The giving of a geisha party such as Ikamon proposed involved no small amount of preparation and entailed much thought and care, yet when the “Harvest Moon” came—for that was the time selected—everything had been gotten in readiness, and Maido and his family occupied their booth, surrounded by all that luxury and refinement could offer to still the cares of man. Shibusawa entered into the spirit of the occasion with every possible determination to do his part, but down in his heart there lived a yearning, and with each repeated failure came a corresponding hope for Kinsan. He had sought her long and earnestly, and now grasped at each straw. “Would she, could she be there that night?”
The young prince could not avoid facing Takara, who sat to his left, across the big auditorium, and each look from her burned into him a still deeper sense of his ingratitude. Tetsutaisho occupied an adjoining booth, and no color in Shibusawa’s cheek escaped his eye. An inner consciousness smote him, and he looked out into the brilliant scene before him for relief.
And as he became transported, that subtile, elusive something seemed all but there, for the geisha party, the universal and proper form, probably fits the case quite as well as any other opera or means devised for the diversion of mankind. Here, in ancient Japan, it is the very acme of united, contributive art, and whether the affair be a small or a grand one matters not; the ever festive and elastic geisha meets the emergency. If but the modest return of a chance relation, whereupon the trifling consequences of a happy trade in jack-knives is discussed, or if it be the social fête, where the destinies of a monarch are framed and harangued, the geisha party is the occasion, and it stands for all that opportunity may or can require. No demand can be too exacting, no hope too flattering. It paves the way to good-fellowship, and inspires the heart to nobler deeds. Ikamon chose it as a means for bringing together the best in the land, and he used it as an instrument to touch them, to sway and move them.
The matter of finding a suitable place had worried him, and going in person to all of the noted tea houses, one after another, he discarded them as being inadequate or impracticable. Ryogoku, Tsukiji, Asakusa, and others in turn were visited, and none offered suitable accommodation. His wants were exacting, and as he went from place to place his imagination grew and requirements multiplied beyond all hope of fulfilment.
Uyeno pleased him most; here he found at least an ideal spot, endowed by nature with all that is lofty and inspiring. The spacious park lay upon a gently sloping hillside, terminating in a high promontory, jutting out over the nestling roof tops far below. From the quiet of its level there stretched away to the right, to the left, and in front, a million earnest, faithful homes. The glistening, silvered waters in the distance had again and again marked the stately course of the splendid “Harvest Moon” in her onward march with time, while from the background came the breathless hush of the forest, the silent mysteries of the gloom, the awakening of the spirit world. He returned to it a second and a third time, studied the situation at its best, then decided.
“The ‘Harvest Moon’ is the time,” said he, with ecstasy, “and the shogun’s command will amply build the playhouse. I shall begin without delay.”
The prime minister returned to his home much pleased with himself and fully satisfied with his opportunities. True, the allotted few weeks were a short time, but what mattered that when he had only to advise and the scene of his intended activities would swarm with a myriad of workers. And then the applause for its doing!—for Ikamon loved gain, and he knew of no surer means than the approval of his countrymen. He said to himself:
“There have been geisha parties before, other fêtes of note, but it is now Ikamon’s turn. Why not only outstrip the past, but anticipate the future?”
In consequence the necessary work was begun and the party launched by the most sweeping and unheard of orders. As in the matter of construction, the invitations had been issued under order of the shogun, and no royal personage or noble blood of the sex was overlooked or neglected. Messengers despatched in every direction had set moving long before the harvest moon had risen many gorgeous trains; for no host or guest in that land was held in better esteem than Maido, the lord daimyo of Kanazawa. They came from north and south, from the loyal and the opposition, from kuge and bakufu.[14] All were his friends, and none would miss an opportunity to enjoy the hospitality that flowed from the shogun’s seat like balm in Gilead or wine from a Circean cup.
They came, and when they had arrived they beheld the grandest spectacle that they had ever known. Many thousands had laboured hard to set the scene and perfect the play. Early in its inception Ikamon had instructed Tetsutaisho as to his portion; whereupon the responsive commander constructed around the plot of a hundred acres a living wall, in which each stone was a trained soldier and every picket a sharpened steel.
Such a massing of troops had never before been seen, and Tetsutaisho had not only girdled the festive place with a brilliant setting, but taught those lords and barons a lesson in fanciful show that convinced them of the shogun’s effective strength. The human fence ended only at either side of the promontory, whereat gates were placed, over which a thousand blades stood guard. No force could pass that barrier. To them it seemed insurmountable from without and impenetrable from within.
Within the cordon of militia, however, the real wonders of the place began to unfold. Passing through the gate the guests were taken in hand and ushered along down the lines of dazzling soldiery toward the lower end of the park, where stood a dark, dense forest. Here they suddenly left the bright lights behind and were made to grope their way through the woods to the yawning entrance of an underground cave. Thence through its gloomy caverns beset with all the horrors of an imagined hades they hurried until they had finally emerged into the brilliant lights of the grand auditorium.
On the left side of the entrance was the mikado’s booth, and on the right the shogun’s: neither was better or grander than the other, but both were covered with gorgeous brocades of maple leaves and banked with solid walls of chrysanthemums. Coloured lanterns hung between the pillars in front, and open windows looked out at the back upon the city below. From the two gala booths in the centre, the royal booths stretched out on either side, skirting the brow of the hill, in the shape of a crescent, graduating in size to correspond to the several grades of nobility. To the stage in front alternate beds of flowers and open boxes, with here and there a mat-covered aisle, occupied the space. The boxes were laid with soft mats and lined with silk, while the booths were made of gold or black lacquer, with tiger or leopard skins on the floor, as suited the rank of the occupant.
Shibusawa looked out under the high roof, with its thousand-tinted, leaf-covered cone, emblazoned with dazzling lights and brilliant foliage, at the red-lacquered stage, festooned with wisteria and lined with the beautiful bell-shaped asagao. The guests were already seated in their flowing robes of silk and purple amid garlands of flowers and booths of gold, and the players began to make their appearance.
Three hundred geisha singers dressed in flaming uniforms, wearing costly jewels in their hair, came first, seating themselves in three rows across the front of the stage, with the samisens[15] first, the kokyus[16] next, and the kotos last. Next after these came nine hundred geisha dancers, who ranked in lines at both sides and at the rear of the stage. After them one hundred geisha singers, whose simple coiffures and freedom from ornamentation bespoke their purity, came in and grouped themselves in the centre of the stage. All held themselves in readiness to begin the play. Presently the music began in faint, weird strains, and as the time quickened the dancers began to sway, and as the pitch rose the singers began to chant; and when all seemed a living, moving, sounding picture, the ranks parted and down between them softly stepped a maiden whose charm and ease of manner made breathless the waiting listeners.
As she approached the centre of the stage, the music lowered, the dancers slowed, and the singers gradually stopped; then her voice began its soft, enchanting notes. Every man leaned forward speechless; and as she sang her song of love they were thrilled with the wondrous message of her heart. In that vast audience there was one who understood the language of her pathos, who communed with her soul.
It was Shibusawa; and not words, but actions revealed the secret of his feelings. He sat in his booth, leaning over, and silent. He did not grieve, nor exult, but sat there a dweller in another world. It was one from the spirit land with whom he spoke. She told him she loved him; her voice, not words carried the message, spoke the language of her soul. He listened, and when the farewell came would have gone to her, thrown himself at her feet, had not his strength failed him. He hesitated, and upon regaining his composure Kinsan had gone—he knew not where.
Tetsutaisho sat near Shibusawa, and he too felt the force of her great melody, and knew that some inward action moved her. He had long before guessed her secret, and Shibusawa’s strange emotion now impressed him. Instinctively connecting the two, though holding his own counsel, he knew from that day who his rival was, and he felt that her song had won for her its reward. He chided himself for having yielded to Ikamon’s entreaty, and wished that he had denied even his best friend the favour of her loan. It was now too late. The mistake had been made beyond rectifying.
Kinsan had not observed Shibusawa, or at least did not distinguish him in the audience, but sang purely and simply from her heart. No incentive moved her, nor did she heed the elegance, or feel the great honour she had gained. She was conscious of only one, and in another world poured out her soul’s desire; and thus without being aware of it brought to her feet the noble, royal sons of a nation, made them her slaves, and went forth from that scene the most famed of her sex.
Thenceforth it was “Kinsan, The Nightingale,” and she bore well the sobriquet.
The beautiful song of the unknown star had stimulated the most hearty good cheer, and the playing, feasting, and conversation did not wane until a late hour. And when the festivities had ended, Ikamon was accounted the prince of entertainers; while Shibusawa confronted a new danger.
When the guests had gone home his father began making preparations to go to Kanazawa. Maido, pleased with the reception accorded him, felt highly complimented for his long and faithful services at the capital. He deemed it a fitting finale to what he considered the close of his active public career, and the honour seemed to him a splendid reward. And now that so much had been done by his friends in appreciation of his services and in recognition of his retirement, he believed himself in duty bound to show his proper regard by making his exit as elaborate as his circumstances would permit. Therefore he called his son to him and said:
“Shibusawa, we have been honoured at the hands of our friends and especially are we under obligation to the court. Let us be equally generous in our withdrawal from life at the capital, and depart with a procession that will show due appreciation, and declare our loyalty to his august highness. We have always been modest in our pretensions, and I believe that some such demonstration would not be unfitting or beneath the dignity of our station. What do you say, my son?”
“If it is your pleasure, I certainly can see no valid objection. We need not be ashamed of such showing as we can make, and real display is sometimes a good promoter and always a splendid encouragement. What can I do to be of service?”
“Please consider yourself my guest; that will better suit me, since it may be my last opportunity. Once the young get a good hold, there is little chance for the fathers. Let me do the thing once more, then surrender to you. The last is the greater.”
“Very well, if you like, Shibusawa will obey; there is no greater pleasure, nor higher honour.”
Shibusawa not only wished to please his father but was glad for the opportunity to occupy himself in another way. Since his startling discovery of Kinsan he had resolved to find her and claim her, whatever might be the cost. He reasoned that his agitation upon seeing Kinsan on the stage would be passed as merely an incident, and that no explanation would be required; and that he take no steps that might involve his family, he deemed it advisable to keep his own counsel until, if necessary, developments necessitated some sort of disclosure. Tetsutaisho had said nothing, and in consequence Shibusawa did not know of any suspicion on his part; and being entirely unaware of Kinsan’s residence he had, of course, no reason whatever to suppose that she was domiciled at his brother-in-law’s house. His idolised queen had appeared to him as if in a vision, and the more he pondered the situation the more deeply he became perplexed.
And as the days rapidly passed and his allotted time shortened, Shibusawa began to grow nervous and despair of his mission. All his friends with whom he could discuss the new prima donna were even more than he in the dark; they had never heard of her and like himself could get no information as to where she could even be found. He rightly refrained from saying anything to Ikamon, the only person besides Tetsutaisho who could have informed him; and even had he approached him he would have received no encouragement, for the prime minister had promised faithfully to keep her identity a secret. From day to day the disconsolate young prince went from friend to friend and place to place discussing the crowning feature of the big event, in hope of getting some bit of information that would serve as a clue. In geisha circles they were equally mystified, and from that source no encouragement could be offered. He became disheartened, though more than ever resolved.
The time for his departure from the city had already arrived, and before going he set out to make his sister, Yasuko, a parting call. While there, she for a second time cautioned him about his going to see Nehachibana; whereupon he promised forthwith to go and bid his favourite sister farewell, even though he had not as yet made up his mind to forgive or become friendly with her husband. Shortening his visit with Yasuko, accordingly, he kept his promise and immediately went to call upon Nehachibana.
It was a gloomy day, and the clouds hung low and drove cold the chill of autumn. The dusk of night already overshadowed the earth and he felt uneasy, much disliking to disturb even his sister at so late an hour; yet he knew that it would be his only chance, for on the morrow he must make ready to take his departure. As he approached the house no one greeted him; he hesitated; resolving to meet her if possible, he pressed forward, making known his desire to see Nehachibana, his sister.
He had not long to wait, however, for she came in person and greeting him warmly bade him enter the house and sit in her own chamber. Here they sat and sat, he listening, and she pouring out her troubles—it had been her first opportunity in all those pent-up years. Again and again they had drained their teacups when, flushed and excited, she said:
“Yes, there is a son, and you must know its mother. I will show it to you and then you can better appreciate my terrible sorrow. Oh, I cannot bear it longer! It will kill me, and yet it is no fault of mine. I have been a dutiful wife, and I have the only right to be the mother of his children. Tell me, Shibusawa, my brother, is there no help for woman?”
“It is the law of the land, Nehachibana, and as long as it is such, it is our duty to abide by its decree.”
“But the law is so unjust!”
“The injustice is in the making of it. But there, now, let us not discuss that any further. You have done your part, and I will venture it is better a husband whom you love, than a wife who loves your husband. Come, now, when shall I expect you to pay us a visit in the country?”
“I wish you were not going so far. I am seldom allowed such a privilege, and were I—oh, that other one! I should never give her the satisfaction. I hate her! I love—oh, I dare not, I cannot go away! Come with me, now, won’t you? I want you to see—to see with your own eyes—I shall have revenge!”
“But you must not, my dear Nehachibana. It is not she that has wronged you; and it is a terrible thing to misjudge. Better suffer the wrong; the charity will repay you the sacrifice.”
“Then look, as I have done these many days, and you will know better a woman’s way. It is an image of the devil, and its eyes rivet me. Come?”
“To please you, Nehachibana.”
Nehachibana arose and stealthily disappeared; in a few moments she returned and, scarcely speaking above a whisper, bade Shibusawa follow. Guiding him through several rooms, into a long passageway, thence to a chamber out of which a soft light shone through the frail paper partition, she cautioned him, then pushed back the slide a little and beckoned him approach. Kinsan sat in deep thought near a small screen, with the child fondled in her lap, and for the moment did not observe their entrance. She had often been intruded upon in such a manner and therefore paid little heed. Perhaps she meditated the night of her début upon the stage; or she may have been thinking of another time when all the world seemed glorified to her. The visitors approached, however, and their stockinged feet made hardly any noise on the soft, matted floor. They came at Kinsan’s back, partly sidewise, and when not too far away Nehachibana clutched at Shibusawa’s kimono and pointing her bony finger at the child, leaned forward and said, almost breathlessly:
“It is he!”
She trembled violently, and her eyes stared wildly as they came in contact with the child. Until Nehachibana spoke, Kinsan had not recognised them, nor would she then have done so had not Shibusawa sprung forward to save Nehachibana from falling as she reeled and lost her balance. Shibusawa had recognised Kinsan the moment Nehachibana spoke, and it was a hard struggle for him to refrain from speaking to her. His whole being bade him respond to an overpowering impulse, but sober thought checked him, and he grasped at an opportunity to turn his back by leading Nehachibana away.
This movement, however, did not serve to shield him, for before he had entirely turned about Kinsan saw his face and knew him, and sprang to her feet, while the child fell to the floor. Though her very being flamed she did not follow, but stood speechless and helpless; there was no force to move her. She waited, and presently he returned.
Shibusawa led his sister back to her apartment and left her under promise that she would try to regain her composure and remain there until he came for her. He told her that he desired to meet the child’s mother privately, but would return to her in a short time.
Nehachibana said nothing to relieve her brother’s mind. She knew in her own heart that Kinsan was not the mother of the child, yet she did not speak. He, of course, took it for granted that the child was hers. He got only a glance, but saw in its eyes a familiar image; also in that he was misinformed. Had it been a woman who saw, she would not have made so grave a mistake; reason is sometimes the victim of deception; intuition, never.
As he returned, he judged. Every step deadened his feelings and each thought blinded his reason. He conjured her false, and made himself the victim. He re-entered the room, sternly and deliberately; she stood there, hopeful and expectant. As he stepped inside she came forward, but before reaching him stopped and bowed in silence; she had divined his heart and read correctly the message. The child cried playfully, and she blushed deeply and confusedly. She realised fully the possible consequences of its being there, and would have hastened to explain had he given her the opportunity; on the contrary he approached and said calmly, but coldly:
“Kinsan, I would like a word with you, if you will so permit me.”
She raised her hands and looked at him with pleading, earnest eyes, but he made no offer to meet her. His arms hung limp, and his look fell to the floor. She waited for him to recover, to deign some word or act of encouragement. Perhaps he battled for power; perhaps he accused her. He made no sign, and she recovered herself and calmly asked him:
“Will you please be seated?
They sat down upon the clean white floor; the child lay coaxing in front of them. Neither offered a remark, but both sat in serious contemplation. It was he who first attempted to break the silence, and as he ventured to speak the partition in front slid back with a jerk, and Tetsutaisho walked forward and bowed.
“I trust I am not intruding,” said he, as he waited for Shibusawa to arise.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the younger of the two, rising and drawing his kimono about him. “It is I who seem to be unwelcome. Therefore please grant me the privilege of retiring.”
“As you like,” said the other, with an air of disinterestedness and a low bow. “Tetsutaisho welcomes his friends, always.”
“And Shibusawa recognises his enemies, now and then,” retorted he with a courteous bow, as he gracefully withdrew from their presence.
Shibusawa hurried back to Nehachibana’s room where he found her sitting and staring into space. Her features were expressionless, and her toilet showed a carelessness which until now had escaped his notice. He said a few kindly words to her, and retiring, hastened toward his own home. She paid little heed to what he said, and when he warmly gave her a parting farewell she blankly answered:
“Sayonara.”[17]
The disconsolate young man went home with a sadder heart and firmer determination than ever. He was fully convinced that Kinsan had been untrue, yet in charity he charged her failure to the law’s barrier. At first he had been stunned, and his love momentarily wavered; but as he gained freedom and more carefully reflected, his heart withstood the test and his mind regained its composure; and when he arose the next morning he set himself to his task with a will that knows no better victory than constancy.
The final preparations for the gorgeous procession progressed without interruption all of the next day, notwithstanding a light rain fell almost incessantly, and Shibusawa, at least, regretted though encouraged a speedy going. He must on the very eve of Kinsan’s discovery part with what seemed to be the last hope of ever realising his life’s ambition. And she the property of his bitterest enemy! Sometimes it seemed more than he could bear; but a recurring sense of the inevitable always stayed the doing of some rash thing, and long before the evening had passed friends were calling to bid the family good-bye.
As night came on, however, the rain ceased, and the weather began to clear under a stiff breeze blowing from the eastward. It was a chill October night, the leaves were falling, and the white clouds sped low in the sky. The sun had fringed the western horizon with a snowy-fleeced red, and Shibusawa stepped to the outer edge of his veranda to take a parting glimpse of the golden scene spread over the hills above. He could not see the site of the hidden cave, but his eyes moistened; he turned away and looked toward the lake below.
There he saw emerging from a cluster of bushes Okyo, tugging along a coy maiden, whose dress and appearance signified that she did not belong to the castle; yet he observed her neat and modest appearance; also that Okyo endeavoured with difficulty to induce her to approach. Shibusawa drew back and waited their coming with amusement, if not interest.
Presently they came near, and after much consultation and persuasion on Okyo’s part they entered the house and groped their way hand in hand—he pulling and she shying—into Shibusawa’s presence. Okyo saluted his master, she courtesied; between them they stammered an explanation, and the host begged forgiveness for the unseemly confusion of identities.
“And this is Shiyoganai, the pretty young girl whom we rescued while guests at the Look-See tea house. Let us see, that is several years ago, and I am afraid our claim is now more than forfeited. However, I suppose the double is fancied and the bargain might be renewed,” said the young prince, in a manner intended to place them at ease, and save the direct embarrassment of a possible recognition.
The unexpected rather upset Okyo, and a feeling somewhat akin to fright suddenly came over him. He said nothing; his voice failed him, and hanging his head he partly turned and whispered:
“You tell it, Shiyoganai; I can’t.”
She blushed deeply, and told the story of how Okyo had again met her after his venture upon the sea and with his meagre assistance saved her from being sold a second time, possibly into something worse than slavery. She added with much hesitation that they had dearly loved each other for a long time, and asked him to be so kind as to let Okyo come back sometime to see her.
“Tell him that I want to marry you,” interposed her would-be suitor, boldly.
“And are you both quite sure you wish to take so serious a step?”
“Oh, yes, we are,” said they in chorus, scarcely the words left his lips.
“Then you shall marry and welcome, for I shall want you to remain here with the keeper until I return.”
Shibusawa tendered Okyo the funds necessary to make settlement with her parents and bade them expedite the marriage, as he must move early on the morrow and should certainly expect them to be punctually on hand. Nor did they waste time, but hurriedly saluted and were not seen again until late the next morning, when Shiyoganai came trudging in, was forgiven and seemed happy.
The daimyo’s procession had started to move betimes, and was well on the way before the streets had quieted down for the midday. The parade had been so well noised about that the roads were everywhere lined with the interested and the curious. Flags and bunting were displayed and many shops had been closed in honour of the event. By common consent the occasion had been turned into a general holiday in honour of the man whose sympathy had endeared him to both prince and pauper alike; and as the pageant moved along there was presented to view a strikingly imposing scene.
Over forty thousand men were in line, and among them many dignitaries, who had been invited and who chanced to join as a mark of respect and an act of loyalty. The swordsmen, under the command of Beppu, a trusted officer of the daimyo’s forces, marched in the lead; after these came the spearsmen; then the fieldsmen; and then the courtiers, retainers, members of the household, servants, criers, and hangers-on. Groups of knightly heralds, in costumes of white and gold, carried high, massive plumes of green and brown; there were couriers with flaming banners, gorgeous floats, flags, streamers, and bunting; huge grotesque figures and other monstrosities wabbled along on human backs, while gilded poles and clever symbols lined the imposing column. Gaudy uniforms and costly dress told of the wealth and pomp that followed in the splendid train, and the great chairs of state bespoke Maido’s power and the splendour of his suite. On the door at either side of these rich palanquins shone the family crest, worked into the beautiful lacquer with finely threaded gold and silver, in the design of five circles around ten short rays representing sword punctures. The daimyo’s chair came first in line, then Shibusawa’s. After all the rest there followed long trains laden with baggage and paraphernalia belonging to the household and retainers of the family.
The procession moved in double file along the old Tokaido, the deep-worn and hard-packed highway with its tall cedars and interlocking branches on either side. Here they travelled in solemn grandeur as their ancestors of a thousand years had done, and Maido marvelled at the beauty of the ceremony and thought with pride of the splendour of his retinue. His army was counted legion and his income over a million koku,[18] while the doors of nobility were open to him and royalty pleased with his friendship. He had in effect just closed a brilliant career, and his own son about to succeed him he believed capable of winning new laurels—why should he not swell with satisfaction as he rode along beneath the shade of these giants of the forest?
Shibusawa, on the other hand, had begun to take a deeper hold on life. He had seen the world, and felt keenly the narrow pride which the lords and rulers of his land boasted.
He knew their tiny empire to be a beauteous land, and he also knew that it had been discovered; that there were other people from whom the good things of the earth could not be kept. He also realised that they themselves had much to profit by the larger intercourse certainly to come, and that they, too, with all their excellence were far from being perfect in the scale of social organisation. He had seen sufficient of life and imbibed enough of truth to understand that so long as inequality exists between men just so long will the state remain flexible; and he realised that such a government must necessarily adapt itself to natural conditions. He had looked out into the world and there beheld the glory of man, not men; and he now believed in man’s regeneration as born of progression.
They tramped on day after day in their only fashion, and when they finally did arrive at their own gate Shibusawa sprang from his chair and amid the shouts of the men ran on at double the speed. For this he was held in high esteem and accounted one of their kind, though some of the dignitaries may have been a little surprised at the young prince’s democracy. While Maido, out of deference to his station, said nothing, at least he really rejoiced, for he loved a good sprinter and had actually winked at more than one wrestling match in his day.
“I would get out and go you a bout myself, were it not for shocking the household keeper’s sensibilities,” said he to his son, quietly, as the latter was about to leave his chair for the coveted run through the woods and over the hills.
Shibusawa’s fleetness brought him, before many hours had passed, to the selfsame gate behind which most of his boyhood days had been spent. He drew a deep breath as he entered, and while walking along the old winding road to the main front he said to himself:
“What is sweeter and better than the environment of early home?”
He immediately, upon entering, set himself to work directing a few added touches that would please and encourage his father’s home-coming. Such trifling attentions he accounted a great pleasure, and as he grew older in appreciation of a parent’s tenderness he lost no opportunity to show his affectionate esteem. Nor did he misplace even one, for Maido in his way repaid the trouble many fold.
When they had arrived at Kanazawa, the season had so far advanced that they at once settled down for the winter. Though disappointed in not being able to visit other parts of the prefecture, they took much satisfaction in the quiet of their country house, and Magokoro (the real or red heart, or maple leaves) smiled sweetly and soon the snow fell beautifully. They did not lack for plenty to do and see, and when once settled there was much company, for Maido had been gone for a long time and his neighbours were not only glad at having seen him return, but some of the mikado’s court, not far distant, were interested in knowing the reason.
Nor was Takara disinterested, though she did not call. And a certain prince who had once upon a time been deeply in love with her and who was still quite attentive, manifested more than an interest; he was anxious, and upon Shibusawa’s return he at first took it upon himself to visit Kanazawa rather often. Aside from these personal attractions, the south brewed a storm that was destined to spread until it had claimed the attention of some persons even much farther north than Kanazawa. Thus plenty both of interest and variety engaged Maido, nor would Shibusawa flinch from his part.
It was now some considerable time since Takara had been spirited by the ronin from Tokyo to Kyoto, where she had gone into seclusion at her mother’s house and so remained. The gaiety at court had little attraction for her, and she undertook to devote herself to a new life which should atone for all past failures. She had had her trial with men, and placing them all in the same category undertook to discard them as so much rubbish.
One day while discussing the matter with Daikomitsu she said to him:
“They are disappointing and, I believe, a burden to the real woman. No, Daikomitsu, you could not have me, were I free and you made of gold. I prefer another kind of happiness.”
“You do not mean what you say, Takara. You are chafing a bit under the weight of your misfortunes. You have my sympathy and my love too, if you will.”
“I have a husband.”
“And of what sort? I vow not of your own choice.”
“A woman has no choice.”
“Nor should she; nor would she, had I the say.”
“Thanks. I understand there are some would-be friends who are interested in all that goes with feudalism except the inheritance. You might have that, were you as clever as they.”
“Oh, you do? It is strange; I had heard nothing of that since you were here last. I trust it will not get noised around too much—Ikamon might hear it.”
“Well?”
“He is worth the while.”
“Tetsutaisho’s the better man. I like him.”
“Then he has told you?”
“You seem agitated. I hope you do not count him one of the new school. Though he is close to Ikamon, I will admit.”
“No; I had another thing in mind. Go on with your talk. The mood is a modest one.”
“I’ll trust you, though it were better a man kept his own counsel.”
“Daikomitsu? Ha, ha; how egotistical!”
“And you really love me?”
“No.”
“Then you hate me.”
“No.”
“What chance is there between hate and love?”
“It is there that I would trust a woman.”
Daikomitsu was pleased to have an opportunity to unfold his plans to somebody, and no one seemed to have more patience than Takara. Even her willingness seemed an encouragement to him. It did not count that she used him as a means of escape from others, for he had grown up in the same easy atmosphere and loved her from early boyhood. He always would love her. It mattered not that she had been married to another or that she might marry still others, he should love her just the same. Time might have wrought its changes, but not the even tenor of Daikomitsu’s way.
Portly and of average height, his face smooth-shaved and head somewhat bald, a goodly measure of royal blood coursed in his veins, and he was accounted a prince of high rank. Being a devotee of that classic school which grew up around Nara, and an ardent supporter of letters, he had gained a high standing as a scholar, though his learning was hardly profound nor his manner entirely polished. He had never been accredited with anything like ability or ambition, and therefore was not courted much at home nor taken too seriously elsewhere. However, in this they were all destined to a severe awakening; for until now Daikomitsu had only once been really stirred, and that was by the sudden marriage of Takara. He had kept his counsel well, but from that time forth he had an ambition. Just what it might be he did not himself quite know; still he had determined upon something, and with one so high in the councils of state it required only time and opportunity. The occasion must come, and he was perfectly willing to drift and wait.
Not caring much for the effeminate pastimes of the plethoric supernumeraries at Kyoto, nor being required much at council, he was at liberty to go and come as best pleased him; therefore shortly after Takara’s removal to Tokyo he, too, sought the shogun’s capital. He probably did this as a natural consequence more than as a fixed plan to be near Takara; at all events he did not disturb her, and his visits were always within the bounds of strict decorum. She, on the other hand, had paid but little attention to his coming and going, treating him as she did all others who were friendly at the lord daimyo’s castle.
Later, after going to live at Tetsutaisho’s house, Takara saw but little of Daikomitsu, meeting him only occasionally at Maido’s, where they were both wont to go and visit at odd times. While Daikomitsu knew of Takara’s abandonment of her own home for that of her brother-in-law he did not divine the true extent of her relations, though much of the gossip reaching Kyoto—finally resulting in her strange return—did so through the medium of none other than himself. And when she had gone he too returned, though no one ever accused him of having any direct connection with her removal.
Daikomitsu had through all these years grown to be popular at the capital and considered a good friend at court—even accredited by some as being in sympathy with the shogun’s cause. Especially the opposition to Ikamon courted his favour and even many of the latter’s staunchest supporters admired him. In fact his influence had already come to be felt, and he had not a little to do with prolonging peace and maintaining order between the two rival factions, the north and the south. In consequence he interested himself to know whether the geisha party had been given to cover some breach between Maido and Ikamon, and whether the lord daimyo’s removal to the country had a political meaning deeper than appeared.
Tokyo he did not believe to be the place to gain such information, and hastening back to Kyoto he began making himself a friendly caller at the Kanazawa castle, though he did not associate himself much with the quiet meetings that were beginning to be held there to discuss public affairs. He may have been too sagacious for that, even though thought to be slow and of small consequence.
Nor was he in harmony with the sentiment so rapidly centring around Maido. He had lost none of his sympathies for the mikado, still he did not believe that any improvement could be brought about by the admittance of foreigners into the land; and on that point thoroughly accorded with the mikado himself, as well as with Saigo and Kido and all the leaders of the dominant faction in the south. Realising the dangers of personal alliance, Daikomitsu held himself as much as possible aloof from all doings, and contented himself with investigating the real status of affairs.
His correct understanding of the political situation, while not generally known, had been due in no small measure to his relations with Takara. The return of Shibusawa to Kanazawa had aroused her interest, and stimulated her to take a more active part in the affairs of life. In fact she had even gone so far as to delve into politics, and whatever Takara did she did with an energy. Thus she not only continued her indifferent relations with Daikomitsu, but actually sought to open, upon the same terms, some sort of intercourse with the house of Maido, including her own husband, Shibusawa.
Until now she had taken no particular notice of his return from abroad. She had always held considerable regard for her husband, though in her own heart she felt there never could be anything of family interest between them. It might have been intrigue, but it could not have been love that now prompted her to seek him.
While Daikomitsu did not know so much—Takara had not taken the pains to tell him anything—he was not jealous of Shibusawa. He had never been jealous of anybody, and only dreaded their coming together again as being the possible means of her total loss to him; he planned accordingly.
“I shall be going to Tokyo in a few days, Takara, and I trust upon my return your heart will not have gone in Shibusawa’s direction.”
“Foolish boy! You might sooner expect it yourself. However, I am going to invite them over, and I shall want you to carry the message.”
“And serve you at the door?”
“Oh, no; I shall for that excuse you; it is the daimyos’ call, not the princes’.”
“And when do you expect such a gathering?”
“Not later than Tenno-Sai. It is a good time.”
“I would return even before that, should you wish it.”
“You are always kind, Daikomitsu.”
Daikomitsu proceeded directly to Tokyo, and upon his arrival found the shogun’s party considerably stirred up over what threatened to become a serious breach. It had been strongly hinted by some of Ikamon’s enemies that the lord daimyo of Kanazawa had withdrawn in disgust, and for no other reason than a hearty dislike of his son-in-law’s encouragement of everything foreign. There was also gaining ground a feeling that the crafty minister had used too much to his own advantage the powers of the shogun. Notwithstanding this latter charge, the real cause for dissension centred in the growing distrust of the foreigners. Here as in Kyoto it had already become the main issue, and strong overtures were being made to some of the leaders in the mikado’s ranks for a coalition of all the anti-foreign forces.
Upon Daikomitsu’s return to the scene at Tokyo he was showered with every consideration. In fact some of the more ardent openly stated that he had come as the secret envoy of the mikado, for the express purpose of encouraging a friendly understanding between the two heads of government on that subject.
Ikamon was not at all pleased with these friendly demonstrations, because things had so shaped themselves that he could not recede from the position taken had he so desired or thought best. He had used his influence with the shogunate to stamp approval only upon such foreign measures as he had been forced to concede, rather than involve the nation in open hostilities with the powers; which he knew full well would have been practical suicide. As a result of these several contentions there had sprung up, among a few of the more radical of the prime minister’s foes, a demand for the regency of Hitotsubashi, and whisperings of Daikomitsu as a possible successor to Ikamon himself. It had already come to Ikamon’s ears that even Tetsutaisho had listened to the rumors with indifference, whereupon the prime minister sought an interview with Daikomitsu and undertook to wrest from him a definite understanding. The easy-going scholar, of course, denied any such thought as disloyalty to a friend, and carelessly went so far as to suggest stringent measures.
“This unrest must be checked in some way,” said he to Ikamon, a day or so before he had fully made up his mind to return to Kyoto. “Why, it is rumoured that even Maido is in some way dissatisfied. Yet I should sooner think it his son, Shibusawa, were he in a position to speak.”
“I will admit a drag-net might surprise the most sanguine these days—still, Maido is beyond question. When he has proven false, then it is high time for such as you and I to indulge a quicker spirit. In the meantime let us not abstain too much from the liquor—this the golden wine that kissed the wood these forty years or more—and here is to ‘longer friendship’,” said Ikamon, as he raised the bowl to his own lips, then passed it to his guest.
“And a ‘better understanding’,” answered Daikomitsu, as he emptied the contents and filled again the cup for his host.
After this last interview Daikomitsu concluded he had best get away from the scene of his rising popularity, so he immediately returned to Kyoto, where he found Takara anxiously engaged about the daimyos’ meeting, which had already been planned. She had talked with Kido and others, and according to her version none had seemed to object and all promised to take part in the proceedings. Just what the plans really were, no one claimed to know or greatly care; nor did she herself apparently have a very clear understanding. It was her maiden effort in politics, and she knew only that something must be done. Perhaps she had been advised by Kido, who was pre-eminently qualified and probably not reluctant. Possibly she took a woman’s course, and put in motion all her forces at the first impulse. However that may have been, the call was duly made and all responded. Daikomitsu had in person carried the invitation to Maido, and to make certain his response remained there until proper to go.
After the daimyos had assembled, including all the southern sympathisers and many from the north, it soon became apparent that an effort would be made to pledge a united support to a measure intended to expel the foreigners.
Maido had gone there with no intention of joining any such movement, in fact had never surmised its proposal; nor did he afterwards discover that he had really been tricked. Saigo was extremely anxious to get the tacit if not active support of Kanazawa, and in consequence had at an early day cautioned Kido to lose no chance to cultivate a friendly relation with the lord daimyo. Kido, too, appreciated the benefits necessarily to result from such a policy, could they but secure his friendship, though they failed of an alliance. Being not only a very wise statesman, but an adroit politician, Kido recognised Takara’s relation to Maido’s family and counted the power of woman in matters of state, had she the aptitude and could she be induced to venture. Therefore he used the first opportunity to gratify the mikado’s daughter in her ambition and thus further their cause; though the consequences proved to be far more startling than even he had dared to think.
The reception accorded the lord daimyo upon his arrival at Kyoto pleased him very much, and he felt glad indeed for an opportunity to visit his daughter-in-law. While living at his house in Tokyo she had endeared herself to him, and though he realised Shibusawa’s indifference he may have had some hope that this visit might result in at least a partial reconciliation. He knew that originally the marriage had been a sad mistake, but somehow began to feel that possibly in the end it might resolve itself into a useful if not a happy union. He had finally responded to the invitation with such a thought uppermost in his mind, and without paying any attention to the daimyos’ meeting sought while there to devote himself to Takara.
In fact, he had been present only at the passage of one measure; and then was so engaged by Daikomitsu, who accompanied him and had induced him to attend, that he gained little understanding of what actually took place. Nor did he take a copy of the document, when the final draft was submitted to him, but allowed his supposed friend the privilege, eagerly taken, of placing it hastily in his girdle; afterwards striding off pleasantly, together, toward Takara’s house.
“It is a capital idea,” said the younger man, as they approached the marble doorstep. “I want to have you entertain a more friendly feeling toward our people, if not our cause.”
“I am at peace with all the world,” answered Maido, heartily.
“Then we are already on friendly terms.”
“I trust so.”
“And there is a reason.”
“Maido never betrayed a friend.”
“Nor formed a friendship in vain.”
They had seated themselves in the guests’ hall, at Takara’s invitation, and were enjoying their pipes and tobacco. Neither had spoken a word to break the silence for some time, when suddenly Maido said:
“The document, Daikomitsu. Let us see what these lords and barons have been up to.”
“Oh, some letter of the mikado’s, I believe,” said Daikomitsu, unconcernedly, though he trembled perceptibly as he drew it from his girdle and tossed it toward his companion.
“Some friendly encouragement, I presume.”
“Yes, in relation to the foreigners, I believe.”
“Of course,” said the elder, as he drew a long whiff and sat blowing the smoke through his nostrils.
The lord daimyo paid no heed to the—as he supposed innocent—document which lay at his side, but continued the conversation as if he preferred more to hear his friend’s explanation.
Presently Takara came in and seated herself at her father-in-law’s side. Thereat the subject of conversation changed and Maido picked up the dainty roll of paper and tossing it at Takara told her to take care of it until he should want it. She caught it and after a while, when the men were occupied, carelessly unrolled it, and read from beginning to end. As she did this Daikomitsu watched her closely; he twitched nervously and coloured noticeably, though taking care not to attract Maido’s attention.
Takara read on without observing either of her audience, and when finished smiled with a sense of satisfaction. Then re-rolling the paper and replacing the dainty silk which held it, she tucked it away in the sleeve of her kimono.
The measure in question was nothing more than the endorsement of a letter which purported to have been written by the mikado, addressed to the daimyos there assembled, individually and collectively. The endorsement was in the nature of a resolution passed in open assembly, only by the assent of the daimyos; a copy of the letter and resolution, bearing all their names, having been handed to each, his silence being deemed a sufficient approval. The letter recommended that they consult with certain leaders of the bakufu, at Tokyo and elsewhere, named therein at the instance of Daikomitsu, and that they organise a movement to drive out the foreigners and thereby satisfy the demands of the people and restore peace in the land. As a precaution against being found out by the powers at Tokyo, no extra copies were issued, and none not liable, excepting only Daikomitsu, had been allowed to be present.
Takara and her company continued to sit until presently the conversation drifted to things of interest about her home life; whereupon she proposed they stroll through the gardens and enjoy the early cherry blossoms. To this the men agreed, and she courtesied and retired to her own apartments to make ready for the walk.
Entering her own chamber Takara took the document from her sleeve and hastily placing it in a lacquered chest carelessly dropped the lid with a loud report. Turning quickly around, she observed that she had not closed after her the partitions and that Daikomitsu could have seen her, though he had turned his face and was not then looking. Closing her room she proceeded with her toilet, soon after joining again the party, all of whom strolled out into the garden.
They had not been there long, however, before Daikomitsu excused himself and went away, failing to come back again; and when Takara returned to her room she did not remember to look for the paper which she had secreted in her toilet case. In fact, it had entirely escaped her, and she also failed to think of it when Maido later on prepared to take his departure; nor did she afterwards call it to mind, until too late.
Daikomitsu had watched her, and from the closing of the lid knew just where to look for the copy of the letter and resolution; and upon excusing himself in the garden, stole to her room, and taking the instrument gave it to a waiting messenger, who bore it directly to Ikamon. It proved to be Daikomitsu’s golden opportunity, and he grasped it eagerly and effectively. He had in one act proved his loyalty to Ikamon and laid open the way to success, for which he had become eager and in his own easy way sagacious.
Such a sweeping disclosure as this purported to be, though Ikamon had had a thorough understanding with Daikomitsu before the latter’s departure for Kyoto, could hardly have been so soon expected. The prime minister’s self-constituted spy had promised something interesting; but that he should forthwith be able to return an official document implicating so large a number of powerful daimyos—including his own father-in-law and nearly thirty of the bakufu of his own city—in a plot that threatened his own safety and endangered the shogunate, was beyond his comprehension. At first he was dumfoundered, but having fought his way thus far he did not propose to be outwitted. So he pondered the situation over night and the next morning called Jigokumon, keeper of the torments, and questioned him about the capacity of the dungeons. Then he said to him:
“Make ready the cellar of torture, and see to it that the slow fires are well kindled and the red light plentiful, and that the sulphur pots are all filled afresh. Be careful lest there be one among your lackeys who betrays you, for Jigokumon shall suffer the consequences.”
Then he began preparing a list of the condemned; taking particular pains to include all of the bakufu whose names appeared in the letter supplied through Daikomitsu, and as many of the daimyos as he thought it practicable to arrest without warlike resistance. In all there were thirty daimyos and twenty-seven bakufu. For these he issued a warrant in the name of the shogun, commanding the officer of the guard forthwith to bring their bodies before the law, that they might be judged as to their disloyalty, the crime charged. Having duly issued and delivered the writ, his reflections grew, until finally the enormity of the situation had so fixed itself upon his susceptive nature that no punishment seemed severe enough to fit the case.
At first he inclined toward excusing Maido, but upon reflection changed his mind and left his name upon the list; and as time went on and he dwelt upon the matter he conjured up the most hearty distrust of his father-in-law, and finally in his own mind ranked him the most dangerous enemy of them all. He said to himself:
“I can now understand why the daimyo wished to withdraw from the capital. How I was led into letting him go! A swifter vengeance could not have been less deserved.”
The quickness of Ikamon’s discovery of the plot and the suddenness with which he acted so startled them and overcame opposition that not one escaped; but all were promptly arrested and thrown into Ikamon’s dungeon, where they remained stunned and overwhelmed, awaiting their doom. Probably the most heart-broken and puzzled of the many was Maido, for he had no inkling of such a thing and certainly knew of no reason why he should be so treated; though high-handed proceedings were not at all uncommon even in that late day.
At first he inclined toward treating the whole matter as a joke, and finally upon his departure told Shibusawa that he should not remain a martyr, but would return a Maido.
“I trust so,” said the doubtful son, as they saluted a last farewell and the father started off, all fettered and bound.
Maido did not deign to think that anything more than some trivial misunderstanding had arisen, and that upon his arrival at Tokyo everything would be satisfactorily explained and he would be accounted the abused rather than condemned as accused. Shibusawa had less confidence in Ikamon and was more doubtful, still he did not believe anything serious would come of it, otherwise he would have resisted the arrest. In talking the matter over with his son, before being carried away, Maido recalled the fact of having left with Takara the only bit of evidence he had received of his participation in the daimyos’ meeting. He remembered having given her the document after talking it over with Daikomitsu, and said:
“I will ask for it, and Takara will send it forthwith to Tokyo. It sets forth all that to which I am a party, and will be a complete vindication. Daikomitsu knows its contents, and it could not be in safer hands than Takara’s.”
“I do not too much like Daikomitsu,” said Shibusawa anxiously. “He is profuse, and has a purpose.”
“Even so, Takara can be trusted. Do you know, I believe my presence was desired more by her than the mikado? And really she is a grand woman. I trust you will know more of her, and it is my hope that you may like her better. She desires it, I fancy.”
After Maido’s departure, Shibusawa recalled the circumstance and felt much annoyed at the part Daikomitsu had played in connection with his father’s presence at Kyoto. He had come to know his wife’s former lover very well from his repeated visits to Kanazawa in the winter, and was not much impressed with his sincerity. He had also gathered the impression that the apparent dullard had far greater ambitions than generally accredited, and felt suspicious of the close relation that seemed still to exist between Daikomitsu and Takara.
In his limited acquaintance with his wife Shibusawa had formed the impression that she was rather a clever woman, and now that she too appeared recently to have taken much interest in Maido, and gained possession of his only evidence of vindication, he could not resist connecting the two and believing them implicated in some plot to embarrass his aged father, if not to be rid of him entirely. He did not like the look of the situation, and the more he studied the darker it grew.