Lion-Dance on New Year’s Day.
The first dancer on the afternoon of my arrival was Kabukei-jishi, the boy in a lion’s mask, whose figure is so familiar in Japanese streets on New Year’s Day. Kabukei, a native of Echigo, is said to have originated and given his name to this realistic dance. Though the children must have seen it often before, some of them laughed and others cried with terror, as the clever mimic crawled up to them roaring, or scratching himself, or shaking his ears. Then followed a comic scene between two peasants and a Daimyō, who was obliged to defend himself with sword and fan against the heavy hoes of his disrespectful henchmen. A medical comedy, probably inspired to some extent by Dr. Silenus, had for motif a quarrel between a physician and a farmer, whose wife was expecting to give birth to a child but had no wish to complicate an old-fashioned process by new-fangled medicine. The outspoken dialogue did not shock the unsophisticated audience, for whom Nature is not swathed in conventional veils of reticence, but the actors observed the ne coram publico maxim to this extent, that the birth took place in the wings, to be followed by a rather thrilling infanticide. Bloodshed is always pleasing to the playgoers of Tōkyō. The last piece to be performed was a duologue between Kitsune, the fox-god, and a greedy rustic. Kitsune carried a bag of rice, and offered a mouthful in reward for every athletic or acrobatic feat which the other should succeed in imitating. When the gilt-snouted fox had set the example of leaping or balancing with adroit agility, the sly lout would make a clumsy pretence of doing the same, and always managed to obtain the rice by chicanery. At last the god discovered that he was being tricked, and killed the peasant with a blow from his rake. Nothing seemed to amuse the Azabu children so much as the antics of these two.
On another occasion Dr. Silenus invited a large party to witness a still more interesting exhibition in his garden. If I have used the word “degeneracy” to express his repudiation of certain moral ideas to which the Anglo-Saxon race pays the compliment of formal adherence, it should yet be added that his “self-indulgence” included the laborious pleasure of teaching himself the art of sword-making. Under Japanese tuition he had attained great proficiency, and if his blades did not rank with those of Masamune and Muramasa, at least they excited the admiration and envy of experts. Between him, therefore, and those martial patriots of his adopted country who in their hearts regret the swashbuckling days of old, before barristers and deputies were minted from a foreign model, latent sympathy could not but exist. Now the sōshi, to whom allusion has already been made, and whose nominal profession might range from that of vagabond actor to that of political agent or bravo, have this in common—they love a life of roving independence, while owning loose allegiance to some momentary chief. As constitutional methods take deeper root among their compatriots, it becomes more difficult for them to practise an avowed calling which shall serve as a centre of organisation. In the summer of 1898 one of them hit on the brilliant idea of founding an Association for the Revival of the Noble Art of Self-defence; that is, the euphemism was closely akin to the title by which lovers of boxing in England and America glorify their taste, while the object was to promote skill in the use of lethal weapons. The Doctor, whom I regard as a thorough rōnin, or unattached “wave-man,” refusing to bow the knee to social or ethical Baals, became at once a subscribing member. He used to declare that this adhesion procured him privileged places at almost every public function which he attended, so potent is the freemasonry of his brothers-in-arms. At least I can certify that it procured for us a spectacle of unique and amazing skill.
The first combat was between a swordsman and a spearsman, in which I fully expected that the lighter arm must easily prevail over the cumbrous and more lengthy one. But I had reckoned without the swivel, which made the lance in dexterous keeping a formidable instrument. When the swordsman, abandoning the defensive, tried to strike down his opponent’s spear and deal a close thrust, the latter with the rapidity of lightning drew in his weapon, and shooting it out again before the other could recover his ground, drove the point home. In four bouts out of five the spear proved mightier than the sword. Then it was pitted against a more archaic compound of pickaxe and boomerang. To a small-headed axe was attached an iron ball by a long cord, with which the holder tried to entangle his adversary’s lance. He slung the ball with his right, and if successful drew a dagger with his left hand to plant the conquering blow. That many of the fencers could use either hand with equal effect was proved by the next series of encounters between two-sworded and one-sworded men. These had been very carefully matched, and the superior skill of the man who was armed with but a single sword in three cases out of seven decided the result. Like a wise entrepreneur, the Chief of the Sōshi had reserved his most sensational contest for the end. Female warriors are no novelty in Japan. The Emperor, even up to the time of his restoration to actual sovereignty in 1868, counted among his troops a corps of Amazons, whose training was as severe and whose prowess as remarkable as those of the Samurai themselves. When a stalwart woman came forward armed with a halberd and wearing the same wide hakama as her opponent, whose arm was a sword, she astonished us all by the vigour and dexterity of her onslaught. The war-cries which she uttered were very terrifying, and I am inclined to attribute her victory rather to them than to any hypocritical chivalry on the part of her adversary. I wondered if this muscular virago obeyed the Confucian ordinance, “A woman should look on her husband as if he were heaven itself, and never weary of thinking how she may yield to her husband, and thus escape celestial castigation.”
IV
I was seated in the office of that flourishing Tōkyō newspaper, Yorodsu Chōhō—waiting for my friend the sub-editor, whose name, Kishimoto Bunkyo, will one day be famous, when my tedium was enlivened by an apparition. In spite of the care taken to entertain foreigners in the waiting-room of that popular journal, I had been bored. The square of Brussels carpet, the presence of table and chairs, the permission to keep one’s shoes on, the literary delights afforded by Macaulay’s “Essays,” Washington Irving’s “Sketchbook,” and Mr. Stead’s “If Christ came to Chicago”—all these things failed to dispel that ennui, born of perpetual waiting, which only Oriental patience can endure. Suddenly entered this welcome apparition, feminine, furious. “Is there any one here who speaks English?” it asked impetuously. The old door-keeper, catching at the sound “English,” muttered the word “Kishimoto,” and climbed the stairs in quest of my friend. The apparition and myself were thus left alone, and eyed each other furtively, with embarrassment. At any other time I should have been delighted to make the acquaintance of this pretty, smart American, but an instinct warned me that her business was private and delicate. I pretended to be absorbed by the dreary violence of Mr. Stead. Kishimoto descended, alert and smiling. The apparition, thrusting a lady’s visiting-card before his eyes, did not smile, but said rapidly:
“That’s who I am. About that paragraph in yesterday’s paper; who wrote it?”
“It was our reporter, madam. He is not at the office to-day, but if you wish to make an appointment——”
“Can he speak English?”