“Kyūsuké, I am pleased to see that you always work faithfully, but I
think I should be more pleased if you would leave off working at an
earlier hour in the evening and go to bed at the same time as your
fellow-servants. If you continue to be so much more industrious
than they there will be complaints among them.”
“My good master,” answered the young man, “though I do not like to
disobey you, I regret to say that I can never get to sleep before nine
o’clock at night.”
“You surprise me,” said Gonzaemon, “but at least you can oblige me by
remaining in bed until the usual hour for getting up in the morning.”
“My good master,” replied Kyūsuké again, “I am very sorry to displease
you so often, but mine is a hopeless case, for to be frank with you I
cannot for the life of me stay abed after seven in the morning.”
Now, you must know, that according to our old way of counting time,
nine at night was midnight, and seven in the morning answered to 4
o’clock. Kyūsuké, therefore, never slept more than four hours every
night, and his master on learning this was surprised beyond measure.
“What a wonder you are!” he exclaimed. “It is seldom one finds
gentlemen in service such passionate lovers of work! How gratified
I am to find such a notable exception in you. I trust you will not
take my suggestion amiss; it was necessary in order that your
fellow-servants should not suffer in consequence of your zeal for work.”
“I humbly beg your forgiveness for venturing to disobey your kind
orders,” said the young man respectfully.
“Don’t beg my forgiveness,” said his master, “for by so doing you put
me in an awkward position.”
After considering for a few moments while the servant waited silently
for further orders, Gonzaemon resumed:—
“Well, Kyūsuké, I have another suggestion to offer you. You know that
you are your own master while your fellow-servants are asleep. I do not
wish you to work for me in those hours, so if you do not wish to rest,
employ that time in making sandals for your own profit. I will see that
you are provided with plenty of straw.”
“My good master, you are very kind, but I fear it is not right that a
servant should use any of his time in work for his own profit.”
Thus Kyūsuké once more baffled the kind intentions of his master.
Gonzaemon was struck with his faithfulness.
“If you persist in refusing all my proposals I shall be at a loss
what to do with you,” he said. “So be pleased to do as I request you
only this once.”
Kyūsuké could not refuse his master’s kindness so delicately offered,
and he consented to use his spare time for his own profit. Henceforth
the early morning and late evening hours were devoted to the task of
making _waraji_ or straw sandals, which he sold to a kitchen-ware
dealer in the village, thereby making a small but regular income, every
_sen_ of which he intrusted to his kind master for safe keeping. Soon
the young servant’s diligence became known, and the country people
encouraged his industry by always asking for the “Kyūsuké _waraji_”
in preference to any other. This naturally pleased the dealer who
continually pressed Kyūsuké for further supplies. Gonzaemon, likewise
pleased at the success of his plan, determined to lend out the money
in his charge so as to increase the amount by good interest. In this
he found no difficulty for people had the idea that some luck attached
itself to anything connected with the honest servant, and were only too
glad to be accommodated with loans out of his savings.
Thus eight years passed away and Kyūsuké was still a servant in the
household of Gonzaemon. One day the latter called the young man
into his apartment and addressed him as follows:—
“My dear Kyūsuké, time indeed flies like an arrow, as the proverb says.
Eight years have elapsed since I was so fortunate as to take you into
my service. You have never squandered your wages as other servants do;
setting apart a certain amount for small personal expenses you have
regularly committed to my care all that you earned. I should certainly
have proved but a poor banker, had I not sought some profitable
investment for your deposits. All these years I have been lending out
your money at a moderate rate, and it is astonishing to find how much
your capital now amounts to. Behold! Your savings with interest and
compound interest now reach the sum of one hundred _ryō_! Now, what do
you propose to do with all this money?”
“My good master,” said Kyūsuké, quite taken aback at the idea of such
wealth, “you must be joking!”
“Not at all; it is as I say. Will you continue to lend it out, or would
you prefer to dispose of it in some other way? It is for you to decide.”
“A hundred _ryō_!” gasped Kyūsuké. “Did you really say ‘one hundred
_ryō_’?”
“A hundred _ryō_!” replied his master smiling.
“It is unbelievable!” said Kyūsuké.
“Your own industry is responsible for it,” said Gonzaemon. “Now tell me
what you are going to do with it.”
Kyūsuké pondered long and deeply. At length he spoke.
“Kind master, if you would not think it taking an unpardonable liberty,
I should much like to take the money and pay a short visit to my native
place next spring.”
“By all means” said Gonzaemon. “Do you know of a good investment in
your native place?”
“No,” answered Kyūsuké, readily enough now. “But you will understand
better if I tell you a little of my family history. Excuse the liberty
I take in troubling you with my affairs. I am the second son of a
peasant, Kyūzaemon by name, living in the village of Shimo-Ogita-mura
near Nanao, in the province of Noto. My elder brother, after leading a
dissipated life and causing his parents much grief, suddenly left home
and has never been heard of since. My mother died soon after, and my
father married a widow with one daughter. Before long my step-mother
took it into her head to adopt a son to marry her daughter and
succeed my father as head of the family. Me she hated, and consequently
treated me so unkindly, that I was soon convinced it would be for the
happiness of all parties that I should leave home and go right away. So
one day, leaving a letter of apology behind me, I secretly came away.
At first I had rather a hard time of it, but since I was so lucky as
to become your servant I have had nothing to complain of. I cannot
sufficiently thank you for all your kindness to me.” Here Kyūsuké
paused, and bowed low, while tears filled his eyes. Conquering his
emotion he resumed:—
“One hundred _ryō_, the largest sum of money I have ever set eyes
on, I owe entirely to your goodness—how can I thank you? That I may
make a proper use of your gift—for so I consider it—I shall return to
my father and with this money buy him some rice-fields. In addition,
should my step-sister still remain single I shall try to find her a
suitable husband. Having done this and established my family so that it
will be in no danger of extinction, I shall make all haste to return
to you and beg to offer you my lifelong service as some small way of
requiting all you have done for me.”
Gonzaemon was greatly touched.
“Kyūsuké,” he said, “you are a noble fellow! A dutiful son as well as
a faithful servant. I admire your laudable intention. ‘To your old
home return in splendour’ says an old proverb, so Kyūsuké, return in
splendour indeed! I will make it my business to provide the clothes you
shall wear, and I will also see that you have suitable presents to take
to all your relations.”
Thus the conversation ended and Kyūsuké retired to pursue his usual
avocations.
* * * * *
Early the following year, in spite of his servant’s remonstrances,
Gonzaemon, as good as his word, prepared all the necessary garments
for Kyūsuké to wear in order to make a good impression on his visit
home, and presents for each member of his family. Further, he pressed
upon Kyūsuké’s acceptance a short sword for protection on his journey,
ten _ryō_ for travelling expenses, and five _ryō_ as a parting gift.
Producing Kyūsuké’s own hundred _ryō_ he said:—
“Now, my dear Kyūsuké, you had better not carry this large sum in cash
for fear you might get robbed on the way; I advise you to send it by
bill of exchange.”
“Indeed, no, good master,” replied Kyūsuké. “That is quite unnecessary;
who would suspect that a fellow of my sort had any money about him and
attempt to rob me? It will be quite safe in the bosom of my dress.”
“But you might lose it in some other way,” persisted Gonzaemon. “You
had better do as I say,—one cannot be too much on one’s guard while
travelling.”
Kyūsuké laughed.
“Do not be uneasy on my account,” he said. “I will be careful.”
“As you please, Kyūsuké; but at least listen to me in one thing; while
on your journey always make it a rule to start late in the morning,
and to put up early in the evening. Above all never make a travelling
companion, and do not speak of your affairs.”
“I will bear in mind what you say, and most certainly follow your
advice,” said Kyūsuké. “A thousand thanks for all your favours, kind
master. I can never forget all I owe to you.”
With affectionate words on both sides Kyūsuké and his master parted
and the young man set out on his journey homewards. But once upon the
road the dutiful son, too eager to set his eyes once more on the
village of his forefathers, was indiscreet enough to travel from the
earliest hour of the day till late at night. So it was, that when he
was in the neighbourhood of Oiwaké in the province of Shinano he one
night lost his way in the darkness, and after a long march of five or
six _ri_ found himself in the middle of an extensive moor without a
trace of human habitation.
“What shall I do?” he asked himself. “I fear I have been too rash. Had
I followed my master’s advice I should not be in this plight. It is
only what I deserve.”
Plodding on Kyūsuké was overjoyed after a time to observe a glimmer
of light in the distance. Taking heart at this sign of a dwelling of
some kind, he bent his weary steps toward it, and by and by came to a
tumble-down cottage which appeared to be the only habitation for miles
around. Kyūsuké went up to the door and called for admittance.
“Be good enough to show favour to a stranger! I am very sorry to
disturb you at this late hour, but have lost my way and cannot find the
road. Please let me in and tell me how to get to the nearest inn.”
The door opened and a woman appeared. She was about thirty and poorly
dressed and her coiffure was of a mean style, but there was
something in her person that seemed to contradict the idea that her
birth was as low as her surroundings.
“Come in,” she said. “But you must not stay. I am indeed sorry for you,
for you stand in the middle of one of Shinano’s many moors. Whichever
way you turn you must walk about five _ri_ before you come to another
house.”
Kyūsuké being very tired requested the woman to give him a night’s
lodging, but she shook her head.
“Why did you come here?”
“I have told you; I lost my way and I saw a light. You cannot be so
inhuman as to refuse me shelter for a few hours,—I ask no more.”
“You will not want to stay when I tell you that this is the house of a
robber—a highwayman.”
“A robber!” Kyūsuké thinking of his treasure was alarmed. “Excuse me, I
must go on at once.”
“Will you not rest a few moments?”
“By no means. How can I sit down in what I have learned is the
residence of a highway-gentleman? Allow me to say Good-night; I am much
obliged to you.”
Kyūsuké was for going at once but the woman stopped him.
“Good traveller, I must tell you that you are encompassed by danger in
every direction. After all, I think the safest course for you to pursue
is to remain here for the night and I will hide you from my husband. He
will not be back for some time yet.”
The manner and speech of the woman inspired confidence, so Kyūsuké
deemed it prudent to abide by her advice. Taking off the large bamboo
hat that he wore as a protection from both sun and rain, he sat down on
the boarded floor of the kitchen glad to rest his weary limbs at last.
The woman hurriedly prepared a simple supper for him, which he ate with
relish, though in haste, as he feared the return of the master. The
woman then led him to a wood-shed at the back of the cottage and said:—
“You would be in great danger should my husband discover you. So keep
yourself hidden in this shed and do not mind a little discomfort. As
soon as it is day and my husband goes out, I will let you out and you
can continue your journey in safety.”
Kyūsuké thanked her warmly, and had not long ensconced himself among
the piles of firewood, making himself as comfortable as he could under
the circumstances, when he heard a sound that caused his heart to
leap into his mouth.
“O-Nami, I have returned.”
“Oh, is it you at last?” welcomed the wife.
“How cold it is! Confound those killing winds that blow, down from Mt.
Asama! O-Nami!”
“Yes; what is it?”
“Whose hat is that?”
[Illustration: “Whose hat is that?”]
“Hat? What hat?”
“Come, no equivocations! There is a strange hat on the floor, and you
know whose it is. Out with it! I don’t like this underhand way you have
acquired of hiding things from me. You are concealing someone in the
house!”
“Indeed, no! Why should I want to conceal anyone.”
“Then how did this bamboo hat get here? Do you want me to believe that
the wind blew it in, as ours is the only building to check its course
for miles around? Come, woman, speak up!”