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  After Hōïchi had duly expressed his thanks, a woman's hand conducted him to the entrance of the house, where the same retainer, who had before guided him, was waiting to take him home. The retainer led him to the verandah at the rear of the temple, and there bade him farewell.

  It was almost dawn when Hōïchi returned; but his absence from the temple had not been observed, — as the priest, coming back at a very late hour, had supposed him asleep. During the day Hōïchi was able to take some rest; and he said nothing about his strange adventure. In the middle of the following night the samurai again came for him, and led him to the august assembly, where he gave another recitation with the same success that had attended his previous performance. But during this second visit his absence from the temple was accidentally discovered; and after his return in the morning he was summoned to the presence of the priest, who said to him, in a tone of kindly reproach:—

  "We have been very anxious about you, friend Hōïchi. To go out, blind and alone, at so late an hour, is dangerous. Why did you go without telling us? I could have ordered a servant to accompany you. And where have you been?"

  Hōïchi answered, evasively, —

  "Pardon me, kind friend! I had to attend to some private business; and I could not arrange the matter at any other hour."

  The priest was surprised, rather than pained, by Hōïchi's reticence: he felt it to be unnatural, and suspected something wrong. He feared that the blind lad had been bewitched or deluded by some evil spirits. He did not ask any more questions; but he privately instructed the men-servants of the temple to keep watch upon Hōïchi's movements, and to follow him in case that he should again leave the temple after dark.

  On the very next night, Hōïchi was seen to leave the temple; and the servants immediately lighted their lanterns, and followed after him. But it was a rainy night, and very dark; and before the temple-folks could get to the roadway, Hōïchi had disappeared. Evidently he had walked very fast, — a strange thing, considering his blindness; for the road was in a bad condition. The men hurried through the streets, making inquiries at every house which Hōïchi was accustomed to visit; but nobody could give them any news of him. At last, as they were returning to the temple by way of the shore, they were startled by the sound of a biwa, furiously played, in the cemetery of the Amidaji. Except for some ghostly fires — such as usually flitted there on dark nights — all was blackness in that direction. But the men at once hastened to the cemetery; and there, by the help of their lanterns, they discovered Hōïchi, — sitting alone in the rain before the memorial tomb of Antoku Tennō, making his biwa resound, and loudly chanting the chant of the battle of Dan-no-ura. And behind him, and about him, and everywhere above the tombs, the fires of the dead were burning, like candles. Never before had so great a host of Oni-bi appeared in the sight of mortal man. . . .

  "Hōïchi San! — Hōïchi San!" the servants cried, —" you are bewitched! . . . Hōïchi San!"

  But the blind man did not seem to hear. Strenuously he made his biwa to rattle and ring and clang; — more and more wildly he chanted the chant of the battle of Dan-no-ura. They caught hold of him; — they shouted into his ear, —

  "Hōïchi San! -— Hōïchi San!—come home with us at once! "

  Reprovingly he spoke to them:—

  "To interrupt me in such a manner, before this august assembly, will not be tolerated."

  Whereat, in spite of the weirdness of the thing, the servants could not help laughing. Sure that he had been bewitched, they now seized him, and pulled him up on his feet, and by main force hurried him back to the temple, — where he was immediately relieved of his wet clothes, by order of the priest, and reclad, and made to eat and drink. Then the priest insisted upon a full explanation of his friend's astonishing behavior,

  Hōïchi long hesitated to speak. But at last, finding that his conduct had really alarmed and angered the good priest, he decided to abandon his reserve; and he related everything that had happened from the time of the first visit of the samurai.

  The priest said:—

  "Hōïchi, my poor friend, you are now in great danger! How unfortunate that you did not tell me all this before! Your wonderful skill in music has indeed brought you into strange trouble. By this time you must be aware that you have not been visiting any house whatever, but have been passing your nights in the cemetery, among the tombs of the Heiké; — and it was before the memorial-tomb of Antoku Tennō that our people tonight found you, sitting in the rain. All that you have been imagining was illusion — except the calling of the dead. By once obeying them, you have put yourself in their power. If you obey them again, after what has already occurred, they will tear you in pieces. But they would have destroyed you, sooner or later, in any event. . . . Now I shall not be able to remain with you tonight: I am called away to perform another service. But, before I go, it will be necessary to protect your body by writing holy texts upon it."

  Before sundown the priest and his acolyte stripped Hōïchi: then, with their writing-brushes, they traced upon his breast and back, head and face and neck, limbs and hands and feet, — even upon the soles of his feet, and upon all parts of his body, — the text of the holy sûtra called Hannya-Shin-Kyō.1 When this had been done, the priest instructed Hōïchi, saying:—

  "Tonight, as soon as I go away, you must seat yourself on the verandah, and wait. You will be called. But, whatever may happen, do not answer, and do not move. Say nothing, and sit still — as if meditating. If you stir, or make any noise, you will be torn asunder. Do not get frightened; and do not think of calling for help — because no help could save you. If you do exactly as I tell you, the danger will pass, and you will have nothing more to fear."

  After dark the priest and the acolyte went away; and Hōïchi seated himself on the verandah, according to the instructions given him. He laid his biwa on the planking beside him, and, assuming the attitude of meditation, remained quite still, — taking care not to cough, or to breathe audibly. For hours he stayed thus.

  Then, from the roadway, he heard the steps coming. They passed the gate, crossed the garden, approached the verandah, stopped — directly in front of him.

  "Hōïchi! " the deep voice called. But the blind man held his breath, and sat motionless.

  "Hōïchi!" grimly called the voice a second time. Then a third time — savagely:—

  "Hōïchi!"

  Hōïchi remained as still as a stone,— and the voice grumbled:—

  "No answer! — that won't do! . . . Must see where the fellow is." . . .

  There was a noise of heavy feet mounting upon the verandah. The feet approached deliberately, — halted beside him. Then, for long minutes, — during which Hōïchi felt his whole body shake to the beating of his heart, — there was dead silence.

  At last the gruff voice muttered close to him:—

  "Here is the biwa; but of the biwa-player I see — only two ears I ... So that explains why he did not answer : he had no mouth to answer with — there is nothing left of him but his ears. . . . Now to my lord those ears I will take — in proof that the august commands have been obeyed, so far as was possible" . . .

  At that instant Hōïchi felt his ears gripped by fingers of iron, and torn off! Great as the pain was, he gave no cry. The heavy footfalls receded along the verandah, — descended into the garden, — passed out to the roadway, — ceased. From either side of his head, the blind man felt a thick warm trickling; but he dared not lift his hands. . . .

  Before sunrise the priest came back. He hastened at once to the verandah in the rear, stepped and slipped upon something clammy, and uttered a cry of horror; — for he saw, by the light of his lantern, that the clamminess was blood. But he perceived Hōïchi sitting there, in the attitude of meditation— with the blood still oozing from his wounds.

  "My poor Hōïchi!" cried the startled priest, — "what is this? . . . You have been hurt?" . . .

  At the sound of his friend's voice, the blind man felt safe. He burst out
sobbing, and tearfully told his adventure of the night.

  "Poor, poor Hōïchi!" the priest exclaimed,— "all my fault! — my very grievous fault! . . . Everywhere upon your body the holy texts had been written — except upon your ears! I trusted my acolyte to do that part of the work; and it was very, very wrong of me not to have made sure that he had done it! . . . Well, the matter cannot now be helped; — we can only try to heal your hurts as soon as possible. . . . Cheer up, friend! — the danger is now well over. You will never again be troubled by those visitors."

  With the aid of a good doctor, Hōïchi soon recovered from his injuries. The story of his strange adventure spread far and wide, and soon made him famous. Many noble persons went to Akamagaséki to hear him recite; and large presents of money were given to him, — so that he became a wealthy man. . . . But from the time of his adventure, he was known only by the appellation of Mimi-nashi-Hōïchi: "Hōïchi-the-Earless."

  Footnotes

  1 See my Kottō, for a description of these curious crabs.

  2 Or, Shimonoséki. The town is also known by the name of Bakkan.

  1 The biwa, a kind of four-stringed lute, is chiefly used in musical recitative. Formerly the professional minstrels who recited the Heiké-Monogatari, and other tragical histories, were called biwa-hōshi, or "lute-priests." The origin of this appellation is not clear; but it is possible that it may have been suggested by the fact that "lute-priests," as well as blind shampooers, had their heads shaven, like Buddhist priests. The biwa is played with a kind of plectrum, called bachi, usually made of horn.

  1 A respectful term, signifying the opening of a gate. It was used by samurai when calling to the guards on duty at a lord's gate for admission.

  1 Or the phrase might be rendered, "for the pity of that part is the deepest." The Japanese word for pity in the original text is awaré.

  1 "Traveling incognito" is at least the meaning of the original phrase, — " making a disguised august-journey" (shinobi no go-ryokō).

  1 The Smaller Pragña-Pâramitâ-Hridaya-Sûtra is thus called in Japanese. Both the smaller and larger sûtras called Pragña-Pâramitâ ("Transcendent Wisdom") have been translated by the late Professor Max Müller, and can be found in volume xlix. of the Sacred Books of the East (" Buddhist Mahâyâna Sutras"). — Apropos of the magical use of the text, as described in this story, it is worth remarking that the subject of the sûtra is the Doctrine of the Emptiness of Forms, — that is to say, of the unreal character of all phenomena or noumena. ..."Form is emptiness; and emptiness is form. Emptiness is not different from form; form is not different from emptiness. What is form — that is emptiness. What is emptiness — that is form. . . . Perception, name, concept, and knowledge, are also emptiness. . . . There is no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind . . . But when the envelopment of consciousness has been annihilated, then he [the seeker] becomes free from all fear, and beyond the reach of change, enjoying final Nirvâna."

  OSHIDORI

  OSHIDORI

  THERE was a falconer and hunter, named Sonjō, who lived in the district called Tamura-no-Gō, of the province of Mutsu. One day he went out hunting, and could not find any game. But on his way home, at a place called Akanuma, he perceived a pair of oshidori1 (mandarin-ducks), swimming together in a river that he was about to cross. To kill oshidori is not good; but Sonjō happened to be very hungry, and he shot at the pair. His arrow pierced the male: the female escaped into the rushes of the further shore, and disappeared. Sonjo took the dead bird home, and cooked it.

  That night he dreamed a dreary dream. It seemed to him that a beautiful woman came into his room, and stood by his pillow, and began to weep. So bitterly did she weep that Sonjō felt as if his heart were being torn out while he listened. And the woman cried to him : " Why, — oh! why did you kill him? — of what wrong was he guilty? ... At Akanuma we were so happy together, — and you killed him! . . . What harm did he ever do you? Do you even know what you have done? — oh! do you know what a cruel, what a wicked thing you have done? . . . Me too you have killed, — for I will not live without my husband! . . . Only to tell you this I came." . . . Then again she wept aloud, — so bitterly that the voice of her crying pierced into the marrow of the listener's bones; —and she sobbed out the words of this poem:—

  Hi kururéba

  Sasoëshi mono wo —

  Akanuma no

  Makomo no kuré no

  Hitori-né zo uki!

  ["At the coming of twilight I invited him to return with me—! Now to sleep alone in the shadow of the rushes of Akanuma—ah! what misery unspeakable!"]1

  And after having uttered these verses she exclaimed:— "Ah, you do not know — you cannot know what you have done! But tomorrow, when you go to Akanuma, you will see, — you will see. . . So saying, and weeping very piteously, she went away.

  When Sonjō awoke in the morning, this dream remained so vivid in his mind that he was greatly troubled. He remembered the words:—" But tomorrow, when you go to Akanuma, you will see, — you will see." And he resolved to go there at once, that he might learn whether his dream was anything more than a dream.

  So he went to Akanuma; and there, when he came to the river-bank, he saw the female oshidori swimming alone. In the same moment the bird perceived Sonjō; but, instead of trying to escape, she swam straight towards him, looking at him the while in a strange fixed way. Then, with her beak, she suddenly tore open her own body, and died before the hunter's eyes. . . .

  Sonjō shaved his head, and became a priest.

  Footnote

  1 From ancient time, in the Far East, these birds have been regarded as emblems of conjugal affection.

  1 There is a pathetic double meaning in the third verse; for the syllables composing the proper name Akanuma ("Red Marsh") may also be read as akanu-ma, signifying "the time of our inseparable (or delightful) relation." So the poem can also be thus rendered:—" When the day began to fail, I had invited him to accompany me. .. .! Now, after the time of that happy relation, what misery for the one who must slumber alone in the shadow of the rushes! " — The makomo is a sort of large rush, used for making baskets.

  THE

  STORY

  OF

  O-TEİ

  THE

  STORY

  OF

  O-TEİ

  A LONG time ago, in the town of Niigata, in the province of Echizen, there lived a man called Nagao Chōsei.

  Nagao was the son of a physician, and was educated for his father's profession. At an early age he had been betrothed to a girl called O-Tei, the daughter of one of his father's friends; and both families had agreed that the wedding should take place as soon as Nagao had finished his studies. But the health of O-Tei proved to be weak; and in her fifteenth year she was attacked by a fatal consumption. When she became aware that she must die, she sent for Nagao to bid him farewell.

  As he knelt at her bedside, she said to him:—

  "Nagao-Sama, my betrothed, we were promised to each other from the time of our childhood; and we were to have been married at the end of this year. But now I am going to die; — the gods know what is best for us. If I were able to live for some years longer, I could only continue to be a cause of trouble and grief to others. With this frail body, I could not be a good wife; and therefore even to wish to live, for your sake, would be a very selfish wish. I am quite resigned to die; and I want you to promise that you will not grieve. . . . Besides, I want to tell you that I think we shall meet again." . . .

  "Indeed we shall meet again," Nagao answered earnestly. "And in that Pure Land there will be no pain of separation."

  "Nay, nay!" she responded softly, "I meant not the Pure Land. I believe that we are destined to meet again in this world, — although I shall be buried tomorrow."

  Nagao looked at her wonderingly, and saw her smile at his wonder. She continued, in her gentle, dreamy voice, —

  "Yes, I mean in this world, — in your own present life, Nagao-Sama. . . . Providing, indeed, th
at you wish it. Only, for this thing to happen, I must again be born a girl, and grow up to womanhood. So you would have to wait. Fifteen — sixteen years : that is a long time. . . . But, my promised husband, you are now only nineteen years old." . . .

  Eager to soothe her dying moments, he answered tenderly:—

  "To wait for you, my betrothed, were no less a joy than a duty. We are pledged to each other for the time of seven existences."

  "But you doubt?" she questioned, watching his face.

  "My dear one," he answered," I doubt whether I should be able to know you in another body, under another name, — unless you can tell me of a sign or token."

  "That I cannot do," she said. "Only the Gods and the Buddhas know how and where we shall meet. But I am sure — very, very sure — that, if you be not unwilling to receive me, I shall be able to come back to you. . . . Remember these words of mine." . . .

  She ceased to speak; and her eyes closed. She was dead.

  Nagao had been sincerely attached to O-Tei; and his grief was deep. He had a mortuary tablet made, inscribed with her zokumyō;1 and he placed the tablet in his butsudan2 and every day set offerings before it. He thought a great deal about the strange things that O-Tei had said to him just before her death; and, in the hope of pleasing her spirit, he wrote a solemn promise to wed her if she could ever return to him in another body. This written promise he sealed with his seal, and placed in the butsudan beside the mortuary tablet of O-Tei.