It was our last night in Kioto. We had spent the day in the temples,
and though we were somewhat tired, we still managed to keep up a
desultory conversation upon the interesting things we had seen.
Suddenly we were interrupted by a shy knock. Before any one had time
to prevent it, a handsome Japanese face thrust itself through the
gradually opening door; it was immediately followed by the handsome
figure of a young man. Perhaps it was because of the good looks that
the intrusion was not resented. The new-comer possessed large brown
eyes, bushy black hair, and beautiful white teeth, and in addition to
this spoke English.
“Can look see some of goods. Have very beautiful things.”
This is the way they teach it--or, at least, learn it--at the mission
schools.
The speaker continued: Would Madame be so kind as to glance at the
charming wares at present gracefully reposing in a pack on his
shoulders? They were something out of the usual run, and he had brought
them especially for her inspection. To tell the truth, Madame was very
tired, and murmured an objection; but a beautiful face has always
touched her artistic sensibilities, and here was one of the finest
she had yet seen in Japan. The new-comer seemed to notice this, for
he entered without more ado. He immediately dropped to the floor and
began to unpack his bundles. We were all soon interested in other
things than our visitor’s face, for he had hardly begun to display his
wares, before we saw something novel ahead. Japanese peddlers usually
have an innumerable collection of small boxes, but our friend’s were
larger and heavier and of a much richer kind. With the usual number
of bows and smiles he began to reveal his treasures to our gaze, when
we were honoured by the entrance of a small counterpart of himself,
who had evidently been waiting outside until the coast was clear.
Apparently they were brothers, and together they began to arrange their
merchandise in a way to catch the American eye most temptingly.
We had already seen many of those hanging pictures which figure so
prominently in Japanese art, but nothing of so delicate a texture
as those our visitor now laid before us. They were for the most
part representations of religious emblems, but there was one of a
more secular kind of which the young man was particularly proud. It
was rather large, with a dark background on which was exquisitely
embroidered a tall, white cock with head erect, crowing to his heart’s
content, and strutting about in all the majesty of a flaming red comb.
But this was only a beginning. Evidently our friend had brought these
merely to see whether we were people of taste and could properly
appreciate the untold treasures he had at his command. In his
Mikado’s English he informed us that our artistic eye had touched
him profoundly and had caused him to call to mind a _kakemono_ of
unparalleled beauty, that would delight us still more. Whereupon, he
ruthlessly folded up the cock with the flaming comb, placed it with the
rest on the floor, and set the boy down upon the pile to guard matters
until his return. It did not seem to occur to him that this latter act
was a slur at our honesty--things are different in Japan, you know.
“Have got house very beautiful _kakemono_. Priest won’t sell.” So he
said, and so we understood him; giving him credit for grammatical
correctness, when really he meant “want to sell.” Here, we thought, is
a touching example of Japanese politeness! Our visitor is so impressed
by our appreciation of his embroideries that he is about to show us one
of the treasures of the temple, for the sole purpose of gratifying
our taste for art. Soon this obliging Oriental returned, bearing a
large bundle over his shoulder, which he immediately spread before our
astonished gaze, all the while murmuring, as we thought, a repetition
of the fact that the priest would not sell. We were further mystified
by an occasional reference to a tea-house that seemed to disturb the
young man’s peace of mind.
[Illustration]
However much we may have been puzzled by this, there was no doubt that
we had before us one of the most delicate creations of art. Could it be
possible that all this was the result of man’s labour, using what many
of us find so clumsy an instrument as a needle? I have thought long
how to give an idea of the skill, the patience, the taste displayed in
this piece of tapestry; but who can tell a blind man what a rainbow is
like? Besides, I do not yet myself thoroughly appreciate what it all
means, for, though I have owned the tapestry for some time, I never
look at it without finding something I have not seen before. It seems
such an inadequate thing to say, that it was about eight feet long and
three wide, and that the figures were worked upon a grey background
surrounded by a border of black. If you could only have seen it as it
first flashed upon me that evening, a glorious mingling of the bright
Japanese colours of red, black, and white, as yet totally undimmed
by the nearly two centuries that it had lain, a holy thing, in the
Daitokuji Temple at Kioto! There seemed to be some historical scene
portrayed, evidently a naval battle, for there were castles and boats
and water, and in the distance the sacred mountain of Fujiyama, worked
in a rich gold. Over all, with outspread wings, were flying storks, and
in the sea were strange fish and monsters. And there were royal crests,
sailors, warriors, birds of many kinds, the colours as finely blended
in this piece of needlework as in an artist’s painting. Later I have
had the opportunity to examine it more in detail, and to discover that
the castles on the shore are undergoing a siege, the date of the events
being that of the ascendency of Hideyoshi. We are sure of this because
Hideyoshi himself is there in red armour, and though his face is not
more than a quarter of an inch in diameter, the features are easily
distinguishable. I have the names of the other officers and castles,
with a full description of the event written in choice Japanese by the
priest of whom the purchase was made.
For he would sell, after all. As we stood admiring this monument of
skill and patience, little thinking that it might be ours, the young
man kept up his story about the refusal of the priest to sell, and also
his pathetic allusions to the mysterious tea-house. Suddenly, however,
he cleared up everything by turning to us despairingly with the words,--
“Please buy!”
Then we at last learned that the priest “wanted” to sell, and that
he was driven to this strait by the necessity of raising money for
a tea-house adjoining the temple. And we gladly bought. It was with
reluctance that the priest gave us this Japanese treasure in return for
our American dollars, for behind the act there is a pathetic story that
touches the very heartstrings of the faithful followers of Buddha. It
might not be inaptly styled “The rise and fall of the _Kakemono_.”
[Illustration]
In those good old times when the Mikado was only a picturesque ornament
of the community, subject himself to the dictates of some powerful
_shogun_ or warrior like our friend Hideyoshi; before the barbarous
West with its parliaments and trousers and sense of art-perspective had
begun to intrude, a great being ruled in the hearts of the Japanese
and filled them with longing and hope and love. He was not a native,
it is true; but the fact that he came from India did not seem to make
him any less national, and he was as much at home in this sunny island
as in his own snowy Himalayas. To tell the truth, the poor Japanese
peasant was not the happiest of mortals in those days; for we have many
stories of the little regard in which he was held by those above him,
and the insignificant part he played in the social system. It is not
altogether strange, therefore, that this wanderer from the south should
have met with a hearty welcome; for his lessons were those of kindness
and hope. More than this, he taught the down-trodden serf that life
was not a mere matter of unrewarded toil and undeserved suffering, but
that it had a gleam of greatness even for him, and that besides there
was something beyond. This bearer of glad tidings dwelt in the temples
on the hills, and his name was Buddha. It is true that the ungodly
Japanese had little stone images of him of which they thought a great
deal, and so his religion was an idolatrous one; but for all that they
might have done a great deal worse.
For many centuries, therefore, they loved great Buddha, and loved him
with all their souls. Every one, from the haughty _shogun_ to the
little white-faced _geisha_, found in his spirit a something which he
could find nowhere else, and which resulted in a stronger and purer
life. There was one, however, who remained proudly aloof from all this,
and regarded Buddha with a somewhat doubting eye. This was no less a
personage than the Mikado himself, who, after all, could not be greatly
blamed for the way he looked upon the new-comer. For Buddha was not
only a foreigner but a revolutionary character, and expelled a former
visionary something very dear to the Mikado’s vanity. This was the
creed of Shintoism. Now I hope you will not embarrass me by asking what
Shintoism is, for I assure you, that though I have given the matter
some attention I have not yet a clearly defined idea as to what it all
means. It does, however, teach us something indefinite about listening
to the dictates of our hearts, and something definite about following
the decrees of the Mikado. It treats this dignitary even more kindly
than this, for it goes on to say that he is not a man at all, but a
great god moving here among us,--a sacred thing to be worshipped. It
supports this claim by a very long and highly respectable pedigree,
proving him to be descended in the direct line, without twist or turn,
from one Amaterasu, who was a sun-goddess before Buddha came. For
Buddha did not trouble himself about the Mikado’s genealogical tree,
and so the good man had little use for him. During many centuries he
treasured up his ill-feeling; but things worked slowly in Japan in
those days, and it was a long time before disobliging history gave the
Mikado a chance to get even with this iconoclast of the south.
To tell the truth, through all these years the Mikado was not the
important personage his ancestry would lead you to suppose. His main
occupation was posing gracefully as the head of the state, and for
ages this descendant of the sun-goddess was kept in golden chains, a
practical prisoner in his own castle. But he still kept his hold on the
people, who, by some peculiar inconsistency very noticeable in their
religious faiths, firmly believed that story about Amaterasu. This,
however, did not in the least affect their warm love for Buddha, of
which they gave evidence in many ways. They built many temples, which
were approached by a series of handsome _torii_, or stone gateways,
and which were regularly attended by priests. But by far the best
thing they did was to make these embroidered pictures, one of which
I have described at length. Those were emphatically the days of
the _kakemonos_, and they are the most telling expressions of the
deep-rooted affection with which the Japanese regarded their divine
teacher. The works are deeply religious in the most profound sense of
the word, and fill the same place in Japanese art that the works of
Raphael and Michael Angelo do in Christian painting.
[Illustration: Handsome _torii_, or Stone Gateways.]
And these old masters had their counterparts in Japan, though but few
are known to fame. I fancy, for example, that not many have heard of
a certain genius named Tosa Mytzeoki; but he it was who flourished at
the middle of the last century and spent three years of his life in
making the beautiful tapestry that I now possess. The makers of these
_kakemonos_ formed a separate class of society, and spent their whole
lives in the practice of the delicate art. They had no instrument
but the needle, and no material but Japanese silk with which to produce
these wonderful results. They worked year after year at the beck of
grosser spirits than themselves, and of course were poor and unhappy.
They did not have the hope of fame that inspires so many artistic
souls; for when a _kakemono_ was completed it was immediately laid away
in the temple, far from vulgar eyes. Poor Tosa Mytzeoki never dreamed
that the result of his delicate toil would some day grace an American
drawing-room! It is true that on days of religious festivals the
_kakemonos_ would sometimes be brought out and used in decorations for
the walls, but these occasional exhibitions were a sorry foundation for
future fame.
When some nobleman--for the higher classes alone could afford such
a sacrifice--wished to gain the favour of Buddha, he would go to one
of these humble artists and give him an order for a _kakemono_. There
were two kinds from which he might select, those that were embroidered
and those made of paper. The latter were especially abundant, and of
all kinds and sizes. Many of them contained merely an autograph done
with the brush,--the national pen; for the Japanese have always had
a liking for fine handwriting, esteeming excellence in that line a
separate art. The figures with which a large number of these paper
_kakemonos_ are covered are splendid examples of Japanese painting,
the scenes being mostly of a historical and religious kind. Buddha and
Confucius are the special favourites. The backgrounds are often filled
with a host of figures; I remember one at Kioto, that contains nearly
as many faces as Tintoretto’s painting in the Doge’s Palace at Venice.
This _kakemono_ is remarkable for other reasons than this, for the
work is lifelike and vigorous, and though five hundred years old is
well preserved. It is called the “Death of Buddha,” and represents the
expiring prophet surrounded by worshippers with grief-stricken faces,
so vividly depicted that the very air seems filled with lamentation.
For many centuries these _kakemonos_ were being collected in the
Buddhist temples all over Japan. Then came the memorable year 1868,--a
year that marked the close of the Japanese middle ages. The feudal
system was abolished, and the whole scheme of government renovated. Now
the Mikado emerged from his obscure position as a public official, and
began to play more than a sentimental part in Japanese life. The days
of the _shoguns_ were over, and the Mikado was the Mikado indeed. From
this time the misfortunes of the _kakemonos_ began. The long-awaited
opportunity of the Mikado had arrived. He solemnly sent forth an edict
that Buddha had outlived his usefulness, and that the day of his
great-great-grandmother, the sun-goddess, had come; the sole religion
of the Japanese henceforth was to follow the teachings of his heart,
but above all those of the Mikado. So Buddha’s occupation was gone.
The Japanese were already on that downward path, which was to end in
their wearing European trousers under Japanese _kimonos_, and they
began to find the Indian prophet a little out of date. And besides, the
missionaries had impressed upon their minds that those little stone
images were things no self-respecting man would have about him. Many,
therefore, decided to do away with these abominations, and follow the
teachings of their hearts.
But, though the government was persistent, Buddha was even more
so, and was very loath to give up the sway he had secured over the
affections of the Japanese. The humbler classes were also blind to the
superior virtues of the Shinto Temple, and therefore an interesting
struggle began, to see which was the fitter to survive. The struggle
is not ended yet, nor is there any great indication that it soon will
be. The Mikado himself has confessed the weakness of his own cause,
for he has found that the mere listening to the teachings of one’s
heart and obeying the decrees of the sovereign does not constitute a
religion. He has therefore been obliged to borrow a great deal from
his antagonist, and it so happens that the state religion of Japan is
a tangled problem. But the masses of the people are still faithful to
Buddha, whose temples are increasing every day.
[Illustration: The Mendicant Priests.]
In the midst of all these reforms there was one class on whom the
burden rested with a peculiar weight. What was to become of the
priests? The Mikado cared no more for these than he did for Buddha
himself, and so, while a large part of Japan was listening to the
teachings of its heart, these priests wandered in a melancholy way
about the temples, at a loss as to what it all meant. Not only this,
but they were hungry men, as the governmental supplies had suddenly
ceased. The temples were beginning to show the evils of the sentimental
tendency of the people, and it was evident that something must
be done, or Buddha would have to limp back to India with a lessened
appreciation of Japanese hospitality. Thus it was that some one more
daring than the rest bethought him of the _kakemonos_. Here were
treasures indeed, and moreover here were wealthy foreigners beginning
to swarm anxiously to lay sacrilegious hands on everything. You see
it was a simple case of sentiment _versus_ necessity, and as usual
necessity came out on top. The priests must be fed, tea-houses must
be built, the temples preserved; the government frowned upon them
all. Every time, therefore, that the needs became too pressing to be
resisted, a _kakemono_ was aroused from its rest of ages, and converted
into cash. Buddha was thus given a lease of life once more, while his
sacred _kakemonos_ were transported to do service in the drawing-rooms
of Europe and America.
Many of them were bought up by the Japanese themselves. They are a
source of entertainment at dinner parties, where they are brought out
for the inspection of the guests in much the same fashion that we
display our bric-à-brac or collection of paintings. A careful history
of each is kept, which always accompanies it. The more _kakemonos_
the Japanese has, and the greater the antiquity of them, the prouder
man he is. But the demand for them has occasioned many imitations
which are reserved for the benefit of the unsuspecting foreigner. The
connoisseur, however, can detect the difference as easily as he can
distinguish between a copy and an original.
But the problem is not solved yet. The government has issued another
decree, obliging the priests to make an inventory of the treasures
of the temple, and to see that no more _kakemonos_ are sold. He that
has secured one of these works of art, therefore, has great cause for
congratulation. But one still wonders what is to become of the hungry
priests, and the shamefully-treated prophet of India. The question is
made more interesting because Buddha shows about as much indication of
returning to his native land as the priests do to begin listening to
the teachings of their hearts.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]