A party was made up to visit the Concert Hall of the celebrated Geisha girls. General and Mrs. Greenleaf and many officers and their wives from the transports were of the number. They kindly invited me to join them. A sum total of about fifteen dollars is charged for the entertainment; each one bears his share of the cost. It was a rainy evening, rickshaws were in order. About thirty drew up before the Nagasaki Hotel. It was a sight! the funny little carriages, man before to pull, man behind to push, gaily colored lantern fore and aft and amused Americans in the middle, laughing, singing, and enjoying the fun, a strange contrast to the stolid native.
The long line of carriages wound in and out like a snake with shining scales. The night was so dark that little was to be seen except the firefly lights and the bare tawny legs of the rickshaw men.
It has been said that the Japanese are the soul of music. I am sure that no ears are cultivated to endure it. As we entered the rooms we were obliged to remove our shoes and put on sandals. Instead of sitting down on chairs we took any position we could on the floor mats that were placed at our disposal. At the first sound from the throat of a famous singer in a staccato “E-E-E-E,” we all sprang to our feet thinking she was possibly going into some sort of a fit. With a twang on the strings of the flattened out little instrument, we subsided, concluding that the concert had begun. Then when the others joined in, the mingled sounds were not unlike the wail of cats on the back fence. The girls themselves looked pretty, in kneeling posture, lips painted bright red, hair prettily braided and adorned with artificial flowers or bits of jewelry. If they had been quiet they would have looked like beautiful Japanese dolls seated on the floor. After several “catterwaulings” by the choir, came the dances. It was all a series of physical culture movements; the music was rendered in most perfect rhythm by two of the girls, it was the poetry of motion. They would take pieces of silk and make little bouquets, whirlwinds, and divers things; the most beautiful of all was a cascade of water. It was hard for us to believe it was not actually a waterfall. It was made of unfolding yards of white silk of the most sheer and gauzy kind. From a thin package six inches square, there shimmered out a thousand yards—a veritable cascade of gleaming water. We were treated to refreshments, impossible cakes and tea. We were thankful that we sat near an open window that we might throw the cake over our shoulder, trusting some forlorn little Japanese who liked it might get it.
Japanese Musicians.
The tea is finely powdered dust; the tea maker is supposed to measure exactly the capacity of the drinker and to take enough of this finely powdered tea to make three and one-half mouthfuls exactly. They do it by taking a rare bit of porcelain and holding it in their hands, turn it about and talk learnedly of the various, wonderful arts of pottery and how many years they have had this certain piece of fine porcelain, turning it about in the meantime in their hands as they comment on its beauties and qualities, and then take three large swallows of the tea and one small sip and then go on talking about the wonders of the cup. These cups are anything but what we should call tea cups. They are really large bowls, sometimes with a cover but more often without. But it is refreshing to drink their tea even if one cannot do it à la Jap. Everywhere in Japan you are asked to take a cup of tea, in the steam cars, in the shops and by the wayside. A Japanese told me that he could tell whether a person was educated or not by the manner in which he drank tea. They take lessons in tea drinking as we do in any accomplishment we wish to acquire. One friend could not resist buying tea pots and pretty cups; she had a grand collection after one day of sight-seeing.
Their potteries are not like ours, huge factories, but household things. Here and there in a family is an artist who can make a bit of porcelain, a few cups, plates, or saucers stamped with his own individual mark. The quality varies, of course, with the skill of the maker, but the poorest work is beautiful; and one develops an insatiate greed to possess this and this and just one more.
Toriï.
The ancient Imari, Satsuma, and the old bits of pottery that have been kept in the older families for centuries are, to my mind, the most wonderful works of art of the kind in the world; they look with pride on the articles of virtu as almost sacred.