Dragons and Cherry Blossoms

by Alice A. Parmelee Morris

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.

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.