Next to the zashiki, or guest-room, around by the corner of the big
plum-tree on which, now, great snowy pearls of buds opened with every
hour, was the master's benkyo-beya, or study, where sets of Chinese and
Japanese classics, often running into a hundred volumes, had snug place
in fragrant cabinets of unvarnished cypress wood.
Contiguous to this, along the western side, and bounded ten feet farther
by the fusuma of her parents' chamber, Yuki's little sleeping-room was
tucked away. The stately garden, curving around by the plum-tree, spread
here wider paths and less pretentious hillocks. Just in front of Yuki's
shoji and the narrow veranda which ran unchecked along the south and
west of the house, two sedate gray stones led into a gravelled space.
Here were flower-beds somewhat in foreign fashion, but without bordering
plants or bricks. Many of the small bushes were resultant from
seed-packets mailed by Yuki in Washington. Imported pansies, alyssum,
geraniums, marigolds, and ragged-robins grew here in springtime in
friendly proximity to indigenous asters, columbine, pinks, and small
ground-orchids. These flower spaces were now vacant but for tiny
springing communities of chrysanthemum shoots, bare stems of peony with
swollen red buds at the tip, and a few indispensable small pines. Beyond
it all was the tall hedge of sa-sa shutting out the street, and its ugly
inner rind of thorn.
The eastern side of the house contained, so to speak, its executive
offices, dining-room, servants' quarters, pantry, kitchen, and
well-shed. Along this portion (except by the kitchen, which stepped down
unaided to a bare earth floor) strips of narrow veranda and convenient
stepping-stones led into a vegetable garden, small wood-yard, and
strawberry patch. The longest bit of veranda had the dignity of a
rail,--a mere upright strip of board, edged heavily on top with bamboo,
and pierced with openings cut into the shapes of swallows.
[Illustration: TETSUJO'S HOUSE AND GARDEN]
It was here, the morning after Yuki's arrival, that the women of the
household were to be found. Suzumé chattered incessantly as she washed
the breakfast-dishes and passed inward to arrange them on the pantry
shelves. Little Maru San, a few feet away, out in the sunshine of the
garden, scrubbed at pieces of a ripped-up kimono in a tub that stood
high on its own three legs. Afterward she rinsed the bits and spread
them smoothly to dry on a board. The tailless white cat, disdainfully
satiate after a meal of tea, rice, and fish-bones, curled itself up in a
fork of the bare persimmon-tree to sleep. Maru's favorite bantam cock,
followed at a respectful distance by two wives and an unidentified black
chick, sauntered along the kitchen drain, his yellow eye slanted for a
swimming flake of white. The clear, windless air had a smell of
new-washed leaves and of foreign violets. Yuki's heart stirred with the
deep homeliness of it all. Iriya, noting her expression, asked brightly,
"Is my dear one just a little happy to be at home?"
"No, mother, not a little happy, but very, very happy. It has been a
long time."
Iriya was hanging out a bed-quilt of plaid silk, the squares three feet
across and of superb coloring. "Yes," she repeated, "it has been a long
time."
"Why did you let me go at all?" cried Yuki, passionately. "I was your
only one. You must have missed me sorely. Sometimes I feel that I never
should have gone."
"Hush, my jewel." Iriya gave an apprehensive glance toward the other
side of the house. "Say not such words where the kind father may hear.
He was so proud of you. It was his dearest wish, and Lord Hagané, our
daimyo, advised it also. You see, we had no son, and Tetsujo was not
willing to give me up that another wife might bring this hope to pass.
He has been a good master to me, has Onda Tetsujo."
A glow of loving pride softened the regret that this thought of the son,
that had not been given, always brought to her.
Suzumé looked up from her dish-tub, wrinkling with shrewd smiles. "You
have no son--but what of it? Some day you will have a grand son-in-law,
a young prince, maybe. Yuki-ko will make a marriage to bring glory to us
all."
Yuki drooped her head. "I don't want to think of marriage yet. I just
want to stay here in this precious home and try to win back some of
those four long years which I have lost."
"But you are nineteen, Miss Yuki,--nearer twenty, in fact. A terrible
age for a young lady of rank to be caught single."
"I wish it could be as you wish, my Yuki," sighed Iriya. "But, as Suzumé
says, you are nearing twenty. I pray the gods that my son-in-law may not
be of too exalted station to receive adoption into this family, instead
of your being absorbed into his. That would be the greatest joy life
holds for me. But, alas! I am a selfish, talkative old woman to let such
thoughts escape. I should wish your marriage to be only that which may
possibly serve your country and repay your father for his sacrifices."
Yuki lifted a small queer look. "In America, where my father sent me, I
was taught, in the matter of marriage, to do some of the thinking
myself."
Iriya caught her breath. Suzumé stopped washing to stare. Maru, looking
up with her round mouth formed for a "Ma-a-a!" jostled the tub in her
excitement. It went over with a "swash." The soapy water, with drifting
islands of blue cloth, flowed out swiftly, carrying the pompous bantam
and his family on the unexpected tide. The cat opened one green eye,
then the other.
"Come, my child," said Iriya, quickly, to Yuki, "condescend to bear me
company to the guest-chamber. I have the flowers to arrange. Perhaps, in
America, you have learned some new and beautiful composition."
Yuki's queer look deepened into a naughty little laugh and shrug as she
turned to obey. She knew perfectly why her mother wished to get her from
the hearing of Suzumé and Maru. Tokio is not free from gossip, and,
though Suzumé was devoted to the family she served, she dearly loved the
start, the incredulity, the deepening interest of a listener's face.
To her mother's last suggestion Yuki replied, "I fear not, mother. The
only idea of arrangement they have in America is to get many different
flowers together, chop them to the same length of stem, and push them
down evenly into a shapeless vase with other flowers painted on the
sides."
"Ah," said Iriya, crestfallen and surprised, "we shall not then adopt
the foreign arrangement."
The mother and daughter clasped hands, swinging them as children do, and
moved along the narrow veranda. They were now skirting the closed shoji
of the dining-room. In turning the corner, the plum-tree came into full
sight. A hundred blossoms must have opened since the dawn. Yuki broke
from her mother with a cry, ran to the tree, and threw her arms about
the great trunk. "Oh, you are the most beautiful tree in the whole
world!" she said aloud, and looked with adoration up into its shining
branches.
As Iriya reached her, she lowered her gaze. "Do you remember, mother,
that morning four years ago, when I went away, how I clung to this tree
last of all, sobbing from my heart the poem that my father taught me?--
"Though bereft and poor,
I in exile wandering
Far on mount and moor,
Happy plum beside my door,
Oh, forget not thou the spring."
"I remember well," said Iriya, and drew her daughter's outstretched hand
to her cheek.
Something shone suddenly in Yuki's eyes. "And I wept so passionately
that father, half in tears himself, came and entreated me to cease. He
said that if I shed more tears upon it, his tree, like that of
Michizané, might rise through the air and follow me to exile."
"Yes," smiled Iriya; "often have I recalled it in the time of spring,
standing under this tree alone."
"It really did follow me after all, you know," the girl went on shyly.
"It came at night, in dreams, when you and father could not miss it. Did
it ever fail to return before the dawn?"
"No," returned Iriya, with deep gravity. "The dear tree loves us also.
Never once did it fail to return."
Tetsujo strode toward them from his study. "How can one ponder on the
classics, with pigeons cooing beneath his very eaves?"
Yuki clung to him. "You had the classics for four long years when I was
away."
"So had I water through those four long years, small pigeon,--yet while
I live must I thirst. The classics feed deep wells of the soul."
He put a strong, loving hand about her, and drew her near. It sprang
into Yuki's mind to speak now of her foreign friends, to ask permission
to visit them or, at least, to send them her Tokio address. Pierre's
beautiful face and blue eyes reproached her. But this moment was too
sweet for jeopardy. She pressed her cheek against the rough blue cotton
of her father's shoulder. Iriya, stealing nearer, put also a loving arm
about the girl. The sunshine made a halo for the three. The plum,
loosening its first petals, sent them down in fragrant benediction.
So her day passed, a wonderful day, steeped in love and childish
recollections. At night, the winds being chill, and the fear of robbers
inherent in the Japanese mind, all shoji, and after them the wooden
storm panels (amado), were tightly drawn. In the ashes of the great
brass hibachi balls of charcoal glowed like incandescent apples. A lamp
was suspended from the ceiling, swinging but a few feet above their
heads. Here the four women of the household grouped themselves. Tetsujo
had gone out for a call. The pieces of kimono, ripped and washed that
morning by Maru San, were now to be refashioned. Iriya, Suzumé, and Maru
drew forth little sewing-boxes and prepared for work. Yuki, half
sitting, half lying on the floor, fondled the tailless cat, and declared
boldly that she hated sewing and was not going to begin that part of a
Japanese woman's drudgery quite so early.
"All good wives love sewing, particularly on the master's nightclothes,"
said Suzumé, reprovingly, and peering over the rim of huge horn
spectacles toward the culprit.
"The o jo san will tell us something of foreign habits as we sew,"
suggested Iriya, the peacemaker.
"Yes--yes--I will be what is called over there the bureau of
information," laughed wilful Yuki. "Any questions from you, Mr. Cat?"
she cried, holding the drowsy animal high above her and smiling into its
blinking eyes.--"Do American cats like rice?" "No." "Queer cats, you
say,--and so they think of you." "Do they wear tails?" "Yes, long ones."
"What do they use them for?" "For getting pinched in doors." "No more
questions, Pussy San? Ah, you will never learn. Ruskin says that
curiosity forms tendrils of the mind."
"What I would like to feel sure of, honorable young lady, is this,"
began Suzumé, primly, with a disapproving glance toward the cat.
"We are ready, Madame Suzumé, speak on," said Yuki, cuddling pussy back
into her sleeve.
"Is it really true, as newspapers and pictures say, that women over
there, even women of decent character, go to evening entertainments with
no clothes above the waist, dance with red-faced men until they are on
the verge of apoplexy, and then have to be restored by much fanning and
a cold medicine called 'punch'?"
"Not altogether, good nurse," said Yuki, fighting hard to retain a
semblance of gravity. "They wear cloth and flowers, feathers and jewelry
above the waist, and arrange them with great beauty; but it is true that
they dance with men, and that their shoulders and arms are bare."
"That is a strange custom," mused Suzumé. "Even our Sacred Empress
condescends to go with bare arms. Why, I wonder, do they wish to expose
arms more than legs? There is more leg, and in a supple young girl it is
more shapely."
"That is too hard a thing for me," laughed Yuki. "Well, Maru, your eyes
are big and solemn like the Owl San in our pine. What is your question?"
Maru, after much giggling and blushing, confessed to a desire to know,
once for all, whether foreigners had toes like real people, or whether,
as she had been assured from childhood, they possessed but a single
horny hoof, which, from desire to hide the ugliness, they kept in
pointed leather cases known as shoes.
"That is false entirely. I have seen hundreds of barefoot children in
America, and they all had ten toes, even as we."
Maru seemed cast down. "Ma-a-a! what foolish tales are spread," she
murmured. "Doubtless the foreigners have similar strange beliefs of us."
"It is what the great creatures eat that turns me sick," cried old
Suzumé, and nearly perforated a finger in her vehemence. "Their soup is
like the contents of a slop-bucket, with warm grease swimming on the
top. The stuff would choke in a decent person's throat. And then the
great heaps of animal flesh,--and greasy vegetables, and implements like
gardener's tools to eat them with! And then--Kwannon preserve us--the
unspeakable nightmares that come even after the tasting of such food!"
"Arà!" cried the maid, roused to new excitement by this recital of
horror, "it is said that America is an honorably highly civilized
country, and Nippon merely a divine half-civilized country, but I thank
the gods who have given me to live in this half-civilized country."
* * * * *
At bedtime, Yuki, creeping between soft, fragrant futons, drew a deep
sigh of childish content. The andon in the corner, shedding its gentle,
paper-screened light, continued the impression of sunshine. The girl
smiled to find herself again counting the lapped cedar boards of the
ceiling, "Hitotsu--futatsu--mitsu--yotsu--" following them into
uncertain dimness at the far end of the chamber. As in childhood she
speculated upon the possibilities of that small black knot-hole left
vacant in the wood. How much smaller now it was than four years ago!
Still there was a chance, a pygmy probability, that a very small nedzumi
might creep through, and, falling to the floor, scamper over mats and
bedding, and--here came the shudder!--over the very face of a sleeper.
She drew the bedclothes up spasmodically, then smiled to think how
bright would be the eyes of the little mouse, twinkling in
semi-darkness. In a moment more, with the smile still on her lips, she
was asleep.
So a second day passed, and a third,--hushed, golden days, too precious
to be imperilled. With the fourth morning, Sunday, came a change. In the
night a storm had risen, sweeping down from Kamschatka along the Yezo
coast to the wide unsheltered plain of Yedo. Here it wallowed like a
great beast in a field, snorting with fury, crushing trees, fences, and
houses, and fighting back the black clouds that would have crowded in
upon it.
Through Yuki's troubled sleep came the sounds of vehicles rattling on
foreign streets, and the blurred chime of church-bells. Her first
conscious thought was, "It is Sunday. Gwendolen and I must be sure to go
to service."
The wooden amado of the house chattered with fright. The wind gave long,
derisive howls as it swept under the low-hanging roof, clutched and
shook the rafters, and then darted out to the heart of the storm once
more. Yuki realized slowly that she was not in America at all, that she
was at home, in Tokio. With a slower, heavier recognition came the
knowledge that her friend Gwendolen was here also, and if she were in
Washington could not seem more remote.
She heard old Suzumé and Maru straining to open the amado, then
Tetsujo's voice calling loudly from his chamber, "Keep them all shut on
the eastern side!"
"Oh, my dear plum-tree! It will be torn like mist," said the girl aloud.
She sat upright, patting instinctively the loops of her hair, dressed
now in Japanese fashion. The floating wick of her andon fell over the
edge of the saucer and went out, leaving the room in grayer darkness.
The foreign clock that hung in the kitchen rang out the hour of seven.
"What gloom! The storm must be terrible indeed!" A moment after the girl
said, with a shudder, "This is the day on which I am to speak of my
love. I hear his voice calling through the wind. I must wait no longer.
Yes, I will speak to-day."
At breakfast the small family of three was silent and preoccupied. The
one glimpse they had taken of the shivering, naked plum-tree would have
sufficiently accounted for the depression. Iriya and Yuki sat a little
behind the master, eating from their small rice-bowls, and attending in
turn upon his wants. As Suzumé crept in to remove the half-emptied
dishes, Yuki said to her father, "Father, a little later, when you have
smoked and read your paper, may I speak with you?"
"Why, certainly, my child," said Tetsujo, kindly, looking up from the
damp printed sheet he had already unfurled; "though I may have but few
thoughts apart from this terrible storm."
"It is a terrible storm," shuddered Iriya. "A great camphor-tree in the
Zen Temple garden has fallen. It was a goblin-tree, and the priests fear
evil."
"I spoke not of the storm in the material universe, but of that vast
political tempest brewing over us. Our minister leaves St. Petersburg
to-morrow. War has practically come."
No comment was made. The three tacitly avoided, each, the glance of the
other. Iriya rose quietly, then Yuki. In the door-frame the girl paused.
"I shall return in half an hour, father."