OF course, it could hardly be expected that our dinner would be Japanese in all its features, but it was not only our embarrassment at our surroundings that prevented it from being so. The appearance of our host himself in side-whiskers was enough to give an un-oriental air to the ceremony, and clearly indicated the peculiar mixture of the East and West of which his character presents a striking example. For he had visited extensively in America, where he had performed high diplomatic functions and carried back many of our traits, not the least evident of which were the whiskers above referred to. It was also unnecessary to use an interpreter when talking with him, as he spoke our language easily and well. As far as politeness went, however, he was entirely Japanese. I have an indefinite recollection of him as an embodiment of smiles and bows; his manners were perfect, his voice was of unusual sweetness. He had a keen mind and kept a watchful eye on us during the evening, in order that the strangeness of our situation should add rather a feeling of pleasantness than of discomfort.
He was a man far advanced in the ideas of new Japan, and he had gone so far as to adopt the European costume. But this evening he had cast it aside and appeared in all the splendor of a Japanese host. After we had travelled under the direction of a little musmee with a lighted candle, through a long, arched lane, we suddenly found ourselves before a small house and heard the most un-oriental of all words: “Good evening.” We looked up, and there stood our host between two wicker panels which he had thrust aside, with his handsome face smiling the most cordial of welcomes. He wore the conventional divided skirt, and over this a kimono of dark grey, caught together in front with a cord. His foot-gear was the customary sandals, which, however, he did not wear during the evening. Of course he did not have his wife with him, for even his progressive spirit had not reached the point where he could allow any feminine supervision of his feast. The hostess is unknown in Japan, where domesticity does not play the part it should. We had another proof of this in the invitations we received, which did not invite us to our host’s house, but to one of the swell restaurants of Kioto. For a Japanese to entertain at his own house would be a social barbarism.
The length of the Major—one of our party—was often inconvenient in Japan, and I saw him casting troubled glances at the house before which we found ourselves. It was very small, and when we finally entered he found it necessary to stoop in order to get in at all. We did not gain an entrance immediately, for we found an obstacle in our way in the form of the little musmee who had conducted us thither. Before starting, the two ladies of the party had debated for a long time what foot-gear they should wear, being faced by the American extreme of shoes and the Japanese extreme of stocking feet. They congratulated themselves that they had hit upon a happy solution, by wearing their party slippers; but when they arrived they found that they had miscalculated. As they stepped upon the platform and were about to enter the room, the little musmee’s hands went up in horror.
We can only appreciate her feelings by imagining our own, should one of our callers elevate his feet upon the parlor furniture. Should they desecrate her spotless white mats with their barbarous American slippers? Our poor host had his hands full, trying to pacify the little enraged body, and at the same time to act towards us as though this outburst was one of the regularly-planned features of the dinner. His ever present smiles were still more in requisition, and he could not bow enough in his endeavour to make us feel at ease. Suddenly, there came a calm; the little maid withdrew, and we were bidden in a most polite way to enter. The offended girl, however, sulked away like an angry child, and I am convinced that if we made any enemies in our trips in Japan, the little musmee at this restaurant was one of them.
This was the first Japanese house I had ever been in, and naturally I was interested to see what it was like. It was oriental in every way, though by no means an example of oriental splendor. At one end there was a platform on which incense was burning, and the walls were entirely bare but for two paper kakemonos. The floor was covered with white matting, on which were placed black velvet cushions. These were our seats for the dinner, and each of us was supplied, in addition, with a black lacquered candlestick. For some time we stood there waiting for the host to begin, but as we afterwards learned, it is customary at Japanese social functions for that dignitary to follow. He smilingly requested us to be seated as quietly as though he was bidding us to four hours in Paradise, and not to the physical discomfort—almost torture—that it proved to be. The ladies seated themselves with little trouble, but things did not go so well with the poor Major. His legs formed a large part of a body that measured considerably over six feet, and as those six feet had to be disposed of picturesquely in a sitting posture, you will see that we had almost a tragedy on hand. The Major made several spasmodic attempts, and finally threw himself down in a lifeless heap in a way that furnished our host new cause for smiles and bows.
For all this the scene in which we found ourselves had its romantic side. It was early in the evening of a beautiful night in April, the Japanese June. The wicker panels of the house were thrown open, and the warm air came through, scented with the perfume of the cherry-blossoms and bearing delicate sounds from the garden without. We could see the stars from where we sat, and they had that warm, melting lustre that one sometimes sees at home, but which is characteristic of an oriental night. In front of the house was one of those famous miniature gardens that embody the dainty Japanese taste. A small, sparkling lake was bordered by the sacred cherry-trees, which were in full bloom; a passing breeze had blown many of the blossoms upon the surface of the water. The shores were covered with dwarf trees and a few sprays of pansies. All of this we could clearly see, for the moon gleamed down upon the scene with just enough brightness to render all distinct without removing any of the enchantment. From the distance we could hear the faint tinkling of a waterfall. Even the Major’s uncomfortable state of body could not prevent him from catching the poetic flavour of all this. But there was more romance ahead. We all felt a disappointment when our host dropped the oriental manner of salutation and simply bowed profoundly; but now we were soon to have Eastern respect at its fullest. Two musmees entered, and, falling on their hands and knees, touched their flower-bedecked heads to the floor. In this respectful attitude they remained before us for some seconds, while we wondered whether the occasion demanded any action on our part, when, suddenly, they rose and presented us with handleless cups full of tea—for every dinner in Japan begins with tea. I looked at the host in despair. “Ah! I will explain,” he said, with a laugh, and he did so. This is the way you do it: you place the cup in the palms of both hands, twist the fingers into a supporting position (I do not yet fully understand it), and drink between the thumbs. If you are well-enough bred, you will do this with the utmost ease; but if you are not, you may land the tea in your lap, break the china cup, and be put down as an extremely low person. Of course, the fact that we were foreigners warded off any harsh judgment; and besides, I really believe we all of us did manage somehow to get through the crisis in a way that was not entirely disgraceful.
Japanese æstheticism extends to their dinners, which are extremely graceful affairs. Our host, for example, had divided this dinner into four parts, each typical of a season of the year. In this was a hidden compliment; he intended thus to express his regret that we were unable to spend the whole year in Kioto, and his hopes that this evening’s pleasure would offer as good a substitute as possible. And in spite of our uncomfortable attitudes and the strangeness of many of the dishes placed before us, I do not think he was entirely unsuccessful. Not the least pleasant part of the dinner, for example, was that which immediately followed the tea drinking. We had hardly handed the cups back to the musmees, when they gave to each of us a beautiful wicker basket filled with flowers,—that, at least, is what we thought they were, until we discovered that they were without smell. In fact, it took us some time to find out that they were not flowers at all, but most exquisite candy imitations. They were more than confectionery—they were true works of art.
But there were other surprises in store for us. As we sat admiring these delicate creations, the doors at the rear suddenly opened, and a living wave of colour came fluttering in. At first we could distinguish nothing but a flock of miniature bats, storks, and other creatures which figure exclusively in Japanese natural history, disporting themselves among dainty representations of purple violets, dandelions, and white and pink cherry-blossoms. After recovering from our first surprise we saw that these were small pieces of embroidery on a background of pale greys and shaded blues, and then we caught sight of waving loops of hair in which were intertwined sprays of flowers and fancy pins. This delicate yet somewhat confused mass drew nearer, and we saw five little faces painted entirely white with the exception of clearly-defined spots of red under the eyes and lips, that were made particularly small by a skilful handling of the brush. We could but ejaculate one word: “Geisha!” These were the famous dancing girls of Japan, who lead, I fear, not too happy lives in furnishing much of the enjoyment of Japanese social life. It is only ordinary people who frequent the theatre in this country, and it falls upon these little creatures to furnish the higher classes a large part of their amusement. They dance, they sing, they joke, act as waiters, and are generally expected to supply the element of gaiety without which no dinner can be thought complete.
The Japanese do not walk, they flutter; they do not sit down, they sink. Each of these delicate bits of humanity bearing a small lacquered tray sank down before the guest she was to serve. They were continually laughing and chattering among themselves, making naive criticisms of our costumes and of ourselves—for the geishas are given a great deal of freedom. They were particularly inquisitive about the ladies’ dresses, and even went so far as to ask, through the interpreter, the cost of them. They also were anxious to know whether the Americans made them themselves, and how long it took. These materialistic thoughts changed when they caught sight of the ladies’ diamonds, which they romantically imagined to have grown on trees. They made endless remarks about us which we did not understand, and from the interpreter’s unwillingness to translate many of their speeches, I am sure the little fault-finders saw much in us to criticise.
And now the dinner began in earnest. By our sides we discovered mysterious packages done up in paper, which we were horrified to find contained chop-sticks. This was worse than drinking tea between your thumbs. It was my first experience with these utensils, and I hardly thought myself in a well-chosen place to learn their mysterious qualities. I was greatly surprised, however, to find that it was not so difficult as it looked, and that chop-sticks, after all, are not the impossible things the untutored suppose. We had a hard dish to begin on; for after we had got our chop-sticks in battle array, the geishas startled us by bringing in soup. More smiles from the host, and more explanations. All you have to do is to eat the solid part with the chop-sticks and drink the liquid as you drink tea. The soup was politely christened “Congratulatory,” and was made of green turtle, which is popularly supposed to live a thousand years—another compliment for us. And now that I have begun the menu, I may as well say that the succeeding dishes included fish and eels, and an unprecedented number of soups, cooked à la Japonaise, particularly one made of seaweeds, in which their taste was by no means concealed. And there were wines, bomei, which the Japanese regard as a kind of medicine to prepare the stomach for the food, and saki, the national drink, not dissimilar in appearance and taste to a pale, dry sherry.
At this point we were surprised by the arrival of another guest. He had been invited to meet us as a friend of our host, but for some reason had been detained and had sent his excuses. He was clad in the same costume as our host and had also adopted the occidental whiskers, though his were grey. He was not sufficiently Europeanised, however, to omit the Japanese salutation, and consequently prostrated himself “on all fours” before us. He further mystified our minds by presenting each of our party with his card. We looked at our host in despair, who explained that it was customary on such occasions to exchange cards. But we had failed to bring any along, and therefore had to apologise ourselves out of the difficulty as best we could. Of course, our excuses met with the customary smiles.
“We hope you will be able to visit our country sometime,” one of us had inspiration enough to say through the interpreter the new arrival had brought with him.
“I have been there already,” he replied.
“And how did he like it?”
“It is a very beautiful country, and I hope to go back again sometime.”
Though the conversation was satisfactory, the inconvenience always occasioned by the use of an interpreter prevented it from being very lively. The next remark I remember was from the Major, and was not of so suave a kind.
“Say, if I have to sit here much longer, I shall never be able to use my legs again.”
All the evening he had been attempting to gain relief by a constant change of position, but his efforts did not seem to have been successful. We all of us were somewhat tired, but the Major had a great deal more to be tired than we. He had to compose himself, however, for one of the most distinctive features of the dinner.
There was a slight pause after his remark, and we began casting glances at one another and wondering what was to come next. The pause at an American dinner we should consider an awkward one, but our host did not seem to entertain any such idea. Suddenly we heard two snaps that apparently came from stringed instruments, and at the same time the panels in a rear room were drawn aside. We were taken somewhat by surprise, for we were not acquainted with the fact that a small theatrical performance is one of the usual accompaniments of a Japanese dinner.
Two of the geishas began to play on the samisen, the Japanese banjo, and the koto, a kind of elongated harp, picked with ivory tips. At the same time one of the girls came out in the centre of the room, and we had our first sight of Japanese dancing. While she went through the movements of the “Reign of Spring,” the two girls with the instruments began singing in that falsetto key which it takes an educated taste to appreciate. They sing so shrilly and the notes they strike are so unnatural, that it becomes a very painful exercise, and will frequently bring tears to the performer’s eyes. And how about the dancing? One who is accustomed to the serpentine mazes of our occidental skirt dancers and who likes that sort of thing, may find it hard to enter into the spirit of her Japanese contemporaries; but if you delight in gracefulness in any form, these little geishas cannot fail to please. Their costume plays an important part in the series of posturings that makes up the dance, and no small amount of the success achieved depends on the proper manipulation of the fan. You can get the best idea of what it is like, by imagining a succession of dainty tableaux in which the changes are made before your eyes.
After sitting in a Japanese posture on American legs for four hours at a stretch, it was with some difficulty that we finally arose and prepared to leave. As we went out into the night we were followed by a veritable chorus of “Sayonara,” which is the Japanese word for “good-bye.” We were somewhat surprised to be followed by the little musmees, bringing as gifts, neatly tied up in boxes, that portion of the dinner we had not eaten. There is something delightfully original in that idea. The smiles and bows of our host were succeeded by those of his friend, whom he had sent to escort us safely home. His courtesies did not stop here, for he called on us the next morning to thank us for the honour we had done him in accepting his invitation to dine,—a notable expression of the refinement of Japanese politeness.
The night had grown still more beautiful during the four hours we had spent within, and we caught many interesting glimpses of local colour on our way to the hotel. The air was warm, the sky clear, and the brilliantly-lighted parks were filled by proud Japanese fathers and mothers with their prattling children. Men and women were stopping under the cherry-trees that were in full bloom, gazing upon the sacred blossoms that have been dear to Japanese hearts for so many centuries. We went by one of the temples, standing on a hill, the approach marked by a succession of bright red gateways. Under the light of the moon, this ancient structure, which for ages has been the heaven of aspiration and love for so many hopeful spirits of this land, had an air of the utmost impressiveness. The whole scene made us forget that we had been sitting for four hours on our heels, and called to our minds the fact that we had had one of the most enjoyable experiences of our lives.
