Bushido by Inazo Nitobe (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) 📕

of arms, and as such esteemed in a degree higher than its deserts, there

came into existence its counterfeits. Confucius himself has repeatedly

taught that external appurtenances are as little a part of propriety as

sounds are of music.

When propriety was elevated to the sine qua non of social intercourse,

it was only to be expected that an elaborate system of etiquette should

come into vogue to train youth in correct social behavior. How one must

bow in accosting others, how he must walk and sit, were taught and

learned with utmost care. Table manners grew to be a science. Tea

serving and drinking were raised to a ceremony. A man of education is,

of course, expected to be master of all these. Very fitly does Mr.

Veblen, in his interesting book,[11] call decorum “a product and an

exponent of the leisure-class life.”

[Footnote 11: Theory of the Leisure Class, N.Y. 1899, p. 46.]

I have heard slighting remarks made by Europeans upon our elaborate

discipline of politeness. It has been criticized as absorbing too much

of our thought and in so far a folly to observe strict obedience to it.

I admit that there may be unnecessary niceties in ceremonious etiquette,

but whether it partakes as much of folly as the adherence to

ever-changing fashions of the West, is a question not very clear to my

mind. Even fashions I do not consider solely as freaks of vanity; on the

contrary, I look upon these as a ceaseless search of the human mind for

the beautiful. Much less do I consider elaborate ceremony as altogether

trivial; for it denotes the result of long observation as to the most

appropriate method of achieving a certain result. If there is anything

to do, there is certainly a best way to do it, and the best way is both

the most economical and the most graceful. Mr. Spencer defines grace as

the most economical manner of motion. The tea ceremony presents certain

definite ways of manipulating a bowl, a spoon, a napkin, etc. To a

novice it looks tedious. But one soon discovers that the way prescribed

is, after all, the most saving of time and labor; in other words, the

most economical use of force,—hence, according to Spencer’s dictum, the

most graceful.

The spiritual significance of social decorum,—or, I might say, to

borrow from the vocabulary of the “Philosophy of Clothes,” the

spiritual discipline of which etiquette and ceremony are mere outward

garments,—is out of all proportion to what their appearance warrants us

in believing. I might follow the example of Mr. Spencer and trace in our

ceremonial institutions their origins and the moral motives that gave

rise to them; but that is not what I shall endeavor to do in this book.

It is the moral training involved in strict observance of propriety,

that I wish to emphasize.

I have said that etiquette was elaborated into the finest niceties, so

much so that different schools advocating different systems, came into

existence. But they all united in the ultimate essential, and this was

put by a great exponent of the best known school of etiquette, the

Ogasawara, in the following terms: “The end of all etiquette is to so

cultivate your mind that even when you are quietly seated, not the

roughest ruffian can dare make onset on your person.” It means, in other

words, that by constant exercise in correct manners, one brings all the

parts and faculties of his body into perfect order and into such

harmony with itself and its environment as to express the mastery of

spirit over the flesh. What a new and deep significance the French word

biensèance[12] comes thus to contain!

[Footnote 12: Etymologically well-seatedness.]

If the premise is true that gracefulness means economy of force, then it

follows as a logical sequence that a constant practice of graceful

deportment must bring with it a reserve and storage of force. Fine

manners, therefore, mean power in repose. When the barbarian Gauls,

during the sack of Rome, burst into the assembled Senate and dared pull

the beards of the venerable Fathers, we think the old gentlemen were to

blame, inasmuch as they lacked dignity and strength of manners. Is lofty

spiritual attainment really possible through etiquette? Why not?—All

roads lead to Rome!

As an example of how the simplest thing can be made into an art and then

become spiritual culture, I may take Cha-no-yu, the tea ceremony.

Tea-sipping as a fine art! Why should it not be? In the children drawing

pictures on the sand, or in the savage carving on a rock, was the

promise of a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. How much more is the drinking

of a beverage, which began with the transcendental contemplation of a

Hindoo anchorite, entitled to develop into a handmaid of Religion and

Morality? That calmness of mind, that serenity of temper, that composure

and quietness of demeanor, which are the first essentials of Cha-no-yu

are without doubt the first conditions of right thinking and right

feeling. The scrupulous cleanliness of the little room, shut off from

sight and sound of the madding crowd, is in itself conducive to direct

one’s thoughts from the world. The bare interior does not engross one’s

attention like the innumerable pictures and bric-a-brac of a Western

parlor; the presence of kakemono[13] calls our attention more to grace

of design than to beauty of color. The utmost refinement of taste is the

object aimed at; whereas anything like display is banished with

religious horror. The very fact that it was invented by a contemplative

recluse, in a time when wars and the rumors of wars were incessant, is

well calculated to show that this institution was more than a pastime.

Before entering the quiet precincts of the tea-room, the company

assembling to partake of the ceremony laid aside, together with their

swords, the ferocity of the battle-field or the cares of government,

there to find peace and friendship.

[Footnote 13: Hanging scrolls, which may be either paintings or

ideograms, used for decorative purposes.]

Cha-no-yu is more than a ceremony—it is a fine art; it is poetry,

with articulate gestures for rhythm: it is a modus operandi of soul

discipline. Its greatest value lies in this last phase. Not infrequently

the other phases preponderated in the mind of its votaries, but that

does not prove that its essence was not of a spiritual nature.

Politeness will be a great acquisition, if it does no more than impart

grace to manners; but its function does not stop here. For propriety,

springing as it does from motives of benevolence and modesty, and

actuated by tender feelings toward the sensibilities of others, is ever

a graceful expression of sympathy. Its requirement is that we should

weep with those that weep and rejoice with those that rejoice. Such

didactic requirement, when reduced into small everyday details of life,

expresses itself in little acts scarcely noticeable, or, if noticed, is,

as one missionary lady of twenty years’ residence once said to me,

“awfully funny.” You are out in the hot glaring sun with no shade over

you; a Japanese acquaintance passes by; you accost him, and instantly

his hat is off—well, that is perfectly natural, but the “awfully funny”

performance is, that all the while he talks with you his parasol is down

and he stands in the glaring sun also. How foolish!—Yes, exactly so,

provided the motive were less than this: “You are in the sun; I

sympathize with you; I would willingly take you under my parasol if it

were large enough, or if we were familiarly acquainted; as I cannot

shade you, I will share your discomforts.” Little acts of this kind,

equally or more amusing, are not mere gestures or conventionalities.

They are the “bodying forth” of thoughtful feelings for the comfort of

others.

Another “awfully funny” custom is dictated by our canons of Politeness;

but many superficial writers on Japan, have dismissed it by simply

attributing it to the general topsy-turvyness of the nation. Every

foreigner who has observed it will confess the awkwardness he felt in

making proper reply upon the occasion. In America, when you make a gift,

you sing its praises to the recipient; in Japan we depreciate or slander

it. The underlying idea with you is, “This is a nice gift: if it were

not nice I would not dare give it to you; for it will be an insult to

give you anything but what is nice.” In contrast to this, our logic

runs: “You are a nice person, and no gift is nice enough for you. You

will not accept anything I can lay at your feet except as a token of my

good will; so accept this, not for its intrinsic value, but as a token.

It will be an insult to your worth to call the best gift good enough for

you.” Place the two ideas side by side; and we see that the ultimate

idea is one and the same. Neither is “awfully funny.” The American

speaks of the material which makes the gift; the Japanese speaks of the

spirit which prompts the gift.

It is perverse reasoning to conclude, because our sense of propriety

shows itself in all the smallest ramifications of our deportment, to

take the least important of them and uphold it as the type, and pass

judgment upon the principle itself. Which is more important, to eat or

to observe rules of propriety about eating? A Chinese sage answers, “If

you take a case where the eating is all-important, and the observing the

rules of propriety is of little importance, and compare them together,

why merely say that the eating is of the more importance?” “Metal is

heavier than feathers,” but does that saying have reference to a single

clasp of metal and a wagon-load of feathers? Take a piece of wood a foot

thick and raise it above the pinnacle of a temple, none would call it

taller than the temple. To the question, “Which is the more important,

to tell the truth or to be polite?” the Japanese are said to give an

answer diametrically opposite to what the American will say,—but I

forbear any comment until I come to speak of

VERACITY OR TRUTHFULNESS,

without which Politeness is a farce and a show. “Propriety carried

beyond right bounds,” says Masamuné, “becomes a lie.” An ancient poet

has outdone Polonius in the advice he gives: “To thyself be faithful: if

in thy heart thou strayest not from truth, without prayer of thine the

Gods will keep thee whole.” The apotheosis of Sincerity to which Tsu-tsu

gives expression in the Doctrine of the Mean, attributes to it

transcendental powers, almost identifying them with the Divine.

“Sincerity is the end and the beginning of all things; without Sincerity

there would be nothing.” He then dwells with eloquence on its

far-reaching and long enduring nature, its power to produce changes

without movement and by its mere presence to accomplish its purpose

without effort. From the Chinese ideogram for Sincerity, which is a

combination of “Word” and “Perfect,” one is tempted to draw a parallel

between it and the Neo-Platonic doctrine of Logos—to such height

does the sage soar in his unwonted mystic flight.

Lying or equivocation were deemed equally cowardly. The bushi held that

his high social position demanded a loftier standard of veracity than

that of the tradesman and peasant. Bushi no ichi-gon—the word of a

samurai or in exact German equivalent ein Ritterwort—was sufficient

guaranty of the truthfulness of an assertion. His word carried such

weight with it that promises were generally made and fulfilled without a

written pledge, which would have been deemed quite beneath his dignity.