As at Mitsu-ura, the water's edge is occupied by a serried line of
fishing-boats, each with its nose to the sea; and behind these are ranks
of others; and it is only just barely possible to squeeze one's way
between them over the beach to the drowsy, pretty, quaint little streets
behind them. Everybody seems to be asleep when we first land: the only
living creature visible is a cat, sitting on the stern of a boat; and
even that cat, according to Japanese beliefs, might not be a real cat,
but an o-bake or a nekomata--in short, a goblin-cat, for it has a long
tail. It is hard work to discover the solitary hotel: there are no
signs; and every house seems a private house, either a fisherman's or
a farmer's. But the little place is worth wandering about in. A kind of
yellow stucco is here employed to cover the exterior of walls; and this
light warm tint under the bright blue day gives to the miniature streets
a more than cheerful aspect.
When we do finally discover the hotel, we have to wait quite a good
while before going in; for nothing is ready; everybody is asleep or
away, though all the screens and sliding-doors are open. Evidently there
are no thieves in Kaka-ura. The hotel is on a little hillock, and is
approached from the main street (the rest are only miniature alleys) by
two little flights of stone steps. Immediately across the way I see a
Zen temple and a Shinto temple, almost side by side.
At last a pretty young woman, naked to the waist, with a bosom like a
Naiad, comes running down the street to the hotel at a surprising speed,
bowing low with a smile as she hurries by us into the house. This little
person is the waiting-maid of the inn, O-Kayo-San--name signifying
'Years of Bliss.' Presently she reappears at the threshold, fully robed
in a nice kimono, and gracefully invites us to enter, which we are only
too glad to do. The room is neat and spacious; Shinto kakemono from
Kitzuki are suspended in the toko and upon the walls; and in one corner
I see a very handsome Zen-but-sudan, or household shrine. (The form of
the shrine, as well as the objects of worship therein, vary according to
the sect of the worshippers.) Suddenly I become aware that it is growing
strangely dark; and looking about me, perceive that all the doors and
windows and other apertures of the inn are densely blocked up by a
silent, smiling crowd which has gathered to look at me. I could not have
believed there were so many people in Kaka-ura.
In a Japanese house, during the hot season, everything is thrown open
to the breeze. All the shoji or sliding paper-screens, which serve for
windows; and all the opaque paper-screens (fusuma) used in other seasons
to separate apartments, are removed. There is nothing left between floor
and roof save the frame or skeleton of the building; the dwelling
is literally unwalled, and may be seen through in any direction. The
landlord, finding the crowd embarrassing, closes up the building in
front. The silent, smiling crowd goes to the rear. The rear is also
closed. Then the crowd masses to right and left of the house; and both
sides have to be closed, which makes it insufferably hot. And the crowd
make gentle protest.
Wherefore our host, being displeased, rebukes the multitude with
argument and reason, yet without lifting his voice. (Never do these
people lift up their voices in anger.) And what he says I strive to
translate, with emphasis, as follows:
'You-as-for! outrageousness doing--what marvellous is? 'Theatre is not!
'Juggler is not! 'Wrestler is not! 'What amusing is? 'Honourable-Guest
this is! 'Now august-to-eat-time-is; to-look-at evil matter is.
Honourable-returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.'
But outside, soft laughing voices continue to plead; pleading, shrewdly
enough, only with the feminine portion of the family: the landlord's
heart is less easily touched. And these, too, have their arguments:
'Oba-San! 'O-Kayo-San! 'Shoji-to-open-condescend!--want to see!
'Though-we-look-at, Thing-that-by-looking-at-is-worn-out-it-is-not! 'So
that not-to-hinder looking-at is good. 'Hasten therefore to open!'
As for myself, I would gladly protest against this sealing-up, for
there is nothing offensive nor even embarrassing in the gaze of these
innocent, gentle people; but as the landlord seems to be personally
annoyed, I do not like to interfere. The crowd, however, does not go
away: it continues to increase, waiting for my exit. And there is one
high window in the rear, of which the paper-panes contain some holes;
and I see shadows of little people climbing up to get to the holes.
Presently there is an eye at every hole.
When I approach the window, the peepers drop noiselessly to the ground,
with little timid bursts of laughter, and run away. But they soon come
back again. A more charming crowd could hardly be imagined: nearly all
boys and girls, half-naked because of the heat, but fresh and clean as
flower-buds. Many of the faces are surprisingly pretty; there are but
very few which are not extremely pleasing. But where are the men, and
the old women? Truly, this population seems not of Kaka-ura, but rather
of the Sai-no-Kawara. The boys look like little Jizo.
During dinner, I amuse myself by poking pears and little pieces of
radish through the holes in the shoji. At first there is much hesitation
and silvery laughter; but in a little while the silhouette of a tiny
hand reaches up cautiously, and a pear vanishes away. Then a second pear
is taken, without snatching, as softly as if a ghost had appropriated
it. Thereafter hesitation ceases, despite the effort of one elderly
woman to create a panic by crying out the word Mahotsukai, 'wizard.' By
the time the dinner is over and the shoji removed, we have all become
good friends. Then the crowd resumes its silent observation from the
four cardinal points.
I never saw a more striking difference in the appearance of two village
populations than that between the youth of Mitsu-ura and of Kaka. Yet
the villages are but two hours' sailing distance apart. In remoter
Japan, as in certain islands of the West Indies, particular physical
types are developed apparently among communities but slightly isolated;
on one side of a mountain a population may be remarkably attractive,
while upon the other you may find a hamlet whose inhabitants are
decidedly unprepossessing. But nowhere in this country have I seen a
prettier jeunesse than that of Kaka-ura.
'Returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.' As we descend to the bay,
the whole of Kaka-ura, including even the long-invisible ancients of the
village, accompanies us; making no sound except the pattering of geta.
Thus we are escorted to our boat. Into all the other craft drawn up on
the beach the younger folk clamber lightly, and seat themselves on
the prows and the gunwales to gaze at the marvellous
Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And all smile, but say
nothing, even to each other: somehow the experience gives me the
sensation of being asleep; it is so soft, so gentle, and so queer
withal, just like things seen in dreams. And as we glide away over the
blue lucent water I look back to see the people all waiting and
gazing still from the great semicircle of boats; all the slender
brown child-limbs dangling from the prows; all the velvety-black heads
motionless in the sun; all the boy-faces smiling Jizo-smiles; all
the black soft eyes still watching, tirelessly watching, the
Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And as the scene, too swiftly
receding, diminishes to the width of a kakemono, I vainly wish that I
could buy this last vision of it, to place it in my toko, and delight
my soul betimes with gazing thereon. Yet another moment, and we round a
rocky point; and Kaka-ura vanishes from my sight for ever. So all things
pass away.
Assuredly those impressions which longest haunt recollection are the
most transitory: we remember many more instants than minutes, more
minutes than hours; and who remembers an entire day? The sum of the
remembered happiness of a lifetime is the creation of seconds. 'What is
more fugitive than a smile? yet when does the memory of a vanished smile
expire? or the soft regret which that memory may evoke?
Regret for a single individual smile is something common to normal human
nature; but regret for the smile of a population, for a smile considered
as an abstract quality, is certainly a rare sensation, and one to be
obtained, I fancy, only in this Orient land whose people smile for ever
like their own gods of stone. And this precious experience is already
mine; I am regretting the smile of Kaka.
Simultaneously there comes the recollection of a strangely grim Buddhist
legend. Once the Buddha smiled; and by the wondrous radiance of that
smile were countless worlds illuminated. But there came a Voice, saying:
'It is not real! It cannot last!' And the light passed.