Chapter XXVI: Japan. the Reception of the Duke of Edinburgh

There was a great stir in Japan in the summer of 1869, when it was known that the Duke of Edinburgh was coming in the _Galatea_. The Japanese Government were wildly excited, for it was the first time that a Royal Prince had paid a visit to the Mikado, and they were determined to give his Royal Highness a reception at Yedo worthy of his rank and of the Monarch who was to entertain him. Hama-go-ten, a beautiful garden by the sea, was determined upon as his residence; and the preparations were made in the most generous fashion. Furniture and all the equipments necessary to European ideas of comfort were procured from Hong Kong; but the decorations were carried out entirely in the native fashion, and most beautiful and artistic they were.

In order that nothing might be wanting the Japanese asked Sir Harry to allow me to help them, for in those times they were not so well acquainted with Western habits as they are now; so a couple of rooms were made ready for me in Hama-go-ten so that I might be on the spot, and there I remained for about a month. I was also to serve as interpreter to the Duke, and as I should have to act on the occasion of his interview with the Son of Heaven, I had to be coached in the language of “the people above the clouds” (royalties and courtiers), for there are matters of etiquette and proper phraseology at this as at all courts in which it would be very easy to make some awkward mistake.

It was a pity that the Japanese did not have the inspiration to lodge the Duke in one of their own charming pavilions; but they were bent upon preparing a European house for him, and so a rather ugly, ramshackle wooden house with green shutters was run up in a hurry. The ugliness of the outside, however, was made up for by the decorations within. The walls were a perfect riot of colour and gold, which in less deft hands would have been glaring and violent, but the artists had the secret of so mastering and intermarrying the most hostile colours that the whole effect was delightful and a succession of surprises. The discordant note was struck by the furniture dealers of Hong Kong; their wares, with a strong flavour of Tottenham Court Road in them, jarred piteously with the imaginative poetry of the Japanese artists.

The Duke arrived in the harbour of Yokohama on the 31st of August, and, after the usual salutes, levées, addresses and all the other wearinesses of which loyalty is capable, drove up to Yedo, along the picturesque Tokaido, in one of the Emperor’s carriages. Mr. Eliot Yorke, Captain Haig, Mr. Ramsay (afterwards Lord Dalhousie) and Lord Charles Beresford were those who accompanied him from the _Galatea_. I was specially attached to him during his stay, and of course Sir Harry Parkes went with him. All along the road he was received with the same honours that would be paid to the Mikado himself. The shutters of the upstairs rooms in the houses by the wayside were hermetically sealed with bits of paper stuck across them so that no Peeping Tom should look down upon the august person—a custom long since passed away in these days, when the Emperor shows himself as freely as any European sovereign. As the Duke’s carriage went by, the people who thronged the road and streets fell prostrate, touching the earth with their foreheads. A most elaborate programme had been drawn up for his Royal Highness’ arrival. I extract from my translation of it one or two items which savour of the old-world ceremonial of the court, now quite forgotten. The rest deal with salutes, refreshments, etc.

“Previous to his Royal Highness’ arrival in Japan, prayers will be offered up to Kanjin for his prosperous voyage.” Kanjin, literally the God of China. This is the revival of an extremely ancient ceremonial which dates from a time when there was no intercourse with abroad, excepting with China through Corea. Kanjin is therefore the patron saint of foreigners, who are all united under his protection under the generic name of Tōjin, or “men of the Tang” dynasty of China.

“On the day before his Royal Highness’ departure for his residence at Yedo, the roads will be cleaned and repaired; and prayers for his safe journey will be offered up to the God of Roads.”

“On the day on which his Royal Highness may be expected to arrive in Yedo, religious ceremonies will take place at Shinagawa [the suburb through which he would pass] to exorcize all evil spirits. On his Royal Highness’ arrival, a Prince of the Blood will visit him, to inquire after his health.”

“When his Royal Highness is about to enter the gate of the castle the ceremony called Nusa will take place.”

Nusa is a sweeping away of evil influences with a sort of flapper with a hempen tassel.

The prayers and pious orisons of the Shintō priests were heard; the Duke arrived and departed in unbroken health and spirits; all evil influences, all malignant _oni_ and _bakémono_ (devils and ghosts) had been successfully exorcized. When I read my old notes of all these things I seem to be looking across a long vista of forgotten centuries into the gloom of prehistoric times; I am transported back into the days when the God Hachiman decided the fates of battles, when Inari Sama and his foxes ruled the harvest, and Benten was the supreme Queen Goddess of beauty.

Playgoing in the old days, before the restoration in 1868, was entirely confined to the lower classes; no gentleman could afford to be seen in a public theatre; in private, it is true that famous actors would occasionally be hired to give a representation at the _yashiki_ of some rich noble, to whom the ordinary performance would be forbidden. There were, however, certain classical dances and plays which were specially performed in theatres attached to the palaces. The _bugaku_, for instance, were dances or pantomime plays the performance of which was confined to the Emperor’s palace, so that very few Japanese, and those only of the highest rank, ever witnessed them.[19] The Nō, on the other hand, were a kind of classical opera performed on stages called _nō butai_, which were attached to the _yashiki_ of some of the great nobles. These operas—I know no better name for them—are of the greatest antiquity. They are supposed to recall the performances by which the Sun Goddess was lured out of the cave in which she had hidden in order to escape from the persecutions of her turbulent brother—a legend which is supposed to have been the poetic explanation of the first eclipse. They had, moreover, a religious intention in the first instance, having been arranged at the Emperor’s command by one Hada Rawakatsu in the last decade of the sixth century. A special performance of Nō was given in honour of the Duke of Edinburgh in the _yashiki_ of the Prince of Kishiu—which had the reputation of being, after the Castle, the most luxurious palace in Yedo.

This was the first time that such a performance was witnessed by foreigners. Opposite the principal reception room, where his Royal Highness sat, and separated from it by a narrow courtyard, was a covered stage, approached from the green-room by a long gallery at an angle of forty-five degrees. Half a dozen musicians, robed in dresses of ceremony, marched slowly down the gallery—something like the entrance of the actors in _Sumurun_, as arranged by Reinhardt—and having squatted down on the stage, gravely made obeisance. The performances then began. There was no scenery, no stage appliances; the descriptions of the chorus or the actors took their place. The dialogue and choruses were given in a nasal recitative, accompanied by the mouth-organ, flute, drum and other classical instruments. The ancient poetry of these pieces is full of the most delicate fancies obscured by archaic puns and plays upon words; so it was with no little difficulty that, with the assistance of a man of letters, I prepared the arguments of the plays.

I published these long years ago,[20] so there is no need to repeat them here.

During the Duke’s stay there were entertainments of all sorts, for the Japanese were determined that he should carry away the happiest memories of his visit. The most famous of the fat wrestlers of Japan, monstrous mountains of adipose tissue, gave a show and there were dancers, musicians, conjurors; Chō-chō San[21] came specially for the butterfly trick, which has never been so well described as by Sherard Osborn in that long-since-forgotten little gem, “A Cruise in Japanese Waters.”

All these were shown in a setting the beauty of which it would be hard to exaggerate. The garden of Hama-go-ten was a masterpiece of Japanese horticulture. I believe that it no longer exists, the land having been sold for commercial purposes. When the first part was sold I had the luck to be able to buy two of the great bronze lanterns which decorated it. How little I thought when I used to wander through the lovely grounds during the weeks which I spent there making ready for the Duke that one day many years later two of the precious ornaments which I admired so much would find their way to my own home in far-away Gloucestershire!

The most interesting episode of the visit was, of course, the reception by the Emperor at the Castle. The official reception took place in the audience chamber; his Royal Highness, Sir Harry Parkes, Sir Henry Keppel and the officers in attendance on the Duke were shown into the room where the Mikado stood on a raised dais with two of his personal attendants and the Prime Minister behind him. The Duke and I took our places on the dais opposite to the Mikado. It was rather nervous work for me, for it is so easy to bungle into some absurd mistake where foreign etiquette and a very stately phraseology have to be observed; however, it all went off well, there were the usual commonplaces exchanged, and then his Majesty invited his Royal Highness to meet him more privately in the garden.

After a short delay, during which the Princes and dignitaries of the Court came to pay their respects, the Duke was shown into the delicious little Maple Tea-house in the Castle gardens, where tea and all manner of delicacies were served. Then came a summons to the Waterfall Pavilion, where the Emperor was waiting; only Sir Harry, the Admiral, and myself went in with the Duke. Dull is the office of the Court newsman! Difficult it is to become artistically enthusiastic over the presentation of diamond-mounted snuff-boxes! But this particular Court ceremony was certainly something out of the common. It can never occur again. East and West were sharply defined. There were no cocked hats or gold-laced coats among the Japanese of those days. The Emperor and all his Court were living pictures out of the dark centuries.

The next time that I saw the Mikado was on the occasion of my second visit to Japan, in 1873. He was sitting back in a barouche, surrounded by an escort of lancers, dressed, like himself, in European uniform. A modern of the moderns.

When I went for the third time, in 1906, with Prince Arthur of Connaught, his Majesty reminded me of that visit in 1869, when I acted as interpreter—but he was now surrounded by a Court in which the men were all the counterparts of European ministers, their breasts covered with stars and decorations from potentates great and small, and the ladies all wore tiaras and dresses from Paquin’s! Alas for the vanishing of the Picturesque!

The Japanese Government were very grateful for the trouble which I had taken to make the Royal visit a success, and when the Duke left the Foreign Ministers sent me a very pretty letter of thanks, with a lacquer box, which the English Foreign Office allowed me to accept.

AN AUSTRIAN MISSION

Towards the end of 1869 there came an Austrian Mission to conclude a treaty with Japan. As usual we pulled the chestnuts out of the fire for them. The Mission was commended to our good offices and we had to dry-nurse them, put them up to the ropes, and furnish them with an interpreter. The head of the Mission was Admiral Petz, the hero of Lissa, a most interesting personality; the second in command, charged with the negotiation of the commercial details of the affair, was Baron Calice, who afterwards made a sort of name for himself as Austro-Hungarian Ambassador at Constantinople.

With the Admiral I made great friends. One day as we were sitting together watching the picturesque junks sailing to and fro in front of a great warship in the Bay of Yedo, he gave me an account of the battle of Lissa in which he had played so great a part three years before. The island of Lissa, practically an Austrian fortress plunged in the Adriatic sea, was attacked on the 18th of July, 1866, by the Italian fleet under Admiral Persano. The Austrian Admiral Tegethoff went out to relieve the besieged stronghold, and on the 20th the great sea-fight took place. Admiral Petz’s story of the battle was most exciting. Although ironclads had been in existence for some years, Lissa must have been the first action in which they played their part. The Italian fleet, with eleven armoured ships and a powerful ram, was by far the stronger; the Austrians had only seven. The wooden ships on the two sides were about even in number.

Admiral Petz, then Commodore, was in command of the _Kaiser_, an old-fashioned wooden battleship. There was a moment when he was engaged at close quarters with three Italian ironclads, the four ships blazing away for dear life or death. He was on the bridge, half choked and blinded by the thick, poisonous smoke and flames belched out by his own and the enemy’s guns, his ears deafened by the roar of the cannon. It was like hell-fire let loose upon the waters. All of a sudden a puff of wind cleared the air, and to his dismay he saw the huge bulk of the dreaded _Ré d’Italia_, supposed to be the most powerful armoured vessel afloat, bearing down upon him. Iron attacking oak; an unequal fight. It was a horror: if she rammed him it was certain death for all. A sudden inspiration struck him; he had just time to make a despairing dash at the monster before she could reach him. He gave the necessary order, full steam ahead, charged and drove his bows into her, striking her amidships. To his amazement the blow crashed into her, boring a huge hole in her iron sides as easily as if they had been made of paper, and the great terror sank into the sea with all her crew.

The Austrians had had the best of it all through the fight, another ironclad, the _Palestro_, had been blown up, the other three, with which Petz had been engaged, were badly hurt, and now this last disaster broke the Italians and sent them in full flight to Ancona. The battle was won! Admiral Tegethoff summoned his captains to the flagship, and when they were all drawn up on the quarterdeck, he went up to Petz, kissed him on both cheeks, and said: “This is your victory!”

The _Kaiser_ was naturally very much mauled, but the wooden ship had scored; she had practically disabled two other ironclads and battered a third before sinking the _Ré d’Italia_, and could carry her wounds bravely into port.

Long years afterwards at luncheon at the Travellers’ Club, I was telling the story as I had it from Admiral Petz himself. My dear old friend, Lord Alcester, the famous admiral, who was nothing if not stiff in opinions, stoutly denied the possibility of a wooden ship in any circumstances sinking an ironclad; but

“Facts are chiels that winna ding
And downa be disputed,”

the _Ré d’Italia_ with her crew of six hundred lies at the bottom of the Adriatic, the _Kaiser_ came away a cripple covered with glory, and her gallant Commodore received the Maria-Teresien order—a distinction even more rarely bestowed than the V.C. To earn it three conditions must be fulfilled—the feat must have been performed at risk of life; it must have been spontaneous, without any superior command, and it must be successful.

It was good to hear the brave sailor tell his tale, simply and without any suspicion of vainglory. He would not admit that he had done anything wonderful. He saw death before him as he stood on the bridge—a sudden idea flashed across his brain—Impossible? Why not try? That was all.

* * * * *

On the 1st of January, 1870, I left Japan. The work of the last two years had told upon me. I was out of health, and had almost to be carried on board ship by our good Doctor Willis. I went to Singapore, and there awaited the arrival of the Messageries ship _Hoogly_, which was to bring my friend and colleague, Gustave de Montebello, who afterwards, as Ambassador at St. Petersburg, initiated the _entente_ between France and Russia, which was destined to bear fruits which now, in 1915, are ripening to their full value. A month of the _dolce far niente_ at Singapore, a life of lotus-eating, resting in a luxurious rattan chair, breathing in a balmy, spice-laden atmosphere on a verandah broad enough to protect me from any insidious attacks of the sun, set me quite on my legs again, and by the time my friend arrived, I was as lively as a thrush, and ready to enjoy the delights of a voyage with one of the most agreeable of companions, both of us hungry for home, and yet full of the memories of our past experiences.

Montebello was not well treated by his Government. I met him in Switzerland not long before his death; he had been superseded, and his political foresight had not been recognized as it should have been; but he was too great a gentleman to express any resentment, even to me. He died as he had lived, a noble Frenchman, chivalrous to the last. But that he felt acutely I well knew.

Our voyage had an element of excitement in it. At Singapore we were told that we were to go through the Suez Canal. If so, we should be the first ship to go through as a matter of business, apart from the vessels that had taken part in the gala proceedings at the opening. At Point de Galle we heard that it was impossible. At Aden there was a fresh contradiction, and when we reached Suez, through we went! We stuck in the middle and smashed one flange of our screw, but in spite of that we reached Marseilles all right, and were immediately put in quarantine, because a poor fellow had died of consumption on board, and been buried at sea in the Red Sea. Montebello used his official position to get himself and me landed in spite of all objections, we being bearers of despatches—for I took good care never to travel without a Foreign Office bag—and so with all expedition we reached Paris.

_APPENDIX_

GOVERNMENT TREATISE ON POLITICS AND RELIGION, PUBLISHED TO THE PEOPLE

(_Translation_)

“JIM MIN KOKU YU DAI I”