SISTER'S VISIT
That summer Mother was far from well. Lately her occasional attacks
of asthma had become more frequent and trying. Thinking that a visit
from my elder sister, who had always lived near our old home, would
give Mother the happiness, not only of seeing her daughter, but also
of hearing the pleasant gossip of old neighbours and friends, I wrote
asking her to come to Tokyo. In a few weeks she was with us and proved
a veritable blessing to us all. She was a comfort to Mother, a wise
adviser to me, and an encyclopedia of interesting family history to
the children; for there was nothing Sister liked better than telling
stories of our old home as it was when she was a child.
Almost every day that summer, about the time the sun was sinking
behind the tiled roof of our neighbour's tall house and the cool
shadows were creeping across our garden, we would gather in the big
room opening on the porch. One at a time we came, each fresh from a
hot bath and clothed in the coolest of linen. Mother sat on her silk
cushion, straight and dignified; but Sister, more informal, usually
discarded a cushion, preferring, instead, the cool, clean mats. She
was a beautiful woman. I can see her now, slipping quietly into her
place, the suggestion of a wave in her shining widow-cut hair, and her
sweet face seeming to be only waiting for an excuse to break into, one
of her gentle smiles. Between Sister and Mother were the children:
Hanano's fingers, always busy, shaping bits of gay silk into a set
of bean-bags or cutting out a paper doll for Chiyo, who, gazing with
loving admiration at her sister, sat with her own dear, lazy little
hands folded on her lap.
This was our hour to spend in talking of the small happenings of the
day: school successes and trials, incidents connected with home affairs
and stray items of neighbourhood gossip. But almost inevitably the
conversation would eventually drift into a channel that called forth
from someone the familiar, "Oh, isn't that interesting! Tell us about
it!" or "Yes, I remember. Do tell that to the children."
One afternoon Mother mentioned that the priest had called that day
to make arrangements for a certain temple service called "For the
Nameless" that was held by our family every year.
"Why is it called 'For the Nameless'?" asked Hanano. "It has such a
lonesome sound."
"It is a sad story," replied Mother. "A story that began almost three
hundred years ago and has not yet ended."
"How could Kikuno's story have anything to do with the little room
at the end of the hall?" I asked abruptly, my mind going back to the
half-forgotten memory of a door that was never opened. "It didn't
happen in that house."
"No; but the hall room was built right over the haunted spot," replied
Sister. "Is it true, Honourable Mother, that after the mansion was
burned someone planted chrysanthemums in the garden, and soft,
mysterious lights were seen floating among the flowers?"
Hanano had dropped her sewing into her lap, and both children were
gazing at Sister with eager, wide-open eyes.
"Your fate until dinner time is decided, Sister," I laughed. "The
children scent a story. Now you can tell them why you wouldn't use the
cushion decorated with chrysanthemums at the restaurant the other day."
"I must seem foolish-minded to you, Etsu-bo, with your progressive
ideas," said Sister, with a half-ashamed smile, "but I have never
outgrown the feeling that chrysanthemums are an omen of misfortune to
our family."
"I know," I said, sympathetically. "I used to feel so, too. I didn't
really get over it until I went to America. The name Mary is as common
there as Kiku is here, but I had associated it only with sacredness
and dignity; for it is the holiest name for a woman in the world.
Some people even pray to it. And when, one time, just after I went to
America, I heard a shopwoman call roughly, 'Mary, come here!' and out
ran a ragged child with a dirty face, I was astounded. And a neighbour
of ours had an ignorant servant girl by that name. It was a shock at
first; but I finally learned that association is a narrow thing. When
we apply it broadly the original feeling does not fit."
"People learn to forget when they travel," said Sister quietly; "but as
far back as I can remember, no chrysanthemum flower was ever brought
into our house, no chrysanthemum decoration was ever used on our
screens, our dishes, our dresses, or our fans; and, with all the pretty
flower names in our family, that of Kiku--chrysanthemum--has never been
borne by an Inagaki. Even a servant with that name was never allowed to
work for us unless she was willing to be called something else while
she lived in our house."
"Why? Oh, do tell us about it!" pleaded both children.
So again I heard the story, familiar from childhood, but changing
continually in its significance as I grew older, until it became fixed
in my mind as the hero tale of a brave old samurai who represented the
double virtue of a great and tender love combined with the hard, cold
strength of loyalty to duty.
This ancestor of mine was lord of our family during the period when
it was a government requirement that men of his class should have two
handmaids. This was to guard against the possibility of there being
no heir, that being an unspeakable calamity to people who believed
that a childless family meant heavenly annihilation. Handmaids were
always selected by the wife, from families of her own rank; and their
position, although inferior in influence, was considered as honoured as
that of the wife.
The second of my ancestor's handmaids was named Kikuno. Her lord was
old enough to be her father, but it must be true that he loved her, for
our family records show that he loaded her relatives with gifts and
with honours. Of course, we Japanese never say anything not nice about
our ancestors, and it may be that family traditions are not always
reliable, but they all praise this man, and I like to believe them true.
Every house of noble class, in those days, was divided into the
home department, ruled by the mistress, where there were only women
attendants, and the lord's department, where every branch of work was
done by men. For delicate and artistic duties, such as tea-serving
and flower-arranging, graceful youths were chosen who dressed in gay
garments with swinging sleeves like girls, and wore their hair in an
artistic crown-queue with fluffy sides.
Among these attendants of my ancestor was a youth who was an especial
favourite. He must have possessed both rank and culture, for he was
the son of his lord's highest retainer. Although the departments of
the lord and the mistress were entirely separate, there was daily
passing back and forth on formal errands, and also many gatherings for
duty or for entertainment, in which both men and women took part.
On these occasions the gentle Kikuno and the handsome youth were
frequently thrown together. She was only seventeen. Her lord was twice
her age, and his thoughts were of war and its grim duties. The gentle,
soft-voiced youth, whose talk was of poetry and flowers, won her heart;
and it was the old story of Launcelot and Guinevere.
We have no reason to believe that any real wrong was in the heart
of either; but a Japanese girl was taught from childhood to subdue
self, and when she married--and to become a handmaid was one type of
marriage--she was expected to live with no thought of self at all.
Rumours reached the ears of the master, but he waved them aside as
absurd. One day, however, he walked into the great room adjoining the
court and found the two talking in low voices, and--an unpardonable
breach of etiquette--alone. This was, of course, a stain on the family
name, which, according to the code of honour of that day, could be
wiped out only with blood, or--a disgrace a thousand times worse than
death--the exile of the culprits through the water gate, thus making
them outcasts.
The old lord was merciful and allowed them honourable death by the
sword. Both recognized the justice of their fate. Kikuno went away
to prepare for death, and the young man, with slow and ceremonious
dignity, removed his two swords and slipped his right arm from his
outer dress, leaving only the white silk undergarment. Then he gave the
sash a quick, loosening jerk, and with his short sword in his hand,
quietly seated himself on the mat.
I often pity the wronged lord as I think of him sitting there, erect
and silent. I know his heart was full of grief as well as bitterness
and indignation, but whatever the struggle within, he had to be true to
the duty plainly marked out by the inexorable usage of the day.
Poor Kikuno went to her baby boy for a few last loving touches as he
lay sleeping in his nurse's arms, but she said good-bye to no one else.
She washed the rouge from her lips, loosened her hair, tied it with the
paper death-bow, and put on her white death-robe. Then she went back to
the room where her lover and her lord were silently waiting.
Without the slightest deviation, the unchanging ceremony of Japanese
etiquette was carried out. She kneeled and bowed deeply, first to her
wronged lord and then to the beautiful girl-dressed youth beside him.
Seating herself with her face to the west, she took her long sash of
soft crêpe and tightly bound her folded knees. For one moment she
placed together her hands, clasping a crystal rosary; then slipping
the rosary over one wrist, she lifted her dagger to press the point
to her throat. Her lord was a stern and a just man, but he must have
loved the woman very tenderly, for he did a wonderful thing. Leaning
quickly forward, he took away her dagger and placed in her hand his own
short sword. It was a Masamune, a precious family heirloom, and sacred
because a gift to his grandfather from the great Ieyasu.
Well, they both died: the youth, bravely, like a samurai; but poor
Kikuno threw out one hand as she fell, which struck the plaster wall
and left a lasting stain.
The man's body was sent to his family with the polite message that
his death had taken place suddenly. Everyone understood, and, like
the youth himself, recognized the justice of his fate. He was buried
at midnight, and ever afterward both the temple and his family gave
him only silent death anniversaries. But the woman was buried with
great honour--suitable to the mother of the young lord--and a large
sum was given to charity in her name. Then the lord forbade any of his
descendants ever to cultivate the chrysanthemum flower or to allow the
name, Kiku, in the household. The baby, whose frail mother had robbed
him of his birthright, was sent away--for no stain must descend to the
next generation--and a later-born little one carried on the family name.
The blood-stained room was closed, and until the burning of the mansion
about two hundred years later was never opened. When my father rebuilt
his ruined home many of the relatives urged him to leave an open space
above the site of that room, but he refused, saying that the kindly
spirit of living friends had taught him to believe in the kindly spirit
of the dead. My father was a very progressive man for that day.
But the servants never forgot. They said the new room had on its
plaster wall the same faint, dark stain of a wide-open hand that was
on the wall of the old; and so many ghostly stories were told, that
finally, for purely practical reasons, my mother was obliged to close
this room also.
The little son of Kikuno became a priest who, in later life, built a
small temple on Cedar Mountain. It was so placed that its shadow falls
over a lonely nameless grave guarded by a statue of the goddess of
Mercy.
But the memory of love and pity cannot die. For almost three hundred
years my stern old ancestor has lain among his people in his
extravagant bed of vermilion and charcoal; and for almost three hundred
years the descendants of the name whose honour he upheld have, in
respect for his unexpressed heart wish, held each year a sacred service
in memory of "The Nameless."