A Woman’s Diary
Recently there was put into my hands a somewhat remarkable manuscript,—seventeen long narrow sheets of soft paper, pierced with a silken string, and covered with fine Japanese characters. It was a kind of diary, containing the history of a woman’s married life, recorded by herself. The writer was dead; and the diary had been found in a small work-box (haribako) which had belonged to her.
The friend who lent me the manuscript gave me leave to translate as much of it as I might think worth publishing. I have gladly availed myself of this unique opportunity to present in English the thoughts and feelings, joys and sorrows, of a simple woman of the people—just as she herself recorded them in the frankest possible way, never dreaming that any foreign eye would read her humble and touching memoir.
But out of respect to her gentle ghost, I have tried to use the manuscript in such a way only as could not cause her the least pain if she were yet in the body, and able to read me. Some parts I have omitted, because I thought them sacred. Also I have left out a few details relating to customs or to local beliefs that the Western reader could scarcely understand, even with the aid of notes. And the names, of course, have been changed. Otherwise I have followed the text as closely as I could,—making no changes of phrase except when the Japanese original could not be adequately interpreted by a literal rendering.
In addition to the facts stated or suggested in the diary itself, I could learn but very little of the writer’s personal history. She was a woman of the poorest class; and from her own narrative it appears that she remained unmarried until she was nearly thirty. A younger sister had been married several years previously; and the diary does not explain this departure from custom. A small photograph found with the manuscript shows that its author never could have been called good-looking; but the face has a certain pleasing expression of shy gentleness. Her husband was a kozukai,1 employed in one of the great public offices, chiefly for night duty, at a salary of ten yen per month. In order to help him to meet the expenses of housekeeping, she made cigarettes for a tobacco dealer.
The manuscript shows that she must have been at school for some years: she could write the kana very nicely, but she had not learned many Chinese characters,—so that her work resembles the work of a schoolgirl. But it is written without mistakes, and skilfully. The dialect is of Tōkyō,—the common speech of the city people,—full of idiomatic expressions, but entirely free from coarseness.
Some one might naturally ask why this poor woman, so much occupied with the constant struggle for mere existence, should have taken the pains to write down what she probably never intended to be read. I would remind such a questioner of the old Japanese teaching that literary composition is the best medicine for sorrow; and I would remind him also of the fact that, even among the poorest classes, poems are still composed upon all occasions of joy or pain. The latter part of the diary was written in lonely hours of illness; and I suppose that she then wrote chiefly in order to keep her thoughts composed at a time when solitude had become dangerous for her. A little before her death, her mind gave way; and these final pages probably represent the last brave struggle of the spirit against the hopeless weakness of the flesh.
I found that the manuscript was inscribed, on the outside sheet, with the title, Mukashi-hanashi: “A Story of Old Times.” According to circumstances, the word mukashi may signify either “long ago,” in reference to past centuries, or “old times,” in reference to one’s own past life. The latter is the obvious meaning in the present case.
Mukashi-Banashi
On the evening of the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month of the twenty-eighth year of Meiji [1895]? man of the opposite house came and asked:—
“As for the eldest daughter of this family, is it agreeable that she be disposed of in marriage?”
Then the answer was given:—
“Even though the matter were agreeable [to our wishes], no preparation for such an event has yet been made.”2
The man of the opposite house said:—
“But as no preparation is needed in this case, will you not honourably give her to the person for whom I speak? He is said to be a very steady man; and he is thirty-eight years of age. As I thought your eldest girl to be about twenty-six, I proposed her to him....”
“No,—she is twenty-nine years old,” was answered.
“Ah!... That being the case, I must again speak to the other party; and I shall honourably consult with you after I have seen him.”
So saying, the man went away.
Next evening the man came again,—this time with the wife of Okada-Shi3 [a friend of the family],—and said:—
“The other party is satisfied;—so, if you are willing, the match can be made.”
Father replied:—
“As the two are, both of them, shichi-séki-kin [“seven-red-metal”],4 they should have the same nature;—so I think that no harm can come of it.”
The match-maker asked:—
“Then how would it be to arrange for the miai5 [“see-meeting”] to-morrow?”
Father said:—
“I suppose that everything really depends upon the En [karma-relation formed in previous states of existence].... Well, then, I beg that you will honourably meet us to-morrow evening at the house of Okada.”
Thus the betrothal promise was given on both sides.
The person of the opposite house wanted me to go with him next evening to Okada’s; but I said that I wished to go with my mother only, as from the time of taking such a first step one could not either retreat or advance. When I went with mother to the house, we were welcomed in with the words, “Kochira ē!” Then [my future husband and I] greeted each other for the first time. But somehow I felt so much ashamed that I could not look at him.
Then Okada-Shi said to Namiki-Shi [the proposed husband]: “Now that you have nobody to consult with at home, would it not be well for you to snatch your luck where you find it, as the proverb says,—‘Zen wa isogé’?”
The answer was made:—
“As for me, I am well satisfied; but I do not know what the feeling may be on the other side.”
“If it be honourably deigned to take me as it is honourably known that I am...”6 I said.
The match-maker said:—
“The matter being so, what would be a good day for the wedding?”
[Namaki-Shi answered:—]
“Though I can be at home to-morrow, perhaps the first day of the tenth month would be a better day.”
But Okada-Shi at once said:—
“As there is cause for anxiety about the house being unoccupied while Namiki-Shi is absent [on night-duty], to-morrow would perhaps be the better day—would it not?”
Though at first that seemed to me much too soon, I presently remembered that the next day was a Taian-nichi7 [perfectly fortunate day]: so I gave my consent; and we went home.
When I told father, he was not pleased. He said that it was too soon, and that a delay of at least three or four days ought to have been allowed. Also he said that the direction [hōgaku]8 was not lucky, and that other conditions were not favourable.
I said:—
“But I have already promised; and I cannot now ask to have the day changed. Indeed it would be a great pity if a thief were to enter the house in [his] absence. As for the matter of the direction being unlucky, even though I should have to die on that account, I would not complain; for I should die in my own husband’s house.... And to-morrow,” I added, “I shall be too busy to call on Goto [her brother-in-law]: so I must go there now.” I went to Goto’s; but, when I saw him, I felt afraid to say exactly what I had come to say. I suggested it only by telling him:—
“To-morrow I have to go to a strange house.”
Goto immediately asked:—
“As an honourable daughter-in-law [bride]?”
After hesitating, I answered at last:—
“Yes.”
“What kind of a person?” Goto asked.
I answered:—
“If I had felt myself able to look at him long enough to form any opinion, I would not have put mother to the trouble of going with me.”
“Ané-San [Elder Sister]!” he exclaimed,—“then what was the use of going to see him at all?... But,” he added, in a more pleasant tone, “let me wish you luck.”
“Anyhow,” I said, “to-morrow it will be.”
And I returned home.
Now the appointed day having come—the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month—I had so much to do that I did not know how I should ever be able to get ready. And as it had been raining for several days, the roadway was very bad, which made matters worse for me—though, luckily, no rain fell on that day. I had to buy some little things; and I could not well ask mother to do anything for me,—much as I wished for her help,—because her feet had become very weak by reason of her great age. So I got up very early and went out alone, and did the best I could: nevertheless, it was two o’clock in the afternoon before I got everything ready.
Then I had to go to the hair-dresser’s to have my hair dressed, and to go to the bath-house—all of which took time. And when I came back to dress, I found that no message had yet been received from Namiki-Shi; and I began to feel a little anxious. Just after we had finished supper, the message came. I had scarcely time to say good-by to all: then I went out,—leaving my home behind forever,—and walked with mother to the house of Okada-Shi.
There I had to part even from mother; and the wife of Okada-Shi taking charge of me, I accompanied her to the house of Namaki-Shi in Funamachi.
The wedding ceremony of the sansan-kudo-no-sakazuki9 having been performed without any difficulty, and the time of the o-hiraki [“honourable-blossoming”]10 having come more quickly than I had expected, the guests all returned home.
So we two were left, for the first time, each alone with the other—sitting face to face: my heart beat wildly;11 and I felt abashed in such a way as could not be expressed by means of ink and paper.
Indeed, what I felt can be imagined only by one who remembers leaving her parents’ home for the first time, to become a bride,—a daughter-in-law in a strange house.
Afterward, at the hour of meals, I felt very much distressed [embarrassed]....
Two or three days later, the father of my husband’s former wife [who was dead] visited me, and said:—
“Namiki-Shi is really a good man,—a moral, steady man; but as he is also very particular about small matters and inclined to find fault, you had better always be careful to try to please him.”
Now as I had been carefully watching my husband’s ways from the beginning, I knew that he was really a very strict man, and I resolved so to conduct myself in all matters as never to cross his will.
The fifth day of the tenth month was the day for our satogaëri,12 and for the first time we went out together, calling at Goto’s on the way. After we left Goto’s, the weather suddenly became bad, and it began to rain. Then we borrowed a paper umbrella, which we used as an aigasa13; and though I was very uneasy lest any of my former neighbours should see us walking thus together, we luckily reached my parents’ house, and made our visit of duty, without any trouble at all. While we were in the house, the rain fortunately stopped.
On the ninth day of the same month I went with him to the theatre for the first time. We visited the Engiza at Akasaka, and saw a performance by the Yamaguchi company.
On the eighth day of the eleventh month, we made a visit to Asakusa-temple,14 and also went to the [Shinto temple of the] O-Tori-Sama.
—During this last month of the year I made new spring robes for my husband and myself: then I learned for the first time how pleasant such work was, and I felt very happy.
On the twenty-fifth day we visited the temple of Ten-jin-Sama,15 and walked about the grounds there.
On the eleventh day of the first month of the twenty-ninth year [1896], called at Okada’s.
On the twelfth day we paid a visit to Goto’s, and had a pleasant time there.
On the ninth day of the second month we went to the Mizaki theatre to see the play Imosé-Yama. On our way to the theatre we met Goto-Shi unexpectedly; and he went with us. But unluckily it began to rain as we were returning home, and we found the roads very muddy.
On the twenty-second day of the same month [we had our] photograph taken at Amano’s.
On the twenty-fifth day of the third month we went to the Haruki theatre, and saw the play Uguisuzuka.—During the month it was agreed that all of us [kindred, friends, and parents] should make up a party, and enjoy our hanami16 together; but this could not be managed.
On the tenth day of the fourth month, at nine o’clock in the morning, we two went out for a walk. We first visited the Shōkonsha [Shintō shrine] at Kudan: thence we walked to Uyéno [park]; and from there we went to Asakusa, and visited the Kwannon temple; and we also prayed at the Monzéki [Higashi Hongwanji]. Thence we had intended to go round to Asakusa-Okuyama; but we thought that it would be better to have dinner first—so we went to an eating-house. While we were dining, we heard such a noise of shouting and screaming that we thought there was a great quarrel outside. But the trouble was really caused by a fire in one of the misémono [“shows”]. The fire spread quickly, even while we were looking at it; and nearly all the show-buildings in that street were burnt up.... We left the eating-house soon after, and walked about the Asakusa grounds, looking at things.
[Here follows, in the original Ms., the text of a little poem, composed by the writer herself:—]
Imado no watashi nité,
Aimita koto mo naki hito ni,
Fushigi ni Miméguri-Inari,
Kaku mo fūfu ni naru nomika.
Hajimé no omoi ni hikikaëté,
Itsushika-kokoro mo Sumidagawa.
Tsugai hanarénu miyakodori,
Hito mo urayaméba wagami mo mata,
Sakimidarétaru doté no hana yori mo,
Hana ni mo mashita sono hito to
Shirahigé-Yashiro ni naru madé mo.
Soïtogétashi to inorinenji!
[Freely translated.]17
Having been taken across the Imado-Ferry, I strangely met at [the temple of] Miméguri-Inari with a person whom I had never seen before. Because of this meeting our relation is now even more than the relation of husband and wife. And my first anxious doubt, “For how long—?” having passed away, my mind has become [clear] as the Sumida River. Indeed we are now like a pair of Miyako-birds [always together]; and I even think that I deserve to be envied. [To see the flowers we went out; but] more than the pleasure of viewing a whole shore in blossom is the pleasure that I now desire,—always to dwell with this person, dearer to me than any flower, until we enter the Shirahigé-Yashiro. That we may so remain together, I supplicate the Gods!
... Then we crossed the Azuma bridge on our homeward way; and we went by steamer to the kaichō [festival] of the temple of the Soga-Kyōdai,18 and prayed that love and concord should continue always between ourselves and our brothers and sisters. It was after seven o’clock that evening when we got home.
—On the twenty-fifth day of the same month we went to the Rokumono-no-Yosé.19
On the second day of the fifth month we visited [the gardens at] Ōkubo to see the azaleas in blossom. On the sixth day of the same month we went to see a display of fireworks at the Shōkonsha.
—So far we had never had any words between us nor any disagreement;20 and I had ceased to feel bashful when we went out visiting or sight-seeing. Now each of us seemed to think only of how to please the other; and I felt sure that nothing would ever separate us.... May our relation always be thus happy!
The eighteenth day of the sixth month, being the festival of the Suga-jinja,21 we were invited to my father’s house. But as the hair-dresser did not come to dress my hair at the proper time, I was much annoyed. However, I went with O-Tori-San [a younger sister] to father’s. Presently O-Kō-San [a married sister] also came;—and we had a pleasant time. In the evening Goto-Shi [husband of O-Kō] joined us; and, last of all, came my husband, for whom I had been waiting with anxious impatience. And there was one thing that made me very glad. Often when he and I were to go out together, I had proposed that we should put on the new spring robes which I had made; but he had as often refused,—preferring to wear his old kimono. Now, however, he wore the new one,—having felt obliged to put it on because of father’s invitation.... All of us being thus happily assembled, the party became more and more enjoyable; and when we had at last to say good-by, we only regretted the shortness of the summer night.
These are the poems which we composed that evening:—
Futa-fūfu
Sorōté iwō,
Ujigami no
Matsuri mo kyō wa
Nigiwai ni kéri.
—By Namiki (the husband).
Two wedded couples having gone together to worship at the temple, the parish-festival to-day has been merrier than ever before.
Ujigami no
Matsuri médétashi
Futa-fūfu.
—Also by the husband.
Fortunate indeed for two married couples has been the parish-temple festival!
Ikutosé mo
Nigiyaka narishi,
Ujigami no,
Matsuri ni sorō,
Kyō no uréshisa.
—By the wife.
Though for ever so many years it has always been a joyous occasion, the festival of our parish-temple to-day is more pleasant than ever before, because of our being thus happily assembled together.
Matsuri toté,
Ikka atsumaru,
Tanoshimi wa!
Géni Ujigami no
Mégumi narikéri.
—By the wife.
To-day being a day of festival, and all of us meeting together,—what a delight! Surely by the favour of the tutelar God [Ujigami] this has come to pass.
Futa-fūfu
Sorōté kyō no
Shitashimi mo,
Kami no mégumi zo
Médéta kari-kéri.
—By the wife.
Two wedded pairs being to-day united in such friendship as this,—certainly it has happened only through the favour of the Gods!
Ujigami no
Mégumi mo fukaki
Fūfu-zuré.
—By the wife.
Deep indeed is the favour of the tutelar God to the two married couples.
Matsuri toté,
Tsui ni shitatéshi
Iyō-gasuri,
Kyō tanoshimi ni
Kiru to omoëba.
—By the wife.
This day being a day of festival, we decided to put on, for the joyful meeting, the robes of Iyogasuri,22 that had been made alike.
Omoïkya!
Hakarazu sōro
Futa-fūfu;
Nani ni tatōën
Kyō no kichi-jitsu.
—By Goto (the brother-in-law).
How could we have thought it! Here unexpectedly the two married couples meet together. What can compare with the good fortune of this day?
Matsuri toté
Hajimété sorō
Futa-fūfu,
Nochi no kaëri zo
Ima wa kanashiki.
—By O-Kō, the married sister.
This day being a day of festival, here for the first time two wedded pairs have met. Already I find myself sorrowing at the thought that we must separate again.
Furu-sato no
Matsuri ni sorō
Futa-fūfu:
Katarō ma saë
Natsu mo mijika yo!
—By O-Kō.
At the old parental home, two married couples have met together in holiday celebration. Alas! that the time of our happy converse should be only one short summer night!
On the fifth day of the seventh month, went to the Kanazawa-tei,23 where Harimadayū was then reciting; and we heard him recite the jōruri called Sanjūsangendō.
On the first day of the eighth month we went to the [Buddhist] temple of Asakusa [Kwannon] to pray,—that day being the first anniversary [isshūki] of the death of my husband’s former wife. Afterward we went to an eel-house, near the Azuma bridge, for dinner; and while we were there—just about the hour of noon—an earthquake took place. Being close to the river, the house rocked very much; and I was greatly frightened.
—Remembering that when we went to Asakusa before, in the time of cherry blossoms, we had seen a big fire, this earthquake made me feel anxious;—I wondered whether lightning would come next.24
About two o’clock we left the eating-house, and went to the Asakusa park. From there we went by street-car to Kanda; and we stopped awhile at a cool place in Kanda, to rest ourselves. On our way home we called at father’s, and it was after nine o’clock when we got back.
The fifteenth day of the same month was the festival of the Hachiman-jinja25; and Goto, my sister, and the younger sister of Goto came to the house. I had hoped that we could all go to the temple together; but that morning my husband had taken a little too much wine,—so we had to go without him. After worshipping at the temple, we went to Goto’s house; and I stopped there awhile before returning home.
In the ninth month, on the occasion of the Higan26 festival, I went alone to the [Buddhist] temple to pray.
On the twenty-first day of the tenth month, O-Taka-San [probably a relative] came from Shidzuoka. I wanted to take her to the theatre the next day; but she was obliged to leave Tōkyō early in the morning. However, my husband and I went to the Ryūsei theatre on the following evening; and we saw the play called Matsumaë Bidan Teichū-Kagami.27
On the twenty-second day of the sixth month I began to sew a kimono which father had asked me to make for him; but I felt ill, and could not do much. However, I was able to finish the work on the first day of the new year [1897].
... Now we were very happy because of the child that was to be born. And I thought how proud and glad my parents would be at having a grandchild for the first time.
On the tenth day of the fifth month I went out with mother to worship Shiogama-Sama,28 and also to visit Sengakuji. There we saw the tombs of the Shijin-shichi Shi [Forty-seven Rōnin], and many relics of their history. We returned by railroad, taking the train from Shinagawa to Shinjiku. At Shiochō-Sanchōmé I parted from mother, and I got home by six o’clock.
On the eighth day of the sixth month, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a boy was born. Both mother and child appeared to be as well as could be wished; and the child much resembled my husband; and its eyes were large and black.... But I must say that it was a very small child; for, though it ought to have been born in the eighth month, it was born indeed in the sixth.... At seven o’clock in the evening of the same day, when the time came to give the child some medicine, we saw, by the light of the lamp, that he was looking all about, with his big eyes wide open. During that night the child slept in my mother’s bosom. As we had been told that he must be kept very warm, because he was only a seven-months’ child, it was decided that he should be kept in the bosom by day as well as by night.
Next day—the ninth day of the sixth month—at half-past six o’clock in the afternoon, he suddenly died....
—“Brief is the time of pleasure, and quickly turns to pain; and whatsoever is born must necessarily die”29;—that, indeed, is a true saying about this world.
Only for one day to be called a mother!—to have a child born only to see it die!... Surely, I thought, if a child must die within two days after birth, it were better that it should never be born.
From the twelfth to the sixth month I had been so ill!—then at last I had obtained some ease, and joy at the birth of a son; and I had received so many congratulations about my good fortune;—and, nevertheless, he was dead!... Indeed, I suffered great grief.
On the tenth day of the sixth month the funeral took place, at the temple called Senpukuji, in Ōkubo, and a small tomb was erected.
The poems composed at that time30 were the following:—
Omoïkya!
Mi ni saë kaënu
Nadéshiko ni,
Wakaréshi sodé no
Tsuyu no tamoto wo!
If I could, only have known! Ah, this parting with the flower,31 for which I would so gladly have given my own life, has left my sleeves wet with the dew!
Samidaré ya!
Shimérigachi naru
Sodé no tamoto wo.
Oh! the month of rain!32 All things become damp;—the ends of my sleeves are wet.
Some little time afterward, people told me that if I planted the sotoba33 upside down, another misfortune of this kind would not come to pass. I had a great many sorrowful doubts about doing such a thing; but at last, on the ninth day of the eighth month, I had the sotoba reversed....
On the eighth day of the ninth month we went to the Akasaka theatre.
On the eighteenth day of the tenth month I went by myself to the Haruki theatre in Hongō, to see the play of Ōkubo Hikozaëmon.34 There, having carelessly lost my sandal-ticket [gésoku-fuda], I had to remain until after everybody else had left. Then I was at last able to get my sandals, and to go home; but the night was so black that I felt very lonesome on the way.
On the day of the Sekku,35in the first month [1898], I was talking with Hori’s aunt and the wife of our friend Uchimi, when I suddenly felt a violent pain in my breast, and, being frightened, I tried to reach a talisman (o-mamori) of Suitengū,36 which was lying upon the wardrobe. But in the same moment I fell senseless. Under kind treatment I soon came to myself again; but I was ill for a long time after.
The tenth day of the fourth month being the holiday Sanjiu-nen-Sai,37 we arranged to meet at father’s. I was to go there first with Jiunosuké [perhaps a relative], and there wait for my husband, who had to go to the office that morning for a little while. He met us at father’s house about half-past eight: then the three of us went out together to look at the streets. We passed through Kōjimachi to Nakatamachi, and went by way of the Sakurada-Mon to the Hibiya-Metsuké, and thence from Ginzadōri by way of the Mégané-Bashi to Uyéno. After looking at things there, we again went to the Mégané-Bashi; but then I felt so tired that I proposed to return, and my husband agreed, as he also was very tired. But Jiunosuké said: “As I do not want to miss this chance to see the Daimyō-procession,38 I must go on to Ginza.” So there we said good-by to him, and we went to a little eating-house [tempura-ya], where we were served with fried fish; and, as luck would have it, we got a good chance to see the Daimyō-procession from that very house. We did not get back home that evening until half-past six o’clock.
From the middle of the fourth month I had much sorrow on account of a matter relating to my sister Tori [the matter is not mentioned].
On the nineteenth day of the eighth month of the thirty-first year of Meiji [1898] my second child was born, almost painlessly,—a girl; and we named her Hatsu. We invited to the shichiya39 all those who had helped us at the time of the child’s birth.
—Mother afterwards remained with me for a couple of days; but she was then obliged to leave me, because my sister Kō was suffering from severe pains in the chest. Fortunately my husband had his regular vacation about the same time; and he helped me all he could,—even in regard to washing and other matters; but I was often greatly troubled because I had no woman with me....
When my husband’s vacation was over, mother came often, but only while my husband was away. The twenty-one days [the period of danger] thus passed; but mother and child continued well.
—Up to the time of one hundred days after my daughter’s birth, I was constantly anxious about her, because she often seemed to have a difficulty in breathing. But that passed off at last, and she appeared to be getting strong.
Still, we were unhappy about one matter,—a deformity: Hatsu had been born with a double thumb on one hand. For a long time we could not make up our minds to take her to a hospital, in order to have an operation performed. But at last a woman living near our house told us of a very skilful surgeon in [the quarter of] Shinjiku; and we decided to go to him. My husband held the child on his lap during the operation. I could not bear to see the operation; and I waited in the next room, my heart full of pain and fear, wondering how the matter would end. But [when all was over] the little one did not appear to suffer any pain; and she took the breast as usual a few minutes after. So the matter ended more fortunately than I had thought possible.
At home she continued to take her milk as before, and seemed as if nothing had been done to her little body. But as she was so very young we were afraid that the operation might in some way cause her to be sick. By way of precaution, I went with her to the hospital every day for about three weeks; but she showed no sign of sickness.
On the third day of the third month of the thirty-second year [1899], on the occasion of the hatsu-sekku,40 we received presents of Dairi and of hina, both from father’s house and from Goto’s,—also the customary gifts of congratulation: a tansu [chest of drawers], a kyōdai [mirror-stand], and a haribako [work-box: lit. “needle-box”]41 We ourselves on the same occasion bought for her a chadai [teacup stand], a zen [lacquered tray], and some other little things. Both Goto and Jiunosuké came to see us on that day; and we had a very happy gathering.
On the third day of the fourth month we visited the temple Ana-Hachiman [Shintō shrine in the district of Waséda] to pray for the child’s health....
On the twenty-ninth day of the fourth month Hatsu appeared to be unwell: so I wanted to have her examined by a doctor.
A doctor promised to come the same morning, but he did not come, and I waited for him in vain all that day. Next day again I waited, but he did not come. Toward evening Hatsu became worse, and seemed to be suffering great pain in her breast, and I resolved to take her to a doctor early next morning. All through that night I was very uneasy about her, but at daybreak she seemed to be better. So I went out alone, taking her on my back, and walked to the office of a doctor in Akasaka. But when I asked to have the child examined, I was told that I must wait, as it was not yet the regular time for seeing patients.
While I was waiting, the child began to cry worse than ever before; she would not take the breast, and I could do nothing to soothe her, either by walking or resting, so that I was greatly troubled. At last the doctor came, and began to examine her; and in the same moment I noticed that her crying grew feebler, and that her lips were becoming paler and paler. Then, as I could not remain silent, seeing her thus, I had to ask, “How is her condition?” “She cannot live until evening,” he answered. “But could you not give her medicine?” I asked. “If she could drink it,” he replied.
I wanted to go back home at once, and send word to my husband and to my father’s house; but the shock had been too much for me—all my strength suddenly left me. Fortunately a kind old woman came to my aid, and carried my umbrella and other things, and helped me to get into a jinrikisha, so that I was able to return home by jinrikisha. Then I sent a man to tell my husband and my father. Mita’s wife came to help me; and with her assistance everything possible was done to help the child.... Still my husband did not come back. But all our pain and trouble was in vain.
So, on the second day of the fifth month of the thirty-second year, my child set out on her journey to the Jūmanokudō42—never to return to this world.
And we, her father and mother, were yet living—though we had caused her death by neglecting to have her treated by a skilled doctor! This thought made us both sorrow greatly; and we often reproached ourselves in vain. But the day after her death the doctor said to us: “Even if that disease had been treated from the beginning by the best possible means, your child could not have lived more than about a week. If she had been ten or eleven years old, she might possibly have been saved by an operation; but in this case no operation could have been attempted—the child was too young.” Then he explained to us that the child had died from a jinzōen.43...
Thus all the hopes that we had, and all the pains that we took in caring for her, and all the pleasure of watching her grow during those nine months,—all were in vain!
But we two were at last able to find some ease from our sorrow by reflecting that our relation to this child, from the time of some former life, must have been very slight and weak.44
In the loneliness of that weary time, I tried to express my heart by writing some verses after the manner of the story of Miyagino and Shinobu in the gidayū-bon45:—
Koré, kono uchi é enzukishi wa,
Omoi kaëséba itsutosé maë;
Kondo mōkéshi wa onago no ko,
Kawaii mono toté sodatsuru ka to;—
Waga mi no nari wa uchi-wasuré,
Sodatéshi koto mo, nasaké nai.
Kōshita koto to wa tsuyushirazu,
Kono Hatsu wa buji ni sodatsuru ka.
Shubi yō seijin shita naraba,
Yagaté muko wo tori
Tanoshimashō dōshité to.
Monomi yusan wo tashinandé,
Wagako daiji to,
Otto no koto mo, Hatsu no koto mo,
Koïshi natsukashi omō no wo;
—Tanoshimi-kurashita kai mo no.
Oyako ni narishi wa uréshii ga,
Sakidatsu koto wo miru haha no
Kokoro mo suishité tamoi no to!
—Té wo tori-kawasu fūfu ga nagéki,
Nagéki wo tachi-giku mo,
Morai nakishité omotéguchi
Shōji mo nururu bakari nari.
Here in this house it was that I married him;—well I remember the day—five years ago. Here was born the girl-baby,—the loved one whom we hoped to rear. Caring then no longer for my person [,—heedless of how I dressed when I went out],—thinking only of how to bring her up,—I lived. How pitiless [this doom of mine]! Never had I even dreamed that such a thing could befall me: my only thoughts were as to how my Hatsu could best be reared. When she grows up, I thought, soon we shall find her a good husband, to make her life happy. So, never going out for pleasure-seeking, I studied only how to care for my little one,—how to love and to cherish my husband and my Hatsu. Vain now, alas! this hoped-for joy of living only for her sake.... Once having known the delight of the relation of mother and child, deign to think of the heart of the mother who sees her child die before her! 46
[All of the foregoing is addressed to the spirit of the dead child.—Translator.]
Now, while husband and wife, each clasping the hands of the other, make lament together, if any one pausing at the entrance should listen to their sorrow, surely the paper window would be moistened by tears from without.
About the time of Hatsu’s death, the law concerning funerals was changed for the better; and permission was given for the burning of corpses in Ōkubo. So I asked Namiki to have the body sent to the temple of which his family had always been parishioners,—providing that there should be no [legal] difficulty about the matter. Accordingly the funeral took place at Monjōji,—a temple belonging to the Asakusa branch of the Hongwanji Shin-shū; and the ashes were there interred.
—My sister Kō was sick in bed with a rather bad cold at the time of Hatsu’s death; but she visited us very soon after the news had reached her. And she called again a few days later to tell us that she had become almost well, and that we had no more cause to feel anxious about her.
—As for myself, I felt a dread of going out anywhere; and I did not leave the house for a whole month. But as custom does not allow one to remain always indoors, I had to go out at last; and I made the required visit to father’s and to my sister’s.
—Having become quite ill, I hoped that mother would be able to help me. But Kō was again sick, and Yoshi [a younger sister here mentioned for the first time] and mother had both to attend her constantly: so I could get no aid from father’s house. There was no one to help me except some of my female neighbours, who attended me out of pure kindness, when they could spare the time. At last I got Hori-Shi to engage a good old woman to assist me; and under her kind care I began to get well. About the beginning of the eighth month I felt much stronger....
On the fourth day of the ninth month my sister Kō died of consumption.
—It had been agreed beforehand that if an unexpected matter47 came to pass, my younger sister Yoshi should be received in the place of Kō. As Goto-Shi found it inconvenient to live altogether alone, the marriage took place on the eleventh day of the same month; and the usual congratulations were offered.
On the last day of the same month Okada-Shi suddenly died.
We found ourselves greatly troubled [pecuniarily embarrassed] by the expenses that all these events caused us.
—When I first heard that Yoshi had been received so soon after the death of Kō, I was greatly displeased. But I kept my feelings hidden, and I spoke to the man as before.
In the eleventh month Goto went alone to Sapporo. On the second day of the second month, thirty-third year of Meiji [1900], Goto-Shi returned to Tōkyō; and on the fourteenth day of the same month he went away again to the Hokkaidō [Yezo], taking Yoshi with him.
On the twentieth day of the second month, at six o’clock in the morning, my third child—a boy—was born. Both mother and child were well.
—We had expected a girl, but it was a boy that was born; so, when my husband came back from his work, he was greatly surprised and pleased to find that he had a boy.
—But the child was not well able to take the breast: so we had to nourish him by means of a feeding-bottle.
On the seventh day after the boy’s birth, we partly shaved his head. And in the evening we had the shichiya [seventh-day festival]—but, this time, all by ourselves.
—My husband had caught a bad cold some time before; and he could not go to work next morning, as he was coughing badly. So he remained in the house.
Early in the morning the child had taken his milk as usual. But, about ten o’clock in the forenoon, he seemed to be suffering great pain in his breast; and he began to moan so strangely that we sent a man for a doctor. Unfortunately the doctor that we asked to come was out of town; and we were told that he would not come back before night. Therefore, we thought that it would be better to send at once for another doctor; and we sent for one. He said that he would come in the evening. But, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the child’s sickness suddenly became worse; and a little before three o’clock—the twenty-seventh day of the second month—aënaku!48—my child was dead, having lived for only eight days....
—I thought to myself that, even if this new misfortune did not cause my husband to feel an aversion for me, thus having to part with all my children, one after another, must be the punishment of some wrong done in the time of a former life. And, so thinking, I knew that my sleeves would never again become dry,—that the rain [of tears] would never cease,—that never again in this world would the sky grow clear for me.
And more and more I wondered whether my husband’s feelings would not change for the worse, by reason of his having to meet such trouble, over and over again, on my account. I felt anxious about his heart, because of what already was in my own.
Nevertheless, he only repeated the words, Temméï itashikata koré naku: “From the decrees of Heaven there is no escape.”
—I thought that I should be better able to visit the tomb of my child if he were buried in some temple near us. So the funeral took place at the temple called Sempu-kuji in Ōkubo; and the ashes were buried there....
Tanoshimi mo
Samété hakanashi
Haru no yumé!49
[Translation.]
—All the delight having perished, hopeless I remain: it was only a dream of Spring!50
[No date.]
... I wonder whether it was because of the sorrow that I suffered—my face and limbs became slightly swollen during the fortnight51 after my boy’s death.—It was nothing very serious, after all, and it soon went away.... Now the period of twenty-one days [the period of danger] is past....
Here the poor mother’s diary ends. The closing statement regarding the time of twenty-one days from the birth of her child leaves it probable that these last lines were written on the thirteenth or fourteenth day of the third month. She died on the twenty-eighth of the same month.
I doubt if any one not really familiar with the life of Japan can fully understand this simple history. But to imagine the merely material conditions of the existence here recorded should not be difficult:—the couple occupying a tiny house of two rooms—one room of six mats and one of three;—the husband earning barely per month;—the wife sewing, washing, cooking (outside the house, of course);—no comfort of fire, even during the period of greatest cold. I estimate that the pair must have lived at an average cost of about seven pence a day, not including house-rent. Their pleasures were indeed very cheap: a payment of twopence admitted them to theatres or to gidayū-recitations; and their sight-seeing was done on foot. Yet even these diversions were luxuries for them. Expenses represented by the necessary purchase of clothing, or by the obligation of making presents to kindred upon the occasion of a marriage or a birth or a death, could only have been met by heroic economy. Now it is true that thousands of poor folk in Tōkyō live still more cheaply than this,—live upon a much smaller income than £1 per month,—and nevertheless remain always clean, neat, and cheerful. But only a very strong woman can easily bear and bring up children under such conditions,—conditions much more hazardous than those of the harder but healthier peasant-life of the interior. And, as might be supposed, the weakly fail and perish in multitude.
Readers of the diary may have wondered at the eagerness shown by so shy and gentle a woman to become thus suddenly the wife of a total stranger, about whose character she knew absolutely nothing. A majority of Japanese marriages, indeed, are arranged for in the matter-of-fact way here described, and with the aid of a nakōdo; but the circumstances, in this particular case, were exceptionally discomforting. The explanation is pathetically simple. All good girls are expected to marry; and to remain unmarried after a certain age is a shame and a reproach. The dread of such reproach, doubtless, impelled the writer of the diary to snatch at the first chance of fulfilling her natural destiny. She was already twenty-nine years old;—another such chance might never have offered itself.
To me the chief significance of this humble confession of struggle and failure is not in the utterance of anything exceptional, but in the expression of something as common to Japanese life as blue air and sunshine. The brave resolve of the woman to win affection by docility and by faultless performance of duty, her gratitude for every small kindness, her childlike piety, her supreme unselfishness, her Buddhist interpretation of suffering as the penalty for some fault committed in a previous life, her attempts to write poetry when her heart was breaking,—all this, indeed, I find touching, and more than touching. But I do not find it exceptional. The traits revealed are typical,—typical of the moral nature of the woman of the people. Perhaps there are not many Japanese women of the same humble class who could express their personal joy and pain in a record at once so artless and pathetic; but there are millions of such women inheriting—from ages and ages of unquestioning faith—a like conception of life as duty, and an equal capacity of unselfish attachment.
Senkatsu:—forenoon good; afternoon bad.
Tomobiki:—forenoon good; afternoon good at the beginning and the end, but bad in the middle.
Senpu;—forenoon bad; afternoon good.
Butsumetsu:—wholly unlucky.
Taian;—altogether good.
Shakō:—all unlucky, except at noon.
Notes
1 A kozukai is a man-servant chiefly employed as doorkeeper and messenger. The term is rendered better by the French word concierge than by our English word “porter”; but neither expression exactly meets the Japanese meaning.
2 The reader must understand that “the man of the opposite house” is acting as nakōdo, or match-maker, in the interest of a widower who wishes to remarry. By the statement, “no preparation has been made,” the hither means that he is unable to provide for his daughter’s marriage, and cannot furnish her with a bridal outfit,—clothing, household furniture, etc.,—as required by custom. The reply that “no preparation is needed” signifies that the proposed husband is willing to take the girl without any marriage gifts.
3 Throughout this Ms., except in one instance, the more respectful form Sama never occurs after a masculine name, the popular form Shi being used even after the names of kindred.
4 The father has evidently been consulting a fortune-telling book, such as the San-zé-sō, or a professional diviner. The allusion to the astrologically determined natures, or temperaments, of the pair could scarcely be otherwise explained.
5 Miai is a term used to signify a meeting arranged in order to enable the parties affianced to see each other before the wedding-day.
6 Meaning: “I am ready to become your wife, if you are willing to take me as you have been informed that I am,—a poor girl without money or clothes.”
7 Lucky and unlucky days were named and symbolized as follows, according to the old Japanese astrological system:—
8 This statement also implies that a professional diviner has been consulted. The reference to the direction, or bōgaku, can be fully understood only by those conversant with the old Chinese nature-philosophy.
9 Lit. “thrice-three-nine-times-wine-cup.”
10 At a Japanese wedding it is customary to avoid the use of any words to which an unlucky signification attaches, or of any words suggesting misfortune in even an indirect way. The word sumu, “to finish,” or “to end”; the word kaēru, “to return,” (suggesting divorce), as well as many others, are forbidden at weddings. Accordingly, the term o-hiraki has long been euphemistically substituted for the term oitoma (“honourable leave-taking,” i.e. “farewell”), in the popular etiquette of wedding assemblies.
11 “I felt a tumultuous beating within my breast,” would perhaps be a closer rendering of the real sense; but it would sound oddly artificial by comparison with the simple Japanese utterance: “Ato ni wa futari sashi-mukai to nari, muné uchi-sawagi; sono bazukashisa bisthi ni tsukushi-gatashi.”
12 From sato, “the parental home,” and kaëri, “to return.” The first visit of a bride to her parents, after marriage, is thus called.
13 Aigasa, a fantastic term compounded from the verb au, “to accord,” “to harmonize,” and the noun kasa, “an umbrella.” It signifies one umbrella used by two persons—especially lovers: an umbrella-of-loving-accord. To understand the wife’s anxiety about being seen walking with her husband under the borrowed umbrella, the reader must know that it is not yet considered decorous for wife and husband even to walk side by side in public. A newly wedded pair, using a single umbrella in this way, would be particularly liable to have jests made at their expense—jests that might prove trying to the nerves of a timid bride.
14 She means the great Buddhist temple of Kwannon,—the most popular, and perhaps the most famous, Buddhist temple in Tokyo.
15 In the Ōkubo quarter. The shrine is shadowed by a fine grove of trees.
16 That is to say, “It was agreed that we should all go together to see the flowers.” The word hanami (“flower-seeing”) might be given to any of the numerous flower-festivals of the year, according to circumstances; but it here refers to the season of cherry blossoms. Throughout this diary the dates are those of the old lunar calendar.
17 A literal rendering is almost impossible. There is a ferry, called the Ferry of Imado, over the Sumidagawa; but the reference here is really neither to the ferry nor to the ferryman, but to the nakōdo, or match-maker, who arranged for the marriage. Miméguri-Inari is the popular name of a famous temple of the God of Rice, in Mukojima; but there is an untranslatable play here upon the name, suggesting a lovers’ meeting. The reference to the Sumidagawa also contains a play upon the syllables sumi,—the verb “sumi” signifying “to be clear.” Shirahigé-Yashiro (“White-Hair Temple”) is the name of a real and very celebrated Shintō shrine in the city; but the name is here used chiefly to express the hope that the union may last into the period of hoary age. Besides these suggestions, we may suppose that the poem contains allusions to the actual journey made,—over the Sumidagawa by ferry, and thence to the various temples named. From old time, poems of like meaning have been made about these places; but the lines above given are certainly original, with the obvious exception of a few phrases which have become current coin in popular poetry.
18 The Soga Brothers were famous heroes of the twelfth century. The word kaichō signifies the religious festival during which the principal image of a temple is exposed to view.
19 Name of a public hall at which various kinds of entertainments are given, more especially recitations by professional story-tellers.
20 Lit. “there never yet having been any waves nor even wind between us.”
21 The Shinto parish-temple, or more correctly, district-temple of the Yotsuya quarter. Each quarter, or district, of the city has its tutelar divinity, or Ujigami. Suga-jinja is the Ujigami-temple of Yotsuya.
22 Iyogasuri is the name given to a kind of dark-blue cotton-cloth, with a sprinkling of white in small patterns, manufactured at Iyo, in Shikoku.
23 The Kanazawa-tei is a public hall in the Yotsuya quarter. Harimadayū is the professional name of a celebrated chanter of the dramatic recitations called jōruri and gidayū,—in which the reciter, or chanter, mimes the voices and action of many different characters.
24 She alludes to a popular saying of Buddhist origin:—Jishin, kwaji, kaminari, misoka, kikin, yamai no naki kuni é yuku (“Let us go to the Land where there is neither earthquake, nor fire, nor lightning, nor any last day of the month, nor famine, nor sickness”).
25 Ujigami of the Ushigomé district.
26 Festival of the “Further Shore” (that is to say, Paradise). There are two great Buddhist festivals thus called,—the first representing a period of seven days during the spring equinox; the second, a period of seven days during the autumnal equinox.
27 This drama is founded upon the history of a famous rice merchant named Matsumaëya Gorōbei.
28 Shiogama-Daimyōjin, a Shinto deity, to whom women pray for easy delivery in child-birth. Shrines of this divinity may be found in almost every province of Japan.
29 Uréshiki ma wa wazuka nité, mata kanashimi to henzuru; umaréru mono wa kanarazu shizu.—A Buddhist text that has become a Japanese proverb.
30 Composed by the bereaved mother herself, as a discipline against grief.
31 Nadéshiko literally means a pink; but in poetry the word is commonly used in the meaning of “baby.”
32 Samidaré is the name given to the old fifth month, or, more strictly speaking, to a rainy period occurring in that month. The verses are, of course, allusive, and their real meaning might be rendered thus: “Oh! the season of grief! All things now seem sad: the sleeves of my robe are moist with my tears!”
33 The sotoba is a tall wooden lath, inscribed with Buddhist texts, and planted above a grave. For a full account of the sotoba, see the article entitled “The Literature of the Dead,” in my Exotics and Retrospectives, p. 102. I am not able to give any account or explanation of the curious superstition here referred to; but it is probably of the same class with the strange custom recorded in my Gleanings in Buddha-Fields, p. 126.
34 It would be unfair to suppose that this visit to the theatre was made only for pleasure; it was made rather in the hope of forgetting pain, and probably by order of the husband.
Ōkubo Hikozaëmon was the favourite minister and adviser of the Shōgun Iyem-itsu. Numberless stories of his sagacity and kindness are recorded in popular literature; and in many dramas the notable incidents of his official career are still represented.
35 There are five holidays thus named in every year. These go-sekku are usually called, Jinjitsu (the 7th of the 1st month), Joki (the 3d of the 3d month), Tango (the 5th of the 5th month), Tanabata (the 7th of the 7th month), and Chōyō (the 9th of the 9th month).
36 A divinity half-Buddhist, half-Shintō, in origin, but now popularly considered Shintō. This god is especially worshipped as a healer, and a protector against sickness. His principal temple in Tōkyō is in the Nihonbashi district.
37 A festival in commemoration of the thirtieth anniversary of the establishment of Tōkyō as the Imperial capital, instead of Kyōtō.
38 Daimyō-no-g yōretsu. On the festival mentioned there was a pageant representing feudal princes travelling in state, accompanied by their retainers and servants. The real armour, costumes, and weapons of the period before Meiji were effectively displayed on this occasion.
39 A congratulatory feast, held on the evening of the seventh day after the birth of a child. Relatives and friends invited usually make small presents to the baby.
40 The first annual Festival of Girls is thus called.
41 All the objects here mentioned are toys—toys appropriate to the occasion. The Dairi are old-fashioned toy-figures, representing an emperor and empress in ancient costume. Hina are dolls.
42 Another name for the Buddhist Paradise of the West,—the heaven of Amida (Amitābha).
43 Nephritis.
44 Or, “very thin and loose,”—the Karma-relation being emblematically spoken of as a bond or tie. She means, of course, that the loss of the child was the inevitable consequence of some fault committed in a previous state of existence.
45 Gidayū-bon, “the book of the gidayū.” There are many gidayū books. Gidayū is the name given to a kind of musical drama. In the dramatic composition here referred to, the characters Miyagino and Shinobu are sisters, who relate their sorrows to each other.
46 I.e. before she herself (the mother) dies;—there is a colloquial phrase in the Japanese text. Ko ga oya ni sakidatsu is the common expression: “the child goes before the parents,”—that is to say, dies before the parents.
47 A euphemistic expression for death.
48 Aënaku is an adjective signifying, according to circumstances, “feeble,” or “transitory,” or “sad.” Its use here might best be rendered by some such phrase as “Piteous to say!”
49 Her poem bears no date.
50 A necessarily free translation;—the lines might also be read thus: “Having awakened, all the joy fleets and fades;—it was only a dream of Spring.” The verb saméru, very effectively used here, allows of this double rendering; for it means either “to awake” or “to fade.” The adjective hakanashi also has a double meaning: according to circumstances it may signify either “fleeting” (evanescent) or “hopeless” (wretched).
51 Lit. “the first two nanuka”: one nanuka representing a period of seven successive days from the date of death.