DEEP WATERS.
Stanislas fled from Tokyo. He felt as if he hated the place, as if he
never wished to set foot in it again. The evening of the day that Pearl
refused him he wrote to his Government requesting leave to return home,
but he worked almost single-handed at his Legation, and he knew that it
would be impossible to take his departure until someone had been sent
out to relieve him, a circumstance which meant many months of weary
waiting.
What might happen during those months he found himself wondering, as he
read over the letter he had written so impetuously? A day, a week might
alter the whole chain of events, and by the time his Government had
given him permission to take advantage of his leave, making all
arrangements to facilitate his departure, he knew that it was more than
possible that the idea of throwing up his work and of leaving Japan
would be the last desire prominent in his mind.
Even in moments of the greatest excitement or of distress,
Stanislas--where the question of his work was in any way
involved--rarely acted hastily or without looking at the question from
all sides. Thus in the present case, though it would have been
impossible for him to have explained the exact reason why, after weighty
consideration, he ended by thrusting the hastily written letter into a
drawer, where it reposed peacefully until destroyed many months later.
Not that at this moment De Güldenfeldt for one second contemplated
asking Mrs. Nugent a second time to become his wife. No thought, indeed,
was further from his mind. After much quiet deliberation, indeed
considerable hesitation, he had brought himself to the point of making
this offer, and greatly to his surprise, disappointment, and distress,
he had been refused. He was deeply in love with Pearl, but it must be
confessed the sentiment for the moment that had the greatest hold on the
spirit of Stanislas de Güldenfeldt, swamping all other feelings,--even
for the time being that of his love--was that of wounded pride,
Stanislas was by no means perfect, his faults were many and manifold,
and like all those who from their earliest youth have acted as their own
masters--seldom having been crossed in either whims or desires--he was
extra-ordinarily intolerant, even in small matters, of the slightest
contradiction or hindrance to his wishes. But when it came to the point
of renouncing what he most desired in life, not only for the moment, but
he knew well for all futurity, Stanislas was consumed with what was far
more than a merely temporary sentiment of annoyance and distress. A
great astonishment, a permanent anger and resentment filled his whole
being, and his one thought at the present moment was to fly from Pearl
and all associations of her, striving his utmost to entirely banish from
his mind the woman who had so strangely upset his equanimity,
disarranging so completely his rather settled habits and whole system of
life.
Thus it was, travelling by slow stages and passing his nights at clean
and picturesque tea-houses sleeping on _futon_[4] and eating the food of
the country, Stanislas, and the young interpreter of his Legation,
Suzuki, his sole companion in his travels, one day found themselves at
Sendai, from which place they took the train to Shiogama. There a
_sampan_--the flat bottomed junk of the Japanese--was engaged, and for
several hours Stanislas, stretched at the bottom of the boat, with hands
clasped behind his head, and eyes gazing lazily up unto the unclouded
sky above, glided in and out through the thousands of lovely islands of
this archipelago, so full of mystery and of dreams. Weird and wonderful
were those islands, bays, and promontories, in some cases beautiful and
entrancing in their wealth of thick grown pines and rich and varied
vegetation, and in others, almost uncanny in their bare, naked, volcanic
rocks, worn into strange patterns and fantastic shapes by the inroads of
the ever surging sea. Under the late afternoon sun, and across this
lovely limpid sea of green, would fade far away in the distance vast and
misty ranges of thickly wooded hills, while here and there, gleaming
through the soft whiteness of the light, a great peak of purple would
arise aloft like a beckoning finger, reaching far beyond into the fast
flying clouds of the faintly shaded sky.
[4] Japanese quilts.
On reaching Matsushima (the "Island of the Pines") after this
never-to-be-forgotten sail of some delicious hours, and on arriving at
the tea-house perched on a rock high above the water, that was to be his
shelter for the night, de Güldenfeldt, while the evening meal was being
prepared under the supervision of Suzuki, leaned idly over the little
barrier of the verandah. He leant and gazed wonderingly at the beautiful
scene, till his whole soul was pervaded by the gentleness, the dreamy
passionlessness, the immense repose of the solemn charm of the sight
before him. The musically rippling water, the many thousand islands, the
fading sun-set, with its great shafts of glowing colour shooting across
the sky, and merging mysteriously into soft and subtle twilight--all had
a peculiar beauty and character of their own. It seemed to him like
nothing he had ever seen before. No old recollections, no old memories
were stirred to life as his eyes wandered over the waters, and dwelt on
the many thousand islands of every form and size, now growing shapeless
and dim in the darkening shadows of the night.
And as he gazed thus, drinking in the beauty of the scene and thinking
of nothing--not even for the moment of Pearl--and as the short twilight
gradually faded and night fell, Stanislas was the witness of a strange
and picturesque sight.
Thousands and thousands of dazzling lights were shimmering on the
surface of the dark calm sea before him, each light growing gradually
fainter and fainter, and gliding further and further away into the open.
Then it was that de Güldenfeldt remembered that it was the sacred and
yearly ceremony of the "Shoryobune," or the launching of the Ships of
the Souls, when thousands of little skiffs and barks, each illuminated
with a single lantern, are once a year set afloat upon the open sea by
the simple fisher-folk. On this date the ocean is nought for the time
being but one vast highway of the Dead, whose passing souls must cross
the waters, be they rough or calm, to eventually reach the haven of
their distant and Eternal Home.
Now gleaming on the crest of the wave, now disappearing beneath the
waters, those fires of the Dead take their onward uncertain journey. Sad
indeed, is the fate of the lost lamenting soul, whose little craft with
its twinkling light is submerged and extinguished by the scudding spray
of the sea, disappearing for ever from all human sight and ken. For that
poor struggling spirit is no rest, nor eternal repose, forever and
forever will it be an outcast and a wanderer, hovering on the shores of
that Land in which Nirvâna is found, but fated never to dwell within the
regions of its blessed calm and peace.
It is said that as these ghostly lights take their strange and onward
journey across the sea, the distant murmur of many voices is heard like
the mournful roar of the surf beating on the strand, the language
uncomprehended and indistinguishable of those many thousand weary souls,
struggling on towards their long prayed-for, long-expected haven of
peace and holy contemplation.
And as de Güldenfeldt gazed out thus far before him, his eye became
fixed upon one little glimmer, dancing up and down on the water, and a
cry above the murmur of the many voices seemed to him to come from the
direction of that light. Stanislas could not tear his eyes away from
this distant gleam, nor shut his ears to the sound of that cry, so faint
and weak, and yet so strangely dominant over all other sounds around
him. And as he looked, fascinated and engrossed, the fancy seized him
that it was even at the spectacle of his own striving weary soul he was
gazing, and that the wail that proceeded from that flickering light,
rising and falling across the waters, was the echo of the cry of
desolation and despair that had filled and rent his heart, ever since
the day he had parted from Pearl Nugent in anger and bitter disillusion.
He leant further over the balcony, trying to pierce the gloom and to
follow the wind-fraught vagaries of that one faint glimmering light. Now
it tore swiftly along, now it rose high above the waves, seeming to
challenge with its swift and triumphant haste the more backward
competitors in this strenuous race, of which the distant goal was the
stormy and open sea.
It disappeared for the space of an instant, and dreading that it was
engulfed for ever by the waters, Stanislas' heart sank within him. Ah!
no! there it was again, solitary and triumphant, shining like a colossal
diamond, far, far away--as far as eye could see. Alone it was, reaching
a great distance beyond the others, and de Güldenfeldt felt grieved for
this flickering uncertain light, always solitary, always struggling,
however much it was in advance, or appeared to have vanquished those who
had first started with it in the race.
It was, therefore, with a certain glow of joy, a sentiment of
excitement, which he made no effort to suppress, that he finally
perceived another distant light, yet as luminous and as steady as the
first, flying with all speed over the suddenly roughening ocean, every
instant approaching nearer to the brilliant spark that for so long had
remained triumphantly mistress of the seas. Stanislas, without
hesitation, joyously decided in his own mind that this second light
could be none other than the soul-light of Pearl, for as it gained on
the distant gleam the faint piteous cry that had hitherto proceeded from
the latter ceased, and the light stood still on the face of the waters,
and Stanislas knew that his own expectant spirit was waiting for Pearl's
soul to join it. Swifter and swifter it flew, nearer and nearer it came,
gaining every moment on that other trembling light that was pausing on
the crest of the wave to bear it company on that rough and onward
journey. Stanislas felt assured that just one faint effort more, one
short critical moment, would join in happy and eternal union these two
distant lights. But as he gazed breathlessly, the light which he called
Pearl's soul, for one brief second gleamed up high into the horizon,
gave a faint wavering flicker, and the surface that an instant before
was all aglow with its vaporous brilliancy, grew as dark as the inky
night that so suddenly seemed to envelope all things, and the little
spark, engulfed by the waters, vanished for ever from all human sight!
And there still remained his light, his soul, solitary and forlorn,
drifting aimlessly on and on. Once again Stanislas caught the sound from
far across the waters of that moaning cry, that piteous faint lament,
the echo of the desolation in his own heart; and the wail rang in his
ears till the light on the sea, growing smaller and smaller, and fainter
and fainter, finally merged into the distant horizon, and was seen no
more.
"I wonder what is coming to me," sighed de Güldenfeldt, as reluctantly
stirring from the balcony, he sat himself down on the pile of cushions
prepared for him on the _tatami_,[5] "I am as sentimental, as great a
fool as any boy indulging in his first attack of calf-love. Yet--and
yet--I wish to God Pearl's light had not gone out, but had succeeded in
eventually reaching mine. It would somehow have seemed more reassuring,
a better omen for the future, whereas now----"
[5] Japanese mats.
Stanislas de Güldenfeldt passed a bad night. The tea-house, famous for
its lovely and extensive view, but for little else, was by no means the
haven of rest he had hoped for. The celebration of a _Geisha_ feast in
the next room, with all its accompaniments of cheerful voices, rippling
laughter, and the doubtful charms of the music of the _samisen_,[6]
destroyed through the earlier hours of the night all thoughts of repose.
When at length the last convivial guest, after many _O'yasumi nasai_,[7]
had finally taken his departure, Stanislas found to his cost that his
_futon_ were both hard and lumpy, and that the Japanese green mosquito
net, perforated with holes, seemed expressly fabricated to admit scores
of those wily and vicious insects, with which his tussles were many and
necessarily totally unsuccessful. He tossed and turned, dozed for a few
minutes, and in his uneasy dreams was haunted by the soul-lights. Now
dancing on the waves, now taking weird shapes of grotesque birds of
prey, or fish and animals of no known description, they seemed to
imperiously beckon him to join them, or enveloping him in strange
uncanny arms, they dragged his struggling form far beneath the waters.
Finally he no longer could support in patience the discomfort of his
room or these weird nightmares of an excited brain, and rising from his
lowly couch and pushing open the _amado_,[8] he looked out into the
night.
[6] A musical instrument like a guitar in form.
[7] Good-nights.
[8] Wooden sliding shutters.
The moon was full, illuminating with its bright glory the calm sea from
which all the lights had long since vanished, and from the surface of
which the islands rose from out the water like great gaps blackened by
mysterious and ever-moving shadows. On the right, partly hidden by its
sacred groves, approached by the red _torii_[9] resting almost on the
water's edge, stood bathed in the mystic light, the ancient and
picturesque shrine. This lovely little shrine was entirely framed by one
immense cedar, whose great branches, motionless in the silent night air,
stretched far beyond, like dark angels guarding the consecrated ground.
Not a living creature was to be seen, and with the exception of the hum
of the night insects, all was as silent as the aged moss-grown
tombstones on which the moonbeams fell in ghostly streaks of light.
[9] The gateway leading to a temple.
"Oh, Heavenly Orb! whose pale but magic light,
Sheds liquid glory through the realms of night.
Oh, pathless wanderer! whose holy gleam
Enshrines the Heavens around with silv'ry beam.
Dear to my longing heart thy wondrous ray,
Kindling pure thoughts that shun the glaring day.
Here while I pensive kneel, gazing above,
Thy silver sheen melts wild thoughts into love;
And radiant dreams, and hopes and fancies roll
In 'wild'ring rapture through my restless soul.
Shine on, mild, mystic Moon! aid tears to cease,
Through my sad heart shed thy calm light of Peace."
This simple verse was the composition of the English mother he had
adored, and the repetition of it, so appropriate to the sweet scene
before Stanislas' eyes, tended greatly towards bestowing that repose
which till now had eluded his weary yet restless mind.
But the beauty and peace and silence were not to last. A shadow fell
across the surface of the moon, and a fitful and mysterious wind wailed
from behind the hills. Suddenly, with no previous warning, every cur in
every little hamlet from far and near commenced a discordant and
incessant barking. Before Stanislas could ask himself what meant this
unwelcomed disturbance of the calm night, a premonitory trembling of the
wooden verandah on which he stood warned him that all the terrors of an
earthquake were before him. There was no time to realise this
disagreeable fact before another shock followed the first, more violent
and more prolonged, then a third, in which the wood creaking, rose like
the waves of the ocean from beneath his feet. Stanislas found himself
clinging to the bamboo rails of the verandah, watching with a strange
fascination the branches of the sacred cedar waving violently backwards
and forwards as if shaken by the force of a tempest, and the red _torii_
beyond, trembling in its balance. The shock continued, each second
increasing the violence thereof, till, with a deafening roar, like the
roar of the ocean, with one stupendous and prolonged crash, the frail
building, sliding from its slight foundations, collapsed like a house of
cards! Stanislas remembered no more until he found himself stretched on
the ground outside all that now remained of the once picturesque
tea-house. A few yards further and he would have been over the cliff. As
it was, he was on his feet in a moment, feeling none the worse for his
fall, which had been from no great height, and was broken by the heap of
stones and rubbish on which he fell.
The house was a mass of ruins. Such indeed, as soon as his somewhat
dazed condition allowed him to look around him, seemed to be the
melancholy condition of most of the miniature matchbox habitations that
three minutes before had stood edging the sea in all their simple and
romantic beauty. The _torii_ that he had admired so short a time ago
bathed in the calm moonlight, now lay prone on the ground, while half
the roof of the little shrine had vanished in a cloud of dust. Only
remained the great and ancient cedar to compete against and triumphantly
conquer many another revolution of angry nature. This noble tree had
survived hundreds of years of earth oscillations and currents, tidal
waves and earthquakes, volcanic agencies to which we are told Japan
itself owes her very being. Doubtless to the same terrible and
disastrous causes, perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps only in
the far distant ages to come, will this beautiful fairyland owe her
ultimate destruction.
Güldenfeldt's first thought in the chaos that followed was of his young
interpreter Suzuki. He shouted his name aloud, but in the din and
confusion and the chorus of wails and weepings over lost property--and,
alas! in many cases, lost dear ones--his voice was unheard. He knew the
boy had been sleeping in the room next to his own, but that little room
was now with the rest of the building, heaped on the ground a mass of
ruins. Calling on some of the fishermen who were standing by him
stupefied by the scene of bitter desolation before them--he tore wildly
at the _débris_ of planks and paper and matting piled on the ground,
feeling sure that he had but to persevere long enough to find him for
whom he searched. In far too short a space of time in lifting a heavy
beam of wood, the body of this dear companion of his travels was
discovered beneath, motionless and dead. From the first indeed, a
presentiment of coming evil had warned Stanislas he would thus find him.
The moon, once more unclouded and brilliant, lit up the boy's
good-looking face and slim young form. Still resting on his _futon_
there was an expression of such complete peace and happiness on his
countenance that for a moment it was indeed difficult not to consider as
merely slumbering, this youth hurled thus suddenly into eternity.
De Güldenfeldt raised the burden, so light and delicate in his arms, and
pushing away the dark hair from the brow he perceived a deep jagged cut
on the temple. That wound in itself was enough to cause instant death.
The blood had ceased to flow with the ceasing of the heart-throbs, and
as his eyes lingered sadly on the inanimate form within his arm, the
tears welled up into de Güldenfeldt's eyes. He had loved this young man
born at the Legation, and educated at the French school, the worthy son
of a noble Samurai, who himself after the Revolution and on the loss of
his fortune, had in years gone-by, been only too grateful to accept the
situation of Interpreter at the Swedish Legation. From the first day
that Stanislas had held the post of Minister in Japan, this youth,
unusually quick and intelligent, had proved not only his companion, but
his right hand. He had returned the affection of his master with the
fidelity and devotion of his race, had accompanied him in his many
travels throughout the country, was an excellent interpreter, and had
directed his household with the thoroughness and conscientiousness of an
upright and honest man, devoted to his master's interests.
De Güldenfeldt felt that in losing this bright and intelligent companion
of many lonely hours, he was losing half himself. "One shall be taken
and the other left," he murmured, as unrestrained the tears fell.
"Indeed the ways of Providence are strange. Why has this lad, so full of
promise and with all before him, been the one taken, while I, a lonely
man, with no hold on life, no ties, no inducements to keep me here--am
the unfortunate one that is left?"
And the next day during the sad process of cremation, when, after three
brief hours, all that was left of this charming companion of years was a
handful of ashes and a few splinters of bone, Stanislas, with a feeling
of intense loss and desolation, again asked himself that question. Why
was he the one whom Providence had chosen to continue the strife?
"No one cares for me, no one wants me," he thought, as he sadly
supervised the placing of the ashes in the urn.
And to this day those ashes repose, and have incense and flowers offered
before them in the grounds of the great Temple of the _Koya San_.