people, the cultivation of the art of appreciating the drama were effected along lines similar to the American standard, then it would be plainly manifest that the Japanese preference for tragic plays was too morbid to be wholesome. But it is not, and in this diversity of taste we find the keynote to the right understanding of each other's points of view.

When conceived by the Japanese mind, the thing of foremost essentiality in a drama lies, in the first place, in the skill with which the intangible story fabric is brought to life. True, the story must possess qualities par excellence, and the Japanese have their own conception of what constitutes an excellent story; but the thing that grips their interest is, above all, the histrionic skill of the interpreter. Such considerations as the magnetic appeal of the story, the perfection of its phraseology, etc., are of comparatively lesser significance, and their value is determined only in proportion to how effectively they aid the interpreter's art. And it must be conceded that, in this connection, a play with a tragic vein offers far greater possibilities than a comedy.

A good story is always interesting to read, but good acting is, in many cases, merely good art. Art can be superb and yet uninteresting. Uninteresting, at any rate, to the average layman who is not sufficiently versed in its esoteric features to appreciate its fine points. The Japanese have merely cultivated the leisure, which Americans on the whole for obvious reasons have not, to be interested in uninteresting art. It is a common occurrence in Japan for people of all classes to attend the same performance night after night despite their familiarity with the play and its obvious results, much as a Frenchman or an Italian patronizes the same opera continually without tiring, for the thing that sustains the interest here is the finished artistry of the artists and not the appeal of the story.

In the second place, the Japanese people do not profess to regard the Pollyanna theme with such enthusiastic faith as the Americans do, largely because realism is more palatable to their dramatic taste, and consequently they are, as a group, not much given to illusions. This trait is conspicuously in evidence in the vast and unparalleled popularity attained by Hototogisu, a masterpiece of realism created by the mind of Japan's foremost novel

ist, Tokutomi Kenjiro. Hototogisu is a tragedy but, unlike many Western tragedies, it is so full of loving tenderness and human sympathy that all traces of morbidity which, to the Western mind, are inseparably associated with a tragedy, are submerged by its obvious appeal. And the appeal is there because it is wholly devoid of cheap sentimentality and reflects so frankly and realistically the spirit of one phase of Japanese life.

Many Westerners, in interpreting the East, have confounded realism with fatalism, but it is contended that there is a world of difference between visualization of the truth and a fatuous submission to an adamantine figment of the brain. We in America are prone to believe that realism contains little or no dramatic value. Realism is merely a reflection of everyday life, and only by proper treatment can we make it dramatic. Our treatment consists in striving to show that every obstacle in the path of virtue can be overcome, even if we have to resort to miracles when every other logical means fails to turn the trick. In short, our idea of a good story consists in depicting life, not as it really is, but as we really want it to be. The Japanese people, on the other hand, have been accustomed to portray life with all its emotional possibilities and human limitations and depend upon the skill of the portrayal for its appeal.

The theme has its place in a Japanese fictional presentation, but here again the Japanese taste differs essentially from the American in that, whereas in America love is paramount and womanhood is glorified with courageous and death-defying loyalty, in Japan the basis of its reckoning is built upon the conviction that the affairs of the State, the Clan and the Family come before the interests of the individual. This conviction may or may not be sound. Suffice it to say that it has been nurtured in the belief that an individual is only a part of a whole, and that the proper method of developing the individual is to develop the individual in relation to the whole. In this method there is unified effort, and it is believed that in unity there is strength. This, obviously, is a direct anthithesis of the American philosophy which permits every individual to develop himself in accordance with his own inherent power and acquired knowledge, and which believes that in a union of well-developed individuals there is strength.

There is no sentimental differentiation between the sexes in Japan, the interests of both men and women being in general regarded on a basis of strict equality. This accounts for the fact that the problem of sex consciousness has seldom been exploited in Japan. Aside from the negligible works of a few modern writers who have traveled abroad and assimilated an over dose of the Western ideals of a lesser calibre, the books and plays of that country are singularly free from the lurid sex problems that abound, despite the persistent protests of a decent minority, in the fictional and dramatic productions of America.

It may be contended that life in Japan, as evinced by these disclosures, especially in the world of femininity, permits very little opportunity for the exercise of individual liberties which we in America so highly cherish. But viewed in the light of stoical Japanese psychology, it is extremely problematical whether there is virtue in liberty unrestrained. While the necessity of this enviable privilege for individual and social expansion, when utilized in a manner compatible with dignity and common sense, is cordially recognized, they are nevertheless firm in their belief, seasoned by centuries of sound experience, that there is such a thing as abusing it; and liberty when abused leads to licentiousness and general decadence of the nation's morals. The ignominious fate of Rome, at the apex of her dazzling brilliancy, bears an eloquent testimony to this contention.

The Japanese, as a race, are a serious minded, highly sophisticated people, with a serious, matter-of-fact outlook upon life; capable of abiding love, deep sympathy and heroic sacrifices; building their dreams upon the actualities of existence, and not upon the extravagant imaginings of a vague and uncertain hope.

Now, it may or may not be commensurate with wisdom, as conceived by American standards, to nurture such a psychological make-up, but the fact remains that environmental influences have moulded for the Japanese and for the Americans traditional backgrounds that are distinctly and diametrically at variance with each other.

For this reason, the two races possess points of view on various phases of life that are curiously different, neither of which can with justice be characterized as superior to the other. Their

VOL. CCXXIV.-NO. 838

respective civilizations possess distinct advantages that are peculiarly their own, and each lacks in a great measure what the other possesses.

The civilization of Japan is based primarily upon the acquisition of wisdom, and that of America on the acquisition of information. While the former has been cultivating a system of philosophy which teaches mankind to give a full measure of expression to its life and soul, the latter has been developing a science that builds factories, railroads and radios. The moot question is not one of superiority or inferiority, for neither is perfect without the other. The essential thing is that, lacking what the other possesses, neither civilization has yet reached its zenith of development. When the zenith is reached it will inevitably mean a delightful fusion of both. If this principle is borne in mind whenever new ideas, new customs and new traditions are encountered in different corners of this vari-colored globe, it will conduce so much more to the better understanding of, and its resulting respect for, the peoples outside our own kind.

CHEATING AT SOLITAIRE

BY CONSTANCE LINDSAY SKINNER

LITERATURE has familiarized us with the metaphor of the river which gathers a hundred rills into one stream, flows on thus for miles, and then forks, proceeding thereafter in two opposite directions, usually with diminished power if not seldom with increased violence. Of such is the Stream of Life, says many a classic. On contemporary maps this river appears as the Stream of Consciousness; because our literary cartographers of the human scene have been affected by the prevalent passion for turning the simple into complexes, which is born of shallow wading in the sciences. Rescued from jargon and reduced to primer English, what it all means is that nothing remains the same. Sameness reaches inevitably what may be denominated its Pole of Divergence.

The importance of being in fashion leads us to examine our subject first in the light of science. For instance, in our globe's primal era all the elements of a then future life, or consciousness, existed; but in a state of sameness. Sexes and souls, apes and Appenines, radio, Rotarians and radishes, mathematics and cosmetics, muddled and muddied along together indistinguishably for millions of years. In time, each reached its point of divergence and became individualized into mountain or eye cataract as the case might be. With some of the more recently individualized elements of composite Consciousness the habit of divergence has persisted because of certain magnetic forces, as yet only inadequately explained, which continue to draw them together. This is markedly so in the case of the sexes. Although science has now practically accepted the theory that the sexes' pole of divergence is in the realm of psychology, no scientific man has yet been able to stabilize it. Perhaps, like the North Magnetic Pole, it is eternally doomed to waver. As sure a foundation for it as any that has been advanced by scholars, so far, is the