AFTER EIGHT YEARS.
It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and, perhaps, pain that
Takashima Orito saw his home once more. The place had scarcely changed
since he had left it eight years before. It seemed to him but a day
since he and Numè had played on the shores of the Hayama, and had
gathered the pebbles and shells on the beach. He remembered how Numè
would follow him round wherever he went, how implicitly she believed in
him. Surely, if he lived to be a hundred years old never would such
confidence be placed in him again--the sweet, unquestioning confidence
of a little child. After dinner Orito left his father and Omi to go
outside the house and once more take a look at the old familiar scenes
of his boyhood; once more to see Fuji-Yama, the wonderful mountain that
he had known from his boyhood, and of which he had never tired. There it
stood in its matchless lonely peace and splendor, its lofty peaks
meeting the rosy beams of the vivid sky, snow-clad and majestic. Ah! the
same weird influence, the same inexplicable feeling it had always
produced in him had come back now, and filled his soul with an ardent,
yearning adoration. Every nerve in the young man bespoke a passionate
artistic temperament. Many a time when in America, wearied with
studying a strange people, strange customs, and a strange God, his mind
had reverted to Fuji-Yama--Fuji-Yama, the mount of peace, and in his
heart would rise an uncontrollable longing to see it once more, for it
is said that no one who is born within sight of Fuji-Yama ever forgets
it. Though he might roam all the world over, his footsteps inevitably
turn back to this spot. Standing majestically in the central part of the
main island, snow-clad and solitary, surrounded by five lakes, it rises
to the sublime altitude of 12,490 feet. It is said that its influence is
almost weird--that those who gaze on it once must always remember it.
They are struck not so much by its grandeur as by its wonderful
simplicity and symmetry. It is suggestive of all the gentler qualities;
it is symbolic of love, peace, and restfulness.
Orito remained outside the house for some time, his face turned in mute
adoration to the peerless mountain, no sound escaping his lips. When his
father joined him he said, with a sigh: "Father, how came I ever to
leave my home?"
The old man beamed on him, and leaned against his shoulder.
"Ah, my son, it pleases me much that you have found no spot more
beautiful than your home. Most long have the days been without you. Tell
me somewhat of your life in America."
"My father," the young man answered, "the world outside my home is
turbulent and full of a restlessness that consumes the vitality of man
and robs him of all peace." He pointed towards the mountain: "Here is
rest, peace--Nirvana, rest from the pulse of the wild world."
The old man looked uneasy. "But, my son, surely you do not regret your
travel?"
"No, father," said Orito. "Life is too short for regrets. It is folly to
regret anything. Here in this land, where all is so beautiful, we
sleep--perhaps a delicious, desirable sleep; but though there be beauty
all about us, all that the heart could desire, the foolish heart of man
still is not content. We cannot understand this restlessness that makes
us want to leave the better things of life and go out into the world of
sorrow, to leave beauty and rest behind us, and exchange it for a life
of excitement, of shams and unrealities."
Old Sachi looked frightened at his son's words. He did not quite
comprehend them, however. The son seemed to perceive this, and changed
the subject quickly.
"Where is Numè, my father? I have not yet seen her. She must surely be a
young lady now."
Once more the old man's face lighted up with pride and interest.
"I thought you would be tired after your long voyage, and would not care
so much to see any one but your father. Therefore, when she desired to
visit her American friends her father permitted her to do so." He smiled
at his son. "You will see her to-morrow. She is now a young maiden, and
you will not know her at first."
"No--perhaps not," the young man said, sadly. "I can think of her only
as the little wild plum blossom of ten years. I shall not care for her
as well now that she is a--perhaps--polite maiden of eighteen."
"You should rather like her better, now that she is a beautiful maiden
instead of a mere baby, for it is the nature of man to prefer the woman
to the child."
"Yes, I understand, father, but it is so many years since I have seen a
Japanese girl, and I have grown more used to the American woman."
A shrewd look crept into the old man's face.
"Omi and I thought of that long ago, and for that reason we encouraged
her to be with the Americans greatly, so that she has learned to speak
their tongue, and often becomes almost as one of them."
"But, father, I would not wish her to be an American lady. She could not
be--you cannot make a Japanese girl into an American girl. She would be
more charming solely as a Japanese maid."