THE WEDDING THAT NEVER WAS
The pleasant days of New Year barely lasted through the holidays. We
usually left the _mochi_ cakes on the _tokonoma_ until the fifteenth,
but it was everywhere the custom to remove the pines from the gateways
on the morning of the eighth day. There was a tradition (which nobody
believed, however) that during the seventh night the trees sink into
the earth, leaving only the tips visible above the ground. Literally,
this was true that year, for when we wakened on the morning of the
eighth, I found the three-foot paths filled and our whole garden a
level land of snow about four feet deep. Our low pines at the gateway
were snowed under, and we saw nothing more of them until spring.
Every coolie in Nagaoka was busy that day, for the snow was unexpected
and heavy. More followed, and in a few weeks we children were going
to school beneath covered sidewalks and through snow tunnels; and our
beautiful New Year was only a sunshiny memory.
One afternoon, as I was coming home from school, a postman, in his
straw coat and big straw snow-shoes, came slipping down through a
tunnel opening, from the snowy plain above.
"_Maa!_ Little Mistress," he called gaily, when he saw me, "I have mail
for your house from America."
"From America!" I exclaimed, greatly surprised; for a letter from a
foreign land had never come to us before. It was an exciting event. I
tried to keep the postman in sight as he hurried along the narrow walk
between the snow wall and the row of open-front shops. Occasionally he
would call out "A message!"--"A message!" and stop to put mail into an
outstretched hand. The path was narrow and I frequently was jostled by
passing people, but I was not far behind the postman when he turned
into our street. I knew he would go to the side entrance with the mail;
so I hurried very fast and had reached Grandmother's room and already
made my bow of "I have come back," before a maid entered with the mail.
The wonderful letter was for Mother, and Grandmother asked me to carry
it to her.
My heart sank with disappointment; for my chance to see it opened was
gone. I knew that, as soon as Mother received it, she would take it at
once to Grandmother, but I should not be there. Then Grandmother would
look at it very carefully through her big horn spectacles and hand it
back to Mother, saying in a slow and ceremonious manner, "Please open!"
Of course she would be agitated, because it was a foreign letter, but
that would only make her still more slow and ceremonious. I could see
the whole picture in my mind as I walked through the hall, carrying the
big, odd-shaped envelope to Mother's room.
That evening after family service before the shrine, Grandmother kept
her head bowed longer than usual. When she raised it she sat up very
straight and announced solemnly, with the most formal dignity, almost
like a temple service, that the young master, who had been in America
for several years, was to return to his home. This was startling news,
for my brother had been gone almost since I could remember and his name
was never mentioned. To call him the "young master" was sufficient
explanation that the unknown tragedy was past, and he reinstated in
his position as a son. The servants, sitting in the rear of the room,
bowed to the floor in silent congratulation, but they seemed to be
struggling with suppressed excitement. I did not stop to wonder why.
It was enough for me to know that my brother was coming home. I could
scarcely hold the joy in my heart.
I must have been very young when my brother went away, for though
I could distinctly recall the day he left, all memory of what went
before or came immediately after was dim. I remember a sunny morning
when our house was decorated with wondrous beauty and the servants
all wore ceremonial dress with the Inagaki crest. It was the day of
my brother's marriage. In the _tokonoma_ of our best room was one
of our treasures--a triple roll picture of pine, bamboo, and plum,
painted by an ancient artist. On the platform beneath was the beautiful
Takasago table where the white-haired old couple with rake and broom
were gathering pine needles on the shore. Other emblems of happy
married life were everywhere, for each gift--and there were whole rooms
full--was decorated with small figures of snowy storks, of gold-brown
tortoises, or beautiful sprays of entwined pine, bamboo, and plum.
Two new rooms, which had been recently built, were full of beautiful
lacquer toilet cases and whitewood chests with iron clasps. They had
come the day before, in a procession of immense trays swinging from
poles on the shoulders of coolies. Each was covered with a cloth
bearing a crest not ours.
Ishi and I wandered from room to room, she explaining that the bride
for the young master would soon be there. She allowed me one peep into
the wedding room. It was all white and plain and empty except for the
offerings to the gods on the _tokonoma_ and the little table with the
three red cups for the sacred promise.
Ishi was continually running to look out toward the big entrance
gate, and of course wherever she went I was close by, holding to her
sleeve. The whole house was open. The sliding doors of every room
were pushed back and we could see clear to the big open gateway at
the end of the stone walk. Just beneath its narrow thatch was looped
a dark-blue curtain bearing the Inagaki crest and on each side were
tall slender stands holding lanterns of congratulation. Near one of
the stone posts was the "seven-and-a-half-times" messenger in his
stiff-sleeved garment. He had returned from his seventh trip to see if
the bridal procession was coming, and though the day was bright with
sunshine, was just lighting his big lantern for his last trip to meet
it halfway--thus showing our eagerness to welcome the coming bride.
Presently Ishi said that the procession was almost here and I saw the
servants hurrying toward the entrance, all smiling, but moving with
such respectful quiet that I could hear plainly the creaking of the
bride's palanquin and the soft thud of the jinrikisha men's feet as
they came up the hill.
Then suddenly something was wrong. Ishi caught my shoulder and pulled
me back, and Brother came hurriedly out of Father's room. He passed us
with long, swinging strides, never looking at me at all, and, stepping
into his shoes on the garden step, he walked rapidly toward the side
entrance. I had never seen him after that day.
The maiden my brother was to have married did not return to her former
home. Having left it to become a bride, she was legally no longer a
member of her father's family. This unusual problem Mother solved by
inviting her to remain in our home as a daughter; which she did until
finally Mother arranged a good marriage for her.
In a childish way I wondered about all the strangeness, but years had
passed before I connected it with the sudden going away at this time
of a graceful little maid named Tama, who used to arrange flowers and
perform light duties. Her merry laugh and ready tongue made her a
favourite with the entire household. Tama was not a servant. In those
days it was the custom for daughters of wealthy tradesmen to be sent to
live for a short time in a house of rank, that the maiden might learn
the strict etiquette of samurai home life. This position was far from
menial. A girl living with a family for social education was always
treated with respectful consideration.
The morning after my brother went away I was going, as usual, to pay my
morning greetings to my father when I met Tama coming from his door,
looking pale and startled. She bowed good morning to me and then passed
quietly on. That afternoon I missed her and Ishi told me that she had
gone home.
Whatever may have been between my brother and Tama I never knew; but
I cannot but feel that, guilt or innocence, there was somewhere a
trace of courage. My brother was weak, of course, to prolong his heart
struggle until almost the last moment, but he must have had much of his
father's strong character to enable him, even then, to break with the
traditions of his rigid training and defy his father's command. In that
day there could be only a hopeless ending to such an affair, for no
marriage was legal without the consent of parents, and my father, with
heart wounded and pride shamed, had declared that he had no son.
It was not until several years later that I heard again of my brother.
One afternoon Father was showing me some twisting tricks with a string.
I was kneeling close beside his cushion, watching his rapidly moving
hands and trying to catch his fingers in my own. Mother was sitting
near with her sewing, and all three of us were laughing.
A maid came to the door to say that Major Sato, a Tokyo gentleman whom
my father knew very well, had called. I slipped back by Mother. She
started to leave the room, but Father motioned her not to go, and so
we both remained.
I shall never forget that scene. Major Sato, speaking with great
earnestness, told how my brother had gone to Tokyo and entered the Army
College. With only his own efforts he had completed the course with
honour and was now a lieutenant. There Major Sato paused.
My father sat very still with his head held high and absolutely no
expression on his stern face. For a full minute the room was so silent
that I could hear myself breathe. Then my father, still without moving,
asked quietly, "Is your message delivered, Major Sato?"
"It is finished," was the reply.
"Your interest is appreciated, Major Sato. This is my answer: I have
daughters, but no son."
Mother had sat perfectly quiet throughout, with her head bowed and her
hands tightly clasped in her lap. When Father spoke she gave a little
shudder but did not move.
Presently Father turned toward her. "Wife," he said very gently, "ask
Ishi to bring the _go_ board, and send wine to the honourable guest."
Whatever was in the heart of either man, they calmly played the game to
the end, and Mother and I sat there in the deep silence as motionless
as statues.
That night when Ishi was helping me undress, I saw tears in her eyes.
"What troubles you, Ishi?" I asked. "Why do you almost cry?"
She sank to her knees, burying her face in her sleeves, and for the
only time in my life I heard Ishi wail like a servant. "Oh, Little
Mistress, Little Mistress," she sobbed, "I am not sad. I am glad. I am
thankful to the gods that I am lowly born and can cry when my heart is
filled with ache and can laugh when my heart sings. Oh, my dear, dear
Mistress! My poor, poor Master!" And she still sobbed.
That was all long ago, and now, after many years, my brother was coming
back to his home.
The snow went away, the spring passed and summer was with us. It seemed
a long, long wait, but at last came a day when the shrine doors were
opened early in the morning and the candles kept burning steadily hour
after hour, for Grandmother wanted the presence of the ancestors in the
welcome to the wanderer, and as the trip from Tokyo was by jinrikisha
and _kago_ in those days, the time of arrival was very uncertain. But
at last the call "Honourable return!" at the gateway brought everyone
except Grandmother to the entrance. We all bowed our faces to the
floor, but nevertheless I saw a man in foreign dress jump from his
jinrikisha, give a quick look around, and then walk slowly up the old
stone path toward us. He stopped at one place and smiled as he pulled a
tuft of the little blossoms growing between the stones. But he threw it
away at once and came on.
The greetings at the door were very short. Brother and Mother bowed,
he speaking gently to her and she looking at him with a smile that
had tears close behind. Then he laughingly called me "the same
curly-haired, round-faced Etsu-bo."
His foreign shoes were removed by Jiya, and we went in. Of course,
he went to the shrine first. He bowed and did everything just right,
but too quickly, and some way I felt troubled. Then he went to
Grandmother's room.
Immediately after greetings were over, Grandmother handed him Father's
lacquer letter-box. He lifted it to his forehead with formal courtesy;
then, taking out the letter, he slowly unrolled it and, with a strange
expression, sat looking at the writing. I was shocked to feel that I
could not know whether that look meant bitterness, or amusement, or
hopelessness. It seemed to be a combination of all three. The message
was very short. In a trembling hand was written: "You are now the head
of Inagaki. My son, I trust you." That was all.
That evening a grand dinner was served in our best room. Brother sat
next the _tokonoma_. All the near relatives were there, and we had the
kind of food Brother used to like. There was a great deal of talking,
but he was rather quiet, although he told us some things about America.
I watched him as he talked. His strange dress with tight sleeves and
his black stockings suggested kitchen people, and he sat cross-legged
on his cushion. His voice was rather loud and he had a quick way of
looking from one person to another that was almost startling. I felt
a little troubled and uncertain--almost disappointed; for in some
puzzling way he was different from what I wanted him to be. But one
thing I loved at once. He had the same soft twinkle in his eyes when
he smiled that Father had. Every time I saw that, I felt that however
different from Father he might look--or be--he really had the lovable
part of Father in his heart. And in spite of a vague fear, I knew,
deep, deep down, that whatever might happen in the days, or years, to
come, I should always love him and should always be true to him. And I
always have.