With the approach of Saturday Kent became impatient. The feeling of
being alone, that there was in the whole world no one who was really
interested in his affairs, who cared whether he lived or died, took
hold of him and he chafed under a desire for some one who would care,
for the close touch, the intimate relationship which is possible
only between man and woman. That was what he wished from Adachi-san.
He thought it out carefully, made certain that he would eschew all
semblance of dalliance. Jun-san was right, what could such lead to but
sorrow, heartbreak. But he wanted her friendship, a sort of brother and
sister relationship. Even though it was common to scoff at platonic
intimacy, such must be possible, and in this case, with the definite
absence of passion, erotic desire, it surely must be possible if ever.
So it should be thus; he would regard her as a fair flower, attaining
his enjoyment from being near her, allowing himself to be suffused by
the effulgence of her beauty, disdaining to break the charm of purity
and delicacy by soiling contact of too ardent hands.
As he awaited her, in the wistaria arbor by the fountain, he enjoyed
a feeling of serenity, of having laid out a wise and safe course,
one which would avoid the anguish and regrets of love passion. As he
noticed her at a distance, hurrying towards him, dainty, picturelike
under her brightly hued parasol, he became elated with a feeling of
gratification, pride, that this beautiful, winsome girl, the equal of
whom one did not see in weeks or months, should be thus hastening to
him.
She was in a gay mood. "You know, Kent-san, it's the first time I ever
had a meeting with a man like this. And still I know that it's right
for a man and a woman to meet thus, if they----"
"If they what?"
"Never mind," she laughed, a little confused. "Where do you wish to go,
Kent-san?"
He left it to her. She decided on Shiba Park. It suited him admirably.
He had hoped that she would select some place like that, typically
Japanese. Somehow the surroundings of the former occasion, the strident
modernity of the new art, the exaggerated imitation of the Quartier
Latin atmosphere by the students, had vitiated the picture which
he wanted to form of her. But here, as they wandered slowly under
the huge, gnarled cryptomeria trees, among the ancient shrines and
sepulchers of the Tokugawa shoguns, with their century-old carvings,
hundreds upon hundreds of great stone and brass lanterns, silent halls
with woodwork wrought into infinitesimally minute details, myriads of
gilt ornaments, fantastic tesselated ceiling squares, one felt oneself
brought back into the age of feudalism, peaceful, reverend in the
brooding calm which lay over this place. Here she blended into, formed
an integral part of the surroundings. The bright colors of her kimono
with its great bow-like obi-girdle arrangement, her clear, refined
Japanese features seeming to supply the last touch of artistry which
infused this gorgeous medieval setting with the vitalizing breath of
life.
And her thoughts came into harmony with it all. Modernism faded
away; she told him the old histories connected with these shrines,
imaginative, picturesque; quoted the ancient proverbs, bits of softly
cadenced poetry. This was how he wanted her to be; how marvelously she
contrived to translate into living reality the indefinitely glimpsed
dream of his imagination. He became immersed in well-being, absolutely
complete, delicious pleasure. They dined at a Japanese tea house facing
a garden, another perfect composition where nature had been persuaded
rather than compelled to arrange the components, fine traceries of
maple leaves, broad, flat stones in a winding pathway down to a
tranquil bit of water, forming together the perfect picture where no
ill-placed pebble or broken twig might intrude on harmony.
During the days which followed he enjoyed a sense of elation, triumph
that his dream had at last come true, the ideal attained. This was
perfection, just as he wanted it all, the girl herself to be. With this
he could be fully happy, content. Sitting in his office, smoking idly,
he found pleasure in living over in his mind every incident, every
detail of this delectable adventure.
"Telephone call for you, Mr. Kent."
He roused himself, irritated. Hang the telephone and all modern
contrivances which mankind had worked out painfully to plague it.
"Hello, hello, who's that?" he inquired briskly.
"Is that you, Kent-san?" By the gods, it was she. He felt as if he must
be trembling visibly in his eagerness. "Yes, yes, this is Kent-san."
"I thought you might care to come over for some tea." He could hear
her laughter. These prosaic wires had their excellent uses, after all.
"Yes, thank you, of course, I'll come right over."
As he scrambled up the stairs he noticed that the offices were
deserted; the promoters of Japanese-Bolivian harmony and the rest had
left early, apparently. She received him, smiling mischievously. "I am
so sorry to have disturbed you, but every one goes home so early here,
and I felt a little lonesome. So we shall have tea."
After that he came often, in the late afternoon, and chatted with her
about the events of the day, the modern music, art, pictures, or,
again, about old Japan, the ancient fables, beliefs, poetry, as her
mood would have it. It seemed as if she possessed two distinct and
complete personalities, one the quaint, conventional, yet emotional
maiden of old Japan, the other the eager, nervous young intellectual,
thirsty for knowledge, for attaining progress. They became very
intimate. He learned that her first name was Sadako, so after that
he called her that only, and she came to call him Hugh,--Heeyu she
pronounced it. They made short trips Sundays, into the country, to
Kamakura, Inagi, up the Sumida River, to temple festivals and street
fairs. Thus it remained. At times he might hold her hand, simply, like
that of a child, but that was as far as it went, as far as he craved
to go. He had attained the fulfillment of his desire for constant
enjoyment of her charm, her beauty, her companionship, intimate,
serene, undisturbed by desire to go further.
One Sunday they made an early start and went farther afield, to the
Hakone region. At Miyanoshita they left the little electric train,
and lunched Japanese fashion at the Goldfish Inn. Then they wandered
on down, along the road winding between the steeply sloping mountain
sides, drinking in the coolness, enjoying the sweep of green bamboo
and maple trees clinging to the rocky walls above them, the murmur and
gurgle of the stream rushing, foaming, over great bowlders far below.
At Tonegawa where they went to the station to take the train back to
Tokyo, they found a group of excited people on the platform. They were
talking, gesticulating, children with arms filled with wooden trick
boxes and other souvenirs regarding curiously their agitated elders.
The station master was telling his story over and over again, repeating
it to every new arrival, arguing and explaining. Yes, they might go to
Odawara in the electric train, of course, but there was no way of going
beyond that, to Tokyo. The steam trains were not running. Yes, they had
stopped; they had all stopped. The entire Imperial Railways system had
stopped. It was a strike, a universal strike. No, he knew very well
that that had never happened in Japan before; but it had happened now,
just as it had in America and England. He couldn't help it. They could
go to Odawara for all he cared, but there was scant hotel accommodation
to be had there. They had better stay in Hakone where there were many
hotels. Yes, the trains were not running--he began to explain again to
some newcomers--there was no getting back to Tokyo at present.
"Well, evidently we are in for it, Sadako-san. The man is right. We
had better find some place here. I have heard there are good hotels in
this village." She had placed her hand on his arm, seemed irresolute,
frightened. "You are not afraid, are you, Sadako-san?"
"No, I'm not afraid of you. Come, let us go."
They found an inn in Tonegawa, a huge building with great wings,
many-storied, striving up the hillside, seeming, like the trees, to
cling precariously thereto. The inn people were a little doubtful. Yes,
no. They had only one room left and that was really not a room at all;
it was a banquet hall, not used for sleeping. The other hotels? No,
they were crowded, too, with the unexpected rush of holiday seekers
left stranded here. Yes, he might have the big room. Other refugees
were approaching down the road. Kent made up his mind. "_Shikataganai_,
Sadako-san, we must make the best of it. All right, I'll take it."
A maid servant led them through long passages, up steps, along a long
passage, up more steps, then through more corridors and stairways, ever
upwards, bewilderingly; it seemed as if they must be mounting into the
clouds. Finally he noticed overhanging eaves; thank God, this must be
the top story; they could mount no higher. The girl led them down a
passage, drew aside _shoji_, ushered them into a vast room occupying
the entire width of the building, showing a great _tokonoma_ recess
with a splendid scroll picture, a bronze statuette of Ebisu, the
fattest and jolliest of the Seven Lucky Gods, grinning them welcome.
There were great gilded screens, several huge mother-of-pearl inlaid
_hibachi_. Quite evidently this was a hall for special feasts.
The maid brought tea and comfortable kimono. "The bath?" she inquired.
This was a hot-spring hotel, sought by people from all over Japan for
its natural hot mineral water. "I shall get dinner ready while you are
in the bath," she added, evidently with the thought that this foreigner
might not know the common custom.
"I want to arrange my hair first. There is no mirror here." Sadako was
already in the doorway. "Please excuse me a moment."
She disappeared. He waited, not knowing just what to do. It was
embarrassing, this bath suggestion. The maid became impatient. "Will
you not take your bath now?" she insisted. Very well, he would solve
the difficulty by going first. He got out of his clothes and into the
kimono. The maid led him down through the maze of corridors, miles it
seemed, to the ground floor, into a hall-like space, with shelves for
clothing, where were standing half a dozen persons, men and women, half
nude or nude, getting ready for or leaving the baths. He turned to the
servant. "Where?"
"Oh, anywhere," she indicated a row of doors. "There are three baths,
but they are all full. It is no use to wait. There are so many guests
that there will be no empty rooms. Please enter." She was in a hurry,
began to untie his girdle. It was embarrassing. In other inns where he
had been, the rule separating the sexes had been observed. Still, they
all seemed so unconcerned; he must do in Japan as the Japanese do.
He doffed his kimono and placed it on a shelf. The maid held open a
door. As he started to enter some one from inside was about to pass
out. He stood aside; a young matron, about thirty, and two little
girls, all absolutely nude. He noted curiously that in his surprise
there was no hint of being shocked, they were so natural, without hint
of embarrassment. Came to him instead an odd sense of purity; the
impression was like that of a graceful doe with a couple of fawns,
nothing more.
The room was spacious; three sides were of finely grained wood, the
fourth wall being the natural hillside with small shrubs growing in the
interstices among the mossy rocks whence jetted the hot spring water,
effervescent, into a rill in the immaculate tile floor leading to the
tank, a huge thing, about three feet deep, filled with crystal-clear
water. The room was so large that there was not even the veil of steam
which usually half obscures the bathers in such places. On the floor
close to him were a couple of Japanese men, rubbing themselves with
towels, preparing to leave. A little farther over were three women, two
very young, rinsing from their bodies the soap which covered them with
a creamy foam; the third, a little older, was having her back rubbed by
the old bath-man.
Kent took a wooden bucket and dipped water from the tank, poured it
over himself, found a diminutive wooden stool and sat down to soap
himself. The men left and he was alone with the women. They paid no
attention to him, ignored his presence altogether. What a graceful
picture they made, holding high the small buckets whence they poured
streams of the sparkling water over their smooth, slender bodies,
ivory-gleaming, creamy, almost white. The bath-man poured water over
the oldest girl, and all three climbed into the tank. Then he turned to
Kent and began to massage his back. The girls were chatting gayly. He
wished they would have finished before time came for him to enter the
tank. But the bath-man had completed the rubbing; now he was sousing
him with clean water. "Please, danna-san, step in. This water is very
healthful."
There was nothing for it. He went to the edge. The girls regarded
him disinterestedly. "Please, excuse me." He noted surprise in their
glances; evidently apology had been superfluous, out of the ordinary.
They said nothing. He started to climb in hurriedly, to hide his
embarrassment, but drew back with an exclamation. The water was much
hotter than he had expected. One of the two younger girls tittered,
tried to control herself, but failed. The other became infected by it,
tittered also uncontrollably; from giggles they went into laughter,
grasped each other's hands, bodies shaking, sending ripples scurrying
over the mirror-like surface.
"Oh, do keep quiet," the older girl managed to repress a smile.
"Please, don't mind them. They're very rude, but they are so young.
Anyway," she added, "you should come into the water quickly; then you
don't feel the heat so much."
"Thank you very much." He plumped in. It was not so bad, after all.
"It is hotter than any place I have ever been before," he explained,
ashamed at having flinched.
"Yes, it is hotter here than in most places," said the girl. "So you
live in Japan?"
One remark led to another. The younger girls joined in. Soon they were
conversing freely, Hakone, the weather, and particularly the news of
the strike, the great event of the day. As they sat there, letting the
heat from the water seep into their bodies, an undercurrent of thought
kept running through his mind, minutely probing analysis into his own
thoughts, his impressions from this astonishing situation. Yes, here
he was, with these three young women, side by side almost, immersed
in this water which offered no more concealment than glass, and yet
his sense of embarrassment was leaving him, had left him; even the
feeling of unconventionality disappeared. He felt no different than
he might have, had he been sitting with them, fully clothed, in a
café. Curiously, there was not even hint of suggestive thought, erotic
inspiration. The utter absence thereof puzzled him a little. Men might
experience such at the fashionable seasides of America where female
beauty chose to adorn itself with wetly clinging textures, boldly
cut garments, designedly piquant, stirring curiosity with artfully
contrived faintness of concealment--while here the very absence of
suggestion, of thought on the part of these women of the man-woman
idea, produced an effect of naturalness, purity even; one would feel
ashamed of harboring fancies of sensuality. And yet these girls--they
were quite evidently gentlewomen--would have blushed in shame should
they, when on the street or any place other than the bath, suffer
accidental exposure of even the slightest bit of bosom; they would
disdain being seen in the daringly cut evening gown of Western fashion.
In the bath this was natural, obvious; one did not bathe in clothes;
this was evidently the idea.
They climbed out and prepared to leave. He watched them, as they stood
erect or knelt in easy, graceful attitudes, as he might have looked at
a picture. He was pleased that he had grasped the idea, the Japanese
attitude of mind, that a man might look at a woman, unclothed, without
taint of thought of sex.
"_Sayonara._" The girls smiled to him. An elderly couple came in.
He climbed out, dried himself and passed out into the hall, donned
his kimono and started back for the room. He mounted a flight of
stairs, went down a corridor, climbed more stairs, occupied with his
thought of the incident in the bath. Presently he faced a storeroom
filled with great heaps of quilts. He tried to retrace his steps, but
wandered into another part of the house which was unknown to him.
Lost again, another labyrinth. He would inquire; but he did not even
know the number of his room. The servants were all busy elsewhere.
He asked a couple of young men who passed to show him to the top
floor. They laughed at his predicament and undertook to guide him,
but the floor they finally reached was as unknown to him as the rest
had been. As they wandered along the corridors they could look into
many rooms where withdrawn partitions showed each its separate little
scene, parents with children, young couples, large families, groups of
students, all eating, drinking, discussing the strike or their own more
intimate affairs. Here and there the two young men would make inquiry,
explaining the contretemps. It excited merriment. Others joined the
search, became lost in their turn, pointing out directions, finding
themselves baffled; still more joined the fun. It became a procession
of young fellows and girls, highly amused, laughing, thoroughly
enjoying the childish adventure. How likable they were, lovable in
their ingenuousness; no hint here of racial antipathies. They took
him in as one of themselves in this fine game which had happened so
fortuitously to beguile the time. Kent came to enter into the spirit of
the thing, the infectious spirit of hilarity, with the assurance that
they were laughing with him, not at him; that they were all friends. He
was almost disappointed when a maid who knew where he belonged came to
his rescue and led him back amid laughing calls of "good luck" and "_go
yukkuri nasai_," "don't be in a hurry to leave," from his host of new
friends.
A few moments later Sadako-san returned to the room. "So you have
bathed too, Kent-san?"
"Why, yes; and why did you give me the slip like that?"
"Oh, I knew that it would be like that, with so many people here,
bathing together. Certainly, I did not want to bathe with you."
"But when you bathed, did you not bathe with men?"
"Of course, but that--that's different."
"Because I'm a foreigner?" He was pleased enough that matters had
turned out as they had. Somehow, he felt, with her he should have
experienced a shyness and uneasiness, such as had not occurred with the
girls who were unknown to him; that it would in some odd, intangible
way have vitiated the state of purity of intimacy which he wanted to
maintain with her. But the suggestion that she, Sadako-san, should feel
the race difference, especially when these others had not thought
thereof, irritated him. "Just because I'm a foreigner?" he repeated.
She came close to him, took his face between her slim, small hands,
looked at him intently, reprovingly. "Hugh-san, you know that between
you and me that doesn't matter. These other men, I didn't know them,
but with you," she blushed furiously, "with you, I couldn't. Can't you
see? It's because you're a man you are so stupid. If you were a woman,
you'd understand."
In his turn he brought his hands to her cheeks, brought her face close
to his, looked deeply into these great, darkly luminous eyes which had
ever held such a fascination for him. He sensed a thrill pass through
him, delicious, suffusing his entire being. No; he caught himself.
This wouldn't do; he was slipping into dangerous waters. "Sadako-san,"
he said, holding control in his voice, "I understand, even if I am a
man, and--you're a dear girl." But still they held each other. He felt
a shivering, gasping tenseness, nervous, electrical, as if the next
instant must bring some new, astounding, overwhelming development.
Patter of feet in the corridor. They sprang apart, faced each other
embarrassed, in reaction of surprise at the nearness of love to which
their feelings had so unexpectedly brought them. The maid brought
supper. It was necessary to make an effort to appear natural, to get
back to the commonplace. The presence of the servant, unsuspecting,
business-like, arranging the table, helped them. They seated themselves
on their cushions, self-consciousness fell away; soon they were
chatting as if nothing had taken place.
Darkness had fallen. The lights were lit. The maid brought in huge
bundles of _futon_ and arranged beds, great heaps of wadded quilts on
the floor, side by side. Evidently these two were man and wife, or
sweethearts; it was all the same to her. Sadako-san went out on the
narrow veranda, sat with her back turned to the room. The maid made the
finishing touches. "Good-night, _o yasumi nasai_." She left the room,
closed the _shoji_, the patter of her feet faded away down the hallway.
Kent went out to Sadako-san. She was squatting on the floor, head
resting against the low rail, staring abstractedly out over the
scattered roofs below, towards the hillside over which was rising a
white crescent moon, faintly silvering the trees along the ridges.
"Sadako-san." She gave no answer. Far down below the stream was
murmuring; cicada violins shrilled a quavering treble serenade.
"Sadako-san," he took her hand, drew her towards him, placed his
arm about her, brought her close, held her tightly. She offered no
resistance, her gaze directed fixedly, dreamily, into the distance,
sadly. The poor, dear, lovely girl. Suddenly all idea of abstaining
from caresses, from love, seemed distant, a thing utterly of the past.
As he felt the pulsating warmth of her body, sensed the beating of her
heart, the heaving of her bosom, the implied consent of her inertness,
that old thought of avoiding love seemed stupid, absurdly futile. She
was beautiful, lovable; they were young, what was life for? He loved
her. He turned her face towards his own. Slowly, looking steadily,
deeply into her eyes, he brought it close. Then he kissed her. They
clung lips to lips. Her arms went about his neck. The murmur of the
stream and the cicada violins faded into an indefinite, soft, distant
obligato.
"Sadako-san, I love you."
Slowly she drew her face from his, eyes wide as if in surprise, fear.
Suddenly she threw his hands from her, held out her own against him,
stared at him, lips parted. "Hugh-san, oh, Hugh-san, why did you do
it?" Her hands grasped the rail and she buried her face on her arms.
He could hear her sobbing. With gentle hands he tried to soothe her,
but the mere touch caused her to tremble convulsively, it seemed almost
hysterically. "Sadako-san, Sadako-san." He spoke soothingly as he
might have done to a frightened child. Gradually the sobbing ceased,
the nervous tenseness of her body gave way to passive inertness. He
contrived to place his arm about her. "And now, Sadako-san, little
girl, don't be frightened of me. I shan't hurt you, or kiss you, or do
anything you don't wish me to do. But don't you understand that I love
you? Don't you care for me at all?"
"Hugh-san, I know you are good. I am not afraid of you. I'd do anything
you want, but--I can't. It's impossible, oh, oh, Hugh-san." He could
see tears tremble on long, black lashes, enhancing the depth, the
luster of these dark eyes, the quality that had so overcome him when
he first saw her. Beautiful, unhappy, wholly adorable. "Sadako-san, of
course, it is not impossible. Dearest, I want to marry you."
But she shook her head, kept shaking it, rocked her whole body. Again
he soothed her, brought her cheek up against his. "Sadako-san, little
girl, what is the matter? Tell me, dear, only tell me." Presently she
straightened, took his arm from her waist, grasped both his hands, held
them, looked straight at him. "All right, Hugh-san, I shall tell you
all, all about myself. Then you'll understand.
"While I was still small, my mother died, and my father didn't marry
again; he didn't want me to have a stepmother. Oh, he was a good man,
my father. He was a professor in the Imperial University, in political
economy, and all he lived for was to make me wise and good. I went to
a good school and he taught me much himself, many things that he did
not dare teach his classes, showing me how Japan is being corrupted by
the money evil, the big capitalist houses that are gradually sucking
into themselves all the money, all the treasures, all the happiness
of Japan; and the narikins, the new profiteers, who are like jackals
that take what the lions leave, so there's nothing at all left for
the people. He told me that all that was good, all that was fine and
noble about old Japan was being thrust out of the way by the money
worshipers; the samurai, the Bushido code, the splendid old courtesy
and customs, all were being sacrificed that these people might make
money, by any means, fair or foul, by corrupting the government and by
grinding down the common people. He told me so much about it because
he dared not talk to others. He was afraid he might lose his position
or even go to jail for harboring 'dangerous thoughts.' For himself he
wouldn't have minded that, but he was saving up money for my education,
for he wanted me to go to the big universities in America and Europe,
and every month he went down to Yokohama and put money in the Machi
Bank. I didn't care much about these things then, politics, economics;
I wanted to be a doctor; but later I remembered everything he had said.
"Then came the big crash in business and Machi failed. We lost all we
had; so did the other poor depositors. No one would do anything for
us; the rich men and the other banks were all sorry for Machi, who had
lost so many millions. But he still has his automobiles and his villa
at Hayama--and we had nothing. My father had been failing for some time
before that. Then he died. I am sure that disappointment killed my
father."
Her voice died away in a whisper. She fell silent, looked out over the
valley, absorbed in her memories. So she was another of the victims of
the Machi failure. He had reason to remember the incident well. The
Machi Bank had been the first big concern to tumble in the crash, and
in working up the story he had learned his first astounding lesson in
Japanese high finance. Out of his bank's assets of some seventy million
yen, Machi had invested sixty millions in his own silk and menthol
speculations, and had lost it all. The very point made by Sadako-san,
the wave of sympathy for Machi on the part of the rest of the
plutocrats, the absolute unconcern regarding the depositors, had caused
him to wonder. He had interviewed one of Japan's leading financial
authorities, a high official in the Treasury Department, about it.
But it had been very unsatisfactory. Why, hadn't Machi lost all his
capital, millions and millions? Of course, one must be sorry for him.
"Then Machi is lucky that he's in Japan," Kent had said. "If he had
been in America, he would be in jail now." But the official had refused
to believe it. Why? Had followed a long discussion. Had they then no
laws whereby bankers were prevented from gambling with funds placed in
their care? The official had plainly thought that Kent was childish in
his ignorance of high finance. Did he not understand then that bankers
had to invest the funds entrusted to them; that was the very essence of
banking. But was there then nothing to prevent a Japanese banker from
investing the funds in his charge in a poker game or in roulette, if
he so pleased? No, naturally the Japanese Government did not wish to
limit its financiers in the exercise of their talents. And, anyway, of
course, the bankers did not put the money in poker games? No, possibly
not, but what about Machi? As a gamble, poker became a child's game as
compared with silk and menthol. The great authority had shown signs of
impatience; anyway, poker was gambling and silk was business; every
one knew that, and, of course, there was always a certain element of
chance in business. Kent had tried once more. "But now that you have
the example of the Machi case before you, with more like that almost
certain to come, don't you think it would be well to regulate such
business by law? What do you trust to, anyway?" No, the Japanese laws
were quite satisfactory, quite, and the authority had drawn himself up
with great dignity. "We trust," he had said solemnly, "we trust in the
integrity of our bankers."
Kent had picked up his hat and had left. What was the use? Could you
beat it? Here Machi had gambled away sixty millions, and still they
babbled inanely about trusting in the integrity of such. At the time he
had felt intense sympathy with the victims, unknown to him, orphans,
widows, old men doubtless,--and now here he saw at first-hand one
of the countless little tragedies left in the wake of Japanese high
finance indiscretion. So she really had good reason for her peculiar
aversion to the plutocracy, poor little girl. He leaned forward,
intercepted her glance. "And then?"
"Then," she shrugged her shoulders. He hated to see the bitter smile
on these childishly curved lips. "Then I had no father, and I had no
money, all because Mr. Machi had wanted to take a gambler's chance to
increase his millions. But he kept his motor and his villa, and we,
whose money he had used, we kept nothing. Then I remembered what my
father had so often told me, and then I decided that I would do what
I could to help the poor against the rich, to do my share to put an
end to a government which allows such things, that cares only for
the plutocrats. So I got a job in a silk filature. I might have done
better, of course, but I wanted to see first what the life of the
workers was like, and I had no money, anyway, so it made no difference.
"I thought I would begin cautiously; so I found a position in one of
the Ohara 'model mills.' I thought I was lucky. Of course, I didn't
like the looks of the high board fence that surrounded the whole
place and made it appear like a prison; and it was a prison, too,
I soon found out. They never let us out except on what they called
'excursions' and then there were always guards with us. They made a
great fuss about these excursions, but the fact is that most of us
stayed home to sleep--we could never get enough sleep--and then they
scolded us and said we were lazy and ungrateful. It was the same way
with the flower garden and the tennis courts that they were always
showing visitors--for it was a model factory, you remember. It is true,
we had the right to use them, but we almost never did; we were too
tired, we never had the time. We wanted to sleep, just rest.
"There were hundreds of girls in the factory, most of them young, who
had come there because they had been shown pictures of these fine
flower gardens and tennis courts and thought they would have a much
nicer time than they had on the farms or in the tenements where they
came from. I worked in a room with over a hundred girls, taking the
silk from the cocoons from the boiling water in great big kettles and
winding it on machines. We couldn't sit down and we couldn't speak or
hear others speak. We couldn't even look up from our task. The boiling
kettles made the heat almost unbearable and the stench from the pupæ
was nauseating. My head ached most of the time, and we had to work from
four in the morning until seven at night. Of course, I always wanted to
sleep, and I was lucky that it was a model factory, for the dormitory
was clean, even though there were sixteen of us in each room; and we
were allowed a full _tatami_, a mat six by three, you know, each. But
even there the _futon_ were thin and hard like boards. There had been
sheets once, some of the older girls said, but some had been stolen by
girls leaving the factory, so they had done away with sheets.
"I became just like an animal, only thinking of time to rest. I had
heard how in other factories the girls sometimes got better conditions
by banding together or by complaining. In one of the textile mills the
girls composed a song about the hem of the silk crepe shift of Mrs.
Ohara being dyed crimson with blood from working girls' fingers, and I
thought I would like to make up songs like that, do something to bring
the girls together, but I was too weak to think. Sometimes I was afraid
I might get consumption, as so many of the working girls do, but if we
were sick, they only scolded us and said we were shamming. I was sorry
I had come there, but I couldn't get away till my time was up. That's
what the fence was for. The food was poor, but I didn't mind that so
much, for poor food costs very little, and I had decided to save my
money so when I got out I might go to typewriter school."
Again she paused. She was looking straight at Kent; he could almost
feel her gaze, as were she trying to look into his mind, appraising him.
"You poor, dear girl," he tried to draw her closer. The thought of that
frail, sweet beauty being cooped up in that steaming hell that she had
depicted incensed him, made him want to take her in his arms and hold
her, protect her, comfort her. But she waved him aside impatiently.
"Hugh-san, don't caress me. I am going to tell you something I have
never told any one, and then, Hugh-san, you'll understand why you and
I can never be more than this, just friends. Maybe you won't want to
be even that then, but I'm going to tell you." There was an uncanny
high pitch of excitement in her voice. She was becoming overwrought,
possibly a little hysterical. He tried to quiet her. "No, Sadako-san,
don't think of these things. They are all over now. I don't want to
hear any more about all that. I shall take care of you and protect you."
"But you must hear." He could feel the small hands lying in his clench
tightly as she fought for self-control. She looked straight into his
eyes. "In that factory the Oharas themselves never came, but they had a
banto, a young clerk, who came often to look after the business. Once
when I was so sick that I had not been able to drag myself to work, he
inspected the dormitory and found me alone there. He was very kind. We
talked and we became very friendly. He said he felt sorry for me, that
I was different from the other girls and that he would get me better
work. And he did. I got a job in the office, and gradually things
became better with me. I saw him often then; and, Hugh-san," by an
effort of will she was keeping her gaze straight into his, "I came to
think that I loved him.
"Then one night, it was fine moonlight, and I walked out into the
garden. My work was not so hard, and I didn't have to think of sleep
always. There had been a little party over at the head overseer's
house, and that man, the man I'm telling you about, came back from
there, through the garden. He saw me. He had been drinking sake, but he
was not drunk, and I was always glad to see him, and I ran up to him.
But he just took me in his arms roughly, and pulled me over into the
shadow and forced me down on the ground, and--oh, Hugh-san----" Her
eyes wavered, fell. She threw herself forward, on his shoulder, voice
half-smothered, sobbing. "And I had really loved him. There in that
horrible factory, he had been good to me, and had helped me, and he was
the only one in the world who cared for me, and--and I think that if he
had only held me gently, and spoken softly to me and loved me,--yes,
Hugh-san, I think I should have done anything he wanted. But now I
hated him, even more than I would have hated any other man, and I shall
always hate him.
"And that's one more reason why I shall always hate capital and its
men, and that's why I have made friends with those who feel like I do,
the Socialists, the Communists and all those, the young men in Tokyo,
the labor leaders, the anti-militarists. That's why I finally managed
to get into Viscount Kikuchi's office, so I might learn all I could
about what they are doing, the bureaucrats and the plutocrats--and,
Hugh-san, that's the reason that I can't love you."
"But why, dear girl, why?" He gathered her into his arms. She did not
resist, yet he sensed in her body a sort of stiffness, coldness; the
flood tide of ecstatic emotion had passed. "But, Sadako-san, why should
you waste your future, why place your back on happiness because your
past has been wretched? Don't you care for me at all? Couldn't you love
me just a little if you tried?"
She raised her head, smiled up to him wistfully. "Yes, I think I could
love you, Hugh-san. But I'm not going to. I won't try. Can't you see
how impossible it is. I'm unclean. I'm soiled. Do you think that I
should want to come to you like that?"
He started to answer, but she placed a hand over his mouth. "Please,
Hugh-san, don't talk. Just let us sit like this; yes, hold me, just a
little while." She nestled close up to him, like a tired child, and
he held her, wondering at the unexpected and strange perversities of
women in matters of love, the impossibility of foreseeing or refuting
the baffling obliquities of their reasoning. In old Japan such a mishap
might have been looked upon with the merciful eye of tolerance; and in
new Japan, the complaint of teachers in even the highest girl schools
was that the maidens were babbling sophisticatedly of free love and
the like. These young Japanese obtained their ideas from the oddest
corners of Western modes of thought, from chance-bought or borrowed
books, taking for gospel whatever they happened to absorb, be it from
long antiquated volumes picked up in a Kanda second-hand bookshop or
from the misconstrued conceptions of Western philosophy casually heard
from these fanatic professors and students. But where could she have
gotten this absurd idea that she was soiled, that her value, that
wondrous gift of beauty and charm, had been vitiated, rendered utterly
worthless, like that? At last he asked her, "Sadako-san, how did you
get such a foolish idea like that? Of course, you're good, and sweet,
and pure, and beautiful. You must never think of yourself as soiled,
unclean; it's unhealthy, absurd. Of course, you don't believe such
nonsense."
She answered, a little wearily. "But, of course, I do know, and you
know. I am a Christian."
He almost shook her. "Of all the foolish things! Who ever taught you
Christianity like that?" He tried to argue with her, became voluble.
He was not familiar with intricacies of doctrine, but surely this was
a ridiculously antiquated interpretation of the spirit of Christianity
of to-day, absurd, monstrous. He became voluble, tried to break down
or persuade. And, anyway, what was really Christianity to her? He knew
very well that many of the Japanese Christians were so merely because
it was _haikara_, modern, placed them a little aside from the mob in
the rôle of independent, advanced thinkers. But why should she be like
the rest of the shallow fools?
"Yes, I know what you say is true. There are many Christians like that.
Even my father, who first taught me Christianity, was like that. I know
he really had more confidence in _Nichiren_. But, Hugh-san, I am so
tired. I want to rest. Go in and sleep. I shall sleep here."
The recollection of the two beds in there, side by side, suggestively,
brought his mind to the problem of the moment. "Of course not, dearest.
Go in and rest. I can sleep out here." But she would not have that.
Both grew insistent. It seemed an impasse. Finally he went in and
dragged the two beds apart, one to each end of the long room. Around
hers, designated by the curved wooden headrest designed to support
woman's elaborate coiffure, he built a rampart with the screens.
"And now, Sadako-san, here is a place for you. Can't you trust me?"
She came up to him. "Of course, I trust you." She raised herself on
her toes, placed her hands to his head, pressed her cheek against his,
warm, soft. He moved his arms to clasp her, but she slipped away,
disappeared. He could hear the dropping of her garments to the _tatami_
beyond the barrier of screens.
When he awoke sunlight was filtering in through the paper _shoji_. He
called, "Sadako-san," but there was no answer. He went over to the
screens which guarded her, knocked, called again, but she had gone.
Evidently she had taken the opportunity to go to the bath.
He went out on the veranda, seated himself on the rail, back against
a post, reflecting. What a rack of emotional storm and stress had
suddenly swept upon them, engulfing them, unexpectedly, whirling them
about like straws in a typhoon. So that had been the result of his
carefully planned pure, passion-free relationship; how little man might
control such things. And he had asked her to marry him. Jun-san's words
came to him. What if she had consented? He would then have been tied to
her now, for life. For life, with this Japanese girl! Would happiness
have come of it, not merely the swirling high tide of youthful passion
of the first years, but during the long years, decades, when constant
living together would reduce existence to the humdrum of every day. He
tried to imagine the situation a score of years hence, when she would
be over forty, when the glamor of youth, the sparkle of newness, the
exotic charm of kimono and strange ornaments should have passed away,
when her mode of thought would no longer be fresh and original to him,
but when the oddness of her ideas would have become stale, irritating
even. They might at such time be living in San Francisco, or New York,
or London; he did not intend to live the rest of his life in Japan. How
would life in such places be for them, an elderly-aged American and a
middle-aged Japanese woman? Marriage must have a firmer foundation to
build upon than mere attraction of beauty, spell, fascination of exotic
charm; to last it must depend on the ingredient of intelligence, common
growth of mind, ideals. His first marriage came back into his mind
warningly, and even there chances for endurance of the relation had
been so much stronger. And yet he did love this girl. Were it not for
the appalling thought of the possibility of what coming decades might
bring, he would not hesitate. Could he, for instance, be certain that
he would live but three, or five years longer, he would have insisted,
persuaded, won her by sheer impetuosity of wooing. But---- No, Jun-san
was probably right; did he venture to tie himself to this girl for
life, he would be playing a game of chance with fate with the cards
probably stacked against him. And still he wanted her, craved for her,
would probably be able to overcome her misgivings; but what if he did?
Would not come the time when she might recall to him that she had been
right, that he had brought only unhappiness to her? No, he must give
her up.
"Good-morning, _asenebo-san_, sleepy-head." She had crept up to him
playfully, like a child and stood beside him laughing, radiant, with a
freshness like a flower from the bath. Not a trace of the soul-stirring
emotions of the night before. "Soon we shall have breakfast, and after
lunch we shall go back to Tokyo."
"You forget that the trains may not be running then. Have they had any
news down below?"
"Oh, it will be only a twenty-four hour strike. That was decided. Of
course, they don't know anything, the inn people, but I know." She was
enjoying her superiority of knowledge. "That was decided on some time
ago, only I didn't know it would come so soon. Don't you know that
while workers are allowed to organize unions, the Imperial Railways men
are not allowed to form them, because they are Government employees.
That's just why we wanted this strike, the first real nation-wide
strike, to come from them, just to strike fear into these governing
classes, to show them how powerless they really are. So a lot of
the most important railroad men, engineers and conductors, all over
Japan, wherever we could find them, were organized secretly, and we
trusted that when they struck the others would come along, for they
are all resentful since the Government cut the freight rates and cut
their wages for the benefit of the rich people who own the freight. Of
course, the authorities suspected something, but they couldn't find out
just what was going to happen and when it was going to come off. And
they will punish a lot of the leaders, no doubt. But let them put them
in jail; it will only make us stronger. I'm so glad that this really
happened; we thought it would be almost impossible to bring it through."
How intensely he disliked hearing her talk like this. Who the devil
were these "we"? Why should this beautiful, slender girl be stirring
her white fingers in this mess. These words, the sordid jargon of
class passion and hate, seemed so grotesquely incongruous issuing from
rose-petal child lips that should have been humming the lilting songs
of maidenhood.
"Sadako-san," he could not keep impatience out of his voice, "what the
deuce are you doing in this mess, anyway? Such things are not for girls
like you. It will bring you only unhappiness. Why don't you drop it?"
"I have told you. Some one must do this work. I have no one who cares
for me; and there are many other girls in this, just as in your country
where women do their share. Why shouldn't Japanese women be as brave
and strong as yours?"
Damn this craze after modernity! He wished Japan had never been opened
to the Western civilization, to suffering the pangs of re-birth, the
seething flux of reconstruction that sucked so many lives inexorably
into the maelstrom.
She noticed his frown. "You are angry with me, Hugh-san. Is it because
I didn't tell you about this before?"
"No, I want none of your confidences about all that stuff; I don't want
to hear you talk about it." He snapped his fingers impatiently. Hang it
all!
"Don't be angry, Hugh-san. I was so afraid that this would happen. I
liked you so much. You seemed so honest, and then when I heard the
Viscount lying to you, why, I just couldn't help telling you. I hate
all these militaristic plots, their subtle plans, keeping up to the
letter of their promise, but preparing all the time, in so many ways,
for war, for building up their machine in other ways. And so I told
you. I wanted to do anything to help stopping them, to hurt their
plans. But then, afterwards, I came to think it over. I'm Japanese, and
you're a foreigner. Oh, I trust you, but, after all, had I the right
to go against my own people, my own country? Oh, I thought over it so
long, and sometimes one thing seemed right and sometimes the other,
and I couldn't make up my mind, and I grew afraid; so I decided to say
nothing more till I was sure what was right. Now, don't be angry. I do
trust you, but----" From the floor where she was kneeling she reached
up, grasped his hands, pulled him down towards her. He sensed the
trembling of her tightly clasping fingers, tenseness of her body. She
brought her face close to his, eyes intense, staring into his.
"Hugh-san, if you say that it is right, I'll tell you all that I know.
Anyway, I am afraid that soon I shall not be able to tell much, for I
think that they are watching me, that they will send me from Kikuchi's
office. But I don't care," her voice broke. "Oh, Hugh-san, don't be
angry with me. I'll tell you everything if only you say that it is
right."
Her face had become drawn; the eyes staring into his were bright with
luminous tears. It was as if he could feel on himself infection of
quivering approach of hysteria. He shook himself together. By the
gods, he'd have no more of these high-pitched, feverish scenes with
their trembling reactions. He wanted no news at such a cost. The girl,
this poor, fanatical flower-like thing, frantic under her visionary
obsessions, she was the only thing that mattered now.
He rose, lifted her and carried her high in his arms up and down the
length of the great room. "You dear baby," he rocked her back and forth
soothingly. "You dear pretty little baby. 'Rock-a-by baby in the tree
top.' That's how we sing to naughty little babies in my country." She
had struggled a moment when he picked her up, surprised, frightened,
but now she lay quiet; the tremble had left her, the flicker of
overwrought excitation in her eyes had given place to wonder; her body
relaxed, a wistful smile crept over her lips. "But, Hugh-san, I'm not a
baby, don't----"
"Keep quiet, you're only a baby, my baby, cry-baby. Listen, 'When the
wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the wind blows, the cradle will
fall, and,'" he gave her a great swing, "'down comes baby, cradle and
all.'"
He tumbled her into the nest of soft silk _futon_. She lay there,
laughing. "Oh, but you are silly, Hugh-san. I had never thought that
you could be like that. And what a funny song. Sing me some more like
that, and tell me what they mean."
He was overjoyed that the remedy had been so potent. He would have
her all right in a jiffy. Out of his almost forgotten store of Mother
Goose rimes he conjured the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe, the Ride
a Cock Horse, and others; he remembered the fairy tales which had
delighted Kimiko-san and brought them to bear. But she liked the songs
best, insisted on his singing an odd potpourri of nursery nonsense
transformed into labored Japanese. The maid coming with breakfast found
them in high spirits.
After the meal, they went for a walk through the village. There they
heard the news; the trains would be running that afternoon. "I told you
so," triumphed Sadako-san, but he turned her attention to a bent-backed
crone who, he insisted, was the living image of the Old Woman in the
Shoe. He wanted no more of the other. At luncheon they had more nursery
entertainment. She was as happy, as eagerly receptive as a young bird
stretching out its beak clamorous for ever more food. It was wholly
delightful. Why could she not always be like that, this entrancing,
absurd girl revolutionist who could be enticed in a moment from Karl
Marx to Mother Goose?
They left for Tokyo in the afternoon, but the trains were crowded and
there was opportunity for only commonplace talk. From the Tokyo station
they walked towards Kanda-bashi. Seriousness had returned to her; she
said very little. "Kent-san, you have been very, very good to me. I
shall never forget it; and, I shall never forget you. And you won't
forget me, will you, not altogether?"
"But what are you talking about, Sadako-san? I shall see you again
often, as usual." He took her hand, but she was looking away from him,
over her shoulder. She pulled her hand away quickly. He followed her
gaze. In the shadow of the buildings on the other side of the street
he detected a slinking figure, indefinite, sinister in its stealthy
movement.
She turned to him. "So you can see yourself now, Hugh-san. It was just
as I thought. That man over there, he has been following me before.
I knew this must come sooner or later. No, come on, walk quietly. It
can't be helped." They reached the bridge. She took his hand, held it
between her slim fingers, gripping it tightly. "Good-by, Hugh-san. You
have been too good to me. How I wish---- I shall never forget how good
you have been. And don't forget me, Hugh-san--dear."
She pressed his hand again, turned, and disappeared in the shadows
on the other side of the bridge. From the other sidewalk the dark
form of the spy was watching. The swine! What filthy curs they were,
these masters of armies and battleships, to pester and harry a slight,
frail thing like this girl! He started for home and turned down a
side street. Suddenly he wheeled about. Yes, the fellow was following
him, inexpertly, but doggedly. Well, he would show the brute that
shadowing a man, a foreigner, was not such an easy game as badgering
a girl. Abruptly he stepped into the dark shadow of a narrow alley,
waited, fist clenched. What if he were a policeman; of course, trouble
might follow, but he would at least give him the drubbing of his life,
the swine! He waited, bent forward for assault, strangely elated,
expectant. But the minutes passed; he peered out. The fellow was not in
sight. Kent stepped out from the alley. No, he had disappeared. He had
smelt a rat, the damned coward!
Whew, what a day, and what a night! What a grotesque bedlam this was
becoming to be, this Japan in transition that he had begun to pry into,
this monstrous anamorphosis where the rare quaintness and daintiness
of feudal richness of thought and beauty were anachronistically
intermingled with the crass, clamorous ugliness of riotous, strident
cry, uneasy, hectic pulsing of dissatisfaction, hating mob thought. And
then this girl; she was like a flower ground in the relentless wheels
of some gigantic, pitiless machine--and he couldn't drag her out. What
a price Japan was paying for her modernism, with the fair, sweet souls
of girlhood tattered and wasted as a part of the sacrifice. This, then,
was the end of this relationship that he had hoped so much from. The
premonition was uncanny, overwhelming; he could not ward it off. This,
then, was the end.