AN EVIL OMEN
“ARTIST, you cannot enter the hall!” said the Duchess Aoi, pulling the
sleeve of Junzo’s hakama.
“I am a guest,” he said briefly.
“But you transgress the most stringent rules of the court. His Majesty
commands that no one, save in evening dress, shall appear. The Crown
Prince is the guest of honor to-night.”
Junzo looked with doubtful eyes at his dress, then stared at the
black-coated, white-breasted garb of those within the room.
“It is the Prince of Nijo’s palace; I am well aware that customs are
changed here,” he said.
“You think the Princess Sado-ko still sets the fashions at defiance. Oh,
artist, she is a most abject devotee.”
“I do not understand.”
“Artist, for your own sake, do not look upon this new Sado-ko. Wait till
the night is past, and see her in the morning. She will be then the
princess you have known.”
Both Junzo and the duchess started at a familiar sound of low, mocking
laughter.
“What, dear Duchess Aoi, you deign to touch—to hold the sleeve of the
honorable artist!” exclaimed the Lady Fuji-no.
Aoi’s brown eyes flashed angrily.
“It was an honorable accident,” she said haughtily. “I sought to save
the artist from an error which would prove most humiliating to him. He
is a stranger and does not know the rules as yet; but simply cast your
eyes upon his dress, my lady, and you will see why I restrained him.”
Fuji smiled in a superior, veiled way.
“Artist,” she said, “Aoi is always thoughtful. She speaks the truth
to-night. Pray heed her. If you step within the august hall, and even
gaze at a great distance upon her Highness, you will lose your honorable
head.”
Junzo walked away from them and went upon the veranda of the palace. But
Lady Fuji followed him. She pointed toward the long glass windows of the
ball-room.
“Artist, the Duchess Aoi would prevent your seeing Sado-ko in her new
garb. She clings to the despairing fancy that when her Highness sees you
again, her feelings and also her dress will undergo a change, and that
the old Sado-ko will once again bewitch the artist, and perchance save
Komatzu for the Duchess Aoi.”
“The duchess would prevent the marriage?” asked the artist, quietly.
“She is fairly mad to do so, artist, while I am equally determined to
have it so. Now to which of us do you choose to lend yourself as a
weapon?”
“Lady,” said Junzo, gravely, “there is a Western proverb: ‘Between two
evils, choose the lesser.’ Tell me, which of you is the lesser evil?”
She shrugged her thin, bared shoulders.
“Frankly, I confess of the two evils, Aoi or Fuji, I do not know which
is the worse.”
Junzo frowned gloomily through the windows into the brightly lighted
room, now quickly filling. A trumpet blast, full and clear, resounded
somewhere in the palace.
“Who enters now?” asked Junzo.
“The noble Prince Komatzu. Note the change upon his face, artist. Love
prints her fingers on one’s countenance as clearly as can be.”
“And who comes now?”
“Put close your face against the barbarian pane. You see quite plainly?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, look your full, Sir Artist. It is the Princess Sado-ko who
comes.”
He saw a glittering, spangled gown, low of neck and long of train. So
long, indeed, it was that she who wore it tripped within it, and often
lifted it in awkward style. Little high-heeled French slippers were upon
the feet. The artist’s eyes turned from surveying her strange, gorgeous
gown, to her face, and there for a long, horror-stricken moment they
remained.
Her face was creamy tinted, the eyes long, the brows finely pencilled.
Her tiny lips were tipped with rouge, while her rich, shining hair was
crumpled in a strange and massed coiffure. Wisps of hair, not straight
or silky, but crinkled and curled like the hair of the unintellectual
races, strayed about the face and sometimes fell upon her eyes. Her head
was held straightly and proudly, and she did not deign to look about
her. Her long, bare neck was weighted down with pearls and other
flashing gems. Long, sleek, black gloves shut out the beauty of her
arms.
With eyes distended, Junzo gazed upon her, like one fascinated with some
strange, gliding serpent. He did not hear the loud fanfare of trumpets
signalling the entrance of the young Crown Prince, nor note the sudden
reverent silence within, the ceasing of the stir of fans, the silencing
of voice and movement. Through his bewildered mind he thought he heard
the mocking laughter of the Lady Fuji-no. Then suddenly the band crashed
out, and the imperial ball had opened.
Slowly the artist turned, and in the light streaming from the window he
gazed at the soft, smiling face of Fuji.
“It was a dream,” he said, passing his hand across his brow.
“Awake, Sir Artist!” said the lady, “I trust you are already
disillusioned.”
He walked awhile up and down the veranda, then returned to her.
“Lady, the Duchess Aoi spoke truth. It was an order of the Emperor. She
could not disobey. She is a martyr to the times.”
“So! So!”
“So I believe,” said Junzo, with unfaltering faith.
“You find her changed, then?”
“In dress—in garb, that is all.”
“You did not see her face when she had deigned to turn it to the Prince
Komatzu?”
“Beauty like hers will shine from very graciousness, my lady.”
“Artist, as you are aware, the Princess Sado-ko is unconventional.
To-night when the first ceremonies are past, she will leave this
ballroom. She may not dance, being a princess royal. So she will retire
to her private gardens, and there, I doubt not, will linger for a little
while. Come with me there, and if she chance to see you, perhaps she
will condescend to speak to you to-night. The princess but attends the
ceremonials on these occasions. Hence we will not have to wait for
long.”
“A happy thought,” he said eagerly, as he followed Fuji-no with willing
feet.
It was dark without. The gardens in their modern dress lacked the charm
of those of the palace Komatzu, yet Junzo trusted it would be different
when they should come to Sado-ko’s own private place. But here a
disagreeable surprise awaited him. The place was in a state of great
disorder, and the long reflection of the palace lights showed that the
gardens were being changed in form and style.
“Follow me with care,” said Fuji-no, “for as you see, the gardens of her
Highness are undergoing change. Those who work by day are not so careful
to render the place safe for evening loitering.”
They came now to a new wing of the palace, which, too, appeared to be in
process of alteration. The artist and the lady now paused to look about
them. They heard a sound of fluttering movement close at hand. Junzo
looked toward the balcony of the wing, from whence the odd movement
proceeded.
“It is the royal nightingale,” said Fuji, carelessly. “The foolish bird
is beating out its life.”
“The nightingale, my lady!”
“Yes. Have you never heard of the bird? It is the Princess Sado-ko’s, a
gift to her from his Majesty.”
“I have heard of it,” said Junzo, huskily.
Lady Fuji-no suppressed a yawn behind her fan, then turned impatiently
toward the balcony whence came the ceaseless sound of the bird’s
movement.
“It is ill?” asked Junzo, shivering at those dumb signals of distress.
“Why, no—yes—you might so call it.”
“How sad it must be for the princess,” he murmured. “She loved the bird
as though it were a human thing.”
The Lady Fuji curled her scornful lip.
“Talk not, artist, of love in the same breath with Sado-ko. If it is
love to cage a helpless thing—”
“Caged, you say! I do not understand. I was informed the cage was open
always, but that the bird clung to it in very gratitude for the royal
kindness shown.”
“So it seemed till lately,” said Fuji. “The princess, however, has been
given to the most inexplicable whims and caprices, one of which was to
close tight the door of her own nightingale, making it a prisoner. Since
then the foolish thing seems ill and languishing, and spends the night
in vain attempts to escape.”
Junzo glanced uneasily toward the balcony. A moonbeam shone upon the
gilded cage, depending from an eave by its long chain. The artist
shuddered and paced restlessly about the path. Suddenly he came back to
Fuji. His voice had a despairing note within it.
“Why did she do it, lady? Do you know the reason?” he asked.
“Do what, Sir Artist?”
“Cage up the bird, when it was hers already, captive to her will to come
or go.”
“A mere caprice, artist. One day she made a sudden exclamation of
delight as though she had but just perceived the nightingale for the
first time. ‘Oh, see the joyous, pretty bird!’ she said, ‘and hear it
sing!’ It was at this time upon a camphor tree close by, and singing, in
its own free way, a serenade no doubt to her. ‘Why,’ said the Countess
Matsuka, ‘’tis your own nightingale, your Highness.’ ‘Mine!’ said she,
and seemed to pause bewilderedly. Then suddenly she clapped her hands.
‘Oh, yes, for sure it is mine. Where is its cage?’ ‘Why, here,’ said
Countess Matsuka, who at this time alone attended her. The princess put
her hand upon the cage, then, leaning from her balcony, chirped and
whistled for the bird in such an odd and unfamiliar fashion that the
countess was amazed, and still more so seemed the bird, for, pausing in
its song, it cocked its head, fluttered its wings in sudden agitation,
and then it spread them wide and flew away. The princess was so
disappointed she wept in childish anger, though Countess Matsuka assured
her it would return at dark, and take its night perch in the cage. ‘And
will it stay?’ asked Sado-ko. ‘Why, princess, just as ever.’ Then she
said she would not trust the bird, and on that very night, waited in
person for its coming. With her own royal hands she trapped it in the
cage and closed the door, though it was said her maiden, Natsu-no,
implored her on her knees to spare it. Since then the maiden scarcely
speaks, and like the bird is said to droop.”
The artist smothered a deep groan.
“Do you not like the story?” asked the lady.
“I cannot believe it,” he replied.
“Then look upon the cage yourself.”
“It hurts my sight. I will not,” said the man, and then he added,
deeply, “It is an evil omen.”
“Heed it, artist!” said the Lady Fuji-no.
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