The Curse of Koshiu: A Chronicle of Old Japan. Wingfield Lewis

glad to get away to her garden, where the sun shone forth with halcyon brightness, and nature at least was happy. For Tsu, I would have you know, is not all ugliness. Passing out of the low-lying oozy suburb, you reach a wooden bridge over one of the numberless streams that intersect the marsh, and a little further on come to rising ground, well wooded with the luxuriant vegetation which in Japan is the lavish gift of the rain-god. At the top of the hill, under the lee of a group of ancient pines, much tossed and wind-beaten, is a summer-house. From the road it is not visible, so deeply is it embowered in cherry and maple, each so glorious and lovely in its season, the which are closely tangled and entwined with such cataracts of purple wisteria as no western mind can realise. This hill or hillock, and another one hard by, stand alone on a wide plain, and from them may be gained a singularly varied view of flat marsh, and sedge, and vivid green rice fields, and scattered villages, and far-off hazy mountains. In front-and this was the view that brought back peace into the empty breast of the young chatelaine, the ground shelved gradually, thick strewn with flowers, until-a semicircle of yellow sand-it was washed by the softly-rippling waves of a blue bay, land-locked. Here nature, casting her golden glamour over all, masked the prevailing squalor. No typhoon ever vexed these enchanted waters, that washed to and fro in slow cadence the clumps of bamboo with which their edge was feathered. The tiny toy villages on the opposite brink were mirrored in long shadow. The festooned sails of the little fishing-boats, and trim white junks, were pictured in quivering double four times their height. The mountains beyond, of a deep reddish purple, without detail in the haze, were topped with strange silhouettes of single pines, clear against opal ether, or sharp cut against the blue with chasm and precipice. Many rocky islets were dotted here and there-volcanic, peaked, flat-topped-each with its long reflection, fringed with feathery foliage, hanging apparently to nothing-around, a flight of boats, like sea-birds floating. Sitting for hours gazing down on the fairy scene, her stalwart naked kago-bearers asleep like statues of warm bronze away in the shade, O'Tei could forget her disillusions; but then with setting sun the shadow darkened, for the time was arrived when she must go home again, and with a return to the panoply of war, and swagger of the sentinels, peace and light faded out, and her heart was as sick as ever. Sometimes, more sad than usual, she would make to the sister hill a pilgrimage.

      The gateway or torii at the bottom (one heavy beam curled at the corners, resting on two others) and the long straight flight of stone steps leading to a building with huge top-heavy roof, nestling in a grove of cryptomerias, showed that this was a holy hill surmounted by a temple. A very important temple too, with an immense gilt Buddha looming out of twilight on a bronze lotus, in an attitude of perpetual repose; gardens; fish-ponds, crowded with lotus plants; and a long low building glinting through the trees, wherein dwelt an abbess and her nuns.

      What would happen to the Japanese if the lotus were banished from their midst? In winter, a mere yellow whisp languishing in mud; in early summer there rises a fairy thing from out the ooze-a concave shield of vivid green, with a blue down as of a grape, and dewdrops glistening like diamonds. Then a round ball appears, which slowly opens, trembling upon the water, and gradually reveals the loveliest flower that blows. To the Japanese child who strives to pluck its white or roseate blossom, it is a picture of unearthly loveliness; to the adult it is the symbol of religious truth, the emblem of the eternal calm which is the highest ultimate reward. Taught from earliest childhood to love its beauty, the mature Buddhist sees in its petals creative power and world growth, and knows that when his mortal body approaches the cremation house, his weary cycle done, a stone carved to represent a lotus flower will support his bier and receive the last ashes of his fleshly prison-house.

      During her three years of married life, O'Tei had made, under shadow of these groves, a firm and steady friend, without whose support she thought sometimes that she must lie down and die-the cold but kindly Abbess Masago.

      As has been told, the second wife or concubine of the late Hojo, so soon as her fickle lord grew weary of her, shaved off her hair and donned the Buddhist habit. Monastic life in Japan is a strange anomaly. Many an abbess or abbot, supposed to have retired from the world, bestows from the seclusion of the grove mundane advice and counsel. Some, indeed, gain weight and influence of an important political kind with the loss of their shaven hair; and so it was with Masago. As Abbess of Tsu, many of the weary or unstable of lofty lineage came to crave counsel of her-lords and dames who would have scoffed at the concubine of Hojo. The religious establishments of Japan become asylums for the afflicted or the persecuted. In them the defeated soldier or refugee from the vendetta finds inviolate sanctuary. Many a man hopelessly crossed in love, or a grief-stricken father, or fallen minister, has-mundane illusions vanished-devoted himself to a priestly life. To the nunneries, widowhood furnishes the greater number of fervent nuns; but a necessity of evading an uncongenial match, or the brutal lusts of rude men in unsettled times, gave many an inmate to the convents.

      Often enough, after communing with Masago under the solemn cryptomerias, O'Tei had gone home comforted. There was something consoling and supporting in the low-toned strong voice of the Abbess, in the touch of her firm white hand. Her face was more set and stern than Sampei's, but his kindly eyes looked out from under the shaven brows, and O'Tei could feel almost as if her dear adopted brother was walking hand-in-hand with her as in the good old days. Ah, me, how far away they seemed, those days of five years ago! The gleeful white fawn was a hundred years older, at least, than then, stricken and grievously wounded. Her breast was empty; nobody cared whether she was alive or dead; she loved none, had none to love, and yet there was a longing within that was positive physical pain, to twine her affectionate tendrils around something, and exhale to it the treasures of her sweetness.

      Alack, what a cycle is this; what a hard and rugged stage in the long journey! What are we to think, when injustice rules paramount? – when we see in this life how many are punished for their virtues, as a set-off to the peculiar manner in which others are rewarded for their vices?

      On a certain morning, which must now occupy us, our stately lily was lying disconsolate. Acutely suffering, and much perturbed in mind, power of judging and weighing all agog, O'Tei crouched on the mat of her favourite summer-house, watching the swaying waves, yet seeing nothing; on her finely-chiselled features a grey pallor.

      As a rule, the misery through which her bearers carried her was chary of complaint, for the poor folk had room in their sorrowing hearts for pity for their solitary lady; but on this morning she had come on such a scene of anguish that she stopped her kago and alighted. The housewife was tearing her dishevelled hair, and wringing hands, and writhing her tortured body, while a young family stood grouped around in varied attitudes of woe. What could this mean? The house was of the better kind; there was rice in the brazen pot; unless she was mistaken, it was the dwelling of one of the elders.

      Yes. It was the dwelling of an elder-was-who never would dwell there more-was dead now, probably. He had dared to go to Kiŷoto, and make one of a set of insolent varlets who had presumed to waylay their lord, despite of warnings, and, with brow in dust, present a written prayer. His lord had resented the impertinence, had incarcerated him and his audacious fellows, with a view to making an example of such wretches by an end of exquisite torment. For him it was not so bad, for he would shuffle out of yet another life-one more of that dreary series so many of which have yet to be endured before we reach Nirvana. But what of his wife and family without the breadwinner? Like a faithful spouse, she had borne many children; how now was she to fill their mouths? Would the dear and noble lady vouchsafe to lend a hand, and implore her husband's clemency?

      O'Tei turned deathly pale, and, catching her breath painfully, leant against the screen. She would indeed have fallen, if one of the kago-bearers had not presumed to catch and hold her in his arms. Her lord! How long was it ago that she had disdainfully given up all hope of influencing him? She was weak and wrong. It was a crime-she saw it now-but too late-too late! That separating thicket had grown so dense, that there was no hewing a passage through it. If the harrowed wife of the victim was suffering, how much more the sensitive young chatelaine, whose nerves were so highly strung! The man, if he perished, was a martyr in the cause of right. Each new delinquency of the Hojo was a fresh hammer-stroke on his wife's heart.

      Out of his sight, O'Tei strove to forget his wickedness, the full measure of which she had learned to guess by this time. On her frequent visits to the temple she prayed with sweat of agony for his reformation, for the repentance of him who, alas!