by Donald Keene
"No, no, she's going to lend her to me," said Yaji.
"What an idea!" cried Kita. "You'd better try and be good tonight. Haven't you any pity for your dead wife who spends her time in thinking of you and hoping you will join her quickly? Didn't she say she'd come and meet you after a bit?"
"Here, don't talk about that," said Yaji. "What should I do if she did come to meet me?"
"Then you had better be good," said Kita. "Now, old lady, what do you think?"
Kita here gave the young witch a loving caress, but she pushed him off and ran away, saying "Be quiet."
"If my daughter doesn't want to," said the mother, "what about me?"
"Well, if it comes to that I don't care who it is," said Kita, who was lost in a drunken dream.
While they were talking the supper was brought in and there was a good deal of joking too tedious to repeat, and finally Yaji and Kita, the effects of the saké having already passed off, went back into their own room where, as soon as it was dark, they went to bed. In the next room also the witches were apparently going to bed, worn out by their travels.
"That young witch is sleeping on this side, I know," said Kita in a low voice. "I'll creep in to her after a bit. Yaji, you'd better go to sleep."
"Get out," said Yaji. "I'm going to be the one to get her."
"Isn't he bold?" said Kita. "It would make a cat laugh."
Thus talking they crept into bed and fell asleep. It was already about nine o'clock, and the night watchman's rattle, as he went round the inn, echoed through the pillows of the travelers. In the kitchen the sound of the preparations for the next morning's meal had died away, and all that could be heard was the barking of the dogs. It was just when night was at its darkest and eeriest that Kitahachi decided the time was right to creep out of bed and peep into the next room. The night light had gone out, and he felt his way in very softly and crept into the bed where he thought the young witch was sleeping. To his surprise the witch, without saying anything, caught hold of his hand and pulled him in. Delighted with his reception, Kitahachi sank down under the coverlet with her arm for a pillow and soon realized his desire, after which they both fell asleep quite unconscious of their surroundings.
Yajirobei, who was thus left sleeping alone, soon opened his eyes. "I wonder what time it is," he muttered. "I must go to the toilet. It's so dark I can't see the way."
Thus pretending that he was going to the toilet he crept into the next room, quite unaware of the fact that Kitahachi was already in there. Feeling about, he came to the side of the bed where Kita was lying, and thinking in the darkness that it was the young witch's lips from which moans were coming, he put his lips to those of Kitahachi and took a bite.
"Oh! Oh!" yelled Kitahachi.
"Halloa! Is that you, Kitahachi?" said Yaji.
"Oh, it's Yaji, is it?" said Kita. "Ugh! Ugh! How beastly!" and he began spitting.
At the sound of their voices the witch into whose bed Kita had crept woke up.
"What are you doing?" she said. "Don't make such a noise. You'll wake my daughter up."
This was another surprise for Kita, for it was the old witch's voice. Cursing himself for his stupidity he got out of the bed and crept away softly into the next room. Yaji was going to do the same when the old witch caught hold of him.
"You mustn't make a fool of an old woman by running away," she said.
"No, no," stuttered Yaji. "You've made a mistake. It wasn't me."
"You mustn't try to deceive me," said the old woman. "I don't make a regular business of this, but when I meet a traveler on the road and sleep with him I like to get a little just to help me along. It's a shame to make a fool of me by running away. There, just go to sleep in my bosom till dawn."
"What a nuisance you are," said Yaji. "Here, Kitahachi, Kita-hachi."
"Take care," said the old woman. "You mustn't call so loud."
"But I don't know anything about it," said Yaji. "It's that Kitahachi that's got me into all this mess."
Thus saying Yaji struggled out of her grasp, only to be caught again and thrown down. But at last, after a good deal of kicking, he managed to get away into the next room, where he repeated to himself
"By stealth I entered, witch's love to earn,
But which was witch I could not well discern."
TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SATCHELL
Footnote
1 A Buddhist protecting god, known for his swiftness.
SHINO AND HAMAJI
[Hakkenden, xxv] by Takizawa Bakin
The commanding literary figure in Japan during the first half of the nineteenth century was B akin (1767-1848). His novels were widely read and extravagantly admired. He wrote in several distinct genres; of these his didactic works (yomihon), in which he sought to "encourage virtue and chastise vice," were the most important if not the most popular. His greatest work, "The Biographies of Eight Dogs" (Satomi Hakkenden, 1814-1841) is an immensely long novel telling of the exploits of eight heroes who have the same noble dog as their spiritual ancestor. Each of them symbolizes a virtue: the first, Shino, stands for "filial piety."
The number of readers of the "Eight Dogs" is dwindling, but those who peruse its pages will probably be held by the story, however fantastic it may be, and will be rewarded by episodes such as the one given here. Shino is being sent away from home by his wicked aunt and uncle (the foster parents of Hamaji) so that they can find a more desirable son-in-law. Shino suspects this, but his desire to restore his family fortunes (impelled by filial piety) causes him to leave the woman to whom he is engaged.
Shino had gone to bed, but could not sleep in his impatience for the dawn. His head was filled with thoughts about the future. He realized that he was alone, that there was no one to stop him from leaving, but he could not help feeling unhappy that he was now to go far from the graves of his parents and the place where he was born. Hamaji, who regretted his departure no less than he, slipped out of bed and, taking care lest her parents now snoring in the back room should waken, those parents toward whom she felt a resentment she could not voice, she soundlessly stepped over the threshold of the barrier of her maiden reserve, which had hitherto kept her from going to Shino. Her knees trembled, and she could scarcely walk. How dreary, sad, bitter, and hateful the inconstant world now seemed.
When Hamaji came close to Shino's pillow, he saw that someone had entered his room. He drew his sword to him and sprang to his feet. "Who is it?" he cried, but no sound answered him. He wondered uneasily whether some enemy had come to observe whether he was asleep, with the intent of stabbing him to death. He grew more and more tense. He flashed the light of the lamp and peered into the darkness. Then he saw that it was Hamaji. Without warning she had appeared, and now lay motionless on the other side of the mosquito netting, seemingly shaken by grief but unwilling to reveal it by her tears.
Shino was a brave soldier who would not flinch before the fiercest enemy, but now he was disturbed. Controlling his emotions, he left the mosquito netting and, unfastening the cords by which the netting hung, drew his pallet to where she lay. "Hamaji, what has brought you here in the middle of the night, when you should be sleeping? Have you never heard the proverb, 'Don't arouse suspicion by tying your shoes in a melon field or by lifting your arms to straighten your hat under a plum tree'?"1 When he had thus admonished her, Hamaji, brushing away her tears, lifted her head in indignation. "How cruel of you to ask me in that impersonal way why I have come! If we were joined but casually, and husband and wife only in name, you might well speak in that way, but were we not wedded with my parents' consent? Whatever might be the proper behavior under normal circumstances, it is heartless of you tonight, our last night for farewells, to order me out with a careless word. You are pretending not to know what I feel because you are afraid that it might bring discredit to you. How hardhearted of you!"
Shino sighed in spite of himself. "I am not made of wood or stone, and whether I wish it or not, I know what tender emotions are. But it can se
rve no purpose for me to voice my feelings—it will only arouse the antipathy of your parents. I know that you will be true to me, and you must know what lies within my heart. Koga is a bare forty miles from here—it takes no more than three or four days to make the journey there and back. Please wait till I return."
He tried to persuade her, but Hamaji, wiping her eyes, exclaimed, "What you say is false. Once you leave here, what will ever make you return? The bird in the cage longs for the sky because it misses its friends; when a man leaves his home it must be because he is thinking of his advancement. You cannot depend on the likes and dislikes of my parents. They are sending you off now because you are in the way, and they have no desire for your return. Once you leave here, when will you come back? Tonight is the last we have of parting. . . .2
"Ever since the seventh moon of last year the litde stream of our love has been dammed and its passage cut, but one thing remains unchanged, like the downward flow of water, the sincerity of my heart. Not a day has passed but that I have prayed morning and night for your safety, success, and prosperity, but you remain extremely hard of heart. Is it because of duty to your aunt that you are deserting your wife? If you had in you one-hundredth of the depth of feeling that I have, you would say to me, 'For one reason or another the day of my return may be doubtful. Let us steal off secretly, together.' We are man and wife—who would slander you as being my paramour? But however cruel I think you are, I cannot, with my woman's heart, bear separation from you. Rather than that I be deserted and left to die of longing for you, kill me with your sword. I shall wait for you in the world to come, a hundred years if need be." To these she added many words of persuasion, relating one after another the painful griefs she bore, and though she kept herself from weeping aloud, a thousand tears coursed down to soak her sleeves.
Shino could not very well say that it would bring embarrassment if her voice were heard outside the room, and since there was no way now to undo the ties that bound them, he could only sigh sadly. He said, with his hands folded on his knees, "Every one of your reproaches is justified, but what can I do, Hamaji? My departure is by command of my uncle and aunt. I know that they are really sending me to a distant place so as to get a new husband for you. The problem is that I am, and yet I am not, your husband.3 Your parents probably suspect our true feelings. However, if now I let myself be guided by my emotions and take you off with me, what man will not say that it was a deed of lust? It will be painful for you to remain behind, but it will be for my sake. And if I go, though it is difficult for me to do so, will that not also be for your sake? Even if we are parted for a brief while, as long as our hearts remain constant a time will surely come when we can be fully married. Please go back to bed before your parents awaken. Please go quickly."
His words were in vain; she remained as she was and merely shook her head. "Having gone this far, it doesn't matter any longer.4 If my parents waken to find me here and reprove me for it, I too shall have something to say. I will not move from here unless I hear you say that you want me to go with you. Otherwise, kill me." Weak as is a woman's will, hers was firmly set and would not alter.
Shino was quite at a loss. A note of irritation came into his voice, although he still kept it low. "You still do not understand. As long as we remain alive a time will surely come when we can meet. How can death be the proper state for man? If you interfere with me, now that I have this rare chance of winning success granted to me by my aunt and uncle, you are not my wife. Perhaps you are an enemy from a previous existence."
Hamaji sank deeper in tears. "There is nothing I can do when you make me feel that if I obtain my heart's desire I shall become your enemy. If my thoughts are really selfish, I shall put them aside and remain here. May your journey be a safe one. Be careful lest, these terribly hot days, you get sunstroke on the way. In the winter months when the wind blows down the northern mountains, send me messages about yourself with the wind. I shall think only of the fact that you are alive and safe. If the weakening thread of my life should break, now will be our parting for this existence, and all I shall have to depend upon is the yet unseen world to come. Our ties are certain to endure through both worlds. Please never change your heart." Thus she spoke of uncertainties; however wise her prayers may have seemed, the heart of this innocent maiden was pitiful.
Shino in spite of himself also felt downcast, and unable to comfort her could only nod. There was nothing else for him to say. Just then the first cock-crow announced the dawn, and Shino, pulling himself together, said, "In a few moments your parents will waken. Hurry! Hurry!"
Hamaji at last got up, and recited the poem,
"Yo mo akeba Now that dawn has come
Kitsu ni hamenan Perhaps the foxes will eat
Kudakake no Those cursed roosters,
Madami ni nakite Crowing in the early morn,
Sena wo yaritsutsu Chasing you away from me.5
That poem was inspired by the casual love of a traveler, but now is the moment of separation with a departing husband. If the cocks do not crow the sky will not grow light; if the dawn does not come, no one will waken. Oh, hateful crowing of .the cock! For us only are there no nights of meeting—between us stands an unyielding barrier. Even the moon at dawn brings only sorrow."
As she murmured these words, about to leave, there was a cough outside the door and a faint rapping on the door. "The cocks have crowed, are you not awake yet?" It was his servant who called. Shino hastily answered and the man withdrew to the kitchen. "Quickly, before he returns!" Shino said, pushing her out. Hamaji, her eyelids swollen from weeping, looked back from the darkness where she stood, but her eyes were too misted with tears for her to see him. She leant against the wall a moment, and then went to weep in her room.
Sadder even than parting at death is parting in life, than which is nothing sadder. Ah, rare indeed is this maiden! Yet has she to share a bedquilt with her husband, yet to range her pillow by his and sleep with entwined arms. Their love was more admirable than that of a century of ordinary husbands and wives. Shino, though drawn by love, does not waver in his heart, but by being faithful to his love, maintains the proper separation between men and women. Those who wander in the maze of the passions show insufficient wisdom and a lack of discrimination. Few of all the many young people who have once approached the brink have escaped being drowned. But here we have a case of a righteous husband and a chaste wife. Hamaji's love was not one of pleasures and lust. Shino's sighs were of sorrow, and not of weakness. Hamaji's love is still to be sought; men like Shino are rarer than ever.
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
Footnotes
1 That is, the mere fact that Hamaji is in his room will make people think that they have been making love, just as if a man stoops in a melon field it is assumed that he is stealing a melon.
2 A long passage is omitted here in which Hamaji describes her real family.
3 They have been engaged with the consent of her foster parents, but a wedding ceremony has not actually taken place.
4 Hamaji considers that she has already destroyed her reputation.
5 Quoted from "The Tales of Ise," 13. This tale is of a traveler in the north of Japan who spends one night with a country girl and then leaves her.
HAIKU OF THE MIDDLE AND LATE TOKUGAWA PERIOD
Nashi no hana Blossoms on the pear;
is ufe ni fumi yomu and a woman in the moonlight
onna ari reads a letter there . . .
Safara chiru Scattered petals lie
nawashiro-mizu ya on the rice-seedling waters:
hoshi-zukiyo stars in the moonlit sky.
Harusame ni As the spring rains fall,
nuretsutsu yane no soaking in them, on the roof,
ternari kana is a child's rag ball.
Harusame ya Ah, the rains of spring!
dosha no kimi no Dear lady driving with me here.
sasamegoto your whispering!
Harusame ya Spring rain: and as yet
kawazu no hora no the little froglets' bellies
mada nurezu haven't got wet.
Mijika yo ya Night that ends so soon:
asase ni nokoru in the shallows still remains
tsuki ippen one sliver of the moon.
Mi ni shimu ya What piercing cold I feel:
bōsai no kushi my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom,
neya ni fumu under my heel. . . .
Medieval scene
Toba dono e To great Toba's Hall
go-rokki isogu five or six horsemen hasten:
nowaki kana a storm wind of the fall.
Yosa Buson (1716-1784)
. .
Samidare ya All the rains of June:
aru yo hisoka ni and then one evening, secretly,
matsu no tsuki through the pines, the moon!
Ōshima Ryota (1718-1787)
. .
Haru no mori The grove in spring:
tori toru tori mo the birds that catch the birds—they too
neburi kana are slumbering.
Takakuwa Raninō (1726-1798)
. .
Soko noite Get out of my road
take uesase yo and allow me to plant these
hikigaeru bamboos, Mr. Toad.
Miura Chora (1729-1780)
. .
Mezurashi to "Marvelous!" I say,
miru mono goto ni and with each single thing I see
haru ya yuku springtime fades away.
Tahai Kito (1741-1789)
. .
Yo ga yokuba If the times were good,
mo hitotsu tomare I'd say, "Sit down!—one more of you!"
meshi no hae flies around my food.