Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

_At the Emperor’s Wish_
_A Tale of the New Japan_

_By
Oscar King Davis_

_D. Appleton and Company_
_New York_
_1905_]

COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

_Published October, 1905_]

TO THE REAL SOICHIS

_Who, by tens and hundreds of thousands, from all the
corners of Dai Nippon, great and small, shizoku
and heimin, with a simplicity, a courage and a
faith that may well stand as models for all
the world, and a passion of loyalty passing
occidental understanding, await
only the occasion to demonstrate
their glad, unselfish
readiness to meet the
Emperor’s Wish_

O. K. D.

_List of Illustrations_

FACING PAGE

She was wonderfully beautiful _Frontispiece_

Hurled the Samurai boy bodily over his head 44

He saw dimly a dark figure 120

“Banzai!” 140

_At the Emperor’s Wish_

I

Far out toward the end of Lower Timber Street, where incurious visitors to the city seldom stray, stands the house of Kudo Jukichi. It is called Lower Timber Street, the Upper end being down in the city where once the stout castle of the Lord of the Clan was the center of all the life of the place. But the name is falsely descriptive, for it leads straight up to the beautiful hills, and ends abruptly in a sheer climb to the top of the pine-clad cone where nestles a famous old Shinto shrine. The narrow path that winds up the steep hillside has been beaten smooth by thousands of pious feet. Below, curving down in gentle slopes, the verdure-covered hills ring in the town, and beyond the billowing roofs of blue-gray thatch and tile stretches the shining, island-dotted sea, warm and soft in the enormous blaze of summer.

To the casual observer there is nothing about the house of Kudo Jukichi to indicate the quality of those who dwell within. A dilapidated fence of split bamboos, that once was tall and fine, partly conceals the weather-beaten little structure and partly reveals it, with the tantalizing indistinctness of a veil over a beautiful face. If a curious stranger should stop and peer through the lattice-like breaks in the fence he would gaze upon wood-work grown soft and gray with age and the flagellation of rains. Even the tiles of the roof, laid with a care cognizant of earthquake and bitter storm, seem to have lost patience and outgrown their pride, and now to await only the semblance of opportunity to loose their hold and slide down. The shrubs along the narrow path that leads from the gate are all unkempt and ragged, and the lone plum-tree that stands like the ghost of a garden sentinel in the corner of the tiny yard, touched by the general air of decay, struggles fitfully in the raw, cloudy days of spring to send forth here and there a spiritless blossom. One must be to the manner born, or carefully instructed, to detect, from the many signs of ruin all about, the single indication of the state of the householder. Such an one, perhaps, searching closely under the warped roof of the gateway, might find and read the cedar ticket which proclaims, according to law, to any who trouble to stop and read, that in this house of little ease lives Kudo Jukichi, a Gentleman of the Empire.

Kudo Jukichi, Gentleman! In the first year of Meiji, when he fought for the restoration of the young Emperor to the power that rightfully belonged to the Throne, he wore the two swords of a Samurai. But that was long ago. Kudo-san is an old man now, and thick gray hair covers the head where once rose the shining black topknot of a warrior. He sits on the soft mats of his little room with a book, or his pipe, and often falls to dreaming of the years of his youth, of the stirring events that threw down the old established order and brought the Emperor again to his own. And if sometimes there comes to him a twinge of sentimental regret for the lost ways of life of the old régime, it is but natural. It has not been easy for Kudo-san to accept many of the changes that came with the new Western thought. His was not the cast of mind that accommodates itself readily to novel sensations and experiences. Only his passionate loyalty and devotion to the Emperor enabled him to smother the feeling of opposition within him, a feeling purely personal and selfish, in his Japanese conception, and therefore not entitled to much consideration. Loyalty with him was something more than a mere sense of duty. It was instinctive, from the heart, the very essence of his nature, and because of it he bore without complaint the heavy blows the new order dealt him.

The abolition of feudalism left him helpless, a dependant with none on whom to depend. But the reorganization of the army, and the promotion of the outcast Etas to citizenship and the proud opportunity of military service dazed him. The distinctive privilege of Samuraihood, the right to bear arms, was destroyed, and after that nothing worse could befall. The capitalization of his hereditary income followed as a matter of course, and he accepted with uncomprehending bewilderment the bonds given him by the government he was no longer to serve. The fabric of his life was crumbling and he was powerless to stay its ruin. With hands clasped before him and head reverently bowed he stood in front of his little shrine and solemnly communed with the shades of the Kudos gone before. It was a new situation, and doubtful if they could understand. But one thing he knew, and in gentle voice, with unshaken faith, he announced it.

“It is the Emperor’s wish!”

Fate dealt neither vigorously nor kindly with Kudo. It let him drift. While his bonds ran their income was sufficient for all his needs, but when the time of their redemption came he looked in dismay at the heap of money they brought him. Nothing in all his experience told him what to do with it. Skillfully invested, it would have furnished ample return, but investment was a science utterly beneath the contempt of a Samurai. It was the business of merchants and traders, the men who devoted their lives to the despicable profession of gaining money. He took his fortune home, from the bank where it had been paid to him, wrapped up in a blue cotton bundle-kerchief, and gave it to his wife with the unconcern of complete scorn. He knew that that bundle alone stood between him and necessity, but he did not care. He lived contentedly on his little capital, nor ever let an anxious thought cross his mind because of its constant decrease.

II

Scarce two hundred yards distant from the house of Kudo Jukichi, around the corner in Azalea Street, there is a most striking evidence of the change the new Western life has brought to the Island Empire. The little shingle at the gate duly sets forth that Mr. Kutami Chobei, a Commoner, occupies that comfortable dwelling, but all the city knows it as the home of Chobei, the Eta. Prosperity radiates from the substantial house and wide grounds with their pleasant garden, and all the place is enfolded in its ample mantle. What cares the Commoner Kutami that his humble station is placarded over his hospitable doorway? But a handbreadth back in the space of years even that poor title seemed a measure of hopeless distinction to him. In the yesterday when neighbor Kudo wore the haughty swords of a Samurai his weapon would have leaped from its scornful scabbard if Chobei the Eta had dared pollute his presence. It was a great advance to be one of the multitude in the oblivion of the Commoners instead of one of the marked few of the Etas, despised, outcast, living apart from all his fellows except the unfortunates of his class. It had been a bitter life for Chobei, for although his sheer force of will had made him Chief of his village, a man of distinction among his own, that very strength of character made only more keen and poignant the disgrace of his position. The wealth he had accumulated in his business of tanner had little pleasure to give him, and it was the business itself, inherited from his fathers, generation after generation, that made him an Eta. That great stroke of the Emperor’s which had shaken off the shackles of his caste restored him to manhood, and he blessed the fate that had brought the Western ideas to Japan and had set noble and Samurai and outcast all equal before the law, face to face together with the problems of individual responsibilities and rewards.

Money is not yet everything in Japan, however rapidly its power may be advancing. But it is something to the Commoner and it was little better than nothing to the Eta. Kutami was proud of himself, in an humble way; proud that he had something to do with when opportunity to do came to him. More than all he was proud of the new nation, and loyal to it with the last drop of his blood. He was no soldier, but he did his part when the forces of the Empire went over sea to meet the armies of the Chinese in Korea and Manchuria. The business of his outcast days had grown with great strides under the incentive of his new ambition, and from being merely a tanner and dealer in leather he had become as well a manufacturer of boots and shoes. Now it was that the money he had won furnished the means of making return to the nation, and thousands of soldiers marched and fought in the boots Kutami the Commoner gave to his country.

There was no thought in Kutami’s heart of anything but loyalty and gratitude to his Emperor in this, but there was a result he did not foresee. Kudo Jukichi had been shaken out of his retirement by the war. All the old fire was revived in him, and his heart was heavy because he was neither able to offer service himself nor was his son old enough to take a soldier’s part. In spite of the fact that they had lived for years at so little distance from each other, for Kudo it was as if Kutami had never existed. For though he might admit that there was advantage to the nation in some of the great changes of his later years, Jukichi was still at heart the Samurai of the old régime, and to him Chobei was still an Eta. But the gift of the boots touched his heart.

“Some men are called Samurai in name, but are outcasts at heart,” he thought. “That man was called outcast but has acted like a Samurai.”

Straightway he put on his finest silk kimono and stalking out of his gate turned the corner into Azalea Street. There was a flutter of excitement in the house of the Commoner when it was known that Kudo Jukichi had come to call. This was an honor that had been beyond their dreams. For, although there had never been a word between the two families, well the Commoners knew their gentle neighbors, and it was not without a secret sympathy that Chobei had noticed the evidence of hard and harder fortune which increasing days brought to the Samurai. The situation of the Kudos had become, indeed, very much straitened. Jukichi had contrived to sell a few of the treasures of art that had been for generations in the family. But his was no nature for bargaining, and kakemono and vases that were priceless to genuine collectors had gone for the song the first unscrupulous dealer had offered. Valiant soldier and skillful swordsman that he had been, the Samurai was inept in the rough-and-tumble scramble for existence, and Chobei gladly would have made his sympathy practical if he had but known how.

It was truly a wonderful event for the Commoner when Jukichi voluntarily came to visit him. O-Koyo, his wife, herself fluttered into the room where the distinguished guest was sitting on the soft, white mat, and brought him tea, that fine long leaf with the heavy flavor of the straw mats that had kept it always from the sun, so delightful to the taste of the Japanese connoisseur. Though it was the house of a man possessed of much wealth, there was no display of riches, except in the exquisite fineness of the wood, the beautiful grain carefully brought out in the soft polish and matched with an evenness and skill that betokened unusual pains and thought. In the alcove of the room where Jukichi sat hung a single old kakemono of rare merit, and the signature that caught his eye told him at once of its great value. Beneath it stood a vase of the famous ware that had long distinguished the old artists of his clan, and in it a single spray of blossoms. It was in perfect taste, and the old Samurai, as he sat down, felt a little glow of satisfaction, as if he had come back at last to the realities of the days before the inrush of Western innovation had done so much to cheapen and make vulgar all that it touched of the island art.

The simple directness of his character had not been changed by his years of vicissitude. The formalities of greeting were hardly ended when Jukichi plunged into the matter that had brought about his visit.

“I have heard,” he said, “that you have made a great gift to the army.”

A deprecatory smile crossed the face of the Commoner and he bowed very low.

“Ah, it was nothing,” he replied, politely belittling what he had done. “It was only a few boots for the soldiers, who are worthy of very much more than one so humble as I can do for them.”

“Nevertheless it is a fine thing to do,” declared Jukichi, and for an instant there flashed in his eyes something of the old fire. “It is a fine thing for one who is not a soldier to give so much to the army.”

Again Kutami bowed very low, and softly protested the trifling character of his act.

“I have heard that it was an entire division that you supplied,” continued Jukichi. “I congratulate you. It is a very fortunate thing to be able to do so much for the Emperor.”

Lower than ever Kutami bowed and for some time his head remained bent forward. At length he raised it and looked the old Samurai in the face.

“It was nothing at all,” he said in a low voice, “nothing at all. And the Emperor has done everything for me.”

He wondered what Jukichi would do or say to such direct reference to his former condition, but loyalty knew no finer quality in the heart of the Samurai than it found in the breast of the Commoner, and though he insulted his honored guest, or died for it on the instant, Kutami would not have withheld that acknowledgment to his Sovereign. And in making it he touched the deepest chord in the Samurai’s nature.

“I cannot be a soldier myself,” the Commoner went on, after a little, “and my son is not old enough to take my place. But the Empire has given me a great deal, and I am very glad that I can give a little something to the sons of others who offer their lives for it.”

“I, too, cannot be a soldier now,” said Jukichi slowly, after a pause, “although in other years it was my duty and my privilege. And I, too, have a son too young to be of service in this war. But he shall be a soldier some day, and, if Heaven please, an officer of the Emperor.”

The ring of the old clan pride was in the voice and the eyes flashed as if the father already saw the boy leading his men in the swinging charge.

“You are indeed fortunate,” said Kutami gravely; “it is a great honor to have such a son, and it is but fitting that the son of such a father should become an officer.” Again the deprecatory smile crossed his face as he continued: “But it is not for my son to think of so glorious a future. He shall do his duty when the time comes, and serve his country as best he can, but after that I am afraid we could not hope to attain such honor as it would be to have him continue in the army.”

It was Jukichi’s turn to bow and smile in deprecation. Then he rose to take his leave, and when Kutami had thanked him for the great honor he had conferred upon that poor house, he went away with a satisfaction in his heart he did not attempt to explain.

III

Jukichi’s son was a fine, sturdy lad who already in the public school was laying a solid foundation for the technical training which later was to fit him for an army career. He did not belie his inheritance. His military instinct manifested itself in the ease with which he excelled his mates in the martial exercises that formed part of his school duties. Often, too, it was revealed in his proud bearing toward his fellows. Ambition found large room in his small breast, and it was his determination to rival and even excel the exploits and skill of that great ancestor, Kokan, whose name he bore. Jukichi had begun his instruction in swordsmanship early, and often the old Masamune blade, that had been the pride of the Kudos for generations, was brought out to take its part in the lessons. At fourteen Kokan was captain of a company of his schoolmates, and the stuff that was in him showed in his grief that his years unfitted him to bear a soldier’s part in the war with China.

But the disappointment did not warp him. Rather it tended to confirm his ambition. And if he had needed a spur he would have found it in the boundless pride in him displayed by his sister, who was the playfellow of his home. O-Mitsu-san was four years his junior. As long as she could remember, from the days when she first toddled out into the yard on her small _getas_, and robed in the wonderful kimono, gay with bright butterflies, the days of her life had been devoted to adoration of her brother. To her he was everything that was fine and noble, and his imperious spirit received as its just due the deferential homage she paid to his years and his sex. She was little more than a baby, in the Western conception, when O-Haru, the gentle mother, went away on the long journey to the Meido and left the house of Jukichi desolate, and it fell to her to take her mother’s place in the management of the household and the anxious care of the slender, steadily diminishing means of support.

“Though the eagle be starving, yet will he not eat grain,” say the Japanese, and Jukichi fulfilled the saying. No one saw better than he the inevitable end of the course he was pursuing. No one felt more than he the need of doing something to secure an income. Kokan would soon finish with the public schools, and before he would be sufficiently far advanced to enter one of the Local Military Preparatory Schools he must have some years of higher instruction, which no school in the city was fitted to give. The only means of possible relief that presented itself to Jukichi’s prejudiced view was some sort of trade, a vile bargaining and selling for the sake of gaining the money which all his life he had despised. Moreover, he knew that he was unfitted by training as well as by nature for such work. The simple honesty of the old soldier, to whom death was a small price to pay for honor, was no match for the unscrupulous cleverness of men whose native sharpness had been developed by years of practice in a profession from which nothing else was expected. And so Jukichi drifted on.

Between O-Haru and Jukichi there had existed a serene sweetness and depth of love such as seems impossible to the Western world, unused to the Japanese way, where marriages are so often matters of arrangement rather than sentiment. Perhaps it was the recollection of what she had been to him, and the profound sense of his loss, that kept Jukichi a widower. But the death of her mother brought some recompense to the little girl in the transfer to her of much of the calm and confident affection which had been O-Haru’s happiness. More and more her father grew to depend on her in many matters in which he had followed the guidance of her mother, and there developed in her a judgment and self-reliance not often found in one of her years. While yet a child in age she was a woman in character. Not much of her time was spent in school, yet her instruction was not scanty for a Japanese girl. Most of it had been given by her father, whose mode of life left him ample leisure for her lessons. She read well and she had the books of the _Bunko_ that had been her mother’s. Of this “Japanese Lady’s Library” she was diligently studious, and already had attained familiarity with “Woman’s Household Instruction,” and the “Lesser Learning for Woman,” and was intent upon the main part of the work, the profound “Greater Learning.” Besides, she knew the “Hundred Poems,” and often joined with her father and brother in an evening game of quotations. There was little interruption of the quiet current of the family life, and Jukichi loved to put aside pipe or book, when no visitor had come, and play thus with his children. But neither he nor Kokan ever gave a thought to the future of the girl, or noticed the promise she gave of beautiful womanhood.

She was a lonely child for one so bright and winning. Her friends were very few, not because of her condition, for poverty is all too common in Japan to be disgraceful, and many families of great rank have known its bitter pinch. It was rather because of a gentle, instinctive shyness that made her recoil from the often boisterous gayety of her schoolmates. But one there was who held large place in her childish esteem. It was a friendship that began with her schooling. Her father had taken her to the school that first day, for Kokan had finished the primary grades and went to a different school in another part of the city. The master was a large, stern man, with solemn, forbidding face, and O-Mitsu-san was filled with fear. He took her into a great barren room, filled with hard, high benches where sat a multitude of other little boys and girls. He showed her a bench and told her to sit down, and when she took her place, the other children looked at her and whispered together and laughed. She was frightened, and presently, when the master, with a big whip in his hand, called her name in a loud voice, she put her head down on her hands and sobbed with fear. Then the other children laughed more and the master commanded silence in a voice that terrified her. She was very miserable and wished only to get away from that dreadful place and to go home again. By and by a bell rang, and all the children stood up and went out. But one little boy came to her and said shyly:

“Don’t cry, little girl. Come and play.”

After a time, when she had ceased to sob, she looked up into his round face and said:

“What is your name, boy?”

The boy smiled and answered:

“Soichi. Come and play.”

Then they went out and played, and by and by, when it was time to go home, the little boy walked along with her and she was glad. His home was just around the corner from hers, in the fine big house in Azalea Street. He was a funny boy, for he asked her not to tell her father that she had played with him, or that he had walked part way home with her. When she asked him why, he would not tell, but said that some day she would find out, and that would be time enough to tell if she wanted to. Poor little Soichi! Already the boy was learning the hard lesson that old disgrace, however unmerited, cannot be put aside lightly, even by law, and the wise young head knew that the child of the Eta was no playmate, in his world’s eyes, for the daughter of a Samurai.

O-Mitsu cared not at all then. She knew only that he had been kind to her in her wretchedness, and she liked him loyally for that, and loyally, too, she kept her promise not to tell. So they met at school and played, sometimes with other children but often by themselves. Thus several happy months went by and then O-Mitsu got her first great lesson in the new life of the nation. She found out about Soichi. There were plenty of children to tell when it seemed there was a chance of causing pain, for the Japanese child has no less a barbarian heart than many who live in the Western world. The little girl was greatly troubled. She liked the boy and enjoyed the games with him. But the daughter of a Samurai knew her position. She had learned now that the stern looks of the master masked a kindly heart, and her first fear of him was gone. To him she went in her perplexity.

“Why is it,” she asked, “that the Eta boy comes to this school? Are not Etas outcasts?”

The wise teacher smiled gently and said:

“That was true, O-Mitsu-san, but it is not so now. Did you not know that the Emperor has promoted them, and given them the same rights as all the rest of us?”

“Then are they like us now?” she asked.

“Yes, child,” replied the teacher softly, for he, too, was a Samurai and knew what was in the heart of his little questioner, “and because it is the Emperor’s will they must no longer be treated as they were.”

“I am glad,” said O-Mitsu shortly, and went out into the yard to join the game in which Soichi had a part.

But when school was over and Soichi was walking toward home with her she kept silent for a long time. At length, raising her eyes and looking at him, she said:

“I know why now, Soichi.”

At once the boy stopped. The training of bitter experience prepared him to hear her proudly scornful decision. But when she was silent he dared at length to ask:

“Why do you not say it?”

But she smiled and answered:

“I do not care, and I will not tell. Teacher says it is right because the Emperor did it. Come, let us go home.”

IV

Kutami the Commoner was fat and jolly. He lived well and put trouble behind him whenever it showed its ugly head. He liked to talk and smoke and visit with the friends who came often to his comfortable house to enjoy his hospitality. For though among the Samurai and the gently born the old prejudice against the Etas was far from extinction, among the Commoners there was little inclination to supercilious remembrance, especially when one had been so successful as Kutami. The visit of Jukichi to his house had had a marked effect. Often since that memorable afternoon the wagging tongues of Kutami’s friends had discussed the proud old man and his hard situation. Many a suggestion was made as to how it might be improved, but none which it seemed likely he would accept. The generous impulses of his admirers were barred by the stubborn pride they were not willing to encounter.

Life in many of its details is not so different in Japanese cities to what it is in the Western world. Neighbors gossip just the same, and pry out secrets and imagine motives just as they do among Occidentals, and just as often hit the mark. They knew Jukichi’s ambition for Kokan, and how more and more doubtful of fulfillment it was becoming.

“How foolish he is!” said Komatsu, the cloth merchant, one evening when the subject had been discussed for the fortieth time. “With what he had from his pension he might have done many things, and been as rich now, perhaps, as Chobei here, who does not know what to do with his wealth.”

“A curio shop, for instance,” said Uchida, the ivory carver; “many Samurai have done that, and with his knowledge of such things and his friends to help him get them, or to buy from, he might have made a great success.”

“But instead of that he has only sold some of his own things for a child’s price, and grows poorer every day!” Komatsu seemed as near to being disgusted as was possible for his good nature.

“How little you know him after all,” said one of the group who until now had taken no part in the gossip. It was Matsumoto, a Samurai who had made his way in the very fashion outlined by Uchida, and whose advertisement, proclaiming his rank, is thrust into the hand of every foreigner who steps ashore at a Japanese port. But he had the native genius for trade as well as the insight into character which told him how utterly lacking it was in Jukichi. “He could never be a merchant,” Matsumoto continued. “The world is just what a man’s heart makes it. Kudo-san would find only misery and hatred in becoming a trader, and would fail before he had thoroughly begun.”

“Ah, that is true,” cried Chobei, “that is quite the truth. I do not know what he could do.”

“That is plain,” replied Matsumoto. “He was a great swordsman in his day and has a fine reputation. He could give fencing lessons. He has taught his son, who already excels the other boys in school. Let him teach the sons of others.”

That was a practical suggestion of which all felt the force. But the real difficulty lay in approaching Jukichi. There was plenty of talk about that, but the gossips went away without having reached a conclusion. A long time after his friends had gone Chobei sat with his little pipe, in deep consideration of the subject. In his abstraction he rapped so hard on the _hibachi_, knocking out the ashes, that O-Koyo came into the room to see what was the matter. There had never been many secrets between them, and now Chobei looked up and began at once to speak of the problem that was perplexing him.

“You know I have long been desirous of assisting Kudo-san,” he said, “but have not understood the means to be employed. To-night Matsumoto-san has given me an idea. It is that he can teach fencing; but how shall we get him the pupils without his suspecting that we do it to help him?”

“We have one,” replied O-Koyo. “We could ask him as a favor to teach our son.”

“No, no,” said Chobei, at once. “That would not do at all, for I have told him that Soichi is not to be a soldier, and he knows our son has no need of fencing.”

“Well, then,” said O-Koyo, “I do not know what to do. It seems to me that he is a very foolishly proud old man.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Chobei, “but he is one of those who belong to the old Empire and he cannot change. It is very strange and very hard.”

“Hardest for his son,” said O-Koyo. “How can that boy become an officer of the army without education, and how can Kudo-san give it to him? There is no school here and he cannot send the boy away.”

As he listened to his wife speaking these words a new light dawned upon Chobei. He saw the way.

“We must make that school,” he exclaimed, and drew in his breath so hard that it whistled through his teeth. “We will found a new one to fit boys for the Military Preparatory Schools, and Kokan shall have his education. Yes, yes! That is what we must do! There shall be a place for Kudo-san. I will ask him myself. It will be a great honor to us if he will teach the fencing and swordsmanship. Then when his son must go away he will have something to meet the expense.”

So the idea was born. There followed much thought and talk among Chobei’s friends, and one day the local newspapers announced that the authorities had given permission to Mr. Kutami Chobei to establish a new school, which the founder agreed to maintain. It would be the link between the existing institutions of the city and those of the central Government. The courses were to be general, but there was to be special instruction for such boys as desired to fit themselves to enter any one of the six Government Local Military Preparatory Schools with a view to competing for a commission in the army.

It was the shrewd Matsumoto who had suggested this method of bringing the new school to the notice of Jukichi, and his reading of the old man’s character was not at fault. Not a hint of the personal opportunity offered came to the Samurai as he read the news in his paper. To him it was only another evidence of the patriotism of his neighbor, and he was about to set out on a second visit of congratulation, when a messenger brought a letter from Chobei. It was a very humble letter, as befitted the circumstance of a promoted Eta writing to a Samurai. The Commoner hoped that Kudo-san had heard of the projected school and that it would meet with his approbation. There were some matters concerning its administration and the courses of study to be provided, about which it would be a distinguished honor to him to consult with Kudo-san, and in view of the previous marked kindness, he dared to beg the condescension of an appointment. The advice of Kudo-san would be a very material assistance as well as a great honor.

Jukichi thrust the letter into the sleeve of his kimono and stalked around the corner into Azalea Street. There was a smile on Kutami’s face when he saw how his bait had been swallowed, and he silently blessed Matsumoto for his inspiration.

“It is a great presumption for such as I,” he said when the tea had been brought and Jukichi’s first congratulations were offered, “to think of undertaking such a work. No doubt it would have been better if some gentleman had been willing to do it. But, as it is, I am glad to have the opportunity. I have observed for some time, and with much regret, that many of the young men of the city have been obliged to go away to complete their preparatory education, especially those who mean to enter the army, and I hope this school will be able to remedy that fault.”

Jukichi bowed in his courtly fashion and paused respectfully before replying.

“It is an honor to the city,” he said at length, “to have so public-spirited a citizen.”

With profoundest salute Kutami acknowledged the compliment and protested his unworthiness.

“There is very much to do,” he said slowly, “and I am poorly fitted to make suggestions. I hope you will not believe me rude or unthinking if I venture to tell you it has been suggested to me that perhaps you yourself would be willing to help.”

The trial was made, and Kutami sat with narrowing eyes, watching his visitor to note the effect. For a moment or two Jukichi sat perfectly still, with face completely masking his feelings. Then he bowed deeply, with strong sibilant inspiration.

“I?” he said, with show of surprise. “It is an unexpected honor. I am quite unworthy to assist in so valuable a work. I do not know what I could do.”

The Commoner breathed more freely. He had dreaded a fiery outburst from the hot-tempered old man, and when it did not come he could hardly conceal his relief. He felt that Jukichi’s coöperation was more than half promised when it was not at once indignantly refused.

“Who in the city could do more?” he exclaimed. “Who could confer such honor upon so humble an undertaking?”

Jukichi did not reply. Since the day when he saw the struggle for the Restoration successful, the old man, still clinging fondly to the life of the old régime, had been nevertheless drifting unconsciously toward participation in the new. But he was yet far from open avowal, and the proposition of Kutami came to him with a shock. He saw, however, that he had opened the way for it himself, and merely asked to be excused from giving immediate reply. Then with renewed congratulations and polite expression of good-will, he went away, leaving the Commoner uncertain but hopeful.

With genuine sorrow Kutami saw the Samurai pass through his gate unpledged. But he went on with the work, and soon the new building approached completion. Every detail was arranged but the most important of all. For Jukichi still declined to commit himself. If he failed to secure the Samurai, though he succeeded in all else, Kutami felt that the whole undertaking would fail. But he exhausted his ingenuity without success. The pride of his abolished caste still dominated the Samurai. It was an incident beyond the knowledge of either that determined Jukichi.

Jealousy is not the curse of race or rank. It finds its lodgment in the breasts of rich and poor alike, in Occidental and Oriental. It was O-Koyo who found the first evidence of it in a newspaper wrapped around a casual purchase, and with unconcealed emotion took it to her husband, reviling herself for being the bearer of ill news. Poor Kutami! Of all the hard thrusts and unkind blows of his none too easy life this was the meanest and worst. It was a savage attack on his cherished scheme. The school plan had been devised in all sincerity, with the sole purpose of giving aid, without its being known, to the man who, he felt, had honored him by entering his house, and whom he greatly admired. But here he saw his honest, manly work scornfully derided, his simple purpose wantonly distorted and himself held up to ridicule more bitter than his bitterest outcast days had ever known. Every one could see what the real object of the new school was, said the paper. The spawn of the frog was hoping to be hatched out into eagles. But fine dress and large words did not hide the outcast. The Eta, though he clothed an army and built a thousand schools, was only an Eta. Law might call him a Commoner; it could not make him clean. Contamination was in all that he touched. Out upon the upstart with his vile wealth, who dared presume to offer schooling to the sons of men of birth!

With heart too heavy for words Kutami gave back the paper to his wife. The cruel blow seemed to have struck down at once his ambition and his energy. He sat like one paralyzed and could neither think nor speak. And O-Koyo, tearing up the wretched paper in a frenzy of grief, as if thus to destroy the slander, threw herself down on the mat and sobbed aloud.

There was no fight left in Kutami. But Matsumoto, the curio dealer, with the old Samurai courage untouched in his heart, strove to inspirit his friend, and the building was finished. The Government officials had taken no notice of the attack on the founder, and the newspaper discussion provoked by it died away with no immediately discernible effect.

In the seclusion of his quiet home Jukichi had not heard the bitter denunciation of the new school. He was absorbed in the old problem of Kokan’s future. The money he had received from the Government was almost at an end. His treasures were sold, his resources exhausted. Swayed to and fro by the currents of conflicting emotion he sat, still undecided, still reluctant to grasp the proffered relief.

From one of her old schoolmates O-Mitsu heard the story and told her father. The old man listened with flashing eyes, and when she finished his decision was made. For himself he would not take the step, but to help another, even one who had been an Eta, appealed to his sympathy and his sense of honor.

The day of the opening arrived, and then the result of the slander appeared. No pupils came to the new school. In painful embarrassment the governor of the Ken stood in the great, bare, main room and heard the pitiful words of unhappy Kutami presenting his gift to the city. Vain and empty sounded the pompous response. The teachers, gathered for their hopeful task, found nothing to do. The ceremonies were over. The governor and his officials turned to go away, glad the disagreeable business was ended. In the doorway stood an old man and a boy. With grave and dignified salute they waited while the governor passed out. Then into the building they marched and up to the office of the head-master. Five minutes later two students were duly registered and the new school was opened, with Kudo Jukichi and Kudo Kokan its first pupils.

Jukichi had committed himself at last, but the scandalous assault came very near to success. For several days not another pupil appeared. Then the word went abroad that Kudo Jukichi, the Samurai, had registered his son, who was in daily attendance, and that Kudo-san himself had become instructor of swordsmanship. Men who had hoped to have their sons profit by the new institution, but who had been held back by cowardly apprehension, rejoiced at the relief, and some who secretly sympathized with the attack, and hated to see this evidence of the progress of the upstart succeed, were shamed into supporting it. The day was won for Kutami, and it was a victory infinitely sweeter than his bitterest calumniator could have imagined, for a reason of which scarce half a dozen persons in all the city had any inkling.

V

More and more as he grew older, young Kudo Kokan betrayed the haughty spirit that had characterized his ancestors. To him Kutami the Commoner was still Chobei the Eta. With no hint of how intimately his own career was connected with the success of the new school, he was much opposed to having anything to do with it. But as the days passed, and others of his inherited standing filled his classes, his active opposition relaxed into scorn of the man and the institution from which he profited so much.

Boys are boys just as much in Japan as in any other country, and must grow to manhood through the same struggles and with just as much exhibition of their native barbarity. It was in the second year of Kokan’s attendance at the new school that Kutami entered his own son, who was preparing for a course at the university. Soichi was growing very tall and strong, fonder of sports and games, of military drill and marches than of books and hard study. Now for the first time he met the young Samurai. The early friendship with O-Mitsu had run its course of vicissitudes and pleasures, and seemed to have come to the fork in the road. As the girl grew older and learned more of the ways of her world, she came to understand more fully what had been intended by the little talebearer who first informed her of Soichi’s social station. She saw the proud attitude of her father toward the Commoner, and her friendship with the boy was not mentioned at home. Apparently that was the only circumstance which distinguished it from scores of other boy and girl friendships. But the fact that it was not wise to say anything about it gave it a fictitious importance, and perhaps made it linger in a tenderer corner of the girl’s recollection.

The appearance of Soichi at the school offered occasion to Kokan for the revelation of his least lovable qualities, and, boylike, he promptly showed them. He took delight in suppressed sneers and open snubs. And Soichi, being a boy of high spirit and no mean courage, cherished a sturdy resentment. Savagery is indigenous with most real boys. Before they have reached the age of reason it crops out persistently, whether their skins are brown or white, whether their eyes tilt upward at the corners or lie straight across the face. But it is of two kinds, merely exuberant spirits, impersonal, horse-playful, or vicious and vindictive. Kokan had no intention to be mean, but often pranks played just for the fun of it are none the less cruel, and what starts in good-natured play ends in deadly earnest. And Kokan misjudged the mettle of Soichi. He had the easy confidence of assured superiority and could not guess that beneath the jacket of the boy he often derided with the scornful name of Eta there beat a heart as stout as his own.

Unconsciously, too, he had a large advantage. For Soichi knew the secret Kokan did not, of the real reason for the founding of the school, and at any time could have given his tormentor a thrust that would have brought his insolent pride abjectly to the dust. Not many American or European boys would have stood proof against such a test, for they are not trained in the ideas of filial obedience and loyalty, that are the inheritance of the Japanese. Soichi knew that a single word from him would end his persecution, but at the same time it might be the ruin of all his father had tried to do, and he held his tongue. And, because he thought he dealt with unresisting putty, Kokan went from bad to worse. The taunt that had been but a joke at first became a thing of venom, and his easy, indifferent contempt began to grow into something almost hatred.

How little beyond their noses most boys can see! Kokan came to believe there was no flint at all in Soichi, for try as he would, he could not strike fire. Then came the thunder-bolt.

The year’s work was almost finished. A few days more and Kokan would be graduated. It was with a sense of great relief that Soichi saw the end so near. It had been a bitter year for him. Not only had Kokan’s taunts and persecution strained his endurance almost to breaking; it had cost him the sympathy and friendship of many of his fellows, who misconstrued his silence and had come to believe with his tormentor that he was a boy of no spirit. He thought it all over by himself and a great resolve came to him. As he walked alone to the school one morning he planned his course. Let the result be what it might, his mates should see that it was not fear that had kept him from open resentment.

The bell rang and the boys came trooping in from the playground. Standing aloof, Soichi watched until he saw Kokan. The Samurai boy walked briskly, talking light-heartedly with two or three companions. To enter the building he must pass close to the spot where the Commoner stood. Soichi waited until Kokan and his friends were but a few feet away, then stepped directly in front of them, and turning his back, walked slowly toward the door. Instantly Kokan understood that a crisis had come. For a moment he was too amazed to speak. Then he shouted:

“What do you mean, Eta? Get out of my way!”

Soichi made no reply, and stepped more slowly than before. Kokan was almost on his heels.

“Jump, dog!” the young Samurai shouted in sudden anger; “jump before I kick you!”

For answer Soichi turned and without a word slapped him smartly across the mouth with the flat of his hand.

A moment Kokan stood like one turned to stone. It was as if the blow had paralyzed every faculty, not by its force but by its shock. Then in wild fury he sprang forward, his hands outstretched as if to clutch and tear to pieces the boy who had dared to strike him. Soichi was ready. In strength and stature he was quite a match for his frantic antagonist; but it needed no force to meet that furious rush. Swifter than sight his hands went forward, caught the arms reaching out to seize him, and with a single twitch hurled the Samurai boy bodily over his head. Then like a cat he whirled to meet a new attack. It was a trick he had often played on the practice mats of the gymnasium, where not in vain had he worked that year with the master of jiu-jitsu.

Dazed by the force of his fall Kokan struggled to his feet, mad with rage. Fortunate then for them both that the wearing of swords was no longer the Samurai’s privilege, else Soichi would have been killed in his tracks. But if passion had blinded Kokan, his friends could still see, and before another wild rush should give Soichi a second opportunity they had seized both boys and held them apart. In another moment the master, who from the doorway saw and heard it all, had reached them, and discipline was beginning to work.

“He insulted the Emperor and I struck him,” said Soichi calmly, when they examined him. “If I had had a sword I should have cut him down.”

“What?” said the master, “insulted the Emperor!”

“It is false!” cried Kokan, restored to outward calm, but with heart burning with hatred. “I did not!”

“He called me Eta,” retorted Soichi, “and the Emperor has decreed that there are no more Etas.”

Before that reasoning even Kokan was silent, and because he was Jukichi’s son the master found a way to let the matter drop.

Soichi had given a proof of his spirit, which every boy in the school was ready to accept. He had won his point, but the young Samurai went away to his military school with a bitterness rankling in his heart it was to take years to cure. The quarrel had its effect in the house in Timber Street no less than in the home of Kutami. Jukichi at once left his place as instructor and opened classes of his own. It did not matter. The work for which the school had been founded was done, and the Commoner, grieving that it had come to such result, nevertheless was satisfied, and more than ever proud of the son who had shown both his courage and his patience.

VI

The period of “Little Plenty” was wearing to its close. Already the wistaria blossoms were fading and the gorgeous azaleas were dropping their petals. In the fields the barley heads had turned to yellow and the young rice in the seed beds stood tall and strong in its thick green rows awaiting the harvest that should make room for it. It was a day when even nature rested and basked in the smile of heaven. The sun shone as if pouring the accumulated experience of millions of years into each moment, saturating earth and trees and flowers and grass with a deluge of molten gold. The vast blue arch gleamed like a great aërial mirror, reflecting the wide expanse of motionless sea that lay shimmering in the sunlight, unmarked by a single ripple. On its sleeping surface myriad fishing boats, with dull gray hulls and red brown sails, drifted and dozed. The noisy calls of the city were hushed, and to the girl sitting among the trees on the crest of the pine-clad cone beyond the end of Timber Street there rose only now and then a muffled sound, like the dull roll of surf on a far-distant beach. Only life that was wild sent its challenge to her. Natsu-zemi shrilled his strident ji-i-iii from the branches over the Shinto shrine in vigorous chorus, as if determined to make the uttermost of such a day, and Min-min-zemi chanted his ritual over and over from scores of trees, singing the prayer that has no end.