Englishwoman, he said. Hearing that an Occidental woman had conquered an ancient taboo in this land of tradition and obligations gave me courage and helped me believe that I, too, could defy tradition and succeed.
When we reached the pier and I walked down the wooden landing steps built of heavy planks, I saw a soft pink tint hanging over the scene, heard the babble of many languages playing upon my ears and breathed in the strong, salty smells of the sea mixed with the sweat of labor. It was a cyclorama come to life. Without warning, the loud blast of a signal gun fired. The noon signal, the man walking next to me said. A tall, handsome young man I recognized as the ship’s clerk. Mr. Edward Mallory. I remembered his kindness and efficiency aboard ship. He had made certain my communications to my father weren’t lost among the flurry of “BV” (bon voyage) messages, as they were called, flooding the ship’s mail room. I nodded, acknowledging him with a smile, though it was bold of me to do so. He smiled back and I admit I flirted with him, believing I’d never see him again. I squinted, trying to get a clearer look at the westerners, native jinriki-men and Chinese coolies racing up and down the quay. The large crates bulging with slimy, scaly fish. Cargo freight discharged onto the landing pier by means of long planks. Angry shouts. Running bare feet. Pounding boots. It was maddening, exciting, the atmosphere overwhelming and heavy with exotic sights and sounds, as if I viewed a postal card of Yokohama harbor come to life before my eyes with all its frenetic energy and bustling disorder.
A cold shudder claimed me, the stark realization I had left behind a world I could recognize and entered a world I would find strange, indifferent, even hostile toward me. I couldn’tput it into words, but I believe I had thoughts then of writing a memoir, though the soul of my story had not yet presented itself to me and wouldn’t do so until I had my feet firmly planted on this rich earth blessed by the gods. At that moment the only literary thought running through my mind was I found it a pity my life wasn’t a novel where the character of Lord Carlton was revealed to me in fragments and enticing pieces instead of knowing him to be the worthless cad that he was. Unfortunately for me this was reinforced by what happened next in this drama.
When the harbormaster informed me my luggage was nowhere to be found, I fought hard to retain my regal carriage under the patterned shade of my ivory-braided umbrella, my demeanor calm and fluid as if I swam through cool currents. Inside, I fumed. James. He wished to send me back to England, so why not have my trunks mysteriously disappear? His lordship knew I needed my wardrobe to define my social position. A lady without the proper clothes would not only be at a disadvantage among the circle of foreigners residing here (mostly British), but must spend her days in an opaque existence. I couldn’t go anywhere, receive anyone. I’d be confined to an inner world and left to my own imaginings, much like an unhappy turtle residing in her cold, empty shell.
Damn his lordship and his games. What was I going to do?
The harbormaster ushered me inside the customhouse on the landing pier, a place where I was to experience more delays and frustration when he excused himself, and the local native official in a blue uniform and black leather boots took his place. Bowing repeatedly, he kept asking me in broken English, Where is your luggage?
I had no intention of explaining to him that most likelymy silk petticoats had been doomed to an afterlife among the fishes. Like you, dear lady reader, I wasn’t used to being questioned by strange men, but I didn’t need a male protector by my side to tell me what to do about the situation.
I left the official babbling and waving his arms about and walked outside along the long stretch of seafront, looking for my husband so I could inform him that his plan
When we reached the pier and I walked down the wooden landing steps built of heavy planks, I saw a soft pink tint hanging over the scene, heard the babble of many languages playing upon my ears and breathed in the strong, salty smells of the sea mixed with the sweat of labor. It was a cyclorama come to life. Without warning, the loud blast of a signal gun fired. The noon signal, the man walking next to me said. A tall, handsome young man I recognized as the ship’s clerk. Mr. Edward Mallory. I remembered his kindness and efficiency aboard ship. He had made certain my communications to my father weren’t lost among the flurry of “BV” (bon voyage) messages, as they were called, flooding the ship’s mail room. I nodded, acknowledging him with a smile, though it was bold of me to do so. He smiled back and I admit I flirted with him, believing I’d never see him again. I squinted, trying to get a clearer look at the westerners, native jinriki-men and Chinese coolies racing up and down the quay. The large crates bulging with slimy, scaly fish. Cargo freight discharged onto the landing pier by means of long planks. Angry shouts. Running bare feet. Pounding boots. It was maddening, exciting, the atmosphere overwhelming and heavy with exotic sights and sounds, as if I viewed a postal card of Yokohama harbor come to life before my eyes with all its frenetic energy and bustling disorder.
A cold shudder claimed me, the stark realization I had left behind a world I could recognize and entered a world I would find strange, indifferent, even hostile toward me. I couldn’tput it into words, but I believe I had thoughts then of writing a memoir, though the soul of my story had not yet presented itself to me and wouldn’t do so until I had my feet firmly planted on this rich earth blessed by the gods. At that moment the only literary thought running through my mind was I found it a pity my life wasn’t a novel where the character of Lord Carlton was revealed to me in fragments and enticing pieces instead of knowing him to be the worthless cad that he was. Unfortunately for me this was reinforced by what happened next in this drama.
When the harbormaster informed me my luggage was nowhere to be found, I fought hard to retain my regal carriage under the patterned shade of my ivory-braided umbrella, my demeanor calm and fluid as if I swam through cool currents. Inside, I fumed. James. He wished to send me back to England, so why not have my trunks mysteriously disappear? His lordship knew I needed my wardrobe to define my social position. A lady without the proper clothes would not only be at a disadvantage among the circle of foreigners residing here (mostly British), but must spend her days in an opaque existence. I couldn’t go anywhere, receive anyone. I’d be confined to an inner world and left to my own imaginings, much like an unhappy turtle residing in her cold, empty shell.
Damn his lordship and his games. What was I going to do?
The harbormaster ushered me inside the customhouse on the landing pier, a place where I was to experience more delays and frustration when he excused himself, and the local native official in a blue uniform and black leather boots took his place. Bowing repeatedly, he kept asking me in broken English, Where is your luggage?
I had no intention of explaining to him that most likelymy silk petticoats had been doomed to an afterlife among the fishes. Like you, dear lady reader, I wasn’t used to being questioned by strange men, but I didn’t need a male protector by my side to tell me what to do about the situation.
I left the official babbling and waving his arms about and walked outside along the long stretch of seafront, looking for my husband so I could inform him that his plan
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