For days he went about in a state of irritating uncertainty. What
should be his next step? There was no good reason for seeking further
speech with the Viscount for the present. Obviously the alternative
was to contrive to meet her on her way to or from the office, but this
method was distasteful to him, savored too much of lying in wait for
her, stalking her, as might a roué bent on philanderous enterprise. On
the other hand, his conscience troubled him. Here it was possible, even
likely that this girl might hold the key to his story, might give him
the starting point which he needed. He owed loyalty to his paper. He
felt that he was caught in a dilemma from which he might not extricate
himself entirely honorably.
One morning, at the Foreign Office, young Kikuchi dropped a chance
remark that his father had gone to Odawara for a few days. The idea
struck Kent that here lay the way out. Fate seemed deliberately to have
thrown the solution in his way, so he might see her without resorting
to slinking contrivances. He looked at his watch. It was half-past
eleven; this was Saturday and quite likely she would leave at noon. He
hurried to her office. She was evidently about to leave.
"I am sorry. The Viscount has gone to the country." He thought he
detected a hint of mischief in her eyes. Did she suspect him?
Would he have some tea? She came to his rescue before he had bethought
himself of the next step. What a blessing that eternal tea-drinking
ceremonial could prove at times. Why, of course, he should like it
very much.
So again he found himself in one of the Viscount's great chairs, alone
with her. She brought the tray with tea and cigarettes. His success
made him bolder. "Have some with me, please do."
It startled her a little. "Why, of course not."
"Why not? It is the custom in foreign countries, and I am a foreigner.
Please?"
She smiled at his earnestness and gave in. Presently they were sipping
tea together. The scene assumed an air of intimacy. They chatted
pleasantly. The light silk shawl about her shoulders gave him a cue.
"You're about to go out, are you not. I really shouldn't keep you,
but----"
"No, it's all right. It is Saturday, and I was thinking of going to the
pictures."
The pictures! So she was another of Japan's millions of movie
worshipers who form their ideas of Western civilization from the
frenzied life of the cinema, Wild West pictures of cowboys rescuing
lovely heroines from Indians and bandits, dainty damsels abducted
in madly racing automobiles, passionate love scenes in lavishly
upholstered abodes of plutocracy, gun-play and murder in city
streets--all the wildly gyrating, delirious melodrama which ingenuous
Japan seriously believes to be representative of life on the other side
of the ocean. The thought of the discomfort of most of the Tokyo movie
theaters, ramshackle fire-traps crowded with squirming, perspiring
humanity, stifling in the afternoon heat, repelled him; still, it would
not matter.
"I like the pictures very much too," he lied. "I wish you would let me
go with you."
But she shook her head determinedly. No, a foreigner and a Japanese
girl! It was too unusual.
"But are you then so old-fashioned?" He noted her quick frown. He had
gained a little. "Are you then one of these Japanese who, like the old
shoguns, want to hold Japan apart from the rest of civilization?" Now
he knew he had the right argument.
She flashed at him. "I am not old-fashioned." Her tone softened a
little. "But, of course, you know it is a little unusual for a Japanese
girl and a foreign man to go on the street together."
He sensed that he had won and made no further argument, only rose and
waited while she took away the tray. Together they went down the steps.
"And now where?" he asked.
"Why, Uyeno, of course, the art exhibition. I thought you----"
He hastened to cut her short. "Yes, I know. But it is far. Let us have
tiffin first. Where? What do you prefer, Japanese or foreign food."
He knew she would prefer the rare experience of a foreign restaurant,
as Japanese girls almost invariably do. They went to one of the best
in Tokyo, a large, airy place thoroughly modern, a hot, wet towel in
a small wicker tray, for wiping the face after the meal, being the
sole concession to Japanese custom. As he sat facing her, he watched
appreciatively the dainty grace with which her slim fingers, long
practiced in agile manipulation of chopsticks, managed easily the
unfamiliar silver. She was enjoying it, flushed a little, happily. He
knew he would gain pleasure from this germinating friendship.
He wished to call a taxi, but she restrained him. "No, Uyeno is not so
far. We will go by tram."
But why bother about a crowded tram? Taxis were not such a luxury.
"But they are a luxury. Why should we spend money needlessly when the
masses of the people must ride in trams or even walk. It is wrong." Her
earnestness amused him. The deep seriousness of her expression lent her
a charm as that of a child artlessly philosophizing. What odd surprises
they held, the minds of these Japanese girls, ideas shaped from
impressions gained God knows where. They compromised on an auto-bus.
The exhibition was crowded. It had always pleased him to note the
character of the people who thronged such places, art galleries,
concerts, theaters, high and low, rich and poor, a great number, in
fact, persons to whom even the smallest fee must mean sacrifice of
some material need. And here they were, as usual, small merchants,
poorly paid artisans, some even fairly close to the coolie type,
solemnly, seriously viewing the pictures, saying but little, absorbing,
gratifying a natural, spontaneous love of beauty. What would happen to
a New York bricklayer should he suggest to his mate that they go to see
the Metropolitan Art Gallery? The grotesque contrast of the idea amused
him.
They went through the Japanese art section first. He always enjoyed
this part the best, for while he had small technical knowledge of art,
he sensed a subtle gratification from the consummate perfection which
the artists of Nippon had attained in this field of their own where
century after century of painstakingly striving lovers of beauty had
succeeded in gradually climbing higher and higher towards fashioning
in concrete form the mirages of their vision. The eye rested, filled
itself with the wealth of delicate beauty of pure, surely drawn lines,
marvelously blended symphonies of color, almost imperceptible nuances
of shade and tint, a myriad of infinitely carefully elaborated details
which the makers contrived to weld into perfectly balanced, full-toned
consonance. There were the tremendous six-leafed screen paintings,
incidents from legend or history of feudal Japan, knights in armor
with long two-handed swords, archers with bow and quiver, women in
scintillating kimono and elaborate coiffure, or, of even more ancient
period, in simple flowing robes and with hair falling loose over their
shoulders, reminiscent of the art of China, the original inspiration
whence Japan had worked out that which was now her glorious own. There
were landscapes on screen or scroll, serrated crag and cliff with
gnarled pines overhanging foaming stream or glittering waterfall;
quaint and charming bits of life of old, or still existing but ever
disappearing Japan,--dancers in graceful postures, young girls in
boats, slender lily hands lying languidly in limpid waters, brown old
men, sickle in hand, garnering the rice, each ear of hundreds drawn
with veritable botanical accuracy of detail, still retaining the free,
swaying grace of nature.
It always cost him an effort to leave this section to enter that
devoted to art after Western fashion, which was constantly, year after
year, encroaching on, elbowing out of the way that fashioned after the
ideals of old Japan. A few years ago there had been only a couple of
these modern rooms; now those of the old and the new were almost even;
soon the latter would predominate entirely. It seemed such a pity; it
irritated him, the relentlessness of this march of progress? Still, it
was in its way more instructive than the other, gave concrete, graphic
illustration of the ideas and ideals of the young generation, what it
was seeking, striving for, more or less uncertainly, but always coming
nearer to the goal ever shimmering before it, mastery of the modern,
the new culture.
They were improving. Every year the exhibitions showed more certain
mastery of technique, better grasp of the spirit of the French art
which seemed to be the almost universally accepted school. Kent
admitted it to himself grudgingly; every step in advance in this
direction meant defeat of the old. What would it all amount to, after
all? Even if, with their amazing facility for copying, for imitation,
they might produce work which was creditable, which might pass muster
even in Europe, as, in fact, some of the things he saw before him
might, they would probably never climb out beyond the mediocre, would
never attain original achievement. There were some very good portraits,
excellent flower pieces, though, of course, this was but natural,
considering that this subject was a preëminent favorite with the
Japanese schools. Even some of the landscapes were undeniably fine,
though, he noted, this was the case especially where some Oriental
subject had been chosen, great, carved junks with blood-red sails
glaring in the sunlight against a faint blue sky; mountain scenes
following largely the composition of _kakemono_ subjects, the delicacy
of the latter being replaced by the more massive boldness made possible
by the medium of canvas and oils.
He felt that he was ungenerous; still it irritated him that they
should be making such headway in their apostacy. Only the nudes gave
him an incongruous sense of satisfaction. They were atrocious and the
exhibit was cluttered with them. In the old art of Japan, _kakemono_,
color-print and screen, they were virtually unknown, but during the
last few years the craze for them had swept over the moderns like an
obsession; the very fact that they were utterly new to Japan, the
sense that they were unconventional, modern, outré, was undoubtedly
the reason. So there they were, scores of them, clumsy masses of
female flesh, blatantly brazen, in all sorts of absurd and contorted
attitudes--and all these women were not nude, they were naked. The
conception of the spirit, the idea of their French masters, the verve,
the _élan_, they had missed it all. The paintings were bad, and the
sculpture, with which the rooms were filled, was worse. Evidently these
young enthusiasts had rushed forth fanatically intent to place on
canvas something naked; almost anything would do. The clumsy, paunchy
forms, shapeless limbs, invariably thick ankles, all seemed to indicate
that they had found their models where best they might, among country
wenches and servant maids, bringing forth on canvas or from clay mere
lumps of flesh, utterly soulless reproductions of female kind.
Did they really wish to convey the idea that Japanese women looked like
that? Did they wish, barbarously, to slaughter the conception of the
_musume_, delicate, graceful, beautiful, and to substitute therefor as
the ideal mere worship of flesh of the flesh? Damn them, it seemed such
stupid, wanton brutality, brutishness even; a grossly sensuous libel
on the womanhood of Japan. He glanced at Adachi-san, slender, dainty,
flower-like. How was such a grotesque misconception possible?
He felt that she should have resented all this; but she was interested,
far more absorbed in the moderns than she had been in the exhibits
after the ancient mode. This was the section which young Japan enjoyed.
Here the art students thronged, proud of their achievements or those
of their fellows, young men with velvet jackets and baggy trousers,
flowing ties and broad-brimmed, flapping hats. Their coarse, black
hair flowed loosely down to their shoulders; those who could manage it
had painstakingly cultivated little Van Dyke beards. Nearly all wore
enormous, horn-rimmed spectacles. Here they were in their element,
prideful, self-certain in their assurance that they had advanced far
beyond the _hoi polloi_, that they were the leaders. Conspicuously they
would form groups, point out, discuss, criticize or go into raptures.
Evidently Adachi-san was quite well known here. Young fellows would bow
to her, some would even address a few short remarks. She was plainly
enjoying it all; she tried to communicate some of her enthusiasm to
Kent, called his attention to work which she thought was well done.
She even used some of the technical patter of the students. He wished
he had been better informed in art, that he might have placed in
convincing form the criticism which craved for expression. He was
relieved when they left the exposition and began their return through
Uyeno Park.
They found a seat at the edge of an abrupt slope where they had a
wide view of the city. "You didn't care for it, Kent-san?" Her voice
conveyed her disappointment.
"But I did. I like the truly Japanese things immensely; but that's just
it, even though much of the modern stuff is very good--I won't deny
it--it seems to me such a pity that Japan should sacrifice the wondrous
values of her own art merely to trade them for imitations of that of
the West which the other countries can do better than she can; just as
Japan in all other things is throwing away her own which suit her,--her
dress, her architecture, her manners, only to replace them with shoddy
foreign clothes that don't suit Japanese figures; ramshackle hodgepodge
buildings after no style at all; and all the rest. And then these
student fellows. Can't you see that with most of them it is all pose?"
A couple of the artists passed, bowed courteously. He raised his hat to
them.
"But it isn't pose, at least with only a few of them. If you only knew
how some of them slave and toil for the ideals they have, you wouldn't
talk like that. They may seem absurd to you, or funny even, but I tell
you, you would have a different idea of them, if you only knew them."
"Yes, I daresay they must be interesting to know." Throughout the
afternoon he had sensed an indefinite resentment that she seemed to be
so familiar with them. How did she come to know them so well? It was
not jealousy, still, honestly, it might be something fairly close to
that. But the whole thing irritated him. He wanted to get away from it,
to some other subject. "It is getting quite late, Adachi-san. Let us
have dinner somewhere."
But she would not get away from it. "Thank you very much, Kent-san.
You're too good to me. But if you really think they may be interesting,
why shouldn't we go to one of the places where they eat, right near
here. Kent-san, you are the only foreigner whom I know, and you seem to
be such, such a reactionary, and I want you to see our side of it. You
foreigners ought to be the ones to help us, you know. I want you to,
please." The slim, white hand was on his sleeve. She was looking at him
earnestly, appealingly almost.
Hang it, the power which these eyes had over him; they could make him
do anything, he felt. Of course, in a way, that was what he wanted, to
allow himself complete abandon, inertly drifting, dreaming under the
spell of that glorious, pervasive beauty, to let himself go under the
hypnotism of her charm. But this was something entirely different; the
injection of the element of intellect spoiled the whole thing. It was
her beauty, not her brain he wished to enjoy, as one might be dreamily
soothed by the spell of a picture, unheeding the mechanics to which
it owed being. That was her function, beauty. Why should she disrupt
the harmony by bringing in thought, this crass, clamorous new thought
that seemed like a plague of fever obsessing the new generation? "Our"
side of it, she said. He wanted her to be Japan of droning temple
bell, slender pagoda, rich, flaunting silks, not the Japan of steam,
electricity and new thought. But her earnestness softened him. He would
make the best of it. To-day, they had fallen into the wrong setting. He
would contrive, next time, one more congruous with the idea which he
had in mind.
"All right, Adachi-san, you shall be the guide."
She was radiant. "Kent-san, you are so good. I want you to be pleased,
and I feel that you are not pleased, but I want you to know us too, me
and my friends, and to like us, if you can."
They passed down the broad stone steps into a vast space of clanging
street cars and jostling crowds. Then down a side street, a few
blocks. She pointed to a sign, a gaudy female, presumably symbolically
representing art or some such abstraction, holding in one hand a palm
leaf and in the other a paintbrush. Over it was the inscription, in
_kata-kana_ characters, "_kafue montomarutoru_"; of course, that meant
"café Montmartre."
He knew scores of the queer new cafés of Tokyo, but this one was of a
type new to him. There were the same rickety tables and chairs, but
crowding the walls, leaving scarcely an inch of clear space, were vast
oil paintings, tremendous stretches of canvas, all depicting nudes, in
every possible position and surrounding, in bath houses and by mountain
pools, posing in front of mirrors or just standing upright vacantly,
without apparent intention at all; huge figures, clumsy, ill-formed, a
mass of light-brown or pink, indelicate flesh pervading and dominating
the entire room.
The tables were crowded, the long-haired, bespectacled ones had
evidently here a habitat, a homely Parnassus, where they might worship
that which they conceived to be art, amidst an atmosphere of beer, bad
cooking and the eternal nudes. They found seats at a table with some of
them, who smiled and made room with great politeness.
It was an odd mess. Still, since he was definitely in for it, he might
as well do his best to draw from the incident whatever he might. But he
could not get over the incongruity of it, Adachi-san, dainty, modest,
with only an inch or two of clear ivory-tint below the throat showing
under the embroidered _eri_ neckband, surrounded by this mob-like
throng of utter nakedness.
"And do you really like all that?" He swept his hand disparagingly
towards the walls.
"Ssst," she placed her hand warningly on her lips. "Please don't talk
so loud, Kent-san. He made them, the proprietor over there. He runs the
restaurant for a living, but he paints, too, these things."
Were they all going crazy; even second-class restaurateurs snatching
moments between steaks and chops to worship fanatically at the new
shrines? He was about to speak, to express to her his wonder at these
ever more astounding revelations, when he became aware that some one
had come up to them, a Japanese of about thirty, less conspicuously
bohemian than the others, still apparently one of the artist tribe. He
bowed with quiet dignity to Kent. "I beg your pardon, but I couldn't
help overhearing, and I should like very much to know what you think."
He turned to the girl. "Please, Adachi-san, won't you introduce me to
your friend."
She was plainly pleased as she made the introductions. Kent was a
friend, she blushed a little. The newcomer was Sugawa, "a great
artist," she added, "one of our best."
Sugawa smiled to Kent. "Women exaggerate so," he remarked in perfect
English. Then he fell back to Japanese, evidently for the benefit
of the girl. "I saw you at the exhibition this afternoon, and now
again here, and I am sure that you don't like what we do. You are an
American, are you not? I thought so. And you know we Japanese like
Americans for their frankness, the American frankness. I wish you would
tell me just what you think about it, and, if you care, I'll tell you
just what we think, what we are trying to do."
"The American frankness." That was the usual prelude, the favorite
gambit for opening a conversation in which Japan drew out skillfully
the thoughts and views of America, but only so seldom gave like return,
remaining unrevealed, unknown, behind that curiously baffling wall of
national reticence. His courtesy had been perfect, disarming; still
what business had he to come breaking in upon them like that! "American
frankness." He probably wouldn't like it when he received it, but since
that was what he asked for, he should have it, in full measure.
"In the first place, I must tell you that I am no artist and have but
small knowledge of such matters, but I can tell you how I feel, how
probably most of us foreigners feel when we see you lightly abandoning
the immeasurably fine heritage from your forefathers to make mediocre
offerings to foreign idols." He swept on, expressed his feelings just
as he would have spoken to Kittrick or Karsten; it became almost a
tirade. He began referring to pictures he had seen that afternoon,
things he particularly remembered; but as he went on picking into
bits, relentlessly, this and that painting, the clumsy clay images,
the other's face showed no resentment, expressed instead absorbed,
intelligent attention. Kent felt that he had gone a little too far and
wished to tone it down a little.
"Even if you, some of you, at least, have done surprisingly well,
especially considering the shortness of time, what particular good
will it do? Even if in time you should bring forth a Gauguin or a
Matisse, the others are doing all that; you will have but added to
the cumulative results; whereas in your own field you are unique,
undisputed masters of an art that is valuable and fine, that will
become lost if you fellows don't follow it up. I hope that I have not
offended you, but it seems such a pity."
The other smiled. "No, of course I'm not offended. I asked for
frankness and got what I asked for. And, you know, it is not new to
me, this feeling of you foreigners that we should continue along the
old line. That's what my teachers were telling me, in America and in
Paris. That's what you Westerners always want, in art, in architecture,
in dress, customs, life, to have us remain the quaint, exotic, strange
country. You are like the people who think it a pity that a pretty
kitten must grow up to be a cat, and who would like to have a child
remain always a child. On one hand you praise the adaptability with
which we have acquired your civilization, and on the other you hate
to see the old, quaint Japan go--to see it change so as to become but
one more of the many countries of the earth which are so much alike.
You feel that the world is becoming too much the same all over, that
London, and New York, and Paris, and now Tokyo will be all the same,
will afford no new, strange sights and sensations; that Japan is being
lost as a charming playground for you. But what about us? In the first
place, we wanted to remain as we were, but the foreigner forced us to
become one with him. No," he smiled, "I don't resent it. I am glad
it happened, but the fact remains. You praise us for adopting your
civilization, and still that doesn't mean only building steamships,
and railroads and all that. That's the least part of it. That's
superficial. What really counts is our emancipation from feudalism,
from the rule of the few masters, attaining expression of the
individuality, and that's the real Western civilization which Japan,
the Japanese people, has just begun to grasp. Then why shouldn't we
follow our own wishes, each his own, each man, for instance, painting
as he pleases, old style, modern style, after Hokusai or after Gauguin.
You say that we are not producing the art of our forefathers, but you
don't see Europe producing any Titians or Tintorettos. Of course, so
far we are only imitating, we are learning, copying, but why shouldn't
we some day do as well as you do, maybe even better? Now we have joined
in the march of progress of common civilization. We can't go backwards,
we can't remain stationary. We must go on. Art is only one phase of the
whole thing, but----"
But he was interrupted by a jangling of bells, clamor of voices.
"_Gogai!_" the hoarse shout came in from the street. "_Gogai!_"
An extra. They were rushing to the windows, the door. "Hey, come here,
in here."
A little old man ran in, breathless, amid a jingle from a bunch of
small bells clustered from his belt. Under his arm he held a bundle of
small printed sheets, the _gogai_, extras, great news of some kind.
They all crowded around him, tore the papers from him as he gathered in
their coppers.
Tokyo had been in a fever of excitement for days. The discovery had
been made that a score of carloads of the arms left in the care of the
Japanese army when the Czecho-Slovak troops retired from Siberia, had
disappeared. At the same time Chang Tse-lin, the Manchurian war-lord,
had received, from some mysterious source, a large amount of war
supplies. The newspapers almost unanimously accused the militarists,
the General Staff, of having engineered the transfer, in spite of
Japan's agreement with the other Powers that none of them should
supply the warring factions in China with arms. Dual diplomacy, the
General Staff calmly overriding, for its own sinister purposes, the
international pledges made by the Foreign Office. The accusation which
the Japanese press so resented when made by foreigners was shouted
by all the papers. And the people took it up. Now had finally come
the time when the issue had been fairly made, when the yoke of the
militarists must be overthrown by the rest of the Cabinet. Breathlessly
the nation watched for the struggle.--But the General Staff haughtily
denied the charge. They knew nothing of it all. A major in the army
"confessed" that he was responsible; he had sold the arms to a Russian
faction with which he sympathized. It was all his own, personal doings.
He took all the responsibility. His wife committed suicide; she would
not face the disgrace. The nation cried out. She was one more innocent
victim of the juggernaut of the General Staff. Her husband was another,
a scapegoat, a martyr. Of course, no one believed his story, a palpable
invention to save the skins of his superiors. Now, what would the
Premier, what would the Foreign Office do?
The _gogai_ brought the answer. The Premier issued a statement,
setting forth in tedious detail the opera bouffe proceedings of the
court-martial. He confirmed the whole thing.
"The cowards!"
They did not stamp their feet, or bang fists on tables; repression
was too ingrained. But as they read through the sheets, calling the
attention of one another to this or that paragraph, disappointed,
disgusted, sickened, hissing sharp staccato syllables between clenched
teeth, it was as if the atmosphere had become charged electrically with
waves of resentment, repressed hate, palpable almost as heat waves,
sinister, ominous. The militarists had won again, as usual; but what
of it? They had been brought a step nearer the eventual, inevitable
debacle. It might seem on the face of it Oriental patience, passivity,
but one could feel the tenseness of cumulative, restrained sense of
outrage, injury. It was the constantly mounting head of steam in the
boiler again.
But Kent had no time to study effects. He looked at his watch; only a
little after nine. He would have time to cable. "Here, quick, call a
taxi. Bring the bill, _hayaku_. Adachi-san, come along, please. I've
got to send this thing right away."
A small closed car arrived. They climbed in. Immediately Kent set
himself to composing a draft for his message. Sitting thus together,
her warm, lithe body close to his, he sensed unconsciously the pleasure
of her presence, but his mind was intent on his work, confining in the
laconic form of a cable message the gist of the event. He read it over.
Hang it, he should have liked to have seen the official communique
which the Foreign Office must have sent out, but there was no time. He
must take his chance on the _gogai_.
"Kent-san," she was leaning closer to him. "And now you are going to
send that by the cable over to America. When will the papers there
print it?"
"To-morrow the news will be all over the United States, all over the
world."
"It is wonderful. How interesting your work must be. What have you
written?"
He read it to her, pleased, with a feeling that her interest was
drawing them together, that in some way, as yet undefinable, they were
being brought into that intimacy which he craved.
She listened intently, a tiny furrow between the black crescent brows,
thinking. "Kent-san," she said suddenly, as if she had arrived at a
decision after careful deliberation. "You can add that the Premier does
not believe the explanation of the General Staff; that he has told them
so. It isn't fear of the fall of the Cabinet only that keeps him from
making deeper investigation. The secret of it all is a question of the
old clans, the Satsuma and the Choshu. The Premier is Satsuma, General
Matsu is Choshu. The General threatened that if he were not backed up
he would make it a clan fight, Choshu against Satsuma, and he would,
too. They stop at nothing, these militarists. And Viscount Kikuchi had
to straighten it out, to show them that if the governing classes fought
among themselves at this time, it would give the people, the masses, he
calls them, a chance. These old rulers know they must stick together,
the old, the iron-hard men, the feudalists, against the people, against
young Japan. Oh, it's so bitter, Kent-san, not only class against
class, but generation against generation, even among the aristocracy;
father against son, even. Some time you should talk to young Kikuchi,
if he'll agree to talk to you about it. That, Kent-san, that's the real
story."
In an indefinite way he had suspected that something like that was
the case. That enmity existed among the various departments of the
Government was an open secret, but this version, the clan fight, gave a
picturesque, human-interest angle to the story that he rather liked.
"Yes, that's interesting; but you know I can't send stuff like that
unless I'm sure it's correct. How do you know? I must know that the
source is reliable."
The car stopped; they had reached the post-office. He jumped out; then
he leaned forward into the car. "Adachi-san, how can I know that it is
true?"
She stooped towards him. He was looking straight into these lustrous
eyes, brilliant, close. "I am telling you, Kent-san."
There was no time for debate; the cable office would close in a few
minutes. As he copied his message on to the printed blank, his thoughts
were racing, occupied with the girl's story. Should he take a chance?
He hesitated for a moment. "Persons in position to know"--his pencil
framed the words half mechanically. He felt an odd conviction that she
was right. The clerk reached over for the message; he was in a hurry to
get his work done and get away. Well, let it go.
He found her standing in the street beside the car. "Step in,
Adachi-san, I'll take you home."
"No, there is no need for the car now. I shall walk."
Again that peculiar prejudice against what she ingenuously deemed the
luxuries of the privileged classes. What a potpourri of quaint ideas
stirred in that brain behind those delicately curved brows, those
wonderful eyes, and yet she appeared extraneously so like all those
Japanese girls whom one saw casually, everywhere, thinking idly that
they harbored only thoughts of flower arrangement, tea ceremonial, or
the ordinary dreams and aspirations of girlhood. She had given him but
casual glimpses at her mind, evanescent, baffling flickers, stimulating
curiosity, tempting him to learn, to find out, to intimacy. So far
the day had given no opportunity for confidential talk; mischievous
mischance seemed to have been ever bent, vexatiously, on intervening.
Now the walk might afford better chance.
She lived near Kanda-bashi, she said. They passed along the crowded
streets, crossed the Ginza and turned down the broad street along
the palace moat. Here there was no one. He took her hand, and,
hand-in-hand, child-like, as do young Japanese couples, they walked on.
But she was in no mood for personal talk. The moon; see how the light
refracted on the green-oxidized copper roofs of the palace buildings,
and the black reflections of the gnarled pines in the silvery water!
She was thoughtful, a little serious. He walked on with her, wholly
happy at the sense of her nearness, the softness of the small hand in
his, languorously content.
At the Kanda bridge she stopped. "Here I leave you. I live over there."
She indicated a dark mass of houses on the other side of the bridge.
"And thank you, Kent-san, you have been so good to me."
But he held on to her hand. "But, Adachi-san, first you must tell me
when I may see you again. I must see you, often, like this."
She smiled a little. "Why?"
"Of course. We shall be friends, good friends, shan't we?"
"But I am always so busy, really. I have so little time."
"Of course, you have time. Say Wednesday." She shook her head. "Well,
then, Saturday afternoon; then I know you have time. I shall wait for
you in Hibiya, at the fountain by the wistaria arbor, at noon, please."
But again she shook her head. He clung to her hand, insisting. Suddenly
she pulled it free, laughed. "All right then, next Saturday." She
moved away a few steps, then abruptly, impulsively, she plucked from
her hair a rose, held it over to him. "For you, Kent-san. Good-night,
_o-yasumi nasai_."
He stood holding the flower, watching her as she moved swiftly over the
bridge and disappeared in a narrow lane between the dark buildings.
He found a rickshaw. Despite subconscious realization that the day
had, after all, been drab, commonplace, disappointing, he felt in an
exalted mood. The trotting figure of the rickshaw coolie faded from
his consciousness; it was as if he were alone, with his thoughts,
dreams. What a wonderfully complicated little beauty she was, entirely
different from any girl he had known, had ever imagined; mysterious
with her passionate devotion to the new things, art, the political flux
and ferment, her peculiarly insistent abhorrence at the luxuries of
the rich, and then, finally, that inconsistent flash of coquetry. Now
he must carry on, get the explanation of all this, learn her thoughts,
attain intimacy. She piqued him with her elusiveness, but it added
to his zest. But what did he wish, after all? He enjoyed the sense
of being surrounded, enveloped in her beauty; yet he was not in love
with her--no, he was not--there was no desire of conquest, to embrace
her, to clasp her in his arms in possession. And still he had realized
distinct enjoyment at holding her hand. It was intensely interesting,
her evident acquaintance with the manipulation of the hidden strings
which actuated the secret workings of the government behind the
scenes. Yes, that also caused attraction; yet he had been drawn to
her, irresistibly, with the direct certainty which compels steel to
a magnet, even before he had heard a word from her, by the sheer
compulsion of her beauty. Hang it, it was all very puzzling, this not
being able to define what was really stirring within one's own mind.
Still, he was no psychoanalyst. He gave it up. He would let the thing
take its course, let fate work it out according to its own inscrutable
arrangement.
He held the rose to his face; yes, he was certain; of all the
incongruous, clashing incidents of the day, this was the one he liked
best.