THE CHANGE
“HUSH! Do not speak so loudly, Masago!”
“How you tremble, Sado-ko.”
“We have once more mistaken our names,” said she who was the Princess
Sado-ko.
“Oh, true. Now call me Sado-ko! No, call me noble princess, most divine,
exalted, august, royal princess! Call me so!”
“A princess is not so addressed,” replied the other, smiling, “save
sometimes by a servile, ignorant one.”
“I fear I will be sure to make the most absurd mistakes.”
“So! Then the whole court will call it ‘A new caprice of the foolish
Princess Sado-ko.’”
“Again, if you please—call me Sado-ko.”
“Princess Sado-ko!”
“Masago!”
“Nay, call me simply ‘sister,’” said the other, in a trembling voice.
“Sister—there! Does not this beauteous robe become me well?”
“As though it were made alone for you, Masago.”
“No, no,—Princess Sado-ko!”
“I bow my humble head unto the dust, most royal Princess Sado-ko!”
In mock humility the new Masago bowed before the old Masago.
“Yet,” said the latter, with her red lips pursed in thought, “they say
it is the latest fashion of the court to wear the foreign style of
dress. Is it not so?”
“Yes. It is so.”
“Oh, joyful! Such beautiful and gorgeous gowns as I shall wear. I will
send at once to all the most famous foreign cities. Let me see,—to
Holland, and to—”
“The Princess Sado-ko never liked the foreign gown,” interrupted the
other, shaking her head a trifle sadly.
“But you spoke just now of the caprices of that same Princess Sado-ko.
She has already another one.”
Then up and down the room, in the long, trailing robe of Princess
Sado-ko, walked, peacock-like, the maiden Masago; while close at hand,
with dreamy face and dewy eyes, clad in a simple crêpe kimono, and with
flowers—no longer jewels—in her hair, stood Sado-ko.
“Tell me,” said the vain and eager Masago, “when the noble Prince
Komatzu shall greet me so,”—she bowed with assumed gallantry—“will I bow
thus?” Down to the mat she bent her head.
“Why, no; but thus.” Gracefully, simply she illustrated. “A low, but not
too low, obeisance. You are of equal rank, Masa—princess!”
“So—like this?”
“No; this way.”
“Well, it will take me twenty hours to practise thus. I will not sleep
till I accomplish it.”
“Oh, you will learn. Bow as you will, Masago. Komatzu will declare your
mood has changed, and still insist that you are fair.”
Stooping in her posing, Masago stared a moment at the other.
“Perhaps already he has whispered words of love to you, then?” Her voice
was sharply jealous.
“No, my cousin does not know me quite as yet. You will make him better
acquainted with Princess Sado-ko.”
“Ah, that I will!”
She raised her long, slim arms from out the graceful sleeves. Her hands
she clasped behind her head.
“Oh, what a glorious dream it is!” she said; then, in quick alarm, “A
dream? Say that it is not all a dream.”
But Sado-ko sat staring quietly into the future. When she raised her
eyes, they softly gleamed.
“A dream it is—a dream, and yet—Oh, Kuonnon, let us not awake!”
“Ah, how can you be so glad—you who are to stay here only Masago?”
[Illustration: “Then up and down the room, in the long, trailing robe of
Princess Sado-ko, walked, peacock-like, the maiden Masago.”]
“Masago,” repeated the other, softly. “That is well.” She raised a
flushing face. “I am like a bird set free, Masago. My very voice is sore
to sing.”
Masago threw herself upon the floor beside her.
“That is how I feel, also,” she said.
They smiled into each other’s faces, then drew closer together, their
sympathy for each other growing.
“Here is some homely counsel,” said Masago. “Confide small matters to my
mother, and lead her on to gossip much with you. She will tell you
everything there is to know. She is so simple—so foolish. A little wit
upon your part will quickly disarm any suspicion she might have. But be
not free in speech with Yamada Kwacho, your new father. A cold and
constrained space has always been between us. Do not let the children
disturb you with their prattle, and oh, also, pray you show some pride
to certain neighbors, for none in all the town have had the same
up-bringing as Masago.”
“And is that all,—these simple facts that I must heed to be Masago?”
“All. It is a dull and simple life.”
“And you. Pray trust not the ladies of my suite. They do most heartily
detest the Princess Sado-ko, who is given to seclusion, which has often
deprived them of much gay pleasures of the new court.”
“But I will change all that,” said Masago.
“That is true.” She sighed. “Well, then, there is nothing else to say.
But stay! My maiden, Natsu-no. Oh, pray you, dear Masago, treat her with
the greatest kindness, will you not?”
“I will.”
“She is even now without this room, waiting for me, with that dear
patience with which she watches and guards me at all times. You know,
Masago, she has been with me since I was but a baby. Alas, I shall
suffer for her loss!”
Tears for a moment dimmed the eyes of Sado-ko.
“What more?” asked Masago, surveying with delight the width and beauty
of her obi.
“What else? Well, Masago, there is one other matter. In the garden of
the Palace Nijo there hangs an open cage, just without my chamber. It is
the home of my dear nightingale.”
“A bird?”
“A little bird. Listen, there is a pretty story you would like to hear.
Once in the spring, while I was yet a little girl, and grieving for my
most beloved grandmother, his Majesty, the Emperor, sent me as a gift of
consolation a nightingale within a golden cage. It sang so sweetly to me
that I was entranced with delight, and when the days were warm would
hang the cage upon my balcony. The garden close at hand was fragrant
with the odor of the cherry and the plum, and allured many other
nightingales to make their home there. The little birds noticed their
play-mate in the cage, and when, at evening, they saw no one in
sight—for I was hidden behind my shoji screen—they would approach the
cage, and sing all merrily together. These honorably sweet serenades
gave me double joy, as you may imagine, and I soon learned to
distinguish the voices without and that one within the cage. At first I
thought the song of my own bird within the cage sounded sweeter even
than those without. Then in a little while it became hard to distinguish
them, and at last I could not hear the voice of my small nightingale at
all.”
She paused a moment, as though in thought, then resumed, her eyes sweet
with moisture.
“I pondered over this odd change, Masago, and then I thought that it
must be because those without enjoyed their freedom in the open air,
while my poor little bird was shut within the narrow limits of its
cage.”
Her eyes became more tender still as she proceeded.
“So I opened wide the door, Masago, and let my little bird go free.”
“Why, then,” spoke the other, “it is gone. How foolish you were,
Sado-ko.”
The princess shook her head.
[Illustration: “‘Then soft alighted on a cherry tree and filled the air
with its sweet song.’”]
“I thought, like you, that it would fly far, far away, but no! It only
flew above my head a space, then soft alighted on a cherry tree close
by, and filled the air with its sweet song.”
“But since?”
“Since then, Masago, the cage is always opened wide. Yet still the
nightingale makes its home within.”
“It is a pretty tale,” said Masago, thoughtfully, “but I should fear to
lose the bird.”
She arose and began once more to survey the long folds of her silken
gown.
Sado-ko looked at her in silence, an expression of wistfulness about her
eyes.
“It must be late,” said Masago. “The fog is thick without. Should I not
go now?”
Silently the princess arose.
“You are eager to try the new life,” she said, smiling sadly, then
sighing.
“Yes, I am eager,” said Masago. “Who would not be?”
“Oka, the guide, is without, Masago. He is safe, is he not?”
“Oh, surely.”
“Then there will be no peril in your return to Aoyama?”
“Oh, none,” said Masago, then hesitated a moment. “But I do not think I
will go there to-night.” She appeared to be turning something over in
her mind. The princess watched her doubtful face.
“I would much rather go to Tokyo straightway,” said Masago.
“That is well, then,” the other assented. “But first you will need to go
up to the palace, for there your attendants still remain. Then I would
advise that you leave to-night by norimono. Speak little to the maiden,
Natsu-no, who is keen-eared and keener eyed; but if you so desire, make
inquiries of the Madame Bara, the chaperone. She is absent-minded and
stupid.”
“I do not wish to travel by norimon,” said Masago. Then clasping her
hands, she said, “Oh, I have long desired to travel in great royal state
in a private train, such as it is said the Prince Komatzu uses.”
“Very well, then. But give your orders at the palace. You will be
obeyed. And now—you are going?”
“Shaka! I begin to tremble.”
“And I,” said Sado-ko, tremulously.
“Will not the maid discover—”
“Masago, bear in mind, the maid is but a maid. Treat her so.”
“Ah, true! Yet you bade me be most kind to her.”
“Kind, but not familiar.”
“Oh, I will try. Now, what must I do to call her?”
“Why, clap your hands.”
“So simple a signal for a princess?”
“Yes. Just so. I will illustrate.”
Her little signal sounded sharp and clear. Masago started and trembled
at its sound. Then she turned toward the opening doors. She heard the
low voice of the princess whispering close beside her.
“Speak to her. Say, ‘Maid, take up the light.’”
Masago walked with faltering steps toward the doors. Her voice shook a
moment, then raised in nervousness, it sounded oddly harsh.
“Take up the light!” she said.
But at her voice the sleepy Natsu-no started, turned, and looked up at
her face in wide-eyed surprise and growing fear; then her eyes went
slowly to that other one, now with her back toward her near the shadow
of the shoji, the bright outline of her huge obi bow alone in the light.
Natsu-no, shaking and trembling, advanced a pace toward her, glancing
fearfully meanwhile at that object standing there in her mistress’s
habiliments, yet in so strange and unfamiliar aspect.
Masago moved to cover her intense nervousness. The maid’s voice
quavered.
“Exalted princess, I—I—” She stammered over her words. Self-confidence
asserted itself in Masago. She raised her head imperiously.
“Take up the light and follow me!” she said.
Trembling, dumb, and horror-stricken, the maid obeyed, for she had
caught one quick, clear glimpse of that sweet other face.
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