My friend who writes for the San-in Shimbun, which to-morrow will print
the whole sad story, tells me that compassionate folk have already
decked the new-made graves with flowers and with sprays of shikimi. [3]
Then drawing from a long native envelope a long, light, thin roll of
paper covered with beautiful Japanese writing, and unfolding it before
me, he adds:--'She left this letter to the keeper of the house in which
she lived: it has been given to us for publication. It is very prettily
written. But I cannot translate it well; for it is written in woman's
language. The language of letters written by women is not the same
as that of letters written by men. Women use particular words and
expressions. For instance, in men's language "I" is watakushi, or ware,
or yo, or boku, according to rank or circumstance, but in the language
of woman, it is warawa. And women's language is very soft and gentle;
and I do not think it is possible to translate such softness and
amiability of words into any other language. So I can only give you an
imperfect idea of the letter.'
And he interprets, slowly, thus:
'I leave this letter:
'As you know, from last spring I began to love Tashiro-San; and he also
fell in love with me. And now, alas!--the influence of our relation in
some previous birth having come upon us--and the promise we made each
other in that former life to become wife and husband having been
broken--even to-day I must travel to the Meido.
'You not only treated me very kindly, though you found me so stupid
and without influence, [4] but you likewise aided in many ways for my
worthless sake my mother and sister. And now, since I have not been able
to repay you even the one myriadth part of that kindness and pity in
which you enveloped me--pity great as the mountains and the sea [5]--it
would not be without just reason that you should hate me as a great
criminal.
'But though I doubt not this which I am about to do will seem a wicked
folly, I am forced to it by conditions and by my own heart. Wherefore
I still may pray you to pardon my past faults. And though I go to the
Meido, never shall I forget your mercy to me--great as the mountains and
the sea. From under the shadow of the grasses [6] I shall still try
to recompense you--to send back my gratitude to you and to your house.
Again, with all my heart I pray you: do not be angry with me.
'Many more things I would like to write. But now my heart is not a
heart; and I must quickly go. And so I shall lay down my writing-brush.
'It is written so clumsily, this.
'Kane thrice prostrates herself before you.
'From KANE.
'To---SAMA.'
'Well, it is a characteristic shinju letter,' my friend comments, after
a moment's silence, replacing the frail white paper in its envelope. 'So
I thought it would interest you. And now, although it is growing dark,
I am going to the cemetery to see what has been done at the grave. Would
you like to come with me?'
We take our way over the long white bridge, up the shadowy Street of the
Temples, toward the ancient hakaba of Miokoji--and the darkness grows as
we walk. A thin moon hangs just above the roofs of the great temples.
Suddenly a far voice, sonorous and sweet--a man's voice-breaks into song
under the starred night: a song full of strange charm and tones like
warblings--those Japanese tones of popular emotion which seem to have
been learned from the songs of birds. Some happy workman returning home.
So clear the thin frosty air that each syllable quivers to us; but I
cannot understand the words: Saite yuke toya, ano ya wo saite; Yuke ba
chikayoru nushi no soba.
'What is that?' I ask my friend.
He answers: 'A love-song. "Go forward, straight forward that way, to the
house that thou seest before thee;--the nearer thou goest thereto, the
nearer to her [7] shalt thou be."'