He looked at the girl, wondering what she was getting out of it. She was entirely absorbed, eyes intent, frowning in thought, perplexity. She shook her head. "No. Come."
They crossed the courtyard, found a path leading behind one of the main buildings and an old, crumbling edifice, rotting, giving forth moldy odor of decay. It led down into a lower stratum of ridges and gullies, slippery flags laid between mounds and hillsides, twisting and turning, with stone stairways, leading upwards, downwards, among thousands of ancient burial plots. Over it all lay the murky shadows of cryptomeria, slashed here and there by bright streaks of pale moonlight. The silence seemed uncannily brooding, ominously oppressive, riven only by spasmodic droning booms from a great brass bell, somewhere deep in the shadows behind them, reverberating shiveringly through the shadows.
It was as if they were enveloped in an atmosphere of the supernatural, as if they had willfully intruded into a realm of ghosts and specters, a scene set for mysterious danse macabre-like rites, rash beings possessed of the ephemeral spark of life of the moment interfering with their puny inconsequential presence in this, the realm of those who had held sway here for centuries.
She had taken his arm; now she was clinging to him closely. He could feel her shivering nervously. The feeling was infectious, crept over him irritatingly. He brought himself together. "Come, you are getting nervous. Let us rest for a moment before going on."
He led her up a stairway leading to the top of a small eminence, an enclosure surrounded by a low stone balustrade, evidently the private burial place of some family of the nobility of remote medieval days. In the open space surrounded on all sides by blackness the illumination seemed almost dazzling, brilliantly white, with a spotlight effect, enhancing the sense of unearthliness, remoteness from the world of material things.
They found a fallen stone pillar and seated themselves. She remained silent, staring out into this spectral ghost world, the fantastic eccentricities of shapes and contours, where everything was black and white only, like a gigantic etching. He, watching her, became absorbed in turn. He was pleased that she fitted into the scene, even into the Oriental setting, a filmy silk shawl lending a kimono-like effect, her great pile of raven hair suggestive of the high Japanese coiffure. Whimsically, out of nowhere, came the idea to him: thank providence, she was not a blonde! It would have spoiled the effect which she was now producing—fine, clear profile, pale features, black hair blending into the picture formed by mass-grown monuments, great carved lanterns, outlined sharply in the suffusion of moonlight.
The whole thing seemed unreal, as if they had found themselves suddenly in a world centuries removed from that in which they usually moved, as if they had become participants in an elfin play, were on the brink of the enacting of something supernatural, some midsummer night's dream fancy, or a dance of specters; as if they might expect momentarily to hear some unseen goblin orchestra strike into an overture of tinkling bluebells, insect violins, bumblebee bassoons, murmur of night wind, leading them, this girl and himself, into some scene of dreamlike phantasy in which they had fortuitously become the main characters.
What a setting for romance! These surroundings, this girl, this wonder of pure, harmonious perfection! Somehow, he felt that it would be impossible to create again this same effect, that it could not be consciously contrived merely by coming to this place any moonlight night with the determination, purposely, of summoning the spell. There came to him a feeling that this could be attained only once in a lifetime, that he was impassively, fatuously failing to seize the immeasurably rare opportunity——
Opportunity for what? He shook himself together. He was becoming moonstruck. After all, this girl—— She did not notice his gaze. It was fascinating to watch her, the infinitely fine play of light in her eyes, her impatient frown in concentration of thoughts which were almost palpable, visible. And yet, what did she think? It occurred that in the same manner he had speculated as to the thoughts which might lurk behind the white brows of Kimiko-san, Sadako-san and the rest. How different they must be; fine, dreamlike, exotic, quaint as might be the ideas of those girls, would not the glamor thereof, the ephemeral delicacy, fade as one became familiar with them, become commonplace, irritatingly trite after wear of years of association? Here, on the other hand, was a brain capable of absorbing the most subtle and evasive expressions of life, existence in its varied manifestations, of shaping them into concrete, lasting form, creative, a mind like one's own, or even more capable, which would grow, develop like an unfolding blossom, presenting ever new beauties and richness in years of life together.