Tokyo, August 1, 1904.
Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by
the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicadæ, it is
difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being
carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between
armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the
intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling. This
contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that
began to study Western science only within the recollection of many
persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle
for national existence. It was inevitable, this struggle,--might
perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted. Japan has
boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously
the civilizations of the East and the West,--a mediæval power that,
unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and
to dominate China. For all industrial civilization the contest is one
of vast moment;--for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her
national life. As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing,
the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at
home, little has been written.
To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing
unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record. At the
beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all
non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble
themselves as little as possible about exterior events;--and this
command has been obeyed to the letter. It would be natural to suppose
that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest
had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but
there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or
depression. On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of
public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation
in its victories. Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese
corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of
positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost:
yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement. The
people are following their daily occupations just as they did before
the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres
and flower displays are not less well patronized. The life of
T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the
events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers
are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers. Except
after the news of some great victory,--celebrated with fireworks and
lantern processions,--there are no signs of public emotion; and but
for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing
bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the
war is an evil dream.
Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering--viewless
and voiceless suffering--repressed by that sense of social and
patriotic duty which is Japanese religion. As a seventeen-syllable
poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain
as well as joy:--
G[=o]gwai no
Tabi teki mikata
Goké ga fuè.
[_Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and
friends have increased in multitude._]
The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than
Spartan discipline of the race. Anciently the people were trained, not
only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and
to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they
are obedient to that teaching to-day. It would still be thought a
shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for
Emperor and fatherland. The public seem to view the events of the war
as they would watch the scenes of a popular play. They are interested
without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is
particularly shown in various manifestations of the "Play-impulse."
Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual
fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and
novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern
warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or
utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs.
But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful
tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement
than by the mention of ordinary facts,--every-day matters recorded in
the writer's diary.
* * * * *
Never before were the photographers so busy; it is said that they
have not been able to fulfill half of the demands made upon them.
The hundreds of thousands of men sent to the war wished to leave
photographs with their families, and also to take with them portraits
of parents, children, and other beloved persons. The nation was being
photographed during the past six months.
A fact of sociological interest is that photography has added
something new to the poetry of the domestic faith. From the time of
its first introduction, photography became popular in Japan; and none
of those superstitions, which inspire fear of the camera among less
civilized races, offered any obstacle to the rapid development of a
new industry. It is true that there exists some queer-folk beliefs
about photographs,--ideas of mysterious relation between the
sun-picture and the person imaged. For example: if, in the photograph
of a group, one figure appear indistinct or blurred, that is thought
to be an omen of sickness or death. But this superstition has its
industrial value: it has compelled photographers to be careful about
their work,--especially in these days of war, when everybody wants to
have a good clear portrait, because the portrait might be needed for
another purpose than preservation in an album.
During the last twenty years there has gradually come into existence
the custom of placing the photograph of a dead parent, brother,
husband, or child, beside the mortuary tablet kept in the Buddhist
household shrine. For this reason, also, the departing soldier wishes
to leave at home a good likeness of himself.
The rites of domestic affection, in old samurai families, are not
confined to the cult of the dead. On certain occasions, the picture
of the absent parent, husband, brother, or betrothed, is placed in
the alcove of the guest-room, and a feast laid out before it. The
photograph, in such cases, is fixed upon a little stand (_dai_); and
the feast is served as if the person were present. This pretty custom
of preparing a meal for the absent is probably more ancient than any
art of portraiture; but the modern photograph adds to the human poetry
of the rite. In feudal time it was the rule to set the repast facing
the direction in which the absent person had gone--north, south, east,
or west. After a brief interval the covers of the vessels containing
the cooked food were lifted and examined. If the lacquered inner
surface was thickly beaded with vapor, all was well; but if
the surface was dry, that was an omen of death, a sign that the
disembodied spirit had returned to absorb the essence of the
offerings.
* * * * *
As might have been expected, in a country where the "play-impulse" is
stronger, perhaps, than in any other part of the world, the Zeitgeist
found manifestation in the flower displays of the year. I visited
those in my neighborhood, which is the Quarter of the Gardeners. This
quarter is famous for its azaleas (_tsutsuji_); and every spring
the azalea gardens attract thousands of visitors,--not only by the
wonderful exhibition then made of shrubs which look like solid masses
of blossom (ranging up from snowy white, through all shades of pink,
to a flamboyant purple) but also by displays of effigies: groups
of figures ingeniously formed with living leaves and flowers. These
figures, life-size, usually represent famous incidents of history or
drama. In many cases--though not in all--the bodies and the costumes
are composed of foliage and flowers trained to grow about a framework;
while the faces, feet, and hands are represented by some kind of
flesh-colored composition.
This year, however, a majority of the displays represented scenes
of the war,--such as an engagement between Japanese infantry and
mounted Cossacks, a night attack by torpedo boats, the sinking of
a battleship. In the last-mentioned display, Russian bluejackets
appeared, swimming for their lives in a rough sea;--the pasteboard
waves and the swimming figures being made to rise and fall by the
pulling of a string; while the crackling of quick-firing guns was
imitated by a mechanism contrived with sheets of zinc.
It is said that Admiral T[=o]g[=o] sent to T[=o]ky[=o] for some
flowering-trees in pots--inasmuch as his responsibilities allowed him
no chance of seeing the cherry-flowers and the plum-blossoms in their
season,--and that the gardeners responded even too generously.
* * * * *
Almost immediately after the beginning of hostilities, thousands of
"war pictures"--mostly cheap lithographs--were published. The drawing
and coloring were better than those of the prints issued at the
time of the war with China; but the details were to a great extent
imaginary,--altogether imaginary as to the appearance of Russian
troops. Pictures of the engagements with the Russian fleet were
effective, despite some lurid exaggeration. The most startling things
were pictures of Russian defeats in Korea, published before a single
military engagement had taken place;--the artist had "flushed to
anticipate the scene." In these prints the Russians were depicted
as fleeing in utter rout, leaving their officers--very fine-looking
officers--dead upon the field; while the Japanese infantry, with
dreadfully determined faces, were coming up at a double. The propriety
and the wisdom of thus pictorially predicting victory, and easy
victory to boot, may be questioned. But I am told that the custom of
so doing is an old one; and it is thought that to realize the common
hope thus imaginatively is lucky. At all events, there is no attempt
at deception in these pictorial undertakings;--they help to keep up
the public courage, and they ought to be pleasing to the gods.
Some of the earlier pictures have now been realized in grim fact.
The victories in China had been similarly foreshadowed: they amply
justified the faith of the artist.... To-day the war pictures continue
to multiply; but they have changed character. The inexorable truth
of the photograph, and the sketches of the war correspondent, now
bring all the vividness and violence of fact to help the artist's
imagination. There was something naïve and theatrical in the drawings
of anticipation; but the pictures of the hour represent the most
tragic reality,--always becoming more terrible. At this writing, Japan
has yet lost no single battle; but not a few of her victories have
been dearly won.
To enumerate even a tenth of the various articles ornamented with
designs inspired by the war--articles such as combs, clasps, fans,
brooches, card-cases, purses--would require a volume. Even cakes and
confectionery are stamped with naval or military designs; and the
glass or paper windows of shops--not to mention the signboards--have
pictures of Japanese victories painted upon them. At night the shop
lanterns proclaim the pride of the nation in its fleets and armies;
and a whole chapter might easily be written about the new designs in
transparencies and toy lanterns. A new revolving lantern--turned by
the air-current which its own flame creates--has become very popular.
It represents a charge of Japanese infantry upon Russian defenses;
and holes pierced in the colored paper, so as to produce a continuous
vivid flashing while the transparency revolves, suggest the exploding
of shells and the volleying of machine guns.
Some displays of the art-impulse, as inspired by the war, have been
made in directions entirely unfamiliar to Western experience,--in
the manufacture, for example, of women's hair ornaments and dress
materials. Dress goods decorated with war pictures have actually
become a fashion,--especially crêpe silks for underwear, and figured
silk linings for cloaks and sleeves. More remarkable than these
are the new hairpins;--by hairpins I mean those long double-pronged
ornaments of flexible metal which are called _kanzashi_, and are more
or less ornamented according to the age of the wearer. (The _kanzashi_
made for young girls are highly decorative; those worn by older folk
are plain, or adorned only with a ball of coral or polished stone.)
The new hairpins might be called commemorative: one, of which the
decoration represents a British and a Japanese flag intercrossed,
celebrates the Anglo-Japanese alliance; another represents an
officer's cap and sword; and the best of all is surmounted by a
tiny metal model of a battleship. The battleship-pin is not merely
fantastic: it is actually pretty!
As might have been expected, military and naval subjects occupy a
large place among the year's designs for toweling. The towel designs
celebrating naval victories have been particularly successful: they
are mostly in white, on a blue ground; or in black, on a white ground.
One of the best--blue and white--represented only a flock of gulls
wheeling about the masthead of a sunken iron-clad, and, far away, the
silhouettes of Japanese battleships passing to the horizon.... What
especially struck me in this, and in several other designs, was the
original manner in which the Japanese artist had seized upon the
traits of the modern battleship,--the powerful and sinister lines of
its shape,--just as he would have caught for us the typical character
of a beetle or a lobster. The lines have been just enough exaggerated
to convey, at one glance, the real impression made by the aspect of
these iron monsters,--vague impression of bulk and force and menace,
very difficult to express by ordinary methods of drawing.
Besides towels decorated with artistic sketches of this sort, there
have been placed upon the market many kinds of towels bearing comic
war pictures,--caricatures or cartoons which are amusing without being
malignant. It will be remembered that at the time of the first attack
made upon the Port Arthur squadron, several of the Russian officers
were in the Dalny theatre,--never dreaming that the Japanese would
dare to strike the first blow. This incident has been made the subject
of a towel design. At one end of the towel is a comic study of the
faces of the Russians, delightedly watching the gyrations of a
ballet dancer. At the other end is a study of the faces of the same
commanders when they find, on returning to the port, only the masts
of their battleships above water. Another towel shows a procession
of fish in front of a surgeon's office--waiting their turns to be
relieved of sundry bayonets, swords, revolvers, and rifles, which have
stuck in their throats. A third towel picture represents a Russian
diver examining, with a prodigious magnifying-glass, the holes made by
torpedoes in the hull of a sunken cruiser. Comic verses or legends, in
cursive text, are printed beside these pictures.
The great house of Mitsui, which placed the best of these designs on
the market, also produced some beautiful souvenirs of the war, in
the shape of _fukusa_. (A _fukusa_ is an ornamental silk covering,
or wrapper, put over presents sent to friends on certain occasions,
and returned after the present has been received.) These are made of
the heaviest and costliest silk, and inclosed within appropriately
decorated covers. Upon one _fukusa_ is a colored picture of the
cruisers Nisshin and Kasuga, under full steam; and upon another has
been printed, in beautiful Chinese characters, the full text of the
Imperial Declaration of war.
But the strangest things that I have seen in this line of production
were silk dresses for baby girls,--figured stuffs which, when looked
at from a little distance, appeared incomparably pretty, owing to the
masterly juxtaposition of tints and colors. On closer inspection the
charming design proved to be composed entirely of war pictures,--or,
rather, fragments of pictures, blended into one astonishing
combination: naval battles; burning warships; submarine mines
exploding; torpedo boats attacking; charges of Cossacks repulsed by
Japanese infantry; artillery rushing into position; storming of forts;
long lines of soldiery advancing through mist. Here were colors of
blood and fire, tints of morning haze and evening glow, noon-blue
and starred night-purple, sea-gray and field-green,--most wonderful
thing!... I suppose that the child of a military or naval officer
might, without impropriety, be clad in such a robe. But then--the
unspeakable pity of things!
* * * * *
The war toys are innumerable: I can attempt to mention only a few of
the more remarkable kinds.
Japanese children play many sorts of card games, some of which are
old, others quite new. There are poetical card games, for example,
played with a pack of which each card bears the text of a poem, or
part of a poem; and the player should be able to remember the name of
the author of any quotation in the set. Then there are geographical
card games, in which each of the cards used bears the name, and
perhaps a little picture, of some famous site, town, or temple; and
the player should be able to remember the district and province in
which the mentioned place is situated. The latest novelty in this line
is a pack of cards with pictures upon them of the Russian war vessels;
and the player should be able to state what has become of every vessel
named,--whether sunk, disabled, or confined in Port Arthur.
There is another card game in which the battleships, cruisers, and
torpedo craft of both Japan and Russia are represented. The winner in
this game destroys his "captures" by tearing the cards taken. But the
shops keep packages of each class of warship cards in stock; and when
all the destroyers or cruisers of one country have been put _hors
de combat_, the defeated party can purchase new vessels abroad. One
torpedo boat costs about one farthing; but five torpedo boats can be
bought for a penny.
The toy-shops are crammed with models of battleships,--in wood, clay,
porcelain, lead, and tin,--of many sizes and prices. Some of the
larger ones, moved by clockwork, are named after Japanese battleships:
Shikishima, Fuji, Mikasa. One mechanical toy represents the sinking of
a Russian vessel by a Japanese torpedo boat. Among cheaper things of
this class is a box of colored sand, for the representation of naval
engagements. Children arrange the sand so as to resemble waves; and
with each box of sand are sold two fleets of tiny leaden vessels. The
Japanese ships are white, and the Russian black; and explosions of
torpedoes are to be figured by small cuttings of vermilion paper,
planted in the sand.
* * * * *
The children of the poorest classes make their own war toys; and I
have been wondering whether those ancient feudal laws (translated
by Professor Wigmore), which fixed the cost and quality of toys to
be given to children, did not help to develop that ingenuity which
the little folk display. Recently I saw a group of children in
our neighborhood playing at the siege of Port Arthur, with fleets
improvised out of scraps of wood and some rusty nails. A tub of water
represented Port Arthur. Battleships were figured by bits of plank,
into which chop-sticks had been fixed to represent masts, and rolls of
paper to represent funnels. Little flags, appropriately colored, were
fastened to the masts with rice paste. Torpedo boats were imaged by
splinters, into each of which a short thick nail had been planted to
indicate a smokestack. Stationary submarine mines were represented
by small squares of wood, each having one long nail driven into it;
and these little things, when dropped into water with the nail-head
downwards, would keep up a curious bobbing motion for a long time.
Other squares of wood, having clusters of short nails driven into
them, represented floating mines: and the mimic battleships were made
to drag for these, with lines of thread. The pictures in the Japanese
papers had doubtless helped the children to imagine the events of the
war with tolerable accuracy.
Naval caps for children have become, of course, more in vogue than
ever before. Some of the caps bear, in Chinese characters of burnished
metal, the name of a battleship, or the words _Nippon Teikoku_
(Empire of Japan),--disposed like the characters upon the cap of a
blue-jacket. On some caps, however, the ship's name appears in English
letters,--Yashima, Fuji, etc.
* * * * *
The play-impulse, I had almost forgotten to say, is shared by the
soldiers themselves,--though most of those called to the front do not
expect to return in the body. They ask only to be remembered at the
Spirit-Invoking Shrine (_Sh[=o]konsha_), where the shades of all who
die for Emperor and country are believed to gather. The men of the
regiments temporarily quartered in our suburb, on their way to the
war, found time to play at mimic war with the small folk of the
neighborhood. (At all times Japanese soldiers are very kind to
children; and the children here march with them, join in their
military songs, and correctly salute their officers, feeling sure
that the gravest officer will return the salute of a little child.)
When the last regiment went away, the men distributed toys among
the children assembled at the station to give them a parting
cheer,--hairpins, with military symbols for ornament, to the girls;
wooden infantry and tin cavalry to the boys. The oddest present was
a small clay model of a Russian soldier's head, presented with the
jocose promise: "If we come back, we shall bring you some real ones."
In the top of the head there is a small wire loop, to which a rubber
string can be attached. At the time of the war with China, little clay
models of Chinese heads, with very long queues, were favorite toys.
* * * * *
The war has also suggested a variety of new designs for that charming
object, the _toko-niwa_. Few of my readers know what a _toko-niwa_, or
"alcove-garden," is. It is a miniature garden--perhaps less than two
feet square--contrived within an ornamental shallow basin of porcelain
or other material, and placed in the alcove of a guest-room by way
of decoration. You may see there a tiny pond; a streamlet crossed by
humped bridges of Chinese pattern; dwarf trees forming a grove, and
shading the model of a Shinto temple; imitations in baked clay of
stone lanterns,--perhaps even the appearance of a hamlet of thatched
cottages. If the _toko-niwa_ be not too small, you may see real fish
swimming in the pond, or a pet tortoise crawling among the rockwork.
Sometimes the miniature garden represents H[=o]rai, and the palace of
the Dragon-King.
Two new varieties have come into fashion. One is a model of Port
Arthur, showing the harbor and the forts; and with the materials for
the display there is sold a little map, showing how to place certain
tiny battle-ships, representing the imprisoned and the investing
fleets. The other _toko-niwa_ represents a Korean or Chinese
landscape, with hill ranges and rivers and woods; and the appearance
of a battle is created by masses of toy soldiers--cavalry, infantry,
and artillery--in all positions of attack and defense. Minute forts of
baked clay, bristling with cannon about the size of small pins, occupy
elevated positions. When properly arranged the effect is panoramic.
The soldiers in the foreground are about an inch long; those a little
farther away about half as long; and those upon the hills are no
larger than flies.
But the most remarkable novelty of this sort yet produced is a kind
of _toko-niwa_ recently on display at a famous shop in Ginza. A label
bearing the inscription, _Kaï-téï no Ikken_ (View of the Ocean-Bed)
sufficiently explained the design. The _suïbon_, or "water-tray,"
containing the display was half filled with rocks and sand so as to
resemble a sea-bottom; and little fishes appeared swarming in the
fore-ground. A little farther back, upon an elevation, stood Otohimé,
the Dragon-King's daughter, surrounded by her maiden attendants, and
gazing, with just the shadow of a smile, at two men in naval uniform
who were shaking hands,--dead heroes of the war: Admiral Makaroff and
Commander Hirosé!... These had esteemed each other in life; and it was
a happy thought thus to represent their friendly meeting in the world
of Spirits.
* * * * *
Though his name is perhaps unfamiliar to English readers, Commander
Takeo Hirosé has become, deservedly, one of Japan's national heroes.
On the 27th of March, during the second attempt made to block the
entrance to Port Arthur, he was killed while endeavoring to help a
comrade,--a comrade who had formerly saved him from death. For five
years Hirosé had been a naval attaché at St. Petersburg, and had made
many friends in Russian naval and military circles. From boyhood his
life had been devoted to study and duty; and it was commonly said of
him that he had no particle of selfishness in his nature. Unlike most
of his brother officers, he remained unmarried,--holding that no man
who might be called on at any moment to lay down his life for his
country had a moral right to marry. The only amusements in which
he was ever known to indulge were physical exercises; and he was
acknowledged one of the best _j[=u]jutsu_ (wrestlers) in the empire.
The heroism of his death, at the age of thirty-six, had much less to
do with the honors paid to his memory than the self-denying heroism of
his life.
Now his picture is in thousands of homes, and his name is celebrated
in every village. It is celebrated also by the manufacture of
various souvenirs, which are sold by myriads. For example, there
is a new fashion in sleeve-buttons, called _Kinen-botan_, or
"Commemoration-buttons." Each button bears a miniature portrait of
the commander, with the inscription, _Shichi-sh[=o] h[=o]koku_, "Even
in seven successive lives--for love of country." It is recorded that
Hirosé often cited, to friends who criticised his ascetic devotion to
duty, the famous utterance of Kusunoki Masashigé, who declared, ere
laying down his life for the Emperor Go-Daigo, that he desired to die
for his sovereign in seven successive existences.
But the highest honor paid to the memory of Hirosé is of a sort now
possible only in the East, though once possible also in the West, when
the Greek or Roman patriot-hero might be raised, by the common love of
his people, to the place of the Immortals.... Wine-cups of porcelain
have been made, decorated with his portrait; and beneath the portrait
appears, in ideographs of gold, the inscription, _Gunshin Hirosé
Ch[=u]sa_. The character "gun" signifies war; the character "_shin_"
a god,--either in the sense of _divus_ or _deus_, according to
circumstances; and the Chinese text, read in the Japanese way, is
_Ikusa no Kami_. Whether that stern and valiant spirit is really
invoked by the millions who believe that no brave soul is doomed to
extinction, no well-spent life laid down in vain, no heroism cast
away, I do not know. But, in any event, human affection and gratitude
can go no farther than this; and it must be confessed that Old Japan
is still able to confer honors worth dying for.
* * * * *
Boys and girls in all the children's schools are now singing the Song
of Hirosé Ch[=u]sa, which is a marching song. The words and the
music are published in a little booklet, with a portrait of the late
commander upon the cover. Everywhere, and at all hours of the day, one
hears this song being sung:--
_He whose every word and deed gave to men an example of what
the war-folk of the_ _Empire of Nippon should be,--Commander
Hirosé: is he really dead?_
_Though the body die, the spirit dies not. He who wished to
be reborn seven times into this world, for the sake of
serving his country, for the sake of requiting the Imperial
favor,--Commander Hirosé: has he really died?_
_"Since I am a son of the Country of the Gods, the fire of the
evil-hearted Russians cannot touch me!"--The sturdy Takeo who
spoke thus: can he really be dead?..._
_Nay! that glorious war-death meant undying fame;--beyond a
thousand years the valiant heart shall live;--as to a god of
war shall reverence be paid to him...._
* * * * *
Observing the playful confidence of this wonderful people in their
struggle for existence against the mightiest power of the West,--their
perfect trust in the wisdom of their leaders and the valor of their
armies,--the good humor of their irony when mocking the enemy's
blunders,--their strange capacity to find, in the world-stirring
events of the hour, the same amusement that they would find in
watching a melodrama,--one is tempted to ask: "What would be the
moral consequence of a national defeat?"... It would depend, I think,
upon circumstances. Were Kuropatkin able to fulfill his rash threat
of invading Japan, the nation would probably rise as one man. But
otherwise the knowledge of any great disaster would be bravely borne.
From time unknown Japan has been a land of cataclysms,--earth-quakes
that ruin cities in the space of a moment; tidal waves, two hundred
miles long, sweeping whole coast populations out of existence; floods
submerging hundreds of leagues of well-tilled fields; eruptions
burying provinces. Calamities like this have disciplined the race in
resignation and in patience; and it has been well trained also to bear
with courage all the misfortunes of war. Even by the foreign peoples
that have been most closely in contact with her, the capacities of
Japan remained unguessed. Perhaps her power to resist aggression is
far surpassed by her power to endure.