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KOTTŌ

BEING JAPANESE CURIOS, WITH

SUNDRY COBWEBS

COLLECTED BY

LAFCADIO HEARN

Lecturer on Literature in the Imperial University of Tōkyō, Japan

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GENJIRO YETO

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO. LTD.

1903


[Illustration]

TO

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

IN

GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE

OF

KIND WORDS


[Illustration]

Contents

    Old Stories:

       I. The Legend of Yurei-Daki
      II. In a Cup of Tea
     III. Common Sense
      IV. Ikiryō
       V. Shiryō
      VI. The Story of O-Kamé
     VII. Story of a Fly
    VIII. Story of a Pheasant
      IX. The Story of Chūgorō

    A Woman's Diary
    Heiké-gani
    Fireflies
    A Drop of Dew
    Gaki
    A Matter of Custom
    Revery
    Pathological
    In the Dead of the Night
    Kusa-Hibari
    The Eater of Dreams




Old Stories

_The following nine tales have been selected from the
"Shin-Chomon-Shū" "Hyaku Monogatari," "Uji-Jūi-Monogatari-Shō," and
other old Japanese books, to illustrate some strange beliefs. They are
only Curios._

[Illustration]




The Legend of Yurei-Daki


Near the village of Kurosaka, in the province of Hōki, there is
a waterfall called Yurei-Daki, or The Cascade of Ghosts. Why it
is so called I do not know. Near the foot of the fall there is a
small Shintō shrine of the god of the locality, whom the people
name Taki-Daimyōjin; and in front of the shrine is a little wooden
money-box--_saisen-bako_--to receive the offerings of believers. And
there is a story about that money-box.

*

One icy winter's evening, thirty-five years ago, the women and girls
employed at a certain _asa-toriba_, or hemp-factory, in Kurosaka,
gathered around the big brazier in the spinning-room after their
day's work had been done. Then they amused themselves by telling
ghost-stories. By the time that a dozen stories had been told, most
of the gathering felt uncomfortable; and a girl cried out, just to
heighten the pleasure of fear, "Only think of going this night, all
by one's self, to the Yurei-Daki!" The suggestion provoked a general
scream, followed by nervous bursts of laughter.... "I'll give all the
hemp I spun to-day," mockingly said one of the party, "to the person
who goes!" "So will I," exclaimed another. "And I," said a third. "All
of us," affirmed a fourth.... Then from among the spinners stood up
one Yasumoto O-Katsu, the wife of a carpenter;--she had her only son,
a boy of two years old, snugly wrapped up and asleep upon her back.
"Listen," said O-Katsu; "if you will all really agree to make over to
me all the hemp spun to-day, I will go to the Yurei-Daki." Her proposal
was received with cries of astonishment and of defiance. But after
having been several times repeated, it was seriously taken. Each of
the spinners in turn agreed to give up her share of the day's work to
O-Katsu, providing that O-Katsu should go to the Yurei-Daki. "But how
are we to know if she really goes there?" a sharp voice asked. "Why,
let her bring back the money-box of the god," answered an old woman
whom the spinners called Obaa-San, the Grandmother; "that will be proof
enough." "I'll bring it," cried O-Katsu. And out she darted into the
street, with her sleeping boy upon her back.

*

The night, was frosty, but clear. Down the empty street O-Katsu
hurried; and she saw that all the house fronts were tightly closed,
because of the piercing cold. Out of the village, and along the
high road she ran--_pichà-pichà_--with the great silence of frozen
rice-fields on either hand, and only the stars to light her. Half
an hour she followed the open road; then she turned down a narrower
way, winding under cliffs. Darker and rougher the path became as she
proceeded; but she knew it well, and she soon heard the dull roar of
the water. A few minutes more, and the way widened into a glen,--and
the dull roar suddenly became a loud clamor,--and before her she
saw, looming against a mass of blackness, the long glimmering of the
fall. Dimly she perceived the shrine,--the money-box. She rushed
forward,--put out her hand....

"_Oi!_ O-Katsu-San!"[1] suddenly called a warning voice above the crash
of the water.

O-Katsu stood motionless,--stupefied by terror.

"_Oi!_ O-Katsu-San!" again pealed the voice,--this time with more of
menace in its tone.

But O-Katsu was really a bold woman. At once recovering from her
stupefaction, she snatched up the money-box and ran. She neither
heard nor saw anything more to alarm her until she reached the
highroad, where she stopped a moment to take breath. Then she ran on
steadily,--_pichà-pichà_,--till she got to Kurosaka, and thumped at the
door of the _asa-toriba_.

*

How the women and the girls cried out as she entered, panting, with the
money-box of the god in her hand! Breathlessly they heard her story;
sympathetically they screeched when she told them of the Voice that
had called her name, twice, out of the haunted water.... What a woman!
Brave O-Katsu!--well had she earned the hemp!... "But your boy must be
cold, O-Katsu!" cried the Obaa-San, "let us have him here by the fire!"

"He ought to be hungry," exclaimed the mother; "I must give him his
milk presently."... "Poor O-Katsu!" said the Obaa-San, helping to
remove the wraps in which the boy had been carried,--"why, you are all
wet behind!" Then, with a husky scream, the helper vociferated, "_Arà!
it is blood!_"

And out of the wrappings unfastened there fell to the floor a
blood-soaked bundle of baby clothes that left exposed two very small
brown feet, and two very small brown hands--nothing more. The child's
head had been torn off!...

[Illustration]

[Footnote 1: The exclamation _Oi!_ is used to call the attention of a
person: it is the Japanese equivalent for such English exclamations as
"Halloa!" "Ho, there!" etc.]




[Illustration]




In a Cup of Tea


Have you ever attempted to mount some old tower stairway, spiring up
through darkness, and in the heart of that darkness found yourself
at the cobwebbed edge of nothing? Or have you followed some coast
path, cut along the face of a cliff, only to discover yourself, at
a turn, on the jagged verge of a break? The emotional worth of such
experience--from a literary point of view--is proved by the force
of the sensations aroused, and by the vividness with which they are
remembered.

Now there have been curiously preserved, in old Japanese story-books,
certain fragments of fiction that produce an almost similar emotional
experience.... Perhaps the writer was lazy; perhaps he had a quarrel
with the publisher; perhaps he was suddenly called away from his little
table, and never came back; perhaps death stopped the writing-brush
in the very middle of a sentence. But no mortal man can ever tell us
exactly why these things were left unfinished.... I select a typical
example.

*

On the fourth day of the first month of the third Tenwa,--that is to
say, about two hundred and twenty years ago,--the lord Nakagawa Sado,
while on his way to make a New Year's visit, halted with his train
at a tea-house in Hakusan, in the Hongō district of Yedo. While the
party were resting there, one of the lord's attendants,--a _wakatō_[1]
named Sekinai,--feeling very thirsty, filled for himself a large
water-cup with tea. He was raising the cup to his lips when he suddenly
perceived, in the transparent yellow infusion, the image or reflection
of a face that was not his own. Startled, he looked around, but could
see no one near him. The face in the tea appeared, from the coiffure,
to be the face of a young samurai: it was strangely distinct, and
very handsome,--delicate as the face of a girl. And it seemed the
reflection of a living face; for the eyes and the lips were moving.
Bewildered by this mysterious apparition, Sekinai threw away the tea,
and carefully examined the cup. It proved to be a very cheap water-cup,
with no artistic devices of any sort. He found and filled another cup;
and again the face appeared in the tea. He then ordered fresh tea,
and refilled the cup; and once more the strange face appeared,--this
time with a mocking smile. But Sekinai did not allow himself to be
frightened. "Whoever you are," he muttered, "you shall delude me no
further!"--then he swallowed the tea, face and all, and went his way,
wondering whether he had swallowed a ghost.

*

Late in the evening of the same day, while on watch in the palace of
the lord Nakagawa, Sekinai was surprised by the soundless coming of
a stranger into the apartment. This stranger, a richly dressed young
samurai, seated himself directly in front of Sekinai, and, saluting the
_wakatō_ with a slight bow, observed:--

"I am Shikibu Heinai--met you to-day for the first time.... You do not
seem to recognize me."

He spoke in a very low, but penetrating voice. And Sekinai was
astonished to find before him the same sinister, handsome face of
which he had seen, and swallowed, the apparition in a cup of tea. It
was smiling now, as the phantom had smiled; but the steady gaze of the
eyes, above the smiling lips, was at once a challenge and an insult.

"No, I do not recognize you," returned Sekinai, angry but cool;--"and
perhaps you will now be good enough to inform me how you obtained
admission to this house?"

[In feudal times the residence of a lord was strictly guarded at
all hours; and no one could enter unannounced, except through some
unpardonable negligence on the part of the armed watch.]

"Ah, you do not recognize me!" exclaimed the visitor, in a tone of
irony, drawing a little nearer as he spoke. "No, you do not recognize
me! Yet you took upon yourself this morning to do me a deadly
injury!..."

Sekinai instantly seized the _tantō_[2] at his girdle, and made a
fierce thrust at the throat of the man. But the blade seemed to touch
no substance. Simultaneously and soundlessly the intruder leaped
sideward to the chamber-wall, _and through it!_... The wall showed no
trace of his exit. He had traversed it only as the light of a candle
passes through lantern-paper.

*

When Sekinai made report of the incident, his recital astonished and
puzzled the retainers. No stranger had been seen either to enter or
to leave the palace at the hour of the occurrence; and no one in the
service of the lord Nakagawa had ever heard of the name "Shikibu
Heinai."

*

On the following night Sekinai was off duty, and remained at home with
his parents. At a rather late hour he was informed that some strangers
had called at the house, and desired to speak with him for a moment.
Taking his sword, he went to the entrance, and there found three armed
men,--apparently retainers,--waiting in front of the doorstep. The
three bowed respectfully to Sekinai; and one of them said:--

"Our names are Matsuoka Bungō, Tsuchibashi Bungō, and Okamura Heiroku.
We are retainers of the noble Shikibu Heinai. When our master last
night deigned to pay you a visit, you struck him with a sword. He was
much will hurt, and has been obliged to go to the hot springs, where
his wound is now being treated. But on the sixteenth day of the coming
month he will return; and he will then fitly repay you for the injury
done him...."

Without waiting to hear more, Sekinai leaped out, sword in hand, and
slashed right and left, at the strangers. But the three men sprang
to the wall of the adjoining building, and flitted up the wall like
shadows, and....

[Illustration]

Here the old narrative breaks off; the rest of the story existed only
in some brain that has been dust for a century.

I am able to imagine several possible endings; but none of them would
satisfy an Occidental imagination. I prefer to let the reader attempt
to decide for himself the probable consequence of swallowing a Soul.

[Footnote 1: The armed attendant of a _samurai_ was thus called. The
relation of the _wakatō_ to the _samurai_ was that of squire to knight.]

[Footnote 2: The shorter of the two swords carried by samurai. The
longer sword was called _katana_.]




Common Sense


[Illustration]


Once there lived upon the mountain called Atagoyama, near Kyoto, a
certain learned priest who devoted all his time to meditation and the
study of the sacred books. The little temple in which he dwelt was far
from any village; and he could not, in such a solitude, have obtained
without help the common necessaries of life. But several devout country
people regularly contributed to his maintenance, bringing him each
month supplies of vegetables and of rice.

Among these good folk there was a certain hunter, who sometimes visited
the mountain in search of game. One day, when this hunter had brought a
bag of rice to the temple, the priest said to him:--

"Friend, I must tell you that wonderful things have happened here since
the last time I saw you. I do not certainly know why such things should
have happened in my unworthy presence. But you are aware that I have
been meditating, and reciting the sûtras daily, for many years; and
it is possible that what has been vouchsafed me is due to the merit
obtained through these religious exercises. I am not sure of this. But
I am sure that Fugen Bosatsu[1] comes nightly to this temple, riding
upon his elephant.... Stay here with me this night, friend; then you
will be able to see and to worship the Buddha."

"To witness so holy a vision," the hunter replied, "were a privilege
indeed! Most gladly I shall stay, and worship with you."

So the hunter remained at the temple. But while the priest was engaged
in his religious exercises, the hunter began to think about the
promised miracle, and to doubt whether such a thing could be. And the
more he thought, the more he doubted. There was a little boy in the
temple,--an acolyte,--and the hunter found an opportunity to question
the boy.

"The priest told me," said the hunter, "that Fugen Bosatsu comes to