“Banzai!” 140
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_At the Emperor’s Wish_
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I
Far out toward the end of Lower Timber Street, where incurious visitors
to the city seldom stray, stands the house of Kudo Jukichi. It is called
Lower Timber Street, the Upper end being down in the city where once the
stout castle of the Lord of the Clan was the center of all the life of
the place. But the name is falsely descriptive, for it leads straight up
to the beautiful hills, and ends abruptly in a sheer climb to the top of
the pine-clad cone where nestles a famous old Shinto shrine. The narrow
path that winds up the steep hillside has been beaten smooth by thousands
of pious feet. Below, curving down in gentle slopes, the verdure-covered
hills ring in the town, and beyond the billowing roofs of blue-gray
thatch and tile stretches the shining, island-dotted sea, warm and soft
in the enormous blaze of summer.
To the casual observer there is nothing about the house of Kudo Jukichi
to indicate the quality of those who dwell within. A dilapidated
fence of split bamboos, that once was tall and fine, partly conceals
the weather-beaten little structure and partly reveals it, with the
tantalizing indistinctness of a veil over a beautiful face. If a curious
stranger should stop and peer through the lattice-like breaks in the
fence he would gaze upon wood-work grown soft and gray with age and the
flagellation of rains. Even the tiles of the roof, laid with a care
cognizant of earthquake and bitter storm, seem to have lost patience and
outgrown their pride, and now to await only the semblance of opportunity
to loose their hold and slide down. The shrubs along the narrow path that
leads from the gate are all unkempt and ragged, and the lone plum-tree
that stands like the ghost of a garden sentinel in the corner of the tiny
yard, touched by the general air of decay, struggles fitfully in the raw,
cloudy days of spring to send forth here and there a spiritless blossom.
One must be to the manner born, or carefully instructed, to detect, from
the many signs of ruin all about, the single indication of the state
of the householder. Such an one, perhaps, searching closely under the
warped roof of the gateway, might find and read the cedar ticket which
proclaims, according to law, to any who trouble to stop and read, that in
this house of little ease lives Kudo Jukichi, a Gentleman of the Empire.
Kudo Jukichi, Gentleman! In the first year of Meiji, when he fought
for the restoration of the young Emperor to the power that rightfully
belonged to the Throne, he wore the two swords of a Samurai. But that
was long ago. Kudo-san is an old man now, and thick gray hair covers the
head where once rose the shining black topknot of a warrior. He sits on
the soft mats of his little room with a book, or his pipe, and often
falls to dreaming of the years of his youth, of the stirring events that
threw down the old established order and brought the Emperor again to his
own. And if sometimes there comes to him a twinge of sentimental regret
for the lost ways of life of the old régime, it is but natural. It has
not been easy for Kudo-san to accept many of the changes that came with
the new Western thought. His was not the cast of mind that accommodates
itself readily to novel sensations and experiences. Only his passionate
loyalty and devotion to the Emperor enabled him to smother the feeling
of opposition within him, a feeling purely personal and selfish, in his
Japanese conception, and therefore not entitled to much consideration.
Loyalty with him was something more than a mere sense of duty. It was
instinctive, from the heart, the very essence of his nature, and because
of it he bore without complaint the heavy blows the new order dealt him.
The abolition of feudalism left him helpless, a dependant with none on
whom to depend. But the reorganization of the army, and the promotion of
the outcast Etas to citizenship and the proud opportunity of military
service dazed him. The distinctive privilege of Samuraihood, the right
to bear arms, was destroyed, and after that nothing worse could befall.
The capitalization of his hereditary income followed as a matter of
course, and he accepted with uncomprehending bewilderment the bonds given
him by the government he was no longer to serve. The fabric of his life
was crumbling and he was powerless to stay its ruin. With hands clasped
before him and head reverently bowed he stood in front of his little
shrine and solemnly communed with the shades of the Kudos gone before. It
was a new situation, and doubtful if they could understand. But one thing
he knew, and in gentle voice, with unshaken faith, he announced it.
“It is the Emperor’s wish!”
Fate dealt neither vigorously nor kindly with Kudo. It let him drift.
While his bonds ran their income was sufficient for all his needs, but
when the time of their redemption came he looked in dismay at the heap of
money they brought him. Nothing in all his experience told him what to
do with it. Skillfully invested, it would have furnished ample return,
but investment was a science utterly beneath the contempt of a Samurai.
It was the business of merchants and traders, the men who devoted their
lives to the despicable profession of gaining money. He took his fortune
home, from the bank where it had been paid to him, wrapped up in a blue
cotton bundle-kerchief, and gave it to his wife with the unconcern of
complete scorn. He knew that that bundle alone stood between him and
necessity, but he did not care. He lived contentedly on his little
capital, nor ever let an anxious thought cross his mind because of its
constant decrease.
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