“He sees, and wants, and beckons;
She blushes, and smiles, and comes—
or not, as she pleases. That is her part: to come or not to come.”
“Why, I thought it was the custom in American marriages for the woman to select,” I said, somewhat surprised; for I, with most Japanese people of that day, so interpreted the constant references in books and papers to the American custom of “women choosing their own husbands.” It was one of many exaggerated ideas that we had of the dominant spirit of American women and the submissive attitude of American men. In the conversation that followed I heard for the first time that in this country the custom is for the worded request always to come from the man.
“It is like the folk tale that tells of the origin of our race,” I said.
“That sounds as if it might be more interesting than the court items in the newspaper,” laughed Mother. “Suppose you tell me about it.”
“It’s rather a long story from the beginning,” I said; “but the important part is that a god and goddess named Izanagi and Izanami—our Adam and Eve—came from Heaven on a floating bridge and formed the islands of Japan. Then they decided to remain and build themselves a home. So they went to the Heavenly Post for the ceremony of marriage. The bride starting from the right and the bridegroom from the left, they walked around the Heavenly Post. When they met on the other side, the goddess exclaimed:
“ ‘Thou beautiful god!’
“The god was displeased and said the bride had spoiled the ceremony, as it was his place to speak first. So they had to begin again. The goddess started again from the right of the Heavenly Post, and the god from the left; but this time, when they met, the goddess did not speak until she was spoken to.
“ ‘Thou beautiful goddess!’ Izanagi said.
“ ‘Thou beautiful god!’ replied Izanami.
“As this time the ceremony was properly performed, the husband and the wife built themselves a home, and from them came the nation of Japan.”
“So it seems that Japanese and American marriages were originally not so unlike, after all,” said Mother.
One of the most surprising things in America to me was the difficulty and often impossibility of my being able to do, as a wife, the very things for which I had been especially trained. Matsuo had come to this country when he was a boy in his teens, and was as unfamiliar with many Japanese customs as I was with those of America; so, with no realization on his part of my problems, I had many puzzling experiences connected with wifely duty. Some of these were tragic and some amusing.
At one time, for several evenings in succession, business detained Matsuo until a late hour. I was not well and Mother objected to my sitting up to await his return. This troubled me greatly; for in Japan it is considered lazy and disgraceful for a wife to sleep while her husband is working. Night after night I lay with wide-open eyes, wondering whom it was my duty to obey—my faraway mother who knew Japanese customs, or the honoured new mother, who was teaching me the ways of America.
I had another puzzling time when Mother was called away for a week by the death of a relative. Our maid, Clara, had heard Japan spoken of as “the land of cherry blossoms,” and, thinking to please me, she made a cherry pie one night for dinner. In Japan cherry trees are cultivated for the blossoms only, just as roses are in America, and I had never seen cherry fruit; but the odour of the pie was delicious as it was placed before me to cut and serve.
“What is that?” asked Matsuo. “Oh, cherry pie! It’s too acid. I don’t care for it.”
No Japanese bride is so disrespectful as to eat a dainty her husband cannot enjoy, so I gave orders for that beautiful pie to be eaten in the kitchen. But my heart followed it, and no pie that I have ever seen since has seemed worthy to compare with that juicily delicious memory.
Clara was always doing kind things for me, and one day I asked Matsuo what I could give her as a present. He said that in America money was always welcome; so I selected a new bill and, as we do in Japan, wrapped it in white paper and wrote on the outside, “This is cake.”
How Matsuo did laugh!
“It’s all right in America to give naked money,” he said.
“But that is only for beggars,” I replied, really troubled.
“Nonsense!” said Matsuo. “Americans consider money an equivalent for service. There is no spiritual value in money.”
I meditated a good deal over that; for to a Japanese the expression of thanks, however deceitful the form it takes, is a heartthrob.
I liked our servants, but they were a never-ending surprise to me. Mother was kindness itself to the maid and to the man who worked on the place; but she had no vital interest in them, and they had no unselfish interest in us. In my home in Japan the servants were minor members of the family, rejoicing and sorrowing with us and receiving in return our cordial interest in their affairs. But this did not mean undue familiarity. There always existed an invisible line “at the doorsill,” and I never knew a servant to overstep it or wish to; for a Japanese servant takes pride in the responsibility of his position. Clara attended to her duties properly, but her pleasures were outside the home; and on the days of her “afternoon out,” she worked with such astonishing energy that it suggested no thought of anything but getting through. I could not help contrasting her with gentle, polite Toshi and her dignified bows of farewell.
But, on the other hand, Clara voluntarily did things for us which I should never have expected from any maid in Japan except my own nurse. One day I
