"Yes, and when you get through cussing old lady Tinker, I'd be obliged to know what the deuce it was all about." Generally Kent enjoyed Karsten's vivid circumambience, but now it seemed to him almost irritatingly studied, as if the other were playing him, like a fish. "Get on with your tale." He felt that the elusive thing, the explanation which he had been ransacking heaven and earth for, was at last within hand's reach.
"Yes, of course, I beg your pardon. Well, the long and the short of it was that the old girl had been informed that you had not told—that you had taken pains not to tell, was the way she put it, with that sickly, kindly, leering smile which she affects—that you were married. Oh, yes, she had just heard of it. And I was a friend of yours, and didn't I think that we older people—the smile again—just like that, she and I in the same category, hand in hand—I'd given a thousand yen for the privilege of heaving my tea in her face, hot tea—but would it not be best if you were spoken to about it, given a hint, though—you could see the satisfaction she got from spitting forth the full load of venom she had been gathering from the start—she was happy to know that Miss Elliott had been informed, fully informed, from a reliable source, most reliable, in fact, from the very source from which she, herself, had her information.
"And then she let me go. It must have seemed a good day's work to her, letting loose that bit of trouble on the world. I can imagine her sitting at home now, with her cat, or her parrot or whatever she has got, and turning that bit of mischief overin her mind, cocking her head on one side and scheming how she may elaborate on it, add a few details, artistic touches, and where she may carry her tale to-morrow where it may have the most effect. And, by the way, I wondered at the time who her source of information might be, and it struck me—she had just been sitting with that red-headed Wilson girl from the American Auto Company, the two of them with their heads together thick as thieves—I was wondering whether she might not be the serpent. Do you know her?"
So that was it. For the moment Kent was confused by a clash of conglomerate emotions; relief that, petty as the whole thing was, he at least knew now the exact state of affairs, had gained a foothold whence he might find his way out of the wilderness of uncertainty—and then, on the other hand, the abominable, spiteful malignity of that girl, that Wilson individual. Flashed into his mind the incident at the dance on board theTenyo Maru, and his intuitive premonition that from the incidentally aroused enmity of this woman would come eventually a venomous sting of malice.
Oh, the damned——cat. He felt that he had never so absolutely detested, utterly contemned a woman. "Yes, I know her. I chanced—she was such a wantonly malicious beast—to offend her on theTenyo. Karsten, for what inscrutable reason does Providence create such women and allow them to cumber the earth?"
"And why not?" The other shrugged his shoulders. "The question arises with all kinds of women. Have you not at times, when you have fortuitously chanced on some woman, some seductive beauty who by the mere contact of a moment, glance of an eye, soft murmur of a few words, smashes downwhatever defenses you may have laboriously contrived against being enveloped in the net of the charm of women—and then, when quietude of mind, the state of being tranquil, at peace, normal, is, against your will, in spite of all you may do, abruptly shattered, and when you feel yourself again racked in the nervous tension of desire, passion, love, whatever you may call it—have you not then, Kent, found yourself asking God whatever can be His intention in letting loose upon earth women like that whose sole purpose seems to be to steal away from men what little chance they may have of being at peace? And as it is with that kind, I suppose it is with the others, the plain women, envious, malicious, mischief-making. What can be the purpose of their existence, unless it is to counterbalance those others, to add the other ingredient with which it has pleased Providence to contrive this madhouse of conflicting elements of humanity which make up this world."
But Kent was paying no attention. What the deuce could he do? He felt that now, when he had through fortuitous good fortune obtained the solution of the riddle, his problem should have been almost solved; but, incongruously, he seemed to have made no headway whatever. Now, what should he do? His brain seemed to be void, to be incapable of functioning. The feeling that Karsten was watching him, was expecting him to pursue the subject, to carry on with it, made him feel uncomfortable, irritated him, as if Karsten had been insistently curious.
"I wonder what the Cabinet intends to do about the Russian policy question." The remark escaped him almost involuntarily. He might as well, he felt, have suggested a query as to what the weather was likely to be the day after to-morrow, anything, however irrelevant. The fierce pudicity which causes aman to shrink from having bared before the eyes of another man the intimate processes of his affections, made him wish, desperately, to steer Karsten to some other subject. He repeated it nervously, and even as he was speaking he felt the futility thereof. "Now, I wonder what the Cabinet will do?"
"Yes, what will the Cabinet do?" Karsten was leaning back in his chair, regarding him ironically. "Oh, hell!" He turned and went over to fill his pipe.
And, now he had driven Karsten away from the subject, it came to Kent that that was just what he did not want to do. His own brain was as inert as mud. Suddenly he was overcome with need for advice, sympathy, with the desire to discuss the thing, talk it over, to get a helping hand to swing his mind over the dead-center where it was now hanging.
"I wish I knew what to do." He blurted it out. Even that—to get the thing articulated, to place it in form of words—seemed to make an advance, to make it more concrete. "Now, what can I do to set myself right with Sylvia?"
"You love her?" Rather than a question, it seemed like the seeking of definite confirmation, for the purpose of establishing a postulate for further logical treatment of the problem. Of course, that wouldn't do. The uneasy sense of evasion, of making the very beginning with what—he could not evade it—was not essentially true, irritated him. He snapped back, "No, of course, not." The harsh abruptness of his tone grated in his own ears. That was no way to talk to a man who was, after all, offering sympathy, a friend. He hastened to smooth it over.
"I like her. I am extremely fond of her. I think more of her than of any other woman, except——" He had been about to say "my wife," but he caught himself, disgusted at the facility with which he hadalmost slid into smug hypocrisy. "I am fond of her, I say; I place every possible value on her friendship, yes, platonic friendship, if you please." He glared at Karsten, ready for fierce rejoinder, anticipating ironic drawing of the mouth, incredulous gesture.
But Karsten let it pass. "And what have you yourself thought of doing?"
"But, hang it, man, that's just it. What the devil can I do? If she were a sweetheart of mine, if there had been any sort of a love relation, or even the possibility of the establishment of one, the potentiality existing when a man who is free, marriageable, has been on terms of fairly intimate friendship with a woman, then I might reasonably go to her and make some kind of explanation. But now, what can I do? I can't go up to her and say, 'Here, my dear, I am sorry if I've overlooked telling you that I'm married. I'm sorry if I've caused you to have futile expectations'—or just go up to her and remark, quite casually, 'Oh, by the way, you know I have a wife.' I fancy that if I had the wit, the experience that you have, for instance, I might manage to contrive some subtle means, something to set this thing straight, for, honestly—you'll have to take my word for it—what I have said about the whole thing being just friendship is absolutely and literally true."
"Just like with a man?"
"Yes, just like with a man."
"Then, that's the answer. Treat the affair just as if she were a man. If gossip had placed you in a false position with a man, you would go to him, wouldn't you, and have a straight talk with him? Why can't you give a woman, a woman whom you think so much of, credit for having as much broadmindedness, intelligence, as a man? You hint about my experience with women, about subtleties. Listen, if you will takeadvice from the depths of my ignorance, I will tell you one thing—and it is something that I was stupid enough not to discover for years—the sort of thing that is so obvious that you pass right over it without seeing it—which is that with women, at least the right sort of women, the best course, the only sensible course, is to tell them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To some men, those who think that in dealing with women one requires some specially intricate means, that would seem the very culmination of subtlety, but it is, I am earnestly convinced, the one and only way."
Yes, it sounded easy. He ruminated, turned the suggestion over and over. The theory seemed all right, but when he came to translate it into action, when he came to think of how he would approach her, how he would open the subject, what he would say, it became utterly impractical, impossible.
Karsten read his mind. "Yes, I know that it is easy to give advice in such matters and quite another thing to carry out the suggestion. But the only thing for you to do is to keep turning the thing over in your mind, familiarize yourself with the idea. Then, gradually, as the strangeness thereof wears away, when it no longer stuns your brain with the impact of something astounding, precipitate, you will find it becoming more rational to you. Eventually you may find that working out the thing becomes fairly natural, even relatively easy. What is there about it that sticks you, anyway?"
"Blessed if I know; no one particular point, the whole thing more or less. I know how I myself have always been able to see just what the other chap should do, how it has irritated me often to see some fellow pursue an absolutely foolish course with respect to some woman, doing exactly what he shouldn't do,purblind to the absolutely obvious. I have felt like taking him by the shoulder and saying, 'Here, Tom, Dick, or Bill, or whoever you may be, can't you see, you fool, that what this particular girl wants is this, that, or the other. It is like watching a chess game. The onlooker sees the approaching mate much sooner than the man who is playing the game. And in this kind of a thing another can't possibly see into, or appreciate just what is going on in the other chap's mind; estimate the infinitely fine manifestations, the super-delicate emotional vibrations so imperceptible that the man himself can only barely feel them without being able to analyze them. And, for one thing, I think just one of the flaws in your theory is that the premises are not altogether well taken. You say, 'If the relation is just like that of man with man, then treat it like that.' And in a way it is; but then again, in another way it isn't. It can't be. With a man the idea of sex relation is necessarily absent, but with a woman, even when neither has it in mind at all, it cannot be avoided altogether, ignored. Take this case. I'm sure that I never thought of it. In fact, I'm sure that she never thought of it either. The very circumstance that quite likely I never did mention my wife, that I've not the slightest recollection whether I ever did so or not, shows, doesn't it, that my mind was entirely free from the idea. So, with a man, there would be no problem at all; but with a woman, with Sylvia, no matter how delicately I approach the matter, the suggestion must come into evidence that one fears, one thinks, that she must, to some extent at least, have had in mind the fact that she is a woman and I a man. It is virtually as if one said, 'Here, I'm afraid that you may not be quite clear that this is purely a friendly relation, that sex doesn't enter into it.' Damn it, I can't express the thought withoutgetting it into phrases that are blunt, clumsy; but you get the idea, don't you? I'm hanged if I can see how I could do it without becoming positively insulting.
"And then there's another thing, something that really hurts me more than any other phase of it all, and that is, Why should a girl like Sylvia, clean, sweet-minded, sensible, be affected by a thing like that? It is almost as if she, in fact, did suspect me of having really had in the back of my mind all the time some such insidious intention. And still, I am absolutely sure that she cannot have. By the gods, Karsten, the ways of women are something absolutely inscrutable to me."
"Oh, that's simple enough. It takes no mysterious knowledge of sex to explain that. Use your common sense, man. I'll admit that that struck me also, for a moment, and I was a bit disappointed in her; but, if you reason for a moment, it is plain enough. It's not that, not with Sylvia. It is nothing to her whether you mentioned your wife or not, whether you have a wife or not. She's not the kind of a girl who looks upon every male who is fortuitously thrown in her way as a potential husband, whose entire scheme of existence is bound up in the idea of ensnaring a provider. And I'm sure that she cannot believe that you had any philandering in mind. Trust a woman for that, especially one so delicately constituted as Sylvia. And even the most stupid ones, any woman, since it is part of the very essence of being a woman, knows instinctively, by intuition, when the sex element, however subtly, is hovering about. No, what has affected Sylvia, the reason why she keeps you at arm's length, is the manner in which the thing has been presented to her. Can't you imagine the insidious, slimy suggestiveness of that Wilson individual, coming to her with her, 'You really ought toknow, my dear'; how noisome the mere idea must have been to her that any one, the Wilson thing, all the rest of the gossips, were turning this thing over and over on their salacious tongues, this innocent, patently clean relation existing between her and you. It must have been immeasurably offensive to her, intolerable. Put yourself in her place for a moment. Probably she may have been as reluctant as you are to give up this pleasant friendship. But what could she do? Being a woman, hedged in by the myriad conventions which tie up a woman's freedom of action much more than they do a man's, she'd find herself in an even more difficult position than that which you are in and which puzzles you so. No, old man, that's all plain enough; and if you find that you can't bring yourself to take the bull by the horns and talk it out with her, why, the only thing you can do is to let the thing rest for the time being. Neither seek her nor evade her. Don't increase her difficulties by asking her to go about with you; to a girl so essentially honest and honorable it must be extremely annoying to be forced to resort to the small lies, the petty prevarications of convention, to invent excuses—but don't evade her either. Be as courteous, friendly and frank as ever, and, above all, be natural. As time passes the gossips will find other victims and eventually you can, if you are careful, tactful, drift back into the old relation. Yes, it's rotten, isn't it, that in this world such damnable machinations as breaking up a clean, beautiful relation as that between you and Sylvia can be possible, and that it can be carried out triumphantly, in the name of purity, of virtue. By the gods, I think at times that if the prudes were less busy, the world might be a much cleaner place to live in."
Karsten was right. Kent felt an intense gratitudeto him for having dispelled thus surely, by the incontrovertible logic of plain sense, the rankling doubt that had assailed him, strive as he might against it, about Sylvia. It placed the whole situation in a much better light. Sylvia was all right. The essence of the relation between them had not been vitiated. All this was but the disturbing echo of something from outside, annoying, distressing, but in the end surely ineffectual. So he would follow Karsten's advice. Everything would come out all right.
She had brought to the window the tall bamboo cage, had opened the tiny gate of intricately interwoven strips. All about her stood trunks and boxes. From the back came the clatter of the carters carrying stuff out to the cart. She had waited with this to the very last. Now she stood back, watching the lark as it hopped about on the bottom of the cage, eyeing curiously the opened door. She had often been disturbed by the thought that she should not keep this bird a prisoner; but she had been assured that it had been born in captivity, that it would prefer the comfortable life, protected behind the slender bamboo bars. Now, it seemed as if it really did. It was in no hurry to grasp at freedom.
The bird hopped up into the opening and sat, cocking its head, as if in doubt, peering into the world before it. Now, what would it do; would it really be happier in the protection of confinement, or would it have the courage to grasp the freedom of unknown distances?
Unknown distances! She felt that she herself was uneasily uncertain, tremulous at the idea of setting behind her the small world into which she had fitted herself so agreeably. She was cowardly, like the bird, then, not venturesome enough to face the unknown.No, it was not that. She must be frank with herself; her cowardice lay in not daring to remain; and, moreover, she was not acting honestly to Kent. The suggestion of the Wilson creature, the mere effrontery of her making such an insinuation, had dumbfounded her. Of course, she had known always—so long as she had known him; on board theTenyo—that he was married. She could not even remember whether he had told her, had ever mentioned it, or whether she had come to know from an extraneous source, ship's gossip. It had been a matter of no moment whatever, utterly inconsequential. And to him it must have been inconsequential too; a thing which had no bearing whatever on their relation. The effrontery of this woman, and of the others, all those who, she had said, were now whispering among themselves about them. She had smiled at her assurance that she had known, that it was a matter of no consequence one way or the other, the incredulous smile, updrawn brows, that was an insult in itself. And then the hard shamelessness with which she had tried to pursue the matter, to gain more pabulum for gossip; endeavoring to establish a pretense of intimacy which was entirely inexistent, she had hoped, she said, meretriciously solicitous, that she did not really love him, that this would not hurt her. Sylvia might have taken her by the hair, dragged her forth, thrown her out, her fierce desire for primitive methods of combat, to rend this foully insulting female into tatters, had surprised her. The intense repression, the nervous bewildered casting about for escape, had left her trembling, white.
And when she had finally gotten rid of the woman somehow, and had sat down to compose herself to think, she had been confused, bewildered, unable to seize upon some starting point from which to develop a line of thought. Instinctively she wanted to hide, toshelter herself in some place where all this foulness could not reach her, to escape. It had always been her intention to wander on beyond Japan, to grapple with new landscapes, new colors, feathery palm fronds swaying beneath the stars, the iridescent brilliance of the tropics. She had already long overstayed the time she had originally decided to devote to Japan. She had found so much more material than she had expected, and—yes, of course, if she were to think this thing out, she must be entirely honest, probe into herself with the dissecting knife no matter how she might shrink—yes, the truth was that she had not wished to abandon her friendship with Kent. Yes, friendship. It had been just that, only that. That, at least, she might say with absolute truth. True, there had been moments where the thought had come to her that if he had been free, their relation might have been enhanced, vivified by the rosy light of romance. She had even—she was going to have this thing out with herself, go to the very most intimate essence thereof—yes, there had been a time when she had wondered what was really the relation between Kent and his wife; was there not a possibility that freedom might come to him? But she had put the thought behind her, ashamed, disgusted with herself that she could thus be tempted to contemplate gaining a love which was the rightful property of another, insidiously coveting affection which belonged rightfully to that other woman. So, even though it was evident that the day might come when the barrier might be removed, she had refused to consider the possibility, as an unworthy thought. The line between considering the potentiality and wishing that it might be brought about was too fine. And now that she had gotten past all that, and their relation had crystallized safely on a firmly constructed foundation, she was forced to leave it all. Butwas it not cowardly thus to concede victory to the mischief makers, to desert Kent? Would it not be cleaner, more worthy to remain, stick it out. She wished she were strong enough to stay, to continue, defiantly, the relation, safe in her knowledge that not the slightest suspicion of a thought of sex entered into the minds of Kent and herself. And still, there was no escape from the certainty that the thought could not be ignored; the gossips had injected it. She must always wonder whether Kent had heard what they thought. He must wonder whether she had. They had soiled their friendship with the foulness of their insinuating suggestion. No matter how she and Kent might try to erase it from their minds, some faint trace, some ineradicable smudge must remain.
The bird was hopping about on the window sill, lifting its wings in little tentative flaps, restless, fluttering in indecision. She stepped up to it. Why didn't the silly little thing have the initiative to make the break into freedom, to grasp the alluring promises of the new, unknown beyond. She watched it. "Oh, we are poor things, you and I. But, out you go." With her hand she pushed it gently out. It had to use its wings to save itself. It fluttered; then it stretched them out, strongly, boldly, circled slowly, then more surely, gained upwards, rose higher and higher, disappeared in the blue.
Divorce!
Kent read the letter over again, carefully, laboriously, for his thoughts would not concentrate on the sentences. He had to force himself to bring his mind on them. The letters from Isabel had shown indifference, every evidence of having been written as a matter of duty in their painstaking regularity, one a month; they had been cold even; but he had never for a moment suspected that she would, suddenly, without leaving room for discussion, thus make the end bluntly, finally.
She wrote that the petition had been filed in court. The grounds were desertion. The summons would probably be in the same mail. Desertion. It struck him as wantonly malicious treachery. He had been careful always to send her the regular allowance which they had agreed upon before he left for Japan, and even more. He could certainly show in court—— Still, what was the use? He would not contest the case. If she wanted divorce, well, let her have it. A man was a fool who would try to hold a woman against her desire. And then, after all, why should he care? His affection for her had long since dissipated. The adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder—he had more than halfway believed that it might work out—but it had not in his case, nor, evidently, in hers either. He had no cause to object. On the contrary, she was giving him his freedom. It was the logical thing, after all.
Now, if that had come a year ago, before Sylviahad left Tokyo? Isabel must even then have considered divorce. She had probably done so even before he left America. Why could she not have done it then, when he and Sylvia—— Would she have married him? Plainly, she had liked him, but this other? Still, there would have been a chance. And now, now when opportunity had finally come, it was so absurdly futile. He had no means of reaching Sylvia. She had disappeared utterly, had gone as if she had vanished into space. No one appeared to know where she might be. Evidently she had wished to disassociate herself entirely from Tokyo, to sever every thread that might connect her with Japan. He had written a couple of times on chance clews. She had been seen by some one somewhere along the upper Yangtze. A note in the personal column of a Hongkong paper showed that she had gone from that place to Macao. Report had it that she had visited Singapore. He had written each time, but nothing had ever come of it. So he had given up thought of her, forced himself to blot that chapter out of his life, to consider it a definitely closed incident. Now, it was too late. Even if he knew where to find her, what would she say should he gallop up to her the moment he was free. One could never know how a woman might take things. And then she would by this time undoubtedly have found new friends, might be engaged, married, for all he might know. No, even if he might find her, should she have been placed out of his reach through some other man, that, he knew, must hurt him like the devil. It would reopen, grievously lacerate the old wound which seemed now to have all but healed. After all, he had come to appreciate, enjoy in recent months his safety from emotional turmoil. One risked too much, paid too heavily for the raptures of infatuation. He would remain safe.
So that phase of the situation was disposed of. He would allow himself to consider it no more. Now for the other phases.
He lit his pipe and leaned back to think it over, to reason it out. Logically he should be pleased; but he could not make himself feel so. It was an ugly word, "desertion"; smacked of being a scoundrel. Still, of course, divorces were common things, and every one knew that the law required, for some obscure reason, that the grounds must always be clothed in terms implying disgrace of some kind. Well, let it go.
Still, he was oddly dissatisfied. He tried to analyze his feelings. Gradually, as he smoked, it came to him that what he resented was the suddenness of entire change in his status of life, the necessity for making new adjustments. He would now be alone, under a changed moral code, a different mode of life. Still, he was being made free. What he lost was, of course, only obligations. To blazes with the entire business!
He crumpled the letter and threw it out of the window impulsively. He would be rid of the whole thing, like that; would write her to go ahead. It was the end. Undoubtedly he would soon find himself pleased, as he should be, that a relation had been severed which there could be no possible reason to continue.
"Kent-san."
It was a woman's voice, low, clear. He looked about, startled out of his thoughts. There she was, across the alley, in her window, his geisha neighbor. Through the bamboo bars she was holding out to him something white. He recognized the crumpled letter. What a perverse grotesquery of fate that his divorce announcement should, eccentrically, cause his acquaintance with this woman, this professional in the arts of affection, whom he had heretofore known only mutely,through her formal courtesy of a smile when she had happened to meet his eye from her window.
"It came right in through the window. It frightened me. It hit me right on the head." She was laughing, but her eyes asked for explanation. Of course—one did not throw things through windows, even at geisha.
"Pardon me. I was angry. It was bad news. My wife in America is seeking divorce." He caught himself. It was stupid to plump it out to an utter stranger; but the idea had filled his mind, had dominated him so entirely that the words had slipped without thinking.
"O kinodoku sama, I am so sorry." The smiling face became a mask of polite regret. "Do you love her?"
The amazing frankness of the Orient in intimately personal matters in contrast to its reticence where the West is frank!
"No, I don't care a bit." As he spoke he felt with surprised satisfaction that he really did not care, that his resentment was fading. Evidently it did him good to get this thing out of his system, to speak out about it, even to this new-found geisha friend. It was not so incongruous, after all. Was she not supposed to be an expert in matters of the heart.
Her serious expression vanished instantly. She laughed. They did really laugh like "tinkling silver bells," some of these Japanese girls. "Then you will find another woman. Ah, but here in Japan, what will you do? Here we have only thekitanaiJapanese girls."
"Kitanai," literally "unclean," used in the sense of "unworthy" as the Japanese always speaks, perfunctorily, of what is his own. The unjustness of the phrase bewildered him for the moment, as he thought for words to express indignant refutation, protest thatthe Japanese girl was, of course, the very opposite of "kitanai."
He started to answer. The murmur of a voice came to him from the unseen background of the girl's room. The face of an old woman appeared behind her.
"I was just calling at the shaved-ice man," said the girl, over her shoulder. "But he didn't hear me. He has gone." Evidently the elder woman, probably a sort of duenna, had asked her what she was doing. He admired her instant wit. She smiled at him hurriedly, surreptitiously. He caught the odd charm of the wink of her long almond eye. Then theshojiclosed.
Well! A bizarre episode. But a charming one. He was in a happy frame of mind. It was a good augury. Evidently he was not so badly hurt, when a pretty face could so easily dispel his resentment. Divorce; it was only proper that his marriage be ended, an unsatisfactory chapter. Let the thing take its course.
He decided to place the letter in a drawer where he kept things which he wished to remain unseen by the unknown one who periodically ransacked his desk. He had left it open purposely, and at the top he had placed a layer of old papers, which must have been seen often by the intruder, and which could no longer tempt his curiosity. Below the papers he kept the other things, his wife's letters mainly, and then Kimiko-san's slippers. He had been surprised to receive them in the mail, a few days after their first dance in Tsurumi. It had amused him that she had taken him thus literally. It was dangerous to be jocose with Japanese girls; they were likely to take things to the letter. But he had been pleased at the possession, at having this dainty, unique souvenir of a delightful incident of his life in Japan.
He was surprised to find that the investigator had evidently been there. The ruse had not worked. Theslippers were not in the position where he had left them. Still, it made little difference. He would take them home. The trophy would amuse Jun-san.
Jun-san was intensely interested, pleaded that he tell her from whom he had obtained them. He always enjoyed seeing her in her gay moods; she was generally so serious, almost melancholy. He had planned to bring about this air of gayety, that he might, as had been the case when he was chatting with his geisha neighbor, forget unpleasant thoughts. But it failed. The humor dissipated. The serious thoughts recurred insistently. He could see that Karsten noticed his preoccupation. The idea came to him to tell Karsten all about it, talk it out with him. It would do him good; one always reasoned more clearly when one placed one's thoughts in words to another; and then Karsten had been known in San Francisco as a man with unusual experience with women, had had the reputation of being an expert, in those days, in such matters.
So after dinner, when they were sitting upstairs, as usual, looking over the blaze of the geisha quarter below, he told him. "It is not so much that I care," he concluded. "There was no longer such a thing as affection—on either side. But I can't help feeling a vague sense of trouble, of unrest. I am fairly commonplace. I don't give much thought to self-analysis and that sort of thing. I was married; it was a state of affairs, a condition. I had become used to it. It governed my relations to women. I followed the traditional moral code of marriage, gave no thought to such matters. It was plain sailing; I played the game with my wife; there could be no other women; it was an easy frame of mind. And now it seems as if suddenly I am at sea without sailing orders, as if I were captain of a ship in mid-ocean and suddenly find that I have no compass course, no destination. And,of course, one must have one, must decide where one is going. You would say that it makes no difference, that as I have not seen my wife for a year or more, the thing is essentially the same. But it isn't. I am bewildered by a feeling that my status is utterly different, cataclysmically changed. I am like a life prisoner who has without warning been taken out of a cell where he has lain for years, passively, without need of thought of what he should do with life, and who is then suddenly placed in the midst of the sunlit city. He feels he is free, must do something, wants to do something, but somehow, oddly, misses the quiet impassivity, the lack of responsibility of his cell. I know that there is no reason why I shouldn't live to-morrow as I did yesterday, but the fact is that for some reason it seems impossible. There is the sense of an entirely new condition of life which overwhelms me, and I want to, I feel I must respond to it, in some way, but—I know I talk like a fool. I am hanged if I can explain coherently—but I wish I knew what I want to do."
"I think you are doing the best thing just now," said Karsten. "Talk it out of your system. After all, it is a thing you will eventually decide for yourself, gradually. You need be in no hurry. I know just how you feel. You know I was divorced, too. Only in my case another woman, whom I cared for, threw me over at the same time. I went through the same thing. I don't pretend to be able to give advice. In such matters a man must act on his own. But, since we have come to the intimate things in our lives, I don't mind telling you how I fared. One may profit from the foolishness of others."
He smoked silently for a while, evidently gathering his thoughts. "My marriage turned out just like yours," he began suddenly. "There was no reasonwhy it shouldn't have turned out well, only it didn't. We simply grew tired of each other, for the usual reason, too much intimate daily contact. When one sees every day, morning after morning, a woman in a dressing gown, with her hair down, going through the process of elaborating her attractions, careless of one's presence, it takes the glamor out of the illusion. A man shaving, seen every morning, can hardly be an inspiring spectacle. Crudely put, that was about all there was to it. Came the divorce. It was the only reasonable thing. I felt that I should be pleased, but, just like you, I felt bewildered, that I had lost my bearings.
"I drifted for a while, but I was agitated, nervous, febrile; felt that I should have done with women, but the very fact that I had my liberty, that I could do as I pleased, kept running in my mind. It gave me no rest. I had no moral scruples. You know I am a Dane. The family is one of these old tradition-ridden clans that you find in Europe. Everything must be governed by precedent set by people who have been dead for ages. In my tribe the woman element has always been predominant. When I was still in school my uncles impressed on me the family code—never touch a friend's wife or his daughter, and never cause a woman regret. Simple, isn't it? If such things worked, it would probably be as good, at least for those whom it fitted, as any other, but such things are not nostrums.
"Anyway, I felt then that as long as I lived up to that, I was all right. Then Sanford, of theSan Francisco Herald, you know, gave me a piece of advice. He quoted Lawrence Hope's verse recommending to 'love only lightly,' to pluck the pleasant, superficial flowers of love and to avoid the thorns by not allowing yourself to become too devoted to any one woman. Itook the advice too seriously. You remember that during my last years in San Francisco I was just a roué, a libertine, a swine. Instead of giving me rest, peace of mind, I became worse off than ever. Then accident brought me to Japan. It did me good. What had bothered me was, I discovered, not lust for women, but only desire for excitement; but, of course, as you know, in our well-ordered civilization a man can get excitement, change, new impressions and experiences out of few things, politics, sports, gambling, business perhaps, but, if he is cursed with an imagination, mainly women. When I came here, all the new life, the new sights, interested me so much that after awhile I found myself rational again. I played a bit with the geisha, down there, but temperately, sensibly. Then, finally, accident brought me a woman, a Japanese woman, for whom I felt real affection, whom I really cared for. I found that I wanted no others. I was absolutely faithful to her, not because I had to be, nor because I felt that I ought to be, but because I wanted to be. That is where the relation without benefit of clergy works better than the institution of marriage. It is more likely to last because of the absence of the feeling that one must be faithful as a matter of obligation. I had come to the conclusion that monogamy is the only rational, natural thing, one man for one woman, one woman for one man. I would like to see some kind of marriage invented that would work effectively. In my case, I was happier than I had ever been. I had peace, content, I thought I had solved my life.—Then my—my best friend seduced the woman."
As he talked, Karsten had been pacing up and down the narrow veranda which, now theshojihad been removed on account of the heat, formed part of the room. Now he stopped and stood staring out overthe city, smoking silently. Suddenly he turned, faced Kent.
"I am afraid that there has not been as much as I thought in all this for you to draw a moral from. I'll be more specific. What I was trying to drive at was this: why don't you, in a tentative way, try the 'love lightly.' That I made a mess of it, at first, in San Francisco, was my own fault. One may take an overdose of any remedy. But here in Japan it is somewhat different. First of all, there is no sense in deliberately going out stalking such adventure. The kind you find that way, picking up with the first woman who crosses your path, doesn't pan out. But keep your mind open, ready to seize upon opportunity—it will come. In fact, I have rather wondered that you have not come to it, in spite of your principle, though, by the way, I rather admire the fact that you have stuck to it. But I have been watching you—one can't help watching a man whom one likes when living together as we do—and I think that it is with you as with Kipling's Tomlinson—if you will forgive the paraphrase—that 'the roots of sin are there.' You take too much interest in the life, and color, and movement that you see all about you. The unique charm of these Japanese women has gotten its insidious white fingers on you. That principle of yours was all that held you back, wasn't it? Now that's gone—le deluge! No, maybe not quite that, but I expect to see you soon studying Japanese life and character by the only means through which it can be studied with something resembling complete understanding—through some woman. As a matter of fact, there is no reason why you shouldn't, and there is every reason why you should. It is your business as a newspaperman to get inside the Japanese mind as intimately as you can. You know that it cannot be done through the men; thebar of nationality, race, is constantly between you and perfect frankness. But with women sex is bigger than race. When a woman cares for you, she looks upon you as a man, not as an alien. She gives you her heart, her innermost mind, without thought of nationality. You understand me, don't you. I don't mean that you should deliberately, cold-bloodedly stalk a woman for the purpose of dissecting her soul and using the results for calculated, mercenary purposes, just to reduce them to copy. What I mean is that you are now free to follow when inclination in the form of a woman beckons you; only be careful that you go into it only as a game, and let the woman understand that it is only a game. At least part of the old family code is good—that to the effect that one must not cause a woman to suffer. So be careful how you play. You have heard, as I have heard a thousand times, that these women are cold, passionless. It is a lie. I know it. Their capacity for affection, devotion, sacrifice, is as great as that of our women; sometimes I think it is even greater. And their poor little souls are delicate, sensitive. They are like children, who brood over and magnify sorrows which we might consider fairly trivial. And then they have their heads still filled with feudal romance. They read their paper-covered novels seeking with noble sacrifice for love and all that,shinju, double suicide, you know, where the lovers kill themselves together. We had a case last year right here in the quarter below, where a geisha and a student threw themselves into the Kegon waterfall, at Nikko, which is the most fashionable thing. One reads of cases where friends who get wind of the intention of the lovers insist on joining the party, and then there is a triple suicide. They get their heads filled with this kind of romance, picture themselves as heroes and heroines in the high lights ofmelodrama, imagine how the papers will sound their names from one end of Japan to the other. It may be a bit hard for the practical American mind to understand, but the Japanese have an odd, introspective, often a bit hysterical psychology, something like the Russians, I often think, like characters out of Dostoievsky.
"So, to sum it all up, I think it will be a good thing for you to leave the latchstring of your heart hanging out a bit that some little hand may take a pull at it by chance. It will be good for your present state of mind, and it will be good for your work. I am not joking. Not only will it give you insight into Japanese character such as you may get in no other way, but, if you are at all like me, you may find in some girl, if not exactly inspiration, whatever that is, at least some kind of subtle sympathy that helps and pushes you along. I myself, in my time, under just such circumstances, did some mighty good work, or came near accomplishing it, but now, damn it!"
He snapped his fingers, flung out in impatient gesture. The pause was so sudden it produced, conflictingly, the effect of an abrupt sound, a trumpet blare in hushed stillness. Kent looked up. Jun-san had noticed it, too. Squatting on her silkzabutonin the background, her sewing had dropped to her lap, and she was looking at Karsten wonderingly, solicitously. She never spoke in English; it was generally accepted that she did not understand it, but Kent wondered whether she did not really understand more than they thought, whether she might not intuitively, from intonation, gesture, aided by such words as she must have picked up, gain at least some idea of the drift of their conversation.
The silence became uncomfortable, exasperating. "But why don't you take it up again? You are noman to mope about. You are not doing anything, just killing time reading magazines and novels. How can that satisfy you in the long run. Why, then, don't you take some of the advice that you have just given me?"
"I can't, or at least I won't, on account of—— That is, the woman is still here, in Tokyo, and I want to show her. It may seem to you contradictory, absurd, perverse. It doesn't sound logical, except, possibly, as a sort of heaping of coals on her head, to show her that I, at least, am faithful. I never told her what I knew, never blamed her. I think that in this way she is getting punishment far more subtle than anything I could inflict by abusing her, or by running after other women. Something must be going on in her mind. Still, who am I that I should have a right to punish any woman for turning to another man, after my sort of life? I only got what I deserved, after all. Anyway, my position happened to be such that I couldn't speak out, couldn't jump on the man or the woman. That rather governed my course. For, of course, one doesn't in that way, in such a case, when one is still agitated, shattered by anger, jealousy, disappointment, in all that whirl of emotions, just sit down and deliberately shape out a definite course of procedure, I shall do this, and I shall do that. No, one stews about, waits to figure it out, to decide what to do when one has become calmer, and then, if one has done nothing at the moment of crisis, at the impulse of sudden discovery, consternation, passion, then one gradually drifts into accepting the course which things naturally take, the path of least resistance. Yes, that's undoubtedly it, the path of least resistance."
He shook out his pipe into a huge brass bowl which was kept in the room for that purpose; took out his knife, began with over-careful deliberation to carve out the lava-like incrustations from the bowl.
"But the work you were doing?" Kent wanted to bring the conversation into a smoother channel. He was nervous, uncomfortable, with a sense of something undefinably grievous, tragic, as if it were, hovering, indefinitely threatening, closing about them from the darkness outside.
"The work!" Karsten kept scraping at the pipe bowl, methodically held it to the light, inspected it. "It took the heart out of me, this revelation, the sudden shock of it. It had been too perfect, this working away, always in festival spirits, in the atmosphere of affection, devotion, love, damn it, to use the banal old word. I thought I had the rest of my life all well ordered, that peace had come at last. I am too old to start again, and then, anyway, as I told you, there were other reasons. So the work—I have never looked at it since. But," he seemed struck by a sudden thought. "Jun-san," he was still intent with his pipe and did not look up. "Jun-san. Bring out thekodomo."
"Kodomo," child. The word puzzled Kent. What the devil——?
He looked past Karsten, as he sat there doggedly scraping at his pipe, to Jun-san. She had risen from herzabuton, was looking at the man with wonder. It grew into consternation; was it apprehension, fear? But she had turned and was going to thetodana, wall closet, was drawing from it papers, loose and in bundles, reaching into the depth of the recess, pulling out still more. Then she turned and came towards them, arms filled, held in front of her. She advanced hesitatingly. By God, she was trembling; her eyes were misty with tears. Kent jumped up, but she did not look at him. In front of Karsten she stopped, held her burden towards him, silent, trembling. He laid away his pipe finally, looked up at her, stretchedout his hands. She moved still nearer, as if to pass the papers over to him. Then her hands fell away, bundles dropping, loose papers fluttering to the floor, into the brass bowl. Karsten had risen, patted the woman on the shoulder tenderly, as one would a child. It was the first time Kent had seen him caress her. "Oh, you poor little girl, you poor little girl," the man's voice was hoarse, broken. "Come, you had better go to your house." She was weeping openly now, shaking. "Forgive me, Jun-san. Come."
The sliding door closed behind her. Karsten turned to Kent. "I might as well tell you now, of course. The woman was Jun-san." He turned abruptly to the papers, began gathering them. "These are nothing much, after all, Kent. Only notes of various kinds for a great Japanese drama that I thought I might construct. The Danes have a proverb that every sow thinks that her own pigs are the best. Probably I did the same." He carried the papers to thetodana, put them out of sight. "We have had a melodramatic evening, haven't we, Kent-san, with your troubles and mine. It seems as if women must ever be the cause of our sorrows, yes, and our joys.Shikataganai.It can't be helped. Now let us have a drink and go to bed."
They had their drink. Karsten went to the adjoining room where he slept. Kent started downstairs to his room. At the head of the stairway he noticed something dark, bulky in the half-light, moving a little; his ear caught a sharp indrawn breath. It was Jun-san. A wave of intense pity swept over him. He wanted to say something to her, to comfort her, but what could he say. Undoubtedly she wished to be undisturbed by such crude, stupid consolation as he might contrive. He descended slowly and went to bed. But he could not sleep. He lay tossing, it seemed forhours. What, after all, did love of women, relations with women, ever bring but regret; swift, passionate, heart-swelling joy for the moment, even for days or years, but in the end weariness, sorrow, pangs of tragedy, irreparable, regretful remorse?
In the stillness of the night he could hear the shrill twitter of the cicadas in the garden, and faintly, softly, the sobbing, interminable, unconsolable, of Jun-san.
It was a dull season for news. From San Francisco they had cabled him to "hold down." A nation-wide strike in America and one of these futile European reparations conferences were filling the papers at home, leaving scant space for Oriental matters. Anyway, nothing was happening. His idleness irked him. Everything seemed to have slipped into a dull, wearisome routine. He rebelled at it—anything for a bit of excitement of some kind, any kind. The thought came to him, kept recurring insistently, that now was time to look about a little, to experiment with Karsten's advice. After all, why not? Was he not missing something, an interesting and pleasing phase of life in the Orient, one that they all unanimously described as delectable, from Pierre Loti on. Even the warning contained in the episode between Karsten and Jun-san was losing its significance. At home matters had slipped back into the old, daily routine, as if nothing had happened. Through the day she was always in the main house, watching with solicitous care to meet Karsten's wants, retiring only when he had retired, to her own house, the bower which Karsten had had built for her when their love was young. As he looked back at it, it seemed to him that probably the whole thing had been just a little melodramatic; they had been overwrought, excited. Karsten had always been super-sensitive, too nervously susceptible to his own emotions; the dramatic instinct, no doubt. And then Jun-san. Well, they were not all like her. These international adventures were often, generally indeed, colored by humor rather than by tragedy.
He recalled the predicament, a few weeks ago, of Carruthers, who had amused his group of friends with his agitated alarm at his grotesque predicament. A geisha had unexpectedly, much to his pleased surprise, sent a note to him. She had summoned him, and he had answered, quickly enough, in a spirit of curiosity. Later it had developed that she thought he looked like Douglas Fairbanks, her favorite motion-picture hero. Prosaic Carruthers, solemnly horse-faced, the practical machinery salesman from Pittsburgh—they had all been highly amused at the absurdity. The later developments had given them still more and even greater delight.
Carruthers had taken a house in one of the suburbs in preparation for the arrival of his wife and drove of children. But he had thought that he might as well make use of the opportunity, his last fling of freedom. So he had invited her there, and she had come, and she had stayed, and when the wife was due in but a few days, she had still stayed, had refused to leave. Carruthers had been frantic. It had delighted them. Five days more—and she held the fort. Three days only. He had rushed from one to the other to help him out, give him advice, take the girl away, steal her from him, anything. "For God's sake, fellows, this is no joke. Take her off my hands, somebody." It had tickled them. "But how, Carruthers? Be sensible. We don't look like Douglas Fairbanks." It had been entrancingly amusing. Despairingly he had given the details. "The day after to-morrow, and she won't get out. I've told her my wife is coming, mywife. And she says she loves me. She don't care. If my wife comes, she will stay as mymekake, my concubine. Imagine me introducing: Mrs. Carruthers, my concubine—just like that! No, by Cæsar, it's gone beyond a joke. You've got to help me out." By Jove, it hadbeen a scream, till the very last. But on the last day of grace they had rid him of the lady. It had not been so easy, either. It had taken all the powers of the accomplished Nishimura to move her. He was useful, as he claimed. And Carruthers had had to pay her geisha license for a month. He looked upon it as a joke now; rather enjoyed telling the story. And the girl, she had taken no hurt, either. Nishimura said that she had spread the glad tidings all over Shimbashi. There was only fun, amusement, in an episode like that, at least if one were single, and then a little excitement. Life was becoming unbearably humdrum.
He was gradually becoming better acquainted with his geisha neighbor. Toshi-san she said her name was, and he was introduced to the duenna, her "mother" she called her, and to her maid, and to her doll, Mitsuko-san. In the morning, at about ten o'clock, when she opened theshojito look at the weather, they often chatted. She was a pretty, vivacious little thing, wholly adorable, and they knew how to look after themselves, these geisha. So why not?
Sometimes, in the afternoon, before she began her caterwauling samisen practice, she would play for him a few phonograph pieces, "Rigoletto," the Dvořák "Humoresque," the things which it seemed all Tokyo was fond of. He did not understand much about music, still it seemed to him a pity if this country, these people, who had until now acquired fair taste through the fortunate absence of trashy, ephemeral rubbish, should now fall victims to the various "Blues" and "Bells" of fox-trot repertoires.
She evidently enjoyed the music; that was not pose. Her face beamed when she would announce the acquisition of a new record. "I have got 'Ave Malia.' It goes like that." She tried a high note, amusingly dissonant, in her typical geisha falsetto. "You shouldsee my phonograph. It is high, like that," she held her hand to the height of her bosom.
It seemed a chance. "All right, let me see it. I'd like to. When?"
But she was horrified. No, certainly not. Of course, he could not come to her house. The obstacle made him obstinate.
"All right, then. I'll go to the waiting-house over there and send for you. Then you'll have to come, won't you?"
"Yes, maybe; but if I come I'll bring my Mother." She pointed her tongue at him, just an infinitesimal tip, pink between white teeth, laughed, and was gone.
It seemed absurd. The girl was a geisha; it was her business to entertain guests, dance and sing for them at least, even if she apparently must reserve the favors of affection for that police commissioner, whose presence one sensed, obscure in the background, through the phonograph, the ever multiplying new records, new jewelry, all evidently offerings from him.
"I don't quite get it all. Surely she doesn't drag that stage property mother of hers about wherever she has guests. Can you explain?" he asked Karsten.
"Well, first of all, of course, you can't visit a geisha in her own house; at least, old man, it is not etiquette, it isn't done. You must meet them in the waiting-houses. If they didn't the waiting-houses would lose their commissions and would boycott the geisha. And the geisha guild would cause trouble. It is with that as with everything else in Japan, as in business where there must always be a half dozen middlemen between producer and consumer. Of course, you might take her on a picnic, if she consents, but I wouldn't, if I were you. Japan is changing. We are getting away from the days of Loti. Be discreet, anyway. And then it's expensive. You have to pay a tremendous feeeven for just the pleasure of helping her pick flowers, or sea shells, or whatever it might be, and she will have you buy a cartload of souvenirs for herself, and the mother, and the maid, and her friends, and the cat, for all I know. Anyway, remember the police commissioner. She would probably not dare."
So the matter did not progress. They chatted almost every day, across the alley, but she smiled at his invitations, enjoyed teasing him. It seemed an impasse.
He had stayed late at the Foreign Office, one afternoon, talking with young Kikuchi. They decided to dine together, but Kikuchi had an engagement and left early. Kent did not feel like going home. A gorgeously brilliant full moon, supernaturally large, was rising ponderously over the Shiba park trees. It brought out Tokyo to best advantage. In the shimmering half-light the crude modernisms, the telephone poles, wires, irritating newfangled architecture, receded faded away, and one might let the eye see only typical Japan, the opaquely lightedshoji, curved rooftrees. He had had a few cocktails, felt titillating with effervescent life, adventurous under the glamor of the moon, anticipatingly ready and eager for something out of the ordinary, some adventure. It might lurk anywhere, insideshoji, in dark gateways. He strolled through the geisha quarter, hoping that from some miniature garden, glimpsed through ornate gate, might stretch towards him white hands, might come some soft seductive voice. He knew that it was utterly unlikely, that, did he desire adventure, he must take the initiative. But he did not wish to do that. It would spoil just that element of chance, casual hazard of fortune, that was essential. He felt that somehow it was hovering close at hand, would come to-night, out of the silver-blue. His vagrant, erratic mood, themoon, the whispering mystery of coyly self-effacive Tokyo, gave him an odd feeling as if the entire great city were a slily demure courtesan, enigmatically but encouragingly smiling upon him.
But it seemed all to be a great, fantastic mockery. Desire, mood, setting, romantic, inviting adventure, were all there, but as he passed along, expectantly turning this corner, then the next, ever anticipatory, hopeful that now it would come—nothing came. The alleys were almost deserted. A geisha passed him, tripping along with evident set destination, followed by her little maid clasping long-necked silk-wrapped samisen, but she was answering the call of some one else, some male waiting on thezabutonsomewhere. Fate was concerned with others, was busy elsewhere. His walk became disappointing, tedious. Now he was near his office. He had run out of tobacco. He went upstairs. It was the first time he had been there at night. His glance strayed across to Toshi-san's window. It was dark. Where might she be; entertaining some one, possibly that damned commissioner.
The moonlight was glorious. He remembered that Nishimura had said that the flat roof of the house was a fine place fortsuki-mi, viewing the moon, the favorite Japanese pastime which even the most prosaic seemed to appreciate. Why not take a look; the night was still young. He climbed up the narrow ladder-like staircase, pushed a sliding cover and climbed out on the roof. Loose planks had been placed to form a crude flooring. He squatted on them, and looked about, over the picturesque tiled roofs, the small platforms built on them for clothes drying and, more romantically,tsuki-mi.
On the platform just opposite something moved, took shape of a woman. He bent forward to see more closely.
"Good-evening, Kent-san. Do you like the moon view?"
It was Toshi-san, the adventure at last. He would not let it slip from him. She was entrancing in the moonlight, ethereal as some fantastic fairy-land picture. From where he sat the moon was almost directly behind her. An inspiration came to him and he moved a little, bringing the great, yellow orb directly in line behind her, so that her head was silhouetted against it, high helmet-like coiffure standing out black, sharply contoured, the glowing disk against her profile like a luminous halo—a preposterous image, a geisha with a halo. Surely this was a night of witchery!
The opportunity had come. He jumped to his feet, the loose boards rattling under him. It gave him an idea; he picked up one of them and placed it as a bridge over the space between the two platforms. She had risen also, stood looking over to him, hands grasping the low railing. What on earth was this mad foreigner about to do now?
He tested the plank with his foot. "O-Toshi-san. I am coming over to you."
"You mustn't.Abunai.Take care." But as she spoke she held out her hands towards him, to assist him, receive him. Romance at last. What would his prosaic San Francisco friends say, could they see him here, under the full moon, flitting about among the Tokyo housetops, into the arms of this flower-like Japanese girl, just a few feet away. He glanced down into the narrow chasm of the alley below, its darkness riven here and there by shafts of light from the windows. They would not know, these people down there, no one would know, of this secret meeting, his and O-Toshi-san's. This was the thing he had sought, unpremeditated, a casual stroke of good fortune, with the pleasant sense of venturing into the unknown.
It was easy. A step, and he had crossed, felt her arms about him solicitously, as she anxiously sought to drag him to safety. She indicated thezabutonon which she had been sitting, pale-green with a great crimson flower design. "Please, sit down."
"Oh, no, you must sit there. Ladies first; that's foreign style, you know."
She laughed delightedly. "Oh, how funny. I had heard that foreigners did like that to their women; but it is so queer, to have it happen to me, to oneself. Still, you must sit there. You are ano-kyaku-san, a guest, you know."
"Chigaimasen.It makes no difference." He forced her gently down on the cushions. "Anyway, I am not just akyaku-san, just like the others down there. I have come to you out of the night, dropped from the moon."
She laughed again, that same clear silver tone; he sensed a musical enjoyment from it. "It is just like a cinema picture, isn't it, your coming to me, like that. I am glad it happened to me; you are so adventurous, you foreigners, so different. I know how you do, from the cinema, but I always wanted to know for myself. Yes, I am glad you are not just a guest."
"Naze?Why?"
"Naze-demo," the equivalent to the white woman's "because." "I won't tell you now; maybe some day, by-and-by," she smiled mischievously. "Now tell me about your women. I see them on the Ginza sometimes, big, strong, beautiful. Tell me, when you can have them, why do foreigners sometimes love us little,kitanaiJapanese girls?"
That absurd "kitanai" again! It was so inapposite, irritated him. He hastened to explain, to refute, trying to seek the terms which he thought might best appeal to this slight, fairy-like dream-picture, whosemode of thought, fashion of reasoning, was unknown, mysterious, to him. He felt his way, amused at the intricate, curious task.
"You know, a mountain is beautiful, but so is a flower. You may find your pleasure in the great, majestic beauty of Fuji-san, and then, again," he seized her hand, "you may delight in the flower, in this little hand, delicate, warm, soft," he smoothed the slender fingers, "embodying in its delightful smallness the entire sum of infinite perfection."
She let her hand lie in his. He drew her closer so her slim body rested lightly against his, and as he did it he wondered, why she was so passive, offering no resistance, not even making a show of doing so? Was it because it was all in her day's work, an easy surrender to careless handling, or mauling by clumsy, lustful paws of carousing guests? It took the glamor out of the thing, stripped the situation instantly of its air of light, ephemeral charm. How far did they go, these girls; at least, how far did this one go? He would soon find out. He threw both arms about her and drew her close into his clasp; but now she resisted, set both hands against his face. He was surprised at the strength of these slender arms. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of her resistance. She fought desperately to get away. He released her. She looked at him gravely, without anger, but just a bit disdainfully. "But you mustn't do that, behave just like a rough guest. I thought you were quiet. You must promise not to do that again. The hand, yes, and, if you promise, I will sit quite near you, yes; but no more."
He felt quite ashamed; still his curiosity had the better of him. Was that the usual procedure, the favors usually granted the guests? He asked her, bluntly.
"Oh, no." She placed her hand on his arm, looked up at him seriously, intently. "The hand, it doesn't matter. But I don't sit like that, so close, with others. You, you were a friend."
She seemed so ingenuous, the air of innocence was quaint, irresistible. He would have sworn that she told the truth—but what about the police commissioner? He felt that it was churlish, an unworthy thing; still he could not help asking: "But your police friend?"
She swept her hand outwards impatiently, as would she waft away something noxious, unpleasant. "So you've heard. But what of it.Shikataganai, it can't be helped. Why should you care; he has bought me, he gives me many fine things; but he is only ano-kyaku-san, after all—and you are a friend, so why should you care?"
She noted the surprise on his face, his amazement at this astonishing reasoning. "But don't you understand, one doesn't care for the man who is just a guest; it is a matter of business, but one doesn't love theo-kyaku-san, no matter what he gives, money, presents. The man who pays nothing, the friend, he's the one—the one whom one cares for. But, of course, you are a foreigner; you may know the hearts of your own women, but you don't know the hearts of geisha."
"No, how can I? Tell me. Teach me. Come over here again. I shall be very quiet."
"Then promise." She held her hand out to him, the little finger curved into a diminutive hook, took his hand and curved his finger in the same fashion, linked it into her own. "That's the way we promise. Now, don't forget."
She gave him her hand naïvely and snuggled close to him. "You have been very rough, but I know thatyou don't know about Japanese custom. So now I shall tell you what to do to make the geisha like you. You know when you act as you did just now, we don't like you. You must be kind, gentle. We don't like rough men, or restless ones, and the ones who laugh loudly at everything, or the ones who are over-sweet on first acquaintance. And we don't like the ones who brag about themselves and about their money, or who throw it about to show off, or the ones who are too dandified, or who chatter too much. But we like the man who is quiet, not too silent, but who talks pleasantly, and who doesn't boast, and who doesn't brag about experience with geisha. If you want a geisha to like you, don't be stingy, but don't spend over-much. Be cheerful and be kind. That's why I like the foreigners in the cinema. And now I have taught you a lot, and you are very wise, and," she laughed up into his face, "next time you meet a geisha you know just how to win her."
He protested. He would use his knowledge only to win her; but she shook her head. No, it was impossible. And now it was late. She must go. She rose, bowed ceremoniously. He grasped her hand. Just a moment; would she not meet him again? She could not tell; yes, she often came up here fortsuki-mi. She bowed again and disappeared down the stairway into the house.
After that he met her often, on the roof. As they became intimate, she told him that she would come whenever she was not engaged; but she was popular and he was often disappointed. It added to the fascination of the meetings, the constant uncertainty, enhanced the pleasure of being with her, listening to her grave, childish wisdom. He felt that he might easily come to care for her, that she was insinuating herself into his affection; that she might become the womanwhom he was awaiting to come from somewhere, into his life. But while their friendship grew, and she talked more freely, confidently, and he felt himself gaining an intimate insight into this quaint, delicate little geisha soul, she maintained punctiliously the barrier of the first evening. Carefully, with the most subtle caution, he endeavored to gain a little more, to draw her closer, but she was ever alert, baffled him quietly.
Usually their talk was gay, and especially when her intuition, marvelously accurate, warned her of his restlessness, she held it so. But one evening when the night was dark, with only a few faint stars futilely scattered in the murk, he fancied that she was troubled. He could not see her face, but as he sat near her he could notice her bosom heave uneasily and sensed a trembling, nervous tension of her body. But she would tell him nothing; said little, pressed close to him, silently oppressed by her thoughts. What could be going on in that childishly troubled little geisha mind, behind that clear white forehead with its finely curved half-moon brows? He placed both arms about her cautiously, but she did not resist. The poor, dear, little girl! He wanted to hold her, help her, felt the instinct of protection, affection. "O-Toshi-san, tell me what it is. I shall help you. Can't you trust me a little, dearest? Can't you care for me a little?"
She straightened in his arms, drew her head back, black eyes gazing deeply into his. Then, suddenly, she threw both arms about him, clung to him convulsively, gaspingly, pressing her soft cheek against his. He moved a little so he faced her. "Kiss me, O-Toshi-san." She drew back her head a little, startled. "Kiss me, in the foreign way. You are a foreigner's, now." He bent over to her, pressed his lips against her soft mouth. But it was only a faint response. "I mustteach you to kiss, dear. Come." Again he kissed her, again and again, and gradually she responded, hot lips clung to his, as she trembled, clinging in his arms.