CHAPTER XII.

THE WESTERN ORCHARD.

When the Prince of Nagato woke next day he experienced a feeling of well-being and of joy to which he had long been a stranger. Yielding to the brief and idle revery which is like the dawn of wakening consciousness, his eye wandered over the dancing shadows of the leaves without, cast upon the closed blinds by the sun. Myriads of birds warbled and chattered, and one might almost think that the light itself sang in that medley of clear voices.

The Prince thought of the happy day which lay before him; it was an oasis in the dry and burning desert of his love. He repulsed the thought of speedy departure, with its train of attendant griefs, to give himself wholly up to the delights of the present; he was calm and happy.

The night before, his mind full of memories, his heart filled with emotion, he knew that sleep would hold persistently aloof. He therefore ordered a drink to be prepared which would prevent insomnia. A secret feeling of coquetry led him to avoid a feverish night. He was aware of his own beauty, having been told of it frequently; and the glance of every woman he met repeated the story daily. Had not his grace of person and of face, the charm which emanated from him, had their share in attracting the favorable notice of the Queen? They therefore deserved to be guarded from the inroads of fever and fatigue.

Calling his servants, the Prince demanded a mirror, and examined himself with eager haste.

But the first glance allayed his fears. His pallor had recovered the warm tints of which illness had robbed it; the blood returned to his lips; and yet his eyes still retained something of their feverish lustre. He paid an almost childish attention to the details of his dress, choosing the sweetest perfumes, the softest garments, of the faint but clear blue tint which he preferred.

When he left his pavilion at last, the guests were already assembled before the Kisaki's palace. His arrival caused a sensation. The men went into raptures over his toilette; the women dared not speak. But their silence was most flattering; it might be translated thus: He is worthy to be loved, even by a queen; for that perfectly beautiful body is the temple of the most refined spirit and the noblest heart in the kingdom.

The Princess Iza-Farou-No-Kami approached Nagato. "You have not asked me for news of Fatkoura, Prince," said she.

The Prince had never thought of Fatkoura, nor had he even noted her absence.

"She was ill yesterday," continued the Princess; "but the announcement of your arrival restored her to health. Depressed as she has been for some time, your return may perhaps console her. You will see her directly; she is with the Kisaki. She is on duty this week. Well! have you nothing to say?"

The Prince knew not what to say; in fact, Fatkoura's name roused both remorse and weariness in him. He reproached himself for inspiring this woman with love for him, or rather for appearing to respond to the love which he guessed she felt. He had used this false passion as a screen between the curious gaze and the sun of his real love. But he no longer had the strength to keep up his _rôle_ of fond lover; and instead of the pity and friendship which he strove to feel for his unfortunate victim, Fatkoura only inspired him with deep indifference.

The arrival of the Kisaki enabled him to dispense with any answer to Iza-Farou. The Queen advanced from the veranda, greeting her guests with a gracious smile as they bent one knee to the ground.

As they were to climb a mountain and pass over narrow paths, the Kisaki had donned a less ample robe than she usually wore. Her sea-green gown was of crape, wrinkled slightly, like the surface of a lake ruffled by the wind; a broad cloth of gold girdle bound her waist and formed a huge knot at the back. A branch of chrysanthemum in full bloom was embroidered upon one end of this sash. The Queen had in her hair large pins of light tortoise-shell elaborately wrought, and on her brow was a small round mirror surrounded by a row of pearls.

Soon a magnificent chariot, drawn by two black buffaloes, approached the palace. This chariot, surmounted by a roof and covered with gilding, looked like a summer-house. It was closed by blinds, which the Kisaki ordered to be raised.

The princesses and lords took their places in norimonos drawn by a large number of men in rich array, and they set joyously forth. The day was superb, a light breeze cooled the air, and they would not be troubled by the heat.

At first they passed through the gardens of the royal residence. The chariot thrust aside the straggling branches which grew across the paths, it frightened away the butterflies, and broke the flowers from their stems. Then they reached the wall that surrounds the summer-palace, and went through the lofty gateway crowned by the Mikado's bird, the Foo-Houan,--a mythological creature which took part in the creation of the world. They then followed the wall along its exterior; next they took a road bordered by tall trees and leading to the mountains. There the whole Court got down to continue the journey on foot. They formed into groups, servants opened parasols, and the ascent of the mountain was merrily begun. The Kisaki walked first. Alert and active as a young girl, she ran a few steps, gathered wild flowers from the bushes; then, when she had too large a collection, she threw them away. The merry company chatted and laughed; each one walked at his own pace. Here and there a lord took off the lacquered hat which looked like a circular shield and hung it at his belt; then he fixed his open fan in his hair twisted like a rope, so that it projected like a penthouse over his forehead.

At times an opening in the bushes revealed the city, which seemed to spread out as they rose higher and higher; but they did not stay to gaze, for their first stop was to be on the terrace before the temple of Kiomidz,--that is, the temple of pure water,--whence the view is very fine. This temple rests on one side upon immensely tall pillars of wood, reaching down to the very foot of the mountain; on the other it is supported by a rough hewn rock. It shelters beneath its broad roof, covered with blue porcelain tiles, a divinity with a thousand arms.

Upon the terrace, covered with large pebbles, which extends in front of the temple, camp-stools had been arranged, that the noble party might rest, and enjoy the beauty of the view at their ease.

They soon arrived and took their places.

Kioto lay before them, with its countless low but elegant houses, encircling the vast park of the Dairi,--a lake of verdure from which rose here and there, like an islet, a broad and magnificent roof. The eye could readily follow the clear line traced around the park by the walls.

To the south of the city a river, the Yedogava, glistened in the sun. The plain, rich and well cultivated, stretched beyond. Another watercourse, the Wild Goose River, flows through the heart of the town, near the fortress of Nisio-Nosiro, which rears its lofty ramparts and its square tower, crowned by a roof with upturned edges.

Behind the city lay a semicircle of high hills covered with vegetation and with temples of every sort, rising one above the other on the slopes, scaling them, and half hidden in foliage and flowers. The nobles pointed out to one another the temple of Iasacca, or the Eight Escarpments; the tower of To-Tse, with its five series of airy roofs; the chapel of Guihon, containing nothing but a round metal mirror, and surrounded by a vast number of pretty houses, to which people repair for tea and saki; then, lower down, nearer the plain, on the road that loads to Fusimi, the colossal pagoda of Daibouds, very lofty, very splendid, and containing within its gardens the temple of the Thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three Idols,--a very long and narrow building.

The party went into ecstasies over the beauty of the situation. They delighted to lose their way in fancy in the complicated network formed by the city streets, filled with a brilliant throng, the enclosures and the courtyards, which from that height seemed like open boxes. With a single glance they traversed all Kioto; beside the river they saw a large open space, surrounded by a palisade, that was the parade-ground of the Knights of Heaven, some of whom were now galloping about the enclosure, their embroidered robes, their lances, and helmets flashing in the sun.

The dark, green mountains stood out in bold relief against the clear blue sky; some more distant peaks were violet hued; the atmosphere was so pure that the little city of Yodo was plainly visible, joined to Kioto by the long ribbon-like road crossing the golden fields.

The Kisaki rose.

"Let us be off!" she cried. "We must not linger here too long; we must drink, higher up, the water of the cascade of Otooua, which gives prudence and wisdom,--so the bonzes claim."

"Is there no fountain whose water has the power to make men light-hearted and careless?" said Simabara; "I would rather wet my lips in that."

"I don't see what you would gain," said a princess, laughing; "if there be such a fountain, you have most certainly tasted its waters."

"If there were one which made us forget life, and believe in a dream without awaking," said the Prince of Nagato, "I would drink to intoxication of it."

"I would content myself with that which gives prudence, were I in your place," said Fatkoura, who had not yet exchanged a word with Nagato.

Her bitter and satirical voice made the Prince shudder. He did not reply, but hastened to rejoin the Queen, who was climbing a stone staircase hewn in the steep side of the mountain.

This staircase, bordered by shrubs whose interlaced branches formed a verdant canopy above it, led to the cascade of Otooua. The sound of the water was already audible as it gushed from three fissures in the rock, and fell from a height into a small pond.

The Kisaki arrived first; she knelt on the grass and dipped her hands in the clear water.

A young bonze ran forward with a golden cup; but the sovereign dismissed him with a sign, and advancing her lips, swallowed the water held in the hollow of her hand, then rose and shook her fingers. A few drops fell upon her dress.

"Now," said she, laughing, "Buddha himself has no more wisdom than I."

"You laugh," said Simabara; "for my part, I believe in the virtues of the water: that is why I do not taste it."

They took a very rough path. Its very look made the women utter cries of alarm. Some declared that they would never risk their lives on such a road; but the lords went first, and extended their shut fans to the most timid, and thus the top of the mountain was reached. But then the cries of distress were redoubled. Before them lay a tiny torrent, which ran babbling over the stones; it must be crossed by jumping from rock to rock, at the risk, if one were awkward, of wetting the feet.

The Kisaki asked Nagato to let her lean on his shoulder, and passed safely over. Some of the women followed her; then turned to laugh, quite at their ease, at those who dared not venture.

One young princess paused in mid-stream, standing on a rock; she held close about her the ample folds of her robe; and, half laughing, half dismayed, would neither go forward nor backward. She only resolved upon crossing the dangerous ford when her friends threatened to leave her alone in the middle of the torrent.

There were but a few steps more to be taken ore they reached the western orchard, which is surrounded by a hedge of tea-plants. The Queen pushed open a lattice-gate, and entered the enclosure.

It was the most enchanting spot imaginable. The spring, at this height, is somewhat tardy; and while in the valley the fruit-trees had already shed all their flowers, here they were in full bloom. Upon the undulating surface carpeted with thick turf, plum-trees covered with tiny white stars, apricots, apple-trees, peach-trees with their pink flowers, cherries decked with dark-red bloom, bent and twisted and stretched in every direction their dusky branches, whose roughness formed a marked contrast to the frailty of the petals.

In the middle of the orchard a large carpet was spread on the grass, and a red satin curtain, held up by gilded poles, flapped above it. A collation was served on this rug in costly china dishes.

The guests gladly squatted around the trays loaded with dainty provisions; the walk had given all an appetite. The women arranged themselves in two groups to the right and left of the Kisaki; the men took their seats opposite her at a respectful distance.

The most outspoken gayety soon reigned throughout the noble assembly; laughter bubbled from every lip. They chattered loudly, and no one heeded the melodies discoursed by an orchestra hidden behind a screen made from fibres of the reed.

Fatkoura alone wore a gloomy look and remained silent. The Princess Iza-Farou studied her by stealth with increasing surprise; she also looked from time to time at the Prince of Nagato, who seemed lost in a delightful dream, but never turned his eyes in the direction of Fatkoura.

"What has happened?" murmured the Princess. "He has certainly ceased to love her; and I thought the wedding was so near at hand!"

The feast ended, the Kisaki rose.

"Now," said she, "to work! Let each one of us draw inspiration from Nature to compose a quatrain in Chinese characters."

They scattered in various directions beneath the trees; each one went apart and reflected. Some paused before a blossoming branch; others walked slowly along, their gaze fixed on the ground, or with head uplifted towards what could be seen of the sky through the constellations of snowy or rose-tinted flowers. Some lazy spirits stretched themselves at full length on the turf and closed their eyes.

The bright and lively hues of their dresses shone forth gayly against the green, and added one more charm to the landscape.

Soon all the poets were recalled. The time fixed for the framing of the quatrain had elapsed. They assembled and sat down on the grass. Servants brought in a huge bronze bowl, upon the sides of which writhed sculptured dragons in the midst of imaginary shrubbery. This bowl was full of white fans, decorated only by a slight sketch in one corner. On one was a tuft of iris; on another a few slender reeds, a cottage by a lake, over which bent a willow, or a bird grasping a branch of almond-flowers in his claws.

Each competitor took one of these fans, upon which he was to write his verse. Brushes and India ink ready mixed were also brought. Soon the black characters stood in four perpendicular rows upon the white surface of the fans; the poems were finished. Each poet read his own quatrain aloud.

The Princess Iza-Farou began:--

"THE FIRST FLOWERS. "How fleeting, in life, is the time When we have only joys, hopes, and no regrets? Which is the most delicious moment of spring? That when not a single flower has yet faded."

Lively approval hailed this poem.

When silence was restored, Simabara took up the word:--

"THE LOVE OF NATURE. "I lift my head, and I see a flock of wild geese. Among those travellers one, who erst was in the van, now lags behind her mates. See how she flies behind the rest. Why does she linger thus? Because from the heights of heaven she wonders at the beauty of the scene."

"Good! good!" cried the listeners.

Some of the princes repeated the last line, shaking their heads with satisfaction.

Several other quatrains were read; then the Kisaki repeated hers:--

"THE SNOW. "The sky is clear; the bees hum o'er the garden beds; A balmy breeze blows through the trees; It makes the plum-blossoms fall in showers. How delightful is the spring snow!"

"You are the master of us all!" was the enthusiastic shout. "What are our verses beside yours!"

"Our great poet, Tsourai-Iouki,[1] never wrote a more perfect poem than that," said the Prince of Nagato.

"It was from that poet I drew my inspiration," said the Kisaki, smiling with pleasure. "But it is your turn to read, Iwakura," she continued, glancing at the Prince.

Nagato opened his fan and read:--

"THE WILLOW. "The thing which we love more than all else, we prefer that no one else should love. It belongs to another. So the willow, which takes root in our garden, Bends, blown by the wind, and adorns our neighbor's wall with its branches."

"The illustrious Tikangue[2] might be your brother," said the Kisaki; "there is no quatrain in his works superior to that. I wish to preserve the fan that your hand has illustrated; give it to me, I beg."

Nagato approached the Queen, and, kneeling, offered her the fan.

Fatkoura abruptly recited the following lines, which she improvised on the spur of the moment:--

"The pheasant runs through the fields; he attracts all eyes by his gilded plumage; He cries aloud as he seeks his food. Then he turns towards his mate, And through love for her he involuntarily betrays the place of his retreat to men."

The Queen frowned, and paled slightly. A transport of rage made her heart palpitate; for she saw that Fatkoura, by this improvisation, hurled an outrageous insult at Nagato and herself. She slandered her sovereign with the daring of a soul which has lost all, and offers one buckler to revenge,--despair.

The Kisaki, feeling her inability to punish, was seized by a vague terror, and repressed her wrath. If she acknowledged that she understood the injurious intention of Fatkoura's words, must she not confess to a guilty prepossession,--an interest unworthy of her majesty,--in the love to which her beauty had given birth in the heart of one of her subjects?

She complimented Fatkoura in a very quiet voice upon the elegance of her poem; then she sent her by a page the prize offered for competition. It was a charming collection of poems, no longer than a man's finger; the fashion being for the smallest books possible.

Some hours later, while the Prince of Nagato, leaning over the edge of the terrace, was gazing down from the mountain top at the setting sun, which shed its purple glory across the sky, the Kisaki drew near him.

He lifted his eyes to her face, thinking that she wished to speak to him; but she was silent, her eyes fixed on the horizon, and full of sadness; she preserved a solemn attitude.

The reflection from the western sky disguised her pallor. She repressed some painful emotion, and strove to restrain a tear that trembled on her lashes and dimmed her sight.

Nagato felt a sort of terror; he was sure that she was going to say something dreadful to him. He would fain have prevented her from speaking.

"Queen," said he, softly, as if to dismiss the danger, "the sky looks like a great rose-leaf."

"It is the last falling leaf of day," said the Kisaki,--"of the day which is sinking into the past, but whose memory our spirits will preserve as a day of joy and peace,--perhaps the last."

She turned away to hide her tears, which, despite her efforts, flowed fast.

The Prince's heart was oppressed with inexpressible agony; he was like the victim who sees the knife at his throat. He dared not speak, lest he should hasten the sacrifice.

Suddenly the Kisaki turned to him.

"Prince," said she, "I have something to say to you: you must marry Fatkoura."

Nagato stared at the Queen in dismay; he saw her eyes were wet with tears, but full of a calm and irrevocable resolve.

He slowly bowed his head. "I will obey," he murmured.

And while she moved quickly away, he hid his face in his hands, and gave vent to the sobs which were stifling him.

[1] The two latter quatrains are translated from Tsourai-Iouki, one of the most famous poets of Japan.

[2] An illustrious Japanese poet, author of the verses entitled "The Willow."