They arrived too late in the morning to see Fuji-san. Clouds lay over
the mountain ranges and smoky haze obscured the land, only the nearest
foreshore appearing, gray, formless, without detail. It might have been
the California coast, any coast line, in fact. Only the sampans which
passed them, standing out to sea, with their characteristic square
sails, high galleon-like poops, indicated the Orient. They passed
quarantine. A launch came up smartly to the ship's ladder. A tall man
in pongee waved his big white sun-helmet up to Kent.
It was Erik Karsten. Kent had expected to see him. They had been
friends, when Karsten was dramatic and art critic on the _Herald_,
before he had gone to Japan some years ago. They had corresponded and
Kent had looked after his son, young Mortimer Karsten, until the boy
had graduated from the university and had gone to Europe for further
study. Karsten had written him, when he had heard that he was coming to
Japan, that he must make his home with him, at least until he decided
to make other arrangements. It made it particularly pleasant. They were
warm friends.
They climbed up the ladder, police officials, steamship agents, Karsten
and the rest. The friends shook hands.
"By Cæsar, but it is good to see you," said Karsten. "I have been
feeling a bit lonesome these last few years. I am glad you will stay
with me, at least for a while. Here, give your trunk keys to Martin.
He will see your stuff through the customs. It will be too late to get
to Tokyo for tiffin, so we will eat at the Grand. Then you can take a
turn about Yokohama, and we'll be in Tokyo in time for dinner."
He went through the usual form of police examination. The steamer
crept up to the wharf. Yokohama was as he had expected, the foreign
settlement drab and tedious as of old; the typically Japanese section
had receded a bit farther into the background; there were a few more
red-brick official buildings. The return brought no thrill. Even the
rickshaw seemed commonplace after he had ridden in it a few minutes.
He felt as if he had been away from Japan only a score of weeks rather
than a score of years.
Though he had halfway expected this, he was disappointed. Karsten read
his thought.
"Yokohama always disappoints, doesn't it? I shall never forget my shock
when I first came to the Fabled Orient and found this nondescript
changeling of a city. Tokyo is becoming spoiled, too. They are covering
it with electric poles, tangles of wires, atrocious buildings, all
the dreariness of civilization, which they have a positive genius for
making as obtrusive as possible. It seems almost that when they copy
our civilization they make a point of making the worst parts thereof
the most conspicuous. They can endow them with a hideousness which you
don't find in any other place in the world. Still, Tokyo is not as bad
as Yokohama. You may still find large quarters which are Japan. I have
found such a place. I hope you will like it."
They arrived at Karsten's house late in the afternoon. Hugh felt
his hopes rise as they left the prosy, noisy main streets and their
rickshaws began a tortuous journey through narrow alleys, through a
typically Japanese quarter, with clean wooden houses, latticed paper
windows, grilled entrances, bamboo fences, and daintily contrived
roofed gates through which might be glimpsed miniature gardens, with
dwarfed pines, stone lanterns, curved paths of broad gray stones.
A steep stone stairway, winding erratically up the hillside against
which nestled the quarter below, brought them to Karsten's house. Thank
God, here was a place such as he would wish to live in, which was in
harmony with his dreams of the spirit of Japan. Japanese in every
detail, set in a cool garden overlooking the cluster of houses through
which they had passed. In the rear lay a great temple, set in extensive
grounds, a cool, calm space shadowed by old trees conveying a feeling
of vast, eternal peace.
"You see, I am almost literally between the devil and the deep sea."
Karsten swept his hand before him. "These houses below are a geisha
quarter, as you might know by the immaculate trimness and careful
detail. It is more characteristic at night, when the lights are
lit. You'll see. There, behind us, in the temple grounds, you may
always find peace, rest. Can it be a sort of telepathic influence? I
don't know; but it seems almost as if centuries of calm meditation,
projection of their minds into the infinite by generations of priests,
the devout prayers of hundreds of thousands of worshipers, from cradle
to grave, have permeated the whole space with an atmosphere, an aura
of infinite peace. I am absolutely pagan. I have no creed or religious
philosophy whatever. Still, sitting alone in this place, letting my
thoughts go, I come nearer the idea that there is something, some one,
some force, above, beyond, eternal, dominant, controlling the universe.
Buddha, God, call it by whatever name you like, but some vast, hidden,
mysterious force. Anyway, if I am troubled, agitated, here I may always
find peace."
They entered the house. A tall, handsome Japanese woman met them,
bowed deeply, gracefully. "_O hairi nasai._ Please enter."
The soft, deep ring of her voice, its musical modulation; the richness
of her silks in spite of their somber shades; the every evidence that
here was a woman of refinement, a gentlewoman, startled Kent. Plainly
this was no servant. Could it be that Karsten had contracted one of
these indefinite Loti'esque temporary arrangements which are fairly
common in Japan? Still, then he would have said something about it. He
wondered.
But Karsten gave no explanation.
"Jun-san, this is Kent-san. Kent, Jun-san has been looking forward to
your coming. She is pleased that you speak Japanese. She speaks no
English."
She clapped her hands. A servant came, took their hats. They entered a
large, cool room, upstairs, whence they had a full view of the clusters
of geisha houses below. Jun-san followed, brought tea. He noticed that
she drank also. Evidently not a servant; probably an "_oku-san_," after
all? Still, in such case it was odd that Karsten had not mentioned
it. Well, time would tell soon enough. He liked her presence there,
sitting gracefully, Japanese-fashion, on a silk cushion, ever watchful,
attentive to anticipate their wants. Her mere being there lent an air
of rich, but delicate, exotic Oriental beauty to the room, as though
she were some infinitely wonderful, gorgeous ornament, contrived to
harmonize with, to add grace to the surroundings. He liked the soft,
slow smile when she answered him in her grave contralto voice; but
he noticed that when she was not speaking, when he and Karsten were
conversing in English, when she took no part, she was ever watching
Karsten, with an expression of sadness, it seemed to him, a hint of
wistfulness. It oppressed him a little with its indefinite mystery. He
tried to put the thought away, as he went on talking with Karsten, but
he could not free himself from the sense of an oppression of sadness,
vaguely permeating the house as might a breath of heavy incense. He
felt himself seized, unaccountably, knowing no definite reason, with a
feeling of compassion, of sympathy, for Jun-san.