THE LAND OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE
We are standing in front of a mysterious gate which is yet not a gate.
You must have seen pictures of Japan many a time, and in some of them
there must have been one of these curious erections. Yet how can one
describe it? The Greek letter [Greek: Pi] is most like it. Imagine a
giant [Greek: Pi] with a second cross-bar below the top one. In Japan
this is called a Torii. The one in front of us, rising like a great
scaffolding far above our heads, is made of wood, but they are often of
stone or metal too. They are always to be found before the entrance to a
Shinto temple. There must have been some meaning in them once upon a
time, but it is lost now, and they remain decorative but useless.
We have left our rickshaw and are climbing up a long, long flight of
steps to a Shinto temple not far from Tokyo, the capital town of Japan.
Very many of the Japs are Buddhists, but it is a strange sort of
Buddhism, not pure like that of the Burmans, and is mixed up with
another religion called Shinto, and many of the people are Shintoists
altogether. This religion is vague and mystical, with much worship of
spirits, especially the spirits of the elements--earth, air, fire, and
water. Everyone who is dead becomes in some degree an object of worship,
and the Jap thinks more of his parents and ancestors than his
children--his dead ancestors especially being much venerated.
When we reach the top of the steps we find ourselves suddenly in a blaze
of loveliness. To the right, to the left, and all around are cherry
trees, covered thickly with blossom which hangs in wreaths and rosettes
and festoons as if moulded in snow. The time for the best of the blossom
is a little past, and the ground at our feet is as white as the trees,
indeed whiter; for just here and there the fairy display on the trees is
slightly browned. The scent is very sweet, and hangs in the air like
delicate perfume. In the time of blossom there are many outings and
festivities in Japan; people make up parties to go to the orchards, and
thoroughly enjoy their beauty. Come right underneath the trees and look
up, we can see the thick, heavily laden branches against the soft rich
blue of a cloudless sky, and in our ears is the hum of a myriad bees. It
is as if the freshness of early spring and the richness of full summer
were mingled together.
As we wander on over the scented ground we notice, a little way off, a
rather pathetic-looking Japanese in the national costume, with a flat
board or book in his hand. He is looking at us earnestly, and follows on
at a respectful distance behind us.
Next we come upon a quaint little garden on the lines of what we should
call a landscape garden in England, but it is all on a tiny scale, as
if made for dolls to walk in. There is a pond as big as a tea-tray,
walks the breadth of one's foot, wee trees, gnarled with age and twisted
and fully grown, but no higher than your knee. It is all so delicate and
dainty and tiny that we are afraid to walk in it for fear we should
spoil it; we feel thoroughly big and clumsy as Gulliver must have felt
among the Lilliputians, and we expect every minute to see the rightful
owners, wee men and women the size of a man's fingers, rushing out from
the little summer-house with the curved roof at the end, and crying
shrilly to us to go away!
Treading carefully, a foot at a time, along the miniature paths, we pass
through this and go on toward the temple which now appears amid a grove
of deep dark pines. The steps are worn and hollowed, and on each side of
them is an astonishing red figure of a man-monster in a very ferocious
attitude, like that of the lions rampant seen on crests. These figures
are a dark hot red and are dotted all over with white dabs; as we draw
nearer to them we see that these dabs are doubled up bits of white paper
sticking irregularly here and there without any arrangement. We cannot
imagine what they are for, but as we stare we hear a foot crunch the
gravel gently, and the little Jap with the board creeps up and salaams
deeply, making at the same time a curious hissing noise as if he sucked
in his breath. He must be very nervous.
"If the honourable sirs will allow this humble servant to explain," he
begins in fluent and perfect English.
We are only too glad of his help, and not to be outdone in politeness we
simultaneously raise our hats to him. He then tells us that all these
paper pellets are prayers or wishes. People write down what they want on
them and then moisten them in their mouths and spit them out against the
images; if the paper sticks it shows the wish will be granted, if it
falls to the ground then fate is against it. It is not a very beautiful
custom, but perhaps not quite so bad as betel-nut chewing!
Then the Jap coughs nervously, and with an overwhelming apology for
daring to presume so far, explains that we ought to remove our
"honourable shoes" before entering the temple. Of course we do it at
once, though English shoes are not meant to take off and on at every
turn, and while we struggle with our laces he knocks on the woodwork of
the temple, and the sliding doors slip back along grooves, showing a
very aged priest who smiles and beckons us in; so we pass on, feeling
all the while conscious of the mystery of a country so utterly unlike
our own. Inside, the floor is covered with thick mats, so we do not miss
our shoes, though we step cautiously at first. It is very dim, but
gradually our eyes grow accustomed to the want of light and we see
lacquered screens, and little recesses, and bronze lamps, and curious
images. Though it is spotlessly clean, very different from the Hindu
temple, there is a strong smell of incense or burnt flowers or something
rather odd. Our friendly Jap has gone down on his knees and is bowing
his forehead to the ground, but we are not expected to do that
evidently.
Two weird figures in peaked caps, fastened under their chins by tapes,
have drifted out silently from somewhere and follow us as the priest
leads us round. There does not seem to be any one special shrine with a
central figure for us to see; perhaps there is one, but it is not shown
to foreigners. It is all vague and rather meaningless, and the carving
and decoration are unsatisfying. After a while, as there does not seem
to be anything more forthcoming, we drop a few coins into a bowl held
out to us and prepare to go. Just as we reach the door another strange
being in a peaked cap appears with tiny cups of clear amber-coloured tea
on a tray, and holds them out to us. The little cups have no handles,
and there is no milk in the tea, but on the tray are several rather
nice-looking little cakes, only, unfortunately, they are all the colours
of the rainbow--violet and green and scarlet. I utterly refuse to touch
them, but the English-speaking Jap assures me they are "nice," so you,
declaring that you are "jolly hungry," eat several and pronounce them
"jolly good." We sip the tea, which tastes utterly different from that
we have at home, and bowing all round again we put on our shoes and
descend the steps. I'm sure if I lived here long I should be quite fit
to take a position at court, my "honourable" manners would be so much
improved. There is nothing brusque or rough or rude about these people,
you couldn't imagine them scrambling or pushing to get in front of
others even at a big show.
A voice behind us says timidly, "Will the honourable sirs be pleased to
employ this humble servant as interpreter?"
We stop and look at him. It is not a bad idea. We have felt already this
morning, even in coming straight from our very Western hotel here, how
helpless we are in this land where the chair-men do not speak a word of
English, and where even the street names are in Chinese characters. This
little man is quite unassuming, he would certainly be no trouble and
might be very useful. When we stop he deprecatingly opens his flat book
and shows us drawings in freehand of scrolls and animals that he has
made. He explains that he tries to get a living by offering such designs
to the shops, but that he would like better to be interpreter to us, as
he wishes to perfect his English. The terms he asks are absurdly
moderate. Yes, we will have him.
We engage him then and there, and he enters our service at once; there
is no need for delay, for he is apparently not encumbered with anything
beyond his drawing-book. He brightens up wonderfully when we say "yes."
Poor little chap, I expect he is half starved. In most countries it
would be rash indeed to engage a man at sight without any sort of
written "character," but there is a simplicity and honesty about this
one which gives us confidence in him. I am sure he would never cheat us
deliberately, anyway, I am quite ready to risk it.
[Illustration: RICKSHAW.]
We tell him that what we want is to see something of Tokyo to-day, and
then to go off into the country and try to get a glimpse of the real
Japanese life, un-Europeanised, in some small village where we could
stay at a little country inn for a day or two. He enters into the scheme
at once and says that he will have the plans all ready to suggest to us
this evening. Meantime he takes command, and after seeing us into our
waiting rickshaws, calls up another for himself, gives the three men
directions, and off we go.
As we run back to the town we notice the houses standing by themselves
in the suburbs, quite good, large houses, some of them, surrounded by
their own gardens, shut in by high walls so that only the sloping
red-tiled roofs, curved up at the end, are visible. Some of these are
two storeys high, but when we get into the town we see at first only
rows and rows of one-storey houses. There are frequent earthquakes in
Japan, and to build many-storeyed blocks would mean frightful disaster
and loss of life. As it is, the people can rush quickly out of their
little homes into the streets at the first signs of a shaking.
What do you notice about the streets that strikes you most particularly?
To me it is the colouring--blue. You remember that in Burma there was
practically no blue; the people wore red and pink and magenta and
orange, but they seemed one and all to avoid blue. I used to think it
was because they knew that blue would not suit their sallow, yellowish
complexions; but the Japanese are just as yellow, in fact more so, for
the Burmese yellow is a kind of coffee colour, and theirs real saffron,
and yet the Japs are very fond of blue. The coolies and work-men all
dress in it, with those astonishing signs on their backs that we noticed
first at Yokohama, and the shops have blue banners hanging out beside
them. These are for their names--they are signboards, in fact. Instead
of running across horizontally, as our writing does, the Japanese
writing--which is the same as the Chinese, though the spoken language is
different--runs vertically. A Jap does many things exactly the opposite
way from what we do. He begins to read a book from what we should
consider the end, backwards, and instead of going along, he goes up and
down a line; and the long thin strips, with those mysterious cabalistic
signs on them, are the shopkeepers' names and businesses. The shops are
all open to the street, without glass, in this quarter; they are just
what we should call stalls; most of them seem to be greengrocers' or
fruiterers'. And in the first there are always prominently in front huge
vegetables like gigantic radishes or elongated turnips; the people eat
them largely, though to a European both the flavour and the smell are
nasty. In the fish shops the funniest things to be seen are great black
devil-fish, or octopuses, with their lumpy round bodies and black
tentacles stretching out on all sides. They are loathsome to look at,
but the Japs are not the only people who use them for food; in parts of
Italy the peasants eat them as a staple dish whenever they can catch
them.
There are no pavements here, and the streets are very muddy after last
night's heavy rain, but it doesn't seem to matter a bit to the numerous
inhabitants. All those who can afford it go in rickshaws, which pass us
every minute, and the others wear clogs which lift them high out of the
dirt. These clogs are called _geta_, and they are the funniest footwear
to be found anywhere. You would find it more difficult to get about on
them than on roller-skates, but the Japs are so much used to them that
they trip along morning, noon, and night in them without being the least
tired. They are simply little stools of wood, one flat piece being
supported by two smaller ones at the toe and heel, and they are held on
by straps across the foot. Men, women, and children are thus raised
inches out of the mud, and patter about, ting-tang, ting-tang, all day
long. Some of the women have coarse white stockings made with a separate
stall for the big toe, on the model of a baby's glove, so that the geta
strap can go through.
[Illustration: GETA CLOGS.]
We have now got into the middle of the town where the more populous
streets are. You ought to notice how the colours of the clothes differ
for the different ages of the people: the grandmothers and grandfathers
wear dark purples and sombre hues; the middle-aged people have soft
colouring, grey greens and palish shades; and the children are very gay,
in every imaginable colour and often all mixed together. The girls have
all a broad sash called an _obi_, humped up in a funny way behind their
bodies; in the children this becomes a great bow like the wings of a
butterfly. The people are small, and were it not for the clogs they
would look smaller still; their country is not little, for Japan is
larger than the United Kingdom, but the people are rarely tall, and they
are slenderly built, with small bones, so that being among them makes an
ordinary fair-sized Englishman feel clumsy and long-limbed. Now we are
in the main street of all. Here comes a tram filled with Japanese, all
smiling and chattering and looking happy; they take life with a smile.
The houses here are larger than those we have passed, and some are just
European buildings of stone, and the shop-windows are filled with glass,
and show as fine a display as in the best London shops. There are many
entirely for the sale of Western things, and others for the things of
the country--the beautiful embroideries and silks, and silver-work and
lacquer-work and carving, which you know so well by sight at home, for
it is sent over in large quantities now, and anyone can buy it in London
as cheaply as here.
As we near our hotel we tell the interpreter, whose "honourable name" we
have learned is Yosoji,--everything belonging to other people is
"honourable" here,--that we would like to see the palace where the
Emperor lives; so he gives an order to the rickshaw man, and we set out
once more.
On the way we see many open spaces and pass through a park, but when we
get to the palace we find that no one is allowed to go in, and we can
only drive round by the walls and moat. The Mikado, or Emperor, is
worshipped by most of his people; he is in the position of a god, and it
is no mere expression of speech to say that every schoolboy would be
proud and glad to die for him. There is no country in the world whose
people are more passionately devoted to their fatherland than the Japs.
The idea of prominent Japanese going about in foreign countries trying
to belittle their own, or undermine her power in the countries she has
won by the sword, is unthinkable.
Later in the afternoon, coming out again from our hotel, we find Yosoji
waiting for us, and we tell him we want to walk about on foot to look at
some of the shops. He protests, and we can see he thinks us almost out
of our minds to suggest going on foot. He pleads earnestly that
rickshaws are very cheap. We have to explain that it is not the money we
are thinking of, but that we really prefer to go on foot. He doesn't
believe it--he can't, because no Japanese would prefer to go on foot
when he could ride. So we take no further notice of him and just walk
away, leaving him to follow humbly and despairingly. We have not taken
many steps when a whole flight of rickshaw men swoop across the road and
are on our heels, crying out, "Rickshaw, rickshaw, shaw, shaw, r'sha,"
like our old friends the pests of Egypt. We pretend not to hear, and
walk on with what dignity we can, but they follow persistently, almost
trampling on our heels, and reiterating their cries all the time. They
can only imagine we must be deaf and blind. The crowd grows greater, the
street is getting blocked. We pass a Japanese policeman in a stiff and
badly made uniform, and are seized with sudden hope that he will send
the offenders flying, but he does nothing of the sort; he fumbles in
his pocket, brings out a little text-book Of English, and laboriously
reads out, "Please secure me a good rickshaw," and looks at us
triumphantly as if he had solved the difficulty!
I have no moral courage; I don't know if you have more, anyway, let us
take two and then they can follow us if they like, and the others will
go away. Accordingly we give orders to Yosoji, who bows, only
half-satisfied, and interprets our orders. The plan works, the other men
slink off, and the two selected ones follow us limply at a foot's pace.
What I am really making for is a little print shop I saw as we passed
along here this morning, with a number of Japanese drawings in the
window. They are so queer, so well done, and yet so conventional that
they have a charm of their own. Here it is! Look at that extraordinary
picture of the great fish breaking through a hole in the blocks of ice!
The ice _looks_ cold, it is very well done, but the little bits of spray
loop up round the fish in a stiff frill of a regular pattern. Then there
is that one of the sea. It gives one a tremendous idea of a heavy
lowering storm with the great indigo waves curling over that doomed
boat, yet the edge of every wave has a sort of lace frill on it exactly
alike! I must have those to take home; they won't take up any room.
As we enter the Jap lady who is selling the prints gives a long hiss.
She bows profoundly, and so do we. They won't know us when we get home!
"But why did she hiss?" you ask Yosoji. He says it is a sign of respect.
Oh! I thought they were nervous! How funny! As long as they don't expect
me to do it back again--I can manage the bowing when there is no one
there but you to see, but if I tried to hiss I should break down in the
middle! I take out my purse to pay for the print. The money here is
confusing, because there are yen and sen. A yen is equal to two
shillings and a halfpenny, and a sen is only the hundredth part of a
yen, or about a farthing. In order to reckon the change the old lady
takes up a frame with beads strung across it on wires; I believe it's
called an abacus, and they use them in kindergarten schools to teach
children to count. She must be an ignorant old dame, and yet she looks
wholly respectable. I wonder what Yosoji thinks of it. When we look at
him he is quite demure and solemn and doesn't seem to notice anything
odd.
Coming out of the shop we find the dearest trio of children gazing at
us. Of all the sights in Japan the children are the most fascinating.
They are so funnily dressed, like the odd little Jap dolls English
children buy. These three are clad very magnificently in kimonos of silk
crape, very soft, and brilliantly coloured, with huge coloured sashes.
Their little heads, with straight all-round fringes of black hair
sticking out like brushes, are deliciously comic. They regard us gravely
and without any fear or shyness.
It is getting dark; suddenly someone lights a Chinese lantern across the
street, and almost as if it were a given signal another pops out and
another and another. Chinese lanterns with us are used for decoration,
and it is impossible to help feeling as if it were a festival when we
see them gleaming along the street among the coloured streamers.
Altogether the lanterns, the gay dresses, the smiling faces, the funny
shops, the clear deep blue of a perfect evening sky seen overhead, make
a glorious picture. Shut your eyes and "think back" a moment. Think of
Oxford Street on a wet night when the shops are shut and the high
arc-lights shine down coldly on rigid lines and bleak grey walls!
[Illustration: A JAP VILLAGE.]