The giving of a geisha party such as Ikamon proposed involved no small amount of preparation and entailed much thought and care, yet when the “Harvest Moon” came—for that was the time selected—everything had been gotten in readiness, and Maido and his family occupied their booth, surrounded by all that luxury and refinement could offer to still the cares of man. Shibusawa entered into the spirit of the occasion with every possible determination to do his part, but down in his heart there lived a yearning, and with each repeated failure came a corresponding hope for Kinsan. He had sought her long and earnestly, and now grasped at each straw. “Would she, could she be there that night?”

The young prince could not avoid facing Takara, who sat to his left, across the big auditorium, and each look from her burned into him a still deeper sense of his ingratitude. Tetsutaisho occupied an adjoining booth, and no color in Shibusawa’s cheek escaped his eye. An inner consciousness smote him, and he looked out into the brilliant scene before him for relief.

And as he became transported, that subtile, elusive something seemed all but there, for the geisha party, the universal and proper form, probably fits the case quite as well as any other opera or means devised for the diversion of mankind. Here, in ancient Japan, it is the very acme of united, contributive art, and whether the affair be a small or a grand one matters not; the ever festive and elastic geisha meets the emergency. If but the modest return of a chance relation, whereupon the trifling consequences of a happy trade in jack-knives is discussed, or if it be the social fÊte, where the destinies of a monarch are framed and harangued, the geisha party is the occasion, and it stands for all that opportunity may or can require. No demand can be too exacting, no hope too flattering. It paves the way to good-fellowship, and inspires the heart to nobler deeds. Ikamon chose it as a means for bringing together the best in the land, and he used it as an instrument to touch them, to sway and move them.

The matter of finding a suitable place had worried him, and going in person to all of the noted tea houses, one after another, he discarded them as being inadequate or impracticable. Ryogoku, Tsukiji, Asakusa, and others in turn were visited, and none offered suitable accommodation. His wants were exacting, and as he went from place to place his imagination grew and requirements multiplied beyond all hope of fulfilment.

Uyeno pleased him most; here he found at least an ideal spot, endowed by nature with all that is lofty and inspiring. The spacious park lay upon a gently sloping hillside, terminating in a high promontory, jutting out over the nestling roof tops far below. From the quiet of its level there stretched away to the right, to the left, and in front, a million earnest, faithful homes. The glistening, silvered waters in the distance had again and again marked the stately course of the splendid “Harvest Moon” in her onward march with time, while from the background came the breathless hush of the forest, the silent mysteries of the gloom, the awakening of the spirit world. He returned to it a second and a third time, studied the situation at its best, then decided.

“The ‘Harvest Moon’ is the time,” said he, with ecstasy, “and the shogun’s command will amply build the playhouse. I shall begin without delay.”

The prime minister returned to his home much pleased with himself and fully satisfied with his opportunities. True, the allotted few weeks were a short time, but what mattered that when he had only to advise and the scene of his intended activities would swarm with a myriad of workers. And then the applause for its doing!—for Ikamon loved gain, and he knew of no surer means than the approval of his countrymen. He said to himself:

“There have been geisha parties before, other fÊtes of note, but it is now Ikamon’s turn. Why not only outstrip the past, but anticipate the future?”

In consequence the necessary work was begun and the party launched by the most sweeping and unheard of orders. As in the matter of construction, the invitations had been issued under order of the shogun, and no royal personage or noble blood of the sex was overlooked or neglected. Messengers despatched in every direction had set moving long before the harvest moon had risen many gorgeous trains; for no host or guest in that land was held in better esteem than Maido, the lord daimyo of Kanazawa. They came from north and south, from the loyal and the opposition, from kuge and bakufu.[14] All were his friends, and none would miss an opportunity to enjoy the hospitality that flowed from the shogun’s seat like balm in Gilead or wine from a Circean cup.

They came, and when they had arrived they beheld the grandest spectacle that they had ever known. Many thousands had laboured hard to set the scene and perfect the play. Early in its inception Ikamon had instructed Tetsutaisho as to his portion; whereupon the responsive commander constructed around the plot of a hundred acres a living wall, in which each stone was a trained soldier and every picket a sharpened steel.

Such a massing of troops had never before been seen, and Tetsutaisho had not only girdled the festive place with a brilliant setting, but taught those lords and barons a lesson in fanciful show that convinced them of the shogun’s effective strength. The human fence ended only at either side of the promontory, whereat gates were placed, over which a thousand blades stood guard. No force could pass that barrier. To them it seemed insurmountable from without and impenetrable from within.

Within the cordon of militia, however, the real wonders of the place began to unfold. Passing through the gate the guests were taken in hand and ushered along down the lines of dazzling soldiery toward the lower end of the park, where stood a dark, dense forest. Here they suddenly left the bright lights behind and were made to grope their way through the woods to the yawning entrance of an underground cave. Thence through its gloomy caverns beset with all the horrors of an imagined hades they hurried until they had finally emerged into the brilliant lights of the grand auditorium.

On the left side of the entrance was the mikado’s booth, and on the right the shogun’s: neither was better or grander than the other, but both were covered with gorgeous brocades of maple leaves and banked with solid walls of chrysanthemums. Coloured lanterns hung between the pillars in front, and open windows looked out at the back upon the city below. From the two gala booths in the centre, the royal booths stretched out on either side, skirting the brow of the hill, in the shape of a crescent, graduating in size to correspond to the several grades of nobility. To the stage in front alternate beds of flowers and open boxes, with here and there a mat-covered aisle, occupied the space. The boxes were laid with soft mats and lined with silk, while the booths were made of gold or black lacquer, with tiger or leopard skins on the floor, as suited the rank of the occupant.

Shibusawa looked out under the high roof, with its thousand-tinted, leaf-covered cone, emblazoned with dazzling lights and brilliant foliage, at the red-lacquered stage, festooned with wisteria and lined with the beautiful bell-shaped asagao. The guests were already seated in their flowing robes of silk and purple amid garlands of flowers and booths of gold, and the players began to make their appearance.

Three hundred geisha singers dressed in flaming uniforms, wearing costly jewels in their hair, came first, seating themselves in three rows across the front of the stage, with the samisens[15] first, the kokyus[16] next, and the kotos last. Next after these came nine hundred geisha dancers, who ranked in lines at both sides and at the rear of the stage. After them one hundred geisha singers, whose simple coiffures and freedom from ornamentation bespoke their purity, came in and grouped themselves in the centre of the stage. All held themselves in readiness to begin the play. Presently the music began in faint, weird strains, and as the time quickened the dancers began to sway, and as the pitch rose the singers began to chant; and when all seemed a living, moving, sounding picture, the ranks parted and down between them softly stepped a maiden whose charm and ease of manner made breathless the waiting listeners.

As she approached the centre of the stage, the music lowered, the dancers slowed, and the singers gradually stopped; then her voice began its soft, enchanting notes. Every man leaned forward speechless; and as she sang her song of love they were thrilled with the wondrous message of her heart. In that vast audience there was one who understood the language of her pathos, who communed with her soul.

It was Shibusawa; and not words, but actions revealed the secret of his feelings. He sat in his booth, leaning over, and silent. He did not grieve, nor exult, but sat there a dweller in another world. It was one from the spirit land with whom he spoke. She told him she loved him; her voice, not words carried the message, spoke the language of her soul. He listened, and when the farewell came would have gone to her, thrown himself at her feet, had not his strength failed him. He hesitated, and upon regaining his composure Kinsan had gone—he knew not where.

Tetsutaisho sat near Shibusawa, and he too felt the force of her great melody, and knew that some inward action moved her. He had long before guessed her secret, and Shibusawa’s strange emotion now impressed him. Instinctively connecting the two, though holding his own counsel, he knew from that day who his rival was, and he felt that her song had won for her its reward. He chided himself for having yielded to Ikamon’s entreaty, and wished that he had denied even his best friend the favour of her loan. It was now too late. The mistake had been made beyond rectifying.

Kinsan had not observed Shibusawa, or at least did not distinguish him in the audience, but sang purely and simply from her heart. No incentive moved her, nor did she heed the elegance, or feel the great honour she had gained. She was conscious of only one, and in another world poured out her soul’s desire; and thus without being aware of it brought to her feet the noble, royal sons of a nation, made them her slaves, and went forth from that scene the most famed of her sex.

Thenceforth it was “Kinsan, The Nightingale,” and she bore well the sobriquet.