FIRST IMPRESSIONS
My first year in America was a puzzling, hurried push from one
partially comprehended thought to another. Nevertheless it was a
happy year. No Japanese bride is ever homesick. She has known from
babyhood that fate has another home waiting for her, and that there
her destiny is to be fulfilled. Every girl accepts this in the same
matter-of-course way that she accepts going to school. In marriage, she
does not expect happiness without hardship any more than she expects
school to be a playground with no study.
So I drifted on from week to week, occasionally having to remind
myself that, even in America, the "eyelids of a samurai know not
moisture," but, on the whole, finding the days full of new and pleasing
experiences. I soon learned to like everything about my home, although,
at first, the curtained windows, the heavy, dark furniture, the large
pictures and the carpeted floors seemed to hem me in.
But I revelled in our wide porches and the broad lawn which swept in a
graceful slope, between curving paths, down to the low stone wall. The
battlemented top was like an elongated castle turret, and the big stone
posts of the iron gates, half hidden from the porch by tall evergreens,
seemed to me to have a protecting air. Then there was one big, crooked
pine and an _icho_ tree, standing side by side, which when the moon
was just right, made a perfect picture of an old Japanese poem:
"Between bent branches, a silver sickle swings aloft in youthful
incompleteness, unknowing of its coming day of glory."
Oh, I did love all the outdoors of that home, from the very first
moment that I saw it!
Much of my time was spent on one or the other of our three big porches,
for Mother loved them almost as much as I did, and we used to go out
the first thing after breakfast, she with her sewing and I with the
newspaper. In order to improve my English I read the paper every day,
and I found it very interesting. I always turned first to the list
of divorces in the court news. It was such a surprising thing to me
that more women than men should be seeking for freedom. One day I told
Mother that I felt sorry for the husbands.
"Why?" she asked. "It is as often the fault of the husband as the wife,
I think. Isn't it so in Japan?"
"But after choosing for herself it must be hard for her wifely pride to
acknowledge failure," I replied.
"How about the man?" said Mother.
"He sees, and wants, and beckons;
She blushes, and smiles, and comes--
or not, as she pleases. That is her part: to come or not to come."
"Why, I thought it was the custom in American marriages for the woman
to select," I said, somewhat surprised; for I, with most Japanese
people of that day, so interpreted the constant references in books and
papers to the American custom of "women choosing their own husbands."
It was one of many exaggerated ideas that we had of the dominant spirit
of American women and the submissive attitude of American men. In the
conversation that followed I heard for the first time that in this
country the custom is for the worded request always to come from the
man.
"It is like the folk tale that tells of the origin of our race," I said.
"That sounds as if it might be more interesting than the court items in
the newspaper," laughed Mother. "Suppose you tell me about it."
"It's rather a long story from the beginning," I said; "but the
important part is that a god and goddess named Izanagi and Izanami--our
Adam and Eve--came from Heaven on a floating bridge and formed the
islands of Japan. Then they decided to remain and build themselves a
home. So they went to the Heavenly Post for the ceremony of marriage.
The bride starting from the right and the bridegroom from the left,
they walked around the Heavenly Post. When they met on the other side,
the goddess exclaimed:
"'Thou beautiful god!'
"The god was displeased and said the bride had spoiled the ceremony,
as it was his place to speak first. So they had to begin again. The
goddess started again from the right of the Heavenly Post, and the god
from the left; but this time, when they met, the goddess did not speak
until she was spoken to.
"'Thou beautiful goddess!' Izanagi said.
"'Thou beautiful god!' replied Izanami.
"As this time the ceremony was properly performed, the husband and the
wife built themselves a home, and from them came the nation of Japan."
"So it seems that Japanese and American marriages were originally not
so unlike, after all," said Mother.
One of the most surprising things in America to me was the difficulty
and often impossibility of my being able to do, as a wife, the very
things for which I had been especially trained. Matsuo had come to
this country when he was a boy in his teens, and was as unfamiliar
with many Japanese customs as I was with those of America; so, with no
realization on his part of my problems, I had many puzzling experiences
connected with wifely duty. Some of these were tragic and some amusing.
At one time, for several evenings in succession, business detained
Matsuo until a late hour. I was not well and Mother objected to my
sitting up to await his return. This troubled me greatly; for in
Japan it is considered lazy and disgraceful for a wife to sleep while
her husband is working. Night after night I lay with wide-open eyes,
wondering whom it was my duty to obey--my far-away mother who knew
Japanese customs, or the honoured new mother, who was teaching me the
ways of America.
I had another puzzling time when Mother was called away for a week by
the death of a relative. Our maid, Clara, had heard Japan spoken of as
"the land of cherry blossoms," and, thinking to please me, she made a
cherry pie one night for dinner. In Japan cherry trees are cultivated
for the blossoms only, just as roses are in America, and I had never
seen cherry fruit; but the odour of the pie was delicious as it was
placed before me to cut and serve.
"What is that?" asked Matsuo. "Oh, cherry pie! It's too acid. I don't
care for it."
No Japanese bride is so disrespectful as to eat a dainty her husband
cannot enjoy, so I gave orders for that beautiful pie to be eaten in
the kitchen. But my heart followed it, and no pie that I have ever seen
since has seemed worthy to compare with that juicily delicious memory.
Clara was always doing kind things for me, and one day I asked Matsuo
what I could give her as a present. He said that in America money
was always welcome; so I selected a new bill and, as we do in Japan,
wrapped it in white paper and wrote on the outside, "This is cake."
How Matsuo did laugh!
"It's all right in America to give naked money," he said.
"But that is only for beggars," I replied, really troubled.
"Nonsense!" said Matsuo. "Americans consider money an equivalent for
service. There is no spiritual value in money."
I meditated a good deal over that; for to a Japanese the expression of
thanks, however deceitful the form it takes, is a heart-throb.
I liked our servants, but they were a never-ending surprise to me.
Mother was kindness itself to the maid and to the man who worked on
the place; but she had no vital interest in them, and they had no
unselfish interest in us. In my home in Japan the servants were minor
members of the family, rejoicing and sorrowing with us and receiving
in return our cordial interest in their affairs. But this did not mean
undue familiarity. There always existed an invisible line "at the
doorsill," and I never knew a servant to overstep it or wish to; for
a Japanese servant takes pride in the responsibility of his position.
Clara attended to her duties properly, but her pleasures were outside
the home; and on the days of her "afternoon out," she worked with such
astonishing energy that it suggested no thought of anything but getting
through. I could not help contrasting her with gentle, polite Toshi and
her dignified bows of farewell.
But, on the other hand, Clara voluntarily did things for us which I
should never have expected from any maid in Japan except my own nurse.
One day I cringed with a feeling akin to horror when I heard Matsuo
carelessly call out, "Clara, won't you take these shoes to the kitchen
porch for William to clean?"
Such a request of a Japanese servant, other than the one whose duty it
was to care for the sandals, would be considered an insult; but Clara
picked up the shoes and carried them away, singing cheerily as she
went. Life in America was very puzzling.
All Japanese girls are trained in housework, so naturally I was much
interested in watching how everything was done in my American home.
Mother encouraged my curiosity, saying that the inquiring mind is the
one that learns; and Clara was always patient in explaining to "that
sweet little Mrs. Sugarmoter." I was interested in the kitchen most of
all, but the things to work with were so heavy, and were hung so high,
and the shelves were so far up, that when I attempted to do anything
there I found myself at a serious disadvantage. For the first time I
sympathized with foreigners in Tokyo, who, it was said, frequently
complained of the inconvenient "littleness" of everything. One of the
schoolgirls used to tell us amusing tales about a foreign family to
whom her father had rented his house. The man had to bow his head every
time he passed through a doorway, and his wife thought it dreadful that
the servant wanted to cut vegetables on a table six inches from the
floor and to wash dishes without soap.
All the schoolgirls thought that that woman must have a peculiar mind,
for we understood that foreigners used soap as we did a bran-bag--for
bathing only. But after seeing how lavishly Clara used boiling water
and soap in the kitchen, I realized that it was necessary, because so
much grease and oil are used in American cooking. Our Japanese food was
mostly vegetables. For fish we had special dishes and washed them with
charcoal ashes.
One Friday, which was our cleaning day, I went into my room and was
surprised to find Clara rubbing my bureau with an oiled cloth.
"What are you doing, Clara?" I asked.
"Oh, just cleanin' up a bit, Mrs. Sugarmoter," she replied.
To put something sticky on a thing to make it clean was
incomprehensible. But when I examined my bureau later and found that
it was dry and shiny, and _clean_, I was still more surprised. None
of the wood of Japanese houses, outside or in, was ever varnished,
oiled, or painted; and nothing was ever put on furniture except lacquer
to preserve, or hot water to cleanse. Taki and Kin wiped the entire
woodwork of the house every day with a cloth wrung out of hot water;
and our porches were cleaned, morning and evening, by a servant, who,
stooping over and pushing a steaming pad of folded cloth before her,
ran quickly back and forth, from one end of the porch to the other,
carefully following the line of the boards. The porches had gradually
become so dark and polished that they reflected distinctly any person
walking on them, and since they never were stepped on with outside
shoes, they kept their satiny polish for years.
I was always interested in housework, but an exciting interest came at
the time of house-cleaning. Then I wandered from room to room, watching
with amazement and delight while William and Clara worked. I had never
dreamed that the heavy cloth which covered the floors, fitting so
neatly into each corner and around the projections, was nailed down and
could be lifted up in one immense piece and carried out to be cleaned.
Two men were required to do the work. Our floors in Japan were covered
with mats that pushed together as tight as the pieces in a box of
dominoes, but each mat was only six feet by three in size, and Jiya
could easily handle them alone.
Matsuo and I had adjoining rooms, and when I went upstairs to see if
the cloth had been taken from his floor also, I saw that the large
mahogany closet, which I had supposed was a part of the house, had been
pulled out bodily into the middle of the room. I was too surprised
for words. And its back--and indeed the backs of all our beautiful
furniture--was only rough boards; just such as I had seen in Japan on a
cart being taken to the shop of a carpenter. It was most astonishing.
I had never before seen any furniture that was not planed and polished
all over--outside, inside, top, bottom, and back.
Mother explained that this American deceit originated in the practical
idea of saving time and work. Thus I received my first insight into the
labour problem.
It was during house-cleaning that Mother and I had our first
heart-to-heart talk. She was looking over some trunks of clothing in
the attic, and I was sitting near, holding a big cake of camphor, from
which I broke off small pieces and wrapped them in tissue paper for
her to place between the folds of the garments. She was showing me an
army coat which her grandfather had worn in the War of 1812. The open
trunks, the disarranged clothing, the familiar odour of camphor in
the air, reminded me of the airing-days at home. I could see so well
Grandmother's room where Father and I always went to get away from the
ropes of swaying garments and the confusion of busy servants brushing
and folding.
"What are you thinking of, Etsu?" asked Mother, with a smile. "Your
eyes look as if they were seeing things five thousand miles away."
"More than that," I answered, "for they are looking into a past before
I was born."
I leaned over and stroked the big collar of the old army coat on
Mother's lap. In some way it seemed, just then, the nearest to my heart
of anything in America.
"In our godown also, Mother," I said, "are sacred mementoes to which
war memories cling. There is a pile of thin-leaved books written in
my father's hand, which are dear treasures to us all. You do not know,
Mother, but my father was a prisoner once--held as hostage for a long
time in an army camp. His surroundings were very different from what
the word suggests here in America. The camp was located in a temple
grove, and the part of the temple where the priests lived was given
over to the officials and their high-rank prisoner; and although Father
was alone among enemies, he was treated as an honoured guest.
"His faithful attendant was separated from him, but instead, were
youthful samurai, who with respectful attention cared for every want.
For recreation they had trials in art defencing and various samurai
sports; and sometimes, as was the social custom among samurai,
they would spend hours together in poem competition or in singing
classic songs of Old Japan. He had every physical comfort and mental
recreation, but he was outside the world. Even his books were poems
and prose of fine old literature which held no word of present life.
At the close of each monotonous day he would lay his head upon his
pillow and his restless mind would wonder--wonder: Had the Imperialist
army reached Echigo? Who was in charge of Nagaoka Castle? What was the
unknown fate of his retainers? of his son? of his wife and daughters?
"There was a beautiful garden where he walked daily. Perhaps there
were guards outside the gate. He did not know. He saw nothing to tell
him that he was not free, and probably there was nothing, for his
guardians knew that he was held by chains stronger than any that could
be forged--the spirit of samurai honour.
"During this lonely time Father's dearest hours were those he
spent with his writing brushes and in games of _go_ with the
commander-general--a man of superior culture, who often came to
talk with him. The two men had similar tastes and an equal sense
of honour--differing only in that they were loyal to different
masters--and those months together formed and sealed the friendship
of a lifetime. Both were fond of playing _go_ and both played well
and earnestly. Neither spoke his secret thought, but, long afterward,
Father confided to Mother that he was conscious that in every game they
played each in his own heart was fighting for his own cause. Sometimes
one would win, sometimes the other; oftener still there was a draw; but
always the vanquished gravely congratulated the victor, and as gravely
received his formal thanks in reply.
"So passed the days, and weeks, and months, and more months and more,
until he dreaded to think back and count. And not a word or look or
hint had come to him of any world outside the temple walls.
"Late one beautiful spring afternoon he was sitting quietly in his room
overlooking the garden. A priestly chanting was faintly heard from
distant rooms. There was a breeze, and falling cherry blossoms were
drifting across the garden, their fragrant petals slipping and catching
in tinted drifts against the uneven stepping-stones. A young moon was
chasing shadows in the pine branches. It was a picture Father never
forgot.
"A young attendant approached, and in his usual deferential manner,
but with grave face, announced, 'Honourable Guest, the evening meal is
served.'
"Father bowed his head and the little lacquer table was brought and
placed before him on the mat.
"At last the expected message had come. The rice bowl was on the right,
the soup was on the left; the chopsticks were standing upright as if
to place before a shrine, and the browned fish in the oval dish was
without a head. It was the silent command from a samurai to a samurai.
"Father ate his dinner as usual. When the time came for his bath, the
attendant was ready. His hair was washed, and the queue, no longer
needed to bear the helmet's weight, was left unoiled and loose, to be
tied with a paper cord. He donned his white linen death-robe and over
it placed the soft-tinted _kamishimo_ of the samurai who goes to death.
Then quietly he waited for the midnight hour.
"The commander-general entered, and greeted him with the soldierly
stiffness that hides deep feeling.
"'I come not as an official of the State,' he said, 'but as a friend,
to ask you to honour me with a message.'
"'I thank you deeply,' Father replied, 'for this and other kindness.
I left my home to return no more. I gave instructions then. I have no
message.'
"But he asked that the Commander would care for his attendant who, by
Father's death, would become a masterless man. The General assured
him that this should be done; and also told him that his own highest
retainer would be Father's attendant at the last. Thanks were bowed and
formal courtesies exchanged, then these two men, who had grown to know
and respect each other deeply, parted with no other word. It seems cold
to an American; but it was the samurai way, and each knew the other's
heart.
"The hour came. Father held the highest rank of the seven who waited
for the midnight hour; so, first and alone, clothed in his death-robe
and with the pride of centuries in his bearing, he walked toward the
temple yard. As he entered the enclosure, the others on the opposite
side, white-robed and silent, were waiting. One was a child with an
attendant close behind. Father saw--saw without looking--the gray face
and strained eyes of Minoto, his own little son's guardian.
"The child made a motion, so slight it was scarcely more than a
quiver. Minoto clutched the boy's sleeves. Father strode on. The
quiver passed, the boy sat erect, his eyes looking straight forward.
It was my brother. Oh, whatever he has been since, in this new world
so unfamiliar to him, there, in his own world--the world which by
inheritance and environment he understood--he was a samurai! My
father took his place with calm and dignified bearing with his head
upright and his eyes looking straight forward--unseeing. But in his
heart----Oh, why could not the God he did not know pity him?" And I
clutched the big collar of the old army coat and buried my coward face
within its folds--for I had lost my samurai spirit. America had been
too good to me, and part of me had died. I felt Mother's hand upon my
shoulder but I dared not lift my head and shame my father, for moisture
was on the face of his un-brave daughter.
"Oh, my little girl! My dear little girl! But he did not die! He did
not die!"
I lifted my head, but I did not wipe my eyes.
"The war had ended, and the new Government had pardoned all political
prisoners," I said, calm again. "The decision was already known to the
officials, and the messengers were on the way; but, until they came,
the forms had to be carried out to the very end."
"Yes, I have known of things like that in the days when messages were
carried by galloping horses and running men," said Mother sadly. "And
no one was to blame. If laws could be changed by unproved knowledge,
the country would soon be guided by guesswork. And that would never do!
That would never do!"
I looked at Mother in surprise, for with red cheeks and misty eyes she
was clutching tight the army coat on her lap and looking straight at me.
"How close together are the countries of the world," she went on. "Your
old nurse was right, Etsu, when she said that the earth is flat and
you are on the other side of the plate, not far away, but out of sight."
Then we both smiled, but Mother's lips were trembling. She put her arm
around me gently, and--I've _loved_ Mother ever since!
Another "memory stone" in my life was the day that I entertained the
club. Mother belonged to a literary society the members of which
studied about different countries and wrote essays. The meetings were
held at the homes of the members, and early on the morning of the very
day that it was Mother's turn to entertain she received a message
calling her to the city for a "between trains" visit with a dear friend
who was passing through the city on her way to a distant land. Mother
would be back before the meeting was over, but I was dismayed to be
left with the responsibility of arranging the rooms and receiving the
guests.
"There is nothing for you to be worried about," said Matsuo who was
just starting to his business. "I heard Mother tell William to bring
more chairs from upstairs and you have only to see that he places them
like in a church. Clara knows how."
"But Mother meant to have flowers, and she said something about a
little table for the president and--Oh, the piano has to be pushed
back! Mother said so. I do wish she were here!" I cried, in real
anxiety and distress.
"Don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill! Clara is equal to anything";
and Matsuo ran across the lawn in response to the waving hand of a
neighbour who was waiting in his buggy at the iron gates.
I knew he was right, for Clara had cleaned the rooms the day before,
and everything really necessary had been done; but, nevertheless, I
felt lost and helpless.
In the midst of my hour of woe I saw walking up the path around the
lawn an old lady of the neighbourhood who sometimes came in for an
informal chat with Mother. I ran out and welcomed her most cordially,
eager to ask her advice.
"The piano is not in the way," she said. "These rooms are large enough
as they are, even if everyone comes. You won't have to do a thing
except put in more chairs. But"--and she looked around the big double
parlours with the lace-curtained windows and the long mirror with
gilded frame--"the rooms do look empty with the centre table taken out.
Why don't you scatter about some of those Japanese trinkets that you
have upstairs? They would add wonderfully to the general effect."
As soon as she was gone I brought down several Japanese things and
placed them here and there about the room. Then I arranged a few iris
blossoms in a vase according to the graceful, but rigid, rules of
Japanese flower arrangement, and stepped back to view the effect.
From the flowers my eyes went slowly around the room. I was
disappointed. What was wrong? The Japanese articles were each one of
rare workmanship, and the vase of blossoms was beautiful; but for
some mysterious reason Mother's parlours never before had looked so
unattractive. Suddenly my eye fell on a little bronze incense burner,
which had been given me in my childhood, by one of the Toda children,
for my doll festival set. It looked oddly out of place on top of
the American bookcase; and when, lifting my eyes, I saw above it an
etching of a dancing faun, I almost hysterically snatched it away. With
lightning swiftness my mind flew to the cool, light rooms of my Nagaoka
home--to the few ornaments, each in the place designed for it--and I
began to understand. My Japanese treasures would be beautiful in their
proper surroundings, but here they were neither beautiful themselves,
nor did they add to the attractiveness of our stately rooms. They were
only odd, grotesque curios. Hurriedly putting them away and removing
my carefully arranged vase of iris to the kitchen, I ran to a field
back of our carriage house and gathered an armful of daisies and
feathery grasses. Soon I had all the vases in the house, regardless of
shape or hue, loosely filled with the fresh, wild blossoms. The rooms
looked beautiful, and they were in perfect harmony with the broad lawn
outside, stretching in rolling waves of green down to the gray stone
wall.
"West is West, and East is East," I said, as I sank on a sofa with a
sigh of relief. "I think while I'm here I'll forget the conventional
standard of beauty; for only the charm of naturalness is suited to
these big, free, homelike rooms of Mother's."