Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
gazed at the soft, smiling face of Fuji.
“It was a dream,” he said, passing his hand across his brow.
“Awake, Sir Artist!” said the lady, “I trust you are already
disillusioned.”
He walked awhile up and down the veranda, then returned to her.
“Lady, the Duchess Aoi spoke truth. It was an order of the Emperor. She
could not disobey. She is a martyr to the times.”
“So! So!”
“So I believe,” said Junzo, with unfaltering faith.
“You find her changed, then?”
“In dress—in garb, that is all.”
“You did not see her face when she had deigned to turn it to the Prince
Komatzu?”
“Beauty like hers will shine from very graciousness, my lady.”
“Artist, as you are aware, the Princess Sado-ko is unconventional.
To-night when the first ceremonies are past, she will leave this
ballroom. She may not dance, being a princess royal. So she will retire
to her private gardens, and there, I doubt not, will linger for a little
while. Come with me there, and if she chance to see you, perhaps she
will condescend to speak to you to-night. The princess but attends the
ceremonials on these occasions. Hence we will not have to wait for
long.”
“A happy thought,” he said eagerly, as he followed Fuji-no with willing
feet.
It was dark without. The gardens in their modern dress lacked the charm
of those of the palace Komatzu, yet Junzo trusted it would be different
when they should come to Sado-ko’s own private place. But here a
disagreeable surprise awaited him. The place was in a state of great
disorder, and the long reflection of the palace lights showed that the
gardens were being changed in form and style.
“Follow me with care,” said Fuji-no, “for as you see, the gardens of her
Highness are undergoing change. Those who work by day are not so careful
to render the place safe for evening loitering.”
They came now to a new wing of the palace, which, too, appeared to be in
process of alteration. The artist and the lady now paused to look about
them. They heard a sound of fluttering movement close at hand. Junzo
looked toward the balcony of the wing, from whence the odd movement
proceeded.
“It is the royal nightingale,” said Fuji, carelessly. “The foolish bird
is beating out its life.”
“The nightingale, my lady!”
“Yes. Have you never heard of the bird? It is the Princess Sado-ko’s, a
gift to her from his Majesty.”
“I have heard of it,” said Junzo, huskily.
Lady Fuji-no suppressed a yawn behind her fan, then turned impatiently
toward the balcony whence came the ceaseless sound of the bird’s
movement.
“It is ill?” asked Junzo, shivering at those dumb signals of distress.
“Why, no—yes—you might so call it.”
“How sad it must be for the princess,” he murmured. “She loved the bird
as though it were a human thing.”
The Lady Fuji curled her scornful lip.
“Talk not, artist, of love in the same breath with Sado-ko. If it is
love to cage a helpless thing—”
“Caged, you say! I do not understand. I was informed the cage was open
always, but that the bird clung to it in very gratitude for the royal
kindness shown.”
“So it seemed till lately,” said Fuji. “The princess, however, has been
given to the most inexplicable whims and caprices, one of which was to
close tight the door of her own nightingale, making it a prisoner. Since
then the foolish thing seems ill and languishing, and spends the night
in vain attempts to escape.”
Junzo glanced uneasily toward the balcony. A moonbeam shone upon the
gilded cage, depending from an eave by its long chain. The artist
shuddered and paced restlessly about the path. Suddenly he came back to
Fuji. His voice had a despairing note within it.
“Why did she do it, lady? Do you know the reason?” he asked.
“Do what, Sir Artist?”
“Cage up the bird, when it was hers already, captive to her will to come
or go.”
“A mere caprice, artist. One day she made a sudden exclamation of
delight as though she had but just perceived the nightingale for the
first time. ‘Oh, see the joyous, pretty bird!’ she said, ‘and hear it
sing!’ It was at this time upon a camphor tree close by, and singing, in
its own free way, a serenade no doubt to her. ‘Why,’ said the Countess
Matsuka, ‘’tis your own nightingale, your Highness.’ ‘Mine!’ said she,
and seemed to pause bewilderedly. Then suddenly she clapped her hands.
‘Oh, yes, for sure it is mine. Where is its cage?’ ‘Why, here,’ said
Countess Matsuka, who at this time alone attended her. The princess put
her hand upon the cage, then, leaning from her balcony, chirped and
whistled for the bird in such an odd and unfamiliar fashion that the
countess was amazed, and still more so seemed the bird, for, pausing in
its song, it cocked its head, fluttered its wings in sudden agitation,
and then it spread them wide and flew away. The princess was so
disappointed she wept in childish anger, though Countess Matsuka assured
her it would return at dark, and take its night perch in the cage. ‘And
will it stay?’ asked Sado-ko. ‘Why, princess, just as ever.’ Then she
said she would not trust the bird, and on that very night, waited in
person for its coming. With her own royal hands she trapped it in the
cage and closed the door, though it was said her maiden, Natsu-no,
implored her on her knees to spare it. Since then the maiden scarcely
speaks, and like the bird is said to droop.”
The artist smothered a deep groan.
“Do you not like the story?” asked the lady.
“I cannot believe it,” he replied.
“Then look upon the cage yourself.”
“It hurts my sight. I will not,” said the man, and then he added,
deeply, “It is an evil omen.”
“Heed it, artist!” said the Lady Fuji-no.
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CHAPTER XXI
“YOU ARE NOT SADO-KO!”
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CHAPTER XXI
“YOU ARE NOT SADO-KO!”
IT was such another moonlight night as that on which the Princess
Sado-ko kept her last tryst with the artist Junzo, but in the Nijo
gardens no sight was reminiscent of the flowering gardens of Komatzu. No
bamboo grove offered inviting lanes for loitering lovers, no stately
camphor trees threw their flickering shadows of mystery upon the moonlit
grass.
The lawns about the palace Nijo were quite bare of trees, and even by
the wing of the Princess Sado-ko’s apartments the new and ruthless
carpenters, not gardeners, had torn up the bright flowering trees and
shrubs to put in their places painted boxes, filled with foreign ferns
and flowers of priceless value,—gifts from diplomats to the flattered
Japanese.
Junzo and Fuji-no kept within the shadow of the princess’s balcony,
there being no trees or foliage at hand to screen them otherwise.
The new-laid path which led from the front of the palace to Sado-ko’s
wing, was white in the moonlight, hence Junzo was quick to see a shadow
fall upon it. He leaned so far forward to gaze along the path, that Lady
Fuji drew him backward.
“The light is on your head. Be careful, artist, if you please. Pray have
some patience. They are quite close at hand.”
Too close they seemed just then to Junzo, as they came along the broad,
white path with slow and loitering steps. The tall soldier-prince bent
to her who turned her face to his, like a flower to the sun.
When they had come quite close to Sado-ko’s veranda they paused a
moment, seeking some new excuse for lingering.
She made a childish movement, naïve yet eloquent. An artful shudder
slipped her wrap to the ground. Her shining shoulders, bare and white,
were revealed in the moonlight. The prince stooped quickly to the
ground, picked up the cloak, and, hesitating a moment, held it in his
hand. She shivered purposely. Then with a sudden movement he wrapped the
cloak around her, and somehow in the doing his arms stayed for a space
about her. Her face was close to his. Softly her loosened hair brushed
now against his lips. While still his lingering arm was drooping on her
shoulder, she said, in a low, wooing voice:—
“Komatzu, pray you hold my garment on me for a space, for I would take
these long and stupid gloves from my arms.”
“Let me do so,” he begged eagerly; and, taking one of her small hands in
his, slowly drew the glove away, then still held the hand clasped in his
own.
“It is my hand—all mine!” he whispered. Stooping, he kissed the soft,
white flesh, in the emotional French way.
“All yours, Komatzu!” Junzo heard her sigh in answer. The artist did not
move. Like a man turned suddenly to stone, he simply stared out at the
scene, with fixed eyes. He heard as in a dream the voice of this proud
prince whispering again to her, who but so lately clung to him, the
lowly artist, with such piteous tears and prayers.
“To-morrow,” said the prince, “his Majesty will come to Tokyo. I will
present myself before him and importune him to seal our betrothal. His
ministers are all in favor of my suit, but the sanction of his Majesty
is needed. That, I am sure, he intends to give, for I have heard that he
made promise to our august grandmother, the Empress Dowager, that he
would make sweet Sado-ko the highest princess in the land. Next to the
Crown Prince of Japan, I am the highest prince.”
She smoothed with little restless hand the foreign fabric of his coat.
Her voice was somewhat faint:—
“If his Majesty should not consent, Komatzu?”
“Why even dream of such a thing?” he asked. “Am I not the very one most
fitted for your husband, and have I not served well his Majesty?”
She seized his hand and held it close against her face.
“Komatzu, were I not of equal rank with you,—if I were but a simple
maiden of humble parentage,—would you still love me?”
“I do not love your rank, sweet cousin, but your own self.”
“But if I were not of your rank, what then?”
“Capricious Sado-ko, why ask such foolish questions?”
“Would you still marry me if I were not a royal princess?”
“I still would love you, Sado-ko. I could not marry you in that event.
Why, you turn your face away! The tears are in your eyes. Cousin, you
are too fanciful.”
“Love makes me so,” she said, and sighed.
“How strange,” he said, “that we should speak so freely of our love. A
little while ago the subject would have been deemed indecent. Now it is
a foreign fashion and we Japanese speak out our love without the
smallest blush of shame. ’Tis strange, indeed!”
“It is not only fashion,” she protested; “love is not a new thing,—a
caprice, a whim, like such and such a dress, a hat or shoe or fan.”
“It is a new device of speech in our Japan,” the prince declared,
thoughtfully.
With childish petulance she turned toward the balcony.
“Which you do not approve, Komatzu?”
“Why, yes, I do approve it, Sado-ko. It is most beautiful and pure,
moreover. But, cousin, as you know, I never spoke it yet—this love—till
lately. Then, somehow, when you came back from the palace Aoyama, a
something in your eyes seemed to beckon me to you and force the words of
love to overrun my lips.”
“They were not merely words of lips?”
“No, no. But I, you know, am not completely modern in my thought,
despite my dress, and, too, I am a soldier. So sometimes if my words
seem clumsy—stupid—I fear you must compare them with the flowery
speeches of others.”
“Others, Komatzu? What others could there be?”
His voice was low and nervous. He seemed to hesitate.
“Cousin, have you forgotten the artist-man?”
“The artist-man!” she gave a little cry, then quickly covered up her
lips with her fingers.
“You start! Kamura Junzo his name was. Once I thought you favored him.
So thought all the members of the court. I could not close my ears