In this place for some years to come the three strangers continued to
live a quiet, uneventful life. Mutto scrupulously attended to his court
duties as one of the chamberlains at the palace; but every moment of
the time which he could call his own was devoted to the education of
his son. Sennoske, as the boy was called, was already at the age of
fifteen a man inferior to none, and almost the equal of his father in all
manly accomplishments. Nor had his mind been forgotten. Mutto himself
was a fair scholar, and where he thought himself deficient, or was
unable through lack of time to devote the necessary attention, he had
taken care to secure the best teachers. The latter gladly undertook the
charge of instructing the boy, whose aptitude for acquiring knowledge
was as marked as his ways and manners were winning. His father strictly
supervised and regulated his studies, and showed himself somewhat a hard
taskmaster, who never allowed Sennoske leisure for any amusements except
such as would either strengthen his body or improve his mind, and the
boy grew up having no desire for other recreation. Although passionately
fond of books and of indoor studies, the tendency of the times and the
examples set before him by his father, as well as by others, roused his
ambition and prevented anything like neglect of physical training. This
severe bodily and mental work had become easy to him, and to pass from
one to the other was all that his system needed, and all the enjoyment
he cared for. His intense love and admiration for his father, and the
pleasure which he derived from the gratification the latter showed at his
quick and steady progress, was another reason, if one had been needed,
to impel him to diligence. To Sennoske his father was everything that
was good and great and noble. He knew and felt how much kindness and
sympathy were hidden under that austere taciturnity which in all these
years had never relaxed into the faintest semblance of a smile. He
remembered a sunny childhood in a beautiful home, where his father had
laughed and played with him, always showing a gay, cheerful face; and he
felt what a terrible shock must have been given to that nature by some
fearful calamity, thus to freeze up all apparent sympathy and feeling
for the outside world. He had no knowledge of what could have been the
catastrophe that wrought this change; and any allusion to their former
life, although not forbidden in so many words, was yet discouraged by his
father in a way that prevented his ever referring to it.
[Illustration: WRITING TABLE.]
Among those who contributed to Sennoske’s training was one whose name
was then already famous in Japan,—Muramasa, the sword-smith. An immense
gulf divided, at that time, the _samurai_ from the merchant, the farmer,
the artisan, and, in fact, from all other classes. To this rule the
sword-smith formed the only exception. He Who could forge a sword
fairly well stood far higher in social rank than the artisan of equal
skill in any other profession; and a master of the art, however low his
extraction, was considered and treated as an equal by the two-sworded
gentry. Muramasa then stood at the head of his profession, without a
rival in the country. His superiority was acknowledged by his brother
artisans as well as by the nobility; and many of the latter—men of great
means too—would willingly have beggared themselves to obtain a sword
of his making. To have a man like this living in his dominions was
considered a great honor, and was, moreover, a source of real power and
influence, of which the Duke was fully aware; and he had made to the
smith the most extravagant offers of money, titles, and other honorary
considerations to induce him duly to inscribe himself on the roll of his
feudal retainers, but without success. Threats or coercion would have
been worse than useless with a man whom the Shôgun himself would only too
gladly have welcomed to his capital (Kamakura), and would have honored
there as highly as the Duke did in his province. Any wilful injury done
him would have been resented as a national loss by every _samurai_ in the
country; so Ono ga Sawa had fain to be satisfied with the sword-smith’s
independent way of living, taking care, however, to use every opportunity
to prove to him, by valuable gifts and otherwise, the honor and esteem in
which he was held.
And there was good reason for all this regard and high consideration; for
those famous “Muramasas,” as the blades were called after their maker,
were things of beauty, of joy, of pride, and of power to their lucky
possessors. The smith himself was an expert at using as well as making
his weapon, and the proofs he had sometimes semi-publicly given of its
excellence were marvellous, and wellnigh bordered on the incredible. He
would cut a hair let fall in the air; he would hold his sword still in
the water, with its sharp edge facing the current, and there it would of
itself out a piece of paper floating toward it; then again, to show its
strength, he would cut through a copper bar an inch in thickness without
producing the slightest mark or indentation on the blade. Once, on a
memorable occasion when discussion as to the relative merits of rival
sword-smiths ran high, he asked that any three swords of the best makers
be selected. This was done; and placing them side by side, he dealt with
his own blade terrific blow square upon their upturned edges. It went
entirely through one sword, which was the most strongly curved, passed
through the steel edges of the others, and remained imbedded in the
softer part which forms the back. Being with difficulty extracted, it was
found that its own sharp edge had remained intact; and there was nothing
but a slightly increased brightness in three different spots to show
where it had been in contact.
Small wonder, then, that a true _samurai_ should value such a weapon
above every other earthly possession. Money alone could not buy one. It
began to be known that only warriors of high standing, whose reputation
for valor and fighting qualities was established, could succeed in
having an order for a sword executed. If the applicant had a name for
loving fighting for its own sake,—one who, when no opportunities for
legitimate warfare presented themselves, would hunt up broils, quarrels,
and duels,—it greatly enhanced his chances of a favorable reception
from the sword-smith. The prices paid were always high enough; but far
more liberal offers had often been refused because made by men—as the
report went—whose reputation credited them with inclinations, if not of
a pacific, yet of a less decidedly bellicose nature. One of Muramasa’s
stipulations in former years had been that no sword bought of him should
be sold during the lifetime of the purchaser. He dispensed with this
condition now, because there was no further need for it; the lucky
possessor of such a treasure would have sacrificed his last _hakama_, his
mistress, his wife and child probably, sooner than part with it.
[Illustration: STREET SCENE IN KUWANA.]
The smith’s residence was in the outskirts of the city, in what had
formerly been called the village of Senjuin. It was a smoke-blackened,
gloomy looking building of two stories close to the street, the lower
part—the doors of which were constantly closed—being the forge. On both
sides of the house and in the rear was a yard which was enclosed with a
bamboo fence, the stakes being placed side by side and three deep,—thus
effectually preventing any possibility of getting even a glimpse through
them; while their ends were sharply pointed, threatening certain
impalement to any who should attempt to scale them. Here Muramasa lived
with his son,—who assisted him at his craft and was initiated into its
secrets,—his daughter, and only one old woman-servant.
He was not a pleasant man to look at, this cunning forger, whose
handiwork caused the great and the mighty to do him honor. His eyes—very
large and very prominent, ready, it seemed, to start from their
sockets—had a sinister look; to which the heavy, bushy eyebrows, heaviest
and bushiest in the space between the eyes, where they met, doubtless
contributed. A massive chin, under a small, rather thin-lipped mouth,
showed great energy and determination, while the short stout neck, with
veins like cords, the broad shoulders, and the brawny, sinewy arms, gave
evidence of great physical strength. When speaking, two rows of large,
regular, and beautifully white teeth partly redeemed the unattractiveness
of the other features; but when angered or excited, the whole face
presented an aspect of extreme hideousness and repulsiveness. At such
times the mouth was firmly closed; the eyebrows moved and contracted
until each individual hair seemed to stand on end; the eyes, already
unnaturally large and protruding, dilated and rolled around in their
sockets with a glitter like that of a snake; and a deep red, furrowed
line showed itself on his forehead from the crown down to the eyebrows,
making his head look as if it consisted of two halves badly pasted
together.
A parallel had often been drawn between the smith and Mutto. Both these
men, renowned for strength and skill, living for themselves and seemingly
desirous of avoiding company, always reserved and even gloomy, and never
sharing in wine-parties or other festivities, offered a great contrast to
the usual style of conduct of the cavaliers at the court; for the latter,
acting with the spirit of the age, although ready at any time for hard
work and harder blows, believed in taking pleasure and amusement whenever
and wherever it could be found. But when the two men once stood side by
side in the court, it was easy to perceive that however much unlike to
others, there was very little real resemblance between them.
Mutto’s athletic but slight and supple figure was cast in quite a
different mould from the smith’s heavy, awkward-looking frame; and in so
far as other than physical attributes could be discerned, the difference
became even more marked. The look of gloom on the face of the former
seemed like a dark veil, obscuring its naturally pleasant and cheerful
expression. The regular features could never have settled into such
clearly-cut, bold, determined lines if their possessor had always been
given to inactive brooding and sorrowing. They now spoke unmistakably
of weary resignation; but it was a new-born resignation foreign to the
man’s real nature, and implanted there by some unaccountable calamity. In
demeanor he was quiet and dignified, and in the performance of his often
monotonous duties as chamberlain he had been known to stand sometimes for
hours like a statue, scarcely moving either limbs or features.
With the smith, body and face were cast in a heavy, coarse mould, and
both gave evidence of the savage restlessness and discontent of the mind
within. Very seldom were they characterized by anything like repose. In
general the eyes rolled about in their sockets, glancing here and there
with a preoccupied air, while the whole lower part of the face twitched
convulsively; and this movement often extended even to the limbs and
body. It was evident that no other influence but the thoughts within
him induced this unquiet. When he found himself observed, he could by a
strong effort resume outward composure; but he would at such times hurl
back a look so vicious that few cared to encounter it twice.
The neighborhood where the smith’s house stood was very lonely. In former
years it had been a small fishing-village called Senjuin, which in time,
as the castle-town of Kuwana gradually extended, became one of the
outskirts of the latter. This was many hundred years ago. With its loss
of independence, in spite of the proximity of the great town, it lost
also its well-to-do look, and became the resort of the very worst and
the very poorest elements of the population. During the great Minamoto
wars, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it suddenly developed into
prosperity. The streets became lined with stores, mechanics’ workshops,
small manufactories of different articles of military equipment; and with
these, not a few wine-shops, houses of bad repute, and gambling-dens.
There was then continual marching and countermarching; regular and
irregular bodies of troops, such as could be induced to take the field
by threats or promises, through motives of partisan loyalty, from love
of adventure, or through the more mercenary object of gain or booty to
be reaped, were being continually formed, and Kuwana had become a noted
resort for such bands to equip themselves, most of the new traffic
concentrating itself in that part where Senjuin had formerly stood.
[Illustration]
The town possessed abundant natural advantages. Its neighborhood abounded
with many kinds of good woods, including a great variety of bamboos,—so
necessary in the production of articles of every-day use. Inland products
could easily and cheaply be brought down on the river which ran beside
the town. Its situation by the sea-shore, and the never-failing supply of
fish which was thereby secured, was also of great value at a time when
fields were irregularly tilled and the cost of cereals often reached
famine prices. The advantage of being able to go and come by sea or
land was not slight, and was especially appreciated by those lawless
characters who abounded at the time, and a goodly number of whom could
always be found there. Whatever the disposition and tendency of these
gentry might have been, however, they were kept in check by the proximity
of the castle with its garrison, which prevented anything like excess
of violence or ill-doing. Burglaries, robberies, and murders even were
no rarity; but assistance was always at hand when a brawl assumed too
great dimensions. No band of robbers could come and levy contributions or
commit other outrages as they did sometimes in smaller towns and villages.
Thus this quarter of the town grew up and flourished as long as the
war lasted. With the return of peace this prosperity waned, and soon
departed altogether. The working part of the population moved away
nearer the castle-walls and the old, established centre of business; and
the disreputable part, finding their occupation gone, left for other
regions. In the course of a few decades the place had become almost
entirely deserted. Some of the houses at first had been taken down and
removed, some had been destroyed by fire, and not a few had fallen down,
rotting away in unshapely heaps. All those that yet stood were in a state
of extreme decay. Passing beggars and _ronins_ often used them as a
temporary refuge, and a great deal of real danger to unarmed wayfarers
lurked under the shadow of this apparently deserted solitude. It was also
a favorite spot for duels and night-brawls, and many a manly form was
often found there in the morning lifeless and covered with sword-cuts.
About nine years previous to the time when the first incidents related
in this narrative took place, Muramasa the sword-smith, who had already
acquired considerable reputation in his craft, arrived in Kuwana, and
for a trifle bought a plot of land, where he erected his house in the
manner already described. It was the worst-reputed part of the whole
neighborhood, near the high road, which skirted one end of the deserted
village, and opposite to a large open, level space, where once had stood
houses which had been burned down, and in whose place a plentiful supply
of weeds had sprung up. These were, however, kept well beaten down; for
it was this particular spot which was generally chosen when the brawlers
or duellists fought in greater numbers. Muramasa had been accompanied
by a young wife, a son about fourteen years of age, the offspring of
a former marriage, and an old married serving-couple. From the very
beginning he had led a lonely and solitary life, as he did afterward. He
repaired one of the old buildings on the land he had bought, so as to
make it temporarily habitable while his new house was being constructed.
[Illustration: JAPANESE LANDSCAPE.]
His wife always remained utterly secluded; and even of the mechanics
engaged by him to put up the new house, only one or two got a passing
glance at her through a half-open door or window,—sufficient, however,
it seems, to make them speak in glowing terms of her marvellous beauty.
Two years after her arrival she died in giving birth to a daughter, who
was named O Tetsu. It then began to be bruited about that she had been
an _Eta_ (a pariah), the queen of her tribe, famous for her surpassing
loveliness. This report, which, it was said, first originated with a
travelling showman who had formerly known Muramasa in other places,
gradually assumed a more definite shape, and it was whispered that she
had been rescued by the smith while being abducted by some nobleman and
carried to the latter’s castle. Rumor went still further, and stated that
it was not a man of low degree, but one of the mighty lords of the land
who had attempted this outrage, and that six of his most trusty blades
engaged in the execution of the design had been cut down and disabled by
the smith who fought single-handed. Careless of the opinion of the world,
he afterward made the outcast Eta his lawful wife. He loved her fondly
and passionately, and she reciprocated his sentiments.
[Illustration: AN _ETA_.]
After her death, all that there was of kindness, of love, and of sympathy
in his nature went out toward his daughter. To the outer world he
became, if possible, more grim and reserved than he had been before.
He shunned all such chance acquaintances as he had made, he went to
the court—where even hitherto, in spite of an open invitation, he had
rarely made his appearance—only when the occasion rendered his presence
unavoidable; beyond this he paid and received no visits whatever. The
only persons who gained admittance to his house were a few old teachers
whom he had engaged for his daughter. The aged serving-man who had
accompanied him had died three or four years after their arrival, and no
one had taken his place, the old serving-woman being the only domestic
who remained to do the necessary duties about the house.
[Illustration]
The smith’s son, now a man over thirty years of age, resembled his
father in outward looks and appearance, and if his face showed rather
more good-humor, it was probably merely a negative quality arising from
its lack of expression. Physically he was as strong and stout as the
smith; but his mind was of a very inferior order. He was, however, an
expert in all that pertained to swords; and on this point could discourse
pleasantly and with an intelligence that sometimes bordered on eloquence.
As regarded everything else, his mental and reasoning faculties seemed
to present a perfect blank, he being unable to understand causes and
effects, unless they were of the most simple kind, such as could be
learned mechanically. For his father he showed great awe and reverence,
and toward his half-sister he evinced an affection which was as deep
as it was humble, and might be likened to that of a faithful dog. He
displayed it by a desire to be close to her in those short periods when
he was not engaged in work. At such times he would often put his hand
furtively but tenderly on some part of her dress; and when she perceived
it, he would bend forward, as if waiting for a smile or a caressing
word, which were the usual acknowledgments, and to which, when given,
his only response was a broad, pleased grin. He rarely spoke on anything
not connected with his craft, but to express his wants and feelings used
certain signs, which those about him had learned to interpret. He might
almost have passed for an idiot, were it not for his clear, logical talk
on everything connected with his profession, and for a quickness of
movement of both hand and limb which such beings do not usually possess,
and which in him was developed to a remarkable degree. It is probable
that he was naturally endowed with but limited reasoning powers. These,
however, would have been sufficient for the narrow range of views and the
limited routine duties of a peasant or a laborer in those days; but in
the position in which he was placed, the comparatively strong claims made
upon him in the exercise of his profession had, so to say, absorbed all
that there was of intellect and drawn it into this one channel, leaving
everything else a blank.
[Illustration: SWORD-GUARD.]