DAYS OF KAN
We did not have kindergartens when I was a child, but long
before the time when I could have been admitted to the new
"after-the-sixth-birthday" school, I had acquired a goodly foundation
for later study of history and literature. My grandmother was a great
reader, and during the shut-in evenings of the long, snowy winters we
children spent much time around her fire-box, listening to stories.
In this way I became familiar, when very young, with our mythology,
with the lives of Japan's greatest historical personages and with the
outline stories of many of our best novels. Also I learned much of the
old classic dramas from Grandmother's lips. My sister received the
usual education for girls, but mine was planned along different lines
for the reason that I was supposed to be destined for a priestess.
I had been born with the navel cord looped around the neck like a
priest's rosary, and it was a common superstition in those days that
this was a direct command from Buddha. Both my grandmother and my
mother sincerely believed this, and since in a Japanese home the ruling
of the house and children is left to the women, my father silently
bowed to the earnest wish of my grandmother to have me educated for
a priestess. He, however, selected for my teacher a priest whom he
knew--a very scholarly man, who spent little time in teaching me the
forms of temple worship, but instructed me most conscientiously in
the doctrine of Confucius. This was considered the foundation of all
literary culture, and was believed by my father to be the highest moral
teaching of the time.
My teacher always came on the days of threes and sevens--that is,
the third, seventh, thirteenth, seventeenth, twenty-third, and
twenty-seventh. This was in accordance with our moon-calendar custom
of dividing days into groups of tens instead of sevens, as is done by
the sun calendar. I enjoyed my lessons very much. The stateliness of
my teacher's appearance, the ceremony of his manner, and the rigid
obedience required of me appealed to my dramatic instinct. Then the
surroundings were most impressive to my childish mind. The room was
always made ready with especial care the day of my lessons, and when I
entered, invariably I saw the same sight. I close my eyes now and all
is as clear as if I had seen it but an hour ago.
The room was wide and light and was separated from the garden porch
by a row of sliding paper doors crossed with slender bars of wood.
The black-bordered straw mats were cream-coloured with time, but
immaculate in their dustlessness. Books and desk were there, and in
the sacred alcove hung a roll picture of Confucius. Before this was a
little teakwood stand from which rose a curling mist of incense. On
one side sat my teacher, his flowing gray robes lying in straight,
dignified lines about his folded knees, a band of gold brocade across
his shoulder, and a crystal rosary round his left wrist. His face was
always pale, and his deep, earnest eyes beneath the priestly cap looked
like wells of soft velvet. He was the gentlest and the saintliest man
I ever saw. Years after, he proved that a holy heart and a progressive
mind can climb together, for he was excommunicated from the orthodox
temple for advocating a reform doctrine that united the beliefs of
Buddhism and Christianity. Whether through accident or design, this
broad-minded priest was the teacher chosen for me by my broad-minded
though conservative father.
My studies were from books intended only for boys, as it was very
unusual for a girl to study Chinese classics. My first lessons were
from the "Four Books of Confucius." These are: Daigaku--"Great
Learning," which teaches that the wise use of knowledge leads
to virtue; Chuyo--"The Unchanging Centre," which treats of the
unalterableness of universal law; Rongo and Moshi--which consist of the
autobiography, anecdotes, and sayings of Confucius, gathered by his
disciples.
I was only six years old, and of course I got not one idea from this
heavy reading. My mind was filled with many words in which were hidden
grand thoughts, but they meant nothing to me then. Sometimes I would
feel curious about a half-caught idea and ask my teacher the meaning.
His reply invariably was:
"Meditation will untangle thoughts from words," or "A hundred times
reading reveals the meaning." Once he said to me, "You are too young to
comprehend the profoundly deep books of Confucius."
This was undoubtedly true, but I loved my lessons. There was a certain
rhythmic cadence in the meaningless words that was like music, and
I learned readily page after page, until I knew perfectly all the
important passages of the four books and could recite them as a child
rattles off the senseless jingle of a counting-out game. Yet those busy
hours were not wasted. In the years since, the splendid thoughts of the
grand old philosopher have gradually dawned upon me; and sometimes when
a well-remembered passage has drifted into my mind, the meaning has
come flashing like a sudden ray of sunshine.
My priest-teacher taught these books with the same reverence that he
taught his religion--that is, with all thought of worldly comfort put
away. During my lesson he was obliged, despite his humble wish, to sit
on the thick silk cushion the servant brought him, for cushions were
our chairs, and the position of instructor was too greatly revered for
him to be allowed to sit on a level with his pupil; but throughout my
two-hour lesson he never moved the slightest fraction of an inch except
with his hands and his lips. And I sat before him on the matting in an
equally correct and unchanging position.
Once I moved. It was in the midst of a lesson. For some reason I was
restless and swayed my body slightly, allowing my folded knee to slip a
trifle from the proper angle. The faintest shade of surprise crossed my
instructor's face; then very quietly he closed his book, saying gently
but with a stern air:
"Little Miss, it is evident that your mental attitude to-day is not
suited for study. You should retire to your room and meditate."
My little heart was almost killed with shame. There was nothing I could
do. I humbly bowed to the picture of Confucius and then to my teacher,
and backing respectfully from the room, I slowly went to my father
to report, as I always did, at the close of my lesson. Father was
surprised, as the time was not yet up, and his unconscious remark, "How
quickly you have done your work!" was like a death knell. The memory of
that moment hurts like a bruise to this very day.
Since absence of bodily comfort while studying was the custom for
priests and teachers, of course all lesser people grew to feel that
hardship of body meant inspiration of mind. For this reason my studies
were purposely arranged so that the hardest lessons and longest hours
came during the thirty days of midwinter, which the calendar calls the
coldest of the year. The ninth day is considered the most severe, so we
were expected to be especially earnest in our study on that day.
I well remember a certain "ninth day" when my sister was about fourteen
years old. She was preparing to be married, therefore the task selected
for her was sewing. Mine was penmanship. In those days penmanship was
considered one of the most important studies for culture. This was
not so much for its art--although it is true that practising Japanese
penmanship holds the same intense artistic fascination as does the
painting of pictures--but it was believed that the highest training
in mental control came from patient practice in the complicated brush
strokes of character-writing. A careless or perturbed state of mind
always betrays itself in the intricate shading of ideographs, for
each one requires absolute steadiness and accuracy of touch. Thus, in
careful guidance of the hand were we children taught to hold in leash
the mind.
With the first gleam of sunrise on this "ninth day," Ishi came to wake
me. It was bitterly cold. She helped me dress, then I gathered together
the materials for my work, arranging the big sheets of paper in a pile
on my desk and carefully wiping every article in my ink-box with a
square of silk. Reverence for learning was so strong in Japan at that
time that even the tools we used were considered almost sacred. I was
supposed to do everything for myself on this day, but my kind Ishi
hovered around me, helping in every way she could without actually
doing the work herself. Finally we went to the porch overlooking
the garden. The snow was deep everywhere. I remember how the bamboo
grove looked with its feathery tops so snow-laden that they were like
wide-spread umbrellas. Once or twice a sharp crack and a great soft
fluff of spurting snow against the gray sky told that a trunk had
snapped under its too heavy burden. Ishi took me on her back and,
pushing her feet into her snow-boots, slowly waded to where I could
reach the low branch of a tree, from which I lifted a handful of
perfectly pure, untouched snow, just from the sky. This I melted to mix
for my penmanship study. I ought to have waded to get the snow myself,
but--Ishi did it.
Since the absence of bodily comfort meant inspiration of mind,
of course I wrote in a room without a fire. Our architecture is
of tropical origin; so the lack of the little brazier of glowing
charcoal brought the temperature down to that of outside. Japanese
picture-writing is slow and careful work. I froze my fingers that
morning without knowing it until I looked back and saw my good nurse
softly crying as she watched my purple hand. The training of children,
even of my age, was strict in those days, and neither she nor I moved
until I had finished my task. Then Ishi wrapped me in a big padded
kimono that had been warmed and hurried me into my grandmother's room.
There I found a bowl of warm, sweet rice-gruel made by my grandmother's
own hands. Tucking my chilled knees beneath the soft, padded quilt that
covered the sunken fire-box I drank the gruel, while Ishi rubbed my
stiff hand with snow.
Of course, the necessity of this rigid discipline was never questioned
by any one, but I think that, because I was a delicate child, it
sometimes caused my mother uneasiness. Once I came into the room where
she and Father were talking.
"Honourable Husband," she was saying, "I am sometimes so bold
as to wonder if Etsu-bo's studies are not a little severe for a
not-too-strong child."
My father drew me over to his cushion and rested his hand gently on my
shoulder.
"We must not forget, Wife," he replied, "the teaching of a samurai
home. The lioness pushes her young over the cliff and watches it climb
slowly back from the valley without one sign of pity, though her heart
aches for the little creature. So only can it gain strength for its
life work."
Because I was having the training and studies of a boy was one of the
reasons why my family got in the habit of calling me Etsu-bo, the
termination _bo_ being used for a boy's name, as _ko_ is for a girl's.
But my lessons were not confined to those for a boy. I also learned
all the domestic accomplishments taught my sisters--sewing, weaving,
embroidery, cooking, flower-arranging, and the complicated etiquette of
ceremonial tea.
Nevertheless my life was not all lessons. I spent many happy hours
in play. With the conventional order of old Japan, we children had
certain games for each season--the warm, damp days of early spring, the
twilight evenings of summer, the crisp, fragrant harvest time, or the
clear, cold, snow-shoe days of winter. And I believe I enjoyed every
game we ever played--from the simple winter-evening pastime of throwing
a threaded needle at a pile of rice-cakes, to see how many each of us
could gather on her string, to the exciting memory contests with our
various games of poem cards.
We had boisterous games, too, in which a group--all girls, of
course--would gather in some large garden or on a quiet street where
the houses were hemmed in behind hedges of bamboo and evergreen.
Then we would race and whirl in "The Fox Woman from the Mountain" or
"Hunting for Hidden Treasure"; we would shout and scream as we tottered
around on stilts in the forbidden boy-game of "Riding the High-stepping
Bamboo Horse" or the hopping game of "The One-legged Cripples."
But no outdoor play of our short summers nor any indoor game of our
long winters was so dear to me as were stories. The servants knew
numberless priest tales and odd jingles that had come down by word
of mouth from past generations, and Ishi, who had the best memory
and the readiest tongue of them all, possessed an unending fund of
simple old legends. I don't remember ever going to sleep without
stories from her untiring lips. The dignified tales of Honourable
Grandmother were wonderful, and the happy hours I spent sitting, with
primly folded hands, on the mat before her--for I never used a cushion
when Grandmother was talking to me--have left lasting and beautiful
memories. But with Ishi's stories everything was different. I listened
to them, all warm and comfortable, snuggled up crookedly in the soft
cushions of my bed, giggling and interrupting and begging for "just one
more" until the unwelcome time would arrive when Ishi, laughing but
stern, would reach over to my night lantern, push one wick down into
the oil, straighten the other, and drop the paper panel. Then, at last,
surrounded by the pale, soft light of the shaded room, I had to say
good-night and settle myself into the _kinoji_, which was the proper
sleeping position for every samurai girl.
Samurai daughters were taught never to lose control of mind or
body--even in sleep. Boys might stretch themselves into the character
_dai_, carelessly outspread; but girls must curve into the modest,
dignified character _kinoji_, which means "spirit of control."