Within the palace Nijo all wore the garb of Europe,—the thick, sticking, heavy cloth of man, and the tight, suffocating dress of woman. The gentleman of fashion and means, at this time, possessed two residences, a town and country place,—sometimes several of the latter.
In Tokyo foreign life and foreign dress ruled supreme at court, save, possibly, within the secret privacy of chambers, when heated men and panting women flung aside their Western garb, and, sighing breaths of eased relief, slipped on the soft and cool hakama or kimono.
Junzo, the artist of Kamakura, had no difficulty in gaining ingress to the palace, for the guards, some of them late from Komatzu, recognized him, and thought him possibly still a member of the household. It was late afternoon when he walked with down-bent head along the broad and gravelled pathway which led to the green lawn of the palace Nijo.
It was two months since Junzo had left his home in Kamakura, and, following the cortège of Princess Sado-ko, had come to Tokyo. There, during this time, he had wandered aimlessly about the city, trying to conquer the mad longing within him to see once again this princess. But his passion was stronger than himself, and now it had mastered him.
A servant, clad in modern livery, smiled behind his hand as the artist slipped his shoes off at the door; but Junzo, usually so quick to take offence at insolence, did not notice this new disdain of an old and honorable habit. He handed a letter and his card to the attendant, who, becoming more respectful, bowed his head to the level of Junzo’s knees and ushered him with ceremony into a reception room.
The artist did not see the odd furnishing of the room, the plush upholstered chairs, the cabinets, the pictures in heavy gilt frames nailed to the light frame of shoji walls. His head bowed, his hands clasped behind him, Junzo walked up and down the apartment, while through his soul coursed the longing of his letter.
“Sado-ko! I will not call you princess, for this you have commanded me I must not do. I will call you Sado-ko—sweet Sado-ko! I come a mendicant to your august father’s house, hungering for the sight of your dear face. I famish for the touch of your beloved hands, and cannot live for longing for your voice. And so, in beggar-wise, I come, beseeching you to see me for the space of one short hour again, to speak to me, to let me touch the hem of your kimono. Or if I ask too much, my Sado-ko, then let me once but look upon your face again, even though I may not speak to you, nor hear your voice. That night when, in the bamboo grove, we kept the tryst, I watched you pass from out my life with one whose name I cannot even write. The blackness of my fate closed down upon me then, blinding me to all light of earth or sky. For days, for nights, I wandered about the streets of Tokyo. I could not eat, nor sleep, nor think. I barely lived. My brain was scorched with but one name—my Sado-ko, my lotos maiden, my goddess of the sun! My father sent to seek me in the capital. But I was waiting there for you. Then rumor somehow pierced the gloom of my dark mind. It was said that you had gone to Kamakura, and would not come to Tokyo. It was my own dear home as well, and there I hastened, Sado-ko. They thought—my parents—that I came home at their solicitation. But no! I wandered by your palace walls. My fevered mind dreamed only of the time when chance might give me passing sight of you. Then one black night I heard you journeying from out the gate. I touched your norimono, and in the night I cried your name aloud; but, oh, alas! though I would have heard a whisper from your lips, you did not answer me—you made no sign, O Princess! Since then, in bitterness of spirit, I have lingered here in Tokyo, sometimes with harsh thoughts upon our love, but longing all the time for sight of you—for one small glimpse! ‘As beat the restless waves on Biwa’s strand,’ so does my heart break for Sado-ko!”
A maid of honor, holding her long silken train across her arm, came down the wide stairway (a modern importation) of the Nijo palace, trailed her noisy skirt of taffeta across the hall, and paused within the doorway of the reception room.
She stood a moment without speaking, staring with baleful eyes at the bent head of the artist. Then she spoke softly, and with clearness.
“Good day, Sir Artist. It is an unexpected pleasure to see once more your august countenance.”