AMONG THE NIKKO MOUNTAINS
_Io chikaki
Tsumagi no michi ya
Kure-nuramu;
Nokiba ni kudaru
Yama-bito no koye_!
Dusk, it seems, has come
To the wood-cutter's track
That is near my hut;
The voices of the mountainmen
Going down to the shed!
Geoffrey left early one morning in a very doubtful frame of mind,
after having charged Tanaka to take the greatest care of his lady, and
to do exactly what she told him.
It was not until half-way up the steep climb between Nikko and
Chuzenji that his lungs suddenly seemed to break through a thick film,
and he breathed fresh air again. Then he was glad that he had come.
He was afoot. A coolie strode on before him with his suit-case
strapped on his back. They had started in pouring rain, a long tramp
through narrow gorges. Geoffrey could feel the mountains around him;
but their forms were wrapped in cloud. Now the mist was lifting;
and although in places it still clung to the branches like wisps of
cotton-wool, the precipitous slopes became visible; and overhead,
peeping through the clouds at impossible elevations, pieces of the
mountain seemed to be falling from the grey sky. Everything was bathed
in rain. The sandstone cliffs gleamed like marble, the luxuriant
foliage like polished leather. The torrent foamed over its wilderness
of grey boulders with a splendid rush of liberty.
Country people passed by, dressed in straw overcoats which looked
like bee-hives, or with thin capes of oiled paper, saffron or
salmon-coloured. The kimono shirts were girt up like fishers--both
men and women--showing gnarled and muscular limbs. The complexions
of these mountain folk were red like fruit; the Mongolian yellow was
hardly visible.
Some were leading long files of lean-shanked horses, with bells to
their bridles and high pack-saddles like cradles, painted red. Rough
girls rode astride in tight blue trunk-hose. It was with a start that
Geoffrey recognised their sex; and he wondered vaguely whether men
could fall in love with them, and fondle them. They were on their
way to fetch provision for the lake settlements, or for remote
mining-camps way beyond the mountains.
The air was full of the clamour of the torrent, the heavy splashing
of raindrops delayed among the leaves, and the distant thunder of
waterfalls.
What a relief to breath again, and what a pleasure to escape from the
tortuous streets and the toy houses, from the twisted prettiness of
the Tokyo gardens and the tiresome delicacy of the rice-field mosaic,
into a wild and rugged nature, a land of forests and mountains
reminiscent of Switzerland and Scotland, where the occasional croak of
a pheasant fell like music upon Geoffrey's ear!
The two hours' climb ended abruptly in a level sandy road running
among birch trees. At a wayside tea-house a man was sitting on a low
table. He wore white trousers, a coat of cornflower shade and a Panama
hat--all very spick and span. It was Reggie Forsyth.
"Hello," he cried, "my dear old Geoffrey! I'm awfully glad you've
come. But you ought to have brought Mrs. Harrington too. You seem
quite incomplete without her."
"Yes, it's a peculiar sensation, and I don't like it. But the heat,
you know, at Tokyo, it made me feel rotten. I simply had to come away.
And Asako is so busy now with her new cousins and her Japanese house
and all the rest of it."
For the first time Reggie thought that he detected a tone in his
friend's voice which he had been expecting to hear sooner or later, a
kind of "flagging" tone--he found the word afterwards in working out
a musical sketch called _Love's Disharmony_. Geoffrey looked white
and tired, he thought. It was indeed high time that he came up to the
mountains.
They were approaching the lake, which already showed through the
tree-trunks. A path led away to the left across a rustic bridge.
"That's the way to the hotel. Yaé is there. Farther along are the
Russian, French and British Embassies. That's about half an hour from
here."
Reggie's little villa stood at a few minutes' distance in the opposite
direction, past two high Japanese hotels which looked like skeleton
houses with the walls taken out of them, past sheds where furs were on
sale, and picture post-cards, and dry biscuits.
The garden of the villa jutted out over the lake on an embankment of
stones. The house was discreetly hidden by a high hedge of evergreens.
"William Tell's chapel," explained Reggie, "a week in lovely Lucerne!"
It was a Japanese house, another skeleton. From the wicket gate,
Geoffrey could see its simple scheme open to the four winds, its
scanty furniture unblushingly displayed; downstairs, a table, a sofa,
some bamboo chairs and a piano--upstairs, two beds, two washstands,
and the rest. The garden consisted of two strips of wiry grass on each
side of the house; and a flight of steps ran down to the water's edge,
where a small sailing-boat was moored.
The landscape of high wooded hills was fading into evening across the
leaden ripples of the lake.
"What do you think of our highland home?" asked Reggie.
There was not a sign of life over the heavy waters, not a boat, not a
bird, not an island even.
"Not much doing," commented Geoffrey, "but the air's good."
"Not quite like a lake, it is?" his host reflected.
That was true. A lake had always appealed to Geoffrey, both to his
sense of natural beauty and to his instinct for sport. There is a
soothing influence in the imprisoned waters, the romance of the sea
without its restlessness and fury. The freshness of untrodden islands,
the possibilities of a world beneath the waters, of half-perceived
Venetas, the adventure of entrusting oneself and one's fortunes to a
few planks of wood, are delights which the lake-lover knows well. He
knows too, the delicious sense of detachment from the shore--the shore
of ordinary affairs and monotonous people--and the charm of unfamiliar
lights and colours and reflections. Even on the Serpentine he can find
this glamour, when the birds are flocking to roost in the trees of
Peter Pan's island.
But on this lake of Chuzenji there was a sullen brooding, an absence
of life, a suggestion of tragedy.
"It isn't a lake," explained Reggie; "it's the crater of an old
volcano which has filled up with water. It is one of the earth's
pockmarks healed over and forgotten. But there is something lunar
about it still, some memory of burned out passions, something creepy
in spite of the beauty of the place. It is too dark this evening to
see how beautiful it is. In places the lake is unfathomably deep, and
people have fallen into the water and have never been seen again."
The waters were almost blue now, a deep dull greyish blue.
Suddenly, away to the left, lines of silver streaked the surface; and,
with a clapping and dripping commotion, a flight of white geese rose.
They had been dozing under the bank, and some one had disturbed them.
A pale figure like a little flame was dimly discernible.
"It's Yaé!" cried Reggie; and he made a noise which was supposed to be
a _jodel_ The white figure waved an answer.
Reggie picked up a megaphone which seemed to be kept there for the
purpose.
"Good night," he shouted, "same time to-morrow!"
The figure waved again and disappeared.
Next morning Geoffrey was awakened by the boom of a temple bell. He
stepped out on to his balcony, and saw the lake and the hills around
clear and bright under the yellow sunshine. He drank in the cool
breath of the dew. For the first time after many limp and damp
awakenings he felt the thrill of the wings of the morning. He thanked
God he had come. If only Asako were here! he thought. Perhaps she was
right in getting a Japanese home just for the two of them. They would
be happier there than jostled by the promiscuity of hotels.
At breakfast, Reggie had found a note from the Ambassador.
"Oh, damn!" he cried, "I must go over and beat a typewriter for two
or three hours. I must therefore break my tryst. But I expect you to
replace me like the immortal Cyrano, who should be the ideal of all
soldiers. Will you take Yaé for an hour or two's sail? She likes you
very much."
"And if I drown your fiancée? I don't know anything about sailing."
"I'll show you. It's very easy. Besides, Yaé really knows more about
it than I do."
So Geoffrey after a short lesson in steering, tacking, and the
manipulation of the centreboard, piloted his host safely over to
British Bay, the exclusive precinct of the temporary Embassy on the
opposite shore of the lake. He then made his way round French Cape
past Russia Cove to the wooden landing-stage of the Lakeside Hotel.
There he found Yaé, sitting on a bench and throwing pebbles at the
geese.
She wore the blue and white cotton kimono, which is the summer dress
of Japanese women. It is a cheap garment, but most effective--so clean
and cool in the hot weather. Silk kimonos soon become stale-looking;
but this cotton dress always seems to be fresh from the laundry. A
rope of imitation pearls was entwined in her dark hair; and her broad
sash of deep blue was secured in front with an old Chinese ornament of
jade.
"Oh, big captain," she cried, "I am so glad it is you. I heard you
were coming."
She stepped into the boat, and took over the tiller and the command.
Geoffrey explained his friend's absence.
"The bad boy," she said, "he wants to get away from me in order to
think about a lot of music. But I don't care!"
Under a steady wind they sheered through the water. On the right hand
was Chuzenji village, a Swiss effect of brown chalets dwarfed to utter
insignificance by the huge wooded mountain dome of Nantai San which
rose behind it. On the left the forest was supreme already, except
where in small clearings five or six houses, tenanted by foreign
diplomats, stood out above the lake. A little farther on a Buddhist
temple slumbered above a flight of broad stone steps. The sacred
buildings were freshly lacquered, and red as a new toy. In front, on
the slope of golden sand, its base bathed by the tiny waves, stood
the _torii_, the wooden archway which is Japan's universal religious
symbol. Its message is that of the Wicket Gate in the Pilgrim's
Progress. Wherever it is to be seen--and it is to be seen
everywhere--it stands for the entering in of the Way, whether that way
be "_Shinto_" (The Way of the Gods), or "_Butsudo_" (The Way of the
Buddhas), or "_Bushido_" (The Way of the Warriors).
There was plenty of breeze. The boat shot down the length of the
lake at a delicious speed. The two voyagers reached at last a little
harbour, Sh[=o]bu-ga-Hama--The Beach of the Lilies--a muddy shore with
slimy rocks, a few brown cottages and a saw-mill.
"Let's go and see the waterfall," suggested Yaé, "it's only a few
minutes."
They walked together up a steep winding lane. The fresh air and the
birch trees, the sight of real Alderney cows grazing on patches
of real grass, the distant rumble of the cataract brought back to
Geoffrey a feeling of strength and well-being to which he had for
weeks been a stranger.
If only the real Asako had been with him instead of this enigmatic and
disquieting image of her!
The Japanese, who have an innate love for natural beauty, never
fail to mark an exceptional view with a little bench or shelter for
travelers, whence they can obtain the best perspective. If sight-seers
frequent the spot in any number, there will be an old dame _en
guérite_ with her picture post-cards and her Ebisu Beer, her
"Champagne Cider," her _sembei_ (round and salted biscuits) and her
tale of the local legend.
"_Irrasshai! Irrasshai_;" she pipes. "Come, come, please rest a
little!"
But the cascade above Sh[=o]bu-ga-Hama is only one among the thousand
lesser waterfalls of this mountain country. It is honoured merely by
an unsteady bench under a broken roof, and by a rope knotted round the
trunk of a tall tree in mid-stream to indicate that the locality is
an abode of spirits, and to warn passers-by against inconsiderately
offending the Undine.
Geoffrey and Yaé were balancing themselves on the bench, gazing at the
race of foam and at the burnished bracken. The Englishman was clearing
his mind for action.
"Miss Smith," he began at last, "do you think you will be happy with
Reggie?"
"He says so, big captain," answered the little half-caste, her mouth
queerly twisted.
"Because if you are not happy, Reggie won't be happy; and if you are
neither of you happy, you will be sorry that you married."!
"But we are not married yet," said the girl, "we are only engaged."
"But you will be married sometime, I suppose?"
"This year, next year, sometime, never!" laughed Yaé. "It is nice to
be engaged, and it is such a protection. When I am not engaged, all
the old cats, Lady Cynthia and the rest, say that I flirt. Now when
I am engaged, my fiancé is here to shield me. Then they dare not
say things, or it comes round to him, and he is angry. So I can do
anything I like when I am engaged."
This was a new morality for Geoffrey. It knocked the text from under
the sermon which he had been preparing. She was as preposterous as
Reggie; but she was not, like him, conscious of her preposterousness.
"Then, when you are married, will you flirt?" asked her companion.
"I think so," said Yaé gravely. "Besides, Reggie only wants me to
dress me up and write music about me. If I am always the same like an
English doll wife, he won't get many tunes to play. Reggie is like a
girl."
"Reggie is too good for you," said the Englishman, roughly.
"I don't think so," said Yaé, "I don't want Reggie, but Reggie wants
me."
"What do you want then?"
"I want a great big man with arms and legs like a wrestler. A man who
hunts lions. He will pick me up like you did at Kamakura, big captain,
and throw me in the air and catch me again. And I will take him away
from the woman he loves, so that he will hate me and beat me for it.
And when he sees on my back the marks of the whip and the blood he
will love me again so strongly that he will become weak and silly like
a baby. Then I will look after him and nurse him; and we will drink
wine together. And we will go for long rides together on horseback in
the moonlight galloping along the sands by the edge of the sea!"
Geoffrey was gazing at her with alarm. Was she going mad? The girl
jumped up and laid her little hands on his shoulder.
"There, big captain," she cried, "don't be frightened. That is only
one of Reggie's piano tunes. I never heard tunes like his before. He
plays them, and then explains to me what each note means; and then
he plays the tune again, and I can see the whole story. That is why I
love him--sometimes!"
"Then you _do_ love him?" Geoffrey was clutching pathetically for
anything which he could understand or appeal to in this elusive
person.
"I love him," said Yaé, pirouetting on her white toes near the edge of
the chasm, "and I love you and I love any man who is worth loving!"
They returned to the lake in silence. Geoffrey's sermon was abortive.
This girl was altogether outside the circle of his code of Good Form.
He might as well preach vegetarianism to a leopard. Yet she fascinated
him, as she fascinated all men who were not as dry as Aubrey Laking.
She was so pretty, so frail and so fearless. Life had not given her
a fair chance; and she appealed to the chivalrous instinct in men, as
well as to their less creditable passions. She was such a butterfly
creature; and the flaring lamps of life had such a fatal attraction
for her.
The wind was blowing straight against the harbour. The bay of
Sh[=o]bu-ga-Hama was shallow water. Try as he might, Geoffrey could not
manoeuvre the little yacht into the open waters of the lake.
"We are on a lee-shore," said Geoffrey.
At the end he had to get down and wade bare-legged, towing the boat
after him until at last Yaé announced that the centreboard had been
lowered and that the boat was answering to the helm.
Geoffrey clambered in dripping. He shook himself like a big dog after
a swim.
"Reggie could never have done that," said Yaé, with fervent
admiration. "He would be afraid of catching cold."
* * * * *
At last they reached the steps of the villa. They were both hungry.
"I am going to stop to lunch, big captain," said Yaé, "Reggie won't be
back."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw Gwendolen Cairns listening last evening when he spoke
to me through the big trumpet. She tells Lady Cynthia, and that means
a lot of work next day for poor Reggie, so that he can't spend his
time with me. You see! Oh, how I hate women!"
After lunch, at Chuzenji, all the world goes to sleep. It awakes at
about four o'clock, when the white sails come gliding out of the green
bays like swans. They greet, or avoid. They run side by side for
the length of a puff of breeze. They coquet with one another like
butterflies; or they head for one of those hidden beaches which are
the principal charm of the lake, where baskets are unpacked and cakes
and sandwiches appear, where dry sticks are gathered for a rustic
fire, and after an hour or more of anxious stoking the kettle boils.
"Of all the Japanese holiday places, Chuzenji is the most select and
the most agreeable," Reggie Forsyth explained; "it is the only place
in all Japan where the foreigner is genuinely popular and respected.
He spends his money freely, he does not swear or scold. The
woman-chasing, whisky-swilling type, who has disgraced us in the
open ports, is unknown here. These native mountaineers are rough and
uneducated savages, but they are honest and healthy. We feel on easy
terms with them, as we do with our own peasantry. In the village
street of Chuzenji I have seen a young English officer instructing the
sons of boatmen and woodcutters in the mysteries of cricket."
In Chuzenji there are no Japanese visitors except the pilgrims who
throng to the lake during the season for climbing the holy mountain of
Nantai. These are country people, all of them, from villages all over
Japan, who have drawn lucky lots in the local pilgrimage club. One
can recognize them at once by their dingy white clothes, like
grave-clothes--men and women are garbed alike--by their straw mushroom
hats, by the strip of straw matting strapped across their shoulders,
and by the long wooden staves which they carry and which will be
stamped with the seal of the mountain-shrine when they have reached
the summit. These pilgrims are lodged free by the temple on the
lake-side, in long sheds like cattle-byres.
The endless files of lean pack-horses, laden with bags of rice and
other provisions, the ruddy sexless girls who lead them, and the women
who have been foraging for wood and come down from the mountain with
enormous faggots on their bent shoulders, provide a foreground for the
Chuzenji landscape.
* * * * *
Geoffrey was sleeping upstairs in his bedroom. Yaé was sleeping
downstairs on the sofa. He had expected her to return to the hotel
after lunch, but her attitude was that of "_J'y suis, j'y reste_."
He awoke with a start to find the girl standing beside his bed.
Afterwards he became sure that he had been awakened by the touch of
soft fingers on his face.
"Wake up, big captain," she was saying. "It is four o'clock, and the
Ark's coming."
"What Ark?" he yawned.
"Why, the Embassy boat."
Out of sheer devilry, Miss Smith waited for the arrival of Lady
Cynthia. The great lady paid no more attention to her existence than
if she had been a piece of the house. But she greeted Geoffrey most
cordially.
"Come for a walk," she said in her abrupt way.
As they turned down the village street she announced:
"The worst has happened--I suppose you know?"
"About Reggie?"
"Yes; he's actually engaged to be married to the creature. Has he told
you?"
"In the greatest confidence."
"Well, he forgot to bind his young lady to secrecy. She has told
everybody."
"Can't he be recalled to London?"
"The old man says that would just push him over the edge. He has
talked of resigning from the service."
"Is there anything to be done?"
"Nothing! Let him marry her. It will spoil his career in diplomacy, of
course. But he will soon get tired of her fooling him. He will divorce
her, and will give up his life to music to which, of course, he
belongs. People like Reggie Forsyth have no right to marry at all."
"But are you sure that she wants to marry him?" said his friend; and
he related his conversation with Yaé that morning.
"That's very interesting and encouraging," said Her Excellency. "So
she has been trying her hand on you already."
"I never thought of that," exclaimed Geoffrey. "Why, she knows that
Reggie is my best friend; and that I am married."
The judicial features of Lady Cynthia lightened with a judicial smile.
"You have been through so many London seasons, Captain Barrington, and
there is still no guile in you!"
They walked on in silence past the temple terraces down a winding
country lane.
"Captain Barrington, would you care to play the part of a real hero, a
real theatre hero, playing to the gallery?"
Geoffrey was baffled. Had the talk suddenly swung over to amateur
theatricals? Lady Cynthia was a terrible puller of legs.
"Did you ever hear of Madge Carlyle?" she asked, "or was she before
your time?"
"I have heard of her."
She was a famous London _cocotte_ in the days when mashers wore
whiskers and "Champagne Charlie" was sung.
"At the age of forty-three'" said Lady Cynthia, "Madge decided to
marry for the third or fourth time. She had found a charming young man
with plenty of money and a noble heart, who believed that Madge was
a much slandered woman. His friends were sorry for the young man; and
one of them decided to give a dinner to celebrate the betrothal. In
the middle of the feast an urgent message arrived for the enamoured
one, summoning him to his home. When he had gone the others started
plying poor Madge with drinks. She was very fond of drinks. They
had splendid fun. Then one of the guests--he was an old lover of
Madge's--suggested--Good-bye to the old days and the rest of it!"
"But what did he think of his friends?" asked Geoffrey. "It seems a
low-down sort of trick."
"He was very sore about it at the time," said Lady Cynthia; "but
afterwards he understood that they were heroes, real theatre heroes."
"It looks like rain," said Geoffrey, uneasily.
So they turned back, talking about London people.
The first drops fell as they were passing through the wicket gate; and
they entered the house during a roar of thunder. Reggie was alone.
"I see that my fate is sealed," he said, as he rose to meet them.
"'The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes!'"