Part 15

Once upon a time there was an old man who lived all alone. And there was an old woman who lived all alone. The old man was merry and kind and gentle, with a good word and a smile for all the world. The old woman was sour and sad, as cross a patch as could be found in all the country-side. She grumbled and growled for ever, and would not so much as pass the time of day with respectable folk.

The old man had a pet sparrow that he kept as the apple of his eye. The sparrow could talk and sing and dance and do all manner of tricks, and was very good company. So the old man found when he came home from his work at night. There would be the sparrow twittering on the doorstep, and "Welcome home, master," he would say, his head on one side, as pert and pretty as you please.

One day the old man went off to cut wood in the mountains. The old woman, she stayed at home for it was her washing day. She made some good starch in a bowl and she put it outside her door to cool.

"It will be all ready when I want it," she said to herself. But that's just where she made a mistake. The little sparrow flew over the bamboo fence and lighted on the edge of the starch bowl. And he pecked at the starch with his little beak. He pecked and he pecked till all the starch was gone, and a good meal he made, to be sure.

Then out came the old woman for the starch to starch her clothes.

You may believe she was angry. She caught the little sparrow roughly in her hand, and, alas and alack! she took a sharp, sharp scissors and cut his little tongue. Then she let him go.

Away and away flew the little sparrow, over hill and over dale.

"And a good riddance, too!" said the cruel old woman.

When the old man came home from the mountains he found his pet sparrow gone. And before long he knew all the tale. He lost no time, the good old man; he set out at once on foot, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"

Over hill and over dale he went, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"

At last and at length he came to the sparrow's house, and the sparrow flew out to greet his master. Then there was a twittering, to be sure. The sparrow called his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother. And they all flew out to do the old man honour. They brought him into the house and they set him down upon mats of silk. Then they spread a great feast; red rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what all besides, and the very best _saké_ to drink. The sparrow waited upon the good old man, and his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother with him.

After supper the sparrow danced, whilst his grandmother played the _samisen_ and the good old man beat time.

It was a merry evening.

At last, "All good things come to an end," says the old man; "I fear 'tis late and high time I was getting home."

"Not without a little present," says the sparrow.

"Ah, sparrow dear," says the old man, "I'd sooner have yourself than any present."

But the sparrow shook his head.

Presently they brought in two wicker baskets.

"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say, master, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"

"I'm not so young as I once was," says the good old man. "Thanking you kindly, I'd sooner have the light basket; it will suit me better to carry--that is, if it's the same to you," he says.

So he went home with the light basket. When he opened it, wonderful to tell, it was full of gold and silver and tortoise-shell and coral and jade and fine rolls of silk. So the good old man was rich for life.

Now, when the bad old woman heard tell of all this, she tied on her sandals and kilted her skirts and took a stout stick in her hand. Over hill and over dale she went, and took the straight road to the sparrow's house. There was the sparrow, and there were his brothers and sisters and children and his wife and his mother and his mother-in-law and his grandmother. They were not too pleased to see the bad old woman, but they couldn't do less than ask her in as she'd come so far. They gave her red rice and white rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what besides, and she gobbled it up in a twinkling, and drank a good cup of _saké_. Then up she got. "I can't waste any more time here," she says, "so you'd best bring out your presents."

They brought in two wicker baskets.

"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say, mistress, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"

"I'll take the heavy one," says the old woman, quick as a thought. So she heaved it up on her back and off she set. Sure enough it was as heavy as lead.

When she was gone, Lord! how the sparrows did laugh!

No sooner did she reach home than she undid the cords of the basket.

"Now for the gold and silver," she said, and smiled--though she hadn't smiled for a twelve-month. And she lifted up the lid.

"_Ai! Ai! Kowai! Obaké da! Obaké!_" she screeched.

The basket was full of ugly imps and elves and pixies and demons and devils. Out they came to tease the old woman, to pull her and to poke her, to push her and to pinch her. She had the fine fright of her life, I warrant you.

XXXIII

THE NURSE

[Illustration: The Nurse.--_P. 243._]

Idé the _samurai_ was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse. Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she, unchanging and enduring.

In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of Idé's clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one battle. The sword was Idé's most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away in a safe place with his household gods.

Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.

Morning and evening, "Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse," said Fugiwaka.

And O Matsu made answer, "Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you."

Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.

At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:

"Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- Would you know the secret, The secret of the hare o Nennin Yama? Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- You shall know the secret. Oh, the august hare of Nennin Yama, How augustly long are his ears! Why should this be, oh, best beloved? You shall know the secret. His mother ate the bamboo seed. Hush! Hush! His mother ate the loquat seed. Hush! Hush! Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- Now you know the secret."

Then O Matsu said, "Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?"

And the child answered, "I will sleep now, O Matsu."

"Listen, my lord," she said, "and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it."

"Sleeping or waking, I will remember," said Fugiwaka.

Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the _samurai_ took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.

Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.

"My child is a beggar," she said. "Fugiwaka is chief of the House of Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much," said the proud lady. "I will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with my hands...." Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a plan.

When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup nor a gold piece to see him on his way.

"Ah, lady mother," he said, "you use me ill. Why do you take my birthright?"

"I know nought of birthrights," she said. "Go, make your own fortune if you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé."

With that she bade them shut the door in his face.

Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.

"My lord," she said, "I am come to follow you to the world's end."

Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman's breast.

"Ah," he said, "my nurse, my nurse! And," he said, "what of my father's sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure, the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am undone, and so is all the House of Idé!"

"Oh, say not so, my lord," said O Matsu. "Here is gold; go you your way and I will return and guard the sword of Idé."

So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.

As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young lord.

But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.

"It is the nurse!" she cried. "The nurse has stolen it.... Some of you bring her to me."

Then the Lady Sadako's people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu's lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.

"The woman is obstinate," she said. "No matter; for such a fault I know the sovereign cure."

So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.

"Well," she said, "where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?"

But O Matsu answered not a word.

Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness--"Alas! Alas! never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of Idé, and I shall find a way."

Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow steps faltered.

"Why, this is strange!" said the Lady Sadako. "Here is O Matsu, that was locked in the dark dungeon." And she sat still, watching.

But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom with a loud cry.

"Woman, I have you now," shrieked the Lady Sadako, "and the sword of Idé as well!" And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed. She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.

"Send me the Wise Woman," said the Lady Sadako.

So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, "How long has she been dead?"

The Wise Woman said, "She was starved to death; she has been dead two days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul."

As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.

Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then he was soothed.

O Matsu said, "Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?"

And he answered, "I will sleep now, O Matsu."

"Listen, my lord," she said, "and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it."

The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by Fugiwaka's side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the sword of Idé.

"Waking or sleeping," he said, "I will remember."

XXXIV

THE BEAUTIFUL DANCER OF YEDO

[Illustration: The Beautiful Dancer of Yedo.--_P. 250._]

This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a _geisha_, born a _samurai's_ daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that bought her was called _Namida no Kané_, that is "the money of tears."

She dwelt in the narrow street of the _geisha_, where the red and white lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street of the _geisha_ is full of music, for they play the _samisen_ there all day long.

Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She played the _samisen_, the _kotto_, the _biwa_, and the small hand-drum. She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand upon the gallery of her mistress's house, and muse as she stood and looked down into the street of the _geisha_. And the folk that passed that way said to one another, "See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the _geisha_ without peer."

But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, "Little narrow street of the _geisha_, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears."

The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead, and gilded her lips with _beni_. She wore silk attires, gold and purple and grey and green and black, _obi_ of brocade magnificently tied. Her hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer and tortoise-shell. She poured _saké_, she made merry with the good company. More than this, she danced.

Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, "She is lighter than the rainbow-tinted dragonfly."

And another said, "She moves like the mist of the morning when the bright sun shines."

And the third said, "She is like the shadow in the river of the waving willow-branch."

But it is time to tell of her three lovers.

The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the _geisha_ with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.

"You are wrong, fellow," she said, "you have lost your way. You should have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll; let him know there are no dolls here."

After this the master came himself. "Come to me, O Flower of the Cherry," he said, "for I must have you."

"_Must?_" she said, and looked down with her long eyes.

"Aye," he said, "must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry."

"What will you give me?" she said.

"Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries; servants to wait on you, gold hairpins--what you will."

"What do I give you?" she said.

"Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry."

"Body and soul?" she said.

And he answered her, "Body and soul."

"Now, fare you well," she said, "I have a fancy to remain a _geisha_. It is a merry life," she said, and she laughed.

So that was the end of the first lover.

The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was old and foolish. "Sakura-ko," he cried, "ah, cruel one, I am mad for love of you!"

"My lord," she said, "I can easily believe it."

He said, "I am not so very old."

"By the divine compassion of the gods," she told him, "you may yet have time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law." But the old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet _hakama_ and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And the _geisha_ who poured the _saké_ was called Silver Wave.

When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her to him and cried:

"Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences; there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together. Come with me to the Meido."

But Sakura-ko said, "My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children, neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no _saké_ and no poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die."

He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.

"Alas! alas!" cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver Wave, gave her counsel thus: "Keep your tears, you will yet have cause for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he."

And that was the end of the second lover.

The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival in his father's house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street of the _geisha_. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing of her mistress's house.

She looked down into the street of the _geisha_ and sang this song:

"My mother bade me spin fine thread Out of the yellow sea sand-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My father gave me a basket of reeds; He said, 'Draw water from the spring And carry it a mile'-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My heart would remember, My heart must forget; Forget, my heart, forget-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me!"

When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Do you remember me," he said, "O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last night at my father's house."

"Aye, my young lord," she answered him, "I remember you very well."

He said, "I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife."

At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.

"My dear," said the young man, "now you are Flower of the Cherry indeed."

"Child," she said, "go home and think of me no more. I am too old for such as you."

"Old!" he said; "why, there lies not a year between us!"

"No, not a year--no year, but an eternity," said Flower of the Cherry. "Think no more of me," she said; but the lover thought of nothing else. His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the _geisha_. Sakura-ko came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him. She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of them.

"This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods," said Flower of the Cherry one evening.

"My dear," the young man bade her, "fetch hither your _samisen_ and let me hear you sing."

So she did. She said, "I shall sing you a song you have heard already."