A Fantasy of Far Japan; Or, Summer Dream Dialogues. Kencho Suematsu
shame of a Samurai, if incurred by his own dishonourable conduct.
'In those days, it must be remembered, the moral discipline of the Samurai was very rigid. The conduct of our young Samurai involved not only the ruin of himself but also the destruction of the family as a Samurai, a matter most lamentable to the house of a knight. At last Z., the despairing wife, takes the matter very seriously to heart, not so much from jealousy as from a sense of duty to her house and a desire to save her lord and husband from disgrace. She forms a bold plan, and personally visits her rival to obtain her confidence. She persuades her, not by any vulgar quarrel, but by serious reasoning and rational appeal, to put a stop to all connection with her husband. The rival assents and gives her promise. Then comes the climax. After a great struggle between love and reason, and hampered by several circumstances which made her unable to fulfil her promise, the rival puts an end to her own life, committing jigai, which is equivalent to Seppuku—vulgarly called Harakiri—in the case of a man, leaving some touching and well-meant letters behind her. What became of the young Samurai and his wife after that I scarcely need to relate here. Such, then, is the kind of plot we find in that class of books.'
While discoursing in this strain, a young lady—an English maiden—joined us.
—'Your plot seems not altogether like ours,' said the English lady. 'I dare say you have read some of our everyday novels?'
—'Well, I have read some, but it is now so many years ago that I do not remember them, with one exception, and that is Jane Eyre. Years ago I read some chapters of it, and those are enough. The general contents of those chapters remained ever in my memory. A little time ago I was staying at Folkestone. One gloomy afternoon, when I was intent over many things, that memory recurred to me all of a sudden. I went to a bookseller and bought a copy of the book: I read through once more some of the earlier chapters, and it created a great impression on me.'
—'What caused that impression, I should like to know?' interposed Lady Modestina.
—'Well, I cannot explain the reason very well,' I answered.
—'I can see it very well,' said the English lady; 'you are too proud to explain the reason,' Turning to the Ladies Modestina and Dulciana, she continued. 'Perhaps you have not read, or do not remember well, the story of our English novel. The story is this: Jane Eyre, a young girl, suffers every torture in the house of her uncle at the hands of young John Reed and his sisters, and indeed of Mrs. Reed also. You know Jane Eyre was the orphan child of a sister of Mr. Reed. He had taken her into his family in order to bring her up with his own children. He died some time after, enjoining his wife on his deathbed to look after her kindly. You see, therefore, though Jane Eyre was not properly a member of the family, some of the same blood ran in her veins as in theirs. In spite of that fact, and in spite of the injunction of Mr. Reed, her uncle, and, above all, in spite of all the modesty and good behaviour she showed, Jane was tormented by every member of the family. That is no doubt the point which has impressed the baron so much to think of——'
—'Perhaps,' I said smilingly.
—'Never mind, baron, Jane was of strong enough character to emerge from the trouble, and so will Japan, in spite of all the calumnies, if indeed she has not done so already.'
At this point a bustle was heard in another part of the room. Lady Modestina cast her eyes in that direction and said: 'Here comes a lady, a friend of ours, a star in our society, we think much of her—I must go to her.' And as she was moving away slowly, remarked to me, 'I will introduce you to her.' To which I replied, 'I shall be delighted.'
We went together towards the lady mentioned, to whom I was duly introduced. She was the Marchioness de Vivastine, and was extremely beautiful, looking far younger than her age must be, for I afterwards heard that she is the mother of a married daughter.
Her face was covered by a veil, but her round and brilliant eyes sparkled through it. Her beauty, however, was not the point of my appreciation, but her vivacity and frankness. I soon entered into conversation with her. She spoke fluently and unhesitatingly. We commenced to speak on art.
—'I admire Japanese art very highly: it is so natural and vivid, flowers and animals and what-not.'
—'May be, but our human figures are very bad,' said I.
—'Perhaps so,' said she, 'in the later productions, but not in antique works. I think there has been no nation which has produced such striking representation of nature as your country. Curiously enough, one sometimes notices very close representations of nature in the carvings or the inscriptions of very primitive tribes. Don't misunderstand me. I do not mean that yours are of that kind.'
—'You must be, madam, very well acquainted with our arts. Whence have you acquired that taste?'
—'From the time of the last Great Exhibition here, when your country sent so many valuable specimens of art.'
—'You must yourself be an artist. I can see it from your observations.'
—'Yes, she is an artist, although an amateur,' interposed Lady Modestina.
—'No, don't say that,' interrupted the marchioness.
—'I dare say you paint much,' said I.
—'No, not at all,' replied the marchioness, and continued as she laughed slightly, 'except, perhaps, that I used to paint occasionally my own portrait, of course after the style of the chef-d'œuvre of your "literary picture" in the faintest and lightest colours. By the way, I also like Japanese methods of gardening. I once had a Japanese gardener for three years at my country seat.'
—'Really,' said I, 'you interest me very much.'
—'He was very clever; far more so than any European, any Frenchman, in the same calling of life could ever possibly be.'
—'With us,' said I, 'it is very common. Every gardener understands the ordinary art of "garden-making," though, of course, there are only a few real experts. But let me tell you that it comes more from the general atmosphere and surroundings in which they grow up. There is nothing surprising in it to our eyes.'
—'May be. But to us it seems extraordinary. After three years, during which he served me very faithfully, I transferred him to a Frenchman, Mr. Canny by name.'
—'Is that so? I have seen his Japanese gardens.'
—'Then you know him?'
—'Yes, I first came to know him when he visited my country some years ago. The other day I made a great circuit round Paris in his motor: we left Paris by the Bois, then St. Cloud, Versailles, on to Fontainebleau, making a large circuit through Cagny, Surveilliers, Beaumont, Pointoise, thus reaching St. Germain, thence on to St. Cloud and back to Paris by the same route. We must have travelled three or four hundred kilometres.'
—'Then you must have passed through the forests of Fontainebleau. Are not the trees and rocks there splendid?'
—'Yes, that is just what struck me very much, but I am most interested to hear that you appreciate the value of natural rocks. They are very important elements in our Japanese gardens.'
—'I cannot understand how so great a number of rocks could have been heaped up there in that peculiar way. Some people imagine that at one time they formed the bottom of the sea.'
—'Oh! but if so, it must have been a very long time ago. At all events, before we came into existence,' said I, laughing, and added, 'I should like to get a concession from the government to take those rocks, because the time will certainly come when they will be wanted for French gardens, and perhaps I could then become a millionaire.'
Thereupon we all broke out into laughter. The marchioness still continued to talk on different subjects. She had no affectation: she said boldly just what she thought with all the sparkle of her intelligence. I tried not to be overwhelmed by her eloquence, and the consequence was that we had a very heated discussion on the customs and manners of different countries. Reverting to Japan she said:
—'I hear one can marry for two months in Japan.