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diff --git a/76241-h/76241-h.htm b/76241-h/76241-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c1604a --- /dev/null +++ b/76241-h/76241-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9573 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Kakemono | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +.s2 {font-size: 1.5em;} +.s3 {font-size: 1.3em;} +.s4 {font-size: 1em;} +.s5 {font-size: 0.83em;} +.s6 {font-size: 0.67em;} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +a {text-decoration: none;} + +.p1 {margin-top: 1em;} +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdl { + text-align: left; + padding-left: 0.25em; + padding-right: 0.25em; +} +.tdr { + text-align: right; + +} +.tdc { + text-align: center; + padding-top: 2em; + padding-bottom: 1em; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.inline-block { + display: inline-block; + text-align: left; + max-width: 100%; + margin: 0.5em auto; + padding: 0.5em; + background-color: white; + color: black; +} + +.left5 { + margin-left: 5%;} + +.x-ebookmaker .inline-block { + width: 80%; +} + +.line-height2 {line-height: 2;} +.line-height3 {line-height: 3;} + +.cont80 { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + width: 80%; + text-align: left; + margin: 1em auto; + padding: 1em; + background-color: white; + color: black;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +.logo { + margin: 2em auto; + text-align: center; + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; + width: 10em; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .logo {width: 25%;} + +.frontis { + margin: 2em auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; + width: 35em; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .frontis {width: 90%;} + +.cover { + margin: 2em auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; + width: 25em; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .cover {width: 90%;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none; +} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote { + background-color: white; + border: solid 1px black; + color: black; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; + margin-bottom: 2em; + padding: 1em; +} + +.cornsilk { + background-color: #FFF8DC; + color: black; + border: solid 1px black;} + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76241 ***</div> + +<!-- COVER --> +<div class="cover"> + <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="1750" height="2651" + alt="Book Cover"> +</div> + +<!-- TITLE PAGE --> +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>K A K E M O N O</h1> +<p class="center s2">JAPANESE SKETCHES</p> +<p class="center s4">BY</p> +<p class="center s3">A. HERBAGE EDWARDS</p> +<p class="center s4"><i>WITH FRONTISPIECE</i></p> +<p class="center logo"> + <img src="images/i_title.jpg" width="379" height="375" + alt="Printer’s Logo"> +</p> +<p class="center s4">CHICAGO</p> +<p class="center s3">A. C. McCLURG & CO.</p> +<p class="center s5">LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN</p> +<p class="center s4">1906</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<!-- FRONTISPIECE --> +<div class="frontis"> + <img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" width="1497" height="1761" + alt="A Daughter of Japan"> + <p class="right s6">COPYRIGHT 1906 S. L. WILLARD</p> + <p class="center caption p1"><i>A Daughter of Japan</i></p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<!-- VERSO --> +<div class="chapter"> + <p class="center p2">American Edition Published Sept. 15, 1906</p> + <p class="center p4"><i>Printed in Great Britain</i></p> + <p class="center"><i>Bound by Lakeside Press, Chicago</i></p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<!-- DEDICATION --> +<div class="chapter"> + <p class="center">TO MY TEACHERS<br> + THE PEOPLE OF JAPAN</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum">vii</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> +<table> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#THE_FAITH_OF_JAPAN">THE FAITH + OF JAPAN</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr" colspan="3">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">DAI BUTSU</td> + <td class="tdr">3</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE SHRINES OF ISÉ</td> + <td class="tdr">5</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE TEMPLE OF NIKKŌ</td> + <td class="tdr">8</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJIV">IV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">KANNON, LADY OF MERCY</td> + <td class="tdr">14</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJV">V.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">RINZAKI’S ALTAR</td> + <td class="tdr">17</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJVI">VI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">TWO CREEDS</td> + <td class="tdr">19</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJVII">VII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE LEGEND OF THE NOSELESS JIZŌ</td> + <td class="tdr">22</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJVIII">VIII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE TEMPLES OF SHIBA</td> + <td class="tdr">27</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJIX">IX.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">AMIDA BUTSU</td> + <td class="tdr">31</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJX">X.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">ST. NICHIREN</td> + <td class="tdr">34</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJXI">XI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">BETWEEN EARTH AND HEAVEN</td> + <td class="tdr">36</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJXII">XII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">INARI, THE FOX-GOD</td> + <td class="tdr">39</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJXIII">XIII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE ALTAR OF FIRE</td> + <td class="tdr">42</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TFOJXIV">XIV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">FORGOTTEN GODS</td> + <td class="tdr">48</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#LORD_FUJI">LORD FUJI</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LFI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">PROLOGUE</td> + <td class="tdr">55</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LFII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE ASCENT</td> + <td class="tdr">57</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LFIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">EPILOGUE</td> + <td class="tdr">99</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#THE_ART_OF_THE_NATION">THE ART + OF THE NATION</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TANI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">GRACE BEFORE MEAT</td> + <td class="tdr">103</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TANII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">IN A CLOISONNÉ FACTORY</td> + <td class="tdr">110</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TANIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">FLOWER ARRANGEMENT</td> + <td class="tdr">114</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TANIV">IV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">GOD’S MESSENGER</td> + <td class="tdr">119</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#TANV">V.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE ART OF THE PEOPLE</td> + <td class="tdr">122</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><span class="pagenum">viii</span> + <a href="#SCENES_IN_RAIN_AND_SUNSHINE"> + SCENES IN RAIN AND SUNSHINE</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE MOAT</td> + <td class="tdr">157</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">A RAINY DAY</td> + <td class="tdr">159</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">MMÉ (PLUM BLOSSOMS)</td> + <td class="tdr">161</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSIV">IV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">WET LEAVES</td> + <td class="tdr">163</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSV">V.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">ASAMAYAMA</td> + <td class="tdr">165</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSVI">VI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">CAMELLIAS</td> + <td class="tdr">176</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSVII">VII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">RAIN</td> + <td class="tdr">178</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSVIII">VIII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE BLACK CANAL</td> + <td class="tdr">181</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#SRSIX">IX.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE INLAND SEA</td> + <td class="tdr">184</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#THE_LAND_OF_THE_GODS">THE LAND + OF THE GODS</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">ACROSS THE LAGOON</td> + <td class="tdr">193</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">TO KIZUKI</td> + <td class="tdr">199</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">IZUMO’S GREAT TEMPLE</td> + <td class="tdr">204</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGIV">IV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">KIZUKI’S BAY</td> + <td class="tdr">211</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGV">V.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">IN MATSUÉ</td> + <td class="tdr">214</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#LOGVI">VI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE TWO SPIRITS</td> + <td class="tdr">235</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="3"><a href="#THE_HEART_OF_THE_PEOPLE">THE + HEART OF THE PEOPLE</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPI">I.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">TOKYO</td> + <td class="tdr">243</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPII">II.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">EAST AND WEST</td> + <td class="tdr">255</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPIII">III.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">YONÉ’S BABY</td> + <td class="tdr">257</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPIV">IV.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE GRAVES OF THE RŌNIN</td> + <td class="tdr">260</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPV">V.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE DOLLS’ FESTIVAL</td> + <td class="tdr">263</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPVI">VI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">WITH DEATH BESIDE HER</td> + <td class="tdr">266</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPVII">VII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">KYOTO’S SOIRÉE</td> + <td class="tdr">269</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPVIII">VIII.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">NŌ</td> + <td class="tdr">273</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPIX">IX.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">A JAPANESE BANK-HOLIDAY</td> + <td class="tdr">278</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPX">X.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">THE PALACE OF THE SON OF HEAVEN</td> + <td class="tdr">282</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#HPXI">XI.</a></td> + <td class="tdl">AND SHE WAS A WIDOW</td> + <td class="tdr">285</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> </td> + <td class="tdl"><a href="#GLOSSARY">GLOSSARY</a></td> + <td class="tdr">293</td> + </tr> +</table> + +<!-- *****************************Checked from here on --> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum">001</span> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_FAITH_OF_JAPAN">THE FAITH OF JAPAN</h2> +</div> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <span class="pagenum">002</span> + <p> “In my Father’s house are many mansions.”</p> + <p class="right"><i>John</i> xiv.</p> + <p class="p2">Tenshi ni kuchi nashi hito o motte iwashimu.</p> + <p>“Heaven has no mouth, it makes men speak for it.”</p> + <p class="right"><i>Japanese Proverb.</i></p> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">003</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>DAI BUTSU</span><br> + <span>(GREAT BUDDHA)</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The great God Buddha sits peaceful and still, a line of dark bronze +against the blue sky, and the length of the garden is flooded with +light. Two tall pink cherry-trees drop blushing snowflakes on to his +broad shoulders, and the sound of running water is a liquid prayer. +Under his heavy-lidded eyes he looks as one who saw not, or saw too +well, and his slow smile is inscrutable and still. The mystery of it +draws one nearer.</p> + +<p>What is thy secret, Great Lord Buddha?</p> + +<p>But the heavy-lidded eyes droop lower, and the slow smile is still. +Only the cherry-trees send their pale pink petals floating downward +into the bronzed lap. And the murmuring water runs more swiftly.</p> + +<p>Immutable he sits, and still; enduring, unchanging, though the sea +destroy his temples and the earthquakes rock about his feet. Buddha on +his lotus-leaf is still.</p> + +<p>And the generations of men rise up, and pass away, fretted with +life’s fitful fever, and searching for his secret. Buddha is still, his +slow smile unchanging, his heavy eyelids drooped.</p> + +<p>Is that thy secret, Great Lord Buddha? The <span +class="pagenum">004</span> mystery we passion-swept, ever-changing +mortals can never penetrate?</p> + +<p>“God is the same, for ever. The <i>same</i>, and <i>for +ever</i>.”</p> + +<p>And the murmuring water runs, the cherry-trees bloom and fade, the +centuries pass away. Still the heavy-lidded eyes are drooped, the slow +smile is inscrutable and still. Lord Buddha keeps his secret.</p> + +<p>Or is it only we who cannot read.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">005</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJII"> + <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> + <span>THE SHRINES OF ISÉ</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>On every side the circle of the hills shuts out all sounds, and the +vast forest stretches solemn, sombre.</p> + +<p>The long two miles of white road from the village are forgotten, the +crude sunshine of the public gardens fades away, the giant fir-trees +stand as they stood two thousand years ago when the shrine of the great +Sun-Goddess first was born.</p> + +<p>The broad grey path of unhewn stone, unshadowed in the darkness of +the trees, bends downward to the river’s brink, where a grey still +pool lies silent on the edge of the rushing stream. It is the Pool of +Purification where all who go up to the temple stay and wash. Even the +<i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> who daily draws the pilgrim or the stranger +to the shrine, stoops to plunge his hands and feet into the still grey +waters. And as he does so a great shaft of sunshine hits the weltering +circle of the hills beyond the stream, and they quiver, blue as a +distant mirage in the blue sky; while the forest is the darker for that +light.</p> + +<p>The grey stone path is long and wide, the forest vast, unfathomable; +primæval, untamed, and yet kept with a care that leaves no trace +behind; the forest of a dream where Death is not, nor decay, +nor any sign of man. From time to time the dark stern stems of +the cryptomerias are broken with the glossy deep-green <span +class="pagenum">006</span>leaves of a camphor-tree; and each time my <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> stays to pray, for camphor-trees are sacred, and +their bark thrown into the sea has power to calm the waves.</p> + +<p>And the forest stretches on and on.</p> + +<p>In the distance the grey stone path broadens into a flight of +shallow steps, and passes beneath an open gateway out of sight. A +wooden wall, like the sloughed bark of forest trees, stretches right +and left; and against it, rigid in his discipline, the white uniform of +a modern soldier, bayonet fixed.</p> + +<p>I stand on the threshold of the most sacred spot in all Japan.</p> + +<p>Beyond the gateway is another gate, where a pure white curtain falls, +fold on fold. It is the veil of the great Sun-Goddess. All through the +ages since first the nation was, the shrine of the Sun-Goddess has stood +behind that veil. Every twenty years night comes, her temple dies, and +again is born, unchanged, unaltered to the last least detail. And her +priests are the carpenters. So through all the ages, the body of the +great Sun-Goddess glows, in youth eternal, and none save her far-off +offspring, <i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i>, the Son of Heaven, may pass +behind the veil.</p> + +<p>The Japanese soldier stays to guard, for did the stranger, +sacrilegious in his foolish pride, so much as touch those long white +folds, evil might befall him. Viscount Mori died beneath the sword of a +<i lang="ja">samurai</i> for lifting but the edge of the curtain with +his stick.</p> + +<p>My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> is on his knees before these fluttering, +mysterious folds, two claps, a bow, a little murmured prayer; another +bow, two claps, and he rises.</p> + +<p>Then he leads us along inside the wooden wall, and +another grey-green wooden wall, built as it were of <span +class="pagenum">007</span>flattened tree-trunks, rises on the other +side, leads us a few yards, and then he stops. The outer wooden wall +runs round a huge imperfect square, then comes a broad band of space +where we are standing, and then the inner wall rails out the world. +Inside and opposite the curtained gateway, but with the whole distance +of the sacred square between, stands the shrine itself, a grey-brown +wooden building, unpainted, unadorned; a grey-brown roof of thatch, with +the cross-beams of its roof-tree rising up through the thatch in two +rough wooden anchors bound with gold. A building that is simple, with +a simplicity more strange to modern man than the strangest complexity, +archaic, primæval, a ghost from man’s dim past.</p> + +<p>The silent sombre trees stand thickly round. Beyond the circle of +blue hills shuts out all sounds. The folds of the white curtain fall +straight and close.</p> + +<p>My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> prays again.</p> + +<p>And there behind her veil the great Sun-Goddess dwells, untouched +by time, of an age with the hills, more primitive than the forest +trees—and sacred still.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">008</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJIII"> + <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> + <span>THE TEMPLE OF NIKKŌ</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>In all the pomp of splendour and of power they buried <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> at Nikkō, and the greatest artists of Old +Japan came and built in his memory a temple more beautiful than any +in all the length and breadth of the land. For more than forty years +they worked, and brains and money and labour were poured out like +mountain water, until the temple stood complete, the mausoleum of <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> and the eternal monument of this artistic +race.</p> + +<p>With Buddhist rites was the great <i lang="ja">Shōgun</i> buried, and +for many hundred years daily remembered in a ritual as solemn as it is +effective, but Buddha himself has not anywhere a temple so splendid.</p> + +<p>They buried <span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> at Nikkō, not in the town +of his birth or of his death, not in the city over which he ruled, but +four days’ journey from Yedo in the midst of the mountains; and they +did it that Japan’s greatest ruler might lie amid the nation’s best in +nature as in art, that to the splendour of the temple the Land herself +might add the glories of her mountains and her trees.</p> + +<p>At Nikkō is the great <i lang="ja">Shōgun</i> buried, and +for twenty miles before his shrine a stately avenue of trees +leads up to the temple, and up this avenue prince and <span +class="pagenum">009</span>pilgrim yearly come; prince and pilgrim, +priest and peasant they still come, up the great avenue of dark +thick-set cryptomerias, the giant pine-trees of Japan.</p> + +<p>At the temple’s foot a mountain stream rushes in a deep green gorge, +and two bridges cross the stream: one bright red, the bridge of the Son +of Heaven, one painted green, for the rest of this world’s humankind.</p> + +<p>And the reason is that when the Buddhist saint Shōdō Shōnin pursued +the vision that had been sent to him, he journeyed into the mountains +many days until the grey torrent of Nikkō rushing tumultuously across +his path barred the way; but the vision abode with him, and Shōdō Shōnin +knew that he must cross the stream, yet was there neither bridge, +nor boat, nor crossing-place. So the saint kneeled down and prayed. +Then there appeared to him an angel, clothed in black robes and blue, +wearing a string of skulls around his neck, and holding in his hand two +serpents, these he threw across the stream, and they became a bridge +firm and strong. So Shōdō Shōnin passed over the torrent in safety, but +when he looked back, snakes, bridge, and angel had vanished and only the +rushing river remained. Then for a memory the two bridges were built in +the very place of the crossing.</p> + +<p>Of all the marriages of Art and Nature the Sacred Red Bridge of Nikkō +is the most beautiful. Scattered among hills and trees and river, beauty +lay; but this people coming through the mountains saw the one bond +that had power to bind the pale blue hills, the dark green gorge, the +stone-grey stream together in an ordered whole of deep-thought artistic +loveliness, planned, perfect, yet supremely natural.</p> + +<p>Then the avenue goes on, up the foot of the hill, till +it widens and broadens into a great gravel circle <span +class="pagenum">010</span>before the entrance-gate of the temple. Here +the great trees of the mountains spread out and up on either hand, with +the temple in their midst surrounded but not overwhelmed by the grace +of the wood. Under the granite <i lang="ja">torī</i>, the first gateway +is guarded by two figures, the mythical lions gilded and lacquered; +while above, the mysterious <i lang="ja">baku</i>, with his four ears +and his nine tails, who has power to eat all bad dreams that pass before +sleeping eyes, crouches alert.</p> + +<p>A flight of granite steps leads to the first courtyard, set at right +angles to the gateway, and paved with rounded grey pebbles from the +stream. Here are all the minor buildings of the temple, the stable for +the sacred white horse, the library for the two thousand <i>sutra</i> +of the Buddhist scriptures, the tank-house for the purification, +the store-houses for the temple furniture; and stable and library, +tank-house and store-houses are jewelled gems of carving and design, so +rich, so splendid in the ordered magnificence of their colouring that +western senses stand amazed. A blood-red lacquered fence aglow with +coloured carvings divides the temple from the sombre majesty of the +giant cryptomerias.</p> + +<p>Then the pebbled space contracts into a flight of granite stairs, and +mounts between stone walls that end in painted friezes of carved wood +to a second courtyard. This is almost square, and standing on the wide +grey sweep of rounded pebbles are three bronze lanterns from the three +tributary kingdoms of Old Japan—from Korea, Luchu, and <i>Holland</i>; +and there in serried rows and ranged against the blood-red lacquered +fence aglow with gilded carvings, stand multitudes of bronze lanterns, +which the dead <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> of Old Japan sent as offerings to +the temple. <span class="pagenum">011</span>Beyond the lacquered fence +the dark still stems of the pine-trees range out of sight.</p> + +<p>Then the pebbled space contracts again, and a flight of granite +steps leads between granite walls set with coloured friezes of carved +wood to the third courtyard; and the colourless pause of the second +court, with its bronze lanterns on grey stones, gains a new meaning +as one mounts, for in the third courtyard, between the blood-red +friezes with their riotous coloured carvings, is the pure perfection +of the Yōmei-mon, a double gateway, of white lacquer, cream-white and +supported by four pillars of carved wood. And when they put the fourth +pillar in its place they planted it upside down fearing if the beauty +of the temple were all-perfect, evil might befall the house of <span +lang="ja">Tokugawa</span> through the jealousy of high heaven.</p> + +<p>And the stranger as he draws near pauses in sheer amazement; the wild +untamable beauty of the mighty temple set in its giant framework of dark +green trees is strange beyond believing.</p> + +<p>On either hand stretches the tropical splendour of the blood-red +lacquered fence, set with coloured carvings as with shining jewels. +Behind is the pale glory of the Yōmei-mon. All around the darkness +of the forest lies like a still quiet tomb. And in front, rising in +lines of sheer perfection, is the white beauty of the Chinese gate, +cream-white, adorned with glittering yellow brass, brass in rounded +sunken medallions on the lintel and the gate-posts, brass in quaint +designs and shining points of yellow light, which break about the +whiteness as sunshine through a mist.</p> + +<p>The carvings and the pattern, the picture-panels, the decorated +eaves, the chiselled heads and sculptured birds and beasts, the +growing, glowing flowers, the <span class="pagenum">012</span>hanging +lotus-bells that tinkle at the corners of the tent-curved roof, and all +perfect, are more than a man’s mind can perceive though he look for many +years. Brains and money and labour were poured out here like mountain +water, and like the rushing stream of Nikkō the drops go unperceived in +the beauty of the whole.</p> + +<p>In the short space of forty years were the temple and its fences, +the gateways and the carvings, completed and set up; but forty short +years from first to last, and the carving of one gateway is more than a +lifetime’s work.</p> + +<p>Then the splendour culminates. Beyond the Chinese gateway is the +actual shrine itself, its cream-white gateway studded too with brass, +while superb in the utter beauty of their carving, two writhing dragons +stretch on either hand between the door-post and the pillar. Inside +is the temple of the memorial tablets, where with daily rites the +Buddhist priests prayed for the soul of <span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span>. +To-day the Buddhist emblems are all gone, the shrine is bare. A <i +lang="ja">shintō</i> rope of rice-straw stretches from post to post, the +mirror of the Sun-Goddess shines above the altar for her son, the “Son +of Heaven” <i lang="ja">Tenshi</i>, the Mikado, has come back to his +own.</p> + +<p>All the magnificence of the temple now is in its walls, walls of +panel carvings where the springing phœnix and the crouching lion rise +like pale shadows from the pale unstained wood, so little are they +raised above the surface. And yet the artist’s hand that carved them was +without a rival in the world. They are real and living, delicate and +true, and so entirely beautiful that the heart cries out with joy as at +a long-lost good. Here is no colour, the sweep of pale yellow matting, +the panelled walls of pale dust-coloured wood, are more light than +<span class="pagenum">013</span>colour. Here the rich joy of sense is +laid aside: the temple stands a beauty immaterial.</p> + +<p>Through three hundred years they prayed for <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> daily with long rites, but his tomb is not +here.</p> + +<p>It lies beyond the temple and above it. One climbs to it by a long, +steep stair of grey-green granite, set in the sombre hill. A stairway +built of granite in long slabs, so broad and thick that the balustrade +with its coping, base, and sculptured columns is all cut from one +solid block, with each block fourteen feet long. And the stairway took +thirteen years to quarry and set up.</p> + +<p>The hillside is steep, the stairs are many, and the tall dark pines, +the flame-red maples gather, gather till the temple’s roof, the sound of +praying bell or chanted hymn is lost. The little space which Art stole +from Nature is completely hidden, even the forest has forgotten.</p> + +<p>And the grey stair climbs, climbs among the dark-green trees, then +stops.</p> + +<p>On the top of the hill is a rounded curve of stately pines. +Alone, solitary between sky and trees, stands the tomb of <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span>, a domed pillar-box of bronze glinting golden +through the trees. A low stone wall surrounds the tomb, a bronze door +solid but uncarved is its gateway, and that is all. Here among the +quiet trees, in the stillness of the forest, above the splendour of the +temple, lie the ashes of the great <span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span>.</p> + +<p>All the days of his rule he dwelt among men, but his soul climbed the +steep stair of Life, casting off its splendours and its glories, climbed +above them, climbed back into the eternal simplicity of Nature, and +there he laid him down to rest.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">014</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJIV"> + <span class="line-height3">IV</span><br> + <span>KANNON, LADY OF MERCY</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It was the <i lang="fr">fête</i> of Kannon of Asak’sa, whose votaries +are many. They thronged the narrow paved pathway set between the two +long rows of red brick stalls, and overflowed into the temple grounds +behind, where the juggler and the wax-works, the two-headed porpoise, +and the headless man, and all the long scale of attractions in between +shouted and drummed. All the fun of the fair was here, with the +advantage of a <i lang="fr">petit bout de messe</i>, to save the soul, +over the way.</p> + +<p>Kannon of Asak’sa is a popular lady, and her doors stand wide +open. You may go in with your boots on. It is true that the goddess +herself, on her gilded altar, is railed off from public touch by a wire +netting—like the animals in the menagerie outside. But that is all the +privacy she enjoys, and the rest of her temple is as public as a railway +station, and just about as sacred. The people pour in up the steps on +all sides, the scraping of their <i lang="ja">gheta</i> on the dirty +wooden floor adding its quota of noise to the chink of money and the +buzz of voices, the ringing of bells, and the hurry and bustle of a +surging railway crowd. There is the same wide-open, doorless feel, the +same discomforting, amphibious sensation of neither open air nor closed +house. A large bookstall in the corner, selling the latest illustrated +<span class="pagenum">015</span>numbers of the goddess, and the whole +stock of Kannon literature adds to the illusion. Between two pillars a +temple clerk issues tickets at a substantial booking-office. A shaven +official appears and rings a bell at intervals, reciting a prayer in +the voice of a railway porter proclaiming stations. There is the same +reasonless flux and reflux of the crowd, the same rush and bustle, with +its inseparable accompaniment of underlying roar that rises and falls, +sometimes absorbing all the other sounds into itself, sometimes leaving +them distinct and clear, but never for a moment ceasing.</p> + +<p>A huge lacquered case like a square coffin, its lid replaced by thick +metal bars, stands between the bookstall and the booking-office, right +against the wire netting. Into this each comer throws his coin before +reciting his prayer, and the chinking of the money as it falls is as +unceasing as the roar of the crowd.</p> + +<p>Away in a corner behind the booking-office a worn-out black statue +sits huddled in rags. Around it, bands of invalids await their turn to +rub the featureless figure with their hands, and transfer the charm by +rubbing themselves in the corresponding spot. As a method of propagating +disease, this treatment for curing it can have few equals. But the +coffers of the temple profit greatly.</p> + +<p>Business, indeed, is brisk to-day. The shaven-headed booking-clerk is +issuing tickets at a bank-holiday rate, and the bookstall is besieged. +Up from all sides comes the tumult of the fair. Kannon must be a paying +investment.</p> + +<p>As I stand on the steps with the din of the temple behind me, a man +in the crowd below buys a cage of little birds at a stall, and, opening +the door, throws <span class="pagenum">016</span>them up into the air. +The startled flutter of their wings as they soar up over the heads of +the crowd into the blue carries me back to Ober-Ammergau, to the memory +of the overturned tables of the money-changers, and the overthrown cages +of those who sold doves.</p> + +<p>“My house shall be called the house of prayer, but ye have made it a +den of thieves.”</p> + +<p>Is human nature the same all the world over? Are priests? Or is the +fate of all religions alike?</p> + +<p>O Kannon of Asak’sa! Kannon, Lady of Mercy! how long must thou wait +for thy deliverer? O Lord Buddha, how long?</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">017</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJV"> + <span class="line-height3">V</span><br> + <span>RINZAKI’S ALTAR</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>On the edge of the dark hills is the temple of Rinzaki, and the +green sea of the rice-fields washes up to its open doors. Overhead the +grey sky of a sunless summer’s evening dims all the colours in the +land, and leaves them shadows. It is fresh and still, and the wide, +green bay sweeps in smooth curves to the foot of the dark hills. On the +pathway the hosts of little green frogs hop like hailstones, and the +startled splash as they fall back into the rice-fields is sharp and +clear.</p> + +<p>Rinzaki stands alone, its <i lang="ja">shōji</i> walls pushed back, +and the slender, square pillars at each corner are dark against the +greyness. The open matted spaces of the temple are deserted, and the +stillness is pure and clear as freshly running water. In the sunless +evening light the sombre colours of the temple are but light and shadow, +a sweep of pale matting under a dark roof framed in grey. And the +stillness grows purer, clearer, and more still.</p> + +<p>Beyond the open spaces of the matting, between altar wall and altar +wall, the garden of the temple hangs, a living picture on the wall. Two +kneeling-cushions on the matting mark the purpose of the garden, and I +stay to look.</p> + +<p>A faintly running stream, stone-grey, a shaven slope <span +class="pagenum">018</span>of green, and on it three clipped +azalea-bushes pink with blossom. So still, so clear, I stretch my hand +to feel.</p> + +<p>It is a garden—a garden painted by an artist who worked in earth +and flowers. And the dim greyness of the temple, the pale spaces of +the matting, frame the garden as a shell its pearl. I could but look. +The pale pink of the azalea-bushes, the soft curve of the slope, the +stone-grey of the running stream, were painted with the loving care, +the certain touch of a master’s hand. There was no fault. Between altar +wall and altar wall the living picture hung—perfect.</p> + +<p>Like David’s harping to Saul distraught, the stillness of the +garden, the dim greyness of the temple, washed pure the heart. The +sin-freed soul floated out unfettered, and thought was not.</p> + +<p>Alone the garden lay, an earthly Nirvana in the stillness.</p> + +<p>Rinzaki’s true altar stood here.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">019</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJVI"> + <span class="line-height3">VI</span><br> + <span>TWO CREEDS</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Above the white cloud of the plum-blossoms, through the dark wood of +the cryptomerias, on the top of the hill lies the temple of Ikkégami. +The broad spaces of its courtyards and its gardens are sunny and still, +and the blue sky above is a bed of celestial forget-me-nots. Down each +side the big, dark trunks of the giant fir-trees stand straight and +tall—two rows of sombre pillars, shutting in a sunny aisle.</p> + +<p>In front, at the end of the wandering white path of rounded stones +sunk into the bare earth, is the <i lang="ja">Hondō</i> or main building +with the tent curves of its roof, and the polished floor of its veranda +shining like a sword in the sun. Behind is the big wooden gateway, and +the hundred stone steps which lead from the hilltop to the village +beneath. And scattered down the wide earth courtyard, and half hidden +under the dark arches of the trees, are the innumerable little buildings +which form the complete whole of a Buddhist temple; the belfry, with +its bronze bell hung from the big wooden beam of the ceiling to within +three feet of the ground, and the polished wooden spar with which it +is beaten; the quaint revolving library—like a dwarf windmill without +sails—where the hundred volumes of the Buddhist Scripture can be dimly +seen through the <span class="pagenum">020</span>thick wooden lattice; +the wide granite tank under its tiled roof, all hung with lengths of +brown temple towels, where the faithful pour water over their hands +from bamboo dippers as a symbol of purification; the side chapels +with their drums and offerings. All are quiet to-day and deserted, +only by the side of the tank, in front of a worn-out stone statue, +a peasant mother is standing, her baby tucked in the back of her <i +lang="ja">kimono</i>—fast asleep. She claps her hands three times to +call the attention of the gods, and then she prays, and the baby’s +shaven head nods heavily over her shoulder. Then she takes the bamboo +dipper and pours water over the head of the stone statue, carefully, +that not a dry spot may remain, and prays again.</p> + +<p>Between the dark pillars of the tree-trunks and the stamped earth +of the courtyard, a line of narrow, pointed laths runs like a wooden +fencing round the temple precincts. I wonder what they are and leave the +stepping-stones of the pathway to see.</p> + +<p>Tombstones? Yes. Set close together, and sometimes three or four +deep, the long line of thin pointed laths closes in the temple and +its courtyard with a fence of graves. Not a rich man’s graveyard +this, but the last home of the peasants from the rice-fields and the +fishermen from the sea. I look at the rows of Chinese characters running +lengthwise down the narrow tombstones, and stop in wonder, for on one +the Roman letters with their familiar outlines stand out plainly.</p> + +<p class="center p1">“To the Men of the Warship <i +lang="ja">Onega</i>.”</p> <p class="p1">That is all.</p> + +<p>To the men of the Warship <i lang="ja">Onega</i>! It was true +then the story. The story of the loss of the <i lang="ja">Onega</i> +in the bay below, and the sale of the sunken wreck <span +class="pagenum">021</span>with all its contents to fishermen along the +coast. The story of the finding of the corpses of the drowned sailors, +all entangled among the wreckage, and of how the Japanese fishermen +collected them reverently, saying, with the faith of the ancient Greeks, +that their souls would wander restless and distressed unless they were +laid in their graves and the funeral prayers sung over them. So they +sent a petition to the great <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> in Tokyo praying +him to come to the temple of Ikkégami, that his dead brothers might have +some one of their own race, if not of their own family, to perform the +last solemn rites. And the Ambassador came to Ikkégami, and the long +line of weather-beaten Japanese fishermen bore the western sailors up +the hill to the temple, and buried them in the courtyard, under the +silent trees, with all the rites of the Buddhist church. And they set +up the wooden lath as over the grave of a brother, among the long lines +of the tombstones of their fathers; but they wrote on it in the tongue +of the stranger so that God and their countrymen might know their own +again.</p> + +<p>And all this they did out of their own hearts, and with the money of +their own earning.</p> + +<p>So the men of <i lang="ja">Onega</i> lie buried with Buddhist rites +in a Buddhist churchyard, and the wooden lath above their graves is but +another rail in the holy fence of the Japanese dead which encloses the +temple.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The long arches of the sombre trees are dark and still. The blue sky +above is without fleck or stain, and the peace of God which passeth all +understanding is spread as a hand above the tree-tops.</p> + +<p>The men of the <i lang="ja">Onega</i> sleep well.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">022</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJVII"> + <span class="line-height3">VII</span><br> + <span>THE LEGEND OF THE NOSELESS JIZŌ</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It was a great many years ago, but the stone Jizō stands there yet, +just on the edge of the woods beyond the rice-fields. The blue cotton +bib around his neck is new, the odd little piles of stones that balance +on his shoulders, cuddle in his arms, or lie around his feet are +larger, for kindly hearts have passed by since then, to pick up a stone +and carry it to Jizō, who helps the souls of the little dead children +crying naked on the banks of the Sai-no-Kawara, because the old hag +Shozuka-no-Baba has taken their clothes away, and will not let them +pass over into the happy land beyond, but keeps them piling stones on +the banks of the Buddhist Styx, and crying bitterly.</p> + +<p>And Jizō sits there by the roadside still, the same benevolent +smile on his shaven face, still holding the pilgrim’s staff with its +metal rings in one hand, and the jewel which brings all wisdom in the +other. Only he has no nose. He lost it thirty years ago, the day little +Dicky James came running up the road, his new hatchet clutched in his +hand.</p> + +<p>Now Dicky was the son of a missionary, and he had been brought up on +good books and Sunday schools, and the night before he had been taken +to hear the wonderful experiences of a “brother” from China, who <span +class="pagenum">023</span>had filled his little head full of “glorious +martyrdom,” “sinful heathen,” “the overthrowing of idols,” and “the +abomination of desolation,” which Dicky didn’t understand but thought +meant the long stretch of muddy rice-fields down beyond Negishi. And +that put Jizō into his head. And besides, there was the new hatchet.</p> + +<p>All the morning he had played Red Indians, until, in an access of +realism, he had almost brained the baby. The threatened loss of his +hatchet and the great idea that was working in his head made him quiet +and subdued all through dinner.</p> + +<p>He was sorry about baby, “poor little martyr,” as his mother called +her; and the idea grew and grew. Why shouldn’t he be a martyr too, +and return to his family covered with glory? Then the thought of Jizō +jumped into his head. He would go out, like the “brother” from China, +into the “abomination of desolation,” and “overturn the idol” of the +“sinful heathen.” Or, at least, if he couldn’t overturn it, the new +hatchet would cut off its head, and Dicky’s fingers itched to try. He +had no idea martyrdom was so interesting.</p> + +<p>So, dinner over, Dicky seized his hatchet, and started off, away +from the settlement, across the canal, up by the racecourse, and +down the hill towards Negishi. Here he took to the shore, to avoid +complications in the village; for Dicky was used to showing his +Christian superiority by cuffing the heads of the heathen, and the boys +of Negishi were his particular enemies. So the tide being out he kept +to the shore until he was past the village, and the long stretch of +rice-fields, nothing but solid ponds of black mud, each surrounded by a +little, low, mud bank, came into sight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">024</span>“The abomination of desolation,” +said Dicky.</p> + +<p>And it did look like it. He went on along the narrow path towards +the hills, with the wide stretch of muddy ponds on each side of him. +They dwindled away gradually as Dicky went up the valley, dwindled away +until they only looked like a kind of mud river running between the +green hills. And there beyond the last one, on the edge of the hill, +was Jizō. Jizō, with his broad smile and his funny little bib.</p> + +<p>Dicky looked about him nervously; the great moment had come. No, +there was no one in the rice-fields, and no one coming after him from +the village; and Jizō’s smile was tempting. Up went the little hatchet +and smash down with all Dicky’s strength. But Jizō’s head did not +roll in the dust, as it ought to have done, so Dicky tried again. He +was getting excited now. It was so beautiful to feel his dear hatchet +coming down smash, smash, smash, and to know he was doing the “good +work” at the same time.</p> + +<p>Smash, smash! This time something had smashed, and Jizō’s stone nose +lay at his feet. Dicky stooped to pick it up, exultant, and in the +momentary pause heard angry voices among the fields, and feet coming +swiftly up the road behind him. Then Dicky forgot all about “martyrdom” +and ran as fast as he could go, across the bank of the rice-field in +front of him, up the hill beyond, his hatchet clutched in one hand, and +Jizō’s stone nose in the other.</p> + +<p>It was the rice-field that saved him, because the men had to go +round, but their shouts brought out the village, and the sight of Jizō, +noseless, sent all the angry “heathen” up the hill in chase. I do not +think <span class="pagenum">025</span>they would have hurt him if they +had caught him, for the Japanese are not fanatical, and they are very +kind to children.</p> + +<p>It was just this feeling that made them so angry now. To think that +any one could injure Jizō; Jizō the friend of those in trouble, the +comforter of women in travail, and the keeper of the baby souls crying +naked on the dark banks of the Sai-no-Kawara. I do not think they would +have hurt Dicky, but the whole village came out to see, and the men and +boys ran up the hills around shouting:</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Nan des ka? Nan des ka?</i> What is it? What is it?”</p> + +<p>And Dicky in his terror ran until his little legs gave way under +him, and panting he threw himself on the ground under the trees.</p> + +<p>The shouts had died away a long while, and it was growing dark in +the wood before Dicky stirred. It was darker still when at last he +crept cautiously down the hill and over the rice-fields towards the +stone statue of Jizō. He was very tired now, and very hungry, but the +memory of the angry voices calling after him in the hills made him +afraid to go back through the village, and by this time the tide was +up. So Dicky sat down by the side of Jizō in the growing darkness and +waited. And all his nurse’s stories of Jizō and the little children +came into his mind. He looked up at Jizō, smiling still his large +benevolent smile, and crept nearer.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was quite dark that evening when they found Dicky, his head +peacefully laid to sleep on Jizō’s feet, utterly worn out with the +pangs and the excitement of his martyrdom, his little hatchet fallen on +the ground, <span class="pagenum">026</span>but one grubby fist fast +clutching something that even in his sleep he held tight.</p> + +<p>But Dicky’s taste for martyrdom had gone, and once, to his father’s +horror, he was heard to declare that he “wished he was a heathen +because he would like to say his prayers to Jizō.”</p> + +<p>In the deepest depths of his pocket, next to his clasp-knife and his +favourite ally taw, there lived for many years a small stone object +that he sometimes took out and looked at when he was quite alone. And +Dicky had serious doubts at times about the goodness of the martyrs, +and the sinfulness of the heathen, while his ideas on idols underwent a +radical change.</p> + +<p>It is thirty years ago now. But the legend of the noseless Jizō and +his fight with the <i lang="ja">Onigo</i> (the devil in the shape of a +child) is still told in the villages around Negishi.</p> + +<p>The other day Richard heard it himself.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">27</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJVIII"> + <span class="line-height3">VIII</span><br> + <span>THE TEMPLES OF SHIBA</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>A matchless blue sky overarches the world, pale, clear, intense, +and the twisted green boughs of the Japanese pine throw their gaunt, +black arms up into the blue, in the vain endeavour of a hundred years +to reach it. The hush of cloistered calm in which the trees grew up +is still here, although the Tokyo citizen walks and rides where once +none but Buddhist priests might linger. The Red Gateway, with the tent +curves of its roof petrified into grey tiles, still claims for all +within Buddha as its master.</p> + +<p>And the hush of cloistered calm grows stiller.</p> + +<p>Through a wide space open to the sky, a space paved with rounded +pebbles, water-washed for many years ere they floored the courtyard +of the House of God, believing and unbelieving feet have beaten +smooth a wide, brown pathway. All around, and arranged in serried +rows, stand a myriad grey-stone lanterns, the pious gifts of dead +<i lang="ja">daimyō</i>. Between these tall stone emblems of the +five elements the pathway runs; cupola, crescent, pyramid, sphere, +cube—ether, air, fire, water, earth—and the crude shapes of the +primitive elements, touched and altered by generations of artists, are +turned to curves of quaintest beauty. Diagonally across the space goes +the black pathway, <span class="pagenum">028</span>the standing rows +of tall lanterns thickly set on either side, until beneath another gate +it makes a pause. A gate of red lacquer this, with carvings of gilded +wood on ceiling and wall. Carvings full of that oriental luxuriance of +colour and line which half shocks our sober northern senses; so shocks +them sometimes that we call it scornfully “barbaric,” until we grow +wiser with much looking and learn to see the truth and beauty of this +exuberant splendour.</p> + +<p>Beyond the gateway, the black path leads out under the blue sky, a +pebbled square on either hand, set round with stately rows of bronze +lanterns, the pious gifts of yet greater <i lang="ja">daimyō</i>. +Another gate stands waiting at the end of the pebbled square, a gateway +with rounded wooden columns of red lacquer, like its fellow, and +carvings of gold. But the beams of its ceiling have been smoothed away, +and in the centre a much twisted and curled dragon, which, like Joseph’s +coat, is of many colours, writhes across the ceiling. A carved and +gilded gallery stretches away on either side past the gateway. Another +yet more beautiful, with its slender square pillars of red lacquer bound +at base and crown with beaten brass, leads a rainbow shadow through the +sunny court to the cool dark door of the temple itself. In the shade +of the gilded galleries, suspended from the red-lacquered cross-beams, +hangs a row of still bronze lanterns. Dimly in their exquisite shapes +can one trace the symbolised elements.</p> + +<p>Behind a wooden barrier five steps lead straight to the temple’s +front, closed now with dark blinds of split bamboo bound together with a +silken thread. The tiled eaves of the curving roof overhang the steps, +and between door and lacquered pillar writhes in many wriggles of green +and golden carving two royal <span class="pagenum">029</span>dragons, +the Ascending and the Descending—the going-up and the coming-down.</p> + +<p>Leaning on the barrier, the glory of those golden dragons, of those +red columns, of the carved beams and inlaid porch rushed riotously into +the soul. And now one understood the preparation of those successive +gateways, set each between a sunny space of pebbled court; for the first +had shown but red and gold, up in the ceiling of the second lingered +lines of azure blue, the third added green to the other three, the +gallery gave glances of mauve and violet, while here, under the eaves of +the temple roof, the rainbow itself is glorious in carved wood.</p> + +<p>A culminating point of colour and splendour, what can the temple hold +within?</p> + +<p>Cool spaces of matted floor set round with black boxes on black +stools, each box holding its portion of Buddhist Scripture; sombre +pennants of dark blue and green brocade upon the walls; a sober light +clear but colourless; and which is more beautiful, the rainbow porch of +many colours riotous in carving and scrolls, or the sober quiet of the +temple, a beauty of spaces and restraint?</p> + +<p>The colourless matted room is wide and low. In front between the +sombre pennants is the inner sanctuary. Gods on either side on lacquered +tables set against the walls; at the end, beyond more lacquered tables, +two brocaded masses rise like square coffins on a raised daïs; between +stand figures of the gods, white-faced Benten and Kannon, Lady of Mercy. +The red tables bear many-coloured sweets and biscuits heaped high on +metal plates, in metal cups; offerings to the spirits of the dead <i +lang="ja">Shōgun</i> whose tablets lie enshrined behind those masses of +brocade. A bronze bowl on <span class="pagenum">030</span>the floor +filled with grey ash sends forth filmy clouds of incense. There is no +sound.</p> + +<p>Behind the temple, through two open spaces of pebbled squares, each +reached by a score of granite steps, is the tomb; a smooth, round mass +of stone encircled with a breast-high parapet of bronze; all around a +sweep of grey pebbles.</p> + +<p>That is all.</p> + +<p>And yet standing here I wonder whether the dead <i +lang="ja">Shōgun</i> have not rightly chosen? Whether their +resting-place is not more truly beautiful than the beauty of sombre +ornament in the temple, than the riotous carving of the gateways.</p> + +<p>The porch was Beauty’s body, arrayed, adorned; here lies Beauty’s +soul, naked and eternal.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">031</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJIX"> + <span class="line-height3">IX</span><br> + <span>AMIDA BUTSU</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Buddhism is not one but many; the same faith and the same nation +which produces the squalor, dirt and commercial profanity of Asak’sa can +create the peace and purity of Rinzaki, while Shiba’s riot of impossible +colouring is born of the same religion and the same people as the stern +beauty of the <i lang="ja">Hongwanji</i>; for the temples of the <i +lang="ja">Shin</i> sect are severe as a Protestant cathedral, as a +Presbyterian church, only they are built by a race of artists.</p> + +<p>Kannon of Asak’sa is popular, but the beautiful <i +lang="ja">Hongwanji</i> at Kyoto, finished a few years ago, at a cost +of eight million yen, was built mainly by the peasants, who contributed +not only in money but in kind, sending their most beautiful trees to be +cut into beams, offering themselves to hew and to build, giving always +of their best. And each beam was raised to its place by long hawsers +made of women’s hair, the soft black hair of youth or womanhood, with +here and there the shrivelled grey hairs of age. And the hawsers are +suspended in the temple for men and missionaries to ponder on.</p> + +<p>Buddhism is not dead but living. The old, the weary, and the poorest +poor creep into the <i lang="ja">Hongwanji</i> in Japan, and the pale +matting of these temples is <span class="pagenum">032</span>covered +with the square-holed copper coins worth a quarter of a farthing, which +they roll over the matting towards the altar from the corners where they +kneel and pray.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Nagoya’s <i lang="ja">Hongwanji</i> is the glory of the town. It +stands in the thick of the city, in a great wide courtyard of stamped +earth set round with trees. Its sculptured gates of bronze are always +open, and once inside them the busy town with its factories and its +workshops, its quarter of a million of inhabitants, is gone, for the +wide courtyard sets a lavish space of stillness between the city and the +shrine. A space so wide and ample that the temple’s curves stand out +clear and sharp as a solitary tower on an empty plain.</p> + +<p>Built all of wood, unpainted, unstained; and so faded by the +sunshine, so worn with age, and weather beaten with the wind and rain, +that in the glow of the summer’s sun the temple stands against the +brilliant light faded and grey, a beauty of pathos, not of joy.</p> + +<p>Under the eaves the saints and sacred animals are carved in tender +lines of love. Age has touched and left them colourless, and the +infinite pity of the Buddha which enwraps creation, enfolding man and +his brother the beast, looks from their eyes.</p> + +<p>Inside there is peace and sober quiet. A wide low space suggestively +divided into three with slender square pillars of wood, and behind, +along the whole width of the temple a blaze of gold, sombre and rich. +No riot of impossible colouring here, no profusion of design and +decoration; sober, almost stern in its beauty, the centre and the two +side altars shine in the dim light.</p> + +<p>A bronze figure of Buddha, dead black against the gold, stands on his +lotus-leaf with uplifted hands. <span class="pagenum">033</span>It is +Buddha as the God of Mercy, the living, loving god, Amida Butsu—Eternal +Buddha.</p> + +<p>Dull gold and black, alive in the altar, shadowly repeated in +the pale yellow matting and in the grey age-stained wood, are all +the decoration of the temple, save perfect purity and peace, and an +atmosphere of quiet, enduring charity. For the Shin sect teaches that +the law cannot be altered, that the eternal chain of cause and effect +goes always and for ever on, that the wages and more than the wages +of sin is death, that an act and its consequences roll ever onward +through the world, and neither man nor time can stay them; it teaches +that a man’s sorrows are made by his sins, but that Buddha is merciful +and just, that he who is love gives love; love knows no sin, nor sin’s +child, sorrow; without sin and sorrow is the world at rest.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Outside, the city labours, toils. Within, the workers kneel on the +pure pale matting, and praying, roll their square-holed coins towards +the image of Eternal Buddha, whose hand is raised to bless.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">034</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJX"> + <span class="line-height3">X</span><br> + <span>SAINT NICHIREN</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Up a hundred steep stone steps lies the temple of the Lord Buddha, +for Nichiren, his servant, whose head the executioner’s sword refused +to cut off, died here.</p> + +<p>Now Nichiren was a man of faith. And his faith was the faith of the +average man—he knew he was right. But Nichiren did more, for he had the +courage of his opinions; and he said, “I alone am right; the rest are +all wrong, unfaithful servants of the Lord—kill them.”</p> + +<p>And the people believed Nichiren, for is not such faith in one’s own +opinion a sign of divine inspiration? And did not the Lord Buddha send +lightning from Heaven to turn the edge of the executioner’s sword and +save his pious servant?</p> + +<p>So they followed after Nichiren and despised the rest of the +church, and built temples of the true faith throughout the length and +breadth of the land. And the priests of Nichiren walked in the steps +of their master, and are—for the tolerant Japanese—almost bigoted and +fanatical.</p> + +<p>Now the Nichiren priests delight in noise. Perhaps they +think—like many a politician—that it takes the place of argument. +And so their temples for ever re-echo with the banging of big +drums, the clapping of wooden clappers, the booming of big bells, +and the <span class="pagenum">035</span>eternal chanting of the +<i lang="ja">Namu-myōho-rengekyō</i>, the formula of the faith of +Nichiren.</p> + +<p>In the little side temple to the left, wreathed with paper flowers +and cheap ornaments—for Nichiren has even strength to blur the national +sense of art—they are busy now.</p> + +<p>A priest in the middle crouches on the ground; on either side, before +a big drum like a yellow barrel lying horizontally on the ground, sit +two believers. Behind are grouped three more, all provided with clappers +or bells. The drumming is incessant, the clapping nearly so, while all, +priests and people, keep up one never-ending drone of</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, +Namu-myōho-rengekyō.</i>”</p> + +<p>I can only see the backs of the group, and the arms of the two +drummers as they raise them up above their heads to beat the big +barrels in front of them. Suddenly, from round the corner of the drum, +an old face peers—priest by its costume and its cunning. An unshaven, +unkempt face that blinks—dirty, ignorant, bigoted. It crouches there +on the matting, the old cunning eyes opening and shutting with each +repetition of the never-ending formula,</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, +Namu-myōho-rengekyō</i>,” until sense and meaning are lost in a wave of +wild, brute fanaticism.</p> + +<p>The drums bang louder, the clappers clap shriller, the bells boom +quicker and quicker, and I stand there convinced.</p> + +<p><i lang="ja">Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, +Namu-myōho-rengekyō.</i></p> + +<p>I too am of the faith of Nichiren, for I know that I am right. All +these are wrong, unfaithful servants of the Lord—kill them.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">036</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJXI"> + <span class="line-height3">XI</span><br> + <span>BETWEEN EARTH AND HEAVEN</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Five hundred feet of wall, and the temple’s courtyard hangs a +balcony above the world.</p> + +<p>The thousand steps by which I climbed are hidden, and the <i +lang="ja">chaya</i>, in the width of the brown road that touches cliff +and sea, is so beneath my feet that its roof seems resting on the +ground. My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, in his white hat, is a growing +mushroom on a dark blue stalk. The man is but a human atom crushed +between two immensities.</p> + +<p>From cliff to distant sky the wide sea spreads out, a vast still +plain of shimmering blue. This ball of earth is rolled out flat before +my eyes, and its mysterious ends are a far-off rim, dark blue and clear. +Overhead the burnished sky shuts down a domed cover on the flattened +earth. The very sea seems hot. My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, sitting on +the slender shafts of his <i lang="ja">jinriksha</i>, fans himself with +his hat, and I am startled to see how perfectly the three-inch figure +works.</p> + +<p>The world lies all spread out below me, here is nothing but the +temple and the sun.</p> + +<p>Across the burning courtyard where the sun smites the rounded +pebbles with hard shafts of light, and through the open doorway in the +temple’s wall, I go, and then the silent shadows of the trees fall all +<span class="pagenum">037</span>around. The sky above their tops is +bluer, the very sunlight brighter for the shade.</p> + +<p>The temple’s shrine is built upon a polished raft of wood, moored +three feet above the ground. Its walls are dark with matted blind. +Only the square door-posts stand clear against the light, and through +them I see the bareness of the shrine—a sweep of pale matting on the +floor, and then dim space. Alone, the burnished mirror of the great +Sun-Goddess hangs above the altar.</p> + +<p>On the threshold of his temple stands the high priest, attended by +two acolytes. He wears a head-dress of black lacquer like a perforated +meat-cover, but the face beneath is old and very calm. He bows as I +mount the shallow polished steps which lead up from the ground, takes +from the black-robed acolyte a slender silver vase, and a shallow +terra-cotta bowl. Standing shoeless on the threshold of the naked shrine +he slowly pours the sacred <i lang="ja">saké</i> from the silver vase +into the terra-cotta bowl, and gives me to drink. The bowl is black +with age, the <i lang="ja">saké</i> thick, like distilled honey; and I +notice, as I drink, the carved figures running round the rim, and the +faint scent of plum-blossom.</p> + +<p>Without a word the white-robed priest takes back the cup, and offers +me a thin rice-wafer which I break and eat. I wonder what the rite may +mean that I, a stranger, may partake, and look up to see the calm old +eyes looking down at me, at my outlandish clothes and foreign face; but +he does not speak. Then with a gesture which is almost a blessing, the +white-robed priest is gone, and the acolytes follow after.</p> + +<p>The temple’s shrine stands bare and bare, only the +burnished mirror of the great Sun-Goddess glitters.</p> <span +class="pagenum">038</span> <p>Was it a Passover that we have +eaten together? Or a Eucharist? Or merely the symbol of our human +brotherhood?</p> + +<p>We are all children of the Sun; and Faith is One.</p> + +<p>Yet it needed a Shintō priest in far Japan to show me a religion +above nation, beyond race, above sect. But his shrine is bare. The +Mirror of Truth hangs solitary above his altar, and his temple’s doors +are open to the Sun.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">039</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJXII"> + <span class="line-height3">XII</span><br> + <span>INARI, THE FOX-GOD</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The green tongue of the rice-fields thrusts itself deep into the +blue sea, and its tip is lacquered red.</p> + +<p>Haneda-no-Inari is a temple whose gateways have swallowed up +its shrine, and on the low, flat, headland its many thousand <i +lang="ja">torī</i> in rows of scarlet dolmens walk inland from the sea. +The green point lies a henna-stained finger in the lap of the ocean.</p> + +<p>Beyond the red tip, a ridge of pearl-grey sky rests on the water, +while overhead the clouds, like piled-up snowflakes, melt into the +blue.</p> + +<p>It is the end of September, and wide through the land the +rustle of ripening rice-ears comes and goes. Haneda-no-Inari, the +Rice-God, is calling the peasants to his shrine. And they come; +broad-shouldered, bullet-headed men, in short, blue tunics and dark +<a href="#39B" id="39A">blue</a> hose, with brown weather-beaten faces, +seamed and lined; and always their hard hands, half shut, half open, +as though still holding hoe or plough. Old most of them, and with +that half-deaf look which years of fieldwork brings. Intelligences +half shut too, shutting fast on the primary ideas of life, on the +traditions of their fathers; for a thought, like the hoe or plough, is +too precious a thing to be lightly laid aside; it is bequeathed from +<span class="pagenum">040</span>generation to generation as are the +rice-fields beneath their feet.</p> + +<p>Inari calls, and the peasants come. Not only for the sake of the +Rice-God, though the rustle of the ripening rice-ears is a music in +the land, but because the image of the fox has dwelt so long in the +Rice-God’s temple that to the peasant Inari is both Fox-and Rice-God. +And the fear of the <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i> is a power in Japan. The +<i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i>, who can take a woman’s shape and bewitch you; +the <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i>, who can beguile a man that he follow +to the fox’s very hole and stay there living on snails and worms. +The <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i>, who, entering a man’s body under his +finger-nails, will possess it, so that he howls like a fox, slowly +changes into one, and dies. And so they come to the temple, up from the +rice-fields, up under the scarlet tunnels of the <i lang="ja">torī</i>, +for the passing through each tunnel means a wish fulfilled.</p> + +<p>The gateways indeed have swallowed up this shrine. There is no +temple, only a low matted booth; at the back two white china images +of the Fox-God, his tail curled high above his head, and a priest on +the matting, as a shopman at his stall, selling charms, multitudes of +miniature china foxes, words on rice-paper, and mounds of earth, a whole +shopful of charms and amulets.</p> + +<p>Opposite is a row of rabbit burrows, each roofed with a shelving +stone; just a hole in the ground, but full of meaning to the peasant, +for it is the home of the <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i>, and he crouches on +the ground in front of it, his head between his knees, or thrust far +into the big burrow in the eagerness of his prayer. And his face works; +the priest behind him watches. <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i> is a reality to +him, a force strong <span class="pagenum">041</span>as Nature’s laws, +but capricious; so he prays. Then half in fear, half in reverence, he +thrusts one arm as far as it will go into the hole, and scraping softly +brings back a handful of brown earth. His face lights up, and the priest +behind leans forward.</p> + +<p>Still on his knees the peasant wraps the magic earth in layers of +clean rice-paper and puts it carefully away in the breast of his patched +tunic. Then he gets up. He has his charm, a remedy against sickness and +disaster, a charm for his rice-fields and himself. The priest behind +reaches out his hand. He makes a keen shopkeeper, and his celestial +wares are never stolen. The temple terms are “cash down, and prayers not +taken in exchange.”</p> + +<p>Through the long scarlet tunnels of the <i lang="ja">torī</i>, back +to the ripening rice-fields the peasants go. The green point lies a +henna-stained finger in the lap of the ocean. Haneda-no-Inari, the +temple of the superstitious, glows a living tip of red.</p> + +<p>For its sins are as scarlet.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">042</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJXIII"> + <span class="line-height3">XIII</span><br> + <span>THE ALTAR OF FIRE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It all happened in a suburban temple in the town of Tokyo, at the +time of the blossoming cherry-trees; and the prosaic din of a modern +city full of trains and tramcars hemmed us round. We had been conscious +of it dimly throughout the long ceremonial within the temple, where +Shintō priests in brocaded robes chanted in twos and threes, in solo +and in chorus; where the old High Priest had blessed with long strange +rites the four elements, earth, which is the mother of all things, fire, +water, air; had blessed the rice by which the people live, salt, and +<i lang="ja">saké</i>; but now that we were all assembled in the outer +courtyard the noise of a busy city came distinctly to the ear. Tokyo was +working hard this April afternoon, and the cries of the newspaper boys +pierced up shrilly from the street below.</p> + +<p>In the courtyard the ancient vestments of the priests showed +strangely beside the modern frocks of American visitors, the tweed suits +of a party of Cook’s tourists, even beside the <i lang="ja">kimono</i> +of the Japanese crowd, so markedly Tokyo and <i lang="ja">Meiji</i> (age +of enlightenment), in their felt hats, cloth caps, and “bowlers.”</p> + +<p>The courtyard was big, the native crowd railed in at one end left a +large space bare, and here in the centre of the stamped brown earth a +great pile of <span class="pagenum">043</span>burning charcoal was +heaped. Twenty feet long, and nearly as many broad, it glowed a solid +mass of quivering heat, while priests at each corner stood fanning the +sullen red to an ever fiercer flame. It was not hot enough yet, and in +the sunshine of that April afternoon we waited.</p> + +<p>At the further end of the courtyard a broad band of salt lay on +the brown earth like a white step to the altar. The great fans of the +fanning priests sent puffs of heat across the court that made the +distinguished guests shrink back. And yet the glowing charcoal pyre was +not hot enough.</p> + +<p>Behind us, in a corner of the courtyard, stood a bamboo ladder, +whose every rung was made of the razor-blade of a Japanese sword, set +edge upwards. As we all stood waiting, watching the solid altar of red +flame grow redder, a young man came out of the temple and crossed the +court. He was dressed in the short white tunic of religious festivals, +and his legs and feet were bare. He bowed to the party of distinguished +guests, to the priests, to the old High Priest, and from his manner I +judged him not a priest, but a temple attendant.</p> + +<p>Among the crowd there was a murmur, a sway of intense excitement, +and then a dead stillness. In the stillness the young man put his bare +foot upon the lowest rung of the ladder, and an involuntary shudder +went through us all. A large-checked tourist, pushing every one aside, +rushed up to the ladder, and felt a sword-rung with his hand. Then he +came back, and across his open palm a ruled red line of blood rose up +swiftly.</p> + +<p>There was a whispering among the priests, a commotion in the crowd, +but the polite expressions of <span class="pagenum">044</span>regret +from the old High Priest were courtly with honorifics. The +large-checked tourist tied his hand up clumsily in his own +pocket-handkerchief, and looked annoyed. The fanning priests, with +rhythmic movements of their hands and bodies, chased the living heat +across the court, and did not pause.</p> + +<p>Again there was a murmur in the crowd, a stretching of necks to see, +and a dead silence.</p> + +<p>The white-tuniced attendant, who had stood quite still beside the +ladder, placed his bare foot upon the lowest rung, and I saw the +large-checked tourist wince as though his injured hand were there +instead. Lightly as a sailor climbs, the young man ran up the ladder +rung by rung, and neither hands nor feet grew red. On the top he +stayed, looking down, and a shudder like a cry of pain went through the +courtyard. Then he turned, hanging for one brief moment by his knees on +the topmost rung—turned, and came down again.</p> + +<p>In the April sunshine the sword-blades, from top to bottom of the +ladder, glittered spotless.</p> + +<p>Firmly on his bare, brown feet the young man walked across the +court, bowed to the party of distinguished visitors, to the priests, to +the old High Priest, and disappeared within the temple.</p> + +<p>The crowd behind the railings exclaimed in admiration, but the +distinguished visitors were above surprise. The party of Cook’s +tourists who had just “done” India were full of explanations. It was +“mere jugglery,” they said, though each man differed in his theory. +One was eloquent on hypnotic suggestion, and though the damaged +tourist, his hand still bound up, “couldn’t go so far as that, sir,” +was not to be persuaded. The injured tourist had apparently only been +hypnotised a little more effectually than the rest of us. The <span +class="pagenum">045</span>American guests favoured “acrobatic training +from infancy,” which “made the bones just like jelly.” Somebody said he +had heard it was “done with oil,” but was quite vague as to the how, and +all the more insistent in consequence. And so we explained and argued +while the level rays of sunshine fell on the spotless sword-rungs of the +ladder, and on the vestments of the Shintō priests. They had watched and +were impassive. The climbing of the ladder was not a sacred ceremony, +not a rite, rather an amusement allowed the multitude, as the Catholic +Church offered <i lang="fr">jongleries</i> in the Middle Ages.</p> + +<p>But as the sun fell lower and lower in the April sky, a hush came +among the little group of priests, and growing, travelled slowly over +the courtyard. Even the damaged tourist stopped his explanations. The +great red altar of heat that lay a fallen pillar of fire across the +courtyard was glowing now white-hot with life. The fanning priests at +each corner had moved further back to escape the scorch of the flames, +but still they fanned. In waves and gusts the heat was borne across the +court, to flicker, as it were, upon the air, steady itself and then +drive solidly forward. The Cook’s tourists who had seized upon the +front row of seats, twisted uneasily on their chairs, unwilling to give +up their “best places,” unable to endure the burning. But the fierce +scorch of the heat came steadily onwards, and before it the tourists +ran, dragging their chairs after them.</p> + +<p>Still the fanning priests fanned on, chasing the quivering flames on +the red altar of heat, till it pulsed with a white-hot breath like a +thing alive.</p> + +<p>In the pale April sky the swift sun was dropping golden through the +last arcs of heaven to a grey band <span class="pagenum">046</span>of +clouds upon the horizon. In half an hour it would be night.</p> + +<p>There was a stir in the crowd beyond the barriers; the fanning +priests beat out their rhythm slowly, and with the shadows the +gathering sense of awe deepened. Only the altar of heat burned +brighter, gathering to itself all the colour from the world.</p> + +<p>Apart from the crowd the High Priest stood, the gold on his vestment +gleaming, and he watched the sun. The peace upon his face was like an +unsaid prayer. Did his soul go out to <i lang="ja">Amaterasu</i>, the +great Sun-Goddess?</p> + +<p>Swiftly the sun dropped through the bank of clouds leaving them +golden, showed a red circle on the horizon, and passed beneath. The +faintest flicker of emotion stirred for a moment the grave reverence +of the old man’s face. Then he turned. The rhythmic beating of the +fanning priests died into silence. The red altar stood a burning fiery +furnace in the courtyard, where already twilight was. He spoke no word, +but the religious calm of a perfect trust was in all his being. It +touched the straining multitude behind the barriers, even the tourists +in their chairs. Breathless we stayed gripped by the powers of an awed +suspense, of a great belief, as he came on. There was no hurry, no +tremor in his movements, on through the hot scorched air he came, on, +over the threshold of strewn salt, and on, over the altar of heat. +With naked feet he trod from end to end the white-hot pathway, and the +burning charcoal snapped beneath his tread. With naked feet he walked, +unscathed, over that fiery furnace; and the breath of a passionate +prayer passed like a sob through the courtyard.</p> + +<p>Then one by one the priests in their embroidered <span +class="pagenum">047</span>vestments stepped from the threshold of +salt on to the fire. From end to end of the altar they too trod that +white-hot pathway slowly, unhurt, and the living charcoal glowed like a +thousand suns in the twilight.</p> + +<p>Slowly behind their distant barriers the crowd stirred irresolute. +An old man whose face showed rapt in the circle of firelight approached +the priests. Hesitating he was led up to the altar, over the white salt +step, and faltering, he too trod the white-hot pathway. Then a coolie +came through the shadows, he too stepped up to the altar, passed over +the threshold of salt on to the living charcoal.</p> + +<p>In twos and threes the crowd was coming now. Some of them hesitated +on the white salt step, some hurried along the fiery pathway. A few, a +very few, walked away as though their feet were singed. But all came, +even the children. The big children who went resolutely alone, the +little children whom the priests led.</p> + +<p>And the twilight in the courtyard deepened into night. The broad +altar of heat glowed ruddy, a deep sun-red as its life pulsed slower. +The tourists were all quiet on their chairs, not one of them would +venture, though the little children went before. The Faith was not +in them, nor the power of that great Belief. But those behind the +barriers, this Tokyo crowd in <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and “bowler,” they +believed. With the sounds of a modern city humming in their ears, fresh +from the western education of their Board Schools, they, as their +forefathers for two thousand years, passed over the fire. This burning +symbol of a spiritual purification had meaning for them. They <i>had +faith and were not afraid</i>.</p> + +<p>Unto such is the Dominion of the Earth; unto such is the Kingdom of +Heaven.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">048</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TFOJXIV"> + <span class="line-height3">XIV</span><br> + <span>FORGOTTEN GODS</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Neglected by the river side the Buddhas sit, in one long silent row. +The rain is beating on their unprotected heads, and down their granite +faces little rills of water trickle. The river at their feet runs swift +and strong, grey among the boulders, as it rushes down to Nikkō. And +they sit forsaken.</p> + +<p>The moss is thick upon their shoulders, the granite faces are all +scarred and battered, blotched with pallid growths, spotted with dusty +accumulations. But the Buddhas smile. Beneath their heavy-lidded eyes +they smile, a slow, still, changeless smile.</p> + +<p>On the green bank above the tumultuous river there is no shrine, +no priest; the forgotten gods sit still, in one long silent row, and +the rain beats down relentless. Over their battered heads it runs, and +down their moss-grown shoulders; the soiled stone laps are full of it, +and it stands in ever widening pools about the lotus-leaves of each +pedestal. For in Nikkō the rain, tropical in vehemence, is persistent, +as in the Outer Hebrides. It lies to-day in slanting lines, thick as +willow-switches, across the dull grey sky.</p> + +<p>I could not well be wetter, so I stop to look, and the whole long +silent row of Gods Forgotten smiles gently back at me.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">049</span>Remindful of the legend which calls +them numberless, I try to count. Once, twice, several times; but the +legend is right. Each time my total varies. Perhaps the rain confuses +me; the willow-switches lie so thick across the sky. So I give it up +and look at the long desolate row of the numberless Buddhas. I wonder +if they envy the Buddha who fell from his pedestal into the stream +and was carried down to Imaichi, where the villagers, finding him +uninjured, reverently set him up with his face towards Nikkō. Now the +country-side adores him, and he wears a large pink bib.</p> + +<p>Across the madly rushing river, churned grey between the boulders, +the Buddhas smile.... It is a smile of understanding. Yes, the slow, +still smile of One Who Understands, who understands All Things, and +understanding, is content.</p> + +<p>And who should understand, and understanding rest content, if not +the Eternal Buddha? Is not the Godhead wise? Does it not see the +meaning and the path of All Things? And seeing, were it not then +content the Devil triumphs?</p> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“God’s in His Heaven,</p> + <p> All’s right with the world.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>If God be in His Heaven, and God be God, then must the Godhead +understanding smile.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Through the thick-falling rain the long still row of granite +Buddhas smile back at me. I have thought so long upon that smile, +which strikes on western senses oddly, almost irreverently. Do we +ever conceive of a smiling God? In all the long picture galleries +of Europe I have never seen a Christ who smiled. With <span +class="pagenum">050</span>sword-pierced side and thorn-crowned head +He hangs before us—suffering, always sad. The Man of Sorrows; yet +He redeemed the world; He saved mankind. For pure joy a soul could +smile at such a thought. Yet with us the Redeemer suffers; He never +smiles.</p> + +<p>The peasant Sōgorō, from his cross where he had watched the killing +of his children, laughed gaily as he bade his dying wife farewell; +for he had saved three hundred villages from unjust taxation. In his +intensest suffering a Japanese is taught to smile. He comes to tell +you that his child is dying, and he smiles. Perhaps his eyes are red, +but he smiles, that the sight of his suffering may not pain another. +It is the sublimest unselfishness and self-control. Sōgorō dying on +the cross bade his crucified wife farewell, laughing gaily, and no +Japanese would praise or wonder at the fact. Sōgorō died as a martyr. +Yes, I have seen a smile on the faces of our martyrs, rarely, it is +true. Sodoma’s <i>St. Sebastian</i> smiles; it is a smile of the eyes. +He sees a vision—the Lamb of God and all the choirs of the angels. But +Christ never smiles. I cannot think of one picture, one conception of +a smiling God. Sad, weighed down with the sins of mankind; pitiful, +pleading; or stern, implacable, the Just Judge, the Ruler of the +Universe, immovable Omnipotence, scales in hand. Can either Godhead +smile?</p> + +<p>Buddha suffered much and endured much, but still he smiles. He too +is merciful and full of pity. He too suffers with each sin man sins. +Here too the Just Judge judgeth the World. And the patient Buddha +suffers till the wicked are redeemed. There is no end to his suffering +till all are saved. Only when <span class="pagenum">051</span>the +wicked cease from troubling, cease because they are the good, is mortal +life completed, till then the complex worlds spin on and on. Yet Buddha +smiles. For man’s birthright is not sin, not sorrow, but Joy. The +Godhead smiles.</p> + +<p>This long silent row of granite gods, fashioned by the hands and the +hearts of this nation, smile. And all the bronze and granite statues, +all the gilded images, all the Buddhas of this island smile too, for +the people who made them and conceived them believe in Joy, in the +innate as in the ultimate goodness of man; in the innate as in the +ultimate Joy of the Godhead. Verily these are forgotten Gods in western +lands.</p> + +<p>Across the raging mountain river, through the fast-falling rain, on +the desolate green bank the numberless Buddhas battered and forsaken +smile, that slow still smile of One Who Understands, who understands +All Things, and understanding is content.</p> + +<p>Great Buddha, <i lang="ja">Dai Nippon</i>, teach us. + <span class="pagenum">052</span> +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">053</span> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LORD_FUJI">LORD FUJI</h2> +</div> + +<div class="center"> + <span class="pagenum">054</span> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“Where on the one hand is the province of Kai,</p> + <p>And on the other the province of Suruga,</p> + <p>Right in the midst between them</p> + <p>Stands out the high peak of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>.</p> + <p>The very clouds of Heaven dread to approach it;</p> + <p>Even the soaring birds reach not its summit in their flight.</p> + <p>Its burning fire is quenched by the snow;</p> + <p>The snow that falls is melted by the fire.</p> + <p>No words may tell of it, no name know I that fits it,</p> + <p>But a wondrous Deity it surely is.</p> + <hr class="tb"> + <p>Of Yamato, the Land of Sunrise,</p> + <p>It is the Peace-Giver, it is the God, it is the Treasure.</p> + <p>On the peak of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, in the land of + Suruga,</p> + <p>Never weary I of gazing.”</p> + <p class="right">Japanese poet, eighth century.</p> + <p class="right">(“Japanese Literature,” by W. G. Aston.)</p> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">055</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LFI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>PROLOGUE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>From Pole to Pole the waters of the wide Pacific surge, unending and +alone. Over the shifting plain the silence of the ocean broods. Here is +man nothing; for the endless spaces of the ocean, the self-sufficiency +of the unresting sea remain for ever outside of man, coldly non-human. +A river or a hill can be loved into companionship, but the sea stays +always strange.</p> + +<p>Without ends or boundaries, the shifting waters sweep from Pole to +Pole, solitary, changeless. Only the curve of the earth itself, or the +weakness of man’s eyesight draws imaginary boundaries on the horizon. +And the waste of the waters lies empty and still.</p> + +<p>Coldly blue is the sea below, and the sky shutting down is blue +too and bare. Two empty infinities which meeting set bounds to each +other.</p> + +<p>And within there is nothing. Only space; blue, bare space.</p> + +<p>“In the beginning,” says the Scripture, “the waters below +were separated from the waters above,” and out of the void came +this world of two dimensions, so cold, blue and beautiful. It is +immensity—empty.</p> + +<p>Then did the spirit of God move on the face of the waters, move +slowly and pass.</p> + +<p>Into the empty blue came a white, still splendour. <span +class="pagenum">056</span>Softly it grew in the dome of the sky, unreal +in its beauty. But two pale curves that stayed in the heavens, as the +wandering snowflake seems to rest on its fall. Midway between blue and +blue it stayed, this soft white splendour, stayed dreaming a pause.</p> + +<p>For the spirit of God had passed; and the empty, blue vastness was +filled with a sense of joy and elation. Earth’s fairest presence had +risen high to the heavens. And it lay, two curving lines of exquisite +splendour, breathed light on the sky; and white as the wing of a gull +in the gleam of the sunshine, all shining with whiteness.</p> + +<p>And the infinite plane of the waters stretches on to the Poles. And +the endless space of the sky wraps the water around.</p> + +<p>But the empty, blue vastness is gone.</p> + +<p>It is blue sea. It is sky. They are framing a world, for Lord <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> has come.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">057</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LFII"> + <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> + <span>THE ASCENT</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Geologists state that <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San is a +volcano, a young volcano, 12,365 feet high. Philologists add that <i +lang="ja">San</i> is derived from a Chinese term meaning mountain, and +is not the familiar Japanese title which we render by Mr., Lord, or +Master; while <i lang="ja"><span lang="ja">Fuji</span></i> is, they +declare, a word of Aino origin. And then they all fall silent.</p> + +<p>These are the facts: the material, provable facts, such as western +text-books publish. But to Japan, <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San is +much more, and most of this is not text-book fact.</p> + +<p>National tradition says that <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> arose in +a single night, and at the same time Lake Biwa, one hundred and forty +miles away, was suddenly formed. There is a legend that, in those +far-away days of <i lang="ja">mukashi, mukashi</i>—once upon a time—the +Elixir of Life was taken to the top of the mountain, where it still +remains. And popular belief declares that all the cinders and ashes +brought down by the pilgrims’ feet are carried each night back to the +summit of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>.</p> + +<p>To the people, <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> is sacred; +holy to some as the abiding-place of the Goddess <i +lang="ja">Ko-no-hana-saku-ya-hime</i>, She who makes the Blossoms +of the Trees to Bloom, but sacred to all for its majesty, its +unutterable beauty. The peasants of the country-side call <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> <span class="pagenum">058</span><i +lang="ja">Oyama</i>, Honourable Mountain; and to the people <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San is Lord and Master. Deep in their hearts, +and unassailable by western facts, the worship of his beauty and his +power lies throbbing. During that brief six weeks of summer when <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s wind-swept sides alone are climbable, the +pilgrims come in thousands, in ten thousands. They dress themselves +in white from head to foot. They carry long staves of pure white wood +in their hands, each stamped with the temple crest, and in bands and +companies they climb the mountain. And always the leader at their head, +his staff crowned with a tinkling mass of bells, like tiny cymbals, +chants the hymn of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>. From base to summit, as +the white-clad pilgrims climb, the tinkling cymbals clash, and the voice +of the leader rises loud at each refrain:</p> + +<p>“We are going, we are going to the top.”</p> + +<p>Above the clash of the bells the chorus echoes:</p> + +<p>“To the top, to the top, to the top.”</p> + +<p>“We are going,” chants the leader, and the tiny cymbals clash—“We +are going, we are going to the top.”</p> + +<p>The western facts of modern text-books cannot touch the meaning of +this mountain; the love of its long curving line which permeates the +nation’s art, the adoration of its beauty, and the reverence of its +power.</p> + +<p>Already in a time which to us upstart western nations is almost <i +lang="ja">mukashi, mukashi</i>, in the days before King Alfred burnt +the cakes, a Japanese poet had caught and expressed the feeling of the +nation for its mountain: for he wrote of <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span> +as</p> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“A treasure given to mortal man</p> + <p>The God Protector watching o’er Japan.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum">059</span>And to-day the God Protector +watches still, and yearly the people come, in the white garb of +pilgrims, chanting to his shrine.</p> + +<p>For six short summer weeks they come. Then the winds rush down, the +snow falls, the tempests rage, and Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> +lives alone. No human being has yet stayed a winter on his summit, and +even in the summer weeks the winds will blow the lava blocks from the +walls of the rest-houses, and sometimes the pilgrim from the path. For +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span> stands alone, not one peak among a range, +but utterly alone. Rising straight out of the sea on one side, and +from the great Tokyo plain on the other, his twelve thousand three +hundred and sixty-five feet, in two long curving lines of exquisite +grace, rise up and up into the blue, and not one inch of one foot is +hidden or lost; it is all there, visible as a tower built on a treeless +plain. It dominates the landscape. It can be seen from thirteen +provinces; and from a hundred miles at sea the pale white peak of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> floats above the blue.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was a day in the beginning of August, in the very middle +of those hot three weeks which are the great festival of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San, in the simmering dawn of a summer’s day +that we left Tokyo for Subashiri. As the train approached Gotemba +the whole crowded carriageful of Japanese looked eagerly for <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>. The train was climbing slowly by a mountain +stream, and we were all looking, looking, beyond the dark green +pine-trees of the river’s bank. Suddenly, for one dazzling moment, the +deep blue cone of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> lay pillowed on a bank of +clouds in the middle of the clear blue sky. Then, swiftly, the clouds +rolled up and up. <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San was gone. The whole +carriageful gave vent to those <span class="pagenum">060</span>long +strangled <i>h’s</i> of admiration and delight, and with a murmured +“<span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San seeing have” sank back on their heels +on the cushions.</p> + +<p>Gotemba is the nearest railway station to <span +lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>, and the highest. It lies a thousand feet up. +Being the most accessible, it is the most usual starting-point for the +climb, but it is not the most picturesque. A wonderful line of trams now +connects Gotemba with Subashiri, and even with Yoshida, a place half +round the base of the mountain. We were to start from Subashiri and come +down to Yoshida, and return by the lakes. So from the station we walked +up the straggling, badly kept street of Gotemba, where every house is +a hotel and every hotel hangs out many advertisements in the shape +of cotton streamers twelve feet long and six inches wide, which are +attached by rings to bamboo poles. So through groves of white and blue +and brown banners all adorned with beautiful Chinese symbols we walked +to the tramway.</p> + +<p>A dive through a wooden archway between two tea-houses, where a +ticket-hole and a wooden barrier composed the station, and we were +there. The trams stood under the archway; the lines were lost in the +black cindery mud—and they were both Japanese—the tram-lines, just rows +of knitting-needles and laid very close together, the trams diminished +by the national taste for the national needs to a little oblong box like +a stunted bathing-machine. Our tram stood from ground to roof perhaps +some five feet high. By taking off our hats we could just manage to +sit down, and by judiciously fitting our knees into one another like +elaborate dovetailing we got in width-ways, and we only got in at all +by entering the door sideways. Fat people do not travel in Japanese +trams—<span class="pagenum">061</span>not unless they have a ladder and +sit on the roof. The only way to insinuate luggage is to coax it through +the window-frames, which, as there were only two to a side, were almost +once and a half times the width of the door, not more. In the <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> tramways pilgrims’ hats are not admitted. This is +no prohibition. It is an impossibility, for the diameter of the pilgrim +hat, which is twice as large as the largest halo, is equal in size to +the width of the entire tram. So the pilgrims hang their huge circles of +straw hats, like scooped-out orange halves, outside; and our tram before +it started became a new kind of armoured train.</p> + +<p>In this dumpy bathing-box we had room for four a side. We took five +and thought it empty; smiled at six; submitted to seven; where an eighth +would have disposed himself I do not know, he would certainly have got +in, but the puzzle would have been to have found a vacant cubic foot of +space for his occupation. Trams are never full in Japan. There is always +room for more, if the more arrive. In this case the more got in at a +small junction outside the back lanes of Gotemba. They got in, three +of them, and with huge bundles too. Then the conductor looked round +inquiringly and smiled, whereupon two polite pilgrims of lighter build +than the newcomers gave up their seats and wedged themselves into the +window-frames, while the bundles were deposited on the continuous strata +of passenger. What happened to the third I do not know. He got in.</p> + +<p>Then we started, really started, for there was no other +halting-place, no village or station between here and Subashiri. Nothing +but a broad, bare sweep of upward-tending common, where multitudes of +wild flowers grew out of the cindery soil.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">062</span>As we went on, the faintly curving +common, which always sloped round and up, grew wilder and wilder. There +were fewer flowers on the black soil. Sometimes the cinders lay all bare +in large dull patches against the coarse grass. We were on the broad +swelling slope of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, on the edge of the first +ripple before it dies away into the smooth water of the plain below. And +we were crawling slowly from the first to the second ripple as a fly +crawls round the curve of an orange. <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> himself +was invisible. For all we could see he did not exist. Spread out before +our eyes was only the endless swelling line of the green common, always +curving round and up. From time to time our driver blew a melancholy +thin note from a tiny copper horn shaped like a thickened comma and +ornamented with a worked band of brass, a pathetic far-off note unknown +to western scales.</p> + +<p>Our tram-line was laid among the ample cinders of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s burnt-out fires, and sometimes the curves were +very sharp. Then the conductor, balanced on the step and grasping the +window-frame with both hands, jerked the tram towards him to keep it on +the lines; and we rounded the curves in triumph. The compact mass of +passenger which filled the tram interior looked on unperturbed, while +those in the window-frames kindly adjusted their weight to assist the +conductor. And the melancholy thin note of the copper horn travelled +over the long slope of the upward-tending common as we crawled slowly +on.</p> + +<p>In the midst of a perfect stocking-heel of knitting-needles, which +all looked as though they were about to begin violently knitting at +once, the tram stopped, and the compact mass of passenger disintegrated +itself slowly. Having been the first to enter we were the <span +class="pagenum">063</span>last to detach ourselves from the general +lump, and when we did recover a separate entity the knitting-needles +lay gleaming in the cindery mud—and there was nothing <a href="#63B" +id="63A">else.</a> We stumbled on over them for some time, until +a ticket-hole in a sentry-box restored our belief that it was a +stopping-place and not an accident. So we stood still and shouted for +our tea-house boy by name. He came running, in long, tight-fitting, blue +trousers like thick cotton hose and a blue tunic; and he was a girl, a +pretty bright-coloured girl with daintily coiffured hair; and we all set +off for the tea-house.</p> + +<p>Subashiri is another straggling ill-kept street, all tea-houses and +long cotton banners tied to bamboo poles, and our tea-house was the last +of them all. It lay on the very edge of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, +and when we left it, after all our preparations had been completed, our +lunch eaten, our guide engaged, we stepped straight on to the endless +curve of upward-tending common.</p> + +<p>I should have said our horses stepped, for the first stage of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San is climbable on horses, pack-horses of a +unique Japanese breed, which bite. They are harnessed with elaborate +trappings in scarlet and gold, saddled with huge wooden saddles, rising +like the prow of a ship behind, and sloping so steeply that the middle +is one long knife-blade ridge, and only a tight hold of the stirrups +prevents the rider from falling. All ride straddle-legged. I do not +recommend Japanese pack-horses for pleasure, comfort, or security.</p> + +<p>We plodded along over the bare common with its eternal long sweep +upwards, like the swell of a great Atlantic roller, and the freshness +and the coldness seemed to lift us out of Japan and carry us miles and +<span class="pagenum">064</span>miles north, to the chill summer of a +northern land. The path which cut winding across the long up-sweep of +the green common was black as ink, and shining with the wet of mountain +clouds. <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> was invisible, but as the deep +rumble of the thunder, deadened behind the thick white clouds which +bounded path and common, rolled slowly out of hearing it was as if Great +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span> spoke. Behind the mist the presence of the +“honourable mountain” could be surely felt. Already the world seemed +sunk away and the pilgrimage begun.</p> + +<p>Over the green common the pack-horses plodded. Our guide and the +little girl groom, in her thick blue hose and dark blue tunic, were +far behind talking in peace. The big drops of rain which the thunder +brought had ceased to fall, and the freshness and the chill coming after +the tropical heat of the plain stung strength to life again. Even the +pack-horses grew less sulky, and urging made them shuffle into something +near a trot. But this outbreak of energy, which lasted perhaps eighty +yards, was more than enough for comfort, though it added to experience, +for like the knights of old who “clove” their enemies in two, we too +“clove,” but in another direction. It was painful. So the horses sank +back into their bad-tempered pace, and the wide common swept onwards and +upwards.</p> + +<p>After awhile the monotony of the black path crossing the green +common was varied by stunted bushes which, gradually growing bigger and +bigger, actually enclosed the cinder-track as English hedges an English +lane. But the change was brief and the sloping green world with the +long black line of path winding across it came back again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">065</span>The pack-horses plodded +bad-temperedly on, and the structure of that saddle seemed to be +petrifying in my frame. A blot in the path which had lain for so long +on the edge of the common came gradually nearer until it widened into +a deep oblong pit filled with the rakings of a thousand fires. Through +this we ploughed our way, and the loose cinders came over the feet of +the horses. With a good deal of exertion we climbed out again, then a +few yards, a sharp turn, and we passed an empty row of sheds, for we +had reached the <i lang="ja">Mma gaeshi</i>—“Horse-turn-back” station. +My horse evidently understood the Chinese characters of the tea-house +sign, for no sooner did he see them than he promptly walked into one +of the sheds, with me clinging affectionately to his neck to avoid the +shock of the roof on my chest. But promptly as he walked in, the little +girl groom and the boy guide were prompter; with a rush they were at +his head, hauling him out again. He objected strongly, snarling like +an ill-used dog, and so did I, but we were backed out of the shed at +last.</p> + +<p>We did not “horse-turn-back,” we were going to take our steeds on one +more station. The stations on <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, which are +nothing but the native tea-house, rougher, ruder, and less scrupulously +clean, are mostly built right across the actual path itself. You go in +at one side and out at the other.</p> + +<p>Up to the very threshold of the tea-house the sweep of the wet green +common rolled, like a gigantic, motionless wave that never breaks. It +was a bare wild world bounded only by the pale walls of the distant +clouds. But on the other side the path plunged steeply into a thick +interminable wood, where the great trees dripped slowly, with the +heavy persistency <span class="pagenum">066</span>of Fate, and the +dark trunks glistened uncertainly with wet. The little girl groom and +the boy guide came and led the horses carefully, for the path was very +steep, and the thick roots of the trees stretched like cords above the +cinders.</p> + +<p>This stage was short. At the next tea-house, which lay confined as +a lake between the walls of the mountain, we said “good-bye” to the +ill-tempered horses and to the little girl groom. The boy was to take us +to the top and down to Yoshida. Then the wood, which the tea-house had +interrupted no more than a buoy the ocean, stretched on. The great trees +dripped coldly, with that chill feel of damp green things that makes the +springtime of the north: coldly fresh as though the running sappy life +were chill as mountain water, as though the growing trees were enwrapped +in invisible ice and the very air made of impalpable snow.</p> + +<p>In the midst of the wood stood a little desolate shrine, its floor +was nothing but the black stamped earth, its roof of roughest thatch +kept down with lava-stones, and only the tiny altar had walls at all. +Behind a sort of wooden bar the gods sat dim, and a mournful old priest +was their only attendant.</p> + +<p>Straight towards the altar led the mountain path. This was the +gateway of Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>. Each path that climbs the +“honourable mountain” leads through a temple to the temple on the top. +At the first shrine the pilgrim buys his long white staff, stamped with +the temple crest, which he carries with him upwards to the summit.</p> + +<p>We bought our staves. And the old man, thrusting a thin bar of iron +like a stick of sealing-wax into the charcoal fire, burnt the crest +of Subashiri’s shrine into the clean white wood, and with a courteous +<span class="pagenum">067</span>gesture he said the prayer which we, +unknowing, had left unsaid. Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> is neither +fierce nor exclusive, all the world may come as pilgrims through his +gateways. From the great Sun-Goddess the Mikado sprang, and the people +of Japan are all kin to the Shintō gods, but the Shintō gods themselves +welcomed the Lord Buddha when he came. Side by side with the older gods +Buddha’s temples stand to-day, and Lord Buddha, too, once said, “All men +are one”; and again, “All living things are brothers to mankind”; for +Buddha, like the modern scientists, declared the world, all worlds, and +all that in them is, one, in substance one.</p> + +<p>Three steps from the temple and the trees of the wood shut over it +as waters over a stone. It was lost. Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> +is greater than his temples. With the help of our staves we climbed on +up the steep cinder-path, till the great green trees, dripping slowly, +dwindled, drew back, were ended.</p> + +<p>On the very edge of the wood was a tea-house, the <i +lang="ja">Ichi-gō</i>, No. 1 station, a roughly built wooden-walled +tea-house, on the edge of whose matting, with our feet on the path, +we sat and drank tea, innumerable egg-bowls of hot green tea. +While we were sitting here a whole party of pilgrims, in their +white hose trousers, their white tunics tucked into their white <i +lang="ja">obi</i>, and their wash-basin-big straw hats, came down the +path. They turned into the tea-house, and one old man, dropping on +to the matting, rolled himself into a corner and was covered with <i +lang="ja">futon</i>. He had caught cold on the top, and was perfectly +exhausted with pain and fatigue. But as he lay in the corner, clutching +the <i lang="ja">futon</i> to him as though to press a concrete +warmth into his numbed bones, there was in his eyes a look <span +class="pagenum">068</span>of dwelling content that not all the pain +nor all the fatigue could overcome. He had climbed from the threshold +to the sanctuary of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>; had knelt by the +cloud-swept altar; felt the might of the God in the winds of his +summit, in the still depths of his crater; caught up with Lord <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> on high, he had looked down upon earth. What now +was pain or fatigue?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The path from the tea-house struck out abruptly across the mountain, +and we soon stood above the trees, stood on the bare cinder-slope that +is <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>. It was very much like walking up an +ash-heap or a ballast-mound, and about as beautiful. Below us everything +was hidden in a shifting mist; above, twenty feet of cinder-slope ended +in a white wall. It was like climbing a black rope hung between two +clouds.</p> + +<p>After the ballast-heap came a lava-bed, where a molten river of +lava had dried itself into high rocks and deep cracks, as the ice of +a glacier. We crossed it obliquely, and in the twilight saw neither +beginning nor end, neither from where it came nor to where it went; but +its pinnacles and crevasses, its tumbled waves and jagged, piled-up +ridges, lay lustreless and dark, as though of coal-black ice.</p> + +<p>Once across this lava-glacier, and out of the dip formed by its bed, +we stood on a sort of self-contained ash-heap, and looked down that +long slope of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> which already lay below us.</p> + +<p>Dimly through the faint floating veil of mist we could see all +the green earth bare and smooth, with a darker line of hills as a +child’s bank of mud curving round the black surface of the lakes. We +were so high up, the lakes so far away, and the whole air so <span +class="pagenum">069</span>heavy with moisture that they looked in the +misty light like polished slabs of black rock dropped into the green +earth as one might sink stepping-stones into a lawn. As we watched +the light seemed to thicken, the white mists spread through it as +motes in a sunbeam, gathered themselves together. Swiftly they hid the +black lakes; and boiling within the dark curve of the hills in billows +of smoke, boiled over the mud-bank of hills, and blotting them out; +submerged the green earth, and flowing rapidly upwards hid all the long +slope of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> beneath a shoreless sea of fog.</p> + +<p>Again we stood on a steep cinder-heap on the black rope which hung +from void to void—alone.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And impenetrable <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> remained. We simply +climbed a cinder-path which ran from end to end of a never-ending, +ever-retreating circle of cloud. And still within this grey-white circle +we reached the <i lang="ja">Ni-gō</i>, or No. 2 station. Here we were to +stop the night, because No. 2 is larger and more comfortable than No. 4, +and No. 8 was too far away.</p> + +<p>No. 2 lay on the side of the path, its face looking over the +precipice and its three sides well within a scooped-out hole in the +cinder-heap. It was nothing but an ordinary Japanese room, only its +walls were of solid wood, protected outside by cut blocks of lava, and +inside with a lining of folded <i lang="ja">futon</i> on shelves. Far +away in the back of the room the charcoal fire was sunk in a sort of +earth well, so that you could sit on the matting with your legs in the +hole, absorb warmth, or do your cooking. Otherwise the tea-house was +bare matted space on which each comer staked out a claim for himself +with his luggage.</p> + +<p>Having chosen a good site in a corner less draughty <span +class="pagenum">070</span>than the rest of the enclosure, we proceeded +to unpack and wash. Just outside the middle of the open wall of the +house, and full on the pathway of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, stood +a large waterbutt. Having been directed by the family—an amiable man, +an indifferent wife, and an inquisitive boy—to wash outside, I stepped +on to the pathway. The tub was half full of water and looked very like +the ordinary bath-tub of Japan. It was the first time I had seen a bath +out of doors, though they figure so largely in travellers’ tales; still +there was nothing else, so boldly I plunged the top half of myself into +the water.</p> + +<p>A simultaneous scream from the man, the wife and the boy, brought me +up dripping and bewildered.</p> + +<p>What had I done?</p> + +<p>Not sinned against their moral code, surely. No—worse. Washed in the +drinking-water!</p> + +<p>Luckily there was more, enough for endless tea that night, and +to-morrow fresh water could be fetched. But my wash came to an abrupt +end. Of course what I ought to have done was to unearth a brass pan +tucked away behind the tub, take down a bamboo dipper from a lava-block, +dip out water from the tub into the pan and wash in that. Quite simple, +naturally, when it was all explained and the pan and the dipper +produced, but all problems always are simple after the explanation.</p> + +<p>The amiable man remained amiable even after this catastrophe, and the +indifferent wife had not been shaken from her indifference save for the +space of one brief scream, while the small boy, at such an exhibition of +curious manners on the part of the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i>, grew more +inquisitive than ever, and we fried ham, ate tinned tongue, cut slices +of bread, and drank foreign wine <span class="pagenum">071</span>under +a close and exhaustive series of comments which were questions.</p> + +<p>It grew dark rapidly as we ate. And as relays of pilgrims came in +out of the night to fling themselves down on the matting, swallow +cupfuls of hot tea and exchange long compliments with the man, the wife, +and the guide, and disappear again into the night, we congratulated +ourselves. No. 4 must have been very full. At eight o’clock, when the <i +lang="ja">amado</i> were drawn and the tea-house became a compact box, +No. 2 had no guests but the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i>.</p> + +<p>It was time to go to bed. The man put out the one smoking lamp by the +fire-pit which had cast such lurid yellow lights on the white clothes +of the pilgrims as they sat and drank, and such murky, gigantic shadows +on the rest of the room; the boy went to bed in a corner, and we rolled +ourselves up in our carefully Keatinged <i lang="ja">futon</i> and tried +to sleep.</p> + +<p>It was cold. There were fleas. And <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> +sent us down a draught which simply whistled through the wooden +walls, the folded <i lang="ja">futon</i> and the lava-blocks. And the +sense of the unusual, of the rest-house, the cinder-path and of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>, crept into our slumbers, holding back sleep.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When we awoke it was already five o’clock and the <i +lang="ja">amado</i> were open. The boy, careering over the matting, was +detailing how the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> slept.</p> + +<p>We shook ourselves out of our <i lang="ja">futon</i> and went outside +to wash—not in the waterbutt.</p> + +<p>Already, when we stepped upon the cinder-path, the unseen sun had +touched the white clouds lying like islands in the blue beneath. And as +we watched they coloured blushing, till in blood-red pools they studded +<span class="pagenum">072</span>thick the air below. They lay away out +over the land, moving slowly through the vapoury mist. It was as if the +air was half precipitated, the atmosphere made visible. We looked down +on to the world below and saw it as one sees white stones at the bottom +of deep water.</p> + +<p>The hidden sun was rising swiftly, and as he rose the blood-red pools +faded out; the vapoury white air grew thinner, seemed slowly drying, +until clear and invisible, we looked through it and saw the green earth +stretching away and away to the level line of the horizon; while midway +the little lakes lay sepia-black upon the green, curving so comfortably +into the tiny crescent of the hills all dark with purple shadows. A +fresh-washed world lying green and flat at the bottom of 7,000 feet of +atmosphere.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was cold, the water in the brass pan colder, and tingling with +sudden chill we ran rapidly up the path past the scooped-out hollow +where the rest-house hid—and stood transfixed.</p> + +<p>Above us, touching us, and black against a sky all blue and liquid +as the living sea, was <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San.</p> + +<p>His clear-cut lines rose up quickly, and the mountain, whose slope +our hands were holding, seemed to draw back its summit that our eyes +might see it, so close it lay, so steep above. Round as a tower it +rose in curves of grace, a black lighthouse springing towards the sky, +delicate as Giotto’s lily tower: slender in its grace and fragile. This +was no rude Colossus, mighty with brute strength, but a god, great in +grace, and strong, because divine.</p> + +<p>Upwards the soaring lines rose up, coal-black, and the +growing light caught faintly at a wine-red patch <span +class="pagenum">073</span>where the sullen fires were sleeping, caught +and turned it redder; redly it glowed, smouldering into life, the +living life of <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>.</p> + +<p>Beneath the rounded dip of the summit were two tiny cracks, and +the sky which lay so blue within the crescent curve seemed straining +through. Here was neither tree nor rock, neither snow nor glacier, +nothing to hide the form and substance of the mountain. Quite smoothly +it rose, deep black, one great dead cinder.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was perfectly fine when at last towards six o’clock we +started to climb; and the pale blue sky lay flat behind <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>, as the background in a picture.</p> + +<p>Our path was narrow, just a foot-wide track beaten firm in the steep +cinder-slope. And we climbed, till at No. 4 we stopped to rest.</p> + +<p>The stations on <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> are all much alike. A +matted room lined with <i lang="ja">futon</i>, and always a square well +at the back with a charcoal fire and an ever-boiling kettle. As you +go up the wooden walls are hidden outside beneath huge blocks of cut +lava, hidden deeper and deeper, while the roofs are fastened down with +lava-stones. Yet every winter <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> blows down the +built-up walls, tears off the roofs, and sends the big blocks hurtling +down the slope. Even in summer the roof and walls lose portions of +themselves, which, rolling, rolling, rolling, roll for ever downwards. +Some of the stations are smaller, some larger, some cleaner, this is the +only difference. In each you sit down on the matting to rest, and the +crouching man over the fire brings you hot tea, and rice-paste cakes, +while a far-away figure dimly seen through the smoke of the charcoal +fire asks your guide where you come from, where you are going to, when +you started, and what <span class="pagenum">074</span>time you will be +back. And your guide replies, with endless details as to your behaviour +if you are an <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i>, and the amount you have already +expended on tea and tips.</p> + +<p>It was a glorious morning and one with the added charm of +uncertainty.</p> + +<p>Floating in the blue above and below us were clouds, large white +clouds which would swoop down on the land, suddenly, and hide it as +under a napkin. Then the black cone of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, +a cone with its top bitten out in two little bites, would pull down +a thick flap out of the blue, and disappear. Mountain, sky and land +shifted and shone, passed in an eddy of broken glimpses, stayed in a +still-set picture, or were lost under covering clouds.</p> + +<p>But always the steep little path led up through the loose +cinder-slope, and always we climbed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The steepest and most tiring part of the climb, except the natural +staircase below the summit, is between the sixth and eighth station, +where the path, leaving the cinder-slope, runs along a ridge of solid +lava, rising like the long root of a tree high up out of the cinders, +and loses itself among great black blocks. To cross this was something +like jumping over sea rocks when the tide is out, only instead of lying +flat these went steeply upward.</p> + +<p>As we went toiling painfully along, feeling very like ants crawling +up a tree-trunk, the clash of tiny cymbals, the faint echoes of talk and +laughter came floating up. It was a whole party of pilgrims who came +swinging up hand over hand, as it were, and as easily as if they were +skating on good ice. We first saw them as we stood propped against the +<span class="pagenum">075</span>lava-blocks, panting, and they were +far below us, tiny as dwarfs, little spots of white on the dead-black +slope, away down in the second storey as we were in the sixth. But +as we laboriously climbed our inches they came on swiftly—on, up, +on, past us; the little bells clashing and chiming gaily to the talk +and laughter. Our guide told us they were <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> +who had started from Gotemba that morning at two, and who would get +back there again before dark, to work the next day as usual. Anything +like the pace at which those men came up the steep slope of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>—for the most part straight over the long beds +of loose cinders—I have never seen. It was like sailors running up a +rope. They came up more swiftly than most people would care to go down, +without an effort, with plenty of breath left to talk and laugh, and +with that supreme ease which only comes when doing something well within +the margin of one’s power.</p> + +<p>We were very glad to rest at No. 8, though our friends the <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> had gone on cheerfully. It was such a nice large +tea-house, beautifully clean, and the hot egg-bowls full of tea were +peculiarly refreshing. Without the continuous tea I do not know how +one would climb <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> at all. The air at 13,000 +feet freezes, but the sun of Japan pours down relentlessly, fierce as +the tropics, while the hot dust drifts down one’s throat, into one’s +very skin; and when the wind blows you need to cling to the shifting +cinders with the very soles of your feet. Shelter on the bare slopes of +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span> there is none. Frequently the wind is so +fierce even in the six brief weeks of summer that to stand upright is +impossible, for <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s summit is in the heart of +the storm.</p> + +<p>Between the eighth and the ninth station the path <span +class="pagenum">076</span>was easy, but we climbed it wrapped in a +sudden cloud. All the long sweep of earth below was gone. The green +Tokyo plain, where the dark thunder-clouds lay brooding in the still +blue air, and the great fingers of light which struck so fiercely on +the little lakes beneath the mud bank of the hills, the dark cone, so +near above us, all were gone, sponged out by a big cloud. And we were +only climbing up a steep black rope that hung between two infinities, +climbing out of space, into space.</p> + +<p>From the ninth and last station you climb into <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s stronghold by a giant staircase of rough lava. +It is necessary here to hoist yourself painfully up by the aid of guides +or your own two hands. We climbed on slowly. The lava was quite hot, for +the staircase lies cut within the slope, and gets and keeps the heat.</p> + +<p>On the steepest step of the staircase we passed an old, old man, +and an old, old woman, both in the white garb of pilgrims, and each +with a guide on either side to help them on. The last pitiful effort +of the old woman to drag herself up on to a lava-block had exhausted +her completely; she lay huddled against the stones gasping, her eyes +shut. The old man kneeling by her side was holding the wrinkled hand +in both of his trying to encourage her. The cracked old voice, broken +with quavering pants for breath, sounded strangely on the desolate black +staircase as we came by.</p> + +<p>“We are going,” he chanted—“we are going to the top.”</p> + +<p>And the four guides in their fresh young voices sang: “To the top, to +the top, to the top.”</p> + +<p>“We are going,” repeated the old man, softly stroking the hand he +held—“we are going to the top.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">077</span>And again the four young voices rang +out vigourously: “To the top, to the top, to the top.”</p> + +<p>It was the pilgrims’ hymn, and the old woman heard it. Slowly she +stirred, her mouth opened with a sigh of utter weariness, but still +she too sang in the thinnest trickle of a voice, broken with quavering +sobs:</p> + +<p>“To the top, to the top, to the top.”</p> + +<p>It was the most pathetic music I have ever heard. Indeed the wave +of faith was great which could carry such as these to the top of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Up the steep steps, cut so deep within the lava, we hurried +panting, eager we, too, to reach the top. But the summit of <span +lang="ja">Fujiyama</span> is a sanctuary, and on its threshold stood two +priests.</p> + +<p>As we stumbled up over the last step, and on to the path which runs +around the crater, they barred our way, standing motionless behind a +white-wood wicket. In the breeze their black robes fluttered, their +tonsured heads were bare.</p> + +<p>Surprised we paused. All the climber’s hurry fell away. This was not +another peak to be raced up and raced down by the indifferent tourist, +not another ascent to be added to the list of the mountaineer. <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San is sacred. Enter into his courts as into the +temple of the Lord, humbly, reverently, or at least with a sincere +respect.</p> + +<p>The two priests leaned over the wicket as we came up and bowed; +but they did not open it. One stretched out his hand for our staves +to stamp them with the temple’s crest. On the summit of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San the crest is stamped in vermilion ink. In the +temples at the foot it is burnt with a red-hot iron: vermilion is a +royal colour.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">078</span>The other priest, holding a bamboo +dipper, came slowly towards us. Something he was saying as he moved, in +the nasal sing-song of the priest. Then he motioned to us to put out our +hands and slowly, carefully, he poured the ice-cold water over them. And +they bade us enter. It was the rite of purification, the symbol of the +contrite heart which all who cross great <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s +threshold must surely bring.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Once inside the wicket the path, beaten wide here, ran between a +breast-high wall of lava which, built like a rampart on the edge of +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, hid the sheer sides of the mountain and a +row of low wooden huts, the rest-houses—ran between these and on, up to +where the black edge of the crater, like the rim of a broken cup, cut +the sky in sharp clear lines.</p> + +<p>For the moment it was fine, and leaving our luggage in one of the +huts we hurried on, past the rest-houses, on past the rampart wall, on +along the little beaten track which still led steeply upwards. Then +sharply it turned, and we stood wedged within a crack in the crater +wall, with the sharp black rim rising high on either hand.</p> + +<p>We were alone on <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s side, before his +altar. And there was no sound.</p> + +<p>In a stillness as of death the vast crater stretched 800 feet below, +and the grey ash-dust gathering through two centuries lay thick and +smooth as sand upon the shore. Steeply the cinder-walls rose up, rose +round, and held the ash. Only in front of us, across half a mile of +silent dust, a wide crack in the cup-like rim showed two tall poles +and many floating banners, there where the temple’s wicket crossed the +pathway from Gotemba.</p> + +<p>Grey ash and cinder, that was <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San. +Once a mighty fire, a fire two and a half miles round, with <span +class="pagenum">079</span>13,000 feet of cinders, and a bed of ash 2000 +feet across. And now, dying or asleep, rigid as death, grown grey and +cold, but yet mighty as the sea, powerful as the storm; Nature’s eternal +force made visible. And that still life which rolls around our human +incompleteness, mysterious and unknown, drew near. Almost it seemed as +though we touched the force without, the unresting naked flame of being +which threads through the spheres. Almost we touched—but saw only the +corpse of Life, for Nature keeps her secrets....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In a silence as of death, the vast still crater stretched for a +circle of two miles, and the grey ash-dust gathering through two +centuries lay thick and smooth—the pall of a mighty God.</p> + +<p>Steeply the cindery walls rose up, rose round in jagged points like +the rim of a broken cup, and into the crack there came two white-clad +pilgrims. They knelt bareheaded on the edge of the crater, looking down, +and the murmured sing-song of their prayers broke the silence. Old and +grizzled, their bullet-heads were bent before the altar in a Faith +reverent and sincere.</p> + +<p>Truly the might of God had dwelt on <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>; +the breath of Eternal Life had rested here—rested and passed, or was +passing; and the pilgrim in his faith holds sacred the print of that +footstep. He prays to that part of the Godhead incarnate in <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>—<span lang="ja">Fuji</span> so perfect in his +grace, so stirring in his strength.</p> + +<p>In western lands the Roman Catholic peasant prays before his altar, +but the symbol of his Godhead is often reduced to a composite Christ +in pink and white plaster. If Truth must have a form—and mankind +believes with difficulty in abstract nouns—it surely is a <span +class="pagenum">080</span>purer, grander faith to feel God visible in +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s curves, dwelling in his sleeping fires, +than to hem Him in a building made by man and seat Him on an ugly altar +between groups of tawdry flowers.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The little narrow path which led down into the crack led also round +the summit below the jagged edges of the crater’s rim, and we followed +it. Outside the crack it went steeply downwards before it turned, for +above, the cindery slopes of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> were steaming +white in the sunshine, and the ground was very hot. It is but a patch, +still evidence that <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> sleeps. He is not +dead.</p> + +<p>Then the wandering pathway, a black thread on the loose cinder-slope, +led up again, round and down into a tiny fold among the cinders, and +suddenly, quickly as a camera snaps, the white clouds, loosely piled +upon the mountain, were riven asunder, and the whole world shimmering in +a golden haze that touched but did not hide it, lay at our feet.</p> + +<p>Straight down below, 13,000 feet away, it lay. All the long line +of the river <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>kawa, gleaming blue-black as +rough-cast iron, among the orange sand-flats of its mouth. And the soft +curves of the Yokohama peninsula, a smaller but more graceful Italy, +floating, floating, on the water, purple-blue on azure blue.</p> + +<p>And all beyond was the blue intensity of the infinite sea.</p> + +<p>So near it looked, so clear that the steely line of the <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>kawa seemed a sword-blade one could stoop and +reach. And leaning we looked from <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s top as +from a tower; but <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s self we could not see. +His cinder-slopes had vanished.</p> + +<p>Straight down below there was the world, and we above +it hung suspended 13,000 feet above the earth. <span +class="pagenum">081</span>Beyond, above, outside of it. Dear Earth, how +still it lay, how beautiful!</p> + +<p>And into my mind there floated the old, old words: “And He divided +the land from the waters, and the dry land He called Earth.... And God +looked and saw that it was good.”</p> + +<p>Above the world, beyond it, we too could look and see, and we too +“saw that it was good.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then the little wandering track, beaten firm by the feet of +the pilgrims, led on, up and down, among the cinders of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s sides, and round to that great crack in the +cup’s rim where the pathway from Gotemba reached the summit.</p> + +<p>Here were crowds of people, all the pilgrims on <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> San, pouring through the white-wood wicket, or +buying draughts of the sacred “Golden Water” which is born in the depths +of the crater.</p> + +<p>As we stood drinking our little bowlful of the ice-cold water, the +low boom of a Japanese temple bell came swaying through the air, and +each jagged peak round the crater’s rim added its muffled echo to the +bell’s deep boom.</p> + +<p>The level space which formed the floor to this big crack was full of +pilgrims old and young, men, women and little children, and they were +all pressing forward between the tall poles, where the long banners tied +top and bottom were stirring in the wind, to the little temple lying +under the very edge of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>, as a nest beneath +the eaves. The temple seemed full already, but the crowd, courteous +for all their zeal, pressed forward gently, content, if they could not +enter, to stay outside.</p> + +<p>Again the low liquid boom came swaying through the air, prolonged by +the muffled echoes of the jagged <span class="pagenum">082</span>peaks. +And we too walked towards the temple. But the patient crowd without +reached already to the pathway, and must press back against the cinder +sides as the long procession of black-robed priests, with copes and +stoles and vestments of rich brocade, swept into the temple.</p> + +<p>Then the liquid booming bell swayed out again—and was still; and the +muffled echoes of the peaks, subdued and faint, lingered in the intense +silence.</p> + +<p>The priests had passed within.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The ash on the floor of the crater was soft and very thick. It lay +in thin round flakes that broke between the fingers, and the feet sank +into it, drawn under as on sand that is half-quick. It was like walking +on piles of those sunlit flecks that carpet a beech-wood; but the light +had gone out of these and left them pale and grey.</p> + +<p>All around the black walls of the crater rose up into the sky, five +hundred feet of sheer height. Shut into the crater pit with the dead ash +sucking our feet we seemed to have come to the region where death lies +behind—and birth is yet to come. We stood in the Place of Pause, in that +Between which is Nothingness.</p> + +<p>Smooth as the sand of the shore the ash stretched along. Loose and +thick the flakes were piled, and the feet, drawn under, grew heavy.</p> + +<p>What was beneath? Nothingness?</p> + +<p>And a strange fear of falling through the loose ash into that +Nothingness grew with each empty moment.</p> + +<p>Faintly, far away, the stir of Life’s Birth reached into the void. It +came from below, deep through the ash where a little clear trickle of +water sang in the silence. Distinct, but so soft that the senses must +<span class="pagenum">083</span>needs strain to hear. Through the ash, +beneath the ash, the water trickled, faint as a new-born breath. And its +name it was Golden.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The hut when we reached it was empty, and it lay facing the +lava-wall, the last of the row, and all of them were open in front, like +cages at the Zoo.</p> + +<p>The square pit with its charcoal fire was in front here, and we had +to pass behind it to reach the unoccupied space at the back. As we +crawled over the matting darkened by our own shadows, for the only light +came through the open front, we almost stumbled over some one rolled up +in a bundle of <i lang="ja">futon</i>. It was the old, old woman of the +morning. She was asleep, in the deep, dull sleep of utter exhaustion, +and her wrinkled chin, dropped down, trembled, as she slept.</p> + +<p>It was very cold in the hut, and we too were glad of <i +lang="ja">futon</i> and egg-bowls of hot tea, glad to eat our tinned +tongue and slices of dry bread, and gladder still just to stay wrapt in +the <i lang="ja">futon</i>, and sleepily rest.</p> + +<p>The landlord, like an image, sat on his heels in the well and never +stirred. From time to time he put fresh pieces of charcoal on the fire +with a pair of brass chopsticks; then the smoke, sweeping in dense waves +through the room, would make us all cough abruptly, till it melted +slowly away and the room was still.</p> + +<p>Beyond the lava-wall the grey-white clouds lay herded as a fold of +sheep, and we watched them mounting up and up, rolling against the wall, +rising above it, sending thin wreaths and wisps of mists across the +pathway, which stayed like ribbons in the air, and then sinking, dropped +down again. Often they came up, and always rolled back beaten. <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s summit is above the clouds, they could not scale +it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">084</span>In twos and threes and little +groups, the white-robed pilgrims stopped to sit on the edge of the +matting and drink tea, and eat innumerable balls of rice rolled in a +soft grated substance that looked to be, but was not, cheese—a thing +unknown in this milkless land. So the pilgrims sat on the matting and +ate their rice-balls, which the landlord, without moving his body a +hair’s-breadth, produced and rolled, and sprinkled, and handed. And the +acrid smoke from the charcoal fire drifted across the room, filling +it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Quite suddenly I awoke out of my sleep, to find some one on the floor +beside me waking the old, old woman. It took her a long time to struggle +out of that dense, deep sleep into a state of even drowsy consciousness. +She sat up, bewildered, and when they told her she must go, get up, +climb all that weary way down again, the old face seemed to shrink +together in hopeless despair. There was a long dreary pause. Then the +old, old woman bowed, the smile of courtesy upon her worn old face.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Yoroshū gozaimas</i>” (“As it honourably pleases you”), +she said. And rising, she tottered out.</p> + +<p>This flesh was more than weak, but the spirit was the spirit of her +race—it sacrificed all things.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We were to sleep in Yoshida that night, and for us too it was time +to go. So leaving our money on the edge of the fire-pit we crawled out +of the hut. The image sitting on its heels never stirred; with one +swift glance beneath the eyelids, he had reckoned the money to the last +<i lang="ja">sen</i>, but whether more or less than he expected, he +remained immovable, magnificently unconscious, occupied solely in bowing +us out. Had <span class="pagenum">085</span>it been less than the +proper charge we certainly should have heard of it through the guide, +but as tea is never charged for, each visitor pays for it according to +his rank, exigencies, generosity, and the status of the tea-house. In +reality, of course, it is payment for attendance as well as tea.</p> + +<p>The Japanese hold that no service performed can ever have a money +equivalent. In their economy, money was never a real asset, as courage, +knowledge or art, and they ignored it, when they did not despise it. So +in the old days, those trades which had most to do with money, whose +aim seemed to be the getting of money, were looked down on. Shopkeepers +and merchants ranked below swordsmiths, peasants and artisans. Only the +ignoble would choose such as a life’s work, and if to-day this idea has +hindered commerce, if it has produced the low standard of some business +men, and consequently the foreigner’s bad opinion of them, it has, on +the other hand, lifted the nation out of the rut of sordid greed, made +it seek after, and lay fast hold of, that which seems to it true—made of +its people a race of men, of gentlemen, honourable, high-principled, and +capable of indomitable devotion to their ideal.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We stepped off the summit of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San into a +wet white cloud, which was the sky of the earth below. For the first two +stages the way down was the same as the way up, but at No. 8 the paths +divided, the one to Yoshida leading away to the left.</p> + +<p>After we had made a sort of semi-tour of the mountain we climbed +over a lava-ridge and found ourselves in the centre of a black scoop in +<span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s side that, coming from above, stretched +interminably downwards. <span class="pagenum">086</span>And the whole +of the huge groove was a mass of the loosest, most shifting cinder. +There was no path. One went down. At each step all the cinders on that +part of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> slid bodily, tumbling over each +other in their haste. You slid too, until the cinders, piling themselves +up and up, reached the knee, and abruptly you stopped, only to pull out +that leg and begin to slide again with the other. The rate at which one +shot down was prodigious, and the method alarming. Each step seemed to +start half the mountain rolling, rolling, for ever downwards, and there +seemed no particular reason why the other half with you on it should +not roll away too. Positively, as the torrent of cinders rolled and +rolled and rolled, the conviction that <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span> +must look smaller next morning grew upon me. Until with a flash of +understanding I remembered the legend of the dust brought down by the +pilgrims’ feet flying each night back to the mountain. And it seemed a +very necessary explanation, and quite convincing too, when I looked at +the tons and tons of cinders which my feet alone were sending down <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s side.</p> + +<p>After awhile the slope grew even steeper, and the cinders from black +became a deep dull red. And still one shot downwards. Small patches of +powdery, grey snow sprinkled with tiny round spots were tucked away here +between the red cinders, and the whole slope was covered with the straw +sandals of former pilgrims. They were scattered over the red cinders +like a new kind of vegetation hardier than the rest, and there were +thousands on thousands of them.</p> + +<p>And still we shot downwards. At too steep an angle now to be brought +up merely by the weight of the cinders, so that we were obliged to +invent brakes <span class="pagenum">087</span>with our more or less +free foot, our extended arms, or the angle of our bodies; and we were +very glad indeed of our staves to put any sort of term to the long +uncomfortable slide.</p> + +<p>It was a long while before we passed out of the zone of the <i +lang="ja">waraji</i>, and saw real little green things growing between +the cinders. They looked utterly miserable and degenerate, but they did +make the ballast solider, and the sliding easier.</p> + +<p>It was a gigantic slide, but we brought up at last on a ridge of grey +rock, over which we had to climb carefully, for it was full of holes. +On the other side of this ridge the degenerate green weeds had grown +into degenerate green plants; and after a few more slides and climbs the +plants became bushes, stunted and miserable, but bushes, and we came out +on to a sort of natural grass platform, before the rest-house of No. 4, +Yoshida side. It was dirty, the first dirty house I had ever seen in +Japan. Below us, as though stopped short by a word of command, “Thus far +and no further,” were the trees; the tops of the nearest were on a level +with the platform, but not one grew upon it.</p> + +<p>With the cinder-slope behind us we stepped off the grass platform +straight into the forest. It was a beautiful forest. First firs, and +then, as we went downwards, green trees, small oaks and cryptomerias of +all kinds.</p> + +<p>To feet weary of ballast-heaps, the forest footpath was a rest +refreshing, and the delight of growing trees and green fresh leaves +after <i lang="ja">waraji</i> and cinders, an enchantment. But <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> had not finished his surprises or his trials. Soon +the pathway disappeared from under our feet, and only the roots of the +trees remained. On these we had to walk, and they were slippery, <span +class="pagenum">088</span>knotted, and far apart, and full of tangled +holes that caught and tripped the feet.</p> + +<p>A polite Japanese student came and walked with us a little way “to +improve his English,” but his feet in their <i lang="ja">waraji</i> +stepped over the tree-roots faster than ours in our boots, and we were +soon left alone again.</p> + +<p>Gradually, as we went downwards, the forest altered from the austere +wood of the mountain to the rich luxuriant wood of the plains, green +with moss, covered with creepers, dripping with big juicy drops of water +as though rich sap were oozing from every vein.</p> + +<p>All through the wood there were tiny tea-houses, set under a tree and +lost among the branches. We passed No. 1 at least seven times, each time +certain that it really must be the real original No. 1, and that the +“horse-turn-back” station, where we could get a <i lang="ja">basha</i> +to carry us to Yoshida, was necessarily “the next.” After the weary +sliding down that abrupt slope, the muscles of one’s legs were all +trembling with the strain, and the tree-roots, slippery and uncertain, +became doubly difficult. We were still going down so steeply that the +hollow of the pathway lay like a green chimney below us. Slowly up +through this living funnel came the pilgrim’s chant.</p> + +<p>“We are going,” and the little bells clashed out triumphant—“we are +going to the top.”</p> + +<p>Then the deep sing-song of the chorus, coming nearer with each +syllable, grew louder:</p> + +<p>“Top ... the top ... to the top.”</p> + +<p>We waited while the chant coming up from the green depths below came +nearer, came past us, went on.</p> + +<p>From the green heights above it sounded down.</p> + +<p>“We are going,” and the tiny cymbals clashed—“we are going to the +top.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">089</span>And faintly echoing from above came +the answer: “To the top ... the top ... top.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And still the first stations succeeded one another, and the tired +feet and the aching muscles grew more weary. The wood was dense as ever, +but less steep, and at last there came earth as well as tree-roots for a +pathway.</p> + +<p>We passed through another station, half tea-house, half temple, where +a man sat behind a tray of thin irons stamped with the temple’s crest, +and where gods and tea-bowls filled the shelves. The path went through +it and out again, under the trees, a path of good stamped earth. Then +twisting suddenly it ended in four smooth green steps that led down into +a natural amphitheatre, with tea-houses on each side. This was the <i +lang="ja">Mma gaeshi</i>—“horse-turn-back” station—Yoshida side. Away to +the left were several square boxes on wheels, otherwise the stage was +empty. It was, indeed, exactly like a “set” in an opera.</p> + +<p>We hobbled, it was so difficult to walk on <i>flat</i> earth, to +a tea-house and sat down demanding <i lang="ja">basha</i>. Slowly a +man entered right front, and crossing left centre tipped up a square +box and waited. Then another man, entering left front, harnessed a +horse to it. This took them half an hour, because they wanted four +times too much for the drive to Yoshida, and at each refusal, at each +expostulation, at each rebate, the one man dropped the square box down +on the ground and the other gave up harnessing the horse. Meanwhile we +drank tea and monotonously repeated our price. After half an hour the <i +lang="ja">basha</i> was finally harnessed, and crossing left front we +got in.</p> + +<p>This <i lang="ja">basha</i> was simply a square box without a lid, +<span class="pagenum">090</span>mounted on wheels. You sat on a piece +of matting spread at the bottom, leant against the wooden back and +clutched hard at the sides to keep yourself in. The driver sat on the +shaft and used his feet as a brake. The reins consisted of one length of +straw rope attached to the left side of the horse’s head.</p> + +<p>For the first half-hour the relief of stretching out one’s +miserable, trembling legs was pure bliss, after that, <i +lang="ja">basha</i>-driving was pleasant but jolty, and after that it +became renewed torture to endure the jolting, and the aches in one’s +back and arms were vigorous and persistent. Road there was none, only +two large ruts, in, over and among which we wandered.</p> + +<p>The trees stopped as abruptly above the natural amphitheatre of <i +lang="ja">Mma gaeshi</i> as they had begun below the platform of No. +4. And for the whole two hours of our journey to Yoshida we travelled +over an immense far-reaching common, one of the soft ripples at <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s base. There was not a house or a village to be +seen, nothing but the wide stretch of green common.</p> + +<p>It was half-past five when the <i lang="ja">basha</i> started out +among the ruts, and the clear, colourless light of a northern evening—we +were 3000 feet up—which is not cold, yet is so colourless, enclosed the +earth. The sky was as bare of clouds as the common of landmarks; the +one lay palely blue above, the other stretched subduedly green below. +Here and there the green was crossed by long flushes of colour, with the +red of tiny tiger-lilies, and the pale yellow of the evening primrose. +Behind, Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> rose majestic. At first a line +of fleecy cloud had lain above the deep green of the forest, and <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s head was lost in mist, but at the sunset the +clouds fell away lower and lower, until the whole long sweep of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> rose up triumphant into the blue.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">091</span>It was but slowly that the <i +lang="ja">basha</i> jolted among the deep-cut ruts of the common, and +but slowly that we travelled on, downwards.</p> + +<p>Looking out across the wide flat land we saw that the whole world was +slightly rounded, slightly tilted. It was like journeying over a large +green apple. The globe in fact palpable, visibly rounded. Away on the +left the sun was setting in straight streamers of pale red edged with +shining gold. And the green common, with its pools of little red lilies, +and its bands of pale yellow primroses, grew greyer and greyer.</p> + +<p><span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San, perfect in long smooth curves, stood +purple-blue behind. Clear-cut as a jewel in a setting he rose up, rose +up, until the rounded strength of his summit lay bright sapphire on the +azure sky.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Over the ruts the <i lang="ja">basha</i> stumbled, endlessly +jolting.</p> + +<p>The sun set slowly, and slowly the colours died. Grey lay the common +in front of us, on each side. Lord <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> was but +a dark, still shadow. And over the ruts the <i lang="ja">basha</i> +stumbled in long, slow jolts.</p> + +<p>We were very tired, our backs ached with the jolting, and our arms +were numb with pain. All around us the grey spaces of the common +stretched uninterruptedly, without house or village. Where was +Yoshida?</p> + +<p>Still the <i lang="ja">basha</i> lumbered and stumbled, and we looked +for lights and houses.</p> + +<p>Nothing. Only in front of us the grey level of the common grew tall +and black.... In a few more jolts the deep black had engulfed us, grey +common and all, and we were wandering among dark shadows that were +trees.</p> + +<p>In the very pitch of the blackness the cart suddenly <span +class="pagenum">092</span>stopped. We were asked to get out. The <i +lang="ja">basha</i> went no further.</p> + +<p>“But Yoshida?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Yoshida yoroshī!</i>—all right,” replied the man, +unconcerned, as though every traveller to every town arrived in a dark +wood without sight or sound of houses; and he drove off.</p> + +<p>Our guide picked up the luggage, and we followed stumbling, straining +our eyes to tell the deeper shadows that were trees from the paler dark +that meant pathway.</p> + +<p>Slowly the deeper shadows receded, and in their place came the dim +forms of houses. Then a sharp turn and we were walking along a real road +with the familiar knitting-needles of the Japanese tramway shining in +the twilight. After a while the houses grew denser, and some of them had +lights; but the contrast only made the pale dark of the open roadway +seem still blacker.</p> + +<p>Large trucks, like kitchen-tables with their legs cut short, came +sliding past us as we stumbled on, gliding slowly down the road alone +and unattached.</p> + +<p>Parties of pilgrims in white, with white staves in their hands, +came unexpectedly out of the darkness, and the lighted paper lanterns +in their hands warmed their white clothes into a rich cream-yellow, +precipitating them into solid bodies from the waist downward, while +their heads and shoulders drifted slowly on through the pale night like +impalpable ghosts.</p> + +<p>We had reached the top of the hill, and the road, in a sudden turn, +ran sharply away from us. The houses were on both sides now in one +continuous line, and the shock of meeting trucks jarred through the +street. There was a flare of orange light where the knitting-needles +became a shunting-yard.</p> + +<p>This was Yoshida.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">093</span>Our landlady was aristocratic to her +finger-tips. She had the long slim neck, the long thin face, with its +pure outlines, the long narrow eyes, the long graceful body, and the +delicate poise which is the ideal type of the aristocrat—and rare even +among them. When she knelt on the matting to receive us, she did it with +the distinction of a queen, and all her movements showed that clean-cut +grace, that courtesy without effort, that refinement of pose and gesture +which only the continued culture of long generations can produce, and +which is to mere politeness or mere beauty as the subtle music of the +poet to Monsieur Jourdain’s prose. Her husband was a bullet-headed man +of the people, stubby and plebeian. His manners, like his Japanese, +were polite of course, but undistinguished, while our hostess spoke a +language as courtly as her ways. When she glided over the matting, her +long sleeves swaying, or stretched out her thin slim-fingered hand to +take our tea-cups, we felt like beings of a lower evolution, and this +higher product, evolved by centuries of self-control and a living love +of beauty, was the human form made perfect, to which we might, perhaps, +one day attain.</p> + +<p>Even the inn possessed something of her grace: the matting was +whiter, the woodwork smoother, the steep stairway—set like a ladder +between the walls—more polished than elsewhere. The tiny medallions +set deep in the <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, which are as the handles to +our doors, were works of art. The miniature garden of the courtyard, +with its hills and trees and swift grey stream, was a living landscape, +perfect in form and colouring. Even the shallow brass pans in which +we washed, the commonest of hotel furniture, had an elegance of their +own. And in the refined and beautiful inn our graceful, courtly <span +class="pagenum">094</span>landlady knelt and offered us platefuls of +“mixed biscuits.” They were certainly cheap ones, but never did the +utter vulgarity of their shapes, or the crudeness of their colouring, +strike so sharply on my senses. If they had tasted like manna from the +wilderness I could not have eaten one. They were too ugly.</p> + +<p>It is vivid still, the bliss of that hot bath in fresh mountain water +pumped from a stream which comes from <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s +sacred slopes, and the joy of that long dreamless sleep under the green +mosquito curtain in our white matted room. Vivid still, the breakfast +cooked over the <i lang="ja">hibachi</i>, with our aristocratic +landlady, every line of her graceful form looking purer and more refined +as she stooped to hold the handle of the frying-pan, while her stolid +husband on his knees before his office desk in the corner looked on +good-naturedly, and the stout little maid watched the foreign cooking of +our ham as though it had been a sacred rite.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We were to return by the lakes which encircle <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>, and we set out that morning along a dull dusty +road between dull dusty banks.</p> + +<p>It was but a little way to the first lake, but hot beyond believing, +and when we reached it, and pushed out in our boat beyond the narrow +inlet which ran deep into the road, the heat settled down like a roof +above our heads.</p> + +<p>The sky was one superb arch of azure blue; the earth in front +of us a wide, bare flat, glittering with heat. And from out of +that gleaming, quivering mist which hid the level land Great <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> rose dark blue on blue. Naked and superb he stood +against the background of the sky secure in his strength, perfect in his +beauty, beyond words, beyond praise, in sober truth—divine.</p> + +<p>It took an hour and a half to cross the lake, and <span +class="pagenum">095</span>all the time <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San, +set in the framework of the turquoise sky, with the gleaming, glittering +mist of light sweeping like an iridescent cloud to the edge of his dark +blue slope, stayed with us. For an hour and a half we looked, and the +form and the soul of the mountain sank deep within our hearts.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The second lake is divided from the first by a natural wall of hill +over which we climbed, the sun striking fiercely on the pathway where +one small patch of shade lay black on the thick white dust.</p> + +<p>The second lake was set deep within the circle of the hills, +and we crossed it in company with three men who had drunk much <i +lang="ja">saké</i>, and another who stuck fuses into a row of dynamite +cartridges and then, leaving them under a corner of the matting in +the bottom of the boat, apparently forgot their existence. These four +passengers and the two boatmen were continually stumbling up and +down the boat to row in turns, and always within a few inches of the +dynamite.</p> + +<p>It was a somewhat agitating row, although we were assured the +cartridges were “only for fishing.”</p> + +<p>It ended at last, after a long two hours of suspense, among the quiet +grey boulders which stretched for a hundred yards between the water and +the wood.</p> + +<p>Down the little valley beyond the stones, a winding river of +rice-fields ran like a grass-green stream, and we followed it, as one +follows up a mountain brook, till it dwindled and disappeared. Then the +wood closed in above it, and we were in the middle of a weird uncanny +forest, all grey and wrinkled, where multitudes of thick-set pole-like +trees, covered with a powdery dust, ranged ghost-like out of sight.</p> + +<p>And here we walked, the only living things in a <span +class="pagenum">096</span>spell-bound world, walked until the earth grew +thin beneath our feet and the rough grey boulders came up through the +soil.</p> + +<p>Then for a long, long while we went beside a grey lava-river flowing +between the grey tree-stems, a wide and furious river arrested as it +swept in angry tumult through the wood, stopped dead, and each breaking +wave turned into stone. We looked at this still, dead river and saw how +the years had covered the waves with a thick white crust of dust. Buried +deep lay that tempest of passion which once had swept burning from <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span>’s sides, buried deep beneath blocks of grey lava +and the drifting ash-grey dust.</p> + +<p>Yet the very stones that buried it were carved in its image. And the +face of that passion, petrified and deadly, looked up from the river. +And all around the grey wood stood dead too, and very still, coated deep +with a powdery dust, ash-grey. For the spell of the river was over the +wood, and it was the death of Destruction.</p> + +<p>For miles we walked beside that Medusa river, sometimes we left it, +sometimes we crossed it, then losing it between the trees we wandered +where the ghostly pole-like trunks grew thickest. But always the river +came back with the dead passion that made it staring rigid beneath the +stones.</p> + +<p>Miles and miles of lava, wide, and long, and deep. The ghostly trees +were rooted in it, the very lakes lay cradled in it, the world for far +around was made of it. Verily the fires of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> +San were mighty in those days.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The third lake was black, ink-black, black as strong-cast shadows +in the moonlight. Tarnished and still it lay, without a glitter or a +gleam; yet the washing <span class="pagenum">097</span>wavelets, as +they poured over the stone at our feet, were pure and clear, and the +high steep hills that half encircled it were dense with the greenest +trees.</p> + +<p>The ghostly wood was ended, the petrified river gone; on the banks of +this sombre lake living trees were growing. Tangled and thick and high, +they walled in three sides of the lake, and, sweeping round in a long +thin promontory, divided the ink-black waters with a sword of green.</p> + +<p>Along the hill there ran no pathway, the trees stood too thick, +the hill too steep. There was no boat upon the lake nor any road +around it. The black waters washed to the foot of the trees, the trees +stretched green to the top of the hills, and lake and wood were still as +undiscovered country.</p> + +<p>And behind us lay all the long silence of the ghostly wood.</p> + +<p>On the very edge of the promontory a white house rested, poised like +a gull on the water, but the dead-black lake gave back no reflection, +and the dark-green hills caught no colour from the sun, nor stirred a +leaf. Silent as the waters the house poised white beneath the evening +sky.</p> + +<p>On three sides the high hills shut in the lake, but on the fourth the +lava-stones met the marsh, the marsh the common, and wide and flat the +common stretched away to the beyond.</p> + +<p>A little while and the setting sun was down behind the hills, and +all the sky was darkening into night. Far over the common, and purple +as a king’s raiment, rose <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> San. Grand and +lonely he stood between dark earth and darkening sky; far off on the +edge of the world, and all the solemn stillness of the evening wrapt him +round.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">098</span>Gently fell the twilight on lake and +hill. The grey spaces of the common stretched more vast and wide. The +night was coming fast.</p> + +<p>Beneath my feet the blackness of the waters opened as the deep abyss. +Behind, the horror of the spell-bound wood waited wide-eyed. Sweeping +onwards in the twilight the indistinctness of the common passed out of +sight, the pathless hills closed round me.</p> + +<p>Then the spell of the ghostly wood reached out to clutch. I looked +towards the light.... Dim as Life’s hope it lay, far off beyond the +horizon, while all the blackness of the lake and hill surrounded me.</p> + +<p>I strained my eyes across the indistinctness, and from that far-off +heaven a lofty Presence leaned.</p> + +<p>It was the Great God <span lang="ja">Fuji</span>.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">099</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LFIII"> + <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> + <span>EPILOGUE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The blue sea lies sleeping warm and still; the sky, another sea, +sleeps too; only the green headlands standing between blue and blue +watch, their feet in the water. And the heat is the heat of a summer’s +noon.</p> + +<p>So still the sea, so quiet the sky, so calm the earth that the soft +breath of the sleeping ocean comes as a rippling sigh towards the land, +while the blue sea above floats lazy.</p> + +<p>From their low hill Tesshuji’s forsaken Gods look out. The temple +walls are bare, its altars dumb, and the grass-grown court has shod +even silence with a velvet shoe. Dreaming, the Gods sit undisturbed, +and the hush of the noonday’s heat is deepened.</p> + +<p>It is long since the clang of the praying-bell overhead called them +to listen. Still they sit, and look.</p> + +<p>In the shadow of the doorway at the still Gods’ feet, I, too, sit +and look.</p> + +<p>Over the sleeping sea, blue and still, beyond the watching headlands, +out into the liquid sky above, where in utter majesty great <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> rises one sheer line of beauty in the blue. The +rounded curve of his snow-crest shimmers white as a sun-caught sail, and +the long slope of his perfect form is a deep blue line on blue. <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> rises as a tower, he floats in that limpid <span +class="pagenum">100</span>sea above a mist-clad iceberg. And the glimmer +of his snow-crest is a shining crown of glory in the sky. So real, so +simple, so beautiful. Just a crescent of white snow floating thirteen +thousand feet above the world, and two long lines of blue sloping +gently downwards, outwards to the earth. So simple, so beautiful, is it +real?</p> + +<p>A faint stir in the sleeping sea and I drop my eyes to the blue +below.</p> + +<p>Beauty, said the Greeks, was born of the waves and the foam. Once +in that clear sea above, a great blue wave came leaping with a crest +of foam. It was Beauty’s self, all-perfect, and they called it <span +lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>. Beauty content to be but beauty.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Tesshuji’s Gods look out over the sea, beyond the green headlands +into the blue. They dream undisturbed. They have looked so long.</p> + +<p>The noonday heat has spread the land with a quivering haze of blue. +It sleeps. The softly breathing sea sleeps too. No prayer has roused the +Gods, they too are sleeping.</p> + +<p>The whole world, says the Scriptures, is but a dream of the +great Lord Buddha. Tesshuji’s Gods are dreaming, and <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> is.</p> + +<p>Dream Gods for ever.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> <span class="pagenum">101</span> <h2 +class="nobreak" id="THE_ART_OF_THE_NATION">THE ART OF THE NATION</h2> +</div> + +<div class="center"> <span class="pagenum">102</span> <div +class="inline-block"> <p>“All that is superfluous is displeasing +to God and Nature;</p> <p>all that is displeasing to God +and Nature is bad.”</p> <p class="right line-height3"><span +class="smcap">Dante</span>, “De Monarchia,” bk. i. chap. xiv.</p> </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">103</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TANI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>GRACE BEFORE MEAT</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> running quickly through the narrow +opening in the high bamboo fence curved into a tiny garden set with dark +green shrubs, and stopped abruptly.</p> + +<p>In front of us, where a square recess broke the long line of wooden +wall, a pile of <i lang="ja">gheta</i> lay heaped on a grey stone block. +At the sound of our coming the wooden wall opened, and a Japanese in <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> and <i lang="ja">hakama</i> stood bowing before us. +He came with pairs of soft woolly night-socks to cover English feet, +and, sitting down on the narrow knee-high platform of polished black +wood, we took off our boots. Two giant curb-stones at right angles made +a solitary step to reach the platform, and leaving our leather boots, +looking caricatures of feet among the wooden sandals, we followed the +waiting <i lang="ja">kimono</i> along the three-foot-wide platform.</p> + +<p>Round the corner of the square recess, and shut off from the tiny +courtyard by a thick screen of fence and shrubs, was a white garden, +sunny and still, where, under a pale blue sky, the tall shadows of +the trees fell black across the pure white snow. Sliding back the +paper-paned wall the waiting <i lang="ja">kimono</i> bowed us to +enter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">104</span>“Come in, come in,” said our friend +the professor, his familiar face looking strangely unfamiliar from out +the wide-sleeved silken <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and pleated silken +skirts of his <i lang="ja">hakama</i>, as he laughingly bowed us a +Japanese welcome.</p> + +<p>The first sensation on coming into that low matted room, bare of all +furniture, was one of intense awkwardness, all one’s limbs seemed to +have swollen to ungainly proportions, and to have grown correspondingly +wooden and jerky. In a flash I had slipped back to a child’s years, and +was lying in my little iron bedstead in the dark, the haunting terror +of the unknown upon me, as I stealthily pinched a mountainous leg with +a hand twelve feet thick, and trembled to feel the bedstead giving way +beneath me. That old sensation of unaccountable largeness, of bursting +one’s surroundings, stayed as the unreal background to my mind until the +paper-paned walls closed behind me again.</p> + +<p>“If you would like a chair, there are just two—” began the +professor.</p> + +<p>But we had come to be really Japanese, and Japanese we intended to +remain at all costs. So, getting gingerly down on our knees on the +square cushions that lay on the matted floor, we tried unsuccessfully +to sit on our heels with the same grace as little Miss Hayashi +opposite. There she sat, demure, serene, and, above all, supremely +graceful all through lunch, while we, like chestnuts on hot bricks, +hopped from knee to knee, bobbed up and down, tucked our legs under +us like Turks, or bunchwise like children, leaned on one arm, then on +the other, enduring untold horrors of pins and needles as we became +more intimately acquainted with our own anatomy than we had ever done +in all the previous years of our existence. And my admiration of +<span class="pagenum">105</span>Miss Hayashi grew as she sat there, +one line of pure grace from the curves of her slender neck, rising +from the folds of mauve and white, to the thick wadded hem of her <i +lang="ja">kimono</i>.</p> + +<p>As I looked I grew more and more conscious that the dress and +the room were one, each the necessary complement of the other, the +right frame for the right picture, and the right picture in the right +frame.</p> + +<p>“The soul of Japan,” they say, “is the sword of the <i +lang="ja">samurai</i>.” “Then the soul of the <i lang="ja">uchi</i>,” I +thought, “is the <i lang="ja">kimono</i> of the housewife.”</p> + +<p>The simplicity of the straight-falling lines, the perfection of +the embroidery on the innermost of the folds around the neck, the +richness of the <i lang="ja">obi</i> at the waist, there was the same +severity of design with richness of decoration which characterised the +room, where two paper-paned walls, one of sliding wood and the fourth +stained a subdued brown, enclosed the bare matted space. Against the +one solid wall was built a slightly raised platform of polished black +wood, forming with the two low pillars of wood a wide recess, the <i +lang="ja">tokonoma</i>. Within the <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i> hung +a long silken scroll where pale storks flew across the moon, a <i +lang="ja">kakemono</i> of price. On the black wood of the platform, +which was raised but a few inches from the ground, were set the two +swords of the <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, a bronze horse of exquisite +workmanship, and in the corner some long branches of white plum-blossom +in a vase. In these four objects (as in the <i lang="ja">obi</i> and the +embroidery of the neck-folds) lay the entire decoration of the room. +And looking, one realised that great truth, almost unknown to us, but a +truism in Japan—the artistic value of space. In a European drawing-room +you often cannot see one ornament for its fellows: here the bronze horse +and <span class="pagenum">106</span>the <i lang="ja">kakemono</i> held +the eyes; one looked, and one <i>saw</i>; their beauty filled the soul; +next week, next month, they will go back to the store-house, and others +will take their place. I could never forget the curved lines of those +two swords against the polished black floor under the white fragrance +of the plum-blossoms, any more than I could forget the soft half-moon +curves of Miss Hayashi’s <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, white below mauve, as +she glided over the matted floor.</p> + +<p>Our lunch, we had come to lunch, opened with tea, pale amber tea +in little round bowls on bronze stands, and sugar chrysanthemums, +rice-paste storks and dolphins, cakes and sweets as perfect in design +and colouring as though they were intended to last for ever. A +rosy-cheeked maid, who bumped her head so vigorously on the floor that +I thought she must get a headache, presented the tea, a bump for each +guest and three as a salutation, while Miss Hayashi, folding squares of +white paper in double triangles with one sweep of her hand, delicately +heaped them full of sugar flowers and fishes, and passed them round, one +to each of us.</p> + +<p>Then came a long pause, while we asked all the questions +that occurred to us about <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and <i +lang="ja">hakama</i>, and swords and etiquette; and then our lunch, +a whole lacquered trayful of bowls for each one of us, with all the +courses served together, and all irretrievably and, to us, inexplicably +mixed. I pass the hot soup in a lacquered bowl, and the hot rice in a +china one, but the rest—a golden bream on a pale blue plate set round +with oranges in jelly; slices of pink raw fish, and a design in brown +seaweed and green roots; a deep bowl of pale yellow custard, its surface +ruffled with silver fishes, oriental whitebait, and its depths filled +<span class="pagenum">107</span>with bamboo shoots and lily bulbs and +other surprises; and one dish, a triumph of design and colour, where an +oval slab of pounded fish, white as snow, rested against a green mound +of preserved chestnuts, while in front, arranged in a curving crescent +like the tail of a comet, were purple roots, brown ginger, and slices +of a red radish. And all this you eat as you please, a bit here, and a +bit there, now a drink of salt soup, then a mouthful of sweet chestnut; +custard, vegetables, fish, sweets, with relays of rice for bread, and <i +lang="ja">saké</i> for wine, paper napkins, and withal two penholders to +eat with, and your Japanese dinner is complete.</p> + +<p>Having tried everything with the greatest perseverance, and wriggled +our chopsticks until our hands were as tired as our toes, we gave in and +rested from our labours. The little maid, rosier than ever, removed the +trays of food, and brought in bowls of oranges and dried persimmon.</p> + +<p>At this moment there was a rustling of screens, and a dear, little +old lady with shaven eyebrows and blackened teeth slid into the room, +and instantly went down on her knees, and putting out her hands bowed +her head right down on to them.</p> + +<p>“This is my aunt,” said the professor, “a real old-fashioned +woman—there are not many left nowadays—who blackens her teeth and shaves +her eyebrows.”</p> + +<p>The little old lady laughed, and made many polite speeches, asking +after our “honourable healths” and our “august appetites.” At every +word she made another bow, until I felt as if I really must get down +on my knees and hit my forehead against the ground as well. Luckily +the professor, after a moment’s consultation, suggested we should see +the house, and we all got up. The little old lady was on her feet in a +<span class="pagenum">108</span>twinkling, but our half-dead limbs sent +pins and needles up our legs, as we stumbled on to them and awkwardly +walked away.</p> + +<p>The sliding paper wall of our room hid another absolutely bare, no <i +lang="ja">tokonoma</i> here, only a poem painted on a long narrow board +fastened against the door-post, and in the further wall, shut off by +sliding screens, a large cupboard, full of the household linen, which +means the silk-wadded quilts or <i lang="ja">futon</i>, on and under +which one sleeps. Sliding aside the door-panel we found ourselves on +another three-foot-wide platform, looking out through more paper-paned +walls into another garden. This house was just a long series of rooms +with a platform and a garden on each side, and a little square bunch of +rooms at one end. In one of these we cuddled down under a silk quilt +thrown over a square hole in the middle of the room, and felt the heat +coming up from the glowing charcoal sunk in a sort of pit beneath the +floor.</p> + +<p>Then we peeped into the bathroom, containing a high wooden wash-tub +with a stove-pipe running down one end. The wash-tub is filled with +cold water, and lighted charcoal put down the stove-pipe, and in a few +minutes the water is hot, and you get in, and the longer you stay the +hotter grows the water, until having boiled yourself in the approved +Japanese way you step out and wipe yourself dry with a yard of white +cotton adorned with blue storks.</p> + +<p>Then we invaded the kitchen, bare of everything like the other +rooms, and with only a two-fold brazier to cook over; one brazier +has permanently fixed above it a coppered wooden tub, dedicated +to rice-boiling, the other brazier cooked everything else. That +was all. Wooden pots, pans and dippers were hung up inside <span +class="pagenum">109</span>the sliding cupboards, or were washing in the +yard outside. A tiny shrine, like a mantelshelf over the sliding door, +held minute gods in a dim light; a paper-framed bamboo lantern, like +an afternoon-tea cake-table, with shelves between the legs for plates, +stood in a corner. This is the <i lang="ja">andon</i>, and inside the +paper panes a floating wick in a saucer of oil burns all night.</p> + +<p>Our advent into these regions was attended with much excitement +punctuated with peals of laughter, it striking the dear old lady as +irresistibly funny, that it was all funny to us.</p> + +<p>In the midst of our hilarity came the summons of the <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, and out we had to go, take our boots from the +friendly company of the wooden <i lang="ja">gheta</i>, and laden with +mysterious boxes neatly tied with red and white strings, and bunches of +plum-blossom, say stiff English “Good-byes,” while the little old lady, +the rosy-cheeked maid, and the rest of the household bowed us graceful +Japanese <i lang="ja">sayonara</i> and <i lang="ja">mata irasshai</i> +(Come again).</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> curved out through the tiny snow-covered +garden set with dark shrubs, the paper-paned walls shut with a soft +thud; the picture was gone, but the memory of it will remain with me +always.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">110</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TANII"> + <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> + <span>IN A CLOISONNÉ FACTORY</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Nagoya is a manufacturing town with a quarter of a million of +inhabitants. It is full of porcelain and fan factories, <span +lang="fr">cloisonné</span> works and cotton mills. It is the centre of +the celebrated potteries of Seto, and is famous for its embroideries +and its silks. It is bigger than Nottingham or Hull, and is almost as +large as Dublin. Nagoya is both Staffordshire and Bradford—and yet a +city clean and still. A town of sunny streets and pure fresh air, whose +sky is blue and clear, whose trees are green. Its 250,000 inhabitants +are mostly factory hands—and there is neither dirt nor din. The golden +dolphins on its castle’s roof are three hundred years old, and they +glitter in the sunshine like new-fired gold.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On the edge of the growing rice-fields the porcelain factory lies. +Its doors are open to the sun; and in the corner of the low, white +room, where the workmen sit cross-legged like Buddhas, each beside his +potter’s wheel, a yellow vase of purple iris stands.</p> + +<p>The room is still and fresh and clean. The whirr of the turning +wheel is soft as the drowsing of a bee. There is no hurry as there is +no idleness. And each worker, as he moulds his clay, looks towards the +purple iris in the yellow vase.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">111</span>The <span lang="fr">cloisonné</span> +works are built in the heart of the city, in the middle of a busy +street, where blue-clad coolies continually load and unload the wide +coster-barrows which are the waggons of Japan. The hum of working life +is in the air, and the wide road which stretches without division of +pavement across from side to side, is thronged. Business men in grey +<i lang="ja">kimono</i> and foreign hats go out and in; the loaded +barrows drawn by the blue-clad coolies pass up and down; fast-running <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> steer in and out among the foot-passengers and +the traffic. And the occasional collision is followed by mutual bows and +polite <i lang="ja">Gomen nasai</i> (“I beg your honourable pardon”), on +the part of either coolie or <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>.</p> + +<p>Nagoya factories and cotton mills are hard at work.</p> + +<p>The gateway of the <span lang="fr">cloisonné</span> works leads +down a wooden passage into a tiny court, a garden set round with the +workshops of the factory. And such a garden. It is not larger than the +front lawn of a suburban villa, but the skill of a Japanese gardener +has planted a whole mountain side with forests of pine and bamboo, has +spanned with an arching bridge the stone-grey stream at the mountain’s +foot. From inside the tiny matted rooms, no bigger than bathing-boxes, +which shut in three sides of the garden, the illusion is complete. And +the shade and coolness of the real trees and water, of the imaginary +forest and stream, brings a sense of calmness and repose, of quiet peace +and beauty, to all the many workers of the factory. It is a living +landscape growing unspoiled in the heart of a workshop in the centre of +a manufacturing city.</p> + +<p>Each on his mat in the clean, bare, matted rooms the workmen sit, the +rice-paper <i lang="ja">shōji</i> pushed open to the mountain stream, +and the forest of pine and bamboo. <span class="pagenum">112</span>In +the first room sit workers outlining the design on the bare metal vase +with metal wires, silver wires on silver vases, copper wires on copper +vases. And each design is different, and many of the men are old. In +the second room the bare metal vases are getting a coat of coloured +paste, and now the design stands out rough as a cave-man’s drawing. +Here the workers are younger, while boys fill in the body of the vase. +In the third and fourth rooms the matted floor at the back is replaced +by a large hearthstone, and a round earthen oven; in this the vases +are baked, passed back to the men and boys to recoat with the coloured +paste, and then rebaked, recoated and rebaked many times, until at last +the vase is handed over to the workers in the last rooms. It has lost +all trace of design by now; the metal wires are no longer visible; the +colours have bubbled over in all directions, the vase is an unmeaning +mosaic of a thousand shades. Then the workmen, sitting on their heels +on the kneeling-cushions in their clean, bare, matted rooms, tiny as +bathing-boxes, polish, polish, polish, sometimes for a whole year, until +the worker’s hand wears down the hard smooth surface and the design +shows through clean and true once more. The workmen here are grey and +old.</p> + +<p>But the oldest of all sat by himself in a little room just opposite +the arching bridge which crossed the mountain stream. He wore a pair of +quaint horn spectacles, and his face was the face of an Eastern sage. He +sat with his tools before him fixing silver wires on to a silver vase, +with a certainty and a rapidity beyond his fellows; and all that is most +beautiful and most difficult in the <span lang="fr">cloisonné</span> +works of Nagoya comes from his hands. The old man pushed <span +class="pagenum">113</span>back his horn spectacles as I stopped before +the open <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, and his eyes rested on the still +picture of the garden with a smile.</p> + +<p>I, too, turned to look at the row of tiny paper rooms stretching out +like arms on either hand, at the living landscape lying in their midst, +at the blue sky above, and at the old face beneath the horn spectacles. +I did not wonder at the peace which lay upon it, nor at the exquisite +beauty of the finished vase standing on the matting beside him. For +the garden was still as a cloister, though the cloister was a workshop +for <span lang="fr">cloisonné</span> ware in the manufacturing town of +Nagoya.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">114</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TANIII"> + <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> + <span>FLOWER ARRANGEMENT</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>We sat opposite each other on the matting, and she laughed. The +polite, audible smile of the Japanese. All around us lay cut branches of +fir; and on the long wooden footstool they call a table stood a shallow +bronze dish and a wonderful cleft stick of bamboo.</p> + +<p>She was a little bent old lady, with the courtly politeness of a +thousand Grandisons refined to a subtle essence, and she gave lessons in +flower arrangement. The close-cropped grey hair gathered into a slide +behind told its own tale of widowhood, and the withered careworn face +its story of work and want.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">shōji</i> were shut, and the light through the +rice-paper panes sent a warmed white light into the room that knew no +colour, a light as though one sat inside a luminous mist, or in the +heart of the plum-blossoms. A passionless, lifeless light which was +simply light.</p> + +<p>And the little old lady laughed again.</p> + +<p>“There is much to learn,” I said, stopping to watch her bending the +warmed fir branches over the <i lang="ja">hibachi</i> always to the +exact curve, never too near or too far, and mine snapped at the first +touch.</p> + +<p>She handed me another branch in place of the one <span +class="pagenum">115</span>I had broken, and watched while I wedged it +into the cleft bamboo stick with little chips of wood.</p> + +<p>“Very much,” she said. “It takes three years of learning for the +pupil and seven for the teacher. And the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> has +had four lessons.”</p> + +<p>The fifth and last branch being successfully wedged into line, I got +on to my knees to admire the effect, while Arabella, from her camp-stool +in the corner—she considered it lowering to sit on the floor—bridled.</p> + +<p>“Oh, the <i>Japanese</i>,” she said; “but any European could learn in +half a dozen lessons.”</p> + +<p>The little old lady bowed, letting her forehead almost touch the +ground, as she sat on her heels on the kneeling-cushion.</p> + +<p>“The august stranger——” she began, when I interrupted.</p> + +<p>The contemplation of my five branches of fir, two curving to the +left and three to the right, had not filled me with any satisfaction. +They wobbled. All their curves were wrong, and the five stems, instead +of being hidden one behind the other, so that the illusion of a single +branch growing out of the bronze dish was created and kept, were all +distinctly and decidedly visible.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t look a bit right,” I said; “but what is the matter?”</p> + +<p>The task of sticking five branches of fir, already bent to the <a +href="#115B" id="115A">prescribed</a> curves for me, into a cleft stick +had not seemed difficult, especially with three lessons behind me, and I +had worked hard and been very confident that morning.</p> + +<p>With a thousand apologies the little old lady pulled the bronze dish +towards her, while Arabella cleared her throat.</p> + +<p>“In Europe,” she said, in the tone of voice adapted <span +class="pagenum">116</span>to a kindergarten class—her Japanese voice, +“we do not learn such a simple thing, we do it naturally. Every European +woman can arrange flowers, and they are flowers” (with a glance at the +fir branches in the little old lady’s hand—she was busy correcting) “not +trees.”</p> + +<p>The little old lady was putting back the five fir branches into the +cleft stick with the deftest of deft fingers. Arabella unclasped the +brooch at her neck and pulled out what she called a “nosegay.” A bamboo +vase, just a piece of the stem hollowed out, in which the fir had come +from the florist that morning, lay on the floor. She picked it up.</p> + +<p>“It should be of glass,” she said forgivingly, “but I will make it +do.”</p> + +<p>And then with her own hand she proceeded to arrange the Yokohama +nosegay in the slender bamboo stem. There was a bit of spiræa, one fat +red rose, and some miscellaneous leaves, which Arabella referred to +grandiloquently as “green.” These she crammed tightly into the bamboo +stem, and then placed it, with a “who-shall-deny-me” air, upon the +table.</p> + +<p>I looked at it. No, it was not a good specimen even of Western flower +arrangement, but in how many buttonholes, on how many tables, had I seen +something like it.</p> + +<p>Flower arrangement is taught in the schools in Japan, and every +Japanese girl learns. If she did not, she would not “arrange” anymore +than we should paint or play.</p> + +<p>The little old lady had finished, and she pushed the bronze dish +along the table beside the bamboo vase. Then, with many compliments +and much bowing, she <span class="pagenum">117</span>thanked the <i +lang="ja">Ijin San</i> for her “august kindness” and her “honourable +condescension.” And the smooth phrases ran on and on, while I sat back +on my heels and looked.</p> + +<p>East and West, they stood there before me. At the best, what we aimed +at was a scheme of colour, and at our worst no scheme at all. And what +they strove after was line, whether in fir branches or lily leaves, in +plum-blossom or iris flowers, line, and a coherent whole. Each branch, +each twig, each flower, nay, each curve of the branch, each petal of the +flower, each leaf of the twig, were parts, essential parts of the whole; +for in Japan they draw with flowers and fir branches as we only draw for +“design.” And line is beyond colour as sculpture is beyond painting.</p> + +<p>The sun through the walls of rice-paned <i lang="ja">shōji</i> spread +a warmed white light through the room, a limpid, liquid light in which +there was no shadow.</p> + +<p>The little old lady had been busy tidying up. The room was one clear +sheet of pale yellow matting. On the low empty <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i> +stood the bronze dish and its pure line drawing in fir. Arabella was +offering the bamboo vase and its mixed contents “as a model,” and the +little old lady bowed to the ground.</p> + +<p>Once more I looked at the bronze vase and the pure outlines of the +fir branches, at the bare room perfectly proportioned, at the rice-paned +<i lang="ja">shōji</i>, and the snowflake whiteness of that light which +knew no colour and no shadow struck on my consciousness.</p> + +<p>I think I understood. Colour, as colour, in that luminous, shadowless +room, whose beauty was its line and its proportion, would have been not +colour but a blot. Outside the rice-paned <i lang="ja">shōji</i> lay +life and colour enough. Here was but light and line.</p> + +<p>Arabella was removing the white night-socks from <span +class="pagenum">118</span>her boots, she always refused to take +them off, on the veranda. The little old lady, down on her knees +with her forehead to the ground, was saying sweet Japanese <i +lang="ja">sayonara</i>.</p> + +<p>I looked back one last time—and Arabella’s nosegay vanished.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">119</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TANIV"> + <span class="line-height3">IV</span><br> + <span>GOD’S MESSENGER</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The first fresh heat of summer is here, and outside the city the +rice-fields spread in quivering pools of green. It is the month of +the Iris, <i lang="ja">Hana-shōbu</i>, and along the raised causeway, +between the fields, the miniature hansoms, drawn each by the bent dark +figure of the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, silhouette against the blue +sky.</p> + +<p>You pay as much as three sen (three farthings) to enter an Iris +garden, and they are an hour’s <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> ride from the +city, so that the <i lang="fr">fête</i> is select. In the covered court +of the entrance the <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> are stabled in long lines +under a pale yellow roof of mats, while the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, +their black mushroom hats on their knees, sit on the slender shafts and +smoke their pipes—three whiffs from the metal thimble in the bamboo +stem, and then the sharp <i>tink</i>, <i>tink</i>, as the ash is +knocked out against the shaft. Inside the garden the blue tunic of the +coolie is absent, three farthings and the long <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> +ride proving prohibitive; but the grey <i lang="ja">kimono</i> of +the classes, Tokyo shopkeepers for the most part, is everywhere. The +gardens are large and full, but in no sense crowded, for the Japanese, +by the very polish of their politeness, contrive to create a sense +of space and repose around them even in a crowd. But the gardens are +full, and the deadened clack of <span class="pagenum">120</span>the +wooden <i lang="ja">gheta</i> on the earthen pathway, as the little +<i lang="ja">musmé</i> carry the “honourable tea” and the “honourable +cakes” to the mat-roofed summer-houses, is incessant.</p> + +<p>We do not sit on our heels on the flat cushions on the low matted +table, under the bamboo roofs; we sit <i>on</i> the cushions, with our +feet on the ground, and the little waitress laughs, her polished black +hair shining like a metal mirror in the sunshine. It is so ridiculous +to see the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> sitting on the tables with their +legs hanging uncomfortably down in front of them, when all the world +agrees it is much more natural to sit on your heels with the cleft toes +of each little white <i lang="ja">tabi</i> sticking up behind like +rabbit’s ears. The idea of getting cramp in such a comfortable position +makes little O Haru’s brown eyes open very wide indeed. I believe she +revolves the idea, inside that metal-polished head of hers, that the <i +lang="ja">Ijin San’s</i> legs are not made aright, or why do they hide +them so? And surely the civilized boot could only have been invented by +people without toes?</p> + +<p>The open summer-houses, behind the bamboo bushes, or on the tops of +the miniature hills, are full of family parties, with children in all +stages of age and coiffure, from the shaven baby heads and the stiff +horsehair ribbon bunches of the children, up through the flat fronts and +the first freehand designs of the schoolgirls, to the black cockscomb +fronts and the elaborate polished rolls of the grown-up daughters. And +they are all content to sit in the sunshine, drink tea, and look at the +flowers. They do not want to be for ever restlessly doing something, not +even the children.</p> + +<p>In the summer-house over the way a party of bachelors, students +from the University perhaps, are <span class="pagenum">121</span>also +drinking tea and smoking cigarettes; one of them is writing a poem. And +a <i lang="fr">bourgeois</i> Sabbath peace is over the land.</p> + +<p>The tap of the tiny tea bowl on the lacquered tray, the deadened +clack of the <i lang="ja">musmé’s gheta</i> on the pathway, is hushed, +for I have left the summer-house, and am standing close down by the +river of flowers.</p> + +<p>Iris, the messenger between Gods and men, said the old Greek +legend, Iris, <i lang="ja">Hana-shōbu</i>. And surely this swaying +river of lavender-blue flowers, floating out from the fleckless blue +of the summer’s sky, on into the young green of the rice-fields, is a +living message from the Gods. A message of beauty and peace, and of +the holiness that springs from these. A message which this cultured, +courtly, beauty-loving people alone know how to create—and how to read. +For many generations have lived and died, tenderly caring for God’s +Messengers, before these flowers learned to unfold their petals in a +hundred ways, and wear a thousand hues from pink to purple, from blue to +grey, from grey to black or to the purest white.</p> + +<p>The river of exquisite blossom flows on, straight out from the +fleckless blue, on into the delicate green, bearing God’s message of +beauty to man. And these who see it know how to read.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">122</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="TANV"> + <span class="line-height3">V</span><br> + <span>THE ART OF THE PEOPLE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It is usual in judging the art of a nation to consider solely the +art of the artists and never the art of the people. The first is +naturally of greater importance; it affords moreover an easy method +of comparison and enables art critics to register the high-water +mark of a country’s art, and this being found, the question is +considered settled and the nation judged accordingly. We say the +French are artistic and think promptly of Corot, Meissonier, or Puvis +de Chavannes, not of the people of France. But the art of a nation, +always something less, is often something very different from the +art of its artists, and though the artists’ art will give you the +high-water mark, it does not and it cannot give the general art level +of the people. The English nation produced the greatest dramatist who +ever lived, and several fine comedians, yet the level of the nation’s +dramatic instinct is <a href="#122B" id="122A">acknowledged</a> to +be far below that of the French. If we wish to get a true opinion of +French and English dramatic feeling we must study something more and +something other than the dramatists. For it is not the presence or the +absence of a certain number of celebrated men, or even the greater +or the lesser value of their works, which necessarily makes a whole +nation dramatic or artistic, but it is the general level of <span +class="pagenum">123</span>the dramatic or artistic feeling in the +average individual of that nation. That a truly dramatic or artistic +nation has more chance of producing a greater number of dramatists or +artists is certain, the conditions under which they would work being so +much more favourable, but to consider no one but the artist and nothing +but his art, and then to transfer the judgment on the artist’s art to +the whole nation, is surely a confusion of ideas. It is a confusion to +which art seems particularly susceptible. For most people, in England +any way, seem to regard art as comprising only expensive objects +suitable for exhibition in museums, and not as an integral part of every +article used in daily life. Museum art is the product of a nation’s +artists, for the enjoyment of the rich and the cultured, but the art of +a people is as wide as its life, it touches everything and is for the +joy and the pleasure of all men.</p> + +<p>Artists’ art is an end in itself, its whole reason for existence is +to create beauty, but the art of a people is not an end, but a means. +The problem before it is very different and really more complicated, +for it is to add beauty to mere utility, and by force of art to create +art in objects whose <i lang="fr">raison d’être</i> is usefulness. And +the greater the number of useful objects made beautiful, and the more +beautiful the useful objects, and the further removed from beauty and +the more sunk in mere utility the useful object is, so much greater will +be the people’s art.</p> + +<p>To add beauty to mere utility, art may be said to use three ways. It +does it</p> + +<p>(1) Directly, by moulding the shape (the material of useful objects +being already determined);</p> + +<p>(2) Indirectly, by decoration; and</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">124</span>(3) Extra-directly, by +arrangement.</p> + +<p>And if art be truly in a people, even the most ugly and stubborn +of useful objects will, by one of these three methods, be made +beautiful.</p> + +<p>I suppose that any one who has ever seen a rice-field will allow +that for at least some six months in the year it is one of the ugliest +objects in the world. Made of liquid mud, it lies for half the year a +slimy, greasy black pond shut in by low mud walls. On its oozy surface +gather unwholesome growths that shine with metallic reflections, while +the manure, in Japan mostly human, decomposes in the thick mud. There is +nothing, I suppose, much uglier, nothing more useful, and its ugliness +is the condition of its utility. The Japanese cannot change the thick +black ooze, they cannot change the low mud walls which embank the +slimy pools. These, with all their ugly consequences, are fixed and +determined. But the art of the Japanese people has yet rendered the +rice-fields beautiful. They change the shape. Those embanking walls of +mud are moulded as a potter moulds his clay. A series of dead square +fields I have never seen. Two, three, four, five, six, even eight-sided +rice-fields can be found in Japan, and often the curves of the mud wall +itself are graceful as the lines of a Greek vase.</p> + +<p>Beneath the temple of Tesshuji, which looks towards the wonder of +<span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>, with its two pure lines of exquisite +grace, is a great fertile plain, a plain of innumerable rice-fields, +one of the richest in the country. When I stood on the steps of that +deserted temple and looked down, the fields were all black and naked, +and yet the plain was neither ugly nor monotonous, for the peasants +had curved their rice-fields into exquisite lines, and not two were +alike.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">125</span>A wall has certainly more <a +href="#125B" id="125A">possibilities</a> than a rice-field, but our +modern walls, the high brick atrocity of a prison or an embankment, is +not usually beautiful. We make spasmodic attempts to beautify their +monotonous ugliness with creepers or other coverings. That is, we do not +beautify the wall, we take something less ugly and conceal it. Now the +Japanese beautify the wall. (We are only considering here walls of mere +utility, where all decoration or ornamentation is out of the question.) +Except for the brick walls of the foreign buildings, walls in Japan +are made of hewn stone usually shaped like pyramids and hammered base +outwards into a bank of earth. In a country whose architecture, from the +most glorious of its temples to the humblest of its houses, is all of +wood, a clumsiness, a <i lang="fr">gaucherie</i> in its stonework might +be well excused, yet Japanese walls are a wonder to all who see them, +for the hard enduring granite is plastic beneath their fingers. Their +walls are never dead straight. The line always curves softly outward as +it touches the ground. And this not only in the strong walls of the <i +lang="ja">daimyō’s</i> castle, or the long moat walls of the Mikado’s +palace, but in the embankment walls of the tiniest shrine, in the modern +walls of the modern temple of the modern coaling port of Moji.</p> + +<p>To beautify a useful object indirectly by decoration is a great deal +easier, at any rate the means and the possibility of doing so are more +apparent; and yet, do we draw designs on our sacks, on our flour sacks, +grain sacks, potato sacks, as they do in Japan?</p> + +<p>For many months I passed regularly every day through a street of +warehouses where sacks of all kinds, and containing all sorts of +produce, were lying on the <span class="pagenum">126</span>ground, +were being carried into the <i>godown</i> or were loading or unloading. +It was some time before it really struck me that the sacks were +decorated, that their blank yellow sides were made beautiful with a +design; but when I had once realised it, I used to look carefully +to see if I could find sacks without. They were extremely rare. The +designs varied considerably. A flower, conventional or natural, a maple +leaf, a broken branch of plum-or cherry-blossom, the delicate outline +of the bamboo in a thousand different shapes, were the most common, +but there were others, birds, geometrical patterns, rice-ears, <span +lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>. These designs were with true decorative +feeling in one corner, rarely in the exact centre, and admirably +proportioned to the size of the sack. They were mostly drawn in, in soft +blues—the commonest colour in the Far East—sometimes in a pale but very +beautiful green; colours which, on the unbleached cotton or pale yellow +matting of the sack, made complete harmonies.</p> + +<p>But a sack, whatever its business in life, is at least an article +of considerable duration, it is not made to be used and thrown away +the next moment like the paper wrapping of a parcel. Yet it is very +few parcels in very few shops which are not wrapped up in paper whose +monotonous surface is broken by just one tiny design. The papers in +which piece-silks are wrapped, the equivalent to those whitey-brown +covers which drapers seem perpetually doing up on our counters, are +often really beautiful in both colour and design. I do not think a +Japanese can see a blank surface without wanting to design something on +it, something little, something beautiful, just to redeem it for art.</p> + +<p>These designs are to be found, if one looks for them, +in the most unexpected places, on the axle-heads of <span +class="pagenum">127</span>your <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> for instance. +A casual and rather dilapidated <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> in an +out-of-the-way town in Japan had such exquisite flying storks beaten +on to the bronze metal of its axle-head that I had to get out and look +at them. The <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> was amused at my enthusiasm, +and entered into a detailed comparison of these axle-heads with all +the other axle-heads of all the other <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> of his +acquaintance, explaining their respective merits and defects. If there +is no actual design the metal is usually beaten in such a way as to form +an irregular pattern.</p> + +<p>When a Japanese cannot mould the shape of an object, when he cannot +redeem it by a design, when in fact he has no control over its creation +at all, but it is placed in his hands as it is, finished, he will still +contrive to add beauty to it merely by arrangement. I first noticed this +on board the steamer going out, where the Japanese “boy” arranged the +extra blanket on the berth in a new design each day. He folded it into +lotus leaves and chrysanthemums, into half-opened fans and half-shut +buds. He had one wonderful arrangement which, being patriotic, was more +often repeated than the rest. The blankets of the steamship company had, +instead of the usual stripes at top and bottom, just two thick wavy +lines of deep red—the steamer’s flag was two wavy red lines on a white +ground; by some wonderful twist of his fingers the “boy” would fold that +blanket into the rising sun, with the four red lines coming out of it +like blood-red rays. It sounds difficult, but he did it so perfectly +that I recognised the flag of Japan the moment I saw it. Nor was he +exceptional; the other “boys” on board were just as artistic, all the +other cabins, for in the course of the voyage I entered most of them, +were equally <span class="pagenum">128</span>decorated, though in most +cases the art had been quite lost on the occupants.</p> + +<p>A Japanese servant, any servant, even one in a hotel, will set +out your hair brushes, clothes brushes, nail scissors, collar box, +tooth-powder tin on the ordinary average hotel dressing-table and make +a design of them. The toilette table will somehow be a picture, an +artistic whole. It was an application of art I tried hard to learn, and +failed dismally. After awhile I could manage something with the brushes; +but the nail scissors, and more especially the tooth-powder tin, +remained, in my hands, the unbeautiful necessary articles which they +intrinsically are.</p> + +<p>We make in Europe various attempts at beautifying our food. We put +parsley on white dishes round cold mutton, and paper frills on ham bones +where the pins are dangerous. On special occasions, such as a Lord +Mayor’s banquet or a cookery exhibition, we serve pastries as Tower +Bridges, or jellies as broken lutes, but we do not consistently arrange +our food so that each dish is a colour scheme and an art design of its +own.</p> + +<p>I lunched once with a professor in Tokyo; it was a modest meal in +the house of a man badly off, according to our ideas, but when the +red-lacquered trays came in, each lunch on its own tray, and all the +courses served together, I could not restrain a cry of delight. The +whole set out in its red-lacquered tray was a picture, each dish in +itself was another. The golden bream lay on a pale blue dish; an oval +slab of pounded fish, pure white in colour, rested against a mound +of lime-green chestnuts; in front and lying in a crescent curve were +purple roots, brown ginger, and tiny slices of red radish. It was +simply a triumph. I have eaten <span class="pagenum">129</span>pinky +brown soup in which the curved peel of an orange floated like a golden +dolphin; pale yellow custards, served in delicate blue bowls, whose +surfaces were ruffled with silver fishes; white rice-moulds wrapped in +the delicate tendrils of a vine-green seaweed; thin slices of pink raw +fish, the colour of an uncooked salmon, laid out on green dishes and +garnished with little heaps of olive seaweed shaven fine and eaten with +a burnt-sienna sauce. The very hawkers in the streets serve their one-<i +lang="ja">rin</i> (10 to a ¼<i>d.</i>) sweetmeats or their snow-white +<i lang="ja">tōfu</i> daintily, on plates of appropriate colour, +artistically set out. The rice-paste biscuits are veritable works of art +in shape and colour. You can eat almost every variety of chrysanthemum, +as well as see it, and the colouring, all vegetable, is almost as +beautiful.</p> + +<p>We have, I believe, in England, a profession called +“window-dressing,” and in a few cases this does truly attain to art. But +with us it always ends at the windows. Enter the shop and, unless it +is a showroom, you stand in the midst of undigested cargoes of goods; +and whose eye has not been pained by heaped rolls of stuff where a +post-office red will lie, as often as not, on the top of a crimson and +underneath a magenta? That is a thing which could not happen in Japan; +the eye of the young man behind the counter would forbid it.</p> + +<p>I once watched a whole consignment of silks being put away on shelves +in a shop in Tokyo. It was the European side of the establishment, so +that the shop was fitted with counters, chairs, and the usual drapers’ +shelves, the silks, too, told the same tale in their width and pattern. +It was only a boy who was putting them away, sixteen at the outside, yet +he did it with a conscious <span class="pagenum">130</span>choice, and +when he had finished, the silks, which ran through the whole gamut of +colour, harmonised delightfully. But the real Japanese shops are more +beautiful still. To go over the Mitsui is to walk through a gallery +of pictures in still life. Here are no heaps of undigested goods, no +mere piles of articles, but a definite and deliberate setting forth of +certain things which left the impression that the clerks of the Mitsui +posed their silken goods as an artist his model. The Mitsui is one of +the best shops in Tokyo; to be perfectly fair compare it with one of +our “art salesmen.” But the best of our shops tie up their parcels +in whitey-brown paper with tow-coloured string, thinner or thicker +according to the weight of the parcel. In the Mitsui the string is all +pure white or scarlet-red, and each parcel is tied with a strand of +both laid side by side, the heavier the parcel the greater the number +of scarlet and white strings, always laid side by side, until sometimes +they make a wide white line above a wide red one, kept evenly together +by a skilful knot. The ends, too, are not snapped off anyhow after +tying an ugly knot, but are cut slantwise, to form a V or a point, and +even the knot is beautiful because it is a coherent whole, and not a +conglomeration of successive ties.</p> + +<p>So far, all these things, rice-fields, sacks, and food, with the +sole exception of the blankets and hair brushes, have been exclusively +Japanese, the nation has evolved them in itself, and by itself, and +consequently in comparing them with things European it has only +been possible to take similar and not identical objects. But since +their first contact with Europe, and more especially during the last +thirty years, the Japanese have borrowed a certain number of articles +directly from the West. <span class="pagenum">131</span>They have +borrowed beer-glasses, windows, and wall-papers. And from the Dutch, +three-hundred years ago, they took pipes and tobacco pouches. A light +kind of <i>lager</i> beer is rapidly becoming a universal drink in +Japan. There are several native breweries, and those places where beer +has not penetrated are considered hopelessly “old-fashioned.” After the +beer came the beer-glasses, and though the art of the nation has not +been long at work upon them, they are already very different from their +European models. It must be remembered, too, that glass was unknown to +the Japanese until it was introduced from the West. The first thing +which the nation did when it set to work upon beer-glasses was to reduce +the size, otherwise they would have been out of all proportion to the +rest of the dinner service, and so the beer-glasses of Japan are small +as dolls’ tumblers in which, if you are lucky, you will find three sips +of beer under the egg-white froth.</p> + +<p>If this example illustrates the love of the little, generally +supposed to be the chief characteristic of the Japanese, the case of +the windows will show their dislike to unredeemed blank space, and +at the same time their knowledge of the artistic value of space in +design. So long as windows only existed in houses built in the style +called “foreign,” they remained severely Western, just another European +object like the railway or the telegraph set up in the land, but when +they began to be introduced into Japanese houses, then the art of the +nation set to work upon them. They are still rare, but in a few private +houses and in some of the best native hotels windows exist. They do not +open. They were not introduced to supply ventilation, an unnecessary +consideration in a Japanese <span class="pagenum">132</span>house, +which is all draughts, nor really for light, the paper panes of the <i +lang="ja">shōji</i> admitting light readily; but just in order that the +person inside might have another picture before his eyes—the picture of +what lies without. The window then is not a glass fitting to an oblong +hole knocked into a wall, but a broad band of glass running round the +whole length of the <i lang="ja">shōji</i> at just that distance from +the ground which will allow anyone sitting on his heels on the floor +to see through comfortably. A pattern on this glass window would have +interfered with the view, and the window was there expressly for the +view. So the glass is empty and clear, but not blank. Then it would +have been merely useful, and the Japanese never stop at utility; it +had to be made beautiful, and so the pure perfect curves of <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> were traced upon the glass. The design was quite +small and only occupied one end, but the area of the glass was no longer +blank space, but the demanded setting to a picture.</p> + +<p>There is no place in a Japanese house for wall-papers, but the number +of foreign-built hotels and houses has created a certain demand for +them. Also the Japanese are beginning to export wall-papers abroad. As +the patterns are mostly supplied to them direct from European firms, or +copied from models sent them on order, they have to please their market, +and yet I have seen a wall-paper in a hotel bedroom where two golden +dragons drawn back to back studded a white ground. It was a perfectly +conventional pattern, and at first there seemed nothing remarkable +about it. The tiny dragons, looking something like a <i lang="fr">fleur +de lys</i>, occurred at six-inch intervals. Then it dawned gradually, +the intervals were not regular, they differed both lengthways and +width-ways. It took <span class="pagenum">133</span>indeed ten feet of +wall before the pattern absolutely repeated itself.</p> + +<p>But windows, wall-papers and beer-glasses are new growths, only +just engrafted on to the life of the people. They are still thought +of as something foreign, whereas pipes and pouches, although coming +originally from the West, have in the course of three hundred years +become thoroughly absorbed and transformed by the genius of the nation. +To judge from the old pictures the first pipes were three or four feet +long, with a bowl to correspond, in size and capacity suggestive of +those long wooden pipes with china bowls smoked by the traditional +Dutchman. At the same time we in the West have also been evolving our +pipes and pouches, as the art and the convenience of Europe demanded, +and to-day the British navvy has arrived at his clay and the city +clerk at his briarwood, and both at the gutta-percha pouch. When bent +on “something tasty,” they may indulge in skeleton-head pipes with +carbuncle eyes, or magenta plush pouches embroidered in apple-green +silk. In Japan the navvy (or his wife, for smoking is equally common +to both sexes) uses a doll’s pipe made of a slender bamboo reed, whose +bowl and mouthpiece are of metal, beautifully finished, and holding just +three whiffs of their fine-cut red-brown tobacco. The pouch is made of +leather, fastening like a purse, and the metal snap is always fashioned +into a design, however simple—two birds flying, a fish, a grasshopper. +There is also a leather case to keep the pipe in, like an open +spectacle-case, and the two are fastened together by means of a twisted +silken cord. The pipe-case is stuck into the <i lang="ja">obi</i>, and +the pouch hangs over. It was to allow of the free hang of the pouch, and +also as a finish to the silken cord, that the <i lang="ja">netsuké</i> +was invented, and some of <span class="pagenum">134</span>the most +beautiful of museum art objects produced. But <i lang="ja">netsuké</i> +are not for the navvy or the people, or if they do occur in the cheap +pouches of the poorer classes they are nothing more than a rounded +bead only valuable artistically as a spot of colour. The pouches, +the pipes and the pipe-cases are genuinely beautiful in shape, make +and proportion. They also have the merit, rare in gutta-percha, of +endurance. A pouch bought four years ago by a careless European, and +in use ever since, shows to-day no sign of wear. It is not cracking at +the seams, and the snap is as firm as ever. A smoker, I believe, has no +particular hankering after the Japanese pipe with its metal bowl and +mouthpiece, but anybody with a sense of form must enjoy the delicate +refinement of even the commonest native pipe with the gentle yellow of +its bamboo stem, the finish of the metal mouthpiece, and the perfect +shape of its acorn bowl.</p> + +<p>These are, after all, only a few examples, sufficient perhaps for the +purpose, but any one who has lived in Japan and looked at the common +objects of daily life used, owned and produced by the people would be +able to multiply them almost indefinitely.</p> + +<p>In thinking them over perhaps the thing which occurs most frequently +to the mind is the simplicity of the means used. The whole artistic +effect of the rice-fields consists in the variation of their shape, in +the curve of the mud wall; in the shops and in the food simply in the +right choice of given articles. But through all Japanese art, even the +most elaborate, this same simplicity of means is noticeable. I have seen +the most elaborate imperial brocade which produced an effect of running +water, and it was done by simply throwing over the original blue brocade +<span class="pagenum">135</span>a rough mesh network of brown silk. +Every garden in Japan is an illustration of this point, for a Japanese +in a dull back yard as big as a bath-towel will, by the judicious +planting of two small palm-trees, the setting up of a stone lantern, +and the careful making of a puddle, convey to the mind of those who +look the greenness and the coolness of a dense forest, the freshness of +clear water, and the delight of hills and dales. I have seen it often in +wayside inns, in shops, in big towns, in factories, everywhere.</p> + +<p>Exactly the same thing is true of their flower arrangement. Putting +aside all other points of beauty and charm, a Japanese with three +chrysanthemums, with one branch of fir, will produce a whole which we +should only think of attempting with a shilling’s-worth of flowers and +two penny bunches of “green.”</p> + +<p>On the characteristics of Japanese art European writers have varied +greatly, but in considering only the art of the people there are perhaps +fewer difficulties or differences, and we come, I think, to four—value +of space, desire for line, sobriety of taste, and thoroughness of +workmanship. I do not include the dislike of symmetry, because a want +can hardly be called a characteristic. Symmetry is more properly a +characteristic of our art. The Japanese dislike it, they make nothing +in pairs, and if certain things, such as candlesticks, are required in +twos, each one, though resembling the other in the main idea, always +differs from it in detail.</p> + +<p>The sense of the artistic value of space shows itself everywhere, +in every form of decoration and design, as well as in every object +of art. In Japan there is no such thing as overcrowding. It is one +small leaf which decorates the sheet of paper wrapping. It is <span +class="pagenum">136</span>the scarcity of articles in the Mitsui which +accounts for nine-tenths of the artistic effect of that draper’s +interior. If ever a nation has thoroughly and æsthetically realised the +psychological fact on which much of our theory of backgrounds is based, +that we only really see an object by its outlines, it is the Japanese. +They have worked out this fact to its last artistic value. In a Japanese +room there hangs one picture; on the raised and polished platform of the +<i lang="ja">tokonoma</i>, the artistic altar of the room, there is set +one bronze or porcelain vase of flowers, one ornament. These are changed +as often as the fortune or the taste of their owner permits. When a +Japanese comes to Europe he complains that our drawing-rooms, with their +dozens of pictures and their scores of ornaments, are “like warehouses”; +and after this first disturbing feeling of crowd, when he has lived in +that drawing-room for several months and finds that the ornaments are +never changed, only perhaps added to, he complains then of the monotony. +For he knows and has realised another psychological fact, that it is in +the freshness of observation that the eye sees clearest and the brain +works best.</p> + +<p>With the sense of the supreme value of space comes an intense feeling +for line. Whether this has something to do with the climate, which is +clear, and the landscape, which is mountainous, I do not know; but +compare the purity of outline in the Italian painters, more especially +in the Tuscan and the Umbrian, Botticelli and Perugino, with the +Netherlands School, Rembrandt and Rubens, where light and shadow, and +colour as colour, play so great a part. But whether it is due to the +landscape or not, personally I should be inclined to attach a great deal +of importance to the <span class="pagenum">137</span>artistic value of +<span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>, a mountain whose exquisite outlines, +visible from thirteen provinces, have simply permeated Japanese art; +but landscape or no, the desire for line is a fact. The Japanese draw +with everything; with the mud embankments of their rice-fields, with the +granite stones of their walls, with the trees in their gardens, with +the flowers in their vases. The whole essence of flower arrangement is +not colour mass, but line drawing. It is the same with their trees, the +dwarf trees in their pots, or the grown trees in their gardens. Both are +trained and educated to produce a beautiful outline, and they succeed. +It is perhaps interesting in this connection to notice the number of +illustrations in Japanese books where the trees are simply silhouettes +washed in in Indian ink on a blank background. We should have, I think, +a great disinclination to treat our trees in this way.</p> + +<p>The feeling for line is very strong, and it is perhaps perpetuated by +the daily use of those dead pictures, the Chinese ideographs. Several +hundred years ago the Japanese invented the phonetic syllabaries called +<i lang="ja">kana</i>. It is interesting from an artistic point of +view to compare them with our alphabet. A very short contemplation of +the alphabet as used in our books and handwriting will show that it +is mainly composed of straight lines, often parallel, with a certain +admixture of circles. Now, although a straight line is the nearest way +between two points, it is rarely or never the most beautiful; did not +some one once say, “The line of beauty is a curve”? I do not think any +one’s artistic soul has received much nourishment from a contemplation +of the letter “m,” three parallel lines, or “t.” Compare them with the +corresponding <i lang="ja">kana</i>, and the difference will be felt at +once. Indeed, we are all <span class="pagenum">138</span>unconsciously +well aware of the artistic failing of our ordinary alphabet, for +directly we carve or write an inscription, or introduce it in any way +into something which claims to be an object of art, then we discard it +altogether, and either fall back on the Gothic letters, or adopt some +kind of fancy alphabet. As the average Japanese child is taught writing +four hours a week for the first three years, and three hours for the +next two, and as their writing is really painting, their feeling for +line has at least a chance of development.</p> + +<p>Of the thoroughness of Japanese workmanship I do not think anybody +would disagree; when the wing of the stork on your rice-bowl is finished +inside, when the chrysanthemum petals on your wooden tray curl over +the edge, when the bottom of your flower vase has a design as well as +the outside, you are convinced that the Japanese knew Ruskin’s dictum +long before he said it. I have seen the feet of a bronze statuette, +the feet which were entirely hidden under the folds of the <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> from in front, carefully finished off underneath. +The statuette in question cost 50 <i lang="ja">sen</i> (1<i>s.</i>), and +was sold by a street hawker. Nobody really sees the designs on the <i +lang="ja">kuruma</i> axle-heads, not unless they look for them, except +perhaps the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> himself, when he squats on the +ground waiting for a fare; but they give a thoroughness of finish to the +<i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> which it would miss without.</p> + +<p>Most people are agreed, I think, upon the thoroughness of +workmanship, but sobriety of taste is a more disputed point. We are +very fond of talking of the “gorgeous colouring of the East,” and using +terms like “barbaric splendour” and “oriental luxury.” These terms may +have had some truth as applied to the art of India, but because Japan +is also situated in <span class="pagenum">139</span>the East, they do +not necessarily apply to her. We do not sufficiently realise over here +that there is considerably more difference between China and Japan, let +alone India and Japan, than there is between any two European countries +whatsoever, be they Greeks or Dutch, or what you will; that they are +not of the same race, nor do they belong to the same linguistic family. +Therefore, to transfer an adjective applicable to India to Japan, just +because both are Oriental, is like applying an adjective suitable to +the Turks or the Laps to the English, on the ground that both are +European. This is, I think, one source of error; the others are more +subtle. There is first of all the climate. Now a colour, any colour, +under a bright blue sky in a dazzling yellow sunshine, will always look +more subdued than that same colour under a grey sky and in a cloudy +atmosphere. This is simply an effect of contrast. Therefore, Japanese +colouring must be judged as it is seen in Japan, not as it may look +when transferred to England. And, again, a study of the actual colour +itself will show that the Japanese have learnt how to make the very +brightest colours soft in tone. This fact has been well rubbed into me +lately, for I have tried both in Paris and in London to match certain +Japanese stuffs, or at least to find something in the same note of +colour which would go with them. It was quite impossible. All our soft +colours, the so-called artistic shades, are too dull in tone, while +none of our bright ones are soft enough; by the side of the Japanese +colours they look simply crude. These are all quite material reasons, +objective facts, but there is another which only those who have stood +and looked at the glorious splendour of a Japanese temple such as Nikkō +or Shiba, where <span class="pagenum">140</span>the whole rainbow +is resplendent in carved wood and gilded lacquer, and that is their +matchless power of combination and of background. The temples of Nikkō +or Shiba are both built in the midst of a wood; the dark, deep, sober +forms of the giant pine-trees stand all around. This is the setting; +then between each gorgeous gateway comes a still clear space of court, +paved with quiet grey pebbles; and when the glory culminates in the +temple’s interior the building is of unstained, unpainted wood, soft +as the dust-brown carpet of the beech-leaves when the sun’s rays are +level. But the temples, supreme in their way among all the products of +Japanese art, are exceptional. The average Japanese room is colourless, +luminous, but practically colourless. The floor is of the palest +yellow matting, the one or two solid walls of the room are washed <a +href="#140B" id="140A">in</a> the softest of bark browns, the wood +of the <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i> is dark and polished, and the other +walls are <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, that is, composed entirely of small +panes of rice-paper. Through this paper the sunlight comes luminous +but colourless. To sit in that room is like living in the heart of the +plum-blossom, or within the petals of a warm white rose.</p> + +<p>In their dress the Japanese are equally subdued: the men wear mostly +grey or dust-coloured silks, the women soft mauves, blues and greys. It +is only the children who are dressed in bright colours and gay patterns. +All the working classes, both men and women, wear a dark indigo blue. +The Japanese wear no jewellery. Precious stones they have, exquisite +mauve and purple amethysts, crystals of blood-red splendour or soft +and milky as flushing pearl. And the rich man buys these, not to wear, +but to look at, <span class="pagenum">141</span>as works of art, as +exquisite natural objects. He never hangs them round his own neck, +or enmeshes his womankind in them. The Japanese are, I believe, the +only nation on the earth who know and value precious stones, and yet +wear no jewellery. Might not this be considered convincing evidence of +their essential sobriety of taste? Even the landscape, though supremely +beautiful and sunny, is never flaunting. There are too many sober green +pine-trees, and pale, bewitching bamboos for that. I have never seen +anywhere in Japan, in the poorest house, in the cheapest shop, anything +that was tawdry or even “loud,” except in that part of porcelain and +other factories which supply goods, mostly from “foreign” patterns, for +the European market.</p> + +<p>In this enumeration of the characteristics of Japanese art, you will +perhaps wonder why I have omitted the very popular one of their love of +the little, the small, the minute. I have left it out simply because +I do not believe it exists as such. Many writers have exclaimed in +paragraphs sprinkled with interjections on this passion for the little +which they say the Japanese possess; and they have apparently seen in +it nothing but a blind unreasoning prejudice for the something small as +opposed to the something great. I think this opinion is mostly due to +the “little knowledge” of the tourist or the restricted knowledge of +the specialist. It leaves also entirely unexplained and inexplicable +the <i lang="ja">Dai Butsu</i> of Kamakura, a bronze statue of Buddha, +fifty feet high and of the most exquisite workmanship; the Buddhas of +Kyoto and of Nara; the big bronze bell of Kyoto, the largest hanging +bell in the world, besides that at Chion-in, the second largest, and at +Nara, the third; the <i lang="ja">Hongwanji</i> at Kyoto, the <span +class="pagenum">142</span>walls of the castle at Osaka—and the battle of +Mukden. A wider acquaintance with the Japanese people and the realities +of their daily life will show, I think, that this so-called love of the +little is really a highly cultivated and acute sense of proportion, +where it is not purely ethical.</p> + +<p>The Japanese beer-glass, you will remember, was the size of a doll’s +tumbler. “Why?” “Oh, because they have a passion for little things” +is certainly the easiest and most obvious answer. But follow that +glass to its home on its Japanese dinner tray, in its Japanese room, +and you will see that its littleness is in exact proportion to the +tray and the room. Nor are the rooms so small, but because we insist +on bringing our encumbering “foreign” ideas into them. There is no +furniture in a Japanese room, no furniture of any kind whatsoever. Two +kneeling-cushions and a round box, a brazier, are the only possible +objects which could come under that heading, therefore the whole space +within the four walls of a room is space for movement. If a measurement +were taken of the actual feet of free space in many a modern European +drawing-room, I believe that it would be found to be something +<i>less</i> than that in the “tiny” Japanese apartment.</p> + +<p>Another thing to be borne in mind is that life in Japan is lived, not +above the floor on chairs, but on the floor itself. Try living on the +floor and you will find the whole horizon of a room opening out in the +most astonishing way. What we call a stool, for instance, represents +the same level as a table. The actual difference in the height of the +eyes sitting on one’s heels on a Japanese floor and on a chair is really +between two and three feet, while it must also be remembered that +Japanese eyes, belonging as they <span class="pagenum">143</span>do to +a body shorter on the average than our own, come still nearer to the +ground.</p> + +<p>Thus a careful examination of the things which are small in Japan, +which they have deliberately chosen to make small, copied smaller than +the foreign originals, will show, I think, that it is due to their acute +sense of fitness and proportion. There is also another reason, which is +not artistic but ethical.</p> + +<p>The Japanese are a sober and abstemious race, a race of high culture +and of ancient civilisation. When we were running about clad in the +inadequate skin, gorging off half-raw oxen, and drunken with seven-day +feasts of mead, they lived already under an ordered and an organised +government with most, if not all, of the essentials of civilisation. +And after all, is not one of the hall-marks of real civilisation the +learning to take “a little” instead of “a lot,” in extracting from +each atom the whole of its use, enjoyment and pleasure? Children and +savages are always wasteful. We do not now try to eat whole oxen or +drink mead for seven days, we have learnt to get as much if not more +pleasure out of one glass of wine and one slice of beef, and the +reason is that we are slowly learning <i>not</i> to gulp. If you watch +the working man drink his beer, or the working woman her tea, you +will see that they usually gulp it down in big draughts, imagining, +I suppose, that it is sheer quantity which produces flavour. They +have not yet learnt that profound ethical truth, expressed by the +old epicure when he said approvingly of some young man that he “had +already learned to sip his wine and not to gulp it.” The Japanese +have learnt to sip. Their wine-glasses, which are china bowls, hold +perhaps two tablespoonfuls, their tea-cups three, their pipes just +<span class="pagenum">144</span>three fleeting whiffs. Drunkenness +is exceedingly rare; it does exist, but with a glass holding two +tablespoonfuls there is time for reflection. It is also more economical +than the foreign variety, the actual quantity required to produce +intoxication when taken in small doses being, I believe, considerably +less.</p> + +<p>There is always another side to a people’s art, a side which is +frequently overlooked, and that is the art, not in the object, but in +the workman. A people’s art will show itself, not only in the actual +object produced, but in the life of the producer and in the conditions +of production.</p> + +<p>In the <span lang="fr">cloisonné</span> works of Nagoya, an +industrial centre of a quarter of a million of inhabitants, the workers +sat in peace and solitude, not a sound of the busy streets penetrated +to the long series of matted rooms where they worked. Each room and +each workman looked towards a quiet garden, cool with running water, +and still with the deep mystery of the pines. In the modern porcelain +factory, dedicated to the production of goods for the “foreign” market, +the long white room looked out through open doors upon the waving +rice-fields, and each potter’s wheel was turned to see the branch of +purple iris standing in its yellow vase. There is a cotton factory in +Japan which is a positive addition to the beauty of the landscape.</p> + +<p>Nor is it only the big and wealthy workmen who produce good art. +Some of the most beautiful silver enamel-ware in Tokyo was made by a +little man who owned the smallest and poorest of general shops, where +halfpenny tooth brushes and farthing sheets of paper formed the richest +portions of his stock. All this beautiful silver enamel-work was done +in the back parlour, <span class="pagenum">145</span>and at no time +could he have had more than ten <i lang="ja">yen</i> (£1) worth of such +goods in hand. Yet he was an artist to the tips of his fingers, and the +sheen and colour of his enamelled silver lotus flowers were a joy to the +beholder.</p> + +<p>In Nikkō there was a carpenter who made wooden trays for the +inhabitants. His stall, the merest shanty, was the littlest imaginable, +yet he carved me a wooden box with a design in chrysanthemums which was +skilled artistic work, and even his cheap wooden trays had the stamp of +art. He did them with a penknife, and the whole surface of the tray was +grooved in shallow curving lines.</p> + +<p>And the worker himself? If there is art in the product and in the +conditions of production, what of the producer? Is there art in his life +and his tastes? Is there art in the life of the labourer, of the coolie +and the <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> man? Is there art in the daily life of +the common people as well as in the things they use?</p> + +<p>A man’s tastes are known by his pleasures. When the common people +of Tokyo make “Bank Holiday” they go to see a handful of pink +cherry-blossoms against the blue of an April sky. They walk politely, +looking up at the trees, and though the crowd is thick, endless, nobody +pushes or fights or swears. No special posse of policemen is turned +out to keep order. Down the long two-mile avenue of cherry-trees at +Mukojima the crowd wanders amiably, and the municipality of Tokyo has +never thought to invent a single penalty for the destruction of young +trees and shrubs. The world stares contentedly, drinks tea, and goes +home again. And this is considered to be the rowdiest crowd at the most +popular resort on the favourite “Bank Holiday” of the year.</p> + +<p>The blossoming of all the other flowers, plum, <span +class="pagenum">146</span>peach, azalea, peony, wistaria, iris, lotus, +convolvulus, maple, chrysanthemum, are equally visited, and advertised +daily in the newspapers. The people of Japan take few holidays, +but those they do take are almost always at the time of the flower +festivals.</p> + +<p>When they can afford something more expensive they go to the “Royal +Academy,” which opens its doors twice in the year for the aristocratic +sum of 3 <i lang="ja">sen</i> (¾<i>d.</i>) <i lang="ja">gheta</i> +(wooden clogs) and umbrellas left outside, 5 <i lang="ja">rin</i> (10 +<i lang="ja">rin</i> make ¼<i>d.</i>). The other picture exhibitions, +not having the status of the Tokyo “Royal Academy,” are more +moderate, averaging 1 to 2 <i lang="ja">sen</i> for admission, and <i +lang="ja">gheta</i>, free. The entrance to the exhibitions of bronze, +lacquer, porcelain and other arts is the same. Even on the basis of +Japanese incomes, where a General earns £300 a year, the Headmaster of +a Public School £160 and a coolie 6<i>d.</i> a day, the charges are +exceedingly moderate. And the people, the real working people, go. I +should be curious to find out how many working men have paid at the +turnstiles of Burlington House.</p> + +<p>Besides art exhibitions, Japanese workmen go to the theatre, but this +is a taste they share with many other nations; what is all their own +is their love of pilgrimages, not only to temples of religious repute, +but to places of celebrated beauty. <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span> is +yearly ascended by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims. Here religion and +beauty are mingled. For the great mountain is sacred. So is almost every +spot in Japan that is particularly beautiful. As one journeys through +the country, the traveller will always find that the most beautiful +point of view, the grandest scene, the loveliest nook, has a temple, or +at least a wayside shrine, set up by the common people and tended by +them. There <span class="pagenum">147</span>never was a nation since +the days of Ancient Greece who so entirely believed that beauty is +sacred, or who so entirely disbelieved that art can be divorced from +ethics. They have the love of beauty innate and inalienable. A man I +knew was once crossing Tokyo in a <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i>; he was a +prosperous, commercial being with a vast contempt for the “heathen.” It +was late afternoon. His <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, after looking round +at him several times, suddenly stopped short, and waving his hand to the +west said respectfully but firmly:</p> + +<p>“Honourably please to observe the unusual glory of the sunset.”</p> + +<p>“And I told him to jolly well get on,” was the end of the story as I +heard it.</p> + +<p>A favourite pastime of the <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> men on the +cab-stands as they wait for a fare is to draw in the dust of the +roadway one against the other. If sand has been spilled from a cart +anywhere within reach the whole <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> stand +migrates and has the happiest time. I have seen really good outlines +of <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span> and of flying birds, or blossoming +flowers, all on the roadways by the <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> stands. +And whatever their faults, they at least had life, for the <i +lang="ja">’ricksha</i> man has knowledge, knowledge based on intelligent +observation and on the inherited training of his race.</p> + +<p>In the Japanese language there is a word, <i lang="ja">edaburi</i>, +which means “the formation or the arrangement of the branches of a +tree.” Merely to possess such a word shows the long training in art and +observation which the nation must have undergone. But this word is not +a technical term used only by artists and the cultured classes; it is a +living, breathing expression, part of the vocabulary of every Japanese, +even the <span class="pagenum">148</span>Board School educated. <i +lang="ja">Kurumaya</i> discuss <i lang="ja">edaburi</i> in the streets +of Tokyo. Railway porters at wayside stations argue the matter with the +stationmaster. Every peasant knows, understands, and talks of the matter +as though he had brought himself up on long courses of Ruskin. It has +often been a subject of great regret to me that Ruskin did not know the +Japanese, for in them he would have found the living proof of so much of +his teaching.</p> + +<p>But the people of Japan not only discuss <i lang="ja">edaburi</i>, +they write poetry. There is an exceedingly simple form of poetry called +<i lang="ja">hokku</i>. It consists of only three lines of five, seven, +and five syllables, and is written in the language of daily life. +The <i lang="ja">hokku</i> was invented by a man called Bashō, for +the definite ethical purpose of cultivating the taste and improving +the morals of the people. He believed in the composition of poetry +as an ethical force, and he wished to bring it from the home of the +educated into the lives of the poor. He succeeded. Not because the <i +lang="ja">hokku</i> is a so much easier form of poetry than the English +couplet, but because the people have taste, and art, and civilisation +in the very cells of their brains. Every one writes poetry, even the +typical <i lang="ja">jinricksha</i> man, who is to the Japanese what the +<i lang="fr">charbonnier</i> is to the French or the coster to us. When +the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> and his wife go to visit their relations +the whole party amuses itself by composing these tiny poems. On all +occasions of joy and grief, on birth, death and marriage, at the time +of each flower festival, or of any other happening, the people compose +poetry. Literary composition has always been inculcated as the best +medicine for sorrow, and as such is practised daily.</p> + +<p>This is a little poem taken from the diary of a woman <span +class="pagenum">149</span>who died in Tokyo a year or two ago. She lived +with her husband, a doorkeeper, on an income of £1 a month, and she +was very delicate. She bore him three children, who all died shortly +after birth; then the poor mother died herself. Her diary came into the +possession of Lafcadio Hearn, who translated it under the title of “A +Woman’s Tragedy.” This poem was composed on the death of the third baby +and runs:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p lang="ja">“Tanoshimi mo<br> + Samété haka nashi.<br> + Haru no yumé.”</p> + <p class="p2">“All my delight has perished, and hopeless I remain. + <br>It was a dream, a dream of spring.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Here is another poem which is more typically Japanese. It was +composed by the same woman after the death of her second baby, and +runs:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p lang="ja">“Sami daré ya<br> + Shimerigachi naru<br> + Sodé no tamoto wo.” + </p> + <p>“Oh, the month of rain; all things have become damp;<br> + the ends of my sleeve are wet.” + </p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Which being interpreted is: “Oh! the time of grief. All things +now seem sad. The sleeves of my robe are moist with tears.”<a +class="fnanchor" href="#1A" id="1B">[1]</a></p> + +<p class="footnote"><a class="fnanchor" href="#1B" id="1A">[1]</a> The +long sleeve of a Japanese <i lang="ja">kimono</i> is always held before +the face to hide emotion. </p> + +<p>It is this very allusiveness, this saying of something simple and +commonplace, and hiding behind it a whole meaning of intense emotion, +which makes this poem so typically Japanese, for Japanese art is always +suggestive, it always needs the observer to bring his share of thought +and mind to its interpretation.</p> + +<p>It is interesting to speculate how much the two most <span +class="pagenum">150</span>universally recognised characteristics of +the Japanese, politeness and cleanliness, owe to their sense of art. +If one looks into the psychology of the race, one sees, of course, +that this national trait of exquisite politeness was built up, or at +least assisted, in many ways. There was that stern training of the <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> which taught eternal, never-ending self-control. +There is the whole Buddhistic teaching, which is one long gospel of +unselfishness and kindness. But other nations have had training in +self-control, we ourselves among the number—think for a moment of the +Puritans and our public schools. And other religions preach kindness +and unselfishness, our own again, and yet there is no other nation so +widely recognised, even by the snappiest of tourists who ever wrote his +“memoirs,” as universally polite from the Emperor to the coolie in the +streets. It is a hypothesis which I put forward with some hesitation, +because the origins of national psychology are not for the amateur, but +I do think that a certain stress is to be laid upon this innate and +instinctive, but much cultivated sense of art. Has not the politeness +something to do with that love of a beautiful outline, that desire for +a perfect curve in the relations between man and man as well as between +man’s eye and his drawing? Is not, in fact, a rude action a something +inartistic in the social whole, a blot of crude colour that jars?</p> + +<p>The whole of the <i lang="ja">cha-no-yu</i>, or tea ceremony, one +of the few Japanese things of which Europeans have heard more or less +vaguely, is an illustration in point. The tea ceremony, divested of its +subsidiary and attendant growths, is in essence nothing more than the +proper making and the proper drinking of a simple cup of tea. This, +in the course of <span class="pagenum">151</span>centuries, has been +elaborated into an imposing and very complicated ceremonial. Nowadays +the <i lang="ja">cha-no-yu</i> is regarded mainly as a useful reservoir +of etiquette and politeness, and is taught as such. But the whole idea +on which it rests is that for every given action there is always one, +and only one, right and proper attitude, that is to say, the most +graceful. So that the curve of every finger in the mere passing of a +tea-cup is the result of careful thought and long experience. Everything +has to be considered, the room, the person, the relation of the body +to the arm, of the arm to the hand, of the hand to the tea-cup, the +position of <a href="#151B" id="151A">the</a> person serving, and of +the person served, the place of the tea-cups, of the teapot, and +the tea-kettle; all have been taken into consideration by the tea +ceremonialists, and the proper, the most graceful attitude carefully +evolved.</p> + +<p>That you may not think politeness a matter of social caste in Japan, +I may say that the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> when they run into one +another at the corners, the coolies hauling carts when they collide, bow +profoundly and beg one another’s pardon.</p> + +<p>And the exquisite cleanliness? Some one once defined dirt as “matter +out of place.” Is not much of art just the putting of things in their +right places, in their best and most appropriate and consequently their +most beautiful place; in the putting of a thing in such a place that you +feel it never could have been otherwise. As the child said when lost in +admiration of his birthday cake, “It’s so beautiful I think God must +have made it.” It is this cleanliness, this neatness, which the Japanese +possess, a neatness which has passed beyond mere precision, passed on +into its essence—grace.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">152</span>All this may perhaps sound +far-fetched to English ears. If we are clean and polite it is on +sanitary or on ethical grounds, not for æsthetic reasons, because +“it is healthy or right,” not “because it is more beautiful,” and we +make a broad distinction between ethics and æsthetics. In Japan, on +the contrary, there is the most intimate of relations between them. +The whole modern controversy of “art for art’s sake,” all the dearly +cherished views of French critics that art has nothing to do with +morals, is simply unmeaning to them. You might as well say that the sun +had no relation to light.</p> + +<p>I have already mentioned how the <i lang="ja">hokku</i> form of +verse arose as a moral influence, how literary composition is always +recommended as the best medicine for sorrow; but what of a nation whose +gardens are arranged to express an ethical abstraction such as courage, +resignation, obedience, or to suggest a saying of Buddha, the Blessed +One; whose dwarf trees are not merely grown to make a design, but also +to express an idea and suggest a reflection; where every single tree, +and flower, and bird, and beast is a moral symbol and is commonly +used as such; where a simple candlestick of a stork standing on a +tortoise and holding the stem of a convolvulus in its mouth is a whole +philosophy: the stork, representing Life, standing upon the tortoise, +Eternity, and holding in its mouth the Morning Glory, a flower whose +brief life, only blooming for the few hours after dawn, is typical of +mortality, and the impermanence of all things. From Life based upon +Eternity springs Mortality, whose joys are fleeting. Here is the kernel +of the whole Buddhistic faith. The impermanence of phenomena and the +eternity of law, that is, cause and effect.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">153</span>Even such an ordinary art as that +of arranging flowers is deeply ethical. The whole of Chinese philosophy +is bound up with it. Each stem is known by the name of some tenet in +this philosophy, and at the end of the lesson on flower arrangement +the teacher sits down and talks to the class of the underlying ethical +ideas.</p> + +<p>I do not think there is any art in the world into which so much +thought and meaning has been poured as into that of the Japanese. Every +design, even the simplest, even the most stereotyped, has behind it a +whole world of symbol, of suggestion which speaks to the mind of the +beholder as the outlines to his eye. And this is the reason why no +design is ever unmeaning, haphazard, as it so often is with us. It is +there not only because it is beautiful, but because it is appropriate +to the place and the occasion, because it has some connection with +the object it decorates, with the person who gives or the person who +receives it, with the time and the circumstances of the giving. Their +art, in fact, regarded from the ethical point of view, is often a sort +of moral shorthand, a very beautiful, finely wrought shorthand, which +men can take away and think upon.</p> + +<p>And this brings me to my last point. John Addington Symonds, in +one of his wonderful essays on the Italian Renaissance, says that +painting inevitably fell from its high estate among men because +modern life is too complex to be expressed by it. That just in the +same way as the Renaissance required something less simple than +the sculpture of the Greeks to translate its thoughts and feelings +into outward form, so we in this century cannot express our own +more subtle and complex thought in terms of painting, and therefore +<span class="pagenum">154</span>never again can we hope to rival the +perfection of that old Renaissance art. And he concludes by remarking +that it is in music, more plastic and suggestive, that we must seek our +best expression. Now Japanese art is not dead but intensely living, and +it has always seemed to me that it lives, it holds its place in their +life, thought and culture just because it has learnt to express those +complex and subtle emotions which make up our world to-day. And it does +it, not by imaging them forth defined and definite as our painting seeks +to do, but just as our music would by suggestion.</p> + +<p>To every Japanese painting a man must bring his own soul and his +own thoughts, and where he has none or little, then he will turn away +complacently, saying, “Here, there is nothing.” For his are not the eyes +to see all the dim eternal problems, all the vistas of unwritten poetry +which the artist has but shadowed forth; the artist whose part is not to +portray, but infinitely to suggest.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum">155</span> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SCENES_IN_RAIN_AND_SUNSHINE">SCENES IN RAIN AND + SUNSHINE</h2> +</div> + +<div class="center"> + <span class="pagenum">156</span> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p class="center">“What it is</p> + <p class="center">That dwelleth here</p> + <p class="center">I know not;</p> + <p>Yet my heart is full of gratitude,</p> + <p>And the tears trickle down.”</p> + <p class="smcap p1 right">Saigio.</p> + <p class="right">“Japanese Literature,”<br>by W. G. Aston.</p> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">157</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>THE MOAT</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It is winter, and yet a summer sky of clearest blue, faint and pure. +A white sun rides in the southern sky, winning me to believe it summer +until the cold northern wind lifts the edge of my cloak, and I know it +winter.</p> + +<p>It is warm here in the corner of the bridge, full in the sunlight, +and I linger. The dark, still waters of the moat creep stealthily +along on either side of me; in the distance I can see the rounded arch +of a bridge, so arched is the span and so white that I could believe +the people had stolen the young crescent of the moon to span their +waters.</p> + +<p>I lean on my bamboo parapet and look. The dark still waters run +between brown stone walls all overhung with the twisted limbs of the +fir-trees, such big strong branches lying almost along the ground, and +twisted as if in a vain endeavour to get back to the earth beneath. I +watch the thick strong branches, soberly green, the masses of foliage +riotously so, a green line and its shadow.</p> + +<p>The stone banks of the moat are unhewn and uncemented, but their +surface is one unbroken line of sober brown; and I look at the long +wave of muddy finger-marks traced by the tide’s edge, and now high up +<span class="pagenum">158</span>the wall, and drop my eyes to the deep +mud-brown of the waters below.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The bamboo parapet grows hot, hotter. I wonder who laid those stones, +and who keeps them so free of grass and weeds. On the whole they are not +more silent and solid than the big limbs of the trees above. Past the +bridge in the distance is an unkempt space of yellow grass, then a tall +red building shoots abruptly into the sky. The small brown policeman, +hidden by his military cloak and sword, stands motionless as I. Am I +dreaming that this is a city of a million souls?</p> + +<p>Blue, green, brown, black; sky, trees, stones, water; a white sun, +a white bridge—and suddenly the two seem to meet in a whirl of dust, +my scale of colours vanishes and with it the dreamy quiet and the +summer sun. A clatter of <i lang="ja">gheta</i> on the bridge, two <i +lang="ja">kuruma</i> past the policeman, a boat on the moat, the voice +of the <i lang="ja">tōfu</i> man following his bell along the road, the +shadow of the tall house over the world—and I awake to winter and the +town.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> <span class="pagenum">159</span> <h3 +class="nobreak" id="SRSII"> <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> +<span>A RAINY DAY</span> </h3> </div> + +<p>Rain!</p> + +<p>And the world lies like an impressionist picture washed in with +white. Shut up in my miniature hansom, with the apron up to my eyes +and the roof down to the brim of my hat, it passes before me in misty +unreality. But for an occasional bob of the black mushroom hat of my <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> as he pulls the <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> out of +a hole, I am drawn by an invisible force.</p> + +<p>It has rained for a week, and the streets are bogs, the +puddles—ponds. The wind drives the rain with a murmured “<i>ssssh</i>” +against the tarpaulin sides of the <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>, but in front +there is no rain, only an intangible, shadowy whiteness between the +world and me.</p> + +<p>The green bank of the moat, the dark water, even the fir-trees whose +green arms stretch down long fingers into the water, are uncertain and +swollen as the world to sleepy eyes. Black <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> +splash past me, with the large glass eye in their aprons shadowly +suggestive. The coolie in his straw raincoat, just a walking sheaf +finishing in two bare brown legs, plods on, a golden figure against the +grey. A long string of carts pass by me, long narrow carts drawn by long +<span class="pagenum">160</span>thin horses; cart and horses hidden +under a structure of yellow oil-paper, until they look like huge golden +bats or mythical dragons. And with his back to the head of the horse, a +halter in one hand, a yellow paper umbrella in the other, his bare brown +legs lost in the mud, the walking sheaf moves on.</p> + +<p>All the world to-day is four inches higher than its wont; and the +stilt-like <i lang="ja">gheta</i> seem an uncertain footing for their +owners. Bare to the thigh is the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, and his +brown legs look like the statues of Greece sunned into life, so perfect +are their outlines.</p> + +<p>Down the vanishing road are two pale yellow umbrellas, gold on grey, +and I marvel at the beauty of the colour. Suddenly round the bend of the +street comes a third—foreign, <i>black</i>—and in a flash the beauty +goes; a muddy road in the drenching rain alone is left, cold, prosaic. +And I shiver in my <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> <span class="pagenum">161</span> <h3 +class="nobreak" id="SRSIII"> <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> +<span>MMÉ (PLUM-BLOSSOMS)</span> </h3> </div> + +<p>They lay in fleece-white purity down the hillside, and the brooding +stillness of that garden was as a sheltering wing above the world.</p> + +<p>Beneath one’s feet the six-sided tiles set in the brown earth were +clean with a Dutch cleanliness, and the soil all around had been raked +with the same quaint precision. Not a fallen leaf, nor the foot-mark of +a bird, marred the soft brown surface—only the narrow line of glazed +tiles ran on and on under the trees.</p> + +<p>On every side the curve of the hill sloped upwards, outwards, drawing +the white garden nearer as a mother draws her child close within her +arms.</p> + +<p>A hot sweet scent is in the air, delicate as honeysuckle, fragrant +as the pine, half-soft, half-spiced—the scent of the blossoming plum, +<i lang="ja">mmé</i>, the emblem of chastity, of womanly purity and +strength.</p> + +<p>The pale grey stems of the trees are bent and old; some are covered +with a grey-green moss, and between their silvered stems I walk as in +the cloistered calm of ruined abbeys.</p> + +<p>Up through the white fleece of blossom overhead bright stars of blue +shine down. The sun-warmed <span class="pagenum">162</span>presence of +the living earth draws her children near. In all the world there is no +sound....</p> + +<p>“Like as a hen gathereth her chickens.” ...</p> + +<p>Is not that the white wing of the eternal mother overhead? And the +warm, sweet fragrance of herself is all around.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">163</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSIV"> + <span class="line-height3">IV</span><br> + <span>WET LEAVES</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It had rained all night and all day; big, solid drops of rain that +fell as compactly through the air as battalions of small shot, but at +twilight the raindrops dwindled, slackened, dwindled, ceased.</p> + +<p>The clear, colourless sky, which the whole day long had shot down +its drops of rain, drew together in grey clouds, growing momentarily +greyer, thicker and more grey, and shining with a pale light as +though far away behind those thick coverings a great white light was +burning.</p> + +<p>The stones on the pathway were all wet and shining and crunched down +into little pools of water under one’s heels. The trees were dripping +raindrops at each leaf, the trunks of all the pines were a dark brown +with wet.</p> + +<p>In the garden there was peace, a peace of plants weighed down with +raindrops, and very tired. Up on the damp hillside the note of a +solitary bird sounded forlornly. <i lang="ja">Uguisu</i>, the Japanese +nightingale was calling. One sweet short song, and then a greater +silence.</p> + +<p>Above the little grey shrine to Inari, the Fox God, two golden +oranges swayed out against the dark green bush. The raindrops on their +under sides trickled <span class="pagenum">164</span>slowly over the +little temple, and down the miniature steps, while those on the upper +sides stood out in little clusters growing larger and larger until an +imperceptible stir of the heavy fruit sent them chasing their fellows +down the temple’s roof.</p> + +<p>And the sky above grew greyer. The golden oranges, larger for the +raindrops, swayed mysteriously out, bright yellow against dark green, in +a damp, dark world.</p> + +<p>At the path’s edge another pathway of clear water encircled the +temple and the orange trees; a water so clear that it hardly seemed to +exist, while the brown banks and the brown stones showed wet and dark +as the pathway under foot. And round the temple and the orange trees in +ever silent motion along the brown pathway swam strange fishes; bright +blue carp with black sides and designs in creamy white, large orange +carp with tracings in silver, golden carp with six or seven waving +tails, and solitary in their midst one white patriarch whom age had +turned to driven snow.</p> + +<p>And the damp, dark world turned slowly darker. The wet hillside grew +a black, blurred line; the light behind the cloud was going out; the +trees had lost their colour.</p> + +<p>All silently the blue carp moved along the dark pathway, and the +golden orange globes dripped above the little temple. Bright blue, +orange; the light behind the clouds was out.</p> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">165</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSV"> + <span class="line-height3">V</span><br> + <span>ASAMAYAMA</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>We were to climb Asamayama. The plan seemed simple and delightful; +to take horses in the cool of the evening and ride by moonlight to +the last green frill of trees upon the mountain side: to climb the +nine thousand feet to the very edge of the crater; and then in those +blackest hours before the dawn to look into the volcano’s mysterious +depths, all red and glowing, where flame and smoke strive ever for the +mastery, where the long orange tongues leap up through rolling purple +masses of the smoke; and all around and all below, as far as eye can +pierce, is lurid glowing red. And still on the crater’s treacherous +sides which hold smoke and flame unsteadily as a drunkard holds his +cup, to look down fascinated until they crumble beneath one’s feet, and +the thrill of terror bites in the memory of the mighty force indelible. +Then to breakfast under the sheltering walls of the old crater; to +watch the darkness melt before the coming day, to see the sun rise +swiftly in his strength, and the long circle of the hills stand clear +and blue and liquid on the upland plain; to see the giant ridges of +the mountains stretching from sea to sea with the faint white cone +of <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> a dream upon the distant sky; to look +in the freshness of the morning upon the beauty of the land, <span +class="pagenum">166</span>and standing on the cinder slopes of Asama to +trace the tortured lava beds stretching like long grey snakes among the +green till the trees grow over and the forest engulfs them. And still +in the first hours of the dawn to ride back slowly with the memory of +the crater and the sunrise making pictures in one’s mind, tired but +contented.</p> + +<p>The programme was delightful, perfect, it only remained to carry +it out. So we started, on the sorry horses of the upland regions of +Japan, and the full moon fitful behind thick clouds shone sadly. It was +distinctly chilly, for the table land of Karuizawa is 3000 feet above +sea level, and in the air was the damp shiver of coming rain. Still +we started, out of the village and along the wide still plain where +the dark shadow of a hill showed round as a basin on our right. This +was Asama’s satellite, born of her fires, made of her ashes, a round, +smooth, green hill, cruelly deceitful.</p> + +<p>The empty plain stretched dark to the edge of the misty clouds and +diffused through it was a pale grey light that shimmered, trembling. +Over the plain and the mountain, through the air and the shadows, the +light filtered mistily, swaying and rounding the outlines till they +looked like solid bodies seen through a vast perspective of clear water. +As we plodded on, the paper lanterns held by each boy at the horses’ +heads turned all the wet black path to shining silver pools which +gleamed as the light fell on them, quivered like spreading veins of ore, +and disappeared into the blackness. The limpid flowing air that swayed +above the plain, all luminous and clear, grew darker, shrank as it were +together, lost its liquid light, turned slowly into rain, and came down +steadily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">167</span>We passed through a second village, +and went on, over a rutty road, between high banks, persistently +upwards. All the sounds of the world had died away, and the life of the +woods, the rustle of leaves and of grasses, the long thick hum of the +insects was dead. Nothing moved. Even the rain made no sound as it fell +in great wet clouds upon the ground.</p> + +<p>High up on the rutty road we halted, while the two boys plunging +downward through the bushes in the darkness drank of a silent stream +which flowed below, the last water we should pass that night. The +leaves of the bushes cut sharp green silhouettes upon the blackness, +stiff and metallic as tinfoil, as the boys, lantern in hand, plunged <a +href="#167B" id="167A">downward.</a> But we did not go, for the soft +cloud of rain was falling thicker, wetter, and we were cold. When each +had drunk his fill, and the metal green leaves of the bushes had flashed +back into darkness again, we plodded on, over the common, under the +trees, along another piece of road, looser, more rutty than the last, +and definitely among the dripping trees we climbed upward.</p> + +<p>The moon was gone now, hidden deep behind the falling layers of +cloud. And there was a hush, a stagnancy upon all things as though an +unseen, unknown force were terrorising life to stillness. Not a tree had +leave to stir. The branches huddled dumbly, and all the seething insect +life which makes the woods so full of sound lay stricken, lay dumb, +paralysed; and among the damp trees we journeyed on.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At midnight the horses stopped, in a fold of the hills on the edge +of the trees, where the blackness lay solid, and we slid down. One boy +tied the horses together <span class="pagenum">168</span>and sat down +patiently to await our return next morning. The other snuffed the candle +in his paper lantern and prepared to lead the way. By this time it was +raining hard, in distinct material drops, which splashed sharply on face +and hands, and it was pitch dark. The boy, lantern in hand, went first, +and all the light of the lantern so carefully trimmed was cut off from +us by his stout round body. We knew by the crunch there were cinders +under foot, by the cold wet dabs that ghost-like pressed our hands that +there were bushes, and that we climbed.</p> + +<p>From time to time the boy would sway his lantern to one side or the +other, and stunted shrubs like London laurel trees would start into +being, and disappear. With each swing of the lantern the stunted shrubs +grew scarcer and more stunted, till they dwindled to bushes, to mere +green weeds like dandelions, to nothingness. Then the light fell on +cinder, piled up, half-burnt cinder with ends of broken brickbats, and +all the rubbish of a dust-heap. And at each step the wind came up and +up; colder, stronger, wetter it tore down the bare steep slopes driving +us backwards. Then we would sit down upon the cinders, our backs to +the mountain, our feet on the brickbats, and pant. It was distinctly +exhausting. Each footstep was a launch into the unknown, and a searching +for a foothold, each pause an adding to the weight of cinders that +drifted down boots and clothing. And it rained with fierce splashes +when the wind blew, with dull persistency when it died away, but still +unceasingly. And that sense of an unseen, unknown force, paralysing all +things, grew with each footstep. The chill of a dumb terror lay upon the +world, and the utter desolation struck colder than the wind.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">169</span>We rested again while the icy wind +rushed screeching through the cinders; and, as it died away, the chirp +of a Japanese grasshopper came into the stillness. We were far above the +weeds now, in the region of perpetual cinder, and still that grasshopper +chirped weakly. But the spell was too real, the terror too deathly; +the unseen, unknown force took a step nearer in the darkness, and the +weak wee chirp seemed only the voice of the horror, the breath of the +dumbness giving it life.</p> + +<p>The cinders grew looser and looser as we climbed, more difficult to +tread, and the stagnant silence was filled and filled with sulphur. +It did not come in breaths or gusts, or driving before the wind, it +was there in the silence, part of it, and it wrapped us round. If dead +silence can grow more deathly, then did that stillness die again. +The dumb terror tightened on the world, and the unknown force came +nearer.</p> + +<p>From far below the sound of pouring heavy stones drove up and up. +The mountain rumbled in its depths, rumbled and was still. The presence +of that unseen force was manifest. Before it terror crouched still as a +bird beneath the swooping shadow of the hawk.</p> + +<p>We climbed up heavily, up through the thick sulphur and the loose +steep cinders, up till we turned, and the full force of the wind came +sweeping round the side of the mountain. We were walking on the edge, +the real edge over which you could fall, and it was all of lava, sticky +as clay and crossed with deep black cracks that had no bottom. The wind +swept down here undisturbed, the gusts of rain broke sharply on the +paper lantern as it swayed from side to side to peer out a way. The +sticky lava softened rapidly until <span class="pagenum">170</span>it +sucked around our feet, drawing them down. Then a long fierce gust blew +out the lantern and we stood still.</p> + +<p>“Honourably please stand very still,” called the boy quickly.</p> + +<p>And we stayed dead still.</p> + +<p>The gust of wind rushed by us, rushed on. Then another blew till we +cowered on the sinking lava. It was so long in passing that the moments +seemed as hours. We stood like statues. Insidiously the lava crept above +our feet, crept stealthily, and motionless we waited.</p> + +<p>The gust died down but the wind still blew, still blew. A light +quivered for a moment in the darkness and went out. The boy had lit +a match. He struck another. It flickered in little yellow leaps that +showed the lantern and his face and went abruptly out. Again the tiny +mandorla of light shot up, the boy was holding the lantern in his hand +all ready. We could see the flame double as the candle caught, then both +went swiftly out, for again the wind came rushing down. It blew and +blew. Then it blew so fiercely that to blow again it stopped to take its +breath. Quickly in the second’s pause the match flared up, the lantern +lit, and we could move.</p> + +<p>As we drew out our feet the wicked sticking lava sucked, and the boy +held the lantern low to peer out the cracks. Then he turned sharply to +the left, and the wind was gone.</p> + +<p>We stood in a narrow roofless cave whose sides were overhanging rock, +whose floor was lava ash, wet with big rain pools. This was the old +crater. Asama has three craters, and two are at present in disuse. We +were sheltering in one of these. It <span class="pagenum">171</span>was +a still haven of refuge after the fury of the wind outside, and a sure. +There were no cracks, no sticky sucking lava here. With relief as from a +heavy burden we sat down upon the wet ash to rest and eat, the lantern +in our midst.</p> + +<p>It was now 3 o’clock. Since midnight we had been climbing, our +clothes were soaked and heavy with rain and cinders, and we were very +tired. The boy prosaically unpacked the hamper, and by the flickering +light he set out plates and food. But before we could take one mouthful, +the wind rushed down the roofless cave, upset the hamper, swept the +lantern along the ash before it, tore like a whirlwind from end to end, +and left us in an unearthly livid darkness that lighted nothing.</p> + +<p>For a moment we all stayed numbed, then the boy sought the remnants +of his lantern and we the remnants of our meal. They were both embedded +in thick lava dust.</p> + +<p>We could not go on up the crater now, for every minute the wind blew +fiercer, and the paper lantern was torn in several places. We must wait +for the dawn to show us the way. So we huddled under the shelter of the +overhanging rock and waited.</p> + +<p>The livid darkness that lay upon the mountain grew more livid and +less dark to our watching eyes, till we could distinguish the faint +outlines of things, though not the things themselves. It was, oh! so +cold, and that sense of stagnant terror, dispersed for a little by the +wind and the food, crept back and back, intenser, dumber than before.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then the mountain rumbled in its depths, and the sound of pouring +heavy stones came up again. This <span class="pagenum">172</span>time +it did not die away, it stopped abruptly, as though by force of will. +And we waited.</p> + +<p>It was so cold that I could sit still no longer, and, wrapping my +cloak around me, tired as I was, walked up and down, up and down.</p> + +<p>The overhanging rocks, whose outlines showed so ghostly against the +livid darkness, rose high above our heads. From time to time the sulphur +thickened in the air, making us cough.</p> + +<p>And the deathness of that silence, the dumb horror of that stillness +spread and spread and spread. It was all afraid.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The boy, curled under his rock, slept peacefully. We walked and +waited.</p> + +<p>Then, in an instant, two great tongues of flame shot into the +darkness, leapt high toward the sky, and two reports, as of the heaviest +thunder, shook the mountain. The boy, awakened, jumped up quickly, +looked at the flames as they sprang into the darkness, and the thunder +of the second report shook the ground beneath his feet, turned to speak, +when a sudden sharp clatter came like a hiss past all our ears, calling +“Stones, stones,” he threw himself flat on his face and rolled right +under the rock.</p> + +<p>We, too, rushed to the overhanging rocks and crouched down quickly, +and the sharp clatter of stone on stone went on all around us.</p> + +<p>Asama had rumbled to some purpose, and she was resting.</p> + +<p>Then the utter silence, the dead, dumb horror came back, came back +again. Fear breathed beside us in the darkness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">173</span>Slowly the little stars above the +rocks dropped out of the sky, the livid darkness changed to livid light, +and it was dawn, a cold, grey dawn, but little lighter than the night +had been. Still we could see, see the lava and the ash, so, rolling +out from under our rock, we shook ourselves together, chattering with +cold.</p> + +<p>The ground at our feet was sprinkled with pinky-grey stones, daubed +with bright yellow sulphur, and glowing hot. They were as large as +a clenched fist, with edges sharp and jagged. We stooped to pick up +one—the least hot—and carry it wrapt in handkerchiefs, which it burnt, +and mackintoshes which it singed, back to Karuizawa.</p> + +<p>The boy looked at the stones, looked at us, looked towards the +crater, and asked with many warnings if we were to go on. We, too, +looked at the stones, and thoughtfully towards the crater, and, as we +looked, the mountain rumbled slowly in its depths.</p> + +<p>Seizing the basket, the boy fled, our one and only guide. We followed +him, over the cracks and the spongy soft lava, too occupied with +wondering how we had ever passed over it safely the night before to be +afraid now—too busy, too, watching the boy fleeing in front of us, too +occupied marking his path to think even of eruptions. And somehow we +got over safely, back on to the solid cinder slope of Asama again, the +slope that went down straight as a shoot, and fell away as abruptly +on each side as a bridge. It was ground, and after the cracks and the +sucking lava, solid, though the cinders did shift beneath our feet. We +had leisure to look round us, and found the mountain wrapped in a thick +white mist. By this time the boy had disappeared entirely, but we did +not trouble now. There seemed no choice of paths down. Our cinder bridge +<span class="pagenum">174</span>went on, sloping steeply downwards into +the hidden world below, and we followed it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A little way below, the mist sank suddenly beneath our feet, and +we were walking in the yellow sunlight—walking down a cinder slope +that shone jet-black against a pale blue sky, while all around and all +beneath, and surging up against the cinder slope, floated a wild wide +sea of dead white clouds—a dead, still sea, with its waves stiffened +into frozen snow. Tossing, it lay beneath the clear blue sky, and the +pale sun glinted on its snow-white crests, glinted on the still gigantic +billows that stretched from cinder pathway to the far blue sky. It lay a +silent sea of milk-white frozen waves that was such stuff as dreams are +made of.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And we went on, down. As the gods of old along a sloping bridge that +crossed the clouds and stretched from the blue heaven to the hidden +earth beneath, like Izanagi and Izanami, as they crossed the rainbow +bridge from the High Plain of Heaven and stirred the floating brine +with their jewelled spear—stirred till it went “<i lang="ja">koro, +koro</i>”—till it went “curdle, curdle,” as the old chronicle says, and +the drops that dripping fell from the celestial spear piled up into the +firstborn of the islands of Japan.</p> + +<p>A sudden peal of echoing thunder shook our cinder bridge, and we +turned abruptly. Somewhere on the other side of the topmost edge of +cinder rose up a huge column of thick smoke. The wickedest dead-white +smoke, which, slowly curling over at the tips like ostrich feathers, +showed shadows of deep mauve and dull blue-purple, while from below the +heavy <span class="pagenum">175</span>pouring of great stones drove up +and up. Asama rumbled, rumbled in her depths. Half an hour sooner we +should have been up there still. Had we gone on to the crater we should +have been on the very edge. The memory of the sharp-edged clattering +stones, red-hot and big as fists, came back to us. We looked at one +another silently, and went on, downwards.</p> + +<p>Slowly the gigantic plumes of thick curdled smoke drifted up into +the blue, and they were very beautiful. It was as though Asama wore +a sweeping white <i>panache</i> in her coal-black helmet. But the +thundering roar of the eruption had torn our sea of frozen snow, to +pieces. The blank white mist shut swiftly down, and hid the mountain and +the smoke, the cinders and the sky; only the wide black bridge was left +sloping straight downwards.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We reached our horses drenched, to sit on high-peaked saddles and +journey back through dank dripping trees, over rutty roads, across thick +green commons heavy with mist, back cold, wet and hungry to Karuizawa +again.</p> + +<p>But we kept our stone, and though we had not seen into the crater, +we had perhaps come nearer to that mysterious force, itself unseen, +unknown, which dwells beneath the lava and the ash, and terrorises +life.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">176</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSVI"> + <span class="line-height3">VI</span><br> + <span>CAMELLIAS</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Blue bay below as far as eye can reach. Blue sky above, blue to +the edge of the horizon. And in between a steep cliff of green: dark +fir, pale bamboo, and that impenetrable undergrowth for which alone a +botanist has a name—or names.</p> + +<p>The time of the plum blossom has been, is gone, and the world is +drowsing in the dream of summer. Up here in the green the quick sappy +life is stirring, I can hear it plainly; for in all the world there is +no other sound.</p> + +<p>The trodden green path runs up, from blue to blue. Midway between +the two I stop. And the green world closes in around me, shutting out +the blue I came from and the blue to which I go.</p> + +<p>The tall dark firs sway slowly. The pale bamboos wave slim fingers, +green as March lime leaves in the sun, their golden stems are elusive +and bewitching, sunned dryads of the East.</p> + +<p>The green world has me in its hold. I forget the steep path to +the blue above. It is warm and still, and the bamboos beckon as they +sway.</p> + +<p>How green it is! All the greens a painter ever dreamt of ... and the +graceful bamboos beckon Eastern Vivians to bewitch.</p> + +<p>I stay to look and look—never trees so graceful nor <span +class="pagenum">177</span>the green world so fair. A step. I have left +the pathway,—and then—I stop. Beyond the pale bamboos and above them, +its dark green branches rising upwards to the blue, is a camellia tree. +Each glossy handful of leaves holds a single blood-red flower. And the +tree stands there beyond, above the swaying, beckoning bamboos, stern, +severe.</p> + +<p>“And the Wages of Sin is Death.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>I turn back to the path. The blue below spreads out as far as eye +can reach, the blue above lies shining at the end of the pathway. The +green world between is still.</p> + +<p>But the path is very steep.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">178</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSVII"> + <span class="line-height3">VII</span><br> + <span>RAIN</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The world is wet as when first parted from the waters; and the +firmament above, uncertain in its new position, seems slipping bodily +down to join the waters below. The sound of falling rain, unformed, +continuous, seems to have come from the time before Time was; while +the tiny squelch of liquid mud oozing up between the bare toes of the +<i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> alone marks the present.</p> + +<p>It is dark. The paper lantern, swinging at the end of the shaft, +lights up the pools of the roadway with a transient gleam. For the +rest, alone in my miniature hansom, with the apron up to my eyes, and +the roof down to my eyebrows, the world, with the rushing swish of +falling rain, seems dissolving slowly into the waters, and the history +of creation marching backwards.</p> + +<p>A splash of wheels behind me, and the black mushroom hat of my <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> bobs up above the apron, for the hill is steep. +A shout, and the <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> behind me stops. My <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> stands still, holding the thin lacquered shafts +in his hands and shouts back. Then he drags me to the roadside, and, +putting the shafts on the ground, steps over them and disappears with +his lantern. Balancing in my <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> like the monks on +the miserere seats I am left all alone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">179</span>What is the matter?</p> + +<p>A splash of wheels, the heavy panting of two men. They are pulling +the other <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> up the steep hill, and will come back +for me. So I wait, rigid; for the hill is steep, the mud slippery and +the angle of the seat precarious. I strain my eyes to see—a corner of +muddy road, half the blurred outline of a hedge. And not all the light +in all the world could show me more, for the roof above my head is as a +hand on my eyelids pressing them downwards.</p> + +<p>The wheels have splashed their way up the hill, and I can hear them +no longer. Only the sound of the falling rain, driven momentarily +away by the sharper splash of the moving wheels, comes back, slowly, +steadily, irresistibly, submerging the world and me.</p> + +<p>I am all alone, a stranger in a strange land, behind me an unknown +road, in front—I strain my eyes to see. Even the hedge has grown +unfamiliar. It is no hedge, nothing but impenetrable undergrowth. I am +on the edge of a forest.</p> + +<p>And the road?</p> + +<p>For the first time I notice how strange even the mud of a road can +be. This is trodden all over with the prints of naked human feet, and +the endless knife cuts of the <i lang="ja">gheta</i>.</p> + +<p>The loneliness is wrapping itself around me as a pall.</p> + +<p>The dull swish of the rushing raindrops goes on and on. How long +have they left me in a dissolving world alone. No sound above, no sound +below. And the rush of the falling rain is drumming in my ears.</p> + +<p>A hideous nightmare possesses me. Surely the trickling pools are +carrying away the mud from under my wheels. I shall slip down, down into +nothingness with the falling rain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">180</span>I dare not move. My eyes are fixed +on the narrow strip of muddy road in front of me. The shafts are surely +slipping——</p> + +<p>Then the rush of the falling raindrops drowns the world.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">181</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSVIII"> + <span class="line-height3">VIII</span><br> + <span>THE BLACK CANAL</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The handle of the Japanese guitar, from which Lake Biwa takes its +name, is at Otsu, six miles from Kyoto and three hundred feet above it. +Between stands all the thickness of Kyoto’s girdle of mountains. Built +in the flat bottom of an immense bowl, dark green with pine-clad hills, +Kyoto, the ancient capital, is still the artistic centre of Japan. It is +a city of 350,000 inhabitants, and many manufactories, but with little +water or water transit, while only six miles away, beyond the mountains +and above the town, Lake Biwa stretches a long arm from the ports of the +west coast towards the city.</p> + +<p>It was in 1890 that Tanabe Sakuro, piercing the heart of the +mountains, brought the waters of Lake Biwa, running swiftly under the +hills, into Kyoto. And the Black Canal begins at Otsu.</p> + +<p>Deep down in the last of the rampart of locks which shuts out the +lake lies the long narrow <i lang="ja">sampan</i>, a white gondola, +carpeted and cushioned, a large torch flames on either side, and the +boatman stands ready behind. We sit on the cushions on the carpet, +for the canal is but just the height of a man, and but just the width +of two <i lang="ja">sampan</i>. The cement sides of the lock rise +up like walls; in front is the black arch of a tunnel, cut <span +class="pagenum">182</span>like a tiny doorway in the base of the great +green mountain. A moment, and we are inside, in the pitch blackness; +rushing swiftly, silently along in the freshness of a subterranean +night. The two huge torches that we carry show the darkness falling like +a thick curtain before, behind us; and the silence is the silence of +infinite ages asleep.</p> + +<p>The rhythm of the rushing water passes like a breath through the +darkness, but the speed is unfelt. Move your hand beyond the side of +the boat, and the contact of the wall will tear all the skin from the +knuckles in one swift scrape. For the water rushes, rushes silent in the +darkness, not a current but a force.</p> + +<p>Suddenly in the blackness there is a light; three nude figures +poised, their muscles strained, human strength pitted against the +water’s force. Their boat moves but slowly, we are by in a flash. The +naked orange figures form but one picture, one posture against the +blackness, a living red group from the black urns of Greece; seen, gone; +and the darkness drops down in thick curtains all around.</p> + +<p>Swiftly the water rushes, silent, the rhythmic breathing of black +night. The darkness deepens, deepens; then cracks. A thin, thin slit +parts black from black, and slowly grows a narrow streak of faintest +grey.</p> + +<p>It is light; light like the thinnest edge of a sword set in the +far distance. But the crack broadens, widens, rounds, and grows by +imperceptible degrees into an open archway, showing the bright water and +the green hills beyond. And swiftly we rush towards the light, while +the little picture no bigger than the reflection on a camera grows +curves and outlines, swells here, retreats there, and passes from a flat +reflection into a rounded reality.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">183</span>The tunnel itself is no longer +black. The walls, the rounded roof, lie like shadows, deep brown, +growing quickly greyer. And above, on either side, the bats are clinging +thickly, in long rows.</p> + +<p>We shoot into the light and see that walls and boat are covered with +a fluttering half-dead mass of ghost-grey moths. They coat the tunnel +from wall to roof, they lie in struggling heaps on boat and carpet, our +clothes are full of them.</p> + +<p>With one last swift glide we are out of the grey shadow, out under +the blue sky. The green hills rise on either side, the water dimples in +the sun. Slowly the grey moths flutter back to the darkness. For through +the heart of the mountain Lake Biwa has come to Kyoto.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">184</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="SRSIX"> + <span class="line-height3">IX</span><br> + <span>THE INLAND SEA</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The little steamer lay tilted up against the end of the pier, for +all the waters of the ocean were rushing madly through the Straits of +Shimonoseki into the Inland Sea. The waters lay encircled as a lake, +for the space between the inner and the outer strait is narrow, but +they ran swift as a mountain river. The square-sailed junks, all sails +set, were racing down the stream in the very eye of the wind, while +those coming up with a strong breeze behind them hardly seemed to stir. +And the little steamer at the end of the pier tilted herself up higher +and higher.</p> + +<p>She was a foreign-built boat, though only about the size of a +launch, but she looked like a Moorish house afloat, for all the boat +was cabin, and all the deck was roof, whitewashed, ribbed roof, with a +striped awning. As we left the pier and struck the full force of the +current, the striped awning and the uneven deck dipped down and down +until the Moorish roof turned Gothic. We were in the full force of the +current now, and tearing down the stream with, as somebody said, “all +our engines going the wrong way.” Up the side of the boat the water +climbed, pulling it down with long strong hands, until the flat deck +was turned to a gable roof.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">185</span>For five breathless minutes we +balanced between air and water, and then we were through the inner +strait which turns the waters of the Inland Sea between Moji and +Shimonoseki into one big lake, and the coast of the South Island began +to fall away. The tide was running less swiftly now, the ridge of our +gable roof sank slowly into the water, and the little steamer floated a +white, flat-roofed, Moorish house once more.</p> + +<p>“There is nothing,” said the steward, “for the <i lang="ja">Ijin +San</i> to eat.”</p> + +<p>He had been standing behind us, balancing himself on the steep gable +roof, for some while, but the current and the laws of gravitation had +been absorbing all our attention, and like a true Japanese he was much +too polite to interrupt.</p> + +<p>“There is nothing, nothing,” said he, “to eat.”</p> + +<p>For the rare missionary, or the rarer tourist, who patronises the +coasting steamer of the Inland Sea comes provided as for an Arctic +expedition.</p> + +<p>“But we shall eat Japanese food,” we explained.</p> + +<p>He bowed, a low, polite bow, but I do not think he believed us. Then +he went away, and returned bearing foreign cups with saucers, full of a +hot brown liquor called, he told us triumphantly, “coffee.” It was of +the kind bought ready mixed in cakes, and made with hot water. We were +pleased to know it <i>was</i> coffee, and the attention touched us, +still, Japanese tea would have tasted better. We thought the pinky-brown +soup flavoured with orange peel, the fried fish with chestnut preserve, +the custard stuffed with shrimps, and the bowls of rice eaten with +salted plums and spiced roots off which we dined infinitely preferable; +and the steward who fanned us with one hand, and served us <span +class="pagenum">186</span>with the other, saw that there was “something +for us to eat.”</p> + +<p>It was eight o’clock when we climbed the steep ladder which led to +our Moorish roof, eight o’clock on a July evening, and already the +tall, deep-dented mountains of Kyushu lay dark and indistinct. They lay +cut sharp against a twilight sky as though they had no thickness. And +slowly the coast-line fell away grey into the sea. Kyushu was dying as +the ship and sun moved on, Shikoku was but a blur upon the ocean, and +between them the open sea made a pathway to the sky, all silver-grey and +trembling, a road of light to that sunken light beyond.</p> + +<p>The sun had set, and the fleeting twilight of the East was night +already. Japan’s green hills were turning grey. Night held sky and +islands fast, but the pathway shone and trembled until it died in +the last long streaks of light on the edge of the horizon. Night was +come.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>From Kobé to Shimonoseki stretch the two hundred and forty miles of +the Inland Sea; and in it are gathered together most of the islands +of Japan. Continuous as a mainland the coast of the big island runs +down, while on the other side Kyushu and Shikoku with ancient Awaji, +the firstborn of the Gods, dip their high green mountains in the sea; +between, in lines and clusters, lie thousands upon thousands of baby +islands; some large enough to hold a village, others too small for a +single house; some green with trees and rice-fields, others a mere speck +of rock reaching up out of the water. From morning until night we sat +under the striped awning of our roof top, and watched as they glided +past, green islands on the <span class="pagenum">187</span>blue water; +and always on our left hand the tall, deep-dented mountains of the +mainland ran on and on.</p> + +<p>In the morning sunlight Miyajima’s granite <i lang="ja">torī</i> +stood knee-deep in the pale blue waves. Its temple roofs were brown +against the dark, green pines, and the sacred island, where neither +Birth nor Death may come, slept blue-black with shadows in the dawn.</p> + +<p>And still they glided by, the green islands on the blue water. The +sun travelled up the sky; it grew hot—hotter.</p> + +<p>At mid-day we had reached the narrow channel, where mainland and +island are so close that the sea is but a canal between the houses; and +the children of the two villages throw stones across the stream. Here, +at the end of the passage, a great stone lantern stands deep in the idle +water. Then, abruptly, as we turned, the canal was gone; and the wide, +blue sea lay shimmering among the green islands in the summer sun.</p> + +<p>Under the striped awning of our roof-top it was cool, but outside the +sun was smiting sea and land, until sea and islands quivered, quivered, +losing themselves, colour and outline, in one mist of shimmering, +shadowy blue. And the ship and the sun travelled on.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Five sturdy naval cadets shared our luncheon with us, and knew the +number and the tonnage of England’s smallest gunboats, and for all their +blue uniform and “foreign” dirk, their <i lang="ja">Sayonara</i> as they +left us were courteous with an old-time courtesy.</p> + +<p>And the sun grew hot and hotter. The light like a mist wrapt sea +and islands round. The continuous quivering hurt. On the other side +the deep-dented mountains of the mainland, grown bare and scraped +<span class="pagenum">188</span>now, caught the sunshine on their +rocky patches, and sent it in glittering arrows of light across the +still air. And yet in the brown villages, at the mountains’ feet, the +blue-tuniced, brown-legged peasants were working in the sun; and at each +stopping-place the bareheaded men and women came off in boats to offer +their fruit and <i lang="ja">saké</i> in long-handled fishing-nets, +scent-bottles full of <i lang="ja">saké</i> flavoured with plum-blossom, +<i lang="ja">saké</i> flavoured with chrysanthemum or peach-blossom, +white rice, “woman’s” <i lang="ja">saké</i>, <i lang="ja">saké</i> +to ward off old age, or all and any of the nine different kinds +of <i lang="ja">saké</i> for which Tomotsu is famous, and all in +scent-bottles, artistically tied up and labelled, and costing, bottle +and all, <i lang="ja">is-sen</i>. One old lady was highly indignant when +after much excitement we had contrived to haul up in the fishing-net +the exact scent-bottle we coveted, and had sent her down one sen in +return, for the patois of the district makes <i lang="ja">is-sen</i> of +<i lang="ja">jis-sen</i> (10 sen = 2½<i>d.</i>), to the unaccustomed +ear.</p> + +<p>And the ship and the sun travelled on.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As the shadows grew the quivering ceased, the light no longer like a +veil of darkness hid the land and sea. The islands grew a gradual green, +as they drowsed on the clear blue water. And slowly the still sea opened +wider; the islands passed more slowly until they ceased to pass at all; +and then on the blue water there grew that indefinite look of ocean +space. The Inland Sea was ending. Away on the still sweep of waters lay +Awaji, the First-born of the Gods, the Eden of Japan.</p> + +<p>“And when,” says the legend, “the first man and the first woman met +after they had journeyed round a pillar set upon the land the woman +cried, ‘How joyful <span class="pagenum">189</span>a thing it is to +meet a lovely man!’ Whereupon the man, displeased that language had +been invented by a woman, required the circuit to be made again, that +he might speak first. So again they journeyed round the pillar, and +again they met, and loudly the man cried out, ‘How joyful a thing it +is to meet a lovely woman!’ And thus,” says the chronicle, “was Speech +invented, and the Art of Love and the human race begun.”</p> + +<p>Dim grey on a grey sea lay Awaji; before us stretched the broad sweep +of the landless ocean; the Inland Sea, dreaming among its islands, lay +behind.<span class="pagenum">190</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum">191</span> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LAND_OF_THE_GODS">THE LAND OF THE GODS</h2> +</div> + +<div class="center"> + <span class="pagenum">192</span> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“That which I saw seemed to me a smile of the Universe.”</p> + <p class="right">“Paradiso,” canto xxvii.</p> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">193</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>ACROSS THE LAGOON</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>We sat still on the deck, with our backs propped against portions of +the ship’s cargo, and watched.</p> + +<p>It was necessary to sit still, for a rise of only a few inches would +have sent the awning over our heads into the blue waters of the lagoon; +and each newcomer, as he stepped from the wharf on to this Kensington +Garden craft, doubled himself in two and stayed so. First-class +passengers lay flat, for a square hole in the side of the boat opened +into a three-feet-high saloon elegantly carpeted; we had matting. When +the first half of the passenger was inside, a big-headed boy removed his +<i lang="ja">gheta</i> and piled them up on the deck, reshoeing him in +the same way when he emerged. The difficulty of extracting foreign boots +in this manner would alone have deterred us from using our first-class +tickets; and then the deck passengers under the awning had at least six +inches more room, besides ventilation. So we sat on the matting and +watched.</p> + +<p>Anything out of a toy-shop so tiny as this absurd little steamer was +never seen. She might with generosity have been fifteen feet long; yet +she carried some twenty passengers besides cargo down the lagoon and up +the river, from Matsué to Shobara, <span class="pagenum">194</span>with +safety and Oriental speed; and did it twice a day too.</p> + +<p>The carpeted saloon was reasonably filled with half a dozen +passengers; the deck overflowed with the rest. The brown-skinned, +bullet-headed, ugly, good-natured Japanese peasant, sitting on his +heels with his dark blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i> tucked up above his +brown legs, and his fan in his hand; or his little wife, wrinkled and +meek, her white cotton towel, with its bamboo design in blue, folded +round her head and tucked up under her hair behind in something between +a night-cap and a sun-bonnet; quiet and sweet, but never abject, and +always respected. Here and there a shopkeeper or a clerk, or some one +from the town in a grey <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, with a face pale yellow +against the other’s brown. We all sat bare-footed on the matting to +keep it clean, with our <i lang="ja">gheta</i> in our hands, fanning +ourselves with rice-paper fans decorated with storks flying across the +moon, or sprays of plum-blossom or pine-trees, each man of us showing +his well-turned leg and thigh, with all the muscles brought into strong +relief by the weight of the body on the toes. All polite, all amused, +all conversational.</p> + +<p>After a great deal of snorting on the part of our very small steamer, +we casually left the wharf and shot into the lagoon. Matsué, hidden by +the sunlight, disappeared; and even the wide sweep of waters wavered +indistinct beneath the hard glitter of the morning light. It was not yet +nine o’clock, and already the distant blue shore was blurred with the +shimmering heat, and the near green one fitful with the scissor-grinding +of the <i>semmi</i>. The heat was dropping down on the world with the +swiftness of a tropical night and the glitter of it hurt.</p> + +<p>Away over the surface of the waters a red-brown <span +class="pagenum">195</span>head floated, lazy, the nimbus of straw hat +against the light glowing yellow as a halo. Slowly, idly, the head moved +over the water, suspended between blue and blue. Too hot to doubt or +question or deny, I accepted the head and shut my eyes, only to find on +opening them again two, three, a dozen heads strolling slowly over the +lagoon.</p> + +<p>“Honourably please to understand, dredging for mussels,” said a voice +at my elbow. And the passengers repeated the information in a sort of +Greek chorus with many bows.</p> + +<p>Matsué’s only representative of the vast world of the <i +lang="ja">Ijin San</i> is one missionary; but these peasants, with the +refinement of true breeding, accepted our outlandish dress and faces, +our boots on their matting too, without a stare of curiosity, although +when our attention was apparently absorbed elsewhere, the whiteness +of our skins, the aristocratic bridge of our noses (it is only the <i +lang="fr">noblesse</i> in Japan, and not all of them, who possess an +aquiline nose), were commented on with interest and admiration.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The near green shore ran in and out, and in and out, wooded thick +with the slim green fingers of the bamboo, until it opened into a +tiny green bay, with a thin bamboo landing-stage running out into the +silent water. Here we stopped with such an amount of “ay-aying” on the +part of the captain—a short man in a grey <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, +who sat in a hole in the deck the other side of the funnel reading +Chinese poetry—and the crew, a tall youth in “foreign” trousers, who +greased wheels, that we might have been an Atlantic liner approaching +an unknown shore. There were no passengers for the invisible <span +class="pagenum">196</span>village behind the landing-stage but +the captain, who climbed over the side of the boat up on to the +landing-stage, and disappeared.</p> + +<p>By-and-by from out of the green there came a charming little figure +in a sea-blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, lined with lacquer-red, followed +by a maid bearing neatly matted parcels. The crew wiped its hands and +moved forward, while the sea-blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, kneeling +on the landing-stage, handed down the parcels on to the boat for safe +carriage to Shobara. They seemed to require quantities of explanation +those parcels, accompanied by irrepressible giggles, principal giggles +on the part of the mistress, and secondary giggles on the part of the +maid; while the crew listened, replied, grew eloquent. It was one of +the most effective flirtations I ever saw, but alas! conducted in that +Izumo dialect so hard for the Tokyo-taught foreigner to understand. And +it went on like the hum of the <i>semmi</i>, while the water, the world, +and the boat drowsed in the heat.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Suddenly, from out of the nowhere, appeared our captain, who swung +himself down from the landing-stage on to the boat as imperturbably +as a stone Buddha. The sea-blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, still on its +knees at the edge of the water, swayed in one last enchanting giggle +that showed all the lacquer-red linings in a quiver of flame, while the +supplementary giggles of the stout little maid followed us regretfully +out of the bay.</p> + +<p>With more “ay-aying” we shot back into the hard glitter of the +lagoon. The captain retired to his hole and his Chinese poetry, +the crew had completely disappeared, but the big-headed boy, +emerging from some unknown region behind the captain, carried +out a <i lang="ja">hibachi</i> and a kettle. He set the kettle +on the brass <span class="pagenum">197</span>tripod over the <i +lang="ja">hibachi</i> and blew up the charcoal fire with a large fan; +and we all watched him with interest as he made Japanese tea in a green +china teapot, rather larger than the kettle, with a black handle and +with dividing lines of black separating the green into leaf-like petals. +At this we all sat up, thirstier with anticipation, and the little +china bowls filled from the green kettle-teapot vanished from the tray. +Then the big-headed boy handed round <i lang="ja">manju</i> cakes (like +boiled chestnuts in a white coat of sweet rice-paste), and collected +payment, one <i lang="ja">sen</i> (a farthing). We all promptly demanded +more tea, and the little bowls were filled and refilled until the green +kettle-teapot ran dry; and we all subsided again. Only the <i>tink, +tink</i>, of the metal pipes, knocking out the glowing wad of tobacco on +to the deck in order to light a fresh pipeful from the burning remains +of the old one, broke the drowsy silence. Three little whiffs and the +acorn bowl of a Japanese pipe is empty, so the <i>tink, tink</i>, of the +metal on the deck was rhythmic as the <i>vee-um</i> of the <i>semmi</i>. +They were all smoking, men and women, and the scent of the bright brown +tobacco, fine-cut as hair, lay under the awning.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The near green shore ran in and out, and in and out, until all the +wide sheet of glittering light, spread over the blue waters, lay behind +us; in front a bright green bank of rushes hemmed in the light. The +lagoon was ended, and still we went on, seemingly with the intention of +stranding ourselves among the bulrushes. But the bulrushes stood back as +we came on, and ranging themselves on either hand, left a water pathway +down which we went, until the bank of rushes following the lagoon lay +far <span class="pagenum">198</span>behind, and we found ourselves +in a narrow river that seemed half natural stream and half artificial +canal.</p> + +<p>Our unnautical captain, who, ever since we had entered the rushes, +had been intoning directions to the invisible crew as though he were +reading poetry aloud, got up out of his hole. The <i>tink, tink</i>, of +the metal pipes on the wooden deck died gradually away as each smoker +knocked out his last wad of tobacco and put away his pipe. Then with a +sudden and terrific snort the absurd little steamer, an end in either +bank, stood still. The big-headed boy, hanging over the side of the +boat, kicked violently with his heels, while the unexpected apparition +of the crew’s head rose up at our feet. The head took a look round +and sank again, and the engines rattled. Still with an end in either +bank, and with the big-headed boy clasping the gunwale in his arms, we +proceeded to turn slowly round, and then, assisted by several ropes +and several haulers, to back majestically into the main street of +Shobara.</p> + +<p>Our journey was ended. The big-headed boy, leaving the gunwale, +rushed to reshoe the first-class passengers as they wriggled from the +saloon on to the roadway. The bullet-headed peasants and their little +brown wives bowing low bows to each other, the captain and to the <i +lang="ja">Ijin San</i>, took up their bundles and trudged off, while +we, like a Royal arrival, were received by the authorities of Shobara, +in the person of a fierce little policeman in a new white suit, and +duly escorted the three-and-a-half paces from the ship’s side to the +tea-house door in a procession, the people lining up the way.</p> + +<p>And the last we saw of that absurd little steamer, as we turned into +the tea-house, was a glimpse of the crew looking down the funnel, while +the big-headed boy, standing amidships, handed out the cargo to its +owners on either bank.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">199</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGII"> + <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> + <span>TO KIZUKI</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The green earth lay burning in the sun, wrapt round and round with +heat. Between the tall blue lines of hills it stretched, the flat green +floor of a deep blue cavern, whose roof-top was the sky. And through the +green the long white road ran out of sight. The only living thing that +moved was the running <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, all else lay sleeping +in the bright night-time of heat, a heavy drugged sleep that neither +rested nor refreshed.</p> + +<p>Inert the green earth stretched between the blue hills, weighed +down with heat; a palpable heat through which we moved as a fish moves +through water; a visible heat which was lying there heavy on the land, +floating round the blue hills, quivering against the white sky, humming +in the still air, rolling in great drops down the bronzed back of the <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, drowsing me to sleep as with the soft waving of +a heated fan, a heavy, encompassing heat that stunned.</p> + +<p>And always the white road ran on through the green earth, and the +long, straight lines of hills on either side shut off the sky.</p> + +<p>Between the fields of rice, here and there among the green, a +brown-thatched house like an open shed rose up, its roof supported on +the square pillars of the four corner posts, its walls rolled out of +sight. And on the <span class="pagenum">200</span>matted floor the +women and children lay sleeping, their necks supported on a narrow +stool; the men stretched on their backs, or lying prone, their heads +between their arms.</p> + +<p>Not a living thing in house or field, in land or road, was moving +save the running <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>. Heat had slain the world and +life itself was senseless.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On either side the straight blue hills stretched out of sight, the +green earth lay like a narrow passage-way between; and on and on we ran, +until the green floor contracted, and the white road became a broad +still street, where brown houses shut out the hills.</p> + +<p>A rapid spurt through the empty village, for a <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> never stops except at the top of his speed, and +we arrive at the tea-house. Dazed, weary, and stiff with two hours of +continuous running, we struggle from under the shawls and wraps that +keep out the sun, and sink on to the matting; while the crowd which has +grown no man knoweth how, from out of an empty village, stands silently, +staring. With equal suddenness a small policeman starts up in front. +He inquires our names, ages, residence and destination; orders back +the crowd with one wave of his arm, commands that we be taken into an +inner apartment, remote from public gaze; and, in short, declares we may +repose on him.</p> + +<p>We are taken into an inner apartment, a room that is almost cool, +while the crowd drifts patiently round the house trying to look in. One +little wide-eyed <i lang="ja">nēsan</i> brings us tea, and then house +and world sink back into slumber again.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">nēsan</i>, reluctant, but at last dismissed, +lies down on the matting, beyond the courtyard, and falls <span +class="pagenum">201</span>asleep. Her neck rests on a narrow wooden +pillow that has the curves of a <i lang="ja">torī</i>; she lies like a +long-stalked flower on the ground, rigid, quite graceful. Every fold +of her <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, every twist of her hair, is in place. +She is fast asleep, unconscious, perfectly tidy, with a neatness that +has passed into its essence, grace, and is natural as the feathers to a +bird.</p> + +<p>We cannot sleep, the mere transition from the greater heat outside to +the cooler heat of this open matted space makes us wakeful. It is cooler +here actually, in degree, and imaginatively, from the green palms of +the baby garden. The garden of a doll’s house, which any moderate-sized +bath-towel would have roofed, yet with a forest of dwarf palm-trees in +one corner, a winding pool in another, the cool grey outlines of a stone +lantern to hold the eyes, and a sense of still greenness, of limpid +freshness, which not rivers of water or forests of giant trees could +more distinctly convey. To look at that garden was to take a mental +bath and drown out the sense of heat. But the heat itself remained, +intense and stagnant, a heavy presence in the house that permeated all +things.</p> + +<p>Out in the courtyard one shaft of burning light shone down, turning +the cotton towel on its bamboo line to a white-hot banner, the polished +passage to a molten pool, while the water in the big stone font was warm +as condensed steam. Like the flaming sword of the Archangel Michael, +the shaft of burning light cut the passage-way in two, and the sharp +white-heat of it seemed to cut. It was absolutely still, only the heat +moved awake in a house and a world asleep.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Very slowly the little <i lang="ja">nēsan</i> sat up; some one had +<span class="pagenum">202</span>called her. A moment, and she was on +her feet, neat as a growing flower.</p> + +<p>“The <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> awaits,” she said, kneeling on the +matting, “when it honourably pleases the august ones to come.”</p> + +<p>Then she touched her forehead to the floor and waited for what it +honourably pleased the august ones to do.</p> + +<p>They came, down the polished passage, under the flaming sword +of light, out into the open space before the tea-house, where the +little policeman waited to command them to be packed into their <i +lang="ja">kuruma</i>, to deliver stringent orders for their safe conduct +to the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, to authoritatively bid them the +politest of <i lang="ja">sayonara</i>.</p> + +<p>The crowd had disappeared, harangued out of existence; the village +street was empty as a desert, the houses dead; and then the steep line +of blue hills grew up on either side, shutting in the sky, and the long +white road stretched away through the green earth.</p> + +<p>Palpable, visible, the heat lay over the land, quivering against +the white sky, floating round the blue hills, humming in the still +air, drowsing me into a somnambulant life that was neither sleep nor +waking.</p> + +<p>Between the green earth and the white sky the telegraph wires cut a +bronze line against the quivering blue; and the rows of little birds, +all sitting with their tails to the road, hung drowsily there, rows on +rows of them. And still the long white road ran on and on.</p> + +<p>Beneath the short thick hair of the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> +the heat gathered in wet patches on the white scalp, rolled <span +class="pagenum">203</span>in big drops over the black head, trickled +down the bronze neck, and was wiped off with one rapid movement of the +blue cotton towel, as the running <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> sped swiftly +on; gathered again, rolled again, trickled again, was wiped dry again; +gathered, rolled, trickled, until the automatic movements, repeated and +repeated, grew part of Time itself. They were Time.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then I awoke. It was as if some one had slid a thin lining of fresh +air along the tops of the blue hills, beneath the burning sky. A thin, +thin sheet of fresh air, but the green earth gave a great sigh, the <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> a little shake, and I awoke.</p> + +<p>The peasants in their brown thatched houses, open as a shed, were +stirring, the naked red figures in their white cloths were moving down +the road.</p> + +<p>In the fields the long bamboo poles that shot up out of the green +earth like masts were dipping up and down, drawing water for the thirsty +rice.</p> + +<p>The little birds on the telegraph wires were chirping sleepily, +flying off in twos and threes, and settling down again, audibly fussing +over the laziness of their friends and relations.</p> + +<p>The bright night-time of heat was over and gone.</p> + +<p>I sat up in my <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> and looked. We were running +through green rice-fields, under a blue sky. And it was a hot summer’s +afternoon.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">204</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGIII"> + <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> + <span>IZUMO’S GREAT TEMPLE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>“So they made fast the temple pillars on the nethermost rock-bottom, +and they made high the cross-beams to the plain of high heaven;” and +the god Onamuji, the “Master of the Great Land,” King of Izumo, in +accordance with his compact with high heaven, entered into that temple +and dwelt there.</p> + +<p>So the province of Izumo and the kingdom of Western Japan passed +under the rule of the great Sun-Goddess whose descendants endure to this +day. But the Master of the Great Land, the god Onamuji, is worshipped +from end to end of the Emperor’s dominions, and his temple and his +priests are sacred as the mirror of the Sun-Goddess in their eyes.</p> + +<p>All through the year, the pilgrims in thousands journey into Izumo +to remote Kizuki, whose name to their ears is still resonant with the +beating (<i lang="ja">tsuku</i>) of the pestles (<i lang="ja">ki</i>) +which made the foundations of that first great temple firm and +everlasting, while in the month of October the immortal gods themselves, +from every shrine throughout the land, come to visit Onamuji, and that +desolate month known in Japan as <i lang="ja">kami-na-zuki</i> (month +without gods) is called in Izumo alone <i lang="ja">kami-ari-zuki</i> +(the month with gods).</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">205</span>At the foot of the everlasting hills +the temple stands, and the far-off ripple of the Western Sea, half a +memory, half a dream, wanders through its sunlit courts, a sound to +listening ears.</p> + +<p>The long dark avenue of twisted trees, so old that many are almost +limbless, the three giant <i lang="ja">torī</i>, hewn in solid +granite, lie behind us; we have reached the white sunlight of the +outer temple space, and the scattered buildings of the shrine are in +front. Our landlord, in his Sunday-best <i lang="ja">kimono</i> of +silver-grey, leads the way. He has walked, since we left the inn, +exactly three paces behind us, while three paces behind him came our <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i>. In Kizuki it has not been considered consonant +with our dignity to allow us to move anywhere without them.</p> + +<p>Our landlord, with the profoundest bow, moves on in front. He has a +letter to deliver on our behalf, so that when we reach the long, low +building at the end of the first enclosure, an authoritative young +priest in long white robes is there to greet us. He wears a wonderful +head-dress of black lacquer, the model of a meat-cover, tied on under +the chin, with two red cords in the manner of a doll’s bonnet; but his +chin is human, not inflexible, so I watch to see the meat-cover tumble. +It never does, not even when with a low bow he invites us up the steep +polished steps into the room above. We take off our shoes and climb.</p> + +<p>The room is long and low, with a “foreign” table covered with a +green baize cloth. There are bright blue velvet chairs, an inkstand, +pens; just a second-hand committee-room greatly the worse for wear, +which impresses our landlord, so that his strangled h’s of admiration +sound like paroxysms of coughing. We sit on the velvet chairs and wait. +Our landlord, <span class="pagenum">206</span>the letter and the +priest have disappeared into an inner apartment. And the sound of much +discussion comes to our ears. “How far are we to be allowed to go?” And +then the terms “learned <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i>,” and “august sage” +reach us. At last they are all agreed. The “learned <i lang="ja">Ijin +San</i>,” the “honourable teacher,” the “august sage” shall be permitted +to enter the very Holy of Holies; but the “honourable interior,” being +a woman, must not cross the sacred threshold. Then there is a long +pause before the authoritative young priest comes out and explains the +position to us. We bow the profoundest thanks and follow him down the +steps, and the reason for the pause is evident. He has changed his +clothes, and is now in the fullest and most resplendent of sacerdotal +robes.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Under the shadow of the gate of the <i lang="ja">ita-gaki</i>, +the second enclosing fence, stands the High Priest himself, whose +fathers for two thousand years have led the temple rites. He is the +eighty-second descendant of the mythic Susa-no-wo, and is still termed +by many <i lang="ja">Iki-gami</i>, which is the “Living God.” An old, +old man, whose face is almost white, a mystic sacred face, quiet as the +eternal smile of the Eternal Buddha. He wears a lacquered head-dress, +the most imposing of meat-covers, and his robes are of white and purple +adorned with gold.</p> + +<p>We pass within the <i lang="ja">ita-gaki</i>, and the landlord, the +<i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, the crowd of other worshippers are left +behind. Before us rises the low fence of the “jewelled hedge,” which +encloses the sacred shrine itself. Again before the gateway there is +a pause. The minor priests, even our authoritative young friend, do +not enter here. It is explained to us that the “honourable <span +class="pagenum">207</span>interior” must not pass within the temple. +She is a woman, but it is permitted to her, as the wife of the most +“honourable one,” to look into the shrine from a room above the gateway. +The High Priest removes his sandals, we our shoes, and over the rounded, +water-washed, grey pebbles, hot as burning plough-shares, we enter the +holy court.</p> + +<p>A long, low wooden building is the temple, primæval in its form, the +broad ends of its roof-tree sticking up like pointed anchors through the +roof. Six feet around it on every side the pebbles stop, and the space +is filled with the whitest, smoothest sand. All those who go up to the +god leave the mark of their feet behind.</p> + +<p>Within the temple there is nothing; bare space, dim, obscure; but +the High Priest, reverently kneeling on the matting, creates the god. +And into that narrow empty space the shadow of the Eternal Presence +comes.</p> + +<p>Slowly the splash of the breaking waves drifts into the stillness, +faint as the whisper of God in the heart of man, a still, small voice. +Over the temple there is peace, the peace of two thousand years, +unbroken, sacred. And the dreamy ripple grows a sound in the silence. +Faint, faint, faint, is it the song of the limitless sea, the voice of +the peace and the stillness, or a broken murmur of the beyond that the +listening pilgrim hears? Half a memory, half a dream, it dies at the +gate of the shrine, where the stir of the world grows loud; yet the soul +has heard, has believed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Out in the sunlit court beyond the “jewelled hedge” the little +group of priests still wait. And as we come slowly over the hot round +stones, our shoes once more upon our feet, they greet us with an added +respect. Even the “honourable interior,” whose sacredness is <span +class="pagenum">208</span>but indirect, transmitted through a space of +court and two open <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, has become a personage.</p> + +<p>The old, old priest, with the face of a Chinese sage, goes on in +front. We cross the second court obliquely over the stone-grey pebbles, +each rounded with the rubbing of running water, and enter another +building, the treasure-house of the temple. Here in a shaded upper +chamber, where the white sunlight filters through the yellow matting, a +long low shelf runs round, and on it lie the temple’s treasures—relics +of dead heroes and of living legend. One by one the High Priest points +them out, and in the thin frail voice of age tells their story: A <i +lang="ja">biwa</i>, a sword, some pieces of tattered brocade, the old, +old relics of Old Japan. The tales are long, as the old man tells them +with the slow-moving utterance of one who has had eighty years in which +to speak. But there is a personal vibration in his voice that brings +back the long two thousand years of service that he and his have given +to the temple, recalls the eighty-two High Priests, his fathers, who +join the living man before us to the god Susa-no-wo, from whom the Great +Master, Onamuji himself, descended.</p> + +<p>All this time, the authoritative young priest has been respectfully +but quite obviously waiting to show us something. At last he draws +us across the room to where a life-sized plaster statue stands, the +Sun-Goddess herself in the flowing robes of Old Japan, a figure full of +majesty and power, with round her neck a string of those prehistoric +jewels of which the <i lang="ja">Kojiki</i> is full, comma-shaped +polished jewels of jade and crystal, threaded on a scarlet string. And +in the loose sleeves of the plaster figure and about the folds at the +neck are touches of brightest red. A modern plaster statue of a figure +old to unbelief.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">209</span>And the young man tells the story. +He is so eager, so proud to relate what has indeed become the great +central fact of the story, that who or what the statue is, or how or why +it came there we never hear; but—it had gained a prize at the Chicago +Exhibition!</p> + +<p>And all the rest of the clergy intone a little chorus of triumph and +delight. Even the High Priest himself seems pleased, and a faint smile +passes over his face as he bids us examine the ticket.</p> + +<p>It is quite true. From the out-stretched wrist of the Sun-Goddess +hangs a much-worn ticket, stating in printed Roman <a href="#209B" +id="209A">capitals</a> that “This Exhibit has won a Prize at the +World’s Fair of Chicago.” And the figure stands there, in the long +low treasure-house of Izumo’s Great Temple, while the white sunlight, +filtering through the yellow matting, falls on the white-robed priests +who serve a temple worshipped through two thousand years, falls on the +old High Priest with the mystic sacred face, whose fathers stretch back +into the mists of Time, and falling, trembles on the faded ticket on the +arm of the Sun-Goddess:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <p class="inline-block"> + <span class="smcap">World’s Fair, Chicago.</span><br> + <span class="line-height3">This is to certify——</span> + </p> +</div> + +<p>“If the august sage will honourably please to descend.”</p> + +<p>And we descended.</p> + +<p>In the hot still court the High Priest takes his leave, with +long polite phrases of strictest ceremony. The authoritative young +priest who escorts us back through the <i lang="ja">ita-gaki</i> +into the outer court is equally ceremonious, and our polite +Japanese is heavily taxed to keep up with him. At the outer court +he bids us <i lang="ja">sayonara</i>, and our landlord and our <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, who have been respectfully waiting, <span +class="pagenum">210</span>form into procession again. We have become +great personages in their eyes, very great personages indeed; and the +pilgrims, kneeling before the shrine in the outer court, look at us with +reverence. We have entered the Holy of Holies, we have visited the god +Onamuji in his shrine.</p> + +<p>It is with the lowest of bows that our landlord leads us out of the +side of the temple court, westward, to where the tall dark trees of the +mountain have grown down into the plain. Here, set in the silence of the +cryptomerias at the foot of the everlasting hills, is the home of the +High Priest. So still, so ordered, so spotless, the house and garden lie +like a snowdrop in a forest. And the sound of the sea drifts in as we +stand.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then for the last time we cross the courtyard where the pilgrims +are praying in the sunshine, and the temple dancing girls, dim figures +in the distance, glide round and round in the long slow circles of +the sacred <i lang="ja">kagura</i>. Court and temple are burning in +the sunlight. Beyond the “hedge” and the “jewelled hedge” the great +beam-ends of the roof-tree rise out through the temple’s thatch. Within +the shrine hangs the mirror of the great Sun-Goddess. For the heart of +man, says the Shintō faith, is good and pure. And even as this mirror, +when undimmed, reflects the sun, so in the tranquil soul God’s self is +imaged.</p> + +<p>Over temple and courtyard there is peace; the peace of long centuries +dead; the peace of enduring belief. Down from the mists of the past +the teaching comes: “Know thyself; in the stillness of peace, know but +thyself, and thou shalt see God.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">211</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGIV"> + <span class="line-height3">IV</span><br> + <span>KIZUKI’S BAY</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The Sea of Japan, as it wandered down the western coast, took a +sudden and unexpected bite out of the land of Izumo; and that bite is +the bay of Kizuki. It is the tiniest of bays, with but half a mile of +sandy shore between the two steep lines of hills that run straight out +to sea: green hills that stretch so far, the green has time to grow a +misty blue before they curve toward the water in a deep blurred line. +Landwards a length of sandy dune shuts out the village street; and the +little bay, set between the hills, and cut off from the sea, lies like +an ebbing lake.</p> + +<p>On the sandy shore it is still and cool; and from the dozens of +Japanese families comes only the high pitched laughter of the playing +children. Kizuki is the Margate of the West, and the pilgrims who +journey to its shrine stay to breathe its sea air, and combine a +religious pilgrimage with a summer holiday in a manner so usual in +Japan.</p> + +<p>The big hotel under the great north wall of green, with its ground +floor, and, wonder of wonders, two, yes—two storeys, is full. So full +that the landlord was forced to tuck away his distinguished guests in a +back room of the old inn up the village street. The square two-storied +house, with all its <i lang="ja">shōji</i> pushed back and <span +class="pagenum">212</span>the contents and occupants of every room +exposed to public view, looks for all the world like a big doll’s house +with the door gone. And its inhabitants eat, drink, play, laugh, sing +with the natural unconcern which we could only reach secure behind +brick walls, curtained windows, and venetian blinds. The unconcern is +so simple, so unaffected, that the Yokohama foreigner, feeling dimly +that his own behaviour could never be so natural under such conditions, +suspects “play acting,” and will sometimes speak of a “nation of +mountebanks” with the scorn of a man among monkeys.</p> + +<p>The hotel is built just where the blue beyond of the Western Sea, +glowing between the headlands, draws eye and mind away, adding the +unbroken curve of Infinity to the quiet lake’s rounded life.</p> + +<p>The sun has set; perhaps behind that great green wall he still drops +swiftly to the horizon, but in Kizuki there is twilight, a luminous +grey twilight that has no shadows, which, spreading, blots all colour +from the world. Between wall and wall of hill the sky stretches clear +and green. The bay is flooded with a golden light. And there, a black +line from gold to green, its base in the yellow water, its crest on the +sunset sky, stands Kizuki’s second wonder, the third beauty of Izumo—a +tall pointed rock. For the Japanese, who seek much more for line than +colour in their beauty, glory in its curves; and the little bay of +Kizuki owes its visitors not to the purity of its air, its fishing, +boating, bathing, or casino, but to the beauty of its solitary rock and +the nearness of its sacred temple.</p> + +<p>From shore to sky the luminous grey twilight climbs. The flood of +golden light is dead. The great green walls that make the bay are dark. +Only in the sky <span class="pagenum">213</span>the faintest stain of +colour lingers; and there the rock’s lone crest blots a black line upon +the dying green.</p> + +<p>My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, in his long parson’s coat and +waistcoat, blanched the purest white, asks if I have ever seen a bay +more beautiful. And all the dozens of Japanese families stand looking +out to sea, for the cult of the stone is in their hearts.</p> + +<p>Slowly the luminous twilight draws the world in Chinese ink. It +climbs the sky, and the colour dies; only the sombre lines of rock are +left.</p> + +<p>The little bay is grown a mystic <i lang="ja">kakemono</i>.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">214</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGV"> + <span class="line-height3">V</span><br> + <span>IN MATSUÉ</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>We had journeyed in trains and in steamers, in big boats and in +little boats, in <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> and <i lang="ja">sampan</i>, +and had reached the Land of the Gods—and the inn at Matsué.</p> + +<p>Not the least of our difficulties had been to find that inn, for our +landlord at Kyoto, on hearing we were bound for Matsué, had offered to +make all arrangements for us through a “friend in the Prefecture.” And +the arrangements had been made, but when we asked for explanations, the +address of the friend or the name of our inn, he only smiled, a polite +unexplanatory smile, spread out his hands with ceremony, and bowed. All +was “<i lang="ja">yoroshī</i>.”</p> + +<p>With this much information we had started, with this much and no more +we had arrived. The baby steamer ran alongside the wharf at Matsué, her +first-class passengers wriggled out of her cabin, her deck passengers +crawled from under the awning; and we sat still, our luggage piled +around us, wondering if, like the Peri at the Gates of Paradise, the +Land of the Gods would admit us or not.</p> + +<p>Just then, when the pause had become really embarrassing, a +white-uniformed policeman boarded the steamer; with much ceremony he +announced—under <span class="pagenum">215</span>the circumstances he +could hardly have inquired—that we were the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> +from Kyoto. We assented, and he promptly led us outside, where a tall, +loose-jointed Japanese, with a Red Indian face hatcheted out of iron +wood and wearing “foreign” clothes, stood waiting. The white-uniformed +policeman politely performed the ceremony of introduction, and stood +aside. This was the friend from the Prefecture; and once we had +thoroughly and properly and ceremoniously replied to this fact, which +took time, our friend from the Prefecture, who had the smile and the +teeth, and the difficulty in concealing them, of the famous Mr. Carker +(only he was amiable), introduced our landlord, a little, bright, +black squirrel of a man grasping an immense umbrella. More ceremony of +course, while the crowd gathered round and the policeman patrolled the +group. We were personages. One gesture from the amiable Carker of Matsué +Prefecture and five <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> burst through the crowd, +while twice as many assistants rushed off to bring out our luggage under +the eagle eye of the policeman; and with his personal assurances as to +our safety and comfort in Matsué, we and our luggage were packed into +three <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>, the amiable Carker and the black squirrel +of a landlord climbed into two more, and the procession started. The +policeman saluted; the crowd, at the most respectful distance, silently +stared; Matsué received her visitors as the most distinguished of +strangers.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, uplifted with pride, tore along at +the top of their speed in the exact centre of the road, and the traffic +scattered before us. We did not run, we flew, over the stone bridge +built just where the canal ends and the lagoon begins, up the long, +long street parallel to the lagoon, then a dive to the left <span +class="pagenum">216</span>over a canal bridge, a dash through a green +turning, another dive, another bridge over another canal, and with the +most imposing clatter we tore into a gravel court in front of the inn, +and pulled up short in the recess of the entrance. In an instant the +<i lang="ja">shōji</i> slipped aside and three women in dark blue <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> were bowing, knees and forehead, on the polished +wood. We had reached the inn at Matsué.</p> + +<p>The three figures got up, as we left our shoes on the long thick +block of rough-hewn granite which forms the front door-step between +the gravel and the house, and led us in a long procession to an open +matted space in the garden. This was our room. It had but half a +wall, where the <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i> stood; the other half was +open <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, leading to the house, and two square +pillars at the corners supported the roof. Here we all subsided upon +the kneeling-cushions in the strictest order of precedence, based on +nearness to the <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i>. Our black squirrel of a +landlord and the amiable Carker of the Prefecture, who had also arrived, +sat on their heels with great ceremony, though the “foreign” clothes +of our friend from the Prefecture got sadly in his way, and then the +interchange of polite phrases began. It was exhaustive, for they were, +oh! so ceremonious, and although two little girls with goggle eyes +fanned us vigorously, and the blue waters of the lagoon filled what +should have been wall in front of us, we grew hotter and hotter.</p> + +<p>Then the plain daughter of our comely landlady brought in an immense +white meat-dish of railway-buffet thickness, and set it down with +conscious pride before her mother. It contained piles of chipped ice, +which the comely landlady shovelled into miniature tumblers, the size +of dolls’ tooth-glasses, with an imposing iron ladle. She sifted over +it white sugar <span class="pagenum">217</span>from a pie-dish, and +the plain daughter presented it to the company. The drink of the Gods +themselves was never more divine! Though like Sam Weller’s orthography, +which “varied according to the taste and fancy of the speller,” you can +eat this drink or you can drink it. Either way is inelegant, but both +are delicious.</p> + +<p>It was only by relays of this amphibious refreshment, which went +on as long as there was anything besides a large pool of water in the +meat-dish, that the polite phrases flowed, on our part at least. At +last etiquette, even Japanese etiquette, was satisfied, and our amiable +friend from the Prefecture bowed himself away.</p> + +<p>The plain daughter removed the meat-dish, not resisting to tell us it +was “foreign” as she did so, and retired. And we lay out to cool upon +the matting.</p> + +<p>The lagoon, the garden and a green courtyard filled the three sides +of the room where walls might have been. Even the <i lang="ja">shōji</i> +here had been removed, for there were no houses visible; a high green +hedge of thick bamboo bounded court and garden, beyond were the pale +blue hills.</p> + +<p>It was not a room, it was a nest, we lived as freely in the open air +as the birds or the flowers; a brown roof hung like a sheltering leaf +above our heads, a cool clean matting covered the ground beneath our +feet, but the rustle of leaves and of rice-fields, the restless hum of +insect life, the rippling rhythm of the wide lagoon, the whole stir of a +growing world was ours. We did not peep at it through a window, we lay +in it, we <i>were</i> it; and it rippled and hummed and grew part of us, +for Pan is not dead, in the Land of the Gods he is living still.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then the comely landlady called us to our bath; <span +class="pagenum">218</span>“the honourable hot water was ready,” +and the plain daughter assisted us out of our clothes into our <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> with an attention which, to our sophisticated code, +was embarrassing, and led us down a passage whose wooden wall opened +into the bathroom. Here our landlady received us. She was just sliding +down the wooden plank, which shut off the pipe filled with glowing +charcoal from the rest of the bath-tub, and looking up she said the bath +was “<i lang="ja">yoroshī</i>.”</p> + +<p>The water was positively bubbling, at that delicious temperature +of 110 degrees which the Japanese love; but we were not yet used to +literal boiling, so we demanded cold water. And the two little girls +with goggle eyes ran away to fetch it in high wooden pails with stiff +wooden handles. They ran out by the wooden <i lang="ja">shōji</i> on +the opposite side, which opened straight on to the gravel courtyard +of the entrance, and their dark-blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i> were +tucked up into their <i lang="ja">obi</i>, showing the bright red <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> underneath. And they were laughing.</p> + +<p>When we demanded still more cold water they laughed again. The <i +lang="ja">Ijin San</i> had strange ideas of baths evidently. At last, +in deference to their feelings, we desisted. The water was no longer +bubbling, so we pronounced it “<i lang="ja">yoroshī</i>,” and they all +retired.</p> + +<p>The bathroom had a grey stone floor and walls of wooden <i +lang="ja">shōji</i>; at one end stood the high barrel-bath, and wooden +buckets, pails and dippers lay all around. A three-foot-high platform +ran all down one side and adjoined the passage-way by which we had +entered; from it one stepped into the bath, on it one washed and dried +oneself. A bath in Japan, which is used by all the family or hotel in +succession, is not intended for washing—that is done outside. The two +<i lang="ja">shōji</i> walls, just sliding panels of wood, opened, one +on to the passage-way, <span class="pagenum">219</span>the other into +the front court, and had no fastenings. The Japanese have attained to +that sense of modesty which we still feel immodest. They say to bathe +is necessary; you cannot take a bath with your clothes on; a necessary +action is never immodest, neither has it any prurient attractions for +healthy minds. But a Japanese cannot see the low-necked dresses of +western women or the pictures of Modern France without a blush. To him +a bathing woman is neither modest nor immodest, but simply indifferent; +while exposure, merely to attract, is indecency itself. Obscenity exists +in grosser minds as in every country in the world; but the people of +Japan have a moral simplicity of thought and action that is at one with +the conclusions of abstract ethical philosophy.</p> + +<p>Like lobsters going to be cooked, we bathed, and got out swiftly +but not silently. A yard of cotton towel, where a bank of purple iris +grew out of a pale blue stream, was all the towel we had. It would have +adequately dried our finger-nails, but the design was comforting if the +towel was not. At last, in grey crêpe <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and straw +sandals, clothes as naturally a growth of the climate and the country +as its trees or people, we went back to our wall-less room and sat in +peace.</p> + +<p>The heat of the day was passing, and the colours of the sky and +trees deepened before they died. For light in this land of sunshine +can hide as well as darkness; it covers the land as a pall, all +white and glittering, which blinds as surely as the night. But in +that half-hour which comes before the swift descending twilight of +the East, all the colours deepen and intensify; they take a strange +opaque lustre which makes the thinnest leaf look solid. Mere colour +seems thick, almost as though distinct from what it colours <span +class="pagenum">220</span>and the colours deepen, deepen, till, emerging +from a glittering pall of white, they sink beneath the grey-black pall +of night. It is the intensest hour of all the day. The world is not +working as at the dawn, nor sleeping as in the heat, but strong with the +beating pulse of Life that fills even the stillness.</p> + +<p>So we sat and watched the deepening glowing earth glow and deepen, +and heard the throb of life grow ever louder, till from the streets +came up the sound of children’s laughter, and from the town the stir of +men.</p> + +<p>Rich in richest colours lay the world, with greens and blues of +polished jewellery. And then the hurrying twilight settled like the +swooping pinions of a bird. The colours lost themselves in grey, the +forms they coloured in a broad, still sweep of darkness. On the white +bridge, set between canal and lake, the lanterns were already glowing, +and the indistinct brown lines of roof melted from the light into the +darkness.</p> + +<p>For a little while the curved earth-bridge of our miniature garden, +the pebbled pathway that in a fragment of a circle led across the +winding pond, traced a clear black line against the open sky. Then the +children’s laughter in the street grew silent, the stir of men and women +stilled.</p> + +<p>Slowly, among their shadows, the houses each hung out a light and +disappeared. The purple darkness grew with each moment deeper and more +black.</p> + +<p>Then in a flash the shadows and the lights themselves went out, for +our inn had lit her lamps.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then they brought us dinner on black lacquered trays: pink soup and +many kinds of fish, and rice with pickled cucumbers, white and brown +and purple. And we did eat. And all the time our landlady and her plain +daughter, kneeling on the matting, filled up our rice-bowls <span +class="pagenum">221</span>from the wooden rice-box, or our tea-bowls +from the china teapot, and the bronze kettle which filled that teapot +itself needed filling many times, for we were thirsty. And the landlady +and her daughter sat placidly on their heels, watching our many social +crimes, for there is an etiquette of chopsticks, as strict or stricter +than ours of knives and forks, and in equivalent terms we probably were +eating with our knives, putting our dirty spoons upon the tablecloth and +exhibiting the general manners of the stable.</p> + +<p>As a sign that you have finished in Japan you eat your last bowl of +rice flavoured with a bowlful of tea. Hardly had we reached this stage +when the bright black squirrel of a landlord arrived to announce a +visitor, and “Might he come in?”</p> + +<p>Considerably surprised we said “Yes,” and who should enter but +our amiable Japanese Carker, this time in his own clothes. From an +insignificant and somewhat common individual he had, by the mere change +from a misfitting yellow suit into a grey silk <i lang="ja">kimono</i> +with striped silk <i lang="ja">hakama</i>, changed from an underbred +clerk into a courtly gentlemen. His manners, always the same, were +now at ease with himself, and no longer incongruous or even somewhat +ridiculous, they became the perfection of grace and breeding. It is a +change that one may often see in Japan.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Again we all sat on our heels on the kneeling-cushions in the +strictest order of precedence, and exchanged the politest phrases of +ceremony in the courtliest of Japanese. We heard all about the great +Temple of Kizuki, the pride of Izumo, and we told of our journeys in the +Far East, to Korea and Siberia; and the landlord’s son, who had come in +behind the visitor, “half expected he might go there some day <span +class="pagenum">222</span>with the army,” a wish which may well since +have been fulfilled.</p> + +<p>In true Japanese fashion our guest had brought us presents, +photographs of Matsué and of Izumo’s Great temple. We could only present +him in exchange with our cards, a map of the world with the British +possessions marked very red, and an old copy of a railway novel. The +gifts pleased him, and the whole family examined the map with great +interest. They wanted to hear all about England, and the fact that +cows and sheep (which they have never seen) walked over our fields, +and that it was sometimes light at nine in the evening struck on their +imagination. They asked many questions about the sheep, and “what the +light looked like?” which was difficult of explanation.</p> + +<p>In spite of more amphibious drinks from the white meat-dish, which +seemed served here (probably as a concession to our foreign tastes) +instead of the inevitable tea to visitors, the struggle after faultless +<i>politesse</i>, the intricacies of a ceremonious Japanese made us grow +all limp with heat again. And when we had bowed our last bow, uttered +our last “<i lang="ja">Mata o-me ni kakarimashō</i>” (“Another time may +my eyes honourably behold you”), we were reduced to a really pitiable +state of exhaustion. Our comely landlady, who had a large brain and a +seeing eye, did not wait to question. She cleared the room, sent the +two giggling girls with the goggle eyes to hang the green mosquito net, +like an imposing martial tent, from the four corners of the room, while +the plain daughter brought <i lang="ja">futon</i> like thin eiderdown +quilts to sleep upon, undressed us carefully and retired, bidding us +“honourably resting deign” as she did so.</p> + +<p>As the lamp went out the ample folds of the square <span +class="pagenum">223</span>tent stood out like a royal pavilion. We +crept beneath and lay down upon the matted sheets which covered the <i +lang="ja">futon</i>. In deference to our foreign bones we had several <i +lang="ja">futon</i> underneath us, and one rolled up beneath our heads; +but for all that the hardness of the matted floor, stuffed though it +was, rose up and hit us before the night was out.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We slept beneath our transparent tent, in our wall-less room, as the +flowers sleep, part of the living night. All the little sounds of leaf +and lake stirred round us undisturbed; the rice-ears rustled in the +silent night; the great trees stretched their branches as they slept. +Dreaming, the waters of the salt lagoon moved towards the sea, and all +the wealth of insect life, turning in its sleep, called faintly. The +still small voice of the sky whispered softly in the breezes, and the +great green Earth reached up to listen through her dreams. Bound in the +chains of man, it is at night-time that she stirs so restless, when +all the humming, conscious life is laid to sleep, when men and insects +slumber. Then the green Earth wakes; but she has endured so long that +even in her waking she is half asleep. Bound down with streets and +houses, she never wakes at all. And so all night we listened to the +voices of the world. At the dawning, when all Nature stands hushed +before the coming of the sun, we slept. But the dawning in this southern +land is short and swift. With no clouds to dim his strength, the sun +soon sat flaming on his wide blue throne; and all the insects of the +tropics, warmed into life, rose up to buzz and hum. And we awoke.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the Land of the Gods there are no clocks, and although one in the +main street of Matsué proclaimed <span class="pagenum">224</span>its +“foreign” time, the inhabitants beneath go their own way, and the +baby steamers arrive and depart in open disregard of the hours upon +the dial. So some time between the dawning and the noon we woke. The +house was getting up. All the little sounds of rising men and women, +of a day’s beginning, were about us, so we got up too. Crawling from +under our vast green tent, we went down the polished passage-way to the +inner courtyard, where in a cool green cloister all the rooms of the +inn looked out. A long stone font filled with water, a hanging wooden +dipper, a row of shallow brass pans on a wooden shelf stood waiting. +Here the whole inn washes. With water from the font, cool and fresh +from its night’s sleep in the grey stone basin, you fill the bamboo +dipper and pour out into the shallow pans; and then, standing in the +passage-way, with all the rooms around you, you wash. And unless a <i +lang="ja">nēsan</i>, attracted by the whiteness of your skin, should +stop a moment to look and wonder, no one is interested. The usual +lengths of cotton towelling hung beside the dipper, like banners on +their poles; and a crevice of sunshine piercing into the green courtyard +quivered on the round brass pans.</p> + +<p>Tent and <i lang="ja">futon</i> had vanished when we returned, +and the two little goggle-eyed girls, still with their blue <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> tucked up to show the red ones underneath, +were sweeping the matting with bamboo brooms. We dressed in corners +unattended, and sat down to wait.</p> + +<p>From the sounds of passing feet, and the directing words of our +comely landlady, it seemed that great things were preparing for us—quite +what remained a mystery. At last the plain daughter, bubbling with the +pleasure of our surprise, came to call us.</p> + +<p>“As for the morning meal,” she said, “all is prepared,” <span +class="pagenum">225</span>and even the ceremony of her bows suffered +from her eagerness.</p> + +<p>We went through the half-wall of <i lang="ja">shōji</i> panels, +across a room, into another, where the family, all assembled, almost +(had it not been entirely un-Japanese) clapped its hands in pride.</p> + +<p>There on the matting, and each leg protected by a supporting slab of +wood, stood a foreign table; four foreign chairs, their legs too nailed +into long slats of wood, stood round. Across a corner of the table lay +a thin strip of cotton cloth, and on this, in all the majesty of its +solid ugliness, reposed the white meat-dish of our god-like drink. +This morning it was full of something smoking, dimly resembling Irish +stew.</p> + +<p>The comely landlady beamed as we approached.</p> + +<p>“Sea-food forthcomes,” she said proudly.</p> + +<p>And to our “foreign” breakfast we sat slowly down. How bad it was! +But the family, even to the old, old grandmother, were so delighted, +so proud of their unexpected triumph, that we ate that abominable stew +till not a fragment of its tough meat or a spoonful of its gluey gravy +remained.</p> + +<p>Many times since have I wondered how that Napoleonic landlady +organised the feast? How did she get the meat? Who cooked it? and where +did they learn? Did she invent the recipe out of her own head? Perhaps +she raided the garrison? She was capable of it. There was bread too. +Matsué was quite in the front of the fashion; not like poor Kizuki, +which was sadly out of date; they hadn’t even <i lang="ja">bīru</i> +(beer) there.</p> + +<p>All this she told us as she helped us, always with the iron ladle, to +that terrific stew. With the foreign food too, we had “foreign” china, +horrible railway-restaurant <span class="pagenum">226</span>plates +and cups, clumsy and thick, sprawled all over with a large design in +bilious blue; knives and forks that never matched, and, of course, the +inevitable cruet. This hideous article is always the first vestige +of “foreign” fashion in a Japanese hotel, where it accompanies every +meal. Once it may have been of German silver; it is all drab now. Long +centuries of use have left it bent and dinted. Its bottles leak, their +stoppers never fit, and whatever they once held, all now drip oil and +taste soy. We thought of our dainty lacquered trays, our delicate +white china with drawings in faint blue, the refinement and the art +of that meal, and we sighed. The fish they could not spoil, and their +tea is always good, so we breakfasted. And the plain daughter, whose +ambitions (or her mother’s) soared to Tokyo heights of fashion, asked +if everything was really “<i lang="ja">yoroshī</i>” upon the table, +and, if not, “would we show her how?” The knives and forks had puzzled +her woefully; how ought they to be laid? So we laid the table, and +we set the forks, and we placed the bread, and we handed plates and +glasses, and the ancient grandmother shook with astonishment. Was ever +like seen under the sun? And even the capable landlady exclaimed. So +the conscientious plain daughter worked through her knives and forks, +her bread on this side and her glasses on that, with the zeal of an +earnest student; and afterwards we caught her displaying her great +accomplishment to a circle of admiring friends.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We were to see the sights of Matsué. Our friend from the Prefecture +and the black squirrel of a landlord had talked it over exhaustively the +night before. We were catered for like Royal visitors. We did not need +<span class="pagenum">227</span>to plan, or ask, or seek. “Honourably +trouble not. It happens.” And it did.</p> + +<p>That morning the landlord, in a long polite speech, made us over to +his son, a quiet clever lad who might have been the twin of his plain +sister; and we set off. We wished to stop for many things, temples and +toy shops, the peeps of life on street and wharf, but our guide, though +never contradicting, was so preoccupied, so intent on something that we +gave in and meekly followed down the long streets over the many canals, +whose bridges showed an arch like the young crescent of the moon, along +the hot white road, until we reached an ugly wooden building in the +style called “foreign,” all decorated with flags and policemen. Here we +entered. The policemen drew up in line as we passed, and the scurrying +feet of a dozen officials all clothed in long frock-coats came down the +vestibule.</p> + +<p>It was an Exhibition of the Arts, Industries, and Manufactures of +the Province of Izumo, and quite inadvertently we had arrived to open +the proceedings. The distinguished strangers from England, received by +the phalanx of frock-coats, were conducted majestically through the +whole building. We were not allowed to miss a single room. If, after +peeping into one, and finding it contained nothing but sacks of rice, +or samples of raw silk, we retreated, instantly a frock-coat or a +policeman appeared to lead us round. We did not miss the least little +exhibit of the least little room. We saw them all: bags of rice, cocoons +of silk, hollow candles with growing designs in faint pale colours, +Izumo crystals famed throughout Japan, lengths of piece-silk, twists +of sewing-silk, embroideries, china, the famous yellow china of <span +class="pagenum">228</span>Matsué, all the roots and grains and wood of +the province, fishing nets and field tools, and a whole large section +of the beautiful Izumo matting. In our admiration we wished to buy, and +instantly all the frock-coats ran after one another, each official going +to consult his chief. They arrived in groups and talked; they went away +and came back again. We had unknowingly placed the whole officialdom of +Matsué on the horns of a dilemma. We were the distinguished visitors +from England; we wished to buy Matsué’s most especial production; the +honour was great—but the regulations said no exhibit might be taken +away before the close of the exhibition; and the Japanese respect the +law as they respect the Emperor. So we waited. At last a most wonderful +frock-coat appeared resplendent with decorations; solemnly he made a +speech explaining the difficulty, excusing the delay, expressing great +honour at our request, and at a sign his attendant handed over the +matting to our attendant, and with many bows we parted.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>That afternoon, as we lay upon our matting in our wall-less room, +fanned by the plain daughter, our landlady brought in the local +newspaper, and sitting down on her heels she read to us a long +account of the arrival in Matsué of the “distinguished strangers +from England,” and a kind of “Stop Press telegram” announcing their +gracious purchase of matting at the exhibition that morning, besides +an editorial advertisement of a description of their visit to the +exhibition for the next issue. Our rooms at the inn were described at +length, our appearance “with faces white as milk”—the foreign simile +showing great learning on the part of the reporter—our ages politely +overstated, for the young here, women as well as men, desire to be +<span class="pagenum">229</span>old so that to be thought older than +one’s age is the greatest of compliments; the paper therefore called us +most politely “upwards of forty,” causing our dear landlady to beam with +delight, and the plain daughter to utter a long series of those curious +strangled “h’s” by which the Japanese express intense admiration, as +she fanned us more vigorously. Then, <i lang="fr">à propos</i> of our +“milk-white faces,” the landlady, with much hesitation, asked a favour +“so great that to speak unable am.” Might she have our soap? Japanese +soap they had, but somehow, possibly, that “foreign” soap of ours might +account for some of our strange whiteness. So she and the plain daughter +retired with the soap; and for the rest of the afternoon they scrubbed +diligently in the bathroom.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And we sat quiet upon our matting in the heat, while the green hills +and the rice-fields, the pebbled pathway of our garden bridge, and all +the wide still spaces of the lake hung as frescoes round our room. The +hot blue sky burned fiercely, the blue of a heated brick-kiln, and our +living frescoes hung motionless as the work of man. There was neither +change nor shadow. Hills and lake and rice-fields lay still against +the sky—flat as it were upon a flattened background, and in that light +which did not shine but suffused itself through all things, there were +no shadows, a deepened blueness here and there, but neither shadow nor +perspective. The sense of distance, as the sense of shade, was quite +annihilated. Those old Japanese artists saw truly, despite our western +dictums, light does not lie here as we see it, still less as it lies +in the actual tropics; it has effects of light and distance which are +all its own, and the Japanese, seeing them, reproduced them, not <span +class="pagenum">230</span>because there are no others, but because +these are so truly Japanese. And we, knowing neither the country nor +the climate, but strong in our arrogance of “laws,” called it “false, a +childlike art ignorant of science.”</p> + +<p>In the Land of the Gods we sat and learnt wisdom, and Japan and its +people, its life and its pictures took a new meaning in our eyes, and +the false became true.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When our landlady and her daughter came back from the bathroom they +brought a small thin oblong of soap, and their hands were all wrinkled +with washing.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Mada kurō gozaimas kara omachi nassatta hō ga yō +gozaimas</i>,” they said in a melancholy, half-laughing voice. “Still +brown because, leaving off had best be done,” and they held out their +four hands for inspection.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">Ijin San’s</i> whiteness was not in the soap. But +when we went we left as a present a whole new cake of “foreign” soap; +and their supplementary scrubbings must have been many.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>That evening we were entertained by a small boy with the snubbiest of +noses, who peeped slyly at us from out of the darkness of the garden. +When he was induced to come in he brought all his lesson books, which he +turned over for our amusement, and between each page he chuckled, but +he never told <a href="#230B" id="230A">us</a> why. Whether it was the +recollections of his lost lessons or a subtle sense of absurdity that we +could <a href="#230D" id="230C">not</a> read the Chinese hieroglyphics +of his primers we never knew, but his chuckles were deep with joy. Then +in the pauses he would count solemnly up to ten, all the English he +knew, and chuckle again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">231</span>Two wide-eyed little maidens were +brought in next morning to see the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i>. In a very +awestruck whisper they inquired “if we were real.”</p> + +<p>These little babies were very solemn and very good, but not one +scrap shy or frightened. In all their little lives they had never met +a grown-up being who was harsh to them. Though obedience is the first +requisite of Japanese children young or old, they give it as the plants +their flowers, not from a sense of hard-learned duty, but as a natural +product of an eternal law.</p> + +<p>The babies made the funniest little bows as they touched their little +foreheads to the ground. And then they sat and looked at us with wide, +wide-opened eyes. To them we belonged to the world of the mythical <i +lang="ja">Kirin</i>, and the terrible <i lang="ja">Kitsuné</i> who takes +bad babies away and feeds them on frogs and snails; we belonged to +the realm of the sea-goddess who married Urashima, to the land of the +fairies. So they asked if we were real.</p> + +<p>They could not be induced to talk to us, though they were wonderfully +polite, and quite knocked their little foreheads on the floor when they +said “Good-bye.” Did we figure as goblins or as fairies in their dreams, +I wonder?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>That afternoon a stall-owner from the exhibition came to show us +Izumo crystals.</p> + +<p>For two hours he knelt upon the matting opening the beautifully +made boxes of white unpainted wood. And we looked at large +divining-crystals without fleck or flaw, at the pale clouded crystals +shading from mist-white to palest crimson, at the agates and +amethysts; and all the time our comely landlady and her plain <span +class="pagenum">232</span>daughter sat on their heels and admired with +taste and great discrimination.</p> + +<p>There was not in all this shopful of precious stones anything to +wear. A few crystal hairpins, a few “foreign” studs, but no jewellery as +we understand it. The Japanese never wear jewellery; neither rings, nor +bracelets, nor chains, nor pins, nor brooches, nor tiaras—nothing. One +wonders how much crime and heart-burning has the nation missed. Precious +stones they have, but they buy and keep them for their shape or for +their colour, as a picture or a bronze, not to adorn themselves. All the +rest of the world, in all times, barbarous and civilised, have fought +and stolen, slain and ruined themselves just to heap upon their fingers +or their heads strings of gleaming stones. In this island-empire alone +men and women have looked at precious stones, have handled and admired, +but never worn them. One wonders was it purely the artistic instinct +of the race which kept them from it, or the stern morality of the <i +lang="ja">samurai</i>, preaching denial and self-control.</p> + +<p>And again one wonders if too much jewellery be barbaric, where in the +scale of civilisation does a nation come that wears none at all? Surely +art can produce worthier things than jewellery, and are not morals +better without it?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Our inn was full of guests, quite full, and all the rooms have paper +panels. There are no keys, no locks, no bolts, the whole inn, were it +so minded, could go in and out of every room; and yet we all sleep in +peace and quite secure. It is true that an innkeeper here must bear an +unblemished character or his house is shut, and that the guests often +<span class="pagenum">233</span>come with a letter from their last +innkeeper, but not always, and yet we all sleep with half an inch of +rice-paper between us, and walls of sliding panels. Could a hotelful of +civilised Europeans be so trusted? If not to steal, then not to pry as +well? But here nobody looks. Although we have become great personages +indeed, nobody looks. And in the big towns as in the country villages, +in railway hotels as in this remote corner of the Land of the Gods, we +have slept in absolute security in rooms that are always open. Only once +in all our wanderings did someone push the <i lang="ja">shōji</i>. It +was an <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> who thought it was “a lark.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And so we lived in the Land of the Gods and learnt wisdom, wisdom +from the lake, and the hills, and the rice-fields, from the night and +the daylight, and the inner beauty of the land lay before our eyes, +still dim, for western eyes are blind to eastern meaning through want +of power to focus, but in part we saw, and the joy of that seeing has +never passed away. The town, the inn, the comely landlady, and the wee, +wide-eyed children all taught us wisdom and the meaning and the beauty +of the land. Slowly we saw, dimly too, for western eyes are very blind +to eastern meaning, and race, religion, training and the whole up-make +of our ideas and beliefs stand so often in the way. Still in part we +saw, and the lessons of that seeing have never passed away. We had come +in all humility, so the Gods were kind. They opened our eyes that we +might see.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When we announced that we were going the household was upset. And +on the last morning of our stay they all, landlord, landlady, plain +daughter, goggle-eyed <span class="pagenum">234</span>waiting-girls, +came in a procession bearing gifts. We had fans to keep us cool upon +the journey, white towels with pictures of the inn in blue, and above +all, gifts of the beautiful Matsué china which we had so much admired. +Everything was tied up in the neatest parcels wrapped in pieces of +brocade, and presented on lacquered trays. On the top of the Matsué +china lay a tiny white paper cone lined with red in which was stuck a +splinter of bamboo cane, the modern symbol of the old-time fish which +was always presented with each gift. And the meaning of the whole is +peace, plenty, and prosperity. We had nothing so beautiful to give in +exchange, only a cake of foreign soap and a visiting-card. The cake of +soap was considered by the rest of the household, including the old +grandmother, who had come in, as a palpable hit, and the visiting-cards +were much prized.</p> + +<p>Then with every one carrying our luggage we were escorted to the +gravel recess of the entrance, where our <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> stood +waiting, and all the household went down on its knees on the polished +wooden platform and said sweet <i lang="ja">sayonara</i>.</p> + +<p>And there in the walled-in recess with the wooden <i +lang="ja">gheta</i> lying on the big grey block of stone the kneeling +figures stayed. Clad in their dark blue <i lang="ja">kimono</i> with the +bright-coloured <i lang="ja">obi</i> at the waist, they knelt on the +polished wood, their heads on their hands, their hands on the floor; and +as they knelt the rolls and whorls of their coiffures seemed to grow +like flowers from bending stalks of blue.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Sayonara</i>,” they said, and all the blue stalks +swayed.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Sayonara</i>,” we called back. “Farewell.” Oh, dear +Land of the Gods that has taught us wisdom, not you, but we have need to +fare well.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">235</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="LOGVI"> + <span class="line-height3">VI</span><br> + <span>THE TWO SPIRITS</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Out of the town and above it, the <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> of +Matsué once built him a castle, and he filled it with the stern +warriors whose soul was their sword. <i lang="ja">Daimyō</i> after <i +lang="ja">daimyō</i> lived and died, and still a <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> +ruled over Izumo; and warrior after warrior fought and was slain, +and still the <i lang="ja">samurai</i> learned the laws of the <i +lang="ja">bushi</i>, the way of the warrior, and the strong fortress +of Matsué, with its moat and its walls, was guarded and kept by men +whose lives were one long servitude to honour and duty. The grim +ideals of a code which feared no death and no torture, which exacted +the sternest courage and self-control, were taught and practised in +the castle of Matsué, until the Son of Heaven ruled in Tokyo and <i +lang="ja">daimyō</i> and <i lang="ja">samurai</i> were feudal lord and +loyal vassal no longer.</p> + +<p>The grim walls are standing now, the castle with its moat still rises +above Matsué to possess it, but the spirit of its fierce dominance is +gone; instead, that twin-soul of the Japanese race has entered into the +stronghold, the Love of Beauty has cast out the Love of Battle, the +sword is changed to flowers, for in the moat of the castle the lotus is +blooming.</p> + +<p>Stern and very strong the grey walls rise high into the +air, they have not lost their grimness though their <span +class="pagenum">236</span>feet are bathed in flowers. It is true the +gateway is broken, and where the drawbridge once fell there is now a +broad path of stamped earth, but the long lines of solid wall are firm +still and uninjured. They still rise frowning from out the deep waters +of the moat; but to-day the moat itself has disappeared, in its place +the broad thick leaves of the lotus stretch like a silvery green river +around the walls. So broad, so strong, so helpless, the great leaves +hang like unsteady giants on their stalks, and the pin-points of water +gather and gather on the hairy surface, till the leaf curls to a cup and +a big waterdrop, molten as quicksilver, runs gleaming over the green.</p> + +<p>The lotus leaves lie all lazy at angles of rest, but the flowers seem +to rise on their stalks as birds taking wing. All pure white or palest +pink, each single flower is a giant’s handful of blossom, and yet the +petals are delicate, almost transparent; thin, too, in their texture, +but of a satiny softness, they curl with the grace of a rose above the +pure gold of their hearts.</p> + +<p>The lotus leaves dream inert, each on its stalk hangs drooping, +often awry: they encircle the walls like a green river of water that +stagnantly sleeps; but the flowers are awake and they rise from their +leaves as the Spirit of Beauty once rose from the waters. All pure white +on this side of the gateway, all pale pink on that, the great cups of +blossom stand stately. Very fragile in their texture, and yet so ample +in their form the lotus flower seems the meeting-point of luxuriance and +grace; the point where more of either were really less of both.</p> + +<p>With its roots deep down in the mud, with its leaves often frankly +ridiculous in the large uncouthness of their attitudes, with its beauty +in no way <span class="pagenum">237</span>ethereal, the lotus is yet +the symbol of Death, not of Nirvana, but of Death, of the completing of +one brief period in this long cycle which we call Life. So in Matsué +they planted the moat of the castle with the flower of the lotus for +the life of Old Japan, of castle and <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> and <i +lang="ja">samurai</i>, is ended. It is Death but a new Beginning.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Beyond the gateway, a grass-grown flight of granite steps leads to +the castle, and we climb.</p> + +<p>All the castles in all Japan are the same, bigger or smaller, with +details of decoration or style that differentiate them, they are yet in +the broad outlines of their architecture one and the same. A Japanese +house is Japanese, but the castle comes from China, at least originally, +and its pagoda character is very evident. The castle at Matsué had its +ground floor of stone, rough-hewn blocks of granite which fitted closely +to each other without mortar. The stone storey, as all the succeeding +ones of wood above it, tapered gradually inwards so that the topmost +wooden storey would have fitted into the one below it, and that into the +next, and all into the square stone box of the ground floor, as neatly +as the nest of baskets sold in the streets of the town below.</p> + +<p>Inside, the rough-hewn stone walls were left as bare as the outside, +and a long steep ladder of a staircase, which began abruptly in the +middle of one floor to end with equal abruptness in the middle of the +floor above, led from storey to storey. The stone storey was divided +into two, the rest were of wood, and all now were absolutely bare and +unadorned; the mere outer shell of a building which had once lived and +sheltered lives. Only in the top floor, where on all four sides sliding +panels of glass had <span class="pagenum">238</span>replaced the +rice-paper <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, was there any sign of life. This room +had been turned into a sort of Military Museum with relics of the China +war, swords and guns, and a whole long series of wonderful coloured +prints, with the Chinese always fleeing, their long, long pigtails +floating in the breeze, the Japanese always pursuing with impossible +profiles and highly polished boots; and gravely studying the pictures +was a group of schoolboys. Their comments were mostly bloodthirsty; the +best way of sticking the pink Chinaman on the left, or of beheading +the yellow one on the right; but they did not seem moved with any +animosity or any sense of triumph, they merely discussed the sword-cuts +scientifically, seriously, as though it were a grave business of life +and they wished to arrive at a right conclusion.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Matsué’s castle is beyond and above the town, and the <i +lang="ja">daimyō</i> who built it and the warriors who guarded it looked +down on this side over the grey roofs of the houses to the wide blue +waters of the still lagoon, on that side over the grey roofs of the +houses and the sweep of the quiet rice-fields where the river, like a +broad path of steel wanders through the bright green fields; and further +round they looked to where the tall trees climb the steep hillsides, and +further still to the great blue lines of the hills themselves shutting +in the sky. And the old warriors in their watch-tower looked out over +this wide fair world which lay so still around them. They guarded the +castle and they kept it, and the light that was set in that tower was +the light of courage and of duty. Over the world beneath their feet it +shone out clear and bright, but the world was wider than their horizon. +After many years they learned that lesson, and then they came down from +<span class="pagenum">239</span>their watch-tower, and the light which +once burned there in the castle is gone to-day through all the land.</p> + +<p>Then the Spirit of Beauty, the soul of that world which lay so still +beneath the tower, went up to the castle, where with courage and duty +the love of battle and of death had ruled so long, to possess it. And in +the waters of the moat the lotus is blooming.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>With its roots in the mud, say the Japanese Buddhists, the lotus +flower is an emblem of man, of a good man in this wicked world. From +among the sins and the passions of life Buddha himself rose perfect, +pure as the lotus, and perfect. So for a sign and a comfort to all men, +Lord Buddha himself sits throned on the lotus, showing how Goodness +Eternal came, not from good, but from the midst of things evil.</p> + +<p>In the moat of the castle the people of Matsué have planted whole +fields of the lotus, that the flower which is perfect might grow +from the sins of the past, grow with each cycle of Life ever more +perfect.<span class="pagenum">240</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">241</span> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_HEART_OF_THE_PEOPLE"> + THE HEART OF THE PEOPLE</h2> +</div> + +<div class="cont80"> +<span class="pagenum">242</span> +<p>“Shakspeare would have us know that there is no devotion to truth, to +justice, to charity, more intense and real than that of the man who is +faithful to them out of the sheer spirit of loyalty, unstimulated and +unsupported by any faith which can be called theological.”</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Dowden</span>, +“Shakspeare, his Mind and Art.”</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">243</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPI"> + <span class="line-height3">I</span><br> + <span>TOKYO</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Tokyo is a city of one million five hundred thousand souls, and in +its heart of hearts stands the Palace of the Son of Heaven.</p> + +<p>The city through its girdle of brown streets works hard, its wharfs +and factories, its shops and warehouses are dense with human life +and resonant with human labour. The low brown streets so thick with +flimsy paper houses stretch for ten miles along the plain. In them the +children play, the <i lang="ja">kuruma</i> pass quickly, the heavy laden +hand-carts of the coolies push and jostle, but the heart of this great +capital lies still.</p> + +<p>From circumference to centre as you come, through street on street +of houses, wharves and shops, the magic of the city grows. First the +streets space out and out, then the houses dwindle as the trees and +gardens grow, greener, wilder, stiller, till the heart of Tokyo’s city +is a moated park of peace.</p> + +<p>Up nine steep hills the city spreads, and sea and river, and the wide +green rice-fields lap it round, while far away across the land, above +the level blue of sky great <span lang="ja">Fuji</span> rises peerless +in the midmost heaven.</p> + +<p>Engirdled by the thronged and busy streets the nine tall hills +peaceful with well-kept houses and secluded gardens, make a crescent +round the moated park. For <span class="pagenum">244</span>in this +strange city whose centre is a palace and a peaceful walled-in +pleasaunce the “suburbs” lie within and not without the town.</p> + +<p>And through the town and over street and roadway, in the gardens and +the courtyards the gaunt beaked crows flap coal-black wings as they sail +past, and their cynical “Haw, haw” is sarcastic with an utter disbelief. +With stately swoop, black wings outspread, they drift past the ear of +the newcomer confident with a three weeks’ visit that he understands +the East, and in the midst of his cocksureness they drop their cold, +sarcastic “Haw.”</p> + +<p>Brown and so crowded are the streets, bewildering with their jostle +of blue-clad men and women, their open stalls, their unmade roads of +earth stretching flat between the houses on each side, where man-drawn +carts, and <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>, passengers, and children get in each +other’s way. The white uniformed policeman, sword on thigh, stands, a +bronze statue, at each busy corner, and to him even the criminal is +polite. And down the streets and through and through the town, cut +straight or winding, the brown canals, valleys of black mud, or slow +streams of dark water, run to the river and the sea. And thousands upon +thousands, too, seem the bridges, some flat and narrow as gangways, most +arched in a crescent curve, and the brown canals run from the sea and +from the river far within the town.</p> + +<p>On one of them, at high tide, a steamer like the ark of Noah +plies. It seems to go indifferently stern or bow foremost, and is no +larger than a big-sized rowing boat. The one landing-stage to which +I traced it was like a pasteboard on two rolling-pins, and stood +as the threshold to the back door of a house. A European <span +class="pagenum">245</span>picture hung above the entrance, bright with +greens and blues and reds and yellows, where this resplendent steamer +floating amid green waves, showed at alternate windows a head, male, +Japanese, dressed “foreign”; a head, female, Japanese, dressed Japanese. +A policeman and a soldier both in uniform balanced on the deck at either +end. The ark’s ports of call, as its starting-place and destination, +remained a mystery. At low tide the canal was an inch of water between +two banks of mud, and only at high tide could this toy ark float at +all.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One long, straight street, broken into sections at the bridges, and +then reset at different angles, runs from end to end of Tokyo, runs from +Shimbashi to Ueno, from the “Mercantile Marine Store,” which sells dried +fishes, to the Parcels Office of that delicious “Internal Railway,” +otherwise unknown to fame. This is the main street of the town, here +is the Ginza, with its red brick sidewalks, its shop-boys who speak +English, even its plate glass windows. Here, too, is the goldsmith who +advertises:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <p class="inline-block">“RINGS, BRONCHITIS, AND OTHER JEWELRY.<br> + BEST KINDS ONLY KEPT IN STOCK”;</p> +</div> + +<p>And the residence of that mysterious baker who +keeps:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <p class="inline-block">“BEARDS, VINE CAKES AND SLOR FOR SALE.”</p> +</div> + +<p>And down it from end to end runs Tokyo’s main tramway. With the +river on the east, the moated park upon the west, north and south +the broad street runs, and the park of Shiba lies at one end and the +park of Ueno at the other. Shiba, where the tombstones of <span +class="pagenum">246</span>the dead <i lang="ja">shōgun</i> lie in their +sumptuous lacquered temples; Ueno, where the lacquered temples stand +bullet-pierced, for the soldiers of the <i lang="ja">shōgun</i> and the +soldiers of the emperor fought their last fight here before the great +<i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i> came back to his own again. Once the closed +gardens of Buddhistic monasteries, both parks now are open to the town, +bicycles ride through them, nursemaids, their babies on their backs, +loiter in them, little girls play classic games of bones, boys catch +grasshoppers, while beneath the trees the low red blanketed tables of +the <i lang="ja">chaya</i> offer ¼<i>d.</i> teas.</p> + +<p>The Park of Shiba is green and quiet, smaller than Ueno, for its +temples hold so large a space. It is a forest growing in the heart of a +town. Ueno is lighter, brighter, fuller of flowers and festivals, with +long avenues of cherry-trees, and a lake where the lotus flowers grow +thickly.</p> + +<p>And over the lake and the temples, over the cherry-trees and the +tea-stalls, over the city below and the playing children within, the big +bronze bell of Ueno sends forth its great booming note—that note which +is outside our music, deeper, more liquid, which comes with its low, +booming sway, just when daylight turns to darkness. Cast of bronze and +silver, rung by a wooden beam that strikes a boss outside, the note of +the great bell comes swaying as though the air were water. And slowly +over the city the bell booms, trembling, and he who hears it sits still +and thinks; sits lost and dreams of the song of the seven spheres.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When Ueno’s avenues of cherry-trees are pink with flowers, when +the stalls beneath the trees are full of flower hairpins, then Tokyo +through its gardens and <span class="pagenum">247</span>its roadways +blushes too, for the whole city is planted thick with cherry-trees. Not +only on the river bank, where the long two-mile avenue of Mukojima is +a perpetual <i lang="fr">fête</i>, but everywhere, in private gardens +and in public streets, the delicate, pale pink blossoms on their brown +leafless branches catch the sunshine and the showers, and fall as little +rosy clouds from heaven on to the ground beneath. For Tokyo is a city +holding the country in its lap. Not an artificial bedded-out country, +stiff as a Versailles park, but the real wayward country, though tended +with a loving, understanding care.</p> + +<p>And Tokyo is a city brimful of flowers. Between the cherry-trees of +April and the chrysanthemums of November most of the flowers can be seen +within the city in temple courts or nursery gardens or public parks. The +lake of the lotus at Ueno is famous through Japan, and in the temple of +Kameido grow the age-old wistarias.</p> + +<p>Trained on horizontal trellis work, their long pale tassels hang down +towards the water, stirring with each breeze. The trailing clusters +of the flowers grow four feet long sometimes, and droop towards the +surface of the lake in thick swaying pendants of pure colour. Behind +these living curtains, in a twilight of pale mauve or soft white light, +on the edge of the pond whose shape spells “heart,” sometimes afloat on +the pond itself, the tables of the <i lang="ja">chaya</i> stand, and +those who make holiday because the flowers are blooming, all Tokyo, sit +and look, drinking wee bowls of pale green tea, or writing poems to the +flowers.</p> + +<p>On the waters of this lake of the letter “heart” float the pale mauve +petals and the petals of pure white, which fall and drift and sink, +and fall and drift <span class="pagenum">248</span>and sink, until +the waters are hidden with flower flakes and the wistaria is over and +gone.</p> + +<p>Kameido lies on the far bank of the Sumidagawa, in a network of +poor streets, for the left bank of the river, like the big island at +its mouth, is denser with yards and factories than is the right. The +streets are narrower, fuller of children and the noise of hammers and +of wheels. Yet in this poor wage-working quarter the festivals of the +plum-blossoms, the wistaria, and the peony are held.</p> + +<p>In all Japan there is no other flower <i lang="fr">fête</i> +which in the least resembles a horticultural show except that of <i +lang="ja">Botan</i>, the tree-peony. For when the peony blooms, the +little trees, large as dwarf rose-bushes, are placed on tiers inside a +matted tent. There the resemblance ends. These plants are set each in +a framework of space, and the colours are grouped and blended with the +thought and the instinct of an artist.</p> + +<p>The flowers of the peony are as large as the largest chrysanthemum, +larger than ours, but their petals are rich, made of satin where ours +are of cotton, delicate, fragile, and sheeny. The colouring is soft and +subdued, and the faint sweet scent which comes from them is like the +dream of a rose. The colours are simple, white warming to cream, paling +to snow, and all the tints of pale reds, deep reds, and crimsons.</p> + +<p>The matting which covers them is of pale yellow, but somehow the +light, as it comes through it, touched perhaps by the flowers, is the +light of a dream—as sunlight without heat, as moonlight warmed and +living, a light that shimmers, holding colour fast within, yet fast +asleep. To-day the light in that peony tent at Kameido remains to me +as definite as the flowers, as distinct as the scent, as real and, in +truth, more <span class="pagenum">249</span>beautiful. It was as though +one saw the radiance of an unknown, unmade jewel, light but not yet +substance.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All this left bank of the river from Fukagawa to Eko-in is full of +workmen and workshops, of small trades and smaller traders, and here +in the month of May in the grounds of the temple raised to the memory +of the hundred thousand citizens killed in the great fire of 1657, the +yearly wrestling contests are held. The <i lang="ja">Smō</i>, tall, +broad, powerful men, many six feet high or more, who dress in large +checked <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and wear their hair in the old-fashioned +top-knot, are adored by the populace who come in thousands to see +them.</p> + +<p>The little round platform of stamped earth sprinkled with sand, set +in the midst of a huge amphitheatre of faces, shows small as a raft on +the sea, and slight despite its purple trapping. The crowd, a Tokyo +crowd in <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and foreign head-gear, cap, bowler, and +felt hat, sit from morning until night, day in day out, for the three +long weeks of the wrestling matches.</p> + +<p>The wrestlers stand, knees bent, body horizontal, their out stretched +hands almost touching the ground, and grip. And the bout is long because +the grip must be accepted by both of them, and because between each +false grip the two retire slowly to their respective sides and wash out +their mouths with tea. This may be repeated a dozen, twenty times, but +when the real grip comes, then the action can be swift as lightning; the +opponent forced beyond the straw rope which lies upon the sanded earth +of the ring, before one realises that the wrestle has begun, or pushed +down over it with the slow resistless force of flowing water, or the two +may sway about interminably before one is beaten.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">250</span>Bulk is not the one ideal of the +wrestler, the young and strong rely on their activity; it is only when a +man is getting older that he weights himself with fat, that his bulk and +heaviness may prove too great for his opponent easily to push over. The +wrestlers all wear waistbands and stiff fringes of blue silk, and the +rippling of the muscles beneath their golden brown skin is such a joy as +the Greek nation knew at the time of the Olympiads.</p> + +<p>A man with a fan, an average-sized Japanese who hardly comes above +the elbows of some of the wrestlers acts as starter, as umpire, and +as referee, and the sharp s-s-sh of his shutting fan can be heard +distinctly in the silence of the amphitheatre. The judges, four old +tried wrestlers, sit under purple hangings and decide disputed points, +while half the front tier is reserved for the <i lang="ja">Smō</i> +themselves.</p> + +<p>But to the non-Japanese it is not the wrestlers but the spectators +who are the centre of interest. Here gathered together within the +amphitheatre, concentrated on one thought, absorbed, therefore natural, +sit samples of all Tokyo. For the <i lang="ja">Smō</i>, like our prize +fight of last century, is beloved by the populace and patronised by the +aristocracy. Every one takes some sort of interest in it, and results +are as widely known as the Derby or a test match. The crowd, a crowd of +men and boys,—for the fathers bring their little sons with them,—knows, +as well as the umpire himself, the forty-eight falls, the twelve lifts, +the twelve throws, the twelve twists, the twelve throws over the back, +alone allowed the Japanese wrestler. The excitement at disputed points +is intense, the whole amphitheatre arguing with its neighbour. The +enthusiasm <span class="pagenum">251</span>at a brilliant, a quick, or +a well-contested throw is intoxicating. Spectators will rise in their +seats and throw down presents, tobacco-pouches, purses, hats, or other +property, which the owner redeems next morning in money.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">Smō</i> are the idols of the street boys, and tall, +huge, unintelligent, in gaudy <i lang="ja">kimono</i> and well-oiled +top-knots, they stride through the Tokyo streets haughty, and sometimes +overbearing.</p> + +<p>We think of the Japanese as unalterably small, yet here is a class, +bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh, who are huge, strong, +large-framed men, taller than the tall races of the north. They are +another and a living contradiction of the imaginary minisculism of +the nation. If the Japanese desire to produce big things, in war, in +statues, or in men, they take thought, they take care; much thought, +infinite care, and somehow it is done.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So Tokyo wrestles, works and plays, and this left bank of the +river toils and lives hard. Across the water Tsukiji, secluded in its +“foreign” residences, dwells genteel, and gossips. The Ginza shops. The +suburbs far within the circle of the streets grow hedged-in gardens and +long avenues of trees, where the houses lie unseen. The schools, the +training colleges, and the university, a cityful of students study, +and boys in cotton <i lang="ja">hakama</i> and dark-peaked soldiers’ +caps walk through the streets—boys who are passing from the indulged +childhood of Japan to the iron self-control of manhood.</p> + +<p>There is apparent in their ways and manners a touch of +self-assertiveness, a touch of almost self-conceit, which at no other +time in their own lives, and at no time at all in any other member of +the community, will ever be observable. It is but a touch, and would +pass <span class="pagenum">252</span>unseen in any other land, in any +other setting; here it stands out palpable. A little hard these boys +look and very earnest. They will strike work if they think a teacher is +not competent to teach, so bent are they on learning. They seem to have +accepted school as the modern training of the <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, +and to study in that spirit.</p> + +<p>The scholarship boys at Government Colleges work harder still and +on the narrowest of means. They can afford so little for their board +that one whole college gave up playing base-ball in its recreation hour +because “it made them too hungry.”</p> + +<p>And at the University, where the students matriculate at twenty and +stay till twenty-four and five, for beside their own learning, beside +the ten thousand Chinese symbols and all the philosophy of the East, +they must to-day add the learning of the West, the languages of Europe, +the laws, the sciences, and the arts of another civilisation and of +an alien race, at the University the students live lives of hardest +brainwork and rigidest economy. Many spend their evenings in earning +the money that buys their day. Some deliver newspapers and sleep in +the porches of “foreign” houses. Many die of consumption, brought on +by over-work and under-feeding. Across the river the hammers ring, +the wheels whir round, the hum of a people’s toil sounds in all ears. +Here within the girdle of the streets, between the factories and the +palace is a work doing, silent, less perceptible but harder, higher and +undertaken for that end.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Between the hard work of hand and brain Ginza and +Nihon-bashi shop, and at night the wire-drawn twang of the <i +lang="ja">samisen</i> comes from the lighted restaurants. <span +class="pagenum">253</span>Restaurants where each diner or each party +occupies a separate room, and <i lang="ja">geisha</i> girls are sent for +to entertain the guests, with puns and games, with polite conversations +and endless repartee. They sit on the kneeling cushions throughout +the meal pouring <i lang="ja">saké</i>—and amuse. Then they dance. +Posturing and swaying to an accompaniment of <i lang="ja">samisen</i> +and song they glide over the matting always graceful, always reserved. +The quality of their dancing rings passionless, dainty, graceful, not +cold but controlled. An air of serenity surrounds them. They are not +trained to the duties of womanhood, but to its heaviest burden—pleasing. +The licensed playthings of the nation, toys to amuse, they reach up to +their limited, low-scaled destiny, through the perpetual sacrifice of +self; and the national self-control encases them, so much their very own +that few perceive it. With very different fates and from very different +motives there is about them, as they dance, something of the charm and +of the aloofness of Andersen’s mermaiden; and if their steps too are as +steps upon a sword, they, too, will smile untroubled.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So the city strives and pleasures, so the city learns and toils. Full +and full of life the streets, quiet and very still the heart. The nine +tall hills from Shiba to Ueno make a crescent round the moat, the brown +streets lie without, the Mikado dwells within. Born as a camp Yedo made +its ruler’s seat its centre, its nobles’ <i lang="ja">yashiki</i> an +enclosing wall; and then beyond, out of sight and sound, the necessary, +unimportant commonfolk had leave to work and sell. Tokyo to-day is still +as Yedo was. <i lang="ja">Yashiki</i> are pulled down, their ground is +sold, but parliaments and embassies, nobles’ houses and their gardens, +still make a circle <span class="pagenum">254</span>round the palace, a +space of suburb and of peace between the city and its centre.</p> + +<p>Over the streets and the roadways, through parks and gardens, +the black-winged crows sail past cynical, unbelieving. The web of +brown canals beneath their high-arched bridges, the broad uncertain +river sometimes slowly, sometimes fiercely, all flow towards the +sea. The land-locked ocean, and the pale green rice-fields ripple +round the streets. From sixty miles across the plain great <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> looks towards the capital.</p> + +<p>And here in Tokyo’s heart, in <i lang="ja">Dai Nippon’s</i> heart of +hearts, not the usurping <i lang="ja">shōgun</i> or general in his camp, +but <i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i>, Son of Heaven, bestower of a western +constitution, augustly dwells.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">255</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPII"> + <span class="line-height3">II</span><br> + <span>EAST AND WEST</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<h4>EAST</h4> + +<p>The large red building covered all over with Chinese characters—a +white sign on each cardboard square of red—overlooks the canal. It +seems too gaudy and unsubstantial a building for sober work, and yet +all day long multitudes of dark-blue coolies, like Florentine noblemen +run to seed, go in and out. Fantastic key patterns in white are traced +upon the skirts of their blue tunics, while on each back is a large red +circle covered with the hieroglyph of the building. They may earn some +6<i>d.</i> a day for twelve long working hours.</p> + +<p>From among the pale straw-coloured bales emerge two workmen. There +are patches in their dark-blue hose, and the brown toes stick out +through the blue of their divided socks. Even the blue designs on the +white towels around their heads have faded away with much washing.</p> + +<p>Catching sight of one another they bow low. A step nearer, and the +jaunty ends of white towel tied in a knot on the forehead of one man, +touch his knee.</p> + +<p>The other, whose towel is tied like a night-cap round his head and +under his chin, bends lower still.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">256</span>Another step, and the indrawn +whistles of politeness grow loud and shrill.</p> + +<p>Another, and the white towels disappear entirely between the blue +legs.</p> + +<p>Then the night-capped one straightens himself and speaks:</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Shitsurei de gozaimas ga, chotto hi o kashte +kudasai</i>” (“Although this is great rudeness on my part,” he says, +“would you condescend to lend me a match.”)</p> + +<h4>WEST</h4> + +<p>Between two rows of slovenly houses a long grey street stretches +away, wet and grimy. There is just one break in the grey monotony where +the gin palace stands in all its gilt and plate-glass splendour.</p> + +<p>Coming up the street are two workmen. The billycock hats on their +heads have lost their brim, and show more dirty stain than original +black. As they catch sight of one another across the street they +pause.</p> + +<p>Suddenly one removes the clay pipe from his lips and spits profusely. +The other eyes him, his hands in his pockets; then he too takes the +short pipe from between his lips, and jerking his head in the direction +of the public house, slowly puts out his tongue.</p> + +<p>The first billycock replaces his pipe with care, crosses the road, +and with a sanguinary word they both disappear within the doors of the +gin palace.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">257</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPIII"> + <span class="line-height3">III</span><br> + <span>YONÉ’S BABY</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>It lay on the matted floor, a little brown thing that cried, and Yoné +sat on her heels and looked at it.</p> + +<p>Huddled over the brazier in the corner, her skinny hands stretched +out to clutch the warmth from the sticks of glowing charcoal, the old +grandmother dozed and grumbled.</p> + +<p>And Yoné did not move. The <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> for whom she +worked had told her she ought to take care of her dead daughter’s child +and bring it up; but Yoné’s conscience, the conscience of her race, the +inherited upbringing of her dead fathers, made her instinctively turn +towards the <i lang="ja">O Bā San</i> in the corner. She could not feed +two mouths. Life was hard for Yoné; and the <i lang="ja">O Bā San</i> +had a good appetite though she was so old.</p> + +<p>So Yoné sat on her heels and sullenly listened to the quavering wail +without moving.</p> + +<p>“If the gods wanted the child to live, why had they let its mother +die? Why had its father divorced the little wife ‘for temper’ before the +baby was born? It was Fate. And after all the baby was very small and +ugly, a little, cross sickly thing that cried. No, it had much better +die, much better.”</p> + +<p>And Yoné got up, and went to get ready the evening rice for +the <i lang="ja">O Bā San</i>. As she did so the shadow <span +class="pagenum">258</span>of the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> herself fell +across the floor, and her voice, in very English Japanese, asked after +the baby. Yoné was down on her knees in a moment, drawing in her breath +through her teeth in long whistles of politeness.</p> + +<p>“The baby was not well, as the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> could see. +It did nothing but cry; and after all what was the use? It had much +better die.”</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> sat down on the little platform, +the <i lang="ja">shōji</i> pushed back between her and the room, in +consternation. After all she had said the day before, all she had urged, +Yoné still clung to that awful idea. The <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> had +a shrewd suspicion that the old lady in the corner had something to do +with Yoné’s idea “it was better baby die.” It would be quite easy for +“baby to die” too, and that without much active doing on Yoné’s part. +So she sat there perplexed, the baby cuddled up in her arms. Moral +persuasions she had tried, and appeals to Yoné’s conscience, her love +for her dead daughter, her duty—all in vain. And she looked down at the +queer little atom in its bright red <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, with the +wide flapping sleeves, wondering whether it would look quite so odd +dressed like other babies, her own for instance, and she smiled. It was +a last chance any way.</p> + +<p>“Yoné,” she said, holding up the baby. “How would you like to see him +dressed like the <i lang="ja">Bot’chan</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Hē,” cried Yoné, turning round, her vanity awake in a moment.</p> + +<p>“Well, if you’ll take care of him, I’ll dress him in foreign clothes, +and he’ll look just like the <i lang="ja">Bot’chan</i>.”</p> + +<p>Yoné’s strangled “h’s” of admiration grew deeper and +deeper. Her admiration for the <i lang="ja">Ijin San’s Bot’chan</i> knew no bounds; and then the pride of having +<span class="pagenum">259</span>a foreign-dressed baby of her own! Why, +not one of her acquaintances, not even the rich <i lang="ja">saké</i> +merchant at the corner, dressed their children “foreign fashion.” It was +a height beyond their ambition, a dizzy pinnacle only reached by the +<i lang="ja">samurai</i> and the Court! And Yoné’s strangled “h’s” of +admiration and her indrawn whistles of politeness knew no bounds. Even +the <i lang="ja">O Bā San</i> in the corner turned her head round and +showed some signs of interest. And the baby stopped its feeble cry and +lay back on the <i lang="ja">Ijin San’s</i> lap—and smiled.</p> + +<p>With a sudden swoop Yoné caught it up. “I take care, I take care,” +she said, “let the <i lang="ja">Ijin San</i> bring the clothes.”</p> + +<p>And from that day she went about her work with the quaintest little +brown morsel in a foreign pelisse and a white bonnet nodding over her +shoulder. And neither the <i lang="ja">O Bā San</i> nor the baby ever +went hungry whatever Yoné might do.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">260</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPIV"> + <span class="line-height3">IV</span><br> + <span>THE GRAVES OF THE RŌNIN</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The white wing of a blossoming plum-tree casts a pale shadow across +the pebbled steps of the causeway, and the spring sunshine is warm. +Behind, under the great gate of the temple, is a stall with souvenir +tea-bowls of the <i>Forty-Seven Rōnin</i> and the red blankets of a tiny +<i lang="ja">chaya</i>. In front, at the end of the causeway, stands a +Japanese father with his little son, buying bundles of incense sticks +from the Buddhist sexton. Coming up the path are two peasants with bare, +brown legs, one wearing the old-fashioned gunhammer top-knot. And the +plum-tree, its scent warm and fragrant, lies a white wing above the +path.</p> + +<p>The Japanese father, <i lang="ja">samurai</i> from his face, and +modern by his clothes, and his son have passed into the graveyard before +us. But we all stand together in the little square garden on the side +of the hill, with its thickly clustered tombstones, shaped like Moses’ +Tables of the Law in the Child’s Bible, set in the flat brown earth.</p> + +<p>Below, a sharply falling line of dark green shrubs; above, the +overhanging trees of the hillside; and the garden is quiet and still, +with a little chill of damp and death that sobers and subdues.</p> + +<p>Before each stone tablet on the earthen path are <span +class="pagenum">261</span>bamboo vases filled with freshly cut branches +of evergreens, and the burning incense sticks trail a thin scarf of +smoke along the ground.</p> + +<p>The two old peasants are busy sticking their thin, brown incense +tapers into the little heaps of grey ash—to become grey ashes in their +turn. The little son has already lit his before the tomb of Oishi +Kuranosuké; and the father, gravely feeling in the pocket of his +“foreign” coat, takes out a visiting-card, and lays it reverently among +the pile of others on the grave.</p> + +<p>Then they go away slowly. And I catch the names of Asano Takumi +no Kami and Kira Kōtsuké no Suké, and I know that the little son is +listening to the story of the <i>Forty-Seven Rōnin</i>.</p> + +<p>For two hundred years now they have come up the pebbled pathway +into the graveyard, country peasant and Tokyo gentlemen coming with +incense sticks and flowering branches, to keep green the memory of +the loyal retainers who died to revenge their lord: coming in <i +lang="ja">kimono</i> and top-knot: still coming in foreign clothes and +<i lang="ja">shappo</i>, for the old spirit lives though the outer form +is changing. The fierce unswerving loyalty, the utter self-sacrifice, +the tenacity and strength of the <i>Forty-Seven Rōnin</i> still stir the +soul of the modern Japanese under their foreign envelope as it stirred +the heart of those fierce old <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, with their hands +ever on the hilt of their long two-handed swords.</p> + +<p>“Thou shalt not live under the same heaven nor tread the same earth +as the enemy of thy father or thy master,” says the Scripture. And the +Forty-Seven died, and more than died, to fulfil the commandment.</p> + +<p>In the temple below their wooden effigies stand to this day. +Among them are old men and young boys—one with the grey locks of +seventy-seven, one with the <span class="pagenum">262</span>boyish +cheeks of seventeen—but neither the old man nor the young boy faltered, +through all the long months of waiting, in the dangerous moment of +the struggle or after. They plotted and endured; they fought and +slew; they brought the bloody head of Kira Kōtsuké no Suké, washed in +the well beyond the plum-tree, here to the grave of their dead lord; +they gave themselves up to Justice; they carried out the sentence of +death on their own bodies with their own hands—all with the same quiet +self-control which only the sense of a supreme, absorbing duty can +produce.</p> + +<p>And the Forty-Seven were buried here, in the quiet cold graveyard, +beside the body of their lord. And when they had been laid to rest there +came a fierce two-sworded <i lang="ja">samurai</i> to the little garden, +and, kneeling down in front of the tomb of Oishi Kuranosuké, he took +his dirk from his belt and stabbed himself above the grave. For he had +insulted Oishi Kuranosuké, in the long months of the waiting, thinking +he had forgotten his lord.</p> + +<p>So they buried him among the Forty-Seven, and before his tomb are +flowering branches and burning incense tapers.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The two old peasants are gone, but the sound of coming steps is on +the pebbled pathway.</p> + +<p>It is the feet of the nation. They come to keep their age long watch +above the graves of the Loyal <i lang="ja">Rōnin</i>.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">263</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPV"> + <span class="line-height3">V</span><br> + <span>THE DOLLS’ FESTIVAL</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Enshrined in their white wooden boxes the dolls look down; and the +gently drifting crowd stare their fill.</p> + +<p>It is the eve of the Dolls’ Festival, and for a hundred yards along +the wide <i lang="ja">Odōri</i>, the street is wreathed across and +across with swaying lines of paper lanterns.</p> + +<p>On each matted floor, raised knee-high from the ground, a shopman +sits on his heels, his hands eternally stretched out over the charcoal +fire of the <i lang="ja">hibachi</i>.</p> + +<p>The background of dolls on three sides of him seem as interested in +their sale as he. The crowd drifts, talks, points, looks, but he sits +still, absorbed in his occupation. Occasionally he will turn a languid +head over one shoulder in the direction of an inquiring voice, and +tranquilly name a price four times bigger than he expects to get; but +unless the customer pursues the bargain with vigour he does not stir. +Even then, all the talking is done without moving more than a head. +And when the culminating point arrives at which the would-be buyer +shakes the dust off his feet and makes vigorously for the next shop, he +murmurs an impassive “<i lang="ja">Yoroshī</i>” (“All right”), and warms +another finger, while a boy in the background, who for ever dusts the +stock-in-trade, does up the parcel and takes the money.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">264</span>I wonder—would anything stir this <i +lang="fr">blasé</i> image of indifference?</p> + +<p>Perhaps if a fool or a foreigner, interchangeable terms in the +East, paid the price he asked he might——. No, “<i lang="ja">Yoroshī, +yoroshī</i>,” he murmurs, and does not interrupt the warming of his +hands by a finger’s-breadth.</p> + +<p>For ten long days now the dolls, all in the quaint robes of old, have +looked down on the gently drifting crowd, emperor and empress, lords and +ladies, and court musicians. The red silk trousers and the flowing hair, +the cut-glass chandelier-like head-dress and the wide, wide sleeved <i +lang="ja">kimono</i>; the court lady leading her lap-dog; the musicians +with their instruments; and along the lower shelves, the long procession +of lacquered bowls, and tables and furniture, the old, old shapes of Old +Japan, the realities buried for ever in museums, and only these, their +midget substitutes, enjoying a brief life once a year.</p> + +<p>They are so neat and pretty, of such exquisite workmanship and +finish, that I stay to look and look. Behind me the crowd closes +in thicker and thicker, looking too—but at me; so thickly that +they obstruct the rails of Tokyo’s main tramway, and cause it much +embarrassment.</p> + +<p>To-morrow is the Dolls’ Festival, and all the world is buying; +I, too, would like to buy. So I sit still on the edge of the matted +floor and watch. I shall learn what I ought to give and how to conduct +the intricate matter of a purchase. But though they were here before +me, and though they stay long after me, and though I wait with what +I consider quite Oriental patience, they do not buy, not one of +them, they only talk. So I am compelled to conduct my own <span +class="pagenum">265</span>purchase without the aid of native example, +and to the certain advantage of the impassive shopman.</p> + +<p>Does any one ever buy anything in Tokyo?</p> + +<p>In all my many wanderings I have never seen them, patiently as I have +stalked them. They are always just going—just going—just going——</p> + +<p>Perhaps that is why the impassive shopmen are so impassive.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">266</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPVI"> + <span class="line-height3">VI</span><br> + <span>WITH DEATH BESIDE HER</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Go-han wa skoshi mo arimasen</i>” (“Not another grain +of rice, not a grain”). And O Matsu sat back on her heels, the lid of +the wooden rice saucepan clutched in her hand.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">Skoshi mo <a href="#266B" id="266A">arimasen.</a></i>” +And the grey head, with its cropped hair gathered into a slide behind, +bent despairingly over the saucepan.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">O hachi</i> was quite empty, O Matsu had eaten the +last grain yesterday; she knew that quite well, but the trembling old +fingers went on feeling round and round the bare sides of the saucepan, +for she was very hungry. All through the long months of the rice famine +O Matsu had managed somehow. To-day the empty <i lang="ja">O hachi</i> +lay on the ground while O Matsu sat staring slowly into it. Then Death +stared back at her, and she knew it.</p> + +<p>With a trembling little movement she got on to her feet and moved +across the matted floor into the <i lang="ja">zashki</i>. The sun was +shining on the rice-paper panes of the <i lang="ja">shōji</i>, and she +pushed them back and stood out on the little platform of polished wood, +trying to warm herself; but the piercing winter wind made her blackened +teeth chatter, and she came in again. In the <i lang="ja">hibachi</i> +the grey ashes were dead and cold, the last stick of <span +class="pagenum">267</span>charcoal had boiled the water for her tea last +night. There was neither fire nor food. O Matsu stood still watching, +while Death and his Shadow grew, as a ghost in the twilight.</p> + +<p>Slowly the familiar walls, the matted floor, the half-opened <i +lang="ja">shōji</i> insisted that the house was yet unswept, the first +duty of a housewife still undone; and with a painful effort O Matsu went +and fetched the bamboo broom that swept the matting, and the damp cloth +to polish the platform. The broom felt heavy to the weak old hands, +and the task of polishing the platform almost beyond her strength; so +she worked on slowly, stopping often, for hunger made her faint, but +always going on again. At last, <i lang="ja">zashki</i> and platform +finished, she crept back into the kitchen, longing to rest. The empty <i +lang="ja">O hachi</i> lay on the floor. She made a great effort, and, +picking it up, carried it outside to scrub, for cleanliness is a supreme +duty in Japan.</p> + +<p>When she came back she put the freshly scrubbed <i lang="ja">O +hachi</i> in its place. Then she sat down. There was nothing more to do. +The house was as clean as a house could be. O Matsu was inexpressibly +weary, and the desire for food was almost beyond control. Instinctively +she wandered back to the empty <i lang="ja">O hachi</i> and took off the +lid. The copper bands, dim and splashed with the washing, caught her +eye. It seemed to her the hardest thing of all her life to go and fetch +her little cloth and sit down to polish them, but she did it. And Death +and his Shadow sat down at her side.</p> + +<p>Somehow as she rubbed, two tears gathered in the dim old eyes, and +rolled down the withered cheeks. O Matsu dropped the cloth, and holding +the long sleeve of her <i lang="ja">kimono</i> before her face, sat +still and wept.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">268</span>There is nothing in all the world so +lonely as a Japanese woman without husband or children. She has no claim +on her own family, and little on her husband’s; and in a land where the +children, once grown up, provide for their parents, what can a childless +widowed old woman do?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The sun moved round the house, and O Matsu still sat in her kitchen +rubbing softly at the copper bands of the saucepan. And death, in +infinite pity, laid his hand upon her head, and his Shadow vanished.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="ja">O meshi wa skoshi mo arimasen</i>,” she said. And the +shaven old eyebrows puckered themselves together. “<i lang="ja">Skoshi +mo arimasen.</i>” And the bent little figure went on rubbing.</p> + +<p>When the policeman came in the grey dawn of the morning, surprised +that the <i lang="ja">amado</i> were not drawn, he found O Matsu, the +polished copper bands of the <i lang="ja">O hachi</i> glittering in her +lap—quite dead.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">269</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPVII"> + <span class="line-height3">VII</span><br> + <span>KYOTO’S SOIRÉE</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Midnight and yet as hot as mid-day. Over our heads the velvet +darkness lay as a visible lid above the streets, warm and still. Not +a breath of air was stirring from one end of Kyoto to the other; the +city seemed a vast dark house with all its windows shut. Only the rapid +running of the <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> produced the slightest breeze, +and that was but the fanning of a heated ballroom; and when it stopped +the hot still air settled down hotter, stiller, than before.</p> + +<p>We had reached the bank of the river, the bridge and Theatre Street +lay beyond; and, as suddenly as one opens a door in a dark passage, we +were there, inside, in the press and the noise, the lights and the crowd +of Kyoto’s nightly <i lang="fr">soirée</i>.</p> + +<p>Restaurants and hairpin stalls, <i lang="ja">geisha</i> booths +and theatres, the interesting show of the two-headed fish, or the +tragic story of the <i>Forty-seven Rōnin</i>, embroideries, and <i +lang="ja">bīru</i>, jugglers and phonographs, cheap stalls for the +sale of shaved ice and sugar syrup, elegant restaurants with fish +dinners; dancing-booths at two <i lang="ja">sen</i> a head, where +white-painted <i lang="ja">geisha</i> girls continually sang four +notes and assumed four postures, and sang the same four notes and +repeated the same four postures to a tightly packed audience <span +class="pagenum">270</span>sitting on its heels, silent but appreciative; +and all, restaurants, booths, theatres, stalls, blazed with lights and +posters, deafened with the banging of big drums and the invitations of +the proprietors, reeked with the smell of burning tallow, the fragrance +of boiling tea, the scent of crushed geranium, the odour of an eastern +summer’s night and of the press of clean-washed, hot humanity.</p> + +<p>Along the street, inside the stalls and out, the crowd was dense, +cheerful, polite and contented. There was no pushing, no ill-humour, +no fights, no drunkenness, nor one policeman. The people of Kyoto were +enjoying themselves like well-bred guests in a ballroom, with the +courtesy of self-control, and the self-abandoned pleasure of a child. +The road with its shifting crowd, and the two long lines of brightly +lighted buildings, covered with paper lanterns and cotton banners on +bamboo poles, looked more like a “set” in a theatre than real houses +in an out-of-doors street. Not a candle-flame quivered, not a banner +stirred, and the long perspective of the arched bridge was still as a +painted background.</p> + +<p>Down in the river, in the actual bed of the stream, were more lights, +whole crowded restaurants afloat. Sitting on the tops of tables, whose +four legs driven down into the sand brought them within six inches +of the water, supper parties innumerable ate and talked; while the +children, slipping off their <i lang="ja">gheta</i>, paddled their feet +in the stream. Even the little waitresses, as they ran from customer to +customer, would leave the long polished gangways that led from tea-house +to table, and take the shorter way through the water. Every one was +eating, and every one was happy—shaved ice with sugar syrup, at two <i +lang="ja">sen</i> a glass, or dishes of brown eels and rice at two <i +lang="ja">yen</i>, gratuitous <span class="pagenum">271</span>tea or <i +lang="ja">bīru</i> in thirty-<i lang="ja">sen</i> bottles. And with the +summer night above, the water all around, the hundreds and hundreds of +little tables floated on the water bright with <i lang="ja">kimono</i> +and lanterns. The broad shallow backwater either side the bridge was +full of them, and the gentle rushing of the actual river beyond the +circle of bright light lent a sense of freshness to the shadows that +they did not in themselves possess.</p> + +<p>Up on the bridge the crowd grew thicker, Theatre Street more full; +the hairpin stalls were surrounded with women and little girls, buying +long hairpins carved at the end, or ornamented with silk lanterns or +flowers, or ingenious designs of tortoises made of shells, with legs +that quivered realistically. And the velvet blackness lying above the +streets and beyond the river was warm to feel.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, as when one throws a stone into the water, the crowd +surged forwards, then rippled slowly back; half a dozen white-uniformed +policemen, with the distinctive, distinguished face of the <i +lang="ja">samurai</i>, were coming over the bridge, driving the people +before them, back and back. The confused noise of indistinct shouting +filled the air. Suddenly on to the bridge came running in a sort of +jog-trot a crowd of bareheaded men, their short white tunics hardly +reaching to the thigh and their brown legs naked beneath, all tugging +and straining at a huge unwieldy car, which moved in jerks on its +wheels of solid wood. On each side ran bands of men brandishing flaming +torches in their hands, while priests in gorgeous apparel came behind. +And priests and people, torch-bearers and car-pullers, were chanting +as they ran, a fierce, wild cry, which went on and on. The car-pullers +<span class="pagenum">272</span>swayed from side to side, tossing their +hands above their heads, the torch-bearers rocked, sending great flaming +fragments among the crowd, and we all stood pressed together, shrinking +back from the burning torches, and the feet of the car-pullers, singed +here, trampled there, in one sweating mass of hot humanity.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the bridge the car stood still. The men in white +tunics moved restlessly on their feet, straining at the cords; the +torch-bearers chanted louder, tossing their torches in the air; the +priests hurried to the front, and stood gesticulating while the wild, +monotonous cry, gathering fierceness and frenzy from its very monotony, +thundered and roared. Then with a sudden swirl the car turned round, +and torch-bearers, car-pullers and priests were rushing back again to +the same fierce wild cry, the same frenzied swaying of the bodies, and +the same mad tossing of the arms. The sacred procession had come, was +gone.</p> + +<p>Slowly the crowd rippled back, on over the bridge, back down +the street, the policemen disappeared, the drums of the <i +lang="ja">geisha</i> booths and the invitations of the stall-owners rang +out again. Down on the surface of the river the floating tables grew +fuller and fuller.</p> + +<p>Kyoto’s nightly <i lang="fr">soirée</i> was at its height.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">273</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPVIII"> + <span class="line-height3">VIII</span><br> + <span>NŌ</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>A room whose sloping floor is cut into chess-board squares; each +square flat and matted, so that the back is twelve inches high +and level with the front of the square above; a bare still wooden +room long and crowded. Each matted square thick with kneeling men +and women, the long-headed aquiline faces of the nobles and the +<i lang="ja">samurai</i>. At the end a platform with an opening +vaguely leading from it. No scenery, no footlights, no curtain. It +is the theatre for the performance of the <i lang="ja">Nō</i>. Those +sacred old world plays written many hundred years ago, acted by <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> for <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, the religious +mysteries and moralities of Japan.</p> + +<p>In the West the theatre long ago shook off, escaped, forgot the +Church. Here the elder child, the mother rather, still lives by the +side of her offspring, and lives unchanged. The <i lang="ja">Nō</i> +to-day is as the <i lang="ja">Nō</i> of five hundred years ago, the <i +lang="ja">Nō</i> which grew out of the sacred dances of an immemorable +antiquity. Like the drama of the Greeks it has its choruses, its chants, +its unities, its one or two actors masked, richly dressed, impressive, +who move with a religious solemnity, and speak as voices, not as men. +Its plays, too, are drawn from sacred legend, from the mythology of +Shintō <span class="pagenum">274</span>deities, from the mysteries +of the Buddhist faith, and from the fairy tales of the race. Over it +all there is a glamour as of a stolen glimpse into the buried past. +To-day its language is archaic, but preserved by constant repetition, +handed down from father to son in the families of nobles who, since <i +lang="ja">Nō</i> first began, have played in <i lang="ja">Nō</i>, it +remains the language and the speech of those dead Japanese, who towards +the fourteenth century organised the <i lang="ja">Nō</i>.</p> + +<p>The chant is strange and piercing, its very notes and phrases are +outside of all that we consider music, as unfamiliar as the speech of +insects, or the song of the remotest fathers of mankind. It echoes like +a voice from out the long dead worlds, piercing yet remote, and the +<i>tink</i> of pipes dies out. There falls a stillness in the room.</p> + +<p>It is the afternoon of the last day of the Iidamachi <i +lang="ja">Nō</i>. As in the theatres of Greece the plays, each of which +lasts about two hours, are given one after another throughout the whole +day, while between them comes the <i lang="ja">Kiogen</i> (mad words), +or <i lang="fr">folies dramatiques</i>, farce-like, Greek-like comedies, +shorter even than the <i lang="ja">Nō</i>. Many of the spectators have +been here since the morning, and on the matting of the shallow square +boxes are lacquered trays of food, on all teapots and tobacco-stands; +others come to see a special play or so and go away again; but to one +and all it is not an amusement, it is a study, a homage paid to the +past, a rite.</p> + +<p>As the first notes of the strange piercing chant wail down the room, +the pipes and cigarettes go out, the tiny tea-bowls are set down, and a +silence falls.</p> + +<p>The actors, in their rich brocaded robes of a make and texture of a +long dead past, come slowly through <span class="pagenum">275</span>the +passage-way on to the platform. Their masks are made of lacquer, and +they speak in a slow nasal deep voice that seems to come from the very +back of their throats. They speak with every muscle strained and taut. +It sounds almost as outside of speech as the chant is outside of music, +and they move in strange long strides. Such movements are not merely for +artistic effect, nor to mark agitation, or to reproduce nature; they are +often used to mark the passing of a period of time.</p> + +<p>For all its stiffness and its rigour, its archaic make-believes, its +unnatural realities, there is an intensity and a thrill in it as of a +living thing that matters. The strange music of the tambourine-like +instruments, the thin wailing of the bamboo flute, the beating of the +one small drum, shaped like an hour-glass with three supporting pillars, +breaks in again and again upon the intoned speech of the actors with +its repeated irregular cadences in notes outside of speech. And the +long-robed figures, masked and rigid, stalk slowly across the stage; and +the chant of the chorus, as in the plays of Greece, explains, comments, +describes the action.</p> + +<p>It is the story of the fisherman who found an angel’s robe of +feathers on a tree, and would not give it back though the angel begged +and begged. Without it she cannot reach her home in the blue of the +heavens above, and for a heavenly spirit to stay for long on earth means +death. Already the chorus is chanting her dirge when the fisherman, +seeing her beauty fading and her life ebbing fast, relents. He will give +back the robe if she will dance for him. She promises, but implores +first her robe that the dance may be more perfect. The fisherman fears +she will deceive him <span class="pagenum">276</span>and fly back to +heaven at once. But the spirit turns upon him.</p> + +<p>“Fie on thee, fisherman,” she cries, “deception was born of man; the +high heavens know not of it.”</p> + +<p>And, touched, he gives back the robe. She dances, while the chorus +sings the beauties of the landscape, of Japan. How</p> + +<div class="left5"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“Heaven has its joys, but there is beauty here,</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Here</p> + +<div class="left5"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>Where the moon in bright unclouded glory<br> + Shines on Kigomi’s lea.<br> + And where on <span lang="ja">Fujiyama</span>’s summit hoary<br> + The snows look on the sea.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Even the angel would stay awhile in a land so beautiful.</p> + +<div class="left5"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“Blow, blow ye winds that the white cloud-belt driven<br> + Around my path may bar my homeward way,<br> + Not yet would I return to Heaven.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>And still the angel dances, and the vision of Heaven descends upon +earth. She sings,</p> + +<div class="left5"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“And from the cloudy spheres,<br> + Chiming in unison the angels’ lutes,<br> + Tabrets and cymbals, and sweet silv’ry flutes<br> + Ring through the heav’n that glows with purple hues.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Then the voices fall away. And to the strange, tuneless music, +whose notes are not our notes, the spirit dances on, round and round +in gliding circles, with the slow, smooth movements of the sacred <i +lang="ja">Kagura</i>.</p> + +<div class="left5"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p>“Fragrant and fair—too fair for mortal eyes.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The chorus sings again. And gliding round and round in circles ever +smoother, ever slower, the spirit passes from the platform and up the +vague passage-way that leads to the green-room beyond.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">277</span>The fisherman starts. The play is +ended. In long, stiff strides, so slow, so slow, that an appreciable +space of time seems set around the movement of each muscle, the +actor goes across the stage, up the vague passage-way, into the room +beyond.</p> + +<p>It is five minutes before the last slow solemn stride takes +him beyond our sight. Then hour-glass drum, the flute, the two +tambourine-like instruments that wail, shake out their last weird +tuneless tune. The chant of the chorus ends on a note that to us is a +middle—and stops.</p> + +<p>My ears still wait the end of the phrase when the hush of intense +silence dissolves. There is a rustle in each square shallow box, a +lighting of tiny bronze pipes and cigarettes, a filling of tea-cups, a +tapping of chopsticks.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">Nō</i> is over.</p> + +<p class="cont80"><span class="smcap">Note.</span>—In quoting from this +<i lang="ja">Nō</i>, “The Robe of Feathers,” I have followed Mr. B. H. +Chamberlain’s translation in “The Classical Poetry of the Japanese.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">278</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPIX"> + <span class="line-height3">IX</span><br> + <span>A JAPANESE BANK-HOLIDAY</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>The bulletins grew longer, and all the world waited and watched.</p> + +<p>The Japanese papers were full of minute descriptions and hopeful +prognostications. The cherry-trees were doing well; they were expected +to bloom next week.</p> + +<p>Then came a cold wind and rain; “for flowers,” as the proverb says, +“bring showers.” And the bulletins became paragraphs.</p> + +<p>But the sky grew blue again, and even the foreign papers broke +through their Western disdain, and announced that “Marquis Itō had gone +to Kyoto to see the cherry-trees.” Imagine the <i>Times</i> gravely +recording amongst its official intelligence that “Mr. Balfour had gone +to Devonshire (not a third of the journey) to see the apple-blossoms”! +But the Japanese are, of course, uncivilised!</p> + +<p>On Easter Monday the trees were out, and all the world with them. The +two long miles of river-bank at Mukojima were crowded. The river itself +was thick with <i lang="ja">sampan</i>. And still all Tokyo pours itself +out over the bridges, across the canals, out under the long double line +of cherry-trees.</p> + +<p>The chrysanthemum may well be the Imperial crest; the cherry-tree is +the national emblem, and its <span class="pagenum">279</span>flowering +a national <i lang="fr">fête</i>—a Japanese Bank Holiday, with Mukojima +for its Hampstead Heath.</p> + +<p>The two long miles of raised bank is a sea of heads, a second black +river set between pale pink banks; and it washes slowly, undisturbedly +onwards. Nobody pushes, nobody shouts, nobody calls rude remarks. And +the blue-tuniced coolies, like Florentine noblemen out at elbows, with +the work-a-day blue towel round their heads replaced by a pink one, the +very shade of the cherry-blossoms above, say polite “<i lang="ja">Go men +nasai</i>” (“I beg your honourable pardon”) if in looking upwards they +stumble against each other.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> has drawn his wife and children to +Mukojima, and they wander slowly under the trees, the little ones in +their gay-coloured <i lang="ja">kimono</i>, covered with the largest +of large flowers. Even the little tonsured babies blink up at the pink +wonder overhead from the warm pouch on their mother’s backs. And the +old grandmothers, with their cropped grey heads and shaven eyebrows, +tell how the cherry-trees were much finer when they were young. The +little girls, with their hair oiled into lengths of black ribbons and +tied in loops on the top of their heads; the young wife, with the +wonderful whorls of the married woman’s coiffure; the bare-legged, +blue-knickerbockered <i lang="ja">’ricksha</i> man; the schoolboys, with +their striped cotton <i lang="ja">hakama</i>; the fathers, in their +grey <i lang="ja">kimono</i>—all the working world, all the people are +here.</p> + +<p>Below the level of the bank, raised high here, for the Sumidagawa, +like all the rivers of Japan, is fierce in its floods, and set thick +together, are the <i lang="ja">chaya</i>. These range from the humblest +little roofed shed, with its broad, low tables, like a series of large +trays on dwarf legs, covered with coarse red blankets, to the <span +class="pagenum">280</span>superb tea-houses with their snow-white +matted rooms, their painted <i lang="ja">shōji</i>. And they are all +full. The <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> drinks his bowl of pale green tea, +sitting on his heels on the red blanket. The little wife tries the +immensely popular drink of <i lang="ja">ramuné</i> (lemonade) out of +a doll’s tumbler. The coolie, with his festive pink towel, pours warm +<i lang="ja">saké</i> from slim china vases into tiny china bowls, +and the smile on his broad, bullet-headed face grows broader. For the +<i lang="ja">saké</i> drinker, unlike Western drunkards, only becomes +politer and politer, until the Japanese smile of courtesy broadens into +a large, fixed, unending, amiable grin, and the <i lang="ja">saké</i> +drunkard goes politely, though stumblingly, home to sleep. But of even +<i lang="ja">saké</i> drunkenness there is little, for the most part +<i lang="ja">o cha</i> (honourable tea) and <i lang="ja">o kashi</i> +(honourable cakes) content these uncivilised Bank Holiday-makers, who +have come out to see—just the pink cherry-blossoms against the blue sky. +And will go home again—content.</p> + +<p>On the river the red towels are perhaps more numerous, for all the +fishermen, all the dock labourers, the whole riverside population of +Tokyo have come in their <i lang="ja">sampan</i> to Mukojima. And they +float past now, little and big, crowded with blue tunics or grey <i +lang="ja">kimono</i>. Some with an awning of paper lanterns, and all gay +with flags and banners. And full as the river is with boats, and jammed +together as they are under the bank, nobody shouts, nobody quarrels, +nobody swears. A garden party at Windsor Castle might be better dressed, +it could hardly be better behaved. Nor in the whole length of those two +miles of crowded bank, with the line of <i lang="ja">sampan</i> on one +side and the line of public-houses on the other—<i lang="ja">sampan</i>, +avenue, inns, all full to overflowing—are there three policemen. +More, the trees, with their exquisite cloud of pink flowers, <span +class="pagenum">281</span>are within easy reach of a man’s arm, and +nobody breaks them. The municipality of Tokyo has not even considered it +necessary to affix a notice regarding the penalty for damaging trees. I +should doubt if it had even thought to invent one.</p> + +<p>And yet the blossoms are beautiful enough to make a man’s heart long +to possess them.</p> + +<p>“A little pink cloud of the sunset has caught in the bare branches of +the cherry-tree.” And not all Western imagery can surpass the simile, +for the pink is the pink of a cloud at sunset, and soft as the softest +mist. When the wind stirs the trees, the blue sky seems scattering pink +snowflakes to the ground.</p> + +<p>“What is the soul of Japan?” asked the poet. “It is the mountain +cherry-tree in the morning sun.”</p> + +<p>But a soul so simple, the civilised nations, of course, disdain!</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">282</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPX"> + <span class="line-height3">X</span><br> + <span>THE PALACE OF THE SON OF HEAVEN</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p>Kyoto is a city of immense distances where the brown earth streets, +set in between their rows of low brown houses, run on interminably. +Even under the weltering summer sky the streets are full; for Kyoto, +the once-time capital, is still the second city of the Empire, and the +art centre of Japan. My <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> scatters men and +children as he runs; and the sounds of busy bargaining, the inevitable +<i lang="ja">takai</i> (too much), following the <i lang="ja">ikura des +ka</i> (how much?) pursue me as I ride.</p> + +<p>At each corner two more streets stretch out, as straight as +interminable, as full of life. And still my <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> +runs.</p> + +<p>I am going to see the Emperor’s Palace. Through many hundred years, +through most that is history in Japan, the Son of Heaven dwelt in the +heart of this city, and these long interminable streets so full of life +stretched all around him. The <i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i> lived in the +midst of his people, and neither saw nor heard.</p> + +<p>We have left the streets at last; on either hand stand railed-in +squares of growing trees; the road is wide and smooth, the busy +thousands in the streets drop out of sight and sound. My <i +lang="ja">kurumaya</i> runs more swiftly.</p> + +<p>Here is neither shop nor house, nor passer-by, the restless +hum of life itself has ceased. It is quieter than <span +class="pagenum">283</span>a forest, for in these artificial squares of +railed-in trees nothing stirs. Men’s gardens are always three parts +dead.</p> + +<p>The broad road widens still; white as fuller’s earth and hard, it +stretches like an avenue between high walls of smooth white brick, laid +flat and thin as Roman tiles, on thick layers of pale white mortar. Two +carefully paved-in streams of fresh grey water run between wall and +road. And streams and road and walls go on and on. It is the Palace of +the Heir Apparent.</p> + +<p>The walls are twelve feet high, the stream is three feet wide; and +still my <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i> runs. The pale white walls stretch +down the road like parallels in Euclid. It is the Palace of the Princes +of the Blood.</p> + +<p>And still he runs. The pale white walls, thin tiles set in their +thick layers of mortar, run as he runs.</p> + +<p>I have lost sense of the city now, lost memory of the gardens, lost +belief in life itself. The world is a dead white road between white +walls. This is the Palace of the Son of Heaven, one speck of brown +breaks the interminable line of white, the carved gateway whence the +great <i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i> issued once a year to visit the +temple. One other speck, the gate by which he returned. And then the +pale white walls, thin tiles set in thick layers of mortar, stretch out +of sight.</p> + +<p>Inside these miles of walls, in his artificial solitude, year in, +year out, the Son of Heaven dwelt. The life of the city, surging through +its streets, surged up in vain; he could not see it, hear it, nor +conceive it. Lord of a world he did not know, the Son of Heaven lived, +while all around the sons of earth fought and toiled, were born and +died, and not a murmur of their being passed his Palace walls. Shut up +in his rose-garden <span class="pagenum">284</span>world, fictitious, +quite unreal, the Son of Heaven augustly ruled. And while the thousands +in the city and the millions in the land held him divine, so that whoso +looked upon his face did surely die, the men who looked usurped his +power, crowned or deposed him; ruled in his name, but reigned supreme, +and fought to reign. The history of Japan lies there. War and worship, +divine unquestioned right and civil strife, never rebellion, each army +fighting in the name of the ever-sacred Son of Heaven, to use victory +for its own ends.</p> + +<p>And the living son of these dead Emperors, brought up as they, Son of +Heaven still, though without the walls, a modern monarch holding levees +and cabinet councils, does that fictitious rose-garden world lie about +him yet shutting out the real?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“And always in Japan,” says my <i lang="ja">kurumaya</i>, “the Son of +Heaven augustly rules.”</p> + +<p>And he sings:</p> + +<div class="center"> + <div class="inline-block"> + <p lang="ja">“Kimi ga yo wa<br> + Chiyo ni yachiyo ni<br> + Sazaré ishi no<br> + Iwaho to narité<br> + Koké no musu madé.”</p> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="cont80"> +<p>“The descendants of the Emperor shall live for a thousand times ten +thousand years, until the little stones are grown great rocks, until the +great rocks are all green with moss.”</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">285</span> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="HPXI"> + <span class="line-height3">XI</span><br> + <span>AND SHE WAS A WIDOW</span> + </h3> +</div> + +<p><i lang="ja">O Mmé San</i> looked into her son’s eyes and saw that +they were sad.</p> + +<p>It was in the month of the plum-blossom, when throughout the length +and breadth of Japan the soldiers of the Empire were daily leaving for +the front; for the war with Russia had been declared, and the rich were +giving of their wealth, the poor of their poverty, and every one of his +sons. In Tokyo the rival newspapers had agreed to bury their political +differences until the war was over. An Osaka merchant had offered +his priceless art treasures for sale. On the western coast the poor +fishermen, forbidden to fish in the sea of Japan because of the danger, +sent a petition to the Government asking to be allowed to go out “as +scouts.” Noble students on the far-off banks of the Sungari were risking +an ignominious death as they crouched beneath dark bridges with dynamite +in their hands. Everywhere, every one was giving, giving, giving. Even +in this remote country town each day mothers saw their sons march away, +and bid them a last “<i lang="ja">Sayonara</i>.”</p> + +<p>O Mmé San had been waiting many days, expecting, hoping, dreading, +and to-night in the sad eyes of her son she read the long delayed +summons. “He has <span class="pagenum">286</span>heard at last,” she +thought. And for one moment her heart grew very tender over this, her +fatherless son, her only boy.</p> + +<p>Then she put away her weakness, for she was the wife and the daughter +of <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, and she knew that it was the proudest +privilege of a warrior to fight for his lord, that it was the most +sacred duty of her race to give her life and her son’s life to the +Emperor. So, looking towards the curved swords of the family, which lay +on the <i lang="ja">tokonoma</i>, she began to talk of her husband, +of the grim old <i lang="ja">samurai</i> his fathers, and to tell old +tales of battle and of death that made her boy’s eyes glisten, and then +look sadder than before. But he said nothing, and O Mmé San wondered. +She knew that he had been down to the Prefecture that morning. O Kiku +San’s two sons had left last week, O Hana’s eldest was going to-morrow. +Surely her boy must know when he was leaving, or why did his eyes look +so sad?</p> + +<p>Then she began to tell him of all the plans she had thought of for +managing without him, for they were poor. And at last her son looked up, +and said, very gently as he took her hand:</p> + +<p>“Honourably trouble not; as for leaving, it is not for me.”</p> + +<p>And this time it was O Mmé San’s turn to be silent.</p> + +<p>When dinner was over her son went out to his work, and O +Mmé San wondered and wondered. The wife and daughter of a <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> she was eager to give, give even her only son for +<i lang="ja">Dai Nippon</i>, and the Son of Heaven. And yet her boy was +not going, what could it mean?</p> + +<p>It was O Hana San who brought the answer. <span +class="pagenum">287</span>O Hana came in, very proud and pleased to tell +all the last news about her eldest and his regiment.</p> + +<p>“They say these Russians are seven feet high,” she said, as they sat +opposite one another on the kneeling cushions sipping tea, “and that +they never wash. And, just think, over there in <i lang="ja">Chō-sen</i> +(Korea) everything is still frozen.”</p> + +<p>O Mmé San listened. “A warrior is always warm enough when he fights,” +she said, looking at the long curved swords which lay on the <i +lang="ja">tokonoma</i>.</p> + +<p>O Hana San followed her glance. There were no swords at home on her +<i lang="ja">tokonoma</i>.</p> + +<p>“Oh! fighting’s very different nowadays,” she said. “My boy hasn’t +got a sword at all. They only carry guns now.”</p> + +<p>For O Hana was not above a certain feeling of pleasure at getting +even with a <i lang="ja">samurai</i>.</p> + +<p>O Mmé San bowed, and gently offered more tea.</p> + +<p>“That is the Emperor’s will,” she said, in her soft, low voice. “My +son will also carry a gun.”</p> + +<p>“But your son isn’t going,” cried O Hana San. “Didn’t you know? The +Prefect said yesterday something about the law of the Emperor forbidding +it. I forget why.” And she gave a little giggle of pride at the idea of +her son going to the war when the son of a <i lang="ja">samurai</i> must +stay at home.</p> + +<p>O Mmé San’s hands trembled as she poured more tea into the tiny +bowls, but her voice was as low and as gentle as ever, and she did +not abate one bow or one word of politeness; but how glad she was +when O Hana was gone! She sat back on her heels after her last bow, +her face flushed with anger. The Emperor would not take her son! O +Hana must be mistaken. It could not be true. But “the Prefect <span +class="pagenum">288</span>said.” Then she would go and ask the Prefect. +And O Mmé San got up resolute.</p> + +<p>The Prefect was very busy, and refused at first to see her, but, with +the softest and gentlest politeness, O Mmé San still persisted, and at +last she was admitted into the ugly “foreign” room where the Prefect, in +a frock-coat and tweed trousers, sat on a “foreign” chair. O Mmé San sat +on the edge of hers and held her <i lang="ja">kimono</i> tightly with +both hands. She was not used to chairs.</p> + +<p>“You wish to know when Suzuki Tetsutarō leaves for the front. +Honourably please to wait a moment.”</p> + +<p>O Mmé San waited. The Prefect, deep in his work, almost forgot her. +Something in the tremulous way in which she had spoken made him think +she was afraid for her boy; and he was a stern man, with the sternest +ideas of duty to the Emperor. So when the answer came back to him, he +turned to her somewhat coldly.</p> + +<p>“Suzuki Tetsutarō is exempt from service. It is the will of the +Emperor that the only son of a widow shall stay and take care of his +mother.”</p> + +<p>A great light sprang into O Mmé San’s eyes. “Honourably please to say +is that the reason?” she asked, bowing low.</p> + +<p>The Prefect looked at her, at the strange light shining in her +eyes; and in his heart he regretted the old stern times when <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> mothers sent out their sons to fight to victory or +to death.</p> + +<p>“That is the reason,” he said, and he bowed her out.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>That night O Mmé San did not sleep. She sat up looking at the curved +swords of her fathers and thinking.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">289</span>She knew now why her son’s eyes +were sad. The Son of Heaven, in his graciousness, had wished to spare +the widow’s son, but—but a subject’s duty was to give, give all, give +himself, give everything that was most precious to him; above all, a +<i lang="ja">samurai</i> boy must not stay at home when peasants’ sons +went out to fight. And in the quiet night, with the blossoming plum-tree +stretching like a white wing above the house, Mmé thought.</p> + +<p>This gentle, soft-voiced woman, tender as the white blossoms overhead +from which she took her name, was delicate as they; but in her soul +there dwelt that subtle, untouched fragrance, the sense, of sacrifice +and duty, which, like the scent of the blossoming plum-tree, penetrated +all things. Brought up on the “greater” and “the lesser learning,” in +the strict rule of the three obediences—to father, husband, son—O Mmé +San had lived her simple life, a loving, tender woman, exquisite in +grace and courtesy; but in her heart there burned that ecstatic faith +and fealty which we have never truly known, but call by the cold name +of loyalty. So she sat there and thought in the still, dark night, +and all the thoughts and feelings of the dead, all their resolutions +and impulses, stirred back to life in her all the long line of her <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> fathers, who had fought and died, the yet longer +line of patient mothers, who had endured and given their sons, husbands, +fathers, called to her. They were not dead nor sleeping. They were alive +in her. She sat and listened as their lives thrilled through her in +the silence, and their voices spoke aloud within her soul. It seemed a +simple thing to sacrifice herself. She had no fear of death, rather a +great desire. No haunting fear of Purgatory or Hell beset her. Even the +all-loving Buddha was <span class="pagenum">290</span>forgotten; she +trusted to the older gods to-night—Amaterasu, the great Sun-Goddess, +from whom the Son of Heaven himself descended. Beyond the shadow of +this life the great gods lived, and all the long line of her fathers +stood waiting to welcome her. When she slipped into that light her son’s +father himself would stoop to take her hand, content that she had proved +herself worthy to be a warrior’s wife.</p> + +<p>The snow-white <i lang="ja">mmé</i>, the blossoming plum-tree, +stirred in the cold night wind. “Chastity, purity and strength, womanly +strength,” it whispered, and its pale soft blossoms sighed. The +fragrance of them floated by in the chill spring air; floated wide from +end to end of Great Japan.</p> + +<p>“Strength, womanly strength,” it said, and O Mmé San looked up and +smiled, a little sad, sweet smile. For the strength of a woman lies in +the sacrifice of herself. And getting up she went to look at her boy +tossing in his sleep.</p> + +<p>Then she too slept, for she knew what she had to do; and Shinigawa, +the Lord of Death-Desire, drew near and touched her as she slept.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was nearly dusk the next evening before everything was prepared. +All her son’s clothes mended and ready, the house put straight, the +letter written, telling her boy quite simply that, having learned the +reason why the Emperor in his graciousness would not take him for his +soldier, she had taken her own life that he might be free to fight. On +her knees she thanked the gracious <i lang="ja">Tenshisama</i>, but her +son and her son’s life were his not hers.</p> + +<p>Then she sharpened her dagger, and when O Mmé San felt its edge was +keen enough, she knelt down on <span class="pagenum">291</span>the +matting, took off her long silken under-girdle, and tied it carefully +around her knees, for a <i lang="ja">samurai</i> woman must lie modestly +even in death. Then she felt in her throat for the artery, and with one +quick thrust drove the dagger home.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Prefect was sitting with his family that evening when Suzuki +Tetsutarō came to the house. He carried a paper in his hand, and he was +trembling.</p> + +<p>“Honourably please to take notice,” he said, “that I am qualified to +serve, for my mother is dead.” And he handed the Prefect the paper.</p> + +<p>When he had read it the stern official turned to the lad.</p> + +<p>“The detachment has not yet left for headquarters,” he said, writing +rapidly as he spoke. “Go straight to the station. Give this card to the +officer in charge. I will bury your mother and perform the rites.”</p> + +<p>Then he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Suzuki Tetsutarō,” he +said, “your mother was worthy of her race. Go, that her spirit may have +peace.”</p> + +<p>So Suzuki Tetsutarō went straight to the front.<span +class="pagenum">292</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="center chapter"> + <span class="pagenum">293</span> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GLOSSARY"> + <span class="line-height3">GLOSSARY</span> + </h2> +</div> + +<div> +<p><b>Aino.</b> The aboriginal inhabitants of Japan, only found now in +the North Island. A remarkably hairy, remarkably dirty race, with the +flattened shin-bone only occurring in skeletons of the cave-men. They +are great hunters and fishers.</p> + +<p><b>Amado.</b> Sliding wooden walls which are drawn all round a +Japanese house at night, completely enclosing it.</p> + +<p><b>Amaterasu</b>, <i>lit.</i> “Heaven-Shiner.” The Sun-Goddess, born +from the right eye of the Creator Izanagi.</p> + +<p><b>Amida Butsu.</b> Buddha as Amida. Originally Amida was an +abstraction, the ideal of boundless light.</p> + +<p><b>Benten.</b> One of the seven Deities of Luck, frequently +represented riding on a serpent. Her shrines are mostly on islands, and +from her connection with the sea she has certain points of resemblance +with Venus. Benten always has a white face.</p> + +<p><b>Biwa.</b> A musical instrument with four strings, something like +a lute.</p> + +<p><b>Boy.</b> Term universal among foreigners in the Far East for a +male servant, of whatever age.</p> + +<p><b>Bot’chan.</b> A little boy; baby; Japanese baby language. Derived +from <i lang="ja">bōsan</i>, a Buddhist priest (bonze). Japanese babies, +like Buddhist priests, having completely shaven heads.</p> + +<p><b>Bushi.</b> Warrior.</p> + +<p><b>Bushidō.</b> Way of the warrior.</p> + +<p><b>Cha-no-yu.</b> Tea ceremony, from <i lang="ja">cha</i>, tea. The +people of Tokyo and the initiated call it <i lang="ja">chanoyī</i>. +This ceremony, religious in its inception, has in the course of the +600 or 700 years of its existence passed through a medico-religious, +a luxurious, and an æsthetic stage. A little of the religious element +still clings to it, tea enthusiasts usually joining the Zen sect of +Buddhism, while diplomas of proficiency are obtained from the abbot of +Daitokuji at Kyoto.</p> + +<p><b>Cha-ya.</b> Tea-house.</p> + +<p><b><span lang="fr">Cloisonné</span>.</b> A species of mosaic, its +characteristic feature being a network of copper, brass, or silver wire +soldered on to a <span class="pagenum">294</span>solid foundation of +the same metal. The <i>cloisons</i>, or spaces between the network, are +then filled in with enamel paste.</p> + +<p><b>Daimyō</b>, <i>lit.</i> Great name; a feudal lord. Before the +Restoration of 1868 Japan was divided into provinces, each ruled by a +<i lang="ja">daimyō</i>. Every <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> was the head of +a clan of armed retainers, the <i lang="ja">samurai</i>, and all <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> had to belong to some <i lang="ja">daimyō</i>. +Shortly after the Restoration the <i lang="ja">daimyō</i> voluntarily +gave up their lands, powers, and possessions to the Emperor.</p> + +<p><b><span lang="ja">Fuji</span>.</b> Usually translated as “The +Peerless Mountain,” from the two Chinese characters with which, in +poetry, it is usually written, meaning “not two,” “unrivalled.” In +prose it is generally written with Chinese characters meaning “rich +<i lang="ja">samurai</i>.” It can also be written with ideographs +meaning “not dying” and so “deathless.” Most probably <span +lang="ja">Fuji</span> is derived from the Aino word <i>push</i>, to +burst forth.</p> + +<p><b>Futon.</b> A sort of eiderdown quilt made of silk wadding. The +Japanese spread one of these on the matting at night to sleep on, using +a second as a covering. The native pillow is a shaped and padded piece +of wood or lacquer which supports the neck.</p> + +<p><b>Geisha.</b> Girls trained to the profession of dancing, singing, +playing, and socially entertaining. They are the usual accompaniment to +a Japanese dinner.</p> + +<p><b>Gheta.</b> A sort of wooden clogs kept on by straps passing +between the big and second toes. <i lang="ja">Gheta</i> are only worn in +the street, and are left outside houses, temples, or other buildings. +It would be as disrespectful to enter a house or a temple with your +<i lang="ja">gheta</i> on as for a man to walk into a church, or a +drawing-room, in his hat.</p> + +<p><b>Godown.</b> A fire-proof building for storing valuables. Derived +from Malay word <i lang="ja">gādong</i>, a warehouse.</p> + +<p><b>Hakama.</b> A divided skirt of either cotton or silk, pleated into +a broad stiff band in big pleats. Worn by the <i lang="ja">samurai</i> +on official or ceremonial occasions. Always worn by both teacher and +pupil in the classrooms. Also worn nowadays by the girl students.</p> + +<p><b>Hibachi.</b> A brazier in the shape of a lidless box of wood or +bronze containing charcoal, the warming apparatus of Japanese houses.</p> + +<p><b>Holland.</b> Considered as a tributary kingdom of Japan +during the <span lang="ja">Tokugawa</span> shōgunate, <span +class="pagenum">295</span>because the Dutch shut up in the +island of Deshima, near Nagasaki, sent yearly presents to the <i +lang="ja">shōgun</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Ijin San.</b> Barbarian; foreigner; or perhaps simply “strange +man,” and so foreigner.</p> + +<p><b><span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span>.</b> <i>B.</i> 1542, <i>d.</i> +<a href="#295B" id="295A">1616.</a> The founder of the <span +lang="ja">Tokugawa</span> shōgunate, which lasted from 1603 to 1868. +<span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> was one of the greatest generals and +perhaps the very greatest ruler, Japan has ever produced. He went to +school in the Temple of Rinzaki (p. 17), and the room where he learnt +to write, his ink-slab and other belongings, are still preserved. <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> founded Yedo, now Tokyo, making it his capital. +He died at Shizuoka, and was first buried at Kunō-san (Between Earth and +Heaven, p. 36), and afterwards at Nikkō.</p> + +<p><b>Izanagi</b> and <b>Izanami</b>. The Creator and the Creatress +of Japan. It was during the purification of Izanagi after his descent +into Hades in search of Izanami, a legend which has many points of +resemblance with that of Orpheus, that Amaterasu, the Sun-Goddess, was +born.</p> + +<p><b>Jinricksha</b> or <b>Jinriksha</b>. From the Chinese, +<i>lit.</i> man-power-vehicle; shortened by Europeans into <i +lang="ja">’ricksha</i>, by the Japanese to <i lang="ja">jinriki</i>, but +usually called in Japan by the native word <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>. A +small two-wheeled carriage like a miniature hansom or an old-fashioned +perambulator, drawn by a man.</p> + +<p><b>Kagura.</b> Sacred <i lang="ja">shintō</i> dance, whose origin +is supposed to be traced back to the time when Amaterasu, angry at the +insult offered her by her brother Susa-no-wo, retired to a cavern, thus +plunging the world into darkness. She was at last induced to look out +by the sound of music and dancing, and finally enticed right out by +the sight of her own face in a mirror. The dance performed in front of +her cavern is supposed to be the <i lang="ja">Kagura</i>. (Note the +“g” here, as all medial “g’s” in Japanese have the sound of “ng” as in +English “sing.” So Nang-o-ya, <i>not</i> Na-go-ya. Some dialects, as +that of <i lang="ja">Satsuma</i>, say a hard “g.”)</p> + +<p><b>Kakemono</b>, <i>lit.</i> the hanging-up-thing. A picture painted +on either silk or paper, in either monochrome or colour. It is mounted +on brocade, and has a roller each end. Roughly and quite untechnically, +<i lang="ja">kakemono</i> can be divided into two classes: those which +seek to give only an impression, and those which are a kind of miniature +painting.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">296</span><b>Kana.</b> <i +lang="ja">Katakana</i> and <i lang="ja">Hirakana</i>, popularly supposed +to have been invented, the first 772 <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span>, +the second 835 <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> In reality they +were not inventions, but simplifications of certain common Chinese +ideographs. The <i lang="ja">kana</i> represent sounds, as does our +alphabet, but they stand for syllables, not letters. They both consist +of forty-seven sounds, which by the addition of dots and other symbols +can be considerably increased.</p> + +<p><b>Kannon</b>, written K(w)annon, Sanskrit Avalokites-vara, the +Goddess of Mercy, who contemplates the world and listens to the prayers +of the unhappy. In the opinion of a small minority Kannon belongs to the +male sex.</p> + +<p><b>Kimono.</b> The long-sleeved robe of Japan, which has no +fastening. It is merely folded across on the right-hand side (only +grave-clothes are crossed to the left) and kept in place by the folds +of the <i lang="ja">obi</i>. Practically the same shaped kimono is worn +by men and women, the difference consisting principally in pattern and +colour. The number of <i lang="ja">kimono</i> worn depends entirely on +the temperature.</p> + +<p><b>Kirin.</b> A fabulous monster answering to our griffin. He +degenerates sometimes into a sort of three-cornered dog, and is said not +to trample on live insects nor to eat live grass.</p> + +<p><b>Kitsune.</b> Fox. It is the fox and the badger in Japan who are +credited with supernatural powers. Foxes are able to change themselves +into beautiful young women to the undoing of confiding man. The powers +of the badger may be comic.</p> + +<p><b>Kojiki</b>, or “Record of Ancient Matters.” The oldest +literary work of Japan, dating from the year 712 <span +class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> It is a chronicle partly mythological, +partly historical, of the doings of gods, emperors and men.</p> + +<p><b>Kuruma.</b> <i>See</i> <b>Jinricksha</b>. The Japanese term for <i +lang="ja">jinricksha</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Kurumaya.</b> The man who draws the <i lang="ja">kuruma</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Manjū.</b> A flat round cake of rice paste filled with a brown +bean-jam.</p> + +<p><b>Meiji.</b> Age of Enlightenment or Progress. The name of the years +from 1868 onwards. The privilege of appointing year-names is regarded +in the Far East as one of the rights of independent sovereignty, much +as coining money with us. In Japan the length of the year-name period +has been up to now purely arbitrary, not coinciding with the reign of an +emperor as in China.</p> + +<p><b>Miyajima.</b> One of the <i lang="ja">San-kei</i> or “Three +Chief Sights” of <span class="pagenum">297</span>Japan. An +exceedingly beautiful island in the Inland Sea. It contains a temple +built on piles, which at high tide seems to float on the water. +According to tradition, the first temple was erected about 600 <span +class="allsmcap">A.D.</span></p> + +<p><b>Mma.</b> The actual pronunciation in the Tokyo district of the +word usually Romanised as <i lang="ja">Uma</i>, horse.</p> + +<p><b>Mmé.</b> The actual pronunciation in the Tokyo district of the +word usually Romanised as <i lang="ja">Umé</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Musmé</b> or <b>Musumé</b>. Daughter; girl; and so, +waiting-girl.</p> + +<p><b>Namu-myōho-rengekyō.</b> Sanskrit, <i>lit.</i> “O! the Scripture +of the Lotus of the Wonderful Law.”</p> + +<p><b>Nēsan</b>. <i>lit.</i> elder sister miss. Used as a half-polite, +half-familiar address to girls; and so, waiting-girl.</p> + +<p><b>Nichiren.</b> <i>B.</i> 1222, <i>d.</i> 1282, at Ikkégami, where +some of his bones remain as relics. He entered the priesthood at the +early age of twelve, when he adopted the name of Nichiren, or “Lotus +of the Sun.” He miraculously learned the whole of the 100 volumes of +the Buddhist canon in one night. He fiercely attacked all the already +existing Buddhist sects, a thing unheard of in Japanese ecclesiastical +history; was twice banished, and once condemned to death, on which +occasion the executioner’s sword refused to perform its function. His +crest is the orange blossom.</p> + +<p><b>O</b> and <b>Go</b>. Polite prefixes usually translated as +“honourable” or “august.”</p> + +<p><b>O Bā San</b>, <i>lit.</i> honourable grandmother Mrs.</p> + +<p><b>Obi.</b> A long sash usually of wadded brocade, which is folded +several times round the waist and tied behind. The <i lang="ja">obi</i> +is the most expensive part of a woman’s dress, and exceptional ones +of richest brocade stiffened with gold thread can cost as much as £50 +or more; such <i lang="ja">obi</i> are handed down in families as +heirlooms.</p> + +<p><b>O hachi</b>, <i>lit.</i> honourable pot. Tub in which cooked rice +is kept.</p> + +<p><b>Persimmon.</b> A fruit the size of an apple which can be +round and reddish, or orange and pear-shaped. Called in Japanese <i +lang="ja">kaki</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Ricksha.</b> <i>See</i> <b>Jinricksha</b>.</p> + +<p><b>Rin.</b> 10 <i lang="ja">rin</i> make 1 <i lang="ja">sen</i>, or +one farthing.</p> + +<p><b>Ronin</b>, <i>lit.</i> wave-man. <i lang="ja">Samurai</i> without +a feudal lord. He might be described as a <i lang="ja">samurai</i> out +of work either through fault or misfortune.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">298</span><b>Saké.</b> An intoxicating drink +obtained from fermented rice, containing 11 to 14 per cent. of alcohol. +It is generally drunk warm and tastes something like sherry.</p> + +<p><b>Samisen.</b> A square three-stringed lute with a long handle, +played with a plectrum; the commonest and most popular of the musical +instruments of Japan. Its notes are very tinny. In Tokyo usually called +<i lang="ja">shamisen</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Sampan.</b> A small flat-bottomed boat, rowed by a man standing in +the stern.</p> + +<p><b>Samurai.</b> Derived from the verb <i lang="ja">samurau</i>, +to be on guard. A term used in the early Middle Ages of the soldiers +of the Mikado’s palace, then applied to the entire warrior class. +The <i lang="ja">samurai</i> were “the gentry” of Japan, the <i +lang="ja">daimyō</i> corresponding to the peers. In Old Japan all +gentlemen were soldiers and all soldiers gentlemen. Since the +Restoration, when their incomes were commuted for a lump sum, the <i +lang="ja">samurai</i> have had to earn their own livelihood. They are +now the officers, professors, schoolmasters, policemen, officials, +practically the whole governing class of Japan.</p> + +<p><b>San.</b> Contraction of <i lang="ja">sama</i>. A title such as our +Mr., but used for both sexes and all ages.</p> + +<p><b>Semmi.</b> Cicada. Japan grows innumerable <i>semmi</i> of many +kinds. A favourite amusement of boys is to catch them and keep them in +small cages of green net.</p> + +<p><b>Sen.</b> ¼<i>d.</i> 100 <i lang="ja">sen</i> make 1 <i +lang="ja">yen</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Shappo.</b> From the French <i lang="fr">chapeau</i>. The modern +name for the modern “foreign” hat. Old Japan knew no hats.</p> + +<p><b>Shintō</b>, <i>lit.</i> the way of the gods. This, the native +religion of Japan, is a combination of ancestor-and nature-worship. Its +priesthood is not a caste, nor even a separate profession. Up to the +time of the revival of Shintōism, due to the Restoration of power to the +Mikado, everybody was born with <i lang="ja">Shintō</i> and buried with +Buddhist rites. The whole Japanese nation is supposed to be descended +from the lesser <i lang="ja">Shintō</i> deities, while the Emperor is +the direct descendant of Amaterasu.</p> + +<p><b>Shōgun</b>, <i>lit.</i> generalissimo. A title first used in +813 <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span>, and continued down to 1868. +In the twelfth century the <i lang="ja">shōgun</i> Yoritomo first +contrived to become the effective ruler of the land; thus originating +the dual control of Japan, the temporal power belonging to the <i +lang="ja">shōgun</i>, the spiritual to the Emperor. Yoritomo was +succeeded by various dynasties of <i lang="ja">shōgun</i> until <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> founded the <span lang="ja">Tokugawa</span> +shōgunate in 1600.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">299</span><b>Shoji.</b> The sliding wall of +a house, like an immense lattice window whose leadings are wood and +whose panes are rice-paper, <i lang="ja">Shōji</i> are semi-transparent, +and divide the room from the outer world. The walls which divide +one room from another are called <i lang="ja">karakami</i> or <i +lang="ja">fusumi</i>, and are of opaque paper. They slide in grooves and +can be entirely removed when required.</p> + +<p><b>Susa-no-wo</b>, <i>lit.</i> the Impetuous Male Deity, was born +from the nose of the creator Izanagi. It was owing to the insult which +he offered his sister Amaterasu by breaking a hole in the roof of the +hall of heaven where she sat weaving with her celestial maidens, and +dropping down into it “a heavenly piebald horse flayed with a backward +flaying” that the Sun-Goddess retired to the cavern and left the world +in darkness. Susa-no-wo was the ancestor of the rulers of Izumo, who +finally gave up their throne to the descendants of the Sun-Goddess, +accepting a spiritual for an earthly homage. Susa-no-wo is sometimes +considered as the God of the Moon, sometimes as the God of the Sea.</p> + +<p><b>Suzuki Tetsutarō.</b> The family name in Japan always comes +first, the “Christian” name after, as Smith John. Suzuki is one of the +commonest of Japanese surnames of <i lang="ja">samurai</i> rank, Hayashi +running it very close. Tetsutarō, <i>lit.</i> own eldest son.</p> + +<p><b>Tabi.</b> Half-boots fastening up on the inner, not the outer, +side, as with us. They are made of cotton, and the sole is a soft sock. +There is a separate compartment for the big toe. <i lang="ja">Tabi</i> +are of either dark blue or white cotton; white is for house and street +wear; dark blue for hard work or walking, and mostly worn by the lower +classes.</p> + +<p><b>Tenshisama.</b> Chinese term meaning Son of Heaven, from <i +lang="ja">ten</i>, heaven. <i lang="ja">Sama</i> is the longer and more +courteous form of <i lang="ja">san</i>. The Emperor is also called <i +lang="ja">Tennō</i>, Heavenly Emperor, or <i lang="ja">Shujō</i>, the +Supreme Master; all Chinese terms. The word Mikado is very rarely used +by the Japanese except in poetry or on great occasions.</p> + +<p><b>Tōfu.</b> A white bean-curd, looking like cream cheese. A +favourite food of the coolie.</p> + +<p><b>Tokonoma.</b> A raised alcove. Probably it was originally that +part of a room raised above the level of the earth floor, on which +people slept.</p> + +<p><b><span lang="ja">Tokugawa</span>.</b> The family name of <span +lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span> and so of the shōgunate founded by him. The +last <i lang="ja">shōgun</i>, who abdicated in 1868, is still living.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">300</span><b>Tokyo.</b> The modern name for +Yedo, meaning the Eastern <a href="#300B" id="300A">Capital.</a></p> + +<p><b>Torī.</b> A gateway without a gate formed of two perpendicular +and two horizontal beams, which at first stood in front of every <i +lang="ja">shintō</i> temple. When the Buddhists adopted it they turned +up the ends in a glorious curve, and used it for affixing tablets. +Popular etymology derives it from <i lang="ja">tori</i>, fowl, and +<i>i</i> (<i lang="ja">iru</i>), dwelling, regarding it as a perch +for the sacred birds. It probably came from Northern India, where +similar gateways called <i>turan</i> are found outside burial-grounds. +<i>Cf.</i> Luchuan <i lang="ja">turi</i>.</p> + +<p><b>Uchi</b>, <i>lit.</i> inside; and so, house.</p> + +<p><b>Uguisu.</b> A small brown bird, the <i lang="la">cettria +cantans</i>, with a simple but exquisite song.</p> + +<p><b>Urashima.</b> The Rip Van Winkle of Japanese folk-lore. He married +the Sea King’s daughter. After a short honeymoon he came back to visit +his parents. But the oldest inhabitant of the village could only dimly +remember the family tombstones in the graveyard. Thinking he was the +victim of an illusion, Urashima rashly opened a box the Sea Princess +had given him. Instantly a grey smoke went up to heaven, and Urashima +changed from a stalwart youth to an old man, sank down on the seashore +and died. He was a thousand years old.</p> + +<p><b>Yedo.</b> The original name of Tokyo, given it by its founder +<span lang="ja">Iyeyasu</span>.</p> + +<p><b>Yashiki.</b> The house or enclosure of a noble or honourable +person.</p> + +<p><b>Yen.</b> The Japanese money unit, worth 2<i>s.</i> ½<i>d.</i></p> + +<p><b>Waraji.</b> A straw sandal fastening securely with strings of +straw. The straw turns up slightly round the back of the heel. <i +lang="ja">Waraji</i> are for travelling.</p> + +<p><b>Zashki.</b> The room; parlour; the sitting-room of a house.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">301</span> For much of the information +contained in these notes I am indebted to the works of Prof. B. H. +Chamberlain.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="p2 center"> + Printed by + <span class="smcap">Ballantyne & Co. Limited</span><br> + Tavistock Street, London +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter cont80 cornsilk"> + <span class="pagenum">302</span> + <h3>Books on Japanese Subjects</h3> + +<p><b>A Handbook of Modern Japan.</b> By Ernest W. Clement. With +two maps and over sixty illustrations from photographs. <i>Fourth +Edition.</i> Cloth, 12mo, $1.40 net.</p> + +<p><b>Japan As It Was and Is.</b> A Handbook of Old Japan. By Richard +Hildreth. Edited by Ernest W. Clement, with an Introduction by William +Elliot Griffis. With maps and numerous rare illustrations. In two +vols., cloth, 12mo, $3.00 net.</p> + +<p><b>Arts and Crafts of Old Japan.</b> By Stewart Dick. With thirty +illustrations. Gray boards, 8vo, $1.20 net.</p> + +<p><b>Far Eastern Impressions.</b> Japan, Corea, and China. By Ernest +F. G. Hatch, M. P. With three maps and eighty-eight illustrations from +photographs. Cloth, 12mo, $1.40 net.</p> + +<p><b>Kakemono.</b> Japanese sketches. By A. Herbage Edwards. With +frontispiece. Cloth, 8vo, $1.75 net.</p> + +<p><b>The Makers of Japan.</b> By J. Morris. With twenty-four +illustrations. Large 8vo, $3.00 net.</p> + +<p><b>McDonald of Oregon.</b> A Tale of Two Shores. The chronicle of +the earliest Japanese refugees to land in America, and of the first +Americans who visited Japan, later to act as interpreters to Perry. By +Eva Emery Dye. Illustrated by W. J. Enright. 8vo, $1.50</p> + +<p class="center s4 p2">A. C. McCLURG & CO.</p> +<p class="center s5">CHICAGO</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<!-- TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES --> + <div class="transnote"> +<h3>TRANSCRIBERS’ NOTES</h3> +<p> + The Publisher’s Advertisement Page has been moved from the front to the + end of the text. +</p> +<p> + Different spellings of the same word have been standardized. +</p> +<p> + New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the + public domain. +</p> +<p> + The following typos and omissions have been changed in the text: +</p> +<ul> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 39: missing “b” added to: <i><a href="#39A" id="39B">blue</a> hose, + with brown weather-beaten faces</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 63: missing period added to: <i>and there was nothing + <a href="#63A" id="63B">else.</a></i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 115: “proscribed” changed to “prescribed”: <i>already bent to the + <a href="#115A" id="115B">prescribed</a> curves for me</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 122: “ackowledged” changed to “acknowledged”: <i>dramatic instinct + is <a href="#122A" id="122B">acknowledged</a> to be far below</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 125: “possibilites” changed to “possibilities”: <i>more + <a href="#125A" id="125B">possibilities</a> than a rice-field</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 140: duplicate “in” removed from: <i>are washed + <a href="#140A" id="140B">in</a> the softest of bark brown</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 151: “th” changed to “the”: <i>the position of + <a href="#151A" id="151B">the</a> person serving</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 167: comma changed to period: <i>as the boys, lantern in hand, + plunged <a href="#167A" id="167B">downward.</a></i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 209: “capitials” changed to “capitals”: <i>stating in printed + Roman <a href="#209A" id="209B">capitals</a> that</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 230: “ust” changed to “us”: <i>but he never told <a href="#230A" + id="230B">us</a> why.</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 230: “nor” changed to “not”: <i>that we could <a href="#230C" + id="230D">not</a> read the Chinese</i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 266: missing period added to: <i lang="ja">Skoshi mo <a + href="#266A" id="266B">arimasen.</a></i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 295: missing period added to: <i>1542, d. <a href="#295A" + id="295B">1616.</a> The founder of the <span lang="ja">Tokugawa</span> + </i> +</li> +<li class="line-height2"> + Page 300: missing period added to: <i>meaning the Eastern + <a href="#300A" id="300B">Capital.</a></i> +</li> +</ul> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76241 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76241-h/images/cover.jpg b/76241-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..289f4a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/76241-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76241-h/images/i_frontis.jpg b/76241-h/images/i_frontis.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e2b0f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/76241-h/images/i_frontis.jpg diff --git a/76241-h/images/i_title.jpg b/76241-h/images/i_title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c196563 --- /dev/null +++ b/76241-h/images/i_title.jpg |
