In the town of Uji, in the province of Yamashiro, there lived, about
six hundred years ago, a young samurai named It[=o] Tatéwaki Norisuké,
whose ancestors were of the Héïké clan. It[=o] was of handsome person
and amiable character, a good scholar and apt at arms. But his family
were poor; and he had no patron among the military nobility,--so
that his prospects were small. He lived in a very quiet way, devoting
himself to the study of literature, and having (says the Japanese
story-teller) "only the Moon and the Wind for friends."
One autumn evening, as he was taking a solitary walk in the
neighborhood of the hill called Kotobikiyama, he happened to overtake
a young girl who was following the same path. She was richly dressed,
and seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old. It[=o] greeted her,
and said, "The sun will soon be setting, damsel, and this is rather a
lonesome place. May I ask if you have lost your way?" She looked up
at him with a bright smile, and answered deprecatingly: "Nay! I am
a _miya-dzukai_,[72] serving in this neighborhood; and I have only a
little way to go."
[Footnote 72: August-residence servant.]
By her use of the term _miya-dzukai_, It[=o] knew that the girl must
be in the service of persons of rank; and her statement surprised him,
because he had never heard of any family of distinction residing in
that vicinity. But he only said: "I am returning to Uji, where my home
is. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you on the way, as this is
a very lonesome place." She thanked him gracefully, seeming pleased
by his offer; and they walked on together, chatting as they went. She
talked about the weather, the flowers, the butterflies, and the birds;
about a visit that she had once made to Uji, about the famous sights
of the capital, where she had been born;--and the moments passed
pleasantly for It[=o], as he listened to her fresh prattle. Presently,
at a turn in the road, they entered a hamlet, densely shadowed by a
grove of young trees.
* * * * *
[Here I must interrupt the story to tell you that, without having
actually seen them, you cannot imagine how dark some Japanese country
villages remain even in the brightest and hottest weather. In the
neighborhood of T[=o]ky[=o] itself there are many villages of this
kind. At a short distance from such a settlement you see no houses:
nothing is visible but a dense grove of evergreen trees. The grove,
which is usually composed of young cedars and bamboos, serves to
shelter the village from storms, and also to supply timber for various
purposes. So closely are the trees planted that there is no room to
pass between the trunks of them: they stand straight as masts, and
mingle their crests so as to form a roof that excludes the sun. Each
thatched cottage occupies a clear space in the plantation, the trees
forming a fence about it, double the height of the building. Under
the trees it is always twilight, even at high noon; and the houses,
morning or evening, are half in shadow. What makes the first
impression of such a village almost disquieting is, not the
transparent gloom, which has a certain weird charm of its own, but
the stillness. There may be fifty or a hundred dwellings; but you see
nobody; and you hear no sound but the twitter of invisible birds, the
occasional crowing of cocks, and the shrilling of cicadæ. Even the
cicadæ, however, find these groves too dim, and sing faintly; being
sun-lovers, they prefer the trees outside the village. I forgot to
say that you may sometimes hear a viewless shuttle--_chaka-ton,
chaka-ton_;--but that familiar sound, in the great green silence,
seems an elfish happening. The reason of the hush is simply that the
people are not at home. All the adults, excepting some feeble elders,
have gone to the neighboring fields, the women carrying their babies
on their backs; and most of the children have gone to the nearest
school, perhaps not less than a mile away. Verily, in these dim
hushed villages, one seems to behold the mysterious perpetuation of
conditions recorded in the texts of Kwang-Tze:--
"_The ancients who had the nourishment of the world wished for
nothing, and the world had enough:--they did nothing, and all
things were transformed:--their stillness was abysmal, and the
people were all composed._"]
* * * * *
... The village was very dark when It[=o] reached it; for the sun
had set, and the after-glow made no twilight in the shadowing of the
trees. "Now, kind sir," the child said, pointing to a narrow lane
opening upon the main road, "I have to go this way." "Permit me, then,
to see you home," It[=o] responded; and he turned into the lane with
her, feeling rather than seeing his way. But the girl soon stopped
before a small gate, dimly visible in the gloom,--a gate of
trelliswork, beyond which the lights of a dwelling could be seen.
"Here," she said, "is the honorable residence in which I serve. As you
have come thus far out of your way, kind sir, will you not deign to
enter and to rest a while?" It[=o] assented. He was pleased by the
informal invitation; and he wished to learn what persons of superior
condition had chosen to reside in so lonesome a village. He knew that
sometimes a family of rank would retire in this manner from public
life, by reason of government displeasure or political trouble; and
he imagined that such might be the history of the occupants of the
dwelling before him. Passing the gate, which his young guide opened
for him, he found himself in a large quaint garden. A miniature
landscape, traversed by a winding stream, was faintly distinguishable.
"Deign for one little moment to wait," the child said; "I go to
announce the honorable coming;" and hurried toward the house. It was
a spacious house, but seemed very old, and built in the fashion of
another time. The sliding doors were not closed; but the lighted
interior was concealed by a beautiful bamboo curtain extending
along the gallery front. Behind it shadows were moving--shadows of
women;--and suddenly the music of a _koto_ rippled into the night. So
light and sweet was the playing that It[=o] could scarcely believe the
evidence of his senses. A slumbrous feeling of delight stole over him
as he listened,--a delight strangely mingled with sadness. He wondered
how any woman could have learned to play thus,--wondered whether the
player could be a woman,--wondered even whether he was hearing earthly
music; for enchantment seemed to have entered into his blood with the
sound of it.
* * * * *
The soft music ceased; and almost at the same moment It[=o] found the
little _miya-dzukai_ beside him. "Sir," she said, "it is requested
that you will honorably enter." She conducted him to the entrance,
where he removed his sandals; and an aged woman, whom he thought to be
the _R[=o]jo_, or matron of the household, came to welcome him at the
threshold. The old woman then led him through many apartments to a
large and well-lighted room in the rear of the house, and with many
respectful salutations requested him to take the place of honor
accorded to guests of distinction. He was surprised by the stateliness
of the chamber, and the curious beauty of its decorations. Presently
some maid-servants brought refreshments; and he noticed that the cups
and other vessels set before him were of rare and costly workmanship,
and ornamented with a design indicating the high rank of the
possessor. More and more he wondered what noble person had chosen
this lonely retreat, and what happening could have inspired the wish
for such solitude. But the aged attendant suddenly interrupted his
reflections with the question:
"Am I wrong in supposing that you are It[=o] Sama, of Uji,--It[=o]
Tatéwaki Norisuké?"
It[=o] bowed in assent. He had not told his name to the little
_miya-dzukai_, and the manner of the inquiry startled him.
"Please do not think my question rude," continued the attendant. "An
old woman like myself may ask questions without improper curiosity.
When you came to the house, I thought that I knew your face; and I
asked your name only to clear away all doubt, before speaking of
other matters. I have some thing of moment to tell you. You often pass
through this village, and our young Himégimi-Sama[73] happened one
morning to see you going by; and ever since that moment she has been
thinking about you, day and night. Indeed, she thought so much that
she became ill; and we have been very uneasy about her. For that
reason I took means to find out your name and residence; and I was on
the point of sending you a letter when--so unexpectedly!--you came to
our gate with the little attendant. Now, to say how happy I am to see
you is not possible; it seems almost too fortunate a happening to be
true! Really I think that this meeting must have been brought about by
the favor of Enmusubi-no-Kami,--that great God of Izumo who ties the
knots of fortunate union. And now that so lucky a destiny has led you
hither, perhaps you will not refuse--if there be no obstacle in the
way of such a union--to make happy the heart of our Himégimi-Sama?"
[Footnote 73: A scarcely translatable honorific title compounded of
the word _himé_ (princess) and _kimi_ (sovereign, master or mistress,
lord or lady, etc.).]
For the moment It[=o] did not know how to reply. If the old woman had
spoken the truth, an extraordinary chance was being offered to him.
Only a great passion could impel the daughter of a noble house to
seek, of her own will, the affection of an obscure and masterless
samurai, possessing neither wealth nor any sort of prospects. On the
other hand, it was not in the honorable nature of the man to further
his own interests by taking advantage of a feminine weakness.
Moreover, the circumstances were disquietingly mysterious. Yet how to
decline the proposal, so unexpectedly made, troubled him not a little.
After a short silence, he replied:--
"There would be no obstacle, as I have no wife, and no betrothed, and
no relation with any woman. Until now I have lived with my parents;
and the matter of my marriage was never discussed by them. You must
know that I am a poor samurai, without any patron among persons of
rank; and I did not wish to marry until I could find some chance to
improve my condition. As to the proposal which you have done me
the very great honor to make, I can only say that I know myself yet
unworthy of the notice of any noble maiden."