Chapter VIII: Act III: opens upon the fine residence of Watanabe Wataru, the husband (2)

"My home is in the next province," she said, as she wiped away the tears with her sleeve. "Just after my father's death this robber entered our house and demanded money of my mother. As she had none to give him he carried me away, intending to sell me into slavery. Soon after he brought me to this house, he was wounded on a marauding expedition, and has since been confined to the house for a month. Thus it is that you find me here still. But he is now recovered and able to go out once more. I implore you to take me with you, otherwise I shall never see my mother again and my fate will be unendurable."

Being of a chivalrous nature Hayashi's heart burned within him at the sad plight of the little maid, and catching her up he fled out of the robber's den into the night.

After some time, when well away from the place, he set her down and they walked steadily all night. By dawn they had crossed the boundary of Koshu and entered the neighbouring province. Once on the high road the district was familiar to the girl and she gladly led the way to her own home.

The delight of the sorrowing mother on finding her kidnapped child restored to her was great and unrestrained. She fell at his feet in a passion of gratitude and thanked him again and again.

In the meantime the rescued girl came to thank her deliverer. Hayashi gazed at her in astonishment. Her appearance had undergone an extraordinary transformation. No longer the forlorn, neglected drudge of the day before, a beautiful girl stood before him. And wonder of wonders! She was the living image of what his lost Tama had been years ago. The tide of the past swept over him with its bitter-sweet memories, leaving him speechless and racked with the storm of his feelings. Not only was the likeness forcibly striking, but he also beheld a little mark, the exact replica of the one he so well remembered on Tama's snowy neck.

He had thought that in the long years of hardship and renunciation of the joys of life the tragic love of his youth lay buried, but the shock of the unmistakable resemblance left him trembling.

In a few minutes he was able to control his emotion and the power of speech returned to him.

"Tell me," he said, turning to the mother, "have you not some relatives in Tokyo? Your daughter is like one whom I knew many years ago, but who is now dead."

The woman regarded him searchingly and after a few moments of this close scrutiny, she inquired:

"Are you not Hayashi who lived in Fukagawa fifteen years ago?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question, which showed that his identity was revealed and that she knew of his past. He did not answer but searched his brain, wondering who the woman could possibly be.

Seeing his embarrassment she continued, now and again wiping the tears from her eyes: "When you came to the house I thought that your voice was in some way quite familiar to me, but you are so disguised in your present garb that at first I could not recall who you were.

"Fifteen years ago I served in the house of the rich timber merchant in Fukagawa and often helped O Tama San[4] to meet you in secret, for I felt great sympathy with you both, and if a day passed without her being able to see you, Oh! she was very unhappy. Her parents were furious at the unwise part I had played and I was summarily dismissed. I returned home and was almost immediately married. Within a year I gave birth to a little daughter. The child bore a striking resemblance to my late mistress and I gave her the name of Jewel in remembrance of the beloved charge I had nursed and tended for so many years. As she grew older not only her face and figure, but her voice and her movements all vividly recalled O Tama San. Is not this an affinity of a previous existence that my child should be saved by you who loved the first Tama?"

Then Hayashi, who had listened with rapt attention to the woman's strange story, asked her the date of the infant's birth.

Marvellous to relate it was the very day and hour, for ever indelibly engraven on his memory, that Tama, his first love, had appeared to him on the bank of the Sumida river in the springtide fifteen years ago.

When he told her of this uncanny meeting the woman said that she believed her daughter, the second Tama, to be the re-incarnation of the first Tama. The apparition he had seen was the spirit of his love who had thus announced her rebirth into the world to him. There could be no doubt of this, for had not Tama told him herself that she was on her way to her old nurse. So strong was the affinity that bound them to each other that it had drawn Tama from the spirit-land back to this earth.

"Remember the old proverb, _the karma-relation is deep_," she added in conclusion.

Later on she besought Hayashi to marry the second Tama, for she believed that only in this way would the soul of the first Tama find rest.

But Hayashi, thinking that the great difference in their present ages was an obstacle to a happy union, refused on the score that he was too old and sad a man to make such a young bride happy. He decided, however, to stay on in the little household for a while, and to give any possible comfort and help to the old nurse whose loyal devotion to her mistress had figured so prominently and fatefully in his past.

Thus several months elapsed, bringing with them great and radical changes in the land. The Restoration came to pass, and the new regime was established with the Emperor instead of the Shogun at the helm of State. Schools were founded all over the country, and amongst many other old institutions the order of the _Komuso_ monks, to which Hayashi belonged, was abolished by an edict of State.

Hayashi, during his stay in the village, had won his way into the hearts of the people and they now begged him to remain as teacher in the new school, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by the classical education he had received from his father. He consented to the proposition which solved the problem of his future, for under the new laws it was forbidden him to return to his old life.

The mayor of the place was also much attracted by Hayashi's superior character and dignity, and learning of the sad and romantic history of his past, and believing, as all Japanese do, in predestined affinities, persuaded him that it was his fate, nay more, a debt he owed to the past, to marry Tama, the second, the re-incarnation of his first love.

The marriage proved a blessed one. The house of Hayashi prospered from that day forth and as children were born to them the joy of their lives was complete.

[Footnote 1: The old name for Tokyo.]

[Footnote 2: _Go_, a game played with black and white counters--more complicated than chess.]

[Footnote 3: The sect was introduced from China in the Kamakura epoch (1200-1400), but it never became popular in the land of its adoption. Under the Tokugawa Government (1700-1850) the _Komuso_ were used as national detectives, but the privileges they enjoyed led to the abuse of the order by bad men, and it was abolished at the time of the Restoration. Later on the edict was rescinded, and these men in their strange headgear may be seen to this day fluting their way about the old city of Kyoto.]

[Footnote 4: In speaking women use the polite forms of speech, whereas men drop them. The "O" is the honorific prefix to a woman's name and "San" or "Sama" is the equivalent of Mr. Mrs. or Miss according to the gender of the name. Nowadays high-class women drop the "O" before their individual names, but add "Ko" after them. For instance, the name O Tama San would now be Tama-Ko San.]

THE LADY OF THE PICTURE

Many years ago, long before the present prosaic era, there lived in Yedo a young man named Toshika. His family belonged to the aristocratic rank of the _hatamoto samurai_, those knights who possessed the right to march to battle directly under the Shogun's flag (_hata_), and his father was a high official in the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Toshika, whose disposition was of a dreamy and indolent nature with scholarly tastes, had no occupation. He took life easily, and when his studies were finished, he went to live at the family villa situated in the suburb of Aoyama.

Toshika was not interested in society, and except for an occasional visit to his home or to his favourite friend, he never went anywhere. Far from the world he spent his days quietly and pleasantly, reading books, tending and watering his flowers, practising the tea-ceremony, and composing poetry and playing on the flute. He was a young man of many accomplishments and studied art. He collected curios and specimens of well-known calligraphy, which all Japanese prize greatly, and he particularly delighted in pictures.

One day a certain friend whom Toshika had not seen for several months, came to call upon him. He had just returned from a visit to the seaport of Nagasaki and knowing the young man's tastes had brought with him, as a present, a Chinese drawing of a beautiful woman, which he begged Toshika to accept.

Toshika was very pleased with this acquisition to his treasures. He examined the painting carefully, and though he could find no signature of the artist, his knowledge of the subject told him that it was probably drawn by the well-known Chinese painter of the _Shin_ era.

It was the portrait of a young woman in the prime of youth, and Toshika felt intuitively that it was a real likeness. The face was one of radiant loveliness, and the longer he gazed at it, the more the charm and fascination of it grew upon him. He carried it to his own room and hung it up in the alcove. Whenever he felt lonely he retired to the solitude of his chamber, and sat for hours before the drawing, looking at it and even addressing it. As the days went by, gradually the picture seemed to glow with life and Toshika began to think of it as a person. He wondered who the original of the portrait could have been, and said that he envied the artist who had been granted the happiness of looking upon her beauty.

Daily the figure seemed more alive and the face more exquisite, and Toshika, as he gazed in rapture upon it, longed to know its history. The haunting pathos of the expression and the speaking wistfulness of the dark soft eyes called to his heart like music and gave him no peace.

Toshika, in fact, became enamoured of the lovely image suspended in the alcove, and as the infatuation grew upon him he placed fresh flowers before it, changing them daily. At night he had his quilts[1] so arranged that the last thing he looked upon before closing his eyes in sleep was the lady of the picture.

Toshika had read many strange stories of the supernatural power of great artists. He knew that they were able to paint the minds of the originals into their portraits, whether of human beings or of creatures, so that through the spiritual force of the merit of their skill the pictures became endowed with life.

As the passion grew upon him the young lover believed that the spirit of the woman whom the portrait represented actually lived in the picture. As this thought formed itself in his mind he fancied that he could see the gentle rise and fall of her breast in breathing, and that her pretty lips, bright as the scarlet pomegranate bud, appeared to move as if about to speak to him.

One evening he was so filled with the sense of the reality of her presence that he sat down and composed a Chinese poem in praise of her beauty.

And the meaning of the high-flown diction ran something like this;

_Thy beauty, sweet, is like the sun-flower:_[2]
_The crescent moon of three nights old thy arched brows:
Thy lips the cherry's dewy petals at flush of dawn:_
_Twin flakes of fresh-fallen snow thy dainty hands._
_Blue-black, as raven's wing, thy clustering hair:_
_And as the sun half peers through rifts of cloud,_
_Gleams through thy robes the wonder of thy form._.
_Thy cheeks' dear freshness do bewilder me,_
_So pure, so delicate, rose-misted ivory:_
_And, like a sharp sword, pierce my breast_
_The glamour of thy dark eyes' messages_.

_Ah, as I gaze upon thy pictured form_
_I feel therein thy spirit is enshrined_,
_Surely thou liv'st and know'st my love for thee!_
_The one who unawares so dear a gift bestowed_
_Was verily the gods' own messenger_
_And sent by Heaven to link our souls in one_.

_'Tis sad that thou wert borne from thine own distant land_
_Far from thy race, and all who cherished thee;_
_Thy heart must lonely pine so far away,_
_In sooth thou need'st a mate to love and cherish thee._

_But sorrow not, my picture love,_
_For Time's care-laden wings will never dim thy brow_
_From poisoned darts of Fate so placidly immune;_
_Anguish and grief will ne'er corrode thy heart,_
_And never will thy beauty suffer change:_
_While earthly beings wither and decay_
_Sickness and care will ever pass thee by,_
_For Art can grant where Love is impotent,_
_And dowers thee with immortality_.

_Ah me! could the high gods but grant the prayer_
_Of my wild heart, and passionate desire!_
_Step down from out thy cloistered niche,_
_Step down from out thy picture on the wall!_
_My soul is thirsting for thy presence fair_
_To crown my days with rapture--be my wife!_
_How swift the winged hours would then pass by_
_In bliss complete, and lovers' ecstasy:_
_My life, dear queen, I dedicate to thee,_
_Ah! make it thus a thousand lives to me!_[3]

Toshika smiled to himself at the wild impossibility of his own chimera. Such a hope as he had breathed to her and to himself belonged to the realm of reverie, and not to the hard world of everyday life. Supposing that beautiful creature to have ever lived and the portrait to be a true likeness of her, she must have died ages ago, long before ever he was born.

However, having written the poem carefully, he placed it above the scroll and read it aloud, apostrophizing the lady of the picture.

It was the delicious season of spring, and Toshika sat with the sliding screens open to the garden. The fragrance of peach blossoms was wafted into the room by the breath of a gentle wind, and as the light of day faded into a soft twilight, over the quiet and secluded scene a crescent moon shed her tender jewel-bright radiance.

Toshika felt unaccountably happy, he could not tell why and sat alone, reading and thinking deep into the night.

Suddenly, in the stillness of the midnight, a rustle behind him in the alcove caused him to turn round quickly.

What was his breathless amazement to see that the picture had actually taken life. The beautiful woman he so much admired detached herself from the paper on which she was depicted, stepped down on to the mats, and came gliding lightly towards him. He scarcely dared to breathe. Nearer and nearer she approached till she knelt opposite to where he sat by his desk. Saluting him she bowed profoundly.

The ravishment of her beauty and her charm held him speechless. He could not but look at her, for she was lovelier than anyone he had ever seen.

At last she spoke, and her voice sounded to him like the low, clear notes of the nightingale warbling in the plum-blossom groves at twilight.

"I have come to thank you for your love and devotion. Such a useless, ugly[4] creature as myself ought not to be so audacious as to appear before you, but the virtue of your poem was irresistible and drew me forth. I was so moved by your sympathy that I felt I must tell you in person of my gratitude for all your care and thought of me. If you really think of me as you have written, let me stay with you always."

Toshika rejoiced greatly when he heard these words. He put out his hand and taking hers said, "Ever since you came here I have loved you dearly. Consent to be my wife and we shall be happy evermore. Tell me your name and who you are and where you come from."

She answered with a smile inexpressibly sweet, while the tears glistened in her eyes.

"My name is Shorei (Little Beauty). My father's name is Sai. He was descended from the famous Kinkei. We lived in China at a place called Kinyo. One day, when I was eighteen years of age, bandits came and made a raid on our village and, with other fair women, carried me away. Thus I was separated from my parents and never saw them more. For many months I was carried from place to place and led a wandering life. Then, alas! who could have foretold it, I was seized by bad men and sold into slavery. The sorrow, the anguish and the horror I suffered in my helpless misery and homesickness you can never know. I longed every hour of the day for some tidings of my parents, for even now, I do not know what became of them. One day an artist came to the house of my captivity and looking at all the women there, he praised my face and described me as the Moon among the Stars. And he painted my picture and showed it to all his friends. In that way I became famous, for everyone talked of my beauty and came to see me. But I could not bear my life, and being delicate, my unhappy lot and the uncertainty of my father's and mother's fate preyed upon my mind, so that I sickened and died in six months. This is the whole of my sad history. And now I have come to your country and to you. This must be because of a predestined affinity between us."

The young man's heart was filled with compassion as he listened to the sorrowful tale of the unfortunate woman, who had told him all her woes.

He felt that he loved her more than ever and that he must make up with his devotion for all the wretchedness she had suffered in the past.

They then began to compose poems together, and Toshika found that Shorei had had a literary education, that she was an adept in calligraphy and every kind of poetical composition. And his heart was filled with a great gladness that he had found a companion after his own heart.

They both became intensely interested in their poetical contest and as they composed they read their compositions aloud in turn, comparing and criticizing each other. At last, while Toshika was in the act of reciting a poem to Shorei, he suddenly awoke and found that he had been dreaming.

Unable to believe that his delightful experiences were but the memories of sleep he turned to the alcove. His cherished picture was hanging there and the lovely figure was limned as usual in living lines upon the paper. Was it all a delusion? As he watched the exquisite face before him, recalling with questioning wonder the events of the evening before, behold! the sweet mouth smiled at him, just as Shorei had smiled in his vision. Impatiently he waited for the darkness, hoping that sleep would again bring Shorei to his side. Night after night she came to him in his dreams, but of his happy adventure he spoke to none. He believed that in some miraculous way the power of poetry had evoked the spirit of the portrait. Centuries ago this ill-fated woman had lived and died an untimely death, and his love led her back to earth through the medium of an artist's skill and his own verse. Six months passed and Toshika desired nothing more in life than to possess Shorei as his bride for all the years to come.

He never dreamed of change, but at last, one night, Shorei came looking very sad. She sat by his desk as was her wont, but instead of conversing or composing she began to weep.

Toshika was very troubled, for he had never seen her in such a mood.

"Tell me," he said anxiously, "What is the matter? Are you not happy with me?"

"Ah, it is not that," answered Shorei, hiding her face in her sleeve and sobbing; "never have I dreamed of such happiness as you have given me. It is because we are so happy that I cannot bear the pain of separation for a single night. But I must now leave you, alas! Our affinity in this world has come to an end."

Toshika could hardly believe her words. He looked at her in great distress as he asked:

"Why must we part? You are my wife and I will never marry any other woman. Tell me why you speak of parting?"

"To-morrow you will understand," she answered mysteriously. "We may meet no more now, but if you do not forget me I may see you again ere long."

Toshika had put out a hand and made as if to detain her, but she had risen and was gliding towards the alcove, and while he imploringly gazed at her she gradually faded from his sight and was gone.

Words cannot describe Toshika's despair. He felt that all the joy of life went with Shorei, and he could not endure the idea of living without her.

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked round the room. He heard the sparrows twittering on the roof, and in the light of dawn, as he thought, the night-lantern's flame dwindled to a fire-fly's spark.

He rose and rolled back the wooden storm-doors which shut the house in completely at night, and found that he had slept late, that the sun was already high in the heavens.

Listlessly he performed his toilet, listlessly he took his meal, and his old servants anxiously went about their work, fearing that their master was ill.

In the afternoon a friend came to call on Toshika. After exchanging the usual formalities on meeting, the visitor suddenly said:

"You are now of an age to marry. Will you not take a bride? I know of a lovely girl who would just suit you, and I have come to consult with you on the matter."

Toshika politely but firmly excused himself. "Do not trouble yourself on my account, I pray you! I have not the slightest intention of marrying any woman at present, thank you," and he shook his head with determination.

The would-be go-between saw from the expression of Toshika's face that there was little hope in pressing his suit that day, so after a few commonplace remarks he took his leave and went home.

No sooner had the friend departed than Toshika's mother arrived. She, as usual, brought many gifts of things that she knew he liked, boxes of his favourite cakes and silk clothes for the spring season. Grateful for all her love and care, he thanked her affectionately and tried to appear bright and cheerful during her visit. But his heart was aching, and he could think of nothing but of the loss of Shorei, wondering if her farewell was final, or whether, as she vaguely hinted, she would come to him again. He said to himself that to hold her in his arms but once again he would gladly give the rest of his life.

His mother noticed his preoccupation and looked at him anxiously many times. At last she dropped her voice and said:

"Toshika, listen to me! Your father and I both think that you have arrived at an age when you ought to marry. You are our eldest son, and before we die we wish to see your son, and to feel sure that the family name will be carried on as it should be. We know of a beautiful girl who will make a perfect wife for you. She is the daughter of an old friend, and her parents are willing to give her to you. We only want your consent to the arrangement of the marriage."

Toshika, as his mother unfolded the object of her visit, understood the meaning of Shorei's warning, and said to himself:

"Ah, this is what Shorei meant--she foresaw my marriage, for she said that to-day I should understand; but she pledged herself at the same time to see me again--it is all very strange!"

Feeling that his fate was come upon him he consented to his mother's proposal.

She returned home delighted. She had had little doubt of her son's conformance to his parents' wishes, for he had always been of a tractable disposition. In anticipation, therefore, of his consent to the marriage, she had already bought the necessary betrothal presents, and the very next day these were exchanged between the two families.

Toshika, in the meantime, watched the picture day by day. This was his only consolation, for Shorei, his beloved, visited him no more in his dreams. His life was desolate without her and his heart yearned for her sweet presence. Had it not been for her promise to come to him again he knew that he would not care to live. He felt, however, that she still loved him and in some way or other would keep her promise to him, and for this waited. Of his approaching marriage he did not dare to think. He was a filial son, and knew that he must fulfil his duty to his parents and to the family.

As the days went by Toshika noticed that the picture lost by degrees its wonderful vitality. Slowly from the face the winning expression and from the figure the tints of life faded out, till at last the drawing became just like an ordinary picture. But he was left no time to pine over the mystery of the change, for a summons from his mother called him home to prepare for the marriage. He found the whole household teeming with the importance of the approaching event. At last the momentous day dawned.

His mother, proud of the product of her looms, set out in array his wedding robes, handwoven by herself. He donned them as in a dream, and then received the congratulations of his relatives and retainers and servants.

In those old days the bride and bridegroom never saw each other till the wedding ceremony. When the bride was led into the room and seated opposite Toshika, what was his bewildering delight to see that she was no stranger but the lady-love of his picture, the very same woman he had already taken to wife in his dream life.

And yet she was not quite the same, for when Toshika, a few days later, joyfully led her to his own home and compared her with the portrait, she was even ten times more beautiful.

[Footnote 1: The floor of the Japanese room is padded with special grass mats over two inches thick. On these the bed quilts are laid out at night and packed away in cupboards in the daytime.]

[Footnote 2: _Prumus Umé_, or Plum blossom, the Japanese symbol of womanly virtue and beauty.]

[Footnote 3: Rendered into English verse by my friend, Countess Iso-ko-Mutsu.]

[Footnote 4: It is a Japanese custom for a woman to speak thus depreciatingly of herself.]

URSATO, OR THE CROWN OF DAWN

THE POSITION AT THE OPENING OF THE STORY

Urasato and Tokijiro are lovers. The child, Midori, is born of this _liaison_. Tokijiro is a _samurai_ in the service of a Daimyo, and has charge of his lord's treasure department. He is a careless young man of a wild-oat-sowing disposition, and while entirely absorbed in this love affair with Urasato, a valuable _kakemono_, one of the Daimyo's heirlooms, is stolen. The loss is discovered and Tokijiro, who is held responsible, dismissed.

To give Tokijiro the means of livelihood so that he may pursue the quest of the lost treasure, Urasato sells herself to a house of ill-fame, the Yamana-Ya by name, taking with her the child Midori, who is ignorant of her parentage. Kambei, the knave of a proprietor, is evidently a curio collector, and it is to be gathered from the context that the unfortunate young couple have some suspicion--afterwards justified--that by some means or other he has obtained possession of the _kakemono_--hence Urasato's choice of that particular house.

Tokijiro's one idea is to rescue Urasato, to whom he is devoted, but for lack of money he cannot visit her openly, and Kambei, seeing in him an unprofitable customer, and uneasy about the picture, for which he knows Tokijiro to be searching, forbade him the house, and persecutes Urasato and Midori to find out his whereabouts, in order, probably, that he may have him quietly put out of the way.

As in all these old love stories the hero is depicted as a weak character, for love of women was supposed to have an effeminizing and debasing effect on men and was greatly discouraged among the _samurai_ by the feudal Daimyo of the martial provinces. On the other hand, the woman, though lost, having cast herself on the altar of what she considers her duty--the Moloch of Japan--often rises to sublime heights of heroism and self-abnegation, a paradox only found, it is said, in these social conditions of Japan. Urasato reminds one of the beautiful simile of the lotus that raises its head of dazzling bloom out of the slime of the pond--so tender are her sentiments, so strong and so faithful in character is she, in the midst of misery and horror.

This recitation, freely rendered into English from the chanted drama, tells the story of Urasato's incarceration, of the lover's stolen interviews, of the inadvertent finding of the picture, and of Urasato's and Midori's final escape from the dread Yamana-Ya.

URSATO, OR THE CROW OF DAWN[1]

The darkness was falling with the tender luminosity of an eastern twilight over the house; the sky was softly clouding, and a gentle wind sprang up and sighed through the pine-trees like a lullaby--the hush that comes at the end of the day with its promise of rest was over all the world, but in spite of the peaceful aspect of nature and of her surroundings, Urasato, as she came from her bath robed in _crêpe_ and silken daintiness, felt very unhappy. To her world the night brought no peace or rest, only accumulated wretchedness and woe.

Midori, her little handmaid, followed her fair mistress upstairs, and as Urasato languidly pushed open the sliding screens of her room and sank upon the mats, Midori fetched the tobacco tray with its tiny lacquer chest and miniature brazier all aglow, and placed it by her side.

Urasato took up her little pipe, and with the weed of forgetfulness lulled for a while the pain of longing and loneliness which filled her heart. As she put the tobacco in the tiny pipe-bowl and smoked it in one or two whiffs and then refilled it again, the tap, tap of the pipe on the tray as she emptied the ashes were the only sounds, interluded with sighs that broke the stillness. "Kachi," "Kachi," "Kachi" sounded the little pipe.

Tokijiro, waiting hopelessly outside the fence in the cold, could not so forget his misery. He kept in the shadow so as not to be seen by the other inmates of the house, for if he were discovered he would lose all chance of seeing Urasato that evening and, perhaps, for ever. What might happen if these secret visits were discovered he dared not think. To catch one glimpse of her he loved he had come far through the snow, and after losing his way and wandering about for hours, he now found himself outside the house, and waited, tired and cold and miserable, by the bamboo fence.

"Life," said Tokijiro, speaking to himself, "is full of change like a running stream. Some time ago I lost one of my lord's treasures, an old and valuable _kakemono_ of a drawing of a _garyobai_ (a plum-tree trained in the shape of a dragon). I ought to have taken more care of the property entrusted to me. I was accused of carelessness and dismissed. Secretly I am searching for it, but till now I have found no clue of the picture. I have even brought my troubles to Urasato, and made her unhappy about the lost treasure. Alas! I cannot bear to live longer. If I cannot see Urasato I will at least look upon little Midori's face once more and then take leave of this life for ever. The more I think, the more our mutual vows seem hopeless. My love for this imprisoned flower has become deeper and deeper, and now, alas! I cannot see her more. Such is this world of pain!"

While Tokijiro thus soliloquized outside in the snow, Urasato in the room was speaking to her child-attendant, Midori.

"Midori, tell me, are you sure no one saw my letter to Toki Sama yesterday?"

"You need have no anxiety about that, I gave it myself to Toki Sama,"[2] answered Midori.

"Hush," said Urasato, "you must not talk so loudly--some one might overhear you!"

"All right," whispered the little girl, obediently. Leaving Urasato's side she walked over to the balcony and looking down into the garden she caught sight of Tokijiro standing outside the fence.

"There, there!" exclaimed Midori, "there is Toki Sama outside the fence."

When Urasato heard these words joy filled her breast, a smile spread over her sad face, her languor vanished, and rising quickly from her seat on the mats, she glided to the balcony and placing her hands on the rail leaned far out so that she could see Tokijiro.

"Oh! Tokijiro San," she exclaimed, "you have come again at last, how glad I am to see you!"

Tokijiro, on hearing her voice calling him, looked up through the pine branches and the tears sprang to his eyes at sight of her, for into the depths of love their hearts sank always deeper and the two were fettered each to each with that bond of illusion which is stronger than the threat of hell or the promise of heaven.

"Oh!" said Urasato, sadly, "what can I have done in a former life that this should be insupportable without the sight of you? The desire to see you only increases in the darkness of love. At first, a tenderness, it spread through my whole being, and now I love--I love. The things I would tell you are as great in number as the teeth of my comb, but I cannot say them to you at this distance. When you are absent I must sleep alone, instead of your arm my hand the only pillow, while my pillow is wet with tears longing for you,--if only it were the pillow of _Kantan_[3] I could at least dream that you were by my side. Poor comfort 'tis for love to live on dreams!"

As she spoke, Urasato leaned far out over the balcony, the picture of youth, grace and beauty, her figure supple and fragile as a willow branch wafted to and fro by a summer breeze, and about her an air of the wistful sadness of the rains of early spring.

"Oh! Urasato!" said Tokijiro, sadly, "the longer I stay here the worse it will be for you. If we are discovered not only you, but Midori also will be punished, and as she does not know all how unhappy she will be, and what will you do then. Oh! misery!"

Urasato, overcome with the bitterness of their troubles and the hopelessness of their situation, and as if to shield Midori, impulsively drew the child to her and, embracing her with tenderness, burst into tears.

The sound of footsteps suddenly startled them both. Urasato straightened herself quickly, pushed the child from her, and wiped away her tears. Midori, always clever and quick-witted, rolled a piece of paper into a ball and threw it quickly over the fence. It was a pre-arranged signal of danger. Tokijiro understood and hid himself out of sight. The screen of the room was pushed aside and not the dreaded proprietor nor his shrew of a wife, but the kindly and indispensable hair-dresser, O[4] Tatsu, appeared.

"Oh, courtezan," said the woman, "I fear that I have kept you waiting. I wanted to come earlier, but I had so many customers that I could not get away before. As soon as I could do so I left and came to you ... but, Urasato Sama, what is the matter? You have a very troubled face and your eyes are wet with tears ... are you ill? Look here, Midori, you must take better care of her and give her some medicine."

"I wanted her to take some medicine," said Midori, "but she said she would not."

"I have always disliked medicine and, as Midori tells you, I refused to take any. I don't feel well to-day, O Tatsu. I don't know why, but I don't even wish to have the comb put through my hair--so I won't have my hair dressed now, O Tatsu, thank you."

"Oh," answered O Tatsu, "that is a pity--your hair needs putting straight--it is very untidy at the sides; let me comb it back and you will then feel better yourself, too--"

"O Tatsu," said Urasato, hopelessly; "you say so, but--even if the gloom that weighs down my spirit were lifted and my hair done up and put straight both would fall again, and knowing this, I am unhappy."

"Oh," replied O Tatsu, "the loosened hair-knot which troubles you is my work--come to the dressing-table ... come!"

Urasato could not well refuse the kindly woman and reluctantly allowed herself to be persuaded. She sat down in front of the mirror, but her heart was outside the fence with Tokijiro, and to wait till the woman had done her work was a torture to her.

"Listen to me," said O Tatsu, as she took her stand behind Urasato and with deft fingers put the disordered coiffure to rights, "people cannot understand the feelings of others unless they have themselves suffered the same conditions. Even I, in past times, was not quite as I am now. It seems foolish to speak of it, but I always feel for you. If you deign to listen to me I will tell you my story. Even such an ugly woman as I am--there is a proverb you know, that says 'Even a devil at eighteen is fascinating' (_oni mo juhachi_)--has had her day, and so there was someone who loved even me, and he is now my husband," and O Tatsu laughed softly, "ho-ho-ho." "Well, we plighted our vows and loved more and more deeply. At last he was in need of money and came to borrow of me, saying 'Lend me two _bu!_'[5] or 'Lend me three _bu!_' using me in those days only as his money-box. It must have been because our fate was determined in our previous life that I did not give him up. I let things go because I loved him. Youth does not come twice in a life-time. He was in great distress and I sold all my clothes to help him till my _tansu_[6] were empty, and then I filled them with his love letters. Things came to such a pass that we thought of committing suicide together. But a friend who knew what we were about to do stopped us, and so we are alive to this day. But things have changed since then, and now, when there is some small trouble, my husband tells me he will divorce me, and there are times when I feel I hate him and don't want to work for him any more. There is a proverb that 'the love of a thousand years can grow cold,' and it is true. Experience has taught me this."

"O Tatsu Sama," answered Urasato, "in spite of all you say, I have no one to love me in this wide world, such an unfortunate creature as I am, so devotedly as you loved him."

"You may think thus now," said O Tatsu, "for you have reached the age of love's prime. I know that people in love's despair often cut short their own lives, but while you have Midori to think of you cannot, you must not, commit suicide. Duty and love exist only while there is life. Oh dear, I have talked so much and so earnestly that I have forgotten to put in the _tsuto-naoshi_," and with the last finishing touches O Tatsu put in the pincer-like clasp which holds together the stray hair at the nape of the neck.

Urasato's eyes were dry, though her heart was full of sympathy and sorrow as she listened to O Tatsu's kind words of sympathy, and as a bedimmed mirror so was her soul clouded with grief. Midori, touched by the sad conversation, dropped tears as she flitted about over the mats, putting away the comb box here and a cushion straight there.

"Well," said O Tatsu, as she bowed to the ground and took her leave, "I am going yonder to the house of Adzumaya, good-bye!" and with these words she glided down the stairs and went out by the side door. Looking back as she did so, she called to Midori:

"Look here, Midori, I am going out by the side gate instead of by the kitchen--will you please fasten it after me." With these words she seized the astonished Tokijiro, who was hiding in the shadow, pushed him inside and shut the gate (_pattari_) with a snap. With an unmoved face as if nothing unusual had occurred, O Tatsu put up her umbrella, for snow had begun to fall, lighted her little lantern and pattered away across the grounds without once looking back.

Thus, through the compassionate help of another, Tokijiro was at last enabled to enter the house. He ran upstairs quickly, and entering the room, caught hold of Urasato's hand.

"Urasato! I cannot bear our lot any longer. I cannot bear to live away from you--at last I am able to tell you how I long to die with you since we cannot belong to each other any longer. But if we die together thus, what will become of poor little Midori. What misery--oh, what misery! No--no--I have it; you shall not die--I alone will die; but oh! Urasato, pray for the repose of my soul!"

"That would be too pitiless," said Urasato, while the tears fell like rain from her eyes, "if you die to-night what will become of our faithful little Midori and myself left behind? Let parents and child take hands to-night and cross the river of death together. We will not separate now, oh, no--no! Oh! Tokijiro San! you are too cruel to leave us behind."

Some one was now heard calling from below.

"Urasato Sama! Urasato Sama!" said a loud harsh voice, "come downstairs--you are wanted quickly, quickly--come!"

Then the sound of a woman's feet as she began to ascend the stairs reached the three inmates of the room.

Urasato's heart beat wildly and then seemed to stop with fright. Quick as a flash of lightning she hid Tokijiro in the _kotatsu_[7] and Midori, with her usual quick-wittedness, fetched the quilt and covered him over. Then she glided to the other side of the room. All this was the work of a moment.

"O Kaya San," said Urasato, "what is the matter? What are you making such a fuss about? What do you want with me now?"

"Oh! Urasato," answered the woman as she entered the room, "you pretend not to know why I call you. The master has sent for you--Midori is to come with you--such is his order!"

Urasato made no answer, but followed O Kaya, who had come to fetch her. Anxiety for Tokijiro hidden in the _kotatsu_, and fear concerning what the sudden summons might mean made her heart beat so that she knew not what to do. Both she and Midori felt that the woman was like a torturing devil driving them along so much against their will--they seemed to feel her fierce eyes piercing them through from behind.

O Kaya led them across the garden to another part of the house. The soft twilight had been succeeded by a dreary night. It was February and the night wind blew sharp and chill--the last snow of winter weighed down the bamboos; while, like an emblem of courage and strength in the midst of adversity, the odour of early plum blossoms hung upon the air. Overcome with anxiety, Urasato felt only the chill, and fear of the night spread through her whole being. She started and shivered when behind her Midori's clogs began to echo shrilly, like the voices of malicious wood-sprites in the trees laughing in derision at her plight. Her heart grew thin with pain and foreboding. "Karakong," "karakong," sounded the clogs, as they scraped along. "Ho, ho, ho!" mocked the echoing sprites from the bamboo wood.

They reached the veranda of the house on the other side of the quadrangle. O Kaya pushed open the _shoji_ disclosing the grizzled-headed master, Kambei, seated beside the charcoal brazier looking fierce and angry. When Urasato and Midori saw him, their heart and soul went out with fear as a light in a sudden blast.

Urasato, however, calmed herself, and sitting down outside the room on the veranda, put her hands to the floor and bowed over them. The master turned and glared at her.

"Look here, Urasato," said he, "I have nothing but this to ask you. Has that young rascal Tokijiro asked you for anything out of this house--tell me at once--is such the case? I have heard so--tell me the truth!"

Urasato, frightened as she was, controlled herself and answered quietly:

"Such are the master's honourable words, but I have no remembrance of anyone asking me for anything whatsoever."

"Um," said the master, "I shan't get it out of you so easily I see," then turning to O Kaya, he said, "Here, O Kaya, do as I told you--tie her up to the tree in the garden and beat her till she confesses."

O Kaya rose from the mats and catching hold of the weeping Urasato dragged her up and untied and pulled off her girdle. The woman then carried the slender girl into the garden and bound her up with rope to a rough-barked, snow-covered pine-tree, which happened to be just opposite Urasato's room. O Kaya, lifting a bamboo broom threateningly, said, "Sa! Urasato, you won't be able to endure this--therefore make a true confession and save yourself. How can you be faithful to such a ghost of a rascal as Tokijiro? I have warned you many times, but in spite of all advice you still continue to meet him in secret. Your punishment has come at last--but it is not my fault, so please do not bear me any resentment. I have constantly asked the master to pardon you. To-night, out of pity, I begged him to let you off, but he would not listen. There is no help for it, I must obey my orders. Come, confess before you are beaten!"

So O Kaya scolded and entreated Urasato; but Urasato made no reply--she only wept and sobbed in silence.

"You are an obstinate girl!" said O Kaya, and she lifted the broom to strike.

Midori now rushed forward in an agony of distress and tried to ward off the blow about to fall on her beloved mistress. O Kaya flung the child away with her left arm, and bringing the broom down, began to beat Urasato mercilessly till her dress was disarranged and her hair fell down in disorder about her shoulders.

Midori could bear the sight no longer. She became frantic, and running to the wretched Kambei, lifted praying hands to him: then back again she darted to catch hold of O Kaya's dress, crying out to both: "Please, forgive her; oh, please, forgive her! Don't beat her so, I implore you!"

O Kaya, now fully exasperated, seized the sobbing child.

"I will punish you too," and tied Midori's hands behind her back.

Tokijiro, looking down from the balcony of Urasato's room, had been a distraught and helpless spectator of the whole scene of cruelty in the garden. He could now no longer restrain himself and was about to jump over the balcony to the rescue. But Urasato happened at that moment to look up and saw what he intended doing. She shook her head and managed to say, unheard by the others:

"Ah! this, for you to come out, no, no, no!"

Then, as O Kaya came back from tying up Midori, she quickly added to her, "No, I mean you who have tied up Midori, you must be pitying her, you must be, O Kaya San--but in the presence of the master for that reason it won't do! It won't do!" and here she spoke, purposely, incoherently to O Kaya, while she signed to Tokijiro with her eyes that he must not come out--that her words were meant for him under cover of being addressed to O Kaya.

Tokijiro knew that he could do nothing--he was utterly powerless to help Urasato, and if he obeyed his first impulse and jumped down into the garden he would only make matters a thousand times worse than they were, so he went back to the _kotatsu_, and bit the quilt and wept with impotent rage.

"She is suffering all this for my sake--oh! Urasato! oh! oh! oh!"

Kambei had now reached Urasato's side, and catching hold of her by the hair, said in a big voice, "Does not your heart tell you why you are so chastized? It is ridiculous that Tokijiro should come in search of the _kakemono_ that was entrusted to me. Ha! you look surprised. You see I know all. Look! Isn't the picture hanging there in my room? I allow no one so much as to point a finger at it--Sa! Urasato, I am sure Tokijiro asked you to get him that--come--speak the truth now?"

"I have never been asked to steal any such thing," answered Urasato, sobbing.

"Oh, you obstinate woman--will nothing make you confess? Here, Midori--where is Tokijiro? Tell me that first?"

"I don't know," answered Midori.

"There is no reason why Midori should know what you ask," said Urasato, trying to shield the child.

"Midori is always with you," said Kambei--"and she must know," and turning to Midori he struck her, saying: "Now confess--where is Tokijiro hiding now?"

"Oh, oh, you hurt me," cried the child.

"Well, confess then," said the cruel man, "then I won't hurt you any more!"

"Oh ... Urasato," cried Midori, turning to her--"entreat the master to pardon me--if he kills me, before I die I can never meet my father whom I have never seen."

Tokijiro, upstairs in the balcony, heard all that was going on and murmured:

"That is, indeed, natural, poor child."

But Kambei, unaware that he was heard and seen, beat the child again and again.

"I can't make out what you say, little creature," he screamed with rage. "You shall feel the weight of this _tekki_[8] then we shall see if you will still not answer what is asked you."

Under this hell-like torture Midori could scarcely breathe. The poor child tried to crawl away, but as she was bound with rope, she was unable to do so.

The cruel man once more caught hold of her roughly by the shoulder and began to beat her again. At last the child gave a great cry of pain, lost consciousness, and fell back as though dead.

Kambei was now alarmed at what he had done, for he had no intention of killing the child--only of making her tell him where Tokijiro was living or hiding. He stopped beating her and stood on one side, angry enough at being thwarted by Urasato and Midori.

Urasato raised her head and moaned to herself as she looked at the prostrate child.

"I am really responsible for the child's suffering," she said to herself--"my sin is the cause of it all; forgive me, my child--you know it not, but I am your mother; and although you are only a child you have understood and helped me. You saw that I was in love and always anxious about my lover. This is from a fault in your former life that you have such a mother--ah! this is all, alas, fruit of our sins in another existence," and Urasato's tears flowed so fast that, like spring rain, they melted the snow upon which they fell.

O Kaya now came up to her, saying,