PART IV

It was springtime, and in the town of Tokushima the cherry-blossoms

were bursting into bloom. The second of March[7] had come, and Onoto

Gunbei was secretly rejoicing in the wicked thought that his schemes

for the disgrace of his rival had been successful. Sakurai once removed

from his path, his own advancement would be certain. To-morrow Sakurai

must take the Kunitsugu sword to the palace and lay it in state before

the Daimio. For reasons of his own Gunbei knew that this would be a

matter of impossibility. Sakurai would therefore be suspected of having

stolen it and his degradation would be the certain result.

Gunbei's sinister features relaxed into a malignant smile as he proudly

stalked along the road on his way to the shrine at the western end of

the town.

Two of his retainers were following at a respectful distance in his

rear.

He had reached the precincts of the temple when one of these men came

hurrying up:

"My lord! Jurobei, the man for whom you are constantly on the look out,

is in that tea-house close by. I have just recognized him. What steps

shall we take?"

"Very good!" said his master. "You have done well. Let us hide

ourselves, and when he leaves the place rush upon him unawares and

seize him."

Jurobei, after a short time, walked out from the hostelry. His mind was

entirely engrossed with the thought that the sword must be retrieved

from Gunbei's possession before the morrow, the third of the third

month.

As he abstractedly strolled along, the enemy lying in ambush pounced

upon him from behind. But his years of _ronin's_ hard and reckless life

had trained his muscles to such phenomenal strength that in the tussle

that followed, within a few rounds, he came off triumphantly the victor.

Gunbei, who had been a spectator of this unequal contest, drew his

sword.

Jurobei, noting his action, caught up one of Gunbei's men and used him

as a shield to ward off the blows.

The news of the fight was soon carried to Sakurai, who immediately

hurried to the spot.

Directly he became aware of the identity of Gunbei's opponent, he

shouted:

"What presumption to stand up and attack your superior. Surrender at

once!"

He then turned to Gunbei.

"I will take him, therefore put up your sword."

Jurobei, who understood that this was strategy on his master's part,

obediently allowed himself to be bound. Sakurai then handed him over to

Gunbei, who gave him in charge of his henchmen and bade them conduct

him to his house.

Gunbei's joy was extreme at having Jurobei in his power. He ordered him

to be secured to a tree in the inner garden while he stood and mocked

at him.

"Ho, Jurobei! I have a grudge to pay off against you. Why did you kill

two of my men three months ago--tell me that?"

"I slew them because they intended to murder my master," replied

Jurobei.

"Indeed! I believe that you are also the man who stole the sword for

which your master is responsible--ho, ho, ho! You are both robbers, you

must have connived at the theft of the sword together--confess!"

"You may say what you like of me, but you lie with regard to Shusen."

In a rage Gunbei and his accomplices put their sheathed swords beneath

the ropes which bound Jurobei, and twisted them round and round so that

they cut into the flesh and inflicted great torture on their victim.

Now it happened that Takao, the Daimio's illegitimate half-sister, whom

Izæmon had been enabled to rescue from the infamous quarter through

Jurobei's help, had been taking refuge in Sakurai's home. Here she had

been seen by Gunbei, who had fallen madly in love with her beauty, and

had planned to make her his mistress. One day in the absence of Sakurai

he had sent his retainer, Dotetsuke, to carry her off by force.

Takao, now installed beneath Gunbei's roof, was obliged to listen to

his dishonourable advances, but so far had managed to repel them. She

was in the secret of the lost sword, and her purpose was to use the

present occasion as an opportunity of laying hands on it if possible.

On hearing the commotion she opened the _shoji_ and eagerly scanned

the direction whence it arose. To her astonishment and distress

she recognized in the bound and helpless form none other than her

valiant friend Jurobei. The thought that she owed her deliverance

from her wretched past to his chivalrous generosity flashed through

her mind. Trained to resource and intrigue, on the spur of the moment

she resolved to pretend that Jurobei was her brother. This feigned

relationship would afford them facilities for consultation concerning

the sword. Impetuously advancing to the edge of the veranda, she looked

earnestly at the captive and uttered a piteous cry:

"Oh, oh! it is my brother! Oh! my poor brother!"

"This is interesting!" jeered Gunbei. "Are you really brother and

sister?"

Takao implored Gunbei to release Jurobei.

"If you listen to me I will set him free," replied Gunbei, whose desire

was all the more inflamed by her rejection of his suit. "But if you

refuse to obey me, I will torture him with both fire and water."

Takao wept with her face hidden in her sleeves. "Is it possible that

you are a _samurai_?" she sobbed.

"Does your heart know no sympathy--no mercy? This is unendurable! I

cannot bear to see it!"

"It is you who know no sympathy either for me or your brother. I have

made conditions with you, Takao. It rests entirely with you. Accept my

love and you are both free."

"Such a matter cannot be decided of my own will. I am a woman and not a

free agent. I must consult my elder brother."

"Very well," responded Gunbei, "if you cannot decide this by yourself,

by all means consult with your elder brother Jurobei--and come to a

good understanding. I will leave you both for a while."

At a sign Gunbei's henchmen released Jurobei. "Persuade your sister

to obey me and I will forgive you all and set you free. I must have

Takao's affection. Think well, and give me an answer that will gladden

me."

Then turning to Takao he continued:

"If you finally reject my proposals you shall both be cruelly put

to death. Your two lives depend upon your will. I shall await your

decision in the inner part of the house."

Here Gunbei retired. Blinded by his wild passion for the unfortunate

girl he was unable to see the resolution expressed on both their faces.

Both his mind and soul were clouded by the desire to possess at all

costs the beautiful woman who defied him. Unaware of her high birth,

the knowledge of which would have abashed him in his pursuit of her, he

considered that she was the legitimate prey to his will.

Takao and Jurobei were left alone. They entered the room, crossing the

veranda. Seating themselves, Jurobei made a profound obeisance at a

respectful distance from Takao.

"Even though it is for the sake of the Kunitsugu sword, it is a

sacrilege that the close relative of our noble Daimio should for one

moment be called the sister of such a poor fellow as myself."

"It is not worth while to trouble your mind about these trifles while

the finding of the sword is at stake. Think not of who is master or

servant. We must find the sword this very night."

"Yes, yes," replied Jurobei, "I have the same purpose as yourself.

Now is a good opportunity. Gunbei is madly in love with you. For a

time pretend to listen to his wooing--whatever he may say do not let

it anger you--then while he is off his guard draw out the sword he is

wearing from its sheath: if the _habaki_ (the ring which secures the

guard to the blade) is of gold, ornamented with carven butterflies

and flowers, and the markings on the edge of the blade is the

_midare-yake_,[8] be sure that it is the missing Kunitsugu sword. Then

give me a sign. Till that moment I will be waiting in concealment close

at hand."

"Yes, yes," answered Takao. "Although Gunbei's attentions are hateful

to me, it is my duty, for the sake of the sword, to pretend to yield

to him for a short time. In this way Sakurai will be saved. Let us

agree upon a signal. I will go to the stream and, throwing some cherry

flowers into it, I will repeat:

_Hana wa sakura:_

_Hito wa bushi._

The cherry is first among flowers:

The warrior first among men."

They separated quietly. Takao sank upon the mats, musing sadly. The

prospect that lay before her was utterly revolting to her mind.

Meanwhile Gunbei, eager to know the result of the conference he had

permitted between the two, quietly entered the room from behind.

Her attitude of dejection greatly enhanced her pale and aristocratic

beauty, and Gunbei thought that she looked more ravishingly lovely than

he had ever seen her before. The sight of her inflamed his longing to

possess her as his own.

"What a woman!" he thought to himself. "She shall be mine!"

As he moved across the room, Takao, who was hitherto unaware of his

presence, started to her feet.

"No, no," remonstrated Gunbei in seductive accents, "I cannot allow you

to run away--do not deceive yourself for one moment. I have come for

your answer, Takao. It is 'Yes,' is it not?"

He thought that as he found her alone and in this pensive frame of mind

that Jurobei must have persuaded her to become his paramour. His pulses

throbbed and the blood in his veins ran fire. In his overmastering

passion he did not notice that his would-be victim shuddered as he took

her hand and drew her close to him till she was reclining on his knees.

Dreamily he whispered:

"Takao, you are as beautiful as an angel. Yield to my desire and I will

make you my wife. Only listen to me, and all shall be as you wish both

for yourself and your brother, Jurobei.--Come, come! Let us belong to

each other!" and he endeavoured to draw her towards the inner room.

Takao, in the meantime, had rested her hand on the hilt of his sword

and was about to draw it from its sheath.

"What are you doing, Takao! Why do you touch my sword?" asked Gunbei

sharply, roused out of his reverie of love.

"Think of me no more! With this sword I will cut off my hair and become

a nun. You may rest assured that never shall another man touch me all

my life."

With these words she attempted to draw the sword from his girdle.

Gunbei, thwarted in his longing for the beautiful woman, now lost his

temper. He pushed her roughly to one side:

"You scorn my love then? You are an obstinate creature! Instead of

forgetting you I will torture Jurobei. You shall soon know what my

hatred means." Clapping his hands, he called his confidential servant:

"Dotetsuke! Dotetsuke!"

When the man appeared his master wrathfully gave the imperious command:

"Tie up that woman to yonder cherry-tree."

Dotetsuke obediently dragged Takao into the garden and bound her with

the rope that had a little time before made Jurobei a prisoner to the

same tree.

Gunbei, who had watched the execution of his cruel order from the

veranda, retired into the room to meditate sulkily on his ill-success.

His heart was bitter within him with chagrin and baffled desire.

Suddenly, through a small side gate, there appeared a priest of

sinister appearance who, approaching the balcony, saluted Gunbei.

"According to your wishes I have prayed seven days in succession for

the Daimio of Tokushima to be seized with mortal illness. Where is my

reward?"

"Do not speak so loudly!" reproved Gunbei. "You may be overheard! You

shall be duly compensated for your services later. This is not the

time. Return at once!"

"Yes, yes, I will obey you, but do not forget to let me have the money

soon."

And Kazoin, the wicked priest, fingering his rosary and praying for

evil, departed as stealthily as he had come.

Meanwhile the unhappy Takao was left alone. She struggled to free her

hands from the cords that cut into her tender flesh, but in vain.

"What shall I do?" she sobbed. "Jurobei must be waiting for my answer.

I must find some means of letting him know my condition. Is there no

way by which I can get free? I am powerless to find the sword or to

help Shusen."

She struggled desperately against the tree and in her anguish she

murmured:

"Gunbei is surely a devil in human form. He has stolen the sword

himself in order to incriminate others. Shusen will be lost and his

house ruined unless we can recover it this very night."

In her violent efforts to wrench herself free the cherry-tree was

shaken and several blossoms fell into the stream. The falling flowers

brought hope and comfort to Takao's heart.

"The holy Buddha has come to our aid," she reflected. "Jurobei

will surely see the flowers in the water, and think that it is the

pre-arranged signal."

Meanwhile Jurobei, from his hiding-place, was watching the stream,

waiting with impatience for the promised sign. Just as he was beginning

to chafe at the unexpected delay he caught sight of a cluster of white

blossoms floating down the current of the rivulet.

"Ah, then it was the Kunitsugu sword which Gunbei stole and wore on his

person, never letting it out of his sight night or day."

[Illustration: Gunbei had watched the execution of his cruel order from

the veranda.]

Creeping along within the shadow of the trees he stealthily made his

way across the inner garden towards the room where he expected to find

Takao.

But what was his surprise when he came upon her bound to the

cherry-tree.

"Jurobei, at last you have come!" she gasped.

"Takao Sama, whatever has happened? Why are you treated like this?"

"It is because I could not endure Gunbei's hateful attentions," she

answered, weeping. "Help me, I cannot move!"

Jurobei set to work to unfasten the ropes and in a few minutes Takao

was released.

"Leave this matter to me!" advised Jurobei. "I will find some means of

outwitting Gunbei yet."

And Jurobei, followed by Takao who was endeavouring to arrange her

disordered robes, boldly strode into the room of his enemy.

The screens were pushed aside and Gunbei appeared. He glared fiercely

at the intruding couple.

"How dare you release that woman without my permission?"

"It is my intention to counsel her to comply with your wishes," replied

Jurobei, "therefore have I set her free--to give her to you as my

sister."

"Ya, Jurobei, have your powers of persuasion induced your sister to

consent to my proposals?" inquired Gunbei in mocking tones.

"Yes, I know not which I am, an elder brother or a go-between. If you

have any other work for me, I am at your service."

"Ha, ha!" sneered Gunbei, "then as your sister agrees to please me we

shall now be members of the same family. As a sign that we are closely

related, take this by way of congratulation," and suddenly drawing his

sword, he slashed at Jurobei.

Jurobei's keen eye forestalled the action, and, skilled fencer that he

was, like lightning he seized a bucket close at hand and, holding it

up, adroitly parried the rain of blows with this improvised shield.

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed. "This is too much attention even

from a relative. It is troublesome. Surely so much ceremony between

members of the same family is unnecessary. Please take it back."

Gunbei's answer was another wild attack on Jurobei, who nimbly avoided

the thrusts.

While his whole attention was engrossed in trying to cut down Jurobei,

Takao stole behind him and snatched the long sword hanging at his side

from its sheath.

"Here is the Kunitsugu sword," she joyfully exclaimed.

On hearing these words, Gunbei turned like a demon of fury upon her.

"If you have found it I will kill you both," shouted Gunbei.

But before he could execute his threat Jurobei seized him from behind.

Dotetsuke, a secret supporter of Shusen Sakurai, and who all this time

has acted the part of a spy and pretended accomplice in Gunbei's vile

schemes, now escorted his real master upon the scene.

Sakurai loftily addressed his unmasked foe.

"Your villainous plots are all laid bare, and it is impossible for you

to escape justice. Confess all and pray for mercy."

Gunbei, choking with rage, flung off Jurobei and rushed upon his

abhorred rival.

Sakurai skilfully parried the onslaught, seized Gunbei, and with a

prodigious effort hurled him out into the garden.

"Dotetsuke!" called Sakurai, "come and help us!"

"Yes, yes!" answered the man, as he ran to Jurobei's assistance in

holding the wretch down.

Gunbei started.

"What? Are you also on Shusen's side?" and he gnashed his teeth in

impotent fury.

"You have won!" He turned to Shusen. "It is useless for me to attempt

to conceal the truth. I stole the sword, thereby hoping to bring about

your ruin. I can say no more. Take the sword and return to your house.

Does not that suffice?"

"The sword is but a small part of the crimes you have committed.

Listen, villain that you are! You have done a much greater wrong. Our

Lord, the Daimio of Tokushima, has loaded you with favours, and you,

like a dastardly traitor, have requited his kindness by conspiring to

compass the death of your benefactor."

"Silence, Shusen! That is a lie. I have always hated you as my rival,

but I have borne no spite towards our Lord. What proof could you

possibly have for such base allegations?" and Gunbei stared hard at his

accuser.

Shusen smiled superciliously as he clapped his hands. In answer to the

summons, Izæmon led in a prisoner, Kazoin, the wicked priest.

"Here are my witnesses of your schemes against the life of the Lord of

Tokushima."

Gunbei realized his checkmate: there was nothing to be gained by lying

further. He was a declared traitor. In desperation he attempted to

rally his strength and attack Sakurai again, but he was promptly seized

and again thrown down into the garden.

"You are a bad man, Gunbei. Our Lord shall judge you." Then turning to

the men he gave the command:

"Bind him, hand and foot!"

When the mortified Gunbei lay helpless and cringing at his mercy,

Shusen turned to his trusty vassal and addressed him, saying:

"Jurobei, I promote you in my service. You are a true and faithful

knight. Let us rejoice, for we have triumphed and our enemy will

receive his deserts--he is defeated!"

Takao here brought forward the sword and placed it slowly and

ceremoniously before Jurobei who had staked his life, his house, his

all, and lost his only child in the tragic search.

"It is found in time!" she said. "Look, the dawn breaks! It is the

morning of the third of March!"

Receiving the weapon with a profound bow, Jurobei, on bended knees,

raised it aloft in both hands and presented it to his feudal master,

saying:

"To your keeping is at last restored the stolen treasure of our

Daimio!" and thus ended the

_Quest of the Lost Sword_

Note.--Kunitsugu was the name of a famous swordsmith who lived at the

end of the Kamakura Period, 1367.

[Footnote 1: A small knife which fits into the hilt of a sword.]

[Footnote 2: The Shrines of Kumano or The Three Holy Places date from

the first century B.C., and are famous for their healing powers. The

Nachi waterfall is the third of these ancient shrines, and is No. 1 of

the thirty-three places sacred to Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy.]

[Footnote 3: Lit. Flower-Capital = Kyoto.]

[Footnote 4: In old Japan the sentence of imprisonment, execution, and

even crucifixion fell on the wife as well as all the children, even to

the youngest babe of the criminal.]

[Footnote 5: _Koban_ = the name of an ancient pure gold coin elliptical

in shape, worth about one _Yen_, but the purchasing value perhaps a

hundred times what it is in the present day.]

[Footnote 6: _Ryo = Yen_, about two shillings, but in those times equal

to perhaps a hundred times its present value.]

[Footnote 7: March by the old calendar fell a month later than the

present way of reckoning.]

[Footnote 8: Swords of different smiths were distinguished by the

marks on their blades, formed by the different methods of welding. The

_midare-yake_ is an undulating line like the waves of the sea.]

THE TRAGEDY OF KESA GOZEN

The beautiful tragedy of Kesa Gozen has been familiar to me since

the days of my early youth, when hand in hand I walked the school

garden with Fumiko, my friend, and listened with the ardour of a

romance-loving nature to the many stories of old Japan, and more

especially of its heroines of antiquity, with which she loved to make

me familiar.

Fumiko was the daughter of a naval officer, well versed in the

literature of her own land, and a good English scholar. I had only

just come to Japan, an Anglo-Japanese girl who had been brought up in

England, knowing nothing of my fatherland. "Friendships are discovered,

not made," says a philosopher, and in our case this was true. In

her delightful and sympathetic companionship I began to forget the

heart-aching homesickness for my motherland, and to learn to accustom

myself to the strange country to which fate and my father had brought

me. There is nothing more pitiful than the abysmal loneliness and utter

hopelessness of the young, cut off from those they love, and planted

in antipodal surroundings; they have no experience to tell them that

misery, like joy, is but a condition of time, and that both pass and

alternate. Who can say what drew us together? Yet never was I happier

than when she put her hand in mine and made me her confidante, and

great was my sorrow when she married and left me to pace the garden

alone and to the memory of all the stories she had told me. To her I

owe my awakening to the beauty of Japanese romance and the love of

those old tragedies.

Many years have passed since then, but when I was told that Danjiro was

acting the drama of Kesa Gozen at the Kabukiza Theatre my mind flashed

back to those convent-like days when Fumiko and I

_Lo, as some innocent and eager maiden_

_Leans o'er the wistful limit of the world_,

_Dreams of the glow and glory of the distance_,

_Wonderful wooing and the grace of tears_,

_Dreams with what eyes and what a sweet insistence_

_Lovers are waiting in the hidden years_,

stirred to life stories of love and duty, old as the dawn which first

broke upon the island empire, yet ever new and living while hearts

throb to the music of the ideal.

But I am long in coming to the story of Kesa Gozen. This beautiful and

touching story of the Japanese ideal of woman's character and morals

is told in the drama called _Nachi-No-Taki Chikai No Mongaku_, "The

Priest Mongaku at the Waterfall of Nachi" (it is characteristic of the

Japanese that they have ignored the heroine in the title of the drama),

which was acted by Danjiro Ichikawa, the star of the Japanese stage, at

the Kabukiza Theatre during the month of October 1902. The heights of

romance and tragedy are scaled, and the pathos of a woman's unflinching

and voluntary sacrifice of life, rends the heart. The heroine is not a

Francesca da Rimini, caught up by the whirlwind of passion and blown

whithersoever it listeth, but a woman who finds herself confronted by

a vehement and determined love, out of the toils of which she sees no

escape, and so, in the prime of youth and beauty, to save her husband's

name, her mother's life, and her own virtue, she calmly arranges by

stratagem to die by the hand of her impetuous and would-be lover.

These tragic events took place in the year 1160, and a full account of

them may be found in the "Gempei Seisuiki," a record of the rise and

fall of the two great rival clans, the Taira[1] and the Minamoto, whose

struggles for supremacy disturbed Japan for many years, and find a

parallel in the conflicts of the White and Red Roses in England.

What is known historically of the story is this. Kesa, the heroine, was

the only child of a widowed mother called Koromogawa, after the place

of her residence during her married life. The word "Koromo" means the

vestments of a priest, and her daughter was consequently called "Kesa,"

which means the "stole," her real name being Atoma. Both her father and

grandfather were knights. The mother and daughter led a secluded life,

always bordering on poverty, and at times menaced by actual want.

Koromogawa took charge of an orphaned nephew, a boy, a few years

older than Kesa, and the two young cousins grew up together, with

the old-fashioned result that the lad fell in love with the lass. At

the age of sixteen, Yendo Morito, called away probably on business

connected with his clan, had to leave Kesa, just then budding into

exquisite beauty. Before leaving he entreated his aunt to promise him

Kesa in marriage. Koromogawa complied. Yendo did not return for five

years, and in the meantime, Watanabe Wataru, a wealthy and handsome

young warrior, proposed for the hand of Kesa. The mother, probably in

consideration of the advantages of the match from a worldly point of

view, neglected her promise to Yendo, and married Kesa to Wataru, who

also was the girl's cousin. After they have been married two years

Yendo Morito returns and sees his lovely young cousin by accident.

His boy's love, cherished fondly during long years of absence, flames

into a man's overmastering passion at sight of her. He learns, to his

despair, that she is married to another, and in his wrath determines

to kill his aunt who, by her faithlessness to her promise, has made

his life a misery. He rushes out and entering his aunt's house draws

his sword upon her. She, to gain time, weakly promises that he shall

see Kesa that very evening. Yendo, fain to be content with this hope,

retires, and Koromogawa summons her daughter by a letter.

When Kesa arrives she finds that her mother has made all arrangements

to kill herself, and on learning the circumstances she undertakes to

see her cousin, and quiets her distressed parent. Then she interviews

Morito and tells him that she has always loved him, but before she

can be his he must first put her husband out of the way. To this he

willingly consents. She bids him come that night to the house, where

she will make her husband wash his hair and drink wine so that he may

sleep soundly. Yendo is to steal in at midnight and, by feeling for

the damp hair, find and slay his rival. Kesa returns home, washes her

own hair, and sleeps in the room she has pointed out to Yendo, having

carefully put her husband to sleep in an inner room.

This is an interesting psychological point, and is perhaps obscure to

the Western reader. The ethical training of a Japanese woman teaches

her that in any great crisis she is the one to be sacrificed. Kesa,

rather than be the cause of a quarrel which would involve her husband

and her mother in a blood-feud with Yendo, puts herself out of the way,

and by doing so not only saves the lives of all concerned, but preaches

a silent and moving sermon to her kinsman, whose ungoverned conduct is

contrary to the teaching of all Japanese moralists.

The mad and reckless lover comes, but when he thinks to gaze with

triumph on the severed head of his hated rival he is stricken with

horror to find that he has murdered the woman he loved so passionately.

He confesses his crime to the husband and they both become monks. Years

after, from the obscurity of the monastery, having survived a long

interval of austere life and self-inflicted penances, there rises into

the prominence of political life a monk called Mongaku, who is the

friend and counsellor of the great Shogun, Yoritomo, the head of the

Minamoto clan. Mongaku, the monk, is the knight Yendo Morito.

It is the opinion of some that Kesa really loved Yendo, but her filial

obedience obliged her to marry the man whom her mother chose for her.

Then, when she found how great was her cousin's love for her, and

knowing that in her heart she returned his love, but that she could not

be his without sin, she went gladly to her death, rejoicing, doubtless,

that it was by the sword of her beloved she should perish.[2]

This version is the more beautiful and tragic, for we have a woman

triumphant in the face of the strongest temptation that can ever beat

against a human heart. The invincible yearning of the flesh must have

been there, but the soul battled bravely and won. The power of beauty,

the joy of conquest in love, these are hers; but Kesa, remaining

faithful to duty, by her death places the honour of the family beyond

all danger of blemish through her.

The present drama does not recognize this latter version, but is

founded on the former. The tragedy is epic from beginning to end, and

"is lifted from the outset into the high region of things predestined."

Fate, like some dread spider, weaves her fatal web of love and doom,

and Kesa is caught in the meshes. The grand simplicity of the play

and the purity of purpose of the heroine recall the Greek drama

and the Roman tragedy of _Lucretia_. Kesa allows herself no petty,

despicable dalliance with admiration; vanity lures her not from the

narrow path of right. She sees that nothing will swerve Yendo from his

irresistible passion, and she resolves to die. "Fear in the face of

danger dies," and having quickly made up her mind she never vacillates

nor looks back, but moves forward with the dignity of sublime reserve

to pre-determined and self-imposed death. And Kesa was only seventeen

years of age. Think of it!

Act I. The play begins with a scene in the open air. A new bridge has

been built near the town of Osaka, which can be seen with the hills

and pine-trees in the distance. Numbers of Buddhist priests appear in

gorgeous robes and offer prayers for the safety of the new bridge.

Some village officials, a retainer of Yendo Morito, who is

superintendent of the works, and Watanabe Kaoru, a brother-in-law to

Kesa, the heroine, appear, and the young knight tells those present

that his brother's wife Kesa is coming to see the opening of the new

bridge.

In a few minutes Kesa, the picture of youth and grace, in lovely

_crêpe_ robes, her face hidden by a gossamer gown held over her head

with both hands (an ancient custom resembling the Turkish _yashmak_),

comes fluttering over the bridge like some radiant moth, followed by

two attendants, Tamakoto and Otose. Before saluting her brother-in-law

Kaoru, she removes the gauze veil and reveals to all a face of

surpassing loveliness--gracefully oval in shape, a complexion white

as the lily, lips crimson as the bud of the peach blossom, and long

almond eyes, surmounted by eyebrows like the crescent of the new moon.

She speaks to her brother-in-law, who tells her that he is going to

see her cousin, Yendo Morito, the superintendent of the new bridge.

Kesa then prepares to retire and, donning the gauze-robe _yashmak_,

her attendants helping, she turns to go home. As she moves away

Yendo Morito, on horseback, crosses the bridge and, catching sight

of the beautiful woman, watches her disappear into the distance. The

priest and officials bow in polite salutation, but he is oblivious to

everything near him, for his gaze is riveted on the retreating figure

of Kesa. He thrills with rapturous emotion at the sight, and happy

memories of their childhood and early youth rush over him.

The tragedy begins here. Yendo Morito, after several years' absence,

sees his cousin for the first time and, shaken with a mighty love, now

learns that she, who was promised to him in his boyhood, is already the

wife of another--of his kinsman, Watanabe Wataru.

Act II. The curtain is pulled aside upon the maternal home of Kesa,

a small thatched cottage in the country near Kyoto. The whole aspect

of the little home denotes genteel poverty, tranquil retirement, and

spotless cleanliness. The two ladies who accompanied Kesa in the first

Act, Tamakoto and Otose, are discovered in the little sitting-room

discoursing. Koromogawa, an old lady with flowing grey hair, comes out

from an inner room and receives her two visitors. In the course of

conversation they ask her to tell them the reason why she has lived so

long in such a remote place as the province of Mutsu. In compliance

with their request, Koromogawa says:

"I am the daughter of a knight who held the province in tenure for his

services to his feudal lord. My husband was a retainer of the Governor

of Mutsu, and so when we were married we went and lived at Koromogawa.

My daughter Kesa was born to me there. Soon after my husband died, and

I went back with my child to my old home, and have since lived a quiet

and humble life. On my return the people of this neighbourhood called

me after the place, Koromogawa, where my married life had been spent,

and my daughter was called Kesa, though her real name is Atoma. She

grew up here and married Watanabe Wataru."

At this point an official named Gorokuro, who seems to be on friendly

terms with the old lady, comes in and sits by the charcoal hearth and

makes a cup of tea for every one present. The hearth is square, sunk in

the floor, and the kettle hangs, gipsy fashion, over the fire, as is

the way in the houses of the poorer classes. While serving tea Gorokuro

complains of the behaviour of Yendo Morito during the building of the

bridge. This young and impetuous knight treated the workmen in such a

rigorous manner that insubordination resulted, and he, Gorokuro, had

great trouble in controlling them. This incident gives the key to the

young knight's character. Koromogawa apologizes to Gorokuro for the

trouble her nephew Yendo has given him.

While this conversation proceeds, Kesa, accompanied by one of her

husband's retainers, Kisoda by name, arrives. Having dropped her

sandals on the stepping-stone to the veranda, she removes her veiling

robe, enters the house, and greets the old lady with low bows. She says

that, whilst on her way home from visiting a temple with her husband,

she has come to see her mother. In a little while the two ladies,

Tamakoto and Otose, take their leave, and Kesa and her mother retire to

an inner room.

Yendo Morito is now seen approaching the house along the _hana-michi_,

and announces himself at the gate. Koromogawa, in answer to the call,

comes out to receive him and asks his business. He replies that

his business is private and that he must speak with her in secret.

Koromogawa then ushers her nephew into a back room, and the passing of

the daylight is marked by the lighting of a candle. As he enters the

house he starts at the sight of a woman's sandals on the steps, and

evidently guesses that Kesa is near at hand. Little dreaming of the

storm that is brewing, the old lady asks her nephew to be seated. He

ominously remains standing with his hand upon his sword. Suddenly the

young knight's eyes flash, he snatches the sword from its sheath, and

seizing his astonished aunt, his pent-up sense of injury and the misery

of his thwarted hopes find vent in these words:

"Prepare to die at once! You are my enemy, and I am of the Watanabe

clan, who never allow their enemies to live even for a day."

"What wrong have I done you that you should wish to kill me?" exclaims

the terrified woman.

"Five years ago, before I went away, you promised to give me Kesa in

marriage. I come back, and at the opening of the Watanabe bridge I see

her, but only as the wife of another. I have always loved Kesa, and

now I am bitterly disappointed and sick--sick with hopeless love and

despair. It is true no correspondence has passed between us, but that

has nothing to do with your promise. Ever since I last saw Kesa I have

been ill, and I cannot and will not live without her. This is all your

fault. You are my enemy, you shall die! and I will then kill myself. We

will die together--prepare yourself!"

"Wait a moment!" shrieks the terrified mother. "I did not mean to break

my promise, but Wataru compelled me to give her to him. If you really

still love her I will get her back somehow or other. Only calm yourself

and listen to reason."

But the young knight is reckless to madness; the old woman's pleading

is lost upon him and, perhaps guessing that Kesa is in the next room,

he determines to appeal to her filial piety so as to make her appear.

He raises his sword and seizes his aunt again, but he has no time

to strike: the sliding of a screen, the rustle of a woman's silken

garments, and between Yendo and the victim of his vengeance there darts

the lovely Kesa--his arm is stayed by her small hand, and, tremulous

with agitation, a voice he has longed to hear for many lonely years

says:

"Spare my poor old mother!"

The mother throws herself between Kesa and Yendo, crying:

"I am ready to die. You must not sacrifice your virtue to save me."

[Illustration: Yendo draws his sword, when between him and the victim

of his vengeance there darts the lovely Kesa]

Kesa again intervenes between her lover and her mother; again the

mother throws herself in an agony of dread between them; but at

last Kesa persuades the old woman to retire and to leave all to her

discretion. Koromogawa then goes into the next room. The knight fixes

his gaze upon his beautiful cousin, he trembles with emotion, and the

resolve to possess her strengthens within his storm-tossed soul. She

belongs to him by prior right. He had asked for her, and she had been

promised to him before Wataru thought of her; what right had her mother

to give her to Wataru? Anger sweeps away all remembrance of the past

and of what he owes his aunt. Jealousy and desire, and hatred of the

one whom he thinks has wronged him, alone remain. In vain Kesa gently

pleads and expostulates. As if impatient of the delay of his vengeance,

Yendo once more seizes his sword and rushes towards the inner room.

Then Kesa wheels round upon him, and with her cheek close to his, her

gorgeous _crêpe_ draperies touching him and her hand upon his arm, she

whispers in his ear:

"I have always loved you, Yendo. If you really love me as you say, you

must first put my husband out of the way, and I am yours."

"How can I kill him?" whispers the determined man.

"Come to-morrow night and steal into the bedroom of my husband. I shall

make him drunk with wine. You can identify him by touching his hair,

for I shall induce him to wash it before retiring, and you will find

the locks wet."

As Kesa whispers her plan the tense figure of the desperate knight

relaxes from its stern purpose of murder. Thrilling with hope and

passion, he turns to her, and in the attitude of her abandonment and

yielding to his will he sees the vision of their united happiness--the

gratification of his passionate desires. Little does his wild and

lawless nature dream of the escape which the noble woman will force

out of the toils fast closing round her. The picture as the two stand

together is intensely dramatic, and vibrates with the portent of a

mighty crisis.

Act III opens upon the fine residence of Watanabe Wataru, the husband

of Kesa. The gleaming cream wood of the veranda and the posts, the

fineness of the matting, the dainty white and gold of the walls

and screens are all part of the exquisite refinements of a wealthy

Japanese home. Kesa and her husband are discovered sitting side by side

in a room opening on the garden. A large slab of granite forms the

stepping-stone from the veranda and a line of irregular slabs makes a

pathway to the bamboo gate which shuts off the outer garden. The whole

arrangement and the atmosphere are realistic of a Japanese home.

The young people, both magnificently robed, have only just retired

to their sitting-room, for they have been entertaining guests at a

banquet. The only furniture in the room is a sword-stand, on which the

knight places his long weapon, the insignia of _samurai_ honour. Before

them is a small low table[3] (_sambo_) of white wood, on which stands

a white wine-jar and her husband's drinking-cup. Kesa dismisses the

two servants in attendance, and then proceeds to pour out some wine

for her husband. Wataru little dreams that it is the last cup his wife

will ever drink with him, though to her, knowing her premeditated and

self-arranged doom, the little ceremony has not only a sacrificial

symbolism, but the appalling pathos and irrevocable pitilessness of a

last love rite.

[Illustration: Wataru little dreams that it is the last cup his wife

will ever drink with him.]

Wataru drains the wine-cup and, handing it to Kesa, pours the wine out

for her. Kesa drinks, and then, overcome at last by a sadness which

her husband does not understand, turns away and weeps. She explains

that her tears spring from the thought of the unchangeable love between

husband and wife, which would last even after death. He replies that

the knowledge of their mutual faithfulness should be a joy and not a

grief. While thus conversing in the hush of night, the deep mellow

tone of a temple bell announces the hour of midnight. Kesa persuades

her husband to retire to her own bedroom this night. On her knees she

pushes aside the screens leading to an inner room, and as he passes

in she bows with her head to the floor, and then closes them after

him. Never will she see her husband again, yet her self-control is so

great that she gives no sign of the emotion which must have surged over

her at that moment. She knows that it is an eternal farewell, yet she

allows Wataru to pass from her sight with only the usual greeting.

For a little time she stands like one dazed; then, recollecting

herself, she disappears for a few minutes and returns along the

veranda. Now, for the first time, those that do not know the story

divine the tragic end. Her long black hair streams, wet and heavy, over

her shoulders, and she feels it as she moves along to make sure that

it is quite wet. On her arm she carries one of her husband's _kimono_

and his ceremonial cap, all necessary for the deception of Yendo. Her

aspect expresses hopeless grief and resignation. Twice in her slow

progress to the outer room she stops and weeps. She looks out upon the

still garden, and the coolness of the fragrant air and the soothing

silence of the autumn night must seem to mock her woe. At the second

outburst of grief it seems for a moment as if her resolution has failed

her. She lays her cheek, in a passion of yearning and tenderness, on

the robe she carries, and her tears fall fast at the thought of her

happy wedded life, so soon to be cut short by the lawless desire of

another man. There will be no one to pray for her old mother when she

dies--it should be a daughter's duty to offer the daily incense to

a mother's departed spirit; she can never know the pride of bearing

a son to preserve the name of her husband's family. Oh! the pity of

it--the pity of it! These, and more than these, must have been her sad

thoughts. That she was loth to leave the world we learn by the poem,

written in these moments of anguish, which she left with her farewell

letter to her mother. She raises her head at last and comes forward.

Her husband's honour, her mother's life, and her own purity are at

stake; the weakness of sorrow vanishes--there is no other way than

this. Her beauty is the sin, for it has roused Yendo's passion: her

beauty must pay the penalty--her life is the sacrifice.

To-night--as she planned when she rushed in upon the tumultuous scene

between her mother and Yendo--she will sleep in her husband's room, and

when Yendo her cousin comes, instead of killing her husband, his sword

will cut off her own head. She lifts the bamboo curtain which hangs

before the room at the end of the veranda and passes to her doom.

The stage is darkened and empty. An impressive interval of silence

and inaction follows. The audience throbs with the sustained sense of

impending catastrophe and fatality hanging over the house. The awful

pregnancy of the situation is intensely realistic, and its contrasts

are strikingly dramatic. In the inner room--his wife's room, their

happy bridal chamber--lies the husband, wrapt in peaceful sleep,

pitifully unconscious of the tragedy which is being enacted within a

few feet of him. In the outer room the young wife lies waiting in the

lonely dark for the sword of her lover. Who can realize the tension of

those last minutes, stretched to eternity by the agony of suspense?

If by any chance her plan fails, her husband or her cousin will be

killed, or both. What if Wataru, roused by some slight noise, come out

to find Yendo approaching the room where she has arranged to sleep;

what construction must he put upon these circumstances. And then, her

senses sharpened by suffering and by the unutterable loneliness of the

awful situation, she thinks that she catches the first faint sound of

Yendo's stealthy footsteps. She counts them as they draw near, and as

the bamboo curtain is raised and the swish of the sword falls upon her

in the dark, she smiles to think that the struggle is over, that she

has triumphed, and thus she faces death with the magnificent courage

with which she had planned it.

Yendo Morito arrives. His long sleeves are looped back, ready for

his dreadful work, and in his hand he carries a drawn sword. Swiftly

and noiselessly he moves along the veranda; pauses for a few moments

outside the room where lies asleep, as he imagines, the only obstacle

between him and the woman he loves--loves so passionately, madly,

and blindly that he is willing to use the murder of his kinsman as a

stepping-stone to reach her. He enters.

The stage revolves. The courtyard of a temple is the next scene,

surrounded by a wall with stone steps leading up to the outer court.

The murderer is seen coming out upon the top of the steps into the

moonlight: he carries something covered under his arm. Turning towards

the flood of moonlight with a fierce and unholy joy at the thought

of gazing on his rival's head, he uncovers what he carries. To his

unspeakable horror and amazement the moonlight reveals the head of

Kesa--his love--not that of Wataru, whom it was his purpose to kill.

Unable to believe his eyes, he raises the head by the wet hair once

more into the full light of the moon. There is no mistake. He recoils

in a great revulsion of feeling as the truth forces itself upon his

unwilling, shrinking mind, all his strength goes from him, he reels and

staggers like a drunken man, and gasping for breath, he falls upon the

steps overcome with uttermost anguish and remorse. In that awful moment

he sees the hideousness of his crime and the wickedness of his heart in

its true light. The cloud of darkness, as the Japanese say, rolls back

from his soul, and he is smitten to earth with the sense of his guilt

and misery.

[Illustration: To his unspeakable horror and amazement the moonlight

reveals the head of Kesa--his love!]

The fourth scene of this Act represents the front gate of Wataru's

house. It is the morning following the last scene. Outside stand

numerous tradesmen--the rice-man, the fishmonger, and some

_samurai_--all unable to effect an entrance, for, though late in the

morning, the house is still closed. After repeated knocking, Kisoda and

Otose appear and tell them that, on account of an unfortunate event

which has occurred in the house, they must be asked to withdraw for the

day. The tradesmen then go grumbling away.

The next scene represents the familiar chamber where Wataru and Kesa

sat together the evening before. In the middle of the room lies an

ominous pile of quilts covering the remains of Kesa, splendidly dead

by her own will. Before the corpse of his young wife sits the husband,

the picture of mute and stoic grief. Opposite him is Koromogawa. Behind

her again are Tamakoto and Otose. Wataru tells them that last night

he slept in his wife's room in compliance with her wish, while she

retired to his room. That in the morning he found her killed and her

head carried away, and that no clue or trace of the murderer can be

discovered. He says he can hardly speak for grief at the loss of Kesa

and the disgrace his knighthood has suffered.

An attendant here rushes in and says that Yendo insists on seeing

Wataru. Wataru sends a message to say that he cannot receive him now.

The servant returns to say that Yendo is forcing his way into the

house, and that it is impossible to check him. Yendo rushes in like a

whirlwind and seats himself outside the room, on the veranda. He lays

the head down before them all and confesses his crime, with all the

circumstances relating to it. Then comes the most heart-rending part

of the tragedy. The old mother tenderly unwraps the head and, folding

it to her bosom, gives way to a loud and long paroxysm of grief. Wail

after wail bursts from her. She rocks herself in wild abandonment to

the poignancy of an overwhelming and totally unexpected sorrow. The

_samurai_ stoicism of the husband avails him not in this hour of bitter

trial. He wipes his slow tears furtively away. Tamakoto brings out a

letter of Kesa's found in the room where she was killed. Yendo snatches

up the letter, spreads it out before him, and reads it aloud. It is

addressed to her mother, and may be rendered into English as follows:

"I have always heard [this is a humble form of expression which women

are supposed to use--they must never assert a fact] that woman is a

sinful creature [because of her beauty, which lures men to sin]. I

fear that many people [meaning her mother, husband, and admirer] are

in danger of their lives because of me. Mother, I know that you will

sorrow much if I die, and I am sorrowful, thinking of the grief which

I must cause you. I intend to expiate my sin [meaning the sin of being

beautiful, which has caused Yendo to love her] by death. Weep not for

me, and though it should be my place to pray for you, I beseech you to

pray for the rest of my soul when I have departed on the journey of

death. I can understand your sorrow, and this is the only anxiety I

feel at this moment."

Morito now presents his sword to Wataru and requests him to take life

for life, and to behead him in order to avenge his wife's death. Wataru

replies that he has no wish to kill him, since he has confessed and

repented of his crime. "Let us forsake this worldly life and become

followers of Buddha, and spend the rest of our lives in praying for

Kesa."

Then and there the two knights, first Wataru and then Yendo, take their

swords and cut off their queues of hair.[4] Tamakoto brings in a low

table, and on this Koromogawa places the head of Kesa. A tray with an

incense-burner is now placed before the ghastly presence. The stricken

mother, having set the incense burning, takes her rosary and bows her

head in prayer to the brave departed spirit. Wataru now moves towards

the extempore shrine, and worships with his face hidden.

[Illustration: Yendo draws his sword, when between him and the victim

of his vengeance there darts the lovely Kesa]

In the presence of transcendent virtue and sublimely unselfish heroism,

the sinner is forgotten. The silent scene of woe and desolation is too

much for the penitent Yendo; he rises, and with one last-lingering

look turns to go into his lifelong retreat from the world. Thus the

stupendous tragedy, from the pitch of distraction and calamity, is

brought to a quiet and reconciling close.

Note.--The title of the play, _The Priest Mongaku at the Waterfall

of Nachi_, is taken from the last scene, which represents the monk

Mongaku undergoing his self-inflicted penance of sitting under this

famous waterfall where he would have died had not two Buddhist

deities descended from Heaven to rescue him. This I have omitted as

I considered it an anti-climax. It is an historical fact, however,

that Mongaku, to purge himself of his sins, did undergo these terrible

austerities and sufferings.

[Illustration: His grandfather had been a retainer of Ota Dokan ... and

had committed suicide when his lord fell in battle.]

[Footnote 1: The writer's father traces his descent from Taira no

Kiyomori, the clan's chieftain.]

[Footnote 2: This is the interpretation that the writer and her friend

put upon the heroine's conduct.]

[Footnote 3: These simple white utensils are always used in Shinto

ceremonies.]

[Footnote 4: Buddhist priests shave their heads.]

THE SPIRIT OF THE LANTERN

Some three hundred years ago, in the province of Kai and the town

of Aoyagi, there lived a man named Koharu Tomosaburo, of well-known

ancestry. His grandfather had been a retainer of Ota Dokan,[1] the

founder of Yedo, and had committed suicide when his lord fell in battle.

This brave clansman's grandson was Tomosaburo, who, when this story

begins, had been happily married for many years to a woman of the same

province and was the proud father of a son some ten years of age.

At this time it happened, one day, that his wife fell suddenly ill

and was unable to leave her bed. Physicians were called in but had to

acknowledge themselves baffled by the curious symptoms of the patient:

to relieve the paroxysms of pain from which she suffered, _Moxa_ was

applied and burned in certain spots down her back. But half a month

passed by and the anxious household realized that there was no change

for the better in the mysterious malady that was consuming her: day by

day she seemed to lose ground and waste away.

Tomosaburo was a kind husband and scarcely left her bedside: day and

night he tenderly ministered to his stricken wife, and did all in his

power to alleviate her condition.

One evening, as he was sitting thus, worn out with the strain of

nursing and anxiety, he fell into a doze. Suddenly there came a change

in the light of the standing-lantern, it flushed a brilliant red, then

flared up into the air to the height of at least three feet, and within

the crimson pillar of flame there appeared the figure of a woman.

Tomosaburo gazed in astonishment at the apparition, who thus addressed

him:

"Your anxiety concerning your wife's illness is well-known to me,

therefore I have come to give you some good advice. The affliction

with which she is visited is the punishment for some faults in her

character. For this reason she is possessed of a devil. If you will

worship me as a god, I will cast out the tormenting demon."

Now Tomosaburo was a brave, strong-minded _samurai_, to whom the

sensation of fear was totally unknown.

He glared fiercely at the apparition, and then, half unconsciously,

turned for the _samurai's_ only safeguard, his sword, and drew it from

its sheath. The sword is regarded as sacred by the Japanese knight and

was supposed to possess the occult power assigned to the sign of the

cross in mediæval Europe--that of exorcising evil.

The spirit laughed superciliously when she saw his action.

"No motive but the kindest of intentions brought me here to proffer

you my assistance in your trouble, but without the least appreciation

of my goodwill you show this enmity towards me. However, your wife's

life shall pay the penalty," and with these malicious words the phantom

disappeared.

[Illustration: He glared fiercely at the apparition, and then, half

unconsciously, turned for the _samurai's_ only safeguard, his sword.]

From that hour the unhappy woman's sufferings increased, and to the

distress of all about her, she seemed about to draw her last breath.

Her husband was beside himself with grief. He realized at once what a

false move he had made in driving away the friendly spirit in such an

uncouth and hostile manner, and, now thoroughly alarmed at his wife's

desperate plight, he was willing to comply with any demand, however

strange. He thereupon prostrated himself before the family shrine

and addressed fervent prayers to the Spirit of the Lantern, humbly

imploring her pardon for his thoughtless and discourteous behaviour.

From that very hour the invalid began to mend, and steadily improving

day by day, her normal health was soon entirely regained, until it

seemed to her as though her long and strange illness had been but an

evil dream.

One evening after her recovery, when the husband and wife were sitting

together and speaking joyfully of her unexpected and almost miraculous

restoration to health, the lantern flared up as before and in the

column of brilliant light the form of the spirit again appeared.

"Notwithstanding your unkind reception of me the last time I came, I

have driven out the devil and saved your wife's life. In return for

this service I have come to ask a favour of you, Tomosaburo San," said

the spirit. "I have a daughter who is now of a marriageable age. The

reason of my visit is to request you to find a suitable husband for

her."

"But I am a human being," remonstrated the perplexed man, "and you are

a spirit! We belong to different worlds, and a wide and impassable gulf

separates us. How would it be possible for me to do as you wish?"

"It is an easier matter than you imagine," replied the spirit. "All

you have to do is to take some blocks of _kiri_-wood [_Paulownia

Imperialist_] and to carve out from them several little figures of men;

when they are finished I will bestow upon one of them the hand of my

daughter."

"If that is all, then it is not so difficult as I thought, and I will

undertake to do as you wish," assented Tomosaburo, and no sooner

had the spirit vanished than he opened his tool box and set to work

upon the appointed task with such alacrity that in a few days he had

fashioned out in miniature several very creditable effigies of the

desired bridegroom, and when the wooden dolls were completed he laid

them out in a row upon his desk.

The next morning, on awaking, he lost no time in ascertaining what

had befallen the quaint little figures, but apparently they had found

favour with the spirit, for all had disappeared during the night. He

now hoped that the strange and supernatural visitant would trouble them

no more, but the next night she again appeared:

"Owing to your kind assistance my daughter's future is settled. As a

mark of our gratitude for the trouble you have taken, we earnestly

desire the presence of both yourself and your wife at the marriage

feast. When the time arrives promise to come without fail."

By this time Tomosaburo was thoroughly wearied of these ghostly

visitations and considered it highly obnoxious to be in league with

such weird and intangible beings, yet fully aware of their powers of

working evil, he dared not offend them. He racked his brains for some

way of escape from this uncanny invitation, but before he could frame

any reply suitable to the emergency, and while he was hesitating, the

spirit vanished.

Long did the perplexed man ponder over the strange situation, but the

more he thought the more embarrassed he became: and there seemed no

solution of his dilemma.

The next night the spirit again returned.

"As I had the honour to inform you, we have prepared an entertainment

at which your presence is desired. All is now in readiness. The wedding

ceremony has taken place and the assembled company await your arrival

with impatience. Kindly follow me at once!" and the wraith made

imperious gestures to Tomosaburo and his wife to accompany her. With a

sudden movement she darted from the lantern flame and glided out of the

room, now and again looking back with furtive glances to see that they

were surely following--and thus they passed, the spirit guiding them,

along the passage to the outer porch.

The idea of accepting the spirit's hospitality was highly repugnant to

the astonished couple, but remembering the dire consequences of his

first refusal to comply with the ghostly visitor's request, Tomosaburo

thought it wiser to simulate acquiescence. He was well aware that in

some strange and incomprehensible manner his wife owed her sudden

recovery to the spirit's agency, and for this boon he felt it would

be both unseemly and ungrateful--and possibly dangerous--to refuse.

In great embarrassment, and at a loss for any plausible excuse, he

felt half dazed, and as though all capacity for voluntary action was

deserting him.

What was Tomosaburo's surprise on reaching the entrance to find

stationed there a procession, like the train of some great personage,

awaiting him. On their appearance the liveried bearers hastened to

bring forward two magnificent palanquins of lacquer and gold, and at

the same moment a tall man garbed in ceremonial robes advanced and with

a deep obeisance requested them not to hesitate, saying:

"Honoured sir, these _kago_[2] are for your august conveyance--deign to

enter so that we may proceed to your destination."

At the same time the members of the procession and the bearers bowed

low, and in curious high-pitched voices all repeated the invitation in

a chorus:

"Please deign to enter the _kago!_"

Both Tomosaburo and his wife were not only amazed at the splendour

of the escort which had been provided for them, but they realized

that what was happening to them was most mysterious, and might have

unexpected consequences. However, it was too late to draw back now,

and all they could do was to fall in with the arrangement with as

bold a front as they could muster. They both stepped valiantly into

the elaborately decorated _kago_; thereupon the attendants surrounded

the palanquins, the bearers raised the shafts shoulder high, and the

procession formed in line and set out on its ghostly expedition.

The night was still and very dark. Thick masses of sable cloud obscured

the heavens, with no friendly gleams of moon or stars to illumine

their unknown path, and peering through the bamboo blinds nothing met

Tomosaburo's anxious gaze but the impenetrable gloom of the inky sky.

Seated in the palanquins the adventurous couple were undergoing a

strange experience. To their mystified senses it did not seem as if the

_kago_ was being borne along over the ground in the ordinary manner,

but the sensation was as though they were being swiftly impelled by

some mysterious unseen force, which caused them to skim through the

air like the flight of birds. After some time had elapsed the sombre

blackness of the night somewhat lifted, and they were dimly able to

discern the curved outlines of a large mansion which they were now

approaching, and which appeared to be situated in a spacious and

thickly wooded park.

The bearers entered the large roofed gate and, crossing an intervening

space of garden, carefully lowered their burdens before the main

entrance of the house, where a body of servants and retainers were

already waiting to welcome the expected guests with assiduous

attentions. Tomosaburo and his wife alighted from their conveyances

and were ushered into a reception room of great size and splendour,

where, as soon as they were seated in the place of honour near the

alcove, refreshments were served by a bevy of fair waiting-maids in

ceremonial costumes. As soon as they were rested from the fatigues of

their journey an usher appeared and bowing profoundly to the bewildered

new-comers announced that the marriage feast was about to be celebrated

and their presence was requested without delay.

Following this guide they proceeded through the various ante-rooms

and along the corridors. The whole interior of the mansion, the

sumptuousness of its appointments and the delicate beauty of its

finishings, were such as to fill their hearts with wonder and

admiration.

The floors of the passages shone like mirrors, so fine was the quality

of the satiny woods, and the richly inlaid ceilings showed that no

expense or trouble had been spared in the selection of all that was

ancient and rare, both in materials and workmanship. Certain of the

pillars were formed by the trunks of petrified trees, brought from

great distances, and on every side perfect taste and limitless wealth

were apparent in every detail of the scheme of decoration.

More and more deeply impressed with his surroundings, Tomosaburo

obediently followed in the wake of the ushers. As they neared the

stately guest-chamber an eerie and numbing sensation seemed to creep

through his veins.

Observing more closely the surrounding figures that flitted to and fro,

with a shock of horror he suddenly became aware that their faces were

well known to him and of many in that shadowy throng he recognized the

features and forms of friends and relatives long since dead. Along

the corridors leading to the principal hall numerous attendants were

gathered: all their features were familiar to Tomosaburo, but none of

them betrayed the slightest sign of recognition. Gradually his dazed

brain began to understand that he was visiting in the underworld, that

everything about him was unreal--in fact, a dream of the past--and

he feebly wondered of what hallucination he could be the victim to

be thus abruptly bidden to such an illusory carnival, where all the

wedding guests seemed to be denizens of the _Meido_, that dusky kingdom

of departed spirits! But no time was left him for conjecture, for on

reaching the ante-room they were immediately ushered into a magnificent

hall where all preparations for the feast had been set out, and where

the Elysian Strand[3] and the symbols of marriage were all duly

arranged according to time-honoured custom.

Here the bridegroom and his bride were seated in state, both attired in

elegant robes as befitting the occasion. Tomosaburo, who had acted such

a strange and important part in providing the farcical groom for this

unheard-of marriage, gazed searchingly at the newly wedded husband,

whose mien was quite dignified and imposing, and whose thick dark locks

were crowned with a nobleman's coronet. He wondered what part the

wooden figures he had carved according to the spirit's behest had taken

in the composition of the bridegroom he now saw before him. Strangely,

indeed, his features bore a striking resemblance to the little puppets

that Tomosaburo had fashioned from the _kiri_-wood some days before.

The nuptial couple were receiving the congratulations of the assembled

guests, and no sooner had Tomosaburo and his wife entered the room than

the wedding party all came forward in a body to greet them and to offer

thanks for their condescension in gracing that happy occasion with

their presence. They were ceremoniously conducted to seats in a place

of honour, and invited with great cordiality to participate in the

evening's entertainment.

Servants then entered bearing all sorts of tempting dainties piled

on lacquer trays in the form of large shells; the feast was spread

before the whole assemblage; wine flowed in abundance, and by degrees

conversation, laughter, and merriment became universal and the

banquet-hall echoed with the carousal of the ghostly throng.

Under the influence of the good cheer Tomosaburo's apprehension and

alarm of his weird environment gradually wore off, he partook freely of

the refreshments, and associated himself more and more with the gaiety

and joviality of the evening's revel.

* * * * *

The night wore on and when the hour of midnight struck the banquet was

at its height.

In the mirth and glamour of that strange marriage feast Tomosaburo had

lost all track of time, when suddenly the clear sound of a cock's crow

penetrated his clouded brain and, looking up, the transparency of the

_shoji_[4] of the room began to slowly whiten in the grey of dawn.

Like a flash of lightning Tomosaburo and his wife found themselves

transported back, safe and sound, into their own room.

On reflection he found his better nature more and more troubled

by such an uncanny experience, and he spent much time pondering

over the matter, which seemed to require such delicate handling. He

determined that at all costs communications must be broken off with the

importunate spirit.

A few days passed and Tomosaburo began to cherish the hope that he had

seen the last of the Spirit of the Lantern, but his congratulations on

escaping her unwelcome attentions proved premature. That very night,

no sooner had he laid himself down to rest, than lo! and behold, the

lantern shot up in the familiar shaft of light, and there in the lurid

glow appeared the spirit, looking more than ever bent on mischief.

Tomosaburo lost all patience. Glaring savagely at the unwelcome

visitant he seized his wooden pillow[5] and, determining to rid himself

of her persecutions once and for all, he exerted his whole strength and

hurled it straight at the intruder. His aim was true, and the missile

struck the goblin squarely on the forehead, overturning the lantern and

plunging the room into black darkness. "Wa, Wa!" wailed the spirit in

a thin haunting cry, that gradually grew fainter and fainter till she

finally disappeared like a luminous trail of vanishing blue smoke.

From that very hour Tomosaburo's wife was again stricken with her

former malady, and no remedies being of any avail, within two days it

took a turn for the worse and she died.

The sorrow-stricken husband bitterly regretted his impetuous action

in giving way to that fatal fit of anger and, moreover, in appearing

so forgetful of the past favour he had received from the spirit. He

therefore prayed earnestly to the offended apparition, apologizing with

humble contrition for his cruelty and ingratitude.

But the Spirit of the Lantern had been too deeply outraged to return,

and Tomosaburo's repentance for his rash impulse proved all in vain.

These melancholy events caused the unhappy husband to take a strong

aversion to the house, which he felt sure must be haunted, and he

decided to leave that neighbourhood with as little delay as possible.

As soon as a suitable dwelling was found and the details of his

migration arranged, the carriers were summoned to transport his

household goods to the new abode, but to the alarm and consternation of

every one, when the servants attempted to move the furniture, the whole

contents of the house by some unseen power adhered fast to the floor,

and no human power was available to dislodge them.

Then Tomosaburo's little son fell ill and died. Such was the revenge of

the Spirit of the Lantern.

[Footnote 1: 1513, date of Ota Dokan's death.]

[Footnote 2: _Kago_ = palanquins.]

[Footnote 3: _Horai Dai_, the Eastern fairyland, where death and

sickness never come, and where the fabulous old couple of Takasayo,

paragons of conjugal felicity and constancy, live for ever in the

shade of the evergreen pines, while storks and green-tailed tortoises,

emblems of prosperity and ten thousand years of life, keep them

company.]

[Footnote 4: _Shoji_, the sliding screens which takes the place of

doors and windows in a Japanese house--the framework is of a fine

lattice-work of wood, covered with white paper sufficiently transparent

to let in the light.]

[Footnote 5: The old Japanese pillow was a wooden stand, on the top

of which was a groove; in this was placed a small roll of cotton-wool

covered with silk or _crêpe_, etc.]

THE REINCARNATION OF TAMA

"Felt within themselves the sacred

passion of the second life.

Hope the best, but hold the Present

fatal daughter of the Past.

Love will conquer at the last."

TENNYSON

N.B.--It is a common Japanese belief that the soul may be re-born more

than once into this world. A Buddhist proverb says:

_Oya-ko, is-sé_

_Fufu wa, ni-sé_,

_Shu ju wa, sansé_.

Parent and child for one life;

Husband and wife for two lives;

Master and servant for three lives.

Under the strong provocation of the passions of love, loyalty and

patriotism, the soul may be reincarnated as many as seven times. The

hero Hirose, before Port Arthur in 1904, wrote a poem during the last

moments of his life saying that he would return seven times to work for

his country.

THE REINCARNATION OF TAMA

Many years ago in Yedo,[1] in the district of Fukagawa, there lived a

rich timber merchant. He and his wife dwelt together in perfect accord,

but though their business prospered and their wealth increased as the

years went by, they were a disappointed couple, for by the time they

had reached middle age they were still unblessed with children. This

was a great grief to them, for the one desire of their lives was to

have a child.

The merchant at last determined to make a pilgrimage to several temples

in company with his wife, and to supplicate the gods for the long

yearned-for joy of offspring. When the arduous tour was over they both

went to a resort in the hills noted for its mineral springs, the woman

hoping earnestly that the medicinal waters would improve her health and

bring about the desired result.

A year passed and the merchant's wife at last gave birth to a daughter.

Both parents rejoiced that the Gods had answered their prayers. They

reared the child with great care, likening her to a precious gem held

tenderly in both hands, and they named her Tama, the Jewel.

As an infant Tama gave promise of great beauty, and when she grew into

girlhood she more than fulfilled that promise. Their friends all

declared that they had never seen such loveliness, and people compared

her to a morning-glory, besprinkled with dew and glowing with the

freshness of a summer dawn.

She had a tiny mole on the side of her snowy neck. This was her sole

and distinguishing blemish.

Tama, the Jewel, proved a gifted child. She acquired reading and

the writing of hieroglyphics with remarkable facility, and in all

her studies was in advance of girls of her own age. She danced with

grace, and sang and played the _koto_ enchantingly, and she was also

accomplished in the arts of flower-arrangement and the tea-ceremony.

When she reached the age of sixteen her parents thought it was time

to seek a suitable bridegroom for her. Very early marriages were

the custom of the day, and besides that her parents wished to see

her happily established in life before they grew older. As she was

the only child, her husband would become the adopted son, and thus

the succession to the family would be secured. However, it proved

exceedingly difficult to find anyone who would meet all their

requirements.

Now it happened that near-by in a small house there lived a man by the

name of Hayashi. He was a provincial _samurai_, but for some reason

or other had left his Daimio's domain and settled in Yedo. His wife

was long since dead, but he had an only son whom he educated in the

refinements of the military class. The family was a poor one, for all

_samurai_ were trained to hold poverty in high esteem; and to despise

trade and money-making.

Both father and son led simple lives and eked out their small patrimony

by giving lessons in the reading of the classics and in calligraphy,

and by telling fortunes according to the Confucian system of

divination. Both were respected by all who knew them for their learning

and upright lives.

At the time this story opens the elder Hayashi had just died and the

son, though only nineteen years of age, carried on his father's work.

The young man was strikingly handsome. Of the aristocratic type, with

long dark eyes, aquiline features and a pale, cream-like complexion, he

attracted notice wheresoever he went, and though shabbily dressed he

always bore himself with great dignity. He was a musician and played

the flute with unusual skill, and the game of _go_[2] was his favourite

pastime, a taste which made him very popular with older men.

He often passed the rich merchant's house and Tama, the Jewel, noticed

the young man coming and going with his flute. Questioning her nurse,

she learned all there was to know about his history, his poverty, his

scholarly attainments, his skill as a musician and the recent sorrow he

had sustained in the death of his father.

Besides being attracted by his good looks, the beautiful Tama's

heart went out in sympathy to the young man in his misfortune and

loneliness, and she asked her mother to invite him to the house as her

music-master, so that they might play duets together--he performing on

the flute to her accompaniment on the _koto_.

The mother consented, thinking the plan an excellent one, and the young

_samurai_ became a frequent visitor in the merchant's house. Tama's

father was delighted when Hayashi proved to be an expert at _go_, and

often asked him to come and spend the evening. As soon as dinner was

over the merchant would order the chequer-board to be brought and

Hayashi was then invited to try his hand at a game.

In this way the intimacy deepened till by degrees the young man was

treated like a trusted member of the family.

The young master and pupil thus meeting day by day, presently fell in

love, for heart calls to heart when both are young and handsome and

the bond of similar tastes cements the friendship. Choosing themes and

songs expressive of love they communicated their sentiments to one

another through the romantic medium of music, and the two instruments

blended in perfect harmony, the _koto's_ accompaniment giving an ardent

response to the plaintive melody of the young man's flute, which wailed

forth the hopeless passion consuming his soul for the lovely maiden.

[Illustration: Tama's father was delighted when Hayashi proved to be an

expert at _go,_ and often asked him to come and spend the evening]

Tama's parents were totally unaware of all that was happening, but her

nurse soon guessed the secret of the young couple. The woman, who

loved her charge faithfully and devotedly, could not bear to see her

unhappy, and foolishly helped the lovers to meet each other in secret.

With these unexpected opportunities they pledged themselves to each

other for all their lives to come, and tried to think of some way by

which they could obtain the old people's consent to their marriage. But

Hayashi guessed that the merchant was ambitious for his daughter, and

knew that it was improbable that he would accept a son-in-law as poor

and obscure as himself. So he postponed asking for her hand until it

was too late.

At this time a rich man whom Tama's parents deemed a suitable match for

their daughter presented his proposals, and Tama was suddenly told that

they approved of the marriage and that she must prepare for the bridal.

Tama was overwhelmed with despair. That day Hayashi had promised to

come and play his favourite game with her father. The nurse contrived

that the lovers should meet first, and then Tama told Hayashi of

the alliance which had been arranged. Weeping, she insisted that an

elopement was the only solution to their difficulties. He consented

to escape to some distant place with her that very night. Gathering

her in his arms he tried to still her sobbing, and Tama clung to him,

declaring that she would die rather than be separated from him.

They were thus surprised by her mother, and their secret could no

longer be concealed. Tama was taken from him gently but firmly and

shut up like a prisoner in one room. The vigilance of the parents being

in this manner rudely awakened, the mother never allowed the girl out

of her sight, and Hayashi was peremptorily forbidden the house.

The young man, fearing the wrath of her parents, went to live in

another part of the city, telling no one of his whereabouts.

Tama was inconsolable. She pined for her lover and soon fell ill.

Her elaborate trousseau and the outfit for the bridal household was

complete but the wedding ceremony had to be postponed.

Both parents became very anxious for, as the days went by, instead of

getting better their daughter visibly wasted away and sometimes could

not leave her bed, so weak did she become. To distract her mind they

took her to places of amusement like the theatre, or to gardens noted

for the blossoming of trees and flowers. Then finally they carried her

to places like Hakone and Atami, hoping that the mineral baths and the

change of air and scene would cure her. But it was all to no purpose,

Tama grew worse in spite of the devotion lavished upon her. Seriously

alarmed, the parents called in a doctor. He declared Tama's malady to

be love-sickness, and said that unless she were united to the man she

pined for that she might die.

Her mother now begged the father to allow the marriage with Hayashi

to take place. Though he was not the man of their choice in worldly

position, yet if their daughter loved him, it were better that she

should marry him than that she should die.

But now arose a difficulty of which they had not dreamed. Hayashi had

moved away no one knew whither, and all their frantic efforts to trace

him were fruitless.

A year passed slowly by. When Tama was told that her parents had

consented to her marrying her beloved, she brightened up with the hope

of seeing him again, and appeared to regain her health for a short

time. But as month followed month and he never came, the waiting and

the sickening disappointment proved too much for the already weakened

frame of the young girl. She drooped and died just as she had attained

her seventeenth birthday.

It was springtime when the sad event occurred. Hayashi had never

forgotten the beautiful girl nor the vows they had mutually plighted,

and he swore never to accept another woman as his wife. He longed for

news of Tama, but he realized how imprudent and blameable his conduct

had been in entering into a secret love-affair with a young girl, and

he feared that her father might kill him were he to return even for a

single day to the vicinity. Weakly he told himself that she had in all

probability forgotten him by this time and was surely married to the

man of her parents' choice.

One fine morning he went fishing on the Sumida river. When evening

began to fall he turned homewards. As he sauntered along the river

embankment, the water lapping softly and dreamily at his feet, he

was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming towards him in the

wavering shadows of declining day. Light as a summer zephyr she glided

from under the arches of the blossom laden cherry-trees with the sunset

flaming behind her. He remembered long afterward that she had seemed

rather to float over the ground than to walk.

To his utter astonishment he at once recognized Tama, and his heart

leapt with joy at sight of her. After the first salutations he

looked at her closely and congratulated her on her good health and

ever-increasing beauty. He then asked her to tell him all that had

happened since they were cruelly parted.

In the saddest of tremulous voices Jewel answered: "After you left the

house my old and devoted nurse was dismissed for having helped us to

meet in secret. From that day to this I have never seen her, but she

sent me word that she had returned to her old home."

"Then you are not married yet?" asked Hayashi, his heart beating wildly

with hope as he interrupted her.

"Oh, no," replied Tama, looking at him strangely, "do you think that I

could ever forget you? You are my betrothed forever, even after death.

Do you not know that the dread of that marriage being forced upon me

and my pining for you made me ill for a long time. Sympathizing with

my unhappiness, my parents broke off my engagement and then tried to

find you. But you had entirely disappeared leaving no trace behind.

To-day I started out, resolved to find you with the help of my old

nurse. I am on my way to her now. How happy I am to find you thus. Will

you not take me to your house and show me where you live?"

[Illustration: He was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming

towards him in the wavering shadows]

She then turned and walked with him as he led the way to their humble

dwelling. Now that her parents had consented to her marrying him they

need not wait long, he told himself. How fortunate he was that he

should have gained such faithful and unchanging love as that of his

beautiful Tama.

As they went along exchanging blissful confidences as to their undying

love for one another, he told her of his oath never to wed another

woman for her dear sake.

They entered the house together, the nearness of her sweet presence

thrilling him to his finger-tips. Impatiently he knelt to light

the lamp, placed ready on his low writing table, then with joy

inexpressible at the anticipation of all that the future held for them,

he turned to speak to her.

But to his utter bewilderment Tama was gone. He searched the house and

garden, and with a lantern went and peered down the road, but she was

nowhere to be seen. She had vanished as suddenly and mysteriously as

she had appeared.

Hayashi thought the incident more than strange; it was eerie in the

extreme. Returning alone to his empty room, he shivered as a chill of

foreboding seemed to penetrate his whole being, withering as with an

icy breath the newly awakened impulses of hope and longing. A thousand

recollections of his love crowded upon him, and kept him tossing

uneasily upon his pillow all through the night. With the first break of

dawn he was no longer able to control his feverish anxiety for news of

her, and rising hurriedly, he at once set out for Fukagawa.

Eagerly he hastened to the house of an old friend to make inquiries

regarding the merchant's family and especially about Tama. To his

dismay he learned that she had passed away but a few days before, and

listened with an aching heart to the account of her long illness. And

he knew that she had died for love of him.

He returned to his home stupefied with grief and tormented with

self-reproach.

"Oh, Tama! Tama! My love!" he cried aloud in his anguish, as he threw

himself down in his room and gave way to his despair. "Had I but known

of your illness I would have come to you. It was your spirit that

appeared to me yesterday. Oh! come to me again! Tama! Tama!"

For weeks he was ill, but when he recovered and was able to think

collectedly, he could not endure to live longer in such a world of

misery. He felt that he was responsible for the untimely death of the

young girl. To escape from the insupportable sorrows of life he decided

to enter a Buddhist monastery, and joined the order of itinerant monks

called _Komuso_.[3]

Like the monks in the middle ages in Europe the _Komuso_ enjoyed

sanctuary. They were chiefly _samurai_ who wished to hide their

identity. Sometimes a breach of the law, such as the killing of a

friend, obliged the _samurai_ to cut the ties which bound him to his

Daimio; sometimes a family blood-feud forced him to spend his years in

tracking down his enemy; sometimes it was disgust of the world, sorrow

or disappointment, as in the case of Hayashi: these various reasons

often caused men to bury themselves out of remembrance in the remote

life of these wandering monks.

The _Komuso_ were always treated with great respect, they enjoyed the

hospitality of inns and ships, and a free pass unquestioned across all

government barriers.

They wore the stole but not the cassock, and they did not shave their

heads like the priesthood. They were distinguished by their strange

headgear, which was a wicker basket worn upside down, reaching as far

as the chin and completely hiding the face. The rules of their order

forbade them to marry, to eat meat, or to drink more than three cups

of wine, and when on duty they might not take off their hats or bow

to anyone, even to their parents. Outside these restrictions, though

nominally priests, their lives were practically those of laymen,

and when not on service they spent their time much as they liked in

practising the military arts or in study.

As a mental discipline the _Komuso_ were under obligation to go out

daily to beg for alms, holding a bowl to receive whatever was bestowed

upon them. They affected flute playing. This instrument was cut from

the stem nearest the root, the strongest part of the bamboo, and was

thus able to serve a double purpose. It gave the monk, who carried

nothing with him, the means of earning his daily food, and when

necessary was used as a weapon in self-defence.

Hayashi, being skilful with his flute, chose the life of the _Komuso_

as being the best suited to him.

Before leaving Tokyo he visited the temple where his lost love was

buried and knelt before her tomb. He dedicated his whole life to

praying for the repose of her soul and for a happier rebirth. Her

_kaimyo_ (death-name) he inscribed on heavy paper, and wheresoever he

went he carried this in a fold of his robe where it crossed his breast.

It was, and still is, the custom of the _Komuso_ to perform upon the

flute as a devotional exercise at religious services.

As each year came round he always made his way to some tranquil spot

and rested from his penitential wanderings on the anniversary of the

death of Tama.

Staying in an isolated room he then set up her _kaimyo_ in the alcove,

and placing an incense burner before it, kindled the fragrant sticks

and kept them alight from sunrise to sunset. Kneeling before this

temporary altar he took out his flute, and pouring the passionate

breath of his soul into the plaintive, quivering notes, he reverently

offered the music to her sweet and tender spirit, remembering the

delight she had always taken in those melodies before the blossom of

their love had been defrauded of its fruit of consummation by the

blighting blast of interference.

[Illustration: Hayashi visits the temple where his lost love was

buried, and dedicates his whole life to praying for the repose of her

soul.]

And gradually, as time went by, the burden of sorrow and the tumult of

remorse slipped from his soul, and peace and serenity, the aftermath of

suffering, came to him at last.

He roamed all over the country for many years, and finally his

journeyings brought him to the mountainous province of Koshu. It

was nightfall when he reached the district and he lost his way in

the darkness. Worn out with fatigue, he began to wonder where he

should pass the night, for no houses were to be seen far or near, and

everywhere about him there was nothing but a heaping of hills and a

wild loneliness.

For hours he strayed about, when at last, peering into the gloom far up

on the mountain side, a solitary light gleamed through the heavy mists.

Greatly relieved he hastened towards it.

As soon as he knocked at the outer door of the cottage a ferocious

looking man appeared. When the stranger asked for a night's shelter he

morosely and silently showed him into the single room which, flanked

by a small kitchen, comprised the whole dwelling. Hayashi, furtively

gazing round him, noticed that there were no industrial implements to

be seen, but that in one corner were standing a sword and a gun.

The host clapped his hands. In answer to the call a young girl of about

fifteen years of age appeared. He ordered her to bring the brazier and

some food for the guest. Then arming himself with his weapons, he left

the house.

The damsel waited on Hayashi attentively, and as she went to and fro

from the kitchen she often glanced appealingly at him. Her attitude was

that of one frightened in submission, and Hayashi wondered how she came

to be there, for, though begrimed with work, he could see that she was

fair and comely, and her deportment was superior to her surroundings.

When they were left alone the girl came and knelt before him, and

bursting into tears sobbed out "Whoever you may be I warn you to escape

while there is yet time. That man whose hospitality you have accepted

is a brigand and he will probably kill you in the hope of plunder."

Hayashi, with his heart full of compassion for the young girl, asked

her how it was that she came to be living in so wild and desolate a

place, and the tale she told him was a pitiful one of wrong.

"My home is in the next province," she said, as she wiped away the

tears with her sleeve. "Just after my father's death this robber

entered our house and demanded money of my mother. As she had none

to give him he carried me away, intending to sell me into slavery.

Soon after he brought me to this house, he was wounded on a marauding

expedition, and has since been confined to the house for a month. Thus

it is that you find me here still. But he is now recovered and able to

go out once more. I implore you to take me with you, otherwise I shall

never see my mother again and my fate will be unendurable."

Being of a chivalrous nature Hayashi's heart burned within him at the

sad plight of the little maid, and catching her up he fled out of the

robber's den into the night.

After some time, when well away from the place, he set her down and

they walked steadily all night. By dawn they had crossed the boundary

of Koshu and entered the neighbouring province. Once on the high road

the district was familiar to the girl and she gladly led the way to her

own home.

The delight of the sorrowing mother on finding her kidnapped child

restored to her was great and unrestrained. She fell at his feet in a

passion of gratitude and thanked him again and again.

In the meantime the rescued girl came to thank her deliverer.

Hayashi gazed at her in astonishment. Her appearance had undergone

an extraordinary transformation. No longer the forlorn, neglected

drudge of the day before, a beautiful girl stood before him. And

wonder of wonders! She was the living image of what his lost Tama

had been years ago. The tide of the past swept over him with its

bitter-sweet memories, leaving him speechless and racked with the storm

of his feelings. Not only was the likeness forcibly striking, but he

also beheld a little mark, the exact replica of the one he so well

remembered on Tama's snowy neck.

He had thought that in the long years of hardship and renunciation of

the joys of life the tragic love of his youth lay buried, but the shock

of the unmistakable resemblance left him trembling.

In a few minutes he was able to control his emotion and the power of

speech returned to him.

"Tell me," he said, turning to the mother, "have you not some relatives

in Tokyo? Your daughter is like one whom I knew many years ago, but who

is now dead."

The woman regarded him searchingly and after a few moments of this

close scrutiny, she inquired:

"Are you not Hayashi who lived in Fukagawa fifteen years ago?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question, which showed that

his identity was revealed and that she knew of his past. He did not

answer but searched his brain, wondering who the woman could possibly

be.

Seeing his embarrassment she continued, now and again wiping the tears

from her eyes: "When you came to the house I thought that your voice

was in some way quite familiar to me, but you are so disguised in your

present garb that at first I could not recall who you were.

"Fifteen years ago I served in the house of the rich timber merchant

in Fukagawa and often helped O Tama San[4] to meet you in secret, for

I felt great sympathy with you both, and if a day passed without her

being able to see you, Oh! she was very unhappy. Her parents were

furious at the unwise part I had played and I was summarily dismissed.

I returned home and was almost immediately married. Within a year I

gave birth to a little daughter. The child bore a striking resemblance

to my late mistress and I gave her the name of Jewel in remembrance

of the beloved charge I had nursed and tended for so many years. As

she grew older not only her face and figure, but her voice and her

movements all vividly recalled O Tama San. Is not this an affinity of a

previous existence that my child should be saved by you who loved the

first Tama?"

Then Hayashi, who had listened with rapt attention to the woman's

strange story, asked her the date of the infant's birth.

Marvellous to relate it was the very day and hour, for ever indelibly

engraven on his memory, that Tama, his first love, had appeared to him

on the bank of the Sumida river in the springtide fifteen years ago.

When he told her of this uncanny meeting the woman said that she

believed her daughter, the second Tama, to be the re-incarnation of

the first Tama. The apparition he had seen was the spirit of his love

who had thus announced her rebirth into the world to him. There could

be no doubt of this, for had not Tama told him herself that she was on

her way to her old nurse. So strong was the affinity that bound them

to each other that it had drawn Tama from the spirit-land back to this

earth.

"Remember the old proverb, _the karma-relation is deep_," she added in

conclusion.

Later on she besought Hayashi to marry the second Tama, for she

believed that only in this way would the soul of the first Tama find

rest.

But Hayashi, thinking that the great difference in their present ages

was an obstacle to a happy union, refused on the score that he was

too old and sad a man to make such a young bride happy. He decided,

however, to stay on in the little household for a while, and to give

any possible comfort and help to the old nurse whose loyal devotion to

her mistress had figured so prominently and fatefully in his past.

Thus several months elapsed, bringing with them great and radical

changes in the land. The Restoration came to pass, and the new regime

was established with the Emperor instead of the Shogun at the helm of

State. Schools were founded all over the country, and amongst many

other old institutions the order of the _Komuso_ monks, to which

Hayashi belonged, was abolished by an edict of State.

Hayashi, during his stay in the village, had won his way into the

hearts of the people and they now begged him to remain as teacher in

the new school, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by the

classical education he had received from his father. He consented to

the proposition which solved the problem of his future, for under the

new laws it was forbidden him to return to his old life.

The mayor of the place was also much attracted by Hayashi's superior

character and dignity, and learning of the sad and romantic history of

his past, and believing, as all Japanese do, in predestined affinities,

persuaded him that it was his fate, nay more, a debt he owed to the

past, to marry Tama, the second, the re-incarnation of his first love.

The marriage proved a blessed one. The house of Hayashi prospered from

that day forth and as children were born to them the joy of their lives

was complete.

[Footnote 1: The old name for Tokyo.]

[Footnote 2: _Go_, a game played with black and white counters--more

complicated than chess.]

[Footnote 3: The sect was introduced from China in the Kamakura epoch

(1200-1400), but it never became popular in the land of its adoption.

Under the Tokugawa Government (1700-1850) the _Komuso_ were used as

national detectives, but the privileges they enjoyed led to the abuse

of the order by bad men, and it was abolished at the time of the

Restoration. Later on the edict was rescinded, and these men in their

strange headgear may be seen to this day fluting their way about the

old city of Kyoto.]

[Footnote 4: In speaking women use the polite forms of speech, whereas

men drop them. The "O" is the honorific prefix to a woman's name and

"San" or "Sama" is the equivalent of Mr. Mrs. or Miss according to the

gender of the name. Nowadays high-class women drop the "O" before their

individual names, but add "Ko" after them. For instance, the name O

Tama San would now be Tama-Ko San.]

THE LADY OF THE PICTURE

Many years ago, long before the present prosaic era, there lived in

Yedo a young man named Toshika. His family belonged to the aristocratic

rank of the _hatamoto samurai_, those knights who possessed the right

to march to battle directly under the Shogun's flag (_hata_), and his

father was a high official in the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Toshika, whose disposition was of a dreamy and indolent nature with

scholarly tastes, had no occupation. He took life easily, and when his

studies were finished, he went to live at the family villa situated in

the suburb of Aoyama.

Toshika was not interested in society, and except for an occasional

visit to his home or to his favourite friend, he never went anywhere.

Far from the world he spent his days quietly and pleasantly, reading

books, tending and watering his flowers, practising the tea-ceremony,

and composing poetry and playing on the flute. He was a young man of

many accomplishments and studied art. He collected curios and specimens

of well-known calligraphy, which all Japanese prize greatly, and he

particularly delighted in pictures.

One day a certain friend whom Toshika had not seen for several months,

came to call upon him. He had just returned from a visit to the seaport

of Nagasaki and knowing the young man's tastes had brought with him,

as a present, a Chinese drawing of a beautiful woman, which he begged

Toshika to accept.

Toshika was very pleased with this acquisition to his treasures. He

examined the painting carefully, and though he could find no signature

of the artist, his knowledge of the subject told him that it was

probably drawn by the well-known Chinese painter of the _Shin_ era.

It was the portrait of a young woman in the prime of youth, and Toshika

felt intuitively that it was a real likeness. The face was one of

radiant loveliness, and the longer he gazed at it, the more the charm

and fascination of it grew upon him. He carried it to his own room and

hung it up in the alcove. Whenever he felt lonely he retired to the

solitude of his chamber, and sat for hours before the drawing, looking

at it and even addressing it. As the days went by, gradually the

picture seemed to glow with life and Toshika began to think of it as a

person. He wondered who the original of the portrait could have been,

and said that he envied the artist who had been granted the happiness

of looking upon her beauty.

Daily the figure seemed more alive and the face more exquisite, and

Toshika, as he gazed in rapture upon it, longed to know its history.

The haunting pathos of the expression and the speaking wistfulness of

the dark soft eyes called to his heart like music and gave him no peace.

Toshika, in fact, became enamoured of the lovely image suspended

in the alcove, and as the infatuation grew upon him he placed fresh

flowers before it, changing them daily. At night he had his quilts[1]

so arranged that the last thing he looked upon before closing his eyes

in sleep was the lady of the picture.

Toshika had read many strange stories of the supernatural power of

great artists. He knew that they were able to paint the minds of

the originals into their portraits, whether of human beings or of

creatures, so that through the spiritual force of the merit of their

skill the pictures became endowed with life.