II
The holy province of Izumo should be visited in October. Then the Shintō gods and goddesses, deserting every other part of Japan, assemble at the great shrine of Kizuki under the presidency of Ōnamuji. But every year Ōnamuji must have sadder news to tell his dwindling fellow-deities. At one time his own temples on Mount Daisen were as many as two hundred and fifty; these have crumbled to a few mossy ruins. The goddess Inada-hime, whose lover intoxicated with saké the eight-headed serpent and cut the monster in pieces, that she might become his spouse, is invoked by fewer youths and maidens desiring happy marriages. On all hands the Shintō Pantheon is being undermined by two strangely allied foes—by atheism and Christianity. Though full of sympathy for the august descendants of Izanagi and Izanami, the creator and creatress of the Japanese universe, I could not refuse the hospitality of a Japanese Christian, whose unremitting kindness will always be associated for me with the romantic beauty of Matsuë.
From my hotel, which stood on the edge of the blue Shinjiko lagoon, I was watching the little steamers puff angrily to and fro, the endless procession of passengers across the long curving bridge, and one or two old fishermen wading in the shallows, when a message arrived inviting me to take tea with Assistant-Judge Nomura at his house on Castle-hill. Happening to arrive before the other guests, I was first shown a curious collection of prints, illustrating the costumes and customs of ancient Korea, and a series of pictures of all the ironclads belonging to the Japanese navy. This mixture of old and new was very characteristic of Mr. Nomura, who admired with enthusiasm Western dress, furniture, and religion, but reverenced at the same time his own national traditions. Naturally his knowledge of the two was one-sided, and he was happily unconscious that his fine collection of Inari and Satsuma ware was simply insulted by the base intrusion of a sixpenny London saucer. Four inhabitants of Matsuë—two young lawyers, a musician, and an old painter—were announced, and the host at once took a more ceremonious tone. We all entered the tiny tea-room, nine feet square, containing four and a half mats, and were occupied for more than half an hour with cha-no-yu, the august tea-making, which seemed to me unnecessarily long, perhaps because it was conducted by a wizard in a grey coat and blue tie. I preferred the dainty witches of the Miyako-odori. Besides the formal ablution and handling of accessory instruments, at stated intervals a bell was rung, the room was swept, we walked from the house to the garden and back from the garden to the house with a scrupulosity that would have satisfied Hideyoshi himself. At last the august tea, thick and green and hot, was presented to each visitor, who drank with slow but noisy demonstrations of lip-homage, to testify polite satisfaction.
Then we adjourned to the sitting-room, where the musician brought out two antique Chinese objects, one bearing resemblance to a flute and the other to a violin with shaggy, semicircular bow. On these he produced, not without effort, very weird sounds, which I was obliged to eulogise as being entirely novel and remarkable, for I could not compare them with any melodies familiar to European ears. I believe the others shared my relief when a painting competition was suggested, for they could all handle a brush as easily as I a pen, and the eye is less fastidious than the ear. The first bout was in three colours, sepia, Indian black, and red, though the last was sparingly used. The designs were rapidly and lightly touched in—a hawk pouncing on a goose; a carp swimming against the stream; a frog climbing up a reed; and a terrified child, with shaven pate, running away from a temple-dancer, masked by a lion’s head. Next a batch of fans was distributed to the competitors, who speedily adorned them with fanciful arabesques, in which curled clouds played hide-and-seek with Fuji, or moonlit pines peeped out from drifted snow. We drew lots for these souvenirs of playful skill, and to me fell the picture of the child flying from the lion-mask. But at this point Mr. Nomura’s own children, two charming little girls, brought us in presents of flowers and cakes wrapped in silver paper. The rickshaws were at the door; sayonara rang cordially in our ears; one of the pleasantest calls I ever made came to an end.
Curiosity prompted me to attend the service held by native Christians in an abandoned Shintō temple perverted to evangelical use. Most of the congregation belonged to the more credulous sex. Mothers, carrying their babies on their backs, sat in rows on mats, while one or two chairs were placed for foreign visitors. All joined heartily in the hymns and listened attentively to the simple prayers. Sometimes a shōji, or sliding shutter, was gently pushed aside, and an inquisitive face peered in on the worshippers. The missionary, a man of athletic frame, with the cold, fixed eyes of a fanatic, preached with fervour on the subject of original sin. He held the doctrine that perfection was to be realised on earth, and believed that he had personally attained it. From all accounts he was a hard-working idealist, who spared no pains to make converts, but his ascetic views must seem violently out of harmony with the Shintōist easy-going faith, which has for moral code the single maxim, “Follow your impulses and obey the Emperor.” Although not subjected to persecution, a native Christian hardly ever remains in his birthplace. The Matsuë converts whom we met had come from Hiroshima, Ōsaka, and other spots. Some estimate of the progress of Western religion among Matsuë merchants may be based on the proportion of believers in the middle school, to which all the boys of the better classes are sent. Out of about five hundred boys and sixty masters, two boys and one master profess Christianity.
Etiquette is luckily assimilated to foreign custom among Japanese Christians. When Judge Nomura returned my call, he was accompanied by his wife and little girls, who were delighted with some dolls and picture-books which I had purchased for them in London. At first O Ai San and O Dai San, diminutive damsels aged four and five respectively, sat solemnly in a corner burning fireworks—hana-bi, as they are called—with tied tongues and eyes fixed on the spluttering flowers of flame. But gradually they thawed, and losing all their shyness, played battledore and shuttlecock, blindman’s buff, and other games. When the babies had gone home with their nurse, the judge and his wife remained to dinner, and a lay preacher, who spoke English perfectly, proved an invaluable medium of conversation. As my guests expressed a desire to conclude the evening with hymns, we sang a great many, from which they derived spiritual pleasure, while my knowledge of their language was much enlarged. The lay-preacher had always two or three hymn-books in his pocket, English and Japanese versions being printed on opposite pages. Suddenly this pious exercise was rudely interrupted. A tipsy geisha, holding a saké-cup in her hand, staggered into the room and addressed some bacchanalian words to the lay preacher, who chanced to be near the door. She had escaped from a rather noisy wedding-party, which was feasting and clapping hands in the room below, while the bridal couple had retired and the shimadai, an emblematic group of pine and bamboo, crane and tortoise, remained for a symbolic centre of festal joy. We took this intrusion for a hint to separate, and it certainly jarred on a devotional mood. To my friends this apparition must have suggested the “scarlet woman,” whose cup is full of abominations, but I could not regard it in any other light than the opportune assertion of la joie de vivre, protesting against the gloomy gospel of Puritan restraint.