CHAPTER XXX
SENKÉ AND THE MERCHANTS’ DINNER
It required an elaborate negotiation extending through two weeks, as well as the tactful aid of an officer of the Kioto Kencho to arrange for me a cha no yu at the house of Senké, the great master of the oldest school of that art. Senké was about going to Uji to choose his teas; he was changing his teas; he was airing his godowns, and he sent a dozen other excuses to prevent his naming a day. Not until it had been explained fully to this great high-priest of the solemnity that I had studied cha no yu with his pupil, Matsuda, and that, knowing that Matsuda had first studied the Hori no Uji method, I was pursuing the art to its fountain-head, to make sure that no heterodox version of the Senké method had betrayed my inexperience, would he consent to receive me.
Senké is a descendant of Rikiu, the instructor and friend of Hideyoshi, the Taiko. For years they practised the “outward” rites together, and wrote poems to one another, until Hideyoshi admired Rikiu’s beautiful daughter. Rikiu refused her to him, and estrangement followed. Rikiu had built a splendid gate-way for the Daitokuji temple, within which, as was the fashion of the time, he had placed a small wooden statue of himself. Taiko Sama, riding through with his train one day, was told of the statue overhead. He declared it an insult to him, the Shogun, and sent to Rikiu the fateful short sword, the wakazashi, and the great master died the honorable death of seppuku, or hara kiri.
“And the daughter? Did the Taiko get her after Rikiu's death?” we asked, as we sat waiting in Senké’s garden, listening to the many histories connected with the place. “Wakarimasen” (I do not know), said our friend, with that Japanese indifference to the end of a story that so perplexes the western mind.
Senké has a lovely garden beyond the palace walls, and reached by deserted streets, whose blank walls shelter aristocratic homes. Crossing a court, we crept through a small door in a large gate-way and entered this retreat, whose floor was all irregular stones, covered evenly with a soft, velvety, green moss. Upon this verdant surface fell dappled shadows and an occasional ray of sunshine from a canopy of maple, cherry, and pine branches, carefully clipped and trained so as to form an even tent-roof over the whole enclosure. The stillness was unbroken, though upon this strange paradise looked out a dozen exquisitely simple tea-rooms, each isolated and sheltered from the view of any other. Pupils come to Senké from all parts of Japan, but even when every tea-room is in use the same hush reigns. To subdue us to what we were to work in, and to enhance Fortune’s supreme favor of a cha no yu in the Taiko’s manner, we were made to wait and wait before we were invited into the cool twilight of a large tea-room. The house has been burned twice since Hideyoshi's day, but each time has been exactly reproduced, so that virtually we sat where the Taiko had sat for many hours, and we used the veritable bowls, spoons, trays, and tea-caddies sanctified by his touch three hundred years ago. The Taiko’s crest was on the simple, gold decked screens of the room, and an autograph verse on a kakemono, and a single pink lily in a bronze vase, were the ornaments of the tokonoma.
Senké, now past seventy years of age, receives few pupils himself, but neither he nor his handsome son of about thirty years is wholly incurious as to the strange fashions that have entered the country since the Restoration. We bowed with the profound solemnity of mourners, but with the vigilance of spies we watched Senké as he built the fire, laid on the white azalea charcoal, dropped some chips of sandal-wood, and boiled his historic iron kettle. Then followed the feast of many delicate dishes—tea; bean-soup, with bits of egg-plant; raw fish with shreds of daiken and fresh ginger; tai-soup, with sea-weed and mushrooms; broiled ai with shoyu; bamboo-soup; dried Shikoku salmon; broiled birds; Kaga walnuts, preserved in a thick syrup, and other dishes; each course accompanied by rice, and ending with barley-water. An old iron saké-pot and shallow red lacquer saké-cups were passed around with the various dishes, and we gravely pledged one another and the master who served us. When the dried fish was brought in my Kencho friend nipped off some choice bits with his chop sticks and offered them on a paper to our host, who ate them, and put the paper in his sleeve. At the end of the feast the first guest—the one sitting nearest the tokonoma—wiped all his bowls and dishes clean with paper, which he put in his sleeve, and we followed his example. With the thirteenth course we gathered up our tray of sweets and retired to the garden, waiting there until soft strokes on an old bell called us back to the room, which had been swept, and the picture and vase in the tokonoma changed. Senké, too, had replaced his dark gauze kimono by one of pale-blue crape, and sat in a reverent attitude. With infinite deliberation he went through the solemn rites, and duly presented us each with a bowl of green gruel more bitter than quinine, twelve spoonfuls of powdered tea being the measure used. This was his koi cha. The usu cha was a less strong decoction, demanding a simpler ceremony, and was served in a bowl passed around for all to sip from in turn. Previous study enabled us to note intelligently every movement of the old master, and the significant position of each thumb and finger, hand, elbow, and wrist, as the venerable artist of cha no yu exemplified the grace and niceties of the “outward” school.
At the proper time we asked the history of the implements used in the ceremony. The na tsume, or tea-bowl of Raku ware, in Jo-o shape, belonged to Rikiu, Jo-o having been the teacher of Rikiu, and the arbiter of the form of many implements of cha no yu. The little bamboo slip with a flat, curved end, which lifted the powdered tea from its box, was cut by Rikiu. It bears no decoration or mark, and is of the ordinary shape; but this commonplace cha shaku cannot be bought for even two hundred dollars. The Emperor Komei, father of the present Emperor, was taught by the elder Senké, and bequeathed to his master various autographs and an incense-box of great antiquity. Driven though he is by the spirit of innovation and progress, the present Emperor occasionally enjoys a few quiet hours at cha no yu. The Empress is most accomplished in its ceremonial, and delights in the little poems which guests are always expected to write for the host.
When the moment arrived for the production of these tributes at Senké’s tea, our Japanese friends dashed them off in an instant, as if, with the return to their ceremonial silk gowns, they had returned to the habits of thought of old Japan, when poetry filled the air. But one of them whispered, to encourage us, “I have been thinking it these two weeks.”
With regret we saw cha ire (tea-caddy), cha wan (tea-bowl), cha sen (tea-whisk), and cha shaku (teaspoon), tied up in their precious brocade bags, and, with profound obeisances, we took leave of Senké, feeling that for a day we had slipped out of our century, and almost out of our planet, so unlike is the cha no yu to any other function in this irreverent, practical, and pushing era.
Of our friend, who had drained two of three bowls of it, we asked, “Does not this strong tea make you nervous, keep you awake, give you the cha ni yoita, or tea tremens?”
“Oh no,” he answered; “I do not drink enough of it. I am very careful. But my friends, when they begin the study of English and foreign branches, find that they must stop drinking it. The English seems to bring into action many nerves that we do not use, and the drink is probably exciting enough in itself.”
Foreign teachers say the same thing, and at the Doshisha school tobacco must be given up, though, next to tea, it is the great necessity of the Japanese.
Kioto's maiko and geisha performances are, of course, more splendid than those of any other city. The great training-school of maiko conforms to the classic traditions, and critics and connoisseurs assemble at the Kaburenjo theatre each spring when the famous Kioto dance, the Miakodori, is given by troops of maiko.
Did I not possess the ocular proof of a fan and a few souvenirs I could believe the fête which I saw to have been but a midsummer night's dream. A club of the great merchants of the city, wishing to do honor to two Tokio officials, devised a dinner, or geisha party, and included their American friends. The evening was one of the heaviest, hottest, and sultriest of the Kioto summer, and, after the sun sank in a bed of mist, swarmed with myriads of mosquitoes. Later, the full moon poured down a flood of silvery light that seemed to quiver with heat, yet, apparelled in our uncomfortable regulation costume, we found our way through the lanes to the dark gate-ways of Nishi Otani’s long approach. The broad stone path lay marble-white in the moonlight between rows of gigantic trees, the tall stone lanterns looked like ghostly sentries, and fire-flies floated through the still, hot darkness. At the foot of the avenue a line of red lanterns hung glowing and motionless in mid-air, like so many strange fruits on the black branches. When we passed into the open, moonlighted court of the Gion temple and under its giant torii, we were received at a wide door-way by the master of the feast and the whole tea-house staff.
Above were our forty-four hosts of the evening, among whom were the court brocade-weaver, the great merchant of painted crapes, the maker of the incomparable enamels, the masters of the great potteries and bronze works, and a few artists. We bowed three or four times to each gentleman, who bowed twice as often to us, and we wondered how these quiet, grave, and gracious hosts, in their rustling garments of dark striped silks and their white tabis, could look so cool and fresh.
All the screens of the upper floor had been taken out, and three sides of the room were open to the night. We were conducted to seats at one end, the company gravely dropped upon the cushions ranged along either side, and the master of ceremonies, a great silk merchant and manufacturer, made a formal speech of welcome, and begged us to accept the poor repast they were about to offer. Every one bowed three times, a proper response was made, we all bowed again, and a file of nesans in dark silk gowns brought in tiny cups of tea. Then followed ten of the most famous maiko of Kioto, dazzling beauties, who advanced noiselessly, two by two, in exquisite kimonos of painted crape and obis of woven sunshine, and with coronals of silver hair-pins on their heads. As they drew near, all gliding with the same slow grace, they knelt and set before us the ozens, or low lacquer tables, holding cups, bowls, chopsticks, and napkins. Two tiny maiko then entered with large trays of sweetmeats, and the master of ceremonies lifted off with his chopsticks and set before us sections of confectionery—waves and fan-tailed goldfish, an impressionist sketch in sugar of rippling water filled with darting fish. On Nabeshima and Owari plates, and in lacquer and porcelain bowls, were served innumerable courses—soups, omelet, lily bulbs, chicken, small birds, jellies, many unknown and delightful dishes—and with each remove, rice, lifted from a fine, red-lined, gold lacquer rice box furnished with a big lacquer spoon worth six silver ones. Tai, the sterlet of Japan, the arbitrary accessory of any great feast, whose curiously shaped bones are symbols of hospitality and abundance, was accompanied by a peppery salad, and followed by more birds, by bamboo sprouts, and a stew of beche-de-mer, before the appearance of the pièce de résistance.
The maiko advanced in a broad line, two of them bearing a large tray on which lay a magnificent carp, still breathing, and with his scales shining as if just drawn from the water. The master of ceremonies advanced, and, receiving the tray from the maiko, set it on the mats and turned it slowly around for all to behold. As the maiko retired all leaned forward to watch the noble carp, as it lay quivering on its bed of moss and cresses, with a background of greenery like a true Japanese garden. This custom of serving the living fish at a feast is a survival of a traditional usage that foreigners seldom witness. Morsels of the fish were presently lifted from its back and passed to the company. To us the performance was a kind of cannibalism possessing a horrible fascination, but the epicures uttered sounds expressive of appreciation as they lingered over the delicious morsels. A sudden jar or turning of the tray made the carp writhe, and left upon us a sense of guilty consent and connivance which lasted for days.
Rice and eels were next served, another soup, more fowl, and then, with sponge-cake, fruits, and additional cups of tea, the feast concluded. Centuries ago the Portuguese taught the Japanese to make sponge-cake, and now they surpass in the art even a New England house-keeper with “faculty.” With each course there had been an exchange of saké-cups and the drinking of innumerable healths, with amazing elaboration of etiquette. Each guest must accept the proffered pledge, extend it to be filled, touch the forehead, drink, empty, and return it to the giver, that he may repeat the same routine. The guests in their rustling garments moved about the mats, sitting before one and another in turn for a little chat and an exchange of saké-cups, and formal speeches and responses were made as well.
Throughout the feast the geishas twanged the koto and the samisen, and the maiko in painted crapes and gorgeous brocades danced with choral accompaniment. Their broad obis were tied in Osaka fashion, in long butterfly loops that spread the golden and glistening fabric all over the back of their scant, clinging kimonos. These lovely young creatures slowly posed, through dance after dance, bending, swaying, and turning with exquisite grace, moving their golden fans in time with the wail of the instruments and the plaintive burden of the song explaining the pantomime. It was a strange scene—the room, open to the summer night, hung round with crimson lanterns and lighted with the soft glow from the tall andons; the lines of sitting figures in their rich silk garments, and the dark faces lost in reverie as they followed the mazes of the golden-robed dancers.
After the dinner and between their dances the maiko seated themselves before the guests to entertain them with their wit and badinage, to fill the saké-cups, and to let the company admire them. Raiha was the name of one demure beauty, who inquired of us which one of them was loveliest according to our foreign standards. While we considered, some became coquettish and full of little Japanese airs and graces, but whatever sparkle and expression they threw into their eyes, the meekest look was given to the whole face by the broad touch of carmine on the lower lip. The final decision gave Raiha three of the foreign votes, and the one dissenter conformed when our Japanese friends assured him that she was the reigning professional beauty of Kioto. And we thought her shy, distinguished manners, her silver thread of a voice, and her demure eyes and smiles more charming even than her lovely face.
At midnight, when a monastery bell was softly booming from the mountain-slopes, we began our adieus. Nearly one hundred and forty bows were to be made by each of us, for, after bowing three or four times and saying “sayonara” to each of our hosts, we had to bid adieu to the lovely maikos and acknowledge the salutations of the tea-house attendants. When we sat down at the door way to have our shoes put on, we were dizzy enough to be grateful for the fanning that the tea-house girls bestowed upon us. A chorus of sayonaras accompanied us as we followed the coolies with their long lanterns out through the torii and into the black shadows of the temple grounds.