Ancient Tales and Folk-Lore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith (ebook reader android TXT) 📖

at last she promised to marry him if he asked no questions as to her parents or friends. ‘I have none,’ she said. ‘I can only promise to be a good and faithful wife, and tell you that I love you with all my heart and soul. Call me, then, “Higo,” 1 and I will be your wife.’

Next day Heitaro took Higo to his house, and they were married. A son was born to them in a little less than a year, and became their absorbing joy. There was not a moment of their spare time in which either Heitaro or his wife was not playing with the child, whom they called Chiyodō. It is doubtful if a more happy home could have been found in all Japan than the house of Heitaro, with his good wife Higo and their beautiful child.

Alas, where in this world has complete happiness ever been known to last? Even did the gods permit this, the laws of man would not.

When Chiyodō had reached the age of five years—the most beautiful boy in the neighbourhood—the ex-Emperor Toba decided to build in Kyoto an immense temple to Kwannon. He would contribute 1001 images of the Goddess of Mercy. (Now, in 1907, as we said at the beginning, this temple is known as ‘San-jū-san-gen Do,’ and contains 33,333 images.)

The ex-Emperor Toba’s wish having become known, orders were given by the authorities to collect timber for the building of the vast temple; and so it came to pass that the days of the big willow tree were numbered, for it would be wanted, with many others, to form the roof.

Heitaro tried to save the tree again by offering every other he had on his land for nothing; but that was in vain. Even the villagers became anxious to see their willow tree built into the temple. It would bring them good luck, they thought, and in any case be a handsome gift of theirs towards the great temple.

The fatal time arrived. One night, when Heitaro and his wife and child had retired to rest and were sleeping, Heitaro was awakened by the sound of axes chopping. To his astonishment, he found his beloved wife sitting up in her bed, gazing earnestly at him, while tears rolled down her cheeks and she was sobbing bitterly.

‘My dearest husband,’ she said with choking voice, pray listen to what I tell you now, and do not doubt me. This is, unhappily, not a dream. When we married I begged you not to ask me my history, and you have never done so; but I said I would tell you some day if there should be a real occasion to do so. Unhappily, that occasion has now arrived, my dear husband. I am no less a thing than the spirit of the willow tree you loved, and so generously saved six years ago. It was to repay you for this great kindness that I appeared to you in human form under the tree, hoping that I could live with you and make you happy for your whole life. Alas, it cannot be! They are cutting down the willow. How I feel every stroke of their axes! I must return to die, for I am part of it. My heart breaks to think also of leaving my darling child Chiyodō and of his great sorrow when he knows that his mother is no longer in the world. Comfort him, dearest husband! He is old enough and strong enough to be with you now without a mother and yet not suffer. I wish you both long lives of prosperity. Farewell, my dearest! I must be off to the willow, for I hear them striking with their axes harder and harder, and it weakens me each blow they give.’

Heitaro awoke his child just as Higo disappeared, wondering to himself if it were not a dream. No: it was no dream. Chiyodō, awaking, stretched his arms in the direction his mother had gone, crying bitterly and imploring her to come back.

My darling child,’ said Heitaro, ‘she has gone. She cannot come back. Come: let us dress, and go and see her funeral. Your mother was the spirit of the Great Willow.’

A little later, at the break of day, Heitaro took Chiyodō by the hand and led him to the tree. On reaching it they found it down, and already lopped of its branches. The feelings of Heitaro may be well imagined.

Strange! In spite of united efforts, the men were unable to move the stem a single inch towards the river, in which it was to be floated to Kyoto.

On seeing this, Heitaro addressed the men.

‘My friends,’ said he, ‘the dead trunk of the tree which you are trying to move contains the spirit of my wife. Perhaps, if you will allow my little son Chiyodō to help you, it will be more easy for you; and he would like to help in showing his last respects to his mother.’

The woodcutters were fully agreeable, and, much to their astonishment, as Chiyodō came to the back end of the log and pushed it with his little hand, the timber glided easily towards the river, his father singing the while an ‘Uta.’ 1 There is a well-known song or ballad in the ‘Uta’ style said to have sprung from this event; it is sung to the present day by men drawing heavy weights or doing hard labour:—

Muzan naru kana

Motowa kumanono yanagino tsuyu de

Sodate-agetaru kono midorigo wa

Ȳoi, Ȳoi, Ȳoito na! 2

In Wakanoura the labourers sing a working or hauling song, which also is said to have sprung from this story of the ‘Yanagi no Sé’:—

Wakano urani wa meishoga gozaru

Ichini Gongen

Nini Tamatsushima p. 18

Sanni Sagari Matsu

Shini Shiogama

Ȳoi, Ȳoi, ȳoi to na. 1

A third ‘Uta’ sprang from this story, and is often applied to small children helping.

The waggon could not be drawn when it came to the front of Heitaro’s house, so his little five-year-old boy Chiyodō was obliged to help, and they sang:—

Muzan naru kana

Motowa Kumanono yanagino tsuyu de

Sodate-agetaru kono midorigo wa

Ȳoi, ȳoi, ȳoito na. 2

Footnotes

14:1 Meaning goithe or willow.

17:1 Poetical song.

17:2

Is it not sad to see the little fellow,

Who sprang from the dew of the Kumano Willow,

And is thus far budding well?

Heave ho, heave ho, pull hard, my lads.

18:1

There are famous places in Wakanoura

First Gongen

Second Tamatsushima

Third, the pine tree with its hanging branches

Fourth comes Shiogama

Is it not good, good, good?

18:2

Is it not sad to see the little fellow,

Who sprang from the dew of the Kumano Willow,

And is thus far budding well?

Heave ho, heave ho, pull hard, my lads.

4. Shimizutani. The Servants find their Mistress Lying Insensible

III GHOST OF THE VIOLET WELL 1

IN the wild province of Yamato, or very near to its borders, is a beautiful mountain known as Yoshino yama. It is not only known for its abundance of cherry blossom in the spring, but it is also celebrated in relation to more than one bloody battle. In fact, Yoshino might be called the staging-place of historical battles. Many say, when in Yoshino, ‘We are walking on history, because Yoshino itself is history.’ Near Yoshino mountain lay another, known as Tsubosaka; and between them is the Valley of Shimizutani, in which is the Violet Well.

At the approach of spring in this tani 2 the grass assumes a perfect emerald green, while moss grows luxuriantly over rocks and boulders. Towards the end of April great patches of deep-purple wild violets show up in the lower parts of the valley, while up the sides pink and scarlet azaleas grow in a manner which beggars description.

Some thirty years ago a beautiful girl of the age of seventeen, named Shingé, was wending her way up

[paragraph continues] Shimizutani, accompanied by four servants. All were out for a picnic, and all, of course, were in search of wildflowers. O Shingé San was the daughter of a Daimio who lived in the neighbourhood. Every year she was in the habit of having this picnic, and coming to Shimizutani at the end of April to hunt for her favourite flower, the purple violet (sumire).

The five girls, carrying bamboo baskets, were eagerly collecting flowers, enjoying the occupation as only Japanese girls can. They raced in their rivalry to have the prettiest basketful. There not being so many purple violets as were wanted, O Shingé San said, ‘Let us go to the northern end of the valley, where the Violet Well is.’

Naturally the girls assented, and off they all ran, each eager to be there first, laughing as they went.

O Shingé outran the rest, and arrived before any of them; and, espying a huge bunch of her favourite flowers, of the deepest purple and very sweet in smell, she flung herself down, anxious to pick them before the others came. As she stretched out her delicate hand to grasp them—oh, horror!—a great mountain snake raised his head from beneath his shady retreat. So frightened was O Shingé San, she fainted away on the spot.

In the meanwhile the other girls had given up the race, thinking it would please their mistress to arrive first. They picked what they most fancied, chased butterflies, and arrived fully fifteen minutes after O Shingé San had fainted.

On seeing her thus laid out on the grass, a great fear filled them that she was dead, and their alarm increased when they saw a large green snake coiled near her head.

They screamed, as do most girls amid such circumstances; but one of them, Matsu, who did not lose her head so much as the others, threw her basket of flowers at the snake, which, not liking the bombardment, uncoiled himself and slid away, hoping to find a quieter place. Then all four girls bent over their mistress. They rubbed her hands and threw water on her face, but without effect. O Shines beautiful complexion became paler and paler, while her red lips assumed the purplish hue that is a sign of approaching death. The girls were heartbroken. Tears coursed down their faces. They did not know what to do, for they could not carry her. What a terrible state of affairs!

Just at that moment they heard a man’s voice close behind them:

‘Do not be so sad! I can restore the young lady to consciousness if you will allow me.’

They turned, and saw a remarkably handsome youth standing on the grass not ten feet away. He appeared as an angel from Heaven.

Without saying more, the young man approached the prostrate figure of O Shingé, and, taking her hand in his, felt her pulse. None of the servants liked to interfere in this breach of etiquette. He had not asked permission; but his manner was so gentle and sympathetic that they could say nothing.

The stranger examined O Shingé carefully, keeping silence. Having finished, he took out of his pocket a little case of medicine, and, putting some white powder from this into a paper, said:

‘I am a doctor from a neighbouring village, and I have just been to see a patient at the end of the valley. By good fortune I returned this way, and am able to help you and save your mistress’s life. Give her this medicine, while I hunt for and kill the snake.’

O Matsu San forced the medicine, along with a little water, into her mistress’s mouth, and in a few minutes she began to recover.

Shortly after this the doctor returned, carrying the dead snake on a stick.

‘Is this the snake you saw lying by your young mistress?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ they cried: ‘that is the horrible thing.’

‘Then,’