enough. His joy was so great that he could not speak, but he sat in a
transport until the lamp burned out, and he lay down on his quilt to
dream of Shorei.
For six months Kintaro kept up his intercourse with the spirit of
Shorei and lived in an ecstasy. One night, late in August, when the
crickets were chirping and the whole population of Tokyo was walking
the streets for a breath of fresh air before closing the shutters for
the night, Kintaro sat, in the restful quiet born of a hot bath and a
thin kimono, on the piazza of his little room. Suddenly Shorei came to
him, and her face was sad. She sank to the ground weeping, and bowed
her head to the floor.
“The end has come,” she said. “I have been so happy with you here that
I had hoped it could be always so. But I must go. You will never see
Shorei again.”
In vain Kintaro asked why she must leave him. She only said, “To-morrow
you shall know;” and then, as she vanished from his sight, he heard
her whisper, “We will meet soon again.”
All night he wept, and in the morning, when he laid the _kakemono_ in
its cupboard, he felt as if he were burying a dead friend.
Just as he closed the cupboard and was turning away to look about
his empty room, Matsu thrust her head through the door. Between her
finger-tips she held a letter. She laid it down in front of him, and
backed out to bring his breakfast.
Kintaro unrolled the long, thin sheet of paper, and as he read his
face clouded. “‘In Tokyo,’” he read; “‘meet her to-day--at the Koyo
Kwan.’[54] Impossible! I can’t!” and he thought of Shorei and all she
had been to him. Then suddenly those last words came to him, “To-morrow
you shall know. We will meet again soon.” It was all so strange;
perhaps this would explain it.
Very carefully Kintaro dressed himself that afternoon, and very spruce
and handsome he looked in his flowing silk garments when he stepped
out of his jinrikisha at the Maple Club Inn, to meet an old friend
of his father’s who, accompanied by his wife, was visiting in Tokyo.
This friend it was who had undertaken, for the sake of both parties
concerned, to bring about a meeting between him and O Fumi San.
There was a feast set in a great upper room, and when Kintaro entered
and took his seat in the lowest place, as became his age and rank, he
was greeted with smiles and bows from many old friends and neighbors
assembled to do honor to the occasion.
The first greetings ended,--no light matter in such a company,--he
had time to look about him and see what there was to be seen. On the
opposite side of the room, just facing him, dressed in the dainty full
dress of the modest Japanese maiden, was a vision from which he could
not move his startled eyes. The quaint old-fashioned dress was gone,
so was the expression of unutterable sadness, but the face was the face
of his lady of the scroll.
“Shorei!” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said. The beautiful
face lighted up. Into the bright eyes flashed just a glance of
recognition. “I am Fumi,” said the vision, and they bowed their faces
to the floor.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] A scroll to hang on the wall.
[53] The alcove in which pictures are hung in a Japanese room.
[54] The Maple Club Inn.
X
HOW FUMI REMEMBERED
“Even the knot of the rope tying our boats together
Knotted was long ago by some love in a former birth.”
Japanese Folk-Song, translated by Hearn.
TOKYO, February 10.
I am Fumi, of the family of Takeda of Sendai. When I came to be
sixteen, my mother said to me, “Fumi, you are too headstrong. You like
to run and play out of doors like a boy. Your manners are not quiet and
ladylike, but rough and noisy. Even your little sister Michi can sew
and draw and play the _koto_[55] and perform the tea ceremony better
than you. Soon you will have to be married, and what family will want
to receive a spoiled child like you as a daughter-in-law?” My mother
shook her head and sighed, and I was very sorry, so sorry that I hid my
face and cried.
“Oh, mother!” I said, “what shall I do? It is so hard to be good and
quiet. When I sit still a long time sewing, my legs tingle, and I have
to run; and when I try to learn the tea ceremony, the old master is so
stiff and solemn that he makes me laugh. I am a bad girl, and I cannot
be like other girls. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” and I cried
until my sleeves were all wet, and it was my best dress, too.
My mother was very good to me. She patted me gently and said softly,
“Poor little girl! Poor little girl! Let us think about it, and I will
talk with your father.”
By and by I was tired and my face was hot, and I heard a little noise
of scratching and yelping in the garden, for I was sitting close to
the veranda. I looked out from behind my sleeves with one eye and saw
Shiro digging. Shiro is my dog. He is all white except his ears, and
they are yellow. He can’t dig very well because one of his fore legs
was hurt when he was a puppy, but he thinks he can, and he was digging
and yelping. He expected me to help him, and kept yelping louder and
louder, so I called to him that I was coming, and ran out through
the house to the door where my clogs were, and hurried as fast as I
could to the garden. It was only when I was coming back to the house,
all dirty myself, and carrying dirty little Shiro in my arms, that
I thought again of what my mother had said. Then I suddenly dropped
Shiro, and the tears came to my eyes, and I hung my head for fear some
one had seen me. As I passed the parlor which opened out into the
garden, I heard my mother talking with a visitor. I looked, and it was
Mrs. Yamazaki, our neighbor. They were probably talking of her son
Kintaro, who has been studying such a long time in Tokyo. She is very
proud of him, and thinks he is the most remarkable person in the world.
I hoped that she had not seen me playing with Shiro or coming back all
dirty. I am afraid my mother is not so proud of me.
The next day my mother spoke to me again. She told me that I was going
to Tokyo to school. My father, through our prince, had gained admission
for me to the school for noble girls, and he hoped that I would do my
best to use the great advantages that the school would give me. She
told me that the girls there were all quiet and ladylike, that no one
was ever noisy or headstrong, and that I must try and learn to be like
other girls. It was very wrong of me, I know, but I cried again. I did
not want to leave my home, and my parents and brothers and sisters, and
poor little Shiro.
My mother patted me and comforted me. “It will not be for long,” she
said, “only a few months, and you will be very happy after you have
made friends among the girls.”
And that is why I am in Tokyo. My mother was right. I am happy and I
have many friends. I live with seven or eight other girls in one big
house with Mrs. Takahashi, one of our teachers. We walk to school
together every day, and we play together on our holidays.
I think that here in Tokyo it is not thought so wicked for a girl to
want to run and play. At our school the teachers play with us and teach
us many games, and sometimes we have a whole day with nothing but games
and gymnastics, and the Empress comes and watches us as we play, and
all the parents of all the children come, and we have a very good time.
I have seen the Empress smile when we were at our play, so I am sure
that it is not wrong.
I have been here ever since last September, and now it is February.
I would like to see my home and Shiro, but I am happy, and because I
am happy I am going to write every day, or sometimes, anyway, about
the things I do, so that when I am at home I can read it all over and
remember the dear school life. To-morrow we are invited to go out
to Shinagawa, to visit the country house of the Princess Gojo. Her
daughter is our friend, and we are to spend the afternoon. It will be
beautiful, I know.
February 13.
I have been thinking, it seems to me for years, but it is really only
two days, and I cannot think my way out of the strange thing that has
happened to me. Perhaps if I write it all down, I shall be able to
understand it better.
On February 11, which is the anniversary of Jimmu Tenno, we--that is,
all the girls in our house--were invited by Princess Gojo to visit her
country house at Shinagawa. We went by train to Shimbashi, and had only
a little walk from Shinagawa station to the house. The situation of the
place is beautiful, looking out across the bay, and there is a great
garden with hills and valleys and lakes and forest trees and green
lawns. Here and there an early plum-tree had begun to show its pink and
white on its old gray, gnarled trunk. We played tennis, and ran races
on the lawn. We climbed all the hills, getting a different view from
each. We sat down in the little summer-houses and cooled off after our
exercise, for it was a warm, sunny day like spring. At last we were
called to the house, and we sat about a great parlor and they brought
us tea and cake and _o sushi_.[56]
The princess was very kind and very beautiful. She is tall and slender,
and her voice is sweet and her manner very gracious even to me, who am
not a nobleman’s daughter, only a poor samurai girl. She spoke to me
kindly, and said that she knew me because I was the fastest runner in
our school. She told me that the Empress had asked my name at the last
day of field sports, because I ran so fast. I felt very much ashamed,
and my face grew very hot, and I wondered what my mother would think of
me.
When we had finished our tea, the princess asked us if we would like
to walk about the house. We were very glad, for as we sat we could
see that there were many beautiful rooms, and I had never seen such a
great house before. Some of the rooms were foreign and with carpets and
furniture, but most of them were Japanese, with floors of many mats
and beautiful, shining wood-work, and with flowers and bronzes and
paintings and ancient swords and lacquers set out in the _tokonoma_.
The princess led and we followed. Uta, my dearest friend, and I went
hand in hand, very quietly, looking at all the beautiful things that
had been taken out of the storehouses for us to see. Suddenly, as we
stood before a _kakemono_ that hung in one of the rooms, a strange
feeling came over me. It was a picture of a young girl, very beautiful
and sad, dressed in strange flowing garments. Somewhere I had seen that
picture before. I looked at it so long that the princess noticed me.
“Do you like it, O Fumi San?” she said. “If it were the original, I
believe it would be the finest picture in all Japan, but it is only a
copy, by a Japanese artist, of a celebrated Chinese picture that is
now lost.” Though I heard all she said and answered her, my mind was
still at work at the picture. I had seen it before. I knew I had seen
it before, but where? And then, slowly, bit by bit, a scene came before
my mind. A strange garden--a young artist with a mild, smooth face and
dressed in strange garments painting a picture of--_myself_! But I was
not Fumi, of the family of Takeda. What was I? Then something seemed to
snap in my head and I fell. The next thing I knew, Uta and the other
girls were bending over me as I lay on the floor, and I heard the
princess say, “Poor little thing! She has run too hard.”
The princess was very kind and sent me home in her carriage with O Uta
San to take care of me, and all the way home, as I lay back on the
cushions, my mind went over and over the question, “Who was I when
I was not Fumi?” Every turn of the wheels, every beat of the horses’
hoofs, every shout of the running grooms, seemed to repeat the question
to me.
It was dark when we reached home, and I was hurried off to bed by
good Mrs. Takahashi as soon as she heard that I was tired out. There
I lay and stared at the ceiling while the girls chattered about me,
and then, when all was quiet at last, and dark, except for the glimmer
of the night light, I still lay with my eyes wide open, asking the
same question. I heard the slow tolling of the bell in the Sho-kon-sha
Temple as the hours went by. And at last the answer came.
Whether I was sleeping or waking I do not know, but suddenly I was far
away from the familiar little room, standing in a balcony, looking out
into a green garden, and was surprised to see that the loose robes in
which I was dressed were quite different from what I was used to. A
young man stood in the garden below me, looking at me with wistful
eyes. “Shorei,” he said, “I will paint your picture, and it will be so
beautiful that when I take it to the Emperor and give it to him, he
will make me a great lord, and I can marry you.”
My heart was sore, and there was a terrible fear behind me, a fear of
something that I could not understand. I looked into his kind eyes, and
they made my heart a little restful. “Come soon,” was all I had time to
say, for just then a terrible, coarse, fat woman came to me and said,
“Make haste, they are waiting for you. You must dance to-night before a
great company,” and she dragged me roughly into the house, so roughly
that everything went away, and I was once more in my own bed on the
matted floor and Uta was sleeping at my side.
Since then it has been coming to me little by little,--the memory of
another childhood, far away in some strange land,--the memory of wars
and burning houses, and of long hidings in rough mountain caves, and
at last of a great fight in which all my friends were killed, and I, a
prisoner among robbers, was led to a town and sold. And then the memory
of a shameful life,--my cheeks burn at the thought of it,--of dancing
before great companies of men, of their drunken smiles, their coarse
jokes, their rough caresses. And I remember so clearly how the fat
woman who kept the house used to tell me that I was beautiful, and how
she tried to treat me kindly because my beauty was making her rich. But
sometimes, when I was too sad or weak to be amusing, she would treat
me roughly. She would sneer at me, and tell me that I need not think,
because I was a gentleman’s daughter, that I was too fine for her work.
She had other work in store for me that I would not like as well, if I
grew too proud to dance for her guests. The memory of that fear that
she kept always in my soul is with me still. How I hated the life! How
I longed for escape! I remember that one day I found a sharp sword
lying where one of the guests had laid it aside, and I took it and
would have killed myself, but the old woman saw it and snatched it from
me. After that she watched me carefully, and I could do nothing that
she did not see.
As if through the mists of a thousand years I can see him now as he
looked the first day he came. He was young, and with a good, kind face,
and he did not laugh and shout and try to handle me after the dance.
He only looked at me with his kind eyes, though I could see them flash
sometimes when the other men grew insulting. And when the weary feast
was done, and I lay resting, and wishing I could die before suffering
such shame again, I heard his voice talking in low tones to my mistress.
“That dancing-girl of yours is very beautiful,” he said; “I wish to
have her for my wife.”
The woman laughed, a great, coarse laugh. “Surely you are a brave
fellow!” she said. “Do you know what the girl is worth to me? She
brings a stream of gold nightly into this house, and you, young cock,
want to take her away for your wife! She shall be no man’s wife until I
am paid three thousand pieces of gold,” and she laughed again.
“I am not rich,” he answered, “but within a month you shall have your
three thousand pieces of gold;” and I heard his footsteps as he left
the room.
Every day for a few days, I saw him in the garden, and he painted at
his picture. Then, when it was finished, he came no more. The month
went by and he did not come, and I began to fear. And then, one day, I
heard his voice in the garden. I remember how sad it sounded, so sad
that at first I did not know it.
“Shorei,” he called softly, and I went to my balcony and looked down,
and saw him standing, dressed in white and with a dagger in his hand.
“I have sent the picture to the Emperor, and I have been waiting now
for days and no word has come to me. And to-day I have heard that he by
whom I sent it, and whom I thought my friend, has taken the credit of
it to himself, and is raised to high honor. I am going away. The next
life can be no worse than this,” and he unsheathed the dagger.
“Oh, take me with you where you go,” I cried. “I cannot live here!”
I heard the thumping step of my mistress coming to take me down to
the dancing-room. I could not go, and I threw myself down from the
balcony. That is all I can remember. Where was I when I was Shorei?
And who was he who wanted to buy me in marriage? These questions are
running through my head all day. I cannot talk, nor do my school work,
nor play. Uta says to me, “What is the matter? Have you had bad news
from home? Are you ill? Why don’t you come out and play with us?” But I
cannot go. I must sit in my room and think.
February 15.
Where was I? Who was he? Sometimes it seems as if I was on the very
edge of knowing, and then it all goes again. Last night, as I lay
in bed, my soul was moving, sailing on and on through space, and I
thought, “Now I shall see him. Now I shall know.” And then suddenly I
felt myself falling, falling, down, down, and I opened my eyes. It was
dark, for the night light had burned out. I could not see Uta, but I
heard her move and sigh in her sleep.
February 16.
Last night, I seemed to be dancing all night before those men, and
they shouted and applauded. And one said, “There is not such another
dancer in all the realm of China.” And they shouted all together, “None
such in China nor in all the world!” Surely I might have known before,
for the princess said that her picture was a copy of one by a Chinese
artist.
February 17.
I have seen him again. This was the way. I was so tired that I asked
Mrs. Takahashi to excuse me and let me go to bed early. She looked
at me very kindly and said, “Yes, you may go. I am afraid you are
very tired.” By the time I had made my bed and crept into it, I was
shivering, for the night was cold and damp; and I could not sleep, but
lay curled up with my head covered. And then, all at once, I saw him.
It was not the old balcony, or the garden that I remembered, it was a
poor little Japanese room, and he sat on the floor and looked at the
_tokonoma_ where I stood. I tried to go to him, but I could not. I
could only smile a little, and follow him with my eyes as he moved from
one part of the room to another. He did not know me nor speak to me. He
only looked at me, and sometimes it seemed as if he was afraid of me.
Why was I there? Why was he there? Why could we not talk as we used to
do long ago?
February 18.
I have seen him now three nights, in the same little room. He looks at
me but does not speak, and I cannot. Sometimes I smile, but often I am
so sad that I can only look at him.
February 24.
Every night I go to him. He does not remember me, but perhaps he will
some day.
March 10.
Last night, all at once, everything changed. When I first saw him, he
was writing. He sat at his little table. Sometimes he looked at me,
and then he would sigh and write. At last he came to where I stood. I
smiled, for I thought he was going to speak to me. But he did not. He
lifted the poem card on which he had been writing and hung it beside
me, so close that I could read it. These are the words:
“If from the painted scroll thy lips smile kindly upon me,
What wouldst thou do for me, wert thou here in the body to-night?
To me from what other life comes thy sweet spirit winging?
Stay with me ever, beloved; without thee my soul is alone.”
A painted scroll! That was all I was to him! A beautiful picture to
hang in the _tokonoma_! He did not remember me as I did him. That other
life, when I was Shorei and he a young painter, was all gone from his
memory. He looked at me so sadly when he hung up the poem that I tried
to speak, but I could not. Then he put out the light, and went out to
his little balcony and sat watching the moonlight and listening to the
noises of the street. “Oh, if I could only speak to him!” I thought,
“I would tell him who I was, and perhaps he would remember.” And then,
suddenly, I felt that I could move and speak. I was floating toward
him. I was sitting beside him. I was telling all my story. He held my
hand as if to keep me, and I was glad, for I felt that I must soon slip
away, it was only his strong desire that was holding me to him. And
then, I think it was when I spoke of my death, he drew himself away. I
could not stay, and I found myself once more in my own little room with
Uta asleep quietly by my side.
March 11.
All yesterday I thought about how I should meet him last night. Would
he desire me again? Might I speak to him? or would he send me away as
he did before? If he should, how could I bear it? I must speak to him
and tell him my heart. And then, I thought, as he had written a poem to
me, I would write one to him. Our teacher at school tells me sometimes
that I can write prettily. If I could only tell him so that he could
read it! I wrote it over and over again and again before I copied it on
the card. It was not pretty when it was finished. It only said that I
would stay with him always.
I held it in my hand that night when I went to bed, and I wished, oh,
how I wished that I might give it to him! I shut my eyes and held it
tight, and soon I saw his little upstairs room. The table was covered
with papers, and lying on top of all was my little card. How glad I
was! He looked at me, but I looked at the desk and smiled. He did not
speak. I could not. But after a while he too looked over at the desk
and saw the card. When he had read it, he turned to me and his eyes
were bright with joy. “Is it true?” he said. “Will you live with me
always?” I could not speak, my heart was so full, but he must have
known, for he sat and looked and looked at me, until at last I slipped
away and left him still looking at my image in the _tokonoma_. This
morning the card was not in my hand, nor could I find it in the bed or
in the room. I did not dream last night. I really went and gave him my
poem!
August 20.
It is a long time since I have written in my diary. Although school has
been closed since July, I have been here all summer, for my father and
mother have been away up in Hokkaido, and they thought it best for me
to stay with Mrs. Takahashi, and learn as much as possible during the
summer. I have lessons every day, and it is very dull here in Tokyo,
for most of my friends are away, but I am glad I did not have to go,
for perhaps if I were elsewhere I could not go, as I do now, every
night to see Kintaro and talk with him. It is strange that this young
artist, the same who painted my picture when I was Shorei, should be
Kintaro Yamazaki of Sendai now. He does not remember when he lived in
China, nor does he know that I am Fumi Takeda. He knows me only as
Shorei, and though I have told him of the young artist in China, he
does not like to hear of him, for he thinks of him always as another
man. When I speak of him sometimes Kintaro is sad, sometimes he is
cross, but he is never interested.
I have heard our old priest at home say that to most men, when the
gates of the new birth open, the gates of the old life close, but to
a few the gates of the old life are left ajar, and a wind from the
spirit world may open them wide some day, so that the two lives are all
one memory. That is the way it is with Kintaro and me. His gates are
closed, but mine blew wide open that day at Princess Gojo’s, and now I
have remembered all of that old life in China.
August 21.
Such news has come to me to-day! How strange that I never knew it! My
mother has written me to say that long ago it was decided between my
parents and his parents that Kintaro was to marry me when I grew up.
And now, she writes, Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki of Sendai are to be in town
for a few days, and they will invite us to a party at the Koyo Kwan,
so that we may see each other. What shall I do? Will he know me? If
he does not know me, I can never marry him, for I shall know that he
cannot care for me while he loves Shorei. I cannot tell him, for if he
does not know me as Fumi, I do not want him to marry her because she is
Shorei. Oh, if we could only go on as we have always done!
August 24.
My mother writes that Mr. Suzuki is going to invite us for to-morrow.
What shall I do?
August 25.
I must meet him this afternoon. I told him last night that he would
never see Shorei again. It made me very sad, for to myself I feel
almost as real as Shorei as I do as Fumi. He wept and held me, but I
slipped away from him.
August 26.