Out of the East by Lafcadio Hearn Read Free Book Online Page A

armies, a negotiator between princes, a statesman, a ruler of provinces—all that any knight could be in the Feudal era. But in the intervals of military or political duty he seems to have always been a teacher. There are Few such teachers. There are Few such scholars. Yet to see him now, you would scarcely believe how much he was once Feared—though loved—by the turbulent swordsmen under his rule. Perhaps there is no gentleness so full of charm as that of the man of war noted for sternness in his youth.
    When the Feudal System made its last battle for existence, he heard the summons of his lord, and went into that terrible struggle in which even the women and little children of Aidzu took part. But courage and the sword alone could not prevail against the new methods of war;—the power of Aidzu was broken; and he, as one of the leaders of that power, was long a political prisoner.
    But the victors esteemed him; and the Government he had fought against in all honor took him into its service to teach the new generations. From younger teachers these learned Western science and Western languages. But he still taught that wisdom of the Chinese sages which is eternal,—and loyalty, and honor, and all that makes the man.
    Some of his children passed away from his sight. But he could not Feel alone; for all whom he taught were as sons to him, and so reverenced him. And he became old, very old, and grew to look like a god,—like a Kami-Sama.
    The Kami-Sama in art bear no likeness to the Buddhas. These more ancient divinities have no downcast gaze, no meditative impassiveness. They are lovers of Nature; they haunt her fairest solitudes, and enter into the life of her trees, and speak in her waters, and hover in her winds. Once upon the earth they lived as men; and the people of the land are their posterity. Even as divine ghosts, they remain very human, and of many dispositions. They are the emotions, they are the sensations of the living. But as figuring in legend and the art born of legend, they are mostly very pleasant to know. I speak not of the cheap art which treats them irreverently in these skeptical days, but of the older art explaining the sacred texts about them. Of course such representations vary greatly. But were you to ask what is the ordinary traditional aspect of a Kami, I should answer: "An ancient smiling man of wondrously gentle countenance, having a long white beard, and all robed in white with a white girdle."
    Only that the girdle of the aged Professor was of black silk, just such a vision of Shint ō he seemed when he visited me the last time.
    He had met me at the college, and had said: "I know there has been a congratulation at your house; and that I did not call was not because I am old or because your house is far, but only because I have been long ill. But you will soon see me."
    So one luminous afternoon he came, bringing gifts of Felicitation,—gifts of the antique high courtesy, simple in themselves, yet worthy a prince: a little plum-tree, every branch and spray one snowy dazzle of blossoms; a curious and pretty bamboo vessel full of wine; and two scrolls bearing beautiful poems,—texts precious in themselves as the work of a rare calligrapher and poet; otherwise precious to me, because written by his own hand. Everything which he said to me I do not fully know. I remember words of affectionate encouragement about my duties,—some wise, keen advice,—a strange story of his youth. But all was like a pleasant dream; for his mere presence was a caress, and the fragrance of his flower-gift seemed as a breathing from the Takama-no-hara. And as a Kami should come and go, so he smiled and went,—leaving all things hallowed. The little plum-tree has lost its flowers: another winter must pass before it blooms again. But something very sweet still seems to haunt the vacant guestroom. Perhaps only the memory of that divine old man;—perhaps a spirit ancestral,