[Illustration: _Madame Etsu Inagaki Sugimoto_]
A DAUGHTER OF
THE SAMURAI
BY
ETSU INAGAKI SUGIMOTO
INSTRUCTOR IN JAPANESE LANGUAGE AND
HISTORY, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
_How a daughter of feudal Japan, living
hundreds of years in one generation,
became a modern American_
FRONTISPIECE
BY
ICHIRO HORI
_SPECIAL EDITION_
PUBLISHED BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE _&_ COMPANY
FOR
JAPAN SOCIETY
36 WEST 44TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Much of the material of this book originally appeared in _Asia_ but has
been thoroughly revised for book publication.
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE
& COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
WITH RESPECT AND LOVE AND DEEPEST GRATITUDE
I DEDICATE THESE SACRED MEMORIES
TO
MY TWO MOTHERS
WHOSE LIVES AND ENVIRONMENTS WERE FAR APART,
YET WHOSE HEARTS MET IN MINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
TO
NANCY VIRGINIA AUSTEN
Whose pleasant friendship, energetic spirit, and practical knowledge
encouraged me to believe that a little Etsu-bo, with a heart full of
love for old Japan, could gather the falling fragments of samurai
spirit and weave them into a fragrant chain for the readers of to-day.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Winters in Echigo 1
II. Curly Hair 11
III. Days of Kan 17
IV. The Old and the New 25
V. Falling Leaves 33
VI. A Sunny New Year 42
VII. The Wedding That Never Was 53
VIII. Two Ventures 61
IX. The Story of a Marionette 73
X. The Day of the Bird 87
XI. My First Journey 98
XII. Travel Education 107
XIII. Foreigners 118
XIV. Lessons 127
XV. How I Became a Christian 137
XVI. Sailing Unknown Seas 148
XVII. First Impressions 160
XVIII. Strange Customs 175
XIX. Thinking 187
XX. Neighbours 196
XXI. New Experiences 206
XXII. Flower in a Strange Land 221
XXIII. Chiyo 230
XXIV. In Japan Again 242
XXV. Our Tokyo Home 246
XXVI. Tragic Trifles 254
XXVII. Honourable Grandmother 262
XXVIII. Sister's Visit 273
XXIX. A Lady of Old Japan 280
XXX. The White Cow 289
XXXI. Worthless Treasures 301
XXXII. The Black Ships 311
ILLUSTRATIONS
Madame Etsu Inagaki Sugimoto _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
My greatest pleasure was going to the temple with
Mother 42
INTRODUCTION
There are many happy adventures for those who work in the strange
world of printers' ink; and in some lucky moment of inspiration,
several years ago, I asked Mrs. Sugimoto to write, for my column in a
Philadelphia newspaper, some little memories of her girlhood in Japan.
The story of the dog Shiro, whose prosperity in a future life she
endangered by giving him her own cushion; her childish sadness about
her curly hair; her pensive trouble when she discovered that American
women were not really more modest than Japanese--these and a few other
charming episodes first found their way into print in that newspaper,
and gradually led to this beautiful and thrilling book. It is an honour
to be asked by Mrs. Sugimoto to say a word of introduction here. I
only wish that I knew how to make it ceremonious enough. For the inner
suggestion of her book is surely that life in its highest moments is
a kind of ceremony in honour of the unknown gods. "The eyelids of a
Samurai," Mrs. Sugimoto tells us, "know not moisture." But the "red
barbarians," who have not learned the old stoic art, may be forgiven
if they feel occasionally, among her tender paragraphs, that dangerous
prickling that great truth conveys.
What a lovely book it is, and how much it has to teach us. I have a
secret notion that it will go on for years and years, making friends
for itself and for the brave woman who wrote it, and also--this would
please her most--friends for Japan. Is it not a perfect book for
children to read? I don't know any collection of fairy tales more
entrancing. And for parents too: is it not the subtlest kind of
treatise on education? For the pure art and humour and simplicity of
the narrative: where is there a more charming short story than that
of Mr. Toda? A great American writer, who was in many things as far
as possible from the old Samurai codes (Walt Whitman), said, "As soon
as histories are properly told there is no more need of romances."
This book is a history properly told. Some of us may think that Mrs.
Sugimoto has been even a little too generous toward the America she
adopted. But she came among us as Conrad came among the English; and if
the little Etsu-bo, the well-loved tomboy of snowy winters in Echigo,
finds beauty in our strange and violent ways, we can only be grateful.
Among her delicate and significant anecdotes, each a gem of artistic
thought and feeling, she tells of the Japanese fiancée whose
betrothed had a plum-blossom as his family crest, and therefore the
young woman must pay particular honour to that flower, and could not
even eat plum jelly, which would be disrespectful to the emblem of her
future husband. In the same way I feel obscurely that I must not write
too much about Mrs. Sugimoto: because I honour her greatly, to write
fulsomely here would be disrespectful to her beautiful book. I can only
say that this story of a Japanese girlhood and of the brave child who
found a seed of liberty stirring in her heart seems to me one of those
rare triumphs where two diverse worlds speak openly to one another and
both are profited.
One of my pleasantest memories is of a time when Mrs. Sugimoto, in her
Japanese costume, accompanied as a great lady should be by her daughter
and a loved companion, came far downtown in hot weather to visit me in
a New York newspaper office. She felt, though surely too generously,
that I had tried to be courteous; and this required, on her part, a
gesture of appreciation. I have never forgotten it: her gay little
figure, charming as a bird or flower in her vivid robe, brightening
for a few minutes that busy, noisy place. What the expedition may have
cost her, in weariness or alarm or secret distresses, I hesitate to
conjecture. Only a brave and great-minded person would have ventured
it. That she is brave and great-minded and a true daughter of the
Samurai no reader will ever doubt. How startled, I suppose, some of her
knightly ancestors would be to find her putting her private thoughts on
paper for all the world to see. Then indeed the shrines would be pasted
up and there would be horrified silence. But it was that old, hard and
feudal code that gave her strength to break through paper formalities
when she felt it needful. She has given us here a unique picture of
the exquisite complexity and beauty of all human life. She is a great
teacher, and I would not willingly even tread on her shadow.
Christopher Morley.
A DAUGHTER OF THE SAMURAI
CHAPTER I
WINTERS IN ECHIGO
Japan is often called by foreign people a land of sunshine and cherry
blossoms. This is because tourists generally visit only the eastern and
southern parts of the country, where the climate is mild all the year
round. On the northwest coast the winters are long, snow often covering
the ground from December to March or April.
In the province of Echigo, where was my home, winter usually began with
a heavy snow which came down fast and steady until only the thick,
round ridge-poles of our thatched roofs could be seen. Then groups
of coolies, with straw mats over their shoulders and big woven hats
that looked like umbrellas, came and with broad wooden shovels cut
tunnels through from one side of the street to the other. The snow
was not removed from the middle of the street all winter. It lay in a
long pile, towering far above the house-tops. The coolies cut steps,
for they were carrying snow at intervals all winter, and we children
used to climb up and run along the top. We played many games there,
sometimes pretending we were knights rescuing a snow-bound village, or
fierce brigands stealing upon it for an attack.
But a still more exciting time for us was before the snow came, when
the entire town was making preparations for winter. This always took
several weeks, and each day as we went to and from school we would
stop to watch the coolies busily wrapping the statues and small shrines
along the streets in their winter clothing of straw. The stone lanterns
and all the trees and bushes of our gardens were enclosed in straw,
and even the outside walls of the temples were protected by sheets of
matting fastened on with strips of bamboo, or immense nettings made of
straw rope. Every day the streets presented a new appearance, and by
the time the big carved lions at the temple steps were covered, we were
a city of grotesque straw tents of every shape and size, waiting for
the snow that would bury us in for three or four months.
Most large houses had thatched roofs with wide eaves, but the shops
on the streets had shingled roofs weighted with stones to prevent
avalanches when the snow began to melt in the spring. Above all
the sidewalks extended a permanent roof, and during the winter the
sidewalks were enclosed by walls of upright boards with an occasional
panel of oiled paper, which turned them into long halls, where we could
walk all over town in the stormiest weather, entirely protected from
wind and snow. These halls were dim, but not dark, for light shines
through snow pretty well, and even at the street corners, where we
crossed through the snow tunnels, it was light enough for us to read
good-sized characters. Many a time, coming home from school, I have
read my lessons in the tunnel, pretending that I was one of the ancient
sages who studied by snow-light.
Echigo, which means "Behind the Mountains," is so shut off from the
rest of Japan by the long Kiso range that during the early feudal days
it was considered by the Government only a frozen outpost suitable as a
place of exile for offenders too strong in position or influence to be
treated as criminals. To this class belonged reformers. In those days
Japan had little tolerance for reforms either in politics or religion,
and an especially progressive thinker at court or a broad-minded monk
was branded as equally obnoxious and sent to some desolate spot where
his ambitions would be permanently crushed. Most political offenders
that were sent to Echigo either filled the graves of the little
cemetery beyond the execution ground or lost themselves in some simple
home among the peasants. Our literature holds many a pathetic tale
of some rich and titled youth, who, disguised as a pilgrim, wanders
through the villages of Echigo, searching for his lost father.
The religious reformers fared better; for they generally spent their
lives in working quietly and inoffensively among the people. Some
founders of new Buddhist sects exiled for a lifetime, were men of great
ability, and gradually their belief spread so widely that Echigo became
known all over Japan as the stronghold of reformed Buddhism. From
earliest childhood I was familiar with priest tales and was accustomed
to seeing pictures of images cut on the rocks or carved figures
standing in caves on the mountain-sides--the work of the tireless hands
of those ancient monks.
My home was in the old castle town of Nagaoka. Our household consisted
of my father and mother, my honoured grandmother, my brother, my
sister, and myself. Then there was Jiya, my father's head servant, and
my nurse, Ishi, besides Kin and Toshi. Several other old servants came
and went on occasions. I had married sisters, all in distant homes
except the eldest, who lived about half a day's jinrikisha ride from
Nagaoka. She came occasionally to visit us, and sometimes I went home
with her to spend several days in her big thatched farmhouse, which
had been, in ancient days, the fortress of three mountains. Samurai
families often married into the farmer class, which was next in rank
to the military, and much respected, for "one who owns rice villages
holds the life of the nation in his hand."
We lived just on the edge of the town in a huge, rambling house that
had been added to from time to time ever since I could remember. As
a result, the heavy thatched roof sagged at the gable joinings, the
plaster walls had numerous jogs and patches, and the many rooms of
various sizes were connected by narrow, crooked halls that twisted
about in a most unexpected manner. Surrounding the house, but some
distance away, was a high wall of broken boulders, topped with a low,
solid fence of wood. The roof of the gateway had tipped-up corners,
and patches of moss on the brown thatch. It was supported by immense
posts between which swung wooden gates with ornamental iron hinges that
reached halfway across the heavy boards. On each side there extended,
for a short distance, a plaster wall pierced by a long, narrow window
with wooden bars. The gates were always open during the day, but if at
night there came knocking and the call "_Tano-mo-o! Tano-mo-o!_" (I ask
to enter!) even in the well-known voice of a neighbour, Jiya was so
loyal to old-time habit that he invariably ran to peep through one of
these windows before opening the gate to the guest.
From the gateway to the house was a walk of large, uneven stones,
in the wide cracks of which grew the first foreign flowers that
I ever saw--short-stemmed, round-headed little things that Jiya
called "giant's buttons." Someone had given him the seed; and as he
considered no foreign flower worthy of the dignity of a place in our
garden, he cunningly planted them where they would be trod upon by our
disrespectful feet. But they were hardy plants and grew as luxuriantly
as moss.
That our home was such a makeshift was the result of one of the
tragedies of the Restoration. Echigo Province was one of those that had
believed in the dual government. To our people, the Mikado was too
sacred to be in touch with war, or even annoying civil matters, and so
they fought to uphold the shogun power to which, for generations, their
ancestors had been loyal. At that time my father was _karo_, or first
counsellor of the daimiate of Nagaoka, a position which he had held
since the age of seven, when the sudden death of my grandfather had
left it vacant. Because of certain unusual circumstances, my father was
the only executive in power, and thus it was that during the wars of
the Restoration he had the responsibility and the duties of the office
of daimio.
At the bitterest moment that Nagaoka ever knew, Echigo found herself
on the defeated side. When my mother learned that her husband's cause
was lost and he taken prisoner, she sent her household to a place of
safety, and then, to prevent the mansion from falling into the hands
of the enemy, she with her own hands set fire to it and from the
mountain-side watched it burn to the ground.
After the stormy days of war were past and Father finally was free from
the governorship which he had been directed to retain until the central
government became stabilized, he gathered together the remains of his
family estate, and after sharing with his now "fish-on-land" retainers,
he built this temporary home on the site of his former mansion. Then
he planted a mulberry grove on a few acres of land near by and prided
himself on having levelled his rank to the class of farmer. Men of
samurai rank knew nothing about business. It had always been considered
a disgrace for them to handle money; so the management of all business
affairs was left to faithful but wholly inexperienced Jiya, while
Father devoted his life to reading, to memories, and to introducing
unwelcome ideas of progressive reform to his less advanced neighbours.
My father, however, held on to one extravagance. The formal
once-in-two-years journey to the capital, which, before the
Restoration, the law required of men of his position, was now changed
to an informal annual trip which he laughingly called the "window
toward growing days." The name was most appropriate; for this yearly
visit of my father gave his whole family a distant view of progressing
Japan. Besides the wonderful word pictures, he also brought us gifts
of strange, unknown things--trinkets for the servants, toys for the
children, useful house articles for Mother, and often rare imported
things for the much-honoured grandmother.
Jiya always accompanied Father on these trips, and, in his position as
business manager, came in contact with tradesmen and heard many tales
of the methods of foreigners in dealing with Japanese. The cleverness
of the foreign business system was acknowledged by everyone, and
although frequently disastrous to the Japanese, it aroused admiration
and a desire to imitate. A more honest soul than Jiya never lived, but
in his desire to be loyal to the interests of his much-loved master he
once got our family name into a tangle of disgrace that took months of
time and much money to straighten out. Indeed, I doubt if the matter
was ever clearly understood by any of the parties. I know it was a sore
puzzle to Jiya as long as he lived. It happened in this way.
Jiya became acquainted with a Japanese man, who, as agent for a
foreigner, was buying up cards of silkworm eggs from all the villages
around. Such cards were prepared by having painted on them, with a
special ink, the name or crest of the owner. Then the cards were placed
beneath the butterflies, which lay on them their small, seed-like eggs
by the thousands. The cards were finally classified and sold to dealers.
This agent, who was a very wealthy man, told Jiya that if mustard seeds
were substituted for the eggs, the cards would sell at a profit that
would make his master rich. This, the agent explained, was a foreign
business method being adopted now by the merchants of Yokohama. It
was known as "the new way of making Japan strong, so the high-nosed
barbarian could no longer beat the children of Japan in trade."
As my father's mulberry grove furnished food for many of the silkworms
in near-by villages, his name was a good one for the agent to use,
and poor Jiya, delighted to be doing business in the clever new way,
was of course a willing tool. The man prepared the cards to the value
of hundreds of yen--all marked with my father's crest. Probably he
pocketed all the money; anyway, the first we knew of the affair
was when a very tall, red-faced foreign man, in strange, pipe-like
garments, called to see my father. How well I remember that important
day! Sister and I, with moistened finger-tips, melted tiny holes in the
paper doors, to peep at the wonderful stranger. We knew it was rude and
low class, but it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
I have no reason to think that foreign man was in any way to blame; and
possibly--possibly--the agent also thought that he was only competing
in cleverness with the foreigner. So many things were misunderstood
in those strange days. Of course, my father, who had known absolutely
nothing of the transaction, paid the price and made good his name, but
I doubt if he ever understood what it all meant. This was one of the
many pathetic attempts made in those days by simple-minded vassals,
whose loyal, blundering hearts were filled with more love than wisdom.
In the long winter evenings I was very fond of slipping away to the
servants' hall to watch the work going on there and to hear stories.
One evening, when I was about seven years old, I was hurrying along the
zig-zag porch leading to that part of the house when I heard voices
mingling with the thuds of soft snow being thrown from the roof. It
was unusual to have the roof cleared after dark, but Jiya was up there
arguing with the head coolie and insisting that the work must be done
that night.
"At the rate the snow is falling," I heard him say, "it will crush the
roof before morning."
One of the coolies muttered something about its being time for temple
service, and I noticed the dull tolling of the temple bell. However,
Jiya had his way, and the men went on with the work. I was astonished
at the daring of the coolie who had ventured to question Jiya's
command. To my childish mind, Jiya was a remarkable person who was
always right and whose word was law. But with all my respect for his
wisdom, I loved him with all my heart; and with reason, for he was
never too busy to twist up a straw doll for me, or to tell me a story
as I sat on a garden stone watching him work.
The servants' hall was a very large room. One half of the board floor
had straw mats scattered here and there. This was the part where the
spinning, rice-grinding, and the various occupations of the kitchen
went on. The other half, where rough or untidy work was done, was
of hard clay. In the middle of the room was the fireplace--a big,
clay-lined box sunk in the floor, with a basket of firewood beside it.
From a beam high above hung a chain from which swung various implements
used in cooking. The smoke passed out through an opening in the centre
of the roof, above which was a small extra roof to keep out the rain.
As I entered the big room, the air was filled with the buzz of work
mingled with chatter and laughter. In one corner was a maid grinding
rice for to-morrow's dumplings; another was making padded scrub-cloths
out of an old kimono; two others were tossing from one to the other
the shallow basket that shook the dark beans from the white, and a
little apart from the others sat Ishi whirling her spinning wheel with
a little tapping stick.
There was a rustle of welcome for me, for the servants all liked a
visit from "Etsu-bo Sama," as they called me. One hurried to bring me
a cushion and another tossed a handful of dried chestnut hulls on the
glowing fire. I loved the changing tints of chestnut hull embers, and
stopped a moment to watch them.
"Come here, Etsu-bo Sama!" called a soft voice.
It was Ishi. She had moved over on to the mat, leaving her cushion
for me. She knew I loved to turn the spinning wheel, so she pushed
the cotton ball into my hand, holding her own safely over it. I can
yet feel the soft pull of the thread slipping through my fingers as I
whirled the big wheel. I am afraid that I spun a very uneven thread,
and it was probably fortunate for her work that my attention was soon
attracted by Jiya's entrance. He pulled a mat over to the clay side
of the room and in a moment was seated with his foot stretched out,
holding between his toes one end of the rope he was twisting out of
rice-straw.
"Jiya San," called Ishi, "we have an honoured guest."
Jiya looked up quickly, and with a funny, bobby bow above his stretched
rope, he smilingly held up a pair of straw shoes dangling from a cord.
"Ah!" I cried, jumping up quickly and running across the clay floor to
him, "are they my snow-shoes? Have you finished them?"
"Yes, Etsu-bo Sama," he answered, putting in my hands a pair of small
straw boots, "and I have finished them just in time. This is going
to be the deepest snow we have had this year. When you go to school
to-morrow you can take a short cut, straight over the brooks and
fields, for there will be no roads anywhere."
As usual Jiya's prediction was right. Without our snow-boots we girls
could not have gone to school at all. Moreover, his persistence with
the coolies had saved our roof; for before morning five feet more of
snow filled the deep-cut paths and piled on top of the long white
mountain in the street.