The editor of one of the very spicy journals which keep the Japanese busy asked me to give my impressions and when I did, said they were far and away too poetical and too imaginative for a daily paper, but they did not approach the reality; not by half!
There are two railway stations in Seoul and they are modern and very brisk in their air as we whirled into the second one late at night after a day’s ride in this wonderland of amber and gold mountains. I was too sleepy to do aught but fall into the comfortable bed of the “Astor House,” one of the best kept hotels in the Orient if you refer to the cuisine.
The next morning I awoke to find myself up under the shadow of a huge Chinese wall and beyond were fascinating towers and spires and distant flag poles of consulates and not many hours were lost before we took a Sunday morning stroll uphill and thru gigantic gates flashing with mural paintings of dragons and wild impressionistic colors and weird symbolism, and found ourselves in front of a Russian church where the bells were ringing. We entered to the strains of that Slavic harmony which allures as no other and there we found blond priests, with long hair, worn in the same way as in the old Greek paintings and the profile of the angelic Northern saint type; it was a strange paradox to be in this chapel which represented a power now a removed obstacle to Japanese dominion, and see its worshipers calmly allowed to go on singing as of old. “One day they will come singing back again,” said a bright young American observer. All Korea has two influences very marked in its civilization, Arabic and Chinese, and a still more unique aspect of a Grecian tradition. It is all three and Indian above all three!
There is something of the wild free stride of all mountain peoples in their walk as you watch them in their flowing white robes and pot hats along the highroads and there is a wild glance in the eyes of the men not fierce, but the glance of some gentle animal untamed. The women, as all know, are the household drudges and are completely under the thumb of the male element, having neither name nor station apart from these very self-important masters.
They are kept in rich houses quite as in Turkey and they wear a silk mantle over their faces when in the street. You can see their large wondering furtive eyes looking out as you pass from station to station, where the dapper Japanese officials keep them in check.
They wear the most delicious shoes in the world, these same shy sisters; they are Turkish and turned up slightly at the toes and are silk besides, and very dainty in shade. The upper class wear this flowing garment and the mantle of white silk in the street and the middle class the green mantle.
The poorest class, as is so often the case, gives the most picturesque tone to the city streets and we have had our breath quite taken away by meeting some woman, whose fancy ran a riot of color which would have eclipsed Turner himself!
I was invited to an evening entertainment at one of the hospitals, where the girls were in their house costume, and it consists of a bolero jacket and baggy trowsers, or divided skirt, it appeared to be. Many of the girls were pretty and as animated as one could wish. A debate was held and for diplomatic reasons I will not give the subject, but it was as full of fire as a Greek patriot’s and carried on amid the roars of laughter a school girl’s performance usually meets with.
One of the faces of the nurses was so beautiful and so pathetic I could not help remarking on its sublimity and my chief hostess told me a little of its tragedy.
The face was minus a nose, which a jealous husband in a moment of frenzy cut off.