บทที่ บทที่ 9 · THE BALL
. THE BALL
I
It was the night of the third day of the eleventh month of the
nineteenth year of Meiji (1886). Akiko, the seventeen-year-old daughter
of the distinguished family of ----, accompanied by her bald-headed
father, climbed the stairs of the Rokumeikan, where the ball that night
was to be held. Great chrysanthemum blossoms, which seemed almost to be
artificial, formed threefold hedges up the sides of the broad, brightly
gas-lighted stairs. The petals of the chrysanthemums, those at the
back pink, those in the middle deep yellow, and those in front pure
white, were all tousled like flag tassels. And near where the banks of
chrysanthemums came to an end, already floated out incessantly from
the ball-room at the top of the stairs lively orchestra music like an
irrepressible sigh of happiness.
Akiko had early been taught to speak French and dance. But to-night
she was going to attend a formal ball for the first time in her life.
Wherefore in the carriage, when her father spoke to her from time to
time, she returned only absent-minded answers. Thus deeply had an
unsettled feeling that may well be defined as a glad uneasiness taken
root in her breast. Till the carriage finally came to a stop in front
of the Rokumeikan, time and again she lifted impatient eyes and gazed
out of the window at the scanty lights of the Tōkyō streets drifting
by outside.
But immediately she entered the Rokumeikan, she experienced that which
made her forget her uneasiness. When half way up the stairs, she and
her father overtook some Chinese officials ascending just ahead of
them. And as the officials separated in their fatness to let them
go ahead, they cast surprised glances at Akiko. In good truth, with
her simple rose-colored ball gown, a light blue ribbon around her
well-formed neck and a single rose exhaling perfume from her dark hair,
Akiko that night was fully possessed of the beauty of the girls of
enlightened Japan, a beauty that might well startle the eyes of these
Chinese officials with their long pigtails hanging down their backs.
And just as she noticed this, a young Japanese in swallow-tails came
hurrying down the steps and, as he passed them, turned his head in a
slight reflex action and likewise gave a glance of surprise after Akiko
as she went on. Then for some reason, as if suddenly having an idea, he
put his hand up to his white necktie and went on hurriedly down through
the chrysanthemums toward the entrance.
When they got to the top of the stairs, at the door of the ball-room
on the second floor they found a count with gray whiskers, who was
the host of the evening, with his chest covered with decorations,
and the countess, older than himself, dressed to the last degree of
perfection in a Louis XV gown, extending a dignified welcome to the
guests of the evening. Akiko did not fail to see the momentary look of
naïve admiration that appeared and faded away somewhere in the crafty
old face even of this count when he saw her. Her good-natured father,
with a happy smile, introduced her briefly to the count and countess.
She experienced a succession of the feelings of shame and pride.
But meanwhile she had just time to notice that there was a touch of
vulgarity in the haughty features of the countess.
In the ball-room, too, chrysanthemums blossomed in beautiful profusion
everywhere. And everywhere the lace and flowers and ivory fans of the
ladies waiting for their partners moved like soundless waves in the
refreshing sweetness of perfume. Akiko soon separated from her father
and joined one of the groups of gorgeous women. They were all girls of
about the same age dressed in similar light blue and rose-colored ball
gowns. When they turned to welcome her, they chirped softly like birds
and spoke with admiration of her beauty that night.
But no sooner had she joined the group than a French naval officer she
had never seen before walked quietly up to her. And with his two arms
hanging down to his knees, he politely made her a Japanese bow. Akiko
was faintly conscious of the blood mounting to her cheeks. But the
meaning of that bow was clear without any asking. So she looked round
at the girl standing beside her in a light blue gown to get her to hold
her fan. As she turned, to her surprise, the French naval officer, with
a smile flitting across his cheek, said distinctly to her in Japanese
with a strange accent,
“Won’t you dance with me?”
In a moment Akiko was dancing the Blue Danube Waltz with the French
naval officer. He had tanned cheeks, clear-cut features and a heavy
mustache. She was too short to reach up and put her long-gloved hand on
the left shoulder of his uniform. But the experienced officer handled
her deftly and danced her lightly through the crowd. And at times he
even whispered amiable flatteries into her ear in French.
Repaying his gentle words with a bashful smile, she looked from time to
time about the ball-room in which they danced. She could see between
the sea of people flashes of curtains of purple silk crape with the
Imperial crest dyed into them, and the gay silver or sober gold of
the chrysanthemums in the vases under Chinese flags on which blue
claw-spread dragons writhed. And the sea of people, stirred up by the
wind of gay melody from the German orchestra that came bubbling over
it like champagne, never stopped for a moment its dizzy commotion.
When she and one of her friends, also dancing, saw each other, they
nodded happily as they went busily by. But at that moment, another
dancer, whirling like a big moth, appeared between them from nowhere in
particular.
But meanwhile, she realized that the naval officer was watching her
every movement. This simply showed how much interest this foreigner,
unaccustomed to Japan, took in her vivacious dancing. Did this
beautiful young lady, too, live like a doll in a house of paper and
bamboo? And with slender metal chopsticks did she pick up grains of
rice out of a teacup as big as the palm of your hand with a blue flower
painted on it and eat them? Such doubts, together with an affectionate
smile, seemed ever and anon to come and go in his eyes. If this was
amusing to Akiko, it was at the same time gratifying. So every time
his surprised gaze fell to her feet, her slender little rose-colored
dancing pumps went sliding the more lightly over the slippery floor.
But finally the officer seemed to notice that this kitten-like young
lady showed signs of fatigue, and peering into her face with kindly
eyes, he asked,
“Shall we go on dancing?”
“_Non, merci_,” said Akiko in excitement, this time clearly.
Then the French naval officer, continuing the steps of the waltz, wove
his way through the waves of lace and flowers moving back and forth and
right and left, and guided her leisurely up to the chrysanthemums in
vases by the wall. And after the last revolution, he seated her neatly
in a chair there and, having once thrown out his chest in his military
uniform, again respectfully made her a deep Japanese bow.
Then after dancing a polka and a mazurka, Akiko took the arm of this
French naval officer and went down the stairs between the walls of
white and yellow and pink chrysanthemums to a large hall.
Here in the midst of swallow-tails and white shoulders moving to and
fro unceasingly, many tables loaded with silver and glass utensils
were piled high with meat and truffles, or pinnacled with towers of
sandwiches and ice-cream, or built up into pyramids of pomegranates
and figs. Especially beautiful was a gilt lattice with skilfully made
artificial grape vines twining their green leaves through it on the
wall at one side of the room above the piled-up chrysanthemums. And
among the leaves, bunches of grapes like wasps’ nests hung in purple
abundance. In front of this gilt lattice, Akiko found her bald-headed
father, with another gentleman of the same age, smoking a cigar. When
he saw her, he nodded slightly with evident satisfaction, and without
taking further notice of her, turned to his companion and went on
smoking.
The French naval officer went to one of the tables with Akiko, and they
began to eat ice-cream. As they ate, she noticed that ever and anon his
eyes were drawn to her hands or her hair or her neck with the light
blue ribbon round it. This did not, of course, make her unhappy. But
at one moment a womanly doubt could not but flash forth in her. Then,
as two young women who looked like Germans went by with red camellias
on their black velvet breasts, in order to hint at this doubt, she
exclaimed,
“Really how beautiful western women are!”
When the naval officer heard this, contrary to her expectation, he
shook his head seriously.
“Japanese women are beautiful, too. Especially you--”
“I’m no such thing.”
“No, I’m not flattering. You could appear at a Parisian ball just as
you are. If you did, everybody would be surprised. For you’re like the
princess in Watteau’s picture.”
Akiko did not know who Watteau was. So the beautiful vision of the past
called up for the naval officer by his words--the vision of a fountain
in a dusky grove and a fading rose--could only disappear without a
trace and be lost. But this girl of unusual sensibility, as she plied
her ice-cream spoon, did not forget to stick to just one more thing she
wanted to speak of.
“I should like to go to a Parisian ball and see what they’re like.”
“No, a Parisian ball is exactly the same as this.”
As he said this, the naval officer looked round at the sea of people
and the chrysanthemums surrounding the table where they stood; then
suddenly, as a cynical smile seemed to move like a little wave in the
depths of his eyes, he put down his ice-cream spoon and added as if
half to himself,
“Not only Paris. Balls are just the same everywhere.”
An hour later, Akiko and the French naval officer stood arm in arm on a
balcony off the ball-room under the starlight with many other Japanese
and foreigners.
Out beyond the balcony railing the pines that covered the extensive
garden stood hushed with their branches interwoven, and here and there
among their twigs shone the lights of little red paper lanterns.
In the bottom of the chilly air the fragrance of the moss and fallen
leaves rising from the garden below seemed to set adrift faintly the
breath of lonely autumn. And in the ball-room behind them, that same
sea of lace and flowers went on ceaselessly moving under the curtains
of purple silk crape with the sixteen petaled chrysanthemums dyed
into them. And still up over the sea of people, the whirlwind of
high-pitched orchestra music mercilessly goaded them on.
Of course from the balcony, too, lively talk and laughter stirred the
night air ceaselessly. More, when beautiful fireworks shot up into the
sky over the pines, a sound almost like a shout came from the throats
of the people on the balcony. Standing in their midst, Akiko had been
exchanging light chit-chat with some young lady friends of hers near
them. But she finally bethought herself, and turning to the French
naval officer, found him with his arm still supporting hers, gazing
silently into the starry sky up over the garden. It seemed to her
somehow that he was experiencing a touch of homesickness. So looking
furtively up into his face, she said half teasingly,
“You’re thinking of your own country, aren’t you?”
Then the naval officer, with a smile in his eyes as always, looked
round at her quietly. And instead of saying “_Non_,” he shook his
head like a child.
“But you seem to be musing on something.”
“Guess what.”
Just then among the people on the veranda arose again for a time a
noise like a wind. As if by agreement, Akiko and the naval officer
stopped talking and looked up into the night sky that pressed down
heavily on the pines of the garden. There a red and blue firework,
throwing its spider legs out against the darkness, was just on the
verge of dying away. To Akiko, for some reason or other, that firework
was so beautiful that it almost made her sad. “I was thinking of
the fireworks. The fireworks, like our lives,” said the French naval
officer, looking gently down into Akiko’s face and speaking as if
teaching her.
II
It was autumn in the seventh year of Taisho (1918). The Akiko of that
time, on her way back to her villa at Kamakura, met by chance on the
train a young novelist with whom she was slightly acquainted. The young
man put a bunch of chrysanthemums which he was taking to a friend in
Kamakura up into the rack. Then Akiko, who was now the elderly Madame
H----, told him that there was a story of which she was always reminded
whenever she saw chrysanthemums and recounted to him in detail her
reminiscences of the ball at the Rokumeikan. He could not but feel a
deep interest when he heard such reminiscences from the mouth of the
woman herself.
When the story was over, he casually asked,
“Madame, do you not know the name of that French naval officer?”
Then old Madame H---- gave him an unexpected answer.
“Of course I do. His name was Julian Viaud.”
“Then it was Loti, wasn’t it? It was Pierre Loti, who wrote ‘Madame
Chrysantheme’, wasn’t it?”
The young man felt an agreeable excitement. But old Madame H---- simply
looked into his face wonderingly and murmured over and over,
“No, his name wasn’t Loti. It was Julian Viaud.”