_I Entertain at a Teahouse--Folk Dances--The Sense of Form--The
Organization of Society--Jitsuko Helps me Give a Party--Pretty
Kokinoyou--Geisha Games--Rivalries of Geisha--The Cherry Dance
at Kyoto--Theatre Settings--Unmercenary Geisha--Teahouse
Romances--Restaurants, Cheap and Costly--Reflections on Reform_
"'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue
By foreign lips and eyes...."
--Byron
The way to see geisha and maiko to the best advantage is at small
parties where the guests are well acquainted and formality can be to
some extent cast off. I was much pleased when I learned enough of the
ways of teahouses and geisha to be able to give such a party.
My first essay as host at a Japanese dinner was not, however, entirely
independent, since I had the help of a Japanese friend. It occurred at
the charming Maruya teahouse, in the ancient town of Nara.
[Illustration: The theatre street in Kyoto is one of the most
interesting highways in the world]
It was at the Maruya that I first began to feel some real understanding
and appreciation of geisha dancing, and I think the thing that assisted
me most was the fact that the little maiko executed several Japanese
folk dances, the action of which, unlike that of most geisha dances, was
to a large extent self-explanatory. One of these dances represented
clam-digging. In it the dancers held small trays which in pantomime they
used as shovels, going through the motion of digging the clams out of
the sand and throwing them into a basket. The dance was accompanied by a
song, as was also another folk dance in which two of the maiko enacted
the rôles of lovers who were obliged to part because the mother of the
girl was forcing her to marry a rich man. I was interested to notice in
this dance that the gesture to indicate weeping--the holding of one hand
in front of the eyes at a distance of two or three inches from them--is
not taken from life, but is copied from the gesture of dolls in the
marionette theatre. That is the gesture for a man. When a woman weeps
she holds her sleeve-tab before her eyes, for it is a tradition that
women dry their tears with their sleeves. When in Japanese poetry moist
sleeves are spoken of, the figure of speech signifies that a woman has
been weeping.
[Illustration: Digging clams at low-tide in Tokyo Bay]
The girls who executed the last-mentioned folk dance were respectively
thirteen and fifteen years old, and they were evidently much amused by
the passionate utterances they were obliged to deliver. The one who
played the part of the youth--a fetching little creature with a roguish
face--was unable at times to restrain her mirth as she recited the
tragic and romantic lines, and her rendition of them was punctuated by
little explosions of giggling, which though they cannot be said to have
heightened the dramatic effect of the sad story, her audience found most
contagious. Then with a great effort she would pull herself together and
try to live down the mirthful outburst, lowering her voice, to imitate
that of a man, and assuming a tragic demeanor which, in a creature so
sweet and childish, habited in silken robes that made her like a
butterfly, was even more amusing.
People who follow the arts, or have a feeling for them, seldom fail to
appreciate geisha dancing after they have seen enough of it to get an
understanding of what it is. This, I think, is because they generally
have a sense of form, and as geisha dancing is a sort of animated
_tableau vivant_, a sense of form is the one thing most essential to an
appreciation of it.
Indeed I will go further and proclaim my belief that, to a visitor who
would really understand Japan, a sense of form is a vital necessity.
Japan is all form. In Japanese art even colour takes second place. Nor
does the Japanese feeling for form by any means stop where art ends. It
permeates the entire fabric of Japanese life. The formal courtesy of old
French society was as nothing to the formal courtesy of the Japanese.
The whole life of the average Japanese is so regulated by form that his
existence seems to progress according to a sort of geometrical pattern.
The very nation itself is organized in such a way as to suggest a
compact artistic composition. Not only every class, but every family and
individual has an exact place in the structure. A friend of mine who
knows Japan as but few foreigners do, goes so far as to say that the
shades of difference between individuals are so finely drawn that no two
persons in Japan are of exactly the same social rank, and that the
precise position of every man in the country can be established
according to the codes of Japanese formalism. Though this may be an
exaggeration it expresses what I believe to be essentially a truth. I
visualize the social and political structure of Japan as a great pyramid
in which the blocks are families. At the bottom are the submerged
classes--among them, down in the mud of the foundation, the _eta_ or
pariah class. Then come layers of families representing the voteless
masses, among which the merchant class was in feudal times considered
the lowest. Next come the little taxpayers who vote, and these pile up
and up to the place where the more exalted classes are superimposed upon
them--for in Japan it may be said that there is practically no middle
class. I am told that there are now about a million families who are
descended from samurai. This is where the aristocracy begins. So the
pyramid ascends. Layers of lower officials; layers of higher officials,
layers of ex-officials, high and low; layers of those having decorations
from the Government; layers of army and navy families, and so on to
where, very near the summit, are placed the _Genro_, or elder statesmen.
Above them is a massive block representing the Imperial Family, and at
the very peak, is the Emperor, Head of all Heads of Families.
My party in Nara having given me confidence, I gave a luncheon at the
delightful Kanetanaka teahouse which overlooks a canal in the Kyobashi
district of Tokyo.
I cannot claim much credit for the fact that this party was a success,
since Jitsuko, the English speaking geisha I met at my first Japanese
luncheon, was there to help me. Jitsuko's English, I must own, was not
perfect. Nor would I have had it so, for I enjoyed teaching her, and
learning from her.
"Naughty boy!" was one expression that I taught her, and I showed her
how to accompany the phrase with an admonitory shake of the finger, with
results which altogether charmed the American gentlemen at my luncheon.
One of these gentlemen, a new arrival in Japan and consequently entirely
unfamiliar with Japanese fare, asked Jitsuko about a certain dish that
was set before him.
"What is this?" he demanded, looking at it doubtfully.
"That fried ears," said Jitsuko.
"Fried ears!" he cried. "Not really?"
"Yes."
But it was not fried ears. Jitsuko had the usual trouble with her _l_'s
and _r_'s. She had meant to say "fried eels."
Besides Jitsuko I had at my luncheon six of the lovely little maiko. One
of them, an intelligent child called Shinobu--"tiptoes"--was picking up
a little English. She sent for ink and a brush and wrote out for me the
names of her companions. Later I had the names translated, getting the
meaning of them in English--for geisha generally take fanciful names.
They were: Kokinoyou--"little alligator"[1]; Akika--"scent of autumn";
Komon--"little gate"; Shintama--"new ball"; and Kimi-chiyo, whose name
was not translated for me, but who was the prettiest little dancing girl
I saw in all Japan.
[1] "What a queer name!" a Japanese friend writes me. And he
adds: "Your translation cannot be right. A little alligator
might be taken for a mascot in America, but it could never
be the name of a dainty little geisha."
Though the Japanese idea of female loveliness does not generally accord
with ours, I think Kimi-chiyo was an exception and was as lovely in
native eyes as in those of an American, for she seemed very popular, and
was at almost every Japanese-style party I attended in Tokyo. Moreover,
though she could not have been older than sixteen, she carried herself
with the placid confidence of an established belle. I have met many a
lady twice or three times her age who had not her aplomb.
[Illustration: The little dancing girl at the right, Kimi-chiyo,
was at almost every Japanese-style party I attended in Tokyo.
She carried herself with the placid confidence of an established
belle]
After luncheon the maiko danced for us while Jitsuko and another geisha
played. Then, as my guest of honour had not yet acquired a taste for
geisha dancing, the programme was changed and Jitsuko set the little
maiko to playing games. First they showed us how to play their great
game of _ken_, but though we learned it we could not compete with them
in playing it. They were too quick for us. We pitched quoits with
them--and were beaten. We played bottle-and-cup--and were beaten. And
finally they introduced us to a Japanese version of "Going to
Jerusalem," which they play with cushions instead of chairs, with the
samisen for music. Of course they beat us at that. Who can sink down
upon a cushion with the agility of a little Japanese girl? All in all,
the Americans were beaten at every point--and thoroughly enjoyed the
beating.
I could tell a story about the president of one of the greatest
corporations in America. He was at my luncheon. He is a very dignified
and formidable man, and is considered able. But he can't play ken worth
a cent. Kimi-chiyo herself said so. She told Jitsuko and Jitsuko told
me.
"In America he is a great man," I said.
"He is very slow at ken," Kimi-chiyo insisted, unimpressed.
"In business he is not slow," I told her.
"Perhaps. But any one who is really clever will be quick at ken."
I decided to avoid the game of ken in future. It shows one up.
* * * * *
Between the geisha of the various great cities there exists a gentle
rivalry. Kyoto, for example, concedes a certain vivacity to the geisha
of the five or six leading districts of Tokyo, but it insists that the
Kyoto geisha have unrivalled complexions, and that the famous Gion
geisha of Kyoto are more perfect in their grace and charm than any
others in Japan. This they account for by the fact that the Gion geisha
have a long and distinguished history, and that there is a geisha school
in Kyoto, whereas the Tokyo geisha have no school but are trained by
older geisha under the supervision of the master of the individual
geisha-house to which they are attached. Similarly the Tokyo geisha
consider those of Kyoto rather "slow," and regard the Yokohama geisha as
distinctly inferior. Once I asked a Tokyo geisha to give a dance of
which I had heard, but she replied with something like a shrug that the
dance in question was given by the Yokohama geisha, wherefore, she and
her associates did not perform it.
So far as I know there is not to be seen in Tokyo or Yokohama any large
geisha show, resembling a theatrical entertainment, such as one may see
in Kyoto in cherry-blossom season, or at the Embujo Theatre in Osaka
every May. These exhibitions are delightful things to see, the Cherry
Dance of Kyoto, in particular, being famous throughout Japan. The
buildings in which they are held are impressive. The one in Kyoto was
built especially for the Cherry Dance, and the interior of it, while in
a general way like a large theatre, is modelled after the style of an
old Japanese palace. The geisha dancers and musicians are splendidly
trained and the costumes are magnificent.
Rapid changes of scene are made in these theatres by means unfamiliar to
American theatre-goers. As in our playhouses, flies and drops are
sometimes hoisted upward when a scene is being changed, but quite as
frequently they sink down through slots in the stage floor. Also, in the
dimness of a "dark change" one sees whole settings going through
extraordinary contortions, folding up in ways unknown in our theatres,
or turning inside-out, or upside-down. One feels that their stage is
generally equipped with less perfect mechanical and lighting devices
than ours, but that a great deal of ingenuity is shown in the actual
building of scenery. One of the most astonishing things I ever saw in
any theatre was the sudden disappearance of a back-drop at the Embujo in
Osaka. The bottom of this drop began all at once to contract; then the
whole funnel-shaped mass shot down through a small aperture in the
floor, like a silk handkerchief passing swiftly through a ring.
The most perfect illusion of depth and distance I ever saw on a stage
was in one scene of the Kyoto Cherry Dance. From the front of the house
the scene appeared to go back and back incredibly. Nor could I make out
where the back-drop met the stage, so skilfully was the painted picture
blended with the built-up scenery. When the performance was over I
inspected this setting and found that the scenic artist had achieved his
result by a most elaborately complete contraction of the lines of
perspective, not only in the painted scenery but in objects on the
stage. A row of tables running from the footlights to the rear of the
stage had been built in diminishing scale, and rows of Japanese
lanterns, apparently exactly alike, became in reality smaller and
smaller as they reached back from the proscenium, so that the whole
perspective was exaggerated. The stage of this theatre was not in fact
so deep as that of the New York Hippodrome or the Century Theatre.
At the geisha dance in Osaka I asked what pay the hundred or more geisha
musicians and dancers received, and was told that they are not paid at
all. There are two reasons for this. First, it is regarded as the duty
of all geisha to celebrate the spring with music and dancing; and
second, they consider it an honour to be selected for these festivals,
since only the most skilful members of their sisterhood are chosen.
Geisha, you see, are not entirely mercenary. When two or three of them
go off for a little outing together, or when they shop, they spend money
freely; and there are stories of geisha who pay their own fees in order
to meet their impecunious lovers at teahouses.
In Japanese romances the geisha is a favourite figure. A popular theme
for stories concerning her is that of her love affair with a student
whose family disown him because of his infatuation. The geisha
sweetheart then supports him while he completes his education. He
graduates brilliantly, securing an important appointment under the
government, and rewards the girl's devotion by making her his bride. Or
if the story be tragic--and the Japanese have a strong taste for
tragedy--the student's family is endeavouring to force him into a
brilliant match, wherefore the self-sacrificing geisha, whom he really
loves, takes her own life, so that she may not stand in the way of his
success.
There was a time a generation or two ago when Japanese aristocrats
occasionally took geisha for their wives, much as young English noblemen
used to marry chorus girls. But those things have changed in Japan and
it is a long time since a man of position has made such a match. The
plain truth is that, however justly or unjustly, the geisha class is not
respected. They are victims of the curious law which operates the world
over to make us always a little bit contemptuous of those whose
occupation it is to amuse us. Moreover, geisha are not as a rule highly
educated, and it is said that this fact makes it difficult for them to
adjust themselves to an elevated place in the social scale.
Thus it comes about that, when geisha marry, their husbands are as a
rule business men or merchants on a modest scale.
Yuki our treasured maid, had a friend who became a geisha, but who
retired from the profession through the matrimonial portal.
"She smart girl," said Yuki. "She too head to be geisha."
"Why did she become one, then?" I asked.
"Her family have great trouble. Her father need fifteen hundred yen
right off. Must have. So she be geisha. But after while she meet rich
man in teahouse, and he pay for her, so she don't have to be geisha any
more, and they get married."
Some excellent people I met in Japan--Americans imbued with the spirit
of reform--objected strongly to the geisha system, contending that it is
a barrier to happy domesticity. They felt that so long as there are
geisha in Japan the average Japanese husband will have them at his
parties, and will continue his present practice of leaving his wife at
home when he goes out for a good time. I suppose this is true.
Undoubtedly, to the Japanese wife, the geisha is the "other woman." And
as is so often the case with the "other woman," in whatever land you
find her, the geisha has certain strategic advantages over the wife.
Like good wives everywhere, the Japanese wife is concerned with humdrum
things--the children, housekeeping, the family finances--the things
which often irritate and bore a husband if harped upon. But the
circumstances in which a husband meets a geisha are genial and gay. Her
business is to make him forget his cares and enjoy himself.
The expense of the geisha system is also urged against it. To dine at a
first-class teahouse, with geisha, costs as much as, or more than, to
dine elaborately at the most expensive New York hotels. It is well for
strangers in Japan to understand this, since they often jump to the
conclusion that the Japanese teahouse, which looks so simple--so
delightfully simple!--by comparison with the gold and marble grandeur of
a great American hotel dining room, must necessarily be cheaper. I
remember a case in which some Americans, newly arrived in Tokyo, were
entertained in the native manner by a Japanese gentleman, and felt that
they were returning the courtesy in royal style when they invited him to
dine with them at their hotel. Yet in point of fact their hotel
dinner-party cost less than half as much per plate as his Japanese
dinner had cost. While one does not value courtesy by what it costs, it
is important not to undervalue it on any basis whatsoever.
There is, of course, a great variation in the cost of meals in teahouses
and restaurants, and the fact that those which are inexpensive look
exactly like those which are expensive helps to confuse the stranger. A
great deal may be saved if one does without geisha. Also there are very
agreeable restaurants in which the guest may cook his own food in a pan
over a brazier which is brought into the dining room.
This chafing-dish style of cooking is said to have been introduced by a
missionary who became tired of Japanese food and formed the habit of
preparing his own meals as he travelled about. Now, however, it has come
to be considered typically Japanese.
There are two names for cooking in this simple fashion. The word
_torinabe_ is derived from _tori_, a bird, and _nabe_, a pot or kettle;
and _gyunabe_ from a combination of the word for a pot with _gyu_, which
means a cow, or beef. The Suyehiro restaurants, having three branches in
Tokyo, are famous for _torinabe_, as well as for an affectation of
elegant simplicity and crudity in chinaware. A good place for the
_gyunabe_ is the Mikawaya restaurant in the Yotsuya section, not far
from the palace of the Crown Prince.
[Illustration: A bill from the Kanetanaka teahouse, with items
of ¥ 26.30 for food, saké, etc., and ¥ 27.80 for "six
saké-servers (geisha) tips to geisha and their attendants."]
To be more specific about prices, I gave an excellent luncheon of this
kind for four, at one of the Suyehiro restaurants, at a cost of about
four dollars and a half, whereas a luncheon for the same number of
persons, with geisha, at a fashionable teahouse, which looked just about
like the other restaurant, cost thirty dollars, and a dinner for eight
with geisha, came to fifty-three. All tips are however included on the
teahouse bill. One does not pay at the time, but receives the bill
later, regular patrons of a teahouse usually settling their accounts
quarterly.
Adversaries of the geisha system informed me with the air of imparting
scandal, that one sixth of all the money spent in Japan goes to geisha
and things connected with geisha, presumably meaning restaurants,
teahouses, saké and the like.
"A reformer," says Don Marquis, the Sage of Nassau Street, "is a dog in
the manger who won't sin himself and won't let any one else sin
comfortably." That is a terrible thing to say. I wouldn't say such a
thing. It is always better in such cases to quote some one else. But I
will say this much: If I were a reformer I should begin work at
home--not in Japan. I should join the great movement, already so well
started, for making the United States the purest and dullest country in
the world. I should work with those who are attempting to accomplish
this result entirely by legislation. But instead of trying, as they are
now trying, to bring about the desired end by means of quantities of
little pious laws covering quantities of little impious subjects, I
should work for a blanket law covering everything--one great, sweeping
law requiring all American citizens to be absolutely pure and good, not
only in action but in thought. I assume that, if such a law were passed,
everybody would abide by it, but in order to make it easier for them to
do so I should abolish restaurants, theatres, motion pictures, dancing,
baseball, talking-machines, art, literature, tobacco, candy, and
soda-water. I should put dictographs in every home and have the police
listen in on all conversations. Light-heartedness I should make a
misdemeanor, and frivolity a crime.
Then, when our whole country had reached a state of perfection that was
absolutely morbid, I should consider my work here done, and should move
to Japan. But I should not stop being a reformer. Assuredly no! I should
start at once to improve things over there. Take for instance this
report that one sixth of all the money spent goes to geisha and such
things. I should try first of all to remedy that situation. One sixth of
the national expenditure represents a vast amount of money. Think of its
being spent on good times! Such a lot of money! Still it isn't quite
enough. A quarter or a third would be better than a sixth. It would make
things perfect. Not being a Japanese wife, I should advocate that.
I see but one serious objection to this plan. Should Japan become any
more attractive than it now is, the Japanese might feel forced to pass
exclusion laws. If they were to do so I hope they would not discriminate
against people of any one race. I hope they would bar out everybody--not
Americans alone. Because if they were to bar us out and at the same time
allow the riffraff of Europe to come in, that might hurt our feelings.
It isn't so hard to hurt our feelings, either. We are a proud and
sensitive race, you know. Yes, indeed! It is largely because we are so
proud and sensitive that we treat the Japanese with such scant courtesy.
That's the way pride and sensitiveness sometimes work. Of course the
Japanese are proud and sensitive, too. But we can't be bothered about
that. We haven't the time. We are too busy being proud and sensitive
ourselves.