The Romance of the Milky Way by Lafcadio Hearn

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"Ah, the pity of it!" he exclaimed; "I have heard of the cruel fate of
the august Lord Shig['e]hira."

"Ay," responded the aged woman, sobbing as she spoke;--"it was indeed
a cruel fate. His horse, you know, was killed by an arrow, and fell
upon him; and when he called for help, those who had lived upon his
bounty deserted him in his need. Then he was taken prisoner, and sent
to Kamakura, where they treated him shamefully, and at last put him
to death.[74] His wife and child--this dear maid here--were then in
hiding; for everywhere the H['e][:i]k['e] were being sought out and
killed. When the news of the Lord Shig['e]hira's death reached us,
the pain proved too great for the mother to bear, so the child was
left with no one to care for her but me,--since her kindred had all
perished or disappeared. She was only five years old. I had been
her milk-nurse, and I did what I could for her. Year after year we
wandered from place to place, traveling in pilgrim-garb.... But these
tales of grief are ill-timed," exclaimed the nurse, wiping away her
tears;--"pardon the foolish heart of an old woman who cannot forget
the past. See! the little maid whom I fostered has now become a
Him['e]gimi-Sama indeed!--were we living in the good days of the
Emperor Takakura, what a destiny might be reserved for her! However,
she has obtained the husband whom she desired; that is the greatest
happiness.... But the hour is late. The bridal-chamber has been
prepared; and I must now leave you to care for each other until
morning."

[Footnote 74: Shig['e]hira, after a brave fight in defense of the
capital,--then held by the Ta[:i]ra (or H['e][:i]k['e]) party,--was
surprised and routed by Yoshitsun['e], leader of the Minamoto forces.
A soldier named Iy['e]naga, who was a skilled archer, shot down
Shig['e]hira's horse; and Shig['e]hira fell under the struggling
animal. He cried to an attendant to bring another horse; but the man
fled. Shig['e]hira was then captured by Iy['e]naga, and eventually
given up to Yoritomo, head of the Minamoto clan, who caused him to be
sent in a cage to Kamakura. There, after sundry humiliations, he was
treated for a time with consideration,--having been able, by a Chinese
poem, to touch even the cruel heart of Yoritomo. But in the following
year he was executed by request of the Buddhist priests of Nanto,
against whom he had formerly waged war by order of Kiyomori.]

She rose, and sliding back the screens parting the guest-room from
the adjoining chamber, ushered them to their sleeping apartment. Then,
with many words of joy and congratulation, she withdrew; and It[=o]
was left alone with his bride.

As they reposed together, It[=o] said:--

"Tell me, my loved one, when was it that you first wished to have me
for your husband."

(For everything appeared so real that he had almost ceased to think of
the illusion woven around him.)

She answered, in a voice like a dove's voice:--

"My august lord and husband, it was at the temple of Ishiyama, where
I went with my foster-mother, that I saw you for the first time. And
because of seeing you, the world became changed to me from that hour
and moment. But you do not remember, because our meeting was not in
this, your present life: it was very, very long ago. Since that time
you have passed through many deaths and births, and have had many
comely bodies. But I have remained always that which you see me now:
I could not obtain another body, nor enter into another state of
existence, because of my great wish for you. My dear lord and husband,
I have waited for you through many ages of men."

And the bridegroom felt nowise afraid at hearing these strange words,
but desired nothing more in life, or in all his lives to come, than to
feel her arms about him, and to hear the caress of her voice.

* * * * *

But the pealing of a temple-bell proclaimed the coming of dawn. Birds
began to twitter; a morning breeze set all the trees a-whispering.
Suddenly the old nurse pushed apart the sliding screens of the
bridal-chamber, and exclaimed:--

"My children, it is time to separate! By daylight you must not be
together, even for an instant: that were fatal! You must bid each
other good-by."

Without a word, It[=o] made ready to depart. He vaguely understood
the warning uttered, and resigned himself wholly to destiny. His will
belonged to him no more; he desired only to please his shadowy bride.

She placed in his hands a little _suzuri_, or ink-stone, curiously
carved, and said:--

"My young lord and husband is a scholar; therefore this small gift
will probably not be despised by him. It is of strange fashion because
it is old, having been augustly bestowed upon my father by the favor
of the Emperor Takakura. For that reason only, I thought it to be a
precious thing."

It[=o], in return, besought her to accept for a remembrance the
_k[=o]gai_[75] of his sword, which were decorated with inlaid work of
silver and gold, representing plum-flowers and nightingales.

[Footnote 75: This was the name given to a pair of metal rods attached
to a sword-sheath, and used like chop-sticks. They were sometimes
exquisitely ornamented.]

Then the little _miya-dzukai_ came to guide him through the garden,
and his bride with her foster-mother accompanied him to the threshold.

As he turned at the foot of the steps to make his parting salute, the
old woman said:--

"We shall meet again the next Year of the Boar, at the same hour of
the same day of the same month that you came here. This being the Year
of the Tiger, you will have to wait ten years. But, for reasons which
I must not say, we shall not be able to meet again in this place;
we are going to the neighborhood of Ky[=o]to, where the good Emperor
Takakura and our fathers and many of our people are dwelling. All
the H['e][:i]k['e] will be rejoiced by your coming. We shall send a
_kago_[76] for you on the appointed day."

[Footnote 76: A kind of palanquin.]

* * * * *

Above the village the stars were burning as It[=o] passed the gate;
but on reaching the open road he saw the dawn brightening beyond
leagues of silent fields. In his bosom he carried the gift of his
bride. The charm of her voice lingered in his ears,--and nevertheless,
had it not been for the memento which he touched with questioning
fingers, he could have persuaded himself that the memories of the
night were memories of sleep, and that his life still belonged to him.

But the certainty that he had doomed himself evoked no least regret:
he was troubled only by the pain of separation, and the thought of the
seasons that would have to pass before the illusion could be renewed
for him. Ten years!--and every day of those years would seem how long!
The mystery of the delay he could not hope to solve; the secret ways
of the dead are known to the gods alone.

* * * * *

Often and often, in his solitary walks, It[=o] revisited the village
at Kotobikiyama, vaguely hoping to obtain another glimpse of the past.
But never again, by night or by day, was he able to find the rustic
gate in the shadowed lane; never again could he perceive the figure of
the little _miya-dzukai_, walking alone in the sunset-glow.

The village people, whom he questioned carefully, thought him
bewitched. No person of rank, they said, had ever dwelt in the
settlement; and there had never been, in the neighborhood, any such
garden as he described. But there had once been a great Buddhist
temple near the place of which he spoke; and some gravestones of the
temple-cemetery were still to be seen. It[=o] discovered the monuments
in the middle of a dense thicket. They were of an ancient Chinese
form, and were covered with moss and lichens. The characters that had
been cut upon them could no longer be deciphered.

* * * * *

Of his adventure It[=o] spoke to no one. But friends and kindred soon
perceived a great change in his appearance and manner. Day by day he
seemed to become more pale and thin, though physicians declared that
he had no bodily ailment; he looked like a ghost, and moved like
a shadow. Thoughtful and solitary he had always been, but now he
appeared indifferent to everything which had formerly given him
pleasure,--even to those literary studies by means of which he
might have hoped to win distinction. To his mother--who thought that
marriage might quicken his former ambition, and revive his interest in
life--he said that he had made a vow to marry no living woman. And the
months dragged by.

At last came the Year of the Boar, and the season of autumn; but I to
could no longer take the solitary walks that he loved. He could not
even rise from his bed. His life was ebbing, though none could divine
the cause; and he slept so deeply and so long that his sleep was often
mistaken for death.

Out of such a sleep he was startled, one bright evening, by the voice
of a child; and he saw at his bedside the little _miya-dsukai_ who
had guided him, ten years before, to the gate of the vanished garden.
She saluted him, and smiled, and said: "I am bidden to tell you that
you will be received to-night at [:O]hara, near Ky[=o]to, where the
new home is, and that a _kago_ has been sent for you." Then she
disappeared.

It[=o] knew that he was being summoned away from the light of the sun;
but the message so rejoiced him that he found strength to sit up and
call his mother. To her he then for the first time related the story
of his bridal, and he showed her the ink-stone which had been given
him. He asked that it should be placed in his coffin,--and then he
died.

* * * * *

The ink-stone was buried with him. But before the funeral ceremonies
it was examined by experts, who said that it had been made in the
period of _J[=o]-an_(1169 A.D.), and that it bore the seal-mark of an
artist who had lived in the time of the Emperor Takakura.

STRANGER THAN FICTION

It was a perfect West Indian day. My friend the notary and I were
crossing the island by a wonderful road which wound up through tropic
forest to the clouds, and thence looped down again, through gold-green
slopes of cane, and scenery amazing of violet and blue and ghost-gray
peaks, to the roaring coast of the trade winds. All the morning we had
been ascending,--walking after our carriage, most of the time, for the
sake of the brave little mule;--and the sea had been climbing behind
us till it looked like a monstrous wall of blue, pansy-blue, under the
ever heightening horizon. The heat was like the heat of a vapor-bath,
but the air was good to breathe with its tropical odor,--an odor made
up of smells of strange saps, queer spicy scents of mould, exhalations
of aromatic decay. Moreover, the views were glimpses of Paradise; and
it was a joy to watch the torrents roaring down their gorges under
shadows of tree-fern and bamboo.

My friend stopped the carriage before a gateway set into a hedge full
of flowers that looked like pink-and-white butterflies. "I have to
make a call here," he said;--"come in with me." We dismounted, and he
knocked on the gate with the butt of his whip. Within, at the end of
a shady garden, I could see the porch of a planter's house; beyond
were rows of cocoa palms, and glimpses of yellowing cane. Presently
a negro, wearing only a pair of canvas trousers and a great straw
hat, came hobbling to open the gate,--followed by a multitude, an
astonishing multitude, of chippering chickens. Under the shadow of
that huge straw hat I could not see the negro's face; but I noticed
that his limbs and body were strangely shrunken,--looked as if
withered to the bone. A weirder creature I had never beheld; and I
wondered at his following of chickens.

"Eh!" exclaimed the notary, "your chickens are as lively as ever!... I
want to see Madame Floran."

"_Moin k['e] di_," the goblin responded huskily, in his patois; and
he limped on before us, all the chickens hopping and cheeping at his
withered heels.

"That fellow," my friend observed, "was bitten by a _fer-de-lance_
about eight or nine years ago. He got cured, or at least half-cured,
in some extraordinary way; but ever since then he has been a skeleton.
See how he limps!"

The skeleton passed out of sight behind the house, and we waited a
while at the front porch. Then a m['e]tisse--turbaned in wasp colors,
and robed in iris colors, and wonderful to behold--came to tell us
that Madame hoped we would rest ourselves in the garden, as the house
was very warm. Chairs and a little table were then set for us in a
shady place, and the m['e]tisse brought out lemons, sugar-syrup, a
bottle of the clear plantation rum that smells like apple juice, and
ice-cold water in a _dobanne_ of thick red clay. My friend prepared
the refreshments; and then our hostess came to greet us, and to sit
with us,--a nice old lady with hair like newly minted silver. I had
never seen a smile sweeter than that with which she bade us welcome;
and I wondered whether she could ever have been more charming in her
Creole girlhood than she now appeared,--with her kindly wrinkles, and
argent hair, and frank, black, sparkling eyes....

* * * * *

In the conversation that followed I was not able to take part, as
it related only to some question of title. The notary soon arranged
whatever there was to arrange; and, after some charmingly spoken words
of farewell from the gentle lady, we took our departure. Again the
mummified negro hobbled before us, to open the gate,--followed by
all his callow rabble of chickens. As we resumed our places in the
carriage we could still hear the chippering of the creatures, pursuing
after that ancient scarecrow.

"Is it African sorcery?" I queried.... "How does he bewitch those
chickens?"

"Queer--is it not?" the notary responded as we drove away. "That negro
must now be at least eighty years old; and he may live for twenty
years more,--the wretch!"

The tone in which my friend uttered this epithet--_le
miserable!_--somewhat surprised me, as I knew him to be one of the
kindliest men in the world, and singularly free from prejudice. I
suspected that a story was coming, and I waited for it in silence.

"Listen," said the notary, after a pause, during which we left the
plantation well behind us; "that old sorcerer, as you call him, was
born upon the estate, a slave. The estate belonged to M. Floran,--the
husband of the lady whom we visited; and she was a cousin, and the
marriage was a love-match. They had been married about two years when
the revolt occurred (fortunately there were no children),--the black
revolt of eighteen hundred and forty-eight. Several planters were
murdered; and M. Floran was one of the first to be killed. And the old
negro whom we saw to-day--the old sorcerer, as you call him--left the
plantation, and joined the rising: do you understand?"

"Yes," I said; "but he might have done that through fear of the mob."

"Certainly: the other hands did the same. But it was he that killed M.
Floran,--for no reason whatever,--cut him up with a cutlass. M. Floran
was riding home when the attack was made,--about a mile below the
plantation.... Sober, that negro would not have dared to face M.
Floran: the scoundrel was drunk, of course,--raving drunk. Most of
the blacks had been drinking tafia, with dead wasps in it, to give
themselves courage."

"But," I interrupted, "how does it happen that the fellow is still on
the Floran plantation?"

"Wait a moment!... When the military got control of the mob, search
was made everywhere for the murderer of M. Floran; but he could not
be found. He was lying out in the cane,--in M. Floran's cane!--like
a field-rat, like a snake. One morning, while the gendarmes
were still looking for him, he rushed into the house, and
threw himself down in front of Madame, weeping and screaming,
'_A[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e!--moin t['e] tchou['e] y! moin
t['e] tchou['e] y!--a[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e!_' Those were his very
words:--'I killed him! I killed him!' And he begged for mercy. When he
was asked why he killed M. Floran, he cried out that it was the
devil--_diabe-[`a]_--that had made him do it!... Well, Madame forgave
him!"

"But how could she?" I queried.

"Oh, she had always been very religious," my friend
responded,--"sincerely religious. She only said, 'May God pardon me
as I now pardon you!' She made her servants hide the creature and feed
him; and they kept him hidden until the excitement was over. Then she
sent him back to work; and he has been working for her ever since. Of
course he is now too old to be of any use in the field;--he only takes
care of the chickens."

"But how," I persisted, "could the relatives allow Madame to forgive
him?"

"Well, Madame insisted that he was not mentally responsible,--that he
was only a poor fool who had killed without knowing what he was doing;
and she argued that if _she_ could forgive him, others could more
easily do the same. There was a consultation; and the relatives
decided so to arrange matters that Madame could have her own way."

"But why?"

"Because they knew that she found a sort of religious consolation--a
kind of religious comfort--in forgiving the wretch. She imagined that
it was her duty as a Christian, not only to forgive him, but to
take care of him. We thought that she was mistaken,--but we could
understand.... Well, there is an example of what religion can do."...

* * * * *

The surprise of a new fact, or the sudden perception of something
never before imagined, may cause an involuntary smile. Unconsciously
I smiled, while my friend was yet speaking; and the good notary's brow
darkened.

"Ah, you laugh!" he exclaimed,--"you laugh! That is wrong!--that is a
mistake!... But you do not believe: you do not know what it is,--the
true religion,--the real Christianity!"

Earnestly I made answer:--

"Pardon me! I do believe every word of what you have told me. If I
laughed unthinkingly, it was only because I could not help wondering"
...

"At what?" he questioned gravely.

"At the marvelous instinct of that negro."

"Ah, yes!" he returned approvingly. "Yes, the cunning of the animal
it was,--the instinct of the brute!... She was the only person in the
world who could have saved him."

"And he knew it," I ventured to add.

"No--no--no!" my friend emphatically dissented,--"he never could have
known it! He only _felt_ it!... Find me an instinct like that, and I
will show you a brain incapable of any knowledge, any thinking, any
understanding: not the mind of a man, but the brain of a beast!"

A LETTER FROM JAPAN

Tokyo, August 1, 1904.

Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by
the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicad[ae], it is
difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being
carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between
armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the
intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling. This
contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that
began to study Western science only within the recollection of many
persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle
for national existence. It was inevitable, this struggle,--might
perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted. Japan has
boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously the
civilizations of the East and the West,--a medi[ae]val power that,
unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and
to dominate China. For all industrial civilization the contest is one
of vast moment;--for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her
national life. As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing,
the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at
home, little has been written.

To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing
unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record. At the
beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all
non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble
themselves as little as possible about exterior events;--and this
command has been obeyed to the letter. It would be natural to suppose
that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest
had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but
there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or
depression. On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of
public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation
in its victories. Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese
corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of
positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost:
yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement. The
people are following their daily occupations just as they did before
the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres
and flower displays are not less well patronized. The life of
T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the
events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers
are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers. Except
after the news of some great victory,--celebrated with fireworks and
lantern processions,--there are no signs of public emotion; and but
for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing
bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the
war is an evil dream.

Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering--viewless
and voiceless suffering--repressed by that sense of social and
patriotic duty which is Japanese religion. As a seventeen-syllable
poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain
as well as joy:--

G[=o]gwai no
Tabi teki mikata
Gok['e] ga fu[`e].

[_Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and
friends have increased in multitude._]

The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than
Spartan discipline of the race. Anciently the people were trained, not
only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and
to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they
are obedient to that teaching to-day. It would still be thought a
shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for
Emperor and fatherland. The public seem to view the events of the war
as they would watch the scenes of a popular play. They are interested
without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is
particularly shown in various manifestations of the "Play-impulse."
Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual
fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and
novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern
warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or
utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs.

But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful
tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement
than by the mention of ordinary facts,--every-day matters recorded in
the writer's diary.

* * * * *

Never before were the photographers so busy; it is said that they
have not been able to fulfill half of the demands made upon them.
The hundreds of thousands of men sent to the war wished to leave
photographs with their families, and also to take with them portraits
of parents, children, and other beloved persons. The nation was being
photographed during the past six months.

A fact of sociological interest is that photography has added
something new to the poetry of the domestic faith. From the time of
its first introduction, photography became popular in Japan; and none
of those superstitions, which inspire fear of the camera among less
civilized races, offered any obstacle to the rapid development of a
new industry. It is true that there exists some queer-folk beliefs
about photographs,--ideas of mysterious relation between the
sun-picture and the person imaged. For example: if, in the photograph
of a group, one figure appear indistinct or blurred, that is thought
to be an omen of sickness or death. But this superstition has its
industrial value: it has compelled photographers to be careful about
their work,--especially in these days of war, when everybody wants to
have a good clear portrait, because the portrait might be needed for
another purpose than preservation in an album.

During the last twenty years there has gradually come into existence
the custom of placing the photograph of a dead parent, brother,
husband, or child, beside the mortuary tablet kept in the Buddhist
household shrine. For this reason, also, the departing soldier wishes
to leave at home a good likeness of himself.

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