We devoted the second day of our visit to Matsuyama, the capital of the province of “Lovely Princess,” not more than four miles from Dōgō. There is little to be seen there, however, except the castle, one of the largest in Japan, and some excellent curio-shops, in which the zeal of my companion was rewarded by some precious finds. Leaving him to indulge his master-passion, which I found less amusing than the pursuit of living curios, I laid siege to the castle. At the bureau where tickets are to be obtained many officials referred me to one another, and requested me to wait until certain formalities were complied with. After two hours’ stolid patience the fortress capitulated, and I was assigned to the care of a gallant sergeant, who spoke a little English and proved a most competent guide. From the summit of the tower a fine panorama was visible: below us the fertile Matsuyama plain stretched away to the shore of the Inland Sea, and on the opposite side the horizon was shut in by forest and mountain. To tell the truth, my conductor’s account of the castle’s history, as illustrated by its structure and some surviving weapons of war, interested me much less than his own exploits. For had he not with his own hand slain five Chinese braves in the battle of Port Arthur? My compliments on his heroism must have touched his heart, for, turning suddenly, he grasped my hand and cried: “I like you. You shall be my friend. I will dine with you.” This abrupt proposition at once solved for me the embarrassing question of remuneration. I could not press surreptitious silver into the palm of this obliging lover of England and slayer of Chinamen, but a friendly dinner would put us on terms of franker intimacy. So we descended the winding path from the ramparts, crossed the moat, and marched home to the Iwai-ya. We drank cherry-blossom and saké; we bathed, and dined off the best fare which our host could provide; we discussed the character of native and foreigner, arriving at the conclusion that, while the best type of Japanese inhabited Shikoku, the wiliest and worst of foes were Russian. We had not time to go deeply into ethnology, for at half-past eight my guest buckled on his sword and with many protestations of affectionate regard returned to barracks.
No shadow of trickery marred our joyous reminiscences of Dōgō. When we left the landlord presented a bill so ridiculously low, that we bestowed on him as much again in tea-money. Not to be outdone, he loaded our departing rickshaws with four bottles of beer. And the photographer, whose camera was worth a fortune to him as a means of gratifying all sorts and conditions of men, took an excellent group of that smiling host and his cheery household.
The voyage to Kōbe was no less agreeable. We had for fellow-passenger a distinguished middle-aged officer, who had fought on the losing sides in the revolution and the Satsuma-rebellion headed by Saigō Takamori, whose grave we had seen at Miyajima. Experience had long since convinced him of the folly of anti-progressive movements, and he realised as clearly as the most democratic reformer that national security was best served by adopting Western ideas. We had no idea of his rank until a small boat put off at Tadotsu, in which were three officers of inferior grade, who had come to escort him ashore. From his seat in the boat he waved his hand genially to us, while the men pulled in to harbour, but the three officers remained standing, as unmoved by the shock of the waves as by the rattle of Chinese artillery.
Kōbe received us, weary and late, with hospitable arms. In that prosperous port, so rapidly distancing Yokohama in commercial importance, an English colony is solidly entrenched with pews and cricket-bats and pianos. I went to the club, and was at once in England. The Saturday Review was reviewing and The World revolving on the same lines as when I was last in Fleet Street. Mr. Bernard Shaw was still unmasking demerits in Shakespeare, while Mr. William Archer was inventing merits for American comic opera. In a moment of nostalgia I sauntered into a well-filled church, whose congregation were listening with rapture to a beautiful rendering of Gounod’s “There is a Green Hill”: finally, I learned at a friend’s table that a cricket-match between the ladies and gentlemen of Kōbe was the burning topic of the week. Between Mr. Bernard Shaw and Buddha (vegetarians both), between Gounod and geisha, between batting and bathing, lay the gulf which separates the hard-hitting West from the lotus-loving East. I could not bridge the gulf without a violent effort. In fact, I felt a little ashamed on mixing with my fellow-countrymen, so pious and strenuous and practical. While they had been working and playing as only Britons can, I had utterly forgotten that any country except Japan could enthral and stimulate. I had been taking the waters—of Lethe.
PLAYING WITH FIRE