Idé the samurai was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse. Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she, unchanging and enduring.
In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of Idé’s clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one battle. The sword was Idé’s most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away in a safe place with his household gods.
Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.
Morning and evening, “Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse,” said Fugiwaka.
And O Matsu made answer, “Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you.”
Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.
At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:
Then O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”
And the child answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”
“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”
“Sleeping or waking, I will remember,” said Fugiwaka.
Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the samurai took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.
Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.
“My child is a beggar,” she said. “Fugiwaka is chief of the House of Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much,” said the proud lady. “I will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with my hands....” Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a plan.
When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup nor a gold piece to see him on his way.
“Ah, lady mother,” he said, “you use me ill. Why do you take my birthright?”
“I know nought of birthrights,” she said. “Go, make your own fortune if you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé.”
With that she bade them shut the door in his face.
Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.
“My lord,” she said, “I am come to follow you to the world’s end.”
Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman’s breast.
“Ah,” he said, “my nurse, my nurse! And,” he said, “what of my father’s sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure, the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am undone, and so is all the House of Idé!”
“Oh, say not so, my lord,” said O Matsu. “Here is gold; go you your way and I will return and guard the sword of Idé.”
So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.
As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young lord.
But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.
“It is the nurse!” she cried. “The nurse has stolen it.... Some of you bring her to me.”
Then the Lady Sadako’s people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu’s lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.
“The woman is obstinate,” she said. “No matter; for such a fault I know the sovereign cure.”
So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.
“Well,” she said, “where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?”
But O Matsu answered not a word.
Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness—“Alas! Alas! never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of Idé, and I shall find a way.”
Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow steps faltered.
“Why, this is strange!” said the Lady Sadako. “Here is O Matsu, that was locked in the dark dungeon.” And she sat still, watching.
But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom with a loud cry.
“Woman, I have you now,” shrieked the Lady Sadako, “and the sword of Idé as well!” And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed. She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.
“Send me the Wise Woman,” said the Lady Sadako.
So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, “How long has she been dead?”
The Wise Woman said, “She was starved to death; she has been dead two days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul.”
As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.
Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then he was soothed.
O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”
And he answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”
“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”
The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by Fugiwaka’s side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the sword of Idé.
“Waking or sleeping,” he said, “I will remember.”
This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a geisha, born a samurai’s daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that bought her was called Namida no Kané, that is “the money of tears.”
She dwelt in the narrow street of the geisha, where the red and white lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street of the geisha is full of music, for they play the samisen there all day long.
Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She played the samisen, the kotto, the biwa, and the small hand-drum. She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand upon the gallery of her mistress’s house, and muse as she stood and looked down into the street of the geisha. And the folk that passed that way said to one another, “See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the geisha without peer.”
But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, “Little narrow street of the geisha, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears.”
The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead, and gilded her lips with beni. She wore silk attires, gold and purple and grey and green and black, obi of brocade magnificently tied. Her hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer and tortoise-shell. She poured saké, she made merry with the good company. More than this, she danced.
Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, “She is lighter than the rainbow-tinted dragonfly.”
And another said, “She moves like the mist of the morning when the bright sun shines.”
And the third said, “She is like the shadow in the river of the waving willow-branch.”
But it is time to tell of her three lovers.
The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the geisha with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.
“You are wrong, fellow,” she said, “you have lost your way. You should have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll; let him know there are no dolls here.”
After this the master came himself. “Come to me, O Flower of the Cherry,” he said, “for I must have you.”
“Must?” she said, and looked down with her long eyes.
“Aye,” he said, “must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry.”
“What will you give me?” she said.
“Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries; servants to wait on you, gold hairpins—what you will.”
“What do I give you?” she said.
“Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry.”
“Body and soul?” she said.
And he answered her, “Body and soul.”
“Now, fare you well,” she said, “I have a fancy to remain a geisha. It is a merry life,” she said, and she laughed.
So that was the end of the first lover.
The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was old and foolish. “Sakura-ko,” he cried, “ah, cruel one, I am mad for love of you!”
“My lord,” she said, “I can easily believe it.”
He said, “I am not so very old.”
“By the divine compassion of the gods,” she told him, “you may yet have time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law.” But the old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet hakama and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And the geisha who poured the saké was called Silver Wave.
When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her to him and cried:
“Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences; there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together. Come with me to the Meido.”
But Sakura-ko said, “My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children, neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no saké and no poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die.”
He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.
“Alas! alas!” cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver Wave, gave her counsel thus: “Keep your tears, you will yet have cause for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he.”
And that was the end of the second lover.
The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival in his father’s house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street of the geisha. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing of her mistress’s house.
She looked down into the street of the geisha and sang this song:
When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Do you remember me,” he said, “O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last night at my father’s house.”
“Aye, my young lord,” she answered him, “I remember you very well.”
He said, “I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife.”
At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.
“My dear,” said the young man, “now you are Flower of the Cherry indeed.”
“Child,” she said, “go home and think of me no more. I am too old for such as you.”
“Old!” he said; “why, there lies not a year between us!”
“No, not a year—no year, but an eternity,” said Flower of the Cherry. “Think no more of me,” she said; but the lover thought of nothing else. His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the geisha. Sakura-ko came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him. She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of them.
“This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods,” said Flower of the Cherry one evening.
“My dear,” the young man bade her, “fetch hither your samisen and let me hear you sing.”
So she did. She said, “I shall sing you a song you have heard already.”
“Sweet,” he said, “what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?”
She answered, “My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire.”
He said, “I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences.”
She smiled, “Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children.”
He cried, “No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the Cherry.”
“The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us.”
The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more—Sakura-ko, the beautiful dancer.
And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted, and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time dries all tears.
Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father’s house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into her begging bowl, but the child said, “Let me give.”
So he did as he would.
As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and looked into his eyes.
“Holy nun, why do you look at me so?” cried the child.
She said, “Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and left him.”
“Poor little boy!” said the child.
“It was better for him, my dear, my dear—far, far better.”
And when she had said this, she went her way.
In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor. Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet, the poor old creatures.
But they did not complain, not a bit of it. They were merry as the day is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful, good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.
While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.
“What can the dog be about now?” says the old woman.
“Oh, just nothing at all,” says the old man; “he’s playing.”
“It’s more than playing,” says the old woman. “It’s my belief he’s found something worth having.”
So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.
It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and barked.
Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it. They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day nor rest at night.
At last the bad old man came to the good old man.
“I’ve come to ask for the loan of your dog,” he says.
“With all my heart,” says the good old man; “take him and welcome.”
So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.
“Honourable Dog,” they said, “you are good and wise, eat and afterwards find us treasure.”
But the dog would not eat.
“All the more left for us,” said the greedy old couple, and they ate up the dog’s supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.
“The devil’s in the beast,” cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his paws.
“Oho! Oho!” says the bad old man to his wife, “now for the treasure.”
But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses with their sleeves.
“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the dog has deceived us.” And that very night they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.
Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled flowers and strewed them on the poor dog’s grave. They burned incense and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from them comforted the poor dog’s spirit.
Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.
“Wonder of wonders,” cried the old woman, who was looking on, “wonder of wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!”
So it was sure enough.
Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.
“For I’m needing a mortar something very special,” says he.
“Take it,” says the good old man; “I’m sure you’re welcome.”
So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life’s sake.
“Do you see any gold coming?” he says to his wife, who was looking on.
“Never a bit,” she says, “but the rice looks queer.”
Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.
“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the mortar has deceived us.” And they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.
Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.
Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.
What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.
“It will do,” says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince’s palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.
“Who are you?” they ask him.
“I am Hana-saka-jiji,” says the old man, “the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince.”
Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.
“Why,” he said, “it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring.” And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of Hana-saka-jiji. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.
Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.
They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:
“We are the Hana-saka-jiji. We can make dead trees blossom.”
Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.
But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the Prince’s eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways. Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all their days.
There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in their old age, poor souls.
Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town, and thus he gained his humble living.
Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite wearied out. He took his blue tenegui and wiped his forehead, “Alack for my old bones!” he said. “I am not so young as I once was, nor the good wife either, and there’s no chick nor child to help us in our old age, more’s the pity.” He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.
Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.
“What is this?” said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady enough in the bamboo grove. “Is it the sun?” said Také Tori. “No, that cannot well be, for it comes from the ground.” Very soon he pushed his way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from. Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.
“Wonder of wonders!” cried Také Tori. “Wonder of wonders! For five-and-thirty years I’ve cut bamboo. This is the very first time I’ve found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them.” With that he takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts in two with a loud noise, if you’ll believe it, and out of it came a young person and stood on Také Tori’s hand.
You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She was dressed all in green silk.
“Greetings to you, Také Tori,” she says, as easy as you please.
“Mercy me!” says Také Tori. “Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you’ll be a fairy,” he says, “if I’m not making too bold in asking?”
“You’re right,” she says, “it’s a fairy I am, and I’m come to live with you and your good wife for a little.”
“Well, now,” says Také Tori, “begging your pardon, we’re very poor. Our cottage is good enough, but I’m afraid there’d be no comforts for a lady like you.”
“Where’s the big green jewel?” says the fairy.
Take Tori picks up the two halves. “Why, it’s full of gold pieces,” he says.
“That will do to go on with,” says the fairy; “and now, Také Tori, let us make for home.”
Home they went. “Wife! wife!” cried Také Tori, “here’s a fairy come to live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a persimmon, full of gold pieces.”
The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her eyes.
“What is this,” she said, “about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons I have seen often enough—moreover, it is the season—but gold pieces are hard to come by.”
“Let be, woman,” said Také Tori, “you are dull.” And he brought the fairy into the house.
Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night. Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out of the shining jewel.
Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich, and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.
But she would have none of them. “Také Tori and the dear good wife are my true lovers,” she said; “I will live with them and be their daughter.”
So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.
“Lady,” he said, “I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be my Queen.”
Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes, and she hid her face with her sleeve.
“Lord, I cannot,” she said.
“Cannot?” said the Mikado; “and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?”
“Wait and see, lord,” she said.
Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori’s house. There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.
“How bright the moon shines!” said Také Tori.
“Truly,” said the good wife, “it is like a brass saucepan well scoured.”
“See how pale and wan it is,” said the Mikado; “it is like a sad despairing lover.”
“How long and bright a beam!” quoth Také Tori. “It is like a highway from the moon reaching to this garden gallery.”
“O dear foster-father,” cried the Lady Beaming Bright. “You speak truth, it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I am sad at parting.”
“The mist descends,” said Také Tori.
“Nay,” said the Mikado, “it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon.”
Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches. Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.
“Farewell, Také Tori,” she said, “farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave you my jewel for a remembrance.... As for you, my lord, I would you might come with me—but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the Immortals.”
Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more seen.
The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to consume the elixir of life, for he said, “Of what profit shall it be to me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?”
So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to Heaven. And the Mikado said, “Let my message float up with the vapour and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright.”
The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor. Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.
“I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady,” Tatewaki said to himself. “The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a child as she.”
So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden. “Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”
The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.
“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”
“Your mistress?” said Tatewaki.
“Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come.”
“Because I am come?”
“Indeed, and indeed the time has been long,” said the serving-maid; “but now she will think no more of that.”
“Will she not?” said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden’s side, walking as one in a dream.
Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.
“Here dwells my mistress,” said the serving-maid. And they went into the garden through the wicket-gate.
Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing upon the threshold waiting.
She said, “You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort.”
And he answered, “I have come.”
When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her since love was.
“O love, love,” he murmured, “time is not for such as we.”
Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.
Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.
Here the two held converse together.
And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with saké in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the “Three Times Three” together. When they had done this the lady said, “Love, let us go out into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an emerald....”
So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them. Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a sign of them was left.
“Alas! what is this?” cried Tatewaki.
“Let be, dear love,” said the lady, and smiled; “they pass, for we have no more need of them.”
Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor. And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other’s eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one deep sigh.
Tatewaki said, “Lady, why do you sigh?”
And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love’s arm, and she said, “O love, we part: these are the years until we meet again.” So she touched the golden circles on his arm.
Then Tatewaki cried aloud, “O love, who are you? Tell me your name....”
She said, “O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?... I go to my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there.... Wait for me.”
And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.
When the sun was up he arose.
“The plains,” he said, “the low plains ... there will I find her.” So, with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers, the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:
“Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them. Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed.”
And Tatewaki cried, “May the Souls have sweet passage.... I cannot stay.”
So he came to the plains at last, but did not find his lady. Nothing at all did he find, but a wilderness of ancient graves, with nettles overgrown and the waving green grass.
So Tatewaki went to his own place, and for nine long years he lived a lonely man. The happiness of home and little children he never knew.
“Ah, love,” he said, “not patiently, not patiently, I wait for you.... Love, delay not your coming.”
And when the nine years were past he was in his garden upon the Night of Souls. And looking up he saw a woman that came towards him, threading her way through the paths of the garden. Lightly she came; she was a slender girl, dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Tatewaki stood up and spoke:
“Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”
The maid turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips:
“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”
“Will she be glad?” said Tatewaki.
“The time has been long.”
“Long and very weary,” said Tatewaki.
“But now you will think no more of that....”
“Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki. “Guide me, for I cannot see any more. Hold me, for my limbs fail. Do not leave go my hand, for I am afraid. Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki.
In the morning his servants found him cold and dead, quietly lying in the shade of the garden trees.
There was a wandering ballad-singer who came to a great house in Yedo where they wished to be entertained.
“Will you have a dance or a song?” said the ballad-singer; “or shall I tell you a story?” The people of the house bade him tell a story.
“Shall it be a tale of love or a tale of war?” said the ballad-singer.
“Oh, a tale of love,” they said.
“Will you have a sad tale or a merry?” asked the ballad-singer.
They were all agreed that they would hear a sad tale.
“Well, then,” said the ballad-singer, “listen, and I will tell you the sad story of the Yaoya’s daughter.”
So he told this tale.
The Yaoya was a poor hard-working man, but his daughter was the sweetest thing in Yedo. You must know she was one of the five beauties of the city, that grew like five cherry-trees in the time of the spring blossoming.
In autumn the hunters lure the wild deer with the sound of the flute. The deer are deceived, for they believe that they hear the voices of their mates. So are they trapped and slain. For like calls to like. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.
When there was a great fire in Yedo, so great that more than the half of the city was burned, the Yaoya’s house was ruined also. And the Yaoya and his wife and his daughter had no roof over them, nor anywhere to lay their heads. So they went to a Buddhist temple for shelter and stayed there many days, till their house should be rebuilt. Ah me, for the Yaoya’s daughter! Every morning at sunrise she bathed in the spring of clean water that was near the temple. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks ruddy. Then she would put on her blue gown and sit by the water-side to comb her long hair. She was a sweet and slender thing, scarce fifteen years old. Her name was O Schichi.
“Sweep the temple and the temple courts,” her father bade her. “’Tis well we should do so much for the good priests who give us shelter.” So O Schichi took the broom and swept. And as she laboured she sang merrily, and the grey precincts of the temple grew bright.
Now there was a young acolyte who served in the holy place. Gentle he was and beautiful. Not a day passed but he heard the singing of O Schichi; not a day passed but he set eyes upon her, going her ways, so light and slender, in the ancient courts of the temple.
It was not long before he loved her. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. It was not long before she loved him.
Secretly they met together in the temple grove. Hand in hand they went, her head against his arm.
“Ah,” she cried, “that such a thing should be! I am happy and unhappy. Why do I love you, my own?”
“Because of the power of Karma,” said the acolyte. “Nevertheless, we sin, O heart’s desire, grievously we sin, and I know not what may come of it.”
“Alas,” she said, “will the gods be angry with us, and we so young?”
“I cannot tell,” he said; “but I am afraid.”
Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping. But they pledged themselves to each other for the space of many existences.
The Yaoya had his dwelling in the quarter of the city called Honjo, and presently his house was rebuilt which had been destroyed by the fire. He and his wife were glad, for they said, “Now we shall go home.”
O Schichi hid her face with her sleeve and wept bitter tears.
“Child, what ails you?” said her mother.
O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.
“Why, maid, what is it?” said her father.
Still O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.
That night she went to the grove. There was the acolyte, very pale and sorrowful, beneath the trees.
“They will part us,” she cried, “O my dear heart’s desire. The dear gods are angry with us, and we so young.”
“Ah,” he said, “I was afraid.... Farewell, dear maid, O little maid, sweet and slender. Remember we are pledged to one another for the space of many existences.”
Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping, and they bade farewell a thousand times.
The next day they bore O Schichi home to Honjo. She grew languid and listless. White she grew, white as the buckwheat flower. She drooped and she failed. No longer was she numbered with the five beauties of Yedo, nor likened to a cherry-tree in the time of the spring blossoming. All the day long she brooded silently. At night she lay awake in her low bed.
“Oh! oh!” she moaned, “the weary, weary night! Shall I never see him? Must I die of longing? Oh! oh! the weary, weary night....”
Her eyes grew large and burning bright.
“Alas! poor maid,” said her father.
“I am afraid ...” said her mother. “She will lose her wits.... She does not weep any more.”
At last O Schichi arose and took straw and made it into a bundle; and she put charcoal in the bundle and laid it beneath the gallery of her father’s house. Then she set fire to the straw and the charcoal, and the whole burnt merrily. Furthermore the wood of her father’s house took light and the house was burnt to the ground.
“I shall see him; I shall see him!” shrieked O Schichi, and fell in a swoon.
Howbeit all the city knew that she had set fire to her father’s house. So she was taken before the judge to be tried for her wrong-doing.
“Child,” said the judge, “what made you do this thing?”
“I was mad,” she said, “I did it for love’s sake. I said, ‘I will burn the house, we shall have nowhere to lay our heads, then we shall take shelter at the temple; I will see my lover.’ Lord, I have not seen him nor heard of him these many, many moons.”
“Who is your lover?” said the judge.
Then she told him.
Now as for the law of the city, it was hard and could not be altered. Death was the penalty for the crime of the Yaoya’s daughter. Only a child might escape.
“My little maid,” the judge said, “are you perhaps twelve years old?”
“Nay, lord,” she answered.
“Thirteen, then, or fourteen? The gods send you may be fourteen. You are little and slender.”
“Lord,” she said, “I am fifteen.”
“Alas, my poor maid,” said the judge, “you are all too old.”
So they made her stand upon the bridge of Nihonbashi. And they told her story aloud; they called it from the house-tops so that all might hear. There she was for all the world to look upon.
Every day for seven days she stood upon the bridge of Nihonbashi, and drooped in the glare of the sun and of men’s glances. Her face was white as the flower of the buckwheat. Her eyes were wide and burning bright. She was the most piteous thing under the sky. The tender-hearted wept to see her. They said, “Is this the Yaoya’s daughter that was one of the five beauties of Yedo?”
After the seven days were passed they bound O Schichi to a stake, and they piled faggots of wood about her and set the faggots alight. Soon the thick smoke rose.
“It was all for love,” she cried with a loud voice. And when she had said this, she died.
“The tale is told,” said the ballad-singer. “Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.”