One of the never-failing attractions of the Tōkyō stage is the
performance, by the famous Kikugorō and his company, of the
_Botan-Dōrō_, or “Peony-Lantern.” This weird play, of which the scenes
are laid in the middle of the last century, is the dramatization of a
romance by the novelist Encho, written in colloquial Japanese, and
purely Japanese in local color, though inspired by a Chinese tale. I
went to see the play; and Kikugorō made me familiar with a new variety
of the pleasure of fear. “Why not give English readers the ghostly part
of the story?”—asked a friend who guides me betimes through the mazes
of Eastern philosophy. “It would serve to explain some popular ideas of
the supernatural which Western people know very little about. And I
could help you with the translation.”
I gladly accepted the suggestion; and we composed the following summary
of the more extraordinary portion of Enchō’s romance. Here and there we
found it necessary to condense the original narrative; and we tried to
keep close to the text only in the conversational passages,—some of
which happen to possess a particular quality of psychological interest.
—_This is the story of the Ghosts in the Romance of the
Peony-Lantern:_—
I
There once lived in the district of Ushigomé, in Yedo, a _hatamoto_[1]
called Iijima Heizayémon, whose only daughter, Tsuyu, was beautiful as
her name, which signifies “Morning Dew.” Iijima took a second wife when
his daughter was about sixteen; and, finding that O-Tsuyu could not be
happy with her mother-in-law, he had a pretty villa built for the girl
at Yanagijima, as a separate residence, and gave her an excellent
maidservant, called O-Yoné, to wait upon her.
[1] The _hatamoto_ were samurai forming the special military force of
the Shōgun. The name literally signifies “Banner-Supporters.” These
were the highest class of samurai,—not only as the immediate vassals
of the Shōgun, but as a military aristocracy.
O-Tsuyu lived happily enough in her new home until one day when the
family physician, Yamamoto Shijō, paid her a visit in company with a
young samurai named Hagiwara Shinzaburō, who resided in the Nedzu
quarter. Shinzaburō was an unusually handsome lad, and very gentle; and
the two young people fell in love with each other at sight. Even before
the brief visit was over, they contrived,—unheard by the old doctor,—to
pledge themselves to each other for life. And, at parting, O-Tsuyu
whispered to the youth,—“_Remember! If you do not come to see me again,
I shall certainly die!_”
Shinzaburō never forgot those words; and he was only too eager to see
more of O-Tsuyu. But etiquette forbade him to make the visit alone: he
was obliged to wait for some other chance to accompany the doctor, who
had promised to take him to the villa a second time. Unfortunately the
old man did not keep this promise. He had perceived the sudden
affection of O-Tsuyu; and he feared that her father would hold him
responsible for any serious results. Iijima Heizayémon had a reputation
for cutting off heads. And the more Shijō thought about the possible
consequences of his introduction of Shinzaburō at the Iijima villa, the
more he became afraid. Therefore he purposely abstained from calling
upon his young friend.
Months passed; and O-Tsuyu, little imagining the true cause of
Shinzaburō’s neglect, believed that her love had been scorned. Then she
pined away, and died. Soon afterwards, the faithful servant O-Yoné also
died, through grief at the loss of her mistress; and the two were
buried side by side in the cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In,—a temple which
still stands in the neighborhood of Dango-Zaka, where the famous
chrysanthemum-shows are yearly held.