| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: A daughter of the Samurai
Author: Sugimoto, Etsu Inagaki
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A daughter of the Samurai" ***
SAMURAI ***
[Illustration: _Madame Etsu Inagaki Sugimoto_]
A DAUGHTER OF
THE SAMURAI
BY
ETSU INAGAKI SUGIMOTO
INSTRUCTOR IN JAPANESE LANGUAGE AND
HISTORY, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
_How a daughter of feudal Japan, living
hundreds of years in one generation,
became a modern American_
FRONTISPIECE
BY
ICHIRO HORI
_SPECIAL EDITION_
PUBLISHED BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE _&_ COMPANY
FOR
JAPAN SOCIETY
36 WEST 44TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Much of the material of this book originally appeared in _Asia_ but has
been thoroughly revised for book publication.
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE
& COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
WITH RESPECT AND LOVE AND DEEPEST GRATITUDE
I DEDICATE THESE SACRED MEMORIES
TO
MY TWO MOTHERS
WHOSE LIVES AND ENVIRONMENTS WERE FAR APART,
YET WHOSE HEARTS MET IN MINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
TO
NANCY VIRGINIA AUSTEN
Whose pleasant friendship, energetic spirit, and practical knowledge
encouraged me to believe that a little Etsu-bo, with a heart full of
love for old Japan, could gather the falling fragments of samurai
spirit and weave them into a fragrant chain for the readers of to-day.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Winters in Echigo 1
II. Curly Hair 11
III. Days of Kan 17
IV. The Old and the New 25
V. Falling Leaves 33
VI. A Sunny New Year 42
VII. The Wedding That Never Was 53
VIII. Two Ventures 61
IX. The Story of a Marionette 73
X. The Day of the Bird 87
XI. My First Journey 98
XII. Travel Education 107
XIII. Foreigners 118
XIV. Lessons 127
XV. How I Became a Christian 137
XVI. Sailing Unknown Seas 148
XVII. First Impressions 160
XVIII. Strange Customs 175
XIX. Thinking 187
XX. Neighbours 196
XXI. New Experiences 206
XXII. Flower in a Strange Land 221
XXIII. Chiyo 230
XXIV. In Japan Again 242
XXV. Our Tokyo Home 246
XXVI. Tragic Trifles 254
XXVII. Honourable Grandmother 262
XXVIII. Sister's Visit 273
XXIX. A Lady of Old Japan 280
XXX. The White Cow 289
XXXI. Worthless Treasures 301
XXXII. The Black Ships 311
ILLUSTRATIONS
Madame Etsu Inagaki Sugimoto _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
My greatest pleasure was going to the temple with
Mother 42
INTRODUCTION
There are many happy adventures for those who work in the strange
world of printers' ink; and in some lucky moment of inspiration,
several years ago, I asked Mrs. Sugimoto to write, for my column in a
Philadelphia newspaper, some little memories of her girlhood in Japan.
The story of the dog Shiro, whose prosperity in a future life she
endangered by giving him her own cushion; her childish sadness about
her curly hair; her pensive trouble when she discovered that American
women were not really more modest than Japanese--these and a few other
charming episodes first found their way into print in that newspaper,
and gradually led to this beautiful and thrilling book. It is an honour
to be asked by Mrs. Sugimoto to say a word of introduction here. I
only wish that I knew how to make it ceremonious enough. For the inner
suggestion of her book is surely that life in its highest moments is
a kind of ceremony in honour of the unknown gods. "The eyelids of a
Samurai," Mrs. Sugimoto tells us, "know not moisture." But the "red
barbarians," who have not learned the old stoic art, may be forgiven
if they feel occasionally, among her tender paragraphs, that dangerous
prickling that great truth conveys.
What a lovely book it is, and how much it has to teach us. I have a
secret notion that it will go on for years and years, making friends
for itself and for the brave woman who wrote it, and also--this would
please her most--friends for Japan. Is it not a perfect book for
children to read? I don't know any collection of fairy tales more
entrancing. And for parents too: is it not the subtlest kind of
treatise on education? For the pure art and humour and simplicity of
the narrative: where is there a more charming short story than that
of Mr. Toda? A great American writer, who was in many things as far
as possible from the old Samurai codes (Walt Whitman), said, "As soon
as histories are properly told there is no more need of romances."
This book is a history properly told. Some of us may think that Mrs.
Sugimoto has been even a little too generous toward the America she
adopted. But she came among us as Conrad came among the English; and if
the little Etsu-bo, the well-loved tomboy of snowy winters in Echigo,
finds beauty in our strange and violent ways, we can only be grateful.
Among her delicate and significant anecdotes, each a gem of artistic
thought and feeling, she tells of the Japanese fiancée whose
betrothed had a plum-blossom as his family crest, and therefore the
young woman must pay particular honour to that flower, and could not
even eat plum jelly, which would be disrespectful to the emblem of her
future husband. In the same way I feel obscurely that I must not write
too much about Mrs. Sugimoto: because I honour her greatly, to write
fulsomely here would be disrespectful to her beautiful book. I can only
say that this story of a Japanese girlhood and of the brave child who
found a seed of liberty stirring in her heart seems to me one of those
rare triumphs where two diverse worlds speak openly to one another and
both are profited.
One of my pleasantest memories is of a time when Mrs. Sugimoto, in her
Japanese costume, accompanied as a great lady should be by her daughter
and a loved companion, came far downtown in hot weather to visit me in
a New York newspaper office. She felt, though surely too generously,
that I had tried to be courteous; and this required, on her part, a
gesture of appreciation. I have never forgotten it: her gay little
figure, charming as a bird or flower in her vivid robe, brightening
for a few minutes that busy, noisy place. What the expedition may have
cost her, in weariness or alarm or secret distresses, I hesitate to
conjecture. Only a brave and great-minded person would have ventured
it. That she is brave and great-minded and a true daughter of the
Samurai no reader will ever doubt. How startled, I suppose, some of her
knightly ancestors would be to find her putting her private thoughts on
paper for all the world to see. Then indeed the shrines would be pasted
up and there would be horrified silence. But it was that old, hard and
feudal code that gave her strength to break through paper formalities
when she felt it needful. She has given us here a unique picture of
the exquisite complexity and beauty of all human life. She is a great
teacher, and I would not willingly even tread on her shadow.
Christopher Morley.
A DAUGHTER OF THE SAMURAI
CHAPTER I
WINTERS IN ECHIGO
Japan is often called by foreign people a land of sunshine and cherry
blossoms. This is because tourists generally visit only the eastern and
southern parts of the country, where the climate is mild all the year
round. On the northwest coast the winters are long, snow often covering
the ground from December to March or April.
In the province of Echigo, where was my home, winter usually began with
a heavy snow which came down fast and steady until only the thick,
round ridge-poles of our thatched roofs could be seen. Then groups
of coolies, with straw mats over their shoulders and big woven hats
that looked like umbrellas, came and with broad wooden shovels cut
tunnels through from one side of the street to the other. The snow
was not removed from the middle of the street all winter. It lay in a
long pile, towering far above the house-tops. The coolies cut steps,
for they were carrying snow at intervals all winter, and we children
used to climb up and run along the top. We played many games there,
sometimes pretending we were knights rescuing a snow-bound village, or
fierce brigands stealing upon it for an attack.
But a still more exciting time for us was before the snow came, when
the entire town was making preparations for winter. This always took
several weeks, and each day as we went to and from school we would
stop to watch the coolies busily wrapping the statues and small shrines
along the streets in their winter clothing of straw. The stone lanterns
and all the trees and bushes of our gardens were enclosed in straw,
and even the outside walls of the temples were protected by sheets of
matting fastened on with strips of bamboo, or immense nettings made of
straw rope. Every day the streets presented a new appearance, and by
the time the big carved lions at the temple steps were covered, we were
a city of grotesque straw tents of every shape and size, waiting for
the snow that would bury us in for three or four months.
Most large houses had thatched roofs with wide eaves, but the shops
on the streets had shingled roofs weighted with stones to prevent
avalanches when the snow began to melt in the spring. Above all
the sidewalks extended a permanent roof, and during the winter the
sidewalks were enclosed by walls of upright boards with an occasional
panel of oiled paper, which turned them into long halls, where we could
walk all over town in the stormiest weather, entirely protected from
wind and snow. These halls were dim, but not dark, for light shines
through snow pretty well, and even at the street corners, where we
crossed through the snow tunnels, it was light enough for us to read
good-sized characters. Many a time, coming home from school, I have
read my lessons in the tunnel, pretending that I was one of the ancient
sages who studied by snow-light.
Echigo, which means "Behind the Mountains," is so shut off from the
rest of Japan by the long Kiso range that during the early feudal days
it was considered by the Government only a frozen outpost suitable as a
place of exile for offenders too strong in position or influence to be
treated as criminals. To this class belonged reformers. In those days
Japan had little tolerance for reforms either in politics or religion,
and an especially progressive thinker at court or a broad-minded monk
was branded as equally obnoxious and sent to some desolate spot where
his ambitions would be permanently crushed. Most political offenders
that were sent to Echigo either filled the graves of the little
cemetery beyond the execution ground or lost themselves in some simple
home among the peasants. Our literature holds many a pathetic tale
of some rich and titled youth, who, disguised as a pilgrim, wanders
through the villages of Echigo, searching for his lost father.
The religious reformers fared better; for they generally spent their
lives in working quietly and inoffensively among the people. Some
founders of new Buddhist sects exiled for a lifetime, were men of great
ability, and gradually their belief spread so widely that Echigo became
known all over Japan as the stronghold of reformed Buddhism. From
earliest childhood I was familiar with priest tales and was accustomed
to seeing pictures of images cut on the rocks or carved figures
standing in caves on the mountain-sides--the work of the tireless hands
of those ancient monks.
My home was in the old castle town of Nagaoka. Our household consisted
of my father and mother, my honoured grandmother, my brother, my
sister, and myself. Then there was Jiya, my father's head servant, and
my nurse, Ishi, besides Kin and Toshi. Several other old servants came
and went on occasions. I had married sisters, all in distant homes
except the eldest, who lived about half a day's jinrikisha ride from
Nagaoka. She came occasionally to visit us, and sometimes I went home
with her to spend several days in her big thatched farmhouse, which
had been, in ancient days, the fortress of three mountains. Samurai
families often married into the farmer class, which was next in rank
to the military, and much respected, for "one who owns rice villages
holds the life of the nation in his hand."
We lived just on the edge of the town in a huge, rambling house that
had been added to from time to time ever since I could remember. As
a result, the heavy thatched roof sagged at the gable joinings, the
plaster walls had numerous jogs and patches, and the many rooms of
various sizes were connected by narrow, crooked halls that twisted
about in a most unexpected manner. Surrounding the house, but some
distance away, was a high wall of broken boulders, topped with a low,
solid fence of wood. The roof of the gateway had tipped-up corners,
and patches of moss on the brown thatch. It was supported by immense
posts between which swung wooden gates with ornamental iron hinges that
reached halfway across the heavy boards. On each side there extended,
for a short distance, a plaster wall pierced by a long, narrow window
with wooden bars. The gates were always open during the day, but if at
night there came knocking and the call "_Tano-mo-o! Tano-mo-o!_" (I ask
to enter!) even in the well-known voice of a neighbour, Jiya was so
loyal to old-time habit that he invariably ran to peep through one of
these windows before opening the gate to the guest.
From the gateway to the house was a walk of large, uneven stones,
in the wide cracks of which grew the first foreign flowers that
I ever saw--short-stemmed, round-headed little things that Jiya
called "giant's buttons." Someone had given him the seed; and as he
considered no foreign flower worthy of the dignity of a place in our
garden, he cunningly planted them where they would be trod upon by our
disrespectful feet. But they were hardy plants and grew as luxuriantly
as moss.
That our home was such a makeshift was the result of one of the
tragedies of the Restoration. Echigo Province was one of those that had
believed in the dual government. To our people, the Mikado was too
sacred to be in touch with war, or even annoying civil matters, and so
they fought to uphold the shogun power to which, for generations, their
ancestors had been loyal. At that time my father was _karo_, or first
counsellor of the daimiate of Nagaoka, a position which he had held
since the age of seven, when the sudden death of my grandfather had
left it vacant. Because of certain unusual circumstances, my father was
the only executive in power, and thus it was that during the wars of
the Restoration he had the responsibility and the duties of the office
of daimio.
At the bitterest moment that Nagaoka ever knew, Echigo found herself
on the defeated side. When my mother learned that her husband's cause
was lost and he taken prisoner, she sent her household to a place of
safety, and then, to prevent the mansion from falling into the hands
of the enemy, she with her own hands set fire to it and from the
mountain-side watched it burn to the ground.
After the stormy days of war were past and Father finally was free from
the governorship which he had been directed to retain until the central
government became stabilized, he gathered together the remains of his
family estate, and after sharing with his now "fish-on-land" retainers,
he built this temporary home on the site of his former mansion. Then
he planted a mulberry grove on a few acres of land near by and prided
himself on having levelled his rank to the class of farmer. Men of
samurai rank knew nothing about business. It had always been considered
a disgrace for them to handle money; so the management of all business
affairs was left to faithful but wholly inexperienced Jiya, while
Father devoted his life to reading, to memories, and to introducing
unwelcome ideas of progressive reform to his less advanced neighbours.
My father, however, held on to one extravagance. The formal
once-in-two-years journey to the capital, which, before the
Restoration, the law required of men of his position, was now changed
to an informal annual trip which he laughingly called the "window
toward growing days." The name was most appropriate; for this yearly
visit of my father gave his whole family a distant view of progressing
Japan. Besides the wonderful word pictures, he also brought us gifts
of strange, unknown things--trinkets for the servants, toys for the
children, useful house articles for Mother, and often rare imported
things for the much-honoured grandmother.
Jiya always accompanied Father on these trips, and, in his position as
business manager, came in contact with tradesmen and heard many tales
of the methods of foreigners in dealing with Japanese. The cleverness
of the foreign business system was acknowledged by everyone, and
although frequently disastrous to the Japanese, it aroused admiration
and a desire to imitate. A more honest soul than Jiya never lived, but
in his desire to be loyal to the interests of his much-loved master he
once got our family name into a tangle of disgrace that took months of
time and much money to straighten out. Indeed, I doubt if the matter
was ever clearly understood by any of the parties. I know it was a sore
puzzle to Jiya as long as he lived. It happened in this way.
Jiya became acquainted with a Japanese man, who, as agent for a
foreigner, was buying up cards of silkworm eggs from all the villages
around. Such cards were prepared by having painted on them, with a
special ink, the name or crest of the owner. Then the cards were placed
beneath the butterflies, which lay on them their small, seed-like eggs
by the thousands. The cards were finally classified and sold to dealers.
This agent, who was a very wealthy man, told Jiya that if mustard seeds
were substituted for the eggs, the cards would sell at a profit that
would make his master rich. This, the agent explained, was a foreign
business method being adopted now by the merchants of Yokohama. It
was known as "the new way of making Japan strong, so the high-nosed
barbarian could no longer beat the children of Japan in trade."
As my father's mulberry grove furnished food for many of the silkworms
in near-by villages, his name was a good one for the agent to use,
and poor Jiya, delighted to be doing business in the clever new way,
was of course a willing tool. The man prepared the cards to the value
of hundreds of yen--all marked with my father's crest. Probably he
pocketed all the money; anyway, the first we knew of the affair
was when a very tall, red-faced foreign man, in strange, pipe-like
garments, called to see my father. How well I remember that important
day! Sister and I, with moistened finger-tips, melted tiny holes in the
paper doors, to peep at the wonderful stranger. We knew it was rude and
low class, but it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
I have no reason to think that foreign man was in any way to blame; and
possibly--possibly--the agent also thought that he was only competing
in cleverness with the foreigner. So many things were misunderstood
in those strange days. Of course, my father, who had known absolutely
nothing of the transaction, paid the price and made good his name, but
I doubt if he ever understood what it all meant. This was one of the
many pathetic attempts made in those days by simple-minded vassals,
whose loyal, blundering hearts were filled with more love than wisdom.
In the long winter evenings I was very fond of slipping away to the
servants' hall to watch the work going on there and to hear stories.
One evening, when I was about seven years old, I was hurrying along the
zig-zag porch leading to that part of the house when I heard voices
mingling with the thuds of soft snow being thrown from the roof. It
was unusual to have the roof cleared after dark, but Jiya was up there
arguing with the head coolie and insisting that the work must be done
that night.
"At the rate the snow is falling," I heard him say, "it will crush the
roof before morning."
One of the coolies muttered something about its being time for temple
service, and I noticed the dull tolling of the temple bell. However,
Jiya had his way, and the men went on with the work. I was astonished
at the daring of the coolie who had ventured to question Jiya's
command. To my childish mind, Jiya was a remarkable person who was
always right and whose word was law. But with all my respect for his
wisdom, I loved him with all my heart; and with reason, for he was
never too busy to twist up a straw doll for me, or to tell me a story
as I sat on a garden stone watching him work.
The servants' hall was a very large room. One half of the board floor
had straw mats scattered here and there. This was the part where the
spinning, rice-grinding, and the various occupations of the kitchen
went on. The other half, where rough or untidy work was done, was
of hard clay. In the middle of the room was the fireplace--a big,
clay-lined box sunk in the floor, with a basket of firewood beside it.
From a beam high above hung a chain from which swung various implements
used in cooking. The smoke passed out through an opening in the centre
of the roof, above which was a small extra roof to keep out the rain.
As I entered the big room, the air was filled with the buzz of work
mingled with chatter and laughter. In one corner was a maid grinding
rice for to-morrow's dumplings; another was making padded scrub-cloths
out of an old kimono; two others were tossing from one to the other
the shallow basket that shook the dark beans from the white, and a
little apart from the others sat Ishi whirling her spinning wheel with
a little tapping stick.
There was a rustle of welcome for me, for the servants all liked a
visit from "Etsu-bo Sama," as they called me. One hurried to bring me
a cushion and another tossed a handful of dried chestnut hulls on the
glowing fire. I loved the changing tints of chestnut hull embers, and
stopped a moment to watch them.
"Come here, Etsu-bo Sama!" called a soft voice.
It was Ishi. She had moved over on to the mat, leaving her cushion
for me. She knew I loved to turn the spinning wheel, so she pushed
the cotton ball into my hand, holding her own safely over it. I can
yet feel the soft pull of the thread slipping through my fingers as I
whirled the big wheel. I am afraid that I spun a very uneven thread,
and it was probably fortunate for her work that my attention was soon
attracted by Jiya's entrance. He pulled a mat over to the clay side
of the room and in a moment was seated with his foot stretched out,
holding between his toes one end of the rope he was twisting out of
rice-straw.
"Jiya San," called Ishi, "we have an honoured guest."
Jiya looked up quickly, and with a funny, bobby bow above his stretched
rope, he smilingly held up a pair of straw shoes dangling from a cord.
"Ah!" I cried, jumping up quickly and running across the clay floor to
him, "are they my snow-shoes? Have you finished them?"
"Yes, Etsu-bo Sama," he answered, putting in my hands a pair of small
straw boots, "and I have finished them just in time. This is going
to be the deepest snow we have had this year. When you go to school
to-morrow you can take a short cut, straight over the brooks and
fields, for there will be no roads anywhere."
As usual Jiya's prediction was right. Without our snow-boots we girls
could not have gone to school at all. Moreover, his persistence with
the coolies had saved our roof; for before morning five feet more of
snow filled the deep-cut paths and piled on top of the long white
mountain in the street.
CHAPTER II
CURLY HAIR
One day the servants returned from temple service talking excitedly
about a fire at Kyoto which had destroyed the great Hongwanji. As this
was the prince temple of Shin, the sect most popular among the masses,
interest in its rebuilding was wide-spread, and donations were being
sent from every part of the Empire. The Buddhist exiles of ancient
time had left their impress upon Echigo to such an extent that it soon
excelled all other provinces in eagerness to give, and Nagaoka was the
very centre of the enthusiasm.
The first and the fifteenth of each month, being workmen's holidays,
were favourite times for collecting; and as our gifts were mostly of
our own products, it was interesting to watch the people who thronged
the streets on these days. Besides our own townsfolk, each one carrying
a basket or bundle, groups kept coming every hour of the day from the
mountains and from neighbouring villages. There were men laden with
bunches of hemp and coils of rope, or with bundles of bamboo poles, the
long ends trailing on the ground as they walked; women from weaving
villages weighted down with bolts of silk or cotton; and farmers
pulling long carts piled high with bales of "the five grains"--rice,
millet, wheat, oats, and beans--with the farmer's wife (frequently with
a baby on her back) pushing at the end. All these gifts were taken to a
large building put up on purpose for them, and every day the collection
grew.
One day Ishi and I were standing just within our big gateway, watching
the people go by. I noticed that almost every woman had her head
wrapped in the blue-and-white towel that servants wear when dusting or
working in the kitchen.
"Why does everybody wear _tenugui_ on the streets?" I asked.
"Those women have cut their hair, Etsu-bo Sama," Ishi replied.
"Are they all widows?" I asked in astonishment; for it was the custom
for a widow to cut off her hair at the neck and bury half of it with
her husband, the other half being kept until her own death.
I thought I had never seen so many widows in my life, but I soon
learned that these women had cut off most of their hair that it might
be braided into a huge rope to be used in drawing the lumber for the
important centre beam of the new temple. Our own servants had cut big
bunches from their heads, but, with more moderate enthusiasm than
that of the peasant class, they had retained enough to dress it so as
to cover their bald crowns. One of the maids, however, in religious
fervour, had cut off so much that she had to postpone her marriage for
three years; for no girl could marry with short hair. Not a man of
those days would be brave enough to risk the ill omen of taking a bride
with the cut hair of a widow.
Our family did not belong to the Shin sect of Buddhists, but every
woman, of whatever sect, wanted to have a part in the holy cause, so
each of us added a few strands. The hair was taken to the building
where the donations were kept and braided into long, thick ropes; then,
just before the removal to Kyoto, all the gifts were dedicated with an
elaborate religious ceremony.
It seemed to my childish mind that almost everybody in the world came
to Nagaoka that day. Most certainly the near-by country district and
all the neighbouring villages had emptied themselves into the narrow
streets through which Ishi took me on our way to the temple. But at
last we were stationed in a safe place and I stood holding tight to her
hand and looking up wonderingly at the great shrine of gold-and-black
lacquer which was placed high on an ox-cart just in front of the temple
entrance. The curving doors were wide open, showing the calm-faced
Buddha standing with folded hands. Surrounding the base of the shrine,
gradually widening and spreading above it, was a delicate framework
representing the "five-coloured clouds of Paradise." Many, many lotus
blossoms of gold and silver, pink, purple, and orange twisted through
the carved clouds and seemed to float in the air. It was wondrously
beautiful. The two oxen, loaned by proud farmers for this occasion,
were almost covered with strips of bright-coloured silk dangling in
long, fluttering streamers from horns and harness.
Suddenly there was a moment's hush. Then with the returning sound of a
multitude of voices mingled the beating of gongs and the shrill piping
of temple music.
"Look, Etsu-bo Sama!" said Ishi. "The sacred Buddha is starting on the
tour of appreciation. It is the first time in many years that the Holy
One has come forth from the temple altar. To-day is a great day!"
As the oxen strained and pushed against the big wooden yoke and the
shrine with the gilded Buddha began to move, a low murmur of "_Namu
Amida Butsu!_" (Hail, Great Buddha!) breathed through the air. With
deep reverence I bowed my head, and folding my hands together, I, too,
whispered the holy words.
Two long twisted ropes of cloth, purple and white, were fastened to the
front of the broad cart and reached far past the oxen to the chanting
priests in front. These ropes were held by the eager hands of many men
and boys, women and girls, some with babies on their backs, and little
children of all ages. I saw a playmate.
"Ishi! Ishi!" I cried, so excited that I almost tore her sleeve. "There
is Sadako San holding the rope! Oh, may I walk beside her and hold the
rope too? Oh, may I?"
"Hush, little Mistress. You must not forget to be gentle. Yes, I will
walk with you. Your little hands shall help the holy Buddha."
And so we walked in the procession--Ishi and I. Never in my life,
perhaps, shall I experience an hour more exalted than when we passed
through those narrow streets behind the solemn, chanting priests, my
hand clasped about the pulling cord of the great swaying, creaking
cart, and my heart filled with awe and reverence.
The services of dedication I recall very mistily. The new building was
crowded with huge pyramids of donations of every kind. The shrine was
carried in and placed before a purple curtain with a big swastika crest
on it. There were marching, chanting priests in gorgeous robes with
crystal rosaries around their folded hands. There was the fragrance of
incense, the sound of soft temple drums, and everywhere low murmurs of
"_Namu Amida Butsu!_"
Only one thing in the great room stands clear in my memory. On a
platform in front of the altar, with the holy Buddha just above, was
the huge coil of jet-black rope--made of the hair of thousands of
women. My mind went back to the day when I thought I was seeing so
many widows in the street, and to our servants with their scanty hair
dressed over bald crowns, and then, with a pang of humiliation, I
recalled the day our own offering was sent; for beside the long, glossy
straight wisps of my sister's hair lay a shorter strand that curved
into ugly mortifying waves.
Even after all these years I feel a bit of pity for the little girl who
was myself when I remember how many bitter trials she had to endure
because of her wavy hair. Curly hair was not admired in Japan, so
although I was younger than my sisters, on hairdressing day, which came
three times in ten days, I was placed in the care of the hairdresser
as soon as she came into the house. This was unusual, for the eldest
should always be attended to first. Immediately after the shampoo, she
saturated my hair with almost boiling hot tea mixed with some kind of
stiffening oil. Then she pulled the hair back as tight as possible and
tied it. Thus I was left while she dressed the hair of my sisters. By
that time my whole head was stiff and my eyebrows pulled upward, but
my hair was straight for the time being, and could easily be arranged
in the two shining loops tied with polished cord, which was the proper
style for me. From the time I can remember I was always careful about
lying quiet on my little wooden pillow at night, but by the next
morning there were sure to be little twists at my neck and a suspicious
curve in the loops on top of the head. How I envied the long, straight
locks of the court ladies in the roll picture hanging in my room!
One time I rebelled and used return words to my nurse, who was trying
to comfort me during one of my "gluing-up" experiences. Kind old Ishi
forgave me at once, but my mother overheard and called me to her room.
I was a little sullen, I remember, as I bowed and seated myself before
her cushion, and she looked at me severely as she spoke.
"Etsu-ko," she said, "do you not know that curly hair is like animal's
hair? A samurai's daughter should not be willing to resemble a beast."
I was greatly mortified and never again complained of the discomfort of
hot tea and scented oil.
On the day of my "seventh-year" celebration I experienced a humiliation
so deep that it still aches me to think of it. This celebration is a
very important event in the life of a Japanese girl--as much so as her
début party is to an American young lady. All our woman relatives were
invited to a great feast, where I, in a beautiful new gown, occupied
the place of honour. My hair had been elaborately arranged, but the day
was rainy and I suppose some persistent small strands had escaped their
stiff prison, for I overheard one of my aunts say, "It's a shameful
waste to put a beautiful dress on Etsu. It only attracts attention to
her ugly, twisty hair."
How deeply a child can feel! I wanted to shrivel to nothingness inside
the gown of which I had been so proud, but I looked straight ahead and
did not move. The next moment, when Ishi came in with some rice and
looked at me, I saw the pain in her eyes and I knew that she had heard.
That night when she came to undress me she had not removed the little
blue-and-white towel that all Japanese servants wear over the hair
when at work. I was surprised, for it is not polite to appear before a
superior with the head covered, and Ishi was always courteous. I soon
found out the truth. She had gone to the temple as soon as the dinner
was over, and cutting off her splendid straight hair, had placed it
before the shrine, praying the gods to transfer her hair to me. My good
Ishi! My heart thanks her yet for her loving sacrifice.
Who shall say that God did not pity the simple soul's ignorant, loving
effort to save from humiliation the child she loved? At any rate, her
prayer was answered when in later years the hand of fate turned my
steps toward a land where my curly hair no longer caused me either
sorrow or shame.
CHAPTER III
DAYS OF KAN
We did not have kindergartens when I was a child, but long
before the time when I could have been admitted to the new
"after-the-sixth-birthday" school, I had acquired a goodly foundation
for later study of history and literature. My grandmother was a great
reader, and during the shut-in evenings of the long, snowy winters we
children spent much time around her fire-box, listening to stories.
In this way I became familiar, when very young, with our mythology,
with the lives of Japan's greatest historical personages and with the
outline stories of many of our best novels. Also I learned much of the
old classic dramas from Grandmother's lips. My sister received the
usual education for girls, but mine was planned along different lines
for the reason that I was supposed to be destined for a priestess.
I had been born with the navel cord looped around the neck like a
priest's rosary, and it was a common superstition in those days that
this was a direct command from Buddha. Both my grandmother and my
mother sincerely believed this, and since in a Japanese home the ruling
of the house and children is left to the women, my father silently
bowed to the earnest wish of my grandmother to have me educated for
a priestess. He, however, selected for my teacher a priest whom he
knew--a very scholarly man, who spent little time in teaching me the
forms of temple worship, but instructed me most conscientiously in
the doctrine of Confucius. This was considered the foundation of all
literary culture, and was believed by my father to be the highest moral
teaching of the time.
My teacher always came on the days of threes and sevens--that is,
the third, seventh, thirteenth, seventeenth, twenty-third, and
twenty-seventh. This was in accordance with our moon-calendar custom
of dividing days into groups of tens instead of sevens, as is done by
the sun calendar. I enjoyed my lessons very much. The stateliness of
my teacher's appearance, the ceremony of his manner, and the rigid
obedience required of me appealed to my dramatic instinct. Then the
surroundings were most impressive to my childish mind. The room was
always made ready with especial care the day of my lessons, and when I
entered, invariably I saw the same sight. I close my eyes now and all
is as clear as if I had seen it but an hour ago.
The room was wide and light and was separated from the garden porch
by a row of sliding paper doors crossed with slender bars of wood.
The black-bordered straw mats were cream-coloured with time, but
immaculate in their dustlessness. Books and desk were there, and in
the sacred alcove hung a roll picture of Confucius. Before this was a
little teakwood stand from which rose a curling mist of incense. On
one side sat my teacher, his flowing gray robes lying in straight,
dignified lines about his folded knees, a band of gold brocade across
his shoulder, and a crystal rosary round his left wrist. His face was
always pale, and his deep, earnest eyes beneath the priestly cap looked
like wells of soft velvet. He was the gentlest and the saintliest man
I ever saw. Years after, he proved that a holy heart and a progressive
mind can climb together, for he was excommunicated from the orthodox
temple for advocating a reform doctrine that united the beliefs of
Buddhism and Christianity. Whether through accident or design, this
broad-minded priest was the teacher chosen for me by my broad-minded
though conservative father.
My studies were from books intended only for boys, as it was very
unusual for a girl to study Chinese classics. My first lessons were
from the "Four Books of Confucius." These are: Daigaku--"Great
Learning," which teaches that the wise use of knowledge leads
to virtue; Chuyo--"The Unchanging Centre," which treats of the
unalterableness of universal law; Rongo and Moshi--which consist of the
autobiography, anecdotes, and sayings of Confucius, gathered by his
disciples.
I was only six years old, and of course I got not one idea from this
heavy reading. My mind was filled with many words in which were hidden
grand thoughts, but they meant nothing to me then. Sometimes I would
feel curious about a half-caught idea and ask my teacher the meaning.
His reply invariably was:
"Meditation will untangle thoughts from words," or "A hundred times
reading reveals the meaning." Once he said to me, "You are too young to
comprehend the profoundly deep books of Confucius."
This was undoubtedly true, but I loved my lessons. There was a certain
rhythmic cadence in the meaningless words that was like music, and
I learned readily page after page, until I knew perfectly all the
important passages of the four books and could recite them as a child
rattles off the senseless jingle of a counting-out game. Yet those busy
hours were not wasted. In the years since, the splendid thoughts of the
grand old philosopher have gradually dawned upon me; and sometimes when
a well-remembered passage has drifted into my mind, the meaning has
come flashing like a sudden ray of sunshine.
My priest-teacher taught these books with the same reverence that he
taught his religion--that is, with all thought of worldly comfort put
away. During my lesson he was obliged, despite his humble wish, to sit
on the thick silk cushion the servant brought him, for cushions were
our chairs, and the position of instructor was too greatly revered for
him to be allowed to sit on a level with his pupil; but throughout my
two-hour lesson he never moved the slightest fraction of an inch except
with his hands and his lips. And I sat before him on the matting in an
equally correct and unchanging position.
Once I moved. It was in the midst of a lesson. For some reason I was
restless and swayed my body slightly, allowing my folded knee to slip a
trifle from the proper angle. The faintest shade of surprise crossed my
instructor's face; then very quietly he closed his book, saying gently
but with a stern air:
"Little Miss, it is evident that your mental attitude to-day is not
suited for study. You should retire to your room and meditate."
My little heart was almost killed with shame. There was nothing I could
do. I humbly bowed to the picture of Confucius and then to my teacher,
and backing respectfully from the room, I slowly went to my father
to report, as I always did, at the close of my lesson. Father was
surprised, as the time was not yet up, and his unconscious remark, "How
quickly you have done your work!" was like a death knell. The memory of
that moment hurts like a bruise to this very day.
Since absence of bodily comfort while studying was the custom for
priests and teachers, of course all lesser people grew to feel that
hardship of body meant inspiration of mind. For this reason my studies
were purposely arranged so that the hardest lessons and longest hours
came during the thirty days of midwinter, which the calendar calls the
coldest of the year. The ninth day is considered the most severe, so we
were expected to be especially earnest in our study on that day.
I well remember a certain "ninth day" when my sister was about fourteen
years old. She was preparing to be married, therefore the task selected
for her was sewing. Mine was penmanship. In those days penmanship was
considered one of the most important studies for culture. This was
not so much for its art--although it is true that practising Japanese
penmanship holds the same intense artistic fascination as does the
painting of pictures--but it was believed that the highest training
in mental control came from patient practice in the complicated brush
strokes of character-writing. A careless or perturbed state of mind
always betrays itself in the intricate shading of ideographs, for
each one requires absolute steadiness and accuracy of touch. Thus, in
careful guidance of the hand were we children taught to hold in leash
the mind.
With the first gleam of sunrise on this "ninth day," Ishi came to wake
me. It was bitterly cold. She helped me dress, then I gathered together
the materials for my work, arranging the big sheets of paper in a pile
on my desk and carefully wiping every article in my ink-box with a
square of silk. Reverence for learning was so strong in Japan at that
time that even the tools we used were considered almost sacred. I was
supposed to do everything for myself on this day, but my kind Ishi
hovered around me, helping in every way she could without actually
doing the work herself. Finally we went to the porch overlooking
the garden. The snow was deep everywhere. I remember how the bamboo
grove looked with its feathery tops so snow-laden that they were like
wide-spread umbrellas. Once or twice a sharp crack and a great soft
fluff of spurting snow against the gray sky told that a trunk had
snapped under its too heavy burden. Ishi took me on her back and,
pushing her feet into her snow-boots, slowly waded to where I could
reach the low branch of a tree, from which I lifted a handful of
perfectly pure, untouched snow, just from the sky. This I melted to mix
for my penmanship study. I ought to have waded to get the snow myself,
but--Ishi did it.
Since the absence of bodily comfort meant inspiration of mind,
of course I wrote in a room without a fire. Our architecture is
of tropical origin; so the lack of the little brazier of glowing
charcoal brought the temperature down to that of outside. Japanese
picture-writing is slow and careful work. I froze my fingers that
morning without knowing it until I looked back and saw my good nurse
softly crying as she watched my purple hand. The training of children,
even of my age, was strict in those days, and neither she nor I moved
until I had finished my task. Then Ishi wrapped me in a big padded
kimono that had been warmed and hurried me into my grandmother's room.
There I found a bowl of warm, sweet rice-gruel made by my grandmother's
own hands. Tucking my chilled knees beneath the soft, padded quilt that
covered the sunken fire-box I drank the gruel, while Ishi rubbed my
stiff hand with snow.
Of course, the necessity of this rigid discipline was never questioned
by any one, but I think that, because I was a delicate child, it
sometimes caused my mother uneasiness. Once I came into the room where
she and Father were talking.
"Honourable Husband," she was saying, "I am sometimes so bold
as to wonder if Etsu-bo's studies are not a little severe for a
not-too-strong child."
My father drew me over to his cushion and rested his hand gently on my
shoulder.
"We must not forget, Wife," he replied, "the teaching of a samurai
home. The lioness pushes her young over the cliff and watches it climb
slowly back from the valley without one sign of pity, though her heart
aches for the little creature. So only can it gain strength for its
life work."
Because I was having the training and studies of a boy was one of the
reasons why my family got in the habit of calling me Etsu-bo, the
termination _bo_ being used for a boy's name, as _ko_ is for a girl's.
But my lessons were not confined to those for a boy. I also learned
all the domestic accomplishments taught my sisters--sewing, weaving,
embroidery, cooking, flower-arranging, and the complicated etiquette of
ceremonial tea.
Nevertheless my life was not all lessons. I spent many happy hours
in play. With the conventional order of old Japan, we children had
certain games for each season--the warm, damp days of early spring, the
twilight evenings of summer, the crisp, fragrant harvest time, or the
clear, cold, snow-shoe days of winter. And I believe I enjoyed every
game we ever played--from the simple winter-evening pastime of throwing
a threaded needle at a pile of rice-cakes, to see how many each of us
could gather on her string, to the exciting memory contests with our
various games of poem cards.
We had boisterous games, too, in which a group--all girls, of
course--would gather in some large garden or on a quiet street where
the houses were hemmed in behind hedges of bamboo and evergreen.
Then we would race and whirl in "The Fox Woman from the Mountain" or
"Hunting for Hidden Treasure"; we would shout and scream as we tottered
around on stilts in the forbidden boy-game of "Riding the High-stepping
Bamboo Horse" or the hopping game of "The One-legged Cripples."
But no outdoor play of our short summers nor any indoor game of our
long winters was so dear to me as were stories. The servants knew
numberless priest tales and odd jingles that had come down by word
of mouth from past generations, and Ishi, who had the best memory
and the readiest tongue of them all, possessed an unending fund of
simple old legends. I don't remember ever going to sleep without
stories from her untiring lips. The dignified tales of Honourable
Grandmother were wonderful, and the happy hours I spent sitting, with
primly folded hands, on the mat before her--for I never used a cushion
when Grandmother was talking to me--have left lasting and beautiful
memories. But with Ishi's stories everything was different. I listened
to them, all warm and comfortable, snuggled up crookedly in the soft
cushions of my bed, giggling and interrupting and begging for "just one
more" until the unwelcome time would arrive when Ishi, laughing but
stern, would reach over to my night lantern, push one wick down into
the oil, straighten the other, and drop the paper panel. Then, at last,
surrounded by the pale, soft light of the shaded room, I had to say
good-night and settle myself into the _kinoji_, which was the proper
sleeping position for every samurai girl.
Samurai daughters were taught never to lose control of mind or
body--even in sleep. Boys might stretch themselves into the character
_dai_, carelessly outspread; but girls must curve into the modest,
dignified character _kinoji_, which means "spirit of control."
CHAPTER IV
THE OLD AND THE NEW
I was about eight years old when I had my first taste of meat.
For twelve centuries, following the introduction of the Buddhist
religion, which forbids the killing of animals, the Japanese people
were vegetarians. In late years, however, both belief and custom have
changed considerably, and now, though meat is not universally eaten, it
can be found in all restaurants and hotels. But when I was a child it
was looked upon with horror and loathing.
How well I remember one day when I came home from school and found the
entire household wrapped in gloom. I felt a sense of depression as
soon as I stepped into the "shoe-off" entrance, and heard my mother,
in low, solemn tones, giving directions to a maid. A group of servants
at the end of the hall seemed excited, but they also were talking in
hushed voices. Of course, since I had not yet greeted the family, I did
not ask any questions, but I had an uneasy feeling that something was
wrong, and it was very hard for me to walk calmly and unhurriedly down
the long hall to my grandmother's room.
"Honourable Grandmother, I have returned," I murmured, as I sank to
the floor with my usual salutation. She returned my bow with a gentle
smile, but she was graver than usual. She and a maid were sitting
before the black-and-gold cabinet of the family shrine. They had a
large lacquer tray with rolls of white paper on it and the maid was
pasting paper over the gilded doors of the shrine.
Like almost every Japanese home, ours had two shrines. In time of
sickness or death, the plain wooden Shinto shrine, which honours
the Sun goddess, the Emperor, and the nation, was sealed with white
paper to guard it from pollution. But the gilded Buddhist shrine was
kept wide open at such a time; for Buddhist gods give comfort to the
sorrowing and guide the dead on their heavenward journey. I had never
known the gold shrine to be sealed; and besides, this was the very hour
for it to be lighted in readiness for the evening meal. That was always
the pleasantest part of the day; for after the first helping of our
food had been placed on a tiny lacquer table before the shrine, we all
seated ourselves at our separate tables, and ate, talked and laughed,
feeling that the loving hearts of the ancestors were also with us. But
the shrine was closed. What could it mean?
I remember that my voice trembled a little as I asked, "Honourable
Grandmother, is--is anybody going to die?"
I can see now how she looked--half amused and half shocked.
"Little Etsu-ko," she said, "you talk too freely, like a boy. A girl
should never speak with abrupt unceremony."
"Pardon me, Honourable Grandmother," I persisted anxiously; "but is not
the shrine being sealed with the pure paper of protection?"
"Yes," she answered with a little sigh, and said nothing more.
I did not speak again but sat watching her bent shoulders as she leaned
over, unrolling the paper for the maid. My heart was greatly troubled.
Presently she straightened up and turned toward me.
"Your honourable father has ordered his household to eat flesh," she
said very slowly. "The wise physician who follows the path of the
Western barbarians has told him that the flesh of animals will bring
strength to his weak body, and also will make the children robust
and clever like the people of the Western sea. The ox flesh is to be
brought into the house in another hour and our duty is to protect the
holy shrine from pollution."
That evening we ate a solemn dinner with meat in our soup; but
no friendly spirits were with us, for both shrines were sealed.
Grandmother did not join us. She always occupied the seat of honour,
and the vacant place looked strange and lonely. That night I asked her
why she had not come.
"I would rather not grow as strong as a Westerner--nor as clever," she
answered sadly. "It is more becoming for me to follow the path of our
ancestors."
My sister and I confided to each other that we liked the taste of meat.
But neither of us mentioned this to any one else; for we both loved
Grandmother, and we knew our disloyalty would sadden her heart.
The introduction of foreign food helped greatly to break down the wall
of tradition which shut our people away from the world of the West,
but sometimes the change was made at a great cost. This could not
be otherwise; for after the Restoration many samurai suddenly found
themselves not only poor and at the same time separated entirely from
the system that had given them support; but also, bound as firmly as
ever by the code of ethics that for centuries had taught them utter
contempt for money. The land was flooded, during those first years,
with business failures; for many of these men were young, ambitious,
and eager to experiment with new customs.
Such a one was Mr. Toda, a friend and neighbour, who often came to
shoot on our archery grounds with my father, or to take horseback rides
with him in the mountains. I liked Mr. Toda very much, and could not
understand why Grandmother seemed to feel that his ideas were too
progressive and informal.
One day when he and Father were having a game of archery, they stopped
to argue about some business plan. I was near by, trying to ride on the
back of my father's big white dog, Shiro. After I had had a more severe
tumble than usual, Mr. Toda picked me up and stood me very near the
grassy bank against which was placed the large round target with its
broad rings of black and white. Putting the big bow in front of me, he
held my arms while I shot. The arrow struck the target.
"Best done!" he shouted. "You will make a great warrior, Little
Mistress! You are your father's son, after all!"
My father laughed as he told the story that night. I felt very proud,
but Mother looked thoughtful and Grandmother shook her head sadly.
"Your honourable father trains you in so boy-like a manner," she said
turning to me, "that I fear fate must search long for your unfound
husband. No genteel family wants an ungentle bride."
And so, even in our pleasant family, there was a continual hidden
battle between the old and the new.
Mr. Toda was a man of independent thought, and after several vain
attempts to adjust himself to new conditions and at the same time
retain his dignity, he decided to throw dignity aside and engage in
some business that would bring material results. This was just at
the beginning of the talk about the strength-giving properties of
foreign food. Since Mr. Toda owned a good-sized estate which at that
time nobody would accept even as a gift, he converted it into a grass
farm and sent to a far-away coast for some cattle. Then, with a few
experienced men as assistants, he once more ventured into the business
world; this time as a dairy man and a butcher.
The aristocratic family of Mr. Toda did not approve at all of this new
occupation; for in the old days, only _eta_ (the outcast class) ever
handled bodies from which life had gone. For a while almost everyone
looked upon him with a sort of curious horror, but gradually faith in
meat as a strengthening food gained ground, and the families who used
it on their tables grew steadily in number. So the business prospered.
The simpler part of his work--the selling of milk--was also successful,
but it also had serious drawbacks. Most of the common people believed
that cow's milk would influence the nature of those who drank it, and
on this subject they gossiped much. We children heard from servants
that Mrs. Toda's new-born baby had a tiny horn on its forehead and
that its fingers were clubbed together like cows' hoofs. These tales
were not true, of course. But fear has a strong influence on our lives
for happiness or misery, and in the Toda household there was real and
desperate anxiety about many trifling things.
The majority of intellectual men of that day, though broad thinkers
themselves, allowed the women of their families to remain narrow and
ignorant; and so it was that the constant friction between the old and
new ideas ended finally in a tragedy. The proud old grandmother of the
Toda house, feeling keenly what in her eyes was disgrace to the family
name, chose the only way to right a wrong that a helpless Japanese
knows--sacrifice. If one must die for a principle, it is not hard
to find a way; so one day the grandmother was laid to rest with the
ancestors whose honour she had died to uphold.
Mr. Toda was an unflinching man, who honestly believed that he was
right in carrying out his progressive ideas, but to his mother's silent
protest he yielded. He sold his business to a wealthy fish dealer, who
steadily became wealthier, for the use of meat and milk constantly
increased.
The spacious grounds where Mr. Toda's cattle had leisurely browsed
were left vacant a long time. We children on our way home from school
used to peep fearfully through the cracks in the black board fence and
talk in whispers as we gazed at the desolate land covered with coarse
grass and tall weeds. We always, in some way, associated that lonely
place with the wandering soul of Mrs. Toda, who by going on the unknown
journey had accomplished what here she was helpless to do.
One day my father came home and told us that Mr. Toda was now guard
to a farmer landlord in an adjacent province. His good fortune was
due to the fact that, for several years after the Restoration, the
new government had much trouble in handling its numerous, previously
separately governed provinces, and there was much lawlessness
everywhere. To the landlord of many small farms the Restoration was
not the tragedy it was to the samurai, for Echigo was famous for its
abundant rice crops, and farmer storehouses were often filled with
treasure. But it was a common thing for desperate robbers to raid these
storehouses and sometimes even to murder the owners. Wealthy farmers
had to be guarded, and since the restrictions of feudal days, which had
rigidly regulated the style of living of the various classes, no longer
existed, those farmers could enjoy their riches without interference
from the Government, and it became the fashion for them to hire
ex-samurai--once their superiors--as guards. Partly on account of the
dignity of their former station, which everyone of less honourable rank
respected, and partly because of their skilled military training, the
samurai were well fitted for this duty.
In his new business Mr. Toda was treated as a sort of honourable
policeman-guest. He received a good salary, always formally presented
folded in white paper and labelled: "An appreciation tribute." Of
course, this position could not be permanent; for government authority
gradually penetrated even to our remote district and made the farmers
safe.
We next heard that Mr. Toda had become a teacher in a test school of
the newly organized public-school system. His associate teachers were
mostly young men proud to be called progressive, and affecting a lofty
disdain for the old culture of Japan. The old samurai was sadly out
of place, but being of philosophical bent and not without a sense of
humour, he got along very well until the Department of Education made
a rule that no one should be accepted as a teacher unless he held a
normal-school diploma. To go through the required schooling and be
examined by those whom he considered only conceited youths of shallow
brain would have been too humiliating to a man of Mr. Toda's age,
learning, and culture. He refused and turned his attention to one
of his most elegant accomplishments--penmanship. He made beautiful
ideographs for the trade-marks so frequently seen on the curtains that
hang from the eaves of Japanese shops. He also copied Chinese poems for
folding-screens and roll pictures and even wrote inscriptions for the
banners of Shinto shrines.
Changes came to our family which separated us from the Todas, and
it was several years before I learned that they had moved to Tokyo,
Mr. Toda trusting with brave confidence that the new capital, with
its advanced ideas, would treat him fairly. But, after all, he was a
gentleman of feudal days, and the capital was overflowing with wild
enthusiasm for everything new and supreme contempt for everything old.
There was nowhere a place for him.
One day, years after, while I was a schoolgirl in Tokyo, I was passing
through a crowded street when my eyes were caught by a beautifully
written sign: "Instructor in the Cultural Game of _Go_." Between the
strips of the lattice door I saw Mr. Toda, sitting very straight
with samurai dignity, teaching _go_, a sort of chess, to a number of
new-rich tradesmen. They were men who had retired, as our older people
do, leaving their business to sons or heirs and devoting their time
to practice in _go_, tea ceremony, or other cultural occupation. Mr.
Toda looked aged and poor, but he still had his undaunted air and
half-humorous smile. Had I been a man I should have gone in, but for a
young girl to intrude on his game would have been too rude, so I passed
on.
Once more did I see him a few years later. Early one morning when
I was waiting for a horse-car on a corner near an office building
there passed an old man who had the slight droop of the left shoulder
that always marks the man who once wore two swords. He went into the
building, in a moment reappearing in the cap and coat of a uniform,
and taking his stand at the door, opened and closed it for the people
passing in and out. It was Mr. Toda. A number of supercilious young
clerks in smart European dress pushed hastily by without even a nod of
thanks. It was the new foreign way assumed by so-called progressive
youths.
It is well for the world to advance, but I could not help thinking
how, less than a generation before, the fathers of these same youths
would have had to bow with their foreheads to the ground when Mr. Toda,
sitting erect on his horse, galloped by. The door swung to and fro, and
he stood with his head held high and on his lips the same half-humorous
smile. Brave, unconquered Mr. Toda! He represented thousands of men
of the past, who, having nothing to offer the new world except the
wonderful but unwanted culture of the old, accepted with calm dignity
the fate of failure--but they were all heroes!
CHAPTER V
FALLING LEAVES
The day before Nagaoka's last "Castle Sinking Celebration," Kin took me
to walk along the edge of the old castle moat. Years before, part of it
had been levelled up, and was now occupied by neat little rice farms;
but most of it was still only a marshy waste that was gradually being
filled with rubbish from the town. In one place an angle of the wall
projected out pretty far, forming a protected pond where was clustered
a crowded mass of velvety lotus leaves. Kin said that the water of the
moat used to be very deep and as clear as a mirror; and that, here
and there, were large patches of lotus leaves, which, in the blooming
season, looked like unevenly woven brocade with a raised pattern of
white-and-pink blossoms.
"What did the castle look like, Kin? I want to hear again," I said,
looking across the dykes to the ruined walls and piles of heaped-up
stones on the top of the hill.
"Like all castles, Etsu-bo Sama," she replied, "except that this was
ours."
It was not often that Kin's gay spirits were sobered, but she stood
gazing gravely across at the ruins, saying nothing more.
I turned my face toward the hill and closed my eyes, trying to see,
in my mind, the picture so often painted for me by the loyal lips
of Jiya or Ishi. A great square mass of stone and plaster with
narrow, white-barred windows and tiers of curving roofs artistically
zig-zagging over each other in such a manner that an object thrown
from any corner would find an unobstructed path to the ground; and
high above the deep eaves and many-pointed roofs, on each end of the
curving roof-ridge, a bronze fish with uplifted tail shining rich and
dark in the sunshine. Below, at the base of the pine-topped dykes,
slept in dark quietude the waters of the moat--called "the bottomless"
by simple-hearted people--whose clear waters reflected the six-sided
stones of the "tortoise-back" wall.
"Come, Etsu-bo Sama, we must go."
I opened my eyes with a jerk. Nothing of the picture was there except
the dykes that once formed a protection from flying arrows and shooting
spears, and now were only hilly, peaceful vegetable gardens.
"All of this ground beyond," said Kin, with a wide sweep of her hand
as we started toward home, "was once covered with beautiful gardens
of noble retainers whose mansions were gathered about the outer wall
of the castle. Now all that beauty is crushed into hundreds of plain
little farms; and some of them, like ours, are ploughed by the unused
hands of vassals of the 'ancient glorious'!"
Kin was quiet all the way home, and I walked soberly by her side, with
my bright anticipations for the morrow's celebration somewhat dampened.
"Castle Sinking" is a term used in Japanese literature to describe the
sublime desolation of the useless castle of a conquered people. The
new government was both wise and generous in its endeavour to help its
subjects adjust themselves to the puzzling situation which confronted
them at the close of the war, but Nagaoka people were slow to forget.
Many still believed that to have dragged the god-descended Emperor from
his palace of holiness and peace, only to plunge him into a material
world of sordid duties, was sacrilege; and that the failure of the
shogun power to march steadily on its rightful way was a sorrowful
thing for Japan.
I was many years younger than the time of the Restoration, but its
memories were with me all through my childhood, for I was born not
so long after those years of desolation and bitterness but that the
everyday talk of the town was of the awful days that had left so many
homes without a master. In my babyhood I heard war-songs as frequently
as lullabies, and half of my childhood stories were tales of heroes on
the battlefield. From the gateway of my home could be seen the ruined
walls and half-filled moat of the castle, our godowns were filled to
the roof with weapons and belongings of my father's retainers, and I
scarcely ever went on to the street that I did not meet some old person
who, as I passed, would stand humbly aside, bowing and bowing, with
respectful and tearful murmurings of the "glories of the past." Ah me!
Death had stepped many times between the strain of those days and the
hesitating progress of my childhood's time, and yet the old spirit of
dutiful loyalty to the overlord was not yet quenched.
May 7, 1869, was the day on which all power was removed from Nagaoka
castle by the new Government, and after the bitterness of the first
few years had passed, the anniversary of that day was always observed
by the samurai families of the town. To the newcomers and to the
tradespeople, the celebration was only an interesting episode, but to
those who took part it was a tribute to the dying spirit of chivalry.
The morning after my walk with Kin by the castle moat, I wakened with
an excited feeling that something was going to happen. And indeed,
it was a day of busy happenings! For breakfast everybody ate black
rice--rice husked but not whitened, such as is used by soldiers during
the haste of battle marches--and in the afternoon a sham battle was
held on Yukuzan plain back of the shrine dedicated to the Nagaoka
daimios.
What a gay assemblage there was that day! Most of the aristocracy
were poor and much of their valuable armour had been disposed of, but
everybody had retained some, and each one appeared in what he had.
I can even now see the procession as it started, with my father as
leader. He sat very straight on his horse, and, to my childish eyes,
looked very grand in his cloth garment with close-wrist sleeves and
bloomer-like skirt, over which rattled and clanged the lacquer-scaled
breastplate with its cross-stitching of silk cord and its great gold
crest. Of course, his own horse was gone, as well as its elaborate
trappings, but Mother's ingenuity had decorated a plain harness with
cords and tassels twisted from strips of silk, thus transforming a
tenant's farm horse into somewhat the appearance of a war steed; and
in place of the swords Father was no longer allowed to carry, he wore
two sharpened bamboos stuck through his sash. A great crowd of people
gathered by the stone bridge at the end of the town to see the little
army start out. The spectators had clothed themselves as far as they
could in ancient dress, and as they waited, the men all sitting with
crossed legs in warrior fashion, they made a courageous-looking company.
Then the drum sounded, and my father raised his _saihai_--a stick
with dangling papers which his ancestors had carried to guide their
followers--and rode away, followed by a long train of men in armour as
for war. They crossed the fields, climbed the mountain, and, after each
warrior had made salutation at the temple, they gathered on the plain
for the battle, following it with an exhibition in archery, fencing,
spear-throwing, and athletic sports of various kinds.
Our men servants went to Yukuzan plain to watch the sports, but the
women were busy all day preparing for the home-coming. Straw mats were
spread on the grass and many fires were kindled in the garden over
which, tied to a tripod of strong branches, swung large iron kettles
holding game seasoned with _miso_, which with bran-rice forms the food
of soldiers in camp. About twilight the little army came riding back.
We children, dressed in our best attire, ran out to the big gateway and
waited between the two tall lantern stands with the welcoming lights.
When Father saw us he opened his iron war-fan and swung it back and
forth, as one would wave a handkerchief in greeting, and we bowed and
bowed in reply.
"Your honourable father looks to-day as he used to look in the
prosperous time," said Mother, half sadly, "and I am thankful that you,
his daughter, have seen him so."
The men piled their heavy regalia in a corner of the garden, and sat
around the kettles, eating and laughing with the freedom of camp life.
Father did not change his clothes, except to throw back his war hat,
where it hung by its silk cord, encasing him, front and back, in two
Inagaki crests; "thus boldly identifying myself to both friends and
enemies," he said, laughing. Then, sitting on a high garden stone, he
told war stories to us children, as we crowded close to each other on a
straw mat before him.
That was our last celebration in memory of the castle sinking of
Nagaoka. On the next May 7th the plain was flooded from a drenching
downpour, and the year following, Father was in ill health. The men
did not care for the sports without their old lord as leader, so the
celebration was postponed to a day that never came.
Father never entirely recovered from the effects of the hard years of
the Restoration. Each one as it passed left him looking less like the
sturdy, ambitious youth--for he was only thirty at that time--who had
held the reins of excited Nagaoka during those desperate days, but
his brave, cheerful spirit remained unchanged. Even through the first
erratic years of Japan's struggle to gain a foothold in the new world,
when people were recklessly throwing off the old and madly reaching
out for the new, Father had gone on his way, calm and unexcited. He
held, with the most progressive men of his day, a strong belief in the
ultimate success of Japan's future, but--and in this he received little
sympathy--he also retained a deep reverence for the past. Father,
however, was much liked, and he generally could turn aside undesirable
comments or lengthy arguments by the aid of a keen sense of humour,
which had a way of breaking through his stateliness and dignity like a
gleam of unexpected sunshine; and so, without title or power, he held,
as of old, his place as leader.
One autumn day, Father's physician, who was a very progressive man and
as much friend as physician, suggested that Father should go to Tokyo
and consult some doctors of a new hospital renowned for its successful
use of Western methods. Father decided to go, and of course he took
Jiya with him.
With Father and Jiya both gone, I was desolate. I still feel the
heart-pull of those lonely days. Sister was preparing for her marriage,
which was to take place in the fall, and her time was taken up with
many things. I don't know what I should have done but for my good
Shiro, who was equally lonely with me. Shiro really belonged to me,
but of course I never called him mine, for it was considered rough and
unladylike for a girl to own a dog. But I was allowed to play with him,
and every day, as soon as my lessons were over, we would wander around
together. One day we had visited the archery ground and were on the
long walk where Father liked to trudge up and down for exercise, when
suddenly Shiro galloped away from me toward a little house just within
the gateway, where Jiya lived alone. Jiya's wife had died before I
could remember, but he was a capable house-keeper, and any afternoon
during the summer that I might go to his neat porch I would find a
square lacquer box holding the most delicious things that a little girl
could possibly want to eat between meals--a sweet potato baked in ashes
and sprinkled with salt; or some big, brown chestnuts baked until their
jackets had burst, disclosing the creamy richness of the dainty that
was waiting for my fingers.
I hurried after Shiro and found him pushed close against the porch,
his tail wagging and his nose eagerly sniffing in the corner where the
lacquer box used to stand.
"Oh, no, no, Shiro!" I mournfully said. "The lacquer box is gone. Jiya
is gone. Everybody is gone."
I sat down on the edge of the porch and Shiro snuggled his cold nose
into my long sleeve. We were two as disconsolate creatures as could
be found, and as I buried my hand in his rough white fur, I had to
struggle hard to remember that a samurai's daughter does not cry.
Suddenly I recalled the saying, "To unreasonably relax is cowardice." I
bounded up. I talked to Shiro. I played with him. I even ran races with
him in the garden. When at last I returned to the house I had reason
to suspect that the family felt disapproval of my wild conduct, but
because I was all dearness to my father I escaped reproof for his sake.
Everyone had a tender heart in those days; for the heaviness of dread
was upon us all.
One day Shiro fell sick, and would eat nothing I put into his bowl.
I had a childish feeling that if he would eat he would get well, but
that day happened to be the death anniversary of an ancestor, and was
therefore a day of fasting. We had only vegetables for dinner, and so
there were no good scraps for Shiro. As always when in trouble, I went
to Ishi. She knew we ought not to handle fish on a fast day, but she
pitied my anxiety and smuggled me some fish bones from somewhere. I
took them to a distant part of the garden and crushed them between two
flat stones. Then I mixed them with bean soup from the kitchen and
took them to the kindling shed where Shiro was lying on his straw mat.
Poor Shiro looked grateful, but he would not get up; and thinking that
perhaps he was cold, I ran to my room and brought my crêpe cushion to
cover him.
When this became known to my grandmother, she sent for me to come to
her room. The moment I lifted my face after bowing I knew this was not
one of the times when I was to be entertained with sweet bean-cake.
"Little Etsu-ko," she said (she always called me "Etsu-ko" when she
spoke sternly), "I must speak to you of something very important. I am
told that you wrapped Shiro with your silk cushion."
Startled at her tone, I meekly bowed.
"Do you not know," she went on, "that you are guilty of the utmost
unkindness to Shiro when you do inappropriate things for him?"
I must have looked shocked and puzzled, for she spoke very gently after
that, explaining that since white dogs belong to the order next lower
than that of human beings, my kindness might postpone for another
lifetime Shiro's being born in human shape.
According to transmigration belief, the boundary line between the
orders of creation must be strictly maintained. If we place an animal
above its proper position we may prevent its advance in the next
incarnation. Every devout Buddhist is absolutely submissive to Fate,
for he is taught that hardship in his present life is either the
atonement for sins committed in the last existence, or the education
necessary to prepare him for a higher place in the life to come.
This belief has held Japan's labouring class in cheerful resignation
through ages of hardship, but also it has taught us to look with such
indifference upon the sufferings of creatures below us in the order of
creation that we have become, as a nation, almost sympathy-blind.
As quickly as possible to be polite, I thanked my grandmother and
hurried to beg Shiro's pardon. I found him covered very comfortably
with a matting of soft rice-straw suitable to his station. Out in the
garden two coolies were engaged in burning the crêpe cushion. Their
faces were very grave.
Poor Shiro! He had the best care we could give him, but the next
morning his body was asleep under the straw matting and his spirit
had passed on to the next state, which I pray was not lower because
of my kindly meant mistake. He was buried in the sunniest corner of
the garden beneath a big chestnut tree where many an autumn morning he
and I had happily tossed and caught the fallen brown nuts. It would
never have done for Shiro's grave to be publicly marked, but over it my
father quietly placed, on his return, a small gray stone, in memory of
his little girl's most faithful vassal.
Alas! Before the chestnut burrs were spilling their brown nuts over
Shiro's grave, my dear father had been laid to rest in the family
burial ground at Chokoji, and one more tablet had been placed in the
gilded shrine before which every morning and evening we bowed in love
and reverence.
CHAPTER VI
A SUNNY NEW YEAR
Ours was a lonely house the winter after Father's death. The first
forty-nine days when "the soul hovers near the eaves" was not sad
to me, for the constantly burning candles and curling incense of
the shrine made me feel that Father was near. And, too, everyone
was lovingly busy doing things in the name of the dear one; for to
Buddhists, death is a journey, and during these seven weeks, Mother and
Jiya hastened to fulfil neglected duties, to repay obligations of all
kinds and to arrange family affairs so that, on the forty-ninth day,
the soul, freed from world shackles, could go happily on its way to the
Land of Rest.
But when the excitement of the busy days was over and, excepting at the
time of daily service, the shrine was dark, then came loneliness. In a
childish, literal way, I thought of Father as trudging along a pleasant
road with many other pilgrims, all wearing the white robes covered with
priestly writings, the pilgrim hats and straw sandals in which they
were buried--and he was getting farther and farther from me every day.
[Illustration: _During these months, my greatest pleasure was going to
the temple with Mother. Toshi, the maid, always walked behind, carrying
flowers for the grave._]
As time passed on we settled back into the old ways, but it seemed
that everybody and everything had changed. Jiya no longer hummed
old folk-songs as he worked and Ishi's cheerful voice had grown so
lifeless that I did not care for fairy tales any more. Grandmother
spent more time than ever polishing the brass furnishings of the
shrine. Mother went about her various duties, calm and quiet as
usual, but her smile was sad. Sister and I sewed and read together,
but we no longer wasted time in giggling and eating sweets. And when
in the evening we all gathered around the fire-box in Grandmother's
room, our conversation was sure to drift to mournful topics. Even in
the servants' hall, though talking and laughter still mingled with the
sounds of spinning and grinding of rice, the spirit of merriment was
gone.
During these months my greatest pleasure was going to the temple with
Mother or Ishi. Mother's special maid, Toshi, always walked behind,
carrying flowers for the graves. We went first to the temple to bow
our respects to the priest, my much-honoured teacher. He served us
tea and cakes and then went with us to the graves, a boy priest going
along to carry a whitewood bucket of water with a slender bamboo dipper
floating on the top. We made bows to the graves and then, in respect
to the dead, poured water from the little dipper over the base of
the tall gray stones. So loyal to the past are the people of Nagaoka
that, many years after my father's death, I heard my mother say that
she had never visited his grave when she had not found it moist with
"memory-pourings" of friends and old retainers.
On February 15th, the "Enter into Peace" celebration of Buddha's death,
I went to the temple with Toshi, carrying as a gift to the priest
a lacquer box of little dumplings. They were made in the shapes of
all the animals in the world, to represent the mourners at Buddha's
death-bed, where all living creatures were present except the cat. The
good old priest, after expressing his thanks, took a pair of chopsticks
and, lifting several of the dumplings on to a plate, placed it for a
few minutes in front of the shrine, before putting it away for his
luncheon. That day he told me with deep feeling that he must say
farewell, since he was soon to go away from Chokoji for ever. I could
not understand, then, why he should leave the temple where he had been
so long and which he so dearly loved; but afterward I learned that,
devout and faithful though he was to all the temple forms, his brain
had advanced beyond his faith, and he had joined the "Army of the Few"
who choose poverty and scorn for the sake of what they believe to be
the truth.
One evening, after a heavy snowfall, Grandmother and I were sitting
cozily together by the fire-box in her room. I was making a hemp-thread
ball for a mosquito net that was to be woven as part of my sister's
wedding dowry, and Grandmother was showing me how to put my fingers
deftly through the fuzzy hemp.
"Honourable Grandmother," I exclaimed, suddenly recalling something
I wanted to say, "I forgot to tell you that we are going to have a
snow-fight at school to-morrow. Hana San is chosen to be leader on one
side and I on the other. We are to----"
I was so interested that again I lost my thread and it matted. I gave
it a quick jerk and at once found myself in sad trouble.
"Wait!" said Grandmother, reaching out to help me. "You should sing
'The Hemp-Winding Song.'" As she straightened my tangled thread, her
quavery old voice sang:
"Watch your hand as it winds hemp thread;
If it mats, with patience wait;
For a thoughtless move or a hasty pull
Makes smaller tangles great."
"Don't forget again!" she added, handing back the untangled bunch of
hemp.
"I was thinking about the snow-fight," I said apologetically.
Grandmother looked disapproving. "Etsu-bo," she said, "your eldest
sister, before she was married, made enough hemp thread for both the
mosquito nets for her destined home. You have now entered your eleventh
year and should aim to be more maiden-like in your tastes."
"Yes, Honourable Grandmother," I replied, feeling with humiliation how
true her words were. "This winter I will wind plenty of hemp thread. I
will make many balls, so Ishi can weave the two nets for Sister's dowry
before New Year's."
"There is no need for such haste," Grandmother replied, smiling at my
eagerness, but speaking gravely. "Our days of sorrow must not influence
your sister's fate. Her marriage has been postponed until the good-luck
season when the ricefields bow with their burden."
I had noticed that fewer shop men had been coming to the house, and
I had missed the frequent visits of tall Mr. Nagai and his brisk,
talkative little wife, the go-between couple for my sister. So that was
what it meant! Our unknown bridegroom would have to wait until autumn
for his bride. Sister did not care. There were plenty of things to be
interested in and we both soon forgot all about the delayed wedding in
our preparations for the approaching New Year.
The first seven days of the first month were the important holidays of
the Japanese year. Men in pleated skirts and crest coats made greeting
calls on the families of their friends, where they were received by
hostesses in ceremonious garments who entertained them with most
elaborate and especial New Year dishes; little boys held exciting
battles in the sky with wonderful painted kites having knives fastened
to their pulling cords; girls in new sashes tossed gay, feathery
shuttlecocks back and forth or played poem cards with their brothers
and brothers' friends, in the only social gatherings of the year where
boys and girls met together. Even babies had a part in this holiday
time, for each wee one had another birthday on New Year's Day--thus
suddenly being ushered into its second year before the first had
scarcely begun.
Our family festivities that year were few; but our sorrow was not
allowed to darken too much the atmosphere of New Year, and for the
first time since Father's death we heard sounds of merriment in the
kitchen. With the hot smell of steaming rice and the "Ton-g--click!
Ton-g--click!" of _mochi_-pounding were mingled the voices of Jiya and
Ishi in the old song, "The Mouse in the House of Plenty," which always
accompanies the making of the oldest food of Japan--the rice-dough
called _mochi_.
"We are the messengers of the Good-luck god,
The merry messengers.
We're a hundred years old, yet never have heard
The fearful cry of cat;
For we're the messengers of the Good-luck god,
The merry messengers."
About two days before New Year, Ishi came into the kitchen looking for
me. I was sitting on a mat with Taki, who was here to help for New
Year time, and we were picking out round beans from a pile in a low,
flat basket. They were the "stones of health" with which the demons
of evil were to be pelted and chased away on New Year's Eve. Jiya,
in ceremonious dress, would scatter them through the house, closely
followed by Taki, Ishi, and Toshi, with Sister and Etsu-bo running
after, all vigorously sweeping, pushing, tossing, and throwing; and
while the rolling beans went flying across the porches into the garden
or on to the walks, our high-pitched voices would merrily sing, over
and over:
"Good luck within!
Evil, go out! Out!"
Ishi had some errands to do and Mother had said that I might go with
her to see the gay sights. How well I remember that wonderful sunshiny
winter day! We crossed the streets on paths cut between walls of frozen
snow only three feet deep; for we had but little early snow that
winter, and no tunnels were made until after New Year. The sidewalk
panels were down in some places, just like summer time, and the shops
seemed very light with the sky showing. On each side of every doorway
stood a pine tree, and stretched above was a Shinto rope with its
ragged tufts and dangling zig-zag papers. Most of the shops on that
street were small, with open fronts, and we could plainly see the
sloping tiers of shelves laden with all the bright attractions of the
season. In front of every shop was a crowd, many of the people having
come from near-by villages, for the weather had been unusual, and
Nagaoka had hopefully laid in a supply of New Year goods that would
appeal to the simple taste of our country people.
To me, many of the sights, familiar though they were, had, in the
novelty of their surroundings, the excitement and fascination of a
play. At one place, when Ishi stopped to get something, I watched a
group of ten- or twelve-year-old boys, some with babies on their backs,
clattering along on their high, rainy-day clogs. They stopped to buy a
candy ball made of puffed rice and black sugar, which they broke, each
taking a piece and not forgetting to stuff some scraps in the mouths of
the babies that were awake. They were low-class children, of course, to
eat on the street, but I could taste that delicious sweet myself, as
my eyes followed them to the next shop, where they pushed and jostled
themselves through a crowd toward a display of large kites painted
with dragons and actors' masks that would look truly fearful gazing
down from the sky. In some places young girls were gathered about
shops whose shelves held rows of wooden clogs with bright-coloured
toe-thongs; or where, beneath low eaves, swung long straw cones stuck
full of New Year hairpins, gay with pine leaves and plum blossoms.
There were, of course, many shops which sold painted battledores and
long split sticks holding rows of five or ten feathery shuttlecocks of
all colours. The biggest crowds of all were in front of these shops,
for nobody was too poor or too busy to play _hane_ on New Year days.
That was a wonderful walk, and I've always been glad I took it, for
it was the only time I remember of my childhood when we had sunshiny
streets at New Year time.
Notwithstanding our quiet house, the first three days of the New Year
Mother was pretty busy receiving calls from our men kinsfolk and
family friends. They were entertained with every-vegetable soup, with
_miso_-stuffed salmon, fried bean-curd, seaweed of a certain kind, and
frozen gelatin. _Mochi_, as a matter of course, was in everything, for
mochi meant "happy congratulations" and was indispensable to every
house during New Year holidays. With the food was served a rice-wine
called _toso-sake_, which was rarely used except on certain natal
occasions and at New Year time. Toso means "fountain of youth," and its
significance is that with the new year, a new life begins.
The following days were more informal. Old retainers and old servants
called to pay respect, and always on one day during the season Mother
entertained all the servants of the house. They would gather in the
large living room, dressed in their best clothes. Then little lacquer
tables with our dishes laden with New Year dainties were brought in
and the rice served by Sister and myself. Even Mother helped. There
were Taki, Ishi, Toshi, and Kin, with Jiya and two menservants, and
all behaved with great ceremony. Kin, who had a merry heart, would
sometimes make fun for all by rather timidly imitating Mother's stately
manner. Mother always smiled with dignified good nature, but Sister
and I had to quench our merriment, for we were endeavouring to emulate
Kin and Toshi in our deep bows and respectful manners. It was all very
formally informal and most delightful.
On these occasions, Mother sometimes invited a carpenter, an
old man who was always treated in our family as a sort of minor
retainer. In old Japan, a good carpenter included the profession
of architect, designer, and interior decorator as well as of a
worker in wood, and since this man was known in Nagaoka as "Master
Goro Beam"--the complimentary title of an exceptionally clever and
skillful master-carpenter--and, in addition, was the descendant of
several generations of his name, he was much respected. I was very
fond of Goro. He had won my heart by making for me a beautiful little
doll-house with a ladder-like stairway. It was my heart's pride during
all the paper-doll years of my life. On the first New Year's Day
that Goro came after Father's death, he seemed quiet and sad until
Mother had served him _toso-sake_; then he brightened up and grew
talkative. In the midst of the feast he suddenly paused and, lifting
his _toso-sake_ cup very respectfully to the level of his forehead, he
bowed politely to Mother, who was sitting on her cushion just within
the open doorway of the next room.
"Honourable Mistress," he began, "when your gateway had the pine
decoration the last time, and you graciously entertained me like this,
my Honourable Master was here."
"Yes, so he was," Mother replied with a sad smile. "Things have
changed, Goro."
"Honourable Master ever possessed wit," Goro went on. "No ill-health or
ill-fortune could dull his brain or his tongue. It was in the midst
of your gracious hospitality, Honourable Mistress, that Honourable
Master entered the room and assured us all that we were received with
agreeable welcome. I had composed a humble poem of the kind that calls
for a reply to make it complete; and was so bold as to repeat it to
Honourable Master with the request that he honour me with closing
words. My poem, as suitable for a New Year greeting, was a wish for
good luck, good health, and good will to this honourable mansion."
"The Seven--the Good-fortune gods--
Encircle this house with safely-locked hands;
And nothing can pass them by."
"Then Honourable Master"--and Goro deeply bowed--"with a wrinkle of fun
on his lips, and a twinkle of fun in his eyes, replied as quickly as a
flash of light:"
"Alas! and alas! Then from this house
The god of Poverty can never escape;
But must always stay within."
Goro enjoyed his joke-poem so much that Mother united her gentle smile
with the gay laughter of his companions who were always ready to
applaud any word spoken in praise of the master they had all loved and
revered.
But bright-eyed Kin whispered to Ishi and Ishi smiled and nodded. Then
Taki and Toshi caught some words and they, too, smiled. Not until
afterward did I know that Kin's whisper was:
"The gods of Poverty are sometimes kind.
They've locked their hands with the Good-luck gods
And prisoned joy within our gates."
Thus lived the spirit of democracy in old Japan.
CHAPTER VII
THE WEDDING THAT NEVER WAS
The pleasant days of New Year barely lasted through the holidays. We
usually left the _mochi_ cakes on the _tokonoma_ until the fifteenth,
but it was everywhere the custom to remove the pines from the gateways
on the morning of the eighth day. There was a tradition (which nobody
believed, however) that during the seventh night the trees sink into
the earth, leaving only the tips visible above the ground. Literally,
this was true that year, for when we wakened on the morning of the
eighth, I found the three-foot paths filled and our whole garden a
level land of snow about four feet deep. Our low pines at the gateway
were snowed under, and we saw nothing more of them until spring.
Every coolie in Nagaoka was busy that day, for the snow was unexpected
and heavy. More followed, and in a few weeks we children were going
to school beneath covered sidewalks and through snow tunnels; and our
beautiful New Year was only a sunshiny memory.
One afternoon, as I was coming home from school, a postman, in his
straw coat and big straw snow-shoes, came slipping down through a
tunnel opening, from the snowy plain above.
"_Maa!_ Little Mistress," he called gaily, when he saw me, "I have mail
for your house from America."
"From America!" I exclaimed, greatly surprised; for a letter from a
foreign land had never come to us before. It was an exciting event. I
tried to keep the postman in sight as he hurried along the narrow walk
between the snow wall and the row of open-front shops. Occasionally he
would call out "A message!"--"A message!" and stop to put mail into an
outstretched hand. The path was narrow and I frequently was jostled by
passing people, but I was not far behind the postman when he turned
into our street. I knew he would go to the side entrance with the mail;
so I hurried very fast and had reached Grandmother's room and already
made my bow of "I have come back," before a maid entered with the mail.
The wonderful letter was for Mother, and Grandmother asked me to carry
it to her.
My heart sank with disappointment; for my chance to see it opened was
gone. I knew that, as soon as Mother received it, she would take it at
once to Grandmother, but I should not be there. Then Grandmother would
look at it very carefully through her big horn spectacles and hand it
back to Mother, saying in a slow and ceremonious manner, "Please open!"
Of course she would be agitated, because it was a foreign letter, but
that would only make her still more slow and ceremonious. I could see
the whole picture in my mind as I walked through the hall, carrying the
big, odd-shaped envelope to Mother's room.
That evening after family service before the shrine, Grandmother kept
her head bowed longer than usual. When she raised it she sat up very
straight and announced solemnly, with the most formal dignity, almost
like a temple service, that the young master, who had been in America
for several years, was to return to his home. This was startling news,
for my brother had been gone almost since I could remember and his name
was never mentioned. To call him the "young master" was sufficient
explanation that the unknown tragedy was past, and he reinstated in
his position as a son. The servants, sitting in the rear of the room,
bowed to the floor in silent congratulation, but they seemed to be
struggling with suppressed excitement. I did not stop to wonder why.
It was enough for me to know that my brother was coming home. I could
scarcely hold the joy in my heart.
I must have been very young when my brother went away, for though
I could distinctly recall the day he left, all memory of what went
before or came immediately after was dim. I remember a sunny morning
when our house was decorated with wondrous beauty and the servants
all wore ceremonial dress with the Inagaki crest. It was the day of
my brother's marriage. In the _tokonoma_ of our best room was one
of our treasures--a triple roll picture of pine, bamboo, and plum,
painted by an ancient artist. On the platform beneath was the beautiful
Takasago table where the white-haired old couple with rake and broom
were gathering pine needles on the shore. Other emblems of happy
married life were everywhere, for each gift--and there were whole rooms
full--was decorated with small figures of snowy storks, of gold-brown
tortoises, or beautiful sprays of entwined pine, bamboo, and plum.
Two new rooms, which had been recently built, were full of beautiful
lacquer toilet cases and whitewood chests with iron clasps. They had
come the day before, in a procession of immense trays swinging from
poles on the shoulders of coolies. Each was covered with a cloth
bearing a crest not ours.
Ishi and I wandered from room to room, she explaining that the bride
for the young master would soon be there. She allowed me one peep into
the wedding room. It was all white and plain and empty except for the
offerings to the gods on the _tokonoma_ and the little table with the
three red cups for the sacred promise.
Ishi was continually running to look out toward the big entrance
gate, and of course wherever she went I was close by, holding to her
sleeve. The whole house was open. The sliding doors of every room
were pushed back and we could see clear to the big open gateway at
the end of the stone walk. Just beneath its narrow thatch was looped
a dark-blue curtain bearing the Inagaki crest and on each side were
tall slender stands holding lanterns of congratulation. Near one of
the stone posts was the "seven-and-a-half-times" messenger in his
stiff-sleeved garment. He had returned from his seventh trip to see if
the bridal procession was coming, and though the day was bright with
sunshine, was just lighting his big lantern for his last trip to meet
it halfway--thus showing our eagerness to welcome the coming bride.
Presently Ishi said that the procession was almost here and I saw the
servants hurrying toward the entrance, all smiling, but moving with
such respectful quiet that I could hear plainly the creaking of the
bride's palanquin and the soft thud of the jinrikisha men's feet as
they came up the hill.
Then suddenly something was wrong. Ishi caught my shoulder and pulled
me back, and Brother came hurriedly out of Father's room. He passed us
with long, swinging strides, never looking at me at all, and, stepping
into his shoes on the garden step, he walked rapidly toward the side
entrance. I had never seen him after that day.
The maiden my brother was to have married did not return to her former
home. Having left it to become a bride, she was legally no longer a
member of her father's family. This unusual problem Mother solved by
inviting her to remain in our home as a daughter; which she did until
finally Mother arranged a good marriage for her.
In a childish way I wondered about all the strangeness, but years had
passed before I connected it with the sudden going away at this time
of a graceful little maid named Tama, who used to arrange flowers and
perform light duties. Her merry laugh and ready tongue made her a
favourite with the entire household. Tama was not a servant. In those
days it was the custom for daughters of wealthy tradesmen to be sent to
live for a short time in a house of rank, that the maiden might learn
the strict etiquette of samurai home life. This position was far from
menial. A girl living with a family for social education was always
treated with respectful consideration.
The morning after my brother went away I was going, as usual, to pay my
morning greetings to my father when I met Tama coming from his door,
looking pale and startled. She bowed good morning to me and then passed
quietly on. That afternoon I missed her and Ishi told me that she had
gone home.
Whatever may have been between my brother and Tama I never knew; but
I cannot but feel that, guilt or innocence, there was somewhere a
trace of courage. My brother was weak, of course, to prolong his heart
struggle until almost the last moment, but he must have had much of his
father's strong character to enable him, even then, to break with the
traditions of his rigid training and defy his father's command. In that
day there could be only a hopeless ending to such an affair, for no
marriage was legal without the consent of parents, and my father, with
heart wounded and pride shamed, had declared that he had no son.
It was not until several years later that I heard again of my brother.
One afternoon Father was showing me some twisting tricks with a string.
I was kneeling close beside his cushion, watching his rapidly moving
hands and trying to catch his fingers in my own. Mother was sitting
near with her sewing, and all three of us were laughing.
A maid came to the door to say that Major Sato, a Tokyo gentleman whom
my father knew very well, had called. I slipped back by Mother. She
started to leave the room, but Father motioned her not to go, and so
we both remained.
I shall never forget that scene. Major Sato, speaking with great
earnestness, told how my brother had gone to Tokyo and entered the Army
College. With only his own efforts he had completed the course with
honour and was now a lieutenant. There Major Sato paused.
My father sat very still with his head held high and absolutely no
expression on his stern face. For a full minute the room was so silent
that I could hear myself breathe. Then my father, still without moving,
asked quietly, "Is your message delivered, Major Sato?"
"It is finished," was the reply.
"Your interest is appreciated, Major Sato. This is my answer: I have
daughters, but no son."
Mother had sat perfectly quiet throughout, with her head bowed and her
hands tightly clasped in her lap. When Father spoke she gave a little
shudder but did not move.
Presently Father turned toward her. "Wife," he said very gently, "ask
Ishi to bring the _go_ board, and send wine to the honourable guest."
Whatever was in the heart of either man, they calmly played the game to
the end, and Mother and I sat there in the deep silence as motionless
as statues.
That night when Ishi was helping me undress, I saw tears in her eyes.
"What troubles you, Ishi?" I asked. "Why do you almost cry?"
She sank to her knees, burying her face in her sleeves, and for the
only time in my life I heard Ishi wail like a servant. "Oh, Little
Mistress, Little Mistress," she sobbed, "I am not sad. I am glad. I am
thankful to the gods that I am lowly born and can cry when my heart is
filled with ache and can laugh when my heart sings. Oh, my dear, dear
Mistress! My poor, poor Master!" And she still sobbed.
That was all long ago, and now, after many years, my brother was coming
back to his home.
The snow went away, the spring passed and summer was with us. It seemed
a long, long wait, but at last came a day when the shrine doors were
opened early in the morning and the candles kept burning steadily hour
after hour, for Grandmother wanted the presence of the ancestors in the
welcome to the wanderer, and as the trip from Tokyo was by jinrikisha
and _kago_ in those days, the time of arrival was very uncertain. But
at last the call "Honourable return!" at the gateway brought everyone
except Grandmother to the entrance. We all bowed our faces to the
floor, but nevertheless I saw a man in foreign dress jump from his
jinrikisha, give a quick look around, and then walk slowly up the old
stone path toward us. He stopped at one place and smiled as he pulled a
tuft of the little blossoms growing between the stones. But he threw it
away at once and came on.
The greetings at the door were very short. Brother and Mother bowed,
he speaking gently to her and she looking at him with a smile that
had tears close behind. Then he laughingly called me "the same
curly-haired, round-faced Etsu-bo."
His foreign shoes were removed by Jiya, and we went in. Of course,
he went to the shrine first. He bowed and did everything just right,
but too quickly, and some way I felt troubled. Then he went to
Grandmother's room.
Immediately after greetings were over, Grandmother handed him Father's
lacquer letter-box. He lifted it to his forehead with formal courtesy;
then, taking out the letter, he slowly unrolled it and, with a strange
expression, sat looking at the writing. I was shocked to feel that I
could not know whether that look meant bitterness, or amusement, or
hopelessness. It seemed to be a combination of all three. The message
was very short. In a trembling hand was written: "You are now the head
of Inagaki. My son, I trust you." That was all.
That evening a grand dinner was served in our best room. Brother sat
next the _tokonoma_. All the near relatives were there, and we had the
kind of food Brother used to like. There was a great deal of talking,
but he was rather quiet, although he told us some things about America.
I watched him as he talked. His strange dress with tight sleeves and
his black stockings suggested kitchen people, and he sat cross-legged
on his cushion. His voice was rather loud and he had a quick way of
looking from one person to another that was almost startling. I felt
a little troubled and uncertain--almost disappointed; for in some
puzzling way he was different from what I wanted him to be. But one
thing I loved at once. He had the same soft twinkle in his eyes when
he smiled that Father had. Every time I saw that, I felt that however
different from Father he might look--or be--he really had the lovable
part of Father in his heart. And in spite of a vague fear, I knew,
deep, deep down, that whatever might happen in the days, or years, to
come, I should always love him and should always be true to him. And I
always have.
CHAPTER VIII
TWO VENTURES
My brother's coming introduced an entirely new and exciting element
into our home. This was the letters which he occasionally received from
friends in America. The letters were dull, for they told of nothing
but people and business; so after the first few I lost all interest in
them. But the big, odd-shaped envelopes and the short pages of thick
paper covered with faint pen-writing held a wonderful fascination. None
of us had even seen a pen or any kind of writing-paper except our rolls
of thin paper with the narrow envelopes. We could write a letter of any
length, sometimes several feet, on that paper. We began at the right
side and, using a brush, wrote in vertical lines, unrolling from the
left as we wrote. The graceful black characters standing out against a
background all white, but shaded by the varying thickness of the paper
into a mass of delicate, misty blossoms, were very artistic. In later
years we had flowered paper in colours, but when I was a child only
white was considered dignified.
Brother always used the large, odd-shaped envelopes for letters to
America; so I supposed that kind was necessary. One day he asked me to
hand to the postman a letter enclosed in one of our narrow envelopes,
embossed with a graceful branch of maple leaves. I was greatly
surprised when I saw that it had an expensive stamp on the corner and
was addressed to America.
"Honourable Brother," I hesitatingly asked, "will Government allow this
letter to go?"
"Why not?"
"I thought only big envelopes could be used for letters to America."
"Nonsense!" he said crossly. And then he added in a kind tone, "I
haven't any more, and those I sent for to Tokyo, haven't come."
And so the delicate maple leaves went to America and my girlish heart
was pleased. It was the first pleasant bond between the two countries
of which I had known.
There was nothing definite in my mind against America, but I was so
constantly hearing allusions to the disagreeable experiences of almost
all persons who had dealings with foreigners that I had a vague feeling
of distaste for the unknown land. This impression was strengthened by
odd stories told by servants of "red-faced, light-haired barbarians who
had no heels and had to prop up their shoes with artificial blocks."
It was said that animals were eaten whole by these strange people,
and that the master of a lordly house often entertained his guests by
cutting up a cooked eagle in their presence. It was also rumoured that
the cheap red blankets extensively imported at that time were dyed with
the blood of stolen infants. One report, which was wide-spread, in city
and country alike, was that the peculiar animal odour of foreigners
was caused by the eating of flesh. This probably originated from the
unfamiliar odour of wool noticed in the damp clothing of foreign
sailors. Since we had neither sheep nor woollen cloth in Japan, the
unfamiliar odour was naturally associated with the person who carried
the scent about with him. The name has clung, and even yet it is not
uncommon for country people, inquiring in a store for woollen cloth, to
ask for "animal-smelling goods."
Brother denied very few of these tales. I think many of them he
believed, even after having lived in America. Apparently he had met
while there very few people except those engaged in buying and selling.
Once Grandmother said, with a sigh, "Your honourable brother seems to
have learned only the ways of tradesmen in far-away America. But," she
added thoughtfully, "perhaps it is a land where only tradesmen live."
He had been to America, but we did not realize that he had seen only
one small portion of one coast city in that great land.
As time passed on, Brother seemed to withdraw from our family life,
and yet he did not fall into the life of the people of Nagaoka. He was
different from everybody. Sometimes he looked troubled and anxious,
but more often he was only restless and dissatisfied. At such times he
frequently came and sat beside me as I sewed or studied, and I think he
talked more freely to me than to any one else. Occasionally, though not
often, he spoke of himself, and gradually I learned much of what his
life had been since he left home.
His going to America was due to the craze for foreign business which
had struck Tokyo so forcefully about the time Brother left the army.
Many young men, confident of rapid and brilliant success, were
launching out in various directions, and someone induced Brother to
invest all he had in what was represented to be a large export company
having offices in America. He was offered a partnership if he would
take charge of the business there. Like most men of his rank, he had no
realization of his own ignorance of business methods; so he accepted
and set sail for America. On reaching his destination he found that
he had been defrauded. The export company was only a small toy-shop
situated in a crowded Japanese district and kept by the wife of a
workman who knew nothing of the promised partnership.
Astonished and disappointed, Brother made his way to a near-by
hotel--a pretty poor place, he said--where many Japanese men were
talking and playing games. They were mostly workmen or cheap clerks of
a humble class with almost no education. But they were most respectful
to him, and, though the surroundings were uncongenial, he knew no
other place to go. In a short time he had spent all his money, and,
knowing nothing of any kind of work, and almost nothing of the English
language, he easily drifted downward into the life of those around him.
Some men would have pushed up through the mud and found light, but my
brother knew little of foreigners, he had no ambitions regarding them,
and what he saw of them where he was only repelled him.
Sometimes he left the crowded district where he lived and strolled
through wide streets where there were tall buildings and big stores.
There he saw foreign people, but they either paid no attention to him
or looked at him as he himself would look at a coolie at home. This
amused him; for, to him, the strange-looking men who hurried by him,
talking in loud voices and smoking large, ill-smelling tobacco rolls,
or chewing horrible stuff that they blew out of their mouths on to
the street, were wholly disgusting. The women were queerly dressed
creatures who stared, and laughed with their mouths open. Nothing
seemed delicate or refined, only big and strong and coarse. Everything
repelled his artistic soul; so he drifted back to his uncongenial--but
understandable--surroundings.
Then Fate stepped in. My brother was hurt by an accidental blow on
the head, which sent him to a hospital for three blessed, cool, clean
weeks. The day he was dismissed and, sick at heart, was slowly walking
toward the only place he knew to go--his old quarters--he turned a
corner and suddenly came face to face with a young man, vigorous
and brisk, walking with a quick step. The man laughed aloud as both
abruptly came to a standstill; then, seeing how pale and ill Brother
looked, he turned and walked with him.
However shabbily my brother might be dressed, he always had the bearing
of a gentleman, and recognizing this, the young man, whose name was
Matsuo, insisted on taking Brother to his own room. A few days later he
found a place for him in a store where he himself was foreman, and the
acquaintance thus begun ripened into a warm and lasting friendship.
Had this help been given when Brother first reached America, the
high-bred, delicately reared youth, although over-indulged and unwisely
trained for practical life, might have won his puzzling way through
all the strangeness; but it was now too late. That accidental blow on
the head had caused a damage, which, though not apparent at first,
gradually developed into a trouble that unfitted him for steady
work; and my poor brother was never the same again. But Matsuo was
steadfastly kind.
Then came a message from Major Sato in Tokyo, saying Father was ill and
wanted his son to return home. Of what was in my brother's heart then I
know nothing, but for many weeks he delayed his reply. Then he came.
That autumn our year of mourning was over, and Brother, being home to
take the place of Father, Sister's marriage was planned for harvest
time. The season, however, was early. Rice patches throughout Echigo
were bowing with rich promise early in October, but of course, nobody
was ever married in the no-god month, so the first good-luck day in
November was chosen.
It is during October that the marriage gods all meet in Idzumo temple
to join the names of those who are to wed. One of the favourite stories
for grandmothers and nurses to tell little girls is about a youth
of olden time who was so unfortunate as to have no parents or elder
brother. There being no one to arrange a marriage for him, he grew to
the age of twenty and was still a bachelor.
One October day he decided to visit Idzumo temple to see if his name
was coupled with that of any maiden. So, taking with him, as a gift,
the first rice-sheaf of his harvest, he started on his long day's
journey. As he approached the temple steps he heard voices. Names were
being called like counting: "He; she." "He; she." He recognized the
name of a young man he knew; then another, and another--each paired off
with the name of a young woman.
"_Maa! Maa!_" whispered the astonished youth, "I have intruded upon a
meeting of the gods."
But his interest was too great to allow him to retreat. Creeping
between the ornamental posts that supported the floor, he listened,
guiltily, but with anxious hope.
Another two names! Another! "He; she." "He; she"--but alas! not his own.
Finally a voice of authority announced, "These are planned. Our last
day is almost gone and our work for the year is ended."
"Wait a moment," said another voice. "There is Taro. Again he is left.
Cannot we find a maiden for him?"
The youth's heart gave a bound, for he was Taro.
"Oh, troublesome!" impatiently cried a god. "Again comes that name!"
"We need not haste. He has no one to arrange for him," said another.
"His name must go uncoupled for another year," came from a distant
corner. "There is no maiden left."
"Wait!" spoke the first voice. "In Chestnut Village a girl has just
been born in the house of the village master. The family is of higher
class, but let us give her to Taro. Then our work will be done."
"Yes! yes!" cried all the gods. "Put the names together and we will
hasten to the duties of our own shrines."
"Our work for the year is ended," spoke the voice of authority.
The youth crept away, excited and indignant, and sorely disappointed.
As he trudged slowly along the road on his homeward way, both
disappointment and indignation grew, but when he came in sight of
Chestnut Village and saw the comfortable house of the village master
with its thick thatch and large screen heavy with drying sheafs of
rice, his anger lessened and he thought, "After all, it is not so bad!"
He walked slowly by the open door. A child's bed of cushions was just
within. He saw a baby's face and a tiny close-shut hand.
"Twelve years, at least, to wait!" he suddenly cried. "I will not have
it so! I will defy the gods!"
On the _tokonoma_ was a sword-rest holding the single sword of a humble
vassal. Grasping it, he made a quick thrust through the cushions, and
bounding through the door, he hurried on his way.
Years passed. Fate was kind and Taro prospered, but no bride could he
find. More years passed. At last, patiently accepting bachelorhood as a
punishment for his defiance of the gods, he became resigned.
Then a surprising thing happened. A go-between called with the offer
of a bride--beautiful, industrious, dutiful. Taro was delighted.
Negotiations were carried through; the bride came; the marriage took
place and the young wife proved all that the happy Taro could wish. One
warm day, when she was sewing on the porch, she loosened her collar
folds and Taro saw an odd curving scar on her neck.
"What is it?" he asked.
"That is a strange mystery," said the bride, smiling. "When I was only
a babe, my grandmother heard me cry, and coming, found my father's
sword on the floor and I with this curving cut across my neck and
shoulder. No one was near, and it was never learned how it happened. My
grandmother said that I was marked by the gods for some wise purpose.
And so it must be," concluded the wife as she leaned again over her
sewing.
Taro walked thoughtfully away. Again he saw the baby face and the tiny
close-shut hand; and he realized how hopeless it is to try to thwart
the decree of the gods.
When Ishi told us this story, she always closed with, "And so you see
it is useless not to accept gratefully the will of the gods. What is
planned must be obeyed."
* * * * *
When the day of Sister's wedding came, we were all greatly excited;
but the real excitement of a Japanese marriage is at the house of the
bridegroom, as it is there that the wedding takes place. However, the
ceremony of leaving home is always elaborate, and for several days our
entire house was filled with the sound of people ordering and people
obeying. Then came a day when Taki, Ishi, and Toshi were busy for
hours, all three folding bedding and packing bridal chests; and the
next day the procession of bridal belongings went swinging out of our
gateway and on over the mountain to Sister's home-to-be.
Two days later Sister went away. The hairdresser came very early that
morning, for the bride's hair had to be arranged in the elaborate
married style with wonderful ornaments of tortoise-shell and coral.
Then her face and neck were covered with thick white powder and she was
dressed in a robe and sash of white--the death colour--because marriage
means the bride's death to her father's family. Beneath this was a
garment of scarlet, the dress of a new-born babe, typical of her birth
into her husband's family. Mother had on her beautiful crest dress, and
Brother looked like Father in the ceremonious pleated linen skirt and
stiff shoulder-piece of the _kamishimo_. I was so glad to see him look
like Father.
Just as the bridal palanquin was brought to the door, we all went to
the shrine for Sister to say farewell to the spirit of our ancestors,
for, after marriage, she would belong no longer to our family, but
to her husband's. She bowed alone before the shrine. Then Mother
slipped over the mat to her side and presented her with a beautiful
mirror-case, the kind that all Japanese ladies wear with ceremonial
dress. Sister's was beautiful mosaic-work of crêpe in a pattern of
pine, bamboo, and plum. It had been made by our great-grandmother's own
hands. Inside it was a small mirror. A brocade-covered crystal hung
from it on a silk cord and, on the edge of the case, slipped under the
band, was a long silver hairpin. In olden days this was a dagger. These
are emblematic of the mirror, the jewel, and the sword of the Imperial
regalia.
As Mother handed the mirror-case to Sister, she said the same words
that every mother says to a bride. She told her that now she was to
go forth bravely to her new life, just as a soldier goes to battle.
"Look in the mirror every day," she said, "for if scars of selfishness
or pride are in the heart, they will grow into the lines of the face.
Watch closely. Be strong like the pine, yield in gentle obedience like
the swaying bamboo, and yet, like the fragrant plum blossoming beneath
the snow, never lose the gentle perseverance of loyal womanhood."
I never saw my mother so moved, but poor Sister looked only blank and
expressionless beneath the stiff white powder.
We all bowed deeply at the door. Sister entered the palanquin and the
next moment was hidden behind the reed screen of the little window. Her
own nurse, who should have come next, had married and gone far away, so
Ishi took her place and entered the first jinrikisha. The go-between
and his wife were in the next two, and then came Brother and Mother.
The procession started, Toshi sprinkled salt on the doorstep just as if
a corpse had been carried out, and mingling with the sound of rolling
wheels and the soft thud of trotting feet came Grandmother's trembly
old voice singing the farewell part of the wedding-song:
"From the shore
A boat with lifted sail
Rides toward the rising moon.
On waves of ebbing tide it sails,
The shadow of the land falls backward,
And the boat sails farther--farther----"
So ended Sister's life as an Inagaki; for however often she might
visit us after this, and however lovingly and informally she might be
treated, she would never again be anything but a guest.
Long afterward Sister told me of her trip to her new home. It was only
a few hours long, but she had to go over a mountain, and the palanquin
jolted fearfully. She said her greatest anxiety was to keep her head,
laden with the heavy shell bars, from bumping against the cushions and
disarranging her elaborately dressed hair. Finally the carriers were
trotting along evenly on a smooth road, then they came to a stop and
Ishi pushed up the reed screen of the window.
"Young Mistress," she said, "we have reached the halting place where we
are to rest before presenting ourselves to the house of the honourable
bridegroom."
Mother and Ishi helped Sister out, and they all went into a good-sized
but simple farmhouse. They were received most graciously by the
hostess, who was a distant relative of the bridegroom's family. There
they had dinner, each person being served with red rice and a small
fish, head and all--meaning Congratulation. Ishi freshened up Sister's
dress, looked over her sash, examined her hair, and retouched her
powdered face. Then the procession moved slowly on, up a long sloping
hill. At the top they were met by the "seven-and-a-half-times" courier
and soon reached the big gateway with its crest banner and lanterns of
welcome. She was conscious of being on a stone path when the carriers
placed the palanquin to the ground. She could see nothing, but she knew
that in a moment the little window in the front would be opened and the
bridegroom's face would appear. Then he would strike the top of the
palanquin with his fan, which would mean Welcome.
There was usually no delay, but this bridegroom was a bashful youth,
only seventeen, and they had to go for him. Sister said that in those
few minutes of waiting, she, for the first time, was frightened. Then
she heard swift footsteps and the next moment the little reed screen
was jerked open. She ought to have sat quietly, with her eyes cast
modestly down, but she was startled and gave one quick glance upward.
In that instant's time she saw a pale, pock-marked face with a broad
low brow and close-pressed lips.
Down went the screen and, without a second's pause, "clap! clap!" came
a nervous slap of the fan above her head.
The palanquin was lifted and carried to the door. Sister, within, sat
strangely calm, for in that instant of lifted screen her fright had
slipped away--for ever.
The door was reached. The palanquin was lowered to the ground. Sister
was helped out, and as she entered her life home, two old voices
completed the wedding-song with the words of welcome:
"On the sea
A boat with lifted sail
Rides toward the rising moon.
On the waves of the flowing tide it comes.
The shadow of the past lies far behind,
And the boat sails nearer--nearer
To the shore called Happy Life."
CHAPTER IX
THE STORY OF A MARIONETTE
On the first day of Ura Bon, when I was twelve years old, Ishi brought
a new ornament for my hair and placed it just in front of my big,
stand-up bow-knot. It was a silver shield set in a mass of small, loose
silver flowers, and looked very beautiful against the shiny black
background.
"It was sent to you by Honourable Yedo Grandmother," she said. "She had
it made from melted ancient coins, and it is very wonderful."
I turned my face in the direction of Tokyo and bowed a silent "Thank
you" to the kind invisible donor. Just who Honourable Yedo Grandmother
was I did not know. Each year, ever since I could remember, I had
received a beautiful gift from her for our midsummer festival of
Ura Bon, and, in a vague way, I was conscious that our family had
some close connection with her; but I gave it no thought. All little
girls had grandmothers. Some had two and some still more. Of course,
grandmothers on the mother's side lived elsewhere, but it was not
unusual for a father to have both his mother and grandmother living in
his home. Old people were always welcome, their presence giving dignity
to the family. The house of a son who had the care of three generations
of parents was called "the honoured seat of the aged."
Ura Bon--(A Welcome to Souls Returned)--was our festival to celebrate
the annual visit of O Shorai Sama, a term used to represent the
combined spirits of all our ancestors. It was the most dearly loved
of our festivals, for we believed that our ancestors never lost their
loving interest in us, and this yearly visit kept fresh in all our
hearts a cheerful and affectionate nearness to the dear ones gone.
In preparing for the arrival of O Shorai Sama the only standards were
cleanliness and simplicity; everything being done in an odd primitive
fashion, not elaborated, even in the slightest degree, from Bon
festivals of the most ancient time.
For several days everyone had been busy. Jiya and another man had
trimmed the trees and hedges, had swept all the ground, even under
the house, and had carefully washed off the stepping stones in the
garden. The floor mats were taken out and whipped dustless with bamboo
switches, Kin and Toshi, in the meantime, making the air resound with
the "pata-pata-pata" of paper dusters against the _shoji_, and the
long-drawn-out "see-wee-is-shi" of steaming hot padded cloths pushed up
and down the polished porch floors. All the woodwork in the house--the
broad ceiling boards, the hundreds of tiny white bars crossing the
paper doors, the carved ventilators, and the mirror-like post and
platform of the _tokonomas_--was wiped off with hot water; then every
little broken place in the rice-paper _shoji_ was mended, and finally
the entire house, from thatch to the under-floor ice-box, was as fresh
and clean as rain-water falling from the sky.
Mother brought from the godown a rare old _kakemono_, one of Father's
treasures, and after it was hung Kin placed beneath it our handsomest
bronze vase holding a big loose bunch of the seven grasses of
autumn--althea, pampas, convolvulus, wild pink, and three kinds of
asters, purple, yellow, and white. These are mostly flowers, but
Japanese designate all plants that grow from the ground in slender,
blade-like leaves, as grasses.
The shrine was, of course, the most important of all, as it was there
the spirit guest lived during the days of the visit. Jiya had gone to
the pond before dawn to get lotus blossoms, for it is only with the
first rays of sunrise that the "puff" comes, which opens the pale green
buds into snowy beauty. Before he returned, the shrine had been emptied
and cleaned, and the bronze Buddha reverentially dusted and returned to
his place on the gilded lotus. The tablet holding the ancestors' names,
and Father's picture, which Mother always kept in the shrine, were
wiped off carefully, the brass open-work "everlasting-light" lantern
filled afresh with rape-seed oil, the incense burner, the candle
stands, the sacred books, and our rosaries, all arranged in place, and
the ugly fish-mouth wooden drum, which is typical of woman's submissive
position, rubbed until the worn place on the red lacquer was a shiny
brown. Then Jiya covered the floor before the shrine with a fresh,
rudely woven mat of pampas grass and placed on either side a vase
holding bunches of the seven grasses of autumn.
But the most interesting time of all came when Honourable Grandmother
and I sat down before the shrine to prepare the decorations of welcome.
I always loved to help her do this. Ishi and Toshi brought us some
odd-shaped vegetables they had found in the garden, a handful of dried
hemp stems from which the bark had been removed, and yards and yards of
_somen_--a sort of soft, pliable macaroni. Honourable Grandmother took
a crooked-necked cucumber, one end of which was shaped something like
a lifted head, and made it into a horse, using corn silk for mane and
tail and hemp stems for stiff little legs. Of a small, plump eggplant
she made a water buffalo, with horns and legs of hemp stems, and
twisting some half-dried _somen_ into harness for both little animals,
she placed them in the shrine. I made several horses and buffaloes
too. While we were working, Jiya came in with some small lotus leaves,
the edges of which were beginning to dry and turn up like little curved
dishes, and a few very small yellow and red balls, a new kind of fruit,
which I now know were tomatoes.
After Ishi had filled the lotus-leaf dishes with vegetables and every
kind of fruit except the furry peach, Honourable Grandmother looped the
_somen_ across the top of the shrine in a series of graceful festoons,
hanging on it at intervals small purple eggplants and the tiny yellow
and red tomatoes.
Then Ishi brought the kitchen "row-of-steps," and climbing up, hung
the white Bon lantern high above everything. It was only a white paper
cube, twisted about with a braid of paper having loose ends; but when
it was lighted the heat made it constantly whirl, and the many ends
of paper rising, falling, and waving looked like a flock of tiny
fluttering birds. It was very beautiful.
The meaning of the decorations and the queer little vegetable animals
has been lost in the mist of past years, but the lotus-leaf shape of
the dishes was because the lotus is a sacred flower. The Buddhist bible
tells this story of Buddha's time of temptation when he was living as a
hermit on the Mount of Snow.
One day, at the hour of dawn, he was sitting in meditation, when he
heard a strange, sweet song. As he listened wonder and joy crept into
his heart, for in the notes of the melody was slowly unfolding the
plan of salvation. Suddenly it ceased. In vain he waited. All was
silence. Hurrying to the edge of a precipice he peered into the mists
of the valley and there saw a horrible demon who turned a taunting
face toward the disappointed and anxious prophet. Earnestly the Buddha
begged for the remainder of the song, but the demon said that he could
sing no more until his hunger was satisfied with human flesh and his
thirst with human blood. Then would he sing the mystic plan, until the
knowledge of salvation had reached all humankind.
The Buddha's dearest vision that he himself should bring the message to
the world faded into nothingness, and eagerly he cried, "Satisfy thy
hunger with my flesh, and quench thy thirst with my blood; but continue
thy song until every soul is saved!" and casting off his robe he sprang
from the rock. A sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the valley and
touched the waters of a pool where was floating a lotus with spreading
leaves and one unopened bud. As the holy prophet fell through the air,
the bud burst suddenly into bloom, and on its snowy petals softly sank
the one who was to give to more than one third of the world a faith far
better than any they had known.
The raised centre of the lotus, even now, is called _utena_, which
means "seat," and lotus blossoms, either natural or artificial, are
always before every Buddhist shrine.
Just before sunset we were all ready, for twilight was the hour of
welcome. O Shorai Sama was always spoken of as a vague, impersonal
figure who came riding on a snow-white steed from "the land of
darkness, the shores of the unknown, the place of the dead."
Like all children I had always looked forward with pleasure to the
visit of the ancestors, but after Father's death, I felt a deep
personal interest, and my heart was beating with excitement, as the
family met at the shrine. Each one, even the servants, wore a new
dress--simple and inexpensive, but new. As twilight deepened, the
shrine lantern was lighted, the _shoji_ pushed back, and the entrance
doors opened; thus leaving a free path from the outside road all the
way to the shrine.
Then we started, walking two by two through the open door, across
the hall, down the step of the "shoe-off" place and along the stone
walk to the big entrance gates, which were open wide. In the centre of
the gateway Jiya had criss-crossed a little pile of hemp stems--just
thirteen--around a tiny heap of fluffy dried grass. When we reached
this we parted, Jiya and Yoshita going on one side of the path, and on
the other, Honourable Grandmother, Mother, myself, and Ishi, Kin, and
Toshi. Then, all respectfully stooping, we bowed our heads and waited.
Brother was in Tokyo, so Honourable Grandmother, with Ishi's help,
struck the fire of purity with flint and steel, and the dropping sparks
lighted the hemp stems into a blaze of welcome.
All the town was silent and dusky except for hundreds of tiny fires,
for one was blazing at every gateway. As I bowed, my longing heart
seemed to pull my father to me. Through the distance I could hear the
sound of soft, galloping feet, and I knew the snow-white steed was
nearing. The moment's blaze of the hemp-stem fire was dying, a faint
breath of warm August wind struck my cheek, and peace crept into my
heart. Slowly we rose and with bowed heads walked back, on the outside
edges of the path, two by two--but wide apart--leaving the sacred space
of the walk between. When we reached the shrine Mother struck the gong
and we all bowed with the dignified cheerfulness of our usual greeting
to a welcome guest. We seemed so few since even the year before, and
how cordially our hearts welcomed the presence which we knew would
bring into our home cheerful companionship for the happy and helpful
comfort for the sorrowful.
The next two days the town was full of lanterns. Everybody carried one,
every house was decorated with them, every street was lined with them,
and at night the cemeteries were filled with glow-worm lights; for
every grave had above it a tiny white lantern swinging from an arch
made from stems of pampas grass. It was a happy time for all Japan, and
the one day in the year when no life was taken of fish, fowl, or even
insect. The fishermen idly wandered about arrayed in holiday garments,
the chickens cackled and crowed in their bamboo cages, and the little
crickets, which children love to keep in tiny cages, sang their shrill
song in the trees without the approach of a single sticky-topped pole.
And charity extended loving arms to the farthest limit. No priest
passed with an empty begging bowl; pampas-woven baskets of food were
hidden beneath lotus leaves on the graves, waiting for the poor to
carry away when the Bon lights had burned out; and even the sinners in
hell, if their hearts longed for salvation, were given another chance
during the merciful days of Bon.
Our home was filled with an atmosphere of pleasant thoughts, unselfish
acts, and happy laughter; for we felt that our kind guests enjoyed our
simple pleasures of new clothes, company courtesies, and our daily
feasts with them of the shrine food consisting of fruits, vegetables,
and rice dumplings. Honourable Grandmother's face grew more peaceful
each hour, Mother's beamed with calm content, the servants were
chattering and smiling all the time, and my heart was full of quiet joy.
In the shadows before sunrise of the fourth day, Jiya went for lotus
blossoms, and Mother placed fresh food before the shrine. When the
brightening air outside began to quarrel with the soft white lantern
inside we gathered for the farewell.
The past days had been happy ones and I think we all felt sad when,
after the last deep bows, Mother rose and lifted the pampas mat from
before the shrine. She doubled and flattened it, then tied the ends
with grass, thus forming a rude little canoe, and fixed a hemp-stem
arch in the centre. The lotus-leaf dishes of food were placed within,
and some balls of rice and uncooked dough added, as O Shorai Sama's
gift to the birds. Then the little vegetable animals and all the
decorations of the shrine were put in, the white fluttering lantern was
swung from the arch, and, with Jiya carrying the little canoe, Mother
and I, followed by Ishi and Toshi, went to the river.
Morning was just dawning, but the streets were full of people and the
air crowded with circling birds who seemed to know that a treat was
before them. When we reached the bank, all except Jiya took their
places on the bridge and watched him make his way down the slippery
steps cut in the bank, and join the throng below. Each person was
holding a little canoe with its burden of food and tiny swinging
lantern.
"Look," whispered Ishi, as Jiya lifted his hands to strike the flint
and steel to light our little lantern, "our honourable ancestors will
embark on the first tide warmed by the sunrise."
The silence was unbroken except for the loud cries of the birds, then
a sudden ray of sunlight shot across a distant mountain and hundreds
of figures stooped and launched the little canoes. All stood watching
as they whirled and drifted along in the midst of the storm of darting
birds screaming their thanks. One upset.
"My O Shorai Sama has stepped off and is now in the unknown land!"
said an old lady, and waiting no longer, she climbed the bank and
contentedly made her way home.
As daylight brightened we could see the little boats far in the
distance rising and falling, the tiny white lanterns swinging back and
forth. We waited until the sun broke into brilliance; then, as the
light came racing down the mountain-side, a soft, deep murmur rose from
the bowing figures all along the shores.
"Farewell, O Shorai Sama," we all gently called. "Come again next
year. We will be waiting to welcome you!"
The crowd scattered, and with satisfied faces, made their way homeward.
Mother and I walked happily along, with Ishi, Toshi, and Jiya chatting
pleasantly behind us. The anxious look that Mother's face had lost
during the last few days did not come back, and I felt that Father had
really been with us bringing comfort and help to us all; and now he had
gone, leaving behind him, not loneliness, but peace.
That afternoon, as Ishi was putting away my flower hair-ornament,
she pointed to the shield of polished silver set in the midst of the
flowers. A crest was carved deeply in it, and the cut edges sparkled
like jewels.
"It is not the Inagaki crest," I said.
"No, it is the birth crest of Honourable Yedo Grandmother," said she,
closing the little box and putting it away. "It is very wonderful work.
Everything Honourable Yedo Grandmother has ever given you is especially
beautiful or rare."
"Honourable Yedo Grandmother never sends a gift to my father or to my
mother," I said.
"No. To no one but you," Ishi replied. "She always remembers you on the
festival to welcome and honour the ancestors of the Inagaki."
I remembered long afterward that a faint wonder passed through my mind
at that time that I should be the one member of the family who ever
received a gift from Honourable Yedo Grandmother, but it lasted only a
moment. A Japanese child rarely asked what was not told, and there were
so many taken-for-granted things in Japanese life, anyway, that I gave
the matter no further thought.
Not until I was grown did I learn that Honourable Yedo Grandmother was
my father's own mother, and that my dear Honourable Grandmother, to
whom I owed so much, was in reality my great-grandmother.
When my grandfather died suddenly, leaving Father, at the age of seven,
as his heir, Honourable Grandmother became the mistress of her dead
son's home and the mother of his child. That the young widow, Father's
mother, did not remain in her own home, was one of the tragedies of our
family system, which, wise as it was when made, has resulted in many
wrongs, as must always be the case when the world moves too swiftly and
customs slowly lag behind.
The Restoration of 1868 was not a sudden event. There had been
political agitation for years, in which the world of Japan was divided
into two factions--those who believed that the Imperial power should
include both sacred and secular duties, and those who believed the
shogun, as military ruler, should take all national burdens from the
shoulders of the sacred Emperor.
My grandfather believed in the restoration of Imperial power, but his
wife's father, being a _hatamoto_--body-guard of the shogun--was, of
course, a strong advocate of the opposing party. Personally, the two
men were friends, but each was strongly loyal to his own principles and
to his overlord.
Grandfather's death took place very suddenly when he was in Tokyo (then
called Yedo) on official duty. It is said that he was taken violently
and mysteriously ill just after being elaborately entertained at the
mansion of his father-in-law. At the feast were present a number of
ardent politicians. That my grandfather understood the political
significance of the gathering was shown, when, after his death, it was
discovered that he had gone to the feast wearing beneath his usual
ceremonial dress his white death robe.
In those days, when the heart of Japan was beating violently and she
was pushing hard against the set, but questioned, control of ages, such
an event was not so unusual; nor was my grandfather's quiet acceptance
of his fate so rare. It was only samurai loyalty to a cause, and
samurai bravery in accepting defeat. Standards differ in different
countries, but everywhere we are expected to be loyal and to be brave.
But the tragedy of it came to the girl wife--my grandmother, who was
little more than twenty years old when she became a widow. Under
ordinary circumstances she would have been the honoured widow-mother of
the seven-year-old heir--my father; but because of the well-understood
though outwardly ignored situation, there was but one thing for this
proud, deeply humiliated woman to do. Whether she was the sacrifice
of her father's ambition, or of his loyalty, I do not know, but she
"humbly abdicated" from her husband's family, and changing her name
Inagaki to the death name, returned to her former home. According to
the ideals of that time, this was the most dishonoured position that
any samurai woman could hold. It was scorned as would be that of a
soldier who goes bravely to the battlefield and cowardly returns home
before fighting has begun.
For a few years the young widow lived a quiet life in her father's home
devoting her time to classic literature and cultural attainments; then
she was offered an important position as lady official in the mansion
of the daimio of Satsuma.
This was just the time when Satsuma was playing a conspicuous part
in history. It was this daimiate which, single-handed, challenged
the entire British Eastern Squadron, after the young samurai of the
clan had killed Mr. Richardson, a British merchant who boldly crossed
the ceremonial procession of their overlord. Satsuma was the most
powerful daimio in Japan and his home, like all high-rank houses
during feudal days, was divided into two distinct departments: the
State and the Home. The government of the Home Department was entirely
under lady officials; and in large mansions with many retainers these
lady officers had to be as efficient as the officials of the State
Department. Among these able retainers my grandmother occupied an
honoured place.
Very soon her special gifts were recognized and she was chosen as
governess to the little girl-princess, a position which she held until
her charge became a bride-elect and required teachers for wifehood
training. Then my grandmother, generously pensioned for life, was
"honourably released," this farewell being poetically worded "the
regretted disappearance of the full moon behind folds of cloud, leaving
in her wake soft, wide-spreading shafts of light, to remain with us
always, as gentle and lasting memories."
I never saw Honourable Yedo Grandmother with my human eyes, but I can
see her always when I look into my heart. Living in the largest daimio
mansion in Japan, surrounded by wealth and luxury, in the midst of
daily expressed appreciation of her culture and her natural gifts and
with the respect and affection of her much-loved young princess always
with her, yet her thoughts turned to the little granddaughter whom
she never saw. It was not altogether the call of love, though I like
to think that was there also. She was groping over a new and puzzling
path, striving to find a way to keep faithful to her wifely vow.
Her lifework, through no fault or neglect of her own, had been taken
from her; but unflinchingly--as is the Samurai way--she held her broken
duty to her heart and, as long as she lived sent each year one of
her closest personal possessions to the little granddaughter who was
said to resemble her, even to her curly hair, to be worn in a welcome
greeting to the spirits of the Inagaki family to whom she could no
longer bow, but to whom her duty was due. Her helplessness was tragedy.
Her efforts were pathos. But to her best, and to the last, she was true.
Standards of duty differ on opposite sides of the world, but Japanese
people never flinch at its call. Many a boy and girl not yet in their
teens, many a man and woman at the time of brightest promise, many of
the aged have gone alone to a distant province, and among strangers
have become of them--body, brain, and spirit. But even among beautiful
surroundings, if duty lies behind, undone, nothing, while life lasts,
can break the heart pull, the brain planning, the soul prayer to reach,
even partially, the lost goal. Such is the deep-hidden soul of Japan.
When the young princess bade farewell to my grandmother, she presented
her, as the highest token of grateful and affectionate appreciation,
something which she herself had worn--a dress bearing her own crest.
Many years afterward, for the Bon festival when I was ten years old,
my grandmother sent this choice treasure to me. I well remember that
day. Ishi had taken me to my room to dress for the evening of welcome.
Hanging over one of the large lacquer frames on which we spread our
clothing to air or to wait until we were ready, was a beautiful summer
dress of pale blue linen decorated with an exquisite design of the
seven grasses of autumn. It seemed to me the most beautiful thing that
I had ever seen in my life.
"Oh, Ishi," I cried, "is this beautiful dress for me?"
"Yes, Etsu-bo Sama. Honourable Yedo Grandmother has sent it to you for
the festival."
It was too large for me and Toshi had to take deep tucks at the
shoulders and waist. When I dressed I went to show myself to Honourable
Grandmother and Mother, then I went to Father's room.
"I have come!" I announced, kneeling outside the closed door, ready to
open it.
"Enter!" came the response from within.
I pushed back the _shoji_. Father was reading. He looked up with a
smile; then what was my surprise to see him, after one glance at me,
quickly slip from his cushion and with slow dignity dramatically
announce, "Enter the Princess of Satsuma!"
Then he made a deep bow.
Of course my own little head was down to the floor in an instant, and
though when I lifted it he was laughing, still I felt, in some subtle
way, that there was something deeper beneath his smile than just his
humorous obeisance to the crest of a superior clan: a combined pride
and grief, and perhaps pain also--like the cruel ache in the heart of a
strong man whose sword arm is helpless.
CHAPTER X
THE DAY OF THE BIRD
Brother had been at home a year when the letters from his friend in
America began coming more frequently. After each one Grandmother,
Brother, and Mother would have long talks, and not all of them were
happy ones. In a vague way I sometimes thought these discussions had
something to do with me; and one day was a little troubled when a long
conference ended by Brother's abruptly coming out of the room with only
a short bow that was almost rude. He started swiftly toward the door,
then turning, came back and stood by my side, looking steadily at me
for a moment. But he went on without saying a word.
Several weeks later a thick, heavy letter came, one with many stamps;
and after another talk in Grandmother's room, Brother sent Jiya
out with the long lacquer box tied with a cord which I knew held a
"rounding letter" for all the relatives. Jiya would wait at each
place for it to be read before carrying it on to the next place.
That afternoon I noticed Mother was very thoughtful and quiet; and
Grandmother sat by her fire-box, silent and stern, with her long,
slender pipe in her hand. The tiny bowl held only three puffs, and,
after refilling it twice, she always put it away, but she seemed to
have forgotten it that day and sat holding it a long time.
The next day there was a meeting of the family council.
It has always been a Japanese custom to decide important family
problems by calling an assembly of the older relatives. There had been
family councils ever since I could remember, but, being the youngest of
the family, and a girl, I was not concerned in them, and I never gave
more than a passing thought as to whether this time it would mean the
selling of another piece of land or of one of our roll pictures. We had
been selling things all my life. Sister and I were so accustomed to
seeing the second-hand man go into the big plaster storehouse with old
Jiya that we made a practice of playing a guessing game as to whether
he would come out with a small package in his hand or a big bundle on
his shoulders. Mother used to look troubled when a group of men came to
look at things, but Father would laugh and say, "Useless beauty had a
place in the old life, but the new asks only for ugly usefulness?"
But one thing Father never laughed about. Whenever negotiations were
pending in regard to land he was always watchful. The outside limits of
our once large estate had gradually been withdrawn within the wall, and
year by year they were closing in nearer to the house; but Father would
never part with any portion of the garden overlooked by Grandmother's
room. After his death Brother was equally considerate; so as long as
she lived, Grandmother could gaze out upon the garden, the stream, and
the little slope of azaleas against the background of feathery bamboo
just as she had done for years.
This family council was the largest that had been held since Father's
death. Two gray-haired uncles were there with the aunts, besides two
other aunts, and a young uncle who had come all the way from Tokyo on
purpose for this meeting. They had been in the room a long time, and I
was busy writing at my desk when I heard a soft "Allow me to speak!"
behind me, and there was Toshi at the door, looking rather excited.
"Little Mistress," she said with an unusually deep bow, "your
honourable mother asks you to go to the room where the guests are."
I entered the big room. Brother was sitting by the _tokonoma_, and next
to him were two gray-haired uncles and the young uncle from Tokyo.
Opposite sat Honourable Grandmother, the four aunts, and Mother. Tea
had been served and all had cups before them or in their hands. As I
pushed back the door they looked up and gazed at me as if they had
never seen me before. I was a little startled, but of course I made a
low, ceremonious bow. Mother motioned to me, and I slipped over beside
her on the mat.
"Etsu-ko," Mother said very gently, "the gods have been kind to you,
and your destiny as a bride has been decided. Your honourable brother
and your venerable kindred have given much thought to your future. It
is proper that you should express your gratitude to the Honourable All."
I made a long, low bow, touching my forehead to the floor. Then I went
out and returned to my desk and my writing. I had no thought of asking,
"Who is it?" I did not think of my engagement as a personal matter at
all. It was a family affair. Like every Japanese girl, I had known from
babyhood that sometime, as a matter of course, I should marry, but that
was a far-away necessity to be considered when the time came. I did not
look forward to it. I did not dread it. I did not think of it at all.
The fact that I was not quite thirteen had nothing to do with it. That
was the attitude of all girls.
The formal ceremony of the betrothal took place some months later. It
was not an elaborate affair, like a wedding, but was very important;
for in old-fashioned families the betrothal was considered as sacred as
the marriage itself, and indeed it could not be nearly so easily broken
as might be the marriage tie.
There was an air of quiet excitement in the whole house that day.
The servants, who always felt a personal interest in everything that
happened in the family, had hung weather dolls of folded paper on the
_nanten_ bush near the porch, to insure sunshine, and were jubilant
over the result; and even Mother, who always seemed more calm when
she was excited, went around giving unnecessary directions to various
maids. "Be careful in powdering Etsu-ko Sama's face," I heard her say
to Ishi. "Get the paint smooth." And when the hairdresser arrived
Mother made a second trip to the room to give a special order that
Etsu-ko Sama's hair must be pulled _straight_.
As soon as I was dressed, I went to Grandmother's room for morning
greetings. Her kindly smile was more gentle than usual, and we had a
pleasant talk before breakfast was announced. As we were leaving the
room she reminded me that it was the Day of the Bird.
"Yes, I know," I said. "A betrothal ceremony always takes place on the
Day of the Bird. Honourable Grandmother, why is it?"
"Be not ambitious to be vain!" she said, smiling and resting her arm on
my shoulder as we walked down the porch. "This day was chosen by your
relatives with the kind wish that good fortune will bless your life
with silks and brocades as plentiful as are the feathers of the birds."
Matsuo's aged uncle, Mr. Omori, had arrived from Kyoto a few days
before and had been entertained at the home of the go-between. The
ceremony had to take place in the waxing rather than the waning of
the day; so about the middle of the forenoon, when I went into the
best room, I found the others already assembled. Matsuo's uncle was
seated on a cushion near the _tokonoma_. He sat very straight and had a
pleasant face. I liked him. Grandmother, Brother, Mother, and the two
go-betweens were there, and I sat beside Mother. The woman go-between
brought to me a small white table with a square of crêpe over it, on
which was Matsuo's crest. It was the engagement gift from his family,
and I was looking for the first time upon the crest that I should have
to wear all my life; but I did not seriously realize it. Another tray
held other gifts, the most important of which was a pair of folding
fans, signifying a wish for constantly widening happiness.
Then Toshi brought into the room two trays and set them before Mr.
Omori. It was my family's gift to Matsuo.
Of course, I had been told exactly what to do; so I lifted the square
of crêpe from my table, displaying a roll of magnificent brocade for
a sash. On Mr. Omori's tables were the essential pair of fans and a
wide-pleated silk skirt called _hakama_--the regulation dress for a
Japanese gentleman. These have been the betrothal gifts from time
immemorial.
I bowed most formal thanks, and Mr. Omori did the same. Then the gifts
were placed on the _tokonoma_, and everybody, even Grandmother, made a
slight bow and murmured, "Congratulations!"
Soon after, the maids brought the small tables for our dinner, placing
those for the gentlemen on one side of the room and those for the
ladies on the other. Then Toshi, with her tray, took her place in the
open space at the end of the two lines, each person made a slight bow,
and the dinner commenced. The conversation was general and the guests
seemed to have a pleasant time, but, of course, I was very quiet and
dignified.
The most interesting part of the day to me came after everyone had gone
and Ishi was taking off my dress. She eyed my head very closely. "_Maa!
Maa!_ Etsu-bo Sama," she said. "It was such luck that to-day was cold
and dry. Your hair has not one bit of a crinkle!"
For once my unruly hair had not disgraced my family, and giving a sigh
of relief, I placed my head carefully upon my little wooden pillow and
went contentedly to sleep.
After my betrothal my life was a sort of make-believe game, for my
education as a wife began that very day. I had already received
the usual training in cooking, sewing, and various household
duties, as well as flower-arranging, tea-serving, and other womanly
accomplishments; but now I had to put these things into practice as if
I were already in my husband's home. I was expected to select without
assistance the proper flowers, the suitable roll picture and _tokonoma_
ornament, and see that the house was always arranged according to
certain established rules.
Every moment my life was filled with training and preparation.
The object was not explained to me, for this education was a
taken-for-granted part of every betrothal; and it happened in my case
that no special explanation was necessary other than that I had to be
careful not in any way to show disrespect to wood-sorrel since Matsuo's
crest was conventionalized wood-sorrel. Except that I had to learn to
like tuna, which was a favourite dish of Matsuo's and which I had never
cared for, my diet was not affected at all by my betrothal. Sister had
a long training, for she had been betrothed five years, including the
year of postponement on account of Father's death. As her expected
husband's crest was conventionalized plum, she never, during the five
years, tasted plum, even in jelly. It would have been disrespectful.
The hardest thing I did that year was to learn how to make a sleeping
cushion. I loved to sew and was rather skillful with the needle, but
I had never made anything by myself. Ishi or Toshi had always helped
me. But every Japanese housewife had to know how to make cushions,
for they were our chairs and our beds; so Mother said that I must
make a sleeping-cushion entirely alone. This was a difficult thing
for any one to do, and my sleeves were wet with foolish tears when
for the fourth time I pulled out the threads and turned the immense
cushion inside out, in order to refit the comers, which, in spite of my
persistent efforts, _would_ stay twisted.
Another of my duties was the preparation, on anniversaries and at
festival times, of a shadow table for my absent fiancé. On these days I
myself cooked the food which Brother told us Matsuo especially liked.
His table was placed next to mine and I arranged for it to be always
served before my own. Thus I learned to be watchful for the comfort
of my prospective husband. Grandmother and Mother always spoke as if
Matsuo were present, and I was as careful of my dress and conduct as
if he had really been in the room. Thus I grew to respect him and to
respect my own position as his wife.
Most of the memories of that time are like faint heart-throb phantoms
now, but one always stands out clear and strong. That has to do with
a birthday. Japanese people do not, as a rule, observe individual
birthdays. Instead, it is the custom to celebrate New Year as a
birthday for each person of the nation. This gives a double meaning
to the day and makes New Year the most joyously celebrated of any
festival of the year. But in our house one especial birthday was always
honoured. That was Matsuo's. This was not on my account. From the time
Mother had learned of his kindness to Brother, never did a January 8th
pass that we did not have an elaborate dinner with a table for Matsuo
in the place of honour as our guest. Mother always kept up this custom,
and in later years, when in a far-distant land, I have thought with
a mist in my eyes of the birthday table in my mother's home in the
mountains of Japan.
During these months Mother and I came closer to each other than we had
ever been before. She did not confide in me--that was not Mother's
way--but it seemed that an invisible cord of sympathy was drawing our
hearts together. I had always greatly admired my mother, but there was
a little awe mixed with my admiration. Father had been my comrade and
my friend as well as my wise adviser; and my whole heart was filled
with tender love for my dear, patient, unselfish Ishi. But Mother
was aloft, like the sun, flawless and steady, filling the home with
life-giving warmth, yet too far away to be treated familiarly. So I
was surprised one day, when she came quietly to my room and told me
there was something she wanted to speak to me about before she told
Grandmother. Our house had received word from the go-between that
Matsuo had removed to a city in the eastern part of America, and had
gone into business for himself. On this account he had decided not to
return to Japan for several years, and asked that I be sent to him
there.
Mother always accepted inevitable circumstances with calm resignation,
but this was a very unusual and puzzling situation. For generations
Japanese mothers, believing that the destined home for every girl is
settled by the gods, have sent their daughters as brides to distant
provinces; so my going to America was not a matter of deep concern. But
for a bride to go into a home where there was neither mother-in-law
nor an elder sister of wisdom-age to train her in the ways of the new
household, was a serious problem. And this was not a case that could be
referred to the family council; for I was as much bound to Matsuo as
if I were already married, and in his affairs the Inagaki family had
no authority. In this strange situation Mother turned to me, and for
the first time in my life I was consulted in a family matter. I think I
changed from girl to woman in that hour of conversation with my mother.
We decided that, at least for the present, there was but one problem
for us to face. That was how to prepare for an unknown life in a
strange land. In this my relatives could take no part. Of course, all
were excited and each one volunteered advice; but the only practical
suggestion came from Brother. He said I must have an English education.
That meant that I should have to be sent to school in Tokyo.
All that winter the household was busy getting me ready for school.
The pathos of these preparations I did not realize; nor, I think, did
any of us. Mother spent evening after evening bending her stately head
over wonderful embroidered garments, ripping out, stitch by stitch, the
exquisite work of hands folded in rest generations ago. Then Ishi would
dye the silk and make it into plain garments suitable for my school
life.
And many things were sold. Grandmother and Mother consented to any
sacrifice, though sometimes their faces were sad; but Brother seemed to
have lost all feeling for the precious old belongings and would part
with them without one expression of regret.
"Treasures are a useless care," he often said. "In a poor house like
ours there is no need to keep dozens of chests of retainers' armour.
They had their place in the past, but hereafter the sons of our
ancestors must fight on the battlefield of commerce. Business is the
key to wealth, and in this new world wealth is the only power."
I thought little of it then, but now it aches me to remember the
sword-hilt ornaments of exquisite workmanship in gold and silver and
bronze that were sold for almost nothing; and I can see, even now, how
the great scales of the dealer in old iron tipped heavily with the
weight of swords that once were the pride of our humblest retainers.
One cold evening I went into Grandmother's room and snuggled down
beside her cushion, close to the fire-box, just as I used to do in the
days which were beginning to seem to me far in the past. We had grown
somewhat apart that year. I was no longer the little child she could
make happy with sweets, could train in politeness and teach useful
lessons by means of fairy lore; and I felt that, much as she loved me,
the new conditions that my future faced were beyond her old-fashioned
comprehension. But I learned that night, while I talked with her, that
samurai training will prepare one for any future.
As we sat in the quiet room, lighted only by the soft glow of the
charcoal fire, she told me how, that very day sixty years before, she,
as a bride, had left her home in a distant province to come to her
husband in Nagaoka. Most brides of her rank revisited their homes each
year in a long procession of grandeur, but, though messengers were sent
with inquiries and gifts every New Year and summer-festival season,
Grandmother never, after she entered the marriage palanquin, saw her
home or her people again. In those days of slow travel, distance was
counted by time rather than miles, and hers was a long trip. She left
home on the night of a full moon, and another full moon was in the sky
when she was carried through the entrance gate of her husband's home.
"I was just your age--fourteen," she said, "and sometimes as the
procession passed through strange provinces, climbing over mountains
and crossing wide rivers, I wondered many things. It was farther than
Kyoto that I came, and at the gateway of each province there were
long waits while the officials of the procession exchanged papers and
received permission for us to pass. At these times my nurse always
came and remained beside my palanquin, and the spear-retainers and
'six-shoulders' of coolie carriers were with us; so I did not fear. But
the world seemed very strange and large to me. And the people I came
to live among were very different from my own. The customs were new;
even the language had an accent and idioms that seemed peculiar. It
was like a foreign land. And so, of late, I have thought much of you
and the unknown country to which your fate is taking you. Remember,
Etsu-bo," and her voice was strangely tender, "where you live is a
small matter. The life of a samurai, man or woman, is just the same:
loyalty to the overlord; bravery in defence of his honour. In your
distant, destined home, remember Grandmother's words: loyalty to your
husband; bravery in defence of his honour. It will bring you peace."
CHAPTER XI
MY FIRST JOURNEY
That was one of the long Nagaoka winters. For five months we saw
only snow. In the early spring our relatives in Tokyo had written
that arrangements had been made for my school. From that time I had
been waiting impatiently for the mountain roads to become safe from
avalanches; for just as soon as we could travel Brother was to take me
to the capital.
At last the dykes were dry--that was where the snow always melted
first--and we had a "gathering-green" picnic as a farewell to my
companions in Nagaoka. One sunny morning a group of us, with purple
scarfs on our heads and kimonos tucked up over our bright skirts,
dotted the dyke slopes, each carrying a small basket and a bamboo knife
and filling the air with laughter and merry calls as we hurried up and
down the banks, trying to see how many different kinds of green each
could find. Often in later years I recall that happy day as my last gay
time at home as a girl.
Finally the mail carriers reported that the overhanging snow-cliffs
had all fallen and the slopes were clear. Soon after came the day of
our departure. With a heart half of elation, half of regret, I bade
good-bye to Honourable Grandmother and Mother and with misty eyes was
carefully tucked into my jinrikisha by Ishi. Then, between lines of
bowing friends, our two jinrikishas and a baggage-laden horse led by a
coolie started on the eight-days' journey to Tokyo.
Most of the way we travelled in jinrikishas, changing them at certain
towns, but occasionally we had to go on horseback. My saddle was a
high box-seat; so Brother and the coolie rigged up a double-basket
held by bands across the horse's back. I sat in one part, and baggage
filled the other. As we went around the steep, curving road on the
mountain side, I could lean over and look far, far down to the fisher
villages on the coast. But it was more interesting, as we got farther
along, to look across the deep valley to the sloping hill-sides with
their terraces of ricefields--odd-shaped patches fitted in like the
silk pieces of a Buddhist priest's robe. In every little village of
thatch-roofed huts was a shrine set high in the midst of a few trees,
and, half-hidden in a hollow beside a stream, was whirling the great
narrow wheel of a rice-mill. The air was so clear that I could plainly
see the awkward lunge of a water-buffalo as he dragged a wooden
plough along the furrows of one of the rice-patches, and I could even
distinguish a scarlet flower stuck between the folds of the towel
knotted about the head of the coolie behind. In those days no one ever
wore a living flower, except to carry it to the dead; so I knew he was
taking it home for the house shrine. I wondered what kind of a home he
had.
I think it was our third day when I noticed that we were leaving the
snow country. No longer did the towns have their sidewalks roofed, and
these thatches bore no rows of avalanche stones. The houses looked bare
and odd--like a married woman's face with newly shaved eyebrows. But
we were not entirely beyond the sight of snow, for as we skirted Myoko
Mountain we saw a good many drifts and patches. The jinrikisha men said
snow lasted there until July.
"From the top," said Brother, "you can see Fujiyama----"
My heart thrilled, and I foolishly turned my head, feeling for a moment
that I was really near the sacred mountain which my eyes had never
expected to behold. And then, with a deeper, warmer thrill, I heard the
conclusion of his sentence:
"--and then, if you turn and look in the opposite direction, you can
see the plains of Echigo."
"We are very far away from home," I replied in a small voice.
Brother gave a quick look at my grave face; then he laughed.
"Also, if you look just beyond, you can see the Isle of Sado. If Matsuo
should not come up to expectations, here's some advice for you."
And his merry voice broke into an old song:
"_Nikuiotoko ni kisetai shima wa
Royagoshi ni Sado ga shima._"
I was shocked that Brother should sing a common servant's song, and
doubly shocked that he should joke so lightly about serious things; so
my face was still grave as we rolled along in our jinrikishas.
The Isle of Sado used to be a place of exile for criminals and was
considered by common people as the end of the world. This joking song,
which is popular among peasant girls, is literally a threat to present
to a disliked suitor, not the pleated garment which is the usual gift
of the bride to a groom, but instead, a convict's garb: meaning, "I
pray the gods will send the unwelcome one across the raging seas to the
end of the world."
We spent our fifth night at Nagano in the temple of Zenkoji where lived
the royal nun beneath whose high-lifted razor I had walked, years
before, in a procession of gaily clad little girls, for a Buddhist
ceremony of consecration.
The next morning, soon after we started, Brother halted and allowed my
jinrikisha to roll up to his side.
"Etsu-bo," he asked, "when did they up making a priestess of you?"
"Why--I don't know," I said, surprised.
He gave a little scornful laugh and rode on to his place ahead leaving
me silent and thoughtful.
I had spoken the truth when I said I did not know. I had always
accepted my education with no thought of results. But Brother's laugh
had startled me, and, rolling along that mountain road, I did a
good deal of thinking. At last I believed that I understood. I know
my father had never approved, although he acquiesced in Honourable
Grandmother's wish that I should be educated for a priestess; and when,
after my brother's sad departure, he had quietly substituted studies
which would be of benefit should I ever hold the position of his heir,
I think Honourable Grandmother, aching with sympathy for her proud,
disappointed son, laid aside her cherished hope, and the plan was
silently abandoned.
In the province of Shinano, an hour or so from Nagano, my jinrikisha
man pointed across the river to a small wooded mountain.
"Obatsuyama, it is," he said.
How my mind went back to Ishi and her mother-love story which tells of
a time long, long ago, when there lived at the foot of this mountain a
poor farmer and his aged widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which
supplied them with food and their humble lives were peaceful and happy.
At that time Shinano was governed by a despotic ruler who, though
a brave warrior, had a great and cowardly shrinking from anything
suggestive of fading health and strength. This caused him to send out
a cruel proclamation. The entire province was given strict orders
immediately to put to death all aged people.
Those were barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old people
to die was not uncommon. However, it was not a law, and many of the
helpless old lived as long as nature allowed in comfortable and welcome
homes. The poor farmer loved his aged mother with tender reverence,
and the order filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought
a second time about obeying the mandate of a daimio, so with many
deep and hopeless sighs the youth prepared for what at that time was
considered the kindest mode of death.
Just at sundown, when his day's work was ended, he took a quantity of
the unwhitened rice which is the principal food of the poor, cooked and
dried it, and tying it in a square of cloth he swung the bundle around
his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he
lifted his helpless old mother to his back and started on his painful
journey up the mountain.
The road was long and steep. He plodded steadily on, the shadows
growing deeper and deeper, until the moon, round and clear, rose above
the mountain-top and peered pityingly through the branches upon the
youth toiling onward, his head bent with weariness and his heart heavy
with sorrow. The narrow road was crossed and recrossed by many paths
made by hunters and wood-cutters. In some places they mingled in a
confused puzzle, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered
not. On he went, climbing blindly upward--ever upward--toward the high,
bare summit of what is now known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the
"Abandoning of the Aged."
The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the
reckless hastening from one path to another, and her loving heart grew
anxious. Her son did not know the mountain's many paths, and his return
might be one of danger, so she stretched forth her hand and snapping
the twigs from the bushes as they passed, she quietly dropped a
handful every few steps of the way, so as they climbed, the narrow path
behind them was dotted at frequent intervals with tiny piles of twigs.
At last the summit was reached. Weary and heartsick, the youth gently
released his burden and silently prepared a place of comfort, as his
last duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needles he made a
soft cushion, and tenderly lifting his old mother thereon, he wrapped
her padded coat more closely about the stooping shoulders and with
tearful eyes and an aching heart said farewell.
The trembling mother voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her
last injunction.
"Let not thine eyes be blind, my son. The mountain road is full of
danger. Look carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of
twigs. They will guide thee to the familiar way farther down."
The son's surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the poor
old shrivelled hands all scratched and soiled by their work of love.
His heart smote him and, bowing to the ground, he cried aloud:
"Oh, Honourable Mother, thy kindness thrusts my heart! I will not leave
thee. Together we will follow the path of twigs, and together we will
die!"
Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed now!) and
hastened down the path, through the shadows and the moonlight, to the
little hut in the valley.
Beneath the kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was
covered over and hidden from view. There the son hid his mother,
supplying her with everything needful and continually watching and
fearing.
Time passed and he was beginning to feel safe, when again the despot
sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable and useless order; seemingly
as a boast of his power. His demand was that his subjects should
present him with a rope of ashes. The entire province trembled with
dread. The order must be obeyed; yet who in all Shinano could make a
rope of ashes?
One night, in great distress, the son whispered the news to his hidden
mother.
"Wait!" she said, "I will think."
On the second day she told him what to do.
"Make a rope of twisted straw," she said, "then stretch it upon a row
of flat stones and burn it there on a windless night."
He called the people together and did as she said, and when the blaze
had died, behold, upon the stones, with every twist and fibre showing
perfect, lay a rope of whitened ashes.
The daimio was pleased at the wit of the youth, and praised him
greatly, but demanded to know where he had obtained his wisdom.
"Alas! Alas!" cried the farmer, "the truth must be told!" and with many
deep bows he related his story.
The daimio listened, then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his
head.
"Shinano needs more than the strength of youth," he said gravely. "Ah,
that I should have forgotten the well-known saying, 'With the crown of
snow, there cometh wisdom!'"
That very hour the cruel law was abolished, and the custom drifted into
so far a past that only the legend remains.
As we went farther on, I found the customs so different from those of
Nagaoka that I felt as if I were already in a strange land. At one
place, long before we reached the village, we heard a hoarse voice
calling, "_Ma-kat-ta? Ma-kat-ta?_" (Is it sold? Is it sold?) and as
we rolled through the one narrow, crowded street we saw an auctioneer
standing high in the midst of dozens of bamboo baskets of beans,
carrots, greens, and bamboo shoots; while lying around him, in ungainly
confusion, were every size and shape of purple eggplant and long,
sprawling, delicious lotus roots.
Brother looked back and laughed.
"Who is he? What were all the people doing?" I asked, as soon as we
reached the end of the long street and rolled out on to the public road.
"It is a vegetable auction," Brother explained. "Merchants buy in
quantities, and every morning the things are auctioned off by the
basketful. Weren't those fine lotus roots? If we hadn't had breakfast
only a couple of hours ago I'd believe I was hungry."
At another place we went by a house where death had entered. Before
the door stood a funeral palanquin into which coolies with big hats
and crest-coats were just lifting the heavy wooden bucket containing
the body. Over it was thrown a small kimono of scarlet and gold,
showing that the dead child must have been a little daughter. The dress
would have been white for a son. Around stood a number of white-robed
mourners with white towels folded over their hair. As we passed, I
caught a glimpse of a screen placed upside down and the lighted candles
of a tiny shrine.
At one place, where the road ran close to a broad river with bold
bluffs coming down, in some places, almost to the water, we saw a
number of odd floating rice-mills with turning paddle-wheels that
looked like a fleet of boats standing motionless in a hopeless struggle
against a strong tide. I wondered where, in that rocky country,
were enough people to eat all the rice that was being ground; but
when we turned away from the river we suddenly found ourselves in
a silk-culture district, where our road ran through village after
village, each having its own mulberry plantation.
The town where we expected to spend the night was only a few hours
ahead when the sky began to darken with a threatening storm. Brother
was casting anxious looks backward when his jinrikisha man told him
that in the next village was a large house where travellers had
sometimes been kept for a night. So we hurried there, the last quarter
of an hour being a bouncing, breathless race between men and clouds.
The men won, whirling us up to the door, into which we ran unannounced,
just as the storm broke with a downpour which it would have been hard
to struggle through on the road.
It was an odd house where we had found shelter; but I know that even
my honourable father, on his journeys in ancient days, never, on any
occasion, received a more cordial welcome or more kindly treatment than
did we and our perspiring, laughing, boasting men at the end of our
exciting race.
CHAPTER XII
TRAVEL EDUCATION
The large, well-cared-for house in which we had taken refuge that
stormy night was crowded full of busy workers. With the exception of
the living rooms of our host, his wife, and two daughters, the entire
house was full of skeleton frames containing tiers and tiers of bamboo
trays, each holding a network screen covered with silkworms. There must
have been thousands and thousands of them. I had been accustomed to
silkworms all my life. Ishi's home had been in a weaving village, and
my elder sister had many silk villages on her three-mountain estate;
but I never before had spent a night in sound of the continual nibbling
of the hungry little creatures. It filled the whole house with a gentle
rustling, exactly like the patter of raindrops on dry leaves, and I
dreamed all night of dripping eaves. The next morning I awakened with
a depressed feeling that I was to have a day's ride in a close-shut
jinrikisha, and was surprised, when I pushed back one of the wooden
panels at the porch edge, to find that the sun was shining.
While I was standing there, one of the daughters, about my age, came
out carrying a straw mat of silkworm waste to throw on a pile in the
yard--for the mulberry stems and rice hulls of silkworm waste make the
best fertilizer in the world--and she stopped to bow good-morning.
Then she stood there in the June sunshine with her sleeves looped back
and her bare feet in straw sandals, and I squatted on the edge of the
porch in my home-dyed night kimono, and we got acquainted.
She told me that she took care of six trays of silkworms all by
herself. She seemed to know everything about them, and she loved them.
"They're clean," she said, "and dainty about food, and intelligent
about their own affairs--just like people."
I was so interested in all the surprising things I heard that I was
still listening when a girl came to fold away my bed cushions, and I
had to hurry to get dressed.
"Well," said Brother, after my room had been cleaned, and breakfast
brought in, "how do you like living in a boarding house?"
"The boarders are very noisy," I replied; "and, from what our hostess's
daughter told me, they are very particular. She says they cannot endure
one particle of dust. Even a withered leaf will sometimes cause one to
'tie on his blue neckerchief' and creep to the outer edge of the tray."
"Have you seen our host's grandmother?" asked Brother.
"No, I didn't know there was a grandmother."
"She went early to her cushions last night; probably to escape the
bustle and annoyance of our abrupt arrival. We will pay our respects to
her before we leave."
When breakfast was over, our host took us to the grandmother's room.
She was a very old lady with a reserved manner and a face of more than
usual intelligence. As soon as she bowed I knew that she had been
trained in a samurai house, and when I saw the crest of a _naginata_ on
the wall-rest above the _shoji_, I knew why Brother had wanted me to
come to this room.
A _naginata_ is a long, light spear with curved blade, which samurai
women were taught to use, partly for exercise and partly for defence
in case of necessity. This one bore the crest of one of our northern
heroes. He was a traitor, but nevertheless he was a hero. When he was
killed, his daughter was one of the group--three of them women--who
defended the sorely pressed castle during the last desperate hours of
hopeless struggle. The old lady told us, with modest pride, that she
had been a humble attendant of the daughter and was with her at that
dreadful time. The _naginata_ was a memory gift from her honourable and
beloved mistress.
Seeing that we were deeply interested, she brought out her other
treasure--a slender, blunt knife called a _kogai_, which, with the
throwing-dagger, forms part of the hilt of a samurai's long sword. In
very ancient days Japanese warfare was a science. Artistic skill was
always displayed in the use of weapons, and no soldier was proud of
having wounded an enemy in any other manner than the one established by
strict samurai rule. The long sword had for its goal only four points:
the top of the head, the wrist, the side, and the leg below the knee.
The throwing-dagger must speed on its way, true as an arrow, direct
to forehead, throat, or wrist. But the blunt little _kogai_ had many
uses. It was the key that locked the sword in its scabbard; when double
it could be used as chopsticks by the marching soldier; it has been
used on the battlefield, or in retreat, mercifully to pierce the ankle
vein of a suffering and dying comrade, and it had the unique use in
a clan feud, when found sticking upright in the ankle of a dead foe,
of bearing the silent challenge, "I await thy return." Its crest told
to whom it belonged and, in time, it generally was returned--to its
owner's ankle. The _kogai_ figures in many tales of romance and revenge
of the Middle Ages.
I was glad to see Brother so interested, and was happy myself in
watching the old lady's face flush and light up with her memories; but
her closing words made me feel sorry. To some remark of Brother's she
replied, "Youth is always listening eagerly for marching orders; but
the aged can only look backward to sad memories and hopeless dreams."
As I mounted my jinrikisha and bowed again to the entire group of
family and servants bowing in the doorway, I could not help sending
a thought farewell to the busy little boarders. I had learned more
about silkworms during that short rustling visit than in my fourteen
years of life in a silkworm district. As we rolled along over a
smooth, monotonous road my mind was busy, and I believe that then and
there I first began to realize--vaguely--that all creatures, however
insignificant, were "intelligent about their own affairs--just like
people."
"Dear me!" I finally said to myself. "How much we learn when we
travel!" and I pulled the jinrikisha robe over my lap and settled
myself for the long ride ahead.
I think I must have gone to sleep, for I found myself crookedly but
comfortably snuggled into almost a _kinoji_ when I heard Brother's
voice.
We were entering a good-sized town and he was leaning back and pointing
across the tiled roofs to a castle on the hill beyond.
"This is Komoro," he called, "and there's where the foot-high dolls
came from."
I smiled as my mind flew back to the Nagaoka home and pictured
two enormous dolls of the festival set brought by our Komoro
great-great-grandmother with her wedding dowry. In her day the
Government permitted only the daughter of a daimio to own dolls a
foot high, and her entire set must have been wondrously handsome. But
in my time, when our living came principally from the visits of the
second-hand man to our godown, the wonderful Komoro dolls, with their
miniature furniture of gold and lacquer--the perfection of Japanese art
of the Middle Ages--gradually found new homes. They went, I know, to
no godown of Japan, but, through some shrewd dealer, into foreign hands
and foreign lands and probably to-day are calmly resting in widely
scattered homes and museums of Europe or America.
Two of the dolls had become defaced in some way, and thus, being
unsaleable, they were placed as ornaments on the high _tokonoma_ shelf
in my room. I was very fond of acting out scenes of the stories that
were told me, and I used to take down the dolls and use them as an
audience while I strutted around the room representing an ancient
samurai with some fearful duty to perform. The dolls' heads were
movable, and thus supplied a splendid opportunity for a favourite
revenge story of mine. Many a time I have placed my hand on one of the
enamelled heads and, with my ivory paper knife as a sword, have struck
fiercely at the doll, at the same instant lifting out the head from its
collar of rich brocade; then, with stern, set face, I would hurriedly
wrap the head in a purple square of crêpe and, tucking it under my arm,
stride boldly off to an imaginary courtroom.
I suspect my father knew of this barbarous game of mine, for I always
borrowed his purple crêpe _fukusa_ for this purpose, feeling that
something belonging to him would give dignity to the occasion; but
I never heard Honourable Grandmother's step on the porch that I did
not quickly restore the head to its brocade nest in order to save her
another anxious fear that I was growing too bold and rough ever to find
a husband.
As our jinrikishas rolled through the town I looked up at the castle
with interest. And this was the home from which our Komoro grandmother
had gone forth on her wedding journey to Nagaoka! Half buried in trees
it stood, the gray, tipped-up corners of many roofs peeping through the
branches. It looked like a broad, low pagoda towering above a slanting
wall of six-sided stones--the "tortoise back" of all Japanese castles.
From Komoro to Nagaoka! It must have seemed a long trip to the young
girl in the teetering bridal _kago_! I thought of what Honourable
Grandmother had told me of her own month-long bridal trip. And then
I looked ahead. The Idzumo gods, who plan all marriages, had decreed
the same fate for many brides of our family, and, so far as my own
future was planned, I seemed destined to follow in the footsteps of my
ancestors.
At one place where we had to take _kagos_ I disgraced myself. I dreaded
a _kago_. The big basket swinging from the shoulders of the trotting
coolies always made me dizzy and faint, but that day it was raining
hard and the mountain path was too rough for a jinrikisha. I stood
things as bravely as I could, but finally I became so sick that Brother
had the baggage taken off the horse and, wedging me in between cushions
on its back, covered me with a tent made of a straw mat and, disdaining
comfort for himself, walked all the way up the mountain beside me, the
coolie following with the two _kagos_.
At the top the sun was shining, and when I peeped out from my tent
Brother was shaking himself as my poor Shiro used to do when drenched
with rain. I ventured to apologize in a shamed voice.
"_Kago_ sickness is a great absorber of pride, Etsu-bo. I'm afraid you
have lost your right to be called your father's 'brave son.'"
I laughed, but my cheeks were hot.
As he helped me to the ground, Brother pointed toward a wide-spreading
cloud of smoke floating lazily above a cone-shaped mountain.
"That's the signpost for the Robber Station," he said. "Do you
remember?"
Indeed I did. Many times I had heard Father tell the story of the
small hotel at the top of a mountain where the rates were so high
that people called it the 'Robber Station.' I was a big girl before I
learned that it was a very respectable stopping place and not a den of
thieves where money was extorted from travellers as tribute.
We walked down the mountain, passing several cave shrines. In one I
caught the twinkle of a burning lamp. It reminded me of the hermit
caves of Echigo. This was my first long trip from home, and it was full
of strange new experiences. Yet there seemed to be familiar memories
connected with everything. I wondered vaguely if I should find it so in
America.
One day, after a shower, as the man stopped to lower the top of my
jinrikisha, a sudden burst of sunshine showed me, high up on the
mountain-side, pressed flat against the green, an immense white _dai_,
the Japanese character meaning "great." It looked as if it had been
painted with a brush, but Jiya, who had once been there, had told me
that it was made of strips of bamboo covered thickly with paper prayers
tied on by pilgrim visitors to the temple on top of the mountain.
Near by was the rude little village where Miyo lived. She was Jiya's
sister, and we spent the night in her house. It was a queer place, a
sort of cheap hotel for country people. Miyo, with her son and his
wife, met us at the door with deep bows and many a "_Maa! Maa!_" of
surprise and pleasure. The wide entrance opened into a big room having
a clay floor. Several casks bound with hoops of twisted bamboo were
piled in one corner, and from the smoky ceiling hung a bulging bag of
grain, bunches of _mochi_ cakes and dried fish, and bamboo baskets
containing provisions of various kinds.
We passed through a mob of chattering pilgrims who had just come down
from the mountain, and, crossing the stones of a crude little garden,
reached the rooms where Miyo lived. Everything was clean, but the
paper doors were patched, the mats yellow with age, and the cloth
bindings worn almost through. Miyo must have had a rather hard time
in the past; for she was an independent character who, in violation
of all tradition, had cast off a worthless husband and brought up her
four children herself. Of course it was very low class to do a thing
like that, but she was as brave as a man, and, since her husband had no
parents, she had been able legally to keep the children herself.
Miyo had been a servant in our house when Brother was a child, and
her delight in seeing the "Young Master" was pathetic. Her bare feet
went pattering over the mats, slipping quickly into her sandals each
time she crossed the doorsill to the kitchen. She hurried here and
there, bringing us the best she had and offering everything with bows
and apologies. One thing troubled her very much. She had only wooden
trays with no feet, and she had never known my brother to eat off a
low tray. In the days when she lived at our house, even an informal
serving of cake was presented to him on a high lacquer stand, just as
it was to Father. But she was ingenious, and presently she brought in
a brassbound rice-bucket and with many bows and an anxious "Please
grant your honourable pardon!" placed the tray on it before Brother.
He laughed heartily and said that even a shogun had never received a
similar honour.
We sat up very late and had a most interesting time. Brother talked of
past days and of many things about our home, so little known to me that
I felt as if I were reading some old, half-familiar book. I had never
known him to be so free and merry as he was that evening. And Miyo,
half laughter and half tears, talked rapidly, asking many questions
and interrupting herself continually. She was reminding him of some
incident of his childhood, when he abruptly asked: "What became of your
'own-choice' husband, Miyo?"
I thought that question was too cruel, but Miyo calmly replied: "Young
Master, 'The rust of one's own sword can be brightened only by one's
own effort.' I am still paying the penalty of my life mistake."
Very gravely she went across the room to a big chest and took out a
small, flat package. It was a square of purple crêpe bearing our crest.
With a serious face she unfolded it, showing a brocade charm bag such
as we children used to wear to hold the paper blessing of the priest.
The gold threads were a little ravelled and the heavy scarlet cord
mellowed with age.
Miyo lifted it reverently to her forehead.
"The Honourable Mistress gave it to me," she said to Brother, "the
night she let my lover and me through the water gate. It held square
silver coins--all that I needed."
"Ah!" Brother exclaimed excitedly, "I know! I was a little boy. It was
dark and I saw her coming back alone, carrying a lantern. But I never
understood what it meant."
Miyo hesitated a moment; then she told us.
When she was employed in our house, she was very young, and because she
was the sister of Father's faithful Jiya, she was allowed much freedom.
A youthful servant, also of our house, fell in love with her. For young
people to become lovers without the sanction of proper formalities was
a grave offence in any class, but in a samurai household it was a black
disgrace to the house. The penalty was exile through the water gate--a
gate of brush built over a stream and never used except by one of the
_eta_, or outcast, class. The departure was public, and the culprits
were ever after shunned by everyone. The penalty was unspeakably
cruel, but in the old days severe measures were used as a preventive of
law-breaking.
Mother always rigidly obeyed every law of the household, but she saved
Miyo from public disgrace by taking the lovers quietly, at midnight,
and herself opening the big swinging gate for them to pass. No one ever
knew the truth.
"It is said," concluded Miyo sadly, "that the hearts of those who pass
the water gate are purified by the gods; but even so, the penalty of a
law-breaker can never be evaded. In secret I have paid the penalty, and
my children were saved from disgrace by the heavenly kindness of the
Honourable Mistress of the Inagaki."
We all sat quiet for a moment. Then Brother said bitterly:
"The Honourable Mistress of the Inagaki was many times more merciful to
the servants of her household than to her one and only son."
Impatiently he pushed his cushion aside and abruptly said good-night.
The next morning our road wound along the side of a mountain stream
awkwardly threading its way through a series of angular gullies,
finally ending abruptly in a swift, sloping leap into a wide, shallow
river, which we crossed on a boat poled by coolies. This river was
the scene of one of Jiya's most exciting stories. Father, on one of
his hurried trips to Tokyo, had found it flooded and had ordered his
coolies to place his palanquin on a platform and carry it on their
heads through the whirling waves to the opposite shore. One man was
drowned.
As our jinrikishas rolled along I thought of how often Father had gone
over that road amidst the state and pomp of old Japan; and now his two
dear ones--his eldest and his youngest--were following the same path
in rented jinrikishas, simply garbed and with no attendants except a
wheezy old coolie with a baggage horse. How strange it seemed.
At last we reached Takasaki--the place from which the celebrated "land
steamer" started on its puffing way to Tokyo. That was the first time
that I ever saw a railway train. It looked to me like a long row of
little rooms, each with a narrow door opening on to the platform.
It was late in the afternoon, and I was so weary that I have little
recollection of anything except a scolding from Brother, because I,
feeling that I was entering some kind of a house, stepped out of my
wooden shoes, leaving them on the platform. Just before the train
started, they were handed in at the window by an official whose special
duty it was to gather all the shoes from the platform before the
starting of every train. I went to sleep at once, and the next thing I
knew we were in Tokyo.
CHAPTER XIII
FOREIGNERS
My Tokyo relatives had arranged for me to live with them and attend
a celebrated school for girls, where English was taught by a man who
had studied in England. This I did for several months, but my brother
was not satisfied. The girls were required to give much attention
to etiquette and womanly accomplishments; and since my uncle lived
in a stately mansion, a great part of my time at home was occupied
with trifling formalities. Brother said that I was receiving the same
useless training that had been given him, and, since I was to live in
America, I must have a more practical education.
Once more my poor brother was totally misunderstood by our kindred on
account of his stubborn opposition to all advice; but finally Father's
old friend, Major Sato, suggested a mission school that his wife
had attended and which bore the reputation of being the best girls'
school for English in Japan. This pleased Brother and, since it was a
rule of the school that each pupil should have a resident guardian,
Major Sato accepted the responsibility and it was arranged that,
until the beginning of the next term, some weeks away, I should be a
member of the Sato household. Major Sato's wife was a quiet, gentle
lady, unassuming in manner, but with a hidden strength of character
most unusual. Having no daughter, she accepted me as her own and in
numberless kind ways taught me things of lasting value.
It was a five-mile walk to school from the Sato house. In very bad
weather I was sent in Mrs. Sato's jinrikisha, but, true to my dear
priest-teacher's training, I felt that it was almost a disgrace to
consider bodily comfort when on the road to learning, so I usually
walked.
Starting immediately after an early breakfast, I went down the hill and
along an old temple road until I reached the broad street passing the
palace of His Imperial Majesty. I always walked slowly there. The clear
water of the moat, reflecting every stone of the sloping wall and the
crooked pine trees above, formed a picture of calm, unhurried peace.
It was the only place I had seen in Tokyo that gave me the familiar
feeling of ceremonious dignity. I loved it. From there I came out upon
the wide, sunshiny parade ground. There was a solitary tree standing
just in the centre, where I always rested a few minutes; for beyond
was a long climb through a series of narrow, crooked, up-hill streets
crowded with children, almost every one having a baby on its back.
These city children did not have the care-free manner of the street
children of Nagaoka. They were older and graver, and although all were
busy, some playing games, some chattering in groups, and some jogging
along on errands, there was little noise except the "gata-gata" of
their wooden clogs.
At the top of the hill was my school. It stood behind a long mound-wall
topped with a thorn hedge. A big gateway opened into spacious grounds,
where, in the midst of several trees, stood a long, two-storied wooden
house with a tiled roof and glass windows divided into large squares by
strips of wood. In that building I spent four happy years, and learned
some of the most useful lessons of my life.
I liked my school from the first, but some of my experiences were very
puzzling. Had it not been for the constant sympathy and wise advice of
kind Mrs. Sato, my life might have been difficult; for I was only a
simple country girl alone in a new world, looking about me with very
eager, but very ignorant, eyes, and stubbornly judging everything by my
own unreasonably high standards of conservative opinion.
All our studies, except English and Bible, were taught by Japanese
men--not priests, but professors. Since they came only for their
classes, we saw little of them. The foreign teachers were all women.
I had seen one foreign man in Nagaoka, but, until I came to this
school, I had never seen a foreign woman. These teachers were all
young, lively, most interesting and beautiful. Their strange dress,
the tight black shoes, the fair skin untouched by the cosmetics which
we considered a necessary part of dressing, and the various colours of
hair arranged in loose coils and rolls, were suggestive of dim visions
I had had about fairyland. I admired them greatly, but their lack of
ceremony surprised me. The girls, most of whom were from Tokyo, where
living was less formal than in my old-fashioned home, made very short
bows and had most astonishing manners in talking with one another;
nevertheless, I had a certain interest in watching them. But the free
actions of the teachers with the pupils and the careless conduct of the
girls in the presence of the teachers shocked me. I had been taught
such precepts as "Step not on even the shadow of thy teacher, but walk
reverently three steps behind," and every day I saw familiar greetings
and heard informal conversations that seemed to me most undignified on
the part of the teacher and lacking in respect on the part of the pupil.
And there was another thing which troubled me greatly. Friendly
smiles and small attentions from teachers seemed to be liked by these
city girls, but I shrank indescribably from personal advances made
to myself. My rigid training held me back from being even mildly
responsive to either teachers or schoolmates, and it was a long time
before the strangeness wore away and I found myself joining with the
girls in their games and beginning to feel acquainted with my teachers.
This was helped along greatly by certain democratic rules in the
school, which, though not enforced, were encouraged, and became the
fashion. One of these was giving up the use of the honorific "Sama"
and substituting the less formal prefix, "O"; thus placing the girls
on a plane of social equality. Another, which greatly interested me,
was the universal agreement to give up arranging the hair in Japanese
style. All wore it alike, pulled back from the face and hanging in a
long braid behind. This change was a mixed pleasure. I was no longer a
martyr to the "gluing-up process" of scented oil and hot tea, but as
I was the only curly-haired girl in the school I could not escape a
certain amount of good-natured ridicule.
These things I accepted with ease, but my shoes were a real annoyance.
All my life I had been accustomed to leave my shoes at the door
whenever I stepped inside a house, but here, in the school, we wore
our sandals all the time, except in the straw-matted dormitory. I was
slow to adapt myself to this, and it was months before I conquered the
impulse to slip back my toes from the cord when I reached the door of
the class room. The girls used to wait outside, just to laugh at my
moment's hesitation.
These changes in my lifelong habits, combined with the merry ridicule
of the girls, made me feel that I was one of them, and that Etsu-bo had
slipped entirely out of the old life and was now fitted happily into
the new. Nevertheless, there were times when, aroused from deep study
by someone suddenly calling, "O Etsu San!" and, after a dazed moment
of adjusting myself to the new name, I would hurry down the hall, my
sandals sounding a noisy "clap-clap" on the floor, and my head feeling
light with the cool looseness of unbound hair, I would be vaguely
conscious, somewhere within me, of an odd fear that Etsu-bo was nowhere.
However, this feeling could never last long; for there was a dreaded
something which constantly reminded me that I was still a daughter of
Echigo. My pronunciation of certain sounds, which was different from
that of Tokyo, caused considerable amusement among the girls. Also, I
suppose I used rather stately and stilted language, which, combined
with the odd Echigo accent, must have sounded very funny to city-bred
ears. The girls were so good-natured in their mimicry that I could not
feel resentment, but it was a real trial to me, for it touched my deep
loyalty to my own province. Since I did not quite understand where
the difficulty lay, I was helpless, and gradually got in the habit of
confining my conversation to few remarks and making my sentences as
short as possible.
Mrs. Sato noticed that I was growing more and more silent, and by
tactful questioning she discovered the trouble. Then she quietly
prepared a little notebook with a diagram of the troublesome sounds
and, in the kindest way in the world, explained them to me.
Brother was there that evening, and he laughed.
"Etsu-bo," he said, looking at me rather critically, "there is not such
good reason to be shamed by the accent of an honourable province as
over your countrified dress. I must get you some different clothes."
I had already grown suspicious of the glances which my schoolmates had
been casting at the sash that Toshi had so painstakingly made me of
a piece of newly imported cloth called _a-ra-pac-ca_, so I was glad
to accept the garments which Brother brought the next day. They were
surprisingly gay, and the sash, with one side of black satin, reminded
me of the restaurant waiters of Nagaoka, but the girls all said they
had a "Tokyo air," so I wore them with a pride and satisfaction greater
than I ever had felt about clothes--except once. That was many years
before, when my father, on one of his visits to the capital, had seen
in a store foreign clothes for a child and had brought them home for
me. They were of dark blue cloth and very peculiar in shape. None of us
knew they were clothes for a little boy. Ishi dressed me and I strutted
about, cramped into a straitjacket of cold, tight, scratchy discomfort.
But the family admired me, the servants watched me with in-drawn
breaths of awe, and I was as proud as the "bird of many eyes," which is
our symbol of vanity.
The more I saw of my teachers, the more I admired them. I had lost
my feeling of repulsion at their lack of ceremony when I learned
to understand the hidden dignity that lay beneath their individual
differences, and finally it began to dawn upon me that the honourable
position of instructor was not inconsistent with being merry and gay.
My Japanese teachers had been pleasantly courteous, but always lofty
and distant in manner; while these smiling, swift-moving creatures ran
with us in the gymnasium, played battledore and shuttlecock with us,
and took turns in eating with us in our own dining room where Japanese
food was served on trays as it was on our small tables at home.
Often on Friday evenings we were allowed to arrange a Japanese
programme of entertainment. We would bring out our bright
undergarments, which are the gayest part of Japanese dress, and hang
them across the room, where they swayed in long curves suggesting the
broad-striped and crest curtains stretched by ancient warriors in
camp. Then we would borrow things of each other to make costumes for
tableaux or character sketches of celebrated people. Sometimes a daring
girl would select a teacher--but always a favourite--and pleasantly
caricature her. Occasionally we gave a pantomime of an old historic
drama, but we never acted with words. That would have been too bold and
unladylike. Even in theatres, women's parts were taken by men, for our
stage was not yet far removed from the time when actors were called
"beggars on the shore."
The teachers were always present on these occasions, laughing,
applauding, and praising our efforts as freely and happily as if they
were girls of our own age. And at the same time, they were all busy
knitting and sewing, or--most interesting of all the things in that
wonderful school--darning stockings.
But in spite of my steadily increasing contentment there was one
thing that was a constant ache to me. Neither at school nor near
the Sato home was there a shrine. Of course, there were prayers at
morning service in the school chapel, and they were very beautiful and
solemn. I always felt as if I were in a temple. But they lacked the
warm homeliness of our family gathering in Honourable Grandmother's
quiet room with the lighted candles and curling incense of the open
shrine; and the consciousness of the near-by protecting presence of the
ancestors. This I missed more than anything else. And an added grief
was that I could have no part in the service held on the twenty-ninth
of each month in memory of my father's death-day.
Before I left home Mother had given me a very sacred thing. It was my
father's death-name written on a certain kind of paper by my revered
priest-teacher. Preciously I had carried this with me wherever I went,
but after I became a boarder in the school I had a vague feeling that
for me to keep it there permanently would be disloyal to the sacred
name and also discourteous to the school; for it would be intruding
something of the old into an atmosphere which belonged only to the
new. I felt I could not keep it, and yet I could not part with it. I
was sorely puzzled.
One week-end I went to visit Mrs. Sato. It was the twenty-ninth day
of the month. We were sewing, and our cushions were drawn close to
the open doors overlooking the garden. I had dropped my work and was
thinking, my unseeing eyes gazing out at a path of stepping-stones that
ran between two little hills and around a big stone lantern before
disappearing in a group of small trees.
"What are you thinking, O Etsu San?" asked Mrs. Sato. "You look
worried."
Turning, I saw real concern in her face. Perhaps under the influence of
the school my reserve was beginning to melt. At any rate, I told her of
my trouble.
At once she was all sympathy.
"I am ashamed that we have no shrine," she said; "for we have not even
the excuse of being Christians. We are nothing. It is the fashion
lately to adopt the Western way, and we have no house shrine. But there
is one in the nun's house at the end of the garden."
"The nun's house at the end of the garden!" I repeated in great
astonishment.
She explained that the land on which they lived had once belonged to
an old temple where priestesses were in charge, which, on account of
the changing times, had grown very poor. The property had been sold to
Major Sato on condition that a little thatched hut, once belonging to a
temple servitor, should be allowed to remain as the home of a very old
and very holy nun, who wished to spend her life in this much-loved spot.
That evening we went to see her, walking over the stepping-stones
between the little hills and around the stone lantern to where, through
the foliage, I could see a small house surrounded by a low brush
fence. Faint candlelight twinkled through the paper doors, and I heard
the gentle, familiar "ton-ton, ton-ton" of the soft wooden drum and the
low chanting of Buddhist words. I bowed my head, and in the darkness
homesick tears came to my eyes.
Mrs. Sato opened the humble bamboo gate.
"Pardon. May we enter?" she called gently.
The chanting ceased. The door slid back, and a kindly looking, very
aged nun in a gray cotton robe welcomed us most cordially.
The room was simply furnished except that on one side stood a very
beautiful temple shrine of gilded lacquer. It was darkened by age and
constant incense smoke. Before the gilded Buddha lay a pile of worn
chanting-books and the small wooden drum we had heard.
The nun was gentle and sweet like my grandmother, and it was easy for
me to explain my trouble and show her the paper holding the sacred
name. Lifting it to her forehead, she took it to the shrine and
reverently placed it before the Buddha. Then we had a simple service,
such as we used to have in Honourable Grandmother's room at home, and
when I came away I left the precious paper in the safe keeping of her
shrine. After that, on the last Friday of every month, I used to visit
the holy nun and listen to her soft voice chant the service in memory
of Father's death-day.
CHAPTER XIV
LESSONS
Our time in school was supposed to be equally divided between Japanese
and English, but since I had been already carefully drilled in Japanese
studies, I was able to put my best efforts on English. My knowledge
of that language was very limited. I could read and write a little,
but my spoken English was scarcely understandable. I had, however,
read a number of translations of English books and--more valuable than
all else--I possessed a supply of scattered knowledge obtained from
a little set of books that my father had brought me from the capital
when I was only a child. They were translations, compiled from various
sources and published by one of the progressive book houses of Tokyo.
I do not know whose idea it was to translate and publish those ten
little paper volumes, but whoever it was holds my lasting gratitude.
They brought the first shafts of light that opened to my eager mind
the wonders of the Western world, and from them I was led to countless
other friends and companions who, in the years since, have brought to
me such a wealth of knowledge and happiness that I cannot think what
life would have been without them. How well I remember the day they
came! Father had gone to Tokyo on one of his "window toward growing
days" trips.
That was always an important event in our lives, for he brought back
with him, not only wonderful stories of his journey, but also gifts of
strange and beautiful things. Mother had said that he would be home at
the close of the day, and I spent the afternoon sitting on the porch
step watching the slow-lengthening shadows of the garden trees. I had
placed my high wooden clogs on a stepping-stone just at the edge of the
longest shadow, and as the sun crept farther I moved them from stone to
stone, following the sunshine. I think I must have had a vague feeling
that I could thus hasten the slanting shadow into the long straight
line which would mean sunset.
At last--at last--and before the shadow had quite straightened, I
hurriedly snatched up the clogs and clattered across the stones, for
I had heard the jinrikisha man's cry of "_Okaeri!_" just outside the
gate. I could scarcely bear my joy, and I have a bit of guilt in my
heart yet when I recall how crookedly I pushed those clogs into the
neat box of shelves in the "shoe-off" alcove of the vestibule.
The next moment the men, perspiring and laughing, came trotting up to
the door where we, servants and all, were gathered, our heads bowed to
the floor, all in a quiver of excitement and delight, but of course
everybody gravely saying the proper words of greeting. Then, my duty
done, I was caught up in my father's arms and we went to Honourable
Grandmother, who was the only one of the household who might wait in
her room for the coming of the master of the house.
That day was one of the "memory stones" of my life, for among all the
wonderful and beautiful things which were taken from the willow-wood
boxes straddled over the shoulders of the servants was the set of books
for me. I can see them now. Ten small volumes of tough Japanese paper,
tied together with silk cord and marked, "Tales of the Western Seas."
They held extracts from "Peter Parley's World History," "National
Reader," "Wilson's Readers," and many short poems and tales from
classic authors in English literature.
The charm of delight that rare things give came to me during days and
weeks--even months and years--from those books. I can recite whole
pages of them now. There was a most interesting story of Christopher
Columbus. It was not translated literally, but adapted so that the
Japanese mind would readily grasp the thought without being buried in a
puzzling mass of strange customs. All facts of the wonderful discovery
were stated truthfully, but Columbus was pictured as a fisher lad,
and somewhere in the story there figured a lacquer bowl and a pair of
chopsticks.
These books had been my inspiration during all my years of childhood,
and when, in my study of English at school, my clumsy mind began
to grasp the fact that, hidden beneath the puzzling words were
continuations of stories I knew, and of ideas similar to those I had
found in the old familiar books that I had loved so well, my delight
was unbounded. Then I began to read eagerly. I would bend over my
desk, hurrying, guessing, skipping whole lines, stumbling along--my
dictionary wide open beside me, but I not having time to look--and
yet, in some marvellous way, catching ideas. And I never wearied. The
fascination was like that of a moon-gazing party, where, while we
watched from the hillside platform, a floating cloud would sail across
the glorious disk, and we--silent, trembling with excitement--would
wait for the glory of the coming moment. In the same way, a half-hidden
thought--elusive, tantalizing--would fill me with a breathless hope
that the next moment light would come. Another thing about English
books was that, as I read, I was constantly discovering shadowy replies
to the unanswered questions of my childhood. Oh, English books were a
source of deepest joy!
I am afraid that I should not have been so persistent, or so successful
in my English studies, could I have readily obtained translations of
the books I was so eager to read. Tokyo bookshops, at that time, were
beginning to be flooded with translations of English, French, German,
and Russian books; and these generally, if not scientific treatises,
were classics translated, as a rule, by our best scholars; but they
were expensive to purchase and difficult for me to obtain in any other
way. To read, even stumblingly, in the original, the books in the
school library was my only resource, and it became one of my greatest
pleasures.
Excepting English, of all my studies history was the favourite; and I
liked and understood best the historical books of the Old Testament.
The figurative language was something like Japanese; the old heroes had
the same virtues and the same weaknesses of our ancient samurai; the
patriarchal form of government was like ours, and the family system
based upon it pictured so plainly our own homes that the meaning of
many questioned passages was far less puzzling to me than were the
explanations of the foreign teachers.
In my study of English literature, it seems odd that, of all the
treasures that I gathered, the one which has been most lasting as a
vivid picture, is that of Tennyson's "Dora." Probably this was because
of its having been used by a famous Japanese writer as the foundation
of a novel called "Tanima no Himeyuri"--Lily of the Valley. The story
of Dora, being a tale of the first-born of an aristocratic family
disinherited because he loved a rustic lass of humble class; and
the subsequent tragedy resulting from the difference in training of
different social circles, was a tale familiar and understandable to us.
It was skilfully handled, the author, with wonderful word pictures,
adapting Western life and thought to Japanese conditions.
"The Lily of the Valley" appeared at just the time when the young mind
of Japan, both high and humble, was beginning to seek emancipation from
the stoic philosophy, which for centuries had been the core of our
well-bred training, and it touched the heart of the public. The book
rushed with a storm of popularity all through the land and was read by
all classes; and--which was unusual--by both men and women. It is said
that Her Imperial Majesty became so interested in reading it that she
sat up all one night while her court ladies, sitting silent in the next
room, wearily waited.
I think it was my third year in school that a wave of excitement
over love stories struck Tokyo. All the schoolgirls were wildly
interested. When translations were to be had we passed them from
hand to hand through the school; but mostly we had to struggle along
in English, picking out love scenes from the novels and poems in
our school library. Enoch Arden was our hero. We were familiar with
loyalty and sacrifice on the part of a wife, and understood perfectly
why Annie should have so long withstood the advances of Philip, but
the unselfishness of the faithful Enoch was so rare as to be much
appreciated.
The hearts of Japanese girls are no different from those of girls of
other countries, but for centuries, especially in samurai homes, we had
been strictly trained to regard duty, not feeling, as the standard of
relations between man and woman. Thus our unguided reading sometimes
gave us warped ideas on this unknown subject. The impression I received
was that love as pictured in Western books was interesting and
pleasant, sometimes beautiful in sacrifice like that of Enoch Arden;
but not to be compared in strength, nobility, or loftiness of spirit
to the affection of parent for child, or the loyalty between lord and
vassal.
Had my opinion been allowed to remain wordless, it probably would
never have caused me annoyance, but it was destined to see the light.
We had a very interesting literature society which held an occasional
special meeting, to which we invited the teachers as guests. With an
anxious pride to have a fine entertainment, we frequently planned
our programme first and afterward selected the girls for the various
tasks. The result was that sometimes the subject chosen was beyond the
capacity of the girl to handle. At one time this rule brought disaster
to me, for we never shirked any duty to which we were assigned.
On this occasion I was asked to prepare a three-page essay in English,
having one of the cardinal virtues for a subject. I puzzled over which
to select of Faith, Hope, Charity, Love, Prudence, and Patience; but
recalling that our Bible teacher frequently quoted "God is Love," I
felt that there I had a foundation, and so chose as my topic, "Love." I
began with the love of the Divine Father, then, under the influence of
my late reading, I drifted along, rather vaguely, I fear, on the effect
of love on the lives of celebrated characters in history and poetry.
But I did not know how to handle so awkward a subject, and reached my
limit in both knowledge and vocabulary before the three pages were
filled. Faithfulness to duty, however, still held firm, and I wrote on,
finally concluding with these words: "Love is like a powerful medicine.
When properly used it will prove a pleasant tonic, and sometimes may
even preserve life; but when misused, it can ruin nations, as seen in
the lives of Cleopatra and the beloved Empress of the Emperor Genso of
Great China."
At the close of my reading one teacher remarked, "This is almost
desecration."
It was years before I understood what the criticism meant.
For a while my great interest in English reading filled all my hours
of leisure, but there came a time when my heart longed for the dear
old stories of Japan, and I wrote to my mother asking her to send me
some books from home. Among others she selected a popular classic
called "Hakkenden," which I especially loved. It is the longest novel
ever written in the Japanese language, and our copy, Japanese-bound
and elaborately illustrated, consisted of 180 volumes. With great
effort Mother succeeded in obtaining a foreign-bound copy in two thick
volumes. I welcomed these books with joy, and was amazed when one of
the teachers, seeing them in my bookcase, took them away, saying they
were not proper books for me to read.
To me, "Hakkenden," with its wonderful symbolism, was one of the
most inspiring books I had ever read. It was written in the 18th
Century by Bakin, our great philosopher-novelist, and so musical is
the literature, and so lofty the ideals, that frequently it has been
compared, by Japanese of learning, to Milton's "Paradise Lost" and
the "Divine Comedy" of Dante. The author was a strong believer in the
unusual theory of spiritual transmigration, and his story is based on
that belief.
The tale is of the daimio Satomi, who, with his almost starving
retainers, was holding his castle against a besieging army. Knowing
that the strength of the enemy lay alone in their able general, he
desperately offered everything he possessed, even to his precious
daughter, to any one brave enough to destroy his enemy. Satomi's
faithful dog, a handsome wolf-hound named Yatsubusa, bounded away, and
the next morning appeared before his master, carrying by its long hair
the head of Satomi's foe. With their leader gone the enemy was thrown
into confusion, and Satomi's warriors, with a mighty rush, put them to
flight. Thus was the province restored to peace and prosperity. Then,
so bitterly did Satomi regret his promise that he was enraged at the
very sight of the faithful animal to whom he owed his good fortune. But
his beautiful daughter, the Princess Fuse, pitied the wronged animal.
"The word of a samurai, once uttered, cannot be recalled," she said.
"It is my duty to uphold the honour of my father's word."
So the filial daughter went with Yatsubusa to a mountain cave where she
spent her time in praying to the gods that a soul might be given to the
brave animal; and with every murmured prayer the noble nature of the
dumb Yatsubusa drew nearer to the border line of human intelligence.
One day there came to the mountain a loyal retainer of Satomi. He saw,
just within the cave, the Princess Fuse sitting before the shrine
holding an open book. Before her, like a faithful vassal, Yatsubusa
listened with bowed head to the holy reading. Believing he was doing a
noble deed, the retainer lifted his gun and fired. The bullet, swift
and strong, was guided by fate. It passed directly through the body of
Yatsubusa and on, piercing the heart of the Princess Fuse.
At that instant the freed spirit of the Princess, as eight shining
stars in a floating mist, rose from her body and floated softly through
the sky to the eight corners of the world. Each star was a virtue:
Loyalty, Sincerity, Filial Piety, Friendship, Charity, Righteousness,
Courtesy, and Wisdom.
Fate guided each star to a human home, and in course of time, into each
of these homes a son was born. As they blossomed into manhood, Fate
brought the youths together, and the reunited eight virtues become
heroic vassals, through whom came glory to the name of Satomi. So the
spirit of the filial daughter brought honour to her father's name.
I could not understand why this miracle-story, filled with lofty
symbolism, could be more objectionable than the many fables and fairy
tales of personified animals that I had read in English literature.
But, after much pondering, I concluded that thoughts, like the
language, on one side of the world are straightforward and literal; and
on the other, vague, mystical, and visionary.
At the end of my school life my beloved books were returned to me. I
have them now--battered, loose-leafed, and worn--and I still love them.
As time passed on, I learned to like almost everything about my
school--even many of the things which at first I had found most trying;
but there was one thing which from the very first I had enjoyed with
my whole heart. The school building was surrounded by large grounds
with tall trees. A small lawn near the principal doorway was well
cared for, but beyond was an extensive stretch of weedy grass and
untrained shrubbery. There were no stone lanterns, no pond with darting
gold-fish, and no curving bridge; just big trees with unbound branches,
uncut grass, and--freedom to grow.
At my home there was one part of the garden that was supposed to be
wild. The trees were twisted like wind-blown mountain pines; the
stepping-stones marked an irregular path across ground covered with
pine needles; the fence was of growing cedar peeping between uneven
rods of split bamboo, and the gate was of brushwood tied with rough
twine. But someone was always busy trimming the pines or cutting the
hedge, and every morning Jiya wiped off the stepping-stones and,
after sweeping beneath the pine trees, carefully scattered fresh pine
needles gathered from the forest. There the wildness was only constant
repression, but here at the school everything was filled with the
uplifting freshness of unrestrained freedom. This I enjoyed with a
happiness so great that the very fact that such happiness could exist
in the human heart was a surprise to me.
One section of this wild ground the teachers divided into small
gardens, giving one to each of the girls and providing any kind of
flower seeds we wanted. This was a new delight. I already loved the
free growth of the trees, and the grass on which I could walk even in
my shoes; but this "plant-what-you-please" garden gave me a wholly new
feeling of personal right. I, with no violation of tradition, no stain
on the family name, no shock to parent, teacher, or townspeople, no
harm to anything in the world, was free to act. So instead of having
a low bamboo fence around my garden, as most of the girls had, I went
to the kitchen and coaxed the cook to give me some dried branches used
for kindling. Then I made a rustic hedge, and, in my garden, instead of
flowers, I planted--potatoes.
No one knows the sense of reckless freedom which this absurd act gave
me--nor the consequences to which it led. It had unloosed my soul, and
I stood listening, while from a strange tangle of unconventional smiles
and informal acts, of outspoken words and unhidden thoughts, of growing
trees and untouched grass, the spirit of freedom came knocking at my
door.
CHAPTER XV
HOW I BECAME A CHRISTIAN
In my Nagaoka home, notwithstanding the love and care that surrounded
me, my mind was always filled with unanswered questions. My education
as a priestess had developed my mind, but it had grown in cramped
silence; for, liberal as was my father in his views regarding my
training, I was influenced by the home atmosphere of conservatism, and
rarely spoke, even to him, of my inmost thoughts.
But occasionally this reserve was broken. Once, just after I had made
many bows of farewell to the departing guests of the three-hundredth
death celebration of an ancestor, I asked:
"Honourable Father, who is the first, the away-back, the very beginning
of our ancestors?"
"Little daughter," Father gravely answered, "that is a presumptuous
question for a well-bred girl to ask; but I will be honest and tell
you that I do not know. Our great Confucius replied to his disciple
concerning that very question, 'We know not life.'"
I was very young, but I well understood that I must in the future be
more demure and womanly in my inquiries, and not ask questions with the
freedom of a boy.
The influence of my school life in Tokyo had been subtle. Unconsciously
I had expanded, until gradually I became convinced that asking
questions was only a part of normal development. Then, for the first
time in my life, I attempted to put into words some of the secret
thoughts of my heart. This was gently encouraged by my tactful
teachers; and, as time passed on, I realized more and more that they
were wonderfully wise for women, and my confidence in them grew. Not
only this, but their effortless influence to inspire happiness changed
my entire outlook on life. My childhood had been happy, but it had
never known one throb of what may be called joyousness. I used to gaze
at the full moon sailing in the deep sky, with all the poetic ecstasy
of the Japanese heart, but always, like a shadow, came the thought, "It
will grow less from to-night." Our flower viewings were a delight to
me, but invariably, as I travelled homeward, I sighed to myself: "The
lovely blossoms will fall before the winds of to-morrow." So it was
with everything. In the midst of gladness I unconsciously sent out a
heart search for a thread of sadness. I ascribe this morbid tendency
to the Buddhist teaching of my childhood; for there is a strain of
hopeless sadness in all Buddhist thought.
But my life at school blew into my heart a breath of healthful
cheerfulness. As the restraint which had held me like a vise began to
relax, so also there melted within me the tendency to melancholy. It
could not be otherwise; for the teachers, whether working, playing,
laughing, or even reproving, were a continual surprise. In my home,
surprises had been infrequent. People bowed, walked, talked, and smiled
exactly as they had bowed, walked, talked, and smiled yesterday, and
the day before, and in all past time. But these astonishing teachers
were never the same. They changed so unexpectedly in voice and manner
with each person to whom they spoke, that their very changeableness was
a refreshing attraction. They reminded me of cherry blossoms.
Japanese people love flowers for what they mean. I was taught from
babyhood that the plum, bravely pushing its blossoms through the snows
of early spring, is our bridal flower because it is an emblem of
duty through hardship. The cherry is beautiful and it never fades,
for the lightest breeze scatters the still fresh and fragrant petals
into another beauty of tinted, floating clouds; which again changes to
a carpet of delicate white-and-pink shells--like my teachers, always
changing and always beautiful.
Although I now know that my first impressions of American womanhood
were exaggerated, I have never regretted this idealization; for through
it I came to realize the tragic truth that the Japanese woman--like
the plum blossom, modest, gentle, and bearing unjust hardship without
complaint--is often little else than a useless sacrifice; while the
American woman--self-respecting, untrammelled, changing with quick
adaptability to new conditions--carries inspiration to every heart,
because her life, like the blossom of the cherry, blooms in freedom and
naturalness.
This realization was of slow growth, and it brought with it much silent
questioning.
From childhood I had known, as did all Japanese people, that woman is
greatly inferior to man. This I never questioned. It was fate. But as
I grew older I so constantly saw that fate brings inconvenience and
humiliation to blameless people that I fell into a habit of puzzling,
in a crude, childish way, over this great unkind Power. At last a day
came when my heart broke into open rebellion.
Ever since the hard days before the Restoration, my mother had been
subject to occasional attacks of asthma, which we all were sincere in
believing was due to some unknown wrong committed by her in a previous
existence. Once when, after a breathless struggle, I heard her gasp,
"It is fate and must be borne," I ran to Ishi and asked indignantly why
fate made my mother suffer.
"It cannot be helped," she replied, with pitying tears in her eyes. "It
is because of the unworthiness of woman. But you must be calm, Etsu-bo
Sama. The Honourable Mistress does not complain. She is proud to bear
silently."
I was too young to understand, but, with my heart pounding in hot
rebellion against the powerful, mysterious injustice, I pulled myself
into Ishi's lap and, convulsively clinging to her, begged her to tell
me a story--quick--of clashing swords, and flying arrows, and heroes
who fought and won.
Japanese children were not taught that rebellious thoughts, if
unexpressed, are a wrong to the gods, so the resentment in my heart
grew. But as it grew there slowly drifted into, and curiously blended
with it, a blind wonder why my mother and Ishi, when hardship came for
which they were not to blame, should submit to it, not only dutifully
and patiently--that, of course, it was their place, as women, to
do--but with pride. Something within me cried out that, however dutiful
they might be in act, their _hearts_ ought to rebel; yet I had known
both unnecessarily to accept a humiliating blame that they knew was not
theirs! That those two noble women should encourage self-humiliation I
resented more bitterly than I did the hard decrees of fate.
Of course, this thought was not clear in my mind at that time. Then and
for years after, my idea of fate--for in fate I firmly believed--was of
a vague, floating, stupendous power, for which I felt only resentful
wonder.
Another puzzle came one midsummer airing day. It seems odd that it
should have happened then, for airing days were the most care-free,
happy time of the year for me. Then the godowns were emptied and long
ropes stretched in the sunshine, on which were hung torn banners
bearing our crest, old field-curtains used in the camps of our
ancestors, ancient regalia of house officers, and many odd-shaped
garments belonging to what Ishi's fairy tales called "the olden,
olden time." Beneath the low eaves were piles of clumsy horse armour
bound with faded ropes of twisted silk; and old war weapons--spears,
battle-axes, bows, and sheaves of arrows--stood in out-of-the-way
corners of the garden. All available space was utilized; even the
bridge-posts and the stone lanterns were decorated with chain-silk
armour and lacquer helmets with fearful masks.
The confusion was delightful. I loved it. And Father would walk around
with me, showing me things and explaining their use, until, all
perspiring and with eyes dazzled by the sun, we would go indoors and
stumble through the cluttered-up halls to Honourable Grandmother's
room. That seemed to be the only place in the house in order.
Everywhere else were busy servants brushing, folding, or carrying,
and at the same time all chattering gayly; for airing days, although
bringing hard work, were a happy diversion in our rather monotonous
household and always cordially welcomed by the servants.
When Father and I reached Honourable Grandmother's room we found
ourselves suddenly shut away from all the turmoil into a place cool and
quiet. I can see Father now, as, with a sigh of satisfaction, he closed
the door behind him and, pushing aside the proffered cushion, bowed his
thanks to Honourable Grandmother and seated himself on the cool straw
mat beside the open doors overlooking the shady "wild garden." There he
would sit, fanning himself and talking with Honourable Grandmother of
old times.
Once, just after the noon meal of hot whale soup and eggplant, which
was always served on airing days, Father went directly to his room. I
was hurrying after him when I saw Jiya and another manservant in their
stiff crest-dresses crossing the garden from the godown. They were
carrying, reverentially, a whitewood chest shaped like a temple box
for sacred books. On the front, very large, was our crest, and around
it was tied a straw rope with dangling Shinto papers. Many times I had
seen that chest in the godown, standing alone on a whitewood platform.
It held family heirlooms, some of them centuries old. The men were on
their way to a certain room which Mother had prepared, where the chest
would be opened in silence, and the sacred articles carefully examined
by men in ceremonial garments.
I sat down listlessly on the edge of the porch, for I knew that Father,
dressed in his stately _kamishimo_ garments, would soon go to the room
where the heirloom chest had been taken, and I should see him no more
that afternoon. On airing days I generally followed him wherever he
went, but across the threshold of that room I should not be allowed to
step. I did not wonder why. It had always been so.
But as I sat alone on the porch I began to think, and after a while I
hunted up Ishi.
"Ishi," I said, "I go everywhere else with Father. Why cannot I be with
him in the room where they are airing the sacred things?"
"Etsu-bo Sama," she replied in the most matter-of-fact tone, as she
shook out the long fringe of an old-fashioned incense ball, "it is
because you were born a daughter to your father instead of a son."
I felt that her words were a personal reproach, and with the age-old,
patient submission of the Japanese woman, I walked slowly toward
Honourable Grandmother's room. It was comforting to turn my mind toward
my stately, noble grandmother, to whom the entire household, even
Father, looked up with reverence. Then, suddenly, like a breath of cold
wind, came the thought that even my saintly grandmother would not dare
touch the sacred things that were used to honour the Shinto gods. She
always attended to the Buddhist shrine, but it was Father's duty to
care for the white Shinto shrine. During his absence, Jiya or another
manservant took his place, for no woman was worthy to handle such holy
things. And yet the great god of Shinto was a woman--the Sun goddess!
That night I was bold enough to ask my father if his honourable mother
was an unworthy woman like all others.
"What do _you_ think, little Daughter?" he asked, after a moment's
hesitation.
"It cannot be," I replied. "You honour her too greatly for it to be
true."
He smiled and tenderly touched my head with his hand.
"Continue to believe so, little Daughter," he said gently. "And yet do
not forget the stern teachings of your childhood. They form the current
of a crystal stream that, as it flows through the ages, keeps Japanese
women worthy--like your grandmother."
It was not until long, long afterward, when the knowledge of later
years had broadened my mind, that I comprehended his hidden meaning
that a woman may quietly harbour independent thought if she does not
allow it to destroy her gentle womanhood. The night that this thought
came to me I wrote in my diary: "Useless sacrifice leads to--only a
sigh. Self-respect leads to--freedom and hope."
Beyond the wall on one side of our school was a rough path leading past
several small villages, with ricefields and patches of clover scattered
between. One day, when a teacher was taking a group of us girls for a
walk, we came upon a dry ricefield dotted with wild flowers. We were
gathering them with merry chattering and laughter when two village
farmers passed by, walking slowly and watching us curiously.
"What is the world coming to," said one, "when workable-age young
misses waste time wandering about through bushes and wild grass?"
"They are grasshoppers trying to climb the mountain," the other
replied, "but the sun will scorch them with scorn. There can be only
pity for the young man who takes one of those for his bride."
The men were rough and ignorant, but they were _men_: and though we all
laughed, not one of the girls was far enough from the shackles of her
mother's day not to feel a shadow of discomfort as we walked homeward.
The teacher paused as we came to the moss-covered stone wall of an old
shrine and pointed to a near-by cherry tree, young and thrifty, growing
out of the hollow of another tree whose fallen trunk was so old and
twisted that it looked like a rough-scaled dragon. Beside it was one of
the wooden standards so often seen in an artistic or noted spot. On the
tablet was inscribed the poem:
"The blossoms of to-day draw strength from the roots of a thousand
years ago."
"This tree is like you girls," said the teacher, with a smile. "Japan's
beautiful old civilization has given its strength to you young women of
to-day. Now it is your duty to grow bravely and give to new Japan, in
return, a greater strength and beauty than even the old possessed. Do
not forget!"
We walked on homeward. Just as we reached our gate in the hedge wall
one of the girls, who had been rather quiet, turned to me.
"Nevertheless," she said, defiantly, "the grasshoppers _are_ climbing
the mountain into the sunlight."
As I learned to value womanhood, I realized more and more that my love
of freedom and my belief in my right to grow toward it meant more than
freedom to act, to talk, to think. Freedom also claimed a _spiritual_
right to grow.
I do not know exactly how I became a Christian. It was not a sudden
thing. It seems to have been a natural spiritual development--so
natural that only a few puzzles stand out clearly as I look back along
the path. As I read, and thought, and felt, my soul reached out into
the unknown; and gradually, easily, almost unconsciously, I drifted out
of a faith of philosophy, mysticism, and resignation into one of high
ideals, freedom, cheerfulness, and hope.
Of the wonder and glory of what I consider the greatest faith of the
world I do not speak. Of that many know. And the selfish gain to me is
beyond all words of all languages.
When I was sent to the mission school the fact that the teachers were
of another religion was not considered at all. They were thought of
only as teachers of the language and manners of America; so when I
wrote to Mother, asking her consent to my becoming a Christian, I know
she was greatly surprised. But she was a wise woman. She replied, "My
daughter, this is an important thing. I think it will be best for you
to wait until vacation. Then we will talk of it."
So I postponed being baptized, and when vacation came, I went to
Nagaoka. The people there knew little of Christianity. The only
impression most of them had was that it was a curious belief lacking in
ceremony, whose converts were required to trample upon sacred things.
There existed, especially among the old, a strong distaste against
_Jakyo_, the evil sect, but it held no vital, forceful bitterness. The
people of Nagaoka looked upon the stories of Japan's Christian martyrs
as a distant and pitiful thing; but they had none of the shuddering
horror felt in some communities of southern Japan, whose memories of
the tragedies of four centuries ago had reason to live.
My mother, who had learned from Father to be tolerant of the opinions
of others, had no prejudice against the new religion; but she believed
that the great duty in life for sons and daughters consisted in a
rigid observance of the ritual for ancestor-worship and the ceremonies
in memory of the dead. When I first reached home her heart was heavy
with dread, but when she learned that my new faith did not require
disrespect to ancestors, her relief and gratitude were pathetic, and
she readily gave her consent.
But Honourable Grandmother! My proud, loyal grandmother! It was
impossible for her to understand, and I think my becoming a heretic was
to her a lifelong sorrow. Her grief was my heaviest cross.
It was hard, too, to visit my relatives and friends. They looked
upon me as a curiosity, and my mother was in a continual state of
explanation and apology. One old aunt closed the doors of her shrine
and pasted white paper over them that the ancestors might be spared the
knowledge of my "peculiarity."
Another aunt, who invited me out to dinner, served no fish, feeling
that, since I was so puzzlingly removed from ordinary life, I could not
be feasted in the usual way. After discarding one plan after another,
she finally concluded it would be both harmless and respectful for her
to treat me as a priest.
All these things among the friends that I had known from babyhood hurt
me. I could bravely have borne persecution, but to be set apart as
something strange almost broke my heart. How I longed for my father!
He would have understood, but I was alone in the midst of kindly
ignorance. Everybody loved me, but they all looked at me in helpless
pity.
At first I was unhappy, but my three months at home changed everything,
both for my friends and for myself. When I returned to school I carried
with me all the respect and love of the home friends that had always
been mine, and which--thank God--I have kept until now.
I think I am a true Christian. At least my belief has given me untold
comfort and a perfect heart-satisfaction, but it has never separated
me from my Buddhist friends. They have respect for this strange belief
of mine; for they feel that, although I am loyal to the Christian God,
I still keep the utmost reverence for my fathers and respect for the
faith that was the highest and holiest thing they knew.
CHAPTER XVI
SAILING UNKNOWN SEAS
Another happy year I spent in school. Then I returned to Nagaoka,
realizing, myself, how little I knew, but in the eyes of my friends,
an educated woman. This was an unenviable reputation--one which I knew
I should have to live down if I wanted to stand well in the eyes of my
old friends during these last months before I started for my new home
in America. Each vacation I had had the same experience; for Nagaoka
minds, although simple, loving, and true, were also stubborn; and no
year could I begin where I had left off the year previous. My friends
all loved me and they had become somewhat reconciled to my change of
faith, but they could not help thinking, that, after all, I must be
peculiar-minded to enjoy being so unlike other women. So again I had to
accommodate myself to the discomfort of being received formally, and
again patiently watch the gradual melting away of outward reserve until
I could once more reach the faithful hearts beneath.
But finally I found myself settled into the old life, only now with the
added excitement of my preparations for going to America.
As a Japanese marriage is a family matter it is not the custom for
outsiders to present gifts; but the circumstances connected with
mine were so unusual that many Nagaoka families sent large _mochi_
cakes of red and white, most of them in the shape of storks or twin
love-birds--emblems of congratulation and happy long life. Distant
relatives, old retainers, and family servants, even those married and
living at some distance, remembered me with weaves of silk and rolls of
red and white _mawata_--the light, soft silk floss, so useful in every
Japanese family as interlining for cloaks and dresses and for various
delicate household purposes.
Most of these homely gifts were wholly inappropriate for life in
America, but they expressed so much personal interest in me and loyalty
to my father's family that I was deeply touched. And the dinners were
many--most of them from relatives--where I, always seated next to
Mother, in the place of honour, was served red rice and red snapper,
head and all, and soup with seven, nine, or eleven vegetables.
All this was exciting in a quiet way; but the real excitement came
when Brother, whose home was now in Tokyo, came up to be with us for
my last weeks at home. He brought a letter from Matsuo, saying that a
kind American lady, for the sake of a Japanese girl of my school in
whom she was interested, had asked Matsuo to take me to her home when I
arrived, and that we were to be married there. Mother read the letter
with bowed head, and when she looked up, I was astonished to see the
shadow of tears in her eyes. Poor Mother! Almost six years she had
held, deep hidden in her heart, the shadowy dread that had assailed her
when we first heard of Matsuo's decision to remain in America; for it
was absolutely without precedent in Japanese life that a bride should
go to a husband who had no mother or elder sister to guide and instruct
the young wife in her new duties. This message was like a whisper
of welcome from the thoughtful heart of a stranger; and that the
stranger was a woman brought to Mother a feeling of safe, warm comfort.
Lifting the letter to her forehead, she bowed in the ordinary form of
expressing thanks, but said nothing, and not one of us realized that
beneath her quiet manner a flood of grateful relief was sweeping away
the anxiety of years. That night, as I passed her open door, I caught
the fragrance of incense. The shrine was open. Matsuo's letter had been
placed within, and before it the curling incense was carrying upward
the deep thanks of a mother's heart.
Brother watched some of the preparations for my departure with evident
disapproval.
"Those things are all right for a bride who is to live in Japan," he
said, "but all nonsense for Etsu-bo. What will she do with a long
crest-curtain and a doll festival set? Matsuo, being a merchant, will
have to pay a big duty, and they're useless in America anyway."
At first Honourable Grandmother and Mother listened in silence, but one
day Mother gently but firmly protested.
"They may be useless," she said. "Of Etsu-ko's future I know nothing.
But now she is a Japanese bride, going from her home to her husband.
It is my duty to see that she goes as well prepared as is possible,
according to the custom of her family. So it is decided."
Brother grumbled, but it is the women in a Japanese family who decide
all things in connection with the "great interior," so the preparations
went on according to rule. Mother, however, conceded some things to
Brother's superior knowledge of America, and the rolls of silk and
crêpe-brocade which came arranged in the shape of storks, pine trees,
and the many beautiful emblems for a happy life, were given to sisters
and other relatives; and my doll festival set, which every girl takes
with her to her husband's home, was left behind.
The question of my personal trousseau was so important that a family
council was called. Brother's ideas were positively startling. Most of
the relatives were too honest to offer guessing suggestions, and none
were well enough informed to make practical ones. Matters were in a
rather puzzling and still undecided state when the Tokyo uncle, whose
opinion the majority of the relatives looked upon with respect, sided
with Brother in favouring the American costume.
"Among European people," he said, "it is considered extreme discourtesy
to expose the body. Even men, whose liberty is of course greater than
that of women, have to wear high collars and stiff cuffs. The Japanese
dress, being low in the neck and scanty of skirt, is improper for wear
among the European people."
Since most of my relatives knew almost nothing of foreign customs my
uncle's statement made a great impression. Mother looked very anxious,
for this was a new aspect of the subject, but Honourable Grandmother's
loyal heart was wounded and aroused. To her, Japan was the land of the
gods, and the customs of its people ought not to be criticized. Very
quietly but with great dignity she protested.
"According to pictures," she said, "the pipe-shaped sleeves of the
European costume lack grace. They are like the coats our coolies wear.
It grieves me to think a time has come when my posterity are willing to
humiliate themselves to the level of humble coolies."
Honourable Grandmother, being the most honoured one in the council, her
opinion carried weight, and it was finally decided to prepare Japanese
dress only, leaving my European clothes to be selected after I reached
America. Brother had arranged that I should travel in the care of Mr.
Holmes, an English tea merchant, a business friend of my uncle's, who,
with his family, was returning to Europe by way of America.
At last the day came when all arrangements were complete, all farewells
said, and Brother and I had again started together on a trip to Tokyo.
But by this time the puffing land-steamer had, step by step, advanced
over, and through, the mountains, and our former journey of eight days
was now reduced to eighteen hours of jolting, rattling discomfort. We
did not talk much, but sometimes at large stations we would get out
for a few minutes of rest and change. At Takasaki we had just returned
to our seats after a brisk walk up and down the platform when Brother
anxiously stuck his head out of the window.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I am looking to see if you left your wooden clogs on the platform
again," he replied with the old twinkle in his eye.
We both laughed, and the remainder of the trip was a pleasant three
hours which I like to remember.
In Tokyo there were more dinners of red rice and whole fish, more
useless, loving gifts, more farewells with warm heart throbs within and
cool formal bows without, and then I found myself standing on the deck
of a big steamer, with my brother by my side, and, on the water below,
a waiting launch to take ashore the last friends of the passengers.
The third long, hoarse blast of the warning whistle sounded, and with
an odd tightness in my throat I bent in a deep, long bow. Brother stood
close to my sleeve.
"Little Etsu-bo," he said, with a strange tenderness in his voice, "I
have been a poor brother, in whom you could not take pride; but I have
never known an unselfish person--except you."
I saw his shadow bow, but when I lifted my head, he was in the crowd
pressing toward the ship steps, his head held high and his laughing
face lifted in a shout of farewell to Mr. Holmes.
After the first few days the voyage was pleasant, but Mrs. Holmes,
who was not very strong, was ill most of the way over and her maid
was busy with the care of the baby; so I spent much time on the deck
alone, either gazing quietly out over the water or reading one of
several Japanese magazines that had been given me just as I started.
Mr. Holmes was most kind and attentive, but I was not used to men, and
was so silent that he, knowing Japanese people, must have understood;
for after the first day he would see me comfortably settled in my deck
chair, then go away, leaving his own chair, next to mine, vacant except
for the plate of fruit or cup of tea which he would have occasionally
sent to me.
Because of my dress and the magazine, the passengers concluded that I
could not understand English; and remarks about me or about Japanese
were frequently made within my hearing by persons sitting near me. They
were not unkind, but it seemed discourteous to be listening to words
not meant for my ears, so one morning I took an English book up to the
deck with me and was reading it when a lady, walking by, paused.
"I see you understand English," she said pleasantly, and remained for
a little chat. She must have passed the news around, for after that
I not only heard no more remarks about "the quiet little Jap," but,
at various times, several ladies stopped for a short conversation. My
place at the table was beside Mrs. Holmes. She rarely came, but I never
felt alone, for the other passengers, seeming to feel responsible for
the American lady's charge, were unceasingly kind in their attentions.
Indeed there was an atmosphere of free action and cheerful speech
among the passengers that was as refreshing as the salty, breezy air.
Everyone said "Good-morning" to everyone else, friends or strangers, no
one seemed to care. One day I saw two well-dressed ladies greet each
other with a merry "Hello! Wonderful morning, isn't it? Let's take our
constitutional together," and swinging into step, they marched off like
a couple of soldier comrades. No bowing--no formal words. Everything
was free and cordial. This lack of formality was very surprising, but
it was most interesting, and it held a certain charm.
Of course I watched the dresses of these foreign ladies with the
greatest interest. My uncle's remarks regarding the low neck and
scanty skirt of the Japanese dress had astonished and troubled me very
much, and since I was the only Japanese woman on the ship among some
fifty or sixty American ladies, I felt responsible not to disgrace my
nation. The Japanese dress is so made that it can be properly worn only
when put on in one certain way, but I, inspired with a combination of
girlish modesty and loyal patriotism, tried to pull the embroidered
folds at the neck close up to my chin; and I remained seated as much as
possible so my scanty skirt would not be noticed.
The weather was unpleasant at the beginning of the voyage, and few
ladies came on deck, but it was not long before the promenading
commenced, and then I began to suspect that my uncle's opinion might
not be wholly correct; but it was not until an evening entertainment
where there was dancing that I entirely lost faith in his judgment.
There the high collar and stiff cuffs of the gentlemen were to be seen,
just as he had said; but I found that most of the ladies' dresses were
neither high in the neck nor full in the skirt, and I saw many other
things which mystified and shocked me. The thin waists made of lawn and
dainty lace were to me most indelicate, more so, I think, unreasonable
though it seemed, than even the bare neck. I have seen a Japanese
servant in the midst of heavy work in a hot kitchen, with her kimono
slipped down, displaying one entire shoulder; and I have seen a woman
nursing her baby in the street, or a naked woman in a hotel bath, but
until that evening on the steamer I had never seen a woman publicly
displaying bare skin just for the purpose of having it seen. For a
while I tried hard to pretend to myself that I was not embarrassed, but
finally, with my cheeks flaming with shame, I slipped away and crept
into my cabin berth wondering greatly over the strange civilization of
which I was so soon to be a part.
I have no spirit of criticism in writing this. Indeed, after years
of residence in this country I have so changed that I can look back
with surprised amusement at my first impressions. The customs of
all countries are strange to untrained eyes, and one of the most
interesting mysteries of my life here is my own gradual but inevitable
mental evolution. Now I can go to a dinner or a dance and watch the
ladies in evening dress with pleasure. To me the scene is frequently
as artistic and beautiful as a lovely painting, and I know those
happy-faced women walking with the courteous gentlemen or swinging to
the time of gay music are just as innocent and sweet of heart as are
the gentle and hushed women of my own country over the sea.
My experiences in San Francisco were strange and puzzling, but
delightful in their novelty. The astonishing little room at the Palace
Hotel which we had no sooner entered than it began to rise upward,
finally depositing us in a large apartment where we had a view as vast
as from a mountain-top; the smooth white bathtub which could be filled
with hot water without fuel or delay; the locked doors everywhere, for
in Japan we never had a lock; all of these strange things, combined
with the bewildering sense of the _bigness_ of everything, was almost
overpowering.
This sense of the enormous size of things--wide streets, tall
buildings, great trees--was also pronounced inside the hotel. The
ceilings were lofty, the furniture was large, the chairs were high
and the sofas were wide, with the back far from the front. Everything
seemed made for a race of giants; which, after all, is not so far from
the truth, for that is what Americans are--a great people, with nothing
cramped or repressed about them; both admirable and faulty in a giant
way; with large person, generous purse, broad mind, strong heart, and
free soul. My first impression has never changed.
We were in San Francisco only a few days, but everything was so
hurried, so noisy, and so strange that my brain settled into a
half-numb condition of non-expectancy. Then something happened. So
simple, so homely a thing it was, that it stands out in my memory
clear and separate from all else connected with my short stay in that
wonderful city. A gentle, white-haired old minister, who had lived in
Japan, came to make a friendly call. After the words of greeting he
unwrapped a white box and placed it in my hand.
"I thought you would like a bit of home after your long trip," he said.
"Look inside and see what it is." I lifted the cover and what was my
surprise to see real Japanese food, fresh and delicious. I must, long
before, have heard my brother say that Japanese food could be obtained
in America, but it had made no impression upon me, and I was as
astonished as if I had expected never again to behold Japanese food.
I looked up gratefully, and when I saw the humorous twinkle in his eye
and kindliness in every feature of his smiling face, the strangeness
of my surroundings melted away and there came my first throb of
homesickness; for behind the gentle smile I saw the heart of my father.
Years before, just after my father's death, Ishi had taken me to the
Temple of the Five Hundred Buddhas, where stood row after row of big,
carved images of stone or gilded wood. Every face was gentle, calm, and
peaceful, and my lonely little heart searched each one, hoping to find
my father's, for he too was now a Buddha. I did not know then that a
longing heart will recognize its own reflection in only a trifle; and
when at last I saw a face--gentle, dignified, and with a kindly smile,
I felt that it pictured my father's heart, and I was satisfied. Just
so I saw my father in the face of the old man whose kind heart had
prompted the homely gift. I love to remember that smile as my welcome
to the strange new country, which ever after was to be linked in my
heart so closely to my own.
During the long ride across the continent I was reminded constantly of
the revolving lanterns which were so fascinating to me as a child. The
rapidly changing views from the train were like the gay scenes on the
lantern panels that flitted by too quickly to permit of a clear image;
their very vagueness being the secret of their charm.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came as far as a large city near my future home
where they placed me in charge of a lady schoolteacher, a friend of
Mrs. Holmes. Then they said good-bye and slipped out of my life,
probably for ever. But they left a memory of kindness and consideration
which will remain with me always.
When I was whirled into the dusky station of the city of my
destination, I peered rather curiously from the car window. I was
not anxious. I had always been taken care of, and it did not trouble
me that I was to meet one I had never known before. On the crowded
platform I saw a young Japanese man, erect, alert, watching eagerly
each person who stepped from the train. It was Matsuo. He wore a gray
suit and a straw hat, and to me looked modern, progressive, foreign in
everything except his face. Of course, he knew who I was at once but
to my astonishment, his first words were, "Why did you wear Japanese
dress?" There flashed into my mind a picture of the grave faces of the
family council and my grandmother's words regarding pipe-sleeves. Yet
here was I in a land of pipe-sleeves, gazing upon my future husband, a
pipe-sleeved man. I laugh about it now, but then I was only a lonely,
loose-sleeved, reproved little girl. Matsuo's disappointment in my
dress was mostly on account of a much-honoured friend, Mrs. Wilson, the
kind lady about whom Matsuo had written in the letter which for years
was kept in Mother's shrine. With thoughtful kindness she had sent
Matsuo in her carriage to meet me, and he, anxious that I should appear
well in her eyes, was disgusted not to find me very up-to-date and
progressive.
I silently took my place beside Matsuo in the shining carriage with
its prancing black horses and uniformed coachman, and in absolute
silence we rolled along the busy streets and up the long, sloping hill
to a beautiful suburban home. I did not realize that the situation was
perhaps as trying to him as to me; for I had never been so close to a
man in my life, except my father, and I almost died on that trip.
The carriage turned into a road that circled a spacious lawn and
stopped before a large gray house with a wide, many-columned porch.
Outside the door stood a stately lady and a tall white-haired
gentleman. The lady greeted me with outstretched hands and cordial
words of welcome. I was too grateful to reply, and when I looked up
into the noble, kindly face of the white-haired gentleman beside her,
peace crept into my heart, for, behind his gentle smile, again I saw
the heart of my father.
Those two good people will never know until they stand within the
shining gates where heavenly knowledge clears our eyes, how much their
kindness, both before and after our wedding, meant to Matsuo and to me.
For ten restful days I was made welcome in that beautiful home; then
came the second of "The Three Inevitables"--for, in Old Japan, marriage
held its place equally with birth and death. My wedding took place on
a beautiful day in June. The sun shone, the soft wind murmured through
the branches of the grand old trees on the lawn, the reception room,
with its treasures of art gathered from all lands, was fragrant with
blossoms, and before a wonderful inlaid console table were two crossed
flags--American and Japanese. There Matsuo and Etsu stood while the
Christian words were spoken which made them one. By Matsuo's side was
his business partner, a good kind man, and beside me stood one who
ever since has proved my best and truest friend. So we were married.
Everyone said it was a beautiful wedding. To me the room was filled
with a blur of strange things and people, all throbbing with the spirit
of a great kindness; and vaguely, mistily, I realized that there had
been fulfilled a sacred vow that the gods had made long before I was
born.
Our friend, Mrs. Wilson, was always kind to me, and I have been a happy
and grateful guest in her beautiful home many, many times; but my
permanent home was in an adjoining suburb, in a large, old-fashioned
frame house set on a hill in the midst of big trees and lawns cut with
winding gravel paths. The mistress of this house was a widowed relative
of Mrs. Wilson, a woman in whom was united the stern, high-principled
stock of New England with the gentle Virginia aristocracy. She invited
us for a visit at first, because she loved Japan. But we were all so
happy together that we decided not to separate; so for many years our
home was there with "Mother," as we learned to call her. Close to my
own mother in my heart of hearts stands my American mother--one of the
noblest, sweetest women that God ever made.
From the love and sympathy and wisdom of this pleasant home I
looked forth upon America at its best, and learned to gather with
understanding and appreciation the knowledge that had been denied my
poor brother in his narrow life in this same land.
CHAPTER XVII
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
My first year in America was a puzzling, hurried push from one
partially comprehended thought to another. Nevertheless it was a
happy year. No Japanese bride is ever homesick. She has known from
babyhood that fate has another home waiting for her, and that there
her destiny is to be fulfilled. Every girl accepts this in the same
matter-of-course way that she accepts going to school. In marriage, she
does not expect happiness without hardship any more than she expects
school to be a playground with no study.
So I drifted on from week to week, occasionally having to remind
myself that, even in America, the "eyelids of a samurai know not
moisture," but, on the whole, finding the days full of new and pleasing
experiences. I soon learned to like everything about my home, although,
at first, the curtained windows, the heavy, dark furniture, the large
pictures and the carpeted floors seemed to hem me in.
But I revelled in our wide porches and the broad lawn which swept in a
graceful slope, between curving paths, down to the low stone wall. The
battlemented top was like an elongated castle turret, and the big stone
posts of the iron gates, half hidden from the porch by tall evergreens,
seemed to me to have a protecting air. Then there was one big, crooked
pine and an _icho_ tree, standing side by side, which when the moon
was just right, made a perfect picture of an old Japanese poem:
"Between bent branches, a silver sickle swings aloft in youthful
incompleteness, unknowing of its coming day of glory."
Oh, I did love all the outdoors of that home, from the very first
moment that I saw it!
Much of my time was spent on one or the other of our three big porches,
for Mother loved them almost as much as I did, and we used to go out
the first thing after breakfast, she with her sewing and I with the
newspaper. In order to improve my English I read the paper every day,
and I found it very interesting. I always turned first to the list
of divorces in the court news. It was such a surprising thing to me
that more women than men should be seeking for freedom. One day I told
Mother that I felt sorry for the husbands.
"Why?" she asked. "It is as often the fault of the husband as the wife,
I think. Isn't it so in Japan?"
"But after choosing for herself it must be hard for her wifely pride to
acknowledge failure," I replied.
"How about the man?" said Mother.
"He sees, and wants, and beckons;
She blushes, and smiles, and comes--
or not, as she pleases. That is her part: to come or not to come."
"Why, I thought it was the custom in American marriages for the woman
to select," I said, somewhat surprised; for I, with most Japanese
people of that day, so interpreted the constant references in books and
papers to the American custom of "women choosing their own husbands."
It was one of many exaggerated ideas that we had of the dominant spirit
of American women and the submissive attitude of American men. In the
conversation that followed I heard for the first time that in this
country the custom is for the worded request always to come from the
man.
"It is like the folk tale that tells of the origin of our race," I said.
"That sounds as if it might be more interesting than the court items in
the newspaper," laughed Mother. "Suppose you tell me about it."
"It's rather a long story from the beginning," I said; "but the
important part is that a god and goddess named Izanagi and Izanami--our
Adam and Eve--came from Heaven on a floating bridge and formed the
islands of Japan. Then they decided to remain and build themselves a
home. So they went to the Heavenly Post for the ceremony of marriage.
The bride starting from the right and the bridegroom from the left,
they walked around the Heavenly Post. When they met on the other side,
the goddess exclaimed:
"'Thou beautiful god!'
"The god was displeased and said the bride had spoiled the ceremony,
as it was his place to speak first. So they had to begin again. The
goddess started again from the right of the Heavenly Post, and the god
from the left; but this time, when they met, the goddess did not speak
until she was spoken to.
"'Thou beautiful goddess!' Izanagi said.
"'Thou beautiful god!' replied Izanami.
"As this time the ceremony was properly performed, the husband and the
wife built themselves a home, and from them came the nation of Japan."
"So it seems that Japanese and American marriages were originally not
so unlike, after all," said Mother.
One of the most surprising things in America to me was the difficulty
and often impossibility of my being able to do, as a wife, the very
things for which I had been especially trained. Matsuo had come to
this country when he was a boy in his teens, and was as unfamiliar
with many Japanese customs as I was with those of America; so, with no
realization on his part of my problems, I had many puzzling experiences
connected with wifely duty. Some of these were tragic and some amusing.
At one time, for several evenings in succession, business detained
Matsuo until a late hour. I was not well and Mother objected to my
sitting up to await his return. This troubled me greatly; for in
Japan it is considered lazy and disgraceful for a wife to sleep while
her husband is working. Night after night I lay with wide-open eyes,
wondering whom it was my duty to obey--my far-away mother who knew
Japanese customs, or the honoured new mother, who was teaching me the
ways of America.
I had another puzzling time when Mother was called away for a week by
the death of a relative. Our maid, Clara, had heard Japan spoken of as
"the land of cherry blossoms," and, thinking to please me, she made a
cherry pie one night for dinner. In Japan cherry trees are cultivated
for the blossoms only, just as roses are in America, and I had never
seen cherry fruit; but the odour of the pie was delicious as it was
placed before me to cut and serve.
"What is that?" asked Matsuo. "Oh, cherry pie! It's too acid. I don't
care for it."
No Japanese bride is so disrespectful as to eat a dainty her husband
cannot enjoy, so I gave orders for that beautiful pie to be eaten in
the kitchen. But my heart followed it, and no pie that I have ever seen
since has seemed worthy to compare with that juicily delicious memory.
Clara was always doing kind things for me, and one day I asked Matsuo
what I could give her as a present. He said that in America money
was always welcome; so I selected a new bill and, as we do in Japan,
wrapped it in white paper and wrote on the outside, "This is cake."
How Matsuo did laugh!
"It's all right in America to give naked money," he said.
"But that is only for beggars," I replied, really troubled.
"Nonsense!" said Matsuo. "Americans consider money an equivalent for
service. There is no spiritual value in money."
I meditated a good deal over that; for to a Japanese the expression of
thanks, however deceitful the form it takes, is a heart-throb.
I liked our servants, but they were a never-ending surprise to me.
Mother was kindness itself to the maid and to the man who worked on
the place; but she had no vital interest in them, and they had no
unselfish interest in us. In my home in Japan the servants were minor
members of the family, rejoicing and sorrowing with us and receiving
in return our cordial interest in their affairs. But this did not mean
undue familiarity. There always existed an invisible line "at the
doorsill," and I never knew a servant to overstep it or wish to; for
a Japanese servant takes pride in the responsibility of his position.
Clara attended to her duties properly, but her pleasures were outside
the home; and on the days of her "afternoon out," she worked with such
astonishing energy that it suggested no thought of anything but getting
through. I could not help contrasting her with gentle, polite Toshi and
her dignified bows of farewell.
But, on the other hand, Clara voluntarily did things for us which I
should never have expected from any maid in Japan except my own nurse.
One day I cringed with a feeling akin to horror when I heard Matsuo
carelessly call out, "Clara, won't you take these shoes to the kitchen
porch for William to clean?"
Such a request of a Japanese servant, other than the one whose duty it
was to care for the sandals, would be considered an insult; but Clara
picked up the shoes and carried them away, singing cheerily as she
went. Life in America was very puzzling.
All Japanese girls are trained in housework, so naturally I was much
interested in watching how everything was done in my American home.
Mother encouraged my curiosity, saying that the inquiring mind is the
one that learns; and Clara was always patient in explaining to "that
sweet little Mrs. Sugarmoter." I was interested in the kitchen most of
all, but the things to work with were so heavy, and were hung so high,
and the shelves were so far up, that when I attempted to do anything
there I found myself at a serious disadvantage. For the first time I
sympathized with foreigners in Tokyo, who, it was said, frequently
complained of the inconvenient "littleness" of everything. One of the
schoolgirls used to tell us amusing tales about a foreign family to
whom her father had rented his house. The man had to bow his head every
time he passed through a doorway, and his wife thought it dreadful that
the servant wanted to cut vegetables on a table six inches from the
floor and to wash dishes without soap.
All the schoolgirls thought that that woman must have a peculiar mind,
for we understood that foreigners used soap as we did a bran-bag--for
bathing only. But after seeing how lavishly Clara used boiling water
and soap in the kitchen, I realized that it was necessary, because so
much grease and oil are used in American cooking. Our Japanese food was
mostly vegetables. For fish we had special dishes and washed them with
charcoal ashes.
One Friday, which was our cleaning day, I went into my room and was
surprised to find Clara rubbing my bureau with an oiled cloth.
"What are you doing, Clara?" I asked.
"Oh, just cleanin' up a bit, Mrs. Sugarmoter," she replied.
To put something sticky on a thing to make it clean was
incomprehensible. But when I examined my bureau later and found that
it was dry and shiny, and _clean_, I was still more surprised. None
of the wood of Japanese houses, outside or in, was ever varnished,
oiled, or painted; and nothing was ever put on furniture except lacquer
to preserve, or hot water to cleanse. Taki and Kin wiped the entire
woodwork of the house every day with a cloth wrung out of hot water;
and our porches were cleaned, morning and evening, by a servant, who,
stooping over and pushing a steaming pad of folded cloth before her,
ran quickly back and forth, from one end of the porch to the other,
carefully following the line of the boards. The porches had gradually
become so dark and polished that they reflected distinctly any person
walking on them, and since they never were stepped on with outside
shoes, they kept their satiny polish for years.
I was always interested in housework, but an exciting interest came at
the time of house-cleaning. Then I wandered from room to room, watching
with amazement and delight while William and Clara worked. I had never
dreamed that the heavy cloth which covered the floors, fitting so
neatly into each corner and around the projections, was nailed down and
could be lifted up in one immense piece and carried out to be cleaned.
Two men were required to do the work. Our floors in Japan were covered
with mats that pushed together as tight as the pieces in a box of
dominoes, but each mat was only six feet by three in size, and Jiya
could easily handle them alone.
Matsuo and I had adjoining rooms, and when I went upstairs to see if
the cloth had been taken from his floor also, I saw that the large
mahogany closet, which I had supposed was a part of the house, had been
pulled out bodily into the middle of the room. I was too surprised
for words. And its back--and indeed the backs of all our beautiful
furniture--was only rough boards; just such as I had seen in Japan on a
cart being taken to the shop of a carpenter. It was most astonishing.
I had never before seen any furniture that was not planed and polished
all over--outside, inside, top, bottom, and back.
Mother explained that this American deceit originated in the practical
idea of saving time and work. Thus I received my first insight into the
labour problem.
It was during house-cleaning that Mother and I had our first
heart-to-heart talk. She was looking over some trunks of clothing in
the attic, and I was sitting near, holding a big cake of camphor, from
which I broke off small pieces and wrapped them in tissue paper for
her to place between the folds of the garments. She was showing me an
army coat which her grandfather had worn in the War of 1812. The open
trunks, the disarranged clothing, the familiar odour of camphor in
the air, reminded me of the airing-days at home. I could see so well
Grandmother's room where Father and I always went to get away from the
ropes of swaying garments and the confusion of busy servants brushing
and folding.
"What are you thinking of, Etsu?" asked Mother, with a smile. "Your
eyes look as if they were seeing things five thousand miles away."
"More than that," I answered, "for they are looking into a past before
I was born."
I leaned over and stroked the big collar of the old army coat on
Mother's lap. In some way it seemed, just then, the nearest to my heart
of anything in America.
"In our godown also, Mother," I said, "are sacred mementoes to which
war memories cling. There is a pile of thin-leaved books written in
my father's hand, which are dear treasures to us all. You do not know,
Mother, but my father was a prisoner once--held as hostage for a long
time in an army camp. His surroundings were very different from what
the word suggests here in America. The camp was located in a temple
grove, and the part of the temple where the priests lived was given
over to the officials and their high-rank prisoner; and although Father
was alone among enemies, he was treated as an honoured guest.
"His faithful attendant was separated from him, but instead, were
youthful samurai, who with respectful attention cared for every want.
For recreation they had trials in art defencing and various samurai
sports; and sometimes, as was the social custom among samurai,
they would spend hours together in poem competition or in singing
classic songs of Old Japan. He had every physical comfort and mental
recreation, but he was outside the world. Even his books were poems
and prose of fine old literature which held no word of present life.
At the close of each monotonous day he would lay his head upon his
pillow and his restless mind would wonder--wonder: Had the Imperialist
army reached Echigo? Who was in charge of Nagaoka Castle? What was the
unknown fate of his retainers? of his son? of his wife and daughters?
"There was a beautiful garden where he walked daily. Perhaps there
were guards outside the gate. He did not know. He saw nothing to tell
him that he was not free, and probably there was nothing, for his
guardians knew that he was held by chains stronger than any that could
be forged--the spirit of samurai honour.
"During this lonely time Father's dearest hours were those he
spent with his writing brushes and in games of _go_ with the
commander-general--a man of superior culture, who often came to
talk with him. The two men had similar tastes and an equal sense
of honour--differing only in that they were loyal to different
masters--and those months together formed and sealed the friendship
of a lifetime. Both were fond of playing _go_ and both played well
and earnestly. Neither spoke his secret thought, but, long afterward,
Father confided to Mother that he was conscious that in every game they
played each in his own heart was fighting for his own cause. Sometimes
one would win, sometimes the other; oftener still there was a draw; but
always the vanquished gravely congratulated the victor, and as gravely
received his formal thanks in reply.
"So passed the days, and weeks, and months, and more months and more,
until he dreaded to think back and count. And not a word or look or
hint had come to him of any world outside the temple walls.
"Late one beautiful spring afternoon he was sitting quietly in his room
overlooking the garden. A priestly chanting was faintly heard from
distant rooms. There was a breeze, and falling cherry blossoms were
drifting across the garden, their fragrant petals slipping and catching
in tinted drifts against the uneven stepping-stones. A young moon was
chasing shadows in the pine branches. It was a picture Father never
forgot.
"A young attendant approached, and in his usual deferential manner,
but with grave face, announced, 'Honourable Guest, the evening meal is
served.'
"Father bowed his head and the little lacquer table was brought and
placed before him on the mat.
"At last the expected message had come. The rice bowl was on the right,
the soup was on the left; the chopsticks were standing upright as if
to place before a shrine, and the browned fish in the oval dish was
without a head. It was the silent command from a samurai to a samurai.
"Father ate his dinner as usual. When the time came for his bath, the
attendant was ready. His hair was washed, and the queue, no longer
needed to bear the helmet's weight, was left unoiled and loose, to be
tied with a paper cord. He donned his white linen death-robe and over
it placed the soft-tinted _kamishimo_ of the samurai who goes to death.
Then quietly he waited for the midnight hour.
"The commander-general entered, and greeted him with the soldierly
stiffness that hides deep feeling.
"'I come not as an official of the State,' he said, 'but as a friend,
to ask you to honour me with a message.'
"'I thank you deeply,' Father replied, 'for this and other kindness.
I left my home to return no more. I gave instructions then. I have no
message.'
"But he asked that the Commander would care for his attendant who, by
Father's death, would become a masterless man. The General assured
him that this should be done; and also told him that his own highest
retainer would be Father's attendant at the last. Thanks were bowed and
formal courtesies exchanged, then these two men, who had grown to know
and respect each other deeply, parted with no other word. It seems cold
to an American; but it was the samurai way, and each knew the other's
heart.
"The hour came. Father held the highest rank of the seven who waited
for the midnight hour; so, first and alone, clothed in his death-robe
and with the pride of centuries in his bearing, he walked toward the
temple yard. As he entered the enclosure, the others on the opposite
side, white-robed and silent, were waiting. One was a child with an
attendant close behind. Father saw--saw without looking--the gray face
and strained eyes of Minoto, his own little son's guardian.
"The child made a motion, so slight it was scarcely more than a
quiver. Minoto clutched the boy's sleeves. Father strode on. The
quiver passed, the boy sat erect, his eyes looking straight forward.
It was my brother. Oh, whatever he has been since, in this new world
so unfamiliar to him, there, in his own world--the world which by
inheritance and environment he understood--he was a samurai! My
father took his place with calm and dignified bearing with his head
upright and his eyes looking straight forward--unseeing. But in his
heart----Oh, why could not the God he did not know pity him?" And I
clutched the big collar of the old army coat and buried my coward face
within its folds--for I had lost my samurai spirit. America had been
too good to me, and part of me had died. I felt Mother's hand upon my
shoulder but I dared not lift my head and shame my father, for moisture
was on the face of his un-brave daughter.
"Oh, my little girl! My dear little girl! But he did not die! He did
not die!"
I lifted my head, but I did not wipe my eyes.
"The war had ended, and the new Government had pardoned all political
prisoners," I said, calm again. "The decision was already known to the
officials, and the messengers were on the way; but, until they came,
the forms had to be carried out to the very end."
"Yes, I have known of things like that in the days when messages were
carried by galloping horses and running men," said Mother sadly. "And
no one was to blame. If laws could be changed by unproved knowledge,
the country would soon be guided by guesswork. And that would never do!
That would never do!"
I looked at Mother in surprise, for with red cheeks and misty eyes she
was clutching tight the army coat on her lap and looking straight at me.
"How close together are the countries of the world," she went on. "Your
old nurse was right, Etsu, when she said that the earth is flat and
you are on the other side of the plate, not far away, but out of sight."
Then we both smiled, but Mother's lips were trembling. She put her arm
around me gently, and--I've _loved_ Mother ever since!
Another "memory stone" in my life was the day that I entertained the
club. Mother belonged to a literary society the members of which
studied about different countries and wrote essays. The meetings were
held at the homes of the members, and early on the morning of the very
day that it was Mother's turn to entertain she received a message
calling her to the city for a "between trains" visit with a dear friend
who was passing through the city on her way to a distant land. Mother
would be back before the meeting was over, but I was dismayed to be
left with the responsibility of arranging the rooms and receiving the
guests.
"There is nothing for you to be worried about," said Matsuo who was
just starting to his business. "I heard Mother tell William to bring
more chairs from upstairs and you have only to see that he places them
like in a church. Clara knows how."
"But Mother meant to have flowers, and she said something about a
little table for the president and--Oh, the piano has to be pushed
back! Mother said so. I do wish she were here!" I cried, in real
anxiety and distress.
"Don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill! Clara is equal to anything";
and Matsuo ran across the lawn in response to the waving hand of a
neighbour who was waiting in his buggy at the iron gates.
I knew he was right, for Clara had cleaned the rooms the day before,
and everything really necessary had been done; but, nevertheless, I
felt lost and helpless.
In the midst of my hour of woe I saw walking up the path around the
lawn an old lady of the neighbourhood who sometimes came in for an
informal chat with Mother. I ran out and welcomed her most cordially,
eager to ask her advice.
"The piano is not in the way," she said. "These rooms are large enough
as they are, even if everyone comes. You won't have to do a thing
except put in more chairs. But"--and she looked around the big double
parlours with the lace-curtained windows and the long mirror with
gilded frame--"the rooms do look empty with the centre table taken out.
Why don't you scatter about some of those Japanese trinkets that you
have upstairs? They would add wonderfully to the general effect."
As soon as she was gone I brought down several Japanese things and
placed them here and there about the room. Then I arranged a few iris
blossoms in a vase according to the graceful, but rigid, rules of
Japanese flower arrangement, and stepped back to view the effect.
From the flowers my eyes went slowly around the room. I was
disappointed. What was wrong? The Japanese articles were each one of
rare workmanship, and the vase of blossoms was beautiful; but for
some mysterious reason Mother's parlours never before had looked so
unattractive. Suddenly my eye fell on a little bronze incense burner,
which had been given me in my childhood, by one of the Toda children,
for my doll festival set. It looked oddly out of place on top of
the American bookcase; and when, lifting my eyes, I saw above it an
etching of a dancing faun, I almost hysterically snatched it away. With
lightning swiftness my mind flew to the cool, light rooms of my Nagaoka
home--to the few ornaments, each in the place designed for it--and I
began to understand. My Japanese treasures would be beautiful in their
proper surroundings, but here they were neither beautiful themselves,
nor did they add to the attractiveness of our stately rooms. They were
only odd, grotesque curios. Hurriedly putting them away and removing
my carefully arranged vase of iris to the kitchen, I ran to a field
back of our carriage house and gathered an armful of daisies and
feathery grasses. Soon I had all the vases in the house, regardless of
shape or hue, loosely filled with the fresh, wild blossoms. The rooms
looked beautiful, and they were in perfect harmony with the broad lawn
outside, stretching in rolling waves of green down to the gray stone
wall.
"West is West, and East is East," I said, as I sank on a sofa with a
sigh of relief. "I think while I'm here I'll forget the conventional
standard of beauty; for only the charm of naturalness is suited to
these big, free, homelike rooms of Mother's."
CHAPTER XVIII
STRANGE CUSTOMS
We had a large stone church in our suburb which was not quite paid for,
and a society of church-women called "The Ladies' Aid" occasionally
gave a fair or concert and sometimes a play with local talent, in order
to obtain money to add to the fund.
One evening Mother, Matsuo, and I attended one of these concerts. On
the programme was a vocal solo of some classic selection. The singer
was the gifted daughter of a wealthy citizen and had received her
musical education in Europe. I knew her as a rather quiet young woman
with a gentle voice and dignified manner; therefore I was surprised,
when the music began, to see her step forward briskly and informally,
bow smilingly to the audience, right and left, and then, with much
facial expression, give a vocal exhibition of high, clear trills and
echoes that to my untrained ears was a strange and marvellous discord,
but the most wonderful thing that I had ever heard in my life.
The effect left on my mind was of brightness, quick motion, and
high-pitched sound. In strong contrast is our classic music, which
always suggests subdued colours, slow movement, and deep, mellow tones.
Also, like most Japanese art, our music requires listening eyes as well
as ears. Otherwise its appeal is lost.
Our classic stage is always the same. The entire back is one solid
board of natural cedar wood, on which is painted a gigantic dwarf
pine. The floor is of camphor wood and is bare. On this the singers,
who, of course, are always men, sit as motionless as dolls. Their
dress is the old-fashioned, soft-hued garment of ceremony. Each one,
before beginning to sing, makes a slow, deep bow, and, with studied
deliberation, places his fan horizontally before him on the floor.
Then, with his hands on his knees, palms down, and sitting very erect
and motionless, he tells in song, and with incredible elocutionary
power, some wonderful tale of war and romance; but wholly without
movement of body or change of facial expression.
At the close the singer's face is often flushed with feeling, but,
with no change of expression, he bows, then gently takes up his fan
and resumes his former impassive attitude. The audience sits in
profound silence. The listeners may be touched to tears or raised to
the highest pitch of excitement, but this can be detected only by the
sound of subdued sniffling or the catch of a quick sigh. For centuries
repression has been the keynote of everything of a high character,
and the greatest tribute that can be paid to a singer or an actor of
classic drama is to be received in deep silence.
One thing in America, to which I could not grow accustomed, was the
joking attitude in regard to women and money. From men and women of all
classes, from newspapers, novels, lecturers, and once even from the
pulpit, I heard allusions to amusing stories of women secreting money
in odd places, coaxing it from their husbands, borrowing it from a
friend, or saving it secretly for some private purpose. There was never
anything dishonourable implied in this. Perhaps the money was saved to
get new curtains for the parlour, or even a birthday present for the
husband. These jokes were a puzzle to me--and a constantly growing one;
for as time passed on, I myself saw things which made me realize that
probably a foundation of serious truth might lie beneath some of the
amusing stories.
Our suburb was small and we were all interested in each other's
affairs, so I was acquainted with almost everybody. I knew the ladies
to be women of education and culture, yet there seemed to be among them
a universal and openly confessed lack of responsibility about money.
They all dressed well and seemed to have money for specific purposes,
but no open purse to use with free and responsible judgment. Once, at a
church fair, where I had a table, several ladies, after walking around
the hall and examining the various booths, had bought some small, cheap
articles, but left the expensive ones, saying, "My husband will be here
later on and I'll get him to buy it," or "When the gentlemen come those
high-priced things will sell." I had never known a Japanese man to buy
anything for his home, or be expected to.
Once, when I was shopping with a friend, she stopped at her husband's
office to ask him for money. I thought that was strange enough, but a
still more curious thing happened when I went with Mother to a meeting
of the church ladies where they were raising a certain amount for some
unusual purpose. The Ladies' Aid had recently made a great many calls
on the husbands' purses, and so this time each member had pledged
herself to bring five dollars which she must obtain without asking her
husband for it. The meeting I attended was the one where the money was
handed in, each lady telling, as she gave it, how she had succeeded in
getting her five dollars. Most had saved it in various ways, a little
at a time. One said that she had made a real sacrifice and returned to
her milliner a new hat--paid for, but not worn--receiving in exchange
one that was five dollars less in price. Another had sold two theatre
tickets which had been given her. Still another told, in very witty
rhyme, how she, a poor Ladies' Aid lady, had spent most of her leisure
time for a week, and had pledged herself for a week longer, in darning
stockings for the children of her neighbour, a rich non-Ladies' Aid
lady.
The meeting was intensely interesting. It reminded me of our
poem-making parties, only of course this was gayer and these stories
were on an undignified subject. I enjoyed it all until a pretty,
bright, and beautifully dressed woman rose and said that she didn't
know how to save money and she didn't know how to earn it. She had
promised not to cheat in her charge account at the store, and she had
promised not to ask her husband for the five dollars, so she had done
the only thing that was left for her to do: she had stolen it from her
husband's pocket when he was asleep.
This report caused a great deal of merriment, but I was saddened. All
the reports seemed tragic after she said, "That was the only thing
left to do." It seemed incredible, here in America, where women are
free and commanding, that a woman of dignity and culture, the mistress
of a home, the mother of children, should be forced either to ask her
husband for money, or be placed in a humiliating position.
When I left home, Japan, at large, was still following the old custom
of educating a girl to be responsible for the well-being of her entire
family--husband included. The husband was the lord of the family; but
the wife was mistress of the home and, according to her own judgment,
controlled all its expenses--the house, the food, the children's
clothing and education; all social and charitable responsibilities, and
her own dress, the material and style of which were expected to conform
to her husband's position.
Where did she get the money? The husband's income was for his family,
and his wife was the banker. When he wanted money for himself he asked
her for it, and it was her pride to manage so that she could allow
him the amount suitable for a man of his standing. As to what the
requirements of his position might be, there was little question, for
to know this was part of the wife's education. The husband might shrug
his shoulders and say, "It's very inconvenient," but the entire house
and its standing were his pride, and any disarrangement that would mar
the whole was his loss. Therefore the needs of the home came first. A
man married, primarily, as a duty to the gods and to his ancestors;
secondarily, to obtain a mistress for his home who would guide it in
such a manner that it and his family might be a credit to him. If she
managed well, he was complimented by his friends. If she failed, he was
pitied.
This was true of all classes except lords of large estates or financial
kings of business. In these cases there was a home treasurer, but he
was at the call of the mistress, and her judgment as to her needs was
supreme. The treasurer's only power of protest lay in the right to say,
with many apologies, "The Honourable Mistress is about to overdraw her
account." The hint was generally sufficient, for a Japanese woman, like
everyone in a responsible position, desired to do her duty creditably.
Conventional forms are losing in rigidity year by year, but even yet
the people are considerably influenced by rules which in the past were
uniform and recognized by all. Any marked deviation from these is still
considered bad form.
The standards of my own and my adopted country differed so widely in
some ways, and my love for both lands was so sincere, that sometimes I
had an odd feeling of standing upon a cloud in space, and gazing with
measuring eyes upon two separate worlds. At first I was continually
trying to explain, by Japanese standards, all the queer things that
came every day before my surprised eyes; for no one seemed to know
the origin or significance of even the most familiar customs, nor why
they existed and were followed. To me, coming from a land where there
is an unforgotten reason for every fashion of dress, for every motion
in etiquette--indeed, for almost every trivial act of life--this
indifference of Americans seemed very singular.
Mother was a wonderful source of information, but I felt a hesitation
about asking too many questions, for my curiosity was so frequently
about odd, trifling, unimportant things, such as why ladies kept on
their hats in church while men took theirs off; what was the use of the
china plates which I saw hanging on the walls of some beautiful houses;
why guests are taken to the privacy of a bedroom and asked to put their
hats and cloaks on the _bed_--a place that suggested sleep or sickness;
why people make social calls in the _evening_--the time of leisure in
Japan; what originated the merriment and nonsense of Hallowe'en and
April Fool's days, and why such a curious custom exists as the putting
of gifts in stockings--_stockings_, the very humblest of all the
garments that are worn.
It seemed strange to me that there should never be any hint or allusion
to these customs in conversation, in books, or in newspapers. In Japan,
tradition, folklore, and symbolism are before one all the time. The
dress of the people on the streets; the trade-mark on the swinging
curtains of the shops; the decorations on chinaware; the call of
the street vender; the cap of the soldier; the pleated skirt of the
schoolgirl: each points back to some well-known tale of how or why.
Even the narrow blue-and-white towel of the jinrikisha man and the
layer lunch-box of the workman bear designs suggesting an ancient poem
or a bit of folklore, as familiar to every Japanese child as are the
melodies of Mother Goose to the children of America.
One afternoon, at a small reception, a lady spoke pleasantly to me
of the healthfulness to the foot of a shoe like my sandal and then
referred with disapproval to the high heels and pointed toes then in
vogue.
"Why are these shapes worn?" I asked. "What started them?"
"Oh, for no reason," she replied. "Just a fashion; like--well, like
your folding your dress over left-handed."
"But there is a reason for that," I said. "It is only on a corpse that
the kimono is folded over from the right."
That interested her, and we had a short talk on the peculiarity of
Japanese always honouring the left above the right in everything, from
the Imperial throne to the tying of a knot. Then, lightly touching the
back of my sash, she asked, "Would you mind telling me what this bundle
is for? Is it to carry the babies on?"
"Oh, no," I replied, "it is my sash, and is only an ornament. A baby is
carried in a hammock-like scarf swung from the nurse's shoulders."
"This material of your sash is very beautiful," she said. "May I ask
why you arrange it in that flat pad instead of spreading it out, so
that the design can be seen?"
Since she seemed really interested, I willingly explained the various
styles of tying a sash for persons differing in rank, age, and
occupation; and for different occasions. Then came the final question,
"Why do you have so much goods in it?"
That pleased me, for to a Japanese the material beauty of an article is
always secondary to its symbolism. I told her of the original meaning
of the twelve-inch width and twelve-foot length, and explained how it
represented much of the mythology and astrology of ancient Oriental
belief.
"This is very interesting," she said as she turned to go, "especially
about the signs of the zodiac and all that; but it's a shame to hide
so much of that magnificent brocade by folding it in. And don't you
think, yourself, little lady," and she gave me a merry smile, "that
it's positively wicked to buy so many yards of lovely goods just to be
wasted and useless?"
And she walked away with a long train of expensive velvet trailing
behind her on the floor.
Mother's furniture, which was of beautiful wood and some of it carved,
at first made me feel as if I were in a museum; but when I went into
other homes, I found that none were simple and plain. Many reminded me
of godowns, so crowded were they with, not only chairs, tables, and
pictures, but numbers of little things--small statues, empty vases,
shells, and framed photographs, as well as really rare and costly
ornaments; all scattered about with utter disregard, according to
Japanese standards, of order or appropriateness. It was several months
before I could overcome the impression that the disarranged profusion
of articles was a temporary convenience, and that very soon they would
be returned to the godown. Most of these objects were beautiful, but
some of them were the shape of a shoe or of the sole of the foot. This
seemed to be a favourite design, or else my unwilling eyes always
spied it out, for in almost every house I entered I would see it in a
paper-weight, a vase, or some other small article. Once I even saw a
little wooden shoe used as a holder for toothpicks.
Generations of prejudice made this very objectionable to me, for in
Japan the feet are the least honoured part of the body; and the most
beautiful or costly gift would lose all value if it had the shape of
footwear.
And Japanese curios! They were everywhere, and in the most
astonishingly inappropriate surroundings. Lunch boxes and rice-bowls on
parlour tables, cheap roll pictures hanging on elegant walls; shrine
gongs used for dining-room table bells; sword-guards for paper-weights;
ink-boxes for handkerchiefs and letter-boxes for gloves; marriage-cups
for pin-trays, and even little bamboo spittoons I have seen used to
hold flowers.
In time my stubborn mind learned, to some extent, to separate an
article from its surroundings; and then I began to see its artistic
worth with the eyes of an American. Also I acquired the habit, whenever
I saw absurd things here which evidently arose from little knowledge
of Japan, of trying to recall a similar absurdity in Japan regarding
foreign things. And I never failed to find more than one to offset
each single instance here. One time a recollection was forced upon me
by an innocent question from a young lady who told me, in a tone of
disbelief, that she had heard in a lecture on Japan that elegantly
dressed Japanese ladies sometimes wore ordinary, cheap chenille table
covers around their shoulders in place of scarfs. I could only laugh
and acknowledge that, a few years before, that had been a popular
fashion. Imported articles were rare and expensive, and since we never
used table covers ourselves, we had no thought of their being anything
but beautiful shawls. I had not the courage to tell her that I had worn
one myself, but I did tell her, however, of something that occurred at
my home in Nagaoka when I was a child.
On my father's return from one of his visits to the capital he brought
Ishi and Kin each a large turkish towel with a coloured border and
a deep fringe. The maids, their hearts swelling with pride, went to
temple service wearing the towels around their shoulders. I can see
them yet as they walked proudly out of the gateway, the white lengths
spread evenly over their best dresses and the fringe dangling in its
stiff newness above their long Japanese sleeves. It would be a funny
sight to me now, but then I was lost in admiration; and it seemed
perfectly natural that they should be, as they were, the envy of all
beholders.
Of all my experiences in trying to see Japanese things with American
eyes, one particularly inharmonious combination was a foolishly
annoying trial to me for many months. The first time I called on
Mrs. Hoyt, the hostess of an especially beautiful home, my eyes
were drawn to a lovely carved _magonote_--"hand of grandchild,"
it is called in Japan, but in America it has the practical name,
"scratch-my-back"--which was hanging by its silk cord on the cover of
an ebony cabinet. Beside it, thrown carelessly over the same cord, was
a rosary of crystal and coral beads. The little ivory finger-rake was
exquisitely carved, and the rosary was of rare pink coral and flawless
crystal; but to the eye of an Oriental all beauty was ruined by the
strange arrangement. It was like putting the Bible and a toothbrush
side by side on a parlour table.
I did not criticize the judgment of the hostess. Her superior taste in
all things artistic was beyond question, and in America the _magonote_
was an object of art only. From that viewpoint it was properly placed.
I realized this, and yet, whenever afterward I entered that room, I
persistently kept my eyes turned away from the ebony cabinet. It was
only after two years of close friendship with the hostess that I had
the courage to tell her of my shocked first visit to her home. She
laughs at me even yet, and I laugh too; but there is a warm feeling of
satisfaction in my heart this moment as I remember that the rosary and
the _magonote_ no longer hang side by side.
There was another thing in Mrs. Hoyt's home which was removed at the
same time the rosary and the "hand of grandchild" parted company. It
was a large coloured photograph of a scene in Japan--not an ancient
print, but a modern photograph. It was an attractive picture in
graceful arrangement and delicate colouring, and my hostess had placed
it in a conspicuous place. Her ignorant eyes beheld only its artistic
beauty, but my heart turned sick with shame. That picture would never
have been allowed in any respectable house in Japan, for it was the
photograph of a well-known courtesan of Tokyo taken at the door of
her professional home. "Oh, why do Japanese sell those things?" I
shudderingly asked myself; but immediately came the puzzling response,
"Why do Americans want to buy?"
One day I went into the city with a friend to do some shopping. We
were on a street car when my attention was attracted by a little girl
sitting opposite us who was eating something. Children in Japan do not
eat on the street or in a public place, and I did not know then that it
is not the custom in America as it is with us never to eat except at a
table.
My friend and I were busy talking, so for a while I did not notice the
child, but when I chanced to glance at her again, I was surprised to
see that she was still eating. Two or three times afterward I looked at
her, and finally I turned to my friend.
"I wonder what that child is eating," I said.
"She is not eating anything," my friend replied. "She is chewing gum."
Again I looked at the child. She was sitting, drooped and weary, her
loose hands lying in her lap, and her feet spread around her bundle in
a very awkward and difficult position. As I watched her tired face,
suddenly I remembered something that had happened on the train on my
trip across the continent.
"Is she sick?" I asked.
"No, I think not. Why do you ask?"
"I think I took that medicine on the train," I replied.
"Oh, no!" my friend said, laughing. "Chewing gum is not medicine. It's
a sort of wax, just to chew."
"Why does she do it?" I asked.
"Oh, most children of her class chew gum, more or less. It's not an
elegant thing to do. I don't allow my children to touch it."
I said nothing more, but a partial light began to dawn upon my
experience on the train. I had been uncomfortably car-sick, and Mrs.
Holmes had given me a small, flat block of fragrant medicine which
she said would cure nausea. I put it in my mouth and chewed a long
time, but I could not swallow it. After a while I got tired, but Mrs.
Holmes was still eating hers, so, concluding that it must be a medicine
possessing wonderful merit, as it would not dissolve, I wrapped it
carefully in a piece of white tissue paper and put it in the little
mirror case that I wore in my sash.
I never heard what originated this peculiar custom, but I think I never
found anything odd in America for which I could not find an equivalent
in Japan. Gum-chewing reminded me of _hodzuki_-blowing, a habit common
among some Japanese children; and also much practised by teahouse girls
and women of humble class. The _hodzuki_ is made from a little red
berry having a smooth, tough peeling. The core is very soft and with
proper care can be squeezed out leaving the unbroken peeling in the
shape of a tiny round lantern. This little ball is elastic and though
it has no special taste, children love to hold it in the mouth and by
gently blowing the hollow shell make what they call "mouth music."
It sounds somewhat like the soft, distant croaking of a pond frog.
_Hodzuki_-blowing is not beautiful music, nor is it a pretty custom,
but it is neither harmful nor unclean. The worst that can be said of it
is what many a nurse calls to her charge:
"Take that squeaky thing out of your mouth. It will make your lips
pouty and ugly."
CHAPTER XIX
THINKING
At the broad corner where our front and side porches joined was where
my hammock swung. It was shaded by a big apple tree, and I used to
put in a big cushion and sit Japanese fashion while I read. I could
never get used to lying in it, as Mother sometimes did, but I liked to
imagine that I was in an open _kago_--a quiet, not a swaying one--and
watch for glimpses between the trees of carriages and country teams
that passed occasionally on the road beyond the big evergreens and the
stone wall.
From there, too, I could look across a little stretch of green, and on,
through the break made in the lilac hedge by the drawbridge, to the
home of our nearest neighbour. We did not have many close neighbours,
for our suburb was a wide-spreading one with the houses far apart, each
set in the midst of its own stretch of lawn and shrubbery. Many of
these lawns were separated from each other by only a narrow gravelled
path or a carriage road.
I loved these fenceless homes. In Japan I had never known of a home not
inclosed by walls of stone or plaster. Even humble village huts had
hedges of brushwood or bamboo. One of the odd fancies of my childhood
was to imagine how wonderful it would be if, without warning, all
hedges should fall and the hidden gardens be suddenly revealed to every
passerby. In my American home I felt that my childhood wish had come
true. The fences were all down and the flowers and grass free for all
to see and enjoy. Then my mind drifted to the gardens of Japan where
was shut-in beauty for the few.
I was thinking all this one pleasant afternoon as I sat in the hammock,
sewing, while Mother was tying up the crimson rambler that covered part
of the porch with a curtain of green.
"Mother," I said suddenly, as a new thought came to me, "did you ever
think of a Japanese woman as being in prison with the key to her cell
in her pocket; and not unlocking the door because it would not be a
polite thing to do?"
"Why--no!" said Mother, surprised. "What are you thinking, Etsu?"
"That idea came to me the day I went to my first afternoon tea. Do you
remember?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mother, smiling. "You looked like a drooping
blossom as you came up the path with Miss Helen. She said that everyone
was there and that you were the 'belle of the ball'; and then you sat
down on the porch step and quietly remarked that people here were just
like their lawns. I never quite understood what you meant."
"I shall never forget that day," I said. "All the time I was dressing
to go, I pictured how the ladies would look, sitting in Mrs. Anderson's
parlour in their pretty dresses and wavy hair, talking pleasantly the
way they do when we make calls. But they did not sit at all. It was
like being in the street, for they all kept on their hats and gloves,
and stood in groups or walked around the crowded rooms, all talking
at once. I was so confused by the buzz of voices that my head was
really dizzy, but it was all intensely interesting, and not exactly
undignified. People asked me queer questions, but everyone was kind and
everyone was happy."
"Was it the noise and the excitement that tired you so?" asked Mother.
"Oh, no, I liked it. It was a happy noise. I liked everything. But
on the way home, Miss Helen asked me to tell her about our ladies'
receptions in Japan. I could see in my mind just how everyone used
to look at an anniversary celebration in my home at Nagaoka; Mother
sitting so gentle and stately, and all the ladies in their ceremonial
dresses, having a quietly nice time and expressing every emotion, in a
kind of suppressed way, by smiles and bows and a few gestures; for at
a formal gathering in Japan it is rude to laugh aloud or to move too
much."
"It is beautiful and restful," said Mother.
"But it is not nature!" I cried, sitting upright in my excitement.
"I've been thinking about it ever since. Our conventionality is too
extreme. It is narrowing to the soul. I hate to be so happy here--and
all those patient, subdued women sitting hushed in their quiet homes.
Our lives in Japan--a man's as well as a woman's--are like our
tied-down trees, our shut-in gardens, our----"
I stopped abruptly; then added slowly, "I am growing too outspoken and
American-like. It does not suit my training."
"You want to pull the fences down too suddenly, dear," said Mother
gently. "The flowers of Japan have blossomed in a shadowy garden, and a
sudden, bright sunlight might kill their beauty and develop them into
strong, coarse weeds. It is only morning there, now. The blossoms will
grow with the light, and by noon the fences will have fallen. Don't
pull them down too suddenly."
Mother leaned over the hammock and, for the first time, kissed me
softly on the brow.
One time I went with some lady friends to see Ellen Terry in "The
Merchant of Venice." It was an afternoon performance, and after
the play we went to some place and had tea. The ladies were all
enthusiastic in their praise of the great actress, but I could say
nothing, for that afternoon was one of the great disappointments of
my life. I had been quite excited over seeing for the first time a
Western actress of world-wide fame, and had formed a picture in my
mind of a modest young doctor of laws, who would walk across the stage
with slow-moving ceremony and with grave dignity deliver the wonderful
monologue. Of course, I unconsciously pictured the Japanese ideal.
Instead, a tall figure in scarlet gown and cap, which reminded me of
the dress of a Japanese clown, swept on to the stage with the freedom
and naturalness that belong only to common-class people in Japan.
Portia talked too loud and fast for a lady of elegance and culture,
even in disguise. And the gestures--oh, most of all, the vigorous,
man-like gestures! I had no impression but one of shocked surprise.
The beautiful moonlight scene where Jessica meets her lover, and also
the last act, where the two husbands recognize their wives, were full
of too many kisses and seemed to be most indelicate. I wished I was not
there to see.
In the midst of the conversation, one of the ladies, who had watched me
rather curiously during the last scene, turned to me.
"Do you have love scenes on the Japanese stage?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," I answered. "Our stage shows life as it is, and Japanese are
just like other people."
"But your face got crimson, little lady, and you looked as if you had
never seen a lover before," she said smilingly.
I explained as well as I could that for generations we have been taught
that strong emotional expression is not consistent with elegance and
dignity. That does not mean that we try to repress our feelings; only
that public expression of them is bad form. Therefore on our stage the
love scenes are generally so demure and quiet that an American audience
would not be thrilled at all. But the dignified bearing of our actors
has a strong effect on Japanese people, for they understand the feeling
that is not shown.
"What do lovers do when they are--well--very enthusiastic?" asked a
young lady.
"They gently turn their backs to each other," I replied.
"Turn their backs to each other! My stars!" was the very peculiar
exclamation of the young lady.
In a moment she turned to me again.
"Is it really true," she asked, "that in Japan there is no
kissing--even between husband and wife?"
"There is bowing, you know," I replied. "That is our mode of heart
expression."
"But you don't mean that your mother never kissed you!" exclaimed the
young lady. "What did she do when you came to America?"
"Only bowed," I replied, "and then she said very gently, 'A safe
journey for you, my daughter.'"
I had not been here long enough then to understand the odd expression
that came over the faces of the ladies, nor the moment's silence that
followed before the conversation drifted into other channels.
Bowing is not only bending the body; it has a spiritual side also.
One does not bow exactly the same to father, younger sister, friend,
servant, and child. My mother's long, dignified bow and gentle-voiced
farewell held no lack of deep love. I felt keenly each heart-throb, and
every other person present also recognized the depth of hidden emotion.
Japanese people are not demonstrative. Until late years the repression
of strong emotion was carefully drilled into the mind and life
of every Japanese child of the better class. There is much more
freedom now than formerly, but the influence of past training is
seen everywhere--in art, in literature, and in the customs of daily
life. With all the cheerful friendliness of everyday intercourse
there is a certain stiffness of etiquette which holds in check all
exuberance of expression. It dictates the ceremonies of birth and the
ceremonies of death, and guides everything between--working, playing,
eating, sleeping, walking, running, laughing, crying. Every motion is
chained--and by one's own wish--with the shackles of politeness. A
merry girl will laugh softly behind her sleeve. A hurt child chokes
back his tears and sobs out, "I am not crying!" A stricken mother will
smile as she tells you that her child is dying. A distressed servant
will giggle as she confesses having broken your treasured piece of
china. This is most mystifying to a foreigner, but it means only an
effort to keep in the background. A display of one's own feelings would
be rudeness.
When American people judge the degree of affection between Japanese
husband and wife by their conduct to each other, they make a great
mistake. It would be as bad form for a man to express approval of his
wife or children as it would be for him to praise any other part of
himself; and every wife takes pride in conducting herself according to
the rigid rules of etiquette, which recognize dignity and humility as
the virtues that reflect greatest glory on the home of which she is
mistress.
One other thing may explain some seeming peculiarities. The Japanese
language has no pronouns, their place being taken by adjectives. A
humble or derogatory adjective means "my" and a complimentary one means
"your." A husband will introduce his wife with some such words as
these: "Pray bestow honourable glance upon foolish wife." By this he
simply means, "I want you to meet my wife." A father will speak of his
children as "ignorant son" or "untrained daughter" when his heart is
overflowing with pride and tenderness.
I shall never forget my first experience in seeing kissing between man
and woman. It was on my trip across the continent when I came from
Japan. A seat near me was occupied by a young lady, very prettily
dressed and with gentle, almost timid, manners. She was a young married
woman returning from her first visit to her parents. I was much
attracted by her free, yet modest, actions and planned how I would try
to imitate her. One morning I noticed that she was dressed with unusual
care, and it was evident that she was nearing the end of her journey.
Finally the train began to slow down and she watched out of the window
with eager interest. The train had barely come to a stand when in
rushed a young man, who threw his arms around that modest, sweet girl
and kissed her several times. And she did not mind it, but blushed and
laughed, and they went off together. I cannot express my feelings, but
I could not help recalling what my mother said to me just before I
started for America: "I have heard, my daughter, that it is the custom
for foreign people to lick each other as dogs do."
There was no criticism in my mother's heart--nothing but wonder. I
repeat her words only as an illustration of how an unfamiliar custom
may appear to the eyes of a stranger. Years of residence in this
country have taught me that the American mode of heart expression has
its spiritual side, just as bowing has. I now understand that a kiss
expresses kindness or gratitude, friendship or love; each of which is a
sacred whisper from heart to heart.
Matsuo was very fond of Mother, and often, when he had received a new
assignment of goods from Japan, he would select something especially
pretty or appropriate and bring to her. Once he gave her a small
lacquer box which looked something like an old-fashioned medicine case
hung from the sash by people of ancient time. The outside was marked
with lines corresponding to the partitions in a medicine case, but when
I opened it, I saw that instead of being a succession of layers, it was
an open box divided into two upright partitions to hold playing cards.
The lacquer was poor and the work roughly done, but it was an ingenious
idea to make a box to hold a means of pleasure in imitation of a case
to hold a cure for pain.
"What original people Americans are!" I said. "But I didn't know that
lacquer was made here."
Matsuo turned the little box over, and, on the bottom, I saw a label,
"Made in Japan."
A few days after, I went down to Matsuo's store and he showed me
whole shelves of articles called Japanese, the sight of which would
have filled any inhabitant of Japan with a puzzled wonder as to what
the strange European articles could be. They were all marked, "Made
in Japan." Matsuo said that they had been designed by Americans, in
shapes suitable for use in this country, then made to order in Japanese
factories and shipped direct to America, without having been seen in
Japan outside the factory. That troubled me, but Matsuo shrugged his
shoulders.
"As long as Americans want them, design them, order them, and are
satisfied, there will be merchants to supply," he said.
"But they are not Japanese things."
"No," he replied. "But genuine things do not sell. People think they
are too frail and not gay enough." Then he added slowly, "The only
remedy is in education; and that will have to begin here."
That night I lay awake a long time, thinking. Of course, artistic,
appreciative persons are few in comparison to the masses who like
heavy vases of green and gold, boxes of cheap lacquer, and gay fans
with pictures of a laughing girl with flower hairpins. "But if Japan
lowers her artistic standards," I sighed, "what can she hope for from
the world? All that she has, or is, comes from her art ideals and her
pride. Ambition, workmanship, courtesy--all are folded within those two
words."
I once knew a workman--one who was paid by the job, not the hour--to
voluntarily undo half a day's work, at the cost of much heavy lifting,
just to alter, by a few inches, the position of a stepping-stone
in a garden. After it was placed to his satisfaction, he wiped the
perspiration from his face, then took out his tiny pipe and squatted
down, near by, to waste still more unpaid-for time in gazing at the
re-set stone, with pleasure and satisfaction in every line of his
kindly old face.
As I thought of the old man, I wondered if it was worth while to
exchange the delight of heart-pride in one's work for--_anything_.
My mind mounted from the gardener to workman, teacher, statesman. It
is the same with all. To degrade one's pride--to loose one's hold on
the best, after having had it--is death to the soul growth of man or
nation.
CHAPTER XX
NEIGHBOURS
When I came to America I expected to learn many things, but I had
no thought that I was going to learn anything about Japan. Yet our
neighbours, by their questions and remarks, were teaching me every day
new ways of looking at my own country.
My closest friend was the daughter of a retired statesman, the General,
we called him, who lived just across the steep little ravine which
divided our grounds from his. Our side was bordered by a hedge of
purple lilacs, broken, opposite the path to the well, by a rustic
drawbridge. One autumn afternoon I was sitting on the shady step of the
bridge with a many-stamped package in my lap, watching for the postman.
Just about that hour his funny little wagon, looking, with its open
side-doors, like a high, stiff _kago_, would be passing on its return
trip down the hill, and I was anxious to hurry off my package of white
cotton brocade and ribbons of various patterns and colours--the most
prized gifts I could send to Japan.
Suddenly I heard a gay voice behind me reciting in a high sing-song:
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes
And I'll give you something to make you wise."
I looked up at a charming picture. My bright-eyed friend, in a white
dress and big lacy hat, was standing on the bridge, holding in her
cupped hands three or four grape leaves pinned together with thorns.
On this rustic plate were piled some bunches of luscious purple grapes.
"Oh, how pretty!" I exclaimed. "That is just the way Japanese serve
fruit."
"And this is the way they carry flowers," she said, putting down the
grapes on the step and releasing a big bunch of long-stemmed tiger
lilies from under her arm. "Why do Japanese always carry flowers
upside-down?"
I laughed and said, "It looked very odd to me, when I first came, to
see everybody carrying flowers with the tops up. Why do you?"
"Why--why--they look prettier so; and that's the way they grow."
That was true, and yet I had never before thought of any one's caring
for the appearance of flowers that were being carried. We Japanese
have a way of considering a thing invisible until it is settled in its
proper place.
"Japanese seldom carry flowers," I said, "except to the temple or to
graves. We get flowers for the house from flower-venders who go from
door to door with baskets swung from shoulder poles, but we do not send
flowers as gifts; and we _never_ wear them."
"Why?" asked Miss Helen.
"Because they wither and fade. And so, to send flowers to a sick friend
would be the worst omen in the world."
"Oh, what a lot of pleasure your poor invalids in hospitals are
losing!" said Miss Helen. "And Japan is the land of flowers!"
Surprised and thoughtful, I sat silent; but in a moment was aroused by
a question. "What were you thinking of when I came--sitting here so
quietly with that big bundle on your lap? You looked like a lovely,
dainty, picturesque little peddler."
"My thoughts were very unlike those of a peddler," I replied. "As I
sat here watching the dangling end of the bridge chain I was thinking
of a Japanese lover of long ago who crossed a drawbridge ninety-nine
times to win his ladylove, and the one hundredth time, in a blinding
snow-storm, he failed to see that it was lifted, and so fell to his
death in the moat below."
"How tragic!" exclaimed Miss Helen. "What did the poor lady do?"
"It was her fault," I said. "She was vain and ambitious, and when she
saw a chance to win the love of a high official at court, she changed
her mind about her lover and commanded her attendants not to lower the
bridge the day he expected to come triumphant."
"You don't mean that the cold-blooded creature actually planned his
death?"
"It was the storm that caused his death," I said. "She was fickle, but
not wicked. She thought that when he found the bridge lifted he would
know her answer and go away."
"Well, sometimes our girls over here are fickle enough, dear knows,"
said Miss Helen, "but no American woman would ever do a thing like
that. She was actually a murderess."
I was shocked at such a practical way of looking at my romantic tale,
and hastened to add that remorseful Lady Komachi became a nun and spent
her life in making pilgrimages to various temples to pray for the
dead. At last she partially lost her mind, and, as a wandering beggar,
lived and died among the humble villagers on the slopes of Mount Fuji.
"Her fate is held up by priests," I concluded, "as a warning to all
fickle-minded maidens."
"Well," said Miss Helen, drawing a deep breath, "I think she paid
pretty dearly for her foolishness, don't you?"
"Why--well, perhaps," I replied, rather surprised at the question,
"but we are taught that if a woman so loses her gentle modesty that she
can treat with scorn and disrespect the plea of a loyal lover, she is
no longer a worthy woman."
"Suppose a man jilts a maid, what then?" quickly asked Miss Helen. "Is
he no longer considered a worthy man?"
I did not know how to reply. Instinctively I upheld to myself the
teachings of my childhood that man is the protector and guide and woman
the helper--the self-respecting, but nevertheless, uncritical, dutiful
helper. Often afterward Miss Helen and I had heart-to-heart talks in
which her questions and remarks surprised and sometimes disturbed me.
Many of our customs I had taken for granted, accepting the ways of our
ancestors without any thought except that thus they had been and still
were. When I began to question myself about things which had always
seemed simple and right because they were in accordance with laws
made by our wise rulers, sometimes I was puzzled and sometimes I was
frightened.
"I am afraid that I am growing very bold and man-like," I would think
to myself, "but God gave me a brain to use, else why do I have it?" All
my childhood I had hidden my deepest feelings. Now again it was the
same. My American mother would have understood, but I did not know; and
so, repressing all outward signs, I puzzled my way alone, in search of
higher ideals--not for myself, but for Japan.
Miss Helen's father was ninety years old when I knew him. He was
a wonderful man, tall, with broad shoulders just a trifle stooped
and with thick iron-gray hair and bushy eyebrows. A strong face he
had, but gentle and humorous when he talked. I looked upon him as an
encyclopedia of American history. I had always loved the study of
history, in childhood and at school, but I had learned little of the
details of America's part in the world; and would sit with the General
and his invalid wife listening by the hour while he told stories
of early American life. Knowing that incidents of personal history
especially appealed to me, he once told me that his own large estate
was bought by his father from an Indian chief in exchange for one
chair, a gun, and a pouch of tobacco; and that Mother's large home was
once an Indian village of bark tents and was purchased for half-a-dozen
split-seated kitchen chairs. These incidents seemed to me almost
pre-historic; for I had never known any one whose home did not date
back into a far past.
When America was a still youthful nation the General had represented
his country as a diplomat in Europe, and, with his beautiful young
wife, had taken part in the foreign social life in Paris and later
in Washington. My first glimpse of American life abroad, I received
through the word pictures of this gracious lady, and through her
experiences I began to understand, with sympathy, something of the
problem in Japan of Americans trying to understand the Japanese, which
heretofore I had looked upon only as the problem of Japanese trying to
understand Americans.
From childhood until I met the General the word "ancient" had commanded
my reverence. I had been conscious that the Inagaki family tree was
rooted in a history centuries old, and that our plots in the cemetery
were the oldest in Nagaoka. It had seemed an unquestioned necessity
that we should follow the same customs that our ancestors had observed
for hundreds of years, and it was my pride that they were the customs
of a dynasty which was among the very oldest in the world.
After I became acquainted with the General and heard him talk of the
wonderful development of a nation much younger than my own family
tree, the word "ancient" lost some of its value. Even the General's
own lifetime--the years of only one man's life--represented such a
marvellous advance in national growth that sometimes I looked upon him
almost with awe, wondering how much real value should be attached to
antiquity. "Perhaps," I sometimes said to myself, "it would be better
not to look back with such pride to a glorious past; but instead, to
look forward to a glorious future. One means quiet satisfaction; the
other, ambitious work."
One evening, after Matsuo and I had been over to call on the General,
Miss Helen walked back with us across the drawbridge. Matsuo went on to
join Mother on the porch, and Miss Helen and I sat down on the step of
the bridge, as we often did, to talk.
"When Father told that story about Molly Pitcher," said Miss Helen, "I
wondered if you were thinking about Japanese women."
"Why?" I asked.
"Well," she replied hesitatingly, "several times I've heard you say
that American women are like Japanese. I don't see that Molly Pitcher
is much of a Japanese specimen."
"Oh, you don't know Japanese history," I exclaimed. "We have many women
heroes in Japan."
"Yes, of course," said Miss Helen quickly. "In every country there are
heroic women who rise to noble sacrifice on occasion. But they are
exceptions. Books and travellers all speak of Japanese women as being
quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, and meek. That picture doesn't apply to the
American type of women."
"The training is different," I said, "but I think that at heart they
are much the same."
"Well," said Miss Helen, "when it becomes the fashion for us to wear
our hearts on our sleeves, perhaps we will appear gentle and meek.
But," she added as she rose to go, "I don't believe that Japanese men
think as you do. To-night, when I spoke of the book on Japan that I
have been reading, and said that I believed the author was right when
he declared that 'for modesty and gentle worth, Japanese women lead the
world,' your husband smiled and said, 'Thank you,' as if he thought so
too."
"Miss Helen," I said earnestly, "although our women are pictured as
gentle and meek, and although Japanese men will not contradict it,
nevertheless it is true that, beneath all the gentle meekness, Japanese
women are like--like--volcanoes."
Miss Helen laughed.
"You are the only Japanese woman that I ever saw--except at the
Exposition," she said, "and I cannot imagine your being like a
volcano. However, I'll give in to your superior knowledge. You
have had Molly Pitchers among your women, and flirts--that Lady
What's-her-name whom you told me about the other day: she _was_ a
flirt, with a vengeance!--and now you say that you have volcanoes. Your
demure-appearing countrywomen seem to have surprising possibilities.
The next time I come over I'm going to challenge you to give me a
specimen of a Japanese genuine woman's-rights woman."
"That is easy," I said, laughing in my turn. "A genuine woman's-rights
woman is not one who _wants_ her rights, but one who _has_ them.
And if that means the right to do men's work, I can easily give you
a specimen. We have a whole island of women who do men's work from
planting rice to making laws."
"What do the men do?"
"Cook, keep house, take care of the children, and do the family
washing."
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Miss Helen, and she sat down again.
But I did mean it, and I told her of Hachijo, a little island about a
hundred miles off the coast of Japan, where the women, tall, handsome,
and straight, with their splendid hair coiled in an odd knot on top of
the head, and wearing long, loose gowns bound by a narrow sash tied in
front, work in the ricefields, make oil from camellia seeds, spin and
weave a peculiar yellow silk which they carry in bundles on their heads
over the mountains, at the same time driving tiny oxen, not much larger
than dogs, also laden with rolls of silk to be sent to the mainland to
be sold. And in addition to all this they make some of the best laws
we have and see that they are properly carried out. In the meantime,
the older men of the community, with babies strapped to their backs, go
on errands or stand on the street gossiping and swaying to a sing-song
lullaby; and the younger ones wash sweet potatoes, cut vegetables, and
cook dinner; or, in big aprons and with sleeves looped back, splash,
rub, and wring out clothes at the edge of a stream.
The beginning of this unusual state of things dates back several
centuries, to a time when the husbands and sons were forced to go to
another island about forty miles away, for fishing, very little of
which could be done near Hachijo. When silk proved more profitable than
fish, the men returned to the island, but the Government was in capable
hands which have never given up their hold.
I told all this to Miss Helen, and closed by saying, "A subject for
your meditation is the fact that with these women rulers, both men and
women are healthy and happy; and the social life there is more strictly
moral than it is in any other community of equal intelligence in Japan."
"You had better join the Equal Suffrage party," said Miss Helen, "and
go on the lecture platform with that story. It has a list toward moral
uplift and might win voters for the cause. Well," and again she rose to
go, "your women are such unexpected creatures that I am more than ever
convinced that American women are not like Japanese. We talk so much
and are so noisily interested in public affairs that we are expected
to do almost anything. Whatever happens, we cannot surprise the world.
But for one of your timid, shrinking kind suddenly to burst out into
a bold, strong act, like lifting drawbridges and that sort of thing,
completely upsets our pre-conceived ideas. And then to hear of its
being quietly but effectively done _en masse_, like those island women,
is rather--disconcerting."
She ran over the bridge, calling back, "Anyway, although you are the
sweetest little lady that ever walked on sandals, you haven't convinced
me. American women are _not_ like Japanese women--more's the pity!"
With this absurd compliment from my extravagantly partial friend
ringing in my ears, I started to walk toward the porch, when suddenly
a voice called from the dusky shadows across the bridge, "Oh, I didn't
think of Mrs. Newton! I'll give up. _She_ is like a Japanese woman.
Good-night."
I smiled as I walked on toward the porch, for I was thinking of
something Mother had told me that very morning about Mrs. Newton.
She was our nearest neighbour on the opposite side of our place from
Miss Helen's home, and I knew her very well. She was a gentle woman,
soft-voiced and shy, who loved birds and had little box-houses for them
in her trees. I understood why Miss Helen should say that she was like
a Japanese woman, but I had never thought that she was. Her ideas were
so very sensible and practical; and she allowed her husband to be too
attentive to her. He carried her cloak and umbrella for her; and once,
in the carriage, I saw him lean over and fasten her slipper strap.
What Mother had told me was that, a few days before, Mrs. Newton was
sitting by the window sewing, when she heard a frightened chirping
and saw a large snake reaching up the trunk of a tree to one of her
bird-boxes on a low branch. She dropped her sewing, and running to a
drawer where her husband kept a gun, she shot through the open window,
right into the snake's head, and her little bird family was saved.
"How could she do it?" I said to Mother. "I never would have believed
that frail, delicate Mrs. Newton would dare even _touch_ a gun. She is
afraid of every dog on the street, and she starts and flushes if you
speak to her unexpectedly. And then, anyway, how could she ever _hit_
it?"
Mother smiled.
"Mrs. Newton can do many things that you don't know about," she said.
"When she was first married she lived for several years on a lonely
ranch out West. One stormy night, when her husband was gone, she
strapped that same gun around her waist and walked six miles through
darkness and danger to bring help to an injured workman."
I recalled Mrs. Newton's soft voice and gentle, almost timid manner.
"After all," I said to myself, "she _is_ like a Japanese woman!"
CHAPTER XXI
NEW EXPERIENCES
As the weeks and the months had drifted by, unconsciously in my mind
the present had been linking itself more and more closely with the
past; for I had been learning more clearly each day that America was
very like Japan. Thus, as time passed, the new surroundings melted
into old memories and I began to feel that my life had been almost an
unbroken continuation from childhood until now.
Beneath the chimes of the church bells calling: "Do not--forget--to
thank--for gifts--you ev--ery day--enjoy," I could hear the mellow boom
of the temple gong: "Protection for all--is offered here--safety is
within."
The children who, with their burden of books, filled the streets with
laughter and shouts at 8:30 A.M. made the same picture to me as our
crowds of boys in uniform and girls in pleated skirts and shining black
hair, who, at 7:30 A.M., clattered along on wooden clogs, carrying
their books neatly wrapped in squares of patterned challie.
Valentine's Day with its lacy scenes of bowing knights and burning
hearts, all twined about with ropes of rose-buds, and with sweet
thoughts expressed in glowing, endearing words, was our Weaving
Festival, when swaying bamboos were decorated with festoons of gay
sashes and scarfs, and hung with glittering poem prayers for sunshine,
that the herdsman and his weaver wife might meet that day on the misty
banks of the Heavenly River which Americans call the Milky Way.
Decoration Day, with its soldiers of two wars, with its patriotic
speeches and its graves with tiny flags and scattered blossoms, was our
Shokonsha memorial to our soldier dead, when, all day long, hundreds
march through the great stone arch to bow with softly clapping hands;
then march away to make room for hundreds more.
The Fourth of July with its fluttering flags, with snapping crackers,
with beating drums and its whirling, shooting rockets in the sky, was
our holiday on which the flag of Japan waved beneath crossed cherry
branches in honour of the coming to the throne, twenty-five centuries
ago, of our first Emperor--a large bearded man in loose garments, tied
at wrist and ankle with twisted vines, and wearing a long, swinging
necklace of sickle-shaped gems which is to-day one of the three
treasures of the throne.
Hallowe'en, with its grotesque lanterns, its witches and many jokes,
was the Harvest Festival of Japan, when pumpkins were skilfully scraped
into lovely pictures of shady gardens with lanterns and flowers; when
ghost games were played and pumpkins piled at the gate of round-faced
maidens; and when orchards of the stingy man were raided and their
trophies laid on graves for the poor to find.
Thanksgiving, the home-coming day, with its turkey and pie, and jolly
good cheer, was our anniversary when married sons and daughters with
their children gathered for a feast of red rice and whole fish,
gossiping happily while they ate, with the shrine doors open wide and
the spirits of kindly ancestors watching over all.
Christmas, with its gay streets and merry, hurrying, bundle-laden
crowds, with its sparkling tree and many gifts, with its holy memories
of a shining star and a Mother with her Babe, was something like
our seven days of New Year rejoicing, but with a difference--the
difference between the soft organ tones of an old melody and the
careless, lilting song of a happy child.
At New Year's time, above every doorway in our crowded streets was
stretched a rope of ragged rice-straw with pine trees growing on
either side, and the air resounded with children's laughter and the
tinkle of tiny hidden bells in running shoes; with the gay tap-tap of
flying shuttlecocks and the cheerful greetings of bowing friends. In
every home were thick rounded cakes of _mochi_; every babe had another
birthday, every maiden had a new sash, and poetry cards were played by
boys and girls together. Oh, it was gay in Japan at New Year's time!
There was no thought of solemnity anywhere, for the chrysalis of the
past was broken, the butterfly had burst forth, and the world had begun
again.
My first Christmas Day in America was a disappointment. We were all
invited by a lady friend to attend Christmas services and afterward to
go home with her to dinner and to see her tree. She had children, and
I had pictured the scene as being gay, pretty, and pleasant, but with
an undercurrent of dignity and reverence. I had idealized too much the
wide influence of the symbolism of the day; and everything seemed such
a strange combination of the spiritual and the material that I was
lost. The star on the tree and the thought of unselfish giving were
beautiful, but little was said of either--except in church; and just
beneath the star were festoons of pop-corn and cranberries--things we
eat. Indeed, except for the gaiety of giving and receiving gifts, most
things especially belonging to the day seemed to be only the serving
of certain kinds of food and the very inartistic and peculiar custom
of hanging in a prominent place the garments of the lowest part of
the body for the purpose of holding gifts of toys and jewellery or
even candy and fruit. That was a custom difficult for a Japanese to
understand.
That evening, Mother and I went over to call on Miss Helen. And there,
in her big quiet parlour, spreading over a large snowy cloth on the
floor, stood her tree--large and pine-scented, sparkling with lights
and coloured, swinging ornaments. It was wonderful! The tree, though so
big and beautiful, reminded me, as an American skyscraper may remind
one of a tiny temple pagoda, of the fairy-like branch of our Cocoon
Festival from which swing and float, swaying with the lightest breath,
myriads of fairy-like, sugar-blown replicas of every delicate symbol
of the day. Miss Helen's father and mother were there, and we talked
of the holidays of America and of Japan. Then a little niece and a
neighbour's child sang Christmas carols, and my heart was full of joy,
for I felt that my ideal Christmas had really come.
The morning after Christmas we had our first snow--a flying mist
of dry, feathery flakes that was no more like the heavy fall of
Echigo's damp, solid clots than fluffy silk-floss is like weighty
cotton-batting. All day long it fell, growing thicker toward nightfall,
and when we wakened the next morning the world was white.
Just at the curve where our driveway turned into the broad public road
stood the coachman's cottage. He had three children and they asked
Mother if they might make a snow man on our back lawn. Mother gave her
consent, and then the most interesting things happened! The children
rolled a big ball, then piled on it another, and on the top of that, a
small one. Then with much pushing and patting of red-mittened hands,
they formed rude features and, with shiny bits of hard coal, gave the
image a pair of bright eyes and a row of buttons down the front. An old
hat of their father's and a pipe from somewhere completed their work,
and there stood a clumsy, shapeless image that reminded me of Daruma
Sama--the Indian saint whose devotion cost him his feet.
I had never expected to see a Buddhist saint in America, but I greeted
the likeness with merriment and entertained the children by telling
them the story of the cheerful rice-pounder who threw away his pestle
to become the founder of a new religion; and who asked that his image
be not honoured with reverential bows, but be made into amusing toys
that children's hands would use and children's hearts enjoy. Later
on I saw a Daruma Sama at other places than on our snowy lawn. To my
surprise, the little squatting figure muffled in a scarlet cloak seemed
to be a familiar object, but no one knew his story or his name. All
my life I had been accustomed to seeing Daruma Sama in the shape of
every toy that can be made for careless baby fingers; but I was really
shocked one evening at a card party to find the little red, rolling
figure used as a booby prize.
"It is such an odd selection for a card-game prize," I said to Matsuo.
"Why should a Daruma Sama be chosen?"
"Not odd at all," replied Matsuo. "Very appropriate. A man so well
balanced that, however he may fall, the next moment he is again right
side up, makes an excellent booby prize. It means, 'Down only for a
moment.' Don't you see?"
In Japan we always treat a Daruma Sama rather disrespectfully, but it
is a kind of affectionate disrespect; and my sensations, as I walked
home with Matsuo from the party, were rather mixed. Finally, just as I
reached the iron gate, I drew in a long breath, and with a ridiculous
feeling of loyalty and protection tugging at my heart, I surprised
Matsuo by saying, "I wish that either you or I had won the booby
prize!"
It was an unusual thing for snow to remain on the ground longer than
a few days, but Mother laughingly declared that the American gods of
the weather had evidently planned a special season in order to keep me
from being homesick. At any rate, more snow fell and still more, and
we began to see sleighs go by--light, carriage-like vehicles, filled
with laughing ladies in furs and with gay scarfs floating behind them
as they flew by. It was like a scene from the theatre. How different
from the deep snows of Echigo, over which snow-booted men pulled heavy
sledges--built for work, not fun--chanting, as they pulled, a steady,
rhythmic "_En yara-ya! En yara-ya!_" I missed the purity of Echigo's
clear skies and snowy mountain-sides, for it was only a few days until
the coal-tainted air had stolen the fresh whiteness from our snow, but
the happiness of the children was not spoiled. Daruma Samas stood on
every lawn, and the streets were filled with boys throwing snowballs.
One day from my window I saw a lively snow-fight in which a group of
besiegers pressed hard a heroic few, bravely dodging behind two barrels
and a board with snow piled beneath. When the besiegers called a truce
and ran around the corner for reinforcements, I pushed up my window and
clapped as hard as I could.
The boys had a good time, but as I watched their soiled tracks in the
snow and the smoky colour of the balls, my mind went to Ishi's stories
of the snow-battles held in the courtyard of the old mansion at Nagaoka
during the first years of Mother's life there. In those days life in
the daimio households of even small castle towns was based on the
customs of the lords and ladies in the court of the shogun, and, in a
less degree, it was as luxurious and as frivolous.
Occasionally, when the winter season was late, the first snows that
fell were light and dry. On the morning after such a snow had fallen,
when the air was full of the cool sunshine of Echigo, and the ground
white and sparkling, the men would lay aside their swords, and with
their pleated skirts gracefully caught up at the sides, run out into
the big open court. Soon they would be joined by the women, their gay
trains looped over their scarlet skirts and their long, bright sleeves
held back with gay cords. No one wore wooden shoes or even sandals,
for that would mar the purity of the snow, but with only the white
foot-mitten on the feet, with bare heads and tinkling hairpins, all
joined in the battle of snowballs. There was running, with laughter,
and merriment, and the air filled with flying and breaking balls
through which could be seen the tossing of bright sleeves and dodging
black heads powdered with snow. Our old servants often told me of those
gay scenes, and Baya, the oldest of them all, would solemnly shake her
head from side to side and sigh over the fact that Etsu-bo's enjoyment
must consist only of climbing the snow hills piled in the street, and
of racing with Sister on snow-shoes as we went to and from school.
The children of my American neighbours had no snow-shoe races, but
there was great excitement over coasting. Ours was a hilly suburb and
almost every lawn had at least one curving slope; but the snow was thin
and no one wanted the grass worn off or beaten down. Of course the
sidewalks were cleaned and the streets were forbidden. The older boys
had discovered a few long slopes and monopolized them, but the smaller
children could only stand around and watch, unless some big brother or
kind friend would occasionally take pity and give a ride.
One day I saw a group of four or five little girls with two red sleds
standing by our iron gates and looking wistfully up at the long slope
of our side lawn.
"It would ruin the appearance of the whole place for them to be
allowed to make a brown track there," I said to Mother.
"It is not the appearance, Etsu," Mother replied. "Probably all the
track those little folks would make would not kill the grass; but it is
too dangerous. They would have to bump over two gravel paths and end
abruptly at the top of the stone wall. The battlements are not high,
and the sleds might leap over on to the outside walk, four feet below.
I should be afraid to risk it."
That afternoon as Mother and I were walking to a meeting of the Ladies'
Club we passed the home of Doctor Miller. His lawn was small but it was
one of the prettiest and best kept in our neighbourhood. The hill began
at the roadway and swept in a straight, rather steep slope ending in
a level stretch. At least a dozen children were gathered there, among
them the forlorn little group with the two red sleds that I had seen
in the morning. A long, smooth track had already been worn on which
every moment a sled went down laden with a squealing, shrieking mass of
hunched-up little figures. And on an up-hill path beside the track a
line of rosy-cheeked, rosy-nosed, panting coasters were pulling their
sleds and shouting--not for any reason at all, except that they were
having the best time of any coasters in the world.
Day after day, as long as the snow lasted, that hill was reserved for
the little folks, and every child that went gliding down the smooth
slide, and every one that came struggling up the broken path, had
laughter in the eyes, happiness in the heart, and, hidden somewhere
within, a growing germ of unselfishness, kindness, and godliness that
had been planted there by the kind act of a man who could see from the
viewpoint of a child.
It was like my father to have done that kind deed. Afterward I never
saw Doctor Miller, even to pass him on the street, that I did not look
to see if behind his fine, grave, intellectual face I could not see
the heart of my father. I have not seen it, but I know it is there,
and that some day, on the other side of the Sandzu River, those two
beautiful souls will be friends.
January brought to Matsuo and me a quiet celebration of our own. For
weeks before, the letters from Japan had been coming more frequently,
and occasionally the postman would hand in a package wrapped in
oil-paper and sealed with the oval stamp of Uncle Otani's house, or the
big square one of Inagaki.
One of these packages contained a thin sash of soft white cotton,
each end of which had been dipped in rouge, and also two emblems of
congratulation--baby storks of rice-dough, one white and one red.
These were Mother's gifts for the "Five-month ceremony," a special
celebration observed by expectant parents on that date. My thoughtful,
loving, far-away mother! The tears came to my eyes as I explained it
all to my dear American mother, who in sweet understanding of the
sacred ceremony asked how to prepare everything according to Japanese
custom.
At this celebration, besides the husband and wife, only women members
of the two families are present. The young father-to-be sits beside
his wife and the sash is passed through the sleeves of his garment
from left to right. Then it is properly adjusted around the wife. From
then on, she is called "a lady of retirement," and her food, exercise,
amusements, and reading are all of a character called "education for
the Coming." The gay, light balls of many-coloured silk thread which
are seen in American shops belong to this time.
In the package with the sash was a charm-card from my good Ishi. To
obtain it she had made a pilgrimage of two days to the temple of
Kishibo-jin--"Demon of the Mother-heart"--believing sincerely that the
bit of paper with its mysterious symbols would protect me from every
evil.
According to an ancient legend there lived in the time of the Buddha a
mother of many children, who was so poor that she could not obtain food
for them, and in helpless misery saw them starving. At last her agony
became so great that it changed her loving mother heart into that of
a demon. Every night she roamed the country stealing little babes, so
that, in some uncanny way belonging to demon lore, their nourishment
might be transferred to her own children. Her name became a horror to
the world. The wise Buddha, knowing that however many children a woman
may have she always loves the youngest with special tenderness, took
her babe and hid it in his begging bowl. Hearing the child's voice, but
not being able to trace it, the mother was wild with distress and grief.
"Listen," said the merciful Buddha, restoring the infant to her arms:
"You have a thousand children, while most women have but ten; yet you
mourn bitterly for the loss of one. Think of other aching hearts with
the sympathy you feel for your own."
The mother, thankfully clasping the babe to her breast, saw within the
tiny arms a pomegranate, and recognized it as the miracle-fruit whose
never-withering freshness can nourish the world. Remorse and gratitude
healed her heart, and she vowed to become for ever a loving guardian to
little children. This is why in all Kishibo temples the goddess of the
altar is a demon-faced woman surrounded by children and standing in the
midst of draperies and decorations of pomegranate.
These recollections flooded my mind as I sat stitching on dainty, wee
garments into every one of which I breathed a prayer that my baby might
be a boy. I wanted a son, not only because every Japanese family
believes it most desirable that the name should be carried on without
adoption, but also for the selfish reason that both Matsuo's family
and my own would look upon me with more pride were I the mother of a
son. Neither Matsuo nor I had, to any great extent, the feeling that
woman is inferior to man, which has been so common a belief among
all classes in Japan; but law and custom being what they were, it
was such a serious inconvenience--yes, calamity--to have _no_ son,
that congratulations always fell more readily from the lips when the
first-born was a boy.
Little girls were always welcome in Japanese homes. Indeed, it was a
great sorrow to have all sons and no daughter--a calamity second only
to having all daughters and no son.
The laws of our family system were planned in consideration for customs
which themselves were based on ancient beliefs, all of which were wise
and good--for their time. But as the world moves on, and the ages
overlap each other, there come intervals when we climb haltingly; and
this means martyrdom to the advanced. Nevertheless, perhaps it is wiser
and kinder to the puzzled many for the advanced few to accommodate
themselves somewhat to fading beliefs, instead of opposing them too
bitterly, unless it should be a matter of principle, for we are
climbing; slowly, but--climbing. Nature does not hasten, and Japanese
are Nature's pupils.
Mother had a magic touch with flowers, and when spring came the crimson
rambler that formed a heavy brocade curtain on one side of our veranda
was thick with tiny buds. One morning I had gone to the door to see
Matsuo off, and was wondering how soon the tiny roses would bloom, when
I was joined by Mother.
"There are hundreds of buds here," I said. "This will be a bower
of rich beauty some day. How much joy we Japanese miss because of
superstition! Roses do not look beautiful to us, because they have
harmful thorns."
"And how much joy you have because of traditions," said Mother,
smiling. "In the poem you taught me last night,"
"The sacred lotus that bravely lifts its snowy head in purity and beauty,
Although its roots are buried in earthly mire,
Holds a lesson of pride and inspiration."
"Have you another blossom that is a teacher?"
"The modest plum," I answered quickly, "that blossoms on snow-laden
branches, is a bridal flower, because it teaches courage and endurance."
"And how about the cherry?" asked Mother.
"Oh, that has an important meaning," I replied.
"The quick-falling cherry, that lives but a day
And dies with destiny unfulfilled,
Is the brave spirit of samurai youth,
Always ready, his fresh young strength
To offer to his lord."
"Bravo!" Mother cried, clapping her hands. "This is a real, albeit a
second-rate, poetry contest that you and I are having. Do you know any
more flower poems?"
"Oh, yes--Morning glories!" And I rapidly recited in Japanese:
"In the dewy freshness of the morning, they smile respectful greetings
to the goddess of the Sun."
"Oh, Mother, this is just like Japan--the way you and I are doing now!
Japanese people often gather--a group of friends--and write poems.
They meet at a Flower Viewing festival and hang poems on the flowery
branches; or at a moon-gazing party where they sit in the light of the
moon and make poems. There is one place where the moonlight falls on a
plain of ricefields and from the mountain-side the silvery reflection
can be seen in every separate field. It is wonderful! And then
everybody goes home feeling quiet and peaceful--and with new thoughts."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mother, starting quickly toward the door, adding, as
she looked back over her shoulder, "Our poetry contest has given _me_ a
new thought!" And she disappeared within the house.
Our conversation had reminded her of a package of morning-glory seeds
that a friend had sent when she learned that a Japanese lady was living
with her.
"I had almost forgotten about them," said Mother, returning with a
trowel in her hand. "These were gathered from the vines which my friend
had grown from seeds that came from Japan. She says the blossoms are
wonderful--four and five inches across. Where shall we plant them?
We must choose some appropriate spot for the little grandseeds of a
Japanese ancestor."
"I know exactly the place!" I cried, delighted, and leading Mother to
our old-fashioned well I told her the legend of the maiden who went to
a well to draw water and, finding a morning-glory tendril twined about
the handle of the bucket, went away rather than break the tender vine.
Mother was pleased, and she planted the seeds around the well curb
while I softly hummed, over and over, the old poem:
"The morning-glory tendril has chained my heart.
Let it be:
I'll beg water of my neighbour."
We watched the vines eagerly as they reached out strong arms and
climbed steadily upward. Mother often said, "The coming of the
blossoms and of the baby will not be far apart."
One morning I saw from my window Mother and Clara standing by the
well. They were looking at the vines and talking excitedly. I hurried
downstairs and across the lawn. The blossoms were open, but were
pale, half-sized weaklings--not resembling at all the royal blossoms
we treasure so dearly in Japan. Then I remembered having read that
Japanese flowers do not like other lands and, after the first year,
gradually fade away. With a superstitious clutch at my heart, I thought
of my selfish prayer for a son and vowed to be gratefully content with
either boy or girl if only the little one bore no pitiful trace of the
transplanting.
And then the baby came--well and sweet and strong--upholding in her
perfect babyhood the traditions of both America and Japan. I forgot
that I had ever wanted a son, and Matsuo, after his first glimpse of
his little daughter, remembered that he had always liked girls better
than boys.
Whether the paper charm of Kishibo-jin was of value or not, my good
Ishi's loving thought for me was a boon to my heart during those first
weeks when I so longed for her wisdom and her love. And yet it was
well that she was not with me, for she could never have fitted into
our American life. The gentle, time-taking ways of a Japanese nurse
crooning to a little bundle of crêpe and brocade swinging in its silken
hammock on her back would never have done for my active baby, who so
soon learned to crow with delight and clutch disrespectfully at her
father's head as he tossed her aloft in his strong arms.
We decided to bring the baby up with all the healthful freedom given
to an American child, but we wanted her to have a Japanese name. The
meaning of Matsuo's name was "pine"--the emblem of strength; mine was
"ricefield"--the emblem of usefulness. "Therefore," said Matsuo, "the
baby is already a combination of strength and usefulness, but she must
have beauty also. So let us give her the name of our kind American
mother, which, translated, means 'flower.'"
"And if we use the old-fashioned termination," I cried with delight,
"it will mean 'foreign fields' or 'strange land.'"
"Hanano--Flower in a Strange Land!" cried Matsuo, clapping his hands.
"Nothing could be better."
Mother consented, and thus it was decided.
CHAPTER XXII
FLOWER IN A STRANGE LAND
For months after the baby came my entire life centred around that one
small bit of humanity. Wherever I went, and no matter who came to see
me, the conversation was sure to drift to her; and my letters to my
mother held little else than the information that a few ounces had
been added to the baby's weight, or a new accent to the little cooings
and gurglings, or that she had developed a dimple when she smiled. My
mother must have seen the germ of a too-selfish love in my devotion;
for one day I received from her a set of Buddhist picture-books which
had belonged to Father's library. How familiar and dear they looked!
There were no stories--only pictures--but as I turned the pages, I
could hear again the gentle voice of Honourable Grandmother and see
the old tales acted before my mind as plainly as in the days of my
childhood. Mother had marked some of the pages with a dot of vermilion.
On one of these was a scene from "The Mount of Spears." The story is of
a favourite disciple of Buddha who grieved so bitterly over the loss
of his beloved mother that the pitying Master exerted his holy power
and took the sorrowing son to a place from which the mother could be
seen. The disciple was horrified to behold his precious mother climbing
painfully over a hilly path made of sharp spears.
"Oh, good Master," he cried, "you have brought me to the 'Hell of Seven
Hills.' Why is my mother here? She never, throughout her life, did a
wicked deed."
"But she had a wicked thought," sadly the Buddha replied. "When you
were a baby, her only care was for you, and one day when she saw a
little field-mouse happily playing, she so longed to have its gray,
silky tail for a cord to tie your holiday coat, that her wish was
thought-murder."
I closed the book with a half-smile, for I understood at once the
wordless warning of my gentle, anxious mother; but my heart was full of
loving gratitude as I bowed respectfully in the direction of Japan and
resolved that my love for my baby should make me more thoughtful and
tender toward all the world.
One of the first callers the baby had was our faithful black laundress,
Minty. She had been washing for Mother for years, and, when I came,
she accepted the additional burden of my queer clothes with kind
good-nature. She had never spoken of them as being different from
others, but several times I noticed her examining them with interest,
especially my white foot mittens. These were made of cotton or silk,
with the great toe separated, as is the thumb of a hand mitten. When
she came upstairs to see the baby, the nurse was holding the little one
on her lap, and Minty squatted down by her side and began talking baby
talk, cooing and clucking in the most motherly fashion.
Presently she looked up.
"Can I see her feet?" she asked.
"Certainly," said the nurse, turning up the baby's long dress and
cuddling the little pink feet in her hand.
"My lawsy me!" cried Minty in a tone of the greatest astonishment. "If
they ain't jus' like ourn!"
"Of course," said the surprised nurse. "What did you think?"
"Why, the stockin's is double," said Minty, almost in a tone of awe,
"and I s'posed they wuz two-toed folks."
When the nurse told my husband he shouted with merriment and finally
said, "Well, Minty has struck back for the whole European race and got
even with Japan."
The nurse was puzzled, but I knew very well what he meant. When I was
a child it was a general belief among the common people of Japan that
Europeans had feet like horses' hoofs, because they wore leather bags
on their feet instead of sandals. That is why one of our old-fashioned
names for foreigners was "one-toed fellows."
Neither Mother nor I knew much about the latest theories of taking
care of babies; so I rocked Hanano to sleep with a lullaby. Whether or
not it was the influence of the foreign atmosphere which so entirely
surrounded me I do not know, but it seemed more natural for me to sing
"Hush-a-bye, baby!" than the old Japanese lullaby that Ishi used to
croon as she swayed back and forth with me snuggled comfortably against
her back.
"Baby, sleep! Baby, sleep!
Where has thy nurse gone?
She went far away to Grandmother's home
Over the hills and valleys.
Soon she will bring to thee
Fish and red rice,
Fish and red rice."
It was not the foreign atmosphere, however, that was responsible for
the prayer with which, as soon as she was old enough to lisp it,
Hanano was tucked into her little bed at night. That dates back to the
memory-stone day when my wonderful "Tales of the Western Seas" came to
me. In one of the thin volumes of tough paper tied with silk cord was
a musical little poem that I committed to memory, all unknowing that
years after I would teach it, clothed in strange, foreign words, to my
own little child. It was--
_Ware ima inentosu.
Waga Kami waga tamashii wo mamoritamae.
Moshi ware mesamezushite shinaba,
Shu yo! waga tamashii wo sukuetamae.
Kore, ware Shu no nani yorite negotokoro nari._
Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
This I ask for Jesus' sake.
There is a saying in Japan, "Only the fingers of a babe can tie a
uniting knot that will pull two families together." As the Japanese
marriage is not an affair of individuals I had never applied the saying
to Matsuo and myself, but one day some Mysterious Power twisted this
bit of truth into an incident that played an unsuspected and important
part in my life and in that of my husband.
Matsuo was a man who had always been vitally interested in his
business. I think that, before the baby came, there had been nothing in
his life to which it was second. He and I were very good friends, but
we seldom talked freely to each other except in the presence of others.
Indeed, we had no common topic of conversation; for he was interested
in his own plans, and my mind was taken up with my home and my new
friends. But from the day the baby came, everything was changed. Now we
had many things to talk about, and for the first time I began to feel
acquainted with my husband.
But always, deep in my heart, was the feeling that the baby was _mine_.
I did not trace any likeness to Matsuo; nor did I want to. I do not
mean that I objected to her resembling him, but that I never thought of
her as really _belonging_ to any one but myself and my own family.
One day when I was in the city I stopped for a few moments at my
husband's store. He happened to be busy and I waited in the office.
His desk looked to me in great disorder, and right in front, in a wide
pigeon-hole, was an odd thing to be in a cluttered-up office. It was a
little lacquer box of exquisite workmanship and bearing a crest that
is rarely seen outside a museum. I lifted the lid, and there, before
my startled eyes, were three strange objects--a green paper whirligig,
some little pieces of clay the baby's fingers had pressed into crude
shapes, and a collapsed balloon.
I stood still, my heart beating quickly; then I turned away, feeling as
if I had taken an unbidden glance into the heart of a stranger. In that
moment came the realization that there was another claim on my baby as
tender and as strong as my own, and with a throb of remorse my heart
turned toward my husband with a strange new feeling.
Among the strong influences in Hanano's life were the frequent calls
and unfailing kindness of our good friend Mrs. Wilson. She seldom came
that she did not bring flowers for Mother, and on Easter and family
anniversaries our parlours were bowers of bloom from her generous
conservatory.
One day, when Hanano was about a year old, she was sitting on Mother's
lap by the window when she saw the familiar carriage coming up the
driveway. It stopped and Mrs. Wilson stepped out. Glancing up and
seeing the baby she waved a white-gloved hand and smiled. The sun was
shining on her stately figure in its gown of soft heliotrope shade,
with flowers in her arms.
"Oh, oh!" cried the baby, joyfully clapping her hands. "Pretty Flower
Lady! Pretty Flower Lady!"
Thus was she christened in the baby's heart, and "Flower Lady" she has
been to us all ever since. May the many blossoms which her generous
hands have scattered far and wide bloom anew for her in all their
symbolism of happiness and peace when she reaches the beautiful gardens
across the river.
From the time when Hanano first recognized her father as a separate
individual, he brought her toys, and she was no sooner toddling about
and beginning to prattle than he spent most of his leisure time in
playing with her, carrying her about or even taking her to call on the
neighbours.
One Sunday afternoon just after Matsuo had started off somewhere with
her, Mother said: "I have never known a more devoted father than
Matsuo. Are all Japanese men as unselfish with their children?"
"Why, I--don't--know," I replied slowly. "Aren't American men fond of
their children?"
"Oh, yes," she answered quickly, "but Matsuo comes home early every
evening to play with Hanano, and the other day he closed his store for
the entire afternoon just to take her to the zoo."
My mind went back to my father--and Mr. Toda--and other fathers; and
suddenly I saw Japanese men in a new light. "They have no chance!" I
thought, a little bitterly. "An American man can show his feelings
without shame, but convention chains a Japanese man. It pulls a
mask over his face, closes his lips, and numbs his actions. However
a husband many feel toward his wife, he cannot in public show her
affection, or even respect; nor does she wish him to. It is not good
form. The only time a man of dignity dares betray his heart is when
he is with a little child--either his own or another's. Then he has
the only outlet that etiquette allows; and even then he must guide his
actions by rule. A father becomes his little son's comrade. He wrestles
with him, races with him, and acts with him scenes of samurai daring,
but he loves his little daughter with a great tenderness and accepts
her gentle caresses with a heart hunger that is such pathos it is
tragedy."
Matsuo was more demonstrative to me than would have been polite had we
been living in Japan, but we both respected formality, and it was years
before I realized how deep were his feelings for his family.
After that remark of Mother's and the thoughts that it aroused I
delayed Hanano's bedtime, and she had many a romp with her father after
the hour when children are supposed to be asleep. One moonlight evening
I came down and found them running around the lawn, chasing each other
and dodging this way and that, while Mother sat on the porch laughing
and applauding. They were playing, "Shadow catch Shadow."
"I used to play that on moonlight nights when I was a little girl," I
said.
"Why, is there a moon in Japan?" asked Hanano in great surprise.
"This very same one," her father replied. "Wherever you go, all your
life, you will see it above you in the sky."
"Then it walks with me," said Hanano with satisfaction, "and when I go
to Japan, God will be with me and can see my Japanese grandma."
Matsuo and I glanced at each other, a little puzzled. Hanano had
always associated the Man in the Moon with the face of God, but I did
not know until afterward that she had heard a lady who was calling on
Mother that afternoon express regret that "beautiful Japan is a country
without God."
Hanano's odd idea was somewhat startling, but it was a pleasant one
to her and I did not correct it. "She will learn soon enough in this
practical country," I thought with a sigh. In Japan children are saved
many a puzzling heart-ache, for most of our people retain sympathy
for childish illusions even to old age; thus poetic fancies are as
apt to be too suddenly shattered. Daily life over there is full of
mystic thought. To the masses of people, nothing in the active life
about us is more real than the unseen forces which people the earth
and air; and no day passes that does not bring to almost everyone some
suggestion of the presence of kindly spirits. Most of the gods we look
upon as friendly comrades, and the simple duties we owe them we perform
with calm and pleasant feelings of gratitude and courtesy. There is
little fear of penalty for neglect other than humiliation for a lack
of politeness, which weighs a good deal with a Japanese. The house
shrines remind us that relatives are watching over us, and we show our
appreciation with incense and prayer. The fire goddess is the helpful
ruler of the kitchen, whose thanks are the slender ends of a weave of
cloth hung beside the kitchen fire-box. The goodly god of rice asks
that we keep the fire beneath the rice-kettle free from rubbish. The
water goddess, who blesses the streams and rivers, demands that the
wells be clean. The seven gods of fortune--Industry, Wealth, Wisdom,
Strength, Beauty, Happiness, and Long Life--are seen everywhere and
always greeted with a smiling welcome; and the two especially honoured
by tradesmen, Industry and Wealth, are perched on a prominent shelf in
every store, from which their faces look down, giving to the master the
comfortable assurance that friends are near. The hideous gods beside
temple doors are not hideous to us, for they are the fierce watch-dogs
who protect us from danger, and the gods of the air--Thunder, Wind, and
Rain--are guardians for our good. Above all these lesser gods the Sun
goddess, ancestress of our Imperial line, watches over the entire land
with kindly, helpful light.
These various gods are a confused mixture of Shinto and Buddhist; for
the religion of the masses vaguely combines both beliefs. As a rule
this is not a religion of fear, although the evil spirits of the
hells, if seriously accepted as pictured in ancient Buddhist books,
are fearful indeed; but even they allow two days in each year when the
repentant may climb to a higher plane. Thus, to the Japanese, even
the sad and puzzling path of transmigration, into which unconscious
footsteps so often wander, leads at last, after the long period of
helplessness and gloom, to a final hope.
Buddhism, on its ages-long journey from India to Japan, seems to have
dropped many of its original elements of terror; or else they were
softened and lost in the goodly company of our jolly and helpful Shinto
gods. Not one of these do we dread, for, in Shintoism, even Death is
only a floating cloud through which we pass on our journey in the
sunshine of Nature's eternal life.
Our man-made laws of convention have had more power in moulding the
lives of the people and have left a more lasting stamp on their souls
than have our gods. Our complex religion arouses the interest of the
intellectual, and it teaches genuine resignation; but it does not guide
the ignorant with a comprehending wisdom, nor does it give to the
brooding and the sorrowful the immediate comfort of cheerfulness and
hope that comes with a belief in the peasant priest of Nazareth.
CHAPTER XXIII
CHIYO
After Hanano had learned that the moon was a friend she could depend
upon wherever she might travel, she became intensely interested in moon
stories. I postponed telling her the legend of the white rabbit who is
fated for all time to pound rice dough in a great wooden bowl, for it
is his shadow which Japanese children see in every full moon; and I
thought I would allow her to drift gradually from her idealization of
the American legend. But I told her of our moon-gazing parties where
families or groups of friends gather in some beautiful open spot and
write poems praising the brilliant leaves of the moon vine which causes
the glow of autumn that in America is called Indian summer.
We were sitting on the doorstep of the back parlour one evening,
looking out across the porch at the moon sailing round and clear in
a cloudless sky, and I told her how in Japan, on that very night,
every house, from the palace of the Emperor to the hut of his humblest
subject, would have on the porch or in the garden, where it could
catch the glow of the full moon, a small table with fruits and
vegetables--everything round--arranged in a certain manner, in honour
of the goddess of the moon.
"Oh, how pretty!" cried Hanano. "I wish I could be there to see!"
There was the rustling of a newspaper behind us.
"Etsu," called Matsuo, "there is some kind of a child's story about
that celebration. I remember once when my elder sister and I had been
teasing our little sister, who was a timid child, that my aunt told
us a story of gentle Lady Moon and naughty Rain and Wind who tried to
spoil her pleasure on an August full-moon night."
"Oh, tell me!" cried Hanano, clapping her hands and running to her
father.
"I'm not much on stories," said Matsuo, taking up his paper again, "but
your mother will know it. Etsu, you tell it to her."
So Hanano came back to the doorstep, and I tried to recall the
half-forgotten story of
LADY MOON AND HER ENEMIES
One pleasant evening in August the beautiful Lady Moon was sitting in
front of her toilet stand. As she lifted the powder puff to clear and
soften her bright colouring she said to herself:
"I must not disappoint the Earth people to-night. Of all the nights of
the year they look forward to the 'Honourable Fifteenth,' for this is
the time when my beauty is at the crown of its glory."
Turning the mirror a trifle, she carefully arranged her fluffy collar.
"It seems a poor sort of life--to do just nothing but smile and look
happy! But that is my only way to gladden the world, so to-night I
will shine my brightest and best. And," she added, as she peeped over
the edge of her balcony and saw the Earth beneath, "after all, it is a
pleasant duty--especially to-night!"
It was no wonder she smiled with pleasure, for the whole world was
decorated in her honour. Every city and town, every little village,
every lonely hut on the mountain-side, and every humble fisher cot on
the shore had upon its porch or placed in front where it could be seen
by the eye of the Lady Moon a tiny table laden with treasure balls.
There were rice dumplings, chestnuts, potatoes, persimmons, peas,
and plums, and, standing in their midst, two circular _sake_ vases,
holding, stiff and upright, their folded white papers. Everything had
been carefully selected as being the nearest a perfect round in shape
that could be obtained, for "round" is the symbol of perfection, and
on this night only the very best of everything was considered worthy
to be shown to the pure and perfect "Lady of the Sky."
Mistress Rain, who lived near Lady Moon, peered through her misty
windows with envious eyes. She saw the Earth houses decorated in
honour of her neighbour, and caught the breath of the messages
floating upward from the lips of young girls: "Great Mysterious! Make
my heart as pure as the moonbeams and my life as perfect as the bright
and round Lady Moon above!"
As Mistress Rain listened she swished her skirts so viciously that all
the umbrellas which decorated them suddenly flew open, and she had
to clutch them quickly to keep the water with which they were filled
from spilling over the Earth. Even as it was, a shower of drops fell
sparkling through the moonlight, and the Earth people looked up in
surprise.
"I haven't seen the like since last August," continued the angry
Mistress Rain. "Every flower vase on the earth appears to be filled
with August moon-flowers, and all the porches are newly polished and
spread with finest cushions, so the honourable aged ones may be seated
where they can behold the glory of Lady Moon. It is not fair!"
There was another swish, and again a shower of rain drops went
sparkling through the moonlight.
Just then the Wind god sailed by, holding tight in his hands the ends
of his bag of breezes. Mistress Rain noticed the dark scowl on his
brow, and called:
"Good evening, Kase no kami San! I am glad to see you passing this
way. You look as if you are searching for unexpected work."
The Wind god stopped and seated himself upon a cloud, still holding
tight to the ends of the bag.
"Earth beings are the queerest of creatures!" he complained. "Lady
Moon lives in the world of Sky, and so do we; yet they think only of
her! She has an honourable title given to her, and not a single month
of the year passes that the fifteenth day is not observed in her
honour. Even on the third day, when she climbs out of her cellar, they
welcome her face as she peeps over the wall with such joy that one
would think they had never expected to see her again!"
"Yes, yes!" excitedly cried Mistress Rain, "and especially this August
night! They always look with anxious eyes for fear that you or I may
appear, although uninvited and unwelcome."
"This August night!" exclaimed the Wind god with great scorn. "Yes,
this very night I'd like to show those Earth creatures what I could
do!"
"It would be such fun," said sly Mistress Rain, "to go with a rush and
upset all the things displayed in honour of Lady Moon."
"Ho! Ho! Ho!" laughed the Wind god, so pleased with the idea that he
loosened his hold on one end of the bag, and a sudden gust of wind
swept through the sky, causing consternation among the Earth people.
Lady Moon was quietly and calmly smiling upon the world, her mind busy
with gentle and unselfish thoughts, when the Wind god and Mistress
Rain silently slipped behind the mountains and journeyed a long way so
that they could come unexpectedly from the side of the sea. But Lady
Moon saw them, and, sad and disappointed, she hid behind a curtain
while her triumphant enemies swept on over the world.
Oh, it was a terrific whirl of angry Wind and Rain! On rushed the god,
pushing his big bag before him with loosened ends, and close behind
whirled Mistress Rain with a loud "swish!--swish!" as torrents of
water poured from the hundreds of wide-open umbrellas on her skirts.
But, ah, what disappointment was theirs! The rollicking laugh of the
Wind god, which had loosened for an instant his hold on the end of
the bag, had been warning enough, even if the sharp-eyed Earth people
had not seen the clouds of mist sweeping around the mountains. Every
house was prepared for the storm. The beautiful little tables had
disappeared, and the wild rushes of Wind and Rain were met by closed
wooden doors. They howled and shrieked and darted and whirled until
both were exhausted; then, with the god muttering and Mistress Rain
weeping, they hurried across the valley to their homes.
When all was once more quiet the sorrowful Lady Moon lifted her head.
"My pleasure is spoiled!" she sighed. "The beautiful decorations of
the Earth houses are now hidden, and the people have closed their eyes
in sleep."
Suddenly a brilliant smile spread over her face, and she said bravely:
"But I will do my duty! Even though no one sees me, I will smile my
brightest and best!"
She pushed aside her curtain and looked down upon the world. Her
gentle, unselfish sweetness received its reward, for all the doors
of the Earth houses were open wide, and the people were gathered on
the porches watching for her face. When it appeared songs of welcome
floated upward.
"Oh, see the beautiful Lady Moon!" the voices cried. "Again she
smiles upon us! After a storm she is always doubly beautiful, and all
the world is doubly glad!"
"That's a very moral story," said Hanano thoughtfully. "I feel kind of
sorry for Mr. Wind and Mrs. Rain, but I love Lady Moon. Let us fix a
table like they have in Japan. Clara will give us the things and the
moonshine is beautiful on our porch edge."
"I have something just as good," said Matsuo, starting for the
stairway. "Wait a moment."
He brought a small wooden box and put it on the table. It was a
phonograph with records on spools of wax and with a little horn
attached, into which we could talk and make records of our own voices.
Matsuo was to start to Japan in a few days on a business trip and he
had selected the phonograph as a gift for my mother, that it might
carry to her the voice of her little granddaughter. We called Mother,
and all of us had quite an exciting time watching Matsuo arrange the
machine. Then he took his seat before it, with Hanano on his lap, and
they had a rehearsal. Not until she began to prattle away in her sweet,
childish English did it dawn upon us that her puzzled grandmother would
not be able to understand a word that she said.
This made us realize what a little American we had in our Japanese
nest, and brought directly before us one of the great problems of Japan.
"If our daughter were a boy," Matsuo said that night, "we might have
reason to look serious. I should not want to prepare my son to live
in a country where, if capable, he would not be welcome to occupy the
highest position his country has to offer its citizens."
"Even for our daughter," I replied, "there is no permanent place in
this country; nor in Japan either, with only an American education."
The result of this conversation was that when Matsuo returned from
Japan he brought an entire set of school readers, from kindergarten to
high school; also the five steps of articles for the Doll Festival.
This festival is ages old and educational in character. Any one who
understands it thoroughly has a nearly complete knowledge of Japanese
folklore, history, customs, and ideals. Every girl has a doll festival
set, and when she marries, takes it with her to her new home. The set
Matsuo brought to Hanano was mine--the one which Brother objected to my
bringing with me to America.
When the set came we all went out to the big, light carriage house, and
after William had opened the rough board box, Matsuo and he carefully
lifted out the smooth, various-sized whitewood boxes, each holding a
doll. My eyes fell on a long, flat package wrapped in purple crêpe
bearing the Inagaki crest.
"Why, Mother has sent the Komoro _kamibina_!" I cried in astonishment,
lifting the package respectfully to my forehead.
"I thought all the Komoro dolls were gone except the two that you used
to play with," said Mother.
"The _kamibina_ are different," said Matsuo.
"Yes," I said slowly, "the _kamibina_ are different. They belong to the
family. They can never be sold, or given away, or disposed of in any
way. My mother must have had these put away for years--and now she has
sent them to me."
I was touched, for it brought forcibly before me the truth that I was
the last of the "honourable inside" of the house of Inagaki. A doll
festival set belonged to the daughter; the master of the house having
no control over the home department.
No doll festival set, however elaborate, is complete without these
two long, odd-shaped dolls. In olden time they were always of paper.
Later, extravagant families sometimes made them of brocade or crêpe,
but however rich the material, they were _called_ paper dolls and were
always folded in the same crude shape of the primitive originals. When
the set is arranged for the celebration, these dolls have no fixed
place, as all the others have, but may be put anywhere, except on the
top shelf reserved for the Emperor and Empress.
The origin of the Doll Festival reaches back to the crude days of
Shintoism. At that time a sinful person would seek purification by
bathing in a stream. As time passed, and power or riches brought
independent thought, it became customary for the lazy and the luxurious
to send a substitute. Still later, an inanimate sacrifice in human form
was considered satisfactory, and from anything near and dear as a part
of one's own self the two images were made. There were tiny wooden
spools, two cocoons or simply shaped bunches of floss, the most valued
possession of weaving villages; even crudely cut vegetables in farming
districts. There were always two, supposed to be male and female, thus
representing the entire family--both men and women members. Gradually,
dolls rudely cut from paper--a precious material in those days--came
to be universally used and were called _kamibina_ which means "paper
dolls."
In time one fixed date was decided upon for universal atonement, and
the "First Serpent Day of Spring" was chosen, because the time of the
dragon's change of skin is symbolic of the slipping from winter's
darkness of sin into the light and hope of spring. That date is the one
still observed.
In the days of shogun power, when the Emperor was considered too
sacred to be seen, this festival represented an annual visit from the
invisible ruler to show his personal interest in his people; thus
it encouraged loyalty to the loved and unseen Emperor. In feudal
times, when, in the samurai class, a wife's duties became those of
her absent husband, and children were necessarily left to the care of
high-bred attendants, this festival became, in those families, the only
opportunity for girls to be trained in the domestic duties which were
such an essential part of every Japanese girl's education.
The lunar calendar advanced "First Serpent Day" to March 3d, and after
Hanano's set came, we celebrated that day each year just as it is done
in Japan. Five steps were put up in the parlour and covered with red
cloth. On these we arranged the miniature Emperor and Empress with
court ladies, musicians, and various attendants. There were also doll
furniture and household implements. On the lowest steps were tiny
tables with food prepared by Hanano herself, with some help from me,
and served by her to the playmates who were always invited to join
her. And so "Third Day of Third Month" came to be looked forward to by
Hanano's little American friends just as it has been by little Japanese
girls for almost a thousand years.
One of these celebrations, when Hanano was almost five years old,
was an especially busy day for her, as, in addition to her duties as
hostess, she received several telephone messages of congratulation,
to which, with a feeling of great importance, she replied in person.
Her happy day was made more so because her best friend, Susan, brought
her little sister, a delicate-faced, golden-haired child who was just
learning to walk. Hanano was a gracious hostess to all, but she was
especially attentive to the dainty little toddler. That night when
she was ready for her usual evening prayer she looked up at me very
seriously.
"Mamma, may I say to God just what I please?" she asked.
"Yes, dear," I replied, but I was startled when, from the little bowed
figure with clasped hands, came a sudden, "Hello, God!"
I reached out my hand to check her. Then I remembered that I had
always taught her to respect her father next to God, and that was the
greeting she used to him when he was too far away to be seen. I softly
withdrew my hand. Then again I was startled by the solemn little voice,
whispering, "Please give me a little sister like Susan's."
I was too much surprised to speak, and she went on with "Now I lay me"
to the end.
As I tucked her into bed I said, "How did you happen to ask God for a
little sister, Hanano?"
"That's how Susan got her sister," she replied. "She prayed for her a
long time, and now she's here."
I went away a little awed, for I knew her prayer would be answered.
The March festival was long past, and May almost gone, when one morning
Hanano's father told her that she had a little sister and led her into
the room where the baby was. Hanano gazed with wide-open, astonished
eyes upon black-haired, pink-faced little Chiyo. She said not a word
but walked straight down the stairs to Grandma.
"I didn't pray for _that_," she told Mother, with a troubled look. "I
wanted a baby with yellow hair like Susan's little sister."
Clara happened to be in the room, and with the freedom of an American
servant, said, "Yellow hair on a Japanese baby _would_ be a funny
sight!" and burst out laughing.
"It's _not_ a Japanese baby!" Hanano indignantly cried. "I didn't _ask_
for a Japanese baby! I don't _want_ a Japanese baby!"
Mother took the child on her lap and told her how proud we all were
to have two little Japanese girls in our home, and so brought a slow
comfort to the disappointed little heart.
That afternoon Mother saw Hanano sitting a long time very quietly in
front of the big mirror that stood between the two front windows of the
parlour.
"What is it you see, dear?" Mother asked.
"I s'pose I'm a Japanese girl, too," Hanano answered slowly. "I don't
look like Susan or Alice."
She winked several times very fast, then, with a choking gulp, her
loyalty to blue eyes and yellow hair succumbed to loyalty to love, and
she added, "But Mamma is pretty! I'm going to be like her!" and climbed
down from the chair.
No one can sound the depths of a child's thoughts, but from that day
Hanano developed an interest in Japanese things. Matsuo was fond of
listening to her prattle and of playing with her, but she depended
upon me for stories; and so, night after night, I would talk of our
heroes and repeat to her the songs and fairy lore which had been part
of my child life. Best of all she liked to have me talk of the pretty
black-haired children--I always said they were pretty--who made chains
of cherry blossoms or played games in a garden with a stone lantern and
a curving bridge that spanned a pond set in the midst of flowers and
tiny trees. I almost grew homesick as I painted these word pictures for
her, or sat in the twilight singing a plaintive Japanese lullaby to the
baby, while Hanano stood beside me, humming softly beneath her breath.
Was this sudden love for the land she had never seen an inheritance,
or--for children sometimes seem to be uncannily endowed with
insight--was it premonition?
One day the old familiar world ended for me, leaving me with
memories--comforting ones and regretful ones--all closely wrapped in a
whirl of anxious, frightened questioning, for no longer had I a husband
or my children a father. Matsuo, with a last merry word and a sleepy
smile, had quickly and painlessly slipped over the border into the
old-new country beyond our ken.
And now, for my children and myself, nothing was left but farewells and
a long, lonely journey. The country that had reached out so pleasant
a welcome to me, that had so willingly pardoned my ignorance and my
mistakes, the country where my children were born and where I had
received kindness greater than words can express--this wonderful, busy,
practical country had no need of, nor did it want, anything that I
could give. It had been a broad, kindly, loving home for me and mine,
but a place for the present only. It held no promise of usefulness for
my growing children and had no need of my old age. And what is life if
one can only learn, and of what one learns give nothing?
The past years were like a dream. From a land of misty, poetic ideas
I had drifted through a puzzling tangle of practical deeds, gathering
valuable thoughts as I floated easily along, and now--back to the land
of mist and poesy. What was ahead of me? I wondered.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN JAPAN AGAIN
When the weary sight of tumbling and tossing waves was past and I was
once again in Japan, I found myself in the midst of surroundings almost
as strange as those I had met when I landed in America.
The provinces and classes in Japan had for so many centuries held
steadfast, each to its own customs, that even yet there were only
occasional evidences to be seen of their slow yielding to the
equalizing influences of modern life; and I had gone at once to
Matsuo's home in western Japan, where standards of dress and etiquette,
ideals, and even idioms of speech were entirely different from those of
either Nagaoka or Tokyo.
We were met on our arrival by a crowd of Matsuo's relatives, all in
ceremonial dress, for we had brought the sacred ashes with us; and from
then until the forty-nine days of ceremonies for the dead were over, I
was treated as an honoured messenger-guest. After that my position was
very humble, for a son's widow is an unimportant person in Japan, and,
virtually, that is what I was, Matsuo having been, until he decided to
remain in America, the adopted son of Uncle Otani.
I was very anxious about my little girls; for in Japan children belong
to the family--not to the parents. Hanano, on the death of her father,
had become the head of our little family, but we were only a branch
of the main family of which Uncle Otani was the head. So it had been
taken for granted by all relatives, my own as well as Matsuo's, that
the children and I would make our home with Uncle Otani. He would have
made room for me in his handsome house and would have supplied me with
beautiful clothes, but I should have had no authority, even over my own
children. This might not have been so bad under some circumstances;
for Uncle Otani would have been generous in giving the children every
advantage that he considered proper for them to have. But with all his
kindness--and a kinder man never lived--I could not forget that he
belonged to the old-fashioned merchant class that considered education
beyond the grammar school undesirable for girls.
The situation was difficult; for, from my humble position, I could not
say a word. But I had one hope. Hanano, although legal head of our
family, was a minor; and her mother, as present regent, held a certain
power. Exerting this, I asked for a consultation with Uncle Otani. I
explained to him that Matsuo had expressed in his will a desire that,
since he had no son, his daughters should receive the liberal education
that had been planned for them in America. Then I boldly asked, in
Hanano's name and by the power of her father's request, that I should
be allowed the privilege of guiding their studies.
Uncle Otani was astonished at such an unheard-of request, but the
situation was unusual and a family council was summoned at once. In
the case of a consultation concerning a widow, it is customary for
her family to be represented; and Brother being unable to be present,
Mother sent in his place my progressive Tokyo uncle--the one who had
taken so vigorous a part in our council meetings before my marriage.
It was necessary for Hanano, as official head of her family, to be
present, but of course she was to speak only through me.
Since she had not yet learned to wear Japanese dress properly, I put
on her best white dress, trimmed with lace and ruffles. I arranged
everything so that it would be very loose; for it is difficult to sit
quietly in Japanese fashion while wearing American clothing, and yet
it is inexcusably rude at a ceremonial gathering to move--however
slightly--the lower part of the body. I explained this to Hanano, and
told her how her grandfather, when two years younger than she, had
held the seat of state in the formidable political meetings before
the Restoration. "Honourable Grandmother told me he always sat very
straight and was dignified," I said, "and you must be like him." Then
we went in to the meeting.
I could not help being uneasy about the way my bold request might be
received. To most of the council I was nothing but a widowed dependant
of my daughter--a woman with advanced and peculiar notions--and they
had the power, if three voices of the council disapproved of me and
my ideas, not only to refuse my request, but to separate me from my
children entirely. I should be well provided for, in my present home,
if I chose, or elsewhere, but the children would remain with their
father's people; and no law of Heaven or earth was powerful enough in
Japan to prevent it. Matsuo's family had no desire to do any unjust
thing; nor did I suspect that they had, but--they held the power.
The conference, which was long, consisted of a series of polite
suggestions and earnest, but never excited, arguments. I listened with
my head bowed, occasionally--but not too often--glancing toward my
little anxious-eyed daughter, sitting erect and motionless in the midst
of the dignified row of elders. For two hours she did not move. Then
one poor, cramped little leg jerked, her fluffy dress spread out, and
with a quick catching at her knee, she gasped, "Oh!"
Not a face turned toward her, but with an anguished clutch in my throat
I bowed to the floor, saying, "I humbly pray the honourable council
to pardon the rudeness of my foreign-trained child, and permit her to
retire with me from the august assembly."
Uncle Otani, without moving, gave a grunt of assent.
As I made my last bow at the sliding door and slipped it back in place,
my Tokyo uncle tapped his pipe carefully against the rim of the tobacco
box by his side.
"It is fortunate that O Etsu San seems a reliable woman," he said
slowly; "for surely it would be a puzzling venture for any of us to
take into our family two rough American children with their untrained
feet, their flouncing garments, and their abrupt speech."
Whether that remark was intended to be kind or cruel, I never knew; and
whether or not it had influence, I never knew; but after another hour
of slow, careful, earnest, and perfectly fair discussion, the council
decided that on account of Matsuo's request, combined with the fact
that his widow appeared to be a trustworthy person, consent was given
to a temporary trial of the experiment.
That night I pulled my cushions in between my children's beds--close,
close--and crept beneath the covers, faint with relief and gratitude.
CHAPTER XXV
OUR TOKYO HOME
A few weeks later the children and I, with capable little Sudzu in the
kitchen, were settled in a pretty home in Tokyo. The arrangement with
Matsuo's family was that some one of the relatives would visit us at
intervals to see that everything was satisfactory; and that I was to
consult the council about every new, even trifling, problem which might
arise.
I was chained--but I was content.
My relatives in Nagaoka were much concerned over my peculiar position;
and Mother, because it would be undignified for a young widow to be
alone, decided to come and live with us. Not being able, however, to
make immediate arrangements, she sent Taki, who was now a widow, and
who, because her father and her grandfather had served in our family,
had claimed the right to return to Mother and calmly settle herself
as a member of the household. When she came to Tokyo she at once
assumed the combined responsibilities of chaperon, house-keeper, cook,
seamstress, and commander-general of us all--including Sudzu.
In less than three days Taki had discovered the best fish-shop in
the neighbourhood; and in less than a week all second-rate vegetable
venders and fruit peddlers went trotting by our kitchen door, holding
their swinging baskets away from the keen eyes of our countrywoman who
knew so well when the first blush of freshness was gone.
From the first I relied entirely upon Taki's judgment. Nevertheless,
I had some annoying experiences, for to her heart I was still little
Etsu-bo Sama, although her lips acknowledged that I had reached the
dignified position of "Oku Sama"--Honourable Mistress--and although
I had acquired some wonderful ideas and possessed two astonishingly
active children, who dressed queerly and talked too loud.
My troubles began the very first night. After Taki had closed the
outside gates and fastened the front and kitchen doors I heard her
sliding the wooden panels which ran along the outer edge of the porch
overlooking the garden. These were for protection in stormy weather
and to keep us safe at night, but when closed they shut out the air
completely.
"Don't close the _amadoes_ tight, Taki," I called. "Leave a little
space between them. We need fresh air for the rooms."
"_Maa! Maa!_" cried Taki, with profound astonishment in her voice. "You
left your home when you had but little learning, Oku Sama. Air without
the smile of the august Sun goddess has poison in it."
"But, Taki," I protested, "this is like a foreign house. It has gas for
the heaters, and we need outside air, even at night."
She hesitated, evidently much distressed.
"It may be that air in the honourable foreign house is different," she
muttered, "but it seems peculiar--peculiar. And besides, it is not safe
in a great city where burglars live."
She walked away shaking her head and grumbling to herself. Feeling that
I had established my authority, I went to bed, only to be awakened by
a stealthy, intermittent rumbling, which presently ended in a muffled
snap as Taki pushed in the wooden bolt of the last panel.
"Well," I said to myself, half provoked, half amused, "Taki always had
her own way, even with the jailer of Nagaoka prison. So what could _I_
expect!"
Like many Japanese women of the working class, Taki had been obliged to
take a large share of the burden of livelihood on her own shoulders.
Her husband was a kind man and a good workman, but he drank too much
_sake_, and that meant not only a mysterious slipping away of wages,
but frequent imprisonment for debt.
Whenever this happened Taki came to our home, and Mother would give
her employment until she had saved enough to set her husband free. One
day while she was working for us, my older sister went out with her
on an errand. Just beyond the gate they saw two men approaching. One
was a well-dressed man, his head covered with the basket mask worn by
all prisoners outside the walls. Sister said that Taki stood still,
watching the men suspiciously, and did not seem surprised when they
stopped.
The officer bowed and said pleasantly: "Only three _yen_ is due now.
Pay that and he is free."
"Oh, please, Mr. Officer," exclaimed Taki in great distress, "_please_
keep him just a few weeks longer. Then I shall have all the debts paid
and a little start for the next time. _Please_ keep him just a little
longer. Please!"
The husband, poor man, stood meekly by while his wife and the officer
argued, but Taki stubbornly refused to pay the three _yen_, and the
officer walked away with his basket-headed prisoner. Taki stood looking
after them, triumphant. But a few moments later she pulled a fold of
paper from her sash and, wiping her eyes, sniffed a few times and said:
"Come, little Mistress; we have wasted much time. We must hurry!"
I said nothing more about not closing the _amadoes_, but several days
later I had a carpenter put up a wide, open-work strip of carved
iris--the flower of health--between the eaves and the top of the
panels. At intervals were inserted iron bars run through the hollow
tubes of bamboo. Thus we were safe in every way; for not enough poison
air could filter through the health-giving blossoms of the carving to
injure us, even in the opinion of our good, fanatical Taki.
The children surprised me by the readiness with which they accepted
conditions in this strange land. Hanano, from babyhood, had been
attracted by new things, and I concluded that our life of constant
change had kept her from homesickness. And three-year-old Chiyo--who
had always been a contented little thing--seemed so happy in the
unbroken companionship of her sister that I did not realize the
possibility of her having opinions and desires of her own. While we
were visiting she expected strange things, but when we reached a place
that I called "home" and she found her clothing arranged in drawers and
her playthings put where she could get them, she began to miss many
things.
"Mamma," she said one day, coming up and leaning against my shoulder as
I sat sewing, "Chiyo wants----"
"What does Chiyo want?" I asked.
She took my hand and led me slowly through our six tiny rooms. White
mats were on all the floors except the kitchen. In the parlour alcove
hung a roll picture with a flower arrangement on the polished platform
beneath. A small upright piano stood in one corner. Sliding doors
of silk separated the parlour from my own and the children's rooms,
side by side, just beyond. In both, standing against the tan-coloured
plaster wall, were whitewood chests of drawers with ornamental iron
handles. My desk and Hanano's, both low white tables with books and
pen-stands on top, were so placed that, when the paper sliding doors
were pushed back, we could see across the narrow porch into our pretty
little garden with its well-trimmed shrubbery, its curved path of
stepping-stones, and its small lake with nine darting gold-fish.
The dining room, at right angles to our rooms, overlooked the garden,
too. It was the sunniest room in the house. The closets were hidden
by sliding doors covered with tan-coloured tapestry, and the long,
square-cornered fire-box with drawers--the invariable adjunct of every
dining room in Japan--was a handsome one of white birch. On one side
was always a cushion, ready any moment for the mistress when she came
to talk over house matters with the maid, called from the kitchen just
behind another tan-coloured door which looked a part of the wall. The
bathroom, Taki's and Sudzu's room, and the servants' entrance, were
just beyond. Our own "shoe-off place" and entrance hall were in front,
opening toward the big wooden gates with the "camel's-eye door" in one
of them.
From room to room Chiyo led me, stopping in each and pointing aimlessly
here and there. "Chiyo wants----" she repeated, but her wants were so
many that she had no words. The emptiness, which I loved, oppressed
her. She longed for the big canopy beds of Mother's home, for the
deep-cushioned chairs, the large mirrors, the big square piano,
the flowered carpets and the windows curtained with lace, the high
ceilings, the wide rooms, the spaciousness! I looked at the wistful
little face and my heart smote me. But when she pulled my sleeve and,
burying her face in the folds of my dress, said piteously, "Oh, Mamma,
take me home to Grandma and Papa's picture! Please! Please!" I caught
her in my arms and, sinking to the floor, hugged her close and, for the
first time since I could remember, I sobbed aloud.
But this must not last. Where was my samurai blood? Where my childhood
training? Had my years of unrestrained freedom in America weakened my
character and taken away my courage? My honourable father would be
shamed.
"Come, Little Daughter," I said, choking and laughing together, "Chiyo
has shown Mamma what we have not in our new house; now Mamma will show
Chiyo what we have."
So, gaily we went over the same road. In the parlour I pushed back the
low silk doors beneath the moon window, and we saw two deep shelves in
which were neatly arranged all of Hanano's and Chiyo's pretty books
from America. I pointed to the wonderful panel over the doors--a broad,
thin slab of wood, strangely delicate and beautiful--carved by unknown
years of dashing waves into its odd, inimitable pattern. I showed her
the post of the alcove: only the scaled and twisted trunk of a forest
pine, yet so polished that it looked as if it were enclosed in crystal.
We looked at the rich, dark wood of the alcove floor, "as smooth and
shining as Grandma's mirrors in the big parlour at home," I told
her, and she bent over to see the reflection of a grave little face,
changing, as she looked, into one with a twisty smile. In another room
I opened the tiny door of our unused shrine. Within the dainty carved
interior stood her father's picture, framed in America, which was to
hang over the piano when the carpenter could come to put it up. I
showed her the big closets where our bed cushions slept in the daytime,
gathering, in their silken flowers, talk, music, and laughter to weave
into pleasant dreams for her to find hidden in her pillow at night. I
gently opened the wee mountain of ashes in the dining-room fire-box so
that she could see the softly glowing charcoal, always waiting with
warmth and comfort for any one who wanted a sip of tea. I had her peep
into the tiny drawers--one for small rice-cakes of pink and white, in
case a child should come to visit, one for extra chopsticks, and one
for a tiny can of tea with its broad wooden spoon near by. But the
big, broad drawer at the bottom--Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--we didn't need at
all. That was made for some old-fashioned grandmother who sometimes,
after she had told a fairy story to her little grandchild, would reach
in for a long, slender pipe with a silver thimble for a bowl. After
three whiffs she would tap it on the edge of the box--just here--three
times, tap-tap-tap, and then put it away with its fragrant silken bag
(sniff, sniff!--poof, poof! Mamma doesn't like!) to wait for another
time of meditation or loneliness, or perhaps for an hour when another
dear old grandmother might chance to call. Then there would be three
more whiffs, or perhaps double three, while the two grandmothers sipped
their tea and talked in gentle voices of olden time.
"And here is where Sudzu keeps the boats of the food fairies," I said,
"all waiting for their burden of good things to eat."
I pushed back one of the panels which didn't look at all like a door,
and we peeped into a closet of many shallow shelves, on which, in piles
of five, were wooden bowls for soup, china bowls for rice, oval plates
for fish, deep ones for pickles, and many plates and cups and dishes,
each shaped for a special purpose and each decoration telling a story
of old Japan. Below were our lacquer tables, each a foot square and a
foot high; and piled up, a little distance away, were our cushions,
"Just One and Two and Three,
For She and Her and Me!"
as Hanano sang when Sudzu brought them out for meals.
"And now the kitchen," I went on. "This door doesn't slide, but
opens by turning a little bronze pine-cone. Step into these sandals,
Chiyo; for no one goes into the kitchen with only foot mittens on--or
stockings. Here we are! One half the floor is of smooth, dark boards,
you see, and the other half--step down!--of cement. There is the gas
range, and close beside it a pottery fire-box for the big swelling
rice-kettle with its heavy wooden top. No bit of waste-paper or scrap
of any kind must be thrown on _that_ fire; only straw to start it and
charcoal to continue it, for it is used just to cook rice--the staff of
life for Japan--and we must treat it with respect. Here comes Taki; and
now she will show us something, little Chiyo, that will make you want
to run to the big box that smells all camphory, like the forest near
Uncle Otani's house, and get out the fur collar that Grandma gave you
last Christmas Day. See!"
Taki stuck two fingers in two little holes in one of the narrow boards
of the floor and lifted it; then another, and another. Next, up came
a light, broad square of whitewood, and there, within easy reach of
Taki's hand, was a small cellar where was a block of ice, roughly cut
in shelves, on which were set wooden plates of fish and vegetables,
eggs and fruit.
"That is what becomes of the cold, cold bundle the man brings every
morning in the straw saddle on his back," I said. "And there is Taki's
wooden sink, standing high up from the cement part of the floor, just
like a table with legs made of water-pipes.
"Now, turn to the right. Down the narrow little hall we go--five steps
of mine and eight of yours--and here we are in the bathroom. The oval
whitewood tub, with its two faucets above and little row of gaslights
below, is so deep that even Mamma can kneel with the water up to her
chin. Here are the three little shelves for our bran-bag, cup, and
toothbrush, each with a carved towel-hanger below; and over in the
corner is a big bamboo basket for laundry and a coil of hose to water
the garden. Oh, it's a very interesting little house, Chiyo; just like
a big play-house, with Mamma at home all the time to play with you when
Hanano has gone to school."
CHAPTER XXVI
TRAGIC TRIFLES
My finding a suitable school for Chiyo almost at once was a piece of
good fortune. Not far from our house there lived a gifted educator
who was interested in modern methods of teaching young children. He
and his wife had in their home a small model kindergarten, to which
I was given the privilege of sending my little girl. Chiyo could not
speak Japanese, but fortunately there were in the class two children
of an American missionary, who spoke the language well, so the little
Japanese-born Americans became kind interpreters to the little
American-born Japanese; thus forming an international combination that
resulted, on one side at least, in a lifetime remembrance of grateful
friendliness.
But Hanano's education was a problem. In selecting a school for her the
remembrance of my own happy school life in Tokyo naturally influenced
me in favour of a mission school; but, after careful examination, I
concluded that, although the atmosphere of the mission schools was
unquestionably superior, they could not compete with the government
schools in scholarship. Therefore I decided upon a public school, the
principal of which was reputed to be one of the best in Tokyo, and
which, fortunately, was not far from our home. Of this I knew Matsuo's
relatives would approve.
Hanano's knowledge of the Japanese language was meagre, but of the
history, literature, and traditions of Japan, she knew almost as much
as other children her age, and so was too advanced for the primary
class.
It was a puzzle for the authorities to know what to do with her; for
rules in Japan are not flexible. Official life still moves in grooves,
and in a minor officer, the old feudal pride in rigid faithfulness is
frequently so extreme that to be jostled out of the established line
is hopelessly disconcerting. Time and again I heard with a sinking
heart that no place could be found for Hanano in any class, but--I
did not _dare_ fail! Patiently I persisted, arguing that, since Japan
claims her foreign-born children, and also has the rule of compulsory
education, surely something could be done.
Well, I had a world of trouble and felt as if the child were being
wound closer each day in a red-tape cocoon, but at last she was
admitted into the third grade and I given permission to sit in the rear
of the room, a silent spectator with a notebook.
I shall never forget those first days. Hanano was naturally quick
and observing and already familiar with third-grade studies; but the
ideographs were wholly unknown to her, and she could understand very
little of the teacher's explanations. Again and again I would see her
face light up with an expression of alert attention, which the next
moment would change to a puzzled look and then gradually settle into
one of blank hopelessness. Every evening our home was turned into a
schoolroom, where I went over each lesson of the day, translating and
explaining in English. At odd hours, even during meal-time, we played
games in which words were limited to those in common use, and whenever
Hanano heard Taki bargaining with vendors at the kitchen door, she was
immediately at her elbow. But I think her greatest help from any one
thing came from the playground at school. There she was a delightful
curiosity. She took part in all games, running, gesticulating,
and chattering in English, while the others ran, gesticulated, and
chattered in Japanese, all having a good time, and Hanano piling up, by
the dozen, unforgettable words which carried their own definitions too
clearly to need interpretation.
I was faithful in my reports to Uncle Otani, and, on the whole, rather
enjoyed the "investigation visits" of the relatives; but my being
required to ask council advice before making a change, however slight,
in my programme, was often very trying and useless. Formally to request
an opinion regarding which of two studies to select for Hanano, when
not a member of the council knew or cared to learn anything of her
former school work, and every single member considered both of the
suggested studies entirely unnecessary for a girl to waste her time
over, was absurd. But I was conscientious to the minutest degree, and
as time passed the visits from relatives became less frequent and more
friendly; and my requests were mostly returned with orders to use my
own judgment.
When Hanano reached the stage where she began to recognize characters
on the street signs and to listen intelligently to conversation going
on about her, I gave up my visits to the school and turned my attention
to home duties. Here I found many problems. Some were seemingly too
small to be noticed, and yet, like stinging gnat bites, extremely
annoying. I had thought it would be well to keep the children in
American clothing. They had a goodly supply, and progressive families
were beginning to advocate it for children, except for formal use. As
the weather grew colder I put heavy underclothes and woollen stockings
on them; for the schoolrooms were heated only with two charcoal
fire-boxes in each large room. But, notwithstanding my care, one day
Chiyo came home with a cold. The next morning was chilly and damp. I
had no heart to keep her from her greatest enjoyment; yet to risk her
taking more cold was out of the question. What could I do? Suddenly I
had a wicked inspiration. She had a coat of soft woollen goods which
covered her dress completely. I put it on, buttoned it up close and,
telling her not to take it off, sent her on her way.
Then I sat down to have it out with my conscience. In Japan, when
one enters a house, the shoes, wrap, and hat are removed. It was as
unpardonable for Chiyo to keep on her wrap in school as if it had been
her hat; but I knew that, in the eyes of the teacher, the pretty red
coat with its lace collar and cuffs would be only a foreign dress, no
more suggesting a wrap than did her usual clothing. And to think that
I had taken advantage of the ignorance of the teacher and done this
deceitful thing! I thought of Kishibo-jin and wondered if in every
mother's heart is hidden an unborn demon.
Presently, with a sigh, I rose to my feet and prepared to go out. As I
approached the mirror to arrange my hair I stopped with a half-ashamed
laugh. For one instant a superstitious hesitation had held me back, as
if I might see in the reflected face a hint of the deceit in my heart.
I went direct to the nearest shop and purchased material for a
_hifu_--a loose but proper and elegant house-garment, which in winter
is padded with the cobwebby cut silk taken from empty cocoons. It is
the lightest and warmest garment in Japan. Taki, Sudzu, and I sewed all
day, and the next morning Chiyo went happily to school with her _hifu_
over her American dress.
It was this incident that decided me to change the children from
American to Japanese clothing.
There is another link, less tragic, in the chain of my memories of
growing adaptability. When riding in jinrikishas it is the custom for
the honoured person to go first. Therefore a child should follow a
parent. But I never felt sure that some unexpected thing might not
happen to my active little ones; so I always put them together in one
jinrikisha just ahead of me. One day, as we were passing through a
busy street, I saw Hanano looking back and waving frantically; almost
standing up in her eagerness to have me see a small table and two
chairs of bamboo in a shop window. Both children pleaded for me to buy
them. It was nonsense to take them to our pretty home; for chair legs
ruin the soft mats, and foreign furniture is wholly inartistic in a
Japanese room. But the children looked at them so longingly that I made
the purchase, ordering thin strips of wood to be fastened on the feet
to make a flat foundation that would not injure our floor. They were to
be delivered the next day.
Early the following morning I went shopping, returning home about noon.
What was my astonishment when I entered the house to see the bamboo
table in the centre of the parlour and on each side of it a chair, with
Hanano seated on one and Chiyo on the other! They had no books, no
toys. Sudzu said they had been there for an hour, occasionally changing
places, but otherwise sitting still or talking in low voices.
"What are you doing, children," I asked, "sitting here so quiet?"
"Oh, just enjoying!" replied Hanano.
After a moment Chiyo said: "Grandma's chairs are soft, but this one has
knobs on the edge. Let's swap again, Hanano."
Then there was the affair of the bedclothes. The pride of a Japanese
housewife is to have not only dainty and pretty, but also appropriate,
bed cushions. Mother had sent with Taki enough silk and linen for both
children's beds. The pattern for Hanano's was, for her flower-name,
the "Flowers of the Four Seasons," in which bunches of many-coloured
blossoms were scattered loosely over a background of shadowy pink.
Chiyo's--for her name, which means "Long Life"--was a flock of white
storks flying across a blue sky with floating clouds. Taki and Sudzu
had sewed steadily for several days making the cushions, so, on the
night they were finished, and when Sudzu had made up the beds side by
side, I told the girls that I would put the children to bed and they
could go out to a street fair held on the temple grounds, not far away.
In the midst of the undressing some friends came to call and I left the
children to finish alone.
My friends stayed late. I heard Taki and Sudzu come in, and a short
time later there was a disturbance in the children's room. Hanano's
voice sounded clear and loud in English, "It isn't fair! Stop! It isn't
fair!" Then came a low murmuring in Japanese--sleepy complaints--a
soft scrambling--a gentle, "Pardon my disturbing you. Honourable
good-night!"--a sliding door, whisperings, and presently--silence.
As soon as the guests had gone I hurried into the children's room. Both
were sleeping quietly. I waited for Sudzu to come in after locking
the gate, and then I learned what had happened. Faithful Taki, on her
return, had peeped into the children's room to see that all was safe,
and behold! the "Flower in a Strange Land" was asleep beneath the
flying storks and the long-life lassie was peacefully reposing beneath
the scattered blossoms of the four seasons. Taki's orderly habits of a
lifetime had sprung to the rescue of an upset world. Pulling off the
covers with a jerk, she had lifted Hanano in her strong arms, and then,
standing the startled child upright, had caught Chiyo and plumped her
into Hanano's bed, muttering constantly, "Ignorant children! Ignorant
children!" Paying no attention to Hanano's indignant protests that they
had changed purposely, "just to swap," she had tossed her back into
bed, whirled up the covers, and then, politely bowing good-night, had
softly pushed the doors together and retired as gently as if she feared
to awake a sleeping child.
"Taki is just like she used to be," I thought as I lay down on my own
bed with a laugh. "People who think Japanese women are always gentle
ought to widen their acquaintance."
But one thing about which I have never laughed was a peep I had into a
hidden part of my children's lives. Hanano always had been brave about
bearing silently little troubles that could not be helped, and she
seemed so busy and interested in her new life that I did not realize
that deep in her heart was a longing for the old home. Our garden had
two entrances, one through the house and one through a little brushwood
wicket on the path that led from a wooden gate to the kitchen door.
One day, just as I reached home, a sudden shower threatened to drench
me. So, instead of going around to the big gateway, I slipped through
the wooden gate, and ran across the stones of the garden to the porch.
Leaving my shoes on the step I was hurrying to my room when I heard the
voices of the children.
"This shady place," said Hanano, "is where Grandma's chair always was,
on the porch. And under this tree is where the hammock was where you
took your nap and where Papa almost sat down on you that time. And this
is the big stone steps where we always had firecrackers on Fourth of
July. And this is the well. And this is the drawbridge. And this is the
place where Clara went to feed the chickens. It's all exactly right,
Chiyo, for I drew it myself, and you must not forget again. Don't tell
Mamma, for she would be sorry, and she is our only treasure that we
have left. All the rest are gone, Chiyo, and we can never have them
again. So it can't be helped, and we just have to stand it. But you
mustn't forget that all this--for ever--is where our love is. And now,
let us sing."
They stood up, holding hands, and the childish voices rose in a clear,
steady "My Country, 'tis of Thee!"
I cried softly as I moved about in the next room and thought of the
transplanted morning glories. "Is it right," I wondered, "to plant a
little unasked flower in a garden of love and happiness, from which it
must soon be wrenched away, only for another, and a dwarfed, start in
strange, new surroundings? The garden had much to give of strength and
inspiration, but is it worth the cost? Oh, is it worth the cost?"
CHAPTER XXVII
HONOURABLE GRANDMOTHER
"Honourable Grandmother is coming--coming!
Honourable Grandmother is coming to-day!"
happily sang Chiyo as her little foot mittens came pattering over the
white mats, following me as I went through the rooms giving touches
here and there to complete arrangements for our expected guest.
Foot mittens took the place of stockings now, and the free American
dress had given way to a gay-flowered kimono with scarlet lining and
graceful swinging sleeves.
"Japanese fashions are the prettiest for Japanese people," I thought
as I looked at Chiyo's black hair, short in the back and cut square
across the forehead. She had not been a pretty child in American dress.
Japanese clothes were much more becoming, but oh, the opportunities for
comfortable and healthful bodies the untrammelled children of America
have! I sighed, yet I was so bound by outside influences that I could
not regret having changed the children into Japanese dress before their
grandmother saw them.
We had been very busy after the arrival of Mother's letter saying
that she was ready to come. The children and I moved in together, and
I arranged a cosy little room for her, which I knew she would find
more convenient and comfortable than any other in the house. I wanted
everything to look homelike to her; so I had the swinging electric
lights changed to three-foot-high floor lamps shaded by black lacquer
frames with paper panels, like the candle-stands at the Nagaoka home.
Our gas heaters were already in bronze braziers so ingeniously set up
that they looked like charcoal burners. Mother would have accepted
everything new with the smiling philosophy of a lifetime, but I did not
want her to "accept" things; I wanted everything to look homelike so
she could fit in happily without effort.
The empty shrine I had been using for books and the children's hats.
Even Taki had not objected to "high objects," as she called them,
being placed there; for Japanese people are taught to respect books as
"intellectual results," and hats as pertaining to the revered "crown
of the body." But, nevertheless, she was unreservedly pleased when I
removed the things and began to prepare the carved wooden alcove for
the small belongings that Mother would bring with her from the large
shrine at home.
"Where shall we put the shrine that Honourable Grandmother will bring?"
asked Hanano, thinking of the elaborate gilded and lacquered cabinet in
Uncle Otani's home.
"It's as easy for Honourable Grandmother to wrap up all the really
necessary things for her shrine as it would be for a Christian to carry
a Bible and a prayer book," I answered; "and we will have this little
alcove all fresh and clean for them. Honourable Grandmother loves the
things that have been sacred to her through all the sorrows and joys of
her life."
"Do Honourable Grandmother's God and our God know each other up in
heaven?" asked Chiyo.
I was leaning in the alcove to brush a bit of dust off the carving, and
Hanano replied.
"Of course they do, Chiyo," she said. "Jesus had just as hard a time as
the August Buddha did to teach people that God wants them to be good
and kind and splendid. Mamma always says that Honourable Grandmother
and our dear American Grandma are good, just alike."
While we were talking, there had been sounding a constant
pata-pata-pata from the next room, where Sudzu, with her sleeves looped
back and a blue-and-white towel folded over her freshly dressed hair,
was vigorously cleaning the paper doors with a _shoji_ duster--a bunch
of cut papers tied on the end of a short stick. The sound stopped
abruptly and Sudzu appeared in the doorway.
Quickly removing the towel and pulling off the cord that held back her
sleeves, she bowed to the floor.
"Taki San thinks that the bath water heated by gas will be too harsh
for the delicate body of Honourable Retired Mistress," she said. "Shall
I go for a carpenter?"
I had forgotten the belief of country people that only charred wood
must be used for bath fuel when one is frail or old. I hurried Sudzu
out on her errand, and within two hours the gas coil had been exchanged
for a small charcoal furnace, and our arrangements were complete.
That evening was a memorable one for the children. We all went to the
station to meet Mother, except Taki. She remained behind so that the
welcoming red rice and the fish, baked head and all, would be in hot
readiness; and after we reached home, even before the bustle of welcome
was over, she had the shrine belongings in place and the candles
lighted. Then, with the gilded doors wide open and the pungent odour
of incense filling the air, she brought in the little shrine table
laden with food. Our own tables came next, and once again I was sitting
down to a meal with my mother beside me and the kindly spirits of the
ancestors welcoming me and mine into cheerful companionship. Afterward
we retired to the parlour and spent an hour in what Hanano called
"getting-acquainted talk," before Mother would confess to the weariness
which her pale face already betrayed. Then we all gathered before the
shrine, Taki and Sudzu sitting just within the doorway.
How familiar, and yet how strange! The chanting, the soft sound of
the little bronze gong, Mother's voice reading the sacred Buddhist
scriptures that so often I had heard from the lips of the dear one who
long ago had passed away--oh, how quiet and safe it all seemed! The
anxious loneliness of months was gone, and there crept into my heart a
peace that had not been mine since the protected days when my little
family were all together in the dear, dear home of our kind, beloved
American mother.
"How alike are the two sides of the world!" I thought. "Both have many
gods of little worth, but with one wise, loving, understanding Power
over all, the time must surely come when we shall _all_ understand."
The weeks following were filled with new and unexpected lessons. I had
had no thought but that family loyalty and natural affection were the
only requisites necessary to draw together my mother and my children.
But I soon discovered that, though neither loyalty nor affection was
lacking, mutual interests were only possibilities of the future.
My attempts to combine the old and the new frequently resulted in my
having to give up the combination and decide wholly in favour of one or
the other. With material things this was only an inconvenience; but a
puzzling problem, indeed, when it came to Mother's old-fashioned ideas
clashing with the advanced training of modern schools. Mother never
criticized. She met all situations with a smile or some pleasant remark
about the "new ways of the world"; but it was evident that she greatly
distrusted the wisdom of spending so much time on boys' studies and
so little on flower-arranging, tea-serving, _koto_ music, and other
womanly accomplishments. And the gymnastic exercises which the children
enthusiastically described, where whole classes of girls drilled on
the school grounds, marching and singing with vigorous energy, were
wholly contrary to her ideas of dignity.
I tried to explain that these exercises were believed to be good for
health and growth. I told her it was no longer considered bold and
mannish for girls to sit straight and to carry the head upright when
they walked; and that even Hanano's habit of chatting happily about
school matters while we were eating, which seemed to Mother the manners
of a coolie, was in accordance with her training at school.
Chiyo's gentle ways had appealed to Mother at once, but her sister's
quick, busy, energetic manner was a constant surprise and puzzle.
Hanano was so active, so apt to speak without being spoken to, and
so constantly doing what, according to strict etiquette, were abrupt
and discourteous things, that I was continually on the alert to watch
for and check her unexpected acts. It was not long before I became
unhappily conscious that my only hours of freedom from anxiety lay
between the time when Hanano tied up her school books and, jumping
into her clogs at the door, ran off, gaily waving a good-bye, and the
afternoon hour when the door would slide open and a cheery, "I have
come back!" come echoing through the hall.
But this did not last. Gradually, I scarcely know when or how, the
silent strain lessened. Hanano was growing more quiet in her talk,
more gentle in her manners. Frequently I would see her settle herself
beside Chiyo at Mother's fire-box to listen to stories or to receive
help as she read aloud, and one day I found both children snuggled up
close, one on each side, while Mother showed Hanano how to write the
characters for "American Grandma."
Chiyo had loved Mother from the beginning. The child's affectionate
advances were somewhat of a shock at first, but very soon the two were
congenial companions. It was odd that religion should be one of the
binding cords. The kindergarten was just beyond the temple, so Chiyo
was familiar with the road, and as I did not like to have Mother go
alone, Chiyo often went with her when Sudzu was busy. The child liked
to sit in the great solemn place and listen to the chanting, and she
liked to be given rice-cakes by the mild-faced priestess who served
tea to Mother after the service. One day Mother said: "Chiyo, you are
very kind to come with me to the temple. Next time I will go with
you to your church." So Chiyo took her to hear our minister, a good
man who preached in Japanese. After that they often went together,
sometimes to the temple, where Chiyo stood with bowed head while her
grandmother softly rubbed her rosary between her hands and murmured,
"_Namu Amida Butsu!_" and sometimes to the Christian church, where
Mother listened attentively to the sermon and bowed in reverence when
the Minister prayed. Then hand in hand they would come home together,
talking of what they had heard at one place or the other. One day as
they entered the gate, I heard Mother say gently: "It may be that he
said true things, Chiyo, but I must not go to a better place than
where my honourable husband is. Even if he is in the dreadful Hell of
Cold, it is my duty to be with him. The Christian faith is for the new
generation, like you, little Chiyo, but I must follow the path of my
ancestors."
One afternoon, when I was sewing in my room, I heard Chiyo's voice
beyond the closed doors.
"Honourable Grandmother," she said, "when are you going to die?"
I pushed back the sliding door. There was Mother with Chiyo snuggled
up beside her on the same cushion. I was astonished, for in my day no
child would have dared to be so familiar with an elder, but there she
was, and both were looking down gravely at an array of tiny lacquer
boxes spread out on the floor. A large box, into which the smaller
ones fitted closely, was near by. How well I remembered that box! All
through my childhood it was kept in a drawer of my mother's toilet
cabinet, and every once in a while she would take out the little boxes
and sprinkle powdered incense into each one. This was what she was
doing now.
"I wish I had those pretty boxes for my dolly," said Chiyo.
"Oh, no, little Granddaughter," Mother said, lifting one of the tiny
boxes and shaking gently the curved bits that looked like shavings of
pale shell. "These are my nail clippings that have been saved all my
life."
"Your finger-nails--and your toe-nails!" cried the child. "Oh, my! How
funny!"
"Hush, little Granddaughter. I am afraid you have not been trained to
respect the traditions of your ancestors. We have to save our nails
and cut-off baby hair so that our bodies may be perfect when we start
on the long journey. The time cannot be far away," she said, gazing
thoughtfully out into the garden.
Chiyo had been peering curiously into the boxes, but now her face
suddenly sobered and she drew a little closer to her grandmother.
"My heart is troubled, Honourable Grandmother," she said. "I thought it
would be a long, long time. You said you had always, even when you were
a little girl, put perfume in the boxes to keep them nice and all ready
for your death."
Mother lovingly stroked the little black head with her wrinkled hand.
"Yes, but it will not be long now. I have finished my life work, and
the merciful Buddha is preparing my platform of lotus blossoms, I am
very sure."
"Does the merciful Buddha want you to take your old clipped nails with
you when you go to the lotus platform?"
"No; he does not care about my body. He cares only for me."
"Then why did you save your nails so carefully?"
Mother glanced toward the closed shrine.
"The holy shrine, little Chiyo, is only a box when it is empty," she
said, "and my body is only a borrowed shrine in which I live. But it is
proper courtesy to leave a borrowed article in the best condition."
Chiyo's eyes looked very deep and solemn for a moment.
"That's why we have to take a bath every day and always keep our teeth
clean. Dear me! I never thought of that as being polite to God."
I had been so anxious over the children's shortcomings in etiquette
and so happy over the slow but satisfactory outcome that I had never
given a thought to the changes which my years in America must have made
in myself. One afternoon, coming back from a hurried errand, I was
walking rapidly up the road toward home when I saw Mother standing in
the gateway watching me. I knew that she disapproved of my undignified
haste, as indeed she should, for nothing is more ungraceful than a
hurrying woman in Japanese dress.
She met me with her usual bow, then said with a gentle smile, "Etsu-bo,
you are growing to be very like your honourable father."
I laughed, but my cheeks were hot as I walked up the path beside her,
accepting silently the needed reproof, for no Japanese woman likes
to be told that her walk suggests that of a man. Occasional hints
like this kept my manners from marching with my mind on the road to
progress; and under the same quiet influence my two active American
children gradually changed into two dignified Japanese girls. Within
two years' time both spoke Japanese without accent and both wore
Japanese dress so well that to strangers they appeared to have lived
always in Japan.
"Just to be in the same house with Mother is excellent training for a
girl," I thought, congratulating myself that Hanano had adapted herself
so well to her grandmother's standards. Selfishly busy with my daily
duties, and content that our home was so harmonious, I had forgotten
that, when duty lies between the old and the young, Nature's law points
direct to youth. I was counting the gain only--but what of the loss?
One day in the cherry-blossom season, Hanano was sitting at her desk
near mine when a light breeze touched the branches of a cherry tree
near the porch and some pale pink petals drifted across her desk. She
picked one up and after holding it a moment, pressed it gently between
her fingers, then threw it aside, and sat looking at the damp spot on
her finger.
"What are you thinking, Hanano?" I asked.
She looked up startled, then slowly turned away.
"One time in America," she said after a moment, "when many people were
at our house--I think it must have been an afternoon tea--I got tired
and went out on the lawn. I climbed to my castle, you remember, the
seventh limb of the big apple tree. The blossoms were just falling and
a petal fell right into my hand. It left a wet spot, just like this
cherry petal did. Oh, Mamma, wouldn't you give just _everything_ to see
Grandma again--and the porch, and the trees, and----"
The little black head went down on the desk, but before I could reach
her it was up again, held high.
"It's all right," she said; "I love Japan--now. But there used to be
times when my breast was just full of red-hot fire, and I had to run
fast--fast. And once, when you were all away, I climbed the prickly
pine by the porch--just once. But I don't want to any more. It's all
right. I love it here."
I remembered, then, how sometimes she had scampered around and around
the garden, her sleeves flying in the wind and her clogs clattering
over the stepping-stones; and I, ignorant and unsympathetic mother that
I was, had taken her to my room and talked to her about being gentle
and quiet.
But that was a long time before. Gradually she had learned to talk a
little lower, to laugh a little less, to walk a bit more noiselessly
on the matting, and to sit silent and attentive with bowed head
when her elders were speaking. Only the other day Mother had said:
"Granddaughter shows great promise. She is growing gentle and graceful."
As I sat and thought, I wondered if Hanano was ever really happy any
more. She never seemed sorrowful, but she had changed. Her eyes were
soft, not bright; her mouth drooped slightly and her bright, cheery
way of speaking had slowed and softened. Gentle and graceful? Yes. But
where was her quick readiness to spring up at my first word? Where her
joyous eagerness to see, to learn, to do? My little American girl, so
full of vivid interest in life, was gone.
With a feeling of helplessness I looked over at her desk and was
comforted; for the touch of homesickness had passed away and she was
studying busily.
An hour later, when I went unexpectedly to her room, I saw her kneeling
beside an open drawer where her American clothes were kept. She had
pulled out her old serge suit, and her face was buried in its folds.
I crept away to the garden. I could not see, and I stumbled over a
flower pot. It was a dwarf pine. The pushing roots had burst the pot,
and my touch had caused it to fall apart, disclosing the roots cramped
together in a twisted knot.
"It is just like poor Hanano!" I moaned. "They will bind it again
to-morrow, and neither it, nor she, will _ever_ be free!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
SISTER'S VISIT
That summer Mother was far from well. Lately her occasional attacks
of asthma had become more frequent and trying. Thinking that a visit
from my elder sister, who had always lived near our old home, would
give Mother the happiness, not only of seeing her daughter, but also
of hearing the pleasant gossip of old neighbours and friends, I wrote
asking her to come to Tokyo. In a few weeks she was with us and proved
a veritable blessing to us all. She was a comfort to Mother, a wise
adviser to me, and an encyclopedia of interesting family history to
the children; for there was nothing Sister liked better than telling
stories of our old home as it was when she was a child.
Almost every day that summer, about the time the sun was sinking
behind the tiled roof of our neighbour's tall house and the cool
shadows were creeping across our garden, we would gather in the big
room opening on the porch. One at a time we came, each fresh from a
hot bath and clothed in the coolest of linen. Mother sat on her silk
cushion, straight and dignified; but Sister, more informal, usually
discarded a cushion, preferring, instead, the cool, clean mats. She
was a beautiful woman. I can see her now, slipping quietly into her
place, the suggestion of a wave in her shining widow-cut hair, and her
sweet face seeming to be only waiting for an excuse to break into, one
of her gentle smiles. Between Sister and Mother were the children:
Hanano's fingers, always busy, shaping bits of gay silk into a set
of bean-bags or cutting out a paper doll for Chiyo, who, gazing with
loving admiration at her sister, sat with her own dear, lazy little
hands folded on her lap.
This was our hour to spend in talking of the small happenings of the
day: school successes and trials, incidents connected with home affairs
and stray items of neighbourhood gossip. But almost inevitably the
conversation would eventually drift into a channel that called forth
from someone the familiar, "Oh, isn't that interesting! Tell us about
it!" or "Yes, I remember. Do tell that to the children."
One afternoon Mother mentioned that the priest had called that day
to make arrangements for a certain temple service called "For the
Nameless" that was held by our family every year.
"Why is it called 'For the Nameless'?" asked Hanano. "It has such a
lonesome sound."
"It is a sad story," replied Mother. "A story that began almost three
hundred years ago and has not yet ended."
"How could Kikuno's story have anything to do with the little room
at the end of the hall?" I asked abruptly, my mind going back to the
half-forgotten memory of a door that was never opened. "It didn't
happen in that house."
"No; but the hall room was built right over the haunted spot," replied
Sister. "Is it true, Honourable Mother, that after the mansion was
burned someone planted chrysanthemums in the garden, and soft,
mysterious lights were seen floating among the flowers?"
Hanano had dropped her sewing into her lap, and both children were
gazing at Sister with eager, wide-open eyes.
"Your fate until dinner time is decided, Sister," I laughed. "The
children scent a story. Now you can tell them why you wouldn't use the
cushion decorated with chrysanthemums at the restaurant the other day."
"I must seem foolish-minded to you, Etsu-bo, with your progressive
ideas," said Sister, with a half-ashamed smile, "but I have never
outgrown the feeling that chrysanthemums are an omen of misfortune to
our family."
"I know," I said, sympathetically. "I used to feel so, too. I didn't
really get over it until I went to America. The name Mary is as common
there as Kiku is here, but I had associated it only with sacredness
and dignity; for it is the holiest name for a woman in the world.
Some people even pray to it. And when, one time, just after I went to
America, I heard a shopwoman call roughly, 'Mary, come here!' and out
ran a ragged child with a dirty face, I was astounded. And a neighbour
of ours had an ignorant servant girl by that name. It was a shock at
first; but I finally learned that association is a narrow thing. When
we apply it broadly the original feeling does not fit."
"People learn to forget when they travel," said Sister quietly; "but as
far back as I can remember, no chrysanthemum flower was ever brought
into our house, no chrysanthemum decoration was ever used on our
screens, our dishes, our dresses, or our fans; and, with all the pretty
flower names in our family, that of Kiku--chrysanthemum--has never been
borne by an Inagaki. Even a servant with that name was never allowed to
work for us unless she was willing to be called something else while
she lived in our house."
"Why? Oh, do tell us about it!" pleaded both children.
So again I heard the story, familiar from childhood, but changing
continually in its significance as I grew older, until it became fixed
in my mind as the hero tale of a brave old samurai who represented the
double virtue of a great and tender love combined with the hard, cold
strength of loyalty to duty.
This ancestor of mine was lord of our family during the period when
it was a government requirement that men of his class should have two
handmaids. This was to guard against the possibility of there being
no heir, that being an unspeakable calamity to people who believed
that a childless family meant heavenly annihilation. Handmaids were
always selected by the wife, from families of her own rank; and their
position, although inferior in influence, was considered as honoured as
that of the wife.
The second of my ancestor's handmaids was named Kikuno. Her lord was
old enough to be her father, but it must be true that he loved her, for
our family records show that he loaded her relatives with gifts and
with honours. Of course, we Japanese never say anything not nice about
our ancestors, and it may be that family traditions are not always
reliable, but they all praise this man, and I like to believe them true.
Every house of noble class, in those days, was divided into the
home department, ruled by the mistress, where there were only women
attendants, and the lord's department, where every branch of work was
done by men. For delicate and artistic duties, such as tea-serving
and flower-arranging, graceful youths were chosen who dressed in gay
garments with swinging sleeves like girls, and wore their hair in an
artistic crown-queue with fluffy sides.
Among these attendants of my ancestor was a youth who was an especial
favourite. He must have possessed both rank and culture, for he was
the son of his lord's highest retainer. Although the departments of
the lord and the mistress were entirely separate, there was daily
passing back and forth on formal errands, and also many gatherings for
duty or for entertainment, in which both men and women took part.
On these occasions the gentle Kikuno and the handsome youth were
frequently thrown together. She was only seventeen. Her lord was twice
her age, and his thoughts were of war and its grim duties. The gentle,
soft-voiced youth, whose talk was of poetry and flowers, won her heart;
and it was the old story of Launcelot and Guinevere.
We have no reason to believe that any real wrong was in the heart
of either; but a Japanese girl was taught from childhood to subdue
self, and when she married--and to become a handmaid was one type of
marriage--she was expected to live with no thought of self at all.
Rumours reached the ears of the master, but he waved them aside as
absurd. One day, however, he walked into the great room adjoining the
court and found the two talking in low voices, and--an unpardonable
breach of etiquette--alone. This was, of course, a stain on the family
name, which, according to the code of honour of that day, could be
wiped out only with blood, or--a disgrace a thousand times worse than
death--the exile of the culprits through the water gate, thus making
them outcasts.
The old lord was merciful and allowed them honourable death by the
sword. Both recognized the justice of their fate. Kikuno went away
to prepare for death, and the young man, with slow and ceremonious
dignity, removed his two swords and slipped his right arm from his
outer dress, leaving only the white silk undergarment. Then he gave the
sash a quick, loosening jerk, and with his short sword in his hand,
quietly seated himself on the mat.
I often pity the wronged lord as I think of him sitting there, erect
and silent. I know his heart was full of grief as well as bitterness
and indignation, but whatever the struggle within, he had to be true to
the duty plainly marked out by the inexorable usage of the day.
Poor Kikuno went to her baby boy for a few last loving touches as he
lay sleeping in his nurse's arms, but she said good-bye to no one else.
She washed the rouge from her lips, loosened her hair, tied it with the
paper death-bow, and put on her white death-robe. Then she went back to
the room where her lover and her lord were silently waiting.
Without the slightest deviation, the unchanging ceremony of Japanese
etiquette was carried out. She kneeled and bowed deeply, first to her
wronged lord and then to the beautiful girl-dressed youth beside him.
Seating herself with her face to the west, she took her long sash of
soft crêpe and tightly bound her folded knees. For one moment she
placed together her hands, clasping a crystal rosary; then slipping
the rosary over one wrist, she lifted her dagger to press the point
to her throat. Her lord was a stern and a just man, but he must have
loved the woman very tenderly, for he did a wonderful thing. Leaning
quickly forward, he took away her dagger and placed in her hand his own
short sword. It was a Masamune, a precious family heirloom, and sacred
because a gift to his grandfather from the great Ieyasu.
Well, they both died: the youth, bravely, like a samurai; but poor
Kikuno threw out one hand as she fell, which struck the plaster wall
and left a lasting stain.
The man's body was sent to his family with the polite message that
his death had taken place suddenly. Everyone understood, and, like
the youth himself, recognized the justice of his fate. He was buried
at midnight, and ever afterward both the temple and his family gave
him only silent death anniversaries. But the woman was buried with
great honour--suitable to the mother of the young lord--and a large
sum was given to charity in her name. Then the lord forbade any of his
descendants ever to cultivate the chrysanthemum flower or to allow the
name, Kiku, in the household. The baby, whose frail mother had robbed
him of his birthright, was sent away--for no stain must descend to the
next generation--and a later-born little one carried on the family name.
The blood-stained room was closed, and until the burning of the mansion
about two hundred years later was never opened. When my father rebuilt
his ruined home many of the relatives urged him to leave an open space
above the site of that room, but he refused, saying that the kindly
spirit of living friends had taught him to believe in the kindly spirit
of the dead. My father was a very progressive man for that day.
But the servants never forgot. They said the new room had on its
plaster wall the same faint, dark stain of a wide-open hand that was
on the wall of the old; and so many ghostly stories were told, that
finally, for purely practical reasons, my mother was obliged to close
this room also.
The little son of Kikuno became a priest who, in later life, built a
small temple on Cedar Mountain. It was so placed that its shadow falls
over a lonely nameless grave guarded by a statue of the goddess of
Mercy.
But the memory of love and pity cannot die. For almost three hundred
years my stern old ancestor has lain among his people in his
extravagant bed of vermilion and charcoal; and for almost three hundred
years the descendants of the name whose honour he upheld have, in
respect for his unexpressed heart wish, held each year a sacred service
in memory of "The Nameless."
CHAPTER XXIX
A LADY OF OLD JAPAN
One afternoon Sister and I were sewing in my room when Hanano came in.
It was warm weather and the paper doors had been lifted off so that the
entire fronts of the rooms facing the garden were open. We could look
across and see Mother sitting beside the dining-room fire-box, holding
her long, slender pipe in her hand and gazing out into the garden as if
her thoughts were far away.
"Mother is happy in this home," said Sister. "Her face has the calm,
peaceful look of the August Buddha."
"I wonder," said Hanano thoughtfully, "if Honourable Grandmother was
ever really, strongly, _terribly_ excited in all her life."
Sister looked at Hanano with a strange smile.
"I never saw her _seem_ excited," she said slowly. "It was a terrible
time when we left the old home, but Mother was calm and steady. She
commanded like a general on the battlefield."
"Oh, tell me!" cried Hanano, sitting up very straight. "Tell me all
about it."
"Perhaps it would be well, Sister," I said. "Hanano is old enough to
know. Tell her all of Mother's life that you can remember."
So she told how Mother, when only thirteen years of age, was lifted
into her wedding palanquin and, accompanied by a long procession of
attendants, headed by spearmen and followed by her father's guards,
journeyed to her new home. Father was First Counsellor of the
daimiate, and his bride came to a mansion so spacious that in all the
years she lived in it there were rooms in which she never set her foot.
She saw little of her husband, for his duties as ruler obliged him to
make frequent journeys to the capital, and the young wife filled her
time in writing poems on slender cards of gold and silver, or playing
dolls with her attendants; for, after all, she was only a child.
In time, a son and two daughters were born; but the little girls, with
nurses to take every care from their mother, were a good deal like
beautiful playthings to her; and her son, the heir who was to carry
on the family name, had so many attendants with various duties that
she saw him only at stated intervals. He was like a precious jewel for
which she had strong affection, but still stronger was the feeling
of pride. So in the big, peaceful mansion the girl-wife passed the
pleasant, uneventful years.
Then changes came, for clouds of war were gathering slowly over the
land. Her husband gradually told her of many important things, and one
day he left home on a mission that filled her heart with dread. She
was not far out of her teens, but she knew the duties of a samurai's
wife, and with suddenly awakened womanhood she called her son's tutor
and they disguised in shabby clothing her small son, whose life as
heir would be forfeit if his father came to harm, and sent him, in the
care of faithful Minota, to the protection of our ancestral temple
on the mountain. Then she waited, while every day the clouds grew
more threatening. One dark, rainy night there came a warrior to her
home bearing the tidings that Father was a prisoner and on his way to
the capital. Near the midnight toll of the temple bell he would pass
the road at the foot of the mountain, and she would be permitted an
interview.
She looked at the messenger steadily. If there should be treachery what
would become of her son?
"Are you a samurai?" she asked.
Solemnly the man put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
"I am a samurai," he answered.
"Whether friend or enemy," she said, "if you are a samurai, I will
trust you."
Though she believed him, those were dangerous days, and so she washed
her hair and put on her death-robe, covering it with an ordinary dress.
Then, slipping her dagger into her sash and bidding her faithful
servant Yoshita to be loyal to his young master, whatever happened, she
told the messenger she was ready.
Through the rain and darkness they went--the warrior, his wet armour
shining in the lantern-light, followed by Mother in her hidden
death-robe. They passed through empty streets and along narrow paths
of lonely ricefields until finally they came to the road which curved
around the foot of the mountain. There they waited.
Presently lights came swaying through the darkness and they could hear
the dull, soft thuds of trotting carriers, coming nearer and nearer,
then to a stop. A palanquin covered with a rope net was rested on the
ground, a warrior on each side. The carriers stood back. Mother looked
up and saw Father's pale face gazing at her through the small square
window. The crossed spears of the warriors were between them. There was
a moment's silence, then Father spoke.
"My wife, I trust you with my sword."
That was all. Both knew that listening ears were eager for word of the
son. Mother only bowed, but Father knew that she understood.
The reed screen was dropped before the face of the prisoner, the
warriors shouldered their spears, the carriers lifted the poles of
the palanquin to their shoulders, and the little procession passed on
into the darkness. The guide she had trusted raised his bowed head and
turned toward the ricefields, and poor Mother followed, carrying with
her the knowledge of a sacred trust; for those few words from Father's
lips meant: "Death is before me. I trust to you the son who will
continue the name of Inagaki and thus insure the heavenly salvation of
hundreds of ancestors."
Again poor Mother bore the heavy burden of anxious uncertainty, until
one autumn night when a messenger brought word that the plain was full
of soldiers marching toward Nagaoka. For that she had been waiting; so,
calm and fearless, she commanded that the entire house be arranged as
for honoured guests. The most treasured roll pictures were hung, the
rarest ornaments placed on _tokonomas_, then the retainers and servants
were ordered to leave by a rear gateway and to scatter in various
directions.
Sister was only a child of seven, but she remembered every detail of
that awful night. She and little Sister were awakened by frightened
nurses and hurried into dress and sash--for even in their haste and
horror the sash, emblem of virtue to every Japanese girl, could not be
forgotten by the trusted servant of a samurai family--and taken part
way up the mountain to wait in the darkness for Mother, coming more
slowly with Honourable Grandmother and two menservants.
Sister smiled faintly as she told how Honourable Grandmother and
Mother looked as they came up the narrow path, disguised as farmers.
Honourable Grandmother's straw coat kept pulling apart and showing her
purple dress, which was of a kind worn only by a retired mistress of
her rank, and which she had stubbornly refused to have removed. And she
would _not_ walk with her toes turned out as peasants do.
Leaving Honourable Grandmother with them on the mountain-side, Mother
went back to the mansion with Yoshita. They could see the two,
carrying torches of twisted paper, as they passed from point to point,
Yoshita piling straw and Mother lighting with her own hands the fires
to destroy her home. Honourable Grandmother sat perfectly quiet, gazing
straight before her, but the servants knelt on the ground swaying back
and forth, sobbing and wailing, as servants will. Then Mother, with
dishevelled hair and smoke-stained face, came toiling up the path, and
by the pale light of early dawn the two little girls were dressed in
servants' clothes from the bundle on Yoshita's back, and the nurses
were told to take them in different directions to places of safety.
Servants were trustworthy in those days. To each was given a dagger
with orders to use it in case capture was inevitable. Those crested
daggers are still held as treasures in the families of the faithful
nurses.
Sister said it was a long time before she saw Mother again. Her nurse
took her to a farmer's family where she dressed and lived as they did,
and her nurse worked in the ricefield with the farmer's wife. Every
night, after her bath, she was rubbed with a brown juice squeezed from
wild persimmons--for castle people are lighter than peasants--and was
told to talk like the children she played with. She was treated like
the others in every way except that always she was served first. "I
know now," explained Sister, "that the farmer suspected who I was,
but we were in one of the districts where Father had bestowed upon
the headman the privilege of owning two swords, and so we were not
betrayed. Little Sister was in a similar place of safety."
In the meantime, Honourable Grandmother and Mother, in the care of
Yoshita, all wearing the dress and wide, drooping hats of peasants, had
been wandering from place to place, sometimes living in the mountains,
sometimes in a farmer's family, and sometimes for a few weeks finding
refuge in a temple. More than two years this dreadful time lasted;
always hiding, always hunted; for though Father was a prisoner and his
cause lost, conquest was not complete until the enemy had extinguished
for ever the family and name.
"At last," Sister went on, "Mother came to the farmhouse where I was.
She looked so thin, so brown, and so wild that I didn't know her, and
cried out. That night Minota brought Brother. He told us that the
priest, in order to save the child's life, had given him up, and for
several months he had been a prisoner with Father. Both had been very
near the honourable death, but a message that the war was ended and all
political prisoners were pardoned had saved them. Brother seemed to
have almost forgotten me and would not talk much, but I heard him tell
Mother that, one day, when soldiers were seen coming up the mountain,
the priest had put him in a book chest and, covering him with rolls of
sacred writings, had left the cover off and seated himself beside it
as if arranging papers. Brother said that he heard rough footsteps and
falling furniture, and when all was quiet and he was lifted out, he saw
that spears had been thrust through the closed chests standing in the
row with the one where he was hidden."
The next day Mother had gathered her family together and Yoshita found
a place where they could live. Then Father came, and in a modest way
life began all over again.
"So you see, Hanano," said Sister, "your grandmother's life has not
always been full of peace."
"It was a wonderful life," said Hanano in a tone of awe,
"wonderful--and terrible. But Honourable Grandmother _did_ things! Oh,
she _did_ things!"
I looked at the lithe young body, held so straight, at the uplifted
head and the tightly clasped hands. She was very like Mother. One
generation removed from the ancient pride and rigid training; one
generation ahead of the coming freedom; living, alas! in the sad
present--puzzled, misunderstood, and alone!
Sister remained with us throughout the autumn and into the winter. I
shall always be doubly thankful for her visit, for those weeks were
Mother's last with us, and they were happy ones. The long talks when
she and Sister lived over the old days were like those of friends
rather than mother and daughter; for there was only fourteen years
between them and Sister was as old-fashioned in many ways as Mother.
And when the sorrowful time came, Sister's presence was an especial
comfort to me, for she was familiar with all the old customs and could
direct with a tenderness that no other could have shown.
On our sad journey to the temple, as we followed the death _kago_
swaying on the shoulders of the white-robed coolies, my thoughts went
back to another day long before, when I, a child of eleven, walked in
a procession of mourning friends, my little hands clasped tight about
the tablet bearing my father's name. Over the narrow paths of the
ricefields we wound after the chanting priests, while from the high,
tossing baskets carried on long poles by their attendants showered
hundreds of tiny pieces of the five-coloured sacred paper. They filled
the air with clouds of soft colours, floating and mingling as they
drifted downward to settle gently on the straw hats and white robes of
the mourners.
Now, everything was different. Even the honours we show our dead must
bow to the world's changes, and the services for Mother were the
simplest possible to be in accord with her former rank. But she had
requested that, in addition to the rites for herself, there should be
held the ceremony for "The Nameless."
My noble, loyal mother! True to her wifehood and to her husband's
family, even as she was entering the door of death she had remembered
poor Kikuno, for whom no prayer was ever offered except in this lonely
service. And since Brother, the head of the family, was a Christian,
she knew it would never again be observed.
All through the calm and peaceful intoning, beneath which sounded the
rhythmic throb of the wooden drum, my mind was on my gentle mother's
life of unswerving duty to her highest belief, and I wondered what
power had kept her so strong and true. Then, dully, I became aware that
the soft music was melting into a weird and mournful chanting that
carried my thought to the hopeless soul who had lost the way to Heaven
because of her great sin. And so, once more, the descendants of the
name she had dishonoured, sat, lowly bowed, while the priests chanted
the prayer that help be given to guide the wanderer on her lonely path.
When we came to the pause in the music where the high priest chants
the arrival of the dead at the gates of Heaven to present the plea
for mercy, the priests raised their cymbals above their heads, and,
bringing them slowly together, clashed a long, quivering accompaniment
to the soft, muffled beat of the wooden drum. Before my misty eyes
the swinging sleeves made a blur of purple, scarlet, and gold, and,
listening to the wailing and pleading prayer that had for almost three
hundred years winged its way through the curling incense, I wondered if
the long-remembering God of Vengeance would not, if only in pity for
Mother's unselfish faithfulness, grant this last plea for the erring
one of long ago.
At the temple door I made my last bow to my mother's dear body, and,
with a heavy ache in my heart, stood watching the swaying _kago_ with
its curving roof and gilded lotus blossoms as it disappeared at a
turn in the road leading to the cremation grounds. Then we returned
to the lonely home, and for forty-nine days the candles burned and
the incense curled its fragrant way through the carvings of the little
whitewood shrine. On the last night I knelt in my mother's old place
and breathed a Christian prayer to the God who understands. Then I
slowly closed the gilded doors upon my prayer, believing sincerely that
my mother's journey had ended in peace; and that, wherever she was or
whatever she might be doing, she was faithfully taking her part in
God's great plan.
My minister was sorely troubled that I should have observed these
last Buddhist rites--unnecessary after my mother had passed beyond
the knowledge or the hurt of their neglect. I told him that, had I
died even one day after I became a Christian, my mother would have
been faithful, to the minutest detail, in giving me the Christian
burial that she believed would satisfy my heart; and that I was my
mother's daughter. Influence? Yes. The influence of loyalty, sympathy,
understanding; all of which are characteristics of Our Father--hers and
mine.
CHAPTER XXX
THE WHITE COW
When Hanano was fifteen, the family council brought up the subject I
had been most dreading. According to Japanese custom, when there are
only daughters in a family, a son is adopted, who takes the family
name and marries the eldest daughter. Thus the name is perpetuated.
The question of the selection of a son for me, I had dealt with in as
tactful a manner as possible, but after having refused two or three
offers, I saw that I was expected to give a positive decision soon.
It is never wise for a Japanese woman, if she wishes to retain a
position of influence and dignity, to say much on any subject. Actions,
not words, are her most successful means of expression; but the time
came when I saw that I must speak. With a letter of wise suggestions
from my ever-faithful American mother in my hand, I went before the
council and asked to be allowed to take the children back to my former
home for a few years more of study. This request caused excited
discussions; but I now had friends in the council, both of Matsuo's
family and of my own, and my past faithful adherence to their wishes
brought a glorious reward. Again my petition was granted, and, with my
heart weighted with gratitude and my soul singing with joy, I began my
preparations to return to America.
With Chiyo, our going was a question of whether to be glad or sad.
Leaving her little friends and her loved school, to go back to a
vagueness in which only "Grandma" stood out vividly was a serious
thing. But Hanano's joy was profound. She was quiet, but busy every
moment, going about with light, quick steps and singing softly all the
while; and I never glanced at her that I did not meet a bright smile.
Many times during the weeks of preparation, as I watched her happy
face, the thought came to me that if--if--such a cruel thing could
happen as that she would never reach the land of her heart's love, I
should always be grateful, anyway, for the quiet, overflowing joy of
this season of hope. Nothing could ever take away that happy memory.
The busy weeks flew by, and at last there came a morning when the
children, who had been turning down their fingers to count the days,
gleefully announced that only two wide-spread hands were left. Ten
days! We were almost ready, but however well one may plan, there always
seem to be some unfinished things that are pushed away until the last
crowded days.
The children had never been to Nagaoka. Many times I had planned to
go, but life was full for us and something had always interfered. But
I could not allow them to leave Japan without a visit to the place
where their grandmother lay beside her husband among the graves of our
ancestors; so early one spring morning we started.
How different was this trip from the one of years before which I took
with my brother when on my way to school in Tokyo! Instead of a journey
of several days, spent, sometimes perched upon a high wooden saddle,
sometimes tucked snugly into a swinging _kago_ and sometimes rolled and
jolted along the rough path in a jinrikisha, this was only fourteen
hours of comfortable riding on a brisk little narrow-gauge train, that
wound its puffing way up the mountains, through twenty-six tunnels
that represented some of the world's finest engineering. Between these
dashes of darkness were welcome glimpses of sunny hill-sides terraced
with ricefields, and a narrow, winding road that I remembered well.
Just at twilight we found ourselves on the station platform of a busy
town having a background of hills bristling with the skeleton towers of
multitudinous oil wells. I had been told of these changes, but my slow
mind had failed to realize how entirely my Nagaoka was a dream of the
past.
I was glad that the children's first sight of the town was in
cherry-blossom time; for, even to me, the buildings looked smaller and
the streets narrower than I had pictured them in my stories. Everything
might have proved a disappointment to them had it not been for the glow
and freshness that peeped over the plaster walls, glorified the temple
yard, and showed from the tinted branches of the trees lining every
street. There was a faint breeze on our first morning, and as our slow
jinrikishas jogged along the strangely unfamiliar road to Chokoji the
air was filled with fragrance from the pink, shell-like petals that
were continually dropping, or lying in drifts on the sloping roofs of
the snow-sheds which hung over the sidewalks.
"How we love these fruitless, beautiful trees--emblem of our dying
knighthood!" I thought with a sigh; and then I looked toward the hill
where the castle used to stand, and an amused gleam of satisfaction
came to me. The old spirit of protection still dwelt amidst the ruins,
for on the foundation rocks rose a huge fire-tower with its high
platform and warning gong.
The old house was no more. I had hoped that Brother would decide to
return, in time, and spend his old age in the home of his youth; for
the gentle little wife that he had taken in late middle life had lived
only long enough to bring an heir to the Inagaki family and then had
drifted out of life as gently as she had lived in it during her scant
score of quiet years. But all Brother's interests were in a distant
city amidst the progressive whir of factories and modern life, and he
would listen to no plans beyond the education of his son.
So the gods of Utility and Commerce had taken charge, and all that
were left of our worthless treasures were removed to Sister's godown.
Then Jiya and Ishi had gone to distant homes; and now, in place of the
great rambling house with its sagging thatch and tender memories, stood
the ugly foreign buildings of "The Normal School for Girls." The old
chestnut tree beneath which was Shiro's grave, and the archery field,
where so often I had seen Father and Mr. Toda, each with his right
sleeve slipped from a bare shoulder, in a strenuous, but laughing,
game of competition, was lost in a wide gravelled campus, where modern
schoolgirls marched and drilled in pleated skirts and foreign shoes.
Strange indeed it seemed--and full of heart-ache for me! I realized
that these changes pointed toward a future of usefulness and hope,
and I would not have retarded them for the world; but all the quiet
pleasures and picturesque life of the past had been merged into a
present that looked cheap and sordid. It was hard for me, during my few
days in the old town, to keep my memories of beautiful old customs and
ideals from completely overshadowing the new, progressive path that I
was striving to follow.
When our duty of love and honour to the dear ones was over, we went
with Sister, who had come to Nagaoka to meet us, to her home on a
mountain a few hours' jinrikisha ride distant. It was an odd little
village where she lived. So narrow was the ledge upon which it
stretched its one-street length that, from the valley below, it looked
as if a toy town of plaster walls and thatched roofs had been pinned up
against the green side of the mountain.
We left the valley, each with tandem pullers and a pusher behind. It
was a steep climb up a winding path from which reached out, on either
side, long, even lines of scrubby trees. Occasionally the men would
stop and, bracing themselves, would rest the shafts against their hips
and wipe their hot faces.
"It's a breathless climb," said one, as he smiled and pointed down
into the valley, "but it's worth the labour just to see yon terraces
of green against the great brown rocks, and the sunny blue of the sky
reflected brokenly in the rippling stream below."
"_Hai_," said another, "so it is. The city fellows see naught but level
streets and dusty roofs peeping above walls or fences of wood. I pity
them."
Then on they went--panting but content.
"What are all these low, twisted bushes with the gray trunks and so
many little fresh buds?" asked Hanano, in one of these pauses.
"Mulberry trees," replied Sister. "This is a silk-culture district, and
the mountain is covered with cocoon villages. Almost every house here
has wooden frames filled with trays of silkworms, and on a quiet day
you can hear the rustle of their feeding as you walk along the street."
That sounded interesting indeed to the children and as we went on, they
shouted questions and exclamations to each other about silkworms and
their mulberry-leaf diet, until the long climb ended in a short, steep
pull and an abrupt turn into a broad street of low, wide-eaved houses.
At the farther end stood the large house of the village--Sister's home.
Its brownish-yellow thatch rose above a wall of rounded stones topped
with a wooden fence, so like the one surrounding my old home in Nagaoka
that the sight brought a shadow-ache of homesickness to my heart.
With cordial country manners, the servants had come out to the big
wooden gateway, and as our jinrikishas rolled between the two lines
of bowing figures, I caught murmurs of the familiar, old-fashioned
greeting, "_O kaeri asobase!_"--"Your return is welcome!"
The quiet house seemed very restful after our long, jolting ride, and
the hot bath which is always ready in old-fashioned Japan for the
expected visitor refreshed us wonderfully. The children and I had just
returned to the living room, where, settling ourselves comfortably on
soft cushions, we were gazing across the porch straight out into the
blue sky, for the valley and the world were far below us, when two
maids appeared bringing in the dainty little tables for luncheon.
"You'll have to do without meat up here," said Sister apologetically,
as she came hurrying in. "We have only chickens and vegetables from my
farm, and fish from the mountain streams. We cannot get meat or bread."
"That matters nothing," I replied. "The children are fond of fish and
rice; and you know that I always liked everything green that grows.
Don't you remember the 'white cow'?"
Sister laughed; and Hanano, always on the alert for a story, asked,
"What is it about a white cow?"
So, as we ate, Sister told a story of my childhood which dated back so
far that my knowledge of it was only what others told me.
"Your mother was not a very strong child," she began, "yet she was
never really sick, either. At that time many of the Nagaoka people,
when they were puzzled and helpless about a really serious matter,
used to consult the priestess of a small Shinto shrine just outside
the town; and Honourable Grandmother asked Father to send for the holy
woman. For two days before she came, Etsu-bo was not allowed to eat
whale-meat soup, or onion, or any food with an odour; and she was
carefully instructed to be extremely good, both in behaviour and in
thought.
"Early on the important morning Ishi sprinkled her with cold water.
Then she dressed her in her crest dress and took her to Honourable
Grandmother's room. All the family were there, and several women
relatives. I remember how Etsu-bo looked as she toddled in, holding on
to Mother's hand. She bowed to everyone, and Mother seated her on the
mat beside Honourable Grandmother, just a little in front of the rest
of us. The _tokonoma_ was covered with straw matting and decorated
with all the sacred Shinto emblems. Of course the priestess was in
the most honoured seat of all. She was dressed in pure white, and
her black hair was hanging down her back, tied behind the shoulders
with a band of rice-straw, from which dangled strips of white,
zigzag-cut Shinto paper. When Mother and Etsu-bo were seated, the holy
priestess prostrated herself two or three times; then she lifted from
the _tokonoma_ a whitewood rod that had on the end a bunch of long
streamers of holy paper. She waved it above Etsu-bo's head, murmuring
some religious ritual. We all sat very quiet with bowed heads. After
a moment of silence the priestess announced that she had just learned
from the gods that Etsu-bo, in a previous existence, had been a small
white cow used in drawing lumber for the building of a Shinto shrine on
the top of a mountain. The message said that the little creature had
toiled up the rocky path so patiently and faithfully day after day, and
had lent its strength so willingly for the holy duty, that the gods had
hastened the slow steps of transmigration and allowed the soul of the
white cow to enter at once into the present life as a human being.
"Do you mean that my mamma was that white cow?" asked Hanano, with
wide-open, astonished eyes; while Chiyo stopped eating and looked at me
with alarm.
"Father didn't believe the priestess," added Sister, smiling;
"nevertheless, to please Honourable Grandmother, he made a generous
gift to the shrine. But he always said it was not so much a gift of
gratitude to the gods as it was a token of satisfaction that he could
now account for Etsu-bo's exceeding fondness for all green vegetables
and her little liking for fish. Now, whether it was really true or not,
doesn't matter any more than any other fairy story; but it's lucky for
you children that your honourable mother is a faithful and a patient
puller, for she has climbed over a rocky path of obstacles and at last
is ready to pull you all the way over to America."
And she nodded merrily at the children as she served me another
generous helping of bamboo shoots and greens.
A few days later one of Sister's neighbours, whose son was a successful
oil merchant in Tokyo, came to see us. Meeting her recalled to both
Hanano and me a very amusing incident connected with a call from the
son's wife soon after we had gone to Tokyo to live. She was a lady
of the new-rich aristocracy--progressive, wealthy, and altogether
"_highkara_"--a recently coined word which implied the very essence
of what was stylish and up-to-date. She was beautifully attired, in
Japanese dress of course, for even the most progressive women had not
reached the stage where European dress was worn on elegant occasions.
After a long, ceremonious bow and the usual complimentary inquiries
regarding the health of family and relatives, and also a few tactful
remarks in praise of the flowers arranged on the _tokonoma_, she
leaned forward and unwrapped a square of beautiful crêpe exquisitely
dyed and embroidered. It is an age-old Japanese custom, when calling
upon a friend, to take a gift, and my guest lifted out and presented,
modestly but with evident pride, a large imported paper box on which
was printed in fancy English letters:
IMPORTED DAINTIES
A Foreign Delicacy Possessing the Fragrance of Flowers!
Used by Ladies and Gentlemen
in the
Cultured Society of Europe and America
It was a large, wholesale package of ordinary chewing gum. The
elaborate, ceremonious manner of my guest's every movement being in
accordance with the strictest etiquette, made the unexpected appearance
of that plebeian package a most incongruous and amusing thing. Yet
this was a perfectly natural gift for her to make. It was not easy to
choose a suitable present for a person who had lived for several years
in America, and who was believed to be foreign in her tastes; so my
guest had gone to a store where foreign things were sold and, with
considerable care, had selected this as being an especially appropriate
gift for me.
Hanano and Chiyo had been in the room when the box was presented. Chiyo
looked with grave interest upon the foreign lettering. Of course she
could not read it, but Hanano's first careless glance, as we all bowed
slightly in acknowledgment of the kindness, was followed instantly by
another quick look; then, with a strange contortion of countenance, she
bowed a deep "Excuse me" and slipped quickly from the room.
As soon as the caller had gone she hurried in to me.
"Oh, Mamma," she cried, gleefully, "just to think that Nakayama Sama
should select that gift for _you_! What would she think if she could
only know how you scolded me that time in America when I came home from
school chewing a piece of gum? And how you made me wash my mouth with
salt and told me that if I were in Japan Ishi would say that I looked
like the Buddhist pictures of a starving soul in the Hell of Hunger!"
Sister was very much interested in this story.
"It seems a peculiar custom," she said, "but it is not so harmful as
the one from which originated our blackening the teeth."
"What did start that, Sister?" I asked. "Several people in America
asked me, and I could only tell them that ridiculous old story of
the homely wife who stained her teeth by mistake, and it made her so
beautiful that she won devotion from her husband and envy from all
other wives."
"There are many stories as absurd as that, about all our old customs,"
said Sister. "When I made my first visit home with black teeth, I heard
Father and Mr. Toda talking about our ancestors once having had a
fashion of chewing something. But the story that Honourable Grandmother
told me was this:
"Long ago, when everybody had white teeth, there lived a young wife
whose jealous husband accused her of smiling to show her beautiful
teeth. That day when cutting eggplant for dinner she took some thin
peelings and put them over her teeth. The husband returned and, seeing
how beautifully the purple colour contrasted with his wife's olive skin
and scarlet lips, angrily asked why she had decorated herself. She
told him she had tried to cover her teeth so that they would not show.
Recognizing her modest worth, the husband was jealous no longer. Thus,
more attractive than ever, she became a model to imitate, and in time,
the added beauty of blackened teeth came to be the emblem of a trusted
and dutiful wife. That is the story that Honourable Grandmother was
told when she married."
What Sister had heard Father and Mr. Toda talking about was probably
the theory which is considered the most reasonable explanation of our
custom of blackening the teeth. It is an historical fact that the first
conquerors of Japan, who no doubt came originally from the hot shores
of Central Asia, planted betel orchards in the warm islands of South
Japan where they first landed; but on account of difference in soil and
climate it was almost impossible to make the trees grow. So, in a few
years the habit of betel chewing became necessarily confined to those
who represented wealth and rank. An ancient Imperial coach used by an
Emperor who reigned more than a thousand years ago, and which is now in
the Art Museum of Tokyo, was roofed with a thatch made of the husks of
betel nuts. This speaks of the rarity of the betel trees at that time,
for of course the Imperial cart was the most costly vehicle in the land.
When the time came that only people of the highest class had
betel-stained teeth, imitations became the fashion and substitutes
were found. During the Middle Ages, long after the nuts were extinct
in Japan, both men and women of high rank blackened their teeth with a
powder made from a wild nut from the mountains. The Imperial courtiers
kept up this custom to 1868. At that time even Meiji Tenno, the Emperor
of the Restoration, had blackened teeth. The samurai never stained
their teeth. They took pride in scorning any fashion that spoke more
of luxury and ease than of strength and power of arms. After the
Restoration this emblem of vanity faded before the advancing light
of Western life; but, suggestive as it was of artistic beauty and
high-class leisure, it remained with the women, and all classes adopted
it as the marriage emblem. From then on, they blackened their teeth on
their wedding day and kept them black ever after.
The fashion is not an ugly one. When blackened every morning, the
teeth look like polished ebony, and the gleam of shining black behind
coral lips brings out the clear olive of the skin and looks as
beautiful to Japanese eyes as did, to the eyes of a European, the dot
of black courtplaster on the ivory skin of a maiden in the days of
colonial America. The custom is now dying out, but it is still seen
everywhere in rural districts. Even in large cities, almost all old
ladies of very high rank and of very humble station still cling to the
custom. The middle class of Japan always leads the way in progress.
CHAPTER XXXI
WORTHLESS TREASURES
We spent a happy week with Sister in the little silkworm village,
and our visit was almost ended when one day she took us into her big
godown, where the things brought from Nagaoka had been stored. The
greater part of our ancient treasures were now only worthless burdens,
but there were some things that I wanted the children to see; for, in
the old days, they had been both useful and beautiful, and, to me, were
still full of precious memories.
We passed through the heavy door, a foot thick of fire-proof plaster,
and entered a large room all four sides filled with shelves, most
of them crowded full to the edge. There were rows and rows of high
narrow boxes containing a whole library of soft-backed books. There
were rows of still larger boxes holding small eating tables, and still
others filled with dishes, trays, and all the reserve belongings of a
prosperous household. There were long, slender boxes of roll pictures
and many ornaments--bronze vases, incense burners, and carvings of wood
and ivory--all neatly tied up in squares of cotton or silk, and placed
within convenient reach, ready for the frequent changes necessary in a
Japanese house.
Part of the floor was taken up with chests of drawers arranged in rows,
back to back; and in corners stood tall candlesticks, screens, and
various large articles of household use.
"Just look!" cried Hanano, gazing about her in astonishment. "I never
saw so many things, at once, in all my life!"
"It's like a store," said Chiyo, "only everything is put away so
nicely, and yet it's all mixed up, too!"
"Don't be critical of my housekeeping," laughed Sister. "A well-filled
godown is said to be the best museum of household belongings that is to
be found in all Japan; and it ought to be, for it is the place where
we keep everything that is not in immediate use. Things are put in and
pulled out every day. I never knew of a godown that _looked_ in order."
But Sister's godown really was in disorder, for in some half-filled
shelves and in a wide space beyond the wooden steps leading to the
floor above were gathered a lot of objects from our Nagaoka godowns,
for which suitable places had not yet been found. Among some high
lantern stands wrapped in oil-paper, and a pile of boxes containing
war banners, I saw the big, cumbersome palanquin that Father had used
on his official trips to the capital in the years before the name was
changed from Yedo to Tokyo. The lacquer was dulled, the metal ornaments
tarnished, and the brocade cushions faded; but Hanano thought it
wondrously elegant. She crept inside, settled herself comfortably on
the thick cushion, rested her elbow on the lacquer arm rest, and peeped
into the toilet box in the silk pocket in front. Then she glanced
at the misty reflection of her face in the metal hanging mirror and
declared that Honourable Grandfather's travelling coach was convenient
and comfortable enough for a trip all the way to America.
As she climbed out I pushed at the padded top, but the hinges were
rusted. It used to lift and swing back. Many a time, when on a hurried
trip, Father had dressed while his carriers were trotting fast and Jiya
running by his side to help him now and then.
"Here's another palanquin--prettier than yours, Hanano," chirped
Chiyo, from behind the stairs; "only this one hasn't any doors."
"_Maa! Maa!_" laughed Sister, going over to her. "This is not to ride
in, little Chiyo. It's for a swim!" and she lifted her into an enormous
bathtub of red lacquer which from my earliest recollection had stood in
a corner of our godown. We used it for holding the cocoons, until the
maids were ready to put them on the spindle to twist the silk threads
off the poor, little, cooked inhabitants. The tub was marred on the
edge, but not chipped anywhere, for the lacquer was of olden time. It
still held the deep softness of velvet, and the band of braided bamboo
showed beneath the polished surface like water weeds in a clear stream.
It must have been very old, for it had been brought into our family as
a part of the wedding dowry of my three-times-great-grandmother, the
daughter of Yodo daimio, Inaba-no-kami.
"Climb out, Chiyo! Climb out and come here!" called Hanano. "I've found
a wooden stove-pipe hat--only," she added, peering into it, "it has a
funny inside."
She was standing in a shadowy corner where a number of miscellaneous
articles were gathered on a crowded shelf, and had just lifted the
tall cover from a shallow bucket of whitewood, the bottom having
in its centre, rising sharp and strong, a short hardwood spike. It
was Father's head-bucket that always had been kept in the closed
shelf-closet above our parlour _tokonoma_.
"Let us go upstairs now," I said quickly. "Sister, won't you show
the children your wedding cap of silk floss? They have never seen an
old-fashioned wedding, where the bride's cap comes down to the chin."
I hurried them up the narrow stairs to the room above. I did not want
to explain to the children the use of the head-bucket. Their modern,
practical education held nothing that would enable them to understand
the deep sentiment of honour which has inspired many an ancient
samurai, who, when guilty of some unlawful act, has chosen to die an
honourable death by his own hand, rather than bring upon his family
the disgrace of a public execution. In such a case the head-bucket,
one of which every samurai house possessed, was used to carry to court
the proof that the law had been obeyed. After being identified by the
authorities, the head was returned, with respectful ceremonies, to the
family; and the dead samurai, his crime now fully expiated, was buried
with honour.
Of course, the gruesome mission of our head-bucket had never been
fulfilled. Its only duty had been the occasional holding of a coil of
hemp when Honourable Grandmother or Ishi was twisting it ready to spin.
It was as convenient for that purpose as a flax-box. Indeed, the two
looked so much alike that no bride was ever allowed to have a flax-box,
although in those days all other spinning implements were considered
essential to every wedding dowry.
The upstairs room of Sister's godown was lighted by narrow, iron-barred
windows set deep in the thick plaster wall. The shutters, which were
really heavy plaster doors, were open, and a pleasant breeze was
blowing through the room, making it cool and airy. Against the walls
were chests of drawers and great wooden boxes having metal bands, on
some of which I saw the Inagaki crest. I could readily guess what
Sister's chests contained, for her large house was well stocked
with all the requirements of a country home. There were padded-silk
comforts, round pillows for men and little lacquer box-pillows for
women, large mosquito nets made to swing by short cords from the
corners of the ceiling, thus enclosing the entire room, and cushions
of every kind--soft, thick ones of heavy silk for winter; thin ones of
woven grass for summer, braided bamboo for the porch, woven rope for
the kitchen, some round, some square, some plain, and some elaborately
dyed in patterns--for cushions were our chairs, and every house had to
have a supply always on hand.
"This holds my 'treasure dresses,'" said Sister, waving her hand toward
a low chest of drawers. "The clothes that I wear I keep downstairs
within easy reach; but some of these have been in the family for more
than two hundred years."
She took out an elaborately embroidered trained garment with a scarlet
lining and heavily padded hem--a dress of ceremony, worn, even in
ancient times, only on state occasions. It looked fresh and almost new,
for Japanese women are careful housekeepers, and probably this gown had
been shaken out and examined on every airing-day since it was first
used by the ancestor of long ago.
"It looks just like the splendid dresses we saw in that play at the
Tokyo theatre, doesn't it?" said Hanano.
And indeed it did. For only on the stage were these gorgeous costumes
to be seen in modern life.
The next drawer held Sister's wedding dresses--seven of them. There was
the soft, white linen, emblem of death to her own home, the scarlet
silk, emblem of birth into her husband's family, and the five other
elaborately embroidered gowns bearing her husband's crest and the
marriage emblems of pine, bamboo, and plum.
"Here is the wedding cap you asked to see," said Sister, presently,
unfolding something that looked like a great satiny mushroom. It was of
exquisite pressed silk floss and made to fit rather close over the head
and shoulders. It looked like a thick, shining veil.
"Oh, isn't it pretty?" cried Chiyo, delighted. "Put it on, Hanano, and
let's see how you look!"
I gave a half-frightened gasp, and was glad when Hanano, with a slow
smile, shook her head. I don't know why the child refused. Perhaps
the soft whiteness of the snowy floss suggested in some vague way the
white mourning clothes we had worn at Mother's funeral. While there
was no definite superstition regarding the wearing of wedding garments
after the ceremony, still, it was never done. They were laid away--to
wait. Both Honourable Grandmother and my mother wore the wedding dress
beneath the death-robe when they were ready for the last journey.
The very next chest--just as marriage and death go hand in hand as the
two most important ceremonies in Japanese life--held articles for the
funeral. This chest was one of those from my home and was about half
filled with a disordered array of ceremonious uniforms for the men who
carried the tall lanterns, the bamboo dove cage, and the heavy death
_kago_. These were all made of linen, since no silk was ever used at a
funeral. There were also pleated skirts and stiff shoulder garments for
retainers with no family crest, white-banded servant kimonos, boxes of
knee bands, pilgrim sandals, and countless small articles essential for
the various attendants in the elaborate procession. I could remember
when that chest contained everything requisite for a samurai funeral
except the wide straw hats that shade the sorrowing faces from the
Sun goddess. Those had to be fresh and new for each occasion. The
house of every high official always had these things in readiness, for
death often comes without warning, and Japanese rules for ceremonious
occasions were strict and unvarying.
"There!" said Sister, as she closed the lid of the chest and pushed the
metal bar through the triple clasp, "the usefulness of these things
belongs with their glory--to the past. Sometimes I cut up a garment to
get linen binding for a worn-out mat, and occasionally, when a workman
breaks his sandal cord, I present him with a pair of sandals from this
chest; but the things go slowly--slowly."
"But _this_," she added, gently tapping a drawer in a fresh whitewood
chest, "belongs to the future. It will be used some day."
"What is it?" I asked.
"My death-robe."
"Oh, Sister," I said earnestly, "please show it to the children. They
saw Mother's, of course, but I had no chance to explain the meaning."
She opened the drawer and lifted out her shroud. We all sat very quiet,
for as it was folded it looked exactly like the one we had placed on
Mother. It was made of soft white linen, and instead of a sash, had a
narrow band like that of a baby's first dress, for the belief was that
we enter the next world as an infant. The robe was almost covered with
texts from the Buddhist scriptures, which had been written by famous
priests at various times. A blank strip in front showed that it was
not yet finished. Beside the robe lay a small white bag intended to
be placed around the neck. It would contain, when all was ready for
Sister's last journey, a tiny package of her baby hair, shaved off at
the christening ceremonies when she was eight days old, the dried navel
cord, her cut widow-hair, a six-_rin_ coin to pay the ferryman, a death
rosary of white wooden beads, and a sacred tablet called "The Heavenly
Pass."
While Sister was re-folding the robe she glanced up at the grave faces
of the children and broke into a merry laugh.
"Why so sad, thou solemn-faced ones?" she cried. "Would it not be a
disgrace should I receive a telegram to go home and have no suitable
dress for the journey?"
"Yes, children," I added, "it is as natural and commonplace for
everyone in Japan to be ready for the last journey as it is in America
to have a trunk in the house."
"Come over this way," said Sister, leading us to the other side of the
room. "Here is something that belongs to you, Etsu-bo. You had better
take charge of it."
She pulled out a narrow drawer. Within, wrapped in purple crêpe on
which was the Inagaki crest, lay a slender parcel about a foot long.
My heart gave a bound. It was one of our three family treasures--the
_saihai_ used by Tokugawa Ieyasu, and presented by him to my ancestor
on the battlefield of Sekigahara.
Reverently I lifted the precious thing to my forehead. Then, bidding
the children sit with bowed heads, I slowly unwrapped the square of
crêpe, disclosing a short, thick rod of lacquered wood, having on one
end a silk cord for a wrist loop and on the other a bronze chain-clasp
that held a bunch of soft, tough paper cut in strips.
We all sat very quiet while Sister told the children of the brave
ancestor who, in a time of peril, saved the life of his great overlord;
and how Ieyasu, in gracious remembrance, presented him with his own
blood-stained coat, his wonderful Masamune sword, and this rod which
he used in guiding his followers on the battlefield. "And," concluded
Sister, "all three are still kept in the Inagaki family as sacred
treasures."
"It looks like just a plain wooden stick, doesn't it?" whispered Chiyo
to Hanano.
"So it is," said Sister. "As plain as the most simple director rod used
by any ancient general; for Ieyasu lived in the age when was written,
'An ornamental scabbard signifies a dull blade.'"
"The pieces of paper are so yellow and ragged," said Hanano. "Did they
use to be white?"
"Yes," I answered. "They are yellow because they are so old. And the
reason the papers are ragged is because so many pieces have been torn
off for people to eat."
"_To eat!_" exclaimed both children, horrified.
I couldn't help smiling as I explained that many people used to believe
that because the _saihai_ had been held in the hand of Ieyasu, the
paper strips possessed the magic power of healing. I have heard my
mother say that sick people often came from long distances just to beg
for a bit of the paper to roll into a pellet and swallow as a cure.
Father always laughed, but he told Mother to give the paper, saying
that it was less harmful than most medicine, and that belief alone
frequently cures.
We were starting to go downstairs when I stopped beside a large
whitewood box having the over-lapping lid and the curved feet of
a temple book chest. It stood on a platform raised a little above
the floor. I had seen this box in my childhood, but never except on
airing-days, and always it had the sacred Shinto rope around it. With
some hesitation I called Sister to come back.
"I am very bold," I said, "but would you mind if I ask you to open the
_kiri_-wood box? Our feelings have changed since the old days, and I
would so like for the children----"
"Etsu-bo, you ask to gaze upon sacred things----" Sister began hastily;
then, stopping abruptly, she shrugged her shoulders. "After all,
women's eyes have already looked upon it," she added a little bitterly;
"the new order of things has done much to take the spirit of reverence
from us all."
Then we, she at one end and I at the other, lifted off the lid just
as Jiya and Yoshita in their ceremonial dresses used to do, long
ago. I felt a little awestruck as we leaned over and looked within.
Some of the sacred relics had been removed. The coat and sword of
Ieyasu were in charge of another branch of the family, and Brother
had taken the books of the Inagaki genealogy; but, before us, lying
shroud-like in its pressed stillness, was a garment, once white, but
now yellowed by time. A pointed cap and an ancient unfolding fan of
thin wood lay on top. It was the sacred robe which was used when
the daimio, or his representative, officiated as high priest in the
temple dedicated to his ancestors and was believed to possess heavenly
power. My grandmother had told me that once, when it was worn by my
great-grandfather, a miracle had been performed beneath the shadow of
its wide-spread sleeve.
We gazed only a moment, then the box was silently closed. Neither
Sister nor I spoke of it again, but I knew that she felt, as I did,
that we had been a little daring in lifting the lid of this box, which,
in ancient days, was always kept in the holy room, even the entrance
hall of which was never profaned by woman's foot. I had grown away from
my childhood faith in these things, but not entirely away from the
influence of memory; and thoughts, beautiful and solemn, were crowding
my mind when there came a sudden "bang!" from one of the heavy,
swinging windows. They were always closed from the outside by a servant
with a long pole, and evidently were being shut this time by someone
who did not know that we were still there.
"_Maa! Maa!_ It is late. Make haste, I inhospitably beg you," laughed
Sister; and we all scrambled down the narrow stairs and out of the
door, hearing the windows bang one after another behind us, shutting
the godown, with all its treasures, into darkness.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE BLACK SHIPS
The night before we sailed my Tokyo uncle called, bringing with him a
package of "friendship ribbons" for the children--those frail, dainty,
quivery strips that bind the hands of friends between deck and dock at
the moment of starting--and parting.
"I'll hold a pink one for Toshiko and a blue one for Kuni San," cried
Chiyo, as the bright-coloured rolls tumbled out of the package, "and a
white one for my teacher and a purple one for--for _you_, Uncle Tosa!
Two of the most beautiful for you, of any colour you choose!"
"I'll hold a whole bunch of red and white ones for all Japan!" said
Hanano. "Love, much love, and good-bye; for I'll never come back. I
love everybody here, but I'm going to stay for ever with Grandma in
'Home, Sweet Home,'" and she softly hummed the tune as she slipped
away, her face full of light. Ah, how little she dreamed that in years
to come she would return--more than once--and always with a heart full
of double loyalty: half for the land of her birth and half for the land
of love, where were husband, children, and home.
Hanano and Chiyo had gone to bed, and I was attending to the last
scattered duties of the packing when Sudzu lifted a folded shawl to lay
on top of the tray before closing a trunk.
"This is rather loose," she said. "A cushion would exactly fit; but how
ridiculous it would be to carry to a great country like America just an
ordinary cushion that we sit on."
She did not know that in the bottom of my trunk of greatest value was
something which, until I had seen it in Sister's godown, I had never
dreamed could be anywhere except beside the familiar fire-box in the
room of Honourable Grandmother. It was a square, flat cushion of blue
brocade, old and somewhat faded.
I was alone when I wrapped it for its long journey, and, as my hands
passed over the silken flowers, my mind went back--back to the day when
a little black-haired girl in wooden clogs clattered through the big
gateway and, hurrying her polite bows of greeting to the family, spread
out before her grandmother, who was seated on this very cushion, a
large, flat book.
"Honourable Grandmother," she said, pointing to a coloured map of the
world, "I am much, much troubled. I have just learned that our beloved
land is only a few tiny islands in the great world."
The grandmother adjusted her big horn spectacles and for a few minutes
carefully studied the map. Then with slow dignity she closed the book.
"It is quite natural, little Etsu-bo, for them to make Japan look small
on this map," she said. "It was made by the people of the black ships.
Japan is made large on the Japanese maps of the world."
"Who are the people of the black ships?" asked the little girl.
"They are the red barbarians who came uninvited to our sacred land.
They came in big, black ships that moved without sails."
"I know. Ishi sings it to me"; and her shrill little voice chanted:
"They came from a land of darkness,
Giants with hooked nose like mountain imp;
Giants with rough hair, loose and red;
They stole a promise from our sacred master
And danced with joy as they sailed away
To the distant land of darkness."
"I wonder why they were called 'black ships.' Do you know, Honourable
Grandmother?"
"Because far out on the waters they looked like clouds of black smoke
rolling nearer and nearer, and they had long, black guns that roared.
The red barbarians cared nothing for beauty. They laughed at the
Japanese boats, whose sails were made of rich brocade and their oars of
carved wood, inlaid with coral and mother-of-pearl. They talked like
tradesmen and did not want to learn the hearts of the children of the
gods."
The grandmother stopped and slowly shook her head.
"And after that?" asked the eager little voice. "And after that,
Honourable Grandmother?"
"The black ships and the rude barbarians sailed away," she concluded,
with a deep sigh. "But they sailed back many times. They are always
sailing. And now the people of our sacred land also talk like tradesmen
and no longer are peaceful and content."
"Will they never be peaceful and content again?" asked the little girl,
with anxious eyes. "The honourable teacher said that sailing ships
bring lands nearer to each other."
"Listen!" said the grandmother, holding herself very straight. "Little
Granddaughter, unless the red barbarians and the children of the gods
learn each other's hearts, the ships may sail and sail, but the two
lands will never be nearer."
Years passed, and Etsu-bo, the little girl who had listened to the
story of the black ships and the red barbarians, herself went sailing
on a black ship that moved without sails, to a new home in the distant
land of the red barbarians. There she learned that hearts are the same
on both sides of the world; but this is a secret that is hidden from
the people of the East, and hidden from the people of the West. That
makes another chapter to my grandmother's tale--another chapter, but
not the last. The red barbarians and the children of the gods have not
yet learned each other's hearts; to them the secret is still unknown,
but the ships are sailing--sailing----
THE END
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A daughter of the Samurai" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.