HAVING fulfilled his purpose in life, the Shimadzu was ready, eager, for
his own self-immolation. He had prepared for this event with strict
observance of an elaborate etiquette, just as he, a samurai, would have
prepared for any event of importance in his life.
The little house had been thoroughly cleansed and whitewashed. Fresh
mats of straw had been laid upon the floor, and the walls were
recovered. To admit the sunshine, and the air of the out-door world, the
windows were thrown wide apart.
Shimadzu produced an ancient chest, from which he brought forth rare and
costly old garments, emblazoned with the crests of a proud family, and a
pair of very long swords. The hilts were of black lacquer. The guard,
ferule, cleats, and rivets were richly inlaid and embossed in rare
metals. But the beautiful blades were the parts which shone out in their
noble, classic beauty. They were extremely narrow, glossy, and brittle
as icicles. The very sight of them would have awakened a feeling of
heroism and awe in the bosom of one less alive to what they signified
than Shimadzu. They were, in fact, two swords which, belonging to a
hundred ancestors of Shimadzu, had been used only in the most glorious
service.
“The girded sword is the soul of the samurai,” and Shimadzu muttered an
ancient saying. It had been long since he lost the right to wear them
through his marriage into the Eta class, and now he regarded them with
such intense emotion that fierce tears blinded his eyesight.
Reverently, tenderly, he lifted them to a place upon a white table
before a shrine in his own chamber. Then with a low groan he prostrated
himself before them, rather than the figure of the Daibutsu, which
placidly rested upon the small throne.
In his inmost soul, this samurai felt he had done a good and righteous
thing in achieving his vengeance, even though the innocent were
sacrificed. Trained as he had been in the harsh school of the samurai,
in which self-denial, contempt for pleasure and gain, scorn of death or
physical hurt, and the righteous vengeance upon an enemy were esteemed
virtues, he was steeled against all fear and pain. His conscience was
satisfied with itself.
After his silent prayer, he rose to his feet very calmly and with a
degree of solemnity. He had gathered fresh strength from his prayer. The
ceremony of hari-kari he performed with grave dignity and
punctiliousness.
First of all, he gently lifted the two swords and held them in the sun,
their knightly significance strong in his mind. One was to use against
all enemies of his lord, the other held ever in readiness to turn upon
himself in atonement for fault or faintest suspicion of dishonor, or, as
in his case, when a duty has been fulfilled and honorable death is
desired as a crowning end.
The samurai Shimadzu was without a lord, or, rather, he disdained and
cursed the one under whom he should have served. Hence he broke into a
dozen pieces one of the two swords, spurning the glittering pieces with
his foot.
Then silently he disrobed to the waist. Very slowly and precisely he
pressed the sword into his body so that he might lose none of the pain,
which he would have scorned to resist. No moan escaped his lips. No
muscle of his face quivered.
As the sword sank deeper his brain whirled with the dizziness of nausea,
but, still stiff and relentless, his arm obeyed the will of his soul,
even continuing mechanically to do so when his head had fallen backward
into semi-unconsciousness. He was one hour and a half in dying. No words
could describe the excruciating nature of such pains. Certainly, as a
samurai, his was a fitting end.
Such was the nature of this people that to his friends and relatives his
act was regarded as an honorable and admirable thing. Had he faltered in
its accomplishment they would have urged him to the deed, entreating him
to save himself from the stigma of dishonor which would otherwise smirch
his good name.
The following day a large number of Catzu samurai and vassals marched
through the Eta settlement and ascended the small hill upon which stood
the house of the public executioner. The body of the samurai was carried
with the utmost respect and reverence from the Eta house, whence a
train, bearing it in due state, departed for Catzu.
From the Eta house the Lady Wistaria, too, was carried. Her train was
even more like a funeral procession than that of her father; for those
who carried her norimon and who followed in its wake had long been her
personal attendants and servitors. Now, because of their love for her,
they wept at almost every step of the journey.
The two mournful processions left the Eta settlement side by side, but
their different destinations led to their parting company at the base of
the hill. The one carrying the dead samurai turned in the direction of
Catzu. There, fitting ceremonies were to be given to the departed soul
of Shimadzu, after which he would be interred in the mortuary hall of
his ancestors.
The train of the Lady Wistaria turned to the south, travelling many
miles over bare and uninhabited regions, over plains, past hamlets and
small towns and villages, on towards the mountains of the south.
While the last rays of the setting sun were still illumining the west,
the cortege of the new Princess of Mori entered a forest of evergreen
pines. When it emerged, the darkening sky had deepened its colors until
a melancholy calm wrapped the land in an effulgent glow. The moon had
risen on high and was shimmering out its holy light. The earth,
reflecting its gleam, seemed a tableau of silent silver.
They had reached a beautiful and tranquil hill. At the top, above the
pines and cedars enclosing it in nature’s own sacred wall, the amber
peaks of a celestial temple, with its myriad slanting lights, pointed
upward in the sky. Their journey was ended.
Very still now stood the cortège. Low and deeply bent stood the silent
attendants, as with streaming eyes they gazed longingly upon the slight
young figure which the samurai Genji, almost bowed over with personal
grief, assisted to alight from the norimon. In her white robes the Lady
Wistaria seemed a spirit as she stood there under the moonbeams. Mutely
she looked about her. As the muffled sobs of her servitors reached her
ears, she wrung her hands with an unconscious gesture of anguish greater
than their own.
As if in sympathy with the intense sadness over all who were there,
nature herself seemed to show signs of her own distress. Clouds rolled
over the skies above the mountains, veiling the moon and the star beams.
A little river that flowed at the foot of the hill was heard sobbing as
it rolled with a mournful sound over its rapids.
But the lights twinkled out warmly from the temple beyond, and a
white-robed priestess was descending to welcome the novitiate. An odor
of sweet incense, such as of umegaku or tambo, was wafted to the
watchers on the hill from the temple doors. Wistaria turned her face
towards it. Then back again she directed her glance to her kneeling
servitors. Her voice was as soft and gentle as a benediction.
“Pray thee” she said, “to take care of your honorable healths.
Sayonara!”
She hesitated on the threshold of the temple. Then silently she entered
the place of tranquil rest amid the shadows of the mountains.
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[Illustration: Decoration]