soon she was to know it. The great black bowl covered her head and
shadowed her face. As she went through a village two women looked up
from washing in the stream, stared and laughed.
"It's a boggart come alive," says one.
"Out upon her," cries the other, "for a shameless wench! Out upon her
false modesty to roam the country thus with her head in a black bowl, as
who should cry aloud to every passing man, 'Come and see what is
hidden!' It is enough to make a wholesome body sick."
On went the poor maid, and sometimes the children pelted her with mud
and pebbles for sport. Sometimes she was handled roughly by village
louts, who scoffed and caught at her dress as she went; they even laid
hands upon the bowl itself and sought to drag it from her head by force.
But they only played at that game once, for the bowl stung them as
fiercely as if it had been a nettle, and the bullies ran away howling.
The beggar-maiden might seek her fortune, but it was very hard to find.
She might ask for work; but see, would she get it? None were wishful to
employ a girl with a black bowl on her head.
At last, on a fine day when she was tired out, she sat her upon a stone
and began to cry as if her heart would break. Down rolled her tears from
under the black bowl. They rolled down her cheeks and reached her white
chin.
A wandering ballad-singer passed that way, with his _biwa_ slung across
his back. He had a sharp eye and marked the tears upon the maid's white
chin. It was all he could see of her face, and, "Oh, girl with the black
bowl on your head," quoth he, "why do you sit weeping by the roadside?"
"I weep," she answered, "because the world is hard. I am hungry and
tired.... No one will give me work or pay me money."
"Now that's unfortunate," said the ballad-singer, for he had a kind
heart; "but I haven't a _rin_ of my own, or it would be yours. Indeed I
am sorry for you. In the circumstances the best I can do for you is to
make you a little song." With that he whips his _biwa_ round, thrums on
it with his fingers and starts as easy as you please. "To the tears on
your white chin," he says, and sings:
"The white cherry blooms by the roadside,
How black is the canopy of cloud!
The wild cherry droops by the roadside,
Beware of the black canopy of cloud.
Hark, hear the rain, hear the rainfall
From the black canopy of cloud.
Alas, the wild cherry, its sweet flowers are marred,
Marred are the sweet flowers, forlorn on the spray!"
"Sir, I do not understand your song," said the girl with the bowl on her
head.
"Yet it is plain enough," said the ballad-singer, and went his way. He
came to the house of a passing rich farmer. In he went, and they asked
him to sing before the master of the house.
"With all the will in the world," says the ballad-singer. "I will sing
him a new song that I have just made." So he sang of the wild cherry and
the great black cloud.
When he had made an end, "Tell us the interpretation of your song," says
the master of the house.
"With all the will in the world," quoth the ballad-singer. "The wild
cherry is the face of a maiden whom I saw sitting by the wayside. She
wore a great black wooden bowl upon her head, which is the great black
cloud in my song, and from under it her tears flowed like rain, for I
saw the drops upon her white chin. And she said that she wept for
hunger, and because no one would give her work nor pay her money."
"Now I would I might help the poor girl with the bowl on her head," said
the master of the house.
"That you may if you wish," quoth the ballad-singer. "She sits but a
stone's throw from your gate."
The long and short of it was that the maid was put to labour in the rich
farmer's harvest-fields. All the day long she worked in the waving rice,
with her grey skirts kilted and her sleeves bound back with cords. All
day long she plied the sickle, and the sun shone down upon the black
bowl; but she had food to eat and good rest at night, and was well
content.
She found favour in her master's eyes, and he kept her in the fields
till all the harvest was gathered in. Then he took her into his house,
where there was plenty for her to do, for his wife was but sickly. Now
the maiden lived well and happily as a bird, and went singing about her
labours. And every night she thanked the august gods for her good
fortune. Still she wore the black bowl upon her head.
At the New Year time, "Bustle, bustle," says the farmer's wife; "scrub
and cook and sew; put your best foot foremost, my dear, for we must have
the house look at its very neatest."
"To be sure, and with all my heart," says the girl, and she put her back
into the work; "but, mistress," she says, "if I may be so bold as to
ask, are we having a party, or what?"
"Indeed we are, and many of them," says the farmer's wife. "My son that
is in Kioto, the great and gay, is coming home for a visit."
Presently home he comes, the handsome young man. Then the neighbours
were called in, and great was the merry-making. They feasted and they
danced, they jested and they sang, many a bowl of good red rice they
ate, and many a cup of good _saké_ they drank. All this time the girl,
with bowl on her head, plied her work modestly in the kitchen, and well
out of the way she was--the farmer's wife saw to that, good soul! All
the same, one fine day the company called for more wine, and the wine
was done, so the son of the house takes up the _saké_ bottle and goes
with it himself to the kitchen. What should he see there but the maiden
sitting upon a pile of faggots, and fanning the kitchen fire with a
split bamboo fan!
"My life, but I must see what is under that black bowl," says the
handsome young man to himself. And sure enough he made it his daily
care, and peeped as much as he could, which was not very much; but
seemingly it was enough for him, for he thought no more of Kioto, the
great and gay, but stayed at home to do his courting.
His father laughed and his mother fretted, the neighbours held up their
hands, all to no purpose.
"Oh, dear, dear maiden with the wooden bowl, she shall be my bride and
no other. I must and will have her," cried the impetuous young man, and
very soon he fixed the wedding-day himself.
When the time came, the young maidens of the village went to array the
bride. They dressed her in a fair and costly robe of white brocade, and
in trailing _hakama_ of scarlet silk, and on her shoulders they hung a
cloak of blue and purple and gold. They chattered, but as for the bride
she said never a word. She was sad because she brought her bridegroom
nothing, and because his parents were sore at his choice of a
beggar-maid. She said nothing, but the tears glistened on her white
chin.
"Now off with the ugly old bowl," cried the maidens; "it is time to
dress the bride's hair and to do it with golden combs." So they laid
hands to the bowl and would have lifted it away, but they could not move
it.
"Try again," they said, and tugged at it with all their might. But it
would not stir.
"There's witchcraft in it," they said; "try a third time." They tried a
third time, and still the bowl stuck fast, but it gave out fearsome
moans and cries.
"Ah! Let be, let be for pity's sake," said the poor bride, "for you make
my head ache."
They were forced to lead her as she was to the bridegroom's presence.
"My dear, I am not afraid of the wooden bowl," said the young man.
So they poured the _saké_ from the silver flagon, and from the silver
cup the two of them drank the mystic "Three Times Three" that made them
man and wife.
Then the black bowl burst asunder with a loud noise, and fell to the
ground in a thousand pieces. With it fell a shower of silver and gold,
and pearls and rubies and emeralds, and every jewel of price. Great was
the astonishment of the company as they gazed upon a dowry that for a
princess would have been rich and rare.
But the bridegroom looked into the bride's face. "My dear," he said,
"there are no jewels that shine like your eyes."
VIII
THE STAR LOVERS
[Illustration: The Star Lovers.--_P. 65._]
All you that are true lovers, I beseech you pray the gods for fair
weather upon the seventh night of the seventh moon.
For patience' sake and for dear love's sake, pray, and be pitiful that
upon that night there may be neither rain, nor hail, nor cloud, nor
thunder, nor creeping mist.
Hear the sad tale of the Star Lovers and give them your prayers.
The Weaving Maiden was the daughter of a Deity of Light. Her dwelling
was upon the shore of the Milky Way, which is the Bright River of
Heaven. All the day long she sat at her loom and plied her shuttle,
weaving the gay garments of the gods. Warp and woof, hour by hour the
coloured web grew till it lay fold on fold piled at her feet. Still she
never ceased her labour, for she was afraid. She had heard a saying:
"Sorrow, age-long sorrow, shall come upon the Weaving Maiden when she
leaves her loom."
So she laboured, and the gods had garments to spare. But she herself,
poor maiden, was ill-clad; she recked nothing of her attire or of the
jewels that her father gave her. She went barefoot, and let her hair
hang down unconfined. Ever and anon a long lock fell upon the loom, and
back she flung it over her shoulder. She did not play with the children
of Heaven, or take her pleasure with celestial youths and maidens. She
did not love or weep. She was neither glad nor sorry. She sat weaving,
weaving ... and wove her being into the many-coloured web.
Now her father, the Deity of Light, grew angry. He said, "Daughter, you
weave too much."
"It is my duty," she said.
"At your age to talk of duty!" said her father. "Out upon you!"
"Wherefore are you displeased with me, my father?" she said, and her
fingers plied the shuttle.
"Are you a stock or a stone, or a pale flower by the wayside?"
"Nay," she said, "I am none of these."
"Then leave your loom, my child, and live; take your pleasure, be as
others are."
"And wherefore should I be as others are?" she said.
"Never dare to question me. Come, will you leave your loom?"
She said, "Sorrow, age-long sorrow, shall come upon the Weaving Maiden
when she leaves her loom."
"A foolish saying," cried her father, "not worthy of credence. What do
we know of age-long sorrow? Are we not gods?" With that he took her
shuttle from her hand gently, and covered the loom with a cloth. And he
caused her to be very richly attired, and they put jewels upon her and
garlanded her head with flowers of Paradise. And her father gave her for
spouse the Herd Boy of Heaven, who tended his flocks upon the banks of
the Bright River.
Now the Maiden was changed indeed. Her eyes were stars and her lips were
ruddy. She went dancing and singing all the day. Long hours she played
with the children of Heaven, and she took her pleasure with the
celestial youths and maidens. Lightly she went; her feet were shod with
silver. Her lover, the Herd Boy, held her by the hand. She laughed so
that the very gods laughed with her, and High Heaven re-echoed with
sounds of mirth. She was careless; little did she think of duty or of
the garments of the gods. As for her loom, she never went near it from
one moon's end to another.
"I have my life to live," she said; "I'll weave it into a web no more."
And the Herd Boy, her lover, clasped her in his arms. Her face was all
tears and smiles, and she hid it on his breast. So she lived her life.
But her father, the Deity of Light, was angry.
"It is too much," he said. "Is the girl mad? She will become the
laughing-stock of Heaven. Besides, who is to weave the new spring
garments of the gods?"
Three times he warned his daughter.
Three times she laughed softly and shook her head.
"Your hand opened the door, my father," she said, "but of a surety no
hand either of god or of mortal can shut it."
He said, "You shall find it otherwise to your cost." And he banished the
Herd Boy for ever and ever to the farther side of the Bright River. The
magpies flew together, from far and near, and they spread their wings
for a frail bridge across the river, and the Herd Boy went over by the
frail bridge. And immediately the magpies flew away to the ends of the
earth and the Weaving Maiden could not follow. She was the saddest thing
in Heaven. Long, long she stood upon the shore, and held out her arms to
the Herd Boy, who tended his oxen desolate and in tears. Long, long she
lay and wept upon the sand. Long, long she brooded, looking on the
ground.
She arose and went to her loom. She cast aside the cloth that covered
it. She took her shuttle in her hand.
"Age-long sorrow," she said, "age-long sorrow!" Presently she dropped
the shuttle. "Ah," she moaned, "the pain of it," and she leaned her head
against the loom.
But in a little while she said, "Yet I would not be as once I was. I did
not love or weep, I was neither glad nor sorry. Now I love and I weep--I
am glad, and I am sorry."
Her tears fell like rain, but she took up the shuttle and laboured
diligently, weaving the garments of the gods. Sometimes the web was grey
with grief, sometimes it was rosy with dreams. The gods were fain to go
strangely clad. The Maiden's father, the Deity of Light, for once was
well pleased.
"That is my good, diligent child," he said. "Now you are quiet and
happy."
"The quiet of dark despair," she said. "Happy! I am the saddest thing in
Heaven."
"I am sorry," said the Deity of Light; "what shall I do?"
"Give me back my lover."
"Nay, child, that I cannot do. He is banished for ever and ever by the
decree of a Deity, that cannot be broken."
"I knew it," she said.
"Yet something I can do. Listen. On the seventh day of the seventh moon,
I will summon the magpies together from the ends of the earth, and they
shall be a bridge over the Bright River of Heaven, so that the Weaving
Maiden shall lightly cross to the waiting Herd Boy on the farther
shore."
So it was. On the seventh day of the seventh moon came the magpies from
far and near. And they spread their wings for a frail bridge. And the
Weaving Maiden went over by the frail bridge. Her eyes were like stars,
and her heart like a bird in her bosom. And the Herd Boy was there to
meet her upon the farther shore.
And so it is still, oh, true lovers--upon the seventh day of the
seventh moon these two keep their tryst. Only if the rain falls with
thunder and cloud and hail, and the Bright River of Heaven is swollen
and swift, the magpies cannot make a bridge for the Weaving Maiden.
Alack, the dreary time!
Therefore, true lovers, pray the gods for fair weather.
IX
HORAIZAN
Jofuku was the Wise Man of China. Many books he read, and he never
forgot what was in them. All the characters he knew as he knew the lines
in the palm of his hand. He learned secrets from birds and beasts, and
herbs and flowers and trees, and rocks and metals. He knew magic and
poetry and philosophy. He grew full of years and wisdom. All the people
honoured him; but he was not happy, for he had a word written upon his
heart.
The word was _Mutability_. It was with him day and night, and sorely it
troubled him. Moreover, in the days of Jofuku a tyrant ruled over China,
and he made the Wise Man's life a burden.
"Jofuku," he said, "teach the nightingales of my wood to sing me the
songs of the Chinese poets."
Jofuku could not do it for all his wisdom.
"Alas, liege," he said, "ask me another thing and I will give it you,
though it cost me the blood of my heart."
"Have a care," said the Emperor, "look to your ways. Wise men are cheap
in China; am I one to be dishonoured?"
"Ask me another thing," said the Wise Man.
"Well, then, scent me the peony with the scent of the jessamine. The
peony is brilliant, imperial; the jessamine is small, pale, foolish.
Nevertheless, its perfume is sweet. Scent me the peony with the scent of
the jessamine."
But Jofuku stood silent and downcast.
"By the gods," cried the Emperor, "this wise man is a fool! Here, some
of you, off with his head."
"Liege," said the Wise Man, "spare me my life and I will set sail for
Horaizan where grows the herb Immortality. I will pluck this herb and
bring it back to you again, that you may live and reign for ever."
The Emperor considered.
"Well, go," he said, "and linger not, or it will be the worse for you."
Jofuku went and found brave companions to go with him on the great
adventure, and he manned a junk with the most famous mariners of China,
and he took stores on board, and gold; and when he had made all things
ready he set sail in the seventh month, about the time of the full moon.
The Emperor himself came down to the seashore.
"Speed, speed, Wise Man," he said; "fetch me the herb Immortality, and
see that you do it presently. If you return without it, you and your
companions shall die the death."
"Farewell, liege," called Jofuku from the junk. So they went with a fair
wind for their white sails. The boards creaked, the ropes quivered, the
water splashed against the junk's side, the sailors sang as they steered
a course eastward, the brave companions were merry. But the Wise Man of
China looked forward and looked back, and was sad because of the word
written upon his heart--_Mutability_.
The junk of Jofuku was for many days upon the wild sea, steering a
course eastwards. He and the sailors and the brave companions suffered
many things. The great heat burnt them, and the great cold froze them.
Hungry and thirsty they were, and some of them fell sick and died. More
were slain in a fight with pirates. Then came the dread typhoon, and
mountain waves that swept the junk. The masts and the sails were washed
away with the rich stores, and the gold was lost for ever. Drowned were
the famous mariners, and the brave companions every one. Jofuku was left
alone.
In the grey dawn he looked up. Far to the east he saw a mountain, very
faint, the colour of pearl, and on the mountain top there grew a tree,
tall, with spreading branches. The Wise Man murmured:
"The Island of Horaizan is east of the east, and there is Fusan, the
Wonder Mountain. On the heights of Fusan there grows a tree whose
branches hide the Mysteries of Life."
Jofuku lay weak and weary and could not lift a finger. Nevertheless,
the junk glided nearer and nearer to the shore. Still and blue grew the
waters of the sea, and Jofuku saw the bright green grass and the
many-coloured flowers of the island. Soon there came troops of young men
and maidens bearing garlands and singing songs of welcome; and they
waded out into the water and drew the junk to land. Jofuku was aware of
the sweet and spicy odours that clung to their garments and their hair.
At their invitation he left the junk, which drifted away and was no more
seen.
He said, "I have come to Horaizan the Blest." Looking up he saw that the
trees were full of birds with blue and golden feathers. The birds filled
the air with delightful melody. On all sides there hung the orange and
the citron, the persimmon and the pomegranate, the peach and the plum
and the loquat. The ground at his feet was as a rich brocade,
embroidered with every flower that is. The happy dwellers in Horaizan
took him by the hands and spoke lovingly to him.
"How strange it is," said Jofuku, "I do not feel my old age any more."
"What is old age?" they said.
"Neither do I feel any pain."
"Now what is pain?" they said.
"The word is no longer written on my heart."
"What word do you speak of, beloved?"
"_Mutability_ is the word."
"And what may be its interpretation?"
"Tell me," said the Wise Man, "is this death?"
"We have never heard of death," said the inhabitants of Horaizan.
* * * * *
The Wise Man of Japan was Wasobiobe. He was full as wise as the Wise Man
of China. He was not old but young. The people honoured him and loved
him. Often he was happy enough.
It was his pleasure to venture alone in a frail boat out to sea, there
to meditate in the wild and watery waste. Once as he did this it chanced
that he fell asleep in his boat, and he slept all night long, while his
boat drifted out to the eastward. So, when he awoke in the bright light
of morning, he found himself beneath the shadow of Fusan, the Wonder
Mountain. His boat lay in the waters of a river of Horaizan, and he
steered her amongst the flowering iris and the lotus, and sprang on
shore.
"The sweetest spot in the world!" he said. "I think I have come to
Horaizan the Blest."
Soon came the youths and maidens of the island, and with them the Wise
Man of China, as young and as happy as they.
"Welcome, welcome, dear brother," they cried, "welcome to the Island of
Eternal Youth."
When they had given him to eat of the delicious fruit of the island,
they laid them down upon a bank of flowers to hear sweet music.
Afterwards they wandered in the woods and groves. They rode and hunted,
or bathed in the warm sea-water. They feasted and enjoyed every
delightful pleasure. So the long day lingered, and there was no night,
for there was no need of sleep, there was no weariness and no pain.
* * * * *
The Wise Man of Japan came to the Wise Man of China. He said:
"I cannot find my boat."
"What matter, brother?" said Jofuku. "You want no boat here."
"Indeed, my brother, I do. I want my boat to take me home. I am sick for
home. There's the truth."
"Are you not happy in Horaizan?"
"No, for I have a word written upon my heart. The word is _Humanity_.
Because of it I am troubled and have no peace."
"Strange," said the Wise Man of China. "Once I too had a word written on
my heart. The word was _Mutability_, but I have forgotten what it means.
Do you too forget."
"Nay, I can never forget," said the Wise Man of Japan.
He sought out the Crane, who is a great traveller, and besought her,
"Take me home to my own land."
"Alas," the Crane said, "if I did so you would die. This is the Island
of Eternal Youth; do you know you have been here for a hundred years? If
you go away you will feel old age and weariness and pain, then you will
die."
"No matter," said Wasobiobe, "take me home."
Then the Crane took him on her strong back and flew with him. Day and
night she flew and never tarried and never tired. At last she said, "Do
you see the shore?"
And he said, "I see it. Praise be to the gods."
She said, "Where shall I carry you?... You have but a little time to
live."
"Good Crane, upon the dear sand of my country, under the spreading pine,
there sits a poor fisherman mending his net. Take me to him that I may
die in his arms."
So the Crane laid Wasobiobe at the poor fisherman's feet. And the
fisherman raised him in his arms. And Wasobiobe laid his head against
the fisherman's humble breast.
"I might have lived for ever," he said, "but for the word that is
written on my heart."
"What word?" said the fisherman.
"_Humanity_ is the word," the Wise Man murmured. "I am grown old--hold
me closer. Ah, the pain...." He gave a great cry.
Afterwards he smiled. Then his breath left him with a sigh, and he was
dead.
"It is the way of all flesh," said the fisherman.
X
REFLECTIONS
[Illustration: Reflections.--_P. 78._]
Long enough ago there dwelt within a day's journey of the city of Kioto
a gentleman of simple mind and manners, but good estate. His wife, rest
her soul, had been dead these many years, and the good man lived in
great peace and quiet with his only son. They kept clear of women-kind,
and knew nothing at all either of their winning or their bothering ways.
They had good steady men-servants in their house, and never set eyes on
a pair of long sleeves or a scarlet _obi_ from morning till night.
The truth is that they were as happy as the day is long. Sometimes they
laboured in the rice-fields. Other days they went a-fishing. In the
spring, forth they went to admire the cherry flower or the plum, and
later they set out to view the iris or the peony or the lotus, as the
case might be. At these times they would drink a little _saké_, and
twist their blue and white _tenegui_ about their heads and be as jolly
as you please, for there was no one to say them nay. Often enough they
came home by lantern light. They wore their oldest clothes, and were
mighty irregular at their meals.
But the pleasures of life are fleeting--more's the pity!--and presently
the father felt old age creeping upon him.
One night, as he sat smoking and warming his hands over the charcoal,
"Boy," says he, "it's high time you got married."
"Now the gods forbid!" cries the young man. "Father, what makes you say
such terrible things? Or are you joking? You must be joking," he says.
"I'm not joking at all," says the father; "I never spoke a truer word,
and that you'll know soon enough."
"But, father, I am mortally afraid of women."
"And am I not the same?" says the father. "I'm sorry for you, my boy."
"Then what for must I marry?" says the son.
"In the way of nature I shall die before long, and you'll need a wife to
take care of you."
Now the tears stood in the young man's eyes when he heard this, for he
was tender-hearted; but all he said was, "I can take care of myself very
well."
"That's the very thing you cannot," says his father.