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Page 43
Tokyo, August 1, 1904.
Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by
the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicad�, it is
difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being
carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between
armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the
intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling. This
contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that
began to study Western science only within the recollection of many
persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle
for national existence. It was inevitable, this struggle,--might
perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted. Japan has
boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously
the civilizations of the East and the West,--a medi�val power that,
unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and
to dominate China. For all industrial civilization the contest is one
of vast moment;--for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her
national life. As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing,
the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at
home, little has been written.
To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing
unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record. At the
beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all
non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble
themselves as little as possible about exterior events;--and this
command has been obeyed to the letter. It would be natural to suppose
that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest
had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but
there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or
depression. On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of
public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation
in its victories. Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese
corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of
positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost:
yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement. The
people are following their daily occupations just as they did before
the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres
and flower displays are not less well patronized. The life of
T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the
events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers
are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers. Except
after the news of some great victory,--celebrated with fireworks and
lantern processions,--there are no signs of public emotion; and but
for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing
bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the
war is an evil dream.
Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering--viewless
and voiceless suffering--repressed by that sense of social and
patriotic duty which is Japanese religion. As a seventeen-syllable
poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain
as well as joy:--
G[=o]gwai no
Tabi teki mikata
Gok� ga fu�.
[_Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and
friends have increased in multitude._]
The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than
Spartan discipline of the race. Anciently the people were trained, not
only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and
to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they
are obedient to that teaching to-day. It would still be thought a
shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for
Emperor and fatherland. The public seem to view the events of the war
as they would watch the scenes of a popular play. They are interested
without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is
particularly shown in various manifestations of the "Play-impulse."
Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual
fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and
novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern
warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or
utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs.
But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful
tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement
than by the mention of ordinary facts,--every-day matters recorded in
the writer's diary.
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