HONOURABLE GRANDMOTHER
"Honourable Grandmother is coming--coming!
Honourable Grandmother is coming to-day!"
happily sang Chiyo as her little foot mittens came pattering over the
white mats, following me as I went through the rooms giving touches
here and there to complete arrangements for our expected guest.
Foot mittens took the place of stockings now, and the free American
dress had given way to a gay-flowered kimono with scarlet lining and
graceful swinging sleeves.
"Japanese fashions are the prettiest for Japanese people," I thought
as I looked at Chiyo's black hair, short in the back and cut square
across the forehead. She had not been a pretty child in American dress.
Japanese clothes were much more becoming, but oh, the opportunities for
comfortable and healthful bodies the untrammelled children of America
have! I sighed, yet I was so bound by outside influences that I could
not regret having changed the children into Japanese dress before their
grandmother saw them.
We had been very busy after the arrival of Mother's letter saying
that she was ready to come. The children and I moved in together, and
I arranged a cosy little room for her, which I knew she would find
more convenient and comfortable than any other in the house. I wanted
everything to look homelike to her; so I had the swinging electric
lights changed to three-foot-high floor lamps shaded by black lacquer
frames with paper panels, like the candle-stands at the Nagaoka home.
Our gas heaters were already in bronze braziers so ingeniously set up
that they looked like charcoal burners. Mother would have accepted
everything new with the smiling philosophy of a lifetime, but I did not
want her to "accept" things; I wanted everything to look homelike so
she could fit in happily without effort.
The empty shrine I had been using for books and the children's hats.
Even Taki had not objected to "high objects," as she called them,
being placed there; for Japanese people are taught to respect books as
"intellectual results," and hats as pertaining to the revered "crown
of the body." But, nevertheless, she was unreservedly pleased when I
removed the things and began to prepare the carved wooden alcove for
the small belongings that Mother would bring with her from the large
shrine at home.
"Where shall we put the shrine that Honourable Grandmother will bring?"
asked Hanano, thinking of the elaborate gilded and lacquered cabinet in
Uncle Otani's home.
"It's as easy for Honourable Grandmother to wrap up all the really
necessary things for her shrine as it would be for a Christian to carry
a Bible and a prayer book," I answered; "and we will have this little
alcove all fresh and clean for them. Honourable Grandmother loves the
things that have been sacred to her through all the sorrows and joys of
her life."
"Do Honourable Grandmother's God and our God know each other up in
heaven?" asked Chiyo.
I was leaning in the alcove to brush a bit of dust off the carving, and
Hanano replied.
"Of course they do, Chiyo," she said. "Jesus had just as hard a time as
the August Buddha did to teach people that God wants them to be good
and kind and splendid. Mamma always says that Honourable Grandmother
and our dear American Grandma are good, just alike."
While we were talking, there had been sounding a constant
pata-pata-pata from the next room, where Sudzu, with her sleeves looped
back and a blue-and-white towel folded over her freshly dressed hair,
was vigorously cleaning the paper doors with a _shoji_ duster--a bunch
of cut papers tied on the end of a short stick. The sound stopped
abruptly and Sudzu appeared in the doorway.
Quickly removing the towel and pulling off the cord that held back her
sleeves, she bowed to the floor.
"Taki San thinks that the bath water heated by gas will be too harsh
for the delicate body of Honourable Retired Mistress," she said. "Shall
I go for a carpenter?"
I had forgotten the belief of country people that only charred wood
must be used for bath fuel when one is frail or old. I hurried Sudzu
out on her errand, and within two hours the gas coil had been exchanged
for a small charcoal furnace, and our arrangements were complete.
That evening was a memorable one for the children. We all went to the
station to meet Mother, except Taki. She remained behind so that the
welcoming red rice and the fish, baked head and all, would be in hot
readiness; and after we reached home, even before the bustle of welcome
was over, she had the shrine belongings in place and the candles
lighted. Then, with the gilded doors wide open and the pungent odour
of incense filling the air, she brought in the little shrine table
laden with food. Our own tables came next, and once again I was sitting
down to a meal with my mother beside me and the kindly spirits of the
ancestors welcoming me and mine into cheerful companionship. Afterward
we retired to the parlour and spent an hour in what Hanano called
"getting-acquainted talk," before Mother would confess to the weariness
which her pale face already betrayed. Then we all gathered before the
shrine, Taki and Sudzu sitting just within the doorway.
How familiar, and yet how strange! The chanting, the soft sound of
the little bronze gong, Mother's voice reading the sacred Buddhist
scriptures that so often I had heard from the lips of the dear one who
long ago had passed away--oh, how quiet and safe it all seemed! The
anxious loneliness of months was gone, and there crept into my heart a
peace that had not been mine since the protected days when my little
family were all together in the dear, dear home of our kind, beloved
American mother.
"How alike are the two sides of the world!" I thought. "Both have many
gods of little worth, but with one wise, loving, understanding Power
over all, the time must surely come when we shall _all_ understand."
The weeks following were filled with new and unexpected lessons. I had
had no thought but that family loyalty and natural affection were the
only requisites necessary to draw together my mother and my children.
But I soon discovered that, though neither loyalty nor affection was
lacking, mutual interests were only possibilities of the future.
My attempts to combine the old and the new frequently resulted in my
having to give up the combination and decide wholly in favour of one or
the other. With material things this was only an inconvenience; but a
puzzling problem, indeed, when it came to Mother's old-fashioned ideas
clashing with the advanced training of modern schools. Mother never
criticized. She met all situations with a smile or some pleasant remark
about the "new ways of the world"; but it was evident that she greatly
distrusted the wisdom of spending so much time on boys' studies and
so little on flower-arranging, tea-serving, _koto_ music, and other
womanly accomplishments. And the gymnastic exercises which the children
enthusiastically described, where whole classes of girls drilled on
the school grounds, marching and singing with vigorous energy, were
wholly contrary to her ideas of dignity.
I tried to explain that these exercises were believed to be good for
health and growth. I told her it was no longer considered bold and
mannish for girls to sit straight and to carry the head upright when
they walked; and that even Hanano's habit of chatting happily about
school matters while we were eating, which seemed to Mother the manners
of a coolie, was in accordance with her training at school.
Chiyo's gentle ways had appealed to Mother at once, but her sister's
quick, busy, energetic manner was a constant surprise and puzzle.
Hanano was so active, so apt to speak without being spoken to, and
so constantly doing what, according to strict etiquette, were abrupt
and discourteous things, that I was continually on the alert to watch
for and check her unexpected acts. It was not long before I became
unhappily conscious that my only hours of freedom from anxiety lay
between the time when Hanano tied up her school books and, jumping
into her clogs at the door, ran off, gaily waving a good-bye, and the
afternoon hour when the door would slide open and a cheery, "I have
come back!" come echoing through the hall.
But this did not last. Gradually, I scarcely know when or how, the
silent strain lessened. Hanano was growing more quiet in her talk,
more gentle in her manners. Frequently I would see her settle herself
beside Chiyo at Mother's fire-box to listen to stories or to receive
help as she read aloud, and one day I found both children snuggled up
close, one on each side, while Mother showed Hanano how to write the
characters for "American Grandma."
Chiyo had loved Mother from the beginning. The child's affectionate
advances were somewhat of a shock at first, but very soon the two were
congenial companions. It was odd that religion should be one of the
binding cords. The kindergarten was just beyond the temple, so Chiyo
was familiar with the road, and as I did not like to have Mother go
alone, Chiyo often went with her when Sudzu was busy. The child liked
to sit in the great solemn place and listen to the chanting, and she
liked to be given rice-cakes by the mild-faced priestess who served
tea to Mother after the service. One day Mother said: "Chiyo, you are
very kind to come with me to the temple. Next time I will go with
you to your church." So Chiyo took her to hear our minister, a good
man who preached in Japanese. After that they often went together,
sometimes to the temple, where Chiyo stood with bowed head while her
grandmother softly rubbed her rosary between her hands and murmured,
"_Namu Amida Butsu!_" and sometimes to the Christian church, where
Mother listened attentively to the sermon and bowed in reverence when
the Minister prayed. Then hand in hand they would come home together,
talking of what they had heard at one place or the other. One day as
they entered the gate, I heard Mother say gently: "It may be that he
said true things, Chiyo, but I must not go to a better place than
where my honourable husband is. Even if he is in the dreadful Hell of
Cold, it is my duty to be with him. The Christian faith is for the new
generation, like you, little Chiyo, but I must follow the path of my
ancestors."
One afternoon, when I was sewing in my room, I heard Chiyo's voice
beyond the closed doors.
"Honourable Grandmother," she said, "when are you going to die?"
I pushed back the sliding door. There was Mother with Chiyo snuggled
up beside her on the same cushion. I was astonished, for in my day no
child would have dared to be so familiar with an elder, but there she
was, and both were looking down gravely at an array of tiny lacquer
boxes spread out on the floor. A large box, into which the smaller
ones fitted closely, was near by. How well I remembered that box! All
through my childhood it was kept in a drawer of my mother's toilet
cabinet, and every once in a while she would take out the little boxes
and sprinkle powdered incense into each one. This was what she was
doing now.
"I wish I had those pretty boxes for my dolly," said Chiyo.
"Oh, no, little Granddaughter," Mother said, lifting one of the tiny
boxes and shaking gently the curved bits that looked like shavings of
pale shell. "These are my nail clippings that have been saved all my
life."
"Your finger-nails--and your toe-nails!" cried the child. "Oh, my! How
funny!"
"Hush, little Granddaughter. I am afraid you have not been trained to
respect the traditions of your ancestors. We have to save our nails
and cut-off baby hair so that our bodies may be perfect when we start
on the long journey. The time cannot be far away," she said, gazing
thoughtfully out into the garden.
Chiyo had been peering curiously into the boxes, but now her face
suddenly sobered and she drew a little closer to her grandmother.
"My heart is troubled, Honourable Grandmother," she said. "I thought it
would be a long, long time. You said you had always, even when you were
a little girl, put perfume in the boxes to keep them nice and all ready
for your death."
Mother lovingly stroked the little black head with her wrinkled hand.
"Yes, but it will not be long now. I have finished my life work, and
the merciful Buddha is preparing my platform of lotus blossoms, I am
very sure."
"Does the merciful Buddha want you to take your old clipped nails with
you when you go to the lotus platform?"
"No; he does not care about my body. He cares only for me."
"Then why did you save your nails so carefully?"
Mother glanced toward the closed shrine.
"The holy shrine, little Chiyo, is only a box when it is empty," she
said, "and my body is only a borrowed shrine in which I live. But it is
proper courtesy to leave a borrowed article in the best condition."
Chiyo's eyes looked very deep and solemn for a moment.
"That's why we have to take a bath every day and always keep our teeth
clean. Dear me! I never thought of that as being polite to God."
I had been so anxious over the children's shortcomings in etiquette
and so happy over the slow but satisfactory outcome that I had never
given a thought to the changes which my years in America must have made
in myself. One afternoon, coming back from a hurried errand, I was
walking rapidly up the road toward home when I saw Mother standing in
the gateway watching me. I knew that she disapproved of my undignified
haste, as indeed she should, for nothing is more ungraceful than a
hurrying woman in Japanese dress.
She met me with her usual bow, then said with a gentle smile, "Etsu-bo,
you are growing to be very like your honourable father."
I laughed, but my cheeks were hot as I walked up the path beside her,
accepting silently the needed reproof, for no Japanese woman likes
to be told that her walk suggests that of a man. Occasional hints
like this kept my manners from marching with my mind on the road to
progress; and under the same quiet influence my two active American
children gradually changed into two dignified Japanese girls. Within
two years' time both spoke Japanese without accent and both wore
Japanese dress so well that to strangers they appeared to have lived
always in Japan.
"Just to be in the same house with Mother is excellent training for a
girl," I thought, congratulating myself that Hanano had adapted herself
so well to her grandmother's standards. Selfishly busy with my daily
duties, and content that our home was so harmonious, I had forgotten
that, when duty lies between the old and the young, Nature's law points
direct to youth. I was counting the gain only--but what of the loss?
One day in the cherry-blossom season, Hanano was sitting at her desk
near mine when a light breeze touched the branches of a cherry tree
near the porch and some pale pink petals drifted across her desk. She
picked one up and after holding it a moment, pressed it gently between
her fingers, then threw it aside, and sat looking at the damp spot on
her finger.
"What are you thinking, Hanano?" I asked.
She looked up startled, then slowly turned away.
"One time in America," she said after a moment, "when many people were
at our house--I think it must have been an afternoon tea--I got tired
and went out on the lawn. I climbed to my castle, you remember, the
seventh limb of the big apple tree. The blossoms were just falling and
a petal fell right into my hand. It left a wet spot, just like this
cherry petal did. Oh, Mamma, wouldn't you give just _everything_ to see
Grandma again--and the porch, and the trees, and----"
The little black head went down on the desk, but before I could reach
her it was up again, held high.
"It's all right," she said; "I love Japan--now. But there used to be
times when my breast was just full of red-hot fire, and I had to run
fast--fast. And once, when you were all away, I climbed the prickly
pine by the porch--just once. But I don't want to any more. It's all
right. I love it here."
I remembered, then, how sometimes she had scampered around and around
the garden, her sleeves flying in the wind and her clogs clattering
over the stepping-stones; and I, ignorant and unsympathetic mother that
I was, had taken her to my room and talked to her about being gentle
and quiet.
But that was a long time before. Gradually she had learned to talk a
little lower, to laugh a little less, to walk a bit more noiselessly
on the matting, and to sit silent and attentive with bowed head
when her elders were speaking. Only the other day Mother had said:
"Granddaughter shows great promise. She is growing gentle and graceful."
As I sat and thought, I wondered if Hanano was ever really happy any
more. She never seemed sorrowful, but she had changed. Her eyes were
soft, not bright; her mouth drooped slightly and her bright, cheery
way of speaking had slowed and softened. Gentle and graceful? Yes. But
where was her quick readiness to spring up at my first word? Where her
joyous eagerness to see, to learn, to do? My little American girl, so
full of vivid interest in life, was gone.
With a feeling of helplessness I looked over at her desk and was
comforted; for the touch of homesickness had passed away and she was
studying busily.
An hour later, when I went unexpectedly to her room, I saw her kneeling
beside an open drawer where her American clothes were kept. She had
pulled out her old serge suit, and her face was buried in its folds.
I crept away to the garden. I could not see, and I stumbled over a
flower pot. It was a dwarf pine. The pushing roots had burst the pot,
and my touch had caused it to fall apart, disclosing the roots cramped
together in a twisted knot.
"It is just like poor Hanano!" I moaned. "They will bind it again
to-morrow, and neither it, nor she, will _ever_ be free!"