Chapter XIV: Furu-Tsubaki (1)

The old Japanese, like the old Greeks, had their flower-spirits and their hamadryads, concerning whom some charming stories are told. They also believed in trees inhabited by malevolent beings,--goblin trees. Among other weird trees, the beautiful _tsubaki_ (_Camellia Japonica_) was said to be an unlucky tree;--this was said, at least, of the red-flowering variety, the white-flowering kind having a better reputation and being prized as a rarity. The large fleshy crimson flowers have this curious habit: they detach themselves bodily from the stem, when they begin to fade; and they fall with an audible thud. To old Japanese fancy the falling of these heavy red flowers was like the falling of human heads under the sword; and the dull sound of their dropping was said to be like the thud made by a severed head striking the ground. Nevertheless the tsubaki seems to have been a favorite in Japanese gardens because of the beauty of its glossy foliage; and its flowers were used for the decoration of alcoves. But in samurai homes it was a rule never to place tsubaki-flowers in an alcove _during war-time_.

The reader will notice that in the following _ky[=o]ka_--which, as grotesques, seem to me the best in the collection--the goblin-tsubaki is called _furu-tsubaki_, "old tsubaki." The young tree was not supposed to have goblin-propensities,--these being developed only after many years. Other uncanny trees--such as the willow and the _['e]noki_--were likewise said to become dangerous only as they became old; and a similar belief prevailed on the subject of uncanny animals, such as the cat--innocent in kittenhood, but devilish in age.

Yo-arashi ni
Chishiho itadaku
Furu tsubaki,
Hota-hota ochiru
Hana no nama-kubi.

[_When by the night-storm is shaken the blood-crowned and
ancient tsubaki-tree, then one by one fall the gory heads of
the flowers, (with the sound of) hota-hota!_[61]]

[Footnote 61: The word _furu_ in the third line is made to do double duty,--as the adjective, _furu[i]_, "ancient"; and as the verb _furu_, "to shake." The old term _nama-kuhi_ (lit., "raw head") means a human head, freshly-severed, from which the blood is still oozing.]

Kusa mo ki mo
N['e]mur['e]ru koro no
Sayo kaz['e] ni,
M['e]hana no ugoku
Furu-tsubaki kana!

[_When even the grass and the trees are sleeping under the
faint wind of the night,--then do the eyes and the noses of
the old tsubaki-tree (or "the buds and the flowers of the old
tsubaki-tree") move!_[62]]

[Footnote 62: Two Japanese words are written, in _kana_, as "m['e]"--one meaning "a bud;" the other "eye." The syllables "hana" in like fashion, may signify either "flower" or "nose." As a grotesque, this little poem is decidedly successful.]

Tomoshibi no
Kag['e] ayashig['e] ni
Miy['e]nuru wa
Abura shiborishi
Furu-tsubaki ka-mo?

[_As for (the reason why) the light of that lamp appears to be
a Weirdness,[63]--perhaps the oil was expressed from (the nuts
of) the ancient tsu-baki?_]

[Footnote 63: _Ayashig['e]_ is a noun formed from the adjective _ayashi_, "suspicious," "strange," "supernatural," "doubtful." The word _kag['e]_ signifies both "light" and "shadow,"--and is here used with double suggestiveness. The vegetable oil used in the old Japanese lamps used to be obtained from the nuts of the _tsubaki_. The reader should remember that the expression "ancient tsubaki" is equivalent to the expression "goblin-tsubaki,"--the tsubaki being supposed to turn into a goblin-tree only when it becomes old.]

* * * * *

--Nearly all the stories and folk-beliefs about which these _ky[=o]ka_ were written seem to have come from China; and most of the Japanese tales of tree-spirits appear to have had a Chinese origin. As the flower-spirits and hamadryads of the Far East are as yet little known to Western readers, the following Chinese story may be found interesting.

* * * * *

There was a Chinese scholar--called, in Japanese books, T[=o] no Busanshi--who was famous for his love of flowers. He was particularly fond of peonies, and cultivated them with great skill and patience.[64]

[Footnote 64: The tree-peony (_botan_) is here referred to,--a flower much esteemed in Japan. It is said to have been introduced from China during the eighth century; and no less than five hundred varieties of it are now cultivated by Japanese gardeners.]

One day a very comely girl came to the house of Busanshi, and begged to be taken into his service. She said that circumstances obliged her to seek humble employment, but that she had received a literary education, and therefore wished to enter, if possible, into the service of a scholar. Busanshi was charmed by her beauty, and took her into his household without further questioning. She proved to be much more than a good domestic: indeed, the nature of her accomplishments made Busanshi suspect that she had been brought up in the court of some prince, or in the palace of some great lord. She displayed a perfect knowledge of the etiquette and the polite arts which are taught only to ladies of the highest rank; and she possessed astonishing skill in calligraphy, in painting, and in every kind of poetical composition. Busanshi presently fell in love with her, and thought only of how to please her. When scholar-friends or other visitors of importance came to the house, he would send for the new maid that she might entertain and wait upon his guests; and all who saw her were amazed by her grace and charm.

One day Busanshi received a visit from the great Teki-Shin-Ketsu, a famous teacher of moral doctrine; and the maid did not respond to her master's call. Busanshi went himself to seek her, being desirous that Teki-Shin-Ketsu should see her and admire her; but she was nowhere to be found. After having searched the whole house in vain, Busanshi was returning to the guest-room when he suddenly caught sight of the maid, gliding soundlessly before him along a corridor. He called to her, and hurried after her. Then she turned half-round, and flattened herself against the wall like a spider; and as he reached her she sank backwards into the wall, so that there remained of her nothing visible but a colored shadow,--level like a picture painted on the plaster. But the shadow moved its lips and eyes, and spoke to him in a whisper, saying:--

"Pardon me that I did not obey your august call!... I am not a mankind-person;--I am only the Soul of a Peony. Because you loved peonies so much, I was able to take human shape, and to serve you. But now this Teki-Shin-Ketsu has come,--and he is a person of dreadful propriety,--and I dare not keep this form any longer.... I must return to the place from which I came."

Then she sank back into the wall, and vanished altogether: there was nothing where she had been except the naked plaster. And Busanshi never saw her again.

This story is written in a Chinese book which the Japanese call "Kai-ten-i-ji."

"ULTIMATE QUESTIONS"

A memory of long ago.... I am walking upon a granite pavement that rings like iron, between buildings of granite bathed in the light of a cloudless noon. Shadows are short and sharp: there is no stir in the hot bright air; and the sound of my footsteps, strangely loud, is the only sound in the street.... Suddenly an odd feeling comes to me, with a sort of tingling shock,--a feeling, or suspicion, of universal illusion. The pavement, the bulks of hewn stone, the iron rails, and all things visible, are dreams! Light, color, form, weight, solidity--all sensed existences--are but phantoms of being, manifestations only of one infinite ghostliness for which the language of man has not any word....

This experience had been produced by study of the first volume of the Synthetic Philosophy, which an American friend had taught me how to read. I did not find it easy reading; partly because I am a slow thinker, but chiefly because my mind had never been trained to sustained effort in such directions. To learn the "First Principles" occupied me many months: no other volume of the series gave me equal trouble. I would read one section at a time,--rarely two,--never venturing upon a fresh section until I thought that I had made sure of the preceding. Very cautious and slow my progress was, like that of a man mounting, for the first time, a long series of ladders in darkness. Reaching the light at last, I caught a sudden new vision of things,--a momentary perception of the illusion of surfaces,--and from that time the world never again appeared to me quite the same as it had appeared before.

* * * * *

--This memory of more than twenty years ago, and the extraordinary thrill of the moment, were recently revived for me by the reading of the essay "Ultimate Questions," in the last and not least precious volume bequeathed us by the world's greatest thinker. The essay contains his final utterance about the riddle of life and death, as that riddle presented itself to his vast mind in the dusk of a lifetime of intellectual toil. Certainly the substance of what he had to tell us might have been inferred from the Synthetic Philosophy; but the particular interest of this last essay is made by the writer's expression of personal sentiment regarding the problem that troubles all deep thinkers. Perhaps few of us could have remained satisfied with his purely scientific position. Even while fully accepting his declaration of the identity of the power that "wells up in us under the form of consciousness" with that Power Unknowable which shapes all things, most disciples of the master must have longed for some chance to ask him directly, "But how do _you_ feel in regard to the prospect of personal dissolution?" And this merely emotional question he has answered as frankly and as fully as any of us could have desired,--perhaps even more frankly. "Old people," he remarks apologetically, "must have many reflections in common. Doubtless one which I have now in mind is very familiar. For years past, when watching the unfolding buds in the spring, there has arisen the thought, 'Shall I ever again see the buds unfold? Shall I ever again be awakened at dawn by the song of the thrush?' Now that the end is not likely to be long postponed, there results an increasing tendency to meditate upon ultimate questions."... Then he tells us that these ultimate questions--"of the How and the Why, of the Whence and the Whither"--occupy much more space in the minds of those who cannot accept the creed of Christendom, than the current conception fills in the minds of the majority of men. The enormity of the problem of existence becomes manifest only to those who have permitted themselves to think freely and widely and deeply, with all such aids to thought as exact science can furnish; and the larger the knowledge of the thinker, the more pressing and tremendous the problem appears, and the more hopelessly unanswerable. To Herbert Spencer himself it must have assumed a vastness beyond the apprehension of the average mind; and it weighed upon him more and more inexorably the nearer he approached to death. He could not avoid the conviction--plainly suggested in his magnificent Psychology and in other volumes of his great work--that there exists no rational evidence for any belief in the continuance of conscious personality after death:--

"After studying primitive beliefs, and finding that there is
no origin for the idea of an after-life, save the conclusion
which the savage draws, from the notion suggested by dreams,
of a wandering double which comes back on awaking, and
which goes away for an indefinite time at death;--and after
contemplating the inscrutable relation between brain and
consciousness, and finding that we can get no evidence of the
existence of the last without the activity of the first,--we
seem obliged to relinquish the thought that consciousness
continues after physical organization has become inactive."

In this measured utterance there is no word of hope; but there is at least a carefully stated doubt, which those who will may try to develop into the germ of a hope. The guarded phrase, "we _seem_ obliged to relinquish," certainly suggests that, although in the present state of human knowledge we have no reason to believe in the perpetuity of consciousness, some larger future knowledge might help us to a less forlorn prospect. From the prospect as it now appears even this mightiest of thinkers recoiled:--

... "But it seems a strange and repugnant conclusion that with
the cessation of consciousness at death there ceases to be any
knowledge of having existed. With his last breath it becomes
to each the same thing as though he had never lived.

"And then the consciousness itself--what is it during the time
that it continues? And what becomes of it when it ends? We can
only infer that it is a specialized and individualized form
of that Infinite and Eternal Energy which transcends both our
knowledge and our imagination; and that at death its elements
lapse into that Infinite and Eternal Energy whence they were
derived."

* * * * *

--_With his last breath it becomes to each the same thing as though he had never lived?_ To the individual, perhaps--surely not to the humanity made wiser and better by his labors.... But the world must pass away: will it thereafter be the same for the universe as if humanity had never existed? That might depend upon the possibilities of future inter-planetary communication.... But the whole universe of suns and planets must also perish: thereafter will it be the same as if no intelligent life had ever toiled and suffered upon those countless worlds? We have at least the certainty that the energies of life cannot be destroyed, and the strong probability that they will help to form another life and thought in universes yet to be evolved.... Nevertheless, allowing for all imagined possibilities,--granting even the likelihood of some inapprehensible relation between all past and all future conditioned-being,--the tremendous question remains: What signifies the whole of apparitional existence to the Unconditioned? As flickers of sheet-lightning leave no record in the night, so in that Darkness a million billion trillion universes might come and go, and leave no trace of their having been.

* * * * *

To every aspect of the problem Herbert Spencer must have given thought; but he has plainly declared that the human intellect, as at present constituted, can offer no solution. The greatest mind that this world has yet produced--the mind that systematized all human knowledge, that revolutionized modern science, that dissipated materialism forever, that revealed to us the ghostly unity of all existence, that reestablished all ethics upon an immutable and eternal foundation,--the mind that could expound with equal lucidity, and by the same universal formula, the history of a gnat or the history of a sun--confessed itself, before the Riddle of Existence, scarcely less helpless than the mind of a child.

But for me the supreme value of this last essay is made by the fact that in its pathetic statement of uncertainties and probabilities one can discern something very much resembling a declaration of faith. Though assured that we have yet no foundation for any belief in the persistence of consciousness after the death of the brain, we are bidden to remember that the ultimate nature of consciousness remains inscrutable. Though we cannot surmise the relation of consciousness to the unseen, we are reminded that it must be considered as a manifestation of the Infinite Energy, and that its elements, if dissociated by death, will return to the timeless and measureless Source of Life.... Science to-day also assures us that whatever existence has been--all individual life that ever moved in animal or plant,--all feeling and thought that ever stirred in human consciousness--must have flashed self-record beyond the sphere of sentiency; and though we cannot know, we cannot help imagining that the best of such registration may be destined to perpetuity. On this latter subject, for obvious reasons, Herbert Spencer has remained silent; but the reader may ponder a remarkable paragraph in the final sixth edition of the "First Principles,"--a paragraph dealing with the hypothesis that consciousness may belong to the cosmic ether. This hypothesis has not been lightly dismissed by him; and even while proving its inadequacy, he seems to intimate that it may represent imperfectly some truth yet inapprehensible by the human mind:--

"The only supposition having consistency is that that in which
consciousness inheres is the all-pervading ether. This we
know can be affected by molecules of matter in motion, and
conversely can affect the motions of molecules;--as witness
the action of light on the retina. In pursuance of this
supposition we may assume that the ether, which pervades not
only all space but all matter, is, under special conditions
in certain parts of the nervous system, capable of being
affected by the nervous changes in such way as to result in
feeling, and is reciprocally capable under these conditions
of affecting the nervous changes. But if we accept this
explanation, we must assume that the potentiality of feeling
is universal, and that the evolution of feeling in the ether
takes place only under the extremely complex conditions
occurring in certain nervous centres. This, however, is but a
semblance of an explanation, since we know not what the ether
is, and since, by confession of those most capable of judging,
no hypothesis that has been framed accounts for all its
powers. Such an explanation may be said to do no more
than symbolize the phenomena by symbols of unknown
natures."--["First Principles," [Section] 71 _c_, definitive
edition of 1900.]

--"Inscrutable is this complex consciousness which has
slowly evolved out of infantine vacuity--consciousness
which, in other shapes, is manifested by animate beings at
large--consciousness which, during the development of every
creature, makes its appearance out of what seems unconscious
matter; _suggesting the thought that consciousness, in some
rudimentary form, is omnipresent._"[65]

[Footnote 65: _Autobiography_, vol. ii, p. 470.]

--Of all modern thinkers, Spencer was perhaps the most careful to avoid giving encouragement to any hypothesis unsupported by powerful evidence. Even the simple sum of his own creed is uttered only, with due reservation, as a statement of three probabilities: that consciousness represents a specialized and individualized form of the infinite Energy; that it is dissolved by death; and that its elements then return to the source of all being. As for our mental attitude toward the infinite Mystery, his advice is plain. We must resign ourselves to the eternal law, and endeavor to vanquish our ancient inheritance of superstitious terrors, remembering that, "merciless as is the Cosmic process worked out by an Unknown Power, yet vengeance is nowhere to be found in it."[66]

[Footnote 66: _Facts and Comments_, p. 201.]

* * * * *

In the same brief essay there is another confession of singular interest,--an acknowledgment of the terror of Space. To even the ordinary mind, the notion of infinite Space, as forced upon us by those monstrous facts of astronomy which require no serious study to apprehend, is terrifying;--I mean the mere vague idea of that everlasting Night into which the blazing of millions of suns can bring neither light nor warmth. But to the intellect of Herbert Spencer the idea of Space must have presented itself after a manner incomparably more mysterious and stupendous. The mathematician alone will comprehend the full significance of the paragraph dealing with the Geometry of Position and the mystery of space-relations,--or the startling declaration that "even could we penetrate the mysteries of existence, there would remain still more transcendent mysteries." But Herbert Spencer tells us that, apart from the conception of these geometrical mysteries, the problem of naked Space itself became for him, in the twilight of his age, an obsession and a dismay:--

... "And then comes the thought of this universal matrix
itself, anteceding alike creation or evolution, whichever be
assumed, and infinitely transcending both, alike in extent and
duration; since both, if conceived at all, must be conceived
as having had beginnings, while Space had no beginning. The
thought of this blank form of existence which, explored in
all directions as far as imagination can reach, has, beyond
that, an unexplored region compared with which the part which
imagination has traversed is but infinitesimal,--the thought
of a Space compared with which our immeasurable sidereal
system dwindles to a point is a thought too overwhelming to
be dwelt upon. Of late years the consciousness that without
origin or cause infinite Space has ever existed and must ever
exist, produces in me a feeling from which I shrink."

* * * * *

How the idea of infinite Space may affect a mind incomparably more powerful than my own, I cannot know;--neither can I divine the nature of certain problems which the laws of space-relation present to the geometrician. But when I try to determine the cause of the horror which that idea evokes within my own feeble imagination, I am able to distinguish different elements of the emotion,--particular forms of terror responding to particular ideas (rational and irrational) suggested by the revelations of science. One feeling--perhaps the main element of the horror--is made by the thought of being _prisoned_ forever and ever within that unutterable Viewlessness which occupies infinite Space.

Behind this feeling there is more than the thought of eternal circumscription;--there is also the idea of being perpetually penetrated, traversed, thrilled by the Nameless;--there is likewise the certainty that no least particle of innermost secret Self could shun the eternal touch of It;--there is furthermore the tremendous conviction that could the Self of me rush with the swiftness of light,--with more than the swiftness of light,--beyond all galaxies, beyond durations of time so vast that Science knows no sign by which their magnitudes might be indicated,--and still flee onward, onward, downward, upward,--always, always,--never could that Self of me reach nearer to any verge, never speed farther from any centre. For, in that Silence, all vastitude and height and depth and time and direction are swallowed up: relation therein could have no meaning but for the speck of my fleeting consciousness,--atom of terror pulsating alone through atomless, soundless, nameless, illimitable potentiality.

And the idea of that potentiality awakens another quality of horror,--the horror of infinite Possibility. For this Inscrutable that pulses through substance as if substance were not at all,--so subtly that none can feel the flowing of its tides, yet so swiftly that no life-time would suffice to count the number of the oscillations which it makes within the fraction of one second,--thrills to us out of endlessness;--and the force of infinity dwells in its lightest tremor; the weight of eternity presses behind its faintest shudder. To that phantom-Touch, the tinting of a blossom or the dissipation of a universe were equally facile: here it caresses the eye with the charm and illusion of color; there it bestirs into being a cluster of giant suns. All that human mind is capable of conceiving as possible (and how much also that human mind must forever remain incapable of conceiving?) may be wrought anywhere, everywhere, by a single tremor of that Abyss....

* * * * *

Is it true, as some would have us believe, that the fear of the extinction of self is the terror supreme?... For the thought of personal perpetuity in the infinite vortex is enough to evoke sudden trepidations that no tongue can utter,--fugitive instants of a horror too vast to enter wholly into consciousness: a horror that can be endured in swift black glimpsings only. And the trust that we are one with the Absolute--dim points of thrilling in the abyss of It--can prove a consoling faith only to those who find themselves obliged to think that consciousness dissolves with the crumbling of the brain.... It seems to me that few (or none) dare to utter frankly those stupendous doubts and fears which force mortal intelligence to recoil upon itself at every fresh attempt to pass the barrier of the Knowable. Were that barrier unexpectedly pushed back,--were knowledge to be suddenly and vastly expanded beyond its present limits,--perhaps we should find ourselves unable to endure the revelation....

* * * * *

Mr. Percival Lowell's astonishing book, "Mars," sets one to thinking about the results of being able to hold communication with the habitants of an older and a wiser world,--some race of beings more highly evolved than we, both intellectually and morally, and able to interpret a thousand mysteries that still baffle our science. Perhaps, in such event, we should not find ourselves able to comprehend the methods, even could we borrow the results, of wisdom older than all our civilization by myriads or hundreds of myriads of years. But would not the sudden advent of larger knowledge from some elder planet prove for us, by reason, of the present moral condition of mankind, nothing less than a catastrophe?--might it not even result in the extinction of the human species?...

The rule seems to be that the dissemination of dangerous higher knowledge, before the masses of a people are ethically prepared to receive it, will always be prevented by the conservative instinct; and we have reason to suppose (allowing for individual exceptions) that the power to gain higher knowledge is developed only as the moral ability to profit by such knowledge is evolved. I fancy that if the power of holding intellectual converse with other worlds could now serve us, we should presently obtain it. But if, by some astonishing chance,--as by the discovery, let us suppose, of some method of ether-telegraphy,--this power were prematurely acquired, its exercise would in all probability be prohibited.... Imagine, for example, what would have happened during the Middle Ages to the person guilty of discovering means to communicate with the people of a neighboring planet! Assuredly that inventor and his apparatus and his records would have been burned; every trace and memory of his labors would have been extirpated. Even to-day the sudden discovery of truths unsupported by human experience, the sudden revelation of facts totally opposed to existing convictions, might evoke some frantic revival of superstitious terrors,--some religious panic-fury that would strangle science, and replunge the world in mental darkness for a thousand years.

THE MIRROR MAIDEN

In the period of the Ashikaga Sh[=o]gunate the shrine of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin, at Minami-Is['e], fell into decay; and the daimy[=o] of the district, the Lord Kitahatak['e], found himself unable, by reason of war and other circumstances, to provide for the reparation of the building. Then the Shint[=o] priest in charge, Matsumura Hy[=o]go, sought help at Ky[=o]to from the great daimy[=o] Hosokawa, who was known to have influence with the Sh[=o]gun. The Lord Hosokawa received the priest kindly, and promised to speak to the Sh[=o]gun about the condition of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin. But he said that, in any event, a grant for the restoration of the temple could not be made without due investigation and considerable delay; and he advised Matsumura to remain in the capital while the matter was being arranged. Matsumura therefore brought his family to Ky[=o]to, and rented a house in the old Ky[=o]goku quarter.

This house, although handsome and spacious, had been long unoccupied. It was said to be an unlucky house. On the northeast side of it there was a well; and several former tenants had drowned themselves in that well, without any known cause. But Matsumura, being a Shint[=o] priest, had no fear of evil spirits; and he soon made himself very comfortable in his new home.

* * * * *

In the summer of that year there was a great drought. For months no rain had fallen in the Five Home-Provinces; the river-beds dried up, the wells failed; and even in the capital there was a dearth of water. But the well in Matsumura's garden remained nearly full; and the water--which was very cold and clear, with a faint bluish tinge--seemed to be supplied by a spring. During the hot season many people came from all parts of the city to beg for water; and Matsumura allowed them to draw as much as they pleased. Nevertheless the supply did not appear to be diminished.

But one morning the dead body of a young servant, who had been sent from a neighboring residence to fetch water, was found floating in the well. No cause for a suicide could be imagined; and Matsumura, remembering many unpleasant stories about the well, began to suspect some invisible malevolence. He went to examine the well, with the intention of having a fence built around it; and while standing there alone he was startled by a sudden motion in the water, as of something alive. The motion soon ceased; and then he perceived, clearly reflected in the still surface, the figure of a young woman, apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age. She seemed to be occupied with her toilet: he distinctly saw her touching her lips with _b['e]ni_[67] At first her face was visible in profile only; but presently she turned towards him and smiled. Immediately he felt a strange shock at his heart, and a dizziness came upon him like the dizziness of wine, and everything became dark, except that smiling face,--white and beautiful as moonlight, and always seeming to grow more beautiful, and to be drawing him down--down--down into the darkness. But with a desperate effort he recovered his will and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the face was gone, and the light had returned; and he found himself leaning down over the curb of the well. A moment more of that dizziness,--a moment more of that dazzling lure,--and he would never again have looked upon the sun...

[Footnote 67: A kind of rouge, now used only to color the lips.]

Returning to the house, he gave orders to his people not to approach the well under any circumstances, or allow any person to draw water from it. And the next day he had a strong fence built round the well.

* * * * *

About a week after the fence had been built, the long drought was broken by a great rain-storm, accompanied by wind and lightning and thunder,--thunder so tremendous that the whole city shook to the rolling of it, as if shaken by an earthquake. For three days and three nights the downpour and the lightnings and the thunder continued; and the Kamogawa rose as it had never risen before, carrying away many bridges. During the third night of the storm, at the Hour of the Ox, there was heard a knocking at the door of the priest's dwelling, and the voice of a woman pleading for admittance. But Matsumura, warned by his experience at the well, forbade his servants to answer the appeal. He went himself to the entrance, and asked,--

"Who calls?"

A feminine voice responded:--

"Pardon! it is I,--Yayoi![68]... I have something to say to Matsumura Sama,--something of great moment. Please open!"...

[Footnote 68: This name, though uncommon, is still in use.]

Matsumura half opened the door, very cautiously; and he saw the same beautiful face that had smiled upon him from the well. But it was not smiling now: it had a very sad look.

"Into my house you shall not come," the priest exclaimed. "You are not a human being, but a Well-Person.... Why do you thus wickedly try to delude and destroy people?"

The Well-Person made answer in a voice musical as a tinkling of jewels (_tama-wo-korogasu-ko[:e]_.):--

"It is of that very matter that I want to speak.... I have never wished to injure human beings. But from ancient time a Poison-Dragon dwelt in that well. He was the Master of the Well; and because of him the well was always full. Long ago I fell into the water there, and so became subject to him; and he had power to make me lure people to death, in order that he might drink their blood. But now the Heavenly Ruler has commanded the Dragon to dwell hereafter in the lake called Torii-no-Ik['e], in the Province of Shinsh[=u]; and the gods have decided that he shall never be allowed to return to this city. So to-night, after he had gone away, I was able to come out, to beg for your kindly help. There is now very little water in the well, because of the Dragon's departure; and if you will order search to be made, my body will be found there. I pray you to save my body from the well without delay; and I shall certainly return your benevolence."...

So saying, she vanished into the night.

* * * * *

Before dawn the tempest had passed; and when the sun arose there was no trace of cloud in the pure blue sky. Matsumura sent at an early hour for well-cleaners to search the well. Then, to everybody's surprise, the well proved to be almost dry. It was easily cleaned; and at the bottom of it were found some hair-ornaments of a very ancient fashion, and a metal mirror of curious form--but no trace of any body, animal or human.

Matusmura imagined, however, that the mirror might yield some explanation of the mystery; for every such mirror is a weird thing, having a soul of its own,--and the soul of a mirror is feminine. This mirror, which seemed to be very old, was deeply crusted with scurf. But when it had been carefully cleaned, by the priest's order, it proved to be of rare and costly workmanship; and there were wonderful designs upon the back of it,--also several characters. Some of the characters had become indistinguishable; but there could still be discerned part of a date, and ideographs signifying, "_third month, the third day_." Now the third month used to be termed _Yayoi_ (meaning, the Month of Increase); and the third day of the third month, which is a festival day, is still called _Yayoi-no-sekku_. Remembering that the Well-Person called herself "Yayoi," Matsumura felt almost sure that his ghostly visitant had been none other than the Soul of the Mirror.

He therefore resolved to treat the mirror with all the consideration due to a Spirit. After having caused it to be carefully repolished and resilvered, he had a case of precious wood made for it, and a particular room in the house prepared to receive it. On the evening of the same day that it had been respectfully deposited in that room, Yayoi herself unexpectedly appeared before the priest as he sat alone in his study. She looked even more lovely than before; but the light of her beauty was now soft as the light of a summer moon shining through pure white clouds. After having humbly saluted Matsumura, she said in her sweetly tinkling voice:--

"Now that you have saved me from solitude and sorrow, I have come to thank you.... I am indeed, as you supposed, the Spirit of the Mirror. It was in the time of the Emperor Saimei that I was first brought here from Kudara; and I dwelt in the august residence until the time of the Emperor Saga, when I was augustly bestowed upon the Lady Kamo, Naishinn[=o] of the Imperial Court.[69] Thereafter I became an heirloom in the House of Fuji-wara, and so remained until the period of H[=o]gen, when I was dropped into the well. There I was left and forgotten during the years of the great war.[70] The Master of the Well[71] was a venomous Dragon, who used to live in a lake that once covered a great part of this district. After the lake had been filled in, by government order, in order that houses might be built upon the place of it, the Dragon took possession of the well; and when I fell into the well I became subject to him; and he compelled me to lure many people to their deaths. But the gods have banished him forever.... Now I have one more favor to beseech: I entreat that you will cause me to be offered up to the Sh[=o]gun, the Lord Yoshimasa, who by descent is related to my former possessors. Do me but this last great kindness, and it will bring you good-fortune.... But I have also to warn you of a danger. In this house, after to-morrow, you must not stay, because it will be destroyed."... And with these words of warning Yayoi disappeared.

[Footnote 69: The Emperor Saimei reigned from 655 to 662 (A.D.); the Emperor Saga from 810 to 842.--Kudara was an ancient kingdom in southwestern Korea, frequently mentioned in early Japanese history.--A _Naishinn[=o]_ was of Imperial blood. In the ancient court-hierarchy there were twenty-five ranks or grades of noble ladies;--that of _Naishinno_ was seventh in order of precedence.]

[Footnote 70: For centuries the wives of the emperors and the ladies of the Imperial Court were chosen from the Fujiwara clan--The period called H[=o]gen lasted from 1156 to 1159: the war referred to is the famous war between the Taira and Minamoto clans.]

[Footnote 71: In old-time belief every lake or spring had its invisible guardian, supposed to sometimes take the form of a serpent or dragon. The spirit of a lake or pond was commonly spoken of as _Ik['e]-no-Mushi_, the Master of the Lake. Here we find the title "Master" given to a dragon living in a well; but the guardian of wells is really the god Suijin.]

* * * * *

Matsumura was able to profit by this premonition. He removed his people and his belongings to another district the next day; and almost immediately afterwards another storm arose, even more violent than the first, causing a flood which swept away the house in which he had been residing.

Some time later, by favor of the Lord Hosokawa, Matsumura was enabled to obtain an audience of the Sh[=o]gun Yoshimasa, to whom he presented the mirror, together with a written account of its wonderful history. Then the prediction of the Spirit of the Mirror was fulfilled; for the Sh[=o]gun, greatly pleased with this strange gift, not only bestowed costly presents upon Matsumura, but also made an ample grant of money for the rebuilding of the Temple of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin.

THE STORY OF IT[=O] NORISUK['E]

In the town of Uji, in the province of Yamashiro, there lived, about six hundred years ago, a young samurai named It[=o] Tat['e]waki Norisuk['e], whose ancestors were of the H['e][:i]k['e] clan. It[=o] was of handsome person and amiable character, a good scholar and apt at arms. But his family were poor; and he had no patron among the military nobility,--so that his prospects were small. He lived in a very quiet way, devoting himself to the study of literature, and having (says the Japanese story-teller) "only the Moon and the Wind for friends."

One autumn evening, as he was taking a solitary walk in the neighborhood of the hill called Kotobikiyama, he happened to overtake a young girl who was following the same path. She was richly dressed, and seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old. It[=o] greeted her, and said, "The sun will soon be setting, damsel, and this is rather a lonesome place. May I ask if you have lost your way?" She looked up at him with a bright smile, and answered deprecatingly: "Nay! I am a _miya-dzukai_,[72] serving in this neighborhood; and I have only a little way to go."

[Footnote 72: August-residence servant.]

By her use of the term _miya-dzukai_, It[=o] knew that the girl must be in the service of persons of rank; and her statement surprised him, because he had never heard of any family of distinction residing in that vicinity. But he only said: "I am returning to Uji, where my home is. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you on the way, as this is a very lonesome place." She thanked him gracefully, seeming pleased by his offer; and they walked on together, chatting as they went. She talked about the weather, the flowers, the butterflies, and the birds; about a visit that she had once made to Uji, about the famous sights of the capital, where she had been born;--and the moments passed pleasantly for It[=o], as he listened to her fresh prattle. Presently, at a turn in the road, they entered a hamlet, densely shadowed by a grove of young trees.

* * * * *

[Here I must interrupt the story to tell you that, without having actually seen them, you cannot imagine how dark some Japanese country villages remain even in the brightest and hottest weather. In the neighborhood of T[=o]ky[=o] itself there are many villages of this kind. At a short distance from such a settlement you see no houses: nothing is visible but a dense grove of evergreen trees. The grove, which is usually composed of young cedars and bamboos, serves to shelter the village from storms, and also to supply timber for various purposes. So closely are the trees planted that there is no room to pass between the trunks of them: they stand straight as masts, and mingle their crests so as to form a roof that excludes the sun. Each thatched cottage occupies a clear space in the plantation, the trees forming a fence about it, double the height of the building. Under the trees it is always twilight, even at high noon; and the houses, morning or evening, are half in shadow. What makes the first impression of such a village almost disquieting is, not the transparent gloom, which has a certain weird charm of its own, but the stillness. There may be fifty or a hundred dwellings; but you see nobody; and you hear no sound but the twitter of invisible birds, the occasional crowing of cocks, and the shrilling of cicad[ae]. Even the cicad[ae], however, find these groves too dim, and sing faintly; being sun-lovers, they prefer the trees outside the village. I forgot to say that you may sometimes hear a viewless shuttle--_chaka-ton, chaka-ton_;--but that familiar sound, in the great green silence, seems an elfish happening. The reason of the hush is simply that the people are not at home. All the adults, excepting some feeble elders, have gone to the neighboring fields, the women carrying their babies on their backs; and most of the children have gone to the nearest school, perhaps not less than a mile away. Verily, in these dim hushed villages, one seems to behold the mysterious perpetuation of conditions recorded in the texts of Kwang-Tze:--

"_The ancients who had the nourishment of the world wished for
nothing, and the world had enough:--they did nothing, and all
things were transformed:--their stillness was abysmal, and the
people were all composed._"]

* * * * *

... The village was very dark when It[=o] reached it; for the sun had set, and the after-glow made no twilight in the shadowing of the trees. "Now, kind sir," the child said, pointing to a narrow lane opening upon the main road, "I have to go this way." "Permit me, then, to see you home," It[=o] responded; and he turned into the lane with her, feeling rather than seeing his way. But the girl soon stopped before a small gate, dimly visible in the gloom,--a gate of trelliswork, beyond which the lights of a dwelling could be seen. "Here," she said, "is the honorable residence in which I serve. As you have come thus far out of your way, kind sir, will you not deign to enter and to rest a while?" It[=o] assented. He was pleased by the informal invitation; and he wished to learn what persons of superior condition had chosen to reside in so lonesome a village. He knew that sometimes a family of rank would retire in this manner from public life, by reason of government displeasure or political trouble; and he imagined that such might be the history of the occupants of the dwelling before him. Passing the gate, which his young guide opened for him, he found himself in a large quaint garden. A miniature landscape, traversed by a winding stream, was faintly distinguishable. "Deign for one little moment to wait," the child said; "I go to announce the honorable coming;" and hurried toward the house. It was a spacious house, but seemed very old, and built in the fashion of another time. The sliding doors were not closed; but the lighted interior was concealed by a beautiful bamboo curtain extending along the gallery front. Behind it shadows were moving--shadows of women;--and suddenly the music of a _koto_ rippled into the night. So light and sweet was the playing that It[=o] could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. A slumbrous feeling of delight stole over him as he listened,--a delight strangely mingled with sadness. He wondered how any woman could have learned to play thus,--wondered whether the player could be a woman,--wondered even whether he was hearing earthly music; for enchantment seemed to have entered into his blood with the sound of it.

* * * * *

The soft music ceased; and almost at the same moment It[=o] found the little _miya-dzukai_ beside him. "Sir," she said, "it is requested that you will honorably enter." She conducted him to the entrance, where he removed his sandals; and an aged woman, whom he thought to be the _R[=o]jo_, or matron of the household, came to welcome him at the threshold. The old woman then led him through many apartments to a large and well-lighted room in the rear of the house, and with many respectful salutations requested him to take the place of honor accorded to guests of distinction. He was surprised by the stateliness of the chamber, and the curious beauty of its decorations. Presently some maid-servants brought refreshments; and he noticed that the cups and other vessels set before him were of rare and costly workmanship, and ornamented with a design indicating the high rank of the possessor. More and more he wondered what noble person had chosen this lonely retreat, and what happening could have inspired the wish for such solitude. But the aged attendant suddenly interrupted his reflections with the question:

"Am I wrong in supposing that you are It[=o] Sama, of Uji,--It[=o] Tat['e]waki Norisuk['e]?"

It[=o] bowed in assent. He had not told his name to the little _miya-dzukai_, and the manner of the inquiry startled him.

"Please do not think my question rude," continued the attendant. "An old woman like myself may ask questions without improper curiosity. When you came to the house, I thought that I knew your face; and I asked your name only to clear away all doubt, before speaking of other matters. I have some thing of moment to tell you. You often pass through this village, and our young Him['e]gimi-Sama[73] happened one morning to see you going by; and ever since that moment she has been thinking about you, day and night. Indeed, she thought so much that she became ill; and we have been very uneasy about her. For that reason I took means to find out your name and residence; and I was on the point of sending you a letter when--so unexpectedly!--you came to our gate with the little attendant. Now, to say how happy I am to see you is not possible; it seems almost too fortunate a happening to be true! Really I think that this meeting must have been brought about by the favor of Enmusubi-no-Kami,--that great God of Izumo who ties the knots of fortunate union. And now that so lucky a destiny has led you hither, perhaps you will not refuse--if there be no obstacle in the way of such a union--to make happy the heart of our Him['e]gimi-Sama?"

[Footnote 73: A scarcely translatable honorific title compounded of the word _him['e]_ (princess) and _kimi_ (sovereign, master or mistress, lord or lady, etc.).]

For the moment It[=o] did not know how to reply. If the old woman had spoken the truth, an extraordinary chance was being offered to him. Only a great passion could impel the daughter of a noble house to seek, of her own will, the affection of an obscure and masterless samurai, possessing neither wealth nor any sort of prospects. On the other hand, it was not in the honorable nature of the man to further his own interests by taking advantage of a feminine weakness. Moreover, the circumstances were disquietingly mysterious. Yet how to decline the proposal, so unexpectedly made, troubled him not a little. After a short silence, he replied:--

"There would be no obstacle, as I have no wife, and no betrothed, and no relation with any woman. Until now I have lived with my parents; and the matter of my marriage was never discussed by them. You must know that I am a poor samurai, without any patron among persons of rank; and I did not wish to marry until I could find some chance to improve my condition. As to the proposal which you have done me the very great honor to make, I can only say that I know myself yet unworthy of the notice of any noble maiden."

The old woman smiled as if pleased by these words, and responded:--

"Until you have seen our Him['e]gimi-Sama, it were better that you make no decision. Perhaps you will feel no hesitation after you have seen her. Deign now to come with me, that I may present you to her."

She conducted him to another larger guest-room, where preparations for a feast had been made, and having shown him the place of honor, left him for a moment alone. She returned accompanied by the Him['e]gimi-Sama; and, at the first sight of the young mistress, It[=o] felt again the strange thrill of wonder and delight that had come to him in the garden, as he listened to the music of the _koto_. Never had he dreamed of so beautiful a being. Light seemed to radiate from her presence, and to shine through her garments, as the light of the moon through flossy clouds; her loosely flowing hair swayed about her as she moved, like the boughs of the drooping willow bestirred by the breezes of spring; her lips were like flowers of the peach besprinkled with morning dew. It[=o] was bewildered by the vision. He asked himself whether he was not looking upon the person of Amano-kawara-no-Ori-Him['e] herself,--the Weaving-Maiden who dwells by the shining River of Heaven.

Smiling, the aged woman turned to the fair one, who remained speechless, with downcast eyes and flushing cheeks, and said to her:--

"See, my child!--at the moment when we could least have hoped for such a thing, the very person whom you wished to meet has come of his own accord. So fortunate a happening could have been brought about only by the will of the high gods. To think of it makes me weep for joy." And she sobbed aloud. "But now," she continued, wiping away her tears with her sleeve, "it only remains for you both--unless either prove unwilling, which I doubt--to pledge yourselves to each other, and to partake of your wedding feast."

* * * * *

It[=o] answered by no word: the incomparable vision before him had numbed his will and tied his tongue. Maid-servants entered, bearing dishes and wine: the wedding feast was spread before the pair; and the pledges were given. It[=o] nevertheless remained as in a trance: the marvel of the adventure, and the wonder of the beauty of the bride, still bewildered him. A gladness, beyond aught that he had ever known before, filled his heart--like a great silence. But gradually he recovered his wonted calm; and thereafter he found himself able to converse without embarrassment. Of the wine he partook freely; and he ventured to speak, in a self-depreciating but merry way, about the doubts and fears that had oppressed him. Meanwhile the bride remained still as moonlight, never lifting her eyes, and replying only by a blush or a smile when he addressed her.

It[=o] said to the aged attendant:--

"Many times, in my solitary walks, I have passed through this village without knowing of the existence of this honorable dwelling. And ever since entering here, I have been wondering why this noble household should have chosen so lonesome a place of sojourn.... Now that your Him['e]gimi-Sama and I have become pledged to each other, it seems to me a strange thing that I do not yet know the name of her august family."

At this utterance, a shadow passed over the kindly face of the old woman; and the bride, who had yet hardly spoken, turned pale, and appeared to become painfully anxious. After some moments of silence, the aged woman responded:--

"To keep our secret from you much longer would be difficult; and I think that, under any circumstances, you should be made aware of the facts, now that you are one of us. Know then, Sir It[=o], that your bride is the daughter of Shig['e]hira-Ky[=o], the great and unfortunate San-mi Ch[:u]j[=o]."

At those words--"Shig['e]hira-Ky[=o], San-mi Ch[:u]j[=o]"--the young samurai felt a chill, as of ice, strike through all his veins. Shig['e]hira-Ky[=o], the great H['e][:i]k['e] general and statesman, had been dust for centuries. And It[=o] suddenly understood that everything around him--the chamber and the lights and the banquet--was a dream of the past; that the forms before him were not people, but shadows of people dead.