THE WESTERN ORCHARD.
When the Prince of Nagato woke next day he experienced a feeling of
well-being and of joy to which he had long been a stranger. Yielding
to the brief and idle revery which is like the dawn of wakening
consciousness, his eye wandered over the dancing shadows of the leaves
without, cast upon the closed blinds by the sun. Myriads of birds
warbled and chattered, and one might almost think that the light itself
sang in that medley of clear voices.
The Prince thought of the happy day which lay before him; it was an
oasis in the dry and burning desert of his love. He repulsed the
thought of speedy departure, with its train of attendant griefs, to
give himself wholly up to the delights of the present; he was calm and
happy.
The night before, his mind full of memories, his heart filled with
emotion, he knew that sleep would hold persistently aloof. He therefore
ordered a drink to be prepared which would prevent insomnia. A secret
feeling of coquetry led him to avoid a feverish night. He was aware
of his own beauty, having been told of it frequently; and the glance
of every woman he met repeated the story daily. Had not his grace
of person and of face, the charm which emanated from him, had their
share in attracting the favorable notice of the Queen? They therefore
deserved to be guarded from the inroads of fever and fatigue.
Calling his servants, the Prince demanded a mirror, and examined
himself with eager haste.
But the first glance allayed his fears. His pallor had recovered the
warm tints of which illness had robbed it; the blood returned to his
lips; and yet his eyes still retained something of their feverish
lustre. He paid an almost childish attention to the details of his
dress, choosing the sweetest perfumes, the softest garments, of the
faint but clear blue tint which he preferred.
When he left his pavilion at last, the guests were already assembled
before the Kisaki's palace. His arrival caused a sensation. The men
went into raptures over his toilette; the women dared not speak. But
their silence was most flattering; it might be translated thus: He is
worthy to be loved, even by a queen; for that perfectly beautiful body
is the temple of the most refined spirit and the noblest heart in the
kingdom.
The Princess Iza-Farou-No-Kami approached Nagato. "You have not asked
me for news of Fatkoura, Prince," said she.
The Prince had never thought of Fatkoura, nor had he even noted her
absence.
"She was ill yesterday," continued the Princess; "but the announcement
of your arrival restored her to health. Depressed as she has been
for some time, your return may perhaps console her. You will see her
directly; she is with the Kisaki. She is on duty this week. Well! have
you nothing to say?"
The Prince knew not what to say; in fact, Fatkoura's name roused both
remorse and weariness in him. He reproached himself for inspiring this
woman with love for him, or rather for appearing to respond to the love
which he guessed she felt. He had used this false passion as a screen
between the curious gaze and the sun of his real love. But he no longer
had the strength to keep up his _rôle_ of fond lover; and instead of
the pity and friendship which he strove to feel for his unfortunate
victim, Fatkoura only inspired him with deep indifference.
The arrival of the Kisaki enabled him to dispense with any answer to
Iza-Farou. The Queen advanced from the veranda, greeting her guests
with a gracious smile as they bent one knee to the ground.
As they were to climb a mountain and pass over narrow paths, the Kisaki
had donned a less ample robe than she usually wore. Her sea-green gown
was of crape, wrinkled slightly, like the surface of a lake ruffled
by the wind; a broad cloth of gold girdle bound her waist and formed
a huge knot at the back. A branch of chrysanthemum in full bloom was
embroidered upon one end of this sash. The Queen had in her hair large
pins of light tortoise-shell elaborately wrought, and on her brow was a
small round mirror surrounded by a row of pearls.
Soon a magnificent chariot, drawn by two black buffaloes, approached
the palace. This chariot, surmounted by a roof and covered with
gilding, looked like a summer-house. It was closed by blinds, which the
Kisaki ordered to be raised.
The princesses and lords took their places in norimonos drawn by a
large number of men in rich array, and they set joyously forth. The
day was superb, a light breeze cooled the air, and they would not be
troubled by the heat.
At first they passed through the gardens of the royal residence. The
chariot thrust aside the straggling branches which grew across the
paths, it frightened away the butterflies, and broke the flowers
from their stems. Then they reached the wall that surrounds the
summer-palace, and went through the lofty gateway crowned by the
Mikado's bird, the Foo-Houan,--a mythological creature which took part
in the creation of the world. They then followed the wall along its
exterior; next they took a road bordered by tall trees and leading to
the mountains. There the whole Court got down to continue the journey
on foot. They formed into groups, servants opened parasols, and the
ascent of the mountain was merrily begun. The Kisaki walked first.
Alert and active as a young girl, she ran a few steps, gathered wild
flowers from the bushes; then, when she had too large a collection, she
threw them away. The merry company chatted and laughed; each one walked
at his own pace. Here and there a lord took off the lacquered hat which
looked like a circular shield and hung it at his belt; then he fixed
his open fan in his hair twisted like a rope, so that it projected like
a penthouse over his forehead.
At times an opening in the bushes revealed the city, which seemed to
spread out as they rose higher and higher; but they did not stay to
gaze, for their first stop was to be on the terrace before the temple
of Kiomidz,--that is, the temple of pure water,--whence the view is
very fine. This temple rests on one side upon immensely tall pillars of
wood, reaching down to the very foot of the mountain; on the other it
is supported by a rough hewn rock. It shelters beneath its broad roof,
covered with blue porcelain tiles, a divinity with a thousand arms.
Upon the terrace, covered with large pebbles, which extends in front of
the temple, camp-stools had been arranged, that the noble party might
rest, and enjoy the beauty of the view at their ease.
They soon arrived and took their places.
Kioto lay before them, with its countless low but elegant houses,
encircling the vast park of the Dairi,--a lake of verdure from which
rose here and there, like an islet, a broad and magnificent roof. The
eye could readily follow the clear line traced around the park by the
walls.
To the south of the city a river, the Yedogava, glistened in the
sun. The plain, rich and well cultivated, stretched beyond. Another
watercourse, the Wild Goose River, flows through the heart of the town,
near the fortress of Nisio-Nosiro, which rears its lofty ramparts and
its square tower, crowned by a roof with upturned edges.
Behind the city lay a semicircle of high hills covered with vegetation
and with temples of every sort, rising one above the other on the
slopes, scaling them, and half hidden in foliage and flowers. The
nobles pointed out to one another the temple of Iasacca, or the Eight
Escarpments; the tower of To-Tse, with its five series of airy roofs;
the chapel of Guihon, containing nothing but a round metal mirror, and
surrounded by a vast number of pretty houses, to which people repair
for tea and saki; then, lower down, nearer the plain, on the road
that loads to Fusimi, the colossal pagoda of Daibouds, very lofty,
very splendid, and containing within its gardens the temple of the
Thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three Idols,--a very
long and narrow building.
The party went into ecstasies over the beauty of the situation. They
delighted to lose their way in fancy in the complicated network formed
by the city streets, filled with a brilliant throng, the enclosures and
the courtyards, which from that height seemed like open boxes. With a
single glance they traversed all Kioto; beside the river they saw a
large open space, surrounded by a palisade, that was the parade-ground
of the Knights of Heaven, some of whom were now galloping about the
enclosure, their embroidered robes, their lances, and helmets flashing
in the sun.
The dark, green mountains stood out in bold relief against the clear
blue sky; some more distant peaks were violet hued; the atmosphere was
so pure that the little city of Yodo was plainly visible, joined to
Kioto by the long ribbon-like road crossing the golden fields.
The Kisaki rose.
"Let us be off!" she cried. "We must not linger here too long; we must
drink, higher up, the water of the cascade of Otooua, which gives
prudence and wisdom,--so the bonzes claim."
"Is there no fountain whose water has the power to make men
light-hearted and careless?" said Simabara; "I would rather wet my lips
in that."
"I don't see what you would gain," said a princess, laughing; "if there
be such a fountain, you have most certainly tasted its waters."
"If there were one which made us forget life, and believe in a dream
without awaking," said the Prince of Nagato, "I would drink to
intoxication of it."
"I would content myself with that which gives prudence, were I in your
place," said Fatkoura, who had not yet exchanged a word with Nagato.
Her bitter and satirical voice made the Prince shudder. He did not
reply, but hastened to rejoin the Queen, who was climbing a stone
staircase hewn in the steep side of the mountain.
This staircase, bordered by shrubs whose interlaced branches formed a
verdant canopy above it, led to the cascade of Otooua. The sound of the
water was already audible as it gushed from three fissures in the rock,
and fell from a height into a small pond.
The Kisaki arrived first; she knelt on the grass and dipped her hands
in the clear water.
A young bonze ran forward with a golden cup; but the sovereign
dismissed him with a sign, and advancing her lips, swallowed the water
held in the hollow of her hand, then rose and shook her fingers. A few
drops fell upon her dress.
"Now," said she, laughing, "Buddha himself has no more wisdom than I."
"You laugh," said Simabara; "for my part, I believe in the virtues of
the water: that is why I do not taste it."
They took a very rough path. Its very look made the women utter cries
of alarm. Some declared that they would never risk their lives on such
a road; but the lords went first, and extended their shut fans to the
most timid, and thus the top of the mountain was reached. But then the
cries of distress were redoubled. Before them lay a tiny torrent, which
ran babbling over the stones; it must be crossed by jumping from rock
to rock, at the risk, if one were awkward, of wetting the feet.
The Kisaki asked Nagato to let her lean on his shoulder, and passed
safely over. Some of the women followed her; then turned to laugh,
quite at their ease, at those who dared not venture.
One young princess paused in mid-stream, standing on a rock; she held
close about her the ample folds of her robe; and, half laughing, half
dismayed, would neither go forward nor backward. She only resolved upon
crossing the dangerous ford when her friends threatened to leave her
alone in the middle of the torrent.
There were but a few steps more to be taken ore they reached the
western orchard, which is surrounded by a hedge of tea-plants. The
Queen pushed open a lattice-gate, and entered the enclosure.
It was the most enchanting spot imaginable. The spring, at this
height, is somewhat tardy; and while in the valley the fruit-trees had
already shed all their flowers, here they were in full bloom. Upon
the undulating surface carpeted with thick turf, plum-trees covered
with tiny white stars, apricots, apple-trees, peach-trees with their
pink flowers, cherries decked with dark-red bloom, bent and twisted
and stretched in every direction their dusky branches, whose roughness
formed a marked contrast to the frailty of the petals.
In the middle of the orchard a large carpet was spread on the grass,
and a red satin curtain, held up by gilded poles, flapped above it. A
collation was served on this rug in costly china dishes.
The guests gladly squatted around the trays loaded with dainty
provisions; the walk had given all an appetite. The women arranged
themselves in two groups to the right and left of the Kisaki; the men
took their seats opposite her at a respectful distance.
The most outspoken gayety soon reigned throughout the noble assembly;
laughter bubbled from every lip. They chattered loudly, and no one
heeded the melodies discoursed by an orchestra hidden behind a screen
made from fibres of the reed.
Fatkoura alone wore a gloomy look and remained silent. The Princess
Iza-Farou studied her by stealth with increasing surprise; she also
looked from time to time at the Prince of Nagato, who seemed lost in
a delightful dream, but never turned his eyes in the direction of
Fatkoura.
"What has happened?" murmured the Princess. "He has certainly ceased to
love her; and I thought the wedding was so near at hand!"
The feast ended, the Kisaki rose.
"Now," said she, "to work! Let each one of us draw inspiration from
Nature to compose a quatrain in Chinese characters."
They scattered in various directions beneath the trees; each one
went apart and reflected. Some paused before a blossoming branch;
others walked slowly along, their gaze fixed on the ground, or with
head uplifted towards what could be seen of the sky through the
constellations of snowy or rose-tinted flowers. Some lazy spirits
stretched themselves at full length on the turf and closed their eyes.
The bright and lively hues of their dresses shone forth gayly against
the green, and added one more charm to the landscape.
Soon all the poets were recalled. The time fixed for the framing of
the quatrain had elapsed. They assembled and sat down on the grass.
Servants brought in a huge bronze bowl, upon the sides of which writhed
sculptured dragons in the midst of imaginary shrubbery. This bowl was
full of white fans, decorated only by a slight sketch in one corner.
On one was a tuft of iris; on another a few slender reeds, a cottage
by a lake, over which bent a willow, or a bird grasping a branch of
almond-flowers in his claws.
Each competitor took one of these fans, upon which he was to write
his verse. Brushes and India ink ready mixed were also brought. Soon
the black characters stood in four perpendicular rows upon the white
surface of the fans; the poems were finished. Each poet read his own
quatrain aloud.
The Princess Iza-Farou began:--
"THE FIRST FLOWERS.
"How fleeting, in life, is the time
When we have only joys, hopes, and no regrets?
Which is the most delicious moment of spring?
That when not a single flower has yet faded."
Lively approval hailed this poem.
When silence was restored, Simabara took up the word:--
"THE LOVE OF NATURE.
"I lift my head, and I see a flock of wild geese.
Among those travellers one, who erst was in the van, now lags
behind her mates.
See how she flies behind the rest. Why does she linger thus?
Because from the heights of heaven she wonders at the beauty
of the scene."
"Good! good!" cried the listeners.
Some of the princes repeated the last line, shaking their heads with
satisfaction.
Several other quatrains were read; then the Kisaki repeated hers:--
"THE SNOW.
"The sky is clear; the bees hum o'er the garden beds;
A balmy breeze blows through the trees;
It makes the plum-blossoms fall in showers.
How delightful is the spring snow!"
"You are the master of us all!" was the enthusiastic shout. "What are
our verses beside yours!"
"Our great poet, Tsourai-Iouki,[1] never wrote a more perfect poem than
that," said the Prince of Nagato.
"It was from that poet I drew my inspiration," said the Kisaki, smiling
with pleasure. "But it is your turn to read, Iwakura," she continued,
glancing at the Prince.
Nagato opened his fan and read:--
"THE WILLOW.
"The thing which we love more than all else, we prefer that no one
else should love.
It belongs to another.
So the willow, which takes root in our garden,
Bends, blown by the wind, and adorns our neighbor's wall with
its branches."
"The illustrious Tikangue[2] might be your brother," said the Kisaki;
"there is no quatrain in his works superior to that. I wish to preserve
the fan that your hand has illustrated; give it to me, I beg."
Nagato approached the Queen, and, kneeling, offered her the fan.
Fatkoura abruptly recited the following lines, which she improvised on
the spur of the moment:--
"The pheasant runs through the fields; he attracts all eyes by his
gilded plumage;
He cries aloud as he seeks his food.
Then he turns towards his mate,
And through love for her he involuntarily betrays the place of
his retreat to men."
The Queen frowned, and paled slightly. A transport of rage made her
heart palpitate; for she saw that Fatkoura, by this improvisation,
hurled an outrageous insult at Nagato and herself. She slandered her
sovereign with the daring of a soul which has lost all, and offers one
buckler to revenge,--despair.
The Kisaki, feeling her inability to punish, was seized by a vague
terror, and repressed her wrath. If she acknowledged that she
understood the injurious intention of Fatkoura's words, must she
not confess to a guilty prepossession,--an interest unworthy of her
majesty,--in the love to which her beauty had given birth in the heart
of one of her subjects?
She complimented Fatkoura in a very quiet voice upon the elegance
of her poem; then she sent her by a page the prize offered for
competition. It was a charming collection of poems, no longer than a
man's finger; the fashion being for the smallest books possible.
Some hours later, while the Prince of Nagato, leaning over the edge of
the terrace, was gazing down from the mountain top at the setting sun,
which shed its purple glory across the sky, the Kisaki drew near him.
He lifted his eyes to her face, thinking that she wished to speak to
him; but she was silent, her eyes fixed on the horizon, and full of
sadness; she preserved a solemn attitude.
The reflection from the western sky disguised her pallor. She repressed
some painful emotion, and strove to restrain a tear that trembled on
her lashes and dimmed her sight.
Nagato felt a sort of terror; he was sure that she was going to say
something dreadful to him. He would fain have prevented her from
speaking.
"Queen," said he, softly, as if to dismiss the danger, "the sky looks
like a great rose-leaf."
"It is the last falling leaf of day," said the Kisaki,--"of the day
which is sinking into the past, but whose memory our spirits will
preserve as a day of joy and peace,--perhaps the last."
She turned away to hide her tears, which, despite her efforts, flowed
fast.
The Prince's heart was oppressed with inexpressible agony; he was like
the victim who sees the knife at his throat. He dared not speak, lest
he should hasten the sacrifice.
Suddenly the Kisaki turned to him.
"Prince," said she, "I have something to say to you: you must marry
Fatkoura."
Nagato stared at the Queen in dismay; he saw her eyes were wet with
tears, but full of a calm and irrevocable resolve.
He slowly bowed his head. "I will obey," he murmured.
And while she moved quickly away, he hid his face in his hands, and
gave vent to the sobs which were stifling him.
[1] The two latter quatrains are translated from Tsourai-Iouki, one of
the most famous poets of Japan.
[2] An illustrious Japanese poet, author of the verses entitled "The
Willow."