Daughters of Nijo: A Romance of Japan
“Well, ladies,” said the Lady Fuji, “the princess is not our
fashion-plate, surely. We do not follow her, it would seem. If we did—”
“We should live like cloistered priestesses,” said the one in the
hammock.
“Yes, seclude ourselves from the sight of the whole court,” said she of
the Paris gown.
“Then why need we await her august example?” asked the Lady Fuji.
“Because we are cowards—all,” said the Countess Matsuka. “To sit for our
pictures just like any of the barbarians is too much of an innovation
for any of the humble ones to start at court.”
“Well, then,” said Fuji, “who is brave enough to suggest it to the
princess? She is both conservative and unconventional, and who knows she
might take a fancy to the idea and consent?”
“Well, suppose you suggest it to her.”
“I? Oh, indeed, I am too honorably insignificant.”
“Then you, countess.”
“Oh no, indeed; I am still smarting under the sting of her little royal
tongue.”
“Ah, you are too fulsome in your flattery to her, countess,” said Lady
Fuji-no. “Diplomacy and tact with her Highness should take the form of
frankness, even brusqueness.”
“Yes,” said the one in the hammock, sarcastically, “I noted the effect
of your diplomacy the other morning.”
Lady Fuji-no colored, and bent her head above her work.
“Oh, these days, these days!” groaned the elderly lady, who was both
chaperon and mentor to the others. “Now, in my insignificant youth it
would have been a crime of treason to speak with disrespect of a royal
princess.”
“But you see,” was the quick retort, “what happened to your august days,
Madame Bara. They are quite, quite snuffed out. To-day is—to-day! We are
modern—Western—if it please you!”
“Yes,” assented the Paris gown, “that is it exactly.”
“While the Princess Sado-ko remains—Eastern.”
Lady Fuji, at the frame, had found her voice again. The Duchess Aoi in
the hammock closed her eyes contemptuously.
“The day is long,” she said, “and our conversation most dull.”
“Well, we have not solved the question yet,” said the anxious little
Countess Matsuka.
“Oh, let the artist go,” yawned one of the company, who had not yet
spoken.
There was a hubbub of dissent to this.
“And leave us to the mercies of Komatzu’s dandies?”
“The artist fellow is entertaining. He is preferable to a geisha.”
“Oh, what a comparison!”
“Well, ladies,” said Madame Bara, soothingly, “you will soon be back in
Tokyo.”
“Yes, thank Shaka!”
“Summer creeps.”
“The Prince Komatzu would not be flattered, ladies, at your boredom in
his summer home,” said Madame Bara.
“Then the prince should choose more entertaining gentlemen for his
household,” retorted Lady Fuji-no. “Now, in the palace Nijo—”
“Oh, it is well, well, to be in favor at the palace Nijo,” said the
Duchess Aoi, meaningly; and instantly the several eyes of the company
were focussed on the flushing face of Fuji, for it was quite well known
that Nijo had shown her marked favor of late.
“For my part,” said the chaperon didactically, “I should be honored to
be the exalted guest of his Imperial Highness. Why surely, ladies, you
will confess that without a doubt he is the most brilliant and noble
gentleman of the court.”
The Duchess Aoi turned her face away. A feverish color flushed her
cheeks. She could not speak.
“He is just exactly like the statue that the artist has made of him,”
said Lady Fuji-no.
“But the statue is sublime,” said Madame Bara.
“Yes. But it is marble, madame.”
There was silence a moment, while the Lady Fuji carefully folded her
work, then the Duchess Aoi turned her flushing face:—
“Is it any wonder that he is marble?” she said. “He is betrothed to the
Princess Sado-ko.”
“Poor prince!” said Lady Fuji.
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CHAPTER VI
THE PRINCESS SADO-KO
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CHAPTER VI
THE PRINCESS SADO-KO
WHILE the ladies of the household of the Princess Sado-ko, and guests of
her cousin the Prince Komatzu, were gossiping over their noonday tea,
Kamura Junzo, alone, was wandering aimlessly about the palace gardens.
He was melancholy and restless. Instead of being satisfied with his
success, Junzo was disappointed. He could not have explained why this
was so. His patron had been pleased with his work, he had received
marked attention and favor from those in power at court, and finally was
actually being petted by the ladies. Perhaps it was this latter
enervating thing that rendered the young man disappointed and disgusted.
Court life had not proved, after all, what he had fancied and pictured.
Nobility, such as he had anticipated, was there only in name. Here in
this small court of the noblest prince of the blood, gossip and scandal
buzzed like the swarming of bees.
Junzo did not wonder that the Princess Sado-ko kept herself in seclusion
in her private wing of the palace. In spite of the curious tales he had
heard of her eccentricities, he felt a glow of sympathy for her. Plainly
she disapproved of the life about her.
As he strolled about the castle gardens, Junzo’s memory carried him back
into the days of his childhood. A picture grew up in his mind of a great
stone wall and a cherry tree which drooped above it, and underneath the
cherry tree a small, bewitching creature in a miniature kimono and the
royal kanzashi in her hair.
He was smiling to himself in a tender, unconscious way, when he came to
a bamboo gate, which served as entrance through the hedge of boxwood
which divided the portion of the gardens in which he was from those
Junzo knew were always reserved for the royal ladies of the family. Now
he knew also that Komatzu was an orphan without sisters, and that his
cousin Sado-ko was the only lady who ever occupied this portion of the
palace.
Pausing before the gate, Junzo thought that as a boy he would not have
hesitated to push it open and penetrate into the forbidden territory
beyond. He would like now to take a peep into this garden of Sado-ko. If
he should chance to meet her, might he not crave mercy in the name of
that game they had played as children together in the gardens of the
palace Aoyama? She might be gracious still. So far it had not been his
fortune to see her in the palace Komatzu, for she was seldom in the
public places of the palace. He had an insatiable curiosity to see how
she had changed since childhood.
So he stepped across into the private gardens, making his way toward the
bamboo grove, through which he passed on toward the little river which
he could see in a valley beyond, twisting and babbling like a brook. But
when he came to the other end of the grove he perceived that the garden
was unlike those of the palace Aoyama, which was softly enclosed on all
sides with trees and bushes. Here the walks were sanded and the
landscape scenery was in miniature. There were flower beds and clumps of
bamboo. Stately white jars containing rare ferns were placed at
intervals in the centre of the rounded lawns, while the walks were lined
with pretty sea-shells and white pebbles.
Junzo soon realized that this was not a garden in which he could remain
for long unobserved. He was about to retrace his steps when he perceived
coming toward him along the path a young girl, whose arms were so full
of blossoms that her face was partially hidden. As it was too late for
him now to retreat, he stood where he was, respectfully waiting for her
to approach.
She hastened up the path toward him, and as she appeared to be absorbed
in her own meditations and had not so far glanced in his direction,
Junzo stepped backward toward the grove, hoping she would pass by
without seeing him. This she doubtless would have done had not the young
man, as she came opposite, made an odd exclamation, and then stepped
before her path. What he said was:—
“Masago!”
She raised a startled face to his and stood perfectly still before him
in the path, the blossoms slowly dropping from her arms. That strange
expression of mingled fear and amazement awoke chaotic memories in the
mind of Junzo. It was Masago who stood before him, he felt sure; but
some one other than Masago had once looked up into his face in the same
startled fashion. It must have been a dream or fancy. He repeated her
name:—
“Masago!” And then, “What do you here?”
“Who are you?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes travelling over his
face. “What is your honorable name, and where do you come from?”
The very words had a ring of familiarity to the ears of Junzo. He felt
like one in a dream, and answered almost mechanically:—
“I am Kamura Junzo. I come from—” He made a slight motion toward the
adjoining gardens.
A slow pink glow grew up into her face and spread even to her little
ears and whitest neck. Her eyes were shining, almost as if there were
tears within them.
“Ah,” she said softly, “I do remember you.”
“We are betrothed,” he said, passing his hand bewilderedly across his
eyes.
“Betrothed?” she repeated in that sweet, low-toned voice.
“Yes, Masago. Do you not remember then?”
“But my name is not Masago,” she said simply.
“Not Masago!” he repeated.
“No. I am the Princess Sado-ko.”
After that there was a long silence between them. They looked into each
other’s faces without speaking. Then the young man found his voice.
“I thought the august sun had touched my brain,” he said. “I knew that
your face was familiar to me, and because you are the image of one to
whom—”
He broke off, flushing under the glance of her soft, searching eyes.
“To whom you are betrothed,” she finished quietly.
“Yes,” he said.
“And her name is Masago?” she asked musingly.
“Yes.”
“And she looks like me?” She raised her face, and looked at him somewhat
wistfully.
“Sweet princess,” he said, carried away by the expression within her
eyes, “her beauty is like unto the moon’s—cold, far, and distant, but
yours—yours warms me like the glow of the sun. You are indeed the child
of the sun-god.”
She smiled faintly.
“Are you the artist-man of whom they speak?” she asked.
He bowed slightly, and she continued:—
“I have admired the very beautiful statue you have made of Prince
Komatzu.”
“I trust that it will please the people,” he said simply.
“Nay, he has presented it as a gift to me,” she said.
Junzo recalled the report of her betrothal to the Prince Komatzu, and he
turned a trifle pale. Possibly she divined his thoughts, for she said:
“We are cousins.”
“And will be—” He did not finish the sentence.
She changed the subject abruptly.
“You will be at the palace long?”
“Two more days.”
“And then?”
“I will return home.”
“Home?” She repeated the word in such a wistful, lingering tone. “You
will go back to Kamakura?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“My dear old home!” she said. And then, “You do not know what memories
your presence recalls to me.”
He could not take his eyes from her expressive face.
“I have not seen it since I was a child,” she said. “Why do you go so
soon?”
“My honorable commission ends.”
“There may be others.”
“I have no other,” he replied simply.
“The ladies of the court would honorably like their pictures painted?”
she essayed almost timidly.
“I do not paint,” he said. “I am but a sculptor.”
They walked slowly up the pebbled path, and through the bamboo grove,
until they came to the little gate over which he had stepped.
“Now we have reached the wall,” she said with childish lightness. “You
are not so brave nowadays, I fancy, as to carry me across by force.”