OLD AGE.
No Japanese woman is ashamed to show that she is getting along in years,
but all take pains that every detail of the dress and coiffure shall
show the full age of the wearer. The baby girl is dressed in the
brightest of colors and the largest of patterns, and looks like a gay
butterfly or tropical bird. As she grows older, colors become quieter,
figures smaller, stripes narrower, until in old age she becomes a little
gray moth or plain-colored sparrow. By the sophisticated eye, a woman's
age can be told with considerable accuracy by the various little things
about her costume,[22] and no woman cares to appear younger than her
real age, or hesitates to tell with entire frankness the number of years
that have passed over her head.
[22] Children wear their hair on top of their heads while very young,
and the manner of arranging it is one of the distinctive marks of the
age of the child. The _marumagé_, the style of headdress of married
ladies, consisting of a large puff of hair on the top of the head,
diminishes in size with the age of the wearer until, at sixty or
seventy, it is not more than a few inches in width. The number, size,
and variety of ornamental hairpins, and the tortoise-shell comb worn in
front, all vary with the age.
The reason for this lies, at least in part, in the fact that every woman
looks forward to the period of old age as the time when she will attain
freedom from her life-long service to those about her,--will be in the
position of adviser of her sons, and director of her daughters-in-law;
will be a person of much consideration in the family, privileged to
amuse herself in various ways, to speak her own mind on most subjects,
and to be waited upon and cared for by children and grandchildren, in
return for her long years of faithful service in the household. Should
her sight and other bodily powers remain good, she will doubtless
perform many light tasks for the general good, will seldom sit idle by
herself, but will help about the sewing and mending, the marketing,
shopping, housework, and care of the babies, tell stories to her
grandchildren after their lessons are learned, give the benefit of her
years of experience to the young people who are still bearing the heat
and burden of the day, and, by her prayers and visits to the temple at
stated seasons, will secure the favor of the gods for the whole family,
as well as make her own preparations for entry into the great unknown
toward which she is rapidly drifting. Is there wonder that the young
wife, steering her course with difficulty among the many shoals and
whirlpools of early married life, looks forward with anticipation to the
period of comparative rest and security that comes at the end of the
voyage? As she bears all things, endures all things, suffers long, and
is kind, as she serves her mother-in-law, manages her husband's
household, cares for her babies, the thought that cheers and encourages
her in her busy and not too happy life is the thought of the sunny calm
of old age, when she can lay her burdens and cares on younger shoulders,
and bask in the warmth and sunshine which this Indian Summer of her life
will bring to her.
In the code of morals of the Japanese, obedience to father, husband, or
son is exalted into the chief womanly virtue, but the obedience and
respect of children, both male and female, to their parents, also
occupies a prominent position in their ethical system. Hence, in this
latter stage of a woman's career, the obedience expected of her is
often only nominal, and in any case is not so absolute and unquestioning
as that of the early period; and the consideration and respect that a
son is bound to show to his mother necessitates a care of her comfort,
and a consultation of her wishes, that renders her position one of much
greater freedom than can be obtained by any woman earlier in life. She
has, besides, reached an age when she is not expected to remain at home,
and she may go out into the streets, to the theatre, or other shows,
without the least restraint or fear of losing her dignity.
A Japanese woman loses her beauty early. At thirty-five her fresh color
is usually entirely gone, her eyes have begun to sink a little in their
sockets, her youthful roundness and symmetry of figure have given place
to an absolute leanness, her abundant black hair has grown thin, and
much care and anxiety have given her face a pathetic expression of quiet
endurance. One seldom sees a face that indicates a soured temper or a
cross disposition, but the lines that show themselves as the years go by
are lines that indicate suffering and disappointment, patiently and
sweetly borne. The lips never forget to smile; the voice remains always
cheerful and sympathetic, never grows peevish and worried, as is too
often the case with overworked or disappointed women in this country.
But youth with its hopeful outlook, its plans and its ambitions, gives
way to age with its peaceful waiting for the end, with only a brief
struggle for its place; and the woman of thirty-five is just at the
point when she has bid good-by to her youth, and, having little to hope
for in her middle life, is doing her work faithfully, and looking
forward to an old age of privilege and authority, the mistress of her
son's house, and the ruler of the little domain of home.
But I have spoken so far only of those happy women whose sons grow to
maturity, and who manage to evade the dangerous reefs of divorce upon
which so many lives are shipwrecked. What becomes of the hundreds who
have no children to rise up and call them blessed, but who have in old
age to live as dependents upon their brothers or nephews? Even these,
who in this country often lead hard and unrewarded lives of toil among
their happier relatives, find in old age a pleasanter lot than that of
youth. Many such old ladies I have met, whose short hair or shaven heads
proclaim to all who see them that the sorrow of widowhood has taken from
them the joy that falls to other women, but whose cheerful, wrinkled
faces and happy, childlike ways have given one a feeling of pleasure
that the sorrow is past, and peace and rest have come to their declining
years. Fulfilling what little household tasks they can, respected and
self-respecting members of the household, the _O B[)a] San_, or Aunty,
is not far removed in the honor and affection of the children from the
_O B[=a] San_, or Grandma, but both alike find a peaceful shelter in the
homes of those nearest and dearest to them.
One of the happiest old ladies I have ever seen was one who had had a
rough and stormy life. The mother of many children, most of whom had
died in infancy, she was at last left childless and a widow. In her
children's death the last tie that bound her to her husband's family was
broken, and, rather than be a burden to them, she made her home for many
years with her own younger brother, taking up again the many cares and
duties of a mother's life in sharing with the mother the bringing up of
a large family of children. One by one, from the oldest to the youngest,
each has learned to love the old aunty, to be lulled asleep on her back,
and to go to her in trouble when mother's hands were too full of work.
Many the caress received, the drives and walks enjoyed in her company,
the toys and candies that came out unexpectedly from the depths of
mysterious drawers, to comfort many an hour of childish grief. That was
years ago, and the old aunty's hard times are nearly over. Hale and
hearty at three-score years and ten, she has seen these children grow up
one by one, until now some have gone to new homes of their own. Her bent
form and wrinkled face are ever welcome to her children,--hers by the
right of years of patient care and toil for them. They now, in their
turn, enjoy giving her pleasure, and return to her all the love she has
lavished upon them. It is a joy to see her childlike pride and
confidence in them all, and to know that they have filled the place left
vacant by the dead with whom had died all her hopes of earthly
happiness.
The old women of Japan,--how their withered faces, bent frames, and
shrunken, yellow hands abide in one's memory! One seldom sees among them
what we would call beauty, for the almost universal shrinking with age
that takes place among the Japanese covers the face with multitudinous
wrinkles, and produces the effect of a withered russet apple; for the
skin, which in youth is usually brightened by red cheeks and glossy
black hair, in old age, when color leaves cheek and hair, has a
curiously yellow and parchment-like look. But with all their wrinkles
and ugliness, there is a peculiar charm about the old women of Japan.
In T[=o]ky[=o], when the grass grows long upon your lawn, and you send
to the gardener to come and cut it, no boy with patent lawn-mower, nor
stalwart countryman with scythe and sickle, answers your summons, but
some morning you awake to find your lawn covered with old women. The
much-washed cotton garments are faded to a light blue, the exact match
of the light blue cotton towels in which their heads are swathed, and on
hands and knees, each armed with an enormous pair of shears, the old
ladies clip and chatter cheerfully all day long, until the lawn is as
smooth as velvet under their careful cutting. An occasional rest under a
tree, for pipes and tea, is the time for much cheerful talk and gossip;
but the work, though done slowly and with due attention to the comfort
of the worker, is well done, and certainly accomplished as rapidly as
any one could expect of laborers who earn only from eight to twelve
cents a day. Another employment for this same class of laborers is the
picking of moss and grass from the crevices of the great walls that
inclose the moats and embankments of the capital. Mounted on little
ladders, they pick and scrape with knives until the wall is clear and
fresh, with no insidious growth to push the great uncemented stones out
of their places.
In contrast with these humble but cheerful toilers may be mentioned
another class of women, often met with in the great cities. Dressed in
rags and with covered heads and faces, they wander about the streets
playing the _samisen_ outside the latticed windows, and singing with
cracked voices some wailing melody. As they go from house to house,
gaining a miserable pittance by their weird music, they seem the
embodiment of all that is hopeless and broken-hearted. What they are or
whence they come, I know not, but they always remind me of the
grasshopper in the fable, who danced and sang through the brief summer,
to come, wailing and wretched, seeking aid from her thriftier neighbor
when at last the winter closed in upon her.
As one rides about the streets, one often sees a little, white-haired
old woman trotting about with a yoke over her shoulders from which are
suspended two swinging baskets, filled with fresh vegetables. The fact
that her hair is still growing to its natural length shows that she is
still a wife and not a widow; her worn and patched blue cotton clothes,
bleached light from much washing, show that extreme poverty is her lot
in life; and as she hobbles along with the gait peculiar to those who
carry a yoke, my thoughts are busy with her home, which, though poor and
small, is doubtless clean and comfortable, but my eye follows her
through the city's crowd, where laborer, soldier, student, and high
official jostle each other by the way. Suddenly I see her pause before
the gateway of a temple. She sets her burden down, and there in the
midst of the bustling throng, with bowed head, folded hands, and moving
lips, she invokes her god, snatching this moment from her busy life to
seek a blessing for herself and her dear ones. The throng moves busily
on, making a little eddy around the burden she has laid down, but paying
no heed to the devout little figure standing there; then in a moment the
prayer is finished; she stoops, picks up her yoke, balances it on her
shoulders, and moves on with the crowd, to do her share while her
strength lasts, and to be cared for tenderly, I doubt not, by children
and children's children when her work is done.
Another picture comes to me, too, a picture of one whose memory is an
inspiring thought to the many who have the honor to call her "mother." A
stately old lady, left a widow many years ago, before the recent changes
had wrought havoc preparatory to further progress, she seemed always to
me the model of a mother of the old school. Herself a woman of thorough
classical education, her example and teaching were to both sons and
daughters a constant inspiration; and in her old age she found herself
the honored head of a family well known in the arts of war and peace, a
goodly company of sons and daughters, every one of them heirs of her
spirit and of her intellect. Though conservative herself, and always
clinging to the old customs, she put no block in the path of her
children's progress, and her fine character, heroic spirit, and stanch
loyalty to what she believed were worth more to her children than
anything else could have been. Tried by war, by siege, by banishment, by
danger and sufferings of all kinds, to her was given at last an old age
of prosperity among children of whom she might well be proud. Keeping
her physical vigor to the end, and dying at last, after an illness of
only two days, her spirit passed out into the great unknown, ready to
meet its dangers as bravely as she had met those of earth, or to enjoy
its rest as sweetly and appreciatively as she had enjoyed that of her
old age in the house of her oldest son.
My acquaintance with her was limited by our lack of common language, but
was a most admiring and appreciative one on my side; and I esteem it one
of the chief honors of my stay in Japan, that upon my last meeting with
her, two weeks before her death, she gave me her wrinkled but still
beautiful and delicately shaped hand at parting,--a deference to foreign
customs that she only paid upon special occasions.
Two weeks later, amid such rain as Japanese skies know all too well how
to let fall, I attended her funeral at the cemetery of Aoyama. The
cemetery chapel was crowded, but a place was reserved for me, on account
of special ties that bound me to the family, just behind the long line
of white-robed mourners. In the Buddhist faith she had lived, and by the
Buddhist ceremonial she was buried,--the chanted ritual, the gorgeously
robed priests, and the heavy smell of incense in the air reminding one
of a Roman Catholic ceremony. The white wooden coffin was placed upon a
bier at the entrance to the chapel, and when the priests had done their
work, and the ecclesiastical ceremony was over, the relatives arose, one
by one, walked over to the coffin, bowed low before it, and placed a
grain of incense upon the little censer that stood on a table before
the bier, then, bowing again, retired to their places. Slowly and
solemnly, from the tall soldier son, his hair already streaked with
gray, to the two-year-old grandchild, all paid this last token of
respect to a noble spirit; and after the relatives the guests, each in
the order of rank or nearness to the deceased, stepped forward and
performed the same ceremony before leaving the room. What the meaning of
the rite was, I did not know, whether a worship of strange gods or no;
but to me, as I performed the act, it only signified the honor in which
I held the memory of a heroic woman who had done well her part in the
world according to the light that God had given her.
Japanese art loves to picture the old woman with her kindly, wrinkled
face, leaving out no wrinkle of them all, but giving with equal
truthfulness the charm of expression that one finds in them. Long life
is desired by all as passionately as by ancient Hebrew poet and
psalmist, and with good reason, for only by long life can a woman attain
the greatest honor and happiness. We often exclaim in impatience at the
thought of the weakness and dependence of old age, and pray that we may
die in the fullness of our powers, before the decay of advancing years
has made us a burden upon our friends. But in Japan, dependence is the
lot of woman, and the dependence of old age is that which is most
respected and considered. An aged parent is never a burden, is treated
by all with the greatest love and tenderness; and if times are hard, and
food and other comforts are scarce, the children, as a matter of course,
deprive themselves and their children to give ungrudgingly to their old
father and mother. Faults there are many in the Japanese social system,
but ingratitude to parents, or disrespect to the aged, must not be named
among them; and Young America may learn a salutary lesson by the study
of the place that old people occupy in the home.
It is not only for the women of Japan, but for the men as well, that old
age is a time of peace and happiness. When a man reaches the age of
fifty or thereabouts, often while apparently in the height of his vigor,
he gives up his work or business and retires, leaving all the property
and income to the care of his eldest son, upon whom he becomes entirely
dependent for his support.[23] This support is never begrudged him, for
the care of parents by their children is as much a matter of course in
Japan as the care of children by those who give them birth. A man thus
rarely makes provision for the future, and looks with scorn on foreign
customs which seem to betoken a fear lest, in old age, ungrateful
children may neglect their parents and cast them aside. The feeling, so
strong in America, that dependence is of itself irksome and a thing to
be dreaded, is altogether strange to the Japanese mind. The married son
does not care to take his wife to a new and independent home of his own,
and to support her and her children by his own labor or on his own
income, but he takes her to his father's house, and thinks it no shame
that his family live upon his parents. But in return, when the parents
wish to retire from active life, the son takes upon himself ungrudgingly
the burden of their support, and the bread of dependence is never
bitter to the parents' lips, for it is given freely. To the time-honored
European belief, that a young man must be independent and enterprising
in early life in order to lay by for old age, the Japanese will answer
that children in Japan are taught to love their parents rather than ease
and luxury, and that care for the future is not the necessity that it is
in Europe and America, where money is above everything else,--even
filial love. This habit of thought may account for the utter want of
provision for the future, and the disregard for things pertaining to the
accumulation of wealth, which often strikes curiously the foreigner in
Japan. A Japanese considers his provision for the future made when he
has brought up and educated for usefulness a large family of children.
He invests his capital in their support and education, secure of
bountiful returns in their gratitude and care for his old age. It is
hard for the men of old Japan to understand the rush and struggle for
riches in America,--a struggle that too often leaves not a pause for
rest or quiet pleasure until sickness or death overtakes the
indefatigable worker. The _go inkyo_[24] of Japan is glad enough to lay
down early in life the cares of the world, to have a few years of calm
and peace, undisturbed by responsibilities or cares for outside matters.
If he be an artist or a poet, he may, uninterrupted, spend his days with
his beloved art. If he is fond of the ceremonial tea, he has whole
afternoons that he may devote to this æsthetic repast; and even if he
has none of these higher tastes, he will always have congenial friends
who are ready to share the _saké_ bottle, to join in a quiet smoke over
the _hibachi_, or to play the deep-engrossing game of _go_, or _shogi_,
the Japanese chess. To the Japanese mind, to be in the company of a few
kindred souls, to spend the long hours of a summer's afternoon at the
ceremonial tea party, sipping tea and conversing in a leisurely manner
on various subjects, is an enjoyment second to none. A cultivated
Japanese of the old times must receive an education fitting him
especially for such pursuits. At these meetings of friends,
artistically or poetically inclined, the time is spent in making poems
and exchanging wittily turned sentiments, to be read, commented on, and
responded to; or in the making of drawings, with a few bold strokes of
the brush, in illustration of some subject given out. Such enjoyments as
these, the Japanese believe, cannot be appreciated or even understood by
the practical, rush-ahead American, the product of the wonderful but
material civilization of the West.
[23] It is this custom of going into early retirement that made it
possible for the nobles in old times to keep the Emperor always a child.
The ruling Emperor would be induced to retire from the throne at the age
of sixteen or twenty; thus making room for some baby, who would be in
his turn the puppet of his ambitious courtiers.
[24] _Go Inkyo Sama_ is the title belonging to a retired old gentleman
or old lady. _Inkyo_ is the name of the house or suite of rooms set
apart for such a person, and the title itself is made up of this word
with the Chinese honorific _go_ and the title _Sama_, the same as _San_,
used in addressing all persons except inferiors.
Thus, amid enjoyments and easy labors suited to their closing years, the
elder couple spend their days with the young people, cared for and
protected by them. Sometimes there will be a separate suite of rooms
provided for them; sometimes a little house away from the noises of the
household, and separated from the main building by a well-kept little
garden. In any case, as long as they live they will spend their days in
quiet and peace; and it is to this haven, the _inkyo_, that all Japanese
look forward, as to the time when they may carry out their own
inclinations and tastes with an income provided for the rest of their
days.[*137]