It Happened in Japan

by Baroness Albert d' Anethan

[ [9] The gateway leading to a temple.

"Oh, Heavenly Orb! whose pale but magic light, Sheds liquid glory through the realms of night. Oh, pathless wanderer! whose holy gleam Enshrines the Heavens around with silv'ry beam. Dear to my longing heart thy wondrous ray, Kindling pure thoughts that shun the glaring day. Here while I pensive kneel, gazing above, Thy silver sheen melts wild thoughts into love; And radiant dreams, and hopes and fancies roll In 'wild'ring rapture through my restless soul. Shine on, mild, mystic Moon! aid tears to cease, Through my sad heart shed thy calm light of Peace."

This simple verse was the composition of the English mother he had adored, and the repetition of it, so appropriate to the sweet scene before Stanislas' eyes, tended greatly towards bestowing that repose which till now had eluded his weary yet restless mind.

But the beauty and peace and silence were not to last. A shadow fell across the surface of the moon, and a fitful and mysterious wind wailed from behind the hills. Suddenly, with no previous warning, every cur in every little hamlet from far and near commenced a discordant and incessant barking. Before Stanislas could ask himself what meant this unwelcomed disturbance of the calm night, a premonitory trembling of the wooden verandah on which he stood warned him that all the terrors of an earthquake were before him. There was no time to realise this disagreeable fact before another shock followed the first, more violent and more prolonged, then a third, in which the wood creaking, rose like the waves of the ocean from beneath his feet. Stanislas found himself clinging to the bamboo rails of the verandah, watching with a strange fascination the branches of the sacred cedar waving violently backwards and forwards as if shaken by the force of a tempest, and the red torii beyond, trembling in its balance. The shock continued, each second increasing the violence thereof, till, with a deafening roar, like the roar of the ocean, with one stupendous and prolonged crash, the frail building, sliding from its slight foundations, collapsed like a house of cards! Stanislas remembered no more until he found himself stretched on the ground outside all that now remained of the once picturesque tea-house. A few yards further and he would have been over the cliff. As it was, he was on his feet in a moment, feeling none the worse for his fall, which had been from no great height, and was broken by the heap of stones and rubbish on which he fell.

The house was a mass of ruins. Such indeed, as soon as his somewhat dazed condition allowed him to look around him, seemed to be the melancholy condition of most of the miniature matchbox habitations that three minutes before had stood edging the sea in all their simple and romantic beauty. The torii that he had admired so short a time ago bathed in the calm moonlight, now lay prone on the ground, while half the roof of the little shrine had vanished in a cloud of dust. Only remained the great and ancient cedar to compete against and triumphantly conquer many another revolution of angry nature. This noble tree had survived hundreds of years of earth oscillations and currents, tidal waves and earthquakes, volcanic agencies to which we are told Japan itself owes her very being. Doubtless to the same terrible and disastrous causes, perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps only in the far distant ages to come, will this beautiful fairyland owe her ultimate destruction.

Güldenfeldt's first thought in the chaos that followed was of his young interpreter Suzuki. He shouted his name aloud, but in the din and confusion and the chorus of wails and weepings over lost property--and, alas! in many cases, lost dear ones--his voice was unheard. He knew the boy had been sleeping in the room next to his own, but that little room was now with the rest of the building, heaped on the ground a mass of ruins. Calling on some of the fishermen who were standing by him stupefied by the scene of bitter desolation before them--he tore wildly at the débris of planks and paper and matting piled on the ground, feeling sure that he had but to persevere long enough to find him for whom he searched. In far too short a space of time in lifting a heavy beam of wood, the body of this dear companion of his travels was discovered beneath, motionless and dead. From the first indeed, a presentiment of coming evil had warned Stanislas he would thus find him. The moon, once more unclouded and brilliant, lit up the boy's good-looking face and slim young form. Still resting on his futon there was an expression of such complete peace and happiness on his countenance that for a moment it was indeed difficult not to consider as merely slumbering, this youth hurled thus suddenly into eternity.

De Güldenfeldt raised the burden, so light and delicate in his arms, and pushing away the dark hair from the brow he perceived a deep jagged cut on the temple. That wound in itself was enough to cause instant death. The blood had ceased to flow with the ceasing of the heart-throbs, and as his eyes lingered sadly on the inanimate form within his arm, the tears welled up into de Güldenfeldt's eyes. He had loved this young man born at the Legation, and educated at the French school, the worthy son of a noble Samurai, who himself after the Revolution and on the loss of his fortune, had in years gone-by, been only too grateful to accept the situation of Interpreter at the Swedish Legation. From the first day that Stanislas had held the post of Minister in Japan, this youth, unusually quick and intelligent, had proved not only his companion, but his right hand. He had returned the affection of his master with the fidelity and devotion of his race, had accompanied him in his many travels throughout the country, was an excellent interpreter, and had directed his household with the thoroughness and conscientiousness of an upright and honest man, devoted to his master's interests.

De Güldenfeldt felt that in losing this bright and intelligent companion of many lonely hours, he was losing half himself. "One shall be taken and the other left," he murmured, as unrestrained the tears fell. "Indeed the ways of Providence are strange. Why has this lad, so full of promise and with all before him, been the one taken, while I, a lonely man, with no hold on life, no ties, no inducements to keep me here--am the unfortunate one that is left?"

And the next day during the sad process of cremation, when, after three brief hours, all that was left of this charming companion of years was a handful of ashes and a few splinters of bone, Stanislas, with a feeling of intense loss and desolation, again asked himself that question. Why was he the one whom Providence had chosen to continue the strife?

"No one cares for me, no one wants me," he thought, as he sadly supervised the placing of the ashes in the urn.