The tables were crowded, the long-haired, bespectacled ones had evidently here a habitat, a homely Parnassus, where they might worship that which they conceived to be art, amidst an atmosphere of beer, bad cooking and the eternal nudes. They found seats at a table with some of them, who smiled and made room with great politeness.
It was an odd mess. Still, since he was definitely in for it, he might as well do his best to draw from the incident whatever he might. But he could not get over the incongruity of it, Adachi-san, dainty, modest, with only an inch or two of clear ivory-tint below the throat showing under the embroiderederineckband, surrounded by this mob-like throng of utter nakedness.
"And do you really like all that?" He swept his hand disparagingly towards the walls.
"Ssst," she placed her hand warningly on her lips. "Please don't talk so loud, Kent-san. He made them, the proprietor over there. He runs the restaurant for a living, but he paints, too, these things."
Were they all going crazy; even second-class restaurateurs snatching moments between steaks and chops to worship fanatically at the new shrines? He was about to speak, to express to her his wonder at these ever more astounding revelations, when he became aware that some one had come up to them, a Japanese of about thirty, less conspicuously bohemian than the others, still apparently one of the artist tribe. He bowed with quiet dignity to Kent. "I beg your pardon, but I couldn't help overhearing, and I should like very much to know what you think." He turned to the girl. "Please, Adachi-san, won't you introduce me to your friend."
She was plainly pleased as she made the introductions. Kent was a friend, she blushed a little. Thenewcomer was Sugawa, "a great artist," she added, "one of our best."
Sugawa smiled to Kent. "Women exaggerate so," he remarked in perfect English. Then he fell back to Japanese, evidently for the benefit of the girl. "I saw you at the exhibition this afternoon, and now again here, and I am sure that you don't like what we do. You are an American, are you not? I thought so. And you know we Japanese like Americans for their frankness, the American frankness. I wish you would tell me just what you think about it, and, if you care, I'll tell you just what we think, what we are trying to do."
"The American frankness." That was the usual prelude, the favorite gambit for opening a conversation in which Japan drew out skillfully the thoughts and views of America, but only so seldom gave like return, remaining unrevealed, unknown, behind that curiously baffling wall of national reticence. His courtesy had been perfect, disarming; still what business had he to come breaking in upon them like that! "American frankness." He probably wouldn't like it when he received it, but since that was what he asked for, he should have it, in full measure.
"In the first place, I must tell you that I am no artist and have but small knowledge of such matters, but I can tell you how I feel, how probably most of us foreigners feel when we see you lightly abandoning the immeasurably fine heritage from your forefathers to make mediocre offerings to foreign idols." He swept on, expressed his feelings just as he would have spoken to Kittrick or Karsten; it became almost a tirade. He began referring to pictures he had seen that afternoon, things he particularly remembered; but as he went on picking into bits, relentlessly, this and that painting, the clumsy clay images, the other's faceshowed no resentment, expressed instead absorbed, intelligent attention. Kent felt that he had gone a little too far and wished to tone it down a little.
"Even if you, some of you, at least, have done surprisingly well, especially considering the shortness of time, what particular good will it do? Even if in time you should bring forth a Gauguin or a Matisse, the others are doing all that; you will have but added to the cumulative results; whereas in your own field you are unique, undisputed masters of an art that is valuable and fine, that will become lost if you fellows don't follow it up. I hope that I have not offended you, but it seems such a pity."
The other smiled. "No, of course I'm not offended. I asked for frankness and got what I asked for. And, you know, it is not new to me, this feeling of you foreigners that we should continue along the old line. That's what my teachers were telling me, in America and in Paris. That's what you Westerners always want, in art, in architecture, in dress, customs, life, to have us remain the quaint, exotic, strange country. You are like the people who think it a pity that a pretty kitten must grow up to be a cat, and who would like to have a child remain always a child. On one hand you praise the adaptability with which we have acquired your civilization, and on the other you hate to see the old, quaint Japan go—to see it change so as to become but one more of the many countries of the earth which are so much alike. You feel that the world is becoming too much the same all over, that London, and New York, and Paris, and now Tokyo will be all the same, will afford no new, strange sights and sensations; that Japan is being lost as a charming playground for you. But what about us? In the first place, we wanted to remain as we were, but the foreigner forced us to become one with him. No,"he smiled, "I don't resent it. I am glad it happened, but the fact remains. You praise us for adopting your civilization, and still that doesn't mean only building steamships, and railroads and all that. That's the least part of it. That's superficial. What really counts is our emancipation from feudalism, from the rule of the few masters, attaining expression of the individuality, and that's the real Western civilization which Japan, the Japanese people, has just begun to grasp. Then why shouldn't we follow our own wishes, each his own, each man, for instance, painting as he pleases, old style, modern style, after Hokusai or after Gauguin. You say that we are not producing the art of our forefathers, but you don't see Europe producing any Titians or Tintorettos. Of course, so far we are only imitating, we are learning, copying, but why shouldn't we some day do as well as you do, maybe even better? Now we have joined in the march of progress of common civilization. We can't go backwards, we can't remain stationary. We must go on. Art is only one phase of the whole thing, but——"
But he was interrupted by a jangling of bells, clamor of voices.
"Gogai!" the hoarse shout came in from the street. "Gogai!"
An extra. They were rushing to the windows, the door. "Hey, come here, in here."
A little old man ran in, breathless, amid a jingle from a bunch of small bells clustered from his belt. Under his arm he held a bundle of small printed sheets, thegogai, extras, great news of some kind. They all crowded around him, tore the papers from him as he gathered in their coppers.
Tokyo had been in a fever of excitement for days. The discovery had been made that a score of carloads of the arms left in the care of the Japanese army whenthe Czecho-Slovak troops retired from Siberia, had disappeared. At the same time Chang Tse-lin, the Manchurian war-lord, had received, from some mysterious source, a large amount of war supplies. The newspapers almost unanimously accused the militarists, the General Staff, of having engineered the transfer, in spite of Japan's agreement with the other Powers that none of them should supply the warring factions in China with arms. Dual diplomacy, the General Staff calmly overriding, for its own sinister purposes, the international pledges made by the Foreign Office. The accusation which the Japanese press so resented when made by foreigners was shouted by all the papers. And the people took it up. Now had finally come the time when the issue had been fairly made, when the yoke of the militarists must be overthrown by the rest of the Cabinet. Breathlessly the nation watched for the struggle.—But the General Staff haughtily denied the charge. They knew nothing of it all. A major in the army "confessed" that he was responsible; he had sold the arms to a Russian faction with which he sympathized. It was all his own, personal doings. He took all the responsibility. His wife committed suicide; she would not face the disgrace. The nation cried out. She was one more innocent victim of the juggernaut of the General Staff. Her husband was another, a scapegoat, a martyr. Of course, no one believed his story, a palpable invention to save the skins of his superiors. Now, what would the Premier, what would the Foreign Office do?
Thegogaibrought the answer. The Premier issued a statement, setting forth in tedious detail the opera bouffe proceedings of the court-martial. He confirmed the whole thing.
"The cowards!"
They did not stamp their feet, or bang fists ontables; repression was too ingrained. But as they read through the sheets, calling the attention of one another to this or that paragraph, disappointed, disgusted, sickened, hissing sharp staccato syllables between clenched teeth, it was as if the atmosphere had become charged electrically with waves of resentment, repressed hate, palpable almost as heat waves, sinister, ominous. The militarists had won again, as usual; but what of it? They had been brought a step nearer the eventual, inevitable debacle. It might seem on the face of it Oriental patience, passivity, but one could feel the tenseness of cumulative, restrained sense of outrage, injury. It was the constantly mounting head of steam in the boiler again.
But Kent had no time to study effects. He looked at his watch; only a little after nine. He would have time to cable. "Here, quick, call a taxi. Bring the bill,hayaku. Adachi-san, come along, please. I've got to send this thing right away."
A small closed car arrived. They climbed in. Immediately Kent set himself to composing a draft for his message. Sitting thus together, her warm, lithe body close to his, he sensed unconsciously the pleasure of her presence, but his mind was intent on his work, confining in the laconic form of a cable message the gist of the event. He read it over. Hang it, he should have liked to have seen the official communique which the Foreign Office must have sent out, but there was no time. He must take his chance on thegogai.
"Kent-san," she was leaning closer to him. "And now you are going to send that by the cable over to America. When will the papers there print it?"
"To-morrow the news will be all over the United States, all over the world."
"It is wonderful. How interesting your work must be. What have you written?"
He read it to her, pleased, with a feeling that her interest was drawing them together, that in some way, as yet undefinable, they were being brought into that intimacy which he craved.
She listened intently, a tiny furrow between the black crescent brows, thinking. "Kent-san," she said suddenly, as if she had arrived at a decision after careful deliberation. "You can add that the Premier does not believe the explanation of the General Staff; that he has told them so. It isn't fear of the fall of the Cabinet only that keeps him from making deeper investigation. The secret of it all is a question of the old clans, the Satsuma and the Choshu. The Premier is Satsuma, General Matsu is Choshu. The General threatened that if he were not backed up he would make it a clan fight, Choshu against Satsuma, and he would, too. They stop at nothing, these militarists. And Viscount Kikuchi had to straighten it out, to show them that if the governing classes fought among themselves at this time, it would give the people, the masses, he calls them, a chance. These old rulers know they must stick together, the old, the iron-hard men, the feudalists, against the people, against young Japan. Oh, it's so bitter, Kent-san, not only class against class, but generation against generation, even among the aristocracy; father against son, even. Some time you should talk to young Kikuchi, if he'll agree to talk to you about it. That, Kent-san, that's the real story."
In an indefinite way he had suspected that something like that was the case. That enmity existed among the various departments of the Government was an open secret, but this version, the clan fight, gave a picturesque, human-interest angle to the story that he rather liked.
"Yes, that's interesting; but you know I can't sendstuff like that unless I'm sure it's correct. How do you know? I must know that the source is reliable."
The car stopped; they had reached the post-office. He jumped out; then he leaned forward into the car. "Adachi-san, how can I know that it is true?"
She stooped towards him. He was looking straight into these lustrous eyes, brilliant, close. "I am telling you, Kent-san."
There was no time for debate; the cable office would close in a few minutes. As he copied his message on to the printed blank, his thoughts were racing, occupied with the girl's story. Should he take a chance? He hesitated for a moment. "Persons in position to know"—his pencil framed the words half mechanically. He felt an odd conviction that she was right. The clerk reached over for the message; he was in a hurry to get his work done and get away. Well, let it go.
He found her standing in the street beside the car. "Step in, Adachi-san, I'll take you home."
"No, there is no need for the car now. I shall walk."
Again that peculiar prejudice against what she ingenuously deemed the luxuries of the privileged classes. What a potpourri of quaint ideas stirred in that brain behind those delicately curved brows, those wonderful eyes, and yet she appeared extraneously so like all those Japanese girls whom one saw casually, everywhere, thinking idly that they harbored only thoughts of flower arrangement, tea ceremonial, or the ordinary dreams and aspirations of girlhood. She had given him but casual glimpses at her mind, evanescent, baffling flickers, stimulating curiosity, tempting him to learn, to find out, to intimacy. So far the day had given no opportunity for confidential talk; mischievous mischance seemed to have been everbent, vexatiously, on intervening. Now the walk might afford better chance.
She lived near Kanda-bashi, she said. They passed along the crowded streets, crossed the Ginza and turned down the broad street along the palace moat. Here there was no one. He took her hand, and, hand-in-hand, child-like, as do young Japanese couples, they walked on. But she was in no mood for personal talk. The moon; see how the light refracted on the green-oxidized copper roofs of the palace buildings, and the black reflections of the gnarled pines in the silvery water! She was thoughtful, a little serious. He walked on with her, wholly happy at the sense of her nearness, the softness of the small hand in his, languorously content.
At the Kanda bridge she stopped. "Here I leave you. I live over there." She indicated a dark mass of houses on the other side of the bridge. "And thank you, Kent-san, you have been so good to me."
But he held on to her hand. "But, Adachi-san, first you must tell me when I may see you again. I must see you, often, like this."
She smiled a little. "Why?"
"Of course. We shall be friends, good friends, shan't we?"
"But I am always so busy, really. I have so little time."
"Of course, you have time. Say Wednesday." She shook her head. "Well, then, Saturday afternoon; then I know you have time. I shall wait for you in Hibiya, at the fountain by the wistaria arbor, at noon, please."
But again she shook her head. He clung to her hand, insisting. Suddenly she pulled it free, laughed. "All right then, next Saturday." She moved away a few steps, then abruptly, impulsively, she pluckedfrom her hair a rose, held it over to him. "For you, Kent-san. Good-night,o-yasumi nasai."
He stood holding the flower, watching her as she moved swiftly over the bridge and disappeared in a narrow lane between the dark buildings. He found a rickshaw. Despite subconscious realization that the day had, after all, been drab, commonplace, disappointing, he felt in an exalted mood. The trotting figure of the rickshaw coolie faded from his consciousness; it was as if he were alone, with his thoughts, dreams. What a wonderfully complicated little beauty she was, entirely different from any girl he had known, had ever imagined; mysterious with her passionate devotion to the new things, art, the political flux and ferment, her peculiarly insistent abhorrence at the luxuries of the rich, and then, finally, that inconsistent flash of coquetry. Now he must carry on, get the explanation of all this, learn her thoughts, attain intimacy. She piqued him with her elusiveness, but it added to his zest. But what did he wish, after all? He enjoyed the sense of being surrounded, enveloped in her beauty; yet he was not in love with her—no, he was not—there was no desire of conquest, to embrace her, to clasp her in his arms in possession. And still he had realized distinct enjoyment at holding her hand. It was intensely interesting, her evident acquaintance with the manipulation of the hidden strings which actuated the secret workings of the government behind the scenes. Yes, that also caused attraction; yet he had been drawn to her, irresistibly, with the direct certainty which compels steel to a magnet, even before he had heard a word from her, by the sheer compulsion of her beauty. Hang it, it was all very puzzling, this not being able to define what was really stirring within one's own mind. Still, he was no psychoanalyst. He gave it up. He would letthe thing take its course, let fate work it out according to its own inscrutable arrangement.
He held the rose to his face; yes, he was certain; of all the incongruous, clashing incidents of the day, this was the one he liked best.
The following morning Kittrick dropped in to discuss the news. But there was little to discuss; all Japan was unanimous in the belief that the official statement constituted but a very crudely contrived whitewash. "I think though that the Foreign Office might have summoned courage to challenge the General Staff had it been able to get irrefutable proof that it engineered the deal to Chang Tse-lin," said Kittrick. "But they failed to get it, so they were in fact quite wise in not making a charge which they could not back up. I think, though, that the Premier made a mistake in issuing the statement over his own signature. Now he has tarred himself with the same brush as the militarists, and if the world loses whatever confidence it gained in Japan at the Washington Conference, Japan has only herself to blame."
"I think——" began Kent, but he was interrupted by a noise at the door, and the Great Nishimura strode in, radiant, flatulent with self-importance.
"Hello, Nishimura-san," Kent waved him to a chair. "We were just talking about the Premier's proclamation. What do you think of it?"
"Bunk!" He dismissed the matter with a scornful sweep of the hand. "Gentlemen, congratulate me; I'm going to be a candidate for the House of Representatives."
"Good for you; congratulations. What party will it be, Seiyukai or Kenseikai?"
"Ah, that's a detail that hasn't been decided yet. We shall find out first which party seems to be thestrongest in my native place where I'm going to run; we're a little uncertain yet. But the most important part, the financial arrangement, has all been fixed up, so probably, gentlemen, a short time from now you shall address me as the Honorable Nishimura, and, who knows, some day it may be His Excellency Nishimura. Finally my talents are being recognized by the people that count. I know the game, and I shall go far—and I shan't forget my friends." He smiled effusively. "In fact, that's what I came in about, to see if you two gentlemen would care to join me in a little celebration, just us three. Now, you know, it is not the common thing for us Japanese gentlemen to go to the Yoshiwara. It isn't done, at least not openly. We go to geisha houses when we want relaxation for 'the tired business man,' as you Americans say. But the fact is, an old client of mine owns one of the first-class houses in the Yoshiwara, and to tender his respects to me he has invited me to come with a few friends to his place—so I thought you might like to come."
"Why, thanks, Nishimura-san, I think I'd like to go." Kent had never seen the Yoshiwara. He had meant to see it, just as he had meant to see the Imperial Museum and the tombs of the Forty-seven Ronin, some day, ever postponing with the knowledge that he might go at any time. "What about you, Kittrick?"
"Sure I'll go. The Yoshiwara isn't what it used to be, is it, Nishimura-san?" The great man shook his head sadly. "Still we shall enjoy the excellent hospitality of the coming Premier of Japan."
"Who knows?" he smiled deprecatingly. "All right, gentlemen, I shall be here at seven with a car."
The car he brought must have been one of the largest in Tokyo, an enormous thing with an interiorresplendent with mirrors, cut-glass flower holders and manifold glittering nickel trimmings. "Not a hired car, this," explained Nishimura. "It belongs to the Watanabe interests, my backers, who are now assisting me. Step in."
They swept through Tokyo, through a dimly lighted section of narrow streets, emerging presently into a quarter where great buildings, brilliantly lighted, presented a vivid contrast to the surrounding squalor. "Here we are," announced Nishimura. "The nightless city of wine, and song, and beautiful women. You have nothing like that in America."
"I'd like to take a look around before we go to your place," said Kent. "Do you mind?"
"I shall show you the place, and then you two can walk about a bit. I shall wait for you. I cannot well be seen in these streets, you know."
Their destination was an enormous house, three-storied, gorgeous with elaborate carvings and gilt ornamentation. Kittrick and Kent set out down the wide street, bright in the blaze thrown out from the scintillating glare from the great buildings, all spotless, prosperous looking, glittering with light and tinsel. Along the front of each house ran a great hall-like space. One entered and faced a show-window-like arrangement, where rows of large portraits of women, each bearing a name, appeared, set in variously arranged backgrounds of gilt screens, vases with flowers, heavy hangings of brocade, excellently executed silk scroll pictures. At each end of this was a small box, ludicrously like a pulpit, in which sat men, the doorkeepers, who drove the bargains with the guests. Some sat silently, impassively suffering the crowds to flow by, stirred to action only when inquiries were made of them. Others were busy, after the fashion of barkers at a fair, praising their wares, calling attentionto the beauties displayed, to the cheap prices. In some houses huge open gateways allowed glimpses of gardens, meticulously arranged with stone lanterns, miniature shrines, grotesquely gnarled pine trees throwing their shadows in the soft light flooding the space from the windows above, each a delicately contrived, entrancing little fairyland, inviting, alluring.
They passed down narrower streets, mere alleys, where the lights were dim, the houses smaller, some displaying but three or four portraits, and where the barkers were more insistent. But throughout it all was noticeable the almost entire absence of women. Here and there, especially in the smaller places, a painted face might be glimpsed for an instant between parted curtains, titters might be heard behind drawnshoji, and from above would come the strident whimper of samisen and high-pitched female voices; but that was all.
As they progressed, the sameness grew tiring; one became irritated at the monotony of these rows and rows of stiffly smiling portraits staring at one, all so curiously alike that soon they gave the impression of a vast composite picture.
"I don't see much in it," commented Kent. "It seems to me drab, tedious. Many of the settings are fine, beautiful even, but so much of it is sordid, these barkers and the pictures, the gross commercial hawking of women with as little feeling as if they were meat in a butcher shop. I can't see the temptation."
"You came too late," said Kittrick. "You ought to have seen this place a few years ago, when the women were displayed, when these fronts faced right up to the street, showing the girls behind gilded bars. You could look down an entire street, a blaze of light and gorgeous color. Here would be a dozen girls withhigh coiffures, whitened faces and painted lips, all clad alike in costly silks, gold and crimson, set against a background of heavy brocade and among massive, carvedhibachiand mirrors; here, in the next place, would be a score of women in purple and silver, shimmering against hangings of soft-toned velvet; farther on would be another row, in dark blue and white, in the background marvelous carvings and dwarf pines and flowers, and so on, as far as eye could see, a kaleidoscope of glittering and glimmering gilt, and lacquer, and bronze, and constant, restless flittering of soft textures, blazing colors, riotously bewildering, all decking and displaying thousands of women for sale,—a truly barbaric phantasy of the Orient, where, if one could forget the beastly commercialism of it all, one might at least have a picture, flamingly, prismatically dazzling eye and imagination. And then came the reformer. He pointed out, quite rightly, of course, that it was degrading to the great Japanese nation to have its women displayed, like animals, in cages. So they put an end to that part of it, the beauty, the splendor, and did away with the only excuse that the Yoshiwara ever had for existence; for then, by the gods, you might well have called it one of the Seven Wonders of the World."
They returned to the house where Nishimura was awaiting them. A flock of servants, male and female, attended them. They were evidently honored guests. In a large room, they found Nishimura and his host. It was enormous, hall-like almost, with spotlesstatamimatting, as usual with only a low table, effulgent in crimson lacquer, some soft silkzabuton, but the few ornaments, an ancientkakemonoin thetokonomarecess and a couple of vases, were evidently antiques of great price. Nishimura introduced the host, a patriarchal gentleman in rich, black silks, white-bearded,dignified, incongruously venerable when one thought of the nature of his commerce.
"You understand, of course, that our coming here like this to-night is altogether unusual," explained Nishimura. "Ordinarily guests to come here must first have gone to the introducing house, to get admission. This is one of the best houses, and it doesn't take in people just from the street. But we're friends, and you don't even have to pick your ladies from the portraits. You shall see them all in the flesh. It's a great honor."
The old man smiled benignly, clapped his hands.
Patter of feet and swish of silks in the corridors beyond. Then suddenly a sliding partition moved aside and a score of girls tripped into the room, arranged themselves in a long, curved row about the men, stood there, like soldiers for inspection, all clad alike in crimson and gold, some haughtily indifferent, others smiling or tittering, a flaunting picture of color, crimson lips, white faces, black hairdress, shimmering wealth of soft undulating textures.
The old man swept out his hand towards the line of girls. "Please, gentlemen, select from among these unworthy women the ones whom you wish to serve you."
The white men were a bit embarrassed. It was very difficult to choose in such an array of beauty. They pointed, hesitatingly, almost at random, to two girls, who left the row slowly, knelt on the mats before them. One of the older girls was picked by Nishimura. "The oldest are the best," he advised.
The other girls moved out, procession-like. "And now, would you care to see my poor place?" The host rose and they followed him. It was a vast building through which he led them, tier upon tier of rooms set in a square about a garden, dark-green foliagerefracting the soft shimmer of light filtering on all sides through the rows ofshoji; through the verdure might be glimpsed clumps of flowers, a tiny stream with a miniature red, high-curved bridge. They walked through a maze of corridors over dark, brilliantly polished hardwood floors, a labyrinth of passages and stairways, past score upon score of rooms. Throughout was noticeable an air of taste, artistically planned arrangement of pictures, furnishings and ornaments, all spotless. The whole thing bore an air of refinement, delicately restrained artistry, perfection, vitiated only by the uneasy thought lurking ever in the background of the mind, the pity that all this beauty should be devoted to the most sordid commerce of man.
They returned to the first room, and immediately a throng of servant women, soberly clad in dark kimonos, their unpainted faces a relief after the array of bedizened vendors of beauty, brought the bewildering multitude of courses which made the banquet. Hot sake was served in small stone bottles. At the elbow of each man sat the girl of his selection, watchfully keeping his cup filled. Nishimura's handmaiden was busy; he expanded in talk.
As he flowed on unendingly, he became interesting with the intimate details of his affairs. It was informing; still it struck Kent that, after all, he was their host, and he must not be allowed to unbosom himself unwisely. He managed to whisper to him. "Aren't you a bit frank, Nishimura-san; remember these women may talk."
Nishimura laughed. "How little you know about the customs of Japan, Kent-san. Don't you know that we of Japan, we statesmen and business men, transact our most important business to the pleasant accompaniment of women, geisha generally, of course, but this is the same. Why, big business deals are closed the bestwhen the presence of beauty stimulates the brain and makes more receptive the mind of the man you deal with. That's why such is no business for striplings who would let their thoughts wander, but for us maturer and wiser men. Have another drink, Kent-san, and talk safely, as freely as you please. Or possibly I have bored you?"
He hastened to reassure him. "No, not at all; on the contrary, it is all intensely interesting; only I can't understand just why you're so eager to get into the political game. You are making money from your business, and politics must surely interfere."
"Ah, how little you know of politics. Now I shall instruct you." He leaned back on his cushion, drew a deep breath, expanded, reminiscent of the fabled bullfrog. The woman beside him hastened to fill his cup. He drained it and held it out to her mechanically. She filled it again.
"You must know, surely, that in all countries business and politics, economics, go together. That's why it's called political economy." He had adopted a didactic tone, and frowned as if wrestling with ponderous problems, pleased with his rôle as the instructor. "That's the way it is in all civilized countries, only in Japan we have attained somewhat greater perfection, coördination, yes, coördination." The word pleased him. "Still even here it was until quite recently even better than it is to-day. You remember the Manchuria Railway scandal, when such a fuss was made because what had been gained, outside the rules—but what are rules—had found its way to the coffers of the Seiyukai party; and the Kwantung opium affair. Think of it, one official testified that he had turned six million yen of opium money over to the party funds. That's how parties may be made great and be able to see to it that trustworthy men are elected to the Diet.But then the Kenseikai stepped in and caused trouble, foolishly forgetting that some day they may be in power themselves—still, possibly they were actuated by some higher motive, I don't know yet."
Evidently he had remembered that presently he might find himself a Kenseikai candidate. The same thought struck Kittrick.
"But you said that you didn't know whether you'd be a Seiyukai or a Kenseikai candidate. Now, which party platform conforms the most with your principles?" He grinned.
Nishimura waved his hand impatiently. "Oh, platforms! When I was in the States I heard of that all the time. Platforms!" He snapped his fingers. "In Japan we do not tie our statesmen's hands with foolish platforms. We observe the events when they happen and shape our actions accordingly. Wise men do not cross bridges till they come to them. We have no party platforms, at least none to speak of."
"But what do your parties amount to, then?"
"It's the men that count. Our people vote for the men whom they trust, whom they know to be wise. It's the men that count."
"But you haven't explained yet why you're so eager to get into this game?" broke in Kent.
The great man sighed and composed himself patiently to further explanation, as might a man indulgently bear with the inept questions of children. "Well, of course, you see there is power, and influence, and also money, a great deal of money, if one knows the game."
"How much do you get as a member of the Diet?"
"Three thousand yen a year."
"And how much do you figure your election will cost you?"
"At least fifty thousand."
"Then I don't see it. You are elected for four years, but the Diet may be dissolved at any time, and then you are out. In other words, you risk fifty thousand on a chance to gain a maximum of twelve thousand and possibly only three. And I thought you were a business man."
The criticism irritated Nishimura, drew him out entirely. With outstretched hand he warded off further questions. He held out his cup; the woman filled it, and he drained it, composing himself to the task of explaining elementals.
"Of course I don't pay that fifty thousand. That comes from the Watanabe interests. You know, of course, that the future of Japan lies in industry and commerce, and that's in the hands of the great interests, the Watanabes, the Katos, the Oharas and the other big ones and some smaller ones. These interests are patriotic; they know that to succeed Japan must have in the Diet men with experience and vision who will help their industries and make Japan great. So they see to it that the right men are elected. The Watanabes, for instance, are very patriotic and always figure on having about ten men in the House, and the rest all have their own men whom they can depend on. That's why they are helping me."
"Still, if you are elected, you only get the three thousand. That's mighty little to pay for your time and trouble."
Nishimura was almost at the end of his patience, still he made a last effort. "But don't you know that there are many others to whom a Diet member may be useful. Some one wants to help build up Japan's merchant marine, and he naturally needs a subsidy. So he comes to me, and I look into the proposition and it seems worthy, and he pays me for my trouble in examining it, ten, twenty, thirty thousand yen. Andanother wants the right to place signs on all the Government telegraph poles, and I look into that, and I get another ten, twenty thousand yen. It is all so plain; every one knows it."
"But it seems to me that comes pretty close to accepting bribes, and you said just now that that proved unhealthy for the Manchuria and the Kwantung officials."
"Oh, hell!" He had to resort to English for emphasis. The host, who had been sitting by wonderingly, compassionately tendered him a drink with his own hands. He swallowed it hastily. "That's altogether different. These are officials under the law, and such are not allowed to take bribes; but we legislators, we're not officials under that law. Do you think we could be expected to work for nothing. Of course, nobody expects that. And then even the officials, nobody cares much. In the opium scandal, Kata got only six months for accepting a bribe, and some of the other big men got about that or less—and, of course, in many cases the sentences were very properly deferred. You must have read in the papers how it was given out that some of the leaders held such high orders that they could not be prosecuted, because it would be a national disgrace to send to jail men holding such honorable decorations. Ah, some day," he sighed and held out his cup for more sake, "some day I may be such a high official myself."
The host had seen that the guest of honor was becoming wearied. He clapped his hands, theshojislid aside and six geisha appeared, with samisen and drums and bustled about, making ready for their performance. The men stretched themselves out more comfortably. As the geisha danced, the sake was passed ceaselessly. Nishimura was becoming sleepy, yawned stentoriously.
The host took the hint. "And now, Nishimura-san, would you retire?"
"Yes, I think so. I'm sleepy and a little, just a little drunk." The host waved his hand and the geisha disappeared. The men arose. Nishimura was led off, leaning heavily on his woman, arm flung over her shoulder. In the doorway he looked back, smiling flabbily, insinuatingly. "Well, so-long, gentlemen. Have a pleasant rest.O yasumi nasai."
The girl led him off, wobbling dangerously. Kent ran to her assistance, and between them they managed to convey him precariously down stairways and through long corridors, to her rooms. The woman sank to her knees, bowed, her forehead almost touching the mats. "Thank you very much. I am sorry that I have troubled you." She stepped into the room. The partition closed behind her. Kent found himself alone. He looked about for Kittrick, but no one was in sight. It was late. The samisen play and singing had ceased. As he wandered through the long hallways he lost his bearings in the vast, labyrinthic house. From the garden below the soft plash of a fountain came up to him. In the silence the great gilt carvings, intricately fashioned lanterns hanging from the eaves, shining surfaces of lacquer refracting lustrously dim light filtering through papershoji, the air of beauty, still, dream-fraught, brought the impression of a fairy palace asleep. But as he faltered on, seeking the room whence he came, past row on row of rooms, closedshoji, he sensed rather than heard a minute quaver of sound, the faint sibilance of a multitude of whispers, coming from all about him, from behind frail walls and paper partitions, stirring of unseen men and women, titillation of restrained giggling, indefinite, intangible, blending into a vague murmur, a composite, infinitely low, indistinct background of sound.
"Oh, there you are. I have looked for you everywhere." He heard a soft laugh behind him. It was the girl who had sat with him at the feast. "Come." A soft little hand clasped his. He had been perplexed at his helplessness, alone in that great house, silent except for the subdued murmur of bought caresses, purchased kisses, the parody of love played by these poor, painted houris behind theshoji. So he suffered her to lead him on, uncertain as to what was about to come, still relieved at having again definite destination.
"Where is my friend, the other foreigner?"
Her slim hand indicated vaguely the long row of closed sliding partitions before them. "There, somewhere. Now, these are my rooms; please enter." She placed a silk cushion in front of him, sank to the floor, prostrated herself before him, face held low towards her hands spread flat on thetatami, waiting.
"Thank you." He squatted on the cushion. She rose.
"Tea?"
"Please." With deft fingers she brought out the minute paraphernalia, doll-like cups and teapot, poured hot water from the kettle simmering over the glowing charcoal in thehibachi. He looked about; speckless as usual, and dainty, cozy. She had managed to give the room an air of personality, almost homelike, pathetic, with a doll enthroned on a little couch of her own contrivance, her small cupboard showing through glass doors frail china, figurines, temple charms, souvenirs from little excursions which formed the great events of her life. The partition to the next room had been slid aside. He glimpsed chests of fine-grained, unpainted wood where she kept her finery. A pile of crimson silkfuton, great wadded quilts, formed a bed on the floor, almost filling the tiny room.He finished his tea, then she indicated the room beyond.
"And now, danna-san, if it pleases you to retire, I shall change my kimono."
He looked at her. Through the evening he had hardly noticed her, as she sat behind him, silent, self-effacive, like a brilliantly colored, hardly perceived shadow. How young she was, and how expressionless her face, unlined, untouched by the exactions of her sorry trade—almost like that of the doll over there, vapidly pretty with its eternal smile. "No, I think not, not now." He noted the wondering, half-frightened expression on her face, and hurried on. "What's the name of your doll?"
Her face brightened, became alive. "Oh, that's Tamayo-san, tamayo, egg, you know, because she's so fat. I have two more. Would you like to see them?" He would. She brought them out. This one had been sent her from her father, from Kiryu. As she prattled on, he drew from her her little history. Daughter of a tenant farmer; she had worked at silk spinning. Then the house had been destroyed by a typhoon, and, like several other girls in her village, she had gone to the Yoshiwara, snapped up by one of the agile agents whom news of the disaster had brought to the spot, alert for business. "They paid fifteen hundred yen for me," she said proudly. "But then, this is one of the best houses, and then I was only sixteen. I am eighteen now."
"Was she unhappy here? Would she not like to go home to her people?"
"Yes, of course, I'd like to go home. Sometimes it's bad here, when the honorable guests are drunk and rough; and some of the other girls are mean and tell lies, and cause trouble. They are jealous of me, and of Yurike-san, and Ainosuke-san, because we arethe most popular and make the most money. You know, it's fun every month to go down and look in the big book, for, you know, they must show us our accounts, and see how much you have saved. For I am saving. I'm not like some of the girls who spend all their money on clothes and foolish things and are always in debt. But here the master is pretty good, and in a couple of years I'll have a thousand yen all my own. In some places the masters are cruel and bad and keep the girls in debt always, so they can never get away. No," she cocked her head with a quaint judicious air as if she were gravely weighing the pros and cons; "it isn't so bad."
She spoke of the whole thing as if it were an ordinary business proposition, as she might speak of work in a cotton-spinning mill, or any other occupation. Did she then fail utterly to sense the degradation of her sorry occupation?
"But what about the men then, these scores and scores of guests, caressing you, fondling you——?"
"Oh, of course, thatisunpleasant, but then I don't think of them.Shikataganai, it can't be helped. I don't give my heart to them; and then in a few years I shall go home, with lots of money, and I shall marry a nice man, and I shall have only him and love him. And then I shall have babies, real babies, instead of dolls."
He was glad that she was like that, that the sordidness and shame passed by her unnoticed, not thought of. Here was surely a "lotus in the mud," as the proverb had it about these women, who, oddly innocent, mind apparently untouched by the grime and depravity of her surroundings, contrived to keep her spirit untouched, apart from it all. But then, she was only a simple peasant girl, ignorant of moral codes, undisturbed by considerations above physical comfort.But there must be others, more imaginative, more complex, with minds sensitive to the constant insult offered by sensuous leer, sake-fraught breaths in their faces, the compulsion of offering love, or the semblance thereof, for a consideration of money, to a succession of unknown men, unsympathetic, contemptuous, careless of their womanhood. As the thought came to him that here, within the space of a few squares of houses, were thousands of these women, many of them surely with delicately adjusted girl souls, enslaved by circumstance to sacrifice what would have been pure, sweet love aspirations, in this vast market place of meretricious caresses, he could understand the indignation of the reformer whom he had heretofore regarded, superciliously, as a well-meaning meddler.
He was relieved at the arrival of Kittrick. His girl was with him. She and Kent's companion whispered together animatedly. Kittrick yawned. "Well, what about it?"
"I'm glad you came. In fact, I was just wondering how I might manage to slip out of this."
"All right, why not? We can make some excuse surely." Kittrick turned to the girls. "It's getting late, and my friend has just got a bride, a new one, and it's foreign fashion always to come home before midnight during the first six weeks after marriage. My friend always does that with all his brides."
"Really?" Had he told them that Kent has as many wives as Solomon they would have believed it. The customs of foreigners were peculiar; they might do anything. "How many has he?"
Kent counted his fingers. "Six, yes, six or maybe seven. So you see it's time to go home."
"Bad man, that's not good to have so many wives; one, and possibly amekake, concubine, but one only is better." The small doll face was very serious, a littleshocked. So she had a code of morals, after all. "But you're not angry?" The tone was solicitous, frightened. "Have I not pleased you?"
"You poor little thing." He fished out a ten yen note, grasped both her hands and slipped the bill between them. "See, that's for you. Go and buy another doll, a foreign doll, and when you play with it, you can think of me. It's a souvenir."
She came up to him, placed both her arms about his neck, raised herself on her toes and pressed her warm, whitened cheek against his. "How good you are. Are all foreigners like that? I wish you were not going. It's too bad you have so many wives."
"I expect we had better go and say good-by to Nishimura," remarked Kittrick. The girls led them to the room, but he was dead to the world, snoring noisily, sprawling, arms outstretched over the disorderedfuton, the woman sitting beside him, patiently stirring a fan. The girls took them to the entrance. The streets were no longer crowded, but a few stragglers gathered and watched them curiously as they sat there, in full view, lacing their shoes. Of course, one knew what was in their minds. The embarrassment of the situation was the finishing touch.
"Whew, I'm glad to get out of this." In the silence of the deserted street, dim now and drab, as the brilliance of the lights had given way to a faint glimmer, the only sounds were their footsteps and, in a distance, the clamor of a watchman's clappers. Kent was ill at ease and wanted to get away from these great, quiet houses, from the sense of knowledge of the sordidness, of the lives of all these women stirring fitfully behind these walls. A policeman obligingly found them an automobile and they started home.
"Well, what do you think of it, Kent?"
"I am mainly disgusted, old man, still, I am just now too confused by clashing impressions to know just what to think. I feel so damned sorry for these women, and yet, oddly enough, that little girl of mine was not particularly unhappy. The shame and the hideousness of it all passed right by her. She might have been far more unhappy in a spinning mill. In a few years she'll pass out of it, marry, and forget all about it. But, of course, there must be others, girls who are fine-souled enough to suffer from the constant degradation that is offered them day after day, every day. The whole damned thing ought to be abolished."
"Yes, that's one side of it," said Kittrick. "Sometimes I'm inclined to agree with you; but then again, at other times I'm not. It's the old question of regulation or no regulation, and it is still an open one. At home we have taken the other tack, but I wonder if we're much better off. You know San Francisco, where you may go out any night and pick up girls, just like these, not held in such bondage perhaps, but, on the other hand, furtive, frightened poor devils who are no better off, who have not even the sense of security that the girls have here. We hear of Piccadilly and Leicester Square. The trouble is that as long as men, or at least a great many men, are what they are, women will be sacrificed. The question is the same here as elsewhere; there's something to be said on both sides. It's rotten either way. I've never been able quite to make up my mind which is best, or worst. But, here in Japan, there is at least one thing in their favor, and that's the marvelous way in which the Japanese manage to place a veneer of artistry, of beauty, externally anyway, over this thing. Of course, we have our opulently gorgeous palaces of sin and all that but they seem flaunting and garish when comparedwith Japan, where even in this they manage to convey a surface of estheticism, delicate beauty, cleanness, with their spotless rooms, fairy gardens and the rest. It is reflected even in these girls who seldom show the loose sensuousness, the brazen, commercial harlotry of our women of that class. And one thing is certain, these girls here in the case of the lower classes, and the geisha in that of the more well-to-do, have served to preserve the purity of the Japanese married woman. It's the existence of the Yoshiwara and themachiaithat turns the Japanese philanderer away from the other man's wife. And seeing the tangles and triangles of our cities, the rotten divorce cases, and knowing that the Japanese family, the unsullied virtue of the matron, is the corner-stone of the Japanese Empire, I'm hanged if I can't at least understand the reluctance of the Japanese in tackling this matter, disgusting and tragic as it is."
It was after midnight when he reached the house, but Jun-san was waiting for him. She never retired to her own little house in the garden until the men were safely home.
"You are late, Kent-san." She smiled, stepped closer, peered at him. "Ah, so you have found one at last. The other night it was a rose, and now—— So she is Japanese." The smile left her face. "Kent-san," she took his hand in her earnestness, "Kent-san, it is so seldom that happiness comes from this, a foreign man and a Japanese girl, but, if you must go on, be kind to her, please."
She slipped away. He shivered a little. Poor girl; it was distressing, this air of tragedy which always seemed to cling like a shadow to this beautiful, lovable woman, uncomplaining, with her soft dark eyes. He could envy Karsten to have the love of a woman like that. He felt lonely. Life was drab, tedious, selfish.Would he ever gain such love from some woman. So Jun-san thought he was traveling on that road. The rose, yes, but what could she have seen to-night? Women were always like that, even Jun-san, ever imagining.
He went to his room, began to undress. A glimpse in the mirror made him look more closely,—a white smudge on his cheek. Ah, that was it, a smear ofo shiroi, powder from the cheek of the Yoshiwara girl. He wiped it away hurriedly. Damn it, if he should enter into love relations with some Japanese girl, it would not be one like that. The thought of Adachi-san came to him. Yes, a girl such as she; still, his mind insisted, this was not the sort of relation he wished to enter into with her. And if, after all, he did, what would come of it, how would it end? He thought of Jun-san's words, "so seldom happiness comes from this." How devilishly complicated life was, a Scylla or Charybdis; did one steer clear of one rock one banged into the other. He turned off the light impatiently and climbed into bed, but thoughts would not leave him, the oppressive, stifling atmosphere of sorrow which lay broodingly over the household—why could not happiness come from a relationship like this?
With the approach of Saturday Kent became impatient. The feeling of being alone, that there was in the whole world no one who was really interested in his affairs, who cared whether he lived or died, took hold of him and he chafed under a desire for some one who would care, for the close touch, the intimate relationship which is possible only between man and woman. That was what he wished from Adachi-san. He thought it out carefully, made certain that he would eschew all semblance of dalliance. Jun-san was right, what could such lead to but sorrow, heartbreak. But he wanted her friendship, a sort of brother and sister relationship. Even though it was common to scoff at platonic intimacy, such must be possible, and in this case, with the definite absence of passion, erotic desire, it surely must be possible if ever. So it should be thus; he would regard her as a fair flower, attaining his enjoyment from being near her, allowing himself to be suffused by the effulgence of her beauty, disdaining to break the charm of purity and delicacy by soiling contact of too ardent hands.
As he awaited her, in the wistaria arbor by the fountain, he enjoyed a feeling of serenity, of having laid out a wise and safe course, one which would avoid the anguish and regrets of love passion. As he noticed her at a distance, hurrying towards him, dainty, picturelike under her brightly hued parasol, he became elated with a feeling of gratification, pride, that this beautiful, winsome girl, the equal of whom one didnot see in weeks or months, should be thus hastening to him.
She was in a gay mood. "You know, Kent-san, it's the first time I ever had a meeting with a man like this. And still I know that it's right for a man and a woman to meet thus, if they——"
"If they what?"
"Never mind," she laughed, a little confused. "Where do you wish to go, Kent-san?"
He left it to her. She decided on Shiba Park. It suited him admirably. He had hoped that she would select some place like that, typically Japanese. Somehow the surroundings of the former occasion, the strident modernity of the new art, the exaggerated imitation of the Quartier Latin atmosphere by the students, had vitiated the picture which he wanted to form of her. But here, as they wandered slowly under the huge, gnarled cryptomeria trees, among the ancient shrines and sepulchers of the Tokugawa shoguns, with their century-old carvings, hundreds upon hundreds of great stone and brass lanterns, silent halls with woodwork wrought into infinitesimally minute details, myriads of gilt ornaments, fantastic tesselated ceiling squares, one felt oneself brought back into the age of feudalism, peaceful, reverend in the brooding calm which lay over this place. Here she blended into, formed an integral part of the surroundings. The bright colors of her kimono with its great bow-like obi-girdle arrangement, her clear, refined Japanese features seeming to supply the last touch of artistry which infused this gorgeous medieval setting with the vitalizing breath of life.
And her thoughts came into harmony with it all. Modernism faded away; she told him the old histories connected with these shrines, imaginative, picturesque; quoted the ancient proverbs, bits of softly cadencedpoetry. This was how he wanted her to be; how marvelously she contrived to translate into living reality the indefinitely glimpsed dream of his imagination. He became immersed in well-being, absolutely complete, delicious pleasure. They dined at a Japanese tea house facing a garden, another perfect composition where nature had been persuaded rather than compelled to arrange the components, fine traceries of maple leaves, broad, flat stones in a winding pathway down to a tranquil bit of water, forming together the perfect picture where no ill-placed pebble or broken twig might intrude on harmony.
During the days which followed he enjoyed a sense of elation, triumph that his dream had at last come true, the ideal attained. This was perfection, just as he wanted it all, the girl herself to be. With this he could be fully happy, content. Sitting in his office, smoking idly, he found pleasure in living over in his mind every incident, every detail of this delectable adventure.
"Telephone call for you, Mr. Kent."
He roused himself, irritated. Hang the telephone and all modern contrivances which mankind had worked out painfully to plague it.
"Hello, hello, who's that?" he inquired briskly.
"Is that you, Kent-san?" By the gods, it was she. He felt as if he must be trembling visibly in his eagerness. "Yes, yes, this is Kent-san."
"I thought you might care to come over for some tea." He could hear her laughter. These prosaic wires had their excellent uses, after all. "Yes, thank you, of course, I'll come right over."
As he scrambled up the stairs he noticed that the offices were deserted; the promoters of Japanese-Bolivian harmony and the rest had left early, apparently. She received him, smiling mischievously. "Iam so sorry to have disturbed you, but every one goes home so early here, and I felt a little lonesome. So we shall have tea."
After that he came often, in the late afternoon, and chatted with her about the events of the day, the modern music, art, pictures, or, again, about old Japan, the ancient fables, beliefs, poetry, as her mood would have it. It seemed as if she possessed two distinct and complete personalities, one the quaint, conventional, yet emotional maiden of old Japan, the other the eager, nervous young intellectual, thirsty for knowledge, for attaining progress. They became very intimate. He learned that her first name was Sadako, so after that he called her that only, and she came to call him Hugh,—Heeyu she pronounced it. They made short trips Sundays, into the country, to Kamakura, Inagi, up the Sumida River, to temple festivals and street fairs. Thus it remained. At times he might hold her hand, simply, like that of a child, but that was as far as it went, as far as he craved to go. He had attained the fulfillment of his desire for constant enjoyment of her charm, her beauty, her companionship, intimate, serene, undisturbed by desire to go further.
One Sunday they made an early start and went farther afield, to the Hakone region. At Miyanoshita they left the little electric train, and lunched Japanese fashion at the Goldfish Inn. Then they wandered on down, along the road winding between the steeply sloping mountain sides, drinking in the coolness, enjoying the sweep of green bamboo and maple trees clinging to the rocky walls above them, the murmur and gurgle of the stream rushing, foaming, over great bowlders far below.
At Tonegawa where they went to the station to take the train back to Tokyo, they found a group ofexcited people on the platform. They were talking, gesticulating, children with arms filled with wooden trick boxes and other souvenirs regarding curiously their agitated elders. The station master was telling his story over and over again, repeating it to every new arrival, arguing and explaining. Yes, they might go to Odawara in the electric train, of course, but there was no way of going beyond that, to Tokyo. The steam trains were not running. Yes, they had stopped; they had all stopped. The entire Imperial Railways system had stopped. It was a strike, a universal strike. No, he knew very well that that had never happened in Japan before; but it had happened now, just as it had in America and England. He couldn't help it. They could go to Odawara for all he cared, but there was scant hotel accommodation to be had there. They had better stay in Hakone where there were many hotels. Yes, the trains were not running—he began to explain again to some newcomers—there was no getting back to Tokyo at present.
"Well, evidently we are in for it, Sadako-san. The man is right. We had better find some place here. I have heard there are good hotels in this village." She had placed her hand on his arm, seemed irresolute, frightened. "You are not afraid, are you, Sadako-san?"
"No, I'm not afraid of you. Come, let us go."
They found an inn in Tonegawa, a huge building with great wings, many-storied, striving up the hillside, seeming, like the trees, to cling precariously thereto. The inn people were a little doubtful. Yes, no. They had only one room left and that was really not a room at all; it was a banquet hall, not used for sleeping. The other hotels? No, they were crowded, too, with the unexpected rush of holiday seekers left stranded here. Yes, he might have the big room.Other refugees were approaching down the road. Kent made up his mind. "Shikataganai, Sadako-san, we must make the best of it. All right, I'll take it."
A maid servant led them through long passages, up steps, along a long passage, up more steps, then through more corridors and stairways, ever upwards, bewilderingly; it seemed as if they must be mounting into the clouds. Finally he noticed overhanging eaves; thank God, this must be the top story; they could mount no higher. The girl led them down a passage, drew asideshoji, ushered them into a vast room occupying the entire width of the building, showing a greattokonomarecess with a splendid scroll picture, a bronze statuette of Ebisu, the fattest and jolliest of the Seven Lucky Gods, grinning them welcome. There were great gilded screens, several huge mother-of-pearl inlaidhibachi. Quite evidently this was a hall for special feasts.
The maid brought tea and comfortable kimono. "The bath?" she inquired. This was a hot-spring hotel, sought by people from all over Japan for its natural hot mineral water. "I shall get dinner ready while you are in the bath," she added, evidently with the thought that this foreigner might not know the common custom.
"I want to arrange my hair first. There is no mirror here." Sadako was already in the doorway. "Please excuse me a moment."
She disappeared. He waited, not knowing just what to do. It was embarrassing, this bath suggestion. The maid became impatient. "Will you not take your bath now?" she insisted. Very well, he would solve the difficulty by going first. He got out of his clothes and into the kimono. The maid led him down through the maze of corridors, miles it seemed, to the ground floor, into a hall-like space, with shelvesfor clothing, where were standing half a dozen persons, men and women, half nude or nude, getting ready for or leaving the baths. He turned to the servant. "Where?"
"Oh, anywhere," she indicated a row of doors. "There are three baths, but they are all full. It is no use to wait. There are so many guests that there will be no empty rooms. Please enter." She was in a hurry, began to untie his girdle. It was embarrassing. In other inns where he had been, the rule separating the sexes had been observed. Still, they all seemed so unconcerned; he must do in Japan as the Japanese do.
He doffed his kimono and placed it on a shelf. The maid held open a door. As he started to enter some one from inside was about to pass out. He stood aside; a young matron, about thirty, and two little girls, all absolutely nude. He noted curiously that in his surprise there was no hint of being shocked, they were so natural, without hint of embarrassment. Came to him instead an odd sense of purity; the impression was like that of a graceful doe with a couple of fawns, nothing more.
The room was spacious; three sides were of finely grained wood, the fourth wall being the natural hillside with small shrubs growing in the interstices among the mossy rocks whence jetted the hot spring water, effervescent, into a rill in the immaculate tile floor leading to the tank, a huge thing, about three feet deep, filled with crystal-clear water. The room was so large that there was not even the veil of steam which usually half obscures the bathers in such places. On the floor close to him were a couple of Japanese men, rubbing themselves with towels, preparing to leave. A little farther over were three women, two very young, rinsing from their bodies the soap whichcovered them with a creamy foam; the third, a little older, was having her back rubbed by the old bath-man.
Kent took a wooden bucket and dipped water from the tank, poured it over himself, found a diminutive wooden stool and sat down to soap himself. The men left and he was alone with the women. They paid no attention to him, ignored his presence altogether. What a graceful picture they made, holding high the small buckets whence they poured streams of the sparkling water over their smooth, slender bodies, ivory-gleaming, creamy, almost white. The bath-man poured water over the oldest girl, and all three climbed into the tank. Then he turned to Kent and began to massage his back. The girls were chatting gayly. He wished they would have finished before time came for him to enter the tank. But the bath-man had completed the rubbing; now he was sousing him with clean water. "Please, danna-san, step in. This water is very healthful."
There was nothing for it. He went to the edge. The girls regarded him disinterestedly. "Please, excuse me." He noted surprise in their glances; evidently apology had been superfluous, out of the ordinary. They said nothing. He started to climb in hurriedly, to hide his embarrassment, but drew back with an exclamation. The water was much hotter than he had expected. One of the two younger girls tittered, tried to control herself, but failed. The other became infected by it, tittered also uncontrollably; from giggles they went into laughter, grasped each other's hands, bodies shaking, sending ripples scurrying over the mirror-like surface.
"Oh, do keep quiet," the older girl managed to repress a smile. "Please, don't mind them. They're very rude, but they are so young. Anyway," sheadded, "you should come into the water quickly; then you don't feel the heat so much."
"Thank you very much." He plumped in. It was not so bad, after all. "It is hotter than any place I have ever been before," he explained, ashamed at having flinched.
"Yes, it is hotter here than in most places," said the girl. "So you live in Japan?"
One remark led to another. The younger girls joined in. Soon they were conversing freely, Hakone, the weather, and particularly the news of the strike, the great event of the day. As they sat there, letting the heat from the water seep into their bodies, an undercurrent of thought kept running through his mind, minutely probing analysis into his own thoughts, his impressions from this astonishing situation. Yes, here he was, with these three young women, side by side almost, immersed in this water which offered no more concealment than glass, and yet his sense of embarrassment was leaving him, had left him; even the feeling of unconventionality disappeared. He felt no different than he might have, had he been sitting with them, fully clothed, in a café. Curiously, there was not even hint of suggestive thought, erotic inspiration. The utter absence thereof puzzled him a little. Men might experience such at the fashionable seasides of America where female beauty chose to adorn itself with wetly clinging textures, boldly cut garments, designedly piquant, stirring curiosity with artfully contrived faintness of concealment—while here the very absence of suggestion, of thought on the part of these women of the man-woman idea, produced an effect of naturalness, purity even; one would feel ashamed of harboring fancies of sensuality. And yet these girls—they were quite evidently gentlewomen—would have blushed in shame should they, when onthe street or any place other than the bath, suffer accidental exposure of even the slightest bit of bosom; they would disdain being seen in the daringly cut evening gown of Western fashion. In the bath this was natural, obvious; one did not bathe in clothes; this was evidently the idea.
They climbed out and prepared to leave. He watched them, as they stood erect or knelt in easy, graceful attitudes, as he might have looked at a picture. He was pleased that he had grasped the idea, the Japanese attitude of mind, that a man might look at a woman, unclothed, without taint of thought of sex.
"Sayonara." The girls smiled to him. An elderly couple came in. He climbed out, dried himself and passed out into the hall, donned his kimono and started back for the room. He mounted a flight of stairs, went down a corridor, climbed more stairs, occupied with his thought of the incident in the bath. Presently he faced a storeroom filled with great heaps of quilts. He tried to retrace his steps, but wandered into another part of the house which was unknown to him. Lost again, another labyrinth. He would inquire; but he did not even know the number of his room. The servants were all busy elsewhere. He asked a couple of young men who passed to show him to the top floor. They laughed at his predicament and undertook to guide him, but the floor they finally reached was as unknown to him as the rest had been. As they wandered along the corridors they could look into many rooms where withdrawn partitions showed each its separate little scene, parents with children, young couples, large families, groups of students, all eating, drinking, discussing the strike or their own more intimate affairs. Here and there the two young men would make inquiry, explaining the contretemps. Itexcited merriment. Others joined the search, became lost in their turn, pointing out directions, finding themselves baffled; still more joined the fun. It became a procession of young fellows and girls, highly amused, laughing, thoroughly enjoying the childish adventure. How likable they were, lovable in their ingenuousness; no hint here of racial antipathies. They took him in as one of themselves in this fine game which had happened so fortuitously to beguile the time. Kent came to enter into the spirit of the thing, the infectious spirit of hilarity, with the assurance that they were laughing with him, not at him; that they were all friends. He was almost disappointed when a maid who knew where he belonged came to his rescue and led him back amid laughing calls of "good luck" and "go yukkuri nasai," "don't be in a hurry to leave," from his host of new friends.