Part 11

All this may perhaps sound far-fetched to English ears. If we are clean and polite it is on sanitary or on ethical grounds, not for æsthetic reasons, because “it is healthy or right,” not “because it is more beautiful,” and we make a broad distinction between ethics and æsthetics. In Japan, on the contrary, there is the most intimate of relations between them. The whole modern controversy of “art for art’s sake,” all the dearly cherished views of French critics that art has nothing to do with morals, is simply unmeaning to them. You might as well say that the sun had no relation to light.

I have already mentioned how the _hokku_ form of verse arose as a moral influence, how literary composition is always recommended as the best medicine for sorrow; but what of a nation whose gardens are arranged to express an ethical abstraction such as courage, resignation, obedience, or to suggest a saying of Buddha, the Blessed One; whose dwarf trees are not merely grown to make a design, but also to express an idea and suggest a reflection; where every single tree, and flower, and bird, and beast is a moral symbol and is commonly used as such; where a simple candlestick of a stork standing on a tortoise and holding the stem of a convolvulus in its mouth is a whole philosophy: the stork, representing Life, standing upon the tortoise, Eternity, and holding in its mouth the Morning Glory, a flower whose brief life, only blooming for the few hours after dawn, is typical of mortality, and the impermanence of all things. From Life based upon Eternity springs Mortality, whose joys are fleeting. Here is the kernel of the whole Buddhistic faith. The impermanence of phenomena and the eternity of law, that is, cause and effect.

Even such an ordinary art as that of arranging flowers is deeply ethical. The whole of Chinese philosophy is bound up with it. Each stem is known by the name of some tenet in this philosophy, and at the end of the lesson on flower arrangement the teacher sits down and talks to the class of the underlying ethical ideas.

I do not think there is any art in the world into which so much thought and meaning has been poured as into that of the Japanese. Every design, even the simplest, even the most stereotyped, has behind it a whole world of symbol, of suggestion which speaks to the mind of the beholder as the outlines to his eye. And this is the reason why no design is ever unmeaning, haphazard, as it so often is with us. It is there not only because it is beautiful, but because it is appropriate to the place and the occasion, because it has some connection with the object it decorates, with the person who gives or the person who receives it, with the time and the circumstances of the giving. Their art, in fact, regarded from the ethical point of view, is often a sort of moral shorthand, a very beautiful, finely wrought shorthand, which men can take away and think upon.

And this brings me to my last point. John Addington Symonds, in one of his wonderful essays on the Italian Renaissance, says that painting inevitably fell from its high estate among men because modern life is too complex to be expressed by it. That just in the same way as the Renaissance required something less simple than the sculpture of the Greeks to translate its thoughts and feelings into outward form, so we in this century cannot express our own more subtle and complex thought in terms of painting, and therefore never again can we hope to rival the perfection of that old Renaissance art. And he concludes by remarking that it is in music, more plastic and suggestive, that we must seek our best expression. Now Japanese art is not dead but intensely living, and it has always seemed to me that it lives, it holds its place in their life, thought and culture just because it has learnt to express those complex and subtle emotions which make up our world to-day. And it does it, not by imaging them forth defined and definite as our painting seeks to do, but just as our music would by suggestion.

To every Japanese painting a man must bring his own soul and his own thoughts, and where he has none or little, then he will turn away complacently, saying, “Here, there is nothing.” For his are not the eyes to see all the dim eternal problems, all the vistas of unwritten poetry which the artist has but shadowed forth; the artist whose part is not to portray, but infinitely to suggest.

SCENES IN RAIN AND SUNSHINE

“What it is That dwelleth here I know not; Yet my heart is full of gratitude, And the tears trickle down.” SAIGIO. “Japanese Literature,” by W. G. Aston.

I

THE MOAT

It is winter, and yet a summer sky of clearest blue, faint and pure. A white sun rides in the southern sky, winning me to believe it summer until the cold northern wind lifts the edge of my cloak, and I know it winter.

It is warm here in the corner of the bridge, full in the sunlight, and I linger. The dark, still waters of the moat creep stealthily along on either side of me; in the distance I can see the rounded arch of a bridge, so arched is the span and so white that I could believe the people had stolen the young crescent of the moon to span their waters.

I lean on my bamboo parapet and look. The dark still waters run between brown stone walls all overhung with the twisted limbs of the fir-trees, such big strong branches lying almost along the ground, and twisted as if in a vain endeavour to get back to the earth beneath. I watch the thick strong branches, soberly green, the masses of foliage riotously so, a green line and its shadow.

The stone banks of the moat are unhewn and uncemented, but their surface is one unbroken line of sober brown; and I look at the long wave of muddy finger-marks traced by the tide’s edge, and now high up the wall, and drop my eyes to the deep mud-brown of the waters below.

* * * * *

The bamboo parapet grows hot, hotter. I wonder who laid those stones, and who keeps them so free of grass and weeds. On the whole they are not more silent and solid than the big limbs of the trees above. Past the bridge in the distance is an unkempt space of yellow grass, then a tall red building shoots abruptly into the sky. The small brown policeman, hidden by his military cloak and sword, stands motionless as I. Am I dreaming that this is a city of a million souls?

Blue, green, brown, black; sky, trees, stones, water; a white sun, a white bridge--and suddenly the two seem to meet in a whirl of dust, my scale of colours vanishes and with it the dreamy quiet and the summer sun. A clatter of _gheta_ on the bridge, two _kuruma_ past the policeman, a boat on the moat, the voice of the _tōfu_ man following his bell along the road, the shadow of the tall house over the world--and I awake to winter and the town.

II

A RAINY DAY

Rain!

And the world lies like an impressionist picture washed in with white. Shut up in my miniature hansom, with the apron up to my eyes and the roof down to the brim of my hat, it passes before me in misty unreality. But for an occasional bob of the black mushroom hat of my _kurumaya_ as he pulls the _’ricksha_ out of a hole, I am drawn by an invisible force.

It has rained for a week, and the streets are bogs, the puddles--ponds. The wind drives the rain with a murmured “_ssssh_” against the tarpaulin sides of the _kuruma_, but in front there is no rain, only an intangible, shadowy whiteness between the world and me.

The green bank of the moat, the dark water, even the fir-trees whose green arms stretch down long fingers into the water, are uncertain and swollen as the world to sleepy eyes. Black _kuruma_ splash past me, with the large glass eye in their aprons shadowly suggestive. The coolie in his straw raincoat, just a walking sheaf finishing in two bare brown legs, plods on, a golden figure against the grey. A long string of carts pass by me, long narrow carts drawn by long thin horses; cart and horses hidden under a structure of yellow oil-paper, until they look like huge golden bats or mythical dragons. And with his back to the head of the horse, a halter in one hand, a yellow paper umbrella in the other, his bare brown legs lost in the mud, the walking sheaf moves on.

All the world to-day is four inches higher than its wont; and the stilt-like _gheta_ seem an uncertain footing for their owners. Bare to the thigh is the _kurumaya_, and his brown legs look like the statues of Greece sunned into life, so perfect are their outlines.

Down the vanishing road are two pale yellow umbrellas, gold on grey, and I marvel at the beauty of the colour. Suddenly round the bend of the street comes a third--foreign, _black_--and in a flash the beauty goes; a muddy road in the drenching rain alone is left, cold, prosaic. And I shiver in my _kuruma_.

III

MMÉ (PLUM-BLOSSOMS)

They lay in fleece-white purity down the hillside, and the brooding stillness of that garden was as a sheltering wing above the world.

Beneath one’s feet the six-sided tiles set in the brown earth were clean with a Dutch cleanliness, and the soil all around had been raked with the same quaint precision. Not a fallen leaf, nor the foot-mark of a bird, marred the soft brown surface--only the narrow line of glazed tiles ran on and on under the trees.

On every side the curve of the hill sloped upwards, outwards, drawing the white garden nearer as a mother draws her child close within her arms.

A hot sweet scent is in the air, delicate as honeysuckle, fragrant as the pine, half-soft, half-spiced--the scent of the blossoming plum, _mmé_, the emblem of chastity, of womanly purity and strength.

The pale grey stems of the trees are bent and old; some are covered with a grey-green moss, and between their silvered stems I walk as in the cloistered calm of ruined abbeys.

Up through the white fleece of blossom overhead bright stars of blue shine down. The sun-warmed presence of the living earth draws her children near. In all the world there is no sound....

“Like as a hen gathereth her chickens.” ...

Is not that the white wing of the eternal mother overhead? And the warm, sweet fragrance of herself is all around.

IV

WET LEAVES

It had rained all night and all day; big, solid drops of rain that fell as compactly through the air as battalions of small shot, but at twilight the raindrops dwindled, slackened, dwindled, ceased.

The clear, colourless sky, which the whole day long had shot down its drops of rain, drew together in grey clouds, growing momentarily greyer, thicker and more grey, and shining with a pale light as though far away behind those thick coverings a great white light was burning.

The stones on the pathway were all wet and shining and crunched down into little pools of water under one’s heels. The trees were dripping raindrops at each leaf, the trunks of all the pines were a dark brown with wet.

In the garden there was peace, a peace of plants weighed down with raindrops, and very tired. Up on the damp hillside the note of a solitary bird sounded forlornly. _Uguisu_, the Japanese nightingale was calling. One sweet short song, and then a greater silence.

Above the little grey shrine to Inari, the Fox God, two golden oranges swayed out against the dark green bush. The raindrops on their under sides trickled slowly over the little temple, and down the miniature steps, while those on the upper sides stood out in little clusters growing larger and larger until an imperceptible stir of the heavy fruit sent them chasing their fellows down the temple’s roof.

And the sky above grew greyer. The golden oranges, larger for the raindrops, swayed mysteriously out, bright yellow against dark green, in a damp, dark world.

At the path’s edge another pathway of clear water encircled the temple and the orange trees; a water so clear that it hardly seemed to exist, while the brown banks and the brown stones showed wet and dark as the pathway under foot. And round the temple and the orange trees in ever silent motion along the brown pathway swam strange fishes; bright blue carp with black sides and designs in creamy white, large orange carp with tracings in silver, golden carp with six or seven waving tails, and solitary in their midst one white patriarch whom age had turned to driven snow.

And the damp, dark world turned slowly darker. The wet hillside grew a black, blurred line; the light behind the cloud was going out; the trees had lost their colour.

All silently the blue carp moved along the dark pathway, and the golden orange globes dripped above the little temple. Bright blue, orange; the light behind the clouds was out.

V

ASAMAYAMA

We were to climb Asamayama. The plan seemed simple and delightful; to take horses in the cool of the evening and ride by moonlight to the last green frill of trees upon the mountain side: to climb the nine thousand feet to the very edge of the crater; and then in those blackest hours before the dawn to look into the volcano’s mysterious depths, all red and glowing, where flame and smoke strive ever for the mastery, where the long orange tongues leap up through rolling purple masses of the smoke; and all around and all below, as far as eye can pierce, is lurid glowing red. And still on the crater’s treacherous sides which hold smoke and flame unsteadily as a drunkard holds his cup, to look down fascinated until they crumble beneath one’s feet, and the thrill of terror bites in the memory of the mighty force indelible. Then to breakfast under the sheltering walls of the old crater; to watch the darkness melt before the coming day, to see the sun rise swiftly in his strength, and the long circle of the hills stand clear and blue and liquid on the upland plain; to see the giant ridges of the mountains stretching from sea to sea with the faint white cone of Fuji a dream upon the distant sky; to look in the freshness of the morning upon the beauty of the land, and standing on the cinder slopes of Asama to trace the tortured lava beds stretching like long grey snakes among the green till the trees grow over and the forest engulfs them. And still in the first hours of the dawn to ride back slowly with the memory of the crater and the sunrise making pictures in one’s mind, tired but contented.

The programme was delightful, perfect, it only remained to carry it out. So we started, on the sorry horses of the upland regions of Japan, and the full moon fitful behind thick clouds shone sadly. It was distinctly chilly, for the table land of Karuizawa is 3000 feet above sea level, and in the air was the damp shiver of coming rain. Still we started, out of the village and along the wide still plain where the dark shadow of a hill showed round as a basin on our right. This was Asama’s satellite, born of her fires, made of her ashes, a round, smooth, green hill, cruelly deceitful.

The empty plain stretched dark to the edge of the misty clouds and diffused through it was a pale grey light that shimmered, trembling. Over the plain and the mountain, through the air and the shadows, the light filtered mistily, swaying and rounding the outlines till they looked like solid bodies seen through a vast perspective of clear water. As we plodded on, the paper lanterns held by each boy at the horses’ heads turned all the wet black path to shining silver pools which gleamed as the light fell on them, quivered like spreading veins of ore, and disappeared into the blackness. The limpid flowing air that swayed above the plain, all luminous and clear, grew darker, shrank as it were together, lost its liquid light, turned slowly into rain, and came down steadily.

We passed through a second village, and went on, over a rutty road, between high banks, persistently upwards. All the sounds of the world had died away, and the life of the woods, the rustle of leaves and of grasses, the long thick hum of the insects was dead. Nothing moved. Even the rain made no sound as it fell in great wet clouds upon the ground.

High up on the rutty road we halted, while the two boys plunging downward through the bushes in the darkness drank of a silent stream which flowed below, the last water we should pass that night. The leaves of the bushes cut sharp green silhouettes upon the blackness, stiff and metallic as tinfoil, as the boys, lantern in hand, plunged downward. But we did not go, for the soft cloud of rain was falling thicker, wetter, and we were cold. When each had drunk his fill, and the metal green leaves of the bushes had flashed back into darkness again, we plodded on, over the common, under the trees, along another piece of road, looser, more rutty than the last, and definitely among the dripping trees we climbed upward.

The moon was gone now, hidden deep behind the falling layers of cloud. And there was a hush, a stagnancy upon all things as though an unseen, unknown force were terrorising life to stillness. Not a tree had leave to stir. The branches huddled dumbly, and all the seething insect life which makes the woods so full of sound lay stricken, lay dumb, paralysed; and among the damp trees we journeyed on.

* * * * *

At midnight the horses stopped, in a fold of the hills on the edge of the trees, where the blackness lay solid, and we slid down. One boy tied the horses together and sat down patiently to await our return next morning. The other snuffed the candle in his paper lantern and prepared to lead the way. By this time it was raining hard, in distinct material drops, which splashed sharply on face and hands, and it was pitch dark. The boy, lantern in hand, went first, and all the light of the lantern so carefully trimmed was cut off from us by his stout round body. We knew by the crunch there were cinders under foot, by the cold wet dabs that ghost-like pressed our hands that there were bushes, and that we climbed.

From time to time the boy would sway his lantern to one side or the other, and stunted shrubs like London laurel trees would start into being, and disappear. With each swing of the lantern the stunted shrubs grew scarcer and more stunted, till they dwindled to bushes, to mere green weeds like dandelions, to nothingness. Then the light fell on cinder, piled up, half-burnt cinder with ends of broken brickbats, and all the rubbish of a dust-heap. And at each step the wind came up and up; colder, stronger, wetter it tore down the bare steep slopes driving us backwards. Then we would sit down upon the cinders, our backs to the mountain, our feet on the brickbats, and pant. It was distinctly exhausting. Each footstep was a launch into the unknown, and a searching for a foothold, each pause an adding to the weight of cinders that drifted down boots and clothing. And it rained with fierce splashes when the wind blew, with dull persistency when it died away, but still unceasingly. And that sense of an unseen, unknown force, paralysing all things, grew with each footstep. The chill of a dumb terror lay upon the world, and the utter desolation struck colder than the wind.

We rested again while the icy wind rushed screeching through the cinders; and, as it died away, the chirp of a Japanese grasshopper came into the stillness. We were far above the weeds now, in the region of perpetual cinder, and still that grasshopper chirped weakly. But the spell was too real, the terror too deathly; the unseen, unknown force took a step nearer in the darkness, and the weak wee chirp seemed only the voice of the horror, the breath of the dumbness giving it life.

The cinders grew looser and looser as we climbed, more difficult to tread, and the stagnant silence was filled and filled with sulphur. It did not come in breaths or gusts, or driving before the wind, it was there in the silence, part of it, and it wrapped us round. If dead silence can grow more deathly, then did that stillness die again. The dumb terror tightened on the world, and the unknown force came nearer.

From far below the sound of pouring heavy stones drove up and up. The mountain rumbled in its depths, rumbled and was still. The presence of that unseen force was manifest. Before it terror crouched still as a bird beneath the swooping shadow of the hawk.

We climbed up heavily, up through the thick sulphur and the loose steep cinders, up till we turned, and the full force of the wind came sweeping round the side of the mountain. We were walking on the edge, the real edge over which you could fall, and it was all of lava, sticky as clay and crossed with deep black cracks that had no bottom. The wind swept down here undisturbed, the gusts of rain broke sharply on the paper lantern as it swayed from side to side to peer out a way. The sticky lava softened rapidly until it sucked around our feet, drawing them down. Then a long fierce gust blew out the lantern and we stood still.

“Honourably please stand very still,” called the boy quickly.

And we stayed dead still.

The gust of wind rushed by us, rushed on. Then another blew till we cowered on the sinking lava. It was so long in passing that the moments seemed as hours. We stood like statues. Insidiously the lava crept above our feet, crept stealthily, and motionless we waited.

The gust died down but the wind still blew, still blew. A light quivered for a moment in the darkness and went out. The boy had lit a match. He struck another. It flickered in little yellow leaps that showed the lantern and his face and went abruptly out. Again the tiny mandorla of light shot up, the boy was holding the lantern in his hand all ready. We could see the flame double as the candle caught, then both went swiftly out, for again the wind came rushing down. It blew and blew. Then it blew so fiercely that to blow again it stopped to take its breath. Quickly in the second’s pause the match flared up, the lantern lit, and we could move.

As we drew out our feet the wicked sticking lava sucked, and the boy held the lantern low to peer out the cracks. Then he turned sharply to the left, and the wind was gone.