Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

In this connection I recall with pleasure two or three incidents in my own experience. At the close of an engagement in one of the larger cities, the President of the Government institution in whose behalf most of the lectures had been given, said to me in a voice choked with emotion: “You know, of course, that we Japanese are trained to repress our feelings. I do not know whether it is a good thing or not; but it is so. And I cannot tell you what we all feel.” On parting from one of my favourite pupils, who had spent several years in study in this country, he said: “I do not know how to say at all what I feel; but Confucius taught that the gratitude and affection of the pupil toward his teacher stand next to those of the son toward his father.” In reality the teacher who succeeds with his Japanese pupils receives a reward of these much coveted friendly bonds, which it is difficult or impossible to hope for even, anywhere else in the world. The foreigner, therefore, who enters into scholastic relations with Japanese students, if he is competent, devoted and tactful, need not concern himself greatly about this part of the returns from his labours; it will surely follow in due time. And there is still enough left in Japan of the Confucian style of arranging social classes in the scale of their values, which has—theoretically at least—prevailed for centuries in China; and which places the scholar at the head of the list and relegates the money-maker to the bottom of the scale. Indeed, it is only very recently that Japanese “men of honour” would have anything to do with business; or that the sons and daughters of the higher classes would intermarry with the business classes. This is undoubtedly one reason for the partially justifiable, but on the whole exaggerated, low estimate of the business morals of the Japanese. It remains to be seen, however, whether the good or the evil results of the change of attitude toward the money-getter, which is now taking place with such rapidity, will prevail; and whether the net results will elevate or degrade the prevalent standards of morality. Certainly, neither Europe nor America has much to boast of, as respects these standards, on a fair comparison with Japan.

This attitude of secretiveness, born of the habit of repressing all appearance of emotional excitement, is further emphasised by the desire, sometimes only to appear and sometimes really to be, independent and critical. The tendency to revolt from authority and to appeal to the rational judgment of the individual has been the inevitable accompaniment of the transition from the “Old” to the “New” Japan. Naturally and properly, too, this tendency has been greatest and most conspicuous among the student classes. As a result affecting the relations of teacher and pupils in the higher institutions of learning, and even among more popular audiences, a certain coolness of demeanour is deemed appropriate. In certain audiences—notably those of such institutions as the Young Men’s Christian Association, or of the missionary schools, or of other native schools that imitate foreign ways, approval is expressed by clapping of hands or by other similar means. But this is not characteristically Japanese. The truly native manner of listening is an unflinchingly patient, polite, and respectful, but silent attention. The disadvantage, therefore, under which the occasional speaker or more constant lecturer before Japanese audiences suffers, is this: he may be utterly unaware, or completely deceived, as to the way in which his audience is taking him. It is entirely possible, and indeed has happened to more than one missionary or other teacher, to remain for years self-deceived concerning the estimate his pupils were holding, both of his person and of his instruction.

Another marked characteristic of Japanese audiences is their extraordinary patience in listening. Whatever the subject, and whoever the speaker, and whether his treatment is interesting or dull or even totally unintelligible, the listeners seem to feel the obligation to maintain the same attitude of attention to the very end of the discourse. This endurance on the part of his hearers makes the call for endurance on the part of the speaker who is determined to interest and instruct them, all the more imperative and even exhausting. While lecturing in India, I came regularly to expect that a considerable percentage of the audience would melt away—not always by any means as silently as the snow goes in a Spring day of genial sunshine—before the talk was half or two-thirds over. In Korea, it needed only one or two experiences to learn that, perhaps, the larger portion of the audience came to look, and see (indeed, to “look-see” is the current native phrase). But in Japan, under circumstances most trying to the patience of both speaker and hearers, I have never known more than a handful or two of individuals to steal quietly away, until the proper and exactly ceremonial time for leaving the room had fully arrived. And in such cases it was usually thought necessary for some one to explain the engagement which had made necessary such a breach of etiquette.

So far as native habits and influences still remain in control, this characteristic of patience in listening seems to belong to all kinds of audiences, in both town and country, and both cultured and relatively uninstructed. In the Imperial Universities of Tokyo and Kyoto, and in the Government Colleges of Trade and Commerce, my lectures were given in English and were not interpreted. This was not allowed, however, to shorten greatly the entire period covered by the exercises; for a double lecture—fifty minutes’ talk, then ten minutes for a cup of tea, and then fifty minutes more of talk—was the order of the half-day. In the case of the lectures before the teachers, under the auspices of the Imperial Educational Association, or the similar Associations under the presidency of the Governors of the various Ken, the necessity of having the English done into Japanese operated to stretch out each engagement to even greater length. Of this more than two hours of speaking and listening, somewhat less than one-half was usually occupied by the lecture in English; while the Japanese paraphrase, in order to make all clear, required the remainder of the allotted time. The tax upon the patience of the audience must have been increased by the fact that, ordinarily, for a large part of the whole period they were listening to a language which they either understood very imperfectly or did not understand at all. For the customary method was to divide the entire address into five or six parts of about ten minutes each; and then lecturer and interpreter alternated in regular order. In some cases, however, as, for example, the course of lectures given at Doshisha in 1892, Mr. Kazutami Ukita, now Professor of Sociology in Waseda University,—the most skilful interpreter I have ever known,—at the close of the English lecture, rendered it entire into fluent and elegant Japanese, preserving as far as the great differences in the structure and genius of the two languages make possible, the exact turns of speech and the illustrations of the original.

What is true of these more scholastic audiences is equally true of those which are more popular. Indeed, it is probably the fact that the non-scholastic audiences in the smaller cities and in the country places are hitherto much less infected with the Western spirit of impatience, which masquerades under the claim to be a sacred regard for the value of time, but which is often anything but that, than are the student classes in the crowded centres of education. At Osaka, in 1892, nearly one thousand officials and business men gathered on a distressingly hot summer’s afternoon and sat without any show of desire to escape, listening for more than two hours to an address on a topic in ethics. In Kyoto, in 1907, on invitation of the Governor of the Ken, and of the mayor of the city, fifteen hundred of the so-called “leading citizens” packed the Assembly Hall of the District Legislature, galleries included, and sitting Japanese fashion on the floor listened for three mortal hours, to a speech of introduction, to a biographical address, to a talk on “Japan from the Point of View of a Foreign Friend,” and its interpretation, to an address of thanks and to a response by the person who had been thanked.

“[CLASS AND TEACHER ALWAYS HAD TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED]”

Nor is this characteristic great patience exhausted by a single occasion. In Tokyo a class of more than four hundred teachers continued, substantially undiminished, through a course of thirty lectures on the “Teacher’s Practical Philosophy”; the class in Kyoto which entered for a course of twenty hours on the same subject numbered rather more than eight hundred, and of these nearly seven hundred and fifty received certificates for constancy in attendance. At Nagasaki, Sendai, and other places, similar classes obtained and kept an average attendance of from four hundred to six hundred. At the close of each of these engagements, [the class, together with their foreign teacher, always had to be photographed].

It is well known to all travellers in Japan, and to all readers of books on Japan, how much the Japanese, in their intercourse with each other, insist upon a formal and elaborate politeness; and how careful the better classes, and even the body of the common people, are to practice this virtue, so esteemed by them, in all their intercourse with foreigners. But it is far from being generally or sufficiently recognised, how unfortunate and even positively shocking, the disregard—not of their particular forms, but of all attempts at the polite treatment of others, seems to them, as they are so constantly forced to notice its prevalence among foreigners. That a fair degree of genuineness attaches itself to these formal and conventional observances, no one who knows the nation at all thoroughly can for an instant entertain a doubt. Of course, on the other hand, neither non-compliance nor the most exact compliance, mean the same thing with us as with the Japanese. With them, not to treat a person—even a coolie—politely, is positively to insult him. The foreigner who should treat the native domestic servant, when the latter approached on his knees and bowing his head constantly to the floor, with an insult or a blow, might pay the penalty with his life. But the old-fashioned politeness is being put to a difficult test by the conditions of modern life, and by the changes of costume and of customs which are being introduced from abroad. It may seem strange that I speak of changes in costume as influencing the rules for polite social intercourse. But, for example, the Japanese kimono forms a fitting and convenient clothing for ladies who, on indoor festal occasions, salute each other by hitching along the floor on their knees, bowing the head as low as possible at frequent intervals. It is decidedly not so fitting and convenient, however, where courtesy while standing is demanded by politeness; or where it is desired to dance with decency and elegance. On the other hand, the modern gown, whether with or without train, is even less well adapted to the practice of the requirements of the native social ceremonial.

According to the Japanese ideas, a proper respect for the teacher requires that the pupil should receive and salute him, while standing. This rule characterises the ceremonial adopted by audiences of all sizes and as composed of different classes of hearers. In all the lectures before audiences composed principally of teachers—since they were, of course, for the time being regarded as the pupils of the lecturer—the procedure was as follows: A select few, such as the President of the Imperial or of the local Teacher’s Association, the Mayor of the city, or his representative, and one or more members of the Committee who had the affair in charge, were gathered some time before the lecture-hour for tea-drinking in the reception room, with the lecturer. At the appointed time—usually a little after, and sometimes much after—this party of the select few proceeds to the audience-room. On their entering the room, the entire audience rises to its feet and remains standing until the speaker has mounted the platform, bows have been interchanged with him, and he has sat down. At the close of the address, the audience rises, bows are again interchanged, and the “teacher,” unless some special arrangement has been made and announced for him to remain for further exercises, or to be introduced, leaves the hall first. The audience is expected to remain standing until he has disappeared through the door; it would be very impolite for them to begin sooner to disperse. Indeed, I have never seen my friend, Baron T—, so excited by anything else as he was on one occasion, when the assembly of teachers began to move from their ranks, with the appearance of breaking up, while I was only half-way between the platform and the door.