THE LADY OF THE PICTURE

He was suddenly startled to see a girlish form coming towards him in the wavering shadows

She then turned and walked with him as he led the way to their humble dwelling. Now that her parents had consented to her marrying him they need not wait long, he told himself. How fortunate he was that he should have gained such faithful and unchanging love as that of his beautiful Tama.

As they went along exchanging blissful confidences as to their undying love for one another, he told her of his oath never to wed another woman for her dear sake.

They entered the house together, the nearness of her sweet presence thrilling him to his finger-tips. Impatiently he knelt to light the lamp, placed ready on his low writing table, then with joy inexpressible at the anticipation of all that the future held for them, he turned to speak to her.

But to his utter bewilderment Tama was gone. He searched the house and garden, and with a lantern went and peered down the road, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished as suddenly and mysteriously as she had appeared.

Hayashi thought the incident more than strange; it was eerie in the extreme. Returning alone to his empty room, he shivered as a chill of foreboding seemed to penetrate his whole being, withering as with an icy breath the newly awakened impulses of hope and longing. A thousand recollections of his love crowded upon him, and kept him tossing uneasily upon his pillow all through the night. With the first break of dawn he was no longer able to control his feverish anxiety for news of her, and rising hurriedly, he at once set out for Fukagawa.

Eagerly he hastened to the house of an old friend to make inquiries regarding the merchant's family and especially about Tama. To his dismay he learned that she had passed away but a few days before, and listened with an aching heart to the account of her long illness. And he knew that she had died for love of him.

He returned to his home stupefied with grief and tormented with self-reproach.

"Oh, Tama! Tama! My love!" he cried aloud in his anguish, as he threw himself down in his room and gave way to his despair. "Had I but known of your illness I would have come to you. It was your spirit that appeared to me yesterday. Oh! come to me again! Tama! Tama!"

For weeks he was ill, but when he recovered and was able to think collectedly, he could not endure to live longer in such a world of misery. He felt that he was responsible for the untimely death of the young girl. To escape from the insupportable sorrows of life he decided to enter a Buddhist monastery, and joined the order of itinerant monks calledKomuso.[3]

Like the monks in the middle ages in Europe theKomusoenjoyed sanctuary. They were chieflysamuraiwho wished to hide their identity. Sometimes a breach of the law, such as the killing of a friend, obliged thesamuraito cut the ties which bound him to his Daimio; sometimes a family blood-feud forced him to spend his years in tracking down his enemy; sometimes it was disgust of the world, sorrow or disappointment, as in the case of Hayashi: these various reasons often caused men to bury themselves out of remembrance in the remote life of these wandering monks.

TheKomusowere always treated with great respect, they enjoyed the hospitality of inns and ships, and a free pass unquestioned across all government barriers.

They wore the stole but not the cassock, and they did not shave their heads like the priesthood. They were distinguished by their strange headgear, which was a wicker basket worn upside down, reaching as far as the chin and completely hiding the face. The rules of their order forbade them to marry, to eat meat, or to drink more than three cups of wine, and when on duty they might not take off their hats or bow to anyone, even to their parents. Outside these restrictions, though nominally priests, their lives were practically those of laymen, and when not on service they spent their time much as they liked in practising the military arts or in study.

As a mental discipline theKomusowere under obligation to go out daily to beg for alms, holding a bowl to receive whatever was bestowed upon them. They affected flute playing. This instrument was cut from the stem nearest the root, the strongest part of the bamboo, and was thus able to serve a double purpose. It gave the monk, who carried nothing with him, the means of earning his daily food, and when necessary was used as a weapon in self-defence.

Hayashi, being skilful with his flute, chose the life of theKomusoas being the best suited to him.

Before leaving Tokyo he visited the temple where his lost love was buried and knelt before her tomb. He dedicated his whole life to praying for the repose of her soul and for a happier rebirth. Herkaimyo(death-name) he inscribed on heavy paper, and wheresoever he went he carried this in a fold of his robe where it crossed his breast. It was, and still is, the custom of theKomusoto perform upon the flute as a devotional exercise at religious services.

As each year came round he always made his way to some tranquil spot and rested from his penitential wanderings on the anniversary of the death of Tama.

Staying in an isolated room he then set up herkaimyoin the alcove, and placing an incense burner before it, kindled the fragrant sticks and kept them alight from sunrise to sunset. Kneeling before this temporary altar he took out his flute, and pouring the passionate breath of his soul into the plaintive, quivering notes, he reverently offered the music to her sweet and tender spirit, remembering the delight she had always taken in those melodies before the blossom of their love had been defrauded of its fruit of consummation by the blighting blast of interference.

Hayashi visits the temple where his lost love was buried, and dedicates his whole life to praying for the repose of her soul.

And gradually, as time went by, the burden of sorrow and the tumult of remorse slipped from his soul, and peace and serenity, the aftermath of suffering, came to him at last.

He roamed all over the country for many years, and finally his journeyings brought him to the mountainous province of Koshu. It was nightfall when he reached the district and he lost his way in the darkness. Worn out with fatigue, he began to wonder where he should pass the night, for no houses were to be seen far or near, and everywhere about him there was nothing but a heaping of hills and a wild loneliness.

For hours he strayed about, when at last, peering into the gloom far up on the mountain side, a solitary light gleamed through the heavy mists. Greatly relieved he hastened towards it.

As soon as he knocked at the outer door of the cottage a ferocious looking man appeared. When the stranger asked for a night's shelter he morosely and silently showed him into the single room which, flanked by a small kitchen, comprised the whole dwelling. Hayashi, furtively gazing round him, noticed that there were no industrial implements to be seen, but that in one corner were standing a sword and a gun.

The host clapped his hands. In answer to the call a young girl of about fifteen years of age appeared. He ordered her to bring the brazier and some food for the guest. Then arming himself with his weapons, he left the house.

The damsel waited on Hayashi attentively, and as she went to and fro from the kitchen she often glanced appealingly at him. Her attitude was that of one frightened in submission, and Hayashi wondered how she came to be there, for, though begrimed with work, he could see that she was fair and comely, and her deportment was superior to her surroundings.

When they were left alone the girl came and knelt before him, and bursting into tears sobbed out "Whoever you may be I warn you to escape while there is yet time. That man whose hospitality you have accepted is a brigand and he will probably kill you in the hope of plunder."

Hayashi, with his heart full of compassion for the young girl, asked her how it was that she came to be living in so wild and desolate a place, and the tale she told him was a pitiful one of wrong.

"My home is in the next province," she said, as she wiped away the tears with her sleeve. "Just after my father's death this robber entered our house and demanded money of my mother. As she had none to give him he carried me away, intending to sell me into slavery. Soon after he brought me to this house, he was wounded on a marauding expedition, and has since been confined to the house for a month. Thus it is that you find me here still. But he is now recovered and able to go out once more. I implore you to take me with you, otherwise I shall never see my mother again and my fate will be unendurable."

Being of a chivalrous nature Hayashi's heart burned within him at the sad plight of the little maid, and catching her up he fled out of the robber's den into the night.

After some time, when well away from the place, he set her down and they walked steadily all night. By dawn they had crossed the boundary of Koshu and entered the neighbouring province. Once on the high road the district was familiar to the girl and she gladly led the way to her own home.

The delight of the sorrowing mother on finding her kidnapped child restored to her was great and unrestrained. She fell at his feet in a passion of gratitude and thanked him again and again.

In the meantime the rescued girl came to thank her deliverer. Hayashi gazed at her in astonishment. Her appearance had undergone an extraordinary transformation. No longer the forlorn, neglected drudge of the day before, a beautiful girl stood before him. And wonder of wonders! She was the living image of what his lost Tama had been years ago. The tide of the past swept over him with its bitter-sweet memories, leaving him speechless and racked with the storm of his feelings. Not only was the likeness forcibly striking, but he also beheld a little mark, the exact replica of the one he so well remembered on Tama's snowy neck.

He had thought that in the long years of hardship and renunciation of the joys of life the tragic love of his youth lay buried, but the shock of the unmistakable resemblance left him trembling.

In a few minutes he was able to control his emotion and the power of speech returned to him.

"Tell me," he said, turning to the mother, "have you not some relatives in Tokyo? Your daughter is like one whom I knew many years ago, but who is now dead."

The woman regarded him searchingly and after a few moments of this close scrutiny, she inquired:

"Are you not Hayashi who lived in Fukagawa fifteen years ago?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question, which showed that his identity was revealed and that she knew of his past. He did not answer but searched his brain, wondering who the woman could possibly be.

Seeing his embarrassment she continued, now and again wiping the tears from her eyes: "When you came to the house I thought that your voice was in some way quite familiar to me, but you are so disguised in your present garb that at first I could not recall who you were.

"Fifteen years ago I served in the house of the rich timber merchant in Fukagawa and often helped O Tama San[4]to meet you in secret, for I felt great sympathy with you both, and if a day passed without her being able to see you, Oh! she was very unhappy. Her parents were furious at the unwise part I had played and I was summarily dismissed. I returned home and was almost immediately married. Within a year I gave birth to a little daughter. The child bore a striking resemblance to my late mistress and I gave her the name of Jewel in remembrance of the beloved charge I had nursed and tended for so many years. As she grew older not only her face and figure, but her voice and her movements all vividly recalled O Tama San. Is not this an affinity of a previous existence that my child should be saved by you who loved the first Tama?"

Then Hayashi, who had listened with rapt attention to the woman's strange story, asked her the date of the infant's birth.

Marvellous to relate it was the very day and hour, for ever indelibly engraven on his memory, that Tama, his first love, had appeared to him on the bank of the Sumida river in the springtide fifteen years ago.

When he told her of this uncanny meeting the woman said that she believed her daughter, the second Tama, to be the re-incarnation of the first Tama. The apparition he had seen was the spirit of his love who had thus announced her rebirth into the world to him. There could be no doubt of this, for had not Tama told him herself that she was on her way to her old nurse. So strong was the affinity that bound them to each other that it had drawn Tama from the spirit-land back to this earth.

"Remember the old proverb,the karma-relation is deep," she added in conclusion.

Later on she besought Hayashi to marry the second Tama, for she believed that only in this way would the soul of the first Tama find rest.

But Hayashi, thinking that the great difference in their present ages was an obstacle to a happy union, refused on the score that he was too old and sad a man to make such a young bride happy. He decided, however, to stay on in the little household for a while, and to give any possible comfort and help to the old nurse whose loyal devotion to her mistress had figured so prominently and fatefully in his past.

Thus several months elapsed, bringing with them great and radical changes in the land. The Restoration came to pass, and the new regime was established with the Emperor instead of the Shogun at the helm of State. Schools were founded all over the country, and amongst many other old institutions the order of theKomusomonks, to which Hayashi belonged, was abolished by an edict of State.

Hayashi, during his stay in the village, had won his way into the hearts of the people and they now begged him to remain as teacher in the new school, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by the classical education he had received from his father. He consented to the proposition which solved the problem of his future, for under the new laws it was forbidden him to return to his old life.

The mayor of the place was also much attracted by Hayashi's superior character and dignity, and learning of the sad and romantic history of his past, and believing, as all Japanese do, in predestined affinities, persuaded him that it was his fate, nay more, a debt he owed to the past, to marry Tama, the second, the re-incarnation of his first love.

The marriage proved a blessed one. The house of Hayashi prospered from that day forth and as children were born to them the joy of their lives was complete.

[1]The old name for Tokyo.

[2]Go, a game played with black and white counters—more complicated than chess.

[3]The sect was introduced from China in the Kamakura epoch (1200-1400), but it never became popular in the land of its adoption. Under the Tokugawa Government (1700-1850) theKomusowere used as national detectives, but the privileges they enjoyed led to the abuse of the order by bad men, and it was abolished at the time of the Restoration. Later on the edict was rescinded, and these men in their strange headgear may be seen to this day fluting their way about the old city of Kyoto.

[4]In speaking women use the polite forms of speech, whereas men drop them. The "O" is the honorific prefix to a woman's name and "San" or "Sama" is the equivalent of Mr. Mrs. or Miss according to the gender of the name. Nowadays high-class women drop the "O" before their individual names, but add "Ko" after them. For instance, the name O Tama San would now be Tama-Ko San.

Many years ago, long before the present prosaic era, there lived in Yedo a young man named Toshika. His family belonged to the aristocratic rank of thehatamoto samurai, those knights who possessed the right to march to battle directly under the Shogun's flag (hata), and his father was a high official in the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Toshika, whose disposition was of a dreamy and indolent nature with scholarly tastes, had no occupation. He took life easily, and when his studies were finished, he went to live at the family villa situated in the suburb of Aoyama.

Toshika was not interested in society, and except for an occasional visit to his home or to his favourite friend, he never went anywhere. Far from the world he spent his days quietly and pleasantly, reading books, tending and watering his flowers, practising the tea-ceremony, and composing poetry and playing on the flute. He was a young man of many accomplishments and studied art. He collected curios and specimens of well-known calligraphy, which all Japanese prize greatly, and he particularly delighted in pictures.

One day a certain friend whom Toshika had not seen for several months, came to call upon him. He had just returned from a visit to the seaport of Nagasaki and knowing the young man's tastes had brought with him, as a present, a Chinese drawing of a beautiful woman, which he begged Toshika to accept.

Toshika was very pleased with this acquisition to his treasures. He examined the painting carefully, and though he could find no signature of the artist, his knowledge of the subject told him that it was probably drawn by the well-known Chinese painter of theShinera.

It was the portrait of a young woman in the prime of youth, and Toshika felt intuitively that it was a real likeness. The face was one of radiant loveliness, and the longer he gazed at it, the more the charm and fascination of it grew upon him. He carried it to his own room and hung it up in the alcove. Whenever he felt lonely he retired to the solitude of his chamber, and sat for hours before the drawing, looking at it and even addressing it. As the days went by, gradually the picture seemed to glow with life and Toshika began to think of it as a person. He wondered who the original of the portrait could have been, and said that he envied the artist who had been granted the happiness of looking upon her beauty.

Daily the figure seemed more alive and the face more exquisite, and Toshika, as he gazed in rapture upon it, longed to know its history. The haunting pathos of the expression and the speaking wistfulness of the dark soft eyes called to his heart like music and gave him no peace.

Toshika, in fact, became enamoured of the lovely image suspended in the alcove, and as the infatuation grew upon him he placed fresh flowers before it, changing them daily. At night he had his quilts[1]so arranged that the last thing he looked upon before closing his eyes in sleep was the lady of the picture.

Toshika had read many strange stories of the supernatural power of great artists. He knew that they were able to paint the minds of the originals into their portraits, whether of human beings or of creatures, so that through the spiritual force of the merit of their skill the pictures became endowed with life.

As the passion grew upon him the young lover believed that the spirit of the woman whom the portrait represented actually lived in the picture. As this thought formed itself in his mind he fancied that he could see the gentle rise and fall of her breast in breathing, and that her pretty lips, bright as the scarlet pomegranate bud, appeared to move as if about to speak to him.

One evening he was so filled with the sense of the reality of her presence that he sat down and composed a Chinese poem in praise of her beauty.

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

Thy beauty, sweet, is like the sun-flower:[2]The crescent moon of three nights old thy arched brows:Thy lips the cherry's dewy petals at flush of dawn:Twin flakes of fresh-fallen snow thy dainty hands.Blue-black, as raven's wing, thy clustering hair:And as the sun half peers through rifts of cloud,Gleams through thy robes the wonder of thy form..Thy cheeks' dear freshness do bewilder me,So pure, so delicate, rose-misted ivory:And, like a sharp sword, pierce my breastThe glamour of thy dark eyes' messages.Ah, as I gaze upon thy pictured formI feel therein thy spirit is enshrined,Surely thou liv'st and know'st my love for thee!The one who unawares so dear a gift bestowedWas verily the gods' own messengerAnd sent by Heaven to link our souls in one.'Tis sad that thou wert borne from thine own distant landFar from thy race, and all who cherished thee;Thy heart must lonely pine so far away,In sooth thou need'st a mate to love and cherish thee.But sorrow not, my picture love,For Time's care-laden wings will never dim thy browFrom poisoned darts of Fate so placidly immune;Anguish and grief will ne'er corrode thy heart,And never will thy beauty suffer change:While earthly beings wither and decaySickness and care will ever pass thee by,For Art can grant where Love is impotent,And dowers thee with immortality.Ah me! could the high gods but grant the prayerOf my wild heart, and passionate desire!Step down from out thy cloistered niche,Step down from out thy picture on the wall!My soul is thirsting for thy presence fairTo crown my days with rapture—be my wife!How swift the winged hours would then pass byIn bliss complete, and lovers' ecstasy:My life, dear queen, I dedicate to thee,Ah! make it thus a thousand lives to me![3]

Toshika smiled to himself at the wild impossibility of his own chimera. Such a hope as he had breathed to her and to himself belonged to the realm of reverie, and not to the hard world of everyday life. Supposing that beautiful creature to have ever lived and the portrait to be a true likeness of her, she must have died ages ago, long before ever he was born.

However, having written the poem carefully, he placed it above the scroll and read it aloud, apostrophizing the lady of the picture.

It was the delicious season of spring, and Toshika sat with the sliding screens open to the garden. The fragrance of peach blossoms was wafted into the room by the breath of a gentle wind, and as the light of day faded into a soft twilight, over the quiet and secluded scene a crescent moon shed her tender jewel-bright radiance.

Toshika felt unaccountably happy, he could not tell why and sat alone, reading and thinking deep into the night.

Suddenly, in the stillness of the midnight, a rustle behind him in the alcove caused him to turn round quickly.

What was his breathless amazement to see that the picture had actually taken life. The beautiful woman he so much admired detached herself from the paper on which she was depicted, stepped down on to the mats, and came gliding lightly towards him. He scarcely dared to breathe. Nearer and nearer she approached till she knelt opposite to where he sat by his desk. Saluting him she bowed profoundly.

The ravishment of her beauty and her charm held him speechless. He could not but look at her, for she was lovelier than anyone he had ever seen.

At last she spoke, and her voice sounded to him like the low, clear notes of the nightingale warbling in the plum-blossom groves at twilight.

"I have come to thank you for your love and devotion. Such a useless, ugly[4]creature as myself ought not to be so audacious as to appear before you, but the virtue of your poem was irresistible and drew me forth. I was so moved by your sympathy that I felt I must tell you in person of my gratitude for all your care and thought of me. If you really think of me as you have written, let me stay with you always."

Toshika rejoiced greatly when he heard these words. He put out his hand and taking hers said, "Ever since you came here I have loved you dearly. Consent to be my wife and we shall be happy evermore. Tell me your name and who you are and where you come from."

She answered with a smile inexpressibly sweet, while the tears glistened in her eyes.

"My name is Shorei (Little Beauty). My father's name is Sai. He was descended from the famous Kinkei. We lived in China at a place called Kinyo. One day, when I was eighteen years of age, bandits came and made a raid on our village and, with other fair women, carried me away. Thus I was separated from my parents and never saw them more. For many months I was carried from place to place and led a wandering life. Then, alas! who could have foretold it, I was seized by bad men and sold into slavery. The sorrow, the anguish and the horror I suffered in my helpless misery and homesickness you can never know. I longed every hour of the day for some tidings of my parents, for even now, I do not know what became of them. One day an artist came to the house of my captivity and looking at all the women there, he praised my face and described me as the Moon among the Stars. And he painted my picture and showed it to all his friends. In that way I became famous, for everyone talked of my beauty and came to see me. But I could not bear my life, and being delicate, my unhappy lot and the uncertainty of my father's and mother's fate preyed upon my mind, so that I sickened and died in six months. This is the whole of my sad history. And now I have come to your country and to you. This must be because of a predestined affinity between us."

The young man's heart was filled with compassion as he listened to the sorrowful tale of the unfortunate woman, who had told him all her woes.

He felt that he loved her more than ever and that he must make up with his devotion for all the wretchedness she had suffered in the past.

They then began to compose poems together, and Toshika found that Shorei had had a literary education, that she was an adept in calligraphy and every kind of poetical composition. And his heart was filled with a great gladness that he had found a companion after his own heart.

They both became intensely interested in their poetical contest and as they composed they read their compositions aloud in turn, comparing and criticizing each other. At last, while Toshika was in the act of reciting a poem to Shorei, he suddenly awoke and found that he had been dreaming.

Unable to believe that his delightful experiences were but the memories of sleep he turned to the alcove. His cherished picture was hanging there and the lovely figure was limned as usual in living lines upon the paper. Was it all a delusion? As he watched the exquisite face before him, recalling with questioning wonder the events of the evening before, behold! the sweet mouth smiled at him, just as Shorei had smiled in his vision. Impatiently he waited for the darkness, hoping that sleep would again bring Shorei to his side. Night after night she came to him in his dreams, but of his happy adventure he spoke to none. He believed that in some miraculous way the power of poetry had evoked the spirit of the portrait. Centuries ago this ill-fated woman had lived and died an untimely death, and his love led her back to earth through the medium of an artist's skill and his own verse. Six months passed and Toshika desired nothing more in life than to possess Shorei as his bride for all the years to come.

When I was eighteen years of age, bandits ... made a raid on one village and ... carried me away.

He never dreamed of change, but at last, one night, Shorei came looking very sad. She sat by his desk as was her wont, but instead of conversing or composing she began to weep.

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

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

"Ah, it is not that," answered Shorei, hiding her face in her sleeve and sobbing; "never have I dreamed of such happiness as you have given me. It is because we are so happy that I cannot bear the pain of separation for a single night. But I must now leave you, alas! Our affinity in this world has come to an end."

Toshika could hardly believe her words. He looked at her in great distress as he asked:

"Why must we part? You are my wife and I will never marry any other woman. Tell me why you speak of parting?"

"To-morrow you will understand," she answered mysteriously. "We may meet no more now, but if you do not forget me I may see you again ere long."

Toshika had put out a hand and made as if to detain her, but she had risen and was gliding towards the alcove, and while he imploringly gazed at her she gradually faded from his sight and was gone.

Words cannot describe Toshika's despair. He felt that all the joy of life went with Shorei, and he could not endure the idea of living without her.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked round the room. He heard the sparrows twittering on the roof, and in the light of dawn, as he thought, the night-lantern's flame dwindled to a fire-fly's spark.

He rose and rolled back the wooden storm-doors which shut the house in completely at night, and found that he had slept late, that the sun was already high in the heavens.

Listlessly he performed his toilet, listlessly he took his meal, and his old servants anxiously went about their work, fearing that their master was ill.

In the afternoon a friend came to call on Toshika. After exchanging the usual formalities on meeting, the visitor suddenly said:

"You are now of an age to marry. Will you not take a bride? I know of a lovely girl who would just suit you, and I have come to consult with you on the matter."

Toshika politely but firmly excused himself. "Do not trouble yourself on my account, I pray you! I have not the slightest intention of marrying any woman at present, thank you," and he shook his head with determination.

The would-be go-between saw from the expression of Toshika's face that there was little hope in pressing his suit that day, so after a few commonplace remarks he took his leave and went home.

No sooner had the friend departed than Toshika's mother arrived. She, as usual, brought many gifts of things that she knew he liked, boxes of his favourite cakes and silk clothes for the spring season. Grateful for all her love and care, he thanked her affectionately and tried to appear bright and cheerful during her visit. But his heart was aching, and he could think of nothing but of the loss of Shorei, wondering if her farewell was final, or whether, as she vaguely hinted, she would come to him again. He said to himself that to hold her in his arms but once again he would gladly give the rest of his life.

His mother noticed his preoccupation and looked at him anxiously many times. At last she dropped her voice and said:

"Toshika, listen to me! Your father and I both think that you have arrived at an age when you ought to marry. You are our eldest son, and before we die we wish to see your son, and to feel sure that the family name will be carried on as it should be. We know of a beautiful girl who will make a perfect wife for you. She is the daughter of an old friend, and her parents are willing to give her to you. We only want your consent to the arrangement of the marriage."

Toshika, as his mother unfolded the object of her visit, understood the meaning of Shorei's warning, and said to himself:

"Ah, this is what Shorei meant—she foresaw my marriage, for she said that to-day I should understand; but she pledged herself at the same time to see me again—it is all very strange!"

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

She returned home delighted. She had had little doubt of her son's conformance to his parents' wishes, for he had always been of a tractable disposition. In anticipation, therefore, of his consent to the marriage, she had already bought the necessary betrothal presents, and the very next day these were exchanged between the two families.

Toshika, in the meantime, watched the picture day by day. This was his only consolation, for Shorei, his beloved, visited him no more in his dreams. His life was desolate without her and his heart yearned for her sweet presence. Had it not been for her promise to come to him again he knew that he would not care to live. He felt, however, that she still loved him and in some way or other would keep her promise to him, and for this waited. Of his approaching marriage he did not dare to think. He was a filial son, and knew that he must fulfil his duty to his parents and to the family.

When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was ... the lady-love of his picture

As the days went by Toshika noticed that the picture lost by degrees its wonderful vitality. Slowly from the face the winning expression and from the figure the tints of life faded out, till at last the drawing became just like an ordinary picture. But he was left no time to pine over the mystery of the change, for a summons from his mother called him home to prepare for the marriage. He found the whole household teeming with the importance of the approaching event. At last the momentous day dawned.

His mother, proud of the product of her looms, set out in array his wedding robes, handwoven by herself. He donned them as in a dream, and then received the congratulations of his relatives and retainers and servants.

In those old days the bride and bridegroom never saw each other till the wedding ceremony. When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was no stranger but the lady-love of his picture, the very same woman he had already taken to wife in his dream life.

And yet she was not quite the same, for when Toshika, a few days later, joyfully led her to his own home and compared her with the portrait, she was even ten times more beautiful.

[1]The floor of the Japanese room is padded with special grass mats over two inches thick. On these the bed quilts are laid out at night and packed away in cupboards in the daytime.

[2]Prumus Umé, or Plum blossom, the Japanese symbol of womanly virtue and beauty.

[3]Rendered into English verse by my friend, Countess Iso-ko-Mutsu.

[4]It is a Japanese custom for a woman to speak thus depreciatingly of herself.

Urasato's escape from the Yamana-Ya

Urasato and Tokijiro are lovers. The child, Midori, is born of thisliaison. Tokijiro is asamuraiin the service of a Daimyo, and has charge of his lord's treasure department. He is a careless young man of a wild-oat-sowing disposition, and while entirely absorbed in this love affair with Urasato, a valuablekakemono, one of the Daimyo's heirlooms, is stolen. The loss is discovered and Tokijiro, who is held responsible, dismissed.

To give Tokijiro the means of livelihood so that he may pursue the quest of the lost treasure, Urasato sells herself to a house of ill-fame, the Yamana-Ya by name, taking with her the child Midori, who is ignorant of her parentage. Kambei, the knave of a proprietor, is evidently a curio collector, and it is to be gathered from the context that the unfortunate young couple have some suspicion—afterwards justified—that by some means or other he has obtained possession of thekakemono—hence Urasato's choice of that particular house.

Tokijiro's one idea is to rescue Urasato, to whom he is devoted, but for lack of money he cannot visit her openly, and Kambei, seeing in him an unprofitable customer, and uneasy about the picture, for which he knows Tokijiro to be searching, forbade him the house, and persecutes Urasato and Midori to find out his whereabouts, in order, probably, that he may have him quietly put out of the way.

As in all these old love stories the hero is depicted as a weak character, for love of women was supposed to have an effeminizing and debasing effect on men and was greatly discouraged among thesamuraiby the feudal Daimyo of the martial provinces. On the other hand, the woman, though lost, having cast herself on the altar of what she considers her duty—the Moloch of Japan—often rises to sublime heights of heroism and self-abnegation, a paradox only found, it is said, in these social conditions of Japan. Urasato reminds one of the beautiful simile of the lotus that raises its head of dazzling bloom out of the slime of the pond—so tender are her sentiments, so strong and so faithful in character is she, in the midst of misery and horror.

This recitation, freely rendered into English from the chanted drama, tells the story of Urasato's incarceration, of the lover's stolen interviews, of the inadvertent finding of the picture, and of Urasato's and Midori's final escape from the dread Yamana-Ya.

The darkness was falling with the tender luminosity of an eastern twilight over the house; the sky was softly clouding, and a gentle wind sprang up and sighed through the pine-trees like a lullaby—the hush that comes at the end of the day with its promise of rest was over all the world, but in spite of the peaceful aspect of nature and of her surroundings, Urasato, as she came from her bath robed incrêpeand silken daintiness, felt very unhappy. To her world the night brought no peace or rest, only accumulated wretchedness and woe.

Midori, her little handmaid, followed her fair mistress upstairs, and as Urasato languidly pushed open the sliding screens of her room and sank upon the mats, Midori fetched the tobacco tray with its tiny lacquer chest and miniature brazier all aglow, and placed it by her side.

Urasato took up her little pipe, and with the weed of forgetfulness lulled for a while the pain of longing and loneliness which filled her heart. As she put the tobacco in the tiny pipe-bowl and smoked it in one or two whiffs and then refilled it again, the tap, tap of the pipe on the tray as she emptied the ashes were the only sounds, interluded with sighs that broke the stillness. "Kachi," "Kachi," "Kachi" sounded the little pipe.

Tokijiro, waiting hopelessly outside the fence in the cold, could not so forget his misery. He kept in the shadow so as not to be seen by the other inmates of the house, for if he were discovered he would lose all chance of seeing Urasato that evening and, perhaps, for ever. What might happen if these secret visits were discovered he dared not think. To catch one glimpse of her he loved he had come far through the snow, and after losing his way and wandering about for hours, he now found himself outside the house, and waited, tired and cold and miserable, by the bamboo fence.

"Life," said Tokijiro, speaking to himself, "is full of change like a running stream. Some time ago I lost one of my lord's treasures, an old and valuablekakemonoof a drawing of agaryobai(a plum-tree trained in the shape of a dragon). I ought to have taken more care of the property entrusted to me. I was accused of carelessness and dismissed. Secretly I am searching for it, but till now I have found no clue of the picture. I have even brought my troubles to Urasato, and made her unhappy about the lost treasure. Alas! I cannot bear to live longer. If I cannot see Urasato I will at least look upon little Midori's face once more and then take leave of this life for ever. The more I think, the more our mutual vows seem hopeless. My love for this imprisoned flower has become deeper and deeper, and now, alas! I cannot see her more. Such is this world of pain!"

While Tokijiro thus soliloquized outside in the snow, Urasato in the room was speaking to her child-attendant, Midori.

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

"You need have no anxiety about that, I gave it myself to Toki Sama,"[2]answered Midori.

"Hush," said Urasato, "you must not talk so loudly—some one might overhear you!"

"All right," whispered the little girl, obediently. Leaving Urasato's side she walked over to the balcony and looking down into the garden she caught sight of Tokijiro standing outside the fence.

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

When Urasato heard these words joy filled her breast, a smile spread over her sad face, her languor vanished, and rising quickly from her seat on the mats, she glided to the balcony and placing her hands on the rail leaned far out so that she could see Tokijiro.

"Oh! Tokijiro San," she exclaimed, "you have come again at last, how glad I am to see you!"

Tokijiro, on hearing her voice calling him, looked up through the pine branches and the tears sprang to his eyes at sight of her, for into the depths of love their hearts sank always deeper and the two were fettered each to each with that bond of illusion which is stronger than the threat of hell or the promise of heaven.

"Oh!" said Urasato, sadly, "what can I have done in a former life that this should be insupportable without the sight of you? The desire to see you only increases in the darkness of love. At first, a tenderness, it spread through my whole being, and now I love—I love. The things I would tell you are as great in number as the teeth of my comb, but I cannot say them to you at this distance. When you are absent I must sleep alone, instead of your arm my hand the only pillow, while my pillow is wet with tears longing for you,—if only it were the pillow ofKantan[3]I could at least dream that you were by my side. Poor comfort 'tis for love to live on dreams!"

As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony, the picture of youth, grace and beauty, her figure supple and fragile as a willow branch wafted to and fro by a summer breeze, and about her an air of the wistful sadness of the rains of early spring.

Back to Index Next