University of Virginia Library

1. Chapter I

It was a humid, sultry day in the Season of Little Plenty. In the house of Captain Taganouchi, complete comfort was found on the upper floor of the house, an immense chamber, from which, by order of the master, all the walls had been removed, making of it an open pavilion.

Here the honored American guest of the family had spent the entire day, too indolent to venture down from his pleasant quarters. Here were hammocks, pillows, refreshments, and the inevitable tobacco-bon. Papers and magazines were scattered in disorder about the apartment, to the constant distress of the waiting maids, who hovered curiously about the room's tenant throughout the entire afternoon.

He was lying, stretched full length in a commodious hammock. For some time, however, neither pipe nor paper had occupied him. The former had gone out, and had been set down absently upon the immaculate floor, where its ash distributed itself. The newspaper, a highly colored, illustrated American sheet, lay in disorder everywhere about the room.

Seeking lazily in his mind for something to take its place, his eye had by chance stopped in its wandering and paused to stay intently fixed on the little house across the street.

It was a small, unassuming cottage, built precisely the same as the house on the adjoining lot. Indeed, both little houses seemed, curiously enough, to bear a relation to each other, and similar events seemed to be taking place in each.

In the house directly across the street, a young girl and an old woman were, unaided by servants, taking down the screens and converting the floor into an open pavilion like his own. In the adjoining house, a number of children assisted each other in sliding the screens into their grooves. This done, they ran out onto the balcony, to peer into the house next door, calling to the young girl. She paused in her work, as if to go to them, but dropped her head meekly at something the old woman said to her. The latter went out on the balcony and spoke to the children. They fled in-

doors, affrighted by her angry face and acid tongue. Meanwhile, the young girl, on her knees, was listlessly arranging flowers, and the old woman brought andons into the room and hung lanterns over the balconies. The two worked in silence, and when the old woman finished her task she left the room, still without speaking to her young companion.

Once alone, the girl came out onto the little balcony; and slipping to her knees, she remained with her face upraised for a long time, like one in an attitude of prayer. Her pose interested Jamison Tyrrell to such an extent that he sat up and leaned over to watch her intently.

It was twilight now, but the very gray of the evening seemed to bring out clearer the rapt, lovely face of the girl. Her hands were clasped about her neck, her large, appealing eyes were suffused with tears. For some time she remained in this strange, unmoving position, unconscious of the one who watched her across the way. But she started into sudden, almost painful, life at the return of the old woman, who apparently scolded the girl for her indolence. Mechanically she went about the lighting of the lanterns. Soon the apartment was brilliantly illuminated, and from the darkened chamber of the man across the street seemed to show more clearly its pitiful attempt at adornment. The adjoining house was illuminated in the same way, and just before the darkness came there was a feeble beat of drum somewhere in the little house, and then something flew up gayly from the roofs of both of the houses. Tyrrell, in his interest, went out onto his own balcony. Two flags shook themselves in the breeze and flew bravely from the tops of the flagpoles.

His host came into the room and joined him on the balcony.

“Ah,” said he, with pride, “I perceive

you are enjoying our sunset. Is it not most glorious? Confess, have you truly ever seen as lovely a sight in an American sky?”

His friend turned abruptly.

“What is going on over there?” he asked, pointing with his glasses to the twin illuminated houses.

“My dear fellow,” said the suave Japanese, “do you not yet know the proud symbol the poor people of our country show when one of their family goes to war?”

“No.”

“Those flags mean that the families across the street are giving up one of their members to the war service. They are the humble homes of Japanese soldiers.”

“I see. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“I saw a young girl only a few minutes since, over there. She was in trouble--crying--and praying.”

“So? Japanese women do not weep at such a time,” remarked the Japanese somewhat stiffly.

“She seemed a child--not more than fifteen, I should say. Certainly not a woman.”

“You must mean O-Haru-no. She is even younger than that- -fourteen years. She should not weep to-night, but be very happy.”

“Why?”

“To-night she marries Yamada Omi, the son of her late father's friend. They live in the adjoining house. He is one of my men, and goes with us to-night.”

“The night of his wedding! Extraordinary!”

“Not at all. He is a good boy. The marriage has my personal sanction, in fact. His people besought me to attend it, but that's impossible on this busy night. Besides, I wish to spend my last hours with you, my very good friend.”

“Tell me something about the young people over there. I'm extraordinarily interested in them.”

“Well, there's little to tell. Theirs is a common story. Affianced by their parents in infancy, they have grown up together, almost as brother and sister. They are both very poor, though not illiterate. Indeed, their fathers served as ashigaru (sword-men) before the Restoration, and were in the service of my father, the prince of this province. But, of course, conditions changed for them, as for us; the kugé (nobles), and the ashigaru were obliged to go into trade or do menial labor. Omi lost his father a couple of years ago, and within a month the father of O-Haru- no followed his old comrade. Since then, Omi has been obliged to support himself as well as his mother. It was his ambition to be a teacher, but, unfortunately, he was not able to pursue his studies, and was obliged to take up his father's employment of rice picker. Out of his poor earnings he has been able to save nothing. Now his country demands his service. Some one must take his place and care for his mother. That is the chief reason why he marries to-night.”

“I should think a wife would be but another burden to him,” said Tyrrell, mystified.

“Not at all,” said the Japanese, softly smoothing his silky little mustache, his little bright eyes unusually hard and unreadable. “O-Haru-no is very young and healthy-- moreover, charmingly attractive.”

“You mean, she will work to support her mother-in-law?”

“Work--yes, if she can. As I have said, however, she is very pretty. She may be sent to--Tokyo--or perhaps Yokohama.”

Captain Taganouchi frowned a trifle, as though he did not like the subject, but his friend pursued it eagerly.

“What for?”

“We-ll--beauty finds a market there in the tea-house and the geisha house, and, lastly, in the Yoshiwara!”

“Horrible!”

“It is,” admitted the Japanese curtly. He did not enjoy revealing even the slightest of the weaknesses of his country to a foreigner, even though his best friend.

“Can nothing be done to save that child from such a fate?”

“Nothing.” There was the least ring of impatience in the usually polite tones of the Japanese. “There's nothing unusual about it, my dear fellow. Her people can spare her, for, though poor, they have some slight competence, which is more than the boy's family are pos-

sessed of. Had not the war come, she would probably have married and been happy with Omi. I believe she shared his hopes and ambitions. But, as it is, something more is demanded of her now, as it is indeed of all loyal Japanese.”

“But what about her family? Do they willingly sacrifice her to such a fate?”

“Her parents, I have already told you, are dead. She has a step-mother, who has five daughters of her own, all younger than O-Haru-no. There is no son in the family. Now they were unable, therefore, to give anything to the Emperor, neither father, son nor even grandsire. You can imagine with what pride they now put up the flag of honor upon their roof. By this marriage they obtain a son--a most honorable soldier, and him they give to the Emperor.” And the Captain piously saluted at the name.

Jamison Tyrrell turned his back upon the little lighted houses.

“Do you mean to tell me they are deliberately selling her to a life of shame, because of some ambiguous honor that may come to them by her marriage to a soldier?”

“You do not put it correctly,” said his friend patiently. “In the first place, she has been betrothed to Omi since infancy. Her mother, who is dead, betrothed them with almost her last breath. She would have married Omi in any event. How much more proudly, then, when he goes to service of his Emperor!” And again Taganouchi solemnly saluted. Drawing himself up stiffly and proudly, he resumed: “And as for the Yoshiwara, that is not a certain thing. It is for her mother-in-law later to determine.”

“Her mother-in-law! She has the power to sell--?”

“No, no,” interrupted Taganouchi hastily. “You jump to conclusions. She has not the power to sell her daughter, but, of course, the latter is bound to respect her slightest wish or desire. The obedience of Japanese daughters-in-law is proverbial, as you know,” he added with distinct pride.

“Then it amounts to this: That little girl's fate is entirely in the hands of that wicked-looking, scolding old woman I've been watching across the way.”

He made an expressive motion with his hands, and his young brows drew together gloomily.

“Well,” coolly said the Japanese, “after all, O-Haru- no's lot is a common one for girls of her class. And consider, it is not esteemed so dreadful a disgrace in Japan as other countries. It is quite possible even for a girl to return from the Yoshiwara and be received, and even respected by her family and friends. That is some compensation, is it not?”

“It's things like that,” said Tyrrell bitterly, “that make me pessimistic about Japan, much as I admire the country. All that, you must know, Taggy, is fundamentally and most damnably immoral--or rather unmoral. And Japan cannot hope to hold a place among civilized nations until she does cease to barter and sell her women like cattle.”

At this Taganouchi bridled, and a flush darkened his fine face, as he pulled nervously at his little silky mustache.

“You do not understand our viewpoint,” he said. “Is it any more immoral for a parent to receive back into his house a daughter who has lived such a life of shame, than to turn her from the door as is done in your country?”

“That's beside the question,” said the American quickly, “for the Japanese parent is a party to the girl's shame at the outset, while the American and European parent never is--nor in the end can be reconciled. As sure as I believe in the integrity of Japan, so I know, Taganouchi, that before she is recognized as really civilized by the Western nations, she must rid herself of her national immorality.”

“Morality,” said the Japanese sharply, “is not a matter of nations, my dear fellow, but of individuals.”

“The individual,” said the American earnestly, “follows the code set by society; you'll admit that?”

“Oh, I'll admit anything,” said the Japanese wearily. “Suppose the condition is wrong. Well, we cannot in a day emancipate creatures who have been held in subservience practically for centuries. Our women to-day enjoy greater freedom and respect than any other Oriental women. Even now, the tragedy across the street is enacted only among the lower or very poor classes.”

“But you are not poor or of a low class,” persisted the American sternly, “and you are this boy's captain. Yet you say you personally gave your sanction to the marriage!”

“Certainly. To the marriage--to nothing else. I merely surmise, or rather guess the outcome of such a union. What is more, we must have our soldiers--and, even as it is, personally I prefer to see the older women provided for. You know in Japan, we always think first of the aged. But look, they are getting all ready for the ceremony. Have you ever seen a Japanese marriage?”

“No, and I don't want to see this one,” said his friend, almost angrily.

He strode indoors, and stood moodily in the darkened room. Taganouchi followed him, and placed a familiar, affectionate hand upon his arm.

“Inside of two hours we will go, my friend,” he said. “It is impossible for me to tell you how much I appreciate your coming to see me off. You are the only one of my American college friends I truly--” He paused, and his eye met Tyrrell's softly. “--love,” he added gently.

It was the first time Taganouchi had ever permitted himself a show of emotion. At another time, it would at least have instantly aroused his friend's interest, if not his warm reciprocation. But now, the words seemed hardly to have a meaning for him.

“Look here, old man,” he pleaded. “Let's do something for that little girl across the street.”

Taganouchi drew himself up stiffly. His face had become mask-like and impassive again. His little black eyes had an almost forbidding expression.

“I can do nothing. We leave in--”

“Yes, I know, I know. But you are rich. Pay this boy a sufficient sum to send her and his mother in case they should come to want.”

A dull red darkened the cheek-bones of the Japanese captain. His eyes flashed with some inward zeal that stirred him.

` “Whatever money I possess at this moment is at the service of my beloved Emperor. It is not mine. I am his soldier and his servant.” Then, as his friend's face revealed his bitter disappointment, Taganouchi added quietly, “Besides, it would not be right for me to show favoritism. I have already sent a wedding gift. That is all expected of me at this time.”

A depressing silence fell between them, broken by the silken voice of the Japanese.

“My friend, you permit yourself too much emotion for others. It is not good for you. Forget the little insignificant pair across the street. She, in all probability, is very happy. Her husband of an hour she will gladly resign to the service of her Emperor. There is not a woman in Japan who would not willingly do likewise. She may not need to go to Tokyo. Who knows? She may find employment here. Forget her, I beg of you.”

“Well, I will--if I can,” said the American reluctantly. “Her face made a curious impression upon me. I could not see it clearly in the half light, and probably at such a distance it appeared etherealized. Yet it seemed to me to be the pure and perfect face of a child tortured. However--”

His host ordered lights, and a meal served, and soon the pair were talking of the war subject, as they dined. The story of the child across the street might have been entirely put from the mind of the American, but for two reasons. The discordant strains of an entertaining samisen[1] and its accompanying drum kept constantly twanging throughout the evening, and every time his eye wandered in the direction of the lighted houses, he seemed to see again the kneeling girl upon the balcony, her small, white face raised, as if, in agony, she prayed.