Читать книгу Romances of Old Japan - Anonymous - Страница 5

On the quest of the lost sword Jurobei and his wife left Yedo buoyant with high hope and invincible courage.

The sword, however, was not to be found so easily. Jurobei was untiringly and incessantly on the alert, and week followed week in his fruitless search; however, his ardour was unabated, and firm was his resolution not to return until he could restore the missing treasure upon which the future of his master depended. Possessing no means of support, Jurobei became pirate, robber, and impostor by turns, for the samurai of feudal times considered that all means were justified in the cause of loyalty. The obstacles and difficulties that lay in his path, which might well have daunted weaker spirits, merely served to inflame his passion of duty to still greater enthusiasm.

After many adventures and hairbreadth escapes from the law, the vicissitudes of his search at last brought him to the town of Naniwa (present Osaka) where he halted for a while and found it convenient to rent a tiny house on the outskirts of the town. Here Jurobei met with a man named Izæmon who belonged to the same clan—one of the retainers of the Daimio of Tokushima and colleague of Shusen Sakurai.

Now it happened that an illegitimate half-sister of the Daimio by a serving-woman had sold herself into a house of ill-fame to render assistance to her mother's family which had fallen into a state of great destitution. As proof of her high birth she had in her possession a Kodzuka[1] which had been bestowed on her in infancy by her father, the Daimio. Izæmon, aware of her noble parentage, chivalrously followed her, and in order to redeem the unfortunate woman borrowed a sum of money from a man named Butaroku, who had proved to be a hard-hearted wretch, continually persecuting and harassing Izæmon on account of the debt. Jurobei was distressed by Butaroku's treatment of his clansman, and magnanimously undertook to assume all responsibility himself. The day had come when the bond fell due and the money had to be refunded. Jurobei was well aware that before nightfall he must manage by some way or another to obtain the means to satisfy his avaricious creditor or both himself and Izæmon would be made to suffer for the delay.

At his wit's end he started out in the early morning, leaving his wife, O Yumi, alone.

Shortly after his departure a letter was brought to the house. In those remote days there was, of course, no regular postal service, and only urgent news was transmitted by messengers. The arrival of a letter was, therefore, looked upon as the harbinger of some calamity or as conveying news of great importance. In some trepidation, therefore, O Yumi tore open the communication, only to find that her fears were confirmed. It proved to be a warning from one of Jurobei's followers with the information that the police had discovered the rendezvous of his men—some of whom had been captured while others had managed to escape. The writer, moreover, apprehended that the officers of law were on the track of Jurobei himself, and begged him to lose no time in fleeing to some place of safety. This intelligence sorely troubled O Yumi. "Even though my husband's salary is so trifling yet he is a samurai by birth. The reason why he has fallen so low is because he desires above all things to succeed in restoring the Kunitsugu sword. As a samurai he must be always prepared to sacrifice his life in his master's service if loyalty demands it, but should the misdeeds he has committed during the search be discovered before the sword is found, his long years of fidelity, of exile, of deprivation, of hardship will all have been in vain. It is terrible to contemplate. Not only this, his good qualities will sink into oblivion, and he will be reviled as a robber and a law-breaker even after he is dead. What a deplorable disgrace! He has not done evil because his heart is corrupt—oh, no, no!"

Overcome with these sad reflections, she turned to the corner where stood the little shrine dedicated to Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy and Compassion, and sinking upon her knees she prayed with the earnestness of a last hope, that the holy Kwannon would preserve her husband's life until his mission should be accomplished and the sword safely returned to its princely owner.

As she was kneeling before the shrine there floated into the room from outside the sound of a pilgrim's song chanted in a child's sweet treble.

Fudaraku ya!

Kishi utsu nami ya Mi Kumano no Nachi no oyama ni Hibiku takitsuse. Goddess of Mercy, hail! I call and lo! The beat of surf on shore Suffers a heaven-change To the great cataract's roar On Nachi's holy range In hallowed Kumano.[2]

O Yumi arose from her knees and went out to ascertain who the singer could be. A little girl about nine years of age was standing in the porch. On her shoulders was strapped a pilgrim's pack. Again she sang:

Furusato wo

Harubaru, kokoni kii—Miedera Hana no Miyako mo Chikaku naruran. From home and birth Far ways of earth Forwandered here Kii's holy place A sojourn's space Receives me, ere Anon thy bowers, City of Flowers,[3] (Life's goal) draw near.

When she saw that some one had appeared, her song ceased, and she plaintively added:

"Be kind enough to give alms to a poor little pilgrim."

"My pretty little pilgrim," answered O Yumi, "I will gladly give you some alms," and placing a few coins in a fold of paper she handed it out to her.

"I thank you from my heart!" responded the child in grateful accents. By the manner in which these words were uttered, and in spite of the travel-stained dress and the dust of the road, it was apparent to O Yumi that the little girl before her was no common beggar, but a beautiful and well-born child. Naturally of a fair complexion, her eyes were clear and bright, her dishevelled hair was long and jet black. The hardships of the pilgrimage had left their mark upon the child, she was thin and seemed so weary, that it filled the heart with pity. O Yumi found her thoughts carried back to the infant she had been compelled to leave behind in the old home seven long years before, when she and Jurobei had followed their lord Shusen Sakurai to Yedo.

For some inexplicable reason she felt strangely touched by the plight of the little girl before her, and reflected sadly that her own child—so far away, and deprived at such an early age of her mother's love and care—would now be somewhat of the same age and size as the little pilgrim.

"Dear child," said O Yumi, "I suppose you are travelling with your parents. Tell me what province you came from?"

"My native province is Tokushima of Awa," was the reply.

"What?" exclaimed O Yumi. "Did you say Tokushima? That is where I was born, too! My heart thrills at hearing the beloved name of the place of my birth. And so you are making a pilgrimage with your parents?"

The woman's question was a reasonable one, for a Buddhist pilgrim wanders around from temple to temple all over the country to worship the founder of their faith and patron saints, and it was most unlikely that a child of such tender years should set out alone upon so long and arduous a journey. It was, indeed, a great distance from Tokushima, in the Island of Shikoku, to the town of Naniwa. But the little girl shook her head and answered in forlorn accents:

"No, no. I have not seen my parents for seven years. I have left my home in Awa and come upon this long pilgrimage entirely in the hope of finding them."

On hearing these words O Yumi became agitated in mind. Perchance this child might prove to be her own daughter! Drawing near the little pilgrim and scanning her features eagerly, she asked:

"Why do you go on this pilgrimage to seek your parents? Tell me their names?"

"When I was only two years of age my parents left our native place. I have been brought up entirely by my grandmother. For several months now we have had no news of them, since they followed our lord to Yedo; they seem to have left Yedo, but no one knew whither they went. I am wandering in search of them: my one wish being to look upon their faces if but once again in this life. My father's name is Jurobei of Awa and my mother is called O Yumi."

"What? Your father is Jurobei and your mother O Yumi?" stammered out the astonished parent, greatly taken aback by this statement. "And they parted from you when you were two years of age, and you were brought up by your grandmother?"

Oh! there was no room for doubt. An angel must have guided the wandering footsteps of the little pilgrim, for it was indeed her own little daughter, the sole blossom of her youth and early married life. The more carefully O Yumi regarded the child, the more her memory convinced her that in the young face before her she could trace the baby features so sadly missed for seven long years—and finally her eager eyes detected an undeniable proof of her identity—a tiny mole high up on the child's forehead.

The poor mother was on the verge of bursting into tears and crying out: "Oh, oh! You are indeed my own, O Tsuru!" But with a painful effort she realized what such a disclosure would mean to the child.

"Who knows!" reflected the unhappy woman. "My husband and I may be arrested at any moment. I am indeed prepared for the worst that may befall us—even to be thrown into prison—but if I disclose my identity to O Tsuru, she must inevitably share our misery.[4] It is in the interest of my poor child's welfare that I send her away without revealing the truth which would expose her to untold trouble and disgrace."

In those ancient times the criminal law enacted that innocent children should be implicated in the offences of the parents, and that the same sentence of punishment should cover them also. Love gave clearness to the workings of her mind, and in a moment O Yumi remembered what was threatening them and the inexorable decrees of the law. Involuntarily her arms were extended with the mother's instinct to gather the child to her heart, but she quickly controlled her emotion and did her best to address the little girl in a calm voice:

"Oh, yes, I understand. For one so young you have come a long, long way. It is wonderful that alone and on foot you could traverse such a great and weary distance, and your filial devotion is indeed worthy of praise. If your parents could know of this they would weep for joy. But things are not as we wish in this sad world, life is not as the heart of man desires, alas! You say your father and mother had to leave you, their little babe, for whose sake they would gladly sacrifice their own souls and bodies. My poor child, they must have had some very urgent reason for parting from you in this way. You must not feel injured nor bear them any resentment on that account."

"No, no," replied the little one intelligently, "it would be impious even to dream of such a feeling. Never have I felt resentment even for a single moment against my parents, for it was not their wish or intention to forsake me. But as they left me when I was only a baby I have no recollection of their faces, and whenever I see other children being tended and cherished by their mothers, or at night hushed to rest in their mother's arms, I cannot help envying them. I have longed and prayed ever since I can remember that I might be united to my own mother, and know what it is to be loved and cherished like all the other children! Oh, when I think that I may never see her again, I am very, very sad!"

The lonely child had begun to sob while pouring out the grief that lay so near her heart, and the tears that she could no longer restrain were coursing, porori, porori, down her cheeks.

O Yumi felt as though her heart was well-nigh breaking. Indeed, the woman's anguish at being an impotent witness of the sorrows of her forsaken child was of far greater intensity than the woes of the little girl's narration, yet as she answered, the mother's heart felt as though relentless circumstances had transformed her into a monster of cruelty!

"In this life there is no deeper Karma-relation than that existing between parent and child, yet children frequently lose their parents, or the child sometimes may be taken first. Such is the way of this world. As I said before, the desire of the heart is seldom gratified. You are searching for your parents whose faces you could not even recognize, and of whose whereabouts you are entirely ignorant. All the hardships of this pilgrimage will be endured in vain unless you are able to discover them, which is very improbable. Take my advice. It would be much better for you to give up the search and to return at once to your native province."

"No, no, for the sake of my beloved parents," expostulated the child, "I will devote my whole life to the search for them, if necessary. But of all my hardships in this wandering life the one that afflicts me most is that, as I travel alone, no one will give me a night's lodging, so that I am obliged to sleep either in the fields or on the open mountain-side; indeed, at times I seek an unwilling shelter beneath the eaves of some house, from whence I am often driven away with blows. Whenever I go through these terrible experiences I cannot help thinking that if only my parents were with me I should not be treated in this pitiless way. Oh! some one must tell me where they are! I long to see them ... I long ..." and the poor little vagrant burst out into long wailing sobs.

The distracted mother was torn between love and duty. Oblivious of everything, for one moment she lost her presence of mind and clasped her daughter to her heart.

She was on the point of exclaiming:

"My poor little stray lamb! I cannot let you go! Look at me, I am your own mother! Is it not marvellous that you should have found me?"

But only her lips moved silently, for she did not dare to let the child know the truth. She herself was prepared for any fate however bitter, but the innocent O Tsuru must be shielded from the suffering which would ultimately be the lot of her father and mother as the penalty for breaking the law. Fortified by this resolution, the Spartan mother regained her self-control and managed to repress the overwhelming tide of impulse which almost impelled her, in spite of all, to reveal her identity.

Holding the little form closely to her breast she murmured tenderly:

"I have listened to your story so carefully that your troubles seem to have become mine own, and there are no words to express the sorrow and pity I feel for your forlorn condition. However, 'while there is life there is hope' [inochi atte monodane]. Do not despair, you may some day be united to your parents. If, however, you determine to continue this pilgrimage, the hardships and fatigues you must undergo will inevitably ruin your health. It is far better for you to return to the shelter of your grand-mother's roof than to persist in such a vague search and with so little prospect of success. It may be that before long your parents will return to you, who knows! My advice is good, and I beg you to go back to your home at once, and there patiently await their coming."

Thus O Yumi managed to keep up the pretence of being a stranger, and at the same time to give to her own flesh and blood all the help and comfort that her mother's heart could devise. But nature would not be disguised, and although she knew it not, a passion of love and yearning thrilled in her voice and manner and communicated itself to the child's heart.

"Yes, yes," answered the little creature in appealing tones. "Indeed, I thank you. Seeing you weep for me, I feel as if you were indeed my own mother and I no longer wish to go from here. I pray you to let me stay with you. Since I left my home no one has been so kind to me as you. Do not drive me away. I will promise to do all you bid me if only you will let me stay."

"Do you wish to make me weep with your sad words?" was all that O Yumi could stammer out, her voice broken with agitation. After a moment she added: "As I have already told you, I feel towards you as though you were indeed my own daughter, and I have been wondering if by any means it would be possible to keep you with me. But it cannot be. I am obliged to seem cold-hearted and to send you away, and all that I can tell you is that for your own sake you must not remain here. I hope you fully understand and will return to your home at once."

With these words O Yumi went quickly to an inner room, and taking all the silver money she possessed from her little hoard she offered it to O Tsuru, saying:

"Although you are travelling in this solitary and unprotected state you will always find some one ready to give you a night's lodging if you can offer them money. Take this. It is not much, but receive it as a little token of my sympathy. Make use of it as best you can and return to your native province without delay."

"Your kindness makes me very happy, but as far as money is concerned I have many koban [coins of pure gold used in ancient times], I am going now. Thank you again and again for all your goodness to me," replied O Tsuru in wounded accents, and showing by a gesture that she refused the proffered assistance.

"Even if you have plenty of money—take this in remembrance of our meeting. Oh ... you can never know how sad I am at parting from you, you poor little one!"

O Yumi stooped down and was brushing away the dust which covered the hem of O Tsuru's dress.

"Oh, you must never think that I want to let you go.... Your little face reminds me of one who is the most precious to me in all the world, and whom I may never see again."

Overcome with the passion of mother-love, she enfolded the poor little wayfarer in a close embrace, and the little girl, nestling in the arms of her own mother, thought she was merely a stranger whose pity was evoked by the recital of her sufferings.

Instinct, however, stirred in her heart, and she could not bear the thought of leaving her new-found friend. But since it was impossible for her to stay with this compassionate woman, nothing remained but for her to depart. Slowly and reluctantly she passed out from the porch, again and again wistfully looking back at the kind face, and as O Tsuru resumed her journey down the dusty road she murmured a little prayer:

"Alas! Shall I ever find my parents! I implore thee to grant my petition, O great and merciful Kwannon Sama!" and her tremulous voice grew stronger with the hopefulness of childhood as she chanted the song of the pilgrim.

Chichi haha no

Megumi mo fukahi Kogawa-dera Hotoke no chikai Tanomoshiki Kana. Father-love, mother-love, Theirs is none other love Than in these Courts is mine. Safe at Kogawa's shrine, Yea, Buddha's Vows endure, Verily a refuge sure.

Meanwhile, from the gate, the unhappy mother sadly followed with her eyes the pathetic little figure disappearing on her unknown path into the gathering twilight, while the last glow of sunset faded from the sky. The little song of faith and hope sounded like sardonic mockery in her ears. In anguish she covered her face with her sleeves and sobbed:

"My child—my child—turn back and show me your face once more! As by a miracle her wandering footsteps have been guided to the longed-for haven from far across the sea and the distant mountains. Oh, to have ruthlessly driven her away! What must our Karma-relation have been in previous existences! What retribution is this! What must have been my sin to receive such punishment!"

While these torturing reflections voiced themselves in broken utterance her daughter's shadow had vanished in the gloom, and O Yumi, standing at the gate, felt her grief become unbearable.

Vividly there arose before her mind the bitter pangs of leaving the old home and her baby child, and the misfortunes and poverty which had come upon them ever since Jurobei's discharge; the weariness and disappointment of the months of fruitless search for the lost sword; the homesickness of the exile banished from his own province and his lord's service by cruel circumstances; the disgrace which had now fallen upon her husband; all the accumulated pain of the past hushed to rest by the narcotic necessity of bearing each day's burden and meeting with courage and resource the ever-recurring difficulties and dangers of their hunted life. All these cruel phantom shapes arose to haunt the unhappy woman with renewed poignancy, sharpened by the agony of repression which her mother-love had been enduring for the past hour. Neither the arrow of hope which pierces the looming clouds of the future, nor the shield of resignation, would ever defend her again in this sorrow of sorrows. Suddenly a new resolve stirred her to action. "I can bear this no longer!" she cried frantically. "If we part now we may never meet again. I cannot let her go! From the fate that threatens us there may still be some way of escape. I must find her and bring her back."

Hastily gathering up the lower folds of her kimono she rushed out into the road that wound between the rice-fields and the dark gnarled pines. The evening wind had begun to moan through the heavy branches, and as it tossed them to and fro, to her fevered imagination they seemed to be warning her to retrace her steps and to wave her back with ominous portent. On and on she sped along the lonely road into the shadowy vista beyond which her child had disappeared into the darkness....