“Izuru hi no
Honoméku iro wo
Waga sodé ni
Tsutsumaba asu mo
Kimiya tomaran.”
[“_If with my sleeve I hid the faint fair color of the dawning
sun,—then, perhaps, in the morning my lord will remain._”][3]
Then Tomotada knew that she accepted his admiration; and he was
scarcely less surprised by the art with which she had uttered her
feelings in verse, than delighted by the assurance which the verses
conveyed. He was now certain that in all this world he could not hope
to meet, much less to win, a girl more beautiful and witty than this
rustic maid before him; and a voice in his heart seemed to cry out
urgently, “Take the luck that the gods have put in your way!” In short
he was bewitched—bewitched to such a degree that, without further
preliminary, he asked the old people to give him their daughter in
marriage,—telling them, at the same time, his name and lineage, and his
rank in the train of the Lord of Noto.
They bowed down before him, with many exclamations of grateful
astonishment. But, after some moments of apparent hesitation, the
father replied:—
“Honored master, you are a person of high position, and likely to rise
to still higher things. Too great is the favor that you deign to offer
us;—indeed, the depth of our gratitude therefor is not to be spoken or
measured. But this girl of ours, being a stupid country-girl of vulgar
birth, with no training or teaching of any sort, it would be improper
to let her become the wife of a noble samurai. Even to speak of such a
matter is not right... But, since you find the girl to your liking, and
have condescended to pardon her peasant-manners and to overlook her
great rudeness, we do gladly present her to you, for an humble
handmaid. Deign, therefore, to act hereafter in her regard according to
your august pleasure.”
Ere morning the storm had passed; and day broke through a cloudless
east. Even if the sleeve of Aoyagi hid from her lover’s eyes the
rose-blush of that dawn, he could no longer tarry. But neither could he
resign himself to part with the girl; and, when everything had been
prepared for his journey, he thus addressed her parents:—
“Though it may seem thankless to ask for more than I have already
received, I must again beg you to give me your daughter for wife. It
would be difficult for me to separate from her now; and as she is
willing to accompany me, if you permit, I can take her with me as she
is. If you will give her to me, I shall ever cherish you as parents...
And, in the meantime, please to accept this poor acknowledgment of your
kindest hospitality.”
So saying, he placed before his humble host a purse of gold _ryō_. But
the old man, after many prostrations, gently pushed back the gift, and
said:—
“Kind master, the gold would be of no use to us; and you will probably
have need of it during your long, cold journey. Here we buy nothing;
and we could not spend so much money upon ourselves, even if we
wished... As for the girl, we have already bestowed her as a free
gift;—she belongs to you: therefore it is not necessary to ask our
leave to take her away. Already she has told us that she hopes to
accompany you, and to remain your servant for as long as you may be
willing to endure her presence. We are only too happy to know that you
deign to accept her; and we pray that you will not trouble yourself on
our account. In this place we could not provide her with proper
clothing,—much less with a dowry. Moreover, being old, we should in any
event have to separate from her before long. Therefore it is very
fortunate that you should be willing to take her with you now.”
It was in vain that Tomotada tried to persuade the old people to accept
a present: he found that they cared nothing for money. But he saw that
they were really anxious to trust their daughter’s fate to his hands;
and he therefore decided to take her with him. So he placed her upon
his horse, and bade the old folks farewell for the time being, with
many sincere expressions of gratitude.
“Honored Sir,” the father made answer, “it is we, and not you, who have
reason for gratitude. We are sure that you will be kind to our girl;
and we have no fears for her sake.”...
[_Here, in the Japanese original, there is a queer break in the natural
course of the narration, which therefrom remains curiously
inconsistent. Nothing further is said about the mother of Tomotada, or
about the parents of Aoyagi, or about the daimyō of Noto. Evidently the
writer wearied of his work at this point, and hurried the story, very
carelessly, to its startling end. I am not able to supply his
omissions, or to repair his faults of construction; but I must venture
to put in a few explanatory details, without which the rest of the tale
would not hold together... It appears that Tomotada rashly took Aoyagi
with him to Kyōto, and so got into trouble; but we are not informed as
to where the couple lived afterwards._]
...Now a samurai was not allowed to marry without the consent of his
lord; and Tomotada could not expect to obtain this sanction before his
mission had been accomplished. He had reason, under such circumstances,
to fear that the beauty of Aoyagi might attract dangerous attention,
and that means might be devised of taking her away from him. In Kyōto
he therefore tried to keep her hidden from curious eyes. But a retainer
of Lord Hosokawa one day caught sight of Aoyagi, discovered her
relation to Tomotada, and reported the matter to the daimyō. Thereupon
the daimyō—a young prince, and fond of pretty faces—gave orders that
the girl should be brought to the place; and she was taken thither at
once, without ceremony.
Tomotada sorrowed unspeakably; but he knew himself powerless. He was
only an humble messenger in the service of a far-off daimyō; and for
the time being he was at the mercy of a much more powerful daimyō,
whose wishes were not to be questioned. Moreover Tomotada knew that he
had acted foolishly,—that he had brought about his own misfortune, by
entering into a clandestine relation which the code of the military
class condemned. There was now but one hope for him,—a desperate hope:
that Aoyagi might be able and willing to escape and to flee with him.
After long reflection, he resolved to try to send her a letter. The
attempt would be dangerous, of course: any writing sent to her might
find its way to the hands of the daimyō; and to send a love-letter to
any inmate of the place was an unpardonable offense. But he resolved to
dare the risk; and, in the form of a Chinese poem, he composed a letter
which he endeavored to have conveyed to her. The poem was written with
only twenty-eight characters. But with those twenty-eight characters he
was about to express all the depth of his passion, and to suggest all
the pain of his loss:—[4]
Kōshi ō-son gojin wo ou;
Ryokuju namida wo tarété rakin wo hitataru;
Komon hitotabi irité fukaki koto umi no gotoshi;
Koré yori shorō koré rojin
[_Closely, closely the youthful prince now follows after the gem-bright
maid;—
The tears of the fair one, falling, have moistened all her robes.
But the august lord, having once become enamored of her—the depth of
his longing is like the depth of the sea.
Therefore it is only I that am left forlorn,—only I that am left to
wander along._]
On the evening of the day after this poem had been sent, Tomotada was
summoned to appear before the Lord Hosokawa. The youth at once
suspected that his confidence had been betrayed; and he could not hope,
if his letter had been seen by the daimyō, to escape the severest
penalty. “Now he will order my death,” thought Tomotada;—“but I do not
care to live unless Aoyagi be restored to me. Besides, if the
death-sentence be passed, I can at least try to kill Hosokawa.” He
slipped his swords into his girdle, and hastened to the palace.
On entering the presence-room he saw the Lord Hosokawa seated upon the
dais, surrounded by samurai of high rank, in caps and robes of
ceremony. All were silent as statues; and while Tomotada advanced to
make obeisance, the hush seemed to him sinister and heavy, like the
stillness before a storm. But Hosokawa suddenly descended from the
dais, and, while taking the youth by the arm, began to repeat the words
of the poem:—“_Kōshi ō-son gojin wo ou_.”... And Tomotada, looking up,
saw kindly tears in the prince’s eyes.