Lafcadio Hearn's Japan

by Hearn, Lafcadio; Richie, Donald;

  The war has also suggested a variety of new designs for that charming object, the toko-niwa . Few of my readers know what a tokoniwa, or “alcove-garden,” is. It is a miniature garden—perhaps less than two feet square—contrived within an ornamental shallow basin of porcelain or other material, and placed in the alcove of a guest-room by way of decoration. You may see there a tiny pond; a stream-let crossed by humped bridges of Chinese pattern; dwarf trees forming a grove, and shading the model of a Shinto temple; imitations in baked clay of stone lanterns,—perhaps even the appearance of a hamlet of thatched cottages. If the toko-niwa be not too small, you may see real fish swimming in the pond, or a pet tortoise crawling among the rockwork. Sometimes the miniature garden represents Hōrai, and the palace of the Dragon-King.

  Two new varieties have come into fashion. One is a model of Port Arthur, showing the harbor and the forts; and with the materials for the display there is sold a little map, showing how to place certain tiny battleships, representing the imprisoned and the investing fleets. The other toko-niwa represents a Korean or Chinese landscape, with hill ranges and rivers and woods; and the appearance of a battle is created by masses of toy soldiers—cavalry, infantry, and artillery—in all positions of attack and defense. Minute forts of baked clay, bristling with cannon about the size of small pins, occupy elevated positions. When properly arranged the effect is panoramic. The soldiers in the foreground are about an inch long; those a little farther away about half as long; and those upon the hills are no larger than flies.

  But the most remarkable novelty of this sort yet produced is a kind of toko-niwa recently on display at a famous shop in Ginza. A label bearing the inscription, Kaï-téï no Ikken (View of the Ocean-Bed) sufficiently explained the design. The suïbon, or “water-tray,” containing the display was half filled with rocks and sand so as to resemble a sea-bottom; and little fishes appeared swarming in the foreground. A little farther back, upon an elevation, stood Otohimé, the Dragon-King’s daughter, surrounded by her maiden attendants, and gazing, with just the shadow of a smile, at two men in naval uniform who were shaking hands,—dead heroes of the war: Admiral Makaroff and Commander Hirosé! . . . These had esteemed each other in life; and it was a happy thought thus to represent their friendly meeting in the world of Spirits.

  Though his name is perhaps unfamiliar to English readers, Commander Takeo Hirosé has become, deservedly, one of Japan’s national heroes. On the 27th of March, during the second attempt made to block the entrance to Port Arthur, he was killed while endeavoring to help a comrade,—a comrade who had formerly saved him from death. For five years Hirosé had been a naval attaché at St. Petersburg, and had made many friends in Russian naval and military circles. From boyhood his life had been devoted to study and duty; and it was commonly said of him that he had no particle of selfishness in his nature. Unlike most of his brother officers, he remained unmarried,—holding that no man who might be called on at any moment to lay down his life for his country had a moral right to marry. The only amusements in which he was ever known to indulge were physical exercises; and he was acknowledged one of the best jūjutsu (wrestlers) in the empire. The heroism of his death, at the age of thirty-six, had much less to do with the honors paid to his memory than the self-denying heroism of his life.

  Now his picture is in thousands of homes, and his name is celebrated in every village. It is celebrated also by the manufacture of various souvenirs, which are sold by myriads. For example, there is a new fashion in sleeve buttons, called Kinen-botan, or “Commemoration-buttons.” Each button bears a miniature portrait of the commander, with the inscription, Shichi-shō hōkoku, “Even in seven successive lives—for love of country.” It is recorded that Hirosé often cited, to friends who criticised his ascetic devotion to duty, the famous utterance of Kusunoki Masashigé, who declared, ere laying down his life for the Emperor Go-Daigo, that he desired to die for his sovereign in seven successive existences.

  But the highest honor paid to the memory of Hirosé is of a sort now possible only in the East, though once possible also in the West, when the Greek or Roman patriot hero might be raised, by the common love of his people, to the place of the Immortals. . . . Wine-cups of porcelain have been made, decorated with his portrait; and beneath the portrait appears, in ideographs of gold, the inscription, Gunshin Hirosé Chūsa. The character “gun” signifies war; the character “shin,” a god,—either in the sense of divus or deus, according to circumstances; and the Chinese text, read in the Japanese way, is Ikusa no Kami . Whether that stern and valiant spirit is really invoked by the millions who believe that no brave soul is doomed to extinction, no well-spent life laid down in vain, no heroism cast away, I do not know. But, in any event, human affection and gratitude can go no farther than this; and it must be confessed that Old Japan is still able to confer honors worth dying for.

  Boys and girls in all the children’s schools are now singing the Song of Hirosé Chūsa, which is a marching song. The words and the music are published in a little booklet, with a portrait of the late commander upon the cover. Everywhere, and at all hours of the day, one hears this song being sung:—

  He whose every word and deed gave to men an example of what the

  war-folk of the Empire of Nippon should be,—Commander

  Hirosé: is he really dead?

  Though the body die, the spirit dies not. He who wished to be

  reborn seven times into this world, for the sake of serving his

  country, for the sake of requiting the Imperial favor,—

  Commander Hirosé: has he really died?

  “Since I am a son of the Country of the Gods, the fire of the evil-

  hearted Russians cannot touch me!”—The sturdy Takeo who

  spoke thus: can he really be dead?. . .

  Nay ! that glorious war-death meant undying fame;—beyond a

  thousand years the valiant heart shall live;—as to a god of war

  shall reverence be paid to him. . . .

  Observing the playful confidence of this wonderful people in their struggle for existence against the mightiest power of the West,—their perfect trust in the wisdom of their leaders and the valor of their armies,—the good humor of their irony when mocking the enemy’s blunders,—their strange capacity to find, in the world-stirring events of the hour, the same amusement that they would find in watching a melodrama,—one is tempted to ask: “What would be the moral consequence of a national defeat?” . . . It would depend, I think, upon circumstances. Were Kuropatkin able to fulfill his rash threat of invading Japan, the nation would probably rise as one man. But otherwise the knowledge of any great disaster would be bravely borne. From time unknown Japan has been a land of cataclysms,—earthquakes that ruin cities in the space of a moment; tidal waves, two hundred miles long, sweeping whole coast populations out of existence; floods submerging hundreds of leagues of well-tilled fields; eruptions burying provinces. Calamities like this have disciplined the race in resignation and in patience; and it has been well trained also to bear with courage all the misfortunes of war. Even by the foreign peoples that have been most closely in contact with her, the capacities of Japan remained unguessed. Perhaps her power to resist aggression is far surpassed by her power to endure.

  Hōrai

  Blue vision of depth lost in height,—sea and sky interblending through luminous haze. The day is of spring, and the hour morning.

  Only sky and sea,—one azure enormity. . . . In the fore, ripples are catching a silvery light, and threads of foam are swirling anything save color: dim warm blue of water widening away to melt into blue of air. Horizon there is none: only distance soaring into space,—infinite concavity hollowing before you, and hugely arching above you,—the color deepening with the height. But far in the midway blue there hangs a faint, faint vision of palace towers, with high roofs horned and curved like moons,—some shadowing of splendor strange and old, illumined by a sunshine soft as memory.

  . . . What I have thus bee
n trying to describe is a kakémono,— that is to say, a Japanese painting on silk, suspended to the wall of my alcove;—and the name of it is SHINKIRŌ, which signifies “Mirage.” But the shapes of the mirage are unmistakable. Those are the glimmering portals of Hōrai the blest; and those are the moony roofs of the Palace of the Dragon-King;—and the fashion of them (though limned by a Japanese brush of to-day) is the fashion of things Chinese, twenty-one hundred years ago. . . .

  Thus much is told of the place in the Chinese books of that time:—

  In Hōrai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a man taste of those fruits even but once, he can never again feel thirst or hunger. In Hōrai grow the enchanted plants So-rin-shi, and Riku-gō-aoi, and Ban-kon-tō, which heal all manner of sickness;—and there grows also the magical grass Yō-shin-shi, that quickens the dead; and the magical grass is watered by a fairy water of which a single drink confers perpetual youth. The people of Hōrai eat their rice out of very, very small bowls; but the rice never diminishes within those bowls,—however much of it be eaten,—until the eater desires no more. And the people of Hōrai drink their wine out of very, very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups,— however stoutly he may drink,—until there comes upon him the pleasant drowsiness of intoxication.

  All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin dynasty. But that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw Hōrai, even in a mirage, is not believable. For really there are no enchanted fruits which leave the eater forever satisfied,—nor any magical grass which revives the dead,—nor any fountain of fairy water,—nor any bowls which never lack rice,—nor any cups which never lack wine. It is not true that sorrow and death never enter Hōrai;—neither is it true that there is not any winter. The winter in Hōrai is cold;—and winds then bite to the bone; and the heaping of snow is monstrous on the roofs of the Dragon-King.

  Nevertheless there are wonderful things in Hōrai; and the most wonderful of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean the atmosphere of Hōrai. It is an atmosphere peculiar to the place; and, because of it, the sunshine in Hōrai is whiter than any other sunshine,—a milky light that never dazzles,—astonishingly clear, but very soft. This atmosphere is not of our human period; it is enormously old,—so old that I feel afraid when I try to think how old it is;—and it is not a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at all, but of ghost,—the substance of quintillions of quintillions of generations of souls blended into one immense translucency,—souls of people who thought in ways never resembling our ways. Whatever mortal man inhales that atmosphere, he takes into his blood the thrilling of these spirits; and they change the senses within him,—reshaping his notions of Space and Time,—so that he can see only as they used to see, and feel only as they used to feel, and think only as they used to think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and Hōrai, discerned across them, might thus be described:—

  —Because in Hōrai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of people never grow old. And, by reason of always being young in heart, the people of Hōrai smile from birth until death—except when the Gods send sorrow among them; and faces then are veiled until the sorrow goes away. All folk in Hōrai love and trust each other, as if all were members of a single household;—and the speech of the women is like birdsong, because the hearts of them are light as the souls of birds;—and the swaying of the sleeves of the maidens at play seems a flutter of wide, soft wings. In Hōrai nothing is hidden but grief, because there is no reason for shame;—and nothing is locked away, because there could not be any theft;—and by night as well as by day all doors remain unbarred, because there is no reason for fear. And because the people are fairies—though mortal—all things in Hōrai, except the Palace of the Dragon-King, are small and quaint and queer;—and these fairy-folk do really eat their rice out of very small bowls and drink their wine out of very, very small cups. . . .

  —Much of this seeming would be due to the inhalation of that ghostly atmosphere—but not all. For the spell wrought by the dead is only the charm of an Ideal, the glamour of an ancient hope;—and something of that hope has found fulfillment in many hearts,—in the simple beauty of unselfish lives,—in the sweetness of Woman. . . .

  —Evil winds from the West are blowing over Hōrai;—and the magical atmosphere, alas! is shrinking away before them. It lingers now in patches only, and bands,—like those long bright bands of cloud that trail across the landscapes of Japanese painters. Under these shreds of elfish vapor you still can find Hōrai—but not elsewhere. . . . Remember that Hōrai is also called Shinkirō, which signifies Mirage,—the Vision of the Intangible. And the Vision is fading,— never again to appear save in pictures and poems and dreams. . . .

  Early in 1893 Hearn wrote to Chamberlain concerning his cook: “My cook wears a smiling, healthy, rather pleasing face. He is a good-looking young man. Whenever I used to think of him I thought of the smile. . . . One day I looked through a little hole in the shoji and saw him alone. The face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed queer lines worn by old hardship. I thought: ‘He will look just like that when he is dead.’ I went in and the man was all changed—young and happy again—nor have I ever seen that look of trouble in his face since. But I knew when he is alone he wears it. He never shows his real face to me; he wears the mask of happiness as an etiquette. . . .”

  In cold Kumamoto, it was the real face that Hearn became interested in—the real face of the cook, the real face of Japan. Consequently, he wrote much less about landscape and general impressions; he wrote about particulars—particular people. Japan became much less a reflection of his own feelings; rather, he took as his own the feelings of the people he met.

  In 1895—now in modern, Westernized Kobe—he wrote Chamberlain that it was a day when “I felt as if I hated Japan unspeakably, and the whole world seemed not worth living in, when there came two women to the house, to sell ballads. One took her samisen and sang; and people crowded into the tiny yard to hear. Never did I listen to anything sweeter. All the sorrow and beauty, all the pain and sweetness of life thrilled and quivered in that voice; and the old first love of Japan and of things Japanese came back, and a great tenderness seemed to fill the place like a haunting. I looked at the people, and I saw they were nearly all weeping and snuffing; and though I could not understand the words, I could feel the pathos and beauty of things. Then, too, for the first time, I noticed that the singer was blind. Both women were almost surprisingly ugly, but the voice of the one that sang was indescribably beautiful; and she sang as peasants and birds and semi sing, which is nature and is divine. They were wanderers both. I called them in, and treated them well, and heard their story. It was not romantic at all,—small-pox, blindness, a sick husband (paralyzed) and children to care for. I got two copies of the ballad, and enclose one. . . .”

  Hearn was in Kobe because, the Kumamoto contract lapsed, he had to make a living and he had found a job writing editorials and occasional pieces for the Kobe Chronicle. It was an occupation for which he was temperamentally suited. He had been a journalist in various cities in the United States, and in Martinique as well, and in Japan he had learned how to make the casual article a vehicle of observation.

  He had discovered that the Japanese form of the zuihitsu fitted his talent. Indeed, most of his pieces are just such “wanderings of the brush,” usually carefully formless, informal excursions, a genre which in earlier writings sometimes lent itself to effusion and in later writings often to an impressionistic precision.

  His zuihitsu “Bits of Life and Death,” probably written in 1894, is a collection of observations of domestic life in Kumamoto. In a late Matsue piece, “On Women’s Hair,” description is personified in a lively manner.

  These are followed by some of his portraits of women, both alive or long dead: “A Street Singer,” “Kimiko,” and “Yuko: A Reminiscence.” Aft
er these, three small stories have been included: “On a Bridge,” “The Case of O-Dai,” and “Drifting,” the last, one of Hearn’s few adventure stories.

  “Diplomacy” reflects the author’s continued interest in the past, in the dead, and in ghosts—though with a sardonic quality not usually encountered. The full-fledged Hearn ghost story is seen in “A Passional Karma,” one of his very finest but one not often reprinted, perhaps because of its length.

  As Lafcadio’s final word on the people he lived among, and as a summing up of this extraordinary experience, I include a chapter, “Survivals,” from his last completed book, Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation, which indicates his belief in the survival of much he had known and loved—though in some other form.

  The informal, zuihitsu -like essay fit Hearn’s needs precisely because his methods were not suited to sustained writing—as the strained and laborious structure of his last book, his only treatment of a single subject at length, indicates. Hearn’s vehicle was usually a single picture, or a reflection, or an impression of some sort.

  Like many of his fellow fin-de-siècle artists in distant Europe, Hearn was, indeed, an impressionist. This quality has been described by Earl Miner as a belief that “truth is made up of varying perceptions and is relative to the perceiver.” Hearn was forced to rely on the perceptions and intuitions of impressionism both because he had no other means and because it was his only way of reaching his distant readers.