On an early morning in the month of August, two young people were
drifting in a light sail-boat in and out of the waters surrounding the
rock islands of Matsushima. They might have been new lovers, they were
so silent, and always they were gazing into each other’s faces, flushing
and trembling when their eyes met.
The boy, for he seemed still very young, was graceful, and of grave,
sombre beauty. He was tall and dark, and the expression of his
deep-brown eyes was tender and piercing. His limbs were well formed, and
his strong arms, as he handled the boat, showed that he was no mean
athlete. He was dressed in a gray hakama, the sleeves rolled back. His
head was bare, and the wind, lifting the soft, dark locks, showed his
high, fine brow.
The girl was small. Her hair, though brown, had a strangely sunny sheen
to it, and her eyes were gray-blue, dreamy, and wistful. Koma, as he
watched the changing expressions of her face, thought her fairer and
lovelier than all the women of the great world he had seen.
There was a little padded seat in the boat, and against this she leaned
back, trailing her hand in the still water, and watching now the sky,
now the bay, now the hills on either side, and sometimes Komazawa.
They drifted about the bay in this silent, thrilling fashion for some
time; then she suddenly spoke. Koma dropped the oar and sat forward.
“Do you know what the days seem like to me now?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his eyes wandering inconstantly over her face.
“They are like a lotus bloom,” she said, “always pink and gold, and so
beautiful that they are sure to fade.”
For a moment he did not reply, then, leaning on his oar, he said:
“And if the day must fade, will not the morrow be as beautiful?”
“Ah, no,” she said, sadly; “besides, we are not acquainted with the
morrow. We only know the to-day, and so the heart breaks at the thought
of parting from what is with us now.”
“You are sad to-day. Yesterday you were merry.”
“I was not merry at heart,” she said, plaintively. “You are very clever,
Koma, but, ah, you do not know everything.”
He watched her face in silence.
“You think because I laugh and say gay things that my heart, too, is
light.”
“No, I do not think that,” he said, earnestly; “but why should you not
be happy and gay? You are only a maiden. You cannot know tears
yet—little one.” He added the old, familiar term “little one” so softly
that she strained her ears to hear it.
She held a lotos blossom close to her face, and looked down into its
heart.
“See,” she said, holding it towards him, “there is one drop of dew in
the heart of the lotos. It is like a tear. It, too, poor flower, must
fade away with the summer.”
“Why do you say ‘it, too’?”
“Like me,” she said; “I will not be here when the summer has passed.”
Her voice broke. “You said I should not go. Yet—yet the days pass so
swiftly. Only one week more—and—after that—? Ah, I cannot bear to think
of it.”
“Do you, then, love this Japan of ours so dearly?”
She looked about her, her eyes filled with tears. She clasped her little
hands together.
“Ah, yes,” she said.
“And you would not even be content to go to the home of your ancestors
for—for a little while?”
“I am afraid,” she said, simply—“afraid to leave the land of gods and go
out into the unknown. It is the unknown that has such horror for me. And
the great seas are flat and bottomless. I could not have courage to
cross them unless I were forced to do so.”
“But you would not be afraid to cross them with me, would you, little
one?”
“No—not with you, Koma,” she said, looking into his eyes.
Leaning across, he took one of her little hands, held it a space between
both his own, then lifted it to his lips.
“Never was there such faith as yours, and in one—one who is not worthy
to touch you.”
“When you talk like that, Koma,” she said, with tears in her voice, “you
make me sadder still, because when I am gone from you I must recall
those words.”
“Then if such words make you sad, I will not speak them again. Nothing
but joy and sunshine should dwell in your face. So let us talk of
happier things. See how near to the shore we are coming. Shall we land?”
“No. Let us drift on.”
“Look how the sunbeams are gliding down the pine trunks. See how they,
too, have tinted the green leaves to gold.”
“There are no—no pine-trees in America. No more—And there are no
sunbeams there. The sensei told me so.”
“The sensei is ignorant. The sun is generous. He scatters his gifts all
over the world.”
“But he favors Nippon.”
“Yes,” he repeated, “he favors Nippon—all nature does so.”
“And that America is cold.”
“It has its summers, little one.”
“Look,” she said; “see, there is a little white fox on the hill there.
It is looking at us. Ah, it is gone!”
“That is a good omen, is it not?” said Koma, smiling.
“Oh, surely. The foxes are sacred. Every one believes so except the
mission-house people.”
“We do not belong to the mission-house. We will believe so.”
“How cheerful you are, Koma. You are not sorry to see me go?”
“You are not gone yet.”
“But there is only one week left,” she said, “and despair craves
company. Do you, therefore, give me your sympathy?”
“Wait till the week is gone,” he said, “and then if you still wish it,
none will be sadder with you than I.”
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