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Title: The Romance of the Milky Way
And Other Studies & Stories
Author: Lafcadio Hearn
Release Date: March 10, 2005 [EBook #15320]
Language: English
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SHORT STORY
THE ROMANCE OF THE MILKY WAY
AND OTHER STUDIES & STORIES
BY LAFCADIO HEARN
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK 1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PUBLISHED OCTOBER 1905
CONTENTS
THE ROMANCE OF THE MILKY WAY 1
GOBLIN POETRY 51
"ULTIMATE QUESTIONS" 103
THE MIRROR MAIDEN 125
THE STORY OF IT[=O] NORISUKÉ 139
STRANGER THAN FICTION 167
A LETTER FROM JAPAN 179
INTRODUCTION
Lafcadio Hearn, known to Nippon as Yakumo Koizumi, was born in
Leucadia in the Ionian Islands, June 27, 1850. His father was an Irish
surgeon in the British Army; his mother was a Greek. Both parents died
while Hearn was still a child, and he was adopted by a great-aunt,
and educated for the priesthood. To this training he owed his
Latin scholarship and, doubtless, something of the subtlety of
his intelligence. He soon found, however, that the prospect of an
ecclesiastical career was alien from his inquiring mind and vivid
temperament, and at the age of nineteen he came to America to seek
his fortune. After working for a time as a proof-reader, he obtained
employment as a newspaper reporter in Cincinnati. Soon he rose to
be an editorial writer, and went in the course of a few years to New
Orleans to join the editorial staff of the "Times-Democrat." Here he
lived until 1887, writing odd fantasies and arabesques for his paper,
contributing articles and sketches to the magazines, and publishing
several curious little books, among them his "Stray Leaves from
Strange Literature," and his translations from Gautier. In the winter
of 1887 he began his pilgrimages to exotic countries, being, as
he wrote to a friend, "a small literary bee in search of inspiring
honey." After a couple of years, spent chiefly in the French West
Indies, with periods of literary work in New York, he went in 1890
to Japan to prepare a series of articles for a magazine. Here through
some deep affinity of mood with the marvelous people of that country
he seems suddenly to have felt himself at last at home. He married a
Japanese woman; he acquired Japanese citizenship in order to preserve
the succession of his property to his family there; he became a
lecturer in the Imperial University at T[=o]ky[=o]; and in a series
of remarkable books he made himself the interpreter to the Western
World of the very spirit of Japanese life and art. He died there of
paralysis of the heart on the 26th of September, 1904.
* * * * *
With the exception of a body of familiar letters now in process of
collection, the present volume contains all of Hearn's writing that
he left uncollected in the magazines or in manuscript of a sufficient
ripeness for publication. It is worth noting, however, that perfect as
is the writing of "Ultimate Questions," and complete as the essay is
in itself, the author regarded it as unfinished, and, had he lived,
would have revised and amplified some portions of it.
But if this volume lacks the incomparably exquisite touch of its
author in its arrangement and revision, it does, nevertheless, present
him in all of his most characteristic veins, and it is in respect both
to style and to substance perhaps the most mature and significant of
his works.
In his first days as a writer Hearn had conceived an ideal of his art
as specific as it was ambitious. Early in the eighties he wrote from
New Orleans in an unpublished letter to the Rev. Wayland D. Ball
of Washington: "The lovers of antique loveliness are proving to me
the future possibilities of a long cherished dream,--the English
realization of a Latin style, modeled upon foreign masters, and
rendered even more forcible by that element of _strength_ which
is the characteristic of Northern tongues. This no man can hope
to accomplish, but even a translator may carry his stones to the
master-masons of a new architecture of language." In the realization
of his ideal Hearn took unremitting pains. He gave a minute and
analytical study to the writings of such masters of style as Flaubert
and Gautier, and he chose his miscellaneous reading with a peculiar
care. He wrote again to the same friend: "I never read a book which
does not powerfully impress the imagination; but whatever contains
novel, curious, potent imagery I always read, no matter what
the subject. When the soil of fancy is really well enriched
with innumerable fallen leaves, the flowers of language grow
spontaneously." Finally, to the hard study of technique, to vast
but judicious reading, he added a long, creative brooding time. To
a Japanese friend, Nobushige Amenomori, he wrote in a passage
which contains by implication a deep theory not only of literary
composition, but of all art:--
"Now with regard to your own sketch or story. If you are quite
dissatisfied with it, I think this is probably due _not_ to what you
suppose,--imperfection of expression,--but rather to the fact that
some _latent_ thought or emotion has not yet defined itself in your
mind with sufficient sharpness. You feel something and have not been
able to express the feeling--only because you do not yet quite know
what it is. We feel without understanding feeling; and our most
powerful emotions are the most undefinable. This must be so, because
they are inherited accumulations of feeling, and the multiplicity of
them--superimposed one over another--blurs them, and makes them dim,
even though enormously increasing their strength.... _Unconscious_
brain work is the best to develop such latent feeling or thought. By
quietly writing the thing over and over again, I find that the emotion
or idea often _develops itself_ in the process,--unconsciously. Again,
it is often worth while to _try_ to analyze the feeling that remains
dim. The effort of trying to understand exactly what it is that moves
us sometimes proves successful.... If you have any feeling--no matter
what--strongly latent in the mind (even only a haunting sadness or a
mysterious joy), you may be sure that it is expressible. Some feelings
are, of course, very difficult to develop. I shall show you one
of these days, when we see each other, a page that I worked at for
_months_ before the idea came clearly.... When the best result
comes, it ought to surprise you, for our best work is out of the
Unconscious."
Through this study, reading, and brooding Lafcadio Hearn's prose
ripened and mellowed consistently to the end. In mere workmanship the
present volume is one of his most admirable, while in its heightened
passages, like the final paragraph of "The Romance of the Milky Way,"
the rich, melancholy music, the profound suggestion, are not easily
matched from any but the very greatest English prose.
In substance the volume is equally significant. In 1884 he wrote to
one of the closest of his friends that he had at last found his
feet intellectually through the reading of Herbert Spencer which
had dispelled all "isms" from his mind and left him "the vague
but omnipotent consolation of the Great Doubt." And in "Ultimate
Questions," which strikes, so to say, the dominant chord of this
volume, we have an almost lyrical expression of the meaning for him of
the Spencerian philosophy and psychology. In it is his characteristic
mingling of Buddhist and Shinto thought with English and French
psychology, strains which in his work "do not simply mix well," as
he says in one of his letters, but "absolutely unite, like chemical
elements--rush together with a shock;"--and in it he strikes his
deepest note. In his steady envisagement of the horror that envelops
the stupendous universe of science, in his power to evoke and revive
old myths and superstitions, and by their glamour to cast a ghostly
light of vanished suns over the darkness of the abyss, he was the most
Lucretian of modern writers.
* * * * *
In outward appearance Hearn, the man, was in no way prepossessing. In
the sharply lined picture of him drawn by one of his Japanese comrades
in the "Atlantic" for October, 1905, he appears, "slightly corpulent
in later years, short in stature, hardly five feet high, of somewhat
stooping gait. A little brownish in complexion, and of rather hairy
skin. A thin, sharp, aquiline nose, large protruding eyes, of which
the left was blind and the right very near-sighted."
The same writer, Nobushige Amenomori, has set down a reminiscence, not
of Hearn the man, but of Hearn the genius, wherewith this introduction
to the last of his writings may fitly conclude: "I shall ever retain
the vivid remembrance of the sight I had when I stayed over night at
his house for the first time. Being used myself also to sit up late, I
read in bed that night. The clock struck one in the morning, but there
was a light in Hearn's study. I heard some low, hoarse coughing. I was
afraid my friend might be ill; so I stepped out of my room and went to
his study. Not wanting, however, to disturb him, if he was at work,
I cautiously opened the door just a little, and peeped in. I saw
my friend intent in writing at his high desk, with his nose almost
touching the paper. Leaf after leaf he wrote on. In a while he held
up his head, and what did I see! It was not the Hearn I was familiar
with; it was another Hearn. His face was mysteriously white; his
large eye gleamed. He appeared like one in touch with some unearthly
presence.
"Within that homely looking man there burned something pure as the
vestal fire, and in that flame dwelt a mind that called forth life and
poetry out of dust, and grasped the highest themes of human thought."
F.G.
September, 1905.
THE ROMANCE, OF THE MILKY WAY
Of old it was said: 'The River of Heaven is the Ghost of
Waters.' We behold it shifting its bed in the course of the
year as an earthly river sometimes does.
_Ancient Scholar_
Among the many charming festivals celebrated by Old Japan, the most
romantic was the festival of Tanabata-Sama, the Weaving-Lady of the
Milky Way. In the chief cities her holiday is now little observed; and
in T[=o]ky[=o] it is almost forgotten. But in many country districts,
and even in villages, near the capital, it is still celebrated in a
small way. If you happen to visit an old-fashioned country town or
village, on the seventh day of the seventh month (by the ancient
calendar), you will probably notice many freshly-cut bamboos fixed
upon the roofs of the houses, or planted in the ground beside them,
every bamboo having attached to it a number of strips of colored
paper. In some very poor villages you might find that these papers are
white, or of one color only; but the general rule is that the papers
should be of five or seven different colors. Blue, green, red, yellow,
and white are the tints commonly displayed. All these papers are
inscribed with short poems written in praise of Tanabata and her
husband Hikoboshi. After the festival the bamboos are taken down and
thrown into the nearest stream, together with the poems attached to
them.
* * * * *
To understand the romance of this old festival, you must know the
legend of those astral divinities to whom offerings used to be made,
even by, the Imperial Household, on the seventh day of the seventh
month. The legend is Chinese. This is the Japanese popular version of
it:--
The great god of the firmament had a lovely daughter, Tanabata-tsumé,
who passed her days in weaving garments for her august parent. She
rejoiced in her work, and thought that there was no greater pleasure
than the pleasure of weaving. But one day, as she sat before her loom
at the door of her heavenly dwelling, she saw a handsome peasant lad
pass by, leading an ox, and she fell in love with him. Her august
father, divining her secret wish, gave her the youth for a husband.
But the wedded lovers became too fond of each other, and neglected
their duty to the god of the firmament; the sound of the shuttle was
no longer heard, and the ox wandered, unheeded, over the plains of
heaven. Therefore the great god was displeased, and he separated the
pair. They were sentenced to live thereafter apart, with the Celestial
River between them; but it was permitted them to see each other once
a year, on the seventh night of the seventh moon. On that
night--providing the skies be clear--the birds of heaven make, with
their bodies and wings, a bridge over the stream; and by means of that
bridge the lovers can meet. But if there be rain, the River of Heaven
rises, and becomes so wide that the bridge cannot be formed. So the
husband and wife cannot always meet, even on the seventh night of
the seventh month; it may happen, by reason of bad weather, that they
cannot meet for three or four years at a time. But their love remains
immortally young and eternally patient; and they continue to fulfill
their respective duties each day without fault,--happy in their hope
of being able to meet on the seventh night of the next seventh month.
* * * * *
To ancient Chinese fancy, the Milky Way was a luminous river,--the
River of Heaven,--the Silver Stream. It has been stated by Western
writers that Tanabata, the Weaving-Lady, is a star in Lyra; and the
Herdsman, her beloved, a star in Aquila, on the opposite side of the
galaxy. But it were more correct to say that both are represented, to
Far-Eastern imagination, by groups of stars. An old Japanese book puts
the matter thus plainly: "Kengy[=u] (the Ox-Leader) is on the west
side of the Heavenly River, and is represented by three stars in a
row, and looks like a man leading an ox. Shokujo (the Weaving-Lady)
is on the east side of the Heavenly River: three stars so placed as
to appear like the figure of a woman seated at her loom.... The former
presides over all things relating to agriculture; the latter, over all
that relates to women's work."
* * * * *
In an old book called Zatsuwa-Shin, it is said that these deities
were of earthly origin. Once in this world they were man and wife,
and lived in China; and the husband was called Ishi, and the wife
Hakuy[=o]. They especially and most devoutly reverenced the Moon.
Every clear evening, after sundown, they waited with eagerness to see
her rise. And when she began to sink towards the horizon, they would
climb to the top of a hill near their house, so that they might be
able to gaze upon her face as long as possible. Then, when she at last
disappeared from view, they would mourn together. At the age of ninety
and nine, the wife died; and her spirit rode up to heaven on a magpie,
and there became a star. The husband, who was then one hundred and
three years old, sought consolation for his bereavement in looking at
the Moon and when he welcomed her rising and mourned her setting, it
seemed to him as if his wife were still beside him.
One summer night, Hakuy[=o]--now immortally beautiful and
young--descended from heaven upon her magpie, to visit her husband;
and he was made very happy by that visit. But from that time he
could think of nothing but the bliss of becoming a star, and joining
Hakuy[=o] beyond the River of Heaven. At last he also ascended to the
sky, riding upon a crow; and there he became a star-god. But he could
not join Hakuy[=o] at once, as he had hoped;--for between his allotted
place and hers flowed the River of Heaven; and it was not permitted
for either star to cross the stream, because the Master of Heaven
(_Ten-Tei_) daily bathed in its waters. Moreover, there was no bridge.
But on one day every year--the seventh day of the seventh month--they
were allowed to see each other. The Master of Heaven goes always
on that day to the Zenh[=o]do, to hear the preaching of the law of
Buddha; and then the magpies and the crows make, with their hovering
bodies and outspread wings, a bridge over the Celestial Stream; and
Hakuy[=o] crosses that bridge to meet her husband.
There can be little doubt that the Japanese festival called
Tanabata was originally identical with the festival of the Chinese
Weaving-Goddess, Tchi-Niu; the Japanese holiday seems to have
been especially a woman's holiday, from the earliest times; and
the characters with which the word Tanabata is written signify a
weaving-girl. But as both of the star-deities were worshiped on the
seventh of the seventh month, some Japanese scholars have not been
satisfied with the common explanation of the name, and have stated
that it was originally composed with the word _tané_ (seed, or grain),
and the word _hata_ (loom). Those who accept this etymology make the
appellation, Tanabata-Sama, plural instead of singular, and render
it as "the deities of grain and of the loom,"--that is to say, those
presiding over agriculture and weaving. In old Japanese pictures
the star-gods are represented according to this conception of their
respective attributes;--Hikoboshi being figured as a peasant lad
leading an ox to drink of the Heavenly River, on the farther side of
which Orihimé (Tanabata) appears, weaving at her loom. The garb of
both is Chinese; and the first Japanese pictures of these divinities
were probably copied from some Chinese original.
In the oldest collection of Japanese poetry extant,--the
Many[=o]sh[=u], dating from 760 A.D.,--the male divinity is usually
called Hikoboshi, and the female Tanabata-tsumé; but in later times
both have been called Tanabata. In Izumo the male deity is popularly
termed O-Tanabata Sama, and the female Mé-Tanabata Sama. Both are
still known by many names. The male is called Kaiboshi as well as
Hikoboshi and Kengy[=u]; while the female is called Asagao-himé
("Morning Glory Princess")[1], Ito-ori-himé ("Thread-Weaving
Princess"), Momoko-himé ("Peach-Child Princess"), Takimono-himé
("Incense Princess"), and Sasagani-himé ("Spider Princess"). Some
of these names are difficult to explain,--especially the last, which
reminds us of the Greek legend of Arachne. Probably the Greek myth and
the Chinese story have nothing whatever in common; but in old Chinese
books there is recorded a curious fact which might well suggest a
relationship. In the time of the Chinese Emperor Ming Hwang (whom the
Japanese call Gens[=o]), it was customary for the ladies of the court,
on the seventh day of the seventh month, to catch spiders and put them
into an incense-box for purposes of divination. On the morning of the
eighth day the box was opened; and if the spiders had spun thick webs
during the night the omen was good. But if they had remained idle the
omen was bad.
[Footnote 1: Asagao (lit., "morning-face") is the Japanese name for
the beautiful climbing plant which we call "morning glory."]
* * * * *
There is a story that, many ages ago, a beautiful woman visited the
dwelling of a farmer in the mountains of Izumo, and taught to the only
daughter of the household an art of weaving never before known. One
evening the beautiful stranger vanished away; and the people knew
that they had seen the Weaving-Lady of Heaven. The daughter of the
farmer became renowned for her skill in weaving. But she would never
marry,--because she had been the companion of Tanabata-Sama.
* * * * *
Then there is a Chinese story--delightfully vague--about a man who
once made a visit, unawares, to the Heavenly Land. He had observed
that every year, during the eighth month, a raft of precious wood came
floating to the shore on which he lived; and he wanted to know where
that wood grew. So he loaded a boat with provisions for a two years'
voyage, and sailed away in the direction from which the rafts used to
drift. For months and months he sailed on, over an always placid sea;
and at last he arrived at a pleasant shore, where wonderful trees
were growing. He moored his boat, and proceeded alone into the unknown
land, until he came to the bank of a river whose waters were bright as
silver. On the opposite shore he saw a pavilion; and in the pavilion
a beautiful woman sat weaving; she was white like moonshine, and made
a radiance all about her. Presently he saw a handsome young peasant
approaching, leading an ox to the water; and he asked the young
peasant to tell him the name of the place and the country. But the
youth seemed to be displeased by the question, and answered in a
severe tone: "If you want to know the name of this place, go back
to where you came from, and ask Gen-Kum-Pei."[2] So the voyager,
feeling afraid, hastened to his boat, and returned to China. There he
sought out the sage Gen-Kum-Pei, to whom he related the adventure.
Gen-Kum-Pei clapped his hands for wonder, and exclaimed, "So it was
you!... On the seventh day of the seventh month I was gazing at
the heavens, and I saw that the Herdsman and the Weaver were about
to meet;--but between them was a new Star, which I took to be a
Guest-Star. Fortunate man! you have been to the River of Heaven, and
have looked upon the face of the Weaving-Lady!..."
[Footnote 2: This is the Japanese reading of the Chinese name.]
* * * * *
--It is said that the meeting of the Herdsman and the Weaver can be
observed by any one with good eyes; for whenever it occurs those stars
burn with five different colors. That is why offerings of five colors
are made to the Tanabata divinities, and why the poems composed in
their praise are written upon paper of five different tints.
But, as I have said before, the pair can meet only in fair weather.
If there be the least rain upon the seventh night, the River of Heaven
will rise, and the lovers must wait another whole year. Therefore the
rain that happens to fall on Tanabata night is called _Namida no Amé_,
"The Rain of Tears."
When the sky is clear on the seventh night, the lovers are fortunate;
and their stars can be seen to sparkle with delight. If the star
Kengy[=u] then shines very brightly, there will be great rice crops
in the autumn. If the star Shokujo looks brighter than usual, there
will be a prosperous time for weavers, and for every kind of female
industry.
* * * * *
In old Japan it was generally supposed that the meeting of the pair
signified good fortune to mortals. Even to-day, in many parts of the
country, children sing a little song on the evening of the Tanabata
festival,--_Tenki ni nari!_ ("O weather, be clear!") In the province
of Iga the young folks also sing a jesting song at the supposed hour
of the lovers' meeting:--
Tanabata ya!
Amari isogaba,
Korobubéshi![3]
But in the province of Izumo, which is a very rainy district, the
contrary belief prevails; and it is thought that if the sky be clear
on the seventh day of the seventh month, misfortune will follow. The
local explanation of this belief is that if the stars can meet, there
will be born from their union many evil deities who will afflict the
country with drought and other calamities.
[Footnote 3: "Ho! Tanabata! if you hurry too much, you will tumble
down!"]
* * * * *
The festival of Tanabata was first celebrated in Japan on the seventh
day of the seventh month of Tomby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o] (A.D. 755). Perhaps
the Chinese origin of the Tanabata divinities accounts for the fact
that their public worship was at no time represented by many temples.
I have been able to find record of only one temple to them, called
Tanabata-jinja, which was situated at a village called Hoshiaimura,
in the province of Owari, and surrounded by a grove called
Tanabata-mori.[4]
[Footnote 4: There is no mention, however, of any such village in any
modern directory.]
Even before Temby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o], however, the legend of the
Weaving-Maiden seems to have been well known in Japan; for it is
recorded that on the seventh night of the seventh year of Y[=o]r[=o]
(A.D. 723) the poet Yamagami no Okura composed the song:--
Amanogawa,
Ai-muki tachité,
Waga koïshi
Kimi kimasu nari--
Himo-toki makina![5]
It would seem that the Tanabata festival was first established
in Japan eleven hundred and fifty years ago, as an Imperial Court
festival only, in accordance with Chinese precedent. Subsequently
the nobility and the military classes everywhere followed imperial
example; and the custom of celebrating the Hoshi-mat-suri, or
Star-Festival,--as it was popularly called,--spread gradually
downwards, until at last the seventh day of the seventh month became,
in the full sense of the term, a national holiday. But the fashion of
its observance varied considerably at different eras and in different
provinces.
[Footnote 5: For a translation and explanation of this song, see
_infra_, page 30.]
The ceremonies at the Imperial Court were of the most elaborate
character: a full account of them is given in the _K[=o]ji
Kongen_,--with explanatory illustrations. On the evening of the
seventh day of the seventh month, mattings were laid down on the east
side of that portion of the Imperial Palace called the Seir-y[=o]den;
and upon these mattings were placed four tables of offerings to the
Star-deities. Besides the customary food-offerings, there were placed
upon these tables rice-wine, incense, vases of red lacquer containing
flowers, a harp and flute, and a needle with five eyes, threaded
with threads of five different colors. Black-lacquered oil-lamps were
placed beside the tables, to illuminate the feast. In another part of
the grounds a tub of water was so placed as to reflect the light of
the Tanabata-stars; and the ladies of the Imperial Household attempted
to thread a needle by the reflection. She who succeeded was to be
fortunate during the following year. The court-nobility (_Kugé_) were
obliged to make certain offerings to the Imperial House on the day
of the festival. The character of these offerings, and the manner of
their presentation, were fixed by decree. They were conveyed to the
palace upon a tray, by a veiled lady of rank, in ceremonial dress.
Above her, as she walked, a great red umbrella was borne by an
attendant. On the tray were placed seven _tanzaku_ (longilateral
slips of fine tinted paper for the writing of poems); seven
_kudzu_-leaves;[6] seven inkstones; seven strings of _s[=o]men_
(a kind of vermicelli); fourteen writing-brushes; and a bunch of
yam-leaves gathered at night, and thickly sprinkled with dew. In the
palace grounds the ceremony began at the Hour of the Tiger,--4 A.M.
Then the inkstones were carefully washed,--prior to preparing the ink
for the writing of poems in praise of the Star-deities,--and each one
set upon a _kudzu_-leaf. One bunch of bedewed yam-leaves was then
laid upon every inkstone; and with this dew, instead of water, the
writing-ink was prepared. All the ceremonies appear to have been
copied from those in vogue at the Chinese court in the time of the
Emperor Ming-Hwang.
[Footnote 6: _Pueraria Thunbergiana._]
* * * * *
It was not until the time of the Tokugawa Sh[=o]gunate that the
Tanabata festival became really a national holiday; and the popular
custom of attaching _tansaku_ of different colors to freshly-cut
bamboos, in celebration of the occasion, dates only from the era
of Bunser (1818). Previously the _tanzaku_ had been made of a very
costly quality of paper; and the old aristocratic ceremonies had been
not less expensive than elaborate. But in the time of the Tokugawa
Sh[=o]gunate a very cheap paper of various colors was manufactured;
and the holiday ceremonies were suffered to assume an inexpensive
form, in which even the poorest classes could indulge.
The popular customs relating to the festival differed according to
locality. Those of Izumo--where all classes of society, _samurai_ or
common folk, celebrated the holiday in much the same way--used to be
particularly interesting; and a brief account of them will suggest
something of the happy aspects of life in feudal times. At the Hour
of the Tiger, on the seventh night of the seventh month, everybody
was up; and the work of washing the inkstones and writing-brushes
was performed. Then, in the household garden, dew was collected upon
yam-leaves. This dew was called _Amanogawa no suzuki_ ("drops from the
River of Heaven"); and it was used to make fresh ink for writing the
poems which were to be suspended to bamboos planted in the garden. It
was usual for friends to present each other with new inkstones at the
time of the Tanabata festival; and if there were any new inkstones
in the house, the fresh ink was prepared in these. Each member of
the family then wrote poems. The adults composed verses, according to
their ability, in praise of the Star-deities; and the children either
wrote dictation or tried to improvise. Little folk too young to use
the writing-brush without help had their small hands guided, by parent
or elder sister or elder brother, so as to shape on a _tanzaku_
the character of some single word or phrase relating to the
festival,--such as "Amanogawa," or "Tanabata," or "Kasasagi no Hashi"
(the Bridge of Magpies). In the garden were planted two freshly-cut
bamboos, with branches and leaves entire,--a male bamboo
(_otoko-daké_) and a female bamboo (_onna-daké_). They were set
up about six feet apart, and to a cord extended between them were
suspended paper-cuttings of five colors, and skeins of dyed thread of
five colors. The paper-cuttings represented upper-robes,--_kimono_.
To the leaves and branches of the bamboos were tied the _tanzaku_
on which poems had been written by the members of the family.
And upon a table, set between the bamboos, or immediately before
them, were placed vessels containing various offerings to the
Star-deities,--fruits, _s[=o]men_, rice-wine, and vegetables of
different kinds, such as cucumbers and watermelons.
But the most curious Izumo custom relating to the festival was the
_Nému-nagashi_, or "Sleep-wash-away" ceremony. Before day-break the
young folks used to go to some stream, carrying with them bunches
composed of _némuri_-leaves and bean-leaves mixed together. On
reaching the stream, they would fling their bunches of leaves into the
current, and sing a little song:--
Nému wa, nagaré yo!
Mamé no ha wa, tomaré!
These verses might be rendered in two ways; because the word _nému_
can be taken in the meaning either of _némuri_ (sleep), or of
_nemuri-gi_ or _némunoki_, the "sleep-plant" (mimosa),--while the
syllables _mamé_, as written in _kana_, can signify either "bean," or
"activity," or "strength," "vigor," "health," etc. But the ceremony
was symbolical, and the intended meaning of the song was:--
Drowsiness, drift away!
Leaves of vigor, remain!
After this, all the young folk would jump into the water, to bathe or
swim, in token of their resolve to shed all laziness for the coming
year, and to maintain a vigorous spirit of endeavor.
* * * * *
Yet it was probably in Yédo (now T[=o]ky[=o]) that the Tanabata
festival assumed its most picturesque aspects. During the two days
that the celebration lasted,--the sixth and seventh of the seventh
month,--the city used to present the appearance of one vast bamboo
grove; fresh bamboos, with poems attached to them, being erected upon
the roofs of the houses. Peasants were in those days able to do a
great business in bamboos, which were brought into town by hundreds of
wagonloads for holiday use. Another feature of the Yédo festival was
the children's procession, in which bamboos, with poems attached to
them, were carried about the city. To each such bamboo there was also
fastened a red plaque on which were painted, in Chinese characters,
the names of the Tanabata stars.
But almost everywhere, under the Tokugawa régime, the Tanabata
festival used to be a merry holiday for the young people of all
classes,--a holiday beginning with lantern displays before sunrise,
and lasting well into the following night. Boys and girls on that day
were dressed in their best, and paid visits of ceremony to friends and
neighbors.
* * * * *
--The moon of the seventh month used to be called _Tanabata-tsuki_, or
"The Moon of Tanabata." And it was also called _Fumi-tsuki_, or "The
Literary Moon," because during the seventh month poems were everywhere
composed in praise of the Celestial Lovers.
* * * * *
I think that my readers ought to be interested in the following
selection of ancient Japanese poems, treating of the Tanabata legend.
All are from the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_. The _Many[=o]sh[=u]_, or "Gathering
of a Myriad Leaves," is a vast collection of poems composed before the
middle of the eighth century. It was compiled by Imperial order, and
completed early in the ninth century. The number of the poems which
it contains is upwards of four thousand; some being "long poems"
(_naga-uta_), but the great majority _tanka_, or compositions limited
to thirty-one syllables; and the authors were courtiers or high
officials. The first eleven _tanka_ hereafter translated were composed
by Yamagami no Okura, Governor of the province of Chikuzen more than
eleven hundred years ago. His fame as a poet is well deserved; for
not a little of his work will bear comparison with some of the finer
epigrams of the Greek Anthology. The following verses, upon the death
of his little son Furubi, will serve as an example:--
Wakakeréba
Nichi-yuki shiraji:
Mahi wa sému,
Shitabé no tsukahi
Ohité-tohorasé.
--[_As he is so young, he cannot know the way.... To the
messenger of the Underworld I will give a bribe, and entreat
him, saying: "Do thou kindly take the little one upon thy back
along the road."_]
Eight hundred years earlier, the Greek poet Diodorus Zonas of Sardis
had written:--
"_Do thou, who rowest the boat of the dead in the water of
this reedy lake, for Hades, stretch out thy hand, dark
Charon, to the son of Kinyras, as he mounts the ladder by the
gang-way, and receive him. For his sandals will cause the lad
to slip, and he fears to set his feet naked on the sand of the
shore._"
But the charming epigram of Diodorus was inspired only by a myth,--for
the "son of Kinyras" was no other than Adonis,--whereas the verses of
Okura express for us the yearning of a father's heart.
* * * * *
--Though the legend of Tanabata was indeed borrowed from China, the
reader will find nothing Chinese in the following compositions.
They represent the old classic poetry at its purest, free from alien
influence; and they offer us many suggestions as to the condition of
Japanese life and thought twelve hundred years ago. Remembering that
they were written before any modern European literature had yet taken
form, one is startled to find how little the Japanese written language
has changed in the course of so many centuries. Allowing for a few
obsolete words, and sundry slight changes of pronunciation, the
ordinary Japanese reader to-day can enjoy these early productions of
his native muse with about as little difficulty as the English reader
finds in studying the poets of the Elizabethan era. Moreover, the
refinement and the simple charm of the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_ compositions
have never been surpassed, and seldom equaled, by later Japanese
poets.
As for the forty-odd _tanka_ which I have translated, their chief
attraction lies, I think, in what they reveal to us of the human
nature of their authors. Tanabata-tsumé still represents for us the
Japanese wife, worshipfully loving;--Hikoboshi appears to us with none
of the luminosity of the god, but as the young Japanese husband of the
sixth or seventh century, before Chinese ethical convention had begun
to exercise its restraint upon life and literature. Also these poems
interest us by their expression of the early feeling for natural
beauty. In them we find the scenery and the seasons of Japan
transported to the Blue Plain of High Heaven;--the Celestial Stream
with its rapids and shallows, its sudden risings and clamourings
within its stony bed, and its water-grasses bending in the autumn
wind, might well be the Kamogawa;--and the mists that haunt its shores
are the very mists of Arashiyama. The boat of Hikoboshi, impelled
by a single oar working upon a wooden peg, is not yet obsolete; and
at many a country ferry you may still see the _hiki-funé_ in which
Tanabata-tsumé prayed her husband to cross in a night of storm,--a
flat broad barge pulled over the river by cables. And maids and wives
still sit at their doors in country villages, on pleasant autumn days,
to weave as Tanabata-tsumé wove for the sake of her lord and lover.
* * * * *
--It will be observed that, in most of these verses, it is not the
wife who dutifully crosses the Celestial River to meet her husband,
but the husband who rows over the stream to meet the wife; and there
is no reference to the Bridge of Birds.... As for my renderings, those
readers who know by experience the difficulty of translating Japanese
verse will be the most indulgent, I fancy. The Romaji system of
spelling has been followed (except in one or two cases where I thought
it better to indicate the ancient syllabication after the method
adopted by Aston); and words or phrases necessarily supplied have been
inclosed in parentheses.
Amanogawa
Ai-muki tachité,
Waga koïshi
Kimi kimasu nari
Himo-toki makéna!
[_He is coming, my long-desired lord, whom I have been waiting
to meet here, on the banks of the River of Heaven.... The
moment of loosening my girdle is nigh!_[7]]
[Footnote 7: The last line alludes to a charming custom of which
mention is made in the most ancient Japanese literature. Lovers,
ere parting, were wont to tie each other's inner girdle (_himo_) and
pledge themselves to leave the knot untouched until the time of their
next meeting. This poem is said to have been composed in the seventh
year of Y[=o]r[=o],--A.D. 723,--eleven hundred and eighty-two years
ago.]
Hisakata no[8]
Ama no kawasé ni,
Funé ukété,
Koyoï ka kimi ga
Agari kimasan?
[Footnote 8: _Hisakata-no_ is a "pillow-word" used by the old poets in
relation to celestial objects; and it is often difficult to translate.
Mr. Aston thinks that the literal meaning of _hisakata_ is simply
"long-hard," in the sense of long-enduring,--_hisa_ (long), _katai_
(hard, or firm),--so that _hisakata-no_ would have the meaning of
"firmamental." Japanese commentators, however, say that the term
is composed with the three words, _hi_ (sun), _sasu_ (shine), and
_kata_ (side);--and this etymology would justify the rendering
of _hisakata-no_ by some such expression as "light-shedding,"
"radiance-giving." On the subject of pillow-words, see Aston's
_Grammar of the Japanese Written Language_.]
[_Over the Rapids of the Everlasting Heaven, floating in his
boat, my lord will doubtless deign to come to me this very
night._]
Kazé kumo wa
Futatsu no kishi ni
Kayoëdomo,
Waga toho-tsuma no
Koto zo kayowanu!
[_Though winds and clouds to either bank may freely come or
go, between myself and my faraway spouse no message whatever
may pass._]
Tsubuté[9] ni mo
Nagé koshitsu-béki,
Amanogawa
Hédatéréba ka mo,
Amata subé-naki!
[_To the opposite bank one might easily fling a pebble; yet,
being separated from him by the River of Heaven, alas! to hope
for a meeting (except in autumn) is utterly useless._]
[Footnote 9: The old text has _tabuté_.]
Aki-kazé no
Fukinishi hi yori
"Itsushika" to--;
Waga machi koîshi
Kimi zo kimaséru.
[_From the day that the autumn wind began to blow (I kept
saying to myself), "Ah! when shall we meet?"--but now my
beloved, for whom I waited and longed, has come indeed!_]
Amanogawa
Ito kawa-nami wa
Tatanédomo,
Samorai gatashi--
Chikaki kono sé wo.
[_Though the waters of the River of Heaven have not greatly
risen, (yet to cross) this near stream and to wait upon (my
lord and lover) remains impossible._]
Sodé furaba
Mi mo kawashitsu-béku
Chika-kerédo,
Wataru subé nashi,
Aki nishi aranéba.
[_Though she is so near that the waving of her (long) sleeves
can be distinctly seen, yet there is no way to cross the
stream before the season of autumn._]
Kagéroï no
Honoka ni miété
Wakarénaba;--
Motonaya koïn
Aü-toki madé wa!
[_When we were separated, I had seen her for a moment
only,--and dimly as one sees a flying midge;[10] now I
must vainly long for her as before, until time of our next
meeting!_]
Hikoboshi no
Tsuma mukaë-buné
Kogizurashi,--
Ama-no-Kawara ni
Kiri no tatéru wa.
[Footnote 10: _Kagéroï_ is an obsolete form of _kagér[=o]_, meaning an
ephemera.]
[_Methinks that Hikoboshi must be rowing his boat to meet his
wife,--for a mist (as of oar-spray) is rising over the course
of the Heavenly Stream._]
Kasumi tatsu
Ama-no-Kawara ni,
Kimi matsu to,--
Ikay[=o] hodo ni
Mono-suso nurenu.
[_While awaiting my lord on the misty shore of the River of
Heaven, the skirts of my robe have somehow become wet._]
Amanogawa,
Mi-tsu no nami oto
Sawagu-nari:
Waga matsu-kimi no
Funadé-surashi mo.
[_On the River of Heaven, at the place of the august
ferry, the sound of the water has become loud: perhaps my
long-awaited lord will soon be coming in his boat._]
Tanabata no
Sodé maku yoï no
Akatoki wa,
Kawasé no tazu wa
Nakazu to mo yoshi.
[_As Tanabata (slumbers) with her long sleeves rolled up,
until the reddening of the dawn, do not, O storks of the
river-shallows, awaken her by your cries._[11]]
[Footnote 11: Lit., "not to cry out (will be) good"--but a literal
translation of the poem is scarcely possible.]
Amanogawa
Kiri-tachi-wataru:
Ky[=o], ky[=o], to--
Waga matsu-koïshi
Funadé-surashi!
[_(She sees that) a mist is spreading across the River of
Heaven.... "To-day, to-day," she thinks, "my long-awaited lord
will probably come over in his boat."_]
Amanogawa,
Yasu no watari ni,
Funé ukété;--
Waga tachi-matsu to
Imo ni tsugé koso.
[_By the ferry of Yasu, on the River of Heaven, the boat is
floating: I pray you tell my younger sister[12] that I stand
here and wait._]
[Footnote 12: That is to say, "wife." In archaic Japanese the word
_imo_ signified both "wife" and "younger sister." The term might also
be rendered "darling" or "beloved."]
[=O]-sora yo
Kay[=o] waré sura,
Na ga yué ni,
Amanokawa-ji no
Nazumité zo koshi.
[_Though I (being a Star-god) can pass freely to and fro,
through the great sky,--yet to cross over the River of Heaven,
for your sake, was weary work indeed!_]
Yachihoko no
Kami no mi-yo yori
Tomoshi-zuma;--
Hito-shiri ni keri
Tsugitéshi omoëba.
[_From the august Age of the
God-of-Eight-Thousand-Spears_,[13] _she had been my spouse in
secret_[14] _only; yet now, because of my constant longing for
her, our relation has become known to men._]
[Footnote 13: Yachihoko-no-Kami, who has many other names, is
the Great God of Izumo, and is commonly known by his appellation
Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, or the "Deity-Master-of-the Great-Land." He
is locally worshiped also as the god of marriage,--for which reason,
perhaps, the poet thus refers to him.]
[Footnote 14: Or, "my seldom-visited spouse." The word _tsuma_
(_zuma_), in ancient Japanese, signified either wife or husband; and
this poem might be rendered so as to express either the wife's or the
husband's thoughts.]
Amé tsuchi to
Wakaréshi toki yo
Onoga tsuma;
Shika zo té ni aru
Aki matsu aré wa.
[_From the time when heaven and earth were parted, she has
been my own wife;--yet, to be with her, I must always wait
till autumn._[15]]
[Footnote 15: By the ancient calendar, the seventh day of the seventh
month would fall in the autumn season.]
Waga k[=o]ru
Niho no omo wa
Koyoï mo ka
Ama-no-kawara ni
Ishi-makura makan.
[_With my beloved, of the ruddy-tinted cheeks_,[16] _this
night indeed will I descend into the bed of the River of
Heaven, to sleep on a pillow of stone._]
[Footnote 16: The literal meaning is "_béni_-tinted face,"--that is to
say, a face of which the cheeks and lips have been tinted with _béni_,
a kind of rouge.]
Amanogawa.
Mikomori-gusa no
Aki-kazé ni
Nabikafu miréba,
Toki kitarurashi.
[_When I see the water-grasses of the River of Heaven bend
in the autumn wind (I think to myself): "The time (for our
meeting) seems to have come."_]
Waga séko ni
Ura-koi oréba,
Amanogawa
Yo-funé kogi-toyomu
Kaji no 'to kikoyu.
[_When I feel in my heart a sudden longing for my
husband_,[17] _then on the River of Heaven the sound of the
rowing of the night-boat is heard, and the plash of the oar
resounds._]
[Footnote 17: In ancient Japanese the word _séko_ signified either
husband or elder brother. The beginning of the poem might also be
rendered thus:--"When I feel a secret longing for my husband," etc.]
T[=o]-zuma to
Tamakura kawashi
Nétaru yo wa,
Tori-gané na naki
Akéba aku to mo!
[_In the night when I am reposing with my (now) far-away
spouse, having exchanged jewel-pillows_[18] _with her, let not
the cock crow, even though the day should dawn._]
[Footnote 18: "To exchange jewel-pillows" signifies to use each
other's arms for pillows. This poetical phrase is often used in
the earliest Japanese literature. The word for jewel, _tama_, often
appears in compounds as an equivalent of "precious," "dear," etc.]
Yorozu-yo ni
Tazusawari ité
Ai mi-domo,
Omoi-sugu-béki
Koi naranaku ni.
[_Though for a myriad ages we should remain hand-in-hand and
face to face, our exceeding love could never come to an end.
(Why then should Heaven deem it necessary to part us?)_]
Waga tamé to,
Tanabata-tsumé no,
Sono yado ni,
Oreru shirotai
Nuït ken kamo?
[_The white cloth which Tanabata has woven for my sake, in
that dwelling of hers, is now, I think, being made into a robe
for me._]
Shirakumo no
I-ho é kakurité
T[=o]-kédomo,
Yoï-sarazu min
Imo ga atari wa.
[_Though she be far-away, and hidden from me by five hundred
layers of white cloud, still shall I turn my gaze each night
toward the dwelling-place of my younger sister (wife)._]
Aki saréba
Kawagiri tatéru
Amanogawa,
Kawa ni muki-ité
Kru[19] yo zo [=o]ki!
[Footnote 19: For _kofuru_.]
[_When autumn comes, and the river-mists spread over the
Heavenly Stream, I turn toward the river, (and long); and the
nights of my longing are many!_]
Hito-tosé ni
Nanuka no yo nomi
Aü-hito no--
Koï mo tsuki-néba
Sayo zo aké ni keru!
[_But once in the whole year, and only upon the seventh night
(of the seventh month), to meet the beloved person--and
lo! The day has dawned before our mutual love could express
itself!_[20]]
[Footnote 20: Or "satisfy itself." A literal rendering is difficult.]
Toshi no koï
Koyoï tsukushíté,
Asu yori wa,
Tsuné no gotoku ya
Waga koï oran.
[_The love-longing of one whole year having ended to-night,
every day from to-morrow I must again pine for him as
before!_]
Hikoboshi to
Tanabata-tsumé to
Koyoï aü;--
Ama-no-Kawa to ni
Nami tatsu-na yumé!
[_Hikoboshi and Tanabata-tsumé are to meet each other
to-night;--ye waves of the River of Heaven, take heed that ye
do not rise!_]
Aki-kazé no
Fuki tadayowasu
Shirakumo wa,
Tanabata-tsumé no
Amatsu hiré kamo?
[_Oh! that white cloud driven by the autumn-wind--can it be
the heavenly hiré[21] of Tana-bata-tsumé?_]
[Footnote 21: At different times, in the history of Japanese female
costume, different articles of dress were called by this name. In the
present instance, the _hiré_ referred to was probably a white scarf,
worn about the neck and carried over the shoulders to the breast,
where its ends were either allowed to hang loose, or were tied into
an ornamental knot. The _hiré_ was often used to make signals with,
much as handkerchiefs are waved to-day for the same purpose;--and the
question uttered in the poem seems to signify: "Can that be Tanabata
waving her scarf--to call me?" In very early times, the ordinary
costumes worn were white.]
Shiba-shiba mo
Ai minu kimi wo,
Amanogawa
Funa-dé haya séyo
Yo no fukénu ma ni.
[_Because he is my not-often-to-be-met beloved, hasten to
row the boat across the River of Heaven ere the night be
advanced._]
Amanogawa
Kiri tachi-watari
Hikoboshi no
Kaji no 'to kikoyu
Yo no fuké-yukéba.
[_Late in the night, a mist spreads over_] _the River of
Heaven; and the sound of the oar[22] of Hikoboshi is heard._]
[Footnote 22: Or, "the creaking of the oar." (The word _kaji_ to-day
means "helm";--the single oar, or scull, working upon a pivot, and
serving at once for rudder and oar, being now called _ro_.) The mist
passing across the Amanogawa is, according to commentators, the spray
from the Star-god's oar.]
Amanogawa
Kawa 'to sayakéshi:
Hikoboshi no
Haya kogu funé no
Nami no sawagi ka?
[_On the River of Heaven a sound of plashing can be distinctly
heard: is it the sound of the rippling made by Hikoboshi
quickly rowing his boat?_]
Kono y[=u]bé,
Furikuru amé wa,
Hikoboshi no
Haya kogu funé no
Kaï no chiri ka mo.
[_Perhaps this evening shower is but the spray (flung down)
from the oar of Hikoboshi, rowing his boat in haste._]
Waga tama-doko wo
Asu yori wa
Uchi haraï,
Kimi to inézuté
Hitori ka mo nen!
[_From to-morrow, alas! after having put my jewel-bed in
order, no longer reposing with my lord, I must sleep alone!_]
Kazé fukité,
Kawa-nami tachinu;--
Hiki-funé ni
Watari mo kimasé
Yo no fukénu ma ni.
[_The wind having risen, the waves of the river have become
high;--this night cross over in a towboat,[23] I pray thee,
before the hour be late!_]
[Footnote 23: Lit. "pull-boat" (_hiki-funé_),--a barge or boat pulled
by a rope.]
Amanogawa
Nami wa tatsutomo,
Waga funé wa
Iza kogi iden
Yo no fukénu ma ni.
[_Even though the waves of the River of_ _Heaven run high, I
must row over quickly, before it becomes late in the night._]
Inishié ni
Oritéshi hata wo;
Kono y[=u]bé
Koromo ni nuïté--
Kimi matsu aré wo!
[_Long ago I finished weaving the material; and, this evening,
having finished sewing the garment for him--(why must) I still
wait for my lord?_]
Amanogawa
Sé wo hayami ka mo?
Nubatama no
Yo wa fuké ni tsutsu,
Awanu Hikoboshi!
[_Is it that the current of the River of_ _Heaven (has become too)
rapid? The jet-black night[24] advances--and Hikoboshi has not come!_]
[Footnote 24: _Nubatama no yo_ might better be rendered by some such
phrase as "the berry-black night,"--but the intended effect would be
thus lost in translation. _Nubatama-no_ (a "pillow-word") is written
with characters signifying "like the black fruits of _Karasu-[=O]gi_;"
and the ancient phrase "_nubatama no yo_" therefore may be said
to have the same meaning as our expressions "jet-black night," or
"pitch-dark night."]
Watashi-mori,
Funé haya watasé;--
Hito-tosé ni
Futatabi kay[=o]
Kimi naranaku ni!
[_Oh, ferryman, make speed across the stream!--my lord is not
one who can come and go twice in a year!_]
Aki kazé no
Fukinishi hi yori,
Amanogawa
Kawasé ni dédachi;--
Matsu to tsugé koso!
[_On the very day that the autumn-wind began to blow, I set
out for the shallows of the River of Heaven;--I pray you, tell
my lord that I am waiting here still!_]
Tanabata no
Funanori surashi,--
Maso-kagami,
Kiyoki tsuki-yo ni
Kumo tachi-wataru.
[_Methinks Tanabata must be coming in her boat; for a cloud is
even now passing across the clear face of the moon._[25]]
[Footnote 25: Composed by the famous poet [=O]tomo no Sukuné
Yakamochi, while gazing at the Milky Way, on the seventh night of
the seventh month of the tenth year of Tampy[=o] (A.D. 738). The
pillow-word in the third line (_maso-kagami_) is untranslatable.]
--And yet it has been gravely asserted that the old Japanese poets
could find no beauty in starry skies!...
Perhaps the legend of Tanabata, as it was understood by those old
poets, can make but a faint appeal to Western minds. Nevertheless,
in the silence of transparent nights, before the rising of the moon,
the charm of the ancient tale sometimes descends upon me, out of the
scintillant sky,--to make me forget the monstrous facts of science,
and the stupendous horror of Space. Then I no longer behold the Milky
Way as that awful Ring of the Cosmos, whose hundred million suns are
powerless to lighten the Abyss, but as the very Amanogawa itself,--the
River Celestial. I see the thrill of its shining stream, and the mists
that hover along its verge, and the water-grasses that bend in the
winds of autumn. White Orihimé I see at her starry loom, and the Ox
that grazes on the farther shore;--and I know that the falling dew is
the spray from the Herdsman's oar. And the heaven seems very near and
warm and human; and the silence about me is filled with the dream of
a love unchanging, immortal,--forever yearning and forever young, and
forever left unsatisfied by the paternal wisdom of the gods.
GOBLIN POETRY
Recently, while groping about an old book shop, I found a collection
of Goblin Poetry in three volumes, containing many pictures of
goblins. The title of the collection is _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_,
or "The Mad Poetry of the _Hyaku-Monogatari_." The _Hyaku-Monogatari_,
or "Hundred Tales," is a famous book of ghost stories. On the subject
of each of the stories, poems were composed at different times
by various persons,--poems of the sort called _Ky[=o]ka_, or Mad
Poetry,--and these were collected and edited to form the three volumes
of which I became the fortunate possessor. The collecting was done by
a certain Takumi Jingor[=o], who wrote under the literary pseudonym
"Temmér Ré[=o]jin" (Ancient of the Temmér Era). Takumi died in the
first year of Bunky[=u] (1861), at the good age of eighty; and his
collection seems to have been published in the sixth year of Kaéï
(1853). The pictures were made by an artist called Masazumi, who
worked under the pseudonym "Ry[=o]sai Kanjin."
From a prefatory note it appears that Takumi Jingor[=o] published his
collection with the hope of reviving interest in a once popular kind
of poetry which had fallen into neglect before the middle of the
century. The word _ky[=o]ka_ is written with a Chinese character
signifying "insane" or "crazy;" and it means a particular and
extraordinary variety of comic poetry. The form is that of the classic
_tanka_ of thirty-one syllables (arranged 57577);--but the subjects
are always the extreme reverse of classical; and the artistic effects
depend upon methods of verbal jugglery which cannot be explained
without the help of numerous examples. The collection published by
Takumi includes a good deal of matter in which a Western reader can
discover no merit; but the best of it has a distinctly grotesque
quality that reminds one of Hood's weird cleverness in playing with
grim subjects. This quality, and the peculiar Japanese method of
mingling the playful with the terrific, can be suggested and explained
only by reproducing in Romaji the texts of various _ky[=o]ka_, with
translations and notes.
The selection which I have made should prove interesting, not merely
because it will introduce the reader to a class of Japanese poetry
about which little or nothing has yet been written in English, but
much more because it will afford some glimpses of a supernatural world
which still remains for the most part unexplored. Without knowledge
of Far Eastern superstitions and folk-tales, no real understanding of
Japanese fiction or drama or poetry will ever become possible.
* * * * *
There are many hundreds of poems in the three volumes of the _Ky[=o]ka
Hyaku-Monogatari_; but the number of the ghosts and goblins falls
short of the one hundred suggested by the title. There are just
ninety-five. I could not expect to interest my readers in the whole
of this goblinry, and my selection includes less than one seventh
of the subjects. The Faceless Babe, The Long-Tongued Maiden,
The Three-Eyed Monk, The Pillow-Mover, The Thousand Heads, The
Acolyte-with-the-Lantern, The Stone-that-Cries-in-the-Night,
The Goblin-Heron, The Goblin-Wind, The Dragon-Lights, and The
Mountain-Nurse, did not much impress me. I omitted _ky[=o]ka_ dealing
with fancies too gruesome for Western nerves,--such as that of the
_Obumédori_,--also those treating of merely local tradition.
The subjects chosen represent national rather than provincial
folklore,--old beliefs (mostly of Chinese origin) once prevalent
throughout the country, and often referred to in its popular
literature.
I. KITSUNÉ-BI
The Will-o'-the-wisp is called _kitsuné-bi_ ("fox-fire"), because
the goblin-fox was formerly supposed to create it. In old Japanese
pictures it is represented as a tongue of pale red flame, hovering
in darkness, and shedding no radiance upon the surfaces over which it
glides.
To understand some of the following _ky[=o]ka_ on the subject, the
reader should know that certain superstitions about the magical power
of the fox have given rise to several queer folk-sayings,--one of
which relates to marrying a stranger. Formerly a good citizen was
expected to marry within his own community, not outside of it; and the
man who dared to ignore traditional custom in this regard would have
found it difficult to appease the communal indignation. Even to-day
the villager who, after a long absence from his birthplace, returns
with a strange bride, is likely to hear unpleasant things said,--such
as: "_Wakaranai-mono we hippaté-kita!... Doko no uma no honé da ka?_"
("Goodness knows what kind of a thing he has dragged here after him!
Where did he pick up that old horse-bone?") The expression _uma no
honé_, "old horse-bone," requires explanation.
A goblin-fox has the power to assume many shapes; but, for the purpose
of deceiving _men_, he usually takes the form of a pretty woman. When
he wants to create a charming phantom of this kind, he picks up an old
horse-bone or cow-bone, and holds it in his mouth. Presently the bone
becomes luminous; and the figure of a woman defines about it,--the
figure of a courtesan or singing-girl.... So the village query about
the man who marries a strange wife, "What old horse-bone has he picked
up?" signifies really, "What wanton has bewitched him?" It further
implies the suspicion that the stranger may be of outcast blood: a
certain class of women of pleasure having been chiefly recruited, from
ancient time, among the daughters of Éta and other pariah-people.
Hi tomoshité
Kitsuné no kwaséshi,
Asobimé[26] wa--
Izuka no uma no
Honé ni ya aruran!
[Footnote 26: _Asobimé_, a courtesan: lit., "sporting-woman." The Éta
and other pariah classes furnished a large proportion of these women.
The whole meaning of the poem is as follows: "See that young wanton
with her lantern! It is a pretty sight--but so is the sight of a fox,
when the creature kindles his goblin-fire and assumes the shape of
a girl. And just as your fox-woman will prove to be no more than an
old horse-bone, so that young courtesan, whose beauty deludes men to
folly, may be nothing better than an Éta."]
[_--Ah the wanton (lighting her lantern)!--so a fox-fire is
kindled in the time of fox-transformation!... Perhaps she is
really nothing more than an old horse-bone from somewhere or
other...._]
Kitsuné-bi no
Moyuru ni tsukété,
Waga tama no
Kiyuru y[=o] nari
Kokoro-hoso-michi!
[_Because of that Fox-fire burning there, the very soul of me
is like to be extinguished in this narrow path (or, in this
heart-depressing solitude)._[27]]
[Footnote 27: The supposed utterance of a belated traveler frightened
by a will-o'-the-wisp. The last line allows of two readings.
_Kokoro-hosoi_ means "timid;" and _hosoi michi_ (_hoso-michi_) means a
"narrow path," and, by implication, a "lonesome path."]
II. RIKOMBY[=O]
The term _Rikomby[=o]_ is composed with the word _rikon_, signifying
a "shade," "ghost," or "spectre," and the word _by[=o]_, signifying
"sickness," "disease." An almost literal rendering would be
"ghost-sickness." In Japanese-English dictionaries you will find the
meaning of _Rikomby[=o]_ given as "hypochondria;" and doctors really
use the term in this modern sense. But the ancient meaning was _a
disorder of the mind which produced a Double_; and there is a whole
strange literature about this weird disease. It used to be supposed,
both in China and Japan, that under the influence of intense grief
or longing, caused by love, the spirit of the suffering person would
create a Double. Thus the victim of _Rikomby[=o]_ would appear to have
two bodies, exactly alike; and one of these bodies would go to join
the absent beloved, while the other remained at home. (In my "Exotics
and Retrospectives," under the title "A Question in the Zen Texts,"
the reader will find a typical Chinese story on the subject,--the
story of the girl Ts'ing.) Some form of the primitive belief in
doubles and wraiths probably exists in every part of the world; but
this Far Eastern variety is of peculiar interest because the double
is supposed to be caused by love, and the subjects of the affliction
to belong to the gentler sex.... The term _Rikomby[=o]_ seems to be
applied to the apparition as well as to the mental disorder supposed
to produce the apparition: it signifies "doppelgänger" as well as
"ghost-disease."
* * * * *
--With these necessary explanations, the quality of the following
_ky[=o]ka_ can be understood. A picture which appears in the _Ky[=o]ka
Hyaku-Monogatari_ shows a maid-servant anxious to offer a cup of tea
to her mistress,--a victim of the "ghost-sickness." The servant cannot
distinguish between the original and the apparitional shapes before
her; and the difficulties of the situation are suggested in the first
of the _ky[=o]ka_ which I have translated:--
Ko-ya, soré to?
Ayamé mo wakanu
Rikomby[=o]:
Izuré we tsuma to
Hiku zo wazuraü!
[_Which one is this?--which one is that? Between the two
shapes of the Rikomby[=o] it is not possible to distinguish.
To find out which is the real wife--that will be an affliction
of spirit indeed!_]
Futatsu naki
Inochi nagara mo
Kakégaë no
Karada no miyuru--
Kage no wazurai!
[_Two lives there certainly are not;--nevertheless an extra
body is visible, by reason of the Shadow-Sickness._]
Naga-tabi no
Oto we shitaïté
Mi futatsu ni
Naru wa onna no
S[=a]ru rikomby[=o].
[_Yearning after her far-journeying husband, the woman has
thus become two bodies, by reason of her ghostly sickness._]
Miru kagé mo
Naki wazurai no
Rikomby[=o],--
Omoi no hoka ni
Futatsu miru kagé!
[_Though (it was said that), because of her ghostly sickness,
there was not even a shadow of her left to be seen,--yet,
contrary to expectation, there are two shadows of her to be
seen!_[28]]
[Footnote 28: The Japanese say of a person greatly emaciated by
sickness, _miru-kagé mo naki_: "Even a visible shadow of him is
not!"--Another rendering is made possible by the fact that the same
expression is used in the sense of "unfit to be seen,"--"though the
face of the person afflicted with this ghostly sickness is unfit to be
seen, yet by reason of her secret longing [for another man] there are
now two of her faces to be seen." The phrase _omoi no hoka_, in the
fourth line, means "contrary to expectation;" but it is ingeniously
made to suggest also the idea of secret longing.]
Rikomby[=o]
Hito ni kakushité
Oku-zashiki,
Omoté y dëasanu
Kagé no wazurai.
[_Afflicted with the Rikomby[=o], she hides away from people
in the back room, and never approaches the front of the
house,--because of her Shadow-disease._[29]]
[Footnote 29: There is a curious play on words in the fourth line.
The word _omoté_, meaning "the front," might, in reading, be sounded
as _omotté_, "thinking." The verses therefore might also be thus
translated:--"She keeps her real thoughts hidden in the back part
of the house, and never allows them to be seen in the front part of
the house,--because she is suffering from the 'Shadow-Sickness' [of
love]."]
Mi wa koko ni;
Tama wa otoko ni
Soïné suru;--
Kokoro mo shiraga
Haha ga kaih[=o].
[_Here her body lies; but her soul is far away, asleep in the
arms of a man;--and the white-haired mother, little knowing
her daughter's heart, is nursing (only the body)._[30]]
[Footnote 30: There is a double meaning, suggested rather than
expressed, in the fourth line. The word _shiraga_, "white-hair,"
suggests _shirazu_, "not knowing."]
Tamakushigé
Futatsu no sugata
Misénuru wa,
Awasé-kagami no
Kagé no wazurai.
[_If, when seated before her toilet-stand, she sees two faces
reflected in her mirror,--that might be caused by the
mirror doubling itself under the influence of the
Shadow-Sickness._[31]]
[Footnote 31: There is in this poem a multiplicity of suggestion
impossible to render in translation. While making her toilet, the
Japanese woman uses two mirrors (_awasé-kagami_)--one of which, a
hand-mirror, serves to show her the appearance of the back part of
her coiffure, by reflecting it into the larger stationary mirror. But
in this case of Rikomby[=o], the woman sees more than her face and
the back of her head in the larger mirror: she sees her own double.
The verses indicate that one of the mirrors may have caught the
Shadow-Sickness, and doubled itself. And there is a further suggestion
of the ghostly sympathy said to exist between a mirror and the soul of
its possessor.]
III. [=O]-GAMA
In the old Chinese and Japanese literature the toad is credited with
supernatural capacities,--such as the power to call down clouds, the
power to make rain, the power to exhale from its mouth a magical
mist which creates the most beautiful illusions. Some toads are good
spirits,--friends of holy men; and in Japanese art a famous Rishi
called "Gama-Sennin" (Toad Rishi) is usually represented with a white
toad resting upon his shoulder, or squatting beside him. Some toads
are evil goblins, and create phantasms for the purpose of luring men
to destruction. A typical story about a creature of this class will be
found in my "Kott[=o]," entitled "The Story of Chug[=o]r[=o]."
Mé wa kagami,
Kuchi wa tarai no
Hodo ni aku:
Gama mo késh[=o] no
Mono to kos[=o] shiré.
[_The eye of it, widely open, like a (round) mirror; the mouth
of it opening like a wash-basin--by these things you may know
that the Toad is a goblin-thing (or, that the Toad is a toilet
article)._[32]]
[Footnote 32: There are two Japanese words, _kesh[=o]_, which in
_kana_ are written alike and pronounced alike, though represented
by very different Chinese characters. As written in _kana_, the
term _kesh[=o]-no-mono_ may signify either "toilet articles" or "a
monstrous being," "a goblin."]
IV. SHINKIR[=O]
The term _Shinkir[=o]_ is used in the meaning of "mirage," and also as
another name for H[=o]rai, the Elf-land of Far Eastern fable. Various
beings in Japanese myth are credited with power to delude mortals
by creating a mirage of H[=o]rai. In old pictures one may see a toad
represented in the act of exhaling from its mouth a vapor that shapes
the apparition of H[=o]rai.
But the creature especially wont to produce this illusion is the
_Hamaguri_,--a Japanese mollusk much resembling a clam. Opening its
shell, it sends into the air a purplish misty breath; and that mist
takes form and defines, in tints of mother-of-pearl, the luminous
vision of H[=o]rai and the palace of the Dragon-King.
Hamaguri no
Kuchi aku toki ya,
Shinkir[=o]!
Yo ni shiraré ken
Tatsu-no-miya-himé!
[_When the hamaguri opens its mouth--lo! Shinkir[=o]
appears!... Then all can clearly see the Maiden-Princess of
the Dragon-Palace._]
Shinkir[=o]--
Tatsu no miyako no
Hinagata[33] wo
Shio-hi no oki ni
Misuru hamaguri!
[_Lo! in the offing at ebb-tide, the hamaguri makes visible
the miniature image of Shinkir[=o]--the Dragon-Capital!_]
[Footnote 33: _Hinagata_ means especially "a model," "a miniature
copy," "a drawn plan," etc.]
V. ROKURO-KUBI
The etymological meaning of _Rokuro-Kubi_ can scarcely be indicated
by any English rendering. The term _rokuro_ is indifferently used to
designate many revolving objects--objects as dissimilar as a pulley,
a capstan, a windlass, a turning lathe, and a potter's wheel. Such
renderings of Rokuro-Kubi as "Whirling-Neck" and "Rotating-Neck" are
unsatisfactory;--for the idea which the term suggests to Japanese
fancy is that of a neck which revolves, _and lengthens or retracts
according to the direction of the revolution_.... As for the ghostly
meaning of the expression, a Rokuro-Kubi is either (1) a person whose
neck lengthens prodigiously during sleep, so that the head can wander
about in all directions, seeking what it may devour, or (2) a person
able to detach his or her head completely from the body, and to rejoin
it to the neck afterwards. (About this last mentioned variety of
_Rokuro-Kubi_ there is a curious story in my "Kwaidan," translated
from the Japanese.) In Chinese mythology the being whose neck is so
constructed as to allow of the head being completely detached belongs
to a special class; but in Japanese folk-tale this distinction is not
always maintained. One of the bad habits attributed to the Rokuro-Kubi
is that of drinking the oil in night-lamps. In Japanese pictures the
Rokuro-Kubi is usually depicted as a woman; and old books tell us
that a woman might become a Rokuro-Kubi without knowing it,--much as
a somnambulist walks about while asleep, without being aware of the
fact.... The following verses about the Rokuro-Kubi have been selected
from a group of twenty in the _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_:--
Nemidaré no
Nagaki kami woba
Furi-wakété,
Chi hiro ni nobasu
Rokuro-Kubi kana!
[_Oh!... Shaking loose her long hair disheveled by sleep, the
Rokuro-Kubi stretches her neck to the length of a thousand
fathoms!_]
"Atama naki
Bakémono nari"--to
Rokuro-Kubi,
Mité odorokan
Onoga karada we.
[_Will not the Rokuro-Kubi, viewing with_ _astonishment her
own body (left behind) cry out, "Oh, what a headless goblin
have you become!_"]
Tsuka-no-ma ni
Hari we tsutawaru,
Rokuro-Kubi
Kéta-kéta warau--
Kao no kowasa yo!
[_Swiftly gliding along the roof-beam (and among the props
of the roof), the Rokuro-Kubi laughs with the sound of
"kéta-kéta"--oh! the fearfulness of her face!_[34]]
[Footnote 34: It is not possible to render all the double meanings in
this composition. _Tsuka-no-ma_ signifies "in a moment" or "quickly";
but it may also mean "in the space [_ma_] between the roof-props"
[_tsuka_]. "_Kéta_" means a cross-beam, but _kéta-kéta warau_ means to
chuckle or laugh in a mocking way. Ghosts are said to laugh with the
sound of kéta-kéta.]
Roku shaku no
By[=o]bu ni nobiru
Rokuro-Kubi
Mité wa, go shaku no
Mi wo chijimi-kéri!
[_Beholding the Rokuro-Kubi rise up above the six-foot screen,
any five-foot person would have become shortened by fear (or,
"the stature of any person five feet high would have been
diminished")._[35]]
[Footnote 35: The ordinary height of a full screen is six Japanese
feet.]
VI. YUKI-ONNA
The Snow-Woman, or Snow-Spectre, assumes various forms; but in most
of the old folk-tales she appears as a beautiful phantom, whose
embrace is death. (A very curious story about her can be found in my
"Kwaidan.")
Yuki-Onna--
Yos[=o] kushi mo
Atsu k[=o]ri;
Sasu-k[=o]gai ya
K[=o]ri naruran.
[_As for the Snow-Woman,--even her best comb, if I mistake
not, is made of thick ice; and her hair-pin[36], too, is
probably made of ice._]
[Footnote 36: _K[=o]gai_ is the name now given to a quadrangular bar
of tortoise-shell passed under the coiffure, which leaves only the
ends of the bar exposed. The true hair-pin is called _kanzashi_.]
Honrai wa
K[=u] naru mono ka,
Yuki-Onna?
Yoku-yoku mireba
Ichi-butsu mo nashi!
[_Was she, then, a delusion from the very first, that
Snow-Woman,--a thing that vanishes into empty space? When I
look carefully all about me, not one trace of her is to be
seen!_]
Yo-akéréba
Kiété yuku é wa
Shirayuki[37] no
Onna to mishi mo
Yanagi nari-keri!
[_Having vanished at daybreak (that Snow-Woman), none
could say whither she had gone. But what had seemed to be a
snow-white woman became indeed a willow-tree!_]
[Footnote 37: The term _shirayuki_, as here used, offers an example
of what Japanese poets call _Keny[=o]gen_, or "double-purpose words."
Joined to the words immediately following, it makes the phrase
"white-snow woman" (_shirayuki no onna_);--united with the words
immediately preceding, it suggests the reading, "whither-gone
not-knowing" (_yuku é wa shira[zu]_).]
Yuki-Onna
Mité wa yasathiku,
Matsu wo ori
Nama-daké hishigu
Chikara ari-keri!
[_Though the Snow-Woman appears to sight slender and gentle,
yet, to snap the pine-trees asunder and to crush the live
bamboos, she must have had strength._]
Samukésa ni
Zotto[38] wa surédo
Yuki-Onna,--
Yuki oré no naki
Yanagi-goshi ka mo!
[_Though the Snow-Woman makes one shiver by her coldness,--ah, the
willowy grace of her form cannot be broken by the snow (i.e. charms us
in spite of the cold)._]
[Footnote 38: _Zotto_ is a difficult word to render literally: perhaps
the nearest English equivalent is "thrilling." _Zotto suru_ signifies
"to cause a thrill" or "to give a shock," or "to make shiver;"
and of a very beautiful person it is said "_Zotto-suru hodo no
bijin_,"--meaning! "She is so pretty that it gives one a shock merely
to look at her." The term _yanagi-goshi_ ("willow-loins") in the last
line is a common expression designating a slender and graceful figure;
and the reader should observe that the first half of the term is
ingeniously made to do double duty here,--suggesting, with the
context, not only the grace of willow branches weighed down by snow,
but also the grace of a human figure that one must stop to admire, in
spite of the cold.]
VII. FUNA-Y[=U]RÉÏ
The spirits of the drowned are said to follow after ships, calling for
a bucket or a water-dipper (_hishaku_). To refuse the bucket or the
dipper is dangerous; but the bottom of the utensil should be knocked
out before the request is complied with, and the spectres must not
be allowed to see this operation performed. If an undamaged bucket
or dipper be thrown to the ghosts, it will be used to fill and to
sink the ship. These phantoms are commonly called _Funa-Y[=u]réï_
("Ship-Ghosts").
The spirits of those warriors of the Héïké clan who perished in the
great sea-fight at Dan-no-ura, in the year 1185, are famous among
Funa-Y[=u]réï. Taïra no Tomomori, one of the chiefs of the clan, is
celebrated in this weird rôle: old pictures represent him, followed by
the ghosts of his warriors, running over the waves to attack passing
ships. Once he menaced a vessel in which Benkéï, the celebrated
retainer of Yoshitsuné, was voyaging; and Benkéï was able to save
the ship only by means of his Buddhist rosary, which frightened the
spectres away....
Tomomori is frequently pictured as walking upon the sea, carrying
a ship's anchor on his back. He and his fellow-ghosts are said to
have been in the habit of uprooting and making off with the anchors
of vessels imprudently moored in their particular domain,--the
neighborhood of Shimonoséki.
Erimoto yé
Mizu kakéraruru
Kokochi seri,
"Hishaku kasé" ch[=o]
Funé no kowané ni.
[_As if the nape of our necks had been sprinkled with cold
water,--so we felt while listening_ _to the voice of the
ship-ghost, saying:--"Lend me a dipper!"_[39]]
[Footnote 39: _Hishaku_, a wooden dipper with a long handle, used to
transfer water from a bucket to smaller vessels.]
Y[=u]rei ni
Kasu-hishaku yori
Ichi-hayaku
Onoré ga koshi mo
Nukéru sench[=o].
[_The loins of the captain himself were knocked out very much
more quickly than the bottom of the dipper that was to be
given to the ghost._[40]]
[Footnote 40: The common expression _Koshi ga nukéru_ (to have one's
loins taken out) means to be unable to stand up by reason of fear.
The suggestion is that while the captain was trying to knock out the
bottom of a dipper, before giving it to the ghost, he fell senseless
from fright.]
Benkéï no
Zuzu no kuriki ni
Tomomori no
Sugata mo ukamu--
Funé no y[=u]réï.
[_By the virtue of Benkéï's rosary, even_ _the ship-following
ghost--even the apparition of Tomomori--is saved._]
Y[=u]réï wa
Ki naru Izumi no
Hito nagara,
Aö-umibara ni
Nadoté itsuran?
[_Since any ghost must be an inhabitant of the Yellow Springs,
how should a ghost appear on the Blue Sea-Plain?_[41]]
[Footnote 41: The Underworld of the Dead--_Yomi_ or K[=o]sen--is
called "The Yellow Springs;" these names being written with two
Chinese characters respectively signifying "yellow" and "fountain." A
very ancient term for the ocean, frequently used in the old Shint[=o]
rituals, is "The Blue Sea-Plain."]
Sono sugata,
Ikari wo [=o]té,
Tsuki-matoü
Funé no hésaki ya
Tomomori no réï!
[_That Shape, carrying the anchor on its back, and following
after the ship--now at the bow and now at the stern--ah, the
ghost of Tomomori._[42]]
[Footnote 42: There is an untranslatable play upon words in the last
two lines. The above rendering includes two possible readings.]
Tsumi fukaki
Umi ni shidzumishi,
Y[=u]réï no
"Ukaman" toté ya!
Funé ni sugaréru.
[_Crying, "Now perchance I shall be saved!" The ghost
that sank into the deep Sea of Sin clings to the passing
ship!_[43]]
[Footnote 43: There is more weirdness in this poem than the above
rendering suggests. The word _ukaman_ in the fourth line can be
rendered as "shall perhaps float," or as "shall perhaps be saved" (in
the Buddhist sense of salvation),--as there are two verbs _ukami_.
According to an old superstition, the spirits of the drowned must
continue to dwell in the waters _until such time as they can lure the
living to destruction_. When the ghost of any drowned person succeeds
in drowning somebody, it may be able to obtain rebirth, and to leave
the sea forever. The exclamation of the ghost in this poem really
means, "Now perhaps I shall be able to drown somebody." (A very
similar superstition is said to exist on the Breton coast.) A common
Japanese saying about a child or any person who follows another
too closely and persistently is: _Kawa de shinda-y[=u]réï no yona
tsuré-hoshigaru!_--"Wants to follow you everywhere like the ghost of
a drowned person."]
Ukaman to
Funé we shitaëru
Yuréï wa,
Shidzumishi híto no
Omoï naruran.
[_The ghosts following after our ship in their efforts to rise
again (or, "to be saved") might perhaps be the (last vengeful)
thoughts of drowned men.[44]]
[Footnote 44: Here I cannot attempt to render the various plays upon
words; but the term "_omoï_" needs explanation. It means "thought"
or "thoughts;" but in colloquial phraseology it is often used as a
euphemism for a dying person's last desire of vengeance. In various
dramas it has been used in the signification of "avenging ghost." Thus
the exclamation, "His _thought_ has come back!"--in reference to a
dead man--really means: "His angry ghost appears!"]
Uraméshiki
Sugata wa sugoki
Yuréï no,
Kaji we jama suru
Funé no Tomomori.
[_With vengeful aspect, the grisly ghost of Tomomori
(rises) at the stern of the ship to hinder the play of her
rudder._[45]]
[Footnote 45: There is a double meaning given by the use of the name
_Tomomori_ in the last line. _Tomo_ means "the stern" of a ship;
_mori_ means "to leak." So the poem suggests that the ghost of
Tomomori not only interferes with the ship's rudder, but causes her
to leak.]
Ochi-irité,
Uwo no éjiki to
Nari ni ken;--
Funa-y[=u]réï mo
Nama-kusaki kazé.
[_Having perished in the sea, (those Héïké) would probably
have become food for fishes. (Anyhow, whenever) the
ship-following ghosts (appear), the wind has a smell of raw
fish!_[46]]
[Footnote 46: _Namakusaki-kaze_ really means a wind having a "raw
stench;" but the smell of bait is suggested by the second line of the
poem. A literal rendering is not possible in this case; the art of the
composition being altogether suggestive.]
VIII. HÉÏKÉGANÌ
Readers can find in my "Kott[=o]" a paper about the Héïké-Crabs,
which have on their upper shells various wrinklings that resemble the
outlines of an angry face. At Shimono-séki dried specimens of these
curious creatures are offered for sale.... The Héïké-Crabs are said to
be the transformed angry spirits of the Héïké warriors who perished at
Dan-no-ura.
Shiwo-hi ni wa
Séïzoroë shité,
Héïkégani
Ukiyo no sama we
Yoko ni niramitsu.
[_Marshaled (on the beach) at the ebb of the tide, the
Héïké-crabs obliquely glare at the apparition of this
miserable world._[47]]
[Footnote 47: _Hi_, the third syllable of the first line of the poem,
does duty for _hi_, signifying "ebb," and for _hikata_, "dry beach."
_Séïzoroë_ is a noun signifying "battle-array"--in the sense of
the Roman term _acies_;--and _séïzoroé shité_ means "drawn up in
battle-array."]
Saikai ni
Shizumi-nurédomo,
Héïkégani
K[=o]ra no iro mo
Yahari aka-hata.
[_Though (the Héïké) long ago sank and perished in the Western
Sea, the Héïké-crabs still display_ _upon their upper shells
the color of the Red Standard._[48]]
[Footnote 48: The ensign of the Héïké, or Taïra clan was red; while
that of their rivals, the Genji or Minamot[=o], was white.]
Maké-ikusa
Munen to muné ni
Hasami ken;--
Kao mo makka ni
Naru Héïkégani.
[_Because of the pain of defeat, claws have grown on their
breasts, I think;--even the faces of the Héïké-crabs have
become crimson (with anger and shame)._]
Mikata mina
Oshi-tsubusaréshi
Héïkégani
Ikon we muné ni
Hasami mochikéri.
[_All the (Héïké) party having been utterly crushed, claws
have grown upon the breasts of the Héïké-crabs because of the
resentment in their hearts._[49]]
[Footnote 49: The use of the word _hasami_ in the fifth line is a
very good example of _keny[=o]gen_. There is a noun _hasami_, meaning
the nippers of a crab, or a pair of scissors; and there is a verb
_hasami_, meaning to harbor, to cherish, or to entertain. (_Ikon wo
hasamu_ means "to harbor resentment against.") Reading the word only
in connection with those which follow it, we have the phrase _hasami
mochikéri_, "got claws;" but, reading it with the words preceding,
we have the expression _ikon wo muné ni hasami_, "resentment in their
breasts nourishing."]
IX. YANARI
Modern dictionaries ignore the uncanny significations of the word
_Yanari_,--only telling us that it means the sound of the shaking of
a house during an earthquake. But the word used to mean the noise of
the shaking of a house moved by a goblin; and the invisible shaker was
also called _Yanari_. When, without apparent cause, some house would
shudder and creak and groan in the night, folk used to suppose that it
was being shaken from without by supernatural malevolence.
Tokonoma ni
Ikéshi tachiki mo
Taoré-keri;
Yanari ni yama no
Ugoku kakémono!
[_Even the live tree set in the alcove has fallen down; and
the mountains in the hanging picture tremble to the quaking
made by the Yanari!_[50]]
[Footnote 50: The _tokonoma_ in a Japanese room is a sort of
ornamental recess or alcove, in which a picture is usually hung, and
vases of flowers, or a dwarf tree, are placed.]
X. SAKASA-BASHIRA
The term _Sakasa-bashira_ (in these _ky[=o]ka_ often shortened into
_saka-bashira_) literally means "upside-down post." A wooden post or
pillar, especially a house-post, should be set up according to the
original position of the tree from which it was hewn,--that is to say,
with the part nearest to the roots downward. To erect a house-post in
the contrary way is thought to be unlucky;--formerly such a blunder
was believed to involve unpleasant consequences of a ghostly kind,
because an "upside-down" pillar would do malignant things. It would
moan and groan in the night, and move all its cracks like mouths, and
open all its knots like eyes. Moreover, the spirit of it (for every
house-post has a spirit) would detach its long body from the timber,
and wander about the rooms, head-downwards, making faces at people.
Nor was this all. A _Sakasa-bashira_ knew how to make all the affairs
of a household go wrong,--how to foment domestic quarrels,--how to
contrive misfortune for each of the family and the servants,--how
to render existence almost insupportable until such time as the
carpenter's blunder should be discovered and remedied.
Saka-bashira
Tatéshi wa tazo ya?
Kokoro ni mo
Fushi aru hito no
Shiwaza naruran.
[_Who set the house-pillar upside-down? Surely that must have
been the work of a man with a knot in his heart._]
Hidayama we
Kiri-kité tatéshi
Saka-bashira--
Nanno takumi[51] no
Shiwaza naruran?
[_That house-pillar hewn in the mountains of Hida, and thence
brought here and erected upside-down--what carpenter's work
can it be? (or, "for what evil design can this deed have been
done?")_]
[Footnote 51: The word _takumi_, as written in _kana_, may signify
either "carpenter" or "intrigue," "evil plot," "wicked device." Thus
two readings are possible. According to one reading, the post was
fixed upside-down through inadvertence; according to the other, it was
so fixed with malice prepense.]
Uë shita wo
Chigaëté tatéshi
Hashira ni wa
Sakasama-goto no
Uréï aranan.
[_As for that house-pillar mistakenly planted upside-down, it
will certainly cause adversity and sorrow._[52]]
[Footnote 52: Lit., "upside-down-matter-sorrow." _Sakasama-goto_,
"up-side-down affair," is a common expression for calamity,
contrariety, adversity, vexation.]
Kabé ni mimi
Arité, kiké to ka?
Sakashima ni
Tateshi hashira ni
Yanari suru oto!
[_O Ears that be in the wall![53] listen, will ye? to the
groaning and the creaking of the house-post that was planted
upside-down!_]
[Footnote 53: Alluding to the proverb, _Kabé ni mimi ari_ ("There are
ears in the wall"), which signifies: "Be careful how you talk about
other people, even in private."]
Uri-iyé no
Aruji we toëba,
Oto arité:
Waré mé ga kuchi wo
Aku saka-bashira.
[_When I inquired for the master of the house that was
for sale, there came to me only a strange sound by way of
reply,--the sound of the upside-down house-post opening its
eyes and mouth![54] (i.e. its cracks)._]
[Footnote 54: There is a pun in the fourth line which suggests more
than even a free translation can express. _Waré_ means "I," or "mine,"
or "one's own," etc., according to circumstances; and _waré mé_
(written separately) might be rendered "its own eyes." But _warémé_
(one word) means a crack, rent, split, or fissure. The reader should
remember that the term _saka-bashira_ means not only "upside-down
post," but also the goblin or spectre of the upside-down post.]
Omoïkiya!
Sakasa-bashira no
Hashira-kaké
Kakinishit uta mo
Yamai ari to wa!
[_Who could have thought it!--even the poem inscribed upon
the pillar-tablet, attached to the pillar which was planted
upside-down, has taken the same (ghostly) sickness._[55]]
[Footnote 55: That is to say, "Even the poem on the tablet is
up-side-down,"--all wrong. _Hashira-kaké_ ("pillar-suspended thing")
is the name given to a thin tablet of fine wood, inscribed or painted,
which is hung to a post by way of ornament.]
XI. BAKÉ-JIZÖ
The figure of the Bodhi-sattva Jizö, the savior of children's ghosts,
is one of the most beautiful and humane in Japanese Buddhism. Statues
of this divinity may be seen in almost every village and by every
roadside. But some statues of Jizö are said to do uncanny things--such
as to walk about at night in various disguises. A statue of this kind
is called a _Baké-Jiz[=o]_[56],--meaning a Jiz[=o]; that undergoes
transformation. A conventional picture shows a little boy about to
place the customary child's-offering of rice-cakes before the stone
image of Jiz[=o],--not suspecting that the statue moves, and is slowly
bending down towards him.
[Footnote 56: Perhaps the term might be rendered "Shape-changing
Jiz[=o]." The verb _bakéru_ means to change shape, to undergo
metamorphosis, to haunt, and many other supernatural things.]
Nanigé naki
Ishi no Jiz[=o] no
Sugata saë,
Yo wa osoroshiki
Mikagé to zo naki.
[_Though the stone Jiz[=o] looks as if nothing were the matter
with it, they say that at night it assumes an awful aspect
(or, "Though this image appears to be a common stone Jiz[=o],
they say that at night it becomes an awful Jiz[=o]; of
granite."_[57])]
[Footnote 57: The Japanese word for granite is _mikagé_; and there is
also an honorific term _mikagé_, applied to divinities and emperors,
which signifies "august aspect," "sacred presence," etc.... No literal
rendering can suggest the effect, in the fifth line, of the latter
reading. _Kagé_ signifies "shadow," "aspect," and "power"--especially
occult power; the honorific prefix _mi_, attached to names and
attributes of divinities, may be rendered "august."]
XII. UMI-B[=O]ZU
Place a large cuttlefish on a table, body upwards and tentacles
downwards--and you will have before you the grotesque reality that
first suggested the fancy of the _Umi-B[=o]zu_, or Priest of the Sea.
For the great bald body in this position, with the staring eyes below,
bears a distorted resemblance to the shaven head of a priest; while
the crawling tentacles underneath (which are in some species united
by a dark web) suggests the wavering motion of the priest's upper
robe.... The Umi-B[=o]zu figures a good deal in the literature of
Japanese goblinry, and in the old-fashioned picture-books. He rises
from the deep in foul weather to seize his prey.
Ita hitoë
Shita wa Jigoku ni,
Sumizomé no
B[=o]zu no umi ni
Déru mo ayashina!
[_Since there is but the thickness of a single plank (between
the voyager and the sea), and underneath is Hell, 'tis indeed
a weird thing that a black-robed priest should rise from
the sea (or, "'tis surely a marvelous happening that,"
etc.!_[58])]
[Footnote 58: The puns are too much for me.... _Ayashii_ means
"suspicious," "marvelous," "supernatural," "weird," "doubtful."--In
the first two lines there is a reference to the Buddhist proverb:
_Funa-ita ichi-mai shita wa Jigoku_ ("under the thickness of a single
ship's-plank is Hell"). (See my _Gleanings in Buddha-Fields_, p. 206,
for another reference to this saying.)]
XIII. FUDA-HÉGASHI[59]
Homes are protected from evil spirits by holy texts and charms. In any
Japanese village, or any city by-street, you can see these texts when
the sliding-doors are closed at night: they are not visible by day,
when the sliding-doors have been pushed back into the _tobukuro_.
Such texts are called _o-fuda_ (august scripts): they are written in
Chinese characters upon strips of white paper, which are attached
to the door with rice-paste; and there are many kinds of them. Some
are texts selected from sutras--such as the Sûtra of Transcendent
Wisdom (Pragña-Pâramitâ-Hridaya-Sûtra), or the Sûtra of the Lotos of
the Good Law (Saddharma-Pundarikâ-Sûtra). Some are texts from the
dhâranîs,--which are magical. Some are invocations only, indicating
the Buddhist sect of the household.... Besides these you may see
various smaller texts, or little prints, pasted above or beside
windows or apertures,--some being names of Shinto gods; others,
symbolical pictures only, or pictures of Buddhas and Bodhi-sattvas.
All are holy charms,--_o-fuda_: they protect the houses; and no goblin
or ghost can enter by night into a dwelling so protected, unless the
_o-fuda_ be removed.
[Footnote 59: _Hégashi_ is the causative form of the verb _hégu_,
"to pull off," "peel off," "strip off," "split off." The term
_Fuda-hégashi_ signifies "Make-peel-off-august-charm Ghost." In my
_Ghostly Japan_ the reader can find a good Japanese story about a
_Fuda-hégashi_.]
Vengeful ghosts cannot themselves remove an _o-fuda_; but they will
endeavor by threats or promises or bribes to make some person remove
it for them. A ghost that wants to have the _o-fuda_ pulled off a door
is called a _Fuda-hégashi_.
Hégasan to
Rokuji-no-fuda wo,
Yuréï mo
Nam'mai d[=a] to
Kazoëté zo mini.
[_Even the ghost that would remove the charms written with six
characters actually tries to count them, repeating: "How many
sheets are there?" (or, repeating, "Hail to thee, O Buddha
Amitábha!"[60])_]
[Footnote 60: The fourth line gives these two readings:--
_Nam'mai da?_--"How many sheets are there?"
_Nam[u] A[m]ida!_--"Hail, O Amitâbha!"
The invocation, _Namu Amida Butsu_, is chiefly used by members of the
great Shin sect; but it is also used by other sects, and especially in
praying for the dead. While repeating it, the person praying numbers
the utterances upon his Buddhist rosary; and this custom is suggested
by the use of the word _kazoëté_, "counting."]
Tada ichi no
Kami no o-fuda wa
Sasuga ni mo
Noriké naku to mo
Hégashi kanékéri.
[_Of the august written-charms of the god (which were pasted
upon the walls of the house), not even one could by any effort
be pulled off, though the rice-paste with which they had been
fastened was all gone._]
XIV. FURU-TSUBAKI
The old Japanese, like the old Greeks, had their flower-spirits and
their hamadryads, concerning whom some charming stories are told. They
also believed in trees inhabited by malevolent beings,--goblin trees.
Among other weird trees, the beautiful _tsubaki_ (_Camellia Japonica_)
was said to be an unlucky tree;--this was said, at least, of the
red-flowering variety, the white-flowering kind having a better
reputation and being prized as a rarity. The large fleshy crimson
flowers have this curious habit: they detach themselves bodily from
the stem, when they begin to fade; and they fall with an audible thud.
To old Japanese fancy the falling of these heavy red flowers was like
the falling of human heads under the sword; and the dull sound of
their dropping was said to be like the thud made by a severed head
striking the ground. Nevertheless the tsubaki seems to have been
a favorite in Japanese gardens because of the beauty of its glossy
foliage; and its flowers were used for the decoration of alcoves. But
in samurai homes it was a rule never to place tsubaki-flowers in an
alcove _during war-time_.
The reader will notice that in the following _ky[=o]ka_--which, as
grotesques, seem to me the best in the collection--the goblin-tsubaki
is called _furu-tsubaki_, "old tsubaki." The young tree was not
supposed to have goblin-propensities,--these being developed only
after many years. Other uncanny trees--such as the willow and the
_énoki_--were likewise said to become dangerous only as they became
old; and a similar belief prevailed on the subject of uncanny animals,
such as the cat--innocent in kittenhood, but devilish in age.
Yo-arashi ni
Chishiho itadaku
Furu tsubaki,
Hota-hota ochiru
Hana no nama-kubi.
[_When by the night-storm is shaken the blood-crowned and
ancient tsubaki-tree, then one by one fall the gory heads of
the flowers, (with the sound of) hota-hota!_[61]]
[Footnote 61: The word _furu_ in the third line is made to do double
duty,--as the adjective, _furu[i]_, "ancient"; and as the verb _furu_,
"to shake." The old term _nama-kuhi_ (lit., "raw head") means a human
head, freshly-severed, from which the blood is still oozing.]
Kusa mo ki mo
Némuréru koro no
Sayo kazé ni,
Méhana no ugoku
Furu-tsubaki kana!
[_When even the grass and the trees are sleeping under the
faint wind of the night,--then do the eyes and the noses of
the old tsubaki-tree (or "the buds and the flowers of the old
tsubaki-tree") move!_[62]]
[Footnote 62: Two Japanese words are written, in _kana_, as "mé"--one
meaning "a bud;" the other "eye." The syllables "hana" in like
fashion, may signify either "flower" or "nose." As a grotesque, this
little poem is decidedly successful.]
Tomoshibi no
Kagé ayashigé ni
Miyénuru wa
Abura shiborishi
Furu-tsubaki ka-mo?
[_As for (the reason why) the light of that lamp appears to be
a Weirdness,[63]--perhaps the oil was expressed from (the nuts
of) the ancient tsu-baki?_]
[Footnote 63: _Ayashigé_ is a noun formed from the adjective _ayashi_,
"suspicious," "strange," "supernatural," "doubtful." The word _kagé_
signifies both "light" and "shadow,"--and is here used with double
suggestiveness. The vegetable oil used in the old Japanese lamps
used to be obtained from the nuts of the _tsubaki_. The reader should
remember that the expression "ancient tsubaki" is equivalent to the
expression "goblin-tsubaki,"--the tsubaki being supposed to turn into
a goblin-tree only when it becomes old.]
* * * * *
--Nearly all the stories and folk-beliefs about which these _ky[=o]ka_
were written seem to have come from China; and most of the Japanese
tales of tree-spirits appear to have had a Chinese origin. As the
flower-spirits and hamadryads of the Far East are as yet little
known to Western readers, the following Chinese story may be found
interesting.
* * * * *
There was a Chinese scholar--called, in Japanese books, T[=o] no
Busanshi--who was famous for his love of flowers. He was particularly
fond of peonies, and cultivated them with great skill and
patience.[64]
[Footnote 64: The tree-peony (_botan_) is here referred to,--a flower
much esteemed in Japan. It is said to have been introduced from China
during the eighth century; and no less than five hundred varieties of
it are now cultivated by Japanese gardeners.]
One day a very comely girl came to the house of Busanshi, and begged
to be taken into his service. She said that circumstances obliged
her to seek humble employment, but that she had received a literary
education, and therefore wished to enter, if possible, into the
service of a scholar. Busanshi was charmed by her beauty, and took her
into his household without further questioning. She proved to be much
more than a good domestic: indeed, the nature of her accomplishments
made Busanshi suspect that she had been brought up in the court of
some prince, or in the palace of some great lord. She displayed
a perfect knowledge of the etiquette and the polite arts which
are taught only to ladies of the highest rank; and she possessed
astonishing skill in calligraphy, in painting, and in every kind of
poetical composition. Busanshi presently fell in love with her, and
thought only of how to please her. When scholar-friends or other
visitors of importance came to the house, he would send for the new
maid that she might entertain and wait upon his guests; and all who
saw her were amazed by her grace and charm.
One day Busanshi received a visit from the great Teki-Shin-Ketsu, a
famous teacher of moral doctrine; and the maid did not respond to her
master's call. Busanshi went himself to seek her, being desirous that
Teki-Shin-Ketsu should see her and admire her; but she was nowhere to
be found. After having searched the whole house in vain, Busanshi was
returning to the guest-room when he suddenly caught sight of the maid,
gliding soundlessly before him along a corridor. He called to her, and
hurried after her. Then she turned half-round, and flattened herself
against the wall like a spider; and as he reached her she sank
backwards into the wall, so that there remained of her nothing visible
but a colored shadow,--level like a picture painted on the plaster.
But the shadow moved its lips and eyes, and spoke to him in a whisper,
saying:--
"Pardon me that I did not obey your august call!... I am not a
mankind-person;--I am only the Soul of a Peony. Because you loved
peonies so much, I was able to take human shape, and to serve you.
But now this Teki-Shin-Ketsu has come,--and he is a person of dreadful
propriety,--and I dare not keep this form any longer.... I must return
to the place from which I came."
Then she sank back into the wall, and vanished altogether: there was
nothing where she had been except the naked plaster. And Busanshi
never saw her again.
This story is written in a Chinese book which the Japanese call
"Kai-ten-i-ji."
"ULTIMATE QUESTIONS"
A memory of long ago.... I am walking upon a granite pavement that
rings like iron, between buildings of granite bathed in the light of
a cloudless noon. Shadows are short and sharp: there is no stir in the
hot bright air; and the sound of my footsteps, strangely loud, is the
only sound in the street.... Suddenly an odd feeling comes to me,
with a sort of tingling shock,--a feeling, or suspicion, of universal
illusion. The pavement, the bulks of hewn stone, the iron rails,
and all things visible, are dreams! Light, color, form, weight,
solidity--all sensed existences--are but phantoms of being,
manifestations only of one infinite ghostliness for which the language
of man has not any word....
This experience had been produced by study of the first volume of
the Synthetic Philosophy, which an American friend had taught me
how to read. I did not find it easy reading; partly because I am a
slow thinker, but chiefly because my mind had never been trained to
sustained effort in such directions. To learn the "First Principles"
occupied me many months: no other volume of the series gave me equal
trouble. I would read one section at a time,--rarely two,--never
venturing upon a fresh section until I thought that I had made sure
of the preceding. Very cautious and slow my progress was, like that
of a man mounting, for the first time, a long series of ladders in
darkness. Reaching the light at last, I caught a sudden new vision of
things,--a momentary perception of the illusion of surfaces,--and from
that time the world never again appeared to me quite the same as it
had appeared before.
* * * * *
--This memory of more than twenty years ago, and the extraordinary
thrill of the moment, were recently revived for me by the reading of
the essay "Ultimate Questions," in the last and not least precious
volume bequeathed us by the world's greatest thinker. The essay
contains his final utterance about the riddle of life and death,
as that riddle presented itself to his vast mind in the dusk of a
lifetime of intellectual toil. Certainly the substance of what he had
to tell us might have been inferred from the Synthetic Philosophy;
but the particular interest of this last essay is made by the writer's
expression of personal sentiment regarding the problem that troubles
all deep thinkers. Perhaps few of us could have remained satisfied
with his purely scientific position. Even while fully accepting his
declaration of the identity of the power that "wells up in us under
the form of consciousness" with that Power Unknowable which shapes
all things, most disciples of the master must have longed for some
chance to ask him directly, "But how do _you_ feel in regard to the
prospect of personal dissolution?" And this merely emotional question
he has answered as frankly and as fully as any of us could have
desired,--perhaps even more frankly. "Old people," he remarks
apologetically, "must have many reflections in common. Doubtless
one which I have now in mind is very familiar. For years past, when
watching the unfolding buds in the spring, there has arisen the
thought, 'Shall I ever again see the buds unfold? Shall I ever again
be awakened at dawn by the song of the thrush?' Now that the end is
not likely to be long postponed, there results an increasing tendency
to meditate upon ultimate questions."... Then he tells us that these
ultimate questions--"of the How and the Why, of the Whence and the
Whither"--occupy much more space in the minds of those who cannot
accept the creed of Christendom, than the current conception fills
in the minds of the majority of men. The enormity of the problem of
existence becomes manifest only to those who have permitted themselves
to think freely and widely and deeply, with all such aids to thought
as exact science can furnish; and the larger the knowledge of the
thinker, the more pressing and tremendous the problem appears, and the
more hopelessly unanswerable. To Herbert Spencer himself it must have
assumed a vastness beyond the apprehension of the average mind; and
it weighed upon him more and more inexorably the nearer he approached
to death. He could not avoid the conviction--plainly suggested in his
magnificent Psychology and in other volumes of his great work--that
there exists no rational evidence for any belief in the continuance of
conscious personality after death:--
"After studying primitive beliefs, and finding that there is
no origin for the idea of an after-life, save the conclusion
which the savage draws, from the notion suggested by dreams,
of a wandering double which comes back on awaking, and
which goes away for an indefinite time at death;--and after
contemplating the inscrutable relation between brain and
consciousness, and finding that we can get no evidence of the
existence of the last without the activity of the first,--we
seem obliged to relinquish the thought that consciousness
continues after physical organization has become inactive."
In this measured utterance there is no word of hope; but there is
at least a carefully stated doubt, which those who will may try
to develop into the germ of a hope. The guarded phrase, "we _seem_
obliged to relinquish," certainly suggests that, although in the
present state of human knowledge we have no reason to believe in the
perpetuity of consciousness, some larger future knowledge might help
us to a less forlorn prospect. From the prospect as it now appears
even this mightiest of thinkers recoiled:--
... "But it seems a strange and repugnant conclusion that with
the cessation of consciousness at death there ceases to be any
knowledge of having existed. With his last breath it becomes
to each the same thing as though he had never lived.
"And then the consciousness itself--what is it during the time
that it continues? And what becomes of it when it ends? We can
only infer that it is a specialized and individualized form
of that Infinite and Eternal Energy which transcends both our
knowledge and our imagination; and that at death its elements
lapse into that Infinite and Eternal Energy whence they were
derived."
* * * * *
--_With his last breath it becomes to each the same thing as though
he had never lived?_ To the individual, perhaps--surely not to the
humanity made wiser and better by his labors.... But the world must
pass away: will it thereafter be the same for the universe as if
humanity had never existed? That might depend upon the possibilities
of future inter-planetary communication.... But the whole universe
of suns and planets must also perish: thereafter will it be the same
as if no intelligent life had ever toiled and suffered upon those
countless worlds? We have at least the certainty that the energies
of life cannot be destroyed, and the strong probability that
they will help to form another life and thought in universes
yet to be evolved.... Nevertheless, allowing for all imagined
possibilities,--granting even the likelihood of some inapprehensible
relation between all past and all future conditioned-being,--the
tremendous question remains: What signifies the whole of apparitional
existence to the Unconditioned? As flickers of sheet-lightning leave
no record in the night, so in that Darkness a million billion trillion
universes might come and go, and leave no trace of their having been.
* * * * *
To every aspect of the problem Herbert Spencer must have given
thought; but he has plainly declared that the human intellect, as at
present constituted, can offer no solution. The greatest mind that
this world has yet produced--the mind that systematized all human
knowledge, that revolutionized modern science, that dissipated
materialism forever, that revealed to us the ghostly unity of all
existence, that reestablished all ethics upon an immutable and eternal
foundation,--the mind that could expound with equal lucidity, and by
the same universal formula, the history of a gnat or the history of a
sun--confessed itself, before the Riddle of Existence, scarcely less
helpless than the mind of a child.
But for me the supreme value of this last essay is made by the fact
that in its pathetic statement of uncertainties and probabilities one
can discern something very much resembling a declaration of faith.
Though assured that we have yet no foundation for any belief in the
persistence of consciousness after the death of the brain, we are
bidden to remember that the ultimate nature of consciousness remains
inscrutable. Though we cannot surmise the relation of consciousness
to the unseen, we are reminded that it must be considered as a
manifestation of the Infinite Energy, and that its elements, if
dissociated by death, will return to the timeless and measureless
Source of Life.... Science to-day also assures us that whatever
existence has been--all individual life that ever moved in animal
or plant,--all feeling and thought that ever stirred in human
consciousness--must have flashed self-record beyond the sphere of
sentiency; and though we cannot know, we cannot help imagining that
the best of such registration may be destined to perpetuity. On this
latter subject, for obvious reasons, Herbert Spencer has remained
silent; but the reader may ponder a remarkable paragraph in the final
sixth edition of the "First Principles,"--a paragraph dealing with
the hypothesis that consciousness may belong to the cosmic ether.
This hypothesis has not been lightly dismissed by him; and even while
proving its inadequacy, he seems to intimate that it may represent
imperfectly some truth yet inapprehensible by the human mind:--
"The only supposition having consistency is that that in which
consciousness inheres is the all-pervading ether. This we
know can be affected by molecules of matter in motion, and
conversely can affect the motions of molecules;--as witness
the action of light on the retina. In pursuance of this
supposition we may assume that the ether, which pervades not
only all space but all matter, is, under special conditions in
certain parts of the nervous system, capable of being affected
by the nervous changes in such way as to result in feeling,
and is reciprocally capable under these conditions of
affecting the nervous changes. But if we accept this
explanation, we must assume that the potentiality of feeling
is universal, and that the evolution of feeling in the ether
takes place only under the extremely complex conditions
occurring in certain nervous centres. This, however, is but
a semblance of an explanation, since we know not what the
ether is, and since, by confession of those most capable of
judging, no hypothesis that has been framed accounts for
all its powers. Such an explanation may be said to do no
more than symbolize the phenomena by symbols of unknown
natures."--["First Principles," § 71 _c_, definitive edition
of 1900.]
--"Inscrutable is this complex consciousness which has
slowly evolved out of infantine vacuity--consciousness
which, in other shapes, is manifested by animate beings at
large--consciousness which, during the development of every
creature, makes its appearance out of what seems unconscious
matter; _suggesting the thought that consciousness, in some
rudimentary form, is omnipresent._"[65]
[Footnote 65: _Autobiography_, vol. ii, p. 470.]
--Of all modern thinkers, Spencer was perhaps the most careful to
avoid giving encouragement to any hypothesis unsupported by powerful
evidence. Even the simple sum of his own creed is uttered only,
with due reservation, as a statement of three probabilities: that
consciousness represents a specialized and individualized form of the
infinite Energy; that it is dissolved by death; and that its elements
then return to the source of all being. As for our mental attitude
toward the infinite Mystery, his advice is plain. We must resign
ourselves to the eternal law, and endeavor to vanquish our ancient
inheritance of superstitious terrors, remembering that, "merciless as
is the Cosmic process worked out by an Unknown Power, yet vengeance is
nowhere to be found in it."[66]
[Footnote 66: _Facts and Comments_, p. 201.]
* * * * *
In the same brief essay there is another confession of singular
interest,--an acknowledgment of the terror of Space. To even the
ordinary mind, the notion of infinite Space, as forced upon us by
those monstrous facts of astronomy which require no serious study
to apprehend, is terrifying;--I mean the mere vague idea of that
everlasting Night into which the blazing of millions of suns can bring
neither light nor warmth. But to the intellect of Herbert Spencer the
idea of Space must have presented itself after a manner incomparably
more mysterious and stupendous. The mathematician alone will
comprehend the full significance of the paragraph dealing with the
Geometry of Position and the mystery of space-relations,--or the
startling declaration that "even could we penetrate the mysteries of
existence, there would remain still more transcendent mysteries."
But Herbert Spencer tells us that, apart from the conception of these
geometrical mysteries, the problem of naked Space itself became for
him, in the twilight of his age, an obsession and a dismay:--
... "And then comes the thought of this universal matrix
itself, anteceding alike creation or evolution, whichever be
assumed, and infinitely transcending both, alike in extent and
duration; since both, if conceived at all, must be conceived
as having had beginnings, while Space had no beginning. The
thought of this blank form of existence which, explored in
all directions as far as imagination can reach, has, beyond
that, an unexplored region compared with which the part which
imagination has traversed is but infinitesimal,--the thought
of a Space compared with which our immeasurable sidereal
system dwindles to a point is a thought too overwhelming to
be dwelt upon. Of late years the consciousness that without
origin or cause infinite Space has ever existed and must ever
exist, produces in me a feeling from which I shrink."
* * * * *
How the idea of infinite Space may affect a mind incomparably more
powerful than my own, I cannot know;--neither can I divine the nature
of certain problems which the laws of space-relation present to the
geometrician. But when I try to determine the cause of the horror
which that idea evokes within my own feeble imagination, I am able
to distinguish different elements of the emotion,--particular forms
of terror responding to particular ideas (rational and irrational)
suggested by the revelations of science. One feeling--perhaps the
main element of the horror--is made by the thought of being _prisoned_
forever and ever within that unutterable Viewlessness which occupies
infinite Space.
Behind this feeling there is more than the thought of eternal
circumscription;--there is also the idea of being perpetually
penetrated, traversed, thrilled by the Nameless;--there is likewise
the certainty that no least particle of innermost secret Self could
shun the eternal touch of It;--there is furthermore the tremendous
conviction that could the Self of me rush with the swiftness of
light,--with more than the swiftness of light,--beyond all galaxies,
beyond durations of time so vast that Science knows no sign by which
their magnitudes might be indicated,--and still flee onward, onward,
downward, upward,--always, always,--never could that Self of me reach
nearer to any verge, never speed farther from any centre. For, in that
Silence, all vastitude and height and depth and time and direction are
swallowed up: relation therein could have no meaning but for the speck
of my fleeting consciousness,--atom of terror pulsating alone through
atomless, soundless, nameless, illimitable potentiality.
And the idea of that potentiality awakens another quality of
horror,--the horror of infinite Possibility. For this Inscrutable that
pulses through substance as if substance were not at all,--so subtly
that none can feel the flowing of its tides, yet so swiftly that no
life-time would suffice to count the number of the oscillations which
it makes within the fraction of one second,--thrills to us out of
endlessness;--and the force of infinity dwells in its lightest tremor;
the weight of eternity presses behind its faintest shudder. To that
phantom-Touch, the tinting of a blossom or the dissipation of a
universe were equally facile: here it caresses the eye with the charm
and illusion of color; there it bestirs into being a cluster of giant
suns. All that human mind is capable of conceiving as possible
(and how much also that human mind must forever remain incapable of
conceiving?) may be wrought anywhere, everywhere, by a single tremor
of that Abyss....
* * * * *
Is it true, as some would have us believe, that the fear of the
extinction of self is the terror supreme?... For the thought of
personal perpetuity in the infinite vortex is enough to evoke sudden
trepidations that no tongue can utter,--fugitive instants of a horror
too vast to enter wholly into consciousness: a horror that can be
endured in swift black glimpsings only. And the trust that we are one
with the Absolute--dim points of thrilling in the abyss of It--can
prove a consoling faith only to those who find themselves obliged to
think that consciousness dissolves with the crumbling of the brain....
It seems to me that few (or none) dare to utter frankly those
stupendous doubts and fears which force mortal intelligence to
recoil upon itself at every fresh attempt to pass the barrier of the
Knowable. Were that barrier unexpectedly pushed back,--were knowledge
to be suddenly and vastly expanded beyond its present limits,--perhaps
we should find ourselves unable to endure the revelation....
* * * * *
Mr. Percival Lowell's astonishing book, "Mars," sets one to thinking
about the results of being able to hold communication with the
habitants of an older and a wiser world,--some race of beings more
highly evolved than we, both intellectually and morally, and able to
interpret a thousand mysteries that still baffle our science. Perhaps,
in such event, we should not find ourselves able to comprehend the
methods, even could we borrow the results, of wisdom older than all
our civilization by myriads or hundreds of myriads of years. But would
not the sudden advent of larger knowledge from some elder planet prove
for us, by reason, of the present moral condition of mankind, nothing
less than a catastrophe?--might it not even result in the extinction
of the human species?...
The rule seems to be that the dissemination of dangerous higher
knowledge, before the masses of a people are ethically prepared to
receive it, will always be prevented by the conservative instinct; and
we have reason to suppose (allowing for individual exceptions) that
the power to gain higher knowledge is developed only as the moral
ability to profit by such knowledge is evolved. I fancy that if the
power of holding intellectual converse with other worlds could now
serve us, we should presently obtain it. But if, by some astonishing
chance,--as by the discovery, let us suppose, of some method of
ether-telegraphy,--this power were prematurely acquired, its exercise
would in all probability be prohibited.... Imagine, for example, what
would have happened during the Middle Ages to the person guilty of
discovering means to communicate with the people of a neighboring
planet! Assuredly that inventor and his apparatus and his records
would have been burned; every trace and memory of his labors would
have been extirpated. Even to-day the sudden discovery of truths
unsupported by human experience, the sudden revelation of facts
totally opposed to existing convictions, might evoke some frantic
revival of superstitious terrors,--some religious panic-fury that
would strangle science, and replunge the world in mental darkness
for a thousand years.
THE MIRROR MAIDEN
In the period of the Ashikaga Sh[=o]gunate the shrine of
Ogawachi-My[=o]jin, at Minami-Isé, fell into decay; and the daimy[=o]
of the district, the Lord Kitahataké, found himself unable, by reason
of war and other circumstances, to provide for the reparation of the
building. Then the Shint[=o] priest in charge, Matsumura Hy[=o]go,
sought help at Ky[=o]to from the great daimy[=o] Hosokawa, who was
known to have influence with the Sh[=o]gun. The Lord Hosokawa received
the priest kindly, and promised to speak to the Sh[=o]gun about the
condition of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin. But he said that, in any event, a
grant for the restoration of the temple could not be made without
due investigation and considerable delay; and he advised Matsumura to
remain in the capital while the matter was being arranged. Matsumura
therefore brought his family to Ky[=o]to, and rented a house in the
old Ky[=o]goku quarter.
This house, although handsome and spacious, had been long unoccupied.
It was said to be an unlucky house. On the northeast side of it there
was a well; and several former tenants had drowned themselves in
that well, without any known cause. But Matsumura, being a Shint[=o]
priest, had no fear of evil spirits; and he soon made himself very
comfortable in his new home.
* * * * *
In the summer of that year there was a great drought. For months no
rain had fallen in the Five Home-Provinces; the river-beds dried
up, the wells failed; and even in the capital there was a dearth of
water. But the well in Matsumura's garden remained nearly full; and
the water--which was very cold and clear, with a faint bluish
tinge--seemed to be supplied by a spring. During the hot season many
people came from all parts of the city to beg for water; and Matsumura
allowed them to draw as much as they pleased. Nevertheless the supply
did not appear to be diminished.
But one morning the dead body of a young servant, who had been sent
from a neighboring residence to fetch water, was found floating in
the well. No cause for a suicide could be imagined; and Matsumura,
remembering many unpleasant stories about the well, began to suspect
some invisible malevolence. He went to examine the well, with the
intention of having a fence built around it; and while standing there
alone he was startled by a sudden motion in the water, as of something
alive. The motion soon ceased; and then he perceived, clearly
reflected in the still surface, the figure of a young woman,
apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age. She seemed to be
occupied with her toilet: he distinctly saw her touching her lips
with _béni_[67] At first her face was visible in profile only; but
presently she turned towards him and smiled. Immediately he felt a
strange shock at his heart, and a dizziness came upon him like the
dizziness of wine, and everything became dark, except that smiling
face,--white and beautiful as moonlight, and always seeming to grow
more beautiful, and to be drawing him down--down--down into the
darkness. But with a desperate effort he recovered his will and closed
his eyes. When he opened them again, the face was gone, and the light
had returned; and he found himself leaning down over the curb of the
well. A moment more of that dizziness,--a moment more of that dazzling
lure,--and he would never again have looked upon the sun...
[Footnote 67: A kind of rouge, now used only to color the lips.]
Returning to the house, he gave orders to his people not to approach
the well under any circumstances, or allow any person to draw water
from it. And the next day he had a strong fence built round the well.
* * * * *
About a week after the fence had been built, the long drought was
broken by a great rain-storm, accompanied by wind and lightning and
thunder,--thunder so tremendous that the whole city shook to the
rolling of it, as if shaken by an earthquake. For three days and three
nights the downpour and the lightnings and the thunder continued; and
the Kamogawa rose as it had never risen before, carrying away many
bridges. During the third night of the storm, at the Hour of the Ox,
there was heard a knocking at the door of the priest's dwelling, and
the voice of a woman pleading for admittance. But Matsumura, warned by
his experience at the well, forbade his servants to answer the appeal.
He went himself to the entrance, and asked,--
"Who calls?"
A feminine voice responded:--
"Pardon! it is I,--Yayoi![68]... I have something to say to Matsumura
Sama,--something of great moment. Please open!"...
[Footnote 68: This name, though uncommon, is still in use.]
Matsumura half opened the door, very cautiously; and he saw the same
beautiful face that had smiled upon him from the well. But it was not
smiling now: it had a very sad look.
"Into my house you shall not come," the priest exclaimed. "You are not
a human being, but a Well-Person.... Why do you thus wickedly try to
delude and destroy people?"
The Well-Person made answer in a voice musical as a tinkling of jewels
(_tama-wo-korogasu-koë_.):--
"It is of that very matter that I want to speak.... I have never
wished to injure human beings. But from ancient time a Poison-Dragon
dwelt in that well. He was the Master of the Well; and because of him
the well was always full. Long ago I fell into the water there, and
so became subject to him; and he had power to make me lure people to
death, in order that he might drink their blood. But now the Heavenly
Ruler has commanded the Dragon to dwell hereafter in the lake called
Torii-no-Iké, in the Province of Shinsh[=u]; and the gods have decided
that he shall never be allowed to return to this city. So to-night,
after he had gone away, I was able to come out, to beg for your kindly
help. There is now very little water in the well, because of the
Dragon's departure; and if you will order search to be made, my body
will be found there. I pray you to save my body from the well without
delay; and I shall certainly return your benevolence."...
So saying, she vanished into the night.
* * * * *
Before dawn the tempest had passed; and when the sun arose there was
no trace of cloud in the pure blue sky. Matsumura sent at an early
hour for well-cleaners to search the well. Then, to everybody's
surprise, the well proved to be almost dry. It was easily cleaned; and
at the bottom of it were found some hair-ornaments of a very ancient
fashion, and a metal mirror of curious form--but no trace of any body,
animal or human.
Matusmura imagined, however, that the mirror might yield some
explanation of the mystery; for every such mirror is a weird thing,
having a soul of its own,--and the soul of a mirror is feminine. This
mirror, which seemed to be very old, was deeply crusted with scurf.
But when it had been carefully cleaned, by the priest's order, it
proved to be of rare and costly workmanship; and there were wonderful
designs upon the back of it,--also several characters. Some of the
characters had become indistinguishable; but there could still be
discerned part of a date, and ideographs signifying, "_third month,
the third day_." Now the third month used to be termed _Yayoi_
(meaning, the Month of Increase); and the third day of the third
month, which is a festival day, is still called _Yayoi-no-sekku_.
Remembering that the Well-Person called herself "Yayoi," Matsumura
felt almost sure that his ghostly visitant had been none other than
the Soul of the Mirror.
He therefore resolved to treat the mirror with all the consideration
due to a Spirit. After having caused it to be carefully repolished
and resilvered, he had a case of precious wood made for it, and a
particular room in the house prepared to receive it. On the evening
of the same day that it had been respectfully deposited in that room,
Yayoi herself unexpectedly appeared before the priest as he sat alone
in his study. She looked even more lovely than before; but the light
of her beauty was now soft as the light of a summer moon shining
through pure white clouds. After having humbly saluted Matsumura, she
said in her sweetly tinkling voice:--
"Now that you have saved me from solitude and sorrow, I have come to
thank you.... I am indeed, as you supposed, the Spirit of the Mirror.
It was in the time of the Emperor Saimei that I was first brought here
from Kudara; and I dwelt in the august residence until the time of
the Emperor Saga, when I was augustly bestowed upon the Lady Kamo,
Naishinn[=o] of the Imperial Court.[69] Thereafter I became an
heirloom in the House of Fuji-wara, and so remained until the period
of H[=o]gen, when I was dropped into the well. There I was left and
forgotten during the years of the great war.[70] The Master of the
Well[71] was a venomous Dragon, who used to live in a lake that once
covered a great part of this district. After the lake had been filled
in, by government order, in order that houses might be built upon
the place of it, the Dragon took possession of the well; and when I
fell into the well I became subject to him; and he compelled me to
lure many people to their deaths. But the gods have banished him
forever.... Now I have one more favor to beseech: I entreat that you
will cause me to be offered up to the Sh[=o]gun, the Lord Yoshimasa,
who by descent is related to my former possessors. Do me but this last
great kindness, and it will bring you good-fortune.... But I have also
to warn you of a danger. In this house, after to-morrow, you must
not stay, because it will be destroyed."... And with these words of
warning Yayoi disappeared.
[Footnote 69: The Emperor Saimei reigned from 655 to 662 (A.D.);
the Emperor Saga from 810 to 842.--Kudara was an ancient kingdom in
southwestern Korea, frequently mentioned in early Japanese history.--A
_Naishinn[=o]_ was of Imperial blood. In the ancient court-hierarchy
there were twenty-five ranks or grades of noble ladies;--that of
_Naishinno_ was seventh in order of precedence.]
[Footnote 70: For centuries the wives of the emperors and the ladies
of the Imperial Court were chosen from the Fujiwara clan--The period
called H[=o]gen lasted from 1156 to 1159: the war referred to is the
famous war between the Taira and Minamoto clans.]
[Footnote 71: In old-time belief every lake or spring had its
invisible guardian, supposed to sometimes take the form of a serpent
or dragon. The spirit of a lake or pond was commonly spoken of
as _Iké-no-Mushi_, the Master of the Lake. Here we find the title
"Master" given to a dragon living in a well; but the guardian of wells
is really the god Suijin.]
* * * * *
Matsumura was able to profit by this premonition. He removed his
people and his belongings to another district the next day; and almost
immediately afterwards another storm arose, even more violent than the
first, causing a flood which swept away the house in which he had been
residing.
Some time later, by favor of the Lord Hosokawa, Matsumura was enabled
to obtain an audience of the Sh[=o]gun Yoshimasa, to whom he presented
the mirror, together with a written account of its wonderful history.
Then the prediction of the Spirit of the Mirror was fulfilled; for the
Sh[=o]gun, greatly pleased with this strange gift, not only bestowed
costly presents upon Matsumura, but also made an ample grant of money
for the rebuilding of the Temple of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin.
THE STORY OF IT[=O] NORISUKÉ
In the town of Uji, in the province of Yamashiro, there lived, about
six hundred years ago, a young samurai named It[=o] Tatéwaki Norisuké,
whose ancestors were of the Héïké clan. It[=o] was of handsome person
and amiable character, a good scholar and apt at arms. But his family
were poor; and he had no patron among the military nobility,--so
that his prospects were small. He lived in a very quiet way, devoting
himself to the study of literature, and having (says the Japanese
story-teller) "only the Moon and the Wind for friends."
One autumn evening, as he was taking a solitary walk in the
neighborhood of the hill called Kotobikiyama, he happened to overtake
a young girl who was following the same path. She was richly dressed,
and seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old. It[=o] greeted her,
and said, "The sun will soon be setting, damsel, and this is rather a
lonesome place. May I ask if you have lost your way?" She looked up
at him with a bright smile, and answered deprecatingly: "Nay! I am
a _miya-dzukai_,[72] serving in this neighborhood; and I have only a
little way to go."
[Footnote 72: August-residence servant.]
By her use of the term _miya-dzukai_, It[=o] knew that the girl must
be in the service of persons of rank; and her statement surprised him,
because he had never heard of any family of distinction residing in
that vicinity. But he only said: "I am returning to Uji, where my home
is. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you on the way, as this is
a very lonesome place." She thanked him gracefully, seeming pleased
by his offer; and they walked on together, chatting as they went. She
talked about the weather, the flowers, the butterflies, and the birds;
about a visit that she had once made to Uji, about the famous sights
of the capital, where she had been born;--and the moments passed
pleasantly for It[=o], as he listened to her fresh prattle. Presently,
at a turn in the road, they entered a hamlet, densely shadowed by a
grove of young trees.
* * * * *
[Here I must interrupt the story to tell you that, without having
actually seen them, you cannot imagine how dark some Japanese country
villages remain even in the brightest and hottest weather. In the
neighborhood of T[=o]ky[=o] itself there are many villages of this
kind. At a short distance from such a settlement you see no houses:
nothing is visible but a dense grove of evergreen trees. The grove,
which is usually composed of young cedars and bamboos, serves to
shelter the village from storms, and also to supply timber for various
purposes. So closely are the trees planted that there is no room to
pass between the trunks of them: they stand straight as masts, and
mingle their crests so as to form a roof that excludes the sun. Each
thatched cottage occupies a clear space in the plantation, the trees
forming a fence about it, double the height of the building. Under
the trees it is always twilight, even at high noon; and the houses,
morning or evening, are half in shadow. What makes the first
impression of such a village almost disquieting is, not the
transparent gloom, which has a certain weird charm of its own, but
the stillness. There may be fifty or a hundred dwellings; but you see
nobody; and you hear no sound but the twitter of invisible birds, the
occasional crowing of cocks, and the shrilling of cicadæ. Even the
cicadæ, however, find these groves too dim, and sing faintly; being
sun-lovers, they prefer the trees outside the village. I forgot to
say that you may sometimes hear a viewless shuttle--_chaka-ton,
chaka-ton_;--but that familiar sound, in the great green silence,
seems an elfish happening. The reason of the hush is simply that the
people are not at home. All the adults, excepting some feeble elders,
have gone to the neighboring fields, the women carrying their babies
on their backs; and most of the children have gone to the nearest
school, perhaps not less than a mile away. Verily, in these dim
hushed villages, one seems to behold the mysterious perpetuation of
conditions recorded in the texts of Kwang-Tze:--
"_The ancients who had the nourishment of the world wished for
nothing, and the world had enough:--they did nothing, and all
things were transformed:--their stillness was abysmal, and the
people were all composed._"]
* * * * *
... The village was very dark when It[=o] reached it; for the sun
had set, and the after-glow made no twilight in the shadowing of the
trees. "Now, kind sir," the child said, pointing to a narrow lane
opening upon the main road, "I have to go this way." "Permit me, then,
to see you home," It[=o] responded; and he turned into the lane with
her, feeling rather than seeing his way. But the girl soon stopped
before a small gate, dimly visible in the gloom,--a gate of
trelliswork, beyond which the lights of a dwelling could be seen.
"Here," she said, "is the honorable residence in which I serve. As you
have come thus far out of your way, kind sir, will you not deign to
enter and to rest a while?" It[=o] assented. He was pleased by the
informal invitation; and he wished to learn what persons of superior
condition had chosen to reside in so lonesome a village. He knew that
sometimes a family of rank would retire in this manner from public
life, by reason of government displeasure or political trouble; and
he imagined that such might be the history of the occupants of the
dwelling before him. Passing the gate, which his young guide opened
for him, he found himself in a large quaint garden. A miniature
landscape, traversed by a winding stream, was faintly distinguishable.
"Deign for one little moment to wait," the child said; "I go to
announce the honorable coming;" and hurried toward the house. It was
a spacious house, but seemed very old, and built in the fashion of
another time. The sliding doors were not closed; but the lighted
interior was concealed by a beautiful bamboo curtain extending
along the gallery front. Behind it shadows were moving--shadows of
women;--and suddenly the music of a _koto_ rippled into the night. So
light and sweet was the playing that It[=o] could scarcely believe the
evidence of his senses. A slumbrous feeling of delight stole over him
as he listened,--a delight strangely mingled with sadness. He wondered
how any woman could have learned to play thus,--wondered whether the
player could be a woman,--wondered even whether he was hearing earthly
music; for enchantment seemed to have entered into his blood with the
sound of it.
* * * * *
The soft music ceased; and almost at the same moment It[=o] found the
little _miya-dzukai_ beside him. "Sir," she said, "it is requested
that you will honorably enter." She conducted him to the entrance,
where he removed his sandals; and an aged woman, whom he thought to be
the _R[=o]jo_, or matron of the household, came to welcome him at the
threshold. The old woman then led him through many apartments to a
large and well-lighted room in the rear of the house, and with many
respectful salutations requested him to take the place of honor
accorded to guests of distinction. He was surprised by the stateliness
of the chamber, and the curious beauty of its decorations. Presently
some maid-servants brought refreshments; and he noticed that the cups
and other vessels set before him were of rare and costly workmanship,
and ornamented with a design indicating the high rank of the
possessor. More and more he wondered what noble person had chosen
this lonely retreat, and what happening could have inspired the wish
for such solitude. But the aged attendant suddenly interrupted his
reflections with the question:
"Am I wrong in supposing that you are It[=o] Sama, of Uji,--It[=o]
Tatéwaki Norisuké?"
It[=o] bowed in assent. He had not told his name to the little
_miya-dzukai_, and the manner of the inquiry startled him.
"Please do not think my question rude," continued the attendant. "An
old woman like myself may ask questions without improper curiosity.
When you came to the house, I thought that I knew your face; and I
asked your name only to clear away all doubt, before speaking of
other matters. I have some thing of moment to tell you. You often pass
through this village, and our young Himégimi-Sama[73] happened one
morning to see you going by; and ever since that moment she has been
thinking about you, day and night. Indeed, she thought so much that
she became ill; and we have been very uneasy about her. For that
reason I took means to find out your name and residence; and I was on
the point of sending you a letter when--so unexpectedly!--you came to
our gate with the little attendant. Now, to say how happy I am to see
you is not possible; it seems almost too fortunate a happening to be
true! Really I think that this meeting must have been brought about by
the favor of Enmusubi-no-Kami,--that great God of Izumo who ties the
knots of fortunate union. And now that so lucky a destiny has led you
hither, perhaps you will not refuse--if there be no obstacle in the
way of such a union--to make happy the heart of our Himégimi-Sama?"
[Footnote 73: A scarcely translatable honorific title compounded of
the word _himé_ (princess) and _kimi_ (sovereign, master or mistress,
lord or lady, etc.).]
For the moment It[=o] did not know how to reply. If the old woman had
spoken the truth, an extraordinary chance was being offered to him.
Only a great passion could impel the daughter of a noble house to
seek, of her own will, the affection of an obscure and masterless
samurai, possessing neither wealth nor any sort of prospects. On the
other hand, it was not in the honorable nature of the man to further
his own interests by taking advantage of a feminine weakness.
Moreover, the circumstances were disquietingly mysterious. Yet how to
decline the proposal, so unexpectedly made, troubled him not a little.
After a short silence, he replied:--
"There would be no obstacle, as I have no wife, and no betrothed, and
no relation with any woman. Until now I have lived with my parents;
and the matter of my marriage was never discussed by them. You must
know that I am a poor samurai, without any patron among persons of
rank; and I did not wish to marry until I could find some chance to
improve my condition. As to the proposal which you have done me
the very great honor to make, I can only say that I know myself yet
unworthy of the notice of any noble maiden."
The old woman smiled as if pleased by these words, and responded:--
"Until you have seen our Himégimi-Sama, it were better that you make
no decision. Perhaps you will feel no hesitation after you have seen
her. Deign now to come with me, that I may present you to her."
She conducted him to another larger guest-room, where preparations for
a feast had been made, and having shown him the place of honor, left
him for a moment alone. She returned accompanied by the Himégimi-Sama;
and, at the first sight of the young mistress, It[=o] felt again
the strange thrill of wonder and delight that had come to him in
the garden, as he listened to the music of the _koto_. Never had he
dreamed of so beautiful a being. Light seemed to radiate from her
presence, and to shine through her garments, as the light of the moon
through flossy clouds; her loosely flowing hair swayed about her
as she moved, like the boughs of the drooping willow bestirred by
the breezes of spring; her lips were like flowers of the peach
besprinkled with morning dew. It[=o] was bewildered by the vision.
He asked himself whether he was not looking upon the person of
Amano-kawara-no-Ori-Himé herself,--the Weaving-Maiden who dwells by
the shining River of Heaven.
Smiling, the aged woman turned to the fair one, who remained
speechless, with downcast eyes and flushing cheeks, and said to her:--
"See, my child!--at the moment when we could least have hoped for such
a thing, the very person whom you wished to meet has come of his own
accord. So fortunate a happening could have been brought about only by
the will of the high gods. To think of it makes me weep for joy." And
she sobbed aloud. "But now," she continued, wiping away her tears
with her sleeve, "it only remains for you both--unless either prove
unwilling, which I doubt--to pledge yourselves to each other, and to
partake of your wedding feast."
* * * * *
It[=o] answered by no word: the incomparable vision before him had
numbed his will and tied his tongue. Maid-servants entered, bearing
dishes and wine: the wedding feast was spread before the pair; and the
pledges were given. It[=o] nevertheless remained as in a trance: the
marvel of the adventure, and the wonder of the beauty of the bride,
still bewildered him. A gladness, beyond aught that he had ever known
before, filled his heart--like a great silence. But gradually he
recovered his wonted calm; and thereafter he found himself able to
converse without embarrassment. Of the wine he partook freely; and
he ventured to speak, in a self-depreciating but merry way, about the
doubts and fears that had oppressed him. Meanwhile the bride remained
still as moonlight, never lifting her eyes, and replying only by a
blush or a smile when he addressed her.
It[=o] said to the aged attendant:--
"Many times, in my solitary walks, I have passed through this village
without knowing of the existence of this honorable dwelling. And ever
since entering here, I have been wondering why this noble household
should have chosen so lonesome a place of sojourn.... Now that your
Himégimi-Sama and I have become pledged to each other, it seems to me
a strange thing that I do not yet know the name of her august family."
At this utterance, a shadow passed over the kindly face of the old
woman; and the bride, who had yet hardly spoken, turned pale, and
appeared to become painfully anxious. After some moments of silence,
the aged woman responded:--
"To keep our secret from you much longer would be difficult; and I
think that, under any circumstances, you should be made aware of the
facts, now that you are one of us. Know then, Sir It[=o], that your
bride is the daughter of Shigéhira-Ky[=o], the great and unfortunate
San-mi Chüj[=o]."
At those words--"Shigéhira-Ky[=o], San-mi Chüj[=o]"--the young
samurai felt a chill, as of ice, strike through all his veins.
Shigéhira-Ky[=o], the great Héïké general and statesman, had been dust
for centuries. And It[=o] suddenly understood that everything around
him--the chamber and the lights and the banquet--was a dream of the
past; that the forms before him were not people, but shadows of people
dead.
But in another instant the icy chill had passed; and the charm
returned, and seemed to deepen about him; and he felt no fear. Though
his bride had come to him out of Yomi,--out of the place of the Yellow
Springs of death,--his heart had been wholly won. Who weds a ghost
must become a ghost;--yet he knew himself ready to die, not once, but
many times, rather than betray by word or look one thought that might
bring a shadow of pain to the brow of the beautiful illusion before
him. Of the affection proffered he had no misgiving: the truth had
been told him when any unloving purpose might better have been served
by deception. But these thoughts and emotions passed in a flash,
leaving him resolved to accept the strange situation as it had
presented itself, and to act just as he would have done if chosen, in
the years of Jü-ei, by Shigéhira's daughter.
"Ah, the pity of it!" he exclaimed; "I have heard of the cruel fate of
the august Lord Shigéhira."
"Ay," responded the aged woman, sobbing as she spoke;--"it was indeed
a cruel fate. His horse, you know, was killed by an arrow, and fell
upon him; and when he called for help, those who had lived upon his
bounty deserted him in his need. Then he was taken prisoner, and sent
to Kamakura, where they treated him shamefully, and at last put him
to death.[74] His wife and child--this dear maid here--were then in
hiding; for everywhere the Héïké were being sought out and killed.
When the news of the Lord Shigéhira's death reached us, the pain
proved too great for the mother to bear, so the child was left with
no one to care for her but me,--since her kindred had all perished or
disappeared. She was only five years old. I had been her milk-nurse,
and I did what I could for her. Year after year we wandered from place
to place, traveling in pilgrim-garb.... But these tales of grief are
ill-timed," exclaimed the nurse, wiping away her tears;--"pardon
the foolish heart of an old woman who cannot forget the past. See!
the little maid whom I fostered has now become a Himégimi-Sama
indeed!--were we living in the good days of the Emperor Takakura, what
a destiny might be reserved for her! However, she has obtained the
husband whom she desired; that is the greatest happiness.... But the
hour is late. The bridal-chamber has been prepared; and I must now
leave you to care for each other until morning."
[Footnote 74: Shigéhira, after a brave fight in defense of the
capital,--then held by the Taïra (or Héïké) party,--was surprised and
routed by Yoshitsuné, leader of the Minamoto forces. A soldier named
Iyénaga, who was a skilled archer, shot down Shigéhira's horse; and
Shigéhira fell under the struggling animal. He cried to an attendant
to bring another horse; but the man fled. Shigéhira was then
captured by Iyénaga, and eventually given up to Yoritomo, head of
the Minamoto clan, who caused him to be sent in a cage to Kamakura.
There, after sundry humiliations, he was treated for a time with
consideration,--having been able, by a Chinese poem, to touch even the
cruel heart of Yoritomo. But in the following year he was executed by
request of the Buddhist priests of Nanto, against whom he had formerly
waged war by order of Kiyomori.]
She rose, and sliding back the screens parting the guest-room from
the adjoining chamber, ushered them to their sleeping apartment. Then,
with many words of joy and congratulation, she withdrew; and It[=o]
was left alone with his bride.
As they reposed together, It[=o] said:--
"Tell me, my loved one, when was it that you first wished to have me
for your husband."
(For everything appeared so real that he had almost ceased to think of
the illusion woven around him.)
She answered, in a voice like a dove's voice:--
"My august lord and husband, it was at the temple of Ishiyama, where
I went with my foster-mother, that I saw you for the first time. And
because of seeing you, the world became changed to me from that hour
and moment. But you do not remember, because our meeting was not in
this, your present life: it was very, very long ago. Since that time
you have passed through many deaths and births, and have had many
comely bodies. But I have remained always that which you see me now:
I could not obtain another body, nor enter into another state of
existence, because of my great wish for you. My dear lord and husband,
I have waited for you through many ages of men."
And the bridegroom felt nowise afraid at hearing these strange words,
but desired nothing more in life, or in all his lives to come, than to
feel her arms about him, and to hear the caress of her voice.
* * * * *
But the pealing of a temple-bell proclaimed the coming of dawn. Birds
began to twitter; a morning breeze set all the trees a-whispering.
Suddenly the old nurse pushed apart the sliding screens of the
bridal-chamber, and exclaimed:--
"My children, it is time to separate! By daylight you must not be
together, even for an instant: that were fatal! You must bid each
other good-by."
Without a word, It[=o] made ready to depart. He vaguely understood
the warning uttered, and resigned himself wholly to destiny. His will
belonged to him no more; he desired only to please his shadowy bride.
She placed in his hands a little _suzuri_, or ink-stone, curiously
carved, and said:--
"My young lord and husband is a scholar; therefore this small gift
will probably not be despised by him. It is of strange fashion because
it is old, having been augustly bestowed upon my father by the favor
of the Emperor Takakura. For that reason only, I thought it to be a
precious thing."
It[=o], in return, besought her to accept for a remembrance the
_k[=o]gai_[75] of his sword, which were decorated with inlaid work of
silver and gold, representing plum-flowers and nightingales.
[Footnote 75: This was the name given to a pair of metal rods attached
to a sword-sheath, and used like chop-sticks. They were sometimes
exquisitely ornamented.]
Then the little _miya-dzukai_ came to guide him through the garden,
and his bride with her foster-mother accompanied him to the threshold.
As he turned at the foot of the steps to make his parting salute, the
old woman said:--
"We shall meet again the next Year of the Boar, at the same hour of
the same day of the same month that you came here. This being the Year
of the Tiger, you will have to wait ten years. But, for reasons which
I must not say, we shall not be able to meet again in this place;
we are going to the neighborhood of Ky[=o]to, where the good Emperor
Takakura and our fathers and many of our people are dwelling. All the
Héïké will be rejoiced by your coming. We shall send a _kago_[76] for
you on the appointed day."
[Footnote 76: A kind of palanquin.]
* * * * *
Above the village the stars were burning as It[=o] passed the gate;
but on reaching the open road he saw the dawn brightening beyond
leagues of silent fields. In his bosom he carried the gift of his
bride. The charm of her voice lingered in his ears,--and nevertheless,
had it not been for the memento which he touched with questioning
fingers, he could have persuaded himself that the memories of the
night were memories of sleep, and that his life still belonged to him.
But the certainty that he had doomed himself evoked no least regret:
he was troubled only by the pain of separation, and the thought of the
seasons that would have to pass before the illusion could be renewed
for him. Ten years!--and every day of those years would seem how long!
The mystery of the delay he could not hope to solve; the secret ways
of the dead are known to the gods alone.
* * * * *
Often and often, in his solitary walks, It[=o] revisited the village
at Kotobikiyama, vaguely hoping to obtain another glimpse of the past.
But never again, by night or by day, was he able to find the rustic
gate in the shadowed lane; never again could he perceive the figure of
the little _miya-dzukai_, walking alone in the sunset-glow.
The village people, whom he questioned carefully, thought him
bewitched. No person of rank, they said, had ever dwelt in the
settlement; and there had never been, in the neighborhood, any such
garden as he described. But there had once been a great Buddhist
temple near the place of which he spoke; and some gravestones of the
temple-cemetery were still to be seen. It[=o] discovered the monuments
in the middle of a dense thicket. They were of an ancient Chinese
form, and were covered with moss and lichens. The characters that had
been cut upon them could no longer be deciphered.
* * * * *
Of his adventure It[=o] spoke to no one. But friends and kindred soon
perceived a great change in his appearance and manner. Day by day he
seemed to become more pale and thin, though physicians declared that
he had no bodily ailment; he looked like a ghost, and moved like
a shadow. Thoughtful and solitary he had always been, but now he
appeared indifferent to everything which had formerly given him
pleasure,--even to those literary studies by means of which he
might have hoped to win distinction. To his mother--who thought that
marriage might quicken his former ambition, and revive his interest in
life--he said that he had made a vow to marry no living woman. And the
months dragged by.
At last came the Year of the Boar, and the season of autumn; but I to
could no longer take the solitary walks that he loved. He could not
even rise from his bed. His life was ebbing, though none could divine
the cause; and he slept so deeply and so long that his sleep was often
mistaken for death.
Out of such a sleep he was startled, one bright evening, by the voice
of a child; and he saw at his bedside the little _miya-dsukai_ who had
guided him, ten years before, to the gate of the vanished garden. She
saluted him, and smiled, and said: "I am bidden to tell you that you
will be received to-night at Öhara, near Ky[=o]to, where the new home
is, and that a _kago_ has been sent for you." Then she disappeared.
It[=o] knew that he was being summoned away from the light of the sun;
but the message so rejoiced him that he found strength to sit up and
call his mother. To her he then for the first time related the story
of his bridal, and he showed her the ink-stone which had been given
him. He asked that it should be placed in his coffin,--and then he
died.
* * * * *
The ink-stone was buried with him. But before the funeral ceremonies
it was examined by experts, who said that it had been made in the
period of _J[=o]-an_(1169 A.D.), and that it bore the seal-mark of an
artist who had lived in the time of the Emperor Takakura.
STRANGER THAN FICTION
It was a perfect West Indian day. My friend the notary and I were
crossing the island by a wonderful road which wound up through tropic
forest to the clouds, and thence looped down again, through gold-green
slopes of cane, and scenery amazing of violet and blue and ghost-gray
peaks, to the roaring coast of the trade winds. All the morning we had
been ascending,--walking after our carriage, most of the time, for the
sake of the brave little mule;--and the sea had been climbing behind
us till it looked like a monstrous wall of blue, pansy-blue, under the
ever heightening horizon. The heat was like the heat of a vapor-bath,
but the air was good to breathe with its tropical odor,--an odor made
up of smells of strange saps, queer spicy scents of mould, exhalations
of aromatic decay. Moreover, the views were glimpses of Paradise; and
it was a joy to watch the torrents roaring down their gorges under
shadows of tree-fern and bamboo.
My friend stopped the carriage before a gateway set into a hedge full
of flowers that looked like pink-and-white butterflies. "I have to
make a call here," he said;--"come in with me." We dismounted, and he
knocked on the gate with the butt of his whip. Within, at the end of
a shady garden, I could see the porch of a planter's house; beyond
were rows of cocoa palms, and glimpses of yellowing cane. Presently
a negro, wearing only a pair of canvas trousers and a great straw
hat, came hobbling to open the gate,--followed by a multitude, an
astonishing multitude, of chippering chickens. Under the shadow of
that huge straw hat I could not see the negro's face; but I noticed
that his limbs and body were strangely shrunken,--looked as if
withered to the bone. A weirder creature I had never beheld; and I
wondered at his following of chickens.
"Eh!" exclaimed the notary, "your chickens are as lively as ever!... I
want to see Madame Floran."
"_Moin ké di_," the goblin responded huskily, in his patois; and he
limped on before us, all the chickens hopping and cheeping at his
withered heels.
"That fellow," my friend observed, "was bitten by a _fer-de-lance_
about eight or nine years ago. He got cured, or at least half-cured,
in some extraordinary way; but ever since then he has been a skeleton.
See how he limps!"
The skeleton passed out of sight behind the house, and we waited a
while at the front porch. Then a métisse--turbaned in wasp colors, and
robed in iris colors, and wonderful to behold--came to tell us that
Madame hoped we would rest ourselves in the garden, as the house was
very warm. Chairs and a little table were then set for us in a shady
place, and the métisse brought out lemons, sugar-syrup, a bottle of
the clear plantation rum that smells like apple juice, and ice-cold
water in a _dobanne_ of thick red clay. My friend prepared the
refreshments; and then our hostess came to greet us, and to sit with
us,--a nice old lady with hair like newly minted silver. I had never
seen a smile sweeter than that with which she bade us welcome; and I
wondered whether she could ever have been more charming in her Creole
girlhood than she now appeared,--with her kindly wrinkles, and argent
hair, and frank, black, sparkling eyes....
* * * * *
In the conversation that followed I was not able to take part, as
it related only to some question of title. The notary soon arranged
whatever there was to arrange; and, after some charmingly spoken words
of farewell from the gentle lady, we took our departure. Again the
mummified negro hobbled before us, to open the gate,--followed by
all his callow rabble of chickens. As we resumed our places in the
carriage we could still hear the chippering of the creatures, pursuing
after that ancient scarecrow.
"Is it African sorcery?" I queried.... "How does he bewitch those
chickens?"
"Queer--is it not?" the notary responded as we drove away. "That negro
must now be at least eighty years old; and he may live for twenty
years more,--the wretch!"
The tone in which my friend uttered this epithet--_le
miserable!_--somewhat surprised me, as I knew him to be one of the
kindliest men in the world, and singularly free from prejudice. I
suspected that a story was coming, and I waited for it in silence.
"Listen," said the notary, after a pause, during which we left the
plantation well behind us; "that old sorcerer, as you call him, was
born upon the estate, a slave. The estate belonged to M. Floran,--the
husband of the lady whom we visited; and she was a cousin, and the
marriage was a love-match. They had been married about two years when
the revolt occurred (fortunately there were no children),--the black
revolt of eighteen hundred and forty-eight. Several planters were
murdered; and M. Floran was one of the first to be killed. And the old
negro whom we saw to-day--the old sorcerer, as you call him--left the
plantation, and joined the rising: do you understand?"
"Yes," I said; "but he might have done that through fear of the mob."
"Certainly: the other hands did the same. But it was he that killed M.
Floran,--for no reason whatever,--cut him up with a cutlass. M. Floran
was riding home when the attack was made,--about a mile below the
plantation.... Sober, that negro would not have dared to face M.
Floran: the scoundrel was drunk, of course,--raving drunk. Most of
the blacks had been drinking tafia, with dead wasps in it, to give
themselves courage."
"But," I interrupted, "how does it happen that the fellow is still on
the Floran plantation?"
"Wait a moment!... When the military got control of the mob, search
was made everywhere for the murderer of M. Floran; but he could not
be found. He was lying out in the cane,--in M. Floran's cane!--like a
field-rat, like a snake. One morning, while the gendarmes were still
looking for him, he rushed into the house, and threw himself down in
front of Madame, weeping and screaming, '_Aïe-yaïe-yaïe-yaïe!--moin
té tchoué y! moin té tchoué y!--aïe-yaïe-yaïe!_' Those were his very
words:--'I killed him! I killed him!' And he begged for mercy. When
he was asked why he killed M. Floran, he cried out that it was the
devil--_diabe-à_--that had made him do it!... Well, Madame forgave
him!"
"But how could she?" I queried.
"Oh, she had always been very religious," my friend
responded,--"sincerely religious. She only said, 'May God pardon me
as I now pardon you!' She made her servants hide the creature and feed
him; and they kept him hidden until the excitement was over. Then she
sent him back to work; and he has been working for her ever since. Of
course he is now too old to be of any use in the field;--he only takes
care of the chickens."
"But how," I persisted, "could the relatives allow Madame to forgive
him?"
"Well, Madame insisted that he was not mentally responsible,--that he
was only a poor fool who had killed without knowing what he was doing;
and she argued that if _she_ could forgive him, others could more
easily do the same. There was a consultation; and the relatives
decided so to arrange matters that Madame could have her own way."
"But why?"
"Because they knew that she found a sort of religious consolation--a
kind of religious comfort--in forgiving the wretch. She imagined
that it was her duty as a Christian, not only to forgive him, but to
take care of him. We thought that she was mistaken,--but we could
understand.... Well, there is an example of what religion can do."...
* * * * *
The surprise of a new fact, or the sudden perception of something
never before imagined, may cause an involuntary smile. Unconsciously
I smiled, while my friend was yet speaking; and the good notary's brow
darkened.
"Ah, you laugh!" he exclaimed,--"you laugh! That is wrong!--that is a
mistake!... But you do not believe: you do not know what it is,--the
true religion,--the real Christianity!"
Earnestly I made answer:--
"Pardon me! I do believe every word of what you have told me. If I
laughed unthinkingly, it was only because I could not help wondering"
...
"At what?" he questioned gravely.
"At the marvelous instinct of that negro."
"Ah, yes!" he returned approvingly. "Yes, the cunning of the animal
it was,--the instinct of the brute!... She was the only person in the
world who could have saved him."
"And he knew it," I ventured to add.
"No--no--no!" my friend emphatically dissented,--"he never could have
known it! He only _felt_ it!... Find me an instinct like that, and I
will show you a brain incapable of any knowledge, any thinking, any
understanding: not the mind of a man, but the brain of a beast!"
A LETTER FROM JAPAN
Tokyo, August 1, 1904.
Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by
the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicadæ, it is
difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being
carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between
armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the
intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling. This
contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that
began to study Western science only within the recollection of many
persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle
for national existence. It was inevitable, this struggle,--might
perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted. Japan has
boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously
the civilizations of the East and the West,--a mediæval power that,
unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and
to dominate China. For all industrial civilization the contest is one
of vast moment;--for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her
national life. As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing,
the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at
home, little has been written.
To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing
unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record. At the
beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all
non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble
themselves as little as possible about exterior events;--and this
command has been obeyed to the letter. It would be natural to suppose
that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest
had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but
there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or
depression. On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of
public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation
in its victories. Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese
corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of
positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost:
yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement. The
people are following their daily occupations just as they did before
the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres
and flower displays are not less well patronized. The life of
T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the
events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers
are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers. Except
after the news of some great victory,--celebrated with fireworks and
lantern processions,--there are no signs of public emotion; and but
for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing
bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the
war is an evil dream.
Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering--viewless
and voiceless suffering--repressed by that sense of social and
patriotic duty which is Japanese religion. As a seventeen-syllable
poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain
as well as joy:--
G[=o]gwai no
Tabi teki mikata
Goké ga fuè.
[_Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and
friends have increased in multitude._]
The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than
Spartan discipline of the race. Anciently the people were trained, not
only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and
to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they
are obedient to that teaching to-day. It would still be thought a
shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for
Emperor and fatherland. The public seem to view the events of the war
as they would watch the scenes of a popular play. They are interested
without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is
particularly shown in various manifestations of the "Play-impulse."
Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual
fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and
novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern
warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or
utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs.
But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful
tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement
than by the mention of ordinary facts,--every-day matters recorded in
the writer's diary.
* * * * *
Never before were the photographers so busy; it is said that they
have not been able to fulfill half of the demands made upon them.
The hundreds of thousands of men sent to the war wished to leave
photographs with their families, and also to take with them portraits
of parents, children, and other beloved persons. The nation was being
photographed during the past six months.
A fact of sociological interest is that photography has added
something new to the poetry of the domestic faith. From the time of
its first introduction, photography became popular in Japan; and none
of those superstitions, which inspire fear of the camera among less
civilized races, offered any obstacle to the rapid development of a
new industry. It is true that there exists some queer-folk beliefs
about photographs,--ideas of mysterious relation between the
sun-picture and the person imaged. For example: if, in the photograph
of a group, one figure appear indistinct or blurred, that is thought
to be an omen of sickness or death. But this superstition has its
industrial value: it has compelled photographers to be careful about
their work,--especially in these days of war, when everybody wants to
have a good clear portrait, because the portrait might be needed for
another purpose than preservation in an album.
During the last twenty years there has gradually come into existence
the custom of placing the photograph of a dead parent, brother,
husband, or child, beside the mortuary tablet kept in the Buddhist
household shrine. For this reason, also, the departing soldier wishes
to leave at home a good likeness of himself.
The rites of domestic affection, in old samurai families, are not
confined to the cult of the dead. On certain occasions, the picture
of the absent parent, husband, brother, or betrothed, is placed in
the alcove of the guest-room, and a feast laid out before it. The
photograph, in such cases, is fixed upon a little stand (_dai_); and
the feast is served as if the person were present. This pretty custom
of preparing a meal for the absent is probably more ancient than any
art of portraiture; but the modern photograph adds to the human poetry
of the rite. In feudal time it was the rule to set the repast facing
the direction in which the absent person had gone--north, south, east,
or west. After a brief interval the covers of the vessels containing
the cooked food were lifted and examined. If the lacquered inner
surface was thickly beaded with vapor, all was well; but if
the surface was dry, that was an omen of death, a sign that the
disembodied spirit had returned to absorb the essence of the
offerings.
* * * * *
As might have been expected, in a country where the "play-impulse" is
stronger, perhaps, than in any other part of the world, the Zeitgeist
found manifestation in the flower displays of the year. I visited
those in my neighborhood, which is the Quarter of the Gardeners. This
quarter is famous for its azaleas (_tsutsuji_); and every spring
the azalea gardens attract thousands of visitors,--not only by the
wonderful exhibition then made of shrubs which look like solid masses
of blossom (ranging up from snowy white, through all shades of pink,
to a flamboyant purple) but also by displays of effigies: groups
of figures ingeniously formed with living leaves and flowers. These
figures, life-size, usually represent famous incidents of history or
drama. In many cases--though not in all--the bodies and the costumes
are composed of foliage and flowers trained to grow about a framework;
while the faces, feet, and hands are represented by some kind of
flesh-colored composition.
This year, however, a majority of the displays represented scenes
of the war,--such as an engagement between Japanese infantry and
mounted Cossacks, a night attack by torpedo boats, the sinking of
a battleship. In the last-mentioned display, Russian bluejackets
appeared, swimming for their lives in a rough sea;--the pasteboard
waves and the swimming figures being made to rise and fall by the
pulling of a string; while the crackling of quick-firing guns was
imitated by a mechanism contrived with sheets of zinc.
It is said that Admiral T[=o]g[=o] sent to T[=o]ky[=o] for some
flowering-trees in pots--inasmuch as his responsibilities allowed him
no chance of seeing the cherry-flowers and the plum-blossoms in their
season,--and that the gardeners responded even too generously.
* * * * *
Almost immediately after the beginning of hostilities, thousands of
"war pictures"--mostly cheap lithographs--were published. The drawing
and coloring were better than those of the prints issued at the
time of the war with China; but the details were to a great extent
imaginary,--altogether imaginary as to the appearance of Russian
troops. Pictures of the engagements with the Russian fleet were
effective, despite some lurid exaggeration. The most startling things
were pictures of Russian defeats in Korea, published before a single
military engagement had taken place;--the artist had "flushed to
anticipate the scene." In these prints the Russians were depicted
as fleeing in utter rout, leaving their officers--very fine-looking
officers--dead upon the field; while the Japanese infantry, with
dreadfully determined faces, were coming up at a double. The propriety
and the wisdom of thus pictorially predicting victory, and easy
victory to boot, may be questioned. But I am told that the custom of
so doing is an old one; and it is thought that to realize the common
hope thus imaginatively is lucky. At all events, there is no attempt
at deception in these pictorial undertakings;--they help to keep up
the public courage, and they ought to be pleasing to the gods.
Some of the earlier pictures have now been realized in grim fact.
The victories in China had been similarly foreshadowed: they amply
justified the faith of the artist.... To-day the war pictures continue
to multiply; but they have changed character. The inexorable truth
of the photograph, and the sketches of the war correspondent, now
bring all the vividness and violence of fact to help the artist's
imagination. There was something naïve and theatrical in the drawings
of anticipation; but the pictures of the hour represent the most
tragic reality,--always becoming more terrible. At this writing, Japan
has yet lost no single battle; but not a few of her victories have
been dearly won.
To enumerate even a tenth of the various articles ornamented with
designs inspired by the war--articles such as combs, clasps, fans,
brooches, card-cases, purses--would require a volume. Even cakes and
confectionery are stamped with naval or military designs; and the
glass or paper windows of shops--not to mention the signboards--have
pictures of Japanese victories painted upon them. At night the shop
lanterns proclaim the pride of the nation in its fleets and armies;
and a whole chapter might easily be written about the new designs in
transparencies and toy lanterns. A new revolving lantern--turned by
the air-current which its own flame creates--has become very popular.
It represents a charge of Japanese infantry upon Russian defenses;
and holes pierced in the colored paper, so as to produce a continuous
vivid flashing while the transparency revolves, suggest the exploding
of shells and the volleying of machine guns.
Some displays of the art-impulse, as inspired by the war, have been
made in directions entirely unfamiliar to Western experience,--in
the manufacture, for example, of women's hair ornaments and dress
materials. Dress goods decorated with war pictures have actually
become a fashion,--especially crêpe silks for underwear, and figured
silk linings for cloaks and sleeves. More remarkable than these
are the new hairpins;--by hairpins I mean those long double-pronged
ornaments of flexible metal which are called _kanzashi_, and are more
or less ornamented according to the age of the wearer. (The _kanzashi_
made for young girls are highly decorative; those worn by older folk
are plain, or adorned only with a ball of coral or polished stone.)
The new hairpins might be called commemorative: one, of which the
decoration represents a British and a Japanese flag intercrossed,
celebrates the Anglo-Japanese alliance; another represents an
officer's cap and sword; and the best of all is surmounted by a
tiny metal model of a battleship. The battleship-pin is not merely
fantastic: it is actually pretty!
As might have been expected, military and naval subjects occupy a
large place among the year's designs for toweling. The towel designs
celebrating naval victories have been particularly successful: they
are mostly in white, on a blue ground; or in black, on a white ground.
One of the best--blue and white--represented only a flock of gulls
wheeling about the masthead of a sunken iron-clad, and, far away, the
silhouettes of Japanese battleships passing to the horizon.... What
especially struck me in this, and in several other designs, was the
original manner in which the Japanese artist had seized upon the
traits of the modern battleship,--the powerful and sinister lines of
its shape,--just as he would have caught for us the typical character
of a beetle or a lobster. The lines have been just enough exaggerated
to convey, at one glance, the real impression made by the aspect of
these iron monsters,--vague impression of bulk and force and menace,
very difficult to express by ordinary methods of drawing.
Besides towels decorated with artistic sketches of this sort, there
have been placed upon the market many kinds of towels bearing comic
war pictures,--caricatures or cartoons which are amusing without being
malignant. It will be remembered that at the time of the first attack
made upon the Port Arthur squadron, several of the Russian officers
were in the Dalny theatre,--never dreaming that the Japanese would
dare to strike the first blow. This incident has been made the subject
of a towel design. At one end of the towel is a comic study of the
faces of the Russians, delightedly watching the gyrations of a
ballet dancer. At the other end is a study of the faces of the same
commanders when they find, on returning to the port, only the masts
of their battleships above water. Another towel shows a procession
of fish in front of a surgeon's office--waiting their turns to be
relieved of sundry bayonets, swords, revolvers, and rifles, which have
stuck in their throats. A third towel picture represents a Russian
diver examining, with a prodigious magnifying-glass, the holes made by
torpedoes in the hull of a sunken cruiser. Comic verses or legends, in
cursive text, are printed beside these pictures.
The great house of Mitsui, which placed the best of these designs on
the market, also produced some beautiful souvenirs of the war, in
the shape of _fukusa_. (A _fukusa_ is an ornamental silk covering,
or wrapper, put over presents sent to friends on certain occasions,
and returned after the present has been received.) These are made of
the heaviest and costliest silk, and inclosed within appropriately
decorated covers. Upon one _fukusa_ is a colored picture of the
cruisers Nisshin and Kasuga, under full steam; and upon another has
been printed, in beautiful Chinese characters, the full text of the
Imperial Declaration of war.
But the strangest things that I have seen in this line of production
were silk dresses for baby girls,--figured stuffs which, when looked
at from a little distance, appeared incomparably pretty, owing to the
masterly juxtaposition of tints and colors. On closer inspection the
charming design proved to be composed entirely of war pictures,--or,
rather, fragments of pictures, blended into one astonishing
combination: naval battles; burning warships; submarine mines
exploding; torpedo boats attacking; charges of Cossacks repulsed by
Japanese infantry; artillery rushing into position; storming of forts;
long lines of soldiery advancing through mist. Here were colors of
blood and fire, tints of morning haze and evening glow, noon-blue
and starred night-purple, sea-gray and field-green,--most wonderful
thing!... I suppose that the child of a military or naval officer
might, without impropriety, be clad in such a robe. But then--the
unspeakable pity of things!
* * * * *
The war toys are innumerable: I can attempt to mention only a few of
the more remarkable kinds.
Japanese children play many sorts of card games, some of which are
old, others quite new. There are poetical card games, for example,
played with a pack of which each card bears the text of a poem, or
part of a poem; and the player should be able to remember the name of
the author of any quotation in the set. Then there are geographical
card games, in which each of the cards used bears the name, and
perhaps a little picture, of some famous site, town, or temple; and
the player should be able to remember the district and province in
which the mentioned place is situated. The latest novelty in this line
is a pack of cards with pictures upon them of the Russian war vessels;
and the player should be able to state what has become of every vessel
named,--whether sunk, disabled, or confined in Port Arthur.
There is another card game in which the battleships, cruisers, and
torpedo craft of both Japan and Russia are represented. The winner in
this game destroys his "captures" by tearing the cards taken. But the
shops keep packages of each class of warship cards in stock; and when
all the destroyers or cruisers of one country have been put _hors
de combat_, the defeated party can purchase new vessels abroad. One
torpedo boat costs about one farthing; but five torpedo boats can be
bought for a penny.
The toy-shops are crammed with models of battleships,--in wood, clay,
porcelain, lead, and tin,--of many sizes and prices. Some of the
larger ones, moved by clockwork, are named after Japanese battleships:
Shikishima, Fuji, Mikasa. One mechanical toy represents the sinking of
a Russian vessel by a Japanese torpedo boat. Among cheaper things of
this class is a box of colored sand, for the representation of naval
engagements. Children arrange the sand so as to resemble waves; and
with each box of sand are sold two fleets of tiny leaden vessels. The
Japanese ships are white, and the Russian black; and explosions of
torpedoes are to be figured by small cuttings of vermilion paper,
planted in the sand.
* * * * *
The children of the poorest classes make their own war toys; and I
have been wondering whether those ancient feudal laws (translated
by Professor Wigmore), which fixed the cost and quality of toys to
be given to children, did not help to develop that ingenuity which
the little folk display. Recently I saw a group of children in
our neighborhood playing at the siege of Port Arthur, with fleets
improvised out of scraps of wood and some rusty nails. A tub of water
represented Port Arthur. Battleships were figured by bits of plank,
into which chop-sticks had been fixed to represent masts, and rolls of
paper to represent funnels. Little flags, appropriately colored, were
fastened to the masts with rice paste. Torpedo boats were imaged by
splinters, into each of which a short thick nail had been planted to
indicate a smokestack. Stationary submarine mines were represented
by small squares of wood, each having one long nail driven into it;
and these little things, when dropped into water with the nail-head
downwards, would keep up a curious bobbing motion for a long time.
Other squares of wood, having clusters of short nails driven into
them, represented floating mines: and the mimic battleships were made
to drag for these, with lines of thread. The pictures in the Japanese
papers had doubtless helped the children to imagine the events of the
war with tolerable accuracy.
Naval caps for children have become, of course, more in vogue than
ever before. Some of the caps bear, in Chinese characters of burnished
metal, the name of a battleship, or the words _Nippon Teikoku_
(Empire of Japan),--disposed like the characters upon the cap of a
blue-jacket. On some caps, however, the ship's name appears in English
letters,--Yashima, Fuji, etc.
* * * * *
The play-impulse, I had almost forgotten to say, is shared by the
soldiers themselves,--though most of those called to the front do not
expect to return in the body. They ask only to be remembered at the
Spirit-Invoking Shrine (_Sh[=o]konsha_), where the shades of all who
die for Emperor and country are believed to gather. The men of the
regiments temporarily quartered in our suburb, on their way to the
war, found time to play at mimic war with the small folk of the
neighborhood. (At all times Japanese soldiers are very kind to
children; and the children here march with them, join in their
military songs, and correctly salute their officers, feeling sure
that the gravest officer will return the salute of a little child.)
When the last regiment went away, the men distributed toys among
the children assembled at the station to give them a parting
cheer,--hairpins, with military symbols for ornament, to the girls;
wooden infantry and tin cavalry to the boys. The oddest present was
a small clay model of a Russian soldier's head, presented with the
jocose promise: "If we come back, we shall bring you some real ones."
In the top of the head there is a small wire loop, to which a rubber
string can be attached. At the time of the war with China, little clay
models of Chinese heads, with very long queues, were favorite toys.
* * * * *
The war has also suggested a variety of new designs for that charming
object, the _toko-niwa_. Few of my readers know what a _toko-niwa_, or
"alcove-garden," is. It is a miniature garden--perhaps less than two
feet square--contrived within an ornamental shallow basin of porcelain
or other material, and placed in the alcove of a guest-room by way
of decoration. You may see there a tiny pond; a streamlet crossed by
humped bridges of Chinese pattern; dwarf trees forming a grove, and
shading the model of a Shinto temple; imitations in baked clay of
stone lanterns,--perhaps even the appearance of a hamlet of thatched
cottages. If the _toko-niwa_ be not too small, you may see real fish
swimming in the pond, or a pet tortoise crawling among the rockwork.
Sometimes the miniature garden represents H[=o]rai, and the palace of
the Dragon-King.
Two new varieties have come into fashion. One is a model of Port
Arthur, showing the harbor and the forts; and with the materials for
the display there is sold a little map, showing how to place certain
tiny battle-ships, representing the imprisoned and the investing
fleets. The other _toko-niwa_ represents a Korean or Chinese
landscape, with hill ranges and rivers and woods; and the appearance
of a battle is created by masses of toy soldiers--cavalry, infantry,
and artillery--in all positions of attack and defense. Minute forts of
baked clay, bristling with cannon about the size of small pins, occupy
elevated positions. When properly arranged the effect is panoramic.
The soldiers in the foreground are about an inch long; those a little
farther away about half as long; and those upon the hills are no
larger than flies.
But the most remarkable novelty of this sort yet produced is a kind
of _toko-niwa_ recently on display at a famous shop in Ginza. A label
bearing the inscription, _Kaï-téï no Ikken_ (View of the Ocean-Bed)
sufficiently explained the design. The _suïbon_, or "water-tray,"
containing the display was half filled with rocks and sand so as to
resemble a sea-bottom; and little fishes appeared swarming in the
fore-ground. A little farther back, upon an elevation, stood Otohimé,
the Dragon-King's daughter, surrounded by her maiden attendants, and
gazing, with just the shadow of a smile, at two men in naval uniform
who were shaking hands,--dead heroes of the war: Admiral Makaroff and
Commander Hirosé!... These had esteemed each other in life; and it was
a happy thought thus to represent their friendly meeting in the world
of Spirits.
* * * * *
Though his name is perhaps unfamiliar to English readers, Commander
Takeo Hirosé has become, deservedly, one of Japan's national heroes.
On the 27th of March, during the second attempt made to block the
entrance to Port Arthur, he was killed while endeavoring to help a
comrade,--a comrade who had formerly saved him from death. For five
years Hirosé had been a naval attaché at St. Petersburg, and had made
many friends in Russian naval and military circles. From boyhood his
life had been devoted to study and duty; and it was commonly said of
him that he had no particle of selfishness in his nature. Unlike most
of his brother officers, he remained unmarried,--holding that no man
who might be called on at any moment to lay down his life for his
country had a moral right to marry. The only amusements in which
he was ever known to indulge were physical exercises; and he was
acknowledged one of the best _j[=u]jutsu_ (wrestlers) in the empire.
The heroism of his death, at the age of thirty-six, had much less to
do with the honors paid to his memory than the self-denying heroism of
his life.
Now his picture is in thousands of homes, and his name is celebrated
in every village. It is celebrated also by the manufacture of
various souvenirs, which are sold by myriads. For example, there
is a new fashion in sleeve-buttons, called _Kinen-botan_, or
"Commemoration-buttons." Each button bears a miniature portrait of
the commander, with the inscription, _Shichi-sh[=o] h[=o]koku_, "Even
in seven successive lives--for love of country." It is recorded that
Hirosé often cited, to friends who criticised his ascetic devotion to
duty, the famous utterance of Kusunoki Masashigé, who declared, ere
laying down his life for the Emperor Go-Daigo, that he desired to die
for his sovereign in seven successive existences.
But the highest honor paid to the memory of Hirosé is of a sort now
possible only in the East, though once possible also in the West, when
the Greek or Roman patriot-hero might be raised, by the common love of
his people, to the place of the Immortals.... Wine-cups of porcelain
have been made, decorated with his portrait; and beneath the portrait
appears, in ideographs of gold, the inscription, _Gunshin Hirosé
Ch[=u]sa_. The character "gun" signifies war; the character "_shin_"
a god,--either in the sense of _divus_ or _deus_, according to
circumstances; and the Chinese text, read in the Japanese way, is
_Ikusa no Kami_. Whether that stern and valiant spirit is really
invoked by the millions who believe that no brave soul is doomed to
extinction, no well-spent life laid down in vain, no heroism cast
away, I do not know. But, in any event, human affection and gratitude
can go no farther than this; and it must be confessed that Old Japan
is still able to confer honors worth dying for.
* * * * *
Boys and girls in all the children's schools are now singing the Song
of Hirosé Ch[=u]sa, which is a marching song. The words and the
music are published in a little booklet, with a portrait of the late
commander upon the cover. Everywhere, and at all hours of the day, one
hears this song being sung:--
_He whose every word and deed gave to men an example of what
the war-folk of the_ _Empire of Nippon should be,--Commander
Hirosé: is he really dead?_
_Though the body die, the spirit dies not. He who wished to
be reborn seven times into this world, for the sake of
serving his country, for the sake of requiting the Imperial
favor,--Commander Hirosé: has he really died?_
_"Since I am a son of the Country of the Gods, the fire of the
evil-hearted Russians cannot touch me!"--The sturdy Takeo who
spoke thus: can he really be dead?..._
_Nay! that glorious war-death meant undying fame;--beyond a
thousand years the valiant heart shall live;--as to a god of
war shall reverence be paid to him...._
* * * * *
Observing the playful confidence of this wonderful people in their
struggle for existence against the mightiest power of the West,--their
perfect trust in the wisdom of their leaders and the valor of their
armies,--the good humor of their irony when mocking the enemy's
blunders,--their strange capacity to find, in the world-stirring
events of the hour, the same amusement that they would find in
watching a melodrama,--one is tempted to ask: "What would be the
moral consequence of a national defeat?"... It would depend, I think,
upon circumstances. Were Kuropatkin able to fulfill his rash threat
of invading Japan, the nation would probably rise as one man. But
otherwise the knowledge of any great disaster would be bravely borne.
From time unknown Japan has been a land of cataclysms,--earth-quakes
that ruin cities in the space of a moment; tidal waves, two hundred
miles long, sweeping whole coast populations out of existence; floods
submerging hundreds of leagues of well-tilled fields; eruptions
burying provinces. Calamities like this have disciplined the race in
resignation and in patience; and it has been well trained also to bear
with courage all the misfortunes of war. Even by the foreign peoples
that have been most closely in contact with her, the capacities of
Japan remained unguessed. Perhaps her power to resist aggression is
far surpassed by her power to endure.
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