“A Muramasa!” I exclaimed, jumping up in genuine surprise; “and how in the name of Buddha did you manage to get hold of a Muramasa?”
THE OLD JINRIKISHA MAN AND HIS WIFE.
My astonishment was natural. I had in the course of years succeeded in making a collection of swords of the best makers; but it was only after a long search, and at an expense which was felt to be considerable even by an ardent amateur like myself, that I had been able to acquire an undoubted and genuine piece of handiwork of the artisan who, with the single exception perhaps of Masamune, was certainly the most celebrated sword-smith of Japan.
“It has been in the possession of my family, your honor, for five centuries and a half,—ever since it was given by the maker who forged it, Senjuin Muramasa, to one of my ancestors at Ise, the place where they both resided.”
The man’s voice, although, as heretofore, humbly polite in its manner, had now a new ring,—something like a tone of cold formality; such a tone, it seemed to me, as might have characterized the voice of a polished Greek slave replying to some coarse word of his brutal Roman master.
There was a pause of a few moments, which the thought of my abrupt rudeness rendered awkward and even painful to me. I was the first to break the silence, addressing him in the language which is used among equals, instead of, as heretofore, employing such terms as are used to inferiors,—a distinction which in Japanese is strongly and definitely marked. I could see by a quick, startled movement, as well as by the play of his features, that the change was deeply felt, and the motive which prompted it appreciated. “I have for years been a student of sword-lore,” I said, “and I know that every Muramasa blade has a history of its own, fraught with numerous romantic and thrilling incidents. This one here must have had its share, with which, under the circumstances, you are doubtless familiar; and I should esteem it a great favor to be permitted to listen to any narrative you may choose to recall, more especially as regards the time when the smith was yet alive.”
I had touched a sympathetic chord in the old man’s heart by this concession alike to his family pride and his love for the sword. It is not easy for a foreigner to understand how completely the sword has entered into Japanese life. Poets and minstrels, warriors and statesmen, lord and vassal, have honored it in word and deed for more than a millennium. To a greater extent than any other agent, probably, it has moulded and shaped the history of that country into its setting of gallant chivalry and self-immolating feudal devotedness, and has written its record on thousands of well-contested battle-fields, in the quivering body of a living book. Only within a few years has it begun to outlive its power; but its renown is imperishable.