XIII

We went downstream in a river boat, with Kyuichi-san, to see him off at Yoshida railway station. There were in the boat, beside Kyuichi-san, the old man, Shiota, his erratic daughter, Nami-san, her brother, myself, and also Gembey, who took care of Kyuichi’s luggage. I joined the party only to make up the company. I did not quite understand why I should be invited to do so, but being out on an unhuman wandering, there was no need to be scrupulous and so I also went. The boat had a flat bottom, as if built on a raft. The old man sat in the centre, Nami-san and I in front of him, Kyuichi and Nami-san’s brother behind him, and Gembey by himself with the luggage in the stern.

“Are you fond of War?” asked Nami-san.

“I shan’t be able to tell until I am in it. There may be times I may find it very hard; but at others I may be jolly about it,” answered Kyuichi, who had never before been to war.

“However hard, you must know that it is for the state and your country,” commented the old man.

“With such a warlike thing as a dagger given you, don’t you wish to begin fighting?” asked Nami-san in her cynical way.

“That may be, but.⁠ ⁠…”

The light response made the old man laugh shaking his beard, while his son looked as if he heard nothing.

“Do you mean to say that you can go and fight in battle with such an indifferent mind?” pressed Nami-san, holding her pretty face before Kyuichi, whose eyes met those of Nami-san’s brother at the same instant.

“I am sure Nami-san would make a grand warrior, if she became one,” came from the woman’s brother, as the very first word spoken to her in the boat. Judging from the tone in which it was said, one might have suspected that it was not meant to be merely a joke.

“I? I become a soldier? If I could, I would have become one long ago. I would have been dead by this time. Kyuichi-san you had better make up your mind to be killed. You would gain nothing by coming home alive.”

“Come, now, no more of your raving.⁠ ⁠… You must come home in triumph, nephew, dying is not the only way to serve the country. I am good for three or four years more yet. We will again meet in joy.”

The old gentleman’s word tapered and softened till they melted into unseen tears, which he concealed from us. Kyuichi said nothing; but turned his eyes toward the left bank of the river, where they met those of a man with a rod and line before him. It was fortunate that the angler did not ask Kyuichi why he looked so sad.

Our boat glided down with delightful smoothness, the willow trees on the embankments on either side, flitting backward as rustic airs came wafting, probably from the young damsels at the weaving machines in houses little yonder, gently stirring the silence of the calm Spring afternoon.

“Sensei, won’t you paint my picture?” demanded Nami-san, as her brother and Kyuichi were engrossed in soldiery topics, while the old gentleman had started journeying to dreamland.

“Why, with pleasure,” I answered, taking out my sketch book and writing down in it:

“Harukazeni sora toke shusuno meiwa nani?”44

Nami-san curtsied, smiling, and said: “Not a single stroke sketch like this, but a carefully executed production, giving expression to my spirit and character, Sensei.”

“I wish I could oblige you with all my heart; but to be frank, your face, as it is, would not make a picture.”

“Thanks for your compliments. But what am I to do to make myself fit for a picture?”

“Don’t get angry, O-Nami-san; I can make a fine picture of you at this very moment. But there is something wanting in your expression, and it will be a great pity to portray you without that something.”

“Something wanting? That cannot be helped, as I cannot be anything else but what I am born with.”

“You may be born with; but the face may look in all sorts of ways.”

“At your own pleasure?”

“Yes.”

“The idea! Don’t you make a fool of me, because you think I am only a woman.”

“Why, now I say all this, because you are a woman.”

“Eh? Show me, then, Sensei, how you can make your face look in all sorts of ways.”

“You have seen enough of me of being made to look in all sorts of ways day after day.”

Nami-san said no more, but turned the other way. The embankments had disappeared, the riversides being now almost level with the surface of the stream. The rice growing lowlands on either side, which had not yet been ploughed, had turned into a sea of rouge, with the wild red milk-vetch in full bloom. The pink sea stretched limitlessly till it was swallowed up in the distant haze. The eyes that followed up the haze, saw a high peak, halfway up which, a soft, dreamy cloud of Spring was issuing.

“That is the mountain the rear of which you scaled in coming up to Nakoi, Sensei,” said Nami-san, as her fair hand pointed toward the mountain that towered into the sky like a vision of Spring.

“Is the ‘Hobgoblin Cliff’ about there?”

“You see that purple spot under that deep green?”

“That shaded place, you mean?”

“Is it a shaded place? It must be a bared patch.”

“No, it must be a hollow; a bared patch would look more brown.”

“That may be. Anyhow, the rock is said to be about there.”

“Then the ‘Seven Bends’ must be a little to the left.”

“No, the Seven Bends is a good bit further away, it being in another mountain, which is beyond that one.”

“That is so; but it must be in the direction, where a light sheet of cloud is hanging.”

“Yes, in that direction, Sensei.”

The old man’s arm resting on the side of the boat slipped, and that awoke him. He asked if the destination had not been reached, and he gave himself up to yawning, which act took the shape of putting out the chest, bending the doubled right elbow backward, and stretching the left arm full length forward, in short going through a form of archery. Nami-san burst out laughing.

“This is my way.⁠ ⁠…”

“You must be fond of archery,” I said laughing.

The aged spa-hotel man volunteered to tell me that he made only a toy of ordinary bows in his days, and his arms were pretty sure even in his old age, patting his left shoulder as he said this. Talk of war was at its height behind him.

Our boat was now fast reaching its destination, the vetch adorned field having given way to rows of houses, then to lumber yards, shops, eating houses and so on. Swallows flitted over the stream, and ducks quacked in the water. In no time we got out of our boat and headed for the railway station.

I was at last dragged back into the living world. I call it the living world, where railway trains may be seen. I am of opinion that there is nothing else that represents the twentieth century civilization so truly as the railway train. It packs hundreds of people in a box, and they have no choice but to be transported all at the same uniform speed, in complete disregard of individuality. The twentieth century strives to develop individuality to its utmost, and then goes about crushing this individuality in every conceivable way, saying you are free in this lot of so many by so many feet, but that you must not set a foot outside the encircling fence, as in the case of railway train prisoners. But the iron fence is unbearably galling to all with any sense of individuality, and they are all roaring for liberty, day and night. Civilization gives men liberty and makes them strong as a tiger. It then entraps and keeps them encaged. It calls this peace. But this is not a real peace. It is a peace like that of the tiger in the menagerie, which is lying quietly as he looks calmly over the crowd that gathers round his cage. Let a single bar of the cage be out of its place and darkness will descend on the earth. A second French Revolution will then break out. Individual revolutions are even now breaking out. Ibsen has given us instances of the way in which this revolution will burst forth. However, this opinion of railway train can hardly embellish my sketch book, and still less may I impart it openly to others. So I kept my peace and joined my companions in stopping at a refreshment room in front of the railway station.

There were two countrymen in their straw sandals, sitting on stools near us, one of them wrapped in a red blanket, and the other wearing a pair of old fashioned native trousers of diverse colours, with one of his hands over the largest patch, which made the combination of variegation of black, red, yellow particularly conspicuous.

One of them was saying: “No good, after all, eh?”

“No, not a bit good.”

“Pity that man is not given two stomachs like the bovine.”

“All would be well if we had two. Why, all you have to do, then, will be to cut out one of them if it goes wrong.”

I thought the countrymen, at least one of them, must be a victim of stomach trouble. They know not even the smell of winds howling over the Manchurian battlefield. They see nothing wrong in modern civilization. They probably know not what revolution means, having never heard even the word itself. They are perhaps, not quite sure that they have got one or two stomachs in them. I took out my book and sketched them.

Clang, clang went the bell at the station. The ticket had already been bought for Kyuichi with the platform tickets.

“Now let us go,” says Nami-san standing up.

“All right,” joined the old gentleman, suiting his action to his words, and we trooped out of the refreshment room, into the station, then past the wicket to the platform. The bell was ringing.

The monster snake of civilization came rumbling into the station, gliding over the shining rails. The snake was puffing black smoke from its mouth.

“Now be good,” said old Mr. Shiota.

“Goodbye,” returned Kyuichi-san bowing his head.

“Go and meet your death,” says cynical Nami-san again.

The snake stopped in front of us and many doors on its side opened. Many people came out and many went in, Kyuichi being one of the latter. The old gentleman, Nami-san’s brother, Nami-san, and I, all stood near the edge of the platform.

Once the wheels turned, Kyuichi-san would no more be one of “our” world, but would be going to far, far away country, where men are struggling among the fumes of smoke and powder, and slipping and rolling unreasonly in something red and the sky is screeching with detonations. Kyuichi-san, who was going to a world of that weird sort, stood motionless in his car, gazing at us in silence. The bond of relations between us and Kyuichi-san, who caused us to come out here was to break here, was, in fact, breaking momentarily. The door of the car still stood open as did the car window, and we were looking at each other, with only six feet between the going and the stopping; but that was all that remained of the bond, which was every second snapping.

The conductor came along quickly closing the doors, each door shut increasing the distance between the going and the stopping. Bang closed Kyuichi-san’s car door, and we now stood in two different worlds. The old gentleman unconsciously brought himself close up to the car window and the young man held out his head.

“Look out there!” The train began to move almost before the words were finished, the sound of the engine working, coming in measured rhythm at first, gradually gaining in speed. One by one the car windows passed us and Kyuichi-san’s face grew smaller and smaller. The last third class car rolled before us, and just at that moment another head appeared out of its window.

The unshaven face of the “tramp” peered out from under a worn-out brown soft hat, casting a sad lingering look. The eyes of Nami-san and of the deserted one met unintentionally. The train was moving out in earnest. The face at the window disappeared instantly. Nami-san stood abstractedly, gazing after the departing train. Strangely enough, in that abstracted look of hers, I saw that missing “compassion and pity” visibly outstanding, that I had never seen before.

“That is the stuff! You’ve got it. With that coming, it will make a picture.”

I said this in a low voice as I patted Nami-san on her back. That moment I completed the plan of my picture.