CONFIDENCES.
Frantic mirth pervaded Osaka. That city of pleasure, of luxury,
and of perpetual feasts detested war, political quarrels,
mourning,--everything that prevented amusement; diversion being the
chief aim of the inhabitants. And now the war was over! The faces
lengthened by sorrow and alarm could be exchanged for the laughing,
radiant visages of joy. At the first news of peace, the whole town
began to dance: sailors on the quays of the Yedogawa, merchants on
their doorsteps, and servants in the palace courtyards. Nor were
rich citizens, officials, and nobles less delighted, if they were
somewhat more reserved in the expression of their joy. The princesses
particularly were enchanted; confined in their palaces, separated from
their husbands, they seemed to grow old during the war. They waked as
from a nightmare. At last they were permitted to be beautiful once
more, to smile, and to adorn themselves.
They flew to their great lacquer-chests, scattering odors of musk and
sandal-wood as they pulled out the magnificent robes which they had
packed away, in order to array themselves in gowns of more sombre hues.
The floors were strewn with a picturesque medley of satin, silk and
crape of the most delicate tints. But on inspection, regarding these
garments as faded and tumbled, they sent for dealers, tailors, and
embroidering women.
On the very evening of the promulgation of the peace, the Court
announced a water-party, to which all the wealthy inhabitants of Osaka
were invited. Excitement ran riot. There was very little time for
preparation, or for trimming the boats.
Evening came; the river was lighted up. Thousands of boats, decked with
wreaths of lanterns, left the river banks and glided slowly off, some
up, some down the stream.
The royal barks soon appeared. Larger and handsomer than the others,
they were carpeted with silken fabrics, which hung over and dragged
in the water, and lighted-by huge round lanterns of gauze or painted
glass, surrounded by the variegated flutter of countless banners.
Under the shelter of superb awnings, in the soft light of the lamps,
lay graceful women, carelessly stretched upon cushions, amidst the
ample folds of their flowing robes. The embroidery of their kirimons
glittered, and the great shining pins in their hair gleamed. Nobles sat
beside them, uttering a thousand nothings, at which they laughed and
threw back their heads. Luminous ripples danced upon the waves.
At the broadest part of the river, where the hills are cut into
terraces for a long distance, fire-works were arranged on frames: they
were to be sent off on the arrival of the Court. A vast crowd of noisy,
merry people were stationed on the terraces to see the festivities.
The spectators, some standing, others seated or lying down, carried
every one a lantern, and took part in the illumination. Barrels of saki
were plentiful; they rolled down the hills; they pitched and tumbled
about amid shouts and laughter. Some fell into the water: it was quite
a farce to pull them out; some sank; but still everybody was soon
intoxicated.
Fide-Yori was present in disguise. With the Prince of Nagato, he
occupied a light skiff carrying one faint light. Two men standing in
the prow steered. Half lying on their cushions, the friends silently
watched the boats as they came and went.
The clear voice of the singers of national legends was heard,
accompanied by the biva or the samsin. Bands of music passed, and
drowned with their noisy bray the sweet feminine tones. But suddenly
the fire-works blazed out, rockets shot through the air, Bengal lights
exploded, and let fall a shower of stars. Once begun, the fire-works
knew no interruption; the show-pieces were renewed as fast as they
vanished in smoke. There was a constant hiss, and crack, and sparkle.
The boat which bore Fide-Yori crossed that in which sat his mother,
Yodogimi. The Princess, in a flood of light, appeared in a dazzling
toilette. Her boat was entirely draped in gold brocade; the purple
satin awning had pearl tassels at each corner. General Harounaga,
completely drunk, laughed noisily, lolling on a pile of cushions. The
Shogun turned away his head, and the boat passed. Fide-Yori still heard
the soldier's shouts of laughter ringing in his ears.
The Prince of Nagato was lost in revery; he saw nothing but the
reflection of the lights in the water. He seemed to behold the glow of
burning coals, of jewels, of flames and of molten metal. But he tore
himself from his dream, thinking that the silence had lasted too long,
and raised his eyes to the Shogun. Fide-Yori's face expressed a deep
melancholy; however, the young man examined every boat that passed,
with an eager look.
Nagato watched him for some moments. "Whom does he seek?" he wondered.
Fide-Yori was evidently looking for some one; he heaved a heavy sigh
every time that he was disappointed in his hope.
"Master," said Iwakura at last, "the whole nation rejoices to-day. I
thought that sorrow found shelter in my heart alone; but I see that you
have kept your share of it."
"I ought indeed to look happy," said Fide-Yori, "but, to you, I show
myself as I am. I have an aching heart, my friend, and nothing can
allay my pain. The kingdom is at peace, but I am not?"
"What is it, my beloved prince?" said Nagato; "do you not remember
that, a few days ago, you promised to confide your grief to me!"
"I have long desired to do so. I know not what strange restraint has
prevented me. I felt as if the emotion, at once so bitter and so sweet,
which I now experience for the first time, should be told to no one
until she who inspires it had heard my tale."
"You are in love, friend; I suspected it. But why should you suffer
from your love?"
"The woman I love saved my life. I never saw her but once. Her name is
Omiti; that is all I know of her," said the Shogun.
"Poor dear Prince!" cried Nagato; "and you were never able to trace
her?"
"Alas, no!"
"Do you know to what class she belongs?"
"She is the daughter of a noble," said Fide-Yori; "her language and her
dress told me that. But were she the lowest reprobate, if ever Heaven
permit me to find her, she shall be my wife."
"We will seek her together," said Nagato.
"I seek her even now in the midst of this crowd. Every boat that
passes, laden with women, quickens the beating of my heart."
"Then you think that she lives in Osaka?" said the Prince of Nagato.
"I hope and think so," said Fide-Yori.
"Then she is certainly at this festival. What young girl would stay at
home to-day?"
"So I thought, friend," replied the Shogun; "that is why I am here."
"Come, give me a hasty sketch of her whom you love," said Nagato, "so
that I may help you in your search."
"She is full of exquisite grace; small; her eyes are very large; she
has a childish air; her smile is a flower wet with dew."
"The portrait is somewhat lacking in detail," said Iwakura, smiling.
"Never mind; let us look for her; you are here to correct the errors
that I make."
They ordered their men to row rapidly, and to traverse every part of
the river furrowed by illuminated boats. Their light skiff flew over
the water like a swallow. It went, came, glided from one side of the
stream to the opposite shore, never coming in contact with any other.
Not one craft escaped the eager scrutiny of the two friends; but their
search was in vain.
"Her name is Omiti; you know nothing more?" asked Nagato.
"Nothing; but I fancy that the family to which she belongs is hostile
to me. When she told me of the existence of a conspiracy, she refused
to give me the names of its authors."
"Ah!" suddenly exclaimed Nagato, "just see that girl over there. Isn't
she the very one you are looking for? I never saw such lovely eyes.".
Fide-Yori turned quickly. "Bah!" said he, "you're mocking me; her lips
are thick, and her nose is flat."
"So they are," said Nagato. "Forgive me; she looked pretty from a
distance."
Their boat reached the point where the river widened, and where
fire-works continued to shoot heavenward.
Fide-Yori, in his turn, uttered a loud exclamation. Through a score
of blazing rockets he thought he spied Omiti's face; and he was not
mistaken. "There, there!" he cried; "follow that boat; hurry!"
The rowers hastily tacked; but they had to make a _détour_; the great
rafts from which the fire-works were sent off blocked the way. When
they had passed them, no one knew which boat they were to follow.
Fide-Yori had observed nothing but the maiden's face; he saw it no
longer. He had noticed neither the number of lanterns nor the colors of
the banners. Besides, just at this point there was such a bewildering
array of boats of every shape and size, that it was impossible to move.
Fide-Yori trembled with agitation and alarm.
"She will escape me," said he. "Must I find her only to lose her, after
waiting so long?"
"Did you see which way the boat went?" asked Iwakura.
"I thought it went up stream."
"Well, let us row that way, then; they can't have gone far. One is
fairly held captive here. We shall find her again."
Fide-Yori took courage. "Row up the river," he cried to his men. The
young Shogun leaned over the edge and gazed eagerly about. Several
people recognized him. Numbers of princesses of the royal household,
lords, and generals passed close by him. He saw his mother and General
Harounaga again; but the face he sought had vanished.
"Perhaps we were too hasty," said he.
They retraced their course; then went up stream once more.
"The festivities are almost over!" Fide-Yori cried, suddenly. "Let us
go to the outskirts of the throng and wait for that boat; when it makes
for home, it must pass us."
"Which way shall we go?" said Nagato.
"Towards the upper town; there are no houses of nobles in the direction
of the sea."
They waited in vain; the boat did not appear. It had gone down the
river, and proceeded towards the suburbs. Fide-Yori went back to the
palace discouraged. The Prince of Nagato tried to console him.
"Are you very sure that the woman you saw was the one you are looking
for?" said he.
"Sure!" cried Fide-Yori. "I never saw her face but once; but my eyes
can never forget it."
"Then," said the Prince, "instead of being sad, rejoice. You only
imagined that she lived in this city; now you are certain she does. So
we are sure of finding her. You must give another entertainment, and
she will be there."
"You are right, friend," said Fide-Yori; "you shall help me; we will
search the city. We will find her yet; she shall be my wife. Then my
life, which has been but a series of sorrows and disillusions, will
begin to brighten. Let us start to-morrow, eh? We'll open the campaign
before a new festival can be arranged; we will study the city, district
by district; we'll wrest her secret from her. Oh! you have given me
fresh courage; you have almost made me happy!"
Hope illumined the young Shogun's eyes, a smile trembled on his lips.
All at once a cloud darkened his brow. "How cruel and selfish I am!"
he exclaimed. "You, my best friend, my devoted brother, have just lost
the woman whom you love; she died a frightful death. And I insult your
grief by talking of my love and my hopes. How dare I be gay when you
are wretched!"
"Master," said Nagato, "I feel a deep regret for the woman who died for
my sake; I cherished a brotherly affection for her. But my betrothed
was not my beloved."
"What do I hear?" cried Fide-Yori; "you lift a great weight from my
heart. I supposed you were crushed forever. Then you may be happy yet,
as well as I."
Iwakura shook his head. "My love is made up of light and shade," said
he. "I can never be entirely happy; it is composed half of celestial
bliss, and half of utter misery. Such as it is, however, it is my whole
life."
"Whom do you love, then?" asked Fide-Yori.
"Oh, Master!" said the Prince, covering his eyes with his hand, "do not
ask me."
"It is so sweet to talk of the loved one! See! since I made you my
confidant, my trouble has diminished by half."
"I am condemned to silence."
"Even to me? Is it thus you love me? I regret that I opened my heart to
you."
"If I should confess the object of my love, you would shun the subject
forever."
"Is it my mother?"
"No," said Nagato, smiling.
"Who is it? Tell me, I beseech you!"
"The Kisaki."
"Unhappy man!" cried Fide-Yori; and, as the Prince had predicted, he
added not another word.
Next day the work of demolishing the ramparts began. Ten thousand men
attacked them; they stood firm. No one knew what to do next. The stones
rested on sloping ground, and seemed as if riveted in their places.
Above, on the terre-plein, which formed a spacious terrace, cedar-trees
grew, and cast a heavy shade. The first breach was made in the towers
projecting at intervals from the walls. They were thrown down into the
moat; then huge blocks were dragged from the walls, and the work was
ended. Only the shattered walls seemed to be still standing; the stones
were not there, the mountain of earth remained; but the moat was filled
up.
While this work of destruction was going on, the city continued to
make merry. Fide-Yori ordered a huge bell to be cast, and dedicated
it solemnly to the temple of Buddha; upon this bell were engraved the
words: _Henceforth my house shall be at peace_.
On the occasion of the consecration public rejoicings were held, and a
splendid performance was announced to be given at the chief theatre in
Osaka. A new play was to be brought out, entitled, "The Taiko-Ki," that
is to say, the story of Taiko. This semi-historical work was written
in honor of Fide-Yori's father. The moment was well chosen for its
performance, and the preparations were therefore hastened on. But as
the stage-setting was to be very elaborate, no positive date could be
fixed.
Nothing else was talked of throughout the city. Places were reserved
in advance; from five to six kobangs[1] were paid for a seat. The
women eagerly arranged their drosses for the occasion; tailors and
embroiderers were beside themselves with commissions. The praises of
the leading actor, who was to take the part of Taiko, were loudly sung.
Everybody knew him; he was famous. He had been nicknamed Nariko-Ma, the
"Humming-Top."
Fide-Yori, too, waited impatiently for the day of the performance. He
hoped that Omiti would be present; and there at least she could not
escape him. His search throughout the city with Prince Nagato had been
fruitless. It was not so easy as they had fancied, to enter every house
and ask for the young girl. They began with the homes of the nobility.
That was comparatively easy. The Shogun honored the wives of the absent
lords with a visit incognito; it was his whim to see the family of the
princesses. He thus passed in review all the noble maidens of Osaka.
To enter the houses of wealthy citizens, the two friends were forced
to don a disguise, and were not always well received. Their devices
to get a glimpse of the daughters of the house varied. They sometimes
pretended to have seen an article of priceless value drop from a young
girl's sleeve, and were unwilling to return it to any but herself. Or
they would say they were sent by an old man in utter despair, who had
lost his only daughter, and was looking for a girl of the same age, and
bearing some likeness to her, that he might leave his immense fortune
to her. This latter invention, of the Prince of Nagato, was quite
successful. But the task was a long one; they had already spent a week
in the search, and had only visited the palaces and one street in Osaka.
"We shall never contrive to see every house in this great city," said
Fide-Yori; "we are crazy to think of doing it."
"We may grow old before we find her whom we seek," replied Nagato. "No
matter, let us go on looking; perhaps we shall come across her in the
very next house we enter."
Fide-Yori sighed.
"Let us wait till the doors of the theatre are thrown open," said he.
At last huge posters, printed on silk or colored paper, announced the
date of the performance.
"We shall see her at the theatre; she will be there, I feel sure," said
the Shogun, clinging to that hope.
[1] Twelve to fifteen dollars.