"Well, you didn't kick the Baroness while we weren't looking, did you?" chaffed Karsten, as they were on their way home.
"Oh, shut up, Karsten," it irritated gratingly. "I know well enough when I've made a fool of myself. You needn't rub it in." They went on a while in silence. "Still, you know, Karsten, I can't help feeling that I might have made better use of my opportunity to do something for those poor devils out in Fukagawa. I feel sure that had I been able to be more convincing, to make them feel as I felt when I was there, as I feel now, as a matter of fact, I might have contrived to do something to help. These people, the Oharas, are decent enough, kind enough, would surely give gladly from their wealth. Here they spend on a picture more than a hundred of what those poor devils earn in a year. It isn't right. Of course, it's because they don't know; but theyshouldknow, at least Ohara should. It's an obligation of wealth; only he doesn't think of it."
"But he does, in a fashion, at least," Karsten interrupted him. "He was talking to me about it, out there in the hall. He wants to do something; he would like to give, but he doesn't know how to go about it. He tells me that he has spoken to his directors, but they tell him that he must not interfere with business, that his ill-advised attempts would do more harm than good, and the constant attempts at blackmail to which he is exposed, like the rest of the millionaires, do not particularly encourage him to inject himself into the whirl of business. And, you know, if I were in his place, I think I should do exactly as he does, spend my time collecting pictures, building gardens, adding to the beauty of the city, with shooting and golf as side issues. I should be content, as he is, to leave my business in the hands of those who have far betterqualifications to conduct it, technical training and all that. Anyway, Ohara has the satisfaction of knowing that his concerns are leading the way for improvement. You know, some of them are spoken of as 'model' factories."
Kent did not answer, only shrugged his shoulders. Yes, "model factories"!
Gradually life became smoothed into the old routine existence. News seemed to occur sporadically in cycles, like the apexes and depressions of a chart; at times the vernacular press would be filled with accounts of disturbing events, strikes, mass meetings of workmen, of Socialists demanding this or that, establishment of shop committees in factories, recognition of the Soviet government; reports of arrests and police dispersing gatherings; and this would be followed by hiatus-like intervals when it seemed almost as if all these things had been forgotten, as if the excitement had outworn itself. Kent found himself going often to the dances at Tsurumi; there was little else to do. He began to find Tokyo dull.
He was sitting with Karsten one evening in the study upstairs, talking idly of this and that. It was late; the brilliant glitter of themachiaibelow was gradually fading. Some one in the entrance hall was talking with Jun-san; they could hear the faint murmur of voices. Suddenly Jun-san appeared.
"Kent-san," wide-open eyes showed surprise, bewildered wonder. "A young lady has come to see you, Suzuki Kimiko-san. She says she must see you. What shall I do?"
"Well, I'll be hanged! Just wait a moment, Jun-san." He turned to Karsten, met only his ironic smile as he blew great smoke clouds luxuriously against the ceiling. "Damn it, Karsten, don't sit there like an ass. I haven't the slightest idea what that girl has come here for. I have been with her often at Tsurumi andat hotel dances, you know, but, by the gods, there isn't the slightest reason why she should come here, a girl of her class, at this time of the night, ago-fujin, a lady. Why it's even more serious in Japan than it would be at home."
"Seems to me the only thing you can do is to ask her up here. You can't in decency let her stand there in the hall. Ask Suzuki-san to come up, Jun-san. Kent, you've got to find out what is the trouble, anyway. By Cæsar, for a man of your continent tastes, you seem to have more than your share of exciting episodes with women."
They could hear the exchange of the usual ritual of polite phrases between the women as they were mounting the stairs. "Please enter." Jun-san drew the partition aside.
Kimiko stood in the doorway, hands nervously clenched, quivering a little, lips trembling as she spoke, words issuing haltingly in short breaths. "Kent-san. I've come to you. I've run away."
"You've run away." He had risen to meet her; stood dumbly gazing at her as if she had suddenly dropped from the ceiling. She had run away! It seemed as if his brain could grapple with just that one idea, that he could not get beyond it.
"Sit down please, Suzuki-san," Karsten came to the rescue. "Jun-san, will you please have some tea brought. Get to your senses, Kent. We must do what we can to assist this young lady. Here, let me take your wraps, Suzuki-san," he took them, pressed her gently into a chair, bustled about to give Kent time to collect himself.
But Kent was still bewildered. "So you have run away. Why?"
"Oh, it's a long story. I'll tell you presently, to-morrow; only find some place for me here to-night."She was fighting hard for control of her voice, hands clenched tightly to the chair arms. "Only let me stay here to-night."
"But what about your family? You must go home, Kimiko-san, or you'll have all kinds of trouble. I'll see you home, little girl, and then to-morrow you can come and tell me all about your troubles. Can't you see that that will be better," he spoke soothingly. "I'll see you home."
"I can't go home. There's no one there. They have all gone to the country. They don't know yet that I have run away."
That, at least, was some relief. She explained that the family had left Tokyo a few days before, while she stayed with friends, expecting her to join them later. "But then I heard, oh, then I heard——" she glanced at Karsten. He looked to Kent. Jun-san and the servants entered with the tea things. The matter-of-fact mechanics of having tea brought the situation down to a more natural level. "I wonder, Suzuki-san, whether it would not be better to wait until to-morrow," suggested Karsten. "Then you'll be less excited. We'll take care of you. What do you think?" She nodded eagerly. In the reaction of the commonplace she wished only to gain postponement. It was arranged that she should stay the night in Jun-san's cottage.
After breakfast, Kent found himself alone with Kimiko. Karsten and Jun-san had contrived to withdraw inconspicuously. "And now, Kimiko-san," he drew his chair close to hers. "Tell me all about it."
She brought both hands up to her hair, smoothed it back slowly. "I ran away," she spoke evenly, measuredly—evidently she had rehearsed carefully what she intended to say—"I ran away because I heard that they wanted me to marry Kikuchi-san."
During the night he had puzzled the matter over and had come to the conclusion that it must be something like that, that the family, after the old Japanese fashion, must have decided that now that she had reached the age when girls must marry, arrangements must be made for contracting a suitable alliance. He had even thought that young Kikuchi might be the one; the families were close, and the Suzuki money might fit in well with the noble but not over-wealthy Kikuchi house. It seemed natural enough; Kikuchi had shown that he liked the girl. He had wondered whether this young Japanese might not resent the evident intimacy of a foreigner with this bright, young beauty, though he had never given sign thereof. And now, why the deuce had she come to him? That, too, had puzzled him. Could it be that——? No, of course, not. Still, the thought had insisted. What if she wanted him to marry her? The idea had had allurement. He liked her very much, could almost contrive to believe that he might love her. But he held out against the thought; the family would be sure to set itself against it; and even if they should marry first and confront it with the accomplished fact, the papers would be sure to revel in the incident, as they always did where daughters of the aristocracy followed the unconventional. They would make her out a decadent, wantonly abandoning the decent traditions, would harry her into unhappiness with their hue and cry. And then he himself; he had made up his mind that Karsten had been right, that in spite of its allurement, marriage with a Japanese girl would not work out in his case. He had reasoned it all out that time at Hakone. But was that why she had come to him?
She seemed to read his thought. "I came to you, Kent-san, because I could go to no Japanese. They would have been shocked, would have sent me home.And I wanted to talk to some one, to get away from the family where I was. I knew that the go-between would be coming in a few days, and I wanted to get advice first. I didn't know what to do.
"But why don't you want to marry Kikuchi-san? Don't you like him?" he was sparring, trying to elicit from her something that might give a clew.
"Yes, I like him, but I would never marry a Japanese like him, to be just like these other old-fashioned Japanese married women, always obedient, always compelled to serve him, to have to regard whatever he might do as right, even if he had geisha sweethearts; never to have a right to have a personality of my own."
"But surely Kikuchi-san is modern. I know him. Sometimes I think he's almost radical. He takes after foreign ideas in everything. It seems to me——"
"Oh, yes, of course, he's modern. He goes to the dances, and dresses after thehaikarafashions, and plays golf, and talks very advanced politics, and all that. And in all that he is really modern, advanced, like so many of our young men; but when it comes to marriage, to the matter of the standing of women, he's like the rest of them, too. They want modernism and liberalism, but only for the men. In regard to us women their view is different; there they want to stick entirely to the old, hidebound rules. They want the modern freedom of thought and of action—but only for the men.
"But we women, we want the right to think too, to live our own lives just as your women do. We are no more stupid, no more old-fashioned than the men. But they are all against us, all the men. See how often theFujin Koraon, the Public Opinion of Women paper, is suppressed by the police. But still we learn and we know. Women are going into business andinto politics; there are even many women Socialists, and the police are afraid of them. And in the matter of marriage; we want now to have a right to say whom we want to marry, to have a right to marry—for love." She looked him straight in the eye, compelling her glance to meet his, blushing a little, but only finger tips rubbing restlessly against one another betraying her nervousness. "Even in school we talked about love, yes, even free love. It is right if people love each other, if there's no other way.Shikataganai.It can't be helped then. And the principal called in Shinto priests, and had them perform, right in the school, the 'soul-quieting ceremony,' and eighteen of us had to assist them, all dressed in white. And we laughed at it all. It was so silly.
"That is the reason why you hear about the Clover Leaf Club, which receives letters from men and women who want to marry, and the officers sort them out and bring together the couples which they think are well matched. That's why you see sometimes in the newspapers advertisements for husbands, occasionally even for foreign husbands," she laughed demurely. "Oh, that's silly, I know, but still it all shows how we feel. And that's how I feel. I don't want to marry, at least, not now; but if I ever do, I shall want to make my own choice, and I shall surely choose a man who believes as I do.
"That's the trouble in Japan, if a girl grows a few years older than twenty, the family consider that it is a disgrace if she doesn't marry. That is why they are beginning to worry about me, especially as they have had to give it up about my sister; but then they think that in her case it is the fault of the schooling she received abroad. So now they are doubly anxious on my account; they don't want two old maids well over twenty in the family. But now that I have run away,that would be an even worse scandal. The papers would play it up as they did the countess who tried to commit double suicide with a chauffeur, or as they did with Akiko-san, the millionaire's wife who ran away with a poet. You know, I have been in the papers once already. That was when they were making such a fuss about Japanese girls dancing foreign fashion, and some of them even published the names of girls who went to dances. One of them mentioned my name, and my parents were so angry. Now, if they don't leave me alone, I won't go home, and the papers will learn about my having run away, and that will be worse than ever, especially because I have run away to a foreigner."
She leaned back, crossed one knee over the other, looked at him expectantly. She had gained her composure entirely, even enjoyed the situation, now that the difficult part, the telling, was done with. She evidently anticipated approval from him, praise of her cleverness. But the revelation of her motive in coming to him was like a douche of cold water. Of course, he ought to be pleased. What he had taken to be the unfolding of a melodrama, tragedy possibly, developing slowly, ominously, towards an inescapable woeful climax, had suddenly grotesquely become transformed into a droll burlesque, fantastic but harmless. But the suddenness of the metamorphosis irritated him, the sense of finding himself taking a rôle in farce where he had, gravely, been preparing himself for pathos. So all his vain imaginings that she might have sought him out because of affection on her part, because of her having greater confidence in him, was mere fancy. The little minx was using him merely as a convenient lay figure where a moment before he had thought himself to be cast in a principal rôle. What an anti-climax!
"And now that you have planned it all out so well, what do you propose to do now? What do you expect me to do?"
She caught the irony in his voice. "Now, please, Kent-san, don't be angry. I thought you would be pleased when I got it all arranged so nicely. I thought it all out last night. You wouldn't really want me to run away to you, with you, would you now?"
Was she in earnest? Was the serious note that had crept into her voice, the appeal vaguely to be sensed therein, something more than mere anxiety to dispel his displeasure with her stratagem? How much did she think of him, or how little? It seemed as if he might detect the faintest undertone of earnestness under the words rippling from her lips, a hint of dark shadow deep in her eyes. For a moment the temptation to grasp her hands, to draw her to him, to learn just what was passing in her mind, gripped him; but instantly came the other thought,—what if she should be in earnest? He shook himself together; he had been on the brink of taking a chance which might have been replete with fateful potentialities. Steady!
"No such luck, of course." Purposely he spoke lightly, banteringly. The moment had passed safely; still, curiosity piqued him and he knew it would continue to do so—now that he would never know.
"You know, I think the very best thing would be to have a talk with your sister." The only thing for him to do now was to get this tangle straightened as soon and as neatly as possible. "She could fix it up for you with your parents. Do you think you can get her here to-day if you send a telegram?"
"Oh, yes; it's only a couple of hours by train." She adopted the suggestion easily, seemed almost to have lost interest. It was arranged that Kent should return to the house that afternoon that council mightbe held between him and the sisters. The entire episode was becoming flat and prosaic.
On his way to the office he wondered whether he had better look up Kikuchi. They were intimate; had he been an American he should surely have sought a frank discussion of the whole affair. He was sure that Kikuchi would be able to give the advice which he felt he needed as he stumbled fumblingly into this maze of Oriental convention and custom, prescriptive usages governed by modes of thought crystallized by centuries of observance, at which he might but conjecture vaguely. But as he thought of how he might venture to approach the subject, it seemed too amazingly difficult, too delicate a matter to attack hampered by uncertainty as to the reactions which might be caused in the Oriental mind.
So he gave it up, decided to give the whole affair no more thought until the afternoon, and flung open the door to the office determined to devote himself entirely to whatever routine the day might bring. There was Kikuchi, sitting lazily, feet against a table. It was almost uncanny, as if by mere thought, summoned by a wish, he had materialized like a genii of some kind.
"Well, I'll be hanged. You know, I had just been thinking of you, Kikuchi-san. By Jove, you're just the man I wanted to see." Now, that was just what he should not have said; in his surprise the words had slipped from him. Well, anyway, now he would wait and see what the other might have to say.
"I thought so; so you see, I'm here." He advanced, hand outstretched, smiling. "No use beating about the bush, is there? It's about your charming little visitor, Kimiko-san, is it not?"
Confound him, how did he know? Of course, it was generally accepted that the authorities keptthemselves fairly well informed as to the doings of foreigners, especially correspondents and such, but this was just a little too surprising, too damnably efficient.
"Never mind," Kikuchi had caught his thought. "I found out about it quite accidentally. It's all right. There will be no scandal; it won't get out. But I had an idea that I might be concerned in this, you know, so I just came to see you to find out; that is, if you will tell me?"
Well, why not? He had hesitated about seeing Kikuchi, but here fate had solved the question for him. He filled his pipe deliberately, spoke slowly, felt his way, gave but a bare outline. Kimiko had run away because she feared a marriage was being arranged for her. She did not want to marry at all. He emphasized the unimportance of his own appearance in the drama, as a mere incidental figure, convenient as a basis for the threat of potential scandal which formed the kernel of Kimiko's scheme.
"You don't flatter yourself, do you," Kikuchi laughed. "Well, neither do I, for, of course, you needn't have been so studiously delicate in leaving out the fact that I am the unwelcome bridegroom—for I take it that she told you. But it all suits me splendidly. I don't want to marry her any more than she wants to marry me, and her scheme should work out fine for both of us. But we'll have to move quickly lest there be a scandal in earnest. That sort of thing won't remain secret forever."
He leaned back, fingers drumming a rat-tat-tat on the chair arm, evidently entirely content. "Why so serious, Kent-san. What are you thinking? Here, out with it."
"Well, since you yourself invite it, I don't mind telling you that you puzzle me, you two, you and Kimiko-san." He was glad that the other had givenhim the opportunity. "You seem to me made for each other, both young, having the same tastes, liberal thoughts, modern mode of living; and you seem to like each other, quite evidently so; and yet, when it comes to marriage, you both fight shy. You know, to me, to the foreign point of view, the whole thing is, to tell the truth, mighty puzzling."
"Of course it is," Kikuchi laughed. "You've missed the main point entirely; but she didn't, Kimiko-san. She knew well enough. Kent-san, old man, you're quite right about my liking Kimiko-san. In fact, it's more than probable that I like her far more than I shall care for whatever girl I eventually marry. But the point is that I don't want a modern wife, after modern style, with love, woman's rights, modern female thoughts and all that. Will you let me be entirely frank, Kent-san. All right; then I'll tell you just how I and many others look at it. The point is that Japan has attained great gains from Western civilization, electricity, steamships, railroads, and thousands of other things that make life more pleasant and convenient; but, honestly now, can you show me where we have gained much culturally, or spiritually, or morally? Of course, some foreigners point to Christianity, but you know as well as I do that much of that is entirely on the surface. The better classes become Christians because it is modern, just as they might learn fox-trotting or playing the piano; and the poorer ones take it up because it is a cheap way to learn English or any other of the matters of instruction that the missionaries hold out as bait. What else have we gotten morally or culturally from you that was better than our own? We are losing our art, manners, morals, and getting instead your freak futurism, your jazz and your cocktail-drinking, leg-displaying flapper. Now, I'm willing to admit thatall that amuses me. I enjoy the dancing, the freedom with these girls. I have a better time with them than I possibly shall have with the girl of the type whom I shall marry; but, heavens, I don't marry a wife for entertainment, because she's a good fellow. I marry a girl whom I can respect as a mother to my children. Mind you, I don't want to seem to criticize your system. It may suit you entirely, be just the thing for you; but it is entirely inapplicable to us. Your country is run on the theory of the development and the rights of the individual. In Japan the basis of our entire social system and body politic is the family. In America, where each individual must look after the expression of his own personality, it is plain that marriage must be by personal selection, though I admit it astounded me,—what I saw in America. A young man and a girl meet, dance. 'Here, your step just fits in with mine. Let's get married.' You know, it's almost as bad as that; and then, when you have let themselves tie themselves up thus unthinkingly, you make it almost impossible for them to remedy it if it's a mistake. Divorce must be due to some disgraceful reason,—adultery, desertion, failure to provide; one must either continue to drag out life in a marriage which is a curse to the parties thereto and which does no good to the community, or prove oneself some kind of a beast. In Japan we make marriage a serious matter, try to give it the best possible chance for permanency for the sake of the community and of the State; but incidentally the parties themselves benefit. When you read the papers of America and those of Japan—and ours are, if anything, more sensational than yours—you'll find that on the whole we have far fewer marriage messes than you have.
"That's why I shall marry a girl who will place her duty to her family above everything else, who will becontent with her home, flower arrangement, ceremonial tea, looking after her children and her husband. There won't be much excitement in it, or fun, but then, if I want that, I can find it elsewhere. I don't marry for fun or for excitement. I marry to form a family.
"So there is one thing where you may call me reactionary, if you like, and that's in respect to women. When I saw in America your eternally jazzing, slangy, impertinent flapper, the girl who bobs her hair and 'rolls them below the knee,' I was told is the phrase, and when I saw the inroads which this phenomenon, this freakish caricature of womanhood, was beginning to make in Japan, with some of our girls who want to be modern, by talking woman's rights, and personal expression, and free love and all that, then I said to myself, yes, Japan owes much to Western civilization, and we may yet gain much from it; but when it comes to the women, the family relations, let us keep out the Western system as we would a plague."
"Thanks, I understand," Kent spoke drily. "I see your point; still it seems to me a bit rough on the women, especially those like the Suzuki girls. You've surprised me, Kikuchi-san. I thought you were among the foremost of the moderns."
"And why am I not?" He snapped out the retort. "Simply because I don't want to see Japan adopt a system which has resulted in a riot of divorce scandals, married women running loose, the family system a mockery? And yet, Kent-san you know that we young men in Japan cannot justly be accused of being reactionary, and you know that we are likely to have on our hands problems so pressing that we won't have time to dabble with drawing-room sex questions. Can you find it illustrated any better than it is in the case of us younger men in the Foreign Office? We knowjolly well that the General Staff is still running the country; we see our diplomats humiliated continually when, after they have bound Japan to some international agreement, the militarists cynically walk right through it and leave us to wipe up the mess as best we can, leaving us a laughing stock and placing Japan in the position of a nation whose word is worth nothing.
"Do you know that all we are waiting for is a chance to get rid of the older men, these pussyfoot, over-careful old men who now run affairs, and to fight it out with the militarists. We shall have the people with us. We must have a government for the people and not for the army and navy. It's bound to come. The government is rotten as it is, with the General Staff doing as it pleases without being responsible to the Cabinet; with the officials nothing but politicians, many of them in the pay of this or that of the big interests. That's why they call them geisha politicians, because, like geisha, they are being kept by rich men. What can you expect where the Premier gets six thousand dollars and the Cabinet Ministers four thousand dollars a year and their underlings in proportion? That's what we have got to do away with, that and favoritism because of money or title. You know, I'm not going to accept the title when my father dies. Peerages should last only one generation; should go only to the men who earn them. And I'm not the only one of my class who feels like this. There are many of us. Evil days have come on Japan; the country is being run for the benefit of the few, a rotten, corrupt bureaucracy in the service of plutocracy; or by the militarists, who may be patriotic enough, according to their lights, but who have become anachronistic—so they must go, too. Remember, Kent-san, no matter how badly things may look on the surface that yousee, the great bulk of the Japanese people remains as it was, patriotic, frugal, hard-working, eager to learn. They will give Japan its great future, these masses, and that task is what interests me, not chattering over sex sentimentalities with flappers. Girls like Kimiko-san, dancing, jazz and the rest, are all very well as a pastime in one's leisure, just as are geisha, but when it comes to the serious affairs of life, pah!" he waved his hand, snapping the fingers. "You get me, Kent-san?"
Kimiko's sister brought the news, that afternoon, that the parents were ready to surrender. They had already called off the go-between. Kimiko-san would never again be exposed to marriage without being consulted first. They all had tea. It should have been a gay occasion; Karsten tried desperately to bring about an atmosphere of high spirits; but the feeling of uneasiness, high-strung quiver of excitement, would not away. The women were ever together, the girls and Jun-san, whispering, fluttery. For some reason it was a failure. It was almost with a sense of relief that they saw the girls to the gate.
"Poor little things." Kent was looking down at them as they tripped down the stone stairway, hand in hand, a pretty, entrancing picture, one in the fashion of the West, chic turban, high-heeled shoes, narrow waist; the other dainty, richly colored, brilliant, with her gorgeous obi, widely drooping kimono sleeves. At the foot of the stairs they stopped, waved; then they climbed into the waiting automobile.
"Yes, I'm sorry for them," said Karsten. "They are so eager to adopt our civilization, our modernism; they try so hard; and the better they succeed the worse it will probably be for them. They're ahead of their day, victims of the transition period, poor little butterflies broken on the wheel."
Sylvia was in Tokyo.
He tried to beat down the wave-crest of emotion, happiness, that surged over him, gripped him and shook him. He wanted none of it, wished desperately to fight against it. It was all right for him to be pleased to see her again, to be with her, but this titillating on the verge of transports of joy—he would simply have to keep a tight hold on himself. The situation held too many potentialities of complications, uncertainties, distress. Even the way in which the news of her coming had reached him had illustrated, oddly, the curious blend of the bitter and the sweet which the situation held. It had been the Tinker hag again. She had caught him at tea, had seized upon him and led him to a secluded corner that she might enjoy in every detail, undisturbed, his reaction to the dénouement. Probably she had overcome a desire to fare forth and shout out the news in the market place, had kept it for him, so that she might be the first to communicate it. It was her hobby, probably the only interest which kept her alive, this interest in living, this contriving complicated situations among her acquaintances in order that she might satisfy a morbidly curious and perverted taste for the dramatic by gloating over their display of the more unusual emotions, their unguarded laying bare before her avid eye the reactions usually painstakingly held in check. He had been irritatedly aware of the greedy glare of this old woman; it was almost indecent; as she watched himrapaciously solicitous lest she fail to catch the slightest indication of face or voice which might betray his feelings. He did not think she could have gotten much out of it. He thought he had played up well. Still, one could never know. Anyway, it was disquieting, disgusting, that the return of Sylvia, after all this time, should immediately revive the watchfulness of the idle women, should so wantonly render complicated, almost impossible, intimate relation with this girl.
And, now, what about Sylvia? Did she know that he had become free? How long had she known it? Had she just heard of it and returned forthwith? No; he dismissed that thought. But might she not have heard some time ago and simply allowed a decent interval to elapse in order to avoid giving the gossips grist for their mills? But he caught himself up sharply. What an ass he was to imagine, vaingloriously, that he had entered into her considerations at all. Presumably she had been governed by entirely different motives, something not even remotely connected with him. What grounds had he to imagine that his presence was of the slightest moment to her. Of course, it did seem as if she must have left Tokyo on account of the gossip connecting him with her; but, after all, that proved nothing, could certainly not by even the most fanciful contortion of imagination be construed into an indication of feeling related to affection. No, he was an ass.
The only thing he could do would be to sit tight and suffer matters to occur as they might. He was curious to meet her—he sternly insisted to himself that that was all—and yet he rather dreaded it, wondered what he should say, how he should act. He would leave it to her to take the lead. Women did these things better than men, had finer perceptions, possessed aninstinctive sureness with which they could handle deftly such delicate situations.
So when he met her, he was not much surprised that the incident seemed almost commonplace. Luckily, there were others at the time whom she met also for the first time since her return. She treated him exactly like these, included him with those others with the usual drab, conventional commonplaces. It almost irritated him that the meeting had been so trivial. Was she then not interested? It piqued him. Well, why shouldn't he find out. He was free now, and if he did care for her—there was no denying that she interested him immensely, that she still had that old charm for him, yes, hang it, that he did care for, that he might easily come to love her. And why not? Came back to his mind the charm of the days when he and she had been close, when he had been afraid to dally with the thought of her in the place of Isabel. He need not fear that now. He had the right to. And if it had been pleasant then, why not now, why not allow himself the felicity of dreaming that dream. He warmed to the thought, a glow of sheer pleasure and happiness suffused him. Of course. He would be careful to be tactful. She was tremendously sensitive and he must take care not to spoil everything by being too precipitate, but he would watch his chance.
It took time, still, as he felt his way slowly, with anxious care, holding himself in check, carefully consolidating such little gains as he made before venturing an infinitely small step forward, he felt that they were gradually approaching something like the old relation. He had even come to the point where they had made a few small excursions together. But they were few and separated by intervals that seemed infinitely long, and he fretted under the necessity of keeping himself in hand. Now that he was allowing himself to consider,at least as a remote potentiality, the idea of love, the situation became ever so much more complicated, was more difficult to manage. He must not allow himself to think of this too much. In the back of his mind remained the uneasy thought that he had loved Isabel, had ardently desired to marry her—and then his marriage had been a failure, anyway. If one failed once, one might do so twice. After all, love was often mainly something contrived by oneself. One took love of an image conjured up by one's imagination for love of the woman; it might be a sort of auto-intoxication. He must be sure of himself. He must force himself to be rational, to refrain from letting fancy take charge of what should be the function of the brain. Anyway, there was plenty of work to do. He would use work as a counterirritant.
Japan had suddenly launched into one of its periods of frantic excitement. First came news from Manchuria, where Chang Tso-lin was moving a great expedition to drive the Soviet troops out of Mongolia. Conservative papers registered perfunctory surprise at the completeness of his equipment, motor transport, field artillery, even airplanes; but most of the papers, the people generally, sneered contemptuously, shrugged shoulders. It was an old story. Of course, the Manchurian war-lord could have obtained them from only one source, the militarists. The War Office issued its usual denial, which no one believed. Presently came news of attacks by Chinese bandits on settlements in the South Manchuria Railway territory, massacres of Japanese colonists, clashes with Japanese police, burning of a consulate or two. From high official sources, unnamed, but generously quoted in the press, were given out alarming statements. It was the Bolshevik menace, irresponsible hordes of Manchuria, malcontent Koreans, being goaded on by mysterious machinationsfrom Moscow. It would be necessary to move troops into Manchuria to protect the railway region, especially now that Chang Tso-lin was engaged in Mongolia and could not protect neighboring territory. The divisions in Korea were moved inland. It would be necessary to send fresh troops to Korea. Of course, it would be impossible to consider the proposition to reduce the army at the session of the Diet which was just about to meet.
The people murmured; again the feeling became prevalent that a great militaristic scheme was being carried out, cleverly hidden by the uniformed old men up there in the copper-roofed building towering on the hill beyond the Foreign Office. Opinions were divided. Some insisted that Japanese lives must be avenged, colonists protected, the dignity of the Empire upheld; others cried out bitterly that the entire turmoil was but part of a great plot ingeniously hatched out by the General Staff. Some papers claimed to have proof that this was but another attempt to carry out the favorite old military plan, to have a buffer state created by Chang Tso-lin and remnants of White Russian factions; that the bandits were backed by Chang, that the very rifles which had dealt out death to Japanese had been furnished in mysterious roundabout ways by the War Office. It was hinted that the massacres were, in fact, quite welcome to the General Staff, that they were a part of the whole scheme.
It was a busy period for Kent. News was breaking constantly, here and there, in unexpected quarters. It was intensely interesting at first, sending story upon story over the wire, each one conveying the tingling feeling of anticipation that each day was bringing nearer some great event, some cataclysm, indefinite but gradually assuming certainty, something overwhelming, big news. But events were happening too quickly,—the staccato hammering of situation after situation, the Manchurian affair, army bill, rice scandal, Diet fights, police charges, rumors and revelations, farmer revolts and riots in the cities, all became a conglomerate chaos of excitement, a whirl of incidents flickering by with dizzily shifting changes, making concentration on any one of them almost impossible. Like the nation in general, Kent found himself unable to maintain the high key of excited absorption; one became overwhelmed as if by a succession of great waves, one following so closely after the other that the mind, battered and bewildered, failing to register complete, clear impression of each one, became in reaction dulled, exhausted, almost apathetic. After all, this ubiquitous clamor, this constantly flickering and flashing of new heterogeneous pictures, produced finally but an impression of a stupendous blur; one became exhausted by the repetition of explosions of excitement, causing one to hold one's breath, nervously, in expectancy of some prodigious dénouement, a political deluge, that constantly impended but which always seemed to fall just short, to evaporate harmlessly as each happening became overshadowed by the occurrence of some new and astounding development.
It became necessary to remain almost constantly near the center of affairs, to be in readiness to snap up the news events which flashed forth with explosive suddenness, like lightning from a hovering thunder cloud. It became his custom to spend much of his time at the Imperial Hotel. It was close to the Diet building, the Foreign Office, the central police station, and when things were quiet, when there was nothing to do but wait, he enjoyed the atmosphere, the feeling of remoteness from the humdrum surroundings of everyday modernity, which was conveyed to him by this enormous structure of fantastic masonry where genius hadcontrived to work out in permanencies of stone and bronze the delicate and ephemeral fancies of an opulent dream image. Resting in a remote corner among the myriad corniced recesses which gave on the spacious vestibule, his eye found constant delight in the intricacy of detail, embroidery-like stone pillar, fretwork and balustrades, gilded mortar binding together complicated interlacing designs; the flood of colors of rugs and cushions—browns, ocher, terracotta and maroon, and blues, ultra-marine, lapis lazuli, indigo—in a riot of shadings and combinations, and all of it, colors and contours, blended into a great harmonious whole, impressive, inspiring, so it seemed almost a sacrilege that this mirage-like brilliance should be profaned by the comings and goings of mere hotel guests and townsfolk bent on prosaic concerns of business.
In the afternoon, at tea time, it was especially pleasant, when the Russian orchestra played. Flicker of color of butterfly-winged kimonos would animate the scene with a glimmer of exotic rich life. They really fitted into the picture, these young girls of the Japanese aristocracy, with their undulating, polychromatic textures, and when the music lent itself to the forming of a picture, some symphony or bit of opera, one might dream oneself surrounded by an Arabian Nights setting, or a scene from "Aïda."
Here one might meet every one who counted at all in the ultra-modern life of Tokyo, foreigners and Japanese, business men, newspapermen, young fellows from the embassies, in the bar; and, upstairs, in the lobby or in Peacock Alley, the women at tea. Kent often saw the Suzuki girls there. Kimiko seemed happy enough, showed no trace of the incident which had brought her to him. But he came principally for the chance that it afforded him to see Sylvia.
It had been a strenuous afternoon, but a disappointing one. A stormy scene had been expected in the Diet. He had sat in the gallery for hours, listening to dreary debate, hoping that momentarily something would happen; had made the rounds of the Foreign Office, newspaper offices, even the lair of old Viscount Kikuchi—but nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Now the Diet had adjourned until the following morning; the crowds had dispersed. He was glad to see Sylvia alone at one of the tables overlooking the inner court.
"You're just the one I want to see. It's been a maddening day; lots of work and no results. May I sit with you?"
"Of course, but I'm afraid I cannot be with you long, although, as a matter of fact, I'm trying to make a sort of a meal here. I'm off on an expedition of my own, and I shall have no dinner until late, midnight maybe."
An expedition. He urged her not to be mysterious. She soon gave in. After all, it was entirely professional. She intended to go to the great Nichiren temple at Ikegami, a few miles from Tokyo. It would be full moon and she had always had an idea that there might be a picture there for her, some fantastic harmonious blending of contour of gnarled pines, curved temple roofs, which might be enhanced, softened, etherealized by moonbeam glamor.
"I'm not at all sure that there will be a picture there, at least not for me. I may not be able to get enough color out of it; but I want the experience, anyway, the eeriness of the hundreds of old graves in the cryptomeria shadows. I have been wanting to go for a long time; so to-night I'm going."
The idea appealed to him instantly. "I wish you'd let me come with you."
"I'm afraid it might be rather unconventional, would it not?" she hesitated.
"It would be still more unconventional if you went alone. You should have an escort. I shan't disturb you. I promise you that I shall be as dumb and unobtrusive as your walking-stick; but, really, I do wish you would let me come along."
She looked at him reflectively. He wondered what thoughts were forming behind these fine, black eyes; the desire to go with her, which had been only an inspirational whim, took deeper hold. She must let him come. He leaned forward earnestly. She smiled. "Very well, then. I suppose you might as well come; but remember, I shall be at work; I shall want to think, to absorb. You must be as you promised, just inanimate, a block of wood."
He promised hastily, curiously noting in himself a feeling of trembling pleasure. They finished their tea and took the electric train to Omori.
Twilight was falling when they reached the village. They walked through narrow winding lanes, past tall bamboo fences enclosing spacious gardens, came to the open country, rice fields, scattered groups of houses clustered on tree-clad hills. In the gathering shadows crickets were tuning up for their serenades; the moon, rising from behind the pine groves on the Ikegami ridge, bathed the landscape with soft luminosity.
As they climbed the long broad stone stairway leading up to the temple heights, they heard the monotonous euphony of a chant. At a minor shrine close to the entrance a priest was engaged in some ceremonial. As they stood by the stone foxes guarding the entrance to the small court fronting it, they could see his vestmented figure, kneeling, facing the dimly illuminated gorgeousness of gilt, and brocade, and lacquer, aglimpse of resplendent Oriental opulence devoted to mysterious, age-old rites.
They passed on. The rest of the temple grounds lay in darkness, illuminated sparingly by a few faint electric lights, irritatingly modern amidst all the ancient buildings, lofty cryptomerias, crumbling tombs. They passed along the broad stone-paved path, smoothed by wear of feet of generations of worshipers, under the massive, towering crimson gateway leading into the inner court. Here was a plateau on the hilltop, whence ran on all sides corrugations of ridges and valleys, set with hundreds of graves, carved stone monuments, lichened sepulchers, broodingly silent in the shadows of fantastically gnarled pine limbs.
The main temple buildings were closed. The wide court was bathed in moonlight, brilliant, white, setting out in strong relief every detail of contour of curved roof, carved pillars, bronze figures anachronistically finding in their midst a battered rapid-fire gun, trophy from the Russian War. But it was all too brightly visible, too plainly seen; the eeriness, the nebulous awe of obscure mystery, lay beyond, all about them, among the graves in the shadows of the pines.
From the right of the courtyard, near the gateway, a pathway ran, straight as a sword, penetrating into the heart of the pine grove, a chasm of opalescent light, a shimmery gorge of white brilliance in abrupt contrast to the almost solid walls of blackness, leading like a fantastically contrived magic road to a pagoda, which closed it, with intricately carved roof set upon roof, rising with slender elegance towards the dark sapphire heavens. It formed a picture, but strange, eccentrically unusual, without color—pale, shimmery, pearly—set against ebony blackness. It seemed to him that it would be impossible to express it through the ordinary media of the brush; as if it might be worked outonly by some odd special process, mother-of-pearl and teak; but even then it would lose the peculiar scintillating brilliance which seemed to make even the blackness luminous.
He looked at the girl, wondering what she was getting out of it. She was entirely absorbed, eyes intent, frowning in thought, perplexity. She shook her head. "No. Come."
They crossed the courtyard, found a path leading behind one of the main buildings and an old, crumbling edifice, rotting, giving forth moldy odor of decay. It led down into a lower stratum of ridges and gullies, slippery flags laid between mounds and hillsides, twisting and turning, with stone stairways, leading upwards, downwards, among thousands of ancient burial plots. Over it all lay the murky shadows of cryptomeria, slashed here and there by bright streaks of pale moonlight. The silence seemed uncannily brooding, ominously oppressive, riven only by spasmodic droning booms from a great brass bell, somewhere deep in the shadows behind them, reverberating shiveringly through the shadows.
It was as if they were enveloped in an atmosphere of the supernatural, as if they had willfully intruded into a realm of ghosts and specters, a scene set for mysteriousdanse macabre-like rites, rash beings possessed of the ephemeral spark of life of the moment interfering with their puny inconsequential presence in this, the realm of those who had held sway here for centuries.
She had taken his arm; now she was clinging to him closely. He could feel her shivering nervously. The feeling was infectious, crept over him irritatingly. He brought himself together. "Come, you are getting nervous. Let us rest for a moment before going on."
He led her up a stairway leading to the top of asmall eminence, an enclosure surrounded by a low stone balustrade, evidently the private burial place of some family of the nobility of remote medieval days. In the open space surrounded on all sides by blackness the illumination seemed almost dazzling, brilliantly white, with a spotlight effect, enhancing the sense of unearthliness, remoteness from the world of material things.
They found a fallen stone pillar and seated themselves. She remained silent, staring out into this spectral ghost world, the fantastic eccentricities of shapes and contours, where everything was black and white only, like a gigantic etching. He, watching her, became absorbed in turn. He was pleased that she fitted into the scene, even into the Oriental setting, a filmy silk shawl lending a kimono-like effect, her great pile of raven hair suggestive of the high Japanese coiffure. Whimsically, out of nowhere, came the idea to him: thank providence, she was not a blonde! It would have spoiled the effect which she was now producing—fine, clear profile, pale features, black hair blending into the picture formed by mass-grown monuments, great carved lanterns, outlined sharply in the suffusion of moonlight.
The whole thing seemed unreal, as if they had found themselves suddenly in a world centuries removed from that in which they usually moved, as if they had become participants in an elfin play, were on the brink of the enacting of something supernatural, some midsummer night's dream fancy, or a dance of specters; as if they might expect momentarily to hear some unseen goblin orchestra strike into an overture of tinkling bluebells, insect violins, bumblebee bassoons, murmur of night wind, leading them, this girl and himself, into some scene of dreamlike phantasy in which they had fortuitously become the main characters.
What a setting for romance! These surroundings, this girl, this wonder of pure, harmonious perfection! Somehow, he felt that it would be impossible to create again this same effect, that it could not be consciously contrived merely by coming to this place any moonlight night with the determination, purposely, of summoning the spell. There came to him a feeling that this could be attained only once in a lifetime, that he was impassively, fatuously failing to seize the immeasurably rare opportunity——
Opportunity for what? He shook himself together. He was becoming moonstruck. After all, this girl—— She did not notice his gaze. It was fascinating to watch her, the infinitely fine play of light in her eyes, her impatient frown in concentration of thoughts which were almost palpable, visible. And yet, what did she think? It occurred that in the same manner he had speculated as to the thoughts which might lurk behind the white brows of Kimiko-san, Sadako-san and the rest. How different they must be; fine, dreamlike, exotic, quaint as might be the ideas of those girls, would not the glamor thereof, the ephemeral delicacy, fade as one became familiar with them, become commonplace, irritatingly trite after wear of years of association? Here, on the other hand, was a brain capable of absorbing the most subtle and evasive expressions of life, existence in its varied manifestations, of shaping them into concrete, lasting form, creative, a mind like one's own, or even more capable, which would grow, develop like an unfolding blossom, presenting ever new beauties and richness in years of life together.
Without conscious thought, acting entirely on impulse, he leaned towards her. She looked at him, awakened suddenly from her reverie. "I must be poor company," she smiled. "But then, you know, Itold you beforehand. It is all so bewildering, puzzling to me. I can see the pictures here, the dazzlingly wonderful potentialities which lie right here before me, about me; and yet I can't get hold of it. It eludes me entirely. It is the lack of color, I think, the predominance of light and shadow effects, black and white. It is not for me, I'm afraid. This is a subject for some great etcher, for some kind of a Klinger or Boeklin composition; and yet one would have to get in these elusive opalescent tints, these evasive iridescences. It is very disappointing, to feel it all so far beyond one's capabilities; and yet I have enjoyed it so much. I have let it get away with me. But now it must be late. Come," she took his hand simply, confidently. "We must be going home. You must forgive me if I have let the moonlight run away with my thoughts. But didn't you feel something like that too? Did you not feel coming to you dreams, visions that, even though they must fade away and lose their evanescence, will still continue to live in some form, to take shape in one's life."
He did not answer. The dream was already beginning to concentrate, to solidify into definite form of thought, purpose. He wondered whether it were possible that she might divine, by some subtle woman's intuition, the inspiration which was now growing into tangible form of a wish, deliberate pursuance of desire, that now finally he was sure that she was the woman whom he had been awaiting, that he had come to the end of his seeking.
"Thank God, that's over," said Butterfield. "If there's anything much more deadly than the banquets of the Nippon-Columbia Society, I don't want to see it."
They had come down from the banquet hall in the Imperial Hotel, a group of correspondents, Kittrick, Kent, Butterfield and Templeton, with Roberts, just arrived from New York to gather material for a series of magazine articles; Sands, an engineer who had something to do with the new subway, and one or two others. At one end of Peacock Alley they found a table where they might observe the crowd, the men coming down here to meet the women who had dined below in the main dining room, Japanese and foreigners mingling, concentrating in little groups about the guests of honor, an eminent engineer from America, a Cabinet member from Washington, and a couple of Congressmen of whom no one in Tokyo had heard until they arrived in Japan, unofficially, of course, it was given out, but as "Ambassadors of Friendship," as the newspapers called them.
Butterfield was still grouching. "Here I've been to dozens of these affairs, and I wonder if I'll ever come away from one without a bad taste in my mouth. It makes me sick, all this fulsomeness. Take to-night, Barry talking as if the Japanese were the only engineers in the world, as if they had invented the steam engine, electricity, telephones, radio and all that. Here Japan is suffering so badly from swelled head that the best service one may do her is to tell her thetruth, for her own good, and still whenever we have distinguished visitors here, they always insist on making asses of themselves. Barry is a pleasant enough, kindly old ass, but, heavens, the only way I could stand his speech to-night was by watching Matthews. He has in one way or another been behind half the things that Barry was lauding our Japanese friends for. Did you see his face? It was the only fun I got out of it all, seeing Matthews' face getting redder and redder. I thought he'd have a fit. But all the rest of it honestly gets my goat; the main table, with old Count Ibara sitting through the speeches waiting for the time when he'll have a chance to spring his eternal story about his college days with President Wilson. I can stand on my head and write a complete report of these meetings as they were ten years ago, as they will be ten years from now; old Baron Nishida leads off with "Perry's Black Ships" and everlasting love for America. Eminent American stands up and talks of Bushido—I have lived here ten years, and I've yet to hear Bushido mentioned by a Japanese; it's as dead as the rules of knighthood with us—more Eminent Americans tell the Japanese how wonderful they are. Why the devil is it that when an American comes here, he must almost invariably make a fool of himself? Of course, the trouble is often that they are generally mediocrities who become all puffed up at the attentions they get here; and then we do send out such asses. Do you remember the Congressional Party some years ago? The men acted like clodhoppers, and their women were worse. That's where the Japanese are wiser than we are. When they let any one represent them, officially or semi-officially, abroad, they hand-pick them, send only the best they have, and our people at home get a wonderful idea of the advanced stage of Japan. That's how half thegood spirit towards Japan was built up at the Washington Conference; they sent their best men in the entourage of the delegation, who chummed with our newspapermen and writers; the best kind of advertising.
"But we let loose third-rate Congressmen, ebullient business men, who let Japanese hospitality get to their heads and proceed to slobber all over the landscape. I wouldn't mind if it were not for the fact that just as we in America judge the Japanese people from the Japanese who make a splash there, thus the Japanese judge us Americans from the kind of specimens who come over here and spill their foolishness as these fellows did to-night. We Americans ought to have a censorship here to prevent visiting notables from making speeches which have not been carefully edited."
"But what do you come here for then, if you dislike it so?" It was Roberts, the magazine man. "Why do you belong to the Society at all if you think it does no good?"
"But I don't say that. I admit it does good. Anything does that brings Americans and Japanese together in a friendly way. But what I object to is the effervescence of our visitors. I think it is proper that we should be courteous, cordial, friendly towards the Japanese, but what's the use of telling them that we think they love us, when we know darned well they don't. That old chap at the left of Barry tried some time ago in the Privy Council to have theJapan Americansuppressed for no reason except that it had translated some embarrassing editorials from a Japanese paper. The business premises of Americans are ransacked by the police and accusations are constantly being made that 'a certain nation' is cramming this country with spies; some of our most prominentengineering firms are having their business seriously interfered with because of constant 'spy' charges. They have no use for us, and they have no use for England. They think we euchred them at the Washington Conference. They feel that when we called off on militarism, we did away with the one chance which Japan had to be a great nation. They have no use for us big nations who, they feel, are constantly interfering with the development of the policies they would like to pursue in Asia. Mind you, I believe in being friendly—it's indefensible to stir up needless trouble between America and Japan—but I don't believe in slopping over, and I think it is right to let them know that we know jolly well how they feel about us. The funny thing is, Roberts, and every man who has lived here any time will tell you the same, that just as sentiment in America towards Japan has become more and more friendly since the Washington Conference, in the same ratio Japanese sentiment is becoming unfriendly towards America. It may be largely the doings of the militarists. Possibly they're the ones who are egging the police on with these eternal spy scares. It may be part of their plans to counteract the general agitation for army reduction; to justify an army, there must be a potential enemy, and America is the most obvious one. So put it down to the militarists, if you like. They're the official goat, anyway."
"Yes, that's the popular game to-day, cussing the militarists," cut in Kent. "Still, you know, I can see their point of view even if, God knows, I condemn their methods. Look here, there's no use denying that just one thing made Japan great, her army and navy. Take them away, and the other Powers would put her in the class of, say, Spain. Now we have decreed that hereafter we will measure nations by industrialand commercial greatness, and the Japanese see that they're being left way behind. The militarists see that Japan can remain great only in the same way as she became great, by the sword. Now, it's probably sure enough that they have given up the old idea of an offensive outside of Asia; but what I think they are working up to is establishing a line of defense to the eastward, and once that's complete, they will be ready to do as they please in Asia; probably they feel that we won't easily be led into war against them, anyway.
"And it seems plain that they must go into the continent of Asia. That's where they must get raw materials for their industries which they haven't at home. That's the only place to which we'll let them emigrate——"
"Oh, hell, don't spring that worn-out theory of Japan's overflowing," interrupted Templeton. "As Japan industrializes, she'll take care of her population; and there's still room in Japan for lots of additional people. Premier Hara himself told me once that there was room for millions in Hokkaido alone."
"Sure," Kent flashed back. "Just as there's lots of room in America for the Americans. We don't have to emigrate, and still we would resent it, wouldn't we, if we were told that we couldn't go where we pleased. Here Japan sees her friends, America and Great Britain, possessing enormous tracts that lie idle for want of settlers—take Australia, for instance, where they are yelling for immigrants, and still they won't let the Japanese in—and while the Japanese would like to go there, and would develop these lands highly, as we all know, we tell them no, stay home in icy Hokkaido. You talk about worn-out theories, Templeton; what about that old stuff about Japanese driving out the whites wherever they enter.How is a nation of less than sixty millions going to swarm all over America and Australia and the rest of the earth. They may breed like rabbits, but they would have to breed like herrings to do that. And, anyway, even if we must keep them from immigrating into America in masses—as we ought to keep out the hordes of low class Latins and Slavs, people a sight lower than the Japanese, whom we have let overrun our country—we might be less offensive about it. We all know that what makes Japan sore is not the fact that she can't send her surplus over to America; the Japanese Government wants them to go west, not east, in fact; but it's the insult to her race pride, the circumstance that a Doctor Takamine, a Doctor Kitisato, people who rank among the best brains in the world, can't become American citizens, should they wish to do so; but under our laws we can give citizenship to Kaffirs and Hottentots, anything that's black and comes out of Africa.
"You're looking into conditions in the Far East, Roberts. Take a look at that angle of the question. We, the Anglo-Saxons, insist on holding the Oriental down. We say that's not because we think he's lower than we are, but what are mere words? We're judged by our actions. Now, you notice how the Japanese papers every now and then break out with Pan-Asia propaganda, calling for a combination of the peoples of China, of India, of all Asia, to stand together against the White, under Japan's 'hegemony,' as they put it. If you'd been here at the time Kemal Pasha was telling England to go to Hades, you would have noticed how the Japanese press applauded him; here, they boasted joyfully, was finally an Asiatic defying the Anglo-Saxon, the Christian, and getting away with it. We're bringing it upon ourselves. Japan has lost lots of chances in the past to become the leader ofAsia, but she may become so yet; and that's what I think may be the militarist policy; either they aspire to hold Japan in readiness to lead the rest of Asia, or they may simply be preparing for the next time Europe and America are too busy elsewhere to watch Asia, and then take what they want in Manchuria and Mongolia. When you look upon all these things in the light that the Japanese militarist looks upon them, you can, at least, understand what he's driving at. I'm not a jingo. War between Japan and America would be the most silly, the most damnable thing you can think of; but I don't think we are using the best methods to avoid it. Instead of going so strong on the brotherhood stuff, hands across the seas and empty words, we should try to understand Japan a little better. As it is, I'm sure that the nation at large, the Government as represented by the Foreign Office, for instance, wants only friendship; but you must remember that the General Staff is still running things to a large extent, and is there any one of you who doesn't think they do not expect war with us sometime, sooner or later?"
"Suppose they do," Sands, the engineer, leaned forward. "What hope can they have of success? The next war will be fought in the air, they say, and there Japan is helpless. We run regular air-mail services from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The Japanese have not as yet been able to stage a mail flight between Tokyo and Osaka, a few hundred miles, without having participants dropping to earth. The Japanese have no machine sense; they can run an engine when it's running smoothly, but they're at sea in an emergency. That's why they're always tumbling down with their airplanes. And modern war depends on industrial organization, ability to work up and maintain tremendous outputs of material. Japan simply hasn't theability to do that. She'd be beaten on that point alone."
"You may be right, Sands," Kittrick took up the argument. "But it is not a question of war just now or for some years to come, thank God. The next point of difference, I take it, will be the racial equality question that has been smoldering ever since the Paris Conference. And that's just where the world has been treating Japan wrong, granting national equality, but not racial. It should be just the opposite. I'm willing to grant any moment that racially the Japanese is as good as we are and a sight better than lots of the white scum we admit to citizenship, but nationally, no, sir; as long as Japan is run as she is at present, with militarists capable of and quite willing to break the nation's international pledges, no matter how sincere the diplomats may or may not be in making them, just so long do I object to national equality. The individual Japanese may be quite as good intrinsically as we are, but the present system is not bringing out his capabilities, and to contend that Japan is as great a nation as America or England is plain rot."
"So you would want to admit Japanese to American citizenship?" asked Roberts.
"Only after they had assimilated American training and ideals; but that is just the point; as they are here in Japan I don't think they're fit for citizenship of any country, any more than are the low-class Europeans we import; but I contend that they are just as capable of assimilation as are any other nationals. There's a bird here in Tokyo who used to be in charge of the school system in Hawaii where forty per cent. of the school children are Japanese, and he tells me that these kiddies, under American training, are becoming as capable, as honest and as loyal Americans as are any children under the flag, white, black or brown.The American-trained Japanese is as efficient as we are; the Japanese-trained Japanese is ineffective; it takes four or five of them to do the work that a white man can do. It all shows that the fault lies with the government here, the whole system. There's nothing the matter with the Japanese; he's the same, mentally and morally as the rest of us, with a few virtues such as cleanliness and industry thrown in, but you have to take him away from the atmosphere here, of incapacity, deceit, graft, the spirit that is exemplified by their proverb: 'Uso wa Nihon no takara.'"
"What's that, what's that?" Roberts had been taking it all in anxiously.
"Oh, it's simply a proverb to the effect that lies, deceit, craft, whatever you may choose to call it, is the treasure of Japan. It's a fine sentiment for a proverb, isn't it? Still it's fairly typical of the situation. In fact, I think that that point, the fact that Japan regards falsehood, deceit, in a light far more lenient than we do, accounts more than anything else for the feeling of racial difference between us. The average Japanese does not greatly mind being caught in a lie; it conveys no distinct sense of shame to him; it's simply a difference in ethical viewpoint, just as the Japanese look with abhorrence on some of our ethical shortcomings, our comparatively scant respect for old age, and all that—but it's the variant in Japanese character which we find it the hardest to understand."
"You claim then that all Japanese are liars, to put it tersely?" insisted Roberts.
"Not by a long sight. I know Japanese whose word is as good to me as that of any white man. Of some of the big men and big firms you might even say that their word is better than their bond; they'd rather be generous than merely just, and the Japanese is far from being a piker. There are lots ofabsolutely truthful Japanese just as there are lots of whites who are thorough-going liars. But you might say that whereas with the white man we take it for granted that he tells the truth until we find out that he's a liar, with the Japanese one's inclined to take it for granted that he's a liar until one learns the contrary. It may be a blunt way of putting it, but it's the best I can do; and I think that once the Japanese come to adopt our ethical point of view in this respect, the same as they have adopted so many material things from us, the greatest bar between the races will be removed.
"I should like to see it removed. I like the Japanese, and even if I do realize that they don't like us, I can't greatly blame them. I feel that we must appear arrogant to them, even when we are trying to produce the feeling of quality—possibly even more so then—and so many whites, especially among our own newcomers here, are beastly trying. When I see our drummers and flappers, just off the ships, sitting in trains, pointing at and commenting about Japanese men and women, careless of the fact or not knowing that many of these people speak foreign languages, I feel resentment myself, and I can understand what the Japanese must feel. They have their faults and their scandals, but are they worse on the whole than are ours? They treat us better here than we treat them in America. I rave and rant at them as much as do the rest of you; and yet, when it comes right down to the point, I like them, and I wish them well, at least the people, the great masses, the real nation, and I am sorry when I see the country shooting down-grade, power going, wealth, industry, commerce, all going, I feel it is a great pity. I want to see some great man come and lead them out of this wilderness, some one like the great Meiji—but, where is he?"
"But what about the Prince Regent, then?"Roberts was using his opportunity for copy. "He——"