TRAVEL EDUCATION
The large, well-cared-for house in which we had taken refuge that
stormy night was crowded full of busy workers. With the exception of
the living rooms of our host, his wife, and two daughters, the entire
house was full of skeleton frames containing tiers and tiers of bamboo
trays, each holding a network screen covered with silkworms. There must
have been thousands and thousands of them. I had been accustomed to
silkworms all my life. Ishi's home had been in a weaving village, and
my elder sister had many silk villages on her three-mountain estate;
but I never before had spent a night in sound of the continual nibbling
of the hungry little creatures. It filled the whole house with a gentle
rustling, exactly like the patter of raindrops on dry leaves, and I
dreamed all night of dripping eaves. The next morning I awakened with
a depressed feeling that I was to have a day's ride in a close-shut
jinrikisha, and was surprised, when I pushed back one of the wooden
panels at the porch edge, to find that the sun was shining.
While I was standing there, one of the daughters, about my age, came
out carrying a straw mat of silkworm waste to throw on a pile in the
yard--for the mulberry stems and rice hulls of silkworm waste make the
best fertilizer in the world--and she stopped to bow good-morning.
Then she stood there in the June sunshine with her sleeves looped back
and her bare feet in straw sandals, and I squatted on the edge of the
porch in my home-dyed night kimono, and we got acquainted.
She told me that she took care of six trays of silkworms all by
herself. She seemed to know everything about them, and she loved them.
"They're clean," she said, "and dainty about food, and intelligent
about their own affairs--just like people."
I was so interested in all the surprising things I heard that I was
still listening when a girl came to fold away my bed cushions, and I
had to hurry to get dressed.
"Well," said Brother, after my room had been cleaned, and breakfast
brought in, "how do you like living in a boarding house?"
"The boarders are very noisy," I replied; "and, from what our hostess's
daughter told me, they are very particular. She says they cannot endure
one particle of dust. Even a withered leaf will sometimes cause one to
'tie on his blue neckerchief' and creep to the outer edge of the tray."
"Have you seen our host's grandmother?" asked Brother.
"No, I didn't know there was a grandmother."
"She went early to her cushions last night; probably to escape the
bustle and annoyance of our abrupt arrival. We will pay our respects to
her before we leave."
When breakfast was over, our host took us to the grandmother's room.
She was a very old lady with a reserved manner and a face of more than
usual intelligence. As soon as she bowed I knew that she had been
trained in a samurai house, and when I saw the crest of a _naginata_ on
the wall-rest above the _shoji_, I knew why Brother had wanted me to
come to this room.
A _naginata_ is a long, light spear with curved blade, which samurai
women were taught to use, partly for exercise and partly for defence
in case of necessity. This one bore the crest of one of our northern
heroes. He was a traitor, but nevertheless he was a hero. When he was
killed, his daughter was one of the group--three of them women--who
defended the sorely pressed castle during the last desperate hours of
hopeless struggle. The old lady told us, with modest pride, that she
had been a humble attendant of the daughter and was with her at that
dreadful time. The _naginata_ was a memory gift from her honourable and
beloved mistress.
Seeing that we were deeply interested, she brought out her other
treasure--a slender, blunt knife called a _kogai_, which, with the
throwing-dagger, forms part of the hilt of a samurai's long sword. In
very ancient days Japanese warfare was a science. Artistic skill was
always displayed in the use of weapons, and no soldier was proud of
having wounded an enemy in any other manner than the one established by
strict samurai rule. The long sword had for its goal only four points:
the top of the head, the wrist, the side, and the leg below the knee.
The throwing-dagger must speed on its way, true as an arrow, direct
to forehead, throat, or wrist. But the blunt little _kogai_ had many
uses. It was the key that locked the sword in its scabbard; when double
it could be used as chopsticks by the marching soldier; it has been
used on the battlefield, or in retreat, mercifully to pierce the ankle
vein of a suffering and dying comrade, and it had the unique use in
a clan feud, when found sticking upright in the ankle of a dead foe,
of bearing the silent challenge, "I await thy return." Its crest told
to whom it belonged and, in time, it generally was returned--to its
owner's ankle. The _kogai_ figures in many tales of romance and revenge
of the Middle Ages.
I was glad to see Brother so interested, and was happy myself in
watching the old lady's face flush and light up with her memories; but
her closing words made me feel sorry. To some remark of Brother's she
replied, "Youth is always listening eagerly for marching orders; but
the aged can only look backward to sad memories and hopeless dreams."
As I mounted my jinrikisha and bowed again to the entire group of
family and servants bowing in the doorway, I could not help sending
a thought farewell to the busy little boarders. I had learned more
about silkworms during that short rustling visit than in my fourteen
years of life in a silkworm district. As we rolled along over a
smooth, monotonous road my mind was busy, and I believe that then and
there I first began to realize--vaguely--that all creatures, however
insignificant, were "intelligent about their own affairs--just like
people."
"Dear me!" I finally said to myself. "How much we learn when we
travel!" and I pulled the jinrikisha robe over my lap and settled
myself for the long ride ahead.
I think I must have gone to sleep, for I found myself crookedly but
comfortably snuggled into almost a _kinoji_ when I heard Brother's
voice.
We were entering a good-sized town and he was leaning back and pointing
across the tiled roofs to a castle on the hill beyond.
"This is Komoro," he called, "and there's where the foot-high dolls
came from."
I smiled as my mind flew back to the Nagaoka home and pictured
two enormous dolls of the festival set brought by our Komoro
great-great-grandmother with her wedding dowry. In her day the
Government permitted only the daughter of a daimio to own dolls a
foot high, and her entire set must have been wondrously handsome. But
in my time, when our living came principally from the visits of the
second-hand man to our godown, the wonderful Komoro dolls, with their
miniature furniture of gold and lacquer--the perfection of Japanese art
of the Middle Ages--gradually found new homes. They went, I know, to
no godown of Japan, but, through some shrewd dealer, into foreign hands
and foreign lands and probably to-day are calmly resting in widely
scattered homes and museums of Europe or America.
Two of the dolls had become defaced in some way, and thus, being
unsaleable, they were placed as ornaments on the high _tokonoma_ shelf
in my room. I was very fond of acting out scenes of the stories that
were told me, and I used to take down the dolls and use them as an
audience while I strutted around the room representing an ancient
samurai with some fearful duty to perform. The dolls' heads were
movable, and thus supplied a splendid opportunity for a favourite
revenge story of mine. Many a time I have placed my hand on one of the
enamelled heads and, with my ivory paper knife as a sword, have struck
fiercely at the doll, at the same instant lifting out the head from its
collar of rich brocade; then, with stern, set face, I would hurriedly
wrap the head in a purple square of crêpe and, tucking it under my arm,
stride boldly off to an imaginary courtroom.
I suspect my father knew of this barbarous game of mine, for I always
borrowed his purple crêpe _fukusa_ for this purpose, feeling that
something belonging to him would give dignity to the occasion; but
I never heard Honourable Grandmother's step on the porch that I did
not quickly restore the head to its brocade nest in order to save her
another anxious fear that I was growing too bold and rough ever to find
a husband.
As our jinrikishas rolled through the town I looked up at the castle
with interest. And this was the home from which our Komoro grandmother
had gone forth on her wedding journey to Nagaoka! Half buried in trees
it stood, the gray, tipped-up corners of many roofs peeping through the
branches. It looked like a broad, low pagoda towering above a slanting
wall of six-sided stones--the "tortoise back" of all Japanese castles.
From Komoro to Nagaoka! It must have seemed a long trip to the young
girl in the teetering bridal _kago_! I thought of what Honourable
Grandmother had told me of her own month-long bridal trip. And then
I looked ahead. The Idzumo gods, who plan all marriages, had decreed
the same fate for many brides of our family, and, so far as my own
future was planned, I seemed destined to follow in the footsteps of my
ancestors.
At one place where we had to take _kagos_ I disgraced myself. I dreaded
a _kago_. The big basket swinging from the shoulders of the trotting
coolies always made me dizzy and faint, but that day it was raining
hard and the mountain path was too rough for a jinrikisha. I stood
things as bravely as I could, but finally I became so sick that Brother
had the baggage taken off the horse and, wedging me in between cushions
on its back, covered me with a tent made of a straw mat and, disdaining
comfort for himself, walked all the way up the mountain beside me, the
coolie following with the two _kagos_.
At the top the sun was shining, and when I peeped out from my tent
Brother was shaking himself as my poor Shiro used to do when drenched
with rain. I ventured to apologize in a shamed voice.
"_Kago_ sickness is a great absorber of pride, Etsu-bo. I'm afraid you
have lost your right to be called your father's 'brave son.'"
I laughed, but my cheeks were hot.
As he helped me to the ground, Brother pointed toward a wide-spreading
cloud of smoke floating lazily above a cone-shaped mountain.
"That's the signpost for the Robber Station," he said. "Do you
remember?"
Indeed I did. Many times I had heard Father tell the story of the
small hotel at the top of a mountain where the rates were so high
that people called it the 'Robber Station.' I was a big girl before I
learned that it was a very respectable stopping place and not a den of
thieves where money was extorted from travellers as tribute.
We walked down the mountain, passing several cave shrines. In one I
caught the twinkle of a burning lamp. It reminded me of the hermit
caves of Echigo. This was my first long trip from home, and it was full
of strange new experiences. Yet there seemed to be familiar memories
connected with everything. I wondered vaguely if I should find it so in
America.
One day, after a shower, as the man stopped to lower the top of my
jinrikisha, a sudden burst of sunshine showed me, high up on the
mountain-side, pressed flat against the green, an immense white _dai_,
the Japanese character meaning "great." It looked as if it had been
painted with a brush, but Jiya, who had once been there, had told me
that it was made of strips of bamboo covered thickly with paper prayers
tied on by pilgrim visitors to the temple on top of the mountain.
Near by was the rude little village where Miyo lived. She was Jiya's
sister, and we spent the night in her house. It was a queer place, a
sort of cheap hotel for country people. Miyo, with her son and his
wife, met us at the door with deep bows and many a "_Maa! Maa!_" of
surprise and pleasure. The wide entrance opened into a big room having
a clay floor. Several casks bound with hoops of twisted bamboo were
piled in one corner, and from the smoky ceiling hung a bulging bag of
grain, bunches of _mochi_ cakes and dried fish, and bamboo baskets
containing provisions of various kinds.
We passed through a mob of chattering pilgrims who had just come down
from the mountain, and, crossing the stones of a crude little garden,
reached the rooms where Miyo lived. Everything was clean, but the
paper doors were patched, the mats yellow with age, and the cloth
bindings worn almost through. Miyo must have had a rather hard time
in the past; for she was an independent character who, in violation
of all tradition, had cast off a worthless husband and brought up her
four children herself. Of course it was very low class to do a thing
like that, but she was as brave as a man, and, since her husband had no
parents, she had been able legally to keep the children herself.
Miyo had been a servant in our house when Brother was a child, and
her delight in seeing the "Young Master" was pathetic. Her bare feet
went pattering over the mats, slipping quickly into her sandals each
time she crossed the doorsill to the kitchen. She hurried here and
there, bringing us the best she had and offering everything with bows
and apologies. One thing troubled her very much. She had only wooden
trays with no feet, and she had never known my brother to eat off a
low tray. In the days when she lived at our house, even an informal
serving of cake was presented to him on a high lacquer stand, just as
it was to Father. But she was ingenious, and presently she brought in
a brassbound rice-bucket and with many bows and an anxious "Please
grant your honourable pardon!" placed the tray on it before Brother.
He laughed heartily and said that even a shogun had never received a
similar honour.
We sat up very late and had a most interesting time. Brother talked of
past days and of many things about our home, so little known to me that
I felt as if I were reading some old, half-familiar book. I had never
known him to be so free and merry as he was that evening. And Miyo,
half laughter and half tears, talked rapidly, asking many questions
and interrupting herself continually. She was reminding him of some
incident of his childhood, when he abruptly asked: "What became of your
'own-choice' husband, Miyo?"
I thought that question was too cruel, but Miyo calmly replied: "Young
Master, 'The rust of one's own sword can be brightened only by one's
own effort.' I am still paying the penalty of my life mistake."
Very gravely she went across the room to a big chest and took out a
small, flat package. It was a square of purple crêpe bearing our crest.
With a serious face she unfolded it, showing a brocade charm bag such
as we children used to wear to hold the paper blessing of the priest.
The gold threads were a little ravelled and the heavy scarlet cord
mellowed with age.
Miyo lifted it reverently to her forehead.
"The Honourable Mistress gave it to me," she said to Brother, "the
night she let my lover and me through the water gate. It held square
silver coins--all that I needed."
"Ah!" Brother exclaimed excitedly, "I know! I was a little boy. It was
dark and I saw her coming back alone, carrying a lantern. But I never
understood what it meant."
Miyo hesitated a moment; then she told us.
When she was employed in our house, she was very young, and because she
was the sister of Father's faithful Jiya, she was allowed much freedom.
A youthful servant, also of our house, fell in love with her. For young
people to become lovers without the sanction of proper formalities was
a grave offence in any class, but in a samurai household it was a black
disgrace to the house. The penalty was exile through the water gate--a
gate of brush built over a stream and never used except by one of the
_eta_, or outcast, class. The departure was public, and the culprits
were ever after shunned by everyone. The penalty was unspeakably
cruel, but in the old days severe measures were used as a preventive of
law-breaking.
Mother always rigidly obeyed every law of the household, but she saved
Miyo from public disgrace by taking the lovers quietly, at midnight,
and herself opening the big swinging gate for them to pass. No one ever
knew the truth.
"It is said," concluded Miyo sadly, "that the hearts of those who pass
the water gate are purified by the gods; but even so, the penalty of a
law-breaker can never be evaded. In secret I have paid the penalty, and
my children were saved from disgrace by the heavenly kindness of the
Honourable Mistress of the Inagaki."
We all sat quiet for a moment. Then Brother said bitterly:
"The Honourable Mistress of the Inagaki was many times more merciful to
the servants of her household than to her one and only son."
Impatiently he pushed his cushion aside and abruptly said good-night.
The next morning our road wound along the side of a mountain stream
awkwardly threading its way through a series of angular gullies,
finally ending abruptly in a swift, sloping leap into a wide, shallow
river, which we crossed on a boat poled by coolies. This river was
the scene of one of Jiya's most exciting stories. Father, on one of
his hurried trips to Tokyo, had found it flooded and had ordered his
coolies to place his palanquin on a platform and carry it on their
heads through the whirling waves to the opposite shore. One man was
drowned.
As our jinrikishas rolled along I thought of how often Father had gone
over that road amidst the state and pomp of old Japan; and now his two
dear ones--his eldest and his youngest--were following the same path
in rented jinrikishas, simply garbed and with no attendants except a
wheezy old coolie with a baggage horse. How strange it seemed.
At last we reached Takasaki--the place from which the celebrated "land
steamer" started on its puffing way to Tokyo. That was the first time
that I ever saw a railway train. It looked to me like a long row of
little rooms, each with a narrow door opening on to the platform.
It was late in the afternoon, and I was so weary that I have little
recollection of anything except a scolding from Brother, because I,
feeling that I was entering some kind of a house, stepped out of my
wooden shoes, leaving them on the platform. Just before the train
started, they were handed in at the window by an official whose special
duty it was to gather all the shoes from the platform before the
starting of every train. I went to sleep at once, and the next thing I
knew we were in Tokyo.