Yet more and more unreal the
spectacle appears, with silent smilings, with its silent bowings, as if
obeisance to watchers invisible; and I find myself wondering whether,
were I to utter but a whisper, all would not vanish forever, save the
gray mouldering court and the desolate temple, and the broken statue of
Jizo, smiling always the same mysterious smile I see upon the faces of
the dancers.
Under the wheeling moon, in the midst of the round, I feel as one within
the circle of a charm. And verily, this is enchantment; I am bewitched,
by the ghostly weaving of hands, by the rhythmic gliding of feet, above
all by the flittering of the marvellous sleeves--apparitional,
soundless, velvety as a flitting of great tropical bats. No; nothing I
ever dreamed of could be likened to this. And with the consciousness of
the ancient hakaba behind me, and the weird invitation of its lanterns,
and the ghostly beliefs of the hour and the place, there creeps upon me
a nameless, tingling sense of being haunted. But no! these gracious,
silent, waving, weaving shapes are not of the Shadowy Folk, for whose
coming the white fires were kindled: a strain of song, full of sweet,
clear quavering, like the call of a bird, gushes from some girlish
mouth, and fifty soft voices join the chant:--
_Sorota soroimashita odorikoga sorota,
Soroikita, kita hare yukata._
"Uniform to view [as ears of young rice ripening in the field] all clad
alike in summer festal robes, the company of dancers have assembled.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322