Kent drifted into his daily routine quickly and easily. His Japanese
clerk watched the papers for him, read over the headlines, and
translated into queer, but fairly understandable English the articles
which Kent called for. He had made friends with several Japanese
newspapermen, keen, elderly men, always pleasantly ready to comment
on and to amplify the news of the day, popular tendencies and drift
of thought, and who often took pains to keep him informed of the spot
news. Then he visited the departments, Foreign Office, Home Office,
War and Navy departments, a rather tedious and not very remunerative
procedure, interviewing second-rank officials, laboriously extracting
formal information, always meeting the unfailing courtesy and polite
blankness which makes the Japanese the hardest men to interview in the
world. The highest officials, Ministers, for instance, might as a rule
be interviewed only by submission of written questions. It seemed as if
the human element, the touch of man to man, was constantly deliberately
shrouded in an impenetrable veil of bureaucratic formalism. Was it
instinctive passion for secrecy, suspicion of the foreigner in general,
or merely the deadening influence of worship of official form? He could
not make up his mind, but he wished it were possible to talk frankly
and openly, with return in openness and frankness, and not always under
the peculiar feeling of restraint, of necessity of being constantly _en
guard_, as if one were fencing with an adversary in the dark. They were
always talking about frankness, about their desire for it, and yet he
felt that it was always one-sided, that all the frankness came from
the foreigner, but that for him there could be no penetrating through
an impalpable wall of instinctive reserve, into the real, innermost
thought of the Japanese.
Still, it was after all a pleasant life and, generally, an easy one. He
concluded that Japanese reserve was racial, rather than consciously,
deliberatively individual. And still there were times when they would
be surprisingly frank, almost incredibly outspoken. Even about such a
subject as the Imperial House they would sometimes, even officials,
like young Kikuchi, speak in terms entirely democratic, as would an
American, expressing carelessly ideas which he knew were well within
the "dangerous thought" category of the police. It amazed Kent, left
him a little at a loss as to how to reply, careful as he felt that
he must be in such matters. At first he thought that the opinions
were merely thrown out as bait, to draw him out, sound his views,
but he soon concluded that this was not the case, that the spread of
liberalism had extended far beyond the masses and was finding converts
among the young aristocracy, even among some of its older men. Some of
it was pose, he felt, the constant desire to show the foreigner that
Japanese were as advanced in modern thought as was he, but at the same
time he became convinced that substantially, generally, these men spoke
truthfully, just what they thought.
He was speaking about it one morning at his office, to Kittrick,
when the door opened noiselessly, and Terada appeared, drifted in,
floated in rather, as if without movement. He had introduced himself
a few weeks after Kent's arrival as an official of the police
department, whose business it was to keep a watchful eye on foreigners,
particularly correspondents. Since then he had come at intervals of
a few weeks. The door would open, and he would enter, soundlessly,
almost apologetically. In his gray kimono, gray felt hat, he seemed
like a sort of genii out of Arabian Nights; it was almost as if
he materialized, a smoky, indefinite figure, mysteriously growing
out of the empty space of the room. It was his habit to make some
commonplace observation and then sit smoking, for ten minutes often,
before he would make his next remark, also quite commonplace, about
the weather, the cherry blossoms, anything. Thus he would sit for an
hour at a time, a courteous, self-effacing gentleman, saying something
entirely inconsequential; then smoking silently, thinking up his next
triviality. But out of the dozen or score of remarks would always be
one which Kent felt was the one that counted, the question which he
evidently hoped would pass unnoticed among all the others. Who was
going to be the new correspondent for the _Post_, what did he think of
the action of the Cabinet on such and such a matter? There would come
some more camouflage remarks, polite leave-taking, and he would vanish,
dissolve, fade away, leaving Kent to wonder whether he had really
managed to get any information that he had come for.
He made his usual remarks. Everything seemed to stop, while they waited
for him to frame the next one. It became a bore. Kittrick's patience
gave out.
"Do you really know so much about us foreigners, Terada-san?" he asked
banteringly. "What do you really find out about us?"
"Oh, we know. You were at Ringo-san's tea house last Monday night, with
Sato-san, but you only stayed till ten," he smiled sourly. "You got
a new cook yesterday. Mr. Kent is to dine at Baron Saiki's to-morrow
night."
He smoked for a while silently. Then he faded away.
"He's a queer bird," said Kent, as Terada disappeared. "I'm sure I
don't see what he gets out of coming to me? His questions are too
transparent, with the main one so carefully sandwiched in among all the
rot that he so laboriously contrives. What does he do with it all, the
back-door gossip that he gathers so painstakingly?"
"Oh, it all goes down in reports, I daresay, good, bad and
indifferent," said Kittrick. "It is all stored away somewhere. It is
all a part of their marvelously ramified secret service system, which
they copied from Germany. It is a good system. On the whole, it is
a good idea for the authorities to keep track of every one, foreign
and Japanese, and I don't see why any one should object. The bad ones
should be watched. The innocent ones shouldn't mind; in fact, they get
protection from the others in that way. I know that some foreigners
object to the detectives, but the police are usually polite. Old-timers
who have detectives following them often make friends with them--you
know they don't hide the fact that they are trailing you--and use them
to buy railroad tickets, to help with the luggage; they are willing
enough to act as kind of free couriers. Of course, there are some
damned stupid officials who look on every foreigner as a potential
spy, but much of the talk of newcomers about their being followed by
detectives is buncombe. They like to think they are being shadowed. It
gives them a sense of importance."
"Ishii-san, run out and get me a package of Golden Bats, please." Kent
waited until the clerk had left the room. "I wanted to get him out of
the way," he explained to Kittrick. "The fact is that I know positively
that my desk is being systematically examined. I lock it; still I find
things disarranged. I keep nothing of consequence in it, but it annoys
me to have some one constantly going through my private letters, and I
don't know who it can be."
"I don't think it is Ishii," said Kittrick. "I have reason to believe
that he is a young man inclined to have 'dangerous thoughts.' That is
one reason why I picked him out for you; so he wouldn't be a spy. It
is far more likely to be your good landlord. I'm pretty certain that
he is in Foreign Office pay. I have had several indications. Tokyo is
full of them, people who get information for the Foreign Office, the
Home Office, the police, the militarists. They are clerks, rickshaw
men, business men, high and low, all kinds. You see, they not only
copied the system, but they tried to elaborate on it. But all they
got, as usual, was the form, but not the intelligence. They go through
the motions of a secret service, but the whole thing is ramified in
numberless useless ways. They dovetail and overlap and get all kinds of
stupid information. I often wonder at what they do with all they get,
all the stuff about my being at a tea house and getting a new cook and
the like; but I think that it all goes down in reports, that many of
them don't care much what they get, as long as they get something they
can put in their reports, any old thing to fill the pages. And still,
you know, from all the trash they must undoubtedly get something worth
their while every now and then. At times you find evidences of really
skillful and clever work. And after all, why should you or I care?
They are discreet enough. Nothing comes out of what little foibles
they may learn about. Probably they don't care. Remember that, as far
as personal freedom is concerned, this is truly The Land of the Free,
where no one gives a hang if you have a drink or kiss a pretty geisha
behind the _shoji_."
"But how are they in business?" asked Kent. "Do they watch the stuff we
send out?"
"I wish I knew. I think every correspondent wishes he knew," said
Kittrick. "Sometimes I think a copy of every cable we send goes to the
Foreign Office. There is no reason why it shouldn't; in fact, I can
see no great objection. Still, I never knew them to interfere with our
cables. I have sent stuff that I thought would be stopped; but it went
through. At the time of the so-called 'serious affair,' when old Prince
Yamagata tried to interfere with the engagement of the Crown Prince,
and the whole nation was whispering about it, and the censors were
working overtime to keep the thing quiet, I cabled the whole thing.
Now, if they ever interfere, they would have done it then; but the
cable went. I know most of us feel a bit suspicious, and once or twice
old Kubota has quoted almost word by word cables which I had sent the
day before. It may have been coincidence, but it is funny. It makes you
wonder. In fact, you will find that most of the fellows send mail stuff
that they want to be sure of, through friends who are going across to
the States, but, frankly, I don't actually know how far we are being
watched."
"By the way, I heard that you were going to dinner at the Saiki's," he
added. "If he is a friend of yours, you will find him a good one."
Kent had hoped that the dinner at the Saiki's would be given in
Japanese style, that he might thus have an opportunity to get a glimpse
of the more intimate life in an aristocratic Japanese household, but
the moment he and Karsten drove into the grounds, it was plain that he
would be disappointed in this. The house was a large hybrid affair,
with a foreign style section and another part purely native, weird
and ungainly combinations which are becoming common in Tokyo and
which do their share in degrading the architecture of the city. The
Japanese part lay in semi-darkness, but the other wing was brilliantly
lighted. Servants in foreign livery took their things, and they were
ushered into a large drawing-room, furnished punctiliously in French
fashion, almost too correct. One suspected immediately the hand of the
professional decorator behind it all. There was even less to indicate
Japan than is usual in foreign homes in Tokyo. The pictures, the
bric-a-brac, all was European. A splendid cloisonné vase in a corner
was the only bit characteristic of Japan; but then such a thing might
be found in any drawing-room in Paris or London. At table it was the
same,--a cocktail, then French courses, wines, decorations, served by
servants in black and gold livery. The kimonos of some of the women,
the high helmet-like coiffures of a few, served only to accentuate
the European atmosphere: and then some of the younger women, even
though they wore kimonos, dressed their hair in the foreign mode which
was becoming fashionable in Tokyo, the hair arranged, in its natural
softness, without the usual oily dressing, in soft rolls hiding the
ears.
Kent found himself seated between Baroness Saiki and Miss Suzuki.
Farther on sat young Kikuchi, then another Miss Suzuki, then Karsten,
with Kikuchi's sister at his right. Among the others were Templeton
of the _Express_ and Butterfield of the _Times_. The rest were all
Japanese officials and their wives.
Conversation was carried on in English and Japanese. The men were
all fluent in English. The women, even when they spoke it, smiled
much, charmingly, but said little, seemed to be a peculiarly happily
contrived background rather than a material element of the affair.
Kent found himself absurdly ill at ease when Baroness Saiki insisted
on speaking Japanese. He knew that only few foreigners attain the
perfection where they may venture with safety to attempt the language
of the aristocracy, with its honorifics and a vocabulary containing
many words and idioms entirely different from those of the common
tongue. He felt as might a Frenchman who had learned his English on the
Bowery and who suddenly finds himself under necessity to speak with
a _grande dame_ of ancient Boston lineage. He tried it, hesitantly,
fearing momentarily that he would make a _faux pas_; then he made a
clean breast of his trouble to her. She was amused, encouraged him to
go on; but even then it was irritatingly difficult to devise subjects
which might interest her. Books, the opera, mutual friends, all the
usual topics were useless. It was almost like trying to interest a
woman who had come forth, suddenly, from the seclusion of a seraglio.
Fortunately she had been abroad. He grasped at the usual banalities:
how did she find Japan after Washington and Paris. She answered
quietly, always smiling, charming, gracious; but she would reply in
only a sentence or two. Then he must find something new. She had
always, when he knew her on the steamer, been very quiet, discreetly
non-assertive, but even with that it seemed as if she had changed,
become even more retiring, self-effacing since she had come to Japan.
He had to think hard to devise pabulum for conversation and began to
get a little desperate. It was a relief when Kubota addressed her and
she turned to him.
It gave Kent an opportunity to speak to Miss Suzuki. He had been
relieved to see that she still wore foreign dress. Evidently her
family had not Japanized her to the extent of insisting on her wearing
kimono, as did her sister, an extremely pretty girl, in gorgeous silks,
with, however, her hair dressed in the modern mode. Kent was extremely
pleased to meet Miss Suzuki again; he had thought of her often and
had wondered how he might manage to see her, but it had seemed oddly
impossible; there had seemed to be no way of contriving to meet her.
But she did not seem as spontaneously gay as she had been on the
_Tenyo_. Momentarily a hint of her American animation would appear
like a glint of heat lightning, a vivacious bit of high spirits, but
it flashed out, subdued into a vague, intangible quietness, smiling
gentleness, suggesting a sense of restraint, an almost imperceptibly
subtle change in manner and mind.
Baron Saiki addressed him from across the table, a matter of current
politics. Templeton and Kubota came into the discussion. Gradually
the conversation became general among the men, the presence of the
women being sensed, rather than forming an equal part, as a lovely and
delicately enchanting obligato beside the dominating pervasion of the
men.
Later, in the drawing-room, he found chance to meet the Suzuki
girls again. They formed a striking contrast, Kimiko, the younger,
resplendent in brilliant silks, gracefully drooping, wide kimono
sleeves, stiff brocade obi, recalling a picture of imagination, a
fanciful Oriental fairyland vision, picturesque, fantastic almost,
against the modestly cut pink evening gown of the sister. Here, removed
from the immediate presence of the others, she proved a lively,
capricious little damsel. She extended her hand frankly when the elder
girl introduced her to Kent.
"Don't you think that I am not modern, just because I speak no
English and have always lived in Japan," she flashed at him. "_Nous
sommes moderne, nous autres Japonnaises, n'est-ce-pas_, Kikuchi-san?"
It suited her. French harmonized better with her air of being a
resplendent illusion of whimsical imagination.
Kikuchi came over. "Of course, we are modern, _le dernier cri_. We
must show Kent. Now, how would it be if we all went to Tsurumi, to
Kagetsuen. We will show him how Japan and jazz mix. I am sure my sister
can fix it so you girls can go. Would you like it, Kent? I'm sure you
would. All right, I'll let you know the day later."
The girls were radiant. "You must not think, Mr. Kent, that because
we wear the kimono, we can't dance," bubbled Kimiko, protestingly. "I
have been dancing for two years now, even at some of the public places,
like Kagetsuen. But they are beginning to make a fuss about it, the
newspapers and the old fogeys. I hope they don't stop it. My sister has
never even been to Tsurumi. We'll have--what is it you say in English,
Tsuyuko, oh, yes, a hellu off a time."
"Oh, be careful," the sister glanced about hastily. "Kimiko is so crazy
to be modern that she wants to learn English phrases, and she likes the
swear words best, I'm sorry I taught her. She won't be careful. She is
irresponsible. Please pardon her. I wonder what Baroness Saiki would
say."
Karsten came over, but even his rather grave manner could not daunt
Kimiko-san. It seemed as if she wished to startle the sister, to
impress her with the fact that she, at least, was not old-fashioned.
"You look so grave, Mr. Karsten, so dignified, just like our
old-fashioned Japanese men. You should be a Japanese, and have a
Japanese wife, old-fashioned, of course. Would you like to have one?"
She was laughing up at him, like a pretty, mischievous child enjoying
its naughtiness.
Karsten laughed. "But I am so stupid about women. Now, if I do, will
you find me one, a pretty one? Will you be my _nakodo_, my go-between?"
"Certainly. Of course, an old-fashioned man like you must have a
marriage by arrangement, through a _nakodo_; but Tsuyuko and I,
when we marry, we are modern, we shall marry for love, _l'amour,
n'est-ce-pas?_ We shall----"
"Ssst." Kikuchi made a quick warning gesture. Baroness Saiki came over
to them. There was no perceptible hush, but the bright sparkle of the
manner of the girls changed. They were still smiling, conversing, but
it was the gentle, quaint loveliness of the Orient. The moment of
glitter had gone. It was nothing as definite as palpable restraint
which had come over them; still there seemed to be an indefinite
barrier.
The groups broke up, changed, reformed. Every one left early. Kent
saw the girls again only when they took leave. He thought he sensed a
barely perceptible, still almost definite pressure of Kimiko's hand, as
she said good-by, the slightest hint of a glint in the dark brilliancy
of her eyes. But he could not be sure; he wondered.
The Saiki mansion was close to the Karsten house, and they walked home
in the moonlight, through the streets of the geisha quarter with the
opaquely lighted _shoji_ contrasting, brilliantly white, against the
dark walls, tinkle of samisen and ripples of women's laughter coming
out to them in the night.
"Well, back in Japan again," said Kent. "For what we saw to-night
wasn't really Japan, was it? Still, it wasn't America or Europe either.
What do you think?"
"It is hard to say," said Karsten. "Even if what we saw to-night is not
Japan now, it is certain to become more and more so, while this----" he
pointed to a _machiai_ just ahead. The _shoji_ had been drawn aside,
and they could see a geisha, resplendent in gold and crimson, languidly
posturing, fan slowly sweeping before her in obedience to the rhythm
of an unseen samisen in the background. "This is not the real Japan,
either. The other was Japan to-morrow. This is Japan yesterday. It is
difficult to say what is Japan to-day."