II
It is one thing in Japan to make a bargain; it is another and far more difficult thing to secure its fulfilment. Though by no means infatuated with O Maru, Beauregard had been touched by her devotion and amused by her simplicity. What seemed to him certain was that he had merely to send word to Ishinomaki, and the faithful girl would fly to his side. But this showed his utter ignorance of Japanese character and methods of procedure. Before the two were reunited, an interchange of six letters and thirteen telegrams, spread over six weeks, taught him some useful lessons touching the unimportance of time and the futility of haste.
About ten days after our return to the capital, he wrote a long letter to the Asano-ya, in which he offered to take O Maru with him for two or three months if her uncle made no objection, and enclosed several yen for travelling expenses. Four days passed and brought no reply. Then he wired: “Have you received money? When are you coming?” and was somewhat pacified by the answer: “Money received; will come soon.” His knowledge of the language was not then fixed, or he would have found little consolation in the treacherous words, sono uchi, soon. Another two days and the uncle sent a very polite letter to the following effect. They had all been much honoured by the honourable stranger’s presence in their humble home, and thanked him for his great kindness to O Maru. She would very much like to travel with so distinguished and noble-hearted a person, nor had he, the uncle, any objection to her doing so. But he would like to call august attention to the fact that he had an adopted son who wished to learn French and would make an excellent guide, if permitted to join the party. He hoped the proposal would commend itself to so kind a friend of the family as Borega Sama had shown himself to be. Instead of pleasing “Borega Sama,” this offer to include an “adopted son” in the compact distinctly frightened him. He knew cases of Europeans who had been led by liking for a native girl to burden themselves with her incalculable relations, but he did not consider that a trip of two months should be encumbered by any such superfluous attendants. So he wrote a courteous refusal. By this time the vagueness of sono uchi preyed on his intelligence, and, when its elasticity stretched to eight days, he wired once more: “What do you mean by sono uchi? When will you come?” And the answer appeased him: “Will come before the end of the month.” But the end of the month brought a second most affable letter from the host of the Asano-ya, in which he expressed his intense anxiety to oblige the honourable stranger in every possible way, but it so happened that just at that time O Maru could not be spared, as his humble house was full of reverend pilgrims on their way to Kinkwa-zan, the golden-flower mountain, and these monopolised her services. He therefore would send back the money which Borega Sama had so kindly placed at her disposal, unless he would wait a few weeks longer, when she could join him, as the time of pilgrimage would be over. We both regarded this letter as a polite intimation that the incident was closed. Either O Maru had misled her friend when she assured him that her uncle wished her to take the opportunity of travelling with a “noble-hearted person,” or the old man had formed other plans for his niece’s future which did not concern us. In either case Borega Sama resolved to finish the matter. He wrote briefly but plainly, being a little sore at so much tergiversation, that he had no wish to inconvenience any of his kind friends at Ishinomaki, whom he should always remember with grateful pleasure, and, if he ever returned to Sendai, would revisit them. Then he turned his attention to prints and curios.
Many circumstances render the collector’s life particularly exciting at the present time. Good finds become scarcer every year; the chief dealers in Tōkyō and Kyōto send their agents not only all over Japan, but also to Europe in the hope of redeeming lost treasures. Sometimes an old family or impoverished temple is compelled by misfortune to part with the works of old masters; sometimes the new masters of the art of forgery palm off surprising imitations which deceive even the elect. The jealousy of rival collectors, the artifices of rival dealers, the uncertainty of losing by one purchase what you gain through another—all these aspects of the game render it quite as amusing as other forms of speculation. To Beauregard the beauty of his favourite designs naturally outweighed their commercial value, but it was impossible to escape the fury of competition which disturbed the attaché in his bureau and the professor in his study. Every morning Minami San or Ohara San appeared with a stock of tempting pictures, and as they perfectly understood the art of playing off one buyer against another, you often paid too high a price or delayed decision until a bolder and perhaps more foolish gudgeon took the bait. Minami San was a thin, melancholy man, with carefully plaistered hair and irreproachable attire. He had the air of letting things go at an appalling sacrifice, so that at times you almost hesitated to haggle with him. He seemed too gentle for his trade. But Ohara San roused defiance and inspired respect. He was an obese, jolly man of shrewd capacity. As he sat on your floor drinking tea or taking snuff, his patience and persistence were admirable. He interspersed the bargaining with merry anecdotes and jovial information, as though he rather sought your company than your cash, but nothing escaped his twinkling eye, and, when a hasty covetous glance of the would-be purchaser revealed a preference, the wily merchant refused all abatement of price. He was of coarser grain than Minami, who, when Beauregard left the country, presented him with a very good Kunisada, as a polite acknowledgment of his many purchases. But Ohara lent him for a few days an extremely rare series of pornographic designs by Utamaro, and reclaimed them on the morning of his departure.
One morning Ohara was unrolling a very spirited makimono, copied from Keion’s “Flight of the Court,” and giving a vivid representation of military pageant in the fourteenth century. As the original is, of course, not to be bought, we were on the point of arranging terms, when the hotel-boy entered and handed a telegram to Beauregard: “I have run away. What shall I do? Reply Saito Hotel, Shiogama. Maru.” His first impulse was to reply “Come at once,” for the unexplained opposition had increased his desire to make a settlement, but, on second thoughts, the consideration for women, which I had already remarked as a kindly trait in his character, prompted this unkind response: “Go home; do not come to Tōkyō; will write.” The letter took the sting from the telegram, for he explained how foolish it would be to leave home without her family’s consent, as it might well happen in such a case that when he returned to France Maru’s uncle might refuse to take her back. He repeated that, unless she could be spared (and of course he would recompense the hotel-keeper for loss of service), their proposed trip must be abandoned. So, the futile colloquy along the wires began again. Two days after: “All right at home. Am coming soon (sono uchi). Reply.” But this time the student of Japanese was not to be put off with sono uchi. He replied: “Come by first train to-morrow, or not at all. Am leaving Tōkyō.” As a matter of fact, he was going to Kose, while I was due at Ikao, and we should travel together as far as Karuizawa. Late the following evening, after spending the whole day in the theatre, he was handed a telegram by the hotel manager, who had not thought it his duty to send direct to the Kabuki-za, in which were these words: “I have missed the train. Box at station. Reply. Maru.” Then the Frenchman lost his temper. He was quite incapable of playing the Oriental game of patience, and preferred to throw up the cards. This reply, brutal in its brevity, was flashed to poor Maru: “Too late. Do not come.”
I had been at Ikao a fortnight, and absorbed by new acquaintances, was beginning to forget the very existence of O Maru San, when a long letter from Kose conveyed the surprising intelligence that she had at last joined Beauregard in that pretty little mountain village. Soon after arriving he had been caught in a violent storm on the slopes of Asama-yama, and had contracted severe rheumatism. Unable to walk much and feeling rather lonely, he wrote finally to Ishinomaki, stating that, if she cared to travel so far and become his companion for the remaining month and a half of his stay, he would make all ready for her reception. But, he added, her decision must be prompt and definite. A third and last letter reached him from the Asano-ya. “My niece,” wrote the old man, “would like nothing better than to accept your kind proposal. But in the town of Ishinomaki an alliance between an honourable stranger and a humble Japanese girl is looked upon with disfavour. How is it in Kose?” A final telegram—“No difficulties here. If you come, what train?”—evoked the answer: “Start by eight o’clock train to-night.” And to his great astonishment she kept her word. One afternoon he saw a horse, bearing two bundles tied to a high saddle, of the protective sort which is used for children in England when they ride donkeys, ascending the glen from Yunosawa. Rain had made the path impossible for rickshaws. One bundle was O Maru, the other her luggage. She had never been on a horse before, and had never taken such a long journey alone by train, but, after two days’ travelling in the hottest part of August, there she was, smiling and looking very happy at the sight of Borega Sama. Little by little he discovered the reasons of so many delays and prevarications. The landlord, who had at first advised her coming, had been dissuaded by some acquaintances of the Norwegian skipper, who urged that, if she waited for the latter’s return, it would be more to her advantage, since he might take her for several voyages and make a longer contract with the family than the French tourist cared to entertain. Then she had “run away,” but only to her aunt, who was an ex-geisha and gave dancing lessons at Shiogama. At last, as no more news was heard of the Scandinavian suitor, she received permission to follow her own inclination; and, though the journey had presented many terrors, she came, armed with an o mamori (amulet) of Watazumi-no-Mikoto, and, thanks to the care of that potent deity, attained the goal of her long-thwarted desire.