Part 16

I had been at Ikao a fortnight, and absorbed by new acquaintances, was beginning to forget the very existence of O Maru San, when a long letter from Kose conveyed the surprising intelligence that she had at last joined Beauregard in that pretty little mountain village. Soon after arriving he had been caught in a violent storm on the slopes of Asama-yama, and had contracted severe rheumatism. Unable to walk much and feeling rather lonely, he wrote finally to Ishinomaki, stating that, if she cared to travel so far and become his companion for the remaining month and a half of his stay, he would make all ready for her reception. But, he added, her decision must be prompt and definite. A third and last letter reached him from the Asano-ya. “My niece,” wrote the old man, “would like nothing better than to accept your kind proposal. But in the town of Ishinomaki an alliance between an honourable stranger and a humble Japanese girl is looked upon with disfavour. How is it in Kose?” A final telegram--“No difficulties here. If you come, what train?”--evoked the answer: “Start by eight o’clock train to-night.” And to his great astonishment she kept her word. One afternoon he saw a horse, bearing two bundles tied to a high saddle, of the protective sort which is used for children in England when they ride donkeys, ascending the glen from Yunosawa. Rain had made the path impossible for rickshaws. One bundle was O Maru, the other her luggage. She had never been on a horse before, and had never taken such a long journey alone by train, but, after two days’ travelling in the hottest part of August, there she was, smiling and looking very happy at the sight of Borega Sama. Little by little he discovered the reasons of so many delays and prevarications. The landlord, who had at first advised her coming, had been dissuaded by some acquaintances of the Norwegian skipper, who urged that, if she waited for the latter’s return, it would be more to her advantage, since he might take her for several voyages and make a longer contract with the family than the French tourist cared to entertain. Then she had “run away,” but only to her aunt, who was an ex-geisha and gave dancing lessons at Shiogama. At last, as no more news was heard of the Scandinavian suitor, she received permission to follow her own inclination; and, though the journey had presented many terrors, she came, armed with an _o mamori_ (amulet) of Watazumi-no-Mikoto, and, thanks to the care of that potent deity, attained the goal of her long-thwarted desire.

III

Kose is an ideal lovers’ nest, hidden in the heart of thick forests, where steep hills dip to a stream, now visible, now invisible, but always to be tracked by its trickling or tumbling song. Shady rambles and cool retreats invite whispering confidence, but, to gain a view of the rolling country, which culminates in volcanic peaks eight thousand feet high, hard climbing or riding is inevitable. O Maru was much too timid and delicate to accompany Beauregard on these tiring expeditions, and replied one day to a question as to how she liked Kose, “Taihen yoroshi: ke’ domo miru koto arimasen.” (It was very nice, but there was nothing to see there.) Then he discovered that what she most wanted to see, more even than the sights of Tōkyō or Kyōto, was the famous temple of Zenkōji at Nagano. It was believed by the members of the Buddhist sect to which her family belonged that the souls of the dead were first given rendezvous at Zenkōji, immediately after death, before departing on their long journey to other worlds. Her great wish, therefore, was to make offerings of rice and incense to Amida on the spot where her father and mother had passed away, that they might know how lovingly she cherished their memory. Two days later her wish was accomplished. As they climbed the broad avenue, lined with little booths, at which were sold rosaries, candles, breviaries, incense, toys, and sweetmeats, Beauregard realised for the first time what vast influence is still wielded in Japan by the Buddhist faith. Hundreds of pilgrims, in curiously-patterned white dresses and palmer hats, moved with chatter and laughter towards the chief gateway. On the left of the entrance stands a nunnery, ruled by an abbess of high rank, and those who cross a graceful bridge to enter it find themselves between two large ponds of pink-flowered and white-flowered lotos, about the roots of which crawl sacred tortoises. Where the shops end an avenue of gods extends up to the main temple. Not only Monju and Shi Tenno and images of the chief _rakan_ or disciples of Buddha alternate with lanterns of bronze or stone, but the six Jizō, elsewhere so humbly carved in common wood, sit proudly prominent in white marble. O Maru had bought a packet of rice, some sticks of incense, and a little rosary, whose beads were daintily strung on purple cord. Beauregard took off his shoes and followed her into the main temple. In that enormous building, two hundred feet in depth by one hundred in width, the huge outlines of gilded gods glimmered darkly, while rustling priests moved to and fro on mysterious errands. From the multitudinous rafters, whose number, 69,384, is said to correspond with the number of Chinese characters in the Buddhist scriptures, pigeons flew continually, and the flutter of their wings, together with the jingle of copper _rin_ tossed lightly into the money-box, accompanied, without distracting, the low mutter of perpetual prayer. When O Maru approached one of the priests with her filial offerings, the old man looked rather inquisitively at the handsome foreigner, but said nothing, and, signing a certificate of piety, on which her name and the death-names of her parents were inscribed, gave it to her together with a circular pink sweetmeat, on which was stamped a sacred wheel, typical of the law. Then, twining the mauve rosary about her chubby hands, she murmured three times “Namu Amida Butsu”--(“I adore thee, O eternal Buddha”), and, as she left the altar-rails, threw five _rin_ into the treasury. Her devotions were accomplished, and, much lightened in heart, she rejoined Beauregard, who was inspecting the precincts of the temple. Chief of the treasures is a sacred golden group, representing Amida and his two followers, Kwannon and Daiseishi, which is supposed to have been made by Shaka Muni himself from gold found in Mount Shumi, the centre of the universe. Legend relates that the foes of the true faith had done their worst to destroy this image: all attempts to abolish it by fire and water and the sword had failed: since the fourteenth century it has rested inviolate in a shrine, shrouded by a curtain of rich brocade. So carefully is it now guarded, that the pious are only allowed, on payment of a small fee, to behold the outermost of seven boxes in which it is enclosed. Far more accessible is Binzuru, a hideous brick-red deity, whose image stands outside the chancel, to which position he is expelled for having “remarked upon the beauty of a female” in violation of the vows of chastity incumbent on Buddha’s disciples. Binzuru is amply avenged for this harsh expulsion. Wherever his ugly visage is seen, you will find him caressed and surrounded by women and girls, who firmly believe that they have only to touch his body and then rub their own in the same part, to banish every pain, great or small, to which the human frame is subject. As they wandered from one god to another, Beauregard questioned O Maru about her faith, which he found to be simple and firm. Once she had seen with O Kiku a picture of hell at a temple festival, in which fiery demons were inflicting such tortures on unbelievers that, though their own belief was orthodox, she and her friend had cried themselves to sleep. It occurred to the Frenchman to ask whether she had no fear of being punished for living with him as his wife, but she replied that she had never heard that that was sinful, unless she had been promised to some one else. He asked her what was the use of giving rice to the souls of the dead, and whether she thought they would eat it; but she explained that, whereas living people eat rice, the _hotoke_, or spirits, only eat the soul of the rice, which is there, although we cannot see it. She believed in prayer, fasting, and amulets, but thought it wasteful to spend more than five _rin_ (about one halfpenny) a month on the gods, since they required no clothing and very little food.

From Nagano the pair travelled to Kyōto, where they remained until the end of their six weeks’ honeymoon. There I saw a great deal of Beauregard, who was equally enamoured of Japanese art and his Japanese wife. His days would be spent in visits to those temples where good specimens of the Shijō and Kōrin schools were jealously kept, but as he had letters of introduction from an eminent professor and painter to the authorities, he had exceptional opportunities of pursuing his passionate study of the Kyōto Renaissance painters. All the treasures of Daitokuji and Chionin, of Kinkakuji and Ginkakuji, were shown to him. Sometimes he would spend many hours among the early sculptures of Nara, or avail himself of an invitation to scan the private collection of a rich shipowner at Ōsaka. His contempt for Hokusai and Hiroshigi was unbounded; words could not express his dislike for what he called “the shallow, meretricious judgment of de Goncourt.” I await with considerable interest the _brochure_ which he intends to publish by means of the _Mercure de France_ for the edification and confusion of French connoisseurs. But O Maru interested me more than Okyō’s fish and Sōsen’s monkeys. I would often spend the evening with them, and, as we conversed hotly in our barbarian tongues, she would sit contentedly sewing and humming to herself, delighted to make tea or furnish information about her fatherland. Her own curiosity was seldom excited, but now and then she betrayed depths of astounding ignorance. One night Beauregard had been reading me a chapter from Anatole France’s delightful “Le Livre de mon Ami,” in which that writer thus describes a characteristic reminiscence of childhood:

“J’étais bien payé de ma peine dès que j’entrais dans la chambre de ces dames; car il y avait là mille choses qui me plongeaient dans l’extase. Mais rien n’égalait les deux magots de porcelaine qui se tenaient assis sur la cheminée, de chaque côté de la pendule. D’eux-mêmes, ils hochaient la tête et tiraient la langue. J’appris qu’ils venaient de Chine et je me promis d’y aller. La difficulté était de m’y faire conduire par ma bonne. J’avais acquis la certitude que la Chine était derrière l’Arc-de-Triomphe, mais je ne trouvais jamais moyen de pousser jusque-là.”

With unconscious appropriateness she suddenly asked, “Shina no kuni, Furansu no kuni, onaji koto des ka?” (Are France and China the same country?) Nothing could persuade her that thunder was not a phenomenon peculiar to Japan, for she had always associated it with the wrath of a Japanese deity. Any breach of etiquette shocked her sense of propriety, and she spent many unhappy moments because of René’s remissness in two particulars. He always accepted hospitality when offered by a Japanese friend, instead of refusing at least twice for politeness’ sake: he often forgot to beat down the price of something which took his fancy, depriving both seller and buyer of the joy of bargaining. These faults lowered him in the otherwise indulgent eyes of his little consort. Her delicacy in the matter of presents was very marked. Though her lover was anxious that she should buy a souvenir at every place they visited together, he could never induce her to choose any but an inexpensive trinket. To remedy this he occasionally relied on his own judgment, but the result was unfortunate. I remember that we returned from Ōsaka with the prettiest roll of _kimono_ silk to be found in the bazaar, but when this was given to O Maru she rejected it, explaining that such bright colours could only be worn by a girl of fifteen or eighteen. Her own age was twenty-two. On another occasion he chose a sober, stuff of silver-grey, but this, it appeared, was only suitable to a woman of forty. After that he gave up using his judgment, and begged her to spend what money she wanted in her own way.

Her own way was extravagant, as we discovered afterwards: it was only his money that she was chary of spending. For, when he presented her with sixty _yen_ on the eve of departure, to his surprise she clung to him and cried out excitedly, “Watakusi hachiju yen hoshii!” (I want eighty _yen_!) As she had never seemed mercenary, and had at first stipulated for fifty, he could not account for this eager demand, which was of course immediately accorded. But the next day O Maru appeared in a very beautiful cloak, lined with white satin, on which were hand-painted designs by a well-known painter of Kyōto. She had spent nearly the whole of her present, fifty-five _yen_ (about £5 10_s._), on that royal garment, which would certainly be the most handsome of its kind in Ishinomaki. Her parting presents to René were some prettily embroidered handkerchiefs of silk and an original poem, which had more “actuality” than literary merit. In fact, it was a very artless _cri de cœur_, and ran thus:

“Sad is my love for Beaurega Sama: He goes, but I go Never, to France.”

I accompanied them to Kōbe, where the _Belgic_ was waiting to take passengers to San Francisco, and charged myself with the duty of sending O Maru home to her family. She came with us on the liner, and was overawed by the huge steamer, with its crowd of loud-voiced, whisky-drinking barbarians. Once she crept closer to René, and asked him if he would return as soon as his mother died. Filial affection, she knew, had the first claim. Then she gave him a small wooden wedge, on which was the name of her sea-god, Watazumi-no-Mikoto, with injunctions to press it to his bosom every day at the hour of noon. At last the bell sounded to clear the decks. O Maru took off her wooden _geta_ and climbed down into the tug. Up to that moment she had borne herself bravely, but when she saw the lessening figure of her lover recede for ever into the waste of waters, she sank down in a storm of passionate sobs at my feet.

IV

Six months later I was passing down the Rue Royale, when I saw René Beauregard at a little table outside Maxime’s with two companions, who were engaged in a fierce dispute about the never-ending Affaire, while his whole attention was absorbed by a letter, which I knew from the texture of the paper to be Japanese. Greeting him with effusion--for we had not met since the _Belgic_ sailed from Kōbe--I asked whether he had any news of O Maru since his return to Paris. For answer he handed me the letter, which, with some trouble, I deciphered. It was to the following effect:

“To Borega Sama, 120, Avenue de Clichy, Paris.

“From the time of your coming to Nippon to the time of your going back to your own country, as you have been so very kind to me, I humbly render thanks. To learn by your letter that you had safely crossed so many countries and great seas was indeed good news. I had fasted for twenty-three days and offered daily prayers to Watazumi-no-Mikoto that you might not fall into danger before reaching the house of your honourable mother. I am living with my aunt at Shiogama, and shall wait seven years in the hope that you will come back. I pray for you every day, and shall never forget the happy times we spent together in Kose and Kyōto. However long I write, there is no end to it, so I shall look for a further occasion to tell you my love. In respectful obedience,

“O MARU.”

The letter contained an enclosure, which it required the intervention of a Japanese friend to interpret. Whether the girl had herself written the six poems which follow, or, as it seems to me more probable, had adapted them with slight alterations from a popular song-book, I cannot say. They form both epilogue and moral to this typical tale.

1.

“Could I but meet you! Could I but see you! Waves roll between us; Wishing is vain.

2.

“Thinking about you, Watching your likeness; Yet the watched likeness Says not a word.

3.

“You, my French master, Living in Paris,-- I am Awazu’s Single lone pine.

4.

“In mine ears waking, In mine ears dreaming, Ever one sound is, That of thy voice.

5.

“Heard though the voice be, Unseen thy body; So, on the mountains, Nightingales sing.

6.

“Now--though we once slept Pillow by pillow-- ‘Where and how are you?’ Asking, I weep.”

AFTERNOON CALLS

AFTERNOON CALLS

I

Théophile Gautier, describing his travels in Russia, declares that, whereas Moscow and St. Petersburg fell short of the romantic dream-pictures which he had conceived of them by reason of their fame, the reverse was the case with Nijni-Novgorod, of which the name alone allured his ear with chiming syllables. Having reached the town with no other premonitory bias than the spell exercised by its magical appellation, he was ravished by the picturesque admixture of races from every corner of the empire. This paradoxical conflict between history and geography makes many victims. I too had been haunted by the prestige of a great name in Japanese annals--the name of Ashikaga. As I studied period after period of the turbulent evolution from feudal rivalry to military usurpation, from military usurpation to constitutional monarchy, it seemed more and more evident that the Ashikaga Shōguns, during two-and-a-half centuries of power, had been greater friends of art and learning than any rulers before or since. At Kyōto I had seen the golden pavilion of Yoshemitsu (whom Professor Fenollosa compares with Cosmo de Medici) adorned with mural paintings and screens by the artists whom he had imbued with the spirit of dreamy seclusion of the Hangkow idyllists. Under his patronage Chinese learning took root in Ashikaga University; the religious plays, or _Nō_, acquired in the hands of Kiyotsugu their claims to rank as aristocratic opera; the war of chrysanthemums, between rival dynasties in Yamato and Kyōto, was composed by an astute compromise. In short, culture was not purchased at the cost of firm government. Nearly a century later came Yoshimasa, whose silver pavilion, where he held æsthetic revels with his favourites, the Abbots Soāmi and Shuko, was as pale a copy of his great predecessor’s taste as his capacity to govern was inferior. Effeminacy followed in the train of refinement. The Ashikaga _régime_ left a legacy of civil war and ruined peasantry for stronger rulers to replace by hardier methods, but it also bequeathed the memory of a new learning and a new art. To Ashikaga, then, urged by misleading memories and the promise I had given to visit Ikao comrades, I gladly repaired when September rains depressed the face of Tōkyō.

Yamada San, rightly thinking that living friends were of more interest than dead lions, took me straight from the station to his father’s house, and postponed all sightseeing until the morrow. Here I first realised the patriarchal atmosphere of an old-fashioned home. Father and mother were gravely courteous, and took pains to show me polite attention, but the son scarcely spoke in their presence; and pretty O Mitsu, who looked extremely pale, became mute as ivory. The entry of two cousins, who spoke a little English, introduced some animation; and after the consumption of tea and oranges O Mitsu was asked to sing me an old song, playful, if possible, because the foreigner would find it more easy to understand. Crouching over a long-stringed _koto_, she sang (the weather was very hot) this popular mosquito song:

“All you wives, lying Outside the curtain, Many mosquitoes Often have stung, Till the Bell Seven Clanged from the temple: Such things a good wife Heeds not at all.”

It was explained that a wife would be showing disrespect to her husband by taking rest under the mosquito-net in his absence. If, therefore, he happened to stop out all night, she must still wait for him, outside the net, until the bell for matins sounded the retreat of her winged persecutors. “The Bell Seven” is named in accordance with old reckoning: the time represented is really four in the morning, when the Japanese day begins. That was the last I saw of O Mitsu, for etiquette forbade her taking supper at my hotel in company with her husband and father-in-law.

We spent the evening with the Tanaka family. There, too, I observed the reticence imposed on women in their own homes. Tanaka Okusama, who at Ikao had discoursed so brightly on every possible subject from ethics to Epaminondas, crept quietly from one to another of her guests, offering tea and cakes, but never joining in the conversation. Her husband, who had a most genial, refined face, made an excellent host: the four boys sat silently in a corner. Many questions were put about European houses and habits, for the Ashikaga of to-day, being a great centre of the trade in cotton goods made from foreign yarn, is accustomed to the sight of foreign commercial travellers.

The antiquities of the place were disappointing. The Academy of Chinese Learning, founded, if tradition may be believed, in 852, after attaining its zenith of prosperity under Yoshemitsu, has since gradually declined. The great library of Chinese works is broken up; only a few books remain. Of Confucian relics there rests only an impressive bronze tablet, with full-length figure of the sage, from which “rubbings” are sold to the pious. A sinister black impression of the gaunt, long-nailed philosopher, whose teaching still broods like a shadow over the majority of Japanese households, recalls to me, in the shape of a colossal _kakemono_, that dusty, dilapidated school, whose students are deserting it for Western lore. The vast temple, however, standing in a grove of cryptomeria, is still thronged by worshippers, and forms a worthy link with the historic glories of Ashikaga. In a side-chapel stand wooden effigies of all the Shōguns, wearing the tall black court-cap and the moustache with small pointed beard, fashionable from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries. It is related that three similar figures, preserved in the Tōjiin Temple at Kyōto, were subjected to the indignity of decapitation in 1863, when the Restoration party wished to insult the memory of the Shōgunate, but did not dare to outrage the still powerful Tokugawa. The heads were pilloried in the dry bed of the Kamogawa, where it was customary to expose the heads of criminals. But Kyōto was at once the scene of their rise and their decline. In Ashikaga itself their memory lives as changeless and as free from insult as the tutelary mountain rampart of Akagisan.