school. It is the pilgrims who
reach the top and the modern young women who collapse. And the modern
young man fares no better; he is beaten by a coolie and frightened by a
ghost. The playwright had at least Aristophanes' gift of lampoon, though
I doubt whether he had a touch of his genius. Perhaps, however, he had a
better cause. For, I doubt, modern Japan may deserve lampooning more
than the Athens of Aristophanes. For modern Japan is the modern West.
And that--well, it seemed to be symbolised to me yesterday in the train.
In my carriage were two Japanese. One was loosely wrapt in a kimono,
bare throat and feet, fine features, fine gestures, everything
aristocratic and distinguished. The other was clad in European dress,
sprigged waistcoat, gold watch-chain, a coarse, thick-lipped face, a
podgy figure. It was a hot July day, and we were passing through some of
the loveliest scenery in the world. He first closed all doors and
windows, and then extended himself at full length and went to sleep.
There he lay, his great paunch sagging--prosperity exuding from every
pore--an emblem and type of what in the West we call a "successful" man.
And the other? The other, no doubt, was going downhill. Both, of course,
were Japanese types; but the civilisation of the West chose the one and
rejected the other. And if civilisation is to be judged, as it fairly
may be, by the kind of men it brings to the top, there is much to be
said for the point of view of my Tory playwright.

II

A "NO" DANCE

On entering the theatre I was invaded by a sense of serenity and peace.
There was no ornament, no upholstery, no superfluity at all. A square
building of unvarnished wood; a floor covered with matting, exquisitely
clean, and divided into little boxes, or rather trays (so low were the
partitions), in which the audience knelt on their heels, beautiful in
loose robes; running out from the back wall a square stage, with a roof
supported by pillars; a passage on the same level, by which the actors
entered, on the left; the screens removed from the outer walls, so that
the hall was open to the air, and one looked out on sky and trees, or
later on darkness, against which shone a few painted lanterns. Compare
this with the Queen's Hall in London, or with any of our theatres, and
realise the effect on one's mood of the mere setting of the drama. Drama
was it? Or opera? Or what? It is called a "dance." But there was very
little dancing. What