[1]The Japanese dead are placed in a sitting posture in the coffin,—which is almost square in form.
[1]The Japanese dead are placed in a sitting posture in the coffin,—which is almost square in form.
About two hundred years ago, there lived in Kyoto a merchant named Kazariya Kyūbei. His shop was in the street called Teramachidōri, a little south of the Shimabara thoroughfare. He had a maid-servant named Tama,—a native of the province of Wakasa.
Tama was kindly treated by Kyūbei and his wife, and appeared to be sincerely attached to them. But she never cared to dress nicely, like other girls; and whenever she had a holiday she would go out in her working-dress, notwithstanding that she had been given several pretty robes. After she had been in the service of Kyūbei for about five years, he one day asked her why she never took any pains to look neat.
Tama blushed at the reproach implied by this question, and answered respectfully:—
"When my parents died, I was a very little girl; and, as they had no other child, it became my duty to have the Buddhist services performed on their behalf. At that time I could not obtain the means to do so; but I resolved to have theirihai[mortuary tablets] placed in the temple called Jōrakuji, and to have the rites performed, so soon as I could earn the money required. And in order to fulfil this resolve I have tried to be saving of my money and my clothes;—perhaps I have been too saving, as you have found me negligent of my person. But I have already been able to put by about one hundredmomméof silver for the purpose which I have mentioned; and hereafter I will try to appear before you looking neat. So I beg that you will kindly excuse my past negligence and rudeness."
Kyūbei was touched by this simple confession; and he spoke to the girl kindly,—assuring her that she might consider herself at liberty thenceforth to dress as she pleased, and commending her filial piety.
*
Soon after this conversation, the maid Tama was able to have the tablets of her parents placed in the temple Jōrakuji, and to have the appropriate services performed. Of the money which she had saved she thus expended seventymommé; and the remaining thirtymomméshe asked her mistress to keep for her.
But early in the following winter Tama was suddenly taken ill; and after a brief sickness she died, on the eleventh day of the first month of the fifteenth year of Genroku [1702]. Kyūbei and his wife were much grieved by her death.
*
Now, about ten days later, a very large fly came into the house, and began to fly round and round the head of Kyūbei. This surprised Kyūbei, because no flies of any kind appear, as a rule, during the Period of Greatest Cold, and the larger kinds of flies are seldom seen except in the warm season. The fly annoyed Kyūbei so persistently that he took the trouble to catch it, and put it out of the house,—being careful the while to injure it in no way; for he was a devout Buddhist. It soon came back again, and was again caught and thrown out; but it entered a third time. Kyūbei's wife thought this a strange thing. "I wonder," she said, "if it is Tama." [For the dead—particularly those who pass to the state of Gaki—sometimes return in the form of insects.] Kyūbei laughed, and made answer, "Perhaps we can find out by marking it." He caught the fly, and slightly nicked the tips of its wings with a pair of scissors,—after which he carried it to a considerable distance from the house and let it go.
Next day it returned. Kyūbei still doubted whether its return had any ghostly significance. He caught it again, painted its wings and body with beni (rouge), carried it away from the house to a much greater distance than before, and set it free. But, two days later, it came back, all red; and Kyūbei ceased to doubt.
"I think it is Tama," he said. "She wants something;—but what does she want?"
The wife responded:—
"I have still thirtymomméof her savings. Perhaps she wants us to pay that money to the temple, for a Buddhist service on behalf of her spirit. Tama was always very anxious about her next birth."
As she spoke, the fly fell from the paper window on which it had been resting. Kyūbei picked it up, and found that it was dead.
*
Thereupon the husband and wife resolved to go to the temple at once, and to pay the girl's money to the priests. They put the body of the fly into a little box, and took it along with them.
Jiku Shōnin, the chief priest of the temple, on hearing the story of the fly, decided that Kyūbei and his wife had acted rightly in the matter. Then Jiku Shōnin performed aSégakiservice on behalf of the spirit of Tama; and over the body of the fly were recited the eight rolls of the sûtraMyōten. And the box containing the body of the fly was buried in the grounds of the temple; and above the place asotobawas set up, appropriately inscribed.
In the Toyama district of the province of Bishū, there formerly lived a young farmer and his wife. Their farm was situated in a lonely place, among the hills.
One night the wife dreamed that her father-in-law, who had died some years before, came to her and said, "To-morrow I shall be in great danger: try to save me if you can!" In the morning she told this to her husband; and they talked about the dream. Both imagined that the dead man wanted something; but neither could imagine what the words of the vision signified.
After breakfast, the husband went to the fields; but the wife remained at her loom. Presently she was startled by a great shouting outside. She went to the door, and saw the Jitō[1]of the district, with a hunting party, approaching the farm. While she stood watching them, a pheasant ran by her into the house; and she suddenly remembered her dream. "Perhaps it is my father-in-law," she thought to herself;—"I must try to save it!" Then, hurrying in after the bird,—a fine male pheasant,—she caught it without any difficulty, put it into the empty rice-pot, and covered the pot with the lid.
A moment later some of the Jitō's followers entered, and asked her whether she had seen a pheasant. She answered boldly that she had not; but one of the hunters declared that he had seen the bird run into the house. So the party searched for it, peeping into every nook and corner; but nobody thought of looking into the rice-pot. After looking everywhere else to no purpose, the men decided that the bird must have escaped through some hole; and they went away.
*
When the farmer came home his wife told him about the pheasant, which she had left in the rice-pot, so that he might see it. "When I caught it," she said, "it did not struggle in the least; and it remained very quiet in the pot. I really think that it is father-in-law." The farmer went to the pot, lifted the lid, and took out the bird. It remained still in his hands, as if tame, and looked at him as if accustomed to his presence. One of its eyes was blind. "Father was blind of one eye," the farmer said,—"the right eye; and the right eye of this bird is blind. Really, I think it is father. See! it looks at us just as father used to do!... Poor father must have thought to himself, 'Now that I am a bird, better to give my body to my children for food than to let the hunters have it.'... And that explains your dream of last night," he added,—turning to his wife with an evil smile as he wrung the pheasant's neck.
At the sight of that brutal act, the woman screamed, and cried out:—
"Oh, you wicked man! Oh, you devil! Only a man with the heart of a devil could do what you have done!... And I would rather die than continue to be the wife of such a man!"
And she sprang to the door, without waiting even to put on her sandals. He caught her sleeve as she leaped; but she broke away from him, and ran out, sobbing as she ran. And she ceased not to run, barefooted, till she reached the town, when she hastened directly to the residence of the Jitō. Then, with many tears, she told the Jitō everything: her dream of the night before the hunting, and how she had hidden the pheasant in order to save it, and how her husband had mocked her, and had killed it.
The Jitō spoke to her kindly, and gave orders that she should be well cared for; but he commanded his officers to seize her husband.
Next day the farmer was brought up for judgment; and, after he had been made to confess the truth concerning the killing of the pheasant, sentence was pronounced. The Jitō said to him:—
"Only a person of evil heart could have acted as you have acted; and the presence of so perverse a being is a misfortune to the community in which he happens to reside. The people under Our jurisdiction are people who respect the sentiment of filial piety; and among them you cannot be suffered to live."
So the farmer was banished from the district, and forbidden ever to return to it on pain of death. But to the woman the Jitō made a donation of land; and at a later time he caused her to be provided with a good husband.
[1]The lord of the district, who acted both as governor and magistrate.
[1]The lord of the district, who acted both as governor and magistrate.
Along time ago there lived, in the Koishi-kawa quarter of Yedo, ahatamotonamed Suzuki, whose yashiki was situated on the bank of the Yedogawa, not far from the bridge called Naka-no-hashi. And among the retainers of this Suzuki there was anashigaru[1]named Chūgorō. Chūgorō was a handsome lad, very amiable and clever, and much liked by his comrades.
For several years Chūgorō remained in the service of Suzuki, conducting himself so well that no fault was found with him. But at last the otherashigarudiscovered that Chūgorō was in the habit of leaving the yashiki every night, by way of the garden, and staying out until a little before dawn. At first they said nothing to him about this strange behaviour; for his absences did not interfere with any regular duty, and were supposed to be caused by some love-affair. But after a time he began to look pale and weak; and his comrades, suspecting some serious folly, decided to interfere. Therefore, one evening, just as he was about to steal away from the house, an elderly retainer called him aside, and said:—
"Chūgorō, my lad, we know that you go out every night and stay away until early morning; and we have observed that you are looking unwell. We fear that you are keeping bad company, and injuring your health. And unless you can give a good reason for your conduct, we shall think that it is our duty to report this matter to the Chief Officer. In any case, since we are your comrades and friends, it is but right that we should know why you go out at night, contrary to the custom of this house."
Chūgorō appeared to be very much embarrassed and alarmed by these words. But after a short silence he passed into the garden, followed by his comrade. When the two found themselves well out of hearing of the rest, Chūgorō stopped, and said:—
"I will now tell you everything; but I must entreat you to keep my secret. If you repeat what I tell you, some great misfortune may befall me.
"It was in the early part of last spring—about five months ago—that I first began to go out at night, on account of a love-affair. One evening, when I was returning to the yashiki after a visit to my parents, I saw a woman standing by the riverside, not far from the main gateway. She was dressed like a person of high rank; and I thought it strange that a woman so finely dressed should be standing there alone at such an hour. But I did not think that I had any right to question her; and I was about to pass her by, without speaking, when she stepped forward and pulled me by the sleeve. Then I saw that she was very young and handsome. 'Will you not walk with me as far as the bridge?' she said; 'I have something to tell you.' Her voice was very soft and pleasant; and she smiled as she spoke; and her smile was hard to resist. So I walked with her toward the bridge; and on the way she told me that she had often seen me going in and out of the yashiki, and had taken a fancy to me. 'I wish to have you for my husband,' she said;—'if you can like me, we shall be able to make each other very happy.' I did not know how to answer her; but I thought her very charming. As we neared the bridge, she pulled my sleeve again, and led me down the bank to the very edge of the river. 'Come in with me,' she whispered, and pulled me toward the water. It is deep there, as you know; and I became all at once afraid of her, and tried to turn back. She smiled, and caught me by the wrist, and said, 'Oh, you must never be afraid with me!' And, somehow, at the touch of her hand, I became more helpless than a child. I felt like a person in a dream who tries to run, and cannot move hand or foot. Into the deep water she stepped, and drew me with her; and I neither saw nor heard nor felt anything more until I found myself walking beside her through what seemed to be a great palace, full of light. I was neither wet nor cold: everything around me was dry and warm and beautiful. I could not understand where I was, nor how I had come there. The woman led me by the hand: we passed through room after room,—through ever so many rooms, all empty, but very fine,—until we entered into a guest-room of a thousand mats. Before a great alcove, at the farther end, lights were burning, and cushions laid as for a feast; but I saw no guests. She led me to the place of honour, by the alcove, and seated herself in front of me, and said: 'This is my home: do you think that you could be happy with me here?' As she asked the question she smiled; and I thought that her smile was more beautiful than anything else in the world; and out of my heart I answered, 'Yes....' In the same moment I remembered the story of Urashima; and I imagined that she might be the daughter of a god; but I feared to ask her any questions.... Presently maid-servants came in, bearing rice-wine and many dishes, which they set before us. Then she who sat before me said: 'To-night shall be our bridal night, because you like me; and this is our wedding-feast.' We pledged ourselves to each other for the time of seven existences; and after the banquet we were conducted to a bridal chamber, which had been prepared for us.
"It was yet early in the morning when she awoke me, and said: 'My dear one, you are now indeed my husband. But for reasons which I cannot tell you, and which you must not ask, it is necessary that our marriage remain secret. To keep you here until daybreak would cost both of us our lives. Therefore do not, I beg of you, feel displeased because I must now send you back to the house of your lord. You can come to me to-night again, and every night hereafter, at the same hour that we first met. Wait always for me by the bridge; and you will not have to wait long. But remember, above all things, that our marriage must be a secret, and that, if you talk about it, we shall probably be separated forever.'
"I promised to obey her in all things,—remembering the fate of Urashima,—and she conducted me through many rooms, all empty and beautiful, to the entrance. There she again took me by the wrist, and everything suddenly became dark, and I knew nothing more until I found myself standing alone on the river bank, close to the Naka-no-hashi. When I got back to the yashiki, the temple bells had not yet begun to ring.
"In the evening I went again to the bridge, at the hour she had named, and I found her waiting for me. She took me with her, as before, into the deep water, and into the wonderful place where we had passed our bridal night. And every night, since then, I have met and parted from her in the same way. To-night she will certainly be waiting for me, and I would rather die than disappoint her: therefore I must go.... But let me again entreat you, my friend, never to speak to any one about what I have told you."
*
The elderashigaruwas surprised and alarmed by this story. He felt that Chūgorō had told him the truth; and the truth suggested unpleasant possibilities. Probably the whole experience was an illusion, and an illusion produced by some evil power for a malevolent end. Nevertheless, if really bewitched, the lad was rather to be pitied than blamed; and any forcible interference would be likely to result in mischief. So theashigaruanswered kindly:—
"I shall never speak of what you have told me—never, at least, while you remain alive and well. Go and meet the woman; but—beware of her! I fear that you are being deceived by some wicked spirit."
Chūgorō only smiled at the old man's warning, and hastened away. Several hours later he reentered the yashiki, with a strangely dejected look. "Did you meet her?" whispered his comrade. "No," replied Chūgorō; "she was not there. For the first time, she was not there. I think that she will never meet me again. I did wrong to tell you;—I was very foolish to break my promise...." The other vainly tried to console him. Chūgorō lay down, and spoke no word more. He was trembling from head to foot, as if he had caught a chill.
*
When the temple bells announced the hour of dawn, Chūgorō tried to get up, and fell back senseless. He was evidently sick,—deathly sick. A Chinese physician was summoned.
"Why, the man has no blood!" exclaimed the doctor, after a careful examination;—"there is nothing but water in his veins! It will be very difficult to save him.... What maleficence is this?"
*
Everything was done that could be done to save Chūgorō's life—but in vain. He died as the sun went down. Then his comrade related the whole story.
"Ah! I might have suspected as much!" exclaimed the doctor.... "No power could have saved him. He was not the first whom she destroyed."
"Who is she?—or what is she?" theashigaruasked,—"a Fox-Woman?"
"No; she has been haunting this river from ancient time. She loves the blood of the young...."
"A Serpent-Woman?—A Dragon-Woman?"
"No, no! If you were to see her under that bridge by daylight, she would appear to you a very loathsome creature."
"But what kind of a creature?"
"Simply a Frog,—a great and ugly Frog!"
[1]Theashigaruwere the lowest class of retainers in military service.
[1]Theashigaruwere the lowest class of retainers in military service.
Recently there was put into my hands a somewhat remarkable manuscript,—seventeen long narrow sheets of soft paper, pierced with a silken string, and covered with fine Japanese characters. It was a kind of diary, containing the history of a woman's married life, recorded by herself. The writer was dead; and the diary had been found in a small work-box (haribako) which had belonged to her.
The friend who lent me the manuscript gave me leave to translate as much of it as I might think worth publishing. I have gladly availed myself of this unique opportunity to present in English the thoughts and feelings, joys and sorrows, of a simple woman of the people—just as she herself recorded them in the frankest possible way, never dreaming that any foreign eye would read her humble and touching memoir.
But out of respect to her gentle ghost, I have tried to use the manuscript in such a way only as could not cause her the least pain if she were yet in the body, and able to read me. Some parts I have omitted, because I thought them sacred. Also I have left out a few details relating to customs or to local beliefs that the Western reader could scarcely understand, even with the aid of notes. And the names, of course, have been changed. Otherwise I have followed the text as closely as I could,—making no changes of phrase except when the Japanese original could not be adequately interpreted by a literal rendering.
*
In addition to the facts stated or suggested in the diary itself, I could learn but very little of the writer's personal history. She was a woman of the poorest class; and from her own narrative it appears that she remained unmarried until she was nearly thirty. A younger sister had been married several years previously; and the diary does not explain this departure from custom. A small photograph found with the manuscript shows that its author never could have been called good-looking; but the face has a certain pleasing expression of shy gentleness. Her husband was akozukai,[1]employed in one of the great public offices, chiefly for night duty, at a salary of ten yen per month. In order to help him to meet the expenses of housekeeping, she made cigarettes for a tobacco dealer.
*
The manuscript shows that she must have been at school for some years: she could write thekanavery nicely, but she had not learned many Chinese characters,—so that her work resembles the work of a schoolgirl. But it is written without mistakes, and skilfully. The dialect is of Tōkyō,—the common speech of the city people,—full of idiomatic expressions, but entirely free from coarseness.
*
Some one might naturally ask why this poor woman, so much occupied with the constant struggle for mere existence, should have taken the pains to write down what she probably never intended to be read. I would remind such a questioner of the old Japanese teaching that literary composition is the best medicine for sorrow; and I would remind him also of the fact that, even among the poorest classes, poems are still composed upon all occasions of joy or pain. The latter part of the diary was written in lonely hours of illness; and I suppose that she then wrote chiefly in order to keep her thoughts composed at a time when solitude had become dangerous for her. A little before her death, her mind gave way; and these final pages probably represent the last brave struggle of the spirit against the hopeless weakness of the flesh.
*
I found that the manuscript was inscribed, on the outside sheet, with the title,Mukashi-hanashi: "A Story of Old Times." According to circumstances, the wordmukashimay signify either "long ago," in reference to past centuries, or "old times," in reference to one's own past life. The latter is the obvious meaning in the present case.
Mukashi-Banashi
On the evening of the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month of the twenty-eighth year of Meiji [1895]? man of the opposite house came and asked:—
"As for the eldest daughter of this family, is it agreeable that she be disposed of in marriage?"
Then the answer was given:—
"Even though the matter were agreeable [to our wishes], no preparation for such an event has yet been made."[2]
The man of the opposite house said:—
"But as no preparation is needed in this case, will you not honourably give her to the person for whom I speak? He is said to be a very steady man; and he is thirty-eight years of age. As I thought your eldest girl to be about twenty-six, I proposed her to him...."
"No,—she is twenty-nine years old," was answered.
"Ah!... That being the case, I must again speak to the other party; and I shall honourably consult with you after I have seen him."
So saying, the man went away.
Next evening the man came again,—this time with the wife of Okada-Shi[3][a friend of the family],—and said:—
"The other party is satisfied;—so, if you are willing, the match can be made."
Father replied:—
"As the two are, both of them,shichi-séki-kin["seven-red-metal"],[4]they should have the same nature;—so I think that no harm can come of it."
The match-maker asked:—
"Then how would it be to arrange for themiai[5]["see-meeting"] to-morrow?"
Father said:—
"I suppose that everything really depends upon theEn[karma-relation formed in previous states of existence].... Well, then, I beg that you will honourably meet us to-morrow evening at the house of Okada."
Thus the betrothal promise was given on both sides.
*
The person of the opposite house wanted me to go with him next evening to Okada's; but I said that I wished to go with my mother only, as from the time of taking such a first step one could not either retreat or advance. When I went with mother to the house, we were welcomed in with the words, "Kochira ē!" Then [my future husband and I] greeted each other for the first time. But somehow I felt so much ashamed that I could not look at him.
Then Okada-Shi said to Namiki-Shi [the proposed husband]: "Now that you have nobody to consult with at home, would it not be well for you to snatch your luck where you find it, as the proverb says,—'Zen wa isogé'?"
The answer was made:—
"As for me, I am well satisfied; but I do not know what the feeling may be on the other side."
"If it be honourably deigned to take me as it is honourably known that I am ..."[6]I said.
The match-maker said:—
"The matter being so, what would be a good day for the wedding?"
[Namaki-Shi answered:—]
"Though I can be at home to-morrow, perhaps the first day of the tenth month would be a better day."
But Okada-Shi at once said:—
"As there is cause for anxiety about the house being unoccupied while Namiki-Shi is absent [on night-duty], to-morrow would perhaps be the better day—would it not?"
Though at first that seemed to me much too soon, I presently remembered that the next day was aTaian-nichi[7][perfectly fortunate day]: so I gave my consent; and we went home.
When I told father, he was not pleased. He said that it was too soon, and that a delay of at least three or four days ought to have been allowed. Also he said that the direction [hōgaku][8]was not lucky, and that other conditions were not favourable.
I said:—
"But I have already promised; and I cannot now ask to have the day changed. Indeed it would be a great pity if a thief were to enter the house in [his] absence. As for the matter of the direction being unlucky, even though I should have to die on that account, I would not complain; for I should die in my own husband's house.. .. And to-morrow," I added, "I shall be too busy to call on Goto [her brother-in-law]: so I must go there now." I went to Goto's; but, when I saw him, I felt afraid to say exactly what I had come to say. I suggested it only by telling him:—
"To-morrow I have to go to a strange house."
Goto immediately asked:—
"As an honourable daughter-in-law [bride]?"
After hesitating, I answered at last:—
"Yes."
"What kind of a person?" Goto asked.
I answered:—
"If I had felt myself able to look at him long enough to form any opinion, I would not have put mother to the trouble of going with me."
"Ané-San[Elder Sister]!" he exclaimed,—"then what was the use of going to see him at all?... But," he added, in a more pleasant tone, "let me wish you luck."
"Anyhow," I said, "to-morrow it will be."
And I returned home.
*
Now the appointed day having come—the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month—I had so much to do that I did not know how I should ever be able to get ready. And as it had been raining for several days, the roadway was very bad, which made matters worse for me—though, luckily, no rain fell on that day. I had to buy some little things; and I could not well ask mother to do anything for me,—much as I wished for her help,—because her feet had become very weak by reason of her great age. So I got up very early and went out alone, and did the best I could: nevertheless, it was two o'clock in the afternoon before I got everything ready.
Then I had to go to the hair-dresser's to have my hair dressed, and to go to the bath-house—all of which took time. And when I came back to dress, I found that no message had yet been received from Namiki-Shi; and I began to feel a little anxious. Just after we had finished supper, the message came. I had scarcely time to say good-by to all: then I went out,—leaving my home behind forever,—and walked with mother to the house of Okada-Shi.
There I had to part even from mother; and the wife of Okada-Shi taking charge of me, I accompanied her to the house of Namaki-Shi in Funamachi.
The wedding ceremony of thesansan-kudo-no-sakazuki[9]having been performed without any difficulty, and the time of theo-hiraki["honourable-blossoming"][10]having come more quickly than I had expected, the guests all returned home.
So we two were left, for the first time, each alone with the other—sitting face to face: my heart beat wildly;[11]and I felt abashed in such a way as could not be expressed by means of ink and paper.
Indeed, what I felt can be imagined only by one who remembers leaving her parents' home for the first time, to become a bride,—a daughter-in-law in a strange house.
*
Afterward, at the hour of meals, I felt very much distressed [embarrassed]....
*
Two or three days later, the father of my husband's former wife [who was dead] visited me, and said:—
"Namiki-Shi is really a good man,—a moral, steady man; but as he is also very particular about small matters and inclined to find fault, you had better always be careful to try to please him."
Now as I had been carefully watching my husband's ways from the beginning, I knew that he was really a very strict man, and I resolved so to conduct myself in all matters as never to cross his will.
*
The fifth day of the tenth month was the day for oursatogaëri,[12]and for the first time we went out together, calling at Goto's on the way. After we left Goto's, the weather suddenly became bad, and it began to rain. Then we borrowed a paper umbrella, which we used as anaigasa[13]; and though I was very uneasy lest any of my former neighbours should see us walking thus together, we luckily reached my parents' house, and made our visit of duty, without any trouble at all. While we were in the house, the rain fortunately stopped.
*
On the ninth day of the same month I went with him to the theatre for the first time. We visited the Engiza at Akasaka, and saw a performance by the Yamaguchi company.
*
On the eighth day of the eleventh month, we made a visit to Asakusa-temple,[14]and also went to the [Shinto temple of the] O-Tori-Sama.
—During this last month of the year I made new spring robes for my husband and myself: then I learned for the first time how pleasant such work was, and I felt very happy.
*
On the twenty-fifth day we visited the temple of Ten-jin-Sama,[15]and walked about the grounds there.
*
On the eleventh day of the first month of the twenty-ninth year [1896], called at Okada's.
*
On the twelfth day we paid a visit to Goto's, and had a pleasant time there.
On the ninth day of the second month we went to the Mizaki theatre to see the playImosé-Yama. On our way to the theatre we met Goto-Shi unexpectedly; and he went with us. But unluckily it began to rain as we were returning home, and we found the roads very muddy.
On the twenty-second day of the same month [we had our] photograph taken at Amano's.
*
On the twenty-fifth day of the third month we went to the Haruki theatre, and saw the playUguisuzuka.—During the month it was agreed that all of us [kindred, friends, and parents] should make up a party, and enjoy ourhanami[16]together; but this could not be managed.
*
On the tenth day of the fourth month, at nine o'clock in the morning, we two went out for a walk. We first visited the Shōkonsha [Shintō shrine] at Kudan: thence we walked to Uyéno [park]; and from there we went to Asakusa, and visited the Kwannon temple; and we also prayed at the Monzéki [Higashi Hongwanji]. Thence we had intended to go round to Asakusa-Okuyama; but we thought that it would be better to have dinner first—so we went to an eating-house. While we were dining, we heard such a noise of shouting and screaming that we thought there was a great quarrel outside. But the trouble was really caused by a fire in one of themisémono["shows"]. The fire spread quickly, even while we were looking at it; and nearly all the show-buildings in that street were burnt up.... We left the eating-house soon after, and walked about the Asakusa grounds, looking at things.
[Here follows, in the original Ms., the text of a little poem, composed by the writer herself:—]
Imado no watashi nité,Aimita koto mo naki hito ni,Fushigi ni Miméguri-Inari,Kaku mo fūfu ni naru nomika.Hajimé no omoi ni hikikaëté,Itsushika-kokoro mo Sumidagawa.Tsugai hanarénu miyakodori,Hito mo urayaméba wagami mo mata,Sakimidarétaru doté no hana yori mo,Hana ni mo mashita sono hito toShirahigé-Yashiro ni naru madé mo.Soïtogétashi to inorinenji!
[Freely translated.][17]
Having been taken across the Imado-Ferry, I strangely met at [the temple of] Miméguri-Inari with a person whom I had never seen before. Because of this meeting our relation is now even more than the relation of husband and wife. And my first anxious doubt, "For how long—?" having passed away, my mind has become [clear] as the Sumida River. Indeed we are now like a pair of Miyako-birds [always together]; and I even think that I deserve to be envied. [To see the flowers we went out; but] more than the pleasure of viewing a whole shore in blossom is the pleasure that I now desire,—always to dwell with this person, dearer to me than any flower, until we enter the Shirahigé-Yashiro. That we may so remain together, I supplicate the Gods!
... Then we crossed the Azuma bridge on our homeward way; and we went by steamer to the kaichō [festival] of the temple of the Soga-Kyōdai,[18]and prayed that love and concord should continue always between ourselves and our brothers and sisters. It was after seven o'clock that evening when we got home.
—On the twenty-fifth day of the same month we went to the Rokumono-no-Yosé.[19]
On the second day of the fifth month we visited [the gardens at] Ōkubo to see the azaleas in blossom. On the sixth day of the same month we went to see a display of fireworks at the Shōkonsha.
—So far we had never had any words between us nor any disagreement;[20]and I had ceased to feel bashful when we went out visiting or sight-seeing. Now each of us seemed to think only of how to please the other; and I felt sure that nothing would ever separate us.... May our relation always be thus happy!
The eighteenth day of the sixth month, being the festival of the Suga-jinja,[21]we were invited to my father's house. But as the hair-dresser did not come to dress my hair at the proper time, I was much annoyed. However, I went with O-Tori-San [a younger sister] to father's. Presently O-Kō-San [a married sister] also came;—and we had a pleasant time. In the evening Goto-Shi [husband of O-Kō] joined us; and, last of all, came my husband, for whom I had been waiting with anxious impatience. And there was one thing that made me very glad. Often when he and I were to go out together, I had proposed that we should put on the new spring robes which I had made; but he had as often refused,—preferring to wear his oldkimono. Now, however, he wore the new one,—having felt obliged to put it on because of father's invitation.... All of us being thus happily assembled, the party became more and more enjoyable; and when we had at last to say good-by, we only regretted the shortness of the summer night.
These are the poems which we composed that evening:—
Futa-fūfuSorōté iwō,Ujigami noMatsuri mo kyō waNigiwai ni kéri.—By Namiki (the husband).
Two wedded couples having gone together to worship at the temple, the parish-festival to-day has been merrier than ever before.
Ujigami noMatsuri médétashiFuta-fūfu.—Also by the husband.
Fortunate indeed for two married couples has been the parish-temple festival!
Ikutosé moNigiyaka narishi,Ujigami no,Matsuri ni sorō,Kyō no uréshisa.—By the wife.
Though for ever so many years it has always been a joyous occasion, the festival of our parish-temple to-day is more pleasant than ever before, because of our being thus happily assembled together.
Matsuri toté,Ikka atsumaru,Tanoshimi wa!Géni Ujigami noMégumi narikéri.—By the wife.
To-day being a day of festival, and all of us meeting together,—what a delight! Surely by the favour of the tutelar God [Ujigami] this has come to pass.
Futa-fūfuSorōté kyō noShitashimi mo,Kami no mégumi zoMédéta kari-kéri.—By the wife.
Two wedded pairs being to-day united in such friendship as this,—certainly it has happened only through the favour of the Gods!
Ujigami noMégumi mo fukakiFūfu-zuré.—By the wife.
Deep indeed is the favour of the tutelar God to the two married couples.
Matsuri toté,Tsui ni shitatéshiIyō-gasuri,Kyō tanoshimi niKiru to omoëba.—By the wife.
This day being a day of festival, we decided to put on, for the joyful meeting, the robes of Iyogasuri,[22]that had been made alike.
Omoïkya!Hakarazu sōroFuta-fūfu;Nani ni tatōënKyō no kichi-jitsu.—By Goto (the brother-in-law).
How could we have thought it! Here unexpectedly the two married couples meet together. What can compare with the good fortune of this day?
Matsuri totéHajimété sorōFuta-fūfu,Nochi no kaëri zoIma wa kanashiki.—By O-Kō, the married sister.
This day being a day of festival, here for the first time two wedded pairs have met. Already I find myself sorrowing at the thought that we must separate again.
Furu-sato noMatsuri ni sorōFuta-fūfu:Katarō ma saëNatsu mo mijika yo!—By O-Kō.
At the old parental home, two married couples have met together in holiday celebration. Alas! that the time of our happy converse should be only one short summer night!
On the fifth day of the seventh month, went to the Kanazawa-tei,[23]where Harimadayū was then reciting; and we heard him recite the jōruri called Sanjūsangendō.
On the first day of the eighth month we went to the [Buddhist] temple of Asakusa [Kwannon] to pray,—that day being the first anniversary [isshūki] of the death of my husband's former wife. Afterward we went to an eel-house, near the Azuma bridge, for dinner; and while we were there—just about the hour of noon—an earthquake took place. Being close to the river, the house rocked very much; and I was greatly frightened.
—Remembering that when we went to Asakusa before, in the time of cherry blossoms, we had seen a big fire, this earthquake made me feel anxious;—I wondered whether lightning would come next.[24]
About two o'clock we left the eating-house, and went to the Asakusa park. From there we went by street-car to Kanda; and we stopped awhile at a cool place in Kanda, to rest ourselves. On our way home we called at father's, and it was after nine o'clock when we got back.
*
The fifteenth day of the same month was the festival of the Hachiman-jinja[25]; and Goto, my sister, and the younger sister of Goto came to the house. I had hoped that we could all go to the temple together; but that morning my husband had taken a little too much wine,—so we had to go without him. After worshipping at the temple, we went to Goto's house; and I stopped there awhile before returning home.
*
In the ninth month, on the occasion of the Higan[26]festival, I went alone to the [Buddhist] temple to pray.
On the twenty-first day of the tenth month, O-Taka-San [probably a relative] came from Shidzuoka. I wanted to take her to the theatre the next day; but she was obliged to leave Tōkyō early in the morning. However, my husband and I went to the Ryūsei theatre on the following evening; and we saw the play calledMatsumaë Bidan Teichū-Kagami.[27]
On the twenty-second day of the sixth month I began to sew a kimono which father had asked me to make for him; but I felt ill, and could not do much. However, I was able to finish the work on the first day of the new year [1897].
... Now we were very happy because of the child that was to be born. And I thought how proud and glad my parents would be at having a grandchild for the first time.
On the tenth day of the fifth month I went out with mother to worship Shiogama-Sama,[28]and also to visit Sengakuji. There we saw the tombs of the Shijin-shichi Shi [Forty-seven Rōnin], and many relics of their history. We returned by railroad, taking the train from Shinagawa to Shinjiku. At Shiochō-Sanchōmé I parted from mother, and I got home by six o'clock.
On the eighth day of the sixth month, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a boy was born. Both mother and child appeared to be as well as could be wished; and the child much resembled my husband; and its eyes were large and black.... But I must say that it was a very small child; for, though it ought to have been born in the eighth month, it was born indeed in the sixth.... At seven o'clock in the evening of the same day, when the time came to give the child some medicine, we saw, by the light of the lamp, that he was looking all about, with his big eyes wide open. During that night the child slept in my mother's bosom. As we had been told that he must be kept very warm, because he was only a seven-months' child, it was decided that he should be kept in the bosom by day as well as by night.
Next day—the ninth day of the sixth month—at half-past six o'clock in the afternoon, he suddenly died....
*
—"Brief is the time of pleasure, and quickly turns to pain; and whatsoever is born must necessarily die"[29];—that, indeed, is a true saying about this world.
*
Only for one day to be called a mother!—to have a child born only to see it die!... Surely, I thought, if a child must die within two days after birth, it were better that it should never be born.
From the twelfth to the sixth month I had been so ill!—then at last I had obtained some ease, and joy at the birth of a son; and I had received so many congratulations about my good fortune;—and, nevertheless, he was dead!... Indeed, I suffered great grief.
On the tenth day of the sixth month the funeral took place, at the temple called Senpukuji, in Ōkubo, and a small tomb was erected.
The poems composed at that time[30]were the following:—
Omoïkya!Mi ni saë kaënuNadéshiko ni,Wakaréshi sodé noTsuyu no tamoto wo!
If I could, only have known! Ah, this parting with the flower,[31]for which I would so gladly have given my own life, has left my sleeves wet with the dew!
Samidaré ya!Shimérigachi naruSodé no tamoto wo.
Oh! the month of rain![32]All things become damp;—the ends of my sleeves are wet.
Some little time afterward, people told me that if I planted thesotoba[33]upside down, another misfortune of this kind would not come to pass. I had a great many sorrowful doubts about doing such a thing; but at last, on the ninth day of the eighth month, I had thesotobareversed....
*
On the eighth day of the ninth month we went to the Akasaka theatre.
*
On the eighteenth day of the tenth month I went by myself to the Haruki theatre in Hongō, to see the play ofŌkubo Hikozaëmon.[34]There, having carelessly lost my sandal-ticket [gésoku-fuda], I had to remain until after everybody else had left. Then I was at last able to get my sandals, and to go home; but the night was so black that I felt very lonesome on the way.
On the day of theSekku,[35]in the first month [1898], I was talking with Hori's aunt and the wife of our friend Uchimi, when I suddenly felt a violent pain in my breast, and, being frightened, I tried to reach a talisman (o-mamori) of Suitengū,[36]which was lying upon the wardrobe. But in the same moment I fell senseless. Under kind treatment I soon came to myself again; but I was ill for a long time after.
The tenth day of the fourth month being the holidaySanjiu-nen-Sai,[37]we arranged to meet at father's. I was to go there first with Jiunosuké [perhaps a relative], and there wait for my husband, who had to go to the office that morning for a little while. He met us at father's house about half-past eight: then the three of us went out together to look at the streets. We passed through Kōjimachi to Nakatamachi, and went by way of the Sakurada-Mon to the Hibiya-Metsuké, and thence from Ginzadōri by way of the Mégané-Bashi to Uyéno. After looking at things there, we again went to the Mégané-Bashi; but then I felt so tired that I proposed to return, and my husband agreed, as he also was very tired. But Jiunosuké said: "As I do not want to miss this chance to see the Daimyō-procession,[38]I must go on to Ginza." So there we said good-by to him, and we went to a little eating-house [tempura-ya], where we were served with fried fish; and, as luck would have it, we got a good chance to see the Daimyō-procession from that very house. We did not get back home that evening until half-past six o'clock.
*
From the middle of the fourth month I had much sorrow on account of a matter relating to my sister Tori [the matter is not mentioned].
On the nineteenth day of the eighth month of the thirty-first year of Meiji [1898] my second child was born, almost painlessly,—a girl; and we named her Hatsu. We invited to theshichiya[39]all those who had helped us at the time of the child's birth.
—Mother afterwards remained with me for a couple of days; but she was then obliged to leave me, because my sister Kō was suffering from severe pains in the chest. Fortunately my husband had his regular vacation about the same time; and he helped me all he could,—even in regard to washing and other matters; but I was often greatly troubled because I had no woman with me....
When my husband's vacation was over, mother came often, but only while my husband was away. The twenty-one days [the period of danger] thus passed; but mother and child continued well.
—Up to the time of one hundred days after my daughter's birth, I was constantly anxious about her, because she often seemed to have a difficulty in breathing. But that passed off at last, and she appeared to be getting strong.
Still, we were unhappy about one matter,—a deformity: Hatsu had been born with a double thumb on one hand. For a long time we could not make up our minds to take her to a hospital, in order to have an operation performed. But at last a woman living near our house told us of a very skilful surgeon in [the quarter of] Shinjiku; and we decided to go to him. My husband held the child on his lap during the operation. I could not bear to see the operation; and I waited in the next room, my heart full of pain and fear, wondering how the matter would end. But [when all was over] the little one did not appear to suffer any pain; and she took the breast as usual a few minutes after. So the matter ended more fortunately than I had thought possible.
At home she continued to take her milk as before, and seemed as if nothing had been done to her little body. But as she was so very young we were afraid that the operation might in some way cause her to be sick. By way of precaution, I went with her to the hospital every day for about three weeks; but she showed no sign of sickness.
*
On the third day of the third month of the thirty-second year [1899], on the occasion of thehatsu-sekku,[40]we received presents ofDairiand ofhina, both from father's house and from Goto's,—also the customary gifts of congratulation: atansu[chest of drawers], akyōdai[mirror-stand], and aharibako[work-box: lit. "needle-box"][41]We ourselves on the same occasion bought for her achadai[teacup stand], azen[lacquered tray], and some other little things. Both Goto and Jiunosuké came to see us on that day; and we had a very happy gathering.
*
On the third day of the fourth month we visited the temple Ana-Hachiman [Shintō shrine in the district of Waséda] to pray for the child's health....
On the twenty-ninth day of the fourth month Hatsu appeared to be unwell: so I wanted to have her examined by a doctor.
A doctor promised to come the same morning, but he did not come, and I waited for him in vain all that day. Next day again I waited, but he did not come. Toward evening Hatsu became worse, and seemed to be suffering great pain in her breast, and I resolved to take her to a doctor early next morning. All through that night I was very uneasy about her, but at daybreak she seemed to be better. So I went out alone, taking her on my back, and walked to the office of a doctor in Akasaka. But when I asked to have the child examined, I was told that I must wait, as it was not yet the regular time for seeing patients.
While I was waiting, the child began to cry worse than ever before; she would not take the breast, and I could do nothing to soothe her, either by walking or resting, so that I was greatly troubled. At last the doctor came, and began to examine her; and in the same moment I noticed that her crying grew feebler, and that her lips were becoming paler and paler. Then, as I could not remain silent, seeing her thus, I had to ask, "How is her condition?" "She cannot live until evening," he answered. "But could you not give her medicine?" I asked. "If she could drink it," he replied.
I wanted to go back home at once, and send word to my husband and to my father's house; but the shock had been too much for me—all my strength suddenly left me. Fortunately a kind old woman came to my aid, and carried my umbrella and other things, and helped me to get into a jinrikisha, so that I was able to return home by jinrikisha. Then I sent a man to tell my husband and my father. Mita's wife came to help me; and with her assistance everything possible was done to help the child.... Still my husband did not come back. But all our pain and trouble was in vain.
So, on the second day of the fifth month of the thirty-second year, my child set out on her journey to theJūmanokudō[42]—never to return to this world.
*
And we, her father and mother, were yet living—though we had caused her death by neglecting to have her treated by a skilled doctor! This thought made us both sorrow greatly; and we often reproached ourselves in vain. But the day after her death the doctor said to us: "Even if that disease had been treated from the beginning by the best possible means, your child could not have lived more than about a week. If she had been ten or eleven years old, she might possibly have been saved by an operation; but in this case no operation could have been attempted—the child was too young." Then he explained to us that the child had died from ajinzōen.[43]...
Thus all the hopes that we had, and all the pains that we took in caring for her, and all the pleasure of watching her grow during those nine months,—all were in vain!
But we two were at last able to find some ease from our sorrow by reflecting that our relation to this child, from the time of some former life, must have been very slight and weak.[44]
*
In the loneliness of that weary time, I tried to express my heart by writing some verses after the manner of the story of Miyagino and Shinobu in thegidayū-bon[45]:—
Koré, kono uchi é enzukishi wa,Omoi kaëséba itsutosé maë;Kondo mōkéshi wa onago no ko,Kawaii mono toté sodatsuru ka to;—
Waga mi no nari wa uchi-wasuré,Sodatéshi koto mo, nasaké nai.Kōshita koto to wa tsuyushirazu,Kono Hatsu wa buji ni sodatsuru ka.Shubi yō seijin shita naraba,Yagaté muko wo toriTanoshimashō dōshité to.Monomi yusan wo tashinandé,Wagako daiji to,Otto no koto mo, Hatsu no koto mo,Koïshi natsukashi omō no wo;—Tanoshimi-kurashita kai mo no.Oyako ni narishi wa uréshii ga,Sakidatsu koto wo miru haha noKokoro mo suishité tamoi no to!—Té wo tori-kawasu fūfu ga nagéki,Nagéki wo tachi-giku mo,Morai nakishité omotéguchiShōji mo nururu bakari nari.
Here in this house it was that I married him;—well I remember the day—five years ago. Here was born the girl-baby,—the loved one whom we hoped to rear. Caring then no longer for my person [,—heedless of how I dressed when I went out],—thinking only of how to bring her up,—I lived. How pitiless [this doom of mine]! Never had I even dreamed that such a thing could befall me: my only thoughts were as to how my Hatsu could best be reared. When she grows up, I thought, soon we shall find her a good husband, to make her life happy. So, never going out for pleasure-seeking, I studied only how to care for my little one,—how to love and to cherish my husband and my Hatsu. Vain now, alas! this hoped-for joy of living only for her sake.. .. Once having known the delight of the relation of mother and child, deign to think of the heart of the mother who sees her child die before her![46]
*
[All of the foregoing is addressed to the spirit of the dead child.—Translator.]
*
Now, while husband and wife, each clasping the hands of the other, make lament together, if any one pausing at the entrance should listen to their sorrow, surely the paper window would be moistened by tears from without.
*
About the time of Hatsu's death, the law concerning funerals was changed for the better; and permission was given for the burning of corpses in Ōkubo. So I asked Namiki to have the body sent to the temple of which his family had always been parishioners,—providing that there should be no [legal] difficulty about the matter. Accordingly the funeral took place at Monjōji,—a temple belonging to the Asakusa branch of the Hongwanji Shin-shū; and the ashes were there interred.
—My sister Kō was sick in bed with a rather bad cold at the time of Hatsu's death; but she visited us very soon after the news had reached her. And she called again a few days later to tell us that she had become almost well, and that we had no more cause to feel anxious about her.
—As for myself, I felt a dread of going out anywhere; and I did not leave the house for a whole month. But as custom does not allow one to remain always indoors, I had to go out at last; and I made the required visit to father's and to my sister's.
—Having become quite ill, I hoped that mother would be able to help me. But Kō was again sick, and Yoshi [a younger sister here mentioned for the first time] and mother had both to attend her constantly: so I could get no aid from father's house. There was no one to help me except some of my female neighbours, who attended me out of pure kindness, when they could spare the time. At last I got Hori-Shi to engage a good old woman to assist me; and under her kind care I began to get well. About the beginning of the eighth month I felt much stronger....
On the fourth day of the ninth month my sister Kō died of consumption.
—It had been agreed beforehand that if an unexpected matter[47]came to pass, my younger sister Yoshi should be received in the place of Kō. As Goto-Shi found it inconvenient to live altogether alone, the marriage took place on the eleventh day of the same month; and the usual congratulations were offered.
On the last day of the same month Okada-Shi suddenly died.
We found ourselves greatly troubled [pecuniarily embarrassed] by the expenses that all these events caused us.
*
—When I first heard that Yoshi had been received so soon after the death of Kō, I was greatly displeased. But I kept my feelings hidden, and I spoke to the man as before.
*
In the eleventh month Goto went alone to Sapporo. On the second day of the second month, thirty-third year of Meiji [1900], Goto-Shi returned to Tōkyō; and on the fourteenth day of the same month he went away again to the Hokkaidō [Yezo], taking Yoshi with him.
On the twentieth day of the second month, at six o'clock in the morning, my third child—a boy—was born. Both mother and child were well.
*
—We had expected a girl, but it was a boy that was born; so, when my husband came back from his work, he was greatly surprised and pleased to find that he had a boy.
—But the child was not well able to take the breast: so we had to nourish him by means of a feeding-bottle.
*
On the seventh day after the boy's birth, we partly shaved his head. And in the evening we had theshichiya[seventh-day festival]—but, this time, all by ourselves.
—My husband had caught a bad cold some time before; and he could not go to work next morning, as he was coughing badly. So he remained in the house.
Early in the morning the child had taken his milk as usual. But, about ten o'clock in the forenoon, he seemed to be suffering great pain in his breast; and he began to moan so strangely that we sent a man for a doctor. Unfortunately the doctor that we asked to come was out of town; and we were told that he would not come back before night. Therefore, we thought that it would be better to send at once for another doctor; and we sent for one. He said that he would come in the evening. But, about two o'clock in the afternoon, the child's sickness suddenly became worse; and a little before three o'clock—the twenty-seventh day of the second month—aënaku![48]—my child was dead, having lived for only eight days....