When I went out, next morning, to view the great procession, the
streets were packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for
anybody to go anywhere. Nevertheless, all were moving, or rather
circulating; there was a universal gliding and slipping, as of fish in
a shoal. I find no difficulty in getting through the apparently solid
press of heads and shoulders to the house of a friendly merchant,
about half a mile away. How any crowd could be packed so closely, and
yet move so freely, is a riddle to which Japanese character alone can
furnish the key. I was not once rudely jostled. But Japanese crowds are
not all alike: there are some through which an attempt to pass would be
attended with unpleasant consequences. Of course the yielding fluidity
of any concourse is in proportion to its gentleness; but the amount
of that gentleness in Japan varies greatly according to locality. In
the central and eastern provinces the kindliness of a crowd seems
to be proportionate to its inexperience of "the new civilization."
This vast gathering, of probably not less than a million persons, was
astonishingly good-natured and good-humored, because the majority of
those composing it were simple country folk. When the police finally
made a lane for the procession, the multitude at once arranged itself
in the least egotistical manner possible,--little children to the
front, adults to the rear.
Though announced for nine o'clock, the procession did not appear
till nearly eleven; and the long waiting in those densely packed
streets must have been a strain even upon Buddhist patience. I was
kindly given a kneeling-cushion in the front room of the merchant's
house; but although the cushion was of the softest and the courtesy
shown me of the sweetest, I became weary of the immobile posture at
last, and went out into the crowd, where I could vary the experience
of waiting by standing first oh one foot, and then on the other.
Before thus deserting my post, however, I had the privilege of seeing
some very charming Kyōto ladies, including a princess, among the
merchant's guests. Kyōto is famous for the beauty of its women; and
the most charming Japanese woman I ever saw was in that house,--not
the princess, but the shy young bride of the merchant's eldest son.
That the proverb about beauty being only skin-deep "is but a skin-deep
saying" Herbert Spencer has amply proved by the laws of physiology; and
the same laws show that grace has a much more profound significance
than beauty. The charm of the bride was just that rare form of grace
which represents the economy of force in the whole framework of the
physical structure,--- the grace that startles when first seen, and
appears more and more wonderful every time it is again looked at. It
is very seldom indeed that one sees in Japan a pretty woman who would
look equally pretty in another than her own beautiful national attire.
What we usually call grace in Japanese women is daintiness of form
and manner rather than what a Greek would have termed grace. In this
instance, one felt assured that long, light, slender, fine, faultlessly
knit figure would ennoble any costume: there was just that suggestion
of pliant elegance which the sight of a young bamboo gives when the
wind is blowing.
*
To describe the procession in detail would needlessly tire the reader;
and I shall venture only a few general remarks. The purpose of the
pageant was to represent the various official and military styles of
dress worn during the great periods of the history of Kyōto, from
the time of its foundation in the eighth century to the present era
of Meiji, and also the chief military personages of that history. At
least two thousand persons marched in the procession, figuring daimyō,
kugé, hatamoto, samurai, retainers, carriers, musicians, and dancers.
The dancers were impersonated by geisha; and some were attired so as
to look like butterflies with big gaudy wings. All the armor and the
weapons, the ancient head-dresses and robes, were veritable relics
of the past, lent for the occasion by old families, by professional
curio-dealers, and by private collectors. The great captains--Oda
Nobunaga, Kato Kiyomasa, Iyeyasu, Hideyoshi--were represented
according to tradition; a really monkey-faced man having been found to
play the part of the famous Taikō.
While these visions of dead centuries were passing by, the people
kept perfectly silent,--which fact, strange as the statement may
seem to Western readers, indicated extreme pleasure. It is not really
in accordance with national sentiment to express applause by noisy
demonstration,--by shouting and clapping of hands, for example. Even
the military cheer is an importation; and the tendency to boisterous
demonstrativeness in Tōkyō is probably as factitious as it is modern.
I remember two impressive silences in Kobé during 1895. The first
was on the occasion of an imperial visit. There was a vast crowd; the
foremost ranks knelt down as the Emperor passed; but there was not
even a whisper. The second remarkable silence was on the return of the
victorious troops from China, who marched under the triumphal arches
erected to welcome them without hearing a syllable from the people. I
asked why, and was answered, "We Japanese think we can better express
our feelings by silence." I may here observe, also, that the sinister
silence of the Japanese armies before some of the late engagements
terrified the clamorous Chinese much more than the first opening of
the batteries. Despite exceptions, it may be stated as a general truth
that the deeper the emotion, whether of pleasure or of pain, and the
more solemn or heroic the occasion, in Japan, the more naturally silent
those who feel or act.
Some foreign spectators criticised the display as spiritless,
and commented on the unheroic port of the great captains and the
undisguised fatigue of their followers, oppressed under a scorching
sun by the unaccustomed weight of armor. But to the Japanese all this
only made the pageant seem more real; and I fully agreed with them. As
a matter of fact, the greatest heroes of military history have appeared
at their best in exceptional moments only; the stoutest veterans have
known fatigue; and undoubtedly Nobunaga and Hideyoshi and Kato Kiyomasa
must have more than once looked just as dusty, and ridden or marched
just as wearily, as their representatives in the Kyoto procession. No
merely theatrical idealism clouds, for any educated Japanese, the sense
of the humanity of his country's greatest men: on the contrary, it is
the historical evidence of that ordinary humanity that most endears
them to the common heart, and makes by contrast more admirable and
exemplary all of the inner life which was not ordinary.
*
After the procession I went to the Dai-Kioku-Den, the magnificent
memorial Shintō temple built by the government, and described in a
former book. On displaying my medal I was allowed to pay reverence to
the spirit of good Kwammu-Tennō, and to drink a little rice wine in his
honor, out of a new wine-cup of pure white clay presented by a lovely
child-miko. After the libation, the little priestess packed the white
cup into a neat wooden box and bade me take it home for a souvenir; one
new cup being presented to every purchaser of a medal.
Such small gifts and memories make up much of the unique pleasure of
Japanese travel. In almost any town or village you, can buy for a
souvenir some pretty or curious thing made only in that one place,
and not to be found elsewhere. Again, in many parts of the interior a
trifling generosity is certain to be acknowledged by a present, which,
however cheap, will seldom fail to prove a surprise and a pleasure. Of
all the things which I picked up here and there, in traveling about the
country, the prettiest and the most beloved are queer little presents
thus obtained.