The Dragon Painter | Page 5

were, before the delicate beauty of her face.
As Mata scolded, the girl nestled back among her quilts, smiling
mischievously. She loved to tease the old dame. "No, nurse," she
protested, "that cannot be. The baku feeds on evil dreams alone, and
this was not evil. Ah, nurse, it was so sweet a dream----"
"I can give no time to your honorable fooling," cried Mata, in
pretended anger. "Have I the arms of a Hundred-Handed Kwannon that
I can do all the household work at once? Attire yourself promptly, I
entreat: prepare one of the small trays for your august parent, and get
out two of the pickled plums from the blue jar."
Umè, with an exaggerated sigh of regret, rose to her feet. Quilt and
cushions were pushed into a corner for later airing. Her toilet was swift
and simple. To slip the bright-colored sleeping robe from her and toss it
to the heaped-up coverlids, don an undergarment of thin white linen
and a scant petticoat of blue crepe, draw over them a day robe of blue
and white cotton, and tie all in with a sash of brocaded blue and
gold,--that was the sum of it. For washing she had a shallow wooden
basin on the kitchen veranda, where cold water splashed incessantly
from bamboo tubes thrust into the hillside. Hurriedly drying her face
and hands on a small towel that hung from a swinging bamboo hoop,
she ran into the kitchen to assist the still grumbling Mata.
By this time old Kano had again seated himself at the edge of his
veranda. The summer sun grew unpleasantly warm. The
morning-glories on their trellises had begun to droop. A little later they
would hang, wretched and limp, mere faded scraps of dissolution.
Overhead the temple bell struck seven. Kano shuddered at this foreign
marking out of hours. A melancholy, intense as had been his former
ecstacy, began to enfold his spirit. Perhaps he had waited too long for
the simple breakfast; perhaps the recent glory had drained him of vital
force. A hopelessness, alike of life and death, rose about him in a tide.
Umè prostrated herself upon the veranda near him. "Good morning,

august father. Will you deign to enter now and partake of food?"
Her voice and the morning face she lifted might have won a smile from
a stone image. Kano turned sourly. "Why," he thought, "in Shaka's
name, could n't she have been a son?"
He rose, however, shaking off his wooden clogs so that they remained
upon the path below, and followed Umè to the zashiki, or main room of
the house, with the best view of the garden.
The tea was delicious in its first delicate infusion; the pickled plums
most stimulating to a morning appetite.
"Rice and fish will soon honorably eventuate," Umè assured him as she
went back, smiling, into the kitchen.
Kano pensively lifted a plum upon the point of a toothpick and began
nibbling at its wrinkled skin. Yes, why could she not have been a son?
As it was, the girl could paint,--paint far better than most women even
the famous ones of old. But, after all, no woman painter could be
supreme. Love comes first with women! They have not the strong heart,
the cruelty, the fierce imagination that go to the making of a great artist.
Even among the men of the day, corrupted and distracted as they are by
foreign innovations, could real strength be found? Alas! Art was surely
doomed, and his own life,--the life of the last great Kano, futile and
perishable as the withering flowers on their stems.
He ate of his fish and rice in gloomy silence. Umè's gentle words failed
to bring a reply. When the breakfast dishes were removed the old man
continued listlessly in his place, staring out with unseeing eyes into his
garden.
A loud knock came to the wooden entrance gate near the kitchen. Kano
heard a man's deep tones, Mata's thin voice answering an enquiry, and
then the soft murmur of Umè's words. An instant later, heavy footsteps,
belonging evidently to a wearer of foreign shoes, came around by the
side of the house toward the garden. Kano looked up, frowning with
annoyance. A fine-looking man of middle age appeared. Kano's

irritation vanished.
"Ando Uchida!" he cried aloud, springing to his feet, and hurrying to
the edge of the veranda. "Ando Uchida, is it indeed you? How stout and
strong and prosperous you seem! Welcome!"
"A little too stout for warm weather," laughed Ando, as laboriously he
removed his foreign shoes and accepted his host's assistance up the one
stone step to the veranda.
"Welcome, Ando Uchida," said Kano again, when they had taken seats.
"It is quite five years since my eyes last hung upon