 CHAPTER I. THE LEGEND OF YURE DAKKI. OLD STORIES. The following nine tales have been selected from the Shinchomon-shu, Hiyoku-monogatari, Ujijui-monogatari-shu, and other old Japanese books to illustrate some strange beliefs. They are only curios. The legend of Yure-daki, near the village of Kurosaka, in the province of Hoki, there is a waterfall called Yure-daki, or the Cascade of Ghosts. Why it is so called, I do not know. Near the foot of the fall there is also a small Shinto shrine of the God of the Locality, whom the people name Taki Daimyojin, and in front of the shrine is a little wooden money-box, Saishen Bakko, to receive the offerings of believers. And there is a story about that money-box. One icy winter's evening, thirty-five years ago, the women and girls employed at a certain Asatoriba, or hemp factory, in Kurosaka, gathered around the big brazier in the spinning-room after their day's work had been done, then they amused themselves by telling ghost stories. By the time that a dozen stories had been told, most of the gathering felt uncomfortable, and a girl cried out, just to heighten the pleasure of fear. Only think of going this night, all by oneself, to the Yure-daki. The suggestion provoked a general scream, followed by nervous bursts of laughter. I'll give all the hemp I spun to-day, mockingly said one of the party, to the person who goes. So will I, exclaimed another, and I, said a third. All of us, affirmed a fourth. Then from among the spinners stood up one Yasumoto Okatsu, the wife of a carpenter. She had her only son, a boy of two years old, snugly wrapped up, and asleep upon her back. Listen, said Okatsu, if you will all really agree to make over to me all the hemp spun to-day, I will go to the Yure-daki. Her proposal was received with cries of astonishment and of defiance, but after having been several times repeated, it was seriously taken. Each of the spinners in turn agreed to give up her share of the day's work to Okatsu, providing that Okatsu should go to the Yure-daki. But how are we to know if she really goes there? A sharp voice asked. Why, let her bring back the money-box of the God, answered an old woman whom the spinners called Obasan, the grandmother. That will be proof enough. I'll bring it, cried Okatsu, and out she darted into the street with her sleeping boy upon her back. The night was frosty but clear. Down the empty street Okatsu hurried, and she saw that all the house fronts were tightly closed, because of the piercing cold. Out of the village and along the high road she ran, picha-picha, with the great silence of frozen rice fields on either hand, and only the stars to light her. Half an hour she followed the open road, then she turned down a narrower way, winding under cliffs. Worker and rougher the path became as she proceeded, but she knew it well, and she soon heard the dull roar of the water. A few minutes more and the way widened into a glen, and the dull roar suddenly became a loud clamour, and before her she saw looming against a mass of blackness the long glimmering of the fall. Dimly she perceived the shrine, the money-box. She rushed forward, put out her hand. Oi, Okatsu-san! Suddenly called a warning voice above the crash of the water. Footnote. The exclamation, Oi, is used to call the attention of a person. It is the Japanese equivalent for such English exclamations as, Hello, Ho, there, etc. End footnote. Okatsu stood motionless, stupefied by terror. Oi, Okatsu-san! Again peeled the voice, this time with more of menace in its tone. But Okatsu was a really bold woman, at once recovering from her stupefaction she snatched up the money-box and ran. She neither heard nor saw anything more to alarm her until she reached the high road, where she stopped a moment to take breath. Then she ran on steadily, pitcha-pitcha, till she got to Kurosaka and thumped at the door of the Asa Toriba. How the women and the girls cried out as she entered, panting with the money-box of the God in her hand. Breathlessly they heard her story. Sympathetically they screeched when she told them of the voice that had called her name, twice, out of the haunted water. What a woman! Brave Okatsu! Well had she earned the hemp. But your boy must be cold, Okatsu! cried the Oba-san. Let us have him here by the fire. He ought to be hungry, exclaimed the mother. I must give him his milk, presently. Kurosakatsu! said the Oba-san, helping to remove the wraps in which the boy had been carried. Why, you are all wet behind! Then with a husky scream the helper vociferated, Arah! It is blood! And out of the wrappings, unfastened, there fell to the floor a blood-soaked bundle of baby clothes that left exposed two very small brown feet and two very small brown hands, nothing more. The child's head had been torn off. Chapter 2 of Koto This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nadine Kodboulai. Koto, being Japanese Kurios, with Sundrykobwebs by Lafcadio Hearn. Chapter 2. In a cup of tea. Have you ever attempted to mount some old tower stairway sparring up through darkness, and in the heart of the darkness found yourself at the cobweb edge of nothing? Or have you followed some coast path cut along the face of a cliff, only to discover yourself, at a turn, on the jacked verge of a break? The emotional worth of such experience, from a literary point of view, is proved by the force of the sensations aroused and by the vividness with which they are remembered. Now they have been curiously preserved in old Japanese storybooks, certain fragments of fiction that produce an almost similar emotional experience. Perhaps the writer was lazy. Perhaps he had a quarrel with the publisher. Perhaps he was suddenly called away from his little table and never came back. Perhaps death stopped the writing brush in the very middle of a sentence. But no mortal man can ever tell us exactly why these things were left unfinished. I select a typical example. On the fourth day of the first month of the Third Tennoir, that is to say about 220 years ago, the Lord Nakagawa Sado, while on his way to make a New Year's visit, halted with his train at a tea house in Hakusan in the Hongo district of Yedo. While the party were resting there, one of the Lord's attendants, a Wakato, note, the armed attendant of a samurai, was thus called. The relation of the Wakato to the samurai was that of squire to night. End of note. Named Sekinai, feeling very thirsty, filled for himself a large water cup with tea. He was raising the cup to his lips when he suddenly perceived, in the transparent yellow infusion, the image or reflection of a face that was not his own. Startled, he looked around but could see no one near him. The face in the tea appeared, from the kuafur, to be the face of a young samurai. It was strangely distinct and very handsome, delicate as the face of a girl, and it seemed the reflection of a living face. For the eyes and the lips were moving. Bewildered by this mysterious apparition, Sekinai threw away the tea and carefully examined the cup. It proved to be a very cheap water cup with no artistic devices of any sort. He found and filled another cup, and again the face appeared in the tea. He then ordered fresh tea and refilled the cup, and once more the strange face appeared, this time with a mocking smile. But Sekinai did not allow himself to be frightened. Whoever you are, he muttered, you shall dilute me no further. Then he swallowed the tea, face and all, and went his way, wondering whether he had swallowed a ghost. Late in the evening of the same day, while on watch in the palace of the Lord Nakagawa, Sekinai was surprised by the soundless coming of a stranger into the apartment. This stranger, a richly dressed young samurai, seated himself directly in front of Sekinai and, saluting the Wakato with a slight bow, observed, I am Shikibu Heinai, met you today for the first time. You do not seem to recognize me. He spoke in a very low but penetrating voice, and Sekinai was astonished to find before him the same sinister, handsome face of which he had seen, and swallowed, the apparition in a cup of tea. It was smiling now, as the phantom had smiled, but the steady gaze of the eyes, above the smiling lips, was at once a challenge and an insult. No, I do not recognize you. Return, Sekinai, angry but cool, and perhaps you will now be good enough to inform me how you obtained admission to this house? In feudal times the residence of the Lord was strictly guarded at all hours, and no one could enter unannounced, except through some unpardonable negligence on the part of the armed watch. Ah, you do not recognize me, exclaimed the visitor, in a tone of irony, drawing a little nearer as he spoke. No, you do not recognize me. Yet you took upon yourself this morning to do me a deadly injury. Sekinai instantly seized the tanto. Note, the shorter of the two swords carried by Samurai, the longer sword was called Katana. End of note, at his girdle, and made a fierce thrust at the throat of the man, but the blade seemed to touch no substance. Simultaneously and soundlessly the intruder leaped sideward to the chamber wall and threw it. The wall showed no trace of his exit. He had traversed it only as the light of a candle passes through lantern paper. When Sekinai made report of the incident, his recital astonished and puzzled the retainers. No stranger had been seen either to enter or to leave the palace at the hour of the occurrence, and no one in the service of the Lord Nakagawa had ever heard of the name Shikibuhenai. On the following night Sekinai was of duty and remained at home with his parents. At a rather late hour he was informed that some strangers had called at the house and decided to speak with him for a moment. Taking his sword, he went to the entrance, and there found three armed men, apparently retainers, waiting in front of the doorstep. The three bowed respectfully to Sekinai, and one of them said, Our names are Matsuoka Bongo, Tsushima Shibongo, Enokamura, Heiroku. We are retainers of the noble Shikibuhenai. When our master last night, tamed to pay you a visit, you struck him with a sword. He was much heard and has been obliged to go to the hot springs, where his wound is now being treated. But on the sixteenth day of the coming month he will return, and he will then fitly repay you for the injury done him. Without waiting to hear more, Sekinai leaped out, sword in hand, and slashed right and left at the strangers. But the three men sprang to the wall of the adjoining building, and flitted up the wall like shadows, and… Here the old narrative breaks off. The rest of the story existed only in some brain that has been dust for a century. I am able to imagine several possible endings, but none of them would satisfy an accidental imagination. I prefer to let the reader attempt to decide for himself the probable consequence of swallowing a soul. 3. Common Sense Once there lived upon the mountain called Atagoyama, near Kyoto, a certain learned priest who devoted all his time to meditation and the study of the sacred books. The little temple in which he dwelt was far from any village, and he could not in such a solitude have obtained without help the common necessaries of life. But several devout country people regularly contributed to his maintenance, bringing him each month supplies of vegetables and of rice. Among these good folk there was a certain hunter, who sometimes visited the mountain in search of game. One day when this hunter had brought a bag of rice to the temple, the priest said to him, friend, I must tell you that wonderful things have happened here since the last time I saw you. I do not certainly know why such things should have happened in my unworthy presence, but you are aware that I have been meditating and reciting the sutras daily for many years, and it is possible that what has been vouchsafed to me is due to the merit obtained through these religious exercises. I am not sure of this, but I am sure that Fugen Bosatsu comes nightly to this temple, riding upon his elephant. Stay here with me this night, friend. Then you will be able to see and to worship the Buddha. 4. Footnote Samantabhadra Bodhisattva End of footnote To witness so wholly a vision, the hunter replied, were a privilege indeed. Most gladly I shall stay and worship with you. So the hunter remained at the temple. But while the priest was engaged in his religious exercises, the hunter began to think about the promised miracle and to doubt whether such a thing could be. And the more he thought, the more he doubted. There was a little boy in the temple in Acolyte, and the hunter found an opportunity to question the boy. The priest told me, said the hunter, that Fugen Bosatsu comes to this temple every night. Have you also seen Fugen Bosatsu? Six times already, the Acolyte replied. I have seen and reverently worshipped Fugen Bosatsu. This declaration only served to increase the hunter's suspicions, though he did not in the least doubt the truthfulness of the boy. He reflected, however, that he would probably be able to see whatever the boy had seen, and he waited with eagerness for the hour of the promised vision. Shortly before midnight the priest announced that it was time to prepare for the coming of Fugen Bosatsu. The doors of the little temple were thrown open, and the priest knelt down at the threshold with his face to the east. The Acolyte knelt at his left hand, and the hunter respectfully placed himself behind the priest. It was the night of the twentieth of the ninth month—a dreary, dark, and very windy night—and the three waited a long time for the coming of Fugen Bosatsu. But at last a point of white light appeared, like a star, in the direction of the east, and this light approached quickly, growing larger and larger as it came, and illuminating all the slope of the mountain. Presently the light took shape, the shape of a being divine, riding upon a snow-white elephant with six tusks. And in another moment the elephant with its shining rider arrived before the temple, and there stood, towering, like a mountain, moonlight, wonderful, and weird. Then the priest and the boy, prostrating themselves, began with exceeding fervor to repeat the holy invocation to Fugen Bosatsu. But suddenly the hunter rose up behind them, bow in hand, and, bending his bow to the full, he sent a long arrow whizzing straight at the luminous Buddha, into whose breast it sank, up to the very feathers. Immediately, with a sound like a thunderclap, the white light vanished, and the vision disappeared. Before the temple there was nothing but windy darkness. "'O miserable man!' cried out the priest, with tears of shame and despair. "'Almost wretched and wicked, man! What have you done? What have you done?' But the hunter received the reproaches of the priest without any sign of compunction or of anger. Then he said very gently, "'Rev. Sir, please try to calm yourself, and listen to me.' You thought that you were able to see Fugen Bosatsu, because of some merit obtained through your constant meditations and your recitation of the sutras. But if that had been the case, the Buddha would have appeared to you only, not to me, nor even to the boy. I am an ignorant hunter, and my occupation is to kill. And the taking of life is hateful to the Buddhas. How then should I be able to see Fugen Bosatsu? I have been taught that the Buddhas are everywhere about us, and that we remain unable to see them because of our ignorance and our imperfections. You, being a learned priest of pure life, might indeed acquire such enlightenment as would enable you to see the Buddhas. But how should a man who kills animals for his livelihood find the power to see the Divine? Both I and this little boy could see all that you saw, and let me now assure you, Reverend Sir, that what you saw was not Fugen Bosatsu. But a goblinry intended to deceive you, perhaps even to destroy you. I beg that you will try to control your feelings until daybreak. Then I will prove to you the truth of what I have said.' At sunrise the hunter and the priest examined the spot where the vision had been standing, and they discovered a thin trail of blood, and after having followed this trail to a hollow some hundred paces away they came upon the body of a great badger, transfixed by the hunter's arrow. The priest, although a learned and pious person, had easily been deceived by a badger, but the hunter, an ignorant and irreligious man, was gifted with strong common sense, and by mother wit alone he was able at once to detect and to destroy a dangerous illusion. Chapter 4 Ikiryo Footnote literally living spirit, that is to say the ghost of a person still alive. An Ikiryo may detach itself from the body under the influence of anger, and proceed to haunt and torment the individual by whom the anger was caused. End of Footnote. Formerly, in the quarter of Rei Ganjima in Yedo, there was a great porcelain shop called the Seto Monodana, kept by a rich man named Kihai. Kihai had in his employ for many years a head clerk named Rokubei. Under Rokubei's care the business prospered, and at last it grew so large that Rokubei found himself unable to manage it without help. He therefore asked and obtained permission to hire an experienced assistant, and he then engaged one of his own nephews, a young man about 22 years old, who had learned the porcelain trade in Osaka. The nephew proved a very capable assistant, shrewder in business than his experienced uncle. His enterprise extended the trade of the house, and Kihai was greatly pleased. But about seven months after his engagement, the young man became very ill, and seemed likely to die. The best physicians in Yedo were summoned to attend him, but none of them could understand the nature of his sickness. They prescribed no medicine, and expressed the opinion that such a sickness could only have been caused by some secret grief. Rokubei imagined that it might be a case of love sickness. He therefore said to his nephew, I have been thinking that, as you are still very young, you might have formed some secret attachment which is making you unhappy, perhaps even making you ill. If this be the truth, you certainly ought to tell me all about your troubles. Here I stand to you in the place of a father, as you are far away from your parents, and if you have any anxiety or sorrow, I am ready to do for you whatever a father should do. If money can help you, do not be ashamed to tell me, even though the amount be large. I think that I could assist you, and I am sure that Kihai would be glad to do anything to make you happy and well. The sick youth appeared to be embarrassed by these kindly assurances, and for some little time he remained silent. At last he answered, Never in this world can I forget those generous words, but I have no secret attachment, no longing for any woman. This sickness of mine is not a sickness that doctors can cure, and money could not help me in the least. The truth is that I have been so persecuted in this house that I scarcely care to live. Everywhere, by day and by night, whether in the shop or in my room, whether alone or in company, I have been unceasingly followed and tormented by the shadow of a woman. And it is long, long, since I have been able to get even one night's rest. For so soon as I close my eyes, the shadow of the woman takes me by the throat and strives to strangle me, so I cannot sleep. And why did you not tell me this before? asked Rockle Bay. Because I thought, the nephew answered, that it would be of no use to tell you. The shadow is not the ghost of a dead person. It is made by the hatred of a living person, a person whom you very well know. What person? questioned Rockle Bay in great astonishment. Footnote. An Iquirio is seen only by the person haunted. For another illustration of this curious belief, see the paper entitled The Stone Buddha in My Out of the East, Page 171. End of Footnote. The mistress of this house, whispered the youth. The wife of Kihei Summer. She wished to kill me. Rockle Bay was bewildered by this confession. He doubted nothing of what his nephew had said, but he could not imagine a reason for the haunting. An Iquirio might be caused by disappointed love or by violent hate, without the knowledge of the person from whom it had emanated. To suppose any love in this case was impossible, the wife of Kihei was considerably more than fifty years of age. But, on the other hand, what could the young clerk have done to provoke hatred? A hatred capable of producing an Iquirio. He had been irreproachably well conducted, unfailingly courteous, and earnestly devoted to his duties. The mystery troubled Rockle Bay, but after careful reflection he decided to tell everything to Kihei and to request an investigation. Kihei was astounded, but in the time of forty years he had never had the least reason to doubt the word of Rockle Bay. He therefore summoned his wife at once, and carefully questioned her, telling her at the same time what the sick clerk had said. But first she turned pale and wept. But, after some hesitation, she answered frankly, I suppose that what the new clerk has said about the Iquirio is true, though I really tried never to betray by word or look the dislike which I could not help feeling for him. You know that he is very skillful in commerce, very shrewd in everything that he does, and you have given him much authority in this house, power over the apprentices and the servants. But our only son, who should inherit this business, is very simple-hearted and easily deceived, and I have long been thinking that your clever new clerk might so delude our boys to get possession of all this property. Indeed, I am certain that your clerk could, at any time, without the least difficulty and without the least risk to himself, ruin our business and ruin our son. And with this certainty in my mind I cannot help fearing and hating the man. I have often and often wished that he were dead. I have even wished that it were in my own power to kill him. Yes, I know that it is wrong to hate anyone in such a way that I could not check the feeling. Night and day I have been wishing evil to that clerk, so I cannot doubt that he has really seen the thing of which he spoke to Rocco Bay. How absurd of you! exclaimed Kihei, to torment yourself thus. Up to the present time that clerk has done no single thing for which he could be blamed, and you have caused him to suffer cruelly. Now, if I should send him away with his uncle to another town, to establish a branch business, could you not endeavour to think more kindly of him? If I do not see his face or hear his voice, the wife answered, if you will only send him away from this house, then I think that I shall be able to conquer my hatred of him. Try to do so, said Kihei, for if you continue to hate him as you have been hating him, he will certainly die, and you will then be guilty of having caused the death of a man who has done us nothing but good. He has been in every way a most excellent servant. Then Kihei quickly made arrangements for the establishment of a branch house in another city, and he sent Rocco Bay there with the clerk to take charge. And thereafter the Iquirio ceased to torment the young man, who soon recovered his health. End of Chapter 4 Chirio, Footnote The term Chirio, that ghost, that is to say the ghost of a dead person, is used in concert extinction to the term Iquirio, signifying the apparition of a living person. Yuhei is a more generic name for ghosts of any sort. End of Footnote On the death of Nomoto Yajiemon, a daikan in the province of Hizan, Footnote, a daikan was a district governor under the direct control of the shogunate. His functions were both civil and judicial. End of Footnote His clerks entered into a conspiracy to defraud the family of their late master, under pretext of paying some of the daikan's debts, they took possession of all the money, valuables, and furniture in his house, and they furthermore prepared a false report to make it appear that he had unlawfully contracted obligations exceeding the worth of his state. This false report they sent to the Saitio. And the Saitio, thereupon, issued a decree banishing the widow and the children of Nomoto from the province of Hizan. Footnote The Saitio was a high official of the shogunate, with duties corresponding to those of a prime minister. End of Footnote For in those times, the family of a daikan were held in part responsible, even after his death, for any more reasons proved against him. But at the moment when the odd of banishment was officially announced to the widow of Nomoto, a strange thing happened to a maid servant in the house. She was seized with convulsions and shudderings, like a person possessed, and when the convulsions passed, she rose up and cried out to the officers of the Saitio and to the clerks of her late master. Footnote Now listen to me. It is not a girl who is speaking to you. It is I, Yajiemon, Nomoto Yajiemon, return to you from the dead. In grief and great anger do I return. Grief and anger caused by those in whom I vanishingly put my trust. Oh, you infamous and ungrateful clerks, how could you so forget the favors bestowed upon you, as thus to ruin my property and to disgrace my name? Here, now in my presence, let the accounts of my office and of my house be made, and let a servant be sent for the books of the Mitsuke, so that the estimates may be compared. Footnote The Mitsuke was a government official charged with the duty of keeping watch over the conduct of local governors or district judges and of inspecting their accounts. End of Footnote As the maid uttered these words, all present were filled with astonishment, for her voice and her manner were the voice and the manner of Nomoto Yajiemon. The guilty clerks turned pale, but the representatives of the site show at once commanded that the design expressed by the girl should be fully granted. All the account books of the office were promptly placed before her, and the books of the Mitsuke were brought in, and she began the reckoning. Without making a single error, she went through all the accounts writing down the totals and correcting every false entry, and her writing, as she wrote, was seen to be the very writing of Nomoto Yajiemon. Now this reexamination of the accounts not only proved that there had been no indebtedness, but also showed that there had been a surplus in the office treasury at the time of the daikon's death. Thus the villainy of the clerks became manifest, and when all the accounts had been made up, the girl said, speaking in the very voice of Nomoto Yajiemon. Now everything is finished, and I can do nothing further in this matter, so I shall go back to the place from which I came. Then she lay down, and instantly fell asleep, and she slept like a dead person during two days and two nights, for great wetness and deep sleep fall upon the possessed when the possessing spirit passes from them. When she again awoke, her voice and her manner were the voice and the manner of a young girl, and neither at that time, nor at the time after, could she remember what had happened while she was possessed by the ghost of Nomoto Yajiemon. A report of this event was promptly sent to the Saitjo, and the Saitjo in consequence not only revoked the old of banishment, but made large gifts to the family of the daikon. Later on, various posthumous honours were conferred upon Nomoto Yajiemon, and for many subsequent years his house was favoured by the government, so that it prospered greatly. But the clerks received the punishment which they deserved. 6. The Story of Okame Okame, daughter of the rich Ganyomon of Nagoshi in the province of Tosa, was very fond of her husband Hachiemon. She was twenty-two and Hachiemon twenty-five. She was so fond of him that people imagined her to be jealous, but he never gave her the least cause for jealousy, and it is certain that no single unkind word was ever spoken between them. Unfortunately, the health of Okame was feeble, with in less than two years after her marriage she was attacked by a disease than prevalent in Tosa, and the best doctors were not able to cure her. Person seized by this malady could not eat or drink. They remained constantly drowsy in language and troubled by strange fancies. And in spite of constant care, Okame grew weaker and weaker day by day, until it became evident even to herself that she was going to die. Then she called her husband and said to him, I cannot tell you how good you have been to me during this miserable sickness of mine. Surely no one could have been more kind, but that only makes it all the harder for me to leave you now. Think, I am not yet even twenty-five, and I have the best husband in all this world, and yet I must die. Oh no, no, it is useless to talk to me about hope that best Chinese doctors could do nothing for me. I did think to live a few months longer, but when I saw my face this morning in the mirror, I knew that I must die today, yes, this very day. And there is something that I want to beg you to do for me, if you wish me to die quite happy. Only tell me what it is, Hachiyama answered, and if it be in my power to do, I shall be more than glad to do it. No, no, you will not be glad to do it, she returned, you are still so young. It is difficult, very, very difficult, even to ask you to do such a thing, yet the wish for it is like a fire burning in my breast. I must speak it before I die. My dear, you know that sooner or later, after I am dead, they will want you to take another wife. Will you promise me? Can you promise me? Not to marry again? Only that, Hachiyama explained. Why, if that be all that you wanted to ask for, your wish is very easily granted. With all my heart I promise you that no one shall ever take your place. Ah, Oreshiya cried Okame, half rising from her couch. Oh, how happy you have made me! And she fell back dead. Now the health of Hachiyama appeared to fail after the death of Okame. At first the change in his aspect was attributed to natural grief, and the villagers only said how fond of her he must have been. But as the months went by, he grew paler and weaker, until at last he became so thin and wan that he looked more like a ghost than a man. Then people began to suspect that sorrow alone could not explain this sudden decline of a man so young. The doctor said that Hachiyama was not suffering from any known form of disease. They could not account for his condition, but they suggested that it might have been caused by some very unusual trouble of mind. Hachiyama's parents questioned him in vain. He had no cause for sorrow, he said, other than what they already knew. They counseled him to remarry, but he protested that nothing could ever induce him to break his promise to the dead. Thereafter Hachiyama continued to grow visibly weaker, day by day, and his family a disparate of his life. But one day his mother, who felt sure that he had been concealing something from her, adjured him so earnestly to tell her the real cause of his decline and wept so bitterly before him that he was not able to resist her entreaties. Mother, he said, it is very difficult to speak about this matter, either to you or to anyone. And perhaps when I have told you everything, you will not be able to believe me. But the truth is that Okame can find no rest in the other world, and that the Buddhist services repeated for her have been said in vain. Perhaps she will never be able to rest unless I go with her on the long black journey. For every night she returns and lies down by my side, every night since the day of her funeral she has come back. And sometimes I doubt if she really be dead, for she looks and acts just as when she lived except that she talks to me only in whispers. And she always bids me tell no one that she comes. It may be that she wants me to die, and I should not care to live for my own sake only. But it is true, as you have said, that my body really belongs to my parents and that I owe to them the first duty. So now, Mother, I tell you the whole truth. Yes, every night she comes just as I am about to sleep, and she remains until dawn. As soon as she hears the temple bell, she goes away. When the Mother of Hachemon had heard these things, she was greatly alarmed and hastening at once to the parish temple. She told the priest all that her son had confessed and begged for ghostly help. The priest, who is a man of great age and experience, listened without surprise to the recital and then said to her, It is not the first time that I have known such a thing to happen, and I think that I shall be able to save your son. But he is really in great danger. I have seen the shadow of death upon his face, and if Okame returned but once again, he will never behold another sunrise. Whatever can be done for him must be done quickly. Say nothing of the matter to your son, but assemble the members of both families as soon as possible, and tell them to come to the temple without delay. For your son's sake, it will be necessary to open the grave of Okame. So the relatives assembled at the temple, and when the priest had obtained their consent to the opening of the sepulchre, he led the way to the cemetery. Then, under his direction, the tombstone of Okame was shifted, the grave opened, and the coffin raised. And when the coffin lid had been removed, all present were startled, for Okame sat before them with a smile upon her face, seeming as comely as before the time of her sickness, and there was not any sign of death upon her. But when the priest told his assistants to lift the dead woman out of the coffin, the astonishment changed the fear, for the corpse is blood-warm to the touch, and still flexible as in life, notwithstanding the squatting posture in which it had remained for so long. Footnote, the Japanese dead are placed in a sitting posture in the coffin, which is almost square in form. It was born to the mortuary chapel, and there the priest, with a writing brush, traced upon the brow and breast and limbs of the body the Sanskrit characters, or bonji, of certain holy talismanic words. And he formed a sagaki service for the spirit of Okame before suffering her corpse to be restored to the ground. She never again visited her husband, and Hachiamun gradually recovered his health and strength. But whether he always kept his promise, the Japanese storyteller does not say. End of chapter 6, recording by Summer Days For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org Recording by Scott Carpenter Koto, being Japanese curios with sundry cobwebs by Lafcadio Hearn Chapter 7 Story of a Fly About two hundred years ago there lived in Kyoto a merchant named Kazariya Kyubei. His shop was in the street called Teramachidori, a little south of the Shimabara thoroughfare. He had a maid-servant named Tama, a native of the province of Wakasa. Tama was treated kindly by Kyubei and his wife, and appeared to be sincerely attached to them, but she never cared to dress nicely, like other girls, and whenever she had a holiday she would go out in her working dress notwithstanding that she had been given several pretty robes. After she had been in the service of Kyubei for about five years, he one day asked her why she never took any pains to look neat. Tama blushed at the reproach implied by this question and answered respectfully, when my parents died I was a very little girl, and as they had no other child it became my duty to have the Buddhist services performed on their behalf. At that time I could not obtain the means to do so, but I resolved to have their ihai, mortuary tablets, placed in the temple called Jorakuji, and to have the rights performed so soon as I could earn the money required. And in order to fulfill this resolve I have tried to be saving of my money and my clothes. Perhaps I have been too saving, as you have found me negligent of my person, but I have already been able to put by about one hundred mome of silver for the purpose which I have mentioned, and hereafter I will try to appear before you looking neat, so I beg that you will kindly excuse my past negligence and rudeness. Kyubei was touched by this simple confession and he spoke to the girl kindly, assuring her that she might consider herself at liberty thenceforth to dress as she pleased, and commending her filial piety. Soon after this conversation the maid Tama was able to have the tablets of her parents placed in the temple Jorakuji, and to have the appropriate services performed. Of the money which she had saved she thus expended seventy mome, and the remaining thirty mome she asked her mistress to keep for her. But early in the following winter Tama was suddenly taken ill, and after a brief sickness she died, on the eleventh day of the first month of the fifteenth year of Genroku, 1702. Kyubei and his wife were much grieved by her death. Now about ten days later a very large fly came into the house and began to fly round and round the head of Kyubei. This surprised Kyubei because no flies of any kind appear as a rule during the period of greatest cold, and the larger kinds of flies are seldom seen except in the warm season. The fly annoyed Kyubei so persistently that he took the trouble to catch it and put it out of the house, being careful the while to injure it in no way, for he was a devout Buddhist. It soon came back again, and was again caught and thrown out, but it entered a third time. Kyubei's wife thought this a strange thing. I wonder, she said, if it is Tama. For the dead, particularly those who passed to the state of Gaki, sometimes return in the form of insects. Kyubei laughed and made answer. Perhaps we can find out by marking it. He caught the fly and slightly nicked the tips of its wings with a pair of scissors, after which he carried it to a considerable distance from the house and let it go. Next day it returned. Kyubei still doubted whether its return had any ghostly significance. He caught it again, painted its wings and body with beni, rouge, carried it away from the house to a much greater distance than before, and set it free. But two days later came back, all red, and Kyubei ceased to doubt. I think it is Tama, he said. She wants something, but what does she want? The wife responded. I still have thirty mome of her savings. Perhaps she wants us to pay that money to the temple for a Buddhist service on behalf of her spirit. Tama was always very anxious about her next birth. As she spoke, the fly fell from the paper window on which it had been resting. Kyubei picked it up and found that it was dead. Thereupon the husband and wife resolved to go to the temple at once, and to pay the girl's money to the priests. They put the body of the fly into a little box and took it along with them. Jiku Shonin, the chief priest of the temple, on hearing the story of the fly, decided that Kyubei and his wife had acted rightly in the matter. Then Jiku Shonin performed a Seigaki service on behalf of the spirit of Tama, and over the body of the fly were recited the eight rolls of the sutra mioten, and the box containing the body of the fly was buried in the grounds of the temple, and above the place a sotoba was set up, appropriately inscribed. By Lafcadio Hearn In the Toyama district of the province of Bishu, there formerly lived a young farmer and his wife. Their farm was situated in a lonely place among the hills. One night the wife dreamed that her father-in-law, who had died some years before, came to her and said, Tomorrow I shall be in great danger. Try to save me if you can. In the morning she told us to her husband, and they talked about the dream. Both imagined that the dead man wanted something, but neither could imagine what the words of the vision signified. After breakfast the husband went to the fields, but the wife remained at her loom. Presently she was startled by a great shouting outside. She went to the door and saw the jitol, or the Lord of the district, who acted both as governor and magistrate, with a hunting party approaching the farm. While she stood watching them a pheasant ran by her into the house, and suddenly she remembered her dream. Perhaps it is my father-in-law, she thought to herself, I must try to save it. Then, hurrying in after the bird, a fine male pheasant, she caught it without any difficulty, put it into the empty rice-pot, and covered the pot with the lid. A moment later some of the jitol's followers entered and asked her whether she had seen a pheasant. She answered boldly that she had not, but one of the hunters declared that he had seen the bird run into the house. So the party searched for it peeping into every nook and corner, but nobody thought of looking into the rice-pot. After looking everywhere else to no purpose, the men decided that the bird must have escaped through some hole, and they went away. When the farmer came home, his wife told him about the pheasant, which she had left in the rice-pot so that he might see it. When I caught it, she said, it did not struggle in the least, and it remained very quiet in the pot. I really think that it is father-in-law. The farmer went to the pot, lifted the lid, and took out the bird. It remained still in his hands, as if tame, and looked at him as if accustomed to his presence. One of its eyes was blind. Father was blind of one eye, the farmer said. The right eye, and the right eye of this bird is blind. Really, I think it is father. See, it looks at us just as father used to do. Poor father must have thought to himself. Now that I am a bird, better to give my body to my children for food than to let the hunters have it. And that explains your dream of last night, he added, turning to his wife with an evil smile as he wrung the pheasant's neck. At the sight of that brutal act, the woman screamed and cried out, Oh, you wicked man! Oh, you devil! Only a man with the heart of a devil could do what you have done, and it would rather die than continue to be the wife of such a man. And she sprang to the door, without waiting even to put on her sandals. He caught her sleeve as she leaped, but she broke away from him, and ran out, sobbing as she ran. And she ceased not to run barefooted till she reached the town, when she hastened directly to the residence of the Gito. Then, with many tears, she told the Gito everything. Her dream of the night before the hunting, and how she had hidden the pheasant in order to save it, and how her husband had mocked her, and had killed it. The Gito spoke to her kindly, and gave orders that she should be well cared for, but he commanded his officers to seize her husband. Next day the farmer was brought up for judgment, and, after he had been made to confess the truth concerning the killing of the pheasant, sentence was pronounced. The Gito said to him, Only a person of evil heart could have acted as you have acted, and the presence of so perverse a being is a misfortune to the community in which he happens to reside. The people under our jurisdiction are people who respect the sentiment of filial piety, and among them you cannot be suffered to live. So the farmer was banished from the district and forbidden ever to return to it on pain of death. But to the woman the Gito made a donation of land, and at a later time he caused her to be provided with a good husband. To their lift in the Koishikawa quarter of Yedo, a Batamoto, named Suzuki, whose yashiki was situated on the bank of the Yedo Gawa, not far from the bridge called Nakano Hoshi, and among the retainers of the Suzuki there was an Aspigaru, note, the Aspigaru were the lowest class of retainers in military service, end of note, named Chugoro. Chugoro was a handsome lad, very amiable and clever, and much like by his comrades. For several years Chugoro remained in the service of Suzuki, conducting himself so well that no fault was found with him. But at last the other Aspigaru discovered that Chugoro was in the habit of leaving the yashiki every night by way of the garden, and staying out until a little before dawn. At first they said nothing to him about this strange behavior, for his absences did not interfere with any regular duty and were supposed to be caused by some love affair. But after a time he began to look pale and weak, and his comrades, suspecting some serious folly, decided to interfere. Therefore one evening, just as he was about to steal away from the house, an elderly retainer called him aside and said, Chugoro my lad, we know that you go out every night and stay away until early morning, and we have observed that you are looking unwell, we fear that you are keeping bad company and enduring your health. And unless you can give a good reason for your conduct, we shall think that it is our duty to report this matter to the chief officer. In any case, since we are your comrades and friends, it is but right that we should know why you go out at night, contrary to the custom of this house. Chugoro appeared to be very much embarrassed and alarmed by these words. But after a short silence he passed into the garden, followed by his comrade. When the two found themselves well out of hearing of the rest, Chugoro stopped and said, I will now tell you everything, but I must entreat you to keep my secret. If you repeat what I tell you, some great misfortune may befall me. It was in the early part of last spring, about five months ago, that I first began to go out at night on account of a love affair. One evening when I was returning to the Yashiki after a visit to my parents, I saw a woman standing by the riverside, not far from the main gateway. She was dressed like a person of high rank, and I thought it strange that a woman so finely dressed should be standing there alone at such an hour. But I did not think that I had any right to question her, and I was about to pass her by, without speaking, when she stepped forward and pulled me by the sleeve. Then I saw that she was very young and handsome. Will you not walk with me as far as the bridge? She said. I have something to tell you. Her voice was very soft and pleasant, and she smiled as she spoke, and her smile was hard to resist. So I walked with her to walk the bridge, and on the way she told me that she had often seen me going in and out of the Yashiki and had taken a fancy to me. I wish to have you for my husband, she said. If you can like me, we shall be able to make each other very happy. I did not know how to answer her, but I thought her very charming. As we neared the bridge she pulled my sleeve again and led me down the bank to the very edge of the river. Come in with me, she whispered, and pulled me toward the water. It is deep there, as you know, and I became all at once afraid of her and tried to turn back. She smiled and caught me by the wrist, and said, Oh, you must never be afraid with me. And somehow at the touch of her hand I became more helpless than a child. I felt like a person in a dream who tries to run and cannot move hand or foot. Into the deep water she stepped and drew me with her, and I neither saw nor heard nor felt anything more until I found myself walking beside her through what seemed to be a great palace full of light. I was neither wet nor cold. Everything around me was dry and warm and beautiful. I could not understand where I was nor how I had come there. The woman led me by the hand. We passed through room after room, through ever so many rooms, all empty but very fine, until we entered into a guest room of a thousand mats. Before a great alcove, at the farther end, lights were burning and cushions laid as far as feast, but I saw no guests. She led me to the place of honor by the alcove and seated herself in front of me and said, This is my home. Do you think that you could be happy with me here? As she asked the question she smiled, and I thought that her smile was more beautiful than anything else in the world, and out of my heart I answered, Yes. In the same moment I remembered the story of Urashima and I imagined that she might be the daughter of a god, but I feared to ask her any questions. Presently made servants came in, bearing rice wine and many dishes which they said before us. Then she who said before me said, Tonight shall be our bridal night because you like me, and this is our wedding feast. We pledged ourselves to each other for the time of seven existences, and after the banquet we were conducted to a bridal chamber which had been prepared for us. It was yet early in the morning when she awoke me and said, My dear one, you are now indeed my husband, but for reasons which I cannot tell you and which you must not ask, it is necessary that our marriage remain secret. To keep you here until daybreak would cost both of us our lives. Therefore do not, I beg of you, feel displeased because I must now send you back to the house of your Lord. You can come to me tonight again, and every night hereafter, at the same hour that we first met. Wait always for me by the bridge, and you will not have to wait long. But remember, above all things, that our marriage must be a secret, and that, if you talk about it, we shall probably be separated forever. I promise to obey her in all things, remembering the fate of Urashima, and she conducted me through many rooms, all empty and beautiful, to the entrance. There she again took me by the wrist, and everything suddenly became dark, and I knew nothing more until I found myself standing alone on the river bank close to the Nakano Hashi. When I got back to the Yashiki, the temple bells had not yet begun to ring. In the evening I went again to the bridge, at the hour she had named, and I found her waiting for me. She took me with her, as before, into the deep water, and into the wonderful place where we had passed our bridal night. And every night, since then, I have met and parted from her in the same way. Tonight she will certainly be waiting for me, and I would rather die than disappoint her. Therefore, I must go. But let me again entreat you, my friend. Never to speak to anyone about what I have told you. The elder Aspigaru was surprised and alarmed by this story. He felt that Chukoro had told him the truth, and the truth suggested unpleasant possibilities. Probably the whole experience was an illusion, and an illusion produced by some evil power for a malevolent end. Nevertheless, if really bewitched, the lad was rather to be pitted than blamed, and any forcible interference would be likely to result in mischief. So the Aspigaru answered kindly, I shall never speak of what you have told me. Never, at least, while you remain alive and well. Go and meet the woman, but beware of her. I fear that you are being deceived by some wicked spirit. Chukoro only smiled at the old man's warning, and hastened away. Several hours later he re-entered the yashiki with a strangely dejected look. Did you meet her? whispered his comrade. No, replied Chukoro, she was not there. For the first time she was not there. I think that you will never meet me again. I did wrong to tell you. I was very foolish to break my promise. The other vainly tried to console him. Chukoro lay down and spoke no word more. He was trembling from head to foot, as if he had caught a chill. When the temple bells announced the hour of dawn, Chukoro tried to get up and fell back senseless. He was evidently sick, deathly sick. A Chinese physician was summoned. Why, the man has no blood! exclaimed the doctor after a careful examination. There is nothing but water in his veins. It will be very difficult to save him. What beneficence is this? Everything was done that could be done to save Chukoro's life, but in vain. He died as the sun went down. Then his comrade related the whole story. Ha! I might have suspected as much, exclaimed the doctor. No power could have saved him. He was not the first whom she destroyed. Who is she, or what is she? Diazbegaru asked. A fox woman? No, she has been haunting this river from ancient time. She loves the blood of the young. A serpent woman? A dragon woman? No, no. If you were to see her under that bridge by daylight, she would appear to you a very loathsome creature. But what kind of a creature? Simply a frog. A great and ugly frog. End of chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Kotto. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ava'i in June 2010. Kotto being Japanese couriers with sundry cobwebs by Levcadio Hearn. Chapter 10. A Woman's Diary. Part 1. Recently there was put into my hands a somewhat remarkable manuscript. Seventeen long narrow sheets of soft paper, pierced with a silken string and covered with fine Japanese characters. It was a kind of diary containing the history of a woman's married life, recorded by herself. The writer was dead and the diary had been found in a small work box, Haribako, which had belonged to her. The friend who lent me the manuscript gave me leave to translate as much of it as I might think worth publishing. I have gladly availed myself of this unique opportunity to present in English the thoughts and feelings, joys and sorrows of a simple woman of the people, just as she herself recorded them in the frankest possible way, never dreaming that any foreign eye would read her humble and touching memoir. But out of respect to her gentle ghost, I have tried to use the manuscript in such a way on this could not cause her the least pain if she were yet in the body and able to read me. Some parts I have omitted because I thought them sacred. Also, I have left out a few details relating to customs or to local beliefs that the Western reader could scarcely understand, even with the aid of notes. And the names, of course, have been changed. Otherwise, I have followed the text as closely as I could, making no changes of phrase except when the Japanese original could not be adequately interpreted by a literal rendering. In addition to the facts stated or suggested in the diary itself, I could learn but very little of the writer's personal history. She was a woman of the poorest class, and from her own narrative it appears that she remained unmarried until she was nearly thirty. A younger sister had been married several years previously, and the diary does not explain this departure from custom. A small photograph found with the manuscript shows that its author never could have been called good-looking, but the face has a certain pleasing expression of shy gentleness. Her husband was a Kozuki, employed in one of the great public offices, chiefly for night duty, at a salary of ten yen per month. Footnote. A Kozuki is a man-servant, chiefly employed as doorkeeper and messenger. The term is rendered better by the French word concierge than by our English word, porter, but neither expression exactly meets the Japanese meaning. End footnote. In order to help him to meet the expenses of housekeeping, she made cigarettes for a tobacco dealer. The manuscript shows that she must have been at school for some years. She could write the kana very nicely, but she had not learned many Chinese characters, so that her work resembles the work of a schoolgirl. But it is written without mistakes and skillfully. The dialect is of Tokyo, the common speech of the city people, full of idiomatic expressions, but entirely free from coarseness. Someone might naturally ask why this poor woman, so much occupied with the constant struggle for mere existence, should have taken the pains to write down what she probably never intended to be read. I would remind such a questioner of the old Japanese teaching that literary composition is the best medicine for sorrow, and I would remind him also of the fact that even among the poorest classes, poems are still composed upon all occasions of joy or pain. The latter part of the diary was written in lonely hours of illness, and I suppose that she then wrote chiefly in order to keep her thoughts composed at a time when solitude had become dangerous for her. A little before her death, her mind gave way, and these final pages probably represent the last brave struggle of the spirit against a hopeless weakness of the flesh. I found that the manuscript was inscribed on the outside sheet with the title mukashi banashi, a story of old times. According to circumstances, the word mukashi may signify either long ago in reference to past centuries, or old times in reference to one's own past life. The letter is the obvious meaning in the present case. mukashi banashi. On the evening of the 25th day of the ninth month of the 28th year of Meiji, 1895, the man of the opposite house came and asked, as for the eldest daughter of this family, is it agreeable that she be disposed of in marriage? Then the answer was given, even though the matter were agreeable to our wishes, no preparation for such an event has yet been made. Footnote. The reader must understand that the man of the opposite house is acting as Nakudo, or matchmaker, in the interest of a widower who wishes to remarry. By the statement, no preparation has been made, the father means that he is unable to provide for his daughter's marriage and cannot furnish her with a bridal outfit, clothing, household furniture, etc., as required by custom. The reply that no preparation is needed signifies that a proposed husband is willing to take the girl without any marriage gifts. End footnote. The man of the opposite house said, but as no preparation is needed in this case, will you not honorably give her to the person for whom I speak? He is said to be a very steady man and he is 38 years of age. As I thought your eldest girl to be about 26, I proposed her to him. No, she is 29 years old, was answered. Ah, that being the case I must again speak to the other party and I shall honorably consult with you after I have seen him. So saying, the man went away. Next evening the man came again, this time with the wife of Okada Shi, a friend of the family, and said, the other party is satisfied, so if you are willing the match can be made. Father replied. As the two are, both of them, Shichi Sekikin, seven red metal, they should have the same nature, so I think that no harm can come of it. Footnote. The father has evidently been consulting a fortune telling book, such as the San Tse So or a professional diviner, the allusion to the astrologically determined natures or temperaments of the pair could scarcely be otherwise explained. End footnote. The matchmaker asked, then how would it be to arrange for the mi'ai tomorrow? Footnote. Mi'ai is a term used to signify a meeting arranged in order to enable the parties afianced to see each other before the wedding day. End footnote. The father said, I suppose that everything really depends upon the end. Karma relation formed in previous states of existence. Well then, I beg that you will honorably meet us tomorrow evening at the house of Okada. Thus the betrothal promise was given on both sides. The person of the opposite house wanted me to go with him next evening to Okadas, but I said that I wished to go with my mother only as from the time of taking such a first step one could not either retreat or advance. When I went with mother to the house we were welcomed in with the words Kottirai. Then my future husband and I greeted each other for the first time, but somehow I felt so much ashamed that I could not look at him. Then Okadasi said to Namikishi, the proposed husband, now that you have nobody to consult with at home, would it not be well for you to snatch your luck where you find it, as the proverb says, Tsenba izoge. The answer was made. As for me, I am well satisfied, but I do not know what the feeling may be on the other side. If it be honorably deigned to take me as it is honorably known that I am, I said, footnote, meaning I am ready to become your wife if you are willing to take me as you have been informed that I am a poor girl without money or clothes, end footnote. The matchmaker said, the matter being so, what would be a good day for the wedding? Namikishi answered, though I can be at home tomorrow, perhaps the first day of the tenth month would be a better day. But Okadasi at once said, as there is cause for anxiety about the house being unoccupied while Namikishi is absent on night duty, tomorrow would perhaps be the better day, would it not? Though at first that seemed to me much too soon, I presently remembered that the next day was a Tayan-nichi, perfectly fortunate day, so I gave my consent and we went home. Footnote. Lucky and unlucky days were named and symbolized as follows, according to the old Japanese astrological system. Senkatsu, for noon good, afternoon bad. Tomo-biki, for noon good, afternoon good at the beginning, and the end, but bad in the middle. Senpu, for noon bad, afternoon good. Putsumezu, wholly unlucky. Tayan, altogether good. Shako, all unlucky, accepted noon. End footnote. When I told father he was not pleased, he said that it was too soon and that a delay of at least three or four days ought to have been allowed. Also he said that the direction was not lucky and that other conditions were not favorable. Footnote. This statement also implies that a professional diviner has been consulted. The reference to the direction, or hogaku, can be fully understood only by those conversant with the old Chinese nature philosophy. End footnote. I said, But I have already promised and I cannot now ask to have the day changed. Indeed it would be a great pity if a thief were to enter the house in his absence, as for the matter of the direction being unlucky. Even though I should have to die on that account, I would not complain, for I should die in my own husband's house. And tomorrow, I added, I shall be too busy to call on Kotto, her brother-in-law, so I must go there now. I went to Kotto's, but when I saw him I felt afraid to say exactly what I had come to say. I suggested it only by telling him, tomorrow I have to go to a strange house. Kotto immediately asked, as an honourable daughter-in-law, bright. After hesitating I answered at last, Yes. What kind of a person? Kotto asked. I answered, If I had felt myself able to look at him long enough to form any opinion, I would not have put mother to the trouble of going with me. Ani-san, elder sister, he exclaimed, then what was the use of going to see him at all? But he added in a more pleasant tone, let me wish you luck. Anyhow, I said, tomorrow it will be. And I returned home. Now the appointed day having come, the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month, I had so much to do that I did not know how I should ever be able to get ready. And as it had been raining for several days, the roadway was very bad, which made matters worse for me, though luckily no rain fell on that day. I had to buy some little things, and I could not well ask mother to do anything for me, much as I wished for her help, because her feet had become very weak by reason of her great age. So I got up very early and went out alone, and did the best I could. Nevertheless, it was two o'clock in the afternoon before I got everything ready. Then I had to go to the hairdressers to have my hairdress and go to the bathhouse, all of which took time. And when I came back to dress, I found that no message had yet been received from Namikishi, and I began to feel a little anxious. Just after we had finished supper, the message came. I had scarcely time to say goodbye to all, then I went out, leaving my home behind forever, and walked with mother to the house of Okadashi. There, I had to part even from mother, and the wife of Okadashi taking charge of me, I accompanied her to the house of Namikishi in Funamachi. The wedding ceremony of the Sansan Kudo no Sakatsuki, literally thrice three nine times wine cup, having been performed without any difficulty, and the time of the Ohiraki, honorably blossoming, having come more quickly than I had expected, the guests all returned home. Footnote, at a Japanese wedding, it is customary to avoid the use of any words to which an unlucky signification attaches, or of any words suggesting misfortune in even an indirect way. The word sumu, to finish or to end, the word kairu, to return, suggesting divorce, as well as many others are forbidden at weddings. Accordingly, the term Ohiraki has long been euphemistically substituted for the term oitoma, honourable leaf-taking, that is, farewell, and a popular etiquette of wedding assemblies. End footnote. So we two were left for the first time, each alone with the other, sitting face to face, my heart beat wildly, and I felt abashed in such a way as could not be expressed by means of ink and paper. Footnote. I felt that tumultuous beating within my breast would perhaps be a closer rendering of the real sense, but it would sound oddly artificial by comparison with the simple Japanese utterance. Atoniva futari, saspimukai tonari, mune uchisawagi, sonobatsukashisa, bisbini tsukuspigataspi. End footnote. Indeed, what I felt can be imagined only by one who remembers leaving her parents home for the first time to become a bride, a daughter-in-law in a strange house. Afterward, at the hour of meals, I felt very much distressed, embarrassed. Two or three days later, the father of my husband's former wife, who was dead, visited me and said, Namikishi is really a good man, a moral, steady man, but as he is also very particular about small matters and inclined to find fault, you had better always be careful to try to please him. Now, as I had been carefully watching my husband's ways from the beginning, I knew that he was really a very strict man, and I resolved so to conduct myself in all matters as never to cross his will. The fifth day of the tenth month was the day for our sattu gaeri, and for the first time we went out together, calling at gotos on the way. Footnote. From sattu, the parental home, and gaeri to return, the first visit of a bride to her parents after marriage is thus called. End footnote. After we left gotos, the weather suddenly became bad and it began to rain. Then we borrowed a paper umbrella, which we used as an aigasa, and though I was very uneasy lest any of my former neighbors should see us walking thus together, we luckily reached my parents' house and we made our visit of duty without any trouble at all. Footnote. Aigasa, a fantastic term compounded from the verb I, to a chord, to harmonize, and the noun kasa, an umbrella. It signifies one umbrella used by two persons, especially lovers, an umbrella of loving a chord. To understand the wife's anxiety about being seen walking with her husband under the borrowed umbrella, the reader must know that it is not yet considered decorous for wife and husband even to walk side by side in public. A newly wedded pair, using a single umbrella in this way, would be particularly liable to have jests made at their expense, jests that might prove trying to the nerves of a timid bride. End footnote. While we were in the house, the rain fortunately stopped. On the ninth day of the same month, I went with him to the theater for the first time. We visited the Engisa at Akasaka, and saw a performance by the Yamaguchi Company. On the eighth day of the eleventh month, we made a visit to Asakusa Temple, and also went to the Shinto Temple of the Otorisama. Footnote. She means the great Buddhist temple of Kwanon, the most popular and perhaps the most famous Buddhist temple in Tokyo. End footnote. During this last month of the year, I made new spring robes from my husband and myself, then I learned for the first time how pleasant such work was, and I felt very happy. On the twenty-fifth day, we visited the Temple of Tenjin-sama and walked about the grounds there. Footnote. In the Okubo quarter, the shrine is shadowed by a fine grove of trees. End footnote. On the eleventh day of the first month of the twenty-ninth year, 1896, Kaldedokadas. On the twelfth day, we paid a visit to Gotos and had a pleasant time there. On the ninth day of the second month, we went to the Mitsaki Theater to see the play Imose Yama. On our way to the theater, we met Gotoshi unexpectedly and he went with us, but unluckily it began to rain as we were returning home and we found the roads very muddy. On the twenty-second day of the same month, we had our photograph taken at Amano's. On the twenty-fifth day of the third month, we went to the Haruki Theater and saw the play Uguizutsuka. During the month, it was agreed that all of us, kindred friends and parents, should make up a party and enjoy our hanami together, but this could not be managed. Footnote. That is to say, it was agreed that we should all go together to see the flowers. The word hanami, flower-seeing, might be given to any of the numerous flower festivals of the year according to circumstances, but it here refers to the season of cherry blossoms. Throughout this diary, the dates are those of the old Luna calendar. And footnote. On the tenth day of the fourth month, at nine o'clock in the morning, we two went out for a walk. We first visited the Shokonsha Shinto Shrine at Kudan, thence we walked to Ueno Park and from there we went to Asakusa and visited the Kuanon Temple and we also prayed at the Monseki, Higashi Hongwanji. Thence we had intended to go round to Asakusa Okuyama, but we thought that it would be better to have dinner first, so we went to an eating house. While we were dining, we heard such a noise of shouting and screaming that we thought there was a great quarrel outside. But the trouble was really caused by a fire in one of the mise mono, shows. The fire spread quickly, even while we were looking at it, and nearly all the show buildings in that street were burnt up. We left the eating house soon after and walked about the Asakusa grounds, looking at things. Here follows, in the original manuscript, the text of a little poem composed by the writer herself. Footnote. A literal rendering is almost impossible. There is a fairy called the Fairy of Imado over the Sumidagawa, but the reference here is really neither to the fairy nor to the fairies, but to the Nakodo, or matchmaker, who arranged the marriage. Mimeguri Inari is the popular name of a famous temple of the God of Rice in Mukkojima, but there is an untranslatable play here upon the name, suggesting a lover's meeting. The reference to the Sumidagawa also contains a play upon the syllables Sumi, the verb Sumi signifies to be clear. Shirabige Yashiro, White-haired Temple, is the name of a real and very celebrated Shinto shrine in the city, but the name is here used chiefly to express the hope that the union may last into the period of Hori Age. Besides these suggestions, we may suppose that the poem contains allusions to the actual journey made over the Sumidagawa by Fairy and thence to the various temples named. From old times poems of like meaning have been made about these places, but the lines above given are certainly original, with the obvious exception of a few phrases which have become current coin in popular poetry. End footnote. Freely translated, having been taken across the Imado Fairy, I strangely met at the temple of Mimeguri Inari with a person whom I had never seen before. Because of this meeting our relation is now even more than the relation of husband and wife, and my first anxious doubt for how long, having passed away, my mind has become clear as the Sumida River. Indeed, we are now like a pair of Miyako birds, always together, and I even think that I deserve to be envied. To see the flowers we went out, but more than the pleasure of viewing a whole shore in Blossom is the pleasure that I now desire, always to dwell with this person, dearer to me than any flower, until we enter the Shirahige Yashiro, that we may so remain together I supplicate the gods. Then we crossed the Azuma Bridge on our homeward way, and we went by steamer to the kaito of the temple of the Soga Kyodai, and prayed that love and concord should continue always between ourselves and our brothers and sisters. It was after seven o'clock that evening when we got home. Footnote. The Soga brothers were famous heroes of the 12th century. The word kaito signifies the religious festival during which the principal image of a temple is exposed to view. End footnote. On the 25th day of the same month we went to the Roccomono Noyose. Footnote. Name of a public hall at which various kinds of entertainments are given, more especially recitations by professional storytellers. End footnote. On the second day of the fifth month we visited the gardens at Okubo to see the Ataleas in Blossom. On the sixth day of the same month we went to see a display of fireworks at the Shokonsha. So far we had never had any words between us nor any disagreement, and I had ceased to feel bashful when we went out visiting or sightseeing. Footnote. Literally, there never yet having been any waves nor even wind between us. End footnote. Now each of us seemed to think only of how to please the other, and I felt sure that nothing would ever separate us. May our relation always be thus happy. The 18th day of the sixth month, being the festival of the Sugar Jinja, we were invited to my father's house. Footnote. The Shinto Parish Temple, or more correctly, District Temple of the Yotsuya Quarter. Each quarter or district of the city has its tutela divinity, or Ujigami. Sugar Jinja is the Ujigami Temple of Yotsuya. End footnote. But as the hairdresser did not come to dress my hair at the proper time, I was much annoyed. However, I went with Otori-san, a younger sister, to father's. Presently, Oko-san, a married sister, also came, and we had a pleasant time. In the evening, Gotoshi, husband of Oko, joined us, and last of all came my husband, for whom I had been waiting with anxious impatience. And there was one thing that made me very glad. Often, when he and I were to go out together, I had proposed that we should put on the new spring robes which I had made, but he had us often refused, preferring to wear his old kimono. Now, however, he wore the new one, having felt obliged to put it on because of father's invitation. All of us being thus happily assembled, the party became more and more enjoyable, and when we had at last to say goodbye, we only regretted the shortness of the summer night. These are the poems which we composed that evening. Two wedded couples having gone together to worship at the temple, the parish festival today has been merrier than ever before. Also by the husband. Fortunate indeed for two married couples has been the parish temple festival. By the wife. Though for ever so many years it has always been a joyous occasion, the festival of our parish temple today is more pleasant than ever before because of our being thus happily assembled together. By the wife. Today being a day of festival and all of us meeting together, what a delight. Surely by the favour of the tutela god Uchigami, this has come to pass. By the wife. Two wedded pairs being today united in such friendship as this, certainly it has happened only through the favour of the gods. Deep indeed is the favour of the tutela god to the two married couples. By the wife. This day being a day of festival we decided to put on for the joyful meeting the robes of Iogazuri that had been made alike. Footnote. Iogazuri is the name given to a kind of dark blue cotton cloth with a sprinkling of white in small patterns manufactured at Io in Chikoku. End footnote. How could we have thought it here unexpectedly the two married couples meet together? What can compare with the good fortune of this day? By Oko, the married sister. This day being a day of festival, here for the first time two wedded pairs have met. Already I find myself sorrowing at the thought that we must separate again. At the old parental home, two married couples have met together in holiday celebration. Alas, that the time of our happy converse should be only one short summer night. On the fifth day of the seventh month went to the Kanasawa Tei, where Harima Daiyu was then reciting and we heard him recite the Joruri called Sanjusangendou. Footnote. The Kanasawa Tei is a public hall in the Yotsuya quarter. Harima Daiyu is the professional name of a celebrated chanter of the dramatic recitations called Joruri and Gidaiyu in which the reciter or chanter mimes the voices in action of many different characters. End footnote. On the first day of the eight month we went to the Buddhist temple of Asakusa, Kwanon, to pray that day being the first anniversary, Ishuki of the death of my husband's former wife. Afterward we went to an eel house near the Asuma bridge for dinner and while we were there just about the hour of noon an earthquake took place. Being close to the river the house rocked very much and I was greatly frightened. Remembering that when we went to Asakusa before in the time of cherry blossoms we had seen a big fire this earthquake made me feel anxious. I wondered whether lightning would come next. Footnote. She alludes to a popular saying of Buddhist origin. Let us go to the land where there is neither earthquake nor fire nor lightning nor any last day of the month nor famine nor sickness. End footnote. About two o'clock we left the eating house and went to the Asakusa park. From there we went by streetcar to Kanda and we stopped a while at a cool place in Kanda to rest ourselves. On our way home we called it Fathers and it was after nine o'clock when we got back. The fifteenth day of the same month was the festival of the Hachiman Jinja and Koto my sister and the younger sister of Koto came to the house. Footnote. Uchigama of the Ushigome district. End footnote. I had hoped that we could all go to the temple together but that morning my husband had taken a little too much wine so we had to go without him. After worshipping at the temple we went to Koto's house and I stopped there a while before returning home. In the ninth month on the occasion of the Higan festival I went alone to the Buddhist temple to pray. Footnote. Higan festival of the further shore that is to say paradise. There are two great Buddhist festivals thus called the first representing a period of seven days during the spring equinox the second a period of seven days during the autumnal equinox. End footnote. On the 21st day of the 10th month Otakasan probably a relative came from Shizuoka. I wanted to take her to the theater the next day but she was obliged to leave Tokyo early in the morning. However my husband and I went to the Ryusei theater on the following evening and we saw the play called Matsumae Bidanteichu Kagami. Footnote. This drama is founded upon the history of a famous rice merchant named Matsumae Ya Gorobei. End footnote. End of chapter 10.