舞踏会 English

I

It was the night of November 3rd, the nineteenth year of Meiji.

Akiko, the young daughter of the Ke family—who was seventeen at the time—climbed the staircase of the Rokumeikan, where that evening's ball was to be held, accompanied by her balding father.

On either side of the broad staircase, lit by the bright gas lamps, great chrysanthemums of an almost artificial perfection formed three successive hedgerows.

The innermost row bore blossoms of a faint crimson, the middle row a deep yellow, and the foremost scattered its pure white petals in loose, tassel-like disarray.

And from where those chrysanthemum hedgerows ended—from the ballroom at the top of the stairs—the sound of lively orchestral music already poured down without pause, like the breath of an irrepressible joy.

Akiko had long since received instruction in French and in dancing.

Yet attending a formal ball was something she was doing for the very first time in her life.

So even in the carriage, when her father spoke to her from time to time, she gave only distracted, vague replies.

Her heart was so thoroughly held in the grip of a certain restless feeling—something that might be called a pleasant unease—that it could take root nowhere.

She could not have counted how many times, before the carriage came to a stop in front of the Rokumeikan, she raised impatient eyes to gaze at the sparse lights of the Tokyo streets flowing past outside the window.

But once inside the Rokumeikan, she soon encountered something that made her forget that unease.

Namely, when they had reached about the middle of the staircase, the two of them caught up with a Chinese dignitary who had gone up a step ahead.

The dignitary opened his portly frame to let the two pass ahead of him, and as he did, he cast a look of astonishment toward Akiko.

Her fresh rose-colored ball gown, the pale blue ribbon tastefully draped at her neck, the single rose fragrant in her thick dark hair—indeed, Akiko's appearance that evening embodied the beauty of a girl of enlightened Japan in full measure, enough to startle even this Chinese dignitary with his long queue hanging down his back.

And then a young Japanese man in a tailcoat who was hurrying down the stairs in the opposite direction—passing the two of them on his way—reflexively turned back for a brief glance and cast a similarly astonished look at Akiko's retreating figure.

Then, as if something had occurred to him, he reached up to touch his white necktie, and went back down through the chrysanthemums toward the entrance in haste.

When the two had reached the top of the stairs, at the entrance to the second-floor ballroom the host—an earl with a half-gray beard, several decorations on his breast—stood together with an older countess splendidly attired in the Louis XV style, receiving guests with grand ease.

Akiko did not miss that even this earl, worldly and crafty as he appeared, showed for one fleeting instant a flash of innocent admiration cross some part of his face when he saw her.

Akiko's good-natured father, with a pleased smile on his face, gave a brief introduction of his daughter to the earl and his wife.

She tasted shyness and pride in alternating waves.

Yet even amid that, she had enough presence of mind to detect a touch of vulgarity somewhere in the haughty countess's features.

Inside the ballroom too, chrysanthemums bloomed in vivid profusion everywhere.

And everywhere too, amid the fresh scent of perfume, the lace, flowers, and ivory fans of ladies awaiting their partners moved like a soundless wave.

Akiko soon parted from her father and joined a group of those resplendently dressed ladies.

They were all young women of about the same age, wearing ball gowns of similar pale blue and rose.

When they welcomed her into their circle, they twittered like birds and vied with one another to praise how beautiful she looked that evening.

But no sooner had she entered their company than an unknown French naval officer quietly approached from somewhere.

Keeping both arms at his sides, he bowed politely in the Japanese manner.

Akiko felt, faintly, the color rise to her cheeks.

But what that bow signified was plain without asking.

So she turned to the young woman in the pale blue ball gown standing beside her, to ask her to hold her fan.

And at that same moment, unexpectedly, the French naval officer—a flicker of a smile crossing his cheek—spoke clearly to her in Japanese bearing a strange accent.

"Would you not care to dance with me?"

Before long, Akiko was dancing a waltz of "The Beautiful Blue Danube"

with that French naval officer.

Her partner was a man with sun-bronzed cheeks, sharp, well-defined features, and a thick mustache.

She was rather too short to rest her long-gloved hand on his left shoulder as they danced.

But the seasoned naval officer managed her skillfully and glided lightly through the crowd.

From time to time he even whispered pleasant French compliments in her ear.

Answering those gentle words with a bashful smile, she occasionally cast her eyes around the ballroom where they were dancing.

Beneath the purple crepe curtain bearing the imperial chrysanthemum crest, and beneath the Chinese national flag with a blue dragon arching its body with claws extended, vases of chrysanthemums flickered among the throngs—some with a light, silvery gleam, others with a somber gold.

And that human tide, swept by the wind of a brilliant German orchestral melody that bubbled up like champagne, never ceased its dizzying surge.

When Akiko caught the eye of one of her friends who was also dancing, they exchanged cheerful nods in the midst of it all.

But in that same instant, other dancers had already appeared from somewhere, whirling about like great moths in a frenzy.

Yet through it all Akiko was aware that her French naval officer partner kept his eyes upon her every movement.

It was a clear sign of how much this foreigner, still unaccustomed to Japan, was fascinated by the vivacity of her dancing.

Could even such a beautiful young lady be living like a doll inside a house of paper and bamboo?

And might she be picking up grains of rice with thin metal chopsticks from a palm-sized bowl painted with blue flowers?—

Questions such as these seemed to pass through his eyes again and again, accompanied by a friendly smile.

Akiko found it both amusing and, at the same time, a matter of pride.

And so her slender rose-colored dancing slippers glided ever more lightly over the smooth floor each time his curious gaze happened to drop toward her feet.

But presently the officer seemed to notice that this kitten-like young lady was growing tired, and peering solicitously into her face, he asked,

"Shall we continue dancing?"

"Non, merci."

Akiko answered, a little breathless, this time in plain terms.

The French naval officer, still maintaining the waltz step, then guided her smoothly through the waves of lace and flowers swaying all around them toward a vase of chrysanthemums beside the wall.

After one final turn, he seated her gracefully in a chair that stood there, then drew himself up, squaring the chest of his uniform, and bowed again with the same respectful Japanese bow as before.

After dancing a polka and a mazurka as well, Akiko took the French naval officer's arm and descended with him through the triple hedgerow of white, yellow, and pale crimson chrysanthemums to the large room below.

Here, amid a constant stream of tailcoats and bare white shoulders, several tables covered with silverware and glassware were piled high—some with mountains of meat and truffles, some with towers of sandwiches and ice cream, some with pyramids of pomegranates and figs.

On one wall of the room left unadorned by chrysanthemums was a beautiful golden lattice entwined with a skillful artificial grapevine, its leaves a lush green.

Among those vine leaves, clusters of grapes hung in dense purple bunches, one after another.

In front of that golden lattice, Akiko came upon her balding father, standing with a cigar in his mouth beside a gentleman of similar age.

When her father saw Akiko, he gave a brief satisfied nod, then turned back to his companion and resumed puffing his cigar.

The French naval officer went with Akiko to one of the tables, and together they took up spoons of ice cream.

She noticed that even as they ate, her partner's gaze now and then fell on her hands, her hair, and her neck with the pale blue ribbon.

Needless to say, this was not in the least unpleasant for her.

Yet in certain moments she could not help but feel a womanly suspicion flash through her.

And so when a young woman who appeared to be German—a red camellia at her breast on black velvet—passed near the two of them, Akiko invented a remark of admiration to hint at that suspicion.

"Western women are truly so beautiful, are they not."

Hearing this, the naval officer shook his head with unexpected seriousness.

"Japanese women are beautiful too. You especially—"

"Oh, that cannot be so."

"No, I do not flatter you. You could go just as you are to a ball in Paris. Everyone would be astonished. You look like a princess from a painting by Watteau."

Akiko did not know Watteau.

And so the beautiful vision of the past that the naval officer's words had conjured—the vision of a dim forest fountain and wilting roses—had to vanish without a trace after a single instant.

But she, more keenly perceptive than most, did not forget, as she moved her ice cream spoon, to cling to the one remaining thread of conversation.

"I too would love to attend a ball in Paris sometime."

"Ah, but a ball in Paris is exactly the same as this."

As he said this, the naval officer glanced around at the crowd and the chrysanthemums surrounding their table, and a wave of ironic amusement rippled through the depths of his eyes; then he put down his ice cream spoon and added,

"And not only Paris. Balls are the same everywhere."

—almost as if speaking to himself.

An hour later, Akiko and the French naval officer stood arm in arm on the starlit terrace outside the ballroom, together with many other Japanese and foreign guests.

Beyond the terrace railing, conifers filling the wide garden stood with their branches quietly interlaced, their treetops punctuated with the glowing light of Chinese lanterns.

And in the depths of the cool air, the smell of moss and fallen leaves rising from the garden below seemed to carry a faint, lonely breath of autumn.

But in the ballroom just behind them, the waves of lace and flowers continued their unceasing surge beneath the purple crepe curtain bearing the sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum crest.

And the whirlwind of the high-pitched orchestra lashed that human sea as relentlessly as ever.

From the terrace too, naturally, a constant stream of lively talk and laughter shook the night air.

Especially when beautiful fireworks rose in the dark sky above the conifers, something close to a collective cry of wonder escaped from everyone's lips.

Akiko, standing among them, had been exchanging easy conversation with the young ladies she knew there.

But when she presently took notice, the French naval officer, still lending her his arm, was gazing in silence at the starlit sky above the garden.

To her it somehow seemed as though he were feeling a kind of homesickness.

So Akiko peered up gently at his face from below and,

"I wonder if you are thinking of your homeland."

—asked him, in a tone half-coaxing.

The naval officer turned quietly toward Akiko, his eyes still holding that same smile.

And instead of saying "Non,"

he shook his head like a child.

"But you do seem to be thinking of something."

"Try to guess what it is."

Just then, among the people gathered on the terrace, a wind-like murmur arose once more.

As if by agreement, Akiko and the naval officer stopped talking and turned their eyes toward the night sky pressing down over the garden's conifers.

There, red and blue fireworks were just about to die out, having burst open in all directions across the darkness.

For some reason Akiko found those fireworks so beautiful they nearly moved her to sadness.

"I was thinking of fireworks. Of fireworks like our vie."

After a moment, the French naval officer looked down at Akiko's face gently and said this in a tone of gentle instruction.

II

It was the autumn of the seventh year of Taisho.

Akiko, now in her mature years, happened to find herself on a train, on her way to a villa in Kamakura, in the company of a young novelist with whom she had a slight acquaintance.

The young man had placed on the luggage rack above them a bouquet of chrysanthemums he was bringing as a gift to an acquaintance in Kamakura.

Seeing the chrysanthemums, the Akiko of those days—now the elderly Madame H—said there was a story the sight of chrysanthemums always brought to her mind, and she proceeded to tell him the memory of the Rokumeikan ball in full detail.

The young man could not but feel the deepest interest in hearing such a recollection from the lips of the very person who had lived it.

When the story was finished, the young man casually asked Madame H this question:

"Madame, do you happen to know the name of that French naval officer?"

Madame H gave an unexpected reply.

"Indeed I do. He was a gentleman by the name of Julien Viaud."

"Then it was Loti—it was Pierre Loti, who wrote Madame Chrysanthème?"

The young man felt a pleasurable excitement.

But Madame H only gazed at the young man's face with a puzzled look and repeated the same words over and over.

"No, he was not a gentleman called Loti. He was a gentleman called Julien Viaud."

(December, Taisho 8)