kwaidan-第16部分

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vagabond；　with　black　bold　eyes　under　scowling　black　brows。　More　like　a

bricklayer　than　a　bard；　and　his　garments　are　corduroy！





〃Wonder　if　he　is　going　to　sing　in　Welsh？〃　murmurs　Robert。





I　feel　too　much　disappointed　to　make　any　remarks。　The　harper　poses　his

harp　　a　huge　instrument　　upon　our　doorstep；　sets　all　the　strong　ringing

with　a　sweep　of　his　grimy　fingers；　clears　his　throat　with　a　sort　of　angry

growl；　and　begins；



Believe　me；　if　all　those　endearing　young　charms；

Which　I　gaze　on　so　fondly　to…day。。。







The　accent；　the　attitude；　the　voice；　all　fill　me　with　repulsion

unutterable；　shock　me　with　a　new　sensation　of　formidable　vulgarity。　I

want　to　cry　out　loud；　〃You　have　no　right　to　sing　that　song！〃　For　I　have

heard　it　sung　by　the　lips　of　the　dearest　and　fairest　being　in　my　little

world；　and　that　this　rude；　coarse　man　should　are　to　sing　it　vexes　me　like

a　mockery；　angers　me　like　an　insolence。　But　only　for　a　moment！。。。　With

the　utterance　of　the　syllables　〃to…day；〃　that　deep；　grim　voice　suddenly

breaks　into　a　quivering　tenderness　indescribable；　then；　marvelously

changing；　it　mellows　into　tones　sonorous　and　rich　as　the　bass　of　a　great

organ；　while　a　sensation　unlike　anything　ever　felt　before　takes　me　by　the

throat。。。　What　witchcraft　has　he　learned？　what　secret　has　he　found　　this

scowling　man　of　the　road？。。。　Oh！　is　there　anybody　else　in　the　whole　world

who　can　sing　like　that？。。。　And　the　form　of　the　singer　flickers　and　dims；

and　the　house；　and　the　lawn；　and　all　visible　shapes　of　things　tremble　and

swim　before　me。　Yet　instinctively　I　fear　that　man；　I　almost　hate　him；　and

I　feel　myself　flushing　with　anger　and　shame　because　of　his　power　to　move　me

thus。。。







〃He　made　you　cry；〃　Robert　compassionately　observes；　to　my　further

confusion；　as　the　harper　strides　away；　richer　by　a　gift　of　sixpence　taken

without　thanks。。。　〃But　I　think　he　must　be　a　gipsy。　Gipsies　are　bad　people

　and　they　are　wizards。。。　Let　us　go　back　to　the　wood。〃





We　climb　again　to　the　pines；　and　there　squat　down　upon　the　sun…flecked

grass；　and　look　over　town　and　sea。　But　we　do　not　play　as　before：　the　spell

of　the　wizard　is　strong　upon　us　both。。。　〃Perhaps　he　is　a　goblin；〃　I　venture

at　last；　〃or　a　fairy？〃　〃No；〃　says　Robert；　〃only　a　gipsy。　But　that　is

nearly　as　bad。　They　steal　children；　you　know。〃。。。





〃What　shall　we　do　if　he　comes　up　here？〃　I　gasp；　in　sudden　terror　at　the

lonesomeness　of　our　situation。





〃Oh；　he　wouldn't　dare；〃　answers　Robert　　〃not　by　daylight；　you　know。〃。。。







＇Only　yesterday；　near　the　village　of　Takata；　I　noticed　a　flower　which　the

Japanese　call　by　nearly　the　same　name　as　we　do：　Himawari；　〃The

Sunward…turning；〃　　and　over　the　space　of　forty　years　there　thrilled　back

to　me　the　voice　of　that　wandering　harper；



As　the　Sunflower　turns　on　her　god；　when　he　sets；

The　same　look　that　she　turned　when　he　rose。



Again　I　saw　the　sun…flecked　shadows　on　that　far　Welsh　hill；　and　Robert　for

a　moment　again　stood　beside　me；　with　his　girl's　face　and　his　curls　of　gold。

We　were　looking　for　fairy…rings。。。　But　all　that　existed　of　the　real　Robert

must　long　ago　have　suffered　a　sea…change　into　something　rich　and　strange。。。

Greater　love　hath　no　man　than　this；　that　a　man　lay　down　his　life　for　his

friend。。。＇









HORAI





Blue　vision　of　depth　lost　in　height；　sea　and　sky　interblending　through

luminous　haze。　The　day　is　of　spring；　and　the　hour　morning。





Only　sky　and　sea；　one　azure　enormity。。。　In　the　fore；　ripples　are

catching　a　silvery　light；　and　threads　of　foam　are　swirling。　But　a　little

further　off　no　motion　is　visible；　nor　anything　save　color：　dim　warm　blue　of

water　widening　away　to　melt　into　blue　of　air。　Horizon　there　is　none：　only

distance　soaring　into　space；　infinite　concavity　hollowing　before　you；　and

hugely　arching　above　you；　the　color　deepening　with　the　height。　But　far　in

the　midway…blue　there　hangs　a　faint；　faint　vision　of　palace　towers；　with

high　roofs　horned　and　curved　like　moons；　some　shadowing　of　splendor

strange　and　old；　illumined　by　a　sunshine　soft　as　memory。





。。。What　I　have　thus　been　trying　to　describe　is　a　kakemono；　that　is　to

say；　a　Japanese　painting　on　silk；　suspended　to　the　wall　of　my　alcove；　and

the　name　of　it　is　Shinkiro；　which　signifies　〃Mirage。〃　But　the　shapes　of　the

mirage　are　unmistakable。　Those　are　the　glimmering　portals　of　Horai　the

blest；　and　those　are　the　moony　roofs　of　the　Palace　of　the　Dragon…King；

and　the　fashion　of　them　（though　limned　by　a　Japanese　brush　of　to…day）　is

the　fashion　of　things　Chinese；　twenty…one　hundred　years　ago。。。







Thus　much　is　told　of　the　place　in　the　Chinese　books　of　that　time：





In　Horai　there　is　neither　death　nor　pain；　and　there　is　no　winter。　The

flowers　in　that　place　never　fade；　and　the　fruits　never　fail；　and　if　a　man

taste　of　those　fruits　even　but　once；　he　can　never　again　feel　thirst　or

hunger。　In　Horai　grow　the　enchanted　plants　So…rin…shi；　and　Riku…go…aoi；　and

Ban…kon…to；　which　heal　all　manner　of　sickness；　and　there　grows　also　the

magical　grass　Yo…shin…shi；　that　quickens　the　dead；　and　the　magical　grass　is

watered　by　a　fairy　water　of　which　a　single　drink　confers　perpetual　youth。

The　people　of　Horai　eat　their　rice　out　of　very；　very　small　bowls；　but　the

rice　never　diminishes　within　those　bowls；　however　much　of　it　be　eaten；

until　the　eater　desires　no　more。　And　the　people　of　Horai　drink　their　wine

out　of　very；　very　small　cups；　but　no　man　can　empty　one　of　those　cups；

however　stoutly　he　may　drink；　until　there　comes　upon　him　the　pleasant

drowsiness　of　intoxication。







All　this　and　more　is　told　in　the　legends　of　the　time　of　the　Shin　dynasty。

But　that　the　people　who　wrote　down　those　legends　ever　saw　Horai；　even　in　a

mirage；　is　not　believable。　　For　really　there　are　no　enchanted　fruits　which

leave　the　eater　forever　satisfied；　nor　any　magical　grass　which　revives

the　dead；　nor　any　fountain　of　fairy　water；　nor　any　bowls　which　never

lack　rice；　nor　any　cups　which　never　lack　wine。　It　is　not　true　that　sorrow

and　death　never　enter　Horai；　neither　is　it　true　that　there　is　not　any

winter。　The　winter　in　Horai　is　cold；　and　winds　then　bite　to　the　bone；　and

the　heaping　of　snow　is　monstrous　on　the　roofs　of　the　Dragon…King。





Nevertheless　there　are　wonderful　things　in　Horai；　and　the　most　wonderful

of　all　has　not　been　mentioned　by　any　Chinese　writer。　I　mean　the　atmosphere

of　Horai。　It　is　an　atmosphere　peculiar　to　the　place；　and；　because　of　it；

the　sunshine　in　Horai　is　whiter　than　any　other　sunshine；　a　milky　light

that　never　dazzles；　astonishingly　clear；　but　very　soft。　This　atmosphere

is　not　of　our　human　period：　it　is　enormously　old；　so　old　that　I　feel

afraid　when　I　try　to　think　how　old　it　is；　and　it　is　not　a　mixture　of

nitrogen　and　oxygen。　It　is　not　made　of　air　at　all；　but　of　ghost；　the

substance　of　quintillions　of　quintillions　of　generations　of　souls　blended

into　one　immense　translucency；　souls　of　people　who　thought　in　ways　never

resembling　our　ways。　Whatever　mortal　man　inhales　that　atmosphere；　he　takes

into　his　blood　the　thrilling　of　these　spirits；　and　they　change　the　sense

within　him；　reshaping　his　notions　of　Space　and　Time；　so　that　he　can　see

only　as　they　used　to　see；　and　feel　only　as　they　used　to　feel；　and　think

only　as　they　used　to　think。　Soft　as　sleep　are　these　changes　of　sense；　and

Horai；　discerned　across　them；　might　thus　be　described：







　Because　in　Horai　there　is　no　knowledge　of　great　evil；　the　hearts　of　the

people　never　grow　old。　And；　by　reason　of　being　always　young　in　heart；　the

people　of　Horai　smile　from　birth　until　death　　except　when　the　Gods　send

sorrow　among　them；　and　faces　then　are　veiled　until　the　sorrow　goes　away。

All　folk　in　Horai　love　and　trust　each　other；　as　if　all　were　members　of　a

single　household；　and　the　speech　of　the　women　is　like　birdsong；　because

the　hearts　of　them　are　light　as　the　souls　of　birds；　and　the　swaying　of

the　sleeves　of　the　maidens　at　play　seems　a　flutter　of　wide；　soft　wings。　In

Horai　nothing　is　hidden　but　grief；　because　there　is　no　reason　for　shame；

and　nothing　is　locked　away；　because　there　could　not　be　any　theft；　and　by

night　as　well　as　by　day　all　doors　remain　unbarred；　because　there　is　no

reason　for　fear。　And　because　the　people　are　fairies　　though　mortal　　all

things　in　Horai；　except　the　Palace　of　the　Dragon…King；　are　small　and　quaint

and　queer；　and　these　fairy…folk　do　really　eat　their　rice　out　of　very；

very　small　bowls；　and　drink　their　wine　out　of　very；　very　small　cups。。。







　Much　of　this　seeming　would　be　due　to　the　inhalation　of　that　ghostly

atmosphere　　but　not　all。　For　the　spell　wrought　by　the　dead　is　only　the

charm　of　an　Ideal；　the　glamour　of　an　ancient　hope；　and　something　of　that

hope　has　found　fulfillment　in　many　hearts　；　in　the　simple　beauty　of

unselfish　lives；　in　the　sweetness　of　Woman。。。





　Evil　winds　from　the　West　are　blowing　over　Horai；　and　the　magical

atmosphere；　alas！　is　shrinking　away　before