CHAPTER IX.

I am afraid I have told a long prosaic story in the previous chapter,

and betrayed a school-boy-like delight for the bombastic in the

description of the sunset, etc. No one detests more than I anything that

smacks of the young misses' poetry. Come, let us inquire, more relevant

to our purpose, what constituted my childish happiness, sorrow, fear and

other kindred feelings in Japan.

The greatest fear I can yet recall was the ordeal of the yaito. This is

a Japanese domestic art of healing and averting diseases, especially

those of children. The moxa, being made into numerous tiny cones and

placed on certain spots on the back, is lighted with the senko already

described. Imagine how you feel when the flesh is being burnt; I used to

hold out stoutly against the cruel operation--would you not sympathize

with me? If I had any presentiment of it, I would slip away and keep

from home till I became desirous of dinner. No sooner had I crossed the

paternal threshold than I was made a prisoner; and ailment or no

ailment, my severe father and mother insisted upon my having the yaito

once in so often. Great was my demonstration of agony when father held

me still and mother proceeded to burn my bare back a promise of

bonbons, which reconciled me to almost anything ordinarily, did not work

in this one in stance; I cried myself hoarse (keeping it up even while

there was no pain) and kicked frantically.

"The storm is over," mother used to say with considerable relief, when

the trial drew to a close; she hated the torture as much as anybody, but

she had the welfare of her child at heart. Ah, gentle mother, if I had

only understood you then as I do now I should certainly not have snapped

so terribly. I remember, after twenty-four to forty-eight hours the

blisters began to swell and chafed painfully against the clothing, and

had to be punctured to let out the serum. As a matter of fact, the yaito

did cure slight general and local ailments: once I had a blood-shot eye,

and mother sent me to a worthy old woman in town who knew how to cure it

by means of yaito. After much pressing with lingers, she hit at the

vital point in the back and marked it with a generous dip of india ink.

Upon returning home, it was burnt deeply with moxa; and miraculously

enough the eye got well immediately. I am inclined to think the cautery

acts through the nerves. Now for years have I been exempt from the

operation, yet to this day on my back are symmetrically branded the

star-like memorials of my mother's love.

Speaking of the old woman I am reminded of another whom I was in the

habit of looking upon as a sort of witch. Her eye, with the crow's foot

at the outer corner and, I fancied, with the pupil in a longitudinal

slit like that of grimalkin, the creature nearest to witches and

warlocks; her fetich, the image of a human monkey, to whom she was a

sort of vestal virgin; her place of abode remote from town and isolated

from other farm-houses, presenting a queer combination of a rustic home

and a sacred shrine; these made my childish imagination invest her with

an air of mystery. She was wont to come to town in trim, made-over

clothes re-dyed and starched, with the slant overlapping Japanese

collars adjusted nicely; in the setta (slipper-sandals, much liked by

aged people for their ease and safety compared with the high clogs);

with her gray-streaked black hair combed tightly up, glossy with a

superabundance of pomatum and done up in a coiffure bespeaking her age;

walking firmly, with a small portable shrine on her back wrapt in the

furoshiki (wide cloth for carrying things about) and tied around her

shoulders. People sent for her to exorcise their houses, particularly

when there happened to be sick persons in them, consulted her in

selecting the site for a new building and in sinking the well, in order

not to draw upon their heads the vengeance of a displeased spirit. On

some occasions our household required her assistance; I went the long

distance through the open fields to her residence; and when she came she

let down the shrine from her back, placed it against the wall in our

sitting-room and, opening reverentially the hinge-doors, proceeded to

pray. What for, I don't remember, I was too intent upon her manners to

inquire into her purpose.

Of quite another stamp was Aunt Otsuné (so everybody called her),

housekeeper to the prosperous candy dealer just opposite us on Main

street. Ready with tears for any sad news; sympathetic in the extreme;

beaming, radiant, full of happy smiles in beholding her

friends--methinks I see her snatch me from my nurse's arms, fondle me to

her bosom and press her withered cheek against my fat one, uttering some

such very encouraging ejaculation as "My precious dear!" She did not

kiss me, I am very certain, for we don't have kissing. And she must have

many a time dropped her work to admire my holiday garment; I know I

toddled some of my early experimental steps in journeys to Aunty,

trailing behind me the free ends of my sash; and as I became confident

of myself, I became ambitious and dragged my father's or brother's

clogs, a world too big for my feet. O how good Aunty was! She would fill

both my hands with the candies that were being prepared in the back of

the store near the kitchen and bid me run home and show them to mamma.

The best thing she was in the habit of bestowing upon me was--I don't

know what to call it; it was the burnt bottom portion of the rice she

had cooked for all hands of the store in a prodigious vessel, loosened

in broad pieces and folded about the an. The an is (this necessity of

definition upon definition cautions me against touching on many a thing

peculiarly Japanese) the an is a red bean deprived of its skin and

mashed with sugar; it forms the core of various comfits. O how I

relished this Aunty's homely, warm, sweet concoction! It was not

intended for sale, therefore we cared little about its appearance, were

it only good to taste. She made it so large sometimes that I had to hold

it with both my small hands. I munched away at it, whilst she scraped

the great vessel; and it was sometime before each of us could finish our

huge tasks. I well recall the flickering rush-light under which Aunty

worked; the sense of satisfaction I experienced in my agreeable

occupation in my corner; the harsh grating noise of the steel scraper

against the bottom of the iron vessel; the obscurity round about the

sink a short way off; and the invisible rascals of mice holding high

festivity over cast-off viands, chasing each other, biting one another's

tails and screeching at the pain. My family endeavored to keep me at

home, for it certainly is not in good taste to have one's child running

off to a neighbor's kitchen; but Aunty would steal me from mamma, and I,

for my part, did all I could, I warrant, to be stolen!

When we are well-nigh through our business, Aunty, happening to glance

at me to assure herself I am there though silent, breaks into a broad,

good-humored smile at the sight. Here I am with the an smeared about my

mouth, and stretching out my hands equally sticky, in a most comic

despairing attitude. What I implore in mute eloquence is this, that she

would please to take immediate care of my soiled hands and wipe off the

material about my mouth. Aunty stands a minute appreciating the humorous

effect so produced; I look up at her with unsuspecting eyes wide open

and licking my mouth occasionally by way of variation. Soon, however, my

good-hearted Aunty washes me nice and clean and taking me up with her

hands on my sides, throws me on her right shoulder and crosses over to

the opposite side of the street in short quick steps to our house. She

is always a welcome guest there and is at once surrounded by our women,

to whom she imparts her kitchen lore and latest bits of news about men

and things.

She had a little romance in her kitchen, which she helped along and she

took absorbing interest in its development. It was the mutual attachment

of the adopted daughter of the great candy manufacturer and one of his

men. Miss Chrysanthemum, to give a glimpse of her past history, was born

in a humble home and, being a burden to its inmates, was thrust upon Mr.

Gladness the Main street confectioner, who was immensely wealthy, and

invested for pleasure in peacocks, canary birds, white, long-eared,

pink-eyed, lovely, tame rabbits, valuable pot-plants and many other good

things. I received beautiful peacock feathers from him; but my sisters

did not wish them for their bonnets, because Japanese ladies do not wear

bonnets. (But I don't know, of course, as I am a man and a foreigner,

that ladies ever trim their bonnets with the gay peacock feathers.) And

when the peacocks died, Mr. Gladness (his Japanese equivalent means it)

caused them to be stuffed and surprised me and many others one day with

the dead but life-like peacocks in the cage. I went to see Mr. Gladness

often; Mr. Gladness was a very rich, important gentleman; Mr. Gladness

was good enough to me, though older people did not seem to love him as I

did; he let me see the rabbits eat bamboo-leaves. He said I might touch

them if I liked. I was very much afraid at first, but Mr. Gladness

assured me they wouldn't bite--honestly they wouldn't. So I ventured to

put out my hand. They limped away from me though, keeping their noses

going all the time. Don't you know how they twitch their noses? Japanese

rabbits do that too; I thought it was funny! Mr. Gladness had in his

yard a large pond, where he kept a lot of big goldfish; Mr. Gladness had

also in his beautiful yard a little mountain and a little stream with a

little bridge. Mr. Gladness had a great many servants; everybody,

bowing, said "yea, yea" to him, while he stood straight as an arrow.

Miss Chrysanthemum, as I was saying, came, or rather was brought to this

rich merchant's house, he having found her one cold morning at his door,

tucked nicely in a basket, like little Moses. Her poor dear mother, like

his mother, some have said, was watching from a hiding place; the

anxiety of a mother seems the same both in ancient and modern times and

all the world over. Now the rich man had no child, just as in stories;

and when the crying baby stopped and smiled at him through her tears,

his proud old heart felt infinitely tender. He adopted her at that

instant and christened her afterward Chrysanthemum, the flower of that

name being his favorite above all others in his garden.

These particulars I gleaned from the neighbors' social gossip after I

had grown up; Miss Chrysanthemum was already a young lady when I used to

go to Aunt Otsuné in childish adoration. I remember the young lady took

me one winter's evening beside her to the kotatsu, the heating apparatus

I have mentioned in connection with my grandfather's house, and told me

stories. She was reared in luxury, had everything she wanted that could

be gotten with money, and was a great pet of Aunty's, who regarded her

as her own child. It was not surprising, then, that Aunty should note

with deep satisfaction the gentle flutter of Miss Chrysanthemum's maiden

heart at the sight of a young man; indeed, she seemed in the eye of the

world to take more interest than the interested parties themselves. This

kitchen romance was the pervading theme of her conversation; we were in

duty bound to hear just how the matter stood between the two, with her

opinions as to the prospect. The whole town took it up and discussed it

variously; some sage persons shook their heads and intimated that they

knew a certain poor fisher-woman to be Miss Chrysanthemum's real mother,

and that they had all along their own misgivings concerning the young

lady's future. "The blood will tell" was the maxim on which these

sapient observers took their stand, and they talked the young man over

as if he were an arrant fortune hunter, when I fear not one of them

could come up to Mr. Prosperity in assiduity and honest labor. "The

blood will tell," indeed, that a daughter of a friendless, mistaken, but

upright woman should choose for herself a sensible man, one who will

stick to her through thick and thin, as we shall see presently.

As I am not writing a love story. I shall not give the personal

appearances of my fair Chrysanthemum and gentle Prosperity, nor their

sayings and doings. Yet I do see perfectly, even at this distance of

time and place, the picture of young Mr. Prosperity sitting with his

fellow workers at his work, in the workshop on the rear of the store,

under the same roof with the kitchen but with a hall-way between.

Perhaps he is putting a color on the sugared commodities; he does it

with a flat brush, taking up the pieces one by one, then he sends a box

of them to the next man, who goes over the same, staining the uncolored

portion with another tint. He looks up at my approach, smiles a welcome

and resumes the work; the others, being used to my coming, go on with

their job, without even taking as much trouble as the mere act of

raising their heads, saying indifferently "halloo!" to their busy hands.

Mr. Prosperity, I remember, gave me some of the candy he was making when

he found an opportunity, which went farther to form my good opinion of

him than any other act.

Everything went on pleasantly with the young people and Aunty--very

pleasantly, in fact, until the pleasure of the old gentleman came to be

consulted. Then arose an insurmountable difficulty: he would not hear of

the match; he possessed wealth and in consequence proved supercilious.

His wealth, however, was but recently acquired; he himself was once a

common workman in a candy store on the fourth block of the same street.

But he would not have anything said about it; he simply would not brook

the idea of giving his daughter in marriage to his employee; he

foolishly deemed it below his dignity. This was a severe blow to Aunt

Otsuné; she felt her career balked and frustrated; the young couple

began to love each other much more than before, "What would this state

of things result in?" said the gossips of the town. Reconciliation of

the huffy old man, impossible! Separation of the affectionate pair,

quite as hard!

Here Aunt Otsuné called in her inventive powers: she was full of kind

honest invention,--how else could she have carried herself in the battle

of life so far, single handed, and remain a favorite with all the world?

She took Miss Chrysanthemum and Mr. Prosperity under her wing, as it

were, rented a comfortable little house on a by-street and installed

them therein, married. She liked to see them happy together, and have

them take care of her in her old age; she had heretofore been lone and

helpless, despite her cheerful exertions. They opened a small candy

store, falling back upon their knowledge of the trade; soon there came

to them a dear little babe. Aunt Otsuné rejoiced at the little one's

advent; her scheme was now complete. She bore the infant in her arms

softly and went to the door of her former employer. Her diplomacy was to

give the cross old fellow a sight of the lovely grandchild and thereby

work a miracle in his stony heart, surmising at the same time that time

must have done something towards mollifying his obstinacy. This

accomplished, it would be an easy step to persuade him to take them all

back into his favor. Alas, poor faithful soul! it was but a woman's

wisdom: Mr. Gladness was still found inexorable.

On that memorable night slowly she walked into our house with the babe

in her arms, and sat herself down heavily by the dim, papered Japanese

household lamp. For some time she remained silent and glanced around the

room furtively; to her unspeakable satisfaction there was nobody there

beside ourselves. Then the mental tension with which she upheld the

whole weight of misery and woe gave way, and she burst into a flood of

tears. I recollect the unusual solemn hush of the room, the serious

looks of the company and the distracting sobs on the other side of the

lamp; I recollect my becoming unaccountably sad, too, and looking away

at a corner in my effort to refrain from tears; I beheld the paper god

pasted high up on the pillar brown with age and smoke. When Aunty

recovered herself, she managed to inform us how she had been received by

Mr. Gladness and told us she had made up her mind, if the young people

were willing, to move to one of the islands in the Sound where she was

sure of a kindlier reception. So the kind old soul, foiled in the last

of her struggles, left her friends at Imabari for the simple life of the

islanders. At intervals, we had intelligence of her whereabouts, but as

years rolled on news reached us no more.

I have given this account of Aunt Otsuné somewhat at length, because I

felt interested in reviving her half-forgotten memory; and I have

entered upon the history of Miss Chrysanthemum and Mr. Prosperity in

order to show to the people of this country, who are misinformed on the

subject of Japanese marriage and believe that our young people are, in

all cases, matched by their parents and not infrequently to those whom

they do not love,--in order to show, I say, to these misinformed people

by an actual example from my own observation, that such is not the case,

and that our people marry for love of each other, notwithstanding the

artificial manners of our society.