These Women Are Tall, And
Straight As Arrows; Their Limbs Are Long And Rounded; Their Appearance
Is Timid, One Might Almost Say Modest, And Their Walk Is The Poetry Of
Movement.
A tall, graceful Kling woman, draped as I have described,
gliding along the pavement, her statuesque figure the perfection
Of
graceful ease, a dark pitcher on her head, just touched by the
beautiful hand, showing the finely moulded arm, is a beautiful object,
classical in form, exquisite in movement, and artistic in coloring, a
creation of the tropic sun. What thinks she, I wonder, if she thinks
at all, of the pale European, paler for want of exercise and engrossing
occupation, who steps out of her carriage in front of her, an
ungraceful heap of poufs and frills, tottering painfully on high heels,
in tight boots, her figure distorted into the shape of a Japanese sake
bottle, every movement a struggle or a jerk, the clothing utterly
unsuited to this or any climate, impeding motion, and affecting health,
comfort, and beauty alike?
It is all fascinating. Here is none of the indolence and apathy which
one associates with Oriental life, and which I have seen in Polynesia.
These yellow, brown, tawny, swarthy, olive-tinted men are all intent on
gain; busy, industrious, frugal, striving, and, no matter what their
creed is, all paying homage to Daikoku. In spite of the activity,
rapidity, and earnestness, the movements of all but the Chinese are
graceful, gliding, stealthy, the swarthy faces have no expression that
I can read, and the dark, liquid eyes are no more intelligible to me
than the eyes of oxen.
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