الفصل الفصل 6 · Jiu-Roku-Zakura

Uso no yona,—

Jiu-roku-zakura

Saki ni keri!

In Wakégōri, a district of the province of Iyo (1), there is a very

ancient and famous cherry-tree, called _Jiu-roku-zakura_, or “the

Cherry-tree of the Sixteenth Day,” because it blooms every year upon

the sixteenth day of the first month (by the old lunar calendar),—and

only upon that day. Thus the time of its flowering is the Period of

Great Cold,—though the natural habit of a cherry-tree is to wait for

the spring season before venturing to blossom. But the

_Jiu-roku-zakura_ blossoms with a life that is not—or, at least, that

was not originally—its own. There is the ghost of a man in that tree.

He was a samurai of Iyo; and the tree grew in his garden; and it used

to flower at the usual time,—that is to say, about the end of March or

the beginning of April. He had played under that tree when he was a

child; and his parents and grandparents and ancestors had hung to its

blossoming branches, season after season for more than a hundred years,

bright strips of colored paper inscribed with poems of praise. He

himself became very old,—outliving all his children; and there was

nothing in the world left for him to love except that tree. And lo! in

the summer of a certain year, the tree withered and died!

Exceedingly the old man sorrowed for his tree. Then kind neighbors

found for him a young and beautiful cherry-tree, and planted it in his

garden,—hoping thus to comfort him. And he thanked them, and pretended

to be glad. But really his heart was full of pain; for he had loved the

old tree so well that nothing could have consoled him for the loss of

it.

At last there came to him a happy thought: he remembered a way by which

the perishing tree might be saved. (It was the sixteenth day of the

first month.) Along he went into his garden, and bowed down before the

withered tree, and spoke to it, saying: “Now deign, I beseech you, once

more to bloom,—because I am going to die in your stead.” (For it is

believed that one can really give away one’s life to another person, or

to a creature or even to a tree, by the favor of the gods;—and thus to

transfer one’s life is expressed by the term _migawari ni tatsu_, “to

act as a substitute.”) Then under that tree he spread a white cloth,

and divers coverings, and sat down upon the coverings, and performed

_hara-kiri_ after the fashion of a samurai. And the ghost of him went

into the tree, and made it blossom in that same hour.

And every year it still blooms on the sixteenth day of the first month,

in the season of snow.

THE DREAM OF AKINOSUKÉ

In the district called Toïchi of Yamato Province, (1) there used to

live a gōshi named Miyata Akinosuké... [Here I must tell you that in

Japanese feudal times there was a privileged class of

soldier-farmers,—free-holders,—corresponding to the class of yeomen in

England; and these were called gōshi.]

In Akinosuké’s garden there was a great and ancient cedar-tree, under

which he was wont to rest on sultry days. One very warm afternoon he

was sitting under this tree with two of his friends, fellow-gōshi,

chatting and drinking wine, when he felt all of a sudden very

drowsy,—so drowsy that he begged his friends to excuse him for taking a

nap in their presence. Then he lay down at the foot of the tree, and

dreamed this dream:—

He thought that as he was lying there in his garden, he saw a

procession, like the train of some great daimyō descending a hill near

by, and that he got up to look at it. A very grand procession it proved

to be,—more imposing than anything of the kind which he had ever seen

before; and it was advancing toward his dwelling. He observed in the

van of it a number of young men richly appareled, who were drawing a

great lacquered palace-carriage, or _gosho-guruma_, hung with bright

blue silk. When the procession arrived within a short distance of the

house it halted; and a richly dressed man—evidently a person of

rank—advanced from it, approached Akinosuké, bowed to him profoundly,

and then said:—

“Honored Sir, you see before you a _kérai_ [vassal] of the Kokuō of

Tokoyo.[1] My master, the King, commands me to greet you in his august

name, and to place myself wholly at your disposal. He also bids me

inform you that he augustly desires your presence at the palace. Be

therefore pleased immediately to enter this honorable carriage, which

he has sent for your conveyance.”

Upon hearing these words Akinosuké wanted to make some fitting reply;

but he was too much astonished and embarrassed for speech;—and in the

same moment his will seemed to melt away from him, so that he could

only do as the _kérai_ bade him. He entered the carriage; the _kérai_

took a place beside him, and made a signal; the drawers, seizing the

silken ropes, turned the great vehicle southward;—and the journey

began.

In a very short time, to Akinosuké’s amazement, the carriage stopped in

front of a huge two-storied gateway (_rōmon_), of a Chinese style,

which he had never before seen. Here the _kérai_ dismounted, saying, “I

go to announce the honorable arrival,”—and he disappeared. After some

little waiting, Akinosuké saw two noble-looking men, wearing robes of

purple silk and high caps of the form indicating lofty rank, come from

the gateway. These, after having respectfully saluted him, helped him

to descend from the carriage, and led him through the great gate and

across a vast garden, to the entrance of a palace whose front appeared

to extend, west and east, to a distance of miles. Akinosuké was then

shown into a reception-room of wonderful size and splendor. His guides

conducted him to the place of honor, and respectfully seated themselves

apart; while serving-maids, in costume of ceremony, brought

refreshments. When Akinosuké had partaken of the refreshments, the two

purple-robed attendants bowed low before him, and addressed him in the

following words,—each speaking alternately, according to the etiquette

of courts:—

“It is now our honorable duty to inform you... as to the reason of your

having been summoned hither... Our master, the King, augustly desires

that you become his son-in-law;... and it is his wish and command that

you shall wed this very day... the August Princess, his

maiden-daughter... We shall soon conduct you to the presence-chamber...

where His Augustness even now is waiting to receive you... But it will

be necessary that we first invest you... with the appropriate garments

of ceremony.”[2]

Having thus spoken, the attendants rose together, and proceeded to an

alcove containing a great chest of gold lacquer. They opened the chest,

and took from it various robes and girdles of rich material, and a

_kamuri_, or regal headdress. With these they attired Akinosuké as

befitted a princely bridegroom; and he was then conducted to the

presence-room, where he saw the Kokuō of Tokoyo seated upon the

_daiza_,[3] wearing a high black cap of state, and robed in robes of

yellow silk. Before the _daiza_, to left and right, a multitude of

dignitaries sat in rank, motionless and splendid as images in a temple;

and Akinosuké, advancing into their midst, saluted the king with the

triple prostration of usage. The king greeted him with gracious words,

and then said:—

“You have already been informed as to the reason of your having been

summoned to Our presence. We have decided that you shall become the

adopted husband of Our only daughter;—and the wedding ceremony shall

now be performed.”

As the king finished speaking, a sound of joyful music was heard; and a

long train of beautiful court ladies advanced from behind a curtain to

conduct Akinosuké to the room in which his bride awaited him.

The room was immense; but it could scarcely contain the multitude of

guests assembled to witness the wedding ceremony. All bowed down before

Akinosuké as he took his place, facing the King’s daughter, on the

kneeling-cushion prepared for him. As a maiden of heaven the bride

appeared to be; and her robes were beautiful as a summer sky. And the

marriage was performed amid great rejoicing.

Afterwards the pair were conducted to a suite of apartments that had

been prepared for them in another portion of the palace; and there they

received the congratulations of many noble persons, and wedding gifts

beyond counting.

Some days later Akinosuké was again summoned to the throne-room. On

this occasion he was received even more graciously than before; and the

King said to him:—

“In the southwestern part of Our dominion there is an island called

Raishū. We have now appointed you Governor of that island. You will

find the people loyal and docile; but their laws have not yet been

brought into proper accord with the laws of Tokoyo; and their customs

have not been properly regulated. We entrust you with the duty of

improving their social condition as far as may be possible; and We

desire that you shall rule them with kindness and wisdom. All

preparations necessary for your journey to Raishū have already been

made.”

So Akinosuké and his bride departed from the palace of Tokoyo,

accompanied to the shore by a great escort of nobles and officials; and

they embarked upon a ship of state provided by the king. And with

favoring winds they safety sailed to Raishū, and found the good people

of that island assembled upon the beach to welcome them.

Akinosuké entered at once upon his new duties; and they did not prove

to be hard. During the first three years of his governorship he was

occupied chiefly with the framing and the enactment of laws; but he had

wise counselors to help him, and he never found the work unpleasant.

When it was all finished, he had no active duties to perform, beyond

attending the rites and ceremonies ordained by ancient custom. The

country was so healthy and so fertile that sickness and want were

unknown; and the people were so good that no laws were ever broken. And

Akinosuké dwelt and ruled in Raishū for twenty years more,—making in

all twenty-three years of sojourn, during which no shadow of sorrow

traversed his life.

But in the twenty-fourth year of his governorship, a great misfortune

came upon him; for his wife, who had borne him seven children,—five

boys and two girls,—fell sick and died. She was buried, with high pomp,

on the summit of a beautiful hill in the district of Hanryōkō; and a

monument, exceedingly splendid, was placed upon her grave. But

Akinosuké felt such grief at her death that he no longer cared to live.

Now when the legal period of mourning was over, there came to Raishū,

from the Tokoyo palace, a _shisha_, or royal messenger. The _shisha_

delivered to Akinosuké a message of condolence, and then said to him:—

“These are the words which our august master, the King of Tokoyo,

commands that I repeat to you: ‘We will now send you back to your own

people and country. As for the seven children, they are the grandsons

and granddaughters of the King, and shall be fitly cared for. Do not,

therefore, allow your mind to be troubled concerning them.’”

On receiving this mandate, Akinosuké submissively prepared for his

departure. When all his affairs had been settled, and the ceremony of

bidding farewell to his counselors and trusted officials had been

concluded, he was escorted with much honor to the port. There he

embarked upon the ship sent for him; and the ship sailed out into the

blue sea, under the blue sky; and the shape of the island of Raishū

itself turned blue, and then turned grey, and then vanished forever...

And Akinosuké suddenly awoke—under the cedar-tree in his own garden!

For a moment he was stupefied and dazed. But he perceived his two

friends still seated near him,—drinking and chatting merrily. He stared

at them in a bewildered way, and cried aloud,—

“How strange!”

“Akinosuké must have been dreaming,” one of them exclaimed, with a

laugh. “What did you see, Akinosuké, that was strange?”

Then Akinosuké told his dream,—that dream of three-and-twenty years’

sojourn in the realm of Tokoyo, in the island of Raishū;—and they were

astonished, because he had really slept for no more than a few minutes.

One gōshi said:—

“Indeed, you saw strange things. We also saw something strange while

you were napping. A little yellow butterfly was fluttering over your

face for a moment or two; and we watched it. Then it alighted on the

ground beside you, close to the tree; and almost as soon as it alighted

there, a big, big ant came out of a hole and seized it and pulled it

down into the hole. Just before you woke up, we saw that very butterfly

come out of the hole again, and flutter over your face as before. And

then it suddenly disappeared: we do not know where it went.”

“Perhaps it was Akinosuké’s soul,” the other gōshi said;—“certainly I

thought I saw it fly into his mouth... But, even if that butterfly

_was_ Akinosuké’s soul, the fact would not explain his dream.”

“The ants might explain it,” returned the first speaker. “Ants are

queer beings—possibly goblins... Anyhow, there is a big ant’s nest

under that cedar-tree.”...

“Let us look!” cried Akinosuké, greatly moved by this suggestion. And

he went for a spade.

The ground about and beneath the cedar-tree proved to have been

excavated, in a most surprising way, by a prodigious colony of ants.

The ants had furthermore built inside their excavations; and their tiny

constructions of straw, clay, and stems bore an odd resemblance to

miniature towns. In the middle of a structure considerably larger than

the rest there was a marvelous swarming of small ants around the body

of one very big ant, which had yellowish wings and a long black head.

“Why, there is the King of my dream!” cried Akinosuké; “and there is

the palace of Tokoyo!... How extraordinary!... Raishū ought to lie

somewhere southwest of it—to the left of that big root... Yes!—here it

is!... How very strange! Now I am sure that I can find the mountain of

Hanryōkō, and the grave of the princess.”...

In the wreck of the nest he searched and searched, and at last

discovered a tiny mound, on the top of which was fixed a water-worn

pebble, in shape resembling a Buddhist monument. Underneath it he

found—embedded in clay—the dead body of a female ant.

RIKI-BAKA

His name was Riki, signifying Strength; but the people called him

Riki-the-Simple, or Riki-the-Fool,—“Riki-Baka,”—because he had been

born into perpetual childhood. For the same reason they were kind to

him,—even when he set a house on fire by putting a lighted match to a

mosquito-curtain, and clapped his hands for joy to see the blaze. At

sixteen years he was a tall, strong lad; but in mind he remained always

at the happy age of two, and therefore continued to play with very

small children. The bigger children of the neighborhood, from four to

seven years old, did not care to play with him, because he could not

learn their songs and games. His favorite toy was a broomstick, which

he used as a hobby-horse; and for hours at a time he would ride on that

broomstick, up and down the slope in front of my house, with amazing

peals of laughter. But at last he became troublesome by reason of his

noise; and I had to tell him that he must find another playground. He

bowed submissively, and then went off,—sorrowfully trailing his

broomstick behind him. Gentle at all times, and perfectly harmless if

allowed no chance to play with fire, he seldom gave anybody cause for

complaint. His relation to the life of our street was scarcely more

than that of a dog or a chicken; and when he finally disappeared, I did

not miss him. Months and months passed by before anything happened to

remind me of Riki.

“What has become of Riki?” I then asked the old woodcutter who supplies

our neighborhood with fuel. I remembered that Riki had often helped him

to carry his bundles.

“Riki-Baka?” answered the old man. “Ah, Riki is dead—poor fellow!...

Yes, he died nearly a year ago, very suddenly; the doctors said that he

had some disease of the brain. And there is a strange story now about

that poor Riki.

“When Riki died, his mother wrote his name, ‘Riki-Baka,’ in the palm of

his left hand,—putting ‘Riki’ in the Chinese character, and ‘Baka’ in

_kana_ (1). And she repeated many prayers for him,—prayers that he

might be reborn into some more happy condition.

“Now, about three months ago, in the honorable residence of

Nanigashi-Sama (2), in Kojimachi (3), a boy was born with characters on

the palm of his left hand; and the characters were quite plain to

read,—‘_RIKI-BAKA_’!

“So the people of that house knew that the birth must have happened in

answer to somebody’s prayer; and they caused inquiry to be made

everywhere. At last a vegetable-seller brought word to them that there

used to be a simple lad, called Riki-Baka, living in the Ushigomé

quarter, and that he had died during the last autumn; and they sent two

men-servants to look for the mother of Riki.

“Those servants found the mother of Riki, and told her what had

happened; and she was glad exceedingly—for that Nanigashi house is a

very rich and famous house. But the servants said that the family of

Nanigashi-Sama were very angry about the word ‘Baka’ on the child’s

hand. ‘And where is your Riki buried?’ the servants asked. ‘He is

buried in the cemetery of Zendōji,’ she told them. ‘Please to give us

some of the clay of his grave,’ they requested.

“So she went with them to the temple Zendōji, and showed them Riki’s

grave; and they took some of the grave-clay away with them, wrapped up

in a _furoshiki_[1]].... They gave Riki’s mother some money,—ten

yen.”... (4)

“But what did they want with that clay?” I inquired.

“Well,” the old man answered, “you know that it would not do to let the

child grow up with that name on his hand. And there is no other means

of removing characters that come in that way upon the body of a child:

_you must rub the skin with clay taken from the grave of the body of

the former birth_.”...

HI-MAWARI

On the wooded hill behind the house Robert and I are looking for

fairy-rings. Robert is eight years old, comely, and very wise;—I am a

little more than seven,—and I reverence Robert. It is a glowing

glorious August day; and the warm air is filled with sharp sweet scents

of resin.

We do not find any fairy-rings; but we find a great many pine-cones in

the high grass... I tell Robert the old Welsh story of the man who went

to sleep, unawares, inside a fairy-ring, and so disappeared for seven

years, and would never eat or speak after his friends had delivered him

from the enchantment.

“They eat nothing but the points of needles, you know,” says Robert.

“Who?” I ask.

“Goblins,” Robert answers.

This revelation leaves me dumb with astonishment and awe... But Robert

suddenly cries out:—

“There is a Harper!—he is coming to the house!”

And down the hill we run to hear the harper... But what a harper! Not

like the hoary minstrels of the picture-books. A swarthy, sturdy,

unkempt vagabond, with black bold eyes under scowling black brows. More

like a bricklayer than a bard,—and his garments are corduroy!

“Wonder if he is going to sing in Welsh?” murmurs Robert.

I feel too much disappointed to make any remarks. The harper poses his

harp—a huge instrument—upon our doorstep, sets all the strong ringing

with a sweep of his grimy fingers, clears his throat with a sort of

angry growl, and begins,—

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day...

The accent, the attitude, the voice, all fill me with repulsion

unutterable,—shock me with a new sensation of formidable vulgarity. I

want to cry out loud, “You have no right to sing that song!” For I have

heard it sung by the lips of the dearest and fairest being in my little

world;—and that this rude, coarse man should dare to sing it vexes me

like a mockery,—angers me like an insolence. But only for a moment!...

With the utterance of the syllables “to-day,” that deep, grim voice

suddenly breaks into a quivering tenderness indescribable;—then,

marvelously changing, it mellows into tones sonorous and rich as the

bass of a great organ,—while a sensation unlike anything ever felt

before takes me by the throat... What witchcraft has he learned? what

secret has he found—this scowling man of the road?... Oh! is there

anybody else in the whole world who can sing like that?... And the form

of the singer flickers and dims;—and the house, and the lawn, and all

visible shapes of things tremble and swim before me. Yet instinctively

I fear that man;—I almost hate him; and I feel myself flushing with

anger and shame because of his power to move me thus...

“He made you cry,” Robert compassionately observes, to my further

confusion,—as the harper strides away, richer by a gift of sixpence

taken without thanks... “But I think he must be a gipsy. Gipsies are

bad people—and they are wizards... Let us go back to the wood.”

We climb again to the pines, and there squat down upon the sun-flecked

grass, and look over town and sea. But we do not play as before: the

spell of the wizard is strong upon us both... “Perhaps he is a goblin,”

I venture at last, “or a fairy?” “No,” says Robert,—“only a gipsy. But

that is nearly as bad. They steal children, you know.”...

“What shall we do if he comes up here?” I gasp, in sudden terror at the

lonesomeness of our situation.

“Oh, he wouldn’t dare,” answers Robert—“not by daylight, you know.”...

[Only yesterday, near the village of Takata, I noticed a flower which

the Japanese call by nearly the same name as we do: _Himawari_, “The

Sunward-turning;”—and over the space of forty years there thrilled back

to me the voice of that wandering harper,—

As the Sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look that she turned when he rose.

Again I saw the sun-flecked shadows on that far Welsh hill; and Robert

for a moment again stood beside me, with his girl’s face and his curls

of gold. We were looking for fairy-rings... But all that existed of the

real Robert must long ago have suffered a sea-change into something

rich and strange... _Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay

down his life for his friend_....]

HŌRAI

Blue vision of depth lost in height,—sea and sky interblending through

luminous haze. The day is of spring, and the hour morning.

Only sky and sea,—one azure enormity... In the fore, ripples are

catching a silvery light, and threads of foam are swirling. But a

little further off no motion is visible, nor anything save color: dim

warm blue of water widening away to melt into blue of air. Horizon

there is none: only distance soaring into space,—infinite concavity

hollowing before you, and hugely arching above you,—the color deepening

with the height. But far in the midway-blue there hangs a faint, faint

vision of palace towers, with high roofs horned and curved like

moons,—some shadowing of splendor strange and old, illumined by a

sunshine soft as memory.

...What I have thus been trying to describe is a kakémono,—that is to

say, a Japanese painting on silk, suspended to the wall of my

alcove;—and the name of it is SHINKIRŌ, which signifies “Mirage.” But

the shapes of the mirage are unmistakable. Those are the glimmering

portals of Hōrai the blest; and those are the moony roofs of the Palace

of the Dragon-King;—and the fashion of them (though limned by a

Japanese brush of to-day) is the fashion of things Chinese, twenty-one

hundred years ago...

Thus much is told of the place in the Chinese books of that time:—

In Hōrai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The

flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a

man taste of those fruits even but once, he can never again feel thirst

or hunger. In Hōrai grow the enchanted plants _So-rin-shi_, and

_Riku-gō-aoi_, and _Ban-kon-tō_, which heal all manner of sickness;—and

there grows also the magical grass _Yō-shin-shi_, that quickens the

dead; and the magical grass is watered by a fairy water of which a

single drink confers perpetual youth. The people of Hōrai eat their

rice out of very, very small bowls; but the rice never diminishes

within those bowls,—however much of it be eaten,—until the eater

desires no more. And the people of Hōrai drink their wine out of very,

very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups,—however

stoutly he may drink,—until there comes upon him the pleasant

drowsiness of intoxication.

All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin

dynasty. But that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw

Hōrai, even in a mirage, is not believable. For really there are no

enchanted fruits which leave the eater forever satisfied,—nor any

magical grass which revives the dead,—nor any fountain of fairy

water,—nor any bowls which never lack rice,—nor any cups which never

lack wine. It is not true that sorrow and death never enter

Hōrai;—neither is it true that there is not any winter. The winter in

Hōrai is cold;—and winds then bite to the bone; and the heaping of snow

is monstrous on the roofs of the Dragon-King.

Nevertheless there are wonderful things in Hōrai; and the most

wonderful of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean

the atmosphere of Hōrai. It is an atmosphere peculiar to the place;

and, because of it, the sunshine in Hōrai is _whiter_ than any other

sunshine,—a milky light that never dazzles,—astonishingly clear, but

very soft. This atmosphere is not of our human period: it is enormously

old,—so old that I feel afraid when I try to think how old it is;—and

it is not a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at

all, but of ghost,—the substance of quintillions of quintillions of

generations of souls blended into one immense translucency,—souls of

people who thought in ways never resembling our ways. Whatever mortal

man inhales that atmosphere, he takes into his blood the thrilling of

these spirits; and they change the sense within him,—reshaping his

notions of Space and Time,—so that he can see only as they used to see,

and feel only as they used to feel, and think only as they used to

think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and Hōrai, discerned

across them, might thus be described:—

_—Because in Hōrai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of

the people never grow old. And, by reason of being always young in

heart, the people of Hōrai smile from birth until death—except when the

Gods send sorrow among them; and faces then are veiled until the sorrow

goes away. All folk in Hōrai love and trust each other, as if all were

members of a single household;—and the speech of the women is like

birdsong, because the hearts of them are light as the souls of

birds;—and the swaying of the sleeves of the maidens at play seems a

flutter of wide, soft wings. In Hōrai nothing is hidden but grief,

because there is no reason for shame;—and nothing is locked away,

because there could not be any theft;—and by night as well as by day

all doors remain unbarred, because there is no reason for fear. And

because the people are fairies—though mortal—all things in Hōrai,

except the Palace of the Dragon-King, are small and quaint and

queer;—and these fairy-folk do really eat their rice out of very, very

small bowls, and drink their wine out of very, very small cups...._

—Much of this seeming would be due to the inhalation of that ghostly

atmosphere—but not all. For the spell wrought by the dead is only the

charm of an Ideal, the glamour of an ancient hope;—and something of

that hope has found fulfillment in many hearts,—in the simple beauty of

unselfish lives,—in the sweetness of Woman...

—Evil winds from the West are blowing over Hōrai; and the magical

atmosphere, alas! is shrinking away before them. It lingers now in

patches only, and bands,—like those long bright bands of cloud that

train across the landscapes of Japanese painters. Under these shreds of

the elfish vapor you still can find Hōrai—but not everywhere...

Remember that Hōrai is also called Shinkirō, which signifies

Mirage,—the Vision of the Intangible. And the Vision is fading,—never

again to appear save in pictures and poems and dreams...

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