From time to time, I believe, a rule of the road has been
tried, but it has always broken down.
The rickshaw bells are the more important, because the Japanese are not
observant. They may see Fuji and stand for hours worshipping a spray of
cherry blossom, but they do not see what is coming. Normally they look
down.
The rickshaw is comfortable and speedy; but to be drawn about by a
fellow-creature is a humiliating experience and I never ceased to feel
too conspicuous and ashamed. I discovered also how easy it is to lose
one's temper with these men. I used to sit and wonder if there had ever
been a runaway, and I never hired a rickshaw without thinking of Mr.
Anstey's story of the talking horse.
FIRST GLIMPSE OF FUJI
I left Kyoto for Yokohama on Wednesday night, March 17, 1920, at eleven,
and Thursday, March 18, 1920, thus remains with me as a red-letter day,
for it was then, at about half-past seven in the morning, that, lifting
the blind of my sleeping compartment, I saw--almost within reach, as it
seemed, dazzlingly white under its snow against a clear blue sky, with
the sun flooding it with glory--Fujiyama. I was to see it again several
times--for I went to Myanoshita for that purpose--but never again so
startlingly and wonderfully as this.
When I am asked to name in a word the most beautiful thing I saw on my
travels I mention Fujiyama instantly.
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