# Japanese Gardens/Chapter 7

BIGNONIA-COVERED TRELLIS MARUYAMA PARK, KYOTO
CHAPTER VII
GARDEN ARCHITECTURE (GATES, SUMMER-HOUSES, AND BRIDGES)
“He thought he saw a Garden Door That opened with a key. He looked again, and found it was The Double Rule of Three. ‘And all its mystery,’ he said, ‘Is clear as day to me.’ ”
Lewis Carroll
As the Double Rule of Three will never, I fear, be anything but a mystery to me, I can only hope that the bearing of the verse upon Gates may not be too strictly insisted upon. Many parts of a Japanese garden are mysterious and hard to understand; some comprehension of the sentiments which underlie them one can only come at by glimpses of insight into the national character, by moments of clairvoyance that illuminate the subject like flashes of lightning. The key is not in the lock, but in the mind of the garden viewer, in the heart of the garden lover.
But it should not be inferred that Japanese garden gates are dull and uninteresting; that, ​because fences conceal, the entrance which reveals takes away the wonder and the charm with it. If the gates opened on nothing at all, like triumphal arches, I should still love them—quaint, intriguing, human notes that they give to the little Japanese landscape inside. They seem so insouciant and inviting, and, though they have their hard and fast regulations governing them, so individual and personal. It is as if a pretty child stood there, in its bright kimono, and said to the passing stranger, in its sweet English, “Will you pliss come in!”
According to the inflexible rule that governs all garden accessories, the gate must correspond in style with the fence, and the fence with the garden; and the garden must have unity in size and character and scope, so that the whole is in proper relation to each part, and each part to the whole. By this time the reader will think that this rule may be taken for granted, but, although I apologize for reiteration, it can hardly have too much stress laid upon it. It is the key-note of the success of the Japanese gardener.
You never see in Japan, as you so often do in other countries, great gates, which could withstand the attack of armies, set in insignificant walls or in light iron fences. My own country is a notable offender in this particular, and beautiful gates of wrought iron or bronze, of the ​Italian Renaissance period, give a magnificent entrance to perhaps little and futile grounds, or are inappropriately set in a Tudor wall (built half as high as it should be), or in a modern iron fence. But we are not the only offenders; I could name many English modern parks whose enclosing partitions sin in this way; and here in Hong-Kong one of the most important Government buildings has a fine and impressive gate of wrought iron, with stone and cement and brick pillars, and a lodge, with splendid strutting Sikhs on guard in front of it, and no fence or wall at all at a few feet away from the entrance! This is a Chinese idea, rather, for one often sees all the pomp and display at the doors, while dirt and discomfort reign within; a grand gate to no garden in particular; or an imposing sally-port, with painted cannon, in a city wall which is down in a dozen other places, for the enemy to walk in unhindered.
This is one of the ideas that I am glad to say the Japanese have not imported from the Chinese, although the architectural features of their gates certainly received their character from them. Gate roofs, in particular, are very reminiscent of Chinese ones—only another instance of how this clever race accept what is good and useful, and reject what is not. The roofs, with their upturned corners, beautiful tiles, and lovely curves, are almost the nicest things to be seen in the Celestial Empire; so, when a ​Japanese builds an imposing gateway, as he does for his temples, palaces, and important grounds and gardens, he usually puts a roof over it embodying these features.
Of course there are many gates that are gates only, not gateways; modest, absolutely in harmony with their surroundings, simple, and beautiful, though with every detail well worked out. I should like here to put in a little essay on the designs of hinges and bolts and gate fastenings alone, for they deserve it; but I fear that the gentle reader would find even my enthusiasm a cold thing compared with what the mere sight and close examination of these delicate little marvels can arouse. I will content myself, then, by saying that the metal fastenings of Japanese gates are veritable small poems in bronze and iron.
These adjuncts are naturally for wooden gates, which may be magnificent or plain as the case demands; but there are many other wooden gates without ornament except that given by the use of beautifully grained and weather-stained wood, and the exquisite joinery-work of their makers. Then there are countless styles made of bamboo, light and delicate, yet strong. I cannot remember ever seeing, in spite of the fact that the Japanese are the best metal workers in the world, any gates made wholly of bronze, brass, or iron, such as one observes wonderful examples of in Italy, France, ​and Germany. This is doubtless because the Japanese ideas of buildings are not carried out in the imperishable materials that have, fortunately for us, been the old-time method of European builders. Japanese houses and temples are of wood and paper, of bamboo and thatch, and not of the granite they have in such profusion, or of the imperishable bricks of the Chinese and Egyptians. And their fences and gates correspond.
Every garden must have two gates—one for effect and ‘company,’ and the other for use and necessity. The big gate will be as grand as may be proper to ‘go’ with the garden, but the little one must be humble and insignificant, for the removal of rubbish. I firmly believe that, with the passion of the people for cleaning, this is the entrance nearest to the gardener’s, and, secretly, to the garden’s mistress’s heart. Oh, the luxury, to their fastidious minds, in the necessity of constant sweeping which the autumn must bring! I used to long to be at it myself, except that Japanese methods are back-breaking to other races, for their sweeping brooms and the toys that do duty as rakes and hoes require, even with their short stature, that the body be bent nearly double. And how imposingly tall I used to feel, and what shouts of delighted ​laughter it evoked, when I essayed the task. But the broom and I never reached the gate together!
Some big entrances have a little wicket gate beside them, for convenience, but these would be only in the great places, where a porter’s lodge and big double doors would imply the need of a more modest entrée for foot-visitors. In these fine gateways all the elaboration of carved wood, splendid roofs, and, perhaps, lacquered decorations of eaves, would be found; in others the timbers might be left rough, the roof thatched, or the latter be itself but a cross piece of wood, planed and capped with metal, or rough hewn, with upturned curves like a torii, or with bark and moss upon it as it was brought from the forest. Sometimes it might be only a trellis, with a lovely creeper depending from it as a decoration. Where an open fence of bamboo, with twining Roses or Wistaria, is used, this would be the appropriate sort of gate to combine with it.
Light gates of bamboo, or trellis gates, are often used to lead from one part of a garden to another, and so are those picturesque ones, previously spoken of, with thatched or shingled roofs, made of mellow, silvery old wood. The latter suggest—but for the wooden tablet suspended in the middle, which gives the name of the garden, or recites, in native characters, some poetic sentiment which describes it—the ​ancient lich-gates of England. One dear old weather-beaten gate of the sort at Kyoto transported me to Essex so instantly that I half expected the rickshaw coolie to address me in that flat county’s drawl.
A fir tree is the proper adornment of any style of gate, but is happiest, I think, near this last-named kind, with its silvery posts and thatched top. An example of this may be seen in Mr. Tyndale’s picture, facing page 244.
There is much sentiment attached to gateways. At the New Year, if it has no Pine tree by its side, or even if it has, the door is adorned with Pine branches, signifying ‘long life.’ Then there are gourds for ‘plenty,’ and paper gohei for ‘luck,’ or religion, or spirituality.
The Plum tree is also a very popular tree to plant beside the gate, and that, of course, also signifies spiritual beauty. But peace and plenty must ever be at your gates, in sentiment if not in reality, at the beginning of each new year.
Arbours, or summer-houses, are almost as necessary to gardens—at least, to the big ones—as is the view itself. Even in small grounds a little shield from the sun and rain—strictly to scale, of course—will be found. The rain falls in Japan, as it does in other places, ​on just and unjust, on rich and poor alike; so the poor man has his garden umbrella—a huge one—ready, as in England he has his cotton ‘gamp,’ and it is not unlike an umbrella, or big mushroom, often, in shape. It is permanently set up in the garden. A single post supports its flat round top, frequently left rough, and with the prettily marked bark still upon it. Some single posts have square or octagonal tops, but they still suggest umbrellas. There are larger rest-places with the supports at both ends, like gate tops, with scornful, upcurved corners to their roofs, which are delightfully picturesque. Others, again, have four skeleton posts, and two matted or bamboo sides, with latticed openings and seats—not for sitting on, as we do, but for the suari position, resting on the feet; so that the seat is rather wider than ours would be.
From rustic shelters, up through the simple bamboo arbours, and rough, shed-like structures, we make our way to elaborate and beautiful little houses of one or two matted rooms designed for the ceremonial tea-drinking. In these a very delicate perfection of detail may be found, as in the most exquisite of dwelling-houses, although only intended for occasional use, as a real summer-house would be. For everything that is useful must have beauty, in Japan, ​and everything that has beauty must be used—that is, enjoyed, appreciated. The garden must be fair and pleasant, to give contentment; and, as rain and wet would on so many days prevent this, a shelter must be provided which will delight the eye and add to the sense of comfort and peace.
The open sorts, quite unwalled, have taken their seating ideas from China, and quaint blue and white porcelain barrels, perforated in a design that will help to avoid any appearance of heaviness, are placed for guests to sit on, foreign fashion, with the legs hanging down. One seldom sees them used, but they make a pretty note of colour. Two examples of them may be seen in the picture of the garden near the Miyako Hotel in Kyoto, facing page 170, but in this case without a roof over them. The Chinese use them very frequently as pedestals for flower-pots with fine specimen plants in them for exhibition. Blue and white is not the only ware, however. The Japanese make them in a pale water-green, as well as in a stronger green that I am inclined to think must have come from their Celestial cousins, for it is seen everywhere in China.
Other seats are plain, low, wooden platforms, shaped like beds without upper posts. A scarlet blanket is put on top, or a straw mat, and on this the guests squat and drink ​tea—for this is the usual garden seat for tea-houses. Over these the porch roof sometimes extends, as in the picture of the tea-house in Mamyama Park, Kyoto, shown facing page 92, or a creeper-clad trellis may protect it from the sun.
A Japanese garden bridge is, to my unmathematical mind, the most delightful sort possible (although the delight is full of the spice of variety), because it is seldom the shortest route between the two sides of a stream, and it never even pretends that it has been erected to save time. A garden, more especially a garden in Japan, is a place to loiter in; the bridges, the little islands of the lake, the summer-houses on the shore, the seats in the shade, the very stepping-stones, which do not help one’s feet to hasten, are all means to that end. You do not come into the garden to make money; you do not come to exercise, and to hurl balls about; you do not pass through it to save time, but to spend it, and to spend it laughingly, contentedly, tranquilly, taking in through all your senses its pleasant suggestion of repose and peace. The goldfish will do the darting about, and we can get our feeling of life and movement in watching them. Or we may follow the flight of the bird we have startled from the Cherry tree, and study the struttings and preenings of the two sparrows that so boldly hop and peck beside the water-basin, ​or lazily observe the great velvet-blue butterfly, cho-cho-no-hana, or ‘insect like a flower,’ that flits from bloom to bloom among the Irises, softly, as if they were petals blown by the breeze.
So, if the bridges went matter-of-fact-ly over the stream, we should arrive too quickly, and the end, even of the largest garden, would come all too soon. But, instead, they start boldly at one angle, are seized with an inspiration, as a fish is, in midstream, and dart off on another tack; then, perhaps, may be happily reached the best spot from which to view the Wistaria reflected in the waters below, and so a little resting-place is fixed, and after awhile the bridge goes on unconcernedly to a place on the opposite bank.
One of the most attractive sorts of bridges, the yatsu hashi style, is really little more than glorified stepping-stones, long slabs of rock or of wood that go zigzag fashion through an oozy bed of Irises. Like a bird’s low flight, skimming this way and that only a few inches above the water, one can see into the very violet depths, into the golden triangles that nestle in the hearts of the flowers; the glittering edges of the sword-like leaves might almost cut one’s feet, so close is the flower-viewer to the object of his admiration.
​Even when the bridge does go directly from point to point, without lingering to enjoy itself on the way, the Japanese usually manage to avoid the straight line which is not that of beauty. Whether it is for that reason, or because the little stream may swell with the spring rains, so as to make additional height in the middle a safe precaution, most bridges, whether of wood or of stone, arch a little in the centre. Some arch a good deal, so that, when completed, by their reflection in the water below a perfect circle is formed. ‘Full-moon’ bridges these are called, and they come from China. And so steep is the incline, that, unless little steps are taken, it is hard, if not impossible, to walk over them. In the background of the picture of geishas fishing at Kameido, facing this page, two specimens are to be seen, but without the arch completed below. The naughty little nésans who bring one tea there giggle with joy at the efforts of people to scramble over them (for these are without steps), and greet the foreigner who succeeds in doing it with little tinkling shrieks of delight. The innocent appreciation by the Japanese of the very mildest jest is enough to set one up as a wit for life. One feels a real humorist there who has only made a mistake in pronunciation, and a master-wit who climbs the round bridge at Kameido.
Of bridges not so much curved a good example may be seen in the picture of the
* ↑ Japanese temples have from time immemorial been rebuilt every twenty years. They are decorated again in the same manner and all is rededicated.
* ↑ When a girl is married, a fire is lit at the gate of her old home to announce her ‘death’ to that household.
* ↑ An example of this sort of garden shelter can be seen in Picture 24, page 254.
* ↑ An example of this sort may be seen in Mr. Tyndale’s other book of Japanese pictures, on p. 72 of Japan and the Japanese.
WISTARIA AT KAMEIDO
​Choin-in Temple garden (page 176) as well as in the picture of Nami-Kawa San’s garden, facing page 160. It springs, a solid arch of granite, from the shore to the island, and two mandarin ducks, too pretty to seem real, stand on it, admiring the images of themselves in the smooth water beneath.
Then there are stone bridges for highly finished gardens, architectural in character. Almost all temple grounds have them, with carved hand-rails. In other places, bridges are of wood of beautiful grain, or, it may be, lacquered red. The most famous one of this sort is the red lacquered bridge at Nikko by which only royalty may cross. There is great variety in the style of wooden bridges, for the Japanese are wonderful workers in that material. One quaint kind of bridge is of faggots, laid in bundles on horizontal cross-pieces, and then covered with sod. In the pretty garden of the Mikado Hotel, at Miyajima, a dozen of such structures crossed and recrossed the tumbling mountain torrent which formed the principal theme of the composition. This type is only suitable, of course, for the wilder sort of garden, and, when this place was aflame with autumn Maples, even the gods of fire and of water themselves need not have disdained its use.
But I love them all, the bridges of Japan, simple or ornate, of logs or of carven stone, of ​faggots or of lacquered wood; for it is not of what they are made, or whither they lead, that is their charm, but that they keep one secure above the water, where is the garden’s source of life which in its cool depths reflects and repeats the trees, the flowers, and the sky.