A Fantasy of Far Japan; Or, Summer Dream Dialogues. Kencho Suematsu
study of the duke, but its sliding door was opened and formed with the drawing-room one long salon. The other daughter—the duchess has two daughters only, and no sons—was there, together with a few young folk. She observed me at once, and we were soon talking together. There was a book lying on a table beside us. Opening it at random, a picture of a warrior appeared before us.
—'It is Condé,' she said.
—'Yes, so I see,' I replied; 'he was a great general. I admire him very much. His splendid career, which I read many years ago in history, is still vividly impressed on my memory!'
—'And Jeanne d'Arc too, I suppose,' she said.
—'Of course, mademoiselle.'
—'Women sometimes do fine things, don't they! but Japan is a country of heroes and heroines.'
—'I dare say, but Jeanne d'Arc especially appeals to one's imagination.'
—'I admire your Bushido so much,' said she.
—'Do you? I am glad to hear you say so.'
Looking up, my eyes caught sight of many pictures hanging on the walls: for the most part they seemed family portraits, and most of them men in military uniform. I was tempted to make some observations, and unconsciously stood up to approach nearer to them. She followed my example and walked by my side. Pointing to them, one after another, she told me this was her grandfather, that her great-grandfather, these were this one's sons or daughters, those that one's, etc. Amongst them, no doubt, there were some who had done noble service for their country; that fact was evident from the pedigree of her family. But, unlike ordinary people, she had neither the necessity nor desire to glorify her ancestors, but for my part I wished she had explained a little more of their history. Finally, she pointed out a picture as that of her mother, saying she did not like it, and that it did not resemble her.
—'Why not? One cannot expect a portrait to be like the original at every stage of life,' I remarked.
—'No! I did not mean exactly in that way,' she answered.
We were now at the end of the room leading on to a balcony. We stepped on to it. I leaned on the railing; she stood not far off from me. The garden was not very large, but neat and clean. Now I looked down at the garden, now I turned towards Lady Modestina, which is her Christian name, exchanging some remarks about flowers and trees. Her sister now joined us coming forth from the drawing-room. Dulciana is her name. Our conversation somehow or other turned on works of fiction.
—'Do you read fiction much, baron?' asked Lady Dulciana.
—'No; not much. But I have read nearly all Beaconsfield.'
—'I understand,' said she, 'his books are always full of spirit and aspiration. Incidents d'amour are only secondary, and that suits your taste, I suppose—I mean, your countrymen in general.'
—'Just so, the majority of our works of fiction are stories of heroic characters—stories of the Alroy type, perhaps, with a little more definite morals, and something more of loyalty or patriotism.'
—'I can understand that, too, from what I have heard and seen of late,' said she.
—'But have you not in your country,' interposed Lady Modestina, 'any works of fiction solely based on romantic incidents? Western fictions are, I am afraid, too full of such.'
—'Well, we also have one kind of literature which may be called "love stories." They are mostly written in an easy style, more for the less educated portion of the public.'
—'Are they read much?' she asked.
—'Not very much,' I answered; 'with us those books do not hold a high position.'
—'And the plots. What are they like?' she asked.
—'Perhaps you know,' I answered, 'we have had certain customs which resembled those of Greece and Rome. Consequently the plots of such books, like the Greek and Roman comedies, are much influenced by those customs and do not suit the tastes of modern refinement.'
—'Am I too curious if I ask the nature of those customs and manners?'
—'Oh no! In Greece and Rome there was, perhaps you know, a certain class of females called Hetaira, also a class of males called parasites. They mixed pretty freely with men of good standing, and, of course, are not to be judged by the same standard as the disreputable of modern days. In Japan, also, there existed an almost identical class. I am referring to those females known to the occidental races by the name of Geishas, and the men we call Taiko-Mochi, i.e. 'tam-bour,' though the latter were comparatively few in number. The chief profession of the Geisha was music. Indeed, the books I have just referred to are peopled with this class. Novelists in those days were never recognised as legitimate literati, and were quite content to be associated with the so-called town people, and to write chiefly about their surroundings. The very condition of the higher classes supplied but few subjects for romance, and the altered social conditions of present-day Japan clearly shows the reason why their works do not suit the modern taste.'
—'I suppose that sort of people, I mean the class resembling those of Greece and Rome, exists no more.'
—'Yes, they still exist. The modern Geisha, as a rule, are the same in kind, but not in quality. In the days gone by, that is, during the feudal period, social discipline was very rigid, and the occasional adventures of those people were regarded as good subjects for Romancers, whilst the modern ones are far too degraded—they have either no romance, or too much, to be made the subject of romance. Excuse my telling you such things, I only do so from a sociological point of view.'
—'Science will cry out, if you make use of her name in such a place.'
—'Never mind, but listen! The fiction written in the new era differs, widely differs, in the selection of subjects, from that of the old. Only remember! Even those books, I mean the old love stories, portrayed a great deal of female chivalry and heroism. Indeed, a spirit of chivalry was the forte of the period. I can tell you, if you like, one plot which I recollect.'
—'Do, please.'
—'There was a young Samurai, X., and a maiden, Y., who loved each other. They were not decreed by fate to marry. X., the young Samurai, was the second son of his father, and, therefore, not the heir. He was adopted by another Samurai, and eventually marries Z., the daughter of the house. Now, in Japan adoption is, as it was with the Romans, a common custom; it was more so in days gone by. This was natural enough because, apart from other reasons, every Samurai was a retainer of a feudal lord from whom he received a certain allowance annually for his services, and his family depended upon him. In default of a male heir, the house, in other words the family, lost every privilege and emolument. The succession, however, could be made good by an heir, adopted from a blood relation, or even from a totally strange family. On the other hand, the second or third son of a Samurai had no legal status as a Samurai, and was vulgarly called "Cold Rice Meals" or "Back Room Resident." Personal service of a Samurai house to its lord was only required of its head. Succession of Samurai—the title as well as emolument—was according to primogeniture, and, therefore, a second or third son could scarcely get a livelihood, unless adopted by another Samurai, or unless a totally different kind of profession be adopted, or else he was made, by some lord, head of a new Samurai house, by virtue of some well-merited distinction, which was a matter of rare occurrence. Well, X. was adopted by the family of Z., his future wife according to that custom.
'Misfortune fell upon the family of Y., the maiden, and she became a Geisha, an actress, if you like, not from levity on her part, but from a sense of duty, which caused her to sacrifice herself to the occupation just mentioned—a sentiment which is unintelligible in the West. The story proceeds to narrate how X., the young Samurai, and Y., his former sweetheart, meet each other after a long lapse of time by pure accident, and how their love of days gone by revived in their hearts, especially from the pity which the young Samurai felt for her misfortune and her corresponding responsiveness. Further, how the young Samurai began to neglect his official duties and to incur the displeasure of the councillors of his lord, and