Once upon a time there were two Princesses of Japan who lived with their
father in a tall palace. It stood on the banks of a river, and they used
to watch from the walls to see the boats plying up and down, and the
great cranes standing in the shallows fishing.
They had never in their lives been outside the gardens, except when they
were carried in a litter covered with paintings and carvings, and shut
in by curtains. They peeped through the chinks as they went along, and
Princess Azalea, the elder, used to tell Princess Anemone long stories
which she invented about the passers-by. Once, indeed, when the servants
had put down the litter for a moment’s rest, Princess Anemone, who was
bolder than her sister, though not quite so good at making up stories,
had slipped quietly out and gone off for a little exploring expedition
of her own; while Princess Azalea sat terrified on the cushions, hiding
her face behind her little fan. It seemed an age to her till the truant
came back, breathless and rather pink in the face.
“Oh! Sister! Sister! What did you see?” she asked, “and how you have
torn your dress! What _will_ Utuka say?”
Utuka was their nurse; she had brought them up since Azalea was born,
sixteen years before.
Anemone looked down at her white silk dress, all covered with silver
flowers, and at the three-cornered slit which ran right across the
front. “Never mind,” she said, “I’ll sew it up before she sees it. I
know where she keeps her needles. Azalea, there was a man with a long
staff who scowled at me so. I ran back as hard as I could, but O sister!
look what I found! The world is a charming place, I know.”
And she held up a great cream and pink peony.
So the two stood, day after day, looking out over the palace wall, two
white and gold figures with their hair done up in little knobs on the
tops of their heads, and their fans fluttering like butterflies’ wings.
The sun poured down on them, and the blue sky stretched above, and the
great, unlimited world, which they knew nothing about, lay all round
them.
Now, the Princesses’ father was such a popular man that there was only
one person on that side of the world so much talked about, and that was
the Sorcerer Badoko. The Emperor thought very seldom of the Sorcerer,
because he had little time for thinking of anything but how to be kind
to his neighbours; but Badoko could hardly sleep in his bed at night for
thinking of the Emperor. He tossed about in his lonely cave, saying
under his breath that, come what might, he would make himself the more
celebrated of the two. He said it under his breath, so that his two
sons, who were lying close by, should not hear him. He did not like his
two sons very much.
He could not at all make out why the Princesses’ father was more admired
than himself, for even Sorcerers are stupid sometimes—generally because
they think themselves so clever. The real reason was because the old man
was so kind, but the Sorcerer did not know that. He was clever enough to
see that the Emperor was more thought of than himself, but he wasn’t
clever enough to know why. At last he made up his mind that it must be
because he was richer, and, having come to that conclusion, he
determined to steal away the two Princesses. Then he would go to the
palace and demand a great ransom—in fact, half the Emperor’s money—and
he felt sure that it would be paid.
The Emperor’s garden was full of beautiful trees. In one corner a
fountain played, and, near this, a flight of steps ran up to a
summer-house on the wall in which the Princesses sat nearly every day
and looked down on the world below.
As they were sitting there one afternoon they saw an old man passing by.
It was the same person who had scowled at Anemone when she ran away from
the litter, and she pointed him out to her sister. He glanced up at the
two girls. Under his arm he carried a kind of guitar; Azalea looked at
it with interest, for, besides making up stories, she could sing and
play very prettily to a little instrument she had, which was rather like
this one.
The Sorcerer—for it was he—made an extremely low bow.
“Shall I sing you a song, my ladies?” he asked.
Anemone felt bolder than ever, for was not the wall between them? “Yes,
please,” she said.
Then the Sorcerer began to sing; and his voice was like liquid gold. It
made one think of all the most beautiful things in the world: of the
dawn in the sky, of great birds with white wings, of rushing waters, of
prancing horses and waving plumes, of the deep velvet sky with its
armies of stars.
“Oh, how lovely! How wonderful!” cried the Princesses. “Oh, sir! where
did you learn those songs?”
[Illustration: The SORCERER AND THE PRINCESSES]
The Sorcerer smiled. “It is this little guitar,” he said, holding it up.
“It is bewitched. One has only to strike the strings and the song comes
out of it. Your ladyships think, no doubt, that it is I who sing, but I
have only to open my mouth and the guitar does all the rest.”
Now this was a lie, for the Sorcerer’s two sons made all the songs; they
were very clever young men.
“Sing one more; please sing one more!” cried the Princesses.
“Very well,” replied he, “one more, but that must be the last. Here is
one which I hope you will like. It is called ‘The Peach Trees in the
Valley.’”
“What a charming name,” said Anemone, who was fond of flowers.