LIFE would be delightful were it made up entirely of flower picnics. But
even in the land of sunrise storms must come.
The little family of Kurukawa, idling and playing in the small inland
town, for the nonce seemed to put behind them all thought of care. Even
the father, in the first few weeks of his return, refused utterly to do
otherwise than enjoy what he termed his “honeymoon” with his wife and
children. But the honeymoon season began to wane. It was not possible
for any Japanese, however optimistic and cheerful in temperament, at
such a crisis in his nation’s history to be free from care. Then, was
not Gozo at the front? Mr. Kurukawa might laugh and play all day with
the children, but at night, when, worn out, they slept soundly and well,
he would lie awake thinking and worrying. At first it was his boy Gozo
who occupied his night thoughts to the exclusion of all else. After all,
he was a true Japanese at heart, for, although father-like, he scarcely
dared to think of the possible death of his son, yet he was glad that
Gozo was serving the Mikado. All the papers, local and foreign, he could
get he read with avidity. Because he knew it would give his wife pain,
he read them at night when she was asleep. After a time the father-love
was slowly pushed aside for a greater, deeper emotion, the longing to
help his country. He was of samurai ancestry, and patriotism was as
natural and deep-rooted in him as life itself. Yet he had married a
woman belonging to a country that believed that the men of his age did
their duty best by remaining at home, the protectors of the weak. So she
had told him many times. Often he had believed himself convinced of its
truth.
But reading and hearing of his countrymen’s sacrifices, struggles,
splendid heroism and victories, a wavering, an aching grew within him to
emulate their example and give himself to the glorious service of his
nation.
A Japanese wife would have shared in his confidence at this time, would
have understood his feelings and suffered with him. More, she would have
been the first to urge him, command him to leave her.
Mr. Kurukawa thought he understood completely the character of the
American woman who was his wife. Hence he hid from her his feelings.
But his wife was more sensitive than he knew. Her husband’s evident
depression began to be noticed by her. She sought the cause, and
attributed it to the absence of Gozo. She, too, suffered because she was
the innocent cause of his exile. One night there was a moon festival in
the little town. The people gathered in the river booths and drank their
_sake_ and tea in the moonlight. She remarked to her husband that more
than three-quarters of the festival-makers were women. He had turned
about with a sudden movement; then answered in an almost hoarse voice:
“That is as it should be.”
So silent and taciturn was he during the rest of the evening that for
her the festival was spoiled; but even the moon gave not enough light to
show her tears. Restless that night, she could not sleep, or slept so
lightly that she waked at intervals. It must have been almost morning,
when, waking from a restless sleep, she saw the dim light of an andon
shining through the paper shoji that divided their chamber from an
adjoining room; clearly outlined by the light on the shoji was the
silhouette of her husband. His bed was empty. She went to him quickly
and pushed the shoji apart. Then she saw the papers about him on all
sides. He had not time to hide them. His startled face betrayed him.
She sank down on the floor beside him, terror in her eyes.
“Kiyo!” she cried. “Oh, Kiyo! I understand—everything. Why did you not
tell me before?”
He spoke with difficulty. His hands trembled as he folded up the papers.
“It is all right. I read the news—of the victories. What Japanese could
help himself?”
“Oh, but you read it in secret; you hide your feelings from me. Why do
you not confide in me?”
He took her hands and stroked them very gently.
“If you were a Japanese woman—” he began, when she interrupted:
“It ought to make no difference what I am. I am your wife. Do not treat
me as an alien—a stranger.”
He drew her warmly to him at that.
“No, I will not,” he said. “I will tell you everything—all my thoughts.
You know, Ellen, I am of samurai ancestry, and as a young man I was
brought up in that school. When I became old enough I served for a time
in the army. I hold a commission. Later, my father, who was one of the
most enlightened of the men of old Japan, was imbued with the new
thought. He put aside old traditions and pride. I was forced, so to
speak, into a commercial life. Conditions changed for the samurai then.
We were desperately poor for a time. They looked to me to redeem the
family fortunes. And to do it I had to be taken from one school of
thought and put into another—from samurai to tradesman. It was a strange
transformation for a Japanese of such ancestry as mine. But I learned to
like the work. I succeeded. You know of my long sojourn in America, till
I could almost believe that I thought as your people think, and saw
things as you in America see them. I seemed to be a living example of
the evolution of an Oriental mind long swayed by Occidental environment.
I called myself American many times, as you know. We came back here. The
war, with all it meant to Japan, and the old patriotic feeling aroused,
began a struggle with my acquired Occidental sense. Now I know that I
never can be other than what I am by every inherent instinct—a true
Japanese! I loved you, so I feared to tell you. You married me thinking
possibly I was other than I am, Japanese only by birth, but of thought
the same as you. That is why I have not confided in you.”
“But I knew it all the time,” she said. “_I_ never thought you other
than you were. Because you wore our dress, it did not make you of our
country, nor did I love you for that, Kiyo. I did not require that _you_
should become like my people. _I_, as your wife, was willing to become
one of you, if you would let me.”
For a long time he was silent. Then with a sudden impulse he held the
light before her face.
“Let me see your face then,” he said, “when I tell you of my resolve.”
“Tell me,” she whispered; “I am not afraid.”
“I must give you up for one who has a larger claim upon me—for beloved
Ten-shi-sama!”
He saw her face whitening in the dim light. She tried to part her lips
to speak, but no words came. Then she smiled, a smile so full of bravery
and love that he almost dropped the light.
“Now I know,” he said, “that you are my own true wife—not foreign to me,
but as my wife should be.”
Then she spoke: “Yes, as a Japanese wife would be. Oh, Kiyo, _I_ have
understood them. It is not because they do not love their husbands that
they do not weep and protest when they must lose them for a glorious
cause. It _is_ brave to give up the loved ones freely, willingly.”
He began rapidly to discuss plans for his going, watching her face
closely. She bore it all with that brave cheerfulness peculiar to the
Japanese woman. Only when he planned the disposition of his fortune in
case of his death, did she protest.
“We will not anticipate the worst, Kiyo.”
“Is it not best to do so?” he gently interposed.
“I know it is Japanese,” she said, wistfully, “but I will always look
for you to return. In that you can’t make me Japanese.”
“A Japanese soldier never expects to return. His wife gives him up
forever. But I, like you, will have the better hope, my wife. _I_ will
come back to you.”
“It is a promise,” she said, and for the first time her eyes were full
of tears. He took her in his arms and held her closely.
“It is a promise,” he said, solemnly. He wiped the tears away from her
eyes.
“There must be no more of these,” he said, “else how can I have the
strength to go?”
“I have shed my last tear, Kiyo,” was her answer. “You have promised
me!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------