"One day Kinto Fujiwara, Great Adviser of State,
disputed with the Minister of Uji which was the fairest
of spring and autumn flowers. Said the Minister: 'The
Cherry is surely best among the flowers of spring,
the Chrysanthemum among those of autumn.' Then Kinto
said, 'How can the cherry-blossom be the best? You have
forgotten the Plum.' Their dispute came at length to
be confined to the superiority of the Cherry and Plum,
and of other flowers little notice was taken. At length
Kinto, not wishing to offend the Minister, did not argue
so vehemently as before, but said, 'Well, have it so;
the Cherry may be the prettier of the two; but when once
you have seen the red plum-blossom in the snow at the
dawn of a spring morning, you will no longer forget its
beauty.' This truly was a gentle saying."
"_The Garden of Japan," by_ Sir F. T. Piggott.
Cherry and Plum
The supreme floral glory of Japan takes place in April with the coming
of the cherry-blossom, and, as we have seen in the above quotation,
it is the cherry and plum that are regarded with the most favour. The
poet Motoöri wrote: "If one should ask you concerning the heart of a
true Japanese, point to the wild cherry flower glowing in the sun," and
Lafcadio Hearn, without the least exaggeration, but with true poetic
insight, has compared Japan's cherry-blossom with a delicate sunset
that has, as it were, strayed from the sky and lingered about the
leafless branches.
The really great wonders of Nature, to those who are sufficiently
susceptible to the beautiful, are apt to leave behind an indefinable
yearning, a regret that so much loveliness must needs pass away,
and this gentle touch of sorrow mingled with the ecstasy is easily
discovered in much of the Japanese poetry. It is a point worthy of
emphasis because it reveals a temperament charged with a supreme love
of the beautiful, this craving for a petal that shall never wither, a
colour that shall never fade. Thus sang Korunushi:
"No man so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows? the Spring's soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.
One of the greatest tributes Japan has paid to the cherry is as
follows: "The cherry-trees in the far-away mountain villages should
keep back their blooms until the flowers in the town have faded, for
then the people will go out to see them too." A Japanese woman's beauty
is frequently associated with the cherry-blossom, while her virtue is
compared with the flower of the plum.
The Camellia
The Precious-Camellia of Yaegaki, with its double trunk and immense
head, is of great age, and is regarded as so sacred that it is
surrounded by a fence, and stone lamps are placed about it. The tree's
unique shape, with the double trunk growing together in the middle,
has given rise to the belief that this extraordinary tree symbolises a
happy wedded life, and, moreover, that good spirits inhabit it, ever
ready to answer the ardent prayers of lovers.
The camellia-tree is not always beneficent. A legend is recorded of a
tree of this species walking about at night in a _samurai's_ garden at
Matsue. Its strange and restless wanderings became so frequent that at
last the tree was cut down, and it is said that when it was struck it
shot forth a stream of blood.
The Cryptomeria
Another tree held in high veneration is the imposing cryptomeria,
and there is one avenue of these trees stretching from Utsunomiya
to Nikkō, a distance of twenty miles. One of these trees is seven
feet in diameter, and is said to have been planted "by a deputation
representing eight hundred Buddhist nuns of the province of Wakasa."
Later on in this chapter we give a legend connected with this
particular tree.
A Pine-tree and the God of Roads
In the grounds of the great _hakaba_ (cemetery) of the Kwannondera is
a pine-tree standing upon four great roots that have the appearance
of gigantic legs. About this tree is a fence, shrine, and a number of
_torii_. Before the shrine repose miniature horses made from straw.
These are offerings to Kōshin, the God of Roads, entreaties that
the real horses which they symbolise may be preserved from death or
sickness. The pine-tree, however, is not usually associated with
Kōshin. It may be fittingly described as the most domestic of Japanese
trees, for it takes a conspicuous place in the New Year festival[1]--a
tree to plant at the garden gate, because it is said to bring good luck
and, especially, happy marriages.
A Tree Spirit
As we shall see in the legends that follow, more than one variety of
Japanese trees is endowed with supernatural power. There is a tree
spirit known as Ki-no-o-baké that is capable of walking about and
assuming various guises. The spirit of the tree speaks but little, and
if disturbed disappears into the trunk or among the leaves. The spirit
of the God Kōjin[2] resides in the _enoki_ tree, the God to whom very
old dolls are dedicated.
The Miraculous Chestnut
The Princess Hinako-Nai-Shinnō begged that chestnuts should be brought
to her; but she took but one, bit it, and threw it away. It took root,
and upon all the chestnuts that it eventually bore there were the marks
of the Princess's small teeth. In honouring her death the chestnut had
expressed its devotion in this strange way.
The Silent Pine
The Emperor Go-Toba, who strongly objected to the croaking of frogs,
was on one occasion disturbed by a wind-blown pine-tree. When his
Majesty loudly commanded it to be still, the pine-tree never for a
moment moved again. So greatly impressed was this obedient tree that
the fiercest wind failed to stir its branches, or even its myriad
pine-needles.
Willow Wife[3]
"I have heard of the magical incense that summons the souls of the
absent;
Would I had some to burn, in the nights when I wait alone."
_From the Japanese_.
In a certain Japanese village there grew a great willow-tree. For many
generations the people loved it. In the summer it was a resting-place,
a place where the villagers might meet after the work and heat of the
day were over, and there talk till the moonlight streamed through the
branches. In winter it was like a great half-opened umbrella covered
with sparkling snow.
Heitaro, a young farmer, lived quite near this tree, and he, more than
any of his companions, had entered into a deep communion with the
imposing willow. It was almost the first object he saw upon waking,
and upon his return from work in the fields he looked out eagerly for
its familiar form. Sometimes he would burn a joss-stick beneath its
branches and kneel down and pray.
One day an old man of the village came to Heitaro and explained to him
that the villagers were anxious to build a bridge over the river, and
that they particularly wanted the great willow-tree for timber.
"For timber?" said Heitaro, hiding his face in his hands. "My dear
willow-tree for a bridge, one to bear the incessant patter of feet?
Never, never, old man!"
When Heitaro had somewhat recovered himself, he offered to give the old
man some of his own trees, if he and the villagers would accept them
for timber and spare the ancient willow.
The old man readily accepted this offer, and the willow-tree continued
to stand in the village as it had stood for so many years.
One night while Heitaro sat under the great willow he suddenly saw a
beautiful woman standing close beside him, looking at him shyly, as if
wanting to speak.
"Honourable lady," said he, "I will go home. I see you wait for some
one. Heitaro is not without kindness towards those who love."
"He will not come now," said the woman, smiling.
"Can he have grown cold? Oh, how terrible when a mock love comes and
leaves ashes and a grave behind!"
"He has not grown cold, dear lord."
"And yet he does not come! What strange mystery is this?"
"He has come! His heart has been always here, here under this
willow-tree." And with a radiant smile the woman disappeared.
Night after night they met under the old willow-tree. The woman's
shyness had entirely disappeared, and it seemed that she could not hear
too much from Heitaro's lips in praise of the willow under which they
sat.
One night he said to her: "Little one, will you be my wife--you who
seem to come from the very tree itself?"
"Yes," said the woman. "Call me Higo ("Willow") and ask no questions,
for love of me. I have no father or mother, and some day you will
understand."
Heitaro and Higo were married, and in due time they were blessed with a
child, whom they called Chiyodō. Simple was their dwelling, but those
it contained were the happiest people in all Japan.
While this happy couple went about their respective duties great news
came to the village. The villagers were full of it, and it was not long
before it reached Heitaro's ears. The ex-Emperor Toba wished to build
a temple to Kwannon[4] in Kyōto, and those in authority sent far and
wide for timber. The villagers said that they must contribute towards
building the sacred edifice by presenting their great willow-tree.
All Heitaro's argument and persuasion and promise of other trees were
ineffectual, for neither he nor any one else could give as large and
handsome a tree as the great willow.
Heitaro went home and told his wife. "Oh, wife," said he, "they are
about to cut down our dear willow-tree! Before I married you I could
not have borne it. Having you, little one, perhaps I shall get over it
some day."
That night Heitaro was aroused by hearing a piercing cry. "Heitaro,"
said his wife, "it grows dark! The room is full of whispers. Are you
there, Heitaro? Hark! They are cutting down the willow-tree. Look how
its shadow trembles in the moonlight. I am the soul of the willow-tree!
The villagers are killing me. Oh, how they cut and tear me to pieces!
Dear Heitaro, the pain, the pain! Put your hands here, and here. Surely
the blows cannot fall now?"
"My Willow Wife! My Willow Wife!" sobbed Heitaro.
"Husband," said Higo, very faintly, pressing her wet, agonised face
close to his, "I am going now. Such a love as ours cannot be cut down,
however fierce the blows. I shall wait for you and Chiyodo---- My hair
is falling through the sky! My body is breaking!"
There was a loud crash outside. The great willow-tree lay green and
dishevelled upon the ground. Heitaro looked round for her he loved more
than anything else in the world. Willow Wife had gone!
The Tree of the One-eyed Priest
In ancient days there stood on the summit of Oki-yama a temple
dedicated to Fudo, a god surrounded by fire, with sword in one hand and
rope in the other. For twenty years Yenoki had performed his office,
and one of his duties was to guard Fudo, who sat in a shrine, only
accessible to the high-priest himself. During the whole of this period
Yenoki had rendered faithful service and resisted the temptation to
take a peep at this extremely ugly god. One morning, finding that the
door of the shrine was not quite closed, his curiosity overcame him and
he peeped within. No sooner had he done so than he became stone-blind
in one eye and suffered the humiliation of being turned into a
_tengu_.[5]
He lived for a year after these deplorable happenings, and then died.
His spirit passed into a great cryptomeria-tree standing on the east
side of the mountain, and from that day Yenoki's spirit was invoked
by sailors who were harassed by storms on the Chinese Sea. If a light
blazed from the tree in answer to their prayers, it was a sure sign
that the storm would abate.
At the foot of Oki-yama there was a village, where, sad to relate, the
young people were very lax in their morals. During the Festival of the
Dead they performed a dance known as the Bon Odori. These dances were
very wild affairs indeed, and were accompanied by flirtations of a
violent and wicked nature. The dances became more unrestrained as years
went by, and the village got a bad name for immoral practices among the
young people.
After a particularly wild celebration of the Bon a young maiden
named Kimi set out to find her lover, Kurosuke. Instead of finding
him she saw an extremely good-looking youth, who smiled upon her and
continually beckoned. Kimi forgot all about Kurosuke; indeed, from that
moment she hated him and eagerly followed the enticing youth. Nine fair
but wicked maidens disappeared from the village in a similar way, and
always it was the same youth who lured them astray in this mysterious
manner.
The elders of the village consulted together, and came to the
conclusion that the spirit of Yenoki was angry with the excesses
connected with the Bon festival, and had assumed the form of a handsome
youth for the purpose of administering severe admonition. The Lord of
Kishiwada accordingly summoned Sonobé to his presence, and bade him
journey to the great cryptomeria-tree on Oki-yama.
When Sonobé reached his destination he thus addressed the ancient
tree: "Oh, home of Yenoki's spirit, I upbraid you for carrying away our
daughters. If this continues I shall cut down the tree, so that you
will be compelled to seek lodging elsewhere."
Sonobé had no sooner spoken than rain began to fall, and he heard the
rumblings of a mighty earthquake. Then from out of the tree Yenoki's
spirit suddenly appeared. He explained that many of the young people of
Sonobé's village had offended against the Gods by their misconduct, and
that he had, as conjectured, assumed the form of a handsome youth in
order to take away the principal offenders. "You will find them," added
the spirit of Yenoki, "bound to trees on the second summit of this
mountain. Go, release them, and allow them to return to the village.
They have not only repented of their follies, but will now persuade
others to live nobler and purer lives." And with these words Yenoki
disappeared into his tree.
Sonobé set off to the second summit and released the maidens. They
returned to their homes, good and dutiful daughters, and from that day
to this the Gods have been well satisfied with the general behaviour of
the village that nestles at the foot of Oki-yama.
The Burning of Three Dwarf Trees
In the reign of the Emperor Go-Fukakusa there lived a celebrated
Regent, Saimyoji Tokiyori. When thirty years of age this Regent retired
to a monastery for several years, and not infrequently his peace of
mind was sadly disturbed by stories of peasants who suffered at the
hands of tyrannical officials. Now Tokiyori loved above everything
the welfare of his people, and after giving the matter careful
consideration he determined to disguise himself, travel from place to
place, and discover in an intimate way the heart of the poorer people,
and later on to do all in his power to suppress malpractice on the part
of various officials.
Tokiyori accordingly set out upon his excellent mission, and finally
came to Sano, in the province of Kozuki. Now it was the time of
winter, and a heavy snowstorm caused the royal wanderer to lose his
way. After wearily tramping about for several hours in the hope of
finding shelter, he was about to make the best of the matter by
sleeping under a tree when, to his joy, he noticed a small thatched
cottage nestling under a hill at no great distance. To this cottage
he went, and explained to the woman who greeted him that he had lost
his way and would be much indebted to her if she would afford him
shelter for the night. The good woman explained that as her husband
was away from home, it would be disloyal as his wife to give shelter
to a stranger. Tokiyori not only took this reply in good part, but
he greatly rejoiced, in spite of a night in the snow, to find such a
virtuous woman. But he had not gone far from the cottage when he heard
a man calling to him. Tokiyori stood still, and presently he saw some
one beckoning him. The man explained that he was the husband of the
woman the ex-Regent had just left, and cordially invited one whom he
took to be a wandering priest to return with him and accept such humble
hospitality as was available.
When Tokiyori was sitting in the little cottage simple fare was
spread before him, and as he had eaten nothing since the morning he
did full justice to the meal. But the fact that millet and not rice
was provided clearly conveyed to the observant Tokiyori that here was
poverty indeed, but with it all a generosity that went straight to his
heart. Nor was this all, for, the meal finished, they gathered round
the fire that was fast dying out for want of fuel. The good man of the
house turned to the fuel-box. Alas! it was empty. Without a moment's
hesitation he went out into the garden, heavily covered with snow,
and brought back with him three pots of dwarf trees, pine, plum, and
cherry. Now in Japan dwarf trees are held in high esteem; much time and
care is bestowed upon them, and their age and unique beauty have made
them dear to the people of Nippon. In spite of Tokiyori's remonstrance
his host broke up these little trees, and thus made a cheerful blaze.
It was this incident, scarcely to be fully appreciated by a Westerner,
that caused Tokiyori to question his host, whose very possession of
these valuable trees strongly suggested that this generous man was
not a farmer by birth, but had taken to this calling by force of
circumstance. The ex-Regent's conjecture proved to be correct, and his
host, with some reluctance, finally explained that he was a _samurai_
by the name of Sano Genzalmon Tsuneyo. He had been forced to take up
farming owing to the dishonesty of one of his relatives.
Tokiyori readily recalled the name of this _samurai_ before him, and
suggested that he should make an appeal for redress. Sano explained
that as the good and just Regent had died (so he thought), and as his
successor was very young, he considered it was worse than useless to
present a petition. But, nevertheless, he went on to explain to his
interested listener that should there come a call to arms he would be
the first to make an appearance at Kamakura. It was this thought of
some day being of use to his country that had sweetened the days of his
poverty.
The conversation, so rapidly suggested in this story, was in reality
a lengthy one, and by the time it was concluded already a new day
had begun. And when the storm-doors had been opened it was to reveal
sunlight streaming over a world of snow. Before taking his departure
Tokiyori warmly thanked his host and hostess for their hospitality.
When this kindly visitor had gone Sano suddenly remembered that he had
forgotten to inquire the name of his guest.
Now it happened that in the following spring a call to arms was
instituted by the Government at Kamakura. No sooner had Sano heard
the joyful news than he set out to obey the summons. His armour was
shabby in the extreme, his halberd covered with rust, and his horse
was in a very poor condition. He presented a sorry figure among the
resplendent knights he found in Kamakura. Many of these knights made
uncomplimentary remarks concerning him, but Sano bore this insolence
without a word. While he stood, a forlorn figure, among the sparkling
ranks of _samurai_ about him, a herald approached riding on a
magnificent horse, and carrying a banner bearing the house-crest of
the Regent. With a loud, clear voice he bade the knight wearing the
shabbiest armour to appear before his master. Sano obeyed the summons
with a heavy heart. He thought that the Regent was about to rebuke him
for appearing in such a gaily decked company clad in such miserable
accoutrements.
This humble knight was surprised by the cordial welcome he received,
and still more surprised when a servant pushed aside the screens of
an adjoining room and revealed the Regent Saimyoji Tokiyori, who was
none other than the priest who had taken shelter in his little home.
Nor had Tokiyori forgotten the burning of the dwarf pine, plum, and
cherry-trees. Out of that sacrifice, readily given without a thought of
gain, came the thirty villages of which Sano had been robbed. This was
only Sano's due, and in addition the grateful Tokiyori had the happy
idea of presenting this faithful knight with the village of Matsu-idu,
Umeda, and Sakurai, _matsu_, _ume_, and _sakura_ being the Japanese
names for pine, plum, and cherry.
The Pine-tree Lovers
"The dawn is near,
And the hoar-frost falls
On the fir-tree twigs;
But its leaves' dark green
Suffer no change.
Morning and evening
Beneath its shade
The leaves are swept away,
Yet they never fail.
True it is
That these fir-trees
Shed not all their leaves;
Their verdure remains fresh
For ages long,
As the Masaka trailing vine;
Even amongst evergreen trees--
The emblem of unchangeableness--
Exalted is their fame
As a symbol to the end of time--
The fame of the fir-trees that have grown
old together."
"_Takasago_." (Trans. by W. G. Aston.)
The _Takasago_ is generally considered one of the finest of the _Nō_,
or classical dramas. The _Nō_ was performed by statuesque players who
chanted in an ancient dialect. It belonged to that period of Japanese
formality fittingly described as "Heav'n to hear tell about, but Hell
to see." The theme of the _Takasago_ seems to be a relic of a phallic
cult common enough in the history of primitive nations. The pine-tree
of Takasago symbolises longevity, and in the following chorus from this
drama we may gather the potency of this evergreen tree:
"And now, world without end,
The extended arms of the dancing maidens
In sacerdotal robes
Will expel noxious influences;
Their hands folded to rest in their bosoms
Will embrace all good fortune;
The hymn of a thousand autumns
Will draw down blessings on the people,
And the song of ten thousand years
Prolong our sovereign's life.
And all the while
The voice of the breeze,
As it blows through the firs
That grow old together,
Will yield us delight."
The efficacy of the pine-tree is still believed in to this day. It is
conspicuous in the festival of the San-ga-nichi, when pine branches
decorate the gateways during the New Year festivities. Both this use
of the pine-tree and that of this particular _Nō_ drama owe their
origin to the great pine-tree of Takasago, about which we narrate the
following legend.
In ancient days there lived at Takasago a fisherman, his wife, and
little daughter Matsue. There was nothing that Matsue loved to do more
than to sit under the great pine-tree. She was particularly fond of the
pine-needles that never seemed tired of falling to the ground. With
these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash, saying: "I will not
wear these pine-clothes until my wedding-day."
One day, while Matsue was sitting under the pine-tree, she sang the
following song:
"No man so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows? the Spring's soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."
While she thus sang Teoyo stood on the steep shore of Sumiyoshi
watching the flight of a heron. Up, up it went into the blue sky,
and Teoyo saw it fly over the village where the fisherfolk and their
daughter lived.
Now Teoyo was a youth who dearly loved adventure, and he thought it
would be very delightful to swim across the sea and discover the land
over which the heron had flown. So one morning he dived into the sea
and swam so hard and so long that the poor fellow found the waves
spinning and dancing, and saw the great sky bend down and try to touch
him. Then he lay unconscious on the water; but the waves were kind to
him after all, for they pressed him on and on till he was washed up at
the very place where Matsue sat under the pine-tree.
Matsue carefully dragged Teoyo underneath the sheltering branches, and
then set him down upon a couch of pine-needles, where he soon regained
consciousness, and warmly thanked Matsue for her kindness.
Teoyo did not go back to his own country, for after a few happy months
had gone by he married Matsue, and on her wedding morn she wore her
dress and sash of pine-needles.
When Matsue's parents died her loss only seemed to make her love Teoyo
the more. The older they grew the more they loved each other. Every
night, when the moon shone, they went hand in hand to the pine-tree,
and with their little rakes they made a couch for the morrow.
One night the great silver face of the moon peered through the branches
of the pine-tree and looked in vain for the old lovers sitting
together on a couch of pine-needles. Their little rakes lay side by
side, and still the moon waited for the slow and stumbling steps of
the Pine-Tree Lovers. But that night they did not come. They had gone
home to an everlasting resting-place on the River of Souls. They had
loved so well and so splendidly, in old age as well as in youth, that
the Gods allowed their souls to come back again and wander round the
pine-tree that had listened to their love for so many years. When the
moon is full they whisper and laugh and sing and draw the pine-needles
together, while the sea sings softly upon the shore.
[Footnote 1: See Chapter XVII.]
[Footnote 2: See Chapter XVI.]
[Footnote 3: This story and the one that follows have been adapted from
_Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by R. Gordon Smith.]
[Footnote 4: See Chapter XV.]
[Footnote 5: A long-nosed creature referred to elsewhere.]