THE PALACES AND CASTLE
Kioto remains faithful to its traditions, and yields but slowly to
the foreign fashions which absorb Tokio. Tokio has nineteenth-century
political troubles, even demagogues and hare-brained students, that
unruly young element, the _soshi_, keep it in a state of agitation,
and sometimes appeal to the old two-handed sword, the dagger, and the
cowardly bomb. But Kioto, devoted to its old order, maintains the reign
of peace, while the arts flourish.
For the thousand years during which this ancient Saikio remained the
home of the Emperor, and of his nominal subject, the Shogun, its western
half was crowded with the life centering about the two rulers. The
ancient Emperors were hidden within the vast palace enclosure, the
centre of other large demesnes, whose yellow walls were marked with the
five horizontal white lines which indicate imperial possessions. This
collection of palaces and the yashikis of the kugés, or court nobles,
were then surrounded by one exterior wall and moat, making an immense
imperial reservation—a small isolated city. Within a few years this
exterior wall has been destroyed, streets have been opened, and much
of the space has been turned into a public park. The imperial palace
buildings cover ten acres of ground, and are surrounded by twenty-six
acres of ornamental park. In each of the four yellow outer walls is a
richly roofed and gabled gate-way, as stately as a temple, the ends of
the beams, the ridges, and eaves decorated with golden chrysanthemum
crests. The great gate, opened only for the Emperor and his train, and
through whose central passage only the sacred being himself may be borne,
faces south, as does the throne, in accordance with the old superstitions
of the East. The evil influences always threatening from the north-east
are guarded against by many temples beyond that side of the palace.
In these days of departed greatness only the Daidokoro Mon (the august
kitchen gate), a fine gabled structure in the western wall, is used.
After the visitor presents the elaborate official permit, obtained by his
legation from the Imperial Household Department of Tokio, and stamped
after a personal inspection of the holder by the Kioto bureau of that
department, there is much running to and fro of ancient officials,
much restamping and recording, before he is led through the precinct
by an attendant. Even with this guarantee, the severe and stately old
guardians, in their ancient dress and tonsure, seem to look on the
intruder with suspicion.
The Japanese _gosho_ is not exactly translated by the word “palace,”
and is merely a greater yashiki, or spread-out house, constituting the
sovereign’s residence. This gosho consists of so many separate roofed,
one-story wooden buildings as to make a small village. Each room, or
suite of rooms, occupies a distinct building, its outside gallery or
veranda forming the corridor, and its sliding screens the inner walls.
Each building has the great sweeping roof of a temple, the belief in the
divinity of the Emperor, and his headship of the Shinto faith, requiring
that his actual dwelling should be a temple, rigidly simple as a Shinto
shrine, with thatched roof and unpainted woods. These clustered houses
are the survival of the old nomad camps of Asia, as the upward curving
gables of the roof are a permanent form of their sagging tent-tops. The
palace has suffered from many fires, the last occurring in 1854, but each
rebuilding has followed the original models, and the gosho looks just as
it did centuries ago. The same straw mats, open charcoal braziers, and
loose saucers of oil in paper lamp-frames, inviting a conflagration there
as in the humblest Japanese home.
The walk around the outer galleries and connecting corridors takes
half an hour, and one must go stocking-footed, or in the curious
slippers furnished by the guardians. In summer the recessed and sunless
apartments are cool and dim, but winter makes them bitterly cold and
forlorn. Except for two thrones, there is nothing to be called furniture
in the palace. The silk-bordered mats of the floor, the paintings on
the sliding screens, the fine metal plates on all the wood-work, the
irregularly-shelved recesses, quaint windows, curious lattices, and
richly-panelled ceilings constitute its adornments. All the wonderful
kakemonos, vases, and curios were stored in godowns when the Emperor left
Kioto, and the seals have not since been broken. On the screens in the
private apartments are many autograph poems, written by court poets or
imperial improvisators. The tea-rooms and the garden tea-houses show how
important were the long-drawn ceremonies of cha no yu in those leisurely
days of the past.
The courts surrounding the state apartments are sanded quadrangles,
their surfaces scratched over in fine patterns by the gardeners’ bamboo
rakes for the easy detection of strange footprints. In the court-yard
before the old audience hall a cherry-tree, a wild orange-tree, and a
sacred bamboo, all emblematic, grow at either side of the broad steps.
In the middle of the wide, temple-like apartment commanding this court
stands the sacred white throne of past centuries, a square tent or canopy
of white silk, with rich red borders at the edges of the overlapping
curtains. Two antique Chinese dogs guard the throne. On New-year’s Day,
and at rare intervals when the Emperor gave audience to his vassal
jailer, the Shogun, he sat on a silk cushion within the closed tent, and
only his voice was heard, speaking in the quavering, long-drawn tones
still used by the actors in the No dance. The imperial princes stood at
either side of the throne, the kugé and officials of the highest rank
knelt on the steps, and the lowest officials in attendance, the _jige_ or
“down to the earth” subjects, prostrated themselves on the sands of the
court, while the mournful and muffled tones of the sacred voice sounded.
[Illustration: THE THRONE OF 1868.]
When the Emperor gave his first audiences after the Restoration, in 1868,
he occupied a newer throne in the Shishinden, a large audience hall with
a lofty ceiling supported by round wooden columns. On the lower part of
the rear wall are some very old screens painted with groups of Chinese
and Korean sages. The floor is of polished cedar, and the throne is like
that of his ancestors, but with the curtains rolled up from the front
and two sides. It stands on a dais, guarded by the Chinese dogs brought
as trophies from Korea, and holds within it a simple lacquered chair,
with lacquer stands for the sacred sword and seal. After those audiences
of 1868 the Emperor travelled to Tokio in a gold-lacquered _norimon_,
or closed litter, guarded by a train clad in the picturesque dress and
armor of centuries before, and equipped with curious old weapons. He,
himself, wore voluminous silk robes and a stiff lacquer hat, and the
faithful kugés were attired in gorgeous brocades and silks. When the
Emperor and court returned to Kioto in 1878, to open the railway to the
seaport of Hiogo-Kobé, he was dressed like a European sovereign, alighted
publicly from his railway car, and drove to the palace in a smart
brougham, escorted by troops with western uniforms and weapons.
The Shiro, or Nijo castle, half a mile south of the palace, where
the Shoguns flaunted their wealth and power, is a splendid relic of
feudal days. The broad moat, drawbridge, strong walls, and tower-topped
gate-ways and angles date from the middle of the sixteenth century.
The great gate-way inside the first wall is a mass of elaborate metal
ornament, from the sockets of the corner posts to the ridge-pole, but
the many trefoils of the Tokugawas have been everywhere covered by the
imperial chrysanthemum. All the rooms, but especially the two splendid
audience-chambers, with a broad dais before each tokonoma, are marvels
of decorative art, rich in gilded screens, with exquisite paintings and
fine metal work, wonderfully carved _ramma_, and sunken ceiling panels,
ornamented with flower circles, crests, and geometric designs. But,
alas! a hideous Brussels carpet, a round centre-table, and a ring of
straight-backed chairs have crowded their vulgar way into these stately
rooms, as into every government building and office, large shop, and
tea-house in Kioto.
The Shoguns had the Kinkakuji, the Ginkakuji, and other suburban villas
to which they might resort, and in which many of them ended their days
as abbots and priests. The Emperors had only the exquisite Shugakuin
gardens at the foot of Mount Hiyeizan for their pleasurings, until the
Restoration gave all such rebel property to the crown. The Kinkakuji
(the gold-covered pavilion) and the Ginkakuji (the silver-covered
pavilion) stand at opposite sides of the city, each surrounded with
landscape-gardens, from which nearly all Japanese gardens are copied.
Both are as old as the Ashikaga Shoguns, and both are now monasteries.
The Kinkakuji is the larger, and was even more splendid before it was
despoiled of so many rare and historic stones and garden ornaments,
but the place is still a paradise. Yoshimitsu, third of the Ashikaga
Shoguns, built the Kinkakuji, and thither the great Ashikaga retired
to end his life. This refuge figures in the many novels of the time of
the Ashikagas, when the War of the Chrysanthemums, the Japanese War of
the Roses, raged, and the Emperors with the kugés suffered actual want
and privation. The memory of this third Ashikaga is abhorred, because
he paid tribute to China and accepted from that country in return the
title of “King of Japan;” but he so fostered luxury and art that some
of his other sins are forgiven him. The pretty little palace at the
lake’s edge, with its golden roof and lacquered walls, has successfully
withstood the centuries, and is still intact. In the monastery buildings
near the gate-way are shown many wonderful kakemonos and screens, and in
one court is a pine-tree trained in the shape of a junk, hull, mast, and
sail perfectly reproduced in the feathery, living green needles of the
tree. It is most interesting to see how the patient gardeners have bent,
interlaced, tied, weighted down, and propped up the limbs and twigs to
produce this model, with the slow labor of a century.
To the Ginkakuji retired the dignified Yoshimasa, eighth of the Ashikaga
Shoguns, to found a monastery and to meditate, until with Murata Shinkio,
the priest, and Soami, the painter, he evolved the minute and elaborate
ceremonies of cha no yu. The weather-beaten boards and finely thatched
roof of the first ceremonial tea-house in Japan, built before Columbus
set sail for the Zipangu of Marco Polo, are greatly revered by Japanese
visitors. Beautiful is the way to the Ginkakuji, past the high walls and
gate-ways of monasteries, past the towering gates of countless temples,
up their long shaded avenues, and on by bamboo groves and terraced rice
fields. You buy wooden admission tickets for ten sen, which you give
to a little acolyte, who opens the inner gate-way. This _chisai bonze
san_ (small priest) might have been twelve years old, but looked not
more than five when I first knew him, and from shaven head to sandaled
foot he was a Buddhist priest in miniature. This Shinkaku, leading the
way to the lake with solemn countenance and hands primly clasped before
him, suddenly broke forth into a wild, sing-song chant, which recited
the names of the donors of the rocks and lanterns to the great Ashikaga
Yoshimasa. He made us take off our shoes and creep up the steep and
ancient stair-way of the Ginkakuji to see a blackened and venerable image
of Amida. Morning, noon, and night service is said before the altar in
the little old temple by the lake, and this small priest burns incense,
passes the sacred books, and assists the wrinkled and aged priests in the
observances of the Zen sect of Buddhists. Back of the monastery buildings
is a lotus pond, where the great pink flower-cups fill the air with
perfume, and every morning are set fresh before Buddha’s shrine.
Going westward from Kioto the traveller crosses rice fields, skirts a
long bamboo hedge, and comes to the summer palace of Katsura no Miya, a
relic of the Taiko’s days. An aunt of the Emperor occupied it until her
recent decease, and to that is probably due its perfect preservation. An
ancient samurai with shaven crown and silken garments receives, with a
dozen bows, the handful of official papers that constitute a permit to
visit the imperial demesne. Dropping his shoes at the steps, the visitor
wanders through a labyrinth of little rooms, each exquisite, simple,
and charming, with its golden screens and gold-flecked ceilings. The
irregularly shelved recesses, the _chigai dana_ of each room, the ramma,
the lattices and windows, are perfect models of Japanese taste and art;
and the Taiko’s crest is wrought in silver, gold, and bronze on all the
mountings, and is painted and carved everywhere. The open rooms look upon
a lovely garden, and paths of flat-topped stones lead through the tiny
wilderness of lake, forest, thicket, and stream; over old stone bridges,
stained and lichen-covered, to picturesque tea-houses and pavilions,
overhanging the lake. Stone Buddhas and stone pagodas stand in shadowy
places, and stone lanterns under dwarf pine-trees are reflected in the
curve of every tiny bay. It is an ideal Japanese garden, with the dew of
a midsummer morning on all the spider webs, and only the low note of the
grasshoppers to break the stillness.
Although all tourists spend a day in shooting the rapids of the Oigawa,
it seems to me a waste of precious Kioto time and a performance out
of harmony with the spirit of the place, although in May the blooming
azaleas cause that wild and narrow cañon to blaze with color. The
flat-bottomed boats dart through the seven-mile gorge and dash from one
peril of shipwreck to another, just saved by a dextrous touch of the
boatmen’s poles, which fit into holes in the rocks that they themselves
have worn. The flooring of the boats is so thin as to rise and fall with
the pressure of the water, in a way that seems at first most alarming.
The passage ends at Arashiyama, a steep hill clothed with pine, maple,
and cherry-trees, which in cherry-blossom time, or in autumn, is the
great resort of all Kioto, whose pleasurings there form the theme of half
the geisha’s songs and the accompanying dances. From the tea-house on the
opposite bank the abrupt mountain-side shows a mat of densest foliage. A
torii at the river’s edge, stone steps and lines of lanterns lead to a
temple on the summit, and down through the forest float the soft, slow
beats of a temple-bell. The tea-house is famous for its fish-dinners,
where _tai_, fresh from the cool, green river, are cooked as only the
Japanese can cook them, and the lily bulbs, rice sandwiches, omelettes,
and sponge-cake are so good that the place is always crowded.
Katsura no Miya is just below Arashiyama, and after one morning spent in
the little palace, with its restful shade and stillness, our half-naked
coolies ran with us through the glaring sunlight to the tea-house beside
the cool waters of the Oigawa. They barely waited for us to step out
of the jinrikishas before they plunged, laughing and frolicking, down
the bank and leaped into the river, splashing and swimming there like
so many frogs. They had run ten miles that morning, half of the way
under a baking sun, the perspiration streaming from their bodies, and
they plunged into the river as they were, taking off their one cotton
garment and washing it, while they cooled themselves in the rushing
waters. Then, lying down quite uncovered in their own quarters of the
tea-house, they ate watermelon and cucumber, drank tea and smoked, until
they dropped asleep in the scorching noonday of a cholera summer. In the
late afternoon, when it was time to begin the long ride back to Maruyama,
they limped out to us, lame and stiff in every joint and muscle, coughing
and croaking like ravens. We felt that they must die in the shafts, but
exercise soon relieved the cramped and stiffened limbs, and they trotted
on as nimbly as ever over the hills to Kioto.
The coolie and his ways are matters of much interest to foreigners,
but after a time one ceases to be amazed at their endurance or their
recklessness. After the most violent exercise, _ninsoku_, the coolie,
will take off his one superfluous garment and sit in summer ease in his
decorated skin. Back, breast, arms, and thighs are often covered with
elaborate tattooed pictures in blue, red, and black on the raw-umber
ground. His philosophy of dress is a simple one. When the weather is too
hot to wear clothes they are left off, and a wisp of straw for the feet,
a loin-cloth, and a huge flat hat, a yard in diameter, weighing less than
a feather, are enough for him. When there is no money to buy raiment he
tattoos himself with gorgeous pictures, which he would never hide were
there not watchful policemen and Government laws to compel him into some
scanty covering.
The diet of these coolies seems wholly insufficient for the tremendous
labor they perform—rice, pickled fish, fermented radish, and green tea
affording the thin nutriment of working-days. Yet the most splendid
specimens of physical health are reared and kept in prize-fighting
condition on what would reduce a foreigner to invalidism in a week. I
remember that while resting one hot morning under Shinniodo’s great
gate-way, my coolie, who by an unusually early start had been interrupted
in his breakfast of one green apple, asked for some tea-money. I watched
the hungry pony while he treated his companions to a substantial repast
of tea and watermelon. Strengthened and recuperated, he came back,
shouldered camera and tripod, and as he walked down the hot flagging,
complacently picked his teeth with the sharp point of one tripod stick—a
toothpick four feet long!