Lightly a fire-fly,
Passes in summer
Over the plains.”
But though a young priest came to our assistance, the neglected row of undecipherable inscriptions guarded their secret, and we were obliged to give up the search.
Kishimoto could not understand the foreigner’s admiration for Hokusai, and regarded it with the same tolerant contempt as most Germans exhibited thirty years ago towards admirers of Wagner. “There is nothing noble,” he cried, “in his pictures, nothing sublime. He simply reproduced the vulgar street scenes in which he lived. Even his drawings of Fuji, the holy mountain, are defiled by grinning carpenters and ostlers.” He promised to show me specimens of what his countrymen considered far higher art when we should reach his father’s house, and in effect, when we were seated in a pretty tea-room, overlooking a large garden, he unrolled for me some fine kakemono by Sesshu, Yeitoku, and Kiyonaga, which his family cherished with intense veneration. But nothing could arouse in me the enthusiasm which he evidently felt for three or four pieces of Chinese calligraphy. There was, of course, no colour in such masterpieces, no historic or anecdotic interest, for he assured me that the words themselves had no particular depth or beauty. Their sole charm consisted in the divine sureness of touch, which had traced the intricate flying characters through a maze of stroke and curve, and it seemed to my untrained intelligence that to appreciate them properly one must be a brush rather than a man.
From kakemono we turned to masks, of which he had a splendid collection. Students of Japanese demonology could have told me many weird stories of the cruel, leering monsters, whose faces reflected so vividly the devilish imagination of their makers. But Kishimoto only knew one story, and that rather a pretty one, concerning Kijin, whose rank in the diabolic hierarchy I have not been able to ascertain. He had it from a Buddhist nun, his aunt, and it bears every mark of having been invented pour les jeunes filles.
The Story of Kijin and O Kamma San.
“When her mother died O Kamma was so overcome with grief that she lost for a time all interest in living. Every day she laid flowers on the grave and every night she cried herself to sleep. But, when a month had passed, her father, who was of a gay disposition, loving music and saké, scolded the girl severely, saying, that since it was the will of Heaven that his sezénnin, or faithful housewife, had left the world of tears, it was undutiful to make the survivors miserable by perpetual Ah-ing, and impious as well. So O Kamma kept a bright face while she went about her household duties, and contrived every evening to slip up the hill to the temple of Kiyomizu-dera, where she prayed to the Most Compassionate One, the goddess Kwannon, whose countenance was gentle as her mother’s had been. But when this habit had brought her into a peace of mind which was not remote from happiness, her father took a wife from among the geisha of Shimabara, whose jealousy and cruelty soon made her stepdaughter’s life unbearable. She discovered that the girl’s chief pleasure was her nightly visit to Kiyomizu, and, as she did not dare to forbid her openly to go to the temple, she would set her long tasks, saying, ‘You must not leave the house until you have mended all the shōji,’ or ‘First finish embroidering this kimono.’ But O Kamma worked twice as hard as before, and never once missed her evening prayer to the goddess. Then the wicked stepmother tried to frighten her out of going. One night she hid herself behind a pillar of the temple, and when the girl entered darted upon her wearing the fearful mask of Kijin, whose teeth glittered fiercely in the twilight. But O Kamma said, ‘Bite me if you will, O Kijin Sama; I shall still say my prayers.’ And then the tables were turned. For a scream of terror came from the geisha’s lips, and when Kamma rose from her knees she saw that the devil’s mask was so tightly fixed that it could not be removed from her stepmother’s features. The latter, in an agony of fright, cried out to the girl to pray for the help of the Most Compassionate One. So Kamma interceded with Kwannon, and the demon let go of the wicked woman’s face; but from that time she lost all beauty and lightness of heart, nor did she interfere any more with the filial piety of O Kamma San.”
Having shown me his private treasures, Kishimoto very kindly proposed taking me to some exhibitions, which would at least be strange, if not beautiful. We drove first to the Chrysanthemum Show at Dango-zaka, where my friend pointed out to me more kinds of blossom than I can remember; but some, by reason of their fanciful names, it would be impossible to forget. There were “White Dragon” and “Sleepy Head,” a heavy disc with towzled petals; “Fisher’s Lantern,” of which the dark lustre showed like velvet beside the blushing pink-and-white complexion of “Robe of Feathers”; “Starlit Night,” resembling frost-flowers; and, most marvellous of all, a galaxy of various sorts and colours, radiating by the grafter’s patient skill from a single stem. Fearful of outraging his refined taste by such vulgar curiosity, I persuaded the sub-editor to wait for me in the tea-house which faces the river, while I followed some gaping women and children into twopenny shows which delight and instruct the simple. There, trained over trellis-work or encasing figures of wood and wax, the docile chrysanthemum evokes familiar scenes from legend or play. Chrysanthemum warriors pursue chrysanthemum maidens; chrysanthemum Danjuro dances the cryptic measure of Jiraiya before a chrysanthemum frog; chrysanthemum elephants, castles, warships, monkeys, and demons compose a fantastic universe in which the flowers seem turned to magic serpents, which simulate and strangle all other creatures.
“What do you think of them?” asked Kishimoto, when I rejoined him. “Have you ever seen such monstrosities before?” “No,” I answered; “they suggest to me a collaboration between Madame Tussaud and the author of the ‘Arabian Nights.’” “Well,” he said, “since you mention the ‘Arabian Nights,’ how would you like to hear one of our professional story-tellers? Shall we dine at Asakusa and go to a yosé afterwards?” “You anticipate my heart’s desire, and lay up for yourself undying gratitude. Let us go to a yosé.”