III
And yet the joy of living, dissociated from any principle but that of self-indulgence, is apt to produce strange types of Anglo-Saxon degeneracy. Dr. Silenus, whose hospitality and frankness are a byword in Azabu, would seem to have fallen victim to that fatal fascination which Mr. Kipling ascribes to the lands “East of Suez, where the best is like the worst; Where there ain’t no ten commandments, an’ a man can raise a thirst.” Thirst was never absent, and the decalogue rigidly banished from the epicurean establishment, which I take leave to describe as a warning and a comfort to the “unco’ guid.”
Sunday afternoon was regularly set apart for pagan revels, to which the whole neighbourhood was admitted, for the large-hearted Doctor loved to see his house full of friends and acquaintances. When you had skirted the moat which encircles the imperial palace, and climbed the steep daimachi, you hailed with relief a row of houses, mostly inhabited by Europeans and surrounded by similar high fencing. But, the gate once passed, all similarity between Liberty Hall and its respectable neighbours ceased. In no other courtyard would you be greeted by the sight of a hawk, an owl, a goat, and several monkeys dwelling together in unity. Lucullus, the goat, was an epicurean like his master, but less eclectic, for his diet included wood and iron and stones, nails and lighted cigars and boxes of matches. Indeed, he might still be living, a triumph of desire over digestion, had he not one day tried a dose of refined camphor, which brought death and a costly Shintō funeral.
Having penetrated the bodyguard of animals, you would enter a large room, adorned with fine bronzes and screens, which you had not leisure to examine, for so many unusual sights claimed attention. At the back would be masked dancers or musicians, rather cramped for space by reason of the motley, semicircular crowd of men, women, and children, who filled the foreground as far as a row of chairs set in the verandah for barbarian friends. Dominating all sat the master of the revels, his huge torso bare to the waist and profusely tattooed with elegant designs. As he passed the whisky to the “parasites” (for so he was accustomed to call the band of adherents who made his house their own), the genial, rotund Doctor looked the very incarnation of Ebisu or Silenus.
Lion-Dance on New Year’s Day.
The first dancer on the afternoon of my arrival was Kabukei-jishi, the boy in a lion’s mask, whose figure is so familiar in Japanese streets on New Year’s Day. Kabukei, a native of Echigo, is said to have originated and given his name to this realistic dance. Though the children must have seen it often before, some of them laughed and others cried with terror, as the clever mimic crawled up to them roaring, or scratching himself, or shaking his ears. Then followed a comic scene between two peasants and a Daimyō, who was obliged to defend himself with sword and fan against the heavy hoes of his disrespectful henchmen. A medical comedy, probably inspired to some extent by Dr. Silenus, had for motif a quarrel between a physician and a farmer, whose wife was expecting to give birth to a child but had no wish to complicate an old-fashioned process by new-fangled medicine. The outspoken dialogue did not shock the unsophisticated audience, for whom Nature is not swathed in conventional veils of reticence, but the actors observed the ne coram publico maxim to this extent, that the birth took place in the wings, to be followed by a rather thrilling infanticide. Bloodshed is always pleasing to the playgoers of Tōkyō. The last piece to be performed was a duologue between Kitsune, the fox-god, and a greedy rustic. Kitsune carried a bag of rice, and offered a mouthful in reward for every athletic or acrobatic feat which the other should succeed in imitating. When the gilt-snouted fox had set the example of leaping or balancing with adroit agility, the sly lout would make a clumsy pretence of doing the same, and always managed to obtain the rice by chicanery. At last the god discovered that he was being tricked, and killed the peasant with a blow from his rake. Nothing seemed to amuse the Azabu children so much as the antics of these two.
On another occasion Dr. Silenus invited a large party to witness a still more interesting exhibition in his garden. If I have used the word “degeneracy” to express his repudiation of certain moral ideas to which the Anglo-Saxon race pays the compliment of formal adherence, it should yet be added that his “self-indulgence” included the laborious pleasure of teaching himself the art of sword-making. Under Japanese tuition he had attained great proficiency, and if his blades did not rank with those of Masamune and Muramasa, at least they excited the admiration and envy of experts. Between him, therefore, and those martial patriots of his adopted country who in their hearts regret the swashbuckling days of old, before barristers and deputies were minted from a foreign model, latent sympathy could not but exist. Now the sōshi, to whom allusion has already been made, and whose nominal profession might range from that of vagabond actor to that of political agent or bravo, have this in common—they love a life of roving independence, while owning loose allegiance to some momentary chief. As constitutional methods take deeper root among their compatriots, it becomes more difficult for them to practise an avowed calling which shall serve as a centre of organisation. In the summer of 1898 one of them hit on the brilliant idea of founding an Association for the Revival of the Noble Art of Self-defence; that is, the euphemism was closely akin to the title by which lovers of boxing in England and America glorify their taste, while the object was to promote skill in the use of lethal weapons. The Doctor, whom I regard as a thorough rōnin, or unattached “wave-man,” refusing to bow the knee to social or ethical Baals, became at once a subscribing member. He used to declare that this adhesion procured him privileged places at almost every public function which he attended, so potent is the freemasonry of his brothers-in-arms. At least I can certify that it procured for us a spectacle of unique and amazing skill.
The first combat was between a swordsman and a spearsman, in which I fully expected that the lighter arm must easily prevail over the cumbrous and more lengthy one. But I had reckoned without the swivel, which made the lance in dexterous keeping a formidable instrument. When the swordsman, abandoning the defensive, tried to strike down his opponent’s spear and deal a close thrust, the latter with the rapidity of lightning drew in his weapon, and shooting it out again before the other could recover his ground, drove the point home. In four bouts out of five the spear proved mightier than the sword. Then it was pitted against a more archaic compound of pickaxe and boomerang. To a small-headed axe was attached an iron ball by a long cord, with which the holder tried to entangle his adversary’s lance. He slung the ball with his right, and if successful drew a dagger with his left hand to plant the conquering blow. That many of the fencers could use either hand with equal effect was proved by the next series of encounters between two-sworded and one-sworded men. These had been very carefully matched, and the superior skill of the man who was armed with but a single sword in three cases out of seven decided the result. Like a wise entrepreneur, the Chief of the Sōshi had reserved his most sensational contest for the end. Female warriors are no novelty in Japan. The Emperor, even up to the time of his restoration to actual sovereignty in 1868, counted among his troops a corps of Amazons, whose training was as severe and whose prowess as remarkable as those of the Samurai themselves. When a stalwart woman came forward armed with a halberd and wearing the same wide hakama as her opponent, whose arm was a sword, she astonished us all by the vigour and dexterity of her onslaught. The war-cries which she uttered were very terrifying, and I am inclined to attribute her victory rather to them than to any hypocritical chivalry on the part of her adversary. I wondered if this muscular virago obeyed the Confucian ordinance, “A woman should look on her husband as if he were heaven itself, and never weary of thinking how she may yield to her husband, and thus escape celestial castigation.”