Recently, while passing through a little street tenanted chiefly by
dealers in old wares, I noticed a _furisodé_, or long-sleeved robe, of
the rich purple tint called _murasaki_, hanging before one of the
shops. It was a robe such as might have been worn by a lady of rank in
the time of the Tokugawa. I stopped to look at the five crests upon it;
and in the same moment there came to my recollection this legend of a
similar robe said to have once caused the destruction of Yedo.
Nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, the daughter of a rich merchant
of the city of the Shōguns, while attending some temple-festival,
perceived in the crowd a young samurai of remarkable beauty, and
immediately fell in love with him. Unhappily for her, he disappeared in
the press before she could learn through her attendants who he was or
whence he had come. But his image remained vivid in her memory,—even to
the least detail of his costume. The holiday attire then worn by
samurai youths was scarcely less brilliant than that of young girls;
and the upper dress of this handsome stranger had seemed wonderfully
beautiful to the enamoured maiden. She fancied that by wearing a robe
of like quality and color, bearing the same crest, she might be able to
attract his notice on some future occasion.
Accordingly she had such a robe made, with very long sleeves, according
to the fashion of the period; and she prized it greatly. She wore it
whenever she went out; and when at home she would suspend it in her
room, and try to imagine the form of her unknown beloved within it.
Sometimes she would pass hours before it,—dreaming and weeping by
turns. And she would pray to the gods and the Buddhas that she might
win the young man’s affection,—often repeating the invocation of the
Nichiren sect: _Namu myō hō rengé kyō!_
But she never saw the youth again; and she pined with longing for him,
and sickened, and died, and was buried. After her burial, the
long-sleeved robe that she had so much prized was given to the Buddhist
temple of which her family were parishioners. It is an old custom to
thus dispose of the garments of the dead.
The priest was able to sell the robe at a good price; for it was a
costly silk, and bore no trace of the tears that had fallen upon it. It
was bought by a girl of about the same age as the dead lady. She wore
it only one day. Then she fell sick, and began to act strangely,—crying
out that she was haunted by the vision of a beautiful young man, and
that for love of him she was going to die. And within a little while
she died; and the long-sleeved robe was a second time presented to the
temple.
Again the priest sold it; and again it became the property of a young
girl, who wore it only once. Then she also sickened, and talked of a
beautiful shadow, and died, and was buried. And the robe was given a
third time to the temple; and the priest wondered and doubted.
Nevertheless he ventured to sell the luckless garment once more. Once
more it was purchased by a girl and once more worn; and the wearer
pined and died. And the robe was given a fourth time to the temple.
Then the priest felt sure that there was some evil influence at work;
and he told his acolytes to make a fire in the temple-court, and to
burn the robe.
So they made a fire, into which the robe was thrown. But as the silk
began to burn, there suddenly appeared upon it dazzling characters of
flame,—the characters of the invocation, _Namu myō hō rengé kyō;_—and
these, one by one, leaped like great sparks to the temple roof; and the
temple took fire.
Embers from the burning temple presently dropped upon neighbouring
roofs; and the whole street was soon ablaze. Then a sea-wind, rising,
blew destruction into further streets; and the conflagration spread
from street to street, and from district into district, till nearly the
whole of the city was consumed. And this calamity, which occurred upon
the eighteenth day of the first month of the first year of Meiréki
(1655), is still remembered in Tōkyō as the _Furisodé-Kwaji_,—the Great
Fire of the Long-sleeved Robe.
According to a story-book called _Kibun-Daijin_, the name of the girl
who caused the robe to be made was O-Samé; and she was the daughter of
Hikoyemon, a wine-merchant of Hyakushō-machi, in the district of Azabu.
Because of her beauty she was also called Azabu-Komachi, or the Komachi
of Azabu.[1] The same book says that the temple of the tradition was a
Nichiren temple called Hon-myoji, in the district of Hongo; and that
the crest upon the robe was a _kikyō_-flower. But there are many
different versions of the story; and I distrust the _Kibun-Daijin_
because it asserts that the beautiful samurai was not really a man, but
a transformed dragon, or water-serpent, that used to inhabit the lake
at Uyéno,—_Shinobazu-no-Iké_.
[1] After more than a thousand years, the name of Komachi, or
Ono-no-Komachi, is still celebrated in Japan. She was the most
beautiful woman of her time, and so great a poet that she could move
heaven by her verses, and cause rain to fall in time of drought. Many
men loved her in vain; and many are said to have died for love of her.
But misfortunes visited her when her youth had passed; and, after
having been reduced to the uttermost want, she became a beggar, and
died at last upon the public highway, near Kyōto. As it was thought
shameful to bury her in the foul rags found upon her, some poor person
gave a wornout summer-robe (_katabira_) to wrap her body in; and she
was interred near Arashiyama at a spot still pointed out to travellers
as the “Place of the Katabira” (_Katabira-no-Tsuchi_).