Part 10

The spectacle of the river reminded me of the Sumida Gawa of Tokio, mirroring the clouds of affectionate cherry blossoms which border its bank. It would be a remarkable idea, I thought, to petition the Mayor of New York for the Japanese cherry-trees to parade on this side of the Hudson. When they are in flower, I will open a tea-house under them, of course. My attire as a mistress should be a little red crape apron to begin with. My head will be wound with a Japanese towel to endow my Oriental eyes with certain better results. I will raise my voice, calling, “Honourable rest! Honourable tea plucked by the choicest musumes!” What a novel!

Romance!

How can I live without it!

In that case I must entreat the removal of the characters on the other side, which are:

“Lots For Sale!”

Because I don’t see any such unaristocratic sign by the Sumida Gawa.

14th—O snow, yukiya fure, fure!

The season of the city is still within the fence of winter. I was grateful to my fate that conveyed me here to overtake my loving snow.

I settled me by my window in absorption with the snow view of Hudson Gawa.

How busily the snowflakes fall!

Their cautiously silent hurry made me recollect the drama of the China-Japan war. How stealthily the soldiers marched at midnight! Can I ever forget how I tugged my shoji, crying “Victory, Dai Nippon!”

I raised the window, stretching out my arm. I collected the snow-petals in the hollow of my palm. I tasted them.

“Uncle, New York snow is as deliciously savoured as at home,” I said.

Central Park must have been artistically attired.

“Oji San, let us go to the park for snow-viewing! I advise you to till a bit more poetry in yourself, Uncle,” I announced.

I began to change my dress before his decision.

15th—We went to the famous Brooklyn Bridge.

Verily, New York gentlemen are interested with their papers in the car. Newspapers, O newspapers! There’s no slip of a doubt that they would die without the sight of their newspapers. The unheroic part about them is that they forget neatly to offer their seats to a lady. Woman loves an absent-minded man once in a while, but never on the car, I do say.

I suppose every woman of this city has to be rich.

Must I equip a carriage?

I do not see why I could not win the first prize with my Louisiana ticket.

How I wish to fabric an every-inch-a-Japanese mansion on Fifth Avenue, and welcome a thousand tojins to hear my Jap song on Sunday!

“Is this bridge built for Americans or Europeans, Uncle? People crossing here use no English,” I said.

“Liberty Statue!”

I will let the Beauty statue hail from the Bay of Yedo, when I am wealthy enough to afford it.

Doesn’t Nippon signify beauty?

“How dear is that sign, ‘Beware of Pick-pockets!’ It makes me just feel as if I were at Shinbashi station in Tokio, doesn’t it you, Uncle?”

Humbly humble ’rikisha men!

If I were besieged by them imploring me to take a little honourable ride, the scene would be complete.

I miss such a merry car in Amerikey.

We walked down Broadway. We came to a graveyard.

Tombstones in the midst of commerce!

O romantic New York!

I wondered how Wall Street gentlemen would be struck glancing at them.

What a soft silence hovered!

The old Gothic Church was my own ideal.

“Uncle, let us fall in and rest!” I cried.

The morning service was proceeding.

Alas and alas!

Not one soul was there.

Is this a religious city?

The inside was compact of heavenly purple air. Mr. Bishop—whatever he may be—gestured like another being from a loftier realm. A beautiful boy (there’s no greater fascination than a boy with a prayer-book) supported the service. Intangibleness of speech is itself a divine charm.

“Will you mind asking Mr. Bishop whether he wants a sweeping girl? I wish I were given just a chance to clean such a holy church, uncle.”

Then I looked up to Mr. Secretary.

16th—It seems to me a recent style that New York ladies discard their babies to leave them in the hands of European immigrants (very likely they want them to learn an ungrammatical hodge-podge, as respectableness is old-fashioned) and accompany a dog with mighty affection.

O my dear “chin” that I left at home!

Shall I call it to Amerikey?

Little loyal thing, pathetic, clinging!

I am sure it would beat any other in a dog contest.

17th—I never saw such hungry eyes in my life as those of an organ-grinder, set upon the windows for a dropping penny.

To an artist they would hint of a prisoner’s bloodshot eyes numbed by useless gazing toward the light of the world.

Poor Italians!

They don’t know one thing but turning the handle.

The last two days they placed their organ—read their sign, “Garibaldi & Co.”—under my apartment at the same hour for my bit money.

I thought one of them might be a grandson of the renowned Italian patriot. How interesting it would be to be told of his shipwreck in life!

Now three o’clock.

There’s one more hour before their frolic music will gush.

I must wrap some money in paper for them.

God bless them—simple creatures who work hard!

18th—Mr. Consul—an old man who sips the grayness of celibacy—never strays out from his official duty. He calls society and novels two recent pieces of foolery.

The family of Uncle’s intimate is off in Europe.

The possibility of a nice time for me is verily illegible. Tsumaranai!

Last night I sketched an adventure of enlisting in the band of domestics.

“Capital idea to examine a New York household!” I said, when I left my breakfast table.

I humbled myself to a newspaper office with the following shamefaced advertisement:

“Jap girl, nineteen, good-looking, longs for a place in a family of the first rank.”

I used every kind of oratory to bring my uncle to agree to my two weeks of freedom.

19th—Two letters were waiting me at the office.

One from No. 296 of a certain part.

296?

Unfortunately it sounds like “nikumu” in Japanese, meaning hatred.

And the other was from Fifth Avenue.

Parlour maid.

Twelve dollars for a month.

I shall accept it, since it is the proper quarter for seeing the high-toned New Yorker.

I feel already a servant feeling.

I am sorry that I didn’t discipline myself before in dusting.

I will style me an honest worker for awhile. “Toiling for my daily bread,” does ring an American sound, doesn’t it?

“Domestic girl has no right, I think, to sit with Messrs. Consul and Secretary,” I said, moving my dinner plate to the kitchen table.

Morning Glory, isn’t it time you changed the book of your diary?

Really, sir!

Let me close now with a ceremonious bow!

My next book shall be entitled:

“THE DIARY OF A PARLOUR MAID.”

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text that was bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).