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Romances of Old Japan

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Title: Romances of Old Japan

Translator: Yei Theodora Ozaki


        
Release date: June 11, 2014 [eBook #45933]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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ROMANCES OF OLD JAPAN

Rendered into English from Japanese Sources

by

MADAME YUKIO OZAKI







Brentano's New York
1920

[Illustration: brentano]


[Illustration: What was his breathless amazement to see
that the picture he so much admired had actually taken life
... and was gliding lightly towards him--see here.]



CONTENTS

    THE QUEST OF THE SWORD
    THE TRAGEDY OF KESA GOZEN
    THE SPIRIT OF THE LANTERN
    THE REINCARNATION OF TAMA
    THE LADY OF THE PICTURE
    URASATO, OR THE CROW OF DAWN
    TSUBOSAKA
    LOYAL, EVEN UNTO DEATH; OR THE SUGAWARA TRAGEDY
    HOW KINU RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE
    A CHERRY-FLOWER IDYLL
    THE BADGER-HAUNTED TEMPLE



ILLUSTRATIONS


What was his breathless amazement to see that the picture he so much
admired had actually taken life ... and was gliding lightly towards him
_Frontispiece_

Mortally wounded, both men fell to the ground, and so fatal had been
Jurobei's thrusts that in a few minutes they breathed their last

The unhappy mother sadly followed with her eyes the pathetic little
figure disappearing on her unknown path

Gunbei had watched the execution of his cruel order from the veranda

Yendo draws his sword, when between him and the victim of his vengeance
there darts the lovely Kesa

Wataru little dreams that it is the last cup his wife will ever drink
with him

To his unspeakable horror and amazement the moonlight reveals the head
of Kesa--his love!

His grandfather had been a retainer of Ota Dokan ... and had committed
suicide when his lord fell in battle

He glared fiercely at the apparition, and then, half unconsciously,
turned for the _samurai's_ only safeguard, his sword

Tama's father was delighted when Hayashi proved to be an expert at
_go_, and often asked him to come and spend the evening

He was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming towards him in
the wavering shadows

Hayashi visits the temple where his lost love was buried and dedicates
his whole life to praying for the repose of her soul

"When I was eighteen years of age, bandits ... made a raid on our
village and ... carried me away"

When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite Toshika, what
was his bewildering delight to see that she was ... the lady-love of
his picture

Urasato's escape from the Yamana-Ya

As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony, the picture of
youth, grace and beauty

O Tatsu ... took her stand behind Urasato, and with deft fingers put
the disordered coiffure to rights

Sawaichi, turning his sightless face towards the altar, repeated the
Buddhist invocation: "_Namu Amida Butsu!_"

There in the grey light of the breaking dawn, she could see the
lifeless form of her husband stretched upon the ground

"Listen, Sawaichi!" said the Heavenly Voice, "Through the faith of your
wife and the merits of her accumulated prayers, your lives shall be
prolonged"

"This is the head of Kanshusai, the son of the Lord Sugawara!"

The box, which served her as a shield, was speedily cut in two, and
there appeared, unfolding and fluttering in the breeze, a little
winding-sheet and a sacred banner for the dead

"No, no," said Matsuo ... "this is not the body of my boy. We are going
to bury our young lord!"

From earliest times Kinu and Kunizo were accustomed to play together

Her ghastly face and blood-stained garments struck terror to the souls
of the petrified spectators

Kunizo, almost beside himself with happiness, did his utmost to
minister to his beloved lady

Suddenly a young girl appeared from the gloom as if by magic!

His beautiful hostess, seating herself beside the _koto_, began to sing
a wild and beautiful air

An old priest suddenly appeared ... staff in hand and clad in ancient
and dilapidated garments

What was the young man's astonishment to see a pretty young girl
standing just within the gate

Suddenly he saw that the three performers had become _headless_!...
Like children playing a game of ball, they tossed their heads from one
to the other

In one of the dark corners of the temple-chamber, they came upon the
dead body of an old, old badger




THE QUEST OF THE SWORD


His old widowed mother would not die happy unless he were
rehabilitated, and to this end he knew that she and his faithful wife,
O Yumi, prayed daily before the family shrine.

How often had he racked his brains to find some way by which it were
possible to prove his unchanging fidelity to Shusen; for the true
big-hearted fellow never resented his punishment, but staunchly
believed that the ties which bound him to his lord were in no wise
annulled by the separation.

At last the long-awaited opportunity had come. In obedience to the
mandate of the Shogun Ieyasu that the territorial nobles should reside
in his newly established capital of Yedo during six months of the
year, the Daimio of Tokushima proceeded to Yedo accompanied by a large
retinue of _samurai_, amongst whom were his chief retainers, the rivals
Shusen Sakurai and Gunbei Onota.

Like a faithful watchdog, alert and anxious, jurobei had followed
Shusen at a distance, unwilling to let him out of his sight at this
critical time, for Gunbei Onota was the sworn enemy of Shusen Sakurai.
Bitter envy of his rival's popularity, and especially of his senior
rank in the Daimio's service, had always rankled in the contemptible
Gunbei's mind. For years he had planned to supplant him, and Jurobei
knew through traitors that the honest vigilance of his master had
recently thwarted Gunbei in some of his base schemes, and that the
latter had vowed immediate vengeance.

Jurobei's soul burned within him as this sequence of thoughts rushed
through his brain. The tempest that whirled round him seemed to be in
harmony with the emotions that surged in tumult through his heart.

More than ever did it devolve on him to see that his master was
properly safeguarded. To do this successfully he must once more become
his retainer. So Jurobei with vehement resolution clenched his hands
over the handle of his umbrella and rushed onwards.

Now it happened that same night that Gunbei, in a sudden fit of jealous
rage and chagrin, knowing that his rival was on duty at the Daimio's
Palace, and that he would probably return alone after night-fall,
ordered two of his men to proceed to Shusen's house and to waylay and
murder Shusen on his road home. Once and for all he would remove Shusen
Sakurai from his path.

Meanwhile Jurobei arrived at Shusen's house, and in the heavy gloom
collided violently with the two men who were lying in ambush outside
the gate.

"Stop!" angrily cried the assassins, drawing their swords upon him.

Jurobei, recognizing their voices and his quick wit at once grasping
the situation, exclaimed:

"You are Gunbei's men! Have you come to kill my lord?"

"Be assured that that is our intention," replied the confederates.

"I pray you to kill me instead of my lord," implored Jurobei.

"We have come for your master and we must have his life as well as
yours. I have not forgotten how you cut me to pieces seven years ago. I
shall enjoy paying back those thrusts with interest," returned one of
them sharply.

Jurobei prostrated himself in the mud before them. "I care not what
death you deal me, so long as you accept my life instead of my lord's.
I humbly beg of you to grant my petition."

Instead of answering, one of the miscreants contemptuously kicked him
as he knelt there.

Jurobei, whose ire was now thoroughly provoked, seized the offending
leg before its owner had time to withdraw it, and holding it in a
clutch like iron, inquired:

"Then you do not intend to grant my request?"

"Certainly not!" sneered the wretches.

Jurobei sprang to his feet and faced them. Without more ado they both
set upon him with their weapons.

Overhead the storm increased in violence. The floodgates of heaven
were opened, peals of heavy thunder shook the earth with their dull
reverberations, and the inky skies were riven with blinding flash upon
flash of forked lightning, which lit up the dark forms and white faces
of the combatants, and glinted on their swords as they parried and
clashed together in mortal strife.

Now Jurobei was an expert swordsman of unusual and supple strength.
He defended himself with skill and ferocity, and soon his superiority
began to tell against the craven couple who were attacking him. It
was not long before they realized that they were no match for such a
powerful adversary, and turned to flee. But Jurobei was too quick for
them, and before they could escape he cut them down.

Mortally wounded, both men fell to the ground, and so fatal had been
Jurobei's thrusts that in a few minutes they breathed their last.

By this time, the fury of the storm having spent itself, the sky
gradually lifted and the moon shone forth in silver splendour between
the masses of clouds as they rolled away, leaving the vast blue vault
above clear and radiant and scintillating with stars.

Jurobei raised a jubilant face heavenwards and thanked the gods for
the victory. He had rescued his master from death. He felt that the
sacrifices that he and O Yumi had made in the past--the breaking up
of the old home and the parting from their baby-daughter and the old
mother--had not been in vain. The prescience, which had warned him
that evil was hanging over Shusen, and which had made him so restless
and uneasy of late, had been fulfilled, and he had forestalled the
dastardly intention of the treacherous Gunbei and his two scoundrels.

In the stillness after the tumult of the fray, Jurobei's ear caught the
sound of approaching footsteps. Turning in the direction from whence
they came, there in the bright moonlight he clearly discerned the form
of his beloved master, crossing the bridge.

"Oh, my lord! Is it you? Are you safe?" he exclaimed.

"Who is it?" demanded the startled _samurai._"Ah--it is Jurobei! What
brings you here at this hour?" Then noticing the two lifeless bodies
lying across the path, he sharply interrogated, "What does this mean?
Has there been a fight? What was the cause of the quarrel?"

"They are Gunbei's assassins. They were waiting in ambush for your
return, by Gunbei's order. I found them here. They attacked me and I
killed them both, the cowards!"

Shusen started. An exclamation of dismay escaped him.

"It is a pity that you should have killed those particular men at this
juncture." He mused for a few seconds, gazing at the dead faces of his
would-be murderers. "I knew these rascals. My purpose was to let them
go free, and to lure them over to our side: they could soon have been
persuaded to confess the crimes of their master."

Jurobei realized that he had blundered. Overcome with disappointment,
he sank upon the ground in a disconsolate heap.

"The intelligence of inferior men cannot be relied upon," said Jurobei
with chagrin. "Alas, they unwittingly err in their judgment. I did not
give the matter enough consideration. My sole idea was to save your
life at all costs, my lord! I have committed a grave error in slaying
them. With the intention of tendering abject apologies for my past
misconduct, which has lain upon me like a heavy yoke all these years, I
came here to-night. I killed these men to save your life--hoping that
for this service you would reinstate me. I beg of you to forgive my
stupidity."

[Illustration: Mortally wounded, both men fell to the ground, and so
fatal had been Jurobei's thrusts that in a few minutes they breathed
their last.]

With these words he drew his sword and was about to plunge it into
himself and rashly end his life by _hara-kiri_, by way of expiation.

Shusen seized his arm and stopped him in the act. "This is not the
time to die! It would be a dog's death to kill yourself here and now.
Perform some deed worthy of a _samurai_ and then I will recall you as
my retainer. You are a rash man, Jurobei! In future think more before
you act."

"Oh, my lord, do you really forgive me? Will you indeed spare a life
forfeited by many errors committed in your service?" and Jurobei gave a
sigh of relief.

"Certainly I will," replied Shusen, aware that the affinity existing
between lord and retainer is a close relationship not to be lightly
severed.

"You were about to throw away your life," he continued, "for what you
considered a _samurai's_ duty. I commend that, anyhow! I tell you now
to wait until you have accomplished some real work in the world. Listen
to what I have to say.

"From generation to generation the Lords of Tokushima have entrusted
to the care of our house one of their most valuable treasures and
heirlooms, a talisman of the family, the Kunitsugu sword. At the end of
last year we gave a banquet and entertained a large number of friends.
While the attention of every one was absorbed in waiting upon the
guests, some robber must have entered the house and stolen the sword,
for on that night it disappeared.

"In my own mind I have strong suspicions as to who the guilty party
may be, but as yet there is no proof. While I was pondering in secret
over possible ways and means of bringing the theft to light, another
complication has arisen.

"It has come to my knowledge that Gunbei, our enemy, is organizing a
conspiracy to make an attack upon the life of my lord, the Daimio of
Tokushima. My whole attention must be concentrated on this plot, to
circumvent which requires very subtle and adroit handling, so that it
is impossible for me to take any steps in the matter of the sword at
the present time. There is no one to whom I can entrust this important
mission except yourself, Jurobei. If you have any gratitude for all
that I have done for you, then stake your life, your all, in the search
for the lost sword.

"There is no time to lose! This is January and our Daimio's birthday
falls on the third of March. The sword must be laid out in state on
that festive occasion in the palace. I shall be disgraced and my
house ruined if the sword be not forthcoming that day. My duties at
the palace make it impossible for me to undertake the search. Even
supposing that I were at liberty to go in quest of the sword, to do
so would bring about my undoing, which is just what our enemy Gunbei
desires. You are now a _ronin_ [a masterless _samurai_], you have
no master, no duty, no appearances to maintain. Your absence from
our midst will cause embarrassment to no one. Therefore undertake
this mission, I command you, and restore the sword to our house. If
your search is crowned with success, I will receive you back into my
household, and all shall be as it was between us in former times."

With this assurance Sakurai took his own sword from his girdle and
handed it to Jurobei as a pledge of the compact between them.

Jurobei stretched out both hands, received it with joy, and reverently
raised it to his forehead.

"Your merciful words touch my heart. Though my body should be broken to
pieces I will surely not fail to recover the sword," replied Jurobei.

He then began to examine the dead men hoping to find their purses, for
in his new-formed resolution he realized the immediate need of money in
his search for the lost treasure.

"Stop, stop!" rebuked Shusen, "take nothing which does not belong to
you, not even a speck of dust."

"_Kiritori goto wa bushi no narai_" [Slaughter and robbery are a
knight's practice], answered Jurobei, "has been the _samurai's_ motto
from ancient times. For the sake of my lord I will stop at nothing.
I will even become a robber. In token of my determination, from this
hour I change my name Jurobei to Ginjuro. Nothing shall deter me in my
search for the sword. To prosecute my search I will enter any houses,
however large and grand they may be. Rest assured, my lord. I will be
responsible for the finding of the sword."

"That is enough," returned his master. "You have taken the lives
of these two men--escape before you are seized and delivered up to
justice."

"I obey, my lord! May all go well with you till I give you a sign that
the sword is found."

"Yes, yes, have no fear for me. Take care of yourself, Jurobei!"
answered Shusen.

Jurobei prostrated himself at his master's feet.

"Farewell, my lord!"

"Farewell!"

And Shusen Sakurai and his faithful vassal separated.




PART II


On the quest of the lost sword Jurobei and his wife left Yedo buoyant
with high hope and invincible courage.

The sword, however, was not to be found so easily. Jurobei was
untiringly and incessantly on the alert, and week followed week in his
fruitless search; however, his ardour was unabated, and firm was his
resolution not to return until he could restore the missing treasure
upon which the future of his master depended. Possessing no means of
support, Jurobei became pirate, robber, and impostor by turns, for the
_samurai_ of feudal times considered that all means were justified in
the cause of loyalty. The obstacles and difficulties that lay in his
path, which might well have daunted weaker spirits, merely served to
inflame his passion of duty to still greater enthusiasm.

After many adventures and hairbreadth escapes from the law, the
vicissitudes of his search at last brought him to the town of Naniwa
(present Osaka) where he halted for a while and found it convenient to
rent a tiny house on the outskirts of the town. Here Jurobei met with a
man named Izæmon who belonged to the same clan--one of the retainers of
the Daimio of Tokushima and colleague of Shusen Sakurai.

Now it happened that an illegitimate half-sister of the Daimio by a
serving-woman had sold herself into a house of ill-fame to render
assistance to her mother's family which had fallen into a state of
great destitution. As proof of her high birth she had in her possession
a _Kodzuka_[1] which had been bestowed on her in infancy by her father,
the Daimio. Izæmon, aware of her noble parentage, chivalrously followed
her, and in order to redeem the unfortunate woman borrowed a sum of
money from a man named Butaroku, who had proved to be a hard-hearted
wretch, continually persecuting and harassing Izæmon on account of the
debt. Jurobei was distressed by Butaroku's treatment of his clansman,
and magnanimously undertook to assume all responsibility himself. The
day had come when the bond fell due and the money had to be refunded.
Jurobei was well aware that before nightfall he must manage by some way
or another to obtain the means to satisfy his avaricious creditor or
both himself and Izæmon would be made to suffer for the delay.

At his wit's end he started out in the early morning, leaving his wife,
O Yumi, alone.

Shortly after his departure a letter was brought to the house. In those
remote days there was, of course, no regular postal service, and only
urgent news was transmitted by messengers. The arrival of a letter
was, therefore, looked upon as the harbinger of some calamity or as
conveying news of great importance. In some trepidation, therefore,
O Yumi tore open the communication, only to find that her fears were
confirmed. It proved to be a warning from one of Jurobei's followers
with the information that the police had discovered the rendezvous of
his men--some of whom had been captured while others had managed to
escape. The writer, moreover, apprehended that the officers of law
were on the track of Jurobei himself, and begged him to lose no time
in fleeing to some place of safety. This intelligence sorely troubled
O Yumi. "Even though my husband's salary is so trifling yet he is a
_samurai_ by birth. The reason why he has fallen so low is because he
desires above all things to succeed in restoring the Kunitsugu sword.
As a _samurai_ he must be always prepared to sacrifice his life in his
master's service if loyalty demands it, but should the misdeeds he has
committed during the search be discovered before the sword is found,
his long years of fidelity, of exile, of deprivation, of hardship will
all have been in vain. It is terrible to contemplate. Not only this,
his good qualities will sink into oblivion, and he will be reviled as
a robber and a law-breaker even after he is dead. What a deplorable
disgrace! He has not done evil because his heart is corrupt--oh, no,
no!"

Overcome with these sad reflections, she turned to the corner where
stood the little shrine dedicated to Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy and
Compassion, and sinking upon her knees she prayed with the earnestness
of a last hope, that the holy Kwannon would preserve her husband's life
until his mission should be accomplished and the sword safely returned
to its princely owner.

As she was kneeling before the shrine there floated into the room from
outside the sound of a pilgrim's song chanted in a child's sweet treble.

    _Fudaraku ya!_
    _Kishi utsu nami ya_
    _Mi Kumano no_
    _Nachi no oyama ni_
    _Hibiku takitsuse_.

    Goddess of Mercy, hail!
      I call and lo!
    The beat of surf on shore
      Suffers a heaven-change
    To the great cataract's roar
      On Nachi's holy range
    In hallowed Kumano.[2]

O Yumi arose from her knees and went out to ascertain who the singer
could be. A little girl about nine years of age was standing in the
porch. On her shoulders was strapped a pilgrim's pack. Again she sang:

     _Furusato wo_
    _Harubaru, kokoni_
     _kii--Miedera_
    _Hana no Miyako mo_
     _Chikaku naruran_.

    From home and birth
    Far ways of earth
      Forwandered here
    Kii's holy place
    A sojourn's space
      Receives me, ere
    Anon thy bowers,
    City of Flowers,[3]
      (Life's goal) draw near.

When she saw that some one had appeared, her song ceased, and she
plaintively added:

"Be kind enough to give alms to a poor little pilgrim."

"My pretty little pilgrim," answered O Yumi, "I will gladly give you
some alms," and placing a few coins in a fold of paper she handed it
out to her.

"I thank you from my heart!" responded the child in grateful accents.
By the manner in which these words were uttered, and in spite of the
travel-stained dress and the dust of the road, it was apparent to
O Yumi that the little girl before her was no common beggar, but a
beautiful and well-born child. Naturally of a fair complexion, her eyes
were clear and bright, her dishevelled hair was long and jet black. The
hardships of the pilgrimage had left their mark upon the child, she was
thin and seemed so weary, that it filled the heart with pity. O Yumi
found her thoughts carried back to the infant she had been compelled
to leave behind in the old home seven long years before, when she and
Jurobei had followed their lord Shusen Sakurai to Yedo.

For some inexplicable reason she felt strangely touched by the plight
of the little girl before her, and reflected sadly that her own
child--so far away, and deprived at such an early age of her mother's
love and care--would now be somewhat of the same age and size as the
little pilgrim.

"Dear child," said O Yumi, "I suppose you are travelling with your
parents. Tell me what province you came from?"

"My native province is Tokushima of Awa," was the reply.

"What?" exclaimed O Yumi. "Did you say Tokushima? That is where I was
born, too! My heart thrills at hearing the beloved name of the place of
my birth. And so you are making a pilgrimage with your parents?"

The woman's question was a reasonable one, for a Buddhist pilgrim
wanders around from temple to temple all over the country to worship
the founder of their faith and patron saints, and it was most unlikely
that a child of such tender years should set out alone upon so long and
arduous a journey. It was, indeed, a great distance from Tokushima, in
the Island of Shikoku, to the town of Naniwa. But the little girl shook
her head and answered in forlorn accents:

"No, no. I have not seen my parents for seven years. I have left my
home in Awa and come upon this long pilgrimage entirely in the hope of
finding them."

On hearing these words O Yumi became agitated in mind. Perchance this
child might prove to be her own daughter! Drawing near the little
pilgrim and scanning her features eagerly, she asked:

"Why do you go on this pilgrimage to seek your parents? Tell me their
names?"

"When I was only two years of age my parents left our native place. I
have been brought up entirely by my grandmother. For several months
now we have had no news of them, since they followed our lord to Yedo;
they seem to have left Yedo, but no one knew whither they went. I am
wandering in search of them: my one wish being to look upon their faces
if but once again in this life. My father's name is Jurobei of Awa and
my mother is called O Yumi."

"What? Your father is Jurobei and your mother O Yumi?" stammered out
the astonished parent, greatly taken aback by this statement. "And they
parted from you when you were two years of age, and you were brought up
by your grandmother?"

Oh! there was no room for doubt. An angel must have guided the
wandering footsteps of the little pilgrim, for it was indeed her own
little daughter, the sole blossom of her youth and early married life.
The more carefully O Yumi regarded the child, the more her memory
convinced her that in the young face before her she could trace the
baby features so sadly missed for seven long years--and finally her
eager eyes detected an undeniable proof of her identity--a tiny mole
high up on the child's forehead.

The poor mother was on the verge of bursting into tears and crying out:
"Oh, oh! You are indeed my own, O Tsuru!" But with a painful effort she
realized what such a disclosure would mean to the child.

"Who knows!" reflected the unhappy woman. "My husband and I may be
arrested at any moment. I am indeed prepared for the worst that
may befall us--even to be thrown into prison--but if I disclose my
identity to O Tsuru, she must inevitably share our misery.[4] It is in
the interest of my poor child's welfare that I send her away without
revealing the truth which would expose her to untold trouble and
disgrace."

In those ancient times the criminal law enacted that innocent children
should be implicated in the offences of the parents, and that the same
sentence of punishment should cover them also. Love gave clearness to
the workings of her mind, and in a moment O Yumi remembered what was
threatening them and the inexorable decrees of the law. Involuntarily
her arms were extended with the mother's instinct to gather the child
to her heart, but she quickly controlled her emotion and did her best
to address the little girl in a calm voice:

"Oh, yes, I understand. For one so young you have come a long, long
way. It is wonderful that alone and on foot you could traverse such a
great and weary distance, and your filial devotion is indeed worthy of
praise. If your parents could know of this they would weep for joy. But
things are not as we wish in this sad world, life is not as the heart
of man desires, alas! You say your father and mother had to leave you,
their little babe, for whose sake they would gladly sacrifice their own
souls and bodies. My poor child, they must have had some very urgent
reason for parting from you in this way. You must not feel injured nor
bear them any resentment on that account."

"No, no," replied the little one intelligently, "it would be impious
even to dream of such a feeling. Never have I felt resentment even
for a single moment against my parents, for it was not their wish or
intention to forsake me. But as they left me when I was only a baby I
have no recollection of their faces, and whenever I see other children
being tended and cherished by their mothers, or at night hushed to
rest in their mother's arms, I cannot help envying them. I have longed
and prayed ever since I can remember that I might be united to my own
mother, and know what it is to be loved and cherished like all the
other children! Oh, when I think that I may never see her again, I am
very, very sad!"

The lonely child had begun to sob while pouring out the grief that lay
so near her heart, and the tears that she could no longer restrain were
coursing, _porori, porori_, down her cheeks.

O Yumi felt as though her heart was well-nigh breaking. Indeed, the
woman's anguish at being an impotent witness of the sorrows of her
forsaken child was of far greater intensity than the woes of the little
girl's narration, yet as she answered, the mother's heart felt as
though relentless circumstances had transformed her into a monster of
cruelty!

"In this life there is no deeper _Karma_-relation than that existing
between parent and child, yet children frequently lose their parents,
or the child sometimes may be taken first. Such is the way of this
world. As I said before, the desire of the heart is seldom gratified.
You are searching for your parents whose faces you could not even
recognize, and of whose whereabouts you are entirely ignorant. All the
hardships of this pilgrimage will be endured in vain unless you are
able to discover them, which is very improbable. Take my advice. It
would be much better for you to give up the search and to return at
once to your native province."

"No, no, for the sake of my beloved parents," expostulated the child,
"I will devote my whole life to the search for them, if necessary. But
of all my hardships in this wandering life the one that afflicts me
most is that, as I travel alone, no one will give me a night's lodging,
so that I am obliged to sleep either in the fields or on the open
mountain-side; indeed, at times I seek an unwilling shelter beneath the
eaves of some house, from whence I am often driven away with blows.
Whenever I go through these terrible experiences I cannot help thinking
that if only my parents were with me I should not be treated in this
pitiless way. Oh! some one must tell me where they are! I long to see
them ... I long ..." and the poor little vagrant burst out into long
wailing sobs.

The distracted mother was torn between love and duty. Oblivious of
everything, for one moment she lost her presence of mind and clasped
her daughter to her heart.

She was on the point of exclaiming:

"My poor little stray lamb! I cannot let you go! Look at me, I am your
own mother! Is it not marvellous that you should have found me?"

But only her lips moved silently, for she did not dare to let the child
know the truth. She herself was prepared for any fate however bitter,
but the innocent O Tsuru must be shielded from the suffering which
would ultimately be the lot of her father and mother as the penalty
for breaking the law. Fortified by this resolution, the Spartan mother
regained her self-control and managed to repress the overwhelming tide
of impulse which almost impelled her, in spite of all, to reveal her
identity.

Holding the little form closely to her breast she murmured tenderly:

"I have listened to your story so carefully that your troubles seem to
have become mine own, and there are no words to express the sorrow and
pity I feel for your forlorn condition. However, 'while there is life
there is hope' [_inochi atte monodane_]. Do not despair, you may some
day be united to your parents. If, however, you determine to continue
this pilgrimage, the hardships and fatigues you must undergo will
inevitably ruin your health. It is far better for you to return to the
shelter of your grand-mother's roof than to persist in such a vague
search and with so little prospect of success. It may be that before
long your parents will return to you, who knows! My advice is good, and
I beg you to go back to your home at once, and there patiently await
their coming."

Thus O Yumi managed to keep up the pretence of being a stranger, and
at the same time to give to her own flesh and blood all the help and
comfort that her mother's heart could devise. But nature would not be
disguised, and although she knew it not, a passion of love and yearning
thrilled in her voice and manner and communicated itself to the child's
heart.

"Yes, yes," answered the little creature in appealing tones. "Indeed, I
thank you. Seeing you weep for me, I feel as if you were indeed my own
mother and I no longer wish to go from here. I pray you to let me stay
with you. Since I left my home no one has been so kind to me as you. Do
not drive me away. I will promise to do all you bid me if only you will
let me stay."

"Do you wish to make me weep with your sad words?" was all that O Yumi
could stammer out, her voice broken with agitation. After a moment
she added: "As I have already told you, I feel towards you as though
you were indeed my own daughter, and I have been wondering if by any
means it would be possible to keep you with me. But it cannot be. I am
obliged to seem cold-hearted and to send you away, and all that I can
tell you is that for your own sake you must not remain here. I hope you
fully understand and will return to your home at once."

With these words O Yumi went quickly to an inner room, and taking all
the silver money she possessed from her little hoard she offered it to
O Tsuru, saying:

"Although you are travelling in this solitary and unprotected state you
will always find some one ready to give you a night's lodging if you
can offer them money. Take this. It is not much, but receive it as a
little token of my sympathy. Make use of it as best you can and return
to your native province without delay."

"Your kindness makes me very happy, but as far as money is concerned
I have many _koban_ [coins of pure gold used in ancient times], I am
going now. Thank you again and again for all your goodness to me,"
replied O Tsuru in wounded accents, and showing by a gesture that she
refused the proffered assistance.

"Even if you have plenty of money--take this in remembrance of our
meeting. Oh ... you can never know how sad I am at parting from you,
you poor little one!"

O Yumi stooped down and was brushing away the dust which covered the
hem of O Tsuru's dress.

"Oh, you must never think that I want to let you go.... Your little
face reminds me of one who is the most precious to me in all the world,
and whom I may never see again."

Overcome with the passion of mother-love, she enfolded the poor little
wayfarer in a close embrace, and the little girl, nestling in the arms
of her own mother, thought she was merely a stranger whose pity was
evoked by the recital of her sufferings.

Instinct, however, stirred in her heart, and she could not bear the
thought of leaving her new-found friend. But since it was impossible
for her to stay with this compassionate woman, nothing remained but for
her to depart. Slowly and reluctantly she passed out from the porch,
again and again wistfully looking back at the kind face, and as O Tsuru
resumed her journey down the dusty road she murmured a little prayer:

"Alas! Shall I ever find my parents! I implore thee to grant my
petition, O great and merciful Kwannon Sama!" and her tremulous voice
grew stronger with the hopefulness of childhood as she chanted the song
of the pilgrim.

      _Chichi haha no_
    _Megumi mo fukahi_
      _Kogawa-dera_
    _Hotoke no chikai_
      _Tanomoshiki Kana_.

    Father-love, mother-love,
    Theirs is none other love
      Than in these Courts is mine.
      Safe at Kogawa's shrine,
    Yea, Buddha's Vows endure,
    Verily a refuge sure.

Meanwhile, from the gate, the unhappy mother sadly followed with her
eyes the pathetic little figure disappearing on her unknown path into
the gathering twilight, while the last glow of sunset faded from the
sky. The little song of faith and hope sounded like sardonic mockery in
her ears. In anguish she covered her face with her sleeves and sobbed:

"My child--my child--turn back and show me your face once more! As by
a miracle her wandering footsteps have been guided to the longed-for
haven from far across the sea and the distant mountains. Oh, to have
ruthlessly driven her away! What must our _Karma_-relation have been in
previous existences! What retribution is this! What must have been my
sin to receive such punishment!"

While these torturing reflections voiced themselves in broken utterance
her daughter's shadow had vanished in the gloom, and O Yumi, standing
at the gate, felt her grief become unbearable.

Vividly there arose before her mind the bitter pangs of leaving the
old home and her baby child, and the misfortunes and poverty which
had come upon them ever since Jurobei's discharge; the weariness and
disappointment of the months of fruitless search for the lost sword;
the homesickness of the exile banished from his own province and his
lord's service by cruel circumstances; the disgrace which had now
fallen upon her husband; all the accumulated pain of the past hushed
to rest by the narcotic necessity of bearing each day's burden and
meeting with courage and resource the ever-recurring difficulties and
dangers of their hunted life. All these cruel phantom shapes arose to
haunt the unhappy woman with renewed poignancy, sharpened by the agony
of repression which her mother-love had been enduring for the past
hour. Neither the arrow of hope which pierces the looming clouds of the
future, nor the shield of resignation, would ever defend her again in
this sorrow of sorrows. Suddenly a new resolve stirred her to action.
"I can bear this no longer!" she cried frantically. "If we part now we
may never meet again. I cannot let her go! From the fate that threatens
us there may still be some way of escape. I must find her and bring her
back."

Hastily gathering up the lower folds of her _kimono_ she rushed out
into the road that wound between the rice-fields and the dark gnarled
pines. The evening wind had begun to moan through the heavy branches,
and as it tossed them to and fro, to her fevered imagination they
seemed to be warning her to retrace her steps and to wave her back
with ominous portent. On and on she sped along the lonely road into
the shadowy vista beyond which her child had disappeared into the
darkness....

[Illustration: The unhappy mother sadly followed with her eyes the
pathetic little figure disappearing on her unknown path.]




PART III


The temple bell was booming the hour of parting day as Jurobei
disconsolately hurried home. All his attempts had failed to procure
the money wherewith to pay Izæmon's debt to Butaroku, and knowing that
Butaroku was the kind of man to take a merciless revenge, he was in a
mood of profound depression.

Suddenly in the road he came upon a group of beggars surrounding a
little girl dressed as a pilgrim. The wretches, thinking her an easy
prey to their cupidity, were tormenting the poor little wayfarer and
trying to wrest from her the contents of her wallet, but she was
bravely defending herself and resisting their attacks with great spirit.

Seeing how matters stood, Jurobei promptly drove the beggars away
with his stick, and then, to avoid the return of her assailants, he
compassionately took the child by the hand and led her home with him.

But alas! by a fatal mischance they had taken a different road to that
chosen by O Yumi.

As soon as they reached the porch he called out:

"I have come back, O Yumi!"

Contrary to his expectation there was no response, and entering hastily
he found the cottage empty and in darkness.

"How is it that the place is deserted? Where can O Yumi have gone to at
this hour?" he grumbled as he groped his way across the room and set
light to the standing lantern.

Then by its fitful glow he sank down upon the mats in gloomy
abstraction and the lassitude of disappointment, and pondered seriously
on the desperate straits to which he and his wife were reduced: the
situation seemed hopeless, for well he knew that no clemency could be
expected from the enemy and unless some money was forthcoming that very
night he was a lost man. All at once a thought struck him. He beckoned
the little pilgrim to draw near.

"Come here, my child! Those rascally beggars from whom I rescued you
were trying to steal your wallet. Tell me, have you much money with
you?"

"Yes, I have what several kind people have given me," was her reply.

"Let me see how much you have?" demanded Jurobei peremptorily.

O Tsuru, for indeed it was she, took out a little bag, and reluctantly
offered a few coins for her inquisitor's inspection.

"Is this all you have, child?" he persisted impatiently.

"No, no, I have several _koban_[5] besides," answered the girl, her
childish mind exaggerating the amount.

"Oh, indeed, so you have many _koban_?" Jurobei mused for a few
minutes. Here was an unexpected opportunity to satisfy the avarice of
Butaroku. "Let me take care of the _koban_ for you. It is not safe for
you to keep them," said Jurobei, stretching out his hand towards her.

"No, no!" replied O Tsuru, shaking her head with decision. "When my
grandmother was dying she made me promise faithfully never to show the
money to any one, as it is tied together with a very precious thing. I
must not give or show the bag to any one."

Jurobei, who saw deliverance from his debt of honour in the money he
supposed the child to carry, tried to frighten her into giving it up
to him, but she was firm in her refusal, and rose to her feet with the
intention of escaping from her persecutor.

"Oh, I will stay here no longer. You frighten me!" she exclaimed,
moving towards the porch.

Jurobei, in fear lest his last hope should fail, seized her by the
collar of her dress.

"Oh, oh, help, help!" loudly screamed the girl in terror.

"What a noise, what a noise!" exclaimed Jurobei in exasperation, and
alarmed lest the neighbours should overhear the child's cries, he
roughly attempted to stifle her screams with his hand across her mouth.

For a few minutes, as a snared bird flutters in the net of its captor,
the hapless O Tsuru put forth all her strength and endeavoured
desperately to disengage herself; her struggles then subsided and she
grew still.

Jurobei began to reason with her without removing his hold:

"There is nothing whatever to fear! The truth is I am in pressing need
of some money. I do not know how much you have, but lend it to me for a
few days. During that time stay here quietly. I will take you to visit
the Temple of Kwannon Sama, and we will go every day to see the sights
of the city near by and amuse ourselves. Never fear, only lend me all
you have like a good child."

As he freed her she fell to the ground.

"What is the matter?" said Jurobei, anxiously bending over her little
form.

There was no answer. She lay quite still with no sign of life or motion.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Jurobei. Thinking that she had fainted, he fetched
water and sprinkled her pale face and tried to force a few drops
between her closed lips, but there was not even a flicker of response.

The child lay dead before him. Worn out with the hardships and fatigues
of the long, long pilgrimage, as a frail light flickers out before
a rough gust of wind, her waning strength had failed in that last
struggle. The griefs of earth were left behind and the brave little
soul had set out on its longer journey to the _Meido_ (Hades).

Jurobei was thoroughly alarmed. In that tragic moment he knew not what
to do. However, hearing his wife's returning footsteps, he hastily
moved the body to one side of the room and covered it with a quilt.

O Yumi entered the room in great perturbation.

"Oh, oh! Help me to look for her, help me! While you were out this
afternoon, wonderful to tell! who should come here in search for us but
our own child, O Tsuru. How I longed to reveal myself to her, the poor,
poor little one! But the knowledge that she must share our miserable
fate when we are arrested, which may be at any moment now, forced me
to send her away without telling her that I was her mother. After she
had gone I could not bear the thought of never seeing her again. I ran
after her, but she had disappeared! She cannot have gone far. I came
back to fetch you. Let us look for her together."

Jurobei was dumbfounded at this totally unexpected intelligence. He
stood up as though ready to start out into the night.

"How was she clothed? What kind of dress did she wear?" he asked
hurriedly.

"She wore a long-sleeved robe brightly patterned with designs of spring
blossoms, and on her shoulders she carried a pilgrim's pack."

"She carried a pilgrim's pack!" echoed Jurobei forlornly, and seized
with an icy trembling. The frightful truth had flashed upon his brain.
He knew that he had killed his own child!

O Yumi, wondering at his hesitation, prepared to start out again.

"You need not go to look for our child!" Jurobei hoarsely muttered.
"She is already here!"

"Has she come back?" cried O Yumi in excitement. "Tell me where she is."

"She is lying there under that quilt," he replied, pointing to where
the body lay.

O Yumi quickly crossed the room and drew back the coverlet. "My child!
Oh, my child! At last, at last I may call you so!" cried the delighted
mother sinking on her knees in a transport of joy.

Long and tenderly she gazed at the little figure, lying prone before
her. But how strange that her clothes were still unloosened and the
heavy pack had not been unstrapped from the tired shoulders. O Yumi
touched her hands and found them cold. Panic-stricken, she listened at
the child's breast only to find her fears confirmed and that the little
form was still and lifeless.

"Oh, oh, oh!" wailed O Yumi, "She is dead! She is dead!"

The shock was too deep for tears. For a moment the unhappy woman was
paralysed.

Then turning to her husband:

"You must know how she died. Tell me! Tell me!" she gasped distractedly.

The half-dazed Jurobei related as well as he could all the events of
that fatal afternoon. He finished his recital:

"I put my hand over her mouth to stop her screaming, and on releasing
her she fell to the ground. I had no intention of killing her and
pitied the poor unfortunate girl, though I had no idea that she was
my little Tsuru. That I should have slain our own child must be the
result of sin committed in one of the former states of existence, alas!
Forgive me, O Yumi! Forgive me!" and the stricken man broke down and
wept.

"Was it you, her father, who killed her?" cried O Yumi, in horror.

"Oh, my child, my own child!" she sobbed. "It was your fate to come
in search of such cruel, unnatural parents. When you told me of the
hardships you had suffered in looking for them, my soul was pierced
with woe. When I refrained from making myself known to you I felt as
though my heart must break. It was only the depth of my love for you
that made me drive you away from our door. If only I had kept you here
this would never have happened. This calamity has come upon us as a
result of my driving you away. Forgive me, oh, forgive me! O Tsuru,
O Tsuru!" and the miserable mother gathered the lifeless form of her
little daughter to her breast and rocked herself to and fro in the
frenzy of grief unutterable.

"Words are useless. What is done can never be undone. If only I had
not known that she possessed the money to help me out of this crisis
it would never have happened. Money is a curse!" he said in broken
accents, as he took out from the folds of the child's dress the bag
containing the coins. Opening it only three _ryo_[6] were disclosed.

"What a miserable pittance! Can this be all? I made a mistake in
thinking she had a great deal. This certainly must be retribution for
some bad action in my previous existence!"

His hand still searching the bag came upon a letter. He drew it forth
and read the address:

         "_To Jurobei and his Wife!_"

"Ah! this is my mother's handwriting!"

Jurobei tore it open and began to read:

     "Ever since the day you left home we must have felt mutual
     anxiety concerning each other's health and welfare. This is
     the natural feeling between parent and child, so I shall
     not write more upon this subject, but inform you of the
     real reason for this letter without further detail.

     "First of all what I wish to tell you is, that it has come
     to my knowledge that Onota Gunbei has the lost Kunitsugu
     sword in his possession. Immediately I tried to obtain
     indisputable evidence of this fact, but as I am only a
     stupid woman, on second thoughts I feared that were I to
     take any steps in this direction it might result in more
     harm than good.

     "Intending, therefore, to seek you out and let you proceed
     in this matter, I began to prepare myself and O Tsuru for
     the journey. But at the last moment I was suddenly taken
     with a mortal illness and was compelled to relinquish
     all hope of setting out to find you. I write this letter
     instead. As soon as it reaches your hands return home at
     once.

     "Restore the sword to its rightful owner and earn your
     promotion--for this I shall wait beneath the flowers and
     the grass."

"Oh," exclaimed Jurobei, "then it was Gunbei who stole the sword. How
grateful I am to my mother for this discovery. But what a cruel blow to
think that she is dead!"

O Yumi took the letter from his hand and continued to read aloud:

     "My greatest anxiety now is concerning little O Tsuru left
     helpless and friendless, and about to start alone on this
     journey. If by the mercy and help of the Gods she reaches
     you safely, bring her up tenderly and carefully. She is a
     clever child. She writes and plays the _koto_ well, besides
     being clever at her needle, and can skilfully sew _crêpe_
     and silken robes. I myself have taken pains to instruct
     her, and am proud of my pupil. Give her an opportunity of
     showing her handiwork, and then praise her both of you.

     "She brings with her the medicine which I have found by
     experience to suit her best. Should she ail at any time,
     fail not to administer it. Although repetition is irksome,
     yet again I beg you to take every care of my precious
     grandchild."

Here O Yumi, unable to read further, broke down in lamentations and
cried aloud.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now the spiteful Butaroku, finding that Jurobei did not come to pay
Izæmon's debt according to agreement, was highly incensed. Knowing that
the authorities were on the alert to seize Jurobei, he maliciously went
and lodged information of his whereabouts.

Just at the moment they had finished reading the momentous letter the
officers of the law arrived outside the house with a great noise,
shouting and clamouring.

Jurobei and O Yumi, to gain a few minutes' time, snatched up the body
of O Tsuru and quickly concealed themselves in a back room.

The police entered and a scene of wild confusion ensued. Confident of
finding their prey hidden somewhere in the cupboards, they broke down
the walls, the _shoji_, the boards of the ceiling, and even the little
shrine dedicated to the Goddess Kwannon.

Jurobei had in those few moments braced himself up for a desperate
fight. He would rather die than surrender to the law before his mission
of finding the sword had been accomplished. Like a whirlwind he rushed
into the room where his adversaries were battering down all before
them, and like a demon of fury he attacked them, mortally slashing with
his sword each man that attempted to lay hands on him.

The savage bravery of his onslaught was terrific, and so dexterous and
unerring was his aim that he seemed possessed of superhuman strength:
his opponents were terror-stricken, and in a few minutes, like a
spider's nest, when the threads of the binding web are broken by rough
contact, they fled for their very lives and rushed scattered in all
directions.

"Now is our time! Let us escape!" cried O Yumi.

Both began to run from the wrecked house.

"You have forgotten our child!" Jurobei whispered brokenly.

"She needs our anxiety no more. She is safe beyond the suffering of
this world. We will bury her here before we leave."

Hurriedly retracing their steps they re-entered the house, and seizing
the debris that lay strewn in all directions, placed it in a heap
upon the little corpse. It was the work of a few moments to light the
torches: this was the sole alternative that was left them to prevent
their beloved dead from falling into the desecrating hands of callous
strangers.

It was impossible to carry the body with them in their flight.

As the flames crackled and blazed up, Jurobei and O Yumi stood side by
side, praying for the departed soul with uplifted hands placed palm to
palm, while they watched the burning of their child's funeral pyre.




PART IV


It was springtime, and in the town of Tokushima the cherry-blossoms
were bursting into bloom. The second of March[7] had come, and Onoto
Gunbei was secretly rejoicing in the wicked thought that his schemes
for the disgrace of his rival had been successful. Sakurai once removed
from his path, his own advancement would be certain. To-morrow Sakurai
must take the Kunitsugu sword to the palace and lay it in state before
the Daimio. For reasons of his own Gunbei knew that this would be a
matter of impossibility. Sakurai would therefore be suspected of having
stolen it and his degradation would be the certain result.

Gunbei's sinister features relaxed into a malignant smile as he proudly
stalked along the road on his way to the shrine at the western end of
the town.

Two of his retainers were following at a respectful distance in his
rear.

He had reached the precincts of the temple when one of these men came
hurrying up:

"My lord! Jurobei, the man for whom you are constantly on the look out,
is in that tea-house close by. I have just recognized him. What steps
shall we take?"

"Very good!" said his master. "You have done well. Let us hide
ourselves, and when he leaves the place rush upon him unawares and
seize him."

Jurobei, after a short time, walked out from the hostelry. His mind was
entirely engrossed with the thought that the sword must be retrieved
from Gunbei's possession before the morrow, the third of the third
month.

As he abstractedly strolled along, the enemy lying in ambush pounced
upon him from behind. But his years of _ronin's_ hard and reckless life
had trained his muscles to such phenomenal strength that in the tussle
that followed, within a few rounds, he came off triumphantly the victor.

Gunbei, who had been a spectator of this unequal contest, drew his
sword.

Jurobei, noting his action, caught up one of Gunbei's men and used him
as a shield to ward off the blows.

The news of the fight was soon carried to Sakurai, who immediately
hurried to the spot.

Directly he became aware of the identity of Gunbei's opponent, he
shouted:

"What presumption to stand up and attack your superior. Surrender at
once!"

He then turned to Gunbei.

"I will take him, therefore put up your sword."

Jurobei, who understood that this was strategy on his master's part,
obediently allowed himself to be bound. Sakurai then handed him over to
Gunbei, who gave him in charge of his henchmen and bade them conduct
him to his house.

Gunbei's joy was extreme at having Jurobei in his power. He ordered him
to be secured to a tree in the inner garden while he stood and mocked
at him.

"Ho, Jurobei! I have a grudge to pay off against you. Why did you kill
two of my men three months ago--tell me that?"

"I slew them because they intended to murder my master," replied
Jurobei.

"Indeed! I believe that you are also the man who stole the sword for
which your master is responsible--ho, ho, ho! You are both robbers, you
must have connived at the theft of the sword together--confess!"

"You may say what you like of me, but you lie with regard to Shusen."

In a rage Gunbei and his accomplices put their sheathed swords beneath
the ropes which bound Jurobei, and twisted them round and round so that
they cut into the flesh and inflicted great torture on their victim.

Now it happened that Takao, the Daimio's illegitimate half-sister, whom
Izæmon had been enabled to rescue from the infamous quarter through
Jurobei's help, had been taking refuge in Sakurai's home. Here she had
been seen by Gunbei, who had fallen madly in love with her beauty, and
had planned to make her his mistress. One day in the absence of Sakurai
he had sent his retainer, Dotetsuke, to carry her off by force.

Takao, now installed beneath Gunbei's roof, was obliged to listen to
his dishonourable advances, but so far had managed to repel them. She
was in the secret of the lost sword, and her purpose was to use the
present occasion as an opportunity of laying hands on it if possible.

On hearing the commotion she opened the _shoji_ and eagerly scanned
the direction whence it arose. To her astonishment and distress
she recognized in the bound and helpless form none other than her
valiant friend Jurobei. The thought that she owed her deliverance
from her wretched past to his chivalrous generosity flashed through
her mind. Trained to resource and intrigue, on the spur of the moment
she resolved to pretend that Jurobei was her brother. This feigned
relationship would afford them facilities for consultation concerning
the sword. Impetuously advancing to the edge of the veranda, she looked
earnestly at the captive and uttered a piteous cry:

"Oh, oh! it is my brother! Oh! my poor brother!"

"This is interesting!" jeered Gunbei. "Are you really brother and
sister?"

Takao implored Gunbei to release Jurobei.

"If you listen to me I will set him free," replied Gunbei, whose desire
was all the more inflamed by her rejection of his suit. "But if you
refuse to obey me, I will torture him with both fire and water."

Takao wept with her face hidden in her sleeves. "Is it possible that
you are a _samurai_?" she sobbed.


"Does your heart know no sympathy--no mercy? This is unendurable! I
cannot bear to see it!"

"It is you who know no sympathy either for me or your brother. I have
made conditions with you, Takao. It rests entirely with you. Accept my
love and you are both free."

"Such a matter cannot be decided of my own will. I am a woman and not a
free agent. I must consult my elder brother."

"Very well," responded Gunbei, "if you cannot decide this by yourself,
by all means consult with your elder brother Jurobei--and come to a
good understanding. I will leave you both for a while."

At a sign Gunbei's henchmen released Jurobei. "Persuade your sister
to obey me and I will forgive you all and set you free. I must have
Takao's affection. Think well, and give me an answer that will gladden
me."

Then turning to Takao he continued:

"If you finally reject my proposals you shall both be cruelly put
to death. Your two lives depend upon your will. I shall await your
decision in the inner part of the house."

Here Gunbei retired. Blinded by his wild passion for the unfortunate
girl he was unable to see the resolution expressed on both their faces.
Both his mind and soul were clouded by the desire to possess at all
costs the beautiful woman who defied him. Unaware of her high birth,
the knowledge of which would have abashed him in his pursuit of her, he
considered that she was the legitimate prey to his will.

Takao and Jurobei were left alone. They entered the room, crossing the
veranda. Seating themselves, Jurobei made a profound obeisance at a
respectful distance from Takao.

"Even though it is for the sake of the Kunitsugu sword, it is a
sacrilege that the close relative of our noble Daimio should for one
moment be called the sister of such a poor fellow as myself."

"It is not worth while to trouble your mind about these trifles while
the finding of the sword is at stake. Think not of who is master or
servant. We must find the sword this very night."

"Yes, yes," replied Jurobei, "I have the same purpose as yourself.
Now is a good opportunity. Gunbei is madly in love with you. For a
time pretend to listen to his wooing--whatever he may say do not let
it anger you--then while he is off his guard draw out the sword he is
wearing from its sheath: if the _habaki_ (the ring which secures the
guard to the blade) is of gold, ornamented with carven butterflies
and flowers, and the markings on the edge of the blade is the
_midare-yake_,[8] be sure that it is the missing Kunitsugu sword. Then
give me a sign. Till that moment I will be waiting in concealment close
at hand."

"Yes, yes," answered Takao. "Although Gunbei's attentions are hateful
to me, it is my duty, for the sake of the sword, to pretend to yield
to him for a short time. In this way Sakurai will be saved. Let us
agree upon a signal. I will go to the stream and, throwing some cherry
flowers into it, I will repeat:

    _Hana wa sakura:_
    _Hito wa bushi._

    The cherry is first among flowers:
    The warrior first among men."

They separated quietly. Takao sank upon the mats, musing sadly. The
prospect that lay before her was utterly revolting to her mind.
Meanwhile Gunbei, eager to know the result of the conference he had
permitted between the two, quietly entered the room from behind.

Her attitude of dejection greatly enhanced her pale and aristocratic
beauty, and Gunbei thought that she looked more ravishingly lovely than
he had ever seen her before. The sight of her inflamed his longing to
possess her as his own.

"What a woman!" he thought to himself. "She shall be mine!"

As he moved across the room, Takao, who was hitherto unaware of his
presence, started to her feet.

"No, no," remonstrated Gunbei in seductive accents, "I cannot allow you
to run away--do not deceive yourself for one moment. I have come for
your answer, Takao. It is 'Yes,' is it not?"

He thought that as he found her alone and in this pensive frame of mind
that Jurobei must have persuaded her to become his paramour. His pulses
throbbed and the blood in his veins ran fire. In his overmastering
passion he did not notice that his would-be victim shuddered as he took
her hand and drew her close to him till she was reclining on his knees.
Dreamily he whispered:

"Takao, you are as beautiful as an angel. Yield to my desire and I will
make you my wife. Only listen to me, and all shall be as you wish both
for yourself and your brother, Jurobei.--Come, come! Let us belong to
each other!" and he endeavoured to draw her towards the inner room.

Takao, in the meantime, had rested her hand on the hilt of his sword
and was about to draw it from its sheath.

"What are you doing, Takao! Why do you touch my sword?" asked Gunbei
sharply, roused out of his reverie of love.

"Think of me no more! With this sword I will cut off my hair and become
a nun. You may rest assured that never shall another man touch me all
my life."

With these words she attempted to draw the sword from his girdle.

Gunbei, thwarted in his longing for the beautiful woman, now lost his
temper. He pushed her roughly to one side:

"You scorn my love then? You are an obstinate creature! Instead of
forgetting you I will torture Jurobei. You shall soon know what my
hatred means." Clapping his hands, he called his confidential servant:

"Dotetsuke! Dotetsuke!"

When the man appeared his master wrathfully gave the imperious command:

"Tie up that woman to yonder cherry-tree."

Dotetsuke obediently dragged Takao into the garden and bound her with
the rope that had a little time before made Jurobei a prisoner to the
same tree.

Gunbei, who had watched the execution of his cruel order from the
veranda, retired into the room to meditate sulkily on his ill-success.
His heart was bitter within him with chagrin and baffled desire.

Suddenly, through a small side gate, there appeared a priest of
sinister appearance who, approaching the balcony, saluted Gunbei.

"According to your wishes I have prayed seven days in succession for
the Daimio of Tokushima to be seized with mortal illness. Where is my
reward?"

"Do not speak so loudly!" reproved Gunbei. "You may be overheard! You
shall be duly compensated for your services later. This is not the
time. Return at once!"

"Yes, yes, I will obey you, but do not forget to let me have the money
soon."

And Kazoin, the wicked priest, fingering his rosary and praying for
evil, departed as stealthily as he had come.

Meanwhile the unhappy Takao was left alone. She struggled to free her
hands from the cords that cut into her tender flesh, but in vain.

"What shall I do?" she sobbed. "Jurobei must be waiting for my answer.
I must find some means of letting him know my condition. Is there no
way by which I can get free? I am powerless to find the sword or to
help Shusen."

She struggled desperately against the tree and in her anguish she
murmured:

"Gunbei is surely a devil in human form. He has stolen the sword
himself in order to incriminate others. Shusen will be lost and his
house ruined unless we can recover it this very night."

In her violent efforts to wrench herself free the cherry-tree was
shaken and several blossoms fell into the stream. The falling flowers
brought hope and comfort to Takao's heart.

"The holy Buddha has come to our aid," she reflected. "Jurobei
will surely see the flowers in the water, and think that it is the
pre-arranged signal."

Meanwhile Jurobei, from his hiding-place, was watching the stream,
waiting with impatience for the promised sign. Just as he was beginning
to chafe at the unexpected delay he caught sight of a cluster of white
blossoms floating down the current of the rivulet.

"Ah, then it was the Kunitsugu sword which Gunbei stole and wore on his
person, never letting it out of his sight night or day."


[Illustration: Gunbei had watched the execution of his cruel order from
the veranda.]


Creeping along within the shadow of the trees he stealthily made his
way across the inner garden towards the room where he expected to find
Takao.

But what was his surprise when he came upon her bound to the
cherry-tree.

"Jurobei, at last you have come!" she gasped.

"Takao Sama, whatever has happened? Why are you treated like this?"

"It is because I could not endure Gunbei's hateful attentions," she
answered, weeping. "Help me, I cannot move!"

Jurobei set to work to unfasten the ropes and in a few minutes Takao
was released.

"Leave this matter to me!" advised Jurobei. "I will find some means of
outwitting Gunbei yet."

And Jurobei, followed by Takao who was endeavouring to arrange her
disordered robes, boldly strode into the room of his enemy.

The screens were pushed aside and Gunbei appeared. He glared fiercely
at the intruding couple.

"How dare you release that woman without my permission?"

"It is my intention to counsel her to comply with your wishes," replied
Jurobei, "therefore have I set her free--to give her to you as my
sister."

"Ya, Jurobei, have your powers of persuasion induced your sister to
consent to my proposals?" inquired Gunbei in mocking tones.

"Yes, I know not which I am, an elder brother or a go-between. If you
have any other work for me, I am at your service."

"Ha, ha!" sneered Gunbei, "then as your sister agrees to please me we
shall now be members of the same family. As a sign that we are closely
related, take this by way of congratulation," and suddenly drawing his
sword, he slashed at Jurobei.

Jurobei's keen eye forestalled the action, and, skilled fencer that he
was, like lightning he seized a bucket close at hand and, holding it
up, adroitly parried the rain of blows with this improvised shield.

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed. "This is too much attention even
from a relative. It is troublesome. Surely so much ceremony between
members of the same family is unnecessary. Please take it back."

Gunbei's answer was another wild attack on Jurobei, who nimbly avoided
the thrusts.

While his whole attention was engrossed in trying to cut down Jurobei,
Takao stole behind him and snatched the long sword hanging at his side
from its sheath.

"Here is the Kunitsugu sword," she joyfully exclaimed.

On hearing these words, Gunbei turned like a demon of fury upon her.

"If you have found it I will kill you both," shouted Gunbei.

But before he could execute his threat Jurobei seized him from behind.

Dotetsuke, a secret supporter of Shusen Sakurai, and who all this time
has acted the part of a spy and pretended accomplice in Gunbei's vile
schemes, now escorted his real master upon the scene.

Sakurai loftily addressed his unmasked foe.

"Your villainous plots are all laid bare, and it is impossible for you
to escape justice. Confess all and pray for mercy."

Gunbei, choking with rage, flung off Jurobei and rushed upon his
abhorred rival.

Sakurai skilfully parried the onslaught, seized Gunbei, and with a
prodigious effort hurled him out into the garden.

"Dotetsuke!" called Sakurai, "come and help us!"

"Yes, yes!" answered the man, as he ran to Jurobei's assistance in
holding the wretch down.

Gunbei started.

"What? Are you also on Shusen's side?" and he gnashed his teeth in
impotent fury.

"You have won!" He turned to Shusen. "It is useless for me to attempt
to conceal the truth. I stole the sword, thereby hoping to bring about
your ruin. I can say no more. Take the sword and return to your house.
Does not that suffice?"

"The sword is but a small part of the crimes you have committed.
Listen, villain that you are! You have done a much greater wrong. Our
Lord, the Daimio of Tokushima, has loaded you with favours, and you,
like a dastardly traitor, have requited his kindness by conspiring to
compass the death of your benefactor."

"Silence, Shusen! That is a lie. I have always hated you as my rival,
but I have borne no spite towards our Lord. What proof could you
possibly have for such base allegations?" and Gunbei stared hard at his
accuser.

Shusen smiled superciliously as he clapped his hands. In answer to the
summons, Izæmon led in a prisoner, Kazoin, the wicked priest.

"Here are my witnesses of your schemes against the life of the Lord of
Tokushima."

Gunbei realized his checkmate: there was nothing to be gained by lying
further. He was a declared traitor. In desperation he attempted to
rally his strength and attack Sakurai again, but he was promptly seized
and again thrown down into the garden.

"You are a bad man, Gunbei. Our Lord shall judge you." Then turning to
the men he gave the command:

"Bind him, hand and foot!"

When the mortified Gunbei lay helpless and cringing at his mercy,
Shusen turned to his trusty vassal and addressed him, saying:

"Jurobei, I promote you in my service. You are a true and faithful
knight. Let us rejoice, for we have triumphed and our enemy will
receive his deserts--he is defeated!"

Takao here brought forward the sword and placed it slowly and
ceremoniously before Jurobei who had staked his life, his house, his
all, and lost his only child in the tragic search.

"It is found in time!" she said. "Look, the dawn breaks! It is the
morning of the third of March!"

Receiving the weapon with a profound bow, Jurobei, on bended knees,
raised it aloft in both hands and presented it to his feudal master,
saying:

"To your keeping is at last restored the stolen treasure of our
Daimio!" and thus ended the

_Quest of the Lost Sword_

Note.--Kunitsugu was the name of a famous swordsmith who lived at the
end of the Kamakura Period, 1367.



[Footnote 1: A small knife which fits into the hilt of a sword.]

[Footnote 2: The Shrines of Kumano or The Three Holy Places date from
the first century B.C., and are famous for their healing powers. The
Nachi waterfall is the third of these ancient shrines, and is No. 1 of
the thirty-three places sacred to Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy.]

[Footnote 3: Lit. Flower-Capital = Kyoto.]

[Footnote 4: In old Japan the sentence of imprisonment, execution, and
even crucifixion fell on the wife as well as all the children, even to
the youngest babe of the criminal.]

[Footnote 5: _Koban_ = the name of an ancient pure gold coin elliptical
in shape, worth about one _Yen_, but the purchasing value perhaps a
hundred times what it is in the present day.]

[Footnote 6: _Ryo = Yen_, about two shillings, but in those times equal
to perhaps a hundred times its present value.]

[Footnote 7: March by the old calendar fell a month later than the
present way of reckoning.]

[Footnote 8: Swords of different smiths were distinguished by the
marks on their blades, formed by the different methods of welding. The
_midare-yake_ is an undulating line like the waves of the sea.]




THE TRAGEDY OF KESA GOZEN


The beautiful tragedy of Kesa Gozen has been familiar to me since
the days of my early youth, when hand in hand I walked the school
garden with Fumiko, my friend, and listened with the ardour of a
romance-loving nature to the many stories of old Japan, and more
especially of its heroines of antiquity, with which she loved to make
me familiar.

Fumiko was the daughter of a naval officer, well versed in the
literature of her own land, and a good English scholar. I had only
just come to Japan, an Anglo-Japanese girl who had been brought up in
England, knowing nothing of my fatherland. "Friendships are discovered,
not made," says a philosopher, and in our case this was true. In
her delightful and sympathetic companionship I began to forget the
heart-aching homesickness for my motherland, and to learn to accustom
myself to the strange country to which fate and my father had brought
me. There is nothing more pitiful than the abysmal loneliness and utter
hopelessness of the young, cut off from those they love, and planted
in antipodal surroundings; they have no experience to tell them that
misery, like joy, is but a condition of time, and that both pass and
alternate. Who can say what drew us together? Yet never was I happier
than when she put her hand in mine and made me her confidante, and
great was my sorrow when she married and left me to pace the garden
alone and to the memory of all the stories she had told me. To her I
owe my awakening to the beauty of Japanese romance and the love of
those old tragedies.

Many years have passed since then, but when I was told that Danjiro was
acting the drama of Kesa Gozen at the Kabukiza Theatre my mind flashed
back to those convent-like days when Fumiko and I

    _Lo, as some innocent and eager maiden_
      _Leans o'er the wistful limit of the world_,

    _Dreams of the glow and glory of the distance_,
      _Wonderful wooing and the grace of tears_,
    _Dreams with what eyes and what a sweet insistence_
      _Lovers are waiting in the hidden years_,

stirred to life stories of love and duty, old as the dawn which first
broke upon the island empire, yet ever new and living while hearts
throb to the music of the ideal.

But I am long in coming to the story of Kesa Gozen. This beautiful and
touching story of the Japanese ideal of woman's character and morals
is told in the drama called _Nachi-No-Taki Chikai No Mongaku_, "The
Priest Mongaku at the Waterfall of Nachi" (it is characteristic of the
Japanese that they have ignored the heroine in the title of the drama),
which was acted by Danjiro Ichikawa, the star of the Japanese stage, at
the Kabukiza Theatre during the month of October 1902. The heights of
romance and tragedy are scaled, and the pathos of a woman's unflinching
and voluntary sacrifice of life, rends the heart. The heroine is not a
Francesca da Rimini, caught up by the whirlwind of passion and blown
whithersoever it listeth, but a woman who finds herself confronted by
a vehement and determined love, out of the toils of which she sees no
escape, and so, in the prime of youth and beauty, to save her husband's
name, her mother's life, and her own virtue, she calmly arranges by
stratagem to die by the hand of her impetuous and would-be lover.

These tragic events took place in the year 1160, and a full account of
them may be found in the "Gempei Seisuiki," a record of the rise and
fall of the two great rival clans, the Taira[1] and the Minamoto, whose
struggles for supremacy disturbed Japan for many years, and find a
parallel in the conflicts of the White and Red Roses in England.

What is known historically of the story is this. Kesa, the heroine, was
the only child of a widowed mother called Koromogawa, after the place
of her residence during her married life. The word "Koromo" means the
vestments of a priest, and her daughter was consequently called "Kesa,"
which means the "stole," her real name being Atoma. Both her father and
grandfather were knights. The mother and daughter led a secluded life,
always bordering on poverty, and at times menaced by actual want.

Koromogawa took charge of an orphaned nephew, a boy, a few years
older than Kesa, and the two young cousins grew up together, with
the old-fashioned result that the lad fell in love with the lass. At
the age of sixteen, Yendo Morito, called away probably on business
connected with his clan, had to leave Kesa, just then budding into
exquisite beauty. Before leaving he entreated his aunt to promise him
Kesa in marriage. Koromogawa complied. Yendo did not return for five
years, and in the meantime, Watanabe Wataru, a wealthy and handsome
young warrior, proposed for the hand of Kesa. The mother, probably in
consideration of the advantages of the match from a worldly point of
view, neglected her promise to Yendo, and married Kesa to Wataru, who
also was the girl's cousin. After they have been married two years
Yendo Morito returns and sees his lovely young cousin by accident.
His boy's love, cherished fondly during long years of absence, flames
into a man's overmastering passion at sight of her. He learns, to his
despair, that she is married to another, and in his wrath determines
to kill his aunt who, by her faithlessness to her promise, has made
his life a misery. He rushes out and entering his aunt's house draws
his sword upon her. She, to gain time, weakly promises that he shall
see Kesa that very evening. Yendo, fain to be content with this hope,
retires, and Koromogawa summons her daughter by a letter.

When Kesa arrives she finds that her mother has made all arrangements
to kill herself, and on learning the circumstances she undertakes to
see her cousin, and quiets her distressed parent. Then she interviews
Morito and tells him that she has always loved him, but before she
can be his he must first put her husband out of the way. To this he
willingly consents. She bids him come that night to the house, where
she will make her husband wash his hair and drink wine so that he may
sleep soundly. Yendo is to steal in at midnight and, by feeling for
the damp hair, find and slay his rival. Kesa returns home, washes her
own hair, and sleeps in the room she has pointed out to Yendo, having
carefully put her husband to sleep in an inner room.

This is an interesting psychological point, and is perhaps obscure to
the Western reader. The ethical training of a Japanese woman teaches
her that in any great crisis she is the one to be sacrificed. Kesa,
rather than be the cause of a quarrel which would involve her husband
and her mother in a blood-feud with Yendo, puts herself out of the way,
and by doing so not only saves the lives of all concerned, but preaches
a silent and moving sermon to her kinsman, whose ungoverned conduct is
contrary to the teaching of all Japanese moralists.

The mad and reckless lover comes, but when he thinks to gaze with
triumph on the severed head of his hated rival he is stricken with
horror to find that he has murdered the woman he loved so passionately.
He confesses his crime to the husband and they both become monks. Years
after, from the obscurity of the monastery, having survived a long
interval of austere life and self-inflicted penances, there rises into
the prominence of political life a monk called Mongaku, who is the
friend and counsellor of the great Shogun, Yoritomo, the head of the
Minamoto clan. Mongaku, the monk, is the knight Yendo Morito.

It is the opinion of some that Kesa really loved Yendo, but her filial
obedience obliged her to marry the man whom her mother chose for her.
Then, when she found how great was her cousin's love for her, and
knowing that in her heart she returned his love, but that she could not
be his without sin, she went gladly to her death, rejoicing, doubtless,
that it was by the sword of her beloved she should perish.[2]

This version is the more beautiful and tragic, for we have a woman
triumphant in the face of the strongest temptation that can ever beat
against a human heart. The invincible yearning of the flesh must have
been there, but the soul battled bravely and won. The power of beauty,
the joy of conquest in love, these are hers; but Kesa, remaining
faithful to duty, by her death places the honour of the family beyond
all danger of blemish through her.

The present drama does not recognize this latter version, but is
founded on the former. The tragedy is epic from beginning to end, and
"is lifted from the outset into the high region of things predestined."
Fate, like some dread spider, weaves her fatal web of love and doom,
and Kesa is caught in the meshes. The grand simplicity of the play
and the purity of purpose of the heroine recall the Greek drama
and the Roman tragedy of _Lucretia_. Kesa allows herself no petty,
despicable dalliance with admiration; vanity lures her not from the
narrow path of right. She sees that nothing will swerve Yendo from his
irresistible passion, and she resolves to die. "Fear in the face of
danger dies," and having quickly made up her mind she never vacillates
nor looks back, but moves forward with the dignity of sublime reserve
to pre-determined and self-imposed death. And Kesa was only seventeen
years of age. Think of it!



Act I. The play begins with a scene in the open air. A new bridge has
been built near the town of Osaka, which can be seen with the hills
and pine-trees in the distance. Numbers of Buddhist priests appear in
gorgeous robes and offer prayers for the safety of the new bridge.

Some village officials, a retainer of Yendo Morito, who is
superintendent of the works, and Watanabe Kaoru, a brother-in-law to
Kesa, the heroine, appear, and the young knight tells those present
that his brother's wife Kesa is coming to see the opening of the new
bridge.

In a few minutes Kesa, the picture of youth and grace, in lovely
_crêpe_ robes, her face hidden by a gossamer gown held over her head
with both hands (an ancient custom resembling the Turkish _yashmak_),
comes fluttering over the bridge like some radiant moth, followed by
two attendants, Tamakoto and Otose. Before saluting her brother-in-law
Kaoru, she removes the gauze veil and reveals to all a face of
surpassing loveliness--gracefully oval in shape, a complexion white
as the lily, lips crimson as the bud of the peach blossom, and long
almond eyes, surmounted by eyebrows like the crescent of the new moon.
She speaks to her brother-in-law, who tells her that he is going to
see her cousin, Yendo Morito, the superintendent of the new bridge.
Kesa then prepares to retire and, donning the gauze-robe _yashmak_,
her attendants helping, she turns to go home. As she moves away
Yendo Morito, on horseback, crosses the bridge and, catching sight
of the beautiful woman, watches her disappear into the distance. The
priest and officials bow in polite salutation, but he is oblivious to
everything near him, for his gaze is riveted on the retreating figure
of Kesa. He thrills with rapturous emotion at the sight, and happy
memories of their childhood and early youth rush over him.

The tragedy begins here. Yendo Morito, after several years' absence,
sees his cousin for the first time and, shaken with a mighty love, now
learns that she, who was promised to him in his boyhood, is already the
wife of another--of his kinsman, Watanabe Wataru.



Act II. The curtain is pulled aside upon the maternal home of Kesa,
a small thatched cottage in the country near Kyoto. The whole aspect
of the little home denotes genteel poverty, tranquil retirement, and
spotless cleanliness. The two ladies who accompanied Kesa in the first
Act, Tamakoto and Otose, are discovered in the little sitting-room
discoursing. Koromogawa, an old lady with flowing grey hair, comes out
from an inner room and receives her two visitors. In the course of
conversation they ask her to tell them the reason why she has lived so
long in such a remote place as the province of Mutsu. In compliance
with their request, Koromogawa says:

"I am the daughter of a knight who held the province in tenure for his
services to his feudal lord. My husband was a retainer of the Governor
of Mutsu, and so when we were married we went and lived at Koromogawa.
My daughter Kesa was born to me there. Soon after my husband died, and
I went back with my child to my old home, and have since lived a quiet
and humble life. On my return the people of this neighbourhood called
me after the place, Koromogawa, where my married life had been spent,
and my daughter was called Kesa, though her real name is Atoma. She
grew up here and married Watanabe Wataru."

At this point an official named Gorokuro, who seems to be on friendly
terms with the old lady, comes in and sits by the charcoal hearth and
makes a cup of tea for every one present. The hearth is square, sunk in
the floor, and the kettle hangs, gipsy fashion, over the fire, as is
the way in the houses of the poorer classes. While serving tea Gorokuro
complains of the behaviour of Yendo Morito during the building of the
bridge. This young and impetuous knight treated the workmen in such a
rigorous manner that insubordination resulted, and he, Gorokuro, had
great trouble in controlling them. This incident gives the key to the
young knight's character. Koromogawa apologizes to Gorokuro for the
trouble her nephew Yendo has given him.

While this conversation proceeds, Kesa, accompanied by one of her
husband's retainers, Kisoda by name, arrives. Having dropped her
sandals on the stepping-stone to the veranda, she removes her veiling
robe, enters the house, and greets the old lady with low bows. She says
that, whilst on her way home from visiting a temple with her husband,
she has come to see her mother. In a little while the two ladies,
Tamakoto and Otose, take their leave, and Kesa and her mother retire to
an inner room.

Yendo Morito is now seen approaching the house along the _hana-michi_,
and announces himself at the gate. Koromogawa, in answer to the call,
comes out to receive him and asks his business. He replies that
his business is private and that he must speak with her in secret.
Koromogawa then ushers her nephew into a back room, and the passing of
the daylight is marked by the lighting of a candle. As he enters the
house he starts at the sight of a woman's sandals on the steps, and
evidently guesses that Kesa is near at hand. Little dreaming of the
storm that is brewing, the old lady asks her nephew to be seated. He
ominously remains standing with his hand upon his sword. Suddenly the
young knight's eyes flash, he snatches the sword from its sheath, and
seizing his astonished aunt, his pent-up sense of injury and the misery
of his thwarted hopes find vent in these words:

"Prepare to die at once! You are my enemy, and I am of the Watanabe
clan, who never allow their enemies to live even for a day."

"What wrong have I done you that you should wish to kill me?" exclaims
the terrified woman.

"Five years ago, before I went away, you promised to give me Kesa in
marriage. I come back, and at the opening of the Watanabe bridge I see
her, but only as the wife of another. I have always loved Kesa, and
now I am bitterly disappointed and sick--sick with hopeless love and
despair. It is true no correspondence has passed between us, but that
has nothing to do with your promise. Ever since I last saw Kesa I have
been ill, and I cannot and will not live without her. This is all your
fault. You are my enemy, you shall die! and I will then kill myself. We
will die together--prepare yourself!"

"Wait a moment!" shrieks the terrified mother. "I did not mean to break
my promise, but Wataru compelled me to give her to him. If you really
still love her I will get her back somehow or other. Only calm yourself
and listen to reason."

But the young knight is reckless to madness; the old woman's pleading
is lost upon him and, perhaps guessing that Kesa is in the next room,
he determines to appeal to her filial piety so as to make her appear.
He raises his sword and seizes his aunt again, but he has no time
to strike: the sliding of a screen, the rustle of a woman's silken
garments, and between Yendo and the victim of his vengeance there darts
the lovely Kesa--his arm is stayed by her small hand, and, tremulous
with agitation, a voice he has longed to hear for many lonely years
says:

"Spare my poor old mother!"

The mother throws herself between Kesa and Yendo, crying:

"I am ready to die. You must not sacrifice your virtue to save me."

[Illustration: Yendo draws his sword, when between him and the victim
of his vengeance there darts the lovely Kesa]

Kesa again intervenes between her lover and her mother; again the
mother throws herself in an agony of dread between them; but at
last Kesa persuades the old woman to retire and to leave all to her
discretion. Koromogawa then goes into the next room. The knight fixes
his gaze upon his beautiful cousin, he trembles with emotion, and the
resolve to possess her strengthens within his storm-tossed soul. She
belongs to him by prior right. He had asked for her, and she had been
promised to him before Wataru thought of her; what right had her mother
to give her to Wataru? Anger sweeps away all remembrance of the past
and of what he owes his aunt. Jealousy and desire, and hatred of the
one whom he thinks has wronged him, alone remain. In vain Kesa gently
pleads and expostulates. As if impatient of the delay of his vengeance,
Yendo once more seizes his sword and rushes towards the inner room.
Then Kesa wheels round upon him, and with her cheek close to his, her
gorgeous _crêpe_ draperies touching him and her hand upon his arm, she
whispers in his ear:

"I have always loved you, Yendo. If you really love me as you say, you
must first put my husband out of the way, and I am yours."

"How can I kill him?" whispers the determined man.

"Come to-morrow night and steal into the bedroom of my husband. I shall
make him drunk with wine. You can identify him by touching his hair,
for I shall induce him to wash it before retiring, and you will find
the locks wet."

As Kesa whispers her plan the tense figure of the desperate knight
relaxes from its stern purpose of murder. Thrilling with hope and
passion, he turns to her, and in the attitude of her abandonment and
yielding to his will he sees the vision of their united happiness--the
gratification of his passionate desires. Little does his wild and
lawless nature dream of the escape which the noble woman will force
out of the toils fast closing round her. The picture as the two stand
together is intensely dramatic, and vibrates with the portent of a
mighty crisis.



Act III opens upon the fine residence of Watanabe Wataru, the husband
of Kesa. The gleaming cream wood of the veranda and the posts, the
fineness of the matting, the dainty white and gold of the walls
and screens are all part of the exquisite refinements of a wealthy
Japanese home. Kesa and her husband are discovered sitting side by side
in a room opening on the garden. A large slab of granite forms the
stepping-stone from the veranda and a line of irregular slabs makes a
pathway to the bamboo gate which shuts off the outer garden. The whole
arrangement and the atmosphere are realistic of a Japanese home.

The young people, both magnificently robed, have only just retired
to their sitting-room, for they have been entertaining guests at a
banquet. The only furniture in the room is a sword-stand, on which the
knight places his long weapon, the insignia of _samurai_ honour. Before
them is a small low table[3] (_sambo_) of white wood, on which stands
a white wine-jar and her husband's drinking-cup. Kesa dismisses the
two servants in attendance, and then proceeds to pour out some wine
for her husband. Wataru little dreams that it is the last cup his wife
will ever drink with him, though to her, knowing her premeditated and
self-arranged doom, the little ceremony has not only a sacrificial
symbolism, but the appalling pathos and irrevocable pitilessness of a
last love rite.

[Illustration: Wataru little dreams that it is the last cup his wife
will ever drink with him.]

Wataru drains the wine-cup and, handing it to Kesa, pours the wine out
for her. Kesa drinks, and then, overcome at last by a sadness which
her husband does not understand, turns away and weeps. She explains
that her tears spring from the thought of the unchangeable love between
husband and wife, which would last even after death. He replies that
the knowledge of their mutual faithfulness should be a joy and not a
grief. While thus conversing in the hush of night, the deep mellow
tone of a temple bell announces the hour of midnight. Kesa persuades
her husband to retire to her own bedroom this night. On her knees she
pushes aside the screens leading to an inner room, and as he passes
in she bows with her head to the floor, and then closes them after
him. Never will she see her husband again, yet her self-control is so
great that she gives no sign of the emotion which must have surged over
her at that moment. She knows that it is an eternal farewell, yet she
allows Wataru to pass from her sight with only the usual greeting.

For a little time she stands like one dazed; then, recollecting
herself, she disappears for a few minutes and returns along the
veranda. Now, for the first time, those that do not know the story
divine the tragic end. Her long black hair streams, wet and heavy, over
her shoulders, and she feels it as she moves along to make sure that
it is quite wet. On her arm she carries one of her husband's _kimono_
and his ceremonial cap, all necessary for the deception of Yendo. Her
aspect expresses hopeless grief and resignation. Twice in her slow
progress to the outer room she stops and weeps. She looks out upon the
still garden, and the coolness of the fragrant air and the soothing
silence of the autumn night must seem to mock her woe. At the second
outburst of grief it seems for a moment as if her resolution has failed
her. She lays her cheek, in a passion of yearning and tenderness, on
the robe she carries, and her tears fall fast at the thought of her
happy wedded life, so soon to be cut short by the lawless desire of
another man. There will be no one to pray for her old mother when she
dies--it should be a daughter's duty to offer the daily incense to
a mother's departed spirit; she can never know the pride of bearing
a son to preserve the name of her husband's family. Oh! the pity of
it--the pity of it! These, and more than these, must have been her sad
thoughts. That she was loth to leave the world we learn by the poem,
written in these moments of anguish, which she left with her farewell
letter to her mother. She raises her head at last and comes forward.
Her husband's honour, her mother's life, and her own purity are at
stake; the weakness of sorrow vanishes--there is no other way than
this. Her beauty is the sin, for it has roused Yendo's passion: her
beauty must pay the penalty--her life is the sacrifice.

To-night--as she planned when she rushed in upon the tumultuous scene
between her mother and Yendo--she will sleep in her husband's room, and
when Yendo her cousin comes, instead of killing her husband, his sword
will cut off her own head. She lifts the bamboo curtain which hangs
before the room at the end of the veranda and passes to her doom.

The stage is darkened and empty. An impressive interval of silence
and inaction follows. The audience throbs with the sustained sense of
impending catastrophe and fatality hanging over the house. The awful
pregnancy of the situation is intensely realistic, and its contrasts
are strikingly dramatic. In the inner room--his wife's room, their
happy bridal chamber--lies the husband, wrapt in peaceful sleep,
pitifully unconscious of the tragedy which is being enacted within a
few feet of him. In the outer room the young wife lies waiting in the
lonely dark for the sword of her lover. Who can realize the tension of
those last minutes, stretched to eternity by the agony of suspense?
If by any chance her plan fails, her husband or her cousin will be
killed, or both. What if Wataru, roused by some slight noise, come out
to find Yendo approaching the room where she has arranged to sleep;
what construction must he put upon these circumstances. And then, her
senses sharpened by suffering and by the unutterable loneliness of the
awful situation, she thinks that she catches the first faint sound of
Yendo's stealthy footsteps. She counts them as they draw near, and as
the bamboo curtain is raised and the swish of the sword falls upon her
in the dark, she smiles to think that the struggle is over, that she
has triumphed, and thus she faces death with the magnificent courage
with which she had planned it.

Yendo Morito arrives. His long sleeves are looped back, ready for
his dreadful work, and in his hand he carries a drawn sword. Swiftly
and noiselessly he moves along the veranda; pauses for a few moments
outside the room where lies asleep, as he imagines, the only obstacle
between him and the woman he loves--loves so passionately, madly,
and blindly that he is willing to use the murder of his kinsman as a
stepping-stone to reach her. He enters.

The stage revolves. The courtyard of a temple is the next scene,
surrounded by a wall with stone steps leading up to the outer court.
The murderer is seen coming out upon the top of the steps into the
moonlight: he carries something covered under his arm. Turning towards
the flood of moonlight with a fierce and unholy joy at the thought
of gazing on his rival's head, he uncovers what he carries. To his
unspeakable horror and amazement the moonlight reveals the head of
Kesa--his love--not that of Wataru, whom it was his purpose to kill.
Unable to believe his eyes, he raises the head by the wet hair once
more into the full light of the moon. There is no mistake. He recoils
in a great revulsion of feeling as the truth forces itself upon his
unwilling, shrinking mind, all his strength goes from him, he reels and
staggers like a drunken man, and gasping for breath, he falls upon the
steps overcome with uttermost anguish and remorse. In that awful moment
he sees the hideousness of his crime and the wickedness of his heart in
its true light. The cloud of darkness, as the Japanese say, rolls back
from his soul, and he is smitten to earth with the sense of his guilt
and misery.

[Illustration: To his unspeakable horror and amazement the moonlight
reveals the head of Kesa--his love!]


The fourth scene of this Act represents the front gate of Wataru's
house. It is the morning following the last scene. Outside stand
numerous tradesmen--the rice-man, the fishmonger, and some
_samurai_--all unable to effect an entrance, for, though late in the
morning, the house is still closed. After repeated knocking, Kisoda and
Otose appear and tell them that, on account of an unfortunate event
which has occurred in the house, they must be asked to withdraw for the
day. The tradesmen then go grumbling away.

The next scene represents the familiar chamber where Wataru and Kesa
sat together the evening before. In the middle of the room lies an
ominous pile of quilts covering the remains of Kesa, splendidly dead
by her own will. Before the corpse of his young wife sits the husband,
the picture of mute and stoic grief. Opposite him is Koromogawa. Behind
her again are Tamakoto and Otose. Wataru tells them that last night
he slept in his wife's room in compliance with her wish, while she
retired to his room. That in the morning he found her killed and her
head carried away, and that no clue or trace of the murderer can be
discovered. He says he can hardly speak for grief at the loss of Kesa
and the disgrace his knighthood has suffered.

An attendant here rushes in and says that Yendo insists on seeing
Wataru. Wataru sends a message to say that he cannot receive him now.
The servant returns to say that Yendo is forcing his way into the
house, and that it is impossible to check him. Yendo rushes in like a
whirlwind and seats himself outside the room, on the veranda. He lays
the head down before them all and confesses his crime, with all the
circumstances relating to it. Then comes the most heart-rending part
of the tragedy. The old mother tenderly unwraps the head and, folding
it to her bosom, gives way to a loud and long paroxysm of grief. Wail
after wail bursts from her. She rocks herself in wild abandonment to
the poignancy of an overwhelming and totally unexpected sorrow. The
_samurai_ stoicism of the husband avails him not in this hour of bitter
trial. He wipes his slow tears furtively away. Tamakoto brings out a
letter of Kesa's found in the room where she was killed. Yendo snatches
up the letter, spreads it out before him, and reads it aloud. It is
addressed to her mother, and may be rendered into English as follows:

"I have always heard [this is a humble form of expression which women
are supposed to use--they must never assert a fact] that woman is a
sinful creature [because of her beauty, which lures men to sin]. I
fear that many people [meaning her mother, husband, and admirer] are
in danger of their lives because of me. Mother, I know that you will
sorrow much if I die, and I am sorrowful, thinking of the grief which
I must cause you. I intend to expiate my sin [meaning the sin of being
beautiful, which has caused Yendo to love her] by death. Weep not for
me, and though it should be my place to pray for you, I beseech you to
pray for the rest of my soul when I have departed on the journey of
death. I can understand your sorrow, and this is the only anxiety I
feel at this moment."

Morito now presents his sword to Wataru and requests him to take life
for life, and to behead him in order to avenge his wife's death. Wataru
replies that he has no wish to kill him, since he has confessed and
repented of his crime. "Let us forsake this worldly life and become
followers of Buddha, and spend the rest of our lives in praying for
Kesa."

Then and there the two knights, first Wataru and then Yendo, take their
swords and cut off their queues of hair.[4] Tamakoto brings in a low
table, and on this Koromogawa places the head of Kesa. A tray with an
incense-burner is now placed before the ghastly presence. The stricken
mother, having set the incense burning, takes her rosary and bows her
head in prayer to the brave departed spirit. Wataru now moves towards
the extempore shrine, and worships with his face hidden.

[Illustration: Yendo draws his sword, when between him and the victim
of his vengeance there darts the lovely Kesa]


In the presence of transcendent virtue and sublimely unselfish heroism,
the sinner is forgotten. The silent scene of woe and desolation is too
much for the penitent Yendo; he rises, and with one last-lingering
look turns to go into his lifelong retreat from the world. Thus the
stupendous tragedy, from the pitch of distraction and calamity, is
brought to a quiet and reconciling close.

Note.--The title of the play, _The Priest Mongaku at the Waterfall
of Nachi_, is taken from the last scene, which represents the monk
Mongaku undergoing his self-inflicted penance of sitting under this
famous waterfall where he would have died had not two Buddhist
deities descended from Heaven to rescue him. This I have omitted as
I considered it an anti-climax. It is an historical fact, however,
that Mongaku, to purge himself of his sins, did undergo these terrible
austerities and sufferings.


[Illustration: His grandfather had been a retainer of Ota Dokan ... and
had committed suicide when his lord fell in battle.]


[Footnote 1: The writer's father traces his descent from Taira no
Kiyomori, the clan's chieftain.]

[Footnote 2: This is the interpretation that the writer and her friend
put upon the heroine's conduct.]

[Footnote 3: These simple white utensils are always used in Shinto
ceremonies.]

[Footnote 4: Buddhist priests shave their heads.]




THE SPIRIT OF THE LANTERN


Some three hundred years ago, in the province of Kai and the town
of Aoyagi, there lived a man named Koharu Tomosaburo, of well-known
ancestry. His grandfather had been a retainer of Ota Dokan,[1] the
founder of Yedo, and had committed suicide when his lord fell in battle.

This brave clansman's grandson was Tomosaburo, who, when this story
begins, had been happily married for many years to a woman of the same
province and was the proud father of a son some ten years of age.

At this time it happened, one day, that his wife fell suddenly ill
and was unable to leave her bed. Physicians were called in but had to
acknowledge themselves baffled by the curious symptoms of the patient:
to relieve the paroxysms of pain from which she suffered, _Moxa_ was
applied and burned in certain spots down her back. But half a month
passed by and the anxious household realized that there was no change
for the better in the mysterious malady that was consuming her: day by
day she seemed to lose ground and waste away.

Tomosaburo was a kind husband and scarcely left her bedside: day and
night he tenderly ministered to his stricken wife, and did all in his
power to alleviate her condition.

One evening, as he was sitting thus, worn out with the strain of
nursing and anxiety, he fell into a doze. Suddenly there came a change
in the light of the standing-lantern, it flushed a brilliant red, then
flared up into the air to the height of at least three feet, and within
the crimson pillar of flame there appeared the figure of a woman.

Tomosaburo gazed in astonishment at the apparition, who thus addressed
him:

"Your anxiety concerning your wife's illness is well-known to me,
therefore I have come to give you some good advice. The affliction
with which she is visited is the punishment for some faults in her
character. For this reason she is possessed of a devil. If you will
worship me as a god, I will cast out the tormenting demon."

Now Tomosaburo was a brave, strong-minded _samurai_, to whom the
sensation of fear was totally unknown.

He glared fiercely at the apparition, and then, half unconsciously,
turned for the _samurai's_ only safeguard, his sword, and drew it from
its sheath. The sword is regarded as sacred by the Japanese knight and
was supposed to possess the occult power assigned to the sign of the
cross in mediæval Europe--that of exorcising evil.

The spirit laughed superciliously when she saw his action.

"No motive but the kindest of intentions brought me here to proffer
you my assistance in your trouble, but without the least appreciation
of my goodwill you show this enmity towards me. However, your wife's
life shall pay the penalty," and with these malicious words the phantom
disappeared.

[Illustration: He glared fiercely at the apparition, and then, half
unconsciously, turned for the _samurai's_ only safeguard, his sword.]

From that hour the unhappy woman's sufferings increased, and to the
distress of all about her, she seemed about to draw her last breath.

Her husband was beside himself with grief. He realized at once what a
false move he had made in driving away the friendly spirit in such an
uncouth and hostile manner, and, now thoroughly alarmed at his wife's
desperate plight, he was willing to comply with any demand, however
strange. He thereupon prostrated himself before the family shrine
and addressed fervent prayers to the Spirit of the Lantern, humbly
imploring her pardon for his thoughtless and discourteous behaviour.

From that very hour the invalid began to mend, and steadily improving
day by day, her normal health was soon entirely regained, until it
seemed to her as though her long and strange illness had been but an
evil dream.

One evening after her recovery, when the husband and wife were sitting
together and speaking joyfully of her unexpected and almost miraculous
restoration to health, the lantern flared up as before and in the
column of brilliant light the form of the spirit again appeared.

"Notwithstanding your unkind reception of me the last time I came, I
have driven out the devil and saved your wife's life. In return for
this service I have come to ask a favour of you, Tomosaburo San," said
the spirit. "I have a daughter who is now of a marriageable age. The
reason of my visit is to request you to find a suitable husband for
her."

"But I am a human being," remonstrated the perplexed man, "and you are
a spirit! We belong to different worlds, and a wide and impassable gulf
separates us. How would it be possible for me to do as you wish?"

"It is an easier matter than you imagine," replied the spirit. "All
you have to do is to take some blocks of _kiri_-wood [_Paulownia
Imperialist_] and to carve out from them several little figures of men;
when they are finished I will bestow upon one of them the hand of my
daughter."

"If that is all, then it is not so difficult as I thought, and I will
undertake to do as you wish," assented Tomosaburo, and no sooner
had the spirit vanished than he opened his tool box and set to work
upon the appointed task with such alacrity that in a few days he had
fashioned out in miniature several very creditable effigies of the
desired bridegroom, and when the wooden dolls were completed he laid
them out in a row upon his desk.

The next morning, on awaking, he lost no time in ascertaining what
had befallen the quaint little figures, but apparently they had found
favour with the spirit, for all had disappeared during the night. He
now hoped that the strange and supernatural visitant would trouble them
no more, but the next night she again appeared:

"Owing to your kind assistance my daughter's future is settled. As a
mark of our gratitude for the trouble you have taken, we earnestly
desire the presence of both yourself and your wife at the marriage
feast. When the time arrives promise to come without fail."

By this time Tomosaburo was thoroughly wearied of these ghostly
visitations and considered it highly obnoxious to be in league with
such weird and intangible beings, yet fully aware of their powers of
working evil, he dared not offend them. He racked his brains for some
way of escape from this uncanny invitation, but before he could frame
any reply suitable to the emergency, and while he was hesitating, the
spirit vanished.

Long did the perplexed man ponder over the strange situation, but the
more he thought the more embarrassed he became: and there seemed no
solution of his dilemma.

The next night the spirit again returned.

"As I had the honour to inform you, we have prepared an entertainment
at which your presence is desired. All is now in readiness. The wedding
ceremony has taken place and the assembled company await your arrival
with impatience. Kindly follow me at once!" and the wraith made
imperious gestures to Tomosaburo and his wife to accompany her. With a
sudden movement she darted from the lantern flame and glided out of the
room, now and again looking back with furtive glances to see that they
were surely following--and thus they passed, the spirit guiding them,
along the passage to the outer porch.

The idea of accepting the spirit's hospitality was highly repugnant to
the astonished couple, but remembering the dire consequences of his
first refusal to comply with the ghostly visitor's request, Tomosaburo
thought it wiser to simulate acquiescence. He was well aware that in
some strange and incomprehensible manner his wife owed her sudden
recovery to the spirit's agency, and for this boon he felt it would
be both unseemly and ungrateful--and possibly dangerous--to refuse.
In great embarrassment, and at a loss for any plausible excuse, he
felt half dazed, and as though all capacity for voluntary action was
deserting him.

What was Tomosaburo's surprise on reaching the entrance to find
stationed there a procession, like the train of some great personage,
awaiting him. On their appearance the liveried bearers hastened to
bring forward two magnificent palanquins of lacquer and gold, and at
the same moment a tall man garbed in ceremonial robes advanced and with
a deep obeisance requested them not to hesitate, saying:

"Honoured sir, these _kago_[2] are for your august conveyance--deign to
enter so that we may proceed to your destination."

At the same time the members of the procession and the bearers bowed
low, and in curious high-pitched voices all repeated the invitation in
a chorus:

"Please deign to enter the _kago!_"

Both Tomosaburo and his wife were not only amazed at the splendour
of the escort which had been provided for them, but they realized
that what was happening to them was most mysterious, and might have
unexpected consequences. However, it was too late to draw back now,
and all they could do was to fall in with the arrangement with as
bold a front as they could muster. They both stepped valiantly into
the elaborately decorated _kago_; thereupon the attendants surrounded
the palanquins, the bearers raised the shafts shoulder high, and the
procession formed in line and set out on its ghostly expedition.

The night was still and very dark. Thick masses of sable cloud obscured
the heavens, with no friendly gleams of moon or stars to illumine
their unknown path, and peering through the bamboo blinds nothing met
Tomosaburo's anxious gaze but the impenetrable gloom of the inky sky.

Seated in the palanquins the adventurous couple were undergoing a
strange experience. To their mystified senses it did not seem as if the
_kago_ was being borne along over the ground in the ordinary manner,
but the sensation was as though they were being swiftly impelled by
some mysterious unseen force, which caused them to skim through the
air like the flight of birds. After some time had elapsed the sombre
blackness of the night somewhat lifted, and they were dimly able to
discern the curved outlines of a large mansion which they were now
approaching, and which appeared to be situated in a spacious and
thickly wooded park.

The bearers entered the large roofed gate and, crossing an intervening
space of garden, carefully lowered their burdens before the main
entrance of the house, where a body of servants and retainers were
already waiting to welcome the expected guests with assiduous
attentions. Tomosaburo and his wife alighted from their conveyances
and were ushered into a reception room of great size and splendour,
where, as soon as they were seated in the place of honour near the
alcove, refreshments were served by a bevy of fair waiting-maids in
ceremonial costumes. As soon as they were rested from the fatigues of
their journey an usher appeared and bowing profoundly to the bewildered
new-comers announced that the marriage feast was about to be celebrated
and their presence was requested without delay.

Following this guide they proceeded through the various ante-rooms
and along the corridors. The whole interior of the mansion, the
sumptuousness of its appointments and the delicate beauty of its
finishings, were such as to fill their hearts with wonder and
admiration.

The floors of the passages shone like mirrors, so fine was the quality
of the satiny woods, and the richly inlaid ceilings showed that no
expense or trouble had been spared in the selection of all that was
ancient and rare, both in materials and workmanship. Certain of the
pillars were formed by the trunks of petrified trees, brought from
great distances, and on every side perfect taste and limitless wealth
were apparent in every detail of the scheme of decoration.

More and more deeply impressed with his surroundings, Tomosaburo
obediently followed in the wake of the ushers. As they neared the
stately guest-chamber an eerie and numbing sensation seemed to creep
through his veins.

Observing more closely the surrounding figures that flitted to and fro,
with a shock of horror he suddenly became aware that their faces were
well known to him and of many in that shadowy throng he recognized the
features and forms of friends and relatives long since dead. Along
the corridors leading to the principal hall numerous attendants were
gathered: all their features were familiar to Tomosaburo, but none of
them betrayed the slightest sign of recognition. Gradually his dazed
brain began to understand that he was visiting in the underworld, that
everything about him was unreal--in fact, a dream of the past--and
he feebly wondered of what hallucination he could be the victim to
be thus abruptly bidden to such an illusory carnival, where all the
wedding guests seemed to be denizens of the _Meido_, that dusky kingdom
of departed spirits! But no time was left him for conjecture, for on
reaching the ante-room they were immediately ushered into a magnificent
hall where all preparations for the feast had been set out, and where
the Elysian Strand[3] and the symbols of marriage were all duly
arranged according to time-honoured custom.

Here the bridegroom and his bride were seated in state, both attired in
elegant robes as befitting the occasion. Tomosaburo, who had acted such
a strange and important part in providing the farcical groom for this
unheard-of marriage, gazed searchingly at the newly wedded husband,
whose mien was quite dignified and imposing, and whose thick dark locks
were crowned with a nobleman's coronet. He wondered what part the
wooden figures he had carved according to the spirit's behest had taken
in the composition of the bridegroom he now saw before him. Strangely,
indeed, his features bore a striking resemblance to the little puppets
that Tomosaburo had fashioned from the _kiri_-wood some days before.

The nuptial couple were receiving the congratulations of the assembled
guests, and no sooner had Tomosaburo and his wife entered the room than
the wedding party all came forward in a body to greet them and to offer
thanks for their condescension in gracing that happy occasion with
their presence. They were ceremoniously conducted to seats in a place
of honour, and invited with great cordiality to participate in the
evening's entertainment.

Servants then entered bearing all sorts of tempting dainties piled
on lacquer trays in the form of large shells; the feast was spread
before the whole assemblage; wine flowed in abundance, and by degrees
conversation, laughter, and merriment became universal and the
banquet-hall echoed with the carousal of the ghostly throng.

Under the influence of the good cheer Tomosaburo's apprehension and
alarm of his weird environment gradually wore off, he partook freely of
the refreshments, and associated himself more and more with the gaiety
and joviality of the evening's revel.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night wore on and when the hour of midnight struck the banquet was
at its height.

In the mirth and glamour of that strange marriage feast Tomosaburo had
lost all track of time, when suddenly the clear sound of a cock's crow
penetrated his clouded brain and, looking up, the transparency of the
_shoji_[4] of the room began to slowly whiten in the grey of dawn.
Like a flash of lightning Tomosaburo and his wife found themselves
transported back, safe and sound, into their own room.

On reflection he found his better nature more and more troubled
by such an uncanny experience, and he spent much time pondering
over the matter, which seemed to require such delicate handling. He
determined that at all costs communications must be broken off with the
importunate spirit.

A few days passed and Tomosaburo began to cherish the hope that he had
seen the last of the Spirit of the Lantern, but his congratulations on
escaping her unwelcome attentions proved premature. That very night,
no sooner had he laid himself down to rest, than lo! and behold, the
lantern shot up in the familiar shaft of light, and there in the lurid
glow appeared the spirit, looking more than ever bent on mischief.
Tomosaburo lost all patience. Glaring savagely at the unwelcome
visitant he seized his wooden pillow[5] and, determining to rid himself
of her persecutions once and for all, he exerted his whole strength and
hurled it straight at the intruder. His aim was true, and the missile
struck the goblin squarely on the forehead, overturning the lantern and
plunging the room into black darkness. "Wa, Wa!" wailed the spirit in
a thin haunting cry, that gradually grew fainter and fainter till she
finally disappeared like a luminous trail of vanishing blue smoke.

From that very hour Tomosaburo's wife was again stricken with her
former malady, and no remedies being of any avail, within two days it
took a turn for the worse and she died.

The sorrow-stricken husband bitterly regretted his impetuous action
in giving way to that fatal fit of anger and, moreover, in appearing
so forgetful of the past favour he had received from the spirit. He
therefore prayed earnestly to the offended apparition, apologizing with
humble contrition for his cruelty and ingratitude.

But the Spirit of the Lantern had been too deeply outraged to return,
and Tomosaburo's repentance for his rash impulse proved all in vain.

These melancholy events caused the unhappy husband to take a strong
aversion to the house, which he felt sure must be haunted, and he
decided to leave that neighbourhood with as little delay as possible.

As soon as a suitable dwelling was found and the details of his
migration arranged, the carriers were summoned to transport his
household goods to the new abode, but to the alarm and consternation of
every one, when the servants attempted to move the furniture, the whole
contents of the house by some unseen power adhered fast to the floor,
and no human power was available to dislodge them.

Then Tomosaburo's little son fell ill and died. Such was the revenge of
the Spirit of the Lantern.


[Footnote 1: 1513, date of Ota Dokan's death.]

[Footnote 2: _Kago_ = palanquins.]

[Footnote 3: _Horai Dai_, the Eastern fairyland, where death and
sickness never come, and where the fabulous old couple of Takasayo,
paragons of conjugal felicity and constancy, live for ever in the
shade of the evergreen pines, while storks and green-tailed tortoises,
emblems of prosperity and ten thousand years of life, keep them
company.]

[Footnote 4: _Shoji_, the sliding screens which takes the place of
doors and windows in a Japanese house--the framework is of a fine
lattice-work of wood, covered with white paper sufficiently transparent
to let in the light.]

[Footnote 5: The old Japanese pillow was a wooden stand, on the top
of which was a groove; in this was placed a small roll of cotton-wool
covered with silk or _crêpe_, etc.]




THE REINCARNATION OF TAMA


    "Felt within themselves the sacred
      passion of the second life.
    Hope the best, but hold the Present
      fatal daughter of the Past.
    Love will conquer at the last."

TENNYSON

N.B.--It is a common Japanese belief that the soul may be re-born more
than once into this world. A Buddhist proverb says:

    _Oya-ko, is-sé_
    _Fufu wa, ni-sé_,
    _Shu ju wa, sansé_.

    Parent and child for one life;
    Husband and wife for two lives;
    Master and servant for three lives.

Under the strong provocation of the passions of love, loyalty and
patriotism, the soul may be reincarnated as many as seven times. The
hero Hirose, before Port Arthur in 1904, wrote a poem during the last
moments of his life saying that he would return seven times to work for
his country.




THE REINCARNATION OF TAMA


Many years ago in Yedo,[1] in the district of Fukagawa, there lived a
rich timber merchant. He and his wife dwelt together in perfect accord,
but though their business prospered and their wealth increased as the
years went by, they were a disappointed couple, for by the time they
had reached middle age they were still unblessed with children. This
was a great grief to them, for the one desire of their lives was to
have a child.

The merchant at last determined to make a pilgrimage to several temples
in company with his wife, and to supplicate the gods for the long
yearned-for joy of offspring. When the arduous tour was over they both
went to a resort in the hills noted for its mineral springs, the woman
hoping earnestly that the medicinal waters would improve her health and
bring about the desired result.

A year passed and the merchant's wife at last gave birth to a daughter.
Both parents rejoiced that the Gods had answered their prayers. They
reared the child with great care, likening her to a precious gem held
tenderly in both hands, and they named her Tama, the Jewel.

As an infant Tama gave promise of great beauty, and when she grew into
girlhood she more than fulfilled that promise. Their friends all
declared that they had never seen such loveliness, and people compared
her to a morning-glory, besprinkled with dew and glowing with the
freshness of a summer dawn.

She had a tiny mole on the side of her snowy neck. This was her sole
and distinguishing blemish.

Tama, the Jewel, proved a gifted child. She acquired reading and
the writing of hieroglyphics with remarkable facility, and in all
her studies was in advance of girls of her own age. She danced with
grace, and sang and played the _koto_ enchantingly, and she was also
accomplished in the arts of flower-arrangement and the tea-ceremony.

When she reached the age of sixteen her parents thought it was time
to seek a suitable bridegroom for her. Very early marriages were
the custom of the day, and besides that her parents wished to see
her happily established in life before they grew older. As she was
the only child, her husband would become the adopted son, and thus
the succession to the family would be secured. However, it proved
exceedingly difficult to find anyone who would meet all their
requirements.

Now it happened that near-by in a small house there lived a man by the
name of Hayashi. He was a provincial _samurai_, but for some reason
or other had left his Daimio's domain and settled in Yedo. His wife
was long since dead, but he had an only son whom he educated in the
refinements of the military class. The family was a poor one, for all
_samurai_ were trained to hold poverty in high esteem; and to despise
trade and money-making.

Both father and son led simple lives and eked out their small patrimony
by giving lessons in the reading of the classics and in calligraphy,
and by telling fortunes according to the Confucian system of
divination. Both were respected by all who knew them for their learning
and upright lives.

At the time this story opens the elder Hayashi had just died and the
son, though only nineteen years of age, carried on his father's work.

The young man was strikingly handsome. Of the aristocratic type, with
long dark eyes, aquiline features and a pale, cream-like complexion, he
attracted notice wheresoever he went, and though shabbily dressed he
always bore himself with great dignity. He was a musician and played
the flute with unusual skill, and the game of _go_[2] was his favourite
pastime, a taste which made him very popular with older men.

He often passed the rich merchant's house and Tama, the Jewel, noticed
the young man coming and going with his flute. Questioning her nurse,
she learned all there was to know about his history, his poverty, his
scholarly attainments, his skill as a musician and the recent sorrow he
had sustained in the death of his father.

Besides being attracted by his good looks, the beautiful Tama's
heart went out in sympathy to the young man in his misfortune and
loneliness, and she asked her mother to invite him to the house as her
music-master, so that they might play duets together--he performing on
the flute to her accompaniment on the _koto_.

The mother consented, thinking the plan an excellent one, and the young
_samurai_ became a frequent visitor in the merchant's house. Tama's
father was delighted when Hayashi proved to be an expert at _go_, and
often asked him to come and spend the evening. As soon as dinner was
over the merchant would order the chequer-board to be brought and
Hayashi was then invited to try his hand at a game.

In this way the intimacy deepened till by degrees the young man was
treated like a trusted member of the family.

The young master and pupil thus meeting day by day, presently fell in
love, for heart calls to heart when both are young and handsome and
the bond of similar tastes cements the friendship. Choosing themes and
songs expressive of love they communicated their sentiments to one
another through the romantic medium of music, and the two instruments
blended in perfect harmony, the _koto's_ accompaniment giving an ardent
response to the plaintive melody of the young man's flute, which wailed
forth the hopeless passion consuming his soul for the lovely maiden.

[Illustration: Tama's father was delighted when Hayashi proved to be an
expert at _go,_ and often asked him to come and spend the evening]

Tama's parents were totally unaware of all that was happening, but her
nurse soon guessed the secret of the young couple. The woman, who
loved her charge faithfully and devotedly, could not bear to see her
unhappy, and foolishly helped the lovers to meet each other in secret.
With these unexpected opportunities they pledged themselves to each
other for all their lives to come, and tried to think of some way by
which they could obtain the old people's consent to their marriage. But
Hayashi guessed that the merchant was ambitious for his daughter, and
knew that it was improbable that he would accept a son-in-law as poor
and obscure as himself. So he postponed asking for her hand until it
was too late.

At this time a rich man whom Tama's parents deemed a suitable match for
their daughter presented his proposals, and Tama was suddenly told that
they approved of the marriage and that she must prepare for the bridal.

Tama was overwhelmed with despair. That day Hayashi had promised to
come and play his favourite game with her father. The nurse contrived
that the lovers should meet first, and then Tama told Hayashi of
the alliance which had been arranged. Weeping, she insisted that an
elopement was the only solution to their difficulties. He consented
to escape to some distant place with her that very night. Gathering
her in his arms he tried to still her sobbing, and Tama clung to him,
declaring that she would die rather than be separated from him.

They were thus surprised by her mother, and their secret could no
longer be concealed. Tama was taken from him gently but firmly and
shut up like a prisoner in one room. The vigilance of the parents being
in this manner rudely awakened, the mother never allowed the girl out
of her sight, and Hayashi was peremptorily forbidden the house.

The young man, fearing the wrath of her parents, went to live in
another part of the city, telling no one of his whereabouts.

Tama was inconsolable. She pined for her lover and soon fell ill.
Her elaborate trousseau and the outfit for the bridal household was
complete but the wedding ceremony had to be postponed.

Both parents became very anxious for, as the days went by, instead of
getting better their daughter visibly wasted away and sometimes could
not leave her bed, so weak did she become. To distract her mind they
took her to places of amusement like the theatre, or to gardens noted
for the blossoming of trees and flowers. Then finally they carried her
to places like Hakone and Atami, hoping that the mineral baths and the
change of air and scene would cure her. But it was all to no purpose,
Tama grew worse in spite of the devotion lavished upon her. Seriously
alarmed, the parents called in a doctor. He declared Tama's malady to
be love-sickness, and said that unless she were united to the man she
pined for that she might die.

Her mother now begged the father to allow the marriage with Hayashi
to take place. Though he was not the man of their choice in worldly
position, yet if their daughter loved him, it were better that she
should marry him than that she should die.

But now arose a difficulty of which they had not dreamed. Hayashi had
moved away no one knew whither, and all their frantic efforts to trace
him were fruitless.

A year passed slowly by. When Tama was told that her parents had
consented to her marrying her beloved, she brightened up with the hope
of seeing him again, and appeared to regain her health for a short
time. But as month followed month and he never came, the waiting and
the sickening disappointment proved too much for the already weakened
frame of the young girl. She drooped and died just as she had attained
her seventeenth birthday.

It was springtime when the sad event occurred. Hayashi had never
forgotten the beautiful girl nor the vows they had mutually plighted,
and he swore never to accept another woman as his wife. He longed for
news of Tama, but he realized how imprudent and blameable his conduct
had been in entering into a secret love-affair with a young girl, and
he feared that her father might kill him were he to return even for a
single day to the vicinity. Weakly he told himself that she had in all
probability forgotten him by this time and was surely married to the
man of her parents' choice.

One fine morning he went fishing on the Sumida river. When evening
began to fall he turned homewards. As he sauntered along the river
embankment, the water lapping softly and dreamily at his feet, he
was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming towards him in the
wavering shadows of declining day. Light as a summer zephyr she glided
from under the arches of the blossom laden cherry-trees with the sunset
flaming behind her. He remembered long afterward that she had seemed
rather to float over the ground than to walk.

To his utter astonishment he at once recognized Tama, and his heart
leapt with joy at sight of her. After the first salutations he
looked at her closely and congratulated her on her good health and
ever-increasing beauty. He then asked her to tell him all that had
happened since they were cruelly parted.

In the saddest of tremulous voices Jewel answered: "After you left the
house my old and devoted nurse was dismissed for having helped us to
meet in secret. From that day to this I have never seen her, but she
sent me word that she had returned to her old home."

"Then you are not married yet?" asked Hayashi, his heart beating wildly
with hope as he interrupted her.

"Oh, no," replied Tama, looking at him strangely, "do you think that I
could ever forget you? You are my betrothed forever, even after death.
Do you not know that the dread of that marriage being forced upon me
and my pining for you made me ill for a long time. Sympathizing with
my unhappiness, my parents broke off my engagement and then tried to
find you. But you had entirely disappeared leaving no trace behind.
To-day I started out, resolved to find you with the help of my old
nurse. I am on my way to her now. How happy I am to find you thus. Will
you not take me to your house and show me where you live?"

[Illustration: He was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming
towards him in the wavering shadows]

She then turned and walked with him as he led the way to their humble
dwelling. Now that her parents had consented to her marrying him they
need not wait long, he told himself. How fortunate he was that he
should have gained such faithful and unchanging love as that of his
beautiful Tama.

As they went along exchanging blissful confidences as to their undying
love for one another, he told her of his oath never to wed another
woman for her dear sake.

They entered the house together, the nearness of her sweet presence
thrilling him to his finger-tips. Impatiently he knelt to light
the lamp, placed ready on his low writing table, then with joy
inexpressible at the anticipation of all that the future held for them,
he turned to speak to her.

But to his utter bewilderment Tama was gone. He searched the house and
garden, and with a lantern went and peered down the road, but she was
nowhere to be seen. She had vanished as suddenly and mysteriously as
she had appeared.

Hayashi thought the incident more than strange; it was eerie in the
extreme. Returning alone to his empty room, he shivered as a chill of
foreboding seemed to penetrate his whole being, withering as with an
icy breath the newly awakened impulses of hope and longing. A thousand
recollections of his love crowded upon him, and kept him tossing
uneasily upon his pillow all through the night. With the first break of
dawn he was no longer able to control his feverish anxiety for news of
her, and rising hurriedly, he at once set out for Fukagawa.

Eagerly he hastened to the house of an old friend to make inquiries
regarding the merchant's family and especially about Tama. To his
dismay he learned that she had passed away but a few days before, and
listened with an aching heart to the account of her long illness. And
he knew that she had died for love of him.

He returned to his home stupefied with grief and tormented with
self-reproach.

"Oh, Tama! Tama! My love!" he cried aloud in his anguish, as he threw
himself down in his room and gave way to his despair. "Had I but known
of your illness I would have come to you. It was your spirit that
appeared to me yesterday. Oh! come to me again! Tama! Tama!"

For weeks he was ill, but when he recovered and was able to think
collectedly, he could not endure to live longer in such a world of
misery. He felt that he was responsible for the untimely death of the
young girl. To escape from the insupportable sorrows of life he decided
to enter a Buddhist monastery, and joined the order of itinerant monks
called _Komuso_.[3]

Like the monks in the middle ages in Europe the _Komuso_ enjoyed
sanctuary. They were chiefly _samurai_ who wished to hide their
identity. Sometimes a breach of the law, such as the killing of a
friend, obliged the _samurai_ to cut the ties which bound him to his
Daimio; sometimes a family blood-feud forced him to spend his years in
tracking down his enemy; sometimes it was disgust of the world, sorrow
or disappointment, as in the case of Hayashi: these various reasons
often caused men to bury themselves out of remembrance in the remote
life of these wandering monks.

The _Komuso_ were always treated with great respect, they enjoyed the
hospitality of inns and ships, and a free pass unquestioned across all
government barriers.

They wore the stole but not the cassock, and they did not shave their
heads like the priesthood. They were distinguished by their strange
headgear, which was a wicker basket worn upside down, reaching as far
as the chin and completely hiding the face. The rules of their order
forbade them to marry, to eat meat, or to drink more than three cups
of wine, and when on duty they might not take off their hats or bow
to anyone, even to their parents. Outside these restrictions, though
nominally priests, their lives were practically those of laymen,
and when not on service they spent their time much as they liked in
practising the military arts or in study.

As a mental discipline the _Komuso_ were under obligation to go out
daily to beg for alms, holding a bowl to receive whatever was bestowed
upon them. They affected flute playing. This instrument was cut from
the stem nearest the root, the strongest part of the bamboo, and was
thus able to serve a double purpose. It gave the monk, who carried
nothing with him, the means of earning his daily food, and when
necessary was used as a weapon in self-defence.

Hayashi, being skilful with his flute, chose the life of the _Komuso_
as being the best suited to him.

Before leaving Tokyo he visited the temple where his lost love was
buried and knelt before her tomb. He dedicated his whole life to
praying for the repose of her soul and for a happier rebirth. Her
_kaimyo_ (death-name) he inscribed on heavy paper, and wheresoever he
went he carried this in a fold of his robe where it crossed his breast.
It was, and still is, the custom of the _Komuso_ to perform upon the
flute as a devotional exercise at religious services.

As each year came round he always made his way to some tranquil spot
and rested from his penitential wanderings on the anniversary of the
death of Tama.

Staying in an isolated room he then set up her _kaimyo_ in the alcove,
and placing an incense burner before it, kindled the fragrant sticks
and kept them alight from sunrise to sunset. Kneeling before this
temporary altar he took out his flute, and pouring the passionate
breath of his soul into the plaintive, quivering notes, he reverently
offered the music to her sweet and tender spirit, remembering the
delight she had always taken in those melodies before the blossom of
their love had been defrauded of its fruit of consummation by the
blighting blast of interference.

[Illustration: Hayashi visits the temple where his lost love was
buried, and dedicates his whole life to praying for the repose of her
soul.]

And gradually, as time went by, the burden of sorrow and the tumult of
remorse slipped from his soul, and peace and serenity, the aftermath of
suffering, came to him at last.

He roamed all over the country for many years, and finally his
journeyings brought him to the mountainous province of Koshu. It
was nightfall when he reached the district and he lost his way in
the darkness. Worn out with fatigue, he began to wonder where he
should pass the night, for no houses were to be seen far or near, and
everywhere about him there was nothing but a heaping of hills and a
wild loneliness.

For hours he strayed about, when at last, peering into the gloom far up
on the mountain side, a solitary light gleamed through the heavy mists.
Greatly relieved he hastened towards it.

As soon as he knocked at the outer door of the cottage a ferocious
looking man appeared. When the stranger asked for a night's shelter he
morosely and silently showed him into the single room which, flanked
by a small kitchen, comprised the whole dwelling. Hayashi, furtively
gazing round him, noticed that there were no industrial implements to
be seen, but that in one corner were standing a sword and a gun.

The host clapped his hands. In answer to the call a young girl of about
fifteen years of age appeared. He ordered her to bring the brazier and
some food for the guest. Then arming himself with his weapons, he left
the house.

The damsel waited on Hayashi attentively, and as she went to and fro
from the kitchen she often glanced appealingly at him. Her attitude was
that of one frightened in submission, and Hayashi wondered how she came
to be there, for, though begrimed with work, he could see that she was
fair and comely, and her deportment was superior to her surroundings.

When they were left alone the girl came and knelt before him, and
bursting into tears sobbed out "Whoever you may be I warn you to escape
while there is yet time. That man whose hospitality you have accepted
is a brigand and he will probably kill you in the hope of plunder."

Hayashi, with his heart full of compassion for the young girl, asked
her how it was that she came to be living in so wild and desolate a
place, and the tale she told him was a pitiful one of wrong.

"My home is in the next province," she said, as she wiped away the
tears with her sleeve. "Just after my father's death this robber
entered our house and demanded money of my mother. As she had none
to give him he carried me away, intending to sell me into slavery.
Soon after he brought me to this house, he was wounded on a marauding
expedition, and has since been confined to the house for a month. Thus
it is that you find me here still. But he is now recovered and able to
go out once more. I implore you to take me with you, otherwise I shall
never see my mother again and my fate will be unendurable."

Being of a chivalrous nature Hayashi's heart burned within him at the
sad plight of the little maid, and catching her up he fled out of the
robber's den into the night.

After some time, when well away from the place, he set her down and
they walked steadily all night. By dawn they had crossed the boundary
of Koshu and entered the neighbouring province. Once on the high road
the district was familiar to the girl and she gladly led the way to her
own home.

The delight of the sorrowing mother on finding her kidnapped child
restored to her was great and unrestrained. She fell at his feet in a
passion of gratitude and thanked him again and again.

In the meantime the rescued girl came to thank her deliverer.
Hayashi gazed at her in astonishment. Her appearance had undergone
an extraordinary transformation. No longer the forlorn, neglected
drudge of the day before, a beautiful girl stood before him. And
wonder of wonders! She was the living image of what his lost Tama
had been years ago. The tide of the past swept over him with its
bitter-sweet memories, leaving him speechless and racked with the storm
of his feelings. Not only was the likeness forcibly striking, but he
also beheld a little mark, the exact replica of the one he so well
remembered on Tama's snowy neck.

He had thought that in the long years of hardship and renunciation of
the joys of life the tragic love of his youth lay buried, but the shock
of the unmistakable resemblance left him trembling.

In a few minutes he was able to control his emotion and the power of
speech returned to him.

"Tell me," he said, turning to the mother, "have you not some relatives
in Tokyo? Your daughter is like one whom I knew many years ago, but who
is now dead."

The woman regarded him searchingly and after a few moments of this
close scrutiny, she inquired:

"Are you not Hayashi who lived in Fukagawa fifteen years ago?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question, which showed that
his identity was revealed and that she knew of his past. He did not
answer but searched his brain, wondering who the woman could possibly
be.

Seeing his embarrassment she continued, now and again wiping the tears
from her eyes: "When you came to the house I thought that your voice
was in some way quite familiar to me, but you are so disguised in your
present garb that at first I could not recall who you were.

"Fifteen years ago I served in the house of the rich timber merchant
in Fukagawa and often helped O Tama San[4] to meet you in secret, for
I felt great sympathy with you both, and if a day passed without her
being able to see you, Oh! she was very unhappy. Her parents were
furious at the unwise part I had played and I was summarily dismissed.
I returned home and was almost immediately married. Within a year I
gave birth to a little daughter. The child bore a striking resemblance
to my late mistress and I gave her the name of Jewel in remembrance
of the beloved charge I had nursed and tended for so many years. As
she grew older not only her face and figure, but her voice and her
movements all vividly recalled O Tama San. Is not this an affinity of a
previous existence that my child should be saved by you who loved the
first Tama?"

Then Hayashi, who had listened with rapt attention to the woman's
strange story, asked her the date of the infant's birth.

Marvellous to relate it was the very day and hour, for ever indelibly
engraven on his memory, that Tama, his first love, had appeared to him
on the bank of the Sumida river in the springtide fifteen years ago.

When he told her of this uncanny meeting the woman said that she
believed her daughter, the second Tama, to be the re-incarnation of
the first Tama. The apparition he had seen was the spirit of his love
who had thus announced her rebirth into the world to him. There could
be no doubt of this, for had not Tama told him herself that she was on
her way to her old nurse. So strong was the affinity that bound them
to each other that it had drawn Tama from the spirit-land back to this
earth.

"Remember the old proverb, _the karma-relation is deep_," she added in
conclusion.

Later on she besought Hayashi to marry the second Tama, for she
believed that only in this way would the soul of the first Tama find
rest.

But Hayashi, thinking that the great difference in their present ages
was an obstacle to a happy union, refused on the score that he was
too old and sad a man to make such a young bride happy. He decided,
however, to stay on in the little household for a while, and to give
any possible comfort and help to the old nurse whose loyal devotion to
her mistress had figured so prominently and fatefully in his past.

Thus several months elapsed, bringing with them great and radical
changes in the land. The Restoration came to pass, and the new regime
was established with the Emperor instead of the Shogun at the helm of
State. Schools were founded all over the country, and amongst many
other old institutions the order of the _Komuso_ monks, to which
Hayashi belonged, was abolished by an edict of State.

Hayashi, during his stay in the village, had won his way into the
hearts of the people and they now begged him to remain as teacher in
the new school, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by the
classical education he had received from his father. He consented to
the proposition which solved the problem of his future, for under the
new laws it was forbidden him to return to his old life.

The mayor of the place was also much attracted by Hayashi's superior
character and dignity, and learning of the sad and romantic history of
his past, and believing, as all Japanese do, in predestined affinities,
persuaded him that it was his fate, nay more, a debt he owed to the
past, to marry Tama, the second, the re-incarnation of his first love.

The marriage proved a blessed one. The house of Hayashi prospered from
that day forth and as children were born to them the joy of their lives
was complete.



[Footnote 1: The old name for Tokyo.]

[Footnote 2: _Go_, a game played with black and white counters--more
complicated than chess.]

[Footnote 3: The sect was introduced from China in the Kamakura epoch
(1200-1400), but it never became popular in the land of its adoption.
Under the Tokugawa Government (1700-1850) the _Komuso_ were used as
national detectives, but the privileges they enjoyed led to the abuse
of the order by bad men, and it was abolished at the time of the
Restoration. Later on the edict was rescinded, and these men in their
strange headgear may be seen to this day fluting their way about the
old city of Kyoto.]

[Footnote 4: In speaking women use the polite forms of speech, whereas
men drop them. The "O" is the honorific prefix to a woman's name and
"San" or "Sama" is the equivalent of Mr. Mrs. or Miss according to the
gender of the name. Nowadays high-class women drop the "O" before their
individual names, but add "Ko" after them. For instance, the name O
Tama San would now be Tama-Ko San.]




THE LADY OF THE PICTURE


Many years ago, long before the present prosaic era, there lived in
Yedo a young man named Toshika. His family belonged to the aristocratic
rank of the _hatamoto samurai_, those knights who possessed the right
to march to battle directly under the Shogun's flag (_hata_), and his
father was a high official in the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Toshika, whose disposition was of a dreamy and indolent nature with
scholarly tastes, had no occupation. He took life easily, and when his
studies were finished, he went to live at the family villa situated in
the suburb of Aoyama.

Toshika was not interested in society, and except for an occasional
visit to his home or to his favourite friend, he never went anywhere.
Far from the world he spent his days quietly and pleasantly, reading
books, tending and watering his flowers, practising the tea-ceremony,
and composing poetry and playing on the flute. He was a young man of
many accomplishments and studied art. He collected curios and specimens
of well-known calligraphy, which all Japanese prize greatly, and he
particularly delighted in pictures.

One day a certain friend whom Toshika had not seen for several months,
came to call upon him. He had just returned from a visit to the seaport
of Nagasaki and knowing the young man's tastes had brought with him,
as a present, a Chinese drawing of a beautiful woman, which he begged
Toshika to accept.

Toshika was very pleased with this acquisition to his treasures. He
examined the painting carefully, and though he could find no signature
of the artist, his knowledge of the subject told him that it was
probably drawn by the well-known Chinese painter of the _Shin_ era.

It was the portrait of a young woman in the prime of youth, and Toshika
felt intuitively that it was a real likeness. The face was one of
radiant loveliness, and the longer he gazed at it, the more the charm
and fascination of it grew upon him. He carried it to his own room and
hung it up in the alcove. Whenever he felt lonely he retired to the
solitude of his chamber, and sat for hours before the drawing, looking
at it and even addressing it. As the days went by, gradually the
picture seemed to glow with life and Toshika began to think of it as a
person. He wondered who the original of the portrait could have been,
and said that he envied the artist who had been granted the happiness
of looking upon her beauty.

Daily the figure seemed more alive and the face more exquisite, and
Toshika, as he gazed in rapture upon it, longed to know its history.
The haunting pathos of the expression and the speaking wistfulness of
the dark soft eyes called to his heart like music and gave him no peace.

Toshika, in fact, became enamoured of the lovely image suspended
in the alcove, and as the infatuation grew upon him he placed fresh
flowers before it, changing them daily. At night he had his quilts[1]
so arranged that the last thing he looked upon before closing his eyes
in sleep was the lady of the picture.

Toshika had read many strange stories of the supernatural power of
great artists. He knew that they were able to paint the minds of
the originals into their portraits, whether of human beings or of
creatures, so that through the spiritual force of the merit of their
skill the pictures became endowed with life.

As the passion grew upon him the young lover believed that the spirit
of the woman whom the portrait represented actually lived in the
picture. As this thought formed itself in his mind he fancied that he
could see the gentle rise and fall of her breast in breathing, and that
her pretty lips, bright as the scarlet pomegranate bud, appeared to
move as if about to speak to him.

One evening he was so filled with the sense of the reality of her
presence that he sat down and composed a Chinese poem in praise of her
beauty.

And the meaning of the high-flown diction ran something like this;

    _Thy beauty, sweet, is like the sun-flower:_[2]
    _The crescent moon of three nights old thy arched brows:
    Thy lips the cherry's dewy petals at flush of dawn:_
    _Twin flakes of fresh-fallen snow thy dainty hands._
    _Blue-black, as raven's wing, thy clustering hair:_
    _And as the sun half peers through rifts of cloud,_
    _Gleams through thy robes the wonder of thy form._.
    _Thy cheeks' dear freshness do bewilder me,_
    _So pure, so delicate, rose-misted ivory:_
    _And, like a sharp sword, pierce my breast_
    _The glamour of thy dark eyes' messages_.

    _Ah, as I gaze upon thy pictured form_
    _I feel therein thy spirit is enshrined_,
    _Surely thou liv'st and know'st my love for thee!_
    _The one who unawares so dear a gift bestowed_
    _Was verily the gods' own messenger_
    _And sent by Heaven to link our souls in one_.

    _'Tis sad that thou wert borne from thine own distant land_
    _Far from thy race, and all who cherished thee;_
    _Thy heart must lonely pine so far away,_
    _In sooth thou need'st a mate to love and cherish thee._

    _But sorrow not, my picture love,_
    _For Time's care-laden wings will never dim thy brow_
    _From poisoned darts of Fate so placidly immune;_
    _Anguish and grief will ne'er corrode thy heart,_
    _And never will thy beauty suffer change:_
    _While earthly beings wither and decay_
    _Sickness and care will ever pass thee by,_
    _For Art can grant where Love is impotent,_
    _And dowers thee with immortality_.

    _Ah me! could the high gods but grant the prayer_
    _Of my wild heart, and passionate desire!_
    _Step down from out thy cloistered niche,_
    _Step down from out thy picture on the wall!_
    _My soul is thirsting for thy presence fair_
    _To crown my days with rapture--be my wife!_
    _How swift the winged hours would then pass by_
    _In bliss complete, and lovers' ecstasy:_
    _My life, dear queen, I dedicate to thee,_
    _Ah! make it thus a thousand lives to me!_[3]

Toshika smiled to himself at the wild impossibility of his own chimera.
Such a hope as he had breathed to her and to himself belonged to the
realm of reverie, and not to the hard world of everyday life. Supposing
that beautiful creature to have ever lived and the portrait to be a
true likeness of her, she must have died ages ago, long before ever he
was born.

However, having written the poem carefully, he placed it above the
scroll and read it aloud, apostrophizing the lady of the picture.

It was the delicious season of spring, and Toshika sat with the sliding
screens open to the garden. The fragrance of peach blossoms was wafted
into the room by the breath of a gentle wind, and as the light of
day faded into a soft twilight, over the quiet and secluded scene a
crescent moon shed her tender jewel-bright radiance.

Toshika felt unaccountably happy, he could not tell why and sat alone,
reading and thinking deep into the night.

Suddenly, in the stillness of the midnight, a rustle behind him in the
alcove caused him to turn round quickly.

What was his breathless amazement to see that the picture had actually
taken life. The beautiful woman he so much admired detached herself
from the paper on which she was depicted, stepped down on to the mats,
and came gliding lightly towards him. He scarcely dared to breathe.
Nearer and nearer she approached till she knelt opposite to where he
sat by his desk. Saluting him she bowed profoundly.

The ravishment of her beauty and her charm held him speechless. He
could not but look at her, for she was lovelier than anyone he had ever
seen.

At last she spoke, and her voice sounded to him like the low, clear
notes of the nightingale warbling in the plum-blossom groves at
twilight.

"I have come to thank you for your love and devotion. Such a useless,
ugly[4] creature as myself ought not to be so audacious as to appear
before you, but the virtue of your poem was irresistible and drew me
forth. I was so moved by your sympathy that I felt I must tell you in
person of my gratitude for all your care and thought of me. If you
really think of me as you have written, let me stay with you always."

Toshika rejoiced greatly when he heard these words. He put out his
hand and taking hers said, "Ever since you came here I have loved you
dearly. Consent to be my wife and we shall be happy evermore. Tell me
your name and who you are and where you come from."

She answered with a smile inexpressibly sweet, while the tears
glistened in her eyes.

"My name is Shorei (Little Beauty). My father's name is Sai. He was
descended from the famous Kinkei. We lived in China at a place called
Kinyo. One day, when I was eighteen years of age, bandits came and made
a raid on our village and, with other fair women, carried me away.
Thus I was separated from my parents and never saw them more. For many
months I was carried from place to place and led a wandering life.
Then, alas! who could have foretold it, I was seized by bad men and
sold into slavery. The sorrow, the anguish and the horror I suffered in
my helpless misery and homesickness you can never know. I longed every
hour of the day for some tidings of my parents, for even now, I do not
know what became of them. One day an artist came to the house of my
captivity and looking at all the women there, he praised my face and
described me as the Moon among the Stars. And he painted my picture and
showed it to all his friends. In that way I became famous, for everyone
talked of my beauty and came to see me. But I could not bear my life,
and being delicate, my unhappy lot and the uncertainty of my father's
and mother's fate preyed upon my mind, so that I sickened and died in
six months. This is the whole of my sad history. And now I have come to
your country and to you. This must be because of a predestined affinity
between us."

The young man's heart was filled with compassion as he listened to the
sorrowful tale of the unfortunate woman, who had told him all her woes.

He felt that he loved her more than ever and that he must make up with
his devotion for all the wretchedness she had suffered in the past.

They then began to compose poems together, and Toshika found that
Shorei had had a literary education, that she was an adept in
calligraphy and every kind of poetical composition. And his heart was
filled with a great gladness that he had found a companion after his
own heart.

They both became intensely interested in their poetical contest and as
they composed they read their compositions aloud in turn, comparing
and criticizing each other. At last, while Toshika was in the act of
reciting a poem to Shorei, he suddenly awoke and found that he had been
dreaming.

Unable to believe that his delightful experiences were but the memories
of sleep he turned to the alcove. His cherished picture was hanging
there and the lovely figure was limned as usual in living lines upon
the paper. Was it all a delusion? As he watched the exquisite face
before him, recalling with questioning wonder the events of the evening
before, behold! the sweet mouth smiled at him, just as Shorei had
smiled in his vision. Impatiently he waited for the darkness, hoping
that sleep would again bring Shorei to his side. Night after night she
came to him in his dreams, but of his happy adventure he spoke to none.
He believed that in some miraculous way the power of poetry had evoked
the spirit of the portrait. Centuries ago this ill-fated woman had
lived and died an untimely death, and his love led her back to earth
through the medium of an artist's skill and his own verse. Six months
passed and Toshika desired nothing more in life than to possess Shorei
as his bride for all the years to come.

[Illustration: When I was eighteen years of age, bandits ... made a
raid on one village and ... carried me away.]

He never dreamed of change, but at last, one night, Shorei came
looking very sad. She sat by his desk as was her wont, but instead of
conversing or composing she began to weep.

Toshika was very troubled, for he had never seen her in such a mood.

"Tell me," he said anxiously, "What is the matter? Are you not happy
with me?"

"Ah, it is not that," answered Shorei, hiding her face in her sleeve
and sobbing; "never have I dreamed of such happiness as you have
given me. It is because we are so happy that I cannot bear the pain
of separation for a single night. But I must now leave you, alas! Our
affinity in this world has come to an end."

Toshika could hardly believe her words. He looked at her in great
distress as he asked:

"Why must we part? You are my wife and I will never marry any other
woman. Tell me why you speak of parting?"

"To-morrow you will understand," she answered mysteriously. "We may
meet no more now, but if you do not forget me I may see you again ere
long."

Toshika had put out a hand and made as if to detain her, but she had
risen and was gliding towards the alcove, and while he imploringly
gazed at her she gradually faded from his sight and was gone.

Words cannot describe Toshika's despair. He felt that all the joy of
life went with Shorei, and he could not endure the idea of living
without her.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked round the room. He heard the
sparrows twittering on the roof, and in the light of dawn, as he
thought, the night-lantern's flame dwindled to a fire-fly's spark.

He rose and rolled back the wooden storm-doors which shut the house in
completely at night, and found that he had slept late, that the sun was
already high in the heavens.

Listlessly he performed his toilet, listlessly he took his meal, and
his old servants anxiously went about their work, fearing that their
master was ill.

In the afternoon a friend came to call on Toshika. After exchanging the
usual formalities on meeting, the visitor suddenly said:

"You are now of an age to marry. Will you not take a bride? I know of a
lovely girl who would just suit you, and I have come to consult with
you on the matter."

Toshika politely but firmly excused himself. "Do not trouble yourself
on my account, I pray you! I have not the slightest intention of
marrying any woman at present, thank you," and he shook his head with
determination.

The would-be go-between saw from the expression of Toshika's face that
there was little hope in pressing his suit that day, so after a few
commonplace remarks he took his leave and went home.

No sooner had the friend departed than Toshika's mother arrived. She,
as usual, brought many gifts of things that she knew he liked, boxes of
his favourite cakes and silk clothes for the spring season. Grateful
for all her love and care, he thanked her affectionately and tried to
appear bright and cheerful during her visit. But his heart was aching,
and he could think of nothing but of the loss of Shorei, wondering if
her farewell was final, or whether, as she vaguely hinted, she would
come to him again. He said to himself that to hold her in his arms but
once again he would gladly give the rest of his life.

His mother noticed his preoccupation and looked at him anxiously many
times. At last she dropped her voice and said:

"Toshika, listen to me! Your father and I both think that you have
arrived at an age when you ought to marry. You are our eldest son,
and before we die we wish to see your son, and to feel sure that the
family name will be carried on as it should be. We know of a beautiful
girl who will make a perfect wife for you. She is the daughter of an
old friend, and her parents are willing to give her to you. We only
want your consent to the arrangement of the marriage."

Toshika, as his mother unfolded the object of her visit, understood the
meaning of Shorei's warning, and said to himself:

"Ah, this is what Shorei meant--she foresaw my marriage, for she said
that to-day I should understand; but she pledged herself at the same
time to see me again--it is all very strange!"

Feeling that his fate was come upon him he consented to his mother's
proposal.

She returned home delighted. She had had little doubt of her son's
conformance to his parents' wishes, for he had always been of a
tractable disposition. In anticipation, therefore, of his consent to
the marriage, she had already bought the necessary betrothal presents,
and the very next day these were exchanged between the two families.

Toshika, in the meantime, watched the picture day by day. This was his
only consolation, for Shorei, his beloved, visited him no more in his
dreams. His life was desolate without her and his heart yearned for her
sweet presence. Had it not been for her promise to come to him again he
knew that he would not care to live. He felt, however, that she still
loved him and in some way or other would keep her promise to him, and
for this waited. Of his approaching marriage he did not dare to think.
He was a filial son, and knew that he must fulfil his duty to his
parents and to the family.

[Illustration: When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite
Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was ... the
lady-love of his picture]

As the days went by Toshika noticed that the picture lost by degrees
its wonderful vitality. Slowly from the face the winning expression and
from the figure the tints of life faded out, till at last the drawing
became just like an ordinary picture. But he was left no time to pine
over the mystery of the change, for a summons from his mother called
him home to prepare for the marriage. He found the whole household
teeming with the importance of the approaching event. At last the
momentous day dawned.

His mother, proud of the product of her looms, set out in array his
wedding robes, handwoven by herself. He donned them as in a dream, and
then received the congratulations of his relatives and retainers and
servants.

In those old days the bride and bridegroom never saw each other till
the wedding ceremony. When the bride was led into the room and seated
opposite Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was
no stranger but the lady-love of his picture, the very same woman he
had already taken to wife in his dream life.

And yet she was not quite the same, for when Toshika, a few days later,
joyfully led her to his own home and compared her with the portrait,
she was even ten times more beautiful.


[Footnote 1: The floor of the Japanese room is padded with special
grass mats over two inches thick. On these the bed quilts are laid out
at night and packed away in cupboards in the daytime.]

[Footnote 2: _Prumus Umé_, or Plum blossom, the Japanese symbol of
womanly virtue and beauty.]

[Footnote 3: Rendered into English verse by my friend, Countess
Iso-ko-Mutsu.]

[Footnote 4: It is a Japanese custom for a woman to speak thus
depreciatingly of herself.]

[Illustration: Urasato's escape from the Yamana-Ya]




URSATO, OR THE CROWN OF DAWN


THE POSITION AT THE OPENING OF THE STORY


Urasato and Tokijiro are lovers. The child, Midori, is born of this
_liaison_. Tokijiro is a _samurai_ in the service of a Daimyo, and has
charge of his lord's treasure department. He is a careless young man
of a wild-oat-sowing disposition, and while entirely absorbed in this
love affair with Urasato, a valuable _kakemono_, one of the Daimyo's
heirlooms, is stolen. The loss is discovered and Tokijiro, who is held
responsible, dismissed.

To give Tokijiro the means of livelihood so that he may pursue the
quest of the lost treasure, Urasato sells herself to a house of
ill-fame, the Yamana-Ya by name, taking with her the child Midori, who
is ignorant of her parentage. Kambei, the knave of a proprietor, is
evidently a curio collector, and it is to be gathered from the context
that the unfortunate young couple have some suspicion--afterwards
justified--that by some means or other he has obtained possession of
the _kakemono_--hence Urasato's choice of that particular house.

Tokijiro's one idea is to rescue Urasato, to whom he is devoted, but
for lack of money he cannot visit her openly, and Kambei, seeing in him
an unprofitable customer, and uneasy about the picture, for which he
knows Tokijiro to be searching, forbade him the house, and persecutes
Urasato and Midori to find out his whereabouts, in order, probably,
that he may have him quietly put out of the way.

As in all these old love stories the hero is depicted as a weak
character, for love of women was supposed to have an effeminizing and
debasing effect on men and was greatly discouraged among the _samurai_
by the feudal Daimyo of the martial provinces. On the other hand,
the woman, though lost, having cast herself on the altar of what she
considers her duty--the Moloch of Japan--often rises to sublime heights
of heroism and self-abnegation, a paradox only found, it is said, in
these social conditions of Japan. Urasato reminds one of the beautiful
simile of the lotus that raises its head of dazzling bloom out of the
slime of the pond--so tender are her sentiments, so strong and so
faithful in character is she, in the midst of misery and horror.

This recitation, freely rendered into English from the chanted drama,
tells the story of Urasato's incarceration, of the lover's stolen
interviews, of the inadvertent finding of the picture, and of Urasato's
and Midori's final escape from the dread Yamana-Ya.




URSATO, OR THE CROW OF DAWN[1]


The darkness was falling with the tender luminosity of an eastern
twilight over the house; the sky was softly clouding, and a gentle wind
sprang up and sighed through the pine-trees like a lullaby--the hush
that comes at the end of the day with its promise of rest was over all
the world, but in spite of the peaceful aspect of nature and of her
surroundings, Urasato, as she came from her bath robed in _crêpe_ and
silken daintiness, felt very unhappy. To her world the night brought no
peace or rest, only accumulated wretchedness and woe.

Midori, her little handmaid, followed her fair mistress upstairs, and
as Urasato languidly pushed open the sliding screens of her room and
sank upon the mats, Midori fetched the tobacco tray with its tiny
lacquer chest and miniature brazier all aglow, and placed it by her
side.

Urasato took up her little pipe, and with the weed of forgetfulness
lulled for a while the pain of longing and loneliness which filled her
heart. As she put the tobacco in the tiny pipe-bowl and smoked it in
one or two whiffs and then refilled it again, the tap, tap of the pipe
on the tray as she emptied the ashes were the only sounds, interluded
with sighs that broke the stillness. "Kachi," "Kachi," "Kachi" sounded
the little pipe.

Tokijiro, waiting hopelessly outside the fence in the cold, could not
so forget his misery. He kept in the shadow so as not to be seen by the
other inmates of the house, for if he were discovered he would lose
all chance of seeing Urasato that evening and, perhaps, for ever. What
might happen if these secret visits were discovered he dared not think.
To catch one glimpse of her he loved he had come far through the snow,
and after losing his way and wandering about for hours, he now found
himself outside the house, and waited, tired and cold and miserable, by
the bamboo fence.

"Life," said Tokijiro, speaking to himself, "is full of change like a
running stream. Some time ago I lost one of my lord's treasures, an
old and valuable _kakemono_ of a drawing of a _garyobai_ (a plum-tree
trained in the shape of a dragon). I ought to have taken more care
of the property entrusted to me. I was accused of carelessness and
dismissed. Secretly I am searching for it, but till now I have found
no clue of the picture. I have even brought my troubles to Urasato,
and made her unhappy about the lost treasure. Alas! I cannot bear to
live longer. If I cannot see Urasato I will at least look upon little
Midori's face once more and then take leave of this life for ever. The
more I think, the more our mutual vows seem hopeless. My love for this
imprisoned flower has become deeper and deeper, and now, alas! I cannot
see her more. Such is this world of pain!"

While Tokijiro thus soliloquized outside in the snow, Urasato in the
room was speaking to her child-attendant, Midori.

"Midori, tell me, are you sure no one saw my letter to Toki Sama
yesterday?"

"You need have no anxiety about that, I gave it myself to Toki
Sama,"[2] answered Midori.

"Hush," said Urasato, "you must not talk so loudly--some one might
overhear you!"

"All right," whispered the little girl, obediently. Leaving Urasato's
side she walked over to the balcony and looking down into the garden
she caught sight of Tokijiro standing outside the fence.

"There, there!" exclaimed Midori, "there is Toki Sama outside the
fence."

When Urasato heard these words joy filled her breast, a smile spread
over her sad face, her languor vanished, and rising quickly from her
seat on the mats, she glided to the balcony and placing her hands on
the rail leaned far out so that she could see Tokijiro.

"Oh! Tokijiro San," she exclaimed, "you have come again at last, how
glad I am to see you!"

Tokijiro, on hearing her voice calling him, looked up through the pine
branches and the tears sprang to his eyes at sight of her, for into
the depths of love their hearts sank always deeper and the two were
fettered each to each with that bond of illusion which is stronger than
the threat of hell or the promise of heaven.

"Oh!" said Urasato, sadly, "what can I have done in a former life that
this should be insupportable without the sight of you? The desire to
see you only increases in the darkness of love. At first, a tenderness,
it spread through my whole being, and now I love--I love. The things
I would tell you are as great in number as the teeth of my comb, but
I cannot say them to you at this distance. When you are absent I must
sleep alone, instead of your arm my hand the only pillow, while my
pillow is wet with tears longing for you,--if only it were the pillow
of _Kantan_[3] I could at least dream that you were by my side. Poor
comfort 'tis for love to live on dreams!"

As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony, the picture of
youth, grace and beauty, her figure supple and fragile as a willow
branch wafted to and fro by a summer breeze, and about her an air of
the wistful sadness of the rains of early spring.

[Illustration: As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony,
the picture of youth, grace and beauty.]

"Oh! Urasato!" said Tokijiro, sadly, "the longer I stay here the worse
it will be for you. If we are discovered not only you, but Midori also
will be punished, and as she does not know all how unhappy she will be,
and what will you do then. Oh! misery!"

Urasato, overcome with the bitterness of their troubles and the
hopelessness of their situation, and as if to shield Midori,
impulsively drew the child to her and, embracing her with tenderness,
burst into tears.

The sound of footsteps suddenly startled them both. Urasato
straightened herself quickly, pushed the child from her, and wiped
away her tears. Midori, always clever and quick-witted, rolled a piece
of paper into a ball and threw it quickly over the fence. It was a
pre-arranged signal of danger. Tokijiro understood and hid himself out
of sight. The screen of the room was pushed aside and not the dreaded
proprietor nor his shrew of a wife, but the kindly and indispensable
hair-dresser, O[4] Tatsu, appeared.

"Oh, courtezan," said the woman, "I fear that I have kept you waiting.
I wanted to come earlier, but I had so many customers that I could not
get away before. As soon as I could do so I left and came to you ...
but, Urasato Sama, what is the matter? You have a very troubled face
and your eyes are wet with tears ... are you ill? Look here, Midori,
you must take better care of her and give her some medicine."

"I wanted her to take some medicine," said Midori, "but she said she
would not."

"I have always disliked medicine and, as Midori tells you, I refused to
take any. I don't feel well to-day, O Tatsu. I don't know why, but I
don't even wish to have the comb put through my hair--so I won't have
my hair dressed now, O Tatsu, thank you."

"Oh," answered O Tatsu, "that is a pity--your hair needs putting
straight--it is very untidy at the sides; let me comb it back and you
will then feel better yourself, too--"

"O Tatsu," said Urasato, hopelessly; "you say so, but--even if the
gloom that weighs down my spirit were lifted and my hair done up and
put straight both would fall again, and knowing this, I am unhappy."

"Oh," replied O Tatsu, "the loosened hair-knot which troubles you is my
work--come to the dressing-table ... come!"

Urasato could not well refuse the kindly woman and reluctantly allowed
herself to be persuaded. She sat down in front of the mirror, but her
heart was outside the fence with Tokijiro, and to wait till the woman
had done her work was a torture to her.

"Listen to me," said O Tatsu, as she took her stand behind Urasato
and with deft fingers put the disordered coiffure to rights, "people
cannot understand the feelings of others unless they have themselves
suffered the same conditions. Even I, in past times, was not quite as I
am now. It seems foolish to speak of it, but I always feel for you. If
you deign to listen to me I will tell you my story. Even such an ugly
woman as I am--there is a proverb you know, that says 'Even a devil at
eighteen is fascinating' (_oni mo juhachi_)--has had her day, and so
there was someone who loved even me, and he is now my husband," and
O Tatsu laughed softly, "ho-ho-ho." "Well, we plighted our vows and
loved more and more deeply. At last he was in need of money and came to
borrow of me, saying 'Lend me two _bu!_'[5] or 'Lend me three _bu!_'
using me in those days only as his money-box. It must have been because
our fate was determined in our previous life that I did not give him
up. I let things go because I loved him. Youth does not come twice in a
life-time. He was in great distress and I sold all my clothes to help
him till my _tansu_[6] were empty, and then I filled them with his
love letters. Things came to such a pass that we thought of committing
suicide together. But a friend who knew what we were about to do
stopped us, and so we are alive to this day. But things have changed
since then, and now, when there is some small trouble, my husband tells
me he will divorce me, and there are times when I feel I hate him and
don't want to work for him any more. There is a proverb that 'the love
of a thousand years can grow cold,' and it is true. Experience has
taught me this."

[Illustration: O Tatsu ... took her stand behind Urasato and with deft
fingers put the disordered coiffure to rights]

"O Tatsu Sama," answered Urasato, "in spite of all you say, I have no
one to love me in this wide world, such an unfortunate creature as I
am, so devotedly as you loved him."

"You may think thus now," said O Tatsu, "for you have reached the age
of love's prime. I know that people in love's despair often cut short
their own lives, but while you have Midori to think of you cannot, you
must not, commit suicide. Duty and love exist only while there is life.
Oh dear, I have talked so much and so earnestly that I have forgotten
to put in the _tsuto-naoshi_," and with the last finishing touches O
Tatsu put in the pincer-like clasp which holds together the stray hair
at the nape of the neck.

Urasato's eyes were dry, though her heart was full of sympathy and
sorrow as she listened to O Tatsu's kind words of sympathy, and as a
bedimmed mirror so was her soul clouded with grief. Midori, touched by
the sad conversation, dropped tears as she flitted about over the mats,
putting away the comb box here and a cushion straight there.

"Well," said O Tatsu, as she bowed to the ground and took her leave,
"I am going yonder to the house of Adzumaya, good-bye!" and with these
words she glided down the stairs and went out by the side door. Looking
back as she did so, she called to Midori:

"Look here, Midori, I am going out by the side gate instead of by the
kitchen--will you please fasten it after me." With these words she
seized the astonished Tokijiro, who was hiding in the shadow, pushed
him inside and shut the gate (_pattari_) with a snap. With an unmoved
face as if nothing unusual had occurred, O Tatsu put up her umbrella,
for snow had begun to fall, lighted her little lantern and pattered
away across the grounds without once looking back.

Thus, through the compassionate help of another, Tokijiro was at last
enabled to enter the house. He ran upstairs quickly, and entering the
room, caught hold of Urasato's hand.

"Urasato! I cannot bear our lot any longer. I cannot bear to live away
from you--at last I am able to tell you how I long to die with you
since we cannot belong to each other any longer. But if we die together
thus, what will become of poor little Midori. What misery--oh, what
misery! No--no--I have it; you shall not die--I alone will die; but oh!
Urasato, pray for the repose of my soul!"

"That would be too pitiless," said Urasato, while the tears fell like
rain from her eyes, "if you die to-night what will become of our
faithful little Midori and myself left behind? Let parents and child
take hands to-night and cross the river of death together. We will not
separate now, oh, no--no! Oh! Tokijiro San! you are too cruel to leave
us behind."

Some one was now heard calling from below.

"Urasato Sama! Urasato Sama!" said a loud harsh voice, "come
downstairs--you are wanted quickly, quickly--come!"

Then the sound of a woman's feet as she began to ascend the stairs
reached the three inmates of the room.

Urasato's heart beat wildly and then seemed to stop with fright. Quick
as a flash of lightning she hid Tokijiro in the _kotatsu_[7] and
Midori, with her usual quick-wittedness, fetched the quilt and covered
him over. Then she glided to the other side of the room. All this was
the work of a moment.

"O Kaya San," said Urasato, "what is the matter? What are you making
such a fuss about? What do you want with me now?"

"Oh! Urasato," answered the woman as she entered the room, "you pretend
not to know why I call you. The master has sent for you--Midori is to
come with you--such is his order!"

Urasato made no answer, but followed O Kaya, who had come to fetch
her. Anxiety for Tokijiro hidden in the _kotatsu_, and fear concerning
what the sudden summons might mean made her heart beat so that she
knew not what to do. Both she and Midori felt that the woman was like
a torturing devil driving them along so much against their will--they
seemed to feel her fierce eyes piercing them through from behind.

O Kaya led them across the garden to another part of the house. The
soft twilight had been succeeded by a dreary night. It was February and
the night wind blew sharp and chill--the last snow of winter weighed
down the bamboos; while, like an emblem of courage and strength in the
midst of adversity, the odour of early plum blossoms hung upon the air.
Overcome with anxiety, Urasato felt only the chill, and fear of the
night spread through her whole being. She started and shivered when
behind her Midori's clogs began to echo shrilly, like the voices of
malicious wood-sprites in the trees laughing in derision at her plight.
Her heart grew thin with pain and foreboding. "Karakong," "karakong,"
sounded the clogs, as they scraped along. "Ho, ho, ho!" mocked the
echoing sprites from the bamboo wood.

They reached the veranda of the house on the other side of
the quadrangle. O Kaya pushed open the _shoji_ disclosing the
grizzled-headed master, Kambei, seated beside the charcoal brazier
looking fierce and angry. When Urasato and Midori saw him, their heart
and soul went out with fear as a light in a sudden blast.

Urasato, however, calmed herself, and sitting down outside the room on
the veranda, put her hands to the floor and bowed over them. The master
turned and glared at her.

"Look here, Urasato," said he, "I have nothing but this to ask you.
Has that young rascal Tokijiro asked you for anything out of this
house--tell me at once--is such the case? I have heard so--tell me the
truth!"

Urasato, frightened as she was, controlled herself and answered quietly:

"Such are the master's honourable words, but I have no remembrance of
anyone asking me for anything whatsoever."

"Um," said the master, "I shan't get it out of you so easily I see,"
then turning to O Kaya, he said, "Here, O Kaya, do as I told you--tie
her up to the tree in the garden and beat her till she confesses."

O Kaya rose from the mats and catching hold of the weeping Urasato
dragged her up and untied and pulled off her girdle. The woman then
carried the slender girl into the garden and bound her up with rope
to a rough-barked, snow-covered pine-tree, which happened to be just
opposite Urasato's room. O Kaya, lifting a bamboo broom threateningly,
said, "Sa! Urasato, you won't be able to endure this--therefore make
a true confession and save yourself. How can you be faithful to such
a ghost of a rascal as Tokijiro? I have warned you many times, but in
spite of all advice you still continue to meet him in secret. Your
punishment has come at last--but it is not my fault, so please do not
bear me any resentment. I have constantly asked the master to pardon
you. To-night, out of pity, I begged him to let you off, but he would
not listen. There is no help for it, I must obey my orders. Come,
confess before you are beaten!"

So O Kaya scolded and entreated Urasato; but Urasato made no reply--she
only wept and sobbed in silence.

"You are an obstinate girl!" said O Kaya, and she lifted the broom to
strike.

Midori now rushed forward in an agony of distress and tried to ward off
the blow about to fall on her beloved mistress. O Kaya flung the child
away with her left arm, and bringing the broom down, began to beat
Urasato mercilessly till her dress was disarranged and her hair fell
down in disorder about her shoulders.

Midori could bear the sight no longer. She became frantic, and running
to the wretched Kambei, lifted praying hands to him: then back again
she darted to catch hold of O Kaya's dress, crying out to both:
"Please, forgive her; oh, please, forgive her! Don't beat her so, I
implore you!"

O Kaya, now fully exasperated, seized the sobbing child.

"I will punish you too," and tied Midori's hands behind her back.

Tokijiro, looking down from the balcony of Urasato's room, had been a
distraught and helpless spectator of the whole scene of cruelty in the
garden. He could now no longer restrain himself and was about to jump
over the balcony to the rescue. But Urasato happened at that moment to
look up and saw what he intended doing. She shook her head and managed
to say, unheard by the others:

"Ah! this, for you to come out, no, no, no!"

Then, as O Kaya came back from tying up Midori, she quickly added to
her, "No, I mean you who have tied up Midori, you must be pitying
her, you must be, O Kaya San--but in the presence of the master for
that reason it won't do! It won't do!" and here she spoke, purposely,
incoherently to O Kaya, while she signed to Tokijiro with her eyes that
he must not come out--that her words were meant for him under cover of
being addressed to O Kaya.

Tokijiro knew that he could do nothing--he was utterly powerless to
help Urasato, and if he obeyed his first impulse and jumped down into
the garden he would only make matters a thousand times worse than they
were, so he went back to the _kotatsu_, and bit the quilt and wept with
impotent rage.

"She is suffering all this for my sake--oh! Urasato! oh! oh! oh!"

Kambei had now reached Urasato's side, and catching hold of her by the
hair, said in a big voice, "Does not your heart tell you why you are so
chastized? It is ridiculous that Tokijiro should come in search of the
_kakemono_ that was entrusted to me. Ha! you look surprised. You see I
know all. Look! Isn't the picture hanging there in my room? I allow no
one so much as to point a finger at it--Sa! Urasato, I am sure Tokijiro
asked you to get him that--come--speak the truth now?"

"I have never been asked to steal any such thing," answered Urasato,
sobbing.

"Oh, you obstinate woman--will nothing make you confess? Here,
Midori--where is Tokijiro? Tell me that first?"

"I don't know," answered Midori.

"There is no reason why Midori should know what you ask," said Urasato,
trying to shield the child.

"Midori is always with you," said Kambei--"and she must know," and
turning to Midori he struck her, saying: "Now confess--where is
Tokijiro hiding now?"

"Oh, oh, you hurt me," cried the child.

"Well, confess then," said the cruel man, "then I won't hurt you any
more!"

"Oh ... Urasato," cried Midori, turning to her--"entreat the master to
pardon me--if he kills me, before I die I can never meet my father whom
I have never seen."

Tokijiro, upstairs in the balcony, heard all that was going on and
murmured:

"That is, indeed, natural, poor child."

But Kambei, unaware that he was heard and seen, beat the child again
and again.

"I can't make out what you say, little creature," he screamed with
rage. "You shall feel the weight of this _tekki_[8] then we shall see
if you will still not answer what is asked you."

Under this hell-like torture Midori could scarcely breathe. The poor
child tried to crawl away, but as she was bound with rope, she was
unable to do so.

The cruel man once more caught hold of her roughly by the shoulder and
began to beat her again. At last the child gave a great cry of pain,
lost consciousness, and fell back as though dead.

Kambei was now alarmed at what he had done, for he had no intention
of killing the child--only of making her tell him where Tokijiro was
living or hiding. He stopped beating her and stood on one side, angry
enough at being thwarted by Urasato and Midori.

Urasato raised her head and moaned to herself as she looked at the
prostrate child.

"I am really responsible for the child's suffering," she said to
herself--"my sin is the cause of it all; forgive me, my child--you know
it not, but I am your mother; and although you are only a child you
have understood and helped me. You saw that I was in love and always
anxious about my lover. This is from a fault in your former life that
you have such a mother--ah! this is all, alas, fruit of our sins in
another existence," and Urasato's tears flowed so fast that, like
spring rain, they melted the snow upon which they fell.

O Kaya now came up to her, saying,

"What an obstinate creature you are! If you don't confess you shall
wander in company with your child to the _Meido_,"[9] and with these
words she raised her broom to strike.

Hikoroku, the clerk of the house, now came running upon the scene. He
had fallen in love with Urasato and had often pressed his suit in vain.
When he saw how matters stood he pushed O Kaya away.

"You are not to help Urasato!" screamed O Kaya, angrily.

"Go away, go away," said Hikoroku, "this punishment is the clerk's
work--though I am only a humble servant, however humble I am I don't
need your interference."

Then Hikoroku turned to Kambei and said apologetically.

"Excuse me, master, I have something to say to you; the matter is
this--that dear Urasato--no, I mean Midori and Urasato--I never forget
them, oh, no, no! I know their characters--they are good-hearted. This
punishment is the clerk's work. If you will only leave Urasato to me
I shall be able to make her confess. I am sure I can manage her. If
you will make me responsible for making Urasato confess, I shall be
grateful."

Kambei nodded his head, he was already tired, and said:

"Um--I would not allow anyone else to do this, but as I trust you
Hikoroku, I will let you do it for a while; without fail you must
make her confess, I will rest,"--and with these words he went into
the house, intending to put the blame on Hikoroku if his regulation
suffered because of his treatment of Urasato.

Hikoroku accompanied his master to the house and bowed low as he
entered. He then came back to Urasato.

"Did you hear what the master said? Did he not say that he would not
entrust this to anyone else but _me_--only to me--Hikoroku--don't you
see what a fine fellow I am? If only you had listened to me before you
need never have suffered so--I would have helped you, Urasato San!
Perhaps you suspect me as being to blame for all this; but no--indeed,
I am not--you and I are living in another world. Will you not listen to
me--Urasato San?--but oh!--you have a different heart--oh! what am I to
do?" and he placed his hands palm to palm and lifted them despairingly
upwards to Urasato, shaking them up and down in supplication.

O Kaya had been listening to Hikoroku, for she was in love with him
herself and was always jealous of the attention he paid to Urasato.
She now came up and said, as she shrugged her shoulders from side to
side: "Now Hikoroku Sama--what are you doing? What are you saying?
Notwithstanding your promise to the master to make Urasato confess,
you are now talking to her in this way. Whenever you see Urasato you
always act like this without thinking of me or my feelings for you. I
am offended--I can't help it! You will probably not get her to confess
after all. Well--I will take your place, so go away!"

As O Kaya came up to Hikoroku he pushed her away, saying:

"No, never! You shall not hurt her--this is not your business--the
master has entrusted it to me. As for you, it is ridiculous that you
should love me. How ugly you are! Ugh!--your face is like a lion's. Are
you not ashamed. Before the master I have no countenance left when I
think of what you say to me. Now then--go away O Kaya--I am going to
untie poor Urasato!"

O Kaya tried to push Hikoroku away. Hikoroku took up the broom and beat
her without caring how much he hurt her. Mercilessly did he continue
to beat her till she was overcome and, falling down on the snow, lay
stunned for some time to come.

Having thus got rid of O Kaya, Hikoroku quickly released Urasato and
Midori. As he lifted the child up she opened her eyes.

"Ya, ya! Are you still there, mother?"

Did Midori know that Urasato was her mother, or on returning to
consciousness was it instinct or affection that made her use the tender
name?

When she heard Midori's voice, Urasato felt that she must be in a
dream, for she had feared that the child had been killed by Kambei's
beating.

"Are you still alive?" she exclaimed, and caught the child in her arms
while tears of joy fell down her pale cheeks.

Hikoroku looked on with a triumphant face, for he was pleased at what
he had done.

"Urasato Sama, you must run away, and now that I have saved you both
I can't stay here. I, too, shall be tied up and punished for this. I
shall run away, too! Well, it is certainly better to escape with you
than to remain here. Let us flee together now. Come with me. I must get
my purse, however, before I go. Please wait here till I come back with
my small savings--then I can help you; don't let anyone find you," and
without waiting for Urasato's answer Hikoroku ran into the house.

Urasato and Midori stood clasping each other under the pine tree. They
were shaking with cold and fatigue and pain. Suddenly a sound made them
look up. Tokijiro suddenly stood before them. He had climbed out on to
the roof, and walking round the quadrangle, had reached the spot where
they stood and then let himself down by the pine-tree. When the two saw
him they started fo

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