AFTERNOON CALLS
[AFTERNOON CALLS]
I
Théophile Gautier, describing his travels in Russia, declares that, whereas Moscow and St. Petersburg fell short of the romantic dream-pictures which he had conceived of them by reason of their fame, the reverse was the case with Nijni-Novgorod, of which the name alone allured his ear with chiming syllables. Having reached the town with no other premonitory bias than the spell exercised by its magical appellation, he was ravished by the picturesque admixture of races from every corner of the empire. This paradoxical conflict between history and geography makes many victims. I too had been haunted by the prestige of a great name in Japanese annals—the name of Ashikaga. As I studied period after period of the turbulent evolution from feudal rivalry to military usurpation, from military usurpation to constitutional monarchy, it seemed more and more evident that the Ashikaga Shōguns, during two-and-a-half centuries of power, had been greater friends of art and learning than any rulers before or since. At Kyōto I had seen the golden pavilion of Yoshemitsu (whom Professor Fenollosa compares with Cosmo de Medici) adorned with mural paintings and screens by the artists whom he had imbued with the spirit of dreamy seclusion of the Hangkow idyllists. Under his patronage Chinese learning took root in Ashikaga University; the religious plays, or Nō, acquired in the hands of Kiyotsugu their claims to rank as aristocratic opera; the war of chrysanthemums, between rival dynasties in Yamato and Kyōto, was composed by an astute compromise. In short, culture was not purchased at the cost of firm government. Nearly a century later came Yoshimasa, whose silver pavilion, where he held æsthetic revels with his favourites, the Abbots Soāmi and Shuko, was as pale a copy of his great predecessor’s taste as his capacity to govern was inferior. Effeminacy followed in the train of refinement. The Ashikaga régime left a legacy of civil war and ruined peasantry for stronger rulers to replace by hardier methods, but it also bequeathed the memory of a new learning and a new art. To Ashikaga, then, urged by misleading memories and the promise I had given to visit Ikao comrades, I gladly repaired when September rains depressed the face of Tōkyō.
Yamada San, rightly thinking that living friends were of more interest than dead lions, took me straight from the station to his father’s house, and postponed all sightseeing until the morrow. Here I first realised the patriarchal atmosphere of an old-fashioned home. Father and mother were gravely courteous, and took pains to show me polite attention, but the son scarcely spoke in their presence; and pretty O Mitsu, who looked extremely pale, became mute as ivory. The entry of two cousins, who spoke a little English, introduced some animation; and after the consumption of tea and oranges O Mitsu was asked to sing me an old song, playful, if possible, because the foreigner would find it more easy to understand. Crouching over a long-stringed koto, she sang (the weather was very hot) this popular mosquito song:
“All you wives, lying