Noon found us ready for the start, our swords girt on under the flowing
priest robes, and hats drawn low to shade our faces. Upon our feet
iron-shod sandals were bound firmly over the white silk foot mittens,
in keeping with our role of monks of noble blood, vowed to a pilgrimage
to Zozoji and just in off the road. But the hilts of our swords were
within convenient reach inside the edge of our robes, and, despite
Yoritomo’s warning, my revolvers were no less ready. I assured him,
however, that they would not be used unless the occasion justified.
When it came to the parting, I looked to see Kohana protest or at least
shed a tear over this short ending of her lover’s visit. After three
weary years of absence he had come back to her for a single night, and
was now going from her again, it might be to his death. Yet she neither
wept nor betrayed any other sign of grief. Smilingly she conducted us
from her house and down the path to the gateway, where he signed her to
stop.
“If all goes well,” he said, “I will send for you or come again to
Shinagawa.”
She kowtowed, with a softly murmured word of parting, “_Saionara!_”
“Farewell, Kohana San,” I responded. “The _tojin_ carries away with him
grateful thoughts of his kind and beautiful hostess.”
“Gracious indeed is the condescension of the august lord in deigning to
overlook the conduct of one so rude and ignorant,” she said. Yoritomo
was swinging away at a rapid stride. She rose quickly, and held out
her hands, clasped palm to palm. Her eyes gazed up into mine, full of
timid appeal, and her lips quivered with a pitiful smile. “Woroto Sama
is a lord of the _tojin_, he is powerful. While he slept I looked at
the strange weapons he bears, and my lord told me their use. The _tojin
sama_ is a friend of Yoritomo Sama!”
“If they kill him, they kill me,” I answered.
With a swift movement she drew from her sleeve and pressed into my
hand a dirk whose richly ornamented hilt and sheath told of a precious
blade within. I would have sought to return the gift, but she sank down
and beat the ground at my feet with her forehead. I thrust the dirk in
beside my sword, and turned away, feeling that this girl of a despised
profession had honored me with her trust and gratitude. Indeed, I
might say she had ennobled me, since I had needed the dirk to become a
_samurai_, a two-sword gentleman.
With hat brim down, hands demurely folded within priestly sleeves, and
body waddling _samurai_-fashion from the weight of cartridges about my
waist, I followed after my friend across the beautiful little landscape
garden of the teahouse. There were many guests strolling along the
shaded walks or lunching in the little kiosks which from the crest of
a terrace looked out over the blue bay. But, unheeded either by guests
or attendants, we passed up the garden and out through a wicket gate in
the wall across from the teahouse.
As we came into the narrow alley upon which the gate opened, Yoritomo
warned me to keep my hand on my swordhilt. On either side, preening
themselves behind barred verandas, I saw rows of pretty young girls
clad in gorgeous robes. We had entered a street given over to the
_joro_, or courtesans. Throughout the length of the lane, _samurais_
flushed with _sake_ and evil-eyed _ronins_ swaggered aggressively up
and down, with swords cocked high in their girdles.
Twice we saw pairs of swashbucklers draw upon each other, but hurried
past while their blades were yet clashing together in furious cut and
parry. Without looking back or so much as glancing to right or left, we
swung ahead through the groups of cut-throats and drunkards, and our
steadiness, together with the priest robes, won us safe passage to the
Tokaido.
Along the highway vice was for the most part masked behind the disguise
of legitimate teahouse entertainment, and the rakes and ruffians bore
themselves with a less truculent manner among the light-hearted smiling
throngs of travellers and townfolk.
As we swung into the busy thoroughfare I caught my first view of Yedo,
a view impressive only in the vastness of the city’s extent. Built in
great part on low-lying ground, it stretched out along the curve of the
shallow bayhead and inland to the northward, in a sea of gray unpainted
roofs, partly relieved by an occasional temple or red-roofed pagoda
rising among groves of trees. In the midst of this dull expanse rose
an island of low hills, upon whose wooded crests the moated official
quarter was built about the citadel-palace of the Shogun.
A mile along the high embankment which guards all the upper curve of
the bay brought us to the black gate on the boundary between Shinagawa
and Yedo. A few steps beyond it Yoritomo significantly drew my
attention to a roofed notice-board, covered in large Chinese characters
with the ancient edicts against Christianity. Shortly after he pointed
out a temple in which were the tombs of the forty-seven loyal _ronins_
and the lord for whose sake they achieved vengeance and martyrdom.
Somewhat farther on we left the Tokaido and angled off inland from the
bay towards a great park called Shiba. It is formed of the grounds of
Zozoji and its many subsidiary temples, tombs, and monastery buildings.
A high-arched wooden bridge carried us over a canal, or tide-water
stream, whose waters swarmed with the sampans of fishermen and roofed
produce boats from up country.
A little beyond this muddy stream we entered the lovely cool glades of
Shiba. The place was an Oriental paradise of giant trees and blooming
shrubs, from which sounded the merry note of twittering birds, blended
and dominated by the flute-like song of the Japanese nightingale; while
about the smaller of the temples lotus leaves and blooming irises rose
above the still waters of ponds stocked with tortoises and goldfish.
Yoritomo gravely led the way across this rear portion of the sacred
park, along stately avenues of giant pines and cryptomerias and camphor
trees, between rows of stone lanterns, under _torii_ of wood and stone
and bronze, and past grotesque bronze images, to enclosures where
broad and massive temples shouldered up the ponderous weight of their
gray-tiled roofs. We came out into the main road and turned along it
a short distance to the entrance of Zozoji, a magnificent two-storied
gate guarded on either side by hideous red and green demons.
“_Namu Amida Butsu!_” chanted my friend, and mingling with a crowd
of worshippers, we passed through the ancient gateway into the great
courtyard about Zozoji.
The temple stood at the head of a flight of red steps, and, with its
huge red pillars and enormous Chinese roof of gray tiles, was by far
the most imposing edifice I had yet seen in Japan. A mighty sonorous
boom smote upon our ears. I looked to the right, and saw a priest
swinging a suspended beam against the rim of an immense bell.
Yoritomo turned across to a building on our left, and between the
thunderous peals of the great bell addressed a young priest who was
writing in the veranda. I could not follow their low conversation,
but presently I saw my friend hand the priest one of his gold coins,
in return for a slip of paper. After this we joined another group of
worshippers, climbed the temple stairway, and, transferring our sandals
to our bosoms, glided in upon the mats of the great hall. We stopped a
little way inside, between the great lacquered contribution-chest and a
superb dragon-wrought brazier from which was rising clouds of incense.
Yoritomo stared for some moments into the gloom of the vast interior,
shook his head slowly and edged about to watch the courtyard and
gate. My experience in China had already acquainted me with the many
startling resemblances between Catholic Christianity and Buddhism in
respect to priestly costumes, ceremonial, and houses of worship. Yet
I found much to interest me in the gorgeous panelled ceilings, the
carvings and arabesques and bronze-work of this grand temple.
At the far end, within the railed space that I might call the chancel,
appeared the high altar, crowded about with the shrines of various
images, colossal candlesticks and lotus blossoms of silver, bells
and drums for the use of the officiating priests, memorial tablets,
bronze offerings, and emblematic banners. All about the hall on the
soft matting moved crowds of priests and worshippers, tapping bells,
murmuring prayers, clapping hands, and bowing before the many shrines.
A touch from Yoritomo drew my gaze around. I looked out into the
dazzling sunlight of the courtyard, and saw the crowds falling back on
either side before a band of _samurais_. In the midst of the band was a
gilded _norimon_, beside which walked two silk-clad women.
“She comes. Follow,” whispered Yoritomo.
He led the way up the dim-lit hall to the chancel, and showed the
paper he had bought from the young priest to an old monk in chasuble
and stole. The priest eyed us sharply and stood hesitating until
Yoritomo slipped a gold piece into his itching palm. At that he led us
in behind the bronze screen, or rail, and left us bowing in a recessed
shrine before a huge many-handed image of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy.
Hardly had we gained this post of vantage when the sudden hush
throughout the temple told of the entrance of the Shogun’s daughter.
Though she had come incognito, a glance around the corner of our niche
showed me the mass of the worshippers kneeling with forehead to floor.
Through their midst advanced the cortege of the Princess, led by the
venerable abbot, who, according to my friend, was a blood kinsman of
the mysterious Mikado.
Fearful of discovery, Yoritomo drew me back into the denser shadow of
the shrine. Soon, however, I heard the soft rustling of silk garments,
followed by low murmurs and sibilant insuckings of breath. Aflame with
curiosity, I turned half about, and ventured to raise my hat brim for a
sidelong glance.
The lord abbot had passed on up to the high altar. But the Princess
Azai stood only a few paces distant, a little in advance of her
kowtowing women and _samurais_. She was looking up at the benevolent
features of Kwannon in the gloom above us. The outline of her dusky
hair blurred into the dark background, but her face, as if framed about
with black velvet, stood out distinct in all the pure loveliness of an
Italian Madonna’s.
Overlapping _kimonos_ of gold-wrought rose and azure crepes draped her
about in graceful folds from the base of her round white throat to her
tiny feet, and her hands were hidden in sleeves whose tips almost swept
the floor. Beautiful as was her dress, it won from me only a passing
glance. My eyes returned to feast themselves on the innocent tender
beauty of her face.
Her complexion, untouched by any cosmetic, was of an ivory whiteness,
slightly tinged on the cheeks with rose. The adorably curved lips
of her little mouth were of a clear coral red. Below her delicate
high-arched brows her black oval eyes gazed out between the long lashes
with the mildness of a young child’s and the divinely sweet artlessness
of budding maidenhood.
Forgetful of all else in my wonder and delight, I thrust my hat brim
higher and faced square about. A projecting corner of the shrine masked
me from the kneeling attendants, but not from the Princess. Drawn by
the intensity of my gaze, she lowered her glance and looked full into
my face. On the instant, I knew from the widening of her eyes and the
quick rise of her little bosom that she had made out my features
through the shadow of our dim niche.
Yoritomo’s voice breathed softly in my ear, “Do not move!”
I waited, breathless, expecting to see the Princess cry out or sink
down as had Kohana. Yet, great as was the awe and wonder in her dilated
eyes, she neither shrank away nor called upon the guard to protect
her from the blue-eyed apparition. Such perfect control on the part
of a girl so delicately nurtured, so exquisitely refined in look and
bearing, was more than I could withstand. Regardless of Yoritomo’s
warning, I raised my head higher, and sought to express in a smile the
utmost of my admiration for her courage and beauty.
Again her bosom rose and fell to a quick-drawn breath, and her lustrous
eyes widened yet more. But the god or devil--whatever he might be--had
been pleased to regard her with a kindly look. Etiquette, if not
respect and gratitude, called for a polite response. A row of little
pearls gleamed between her smiling red lips, and her lissome young body
bent low in gracious obeisance.
[Illustration: A ROW OF LITTLE PEARLS GLEAMED BETWEEN HER SMILING RED
LIPS]
Instantly Yoritomo grasped my arm and drew me around the far corner
of the shrine. Before the Princess had straightened from her bow, we
were slipping out through a narrow doorway into the broad veranda of
the temple. The sudden vanishing of the priest-robed apparition must
have seemed to her clear confirmation of its godly or ghostly nature.
In the veranda I would have stopped to whisper my blissful impressions
of the girl’s beauty, had not my friend snatched his sandals from his
bosom and imperatively signed me to strap on my own. The moment our
footgear was secure, he hastened down around the rear of the temple
and out through a postern, into a winding road that led us past the
enclosures of two or three mortuary chapels. Had the occasion been
different, I might have pressed my friend to show me these magnificent
memorial tombs and temples of departed Shoguns. As it was, he did not
pause until we had passed down a long row of stone lanterns and out
through one of the beautiful secondary gates of Shiba.
At last he stopped in a vacant space, and turned to reproach me with
mild friendliness: “You should not have so risked discovery, brother!”
“How could I help it?” I demanded. “She is very beautiful, Tomo!
Candidly, I envy you your good fortune.”
He gazed into my glowing face, his own quickly stilling to the placid
Buddha calm. “Form is an empty mask, a nothingness,” he murmured. “The
love of women, the craving for power, the greed for gold,--all alike
are lures to decoy the soul out of the upward path to Nirvana.”
“You have seen your future bride, and can speak of Nirvana!” I
exclaimed.
“She is as pure and beautiful as an angel. Yet I looked into her
luminous eyes and did not see my soul.”
“I saw _her_ soul, you cold-blooded Buddhist! Her spirit is as
beautiful as her face!”
“No, Woroto,--it was your own soul you saw shining in her eyes,” he
replied.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
He shook his head gently. “Who may penetrate the mysteries of the
future? You may have loved her in some previous incarnation. As for me,
I have given my life to the Son of Heaven, the holy Mikado.”