And the night is
divine,--still, clear, vaster than the nights of Europe, with a big
white moon flinging down queer shadows of tilted eaves and horned
gables, and delightful silhouettes of robed Japanese. A little boy, the
grandson of our host, leads the way with a crimson paper lantern; and
the sonorous echoing of geta, the _koro-koro_ of wooden sandals, fills
all the street, for many are going whither we are going, to see the
dance.
A little while we proceed along the main street; then, traversing a
narrow passage between two houses, we find ourselves in a great open
space flooded by moonlight. This is the dancing-place; but the dance has
ceased for a time. Looking about me, I perceive that we are in the court
of an ancient Buddhist temple. The temple building itself remains
intact, a low, long peaked silhouette against the starlight; but it is
void and dark and unhallowed now; it has been turned, they tell me, into
a schoolhouse. The priests are gone; the great bell is gone; the Buddhas
and the Bodhisattvas have vanished, all save one,--a broken-handed Jizo
of stone, smiling with eyelids closed, under the moon.
In the centre of the court is a framework of bamboo supporting a great
drum; and about it benches have been arranged, benches from the
schoolhouse, on which the villagers are resting. There is a hum of
voices, voices of people speaking very low, as if expecting something
solemn; and cries of children betimes, and soft laughter of girls.
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