ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
Composition—The writing-table—Odes—Songs—The _haiku_—Chinese
poetry—Tea-ceremony—Its complexity—Its utility to women—The flower
arrangement—The underlying idea—Its extensive application—The
principle of the arrangement—Manipulation of the stalks—Drawing
water—Vases—Tray-landscapes—The _koto_—The _samisen_—Its form—Its
scale—How to play it—The crudity of Japanese music—Its unemotional
character.
The greatest accomplishment, and the most useful, that the Japanese
woman can possess is unquestionably the art of sewing; but the
knowledge of needlework is so generally recognised as an indispensable
equipment of the housewife, forming as it does an important subject
of study in girls’ schools, that it is not often included in the
accomplishments recommended in Japanese books for women. The first
place among them is given to composition, that is, the art of writing,
more particularly, of letter-writing, for in Japan where considerable
difference exists between the spoken and written languages,
composition has to be specially learnt. In letter-writing, moreover,
there are many conventional phrases and turns of expression which
must be used though they may not add to the meaning; they give an
artificial character to Japanese letters and call for great diligence
if one would become a good letter-writer. A skilful and expressive
transcription of characters is also looked upon as an art of no mean
order. Middle-aged men, especially of the old school, often spend
hours on end in writing for practice; and a well-written piece on a
_kakemono_ is frequently hung in an alcove in place of a picture and
as highly appreciated. Many skilled caligraphists make a respectable
living by writing.
[Illustration: A WRITING-TABLE AND BOOK-CASES.]
The writing-table is a low piece of board, three feet long and about
one wide, supported at either end or a few inches from it by a wooden
prop; and the writer, in sitting at the table, puts his knees under it
between the props. The paper used for letter-writing is rice-paper in
a long roll, which is unrolled as one writes. Most people can write
with the roll in their hands, letting the written portion drop as
the paper is unrolled. The ink is made by wetting and rubbing the
Indian-ink stick on a stone slab with a hollow at the upper end as
reservoir for the ink. The pen is a hair-pencil with a bamboo holder.
A paper-weight of metal is used to hold the paper down when we write
at the table; and the writer sits straight at the table and, dipping
the brush in ink, writes with it held almost perpendicularly and
lightly touching the paper.
Another literary accomplishment is the composition of odes. These are
short verses of thirty-one syllables, made up of two sets of five
and seven syllables each, closed by a line of seven syllables. To be
expressed within so small a compass, the idea must be at once single
and simple. It is commonly an epigrammatic presentation of a mood, it
may be, of love, longing, appreciation of nature, or consciousness of
the uncertainty of life. Sometimes it is didactic or expresses a moral
truth in simple or metaphorical language. Our national anthem is an
instance of this form of verse and runs as follows:—
_Kimi ga yo wa
Chiyo ni yachiyo ni
Sazare-ishi no
Iwao to narite
Koke no musumade;_
which may be literally translated: “May Our Lord’s reign last for a
thousand, eight thousand ages, until little stones become rocks and
are covered with moss.”
A celebrated minister of state who lived a thousand years ago,
composed the following:—
_Kokoro dani
Makoto no michi ni
Kanainaba
Inorazu totemo
Kami ya mamoran._
“If only our hearts follow the path of rectitude, the Gods will
protect us without our prayers.”
An Emperor saw one day in a private garden a plum-tree with a
bush-warbler’s nest in it. He took fancy to it and ordered it to be
transplanted to his palace-ground. The owner, who was a poetess and
court lady, obeyed as a matter of course, but to show her reluctance,
she hung to a branch of the tree a piece of paper with the following
ode:—
_Choku nareba
Itomo kashikoshi
Uguisu no
Yado wa to towaba
Ika ni kotaen._
“Since His Majesty commands, I obey with joy; but when the
bush-warbler comes and asks for his home, what answer shall I give?”
The Emperor, upon reading this ode, felt sorry that he had deprived
her of her favourite tree.
There are also other combinations; but all Japanese verses are
composed of pentasyllabic and heptasyllabic lines. What is known as
the long ode is a series of the two in alternation, closing with an
extra heptasyllable. Another verse is formed of a pair of sets, each
containing a pentasyllable and two heptasyllables; and still another
comprises four couplets of a heptasyllable and a pentasyllable each.
From these combinations has been evolved what is called poetry of the
new school, which is an indefinite series of five and seven syllables
in alternation. It is now very common; and almost all songs written to
the accompaniment of European music are in this form. In the following
children’s song which has for the last half dozen years been popular
in Tokyo, the English reader will recognise a very old friend:—
_Moshi moshi kame yo
kamesan yo
Sekai no uchi ni
omae hodo
Ayumi no noroi
mono wa nai
Dōshite sonna ni
noroi no ka
Nanto ossharu
usagisan
Sonnara omae to
kakekurabe
Mukō no oyama no
fumoto made
Dochira ga saki ni
kaketsuku ka
Donna ni kame ga
isoi demo
Dōse ban made
kakaru daro
Kokora de chotto
hito nemuri
Gū gū gū gū
gū gū gū
Kore wa nesugita
shikujitta
Pyon pyon pyon pyon
pyon pyon pyon
Anmari osoi
usagisan
Sakki no jiman wa
dōshitano;_
which may be rendered:
“Please, please, Tortoise, Mr. Tortoise,
There is in all the world no one
So slow-footed as you;
Why are you so slow?”
“What do you say, Mr. Hare?
Then, I will race with you and see
Which will be the first to reach
The foot of yonder hill.”
“However the Tortoise may hurry,
He will take at any rate till night;
And here I will take a nap.”
Snore, snore, snore, snore, snore, snore, snore.
“I have slept too long; I have blundered.”
Leap, leap, leap, leap, leap, leap, leap.
“You are too late, Mr. Hare;
Where is your boast of a while ago?”
Finally, there is a verse of two pentasyllables with a heptasyllable
between, which is more popular among men than any other form. The
_haiku_, as it is called, can hardly be given the name of poetry. It
is simply a suggestion of ideas which it is left to the hearer to
clothe with poetical sentiment; but the suggestion itself is far from
explicit and needs a person used to this form of verse to interpret it
in the sense intended. It is, in short, little more than a _tour de
force_ in the art of compression. For instance:
_Furuike ya_
_Kawazu tobikomu_
_Mizu no oto._
An old pond
A frog jumping in
The sound of water.
It pictures the loneliness of an old pond, around which all is so
still that the jumping of a frog into the water may be heard.
The composition of Chinese poems by Japanese is one of the most
artificial processes of poetising. Chinese characters are divided
according to their intonation into those of even and oblique sounds,
that is, characters which are pronounced straight and evenly and those
in the pronunciation of which the voice changes in tone. A Chinese
poem is composed in various combinations of these two kinds of
characters, and certain lines in a verse have to rhyme. Now, the
Japanese pronunciation of Chinese characters makes no distinction in
their intonation; they are all pronounced in the same tone, Hence,
whereas a Chinese can tell at once by its pronunciation whether a
character has an even or an oblique sound, a Japanese must learn by
heart the tone-quality of every character if he wishes to compose
Chinese poems; the knowledge of this tone-quality is of no use to a
Japanese for other purposes. Moreover, the Japanese pronunciation of
Chinese characters differs entirely from the Chinese; it is believed
to be a corruption of the Chinese pronunciation in ancient times.
The normal grammatical order in a Chinese sentence is that the verb
precedes the object, whereas in Japanese the object usually precedes
the verb; the result is that in reading a Chinese poem in Japanese
the rhyming words do not always end the lines. As the Japanese simply
composes according to rule, his lines are sometimes unrecitable in
Chinese. Now, to show the difference between the Chinese and Japanese
manner of reading a Chinese poem, we will first give a poem in the
original Chinese.
(1) 滕王高閣臨江渚
(2) 佩玉鳴鸞罷歌舞
(3) 畫棟朝飛南浦雲
(4) 珠簾暮卷西山雨
(5) 閒雲潭影日悠々
(6) 物換星移幾度秋
(7) 閣中帝子今何在
(8) 檻外長江空自流
The Chinese would read the poem in this style:—
(1) _T’eng wang kao kê lin kiang chu_
(2) _P’ei yü ming luan pa kê wu_
(3) _Hua tung ch’ao fei nan p’u yün_
(4) _Chu lien mu kuan hsi shan yü_
(5) _Hsien yün t’an ying jih yu yu_
(6) _Wu huan hsing i chi tu ch’iu_
(7) _Kê chung ti tzu kin hê tsai_
(8) _Kien wai ch’ang kiang k’ung tzu liu._
The Japanese would read it in an entirely different manner:—
(1) _Tō-ō no kōkaku kōsho ni nozomeri_
(2) _Haigyoku meiran kabu wo yamu_
(3) _Gwatō ashita ni tobu nanpo no kumo_
(4) _Shuren kare ni maku seizan no ame_
(5) _Kan-un tan-ei hi ni yū-yū_
(6) _Mono kawari hoshi utsuru ikutabi no aki_
(7) _Kakuchū no teishi ima izuku ni zo aru_
(8) _Kangwai no chōkō munashiku onozukara nagaru._
We will next give a word-for-word translation of the Chinese:—
(1) T’eng prince high tower overlook river shore
(2) Gird jewel sound bell stop song dance
(3) Picture roof-tree morning fly south coast cloud
(4) Crimson blind evening roll west hill rain
(5) Quiet cloud deep-water shadow day far far
(6) Thing change star move how many time autumn
(7) Tower interior emperor son now where is
(8) Balustrade outside long river vain of-itself flow.
The following translation into intelligible English will help to show
the elliptical character of Chinese poetry:—
(1) The high palace of Prince T’eng looks down upon river and shore;
(2) No more, in cars with jewels decked and tinkling bells, the
courtiers come for song and dance,
(3) Around the painted roofs fly at morn the clouds from the
southern coast;
(4) The crimson blinds, rolled up at eve, reveal the rain on the
western hill;
(5) And far away appear the quiet clouds and darkling pools.
(6) Things change, time passes, and how many years are gone?
(7) And the prince of this palace, where is he now?
(8) The long river beyond the balustrade flows on alone and
unchanged.
Chinese poetry has, it will be seen, the conciseness of a skeleton
telegram; but in elasticity and pregnancy of meaning, in disregard of
time and, indeed, in contempt of grammar, no telegram, skeleton or
other, can come up to it.
[Illustration: TEA-MAKING.]
The tea-ceremony is, perhaps, the strictest and most complicated of
all the ceremonies with which the cultured Japanese used to surround
himself. The ceremony, when carried out in full, is very intricate;
but it may be briefly described as follows:—First, the guests who
arrive on the appointed day are shown into the waiting-room and when
they are all assembled, they are conducted into the tea-room. This
room should properly be a building by itself, and the commonest
size is nine feet square, that is, one of four mats and a half, the
half mat being in the centre. The maximum number of guests is five,
four of whom sit in a row and the fifth at right angles to the rest.
The host faces the row; he brings in the tea-utensils and sets them in
order. The guests are first regaled with a slight repast; and when it
is over, they are requested to retire into the waiting-room, while the
host puts away the trays and plates and sweeps the room. They are then
called in again. A small quantity of powdered tea is put into the
tea-bowl which is used on these occasions, and hot water is poured
into it and stirred with a bamboo-whisk until it is quite frothy. The
bowl is handed to the guest at the head of the row; he takes three
sips and a half, the fourth sip being called half a sip as it is much
slighter than the first three, and after wiping the brim carefully, he
passes it on to his neighbour, who also sips and hands the bowl to the
third guest, and so on to the fifth guest, who returns it empty to
the host. After this loving-cup, the host stirs a bowl for each
of his guests, that is, he makes tea in the bowl for the first guest,
who drains it in three sips and a half and returns it to the host, who
then washes it and makes a fresh bowl of tea for the second guest, and
so on until the last guest is served. As this process takes a long
time on account of the formalities which have to be observed in
making, serving, and drinking the beverage, sometimes two bowls are
used so that while one guest is drinking and admiring a bowl, the host
can be making the other for the next. The tea in the loving-cup is
stronger than that in the others.
The bare procedure is simple; but the complexity lies in the hard
and fast rules to be observed in the arrangement of the room, and
respecting the utensils to be used, the manner in which they should be
handled in making tea, the way in which the tea should be drunk, the
number and style of bows and salutations to be made in offering,
receiving, and returning the bowls, and also in the instructions as to
when and how the bowls and other articles in the room are to be taken
up and admired, and the manner of expressing such admiration and
of replying thereto. The formalities are as strict as court
ceremony and are often irksome to the beginner who is nervous and
afraid of exposing himself at every step.
The description above given refers to the formal process as practised
by one of the schools of the ceremony, which can be followed only in a
family which can afford to build a separate tea-room for the purpose.
But the ceremony need not always be so exacting. The general
principles, such as the making, offering, and drinking of powdered
tea and the courtesies accompanying it, are now taught in most girls’
schools, because the knowledge of the ceremony certainly adds to
their grace and imparts to them that quiet, stately bearing which
characterises the Japanese lady of culture. Indeed, this calm, sedate
gracefulness is the result of the study of the tea-ceremony and is
assuredly a more valuable acquisition than the knowledge of the
formalities themselves.
Flower arrangement is an art which plays an important part in the
decoration of a room; for the _kakemono_ which hangs in the alcove of
the parlour loses half its attraction unless there is before it on the
dais a vase of flowers to match. The alcove is the part of the room
which draws first notice upon entrance, and the flowers share with the
_kakemono_ the earliest attention of the newcomer.
The idea underlying the art is that flowers should not be thrown
anyhow in a bundle into a vase, but that due consecration should be
given to their artistic arrangement. The flowers should even in a vase
be arranged as they might appear in nature. It is not always, it is
true, as they actually appear in the open air: but they are arranged
as they might look if aided by art under certain conditions, for the
flowers in the vase always have a degree of symmetry which is but
rarely found in nature. Their form is often artificial, but not
opposed to nature, just as dwarfed trees are stunted by art but have
perfectly natural shapes. The rules regarding the position of the
branches in a vase are certainly conventional, insisting as they do
upon balance and symmetry of form, but they do not go beyond the
bounds of possibility. The only objection, in fact, that might be
brought against them is that there is always present the danger of
taking for normal forms what are seen in nature perhaps but once
in a million. But of the gracefulness of the arrangement there can be
no two opinions.
[Illustration: FLOWER-VASES.]
Although we speak of flower arrangement, the art is not confined to
flowers, but extends also to the treatment of trees and shrubs without
flowers. Among the trees, the branches of which are, when in flower,
put into vases, are the plum, camellia, cherry, peach, rose, azalea,
Japan quince, and wistaria, while the herbaceous flowers are
innumerable and include such different plants as the pot marigold,
corchorus, peony, bleeding-heart, iris, anemone, primrose, red-bud,
sweet flag, hydrangea, clematis, safflower, corn-poppy, common mallow,
day lily, cockscomb, globe amaranth, chrysanthemum, narcissus, lady’s
slipper, and Cape jasmine. Branches of trees noted for their foliage
are also put into vases, such as the magnolia, yulan, pine, and
similar evergreens; and others bearing fruit are in no less favour,
like the loquat, plum, nandina, and pomegranate. In short, the
art is practised with most trees and shrubs, cultivated or wild.
The principle of the arrangement in its simplest form, which deals
with three stalks or branches, is that the middle stalk or branch,
which is the longest, shall rise perpendicularly, or nearly so, and of
the remaining two one shall branch off horizontally to one side and
the other slant upward on the other side of the central stalk or
branch. More stalks or branches may be taken, but their positions are
only amplifications of the two lateral ones. The central piece being
always single and amplifications being of equal number on both sides,
there is invariably an odd number of stalks or branches. The manner of
amplification or the position of the secondary stalks varies with the
different schools of flower arrangement. The only condition they all
insist upon is that the stalks or branches shall be in a way balanced
on either side, but shall not show perfect symmetry which is never to
be found in nature.
As stalks which completely satisfy the conditions required for their
artistic arrangement cannot be readily procured, it becomes necessary
to bend and twist them into the requisite shape. They must be so bent
and twisted as not to snap, crush the fibres, or display splits, but
to conceal the artificial alteration of their structure. While the
arrangement of the stalks and flowers calls for taste and judgment,
their manipulation demands no less dexterity in carrying out the
design formed; and it needs considerable practice to be able to bend
the soft stalk of the orchid and the tough branch of the plum with
equal ease and neatness.
Next in importance to the arrangement of the flowers is the manner of
making them draw water. To this end various devices are used, of which
the commonest is to burn the bottom-end of the stalk; this end, on
being then dipped into the vase, sucks up water which is thereupon
circulated into the rest of the stalk. The hardwood of a tree branch
is often crushed at the end to facilitate its permeation by water.
Some plants are put into hot water; others are covered with mud or
nicotine at the end; and others again are dipped in a strong solution
of tea and Japan pepper. Salt is sprinkled over bamboo to keep
off insects, and with the same object tobacco powder is thrown on some
plants.
The shape of the vase is also of importance and has to be taken into
consideration with the _kakemono_ exhibited. They are of various
shapes. The commonest are of china, tall, round, and slightly bulging
in the middle. Sometimes they are more slender, and sometimes no
more than deep dishes, square or round. If they are to be hung up
by a chain, as in a tea-room, they are shaped like a boat or a
water-bucket; or if they are to be hooked on a peg, they are made of
china or bamboo. The pedestal for the vase is also of diverse shapes.
It may be a flat piece of wood or china, or have legs, one at each of
the four corners or one at either side flattened out.
[Illustration: A TRAY-LANDSCAPE.]
Another art is the making of what are called “tray-landscapes.” For
this an elliptical tray, whose diameters are about a foot and a foot
and a half, is taken, and on it landscapes and sea-views are drawn
with pebbles for rocks and sand of various fineness for the ground.
Such a landscape forms an ornament for the parlour.
[Illustration: THE _KOTO_.]
The only Japanese musical instrument taught in girls’ schools is the
_koto_, a kind of zither. As the _koto_ is the most adaptable of all
Japanese instruments to western music, it is more readily learnt than
others at schools where the piano and the violin are also taught.
There are several kinds of _koto_, the number of strings on them
ranging from one to twenty-five; but the one exclusively used at
schools has thirteen strings It has a hollow convex body, six
feet five inches long and ten inches wide at one end and half an inch
narrower at the other, and stands on legs three and a half inches
high. The strings are tied at equal distances at the head or broader
end and gathered at the other; they are supported each by its own
bridge, the position of which varies with the pitch required. Small
ivory nails are put on the tips of the fingers for striking the
strings.
But extensively as the _koto_ is practised by school-girls and ladies
of position, the national musical instrument is the _samisen_, a
Japanese variant of the old European rebec which was introduced
into the country by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. In
the old days it was considered vulgar to play the _samisen_, which
consequently lay long in obloquy and was only to be found among the
merchant and lower classes. But now, though the prejudice against it
is still strong among old-fashioned people, it is in greater favour
than the _koto_. It is played everywhere, at home, in story-tellers’
halls and theatres, and at every tea-house party.
In its common form the _samisen_ has a belly, four inches thick and
covered with skin, which has convex sides, seven and nearly
eight inches respectively, and has attached to it a neck twenty-five
inches long with a tail-piece of six inches. There are three pegs in
the tail-piece for the three strings of the instrument, which are
carried over the neck and tied at the further end of the belly where a
small movable bridge keeps them from touching the face of the belly.
The belly rests side-wise on the right knee of the player, whose right
hand strikes the strings with an ivory plectrum, while the fingers of
the left hand support the neck and stop the strings. The top-string is
the thickest and has the lowest notes, while the third string is the
finest and has the highest notes. The _samisen_ just described is
known as the slender-necked _samisen_; the other kind, which is of
larger dimensions, with thicker strings and is played with a heavier
plectrum, is only used in singing _gidayu_, or ballad-dramas.
On the scale of the _samisen_ there is still a great diversity of
opinion, musical authorities being unable to agree as to the exact
nature of the notes it emits. Its scale is certainly different to that
of any European instrument; but, roughly-speaking, its range is about
three octaves, the notes of which are put at thirty-six, comprising
what would in European music be sharps and flats. The ranges of the
two kinds of _samisen_ naturally differ, the smaller giving higher
notes than the other.
[Illustration: THE _SAMISEN_.]
The _samisen_ is early taught. Girls of seven or thereabouts are made
to learn it while their fingers are still very pliant. But the lessons
are hard to learn as the tunes have to be committed to memory, for
there are no scores to refer to. There is no popular method of
notation; the marks which are sometimes to be seen in song-books
are too few to be of use to any but skilled musicians. The lighter
_samisen_ does not require much exertion to play; women can thrum it
for hours on end; and they make slight indentations on the nails of
the middle and ring fingers of the left hand for catching the strings
when those fingers are moved up and down the neck to stop them. But
with the heavier kind the indentations are deeper, and the constant
friction of the strings hardens the finger-tips and often breaks the
nails, while still worse is the condition of the right hand which
holds the plectrum. The plectrum, the striking end of which is
flat as in the one for the slender-necked _samisen_, is heavily leaded
and weighs from twelve ounces to a pound when used by professionals;
and the handle, which is square, is held between the ring and little
fingers for leverage and worked with the thumb and the forefinger. At
first the pressure of the corners upon the second joint of the little
finger is very painful; but the skin becomes in time indurated and
insensible to pain. It requires both strength and dexterity to strike
the thick, hard-drawn strings with such a heavy plectrum.
The peculiar scale on which it is based has prevented Japanese music
from being appreciated by foreigners. That it is crude is undeniable;
indeed, no other Japanese art has been left so undeveloped. In most
other arts we have stamped our national individuality upon what we
borrowed from others; but in music we can hardly say that there
is anything characteristically Japanese about the slow tunes of the
thirteen-stringed _koto_ or the quicker jangle of the three-stringed
_samisen_. They have of course changed in our hands from their
original forms; but the alteration is not something that we can
attribute to our national genius as we should in the case of our
pictorial, glyptic, or ceramic art. Moreover, music has never, like
the other arts, had munificent patrons. We read often enough of a
great daimyo or lord in the old days surrounding himself with famed
painters, sculptors, makers of lacquered ware or swords, but never of
one taking under his protection a musician of note. What musicians
enjoyed his favour were those employed for the performance of music
at sacred rites; and none won the daimyo’s patronage by the charm or
power of his music. No encouragement was then held out to music; and
even the musicians whose names are known to posterity earned their
living, precarious at best, by catering to the general public.
_Samisen_-music cannot in truth be said to appeal emotionally even
to those Japanese who enjoy it. They admire a _samisen_-player for
his execution, for the lightness and rapidity of his touch and the
rich resonance of the strings under it; but of the expression, the
emotional quality of music, neither he nor his audience know anything
and probably care as little. And it must be admitted that the
_samisen_ can never charm and enthrall us like the deep-sounding
cathedral organ; and its want of volume deprives it of any power to
make a cumulative impression upon us. In short, our _samisen_-music is
mainly a matter of dexterity, with a modicum of taste and judgment.
We do not look to it to sway our passions—to move us to tears or
laughter, to stir up in us anger, awe, pity, or wonder, or to fire us
into bursts of patriotic enthusiasm.