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 one 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
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 forever
is 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 button-hole 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
favour 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 favourite 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
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
Itojo-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 to-day.
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.
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,
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 this 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 their 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 even 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 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 this school
which almost reproduce the flower paintings of
Sansetsu and Tsunenobu. The Naturalesque school,
on the other hand, as its name implies, 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 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 tearoom 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 convolvuli 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 convolvulus. 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 realised 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."
