WE suddenly found ourselves before the entrance to an unfamiliar by-street, and turned to our guide to inquire the meaning of what we saw. The huge red lanterns hanging in a perpendicular row from two high poles, evidently had a significance about which we were in the dark, and the exhibition of haste, which we observed on the part of these leisurely Orientals, surely was inspired by no everyday event. The girls were looking their prettiest with their hair filled with flowers and their pale grey kimonos tied with that magical sash-knot, which is the despair of their Western sisters. Along with them trotted their smaller brothers in bright-coloured flowing robes, their little heads cropped close with the exception of a solitary tuft. Fathers and mothers of sedater age and deportment displayed an eagerness that was equally strong, if more quietly marked.
Our attending coolie informed us that we had hit upon a festival that has particular attractions to the foreign eye. You have probably heard of those sacred cherry-blossoms that are so dear to the hearts of the Japanese, and which, with the chrysanthemum, are their chief floral pride. It is true that meddling foreigners have said that they are not cherry-blossoms at all; but that does not seem to prevent the delicate mingling of pink and white from being a very beautiful flower. It is in the month of April that they are to be seen at their best, and it is then that this æsthetic people assemble in different ways, and touchingly illustrate the part that these flowers play in their lives,—for the Japanese without their cherry-blossoms would not be the Japanese at all. When, therefore, the coolie informed us that all these people were on their way to see the famous cherry-blossom dance, we lost no time in mingling with the throng and following it down the lane-like street.
Everything here was a maze of Japanese forms clad in their daintiest robes, and Japanese faces flushed with eagerness and anticipation. Though æsthetic before everything else, the people have a keen eye for business, and the street was lined with booths full of knicknacks and toys of every kind. And here also were whole families picturesquely seated on their heels, sipping the everlasting tea. Pushing our way through the crowd, we drew up before a platform-like entrance, and were immediately met by one of the attendants, who presented us each with a pair of enormous white duck shoes. If you travel long in Japan, you will become accustomed to this sort of thing, and cease from experiencing any embarrassment or indignation at being requested to remove your foot-gear before stepping on a Japanese floor. The irreverent foreigner, however, unaccustomed to walking around in stocking feet, does not always see things from the Japanese point of view, and it has therefore been necessary at the temples and places of public amusement to have a stock of these ungainly foot-coverings for his benefit. The measure, of course, is a conciliatory one, and is intended to smooth the ruffled feelings of the Westerner without at the same time scandalising the sensibilities of the Japanese. We had had many similar experiences, and so lost no time in incasing our feet in a manner that would insure us entrance into the theatre, even though it might detract a little from our dignity.
Japanese Forms clad in their Daintiest Robes.
In the small lobby in which we found ourselves were a number of Japanese enjoying the national attitude of repose, and quietly waiting for something to turn up. The other end of the room was occupied by a counter on which was displayed a large collection of fans made of artificial cherry-blossoms, similar to those that were afterwards used in the dance. These are exhibited in a large measure for the benefit of the foreigner, who is expected to make generous purchases. All the while we could hear notes of that unmistakable Japanese music coming from beyond a small wooden door, mingled with weird voices and unclassifiable sounds. We began to fear that the dance had begun before our arrival, and that we might miss the best part of the show. We signified our wish to enter by pounding on the small door; but it was securely locked, and those on the other side treated our emphatic demands with oriental disdain. As we had paid our admission fee, we began to get indignant at this kind of treatment; but it is better not to get indignant at such things in Japan. Besides, the explanation was quite satisfactory, as one of the attendants told us that it was a fixed rule never to interrupt the performance by the entrance of new spectators, and, therefore, any one who came late must wait until all was finished. We were pacified when we learned that the dance was now nearly over and would shortly be repeated, and that we would lose nothing by waiting. But we were not the only ones who were impatient. There was one little Jap accompanied by his mother, who, after a careful search finally succeeded in discovering a small crack near the floor, to which he applied his eye in much the same fashion that his penniless occidental cousin watches the progress of a game of baseball; and evidently with the same emotions, if the glances of delight which he occasionally threw towards his mother might serve as indications.
Suddenly the music ceased, and the crowd began to push in. Japanese crowds are particularly noted for their good nature, and our progress into the theatre was the occasion of many sprightly jokes from the local wits, which were evidently very good, for they were received with bursts of laughter. We soon found ourselves in a front seat of a small gallery, with a three-sided stage before us. This gallery was reserved for those from over the seas and for those of the higher classes of Japan. Below in the pit sat those of humbler station, making themselves as comfortable as possible with their cushions spread out on the floor. Spectators who had already seen the performance were leaving the theatre from the two entrances under either end of the gallery, but the eager crowd from without was rapidly filling their places. The faces seemed the same that we had parted with a few minutes before, and they had the same appearance of expectant happiness. Here and there was a father and mother, followed by five or six wee ones, hurriedly rushing around to find the most convenient place. Apparently satisfied, they would finally sit down, begin to chatter and laugh, until suddenly one would notice what he thought a more advantageous place, when up they would all scramble again and hurry on in fear that some one might forestall them. It sometimes took more than two trials before they were satisfied, and so, while we were waiting for the curtain to rise, the gay mass below us was constantly changing about in the eagerness of the spectators to gain as comprehensive a view of the stage as possible. Each little group was provided with that indispensable adjunct to happiness,—the tobacco-box. The occasion meant far more to them than what took place on the stage; it was a general holiday, and they were there to get as much out of it as possible. There was a continual buzz as the conversation went on, and occasionally from some animated group there would rise a loud shout of laughter, whence we could infer that an oriental funny man had made another appreciated hit. Indeed, the sight below us was so interesting and brought us so in touch with the people themselves, that we almost forgot that there was a more pretentious display to follow, and gazed at the curtain before us in total disregard of the glories that lay beyond.
Suddenly our attention was aroused by the loud clapping together of two pieces of wood; and as suddenly every chattering tongue quietly ceased, and every laughing face assumed an expression of the utmost interest. It was the Japanese substitute for the prompter’s bell. The curtain obediently rose, and we settled ourselves for the enjoyment of an oriental performance. Even at the beginning we could see that the Japanese prefer to manage these things in a way of their own, for the orchestra with them is not a mere incident of the performance with which to appease the impatience of the audience between the acts or to drown the weak portions of a faltering tenor’s solo. In Japan the orchestra is kept behind the curtain as the chief performer, and comes in as generously for its share of applause. The first thing that caught our gaze, therefore, were two rows of geishas, picturesquely ranged on either side of the stage, with koto and drums ready for the opening overture. They were all painted and plastered after the usual geisha style, their little red and white faces surmounted by towering head-dresses of the ever-present cherry-blossom and wistaria. Dainty is a word that one constantly finds one’s self using while speaking of the geisha, and none other seems to serve the purpose so well. Those on the left, in their bright kimonos, with their little drums shaped like hour-glasses, were in the full daintiness of geisha life, while those picking the koto opposite, though still very young, could not but bring the pathetic thought that that strange life is a brief one. The whole audience observed the strictest silence all through the opening selection, which was not without its charms, even to unaccustomed ears. Occasionally a small shrill voice would be heard above the steady thrumming of the instruments, and though this could not perhaps be called singing, it had charms for those receptive souls in the pit.
But in the mean while our attention had been attracted to the stage. It had been prettily arranged as a garden scene, in a way far more realistic and beautiful than the painted trees and urns which pass for such in our own theatres. Here we had a profusion of cherry-blossoms to serve as a background to the equally pretty and delicate girls, who now began to enter from the two doors that had been previously used by the spectators. They were in two files, one in which pale blue and pink predominated, while the kimonos of the others were of bright red. The faces and headgear had been arranged in the same way as those of the musicians, and each held in her hand a cherry-blossom fan. Their entering motion was very slow, consisting of a step forward and a step backward, the time of the music being scrupulously observed. In this way they proceeded up the middle of the stage, where they parted and formed in line on the sides, meeting again in the centre. They were now ready for the dance to begin.
The word “dancing,” in its western interpretation, can hardly be applied to the graceful body-motions which satisfy the more subdued taste of the Japanese. The nearest thing that our stage can offer for comparison is the march, more spectacular than artistic, in which glistening helmets and emblazoned shields and swords play so large a part. In place of the knightly helmet these Japanese use their cherry-blossom head-dresses to good effect, while their less aspiring minds are satisfied with a fan instead of a sword. They have large flowing sleeves which they are constantly waving with a motion not too slow to be picturesque, and they can bend their little bodies in a way that their Western rivals have yet to learn. They toss their heads backwards and forwards in a very graceful and captivating way, and make any number of gesticulations with their sleeves, holding them in all conceivable positions in front of the face, back of the head, or stretching them out at arm’s length as a bat does its wings. At times the marching and counter-marching becomes delightfully confusing, the stage being a mass of slowly-waving colour, from the midst of which a large number of cherry-blossomed crests can be seen and an occasional smiling white-plastered face. The dancers do not show the slightest traces of fatigue, and when the curtain is rung, or to be more precise, clapped down at the conclusion of this first act, they seem as fresh as when it began, and a little disappointed that they are obliged to pause for a short time.
Another clap, and up went the curtain again. The scene-shifters had been working hard during the interval, and produced a charming change for the second act. We thought at first that we were to have an oriental version of a well-known scene of Italian love-making, for here was a Japanese house with bow-windows and balconies that would have delighted the eye of the most fastidious Romeo. But there were only Juliets in this play, and they made, after all, a satisfactory use of the windows and piazza, though they relied simply upon their own charms for their success. Now one tiny form would appear in a window, now one would step upon a balcony, and another somewhere amid the trees would smilingly gaze upon her sister above. There were no carefully memorised speeches of blank verse, but the scene was full of that clever geisha sentiment that can be so charming. Each little actor became her own poet, yet there was no need of words to make us feel the happy spirit of romance inspiring her unrestrained heart. The atmosphere of gayety was not confined to the stage but found its way into the delighted souls in the pit, and scarcely had the curtain descended when they seemed to feel it their duty to give a performance of their own. The children began to run about, pull each other by the sleeves, roll around on the floor,—all to the accompaniment of ceaseless tittering and all with the utmost good nature. A wrestling match formed the diversion of one group gathered around two diminutive athletes of local reputation, who were tugging savagely at each other with the utmost disregard of usual athletic rules. The pit was not without gymnasts of its own, who turned somersaults and handsprings in a way that must have shocked the more refined taste of the gliding geishas. While all this was going on, the more dignified members of the family were sitting on their heels, smoking their pipes in a stately manner, and occasionally bringing forth materials for a light lunch. This would have a greater attraction than the trials of athletic skill, and even one or two of the most successful turners of the somersault made a pause in their gyrations to watch the progress of the meal.
My attention was so occupied by the busy throng below, that it was not until I felt a gentle tug at my elbow that I was aware that I had a visitor at hand. I turned and saw a smiling white-plastered face, surmounted by tall sprays of cherry-blossoms, gazing up into mine. It was one of the geishas, who had left the stage and who had quickly selected a foreigner on whom to bestow her favours. And yet, I like to think her attentions were not merely of a perfunctory kind, and that she was drawn towards me for other reasons than because it was the way in which she had been trained. Her actions surely had not an artificial air, and the continued smiles which she showered upon me seemed to be sincere. She did not feel the least embarrassment, and kept talking on in her sweet little voice as though I understood everything that she said. And a great deal of it was perfectly plain. When, for example, she glanced up into my eyes in such a meaning way and let drop a few dulcet words, could my woman’s nature refuse to understand the little flatterer? She was amused by the ornaments on my hat, and smoothed my hair in a most caressing manner. When she tired of this, she called my attention to a small tray at my side, which I had not noticed before. From this she took a cup of tea in her delicate little hands and offered it to me. I drank it with the utmost readiness, and did not stop to think that it was the bitterest thing that had ever passed my lips. This was the real object of her visit, and with another smile she gathered up her tray and passed on. I gave a sigh as I saw her go through the same thing with another lady not far away, and apparently with the same sincerity and feeling. With an equal tenderness would she clasp her hands, and—crushing stroke to feminine vanity—gaze into her eyes with the same admiration as she had into mine.
And now, for the first time, I noticed that there were several geishas in the back part of the gallery engaged in making the bitter potion I had tasted under such romantic circumstances. This is no every-day occurrence, and it has a long history that gives it a far from vulgar interest. Perhaps you think that our “teas” are of native origin, and that they are an invention of modern times; but you are mistaken. In the sixteenth century there lived a mighty man in Japan, named Hideyoshi, and he it is who must bear the burden of those social functions about which the men say so many unkind things. For in his effort to lighten the cares of state and lessen the tedium of his life, Hideyoshi, after much careful thought, decided on the following plan. He gathered to himself several of the choicest spirits of the realm, to whom conversation was a developed art and wit a perennially flowing spring, and said: “I hereby establish an entirely new form of social diversion to be known as ‘tea.’ In so doing, I have a careful eye on those who shall follow, and particularly those of other lands, who shall shower their blessings upon me to the end of time. So come, my friends, gather around, and in the words of an unborn poet: giggle, gobble, gabble, and git.” Probably this last allusion was a mere pleasantry on his part, and had reference to the degenerate forms in which we should receive the ceremony. Hideyoshi had no feminine hands to assist him,—Japan at that period of its history not kindly favouring budding débutantes. He went about it himself in this way. He took a piece of purple silk and carefully cleaned each article to be used, folding and refolding the fabric in a most deliberate manner. He then heated a bowl with hot water and placed in it a spoonful of the green powder that the Japanese call tea. Nothing remained but to put in the boiling water and to serve the bitter result. With a most profound bow he passed this around to his guests, giving each at the same time a small cake with a taste rather suggestive of dry ginger. The affair was a great success, and was taken up with readily by the most exclusive sets of Japan, and passed into modern times. It is called the “cha-no-yu,” and the Japanese regard it with a reverence that makes it almost sacred.
The day was now drawing to a close, and the theatre was gradually becoming dark. The informality of the performance was continued at the next rise of the curtain, when the scene-shifters came out and prepared to arrange things for the last act. They were not visible to the spectator, however, because they had on black gowns and black masks,—and because the Japanese have a very lively imagination. But to us, not so happily endowed, these men’s sombre costumes did not prevent them from being seen, and we watched them with considerable amusement and interest as they solemnly went around, preparing the stage for the finale. Everything was darkened, and when the geishas again appeared, they each held a candle in one hand and a spray of cherry-blossoms in the other. Enormous clusters of this flower seemed to fall from the wings in one mass, barely leaving room beneath for the little girls to go through the concluding steps. The dance that followed was even slower than the former, and was accompanied by a still weirder music, the finest we had yet heard in Japan. Everything had an air of strangeness and unreality, and we felt indeed that we were in a different atmosphere than that in which we had spent our lives. Slowly the brightly-clad geishas moved around the stage, the white blossoms gracefully waving in the air, and still more weirdly rose the threatening tones of the koto.
We were aroused from our enchantment by the gradual descent of the curtain. The spectators for the next performance were already entering, the conversational jabber once more began, and to the accompaniment of the same laughing voices and probably the same jokes, we made our way to the street.
