Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan Volume II Part 12

The rent of the little house was only sixty sen a month, but even this was a great deal for the poor folks to pay. The father could earn only two or three yen a month, and the mother was ill and could not work; and there were two children--a boy of six years and a boy of eight. And they were strangers in Tottori.

One winter's day the father sickened; and after a week of suffering he died, and was buried. Then the long-sick mother followed him, and the children were left alone. They knew no one whom they could ask for aid; and in order to live they began to sell what there was to sell.

That was not much: the clothes of the dead father and mother, and most of their own; some quilts of cotton, and a few poor household utensils-- hibachi, bowls, cups, and other trifles. Every day they sold something, until there was nothing left but one futon. And a day came when they had nothing to eat; and the rent was not paid.

The terrible Dai-kan had arrived, the season of greatest cold; and the snow had drifted too high that day for them to wander far from the little house. So they could only lie down under their one futon, and shiver together, and compa.s.sionate each other in their own childish way --'Ani-San, samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?'

They had no fire, nor anything with which to make fire; and the darkness came; and the icy wind screamed into the little house.

They were afraid of the wind, but they were more afraid of the house- owner, who roused them roughly to demand his rent. He was a hard man, with an evil face. And finding there was none to pay him, he turned the children into the snow, and took their one futon away from them, and locked up the house.

They had but one thin blue kimono each, for all their other clothes had been sold to buy food; and they had nowhere to go. There was a temple of Kwannon not far away, but the snow was too high for them to reach it. So when the landlord was gone, they crept back behind the house. There the drowsiness of cold fell upon them, and they slept, embracing each other to keep warm. And while they slept, the G.o.ds covered them with a new futon--ghostly-white and very beautiful. And they did not feel cold any more. For many days they slept there; then somebody found them, and a bed was made for them in the hakaba of the Temple of Kwannon-of-the- Thousand-Arms.

And the innkeeper, having heard these things, gave the futon to the priests of the temple, and caused the kyo to be recited for the little souls. And the futon ceased thereafter to speak.

Sec. 10

One legend recalls another; and I hear to-night many strange ones. The most remarkable is a tale which my attendant suddenly remembers--a legend of Izumo.

Once there lived in the Izumo village called Mochida-noura a peasant who was so poor that he was afraid to have children. And each time that his wife bore him a child he cast it into the river, and pretended that it had been born dead. Sometimes it was a son, sometimes a daughter; but always the infant was thrown into the river at night. Six were murdered thus.

But, as the years pa.s.sed, the peasant found himself more prosperous. He had been able to purchase land and to lay by money. And at last his wife bore him a seventh--a boy.

Then the man said: 'Now we can support a child, and we shall need a son to aid us when we are old. And this boy is beautiful. So we will bring him up.'

And the infant thrived; and each day the hard peasant wondered more at his own heart--for each day he knew that he loved his son more.

One summer's night he walked out into his garden, carrying his child in his arms. The little one was five months old.

And the night was so beautiful, with its great moon, that the peasant cried out--'Aa! kon ya med xurashii e yo da!' [Ah! to-night truly a wondrously beautiful night is!]

Then the infant, looking up into his face and speaking the speech of a man, said--'Why, father! the LAST time you threw me away the night was just like this, and the moon looked just the same, did it not?' [7] And thereafter the child remained as other children of the same age, and spoke no word.

The peasant became a monk.

Sec. 11

After the supper and the bath, feeling too warm to sleep, I wander out alone to visit the village hakaba, a long cemetery upon a sandhill, or rather a prodigious dune, thinly covered at its summit with soil, but revealing through its crumbling flanks the story of its creation by ancient tides, mightier than tides of to-day.

I wade to my knees in sand to reach the cemetery. It is a warm moonlight night, with a great breeze. There are many bon-lanterns (bondoro), but the sea-wind has blown out most of them; only a few here and there still shed a soft white glow--pretty shrine-shaped cases of wood, with apertures of symbolic outline, covered with white paper. Visitors beside myself there are none, for it is late. But much gentle work has been done here to-day, for all the bamboo vases have been furnished with fresh flowers or sprays, and the water basins filled with fresh water, and the monuments cleansed and beautified. And in the farthest nook of the cemetery I find, before one very humble tomb, a pretty zen or lacquered dining tray, covered with dishes and bowls containing a perfect dainty little j.a.panese repast. There is also a pair of new chopsticks, and a little cup of tea, and some of the dishes are still warm. A loving woman's work; the prints of her little sandals are fresh upon the path.

Sec. 12

There is an Irish folk-saying that any dream may be remembered if the dreamer, after awakening, forbear to scratch his head in the effort to recall it. But should he forget this precaution, never can the dream be brought back to memory: as well try to re-form the curlings of a smoke- wreath blown away.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of a thousand dreams are indeed hopelessly evaporative. But certain rare dreams, which come when fancy has been strangely impressed by unfamiliar experiences--dreams particularly apt to occur in time of travel--remain in recollection, imaged with all the vividness of real events.

Of such was the dream I dreamed at Hamamura, after having seen and heard those things previously written down.

Some pale broad paved place--perhaps the thought of a temple court-- tinted by a faint sun; and before me a woman, neither young nor old, seated at the base of a great grey pedestal that supported I know not what, for I could look only at the woman's face. Awhile I thought that I remembered her--a woman of Izumo; then she seemed a weirdness. Her lips were moving, but her eyes remained closed, and I could not choose but look at her.

And in a voice that seemed to come thin through distance of years she began a soft wailing chant; and, as I listened, vague memories came to me of a Celtic lullaby. And as she sang, she loosed with one hand her long black hair, till it fell coiling upon the stones. And, having fallen, it was no longer black, but blue--pale day-blue--and was moving sinuously, crawling with swift blue ripplings to and fro. And then, suddenly, I became aware that the ripplings were far, very far away, and that the woman was gone. There was only the sea, blue-billowing to the verge of heaven, with long slow flashings of soundless surf.

And wakening, I heard in the night the muttering of the real sea--the vast husky speech of the Hotoke-umi--the Tide of the Returning Ghosts.

CHAPTER SEVEN Of a Dancing-Girl

NOTHING is more silent than the beginning of a j.a.panese banquet; and no one, except a native, who observes the opening scene could possibly imagine the tumultuous ending.

The robed guests take their places, quite noiselessly and without speech, upon the kneeling-cushions. The lacquered services are laid upon the matting before them by maidens whose bare feet make no sound. For a while there is only smiling and flitting, as in dreams. You are not likely to hear any voices from without, as a banqueting-house is usually secluded from the street by s.p.a.cious gardens. At last the master of ceremonies, host or provider, breaks the hush with the consecrated formula: 'O-somatsu degozarimasu gal--dozo o-hashi!' whereat all present bow silently, take up their hashi (chopsticks), and fall to. But hashi, deftly used, cannot be heard at all. The maidens pour warm sake into the cup of each guest without making the least sound; and it is not until several dishes have been emptied, and several cups of sake absorbed, that tongues are loosened.

Then, all at once, with a little burst of laughter, a number of young girls enter, make the customary prostration of greeting, glide into the open s.p.a.ce between the ranks of the guests, and begin to serve the wine with a grace and dexterity of which no common maid is capable. They are pretty; they are clad in very costly robes of silk; they are girdled like queens; and the beautifully dressed hair of each is decked with mock flowers, with wonderful combs and pins, and with curious ornaments of gold. They greet the stranger as if they had always known him; they jest, laugh, and utter funny little cries. These are the geisha, [1] or dancing-girls, hired for the banquet.

Samisen [2] tinkle. The dancers withdraw to a clear s.p.a.ce at the farther end of the banqueting-hall, always vast enough to admit of many more guests than ever a.s.semble upon common occasions. Some form the orchestra, under the direction of a woman of uncertain age; there are several samisen, and a tiny drum played by a child. Others, singly or in pairs, perform the dance. It may be swift and merry, consisting wholly of graceful posturing--two girls dancing together with such coincidence of step and gesture as only years of training could render possible. But more frequently it is rather like acting than like what we Occidentals call dancing--acting accompanied with extraordinary waving of sleeves and fans, and with a play of eyes and features, sweet, subtle, subdued, wholly Oriental. There are more voluptuous dances known to geisha, but upon ordinary occasions and before refined audiences they portray beautiful old j.a.panese traditions, like the legend of the fisher Urashima, beloved by the Sea G.o.d's daughter; and at intervals they sing ancient Chinese poems, expressing a natural emotion with delicious vividness by a few exquisite words. And always they pour the wine--that warm, pale yellow, drowsy wine which fills the veins with soft contentment, making a faint sense of ecstasy, through which, as through some poppied sleep, the commonplace becomes wondrous and blissful, and the geisha Maids of Paradise, and the world much sweeter than, in the natural order of things, it could ever possibly be.

The banquet, at first so silent, slowly changes to a merry tumult. The company break ranks, form groups; and from group to group the girls pa.s.s, laughing, prattling--still pouring sake into the cups which are being exchanged and emptied with low bows [3] Men begin to sing old samurai songs, old Chinese poems. One or two even dance. A geisha tucks her robe well up to her knees; and the samisen strike up the quick melody, 'Kompira fund-fund.' As the music plays, she begins to run lightly and swiftly in a figure of 8, and a young man, carrying a sake bottle and cup, also runs in the same figure of 8. If the two meet on a line, the one through whose error the meeting happens must drink a cup of sake. The music becomes quicker and quicker and the runners run faster and faster, for they must keep time to the melody; and the geisha wins. In another part of the room, guests and geisha are playing ken.

They sing as they play, facing each other, and clap their hands, and fling out their fingers at intervals with little cries and the samisen keep time.

Choito--don-don!

Otagaidane; Choito--don-don!

Oidemas.h.i.tane; Choito--don-don!

Shimaimas.h.i.tane.

Now, to play ken with a geisha requires a perfectly cool head, a quick eye, and much practice. Having been trained from childhood to play all kinds of ken--and there are many--she generally loses only for politeness, when she loses at all. The signs of the most common ken are a Man, a Fox, and a Gun. If the geisha make the sign of the Gun, you must instantly, and in exact time to the music, make the sign of the Fox, who cannot use the Gun. For if you make the sign of the Man, then she will answer with the sign of the Fox, who can deceive the Man, and you lose. And if she make the sign of the Fox first, then you should make the sign of the Gun, by which the Fox can be killed. But all the while you must watch her bright eyes and supple hands. These are pretty; and if you suffer yourself, just for one fraction of a second, to think how pretty they are, you are bewitched and vanquished. Notwithstanding all this apparent comradeship, a certain rigid decorum between guest and geisha is invariably preserved at a j.a.panese banquet. However flushed with wine a guest may have become, you will never see him attempt to caress a girl; he never forgets that she appears at the festivities only as a human flower, to be looked at, not to be touched. The familiarity which foreign tourists in j.a.pan frequently permit themselves with geisha or with waiter-girls, though endured with smiling patience, is really much disliked, and considered by native observers an evidence of extreme vulgarity.

For a time the merriment grows; but as midnight draws near, the guests begin to slip away, one by one, unnoticed. Then the din gradually dies down, the music stops; and at last the geisha, having escorted the latest of the feasters to the door, with laughing cries of Sayonara, can sit down alone to break their long fast in the deserted hall.

Such is the geisha's role But what is the mystery of her? What are her thoughts, her emotions, her secret self? What is her veritable existence beyond the night circle of the banquet lights, far from the illusion formed around her by the mist of wine? Is she always as mischievous as she seems while her voice ripples out with mocking sweetness the words of the ancient song?

Kimi to neyaru ka, go sengoku toruka? Nanno gosengoku kimi to neyo? [4]

Or might we think her capable of keeping that pa.s.sionate promise she utters so deliciously?

Omae shindara tera ewa yaranu! Yaete konis.h.i.te sake de nomu, [5]

'Why, as for that,' a friend tells me, 'there was O'-Kama of Osaka who realised the song only last year. For she, having collected from the funeral pile the ashes of her lover, mingled them with sake, and at a banquet drank them, in the presence of many guests.' In the presence of many guests! Alas for romance!

Always in the dwelling which a band of geisha occupy there is a strange image placed in the alcove. Sometimes it is of clay, rarely of gold, most commonly of porcelain. It is reverenced: offerings are made to it, sweetmeats and rice bread and wine; incense smoulders in front of it, and a lamp is burned before it. It is the image of a kitten erect, one paw outstretched as if inviting--whence its name, 'the Beckoning Kitten.' [6] It is the genius loci: it brings good-fortune, the patronage of the rich, the favour of banquet-givers Now, they who know the soul of the geisha aver that the semblance of the image is the semblance of herself--playful and pretty, soft and young, lithe and caressing, and cruel as a devouring fire.

Worse, also, than this they have said of her: that in her shadow treads the G.o.d of Poverty, and that the Fox-women are her sisters; that she is the ruin of youth, the waster of fortunes, the destroyer of families; that she knows love only as the source of the follies which are her gain, and grows rich upon the substance of men whose graves she has made; that she is the most consummate of pretty hypocrites, the most dangerous of schemers, the most insatiable of mercenaries, the most pitiless of mistresses. This cannot all be true. Yet thus much is true-- that, like the kitten, the geisha is by profession a creature of prey.

There are many really lovable kittens. Even so there must be really delightful dancing-girls.

The geisha is only what she has been made in answer to foolish human desire for the illusion of love mixed with youth and grace, but without regrets or responsibilities: wherefore she has been taught, besides ken, to play at hearts. Now, the eternal law is that people may play with impunity at any game in this unhappy world except three, which are called Life, Love, and Death. Those the G.o.ds have reserved to themselves, because n.o.body else can learn to play them without doing mischief. Therefore, to play with a geisha any game much more serious than ken, or at least go, is displeasing to the G.o.ds.