Scarce two hundred yards distant from the house of Kudo Jukichi, around
the corner in Azalea Street, there is a most striking evidence of the
change the new Western life has brought to the Island Empire. The little
shingle at the gate duly sets forth that Mr. Kutami Chobei, a Commoner,
occupies that comfortable dwelling, but all the city knows it as the home
of Chobei, the Eta. Prosperity radiates from the substantial house and
wide grounds with their pleasant garden, and all the place is enfolded
in its ample mantle. What cares the Commoner Kutami that his humble
station is placarded over his hospitable doorway? But a handbreadth back
in the space of years even that poor title seemed a measure of hopeless
distinction to him. In the yesterday when neighbor Kudo wore the haughty
swords of a Samurai his weapon would have leaped from its scornful
scabbard if Chobei the Eta had dared pollute his presence. It was a great
advance to be one of the multitude in the oblivion of the Commoners
instead of one of the marked few of the Etas, despised, outcast, living
apart from all his fellows except the unfortunates of his class. It had
been a bitter life for Chobei, for although his sheer force of will had
made him Chief of his village, a man of distinction among his own, that
very strength of character made only more keen and poignant the disgrace
of his position. The wealth he had accumulated in his business of
tanner had little pleasure to give him, and it was the business itself,
inherited from his fathers, generation after generation, that made him an
Eta. That great stroke of the Emperor’s which had shaken off the shackles
of his caste restored him to manhood, and he blessed the fate that had
brought the Western ideas to Japan and had set noble and Samurai and
outcast all equal before the law, face to face together with the problems
of individual responsibilities and rewards.
Money is not yet everything in Japan, however rapidly its power may be
advancing. But it is something to the Commoner and it was little better
than nothing to the Eta. Kutami was proud of himself, in an humble way;
proud that he had something to do with when opportunity to do came to
him. More than all he was proud of the new nation, and loyal to it with
the last drop of his blood. He was no soldier, but he did his part
when the forces of the Empire went over sea to meet the armies of the
Chinese in Korea and Manchuria. The business of his outcast days had
grown with great strides under the incentive of his new ambition, and
from being merely a tanner and dealer in leather he had become as well
a manufacturer of boots and shoes. Now it was that the money he had won
furnished the means of making return to the nation, and thousands of
soldiers marched and fought in the boots Kutami the Commoner gave to his
country.
There was no thought in Kutami’s heart of anything but loyalty and
gratitude to his Emperor in this, but there was a result he did not
foresee. Kudo Jukichi had been shaken out of his retirement by the war.
All the old fire was revived in him, and his heart was heavy because he
was neither able to offer service himself nor was his son old enough to
take a soldier’s part. In spite of the fact that they had lived for years
at so little distance from each other, for Kudo it was as if Kutami had
never existed. For though he might admit that there was advantage to the
nation in some of the great changes of his later years, Jukichi was still
at heart the Samurai of the old régime, and to him Chobei was still an
Eta. But the gift of the boots touched his heart.
“Some men are called Samurai in name, but are outcasts at heart,” he
thought. “That man was called outcast but has acted like a Samurai.”
Straightway he put on his finest silk kimono and stalking out of his gate
turned the corner into Azalea Street. There was a flutter of excitement
in the house of the Commoner when it was known that Kudo Jukichi had
come to call. This was an honor that had been beyond their dreams. For,
although there had never been a word between the two families, well the
Commoners knew their gentle neighbors, and it was not without a secret
sympathy that Chobei had noticed the evidence of hard and harder fortune
which increasing days brought to the Samurai. The situation of the
Kudos had become, indeed, very much straitened. Jukichi had contrived
to sell a few of the treasures of art that had been for generations in
the family. But his was no nature for bargaining, and kakemono and vases
that were priceless to genuine collectors had gone for the song the first
unscrupulous dealer had offered. Valiant soldier and skillful swordsman
that he had been, the Samurai was inept in the rough-and-tumble scramble
for existence, and Chobei gladly would have made his sympathy practical
if he had but known how.
It was truly a wonderful event for the Commoner when Jukichi voluntarily
came to visit him. O-Koyo, his wife, herself fluttered into the room
where the distinguished guest was sitting on the soft, white mat, and
brought him tea, that fine long leaf with the heavy flavor of the straw
mats that had kept it always from the sun, so delightful to the taste
of the Japanese connoisseur. Though it was the house of a man possessed
of much wealth, there was no display of riches, except in the exquisite
fineness of the wood, the beautiful grain carefully brought out in the
soft polish and matched with an evenness and skill that betokened unusual
pains and thought. In the alcove of the room where Jukichi sat hung a
single old kakemono of rare merit, and the signature that caught his
eye told him at once of its great value. Beneath it stood a vase of the
famous ware that had long distinguished the old artists of his clan, and
in it a single spray of blossoms. It was in perfect taste, and the old
Samurai, as he sat down, felt a little glow of satisfaction, as if he
had come back at last to the realities of the days before the inrush of
Western innovation had done so much to cheapen and make vulgar all that
it touched of the island art.
The simple directness of his character had not been changed by his years
of vicissitude. The formalities of greeting were hardly ended when
Jukichi plunged into the matter that had brought about his visit.
“I have heard,” he said, “that you have made a great gift to the army.”
A deprecatory smile crossed the face of the Commoner and he bowed very
low.
“Ah, it was nothing,” he replied, politely belittling what he had done.
“It was only a few boots for the soldiers, who are worthy of very much
more than one so humble as I can do for them.”
“Nevertheless it is a fine thing to do,” declared Jukichi, and for an
instant there flashed in his eyes something of the old fire. “It is a
fine thing for one who is not a soldier to give so much to the army.”
Again Kutami bowed very low, and softly protested the trifling character
of his act.
“I have heard that it was an entire division that you supplied,”
continued Jukichi. “I congratulate you. It is a very fortunate thing to
be able to do so much for the Emperor.”
Lower than ever Kutami bowed and for some time his head remained bent
forward. At length he raised it and looked the old Samurai in the face.
“It was nothing at all,” he said in a low voice, “nothing at all. And
the Emperor has done everything for me.”
He wondered what Jukichi would do or say to such direct reference to
his former condition, but loyalty knew no finer quality in the heart of
the Samurai than it found in the breast of the Commoner, and though he
insulted his honored guest, or died for it on the instant, Kutami would
not have withheld that acknowledgment to his Sovereign. And in making it
he touched the deepest chord in the Samurai’s nature.
“I cannot be a soldier myself,” the Commoner went on, after a little,
“and my son is not old enough to take my place. But the Empire has given
me a great deal, and I am very glad that I can give a little something to
the sons of others who offer their lives for it.”
“I, too, cannot be a soldier now,” said Jukichi slowly, after a pause,
“although in other years it was my duty and my privilege. And I, too,
have a son too young to be of service in this war. But he shall be a
soldier some day, and, if Heaven please, an officer of the Emperor.”
The ring of the old clan pride was in the voice and the eyes flashed as
if the father already saw the boy leading his men in the swinging charge.
“You are indeed fortunate,” said Kutami gravely; “it is a great honor
to have such a son, and it is but fitting that the son of such a father
should become an officer.” Again the deprecatory smile crossed his face
as he continued: “But it is not for my son to think of so glorious a
future. He shall do his duty when the time comes, and serve his country
as best he can, but after that I am afraid we could not hope to attain
such honor as it would be to have him continue in the army.”
It was Jukichi’s turn to bow and smile in deprecation. Then he rose to
take his leave, and when Kutami had thanked him for the great honor he
had conferred upon that poor house, he went away with a satisfaction in
his heart he did not attempt to explain.
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