III
From that hour she was not seen to weep. She performed, lightly and silently, as in former days, the gentle duties of a daughter.
Seasons passed; and her father thought to find another husband for her. To the mother, he said:—
“If our daughter again have a son, it will be great joy for her, and for all of us.”
But the wiser mother made answer:—
“Unhappy she is not. It is impossible that she marry again. She has become as a little child, knowing nothing of trouble or sin.”
It was true that she had ceased to know real pain. She had begun to show a strange fondness for very small things. At first she had found her bed too large—perhaps through the sense of emptiness left by the loss of her child; then, day by day, other things seemed to grow too large,—the dwelling itself, the familiar rooms, the alcove and its great flower-vases,—even the household utensils. She wished to eat her rice with miniature chop-sticks out of a very small bowl such as children use.
In these things she was lovingly humored; and in other matters she was not fantastic. The old people consulted together about her constantly. At last the father said:—
“For our daughter to live with strangers might be painful. But as we are aged, we may soon have to leave her. Perhaps we could provide for her by making her a nun. We might build a little temple for her.”
Next day the mother asked O-Toyo:—
“Would you not like to become a holy nun, and to live in a very, very small temple, with a very small altar, and little images of the Buddhas? We should be always near you. If you wish this, we shall get a priest to teach you the sutras.”
O-Toyo wished it, and asked that an extremely small nun’s dress be got for her. But the mother said:—
“Everything except the dress a good nun may have made small. But she must wear a large dress—that is the law of Buddha.”
So she was persuaded to wear the same dress as other nuns.
IV
They built for her a small An-dera, or Nun’s-Temple, in an empty court where another and larger temple, called Amida-ji, had once stood. The An-dera was also called Amida-ji, and was dedicated to Amida-Nyorai and to other Buddhas. It was fitted up with a very small altar and with miniature altar furniture. There was a tiny copy of the sutras on a tiny reading-desk, and tiny screens and bells and kakemono. And she dwelt there long after her parents had passed away. People called her the Amida-ji no Bikuni,—which means The Nun of the Temple of Amida.
A little outside the gate there was a statue of Jizo. This Jizo was a special Jizo—the friend of sick children. There were nearly always offerings of small rice-cakes to be seen before him. These signified that some sick child was being prayed for; and the number of the rice-cakes signified the number of the years of the child. Most often there were but two or three cakes; rarely there were seven or ten. The Amida-ji no Bikuni took care of the statue, and supplied it with incense-offerings, and flowers from the temple garden; for there was a small garden behind the An-dera.
After making her morning round with her alms-bowl, she would usually seat herself before a very small loom, to weave cloth much too narrow for serious use. But her webs were bought always by certain shopkeepers who knew her story; and they made her presents of very small cups, tiny flower-vases, and queer dwarf-trees for her garden.
Her greatest pleasure was the companionship of children; and this she never lacked. Japanese child-life, is mostly passed in temple courts; and many happy childhoods were spent in the court of the Amida-ji. All the mothers in that street liked to have their little ones play there, but cautioned them never to laugh at the Bikuni-San. “Sometimes her ways are strange,” they would say; “but that is because she once had a little son, who died, and the pain became too great for her mother’s heart. So you must be very good and respectful to her.”
Good they were, but not quite respectful in the reverential sense. They knew better than to be that. They called her “Bikuni-San” always, and saluted her nicely; but otherwise they treated her like one of themselves. They played games with her; and she gave them tea in extremely small cups, and made for them heaps of rice-cakes not much bigger than peas, and wove upon her loom cloth of cotton and cloth of silk for the robes of their dolls. So she became to them as a blood-sister.
They played with her daily till they grew too big to play, and left the court of the temple of Amida to begin the bitter work of life, and to become the fathers and mothers of children whom they sent to play in their stead. These learned to love the Bikuni-San like their parents had done. And the Bikuni-San lived to play with the children of the children of the children of those who remembered when her temple was built.
The people took good heed that she should not know want. There was always given to her more than she needed for herself. So she was able to be nearly as kind to the children as she wished, and to feed extravagantly certain small animals. Birds nested in her temple, and ate from her hand, and learned not to perch upon the heads of the Buddhas.
Some days after her funeral, a crowd of children visited my house. A little girl of nine years spoke for them all:—
“Sir, we are asking for the sake of the Bikuni-San who is dead. A very large haka1 has been set up for her. It is a nice haka. But we want to give her also a very, very small haka because in the time she was with us she often said that she would like a very little haka. And the stone-cutter has promised to cut it for us, and to make it very pretty, if we can bring the money. Therefore perhaps you will honorably give something.”
“Assuredly,” I said. “But now you will have nowhere to play.”
She answered, smiling:—“We shall still play in the court of the temple of Amida. She is buried there. She will hear our playing, and be glad.”
Notes
1 Tombstone.