I suddenly resolved—though knowing I was about to venture on dangerous ground—to try the full effect of a certain Arthurian legend which I Felt sure somebody would criticise with a vim. The moral is rather more than "very strong;" and for that reason I was curious to hear the result.
So I related to them the story of Sir Bors, which is in the sixteenth book of Sir Thomas Mallory's "Morte d'Arthur,"—" how Sir Bors met his brother Sir Lionel taken and beaten with thorns,—and of a maid which should have been dishonored,—and how Sir Bors left his brother to rescue the damsel,—and how it was told them that Lionel was dead. "But I did not try to explain to them the knightly idealism imaged in the beautiful old tale, as I wished to hear them comment, in their own Oriental way, upon the bare facts of the narrative.
Which they did as follows:—
"The action of Mallory's knight, "exclaimed Iwai," was contrary even to the principles of Christianity,—if it be true that the Christian religion declares all men brothers. Such conduct might be right if there were no society in the world. But while any society exists which is formed of families, family love must be the strength of that society; and the action of that knight was against family love, and therefore against society. The principle he followed was opposed not only to all society, but was contrary to all religion, and contrary to the morals of all countries."
"The story is certainly immoral," said Orito. "What it relates is opposed to all our ideas of love and loyalty, and even seems to us contrary to nature. Loyalty is not a mere duty. It must be from the heart, or it is not loyalty. It must be an inborn Feeling. And it is in the nature of every Japanese."
"It is a horrible story," said Ando." Philanthropy itself is only an expansion of fraternal love. The man who could abandon his own brother to death merely to save a strange woman was a wicked man. Perhaps he was influenced by passion."
"No," I said: "you forget I told you that there was no selfishness in his action,—that it must be interpreted as a heroism."
"I think the explanation of the story must be religious," said Yasukochi. "It seems strange to us; but that may be because we do not understand Western ideas very well. Of course to abandon one's own brother in order to save a strange woman is contrary to all our knowledge of right. But if that knight was a man of pure heart, he must have imagined himself obliged to do it because of some promise or some duty. Even then it must have seemed to him a very painful and disgraceful thing to do, and he could not have done it without Feeling that he was acting against the teaching of his own heart."
"There you are right, "I answered. "But you should also know that the sentiment obeyed by Sir Bors is one which still influences the conduct of brave and noble men in the societies of the West,—even of men who cannot be called religious at all in the common sense of that word."
"Still, we think it a very bad sentiment," said Iwai; "and we would rather hear another story about another form of society."
Then it occurred to me to tell them the immortal story of Alkestis. I thought for the moment that the character of Herakles in that divine drama would have a particular charm for them. But the comments proved I was mistaken. No one even referred to Herakles. Indeed I ought to have remembered that our ideals of heroism, strength of purpose, contempt of death, do not readily appeal to Japanese youth. And this for the reason that no Japanese gentleman regards such qualities as exceptional. He considers heroism a matter of course—something belonging to manhood and inseparable from it. He would say that a woman may be afraid without shame, but never a man. Then as a mere idealization of physical force, Herakles could interest Orientals very little: their own mythology teems with impersonations of strength; and, besides, dexterity, sleight, quickness, are much more admired by a true Japanese than strength. No Japanese boy would sincerely wish to be like the giant Benkei; but Yoshitsune, the slender, supple conqueror and master of Benkei, remains an ideal of perfect knighthood dear to the hearts of all Japanese youth.
Kamekawa said:—
"The story of Alkestis, or at least the story of Admetus, is a story of cowardice, disloyalty, immorality. The conduct of Admetus was abominable. His wife was indeed noble and virtuous—too good a wife for so shameless a man. I do not believe that the father of Admetus would not have been willing to die for his son if his son had been worthy. I think he would gladly have died for his son had he not been disgusted by the cowardice of Admetus. And how disloyal the subjects of Admetus were! The moment they heard of their king's danger they should have rushed to the palace, and humbly begged that they might be allowed to die in his stead. However cowardly or cruel he might have been, that was their duty. They were his subjects. They lived by his favor. Yet how disloyal they were! A country inhabited by such shameless people must soon have gone to ruin. Of course, as the story says, 'it is sweet to live.' Who does not love life? Who does not dislike to die? But no brave man—no loyal man even—should so much as think about his life when duty requires him to give it."
"But," said Midzuguchi, who had joined us a little too late to hear the beginning of the narration, "perhaps Admetus was actuated by filial piety. Had I been Admetus, and found no one among my subjects willing to die for me, I should have said to my wife 'Dear wife, I cannot leave my father alone now, because he has no other son, and his grandsons are still too young to be of use to him. Therefore, if you love me, please die in my place.'"
"You do not understand the story," said Yasukochi. "Filial pieiy did not exist in Admetus. He wished that his father should have died for him."
"Ah!" exclaimed the apologist in real surprise,—"that is not a nice story, teacher!"
"Admetus," declared Kawabuchi, "was everything which is bad. He was a hateful coward, because he was afraid to die ; he was a tyrant, because he wanted his subjects to die for him ; he was an unfilial son because he wanted his old father to die in his place; and he was an unkind husband, because he asked his wife—a weak woman with little children—to do what he was afraid to do as a man. What could be baser than Admetus?"
"But Alkestis," said Iwai,—"Alkestis was all that is good. For she gave up her children and everything,—even like the Buddha [Shaka] himself. Yet she was very young. How true and brave! The beauty of her face might perish like a spring-blossoming, but the beauty of her act should be remembered for a thousand times a thousand years. Eternally her soul will hover in the universe. Formless she is now ; but it is the Formless who teach us more kindly than our kindest living teachers,—the souls of all who have done pure, brave, wise deeds."
"The wife of Admetus," said Kumamoto, inclined to austerity in his judgments, "was simply obedient. She was not entirely blameless. For, before her death, it was her highest duty to have severely reproached her husband for his foolishness. And this she did not do,—not at least as our teacher tells the story."
"Why Western people should think that story beautiful," said Zaitsu," is difficult for us to understand. There is much in it which fills us with anger. For some of us cannot but think of our parents when listening to such a story. After the Revolution of Meiji, for a time, there was much suffering. Often perhaps our parents were hungry; yet we always had plenty of food. Sometimes they could scarcely get money to live; yet we were educated. When we think of all it cost them to educate us, all the trouble it gave them to bring us up, all the love they gave us, and all the pain we caused them in our foolish childhood, then we think we can never, never do enough for them. And therefore we do not like that story of Admetus."
The bugle sounded for recess. I went to the parade-ground to take a smoke. Presently a Few students joined me, with their rifles and bayonets—for the next hour was to be devoted to military drill. One said: "Teacher, we should like another subject for composition,—not too easy."
I suggested: "How would you like this for a subject, 'What is most difficult to understand?'"
"That," said Kawabuchi," is not hard to answer,—the correct use of English prepositions."
"In the study of English by Japan
ese students,—yes," I answered. "But I did not mean any special difficulty of that kind. I meant to write your ideas about what is most difficult for all men to understand."
"The universe?" queried Yasukochi. "That is too large a subject."
"When I was only six years old," said Orito, "I used to wander along the seashore, on fine days, and wonder at the greatness of the world. Our home was by the sea. Afterwards I was taught that the problem of the universe will at last pass away, like smoke."
"I think," said Miyakawa, "that the hardest of all things to understand is why men live in the world. From the time a child is born, what does he do? He eats and drinks; he Feels happy and sad; he sleeps at night; he awakes in the morning. He is educated; he grows up; he marries; he has children; he gets old; his hair turns first gray and then white ; he becomes Feebler and Feebler,—and he dies.
"What does he do all his life? All his real work in this world is to eat and to drink, to sleep and to rise up ; since, whatever be his occupation as a citizen, he toils only that he may be able to continue doing this. But for what purpose does a man really come into the world? Is it to eat? Is it to drink? Is it to sleep? Every day he does exactly the same thing, and yet he is not tired! It is strange.
"When rewarded, he is glad; when punished, he is sad. If he becomes rich, he thinks himself happy. If he becomes poor, he is very unhappy. Why is he glad or sad according to his condition? Happiness and sadness are only temporary things. Why does he study hard? No matter how great a scholar he may become, what is there left of him when he is dead? Only bones."
Miyakawa was the merriest and wittiest in his class; and the contrast between his joyous character and his words seemed to me almost startling. But such swift glooms of thought—especially since Meiji—not unfrequently make apparition in quite young Oriental minds. They are fugitive as shadows of summer clouds; they mean less than they would signify in Western adolescence ; and the Japanese lives not by thought, nor by emotion, but by duty. Still, they are not haunters to encourage.
"I think," said I, "a much better subject for you all would be the Sky: the sensations which the sky creates in us when we look at it on such a day as this. See how wonderful it is!"
It was blue to the edge of the world, with never a floss of cloud. There were no vapors in the horizon; and very far peaks, invisible on most days, now massed into the glorious light, seemingly diaphanous.
Then Kumashiro, looking up to the mighty arching, uttered with reverence the ancient Chinese words:—
"What thought is so high as It is? What mind is so wide?"
"To-day," I said, "is beautiful as any summer day could be,—only that the leaves are falling, and the semi are gone."
"Do you like semi, teacher?" asked Mori.
"It gives me great pleasure to hear them," I answered. "We have no such cicadae in the West."
"Human life is compared to the life of a semi," said Orito,—"utsuzemi no yo. Brief as the song of the semi all human joy is, and youth. Men come for a season and go, as do the semi."
"There are no semi now," said Yasukochi; "perhaps the teacher thinks it is sad."
"I do not think it sad," observed Noguchi. "They hinder us from study. I hate the sound they make. When we hear that sound in summer, and are tired, it adds fatigue to fatigue so that we fall asleep. If we try to read or write, or even think, when we hear that sound we have no more courage to do anything. Then we wish that all those insects were dead."
Perhaps you like the dragon-flies," I suggested. "They are flashing all around us; but they make no sound."
"Every Japanese likes dragon-flies," said Kumashiro. "Japan, you know, is called Akitsusu, which means the Country of the Dragon-fly."
We talked about different kinds of dragon-flies; and they told me of one I had never seen,—the Shōro-tombo, or "Ghost dragonfly," said to have some strange relation to the dead. Also they spoke of the Yamma—a very large kind of dragon-fly, and related that in certain old songs the samurai were called Yamma, because the long hair of a young warrior used to be tied up into a knot in the shape of a dragon-fly.
A bugle sounded; and the voice of the military officer rang out,—
"Atsumar E!" (fall in!) But the young men lingered an instant to ask,—
"Well, what shall it be, teacher?—that which is most difficult to understand?" "No," I said, "the Sky." And all that day the beauty of the Chinese utterance haunted me, filled me like an exaltation :—
"What thought is so high as It is? What mind is so wide?"
V
There is one instance in which the relation between teachcrs and students is not formal at all,—one precious survival of the mutual love of other days in the old Samurai Schools. By all the aged Professor of Chinese is reverenced; and his influence over the young men is very great. With a word he could calm any outburst of anger; with a smile he could quicken any generous impulse. For he represents to the lads their ideal of all that was brave, true, noble, in the elder life,—the Soul of Old Japan.
His name, signifying "Moon-of-Autumn," is famous in his own land. A little book has been published about him, containing his portrait. He was once a samurai of high rank belonging to the great clan of Aidzu. He rose early to positions of trust and influence. He has been a leader of armies, a negotiator between princes, a statesman, a ruler of provinces—all that any knight could be in the Feudal era. But in the intervals of military or political duty he seems to have always been a teacher. There are Few such teachers. There are Few such scholars. Yet to see him now, you would scarcely believe how much he was once Feared—though loved—by the turbulent swordsmen under his rule. Perhaps there is no gentleness so full of charm as that of the man of war noted for sternness in his youth.
When the Feudal System made its last battle for existence, he heard the summons of his lord, and went into that terrible struggle in which even the women and little children of Aidzu took part. But courage and the sword alone could not prevail against the new methods of war;—the power of Aidzu was broken; and he, as one of the leaders of that power, was long a political prisoner.
But the victors esteemed him; and the Government he had fought against in all honor took him into its service to teach the new generations. From younger teachers these learned Western science and Western languages. But he still taught that wisdom of the Chinese sages which is eternal,—and loyalty, and honor, and all that makes the man.
Some of his children passed away from his sight. But he could not Feel alone; for all whom he taught were as sons to him, and so reverenced him. And he became old, very old, and grew to look like a god,—like a Kami-Sama.
The Kami-Sama in art bear no likeness to the Buddhas. These more ancient divinities have no downcast gaze, no meditative impassiveness. They are lovers of Nature; they haunt her fairest solitudes, and enter into the life of her trees, and speak in her waters, and hover in her winds. Once upon the earth they lived as men; and the people of the land are their posterity. Even as divine ghosts, they remain very human, and of many dispositions. They are the emotions, they are the sensations of the living. But as figuring in legend and the art born of legend, they are mostly very pleasant to know. I speak not of the cheap art which treats them irreverently in these skeptical days, but of the older art explaining the sacred texts about them. Of course such representations vary greatly. But were you to ask what is the ordinary traditional aspect of a Kami, I should answer: "An ancient smiling man of wondrously gentle countenance, having a long white beard, and all robed in white with a white girdle."
Only that the girdle of the aged Professor was of black silk, just such a vision of Shintō he seemed when he visited me the last time.
He had met me at the college, and had said: "I know there has been a congratulation at your house; and that I did not call was not because I am old or because your house is far, but only because I have been long ill. But you will soon see me."
So one luminous afternoon he came, bringing gifts of Felicitation,—gifts of th
e antique high courtesy, simple in themselves, yet worthy a prince: a little plum-tree, every branch and spray one snowy dazzle of blossoms; a curious and pretty bamboo vessel full of wine; and two scrolls bearing beautiful poems,—texts precious in themselves as the work of a rare calligrapher and poet; otherwise precious to me, because written by his own hand. Everything which he said to me I do not fully know. I remember words of affectionate encouragement about my duties,—some wise, keen advice,—a strange story of his youth. But all was like a pleasant dream; for his mere presence was a caress, and the fragrance of his flower-gift seemed as a breathing from the Takama-no-hara. And as a Kami should come and go, so he smiled and went,—leaving all things hallowed. The little plum-tree has lost its flowers: another winter must pass before it blooms again. But something very sweet still seems to haunt the vacant guestroom. Perhaps only the memory of that divine old man;—perhaps a spirit ancestral, some Lady of the Past, who followed his steps all viewlessly to our threshold that day, and lingers with me awhile, just because he loved me.
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