The more he thought it over, the more the new assignment appealed
to Kent. It required close thinking. He must move with the utmost
caution lest suspicion be aroused which would close up every source of
information instantly. He did not know just where to begin. He must
proceed very indirectly. The difficulty began to fascinate him.
Finally he made up his mind that he might as well begin with old
Viscount Kikuchi, the father of young Kikuchi of the Foreign Office,
member of the Privy Council, whom he had met through the son and whom
he called on occasionally. The name of the Viscount appeared only
seldom in the papers, but he was considered by those in the know to be
the most brilliant mind in the council, the best informed in respect
to international politics; some even insisted that he was the actual
director of Japan's foreign policy. Kent had a great liking for him,
a gentleman of the old school, who with his marvelously diversified
information with regard to the most intricate ramifications of politics
of Europe, America and Asia, wide reading in several languages, still
chose to preserve the manner and appearance, the admirable traditions
of vanishing Japan. His finely chiseled features and long, white beard
inspired a feeling of respect, almost reverence, lent him the aspect of
a Confucian sage of the old Chinese prints, heightened by the toga-like
simplicity of his black silk kimono, unornamented save for the _go
mon_, the family crest, a white circle with a conventional heraldic
device, white on the field of black on the back below the neck and on
the sleeves. He valued the Viscount highly as a source of information
and had often been pleasantly surprised at the frankness with which
he gave out facts which Kent had not thought it possible to gain,
disdaining the secrecy about petty matters so dear to the lesser minds
of Japanese officialdom.
Kent had not called for almost a month. It was quite natural to do
so now. The Viscount occupied a vast room on the third floor of an
office building near Hibiya, an odd rookery housing half a dozen of the
euphoniously named societies which have sprung up like mushrooms, in
Japan, and which serve no apparent purpose except that of furnishing
presidencies and vice-presidencies in legion to numerous honorable
gentlemen. As he climbed upward he passed the doors of the Society for
Inculcation of Spiritual Influences Among Workmen, the Foreign Policy
Debating Club, the Bolivian-Japanese Friendship Society, with their
drowsy office boys and idle secretaries smoking over _hibachi_,--a
queer collection of vapid purposelessness serving as a foil for the
activities of the busy brain up above.
But as Kent climbed up the stairway, he was thinking of the coming
interview, how he would lead off with the economic situation, stressing
the decline of Japan's finances and industries. Gradually he would
creep over to the taxation question, try to bring in the disappointing
lack of tax reduction in spite of the fact that armaments were being
reduced; possibly he might even venture to refer to Bywater, if it
seemed propitious and natural--it would depend on how things developed.
He would have to----
Suddenly, as if blotted out by a flash of blinding light, the whole
train of thoughts vanished, was obliterated completely. He found
himself staring at a face looking down at him from the landing
above that smote his senses, dumbfounded them with an overwhelming
realization of having been instantaneously, unexpectedly, brought face
to face with the essence of beauty, flawless, sublime, irradiating its
splendor towards him, as he advanced slowly, hesitatingly, upwards. In
the few moments which it took to mount the half dozen steps a whirl
of thoughts raced through his brain, each one clear-cut enough, like
the rapid succession of minute individual pictures of a cinema film,
yet all melting into one another, unifying into the one idea that here
was the marvel, a revelation--and yet it was not the instantaneous
flash of love, the _coup de foudre_, desire of fulfillment of desire,
possession; but rather the marvelous rapt wonder and delight at
magnificent, brilliant beauty, impersonal almost, as one may be struck
with ecstasy at the unexpected revealment of a splendid landscape
glimpsed suddenly through a rift in fog. In the half-light he was aware
mainly of the eyes, deep, dark, lustrously brilliant against her pale
face, framed by a cloud of black hair. It was as if he were advancing
into their luster, as if it suffused him.
As he stood in front of the table where she sat facing the stairs,
he felt breathless, confused at the necessity for drab, commonplace
action. He bowed ceremoniously, fished for his card case, conscious of
the wonder in her eyes, pleased at her smile, irritated with the sense
that he must be appearing like a fool, and still sensing delighted
gratification in the feeling of her presence.
Was the Viscount in? Yes. She took his card, flitted behind a screen
which separated her place from the main part of the great room. Yes,
the Viscount would see him. He noted the whiteness of her teeth as she
smiled. As he found a seat facing the Viscount, he discovered with joy
that he was able to look past the corner of the screen at the profile
of the girl as she sat at her post facing the stairway.
He tried to pull his thoughts together for the interview. Hang it,
it would be hard to think connectedly; the nicely arranged logic of
his questions had flown from him. He experienced intense relief when
he heard, as if from a distance, the words of the Viscount--he was
extremely sorry; he was glad to see him, but it happened that he had an
important engagement. He must leave in just a few minutes. Would not
Kent come again soon, at almost any time. He should be glad to give him
all the time he might wish.
What luck! Kent was glad at the heaven-sent granting of grace; he only
hated the necessity of leaving, of tearing himself away from this place
where he might sit and look at that girl, this revelation of beauty
which had come upon him by the wondrously kind offices of fate.
He shook hands with the Viscount. Safely behind the screen, as he
passed the girl, he bowed to her, with the ceremony as if she were a
great lady of the aristocracy, emphasized it, wishing to convey to
her, in some way, some indication of his desire to pay tribute to
that inexpressible perfection. As he made the turn of the stairway he
glanced back up at her. She was looking at him and smiled again. He
thought he detected a glint of something in her eyes, understanding,
gratification, something, anyway, which he might construe into the
slightest possible spark of a beginning of acquaintance.
He crossed through Hibiya Park and found a bench where he might sit
and get order into the confusion of his impressions. Love at first
sight? No, that was not it; there was no feeling of covetousness, of
passionate desire to win, conquer, possess; rather an overwhelming
longing to be in her presence, to sense that feeling of being
pleasurably suffused by the irradiation of pure, sheer beauty, as one
might bask in warm, brilliant sunshine. It was an odd, undefinable
sensation, defying logic or analysis. But why bother? He was wholly
overcome with the impression that great good fortune had come upon him.
He wanted to be near her, that was all. There was nothing to ponder
over except the means as to how he might contrive that.
Of course, he would have a chance to see her when he called on the
Viscount. He would call soon, to-morrow--no, that would be Friday, the
day for meeting of the Privy Council, and the Viscount would not be at
his office--would not be at his office---- In a flash the inspiration
came to him: why, that is just the time you must call, you fool; you'll
have a chance to see her, to talk to her alone, to gain a little
headway in acquaintance.
Through the day the thought kept recurring constantly, insistingly.
To-morrow. It interfered with other thoughts. Well, let them go. He
would think of her. But what did he want, anyway; what would it lead
to? He knew distinctly that he was not seeking a flirtation, a love
affair. She had not impressed him that way at all. Could one then not
be on terms of just friendship with a girl, enjoying her beauty as one
would that of a picture, a gorgeous temple, or a fine, rich brocade,
only that? Still, the idea kept clamoring, if they became friends,
intimate friends, would not, inevitably, time come when he would want
to hold her hand, gather her, the whole glorious sum of her beauty,
in his arms. He tried to push the thought away. That was not what he
wanted. It was the idea of the delicacy, the purity of relation which
fascinated him; to hold her tenderly, as one might a frail, fragile
flower, a dainty, vivid butterfly, untouched, untainted by touch of
physical possession. Something, cynically suggestive, insisting in
crowding up from the depth of his mind, irritated him, like a mocking
face grinning at him insinuatingly. Hang it all! He must know her, that
was all there was to it. He would see her in the morning.
The following day, as he looked forward to the time when he might go to
her, new, disturbing thoughts kept cropping up. It seemed so foolish,
this suddenly being smitten by what had seemed to him an apparition
of perfection of beauty. Such could not appear, did not appear in
the persons of typists in Tokyo office buildings. The Japanese term
"_nido-bikuri_" shot into his mind, the laconically descriptive slang
phrase, literally "twice surprised," referring to the delighted wonder
of first sight of what appears to be perfection of beauty--the first
surprise--which is dissipated by the second closer sight thereof,
shattering the illusion--the second surprise. Probably he would find
that she was, after all, but a pretty little typist, dainty, attractive
and all that, but no more; that sober reality would cause this
iridescent bubble of fancy to dissolve instantaneously into its plain
component suds on which he might but stare in foolish disillusionment.
He made up his mind to banish from his mind all idea of romance, to
look upon her critically. If he had invested this girl with a glamor
of beauty created out of his own imagination, he would know it. He
tried to prepare himself for certain disappointment; of course, he had
been an ass. Still, as he climbed the stairs, his senses were aquiver
with an irrepressible anxiety,--what if she should be real, after all?
He peered eagerly up at her. Again the sense of beauty, the radiant
magnetism of it, swept over him; but he put it off, forced himself
to note that that dim half-light, which her black hair set against
the golden background of the great gilt screen behind her on which
refractions of light from beyond made a delicate shimmer and play of
faint aureate coruscations, might be limning a nimbus which would fade
away in the cold brightness of clear, white daylight.
Of course, he knew that she would tell him that Viscount Kikuchi was
absent. He had planned for all that. Too bad! Might he not have a
place for a moment where he might write him a note? She led him to
the great desk in the big room. Now would be his chance--but before
he could obtain a satisfactory look at her, she had disappeared. Hang
it! He began to write his note. He had it all in his head, merely a
polite word of regret, an assurance that his coming again so soon did
not indicate that what he had in mind was at all important. He would
call again. But he wrote slowly, hoping that she would come. Still
he did not hear her until she was close beside him, with a tray with
cigarettes and tea. She set it before him and stood facing him, a few
feet distant, courteously at his service. All this would give time. He
sipped slowly from the tiny, bowl-like cup, of the pale green, slightly
aromatic fluid, took a cigarette, lit it. With the feeling of one who
has placed a stake against the chance of a spun coin--he leaned back
and looked at her.
Thank God, she was pretty, yes, even beautiful, with that great crown
of soft black hair framing features delicately carved, finely-drawn
crescent eyebrows; slender figure, but with the slightest suggestion
of warm, soft curves under the closely clinging texture of the kimono.
But it was the eyes which held him. He had often felt the appeal of
the eyes of Japanese girls, with their appearance of intense blackness
until very close view revealed the dark-brown shade, but in this
girl's eyes was a depth, a liquid sheen of luminous, limpid blackness
which fascinated and held.
The feeling came to him that she was smiling. The mouth, features
remained calm, unchanged, but it was as if she could convey with these
marvelously expressive eyes alone mirth, amusement, probably also
sorrow, anger, anything.
"I am sorry to have troubled you." He had to say something, even though
he should have liked just to sit there and fill his eyes with the sight
of her. "I hope I have not disturbed you--er----?"
"My name is Adachi." She had caught the question which he had meant to
imply.
"I have not seen you here before, Adachi-san."
"No, I have been here only a few weeks."
As he sipped his tea, he employed all his wit to maintain the
conversation, enjoying the clear, soft sound of her voice, its musical
contralto tone reminiscent of the subdued resonance of a great brass
temple bell from a distance. But he wanted principally to build up
ground for more intimate acquaintance, to become established as at
least some one just a little more personal than the ordinary caller.
She was smilingly responsive, gracious. He managed to remain a half
hour, with commonplaces. The weather led to talk of the countryside,
places she had seen, his own stay in Japan, and on to his impressions
of the country, to mutual tastes.
He came away with a pleasant feeling of success that he had not been
disappointed. Prosaic as their conversation had been, there had
been a subtle, warm undercurrent of understanding, mutual sympathy,
which was leading swiftly, surely, towards friendship. It was one of
Karsten's theories that the feeling of attraction between men and
women was intrinsically governed by an as yet little understood,
undefined element of something like telepathy--that such attraction
as was produced by merely physical features, such as beauty, for
instance, was, if not unessential, at least only an outward, largely
crude feature of the play of the relation between sexes. It could
be explained most closely, said Karsten, in terms of physics, the
response which is established between instruments similarly attuned,
an intangible, invisible condition, which draws humans irresistibly,
apparently irrationally, together in one case, while in another, where
outward circumstances would seem to be more conducive thereto, they
remain untouched, cold. Of course, there was something in it. Kent felt
that some sort of sympathy like that existed between this girl and
himself. Oddly, he was certain that he was not in love with her, and
yet he craved intensely for intimate companionship with her.
A few days later he called again on the Viscount. He should have liked
to have arranged it again so he would see the girl alone; still, it
was time to get to work, to try somehow to establish a beginning point
whence he might evolve his information. The beginning of the interview
moved smoothly as he had planned, almost too smoothly. They arrived
at the crucial point, the Bywater article, so easily that Kent had an
uneasy sense that this smoothness, this facility, was deceptive, that
the Viscount by some trick of intuition knew what he was after and was
leading him on. The feeling disturbed him; he had to strive to overcome
a sense of diffidence, a suspicion that he was but being played with by
this uncannily clever diplomat, the master mind of the Japanese Empire,
who had for decades gained experience at this game in bouts with the
best trained brains of Europe and America.
"To come to the point, Mr. Kent, the fact is that it is believed, or
at least suspected, that Japan, while living up to the letter of the
Washington Conference agreement, is, in fact, violating the spirit
thereof; that while she is keeping her battle fleet strictly within
the ratio of six to America's and England's ten, as she agreed to do,
she is trying to make up for the difference in ratio by building up a
great fleet of powerful submarines. I am glad that we may take up this
matter together, for it is important that this misunderstanding be set
right. The fact is, as naval statistics which have already been made
public will show you, that we are merely trying to make our auxiliary
fleet forces catch up to the proper proportion they should bear to the
battle fleet. As you know, Japan is a poor country. In the past the
naval authorities decided to build a great fleet of vessels of the
first class, but to do so they had to give up building the number of
auxiliary craft which is generally considered by the naval experts of
all countries to be the minimum necessary to keep up the proportion
between battleships and auxiliaries. In other words, as we did not have
enough money to have both first-class ships and auxiliaries, we decided
to build the big ships, even though we knew that we should be short
of the smaller ones. Now that the Conference has made it unnecessary
to spend the great sums set aside for battleship construction, we are
using the chance to build smaller craft to the number necessary to make
proper proportion. That's the reason you hear that we are building some
submarines; but remember there's nothing sinister about that. We are
merely rounding out our construction program along the lines recognized
as being proper by all naval authorities. Of course, the mere fact
that we are building is being made use of by the anti-Japanese
propagandists, who seize anything whatever to make out a case against
Japan. It's partly because Japan's liberal diplomacy of recent years
had cut very short the crop of material that may be used as propaganda
against us. We have always kept our word in both letter and spirit.
We gave the Chinese liberal terms in the Shantung settlement, and we
have withdrawn our troops from Shantung. We were liberal in respect to
Yap. We have withdrawn our troops from Siberia. We showed the world at
the Washington Conference that we have no militaristic ambitions. Our
action in all these cases has deprived the anti-Japanese propagandists
of their old weapons, so now they must invent stuff for calumny. All we
want is fair play. I know that you, Mr. Kent, are as interested as I
am in maintaining the friendly spirit now existing between America and
Japan; that you are glad to help combat the mischief-makers. Of course,
you know that I must never be quoted--but I give you my word that
there is not the slightest basis in fact for the belief that Japan is
violating either the letter or the spirit of the Washington agreement,
and the talk about her building an unduly large submarine fleet is pure
buncombe."
The Viscount spoke earnestly, with a tone which made for conviction
even though Kent had believed that he would talk on just about these
lines. He had been impressed, had leaned forward intent to follow
every word of the old statesman. Now he relaxed a little, leaned back
in his chair, let his eye wander. Suddenly he felt as if some one had
called sharply for his attention; involuntarily, mechanically, he
looked past the screen. She was peering intently into the room, frankly
eavesdropping, and her eyes were fixed on his as if she wished by mere
force of will to compel him to look at her. Apparently that was it,
for immediately the appearance of concentration vanished. She rose,
gathered some envelopes and descended the stairs noiselessly in her
soft _zori_.
There had been something indefinably impressive about these quite
ordinary actions. Of course, she would probably ordinarily have
called from the hall below one of the innumerable office boys to mail
her letters. That she had chosen to go herself might have some slight
significance; but, even beyond that, the conviction came upon him as
clearly as if she had shouted it to him that she wished to speak to
him. Could it be that she really wanted to see him? The interview was
over. He must go, anyway. He would soon know.
He thanked the Viscount, feeling the while that, impressed as he had
been while under the direct sway of the old man's magnetism, the
interview would become cold, worth little, when examined in the somber
light of appraisement of its worth as copy. Had he been able to quote
Viscount Kikuchi, it might have had some value. But as it was, he had
gained nothing, not even the slightest clew. They shook hands and he
left.
Once on the street, he glanced eagerly up and down for the nearest
post-box. Yes, there she was, half hidden by the red, stunted column.
He went up to her eagerly. She made no pretense that she was not
waiting for him. As he came close, he could see that she was excited,
almost breathless.
He lifted his hat. "Adachi-san." But she was too eager to pay heed to
mere matters of courtesy. "Mr. Kent," for a moment he felt the pressure
of a small hand on his sleeve, "he lied to you."
He was struck utterly dumb, could but stare at her amazed. His first
reaction was one of disappointment. As he had hastened down to see her,
he had had no conscious thought of what he might expect. His whole mind
had been concentrated on the question as to whether he had really been
right in thinking that she wished to see him clandestinely, out of the
hearing of the Viscount. Now he realized that he must, subconsciously,
have expected something quite different, something in the lines of
furtherance of purely personal intimacy. And here she was evidently not
interested in him at all as an individual, but had some obscure purpose
connected with the political issue. He had to wrench his mind into
adjustment to this entirely new aspect of the matter, as he stood, hat
still in his hand, gaping at her.
"What? Lied about what? Do tell me----"
But her eagerness had disappeared, though the excitement remained as
her eyes flickered up and down the street. "No. I can't tell you,
not now. I must hurry back to the office. The Viscount will miss me.
Good-by."
She ran swiftly from him before he could even try to retain her.
"Well, I'll be hanged!"
Again he found the park a handy retreat where he might enter and
ruminate undisturbed over the tangle of events of the last half-hour,
the statement of the Viscount, the inexplicable mystery of this girl's
sudden injection of herself into the game as one of the players where
she should ordinarily have remained even less than a mere pawn; the
bearing that her taking a hand therein might have on the solution of
his problem.
As he reasoned it out, he decided that, as he had gained nothing from
the interview, he might, by some chance whim of fortune, have made a
still greater gain by the new element added by the girl's appearance
in the play. Apparently she knew something. She might know a great
deal. And evidently she wished to give him information, to put him
straight. Why? It was not because she took any great personal interest
in him; he was sure of that; her manner had shown no trace whatever of
the element of individual attraction. Still, what her reason might be
was, after all, a secondary consideration; it was what she knew, what
she could tell him, evidently wished to tell him, that mattered. He
must follow up this chance-sent opportunity. Of course, he must see
her again. She must expect it. It might be worse. Here he had wished
to enter into some closer relation with her, friendship, intimate
association, and now the chance had come; although from an amazingly
unexpected angle. It even fitted right in with his work--but--as he
thought it over, the keenness of the feeling of good luck faded. It was
too romantic, melodramatic. He looked upon his work in the cold, keen
light of the professional, as a gatherer of facts, of news, prosaic,
practical, disdaining the blatant injection therein of the personal
element of the "trained seals." He might enjoy betimes coloring the
drabness of everyday existence by trying to apply tints of romance--he
had been rather inclined to do so lately; possibly it was the glamor
of newness of a strange land, or a reflection from his association
with Karsten,--but work and romance were inconsistent, conflicting. He
did not want to mix personal relation with this girl with business,
make use of her as a tool for prying into the secrets of Japanese
officialdom. Such use of women might be practical, it had undoubtedly
served in many cases, but it was distasteful to him, repellent. But,
on the other hand, what could he do? The girl herself wished it. He
was not stalking her, treacherously, with cold calculation, trying to
inveigle her into an affair of affections with the intention of making
her serve his purposes. It seemed rather as if she thought that, in
some undiscernible way, he might serve hers. He did not know what to
make of it. At one moment he would be pleased, exultant even, at this
element of intense interest injected into his existence, and the next
he would be mystified, perplexed, impatient at his inability to see
the road before him.
Women! It seemed as if one must ever become entangled, somehow, in the
insinuating meshes of their ubiquitous activities.