A little railway connects Codelli's house with the northern part of Kamina, where the receiving station is, and we used frequently to remark, after dinner: "Now let us go up and listen to what they have got to say in Berlin." It was, to me at all events, very weird and wonderful to be able to place the receiver to my ears, and listen to sounds having their origin at a point between three or four thousand miles away. No words, of course, were audible, only the short and long sounds of the Morse code; but I soon learnt enough to be able to understand the purport, at all events, of what was coming through. The signals sound very much like musical notes—a series of notes all of the same tone and pitch—played on an ordinary whistle. This particular brand of wireless is called in German the telefunken, meaning "sounding spark"; and this exactly describes it. Sounding sparks! That is what you are listening to.
The temporary receiving station, by the way, is the same building that served me for a house during our stay in Kamina on the upward journey, six months previously. It gave me quite a shock on my first visit to it this time, to find the little home I had decorated and fitted up so comfortably—we rigged up our studio here, you will remember—now all bare and desolate, and filled with complicated wireless instruments. Presently, I got another kind of shock, an unpleasant one. I remarked to Codelli how dusty everything was, and he replied quite gravely that that was so, it wanted a woman's deft hand; and, handing me a cloth, he asked me if I would be so good as to wipe things over a bit with it, while he adjusted the instruments. At the same time he pointed to two little metal points, saying that it was important that every speck of dust should be removed from these if the working was to be satisfactory. In my innocence I did my best to carry out his instructions, with the result that I suffered a mild sort of electrocution. It was merely a practical joke of Codelli's, and not enough electricity passed through me to hurt me, but it gave me a rare start nevertheless.
I was, as I have already said, greatly interested in this wonderful wireless installation; but I fear that I was also fully as much interested—trivial though the confession must sound—in a new nickel-plated collapsible dressing-table that the Baroness Codelli had brought with her from Berlin. It was the first time for six months that I had been able to see myself full length in a large mirror, and only a woman can realise what this means to a woman. When I was first left alone with it, I scrutinised myself closely and anxiously, turning this way and that, peering close and drawing back. On the whole the inspection was eminently satisfactory. My figure was fuller, rounder, and harder, my face also had filled out; otherwise, I was surprised to find how slight a difference half a year's roughing it in the wilds had made in my personal appearance. Why, I have frequently been more sunburnt after a week at the seaside, than I was by this long trek through tropical Togoland. One reason for this was the care one always takes to shade one's face from the sun's rays while on the march; not, however, in order to preserve one's complexion, but with a view to avoiding sunstroke. During the first part of my journey, I always wore, when in the saddle, or out-of-doors even temporarily, a big slouch hat of the cowboy type, but afterwards I discarded this for the pith helmet, than which no more effectual safeguard against heat apoplexy has yet been devised.
While their new stone house was in course of erection, the Baron and Baroness Codelli had taken possession temporarily of the "Stranger's House," a building set apart for the use of stray visitors to the place who may be in want of accommodation, corresponding, in point of fact, to the rest-houses of the up-country stations, but somewhat more solidly constructed, and having a cement floor. There were, however, two rooms completed in their new stone house, and these Codelli very kindly placed at our disposal. But I, with the lately awakened instinct of the bush woman, preferred to camp out in a small grass-and-wattle hut, with only a mat curtain between myself and the outer air.
This was all very well for a couple of days. But the rainy season was now near at hand, and on the third day one of those tornadoes, which always precede the great rains, came on to blow. The wind set in motion great clouds of dust, which filled my frail dwelling, and after a short, sharp struggle between pride and inclination, the latter won, and I took refuge behind stone walls. A day or two later great black clouds came rolling up, threatening to break in one of those terrific tropical thunderstorms of which I had heard such lurid accounts. Still, however, the rain held off; indeed, I was assured, that Kamina had been exceptionally fortunate in respect to its freedom from these storms since the wireless station had been erected, the theory being that the nine great steel towers in some way repelled the electric fluid. Whether this theory has any scientific foundation in fact, I am, of course, unable to say, but everybody seemed agreed that though all round the station might be black, the sky overhead of Kamina was for the most part clear.
At length the time came to say good-bye. Our heavy baggage had arrived from Sokode, and all was ready to entrain. Our horses, none the worse for their journey through the fly belt, had already been sent by rail to Lome, there to await shipment to Accra. The two ostriches had been sent on by road, in charge of their boys. There remained only our pet monkey, Anton, and him I presented to the Baroness Codelli. This time we took care to lay in a proper stock of provisions for the train journey, so that it was at least endurable, if not enjoyable; and the rain coming down just when it was beginning to get uncomfortably hot, still further helped to mitigate the discomfort of what is at best a somewhat tedious and trying trip.
At Lome we were to film the opening scene of our drama, The White Goddess of the Wangora. We had already filmed all the other parts, but the reader will of course understand that in cinema work the scenes are not photographed consecutively; at least not necessarily so. In this first scene, it will be remembered, I am supposed to be cast up by the sea from a wreck as a baby and found by some black savages, and the problem was whereabouts along the Togo coast were we to get a white child of the proper age. It was the problem that had been haunting us at the back of our minds ever since the beginning of the trip. Now it had got to be solved somehow or other.
Various suggestions were brought forward, and gravely discussed. Could we use a doll; and if so, could a sufficiently large and lifelike doll be had in Lome? Would it be possible to paint a black baby white without injury to the infant? Meanwhile Alfred, our interpreter, had spread the news of what was wanted throughout Lome, and soon babies of all sorts and sizes, accompanied of course by their mothers, began to roll up. None of them, however, suited our requirements. Some were too big; all were too black: nor were we able to find any mother who could be induced to regard the whitewashing scheme in a sufficiently favourable light to lend her own offspring for the experiment. They all knew somebody else who had a baby they would no doubt be willing to lend for the purpose, but when it came to the point the "somebody else" invariably declined most emphatically to do anything of the kind. It really looked at one time as if we should have to film the scene at some English seaside resort, with a squad of burnt-cork beach "niggers" as supers, an obviously most unsatisfactory alternative. Just, however, as we were beginning to despair, a coast girl turned up with a half-caste, khaki-coloured infant, of about the right age; and which Hodgson opined might be made, by the liberal use of a powder puff, to come out white on the film.
But when the scheme was explained to the mother, I could see that her enthusiasm for it waned rapidly. The baby was to be hidden in a box close to the edge of the surf. Yes-s-s! That was all very well. But suppose one big wave come roll up, sweep baby away? What then? Oh! No! No! No! And she clasped the little chocolate-coloured coon to her bosom. There was a lot more palaver, but at length she gave a reluctant consent. She was to be paid a sovereign for the loan of the infant, and the clothes we provided, and which cost another ten shillings, were to be hers to keep when all was over. Moreover, while the scene was being filmed, she was to stand on one side of the camera, and I on the other, so that we could both rush into the sea together to the rescue in case of anything untoward happening. As a matter of fact nothing did happen. The scene was filmed on the beach outside Lome, a time being chosen when there was nobody about. We were, however, honoured by the presence of the Governor, H.H. the Duke of Mecklenburg, who expressed himself as being both surprised and pleased at the way we had drilled our black supers to act their parts.
Our time passed very pleasantly in Lome. We had horses lent us by a friend of ours, Lieutenant Manns, and used to go for rides round the neighbourhood. The sea, too, was a source of never-ending pleasure and delight to me, since first I caught a whiff of it towards the end of our railway journey from Atakpame. We used to take walks along the beach by moonlight, and Lome, beneath its silvery enchantment, seemed to me an altogether ideal place of residence. In the daytime, when the sun beat down upon it, and all was glare and dust, I held quite the reverse opinion.