CHAPTER XXIX.

THE HIGH-PRIESTESS OF THE SUN.

The earliest temple to Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin is situated in the province of Ise, and is bathed by the waves of the Pacific Ocean. According to sacred legend, the Goddess Sun was born upon the very site of the temple.

Here antique tradition and vague legends of a bygone age are religiously preserved by the priests, who meditate upon the deep meaning of their symbolism.

In the mysterious time before the world existed, the confused assemblage of elements floated in space. That which afterwards became earth, that which became the heavens, was then mingled together as the yolk and the white are blended in the embryo egg.

But three immaterial gods arose,--the Supreme God, the Creator of Souls, and the Creator of Matter; and chaos ceased. The heavy and opaque bodies were gathered together, and formed the earth; the light and subtile portions rose, and became the heavens.

Soon from the soft and slimy mass constituting the earth arose, among the floating fogs, a half-open, velvety flower, bearing in its cup the nascent Reed God. He brooded for countless years over the infant world. The Spirit of the Waters came after him, and reigned for a thousand million years.

During these immeasurable periods of time one god succeeded to another in heaven, until the seventh of the divine dynasties ruled in the invisible ether.

One day, from the height of a bridge that spanned the clouds, the God Iza-Na-Gi and his companion, Iza-Na-Mi, looked down upon the earth.

"I see nothing but an immense expanse of waters," said the God.

He stirred the surface of the sea with his jewel-tipped spear; the mud and ooze bubbled, rose, and spread over the waters. Thus the primitive island of Japan was formed. Soon it was covered with vegetation; it was peopled with birds and beasts, and became so attractive that Iza-Na-Gi and his companion descended and came to dwell there. The birds taught them love, and the Sun-Goddess was born; then the divine couple gave birth to the Spirits of the Wind, the Rain, and the Volcano; to the Moon God, "who gazes through the darkness of night;" and finally to the first men, whose posterity peopled the island. Then the creators of Japan re-ascended to heaven, confiding the government of the world to their beloved daughter, the Sun-Goddess.

All the subjects of the bright divinity are bound, at least once in their lifetime, to make a pilgrimage to her temple at Naikou, to purify their souls. Therefore that city is always thronged with pilgrims coming and going,--some in norimonos or on horseback; others,--and these are more meritorious,--on foot, carrying a straw mat which serves as bed, and a long wooden spoon, to dip water from the roadside stream.

The temple is of the utmost simplicity of construction. It is a small structure, open on one side, surmounted by a broad thatched roof, surrounded by hundred-year-old cedars, and preceded at the distance of twenty paces by a tory, or sacred gateway, composed of two tall posts leaning slightly together, and united at the top by two crossbeams, the uppermost being arched upwards at the ends. The temple contains nothing but a large round mirror of polished metal,--symbol of purity and perspicacity.

Opposite this mirror, upon the few wooden steps leading to the temple, the Prince of Nagato knelt at the moment appointed by the Kisaki. It was already night; the moon had risen, and its light, broken by the thick screen of leaves and branches, fell upon the ground. Solitude reigned around the temple; the priests had returned to the sumptuous pagodas adjacent to this rustic monument of the earliest ages; the pilgrims had departed; nothing was to be heard but the low rustle of the cedars in the wind.

The Prince listened. Involuntarily impressed by the sanctity of the spot, the night seemed strangely solemn to him. The silence was somewhat menacing; the shade of the cedars was hostile; the azure eye of the moon seemed to weep upon his upturned face. Why did such unspeakable agony oppress his soul? What was he about to hear? Why was the Queen at Naikou, instead of at her palace? A hundred times he asked himself these questions, which he could not answer.

At last he felt a light touch on his shoulder; he rose; a young bonze stood beside him; he walked away without a word. Nagato followed.

They traversed bamboo groves, avenues of cedars, and reached a broad stone staircase, rising between two slopes, upon which the moon cast a snowy light; they climbed these stairs, leading to the terrace of a high pagoda, whose pointed roof, narrow as an inverted lily, was terminated by a slender spire.

The young bonze paused, signed to Nagato to remain where he was, and retired. The Prince then saw a white form issuing from the pagoda and advancing towards him from the shadow of the roof. The light of the moon struck full upon it, and he recognized the Kisaki. She was clad in a long sleeveless tunic of white silk, over a garment of cloth of gold. It was the dross of the high-priestess of the Sun.

"Queen!" cried the Prince, springing toward her, "am I the victim of a dream? That dress--"

"Is henceforth mine, Iwakura," said she. "I have laid aside my crown; I have drawn nearer to Heaven. Still, from a last feeling of weakness, I wanted to see you once more, to bid you farewell for ever."

"Ah! perjured one!" exclaimed the Prince; "so this is the way you keep your promises!"

"Come," said the Queen, "the night is mild; let us leave this exposed place."

They entered a long path bordered with bushes and filled with silvery mists.

"Listen," said she; "and do not condemn me unheard. Many things have happened since you left Kioto. Know, friend, that on the day,--the recollection of which still charms me against my will,--the day on which you saved me, and we talked together so long, sitting beneath a bush, a man was listening to all we said."

"Impossible!" cried the Prince, in alarm.

"It is true; he who carried me off, instead of escaping, returned and overheard us. He was a spy of Hieyas. That perfidious wretch knew how to profit by the secret which his servant discovered; he revealed it to the Mikado. At first the Son of the Gods was incredulous; he was filled with indignation against the infamous villain who stained the land with blood. But by skilful wiles Hieyas contrived to change the sentiments of the Mikado, and to win his confidence. He cited, as a proof of our guilty understanding, your devotion and heroic conduct at the time of the attack on Kioto. Then the Son of the Gods called me to him, and when I stood before him he handed me a paper upon which our conversation was reported, but perverted and made infamous. Falsehood never stained my lips. I proudly owned that my heart was yours, though never while I lived should I have cause to blush for my deeds. But after this confession I could no longer remain at the Dairi. The high-priestess of Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin had died some time previous. She was my husband's sister. I asked permission to fill her sacred office, desiring to end my life in retreat. The Mikado at once sent me the title that I craved, and a few days later married the granddaughter of Hieyas,--a child of fifteen."

"Oh, grief!" exclaimed the Prince, falling at the Queen's feet. "For my sake, you have descended from your throne; you have left the palace of your ancestors, to kneel, sad and alone, in the shade of a temple,--you, the smiling divinity whom a whole nation adored."

"I shall love this solitude, Iwakura," said she. "Here at least I am free; I am delivered from the affection of a husband whom I did not love, although he was a god. My thoughts shall be wholly yours."

"Why will you not fly with me? Have we not suffered enough? You love me, and I only breathe because you are on this earth. Why should we torture ourselves thus? Come! Let us exile ourselves! You are my country; my world is the spot where your feet rest! What do we care for what the gossips say? The celestial music of our love will drown their despicable voices. What does the bird who soars aloft, intoxicated with light, care for the hiss of the reptiles writhing in the swampy mire?"

"Hush, friend!" said she; "do not make me repent my wish to see you once more."

"Why will you not hear me? why are you so merciless, so cruel? If your husband has taken another wife, you are free."

"No, Prince, I have not fallen so low; the Mikado has added one more to the number of his wives, but he has not raised her to the rank which I held. I am his equal, and he is still my lord and master. If I were really free, despite the blame I might incur, I would drain the nuptial cup with you, and I would live wherever you liked."

"Ah! I will kill the man who parts us!" cried the Prince, whose mind began to wander.

"Silence, Iwakura!" said the Queen, in a grave voice. "Behold the dress I wear; think what I am. Henceforth I belong to this world no more; its fevers, its follies can touch me no longer. Purified by the divine flame of the Sun, I must meditate upon her mysterious and creative essence, become absorbed in her splendor, let her rays penetrate my being, identify myself with her light, and become as pure as she, until the day when my soul shall fly hence and receive its merited reward."

"Forgive me!" said the Prince. "What matters one man's despair? I was mad to entreat you. See, I am calm now,--calm as the dead in their tombs. Forgive me for offending your ears by my too human words."

"I have power to pardon you now," said she; "and I absolve you with all my soul. Rise, friend! we must part."

They retraced their steps. At the end of this path, bathed in diffused light, all would be over for them; they must part to meet no more. Involuntarily the high-priestess slackened her pace. The Prince's sudden calm terrified her; she felt assured that it was the result of an irrevocable resolve. He was silent, and gazed at her with a peaceful expression.

"He means to die," thought she. But she felt that nothing she might say would shake him in his determination.

They had reached the end of the garden-walk, and advanced along the terrace.

"Farewell!" said she.

As she uttered the word, her heart seemed to break within her; she was on the point of falling into the Prince's arms, exclaiming: "Take me; let us go where you will!"

"Farewell!" he whispered; "do not forget that you have given me your tryst on the threshold of another life."

She fled with a sob. As she reached the pagoda, she turned back for the last time. She seemed some super-natural being, standing in the moonlight, in her robe of gold, which glittered beneath her silk tunic, white as her face. Iwakura stretched out his arms to her; but the high-priestess of the Sun vanished in the darkness, which wrapped her round and hid her forever.