THE GARDENS ARE VERY BEAUTIFUL (p. 55).
Apparently the great feature at a chrysanthemum show, from a Japanese point of view, is not the size and shape of each flower, but the number of blossoms on a plant flowering at the same time. Three of the tents contained but one enormous plant in each; with from one to two thousand blooms all the same size and colour. We were told that one of these plants alone requires a gardener’s entire time to look after it, as the difficulty is to get all the flowers to perfection at once. In other tents, chrysanthemums with small, different-coloured flowers had been trained over wires to represent figures of people and animals, more curious than beautiful.
After the flowers had been inspected, the Emperor and Empress entered a large tent, where the presentations were made. Each Legation went in turn to felicitate the Emperor on his birthday and to bow to the Empress. All had to walk backwards out of the tent past the Court ladies and officials--not an easy task. With some the Emperor said a few words. His face when smiling lighted up, changing his morose expression to one of almost benevolence. I own to feeling horribly nervous when my turn came to be presented by our Minister’s wife, and breathed a sigh of relief when I returned safe and sound from the Royal tent without having utterly disgraced myself by tumbling over my train, or knocking down one of the little officials who were stationed at every available corner.
Small tables were placed about on the grass, and we were offered sandwiches of foie-gras, caviare and chicken, creams, ices, and champagne.
It was amusing to watch some of the Japanese guests, not only partaking of a hearty meal, but quietly secreting sweetmeats and cakes in their pockets, probably for some little child at home.
The royal party, after having some light refreshment at a table a little apart from the rest, then rose to leave. The National Anthem was again played, and we all followed as we liked.
At one end of the gardens a play was going on. No stage, only a ring of chairs and a big sheet. The actors were being made up and dressed in sight of everyone. Men clothed in black, with masks, arranged the scenes, and were supposed to be invisible. The play was ‘The Forty-seven Ronins.’ All the Japanese in the audience held handkerchiefs to their eyes and wept copiously, although I failed to see anything at all pathetic in the wild gesticulations of the actors. The famous Danjiro was there--the Irving of Japan. Amongst the audience the poetess of the Empress was pointed out to us, a curiously shrivelled-up little lady in a stiff green-and-white brocade, with a large bustle, green shoes and stockings, and a wonderful erection of flowers and feathers on her head. This costume must have done duty on these occasions for many years, to judge by its antique style; but the little lady was evidently very proud of her toilette. Three of the young Princesses, pretty little girls, with round, merry faces and bright dark eyes, were also spectators. We did not see the Crown Prince, a delicate, consumptive youth, already married and a father. The Empress is not his mother. She is childless, but the Japanese law has sanctioned the adoption of this boy, the son of one of the Emperor’s unofficial wives, as heir to the throne. I am told, however, that the Crown Prince looks upon the Empress as his mother.
The Emperor has five unofficial wives, all ladies of good family, who have separate establishments in the palace grounds, but are never seen in public; in fact, of the private life of the palace the outside world knows nothing. Japan is one of the oldest dynasties in the world, and the Japanese were living very much as they do now, except for electric light and European dress, when we Westerners were savages in blue paint and feathers.
In another part of the palace grounds are the duck-ponds and decoys. The killing of these wild duck, which come in great quantities every winter to the moat and decoys, is held to be a royal sport in Japan, and they are considered more or less sacred. The official who showed us the decoy begged us to keep quite silent, and we walked on tiptoe, in single file, up a narrow path to a small wooden hut, where we were allowed to peep at the sacred birds through little slits in the wood. There were already great numbers of them collected together, all apparently quite tame. The ‘sport’ is this: There are long dykes, with a high net at the end. The ‘sportsmen’ stand on either side with large hand-nets, and the duck are driven into the dykes from the pond, and, not being able to get out, rise, when they are caught in the nets and their necks wrung. It is supposed to be a great disgrace to miss a bird.