A PASSIONAL KARMA
One of the never-failing attractions of the Tōkyō
stage is the performance, by the famous Kikugorō and his company, of the
Botan-Dōrō, or “Peony-Lantern.” This weird play, of which the scenes are laid
in the middle of the last century, is the dramatization of a romance by the
novelist Encho, written in colloquial Japanese, and purely Japanese in local
color, though inspired by a Chinese tale. I went to see the play; and Kikugorō
made me familiar with a new variety of the pleasure of fear. “Why not give
English readers the ghostly part of the story?”—asked a friend who guides me
betimes through the mazes of Eastern philosophy. “It would serve to explain
some popular ideas of the supernatural which Western people know very little
about. And I could help you with the translation.”
I gladly accepted the suggestion; and we composed
the following summary of the more extraordinary portion of Enchō’s romance.
Here and there we found it necessary to condense the original narrative; and we
tried to keep close to the text only in the conversational passages,—some of
which happen to possess a particular quality of psychological interest.
—This is the
story of the Ghosts in the Romance of the Peony-Lantern:—
I
There once lived in the district of Ushigomé, in
Yedo, a hatamoto[1] called Iijima Heizayémon,
whose only daughter, Tsuyu, was beautiful as her name, which signifies “Morning
Dew.” Iijima took a second wife when his daughter was about sixteen; and,
finding that O-Tsuyu could not be happy with her mother-in-law, he had a pretty
villa built for the girl at Yanagijima, as a separate residence, and gave her
an excellent maidservant, called O-Yoné, to wait upon her.
O-Tsuyu lived happily enough in her new home until
one day when the family physician, Yamamoto Shijō, paid her a visit in company
with a young samurai named Hagiwara Shinzaburō, who resided in the Nedzu
quarter. Shinzaburō was an unusually handsome lad, and very gentle; and the two
young people fell in love with each other at sight. Even before the brief visit
was over, they contrived,—unheard by the old doctor,—to pledge themselves to
each other for life. And, at parting, O-Tsuyu whispered to the
youth,—“Remember! If you do not come to see me again, I shall certainly die!”
Shinzaburō never forgot those words; and he was
only too eager to see more of O-Tsuyu. But etiquette forbade him to make the
visit alone: he was obliged to wait for some other chance to accompany the
doctor, who had promised to take him to the villa a second time. Unfortunately
the old man did not keep this promise. He had perceived the sudden affection of
O-Tsuyu; and he feared that her father would hold him responsible for any
serious results. Iijima Heizayémon had a reputation for cutting off heads. And
the more Shijō thought about the possible consequences of his introduction of
Shinzaburō at the Iijima villa, the more he became afraid. Therefore he
purposely abstained from calling upon his young friend.
Months passed; and O-Tsuyu, little imagining the
true cause of Shinzaburō’s neglect, believed that her love had been scorned.
Then she pined away, and died. Soon afterwards, the faithful servant O-Yoné
also died, through grief at the loss of her mistress; and the two were buried
side by side in the cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In,—a temple which still stands in
the neighborhood of Dango-Zaka, where the famous chrysanthemum-shows are yearly
held.
[1] The hatamoto were samurai forming the special military force of
the Shōgun. The name literally signifies “Banner-Supporters.” These were the
highest class of samurai,—not only as the immediate vassals of the Shōgun, but
as a military aristocracy.
II
Shinzaburō knew nothing of what had happened; but
his disappointment and his anxiety had resulted in a prolonged illness. He was
slowly recovering, but still very weak, when he unexpectedly received another
visit from Yamamoto Shijō. The old man made a number of plausible excuses for
his apparent neglect. Shinzaburō said to him:—“I have been sick ever since the
beginning of spring;—even now I cannot eat anything…. Was it not rather unkind
of you never to call? I thought that we were to make another visit together to
the house of the Lady Iijima; and I wanted to take to her some little present
as a return for our kind reception. Of course I could not go by myself.”
Shijō gravely responded,—“I am very sorry to tell
you that the young lady is dead!”
“Dead!” repeated Shinzaburō, turning white,—“did
you say that she is dead?”
The doctor remained silent for a moment, as if
collecting himself: then he resumed, in the quick light tone of a man resolved
not to take trouble seriously:—
“My great mistake was in having introduced you to
her; for it seems that she fell in love with you at once. I am afraid that you
must have said something to encourage this affection—when you were in that
little room together. At all events, I saw how she felt towards you; and then I
became uneasy,—fearing that her father might come to hear of the matter, and lay
the whole blame upon me. So—to be quite frank with you,—I decided that it would
be better not to call upon you; and I purposely stayed away for a long time.
But, only a few days ago, happening to visit Iijima’s house, I heard, to my
great surprise, that his daughter had died, and that her servant O-Yoné had
also died. Then, remembering all that had taken place, I knew that the young
lady must have died of love for you…. [Laughing] Ah, you are really a sinful
fellow! Yes, you are! [Laughing] Isn’t it a sin to have been born so handsome
that the girls die for love of you?[2] [Seriously]
Well, we must leave the dead to the dead. It is no use to talk further about
the matter;—all that you now can do for her is to repeat the Nembutsu[3]…. Good-bye.”
And the old man retired hastily,—anxious to avoid
further converse about the painful event for which he felt himself to have been
unwittingly responsible.
[2] Perhaps this conversation may seem strange to the Western reader;
but it is true to life. The whole of the scene is characteristically Japanese.
[3] The invocation Namu Amida Butsu! (“Hail to the Buddha
Amitâbha!”),—repeated, as a prayer, for the sake of the dead.
III
Shinzaburō long remained stupefied with grief by
the news of O-Tsuyu’s death. But as soon as he found himself again able to
think clearly, he inscribed the dead girl’s name upon a mortuary tablet, and
placed the tablet in the Buddhist shrine of his house, and set offerings before
it, and recited prayers. Every day thereafter he presented offerings, and
repeated the Nembutsu; and the memory of O-Tsuyu was never absent from his
thought.
Nothing occurred to change the monotony of his
solitude before the time of the Bon,—the great Festival of the Dead,—which
begins upon the thirteenth day of the seventh month. Then he decorated his
house, and prepared everything for the festival;—hanging out the lanterns that
guide the returning spirits, and setting the food of ghosts on the shōryōdana,
or Shelf of Souls. And on the first evening of the Bon, after sun-down, he
kindled a small lamp before the tablet of O-Tsuyu, and lighted the lanterns.
The night was clear, with a great moon,—and
windless, and very warm. Shinzaburō sought the coolness of his veranda. Clad
only in a light summer-robe, he sat there thinking, dreaming,
sorrowing;—sometimes fanning himself; sometimes making a little smoke to drive
the mosquitoes away. Everything was quiet. It was a lonesome neighborhood, and
there were few passers-by. He could hear only the soft rushing of a neighboring
stream, and the shrilling of night-insects.
But all at once this stillness was broken by a
sound of women’s geta[4] approaching—kara-kon,
kara-kon;—and the sound drew nearer and nearer, quickly, till it reached the
live-hedge surrounding the garden. Then Shinzaburö, feeling curious, stood on
tiptoe, so as to look over the hedge; and he saw two women passing. One, who
was carrying a beautiful lantern decorated with peony-flowers,[5] appeared to be a servant;—the other was a slender
girl of about seventeen, wearing a long-sleeved robe embroidered with designs
of autumn-blossoms. Almost at the same instant both women turned their faces
toward Shinzaburō;—and to his utter astonishment, he recognized O-Tsuyu and her
servant O-Yoné.
They stopped immediately; and the girl cried
out,—“Oh, how strange!… Hagiwara Sama!”
Shinzaburō simultaneously called to the
maid:—“O-Yoné! Ah, you are O-Yoné!—I remember you very well.”
“Hagiwara Sama!” exclaimed O-Yoné in a tone of
supreme amazement. “Never could I have believed it possible!… Sir, we were told
that you had died.”
“How extraordinary!” cried Shinzaburō. “Why, I was
told that both of you were dead!”
“Ah, what a hateful story!” returned O-Yoné. “Why
repeat such unlucky words?… Who told you?”
“Please to come in,” said Shinzaburō;—“here we can
talk better. The garden-gate is open.”
So they entered, and exchanged greeting; and when
Shinzaburō had made them comfortable, he said:—
“I trust that you will pardon my discourtesy in
not having called upon you for so long a time. But Shijō, the doctor, about a
month ago, told me that you had both died.”
“So it was he who told you?” exclaimed O-Yoné. “It
was very wicked of him to say such a thing. Well, it was also Shijō who told us
that you were dead. I think that he wanted to deceive you,—which was not a
difficult thing to do, because you are so confiding and trustful. Possibly my
mistress betrayed her liking for you in some words which found their way to her
father’s ears; and, in that case, O-Kuni—the new wife—might have planned to make
the doctor tell you that we were dead, so as to bring about a separation.
Anyhow, when my mistress heard that you had died, she wanted to cut off her
hair immediately, and to become a nun. But I was able to prevent her from
cutting off her hair; and I persuaded her at last to become a nun only in her
heart. Afterwards her father wished her to marry a certain young man; and she
refused. Then there was a great deal of trouble,—chiefly caused by O-Kuni;—and
we went away from the villa, and found a very small house in Yanaka-no-Sasaki.
There we are now just barely able to live, by doing a little private work…. My
mistress has been constantly repeating the Nembutsu for your sake. To-day,
being the first day of the Bon, we went to visit the temples; and we were on
our way home—thus late—when this strange meeting happened.”
“Oh, how extraordinary!” cried Shinzaburō. “Can it
be true?-or is it only a dream? Here I, too, have been constantly reciting the
Nembutsu before a tablet with her name upon it! Look!” And he showed them
O-Tsuyu’s tablet in its place upon the Shelf of Souls.
“We are more than grateful for your kind
remembrance,” returned O-Yoné, smiling…. “Now as for my mistress,”—she
continued, turning towards O-Tsuyu, who had all the while remained demure and silent,
half-hiding her face with her sleeve,—“as for my mistress, she actually says
that she would not mind being disowned by her father for the time of seven
existences,[6] or even being killed by him, for
your sake! Come! will you not allow her to stay here to-night?”
Shinzaburō turned pale for joy. He answered in a
voice trembling with emotion:—
“Please remain; but do not speak loud—because
there is a troublesome fellow living close by,—a ninsomi[7] called Hakuōdō Yusai, who tells peoples fortunes by looking at
their faces. He is inclined to be curious; and it is better that he should not
know.”
The two women remained that night in the house of
the young samurai, and returned to their own home a little before daybreak. And
after that night they came every nighht for seven nights,—whether the weather
were foul or fair,—always at the same hour. And Shinzaburō became more and more
attached to the girl; and the twain were fettered, each to each, by that bond
of illusion which is stronger than bands of iron.
[4] Komageta in the original. The geta is a wooden sandal, or clog, of
which there are many varieties,—some decidedly elegant. The komageta, or
“pony-geta” is so-called because of the sonorous hoof-like echo which it makes
on hard ground.
[5] The sort of lantern here referred to is no longer made; and its
shape can best be understood by a glance at the picture accompanying this
story. It was totally unlike the modern domestic band-lantern, painted with the
owner’s crest; but it was not altogether unlike some forms of lanterns still
manufactured for the Festival of the Dead, and called Bon-dōrō. The flowers
ornamenting it were not painted: they were artificial flowers of crêpe-silk,
and were attached to the top of the lantern.
[6] “For the time of seven existences,”—that is to say, for the time
of seven successive lives. In Japanese drama and romance it is not uncommon to
represent a father as disowning his child “for the time of seven lives.” Such a
disowning is called shichi-shō madé no mandō, a disinheritance for seven
lives,—signifying that in six future lives after the present the erring son or
daughter will continue to feel the parental displeasure.
[7] The profession is not yet extinct. The ninsomi uses a kind of
magnifying glass (or magnifying-mirror sometimes), called tengankyō or
ninsomégané.
IV
Now there was a man called Tomozō, who lived in a
small cottage adjoining Shinzaburō’s residence, Tomozō and his wife O-Miné were
both employed by Shinzaburō as servants. Both seemed to be devoted to their young
master; and by his help they were able to live in comparative comfort.
One night, at a very late hour, Tomozō heard the
voice of a woman in his master’s apartment; and this made him uneasy. He feared
that Shinzaburō, being very gentle and affectionate, might be made the dupe of
some cunning wanton,—in which event the domestics would be the first to suffer.
He therefore resolved to watch; and on the following night he stole on tiptoe
to Shinzaburō’s dwelling, and looked through a chink in one of the sliding
shutters. By the glow of a night-lantern within the sleeping-room, he was able
to perceive that his master and a strange woman were talking together under the
mosquito-net. At first he could not see the woman distinctly. Her back was
turned to him;—he only observed that she was very slim, and that she appeared
to be very young,—judging from the fashion of her dress and hair.[8] Putting his ear to the chink, he could hear the
conversation plainly. The woman said:—
“And if I should be disowned by my father, would
you then let me come and live with you?”
Shinzaburō answered:—
“Most assuredly I would—nay, I should be glad of
the chance. But there is no reason to fear that you will ever be disowned by
your father; for you are his only daughter, and he loves you very much. What I
do fear is that some day we shall be cruelly separated.”
She responded softly:—
“Never, never could I even think of accepting any
other man for my husband. Even if our secret were to become known, and my
father were to kill me for what I have done, still—after death itself—I could
never cease to think of you. And I am now quite sure that you yourself would
not be able to live very long without me.”… Then clinging closely to him, with
her lips at his neck, she caressed him; and he returned her caresses.
Tomozō wondered as he listened,—because the
language of the woman was not the language of a common woman, but the language
of a lady of rank.[9] Then he determined at all
hazards to get one glimpse of her face; and he crept round the house, backwards
and forwards, peering through every crack and chink. And at last he was able to
see;—but therewith an icy trembling seized him; and the hair of his head stood
up.
For the face was the face of a woman long
dead,—and the fingers caressing were fingers of naked bone,—and of the body
below the waist there was not anything: it melted off into thinnest trailing
shadow. Where the eyes of the lover deluded saw youth and grace and beauty,
there appeared to the eyes of the watcher horror only, and the emptiness of
death. Simultaneously another woman’s figure, and a weirder, rose up from
within the chamber, and swiftly made toward the watcher, as if discerning his
presence. Then, in uttermost terror, he fled to the dwelling of Hakuōdō Yusai,
and, knocking frantically at the doors, succeeded in arousing him.
[8] The color and form of the dress, and the style of wearing the
hair, are by Japanese custom regulated according to the age of the woman.
[9] The forms of speech used by the samurai, and other superior
classes, differed considerably from those of the popular idiom; but these
differences could not be effectively rendered into English.
V
Hakuōdō Yusai, the ninsomi, was a very old man;
but in his time he had travelled much, and he had heard and seen so many things
that he could not be easily surprised. Yet the story of the terrified Tomozō
both alarmed and amazed him. He had read in ancient Chinese books of love
between the living and the dead; but he had never believed it possible. Now,
however, he felt convinced that the statement of Tomozō was not a falsehood,
and that something very strange was really going on in the house of Hagiwara.
Should the truth prove to be what Tomozō imagined, then the young samurai was a
doomed man.
“If the woman be a ghost,”—said Yusai to the
frightened servant, “—if the woman be a ghost, your master must die very
soon,—unless something extraordinary can be done to save him. And if the woman
be a ghost, the signs of death will appear upon his face. For the spirit of the
living is yōki, and pure;—the spirit of the dead is inki, and unclean: the one
is Positive, the other Negative. He whose bride is a ghost cannot live. Even
though in his blood there existed the force of a life of one hundred years,
that force must quickly perish…. Still, I shall do all that I can to save
Hagiwara Sama. And in the meantime, Tomozō, say nothing to any other
person,—not even to your wife,—about this matter. At sunrise I shall call upon
your master.”
VI
When questioned next morning by Yusai, Shinzaburō
at first attempted to deny that any women had been visiting the house; but
finding this artless policy of no avail, and perceiving that the old man’s
purpose was altogether unselfish, he was finally persuaded to acknowledge what
had really occurred, and to give his reasons for wishing to keep the matter a
secret. As for the lady Iijima, he intended, he said, to make her his wife as
soon as possible.
“Oh, madness!” cried Yusai,—losing all patience in
the intensity of his alarm. “Know, sir, that the people who have been coming
here, night after night, are dead! Some frightful delusion is upon you!… Why,
the simple fact that you long supposed O-Tsuyu to be dead, and repeated the
Nembutsu for her, and made offerings before her tablet, is itself the proof!… The
lips of the dead have touched you!—the hands of the dead have caressed you!…
Even at this moment I see in your face the signs of death—and you will not
believe!… Listen to me now, sir,—I beg of you,—if you wish to save yourself:
otherwise you have less than twenty days to live. They told you—those
people—that they were residing in the district of Shitaya, in Yanaka-no-Sasaki.
Did you ever visit them at that place? No!—of course you did not! Then go
to-day,—as soon as you can,—to Yanaka-no-Sasaki, and try to find their home!…”
And having uttered this counsel with the most
vehement earnestness, Hakuōdō Yusai abruptly took his departure.
Shinzaburō, startled though not convinced,
resolved after a moment’s reflection to follow the advice of the ninsomi, and
to go to Shitaya. It was yet early in the morning when he reached the quarter
of Yanaka-no-Sasaki, and began his search for the dwelling of O-Tsuyu. He went
through every street and side-street, read all the names inscribed at the
various entrances, and made inquiries whenever an opportunity presented itself.
But he could not find anything resembling the little house mentioned by O-Yoné;
and none of the people whom he questioned knew of any house in the quarter
inhabited by two single women. Feeling at last certain that further research
would be useless, he turned homeward by the shortest way, which happened to
lead through the grounds of the temple Shin-Banzui-In.
Suddenly his attention was attracted by two new
tombs, placed side by side, at the rear of the temple. One was a common tomb,
such as might have been erected for a person of humble rank: the other was a
large and handsome monument; and hanging before it was a beautiful
peony-lantern, which had probably been left there at the time of the Festival
of the Dead. Shinzaburō remembered that the peony-lantern carried by O-Yoné was
exactly similar; and the coincidence impressed him as strange. He looked again
at the tombs; but the tombs explained nothing. Neither bore any personal
name,—only the Buddhist kaimyō, or posthumous appellation. Then he determined
to seek information at the temple. An acolyte stated, in reply to his
questions, that the large tomb had been recently erected for the daughter of
Iijima Heizayémon, the hatamoto of Ushigomé; and that the small tomb next to it
was that of her servant O-Yoné, who had died of grief soon after the young
lady’s funeral.
Immediately to Shinzaburö’s memory there recurred,
with another and sinister meaning, the words of O-Yoné:—“We went away, and
found a very small house in Yanaka-no-Sasaki. There we are now just barely able
to live—by doing a little private work….” Here was indeed the very small
house,—and in Yanaka-no-Sasaki. But the little private work…?
Terror-stricken, the samurai hastened with all
speed to the house of Yusai, and begged for his counsel and assistance. But
Yusai declared himself unable to be of any aid in such a case. All that he
could do was to send Shinzaburō to the high-priest Ryōseki, of Shin-Banzui-In,
with a letter praying for immediate religious help.
VII
The high-priest Ryōseki was a learned and a holy
man. By spiritual vision he was able to know the secret of any sorrow, and the
nature of the karma that had caused it. He heard unmoved the story of
Shinzaburō, and said to him:—
“A very great danger now threatens you, because of
an error committed in one of your former states of existence. The karma that
binds you to the dead is very strong; but if I tried to explain its character,
you would not be able to understand. I shall therefore tell you only this,—that
the dead person has no desire to injure you out of hate, feels no enmity
towards you: she is influenced, on the contrary, by the most passionate
affection for you. Probably the girl has been in love with you from a time long
preceding your present life,—from a time of not less than three or four past
existences; and it would seem that, although necessarily changing her form and
condition at each succeeding birth, she has not been able to cease from
following after you. Therefore it will not be an easy thing to escape from her
influence…. But now I am going to lend you this powerful mamori.[10] It is a pure gold image of that Buddha called the
Sea-Sounding Tathâgata—Kai-On-Nyōrai,—because his preaching of the Law sounds
through the world like the sound of the sea. And this little image is
especially a shiryō-yoké,[11]—which protects the
living from the dead. This you must wear, in its covering, next to your
body,—under the girdle…. Besides, I shall presently perform in the temple, a
segaki-service[12] for the repose of the
troubled spirit…. And here is a holy sutra, called Ubō-Darani-Kyō, or
“Treasure-Raining Sûtra”[13] you must be careful
to recite it every night in your house—without fail…. Furthermore I shall give
you this package of o-fuda;[14]—you must paste
one of them over every opening of your house,—no matter how small. If you do
this, the power of the holy texts will prevent the dead from entering.
But—whatever may happen—do not fail to recite the sutra.”
Shinzaburō humbly thanked the high-priest; and
then, taking with him the image, the sutra, and the bundle of sacred texts, he
made all haste to reach his home before the hour of sunset.
[10] The Japanese word mamori has significations at least as numerous
as those attaching to our own term “amulet.” It would be impossible, in a mere
footnote, even to suggest the variety of Japanese religious objects to which the
name is given. In this instance, the mamori is a very small image, probably
enclosed in a miniature shrine of lacquer-work or metal, over which a silk
cover is drawn. Such little images were often worn by samurai on the person. I
was recently shown a miniature figure of Kwannon, in an iron case, which had
been carried by an officer through the Satsuma war. He observed, with good
reason, that it had probably saved his life; for it had stopped a bullet of
which the dent was plainly visible.
[11] From shiryō, a ghost, and yokeru, to exclude. The Japanese have,
two kinds of ghosts proper in their folk-lore: the spirits of the dead, shiryō;
and the spirits of the living, ikiryō. A house or a person may be haunted by an
ikiryō as well as by a shiryō.
[12] A special service,—accompanying offerings of food, etc., to those
dead having no living relatives or friends to care for them,—is thus termed. In
this case, however, the service would be of a particular and exceptional kind.
[13] The name would be more correctly written Ubō-Darani-Kyō. It is
the Japanese pronunciation of the title of a very short sutra translated out of
Sanscrit into Chinese by the Indian priest Amoghavajra, probably during the
eighth century. The Chinese text contains transliterations of some mysterious
Sanscrit words,—apparently talismanic words,—like those to be seen in Kern’s
translation of the Saddharma-Pundarîka, ch. xxvi.
[14] O-fuda is the general name given to religious texts used as
charms or talismans. They are sometimes stamped or burned upon wood, but more
commonly written or printed upon narrow strips of paper. O-fuda are pasted
above house-entrances, on the walls of rooms, upon tablets placed in household
shrines, etc., etc. Some kinds are worn about the person;—others are made into
pellets, and swallowed as spiritual medicine. The text of the larger o-fuda is
often accompanied by curious pictures or symbolic illustrations.
VIII
With Yusai’s advice and help, Shinzaburō was able
before dark to fix the holy texts over all the apertures of his dwelling. Then
the ninsomi returned to his own house,—leaving the youth alone.
Night came, warm and clear. Shinzaburō made fast
the doors, bound the precious amulet about his waist, entered his mosquito-net,
and by the glow of a night-lantern began to recite the Ubō-Darani-Kyō. For a
long time he chanted the words, comprehending little of their meaning;—then he
tried to obtain some rest. But his mind was still too much disturbed by the
strange events of the day. Midnight passed; and no sleep came to him. At last
he heard the boom of the great temple-bell of Dentsu-In announcing the eighth
hour.[15]
It ceased; and Shinzaburō suddenly heard the sound
of geta approaching from the old direction,—but this time more slowly:
karan-koron, karan-koron! At once a cold sweat broke over his forehead. Opening
the sutra hastily, with trembling hand, he began again to recite it aloud. The
steps came nearer and nearer,—reached the live hedge,—stopped! Then, strange to
say, Shinzaburō felt unable to remain under his mosquito-net: something
stronger even than his fear impelled him to look; and, instead of continuing to
recite the Ubō-Darani-Kyō, he foolishly approached the shutters, and through a
chink peered out into the night. Before the house he saw O-Tsuyu standing, and
O-Yoné with the peony-lantern; and both of them were gazing at the Buddhist
texts pasted above the entrance. Never before—not even in what time she
lived—had O-Tsuyu appeared so beautiful; and Shinzaburō felt his heart drawn
towards her with a power almost resistless. But the terror of death and the
terror of the unknown restrained; and there went on within him such a struggle
between his love and his fear that he became as one suffering in the body the
pains of the Shō-netsu hell.[16]
Presently he heard the voice of the maid-servant,
saying:—
“My dear mistress, there is no way to enter. The
heart of Hagiwara Sama must have changed. For the promise that he made last
night has been broken; and the doors have been made fast to keep us out…. We
cannot go in to-night…. It will be wiser for you to make up your mind not to
think any more about him, because his feeling towards you has certainly
changed. It is evident that he does not want to see you. So it will be better
not to give yourself any more trouble for the sake of a man whose heart is so
unkind.”
But the girl answered, weeping:—
“Oh, to think that this could happen after the
pledges which we made to each other!… Often I was told that the heart of a man
changes as quickly as the sky of autumn;—yet surely the heart of Hagiwara Sama
cannot be so cruel that he should really intend to exclude me in this way!…
Dear Yone, please find some means of taking me to him…. Unless you do, I will
never, never go home again.”
Thus she continued to plead, veiling her face with
her long sleeves,—and very beautiful she looked, and very touching; but the
fear of death was strong upon her lover.
O-Yoné at last made answer,—“My dear young lady,
why will you trouble your mind about a man who seems to be so cruel?… Well, let
us see if there be no way to enter at the back of the house: come with me!”
And taking O-Tsuyu by the hand, she led her away
toward the rear of the dwelling; and there the two disappeared as suddenly as
the light disappears when the flame of a lamp is blown out.
[15] According to the old Japanese way of counting time, this
yatsudoki or eighth hour was the same as our two o’clock in the morning. Each
Japanese hour was equal to two European hours, so that there were only six
hours instead of our twelve; and these six hours were counted backwards in the
order,—9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4. Thus the ninth hour corresponded to our midday, or
midnight; half-past nine to our one o’clock; eight to our two o’clock. Two
o’clock in the morning, also called “the Hour of the Ox,” was the Japanese hour
of ghosts and goblins.
[16] En-netsu or Shō-netsu (Sanscrit “Tapana”) is the sixth of the
Eight Hot Hells of Japanese Buddhism. One day of life in this hell is equal in
duration to thousands (some say millions) of human years.
IX
Night after night the shadows came at the Hour of
the Ox; and nightly Shinzaburō heard the weeping of O-Tsuyu. Yet he believed
himself saved,—little imagining that his doom had already been decided by the
character of his dependents.
Tomozō had promised Yusai never to speak to any
other person—not even to O-Miné—of the strange events that were taking place.
But Tomozō was not long suffered by the haunters to rest in peace. Night after
night O-Yoné entered into his dwelling, and roused him from his sleep, and
asked him to remove the o-fuda placed over one very small window at the back of
his master’s house. And Tomozō, out of fear, as often promised her to take away
the o-fuda before the next sundown; but never by day could he make up his mind
to remove it,—believing that evil was intended to Shinzaburō. At last, in a
night of storm, O-Yoné startled him from slumber with a cry of reproach, and
stooped above his pillow, and said to him: “Have a care how you trifle with us!
If, by to-morrow night, you do not take away that text, you shall learn how I
can hate!” And she made her face so frightful as she spoke that Tomozō nearly
died of terror.
O-Miné, the wife of Tomozō, had never till then
known of these visits: even to her husband they had seemed like bad dreams. But
on this particular night it chanced that, waking suddenly, she heard the voice
of a woman talking to Tomozō. Almost in the same moment the talk-ing ceased;
and when O-Miné looked about her, she saw, by the light of the night-lamp, only
her husband,—shuddering and white with fear. The stranger was gone; the doors
were fast: it seemed impossible that anybody could have entered. Nevertheless
the jealousy of the wife had been aroused; and she began to chide and to
question Tomozō in such a manner that he thought himself obliged to betray the
secret, and to explain the terrible dilemma in which he had been placed.
Then the passion of O-Miné yielded to wonder and
alarm; but she was a subtle woman, and she devised immediately a plan to save
her husband by the sacrifice of her master. And she gave Tomozō a cunning
counsel,—telling him to make conditions with the dead.
They came again on the following night at the Hour
of the Ox; and O-Miné hid herself on hearing the sound of their coming,—karan-koron,
karan-koron! But Tomozō went out to meet them in the dark, and even found
courage to say to them what his wife had told him to say:—
“It is true that I deserve your blame;—but I had
no wish to cause you anger. The reason that the o-fuda has not been taken away
is that my wife and I are able to live only by the help of Hagiwara Sama, and
that we cannot expose him to any danger without bringing misfortune upon
ourselves. But if we could obtain the sum of a hundred ryō in gold, we should
be able to please you, because we should then need no help from anybody.
Therefore if you will give us a hundred ryō, I can take the o-fuda away without
being afraid of losing our only means of support.”
When he had uttered these words, O-Yoné and
O-Tsuyu looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then O-Yoné said:—
“Mistress, I told you that it was not right to
trouble this man, —as we have no just cause of ill will against him. But it is
certainly useless to fret yourself about Hagiwara Sama, because his heart has
changed towards you. Now once again, my dear young lady, let me beg you not to
think any more about him!”
But O-Tsuyu, weeping, made answer:—
“Dear Yone, whatever may happen, I cannot possibly
keep myself from thinking about him! You know that you can get a hundred ryō to
have the o-fuda taken off…. Only once more, I pray, dear Yone!—only once more
bring me face to face with Hagiwara Sama,—I beseech you!” And hiding her face
with her sleeve, she thus continued to plead.
“Oh! why will you ask me to do these things?”
responded O-Yoné. “You know very well that I have no money. But since you will
persist in this whim of yours, in spite of all that I can say, I suppose that I
must try to find the money somehow, and to bring it here to-morrow night….”
Then, turning to the faithless Tomozō, she said:—“Tomozō, I must tell you that
Hagiwara Sama now wears upon his body a mamori called by the name of
Kai-On-Nyōrai, and that so long as he wears it we cannot approach him. So you
will have to get that mamori away from him, by some means or other, as well as
to remove the o-fuda.”
Tomozō feebly made answer:—
“That also I can do, if you will promise to bring
me the hundred ryō.”
“Well, mistress,” said O-Yoné, “you will
wait,—will you not,—until to-morrow night?”
“Oh, dear Yoné!” sobbed the other,—“have we to go
back to-night again without seeing Hagiwara Sama? Ah! it is cruel!”
And the shadow of the mistress, weeping, was led
away by the shadow of the maid.
X
Another day went, and another night came, and the
dead came with it. But this time no lamentation was heard without the house of
Hagiwara; for the faithless servant found his reward at the Hour of the Ox, and
removed the o-fuda. Moreover he had been able, while his master was at the
bath, to steal from its case the golden mamori, and to substitute for it an
image of copper; and he had buried the Kai-On-Nyōrai in a desolate field. So
the visitants found nothing to oppose their entering. Veiling their faces with
their sleeves they rose and passed, like a streaming of vapor, into the little
window from over which the holy text had been torn away. But what happened
thereafter within the house Tomozō never knew.
The sun was high before he ventured again to
approach his master’s dwelling, and to knock upon the sliding-doors. For the
first time in years he obtained no response; and the silence made him afraid.
Repeatedly he called, and received no answer. Then, aided by O-Miné, he
succeeded in effecting an entrance and making his way alone to the
sleeping-room, where he called again in vain. He rolled back the rumbling
shutters to admit the light; but still within the house there was no stir. At
last he dared to lift a corner of the mosquito-net. But no sooner had he looked
beneath than he fled from the house, with a cry of horror.
Shinzaburō was dead—hideously dead;—and his face
was the face of a man who had died in the uttermost agony of fear;—and lying
beside him in the bed were the bones of a woman! And the bones of the arms, and
the bones of the hands, clung fast about his neck.
XI
Hakuōdō Yusai, the fortune-teller, went to view
the corpse at the prayer of the faithless Tomozō. The old man was terrified and
astonished at the spectacle, but looked about him with a keen eye. He soon
perceived that the o-fuda had been taken from the little window at the back of
the house; and on searching the body of Shinzaburō, he discovered that the
golden mamori had been taken from its wrapping, and a copper image of Fudō put
in place of it. He suspected Tomozō of the theft; but the whole occurrence was
so very extraordinary that he thought it prudent to consult with the priest
Ryōseki before taking further action. Therefore, after having made a careful
examination of the premises, he betook himself to the temple Shin-Banzui-In, as
quickly as his aged limbs could bear him.
Ryōseki, without waiting to hear the purpose of
the old man’s visit, at once invited him into a private apartment.
“You know that you are always welcome here,” said
Ryōseki. “Please seat yourself at ease…. Well, I am sorry to tell you that
Hagiwara Sama is dead.”
Yusai wonderingly exclaimed:—“Yes, he is dead;—but
how did you learn of it?”
The priest responded:—
“Hagiwara Sama was suffering from the results of
an evil karma; and his attendant was a bad man. What happened to Hagiwara Sama
was unavoidable;—his destiny had been determined from a time long before his
last birth. It will be better for you not to let your mind be troubled by this
event.”
Yusai said:—
“I have heard that a priest of pure life may gain
power to see into the future for a hundred years; but truly this is the first
time in my existence that I have had proof of such power…. Still, there is
another matter about which I am very anxious….”
“You mean,” interrupted Ryōseki, “the stealing of
the holy mamori, the Kai-On-Nyōrai. But you must not give yourself any concern
about that. The image has been buried in a field; and it will be found there
and returned to me during the eighth month of the coming year. So please do not
be anxious about it.”
More and more amazed, the old ninsomi ventured to
observe:—
“I have studied the In-Yō,[17]
and the science of divination; and I make my living by telling peoples’
fortunes;—but I cannot possibly understand how you know these things.”
Ryōseki answered gravely:—
“Never mind how I happen to know them…. I now want
to speak to you about Hagiwara’s funeral. The House of Hagiwara has its own
family-cemetery, of course; but to bury him there would not be proper. He must
be buried beside O-Tsuyu, the Lady Iijima; for his karma-relation to her was a
very deep one. And it is but right that you should erect a tomb for him at your
own cost, because you have been indebted to him for many favors.”
Thus it came to pass that Shinzaburō was buried
beside O-Tsuyu, in the cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In, in Yanaka-no-Sasaki.
—Here ends the story of the Ghosts in the Romance
of the Peony-Lantern.—
My friend asked me whether the story had
interested me; and I answered by telling him that I wanted to go to the
cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In,—so as to realize more definitely the local color of
the author’s studies.
“I shall go with you at once,” he said. “But what
did you think of the personages?”
“To Western thinking,” I made answer, “Shinzaburō
is a despicable creature. I have been mentally comparing him with the true lovers
of our old ballad-literature. They were only too glad to follow a dead
sweetheart into the grave; and nevertheless, being Christians, they believed
that they had only one human life to enjoy in this world. But Shinzaburō was a
Buddhist,—with a million lives behind him and a million lives before him; and
he was too selfish to give up even one miserable existence for the sake of the
girl that came back to him from the dead. Then he was even more cowardly than
selfish. Although a samurai by birth and training, he had to beg a priest to
save him from ghosts. In every way he proved himself contemptible; and O-Tsuyu
did quite right in choking him to death.”
“From the Japanese point of view, likewise,” my
friend responded, “Shinzaburō is rather contemptible. But the use of this weak
character helped the author to develop incidents that could not otherwise,
perhaps, have been so effectively managed. To my thinking, the only attractive
character in the story is that of O-Yoné: type of the old-time loyal and loving
servant,—intelligent, shrewd, full of resource,—faithful not only unto death,
but beyond death…. Well, let us go to Shin-Banzui-In.”
We found the temple uninteresting, and the
cemetery an abomination of desolation. Spaces once occupied by graves had been
turned into potato-patches. Between were tombs leaning at all angles out of the
perpendicular, tablets made illegible by scurf, empty pedestals, shattered
water-tanks, and statues of Buddhas without heads or hands. Recent rains had
soaked the black soil,—leaving here and there small pools of slime about which
swarms of tiny frogs were hopping. Everything—excepting the
potato-patches—seemed to have been neglected for years. In a shed just within
the gate, we observed a woman cooking; and my companion presumed to ask her if
she knew anything about the tombs described in the Romance of the
Peony-Lantern.
“Ah! the tombs of O-Tsuyu and O-Yoné?” she
responded, smiling;—“you will find them near the end of the first row at the
back of the temple—next to the statue of Jizo.”
Surprises of this kind I had met with elsewhere in
Japan.
We picked our way between the rain-pools and
between the green ridges of young potatoes,—whose roots were doubtless feeding
on the sub-stance of many another O-Tsuyu and O-Yoné;—and we reached at last
two lichen-eaten tombs of which the inscriptions seemed almost obliterated.
Beside the larger tomb was a statue of Jizo, with a broken nose.
“The characters are not easy to make out,” said my
friend—“but wait!”…. He drew from his sleeve a sheet of soft white paper, laid
it over the inscription, and began to rub the paper with a lump of clay. As he
did so, the characters appeared in white on the blackened surface.
“Eleventh day, third month—Rat, Elder Brother,
Fire—Sixth year of Horéki [A. D. 1756].’… This would seem to be the grave of
some innkeeper of Nedzu, named Kichibei. Let us see what is on the other
monument.”
With a fresh sheet of paper he presently brought
out the text of a kaimyō, and read,—
“En-myō-In, Hō-yō-I-tei-ken-shi, Hō-ni’:—‘Nun-of-the-Law,
Illustrious, Pure-of-heart-and-will, Famed-in-the-Law,—inhabiting the
Mansion-of-the-Preaching-of-Wonder.’…. The grave of some Buddhist nun.”
“What utter humbug!” I exclaimed. “That woman was
only making fun of us.”
“Now,” my friend protested, “you are unjust to the
woman! You came here because you wanted a sensation; and she tried her very
best to please you. You did not suppose that ghost-story was true, did you?”
[17] The Male and Female principles of the universe, the Active and
Passive forces of Nature. Yusai refers here to the old Chinese
nature-philosophy,—better known to Western readers by the name FENG-SHUI.
