THE group of buildings set within the walled enclosure known as the
Emperor’s palace was not surrounded as were many feudal castles of the
daimios, and indeed other of the Imperial residences, by a deep moat of
stagnant water. The poetic temperament of a people who had returned to
the pure Shinto religion, which made Japan a land of gods whose chief
was the Emperor, would not permit the Kioto palace to resemble a
fortress. It seemed rather a temple, in the atmosphere created in
outside eyes by its carved exterior.
The whole interior grounds, in which were the residence buildings, were
separated from the city streets only by a heavy wall, rectangular in its
completed course. Within, the foliage, set back from the street, rose
high above the walls, intermingled with an occasional roof-top.
The wall was entered at intervals by guarded gates, whose porticos
protruded into the street. Set out into the street, upon a broad stone
platform, approached by a multitude of tiny steps, were two tall
pillars, about each of which twined, carved in the material itself, a
scaly serpent. Above the serpent, in a carved galaxy of death, were the
claws, heads, and bones of wild beasts. Between the pillars and the edge
of the wall, and forming the sides of the portico, were two square,
wooden panels, upon which were carved dragons, trumpets, and the
long-curved, bodied stork. Resting upon the top of the carved pillars
and extending over the wall was the sinuous roof, each of whose lines
seemed a snake curled in its tortuous travel path.
The roof, made of highly polished bamboo, but preserving its natural
form, the little logs being laid side by side, swept up to a
curling-point. Over the portico entrance of the gates, two carved,
hideously grim faces leered into the faces of any descending the steps.
Still higher up, under the shadow of the gabled roof, was the portrait
of the Emperor.
The buildings within, set in their gardens and pleasure grounds, had in
their roof lines the appearance of the gates. They were of two or three
stories, over each of which a gabled, curiously wrought shelf projected
from the sides, as a shield from the weather. The windows, small and
narrow, were set together in pairs. In the centre of each long side on
the lower floor a projecting angle, covered by a triangular roof, made a
sort of bay-window. Sliding screens gave admittance to the rooms within.
Before the carved gate in the eastern wall the norimon that had brought
the Prince of Mori from Yedo discharged its passengers. Echizen and Mori
passed into the interior. Once within, Mori, who had approached the
structure with the feelings of a devout Japanese, saw that the buildings
were set closely together, making an inner rectangular court, in whose
exact centre a house more pretentious than its neighbors stood. This he
took to be the residence of Kommei Tenno, the Mikado.
To his surprise, Echizen directed his way towards a small edifice set
quite without the quadrangle, and of a style more simple and humble than
any within the grounds.
“Why are we going this way?” Mori asked. “The Mikado must reside there,”
indicating the house within the rectangular circle.
“He should live there, it is true, for that is the official residence of
his Majesty; but being a suspicious man, he lives in the house least
suited to be his residence,” returned Echizen.
As if in keeping with the supposed incognito character of the house,
there were no guards before it, while the front of the official
residence was crowded with sword-wearers.
At the threshold Mori paused.
“Come,” said Echizen.
“But a moment,” Mori said, in a low tone whose last sound died away in a
note of sad, prophetic fear.
He raised his eyes to the trees leafing in the enclosure, and then to
the skies. The night mists had passed away, it is true, from the sight,
but there was in the air a moistness which the feebly awakened sun-rays
had not yet dissipated. A tear of expectation stood in nature’s eye.
Calm and peaceful the day was dawning, without a sound to ruffle the
gentle awakening of drowsy nature. The purple-yellow tints crept up from
beyond the horizon, touching the tops of trees and buildings in soft
sign of a later imperative sign of action.
Mori bared his head. As he stood there, the longing of the patriotic
soul surging through his body until his hands tingled to do noble deeds,
the winds gently laved his brow in the cooling of unalterable nature.
Mori was praying to his gods, for his country, to the war-god if need
be, and to Kwannon, the goddess of mercy.
Then, at the kiss of the wind, a mood, a thought, a picture came to
Mori, overwhelming in its potency. The Lady Wistaria! The Lady Wistaria!
Her name seemed to sing in his brain. In a flash of thought he realized
that, however fierce the action, however great the striving, however
complete the attainment, there was no joy in life or death ever for him.
The calm of accomplishment meant the wreck of hope.
With a fierce attack upon this memory, Mori drove his faculties back to
their duty.
“I am ready,” he said.
The two passed within.
A sort of confidential valet stopped them in the ante-chamber. He said:
“The Serene Son of Heaven is closeted with my Lord of Aidzu.”
He turned, indicating a closed door.
“You see,” whispered Echizen, when the servant’s back was turned—“you
see they have lost no time.”
Then to the servant:
“You may announce to his Majesty that it is I, the Prince of Echizen.”
As the servant disappeared behind the door, Mori, on whose brow a slight
contraction had come, seizing Echizen roughly by the arm, forced him
into the chamber beyond, the secret resort of the Emperor Kommei Tenno.
At the noise of their entrance the slight man who had been pacing up and
down the chamber turned in nervous apprehension, his hand seeking
uncertainly the naked dagger at his waist. The Prince Aidzu maintained
the position assumed by him earlier in the interrupted interview. He was
standing easily in an attitude of apparent assurance. An evil smile,
meant for Echizen, played over his features as he regarded the future
premier and his present rival, for the disconcerting smile of my Lord
Aidzu was a trick usual with him whenever an enemy surprised him with
his master. It was meant to convey to an intruder intimation of an
understanding which might not have been reached prior to the
interruption. Echizen met it with the greatest indifference.
For the first time in his short period of vigorous effort in behalf of
his Mikado, Mori stood in the presence of the man who was the focus and
culmination, the terminal point, of his most honored principle. He saw a
slight form which could not be the bodily temple of the vitality of
genius. It was that of a man scarcely beyond the thirties, yet there was
no promise of the developing years. The features, however, were
delicately modelled, the turn of the ankles and hands were exquisite.
About the whole manifest personality of the man there was the subtle
stamp of effeminacy. The hand, the intelligence within the eye—neither
gave hint of action. The brain could not conceive, the hand could not
execute.
“Poor lost, poor betrayed cause of Japan,” would have been the
formulation of Mori’s conclusion as these details, tempered by
reflection, came to him.
Then there passed through his mind from the little, hidden house of
memory all those tales he had heard whispered in secret. The Shogun had
bred the Emperor in indolence, in effeminate luxury, so that the war
lord of the Mikado might overwhelm his master in the dwarfing shadow of
real attainment. There was no hope in this man. Yet the principle was
greater than the man, and it was a violation of the principle that had
engulfed the man.
These thoughts passed rapidly through Mori’s mind as he prostrated
himself before the Mikado.
“Oh, it is you, Echizen.” The voice, small, without interest, broke upon
Mori. “Whom have you there with you?”
“Your highness,” answered Echizen, with every token of the deepest
respect, “I beg to present to you Keiki, the Prince of Mori.”
Mori, who was still on his knees, touched the floor with his head, and
remained for a moment in this humble attitude before his sovereign. When
he raised his head and looked towards the Mikado he perceived at once
that he was frowning, while he made a peculiar movement of understanding
in Aidzu’s direction, perceiving which the latter shrugged his
shoulders. Then, with the decisive cutting of nervous fear, the voice of
the Mikado broke the gap of silence.
“We were speaking of you just now, Prince of Mori,” he said, with a
sinister note in his voice.
The evil smile again crossed Aidzu’s countenance.
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[Illustration: Decoration]