Tales of Old Japan
by Baron Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford Redesdale · English · Gutenberg #13015 · 771,666 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Tales of Old Japan
Author: Baron Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford Redesdale
Release date: July 24, 2004 [eBook #13015]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
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Note: The author, Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford (1837-1916), Lord
Redesdale, was in the British Foreign Service as a young man.
He was assigned to the legation in Japan for several years and
acquired a life-long fascination with Japanese culture. This
book has been a standard source of information about Japanese
folklore and customs since its original publication in 1871 and
has been in print ever since.
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TALES OF OLD JAPAN
by
LORD REDESDALE, G.C.V.O., K.C.B.
Formerly Second Secretary to the British Legation in Japan
With Illustrations Drawn and Cut on Wood by Japanese Artists
1910
[Illustration: THE RÔNINS INVITE KÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM
HARA-KIRI.]
PREFACE
In the Introduction to the story of the Forty-seven Rônins, I have
said almost as much as is needful by way of preface to my stories.
Those of my readers who are most capable of pointing out the many
shortcomings and faults of my work, will also be the most indulgent
towards me; for any one who has been in Japan, and studied Japanese,
knows the great difficulties by which the learner is beset.
For the illustrations, at least, I feel that I need make no apology.
Drawn, in the first instance, by one Ôdaké, an artist in my employ,
they were cut on wood by a famous wood-engraver at Yedo, and are
therefore genuine specimens of Japanese art. Messrs. Dalziel, on
examining the wood blocks, pointed out to me, as an interesting fact,
that the lines are cut with the grain of the wood, after the manner of
Albert Dürer and some of the old German masters,--a process which has
been abandoned by modern European wood-engravers.
It will be noticed that very little allusion is made in these Tales to
the Emperor and his Court. Although I searched diligently, I was able
to find no story in which they played a conspicuous part.
Another class to which no allusion is made is that of the Gôshi. The
Gôshi are a kind of yeomen, or bonnet-lairds, as they would be called
over the border, living on their own land, and owning no allegiance to
any feudal lord. Their rank is inferior to that of the Samurai, or men
of the military class, between whom and the peasantry they hold a
middle place. Like the Samurai, they wear two swords, and are in many
cases prosperous and wealthy men claiming a descent more ancient than
that of many of the feudal Princes. A large number of them are
enrolled among the Emperor's body-guard; and these have played a
conspicuous part in the recent political changes in Japan, as the most
conservative and anti-foreign element in the nation.
With these exceptions, I think that all classes are fairly
represented in my stories.
The feudal system has passed away like a dissolving view before the
eyes of those who have lived in Japan during the last few years. But
when they arrived there it was in full force, and there is not an
incident narrated in the following pages, however strange it may
appear to Europeans, for the possibility and probability of which
those most competent to judge will not vouch. Nor, as many a recent
event can prove, have heroism, chivalry, and devotion gone out of the
land altogether. We may deplore and inveigh against the Yamato
Damashi, or Spirit of Old Japan, which still breathes in the soul of
the Samurai, but we cannot withhold our admiration from the
self-sacrifices which men will still make for the love of their
country.
The first two of the Tales have already appeared in the _Fortnightly
Review,_ and two of the Sermons, with a portion of the Appendix on the
subject of the Hara-Kiri, in the pages of the _Cornhill Magazine_. I
have to thank the editors of those periodicals for permission to
reprint them here.
LONDON, January 7, 1871
CONTENTS
THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS
THE LOVES OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI
KAZUMA'S REVENGE
A STORY OF THE OTOKODATÉ OF YEDO
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON
THE ETA MAIDEN AND THE HATAMOTO
FAIRY TALES
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW
THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE
THE CRACKLING MOUNTAIN
THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN WHO MADE WITHERED TREES TO BLOSSOM
THE BATTLE OF THE APE AND THE CRAB
THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE PEACHLING
THE FOXES' WEDDING
THE HISTORY OF SAKATA KINTOKI
THE ELVES AND THE ENVIOUS NEIGHBOUR
THE GHOST OF SAKURA
HOW TAJIMA SHUMÉ WAS TORMENTED BY A DEVIL OF HIS OWN CREATION
CONCERNING CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS
THE VAMPIRE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA
THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL CAT
HOW A MAN WAS BEWITCHED AND HAD HIS HEAD SHAVED BY THE FOXES
THE GRATEFUL FOXES
THE BADGER'S MONEY
THE PRINCE AND THE BADGER
JAPANESE SERMONS
THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. I. SERMON I.
" " SERMON II.
" " SERMON III.
APPENDICES:--
AN ACCOUNT OF THE HARA-KIRI
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY
ON THE BIRTH AND REARING OF CHILDREN
FUNERAL RITES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE RÔNINS INVITE RÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM HARA-KIRI
THE WELL IN WHICH THE HEAD WAS WASHED
THE SATSUMA MAN INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ
THE TOMBS OF THE RÔNINS
THE TOMB OF THE SHIYOKU
GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS' DEN
FORGING THE SWORD
MATAGORÔ KILLS YUKIYÉ
THE DEATH OF DANYÉMON
TRICKS OF SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA
THE DEATH OF CHÔBEI OF BANDZUIN
FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON ON BOARD THE PIRATE SHIP
JIUYÉMON PUNISHES HIS WIFE AND THE WRESTLER
FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON AND THE GOBLINS
"GOKUMON"
CHAMPION WRESTLER
A WRESTLING MATCH
GENZABURÔ'S MEETING WITH THE ETA MAIDEN
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW (2)
THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE
THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE (2)
THE HARE AND THE BADGER
THE HARE AND THE BADGER (2)
THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER
THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER (2)
THE APE AND THE CRAB
THE APE AND THE CRAB (2)
LITTLE PEACHLING
LITTLE PEACHLING (2)
THE FOXES' WEDDING
THE FOXES' WEDDING (2)
THE DEPUTATION OF PEASANTS AT THEIR LORD'S GATE
THE GHOST OF SAKURA
SÔGORÔ THRUSTING THE PETITION INTO THE SHOGUN'S LITTER
THE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA
THE FEAST OF INARI SAMA
A JAPANESE SERMON
THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS
The books which have been written of late years about Japan have
either been compiled from official records, or have contained the
sketchy impressions of passing travellers. Of the inner life of the
Japanese the world at large knows but little: their religion, their
superstitions, their ways of thought, the hidden springs by which they
move--all these are as yet mysteries. Nor is this to be wondered at.
The first Western men who came in contact with Japan--I am speaking
not of the old Dutch and Portuguese traders and priests, but of the
diplomatists and merchants of eleven years ago--met with a cold
reception. Above all things, the native Government threw obstacles in
the way of any inquiry into their language, literature, and history.
The fact was that the Tycoon's Government--with whom alone, so long as
the Mikado remained in seclusion in his sacred capital at Kiôto, any
relations were maintained--knew that the Imperial purple with which
they sought to invest their chief must quickly fade before the strong
sunlight which would be brought upon it so soon as there should be
European linguists capable of examining their books and records. No
opportunity was lost of throwing dust in the eyes of the new-comers,
whom, even in the most trifling details, it was the official policy to
lead astray. Now, however, there is no cause for concealment; the _Roi
Fainéant_ has shaken off his sloth, and his _Maire du Palais_,
together, and an intelligible Government, which need not fear scrutiny
from abroad, is the result: the records of the country being but so
many proofs of the Mikado's title to power, there is no reason for
keeping up any show of mystery. The path of inquiry is open to all;
and although there is yet much to be learnt, some knowledge has been
attained, in which it may interest those who stay at home to share.
The recent revolution in Japan has wrought changes social as well as
political; and it may be that when, in addition to the advance which
has already been made, railways and telegraphs shall have connected
the principal points of the Land of Sunrise, the old Japanese, such
as he was and had been for centuries when we found him eleven short
years ago, will have become extinct. It has appeared to me that no
better means could be chosen of preserving a record of a curious and
fast disappearing civilization than the translation of some of the
most interesting national legends and histories, together with other
specimens of literature bearing upon the same subject. Thus the
Japanese may tell their own tale, their translator only adding here
and there a few words of heading or tag to a chapter, where an
explanation or amplification may seem necessary. I fear that the long
and hard names will often make my tales tedious reading, but I believe
that those who will bear with the difficulty will learn more of the
character of the Japanese people than by skimming over descriptions of
travel and adventure, however brilliant. The lord and his retainer,
the warrior and the priest, the humble artisan and the despised Eta or
pariah, each in his turn will become a leading character in my budget
of stories; and it is out of the mouths of these personages that I
hope to show forth a tolerably complete picture of Japanese society.
Having said so much by way of preface, I beg my readers to fancy
themselves wafted away to the shores of the Bay of Yedo--a fair,
smiling landscape: gentle slopes, crested by a dark fringe of pines
and firs, lead down to the sea; the quaint eaves of many a temple and
holy shrine peep out here and there from the groves; the bay itself is
studded with picturesque fisher-craft, the torches of which shine by
night like glow-worms among the outlying forts; far away to the west
loom the goblin-haunted heights of Oyama, and beyond the twin hills of
the Hakoné Pass--Fuji-Yama, the Peerless Mountain, solitary and grand,
stands in the centre of the plain, from which it sprang vomiting
flames twenty-one centuries ago.[1] For a hundred and sixty years the
huge mountain has been at peace, but the frequent earthquakes still
tell of hidden fires, and none can say when the red-hot stones and
ashes may once more fall like rain over five provinces.
In the midst of a nest of venerable trees in Takanawa, a suburb of
Yedo, is hidden Sengakuji, or the Spring-hill Temple, renowned
throughout the length and breadth of the land for its cemetery, which
contains the graves of the Forty-seven. Rônins,[2] famous in Japanese
history, heroes of Japanese drama, the tale of whose deeds I am about
to transcribe.
On the left-hand side of the main court of the temple is a chapel, in
which, surmounted by a gilt figure of Kwanyin, the goddess of mercy,
are enshrined the images of the forty-seven men, and of the master
whom they loved so well. The statues are carved in wood, the faces
coloured, and the dresses richly lacquered; as works of art they have
great merit--the action of the heroes, each armed with his favourite
weapon, being wonderfully life-like and spirited. Some are venerable
men, with thin, grey hair (one is seventy-seven years old); others are
mere boys of sixteen. Close by the chapel, at the side of a path
leading up the hill, is a little well of pure water, fenced in and
adorned with a tiny fernery, over which is an inscription, setting
forth that "This is the well in which the head was washed; you must
not wash your hands or your feet here." A little further on is a
stall, at which a poor old man earns a pittance by selling books,
pictures, and medals, commemorating the loyalty of the Forty-seven;
and higher up yet, shaded by a grove of stately trees, is a neat
inclosure, kept up, as a signboard announces, by voluntary
contributions, round which are ranged forty-eight little tombstones,
each decked with evergreens, each with its tribute of water and
incense for the comfort of the departed spirit. There were forty-seven
Rônins; there are forty-eight tombstones, and the story of the
forty-eighth is truly characteristic of Japanese ideas of honour.
Almost touching the rail of the graveyard is a more imposing monument
under which lies buried the lord, whose death his followers piously
avenged.
[Footnote 1: According to Japanese tradition, in the fifth year of the
Emperor Kôrei (286 B.C.), the earth opened in the province of Omi,
near Kiôto, and Lake Biwa, sixty miles long by about eighteen broad,
was formed in the shape of a _Biwa_, or four-stringed lute, from which
it takes its name. At the same time, to compensate for the depression
of the earth, but at a distance of over three hundred miles from the
lake, rose Fuji-Yama, the last eruption of which was in the year 1707.
The last great earthquake at Yedo took place about fifteen years ago.
Twenty thousand souls are said to have perished in it, and the dead
were carried away and buried by cartloads; many persons, trying to
escape from their falling and burning houses, were caught in great
clefts, which yawned suddenly in the earth, and as suddenly closed
upon the victims, crushing them to death. For several days heavy
shocks continued to be felt, and the people camped out, not daring to
return to such houses as had been spared, nor to build up those which
lay in ruins.]
[Footnote 2: The word _Rônin_ means, literally, a "wave-man"; one who
is tossed about hither and thither, as a wave of the sea. It is used
to designate persons of gentle blood, entitled to bear arms, who,
having become separated from their feudal lords by their own act, or
by dismissal, or by fate, wander about the country in the capacity of
somewhat disreputable knights-errant, without ostensible means of
living, in some cases offering themselves for hire to new masters, in
others supporting themselves by pillage; or who, falling a grade in
the social scale, go into trade, and become simple wardsmen. Sometimes
it happens that for political reasons a man will become Rônin, in
order that his lord may not be implicated in some deed of blood in
which he is about to engage. Sometimes, also, men become Rônins, and
leave their native place for a while, until some scrape in which they
have become entangled shall have blown over; after which they return
to their former allegiance. Nowadays it is not unusual for men to
become Rônins for a time, and engage themselves in the service of
foreigners at the open ports, even in menial capacities, in the hope
that they may pick up something of the language and lore of Western
folks. I know instances of men of considerable position who have
adopted this course in their zeal for education.]
And now for the story.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century there lived a daimio,
called Asano Takumi no Kami, the Lord of the castle of Akô, in the
province of Harima. Now it happened that an Imperial ambassador from
the Court of the Mikado having been sent to the Shogun[3] at Yedo,
Takumi no Kami and another noble called Kamei Sama were appointed to
receive and feast the envoy; and a high official, named Kira Kôtsuké
no Suké, was named to teach them the proper ceremonies to be observed
upon the occasion. The two nobles were accordingly forced to go daily
to the castle to listen to the instructions of Kôtsuké no Suké. But
this Kôtsuké no Suké was a man greedy of money; and as he deemed that
the presents which the two daimios, according to time-honoured custom,
had brought him in return for his instruction were mean and unworthy,
he conceived a great hatred against them, and took no pains in
teaching them, but on the contrary rather sought to make
laughing-stocks of them. Takumi no Kami, restrained by a stern sense
of duty, bore his insults with patience; but Kamei Sama, who had less
control over his temper, was violently incensed, and determined to
kill Kôtsuké no Suké.
[Footnote 3: The full title of the Tycoon was Sei-i-tai-Shogun,
"Barbarian-repressing Commander-in-chief." The style Tai Kun, Great
Prince, was borrowed, in order to convey the idea of sovereignty to
foreigners, at the time of the conclusion of the Treaties. The envoys
sent by the Mikado from Kiôto to communicate to the Shogun the will of
his sovereign were received with Imperial honours, and the duty of
entertaining them was confided to nobles of rank. The title
Sei-i-tai-Shogun was first borne by Minamoto no Yoritomo, in the
seventh month of the year A.D. 1192.]
[Illustration: THE WELL IN WHICH THE HEAD WAS WASHED.]
One night when his duties at the castle were ended, Kamei Sama
returned to his own palace, and having summoned his councillors[4] to
a secret conference, said to them: "Kôtsuké no Suké has insulted
Takumi no Kami and myself during our service in attendance on the
Imperial envoy. This is against all decency, and I was minded to kill
him on the spot; but I bethought me that if I did such a deed within
the precincts of the castle, not only would my own life be forfeit,
but my family and vassals would be ruined: so I stayed my hand. Still
the life of such a wretch is a sorrow to the people, and to-morrow
when I go to Court I will slay him: my mind is made up, and I will
listen to no remonstrance." And as he spoke his face became livid with
rage.
[Footnote 4: Councillor, lit. "elder." The councillors of daimios were
of two classes: the _Karô_, or "elder," an hereditary office, held by
cadets of the Prince's family, and the _Yônin_, or "man of business,"
who was selected on account of his merits. These "councillors" play no
mean part in Japanese history.]
Now one of Kamei Sama's councillors was a man of great judgment, and
when he saw from his lord's manner that remonstrance would be useless,
he said: "Your lordship's words are law; your servant will make all
preparations accordingly; and to-morrow, when your lordship goes to
Court, if this Kôtsuké no Suké should again be insolent, let him die
the death." And his lord was pleased at this speech, and waited with
impatience for the day to break, that he might return to Court and
kill his enemy.
But the councillor went home, and was sorely troubled, and thought
anxiously about what his prince had said. And as he reflected, it
occurred to him that since Kôtsuké no Suké had the reputation of being
a miser he would certainly be open to a bribe, and that it was better
to pay any sum, no matter how great, than that his lord and his house
should be ruined. So he collected all the money he could, and, giving
it to his servants to carry, rode off in the night to Kôtsuké no
Suké's palace, and said to his retainers: "My master, who is now in
attendance upon the Imperial envoy, owes much thanks to my Lord
Kôtsuké no Suké, who has been at so great pains to teach him the
proper ceremonies to be observed during the reception of the Imperial
envoy. This is but a shabby present which he has sent by me, but he
hopes that his lordship will condescend to accept it, and commends
himself to his lordship's favour." And, with these words, he produced
a thousand ounces of silver for Kôtsuké no Suké, and a hundred ounces
to be distributed among his retainers.
When the latter saw the money their eyes sparkled with pleasure, and
they were profuse in their thanks; and begging the councillor to wait
a little, they went and told their master of the lordly present which
had arrived with a polite message from Kamei Sama. Kôtsuké no Suké in
eager delight sent for the councillor into an inner chamber, and,
after thanking him, promised on the morrow to instruct his master
carefully in all the different points of etiquette. So the councillor,
seeing the miser's glee, rejoiced at the success of his plan; and
having taken his leave returned home in high spirits. But Kamei Sama,
little thinking how his vassal had propitiated his enemy, lay brooding
over his vengeance, and on the following morning at daybreak went to
Court in solemn procession.
When Kôtsuké no Suké met him his manner had completely changed, and
nothing could exceed his courtesy. "You have come early to Court this
morning, my Lord Kamei," said he. "I cannot sufficiently admire your
zeal. I shall have the honour to call your attention to several points
of etiquette to-day. I must beg your lordship to excuse my previous
conduct, which must have seemed very rude; but I am naturally of a
cross-grained disposition, so I pray you to forgive me." And as he
kept on humbling himself and making fair speeches, the heart of Kamei
Sama was gradually softened, and he renounced his intention of killing
him. Thus by the cleverness of his councillor was Kamei Sama, with all
his house, saved from ruin.
Shortly after this, Takumi no Kami, who had sent no present, arrived
at the castle, and Kôtsuké no Suké turned him into ridicule even more
than before, provoking him with sneers and covert insults; but Takumi
no Kami affected to ignore all this, and submitted himself patiently
to Kôtsuké no Suké's orders.
This conduct, so far from producing a good effect, only made Kôtsuké
no Suké despise him the more, until at last he said haughtily: "Here,
my Lord of Takumi, the ribbon of my sock has come untied; be so good
as to tie it up for me."
Takumi no Kami, although burning with rage at the affront, still
thought that as he was on duty he was bound to obey, and tied up the
ribbon of the sock. Then Kôtsuké no Suké, turning from him, petulantly
exclaimed: "Why, how clumsy you are! You cannot so much as tie up the
ribbon of a sock properly! Any one can see that you are a boor from
the country, and know nothing of the manners of Yedo." And with a
scornful laugh he moved towards an inner room.
But the patience of Takumi no Kami was exhausted; this last insult was
more than he could bear.
"Stop a moment, my lord," cried he.
"Well, what is it?" replied the other. And, as he turned round, Takumi
no Kami drew his dirk, and aimed a blow at his head; but Kôtsuké no
Suké, being protected by the Court cap which he wore, the wound was
but a scratch, so he ran away; and Takumi no Kami, pursuing him, tried
a second time to cut him down, but, missing his aim, struck his dirk
into a pillar. At this moment an officer, named Kajikawa Yosobei,
seeing the affray, rushed up, and holding back the infuriated noble,
gave Kôtsuké no Suké time to make good his escape.
Then there arose a great uproar and confusion, and Takumi no Kami was
arrested and disarmed, and confined in one of the apartments of the
palace under the care of the censors. A council was held, and the
prisoner was given over to the safeguard of a daimio, called Tamura
Ukiyô no Daibu, who kept him in close custody in his own house, to
the great grief of his wife and of his retainers; and when the
deliberations of the council were completed, it was decided that, as
he had committed an outrage and attacked another man within the
precincts of the palace, he must perform _hara-kiri_,--that is, commit
suicide by disembowelling; his goods must be confiscated, and his
family ruined. Such was the law. So Takumi no Kami performed
_hara-kiri_, his castle of Akô was confiscated, and his retainers
having become Rônins, some of them took service with other daimios,
and others became merchants.
Now amongst these retainers was his principal councillor, a man called
Oishi Kuranosuké, who, with forty-six other faithful dependants,
formed a league to avenge their master's death by killing Kôtsuké no
Suké. This Oishi Kuranosuké was absent at the castle of Akô at the
time of the affray, which, had he been with his prince, would never
have occurred; for, being a wise man, he would not have failed to
propitiate Kôtsuké no Suké by sending him suitable presents; while the
councillor who was in attendance on the prince at Yedo was a dullard,
who neglected this precaution, and so caused the death of his master
and the ruin of his house.
So Oishi Kuranosuké and his forty-six companions began to lay their
plans of vengeance against Kôtsuké no Suké; but the latter was so well
guarded by a body of men lent to him by a daimio called Uyésugi Sama,
whose daughter he had married, that they saw that the only way of
attaining their end would be to throw their enemy off his guard. With
this object they separated and disguised themselves, some as
carpenters or craftsmen, others as merchants; and their chief,
Kuranosuké, went to Kiôto, and built a house in the quarter called
Yamashina, where he took to frequenting houses of the worst repute,
and gave himself up to drunkenness and debauchery, as if nothing were
further from his mind than revenge. Kôtsuké no Suké, in the meanwhile,
suspecting that Takumi no Kami's former retainers would be scheming
against his life, secretly sent spies to Kiôto, and caused a faithful
account to be kept of all that Kuranosuké did. The latter, however,
determined thoroughly to delude the enemy into a false security, went
on leading a dissolute life with harlots and winebibbers. One day, as
he was returning home drunk from some low haunt, he fell down in the
street and went to sleep, and all the passers-by laughed him to scorn.
It happened that a Satsuma man saw this, and said: "Is not this Oishi
Kuranosuké, who was a councillor of Asano Takumi no Kami, and who, not
having the heart to avenge his lord, gives himself up to women and
wine? See how he lies drunk in the public street! Faithless beast!
Fool and craven! Unworthy the name of a Samurai!"[5]
[Footnote 5: _Samurai_, a man belonging to the _Buké_ or military
class, entitled to bear arms.]
[Illustration: THE SATSUMA MAN INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ.]
And he trod on Kuranosuké's face as he slept, and spat upon him; but
when Kôtsuké no Suké's spies reported all this at Yedo, he was greatly
relieved at the news, and felt secure from danger.
One day Kuranosuké's wife, who was bitterly grieved to see her husband
lead this abandoned life, went to him and said: "My lord, you told me
at first that your debauchery was but a trick to make your enemy relax
in watchfulness. But indeed, indeed, this has gone too far. I pray and
beseech you to put some restraint upon yourself."
"Trouble me not," replied Kuranosuké, "for I will not listen to your
whining. Since my way of life is displeasing to you, I will divorce
you, and you may go about your business; and I will buy some pretty
young girl from one of the public-houses, and marry her for my
pleasure. I am sick of the sight of an old woman like you about the
house, so get you gone--the sooner the better."
So saying, he flew into a violent rage, and his wife, terror-stricken,
pleaded piteously for mercy.
"Oh, my lord! unsay those terrible words! I have been your faithful
wife for twenty years, and have borne you three children; in sickness
and in sorrow I have been with you; you cannot be so cruel as to turn
me out of doors now. Have pity! have pity!"
"Cease this useless wailing. My mind is made up, and you must go; and
as the children are in my way also, you are welcome to take them with
you."
When she heard her husband speak thus, in her grief she sought her
eldest son, Oishi Chikara, and begged him to plead for her, and pray
that she might be pardoned. But nothing would turn Kuranosuké from his
purpose, so his wife was sent away, with the two younger children, and
went back to her native place. But Oishi Chikara remained with his
father.
The spies communicated all this without fail to Kôtsuké no Suké, and
he, when he heard how Kuranosuké, having turned his wife and children
out of doors and bought a concubine, was grovelling in a life of
drunkenness and lust, began to think that he had no longer anything to
fear from the retainers of Takumi no Kami, who must be cowards,
without the courage to avenge their lord. So by degrees he began to
keep a less strict watch, and sent back half of the guard which had
been lent to him by his father-in-law, Uyésugi Sama. Little did he
think how he was falling into the trap laid for him by Kuranosuké,
who, in his zeal to slay his lord's enemy, thought nothing of
divorcing his wife and sending away his children! Admirable and
faithful man!
In this way Kuranosuké continued to throw dust in the eyes of his foe,
by persisting in his apparently shameless conduct; but his associates
all went to Yedo, and, having in their several capacities as workmen
and pedlars contrived to gain access to Kôtsuké no Suké's house, made
themselves familiar with the plan of the building and the arrangement
of the different rooms, and ascertained the character of the inmates,
who were brave and loyal men, and who were cowards; upon all of which
matters they sent regular reports to Kuranosuké. And when at last it
became evident from the letters which arrived from Yedo that Kôtsuké
no Suké was thoroughly off his guard, Kuranosuké rejoiced that the day
of vengeance was at hand; and, having appointed a trysting-place at
Yedo, he fled secretly from Kiôto, eluding the vigilance of his
enemy's spies. Then the forty-seven men, having laid all their plans,
bided their time patiently.
It was now midwinter, the twelfth month of the year, and the cold was
bitter. One night, during a heavy fall of snow, when the whole world
was hushed, and peaceful men were stretched in sleep upon the mats,
the Rônins determined that no more favourable opportunity could occur
for carrying out their purpose. So they took counsel together, and,
having divided their band into two parties, assigned to each man his
post. One band, led by Oishi Kuranosuké, was to attack the front gate,
and the other, under his son Oishi Chikara, was to attack the postern
of Kôtsuké no Suké's house; but as Chikara was only sixteen years of
age, Yoshida Chiuzayémon was appointed to act as his guardian. Further
it was arranged that a drum, beaten at the order of Kuranosuké, should
be the signal for the simultaneous attack; and that if any one slew
Kôtsuké no Suké and cut off his head he should blow a shrill whistle,
as a signal to his comrades, who would hurry to the spot, and, having
identified the head, carry it off to the temple called Sengakuji, and
lay it as an offering before the tomb of their dead lord. Then they
must report their deed to the Government, and await the sentence of
death which would surely be passed upon them. To this the Rônins one
and all pledged themselves. Midnight was fixed upon as the hour, and
the forty-seven comrades, having made all ready for the attack,
partook of a last farewell feast together, for on the morrow they must
die. Then Oishi Kuranosuké addressed the band, and said--
"To-night we shall attack our enemy in his palace; his retainers will
certainly resist us, and we shall be obliged to kill them. But to slay
old men and women and children is a pitiful thing; therefore, I pray
you each one to take great heed lest you kill a single helpless
person." His comrades all applauded this speech, and so they remained,
waiting for the hour of midnight to arrive.
When the appointed hour came, the Rônins set forth. The wind howled
furiously, and the driving snow beat in their faces; but little cared
they for wind or snow as they hurried on their road, eager for
revenge. At last they reached Kôtsuké no Suké's house, and divided
themselves into two bands; and Chikara, with twenty-three men, went
round to the back gate. Then four men, by means of a ladder of ropes
which they hung on to the roof of the porch, effected an entry into
the courtyard; and, as they saw signs that all the inmates of the
house were asleep, they went into the porter's lodge where the guard
slept, and, before the latter had time to recover from their
astonishment, bound them. The terrified guard prayed hard for mercy,
that their lives might be spared; and to this the Rônins agreed on
condition that the keys of the gate should be given up; but the others
tremblingly said that the keys were kept in the house of one of their
officers, and that they had no means of obtaining them. Then the
Rônins lost patience, and with a hammer dashed in pieces the big
wooden bolt which secured the gate, and the doors flew open to the
right and to the left. At the same time Chikara and his party broke in
by the back gate.
Then Oishi Kuranosuké sent a messenger to the neighbouring houses,
bearing the following message:--"We, the Rônins who were formerly in
the service of Asano Takumi no Kami, are this night about to break
into the palace of Kôtsuké no Suké, to avenge our lord. As we are
neither night robbers nor ruffians, no hurt will be done to the
neighbouring houses. We pray you to set your minds at rest." And as
Kôtsuké no Suké was hated by his neighbours for his covetousness, they
did not unite their forces to assist him. Another precaution was yet
taken. Lest any of the people inside should run out to call the
relations of the family to the rescue, and these coming in force
should interfere with the plans of the Rônins, Kuranosuké stationed
ten of his men armed with bows on the roof of the four sides of the
courtyard, with orders to shoot any retainers who might attempt to
leave the place. Having thus laid all his plans and posted his men,
Kuranosuké with his own hand beat the drum and gave the signal for
attack.
Ten of Kôtsuké no Suké's retainers, hearing the noise, woke up; and,
drawing their swords, rushed into the front room to defend their
master. At this moment the Rônins, who had burst open the door of the
front hall, entered the same room. Then arose a furious fight between
the two parties, in the midst of which Chikara, leading his men
through the garden, broke into the back of the house; and Kôtsuké no
Suké, in terror of his life, took refuge, with his wife and female
servants, in a closet in the verandah; while the rest of his
retainers, who slept in the barrack outside the house, made ready to
go to the rescue. But the Rônins who had come in by the front door,
and were fighting with the ten retainers, ended by overpowering and
slaying the latter without losing one of their own number; after
which, forcing their way bravely towards the back rooms, they were
joined by Chikara and his men, and the two bands were united in one.
By this time the remainder of Kôtsuké no Suké's men had come in, and
the fight became general; and Kuranosuké, sitting on a camp-stool,
gave his orders and directed the Rônins. Soon the inmates of the house
perceived that they were no match for their enemy, so they tried to
send out intelligence of their plight to Uyésugi Sama, their lord's
father-in-law, begging him to come to the rescue with all the force
at his command. But the messengers were shot down by the archers whom
Kuranosuké had posted on the roof. So no help coming, they fought on
in despair. Then Kuranosuké cried out with a loud voice: "Kôtsuké no
Suké alone is our enemy; let some one go inside and bring him forth.
dead or alive!"
Now in front of Kôtsuké no Suké's private room stood three brave
retainers with drawn swords. The first was Kobayashi Héhachi, the
second was Waku Handaiyu, and the third was Shimidzu Ikkaku, all good
men and true, and expert swordsmen. So stoutly did these men lay about
them that for a while they kept the whole of the Rônins at bay, and at
one moment even forced them back. When Oishi Kuranosuké saw this, he
ground his teeth with rage, and shouted to his men: "What! did not
every man of you swear to lay down his life in avenging his lord, and
now are you driven back by three men? Cowards, not fit to be spoken
to! to die fighting in a master's cause should be the noblest ambition
of a retainer!" Then turning to his own son Chikara, he said, "Here,
boy! engage those men, and if they are too strong for you, die!"
Spurred by these words, Chikara seized a spear and gave battle to Waku
Handaiyu, but could not hold his ground, and backing by degrees, was
driven out into the garden, where he missed his footing and slipped
into a pond, but as Handaiyu, thinking to kill him, looked down into
the pond, Chikara cut his enemy in the leg and caused him to fall, and
then, crawling out of the water dispatched him. In the meanwhile
Kobayashi Héhachi and Shimidzu Ikkaku had been killed by the other
Rônins, and of all Kôtsuké no Suké's retainers not one fighting man
remained. Chikara, seeing this, went with his bloody sword in his hand
into a back room to search for Kôtsuké no Suké, but he only found the
son of the latter, a young lord named Kira Sahioyé, who, carrying a
halberd, attacked him, but was soon wounded and fled. Thus the whole
of Kôtsuké no Suké's men having been killed, there was an end of the
fighting; but as yet there was no trace of Kôtsuké no Suké to be
found.
Then Kuranosuké divided his men into several parties and searched the
whole house, but all in vain; women and children weeping were alone to
be seen. At this the forty-seven men began to lose heart in regret,
that after all their toil they had allowed their enemy to escape them,
and there was a moment when in their despair they agreed to commit
suicide together upon the spot; but they determined to make one more
effort. So Kuranosuké went into Kôtsuké no Suké's sleeping-room, and
touching the quilt with his hands, exclaimed, "I have just felt the
bed-clothes and they are yet warm, and so methinks that our enemy is
not far off. He must certainly be hidden somewhere in the house."
Greatly excited by this, the Rônins renewed their search. Now in the
raised part of the room, near the place of honour, there was a picture
hanging; taking down this picture, they saw that there was a large
hole in the plastered wall, and on thrusting a spear in they could
feel nothing beyond it. So one of the Rônins, called Yazama Jiutarô,
got into the hole, and found that on the other side there was a little
courtyard, in which there stood an outhouse for holding charcoal and
firewood. Looking into the outhouse, he spied something white at the
further end, at which he struck with his spear, when two armed men
sprang out upon him and tried to cut him down, but he kept them back
until one of his comrades came up and killed one of the two men and
engaged the other, while Jiutarô entered the outhouse and felt about
with his spear. Again seeing something white, he struck it with his
lance, when a cry of pain betrayed that it was a man; so he rushed up,
and the man in white clothes, who had been wounded in the thigh, drew
a dirk and aimed a blow at him. But Jiutarô wrested the dirk from him,
and clutching him by the collar, dragged him out of the outhouse. Then
the other Rônin came up, and they examined the prisoner attentively,
and saw that he was a noble-looking man, some sixty years of age,
dressed in a white satin sleeping-robe, which was stained by the blood
from the thigh-wound which, Jiutarô had inflicted. The two men felt
convinced that this was no other than Kôtsuké no Suké, and they asked
him his name, but he gave no answer, so they gave the signal whistle,
and all their comrades collected together at the call; then Oishi
Kuranosuké, bringing a lantern, scanned the old man's features, and it
was indeed Kôtsuké no Suké; and if further proof were wanting, he
still bore a scar on his forehead where their master, Asano Takumi no
Kami, had wounded him during the affray in the castle. There being no
possibility of mistake, therefore, Oishi Kuranosuké went down on his
knees, and addressing the old man very respectfully, said--
"My lord, we are the retainers of Asano Takumi no Kami. Last year your
lordship and our master quarrelled in the palace, and our master was
sentenced to _hara-kiri,_ and his family was ruined. We have come
to-night to avenge him, as is the duty of faithful and loyal men. I
pray your lordship to acknowledge the justice of our purpose. And now,
my lord, we beseech you to perform _hara-kiri_. I myself shall have
the honour to act as your second, and when, with all humility, I shall
have received your lordship's head, it is my intention to lay it as an
offering upon the grave of Asano Takumi no Kami."
Thus, in consideration of the high rank of Kôtsuké no Suké, the Rônins
treated him with the greatest courtesy, and over and over again
entreated him to perform _hara-kiri._ But he crouched speechless and
trembling. At last Kuranosuké, seeing that it was vain to urge him to
die the death of a nobleman, forced him down, and cut off his head
with the same dirk with which Asano Takumi no Kami had killed himself.
Then the forty-seven comrades, elated at having accomplished their
design, placed the head in a bucket, and prepared to depart; but
before leaving the house they carefully extinguished all the lights
and fires in the place, lest by any accident a fire should break out
and the neighbours suffer.
As they were on their way to Takanawa, the suburb in which the temple
called Sengakuji stands, the day broke; and the people flocked out to
see the forty-seven men, who, with their clothes and arms all
blood-stained, presented a terrible appearance; and every one praised
them, wondering at their valour and faithfulness. But they expected
every moment that Kôtsuké no Suké's father-in-law would attack them
and carry off the head, and made ready to die bravely sword in hand.
However, they reached Takanawa in safety, for Matsudaira Aki no Kami,
one of the eighteen chief daimios of Japan, of whose house Asano
Takumi no Kami had been a cadet, had been highly pleased when he heard
of the last night's work, and he had made ready to assist the Rônins
in case they were attacked. So Kôtsuké no Suké's father-in-law dared
not pursue them.
At about seven in the morning they came opposite to the palace of
Matsudaira Mutsu no Kami, the Prince of Sendai, and the Prince,
hearing of it, sent for one of his councillors and said: "The
retainers of Takumi no Kami have slain their lord's enemy, and are
passing this way; I cannot sufficiently admire their devotion, so, as
they must be tired and hungry after their night's work, do you go and
invite them to come in here, and set some gruel and a cup of wine
before them."
So the councillor went out and said to Oishi Kuranosuké: "Sir, I am a
councillor of the Prince of Sendai, and my master bids me beg you, as
you must be worn out after all you have undergone, to come in and
partake of such poor refreshment as we can offer you. This is my
message to you from my lord."
"I thank you, sir," replied Kuranosuké. "It is very good of his
lordship to trouble himself to think of us. We shall accept his
kindness gratefully."
So the forty-seven Rônins went into the palace, and were feasted with
gruel and wine, and all the retainers of the Prince of Sendai came and
praised them.
Then Kuranosuké turned to the councillor and said, "Sir, we are truly
indebted to you for this kind hospitality; but as we have still to
hurry to Sengakuji, we must needs humbly take our leave." And, after
returning many thanks to their hosts, they left the palace of the
Prince of Sendai and hastened to Sengakuji, where they were met by the
abbot of the monastery, who went to the front gate to receive them,
and led them to the tomb of Takumi no Kami.
And when they came to their lord's grave, they took the head of
Kôtsuké no Suké, and having washed it clean in a well hard by, laid it
as an offering before the tomb. When they had done this, they engaged
the priests of the temple to come and read prayers while they burnt
incense: first Oishi Kuranosuké burnt incense, and then his son Oishi
Chikara, and after them the other forty-five men performed the same
ceremony. Then Kuranosuké, having given all the money that he had by
him to the abbot, said--
"When we forty-seven men shall have performed _hara-kiri_, I beg you
to bury us decently. I rely upon your kindness. This is but a trifle
that I have to offer; such as it is, let it be spent in masses for our
souls!"
And the abbot, marvelling at the faithful courage of the men, with
tears in his eyes pledged himself to fulfil their wishes. So the
forty-seven Rônins, with their minds at rest, waited patiently until
they should receive the orders of the Government.
At last they were summoned to the Supreme Court, where the governors
of Yedo and the public censors had assembled; and the sentence passed
upon them was as follows: "Whereas, neither respecting the dignity of
the city nor fearing the Government, having leagued yourselves
together to slay your enemy, you violently broke into the house of
Kira Kôtsuké no Suké by night and murdered him, the sentence of the
Court is, that, for this audacious conduct, you perform _hara-kiri_."
When the sentence had been read, the forty-seven Rônins were divided
into four parties, and handed over to the safe keeping of four
different daimios; and sheriffs were sent to the palaces of those
daimios in whose presence the Rônins were made to perform _hara-kiri_.
But, as from the very beginning they had all made up their minds that
to this end they must come, they met their death nobly; and their
corpses were carried to Sengakuji, and buried in front of the tomb of
their master, Asano Takumi no Kami. And when the fame of this became
noised abroad, the people flocked to pray at the graves of these
faithful men.
[Illustration: THE TOMBS OF THE RÔNINS.]
Among those who came to pray was a Satsuma man, who, prostrating
himself before the grave of Oishi Kuranosuké, said: "When I saw you
lying drunk by the roadside at Yamashina, in Kiôto, I knew not that
you were plotting to avenge your lord; and, thinking you to be a
faithless man, I trampled on you and spat in your face as I passed.
And now I have come to ask pardon and offer atonement for the insult
of last year." With those words he prostrated himself again before the
grave, and, drawing a dirk from his girdle, stabbed himself in the
belly and died. And the chief priest of the temple, taking pity upon
him, buried him by the side of the Rônins; and his tomb still remains
to be seen with those of the forty-seven comrades.
This is the end of the story of the forty-seven Rônins.
* * * * *
A terrible picture of fierce heroism which it is impossible not to
admire. In the Japanese mind this feeling of admiration is unmixed,
and hence it is that the forty-seven Rônins receive almost divine
honours. Pious hands still deck their graves with green boughs and
burn incense upon them; the clothes and arms which they wore are
preserved carefully in a fire-proof store-house attached to the
temple, and exhibited yearly to admiring crowds, who behold them
probably with little less veneration than is accorded to the relics of
Aix-la-Chapelle or Trèves; and once in sixty years the monks of
Sengakuji reap quite a harvest for the good of their temple by holding
a commemorative fair or festival, to which the people flock during
nearly two months.
A silver key once admitted me to a private inspection of the relics.
We were ushered, my friend and myself, into a back apartment of the
spacious temple, overlooking one of those marvellous miniature
gardens, cunningly adorned with rockeries and dwarf trees, in which
the Japanese delight. One by one, carefully labelled and indexed boxes
containing the precious articles were brought out and opened by the
chief priest. Such a curious medley of old rags and scraps of metal
and wood! Home-made chain armour, composed of wads of leather secured
together by pieces of iron, bear witness to the secrecy with which the
Rônins made ready for the fight. To have bought armour would have
attracted attention, so they made it with their own hands. Old
moth-eaten surcoats, bits of helmets, three flutes, a writing-box that
must have been any age at the time of the tragedy, and is now tumbling
to pieces; tattered trousers of what once was rich silk brocade, now
all unravelled and befringed; scraps of leather, part of an old
gauntlet, crests and badges, bits of sword handles, spear-heads and
dirks, the latter all red with rust, but with certain patches more
deeply stained as if the fatal clots of blood were never to be blotted
out: all these were reverently shown to us. Among the confusion and
litter were a number of documents, Yellow with age and much worn at
the folds. One was a plan of Kôtsuké no Suké's house, which one of
the Rônins obtained by marrying the daughter of the builder who
designed it. Three of the manuscripts appeared to me so curious that I
obtained leave to have copies taken of them.
The first is the receipt given by the retainers of Kôtsuké no Suké's
son in return for the head of their lord's father, which the priests
restored to the family, and runs as follows:--
"MEMORANDUM:--
ITEM. ONE HEAD.
ITEM. ONE PAPER PARCEL.
The above articles are acknowledged to have been received.
Signed, { SAYADA MAGOBELI. (_Loc. sigill._)
{ SAITÔ KUNAI. (_Loc. sigill._)
"To the priests deputed from the Temple Sengakuji,
His Reverence SEKISHI,
His Reverence ICHIDON."
The second paper is a document explanatory of their conduct, a copy of
which was found on the person of each of the forty-seven men:--
"Last year, in the third month, Asano Takumi no Kami, upon the
occasion of the entertainment of the Imperial ambassador, was
driven, by the force of circumstances, to attack and wound my
Lord Kôtsuké no Suké in the castle, in order to avenge an
insult offered to him. Having done this without considering the
dignity of the place, and having thus disregarded all rules of
propriety, he was condemned to _hara-kiri,_ and his property
and castle of Akô were forfeited to the State, and were
delivered up by his retainers to the officers deputed by the
Shogun to receive them. After this his followers were all
dispersed. At the time of the quarrel the high officials
present prevented Asano Takumi no Kami from carrying out his
intention of killing his enemy, my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké. So
Asano Takumi no Kami died without having avenged himself, and
this was more than his retainers could endure. It is impossible
to remain under the same heaven with the enemy of lord or
father; for this reason we have dared to declare enmity against
a personage of so exalted rank. This day we shall attack Kira
Kôtsuké no Suké, in order to finish the deed of vengeance which
was begun by our dead lord. If any honourable person should
find our bodies after death, he is respectfully requested to
open and read this document.
"15th year of Genroku. 12th month.
"Signed, OISHI KURANOSUKÉ, Retainer of Asano
Takumi no Kami, and forty-six others."[6]
[Footnote 6: It is usual for a Japanese, when bent upon some deed of
violence, the end of which, in his belief, justifies the means, to
carry about with him a document, such as that translated above, in
which he sets forth his motives, that his character may be cleared
after death.]
The third manuscript is a paper which the Forty-seven Rônins laid upon
the tomb of their master, together with the head of Kira Kôtsuké no
Suké:--
"The 15th year of Genroku, the 12th month, and 15th day. We
have come this day to do homage here, forty-seven men in all,
from Oishi Kuranosuké down to the foot-soldier, Terasaka
Kichiyémon, all cheerfully about to lay down our lives on your
behalf. We reverently announce this to the honoured spirit of
our dead master. On the 14th day of the third month of last
year our honoured master was pleased to attack Kira Kôtsuké no
Suké, for what reason we know not. Our honoured master put an
end to his own life, but Kira Kôtsuké no Suké lived. Although
we fear that after the decree issued by the Government this
plot of ours will be displeasing to our honoured master, still
we, who have eaten of your food, could not without blushing
repeat the verse, 'Thou shalt not live under the same heaven
nor tread the same earth with the enemy of thy father or lord,'
nor could we have dared to leave hell and present ourselves
before you in paradise, unless we had carried out the vengeance
which you began. Every day that we waited seemed as three
autumns to us. Verily, we have trodden the snow for one day,
nay, for two days, and have tasted food but once. The old and
decrepit, the sick and ailing, have come forth gladly to lay
down their lives. Men might laugh at us, as at grasshoppers
trusting in the strength of their arms, and thus shame our
honoured lord; but we could not halt in our deed of vengeance.
Having taken counsel together last night, we have escorted my
Lord Kôtsuké no Suké hither to your tomb. This dirk,[7] by
which our honoured lord set great store last year, and
entrusted to our care, we now bring back. If your noble spirit
be now present before this tomb, we pray you, as a sign, to
take the dirk, and, striking the head of your enemy with it a
second time, to dispel your hatred for ever. This is the
respectful statement of forty-seven men."
[Footnote 7: The dirk with which Asano Takumi no Kumi disembowelled
himself and with which Oishi Kuranosuké cut off Kôtsuké no Suké's
head.]
The text, "Thou shalt not live under the same heaven with the enemy of
thy father," is based upon the Confucian books. Dr. Legge, in his
"Life and Teachings of Confucius," p. 113, has an interesting
paragraph summing up the doctrine of the sage upon the subject of
revenge.
"In the second book of the 'Le Ke' there is the following
passage:--'With the slayer of his father a man may not live
under the same heaven; against the slayer of his brother a man
must never have to go home to fetch a weapon; with the slayer
of his friend a man may not live in the same State.' The _lex
talionis_ is here laid down in its fullest extent. The 'Chow
Le' tells us of a provision made against the evil consequences
of the principle by the appointment of a minister called 'The
Reconciler.' The provision is very inferior to the cities of
refuge which were set apart by Moses for the manslayer to flee
to from the fury of the avenger. Such as it was, however, it
existed, and it is remarkable that Confucius, when consulted on
the subject, took no notice of it, but affirmed the duty of
blood-revenge in the strongest and most unrestricted terms. His
disciple, Tsze Hea, asked him, 'What course is to be pursued in
the murder of a father or mother?' He replied, 'The son must
sleep upon a matting of grass with his shield for his pillow;
he must decline to take office; he must not live under the same
heaven with the slayer. When he meets him in the market-place
or the court, he must have his weapon ready to strike him.'
'And what is the course in the murder of a brother?' 'The
surviving brother must not take office in the same State with
the slayer; yet, if he go on his prince's service to the State
where the slayer is, though he meet him, he must not fight with
him.' 'And what is the course in the murder of an uncle or
cousin?' 'In this case the nephew or cousin is not the
principal. If the principal, on whom the revenge devolves, can
take it, he has only to stand behind with his weapon in his
hand, and support him.'"
I will add one anecdote to show the sanctity which is attached to the
graves of the Forty-seven. In the month of September 1868, a certain
man came to pray before the grave of Oishi Chikara. Having finished
his prayers, he deliberately performed _hara-kiri_,[8] and, the belly
wound not being mortal, dispatched himself by cutting his throat. Upon
his person were found papers setting forth that, being a Rônin and
without means of earning a living, he had petitioned to be allowed to
enter the clan of the Prince of Chôshiu, which he looked upon as the
noblest clan in the realm; his petition having been refused, nothing
remained for him but to die, for to be a Rônin was hateful to him, and
he would serve no other master than the Prince of Chôshiu: what more
fitting place could he find in which to put an end to his life than
the graveyard of these Braves? This happened at about two hundred
yards' distance from my house, and when I saw the spot an hour or two
later, the ground was all bespattered with blood, and disturbed by the
death-struggles of the man.
[Footnote 8: A purist in Japanese matters may object to the use of the
words _hara-kiri_ instead of the more elegant expression _Seppuku_. I
retain the more vulgar form as being better known, and therefore more
convenient.]
THE LOVES OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI
Within two miles or so from Yedo, and yet well away from the toil and
din of the great city, stands the village of Meguro. Once past the
outskirts of the town, the road leading thither is bounded on either
side by woodlands rich in an endless variety of foliage, broken at
intervals by the long, low line of villages and hamlets. As we draw
near to Meguro, the scenery, becoming more and more rustic, increases
in beauty. Deep shady lanes, bordered by hedgerows as luxurious as any
in England, lead down to a valley of rice fields bright with the
emerald green of the young crops. To the right and to the left rise
knolls of fantastic shape, crowned with a profusion of Cryptomerias,
Scotch firs and other cone-bearing trees, and fringed with thickets of
feathery bamboos, bending their stems gracefully to the light summer
breeze. Wherever there is a spot shadier and pleasanter to look upon
than the rest, there may be seen the red portal of a shrine which the
simple piety of the country folk has raised to Inari Sama, the patron
god of farming, or to some other tutelary deity of the place. At the
eastern outlet of the valley a strip of blue sea bounds the horizon;
westward are the distant mountains. In the foreground, in front of a
farmhouse, snug-looking, with its roof of velvety-brown thatch, a
troop of sturdy urchins, suntanned and stark naked, are frisking in
the wildest gambols, all heedless of the scolding voice of the
withered old grandam who sits spinning and minding the house, while
her son and his wife are away toiling at some outdoor labour. Close at
our feet runs a stream of pure water, in which a group of countrymen
are washing the vegetables which they will presently shoulder and
carry off to sell by auction in the suburbs of Yedo. Not the least
beauty of the scene consists in the wondrous clearness of an
atmosphere so transparent that the most distant outlines are scarcely
dimmed, while the details of the nearer ground stand out in sharp,
bold relief, now lit by the rays of a vertical sun, now darkened under
the flying shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds which sail across the
sky. Under such a heaven, what painter could limn the lights and
shades which flit over the woods, the pride of Japan, whether in late
autumn, when the russets and yellows of our own trees are mixed with
the deep crimson glow of the maples, or in spring-time, when plum and
cherry trees and wild camellias--giants, fifty feet high--are in full
blossom?
All that we see is enchanting, but there is a strange stillness in the
groves; rarely does the song of a bird break the silence; indeed, I
know but one warbler whose note has any music in it, the _uguisu_, by
some enthusiasts called the Japanese nightingale--at best, a king in
the kingdom of the blind. The scarcity of animal life of all
descriptions, man and mosquitoes alone excepted, is a standing wonder
to the traveller; the sportsman must toil many a weary mile to get a
shot at boar, or deer, or pheasant; and the plough of the farmer and
the trap of the poacher, who works in and out of season, threaten to
exterminate all wild creatures; unless, indeed, the Government should,
as they threatened in the spring of 1869, put in force some adaptation
of European game-laws. But they are lukewarm in the matter; a little
hawking on a duck-pond satisfies the cravings of the modern Japanese
sportsman, who knows that, game-laws or no game-laws, the wild fowl
will never fail in winter; and the days are long past when my Lord the
Shogun used to ride forth with a mighty company to the wild places
about Mount Fuji, there camping out and hunting the boar, the deer,
and the wolf, believing that in so doing he was fostering a manly and
military spirit in the land.
There is one serious drawback to the enjoyment of the beauties of the
Japanese country, and that is the intolerable affront which is
continually offered to one's sense of smell; the whole of what should
form the sewerage of the city is carried out on the backs of men and
horses, to be thrown upon the fields; and, if you would avoid the
overpowering nuisance, you must walk handkerchief in hand, ready to
shut out the stench which assails you at every moment.
It would seem natural, while writing of the Japanese country, to say a
few words about the peasantry, their relation to the lord of the soil,
and their government. But these I must reserve for another place. At
present our dealings are with the pretty village of Meguro.
At the bottom of a little lane, close to the entrance of the village,
stands an old shrine of the Shintô (the form of hero-worship which
existed in Japan before the introduction of Confucianism or of
Buddhism), surrounded by lofty Cryptomerias. The trees around a Shintô
shrine are specially under the protection of the god to whom the altar
is dedicated; and, in connection with them, there is a kind of magic
still respected by the superstitious, which recalls the waxen dolls,
through the medium of which sorcerers of the middle ages in Europe,
and indeed those of ancient Greece, as Theocritus tells us, pretended
to kill the enemies of their clients. This is called _Ushi no toki
mairi,_ or "going to worship at the hour of the ox,"[9] and is
practised by jealous women who wish to be revenged upon their
faithless lovers.
[Footnote 9: The Chinese, and the Japanese following them, divide the
day of twenty-four hours into twelve periods, each of which has a sign
something like the signs of the Zodiac:--
Midnight until two in the morning is represented by the rat.
2 a.m. " 4 a.m. " " ox.
4 a.m. " 6 a.m. " " tiger.
6 a.m. " 8 a.m. " " hare.
8 a.m. " 10 a.m. " " dragon.
10 a.m. " 12 noon " " snake.
12 noon " 2 p.m. " " horse.
2 p.m. " 4 p.m. " " ram.
4 p.m. " 6 p.m. " " ape.
6 p.m. " 8 p.m. " " cock.
8 p.m. " 10 p.m. " " hog.
10 p.m. " Midnight " " fox.]
When the world is at rest, at two in the morning, the hour of which
the ox is the symbol, the woman rises; she dons a white robe and high
sandals or clogs; her coif is a metal tripod, in which are thrust
three lighted candles; around her neck she hangs a mirror, which falls
upon her bosom; in her left hand she carries a small straw figure, the
effigy of the lover who has abandoned her, and in her right she grasps
a hammer and nails, with which she fastens the figure to one of the
sacred trees that surround the shrine. There she prays for the death
of the traitor, vowing that, if her petition be heard, she will
herself pull out the nails which now offend the god by wounding the
mystic tree. Night after night she comes to the shrine, and each night
she strikes in two or more nails, believing that every nail will
shorten her lover's life, for the god, to save his tree, will surely
strike him dead.
Meguro is one of the many places round Yedo to which the good citizens
flock for purposes convivial or religious, or both; hence it is that,
cheek by jowl with the old shrines and temples, you will find many a
pretty tea-house, standing at the rival doors of which Mesdemoiselles
Sugar, Wave of the Sea, Flower, Seashore, and Chrysanthemum are
pressing in their invitations to you to enter and rest. Not beautiful
these damsels, if judged by our standard, but the charm of Japanese
women lies in their manner and dainty little ways, and the tea-house
girl, being a professional decoy-duck, is an adept in the art of
flirting,--_en tout bien tout honneur_, be it remembered; for she is
not to be confounded with the frail beauties of the Yoshiwara, nor
even with her sisterhood near the ports open to foreigners, and to
their corrupting influence. For, strange as it seems, our contact all
over the East has an evil effect upon the natives.
In one of the tea-houses a thriving trade is carried on in the sale of
wooden tablets, some six inches square, adorned with the picture of a
pink cuttlefish on a bright blue ground. These are ex-votos, destined
to be offered up at the Temple of Yakushi Niurai, the Buddhist
Æsculapius, which stands opposite, and concerning the foundation of
which the following legend is told.
In the days of old there was a priest called Jikaku, who at the age of
forty years, it being the autumn of the tenth year of the period
called Tenchô (A.D. 833), was suffering from disease of the eyes,
which had attacked him three years before. In order to be healed from
this disease he carved a figure of Yakushi Niurai, to which he used
to offer up his prayers. Five years later he went to China, taking
with him the figure as his guardian saint, and at a place called
Kairetsu it protected him from robbers and wild beasts and from other
calamities. There he passed his time in studying the sacred laws both
hidden and revealed, and after nine years set sail to return to Japan.
When he was on the high seas a storm arose, and a great fish attacked
and tried to swamp the ship, so that the rudder and mast were broken,
and the nearest shore being that of a land inhabited by devils, to
retreat or to advance was equally dangerous. Then the holy man prayed
to the patron saint whose image he carried, and as he prayed, behold
the true Yakushi Niurai appeared in the centre of the ship, and said
to him--
"Verily, thou hast travelled far that the sacred laws might be
revealed for the salvation of many men; now, therefore, take my image,
which thou carriest in thy bosom, and cast it into the sea, that the
wind may abate, and that thou mayest be delivered from this land of
devils."
The commands of the saints must be obeyed, so with tears in his eyes,
the priest threw into the sea the sacred image which he loved. Then
did the wind abate, and the waves were stilled, and the ship went on
her course as though she were being drawn by unseen hands until she
reached a safe haven. In the tenth month of the same year the priest
again set sail, trusting to the power of his patron saint, and reached
the harbour of Tsukushi without mishap. For three years he prayed that
the image which he had cast away might be restored to him, until at
last one night he was warned in a dream that on the sea-shore at
Matsura Yakushi Niurai would appear to him. In consequence of this
dream he went to the province of Hizen, and landed on the sea-shore at
Hirato, where, in the midst of a blaze of light, the image which he
had carved appeared to him twice, riding on the back of a cuttlefish.
Thus was the image restored to the world by a miracle. In
commemoration of his recovery from the disease of the eyes and of his
preservation from the dangers of the sea, that these things might be
known to all posterity, the priest established the worship of Tako
Yakushi Niurai ("Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish") and came to
Meguro, where he built the Temple of Fudô Sama,[10] another Buddhist
divinity. At this time there was an epidemic of small-pox in the
village, so that men fell down and died in the street, and the holy
man prayed to Fudô Sama that the plague might be stayed. Then the god
appeared to him, and said--
"The saint Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish, whose image thou
carriest, desires to have his place in this village, and he will heal
this plague. Thou shalt, therefore, raise a temple to him here that
not only this small-pox, but other diseases for future generations,
may be cured by his power."
[Footnote 10: Fudô, literally "the motionless": Buddha in the state
called Nirvana.]
Hearing this, the priest shed tears of gratitude, and having chosen a
piece of fine wood, carved a large figure of his patron saint of the
cuttlefish, and placed the smaller image inside of the larger, and
laid it up in this temple, to which people still flock that they may
be healed of their diseases.
Such is the story of the miracle, translated from a small ill-printed
pamphlet sold by the priests of the temple, all the decorations of
which, even to a bronze lantern in the middle of the yard, are in the
form of a cuttlefish, the sacred emblem of the place.
What pleasanter lounge in which to while away a hot day could a man
wish for than the shade of the trees borne by the hill on which stands
the Temple of Fudô Sama? Two jets of pure water springing from the
rock are voided by spouts carved in the shape of dragons into a stone
basin enclosed by rails, within which it is written that "no woman may
enter." If you are in luck, you may cool yourself by watching some
devotee, naked save his loin-cloth, performing the ceremony called
_Suigiyô_; that is to say, praying under the waterfall that his soul
may be purified through his body. In winter it requires no small pluck
to go through this penance, yet I have seen a penitent submit to it
for more than a quarter of an hour on a bitterly cold day in January.
In summer, on the other hand, the religious exercise called
_Hiyakudo_, or "the hundred times," which may also be seen here to
advantage, is no small trial of patience. It consists in walking
backwards and forwards a hundred times between two points within the
sacred precincts, repeating a prayer each time. The count is kept
either upon the fingers or by depositing a length of twisted straw
each time that the goal is reached; at this temple the place allotted
for the ceremony is between a grotesque bronze figure of Tengu Sama
("the Dog of Heaven"), the terror of children, a most hideous monster
with a gigantic nose, which it is beneficial to rub with a finger
afterwards to be applied to one's own nose, and a large brown box
inscribed with the characters _Hiyaku Do_ in high relief, which may
generally be seen full of straw tallies. It is no sinecure to be a
good Buddhist, for the gods are not lightly to be propitiated. Prayer
and fasting, mortification of the flesh, abstinence from wine, from
women, and from favourite dishes, are the only passports to rising in
office, prosperity in trade, recovery from sickness, or a happy
marriage with a beloved maiden. Nor will mere faith without works be
efficient. A votive tablet of proportionate value to the favour prayed
for, or a sum of money for the repairs of the shrine or temple, is
necessary to win the favour of the gods. Poorer persons will cut off
the queue of their hair and offer that up; and at Horinouchi, a temple
in great renown some eight or nine miles from Yedo, there is a rope
about two inches and a half in diameter and about six fathoms long,
entirely made of human hair so given to the gods; it lies coiled up,
dirty, moth-eaten, and uncared for, at one end of a long shed full of
tablets and pictures, by the side of a rude native fire-engine. The
taking of life being displeasing to Buddha, outside many of the
temples old women and children earn a livelihood by selling sparrows,
small eels, carp, and tortoises, which the worshipper sets free in
honour of the deity, within whose territory cocks and hens and doves,
tame and unharmed, perch on every jutty, frieze, buttress, and coigne
of vantage.
But of all the marvellous customs that I wot of in connection with
Japanese religious exercises, none appears to me so strange as that of
spitting at the images of the gods, more especially at the statues of
the Ni-ô, the two huge red or red and green statues which, like Gog
and Magog, emblems of strength, stand as guardians of the chief
Buddhist temples. The figures are protected by a network of iron wire,
through which the votaries, praying the while, spit pieces of paper,
which they had chewed up into a pulp. If the pellet sticks to the
statue, the omen is favourable; if it falls, the prayer is not
accepted. The inside of the great bell at the Tycoon's burial-ground,
and almost every holy statue throughout the country, are all covered
with these outspittings from pious mouths.[11]
[Footnote 11: It will be readily understood that the customs and
ceremonies to which I have alluded belong only to the gross
superstitions with which ignorance has overlaid that pure Buddhism of
which Professor Max Müller has pointed out the very real beauties.]
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF THE SHIYOKU.]
Through all this discourse about temples and tea-houses, I am coming
by degrees to the goal of our pilgrimage--two old stones, mouldering
away in a rank, overgrown graveyard hard by, an old old
burying-ground, forgotten by all save those who love to dig out the
tales of the past. The key is kept by a ghoulish old dame, almost as
time-worn and mildewed as the tomb over which she watches. Obedient to
our call, and looking forward to a fee ten times greater than any
native would give her, she hobbles out, and, opening the gate, points
out the stone bearing the inscription, the "Tomb of the Shiyoku"
(fabulous birds, which, living one within the other--a mysterious
duality contained in one body--are the emblem of connubial love and
fidelity). By this stone stands another, graven with a longer legend,
which runs as follows:--
"In the old days of Genroku, she pined for the beauty of her lover,
who was as fair to look upon as the flowers; and now beneath the moss
of this old tombstone all has perished of her save her name. Amid the
changes of a fitful world, this tomb is decaying under the dew and
rain; gradually crumbling beneath its own dust, its outline alone
remains. Stranger! bestow an alms to preserve this stone; and we,
sparing neither pain nor labour, will second you with all our hearts.
Erecting it again, let us preserve it from decay for future
generations, and let us write the following verse upon it:--'These two
birds, beautiful as the cherry-blossoms, perished before their time,
like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne seed.'"
Under the first stone is the dust of Gompachi, robber and murderer,
mixed with that of his true love Komurasaki, who lies buried with him.
Her sorrows and constancy have hallowed the place, and pious people
still come to burn incense and lay flowers before the grave. How she
loved him even in death may be seen from the following old-world
story.
* * * * *
About two hundred and thirty years ago there lived in the service of a
daimio of the province of Inaba a young man, called Shirai Gompachi,
who, when he was but sixteen years of age, had already won a name for
his personal beauty and valour, and for his skill in the use of arms.
Now it happened that one day a dog belonging to him fought with
another dog belonging to a fellow-clansman, and the two masters, being
both passionate youths, disputing as to whose dog had had the best of
the fight, quarrelled and came to blows, and Gompachi slew his
adversary; and in consequence of this he was obliged to flee from his
country, and make his escape to Yedo.
And so Gompachi set out on his travels.
One night, weary and footsore, he entered what appeared to him to be a
roadside inn, ordered some refreshment, and went to bed, little
thinking of the danger that menaced him: for as luck would have it,
this inn turned out to be the trysting-place of a gang of robbers,
into whose clutches he had thus unwittingly fallen. To be sure,
Gompachi's purse was but scantily furnished, but his sword and dirk
were worth some three hundred ounces of silver, and upon these the
robbers (of whom there were ten) had cast envious eyes, and had
determined to kill the owner for their sake; but he, all unsuspicious,
slept on in fancied security.
In the middle of the night he was startled from his deep slumbers by
some one stealthily opening the sliding door which led into his room,
and rousing himself with an effort, he beheld a beautiful young girl,
fifteen years of age, who, making signs to him not to stir, came up to
his bedside, and said to him in a whisper--
"Sir, the master of this house is the chief of a gang of robbers, who
have been plotting to murder you this night for the sake of your
clothes and your sword. As for me, I am the daughter of a rich
merchant in Mikawa: last year the robbers came to our house, and
carried off my father's treasure and myself. I pray you, sir, take me
with you, and let us fly from this dreadful place."
She wept as she spoke, and Gompachi was at first too much startled to
answer; but being a youth of high courage and a cunning fencer to
boot, he soon recovered his presence of mind, and determined to kill
the robbers, and to deliver the girl out of their hands. So he
replied--
"Since you say so, I will kill these thieves, and rescue you this very
night; only do you, when I begin the fight, run outside the house,
that you may be out of harm's way, and remain in hiding until I join
you."
Upon this understanding the maiden left him, and went her way. But he
lay awake, holding his breath and watching; and when the thieves crept
noiselessly into the room, where they supposed him to be fast asleep,
he cut down the first man that entered, and stretched him dead at his
feet. The other nine, seeing this, laid about them with their drawn
swords, but Gompachi, fighting with desperation, mastered them at
last, and slew them. After thus ridding himself of his enemies, he
went outside the house and called to the girl, who came running to his
side, and joyfully travelled on with him to Mikawa, where her father
dwelt; and when they reached Mikawa, he took the maiden to the old
man's house, and told him how, when he had fallen among thieves, his
daughter had come to him in his hour of peril, and saved him out of
her great pity; and how he, in return, rescuing her from her
servitude, had brought her back to her home. When the old folks saw
their daughter whom they had lost restored to them, they were beside
themselves with joy, and shed tears for very happiness; and, in their
gratitude, they pressed Gompachi to remain with them, and they
prepared feasts for him, and entertained him hospitably: but their
daughter, who had fallen in love with him for his beauty and knightly
valour, spent her days in thinking of him, and of him alone. The young
man, however, in spite of the kindness of the old merchant, who
wished to adopt him as his son, and tried hard to persuade him to
consent to this, was fretting to go to Yedo and take service as an
officer in the household of some noble lord; so he resisted the
entreaties of the father and the soft speeches of the daughter, and
made ready to start on his journey; and the old merchant, seeing that
he would not be turned from his purpose, gave him a parting gift of
two hundred ounces of silver, and sorrowfully bade him farewell.
[Illustration: GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS' DEN.]
But alas for the grief of the maiden, who sat sobbing her heart out
and mourning over her lover's departure! He, all the while thinking
more of ambition than of love, went to her and comforted her, and
said: "Dry your eyes, sweetheart, and weep no more, for I shall soon
come back to you. Do you, in the meanwhile, be faithful and true to
me, and tend your parents with filial piety."
So she wiped away her tears and smiled again, when she heard him
promise that he would soon return to her. And Gompachi went his way,
and in due time came near to Yedo.
But his dangers were not yet over; for late one night, arriving at a
place called Suzugamori, in the neighbourhood of Yedo, he fell in with
six highwaymen, who attacked him, thinking to make short work of
killing and robbing him. Nothing daunted, he drew his sword, and
dispatched two out of the six; but, being weary and worn out with his
long journey, he was sorely pressed, and the struggle was going hard
with him, when a wardsman,[12] who happened to pass that way riding in
a chair, seeing the affray, jumped down from his chair and drawing his
dirk came to the rescue, and between them they put the robbers to
flight.
[Footnote 12: Japanese cities are divided into wards, and every
tradesman and artisan is under the authority of the chief of the ward
in which he resides. The word _chônin_, or wardsman, is generally used
in contradistinction to the word _samurai_, which has already been
explained as denoting a man belonging to the military class.]
Now it turned out that this kind tradesman, who had so happily come to
the assistance of Gompachi, was no other than Chôbei of Bandzuin, the
chief of the _Otokodaté_, or Friendly Society of the wardsmen of
Yedo--a man famous in the annals of the city, whose life, exploits,
and adventures are recited to this day, and form the subject of
another tale.
When the highwaymen had disappeared, Gompachi, turning to his
deliverer, said--
"I know not who you may be, sir, but I have to thank you for rescuing
me from a great danger."
And as he proceeded to express his gratitude, Chôbei replied--
"I am but a poor wardsman, a humble man in my way, sir; and if the
robbers ran away, it was more by good luck than owing to any merit of
mine. But I am filled with admiration at the way you fought; you
displayed a courage and a skill that were beyond your years, sir."
"Indeed," said the young man, smiling with pleasure at hearing
himself praised; "I am still young and inexperienced, and am quite
ashamed of my bungling style of fencing."
"And now may I ask you, sir, whither you are bound?"
"That is almost more than I know myself, for I am a _rônin,_ and have
no fixed purpose in view."
"That is a bad job," said Chôbei, who felt pity for the lad. "However,
if you will excuse my boldness in making such an offer, being but a
wardsman, until you shall have taken service I would fain place my
poor house at your disposal."
Gompachi accepted the offer of his new but trusty friend with thanks;
so Chôbei led him to his house, where he lodged him and hospitably
entertained him for some months. And now Gompachi, being idle and
having nothing to care for, fell into bad ways, and began to lead a
dissolute life, thinking of nothing but gratifying his whims and
passions; he took to frequenting the Yoshiwara, the quarter of the
town which is set aside for tea-houses and other haunts of wild young
men, where his handsome face and figure attracted attention, and soon
made him a great favourite with all the beauties of the neighbourhood.
About this time men began to speak loud in praise of the charms of
Komurasaki, or "Little Purple," a young girl who had recently come to
the Yoshiwara, and who in beauty and accomplishments outshone all her
rivals. Gompachi, like the rest of the world, heard so much of her
fame that he determined to go to the house where she dwelt, at the
sign of "The Three Sea-coasts," and judge for himself whether she
deserved all that men said of her. Accordingly he set out one day, and
having arrived at "The Three Sea-coasts," asked to see Komurasaki; and
being shown into the room where she was sitting, advanced towards her;
but when their eyes met, they both started back with a cry of
astonishment, for this Komurasaki, the famous beauty of the Yoshiwara,
proved to be the very girl whom several months before Gompachi had
rescued from the robbers' den, and restored to her parents in Mikawa.
He had left her in prosperity and affluence, the darling child of a
rich father, when they had exchanged vows of love and fidelity; and
now they met in a common stew in Yedo. What a change! what a contrast!
How had the riches turned to rust, the vows to lies!
"What is this?" cried Gompachi, when he had recovered from his
surprise. "How is it that I find you here pursuing this vile calling,
in the Yoshiwara? Pray explain this to me, for there is some mystery
beneath all this which I do not understand."
But Komurasaki--who, having thus unexpectedly fallen in with her lover
that she had yearned for, was divided between joy and shame--answered,
weeping--
"Alas! my tale is a sad one, and would be long to tell. After you left
us last year, calamity and reverses fell upon our house; and when my
parents became poverty-stricken, I was at my wits' end to know how to
support them: so I sold this wretched body of mine to the master of
this house, and sent the money to my father and mother; but, in spite
of this, troubles and misfortunes multiplied upon them, and now, at
last, they have died of misery and grief. And, oh! lives there in this
wide world so unhappy a wretch as I! But now that I have met you
again--you who are so strong--help me who am weak. You saved me
once--do not, I implore you, desert me now!!" and as she told her
piteous tale the tears streamed from her eyes.
"This is, indeed, a sad story," replied Gompachi, much affected by the
recital. "There must have been a wonderful run of bad luck to bring
such misfortune upon your house, which but a little while ago I
recollect so prosperous. However, mourn no more, for I will not
forsake you. It is true that I am too poor to redeem you from your
servitude, but at any rate I will contrive so that you shall be
tormented no more. Love me, therefore, and put your trust in me." When
she heard him speak so kindly she was comforted, and wept no more, but
poured out her whole heart to him, and forgot her past sorrows in the
great joy of meeting him again.
When it became time for them to separate, he embraced her tenderly and
returned to Chôbei's house; but he could not banish Komurasaki from
his mind, and all day long he thought of her alone; and so it came
about that he went daily to the Yoshiwara to see her, and if any
accident detained him, she, missing the accustomed visit, would become
anxious and write to him to inquire the cause of his absence. At last,
pursuing this course of life, his stock of money ran short, and as,
being a _rônin_ and without any fixed employment, he had no means of
renewing his supplies, he was ashamed of showing himself penniless at
"The Three Sea-coasts." Then it was that a wicked spirit arose within
him, and he went out and murdered a man, and having robbed him of his
money carried it to the Yoshiwara.
From bad to worse is an easy step, and the tiger that has once tasted
blood is dangerous. Blinded and infatuated by his excessive love,
Gompachi kept on slaying and robbing, so that, while his outer man was
fair to look upon, the heart within him was that of a hideous devil.
At last his friend Chôbei could no longer endure the sight of him, and
turned him out of his house; and as, sooner or later, virtue and vice
meet with their reward, it came to pass that Gompachi's crimes became
notorious, and the Government having set spies upon his track, he was
caught red-handed and arrested; and his evil deeds having been fully
proved against him, he was carried off to the execution ground at
Suzugamori, the "Bell Grove," and beheaded as a common male-factor.
Now when Gompachi was dead, Chôbei's old affection for the young man
returned, and, being a kind and pious man, he went and claimed his
body and head, and buried him at Meguro, in the grounds of the Temple
called Boronji.
When Komurasaki heard the people at Yoshiwara gossiping about her
lover's end, her grief knew no bounds, so she fled secretly from "The
Three Sea-coasts," and came to Meguro and threw herself upon the
newly-made grave. Long she prayed and bitterly she wept over the tomb
of him whom, with all his faults, she had loved so well, and then,
drawing a dagger from her girdle, she plunged it in her breast and
died. The priests of the temple, when they saw what had happened,
wondered greatly and were astonished at the loving faithfulness of
this beautiful girl, and taking compassion on her, they laid her side
by side with Gompachi in one grave, and over the grave they placed a
stone which remains to this day, bearing the inscription "The Tomb of
the Shiyoku." And still the people of Yedo visit the place, and still
they praise the beauty of Gompachi and the filial piety and fidelity
of Komurasaki.
Let us linger for a moment longer in the old graveyard. The word which
I have translated a few lines above as "loving faithfulness" means
literally "chastity." When Komurasaki sold herself to supply the wants
of her ruined parents, she was not, according to her lights,
forfeiting her claim to virtue. On the contrary, she could perform no
greater act of filial piety, and, so far from incurring reproach among
her people, her self-sacrifice would be worthy of all praise in their
eyes. This idea has led to grave misunderstanding abroad, and indeed
no phase of Japanese life has been so misrepresented as this. I have
heard it stated, and seen it printed, that it is no disgrace for a
respectable Japanese to sell his daughter, that men of position and
family often choose their wives from such places as "The Three
Sea-coasts," and that up to the time of her marriage the conduct of a
young girl is a matter of no importance whatever. Nothing could be
more unjust or more untrue. It is only the neediest people that sell
their children to be waitresses, singers, or prostitutes. It does
occasionally happen that the daughter of a _Samurai_, or gentleman, is
found in a house of ill-fame, but such a case could only occur at the
death or utter ruin of the parents, and an official investigation of
the matter has proved it to be so exceptional, that the presence of a
young lady in such a place is an enormous attraction, her superior
education and accomplishments shedding a lustre over the house. As for
gentlemen marrying women of bad character, are not such things known
in Europe? Do ladies of the _demi-monde_ never make good marriages?
_Mésalliances_ are far rarer in Japan than with us. Certainly among
the lowest class of the population such, marriages may occasionally
occur, for it often happens that a woman can lay by a tempting dowry
out of her wretched earnings-, but amongst the gentry of the country
they are unknown.
And yet a girl is not disgraced if for her parents' sake she sells
herself to a life of misery so great, that, when a Japanese enters a
house of ill-fame, he is forced to leave his sword and dirk at the
door for two reasons--first, to prevent brawling; secondly, because it
is known that some of the women inside so loathe their existence that
they would put an end to it, could they get hold of a weapon.
It is a curious fact that in all the Daimio's castle-towns, with the
exception of some which are also seaports, open prostitution is
strictly forbidden, although, if report speaks truly, public morality
rather suffers than gains by the prohibition.
The misapprehension which exists upon the subject of prostitution in
Japan may be accounted for by the fact that foreign writers, basing
their judgment upon the vice of the open ports, have not hesitated to
pronounce the Japanese women unchaste. As fairly might a Japanese,
writing about England, argue from the street-walkers of Portsmouth or
Plymouth to the wives, sisters, and daughters of these very authors.
In some respects the gulf fixed between virtue and vice in Japan is
even greater than in England. The Eastern courtesan is confined to a
certain quarter of the town, and distinguished by a peculiarly gaudy
costume, and by a head-dress which consists of a forest of light
tortoiseshell hair-pins, stuck round her head like a saint's glory--a
glory of shame which a modest woman would sooner die than wear. Vice
jostling virtue in the public places; virtue imitating the fashions
set by vice, and buying trinkets or furniture at the sale of vice's
effects--these are social phenomena which the East knows not.
The custom prevalent among the lower orders of bathing in public
bath-houses without distinction of the sexes, is another circumstance
which has tended to spread abroad very false notions upon the subject
of the chastity of the Japanese women. Every traveller is shocked by
it, and every writer finds in it matter for a page of pungent
description. Yet it is only those who are so poor (and they must be
poor indeed) that they cannot afford a bath at home, who, at the end
of their day's work, go to the public bath-house to refresh themselves
before sitting down to their evening meal: having been used to the
scene from their childhood, they see no indelicacy in it; it is a
matter of course, and _honi soit qui mal y pense_: certainly there is
far less indecency and immorality resulting from this public bathing,
than from the promiscuous herding together of all sexes and ages which
disgraces our own lodging-houses in the great cities, and the hideous
hovels in which some of our labourers have to pass their lives; nor
can it be said that there is more confusion of sexes amongst the
lowest orders in Japan than in Europe. Speaking upon the subject once
with a Japanese gentleman, I observed that we considered it an act of
indecency for men and women to wash together. He shrugged his
shoulders as he answered, "But then Westerns have such prurient
minds." Some time ago, at the open port of Yokohama, the Government,
out of deference to the prejudices of foreigners, forbade the men and
women to bathe together, and no doubt this was the first step towards
putting down the practice altogether: as for women tubbing in the open
streets of Yedo, I have read of such things in books written by
foreigners; but during a residence of three years and a half, in which
time I crossed and recrossed every part of the great city at all hours
of the day, I never once saw such a sight. I believe myself that it
can only be seen at certain hot mineral springs in remote country
districts.
The best answer to the general charge of immorality which has been
brought against the Japanese women during their period of unmarried
life, lies in the fact that every man who can afford to do so keeps
the maidens of his family closely guarded in the strictest seclusion.
The daughter of poverty, indeed, must work and go abroad, but not a
man is allowed to approach the daughter of a gentleman; and she is
taught that if by accident any insult should be offered to her, the
knife which she carries at her girdle is meant for use, and not
merely as a badge of her rank. Not long ago a tragedy took place in
the house of one of the chief nobles in Yedo. One of My Lady's
tire-women, herself a damsel of gentle blood, and gifted with rare
beauty, had attracted the attention of a retainer in the palace, who
fell desperately in love with her. For a long time the strict rules of
decorum by which she was hedged in prevented him from declaring his
passion; but at last he contrived to gain access to her presence, and
so far forgot himself, that she, drawing her poniard, stabbed him in
the eye, so that he was carried off fainting, and presently died. The
girl's declaration, that the dead man had attempted to insult her, was
held to be sufficient justification of her deed, and, instead of being
blamed, she was praised and extolled for her valour and chastity. As
the affair had taken place within the four walls of a powerful noble,
there was no official investigation into the matter, with which the
authorities of the palace were competent to deal. The truth of this
story was vouched for by two or three persons whose word I have no
reason to doubt, and who had themselves been mixed up in it; I can
bear witness that it is in complete harmony with Japanese ideas; and
certainly it seems more just that Lucretia should kill Tarquin than
herself.
The better the Japanese people come to be known and understood, the
more, I am certain, will it be felt that a great injustice has been
done them in the sweeping attacks which have been made upon their
women. Writers are agreed, I believe, that their matrons are, as a
rule, without reproach. If their maidens are chaste, as I contend that
from very force of circumstances they cannot help being, what becomes
of all these charges of vice and immodesty? Do they not rather recoil
upon the accusers, who would appear to have studied the Japanese woman
only in the harlot of Yokohama?
Having said so much, I will now try to give some account of the famous
Yoshiwara[13] of Yedo, to which frequent allusion will have to be made
in the course of these tales.
[Footnote 13: The name Yoshiwara, which is becoming generic for
"Flower Districts,"--_Anglicé_, quarters occupied by brothels,--is
sometimes derived from the town Yoshiwara, in Sunshine, because it was
said that the women of that place furnished a large proportion of the
beauties of the Yedo Yoshiwara. The correct derivation is probably
that given below.]
At the end of the sixteenth century the courtesans of Yedo lived in
three special places: these were the street called Kôji-machi, in
which dwelt the women who came from Kiôto; the Kamakura Street, and a
spot opposite the great bridge, in which last two places lived women
brought from Suruga. Besides these there afterwards came women from
Fushimi and from Nara, who lodged scattered here and there throughout
the town. This appears to have scandalized a certain reformer, named
Shôji Jinyémon, who, in the year 1612, addressed a memorial to the
Government, petitioning that the women who lived in different parts of
the town should be collected in one "Flower Quarter." His petition was
granted in the year 1617, and he fixed upon a place called Fukiyacho,
which, on account of the quantities of rushes which grew there, was
named _Yoshi-Wara,_ or the rush-moor, a name which now-a-days, by a
play upon the word _yoshi,_ is written with two Chinese characters,
signifying the "good," or "lucky moor." The place was divided into
four streets, called the Yedo Street, the Second Yedo Street, the
Kiôto Street, and the Second Kiôto Street.
In the eighth month of the year 1655, when Yedo was beginning to
increase in size and importance, the Yoshiwara, preserving its name,
was transplanted bodily to the spot which it now occupies at the
northern end of the town. And the streets in it were named after the
places from which the greater number of their inhabitants originally
came, as the "Sakai Street," the "Fushimi Street," &c.
The official Guide to the Yoshiwara for 1869 gives a return of 153
brothels, containing 3,289 courtesans of all classes, from the
_Oiran_, or proud beauty, who, dressed up in gorgeous brocade of gold
and silver, with painted face and gilded lips, and with her teeth
fashionably blacked, has all the young bloods of Yedo at her feet,
down to the humble _Shinzo_, or white-toothed woman, who rots away her
life in the common stews. These figures do not, however, represent the
whole of the prostitution of Yedo; the Yoshiwara is the chief, but not
the only, abiding-place of the public women. At Fukagawa there is
another Flower District, built upon the same principle as the
Yoshiwara; while at Shinagawa, Shinjiku, Itabashi, Senji, and
Kadzukappara, the hotels contain women who, nominally only waitresses,
are in reality prostitutes. There are also women called _Jigoku-Omna,_
or hell-women, who, without being borne on the books of any brothel,
live in their own houses, and ply their trade in secret. On the whole,
I believe the amount of prostitution in Yedo to be wonderfully small,
considering the vast size of the city.
There are 394 tea-houses in the Yoshiwara, which are largely used as
places of assignation, and which on those occasions are paid, not by
the visitors frequenting them, but by the keepers of the brothels. It
is also the fashion to give dinners and drinking-parties at these
houses, for which the services of _Taikomochi_, or jesters, among whom
there are thirty-nine chief celebrities, and of singing and dancing
girls, are retained. The Guide to the Yoshiwara gives a list of
fifty-five famous singing-girls, besides a host of minor stars. These
women are not to be confounded with the courtesans. Their conduct is
very closely watched by their masters, and they always go out to
parties in couples or in bands, so that they may be a check upon one
another. Doubtless, however, in spite of all precautions, the shower
of gold does from time to time find its way to Danaë's lap; and to be
the favoured lover of a fashionable singer or dancer is rather a
feather in the cap of a fast young Japanese gentleman. The fee paid to
singing-girls for performing during a space of two hours is one
shilling and fourpence each; for six hours the fee is quadrupled, and
it is customary to give the girls a _hana_, or present, for
themselves, besides their regular pay, which goes to the master of the
troupe to which they belong.
Courtesans, singing women, and dancers are bought by contractors,
either as children, when they are educated for their calling, or at a
more advanced age, when their accomplishments and charms render them
desirable investments. The engagement is never made life-long, for
once past the flower of their youth the poor creatures would be mere
burthens upon their masters; a courtesan is usually bought until she
shall have reached the age of twenty-seven, after which she becomes
her own property. Singers remain longer in harness, but even they
rarely work after the age of thirty, for Japanese women, like
Italians, age quickly, and have none of that intermediate stage
between youth and old age, which seems to be confined to countries
where there is a twilight.
Children destined to be trained as singers are usually bought when
they are five or six years old, a likely child fetching from about
thirty-five to fifty shillings; the purchaser undertakes the education
of his charge, and brings the little thing up as his own child. The
parents sign a paper absolving him from all responsibility in case of
sickness or accident; but they know that their child will be well
treated and cared for, the interests of the buyer being their material
guarantee. Girls of fifteen or upwards who are sufficiently
accomplished to join a company of singers fetch ten times the price
paid for children; for in their case there is no risk and no expense
of education.
Little children who are bought for purposes of prostitution at the age
of five or six years fetch about the same price as those that are
bought to be singers. During their novitiate they are employed to wait
upon the _Oiran_, or fashionable courtesans, in the capacity of little
female pages (_Kamuro_). They are mostly the children of distressed
persons, or orphans, whom their relatives cruelly sell rather than be
at the expense and trouble of bringing them up. Of the girls who enter
the profession later in life, some are orphans, who have no other
means of earning a livelihood; others sell their bodies out of filial
piety, that they may succour their sick or needy parents; others are
married women, who enter the Yoshiwara to supply the wants of their
husbands; and a very small proportion is recruited from girls who have
been seduced and abandoned, perhaps sold, by faithless lovers.
The time to see the Yoshiwara to the best advantage is just after
nightfall, when the lamps are lighted. Then it is that the women--who
for the last two hours have been engaged in gilding their lips and
painting their eyebrows black, and their throats and bosoms a snowy
white, carefully leaving three brown Van-dyke-collar points where the
back of the head joins the neck, in accordance with one of the
strictest rules of Japanese cosmetic science--leave the back rooms,
and take their places, side by side, in a kind of long narrow cage,
the wooden bars of which open on to the public thoroughfare. Here they
sit for hours, gorgeous in dresses of silk and gold and silver
embroidery, speechless and motionless as wax figures, until they shall
have attracted the attention of some of the passers-by, who begin to
throng the place. At Yokohama indeed, and at the other open ports, the
women of the Yoshiwara are loud in their invitations to visitors,
frequently relieving the monotony of their own language by some
blasphemous term of endearment picked up from British and American
seamen; but in the Flower District at Yedo, and wherever Japanese
customs are untainted, the utmost decorum prevails. Although the shape
which vice takes is ugly enough, still it has this merit, that it is
unobtrusive. Never need the pure be contaminated by contact with the
impure; he who goes to the Yoshiwara, goes there knowing full well
what he will find, but the virtuous man may live through his life
without having this kind of vice forced upon his sight. Here again do
the open ports contrast unfavourably with other places: Yokohama at
night is as leprous a place as the London Haymarket.[14]
[Footnote 14: Those who are interested in this branch of social
science, will find much curious information upon the subject of
prostitution in Japan in a pamphlet published at Yokohama, by Dr.
Newton, R.N., a philanthropist who has been engaged for the last two
years in establishing a Lock Hospital at that place. In spite of much
opposition, from prejudice and ignorance, his labours have been
crowned by great success.]
A public woman or singer on entering her profession assumes a _nom de
guerre_, by which she is known until her engagement is at an end. Some
of these names are so pretty and quaint that I will take a few
specimens from the _Yoshiwara Saiken_, the guidebook upon which this
notice is based. "Little Pine," "Little Butterfly," "Brightness of the
Flowers," "The Jewel River," "Gold Mountain," "Pearl Harp," "The Stork
that lives a Thousand Years," "Village of Flowers," "Sea Beach," "The
Little Dragon," "Little Purple," "Silver," "Chrysanthemum,"
"Waterfall," "White Brightness," "Forest of Cherries,"--these and a
host of other quaint conceits are the one prettiness of a very foul
place.
KAZUMA'S REVENGE
It is a law that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. In
Japan, where there exists a large armed class over whom there is
practically little or no control, party and clan broils, and single
quarrels ending in bloodshed and death, are matters of daily
occurrence; and it has been observed that Edinburgh in the olden time,
when the clansmen, roistering through the streets at night, would pass
from high words to deadly blows, is perhaps the best European parallel
of modern Yedo or Kiôto.
It follows that of all his possessions the Samurai sets most store by
his sword, his constant companion, his ally, defensive and offensive.
The price of a sword by a famous maker reaches a high sum: a Japanese
noble will sometimes be found girding on a sword, the blade of which
unmounted is worth from six hundred to a thousand riyos, say from £200
to £300, and the mounting, rich in cunning metal work, will be of
proportionate value. These swords are handed down as heirlooms from
father to son, and become almost a part of the wearer's own self.
Iyéyasu, the founder of the last dynasty of Shoguns, wrote in his
Legacy,[15] a code of rules drawn up for the guidance of his
successors and their advisers in the government, "The girded sword is
the living soul of the Samurai. In the case of a Samurai forgetting
his sword, act as is appointed: it may not be overlooked."
[Footnote 15: _The Legacy of Iyéyasu_, translated by F. Lowder.
Yokohama, 1868. (Printed for private circulation.)]
The occupation of a swordsmith is an honourable profession, the
members of which are men of gentle blood. In a country where trade is
looked down upon as degrading, it is strange to find this single
exception to the general rule. The traditions of the craft are many
and curious. During the most critical moment of the forging of the
sword, when the steel edge is being welded into the body of the iron
blade, it is a custom which still obtains among old-fashioned
armourers to put on the cap and robes worn by the Kugé, or nobles of
the Mikado's court, and, closing the doors of the workshop, to labour
in secrecy and freedom from interruption, the half gloom adding to the
mystery of the operation. Sometimes the occasion is even invested with
a certain sanctity, a tasselled cord of straw, such as is hung before
the shrines of the Kami, or native gods of Japan, being suspended
between two bamboo poles in the forge, which for the nonce is
converted into a holy altar.
At Osaka, I lived opposite to one Kusano Yoshiaki, a swordsmith, a
most intelligent and amiable gentleman, who was famous throughout his
neighbourhood for his good and charitable deeds. His idea was that,
having been bred up to a calling which trades in life and death, he
was bound, so far as in him lay, to atone for this by seeking to
alleviate the suffering which is in the world; and he carried out his
principle to the extent of impoverishing himself. No neighbour ever
appealed to him in vain for help in tending the sick or burying the
dead. No beggar or lazar was ever turned from his door without
receiving some mark of his bounty, whether in money or in kind. Nor
was his scrupulous honesty less remarkable than his charity. While
other smiths are in the habit of earning large sums of money by
counterfeiting the marks of the famous makers of old, he was able to
boast that he had never turned out a weapon which bore any other mark
than his own. From his father and his forefathers he inherited his
trade, which, in his turn, he will hand over to his son--a
hard-working, honest, and sturdy man, the clank of whose hammer and
anvil may be heard from daybreak to sundown.
[Illustration: FORGING THE SWORD.]
The trenchant edge of the Japanese sword is notorious. It is said that
the best blades will in the hands of an expert swordsman cut through
the dead bodies of three men, laid one upon the other, at a blow. The
swords of the Shogun used to be tried upon the corpses of executed
criminals; the public headsman was entrusted with the duty, and for a
"nose medicine," or bribe of two bus (about three shillings), would
substitute the weapon of a private individual for that of his Lord.
Dogs and beggars, lying helpless by the roadside, not unfrequently
serve to test a ruffian's sword; but the executioner earns many a fee
from those who wish to see how their blades will cut off a head.
The statesman who shall enact a law forbidding the carrying of this
deadly weapon will indeed have deserved well of his country; but it
will be a difficult task to undertake, and a dangerous one. I would
not give much for that man's life. The hand of every swashbuckler in
the empire would be against him. One day as we were talking over this
and other kindred subjects, a friend of mine, a man of advanced and
liberal views, wrote down his opinion, _more Japonico_, in a verse of
poetry which ran as follows:--"I would that all the swords and dirks
in the country might be collected in one place and molten down, and
that, from the metal so produced, one huge sword might be forged,
which, being the only blade left, should be the girded sword of Great
Japan."
The following history is in more senses than one a "Tale of a Sword."
About two hundred and fifty years ago Ikéda Kunaishôyu was Lord of the
Province of Inaba. Among his retainers were two gentlemen, named
Watanabé Yukiyé and Kawai Matazayémon, who were bound together by
strong ties of friendship, and were in the habit of frequently
visiting at one another's houses. One day Yukiyé was sitting
conversing with Matazayémon in the house of the latter, when, on a
sudden, a sword that was lying in the raised part of the room caught
his eye. As he saw it, he started and said--
"Pray tell me, how came you by that sword?"
"Well, as you know, when my Lord Ikéda followed my Lord Tokugawa
Iyéyasu to fight at Nagakudé, my father went in his train; and it was
at the battle of Nagakudé that he picked up this sword."
"My father went too, and was killed in the fight, and this sword,
which was an heirloom in our family for many generations, was lost at
that time. As it is of great value in my eyes, I do wish that, if you
set no special store by it, you would have the great kindness to
return it to me."
"That is a very easy matter, and no more than what one friend should
do by another. Pray take it."
Upon this Yukiyé gratefully took the sword, and having carried it home
put it carefully away.
At the beginning of the ensuing year Matazayémon fell sick and died,
and Yukiyé, mourning bitterly for the loss of his good friend, and
anxious to requite the favour which he had received in the matter of
his father's sword, did many acts of kindness to the dead man's
son--a young man twenty-two years of age, named Matagorô.
Now this Matagorô was a base-hearted cur, who had begrudged the sword
that his father had given to Yukiyé, and complained publicly and often
that Yukiyé had never made any present in return; and in this way
Yukiyé got a bad name in my Lord's palace as a stingy and illiberal
man.
But Yukiyé had a son, called Kazuma, a youth sixteen years of age, who
served as one of the Prince's pages of honour. One evening, as he and
one of his brother pages were talking together, the latter said--
"Matagorô is telling everybody that your father accepted a handsome
sword from him and never made him any present in return, and people
are beginning to gossip about it."
"Indeed," replied the other, "my father received that sword from
Matagorô's father as a mark of friendship and good-will, and,
considering that it would be an insult to send a present of money in
return, thought to return the favour by acts of kindness towards
Matagorô. I suppose it is money he wants."
When Kazuma's service was over, he returned home, and went to his
father's room to tell him the report that was being spread in the
palace, and begged him to send an ample present of money to Matagorô.
Yukryé reflected for a while, and said--
"You are too young to understand the right line of conduct in such
matters. Matagorô's father and myself were very close friends; so,
seeing that he had ungrudgingly given me back the sword of my
ancestors, I, thinking to requite his kindness at his death, rendered
important services to Matagorô. It would be easy to finish the matter
by sending a present of money; but I had rather take the sword and
return it than be under an obligation to this mean churl, who knows
not the laws which regulate the intercourse and dealings of men of
gentle blood."
So Yukiyé, in his anger, took the sword to Matagorô's house, and said
to him--
"I have come to your house this night for no other purpose than to
restore to you the sword which your father gave me;" and with this he
placed the sword before Matagorô.
"Indeed," replied the other, "I trust that you will not pain me by
returning a present which my father made you."
"Amongst men of gentle birth," said Yukiyé, laughing scornfully, "it
is the custom to requite presents, in the first place by kindness, and
afterwards by a suitable gift offered with a free heart. But it is no
use talking to such as you, who are ignorant of the first principles
of good breeding; so I have the honour to give you back the sword."
As Yukiyé went on bitterly to reprove Matagorô, the latter waxed very
wroth, and, being a ruffian, would have killed Yukiyé on the spot; but
he, old man as he was, was a skilful swordsman, so Matagorô,
craven-like, determined to wait until he could attack him unawares.
Little suspecting any treachery, Yukiyé started to return home, and
Matagorô, under the pretence of attending him to the door, came behind
him with his sword drawn and cut him in the shoulder. The older man,
turning round, drew and defended himself; but having received a severe
wound in the first instance, he fainted away from loss of blood, and
Matagorô slew him.
The mother of Matagorô, startled by the noise, came out; and when she
saw what had been done, she was afraid, and said--"Passionate man!
what have you done? You are a murderer; and now your life will be
forfeit. What terrible deed is this!"
"I have killed him now, and there's nothing to be done. Come, mother,
before the matter becomes known, let us fly together from this house."
"I will follow you; do you go and seek out my Lord Abé Shirogorô, a
chief among the Hatamotos,[16] who was my foster-child. You had better
fly to him for protection, and remain in hiding."
[Footnote 16: _Hatamotos._ The Hatamotos were the feudatory nobles of
the Shogun or Tycoon. The office of Taikun having been abolished, the
Hatamotos no longer exist. For further information respecting them,
see the note at the end of the story.]
So the old woman persuaded her son to make his escape, and sent him to
the palace of Shirogorô.
Now it happened that at this time the Hatamotos had formed themselves
into a league against the powerful Daimios; and Abé Shirogorô, with
two other noblemen, named Kondô Noborinosuké and Midzuno Jiurozayémon,
was at the head of the league. It followed, as a matter of course,
that his forces were frequently recruited by vicious men, who had no
means of gaining their living, and whom he received and entreated
kindly without asking any questions as to their antecedents; how much
the more then, on being applied to for an asylum by the son of his own
foster-mother, did he willingly extend his patronage to him, and
guarantee him against all danger. So he called a meeting of the
principal Hatamotos, and introduced Matagorô to them, saying--"This
man is a retainer of Ikéda Kunaishôyu, who, having cause of hatred
against a man named Watanabé Yukiyé, has slain him, and has fled to me
for protection; this man's mother suckled me when I was an infant,
and, right or wrong, I will befriend him. If, therefore, Ikéda
Kunaishôyu should send to require me to deliver him up, I trust that
you will one and all put forth your strength and help me to defend
him."
"Ay! that will we, with pleasure!" replied Kondô Noborinosuké. "We
have for some time had cause to complain of the scorn with which the
Daimios have treated us. Let Ikéda Kunaishôyu send to claim this man,
and we will show him the power of the Hatamotos."
All the other Hatamotos, with one accord, applauded this
determination, and made ready their force for an armed resistance,
should my Lord Kunaishôyu send to demand the surrender of Matugorô.
But the latter remained as a welcome guest in the house of Abé
Shirogorô.
[Illustration: MATAGORÔ KILLS YUKIYÉ.]
Now when Watanabé Kazuma saw that, as the night advanced, his father
Yukiyé did not return home, he became anxious, and went to the house
of Matagorô to seek for him, and finding to his horror that he was
murdered, fell upon the corpse and, embraced it, weeping. On a sudden,
it flashed across him that this must assuredly be the handiwork of
Matagorô; so he rushed furiously into the house, determined to kill
his father's murderer upon the spot. But Matagorô had already fled,
and he found only the mother, who was making her preparations for
following her son to the house of Abé Shirogorô: so he bound the old
woman, and searched all over the house for her son; but, seeing that
his search was fruitless, he carried off the mother, and handed her
over to one of the elders of the clan, at the same time laying
information against Matagorô as his father's murderer. When the affair
was reported to the Prince, he was very angry, and ordered that the
old woman should remain bound and be cast into prison until the
whereabouts of her son should be discovered. Then Kazuma buried his
father's corpse with great pomp, and the widow and the orphan mourned
over their loss.
It soon became known amongst the people of Abé Shirogorô that the
mother of Matagorô had been imprisoned for her son's crime, and they
immediately set about planning her rescue; so they sent to the palace
of my Lord Kunaishôyu a messenger, who, when he was introduced to the
councillor of the Prince, said--
"We have heard that, in consequence of the murder of Yukiyé, my lord
has been pleased to imprison the mother of Matagorô. Our master
Shirogorô has arrested the criminal, and will deliver him up to you.
But the mother has committed no crime, so we pray that she may be
released from a cruel imprisonment: she was the foster-mother of our
master, and he would fain intercede to save her life. Should you
consent to this, we, on our side, will give up the murderer, and hand
him over to you in front of our master's gate to-morrow."
The councillor repeated this message to the Prince, who, in his
pleasure at being able to give Kazuma his revenge on the morrow,
immediately agreed to the proposal, and the messenger returned
triumphant at the success of the scheme. On the following day, the
Prince ordered the mother of Matagorô to be placed in a litter and
carried to the Hatamoto's dwelling, in charge of a retainer named
Sasawo Danyémon, who, when he arrived at the door of Abé Shirogorô's
house, said--
"I am charged to hand over to you the mother of Matagorô, and, in
exchange, I am authorized to receive her son at your hands."
"We will immediately give him up to you; but, as the mother and son
are now about to bid an eternal farewell to one another, we beg you to
be so kind as to tarry a little."
With this the retainers of Shirogorô led the old woman inside their
master's house, and Sasawo Danyémon remained waiting outside, until at
last he grew impatient, and ventured to hurry on the people within.
"We return you many thanks," replied they, "for your kindness in
bringing us the mother; but, as the son cannot go with you at present,
you had better return home as quickly as possible. We are afraid we
have put you to much trouble." And so they mocked him.
When Danyémon saw that he had not only been cheated into giving up the
old woman, but was being made a laughing-stock of into the bargain, he
flew into a great rage, and thought to break into the house and seize
Matagorô and his mother by force; but, peeping into the courtyard, he
saw that it was filled with Hatamotos, carrying guns and naked swords.
Not caring then to die fighting a hopeless battle, and at the same
time feeling that, after having been so cheated, he would be put to
shame before his lord, Sasawo Danyémon went to the burial-place of his
ancestors, and disembowelled himself in front of their graves.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF DANYÉMON.]
When the Prince heard how his messenger had been treated, he was
indignant, and summoning his councillors resolved, although he was
suffering from sickness, to collect his retainers and attack Abé
Shirogorô; and the other chief Daimios, when the matter became
publicly known, took up the cause, and determined that the Hatamotos
must be chastised for their insolence. On their side, the Hatamotos
put forth all their efforts to resist the Daimios. So Yedo became
disturbed, and the riotous state of the city caused great anxiety to
the Government, who took counsel together how they might restore
peace. As the Hatamotos were directly under the orders of the Shogun,
it was no difficult matter to put them down: the hard question to
solve was how to put a restraint upon the great Daimios. However, one
of the Gorôjin,[17] named Matsudaira Idzu no Kami, a man of great
intelligence, hit upon a plan by which he might secure this end.
[Footnote 17: The first Council of the Shogun's ministers; literally,
"assembly of imperial elders."]
There was at this time in the service of the Shogun a physician, named
Nakarai Tsusen, who was in the habit of frequenting the palace of my
Lord Kunaishôyu, and who for some time past had been treating him for
the disease from which he was suffering. Idzu no Kami sent secretly
for this physician, and, summoning him to his private room, engaged
him in conversation, in the midst of which he suddenly dropped his
voice and said to him in a whisper--
"Listen, Tsusen. You have received great favours at the hands of the
Shogun. The Government is now sorely straitened: are you willing to
carry your loyalty so far as to lay down your life on its behalf?"
"Ay, my lord; for generations my forefathers have held their property
by the grace of the Shogun. I am willing this night to lay down my
life for my Prince, as a faithful vassal should."
"Well, then, I will tell you. The great Daimios and the Hatamotos
have fallen out about this affair of Matagorô, and lately it has
seemed as if they meant to come to blows. The country will be
agitated, and the farmers and townsfolk suffer great misery, if we
cannot quell the tumult. The Hatamotos will be easily kept under, but
it will be no light task to pacify the great Daimios. If you are
willing to lay down your life in carrying out a stratagem of mine,
peace will be restored to the country; but your loyalty will be your
death."
"I am ready to sacrifice my life in this service."
"This is my plan. You have been attending my Lord Kunaishôyu in his
sickness; to-morrow you must go to see him, and put poison in his
physic. If we can kill him, the agitation will cease. This is the
service which I ask of you."
Tsusen agreed to undertake the deed; and on the following day, when he
went to see Kunaishôyu, he carried with him poisoned drugs. Half the
draught he drank himself,[18] and thus put the Prince off his guard,
so that he swallowed the remainder fearlessly. Tsusen, seeing this,
hurried away, and as he was carried home in his litter the death-agony
seized him, and he died, vomiting blood.
[Footnote 18: A physician attending a personage of exalted rank has
always to drink half the potion he prescribes as a test of his good
faith.]
My Lord Kunaishôyu died in the same way in great torture, and in the
confusion attending upon his death and funeral ceremonies the struggle
which was impending with the Hatamotos was delayed.
In the meanwhile the Gorôjiu Idzu no Kami summoned the three leaders
of the Hatamotos and addressed them as follows--
"The secret plottings and treasonable, turbulent conduct of you three
men, so unbecoming your position as Hatamotos, have enraged my lord
the Shogun to such a degree, that he has been pleased to order that
you be imprisoned in a temple, and that your patrimony be given over
to your next heirs."
Accordingly the three Hatamotos, after having been severely
admonished, were confined in a temple called Kanyeiji; and the
remaining Hatamotos, scared by this example, dispersed in peace. As
for the great Daimios, inasmuch as after the death of my Lord
Kunaishôyu the Hatamotos were all dispersed, there was no enemy left
for them to fight with; so the tumult was quelled, and peace was
restored.
Thus it happened that Matagorô lost his patron; so, taking his mother
with him, he went and placed himself under the protection of an old
man named Sakurai Jiuzayémon. This old man was a famous teacher of
lance exercise, and enjoyed both wealth and honour; so he took in
Matagorô, and having engaged as a guard thirty Rônins, all resolute
fellows and well skilled in the arts of war, they all fled together to
a distant place called Sagara.
All this time Watanabé Kazuma had been brooding over his father's
death, and thinking how he should be revenged upon the murderer; so
when my Lord Kunaishôyu suddenly died, he went to the young Prince
who succeeded him and obtained leave of absence to go and seek out
his father's enemy. Now Kazuma's elder sister was married to a man
named Araki Matayémon, who at that time was famous as the first
swordsman in Japan. As Kazuma was but sixteen years of age, this
Matayémon, taking into consideration his near relationship as
son-in-law to the murdered man, determined to go forth with the lad,
as his guardian, and help him to seek out Matagorô; and two of
Matayémon's retainers, named Ishidomé Busuké and Ikezoyé Magohachi,
made up their minds, at all hazards, to follow their master. The
latter, when he heard their intention, thanked them, but refused the
offer, saying that as he was now about to engage in a vendetta in
which his life would be continually in jeopardy, and as it would be a
lasting grief to him should either of them receive a wound in such a
service, he must beg them to renounce their intention; but they
answered--
"Master, this is a cruel speech of yours. All these years have we
received nought but kindness and favours at your hands; and now that
you are engaged in the pursuit of this murderer, we desire to follow
you, and, if needs must, to lay down our lives in your service.
Furthermore, we have heard that the friends of this Matagorô are no
fewer than thirty-six men; so, however bravely you may fight, you will
be in peril from the superior numbers of your enemy. However, if you
are pleased to persist in your refusal to take us, we have made up our
minds that there is no resource for us but to disembowel ourselves on
the spot."
When Matayémon and Kazuma heard these words, they wondered at these
faithful and brave men, and were moved to tears. Then Matayémon said--
"The kindness of you two brave fellows is without precedent. Well,
then, I will accept your services gratefully."
Then the two men, having obtained their wish, cheerfully followed
their master; and the four set out together upon their journey to seek
out Matagorô, of whose whereabouts they were completely ignorant.
Matagorô in the meanwhile had made his way, with the old man Sakurai
Jiuzayémon and his thirty Rônins, to Osaka. But, strong as they were
in numbers, they travelled in great secrecy. The reason for this was
that the old man's younger brother, Sakurai Jinsuké, a fencing-master
by profession, had once had a fencing-match with Matayémon, Kazuma's
brother-in-law, and had been shamefully beaten; so that the party were
greatly afraid of Matayémon, and felt that, since he was taking up
Kazuma's cause and acting as his guardian, they might be worsted in
spite of their numbers: so they went on their way with great caution,
and, having reached Osaka, put up at an inn in a quarter called
Ikutama, and hid from Kazuma and Matayémon.
The latter also in good time reached Osaka, and spared no pains to
seek out Matagorô. One evening towards dusk, as Matayémon was walking
in the quarter where the enemy were staying, he saw a man, dressed as
a gentleman's servant, enter a cook-shop and order some buckwheat
porridge for thirty-six men, and looking attentively at the man, he
recognized him as the servant of Sakurai Jiuzayémon; so he hid himself
in a dark place and watched, and heard the fellow say--
"My master, Sakurai Jiuzayémon, is about to start for Sagara to-morrow
morning, to return thanks to the gods for his recovery from a sickness
from which he has been suffering; so I am in a great hurry."
With these words the servant hastened away; and Matayémon, entering
the shop, called for some porridge, and as he ate it, made some
inquiries as to the man who had just given so large an order for
buckwheat porridge. The master of the shop answered that he was the
attendant of a party of thirty-six gentlemen who were staying at such
and such an inn. Then Matayémon, having found out all that he wanted
to know, went home and told Kazuma, who was delighted at the prospect
of carrying his revenge into execution on the morrow. That same
evening Matayémon sent one of his two faithful retainers as a spy to
the inn, to find out at what hour Matagorô was to set out on the
following morning; and he ascertained from the servants of the inn,
that the party was to start at daybreak for Sagara, stopping at Isé to
worship at the shrine of Tershô Daijin.[19]
[Footnote 19: Goddess of the sun, and ancestress of the Mikados.]
Matayémon made his preparations accordingly, and, with Kazuma and his
two retainers, started before dawn. Beyond Uyéno, in the province of
Iga, the castle-town of the Daimio Tôdô Idzumi no Kami, there is a
wide and lonely moor; and this was the place upon which they fixed for
the attack upon the enemy. When they had arrived at the spot,
Matayémon went into a tea-house by the roadside, and wrote a petition
to the governor of the Daimio's castle-town for permission to carry
out the vendetta within its precincts;[20] then he addressed Kazuma,
and said--
"When we fall in with Matagorô and begin the fight, do you engage and
slay your father's murderer; attack him and him only, and I will keep
off his guard of Rônins;" then turning to his two retainers, "As for
you, keep close to Kazuma; and should the Rônins attempt to rescue
Matagorô, it will be your duty to prevent them, and succour Kazuma."
And having further laid down each man's duties with great minuteness,
they lay in wait for the arrival of the enemy. Whilst they were
resting in the tea-house, the governor of the castle-town arrived,
and, asking for Matayémou, said--
"I have the honour to be the governor of the castle-town of Tôdô
Idzumi no Kami. My lord, having learnt your intention of slaying your
enemy within the precincts of his citadel, gives his consent; and as a
proof of his admiration of your fidelity and valour, he has further
sent you a detachment of infantry, one hundred strong, to guard the
place; so that should any of the thirty-six men attempt to escape, you
may set your mind at ease, for flight will be impossible."
[Footnote 20: "In respect to revenging injury done to master or
father, it is granted by the wise and virtuous (Confucius) that you
and the injurer cannot live together under the canopy of heaven.
"A person harbouring such vengeance shall notify the same in writing
to the Criminal Court; and although no check or hindrance may be
offered to his carrying out his desire within the period allowed for
that purpose, it is forbidden that the chastisement of an enemy be
attended with riot.
"Fellows who neglect to give notice of their intended revenge are like
wolves of pretext, and their punishment or pardon should depend upon
the circumstances of the case."--_Legacy of Iyéyasu_, ut suprà.]
When Matayémon and Kazurna had expressed their thanks for his
lordship's gracious kindness, the governor took his leave and returned
home. At last the enemy's train was seen in the distance. First came
Sakurai Jiuzayémon and his younger brother Jinsuké; and next to them
followed Kawai Matagorô and Takénouchi Gentan. These four men, who
were the bravest and the foremost of the band of Rônins, were riding
on pack-horses, and the remainder were marching on foot, keeping close
together.
As they drew near, Kazuma, who was impatient to avenge his father,
stepped boldly forward and shouted in a loud voice--
"Here stand I, Kazuma, the son of Yukiyé, whom you, Matagorô,
treacherously slew, determined to avenge my father's death. Come
forth, then, and do battle with me, and let us see which of us twain
is the better man."
And before the Rônins had recovered from their astonishment, Matayémon
said--
"I, Araké Matayémon, the son-in-law of Yukiyé, have come to second
Kazuma in his deed of vengeance. Win or lose, you must give us
battle."
When the thirty-six men heard the name of Matayémon, they were greatly
afraid; but Sakurai Jiuzayémon urged them to be upon their guard, and
leaped from his horse; and Matayémon, springing forward with his drawn
sword, cleft him from the shoulder to the nipple of his breast, so
that he fell dead. Sakurai Jinsuké, seeing his brother killed before
his eyes, grew furious, and shot an arrow at Matayémon, who deftly cut
the shaft in two with his dirk as it flew; and Jinsuké, amazed at this
feat, threw away his bow and attacked Matayémon, who, with his sword
in his right hand and his dirk in his left, fought with desperation.
The other Rônins attempted to rescue Jinsuké, and, in the struggle,
Kazuma, who had engaged Matagorô, became separated from Matayémon,
whose two retainers, Busuké and Magohachi, bearing in mind their
master's orders, killed five Rônins who had attacked Kazuma, but were
themselves badly wounded. In the meantime, Matayémon, who had killed
seven of the Rônins, and who the harder he was pressed the more
bravely he fought, soon cut down three more, and the remainder dared
not approach him. At this moment there came up one Kanô Tozayémon, a
retainer of the lord of the castle-town, and an old friend of
Matayémon, who, when he heard that Matayémon was this day about to
avenge his father-in-law, had seized his spear and set out, for the
sake of the good-will between them, to help him, and act as his
second, and said--
"Sir Matayémon, hearing of the perilous adventure in which you have
engaged, I have come out to offer myself as your second."
Matayémon, hearing this, was rejoiced, and fought with renewed vigour.
Then one of the Rônins, named Takénouchi Gentan, a very brave man,
leaving his companions to do battle with Matayémon, came to the rescue
of Matagorô, who was being hotly pressed by Kazuma, and, in attempting
to prevent this, Busuké fell covered with wounds. His companion
Magohachi, seeing him fall, was in great anxiety; for should any harm
happen to Kazuma, what excuse could he make to Matayémon? So, wounded
as he was, he too engaged Takénouchi Gentan, and, being crippled by
the gashes he had received, was in deadly peril. Then the man who had
come up from the castle-town to act as Matayémon's second cried out--
"See there, Sir Matayémon, your follower who is fighting with Gentan
is in great danger. Do you go to his rescue, and second Sir Kazuma: I
will give an account of the others!"
"Great thanks to you, sir. I will go and second Kazuma."
So Matayémon went to help Kazuma, whilst his second and the infantry
soldiers kept back the surviving Rônins, who, already wearied by their
fight with Matayémon, were unfit for any further exertion. Kazuma
meanwhile was still fighting with Matagorô, and the issue of the
conflict was doubtful; and Takénouchi Gentan, in his attempt to rescue
Matagorô, was being kept at bay by Magohachi, who, weakened by his
wounds, and blinded by the blood which was streaming into his eyes
from a cut in the forehead, had given himself up for lost when
Matayémon came and cried--
"Be of good cheer, Magohachi; it is I, Matayémon, who have come to the
rescue. You are badly hurt; get out of harm's way, and rest yourself."
Then Magohachi, who until then had been kept up by his anxiety for
Kazuma's safety, gave in, and fell fainting from loss of blood; and
Matayémon worsted and slew Gentan; and even then, although be had
received two wounds, he was not exhausted, but drew near to Kazuma and
said--
"Courage, Kazuma! The Rônins are all killed, and there now remains
only Matagorô, your father's murderer. Fight and win!"
The youth, thus encouraged, redoubled his efforts; but Matagorô,
losing heart, quailed and fell. So Kazuma's vengeance was fulfilled,
and the desire of his heart was accomplished.
The two faithful retainers, who had died in their loyalty, were buried
with great ceremony, and Kazuma carried the head of Matagorô and
piously laid it upon his father's tomb.
So ends the tale of Kazuma's revenge.
I fear that stories of which killing and bloodshed form the principal
features can hardly enlist much sympathy in these peaceful days.
Still, when such tales are based upon history, they are interesting to
students of social phenomena. The story of Kazuma's revenge is mixed
up with events which at the present time are peculiarly significant: I
mean the feud between the great Daimios and the Hatamotos. Those who
have followed the modern history of Japan will see that the recent
struggle, which has ended in the ruin of the Tycoon's power and the
abolition of his office, was the outburst of a hidden fire which had
been smouldering for centuries. But the repressive might had been
gradually weakened, and contact with Western powers had rendered still
more odious a feudality which men felt to be out of date. The
revolution which has ended in the triumph of the Daimios over the
Tycoon, is also the triumph of the vassal over his feudal lord, and is
the harbinger of political life to the people at large. In the time of
Iyéyasu the burden might be hateful, but it had to be borne; and so it
would have been to this day, had not circumstances from without broken
the spell. The Japanese Daimio, in advocating the isolation of his
country, was hugging the very yoke which he hated. Strange to say,
however, there are still men who, while they embrace the new political
creed, yet praise the past, and look back with regret upon the day
when Japan stood alone, without part or share in the great family of
nations.
NOTE.--_Hatamoto_. This word means "_under the flag_." The Hatamotos
were men who, as their name implied, rallied round the standard of the
Shogun, or Tycoon, in war-time. They were eighty thousand in number.
When Iyéyasu left the Province of Mikawa and became Shogun, the
retainers whom he ennobled, and who received from him grants of land
yielding revenue to the amount of ten thousand kokus of rice a year,
and from that down to one hundred kokus, were called _Hatamoto_. In
return for these grants of land, the Hatamotos had in war-time to
furnish a contingent of soldiers in proportion to their revenue. For
every thousand kokus of rice five men were required. Those Hatamotos
whose revenue fell short of a thousand kokus substituted a quota of
money. In time of peace most of the minor offices of the Tycoon's
government were filled by Hatamotos, the more important places being
held by the Fudai, or vassal Daimios of the Shogun. Seven years ago,
in imitation of the customs of foreign nations, a standing army was
founded; and then the Hatamotos had to contribute their quota of men
or of money, whether the country were at peace or at war. When the
Shogun was reduced in 1868 to the rank of a simple Daimio, his revenue
of eight million kokus reverted to the Government, with the exception
of seven hundred thousand kokus. The title of Hatamoto exists no more,
and those who until a few months ago held the rank are for the most
part ruined or dispersed. From having been perhaps the proudest and
most overbearing class in Japan, they are driven to the utmost straits
of poverty. Some have gone into trade, with the heirlooms of their
families as their stock; others are wandering through the country as
Rônins; while a small minority have been allowed to follow the fallen
fortunes of their master's family, the present chief of which is known
as the Prince of Tokugawa. Thus are the eighty thousand dispersed.
The koku of rice, in which all revenue is calculated, is of varying
value. At the cheapest it is worth rather more than a pound sterling,
and sometimes almost three times as much. The salaries of officials
being paid in rice, it follows that there is a large and influential
class throughout the country who are interested in keeping up the
price of the staple article of food. Hence the opposition with which a
free trade in rice has met, even in famine times. Hence also the
frequent so-called "Rice Riots."
The amounts at which the lands formerly held by the chief Daimios, but
now patriotically given up by them to the Mikado, were assessed, sound
fabulous. The Prince of Kaga alone had an income of more than one
million two hundred thousand kokus. Yet these great proprietors were,
latterly at least, embarrassed men. They had many thousand mouths to
feed, and were mulcted of their dues right and left; while their mania
for buying foreign ships and munitions of war, often at exorbitant
prices, had plunged them heavily in debt.
A STORY OF THE OTOKODATÉ OF YEDO;
BEING THE SUPPLEMENT OF
THE STORY OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI
The word Otokodaté occurs several times in these Tales; and as I
cannot convey its full meaning by a simple translation, I must
preserve it in the text, explaining it by the following note, taken
from the Japanese of a native scholar.
The Otokodaté were friendly associations of brave men bound together
by an obligation to stand by one another in weal or in woe, regardless
of their own lives, and without inquiring into one another's
antecedents. A bad man, however, having joined the Otokodaté must
forsake his evil ways; for their principle was to treat the oppressor
as an enemy, and to help the feeble as a father does his child. If
they had money, they gave it to those that had none, and their
charitable deeds won for them the respect of all men. The head of the
society was called its "Father"; if any of the others, who were his
apprentices, were homeless, they lived with the Father and served him,
paying him at the same time a small fee, in consideration of which, if
they fell sick or into misfortune, he took charge of them and assisted
them.
The Father of the Otokodaté pursued the calling of farming out coolies
to the Daimios and great personages for their journeys to and from
Yedo, and in return for this received from them rations in rice. He
had more influence with the lower classes even than the officials; and
if the coolies had struck work or refused to accompany a Daimio on his
journey, a word from the Father would produce as many men as might be
required. When Prince Tokugawa Iyémochi, the last but one of the
Shoguns, left Yedo for Kiôto, one Shimmon Tatsugorô, chief of the
Otokodaté, undertook the management of his journey, and some three or
four years ago was raised to the dignity of Hatamoto for many faithful
services. After the battle of Fushimi, and the abolition of the
Shogunate, he accompanied the last of the Shoguns in his retirement.
In old days there were also Otokodaté among the Hatamotos; this was
after the civil wars of the time of Iyéyasu, when, though the country
was at peace, the minds of men were still in a state of high
excitement, and could not be reconciled to the dulness of a state of
rest; it followed that broils and faction fights were continually
taking place among the young men of the Samurai class, and that those
who distinguished themselves by their personal strength and valour
were looked up to as captains. Leagues after the manner of those
existing among the German students were formed in different quarters
of the city, under various names, and used to fight for the honour of
victory. When the country became more thoroughly tranquil, the custom
of forming these leagues amongst gentlemen fell into disuse.
The past tense is used in speaking even of the Otokodaté of the lower
classes; for although they nominally exist, they have no longer the
power and importance which they enjoyed at the time to which these
stories belong. They then, like the 'prentices of Old London, played a
considerable part in the society of the great cities, and that man was
lucky, were he gentle Samurai or simple wardsman, who could claim the
Father of the Otokodaté for his friend.
The word, taken by itself, means a manly or plucky fellow.
* * * * *
Chôbei of Bandzuin was the chief of the Otokodaté of Yedo. He was
originally called Itarô, and was the son of a certain Rônin who lived
in the country. One day, when he was only ten years of age, he went
out with a playfellow to bathe in the river; and as the two were
playing they quarrelled over their game, and Itarô, seizing the other
boy, threw him into the river and drowned him.
Then he went home, and said to his father--
"I went to play by the river to-day, with a friend; and as he was rude
to me, I threw him into the water and killed him."
When his father heard him speak thus, quite calmly, as if nothing had
happened, he was thunderstruck, and said--
"This is indeed a fearful thing. Child as you are, you will have to
pay the penalty of your deed; so to-night you must fly to Yedo in
secret, and take service with some noble Samurai, and perhaps in time
you may become a soldier yourself."
With these words he gave him twenty ounces of silver and a fine sword,
made by the famous swordsmith Rai Kunitoshi, and sent him out of the
province with all dispatch. The following morning the parents of the
murdered child came to claim that Itarô should be given up to their
vengeance; but it was too late, and all they could do was to bury
their child and mourn for his loss.
Itarô made his way to Yedo in hot haste, and there found employment as
a shop-boy; but soon tiring of that sort of life, and burning to
become a soldier, he found means at last to enter the service of a
certain Hatamoto called Sakurai Shôzayémon, and changed his name to
Tsunéhei. Now this Sakurai Shôzayémon had a son, called Shônosuké, a
young man in his seventeenth year, who grew so fond of Tsunéhei that
he took him with him wherever he went, and treated him in all ways as
an equal.
When Shônosuké went to the fencing-school Tsunéhei would accompany
him, and thus, as he was by nature strong and active, soon became a
good swordsman.
One day, when Shôzayémon had gone out, his son Shônosuké said to
Tsunéhei--
"You know how fond my father is of playing at football: it must be
great sport. As he has gone out to-day, suppose you and I have a
game?"
"That will be rare sport," answered Tsunéhei. "Let us make haste and
play, before my lord comes home."
So the two boys went out into the garden, and began trying to kick the
football; but, lacking skill, do what they would, they could not lift
it from the ground. At last Shônosuké, with a vigorous kick, raised
the football; but, having missed his aim, it went tumbling over the
wall into the next garden, which belonged to one Hikosaka Zempachi, a
teacher of lance exercise, who was known to be a surly, ill-tempered
fellow.
"Oh, dear! what shall we do?" said Shônosuké. "We have lost my
father's football in his absence; and if we go and ask for it back
from that churlish neighbour of ours, we shall only be scolded and
sworn at for our pains."
"Oh, never mind," answered Tsunéhei; "I will go and apologize for our
carelessness, and get the football back."
"Well, but then you will be chidden, and I don't want that."
"Never mind me. Little care I for his cross words." So Tsunéhei went
to the next-door house to reclaim the ball.
Now it so happened that Zempachi, the surly neighbour, had been
walking in his garden whilst the two youths were playing; and as he
was admiring the beauty of his favourite chrysanthemums, the football
came flying over the wall and struck him full in the face. Zempachi,
not used to anything but flattery and coaxing, flew into a violent
rage at this; and while he was thinking how he would revenge himself
upon any one who might be sent to ask for the lost ball, Tsunéhei came
in, and said to one of Zempachi's servants--
"I am sorry to say that in my lord's absence I took his football, and,
in trying to play with it, clumsily kicked it over your wall. I beg
you to excuse my carelessness, and to be so good as to give me back
the ball."
The servant went in and repeated this to Zempachi, who worked himself
up into a great rage, and ordered Tsunéhei to be brought before him,
and said--
"Here, fellow, is your name Tsunéhei?"
"Yes, sir, at your service. I am almost afraid to ask pardon for my
carelessness; but please forgive me, and let me have the ball."
"I thought your master, Shôzayémon, was to blame for this; but it
seems that it was you who kicked the football."
"Yes, sir. I am sure I am very sorry for what I have done. Please, may
I ask for the ball?" said Tsunéhei, bowing humbly.
For a while Zempachi made no answer, but at length he said--
"Do you know, villain, that your dirty football struck me in the
face? I ought, by rights, to kill you on the spot for this; but I will
spare your life this time, so take your football and be off." And with
that he went up to Tsunéhei and beat him, and kicked him in the head,
and spat in his face.
Then Tsunéhei, who up to that time had demeaned himself very humbly,
in his eagerness to get back the football, jumped up in a fury, and
said--
"I made ample apologies to you for my carelessness, and now you have
insulted and struck me. Ill-mannered ruffian! take back the
ball,--I'll none of it;" and he drew his dirk, and cutting the
football in two, threw it at Zempachi, and returned home.
But Zempachi, growing more and more angry, called one of his servants,
and said to him--
"That fellow, Tsunéhei, has been most insolent: go next door and find
out Shôzayémon, and tell him that I have ordered you to bring back
Tsunéhei, that I may kill him."
So the servant went to deliver the message.
In the meantime Tsunéhei went back to his master's house; and when
Shônosuké saw him, he said--
"Well, of course you have been ill treated; but did you get back the
football?"
"When I went in, I made many apologies; but I was beaten, and kicked
in the head, and treated with the greatest indignity. I would have
killed that wretch, Zempachi, at once, but that I knew that, if I did
so while I was yet a member of your household, I should bring trouble
upon your family. For your sake I bore this ill-treatment patiently;
but now I pray you let me take leave of you and become a Rônin, that I
may be revenged upon this man."
"Think well what you are doing," answered Shônosuké. "After all, we
have only lost a football; and my father will not care, nor upbraid
us."
But Tsiméhei would not listen to him, and was bent upon wiping out the
affront that he had received. As they were talking, the messenger
arrived from Zempachi, demanding the surrender of Tsunéhei, on the
ground that he had insulted him: to this Shônosuké replied that his
father was away from home, and that in his absence he could do
nothing.
At last Shôzayémon came home; and when he heard what had happened he
was much grieved, and at a loss what to do, when a second messenger
arrived from Zempachi, demanding that Tsunéhei should be given up
without delay. Then Shôzayémon, seeing that the matter was serious,
called the youth to him, and said--
"This Zempachi is heartless and cruel, and if you go to his house will
assuredly kill you; take, therefore, these fifty riyos, and fly to
Osaka or Kiôto, where you may safely set up in business."
"Sir," answered Tsunéhei, with tears of gratitude for his lord's
kindness, "from my heart I thank you for your great goodness; but I
have been insulted and trampled upon, and, if I lay down my life in
the attempt, I will repay Zempachi for what he has this day done."
"Well, then, since you needs must be revenged, go and fight, and may
success attend you! Still, as much depends upon the blade you carry,
and I fear yours is likely to be but a sorry weapon, I will give you a
sword;" and with this he offered Tsunéhei his own.
"Nay, my lord," replied Tsunéhei; "I have a famous sword, by Rai
Kunitoshi, which my father gave me. I have never shown it to your
lordship, but I have it safely stowed away in my room."
When Shôzayémon saw and examined the sword, he admired it greatly, and
said, "This is indeed a beautiful blade, and one on which you may
rely. Take it, then, and bear yourself nobly in the fight; only
remember that Zempachi is a cunning spearsman, and be sure to be very
cautious."
So Tsunéhei, after thanking his lord for his manifold kindnesses, took
an affectionate leave, and went to Zempachi's house, and said to the
servant--
"It seems that your master wants to speak to me. Be so good as to take
me to see him."
So the servant led him into the garden, where Zempachi, spear in hand,
was waiting to kill him. When Zempachi saw him, he cried out--
"Ha! so you have come back; and now for your insolence, this day I
mean to kill you with my own hand."
"Insolent yourself!" replied Tsunéhei. "Beast, and no Samurai! Come,
let us see which of us is the better man."
Furiously incensed, Zempachi thrust with his spear at Tsunéhei; but
he, trusting to his good sword, attacked Zempachi, who, cunning
warrior as he was, could gain no advantage. At last Zempachi, losing
his temper, began fighting less carefully, so that Tsunéhei found an
opportunity of cutting the shaft of his spear. Zempachi then drew his
sword, and two of his retainers came up to assist him; but Tsunéhei
killed one of them, and wounded Zempachi in the forehead. The second
retainer fled affrighted at the youth's valour, and Zempachi was
blinded by the blood which flowed from the wound on his forehead. Then
Tsunéhei said--
"To kill one who is as a blind man were unworthy a soldier. Wipe the
blood from your eyes, Sir Zempachi, and let us fight it out fairly."
So Zempachi, wiping away his blood, bound a kerchief round his head,
and fought again desperately. But at last the pain of his wound and
the loss of blood overcame him, and Tsunéhei cut him down with a wound
in the shoulder and easily dispatched him.
Then Tsunéhei went and reported the whole matter to the Governor of
Yedo, and was put in prison until an inquiry could be made. But the
Chief Priest of Bandzuin, who had heard of the affair, went and told
the governor all the bad deeds of Zempachi, and having procured
Tsunéhei's pardon, took him home and employed him as porter in the
temple. So Tsunéhei changed his name to Chôbei, and earned much
respect in the neighbourhood, both for his talents and for his many
good works. If any man were in distress, he would help him, heedless
of his own advantage or danger, until men came to look up to him as to
a father, and many youths joined him and became his apprentices. So he
built a house at Hanakawado, in Asakusa, and lived there with his
apprentices, whom he farmed out as spearsmen and footmen to the
Daimios and Hatamotos, taking for himself the tithe of their earnings.
But if any of them were sick or in trouble, Chôbei would nurse and
support them, and provide physicians and medicine. And the fame of his
goodness went abroad until his apprentices were more than two thousand
men, and were employed in every part of the city. But as for Chôbei,
the more he prospered, the more he gave in charity, and all men
praised his good and generous heart.
This was the time when the Hatamotos had formed themselves into bands
of Otokodaté,[21] of which Midzuno Jiurozayémon, Kondô Noborinosuké,
and Abé Shirogorô were the chiefs. And the leagues of the nobles
despised the leagues of the wardsmen, and treated them with scorn, and
tried to put to shame Chôbei and his brave men; but the nobles'
weapons recoiled upon themselves, and, whenever they tried to bring
contempt upon Chôbei, they themselves were brought to ridicule. So
there was great hatred on both sides.
[Footnote 21: See the story of Kazuma's Revenge.]
One day, that Chôbei went to divert himself in a tea-house in the
Yoshiwara, he saw a felt carpet spread in an upper room, which had
been adorned as for some special occasion; and he asked the master of
the house what guest of distinction was expected. The landlord replied
that my Lord Jiurozayémon, the chief of the Otokodaté of the
Hatamotos, was due there that afternoon. On hearing this, Chôbei
replied that as he much wished to meet my Lord Jiurozayémon, he would
lie down and await his coming. The landlord was put out at this, and
knew not what to say; but yet he dare not thwart Chôbei, the powerful
chief of the Otokodaté. So Chôbei took off his clothes and laid
himself down upon the carpet. After a while my Lord Jiurozayémon
arrived, and going upstairs found a man of large stature lying naked
upon the carpet which had been spread for him.
"What low ruffian is this?" shouted he angrily to the landlord.
"My lord, it is Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté," answered the man,
trembling.
Jiurozayémon at once suspected that Chôbei was doing this to insult
him; so he sat down by the side of the sleeping man, and lighting his
pipe began to smoke. When he had finished his pipe, he emptied the
burning ashes into Chôbei's navel; but Chôbei, patiently bearing the
pain, still feigned sleep. Ten times did Jiurozayémon fill his
pipe,[22] and ten times he shook out the burning ashes on to Chôbei's
navel; but he neither stirred nor spoke. Then Jiurozayémon, astonished
at his fortitude, shook him, and roused him, saying--
"Chôbei! Chôbei! wake up, man."
"What is the matter?" said Chôbei, rubbing his eyes as though he were
awaking from a deep sleep; then seeing Jiurozayémon, he pretended to
be startled, and said, "Oh, my lord, I know not who you are; but I
have been very rude to your lordship. I was overcome with wine, and
fell asleep: I pray your lordship to forgive me."
"Is your name Chôbei?"
"Yes, my lord, at your service. A poor wardsman, and ignorant of good
manners, I have been very rude; but I pray your lordship to excuse my
ill-breeding."
"Nay, nay; we have all heard the fame of Chôbei, of Bandzuin, and I
hold myself lucky to have met you this day. Let us be friends."
"It is a great honour for a humble wardsman to meet a nobleman face to
face."
[Footnote 22: The tiny Japanese pipe contains but two or three whiffs;
and as the tobacco is rolled up tightly in the fingers before it is
inserted, the ash, when shaken out, is a little fire-ball from which a
second pipe is lighted.]
As they were speaking, the waitresses brought in fish and wine, and
Jiurozayémon pressed Chôbei to feast with him; and thinking to annoy
Chôbei, offered him a large wine-cup,[23] which, however, he drank
without shrinking, and then returned to his entertainer, who was by no
means so well able to bear the fumes of the wine. Then Jiurozayémon
hit upon another device for annoying Chôbei, and, hoping to frighten
him, said--
"Here, Chôbei, let me offer you some fish;" and with those words he
drew his sword, and, picking up a cake of baked fish upon the point of
it, thrust it towards the wardsman's mouth. Any ordinary man would
have been afraid to accept the morsel so roughly offered; but Chôbei
simply opened his mouth, and taking the cake off the sword's point ate
it without wincing. Whilst Jiurozayémon was wondering in his heart
what manner of man this was, that nothing could daunt, Chôbei said to
him--
"This meeting with your lordship has been an auspicious occasion to
me, and I would fain ask leave to offer some humble gift to your
lordship in memory of it.[24] Is there anything which your lordship
would specially fancy?"
"I am very fond of cold macaroni."
[Footnote 23: It is an act of rudeness to offer a large wine-cup. As,
however, the same cup is returned to the person who has offered it,
the ill carries with it its own remedy. At a Japanese feast the same
cup is passed from hand to hand, each person rinsing it in a bowl of
water after using it, and before offering it to another.]
[Footnote 24: The giving of presents from inferiors to superiors is a
common custom.]
"Then I shall have the honour of ordering some for your lordship;" and
with this Chôbei went downstairs, and calling one of his apprentices,
named Tôken Gombei,[25] who was waiting for him, gave him a hundred
riyos (about £28), and bade him collect all the cold macaroni to be
found in the neighbouring cook-shops and pile it up in front of the
tea-house. So Gombei went home, and, collecting Chôbei's apprentices,
sent them out in all directions to buy the macaroni. Jiurozayémon all
this while was thinking of the pleasure he would have in laughing at
Chôbei for offering him a mean and paltry present; but when, by
degrees, the macaroni began to be piled mountain-high around the
tea-house, he saw that he could not make a fool of Chôbei, and went
home discomfited.
[Footnote 25: _Tôken_, a nickname given to Gombei, after a savage dog
that he killed. As a Chônin, or wardsman, he had no surname.]
It has already been told how Shirai Gompachi was befriended and helped
by Chôbei.[26] His name will occur again in this story.
[Footnote 26: See the story of Gompachi and Komurasaki.]
At this time there lived in the province of Yamato a certain Daimio,
called Honda Dainaiki, who one day, when surrounded by several of his
retainers, produced a sword, and bade them look at it and say from
what smith's workshop the blade had come.
"I think this must be a Masamuné blade," said one Fuwa Banzayémon.
"No," said Nagoya Sanza, after examining the weapon attentively, "this
certainly is a Muramasa."[27]
[Footnote 27: The swords of Muramasa, although so finely tempered that
they are said to cut hard iron as though it were a melon, have the
reputation of being unlucky: they are supposed by the superstitious to
hunger after taking men's lives, and to be unable to repose in their
scabbards. The principal duty of a sword is to preserve tranquillity
in the world, by punishing the wicked and protecting the good. But the
bloodthirsty swords of Muramasa rather have the effect of maddening
their owners, so that they either kill others indiscriminately or
commit suicide. At the end of the sixteenth century Prince Tokugawa
Iyéyasu was in the habit of carrying a spear made by Muramasa, with
which he often scratched or cut himself by mistake. Hence the Tokugawa
family avoid girding on Muramasa blades, which are supposed to be
specially unlucky to their race. The murders of Gompachi, who wore a
sword by this maker, also contributed to give his weapons a bad name.
The swords of one Tôshirô Yoshimitsu, on the other hand, are specially
auspicious to the Tokugawa family, for the following reason. After
Iyéyasu had been defeated by Takéta Katsuyori, at the battle of the
river Tenrin, he took refuge in the house of a village doctor,
intending to put an end to his existence by _hara-kiri,_ and drawing
his dirk, which was made by Yoshimitsu, tried to plunge it into his
belly, when, to his surprise, the blade turned. Thinking that the dirk
must be a bad one, he took up an iron mortar for grinding medicines
and tried it upon that, and the point entered and transfixed the
mortar. He was about to stab himself a second time, when his
followers, who had missed him, and had been searching for him
everywhere, came up, and seeing their master about to kill himself,
stayed his hand, and took away the dirk by force. Then they set him
upon his horse and compelled him to fly to his own province of Mikawa,
whilst they kept his pursuers at bay. After this, when, by the favour
of Heaven, Iyéyasu became Shogun, it was considered that of a surety
there must have been a good spirit in the blade that refused to drink
his blood; and ever since that time the blades of Yoshimitsu have been
considered lucky in his family.]
A third Samurai, named Takagi Umanojô, pronounced it to be the work
of Shidzu Kanenji; and as they could not agree, but each maintained
his opinion, their lord sent for a famous connoisseur to decide the
point; and the sword proved, as Sanza had said, to be a genuine
Muramasa. Sanza was delighted at the verdict; but the other two went
home rather crestfallen. Umanojô, although he had been worsted in the
argument, bore no malice nor ill-will in his heart; but Banzayémon,
who was a vainglorious personage, puffed up with the idea of his own
importance, conceived a spite against Sanza, and watched for an
opportunity to put him to shame. At last, one day Banzayémon, eager to
be revenged upon Sanza, went to the Prince, and said, "Your lordship
ought to see Sanza fence; his swordsmanship is beyond all praise. I
know that I am no match for him; still, if it will please your
lordship, I will try a bout with him;" and the Prince, who was a mere
stripling, and thought it would be rare sport, immediately sent for
Sanza and desired he would fence with Banzayémon. So the two went out
into the garden, and stood up facing each other, armed with wooden
swords. Now Banzayémon was proud of his skill, and thought he had no
equal in fencing; so he expected to gain an easy victory over Sanza,
and promised himself the luxury of giving his adversary a beating that
should fully make up for the mortification which he had felt in the
matter of the dispute about the sword. It happened, however, that he
had undervalued the skill of Sanza, who, when he saw that his
adversary was attacking him savagely and in good earnest, by a rapid
blow struck Banzayémon so sharply on the wrist that he dropped the
sword, and, before he could pick it up again, delivered a second cut
on the shoulder, which sent him rolling over in the dust. All the
officers present, seeing this, praised Sanza's skill, and Banzayémon,
utterly stricken with shame, ran away home and hid himself.
After this affair Sanza rose high in the favour of his lord; and
Banzayémon, who was more than ever jealous of him, feigned sickness,
and stayed at home devising schemes for Sanza's ruin.
Now it happened that the Prince, wishing to have the Muramasa blade
mounted, sent for Sanza and entrusted it to his care, ordering him to
employ the most cunning workmen in the manufacture of the
scabbard-hilt and ornaments; and Sanza, having received the blade,
took it home, and put it carefully away. When Banzayémon heard of
this, he was overjoyed; for he saw that his opportunity for revenge
had come. He determined, if possible, to kill Sanza, but at any rate
to steal the sword which had been committed to his care by the Prince,
knowing full well that if Sanza lost the sword he and his family would
be ruined. Being a single man, without wife or child, he sold his
furniture, and, turning all his available property into money, made
ready to fly the country. When his preparations were concluded, he
went in the middle of the night to Sanza's house and tried to get in
by stealth; but the doors and shutters were all carefully bolted from
the inside, and there was no hole by which he could effect an
entrance. All was still, however, and the people of the house were
evidently fast asleep; so he climbed up to the second storey, and,
having contrived to unfasten a window, made his way in. With soft,
cat-like footsteps he crept downstairs, and, looking into one of the
rooms, saw Sanza and his wife sleeping on the mats, with their little
son Kosanza, a boy of thirteen, curled up in his quilt between them.
The light in the night-lamp was at its last flicker, but, peering
through the gloom, he could just see the Prince's famous Muramasa
sword lying on a sword-rack in the raised part of the room: so he
crawled stealthily along until he could reach it, and stuck it in his
girdle. Then, drawing near to Sanza, he bestrode his sleeping body,
and, brandishing the sword made a thrust at his throat; but in his
excitement his hand shook, so that he missed his aim, and only
scratched Sanza, who, waking with a start and trying to jump up, felt
himself held down by a man standing over him. Stretching out his
hands, he would have wrestled with his enemy; when Banzayémon, leaping
back, kicked over the night-lamp, and throwing open the shutters,
dashed into the garden. Snatching up his sword, Sanza rushed out after
him; and his wife, having lit a lantern and armed herself with a
halberd,[28] went out, with her son Kosanza, who carried a drawn dirk,
to help her husband. Then Banzayémon, who was hiding in the shadow of
a large pine-tree, seeing the lantern and dreading detection, seized a
stone and hurled it at the light, and, chancing to strike it, put it
out, and then scrambling over the fence unseen, fled into the
darkness. When Sanza had searched all over the garden in vain, he
returned to his room and examined his wound, which proving very
slight, he began to look about to see whether the thief had carried
off anything; but when his eye fell upon the place where the Muramasa
sword had lain, he saw that it was gone. He hunted everywhere, but it
was not to be found. The precious blade with which his Prince had
entrusted him had been stolen, and the blame would fall heavily upon
him. Filled with grief and shame at the loss, Sanza and his wife and
child remained in great anxiety until the morning broke, when he
reported the matter to one of the Prince's councillors, and waited in
seclusion until he should receive his lord's commands.
[Footnote 28: The halberd is the special arm of the Japanese woman of
gentle blood. That which was used by Kasa Gozen, one of the ladies of
Yoshitsuné, the hero of the twelfth century, is still preserved at
Asakusa. In old-fashioned families young ladies are regularly
instructed in fencing with the halberds.]
It soon became known that Banzayémon, who had fled the province, was
the thief; and the councillors made their report accordingly to the
Prince, who, although he expressed his detestation of the mean action
of Banzayémon, could not absolve Sanza from blame, in that he had not
taken better precautions to insure the safety of the sword that had
been committed to his trust. It was decided, therefore, that Sanza
should be dismissed from his service, and that his goods should be
confiscated; with the proviso that should he be able to find
Banzayémon, and recover the lost Muramasa blade, he should be restored
to his former position. Sanza, who from the first had made up his mind
that his punishment would be severe, accepted the decree without a
murmur; and, having committed his wife and son to the care of his
relations, prepared to leave the country as a Rônin and search for
Banzayémon.
Before starting, however, he thought that he would go to his
brother-officer, Takagi Umanojô, and consult with him as to what
course he should pursue to gain his end. But this Umanojô, who was by
nature a churlish fellow, answered him unkindly, and said--
"It is true that Banzayémon is a mean thief; but still it was through
your carelessness that the sword was lost. It is of no avail your
coming to me for help: you must get it back as best you may."
"Ah!" replied Sanza, "I see that you too bear me a grudge because I
defeated you in the matter of the judgment of the sword. You are no
better than Banzayémon yourself."
And his heart was bitter against his fellow men, and he left the house
determined to kill Umanojô first and afterwards to track out
Banzayémon; so, pretending to start on his journey, he hid in an inn,
and waited for an opportunity to attack Umanojô.
One day Umanojô, who was very fond of fishing, had taken his son
Umanosuké, a lad of sixteen, down to the sea-shore with him; and as
the two were enjoying themselves, all of a sudden they perceived a
Samurai running towards them, and when he drew near they saw that it
was Sanza. Umanojô, thinking that Sanza had come back in order to talk
over some important matter, left his angling and went to meet him.
Then Sanza cried out--
"Now, Sir Umanojô, draw and defend yourself. What! were you in league
with Banzayémon to vent your spite upon me? Draw, sir, draw! You have
spirited away your accomplice; but, at any rate, you are here
yourself, and shall answer for your deed. It is no use playing the
innocent; your astonished face shall not save you. Defend yourself,
coward and traitor!" and with these words Sanza flourished his naked
sword.
"Nay, Sir Sanza," replied the other, anxious by a soft answer to turn
away his wrath; "I am innocent of this deed. Waste not your valour on
so poor a cause."
"Lying knave!" said Sanza; "think not that you can impose upon me. I
know your treacherous heart;" and, rushing upon Umanojô, he cut him on
the forehead so that he fell in agony upon the sand.
Umanosuké in the meanwhile, who had been fishing at some distance from
his father, rushed up when he saw him in this perilous situation and
threw a stone at Sanza, hoping to distract his attention; but, before
he could reach the spot, Sanza had delivered the death-blow, and
Umanojô lay a corpse upon the beach.
"Stop, Sir Sanza--murderer of my father!" cried Umanosuké, drawing
his sword, "stop and do battle with me, that I may avenge his death."
"That you should wish to slay your father's enemy," replied Sanza, "is
but right and proper; and although I had just cause of quarrel with
your father, and killed him, as a Samurai should, yet would I gladly
forfeit my life to you here; but my life is precious to me for one
purpose--that I may punish Banzayémon and get back the stolen sword.
When I shall have restored that sword to my lord, then will I give you
your revenge, and you may kill me. A soldier's word is truth; but, as
a pledge that I will fulfil my promise, I will give to you, as
hostages, my wife and boy. Stay your avenging hand, I pray you, until
my desire shall have been attained."
Umanosuké, who was a brave and honest youth, as famous in the clan for
the goodness of his heart as for his skill in the use of arms, when he
heard Sanza's humble petition, relented, and said--
"I agree to wait, and will take your wife and boy as hostages for your
return."
"I humbly thank you," said Sanza. "When I shall have chastised
Banzayémon, I will return, and you shall claim your revenge."
So Sanza went his way to Yedo to seek for Banzayémon, and Umanosuké
mourned over his father's grave.
Now Banzayémon, when he arrived in Yedo, found himself friendless and
without the means of earning his living, when by accident he heard of
the fame of Chôbei of Bandzuin, the chief of the Otokodaté, to whom he
applied for assistance; and having entered the fraternity, supported
himself by giving fencing-lessons. He had been plying his trade for
some time, and had earned some little reputation, when Sanza reached
the city and began his search for him. But the days and months passed
away, and, after a year's fruitless seeking, Sanza, who had spent all
his money without obtaining a clue to the whereabouts of his enemy,
was sorely perplexed, and was driven to live by his wits as a
fortune-teller. Work as he would, it was a hard matter for him to gain
the price of his daily food, and, in spite of all his pains, his
revenge seemed as far off as ever, when he bethought him that the
Yoshiwara was one of the most bustling places in the city, and that if
he kept watch there, sooner or later he would be sure to fall in with
Banzayémon. So be bought a hat of plaited bamboo, that completely
covered his face, and lay in wait at the Yoshiwara.
One day Banzayémon and two of Chôbei's apprentices Tôken Gombei and
Shirobei, who, from his wild and indocile nature, was surnamed "the
Colt," were amusing themselves and drinking in an upper storey of a
tea-house in the Yoshiwara, when Tôken Gombei, happening to look down
upon the street below, saw a Samurai pass by, poorly clad in worn-out
old clothes, but whose poverty-stricken appearance contrasted with
his proud and haughty bearing.
"Look there!" said Gombei, calling the attention of the others; "look
at that Samurai. Dirty and ragged as his coat is, how easy it is to
see that he is of noble birth! Let us wardsmen dress ourselves up in
never so fine clothes, we could not look as he does."
"Ay," said Shirobei, "I wish we could make friends with him, and ask
him up here to drink a cup of wine with us. However, it would not be
seemly for us wardsmen to go and invite a person of his condition."
"We can easily get over that difficulty," said Banzayémon. "As I am a
Samurai myself, there will be no impropriety in my going and saying a
few civil words to him, and bringing him in."
The other two having joyfully accepted the offer, Banzayémon ran
downstairs, and went up to the strange Samurai and saluted him,
saying--
"I pray you to wait a moment, Sir Samurai. My name is Fuwa Banzayémon
at your service. I am a Rônin, as I judge from your appearance that
you are yourself. I hope you will not think me rude if I venture to
ask you to honour me with your friendship, and to come into this
tea-house to drink a cup of wine with me and two of my friends."
The strange Samurai, who was no other than Sanza, looking at the
speaker through the interstices of his deep bamboo hat, and
recognizing his enemy Banzayémon, gave a start of surprise, and,
uncovering his head, said sternly--
"Have you forgotten my face, Banzayémon?"
For a moment Banzayémon was taken aback, but quickly recovering
himself, he replied, "Ah! Sir Sanza, you may well be angry with me;
but since I stole the Muramasa sword and fled to Yedo I have known no
peace: I have been haunted by remorse for my crime. I shall not resist
your vengeance: do with me as it shall seem best to you; or rather
take my life, and let there be an end of this quarrel."
"Nay," answered Sanza, "to kill a man who repents him of his sins is a
base and ignoble action. When you stole from me the Muramasa blade
which had been confided to my care by my lord, I became a disgraced
and ruined man. Give me back that sword, that I may lay it before my
lord, and I will spare your life. I seek to slay no man needlessly."
"Sir Sanza, I thank you for your mercy. At this moment I have not the
sword by me, but if you will go into yonder tea-house and wait awhile,
I will fetch it and deliver it into your hands."
Sanza having consented to this, the two men entered the tea-house,
where Banzayémon's two companions were waiting for them. But
Banzayémon, ashamed of his own evil deed, still pretended that Sanza
was a stranger, and introduced him as such, saying--
"Come Sir Samurai, since we have the honour of your company, let me
offer you a wine-cup."
Banzayémon and the two men pressed the wine-cup upon Sanza so often
that the fumes gradually got into his head and he fell asleep; the two
wardsmen, seeing this, went out for a walk, and Banzayémon, left alone
with the sleeping man, began to revolve fresh plots against him in his
mind. On a sudden, a thought struck him. Noiselessly seizing Sanza's
sword, which he had laid aside on entering the room, he stole softly
downstairs with it, and, carrying it into the back yard, pounded and
blunted its edge with a stone, and having made it useless as a weapon,
he replaced it in its scabbard, and running upstairs again laid it in
its place without disturbing Sanza, who, little suspecting treachery,
lay sleeping off the effects of the wine. At last, however, he awoke,
and, ashamed at having been overcome by drink, he said to Banzayémon--
"Come, Banzayémon, we have dallied too long; give me the Muramasa
sword, and let me go."
"Of course," replied the other, sneeringly, "I am longing to give it
back to you; but unfortunately, in my poverty, I have been obliged to
pawn it for fifty ounces of silver. If you have so much money about
you, give it to me and I will return the sword to you."
"Wretch!" cried Sanza, seeing that Banzayémon was trying to fool him,
"have I not had enough of your vile tricks? At any rate, if I cannot
get back the sword, your head shall be laid before my lord in its
place. Come," added he, stamping his foot impatiently, "defend
yourself."
"With all my heart. But not here in this tea-house. Let us go to the
Mound, and fight it out."
"Agreed! There is no need for us to bring trouble on the landlord.
Come to the Mound of the Yoshiwara."
So they went to the Mound, and drawing their swords, began to fight
furiously. As the news soon spread abroad through the Yoshiwara that a
duel was being fought upon the Mound, the people flocked out to see
the sight; and among them came Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, Banzayémon's
companions, who, when they saw that the combatants were their own
friend and the strange Samurai, tried to interfere and stop the fight,
but, being hindered by the thickness of the crowd, remained as
spectators. The two men fought desperately, each driven by fierce rage
against the other; but Sanza, who was by far the better fencer of the
two, once, twice, and again dealt blows which should have cut
Banzayémon down, and yet no blood came forth. Sanza, astonished at
this, put forth all his strength, and fought so skilfully, that all
the bystanders applauded him, and Banzayémon, though he knew his
adversary's sword to be blunted, was so terrified that he stumbled and
fell. Sanza, brave soldier that he was, scorned to strike a fallen
foe, and bade him rise and fight again. So they engaged again, and
Sanza, who from the beginning had had the advantage, slipped and fell
in his turn; Banzayémon, forgetting the mercy which had been shown to
him, rushed up, with bloodthirsty joy glaring in his eyes, and stabbed
Sanza in the side as he lay on the ground. Faint as he was, he could
not lift his hand to save himself; and his craven foe was about to
strike him again, when the bystanders all cried shame upon his
baseness. Then Gombei and Shirobei lifted up their voices and said--
"Hold, coward! Have you forgotten how your own life was spared but a
moment since? Beast of a Samurai, we have been your friends hitherto,
but now behold in us the avengers of this brave man."
With these words the two men drew their dirks, and the spectators fell
back as they rushed in upon Banzayémon, who, terror-stricken by their
fierce looks and words, fled without having dealt the death-blow to
Sanza. They tried to pursue him, but he made good his escape, so the
two men returned to help the wounded man. When he came to himself by
dint of their kind treatment, they spoke to him and comforted him, and
asked him what province he came from, that they might write to his
friends and tell them what had befallen him. Sanza, in a voice faint
from pain and loss of blood, told them his name and the story of the
stolen sword, and of his enmity against Banzayémon. "But," said he,
"just now, when I was fighting, I struck Banzayémon more than once,
and without effect. How could that have been?" Then they looked at his
sword, which had fallen by his side, and saw that the edge was all
broken away. More than ever they felt indignant at the baseness of
Banzayémon's heart, and redoubled their kindness to Sanza; but, in.
spite of all their efforts, he grew weaker and weaker, until at last
his breathing ceased altogether. So they buried the corpse honourably
in an adjoining temple, and wrote to Sanza's wife and son, describing
to them the manner of his death.
Now when Sanza's wife, who had long been anxiously expecting her
husband's return, opened the letter and learned the cruel
circumstances of his death, she and her son Kosanza mourned bitterly
over his loss. Then Kosanza, who was now fourteen years old, said to
his mother--
"Take comfort, mother; for I will go to Yedo and seek out this
Banzayémon, my father's murderer, and I will surely avenge his death.
Now, therefore, make ready all that I need for this journey."
And as they were consulting over the manner of their revenge,
Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, whom Sanza had slain, having heard of
the death of his father's enemy, came to the house. But he came with
no hostile intent. True, Sanza had killed his father, but the widow
and the orphan were guiltless, and he bore them no ill-will; on the
contrary, he felt that Banzayémon was their common enemy. It was he
who by his evil deeds had been the cause of all the mischief that had
arisen, and now again, by murdering Sanza, he had robbed Umanosuké of
his revenge. In this spirit he said to Kosanza--
"Sir Kosanza, I hear that your father has been cruelly murdered by
Banzayémon at Yedo. I know that you will avenge the death of your
father, as the son of a soldier should: if, therefore, you will accept
my poor services, I will be your second, and will help you to the best
of my ability. Banzayémon shall be my enemy, as he is yours."
"Nay, Sir Umanosuké, although I thank you from my heart, I cannot
accept this favour at your hands. My father Sanza slew your noble
father: that you should requite this misfortune thus is more than
kind, but I cannot think of suffering you to risk your life on my
behalf."
"Listen to me," replied Umanosuké, smiling, "and you will think it
less strange that I should offer to help you. Last year, when my
father lay a bleeding corpse on the sea-shore, your father made a
covenant with me that he would return to give me my revenge, so soon
as he should have regained the stolen sword. Banzayémon, by murdering
him on the Mound of the Yoshiwara, has thwarted me in this; and now
upon whom can I avenge my father's death but upon him whose baseness
was indeed its cause? Now, therefore, I am determined to go with you
to Yedo, and not before the murders of our two fathers shall have been
fully atoned for will we return to our own country."
When Kosanza heard this generous speech, he could not conceal his
admiration; and the widow, prostrating herself at Umanosuké's feet,
shed tears of gratitude.
The two youths, having agreed to stand by one another, made all ready
for their journey, and obtained leave from their prince to go in
search of the traitor Banzayémon. They reached Yedo without meeting
with any adventures, and, taking up their abode at a cheap inn, began
to make their inquiries; but, although they sought far and wide, they
could learn no tidings of their enemy. When three months had passed
thus, Kosanza began to grow faint-hearted at their repeated failures;
but Umanosuké supported and comforted him, urging him to fresh
efforts. But soon a great misfortune befell them: Kosanza fell sick
with ophthalmia, and neither the tender nursing of his friend, nor the
drugs and doctors upon whom Umanosuké spent all their money, had any
effect on the suffering boy, who soon became stone blind. Friendless
and penniless, the one deprived of his eyesight and only a clog upon
the other, the two youths were thrown upon their own resources. Then
Umanosuké, reduced to the last extremity of distress, was forced to
lead out Kosanza to Asakusa to beg sitting by the roadside, whilst he
himself, wandering hither and thither, picked up what he could from
the charity of those who saw his wretched plight. But all this while
he never lost sight of his revenge, and almost thanked the chance
which had made him a beggar, for the opportunity which it gave him of
hunting out strange and hidden haunts of vagabond life into which in
his more prosperous condition he could not have penetrated. So he
walked to and fro through the city, leaning on a stout staff, in which
he had hidden his sword, waiting patiently for fortune to bring him
face to face with Banzayémon.
[Illustration: TRICKS OF SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA.]
Now Banzayémon, after he had killed Sanza on the Mound of the
Yoshiwara, did not dare to show his face again in the house of Chôbei,
the Father of the Otokodaté; for he knew that the two men, Tôken
Gombei and Shirobei "the loose Colt," would not only bear an evil
report of him, but would even kill him if he fell into their hands, so
great had been their indignation at his cowardly Conduct; so he
entered a company of mountebanks, and earned his living by showing
tricks of swordsmanship, and selling tooth-powder at the Okuyama, at
Asakusa.[29] One day, as he was going towards Asakusa to ply his
trade, he caught sight of a blind beggar, in whom, in spite of his
poverty-stricken and altered appearance, he recognized the son of his
enemy. Rightly he judged that, in spite of the boy's apparently
helpless condition, the discovery boded no weal for him; so mounting
to the upper storey of a tea-house hard by, he watched to see who
should come to Kosanza's assistance. Nor had he to wait long, for
presently he saw a second beggar come up and speak words of
encouragement and kindness to the blind youth; and looking
attentively, he saw that the new-comer was Umanosuké. Having thus
discovered who was on his track, he went home and sought means of
killing the two beggars; so he lay in wait and traced them to the poor
hut where they dwelt, and one night, when he knew Umanosuké to be
absent, he crept in. Kosanza, being blind, thought that the footsteps
were those of Umanosuké, and jumped up to welcome him; but he, in his
heartless cruelty, which not even the boy's piteous state could move,
slew Kosanza as he helplessly stretched out his hands to feel for his
friend. The deed was yet unfinished when Umanosuké returned, and,
hearing a scuffle inside the hut, drew the sword which was hidden in
his staff and rushed in; but Banzayémon, profiting by the darkness,
eluded him and fled from the hut. Umanosuké followed swiftly after
him; but just as he was on the point of catching him, Banzayémon,
making a sweep backwards with his drawn sword, wounded Umanosuké in
the thigh, so that he stumbled and fell, and the murderer, swift of
foot, made good his escape. The wounded youth tried to pursue him
again, but being compelled by the pain of his wound to desist,
returned home and found his blind companion lying dead, weltering in
his own blood. Cursing his unhappy fate, he called in the beggars of
the fraternity to which he belonged, and between them they buried
Kosanza, and he himself being too poor to procure a surgeon's aid, or
to buy healing medicaments for his wound, became a cripple.
[Footnote 29: See Note at end of story.]
It was at this time that Shirai Gompachi, who was living under the
protection of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté, was in love with
Komurasaki, the beautiful courtesan who lived at the sign of the Three
Sea-shores, in the Yoshiwara. He had long exhausted the scanty
supplies which he possessed, and was now in the habit of feeding his
purse by murder and robbery, that he might have means to pursue his
wild and extravagant life. One night, when he was out on his cutthroat
business, his fellows, who had long suspected that he was after no
good, sent one of their number, named Seibei, to watch him. Gompachi,
little dreaming that any one was following him, swaggered along the
street until he fell in with a wardsman, whom he cut down and robbed;
but the booty proving small, he waited for a second chance, and,
seeing a light moving in the distance, hid himself in the shadow of a
large tub for catching rain-water till the bearer of the lantern
should come up. When the man drew near, Gompachi saw that he was
dressed as a traveller, and wore a long dirk; so he sprung out from
his lurking-place and made to kill him; but the traveller nimbly
jumped on one side, and proved no mean adversary, for he drew his dirk
and fought stoutly for his life. However, he was no match for so
skilful a swordsman as Gompachi, who, after a sharp struggle,
dispatched him, and carried off his purse, which contained two hundred
riyos. Overjoyed at having found so rich a prize, Gompachi was making
off for the Yoshiwara, when Seibei, who, horror-stricken, had seen
both murders, came up and began to upbraid him for his wickedness. But
Gompachi was so smooth-spoken and so well liked by his comrades, that
he easily persuaded Seibei to hush the matter up, and accompany him to
the Yoshiwara for a little diversion. As they were talking by the way,
Seibei said to Gompachi--
"I bought a new dirk the other day, but I have not had an opportunity
to try it yet. You have had so much experience in swords that you
ought to be a good judge. Pray look at this dirk, and tell me whether
you think it good for anything."
"We'll soon see what sort of metal it is made of," answered Gompachi.
"We'll just try it on the first beggar we come across."
At first Seibei was horrified by this cruel proposal, but by degrees
he yielded to his companion's persuasions; and so they went on their
way until Seibei spied out a crippled beggar lying asleep on the bank
outside the Yoshiwara. The sound of their footsteps aroused the
beggar, who seeing a Samurai and a wardsman pointing at him, and
evidently speaking about him, thought that their consultation could
bode him no good. So he pretended to be still asleep, watching them
carefully all the while; and when Seibei went up to him, brandishing
his dirk, the beggar, avoiding the blow, seized Seibei's arm, and
twisting it round, flung him into the ditch below. Gompachi, seeing
his companion's discomfiture, attacked the beggar, who, drawing a
sword from his staff, made such lightning-swift passes that, crippled
though he was, and unable to move his legs freely, Gompachi could not
overpower him; and although Seibei crawled out of the ditch and came
to his assistance, the beggar, nothing daunted, dealt his blows about
him to such good purpose that he wounded Seibei in the temple and arm.
Then Gompachi, reflecting that after all he had no quarrel with the
beggar, and that he had better attend to Seibei's wounds than go on
fighting to no purpose, drew Seibei away, leaving the beggar, who was
too lame to follow them, in peace. When he examined Seibei's wounds,
he found that they were so severe that they must give up their night's
frolic and go home. So they went back to the house of Chôbei, the
Father of the Otokodaté, and Seibei, afraid to show himself with his
sword-cuts, feigned sickness, and went to bed. On the following
morning Chôbei, happening to need his apprentice Seibei's services,
sent for him, and was told that he was sick; so he went to the room,
where he lay abed, and, to his astonishment, saw the cut upon his
temple. At first the wounded man refused to answer any questions as to
how he had been hurt; but at last, on being pressed by Chôbei, he told
the whole story of what had taken place the night before. When Chôbei
heard the tale, be guessed that the valiant beggar must be some noble
Samurai in disguise, who, having a wrong to avenge, was biding his
time to meet with his enemy; and wishing to help so brave a man, he
went in the evening, with his two faithful apprentices, Tôken Gombei
and Shirobei "the loose Colt," to the bank outside the Yoshiwara to
seek out the beggar. The latter, not one whit frightened by the
adventure of the previous night, had taken his place as usual, and was
lying on the bank, when Chôbei came up to him, and said--
"Sir, I am Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté, at your service. I have
learnt with deep regret that two of my men insulted and attacked you
last night. However, happily, even Gompachi, famous swordsman though
he be, was no match for you, and had to beat a retreat before you. I
know, therefore, that you must be a noble Samurai, who by some ill
chance have become a cripple and a beggar. Now, therefore, I pray you
tell me all your story; for, humble wardsman as I am, I may be able to
assist you, if you will condescend to allow me."
The cripple at first tried to shun Chôbei's questions; but at last,
touched by the honesty and kindness of his speech, he replied--
"Sir, my name is Takagi Umanosuké, and I am a native of Yamato;" and
then he went on to narrate all the misfortunes which the wickedness of
Banzayémon had brought about.
"This is indeed a strange story," said Chôbei who had listened with
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