TOKIO FLOWER FESTIVALS
With all its foreign sophistications, flower worship has not died
out in the Japanese capital. The calendar is divided into the time
of the camellia, the plum, the cherry, the wistaria, the lotus, the
chrysanthemum, and the maple. Orange blossoms and tea blossoms alone
are omitted among the special flower festivals, and the Japanese as
naturally refer to the time of the cherry blooming or of maple-leaves, as
we to spring or autumn. They infuse into these festivals a sentiment and
feeling, a spirit and gayety, inherited from generations of flower-loving
ancestors, who made their æsthetic pilgrimages year after year to see the
acres of wonderful flowers in the different suburbs of each city. By the
old calendar, the first unfolding of the plum-trees, the true awakening
of the seasons, marked the new year. In the change from the Chinese
method of reckoning to the Gregorian, the Japanese January fell to a
churlish mood of nature, when only late chrysanthemums, camellias, and
in-door dwarf-trees can bloom. But every door-way is then arched with
evergreens and flowers; pine and bamboo, bound with braided straw ropes,
are set before the house; tassels of rice straw are festooned across
the eaves, and lanterns hang in rows. The emblematic rice-cake, prawn,
orange, and fern-leaf are fastened above the lintel, the handsomest
screen is brought forward, and more emblems and a large bowl for cards
are set out at the entrance. This is the season when all debts are paid,
while general visiting and feasting occupy three days. Everybody says to
everybody else, _Shinen ome deto_, “I wish you a happy New-year;” or,
_Man zai raku_, “Good-luck for ten thousand years.” Everybody sends his
friend a present—a basket of fruit, or a dumpling of red beans or rice
dough, wrapped in ceremonial paper. The streets of Tokio, crowded with
merrymakers and lighted at night by thousands of lanterns and torches,
hold out-of-door fairs without number, and from palace to hovel run
sounds of rejoicing; yet this joyous homage to the spirit of life is paid
in midwinter, when snow-flakes may shroud the blooming camellia-trees,
though the clear, bright Indian-summer weather often lasts until after
the new year. Winter, a long calamity elsewhere in the same latitude,
is only the disagreeable incident of a few weeks in Central Japan. A
fortnight, a month, of melting snows, cold rains, and dull skies, and
lo! the branches of the withered, old black plum-trees are starred with
fragrant white flowers. For a few days a hazy calm hushes the air, sounds
are veiled, light is softened, and spring has really come, no matter how
many sullen relapses it may suffer before the glorious April cloud-burst
of cherry blossoms decks the empire in wreaths of white and pink, and
fills the people with joy. And this linked sweetness long drawn out, this
gentle season of delight, lasts from the bursting of the plum blossoms in
February to the end of the nyubai, or rainy season of June.
[Illustration: POETS BENEATH THE PLUM-TREES]
Beyond Kameido’s wistaria-bordered lake are ancient plum groves, whose
trees—old, gnarled, twisted, black, and lichen-covered, propped with
poles and stone posts—writhe and twist over the ground in contortions
which explain their name—the _Gwariobai_, or the couchant dragon-trees.
This Ume Yashiki was once the villa of a Shogun’s favorite. Its
buildings, fences, and hedges are gray with age, its stone tablets,
moss-grown and something in the hoary antiquity of the place subdues
one’s pulses. The long cry of a hidden boatman in the creek beyond the
high camellia hedge is the only sound that breaks the silence. People sit
on the red-covered benches, women in soft-toned crapes walk under the
strange skeleton shadows like moving figures of a dream, and children
flash among the black trunks brilliant in their gay garb. Often one sees
visionary old men sitting lost in reverie, and murmuring to themselves
of _ume no hana_, the plum blossom. They sip tea, they rap out the ashes
from tiny pipes, and slipping a writing-case from the girdle, unroll a
scroll of paper and indite an ode or sonnet. Then, with radiant face
and cheerful muttering, the ancient poet will slip his toes into his
clogs and tie the little slip to the branches of the most charming tree.
The well-bred spectators do not push upon the fluttering scroll, as my
impetuous fellow-countrymen would do, but with a decent dignity read and
criticise the praises of the blossoms and the solemn stillness of the old
yashiki.
The veriest Gradgrind could not be indifferent to the poetic charm of the
Japanese spring-time, wherein the setting of the buds, their swelling,
and the gradual unfolding of _sakura_, the cherry blossoms, are matters
of great public concern, the native newspapers daily printing advance
despatches from the trees. Even more beautiful than the plum-tree
festival is the Tokio celebration of the blossoming of the cherry, and
gayer than the brilliant throngs are the marvellous trees. From the
wild, indigenous dwarf seedling of the mountains have been developed
countless varieties, culminating in that which bears the pink-tinged
double blossoms as large as a hundred-leafed rose, covering every branch
and twig with thick rosettes. A faint fragrance arises from these sheets
of bloom, but the strange glare of pinkish light from their fair canopy
dazzles and dizzies the beholder. The cherry-blossom Sunday of Uyéno Park
is a holiday of the upper middle class. One week later, the double avenue
of blossoming trees, lining the Mukojima for a mile along the river bank,
invites the lower classes to a very different celebration from that of
the decorous, well-dressed throng driving, walking, picnicking, and
tea drinking under the famous trees. No warning to keep off the grass
forbids their wandering at will over the great park, every foot of whose
ground is historic, whose trees are ancient, whose avenues are broad and
winding, and whose woods are as dark as the forest primeval. Temple bells
softly boom, ravens croak, and happy voices fill the air.
Not the Bois, the Cascine, or the Thier Garten can vie with Uyéno on this
blossom Sunday. Down every path and avenue are vistas of flowery trees,
lofty and wide-spreading as vast oaks and elms, and through their snowy
branches shine thousands of other snowy branches, or countless solitary
trees gleaming against green backgrounds. The wide lotus lake below Uyéno
reflects the white wonder that encircles the race-course, and the temple
roofs on the tiny islands are smothered in pink branches. Under the great
grove of cherry-trees tea-house benches are set close, and there the
people lunch and dine and sup; and though saké flows freely, the most
confirmed drinker is only a little redder, a little happier, a little
more loquacious than the rest. Czars and kaisers may well envy this
Oriental ruler, whose subjects gather by thousands, not to throw bombs
and riot for bread or the division of property, but to fall in love with
cherry-trees, and write poems in their praise. At the cherry-blossom
season especially his inborn passion for flowers and landscapes shows
itself in prince, poet, peasant, merchant, and coolie. Tattered beggars
gaze entranced at the fairy trees, and princes and ministers of state
go to visit the famous groves. Bulletins announce, quite as a matter of
course, that Prince Sanjo or Count Ito has gone to Nara or Kioto, a three
days’ journey, to see the blossoming trees; which is as if Bismarck or
Gladstone should interrupt his cares of state to undertake a pilgrimage
to a distant rose show.
[Illustration: A UYÉNO TEA-HOUSE]
Later in the season the carefully tended trees in the palace grounds put
forth their blossoms, and sovereign and courtiers hang poems on their
branches, while the spring garden party gathers the whole court circle
under the aisles of bloom in the palace grounds of Hama Rikiu. Every
citizen who has a garden gives an out-door fête, and flower-bordered
cards invite guests to see the native sakura, or the _cerisiers_ of the
diplomatic set.
The celebration of the Mukojima, an avenue along the east bank of
the Sumidagawa, lined for more than two miles with double rows of
cherry-trees, belongs to the lower ten thousand. On Sunday, which is
officially a day of rest, the water is dotted with hundreds of boats, and
solemn little policemen keep the holiday-makers moving along the shore.
Friends recognize each other in the crowd by some distinctive article of
clothing. One procession of jinrikishas will land a group with heads tied
up in gayly-figured towels all alike, or bits of figured cotton folded
as collars around the necks of their kimonos. Boat-loads of men, partly
disguised by their queer head-dresses, are sculled and poled along the
banks, shouting and singing, clapping and strumming the samisen, with
an entire abandon that is the wonder and envy of the Anglo-Saxon. Every
reveller has his saké gourd, or tiny tub slung over his shoulder, which
he empties and refills, as long as his money and consciousness last.
Every man offers friend, neighbor, and stranger a cup of the cheering
spirit. One booth in three is a saké stand, and pyramids of straw-covered
saké tubs stand before every tea-house. This saké, or rice brandy,
tastes and looks like the weakest sherry, although it scents the air
with alcoholic fumes. Made everywhere in Japan, the saké distilled from
the rice of the broad Osaka plain is most esteemed by connoisseurs for a
peculiarly delicate flavor. As it is the one liquor that does not improve
with age, the newest is the best, and is kept in wooden tubs closed with
spigots, and drawn off into open-mouthed porcelain bottles, which are set
in hot water if warm saké is desired. The Japanese drink it from little
shallow porcelain or lacquer cups that hold barely a tablespoonful, but
by repetition they imbibe pints. Its first effect is to loosen the tongue
and limber the joints; its second to turn the whole body a flaming red.
Mukojima’s carnival rivals the saturnalia of the ancients. This spring
revel affords another resemblance between this æsthetic people and the
old Romans, and one half expects to find a flower-crowned statue of
Bacchus in some lovely little landscape garden beside the Mukojima. Men
dance like satyrs, cup and gourd in hand, or, extending a hand, make
orations to the crowd—natural actors, orators, and pantomimists every
one of them. But, with all this intoxication, only glee and affection
manifest themselves. No fighting, no rowdyism, no rough words accompany
the spring saturnalia; and the laughter is so infectious, the antics and
figures so comical, that even sober people seem to have tasted of the
insane cup. At night lanterns swing from all the rows of tea-houses,
booths, and fairy branches, and interminable Japanese dinners are eaten,
with beautiful maiko and geisha posing and gliding, twanging the samisen
and _tsuzumi_ drums, their kimonos embroidered with cherry blossoms,
hair-pins, and coronals of blossoms set in the butterfly loops of
blue-black hair. Then the rain comes, the petals fall, and those snow
storms not from the skies whiten the ground.
[Illustration: IRIS GARDENS AT HORI KIRI]
For a week in June, jinrikishas spin up this leafy tunnel to the iris
fêtes at Hori Kiri, where in ponds and trenches grow acres of such
fleur-de-lis as no Bourbon ever knew. Compared with the cherry-blossom
carnival, this festival is a quiet and decorous garden party, where
summer-houses, hills, lakes, armies of royal flowers, and groups of
visitors seem to be consciously arranging themselves for decorative
effects.
After the season opens, flower festivals crowd one another, and the
miracles of Japanese floriculture presently exhaust the capacity of
wonder. One of the most superb of their productions is the _botan_, or
tree peony, whose fringed and silken flowers, as large as dinner-plates,
show all delicate rose and lilac shades, a red that is almost black, and
cream, pale yellow, straw color, and salmon hues of marvellous beauty.
At the Ikegami temples, the Nichiren priests display with pride their
botan, now three hundred years old, whose solid trunk and wrinkled bark
uphold a multitude of stately blossoms. Azaleas, fire-red, snow-white,
salmon-pink, and lilac, crowd every garden, and the mountains and wild
river-banks are all ablaze with them in May.
Then, also, the wistaria, the _fuji_, is in bloom, and at the Kameido
temple makes an eighth wonder of the world. Every householder has his
wistaria trellis, generally reaching out as a canopy over some inlet,
or, as at Kameido, forming the roofs of the open-air tea-houses edging
the lake. The mat of leaves and blossoms overhead casts thick, cool
shadows, and the long, pendent purple and white flowers are reflected
in the water. Blossoms two and even three feet long are common, and
only a great swaying tassel four feet in length draws a “_Naruhodo!_”
(wonderful) from the connoisseurs. Whole families come to spend the day
on the borders of the little lake, sipping amber tea, tossing _mochi_ to
the lazy goldfish, or sitting in picturesque groups on the low platforms
under the canopies of flowers fluttering with poems and lanterns. The
temple is ancient, and the grounds are full of tiny shrines, stone
lanterns, tablets, and images, and dwarfed and curiously trained pine
trees, with a high, hump-backed little bridge, over which, in the old
days, only priests and grandees might walk. Golden carp, venerable old
fellows, three or four feet in length, show an orange nose now and then
above the surface of the pond. The people call these pets by clapping
their hands, and the golden gourmands swim from one horn of plenty,
filled with mochi, or rice-cakes, with which they are fed, to another.
At Kasukabe, on the Oshukaido, north-east of Tokio, is the most famous
wistaria in the empire. The vine is five hundred years old, with pendent
blossoms over fifty inches long, and trellises covering a space of four
thousand feet, and thither poets and pilgrims reverently go.
In August occurs the one great lotus show now seen in Tokio, when the
lake below Uyéno Park shows acres of bluish-green plates of leaves
starred with pink and white blossoms, and the enchanted beholder looks
down from the bridges and tea-houses of the little islands straight into
the heart of the great flowers. The castle moats no longer show their
acres of lotus, and the mimic salutes no longer ring around the citadel,
as when those myriad blossoms of Buddha opened with a gentle noise under
the first warm rays of the sun. There is a lovely lotus-pond back of
the Shiba pagoda, just seen as the jinrikisha whirls along the shady
avenue skirting it, but the lotus of the moats was the summer glory of
Tokio. The flower was not alone to blame for malarial exhalations, as
the contest still rages between the two sides of the city, as to whether
the vapors from the moats, or those from the exposed mud flats and made
ground of the Tsukiji section, are most pernicious.
[Illustration: AT KAMEIDO]
The festival of the _kiku_, or chrysanthemum, in autumn, decks the
whole empire with red, white, and yellow flowers. The sixteen-petalled
chrysanthemum is the imperial or government crest; and the Emperor’s
birthday, the third of November, coming in the height of the season,
is made a gala-day in every province, and the occasion of gorgeous
flower shows. The Western mind is filled with envy to discover that the
wide-spreading, spicy flowers selling here for a few coppers each, cost
as many dollars under new names across the water. Dango-zaka, dismissed
with a line in the guide-book, is more picturesquely Japanese in autumn
than any other suburb of Tokio. A community of florists tend, prune,
dwarf, and cultivate their chrysanthemum plants in obscurity until the
blossoming time makes Dango-zaka a gay fair. The unique productions of
their gardens are set pieces of flowers on a gigantic scale. Under matted
sheds, which are so many temporary stages without footlights, groups with
life-sized figures are arranged, whose faces and hands are of wax or
composition, but whose clothes, the accessories, and scenery are made of
living flowers, trained so closely over a framework that the mechanism
is not even suspected. The plants forming the flower-pieces are taken
up with all their roots, wrapped in straw and cloths, propped up inside
the skeleton framework, and watered every day. The flowers, drawn to
the outside and woven into place, produce a solid surface of color, and
are shaded with the most natural effects. The tableaux represent scenes
from history and legend, and from the latest plays, or even illustrate
the last emotional crime of the day. Here are seen whole mountain-sides
of flowers, with water-falls of white blossoms spreading into floral
streams; and chrysanthemum women leading chrysanthemum horses, ridden
by chrysanthemum men across chrysanthemum bridges. Gigantic flowers,
microscopic flowers, plants of a single blossom, and single plants of
two hundred blossoms, have bamboo tents to themselves. Touters invite
one to enter, proprietors chant the story of their pictures, and the
side-show, the juggler, the fakir, and the peddler make the bannered and
lanterned lanes a gay and innocent Babel. All classes visit Dango-zaka,
and wander together up and down its one steep street, and in and out of
the maze of gardens, paying a copper or two at each gate-way. Giants and
saintly images forty and fifty feet high are enshrined in mat pavilions
as lofty as temples, and to these marvellous chrysanthemum creatures the
phonograph has lately added its wonders.
[Illustration: IN DANGO-ZAKA STREET]
The Japanese listen politely when foreigners tell that they have seen
chrysanthemums just as large in America. Mere size is not all that they
attempt, since these wizard gardeners can easily spread the petals to
any diameter they fancy; grow the chrysanthemum on a stem six feet or
nine feet high as easily as dwarf it to a blooming mite two inches tall,
growing in a thimble-pot. Every season, some new fantasy in petals
is presented, and the foliage of the chrysanthemum is as carefully
considered as the blossom in Japan. With one question about the green
leaves adorning the stem of the foreign chrysanthemum, Dango-zaka people
can silence the braggart barbarian, who usually has to admit that no one
thinks of the foliage in the West, and that he himself never noticed it
before. The unkempt foliage of Chinese and Occidental chrysanthemums
would not be tolerated in a Japanese flower show, where the leaves of
the plant must be distributed, the composition balanced according to
the rules of flower arrangement—that art beyond all arts, the last to
be expounded to the Philistines, who consider the biggest bunch the
best bouquet, and for a last barbaric touch introduce milliners’ bows
of aniline-dyed ribbons to their monstrosities in floral arrangement.
The touch of Western vulgarization is complete when the poetic and
descriptive names of Japanese chrysanthemums are changed to suit the
Western taste. The lovely white “Frozen Moonlight,” “Fuji’s Snows,”
“Dashing Spray,” “Moonlit Waves,” and “Hoar Frost” become “the Mrs. John
Smith” or “the Mrs. Peter Brown.” The coolie, who draws the visitor’s
jinrikisha, is as voluble over the flowers as any of his patrons, and
quite as discriminating an admirer. Instead of stopping to rest after
his long pull to that hilly suburb, he follows his passenger, pointing
out beauties and marvels, approving and exclaiming with contagious
enthusiasm.
[Illustration: TEA-BLOSSOMS]
In November, with the brilliant maple-leaves, the floral year ends. The
coquette sends her lover a leaf or branch of maple to signify that, like
it, her love has changed. Both the tea-plant and camellia are in bloom,
but there is no rejoicing in their honor, and flower-worshippers count
the weeks until the plum shall bloom again.