The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBroken Butterflies

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBroken ButterfliesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Broken ButterfliesAuthor: Henry W. KinneyRelease date: November 4, 2020 [eBook #63625]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROKEN BUTTERFLIES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Broken ButterfliesAuthor: Henry W. KinneyRelease date: November 4, 2020 [eBook #63625]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)

Title: Broken Butterflies

Author: Henry W. Kinney

Release date: November 4, 2020 [eBook #63625]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROKEN BUTTERFLIES ***

Transcriber's Note:A Table of Contents has been added.Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

front

frontbook list

title page

BROKENBUTTERFLIES

BYHENRY WALSWORTH KINNEY

TORONTOTHE MUSSON BOOK COMPANYLimited

Published February, 1924

Printed in the United States of America

BROKEN BUTTERFLIES

The black bow of theTenyo Marucut into the broad ribbon of moonlight stretching, interminably, straight into the vast spaces of the opalescent night. Somewhere ahead, bathed in that same pale illumination, invisible, lay Japan.

Arms folded over the rail, Hugh Kent looked forward into the opaque dimness. From the main deck below the plaint of a bamboo flute came softly up to him. The following wind brought stray bits of the dance music from astern where the cabin passengers were enjoying their last night at sea. Ahead the Orient, dim, mysterious, indefinitely veiled as the flute notes—behind him the virile, strident, restless clamor of the West; ever approaching, the two, East and West, seeking to blend, even partly blending, yet each as yet too strongly individual, mutually strange, to combine in full harmony.

The vastness of space, vagueness of translucent darkness, shimmer of niveous sparkle of foam cascaded before the tall prow and glimmer of phosphorescence flickering in the dark water below, all induced to introspection, reflection, vague wonder as to what lay before him, what new revelations would life in Japan bring to him.

It had surely changed vastly in the score of years which had passed since he had left it, at fifteen. Hewould find much that he knew though, would enjoy recapturing fluency in the speech which he had prattled expertly as a toddler in amah's care and as a boy in the streets and gardens of Kyoto. It would be a new, a more sophisticated Japan that he would see, spoiled without doubt; still how he had longed for years to return, to rediscover.

A shadow fell over his thoughts. How he had cherished that dream, a few years ago, during the first years of their marriage, to go there with Isabel. How they had both looked forward to it, to the time when he should attain a post as correspondent at Tokyo for one of the great dailies, to which his knowledge of the language gave him good reason to aspire. Even after the first years of marriage had passed, when in time they had gradually drifted apart, had become almost indifferent, he had hoped that when Japan should provide a new scene for their lives, it might be possible to revive interest, to make a new start. He had felt that it contained some vague potentiality of that sort, and when the offer came from theSan Francisco Heraldto be its Tokyo correspondent, he had felt certain that the opportunity had come for them, that she would appreciate it as well as he. For that reason he had said nothing to her about it until every arrangement had been made, the contract signed, that he might carry the glad tidings to her, complete, that the realization of all that this meant to them might sweep her off her feet and envelop her, as it had him. And then the shock of her absolute coldness, when he had brought his surprise to her; her absolute refusal to go to Japan. It had thrown him off his feet, confused him, so that when she reproached him with secrecy, with having taken this important step without even consulting her, trying to learn her wishes, he had been able to explain only confusedly how withthe very best intentions he had meant to give her a splendid surprise; how, in fact, he had had to restrain himself from telling her when the first inkling of the great news came, just in order that he might make the marvel of the revelation more complete. As he had tried to justify himself, to explain, to convince her, her indifference had baffled him—surely, commonplace and torpid as their relations had become, he had never felt towards her the indifference which she apparently felt towards him. And this had been followed by her absolute refusal to go with him, accompanied by her statement that she did not object to his going, that, in fact, she could understand that he must not lose the great opportunity, that it really might be for the best for both of them to live apart for some time, for some years—she had veiled her speech in obscure indefiniteness, giving him, suddenly, the impression that she expected that they would never come together again.

It had been borne in on him that in her heart she welcomed this as an opportunity to end, through propitious circumstance, a relationship which had become apathetic, a marriage which had failed. He could understand her feeling—the thought was not unfamiliar to him—but she had evidently progressed much farther than had he on the road of indifference. Further conversations had brought the same result. She had resolutely refused to place credence in his belief that life in a new country might revive affection. She was not romantic, she had said, and it was plain that separation would cause neither of them to suffer. He had felt that had she given him but a little encouragement, the slightest sympathy, he might ardently have swept her over to his belief that here lay a chance for renewal of the affection of the first years; but her indifference had chilled him.

So they had parted, phlegmatically. Now he felt certain that this episode had come to an end. He had tried marriage, and it had been a failure. And such a stupid failure. There had been no other woman, and, he felt sure, no other man. It had failed simply through inanition. Still, it might have been worse. At least, there was no heartbreak, no anguish. He had tried the marriage experiment. Probably he would never have been content until he had tried it. Now, he had found that it did not work; yet he was not much the worse. He enjoyed the company of women only in the manner of a mild stimulant. Thus he would live henceforth. He would have his new work to occupy him, and curiosity to lift the curtain veiling the mystery of marriage would not affect him. Like men who regard lack of desire for liquor as an asset, thus he felt that his freedom from relation to, from craving for woman would be an advantage. It would make for a peaceful and well-ordered life.

His thoughts lost themselves in indefiniteness, a pleasant Nirvana of emptiness which resented the sound of footsteps approaching along the deck behind him. He turned, annoyed. Still, it was not so bad. He would rather have it be Lüttich than any of the others. The Russian had a fortunate faculty of sympathetic adjustment, of ever being able to attune himself to one's mood of the moment, serious, gay, reflective. And he admired his talents, the facility with which he spoke French, German, English, even Japanese, his easy mastery of the violin, and, above all, his unobtrusive friendliness. He felt for him, also, sympathy for his misfortunes and admiration for the careless manner in which he had adapted himself to new circumstances. Hardships as an officer during the war, imprisonment, escape through Siberia, and, finally, adjustment to a fairly precarious existence as a teacherof languages and the violin to Japanese, had caused no bitterness. "You never know what it is to be free from care until you have lost everything," he had explained to Hugh. "Nichivo!"

Lüttich pointed out into the night before them. "To-morrow, Japan. What will it bring?"

Hugh smiled. "Something like that. One dreams, reflects, speculates at the future."

The Russian snapped his fingers. "Unprofitable. If the dreams are pleasant, disappointment and disillusionment follow. If they are unpleasant, why, they are not worth having. The true philosophy lies in gathering the fullest measure of the pleasures of the moment. This is the last night on board, remember. They are short of men, as usual. Come on. Join the dance, and have a drink with me,auf wiedersehenin Japan."

They walked aft together, where the ship's orchestra played to the couples dancing in the obscure half-light of the moon and the Japanese lanterns strung crisscross in wavy lines. Along the wall of the deckhouse tables and chairs had been set close together so as to give room for the dancers. They sat down and had their drink. Hugh was still half immersed in reverie, but the Russian was active, febrile. Presently he joined the dancers. Hugh watched the scene languidly. He could always find enjoyment, food for idle speculation in the odd assortment of passengers, international, Americans and Japanese predominating; some falling into easily defined classes, missionaries, business men, tourists; others more definitely characteristic, individualistic; some particularly interesting in their baffling of curiosity, about whom ship's gossip had contrived fanciful fables.

At the table next to him sat Baron Saiki, returning after years of service at the Japanese Embassy atWashington, man of the world, polyglot, marvelously well informed in international politics, a striking contrast to his wife, who spoke little and who appeared to have retained, in spite of years of residence abroad, the self-effacement of Japanese women. Another contrast, again, was young Miss Suzuki, who sat with them, college educated in America, stylish, with even a French-like chic, in her fashionable gown and cleverly arranged hair. Farther over was Miss Wilson, an American stenographer returning to Yokohama, after a vacation in California, with Miss Elliott, who had lived long in Japan where she was beginning to make a success with her painting, water colors following largely the manner of the Japanese color prints, but combining therewith a hint of Maxfield Parrish, with intense blues and deft arrangement of light and shadow contrast, which she cleverly contrived to work out into a style quite peculiarly her own. She was one of the passengers whom Hugh hoped he would meet again in his life in Japan.

Still farther over was a group of tourists, guidebooks on the table before them, arranging the itinerary for a breathless chase through the most conspicuous marvels of Japan. Then a table with a couple of girls with bobbed hair, and a youth on his way to Shanghai. Farther over were others whose faces were half effaced in the shadows. The approach to land caused general animation. The dancers swung and gyrated to the rhythm of jazz. Good-bys were said and promises to meet in Japan made as drinks more numerous than usual marked the last night at sea.

"Are you glad to come back to Japan?"

It was Miss Suzuki who had turned to him. She spoke in Japanese. He had often practiced speaking the language with her, rejoicing at the facility with which he was regaining the once familiar tongue.

"Of course, though to me it will be like a new country," he answered. "But I know that you must certainly be happy to return."

He was surprised to see the wistful expression which came over her face. "I don't know." She spoke in English. He had noticed that she found greater facility therein than in Japanese. "I don't know. I was only eight when I left Japan. I am afraid I have become too foreign in my ways and my mind, and my parents are such old-fashioned Japanese. It may be very difficult; I am really quite afraid."

The orchestra crashed into a new dance. From the dimness beyond the lanterns the ship's Adonis strode into the light, a young fellow on his way to Tokyo as a student interpreter. He walked towards Miss Wilson. Hugh saw her straighten expectantly, eyes meeting the boy. But Adonis' roving eye had perceived Miss Kanae, a Japanese girl who with her parents had joined the ship at Honolulu. He changed direction, bowed, smiled, and the two glided in among the dancing couples.

Miss Wilson flushed angrily. Her glance swept away, encountered his for a moment, took in his companion with obvious disapproval.

"I don't see how a white man can bring himself to dance with one of these."

It was said loudly enough to carry across the tables. Evidently intentionally, with a desire to wound. Hugh saw the Baron wince almost imperceptibly. He knew that the girl at his side must have heard. The orchestra fiddled on to a crashing finish. The dancers called for an encore. The violins struck up again. Hugh turned to her.

"I wish you would let me have this dance, Miss Suzuki?"

He saw her flush. "I think I would rather not. Idid not think you danced. I have not seen you dance at all."

"I have not." He did not care greatly for dancing. "But this is the last night, you know. Surely you will not deny me this one dance at parting."

She hesitated. He bowed ceremoniously. She arose slowly, and he led her out among the dancers. He was pleased to find how lightly she danced, elfin-like fine and graceful movements following his. The glare of Miss Wilson's eyes directly into his as they passed her gave him grim satisfaction. He knew that she knew what was in his mind. She would be implacable. How easy it was to make enemies in this world. He danced mechanically. The thought spoiled his enjoyment. Then his mind reverted to his partner. She was smiling up to him. What a shame it was to wound wantonly such a dainty child, for, after all, that was all she was.

"We shall dance often like this, in Japan, shall we not?"

"I don't know." Her smile became a little dubious. "I hope so. We shall see."

He made up his mind that he must try to come into touch with her in Tokyo. The music ceased. He led her back to her seat. The Baron smiled. "You will have a drink with me before we go below, Mr. Kent. It is getting late, but we shall have our nightcap." They drank slowly. "I hope to see you in Tokyo," said the Baron. "Your business will take you to the Foreign Office very often, I know. I expect to be in Japan for a while. Look me up there. I may be of some use to you. Good night."

After all, how easy it was to make friends, also.

They arose. The Baroness bowed to him silently. The girl gave him her hand. "Good night.Arigato de gozaimazu." She smiled to him and followed theothers before he could collect himself to reply. She was a charming child. He hoped that he would come to know her better, in Japan.

The Russian came up to him. "Good boy." He patted him on the shoulder. So others had noticed. He looked over for the Wilson girl, but she had disappeared. Miss Elliott caught his glance, beckoned him over.

"You throw yourself into the battle quickly, even before you have reached Japan," she smiled. "You have chosen your side early. It may not be entirely wise, but I liked it. Thank you."

It embarrassed him. "But surely it was the only thing to do, you know. She heard it. It was so unexpected, so utterly undeserved."

"I know. Still, you will see much of just that kind of thing in Japan. I feel sorry for that poor girl. She will have a hard time, and she suspects it. You know, she went to America when she was only eight years old, was adopted by her uncle and aunt. They sent her to college. She has been thoroughly foreignized. Now they have both died and she is going back to her own family. I know of them. Her brothers have both been abroad and have the foreign manner, but they are Japanese. She is nothing, neither Japanese nor foreign, or, rather, she is both, Japanese body and foreign mind. And her parents are typically old-fashioned Japanese. She has learned to expect the courtesy, the deference paid our women, the 'ladies first' of our world. Now she will be forced into the strait-jacket of Japanese women. She will be beautifully dressed and will have motor cars and all that, but she will learn that her freedom is gone, her personality is gone, and that it is 'men first' always in Japan. That is the way it will be with her with the Japanese, and then, if she goes with the foreigners, if she isallowed to mingle with them well—you saw what happened to-night. It is fortunate for her that she will not live in Yokohama. In Tokyo it is better. There the foreigners are scattered, and they mingle more sympathetically, generally, with the Japanese; but in Yokohama, where all the foreigners live together in the Settlement, with their little cliques, and coteries, and constant gossip and observing what every one does, there a girl like she is much held at arm's length. It is the women mainly who cause it. They make the men feel that they must not show too much interest, or they suffer their displeasure."

"But a girl like that; why she's a mere child!"

"A mere child." She laughed. "I have so often wondered, when the men always say that about these girls, whether they really are so dense. Is it possible that the mere smallness and quaintness really blind them. Can't they see that they are as much women as we are, with the same thoughts, with passions as intense as those of all other women. Of course, many of the men must know better, must have learned——" She seemed to seek for words, gave it up, laughed. "You know, I am becoming involved in a delicate subject. After all, you must see for yourself and form your own conclusions."

The Russian was coming towards them. She rose. "It is late, and we must be up early if we are to see Fuji. If you want more information, ask Mr. Lüttich. Men can explain such things better. Good night."

"Lüttich," Kent turned to the Russian. "Miss Elliott was just hinting that the lot of the foreign-educated Japanese girl in Japan is not a very happy one. What do you know about it? It interests me."

Lüttich shrugged his shoulders. "One of the pangs of the transition that Japan is going through. It is the whole keynote to Japan to-day. The nation istrying to squeeze a feudal chain and mail outfit in under the white shirt front of modernity, and the process causes difficulties. The point is that, with all her modern veneer, railroads, electric lights, factories, street cars and all that, Japan is still feudal entirely in thought. Take your friend, Baron Saiki, for instance; as polished a diplomat as you can find in Washington or London. To-morrow, back in Japan, his mind will be as feudal as was that of his ancestors three hundred years ago. In fact, it has always remained so, but the Japanese have learned to put on a foreign suit of thought, just as they put on a foreign suit of clothes, and, under it all, the old feudal thought remains unchanged, just like their skins.

"In that way you see these well-bred men and women of Japan attending social functions, dressed like us, acting like us, following our codes and manners, and that is about all you see of their lives, the modern, the outward part. But the everyday life, that which goes on behind the walls andshoji, which you seldom get even a glimpse of, that has not changed. There the old feudal era is persisting. The wife is subservient to her husband, the daughters must obey and serve their brothers. And after all, it works well; in fact, apparently better than our system. They have practically no marital scandals. The Empire is built on the foundation of the family and it seems to wear well; it would be foolish to tamper with it, to try to replace it with something, our system, for instance, which is hardly a success. And it is my firm belief that generally the Japanese women are happy, every bit as happy as those of America or Europe. That system is what they have always known. It may be the bliss which is born of ignorance, but as long as the ignorance remains they are happy.

"Now that is where the point comes in about girlslike Miss Suzuki. She has become accustomed to our ways, our point of view. She expects to take the usual precedence, to receive the usual courtesies from men, to be waited on by them. And now, in her home, the men will walk in advance and she will follow. If she drops something she will pick it up herself, but if her brothers drop it, she will have to scramble after it, and if a servant is not handy, they will order her about like one. Now, if she had never seen anything else all her life, that would be natural; she would never give it a thought. But she has grown up under our conventions. She cannot help but long for the courtesy, the deference, which she has become used to, which she craves for. But, first of all, she does not go out much, as do our girls, for Japanese women don't attend, generally, social functions where both sexes are present, except garden parties, receptions and other boresome affairs. But even if she does go out, say to teas, hotel dances and such things, and even if she receives there from the modernized young Japanese the outward show of courtesy which is part of modern social usage, she knows that it is all for the moment only. Her brother who picks up her fan at the Imperial Hotel will send her scurrying for his slippers at home. If she marries the young blood who obsequiously leads her to her seat in the ballroom, she will jolly well walk behind him if she marries him.

"That, I think, is the tragedy of the modernized Japanese girl, that she has had a glimpse of ideals which she will probably never attain. Of course, there may be some heart-burning at the attitude of some of the foreign lady cats, who would prevent white men from associating with the Japanese girls. It is natural that they resent the charm which these girls have for many of the young men who should be the exclusive property of the women of their own race; but thatobtains mainly in Yokohama, and very little in Tokyo, where the foreigners are scattered and where the biggest guns in the social world are undeniably Japanese. And outside of some isolated incidents like that to-night, I don't think that point counts much. The fact is that while the Japanese girl who has had some contact with foreigners undoubtedly wishes that our manner of treating our women might be extended to them, you will find that marriages of ladies of the aristocracy with foreigners are extremely rare. The man who thinks he is regarded as a prize simply because he is white is a fool. Among the lower and middle classes it is probably different. To many of these girls the courtesy and consideration shown by foreign men to their women must contrast sharply with the prospect of a life of constant obedience, subservience and drudgery, first to her brothers and then to her husband. They say that once a Japanese girl has had relations with a foreigner, at least a decent foreigner, she almost never wishes to take up with men of her own people. I've seen a lot of cases which make me believe that this is true. But girls of the class of Miss Suzuki are practically never allowed to marry foreigners, and foreigners of their class hardly ever marry Japanese. So they must be unhappy, poor dears. They despise the trammels of Japanese married life, and that which they have learned to wish for they can't attain. The lives of these girls, the pioneers of their sex in attainment of western culture, is one of the many tragedies of Japan in transition."

They arrived too late in the morning to see Fuji-san. Clouds lay over the mountain ranges and smoky haze obscured the land, only the nearest foreshore appearing, gray, formless, without detail. It might have been the California coast, any coast line, in fact. Only the sampans which passed them, standing out to sea, with their characteristic square sails, high galleon-like poops, indicated the Orient. They passed quarantine. A launch came up smartly to the ship's ladder. A tall man in pongee waved his big white sun-helmet up to Kent.

It was Erik Karsten. Kent had expected to see him. They had been friends, when Karsten was dramatic and art critic on theHerald, before he had gone to Japan some years ago. They had corresponded and Kent had looked after his son, young Mortimer Karsten, until the boy had graduated from the university and had gone to Europe for further study. Karsten had written him, when he had heard that he was coming to Japan, that he must make his home with him, at least until he decided to make other arrangements. It made it particularly pleasant. They were warm friends.

They climbed up the ladder, police officials, steamship agents, Karsten and the rest. The friends shook hands.

"By Cæsar, but it is good to see you," said Karsten. "I have been feeling a bit lonesome these last few years. I am glad you will stay with me, at least for a while. Here, give your trunk keys to Martin. Hewill see your stuff through the customs. It will be too late to get to Tokyo for tiffin, so we will eat at the Grand. Then you can take a turn about Yokohama, and we'll be in Tokyo in time for dinner."

He went through the usual form of police examination. The steamer crept up to the wharf. Yokohama was as he had expected, the foreign settlement drab and tedious as of old; the typically Japanese section had receded a bit farther into the background; there were a few more red-brick official buildings. The return brought no thrill. Even the rickshaw seemed commonplace after he had ridden in it a few minutes. He felt as if he had been away from Japan only a score of weeks rather than a score of years.

Though he had halfway expected this, he was disappointed. Karsten read his thought.

"Yokohama always disappoints, doesn't it? I shall never forget my shock when I first came to the Fabled Orient and found this nondescript changeling of a city. Tokyo is becoming spoiled, too. They are covering it with electric poles, tangles of wires, atrocious buildings, all the dreariness of civilization, which they have a positive genius for making as obtrusive as possible. It seems almost that when they copy our civilization they make a point of making the worst parts thereof the most conspicuous. They can endow them with a hideousness which you don't find in any other place in the world. Still, Tokyo is not as bad as Yokohama. You may still find large quarters which are Japan. I have found such a place. I hope you will like it."

They arrived at Karsten's house late in the afternoon. Hugh felt his hopes rise as they left the prosy, noisy main streets and their rickshaws began a tortuous journey through narrow alleys, through a typically Japanese quarter, with clean wooden houses, latticed paper windows, grilled entrances, bamboo fences, anddaintily contrived roofed gates through which might be glimpsed miniature gardens, with dwarfed pines, stone lanterns, curved paths of broad gray stones.

A steep stone stairway, winding erratically up the hillside against which nestled the quarter below, brought them to Karsten's house. Thank God, here was a place such as he would wish to live in, which was in harmony with his dreams of the spirit of Japan. Japanese in every detail, set in a cool garden overlooking the cluster of houses through which they had passed. In the rear lay a great temple, set in extensive grounds, a cool, calm space shadowed by old trees conveying a feeling of vast, eternal peace.

"You see, I am almost literally between the devil and the deep sea." Karsten swept his hand before him. "These houses below are a geisha quarter, as you might know by the immaculate trimness and careful detail. It is more characteristic at night, when the lights are lit. You'll see. There, behind us, in the temple grounds, you may always find peace, rest. Can it be a sort of telepathic influence? I don't know; but it seems almost as if centuries of calm meditation, projection of their minds into the infinite by generations of priests, the devout prayers of hundreds of thousands of worshipers, from cradle to grave, have permeated the whole space with an atmosphere, an aura of infinite peace. I am absolutely pagan. I have no creed or religious philosophy whatever. Still, sitting alone in this place, letting my thoughts go, I come nearer the idea that there is something, some one, some force, above, beyond, eternal, dominant, controlling the universe. Buddha, God, call it by whatever name you like, but some vast, hidden, mysterious force. Anyway, if I am troubled, agitated, here I may always find peace."

They entered the house. A tall, handsome Japanesewoman met them, bowed deeply, gracefully. "O hairi nasai.Please enter."

The soft, deep ring of her voice, its musical modulation; the richness of her silks in spite of their somber shades; the every evidence that here was a woman of refinement, a gentlewoman, startled Kent. Plainly this was no servant. Could it be that Karsten had contracted one of these indefinite Loti'esque temporary arrangements which are fairly common in Japan? Still, then he would have said something about it. He wondered.

But Karsten gave no explanation.

"Jun-san, this is Kent-san. Kent, Jun-san has been looking forward to your coming. She is pleased that you speak Japanese. She speaks no English."

She clapped her hands. A servant came, took their hats. They entered a large, cool room, upstairs, whence they had a full view of the clusters of geisha houses below. Jun-san followed, brought tea. He noticed that she drank also. Evidently not a servant; probably an "oku-san," after all? Still, in such case it was odd that Karsten had not mentioned it. Well, time would tell soon enough. He liked her presence there, sitting gracefully, Japanese-fashion, on a silk cushion, ever watchful, attentive to anticipate their wants. Her mere being there lent an air of rich, but delicate, exotic Oriental beauty to the room, as though she were some infinitely wonderful, gorgeous ornament, contrived to harmonize with, to add grace to the surroundings. He liked the soft, slow smile when she answered him in her grave contralto voice; but he noticed that when she was not speaking, when he and Karsten were conversing in English, when she took no part, she was ever watching Karsten, with an expression of sadness, it seemed to him, a hint of wistfulness. It oppressed him a little with its indefinitemystery. He tried to put the thought away, as he went on talking with Karsten, but he could not free himself from the sense of an oppression of sadness, vaguely permeating the house as might a breath of heavy incense. He felt himself seized, unaccountably, knowing no definite reason, with a feeling of compassion, of sympathy, for Jun-san.

Kent's office was in the rear of a building in the Shimbashi section, a corner room facing two sides on narrow alleys, neither more than four feet wide. His landlord, Nishimura, whose International Agency occupied the front, was holding forth volubly. He would talk inexhaustibly about his life, his affairs and, principally, about his manifold abilities, in English, for he had lived for years in the United States.

As he talked, Kittrick came in. Kent had known him years ago, in the San Francisco Press Club, before he had gone to Japan for the Universal Syndicate. He hoped that his arrival would put an end to Nishimura's talk, but the Japanese only waved a greeting to Kittrick—evidently he knew him. He bubbled on.

"I am very pleased that I can always help you, in anything, everything. If you want anything, ask Nishimura. I can get you access to all the big men, the ministers of state, the politicians, the big business men, everybody. I can get you anything, an interview, a clerk, invitations to the official functions, a streetcar pass, a sweetheart," he leered suggestively. "You have a unique advantage of situation, Mr. Kent, between knowledge," he pointed towards the region of the International Agency, "and pleasure," he waved his hand generally in the direction of the walls and paper-coveredshojiappearing, familiarly close, through the office windows.

"It is a select neighborhood, Mr. Kent. The heart of the most refined geisha quarter, hidden, so discreetly, don't you think, behind our respectability, yoursand mine. There, you see, is the Akebonomachiai, one of the most famous waiting houses, where you may feast with geisha." He pointed across one of the alleys where theshojishad been drawn aside, the wide window opening displaying a large, immaculately clean room, furnished with the constraint usual in Japan, with only a low table and some silk cushions, akakemono, hanging silk scroll picture, in thetokonomarecess. "A very quiet place usually in the day," he explained. "But at night, ah, what scenes of revelry, with happy guests disporting themselves with sake wine and the pretty geisha." He sighed and threw wide his arms, as would he, ravished, press to his breast one of the beauties of his imagination. "You shall see, Mr. Kent, even here," now he was pointing through the window in the other wall to a smaller house. The closed, opaque papershoji, bamboo barred, were almost within arm's length. From beyond it came the strident whimper of samisen strings. "That is O-Toshi-san," he explained confidentially, impressively, "the famous O-Toshi-san. You shall see her often, there in her window; but, Mr. Kent, do not lose your heart there. No, don't," he became even more confidential, suggestively smiling. "She belongs to Mr. Kato, the police commissioner. He paid bigmakura-kin, pillow-money, oh, so big, I hear——"

A clerk entered and whispered to Nishimura. "I am so sorry," said the landlord. "My affairs. I must go, but I shall come and see you often. Good morning."

It was a relief. His chatter had filled the room, monopolized the situation. "I have certainly fallen into a queer neighborhood," said Kent. "I shall apparently have a liberal and inexpensive education in geisha matters. What did he mean by pillow-money, anyway?"

"That's so; you left Japan too young to know about such things," said Kittrick. "Well, the institution differs considerably, according to locality, I think, but it means ordinarily a sum paid to a geisha who then becomes, so far as love favors are concerned, the exclusive jewel of the man who pays it. She may, of course, continue to entertain other guests as a singer or dancer and so forth, but that man is, or is supposed to be, her only lover. In fact, you know, you are not as queerly situated as you think you are. The geisha quarters are scattered in various parts of the city; you find them rubbing up against business and office quarters in lots of places. They are not bad neighbors at all. You may come to like these girls. For while some of them are just common women, many are quite exclusive, as, for instance, your neighbor lady appears to be, with just one lover; and not a few are absolutely clean morally, virginal, even though they make their living by singing, and playing, and entertaining men in their idle hours. For the Japanese they are institutional. In many cases important business deals are closed only in themachiai, with geisha adding grace to the occasion. Statesmen discuss their affairs in their presence. The Japanese tired business man, when he wants a change from the formality of family life, finds relaxation in a few hours with them, drinking, chatting, listening to their singing, enjoying their bright wit; often, as a rule, I think, that is all, though, of course, it frequently goes further. I myself have come to appreciate very much the Japanese point of view. There is so little to do in Tokyo, no theaters or concerts to speak of; only the cinemas. So occasionally, when time hangs on my hands, I go to some clean little tea house, call a geisha or two, lie about comfortably, lazily, enjoy their chatter—they are such merry, charming children.You get complete relaxation. It is easy to understand how the Japanese men, whose wives, as gentlewomen, could not and would not think of unbending to the gay fripperies of such talk and play, find their amusement with these girls. Of course, many of the men have sweethearts, mistresses,mekakes, concubines, as they commonly are called, but these things are not as greatly different from similar phenomena in America and Europe as you might think, and I am under the impression that the characteristically Japanese concubine system, if there is such a thing, is gradually dying out.

"However, I didn't come here to talk geisha. If you want me to show you the ropes as a newspaperman, I'm going now to the Foreign Office, and you had better come along."

The first glimpse of the Foreign Office attracted Kent—the great wall, with white mortar forming big lozenges, the only glimpse of typical Japan in the vicinity where great red brick buildings, the Navy Department, the courts, and, gray and forbidding, imposing even while its walls were crumbling, the Russian Embassy, formed the nucleus of official Japan. But once inside the iron grilled gate, the Foreign Office buildings were unimpressive, tediously modern. They did not even go to the main structure, but went to the right into a long, drab edifice.

"This will be one of your main points in your work," said Kittrick, as they waited while the solemn old commissionaire shuffled upstairs to announce them. "This is the information bureau of the Foreign Office, the main function of which is to see that foreign correspondents are kept satisfied with as little information as possible. We are now about to see the head oracle, Mr. Kubota. He was in London and Washington for years, and Japanese officialdom speakshighly of his abilities. He has to be quite a diplomat, you know, to answer a great many questions and still give out next to no information, anyway."

The commissionaire appeared and ushered them into Kubota's office, a large, simply furnished room. A middle-aged, pleasant-faced man, immaculate in frock coat, rose to greet them. His English was perfect. He was courteously cordial. One liked him instinctively. They chatted awhile about Kent's plans, how he liked Japan, the usual trivialities. "I hope you will come here often. We shall all be glad to be of every service possible to you, I and my assistants."

He called over a young man who had been sitting in the background. "My chief assistant, Mr. Kikuchi," he introduced. Kikuchi, more interesting at first sight than his chief, was a typical young aristocrat, in rich silk kimono, with long, sensitive fingers, urbanely smiling. Kent learned later on that he was regarded as one of the rising men in the Foreign Office, a man with brains as well as prestige. His father, Viscount Kikuchi, was considered, in the most intimately informed circles, to be the leading mind of the Privy Council.

"We have heard of you already from Baron Saiki," said Kikuchi, shaking Kent's hand firmly. "We shall be glad to become your good friends, if we may. In fact——" he glanced towards his chief.

The older man smiled. "Yes, Mr. Kittrick, we had, in fact, thought of having one of our little tea parties as a welcome to Mr. Kent and for Mr. Jones, you know, who came a few weeks ago for theNew York Chronicle. To get them acquainted, just a few of us from the office here and the newspapermen. We have these little informal, friendly gatherings now and then, Mr. Kent. Do you think you should like to come?"

Kent thanked him. They chatted for a while. Kent was introduced to a few more officials, all pleasant, extremely urbane, fluent in English. Then they came away.

"It should be pleasant to come here," commented Kent. "They seem intelligent and friendly. I like them."

"They are pleasant," replied Kittrick. "And clever too, though, queerly enough, it is the common thing for the Japanese to regard the Foreign Office as a pretty stupid institution. Although it has done mighty well, it seems to me, disentangling the foreign policy mess left by Terauchi and his ilk, cleaning up the Yap, Shantung, Chinese and Siberian questions, the Japanese people and press seem to think that they are a pretty poor lot. Of course, they have had a fairly hard time of it with the War Office, the General Staff. Many people think that they are unduly under the thumb of the militarists, but the very fact that the army and navy Ministers are not responsible to the Cabinet makes running the foreign policy harder, as the militarists have had the habit of letting the Foreign Office propose, and then doing the disposing themselves, and that seems to me to make what our diplomatic friends have done the more praiseworthy.

"Yes, you will find the Foreign Office crowd pleasant," he continued. "But as a source of information you'll find them disappointing. Like all the rest of the officials, they are obsessed with the national mania for secrecy. All the officials seem to think that they may get into all kinds of trouble by telling the press something; that they can never get into trouble when they tell nothing. The great cry of the Japanese is constantly that they are misunderstood by the rest of the world, and still when we fellows who honestly want to bring about understanding tryto help them along, they won't help us or themselves. Say, for instance, that some fool report against Japan crops up in Washington, or London, or Paris, and you come here to get the thing straightened out, to get Japan's side; you will, as a rule, find it is like pulling teeth, and often, when you do get the story, they won't let you quote the Foreign Minister, or even the Foreign Office generally. They want you to cable that 'it is reported,' or 'it is said' or 'there are indications that,' taking all the value out of the statement. Then, if you want to see one of the Ministers or some other big gun, they will probably arrange that you see him—they are tremendously obliging, I admit—but it will take a week or more before the interview can be arranged, and in the meantime the harm has been done abroad. Your story, Japan's version, has become old as Genesis, it has gone cold. And then they sit up and wail that the world misunderstands them. All this talk you hear about the infernally clever, insidious Japanese propaganda is plain rot. If there is one thing they don't know a thing about, it is propaganda. They have their propaganda newspapers, it is true, particularly in China, but everybody knows them, and they don't count. This talk about the Foreign Office handing out huge sums to writers and others is funny. The War Office people have the funds, and I daresay they spend them where they think it will do good. The General Staff, that is the secret force in the Japanese Government, and you and I never hear what goes on in there. See its headquarters, that old, gray building with the green copper roof; that's the last remaining stronghold of militarism, in its good old form, on this earth; and General Matsu, the chief, is the proper high priest, the simon-pure militarist, with ethics as primitive as those of a cave man. They are giving in now. They have to, forJapanese public opinion about spending great sums on armies is the same as it is in the rest of the world, but they are clever. They feel—it is probably their sincere idea of patriotism—that Japan can be great only by militarism, and where they reduce the army by two soldiers, they probably buy one machine gun, making up in strength in one way what they lose in the other. They probably feel that if they can't preserve Japan's strength openly on account of public opinion, they must do it quietly, for Japan's good. But there, under that green roof, lie the forces of old Japan, and there, on the other side of the city, in the students' quarter in Kanda, in the laborers' quarters of Honjo and Fukagawa, the forces of new thought are stirring and fermenting. It is medieval feudalism as opposed to modern industrialism, with a lot of more 'isms thrown in, Socialism, Communism, Sovietism even, new ideas, half understood, misunderstood, but grasped at with passionate eagerness, the young generation and the workers seeking such morsels of new thought, often the worse thought, that they can find, and swallowing them, half digested, or not digested at all.

"There is danger in all this. There is a turbulence of too precipitate transition. It needs wise handling. There is good in it all, this passionate desire for making Japan modern, but all these young, restless forces should be directed, led along wholesome paths, and all that the powers-that-be—the militarists, the capitalists, the police—seem to know is repression. I can see lots of good in both sides, the cautious conservatism of the old generation which clings desperately to the ancient virtues which it sees spurned; and which sees all that is bad, unwholesome, in the new movement; and the young generation which wants to create a new Japan in a day, which wants to walk before ithas learned to crawl, which is prone to discard the virtues and values of old Japan before it has learned to understand and use modern, Western civilization. It is a game for high stakes which is going on here under our eyes, where immeasurably precious values of an old civilization, unique, irreplaceable, are likely to be lost, to be thrown ruthlessly aside; and, on the other hand, there is loss every day that the intentness, the eagerness of the younger generation, of the masses in the cities where they have acquired zest for modernism, is suffered to waste itself in futile groping after lots of unwholesome stuff, which they think must be good fruit mainly because it is forbidden; especially when all this eagerness to learn, this ambitious energy might, with a little sympathy, a bit of understanding wisdom, be made into a tremendous power for constructive good. The longer you live here, Kent, the more you will come to see that what Japan needs to-day, what she must have, is another Meiji, some strong, wise directing force, a truly big man—but there is no such man to-day."

A row of shoes in the entrance of the tea house told them that most of the others had already arrived. A flock of maidservants met them, took their hats and canes, waiting while Kent and Kittrick took off their shoes. Kikuchi appeared. "We are nearly all of us here," he smiled. "Come in. Make yourself at home, Mr. Kent, Kittrick-san will tell you that we don't stand on ceremony."

In a large room, unfurnished save for a fewkakemonopictures, they found Kubota and half a dozen Foreign Office men, with six or seven correspondents, talking, smoking. Butterfield of theTimesand Templeton of theExpresswere old hands, with many years in Japan behind them. Most of the others were far more recent arrivals. Some of them showed by the self-conscious lack of ease of the white man when he first finds himself, socially, in stocking feet, that they were still new in Japan. Kent was introduced. The conversation flowed on, in groups. Tea and cigarettes were served.

A maid slid aside some of the partitions and they looked into a large room with small, individual lacquered tables set in three sides of a square, each with a cushion on the matting. "Please take your seats, gentlemen," Kubota waved them in. "Take your places where you please."

They squatted on the cushions. Kent was pleased to have on one side young Kikuchi. He had taken an instinctive liking to him. On the other side was Jones, a dumpy, solemn-faced man, fidgety, ill at ease.Beyond him was Kittrick. Farther along, on both sides, sat the rest, Japanese and foreigners mingled. Conversation flowed easily, mostly in English.

Soup was brought in lacquered, covered bowls, and a cloud of geisha appeared, a score or more, brightly clad in shimmering silks, with huge brocade obi scarfs fashioned in elaborate bow-like arrangements. The curious whitening of the faces, with the black, delicately arched eyebrows, almond eyes, crimson lips, fantastically high headdress, tastefully contrived contrasts of color, all served to provide an exotic air, to produce the impression that, after all, this was Japan, a unique country, different from all others. The deadening effect of trite modernism produced by the modern garb of the Japanese hosts, their perfect foreign polish, faded into the background. The geisha scattered among the tables, seating themselves with the guests, smiling to them, attending to their needs. As he looked across the table into the pretty face opposite him, Kent experienced a sense of grateful relief. Thank God, the bloom and charm of old fairy-tale-like Japan had not all faded away yet.

He fumbled with his chopsticks. He had almost forgotten the art of using them. The geisha gently took them from him, smiled engagingly, showed him how to use them. "So desho."

He thanked her in Japanese. Her finely formed hands, small like a child's, came up in surprise. "But you can't use chopsticks; you are new in Japan; and still you speak Japanese.Bikuri shimashita.I am surprised."

The spirit of the thing swept over him. He felt as if he had played with geisha all his life. "It is true. I have just come. But I looked into your bright eyes, and see, the words have come to me. It is a gift."

"I think you lie." She eyed him dubiously. Japanese girls are disposed to take literally even the unbelievable. "Kikuchi-san, he lies, doesn't he?"

But Kikuchi smilingly upheld him. "It is true. He has just come. You know, these foreigners are truly wonderful people."

"It is wonderful." She clapped her hands delightedly, called over other girls that they might share in the marvel. They twittered like birds. Kent suddenly found himself the center of attention, enjoyed the exhilaration of flashingjeu de mots, though he found that his childhood's vocabulary served only haltingly in the bright thrust and parry repartée with the geisha.

"I didn't know you could speak Japanese. What are they saying?" It was the querulous voice of Jones. Kent felt a quick pang of sympathy for him; he had been forgotten, neglected even by the geisha in the excitement.

"Oh, I lived here as a child, and I remember a little, but I told that girl that I was learning the language from her eyes; such is the gay foolishness with geisha, irresponsibility, laughter, that is the charm." But he could not draw Jones in. "I see," was his only reply, and he turned to the food before him.

More food was brought, course after course, daintily served, strange dishes, often puzzling as to how they must be eaten. The geisha fluttered about, changing from table to table, staying a few minutes with this guest, a bit longer with this other, charmingly gay, beautiful creatures, woman bodies in butterfly raiment, and with the radiant spontaneous happiness of children. And with all their laughing familiarity, intimacy almost, they were constantly watchful, alert to attend the men, with bewildering skill picking the bones fromthe trout, which were served whole, leaf-garlanded, on richly ornamented porcelain. Sake was brought in, hot, in small stone bottles. Guests and geisha lifted steaming little cups, laughed, drank, the girls constantly refilling the tiny bowls. The atmosphere titillated with laughter and talk. The men stretched themselves more easily on their cushions. Some rose and went visiting at other tables. The room was electric with gayety, staccato Japanese and guttural English words mingling, accompanied, set off by the rippling laughter of the geisha.

Kubota had begun the journey which is the function of the host. From table to table he proceeded, offering a cup of sake to each guest. The guests drank; each rinsed the cup in the bowl of water on the table before him, the ones who were old in Japan doing it expertly, immersing the bowl and withdrawing it suddenly so that the water was sucked in by the vacuum with a gurgling cluck. Then the guest would hold the bowl out towards the geisha. She filled it, and he handed it to Kubota, who drank ceremoniously, said a few words of polite greeting, and passed on to the next guest. He passed his cup to Kent. "I am glad to greet you here as a new friend," he said. "I hope we may often enjoy ourselves together." They drank.

Kubota passed on to Jones' table, held out his cup, but Jones waved it away. "Thanks, but I disapprove of liquor." A look of blank surprise crept over Kubota's face. The hand with the cup remained outstretched. It took him a moment to adjust himself to the surprising situation. Then he smiled engagingly. But Jones remained solemn, impassive. Kittrick came to the rescue. "Are you not going to drink with me, Mr. Kubota?" The incident passed, but Kent felt his sympathy for Jones turning to disgust. He turned impatiently to the geisha.

But there was a stir among the girls. A number of them were running towards the space where there were no tables. Samisens were brought in. Three of the girls seated themselves, began tuning the instruments. Three others ranged themselves in line and stood waiting. Suddenly ivory plectra smote taut strings. In a loud treble, almost stridently, the voices of the singers rose over the noisy clamor of the music. The dancers postured for a moment, each with a fan, closed, held straight before her. A chord was struck. Instantly the three fans were snapped open, simultaneously, with a graceful, wide sweep of arms, deep, fluttering sleeves following the undulating movements of small, bejeweled hands. The guests leaned back, watching the brilliant picture, the three girls, faces set in conventional expressionless masks, rich, gorgeous silks waving and sweeping in rhythmic movement, synchronizing with the bizarre cadences of the samisens and the voices, a picture of graceful lines, swaying and changing harmoniously, waves of radiant, flaming colors and shimmering, indefinite tints. The real Orient finally, gorgeous, rare, exotic. A wave of pleasure, satisfaction, swept over Kent. Impulsively he turned to Jones.

"Barbaric." The cold, hard tone cut in like a discord. Kent stared at him. Great heavens, what a point of view! He was about to turn impatiently towards the dancers, but Jones cut in quickly. It was as if anger, resentment, disgust, had been accumulating in him, from one phase of the entertainment to another, had been pent up, gathering volume until he must free himself of his thoughts. He seemed to clamor for Kent's attention, to demand it, speaking nervously, jerkily, finger tips drumming on the table top in emphasis.

"I wish I hadn't come. It is a shock to me to seethese men, high officials of the Government, publicly, brazenly disporting themselves with these women, common women, singers, dancers. And, I really can't help saying it, to see white men, Americans, entering into this degradation. Look at it," he swept his hand towards the dancers, swaying in soft, seductive movement before his irritated eyes. A smallhangyoku, geisha apprentice, sitting close by, saw his outstretched hand. She glanced at him, puzzled, eager to be of service, and hastily handed him a cup of sake. He swept it aside, and she gazed at him, wondering, black child's eyes large with surprise against the white powder of her face, quaint doll features contrasting oddly against the high coiffure.

Jones went on urgently, as if in competition with the whimper and cry of the samisens, the strident voices. "It seems to me that we white men should set them an example, that we have a duty to perform, that even as we are newspapermen, we should assist the missionaries, act as missionaries here——"

Kittrick's attention had been attracted. He cut in. "If you will pardon me, Mr. Jones, I think we have too many missionaries here already. Japan has far less misery and crime than there is in our big cities, New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Why don't they clean up at home first, where they are needed, maybe, before they come out here. You take my word for it, Mr. Jones, Japan can get along quite nicely without them, and so can the rest of us. But what is the use of talking. If you can't enjoy the hospitality you have accepted, at least have the decency not to criticize it. Here, little beauty," he turned to thehangyoku. "Fill the cups, please. Have a drink with me, Kent."

An uproarious twang of the samisens marked the end of the dance. The guests clapped. The dancers sank to the floor, bowed in deep salutation, ran downamong the guests. The men rose from their places, new groups formed. Kent was glad to escape. He went up to Kubota, expressed his pleasure. He felt as if he must make some atonement for Jones, wondered whether the Japanese had noticed him. He sensed a soft pressure on his arm. It was the geisha who had first waited on him at table. She had plucked from her hair an ornament, a cluster of artificial flowers, curiously and intricately wrought, with little polished metal bits faintly tinkling and glittering among the red and purple petals. She offered it to him. "You are a nice stranger," she smiled up to him. "I want you to have this. It is akatami, a souvenir." He glanced to Kubota, a little at a loss. The diplomat laughed. "It is all right. Take it. It is an omen that Japan likes you. I hope that you may like Japan."

It was getting late. The foreigners began to leave. The Japanese remained behind. "They always do," commented Kittrick. "I have an idea that now the real fun begins. But we never see it. Almost always only the surface, here in Japan."

"He came near spoiling the evening, that man Jones," he remarked, as they walked from the tea house. "Of course, he has a right to his point of view, but why drag in the missionary question on such an occasion. It made me angry. In fact, he made me say more about the missionaries than I really meant."

Kent laughed. "It seems an odd thing how it crops up in all sorts of incongruous places, isn't it; in steamer smoking rooms, in hotel bars. Do you people really dislike them so?"

"It is a big jump from geisha to missionaries," said Kittrick. "Still, since you ask, I should say that on the whole I don't. In some ways the missionariesdo a lot of good for the standing of the white man in the Orient, men like Doctor Wheelwright, for instance, men of broad education and culture, who in a way serve as demonstrations to the Japanese that the West, our race, has culture and high ideals, something beyond mere lust for gain and pleasure. You know otherwise the rest of us—most of us, at least—might easily give the Orientals the idea that we are entirely materialists, that we stand a poor comparison with their own scholars and men of culture. But then there is the other class of missionaries, the fellows with little minds, who can't see beyond the narrow vision they gained at their seminaries, who are forever deploring what they call the evil example set by the worldly white man, you and me, finding fault with our conduct, ever criticizing us, and, for business reasons, taking the side of the Japanese if we happen to criticize Japan. I feel as if the good done by the one class is about evened up by the nuisance caused by the other. I am thankful that I have friends among the first class; the others I carefully avoid. As for the good they do among the Japanese, I don't know. They undoubtedly do some good, but, on the other hand, personally I can't help being a bit suspicious of the native Christian. So many of them go in for Christianity on account of material advantages. It is an easy way to learn English, for one thing, and then, undoubtedly, many of them, the class of Japanese who want to be modern, who grasp at any modern movement, be it French art, opera music, Communism, or jazz, take up Christianity with sort of an idea that it is up-to-date,haikarathey call it. It is only fair to say, though, that all the smoking-room talk you hear about the missionaries living at ease on the fat of the land is largely rot. Most of them have to live modestly enough, on mighty small salaries. I am willing to givethem credit, most of them, of being sincere enough. I am neutral. I am willing to let them alone, if they will leave me alone. There is the missionary question in the Orient in a nutshell. Well, here I take my car. Give my regards to Karsten—and to Jun-san. Good night."

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