"All the joy of my existence is concentrated around the
pillow which giveth me nightly rest, all the hope of my
days I find in the beauties of Nature that ever please my
eyes."
"_Hō-jō-ki_" (Trans. by F. V. Dickins).
Japanese and English Gardens
There is nothing particularly æsthetic about the average English
garden. When the bedding-out time comes a slow old gardener puts
in his plants. Later on we see a crude blaze of colour--scarlet
geraniums, yellow calceolarias, blue lobelias, the green grass and the
ochre-coloured paths. And this is the colour effect of the average
English garden, a colour effect that makes the eyes ache and shames
the very flowers so unwisely set in this fashion. The truth of the
matter is that we do not understand the art of flower arrangement. We
buy flowers just to make the garden look bright, under the impression
that brightness is an abstract quality with which we should like to
spend our summer days. An Englishman once attempted to make a landscape
garden after the Japanese manner. He was extremely proud of the result,
and on one occasion he took a Japanese gentleman round to see it.
The Japanese gentleman exclaimed, with extreme courtesy: "It is very
beautiful; we have nothing at all like it in Japan!" The Englishman
failed in his attempt to imitate because he considered gardening a
hobby, while in Japan the garden is something indelibly associated with
Japanese life itself. In Japan it is an ancient cult to which poets and
artists have given years of thought, a cult in which emotion, memory,
and religion play their part.
The Love of Flowers, its Growth and Symbolism
One of the most striking, and certainly one of the most pleasing,
characteristics of the Japanese is their intense love of flowers
and trees. Merry parties set out to see the azaleas bloom, or the
splendour of the pink-white cherry-blossom, or the scarlet glory of
the maple-trees. This "flower-viewing" is an integral part of their
existence. The very _kimono_ of the laughing children look like little
gardens of flowers themselves. Take away their landscape, and you take
away at once their sense of poetry, and, we may almost add, the floral
side of their religion too, for the Japanese worship flowers and trees
in a way utterly impossible to the more prosaic Westerner.
During a recent spring the magnolia-trees in Kew Gardens afforded
a wonderfully beautiful spectacle. But there were few to see these
leafless trees with their profusion of lotus-like blossom. The most
appreciative spectator was a child, who sat under the sweet-scented
branches, gathered the fallen petals in her little brown hands,
and made up a quaint story as she did so. But in Japan, where
magnolia-trees bloom too, a hundred little poems would be threaded
to the branches, and little cakes made in imitation of the petals.
Perhaps, too, a branch of magnolia would be set in a vase, the
object of silent admiration of the members of some tea ceremony. And
afterwards the spray of blossom would be gently placed on a river or
buried with joy and reverence for the beauty it had exhibited in its
brief hour of life.
The love of flowers is only a small part of the Japanese love of
Nature. There was an evolutionary growth in this worship as in every
other, and we are inclined to think that the Japanese go very far
back in this matter, and learnt first of all to love rocks and stones.
To us rocks and stones are of interest only to the geologist and
metallurgist, merely from a scientific point of view, and it seems
almost incredible that rocks and stones have a poetical meaning. But
it is otherwise to the Japanese. The Japanese garden is essentially a
landscape garden. The owner of a garden falls in love with a certain
view. It haunts him, and awakens in him some primitive feelings of
delight that cannot be analysed. He brings that view perpetually before
him in his garden, in miniature, perhaps, but a miniature of wonderful
exactness. His garden thus becomes a place of happy memory, and not
a plot laid out with gaudy flowers and terraces that can have no
meaning, no poetry to his mind. Without a doubt Japanese gardens, with
their gorgeous flowers, merry sunshine, and the sweet tinkle of dainty
fairy-bells suspended from the branches of the trees, are the most
delightful in the world.
Japanese Gardens
One thing that strikes us about Japanese gardens that we do not find in
England is the wonderful economy displayed in their schemes. Suburbia
often makes the excuse that their pocket-handkerchief of a garden is
much too small to be made beautiful. Too small to be made beautiful?
Why, the Japanese can make a wonderful little garden in a space no
bigger than a soup-plate! Necessity is the mother of invention, and if
we only loved Nature more we should soon find the means to make our
smallest gardens attractive. The great Japanese designer of gardens,
Kobori-Enshiu, said that an ideal garden should be like "the sweet
solitude of a landscape clouded by moonlight, with a half-gloom between
the trees."
Miss Florence Du Cane has much to say concerning Japanese rocks and
stones. What poetry is suggested in the names of some of these garden
stones--for example, "The Stone of Easy Rest." Then, among the lake
stones we have one called "Wild Wave Stone," that at once suggests
Matsushima, with its waves breaking against innumerable rocks.
The stone or wooden lamps are very important ornaments in a Japanese
garden. The idea was borrowed from Korea, and they are still sometimes
known as "Korean towers." They are seldom lit, except in temple
gardens, but they need no jewel of light to make them beautiful. They
are rich in amber and green moss, and in the winter they catch the
snow and make ghost lanterns of exquisite beauty. Another feature of
a Japanese garden is the _Torii_, a simple arch of wood shaped like a
huge Chinese character. Shintō in origin, no one has as yet discovered
what they were originally intended to represent, though there have
been many diverse opinions on the subject. These gates to nowhere are
extremely fascinating, and to look at them with the sea about their
feet is to dream of a far-away fairy tale of childhood.
The lakes, cascades, tiny bridges, the stepping-stones over the winding
ways of silver sand, form a place of retreat indeed. And then the
colour of the Japanese garden! Every month has some fresh colour scene
as the plum and cherry and peach-trees come into bloom. Trailing over
the ground among the pine-needles or looking into the clear blue lake,
one may see the azaleas. If there were ever a flower that personified
colour then it is surely the azalea. It is the rainbow of flowers,
and there seems scarcely a shade of colour not to be found in its
blossoms. To look at the azaleas is to look into the very paint-box of
Nature herself. Then at another season of the year we get the iris in
purple and lavender, yellow and white, or the beautiful rose-coloured
lotus that opens with a little explosion on the placid waters, as if
to herald its coming to perfection. The last colour glory of the year
is the splendour of the maple-trees. We have a fine crimson effect in
our English blackberry leaves, but they lie hidden in the wet autumn
hedges. In Japan the maples do not hide. They seem everywhere alive
in a splendid flame. In the autumn it appears as if the maple-trees
had conjured with the sunset, for at that time Japan is not the Land
of the Rising Sun, but the land of the sun going down in a great
pageant of red leaves. And is that the end of Nature's work for the
year? No, indeed. Last of all comes the snow, and the beauty of its
effect lies not so much in the soft flakes themselves, but in the way
they are caught and held upon the beautiful little houses and temples
and lanterns. See a Japanese garden then, and you see the white seal
of Nature's approval upon it all. The snow scene is perhaps Nature's
supreme touch in Japan, after all; and it is a scene dear to the hearts
of the Japanese. In midsummer a Japanese emperor once had the miniature
mountains in his gardens covered with white silk to suggest snow,
and, no doubt, to give an imaginary coolness to the scene. A slight
acquaintance with Japanese art will reveal the fact that snow affords a
favourite theme for the artist's brush.
Nature in Miniature
The Japanese, for the most part, are little in stature, and have a
love of things in miniature. Lafcadio Hearn tells a charming story of
a Japanese nun who used to play with children and give them rice-cakes
no bigger than peas and tea in very minute cups. Her love of very
small things came as the result of a great sorrow, but we see in this
Japanese love of little objects something pathetic in the nation as a
whole. Their love of dwarf trees, hundreds of years old, seems to say:
"Be honourably pleased never to grow big. We are a little people, and
so we love little things." The ancient pine, often less than a foot
in height, does not render its age oppressive, and is not a thing to
fear just because it is so very small. Westerners have been inclined to
describe the dwarf Japanese tree as unnatural. It is no more unnatural
than the Japanese smile, and reveals that the nation, like the Greeks
of old, is still closely in touch with Nature.
The Pine-tree
The pine-tree is the emblem of good fortune and longevity. That is
why we see this tree at almost every garden gate; and it must be
admitted that a pine-tree is a more graceful talisman than a rusty
old horse-shoe. In a certain Japanese play we find the following:
"The emblem of unchangeableness--exalted is their fame to the end of
time--the fame of the two pine-trees that have grown old together."
This refers to the famous pines of Takasago. Mr. Conder tells us
that at wedding feasts "a branch of the _male_ pine is placed in one
vessel and a branch of the _female_ pine in the other. The general
form of each design would be similar, but the branch of the _female_
pine facing the opposite vase should stretch a little beneath the
corresponding branch of the _male_ pine." In other words, it shows
that Woman's Suffrage exists not in Japan, and that the Japanese wife
is subject to her lord and master, which is a very pretty way of
suggesting, what is in England a very dangerous subject. The design
referred to above typifies "eternal union." The pine-tree really
symbolises the comradeship of love, the Darby and Joan stage of old
married people in Japan.
A Great Nature-lover
Kamo No Chōmei was a Buddhist recluse of the twelfth century, and he
wrote a little book called Hō-jō-ki ("Notes from a Ten-feet-square
Hut"). In this volume he describes how he left the ways of the world
and took up his abode in a hut on the mountain-side. Chōmei used to
sing and play and read his beloved books in the very heart of the
country. He writes: "When the sixtieth year of my life, now vanishing
as a dewdrop, approached, anew I made me an abode, a sort of last
leap, as it were, just as a traveller might run himself up a shelter
for a single night, or a decrepit silkworm weave its last cocoon." We
see him, a happy old man, slowly trudging along the hills, gathering
blossom as he went, ever watching with delighted eyes the ways and
secrets of Nature. With all his musings, so full of poetry, his
religious character plays a part. He writes with dry humour: "I do not
need to trouble myself about the strict observance of the commandments,
for, living as I do in complete solitude, how should I be tempted
to break them?" A very different experience to that of some of the
Indian anchorites, who find in solitude a veritable thunder-cloud of
temptation! But Chōmei was a happy soul, and we mention him here to
show that the mainstay of his life were not the things of the world,
but the workings of Nature on the hills and in the valleys, in the
flowers and in the trees, in the running water and in the rising moon.
To quote his own words: "You have fled from the world to live the life
of a recluse amid the wild woods and hills, thus to bring peace to your
soul and walk in the way of the Buddha."
The Festival of the Dead
We find the Festival of the Dead the greatest argument of all in
support of Japan's love of Nature. It was a woman's thought, this
Festival of the Dead, and there is something about it so tender, so
plaintive, that it could only have come from a woman. In July the
spirits of the dead return from their dark abode. Little meals are
prepared for this great company of ghosts, and the lanterns hang in the
cemeteries and on the pine-trees of good fortune at the garden gates.
The Japanese used to commit _hara-kiri_,[1] but let us not forget that
their souls come back again to wander in a country that seems to be
one great garden. And why do they come back? They come back with their
soft footsteps over the hills and far away from over the sea to look
at the flowers once more, to wander in the gardens where they spent so
many happy hours. They come, that invisible host, when the sun shines
brightly, when it seems that blossoms floating in the breeze suddenly
turn into butterflies, when life is at its full, when Death and the
dark place where Emma-Ō reigns cannot be endured. What a time to come
back again! What a silent compliment to Nature that that great company
of souls should wander back to her arms in the summer-time!
The Japanese Flag and the Chrysanthemum
Most of us are familiar with the Japanese flag depicting a red sun on
a white ground, and we should naturally suppose that such an emblem
was originally connected with the Sun Goddess. In this supposition,
however, we should be entirely wrong. Astrological designs in
ancient days figured upon the Chinese banners, and Professor B. H.
Chamberlain describes them thus: "The Sun with the Three-legged Crow
that inhabits it, the Moon with its Hare[2] and Cassia-tree, the Red
Bird representing the seven constellations of the southern quarter of
the zodiac, the Dark Warrior (a Tortoise) embracing the seven northern
constellations, the Azure Dragon embracing the seven eastern, the White
Tiger embracing the seven western, and a seventh banner representing
the Northern Bushel (Great Bear)." The Chinese banners depicting the
sun and moon were particularly noteworthy, because the sun represented
the Emperor's elder brother and the moon his sister. In the seventh
century the Japanese adopted these banners; but as time went on they
dropped many of the quaint astrological designs so dear to the heart
of the Chinese. When in 1859 a national flag became necessary the
sun banner pure and simple was adopted; but a plain orb without rays
was not sufficient, and a more elaborate design was executed--the
sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum. We can only conjecture the connection
between the sun and the chrysanthemum. Both were venerated in ancient
China, and we may assume that the Japanese artist, in wishing to depict
the sun's rays, found excellent material in copying the flower of a
wild chrysanthemum.
The chrysanthemum is Japan's national flower, and we owe to Nippon its
culture in our own country. Mythological scenes, particularly that
of the Treasure Ship with the Gods of Luck on board is a favourite
device, fashioned entirely with innumerable chrysanthemums. Boats,
castles, bridges, and various other objects are designed from the same
flower with wonderful dexterity. Japan has always been happy in her
use of names, and to no greater advantage than in the naming of her
chrysanthemums. There is poetry in such names as "Sleepy Head," "Golden
Dew," "White Dragon," and "Starlit Night."
The chrysanthemum is certainly a fitting symbolism for the Imperial
standard. Once, like our English rose, it figured as a badge in the War
of the Chrysanthemums, a protracted civil war that divided the nation
into two hostile factions. Now the chrysanthemum stands for a united
Empire.
Lady White and Lady Yellow
Long ago there grew in a meadow a white and a yellow chrysanthemum side
by side. One day an old gardener chanced to come across them, and took
a great fancy to Lady Yellow. He told her that if she would come along
with him he would make her far more attractive, that he would give her
delicate food and fine clothes to wear.
Lady Yellow was so charmed with what the old man said that she forgot
all about her white sister and consented to be lifted up, carried in
the arms of the old gardener, and to be placed in his garden.
When Lady Yellow and her master had departed Lady White wept bitterly.
Her own simple beauty had been despised; but, what was far worse, she
was forced to remain in the meadow alone, without the converse of her
sister, to whom she had been devoted.
Day by day Lady Yellow grew more fair, in her master's garden. No one
would have recognised the common flower of the field now; but though
her petals were long and curled and her leaves so clean and well
cared for, she sometimes thought of Lady White alone in the field, and
wondered how she managed to make the long and lonely hours pass by.
One day a village chief came to the old man's garden in quest of a
perfect chrysanthemum that he might take to his lord for a crest
design.[3] He informed the old man that he did not want a fine
chrysanthemum with many long petals. What he wanted was a simple white
chrysanthemum with sixteen petals. The old man took the village chief
to see Lady Yellow; but this flower did not please him, and, thanking
the gardener, he took his departure.
On his way home he happened to enter a field, where he saw Lady White
weeping. She told him the sad story of her loneliness, and when she had
finished her tale of woe the village chief informed her that he had
seen Lady Yellow and did not consider her half as beautiful as her own
white self. At these cheering words Lady White dried her eyes, and she
nearly jumped off her little feet when this kind man told her that he
wanted her for his lord's crest!
In another moment the happy Lady White was being carried in a
palanquin. When she reached the _Daimyō's_ palace all warmly praised
her remarkable perfection of form. Great artists came from far and
near, sat about her, and sketched the flower with wonderful skill. She
soon needed no mirror, for ere long she saw her pretty white face
on all the _Daimyō's_ most precious belongings. She saw it on his
armour and lacquer boxes, on his quilts and cushions and robes. When
she looked upward she could see her face in great carved panels. She
was painted floating down a stream, and in all manner of quaint and
beautiful ways. Every one acknowledged that the white chrysanthemum,
with her sixteen petals, made the most wonderful crest in all Japan.
While Lady White's happy face lived for ever designed upon the
_Daimyō's_ possessions, Lady Yellow met with a sad fate. She had
bloomed for herself alone and drunk in the visitors' praise as eagerly
as she did the dew upon her finely curled petals. One day, however,
she felt a stiffness in her limbs and a cessation of the exuberance of
life. Her once proud head fell forward, and when the old man found her
he lifted her up and threw her upon a rubbish heap.
"Chrysanthemum-Old-Man"[4]
Kikuo ("Chrysanthemum-Old-Man") was the faithful retainer of Tsugaru.
One day his lord's force was overthrown, and the castle and fine
estates were taken away by the enemy; but fortunately Tsugaru and Kikuo
were able to escape to the mountains.
Kikuo, knowing his master's love of flowers, especially that of the
chrysanthemum, resolved to cultivate this flower to the best of his
ability, and in so doing to lessen a little of his master's remorse and
humiliation in exile.
His efforts pleased Tsugaru, but unfortunately that lord soon fell sick
and died, and the faithful Kikuo wept over his master's grave. Then
once more he returned to his work, and planted chrysanthemums about
his master's tomb till he had made a border thirty yards broad, so that
red, white, pink, yellow, and bronze blossoms scented the air, to the
wonder of all who chanced to come that way.
When Kikuo was about eighty-two he caught cold and was confined to his
humble dwelling, where he suffered considerable pain.
One autumn night, when he knew those beloved flowers dedicated to his
master were at their best, he saw in the verandah a number of young
children. As he gazed upon them he realised that they were not the
children of this world.
Two of these little ones drew near to Kikuo, and said: "We are the
spirits of your chrysanthemums, and have come to tell you how sorry
we are to find you ill. You have guarded and loved us with such care.
There was a man in China, Hozo by name, who lived eight hundred years
by drinking the dew from chrysanthemum blossoms. Gladly would we
lengthen out your days, but, alas! the Gods ordain otherwise. Within
thirty days you will die."
The old man expressed the wish that he might die in peace, and the
regret that he must needs leave behind him all his chrysanthemums.
"Listen," said one of the ghostly children: "we have all loved you,
Kikuo, for what you have done for us. When you die we shall die too."
As soon as these words were spoken a puff of wind blew against the
dwelling, and the spirits departed.
Kikuo grew worse instead of better, and on the thirtieth day he passed
away. When visitors came to see the chrysanthemums he had planted, all
had vanished. The villagers buried the old man near his master, and,
thinking to please Kikuo, they planted chrysanthemums near his grave;
but all died immediately they were put into the ground. Only grasses
grow over the tombs now. The child-souls of the chrysanthemums chatter
and sing and play with the spirit of Kikuo.
[Illustration: Shingé and Yoshisawa by the Violet Well.--166]
The Violet Well
Shingé and her waiting-maids were picnicking in the Valley of
Shimizutani, that lies between the mountains of Yoshino and Tsubosaka.
Shingé, full of the joy of spring, ran towards the Violet Well, where
she discovered great clumps of purple, sweet-scented violets. She was
about to pick the fragrant blossoms when a great snake darted forth,
and she immediately fainted.
When the maidens found her they saw that her lips were purple, as
purple as the violets that surrounded her, and when they saw the snake,
still lurking in the vicinity, they feared that their mistress would
die. Matsu, however, had sufficient presence of mind to throw her
basket of flowers at the snake, which at once crawled away.
Just at that moment a handsome youth appeared, and, explaining to the
maidens that he was a doctor, he gave Matsu some medicine, in order
that she might give it to her mistress.
While Matsu forced the powder into Shingé's mouth the doctor took up a
stick, disappeared for a few moments, and then returned with the dead
snake in his hands.
By this time Shingé had regained consciousness, and asked the name of
the physician to whom she was indebted for saving her life. But he
politely bowed, evaded her question, and then took his departure. Only
Matsu knew that the name of her mistress's rescuer was Yoshisawa.
When Shingé had been taken to her home she grew worse instead of
better. All the cleverest doctors came to her bedside, but could do
nothing to restore her to health.
Matsu knew that her mistress was gradually fading away for love of
the handsome man who had saved her life, and she therefore talked the
matter over with her master, Zembei. Matsu told him the story, and said
that although Yoshisawa was of a low birth, belonging to the Eta, the
lowest caste in Japan, who live by killing and skinning animals, yet
nevertheless he was extremely courteous and had the manner and bearing
of a _samurai_. "Nothing," said Matsu, "will restore your daughter to
health unless she marries this handsome physician."
Both Zembei and his wife were dismayed at these words, for Zembei was
a great _daimyō_, and could not for one moment tolerate the idea of
his daughter marrying one of the Eta class. However, he agreed to make
inquiries concerning Yoshisawa, and Matsu returned to her mistress with
something like good news. When Matsu had told Shingé what her father
was doing on her behalf she rallied considerably, and was able to take
food.
When Shingé was nearly well again Zembei called her to him and said
that he had made careful inquiries concerning Yoshisawa, and could on
no account agree to her marrying him.
Shingé wept bitterly, and brooded long over her sorrow with a weary
heart. The next morning she was not to be found in the house or in the
garden. Search was made in every direction; even Yoshisawa himself
sought her everywhere; but those who sought her found her not. She had
mysteriously disappeared, burdened with a sorrow that now made her
father realise the effect of his harsh decree.
After three days she was found lying at the bottom of the Violet Well,
and shortly after Yoshisawa, overcome with grief, sought a similar end
to his troubles. It is said that on stormy nights the ghost of Shingé
is to be seen floating over the well, while near by comes the sound of
the weeping of Yoshisawa.
The Ghost of the Lotus Lily
"O Resurrection, Resurrection of World and Life!
Lo, Sun ascend! The lotus buds flash with hearts parted,
With one chant 'Namu, Amida!'"
_Yone Noguchi_.
The lotus is the sacred flower of Buddhism. Because it grows out of
mud, rears its stalk through water, and from such dark and slimy
beginnings yields a lovely flower, it has been compared with a virtuous
man dwelling in this wicked world. Sir Monier Williams writes: "Its
constant use as an emblem seems to result from the wheel-like form of
the flower, the petals taking the place of spokes, and thus typifying
the doctrine of perpetual cycles of existence." Buddha is frequently
portrayed as either standing or sitting upon a golden lotus, and the
flower reminds us of the Buddhist _sutra_, known as the "Lotus of the
Good Law."
Thus Lafcadio Hearn describes the lotus of Paradise: "They are
gardening, these charming beings!--they are caressing the lotus buds,
sprinkling their petals with something celestial, helping them to
blossom. And what lotus-buds! with colours not of this world. Some
have burst open; and in their luminous hearts, in a radiance like that
of dawn, tiny naked infants are seated, each with a tiny halo. These
are Souls, new Buddhas, _hotoke_ born into bliss! Some are very, very
small; others larger; all seem to be growing visibly, for their lovely
nurses are feeding them with something ambrosial. I see one which has
left its lotus-cradle, being conducted by a celestial Jizō toward the
higher splendours far away."
So much, then, for the celestial lotus and for its intimate connection
with Buddhism. In the following legend we find this flower possessed
with the magical power of keeping away evil spirits.
A certain disease broke out in Kyōto from which many thousands of
people died. It spread to Idzumi, where the Lord of Koriyama lived, and
Koriyama, his wife and child, were stricken down with the malady.
One day Tada Samon, a high official in Koriyama's castle, received a
visit from a _yamabushi_, or mountain recluse. This man was full of
concern for the illness of the Lord Koriyama, and, addressing Samon,
he said: "All this trouble has come about through the entrance of evil
spirits in the castle. They have come because the moats about the abode
are dry and contain no lotus. If these moats were at once planted with
this sacred flower the evil spirits would depart, and your lord, his
wife and child, grow well again."
Samon was much impressed by these wise words, and permission was
given for this recluse to plant lotus about the castle. When he had
accomplished his task he mysteriously disappeared.
Within a week the Lord Koriyama, his wife and son, were able to get up
and resume their respective duties, for by this time the walls had been
repaired, the moats filled with pure water, which reflected the nodding
heads of countless lotus.
Many years later, and after the Lord Koriyama had died, a young
_samurai_ chanced to pass by the castle moats. He was gazing admiringly
at these flowers when he suddenly saw two extremely handsome boys
playing on the edge of the water. He was about to lead them to a safer
place when they sprang into the air and, falling, disappeared beneath
the water.
The astonished _samurai_, believing that he had seen a couple of
_kappas_,[5] or river goblins, made a hasty retreat to the castle,
and there reported his strange adventure. When he had told his story
the moats were dragged and cleaned, but nothing could be found of the
supposed _kappas_.
A little later on another _samurai_, Murata Ippai, saw near the same
lotus a number of beautiful little boys. He drew his sword and cut them
down, breathing in as he did so the heavy perfume of this sacred flower
with every stroke of his weapon. When Ippai looked about him to see
how many of these strange beings he had killed, there arose before him
a cloud of many colours, a cloud that fell upon his face with a fine
spray.
As it was too dark to ascertain fully the extent and nature of his
onslaught, Ippai remained all night by the spot. When he awoke in the
morning he found to his disgust that he had only struck off the heads
of a number of lotus. Knowing that this beneficent flower had saved the
life of the Lord Koriyama, and now protected that of his son, Ippai was
filled with shame and remorse. Saying a prayer by the water's edge, he
committed _hara-kiri_.
The Spirit of the Peony
It had been arranged that the Princess Aya should marry the second son
of Lord Ako. The arrangements, according to Japanese custom, had been
made entirely without the consent or approval of the actual parties
concerned.
One night Princess Aya walked through the great garden of her home,
accompanied by her waiting-maids. The moon shone brightly upon her
favourite peony bed near a pond, and covered the sweet-scented blooms
in a silver sheen. Here she lingered, and was stooping to breathe the
fragrance of these flowers when her foot slipped, and she would have
fallen had not a handsome young man, clad in a robe of embroidered
peonies, rescued her just in time. He vanished as quickly and
mysteriously as he had come, before, indeed, she had time to thank him.
It so happened that shortly after this event the Princess Aya became
very ill, and in consequence the day for her marriage had to be
postponed. All the medical aid available was useless to restore the
feverish maiden to health again.
The Princess Aya's father asked his favourite daughter's maid, Sadayo,
if she could throw any light upon this lamentable affair.
Sadayo, although hitherto bound to secrecy, felt that the time had come
when it was wise, indeed essential, to communicate all she knew in the
matter. She told her master that the Princess Aya was deeply in love
with the young _samurai_ wearing the robes embroidered with peonies,
adding that if he could not be found she feared that her young mistress
would die.
That night, while a celebrated player was performing upon the _biwa_ in
the hope of entertaining the sick Princess, there once more appeared
behind the peonies the same young man in the same silk robe.
The next night, too, while Yae and Yakumo were playing on the flute and
_koto_, the young man appeared again.
The Princess Aya's father now resolved to get at the root of the
matter, and for this purpose he bade Maki Hiogo dress in black and lie
concealed in the peony bed on the following night.
When the next night came Maki Hiogo lay hidden among the peonies, while
Yae and Yakumo made sweet music. Not long after the music had sounded
the mysterious young _samurai_ again appeared. Maki Hiogo rose from his
hiding-place with his arms tightly bound round this strange visitor.
A cloud seemed to emanate from his captive. It made him dizzy, and he
fell to the ground still tightly holding the handsome _samurai_.
Just as a number of guards came hurrying to the spot Maki Hiogo
regained consciousness. He looked down expecting to see his captive.
But all that he held in his arms was a large peony!
By this time Princess Aya and her father joined the astonished group,
and the Lord Naizen-no-jo at once grasped the situation. "I see now,"
said he, "that the spirit of the peony flower had a moment ago, and on
former occasions, taken the form of a young and handsome _samurai_. My
daughter, you must take this flower and treat it with all kindness."
The Princess Aya needed to be told no more. She returned to the house,
placed the peony in a vase, and stood it by her bedside. Day by day she
got better, while the flower flourished exceedingly.
When the Princess Aya was quite well the Lord of Ako arrived at the
castle, bringing with him his second son, whom she was to marry. In
due time the wedding took place, but at that hour the beautiful peony
suddenly died.
[Footnote 1: _Hara-kiri_, or _seppuku_, is the term applied to suicide
among the _samurai_ class. For detailed account see _Tales of Old
Japan_, by A. B. Mitford (Lord Redesdale).]
[Footnote 2: To this day Japanese peasants still believe in the Hare in
the Moon. This animal employs its time in pounding rice in a mortar and
making it into cakes. The origin of this conception is probably to be
found in a pun, for "rice-cake" and "full moon" are both described by
the word _mochi_.]
[Footnote 3: The sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum is one of the crests of
the Imperial family, while the other represents the flowers and leaves
of the paulownia. Crests in Japan are not confined to the wealthy
classes. The crest is still worn upon the upper part of the native
garment, to be seen on each breast and sleeve, and upon the back of
the neck. Favourite designs are derived from the bamboo, birds, fans,
Chinese characters, &c.]
[Footnote 4: This story and those that follow in this chapter have
been adapted from _Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by R. Gordon
Smith.]
[Footnote 5: Referred to elsewhere in the chapter dealing with
Supernatural Beings.]