letter to the Asano-ya, in which he offered to take O Maru with
him for two or three months if her uncle made no objection, and
enclosed several _yen_ for travelling expenses. Four days passed
and brought no reply. Then he wired: “Have you received money?
When are you coming?” and was somewhat pacified by the answer:
“Money received; will come soon.” His knowledge of the language
was not then fixed, or he would have found little consolation in
the treacherous words, _sono uchi_, soon. Another two days and
the uncle sent a very polite letter to the following effect. They
had all been much honoured by the honourable stranger’s presence
in their humble home, and thanked him for his great kindness to
O Maru. She would very much like to travel with so distinguished
and noble-hearted a person, nor had he, the uncle, any objection
to her doing so. But he would like to call august attention to the
fact that he had an adopted son who wished to learn French and
would make an excellent guide, if permitted to join the party. He
hoped the proposal would commend itself to so kind a friend of the
family as Borega Sama had shown himself to be. Instead of pleasing
“Borega Sama,” this offer to include an “adopted son” in the
compact distinctly frightened him. He knew cases of Europeans who
had been led by liking for a native girl to burden themselves with
her incalculable relations, but he did not consider that a trip of
two months should be encumbered by any such superfluous attendants.
So he wrote a courteous refusal. By this time the vagueness of
_sono uchi_ preyed on his intelligence, and, when its elasticity
stretched to eight days, he wired once more: “What do you mean by
_sono uchi_? When will you come?” And the answer appeased him:
“Will come before the end of the month.” But the end of the month
brought a second most affable letter from the host of the Asano-ya,
in which he expressed his intense anxiety to oblige the honourable
stranger in every possible way, but it so happened that just at
that time O Maru could not be spared, as his humble house was full
of reverend pilgrims on their way to Kinkwa-zan, the golden-flower
mountain, and these monopolised her services. He therefore would
send back the money which Borega Sama had so kindly placed at
her disposal, unless he would wait a few weeks longer, when she
could join him, as the time of pilgrimage would be over. We both
regarded this letter as a polite intimation that the incident was
closed. Either O Maru had misled her friend when she assured him
that her uncle wished her to take the opportunity of travelling
with a “noble-hearted person,” or the old man had formed other
plans for his niece’s future which did not concern us. In either
case Borega Sama resolved to finish the matter. He wrote briefly
but plainly, being a little sore at so much tergiversation, that he
had no wish to inconvenience any of his kind friends at Ishinomaki,
whom he should always remember with grateful pleasure, and, if he
ever returned to Sendai, would revisit them. Then he turned his
attention to prints and curios.
Many circumstances render the collector’s life particularly
exciting at the present time. Good finds become scarcer every
year; the chief dealers in Tōkyō and Kyōto send their agents not
only all over Japan, but also to Europe in the hope of redeeming
lost treasures. Sometimes an old family or impoverished temple is
compelled by misfortune to part with the works of old masters;
sometimes the new masters of the art of forgery palm off surprising
imitations which deceive even the elect. The jealousy of rival
collectors, the artifices of rival dealers, the uncertainty of
losing by one purchase what you gain through another--all these
aspects of the game render it quite as amusing as other forms of
speculation. To Beauregard the beauty of his favourite designs
naturally outweighed their commercial value, but it was impossible
to escape the fury of competition which disturbed the _attaché_ in
his bureau and the professor in his study. Every morning Minami
San or Ohara San appeared with a stock of tempting pictures, and as
they perfectly understood the art of playing off one buyer against
another, you often paid too high a price or delayed decision until
a bolder and perhaps more foolish gudgeon took the bait. Minami
San was a thin, melancholy man, with carefully plaistered hair
and irreproachable attire. He had the air of letting things go at
an appalling sacrifice, so that at times you almost hesitated to
haggle with him. He seemed too gentle for his trade. But Ohara San
roused defiance and inspired respect. He was an obese, jolly man
of shrewd capacity. As he sat on your floor drinking tea or taking
snuff, his patience and persistence were admirable. He interspersed
the bargaining with merry anecdotes and jovial information, as
though he rather sought your company than your cash, but nothing
escaped his twinkling eye, and, when a hasty covetous glance of the
would-be purchaser revealed a preference, the wily merchant refused
all abatement of price. He was of coarser grain than Minami,
who, when Beauregard left the country, presented him with a very
good Kunisada, as a polite acknowledgment of his many purchases.
But Ohara lent him for a few days an extremely rare series of
pornographic designs by Utamaro, and reclaimed them on the morning
of his departure.
One morning Ohara was unrolling a very spirited _makimono_,
copied from Keion’s “Flight of the Court,” and giving a vivid
representation of military pageant in the fourteenth century.
As the original is, of course, not to be bought, we were on the
point of arranging terms, when the hotel-boy entered and handed a
telegram to Beauregard: “I have run away. What shall I do? Reply
Saito Hotel, Shiogama. Maru.” His first impulse was to reply “Come
at once,” for the unexplained opposition had increased his desire
to make a settlement, but, on second thoughts, the consideration
for women, which I had already remarked as a kindly trait in his
character, prompted this unkind response: “Go home; do not come to
Tōkyō; will write.” The letter took the sting from the telegram,
for he explained how foolish it would be to leave home without
her family’s consent, as it might well happen in such a case that
when he returned to France Maru’s uncle might refuse to take her
back. He repeated that, unless she could be spared (and of course
he would recompense the hotel-keeper for loss of service), their
proposed trip must be abandoned. So, the futile colloquy along the
wires began again. Two days after: “All right at home. Am coming
soon (_sono uchi_). Reply.” But this time the student of Japanese
was not to be put off with _sono uchi_. He replied: “Come by first
train to-morrow, or not at all. Am leaving Tōkyō.” As a matter of
fact, he was going to Kose, while I was due at Ikao, and we should
travel together as far as Karuizawa. Late the following evening,
after spending the whole day in the theatre, he was handed a
telegram by the hotel manager, who had not thought it his duty to
send direct to the Kabuki-za, in which were these words: “I have
missed the train. Box at station. Reply. Maru.” Then the Frenchman
lost his temper. He was quite incapable of playing the Oriental
game of patience, and preferred to throw up the cards. This reply,
brutal in its brevity, was flashed to poor Maru: “Too late. Do not
come.”
I had been at Ikao a fortnight, and absorbed by new acquaintances,
was beginning to forget the very existence of O Maru San, when a
long letter from Kose conveyed the surprising intelligence that
she had at last joined Beauregard in that pretty little mountain
village. Soon after arriving he had been caught in a violent storm
on the slopes of Asama-yama, and had contracted severe rheumatism.
Unable to walk much and feeling rather lonely, he wrote finally
to Ishinomaki, stating that, if she cared to travel so far and
become his companion for the remaining month and a half of his
stay, he would make all ready for her reception. But, he added,
her decision must be prompt and definite. A third and last letter
reached him from the Asano-ya. “My niece,” wrote the old man,
“would like nothing better than to accept your kind proposal.
But in the town of Ishinomaki an alliance between an honourable
stranger and a humble Japanese girl is looked upon with disfavour.
How is it in Kose?” A final telegram--“No difficulties here. If
you come, what train?”--evoked the answer: “Start by eight o’clock
train to-night.” And to his great astonishment she kept her word.
One afternoon he saw a horse, bearing two bundles tied to a high
saddle, of the protective sort which is used for children in
England when they ride donkeys, ascending the glen from Yunosawa.
Rain had made the path impossible for rickshaws. One bundle was O
Maru, the other her luggage. She had never been on a horse before,
and had never taken such a long journey alone by train, but, after
two days’ travelling in the hottest part of August, there she
was, smiling and looking very happy at the sight of Borega Sama.
Little by little he discovered the reasons of so many delays and
prevarications. The landlord, who had at first advised her coming,
had been dissuaded by some acquaintances of the Norwegian skipper,
who urged that, if she waited for the latter’s return, it would be
more to her advantage, since he might take her for several voyages
and make a longer contract with the family than the French tourist
cared to entertain. Then she had “run away,” but only to her aunt,
who was an ex-geisha and gave dancing lessons at Shiogama. At last,
as no more news was heard of the Scandinavian suitor, she received
permission to follow her own inclination; and, though the journey
had presented many terrors, she came, armed with an _o mamori_
(amulet) of Watazumi-no-Mikoto, and, thanks to the care of that
potent deity, attained the goal of her long-thwarted desire.
III
Kose is an ideal lovers’ nest, hidden in the heart of thick
forests, where steep hills dip to a stream, now visible, now
invisible, but always to be tracked by its trickling or tumbling
song. Shady rambles and cool retreats invite whispering confidence,
but, to gain a view of the rolling country, which culminates in
volcanic peaks eight thousand feet high, hard climbing or riding
is inevitable. O Maru was much too timid and delicate to accompany
Beauregard on these tiring expeditions, and replied one day to a
question as to how she liked Kose, “Taihen yoroshi: ke’ domo miru
koto arimasen.” (It was very nice, but there was nothing to see
there.) Then he discovered that what she most wanted to see, more
even than the sights of Tōkyō or Kyōto, was the famous temple of
Zenkōji at Nagano. It was believed by the members of the Buddhist
sect to which her family belonged that the souls of the dead were
first given rendezvous at Zenkōji, immediately after death, before
departing on their long journey to other worlds. Her great wish,
therefore, was to make offerings of rice and incense to Amida on
the spot where her father and mother had passed away, that they
might know how lovingly she cherished their memory. Two days later
her wish was accomplished. As they climbed the broad avenue,
lined with little booths, at which were sold rosaries, candles,
breviaries, incense, toys, and sweetmeats, Beauregard realised for
the first time what vast influence is still wielded in Japan by
the Buddhist faith. Hundreds of pilgrims, in curiously-patterned
white dresses and palmer hats, moved with chatter and laughter
towards the chief gateway. On the left of the entrance stands a
nunnery, ruled by an abbess of high rank, and those who cross a
graceful bridge to enter it find themselves between two large
ponds of pink-flowered and white-flowered lotos, about the roots
of which crawl sacred tortoises. Where the shops end an avenue of
gods extends up to the main temple. Not only Monju and Shi Tenno
and images of the chief _rakan_ or disciples of Buddha alternate
with lanterns of bronze or stone, but the six Jizō, elsewhere
so humbly carved in common wood, sit proudly prominent in white
marble. O Maru had bought a packet of rice, some sticks of incense,
and a little rosary, whose beads were daintily strung on purple
cord. Beauregard took off his shoes and followed her into the main
temple. In that enormous building, two hundred feet in depth by
one hundred in width, the huge outlines of gilded gods glimmered
darkly, while rustling priests moved to and fro on mysterious
errands. From the multitudinous rafters, whose number, 69,384, is
said to correspond with the number of Chinese characters in the
Buddhist scriptures, pigeons flew continually, and the flutter
of their wings, together with the jingle of copper _rin_ tossed
lightly into the money-box, accompanied, without distracting,
the low mutter of perpetual prayer. When O Maru approached one
of the priests with her filial offerings, the old man looked
rather inquisitively at the handsome foreigner, but said nothing,
and, signing a certificate of piety, on which her name and
the death-names of her parents were inscribed, gave it to her
together with a circular pink sweetmeat, on which was stamped a
sacred wheel, typical of the law. Then, twining the mauve rosary
about her chubby hands, she murmured three times “Namu Amida
Butsu”--(“I adore thee, O eternal Buddha”), and, as she left the
altar-rails, threw five _rin_ into the treasury. Her devotions
were accomplished, and, much lightened in heart, she rejoined
Beauregard, who was inspecting the precincts of the temple. Chief
of the treasures is a sacred golden group, representing Amida and
his two followers, Kwannon and Daiseishi, which is supposed to have
been made by Shaka Muni himself from gold found in Mount Shumi, the
centre of the universe. Legend relates that the foes of the true
faith had done their worst to destroy this image: all attempts to
abolish it by fire and water and the sword had failed: since the
fourteenth century it has rested inviolate in a shrine, shrouded
by a curtain of rich brocade. So carefully is it now guarded, that
the pious are only allowed, on payment of a small fee, to behold
the outermost of seven boxes in which it is enclosed. Far more
accessible is Binzuru, a hideous brick-red deity, whose image
stands outside the chancel, to which position he is expelled for
having “remarked upon the beauty of a female” in violation of the
vows of chastity incumbent on Buddha’s disciples. Binzuru is amply
avenged for this harsh expulsion. Wherever his ugly visage is seen,
you will find him caressed and surrounded by women and girls, who
firmly believe that they have only to touch his body and then rub
their own in the same part, to banish every pain, great or small,
to which the human frame is subject. As they wandered from one god
to another, Beauregard questioned O Maru about her faith, which
he found to be simple and firm. Once she had seen with O Kiku a
picture of hell at a temple festival, in which fiery demons were
inflicting such tortures on unbelievers that, though their own
belief was orthodox, she and her friend had cried themselves to
sleep. It occurred to the Frenchman to ask whether she had no fear
of being punished for living with him as his wife, but she replied
that she had never heard that that was sinful, unless she had been
promised to some one else. He asked her what was the use of giving
rice to the souls of the dead, and whether she thought they would
eat it; but she explained that, whereas living people eat rice,
the _hotoke_, or spirits, only eat the soul of the rice, which is
there, although we cannot see it. She believed in prayer, fasting,
and amulets, but thought it wasteful to spend more than five _rin_
(about one halfpenny) a month on the gods, since they required no
clothing and very little food.
From Nagano the pair travelled to Kyōto, where they remained
until the end of their six weeks’ honeymoon. There I saw a great
deal of Beauregard, who was equally enamoured of Japanese art and
his Japanese wife. His days would be spent in visits to those
temples where good specimens of the Shijō and Kōrin schools
were jealously kept, but as he had letters of introduction from
an eminent professor and painter to the authorities, he had
exceptional opportunities of pursuing his passionate study of the
Kyōto Renaissance painters. All the treasures of Daitokuji and
Chionin, of Kinkakuji and Ginkakuji, were shown to him. Sometimes
he would spend many hours among the early sculptures of Nara, or
avail himself of an invitation to scan the private collection of a
rich shipowner at Ōsaka. His contempt for Hokusai and Hiroshigi was
unbounded; words could not express his dislike for what he called
“the shallow, meretricious judgment of de Goncourt.” I await with
considerable interest the _brochure_ which he intends to publish by
means of the _Mercure de France_ for the edification and confusion
of French connoisseurs. But O Maru interested me more than Okyō’s
fish and Sōsen’s monkeys. I would often spend the evening with
them, and, as we conversed hotly in our barbarian tongues, she
would sit contentedly sewing and humming to herself, delighted
to make tea or furnish information about her fatherland. Her own
curiosity was seldom excited, but now and then she betrayed depths
of astounding ignorance. One night Beauregard had been reading me a
chapter from Anatole France’s delightful “Le Livre de mon Ami,” in
which that writer thus describes a characteristic reminiscence of
childhood:
“J’étais bien payé de ma peine dès que j’entrais dans la chambre de
ces dames; car il y avait là mille choses qui me plongeaient dans
l’extase. Mais rien n’égalait les deux magots de porcelaine qui
se tenaient assis sur la cheminée, de chaque côté de la pendule.
D’eux-mêmes, ils hochaient la tête et tiraient la langue. J’appris
qu’ils venaient de Chine et je me promis d’y aller. La difficulté
était de m’y faire conduire par ma bonne. J’avais acquis la
certitude que la Chine était derrière l’Arc-de-Triomphe, mais je ne
trouvais jamais moyen de pousser jusque-là.”
With unconscious appropriateness she suddenly asked, “Shina no
kuni, Furansu no kuni, onaji koto des ka?” (Are France and China
the same country?) Nothing could persuade her that thunder was
not a phenomenon peculiar to Japan, for she had always associated
it with the wrath of a Japanese deity. Any breach of etiquette
shocked her sense of propriety, and she spent many unhappy moments
because of René’s remissness in two particulars. He always accepted
hospitality when offered by a Japanese friend, instead of refusing
at least twice for politeness’ sake: he often forgot to beat
down the price of something which took his fancy, depriving both
seller and buyer of the joy of bargaining. These faults lowered
him in the otherwise indulgent eyes of his little consort. Her
delicacy in the matter of presents was very marked. Though her
lover was anxious that she should buy a souvenir at every place
they visited together, he could never induce her to choose any but
an inexpensive trinket. To remedy this he occasionally relied on
his own judgment, but the result was unfortunate. I remember that
we returned from Ōsaka with the prettiest roll of _kimono_ silk
to be found in the bazaar, but when this was given to O Maru she
rejected it, explaining that such bright colours could only be worn
by a girl of fifteen or eighteen. Her own age was twenty-two. On
another occasion he chose a sober, stuff of silver-grey, but this,
it appeared, was only suitable to a woman of forty. After that he
gave up using his judgment, and begged her to spend what money she
wanted in her own way.
Her own way was extravagant, as we discovered afterwards: it
was only his money that she was chary of spending. For, when
he presented her with sixty _yen_ on the eve of departure, to
his surprise she clung to him and cried out excitedly, “Watakusi
hachiju yen hoshii!” (I want eighty _yen_!) As she had never seemed
mercenary, and had at first stipulated for fifty, he could not
account for this eager demand, which was of course immediately
accorded. But the next day O Maru appeared in a very beautiful
cloak, lined with white satin, on which were hand-painted designs
by a well-known painter of Kyōto. She had spent nearly the whole
of her present, fifty-five _yen_ (about £5 10_s._), on that royal
garment, which would certainly be the most handsome of its kind
in Ishinomaki. Her parting presents to René were some prettily
embroidered handkerchiefs of silk and an original poem, which
had more “actuality” than literary merit. In fact, it was a very
artless _cri de cœur_, and ran thus:
“Sad is my love for
Beaurega Sama:
He goes, but I go
Never, to France.”
I accompanied them to Kōbe, where the _Belgic_ was waiting to take
passengers to San Francisco, and charged myself with the duty
of sending O Maru home to her family. She came with us on the
liner, and was overawed by the huge steamer, with its crowd of
loud-voiced, whisky-drinking barbarians. Once she crept closer to
René, and asked him if he would return as soon as his mother died.
Filial affection, she knew, had the first claim. Then she gave
him a small wooden wedge, on which was the name of her sea-god,
Watazumi-no-Mikoto, with injunctions to press it to his bosom
every day at the hour of noon. At last the bell sounded to clear
the decks. O Maru took off her wooden _geta_ and climbed down into
the tug. Up to that moment she had borne herself bravely, but when
she saw the lessening figure of her lover recede for ever into the
waste of waters, she sank down in a storm of passionate sobs at my
feet.
IV
Six months later I was passing down the Rue Royale, when I saw René
Beauregard at a little table outside Maxime’s with two companions,
who were engaged in a fierce dispute about the never-ending
Affaire, while his whole attention was absorbed by a letter, which
I knew from the texture of the paper to be Japanese. Greeting him
with effusion--for we had not met since the _Belgic_ sailed from
Kōbe--I asked whether he had any news of O Maru since his return
to Paris. For answer he handed me the letter, which, with some
trouble, I deciphered. It was to the following effect:
“To Borega Sama, 120, Avenue de Clichy, Paris.
“From the time of your coming to Nippon to the time of your going
back to your own country, as you have been so very kind to me, I
humbly render thanks. To learn by your letter that you had safely
crossed so many countries and great seas was indeed good news.
I had fasted for twenty-three days and offered daily prayers to
Watazumi-no-Mikoto that you might not fall into danger before
reaching the house of your honourable mother. I am living with my
aunt at Shiogama, and shall wait seven years in the hope that you
will come back. I pray for you every day, and shall never forget
the happy times we spent together in Kose and Kyōto. However long
I write, there is no end to it, so I shall look for a further
occasion to tell you my love. In respectful obedience,
“O MARU.”
The letter contained an enclosure, which it required the
intervention of a Japanese friend to interpret. Whether the girl
had herself written the six poems which follow, or, as it seems to
me more probable, had adapted them with slight alterations from a
popular song-book, I cannot say. They form both epilogue and moral
to this typical tale.
1.
“Could I but meet you!
Could I but see you!
Waves roll between us;
Wishing is vain.
2.
“Thinking about you,
Watching your likeness;
Yet the watched likeness
Says not a word.
3.
“You, my French master,
Living in Paris,--
I am Awazu’s
Single lone pine.
4.
“In mine ears waking,
In mine ears dreaming,
Ever one sound is,
That of thy voice.
5.
“Heard though the voice be,
Unseen thy body;
So, on the mountains,
Nightingales sing.
6.
“Now--though we once slept
Pillow by pillow--
‘Where and how are you?’
Asking, I weep.”
AFTERNOON CALLS
AFTERNOON CALLS
I