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BROKEN BUTTERFLIES
By Henry Walsworth Kinney
THE CODE OF THE KARSTENS
BROKEN BUTTERFLIES
BROKEN BUTTERFLIES
BY
HENRY WALSWORTH KINNEY
TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED
_Copyright, 1924_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published February, 1924
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BROKEN BUTTERFLIES
CHAPTER I
The black bow of the _Tenyo Maru_ cut 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. He would 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 the _San Francisco Herald_ to 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 with
the 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 teacher
of 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 wiedersehen_ in
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 at Washington, 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. I did 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 the others 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
is allowed 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 is trying 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 and _shoji_, 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 girls like 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 that obtains 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."