OUR TOKYO HOME
A few weeks later the children and I, with capable little Sudzu in the
kitchen, were settled in a pretty home in Tokyo. The arrangement with
Matsuo's family was that some one of the relatives would visit us at
intervals to see that everything was satisfactory; and that I was to
consult the council about every new, even trifling, problem which might
arise.
I was chained--but I was content.
My relatives in Nagaoka were much concerned over my peculiar position;
and Mother, because it would be undignified for a young widow to be
alone, decided to come and live with us. Not being able, however, to
make immediate arrangements, she sent Taki, who was now a widow, and
who, because her father and her grandfather had served in our family,
had claimed the right to return to Mother and calmly settle herself
as a member of the household. When she came to Tokyo she at once
assumed the combined responsibilities of chaperon, house-keeper, cook,
seamstress, and commander-general of us all--including Sudzu.
In less than three days Taki had discovered the best fish-shop in
the neighbourhood; and in less than a week all second-rate vegetable
venders and fruit peddlers went trotting by our kitchen door, holding
their swinging baskets away from the keen eyes of our countrywoman who
knew so well when the first blush of freshness was gone.
From the first I relied entirely upon Taki's judgment. Nevertheless,
I had some annoying experiences, for to her heart I was still little
Etsu-bo Sama, although her lips acknowledged that I had reached the
dignified position of "Oku Sama"--Honourable Mistress--and although
I had acquired some wonderful ideas and possessed two astonishingly
active children, who dressed queerly and talked too loud.
My troubles began the very first night. After Taki had closed the
outside gates and fastened the front and kitchen doors I heard her
sliding the wooden panels which ran along the outer edge of the porch
overlooking the garden. These were for protection in stormy weather
and to keep us safe at night, but when closed they shut out the air
completely.
"Don't close the _amadoes_ tight, Taki," I called. "Leave a little
space between them. We need fresh air for the rooms."
"_Maa! Maa!_" cried Taki, with profound astonishment in her voice. "You
left your home when you had but little learning, Oku Sama. Air without
the smile of the august Sun goddess has poison in it."
"But, Taki," I protested, "this is like a foreign house. It has gas for
the heaters, and we need outside air, even at night."
She hesitated, evidently much distressed.
"It may be that air in the honourable foreign house is different," she
muttered, "but it seems peculiar--peculiar. And besides, it is not safe
in a great city where burglars live."
She walked away shaking her head and grumbling to herself. Feeling that
I had established my authority, I went to bed, only to be awakened by
a stealthy, intermittent rumbling, which presently ended in a muffled
snap as Taki pushed in the wooden bolt of the last panel.
"Well," I said to myself, half provoked, half amused, "Taki always had
her own way, even with the jailer of Nagaoka prison. So what could _I_
expect!"
Like many Japanese women of the working class, Taki had been obliged to
take a large share of the burden of livelihood on her own shoulders.
Her husband was a kind man and a good workman, but he drank too much
_sake_, and that meant not only a mysterious slipping away of wages,
but frequent imprisonment for debt.
Whenever this happened Taki came to our home, and Mother would give
her employment until she had saved enough to set her husband free. One
day while she was working for us, my older sister went out with her
on an errand. Just beyond the gate they saw two men approaching. One
was a well-dressed man, his head covered with the basket mask worn by
all prisoners outside the walls. Sister said that Taki stood still,
watching the men suspiciously, and did not seem surprised when they
stopped.
The officer bowed and said pleasantly: "Only three _yen_ is due now.
Pay that and he is free."
"Oh, please, Mr. Officer," exclaimed Taki in great distress, "_please_
keep him just a few weeks longer. Then I shall have all the debts paid
and a little start for the next time. _Please_ keep him just a little
longer. Please!"
The husband, poor man, stood meekly by while his wife and the officer
argued, but Taki stubbornly refused to pay the three _yen_, and the
officer walked away with his basket-headed prisoner. Taki stood looking
after them, triumphant. But a few moments later she pulled a fold of
paper from her sash and, wiping her eyes, sniffed a few times and said:
"Come, little Mistress; we have wasted much time. We must hurry!"
I said nothing more about not closing the _amadoes_, but several days
later I had a carpenter put up a wide, open-work strip of carved
iris--the flower of health--between the eaves and the top of the
panels. At intervals were inserted iron bars run through the hollow
tubes of bamboo. Thus we were safe in every way; for not enough poison
air could filter through the health-giving blossoms of the carving to
injure us, even in the opinion of our good, fanatical Taki.
The children surprised me by the readiness with which they accepted
conditions in this strange land. Hanano, from babyhood, had been
attracted by new things, and I concluded that our life of constant
change had kept her from homesickness. And three-year-old Chiyo--who
had always been a contented little thing--seemed so happy in the
unbroken companionship of her sister that I did not realize the
possibility of her having opinions and desires of her own. While we
were visiting she expected strange things, but when we reached a place
that I called "home" and she found her clothing arranged in drawers and
her playthings put where she could get them, she began to miss many
things.
"Mamma," she said one day, coming up and leaning against my shoulder as
I sat sewing, "Chiyo wants----"
"What does Chiyo want?" I asked.
She took my hand and led me slowly through our six tiny rooms. White
mats were on all the floors except the kitchen. In the parlour alcove
hung a roll picture with a flower arrangement on the polished platform
beneath. A small upright piano stood in one corner. Sliding doors
of silk separated the parlour from my own and the children's rooms,
side by side, just beyond. In both, standing against the tan-coloured
plaster wall, were whitewood chests of drawers with ornamental iron
handles. My desk and Hanano's, both low white tables with books and
pen-stands on top, were so placed that, when the paper sliding doors
were pushed back, we could see across the narrow porch into our pretty
little garden with its well-trimmed shrubbery, its curved path of
stepping-stones, and its small lake with nine darting gold-fish.
The dining room, at right angles to our rooms, overlooked the garden,
too. It was the sunniest room in the house. The closets were hidden
by sliding doors covered with tan-coloured tapestry, and the long,
square-cornered fire-box with drawers--the invariable adjunct of every
dining room in Japan--was a handsome one of white birch. On one side
was always a cushion, ready any moment for the mistress when she came
to talk over house matters with the maid, called from the kitchen just
behind another tan-coloured door which looked a part of the wall. The
bathroom, Taki's and Sudzu's room, and the servants' entrance, were
just beyond. Our own "shoe-off place" and entrance hall were in front,
opening toward the big wooden gates with the "camel's-eye door" in one
of them.
From room to room Chiyo led me, stopping in each and pointing aimlessly
here and there. "Chiyo wants----" she repeated, but her wants were so
many that she had no words. The emptiness, which I loved, oppressed
her. She longed for the big canopy beds of Mother's home, for the
deep-cushioned chairs, the large mirrors, the big square piano,
the flowered carpets and the windows curtained with lace, the high
ceilings, the wide rooms, the spaciousness! I looked at the wistful
little face and my heart smote me. But when she pulled my sleeve and,
burying her face in the folds of my dress, said piteously, "Oh, Mamma,
take me home to Grandma and Papa's picture! Please! Please!" I caught
her in my arms and, sinking to the floor, hugged her close and, for the
first time since I could remember, I sobbed aloud.
But this must not last. Where was my samurai blood? Where my childhood
training? Had my years of unrestrained freedom in America weakened my
character and taken away my courage? My honourable father would be
shamed.
"Come, Little Daughter," I said, choking and laughing together, "Chiyo
has shown Mamma what we have not in our new house; now Mamma will show
Chiyo what we have."
So, gaily we went over the same road. In the parlour I pushed back the
low silk doors beneath the moon window, and we saw two deep shelves in
which were neatly arranged all of Hanano's and Chiyo's pretty books
from America. I pointed to the wonderful panel over the doors--a broad,
thin slab of wood, strangely delicate and beautiful--carved by unknown
years of dashing waves into its odd, inimitable pattern. I showed her
the post of the alcove: only the scaled and twisted trunk of a forest
pine, yet so polished that it looked as if it were enclosed in crystal.
We looked at the rich, dark wood of the alcove floor, "as smooth and
shining as Grandma's mirrors in the big parlour at home," I told
her, and she bent over to see the reflection of a grave little face,
changing, as she looked, into one with a twisty smile. In another room
I opened the tiny door of our unused shrine. Within the dainty carved
interior stood her father's picture, framed in America, which was to
hang over the piano when the carpenter could come to put it up. I
showed her the big closets where our bed cushions slept in the daytime,
gathering, in their silken flowers, talk, music, and laughter to weave
into pleasant dreams for her to find hidden in her pillow at night. I
gently opened the wee mountain of ashes in the dining-room fire-box so
that she could see the softly glowing charcoal, always waiting with
warmth and comfort for any one who wanted a sip of tea. I had her peep
into the tiny drawers--one for small rice-cakes of pink and white, in
case a child should come to visit, one for extra chopsticks, and one
for a tiny can of tea with its broad wooden spoon near by. But the
big, broad drawer at the bottom--Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--we didn't need at
all. That was made for some old-fashioned grandmother who sometimes,
after she had told a fairy story to her little grandchild, would reach
in for a long, slender pipe with a silver thimble for a bowl. After
three whiffs she would tap it on the edge of the box--just here--three
times, tap-tap-tap, and then put it away with its fragrant silken bag
(sniff, sniff!--poof, poof! Mamma doesn't like!) to wait for another
time of meditation or loneliness, or perhaps for an hour when another
dear old grandmother might chance to call. Then there would be three
more whiffs, or perhaps double three, while the two grandmothers sipped
their tea and talked in gentle voices of olden time.
"And here is where Sudzu keeps the boats of the food fairies," I said,
"all waiting for their burden of good things to eat."
I pushed back one of the panels which didn't look at all like a door,
and we peeped into a closet of many shallow shelves, on which, in piles
of five, were wooden bowls for soup, china bowls for rice, oval plates
for fish, deep ones for pickles, and many plates and cups and dishes,
each shaped for a special purpose and each decoration telling a story
of old Japan. Below were our lacquer tables, each a foot square and a
foot high; and piled up, a little distance away, were our cushions,
"Just One and Two and Three,
For She and Her and Me!"
as Hanano sang when Sudzu brought them out for meals.
"And now the kitchen," I went on. "This door doesn't slide, but
opens by turning a little bronze pine-cone. Step into these sandals,
Chiyo; for no one goes into the kitchen with only foot mittens on--or
stockings. Here we are! One half the floor is of smooth, dark boards,
you see, and the other half--step down!--of cement. There is the gas
range, and close beside it a pottery fire-box for the big swelling
rice-kettle with its heavy wooden top. No bit of waste-paper or scrap
of any kind must be thrown on _that_ fire; only straw to start it and
charcoal to continue it, for it is used just to cook rice--the staff of
life for Japan--and we must treat it with respect. Here comes Taki; and
now she will show us something, little Chiyo, that will make you want
to run to the big box that smells all camphory, like the forest near
Uncle Otani's house, and get out the fur collar that Grandma gave you
last Christmas Day. See!"
Taki stuck two fingers in two little holes in one of the narrow boards
of the floor and lifted it; then another, and another. Next, up came
a light, broad square of whitewood, and there, within easy reach of
Taki's hand, was a small cellar where was a block of ice, roughly cut
in shelves, on which were set wooden plates of fish and vegetables,
eggs and fruit.
"That is what becomes of the cold, cold bundle the man brings every
morning in the straw saddle on his back," I said. "And there is Taki's
wooden sink, standing high up from the cement part of the floor, just
like a table with legs made of water-pipes.
"Now, turn to the right. Down the narrow little hall we go--five steps
of mine and eight of yours--and here we are in the bathroom. The oval
whitewood tub, with its two faucets above and little row of gaslights
below, is so deep that even Mamma can kneel with the water up to her
chin. Here are the three little shelves for our bran-bag, cup, and
toothbrush, each with a carved towel-hanger below; and over in the
corner is a big bamboo basket for laundry and a coil of hose to water
the garden. Oh, it's a very interesting little house, Chiyo; just like
a big play-house, with Mamma at home all the time to play with you when
Hanano has gone to school."