Chapter Chapter 5 · The Story Of Aoyagi

In the era of Bummei [1469-1486] there was a young samurai called

Tomotada in the service of Hatakéyama Yoshimuné, the Lord of Noto (1).

Tomotada was a native of Echizen (2); but at an early age he had been

taken, as page, into the palace of the daimyō of Noto, and had been

educated, under the supervision of that prince, for the profession of

arms. As he grew up, he proved himself both a good scholar and a good

soldier, and continued to enjoy the favor of his prince. Being gifted

with an amiable character, a winning address, and a very handsome

person, he was admired and much liked by his samurai-comrades.

When Tomotada was about twenty years old, he was sent upon a private

mission to Hosokawa Masamoto, the great daimyō of Kyōto, a kinsman of

Hatakéyama Yoshimuné. Having been ordered to journey through Echizen,

the youth requested and obtained permission to pay a visit, on the way,

to his widowed mother.

It was the coldest period of the year when he started; and, though

mounted upon a powerful horse, he found himself obliged to proceed

slowly. The road which he followed passed through a mountain-district

where the settlements were few and far between; and on the second day

of his journey, after a weary ride of hours, he was dismayed to find

that he could not reach his intended halting-place until late in the

night. He had reason to be anxious;—for a heavy snowstorm came on, with

an intensely cold wind; and the horse showed signs of exhaustion. But

in that trying moment, Tomotada unexpectedly perceived the thatched

room of a cottage on the summit of a near hill, where willow-trees were

growing. With difficulty he urged his tired animal to the dwelling; and

he loudly knocked upon the storm-doors, which had been closed against

the wind. An old woman opened them, and cried out compassionately at

the sight of the handsome stranger: “Ah, how pitiful!—a young gentleman

traveling alone in such weather!... Deign, young master, to enter.”

Tomotada dismounted, and after leading his horse to a shed in the rear,

entered the cottage, where he saw an old man and a girl warming

themselves by a fire of bamboo splints. They respectfully invited him

to approach the fire; and the old folks then proceeded to warm some

rice-wine, and to prepare food for the traveler, whom they ventured to

question in regard to his journey. Meanwhile the young girl disappeared

behind a screen. Tomotada had observed, with astonishment, that she was

extremely beautiful,—though her attire was of the most wretched kind,

and her long, loose hair in disorder. He wondered that so handsome a

girl should be living in such a miserable and lonesome place.

The old man said to him:—

“Honored Sir, the next village is far; and the snow is falling thickly.

The wind is piercing; and the road is very bad. Therefore, to proceed

further this night would probably be dangerous. Although this hovel is

unworthy of your presence, and although we have not any comfort to

offer, perhaps it were safer to remain to-night under this miserable

roof... We would take good care of your horse.”

Tomotada accepted this humble proposal,—secretly glad of the chance

thus afforded him to see more of the young girl. Presently a coarse but

ample meal was set before him; and the girl came from behind the

screen, to serve the wine. She was now reclad, in a rough but cleanly

robe of homespun; and her long, loose hair had been neatly combed and

smoothed. As she bent forward to fill his cup, Tomotada was amazed to

perceive that she was incomparably more beautiful than any woman whom

he had ever before seen; and there was a grace about her every motion

that astonished him. But the elders began to apologize for her, saying:

“Sir, our daughter, Aoyagi,[1] has been brought up here in the

mountains, almost alone; and she knows nothing of gentle service. We

pray that you will pardon her stupidity and her ignorance.” Tomotada

protested that he deemed himself lucky to be waited upon by so comely a

maiden. He could not turn his eyes away from her—though he saw that his

admiring gaze made her blush;—and he left the wine and food untasted

before him. The mother said: “Kind Sir, we very much hope that you will

try to eat and to drink a little,—though our peasant-fare is of the

worst,—as you must have been chilled by that piercing wind.” Then, to

please the old folks, Tomotada ate and drank as he could; but the charm

of the blushing girl still grew upon him. He talked with her, and found

that her speech was sweet as her face. Brought up in the mountains as

she might have been;—but, in that case, her parents must at some time

been persons of high degree; for she spoke and moved like a damsel of

rank. Suddenly he addressed her with a poem—which was also a

question—inspired by the delight in his heart:—

“Tadzunétsuru,

Hana ka toté koso,

Hi wo kurasé,

Akénu ni otoru

Akané sasuran?”

[“_Being on my way to pay a visit, I found that which I took to be a

flower: therefore here I spend the day... Why, in the time before dawn,

the dawn-blush tint should glow—that, indeed, I know not._”][2]

Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered him in these verses:—

“Izuru hi no

Honoméku iro wo

Waga sodé ni

Tsutsumaba asu mo

Kimiya tomaran.”

[“_If with my sleeve I hid the faint fair color of the dawning

sun,—then, perhaps, in the morning my lord will remain._”][3]

Then Tomotada knew that she accepted his admiration; and he was

scarcely less surprised by the art with which she had uttered her

feelings in verse, than delighted by the assurance which the verses

conveyed. He was now certain that in all this world he could not hope

to meet, much less to win, a girl more beautiful and witty than this

rustic maid before him; and a voice in his heart seemed to cry out

urgently, “Take the luck that the gods have put in your way!” In short

he was bewitched—bewitched to such a degree that, without further

preliminary, he asked the old people to give him their daughter in

marriage,—telling them, at the same time, his name and lineage, and his

rank in the train of the Lord of Noto.

They bowed down before him, with many exclamations of grateful

astonishment. But, after some moments of apparent hesitation, the

father replied:—

“Honored master, you are a person of high position, and likely to rise

to still higher things. Too great is the favor that you deign to offer

us;—indeed, the depth of our gratitude therefor is not to be spoken or

measured. But this girl of ours, being a stupid country-girl of vulgar

birth, with no training or teaching of any sort, it would be improper

to let her become the wife of a noble samurai. Even to speak of such a

matter is not right... But, since you find the girl to your liking, and

have condescended to pardon her peasant-manners and to overlook her

great rudeness, we do gladly present her to you, for an humble

handmaid. Deign, therefore, to act hereafter in her regard according to

your august pleasure.”

Ere morning the storm had passed; and day broke through a cloudless

east. Even if the sleeve of Aoyagi hid from her lover’s eyes the

rose-blush of that dawn, he could no longer tarry. But neither could he

resign himself to part with the girl; and, when everything had been

prepared for his journey, he thus addressed her parents:—

“Though it may seem thankless to ask for more than I have already

received, I must again beg you to give me your daughter for wife. It

would be difficult for me to separate from her now; and as she is

willing to accompany me, if you permit, I can take her with me as she

is. If you will give her to me, I shall ever cherish you as parents...

And, in the meantime, please to accept this poor acknowledgment of your

kindest hospitality.”

So saying, he placed before his humble host a purse of gold _ryō_. But

the old man, after many prostrations, gently pushed back the gift, and

said:—

“Kind master, the gold would be of no use to us; and you will probably

have need of it during your long, cold journey. Here we buy nothing;

and we could not spend so much money upon ourselves, even if we

wished... As for the girl, we have already bestowed her as a free

gift;—she belongs to you: therefore it is not necessary to ask our

leave to take her away. Already she has told us that she hopes to

accompany you, and to remain your servant for as long as you may be

willing to endure her presence. We are only too happy to know that you

deign to accept her; and we pray that you will not trouble yourself on

our account. In this place we could not provide her with proper

clothing,—much less with a dowry. Moreover, being old, we should in any

event have to separate from her before long. Therefore it is very

fortunate that you should be willing to take her with you now.”

It was in vain that Tomotada tried to persuade the old people to accept

a present: he found that they cared nothing for money. But he saw that

they were really anxious to trust their daughter’s fate to his hands;

and he therefore decided to take her with him. So he placed her upon

his horse, and bade the old folks farewell for the time being, with

many sincere expressions of gratitude.

“Honored Sir,” the father made answer, “it is we, and not you, who have

reason for gratitude. We are sure that you will be kind to our girl;

and we have no fears for her sake.”...

[_Here, in the Japanese original, there is a queer break in the natural

course of the narration, which therefrom remains curiously

inconsistent. Nothing further is said about the mother of Tomotada, or

about the parents of Aoyagi, or about the daimyō of Noto. Evidently the

writer wearied of his work at this point, and hurried the story, very

carelessly, to its startling end. I am not able to supply his

omissions, or to repair his faults of construction; but I must venture

to put in a few explanatory details, without which the rest of the tale

would not hold together... It appears that Tomotada rashly took Aoyagi

with him to Kyōto, and so got into trouble; but we are not informed as

to where the couple lived afterwards._]

...Now a samurai was not allowed to marry without the consent of his

lord; and Tomotada could not expect to obtain this sanction before his

mission had been accomplished. He had reason, under such circumstances,

to fear that the beauty of Aoyagi might attract dangerous attention,

and that means might be devised of taking her away from him. In Kyōto

he therefore tried to keep her hidden from curious eyes. But a retainer

of Lord Hosokawa one day caught sight of Aoyagi, discovered her

relation to Tomotada, and reported the matter to the daimyō. Thereupon

the daimyō—a young prince, and fond of pretty faces—gave orders that

the girl should be brought to the place; and she was taken thither at

once, without ceremony.

Tomotada sorrowed unspeakably; but he knew himself powerless. He was

only an humble messenger in the service of a far-off daimyō; and for

the time being he was at the mercy of a much more powerful daimyō,

whose wishes were not to be questioned. Moreover Tomotada knew that he

had acted foolishly,—that he had brought about his own misfortune, by

entering into a clandestine relation which the code of the military

class condemned. There was now but one hope for him,—a desperate hope:

that Aoyagi might be able and willing to escape and to flee with him.

After long reflection, he resolved to try to send her a letter. The

attempt would be dangerous, of course: any writing sent to her might

find its way to the hands of the daimyō; and to send a love-letter to

any inmate of the place was an unpardonable offense. But he resolved to

dare the risk; and, in the form of a Chinese poem, he composed a letter

which he endeavored to have conveyed to her. The poem was written with

only twenty-eight characters. But with those twenty-eight characters he

was about to express all the depth of his passion, and to suggest all

the pain of his loss:—[4]

Kōshi ō-son gojin wo ou;

Ryokuju namida wo tarété rakin wo hitataru;

Komon hitotabi irité fukaki koto umi no gotoshi;

Koré yori shorō koré rojin

[_Closely, closely the youthful prince now follows after the gem-bright

maid;—

The tears of the fair one, falling, have moistened all her robes.

But the august lord, having once become enamored of her—the depth of

his longing is like the depth of the sea.

Therefore it is only I that am left forlorn,—only I that am left to

wander along._]

On the evening of the day after this poem had been sent, Tomotada was

summoned to appear before the Lord Hosokawa. The youth at once

suspected that his confidence had been betrayed; and he could not hope,

if his letter had been seen by the daimyō, to escape the severest

penalty. “Now he will order my death,” thought Tomotada;—“but I do not

care to live unless Aoyagi be restored to me. Besides, if the

death-sentence be passed, I can at least try to kill Hosokawa.” He

slipped his swords into his girdle, and hastened to the palace.

On entering the presence-room he saw the Lord Hosokawa seated upon the

dais, surrounded by samurai of high rank, in caps and robes of

ceremony. All were silent as statues; and while Tomotada advanced to

make obeisance, the hush seemed to him sinister and heavy, like the

stillness before a storm. But Hosokawa suddenly descended from the

dais, and, while taking the youth by the arm, began to repeat the words

of the poem:—“_Kōshi ō-son gojin wo ou_.”... And Tomotada, looking up,

saw kindly tears in the prince’s eyes.

Then said Hosokawa:—

“Because you love each other so much, I have taken it upon myself to

authorize your marriage, in lieu of my kinsman, the Lord of Noto; and

your wedding shall now be celebrated before me. The guests are

assembled;—the gifts are ready.”

At a signal from the lord, the sliding-screens concealing a further

apartment were pushed open; and Tomotada saw there many dignitaries of

the court, assembled for the ceremony, and Aoyagi awaiting him in

brides’ apparel... Thus was she given back to him;—and the wedding was

joyous and splendid;—and precious gifts were made to the young couple

by the prince, and by the members of his household.

For five happy years, after that wedding, Tomotada and Aoyagi dwelt

together. But one morning Aoyagi, while talking with her husband about

some household matter, suddenly uttered a great cry of pain, and then

became very white and still. After a few moments she said, in a feeble

voice: “Pardon me for thus rudely crying out—but the pain was so

sudden!... My dear husband, our union must have been brought about

through some Karma-relation in a former state of existence; and that

happy relation, I think, will bring us again together in more than one

life to come. But for this present existence of ours, the relation is

now ended;—we are about to be separated. Repeat for me, I beseech you,

the _Nembutsu_-prayer,—because I am dying.”

“Oh! what strange wild fancies!” cried the startled husband,—“you are

only a little unwell, my dear one!... lie down for a while, and rest;

and the sickness will pass.”...

“No, no!” she responded—“I am dying!—I do not imagine it;—I know!...

And it were needless now, my dear husband, to hide the truth from you

any longer:—I am not a human being. The soul of a tree is my soul;—the

heart of a tree is my heart;—the sap of the willow is my life. And some

one, at this cruel moment, is cutting down my tree;—that is why I must

die!... Even to weep were now beyond my strength!—quickly, quickly

repeat the _Nembutsu_ for me... quickly!... Ah!...”

With another cry of pain she turned aside her beautiful head, and tried

to hide her face behind her sleeve. But almost in the same moment her

whole form appeared to collapse in the strangest way, and to sink down,

down, down—level with the floor. Tomotada had sprung to support

her;—but there was nothing to support! There lay on the matting only

the empty robes of the fair creature and the ornaments that she had

worn in her hair: the body had ceased to exist...

Tomotada shaved his head, took the Buddhist vows, and became an

itinerant priest. He traveled through all the provinces of the empire;

and, at holy places which he visited, he offered up prayers for the

soul of Aoyagi. Reaching Echizen, in the course of his pilgrimage, he

sought the home of the parents of his beloved. But when he arrived at

the lonely place among the hills, where their dwelling had been, he

found that the cottage had disappeared. There was nothing to mark even

the spot where it had stood, except the stumps of three willows—two old

trees and one young tree—that had been cut down long before his

arrival.

Beside the stumps of those willow-trees he erected a memorial tomb,

inscribed with divers holy texts; and he there performed many Buddhist

services on behalf of the spirits of Aoyagi and of her parents.