How Tajima Shumé Was Tormented By a Devil of His Own Creation

Once upon a time, a certain Rônin, Tajima Shumé by name, an able and

well-read man, being on his travels to see the world, went up to

Kiyôto by the Tôkaidô.[72] One day, in the neighbourhood of Nagoya, in

the province of Owari, he fell in with a wandering priest, with whom

he entered into conversation. Finding that they were bound for the

same place, they agreed to travel together, beguiling their weary way

by pleasant talk on divers matters; and so by degrees, as they became

more intimate, they began to speak without restraint about their

private affairs; and the priest, trusting thoroughly in the honour of

his companion, told him the object of his journey.

[Footnote 72: The road of the Eastern Sea, the famous high-road

leading from Kiyôto to Yedo. The name is also used to indicate the

provinces through which it runs.]

"For some time past," said he, "I have nourished a wish that has

engrossed all my thoughts; for I am bent on setting up a molten image

in honour of Buddha; with this object I have wandered through various

provinces collecting alms and (who knows by what weary toil?) we have

succeeded in amassing two hundred ounces of silver--enough, I trust,

to erect a handsome bronze figure."

What says the proverb? "He who bears a jewel in his bosom bears

poison." Hardly had the Rônin heard these words of the priest than an

evil heart arose within him, and he thought to himself, "Man's life,

from the womb to the grave, is made up of good and of ill luck. Here

am I, nearly forty years old, a wanderer, without a calling, or even a

hope of advancement in the world. To be sure, it seems a shame; yet if

I could steal the money this priest is boasting about, I could live at

ease for the rest of my days;" and so he began casting about how best

he might compass his purpose. But the priest, far from guessing the

drift of his comrade's thoughts, journeyed cheerfully on, till they

reached the town of Kuana. Here there is an arm of the sea, which is

crossed in ferry-boats, that start as soon as some twenty or thirty

passengers are gathered together; and in one of these boats the two

travellers embarked. About half-way across, the priest was taken with

a sudden necessity to go to the side of the boat; and the Rônin,

following him, tripped him up whilst no one was looking, and flung him

into the sea. When the boatmen and passengers heard the splash, and

saw the priest struggling in the water, they were afraid, and made

every effort to save him; but the wind was fair, and the boat running

swiftly under the bellying sails, so they were soon a few hundred

yards off from the drowning man, who sank before the boat could be

turned to rescue him.

When he saw this, the Rônin feigned the utmost grief and dismay, and

said to his fellow-passengers, "This priest, whom we have just lost,

was my cousin: he was going to Kiyôto, to visit the shrine of his

patron; and as I happened to have business there as well, we settled

to travel together. Now, alas! by this misfortune, my cousin is dead,

and I am left alone."

He spoke so feelingly, and wept so freely, that the passengers

believed his story, and pitied and tried to comfort him. Then the

Rônin said to the boatmen--

"We ought, by rights, to report this matter to the authorities; but as

I am pressed for time, and the business might bring trouble on

yourselves as well, perhaps we had better hush it up for the present;

and I will at once go on to Kiyôto and tell my cousin's patron,

besides writing home about it. What think you, gentlemen?" added he,

turning to the other travellers.

They, of course, were only too glad to avoid any hindrance to their

onward journey, and all with one voice agreed to what the Rônin had

proposed; and so the matter was settled. When, at length, they reached

the shore, they left the boat, and every man went his way; but the

Rônin, overjoyed in his heart, took the wandering priest's luggage,

and, putting it with his own, pursued his journey to Kiyôto.

On reaching the capital, the Rônin changed his name from Shumé to

Tokubei, and, giving up his position as a Samurai, turned merchant,

and traded with the dead man's money. Fortune favouring his

speculations, he began to amass great wealth, and lived at his ease,

denying himself nothing; and in course of time he married a wife, who

bore him a child.

Thus the days and months wore on, till one fine summer's night, some

three years after the priest's death, Tokubei stepped out on to the

verandah of his house to enjoy the cool air and the beauty of the

moonlight. Feeling dull and lonely, he began musing over all kinds of

things, when on a sudden the deed of murder and theft, done so long

ago, vividly recurred to his memory, and he thought to himself, "Here

am I, grown rich and fat on the money I wantonly stole. Since then,

all has gone well with me; yet, had I not been poor, I had never

turned assassin nor thief. Woe betide me! what a pity it was!" and as

he was revolving the matter in his mind, a feeling of remorse came

over him, in spite of all he could do. While his conscience thus smote

him, he suddenly, to his utter amazement, beheld the faint outline of

a man standing near a fir-tree in the garden: on looking more

attentively, he perceived that the man's whole body was thin and worn

and the eyes sunken and dim; and in the poor ghost that was before him

he recognized the very priest whom he had thrown into the sea at

Kuana. Chilled with horror, he looked again, and saw that the priest

was smiling in scorn. He would have fled into the house, but the ghost

stretched forth its withered arm, and, clutching the back of his neck,

scowled at him with a vindictive glare, and a hideous ghastliness of

mien, so unspeakably awful that any ordinary man would have swooned

with fear. But Tokubei, tradesman though he was, had once been a

soldier, and was not easily matched for daring; so he shook off the

ghost, and, leaping into the room for his dirk, laid about him boldly

enough; but, strike as he would, the spirit, fading into the air,

eluded his blows, and suddenly reappeared only to vanish again: and

from that time forth Tokubei knew no rest, and was haunted night and

day.

At length, undone by such ceaseless vexation, Tokubei fell ill, and

kept muttering, "Oh, misery! misery!--the wandering priest is coming

to torture me!" Hearing his moans and the disturbance he made, the

people in the house fancied he was mad, and called in a physician, who

prescribed for him. But neither pill nor potion could cure Tokubei,

whose strange frenzy soon became the talk of the whole neighbourhood.

Now it chanced that the story reached the ears of a certain wandering

priest who lodged in the next street. When he heard the particulars,

this priest gravely shook his head, as though he knew all about it,

and sent a friend to Tokubei's house to say that a wandering priest,

dwelling hard by, had heard of his illness, and, were it never so

grievous, would undertake to heal it by means of his prayers; and

Tokubei's wife, driven half wild by her husband's sickness, lost not a

moment in sending for the priest, and taking him into the sick man's

room.

But no sooner did Tokubei see the priest than he yelled out, "Help!

help! Here is the wandering priest come to torment me again. Forgive!

forgive!" and hiding his head under the coverlet, he lay quivering all

over. Then the priest turned all present out of the room, put his

mouth to the affrighted man's ear, and whispered--

"Three years ago, at the Kuana ferry, you flung me into the water; and

well you remember it."

But Tokubei was speechless, and could only quake with fear.

"Happily," continued the priest, "I had learned to swim and to dive as

a boy; so I reached the shore, and, after wandering through many

provinces, succeeded in setting up a bronze figure to Buddha, thus

fulfilling the wish of my heart. On my journey homewards, I took a

lodging in the next street, and there heard of your marvellous

ailment. Thinking I could divine its cause, I came to see you, and am

glad to find I was not mistaken. You have done a hateful deed; but am

I not a priest, and have I not forsaken the things of this world? and

would it not ill become me to bear malice? Repent, therefore, and

abandon your evil ways. To see you do so I should esteem the height of

happiness. Be of good cheer, now, and look me in the face, and you

will see that I am really a living man, and no vengeful goblin come

to torment you."

Seeing he had no ghost to deal with, and overwhelmed by the priest's

kindness, Tokubei burst into tears, and answered, "Indeed, indeed, I

don't know what to say. In a fit of madness I was tempted to kill and

rob you. Fortune befriended me ever after; but the richer I grew, the

more keenly I felt how wicked I had been, and the more I foresaw that

my victim's vengeance would some day overtake me. Haunted by this

thought, I lost my nerve, till one night I beheld your spirit, and

from that time forth fell ill. But how you managed to escape, and are

still alive, is more than I can understand."

"A guilty man," said the priest, with a smile, "shudders at the

rustling of the wind or the chattering of a stork's beak: a murderer's

conscience preys upon his mind till he sees what is not. Poverty

drives a man to crimes which he repents of in his wealth. How true is

the doctrine of Môshi,[73] that the heart of man, pure by nature, is

corrupted by circumstances."

[Footnote 73: Mencius.]

Thus he held forth; and Tokubei, who had long since repented of his

crime, implored forgiveness, and gave him a large sum of money,

saying, "Half of this is the amount I stole from you three years

since; the other half I entreat you to accept as interest, or as a

gift."

The priest at first refused the money; but Tokubei insisted on his

accepting it, and did all he could to detain him, but in vain; for the

priest went his way, and bestowed the money on the poor and needy. As

for Tokubei himself, he soon shook off his disorder, and thenceforward

lived at peace with all men, revered both at home and abroad, and ever

intent on good and charitable deeds.