A Fantasy of Far Japan Part 7

--'The difference seems remarkable; but what do you do with those plants and flowers?'

--'There is a difference between our common people and yours. You see the bulk of those who frequent the fete in Tokio are ordinary townspeople. They buy the plants or flowers for a small sum of money; when first offered for sale a high price is asked, but it is quite an understood thing to bargain and at last to buy at a very low price. The more advanced the evening, the cheaper one can get them. The bargaining at these fetes is so lively that it has become proverbial, and people often say, this or that is not like buying night-fete plants. It is, however, a mistake if one were to suppose bargaining is a common thing at every shop in j.a.pan, as in Italy or Egypt. Well, these people, however moderate their means, purchase one or other of the plants or flowers and take them home, and plant them either in their small gardens or in pots and vessels, and place them in their rooms. Some plants or flowers are already planted in a tasteful manner in pots or vessels of different shapes, so that they may be used as they are. The people are very happy with these objects. In summer and autumn all sorts of singing insects[1] are sold in pretty little cages. In the Orient, unlike in the Occident, the term insect itself is very poetic, and conveys more of the significance of the singing than of the object itself.'

--'I have always heard that your people in general are very artistic,'

said she. 'I should like to follow their sentiments in regard to nature.

For instance, when we look at the moon we sometimes become very sentimental.'

--'You mean in such cases as the night-scene where sweet Jessica and her lover Lorenzo sang "In such a night, in such a night as this."'

--'Exactly.'

--'Well, in that respect,' I answered, 'we are perhaps more developed than other peoples. Even the etymology of our language proves it. We have such terms as Hanami, that is a flower-seeing; Tsukimi, that is moon-seeing; and Yukimi, that is, snow-seeing. You have phrases such as "to see the flowers," "to see the moon," and "to see the snow," but these are hardly an equivalent. Our phrases imply a deeper feeling, both poetical and artistic; may even imply an act of seeing those objects in the company of congenial friends. The snow is, as I indicated, one of these sights. _Apropos_ of snow, I went to Richmond once in company with a few compatriots, to see the snow-scene in the park there, whence one commands a beautiful view of the river Thames. Many years afterwards I was asked if we had snow in my country (you know this kind of question is asked of us very often). I answered "Yes." Thereupon a lady, who happened to remember that I had gone to Richmond to see the snow there years ago, abruptly remarked, "Oh! I thought you had no snow in your country." When I replied, "What makes you think so," she said, "Because you went to Richmond on purpose to see the snow." I had then to explain that our excursion to Richmond was not because we did not know what snow was, but because we liked to see the sight. We do not get tired of seeing such scenes any more than you Europeans get tired of going to the opera, to see, or rather to hear the same opera over and over again, as for instance _Faust_.'

--'But at the opera we can satisfy our sense of sight as well as that of hearing,' said a young lady, 'but what of the snow! It has no colour, being white,--it has no sound: besides, the season must be cold and the very sight of it must be chilling.'

--'You are partly right, I admit, but is not white the very ideal of purity? Are you not very fond of it? Do not you ladies like wearing pure white dresses? Are you not wearing one at this very moment? We j.a.panese are very fond of white. The ideal colour of s.h.i.+ntoism is white.

According to that creed, even for mourning, white is preferred to black.

It suggests a notion of cleanliness, which is the essence of the creed.

Besides, you cannot surely say opera boxes are ideally comfortable. They are not cold, it is true, but certainly they are generally stifling. One sees there scenery, but what is it compared with the grandeur of nature.

Then again, you cannot exactly say snow has no sound. We, in our poetry, speak of the music of falling snow, or the music of dropping rain. Those sounds are considered especially musical in the depth of night: we even poetise the sounds of falling hailstones. There is a well-known poem on a hailstorm composed some seven centuries ago. It is a short poem, as ours usually are, but to us it gives a deep impression, and animates a martial spirit. It is difficult to translate, but it runs somewhat like this:

"Oh see in this wilderness of vast Nasu How the hailstones dash on the frozen ground!

And ring on the gauntlets of hunters bold As they draw their arrows from leathern fold!"

--'Many hundred years after this poem was composed, when our country was enjoying a perfect peace, a well-known statesman, reflecting on that poem, gave his own bent of thought, as follows:

"Not knowing the age when hailstones rang On the gauntlets of warriors' hands; Warmly enveloped I lay me down, Listening all night to their dropping sound."

--'_Apropos_ of hailstones, what a strange occurrence it was the other day, when hailstones ravaged the vicinity of Paris, and that too in the height of summer. I met a compatriot and his wife, now staying near St.

Germain, at a small gathering on the evening of the same day, and they described the size of the stones and the damage done to the gla.s.s of the different houses. At first no one present believed them, but my friends did their best to explain that some of the stones they picked up and put on a tray were still large when they had left their home several hours afterwards. What they said was perfectly true, for I read in the papers next morning that in some places the hailstones were like eggs and weighed on an average from twenty to forty grammes; some even two hundred grammes. But ah! how silly I am to tell you all this, as you must all be well aware of it.'

--'Never mind,' said those present, 'but please proceed with your discourse.'

--'Well, there is a particular night of the year which is considered the best for the moon-scene; the 15th of August by the Lunar Calendar. The people generally get up a small social gathering to celebrate that evening. It was on one of those occasions that Hanawa, the celebrated blind scholar of j.a.pan, gently sang as he sighed:

"If it were a flower, I might touch it."

'The line does not sound very sympathetic when translated into a foreign language, but in the original j.a.panese it is full of poetry, and the meaning is understood that he could not even console himself by the sense of touch. The remark was overheard by his wife, who pathetically joined him by singing:

"This Moon! 'tis the night that makes blind men's wives weep."

--'Very fine and pathetic; but you said just now "celebrated blind scholar,"' remarked a lady. 'What do you mean by that? Do you mean to say he was a blind poet like Homer?'

--'No, he was not exactly a poet, but a great scholar. In England there was a celebrated blind scholar, Fawcett, and Hanawa was our Fawcett. He was a Professor under the Shogunate Government, and one of the best and largest collections of rare old j.a.panese books made by him was his crowning achievement, and we are all much indebted to him.'

--'I suppose there are as many blind, deaf, and dumb in your country as in any other?' asked another; 'and what do they do, or rather, what do you do with them?'

--'There are some deaf, dumb, and blind schools at present, and those, among them, who are fortunate, are educated there as in Europe. There was no such school in former days, but much care was taken of the blind, even more than at present.'

--'In what way?' asked she.

--'In former days the blind had several privileges. In the first place, there was a special order consisting of several degrees, which was bestowed on meritorious blind people; next, there was a law which protected blind men when lending money, so that they had great facility in getting their dues paid, inasmuch as a lay debtor was summarily ordered to pay any claim raised by a blind man. Then the musical profession was generally a.s.signed to them, thus, the professors of the Koto, a stringed instrument, were generally blind men, and they had the privilege of giving out diplomas to their pupils. In the country parts, blind men were allowed to make a round of visits to the different houses of the gentry, singing a particular kind of war-song, called "Heike," to the accompaniment of the Biwa, another kind of stringed instrument. Then again, the Amma, the j.a.panese "ma.s.sage" was mostly the profession of blind men.'

'You say "blind men," but what of blind women?' asked another.

--'Ah! I was wrong, for I have only spoken of blind men, but blind women were accounted much the same. But that j.a.panese Amma, I can never forget it, especially after hard work when one's muscles have become stiffened. It is such a soothing remedy. In Europe ma.s.sage is used only for people who have some ailment, but in j.a.pan ordinary people very commonly make use of it, and consequently a large number of blind people follow that occupation. The protection of the blind under the old regime was, of course, good in its aim, but it produced some abuse, and, besides, the great change of all methods of administration also affected the privileges given them. There is no longer any order bestowed on them, nor any special protection given to blind money-lenders, but in other respects their occupations remain pretty much the same.'

--'You have just spoken of lunar months of August,' said another: 'here in Paris the Russian Emba.s.sy and the Chinese Legation celebrate their New Year each differently from ours. Russia still sticks to the old style of calendar though solar; and China seems to hold to the lunar.

How is it with you? Your calendar does not seem to differ from ours.'

--'Yes, our calendar at present is exactly the same as yours,' I answered. 'It used to be lunar, as is the Chinese, but it is now thirty-four years since we adopted the solar by a stroke of the pen, that is to say, by an edict of the Emperor. We thought in this world of cosmopolitanism that it was rather inconvenient for the different nations to have different calendars, and that it would be expedient to follow the example of the majority of the nations. We considered it a bold stroke of policy, but you see all such changes are made subjects of ridicule, and the j.a.panese are called mere imitators.'

--'Oh no, you go too far,' said another. 'No one ridicules j.a.pan for that kind of change. It was excellent.'

--'And yet,' said I, 'all other changes are exactly the same in our eyes as that one.'

--'People are now beginning to understand j.a.pan,' said she.

--'May be,' I said. 'I am very glad of it, but, you see, our calumniators even now make very unjust accusations against us, and still speak of us as monkeys. Since my arrival in Europe, not only have I noticed that these things have been written in newspapers, but I have myself received many letters of that kind. I cannot think what good they can do by sending me such letters and wasting stamps. I suppose they are but an infinitesimal part of the money spent for such purposes by our opponents. This very day, when I was coming out of the hotel, I received one of those letters: the postmark is Paris. I read it through on the way, and I have it still here. It is this: you may read it.'

So saying, I handed the letter to the lady, and she read it out as follows:

'MON CHER SINGE JAUNE,--Vous singes jaunes, voulez avoir beaucoup de pieces jaunes--travaillez--vous les aurez; mais avec votre tuerie--vous n'arriverez pas a les avoir--je vous a.s.sure. Fichez le camp--allez habiter aux Philipines. L'Europe et l'Amerique sont fermees aux singes jaunes sauvages. Vous martirisez chez vous les femmes! Votre meilleur homme Yoma (_sic_)--en a tue plusieurs. Vous etes singes jaunes tres meprisables--oh, bientot l'or aura raison de vos hordes ... Souvenez-vous de mes singes. Singes jaunes sauvages degoutants.

MISS NELLY.

'Qui ne vous aime pas: oh du tout....'

Finis.h.i.+ng the reading, the lady exclaimed, 'What a shame!' in which all those listening joined.

Said I,--'The letter evidently refers to the question of indemnity. You see, it is written on a telegraph-form, and the article and the song, both equally disgusting, pasted purposely for me to read, are cuttings from Russophile papers: you can pretty well surmise from what source it came; the signature is also amusing!'

--'Shame!' they all exclaimed once more, but we all soon burst into laughter. When the laughter, whereby the peace of my dreamland had been a trifle disturbed, subsided, a lady present said:

--'You have a peculiar way of counting one's age, have you not? Has that anything to do with the calendar? Don't you say, for instance, a baby born the year before the last, three years old?'

--'Yes,' I answered, 'we still do so in ordinary conversation. But it has nothing to do with the calendar; it is only a matter of usage. You see the year in which one is born is counted as one year, and the year in which one is counting is counted as another, and therefore, a child born the year before last is reckoned as three years old. In the case of a dead person, the year in which he died is counted as one year; therefore, when you read of the age of our heroes or statesmen in history, you have always to take that into account. In former days, young ladies born late in the year used to complain to their mothers that they had a disadvantage in point of age. Young ladies like to minimise their age all over the world. Don't they?'

--'No joking, please.'

--'Very well! since the alteration of the calendar we have adopted your mode of reckoning for legal purposes, and we say in that case, "full so many years." It is therefore rather strange in actual society to hear people often speaking of so many years of age according to the new style, and so many years according to the old style.'

--'It must sound very odd. _Apropos_ of ladies, I adore j.a.panese ladies,' said a lady.

--'Ah! that's too much: surely you do not think so,' I remarked.

The lady just referred to was an American by birth, who came to France when a mere child, and having grown up in this country had married a Frenchman. The couple were out in j.a.pan for many years. They had several children, the majority of whom were born there. She had resided in one of the most populous towns, her husband having been attached to a certain public function. She seemed not entirely to approve of the social condition of France.

--'France will be ruined by her women. Look, for instance, at the condition of Paris,' she said.