ThÉophile Gautier, describing his travels in Russia, declares that, whereas Moscow and St. Petersburg fell short of the romantic dream-pictures which he had conceived of them by reason of their fame, the reverse was the case with Nijni-Novgorod, of which the name alone allured his ear with chiming syllables. Having reached the town with no other premonitory bias than the spell exercised by its magical appellation, he was ravished by the picturesque admixture of races from every corner of the empire. This paradoxical conflict between history and geography makes many victims. I too had been haunted by the prestige of a great name in Japanese annals—the name of Ashikaga. As I studied period after period of the turbulent evolution from feudal rivalry to military usurpation, from military usurpation to constitutional monarchy, it seemed more and more evident that the Ashikaga Shoguns, during two-and-a-half centuries of power, had been greater friends of art and learning than any rulers before or since. At Kyoto I had seen the golden pavilion of Yoshemitsu (whom Professor Fenollosa compares with Cosmo de Medici) adorned with mural paintings and screens by the artists whom he had imbued with the spirit of dreamy seclusion of the Hangkow idyllists. Under his patronage Chinese learning took root in Ashikaga University; the religious plays, or No, acquired in the hands of Kiyotsugu their claims to rank as aristocratic opera; the war of chrysanthemums, between rival dynasties in Yamato and Kyoto, was composed by an astute compromise. In short, culture was not purchased at the cost of firm government. Nearly a century later came Yoshimasa, whose silver pavilion, where he held Æsthetic revels with his favourites, the Abbots Soami and Shuko, was as pale a copy of his great predecessor’s taste as his capacity to govern was inferior. Effeminacy followed in the train of refinement. The Ashikaga rÉgime left a legacy of civil war and ruined peasantry for stronger rulers to replace by hardier methods, but it also bequeathed the memory of a new learning and a new art. To Ashikaga, then, urged by misleading memories and the promise I had given to visit Ikao comrades, I gladly repaired when September rains depressed the face of Tokyo.

Yamada San, rightly thinking that living friends were of more interest than dead lions, took me straight from the station to his father’s house, and postponed all sightseeing until the morrow. Here I first realised the patriarchal atmosphere of an old-fashioned home. Father and mother were gravely courteous, and took pains to show me polite attention, but the son scarcely spoke in their presence; and pretty O Mitsu, who looked extremely pale, became mute as ivory. The entry of two cousins, who spoke a little English, introduced some animation; and after the consumption of tea and oranges O Mitsu was asked to sing me an old song, playful, if possible, because the foreigner would find it more easy to understand. Crouching over a long-stringed koto, she sang (the weather was very hot) this popular mosquito song:

It was explained that a wife would be showing disrespect to her husband by taking rest under the mosquito-net in his absence. If, therefore, he happened to stop out all night, she must still wait for him, outside the net, until the bell for matins sounded the retreat of her winged persecutors. “The Bell Seven” is named in accordance with old reckoning: the time represented is really four in the morning, when the Japanese day begins. That was the last I saw of O Mitsu, for etiquette forbade her taking supper at my hotel in company with her husband and father-in-law.

We spent the evening with the Tanaka family. There, too, I observed the reticence imposed on women in their own homes. Tanaka Okusama, who at Ikao had discoursed so brightly on every possible subject from ethics to Epaminondas, crept quietly from one to another of her guests, offering tea and cakes, but never joining in the conversation. Her husband, who had a most genial, refined face, made an excellent host: the four boys sat silently in a corner. Many questions were put about European houses and habits, for the Ashikaga of to-day, being a great centre of the trade in cotton goods made from foreign yarn, is accustomed to the sight of foreign commercial travellers.

The antiquities of the place were disappointing. The Academy of Chinese Learning, founded, if tradition may be believed, in 852, after attaining its zenith of prosperity under Yoshemitsu, has since gradually declined. The great library of Chinese works is broken up; only a few books remain. Of Confucian relics there rests only an impressive bronze tablet, with full-length figure of the sage, from which “rubbings” are sold to the pious. A sinister black impression of the gaunt, long-nailed philosopher, whose teaching still broods like a shadow over the majority of Japanese households, recalls to me, in the shape of a colossal kakemono, that dusty, dilapidated school, whose students are deserting it for Western lore. The vast temple, however, standing in a grove of cryptomeria, is still thronged by worshippers, and forms a worthy link with the historic glories of Ashikaga. In a side-chapel stand wooden effigies of all the Shoguns, wearing the tall black court-cap and the moustache with small pointed beard, fashionable from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries. It is related that three similar figures, preserved in the Tojiin Temple at Kyoto, were subjected to the indignity of decapitation in 1863, when the Restoration party wished to insult the memory of the Shogunate, but did not dare to outrage the still powerful Tokugawa. The heads were pilloried in the dry bed of the Kamogawa, where it was customary to expose the heads of criminals. But Kyoto was at once the scene of their rise and their decline. In Ashikaga itself their memory lives as changeless and as free from insult as the tutelary mountain rampart of Akagisan.

There being no hotel near Yamada’s dwelling, he secured me a room in a geisha-house, with the result that late revelry made sleep impossible. But a bathe next morning in the rushing Tonegawa, with the exciting diversion of shooting some rapids in a crazy punt, invigorated me and amused a crowd of urchins, who shouted from the bank, “We want to see the naked foreigner!” By the end of the second day I felt at home with the older generation of both families, and was shown over warehouse, mill, and granary. Having not omitted to present miage on arrival, I departed in a shower of good wishes and small souvenirs. Yamada senior, who had never before (so his son declared) been willing to make the acquaintance of a foreigner, insisted on my accepting a roll of habutai (white silk, resembling taffeta), while Tanaka Okusama met me at the station with a parting gift of pickles and poetry. She had made the one, her husband the other. In fact, he had added this haikai to his published works:

II

The holy province of Izumo should be visited in October. Then the Shinto gods and goddesses, deserting every other part of Japan, assemble at the great shrine of Kizuki under the presidency of Onamuji. But every year Onamuji must have sadder news to tell his dwindling fellow-deities. At one time his own temples on Mount Daisen were as many as two hundred and fifty; these have crumbled to a few mossy ruins. The goddess Inada-hime, whose lover intoxicated with sakÉ the eight-headed serpent and cut the monster in pieces, that she might become his spouse, is invoked by fewer youths and maidens desiring happy marriages. On all hands the Shinto Pantheon is being undermined by two strangely allied foes—by atheism and Christianity. Though full of sympathy for the august descendants of Izanagi and Izanami, the creator and creatress of the Japanese universe, I could not refuse the hospitality of a Japanese Christian, whose unremitting kindness will always be associated for me with the romantic beauty of MatsuË.

From my hotel, which stood on the edge of the blue Shinjiko lagoon, I was watching the little steamers puff angrily to and fro, the endless procession of passengers across the long curving bridge, and one or two old fishermen wading in the shallows, when a message arrived inviting me to take tea with Assistant-Judge Nomura at his house on Castle-hill. Happening to arrive before the other guests, I was first shown a curious collection of prints, illustrating the costumes and customs of ancient Korea, and a series of pictures of all the ironclads belonging to the Japanese navy. This mixture of old and new was very characteristic of Mr. Nomura, who admired with enthusiasm Western dress, furniture, and religion, but reverenced at the same time his own national traditions. Naturally his knowledge of the two was one-sided, and he was happily unconscious that his fine collection of Inari and Satsuma ware was simply insulted by the base intrusion of a sixpenny London saucer. Four inhabitants of MatsuË—two young lawyers, a musician, and an old painter—were announced, and the host at once took a more ceremonious tone. We all entered the tiny tea-room, nine feet square, containing four and a half mats, and were occupied for more than half an hour with cha-no-yu, the august tea-making, which seemed to me unnecessarily long, perhaps because it was conducted by a wizard in a grey coat and blue tie. I preferred the dainty witches of the Miyako-odori. Besides the formal ablution and handling of accessory instruments, at stated intervals a bell was rung, the room was swept, we walked from the house to the garden and back from the garden to the house with a scrupulosity that would have satisfied Hideyoshi himself. At last the august tea, thick and green and hot, was presented to each visitor, who drank with slow but noisy demonstrations of lip-homage, to testify polite satisfaction.

Then we adjourned to the sitting-room, where the musician brought out two antique Chinese objects, one bearing resemblance to a flute and the other to a violin with shaggy, semicircular bow. On these he produced, not without effort, very weird sounds, which I was obliged to eulogise as being entirely novel and remarkable, for I could not compare them with any melodies familiar to European ears. I believe the others shared my relief when a painting competition was suggested, for they could all handle a brush as easily as I a pen, and the eye is less fastidious than the ear. The first bout was in three colours, sepia, Indian black, and red, though the last was sparingly used. The designs were rapidly and lightly touched in—a hawk pouncing on a goose; a carp swimming against the stream; a frog climbing up a reed; and a terrified child, with shaven pate, running away from a temple-dancer, masked by a lion’s head. Next a batch of fans was distributed to the competitors, who speedily adorned them with fanciful arabesques, in which curled clouds played hide-and-seek with Fuji, or moonlit pines peeped out from drifted snow. We drew lots for these souvenirs of playful skill, and to me fell the picture of the child flying from the lion-mask. But at this point Mr. Nomura’s own children, two charming little girls, brought us in presents of flowers and cakes wrapped in silver paper. The rickshaws were at the door; sayonara rang cordially in our ears; one of the pleasantest calls I ever made came to an end.

Curiosity prompted me to attend the service held by native Christians in an abandoned Shinto temple perverted to evangelical use. Most of the congregation belonged to the more credulous sex. Mothers, carrying their babies on their backs, sat in rows on mats, while one or two chairs were placed for foreign visitors. All joined heartily in the hymns and listened attentively to the simple prayers. Sometimes a shoji, or sliding shutter, was gently pushed aside, and an inquisitive face peered in on the worshippers. The missionary, a man of athletic frame, with the cold, fixed eyes of a fanatic, preached with fervour on the subject of original sin. He held the doctrine that perfection was to be realised on earth, and believed that he had personally attained it. From all accounts he was a hard-working idealist, who spared no pains to make converts, but his ascetic views must seem violently out of harmony with the Shintoist easy-going faith, which has for moral code the single maxim, “Follow your impulses and obey the Emperor.” Although not subjected to persecution, a native Christian hardly ever remains in his birthplace. The MatsuË converts whom we met had come from Hiroshima, Osaka, and other spots. Some estimate of the progress of Western religion among MatsuË merchants may be based on the proportion of believers in the middle school, to which all the boys of the better classes are sent. Out of about five hundred boys and sixty masters, two boys and one master profess Christianity.

Etiquette is luckily assimilated to foreign custom among Japanese Christians. When Judge Nomura returned my call, he was accompanied by his wife and little girls, who were delighted with some dolls and picture-books which I had purchased for them in London. At first O Ai San and O Dai San, diminutive damsels aged four and five respectively, sat solemnly in a corner burning fireworks—hana-bi, as they are called—with tied tongues and eyes fixed on the spluttering flowers of flame. But gradually they thawed, and losing all their shyness, played battledore and shuttlecock, blindman’s buff, and other games. When the babies had gone home with their nurse, the judge and his wife remained to dinner, and a lay preacher, who spoke English perfectly, proved an invaluable medium of conversation. As my guests expressed a desire to conclude the evening with hymns, we sang a great many, from which they derived spiritual pleasure, while my knowledge of their language was much enlarged. The lay-preacher had always two or three hymn-books in his pocket, English and Japanese versions being printed on opposite pages. Suddenly this pious exercise was rudely interrupted. A tipsy geisha, holding a sakÉ-cup in her hand, staggered into the room and addressed some bacchanalian words to the lay preacher, who chanced to be near the door. She had escaped from a rather noisy wedding-party, which was feasting and clapping hands in the room below, while the bridal couple had retired and the shimadai, an emblematic group of pine and bamboo, crane and tortoise, remained for a symbolic centre of festal joy. We took this intrusion for a hint to separate, and it certainly jarred on a devotional mood. To my friends this apparition must have suggested the “scarlet woman,” whose cup is full of abominations, but I could not regard it in any other light than the opportune assertion of la joie de vivre, protesting against the gloomy gospel of Puritan restraint.

III

And yet the joy of living, dissociated from any principle but that of self-indulgence, is apt to produce strange types of Anglo-Saxon degeneracy. Dr. Silenus, whose hospitality and frankness are a byword in Azabu, would seem to have fallen victim to that fatal fascination which Mr. Kipling ascribes to the lands “East of Suez, where the best is like the worst; Where there ain’t no ten commandments, an’ a man can raise a thirst.” Thirst was never absent, and the decalogue rigidly banished from the epicurean establishment, which I take leave to describe as a warning and a comfort to the “unco’ guid.”

Sunday afternoon was regularly set apart for pagan revels, to which the whole neighbourhood was admitted, for the large-hearted Doctor loved to see his house full of friends and acquaintances. When you had skirted the moat which encircles the imperial palace, and climbed the steep daimachi, you hailed with relief a row of houses, mostly inhabited by Europeans and surrounded by similar high fencing. But, the gate once passed, all similarity between Liberty Hall and its respectable neighbours ceased. In no other courtyard would you be greeted by the sight of a hawk, an owl, a goat, and several monkeys dwelling together in unity. Lucullus, the goat, was an epicurean like his master, but less eclectic, for his diet included wood and iron and stones, nails and lighted cigars and boxes of matches. Indeed, he might still be living, a triumph of desire over digestion, had he not one day tried a dose of refined camphor, which brought death and a costly Shinto funeral.

Having penetrated the bodyguard of animals, you would enter a large room, adorned with fine bronzes and screens, which you had not leisure to examine, for so many unusual sights claimed attention. At the back would be masked dancers or musicians, rather cramped for space by reason of the motley, semicircular crowd of men, women, and children, who filled the foreground as far as a row of chairs set in the verandah for barbarian friends. Dominating all sat the master of the revels, his huge torso bare to the waist and profusely tattooed with elegant designs. As he passed the whisky to the “parasites” (for so he was accustomed to call the band of adherents who made his house their own), the genial, rotund Doctor looked the very incarnation of Ebisu or Silenus.

The first dancer on the afternoon of my arrival was Kabukei-jishi, the boy in a lion’s mask, whose figure is so familiar in Japanese streets on New Year’s Day. Kabukei, a native of Echigo, is said to have originated and given his name to this realistic dance. Though the children must have seen it often before, some of them laughed and others cried with terror, as the clever mimic crawled up to them roaring, or scratching himself, or shaking his ears. Then followed a comic scene between two peasants and a Daimyo, who was obliged to defend himself with sword and fan against the heavy hoes of his disrespectful henchmen. A medical comedy, probably inspired to some extent by Dr. Silenus, had for motif a quarrel between a physician and a farmer, whose wife was expecting to give birth to a child but had no wish to complicate an old-fashioned process by new-fangled medicine. The outspoken dialogue did not shock the unsophisticated audience, for whom Nature is not swathed in conventional veils of reticence, but the actors observed the ne coram publico maxim to this extent, that the birth took place in the wings, to be followed by a rather thrilling infanticide. Bloodshed is always pleasing to the playgoers of Tokyo. The last piece to be performed was a duologue between Kitsune, the fox-god, and a greedy rustic. Kitsune carried a bag of rice, and offered a mouthful in reward for every athletic or acrobatic feat which the other should succeed in imitating. When the gilt-snouted fox had set the example of leaping or balancing with adroit agility, the sly lout would make a clumsy pretence of doing the same, and always managed to obtain the rice by chicanery. At last the god discovered that he was being tricked, and killed the peasant with a blow from his rake. Nothing seemed to amuse the Azabu children so much as the antics of these two.

On another occasion Dr. Silenus invited a large party to witness a still more interesting exhibition in his garden. If I have used the word “degeneracy” to express his repudiation of certain moral ideas to which the Anglo-Saxon race pays the compliment of formal adherence, it should yet be added that his “self-indulgence” included the laborious pleasure of teaching himself the art of sword-making. Under Japanese tuition he had attained great proficiency, and if his blades did not rank with those of Masamune and Muramasa, at least they excited the admiration and envy of experts. Between him, therefore, and those martial patriots of his adopted country who in their hearts regret the swashbuckling days of old, before barristers and deputies were minted from a foreign model, latent sympathy could not but exist. Now the soshi, to whom allusion has already been made, and whose nominal profession might range from that of vagabond actor to that of political agent or bravo, have this in common—they love a life of roving independence, while owning loose allegiance to some momentary chief. As constitutional methods take deeper root among their compatriots, it becomes more difficult for them to practise an avowed calling which shall serve as a centre of organisation. In the summer of 1898 one of them hit on the brilliant idea of founding an Association for the Revival of the Noble Art of Self-defence; that is, the euphemism was closely akin to the title by which lovers of boxing in England and America glorify their taste, while the object was to promote skill in the use of lethal weapons. The Doctor, whom I regard as a thorough ronin, or unattached “wave-man,” refusing to bow the knee to social or ethical Baals, became at once a subscribing member. He used to declare that this adhesion procured him privileged places at almost every public function which he attended, so potent is the freemasonry of his brothers-in-arms. At least I can certify that it procured for us a spectacle of unique and amazing skill.

The first combat was between a swordsman and a spearsman, in which I fully expected that the lighter arm must easily prevail over the cumbrous and more lengthy one. But I had reckoned without the swivel, which made the lance in dexterous keeping a formidable instrument. When the swordsman, abandoning the defensive, tried to strike down his opponent’s spear and deal a close thrust, the latter with the rapidity of lightning drew in his weapon, and shooting it out again before the other could recover his ground, drove the point home. In four bouts out of five the spear proved mightier than the sword. Then it was pitted against a more archaic compound of pickaxe and boomerang. To a small-headed axe was attached an iron ball by a long cord, with which the holder tried to entangle his adversary’s lance. He slung the ball with his right, and if successful drew a dagger with his left hand to plant the conquering blow. That many of the fencers could use either hand with equal effect was proved by the next series of encounters between two-sworded and one-sworded men. These had been very carefully matched, and the superior skill of the man who was armed with but a single sword in three cases out of seven decided the result. Like a wise entrepreneur, the Chief of the Soshi had reserved his most sensational contest for the end. Female warriors are no novelty in Japan. The Emperor, even up to the time of his restoration to actual sovereignty in 1868, counted among his troops a corps of Amazons, whose training was as severe and whose prowess as remarkable as those of the Samurai themselves. When a stalwart woman came forward armed with a halberd and wearing the same wide hakama as her opponent, whose arm was a sword, she astonished us all by the vigour and dexterity of her onslaught. The war-cries which she uttered were very terrifying, and I am inclined to attribute her victory rather to them than to any hypocritical chivalry on the part of her adversary. I wondered if this muscular virago obeyed the Confucian ordinance, “A woman should look on her husband as if he were heaven itself, and never weary of thinking how she may yield to her husband, and thus escape celestial castigation.”

IV

I was seated in the office of that flourishing Tokyo newspaper, Yorodsu Choho—waiting for my friend the sub-editor, whose name, Kishimoto Bunkyo, will one day be famous, when my tedium was enlivened by an apparition. In spite of the care taken to entertain foreigners in the waiting-room of that popular journal, I had been bored. The square of Brussels carpet, the presence of table and chairs, the permission to keep one’s shoes on, the literary delights afforded by Macaulay’s “Essays,” Washington Irving’s “Sketchbook,” and Mr. Stead’s “If Christ came to Chicago”—all these things failed to dispel that ennui, born of perpetual waiting, which only Oriental patience can endure. Suddenly entered this welcome apparition, feminine, furious. “Is there any one here who speaks English?” it asked impetuously. The old door-keeper, catching at the sound “English,” muttered the word “Kishimoto,” and climbed the stairs in quest of my friend. The apparition and myself were thus left alone, and eyed each other furtively, with embarrassment. At any other time I should have been delighted to make the acquaintance of this pretty, smart American, but an instinct warned me that her business was private and delicate. I pretended to be absorbed by the dreary violence of Mr. Stead. Kishimoto descended, alert and smiling. The apparition, thrusting a lady’s visiting-card before his eyes, did not smile, but said rapidly:

“That’s who I am. About that paragraph in yesterday’s paper; who wrote it?”

“It was our reporter, madam. He is not at the office to-day, but if you wish to make an appointment——”

“Can he speak English?”

“No, madam, but I shall be pleased to put my services at your disposal, if I can be of any use. Personally my responsibility is limited to the English column, whereas——”

“I know, I know. Well, just tell your reporter that my husband’s real mad about this, and he don’t intend to let it drop. Likely as not, he’ll be round here with a horse-whip, if your editor don’t make some kind of apology or explanation. Good-day to you.”

The apparition disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. I looked reproachfully at Kishimoto. “Personal paragraphs?” I asked. “Are you trying to attack Americans with their own weapons? And why don’t you leave ladies alone?” He explained that Mrs. Kurumaya, the pride of Idaho, was married to a Japanese professor, and had recently come to Tokyo with her husband. As there happened to be a German from Idaho in the same hotel, the materials of a mÉnage À trois were too tempting to be neglected by a sharp penny-a-liner. Hence the paragraph, the scandal, and the apparition. “And what next?” I asked. “The editor will censure his informant, insert an apology, and banish the matter from his readers’ memories by fresh paragraphs of a similar character.”

Ten minutes after we had forgotten Mrs. Kurumaya and her grievances, for Kishimoto had invited me to visit his quarter of Hongo, and on the way thither we engaged in a vain effort to find the grave of the painter Hokusai. Yet the indications given by Professor Revon in his careful monograph seemed exact. We discovered the little monastery of Sekioji (divine promises) near Asakusa, and, having traversed the short avenue of cherry-trees which leads to the temple door, began our search among the black, lichen-stained tombs. In the third row we should have found a stone bearing on one side the words—

and on the other a poem, which the old man of eighty composed on his death-bed, one summer evening half a century before—

But though a young priest came to our assistance, the neglected row of undecipherable inscriptions guarded their secret, and we were obliged to give up the search.

Kishimoto could not understand the foreigner’s admiration for Hokusai, and regarded it with the same tolerant contempt as most Germans exhibited thirty years ago towards admirers of Wagner. “There is nothing noble,” he cried, “in his pictures, nothing sublime. He simply reproduced the vulgar street scenes in which he lived. Even his drawings of Fuji, the holy mountain, are defiled by grinning carpenters and ostlers.” He promised to show me specimens of what his countrymen considered far higher art when we should reach his father’s house, and in effect, when we were seated in a pretty tea-room, overlooking a large garden, he unrolled for me some fine kakemono by Sesshu, Yeitoku, and Kiyonaga, which his family cherished with intense veneration. But nothing could arouse in me the enthusiasm which he evidently felt for three or four pieces of Chinese calligraphy. There was, of course, no colour in such masterpieces, no historic or anecdotic interest, for he assured me that the words themselves had no particular depth or beauty. Their sole charm consisted in the divine sureness of touch, which had traced the intricate flying characters through a maze of stroke and curve, and it seemed to my untrained intelligence that to appreciate them properly one must be a brush rather than a man.

From kakemono we turned to masks, of which he had a splendid collection. Students of Japanese demonology could have told me many weird stories of the cruel, leering monsters, whose faces reflected so vividly the devilish imagination of their makers. But Kishimoto only knew one story, and that rather a pretty one, concerning Kijin, whose rank in the diabolic hierarchy I have not been able to ascertain. He had it from a Buddhist nun, his aunt, and it bears every mark of having been invented pour les jeunes filles.

The Story of Kijin and O Kamma San.

“When her mother died O Kamma was so overcome with grief that she lost for a time all interest in living. Every day she laid flowers on the grave and every night she cried herself to sleep. But, when a month had passed, her father, who was of a gay disposition, loving music and sakÉ, scolded the girl severely, saying, that since it was the will of Heaven that his sezÉnnin, or faithful housewife, had left the world of tears, it was undutiful to make the survivors miserable by perpetual Ah-ing, and impious as well. So O Kamma kept a bright face while she went about her household duties, and contrived every evening to slip up the hill to the temple of Kiyomizu-dera, where she prayed to the Most Compassionate One, the goddess Kwannon, whose countenance was gentle as her mother’s had been. But when this habit had brought her into a peace of mind which was not remote from happiness, her father took a wife from among the geisha of Shimabara, whose jealousy and cruelty soon made her stepdaughter’s life unbearable. She discovered that the girl’s chief pleasure was her nightly visit to Kiyomizu, and, as she did not dare to forbid her openly to go to the temple, she would set her long tasks, saying, ‘You must not leave the house until you have mended all the shoji,’ or ‘First finish embroidering this kimono.’ But O Kamma worked twice as hard as before, and never once missed her evening prayer to the goddess. Then the wicked stepmother tried to frighten her out of going. One night she hid herself behind a pillar of the temple, and when the girl entered darted upon her wearing the fearful mask of Kijin, whose teeth glittered fiercely in the twilight. But O Kamma said, ‘Bite me if you will, O Kijin Sama; I shall still say my prayers.’ And then the tables were turned. For a scream of terror came from the geisha’s lips, and when Kamma rose from her knees she saw that the devil’s mask was so tightly fixed that it could not be removed from her stepmother’s features. The latter, in an agony of fright, cried out to the girl to pray for the help of the Most Compassionate One. So Kamma interceded with Kwannon, and the demon let go of the wicked woman’s face; but from that time she lost all beauty and lightness of heart, nor did she interfere any more with the filial piety of O Kamma San.”

Having shown me his private treasures, Kishimoto very kindly proposed taking me to some exhibitions, which would at least be strange, if not beautiful. We drove first to the Chrysanthemum Show at Dango-zaka, where my friend pointed out to me more kinds of blossom than I can remember; but some, by reason of their fanciful names, it would be impossible to forget. There were “White Dragon” and “Sleepy Head,” a heavy disc with towzled petals; “Fisher’s Lantern,” of which the dark lustre showed like velvet beside the blushing pink-and-white complexion of “Robe of Feathers”; “Starlit Night,” resembling frost-flowers; and, most marvellous of all, a galaxy of various sorts and colours, radiating by the grafter’s patient skill from a single stem. Fearful of outraging his refined taste by such vulgar curiosity, I persuaded the sub-editor to wait for me in the tea-house which faces the river, while I followed some gaping women and children into twopenny shows which delight and instruct the simple. There, trained over trellis-work or encasing figures of wood and wax, the docile chrysanthemum evokes familiar scenes from legend or play. Chrysanthemum warriors pursue chrysanthemum maidens; chrysanthemum Danjuro dances the cryptic measure of Jiraiya before a chrysanthemum frog; chrysanthemum elephants, castles, warships, monkeys, and demons compose a fantastic universe in which the flowers seem turned to magic serpents, which simulate and strangle all other creatures.

“What do you think of them?” asked Kishimoto, when I rejoined him. “Have you ever seen such monstrosities before?” “No,” I answered; “they suggest to me a collaboration between Madame Tussaud and the author of the ‘Arabian Nights.’” “Well,” he said, “since you mention the ‘Arabian Nights,’ how would you like to hear one of our professional story-tellers? Shall we dine at Asakusa and go to a yosÉ afterwards?” “You anticipate my heart’s desire, and lay up for yourself undying gratitude. Let us go to a yosÉ.”

At the Isemon Restaurant delicious shrimp-cutlets and delightful geisha made of dinner a rather protracted ceremony. When we arrived at TsurusÉ, near the Nihon-Bashi, only a few seats at the back of the room were unoccupied. We had paid 30 sen (about sevenpence-halfpenny) at the door, and the nakauri, a daintily-dressed waiting-maid, charged only twopence for tea, cushion, and tobacco-box. On the curtained platform at the opposite end of the hall a zenza, or dÉbutant, was relating a comic anecdote, which greatly amused his auditors. Like so much Tokyo humour, the laughter was calculated to flatter the townsman’s shrewdness at the countryman’s expense. A farmer, whose son had gone to make a living in the capital, received a telegram asking for a pair of new shoes, stout and solid, such as only the provinces can produce. Proud of his telegram, the first which had been received in those parts, and believing the mischievous information of a neighbour who saw his way to an excellent joke, the father had the shoes made and hung them on the telegraph-wires, never doubting that they would at once be transported to Tokyo. Soon after the crafty neighbour took down the shoes and substituted an old pair of his own. When the farmer happened to pass by in the evening, he was astounded by the excellence and promptness of telegraphic communication. “Look, my friends,” said he; “in half a day I can send my son a pair of new shoes and receive his old ones in return.”

The zenza was followed by a tezuma, or conjurer, whose tricks, though exceedingly deft and graceful, were such as I had seen before. Then came a mimic, whose impersonations of popular actors provoked much applause. At last, after a musical performance which served as interlude, the famous raconteur, Sukeroku, continued his elaborate historical romance, dealing with a Japanese Perkin Warbeck, whose pretensions to the Shogunate had caused much dissension among the adherents of the Tokugawa dynasty. Evidently the frequenters of the yosÉ, like the bulk of playgoers, prefer mediÆval to modern topics. As the venerable author tapped with his fan on a little wooden slab to emphasise his points, and passed with rich elocution from incident to incident, the audience followed with rapt attention. Abruptly, as it seemed, he arrested his narrative, and the formula “To be continued in our next” was legible in the half-expectant, half-disappointed looks of his hearers. Before leaving I gathered a few particulars about the profession of a hanashika or story-teller. An established artist, or shinuchi, will receive 100 yen (about £10) a month (during half of which period one tale will continue from night to night), or perhaps 60 per cent. of the takings. He may receive this sum from three or four yosÉ, since the hanashika form a corporation and have branch-houses in all the chief towns. Many of the more famous, like Hakuen and Encho, publish their stories after they have been delivered orally. I was not able to hear the English story-teller, Mr. Black, whose knowledge of Western literature and Japanese speech enables him to draw on a larger rÉpertoire than his colleagues. Foreigners who desire to accustom their ears to the sound of the language will find the yosÉ infinitely more useful than the theatre, for the style is less literary and the diction less artificial.

V

I was dazzled by Jiraiya. He bewildered my senses with sleight of hand and foot; he soothed my conscience with bold sophistries. For two rin I would have caught up an uncouth pike, assumed outrageous armour, and followed that robber-chief unhesitatingly to glory or to death. Vaguely I could remember being stirred in boyhood by the prowess of Robin Hood, by the fortunes of Aladdin, but here was a magnificent being who rivalled and surpassed both heroes in his own person. Like the outlaw of Sherwood Forest, he defied the powerful and helped the humble; judges and soldiers trembled at his name, which was breathed with blessings by the poor but grateful receivers of stolen goods. When the Government at last put forth its strength to crush him (and here his superiority was incontestable), instead of calling on his men in green to empty their trusty quivers, he had merely to summon his attendant sprite, a green frog, which could be trusted to spout fire until the last representative of futile authority should be utterly consumed. I had seen him dancing on the back of an awful dragon, which the frog vanquished before the beast had time to swing its tail; I had seen him dancing defiantly on a mountain covered with snow, while his whirling spear threatened a score of enemies dancing round the base: suddenly the mountain changed to a fire-spitting frog, and the enemies danced no more. Perhaps it was this decorative fashion of dancing in battle which reconciled me to the wholesale slaughter of so many brave men. At the moment I merely felt that they were hostile to Jiraiya and well deserved their doom. Similarly, it seemed no more than the deserts of my loyal enthusiasm when a courteous attendant, bowing to the ground, brought a message to my box to the effect that Jiraiya would be pleased to see me in his dressing-room when the curtain fell.

I followed the attendant down winding passages, and was shown into a small wooden compartment, which contained grease-paint, brushes, dresses, and in the corner a dignified old man, with eyes as sharp as Ibsen’s and the gravity of an archbishop. In his expression was no hint of robbery, dancing, or witchcraft. I looked round for the green frog, but the only other occupants of the room were two young ladies in sky-blue kimono, whom I afterwards discovered to be the actor’s daughters. They never miss one of their father’s performances. Presenting the letter which Mr. Fukuchi had kindly indited, I begged permission to interview Jiraiya at length on several phases of his complex personality. Ichikawa Danjuro (how well the stately syllables suited his demeanour) replied that he would be pleased to receive me any afternoon in the following week at his own house, where he would be resting between two engagements. But I knew that a magician (and, above all, a Japanese magician) held time to be of no more consequence than life or death, so I specifically demanded Wednesday as my share of his timeless immortality. The request was granted: the applicant retired.

I have known actors so devoted to their art that they treat every incident, however trivial, as a matter of theatrical importance, and impose on every acquaintance the rÔle of a spectator. They grasp your hand with that fervour which warms the heart of the gallery, and take leave of a lady with glances such as melt the stalls. This exaggerated consciousness of his calling is utterly absent from Mr. Danjuro, who, off the boards, becomes less of an actor and more of an archbishop in proportion as he realises every year the growing prestige and veneration attached by the bulk of his compatriots to the chief of the Japanese stage. To them he is a great deal more than the successful acquirer of fame and money: he is the inheritor and transmitter of a great tradition, a living link with that pictorial old Japan which, beaten back by modern innovation outside the theatre, holds its own gallantly in the unstormed fortress of national drama. His habitation is in complete accord with the honourable position held by its proprietor. Good taste and simplicity conceal all traces of the wealth which is his. Opposite the reception-room is a small lake, decorated with trees and huge ornamental stones such as the Japanese Æsthete loves, since they recall, as far as may be, the freaks which Nature loves to play with forest and mountain. The rooms are of white wood, beautifully planed, and the only objects which suggest the theatre are fuda, or long laths, hung with wreaths and bands of silk, on which are inscribed tributes of admiration from tea-houses, geisha-houses, and guilds of various kinds. When the master entered, wearing a quiet-coloured kimono of grey cotton, he greeted his visitors (my friend Kishimoto had volunteered his services as interpreter) with grave cordiality, and, having ordered a servant to bring in coffee and cakes, proceeded to answer my questions with imperturbable kindness.

“My family,” he said, “have been actors for nine generations. My earliest recollection of the stage dates from 1840, when I was carried on in my father’s arms, an infant of three, for introduction to the public. As you may know, the fashion of adoption plays a considerable part in all our confraternities. Great names are never allowed to die out. Thus, at the age of eighteen, I took the name of Gonjuro, being adopted by the manager of the old Tokyo theatre, and it was not until my father’s death in 1874 that I became Danjuro the Seventh, so styled. Danjuro the First made his dÉbut in the year 1673.”

“And which is your favourite part, Mr. Danjuro?”

“I prefer historical plays, which revive old ideals and present noble figures for the emulation of posterity. In my opinion the best plays are those which stimulate patriotism. Perhaps ‘Kajincho,’ in which Benkei, disguised as a priest, enables Yoshitsune to cross the bridge and become master of Kyoto, is the rÔle I like best.”

I had long since made the acquaintance of Benkei, the Devil Youth, and the feats both of mind and body which he achieved for the sake of his youthful victor, ever since the latter had defeated him in single combat on Gojo bridge, were familiar to me both from coloured prints and the representation of “Funa Benkei,” by members of a No troupe. It was evident that the star actor had a weakness for “sympathetic” parts, and no doubt his mien and manner were admirably adapted to the impersonation of majestic priests.

“Have many of your actors the intellectual power to conceive and render historical heroes?”

“No; I fear it must be admitted that the great fault of too many actors is illiteracy. But in my young days we were scarcely to blame for this. The Government actually forbade us to receive any other than a theatrical education, which, as then understood, sufficiently taxed our time and strength. We were obliged to learn and reproduce exactly the traditional tones, gestures, and actions associated with any particular part.”

“What is your opinion of foreign methods of acting?”

“I have only seen a few amateurs at the Legations, and cannot form an opinion. But when Mr. Fukuchi and Mr. Osada wrote a little piece in one act, half in French and half in Japanese, in which I had the honour of appearing with Madame ThÉo, I found it most difficult to sustain my part, since the lady’s words and by-play were alike mysterious.” A grim smile accompanied this souvenir of that comedietta, “The Green-eyed Monster.”

“I suppose you have improved in many ways on the old-fashioned style of acting?”

This widely cast question invited such a shoal of answers that the conscientious examinee paused to consider.

“I will try to mention a few of the changes which I have done my best to bring about. The first thing I aimed at was greater freedom of interpretation. Tradition weighed like a millstone on the actor’s neck. Instead of painfully and slavishly copying a predecessor, I set the example, as soon as I felt influential enough, of forming and putting into action my own conception of a character. But it was a hard task. Then I tried to introduce more natural diction. Ranting and hollow declamation were the rule. Even now one is compelled to pitch the voice very high on account of the music, which some actors find an aid to delivery.”

“But isn’t that most fatiguing for the voice?”

“Not in well-built theatres, like the Kabuki-za, where the vaulted roof leaves nothing acoustically to be desired.”

“And your famous facial expression?”

“Ah! that, I think, was a real reform. The old actors’ faces were barred with red and blue stripes to make them look ferocious, and, though they may have terrified the audience, they could not impress it in any other way, for variety of expression was impossible. Now, without discarding paint altogether, we aim at conveying all the emotions by play of feature, leaving sometimes to the musicians the task of rendering them into words.”

In this respect I was able to confirm the actor’s words by personal observation. Nothing had struck me as more peculiarly characteristic of a Japanese audience than its delight in histrionic grimace. The loudest applause, the frenetic shouts of “Hi-ya! Hi-ya!” had been evoked in my hearing, not by repartee or tirade, but always by convulsive contortions of visage in moments of supreme misery or rage. The word grimace connotes, I am afraid, that contempt, allied with coarseness of sensibility, which the stoical Anglo-Saxon is apt to entertain towards more gesticular and sensitive races. But some of Sara Bernhardt’s death-scenes would be appreciated at their full value by the acute, minute observers of Tokyo, just as all Paris was thrilled and captivated by Sada Yacco’s realistic dying.

“Is the social status of the actor higher than it used to be, Mr. Danjuro?”

“I think it is. Speaking for myself, many of our nobles and one of our princes have done me the honour of inviting me to their houses, but such invitations are by no means common. The illiteracy of actors, to which I alluded just now, is a barrier to their social advancement.”

“If I may broach a delicate question, will you tell me if the paragraphs circulated in the Japanese Press are correct? They state that your season of four weeks last April in Osaka brought you in a sum of 50,000 yen (nearly £5000), and that out of this amount you gave away in presents something like 20,000 yen (£2000).”

The old man smiled, less grimly. “It is quite true,” he said. “But the presents are imposed by etiquette, and such customs are more or less reciprocal. The total receipts of the theatre, as certified by the Government auditor, after the tax had been deducted, amounted to 130,000 yen (£13,000).”

“How is it you have avoided the master-passion of our London actors to become an actor-manager?”

“I think a manager must be sorely tempted to put money first and art second. I often advise authors to make certain alterations in the plays for which I am engaged, but the responsibility of entire management would distract me from the purely artistic aspect of representation.”

A mischievous recollection of Delobelle’s “Je n’ai pas le droit de renoncer À mon art” occurred to me, and I cynically wondered whether management might not diminish (it could hardly increase) the lion’s share of the receipts.

“Will you ask Mr. Danjuro,” I said, “if he will like to put any questions to me about European actors and acting? I shall be most delighted to give him information on the subject.”

The answer was a blank negative. For the patriotic actor no stage existed but his own. He had never been abroad; his interest in foreign things was limited to the flattering curiosity of foreign admirers.

The interview had already lasted an hour, for the translation of question and answer from concise English into more elaborate Japanese, and vice versÂ, was a rather slow process. I therefore begged the invaluable Kishimoto to say that I could not think of trespassing any longer on Mr. Danjuro’s leisure, and would spare him one or two other interrogations which had suggested themselves. Thanking him in my best Japanese, I was rising to go, but our unwearied host would not hear of it, and insisted on my continuing to the bitter end.

“Well, since you are so kind, I should much like to hear your opinion of the soshi shibai.”

Knowing that the soshi-theatre must appear to a conservative actor as red a rag as the Independent Theatre to Mr. Clement Scott or the ThÉÂtre de l’Œuvre to the late M. Sarcey, I awaited the reply with interest. But the gallant attempt to destroy feudal spectacular drama with ammunition drawn from French and English arsenals had failed so miserably, that the patriot could afford to be generous. His eyes twinkled as he answered: “Certainly some of the soshi had great talent, but it was all of the theoretic kind. They had splendid theories about reforming the stage and bringing it into harmony with progress, with the spirit of the age, and other fine things. But, when they had to translate their theories into practice, the result fell very far short of their aims. Their writers were amateurs, their actors were amateurs; they knew nothing of stage-craft. The public, excited by the promises, were willing enough to give them a trial, but, as they did not know how to interest the public——”

“Then you gave them no assistance, Mr. Danjuro?”

“None at all.”

“Are you blessed with a censor of plays?”

“There is a censorship, but it falls under the head of ordinary police duties, and is not specially limited to the theatre. Political and licentious passages are carefully excised before performance, and I doubt if the authority of the censor has been exercised in the Meiji era (since the Restoration).”

“How is it that foreign plays fail to interest your playgoers?”

It is my honest belief that Kishimoto, from a mistaken idea of sparing my feelings, abridged considerably the answer to this question. Both he and Mr. Danjuro chuckled a great deal, and seemed to be exchanging sympathetic affirmations. Then came the crushing rejoinder: “Because in all your plays the attitude of men to women seems to us not only irrational but ridiculous.”

I changed the subject. “Which classes go most to the theatre?”

“The middle and lower classes. Since the Emperor witnessed a performance in Count InonyÉ’s house in 1886 it has become more fashionable for men of rank to go occasionally, but it cannot be said that the aristocracy, as a class, patronise the stage.”

“Can Mr. Danjuro tell me if the mawari-butai, or revolving stage, resembling what the Greeks used to call eccyclema, is native or imported? Some Japanese have told me that it was probably adopted from a foreign source.” Mr. Danjuro held the opposite opinion.

“And how far is your stage controlled by guilds?”

“The old system has entirely broken down. Formerly some six or seven families had complete control of the theatre. A novice could only enter the profession through adoption by one or other of these. He received an elaborate education; he adopted the name and a modified form of the crest of his patron. The right to play certain parts was vested in certain actors, who transmitted the privilege. But now all that is changed. Any one can go on the stage and play any part he likes. There is no restriction and no training either.”

“And is the special tax on actors now abolished, giving place to an income-tax?”

“No; that is an error. We still pay a heavy tax, irrespective of income.”

“One more question. Have you any association corresponding to that which in England is known by the name of the Actors’ Benevolent Fund?”

“Yes; we have a large guild, which undertakes to help members overtaken by misfortune and to expel others whose actions bring discredit on the stage. For we love our art, and are rewarded by its growing popularity with all classes of the community.”

On this patriotic note I thought it well to close. I urged Kishimoto to exhaust his stock of honorifics in a suitable vote of thanks, and, as I took leave of the patient, archiepiscopal veteran, I wondered how a mosquito feels when it has been stinging with impertinent curiosity, hour after hour, some grave, immemorial image of Buddha.

THE SCARLET LADY