CHAPTER XXII
THE DANCE OF THE CAPITAL
The Ginza--the "Street-of-the-Silversmiths"--is the Broadway, thePiccadilly, the _Boulevard des Italiens_ of modern Tokyo. Here old andnew war daily in a combat in which the new is daily victor. Modernshop-fronts of stone and brick stand cheek by jowl with graceful, flimsyframe structures that are pure Japanese. Trolley-cars, built in theUnited States, fill the street with clangor and its pavements (for ithas them) roar with trade.
In its flowing current one may see many types: Americans from thenear-by Imperial Hotel, bristling with enthusiasm; earnest touristswith Murrays tucked in their armpits, doggedly "doing" the country;members of foreign Legations whirling in victorias; Chinamen, queuedand decorously clad in flowered silk brocade; an occasional Koreanwith queerly shaped hat of woven horse-hair; over-dandified_O-share-Sama_--"high-collar" men, as the Tokyo phrase goes--intweeds and yellow puttees; comfortable merchants and men of affairs indull-colored _kimono_ and clogs; blue-clad workmen with the marks oftheir trades stamped in great red or white characters on their backs;sallow, bare-footed students with caps of _Waseda_ or the ImperialUniversity; stolid and placid-faced Buddhist priests in _rick'sha_, enroute to some temple funeral; soldiers in khaki with red- andyellow-striped trousers; coolies dragging carts; country people onexcursions from thatched inland villages, clothed in common cloth andviewing the capital for the first time with indrawn breath andchattering exclamations; rich noblemen, beggars, idlers, guides--all aretributary to this river.
When evening falls women and children predominate: bent old women withbrightly blackened teeth; patient-faced mothers with babies on theirbacks toddling on clacking wooden _geta_; white-faced vermilion-lipped_geisha_ glimpsing by in _rick'sha_ to some tea-house entertainment;coolie women dressed like men, trudging in the roadway; girl-studentspeering into jewelers' windows; children clad like gaudy moths andbutterflies, clattering hand in hand, or pursuing one another withshrill cries.
Before the sun has well set lanterns begin to twinkle and glow abovedoorways--yellow electric bulbs in clusters, white acetylene globes,smoky oil lamps, and great red and white paper-lanterns lit by candles.As the violet of the dusk deepens to purple, these multiply till thevista is ablaze. Lines of colored lights in pink and lemon break outlike air-flowers along upper stories of tea-houses, from whose interiorscome the strumming of _biwa_ and the twang of _samisen_. On frailbalconies, pricked out with yellow lanterns, dwarf pines or jars ofgrowing azalea hang their masses of soft green or pink down over thepassers-by. From open _shoji_ women lean, their _kimono_ parted, theirrounded breasts bared to the cool night.
On the curb peripatetic dealers squat in little stalls formed of movablescreens with their wares spread before them; curio-merchants with a_melange_ of brass, crystal and bronze; dealers in _suzumushi_--musicalinsects in the tiniest cages of plaited straw; sellers of Buddhist textsand worm-eaten, painted scrolls; of ink-horns, shoe-sticks, eye-glassesand children's toys. At intervals grills of savory _waka-fuji_ (saltedfry-cakes) sizzle over charcoal braziers which throw a red glow on anintent row of children's faces. Here and there a shop-front emits theblatant bark of a foreign phonograph. On the corners men with arms fullof vernacular evening newspapers call the names of the sheets in musicalcadences, with a quaint, upward inflection. The air is filled with aheavy, rich odor, suggesting the pomade of women's head-dresses, _sake_,and sandalwood. In the roadway every vehicle contributes its bobbinglantern, till the traffic seems a celestial Saturnalia, staggering withdrunken stars.
So it looked to Barbara as her two _goriki_--"strong-pull men"--whirledher rubber-tired _rick'sha_ across the interminable city in her firstbewildering view of Tokyo by night. Daunt, for her benefit, had arrangeda trip to the Cherry-Viewing-Festival on the Sumida River, and aJapanese dinner at the Ogets'--the Cherry-Moon Tea-House--in the famousdistrict of Asak'sa, where the great temple of Kwan-on the Mercifulshines with its ever-burning candles. They had started from the Embassy:Baroness Stroloff, the wife of the Bulgarian Minister and Patricia'sespecial favorite, the twin sisters of the Danish Secretary, the SwissMinister's daughter and two young army officers studying thelanguage--all of whom Barbara had met at the Review--and the longprocession (since police regulations in Tokyo forbid _rick'sha_ totravel abreast) trailed "goose-fashion," threading in and out, awrithing, yellow-linked chain.
Daunt had traced their route with Barbara on a map of the city,and had translated for her the names of the streets throughwhich they were now passing. By the Street-of-Big-Horses theyskirted the District-of-Honorable-Tea-Water, threaded theLane-where-Good-Luck-Dwells, and so, by Middle-Monkey-Music-Street, theycame to the Sumida, a broader, slothful Thames, gleaming with tenthousand lanterns on _sampan_, houseboats and barges. The bridge ofAh-My-Wife brought them to the farther side. At the entrance of a longavenue of blooming cherry-trees a policeman halted them. _Rick'sha_ werenot permitted beyond this point and the sweating human horses wereabandoned.
The road ran high along the river on a green embankment like a widewall, between double rows of cherry-trees, whose branches interlockedoverhead. It was densely crowded with people, each one of whom seemed tobe carrying a colored paper-lantern or a cherry-branch drooped over theshoulder. In the hues of the loose, warm-weather _kimono_ bloomed allthe flowers of all the springs--golds and mauves and scarlets andmagentas--and everywhere in the lantern-light fluttered radiant-wingedchildren, like vivid little birds in a tropical forest. From tinyone-storied tea-houses along the way, with elevated mats covered withred flannel blankets, _biwa_ and _koto_ and _samisen_ gurgled and flutedand tinkled. On the right the embankment descended steeply, giving aview of sunken roadways and tiled roofs; on the left lay the longreaches of the dreamy river murmuring with oars and voices and vibratinglike a vast flood of gold and vermilion fireflies.
Barbara had never imagined such a welter of movement and color. The softflute-like voices, the slow shuffling of sandals on the dry earth, thepensive smiling faces, the pink flowers on every hand, made thisdifferent from any holiday crowd she had ever seen. It suggested acarnival of Venice orientalized, painted over and set blazing withJapanese necromancy.
Here and there jugglers and top-spinners displayed their skill tostaring spectators. A cluster of shaven-headed babies swarmed silentlyabout a sweetmeat seller, and beside his push-cart a man clad like agray-feathered hawk whistled discordantly on a bamboo reed and gyratedwith a vacant grin on his pock-marked face. Where the crowd was lessclose men tricked out in girls' attire, with whitened, clown-like faces,turned somersaults, and through the thickest of the press a dejected,blaze-faced ox, whose nose and forehead were painted with spots ofscarlet, slowly drew a two-storied scaffold on which was perched the godof spring--a plaster figure wreathed with flowers. The animal's earswere tickled by long tassels of bright green and red, and his look wasone of patient boredom. The man who led him wore a short jerkin, and hisbare legs, from thigh to knee, were tattooed in big, blue, gracefulleaves.
The greatest numbers surged about a large tent, outside of which waddledhere and there mountains of men, their faces round as full moons, nakedsave for gaily colored aprons. The fat hung on their breasts in greatcreased folds like an overfed baby's, and in the lantern-light theirflesh looked an unhealthy, mottled pink. Each wore his hair wound in ashort queue, bent forward and tied in a stiff loop on the crown. As oneof the vast hulks lumbered by, cooling his moon-face with a tiny fan,Daunt pointed him out to Barbara.
"That is the famous Hitachiyama," he told her, "the champion wrestler ofJapan."
"How big he is!"
"It runs in families," he said. "They diet and train, too, frombabyhood. He weighs three hundred and forty-seven pounds."
A roar came from the lighted canvas and a man emerged and wrotesomething on a sign-board like a tally-sheet. Daunt stopped and perusedit. "You may be interested, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "to learnthat Mr. Terrible-Horse has knocked out Mr. Small-Wi
llow-Tree, but thatMr. Tiger-Elephant has been allowed a foul over Mr. Frozen-Stork. I wishwe could see a bout, but we must hurry or we'll miss the _geisha_dancing."
They came presently where the roadway overlooked a sunken temple yardencircled by moats of oozy slime dotted with pink and white lotos buds.The inclosure was set with giant cryptomeria centuries old, and wascrowded with people. Stone steps led down between twisted pine-trees and_Shinto_ lanterns, to a gate on whose either side was a great stone cow,rampant, like the figures in coats-of-arms. There was a droll contrastbetween the posture and the placid bovine countenances. In the center ofthe inclosure rose a wide platform with a tasseled curtain like thestage of a theater. Opposite was a pavilion in which sat rows of womenin dark-colored dress, moveless as images and holding musicalinstruments. The whole flagged space between jostled with theiridescent, lantern-carrying throng. A priest led the party to seats atone side on mats reserved for foreign visitors.
"Look, Barbara," said Patricia. "There goes our friend theexpert--across there. He looks bigger and pastier than ever."
Bersonin was dressed in white flannel which accentuated his enormoussize. A younger man was with him, smoking a cigarette, and in their wakefollowed a Japanese servant.
The rest of the party had turned and were looking in that direction."Why," said Baroness Stroloff, "that's Doctor Bersonin."
One of the young army men looked at her curiously. "Do you know him?" heasked.
"Why, of course. One meets him everywhere. I saw him at a dinner lastweek. Have you met him?"
"Oh, yes, we're supposed to know everybody," he said carelessly. Histone, however, held something which made her say:
"Most men don't like him, I find. I wonder why."
"Why don't people like lizards?" said Patsy. "Because they're cold andclammy and wicked-looking."
"They like them enough to eat them in Senagambia," said the youngofficer smiling. "Bersonin is a great man, no doubt, but there'ssomething about him--I met a man once who had run across him in SouthAmerica and--he was prejudiced. Who's the young fellow with him, Daunt?"
"His name is Ware--Philip Ware," was the answer. "I knew him atcollege."
Barbara felt the blood staining her cheeks. So that was "Phil," thebrother of whom Austen Ware had told her! The name called up thoughtsthat had obtruded themselves in the moment she saw the white yacht lyingat anchor, and which since then she had wilfully thrust from her mind.Her gaze studied the handsome, youthful form, noting the bold, restlessglance, the dissipated lines of the comely face, with a sudden distaste.A twang from the orchestra recalled her, as the curtain was looped backfor the _Miyako Odori_, the "Dance of the Capital."
It was Barbara's introduction to a native orchestra and at first itsstrummings and squealings, its lack of modes and of harmony, its oddbarbaric phrasing, infected her with a mad desire to laugh. Butgradually there came to her the hint of under-rhythm--as when she hadlistened to Haru's _samisen_ in the garden--and with it an overpoweringsense of suggestion. It was the remote cry of occult passions, atwittering of ghostly shadows, the wailing of an oriental Sphynx whomTime had abandoned to the eternal desert. It had in it melancholy andthe enigma of the ages. It wiped away the ugly modern Europeanbuildings, the western costumes, the gloze of borrowed method, and leftBarbara looking into the naked heart of the East, old, intent, and fullof mystical meaning.
The ivory plectrons chirruped, the flutes squeaked and wailed, thelittle hour-glass drums thudded, and down the stage swept sixty_geisha_, in blue, cherry-painted _kimono_. A sly, thin thread ofscarlet peeped from their woven sleeves. Their small _tabi'd_ feet,cleft like the foot of a faun, moved in slow, hovering steps. When theywheeled, swaying like young bamboo, they stamped softly, and the whitefoot, raised from the boards, under the puffed _kimono_ edge writhed andbent from the ankle like a pliant hand. Their faces, heavily powdered,and held without expression, looked like white, waxen masks in whichlived sparkling black eyes. In the slow, languorous movement their _obi_of gold and fans of silver caught the cherry-shaded lights and tossedthem back in gleams of mother-of-pearl.
Barbara fell to watching the Japanese spectators. All around her theystood and sat at ease, drinking in the play of color and motion of whichthey never tire. The dance had no passion, no sensuality, none of thesavagery and abandon of the dances of Southern Asia, with whosereproductions the western stage is familiar. Beside a ballet of theWest, it would have seemed almost ascetic. She knew that it wassymbolic--that every posture was a sentence of a story they knew, as oldand as sacred, perhaps, as the birth of the gods.
The parted curtain swung together and Daunt seated himself at Barbara'sside. "Do you like it, ever so little?" he asked.
"Ever so _much_!"
"I wonder if you are going to like me, too," he said, so softly that noone else heard.
She felt her color coming as she answered: "Why, of course. How could Ihelp it, when you plan things like this for me?"
"I have at last found my _metier_; give me more things to do."
"Very well. When will you take me to see your Japanese house?"
For a second Daunt hesitated. The little native house in theStreet-of-the-Misty-Valley was a sentimental place to him. There he hadworked out the models of his first Glider; there he had talked with hisPrincess of Dreams, his "Lady of the Many-Colored Fires." The glimpse ofPhil had reminded him that it now had a tenant. When he showed it toBarbara, it should not be with Phil in possession.
She noted the hesitation, and, somewhat puzzled, and wondering if tooriental ethics the suggestion was a _gaucherie_, waved the matterlightly aside. "You are just going to say 'one of these days.' Pleasedon't. When I was little, that always meant never. I withdraw themotion--but what is this coming?"
A boy was ascending the platform. He bowed and laid a box of thinunpainted wood at Daunt's feet. It contained a _kakemono_, orwall-painting, rolled and tied with a red-and-white cord of twistedrice-paper. Daunt read the accompanying card.
"'Miss Happy-for-a-Thousand-Years,'" he said, "'presents her complimentsto the illustrious strangers.' She is the star. The gift is a prettycustom, isn't it, even if it is advertisement. Here comes the ladyherself to present her thanks for our distinguished patronage."
She bowed low before them, smiling, her small piquant face powderedwhite as mistletoe-berries above her carmine-painted lips. Dauntunrolled the _kakemono_, revealing a delicately-painted cluster ofbutterflies. He chatted with her in the vernacular, and she replied withmuch drawing-in of breath and flute-like laughter.
"She says," he translated, "that this is a picture of her honorableancestors." A little smile, a genuflection, a breath of perfume and thepowdered face and gorgeous _kimono_ were gone. The orchestra chirruped,the curtain parted and another figure began.
Miss Happy-for-a-Thousand-Years! As the party walked back to the waiting_rick'sha_, Barbara wondered what lay beneath that smiling surface. Shehad heard of the strenuous training that at five years began to teachthe gauzy, fragile, child-butterfly to paint its wings, to flirt andsing and dance its dazzling moth-flame way. For the _geisha_ nothing wastoo gorgeous, too transcendent. Her lovers might be statesmen andprinces. But in return she must be always gay, always laughing, alwaysyoung--all things to all men--to the end of the butterfly chapter!Butterfly hair, butterfly gown--and butterfly heart?
Barbara wondered.