If he could render the impressions made by Japan upon him, then he could create those same impressions upon the reader. This is the method of artists as otherwise dissimilar as Flaubert (one of Hearn’s enthusiasms) and the much later Ernest Hemingway, and it was the one that most suited Hearn’s purposes.
These (“to create, in the minds, of the readers, a vivid impression of living in Japan”) were enforced by what Hearn was at the time learning, as differentiated from feeling. He became a student not only of fancy and folklore but also of those elements upon which they are based: religion and history. The longer he lived in the country the more seriously he studied Buddhism, and the closer he moved to that other, unreachable goal, so confidently expressed before he had even come to Japan—to become “as one taking part in the daily existence of the common people, and thinking with their thoughts.”
In 1895 he made a big step in that direction by becoming a Japanese citizen. His reasons were various, and perhaps a more or less enthusiastic empathy was among them. Yet, he already knew—and had written—that the possibility of actually becoming one with the Japanese was unlikely, and there were possibly other reasons as well.
One certainly was that he had a family to support. If Setsuko became British (Hearn’s actual nationality) she would have to give up her legal rights including her land holdings. Even as the wife of a foreigner these were imperiled. So part of the reason behind the move was economic.
The result was Hearn as Japanese: Yakumo Koizumi—Setsuko’s family name and a wonderfully fanciful given-name reference to beloved Matsue, the land of the eight clouds. This transformation was accompanied by a new job. Writing every day in Kobe had proved too much for the remaining eye and so the ever helpful Chamberlain found Hearn a position at the Tokyo Imperial University’s College of Literature.
So there Hearn finally was—back in Tokyo. Setsuko was delighted, a country woman triumphantly in the capital, but to Lafcadio Tokyo was “the most horrible place in Japan.” In fact, as he wrote Chamberlain, “there is no Japan in it,” only “dirty shoes,—absurd fashions,—wickedly expensive living,—airs, vanities,—gossip.”
In this horrible place he lived, first, in Ushigome, near a temple he much liked. After the authorities had cut down all of its beautiful trees to make room for modernization, he moved out to Nishi-Ogikubo, the suburbs mentioned in the 1904 “Letter.” There he wrote his last books, quarreled with his friend and benefactor Chamberlain (over something so slight it is not even recorded), and became thoroughly disillusioned with the Tokyo Imperial University.
In 1903, when his contract was due for renewal, he was told that his pay was to be docked, that since he was now Japanese he would be paid as a Japanese. Indeed, he was not entitled to a foreigner’s salary, but, in fact, the new president wanted to get rid of foreigners. Hearn later often repeated the “painful remark” this president had made to him: If he could not live upon the reduced salary, he should learn, like any other Japanese, to eat rice.
While this may seem only sensible to us, Hearn was of the generation that believed that the white man deserved a bit of respect. Though he disliked the imperialistic foreigner (another reason for leaving Kobe was that he found it was filled with little else), he himself embodied a number of such qualities.
To insist, as he early did, upon a picturesque country and a childlike people is to prepare the way for forces that will modernize the old, render practical the pretty, and form the simple people into something more economically profitable. Indeed, to Orientalize is to take advantage.
Hearn would have been horrified by this thought but there it is. And it is among the reasons that after the Pacific War Hearn’s scholarly standing so declined. No postwar Japanologist could have quoted Hearn with approval. In addition, there was the idea that he was an amateur in a field fast becoming professional, that he had been popular—always anathema to academe—and that he was somehow a spokesman for a Japan which had been, after all, the enemy.
This latter is, of course, not true. Whatever else, even in his most smitten days, Hearn was never a spokesman for Japan. He always retained an independence of thought and this grew stronger the longer he lived in the country. Indeed, his is the first objective voice we hear above the clamor of the Orientalists seeking to love or to hate.
In his last completed book, Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation, Hearn attempted to sum up his experience and finally give a structure to his thoughts. It should not be surprising that these are largely metaphysical. Of the book’s twenty-two chapters, thirteen deal with religion or subjects involved with traditional religious issues.
While the Japanese are actually one of the least notably religious of peoples (if one of the most superstitious) Hearn’s traditionalism sits well because Japan is one of the countries most consumed with its past. While it cuts down old forests and knocks down venerable buildings it is also entirely concerned with its own Japaneseness and this is predicated upon its history. Hence what the West miscalls ancestor worship, hence the various appeals to Japanese authenticity, the yamato-damashii, the yamato-kotoba —these qualities the pursuit of which remains a national passion. Hence too the national regard for Yakumo Koizumi. Though the Tokyo Imperial University failed to appreciate him, later generations have taken this critical and honest man and turned him into the spokesman he never was.
Which perhaps led to the often heard opinion that Hearn died disillusioned with the country. This is not true. The final book, an attempt at interpretation, is no more critical and no more disillusioned than any of the writings after that wonderful year in Matsue. When he died he was satisfied—in the bosom of his family, his measured assessment of his adopted land safely sent to the publishers. He saw Japan fairly and clearly, his view now undisturbed by the vapors and passions of earlier years.
Of this early, sustaining vision of the Japanese he was to write in his final book: “Sooner or later, if you dwell long with them, your contentment will prove to have much in common with the happiness of dreams. You will never forget the dream—never: but it will lift at last.”
But it did not lift to disillusion; rather it lifted, like a veil, to disclose a reality he had much earlier begun to discover, to reveal a people much like any other, and as different as any other. He reported what he saw. It is for this reason that we read him now.
Bits of Life and Death
I
July 25. Three extraordinary visits have been made to my house this week.
The first was that of the professional well-cleaners. For once every year all wells must be emptied and cleansed, lest the God of Wells, Suijin-Sama, be wroth. On this occasion I learned some things relating to Japanese wells and the tutelar deity of them, who has two names, being also called Mizuha-nome-no-mikoto.
Suijin-Sama protects all wells, keeping their water sweet and cool, provided that house-owners observe his laws of cleanliness, which are rigid. To those who break them sickness comes, and death. Rarely the god manifests himself, taking the form of a serpent. I have never seen any temple dedicated to him. But once each month a Shintō priest visits the homes of pious families having wells, and he repeats certain ancient prayers to the Well-God, and plants nobori, little paper flags, which are symbols, at the edge of the well. After the well has been cleaned, also, this is done. Then the first bucket of the new water must be drawn up by a man; for if a woman first draw water, the well will always thereafter remain muddy.
The god has little servants to help him in his work. These are the small fishes the Japanese call funa. 1 One or two funa are kept in every well, to clear the water of larvæ. When a well is cleaned, great care is taken of the little fish. It was on the occasion of the coming of the well-cleaners that I first learned of the existence of a pair of funa in my own well. They were placed in a tub of cool water while the well was refilling, and thereafter were replunged into their solitude.
The water of my well is clear and ice-cold. But now I can never drink of it without a thought of t
hose two small white lives circling always in darkness, and startled through untold years by the descent of splashing buckets.
The second curious visit was that of the district firemen, in full costume, with their hand-engines. According to ancient custom, they make a round of all their district once a year during the dry spell, and throw water over the hot roofs, and receive some small perquisite from each wealthy householder. There is a belief that when it has not rained for a long time roofs may be ignited by the mere heat of the sun. The firemen played with their hose upon my roofs, trees, and garden, producing considerable refreshment; and in return I bestowed on them wherewith to buy saké.
The third visit was that of a deputation of children asking for some help to celebrate fittingly the festival of Jizō, who has a shrine on the other side of the street, exactly opposite my house. I was very glad to contribute to their fund, for I love the gentle god, and I knew the festival would be delightful. Early next morning, I saw that the shrine had already been decked with flowers and votive lanterns. A new bib had been put about Jizō’s neck, and a Buddhist repast set before him. Later on, carpenters constructed a dancing-platform in the temple court for the children to dance upon; and before sundown the toy-sellers had erected and stocked a small street of booths inside the precincts. After dark I went out into a great glory of lantern fires to see the children dance; and I found, perched before my gate, an enormous dragonfly more than three feet long. It was a token of the children’s gratitude for the little help I had given them,—a kazari, a decoration. I was startled for the moment by the realism of the thing; but upon close examination I discovered that the body was a pine branch wrapped with colored paper, the four wings were four fire-shovels, and the gleaming head was a little teapot. The whole was lighted by a candle so placed as to make extraordinary shadows, which formed part of the design. It was a wonderful instance of art sense working without a speck of artistic material, yet it was all the labor of a poor little child only eight years old!
II
July 30. The next house to mine, on the south side,—a low, dingy structure,—is that of a dyer. You can always tell where a Japanese dyer is by the long pieces of silk or cotton stretched between bamboo poles before his door to dry in the sun,—broad bands of rich azure, of purple, of rose, pale blue, pearl gray. Yesterday my neighbor coaxed me to pay the family a visit; and after having been led through the front part of their little dwelling, I was surprised to find myself looking from a rear veranda at a garden worthy of some old Kyōto palace. There was a dainty landscape in miniature, and a pond of clear water peopled by goldfish having wonderfully compound tails.
When I had enjoyed this spectacle awhile, the dyer led me to a small room fitted up as a Buddhist chapel. Though everything had had to be made on a reduced scale, I did not remember to have seen a more artistic display in any temple. He told me it had cost him about fifteen hundred yen. I did not understand how even that sum could have sufficed. There were three elaborately carven altars,—a triple blaze of gold lacquer-work; a number of charming Buddhist images; many exquisite vessels; an ebony reading-desk; a mokugyō; 2 two fine bells,—in short, all the paraphernalia of a temple in miniature. My host had studied at a Buddhist temple in his youth, and knew the sutras, of which he had all that are used by the Jōdo sect. He told me that he could celebrate any of the ordinary services. Daily, at a fixed hour, the whole family assembled in the chapel for prayers; and he generally read the Kyō for them. But on extraordinary occasions a Buddhist priest from the neighboring temple would come to officiate.
He told me a queer story about robbers. Dyers are peculiarly liable to be visited by robbers; partly by reason of the value of the silks intrusted to them, and also because the business is known to be lucrative. One evening the family were robbed. The master was out of the city; his old mother, his wife, and a female servant were the only persons in the house at the time. Three men, having their faces masked and carrying long swords, entered the door. One asked the servant whether any of the apprentices were still in the building; and she, hoping to frighten the invaders away, answered that the young men were all still at work. But the robbers were not disturbed by this assurance. One posted himself at the entrance, the other two strode into the sleeping-apartment. The women started up in alarm, and the wife asked, “Why do you wish to kill us?” He who seemed to be the leader answered, “We do not wish to kill you; we want money only. But if we do not get it, then it will be this”—striking his sword into the matting. The old mother said, “Be so kind as not to frighten my daughter-in-law, and I will give you whatever money there is in the house. But you ought to know there cannot be much, as my son has gone to Kyōto.” She handed them the money-drawer and her own purse. There were just twenty-seven yen and eighty-four sen. The head robber counted it, and said, quite gently, “We do not want to frighten you. We know you are a very devout believer in Buddhism, and we think you would not tell a lie. Is this all?” “Yes, it is all,” she answered. “I am, as you say, a believer in the teaching of the Buddha, and if you come to rob me now, I believe it is only because I myself, in some former life, once robbed you. This is my punishment for that fault and so, instead of wishing to deceive you, I feel grateful at this opportunity to atone for the wrong which I did to you in my previous state of existence.” The robber laughed, and said, “You are a good old woman, and we believe you. If you were poor, we would not rob you at all. Now we only want a couple of kimono and this,”—laying his hand on a very fine silk overdress. The old woman replied, “All my son’s kimono I can give you, but I beg you will not take that, for it does not belong to my son, and was confided to us only for dyeing. What is ours I can give, but I cannot give what belongs to another.” “That is quite right,” approved the robber, “and we shall not take it.”
After receiving a few robes, the robbers said good-night, very politely, but ordered the women not to look after them. The old servant was still near the door. As the chief robber passed her, he said, “You told us a lie,—so take that!”—and struck her senseless. None of the robbers were ever caught.
III
August 29. When a body has been burned, according to the funeral rites of certain Buddhist sects, search is made among the ashes for a little bone called the Hotoke-San, or “Lord Buddha,” popularly supposed to be a little bone of the throat. What bone it really is I do not know, never having had a chance to examine such a relic.
According to the shape of this little bone when found after the burning, the future condition of the dead may be predicted. Should the next state to which the soul is destined be one of happiness, the bone will have the form of a small image of Buddha. But if the next birth is to be unhappy, then the bone will have either an ugly shape, or no shape at all.
A little boy, the son of a neighboring tobacconist, died the night before last, and to-day the corpse was burned. The little bone left over from the burning was discovered to have the form of three Buddhas,—San-Tai,—which may have afforded some spiritual consolation to the bereaved parents. 3
IV
September 13. A letter from Matsue, Izumo, tells me that the old man who used to supply me with pipestems is dead. (A Japanese pipe, you must know, consists of three pieces, usually,—a metal bowl large enough to hold a pea, a metal mouthpiece, and a bamboo stem which is renewed at regular intervals.) He used to stain his pipestems very prettily: some looked like porcupine quills, and some like cylinders of snakeskin. He lived in a queer narrow little street at the verge of the city. I know the street because in it there is a famous statue of Jizō called Shiroko-Jizō,—“White-Child-Jizō,”—which I once went to see. They whiten its face, like the face of a dancing-girl, for some reason which I have never been able to find out.
The old man had a daughter, O-Masu, about whom a story is told. O-Masu is still alive. She has been a happy wife for many years; but she is dumb. Long ago, an angry mob sacked and destroyed the dwelling and the storehouses of a rice speculator in the city. His money, inclu
ding a quantity of gold coin (koban), was scattered through the street. The rioters—rude, honest peasants—did not want it: they wished to destroy, not to steal. But O-Masu’s father, the same evening, picked up a koban from the mud, and took it home. Later on a neighbor denounced him, and secured his arrest. The judge before whom he was summoned tried to obtain certain evidence by cross-questioning O-Masu, then a shy girl of fifteen. She felt that if she continued to answer she would be made, in spite of herself, to give testimony unfavorable to her father; that she was in the presence of a trained inquisitor, capable, without effort, of forcing her to acknowledge everything she knew. She ceased to speak, and a stream of blood gushed from her mouth. She had silenced herself forever by simply biting off her tongue. Her father was acquitted. A merchant who admired the act demanded her in marriage, and supported her father in his old age.
V
October 10. There is said to be one day—only one—in the life of a child during which it can remember and speak of its former birth.
On the very day that it becomes exactly two years old, the child is taken by its mother into the most quiet part of the house, and is placed in a mi, or rice-winnowing basket. The child sits down in the mi . Then the mother says, calling the child by name, “Omae no zensé wa, nande attakane?—iute, gōran.” 4 Then the child always answers in one word. For some mysterious reason, no more lengthy reply is ever given. Often the answer is so enigmatic that some priest or fortune-teller must be asked to interpret it. For instance, yesterday, the little son of a coppersmith living near us answered only “Umé” to the magical question. Now umé might mean a plum-flower, a plum, or a girl’s name,—“Flower-of-the-Plum.” Could it mean that the boy remembered having been a girl? Or that he had been a plum-tree? “Souls of men do not enter plum-trees,” said a neighbor. A fortune-teller this morning declared, on being questioned about the riddle, that the boy had probably been a scholar, poet, or statesman, because the plum-tree is the symbol of Tenjin, patron of scholars, statesmen, and men of letters.
Lafcadio Hearn's Japan Page 14