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Page 9 text:
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Reminiscences of a Japanese Gentleman T is for the young to work, and dare, and sing exultingly of love and war. It is for the old to muse, and dream, and, remembering the burned out fires of youth, to smile sometimes, and sometimes to weep, while youth is too busy with living to care greatly for the tales of old men. 1, who am remembering, am a Japanese gentleman of high rank, painted on a tiny fan of strange and beautiful workmanship. This lady at whose feet I kneel, and ever shall, is she whom I have loved always. I am old, so old. The tiny hands of ladies who have held me have long ago been dust. The tender fragrance of their garments still clings faintly to my now dingy and faded robes, like the vanishing memory of a dream. My face is brown, like a dead leaf, as was that of him who fashioned this fan. ,: Long had he worked, carving the sticks in intricate patterns, bending over his beloved task, in the fading light, till his brown face, furrowed with a thousand wrinkles, almost touched the fragrant wood. Then when he could no longer see, he would tenderly wrap the unfinished fan in a faded silken scarf. On the morrow he would hasten to his low bench and begin again his endless carving. Many have wondered why the exquisite pattern abruptly ceases, and a small part of the fan is unfinished. It is only this: One morning the old man did not rise from his narrow pallet, nor never again, save as he was borne thence by two strange men, who carried him not over gently. That, I judge, is what men call death. Low-browed, evil-looking men came furtively and sought throughout the little hut, and muttered strange curses when they found nothing. From their words, I judged that they had hoped to find treasure hidden by the carver of woods. One discovered the fan and took it with him, in lieu of anything more valuable. It was sold many times, and I saw strange sights and heard strange sounds, many of which I fain would have kept from this dainty lady at whose feet I kneel. Ah I — could you have seen her then, when first I loved her! The raven blackness of her hair, and the delicate flush on her ivory skin, have been dulled and faded by Time, who, forsooth, was jealous of me. But still she smiles on me, and still I worship at her feet. It grieves this lady of the fan, that her garments have lost their pristine richness, but we love each other, so what matter dull robes and faded cheeks ? You, to whom I tell this tale, must needs forgive me for ' tis the way of old men to depart often and far from the path of their narrative. And, moreover, I am but dreaming, and she is much in my dreams. After much passing to and from hands, we came, at length, into the keeping of a fair maiden, daughter of a lord, high in the Mikado ' s service. She was very beauti- ful, and her voice was as sweet as the murmur of the fountains in her father ' s court- yard. She wept much, all alone, and I wondered why, and pitied her greatly. But a woman ' s wit prevails, where often a man ' s wisdom fails, so my dainty sweetheart whispered softly, with tears in her dark eyes, She is in love. I know it. And whe I questioned my sweetheart why she knew, ,SQg atnswereck ec § WL
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Page 10 text:
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® Often, in the warm summer nights, the princess sat on the balcony overlooking the palace gardens, weeping and murmuring to herself, and we gleaned that she was betrothed to a mighty noble, whom she hated. Had 1 not known love myself, I should have thought her very wicked for hating the man of her father ' s choice, for Japanese maidens, as all should, humbly do their father ' s bidding. But I heard, some- times, words of another, for whom she had waited long, and who would rescue her. As she moaned faintly, fearing lest he should not come, my heart well nigh broke for pitying her. How well do I remember one night, of which 1 shall tell you. It was late and the moon had sunk low in the west, and still the maiden sat alone. The summer wind bore strange sweet fragrance of unknown flowers from the garden, whence came faintly the soft music of fountains. As the little grieving princess sat far back in the shadows, the soft notes of a Japanese love song floated up, mingling with the falling of the waters. She started, then I fell to the ground and saw not the scene which followed, but I heard whispered words, and one voice was the deep, tender voice of a man. I know she fled with him, which brought to her, and to her father, and to her kinsmen great reproach, for in the memory of old men such a thing had never yet been done by a Japanese maiden. I have belonged to many, since that night. Tales could I tell of love and of hate, of sacrifice and of treachery. Many times have I cried aloud to save one from cruel betrayal, or death, but my language was not his language, and he went blindly on. I have seen much that is good, and much that is evil; hope and despair ; the rise of men and their downfall, and through it all 1 daily thank the god of inanimate things that I am but the picture of a man ordained to dwell forever on a fan. Ramona Bookwalter, 06. Eng. VII.
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