After a while they had said their say and, leaning back on the rustic moulding, contented themselves with looking out at the shadows falling across the mirrored lake from the tall cypress standing on the bank. Presently Takara broke the silence by saying:
Let us call the geishas; the water is so still and the day suggestive. What do you say, Tetsutaisho?
A happy thought. And what shall it be?
I have but one choice.
The ancient dance?
Yes; No.
Tetsutaisho called and despatched a servant to the shibai (house of entertainment) for Michizane, the lover of the plum and poet to Takara, who came forthwith and bowed, and then stood by, waiting to be directed. Tetsutaisho first spoke, saying:
Michizane, your lady would have you provide some entertainment before the sun is set. She herself will suggest the kind.
Yes, Michizane, said she. Let it be no, the dance of our fathers; then, if you like, a poem.
Michizane bowed and departed, though not with a happy expression. Since her early childhood this old man had faithfully provided Takara with innocent amusement, which service, since his ladys marriage to Shibusawa, consisted chiefly in reading to her poems of his own creation. She had brought him along from Kyoto as a necessary part of her household effects, all of which belonged to an age or a school not of the shoguns. He was now a veteran of sixty years, and little calculated to compose in a vein suited to his fair ladys taste, except it be not when Tetsutaisho was so near by.