But in this radiant spring of the Japanese year 2555, the koi
might be taken to symbolize something larger than parental hope,
--the great trust of a nation regenerated through war. The
military revival of the Empire--the real birthday of New
Japan--began with the conquest of China. The war is ended; the
future, though clouded, seems big with promise; and, however grim
the obstacles to loftier and more enduring achievements, Japan
has neither fears nor doubts.
Perhaps the future danger is just in this immense self-confidence.
It is not a new feeling created by victory. It is a race feeling,
which repeated triumphs have served only to strengthen. From the
instant of the declaration of war there was never the least doubt of
ultimate victory. There was universal and profound enthusiasm, but
no outward signs of emotional excitement. Men at once set to writing
histories of the triumphs of Japan, and these histories--issued to
subscribers in weekly or monthly parts, and illustrated with
photo-lithographs or drawings on wood--were selling all over the country
long before any foreign observers could have ventured to predict the
final results of the campaign. From first to last the nation felt
sure of its own strength, and of the impotence of China. The
toy-makers put suddenly into the market legions of ingenious mechanisms,
representing Chinese soldiers in flight, or being cut down by
Japanese troopers, or tied together as prisoners by their queues, or
kowtowing for mercy to illustrious generals. The old-fashioned
military playthings, representing samurai in armor, were superseded
by figures--in clay, wood, paper, or silk--of Japanese cavalry,
infantry, and artillery; by models of forts and batteries; and
models of men-of-war. The storming of the defenses of Port Arthur by
the Kumamoto Brigade was the subject of one ingenious mechanical
toy; another, equally clever, repeated the fight of the Matsushima
Kan with the Chinese iron-clads. There were sold likewise myriads of
toy-guns discharging corks by compressed air with a loud pop, and
myriads of toy-swords, and countless tiny bugles, the constant
blowing of which recalled to me the tin-horn tumult of a certain New
Year's Eve in New Orleans. The announcement of each victory resulted
in an enormous manufacture and sale of colored prints, rudely and
cheaply executed, and mostly depicting the fancy of the artist
only,--but well fitted to stimulate the popular love of glory. Wonderful
sets of chessmen also appeared, each piece representing a Chinese or
Japanese officer or soldier.
Meanwhile, the theatres were celebrating the war after a much
more complete fashion. It is no exaggeration to say that almost
every episode of the campaign was repeated upon the stage. Actors
even visited the battlefields to study scenes and backgrounds,
and fit themselves to portray realistically, with the aid of
artificial snowstorms, the hardships of the army in Manchuria.
Every gallant deed was dramatized almost as soon as reported. The
death of the bugler Shirakami Genjiro(1); the triumphant courage
of Harada Jiukichi, who scaled a rampart and opened a fortress
gate to his comrades; the heroism of the fourteen troopers who
held their own against three hundred infantry; the successful
charge of unarmed coolies upon a Chinese battalion,--all these
and many other incidents were reproduced in a thousand theatres.
Immense illuminations of paper lanterns, lettered with phrases of
loyalty or patriotic cheer, celebrated the success of the
imperial arms, or gladdened the eyes of soldiers going by train
to the field. In Kobe,--constantly traversed by troop-trains,--such
illuminations continued night after night for weeks
together; and the residents of each street further subscribed for
flags and triumphal arches.
But the glories of the war were celebrated also in ways more
durable by the various great industries of the country. Victories
and incidents of sacrificial heroism were commemorated in
porcelain, in metal-work, and in costly textures, not less than
in new designs for envelopes and note-paper. They were portrayed
on the silk linings of haori(2), on women's kerchiefs of
chirimen(3), in the embroidery of girdles, in the designs of silk
shirts and of children's holiday robes,--not to speak of cheaper
printed goods, such as calicoes and toweling. They were
represented in lacquer-ware of many kinds, on the sides and
covers of carven boxes, on tobacco-pouches, on sleeve-buttons, in
designs for hairpins, on women's combs, even on chopsticks.
Bundles of toothpicks in tiny cases were offered for sale, each
toothpick having engraved upon it, in microscopic text, a
different poem about the war. And up to the time of peace, or at
least up to the time of the insane attempt by a soshi(4) to kill
the Chinese plenipotentiary during negotiations, all things
happened as the people had wished and expected.
But as soon as the terms of peace had been announced, Russia
interfered, securing the help of France and Germany to bully
Japan. The combination met with no opposition; the government
played jiujutsu, and foiled expectations by unlooked-for
yielding. Japan had long ceased to feel uneasy about her own
military power. Her reserve strength is probably much greater
than has ever been acknowledged, and her educational system, with
its twenty-six thousand schools, is an enormous drilling-machine.
On her own soil she could face any foreign power. Her
navy was her weak point, and of this she was fully aware. It was
a splendid fleet of small, light cruisers, and splendidly
handled. Its admiral, without the loss of a single vessel, had
annihilated the Chinese fleet in two engagements, but it was not
yet sufficiently heavy to face the combined navies of three
European powers; and the flower of the Japanese army was beyond
the sea. The most opportune moment for interference had been
cunningly chosen, and probably more than interference was
intended. The heavy Russian battle-ships were stripped for
fighting; and these alone could possibly have overpowered the
Japanese fleet, though the victory would have been a costly one.
But Russian action was suddenly checked by the sinister
declaration of English sympathy for Japan. Within a few weeks
England could bring into Asiatic waters a fleet capable of
crushing, in one short battle, all the iron-clads assembled by
the combination. And a single shot from a Russian cruiser might
have plunged the whole world into war.
But in the Japanese navy there was a furious desire to battle
with the three hostile powers at once. It would have been a great
fight, for no Japanese commander would have dreamed of yielding,
no Japanese ship would have struck her colors. The army was
equally desirous of war. It needed all the firmness of the
government to hold the nation back. Free speech was gagged; the
press was severely silenced; and by the return to China of the
Liao-Tung peninsula, in exchange for a compensatory increase of
the war indemnity previously exacted, peace was secured. The
government really acted with faultless wisdom. At this period of
Japanese development a costly war with Russia could not fail to
have consequences the most disastrous to industry, commerce, and
finance. But the national pride has been deeply wounded, and the
country can still scarcely forgive its rulers.
(1) At the battle of Song-Hwan, a Japanese bugler named
Shirakami Genjiro was ordered to sound the charge (suzume). He
had sounded it once when a bullet passed through his lungs,
throwing him down.. His comrades tried to take the bugle away,
seeing the wound was fatal. He wrested it from them, lifted it
again to his lips, sounded the charge once more with all his
strength, and fell back dead. I venture to offer this rough
translation of a song now sung about him by every soldier and
schoolboy in Japan:--