CHAPTER XIX

WITHIN THE PALACE NIJO

THE palace Nijo, the resort of West-desiring nobility and court, was

possibly the oddest if most expensive residence in Tokyo. Originally it

had been a Yashiki of the Daimio of Mito. Time and the impulsive

treatment of the Imperialists had demolished portions of the place. With

each persistent rebuilding, strangely enough, the palace took on a more

modern, foreign aspect, until this time, when, in spite of its ancient

moat, quite dry and overgrown with trees, its lodges, and its few

melancholy turrets, it bore a strong resemblance to those houses built

upon the bluffs of Yokohama by the foreign residents.

The Nijo palace in itself was a monument to the country’s change. Bit by

bit its ancient Eastern aspect was disappearing, so that now, except for

the rambling character of portions of its yashiki-like walls, and its

enormous size, it was as Western in outward looks as the Japanese modern

himself appeared when clad in Western dress.

Even its grounds were typical of the new era, for close-clipped lawns

replaced the gardens, groves, shrines, fish-ponds, hillocks, and

artificial landscapes, once the rule within the walls of this yashiki.

No longer at the palace gates the lordly, haughty man of swords scowled

upon the passer-by. The days of the samurai and ancient chivalry were

dead,—since but a score of years. So rapid was the sweeping “progress”

of the new Japan! Now stiff guards, in heavy foreign uniform, patrolled

the grounds; while within the house itself the very servants wore the

buttoned livery of the West. Fashion shook her foolish hand over the

city of Tokyo, and her subjects, adoring and submissive as ever, named

her guilelessly, “Progression.”

Within the palace Nijo all wore the garb of Europe,—the thick, sticking,

heavy cloth of man, and the tight, suffocating dress of woman. The

gentleman of fashion and means, at this time, possessed two residences,

a town and country place,—sometimes several of the latter.

In Tokyo foreign life and foreign dress ruled supreme at court, save,

possibly, within the secret privacy of chambers, when heated men and

panting women flung aside their Western garb, and, sighing breaths of

eased relief, slipped on the soft and cool hakama or kimono.

Junzo, the artist of Kamakura, had no difficulty in gaining ingress to

the palace, for the guards, some of them late from Komatzu, recognized

him, and thought him possibly still a member of the household. It was

late afternoon when he walked with down-bent head along the broad and

gravelled pathway which led to the green lawn of the palace Nijo.

It was two months since Junzo had left his home in Kamakura, and,

following the cortège of Princess Sado-ko, had come to Tokyo. There,

during this time, he had wandered aimlessly about the city, trying to

conquer the mad longing within him to see once again this princess. But

his passion was stronger than himself, and now it had mastered him.

A servant, clad in modern livery, smiled behind his hand as the artist

slipped his shoes off at the door; but Junzo, usually so quick to take

offence at insolence, did not notice this new disdain of an old and

honorable habit. He handed a letter and his card to the attendant, who,

becoming more respectful, bowed his head to the level of Junzo’s knees

and ushered him with ceremony into a reception room.

The artist did not see the odd furnishing of the room, the plush

upholstered chairs, the cabinets, the pictures in heavy gilt frames

nailed to the light frame of shoji walls. His head bowed, his hands

clasped behind him, Junzo walked up and down the apartment, while

through his soul coursed the longing of his letter.

“Sado-ko! I will not call you princess, for this you have commanded me I

must not do. I will call you Sado-ko—sweet Sado-ko! I come a mendicant

to your august father’s house, hungering for the sight of your dear

face. I famish for the touch of your beloved hands, and cannot live for

longing for your voice. And so, in beggar-wise, I come, beseeching you

to see me for the space of one short hour again, to speak to me, to let

me touch the hem of your kimono. Or if I ask too much, my Sado-ko, then

let me once but look upon your face again, even though I may not speak

to you, nor hear your voice. That night when, in the bamboo grove, we

kept the tryst, I watched you pass from out my life with one whose name

I cannot even write. The blackness of my fate closed down upon me then,

blinding me to all light of earth or sky. For days, for nights, I

wandered about the streets of Tokyo. I could not eat, nor sleep, nor

think. I barely lived. My brain was scorched with but one name—my

Sado-ko, my lotos maiden, my goddess of the sun! My father sent to seek

me in the capital. But I was waiting there for you. Then rumor somehow

pierced the gloom of my dark mind. It was said that you had gone to

Kamakura, and would not come to Tokyo. It was my own dear home as well,

and there I hastened, Sado-ko. They thought—my parents—that I came home

at their solicitation. But no! I wandered by your palace walls. My

fevered mind dreamed only of the time when chance might give me passing

sight of you. Then one black night I heard you journeying from out the

gate. I touched your norimono, and in the night I cried your name aloud;

but, oh, alas! though I would have heard a whisper from your lips, you

did not answer me—you made no sign, O Princess! Since then, in

bitterness of spirit, I have lingered here in Tokyo, sometimes with

harsh thoughts upon our love, but longing all the time for sight of

you—for one small glimpse! ‘As beat the restless waves on Biwa’s

strand,’ so does my heart break for Sado-ko!”

A maid of honor, holding her long silken train across her arm, came down

the wide stairway (a modern importation) of the Nijo palace, trailed her

noisy skirt of taffeta across the hall, and paused within the doorway of

the reception room.

She stood a moment without speaking, staring with baleful eyes at the

bent head of the artist. Then she spoke softly, and with clearness.

“Good day, Sir Artist. It is an unexpected pleasure to see once more

your august countenance.”

Junzo turned his melancholy eyes upon her mocking face. Painfully he

bowed, feeling in small mood to perform the courtesies of life.

“You are in excellent health, I trust?” she asked.

He bowed in answer. She smiled, and went a step nearer to him.

“I also hope you are still painting pictures just so fine as—”

She laughed derisively, and slowly, languidly unfurled her fan, a

monstrous pinky thing of ostrich feathers.

A slow, dull flush grew upward in the face of Junzo. He did not deign to

answer the taunting of the Lady Fuji-no.

“How is it, may I ask,” she continued, “that you so cruelly deserted us

upon our journey to the capital? It was declared about the court that

you had been engaged by Prince Komatzu to execute a speaking

likeness—such as was the one of Princess Sado-ko—of all the ladies of

our court.”

“Lady,” said Junzo, with a certain scorn within his voice, which caused

his tormentor to blush with angry shame, “I am not here to visit you.

You do me honor in your unsought speech with me. Yet, I pray you, do not

waste your wise and witty words upon a simple artist.”

“Your words are rough, Sir Artist,” she replied, her small eyes

flashing, “yet though you state you did not come to visit me, you are

perhaps mistaken. I am a maid of honor to her Highness Princess Sado-ko,

and in my keeping she has condescended to intrust an answer to your

letter.”

He stared at her in shocked amazement.

“Through _you_!” he cried. “The Princess Sado-ko sent word by you?”

“Just so,” she answered haughtily; “and so I trust you will guard your

tongue in your words to one who is the august messenger of Princess

Sado-ko.”

“Give me her letter then,” the artist said in a husky voice.

She laughed lightly.

“It is within my head, not hands, Sir Artist. The princess bade me state

that she will condescend to grant your wish this evening. There will be

a special ball within the palace, for his Majesty has sent his son, the

young Crown Prince, but lately come of age, as guest to Nijo. The

Princess Sado-ko bade me state you are invited.”

She paused, watching with narrowed eyes the paling face of Junzo.

“For my part,” she said, “I do not know the tenor of your letter, nor

the request you dared to make of her Highness; but this I know, Sir

Artist: to-night, if you accept this invitation, though you look at her

with the keen eyes of love, you scarce will recognize your Princess

Sado-ko.”

“She is so changed?”

“So changed? Well, no and yes. Changed not in looks, artist, for beauty

such as hers fades only with old age, but changed in ways, in action,

speech, in very thought. You sighed, Sir Artist.”

“You have keen ears,” he said bitterly.

“Perhaps,” she said, “your sighs will be much louder, artist, after you

have seen her Highness. You will note the folly of illusions. You will

not trace the change in Sado-ko to yourself, but to a master hand more

royal.”

“Lady, your words are veiled. I do not understand them.”

“You will to-night. Had I more pity in my nature than the gods have

given me, I could almost counsel just now: Stay in that dull world to

which you rightfully belong and trust not all the words of Sado-ko. Nay,

do not scowl. Your ancestors, I learn, were samurai. To-day you are a

citizen—an artist-man. I am a lady of the court, cynical and little apt

to trust my kind. Yet, artist, I think you will recall the words of Fuji

when you are able to see with your own eyes the actions of her Highness

with her new lover, the noble Prince Komatzu.”

He spoke with sneering, cutting scorn:—

“Lady, your ambition ever trips before you. It is said you would gladly

bring about the marriage of some noble persons for your own small ends.

That union, I doubt not, will soon be consummated.” He paled perceptibly

even while he spoke the words, but continued with defiant bravery: “Yet

do not waste your efforts in defaming to a poor artist one he trusts

completely.”

She brought her beaded slipper sharply down upon the floor.

“You speak the truth, Sir Artist. I would encompass such a union, and

the gods favor my ambition. The Princess Sado-ko is kind to her

affianced lord.”

“They are not publicly betrothed,” he said gloomily.

“Not yet, but the very coming of the Crown Prince indicates that the

time is near. I will confess another weakness, artist. I do dislike your

presence, and I fear it. If eyes and even ears are not deceived, the

Princess Sado-ko loves her cousin Prince Komatzu.”

He made a gesture of denial, but she continued steadily:—

“Yet by your coming I fear that older, wilder claims may reawake within

the heart of the capricious princess.”

“Her heart is steady as the sun,” he said. “She is all nobleness and

truth.”

“You doubt that she has wavered toward her cousin?”

“I do not even think of it.”

“So! You think the sex so true. Well, trust your eyes to-night, Sir

Junzo!”

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