let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the
mortar.
Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said
a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of
the mortar and went his way.
Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a
flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.
What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a
handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered
with blossoms.
"It will do," says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and
off he sets for the Prince's palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold
as brass.
"Who are you?" they ask him.
"I am _Hana-saka-jiji_," says the old man, "the man who makes dead trees
to blossom; my business is with the Prince."
Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach
trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.
"Why," he said, "it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring." And
he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers
to see the work of _Hana-saka-jiji_. At last he sent the old man home
with a passing rich reward.
Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh
no.
They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had
put them in a basket they went about the town crying:
"We are the _Hana-saka-jiji_. We can make dead trees blossom."
Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And
the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.
But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the
Prince's eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty
to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry
they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways.
Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all
their days.
XXXVI
THE MOON MAIDEN
There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old
man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in
a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in
their old age, poor souls.
Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut
bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town,
and thus he gained his humble living.
Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite
wearied out. He took his blue _tenegui_ and wiped his forehead, "Alack
for my old bones!" he said. "I am not so young as I once was, nor the
good wife either, and there's no chick nor child to help us in our old
age, more's the pity." He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.
Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.
"What is this?" said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady
enough in the bamboo grove. "Is it the sun?" said Také Tori. "No, that
cannot well be, for it comes from the ground." Very soon he pushed his
way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from.
Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori
took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a
fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.
"Wonder of wonders!" cried Také Tori. "Wonder of wonders! For
five-and-thirty years I've cut bamboo. This is the very first time I've
found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them." With that he
takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts
in two with a loud noise, if you'll believe it, and out of it came a
young person and stood on Také Tori's hand.
You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She
was dressed all in green silk.
"Greetings to you, Také Tori," she says, as easy as you please.
"Mercy me!" says Také Tori. "Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you'll be
a fairy," he says, "if I'm not making too bold in asking?"
"You're right," she says, "it's a fairy I am, and I'm come to live with
you and your good wife for a little."
"Well, now," says Také Tori, "begging your pardon, we're very poor. Our
cottage is good enough, but I'm afraid there'd be no comforts for a lady
like you."
"Where's the big green jewel?" says the fairy.
Take Tori picks up the two halves. "Why, it's full of gold pieces," he
says.
"That will do to go on with," says the fairy; "and now, Také Tori, let
us make for home."
Home they went. "Wife! wife!" cried Také Tori, "here's a fairy come to
live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a
persimmon, full of gold pieces."
The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her
eyes.
"What is this," she said, "about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons
I have seen often enough--moreover, it is the season--but gold pieces
are hard to come by."
"Let be, woman," said Také Tori, "you are dull." And he brought the
fairy into the house.
Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine
tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the
noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night.
Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out
of the shining jewel.
Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich,
and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to
spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The
Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed
both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.
But she would have none of them. "Také Tori and the dear good wife are
my true lovers," she said; "I will live with them and be their
daughter."
So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself
came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.
"Lady," he said, "I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be
my Queen."
Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes,
and she hid her face with her sleeve.
"Lord, I cannot," she said.
"Cannot?" said the Mikado; "and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?"
"Wait and see, lord," she said.
Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad
no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori's house.
There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and
gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the
moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the
good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.
"How bright the moon shines!" said Také Tori.
"Truly," said the good wife, "it is like a brass saucepan well scoured."
"See how pale and wan it is," said the Mikado; "it is like a sad
despairing lover."
"How long and bright a beam!" quoth Také Tori. "It is like a highway
from the moon reaching to this garden gallery."
"O dear foster-father," cried the Lady Beaming Bright. "You speak truth,
it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly
beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the
Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell
in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I
am sad at parting."
"The mist descends," said Také Tori.
"Nay," said the Mikado, "it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon."
Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches.
Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The
chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady
Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.
"Farewell, Také Tori," she said, "farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave
you my jewel for a remembrance.... As for you, my lord, I would you
might come with me--but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a
phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the
Immortals."
Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about
her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more
seen.
The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top
of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to
consume the elixir of life, for he said, "Of what profit shall it be to
me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?"
So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to
Heaven. And the Mikado said, "Let my message float up with the vapour
and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright."
XXXVII
KARMA
[Illustration: Karma.--_P. 270._]
The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey
which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on
foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed
him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to
Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor.
Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for
it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with
gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the
way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton.
Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.
"I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady," Tatewaki
said to himself. "The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a
child as she."
So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden.
"Child," he said very gently, "since we tread the same lonely road let
us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be
dark."
The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.
"Sir," she said, "my mistress will be glad indeed."
"Your mistress?" said Tatewaki.
"Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come."
"Because I am come?"
"Indeed, and indeed the time has been long," said the serving-maid; "but
now she will think no more of that."
"Will she not?" said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden's side,
walking as one in a dream.
Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the
roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream
running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden
there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.
"Here dwells my mistress," said the serving-maid. And they went into the
garden through the wicket-gate.
Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing
upon the threshold waiting.
She said, "You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort."
And he answered, "I have come."
When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her
since love was.
"O love, love," he murmured, "time is not for such as we."
Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and
into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.
Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.
Here the two held converse together.
And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with _saké_
in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things
needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the "Three Times Three"
together. When they had done this the lady said, "Love, let us go out
into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an
emerald...."
So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them.
Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the
wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a
sign of them was left.
"Alas! what is this?" cried Tatewaki.
"Let be, dear love," said the lady, and smiled; "they pass, for we have
no more need of them."
Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor.
And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the
live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other's
eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one
deep sigh.
Tatewaki said, "Lady, why do you sigh?"
And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was
fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent
eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love's
arm, and she said, "O love, we part: these are the years until we meet
again." So she touched the golden circles on his arm.
Then Tatewaki cried aloud, "O love, who are you? Tell me your name...."
She said, "O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?... I go to
my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there.... Wait for me."
And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a
mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to
hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and
he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.
When the sun was up he arose.
"The plains," he said, "the low plains ... there will I find her." So,
with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to
the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on
the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers,
the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the
people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:
"Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and
wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they
return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them.
Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed."
And Tatewaki cried, "May the Souls have sweet passage.... I cannot
stay."
So he came to the plains at last, but did not find his lady. Nothing at
all did he find, but a wilderness of ancient graves, with nettles
overgrown and the waving green grass.
So Tatewaki went to his own place, and for nine long years he lived a
lonely man. The happiness of home and little children he never knew.
"Ah, love," he said, "not patiently, not patiently, I wait for you....
Love, delay not your coming."
And when the nine years were past he was in his garden upon the Night of
Souls. And looking up he saw a woman that came towards him, threading
her way through the paths of the garden. Lightly she came; she was a
slender girl, dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Tatewaki stood up
and spoke:
"Child," he said very gently, "since we tread the same lonely road let
us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be
dark."
The maid turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips:
"Sir," she said, "my mistress will be glad indeed."
"Will she be glad?" said Tatewaki.
"The time has been long."
"Long and very weary," said Tatewaki.
"But now you will think no more of that...."
"Take me to your mistress," said Tatewaki. "Guide me, for I cannot see
any more. Hold me, for my limbs fail. Do not leave go my hand, for I am
afraid. Take me to your mistress," said Tatewaki.
In the morning his servants found him cold and dead, quietly lying in
the shade of the garden trees.
XXXVIII
THE SAD STORY OF THE YAOYA'S DAUGHTER
There was a wandering ballad-singer who came to a great house in Yedo
where they wished to be entertained.
"Will you have a dance or a song?" said the ballad-singer; "or shall I
tell you a story?" The people of the house bade him tell a story.
"Shall it be a tale of love or a tale of war?" said the ballad-singer.
"Oh, a tale of love," they said.
"Will you have a sad tale or a merry?" asked the ballad-singer.
They were all agreed that they would hear a sad tale.
"Well, then," said the ballad-singer, "listen, and I will tell you the
sad story of the Yaoya's daughter."
So he told this tale.
* * * * *
The Yaoya was a poor hard-working man, but his daughter was the sweetest
thing in Yedo. You must know she was one of the five beauties of the
city, that grew like five cherry-trees in the time of the spring
blossoming.
In autumn the hunters lure the wild deer with the sound of the flute.
The deer are deceived, for they believe that they hear the voices of
their mates. So are they trapped and slain. For like calls to like.
Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and
this law was the undoing of the Yaoya's daughter.
When there was a great fire in Yedo, so great that more than the half of
the city was burned, the Yaoya's house was ruined also. And the Yaoya
and his wife and his daughter had no roof over them, nor anywhere to lay
their heads. So they went to a Buddhist temple for shelter and stayed
there many days, till their house should be rebuilt. Ah me, for the
Yaoya's daughter! Every morning at sunrise she bathed in the spring of
clean water that was near the temple. Her eyes were bright and her
cheeks ruddy. Then she would put on her blue gown and sit by the
water-side to comb her long hair. She was a sweet and slender thing,
scarce fifteen years old. Her name was O Schichi.
"Sweep the temple and the temple courts," her father bade her. "'Tis
well we should do so much for the good priests who give us shelter." So
O Schichi took the broom and swept. And as she laboured she sang
merrily, and the grey precincts of the temple grew bright.
Now there was a young acolyte who served in the holy place. Gentle he
was and beautiful. Not a day passed but he heard the singing of O
Schichi; not a day passed but he set eyes upon her, going her ways, so
light and slender, in the ancient courts of the temple.
It was not long before he loved her. Youth calls to youth, beauty to
beauty, love to love. It was not long before she loved him.
Secretly they met together in the temple grove. Hand in hand they went,
her head against his arm.
"Ah," she cried, "that such a thing should be! I am happy and unhappy.
Why do I love you, my own?"
"Because of the power of Karma," said the acolyte. "Nevertheless, we
sin, O heart's desire, grievously we sin, and I know not what may come
of it."
"Alas," she said, "will the gods be angry with us, and we so young?"
"I cannot tell," he said; "but I am afraid."
Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping. But they
pledged themselves to each other for the space of many existences.
The Yaoya had his dwelling in the quarter of the city called Honjo, and
presently his house was rebuilt which had been destroyed by the fire. He
and his wife were glad, for they said, "Now we shall go home."
O Schichi hid her face with her sleeve and wept bitter tears.
"Child, what ails you?" said her mother.
O Schichi wept. "Oh! oh! oh!" she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.
"Why, maid, what is it?" said her father.
Still O Schichi wept. "Oh! oh! oh!" she cried, and swayed herself to and
fro.
That night she went to the grove. There was the acolyte, very pale and
sorrowful, beneath the trees.
"They will part us," she cried, "O my dear heart's desire. The dear gods
are angry with us, and we so young."
"Ah," he said, "I was afraid.... Farewell, dear maid, O little maid,
sweet and slender. Remember we are pledged to one another for the space
of many existences."
Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping, and they
bade farewell a thousand times.
The next day they bore O Schichi home to Honjo. She grew languid and
listless. White she grew, white as the buckwheat flower. She drooped and
she failed. No longer was she numbered with the five beauties of Yedo,
nor likened to a cherry-tree in the time of the spring blossoming. All
the day long she brooded silently. At night she lay awake in her low
bed.
"Oh! oh!" she moaned, "the weary, weary night! Shall I never see him?
Must I die of longing? Oh! oh! the weary, weary night...."
Her eyes grew large and burning bright.
"Alas! poor maid," said her father.
"I am afraid ..." said her mother. "She will lose her wits.... She does
not weep any more."
At last O Schichi arose and took straw and made it into a bundle; and
she put charcoal in the bundle and laid it beneath the gallery of her
father's house. Then she set fire to the straw and the charcoal, and the
whole burnt merrily. Furthermore the wood of her father's house took
light and the house was burnt to the ground.
"I shall see him; I shall see him!" shrieked O Schichi, and fell in a
swoon.
Howbeit all the city knew that she had set fire to her father's house.
So she was taken before the judge to be tried for her wrong-doing.
"Child," said the judge, "what made you do this thing?"
"I was mad," she said, "I did it for love's sake. I said, 'I will burn
the house, we shall have nowhere to lay our heads, then we shall take
shelter at the temple; I will see my lover.' Lord, I have not seen him
nor heard of him these many, many moons."
"Who is your lover?" said the judge.
Then she told him.
Now as for the law of the city, it was hard and could not be altered.
Death was the penalty for the crime of the Yaoya's daughter. Only a
child might escape.
"My little maid," the judge said, "are you perhaps twelve years old?"
"Nay, lord," she answered.
"Thirteen, then, or fourteen? The gods send you may be fourteen. You are
little and slender."
"Lord," she said, "I am fifteen."
"Alas, my poor maid," said the judge, "you are all too old."
So they made her stand upon the bridge of Nihonbashi. And they told her
story aloud; they called it from the house-tops so that all might hear.
There she was for all the world to look upon.
Every day for seven days she stood upon the bridge of Nihonbashi, and
drooped in the glare of the sun and of men's glances. Her face was white
as the flower of the buckwheat. Her eyes were wide and burning bright.
She was the most piteous thing under the sky. The tender-hearted wept to
see her. They said, "Is this the Yaoya's daughter that was one of the
five beauties of Yedo?"
After the seven days were passed they bound O Schichi to a stake, and
they piled faggots of wood about her and set the faggots alight. Soon
the thick smoke rose.
"It was all for love," she cried with a loud voice. And when she had
said this, she died.
* * * * *
"The tale is told," said the ballad-singer. "Youth calls to youth,
beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the
undoing of the Yaoya's daughter."
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. hair-pins vs. hairpins) and variant
spellings (e.g. fulness vs. fullness) have not been changed.
Verse, and the words "Fairy Tales" on the title page, were italicized in
the original book. This has not been represented in the plain-text
versions. Also, macrons have been removed from the word "Dojoji" in the
Latin-1 and ASCII versions.
Missing or misprinted punctuation has been corrected without note.
The following correction was also made:
p. 10: their to there (there lived in Yedo)