A Radical Member of Parliament at Tokio has just got into trouble with
his constituents, and they have sent him a priceless letter of reproof.
Among other things they point out that a politician should not be 'a
waterweed which wobbles hither and thither according to the motion of
the stream.' Nor should he 'like a ghost without legs drift along before
the wind.' 'Your conduct,' they say, 'has been both of a waterweed and a
ghost, and we purpose in a little time to give you proof of our true
Japanese spirit.' That member will very likely be mobbed in his
'rickshaw and prodded to inconvenience with sword-sticks; for the
constituencies are most enlightened. But how in the world can a man
under these sides behave except as a waterweed and a ghost? It is in the
air--the wobble and the legless drift An energetic tourist would have
gone to Hakodate, seen Ainos at Sapporo, ridden across the northern
island under the gigantic thistles, caught salmon, looked in at
Vladivostock, and done half a hundred things in the time that one lazy
loafer has wasted watching the barley turn from green to gold, the
azaleas blossom and burn out, and the spring give way to the warm rains
of summer. Now the iris has taken up the blazonry of the year, and the
tide of the tourists ebbs westward.
The permanent residents are beginning to talk of hill places to go to
for the hot weather, and all the available houses in the resort are let.
In a little while the men from China will be coming over for their
holidays, but just at present we are in the thick of the tea season, and
there is no time to waste on frivolities. 'Packing' is a valid excuse
for anything, from forgetting a dinner to declining a tennis party, and
the tempers of husbands are judged leniently. All along the sea face is
an inspiring smell of the finest new-mown hay, and canals are full of
boats loaded up with the boxes jostling down to the harbour. At the club
men say rude things about the arrivals of the mail. There never was a
post-office yet that did not rejoice in knocking a man's Sabbath into
flinders. A fair office day's work may begin at eight and end at six,
or, if the mail comes in, at midnight. There is no overtime or
eight-hours' baby-talk in tea. Yonder are the ships; here is the stuff,
and behind all is the American market. The rest is your own affair.
The narrow streets are blocked with the wains bringing down, in boxes of
every shape and size, the up-country rough leaf. Some one must take
delivery of these things, find room for them in the packed warehouse,
and sample them before they are blended and go to the firing.
More than half the elaborate processes are 'lost work' so far as the
quality of the stuff goes; but the markets insist on a good-looking
leaf, with polish, face and curl to it, and in this, as in other
businesses, the call of the markets is the law. The factory floors are
made slippery with the tread of bare-footed coolies, who shout as the
tea whirls through its transformations. The over-note to the clamour--an
uncanny thing too--is the soft rustle-down of the tea itself--stacked in
heaps, carried in baskets, dumped through chutes, rising and falling in
the long troughs where it is polished, and disappearing at last into the
heart of the firing-machine--always this insistent whisper of moving
dead leaves. Steam-sieves sift it into grades, with jarrings and
thumpings that make the floor quiver, and the thunder of steam-gear is
always at its heels; but it continues to mutter unabashed till it is
riddled down into the big, foil-lined boxes and lies at peace.
A few days ago the industry suffered a check which, lasting not more
than two minutes, lost several hundred pounds of hand-fired tea. It was
something after this way. Into the stillness of a hot, stuffy morning
came an unpleasant noise as of batteries of artillery charging up all
the roads together, and at least one bewildered sleeper waking saw his
empty boots where they 'sat and played toccatas stately at the
clavicord.' It was the washstand really but the effect was awful. Then a
clock fell and a wall cracked, and heavy hands caught the house by the
roof-pole and shook it furiously. To preserve an equal mind when things
are hard is good, but he who has not fumbled desperately at bolted
jalousies that will not open while a whole room is being tossed in a
blanket does not know how hard it is to find any sort of mind at all.
The end of the terror was inadequate--a rush into the still, heavy
outside air, only to find the' servants in the garden giggling (the
Japanese would giggle through the Day of Judgment) and to learn that the
earthquake was over. Then came the news, swift borne from the business
quarters below the hill, that the coolies of certain factories had fled
shrieking at the first shock, and that all the tea in the pans was
burned to a crisp. That, certainly, was some consolation for undignified
panic; and there remained the hope that a few tall chimneys up the line
at Tokio would have collapsed. They stood firm, however, and the local
papers, used to this kind of thing, merely spoke of the shock as
'severe.' Earthquakes are demoralising; but they bring out all the
weaknesses of human nature. First is downright dread; the stage
of--'only let me get into the open and I'll reform,' then the impulse to
send news of the most terrible shock of modern times flying east and
west among the cables. (Did not your own hair stand straight on end,
and, therefore, must not everybody else's have done likewise?) Last, as
fallen humanity picks itself together, comes the cry of the mean little
soul: 'What! Was _that_ all? I wasn't frightened from the beginning.'
It is wholesome and tonic to realise the powerlessness of man in the
face of these little accidents. The heir of all the ages, the
annihilator of time and space, who politely doubts the existence of his
Maker, hears the roof-beams crack and strain above him, and scuttles
about like a rabbit in a stoppered warren. If the shock endures for
twenty minutes, the annihilator of time and space must camp out under
the blue and hunt for his dead among the rubbish. Given a violent
convulsion (only just such a slipping of strata as carelessly piled
volumes will accomplish in a book-case) and behold, the heir of all the
ages is stark, raving mad--a brute among the dishevelled hills. Set a
hundred of the world's greatest spirits, men of fixed principles, high
aims, resolute endeavour, enormous experience, and the modesty that
these attributes bring--set them to live through such a catastrophe as
that which wiped out Nagoya last October, and at the end of three days
there would remain few whose souls might be called their own.
So much for yesterday's shock. To-day there has come another; and a most
comprehensive affair it is. It has broken nothing, unless maybe an old
heart or two cracks later on; and the wise people in the settlement are
saying that they predicted it from the first. None the less as an
earthquake it deserves recording.
It was a very rainy afternoon; all the streets were full of gruelly mud,
and all the business men were at work in their offices when it began. A
knot of Chinamen were studying a closed door from whose further side
came a most unpleasant sound of bolting and locking up. The notice on
the door was interesting. With deep regret did the manager of the New
Oriental Banking Corporation, Limited (most decidedly limited), announce
that on telegraphic orders from home he had suspended payment. Said one
Chinaman to another in pidgin-Japanese: 'It is shut,' and went away. The
noise of barring up continued, the rain fell, and the notice stared down
the wet street. That was all. There must have been two or three men
passing by to whom the announcement meant the loss of every penny of
their savings--comforting knowledge to digest after tiffin. In London,
of course, the failure would not mean so much; there are many banks in
the City, and people would have had warning. Here banks are few, people
are dependent on them, and this news came out of the sea unheralded, an
evil born with all its teeth.
After the crash of a bursting shell every one who can picks himself up,
brushes the dirt off his uniform, and tries to make a joke of it. Then
some one whips a handkerchief round his hand--a splinter has torn
it--and another finds warm streaks running down his forehead. Then a
man, overlooked till now and past help, groans to the death. Everybody
perceives with a start that this is no time for laughter, and the dead
and wounded are attended to.
Even so at the Overseas Club when the men got out of office. The brokers
had told them the news. In filed the English, and Americans, and
Germans, and French, and 'Here's a pretty mess!' they said one and all.
Many of them were hit, but, like good men, they did not say how
'Ah!' said a little P. and O. official, wagging his head sagaciously (he
had lost a thousand dollars since noon), 'it's all right _now_. They're
trying to make the best of it. In three or four days we shall hear more
about it. I meant to draw my money just before I went down coast,
but----' Curiously enough, it was the same story throughout the Club.
Everybody had intended to withdraw, and nearly everybody had--not done
so. The manager of a bank which had _not_ failed was explaining how, in
his opinion, the crash had come about. This was also very human. It
helped none. Entered a lean American, throwing back his waterproof all
dripping with the rain; his face was calm and peaceful. 'Boy, whisky and
soda,' he said.
'How much haf you losd?' said a Teuton bluntly. 'Eight-fifty,' replied
the son of George Washington sweetly. 'Don't see how that prevents me
having a drink. My glass, sirr.' He continued an interrupted whistling
of 'I owe ten dollars to O'Grady' (which he very probably did), and his
countenance departed not from its serenity. If there is anything that
one loves an American for it is the way he stands certain kinds of
punishment. An Englishman and a heavy loser was being chaffed by a
Scotchman whose account at the Japan end of the line had been a trifle
overdrawn. True, he would lose in England, but the thought of the few
dollars saved here cheered him.
More men entered, sat down by tables, stood in groups, or remained
apart by themselves, thinking with knit brows. One must think quickly
when one's bills are falling due. The murmur of voices thickened, and
there was no rumbling in the skittle alley to interrupt it. Everybody
knows everybody else at the Overseas Club, and everybody sympathises. A
man passed stiffly and some one of a group turned to ask lightly, 'Hit,
old man?' 'Like hell,' he said, and went on biting his unlit cigar.
Another man was telling, slowly and somewhat bitterly, how he had
expected one of his children to join him out here, and how the passage
had been paid with a draft on the O.B.C. But now ... _There_, ladies and
gentlemen, is where it hurts, this little suspension out here. It
destroys plans, pretty ones hoped for and prayed over, maybe for years;
it knocks pleasant domestic arrangements galleywest over and above all
the mere ruin that it causes. The curious thing in the talk was that
there was no abuse of the bank. The men were in the Eastern trade
themselves and they knew. It was the Yokohama manager and the clerks
thrown out of employment (connection with a broken bank, by the way,
goes far to ruin a young man's prospects) for whom they were sorry.
'We're doing ourselves well this year,' said a wit grimly. 'One
free-shooting case, one thundering libel case, and a bank smash. Showing
off pretty before the globe-trotters, aren't we?'
'Gad, think of the chaps at sea with letters of credit. Eh? They'll land
and get the best rooms at the hotels and find they're penniless,' said
'Never mind the globe-trotters,' said a third. 'Look nearer home. This
does for so-and-so, and so-and-so, and so-and-so, all old men; and every
penny of theirs goes.' Poor devils!'
'That reminds me of some one else,' said yet another voice, '_His_
wife's at home, too. Whew!' and he whistled drearily. So did the tide of
voices run on till men got to talking over the chances of a dividend,
'They went to the Bank of England,' drawled an American, 'and the Bank
of England let them down; said their securities weren't good enough.'
'Great Scott!'--a hand came down on a table to emphasise the remark--'I
sailed half way up the Mediterranean once with a Bank of England
director; wish I'd tipped him over the rail and lowered him a boat on
his own security--if it was good enough.'
'Baring's goes. The O.B.C. don't,' replied the American, blowing smoke
through his nose. 'This business looks de-ci-ded-ly prob-le-mat-i-cal.
'Oh, they'll pay the depositors in full. Don't you fret,' said a man who
had lost nothing and was anxious to console.
'I'm a shareholder,' said the American, and smoked on.
The rain continued to fall, and the umbrellas dripped in the racks, and
the wet men came and went, circling round the central fact that it was a
bad business, till the day, as was most fit, shut down in drizzling
darkness. There was a refreshing sense of brotherhood in misfortunes in
the little community that had just been electrocuted and did not want
any more shocks. All the pain that in England would be taken home to be
borne in silence and alone was here bulked, as it were, and faced in
line of company. Surely the Christians of old must have fought much
better when they met the lions by fifties at a time.
At last the men departed; the bachelors to cast up accounts by
themselves (there should be some good ponies for sale shortly) and the
married men to take counsel. May heaven help him whose wife does not
stand by him now! But the women of the Overseas settlements are as
thorough as the men. There will be tears for plans forgone, the changing
of the little ones' schools and elder children's careers, unpleasant
letters to be written home, and more unpleasant ones to be received from
relatives who 'told you so from the first.' There will be pinchings too,
and straits of which the outside world will know nothing, but the women
will pull it through smiling.
Beautiful indeed are the operations of modern finance--especially when
anything goes wrong with the machine. To-night there will be trouble in
India among the Ceylon planters, the Calcutta jute and the Bombay
cotton-brokers, besides the little households of small banked savings.
In Hongkong, Singapore, and Shanghai there will be trouble too, and
goodness only knows what wreck at Cheltenham, Bath, St. Leonards,
Torquay, and the other camps of the retired Army officers. They are
lucky in England who know what happens when it happens, but here the
people are at the wrong end of the cables, and the situation is not
good. Only one thing seems certain. There is a notice on a shut door, in
the wet, and by virtue of that notice all the money that was theirs
yesterday is gone away, and it may never come back again. So all the
work that won the money must be done over again; but some of the people
are old, and more are tired, and all are disheartened. It is a very
sorrowful little community that goes to bed to-night, and there must be
as sad ones the world over. Let it be written, however, that of the
sections under fire here (and some are cruelly hit) no man whined, or
whimpered, or broke down. There was no chance of fighting. It was bitter
defeat, but they took it standing.