mean that we try to repress our feelings; only that public expression of them is bad form. Therefore on our stage the love scenes are generally so demure and quiet that an American audience would not be thrilled at all. But the dignified bearing of our actors has a strong effect on Japanese people, for they understand the feeling that is not shown.”
“What do lovers do when they are—well—very enthusiastic?” asked a young lady.
“They gently turn their backs to each other,” I replied.
“Turn their backs to each other! My stars!” was the very peculiar exclamation of the young lady.
In a moment she turned to me again.
“Is it really true,” she asked, “that in Japan there is no kissing—even between husband and wife?”
“There is bowing, you know,” I replied. “That is our mode of heart expression.”
“But you don’t mean that your mother never kissed you!” exclaimed the young lady. “What did she do when you came to America?”
“Only bowed,” I replied, “and then she said very gently, ‘A safe journey for you, my daughter.’ ”
I had not been here long enough then to understand the odd expression that came over the faces of the ladies, nor the moment’s silence that followed before the conversation drifted into other channels.
Bowing is not only bending the body; it has a spiritual side also. One does not bow exactly the same to father, younger sister, friend, servant, and child. My mother’s long, dignified bow and gentle-voiced farewell held no lack of deep love. I felt keenly each heart-throb, and every other person present also recognized the depth of hidden emotion.
Japanese people are not demonstrative. Until late years the repression of strong emotion was carefully drilled
