Bab Bab 1 · The Story Of O-Tei

A long time ago, in the town of Niigata, in the province of Echizen,

there lived a man called Nagao Chōsei.

Nagao was the son of a physician, and was educated for his father’s

profession. At an early age he had been betrothed to a girl called

O-Tei, the daughter of one of his father’s friends; and both families

had agreed that the wedding should take place as soon as Nagao had

finished his studies. But the health of O-Tei proved to be weak; and in

her fifteenth year she was attacked by a fatal consumption. When she

became aware that she must die, she sent for Nagao to bid him farewell.

As he knelt at her bedside, she said to him:—

“Nagao-Sama, (1) my betrothed, we were promised to each other from the

time of our childhood; and we were to have been married at the end of

this year. But now I am going to die;—the gods know what is best for

us. If I were able to live for some years longer, I could only continue

to be a cause of trouble and grief for others. With this frail body, I

could not be a good wife; and therefore even to wish to live, for your

sake, would be a very selfish wish. I am quite resigned to die; and I

want you to promise that you will not grieve... Besides, I want to tell

you that I think we shall meet again.”...

“Indeed we shall meet again,” Nagao answered earnestly. “And in that

Pure Land (2) there will be no pain of separation.”

“Nay, nay!” she responded softly, “I meant not the Pure Land. I believe

that we are destined to meet again in this world,—although I shall be

buried to-morrow.”

Nagao looked at her wonderingly, and saw her smile at his wonder. She

continued, in her gentle, dreamy voice,—

“Yes, I mean in this world,—in your own present life, Nagao-Sama...

Providing, indeed, that you wish it. Only, for this thing to happen, I

must again be born a girl, and grow up to womanhood. So you would have

to wait. Fifteen—sixteen years: that is a long time... But, my promised

husband, you are now only nineteen years old.”...

Eager to soothe her dying moments, he answered tenderly:—

“To wait for you, my betrothed, were no less a joy than a duty. We are

pledged to each other for the time of seven existences.”

“But you doubt?” she questioned, watching his face.

“My dear one,” he answered, “I doubt whether I should be able to know

you in another body, under another name,—unless you can tell me of a

sign or token.”

“That I cannot do,” she said. “Only the Gods and the Buddhas know how

and where we shall meet. But I am sure—very, very sure—that, if you be

not unwilling to receive me, I shall be able to come back to you...

Remember these words of mine.”...

She ceased to speak; and her eyes closed. She was dead.

Nagao had been sincerely attached to O-Tei; and his grief was deep. He

had a mortuary tablet made, inscribed with her _zokumyō;_[1] and he

placed the tablet in his _butsudan_,[2] and every day set offerings

before it. He thought a great deal about the strange things that O-Tei

had said to him just before her death; and, in the hope of pleasing her

spirit, he wrote a solemn promise to wed her if she could ever return

to him in another body. This written promise he sealed with his seal,

and placed in the _butsudan_ beside the mortuary tablet of O-Tei.

Nevertheless, as Nagao was an only son, it was necessary that he should

marry. He soon found himself obliged to yield to the wishes of his

family, and to accept a wife of his father’s choosing. After his

marriage he continued to set offerings before the tablet of O-Tei; and

he never failed to remember her with affection. But by degrees her

image became dim in his memory,—like a dream that is hard to recall.

And the years went by.

During those years many misfortunes came upon him. He lost his parents

by death,—then his wife and his only child. So that he found himself

alone in the world. He abandoned his desolate home, and set out upon a

long journey in the hope of forgetting his sorrows.

One day, in the course of his travels, he arrived at Ikao,—a

mountain-village still famed for its thermal springs, and for the

beautiful scenery of its neighborhood. In the village-inn at which he

stopped, a young girl came to wait upon him; and, at the first sight of

her face, he felt his heart leap as it had never leaped before. So

strangely did she resemble O-Tei that he pinched himself to make sure

that he was not dreaming. As she went and came,—bringing fire and food,

or arranging the chamber of the guest,—her every attitude and motion

revived in him some gracious memory of the girl to whom he had been

pledged in his youth. He spoke to her; and she responded in a soft,

clear voice of which the sweetness saddened him with a sadness of other

days.

Then, in great wonder, he questioned her, saying:—

“Elder Sister (3), so much do you look like a person whom I knew long

ago, that I was startled when you first entered this room. Pardon me,

therefore, for asking what is your native place, and what is your

name?”

Immediately,—and in the unforgotten voice of the dead,—she thus made

answer:—

“My name is O-Tei; and you are Nagao Chōsei of Echigo, my promised

husband. Seventeen years ago, I died in Niigata: then you made in

writing a promise to marry me if ever I could come back to this world

in the body of a woman;—and you sealed that written promise with your

seal, and put it in the _butsudan_, beside the tablet inscribed with my

name. And therefore I came back.”...

As she uttered these last words, she fell unconscious.

Nagao married her; and the marriage was a happy one. But at no time

afterwards could she remember what she had told him in answer to his

question at Ikao: neither could she remember anything of her previous

existence. The recollection of the former birth,—mysteriously kindled

in the moment of that meeting,—had again become obscured, and so

thereafter remained.

UBAZAKURA

Three hundred years ago, in the village called Asamimura, in the

district called Onsengōri, in the province of Iyō, there lived a good

man named Tokubei. This Tokubei was the richest person in the district,

and the _muraosa_, or headman, of the village. In most matters he was

fortunate; but he reached the age of forty without knowing the

happiness of becoming a father. Therefore he and his wife, in the

affliction of their childlessness, addressed many prayers to the

divinity Fudō Myō Ō, who had a famous temple, called Saihōji, in

Asamimura.

At last their prayers were heard: the wife of Tokubei gave birth to a

daughter. The child was very pretty; and she received the name of

Tsuyu. As the mother’s milk was deficient, a milk-nurse, called O-Sodé,

was hired for the little one.

O-Tsuyu grew up to be a very beautiful girl; but at the age of fifteen

she fell sick, and the doctors thought that she was going to die. In

that time the nurse O-Sodé, who loved O-Tsuyu with a real mother’s

love, went to the temple Saihōji, and fervently prayed to Fudō-Sama on

behalf of the girl. Every day, for twenty-one days, she went to the

temple and prayed; and at the end of that time, O-Tsuyu suddenly and

completely recovered.

Then there was great rejoicing in the house of Tokubei; and he gave a

feast to all his friends in celebration of the happy event. But on the

night of the feast the nurse O-Sodé was suddenly taken ill; and on the

following morning, the doctor, who had been summoned to attend her,

announced that she was dying.

Then the family, in great sorrow, gathered about her bed, to bid her

farewell. But she said to them:—

“It is time that I should tell you something which you do not know. My

prayer has been heard. I besought Fudō-Sama that I might be permitted

to die in the place of O-Tsuyu; and this great favor has been granted

me. Therefore you must not grieve about my death... But I have one

request to make. I promised Fudō-Sama that I would have a cherry-tree

planted in the garden of Saihōji, for a thank-offering and a

commemoration. Now I shall not be able myself to plant the tree there:

so I must beg that you will fulfill that vow for me... Good-bye, dear

friends; and remember that I was happy to die for O-Tsuyu’s sake.”

After the funeral of O-Sodé, a young cherry-tree,—the finest that could

be found,—was planted in the garden of Saihōji by the parents of

O-Tsuyu. The tree grew and flourished; and on the sixteenth day of the

second month of the following year,—the anniversary of O-Sodé’s

death,—it blossomed in a wonderful way. So it continued to blossom for

two hundred and fifty-four years,—always upon the sixteenth day of the

second month;—and its flowers, pink and white, were like the nipples of

a woman’s breasts, bedewed with milk. And the people called it

_Ubazakura_, the Cherry-tree of the Milk-Nurse.

DIPLOMACY

It had been ordered that the execution should take place in the garden

of the _yashiki_ (1). So the man was taken there, and made to kneel

down in a wide sanded space crossed by a line of _tobi-ishi_, or

stepping-stones, such as you may still see in Japanese

landscape-gardens. His arms were bound behind him. Retainers brought

water in buckets, and rice-bags filled with pebbles; and they packed

the rice-bags round the kneeling man,—so wedging him in that he could

not move. The master came, and observed the arrangements. He found them

satisfactory, and made no remarks.

Suddenly the condemned man cried out to him:—

“Honored Sir, the fault for which I have been doomed I did not

wittingly commit. It was only my very great stupidity which caused the

fault. Having been born stupid, by reason of my Karma, I could not

always help making mistakes. But to kill a man for being stupid is

wrong,—and that wrong will be repaid. So surely as you kill me, so

surely shall I be avenged;—out of the resentment that you provoke will

come the vengeance; and evil will be rendered for evil.”...

If any person be killed while feeling strong resentment, the ghost of

that person will be able to take vengeance upon the killer. This the

samurai knew. He replied very gently,—almost caressingly:—

“We shall allow you to frighten us as much as you please—after you are

dead. But it is difficult to believe that you mean what you say. Will

you try to give us some sign of your great resentment—after your head

has been cut off?”

“Assuredly I will,” answered the man.

“Very well,” said the samurai, drawing his long sword;—“I am now going

to cut off your head. Directly in front of you there is a

stepping-stone. After your head has been cut off, try to bite the

stepping-stone. If your angry ghost can help you to do that, some of us

may be frightened... Will you try to bite the stone?”

“I will bite it!” cried the man, in great anger,—“I will bite it!—I

will bite”—

There was a flash, a swish, a crunching thud: the bound body bowed over

the rice sacks,—two long blood-jets pumping from the shorn neck;—and

the head rolled upon the sand. Heavily toward the stepping-stone it

rolled: then, suddenly bounding, it caught the upper edge of the stone

between its teeth, clung desperately for a moment, and dropped inert.

None spoke; but the retainers stared in horror at their master. He

seemed to be quite unconcerned. He merely held out his sword to the

nearest attendant, who, with a wooden dipper, poured water over the

blade from haft to point, and then carefully wiped the steel several

times with sheets of soft paper... And thus ended the ceremonial part

of the incident.

For months thereafter, the retainers and the domestics lived in

ceaseless fear of ghostly visitation. None of them doubted that the

promised vengeance would come; and their constant terror caused them to

hear and to see much that did not exist. They became afraid of the

sound of the wind in the bamboos,—afraid even of the stirring of

shadows in the garden. At last, after taking counsel together, they

decided to petition their master to have a _Ségaki_-service (2)

performed on behalf of the vengeful spirit.

“Quite unnecessary,” the samurai said, when his chief retainer had

uttered the general wish... “I understand that the desire of a dying

man for revenge may be a cause for fear. But in this case there is

nothing to fear.”

The retainer looked at his master beseechingly, but hesitated to ask

the reason of the alarming confidence.

“Oh, the reason is simple enough,” declared the samurai, divining the

unspoken doubt. “Only the very last intention of the fellow could have

been dangerous; and when I challenged him to give me the sign, I

diverted his mind from the desire of revenge. He died with the set

purpose of biting the stepping-stone; and that purpose he was able to

accomplish, but nothing else. All the rest he must have forgotten... So

you need not feel any further anxiety about the matter.”

—And indeed the dead man gave no more trouble. Nothing at all happened.