatly fitted
together, and is quite soft and comfortable to the feet; boots with
heels would certainly be out of place here. In a little alcove on one
side is a miniature tree such as those you sometimes see offered for
sale in England now, and behind it a quite beautiful sketch of Fujiyama
on a scroll. There is no other furniture at all, but when our luggage is
brought up we can sit on the baskets. We explain to Yosoji that we would
greatly like--first, a hot bath, after the heat and dust of the journey,
and next some food. Presently in comes the little Japanese maid whom we
saw on her face at the door in company with her master and mistress.
She prostrates herself at once, and with her forehead against the floor
says something, indrawing her breath in a most accomplished hiss. Do you
think we ought to do it back again?
[Illustration: IN COMES THE LITTLE MAID.]
Yosoji interprets that with great good luck the hot water is ready, and
if we go down now we can have a bath. Our things have been brought up,
so selecting a few clean garments we go once more along the polished
passage and down that dangerous ladder, then through a room, presumably
the kitchen, which is quite full of people, on to a covered-in verandah
on one side of the house, where two large shining brass basins stand on
a sink, and an iron tub stands on the floor, with its own fire beneath
it like a copper; clouds of steam arise from it. But what catches our
attention most quickly is an amiable Japanese man, who, clad in a very
slight garment, has evidently just had a bath. We can see he has been
pouring the contents of the basins over himself, and letting the water
run away between the wooden slats of the floor, so we wait for them to
be refilled for us. All the people who were in the kitchen have by this
time drifted in here, and stand in interested contemplation of our
proceedings. "Which is the bath?" I ask Yosoji. He motions toward the
tub of boiling water. "But that's too hot; we shall be boiled sitting on
the top of a fire," I explain. Thereupon a great commotion ensues,
embers are raked out, and there is much running about and chattering.
The Japs themselves take their baths at a temperature which would peel
the skin off our bodies. As the water is still too hot, even when the
fire has been removed, we wait for it to cool, and meantime I ask where
is the other bath, as there are two of us? This produces great
consternation in Yosoji; who ever heard of each person having a bath to
himself? The notion is absurd. He knows the ridiculous prejudice of the
English, who do not like to use the same water as the Japanese, but, as
it happens, this water is perfectly clean, for even the gentleman who
has just gone out did not use it. Is it possible we can't use it, one
after the other? I ask him what state the water gets into when half a
dozen people have been boiled in it, one after another, and he tells me
that it is in no state at all, for, of course, etiquette does not allow
them to use soap actually in the bath! Well, we must manage somehow;
when they clear out we can tip some of the hot water into that second
basin and use it afterwards. Meantime they all stand, gaily expectant,
smiling affably. I explain to Yosoji that we can't undress before the
crowd, and he seems to think my ideas most extraordinary. In Japan
people always bathe in a garment and have not the least objection to
doing it in full view of the street.
With considerable difficulty our absurd scruples are made clear to the
assembled company, who reluctantly depart, defrauded of their fun, and
draw close the sliding screen.
Then--yah--it _is_ hot! We manage to tip out two good basins full and
fill up with cold water from a tin pail which stands near. Well, we both
find it very refreshing. You go first, and while I am revelling in the
hot water I hear a dismayed exclamation, "Oh, the towels!" and see you
holding up a tiny thing no bigger than a table-napkin, embroidered in a
wandering blue pattern. There are two for each, and though they are
little more than pocket-handkerchiefs we must make them do.
When we get back to our rooms in a more or less steamy condition, we
find that the screens, which are made of paper framed in wood, have been
drawn, and outside them wooden shutters have been fastened. The room is
very close, and there isn't an inch open for ventilation. After a long
expostulation with Yosoji we are allowed to have the outer shutters open
an inch or two, though he explains they must be shut and bolted before
we go to bed at night or the police will be down upon us. There are two
loose, flowing Jap gowns lying ready for our use, and very delightful
they are. As they are quite clean we slip into them instead of coats and
laugh across at each other. In comes the little maid, once more
prostrating herself, then she goes out and returns with a lacquered tray
on tiny legs a few inches high. This she sets on the floor, and after a
considerable interval, during which she has brought up many tiny dishes
and bowls, she suddenly seats herself on one side of the tray and
motions to us to begin.
We wriggle across the floor inelegantly and squat opposite to her. The
first thing we see are two steaming bowls of soup; we make short work of
these, drinking from the bowl, and find at the bottom some tough-looking
bits of something. Then we discover all at once there are no knives,
forks, or spoons, only chopsticks, like forks with one prong. We try to
fish out the bits of something, but even when we have caught them the
result is not satisfactory; it is like eating leather. Next comes bowls
of rice, and if it was difficult before, it is doubly so now. I should
certainly never be able to pick up grains of rice with a chopstick while
that solemn little maid sits opposite; it would take a Cinquevalli to do
it! I make a desperate attempt and explode suddenly, the maid giggles,
you roar, and even Yosoji, who is somewhere in the background, begins
tittering. After this the ice is broken; we entreat Yosoji to get the
maid away without hurting her feelings, and when she has departed we
finish the rice with our fingers. There are various other things--beans
which can be skewered on the chopsticks, and funny little bits of stuff
like mixed pickles, but even when we have eaten everything we are as
hungry as when we began. Just as we are realising it our little friend
appears again with a decent-sized fish on a dish, decorated with onions,
and we quickly fall to, using a funny kind of bean-paste made up like a
cake, instead of bread. By the time we have finished we are rather fishy
but very much more satisfied.
The meal taken away, our handmaiden slides back a panel in the more
substantial side of the room, which is of wood, and produces various
stuffed rugs which she spreads on the ground--these are called _futon_,
and are very like our useful friend the _rezai_; we have some of our own
to add to them, and altogether the beds look so comfortable that we are
quite ready to get into them at an early hour. Having lit a Chinese
lantern at one end of the room before the little picture recess, a
sacred place in every Japanese household, the maid retires for the
night, and so does Yosoji. Only then do we discover that for pillows
they have given us tiny wooden stools, not unlike the national clogs,
only slightly larger! These we are supposed to place in the crick of the
neck; having tried it you declare that if you slept at all that way you
would certainly dream you were lying on the block to be beheaded, so
instead you choose the lid of one of the baskets, which, being yielding,
makes not half a bad pillow.
Good-night!
After a profound sleep I am awakened by a flood of light, and sit up
with a start, to find myself in bed before an admiring crowd. The
sliding panels opening on to the verandah have been pushed back, and
there stand my landlord and landlady, and the little maid-servant, and
several other persons, bowing and prostrating themselves and asking
innumerable questions, to which, as there is no Yosoji, I can give no
answers. Everyone in Japan asks questions, I find; it is supposed to
show a polite interest in you. I feel rather awkward sitting up there
among my futon and making a series of little jerks meant to be bows, and
I am glad when you wake up too and help me a little. You are not so shy,
it seems, for you hop out of your rugs and dance to the verandah,
revelling in the light and sunshine.
An hour later we have had a sluice down with cold water from the brass
basins, eaten a most unsatisfying and unsubstantial breakfast, much like
the dinner the night before, minus the fish, and are out to visit the
village schools, at the suggestion of Yosoji, before going on.
They are worth visiting! I never saw anything quite so quaintly pretty
as these rows of little dolls in their brilliantly gay garments, tied up
with their big sashes. They are sitting on the floor and laboriously
making strokes with a paint-brush. That is to say, they are learning to
write. The Chinese writing is not an alphabet like ours, but each
complicated symbol stands for an idea, and there are thousands and
thousands of them. It takes a child seven years even to learn fairly
what will be necessary in after life.
These little mites are not making complete signs, but just doing one
stroke again and again, all over a large sheet of paper, and when they
have learnt that they will go on to another, until one complete symbol
is mastered. The writing is done by brush-work instead of with a pen,
and is more like artistic painting than stiff writing. Suddenly the
teacher gives a signal, and the tiny tots rush out into the air, and
dance and play and run and twiddle each other round and round like
little kittens; they are so gay and so bright it is quite evident that
Japanese children are not ill-treated.
It is with great reluctance we pick up our luggage, pay our very
moderate bill, and leave this dear little village. Whatever else fades
out of our minds as time goes on I am sure the picture of those gay
children will never be forgotten.
[Illustration: AN INDIAN RESERVATION.]