Kutami the Commoner was fat and jolly. He lived well and put trouble
behind him whenever it showed its ugly head. He liked to talk and smoke
and visit with the friends who came often to his comfortable house to
enjoy his hospitality. For though among the Samurai and the gently born
the old prejudice against the Etas was far from extinction, among the
Commoners there was little inclination to supercilious remembrance,
especially when one had been so successful as Kutami. The visit of
Jukichi to his house had had a marked effect. Often since that memorable
afternoon the wagging tongues of Kutami’s friends had discussed the proud
old man and his hard situation. Many a suggestion was made as to how it
might be improved, but none which it seemed likely he would accept. The
generous impulses of his admirers were barred by the stubborn pride they
were not willing to encounter.
Life in many of its details is not so different in Japanese cities to
what it is in the Western world. Neighbors gossip just the same, and pry
out secrets and imagine motives just as they do among Occidentals, and
just as often hit the mark. They knew Jukichi’s ambition for Kokan, and
how more and more doubtful of fulfillment it was becoming.
“How foolish he is!” said Komatsu, the cloth merchant, one evening when
the subject had been discussed for the fortieth time. “With what he had
from his pension he might have done many things, and been as rich now,
perhaps, as Chobei here, who does not know what to do with his wealth.”
“A curio shop, for instance,” said Uchida, the ivory carver; “many
Samurai have done that, and with his knowledge of such things and his
friends to help him get them, or to buy from, he might have made a great
success.”
“But instead of that he has only sold some of his own things for a
child’s price, and grows poorer every day!” Komatsu seemed as near to
being disgusted as was possible for his good nature.
“How little you know him after all,” said one of the group who until now
had taken no part in the gossip. It was Matsumoto, a Samurai who had made
his way in the very fashion outlined by Uchida, and whose advertisement,
proclaiming his rank, is thrust into the hand of every foreigner who
steps ashore at a Japanese port. But he had the native genius for trade
as well as the insight into character which told him how utterly lacking
it was in Jukichi. “He could never be a merchant,” Matsumoto continued.
“The world is just what a man’s heart makes it. Kudo-san would find only
misery and hatred in becoming a trader, and would fail before he had
thoroughly begun.”
“Ah, that is true,” cried Chobei, “that is quite the truth. I do not know
what he could do.”
“That is plain,” replied Matsumoto. “He was a great swordsman in his day
and has a fine reputation. He could give fencing lessons. He has taught
his son, who already excels the other boys in school. Let him teach the
sons of others.”
That was a practical suggestion of which all felt the force. But the real
difficulty lay in approaching Jukichi. There was plenty of talk about
that, but the gossips went away without having reached a conclusion. A
long time after his friends had gone Chobei sat with his little pipe, in
deep consideration of the subject. In his abstraction he rapped so hard
on the _hibachi_, knocking out the ashes, that O-Koyo came into the room
to see what was the matter. There had never been many secrets between
them, and now Chobei looked up and began at once to speak of the problem
that was perplexing him.
“You know I have long been desirous of assisting Kudo-san,” he said, “but
have not understood the means to be employed. To-night Matsumoto-san has
given me an idea. It is that he can teach fencing; but how shall we get
him the pupils without his suspecting that we do it to help him?”
“We have one,” replied O-Koyo. “We could ask him as a favor to teach our
son.”
“No, no,” said Chobei, at once. “That would not do at all, for I have
told him that Soichi is not to be a soldier, and he knows our son has no
need of fencing.”
“Well, then,” said O-Koyo, “I do not know what to do. It seems to me that
he is a very foolishly proud old man.”
“Ah, yes,” replied Chobei, “but he is one of those who belong to the old
Empire and he cannot change. It is very strange and very hard.”
“Hardest for his son,” said O-Koyo. “How can that boy become an officer
of the army without education, and how can Kudo-san give it to him? There
is no school here and he cannot send the boy away.”
As he listened to his wife speaking these words a new light dawned upon
Chobei. He saw the way.
“We must make that school,” he exclaimed, and drew in his breath so hard
that it whistled through his teeth. “We will found a new one to fit boys
for the Military Preparatory Schools, and Kokan shall have his education.
Yes, yes! That is what we must do! There shall be a place for Kudo-san.
I will ask him myself. It will be a great honor to us if he will teach
the fencing and swordsmanship. Then when his son must go away he will
have something to meet the expense.”
So the idea was born. There followed much thought and talk among Chobei’s
friends, and one day the local newspapers announced that the authorities
had given permission to Mr. Kutami Chobei to establish a new school,
which the founder agreed to maintain. It would be the link between the
existing institutions of the city and those of the central Government.
The courses were to be general, but there was to be special instruction
for such boys as desired to fit themselves to enter any one of the six
Government Local Military Preparatory Schools with a view to competing
for a commission in the army.
It was the shrewd Matsumoto who had suggested this method of bringing
the new school to the notice of Jukichi, and his reading of the old
man’s character was not at fault. Not a hint of the personal opportunity
offered came to the Samurai as he read the news in his paper. To him it
was only another evidence of the patriotism of his neighbor, and he was
about to set out on a second visit of congratulation, when a messenger
brought a letter from Chobei. It was a very humble letter, as befitted
the circumstance of a promoted Eta writing to a Samurai. The Commoner
hoped that Kudo-san had heard of the projected school and that it would
meet with his approbation. There were some matters concerning its
administration and the courses of study to be provided, about which it
would be a distinguished honor to him to consult with Kudo-san, and in
view of the previous marked kindness, he dared to beg the condescension
of an appointment. The advice of Kudo-san would be a very material
assistance as well as a great honor.
Jukichi thrust the letter into the sleeve of his kimono and stalked
around the corner into Azalea Street. There was a smile on Kutami’s face
when he saw how his bait had been swallowed, and he silently blessed
Matsumoto for his inspiration.
“It is a great presumption for such as I,” he said when the tea had been
brought and Jukichi’s first congratulations were offered, “to think
of undertaking such a work. No doubt it would have been better if some
gentleman had been willing to do it. But, as it is, I am glad to have
the opportunity. I have observed for some time, and with much regret,
that many of the young men of the city have been obliged to go away to
complete their preparatory education, especially those who mean to enter
the army, and I hope this school will be able to remedy that fault.”
Jukichi bowed in his courtly fashion and paused respectfully before
replying.
“It is an honor to the city,” he said at length, “to have so
public-spirited a citizen.”
With profoundest salute Kutami acknowledged the compliment and protested
his unworthiness.
“There is very much to do,” he said slowly, “and I am poorly fitted to
make suggestions. I hope you will not believe me rude or unthinking if I
venture to tell you it has been suggested to me that perhaps you yourself
would be willing to help.”
The trial was made, and Kutami sat with narrowing eyes, watching his
visitor to note the effect. For a moment or two Jukichi sat perfectly
still, with face completely masking his feelings. Then he bowed deeply,
with strong sibilant inspiration.
“I?” he said, with show of surprise. “It is an unexpected honor. I am
quite unworthy to assist in so valuable a work. I do not know what I
could do.”
The Commoner breathed more freely. He had dreaded a fiery outburst from
the hot-tempered old man, and when it did not come he could hardly
conceal his relief. He felt that Jukichi’s coöperation was more than half
promised when it was not at once indignantly refused.
“Who in the city could do more?” he exclaimed. “Who could confer such
honor upon so humble an undertaking?”
Jukichi did not reply. Since the day when he saw the struggle for the
Restoration successful, the old man, still clinging fondly to the life
of the old régime, had been nevertheless drifting unconsciously toward
participation in the new. But he was yet far from open avowal, and the
proposition of Kutami came to him with a shock. He saw, however, that he
had opened the way for it himself, and merely asked to be excused from
giving immediate reply. Then with renewed congratulations and polite
expression of good-will, he went away, leaving the Commoner uncertain but
hopeful.
With genuine sorrow Kutami saw the Samurai pass through his gate
unpledged. But he went on with the work, and soon the new building
approached completion. Every detail was arranged but the most important
of all. For Jukichi still declined to commit himself. If he failed to
secure the Samurai, though he succeeded in all else, Kutami felt that
the whole undertaking would fail. But he exhausted his ingenuity without
success. The pride of his abolished caste still dominated the Samurai. It
was an incident beyond the knowledge of either that determined Jukichi.
Jealousy is not the curse of race or rank. It finds its lodgment in
the breasts of rich and poor alike, in Occidental and Oriental. It was
O-Koyo who found the first evidence of it in a newspaper wrapped around
a casual purchase, and with unconcealed emotion took it to her husband,
reviling herself for being the bearer of ill news. Poor Kutami! Of all
the hard thrusts and unkind blows of his none too easy life this was the
meanest and worst. It was a savage attack on his cherished scheme. The
school plan had been devised in all sincerity, with the sole purpose of
giving aid, without its being known, to the man who, he felt, had honored
him by entering his house, and whom he greatly admired. But here he saw
his honest, manly work scornfully derided, his simple purpose wantonly
distorted and himself held up to ridicule more bitter than his bitterest
outcast days had ever known. Every one could see what the real object of
the new school was, said the paper. The spawn of the frog was hoping to
be hatched out into eagles. But fine dress and large words did not hide
the outcast. The Eta, though he clothed an army and built a thousand
schools, was only an Eta. Law might call him a Commoner; it could not
make him clean. Contamination was in all that he touched. Out upon the
upstart with his vile wealth, who dared presume to offer schooling to the
sons of men of birth!
With heart too heavy for words Kutami gave back the paper to his wife.
The cruel blow seemed to have struck down at once his ambition and his
energy. He sat like one paralyzed and could neither think nor speak. And
O-Koyo, tearing up the wretched paper in a frenzy of grief, as if thus to
destroy the slander, threw herself down on the mat and sobbed aloud.
There was no fight left in Kutami. But Matsumoto, the curio dealer, with
the old Samurai courage untouched in his heart, strove to inspirit his
friend, and the building was finished. The Government officials had taken
no notice of the attack on the founder, and the newspaper discussion
provoked by it died away with no immediately discernible effect.
In the seclusion of his quiet home Jukichi had not heard the bitter
denunciation of the new school. He was absorbed in the old problem of
Kokan’s future. The money he had received from the Government was almost
at an end. His treasures were sold, his resources exhausted. Swayed to
and fro by the currents of conflicting emotion he sat, still undecided,
still reluctant to grasp the proffered relief.
From one of her old schoolmates O-Mitsu heard the story and told her
father. The old man listened with flashing eyes, and when she finished
his decision was made. For himself he would not take the step, but to
help another, even one who had been an Eta, appealed to his sympathy and
his sense of honor.
The day of the opening arrived, and then the result of the slander
appeared. No pupils came to the new school. In painful embarrassment the
governor of the Ken stood in the great, bare, main room and heard the
pitiful words of unhappy Kutami presenting his gift to the city. Vain
and empty sounded the pompous response. The teachers, gathered for their
hopeful task, found nothing to do. The ceremonies were over. The governor
and his officials turned to go away, glad the disagreeable business
was ended. In the doorway stood an old man and a boy. With grave and
dignified salute they waited while the governor passed out. Then into
the building they marched and up to the office of the head-master. Five
minutes later two students were duly registered and the new school was
opened, with Kudo Jukichi and Kudo Kokan its first pupils.
Jukichi had committed himself at last, but the scandalous assault came
very near to success. For several days not another pupil appeared. Then
the word went abroad that Kudo Jukichi, the Samurai, had registered
his son, who was in daily attendance, and that Kudo-san himself had
become instructor of swordsmanship. Men who had hoped to have their sons
profit by the new institution, but who had been held back by cowardly
apprehension, rejoiced at the relief, and some who secretly sympathized
with the attack, and hated to see this evidence of the progress of the
upstart succeed, were shamed into supporting it. The day was won for
Kutami, and it was a victory infinitely sweeter than his bitterest
calumniator could have imagined, for a reason of which scarce half a
dozen persons in all the city had any inkling.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V
More and more as he grew older, young Kudo Kokan betrayed the haughty
spirit that had characterized his ancestors. To him Kutami the Commoner
was still Chobei the Eta. With no hint of how intimately his own career
was connected with the success of the new school, he was much opposed to
having anything to do with it. But as the days passed, and others of his
inherited standing filled his classes, his active opposition relaxed into
scorn of the man and the institution from which he profited so much.
Boys are boys just as much in Japan as in any other country, and
must grow to manhood through the same struggles and with just as much
exhibition of their native barbarity. It was in the second year of
Kokan’s attendance at the new school that Kutami entered his own son,
who was preparing for a course at the university. Soichi was growing
very tall and strong, fonder of sports and games, of military drill and
marches than of books and hard study. Now for the first time he met the
young Samurai. The early friendship with O-Mitsu had run its course of
vicissitudes and pleasures, and seemed to have come to the fork in the
road. As the girl grew older and learned more of the ways of her world,
she came to understand more fully what had been intended by the little
talebearer who first informed her of Soichi’s social station. She saw
the proud attitude of her father toward the Commoner, and her friendship
with the boy was not mentioned at home. Apparently that was the only
circumstance which distinguished it from scores of other boy and girl
friendships. But the fact that it was not wise to say anything about it
gave it a fictitious importance, and perhaps made it linger in a tenderer
corner of the girl’s recollection.
The appearance of Soichi at the school offered occasion to Kokan for the
revelation of his least lovable qualities, and, boylike, he promptly
showed them. He took delight in suppressed sneers and open snubs. And
Soichi, being a boy of high spirit and no mean courage, cherished a
sturdy resentment. Savagery is indigenous with most real boys. Before
they have reached the age of reason it crops out persistently, whether
their skins are brown or white, whether their eyes tilt upward at the
corners or lie straight across the face. But it is of two kinds, merely
exuberant spirits, impersonal, horse-playful, or vicious and vindictive.
Kokan had no intention to be mean, but often pranks played just for the
fun of it are none the less cruel, and what starts in good-natured play
ends in deadly earnest. And Kokan misjudged the mettle of Soichi. He
had the easy confidence of assured superiority and could not guess that
beneath the jacket of the boy he often derided with the scornful name of
Eta there beat a heart as stout as his own.
Unconsciously, too, he had a large advantage. For Soichi knew the secret
Kokan did not, of the real reason for the founding of the school, and at
any time could have given his tormentor a thrust that would have brought
his insolent pride abjectly to the dust. Not many American or European
boys would have stood proof against such a test, for they are not trained
in the ideas of filial obedience and loyalty, that are the inheritance
of the Japanese. Soichi knew that a single word from him would end his
persecution, but at the same time it might be the ruin of all his father
had tried to do, and he held his tongue. And, because he thought he
dealt with unresisting putty, Kokan went from bad to worse. The taunt
that had been but a joke at first became a thing of venom, and his easy,
indifferent contempt began to grow into something almost hatred.
How little beyond their noses most boys can see! Kokan came to believe
there was no flint at all in Soichi, for try as he would, he could not
strike fire. Then came the thunder-bolt.
The year’s work was almost finished. A few days more and Kokan would be
graduated. It was with a sense of great relief that Soichi saw the end so
near. It had been a bitter year for him. Not only had Kokan’s taunts and
persecution strained his endurance almost to breaking; it had cost him
the sympathy and friendship of many of his fellows, who misconstrued his
silence and had come to believe with his tormentor that he was a boy of
no spirit. He thought it all over by himself and a great resolve came to
him. As he walked alone to the school one morning he planned his course.
Let the result be what it might, his mates should see that it was not
fear that had kept him from open resentment.
The bell rang and the boys came trooping in from the playground. Standing
aloof, Soichi watched until he saw Kokan. The Samurai boy walked briskly,
talking light-heartedly with two or three companions. To enter the
building he must pass close to the spot where the Commoner stood. Soichi
waited until Kokan and his friends were but a few feet away, then stepped
directly in front of them, and turning his back, walked slowly toward the
door. Instantly Kokan understood that a crisis had come. For a moment he
was too amazed to speak. Then he shouted:
“What do you mean, Eta? Get out of my way!”
Soichi made no reply, and stepped more slowly than before. Kokan was
almost on his heels.
“Jump, dog!” the young Samurai shouted in sudden anger; “jump before I
kick you!”
For answer Soichi turned and without a word slapped him smartly across
the mouth with the flat of his hand.
A moment Kokan stood like one turned to stone. It was as if the blow
had paralyzed every faculty, not by its force but by its shock. Then in
wild fury he sprang forward, his hands outstretched as if to clutch and
tear to pieces the boy who had dared to strike him. Soichi was ready. In
strength and stature he was quite a match for his frantic antagonist;
but it needed no force to meet that furious rush. Swifter than sight his
hands went forward, caught the arms reaching out to seize him, and with
a single twitch hurled the Samurai boy bodily over his head. Then like a
cat he whirled to meet a new attack. It was a trick he had often played
on the practice mats of the gymnasium, where not in vain had he worked
that year with the master of jiu-jitsu.
[Illustration: Hurled the Samurai boy bodily over his head.]
Dazed by the force of his fall Kokan struggled to his feet, mad with
rage. Fortunate then for them both that the wearing of swords was no
longer the Samurai’s privilege, else Soichi would have been killed in
his tracks. But if passion had blinded Kokan, his friends could still
see, and before another wild rush should give Soichi a second opportunity
they had seized both boys and held them apart. In another moment the
master, who from the doorway saw and heard it all, had reached them, and
discipline was beginning to work.
“He insulted the Emperor and I struck him,” said Soichi calmly, when they
examined him. “If I had had a sword I should have cut him down.”
“What?” said the master, “insulted the Emperor!”
“It is false!” cried Kokan, restored to outward calm, but with heart
burning with hatred. “I did not!”
“He called me Eta,” retorted Soichi, “and the Emperor has decreed that
there are no more Etas.”
Before that reasoning even Kokan was silent, and because he was Jukichi’s
son the master found a way to let the matter drop.
Soichi had given a proof of his spirit, which every boy in the school was
ready to accept. He had won his point, but the young Samurai went away
to his military school with a bitterness rankling in his heart it was to
take years to cure. The quarrel had its effect in the house in Timber
Street no less than in the home of Kutami. Jukichi at once left his place
as instructor and opened classes of his own. It did not matter. The
work for which the school had been founded was done, and the Commoner,
grieving that it had come to such result, nevertheless was satisfied, and
more than ever proud of the son who had shown both his courage and his
patience.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]