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VI. Flowers
In the trembling grey
of a spring dawn, when the birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among the trees,
have you not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers? Surely with
mankind the appreciation of flowers must have been coeval with the poetry of love. Where
better than in a flower, sweet in its unconsciousness, fragrant because of its silence,
can we image the unfolding of a virgin soul? The primeval man in offering the first
garland to his maiden thereby transcended the brute. He became human in thus rising above
the crude necessities of nature. He entered the realm of art when he perceived the subtle
use of the useless.
In joy or sadness,
flowers are our constant friends. We eat, drink, sing, dance, and flirt with them. We wed
and christen with flowers. We dare not die without them. We have worshipped with the lily,
we have meditated with the lotus, we have charged in battle array with the rose and the
chrysanthemum. We have even attempted to speak in the language of flowers. How could we
live without them? It frightens on to conceive of a world bereft of their presence. What
solace do they not bring to the bedside of the sick, what a light of bliss to the darkness
of weary spirits? Their serene tenderness restores to us our waning confidence in the
universe even as the intent gaze of a beautiful child recalls our lost hopes. When we are
laid low in the dust it is they who linger in sorrow over our graves.
Sad as it is, we cannot
conceal the fact that in spite of our companionship with flowers we have not risen very
far above the brute. Scratch the sheepskin and the wolf within us will soon show his
teeth. It has been said that a man at ten is an animal, at twenty a lunatic, at thirty a
failure, at forty a fraud, and at fifty a criminal. Perhaps he becomes a criminal because
he has never ceased to be an animal. Nothing is real to us but hunger, nothing sacred
except our own desires. Shrine after shrine has crumbled before our eyes; but one altar is
forever preserved, that whereon we burn incense to the supreme idol -- ourselves. Our god
is great, and money is his Prophet! We devastate nature in order to make sacrifice to him.
We boast that we have conquered Matter and forget that it is Matter that has enslaved us.
What atrocities do we not perpetrate in the name of culture and refinement!
Tell me, gentle
flowers, teardrops of the stars, standing in the garden, nodding your heads to the bees as
they sing of the dews and the sunbeams, are you aware of the fearful doom that awaits you?
Dream on, sway and frolic while you may in the gentle breezes of summer. To-morrow a
ruthless hand will close around your throats. You will be wrenched, torn asunder limb by
limb, and borne away from your quiet homes. The wretch, she may be passing fair. She may
say how lovely you are while her fingers are still moist with your blood. Tell me, will
this be kindness? It may be your fate to be imprisoned in the hair of one whom you know to
be heartless or to be thrust into the buttonhole of one who would not dare to look you in
the face were you a man. It may even be your lot to be confined in some narrow vessel with
only stagnant water to quench the maddening thirst that warns of ebbing life.
Flowers, if you were in
the land of the Mikado, you might some time meet a dread personage armed with scissors and
a tiny saw. He would call himself a Master of Flowers. He would claim the rights of a
doctor and you would instinctively hate him, for you know a doctor always seeks to prolong
the troubles of his victims. He would cut, bend, and twist you into those impossible
positions which he thinks it proper that you should assume. He would contort your muscles
and dislocate your bones like any osteopath. He would burn you with red-hot coals to stop
your bleeding, and thrust wires into you to assist your circulation. He would diet you
with salt, vinegar, alum, and sometimes, vitriol. Boiling water would be poured on your
feet when you seemed ready to faint. It would be his boast that he could keep life within
you for two or more weeks longer than would have been possible without his treatment.
Would you not have preferred to have been killed at once when you were first captured?
What were the crimes you must have committed during your past incarnation to warrant such
punishment in this?
The wanton waste of
flowers among Western communities is even more appalling than the way they are treated by
Eastern Flower Masters. The number of flowers cut daily to adorn the ballrooms and
banquet-tables of Europe and America, to be thrown away on the morrow, must be something
enormous; if strung together they might garland a continent. Beside this utter
carelessness of life, the guilt of the Flower-Master becomes insignificant. He, at least,
respects the economy of nature, selects his victims with careful foresight, and after
death does honour to their remains. In the West the display of flowers seems to be a part
of the pageantry of wealth -- the fancy of a moment. Whither do they all go, these
flowers, when the revelry is over? Nothing is more pitiful than to see a faded flower
remorselessly flung upon a dung heap.
Why were the flowers
born so beautiful and yet so hapless? Insects can sting, and even the meekest of beasts
will fight when brought to bay. The birds whose plumage is sought to deck some bonnet can
fly from its pursuer, the furred animal whose coat you covet for your own may hide at your
approach. Alas! The only flower known to have wings is the butterfly; all others stand
helpless before the destroyer. If they shriek in their death agony their cry never reaches
our hardened ears. We are ever brutal to those who love and serve us in silence, but the
time may come when, for our cruelty, we shall be deserted by these best friends of ours.
Have you not noticed that the wild flowers are becoming scarcer every year? It may be that
their wise men have told them to depart till man becomes more human. Perhaps they have
migrated to heaven.
Much may be said in
favor of him who cultivates plants. The man of the pot is far more humane than he of the
scissors. We watch with delight his concern about water and sunshine, his feuds with
parasites, his horror of frosts, his anxiety when the buds come slowly, his rapture when
the leaves attain their lustre. In the East the art of floriculture is a very ancient one,
and the loves of a poet and his favorite plant have often been recorded in story and song.
With the development of ceramics during the Tang and Sung dynasties we hear of wonderful
receptacles made to hold plants, not pots, but jewelled palaces. A special attendant was
detailed to wait upon each flower and to wash its leaves with soft brushes made of rabbit
hair. It has been written ["Pingtse" by Yuenchunlang] that the peony should be
bathed by a handsome maiden in full costume, that a winter-plum should be watered by a
pale, slender monk. In Japan, one of the most popular of the No-dances, the Hachinoki,
composed during the Ashikaga period, is based upon the story of an impoverished knight,
who, on a freezing night, in lack of fuel for a fire, cuts his cherished plants in order
to entertain a wandering friar. The friar is in reality no other than Hojo-Tokiyori, the
Haroun-Al-Raschid of our tales, and the sacrifice is not without its reward. This opera
never fails to draw tears from a Tokio audience even today.
Great precautions were
taken for the preservation of delicate blossoms. Emperor Huensung, of the Tang Dynasty,
hung tiny golden bells on the branches in his garden to keep off the birds. He it was who
went off in the springtime with his court musicians to gladden the flowers with soft
music. A quaint tablet, which tradition ascribes to Yoshitsune, the hero of our Arthurian
legends, is still extant in one of the Japanese monasteries [Sumadera, near Kobe]. It is a
notice put up for the protection of a certain wonderful plum-tree, and appeals to us with
the grim humour of a warlike age. After referring to the beauty of the blossoms, the
inscription says: "Whoever cuts a single branch of this tree shall forfeit a finger
therefor." Would that such laws could be enforced nowadays against those who wantonly
destroy flowers and mutilate objects of art!
Yet even in the case of
pot flowers we are inclined to suspect the selfishness of man. Why take the plants from
their homes and ask them to bloom mid strange surroundings? Is it not like asking the
birds to sing and mate cooped up in cages? Who knows but that the orchids feel stifled by
the artificial heat in your conservatories and hopelessly long for a glimpse of their own
Southern skies?
The ideal lover of
flowers is he who visits them in their native haunts, like Taoyuenming [all celebrated
Chinese poets and philosophers], who sat before a broken bamboo fence in converse with the
wild chrysanthemum, or Linwosing, losing himself amid mysterious fragrance as he wandered
in the twilight among the plum-blossoms of the Western Lake. 'Tis said that Chowmushih
slept in a boat so that his dreams might mingle with those of the lotus. It was the same
spirit which moved the Empress Komio, one of our most renowned Nara sovereigns, as she
sang: "If I pluck thee, my hand will defile thee, O flower! Standing in the meadows
as thou art, I offer thee to the Buddhas of the past, of the present, of the future."
However, let us not be
too sentimental. Let us be less luxurious but more magnificent. Said Laotse: "Heaven
and earth are pitiless." Said Kobodaishi: "Flow, flow, flow, flow, the current
of life is ever onward. Die, die, die, die, death comes to all." Destruction faces us
wherever we turn. Destruction below and above, destruction behind and before. Change is
the only Eternal -- why not as welcome Death as Life? They are but counterparts one of the
other -- The Night and Day of Brahma. Through the disintegration of the old, re-creation
becomes possible. We have worshipped Death, the relentless goddess of mercy, under many
different names. It was the shadow of the All-devouring that the Gheburs greeted in the
fire. It is the icy purism of the sword-soul before which Shinto-Japan prostrates herself
even to-day. The mystic fire consumes our weakness, the sacred sword cleaves the bondage
of desire. From our ashes springs the phoenix of celestial hope, out of the freedom comes
a higher realisation of manhood.
Why not destroy flowers
if thereby we can evolve new forms ennobling the world idea? We only ask them to join in
our sacrifice to the beautiful. We shall atone for the deed by consecrating ourselves to
Purity and Simplicity. Thus reasoned the tea-masters when they established the Cult of
Flowers.
Anyone acquainted with
the ways of our tea- and flower-masters must have noticed the religious veneration with
which they regard flowers. They do not cull at random, but carefully select each branch or
spray with an eye to the artistic composition they have in mind. They would be ashamed
should they chance to cut more than were absolutely necessary. It may be remarked in this
connection that they always associate the leaves, if there be any, with the flower, for
the object is to present the whole beauty of plant life. In this respect, as in many
others, their method differs from that pursued in Western countries. Here we are apt to
see only the flower stems, heads as it were, without body, stuck promiscuously into a
vase.
When a tea-master has
arranged a flower to his satisfaction he will place it on the tokonoma, the place of
honour in a Japanese room. Nothing else will be placed near it which might interfere with
its effect, not even a painting, unless there be some special aesthetic reason for the
combination. It rests there like an enthroned prince, and the guests or disciples on
entering the room will salute it with a profound bow before making their addresses to the
host. Drawings from masterpieces are made and published for the edification of amateurs.
The amount of literature on the subject is quite voluminous. When the flower fades, the
master tenderly consigns it to the river or carefully buries it in the ground. Monuments
are sometimes erected to their memory.
The birth of the Art of
Flower Arrangement seems to be simultaneous with that of Teaism in the fifteenth
century. Our legends ascribe the first flower arrangement to those early Buddhist saints
who gathered the flowers strewn by the storm and, in their infinite solicitude for all
living things, placed them in vessels of water. It is said that Soami, the great painter
and connoisseur of the court of Ashikaga-Yoshimasa, was one of the earliest adepts at it.
Juko, the tea-master, was one of his pupils, as was also Senno, the founder of the house
of Ikenobo, a family as illustrious in the annals of flowers as was that of the Kanos in
painting. With the perfecting of the tea-ritual under Rikiu, in the latter part of the
sixteenth century, flower arrangement also attains its full growth. Rikiu and his
successors, the celebrated Ota-wuraka, Furuka-Oribe, Koyetsu, Kobori-Enshiu,
Katagiri-Sekishiu, vied with each other in forming new combinations. We must remember,
however, that the flower-worship of the tea-masters formed only a part of their aesthetic
ritual, and was not a distinct religion by itself. A flower arrangement, like the other
works of art in the tea-room, was subordinated to the total scheme of decoration. Thus
Sekishiu ordained that white plum blossoms should not be made use of when snow lay in the
garden. "Noisy" flowers were relentlessly banished from the tea-room. A flower
arrangement by a tea-master loses its significance if removed from the place for which it
was originally intended, for its lines and proportions have been specially worked out with
a view to its surroundings.
The adoration of the
flower for its own sake begins with the rise of "Flower-Masters," toward the
middle of the seventeenth century. It now becomes independent of the tea-room and knows no
law save that the vase imposes on it. New conceptions and methods of execution now become
possible, and many were the principles and schools resulting therefrom. A writer in the
middle of the last century said he could count over one hundred different schools of
flower arrangement. Broadly speaking, these divide themselves into two main branches, the
Formalistic and the Naturalesque. The Formalistic schools, led by the Ikenobos, aimed at a
classic idealism corresponding to that of the Kano-academicians. We possess records of
arrangements by the early masters of the school which almost reproduce the flower
paintings of Sansetsu and Tsunenobu. The Naturalesque school, on the other hand, accepted
nature as its model, only imposing such modifications of form as conduced to the
expression of artistic unity. Thus we recognise in its works the same impulses which
formed the Ukiyoe and Shijo schools of painting.
It would be
interesting, had we time, to enter more fully than it is now possible into the laws of
composition and detail formulated by the various flower-masters of this period, showing,
as they would, the fundamental theories which governed Tokugawa decoration. We find them
referring to the Leading Principle (Heaven), the Subordinate Principle (Earth), the
Reconciling Principle (Man), and any flower arrangement which did not embody these
principles was considered barren and dead. They also dwelt much on the importance of
treating a flower in its three different aspects, the Formal, the Semi-Formal, and the
Informal. The first might be said to represent flowers in the stately costume of the
ballroom, the second in the easy elegance of afternoon dress, the third in the charming
deshabille of the boudoir.
Our personal sympathies
are with the flower-arrangements of the tea-master rather than with those of the
flower-master. The former is art in its proper setting and appeals to us on account of its
true intimacy with life. We should like to call this school the Natural in
contradistinction to the Naturalesque and Formalistic schools. The tea-master deems his
duty ended with the selection of the flowers, and leaves them to tell their own story.
Entering a tea-room in late winter, you may see a slender spray of wild cherries in
combination with a budding camellia; it is an echo of departing winter coupled with the
prophecy of spring. Again, if you go into a noon-tea on some irritatingly hot summer day,
you may discover in the darkened coolness of the tokonoma a single lily in a hanging vase;
dripping with dew, it seems to smile at the foolishness of life.
A solo of flowers is
interesting, but in a concerto with painting and sculpture the combination becomes
entrancing. Sekishiu once placed some water-plants in a flat receptacle to suggest the
vegetation of lakes and marshes, and on the wall above he hung a painting by Soami of wild
ducks flying in the air. Shoha, another tea-master, combined a poem on the Beauty of
Solitude by the Sea with a bronze incense burner in the form of a fisherman's hut and some
wild flowers of the beach. One of the guests has recorded that he felt in the whole
composition the breath of waning autumn.
Flower stories are
endless. We shall recount but one more. In the sixteenth century the morning-glory was as
yet a rare plant with us. Rikiu had an entire garden planted with it, which he cultivated
with assiduous care. The fame of his convulvuli reached the ear of the Taiko, and he
expressed a desire to see them, in consequence of which Rikiu invited him to a morning tea
at his house. On the appointed day Taiko walked through the garden, but nowhere could he
see any vestige of the convulvus. The ground had been leveled and strewn with fine pebbles
and sand. With sullen anger the despot entered the tea-room, but a sight waited him there
which completely restored his humour. On the tokonoma, in a rare bronze of Sung
workmanship, lay a single morning-glory -- the queen of the whole garden!
In such instances we
see the full significance of the Flower Sacrifice. Perhaps the flowers appreciate the full
significance of it. They are not cowards, like men. Some flowers glory in death --
certainly the Japanese cherry blossoms do, as they freely surrender themselves to the
winds. Anyone who has stood before the fragrant avalanche at Yoshino or Arashiyama must
have realized this. For a moment they hover like bejewelled clouds and dance above the
crystal streams; then, as they sail away on the laughing waters, they seem to say:
"Farewell, O Spring! We are on to eternity."
VII.
Tea-Masters
In religion the Future
is behind us. In art the present is the eternal. The tea-masters held that real
appreciation of art is only possible to those who make of it a living influence. Thus they
sought to regulate their daily life by the high standard of refinement which obtained in
the tea-room. In all circumstances serenity of mind should be maintained, and conversation
should be conducted as never to mar the harmony of the surroundings. The cut and color of
the dress, the poise of the body, and the manner of walking could all be made expressions
of artistic personality. These were matters not to be lightly ignored, for until one has
made himself beautiful he has no right to approach beauty. Thus the tea-master strove to
be something more than the artist -- art itself. It was the Zen of aestheticism.
Perfection is everywhere if we only choose to recognise it. Rikiu loved to quote an old
poem which says: "To those who long only for flowers, fain would I show the
full-blown spring which abides in the toiling buds of snow-covered hills."
Manifold indeed have
been the contributions of the tea-masters to art. They completely revolutionised the
classical architecture and interior decorations, and established the new style which we
have described in the chapter of the tea-room, a style to whose influence even the palaces
and monasteries built after the sixteenth century have all been subject. The many-sided
Kobori-Enshiu has left notable examples of his genius in the Imperial villa of Katsura,
the castles of Najoya and Nijo, and the monastery of Kohoan. All the celebrated gardens of
Japan were laid out by the tea-masters. Our pottery would probably never have attained its
high quality of excellence if the tea-masters had not lent it to their inspiration, the
manufacture of the utensils used in the tea-ceremony calling forth the utmost expenditure
of ingenuity on the parts of our ceramists. The Seven Kilns of Enshiu are well known to
all students of Japanese pottery. many of our textile fabrics bear the names of
tea-masters who conceived their color or design. It is impossible, indeed, to find any
department of art in which the tea-masters have not left marks of their genius. In
painting and lacquer it seems almost superfluous to mention the immense services they have
rendered. One of the greatest schools of painting owes its origin to the tea-master
Honnami-Koyetsu, famed also as a lacquer artist and potter. Beside his works, the splendid
creation of his grandson, Koho, and of his grand-nephews, Korin and Kenzan, almost fall
into the shade. The whole Korin school, as it is generally designated, is an expression of
Teaism. In the broad lines of this school we seem to find the vitality of nature herself.
Great as has been the
influence of the tea-masters in the field of art, it is as nothing compared to that which
they have exerted on the conduct of life. Not only in the usages of polite society, but
also in the arrangement of all our domestic details, do we feel the presence of the
tea-masters. Many of our delicate dishes, as well as our way of serving food, are their
inventions. They have taught us to dress only in garments of sober colors. They have
instructed us in the proper spirit in which to approach flowers. They have given emphasis
to our natural love of simplicity, and shown us the beauty of humility. In fact, through
their teachings tea has entered the life of the people.
Those of us who know
not the secret of properly regulating our own existence on this tumultuous sea of foolish
troubles which we call life are constantly in a state of misery while vainly trying to
appear happy and contented. We stagger in the attempt to keep our moral equilibrium, and
see forerunners of the tempest in every cloud that floats on the horizon. Yet there is joy
and beauty in the roll of billows as they sweep outward toward eternity. Why not enter
into their spirit, or, like Liehtse, ride upon the hurricane itself?
He only who has lived
with the beautiful can die beautifully. The last moments of the great tea-masters were as
full of exquisite refinement as had been their lives. Seeking always to be in harmony with
the great rhythm of the universe, they were ever prepared to enter the unknown. The
"Last Tea of Rikiu" will stand forth forever as the acme of tragic grandeur.
Long had been the
friendship between Rikiu and the Taiko-Hideyoshi, and high the estimation in which the
great warrior held the tea-master. But the friendship of a despot is ever a dangerous
honour. It was an age rife with treachery, and men trusted not even their nearest kin.
Rikiu was no servile courtier, and had often dared to differ in argument with his fierce
patron. Taking advantage of the coldness which had for some time existed between the Taiko
and Rikiu, the enemies of the latter accused him of being implicated in a conspiracy to
poison the despot. It was whispered to Hideyoshi that the fatal potion was to be
administered to him with a cup of the green beverage prepared by the tea-master. With
Hideyoshi suspicion was sufficient ground for instant execution, and there was no appeal
from the will of the angry ruler. One privilege alone was granted to the condemned -- the
honor of dying by his own hand.
On the day destined for
his self-immolation, Rikiu invited his chief disciples to a last tea-ceremony. Mournfully
at the appointed time the guests met at the portico. As they look into the garden path the
trees seem to shudder, and in the rustling of their leaves are heard the whispers of
homeless ghosts. Like solemn sentinels before the gates of Hades stand the grey stone
lanterns. A wave of rare incense is wafted from the tea-room; it is the summons which bids
the guests to enter. One by one they advance and take their places. In the tokonoma hangs
a kakemon -- a wonderful writing by an ancient monk dealing with the evanescence of all
earthly things. The singing kettle, as it boils over the brazier, sounds like some cicada
pouring forth his woes to departing summer. Soon the host enters the room. Each in turn is
served with tea, and each in turn silently drains his cup, the host last of all. according
to established etiquette, the chief guest now asks permission to examine the tea-equipage.
Rikiu places the various articles before them, with the kakemono. After all have expressed
admiration of their beauty, Rikiu presents one of them to each of the assembled company as
a souvenir. The bowl alone he keeps. "Never again shall this cup, polluted by the
lips of misfortune, be used by man." He speaks, and breaks the vessel into fragments.
The ceremony is over;
the guests with difficulty restraining their tears, take their last farewell and leave the
room. One only, the nearest and dearest, is requested to remain and witness the end. Rikiu
then removes his tea-gown and carefully folds it upon the mat, thereby disclosing the
immaculate white death robe which it had hitherto concealed. Tenderly he gazes on the
shining blade of the fatal dagger, and in exquisite verse thus addresses it:
"Welcome to
thee,
O sword of eternity!
Through Buddha
And through Daruma alike
Thou hast cleft thy way."
With a smile upon his
face Rikiu passed forth into the unknown.
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he Book of Tea
