WHAT OKIMI LEARNED
Slowly the picture faded, and somewhere near me I heard the priestess
of Lal sobbing.
"You saw it, too?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "I saw it too. And oh! I'm sorry for her, but it
was better that than nothing. Far better that than nothing! There's
nothing else in life like love--"
Suddenly, in the solemn hush of that dim, lamp-lighted room, I heard
a chuckle of cynical amusement. The priestess of Lal heard it, too,
and faced me with beautiful, blazing eyes, and flaming cheeks still
damp with tears.
"Did you dare to laugh at me!" she cried. "I could kill you. Did
you _dare_?"
"No," I said. "I believe, as you do, that love--"
Again that rustle of malicious laughter crept across the
incense-laden air. In the eyes of the woman a sudden terror showed,
and she shrank close to me.
"Who is it laughs?" she whispered. "This is not the first time I've
heard it, when I spoke and thought of love. It--frightens me. But,"
she cried with sudden energy, "I _will_ believe that love is
everything. If it is not, what becomes of us poor women? Are our
lives all wasted on a dream?"
"I do not know what it is that laughs," I said. "Some evil influence
seems to dog my path, that turns all the smiling face of the earth to
dust and ashes. But do not doubt, and I will not. True love is the
one eternal thing in our mortal lives. It is greater than we are
ourselves, and it is never wasted--"
Suddenly the flames, in their silver sockets, sucked upward once and
then were gone, and we were left in inky darkness, the priestess of
Lal and I, cowering close together like two frightened children,
while ghostly garments rustled all about us, and ghostly voices
whispered, and we saw what Okimi learned.
The girl Okimi is the daughter of parents who are poor and so honest
that they sold their daughter for money to pay their debts, just as
soon as it was possible. The girl went down to the ship and away
across the radiant Inland Sea without shame, and without a murmur at
her fate, for such things happen so often that the gods have no time
to listen to complaints.
That is how she came to be living in a strange land, in a gilded
house in a garden where big paper lanterns glow in the shrubbery
every night. Okimi soon discovered the garden, and learned to be
fairly happy there in her placid, childish way, tickling the
gold-fish in the fountain basin with long blades of grass, and
laughing to see them dart away, playing with the monkeys, and
crooning little flower-songs to the big, unfriendly ylang-ylang.
It was all very well while the day lasted. But when the evening
shadows began to gather in the corners, Mama San would call from the
balcony, "Now, girls!" Okimi tried to be very obedient, and when Mama
San called she would rush away as fast as she could, with her funny
little toed-in steps, to dab on the rouge and put on the silken
kimono and smile bravely over the samisen. Mama San said men like a
girl who smiles and sings and is gay, and even Okimi was wise enough
to know that the more men liked her, the sooner she would be free and
back in sight of dear old Fuji. That's what she always called him,
"dear old Fuji," a rather familiar name to give to a sacred mountain,
but then Okimi was a little girl, and big Fujiyama had never seemed
to mind.
Okimi never knew just how it came about that the girls, Haristo and
Ghana and the rest, began to laugh at her and to say things in the
English she found it so hard to understand. She just managed to make
out these words: "Okimi San got sooeetart! Okimi San got sooeetart!"
She ran to find her oracle, Mama San.
"What is this 'sooeetart'?" she demanded.
"It is a foreign custom," said Mama San. "These white men, they
become as mad. It is one girl always, and if she speaks with another
they are very 'jalous' and wish to fight."
"Oh, I know!" cried Okimi. "It is like their honorable marriage."
"It is not like the marriage of Nippon. They have somewhat that they
call 'love.' They say always, 'I love yeeoo, sooeetart.' I have
heard them. When I was young like you, I had many sooeetart," said
Mama San, puffing complacently at her cigarette.
"And what is this thing 'love'?" Okimi persisted.
"Pshaw, child, how should I know? It is some madness inside one; we
have it not in Japan. Run and play with the monkeys."
So Okimi went and played with the monkeys, and asked them what love
is. She was a curious little thing. But they only grinned horribly
at her and chattered, and the goldfish did not seem to know, and the
ylang-ylang blossoms were silent about it, though she sang them her
very prettiest song.
"Foolish flowers," she cried, "you do not know our tongue," and she
flung them in the fountain basin and set the bright fish scurrying.
And still the girls, the tired-looking, laughing little girls, would
cry, "Okimi San got sooeetart! Okimi San got sooeetart!" And still
Okimi San went on asking the trees and the flowers and the birds,
"What is sooeetart? What is this 'love'?" And they never could
understand and answer.
Even Buddh would not tell her, even black, ugly, good little Buddh,
who sat cross-legged above the pyramid of dough-cakes on the dresser
and protected Okimi. Buddh would not tell her, though she asked him
time and time again, with her head on the floor at his feet, as
humbly as could be.
So one night when the man they called Sweetheart came, Okimi asked
him. He looked blank at first, and she was afraid he was not going
to tell her. Then suddenly he gathered her up in his arms, and
kissed her on her laughing eyes and pouting lips and little, dimpled
chin. "That is love," said he.
Now Okimi had long been practising that honorably foolish and
disgusting foreign habit, the kiss. She tried hard, for Mama San,
the oracle, said men like girls who know how to kiss. Generally she
shut her eyes very tight and screwed up her lips and held her breath.
But this time, when Sooeetart said, "This is love," and his lips
touched hers, she seemed to have no breath at all, and her eyes
stayed open and looked right into his, and--Okimi wriggled out of
Sweetheart's arms and ran away as fast as she could with her funny
little toed-in steps.
And all the girls together couldn't pull her back. But next morning
she gave the juiciest orange to dear, ugly little Buddh who sat
cross-legged in the corner and protected her.
She called Sweetheart "Jiji" after that. Jiji means old man, but if
you know how to say it just right, it can mean dearest, littlest,
biggest, belovedest old man. Okimi said it that way.
Jiji made a most delightful playmate, after Okimi had learned not to
be afraid of him. He was so big; when he knelt on a cushion, one of
his feet went under the bed, and she had to move a chair to make room
for the other. And he was so strong, and insisted on carrying her
all about the house in a sort of triumphal procession, whereat the
monkeys and parrots chattered and shrieked in amazement, while Okimi
kicked him in the ribs and cried "Gid ap" in Japanese, and swore at
him innocently in Tagalo, the way she had heard the native coachman
talk to his horses. Such romps as they used to have.
But she liked the quiet hours best, when they were alone together,
and the samisen waked the echoes of a thousand sorrows. It was sweet
to hear the echoes of the sorrows, and then look into Jiji's eyes.
And then he had to see if anything had changed since his last visit,
and they would make an important tour of inspection, hand in hand.
There was the little pot of iris which she was trying so hard to make
live in this strange land. And the wrinkled old dwarf of a
pine-tree, not much taller than Jiji's longest finger. And there was
Buddh, who sat behind the little bowl of blazing oil and protected
Okimi. Often, after Jiji was asleep, she would creep out very softly
to kneel and say, "Dear Buddh, mighty Buddh, now we know what love
is. We thank thee for telling us." And ugly little Buddh, sitting
there cross-legged in the tiny, flickering spot of light, smiled back
at her most knowingly.
All the girls liked Jiji. He was always making them laugh, and
laughter is a pleasant thing. Somehow the food wouldn't stay on his
chop-sticks, and so one or two of them must come to his relief. They
would pick out the snowiest grains of rice for him, and the juiciest
bits of fish and seaweed, and the fattest of the little green plums.
Sometimes they would get to racing with each other, and pop things
into Jiji's mouth till he could only hold up his hands and shake his
head in mournful protest. Then, when he got his breath, he was as
likely to say "_Doyo mashi tashi_" as anything.
Jiji was very proud of his accomplishment in the language. He had
one phrase which he used as often as he could. It was "_Sayonara de
gans_," and it always made the girls laugh very heartily, for they
didn't know what "_de gans_" meant. Jiji didn't know either, so when
they laughed he thought he had made a joke in an unfamiliar tongue,
and he laughed, too. Then they would all laugh, and Jiji would go
swinging down to his carriage with his big strides, and the girls
would all crowd to the window and call after him, as he drove away,
"_Sayonara_! Goo' bye, Jiji San. _Sayonara de gons_!"
Okimi didn't run to the window with the rest, but hid in her room,
those days, and was very busy. A festival of her people was
approaching, and she had determined to make for Jiji the very
beautifullest kimono that ever was known. From Kobe came a bolt of
silk, the wonderful crepe which makes you catch your breath when the
man unrolls it. Blue, it was, and softly blended from the deep,
quiet shadow of the Inland Sea to the tint that trembles in the
throat of an unfolding iris, and the artist-weaver had even caught
the hint of color which rests on Fujiyama when the springtime days
are near. And over all he had scattered handful after lavish handful
of snowy cherry-blossoms.
Okimi hung over it for many days, not daring to cut a thing so
precious. And she called in her dearest friend, sweet-faced little
Misao San, and they held it up to the light and draped it about them,
and fondled it, and feasted their starved little souls on it.
When at last it was cut, Okimi would sit on the floor to sew while
Misao sang to her. One day Misao happened to remember an old, old
song. It goes something like this:
White is all the cherry-garden
In the moonlight there below;
Poor lost petals fluttering downward
Cold, like snow.
I am lost as are the blossoms--
My heart is full of lonely pain--
Come for me, dear lord my master
E'er the cherries bloom again.
Misao sang, and Okimi, listening, gazed at something very far away.
And she gathered up the pictured blossoms, and pressed them very
softly. Misao, looking as fluffy and gentle and bewildered as a
kitten, let the samisen fall with a crash, and Okimi came back to her.
"Okimi, dear," said Misao timidly, "do you know what love is?"
"Love?" echoed Okimi. "Why, love is--" She went over to the window.
"Look, Misao San, the iris will surely blossom soon. Here is a bud.
Love is--and see, the so-strong little pine-tree has sent out
three--four--six sharp new needles!" She patted him gently.
"Love--why, love is everything."
"Can you see it?" asked dreamy, practical little Misao.
Okimi looked at the swelling iris, and the pure, delicate
cherry-blossoms on the silk, and Buddh, sitting cross-legged above
his dough-cakes.
"Yes," said Okimi, "you can see it everywhere."
"Can you feel it?"
The breeze came creeping in, sweet with the scents of the green
world, and stirred Okimi's sleeve.
"Yes," she answered, "everywhere you feel it."
"And hear it?" asked Misao, wondering.
A cock crowed bravely in the yard, and there came a burst of distant,
childish laughter.
"And hear it everywhere," said Okimi, and she began to hum: "White is
all the cherry-garden."
"This love must be a strange thing," said Misao sleepily, curling up
on the cushions. "I do not understand it. Why cannot I see it, and
hear it, and feel it, if it is everywhere?"
So Okimi hid in her room and sewed away, day after day, till she
sewed a hole into the end of her little pink finger. Jiji San
discovered it and demanded an explanation.
"It is nothing," Okimi answered. "I am just making a worthless gift
for thee. Soon it will be the New Year's of Nippon, and it is a
custom to bring gifts."
"What gift shall I bring for thee?" Jiji asked.
Okimi made a wrinkle come in her forehead before she could answer
that question. "I think," she said at last, "I think I should like a
monkey."
"But there are many monkeys already," Jiji objected.
"Chungo pinches me, and Bungsaksan is very dirty," Okimi answered
gravely. "I want a monkey all my own. Just a very little monkey,
little as that--" She held out her absurd little hand, no bigger
than a baby's. "I could talk to him when you are not here."
"Child," Jiji promised laughingly, "you shall have a monkey little
enough to go climbing about our pine-tree."
When New Year's came, Okimi was busy as could be. There was the
"Christmas-tree" to make, a bare branch hung from the ceiling. It
took a long time to tie the fluttering strips of red and gilded paper
on all the twigs, and fasten the tiny white storks in their places.
Then there were new dough-cakes to be made for Buddh, and his bowl to
be filled with special, perfumed oil. And she must hunt for the very
sweetest spray of ylang-ylang, and go to buy an orange. He fared
very well that day, the good little Buddh who sat cross-legged in the
corner and smiled back at Okimi.
When all that was finished, and Misao San had done her hair and she
had dressed in her gayest and laid out the new kimono, done at last,
for Jiji, it was dusk and she had not long to wait, there in the
happy, expectant silence.
"Here is thy monkey," Jiji said. His voice was strained, but Okimi
did not notice it. She was busy with the frightened, clinging, furry
thing.
"I cannot thank thee," she said. "Here is an insignificant gift I
have made for thee. Put it on."
Jiji fingered the soft folds of the kimono nervously. "Not now," he
said. "I have to go now."
"What, on our night?" cried Okimi. "It is well," she added bravely.
"Thou wilt return after a little--be still, little brown one, I will
not hurt thee--and we will eat then. Mama San gave me a beautiful
chicken for us. She is very good to me."
Jiji grew still more nervous. "Okimi ca," he said at last, "I--well,
the Regiment sails to-morrow."
"Sails?" Okimi repeated dully, sliding to the floor.
"To America," Jiji explained. "The Regiment is ordered home, and I
must go with it. I am a soldier."
"Oh," said Okimi. Her face, as she huddled there on the floor, was
hidden under the gay pink lining of her sleeve. "America? Is it--is
it far to America?"
"Very far," he answered.
"Oh," said Okimi. The monkey tugged at her sleeve, and she raised
her head a little. "It does not matter," she said sturdily. "Very
soon now I shall have bought myself from Mama San. I shall be free,
and I will come to thee. I will go anywhere for thee, so it does not
matter--much. Put on thy kimono."
Jiji's nails were cutting into his palms and he did not know it.
"Thou canst not come, Okimi. In America I--I--" there are some
things it's hard to say, even to a broken plaything. "I am married
in America."
"Oh," said Okimi. She gave the monkey a little push and he went
scuttling under the bed, with shrill cries of alarm. "But, oh, my
beloved, let me come to thee! I will be her servant. Let me but
come. She will not care. In Nippon are many who live so."
"In America," said Jiji, "they do not understand. You cannot come,
Okimi. It would ruin me."
Then Okimi did what all her sisters of the East, and some not of the
East, have learned to do. She bowed her head and said very quietly:
"Thou knowest what is best for thee. It shall be so."
The little monkey, in the silence, poked out his head and looked up
at big Jiji with a quick, silent grin, as a frightened monkey will.
And Jiji, looking down at the gay rumpled figure at his feet, said
something that sounded like "Godamit." Then he cleared his throat
very harshly. "_Sayonara, Okimi ca_," he muttered. "_Sayonara de
gans_," and he laughed unsteadily as he went out.
"_Sayonara_, Jiji San," said Okimi.
For a long time she lay quite still. So long that the frightened,
curious monkey crept out to look about him. He stretched out his
claw-like hand and plucked inquiringly at the gay bundle on the
floor. Okimi did not stir, and he drew back his lips in a nervous
grin. He made a little rush and grinned back inquiringly at the
bundle, another and another, and took heart. The flame attracted
him, and he scrambled to the dresser and stood face to face with
Buddh. He jumped back with his grin of frightened surprise, but
Buddh did not even deign to look at him. After a moment he sidled
closer, glancing with quick hard eyes now at the bundle, now at the
god. At last he stretched out his tiny brown hand and touched
Buddh's knee. He dipped a wee finger in Buddh's perfumed oil, and
tasted it. Then he dipped in both hands and splattered, as you have
seen a baby in its bath, and grinned up maliciously, ready to run.
But Buddh gazed straight ahead, unmoved, and the monkey, bold at
last, gave the orange a most tremendous little shove. It tottered,
and bumped down to the floor, and went rolling under the bed, and the
monkey followed it with shrill little cries of triumph.
The noise startled Okimi and she raised her head. Then she went
blindly over to Buddh, ugly, wrinkled, good little Buddh, who sat
cross-legged and protected her. She patted the ridiculous little
dough-cakes with lingering, caressing hands, and stirred the spray of
flowers so that they gave out their sweetest odor. She bent very low
before the god.
"Mighty Buddh," she pleaded, "he is my sooeetart. I am just a little
girl, and I love him. Please give him back to me, dear Buddh."
She looked up at him timidly, seeking assurance, but he did not smile
back at her. She was going to say more, trying to make Buddh
understand how extremely important it was, but just then Mama San
knocked at the door and told her she must come down-stairs.
So Okimi dabbed on the rouge, and smoothed out her gay silken kimono,
and took her samisen, and hurried down as fast as she could with her
funny little toed-in steps.