All went well, however, and next morning I boarded a ship that was going to Japan. Yet, when the boat weighed anchor and danger no longer threatened me, a strange feeling of sadness came over me, as though I were parting, not from the land of prison and exile, but from a dear home. Thus can custom attach a man even to chains and bondage. But I felt that it was not only from use and wont that I was parting; I was not merely leaving Siberia, but Russia—and perhaps for ever.
It was a dismal day, the sky was covered with heavy clouds, and rain flowed in torrents. Our steamer rolled violently, and many of the passengers were seasick; but, though I had hardly ever been on the sea before, I remained immune, and rejoiced thereat, as I had another long voyage before me. We soon began to skirt the coast of the Korean peninsula, and entered two harbours, those of Gensan and Fusan, remaining four-and-twenty hours in each. I went on shore with some other passengers to see the towns, which in many respects resemble those of Japan—the same style of building, the same apparent superfluity of shops and booths. The Japanese appear to be the ruling spirits there, and the efforts of Russia to oust them do not seem likely to be crowned with success; nor in my opinion are they justified, for Japan has every right to exercise her civilising influence on Korea.
I also visited a Korean village in the neighbourhood of Gensan, and was astonished at its primitive character. It consisted of one very narrow street bordered by straw-thatched wooden huts, which had neither windows nor doors, the latter being replaced by loose boards. The whole population evidently lived principally in the street, carrying on all occupations there—cooking, eating, and so forth.
Five days after our departure from Vladivostock the steamer dropped anchor in the harbour of Nagasaki. As soon as the health regulations had been complied with I got into one of the little boats that had crowded alongside and went to an hotel close to the sea. Compared with Russian inns it seemed to me cheap, clean, and comfortable; and the Japanese servants spoke a little broken Russian.
In Nagasaki I had to decide how I would pursue my journey. I might go by the Suez Canal to one of the ports of Western Europe, and that was the shortest and cheapest route; but I had a great wish to see something of North America while the opportunity offered, and thus to complete the journey round the world that had been begun so much against my will. I inquired about the next boat for San Francisco, and found it would not leave for nine or ten days, but I resolved to employ the interval in seeing the neighbourhood.
Nagasaki is a rather large town of over one hundred thousand inhabitants, and lies scattered picturesquely over the hills that surround a fine bay. Most of the streets, especially in the Japanese quarter, are too narrow for horse traffic to be possible through them; horses are, therefore, replaced by men, who with their little two-wheeled carriages (jinrikisha) play the part of cab horses, and are called kurnei. There are so many of them that they literally stand before every house, and crowd in front of the hotels and big shops. They surround any stranger in the street, bidding against each other for his custom, and each trying to win his favour, chattering in broken Russian or English. For the modest sum of ten sen (about 2½d.) the course, or twenty sen the hour, the kurnei will take his “fare ” with marvellous swiftness up hill and down dale; and it not seldom happens that though the perspiration may be streaming from the brow of the kurnei, the “civilised” European in his little carriage may be seen laying a stick or an umbrella across his shoulders to urge him onward. The poor fellow who thus turns himself into a beast of burden must give almost half of his hardly earned day’s wage to the proprietor of the jinrikisha, and must also pay something to the State for the licence authorising him to support himself in this laborious way. His living, however, is cheap enough, his food consisting of rice and an inferior kind of fish.
Most of the houses in Nagasaki are two-storied wooden buildings, the ground-floor being used as a shop, inn, or workshop. It was a puzzle to me where all these innumerable shops could find customers, and how they managed to exist. In my rambles I often saw a whole row of shops without a single purchaser, and if one entered he was instantly surrounded as though a customer were the rarest of guests.
The houses in the Japanese quarter are built in a wonderfully light and airy fashion, as if just run up hastily for summer quarters. Throughout the town there reigns the most perfect order; the streets are excellently paved, and the portion before each house is kept clean and watered by the occupier. There is never the least dust, and the air is singularly mild and pure. One feels how each breath dilates and strengthens the lungs, and it is not to be wondered at that many Russians and English use Nagasaki as a health-resort.
The European quarter, along the quay, is full of hotels and restaurants, banks, and other houses of business. Here the streets are somewhat wider, and the houses more solidly built, with the lower stories of brick, while many of them have verandas and front gardens. Life in Nagasaki is wonderfully cheap, but it is also a trifle monotonous, particularly for a stranger not conversant with the language. There is little in the way of “sights”—two or three temples of Buddha, with gigantic pictures of Sakia-Mouni, a commercial institute with samples of native goods, and the well-known tea-houses; that is all the visitor is invited to inspect. But the neighbourhood is extremely beautiful, and at every step one is forced to admire the industry of the Japanese, who leave no inch of soil untilled; except the very tops of the rocky hills, all is carefully cultivated. And yet, notwithstanding this heavy labour that the Japanese expends upon his land, his existence seems to have something of the ethereal and fairylike; and many things in his wonderful country contribute to produce an impression of unreality, as if they were happening not in actual life, but on the screen of a cinematograph.