As the passion grew upon him the young lover believed that the spirit

of the woman whom the portrait represented actually lived in the

picture. As this thought formed itself in his mind he fancied that he

could see the gentle rise and fall of her breast in breathing, and that

her pretty lips, bright as the scarlet pomegranate bud, appeared to

move as if about to speak to him.

One evening he was so filled with the sense of the reality of her

presence that he sat down and composed a Chinese poem in praise of her

beauty.

And the meaning of the high-flown diction ran something like this;

_Thy beauty, sweet, is like the sun-flower:_[2]

_The crescent moon of three nights old thy arched brows:

Thy lips the cherry's dewy petals at flush of dawn:_

_Twin flakes of fresh-fallen snow thy dainty hands._

_Blue-black, as raven's wing, thy clustering hair:_

_And as the sun half peers through rifts of cloud,_

_Gleams through thy robes the wonder of thy form._.

_Thy cheeks' dear freshness do bewilder me,_

_So pure, so delicate, rose-misted ivory:_

_And, like a sharp sword, pierce my breast_

_The glamour of thy dark eyes' messages_.

_Ah, as I gaze upon thy pictured form_

_I feel therein thy spirit is enshrined_,

_Surely thou liv'st and know'st my love for thee!_

_The one who unawares so dear a gift bestowed_

_Was verily the gods' own messenger_

_And sent by Heaven to link our souls in one_.

_'Tis sad that thou wert borne from thine own distant land_

_Far from thy race, and all who cherished thee;_

_Thy heart must lonely pine so far away,_

_In sooth thou need'st a mate to love and cherish thee._

_But sorrow not, my picture love,_

_For Time's care-laden wings will never dim thy brow_

_From poisoned darts of Fate so placidly immune;_

_Anguish and grief will ne'er corrode thy heart,_

_And never will thy beauty suffer change:_

_While earthly beings wither and decay_

_Sickness and care will ever pass thee by,_

_For Art can grant where Love is impotent,_

_And dowers thee with immortality_.

_Ah me! could the high gods but grant the prayer_

_Of my wild heart, and passionate desire!_

_Step down from out thy cloistered niche,_

_Step down from out thy picture on the wall!_

_My soul is thirsting for thy presence fair_

_To crown my days with rapture--be my wife!_

_How swift the winged hours would then pass by_

_In bliss complete, and lovers' ecstasy:_

_My life, dear queen, I dedicate to thee,_

_Ah! make it thus a thousand lives to me!_[3]

Toshika smiled to himself at the wild impossibility of his own chimera.

Such a hope as he had breathed to her and to himself belonged to the

realm of reverie, and not to the hard world of everyday life. Supposing

that beautiful creature to have ever lived and the portrait to be a

true likeness of her, she must have died ages ago, long before ever he

was born.

However, having written the poem carefully, he placed it above the

scroll and read it aloud, apostrophizing the lady of the picture.

It was the delicious season of spring, and Toshika sat with the sliding

screens open to the garden. The fragrance of peach blossoms was wafted

into the room by the breath of a gentle wind, and as the light of

day faded into a soft twilight, over the quiet and secluded scene a

crescent moon shed her tender jewel-bright radiance.

Toshika felt unaccountably happy, he could not tell why and sat alone,

reading and thinking deep into the night.

Suddenly, in the stillness of the midnight, a rustle behind him in the

alcove caused him to turn round quickly.

What was his breathless amazement to see that the picture had actually

taken life. The beautiful woman he so much admired detached herself

from the paper on which she was depicted, stepped down on to the mats,

and came gliding lightly towards him. He scarcely dared to breathe.

Nearer and nearer she approached till she knelt opposite to where he

sat by his desk. Saluting him she bowed profoundly.

The ravishment of her beauty and her charm held him speechless. He

could not but look at her, for she was lovelier than anyone he had ever

seen.

At last she spoke, and her voice sounded to him like the low, clear

notes of the nightingale warbling in the plum-blossom groves at

twilight.

"I have come to thank you for your love and devotion. Such a useless,

ugly[4] creature as myself ought not to be so audacious as to appear

before you, but the virtue of your poem was irresistible and drew me

forth. I was so moved by your sympathy that I felt I must tell you in

person of my gratitude for all your care and thought of me. If you

really think of me as you have written, let me stay with you always."

Toshika rejoiced greatly when he heard these words. He put out his

hand and taking hers said, "Ever since you came here I have loved you

dearly. Consent to be my wife and we shall be happy evermore. Tell me

your name and who you are and where you come from."

She answered with a smile inexpressibly sweet, while the tears

glistened in her eyes.

"My name is Shorei (Little Beauty). My father's name is Sai. He was

descended from the famous Kinkei. We lived in China at a place called

Kinyo. One day, when I was eighteen years of age, bandits came and made

a raid on our village and, with other fair women, carried me away.

Thus I was separated from my parents and never saw them more. For many

months I was carried from place to place and led a wandering life.

Then, alas! who could have foretold it, I was seized by bad men and

sold into slavery. The sorrow, the anguish and the horror I suffered in

my helpless misery and homesickness you can never know. I longed every

hour of the day for some tidings of my parents, for even now, I do not

know what became of them. One day an artist came to the house of my

captivity and looking at all the women there, he praised my face and

described me as the Moon among the Stars. And he painted my picture and

showed it to all his friends. In that way I became famous, for everyone

talked of my beauty and came to see me. But I could not bear my life,

and being delicate, my unhappy lot and the uncertainty of my father's

and mother's fate preyed upon my mind, so that I sickened and died in

six months. This is the whole of my sad history. And now I have come to

your country and to you. This must be because of a predestined affinity

between us."

The young man's heart was filled with compassion as he listened to the

sorrowful tale of the unfortunate woman, who had told him all her woes.

He felt that he loved her more than ever and that he must make up with

his devotion for all the wretchedness she had suffered in the past.

They then began to compose poems together, and Toshika found that

Shorei had had a literary education, that she was an adept in

calligraphy and every kind of poetical composition. And his heart was

filled with a great gladness that he had found a companion after his

own heart.

They both became intensely interested in their poetical contest and as

they composed they read their compositions aloud in turn, comparing

and criticizing each other. At last, while Toshika was in the act of

reciting a poem to Shorei, he suddenly awoke and found that he had been

dreaming.

Unable to believe that his delightful experiences were but the memories

of sleep he turned to the alcove. His cherished picture was hanging

there and the lovely figure was limned as usual in living lines upon

the paper. Was it all a delusion? As he watched the exquisite face

before him, recalling with questioning wonder the events of the evening

before, behold! the sweet mouth smiled at him, just as Shorei had

smiled in his vision. Impatiently he waited for the darkness, hoping

that sleep would again bring Shorei to his side. Night after night she

came to him in his dreams, but of his happy adventure he spoke to none.

He believed that in some miraculous way the power of poetry had evoked

the spirit of the portrait. Centuries ago this ill-fated woman had

lived and died an untimely death, and his love led her back to earth

through the medium of an artist's skill and his own verse. Six months

passed and Toshika desired nothing more in life than to possess Shorei

as his bride for all the years to come.

[Illustration: When I was eighteen years of age, bandits ... made a

raid on one village and ... carried me away.]

He never dreamed of change, but at last, one night, Shorei came

looking very sad. She sat by his desk as was her wont, but instead of

conversing or composing she began to weep.

Toshika was very troubled, for he had never seen her in such a mood.

"Tell me," he said anxiously, "What is the matter? Are you not happy

with me?"

"Ah, it is not that," answered Shorei, hiding her face in her sleeve

and sobbing; "never have I dreamed of such happiness as you have

given me. It is because we are so happy that I cannot bear the pain

of separation for a single night. But I must now leave you, alas! Our

affinity in this world has come to an end."

Toshika could hardly believe her words. He looked at her in great

distress as he asked:

"Why must we part? You are my wife and I will never marry any other

woman. Tell me why you speak of parting?"

"To-morrow you will understand," she answered mysteriously. "We may

meet no more now, but if you do not forget me I may see you again ere

long."

Toshika had put out a hand and made as if to detain her, but she had

risen and was gliding towards the alcove, and while he imploringly

gazed at her she gradually faded from his sight and was gone.

Words cannot describe Toshika's despair. He felt that all the joy of

life went with Shorei, and he could not endure the idea of living

without her.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked round the room. He heard the

sparrows twittering on the roof, and in the light of dawn, as he

thought, the night-lantern's flame dwindled to a fire-fly's spark.

He rose and rolled back the wooden storm-doors which shut the house in

completely at night, and found that he had slept late, that the sun was

already high in the heavens.

Listlessly he performed his toilet, listlessly he took his meal, and

his old servants anxiously went about their work, fearing that their

master was ill.

In the afternoon a friend came to call on Toshika. After exchanging the

usual formalities on meeting, the visitor suddenly said:

"You are now of an age to marry. Will you not take a bride? I know of a

lovely girl who would just suit you, and I have come to consult with

you on the matter."

Toshika politely but firmly excused himself. "Do not trouble yourself

on my account, I pray you! I have not the slightest intention of

marrying any woman at present, thank you," and he shook his head with

determination.

The would-be go-between saw from the expression of Toshika's face that

there was little hope in pressing his suit that day, so after a few

commonplace remarks he took his leave and went home.

No sooner had the friend departed than Toshika's mother arrived. She,

as usual, brought many gifts of things that she knew he liked, boxes of

his favourite cakes and silk clothes for the spring season. Grateful

for all her love and care, he thanked her affectionately and tried to

appear bright and cheerful during her visit. But his heart was aching,

and he could think of nothing but of the loss of Shorei, wondering if

her farewell was final, or whether, as she vaguely hinted, she would

come to him again. He said to himself that to hold her in his arms but

once again he would gladly give the rest of his life.

His mother noticed his preoccupation and looked at him anxiously many

times. At last she dropped her voice and said:

"Toshika, listen to me! Your father and I both think that you have

arrived at an age when you ought to marry. You are our eldest son,

and before we die we wish to see your son, and to feel sure that the

family name will be carried on as it should be. We know of a beautiful

girl who will make a perfect wife for you. She is the daughter of an

old friend, and her parents are willing to give her to you. We only

want your consent to the arrangement of the marriage."

Toshika, as his mother unfolded the object of her visit, understood the

meaning of Shorei's warning, and said to himself:

"Ah, this is what Shorei meant--she foresaw my marriage, for she said

that to-day I should understand; but she pledged herself at the same

time to see me again--it is all very strange!"

Feeling that his fate was come upon him he consented to his mother's

proposal.

She returned home delighted. She had had little doubt of her son's

conformance to his parents' wishes, for he had always been of a

tractable disposition. In anticipation, therefore, of his consent to

the marriage, she had already bought the necessary betrothal presents,

and the very next day these were exchanged between the two families.

Toshika, in the meantime, watched the picture day by day. This was his

only consolation, for Shorei, his beloved, visited him no more in his

dreams. His life was desolate without her and his heart yearned for her

sweet presence. Had it not been for her promise to come to him again he

knew that he would not care to live. He felt, however, that she still

loved him and in some way or other would keep her promise to him, and

for this waited. Of his approaching marriage he did not dare to think.

He was a filial son, and knew that he must fulfil his duty to his

parents and to the family.

[Illustration: When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite

Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was ... the

lady-love of his picture]

As the days went by Toshika noticed that the picture lost by degrees

its wonderful vitality. Slowly from the face the winning expression and

from the figure the tints of life faded out, till at last the drawing

became just like an ordinary picture. But he was left no time to pine

over the mystery of the change, for a summons from his mother called

him home to prepare for the marriage. He found the whole household

teeming with the importance of the approaching event. At last the

momentous day dawned.

His mother, proud of the product of her looms, set out in array his

wedding robes, handwoven by herself. He donned them as in a dream, and

then received the congratulations of his relatives and retainers and

servants.

In those old days the bride and bridegroom never saw each other till

the wedding ceremony. When the bride was led into the room and seated

opposite Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was

no stranger but the lady-love of his picture, the very same woman he

had already taken to wife in his dream life.

And yet she was not quite the same, for when Toshika, a few days later,

joyfully led her to his own home and compared her with the portrait,

she was even ten times more beautiful.

[Footnote 1: The floor of the Japanese room is padded with special

grass mats over two inches thick. On these the bed quilts are laid out

at night and packed away in cupboards in the daytime.]

[Footnote 2: _Prumus Umé_, or Plum blossom, the Japanese symbol of

womanly virtue and beauty.]

[Footnote 3: Rendered into English verse by my friend, Countess

Iso-ko-Mutsu.]

[Footnote 4: It is a Japanese custom for a woman to speak thus

depreciatingly of herself.]

[Illustration: Urasato's escape from the Yamana-Ya]

URSATO, OR THE CROWN OF DAWN

THE POSITION AT THE OPENING OF THE STORY

Urasato and Tokijiro are lovers. The child, Midori, is born of this

_liaison_. Tokijiro is a _samurai_ in the service of a Daimyo, and has

charge of his lord's treasure department. He is a careless young man

of a wild-oat-sowing disposition, and while entirely absorbed in this

love affair with Urasato, a valuable _kakemono_, one of the Daimyo's

heirlooms, is stolen. The loss is discovered and Tokijiro, who is held

responsible, dismissed.

To give Tokijiro the means of livelihood so that he may pursue the

quest of the lost treasure, Urasato sells herself to a house of

ill-fame, the Yamana-Ya by name, taking with her the child Midori, who

is ignorant of her parentage. Kambei, the knave of a proprietor, is

evidently a curio collector, and it is to be gathered from the context

that the unfortunate young couple have some suspicion--afterwards

justified--that by some means or other he has obtained possession of

the _kakemono_--hence Urasato's choice of that particular house.

Tokijiro's one idea is to rescue Urasato, to whom he is devoted, but

for lack of money he cannot visit her openly, and Kambei, seeing in him

an unprofitable customer, and uneasy about the picture, for which he

knows Tokijiro to be searching, forbade him the house, and persecutes

Urasato and Midori to find out his whereabouts, in order, probably,

that he may have him quietly put out of the way.

As in all these old love stories the hero is depicted as a weak

character, for love of women was supposed to have an effeminizing and

debasing effect on men and was greatly discouraged among the _samurai_

by the feudal Daimyo of the martial provinces. On the other hand,

the woman, though lost, having cast herself on the altar of what she

considers her duty--the Moloch of Japan--often rises to sublime heights

of heroism and self-abnegation, a paradox only found, it is said, in

these social conditions of Japan. Urasato reminds one of the beautiful

simile of the lotus that raises its head of dazzling bloom out of the

slime of the pond--so tender are her sentiments, so strong and so

faithful in character is she, in the midst of misery and horror.

This recitation, freely rendered into English from the chanted drama,

tells the story of Urasato's incarceration, of the lover's stolen

interviews, of the inadvertent finding of the picture, and of Urasato's

and Midori's final escape from the dread Yamana-Ya.

URSATO, OR THE CROW OF DAWN[1]

The darkness was falling with the tender luminosity of an eastern

twilight over the house; the sky was softly clouding, and a gentle wind

sprang up and sighed through the pine-trees like a lullaby--the hush

that comes at the end of the day with its promise of rest was over all

the world, but in spite of the peaceful aspect of nature and of her

surroundings, Urasato, as she came from her bath robed in _crêpe_ and

silken daintiness, felt very unhappy. To her world the night brought no

peace or rest, only accumulated wretchedness and woe.

Midori, her little handmaid, followed her fair mistress upstairs, and

as Urasato languidly pushed open the sliding screens of her room and

sank upon the mats, Midori fetched the tobacco tray with its tiny

lacquer chest and miniature brazier all aglow, and placed it by her

side.

Urasato took up her little pipe, and with the weed of forgetfulness

lulled for a while the pain of longing and loneliness which filled her

heart. As she put the tobacco in the tiny pipe-bowl and smoked it in

one or two whiffs and then refilled it again, the tap, tap of the pipe

on the tray as she emptied the ashes were the only sounds, interluded

with sighs that broke the stillness. "Kachi," "Kachi," "Kachi" sounded

the little pipe.

Tokijiro, waiting hopelessly outside the fence in the cold, could not

so forget his misery. He kept in the shadow so as not to be seen by the

other inmates of the house, for if he were discovered he would lose

all chance of seeing Urasato that evening and, perhaps, for ever. What

might happen if these secret visits were discovered he dared not think.

To catch one glimpse of her he loved he had come far through the snow,

and after losing his way and wandering about for hours, he now found

himself outside the house, and waited, tired and cold and miserable, by

the bamboo fence.

"Life," said Tokijiro, speaking to himself, "is full of change like a

running stream. Some time ago I lost one of my lord's treasures, an

old and valuable _kakemono_ of a drawing of a _garyobai_ (a plum-tree

trained in the shape of a dragon). I ought to have taken more care

of the property entrusted to me. I was accused of carelessness and

dismissed. Secretly I am searching for it, but till now I have found

no clue of the picture. I have even brought my troubles to Urasato,

and made her unhappy about the lost treasure. Alas! I cannot bear to

live longer. If I cannot see Urasato I will at least look upon little

Midori's face once more and then take leave of this life for ever. The

more I think, the more our mutual vows seem hopeless. My love for this

imprisoned flower has become deeper and deeper, and now, alas! I cannot

see her more. Such is this world of pain!"

While Tokijiro thus soliloquized outside in the snow, Urasato in the

room was speaking to her child-attendant, Midori.

"Midori, tell me, are you sure no one saw my letter to Toki Sama

yesterday?"

"You need have no anxiety about that, I gave it myself to Toki

Sama,"[2] answered Midori.

"Hush," said Urasato, "you must not talk so loudly--some one might

overhear you!"

"All right," whispered the little girl, obediently. Leaving Urasato's

side she walked over to the balcony and looking down into the garden

she caught sight of Tokijiro standing outside the fence.

"There, there!" exclaimed Midori, "there is Toki Sama outside the

fence."

When Urasato heard these words joy filled her breast, a smile spread

over her sad face, her languor vanished, and rising quickly from her

seat on the mats, she glided to the balcony and placing her hands on

the rail leaned far out so that she could see Tokijiro.

"Oh! Tokijiro San," she exclaimed, "you have come again at last, how

glad I am to see you!"

Tokijiro, on hearing her voice calling him, looked up through the pine

branches and the tears sprang to his eyes at sight of her, for into

the depths of love their hearts sank always deeper and the two were

fettered each to each with that bond of illusion which is stronger than

the threat of hell or the promise of heaven.

"Oh!" said Urasato, sadly, "what can I have done in a former life that

this should be insupportable without the sight of you? The desire to

see you only increases in the darkness of love. At first, a tenderness,

it spread through my whole being, and now I love--I love. The things

I would tell you are as great in number as the teeth of my comb, but

I cannot say them to you at this distance. When you are absent I must

sleep alone, instead of your arm my hand the only pillow, while my

pillow is wet with tears longing for you,--if only it were the pillow

of _Kantan_[3] I could at least dream that you were by my side. Poor

comfort 'tis for love to live on dreams!"

As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony, the picture of

youth, grace and beauty, her figure supple and fragile as a willow

branch wafted to and fro by a summer breeze, and about her an air of

the wistful sadness of the rains of early spring.

[Illustration: As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony,

the picture of youth, grace and beauty.]

"Oh! Urasato!" said Tokijiro, sadly, "the longer I stay here the worse

it will be for you. If we are discovered not only you, but Midori also

will be punished, and as she does not know all how unhappy she will be,

and what will you do then. Oh! misery!"

Urasato, overcome with the bitterness of their troubles and the

hopelessness of their situation, and as if to shield Midori,

impulsively drew the child to her and, embracing her with tenderness,

burst into tears.

The sound of footsteps suddenly startled them both. Urasato

straightened herself quickly, pushed the child from her, and wiped

away her tears. Midori, always clever and quick-witted, rolled a piece

of paper into a ball and threw it quickly over the fence. It was a

pre-arranged signal of danger. Tokijiro understood and hid himself out

of sight. The screen of the room was pushed aside and not the dreaded

proprietor nor his shrew of a wife, but the kindly and indispensable

hair-dresser, O[4] Tatsu, appeared.

"Oh, courtezan," said the woman, "I fear that I have kept you waiting.

I wanted to come earlier, but I had so many customers that I could not

get away before. As soon as I could do so I left and came to you ...

but, Urasato Sama, what is the matter? You have a very troubled face

and your eyes are wet with tears ... are you ill? Look here, Midori,

you must take better care of her and give her some medicine."

"I wanted her to take some medicine," said Midori, "but she said she

would not."

"I have always disliked medicine and, as Midori tells you, I refused to

take any. I don't feel well to-day, O Tatsu. I don't know why, but I

don't even wish to have the comb put through my hair--so I won't have

my hair dressed now, O Tatsu, thank you."

"Oh," answered O Tatsu, "that is a pity--your hair needs putting

straight--it is very untidy at the sides; let me comb it back and you

will then feel better yourself, too--"

"O Tatsu," said Urasato, hopelessly; "you say so, but--even if the

gloom that weighs down my spirit were lifted and my hair done up and

put straight both would fall again, and knowing this, I am unhappy."

"Oh," replied O Tatsu, "the loosened hair-knot which troubles you is my

work--come to the dressing-table ... come!"

Urasato could not well refuse the kindly woman and reluctantly allowed

herself to be persuaded. She sat down in front of the mirror, but her

heart was outside the fence with Tokijiro, and to wait till the woman

had done her work was a torture to her.

"Listen to me," said O Tatsu, as she took her stand behind Urasato

and with deft fingers put the disordered coiffure to rights, "people

cannot understand the feelings of others unless they have themselves

suffered the same conditions. Even I, in past times, was not quite as I

am now. It seems foolish to speak of it, but I always feel for you. If

you deign to listen to me I will tell you my story. Even such an ugly

woman as I am--there is a proverb you know, that says 'Even a devil at

eighteen is fascinating' (_oni mo juhachi_)--has had her day, and so

there was someone who loved even me, and he is now my husband," and

O Tatsu laughed softly, "ho-ho-ho." "Well, we plighted our vows and

loved more and more deeply. At last he was in need of money and came to

borrow of me, saying 'Lend me two _bu!_'[5] or 'Lend me three _bu!_'

using me in those days only as his money-box. It must have been because

our fate was determined in our previous life that I did not give him

up. I let things go because I loved him. Youth does not come twice in a

life-time. He was in great distress and I sold all my clothes to help

him till my _tansu_[6] were empty, and then I filled them with his

love letters. Things came to such a pass that we thought of committing

suicide together. But a friend who knew what we were about to do

stopped us, and so we are alive to this day. But things have changed

since then, and now, when there is some small trouble, my husband tells

me he will divorce me, and there are times when I feel I hate him and

don't want to work for him any more. There is a proverb that 'the love

of a thousand years can grow cold,' and it is true. Experience has

taught me this."

[Illustration: O Tatsu ... took her stand behind Urasato and with deft

fingers put the disordered coiffure to rights]

"O Tatsu Sama," answered Urasato, "in spite of all you say, I have no

one to love me in this wide world, such an unfortunate creature as I

am, so devotedly as you loved him."

"You may think thus now," said O Tatsu, "for you have reached the age

of love's prime. I know that people in love's despair often cut short

their own lives, but while you have Midori to think of you cannot, you

must not, commit suicide. Duty and love exist only while there is life.

Oh dear, I have talked so much and so earnestly that I have forgotten

to put in the _tsuto-naoshi_," and with the last finishing touches O

Tatsu put in the pincer-like clasp which holds together the stray hair

at the nape of the neck.

Urasato's eyes were dry, though her heart was full of sympathy and

sorrow as she listened to O Tatsu's kind words of sympathy, and as a

bedimmed mirror so was her soul clouded with grief. Midori, touched by

the sad conversation, dropped tears as she flitted about over the mats,

putting away the comb box here and a cushion straight there.

"Well," said O Tatsu, as she bowed to the ground and took her leave,

"I am going yonder to the house of Adzumaya, good-bye!" and with these

words she glided down the stairs and went out by the side door. Looking

back as she did so, she called to Midori:

"Look here, Midori, I am going out by the side gate instead of by the

kitchen--will you please fasten it after me." With these words she

seized the astonished Tokijiro, who was hiding in the shadow, pushed

him inside and shut the gate (_pattari_) with a snap. With an unmoved

face as if nothing unusual had occurred, O Tatsu put up her umbrella,

for snow had begun to fall, lighted her little lantern and pattered

away across the grounds without once looking back.

Thus, through the compassionate help of another, Tokijiro was at last

enabled to enter the house. He ran upstairs quickly, and entering the

room, caught hold of Urasato's hand.

"Urasato! I cannot bear our lot any longer. I cannot bear to live away

from you--at last I am able to tell you how I long to die with you

since we cannot belong to each other any longer. But if we die together

thus, what will become of poor little Midori. What misery--oh, what

misery! No--no--I have it; you shall not die--I alone will die; but oh!

Urasato, pray for the repose of my soul!"

"That would be too pitiless," said Urasato, while the tears fell like

rain from her eyes, "if you die to-night what will become of our

faithful little Midori and myself left behind? Let parents and child

take hands to-night and cross the river of death together. We will not

separate now, oh, no--no! Oh! Tokijiro San! you are too cruel to leave

us behind."

Some one was now heard calling from below.

"Urasato Sama! Urasato Sama!" said a loud harsh voice, "come

downstairs--you are wanted quickly, quickly--come!"

Then the sound of a woman's feet as she began to ascend the stairs

reached the three inmates of the room.

Urasato's heart beat wildly and then seemed to stop with fright. Quick

as a flash of lightning she hid Tokijiro in the _kotatsu_[7] and

Midori, with her usual quick-wittedness, fetched the quilt and covered

him over. Then she glided to the other side of the room. All this was

the work of a moment.

"O Kaya San," said Urasato, "what is the matter? What are you making

such a fuss about? What do you want with me now?"

"Oh! Urasato," answered the woman as she entered the room, "you pretend

not to know why I call you. The master has sent for you--Midori is to

come with you--such is his order!"

Urasato made no answer, but followed O Kaya, who had come to fetch

her. Anxiety for Tokijiro hidden in the _kotatsu_, and fear concerning

what the sudden summons might mean made her heart beat so that she

knew not what to do. Both she and Midori felt that the woman was like

a torturing devil driving them along so much against their will--they

seemed to feel her fierce eyes piercing them through from behind.

O Kaya led them across the garden to another part of the house. The

soft twilight had been succeeded by a dreary night. It was February and

the night wind blew sharp and chill--the last snow of winter weighed

down the bamboos; while, like an emblem of courage and strength in the

midst of adversity, the odour of early plum blossoms hung upon the air.

Overcome with anxiety, Urasato felt only the chill, and fear of the

night spread through her whole being. She started and shivered when

behind her Midori's clogs began to echo shrilly, like the voices of

malicious wood-sprites in the trees laughing in derision at her plight.

Her heart grew thin with pain and foreboding. "Karakong," "karakong,"

sounded the clogs, as they scraped along. "Ho, ho, ho!" mocked the

echoing sprites from the bamboo wood.

They reached the veranda of the house on the other side of

the quadrangle. O Kaya pushed open the _shoji_ disclosing the

grizzled-headed master, Kambei, seated beside the charcoal brazier

looking fierce and angry. When Urasato and Midori saw him, their heart

and soul went out with fear as a light in a sudden blast.

Urasato, however, calmed herself, and sitting down outside the room on

the veranda, put her hands to the floor and bowed over them. The master

turned and glared at her.

"Look here, Urasato," said he, "I have nothing but this to ask you.

Has that young rascal Tokijiro asked you for anything out of this

house--tell me at once--is such the case? I have heard so--tell me the

truth!"

Urasato, frightened as she was, controlled herself and answered quietly:

"Such are the master's honourable words, but I have no remembrance of

anyone asking me for anything whatsoever."

"Um," said the master, "I shan't get it out of you so easily I see,"

then turning to O Kaya, he said, "Here, O Kaya, do as I told you--tie

her up to the tree in the garden and beat her till she confesses."

O Kaya rose from the mats and catching hold of the weeping Urasato

dragged her up and untied and pulled off her girdle. The woman then

carried the slender girl into the garden and bound her up with rope

to a rough-barked, snow-covered pine-tree, which happened to be just

opposite Urasato's room. O Kaya, lifting a bamboo broom threateningly,

said, "Sa! Urasato, you won't be able to endure this--therefore make

a true confession and save yourself. How can you be faithful to such

a ghost of a rascal as Tokijiro? I have warned you many times, but in

spite of all advice you still continue to meet him in secret. Your

punishment has come at last--but it is not my fault, so please do not

bear me any resentment. I have constantly asked the master to pardon

you. To-night, out of pity, I begged him to let you off, but he would

not listen. There is no help for it, I must obey my orders. Come,

confess before you are beaten!"

So O Kaya scolded and entreated Urasato; but Urasato made no reply--she

only wept and sobbed in silence.

"You are an obstinate girl!" said O Kaya, and she lifted the broom to

strike.

Midori now rushed forward in an agony of distress and tried to ward off

the blow about to fall on her beloved mistress. O Kaya flung the child

away with her left arm, and bringing the broom down, began to beat

Urasato mercilessly till her dress was disarranged and her hair fell

down in disorder about her shoulders.

Midori could bear the sight no longer. She became frantic, and running

to the wretched Kambei, lifted praying hands to him: then back again

she darted to catch hold of O Kaya's dress, crying out to both:

"Please, forgive her; oh, please, forgive her! Don't beat her so, I

implore you!"

O Kaya, now fully exasperated, seized the sobbing child.

"I will punish you too," and tied Midori's hands behind her back.

Tokijiro, looking down from the balcony of Urasato's room, had been a

distraught and helpless spectator of the whole scene of cruelty in the

garden. He could now no longer restrain himself and was about to jump

over the balcony to the rescue. But Urasato happened at that moment to

look up and saw what he intended doing. She shook her head and managed

to say, unheard by the others:

"Ah! this, for you to come out, no, no, no!"

Then, as O Kaya came back from tying up Midori, she quickly added to

her, "No, I mean you who have tied up Midori, you must be pitying

her, you must be, O Kaya San--but in the presence of the master for

that reason it won't do! It won't do!" and here she spoke, purposely,

incoherently to O Kaya, while she signed to Tokijiro with her eyes that

he must not come out--that her words were meant for him under cover of

being addressed to O Kaya.

Tokijiro knew that he could do nothing--he was utterly powerless to

help Urasato, and if he obeyed his first impulse and jumped down into

the garden he would only make matters a thousand times worse than they

were, so he went back to the _kotatsu_, and bit the quilt and wept with

impotent rage.

"She is suffering all this for my sake--oh! Urasato! oh! oh! oh!"

Kambei had now reached Urasato's side, and catching hold of her by the

hair, said in a big voice, "Does not your heart tell you why you are so

chastized? It is ridiculous that Tokijiro should come in search of the

_kakemono_ that was entrusted to me. Ha! you look surprised. You see I

know all. Look! Isn't the picture hanging there in my room? I allow no

one so much as to point a finger at it--Sa! Urasato, I am sure Tokijiro

asked you to get him that--come--speak the truth now?"

"I have never been asked to steal any such thing," answered Urasato,

sobbing.

"Oh, you obstinate woman--will nothing make you confess? Here,

Midori--where is Tokijiro? Tell me that first?"

"I don't know," answered Midori.

"There is no reason why Midori should know what you ask," said Urasato,

trying to shield the child.

"Midori is always with you," said Kambei--"and she must know," and

turning to Midori he struck her, saying: "Now confess--where is

Tokijiro hiding now?"

"Oh, oh, you hurt me," cried the child.

"Well, confess then," said the cruel man, "then I won't hurt you any

more!"

"Oh ... Urasato," cried Midori, turning to her--"entreat the master to

pardon me--if he kills me, before I die I can never meet my father whom

I have never seen."

Tokijiro, upstairs in the balcony, heard all that was going on and

murmured:

"That is, indeed, natural, poor child."

But Kambei, unaware that he was heard and seen, beat the child again

and again.

"I can't make out what you say, little creature," he screamed with

rage. "You shall feel the weight of this _tekki_[8] then we shall see

if you will still not answer what is asked you."

Under this hell-like torture Midori could scarcely breathe. The poor

child tried to crawl away, but as she was bound with rope, she was

unable to do so.

The cruel man once more caught hold of her roughly by the shoulder and

began to beat her again. At last the child gave a great cry of pain,

lost consciousness, and fell back as though dead.

Kambei was now alarmed at what he had done, for he had no intention

of killing the child--only of making her tell him where Tokijiro was

living or hiding. He stopped beating her and stood on one side, angry

enough at being thwarted by Urasato and Midori.

Urasato raised her head and moaned to herself as she looked at the

prostrate child.

"I am really responsible for the child's suffering," she said to

herself--"my sin is the cause of it all; forgive me, my child--you know

it not, but I am your mother; and although you are only a child you

have understood and helped me. You saw that I was in love and always

anxious about my lover. This is from a fault in your former life that

you have such a mother--ah! this is all, alas, fruit of our sins in

another existence," and Urasato's tears flowed so fast that, like

spring rain, they melted the snow upon which they fell.

O Kaya now came up to her, saying,

"What an obstinate creature you are! If you don't confess you shall

wander in company with your child to the _Meido_,"[9] and with these

words she raised her broom to strike.

Hikoroku, the clerk of the house, now came running upon the scene. He

had fallen in love with Urasato and had often pressed his suit in vain.

When he saw how matters stood he pushed O Kaya away.

"You are not to help Urasato!" screamed O Kaya, angrily.

"Go away, go away," said Hikoroku, "this punishment is the clerk's

work--though I am only a humble servant, however humble I am I don't

need your interference."

Then Hikoroku turned to Kambei and said apologetically.

"Excuse me, master, I have something to say to you; the matter is

this--that dear Urasato--no, I mean Midori and Urasato--I never forget

them, oh, no, no! I know their characters--they are good-hearted. This

punishment is the clerk's work. If you will only leave Urasato to me

I shall be able to make her confess. I am sure I can manage her. If

you will make me responsible for making Urasato confess, I shall be

grateful."

Kambei nodded his head, he was already tired, and said:

"Um--I would not allow anyone else to do this, but as I trust you

Hikoroku, I will let you do it for a while; without fail you must

make her confess, I will rest,"--and with these words he went into

the house, intending to put the blame on Hikoroku if his regulation

suffered because of his treatment of Urasato.

Hikoroku accompanied his master to the house and bowed low as he

entered. He then came back to Urasato.

"Did you hear what the master said? Did he not say that he would not

entrust this to anyone else but _me_--only to me--Hikoroku--don't you

see what a fine fellow I am? If only you had listened to me before you

need never have suffered so--I would have helped you, Urasato San!

Perhaps you suspect me as being to blame for all this; but no--indeed,

I am not--you and I are living in another world. Will you not listen to

me--Urasato San?--but oh!--you have a different heart--oh! what am I to

do?" and he placed his hands palm to palm and lifted them despairingly

upwards to Urasato, shaking them up and down in supplication.

O Kaya had been listening to Hikoroku, for she was in love with him

herself and was always jealous of the attention he paid to Urasato.

She now came up and said, as she shrugged her shoulders from side to

side: "Now Hikoroku Sama--what are you doing? What are you saying?

Notwithstanding your promise to the master to make Urasato confess,

you are now talking to her in this way. Whenever you see Urasato you

always act like this without thinking of me or my feelings for you. I

am offended--I can't help it! You will probably not get her to confess

after all. Well--I will take your place, so go away!"

As O Kaya came up to Hikoroku he pushed her away, saying:

"No, never! You shall not hurt her--this is not your business--the

master has entrusted it to me. As for you, it is ridiculous that you

should love me. How ugly you are! Ugh!--your face is like a lion's. Are

you not ashamed. Before the master I have no countenance left when I

think of what you say to me. Now then--go away O Kaya--I am going to

untie poor Urasato!"

O Kaya tried to push Hikoroku away. Hikoroku took up the broom and beat

her without caring how much he hurt her. Mercilessly did he continue

to beat her till she was overcome and, falling down on the snow, lay

stunned for some time to come.

Having thus got rid of O Kaya, Hikoroku quickly released Urasato and

Midori. As he lifted the child up she opened her eyes.

"Ya, ya! Are you still there, mother?"

Did Midori know that Urasato was her mother, or on returning to

consciousness was it instinct or affection that made her use the tender

name?

When she heard Midori's voice, Urasato felt that she must be in a

dream, for she had feared that the child had been killed by Kambei's

beating.

"Are you still alive?" she exclaimed, and caught the child in her arms

while tears of joy fell down her pale cheeks.

Hikoroku looked on with a triumphant face, for he was pleased at what

he had done.

"Urasato Sama, you must run away, and now that I have saved you both

I can't stay here. I, too, shall be tied up and punished for this. I

shall run away, too! Well, it is certainly better to escape with you

than to remain here. Let us flee together now. Come with me. I must get

my purse, however, before I go. Please wait here till I come back with

my small savings--then I can help you; don't let anyone find you," and

without waiting for Urasato's answer Hikoroku ran into the house.

Urasato and Midori stood clasping each other under the pine tree. They

were shaking with cold and fatigue and pain. Suddenly a sound made them

look up. Tokijiro suddenly stood before them. He had climbed out on to

the roof, and walking round the quadrangle, had reached the spot where

they stood and then let himself down by the pine-tree. When the two saw

him they started for joy.

"Oh," said Urasato, scarcely able to make herself heard, "how did you

get here, Tokijiro?"

"Hush," said Tokijiro, "don't speak so loudly. I have heard and seen

all--oh! my poor Urasato, it has caused me much pain to think that

you have suffered so much because of me; but in the midst of all this

misery there is one thing over which we can rejoice. As soon as I

heard what Kambei said about the _kakemono_ I crept downstairs and

into the room he pointed out, and there I found my lord's long-lost

picture. Look, here it is! I have it safe at last. The very one drawn

by Kanaoka. Someone must have stolen it. I am saved at last--I am

thankful. I shall be received back into my lord's service--I owe this

to you, and I shall never forget it as long as I live."

Footsteps were heard approaching, Tokijiro hid himself behind a post of

the gate. He was only just in time.

Hikoroku came stumbling along across the garden from the other side of

the house.

"Here, here, Urasato San, we can now fly together--I have got my

money--we can get out by the gate. Wait another moment, I will steal in

and get the picture for you."

As soon as Hikoroku had gone again Tokijiro rushed forward, and seizing

Urasato and Midori by the hand, hurried them out of the garden. Once

outside they felt that they had escaped from the horror and death of

the tiger's mouth.

Hikoroku, not being able to find the picture, hastened back to the spot

where he had left Urasato, when he ran into O Kaya, who had recovered

consciousness, and now picked herself up from the ground somewhat

bewildered and wondering what had happened.

"Are you Hikoroku? Are you Hikoroku?" she exclaimed, and caught him in

her arms.

Catching sight of her face, Hikoroku cried out with disgust and horror.

"Ya! Avaunt evil! Avaunt devil!"

The three fugitives outside the gate heard Hikoroku's exclamation.

Tokijiro caught up Midori and put her on his back. Then he and Urasato

taking each other by the hand ran away as fast as they could. The

dawn began to break and the birds to sing as they left the dread place

behind them. From far and near the crows began to wing their way across

the morning sky.

Hitherto _the crow of dawn_ had parted them--it now united them.

Thinking of this, Tokijiro and Urasato looked at each other with eyes

brimming over with tears, yet shining with the light of new-born hope.

[Footnote 1: The Crow of Dawn, or _Akegarasu_, another name for the

story of _Urasato_. _Akegarasu_, literally rendered means "Dawn-Crow."

It is an expression which typifies the wrench of parting at daybreak

which lovers like Tokijiro and Urasato experience, when dawn comes

heralded by the croak of a crow (_karasu_) flying across the half-lit

sky--a sign that the time for the two to separate has come.

This story is taken from the _Gidayu_ or musical drama, in which the

chanter mimes the voices and actions of the many different characters

to an accompaniment on the _samisen_ (guitar or banjo).]

[Footnote 2: Sama, a title equivalent to Mr. It is a polite term used

for both men and women.]

[Footnote 3: This is an allusion to a Chinese story, related in the

musical drama, where a poor man of Kantan fell asleep and dreamed that

he became Emperor and had all that he could desire.]

[Footnote 4: O is the honorific placed before female names of not more

than two syllables.]

[Footnote 5: One _bu_ was about twenty-five sen in those days, but the

equivalent of more than a yen in the present currency.]

[Footnote 6: _Tansu_, Japanese chest of drawers.]

[Footnote 7: A hearth sunk in the floor, covered with a grating and

framework over which is thrown a quilt under which people sit to warm

themselves.]

[Footnote 8: _Tekki_, the tiny metal bars which form the top of the

andirons in a brazier.]

[Footnote 9: _Meido_, Hades--the abode of the dead.]

TSUBOSAKA

A story of Faith in Kwannon, the Manifestation of Mercy

(popularly known as the Goddess of Mercy)

N.B.--The Amida Buddha of the Shinshu sects of Japanese

Buddhism is the only Deity, and the Original and the

Unoriginated Buddha, Lord of Boundless Life and Light.

Amida promises to all, who with full trust and confidence

draw near and invoke His name, the safe Heaven of freedom

from sin and evil.

KWANNON is the Embodiment of Amida's Compassion, capable

of manifestation in many shapes for purposes of practical

succour. He is never manifested except for a suffering

creation.

The late Professor Lloyd says that it is a mistake to speak

of Kwannon as a female deity, that he is the son of Amida,

capable of appearing in many forms, male or female, human

or animal, according to circumstances.

See "_Shinran and his Work_" (Lloyd, p. 21).

TSUBOSAKA

The shrine of Tsubosaka, where this popular story is

placed, has been celebrated for answers to prayers from

ancient times. Tradition relates that when the fiftieth

Emperor Kwammu lived in the capital of Nara, he was

smitten with eye trouble. The head priest, Doki Shonin, of

the Tsubosaka shrine offered up prayers to Kwannon, the

Manifestation of Mercy, for one hundred and seven days for

the Emperor's recovery. The prayer was efficacious and His

Majesty's sight was restored. Since that time Tsubosaka

has been known as a holy place to which pilgrims journey

to pray for blessings and especially for health in time of

illness.

In a certain village in the province of Yamato in Japan, close by the

hill of Tsubo, there lived a blind man named Sawaichi and his wife, O

Sato.

Sawaichi was a honest, good-natured fellow, who earned a bare living by

giving lessons on the _koto_[1] and _samisen_.[2]

O Sato was a faithful loving woman, who by washing and sewing, and such

odd work, earned many an honest penny towards the maintenance of their

poor little home.

For some time things had not gone well with the couple; they were

growing poorer and poorer, and even the joyful singing of birds,

and the sound of the temple bell, near by, emphazised their own

wretchedness, and filled their souls with melancholy.

One morning Sawaichi got out his _samisen_, and striking some chords,

began to play.

"Oh, Sawaichi San, what are you doing?" said O Sato, "I am glad to see

that you feel in better spirits to-day. It is good to hear you play the

_samisen_ again," and she laughed as cheerfully as she could.

"Oh, oh, O Sato, do I look as if I were playing the _samisen_ for

amusement? Indeed, I am in no such mood. I am so depressed that I wish

I could die. Nay, I am so choked with trouble that I feel as if I were

going to die. Now, O Sato, I have something to say that I have been

brooding over for a long time, so please sit down and listen to me."

O Sato sank softly on the mats near Sawaichi, and as she looked at the

blind man, trying tenderly and carefully to divine what was troubling

him, she saw that he was unusually moved, and the tears of pity rose to

her eyes.

Sawaichi cleared his throat, after waiting for a moment, and then went

on:

"How rapid is the passing of time. The proverb is true that 'Time flies

like an arrow.' Three years have passed since our marriage, and I have

meant to ask you this many times, O Sato! Why do you hide your secret

from me so long? We have been betrothed since our youth upward, and we

know each other well. There is no need of secrecy between us. Why not

tell me your secret frankly?"

O Sato stared at him helplessly. She could not in the least understand

what was the meaning of these mysterious words. At last she said,

hesitatingly:

"Whatever is the matter with you to-day, Sawaichi San? What are you

talking about? I don't in the least understand. In the whole of our

married life I have never had any secret to keep from you. If you find

anything in me that does not please you, tell me, and I will try to

mend. Is not this the way between husband and wife?"

"Well, then," said Sawaichi, "I will tell you all since you ask me."

"Tell me everything," said O Sato, "whatever it is that is troubling

you. I cannot bear to think that you are unhappy," and she drew closer

to her poor blind husband.

"Oh, oh, O Sato, I will tell you all--I cannot bear it longer. It

hurts me. Listen carefully! We have been married just three years now.

Every night between three and four o'clock I awake, and stretch out

my arms to you as you lie in your bed, but I have never been able to

find you, not even once. I am only a poor blind fellow and smallpox

has disfigured me hopelessly. It is quite natural that you cannot love

such an ugly creature as myself. I do not blame you for this. But if

you will only tell me plainly that you love another, I will not be

angry with you, only tell me! I have often heard people say, 'O Sato

is a beautiful woman!' It is, therefore, natural that you should have

a lover. I am resigned to my fate and shall not be jealous, therefore

tell me the truth--it will be a relief to know it."

It was a pitiful sight to see the afflicted man, for though he spoke

quietly and with evident resignation, yet the despair in his heart

caused the tears to overflow his sightless eyes.

O Sato could not bear to see her husband racked by these terrible

doubts. His words pierced her heart with pain. She clung to him

sorrowfully.

"Oh, Sawaichi San! how cruel your suspicions are'! However low and mean

I may be, do you think that I am the kind of woman to leave you for

another man? You are too unjust to say such things. As you know, my

father and mother died when I was a child, and my uncle, your father,

brought us up together. You were just three years older than I. While

we were thus growing up as boy and girl together, you took smallpox and

became blind, alas! and your misfortunes accumulating, you were reduced

to poverty. But even so, once betrothed, I will go through fire and

water with you, and nothing shall ever part us. Not only do I feel that

we are united till death, but it has been my one great hope to cure

your blindness. To this end, ever since we were wedded, I have risen

with the dawn and left the room stealthily, not wishing to disturb you.

Thinking nothing of the steep mountain road, I have climbed to the top

of Tsubosaka every morning before it was light to pray to Kwannon Sama

to restore your sight. Lately I have felt disappointed with Kwannon

Sama, for my prayer is never answered, though I have prayed earnestly

for three years, rising before the dawn to climb to her temple on the

hill. Knowing nothing of all this you condemn me as being faithless to

you. It makes me angry, Sawaichi San!" and here poor O Sato burst into

tears and sobbed aloud.

Sawaichi realized how false his suspicions had been, and how unworthy

they were of his devoted wife. At first he could not speak but

stammered pitifully. At last he found his voice and burst out:

"Oh, my wife, my wife! I will say nothing more. I have talked nonsense

like the poor blind fellow that I am. Forgive me, forgive me! How could

I know what was in your heart?" and here he joined his hands together,

raising them in a gesture of entreaty, and then, with his sleeve, wiped

away the tears from his eyes.

"Ah--no, no--not this! Do not ask pardon of your own wife, it is too

much!" said O Sato, in distress. "I can face even death if your doubts

are dispelled."

"The more you say, the more I am ashamed before you. Though you pray so

earnestly, O Sato, my eyes will never recover their sight."

"What are you saying? Oh! what are you saying?" exclaimed O Sato. "It

is only for you that I have borne all this, walking barefoot to the

Shrine of Kwannon Sama every day for three years, thinking nothing of

the wind or snow or frosts these wintry dawns."

"I am, indeed, grateful to you for your devotion. But as I harboured

suspicions of you for a long time, thinking evil of your good, even if

I pray, my prayers to Kwannon can only be rewarded by punishment, and

my eyesight will never be restored."

"No, no, Sawaichi San, do not say such things," answered O Sato. "My

body is the same as your body. Talk nonsense no more, but control your

mind with firmness and come with me to Kwannon Sama and let us pray

together."

Sawaichi rose from the mats, the tears falling from his eyes.

"Oh, my good wife, I am indeed grateful to you. If you are so

determined I will follow. It is said that the grace of Buddha can make

a dead tree to blossom. My eyes are like a dead tree ... oh, oh, if

only they might blossom into sight! But though I am a great sinner ...

who knows? Perhaps in the next world? .. Now my wife, lead me as ever

by the hand!"

O Sato busied herself opening the _tansu_ and getting out Sawaichi's

best clothes. She helped him to change, speaking encouraging words

the while. Then they set out together and climbed the steep ascent of

Tsubosaka, Sawaichi leaning on the staff in his right hand.

The couple at last reached the temple, breathless after the hard climb.

"Here we are, Sawaichi San," said O Sato, "we have come to the temple,

we are now before the gate ... though prayer and devotion are important

in the recovery of health, they say illness is often due to nerves.

If you allow yourself to be so low-spirited, your eyes will only grow

worse. Therefore, at such a time, how would it be for you to sing some

song to cheer yourself?"

"Yes, yes, O Sato, as you say, anxious brooding over my troubles is not

good for my eyes. I will sing some song."

Then beating time with his stick tapping the ground, he began to hum:

"Chin--chin--tsu: chin--chin: tsu--chin--chin--tsu," tinkling in

imitation of the _samisen_.

Sawaichi cleared his throat and began to sing:

_Is suffering the cause of love?_

_Or love the cause of suffering?_

_My love must vanish like the dew ..._

_Aita ... ta ... ta ..._

The words of the song were suddenly broken by a cry of pain as Sawaichi

entered the gate of the temple and tripped on a stone.

"Oh, dear, I nearly fell over that stone ... I have forgotten the rest

of the song ... what does it matter now ... ho--ho--ho," and he laughed

to himself strangely and softly.

They had by this time come to the main temple and stood outside, O Sato

gazing at the altar where Amida Buddha and Kwannon, the Manifestation

of Mercy, reigned above the lotus flowers in the fragrant mists of

incense.

"Sawaichi San, we have now come to Kwannon Sama."

"Oh, indeed! Are we already there?" answered Sawaichi, "how grateful

I am!" then turning his sightless face towards the altar he lifted

beseeching hands, and bowing his head reverently, he repeated the

Buddhist invocation:

"_Namu Amida Butsu! Namu Amida Dai Butsu!_" (All hail, Great Buddha!)

"Listen, Sawaichi," said O Sato, earnestly, "this night let us stay

together here and pray through the night without ceasing."

Then they both began to pray. The chanting of their supplication rose

up clearly in the stillness of the evening hour, and it seemed as if

the sand of Tsubosaka might become the golden streets of Paradise.

Suddenly Sawaichi stopped and clutched hold of his wife.

"O Sato," he said, "I must tell you the truth. I cannot believe. I came

simply because it was your wish. But I shall never recover my sight, of

that I feel sure."

"Why do you say such sad things?" answered O Sato, clasping her hands.

"Listen! When the Emperor Kwammu was in Nara, the ancient capital, he

suffered with his eyes as you do. Then he prayed to Kwannon Sama and in

a short time he was healed. Therefore, pray without ceasing. Kwannon

will make no difference between the Emperor and ourselves, though we

are as poor as worms. Believers must be patient and go forward slowly,

and with quiet minds trust devoutly in the mercy of Kwannon. So great

is his benevolence that He hears all prayers. Worship! Pray! Sawaichi

San! Pray! instead of wasting time in vain talk."

[Illustration: Sawaichi, turning his sightless face towards the altar,

repeated the Buddhist invocation "_Namu Amida Butsu_."]

Thus did O Sato encourage her husband. Sawaichi nodded his head and

replied:

"What you say is convincing. From to-night I will fast for three days.

You must return home, shut up the house and come again. The next three

days will decide my fate, whether I recover or not."

"Oh," said O Sato, joyfully, "now you speak wisely. I will go back at

once and arrange everything for a three days' absence. But," she added

anxiously, "Sawaichi San, remember that this mountain is very steep,

and higher up one comes to the top, which falls on the right into a

deep precipice. On no account must you leave the temple!"

"Oh, no, never fear, I will put my arms round Kwannon to-night--ho, ho,

ho!" and he laughed to himself.

O Sato, never dreaming of what was in her husband's mind, hurried

homewards, blissfully content, thinking that her yearning hopes were

realized and that he at last believed.

Sawaichi listened to her retreating footsteps. When he could hear them

no more, he knew himself to be alone. He fell flat to the earth and

cried aloud in the bitterness and darkness of his soul.

"Oh! my wife, you will never know how grateful I am to you for all

your devotion to me these long years. Though gradually reduced to the

straits of poverty, you have never once lost sympathy with me. You have

faithfully loved such a miserable blind wretch as myself. Alas! knowing

nothing of what was in your heart I even doubted your fidelity. Forgive

me, O Sato. Forgive me! If we part now we may never meet again. Oh, the

pity of it!"

Sawaichi lay on the ground and gave vent to the pent-up misery in his

heart. After a few minutes he raised a despairing face and said aloud:

"I will not grieve any more. O Sato has prayed devoutly for three

years, and yet Kwannon gives no sign of hearing her supplication. What

is the use of living any longer? There is only one thing I can do to

show my gratitude to you, O Sato! and that is to die and set you free.

May you live long, O Sato! and make a happy second marriage! Now, I

remember that O Sato told me that there was a deep precipice on the

right at the top of the hill. That is the best place for me to die. If

I die in this holy place, I may hope to be saved in the next world.

Lucky it is that the night is far gone, and that there is no one about

... oh, oh!"

With these words Sawaichi rose to his feet. The temple bell, the last

before the dawn, rang out in the silence. Sawaichi knew that there was

no time to lose. Groping his way with his stick he hastened to the

top of the hill. Stopping to listen, he heard the sound of distant

water flowing in the valley beneath. In his distraught state of mind it

sounded to him like a call from Buddha. With the prayer "_Namu Amida

Butsu!_" on his lips, he planted his stick on the edge of the hill, and

with a desperate leap threw himself out as far as he could over the

side of the abyss. For a few moments the sound of the body crashing

through the trees and undergrowth was heard as it fell in its progress

of increasing impetus down the precipice: gradually growing fainter and

fainter, the noise at last altogether ceased; then all was still on the

lonely mountain side.

* * * * *

Knowing nothing of all this, O Sato was hurrying back to her husband,

slipping and stumbling along the familiar road in her anxiety to get to

him quickly. At last she reached the temple and looked round eagerly.

Sawaichi was nowhere to be seen.

"Sawaichi San!" she called again and again. "Sawaichi San!"

Receiving no answer to her repeated cries she hunted round the temple

courtyard, but with no result. Becoming fearful of what might have

befallen him, she called louder than before:

"Sawaichi San! Sawaichi San!"

Running distractedly from the temple precincts, she hastened to the

crest of the hill, and there she tripped over her husband's stick. She

now knew what he had done. Frantically she rushed to the precipice and

gazed far down into the abyss beneath. There in the grey light of the

breaking dawn she could see the lifeless form of her husband stretched

upon the ground.

"Oh! what shall I do? This is too dreadful!" she cried aloud in her

anguish. Her body trembled in a paroxysm of pain. She called to her

husband, but only the mountain echoes answered her.

"Oh, my husband, my husband! You are too cruel--too cruel! Only with

the hope of saving you from blindness did I persevere in prayer for

so long to Kwannon Sama. Alas! what will become of me, now that you

have left me alone? Now I remember there was something strange in your

manner when you sang that sad song coming up the hill. It may be that

you had already made up your mind to die. But how could I know? Oh!

Sawaichi San, if only I had known I would never have persuaded you

to come to this place. Forgive me, oh, forgive me! There is no such

miserable woman in the world as myself. No one but God could know that

Death would separate us now. Blind man as you are, who cannot see in

this world, how will you travel alone amidst the dark shadows down the

road of Death? Who will lead you by the hand now? I feel as if I could

see you wandering and groping there all by yourself."

Heartbrokenly she sobbed for some time. At last she shook herself

with resolution; then raised her tear-stained face to the seemingly

unresponsive heaven above.

[Illustration: There in the grey light of the breaking dawn she could

see the lifeless form of her husband stretched upon the ground]

"Oh, oh, I will lament no more. Everything that happens in this life is

the result of sin and affinity in our previous state of existence. I

will die too, and join Sawaichi in death."

With clasped hands she repeated the Buddhist prayer, "_Namu Amida

Butsu_," and then, gathering all her strength for the fatal leap,

sprang over the precipice and was gone.

* * * * *

The February morning broke clear and bright. Nor in the temple nor

on the hillside was there any trace of the pitiful tragedy that had

taken place during the night. The mists in the valley and over the

mountains dispersed as the sun's rays, advancing swiftly from the east,

touched the world with the transforming magic of splendour of day. Then

suddenly a strange thing happened. In the rose and golden glory of

the unfolding pageant of the early rushing morning, there was wafted

over the Tsubosaka valley the most wonderful and uplifting strains

of music, and above the bodies of Sawaichi and O Sato appeared the

holy and yearningly compassionate form of Kwannon shining in a great,

all-space-illuminating radiance.

"Listen, Sawaichi!" said the Heavenly Voice, "Your blindness is the

result of sin in your former life. The end of this life had come

for you both, but through the faith of your wife and the merits of

her accumulated prayers, your lives shall be prolonged. Therefore

believe and devote your lives to prayer, and make a pilgrimage to the

thirty-three holy places, where you must offer up thanks for the grace

of Buddha. Awake, O Sato! O Sato! Sawaichi! Sawaichi!"

With these words the divine vision disappeared; the temple bell pealed

forth the hour of morning prayer, the birds began to sing, the priests

to beat their gongs and drums, and to chant their orisons, and over the

hillside villages and in the temple the world woke once more to life

and work.

The two bodies lying in the valley rose up, wondering whether the

vision which had restored them to life were a dream.

Vaguely they remembered the events of the night. O Sato gazed at

Sawaichi:

"Sawaichi San! My husband! Your eyes are open!"

"Yes, yes, my eyes are open indeed! Oh, oh, my eyes are open, open,

open! My eyes are open at last! I can hardly believe it," cried

Sawaichi, joyfully.

"Remember that it is due to the mercy of Kwannon Sama," said O Sato.

"I am thankful, thankful, thankful!" exclaimed Sawaichi. Then looking

at his wife, he asked:

"But who are you?"

"Why, I am your wife O Sato, of course!" answered O Sato.

[Illustration: "Listen Saiwachi!" said the Heavenly Voice, "Through

the faith of your wife and the merits of her accumulated prayers, your

lives shall be prolonged.]

"Oh, you are my wife, are you? How happy I am! This is the first time

I see you. But how wonderful it all is. When I threw myself over the

precipice, I knew nothing more till Kwannon appeared to me in a great

and marvellous light and told me that my blindness was the result of

misdeeds in a former life."

"I, too," said O Sato, "followed you to death and leaped into the

valley where I saw you lying all alone. I, too, knew nothing till

Kwannon Sama called me. Your eyes are really open, Sawaichi San! Does

it not seem a dream!"

"No, no," said Sawaichi, "it is no dream. The most merciful Kwannon

called me back to life and by a miracle restored my sight. Ha, ha, ha!

As deep as the sea is my gratitude to Kwannon."

Taking each other by the hand and smiling happily, they climbed to the

temple where they had prayed so despairingly the night before. As they

went along Sawaichi raised his hands in worship towards the sunlight.

To this poor couple, now so happily restored to life and joy and hope,

the hill of Tsubosaka did indeed seem Paradise through the mercy of

KWANNON, the Embodiment of Amida's Compassion.

[Footnote 1: The Japanese harp.]

[Footnote 2: The Japanese banjo.]

LOYAL, EVEN UNTO DEATH

Or The Sugawara Tragedy

NOTE.--For many centuries the Fujiwara nobles (the Empresses were

always chosen from this family) had secured for themselves supreme

control and influence over the Mikados in Kyoto. In the ninth century

another family of courtiers came into prominence, namely the Sugawara,

who eventually gained sufficient power with the Emperor to be a

serious menace to the schemes of the Fujiwara. At the end of the ninth

century there arose one especially, Lord Michizane Suguwara, brilliant

statesman, scholar, high-souled patriot and poet.

The Emperor Uda held him in high esteem and promoted him from the

position of his tutor to that of Minister of the Right.[1] In 898 the

Fujiwara succeeded in compelling Uda to abdicate in favour of his son,

a child of twelve years of age, expecting him to be a more pliant

tool in their hands. This boy became the 60th Emperor, Daigo, who, by

the advice of his Imperial father, planned to give Michizane absolute

authority in state affairs. The jealousy of the vigilant Fujiwara

courtiers was fully aroused, and through the machinations of Lord

Tokihira (Fujiwara), Minister of the Left, his rival, Michizane, was

falsely accused of high treason and banished to Kiushiu where, in the

horrors of poverty and exile, he died in 903. Michizane is now known by

the posthumous title of Tenjin. Many Shinto temples have been erected

in his honour, and students still worship his spirit as the patron god

of letters and literature.

The following drama, one of the most popular in Japanese literature,

tells the story of one heroic incident in the scattering of the

Sugawara family, and of the rescue of Lady Sugawara, and the loyalty of

Matsuo and O Chiyo, his wife, vassals of the Sugawara.

Matsuo, the better to serve his lord's cause, feigns to be unfaithful

to him and to go over to the enemy--in fact, he acts the dangerous part

of a spy. The Fujiwara Minister is completely deceived and, enlisting

his aid, reveals to Matsuo his secret plans for the final overthrow of

the exiled Sugawara and the murder of his son. So clever and thorough

is Matsuo's dissimulation that even his own father and his brothers

are deluded, and Matsuo is calumniated by all who know him, accused

of disloyalty to his lord (an unpardonable offence in old Japan) and

disinherited by his family. Finally, in a crowning act of transcendent

devotion to the Sugawara House, Matsuo and O Chiyo, to save their young

lord from death, willingly substitute their own child, Kotaro, in his

place. In the feudal days loyalty was the one great social obligation

of the _samurai_ to his lord. And this spirit of loyalty often involved

painful self-sacrifice. "Life was freely offered, not only by him who

was bound by fealty to his lord, but by his children."

The following is a typical tragedy of its kind.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

LADY SUGAWARA, wife of the exiled Prime Minister or "Minister of the

Right"--hiding from the enemy in Matsuo's house.

MATSUO, a devoted vassal of Lord Michizane Sugawara.

O CHIYO, wife of Matsuo.

KOTARO, the little son of Matsuo and O Chiyo.

SHUNDO GEMBA, the emissary of Lord Fujiwara Tokihira, triumphant enemy

of Sugawara.

TAKEBE GENZO, a schoolmaster in the suburbs of Kyoto, also vassal of

the Sugawara.

TONAMI, wife of the schoolmaster.

KANSHUSAI, Lord Sugawara's son, a handsome clever boy, eight years of

age.

Several village school children and their parents.

SCENE I. Matsuo's cottage in Kyoto. Night.

Lanterns lighted in the room.

LOYAL EVEN UNTO DEATH

Or The Sugawara Tragedy

In the old capital of Kyoto, not far from the Imperial Palace, there

lived a _samurai_ named Matsuo with his wife O Chiyo, and their little

son Kotaro, eight years of age.

With Kotaro by her side, O Chiyo reverently on her knees pushed aside

the sliding screens of an inner room, and disclosed the Lady Sugawara

seated on the mats, bending forward with her face buried in her hands,

her whole attitude expressive of grief and despair.

O Chiyo bowed low and said with a voice hushed in sympathy:

"It is terrible to me to think that such a great lady as you cannot

go even to the veranda in the daytime for fear of being seen by your

enemies. You must, indeed, feel like a prisoner--and above all, the

separation from the Prime Minister, and your son and daughter. How

despondent you must feel! While you were hiding in the capital the

secret of your whereabouts leaked out, and you were in danger of being

caught--at that crisis my husband saved you and brought you here. You

must be sadly ill at ease confined in this poor house, and after what

you have been accustomed to the loneliness must be very depressing. But

do not despair! You may yet join your husband and son sooner than you

think. Till that time comes patiently endure all hardships, hoping for

happier days."

"Oh!" answered the Lady Sugawara in melancholy tones, "you are so

sympathetic and good, I shall never forget your kindness, even after

death. Through the malice of a bad man[2] my husband was banished to a

distant place, and my poor boy and myself are refugees. The thought of

them haunts me from morning till night. There is nothing but misery in

dragging out my existence from day to day in this state--but I will, at

least, wait till I can see them again, if but for a moment, and then

die, especially as your little Kotaro reminds me vividly of my own son,

to whom he bears a great resemblance. My longing to see him again grows

ever more and more intense."

With these sad words the unfortunate lady burst into tears; O Chiyo,

deeply affected by her sorrowful plight, wept with her, and the silence

of the room was only broken by the sobs of the two women.

Suddenly, some one from outside announced in a loud voice that an

emissary from an exalted personage had arrived.

Both women started to their feet. O Chiyo barely had time to conceal

Lady Sugawara in an inner room, when, preceded by several attendants

carrying lanterns, the emissary, Shundo Gemba, arrived in full state as

befitting the bearer of an important message--he pompously entered the

room and seated himself in the place of honour before the alcove.

O Chiyo's husband, Matsuo, who had secluded himself and was resting

in an inner room, overhearing the commotion, came out to welcome the

visitor.

"As I am suffering from illness I must beg you to overlook my lack of

ceremony in not receiving you in official dress," and he bowed to the

ground in a respectful manner.

Gemba replied haughtily:

"However ill you may be you must listen to the command of Lord Tokihira

(the new Prime Minister who had supplanted Sugawara). Sugawara's son,

whose hiding-place was hitherto unknown, has at last been discovered

by some one who has revealed the secret. The boy is now in the house

of Takebe Genzo, by profession a teacher of Chinese writing, but in

reality a secret and staunch supporter of Michizane. This man passes

the young lord off as his own son. There is no one on our side who

knows Kanshusai except yourself, so you are commanded to identify the

head as soon as it is cut off, and to bring it as a trophy to Lord

Tokihira. By way of reward for this service sick leave will be granted

you, and on your recovery you will be created Lord of Harima. There is

no time to be lost, so you must make preparations at once."

O Chiyo, who was listening with a beating heart in the next room, felt

keenly apprehensive, for her husband had been extra moody and reticent

of late, and she could neither fathom what was in his mind, nor what

answer he would make to the dreadful proposition of this man straight

from the enemy's camp.

To her utter consternation Matsuo replied:

"What kindness on the part of our lord! No greater honour could be

conferred upon our house. I will obey the command at once. But owing to

my illness matters cannot be arranged as speedily as I could wish. If

that man Genzo should happen to hear that I am going to attack him and

wrest his prize from him, he may escape with the young Sugawara."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," returned Gemba, "it is only a

_ronin's_[3] hut, and need not even be surrounded."

"But Takebe, knowing that Lord Tokihira is instituting a search for the

boy, still boldly harbours him--it is certain that the schoolmaster

can be no common man--we must be very cautious in dealing with him,"

objected Matsuo.

"You are quite right," replied the envoy, "if they should manage to

escape both of us will be blamed."

"Yes, indeed," Matsuo agreed; and then as if suddenly struck by the

thought, "I am sorry to trouble you, but do not fail to let your men

keep a sharp watch on every exit of the village during the night."

"All right," responded the other, "you need not trouble on that score,

every necessary precaution will be taken."

"Well, then at an early hour to-morrow I will accompany you to Takebe's

house," said Matsuo.

"Thank you for your trouble," and the two men took leave of each other,

Gemba departing from the house in the same haughty style as he had

entered it.

Matsuo, with a troubled heart, watched until the emissary's procession

had disappeared in the distance. Before he could carry out his intended

plan he must first sound his wife.

During the interview O Chiyo had waited in the next room, a silent

witness of all that had taken place between her husband and Lord

Tokihira's messenger. As soon as Gemba's party had taken their

departure she opened the sliding screens and with some trepidation

confronted her husband.

"It seems," said the wife, "by what Gemba had to communicate, that

the hiding-place of our young lord is at last discovered. Before the

assassin has had time to carry out his murderous work let us send for

him here, and try to rescue the poor child before he falls into the

hands of the enemy. There is no time to lose."

As Matsuo made no response, O Chiyo pressed him again and again not to

delay.

At last he laughed cynically.

"You do not seem to have the slightest idea of what is in my mind! I

brought Lady Sugawara here from Kita's house so that I might deliver

her up together with her son's head at the same time--that is why I

have hidden her here."

"What are you saying?" gasped O Chiyo. "Can it be your real intention

to betray them to Tokihira?"

"Yes," answered her husband, calmly looking her in the face, "now is

the time to grasp my long-wished for ambition--my fortune has come at

last," and he smiled as if well pleased with himself.

This was the first time that Matsuo had given any hint of his sinister

intention towards the innocent Lady Sugawara and her son, and O Chiyo

was so startled and horrified that for a few moments she was choked for

utterance. She had hitherto felt convinced that he was devoted, heart,

soul, and body, to the cause of their beloved ex-Prime Minister. Bitter

tears fell from her eyes, and she moved nearer to him on the mats; in

the earnestness of her appeal she stretched out a hand and laid it on

his arm, till she could find words to falter out:

"Oh, my husband, since when has this dreadful scheme taken possession

of your heart? For the Sugawara family I have been quite resigned to

your being misunderstood and disinherited by your father's house,

and the severance of all relationship with your brothers--indeed, so

staunch and whole-hearted has been your devotion to this cause that

I always intended to apologize and explain matters to your family

when the time came. Now suddenly, without the least warning, your

lifelong fidelity has been perverted into treachery. However great

your ambition for promotion may be, to betray the wife and child of

our Lord Sugawara into the hands of Tokihira is impossible. Are you a

devil or a dragon? The punishment for such baseness will fall not only

on yourself, but on your child. Oh! purify your heart from this evil

intention, and conduct the Lady Sugawara and her son safely to the

ex-Prime Minister in Tsukushi,[4] I implore you!" and the distraught

woman lifted her hands in an attitude of prayer to her husband, while

the tears coursed down her cheeks.

But, unmoved by her appeal, Matsuo still laughed contemptuously.

"What silly woman's talk! I have now no parents or brothers--they are

strangers to me! It would be foolish to forget our own child's welfare

for the sake of exiles banished by the State. You may say it is against

reason and righteousness, but I do it for the sake of my boy--there is

no treasure more precious than a son."

"Oh! oh!" sobbed O Chiyo, "how heartless you are! If you think so much

of your own boy, Lady Sugawara's feelings must be the same for her son.

To attain your ambition at the expense of others, sorrow can bring you

no good. Your life will end in sorrow and misery as the result of such

a deed."

Matsuo became more incensed, and sternly bade his wife be silent.

"If the Lady Sugawara overhear you and escape, everything will be lost,

you foolish woman!" and with these words Matsuo turned to leave the

room. His wife seized the edge of his robe and tried to hold him back.

"Do not hinder me, whatever you do!" he said, angrily, and pushing her

aside, he disappeared in the direction of Lady Sugawara's room.

O Chiyo fell as her husband tore himself from her detaining grasp, and

lay prostrate on the mats, stunned with the horror of what he was about

to do. After a few minutes she collected herself.

"Oh, oh! it seems like some dreadful dream," she murmured in acute

distress. "I have lived happily with Matsuo for so many years, and

surely he cannot be such a bad man. For the sake of our boy he has

lost his conscience. Poor lady! Poor lady! In total ignorance of his

change of heart she has trusted to him as her chief staff and pillar

of support. How can I look her in the face after this? To prove to her

that I am not one with my husband it is better to kill myself and ask

her pardon in another world."

The poor woman, in her grief and perplexity, wept and trembled by

turns. After a few minutes she wiped away her tears and sat up with

determination written on her face.

"It is now impossible to change my husband's cruel purpose," she said

to herself aloud. "My innocent little Kotaro will be taught wrong ways,

he will grow up a degraded man and come to a bad end. I foresee it all

quite plainly. It is far better to kill him now and let his pure soul

accompany me on my long journey to the next life. Besides, when Kotaro

is no longer alive, Matsuo may return to his better nature and repent

of his treacherous schemes, and the knowledge of it will reach me and I

shall be glad, even after death."

At this moment her little son came gaily running to her. Knowing

nothing of the tragic web of death, which Fate, like a grim spider, was

weaving round him, he playfully caressed his mother, his bright eyes

shining, his little face alight with smiles.

"Mother, Mother, the lady inside is calling you! Come, quick, quick!"

As O Chiyo looked at the child's innocent face the tears rose to her

eyes.

"Oh! Kotaro, my little son, come here--here," she said with a sob, and

drew him close to her side. "Oh! Kotaro, listen attentively to what I

am going to say, like a good boy. The lady in the inner room is the

wife of your father's and your mother's lord, and yours also, Kotaro.

For many years we have received nothing but favours and kindness

from them, therefore we owe them both a debt of great gratitude.

Now, Kotaro, your father tells me that he intends to kill that good

unfortunate lady, our own lord's wife--therefore, I, your mother,

cannot remain alive any longer--I have decided that my spirit shall

accompany her as an attendant to the other world. But you, Kotaro, are

the favourite of your father--perhaps you would like to remain behind

in this world with him?"

"Oh, no, no," answered the child, "I won't stay with such a cruel

father. If you die, I want to die with you!"

"Oh, how sensible you are, Kotaro. Even if you had refused to die,

I must have killed you for the sake of your father--you seem to

understand that without being told. I have, therefore, the more pity

for you as you are so intelligent and your wish is to die with me. When

your father sees you lying dead, sorrow may make him repent of the evil

path he has chosen. The other day I made a consecrated banner for the

grave of little Sakura Maru, your uncle. How little did I dream, while

making it, that I should ever use it for my own son."

With these words she drew out a dagger which had been concealed in her

_obi_,[5] unsheathed it, and with raised hand was about to stab the

child.

"Stay, stay, do not be too hasty!" the voice of Matsuo rang out sharply

in the silence, as he suddenly appeared in the open _shoji_[6] leading

Lady Sugawara by the hand. As they entered the room in front of the

startled O Chiyo, whose hand, poised to strike the fatal blow, fell to

her side, Matsuo made a gesture to Lady Sugawara to take the place of

honour by the alcove.

Matsuo then seated himself opposite Sugawara's unhappy wife in the

lowly seat near the exit of the room, prostrating himself before her.

"It is quite natural that your ladyship and my wife do not know

my true heart: now let me speak the truth," he said, with quiet

and impressive dignity. "After the overthrow of your house and the

banishment of Lord Sugawara, when my brother became _ronin_ and

quarrelled with me, I served Prince Tokihira for some time. I was soon

disgusted with his ways, and finding my situation untenable, asked for

sick leave, with the purpose of finding your son so that I might do my

best to restore your house to its former position. I did everything in

my power to help you, but to my dismay nearly everyone was in league

with the enemy. It was part of my plan, you must know, to throw our

crafty enemy off the scent, and it was to this end that I entered his

service and pretended to be one of his party. I played my part so

well as to deceive my own father, who, despising me for a disloyal

and faithless man, condemned my conduct and disinherited me, for he,

too, was devoted to your cause. For this policy also I separated from

my brothers. In thus misleading the enemy I felt sure that I could be

of some use in saving you and your son at a critical moment. It was

a drastic step to take, but Tokihira has been completely misled, and

events have turned out just as I expected. This night, as you must have

heard, I received strict orders to act as identifier of your son's

head. As Takebe is a faithful man he will not kill our young lord, of

that rest assured. But alas! he is one, while the enemy are many. 'If

anything should happen to our lord's son, it can never be undone,'

these were the thoughts that troubled me this evening when I overhead

what your ladyship said, that Kotaro bore a strong resemblance to our

young lord; and the idea flashed into my brain that our boy can be used

as a substitute to save him. At the same time it occurred to me, that

if my wife's love for Kotaro obstruct my plans I should be powerless,

so to prove what was in her heart I said cruel things that I did not

mean--that, for the sake of my boy, I would betray you and your son.

She did not understand me, and then and there decided to kill herself

and Kotaro, and by thus removing the cause of my supposed temptation to

induce my repentance. What a noble wife!"

O Chiyo, as she listened to this long explanation from her beloved

husband, wept for joy, and Lady Sugawara was overcome with emotion

at the surpassing loyalty of her retainers; they seemed to her to be

exalted above ordinary human beings--and were as Gods in the pure

sphere of a selfless world.

"For sake of loyalty you have become an outcast to your father's house,

and now you would kill your son, your only son, for us--it distresses

me too much--it is overwhelming. I cannot accept such a sacrifice! The

punishment of Heaven may be visited upon me. No, no, no--you must not

slay your little Kotaro even for your lord's sake. If everything should

fail us, you must try to save both, my son and Kotaro," implored the

hopeless wife of the exiled minister.

Matsuo, whose mind never wavered, prostrated himself before her.

"How grateful I am to you for your considerate thought for us, but

as every exit in the village is carefully watched, there is no way of

escape."

Then he turned to his wife.

"After your decision of an hour ago, I do not think you will now

hesitate to sacrifice our boy."

He then leaned forward and looked at his son with a smile.

"Kotaro, you are too young to understand these things, but for the sake

of your young lord and your parents, die without regret!"

As Matsuo spoke those tragic words, fixing his eyes upon the upturned

face of his boy, whose bright eyes looked back at him trustingly and

fearlessly, a shudder involuntarily passed through his frame in spite

of the iron restraint he put upon himself. But loyalty demanded the

sacrifice, and at all costs the house of Sugawara must be saved. To

control himself he closed his eyes, to shut out the vision of his boy's

smile. The moment of weakness passed, and Matsuo once more sat erect,

gazing at his son with an unmoved face, white and set as a mask.

Lady Sugawara and O Chiyo dared not look at him. Both began to sob,

covering their faces with their sleeves.

"Do not give way to weakness," at last Matsuo forced himself to say,

sternly. "If we spend our time thus, everything will be lost. Look, the

dawn is beginning to break. Get ready to take Kotaro to Takebe's house

immediately. Quick, quick!"

"Yes, yes," assented the mother, with a sinking heart, and she slowly

rose to her feet, taking Kotaro by the hand. She knew that this was the

end. Her boy's doom was at hand and his hours were numbered.

"Have I to go now?" said Kotaro, bravely. "Father, will you not say

farewell and call me your good boy for the last time?"

Thus the mother and her son set out for the sacrifice.

PART II

SCENE: A village school kept by Takebe Genzo and his wife Tonami, both

devoted vassals of the exiled Prime Minister, Michizane Sugawara. Among

Takebe's pupils is the young Sugawara. This boy they disguise and pass

off as their own child. The little lord, though only eight years of

age, excels in everything among the pupils and, inheriting the ability

from his father, writes Chinese hieroglyphics with great skill. The

senior pupil is a lazy, stupid, and incorrigibly mischievous fellow,

fifteen years of age, who will not study at all.

"While our teacher is out it is a great waste of time to practise

writing. Look! I have done all my writing on my head." and the lazy boy

came forward and showed his school-fellows a shaved pate all blackened

with Indian ink.

The little Sugawara looked at him and said:

"If you learn one new character every day you will acquire three

hundred and sixty-five characters in a year. Instead of wasting your

time playing like that, you must study."

But the older boy only laughed at him, and left his desk to prance

about the room.

The other boys took the part of little Sugawara and, growing disgusted

with the idle boy, wanted to punish him. There arose a great clamour

in the school-room, all the boys shouting together and leaving their

places to attack him.

Disturbed by the noise, the schoolmaster's wife came out from the inner

room.

"What is the matter? Are you quarrelling again? To-day the master is

away. He has been invited by a friend, and I do not know when he will

come back. As we are expecting a new pupil to-day I am anxious for his

return. Now, if you are good boys and will work hard this morning, I

will give all of you a half-holiday this afternoon."

The boys were delighted with this promise. All promptly returned to

their seats, and opening their books and their inkstands, became

diligently absorbed in their tasks of reading and writing.

Just then a sound at the porch made Tonami draw aside the screens. A

gentle and aristocratic-looking woman was standing there with a pretty

boy of about eight years of age by her side. A manservant, carrying a

desk, was in attendance.

After an exchange of civilities, the visitor explained:

"Our home is at the other end of the village. The reason for my visit

is to ask you to take this naughty boy into your care, as arranged the

other day. I am told that you have a child of your own about his age. I

should like to see him!"

Tonami beckoned to the little Sugawara.

"Why, certainly; this is our son and heir!"

"Oh, what a nice little fellow! And how clever he looks!" Then looking

round the school-room, she added:

"How busy you must be with such a number of scholars in your care.

They must be a great trouble and responsibility."

"Yes, you may imagine it is no easy work to look after them all. Is

this the boy you wish us to take charge of? What is his name?"

"His name is Kotaro!" answered the mother.

"What an intelligent-looking child!" exclaimed Tonami.

"Unfortunately my husband has been obliged to keep an appointment with

some friends. But if you are in a hurry and cannot wait, I will go and

fetch him."

"No, no," protested Matsuo's wife, "as I have an errand elsewhere I

will call in on my way back. He may have returned by then."

Then calling her servant, she ordered him to bring in the presents

she had brought, one for the master, and some cakes to distribute

amongst the schoolboys. In a few graceful words the gratified hostess

acknowledged her visitor's kind thought.

"Oh, it is nothing--only a little token of thanks from my heart for all

the trouble my boy is going to give you." Then turning to Kotaro, she

added:

"I am going to the next village, so you must wait for me here like a

good child--don't forget all I have told you!"

"Oh, mother, I want to come with you!" Kotaro suddenly cried, catching

her by the sleeve as she was stepping into the porch.

"Now, do not be naughty!" remonstrated his mother, "a big boy like you

ought not to run after your mother. Look, Tonami San, what a baby he is

still!"

"Oh, it is quite natural, poor little fellow. Look here, Kotaro! Come

with me and I will give you something nice." Then, turning to O Chiyo,

she added "Try to come back as soon as possible."

"Yes, yes, I will come back at once, if you are a good boy, Kotaro."

Seizing the opportunity she slipped out through the porch gate,

followed by her servant, who closed it after her, and the two briskly

clattered away on their clogs. The poor mother yearned to turn back

once more, for she knew that she would never see her little son again

in this world; but she kept bravely on her way.

While Tonami was trying to console Kotaro, and to distract his

attention by introducing him to the little Sugawara, her husband

returned. His face was pale, and he was evidently profoundly agitated.

As he entered the school-room he sharply scrutinized each of the boys

in turn. His wife saw at a glance that something unusual must have

occurred.

"Oh, what common fellows they are!" he muttered, crossly. "Such

country-bred louts can never serve my purpose, however great the

trouble I take with their education," and he gloomily regarded them

with knitted brows, as though something was weighing heavily on his

mind.

His wife approached him and anxiously inquired: "What is the matter?

You seem unusually worried to-day. You knew from the first that those

village lads can never become intellectual. People will not think well

of you, if you speak against your own scholars in this way. Besides, we

have another pupil to-day. Please try to recover your good temper and

look at the new boy." With these words she brought forward Kotaro, but

Takebe had become absorbed in his own preoccupation, and took no notice

of the child.