Chapter Chapter 3 · THE HANDKERCHIEF

. THE HANDKERCHIEF

Prof. Hasegawa Kinzō, of the Law College of the Imperial University,

was sitting in a cane chair on his veranda reading Strindberg’s

“Dramaturgy.”

His special study was colonial policy. Wherefore the fact that he was

reading “Dramaturgy” may cause the reader some surprise. But he, a

professor noted not only as a scholar but as an educator, even if the

books were not necessary for his special investigations, always, so far

as his leisure permitted, looked through any books that were connected

in any sense with the thought or feelings of present-day students. In

truth, not long before, he had read Oscar Wilde’s “De Profundis” and

“Intentions” only because the students of a certain college of which,

along with his other work, he acted as president, were fond of them.

Since he was such a man, we need not marvel that the book he was now

reading was a treatise on the modern drama and players of Europe.

For among the students under him there were not only those who wrote

criticisms on Ibsen, Strindberg and Maeterlinck, but even some

enthusiasts who intended to follow in the footsteps of such modern

dramatists and make play writing their life work.

Every time he finished one of the excellent chapters, he put the yellow

cloth-covered book on his lap and glanced carelessly at the Gifu paper

lantern hanging on the veranda. Strange to say, no sooner would he

do this than his thoughts would part company with Strindberg. And in

place of Strindberg, he would begin to think of his wife, with whom

he had gone to buy the Gifu lantern. He had married in America while

studying there. So his wife was of course an American. But she loved

Japan and the Japanese not a whit less than he did. Especially was she

fond of Japan’s exquisite objects of industrial art. Wherefore, that

the Gifu lantern hung on the veranda should be looked upon rather as an

expression of one phase of her taste for things Japanese than of his

own predilections.

Whenever he put down his book, he thought of his wife and the Gifu

lantern, and of the Japanese civilization represented by that lantern.

In his belief, Japanese civilization had made rather remarkable

progress during the last fifty years in material things. But

spiritually it was practically impossible to find any progress worth

mentioning. Nay, rather, in a sense, it was degenerating. Then what

(and this was the urgent task of the day’s thinkers) was to be done

to develop a way of saving it from this decline? He concluded that

there was nothing for it but to rely upon Japan’s peculiar Bushidō.

Bushidō should by no means be regarded as the narrow-minded morality

of an insular nation. Rather there was even that in it which should

be identified with the Christian spirit in the nations of Europe and

America. If through this Bushidō a trend could be shown in the modern

current of thought in Japan, it would not only be a contribution to the

spiritual civilization of Japan alone, but it would be, in addition,

advantageous in making easy a mutual understanding between the Japanese

people and the peoples of Europe and America. Or international peace

would be promoted by it.

For some time he had been thinking, in this sense, of becoming a

bridge between East and West. For such a professor it was by no

means unpleasant that the thoughts of his wife, the Gifu lantern

and the Japanese civilization represented by it should arise in

his consciousness with a certain harmony. But, as he enjoyed such

satisfaction again and again, he gradually realized, even as he read,

that his thoughts were getting far away from Strindberg. Then he shook

his head, a little provoked, and began to pore diligently over the fine

type again, and just where he had begun to read, the following passage

occurred: “When an actor discovers a suitable expression for a most

common sentiment and gains some popularity for himself by means of this

expression, because, on the one hand, it is easy and, on the other,

because he has succeeded with it, he is apt, without regard for its

suitability or unsuitability, to incline toward this means. And this is

a mannerism.”

The professor had always been indifferent to art, especially to drama.

Even Japanese plays he had seen only a few times in his life. Once the

name of “Baiko” appeared in a story by a certain student. Even this

professor, who prided himself on his encyclopaedic knowledge, did not

know what this name meant. So when he had an opportunity, he called the

student to him and asked him.

“I say, what’s ‘Baiko’?”

“Baiko? Baiko is an actor at present attached to the Imperial Theatre

at Maru-no-uchi and now taking the part of Misao in ‘Taikoki Judanme’.”

Thus politely replied this student dressed in a hakama of Kokura duck.

Hence the professor had no opinions of his own at all on the various

rules of stage presentation on which Strindberg pithily commented.

Only, he was able to take some interest in it in so far as it reminded

him of certain things he had seen in western theatres while studying

abroad. There was, so to speak, not much difference between him and a

middle school English teacher who reads Bernard Shaw’s dramas to hunt

for idioms. But interest is interest anyhow.

The still unlighted Gifu lantern hung from the ceiling of the veranda.

And Prof. Hasegawa sat in the cane chair reading Strindberg’s

“Dramaturgy.” If I write only this, I believe the reader can easily

imagine what a long early-summer afternoon it was. But by this I do

not mean at all that the professor was overcome with ennui. If anybody

should try to interpret it thus, he would be deliberately trying to

give it a cynical and perverse interpretation.

Actually he was forced to leave off in the midst of his reading even

Strindberg. For the maid suddenly interrupted his innocent amusement by

announcing a caller. Be the day as long as it might, it seemed that the

world would never stop working him to death.

The professor put down his book and glanced at the small calling card

the maid had just brought him. On the ivory paper was printed small

the name, Nishiyama Atsuko. He felt sure that she was no one he had

ever met. But all the same, as he left his chair, the widely acquainted

professor, just to make sure, ran over the name-list he kept in his

head. But still no face that seemed as if it might be hers came into

his memory. Therefore, putting the card into the book for a marker, he

laid the book down on the chair and, ill at ease, adjusted the front

of his unlined kimono of coarse silk, giving the while, another little

glance at the Gifu lantern in front of his nose. It is probably always

true in such cases that the host who keeps the visitor waiting is more

impatient than the visitor who is kept waiting. Of course I need not go

out of my way to explain that, since the professor had always been an

austere man, this would be true in this case even if his visitor had

not been such an unknown woman as had come this day.

Finally, calculating the time, the professor opened the door of his

reception room. At practically the same moment that he entered the room

and let go the knob, a lady who appeared to be about forty arose from a

chair in which she was sitting. She went beyond his ability to make her

out, being dressed in an elegant unlined garment of steel grey satin,

with, where her haori of black silk finely striped in the fabric hung

a little open at the front, a chrysoprase sash-fastener embossed in

a chaste diamond-shaped design. Even the professor, who usually took

no notice of such trifles, at once saw that her hair was done up in

the coiffure of a married woman. With the round face and amber skin

peculiar to Japanese, she seemed to be a so-called “wise mother.”

“I’m Hasegawa,” the professor said, bowing amiably. For he thought that

if he spoke thus, she would probably say something, if they had ever

met before.

“I’m Nishiyama Kenichirō’s mother,” said the lady in a clear voice,

politely returning his bow.

At the name, “Nishiyama Kenichirō,” the professor remembered. Nishiyama

was one of those students who wrote critical articles on Ibsen and

Strindberg, whose special study, he seemed to remember, was German

Law, and who, even after he entered the university, had often come

to the professor’s house with problems of thought to discuss. In the

spring, he had fallen ill of peritonitis and entered the university

hospital, and the professor had taken advantage of some opportunities

and inquired after him once or twice. It was not mere accident that the

professor thought he had seen the lady’s face somewhere. That cheerful

youth with heavy eyebrows and this woman were as surprisingly alike as

the two melons in the Japanese popular saying.

“Ah, Nishiyama Kun’s,--is that so?”

The professor, nodding to himself, pointed to a chair on the opposite

side of a small table.

“Please--take that chair.”

The lady, after first apologizing for her abrupt visit, again bowed

politely and sat down in the chair indicated. As she did so, she took

something white, which seemed to be a handkerchief, out of her sleeve.

When he saw this, the professor quickly offered her a Korean fan that

lay on the table and sat down in the chair opposite.

“This is a fine house,” said the lady, looking round the room a little

unnaturally.

“Oh, no, it’s only big, and I don’t take any care of it at all.”

The professor, who was accustomed to such greetings, having the maid

put the chilled tea she had just brought before his guest, immediately

turned the subject of conversation toward her.

“How is Nishiyama Kun? Is there any change in his condition?”

“Yes.”

The lady paused for a moment modestly, putting her hands, one on the

other, on her knees, and then spoke quietly. Her tone continued to be

calm and smooth.

“In truth it was about my son that I came to-day; finally nothing could

be done for him. While he was alive, you were very kind to him and--”

The professor, who had taken it for reserve in her that the lady did

not touch her tea, was at this moment just going to put his cup to his

lips. For he thought it would be better to set an example by sipping

his own tea than to urge her repeatedly and importunately to take hers.

But before the cup had reached his soft mustache, her words suddenly

smote his ears. Should he drink or should he not? This question,

entirely independent of the youth’s death, plagued him for a moment.

But he could not go on holding the cup where it was forever. So he

resolutely swallowed half his tea and, knitting his brows the least

bit, said in a choked voice, “That’s too bad.”

“He often spoke of you while he was in the hospital, so though I felt

that you must be busy, thinking that, by way of letting you know, I’d

express my thanks,--”

“Oh, not at all.”

The professor put the cup down and, taking up a green waxed fan, said

in a daze,

“So finally nothing could be done for him, you say. He was just at the

promising age, but,--not having visited the hospital for some time, I

never imagined anything but that probably he was just about well. Then

when was it--his death?”

“The first seventh-day was just yesterday.”

“And at the hospital--?”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, this is a surprise to me.”

“Anyway, as we did everything that could be done, there’s nothing to do

but be resigned, but nevertheless, when I think how we raised him, I

can’t keep myself from fits of complaining.”

While conversing thus, the professor became aware of a surprising fact.

It was the fact that in neither her attitude nor her demeanor did she

seem in the least to be talking about her own son’s death. She had no

tears in her eyes. Her voice was natural. Besides, a smile played about

the corners of her mouth. So if anybody had simply seen her outward

appearance without hearing her words, he surely could have thought

nothing but that she was talking of ordinary everyday affairs. To the

professor, this was surprising.

Once long before when he was studying in Berlin, it happened that

Wilhelm I, the father of the present Kaiser, died. He heard of it

at a café he usually frequented, and of course experienced no more

than an ordinary impression. Then with a cheerful face and his stick

under his arm, he returned to the boarding house as usual, but as

soon as he opened the door, the two children who lived there suddenly

threw themselves on his neck and burst out crying together. One was a

girl of twelve in a brown jacket and the other a boy of nine in dark

blue knickers. As the professor, who was fond of children, did not

understand, he consoled them, patting their shining hair and eagerly

asking them over and over what was the matter. But they simply would

not stop crying. Then swallowing their tears, they sobbed, “Our grandpa

Emperor is dead.”

The professor thought it strange that the death of the emperor of a

country should bring so much sorrow even to the children. It was not

only of the question of the relation existing between the imperial

house and the people that he was made to think. The impulsive

expression of their emotions by occidentals, which had impressed him

ever since he came to the West, now surprised, as if it were something

new, this professor, a Japanese and a believer in Bushidō. He had never

forgotten the feeling, seemingly compounded of suspicion and sympathy,

that he experienced at that time. Conversely, he now felt precisely

the same degree of surprise at this lady’s not weeping. But a second

discovery followed on the heels of the first. It was just as their

conversation, after having gone from reminiscences of the dead youth

into details of his daily life, was about to turn back again to more

reminiscences. The Korean fan chanced to slip from the professor’s

hand and fell of a sudden on the marquetry floor. The conversation, of

course, was not so urgent as not to permit of a momentary interruption.

So, bending forward from his chair and looking down, he stretched out

his hand toward the floor. The fan was lying beneath the little table

just beside the lady’s white tabi concealed in her slippers.

Then he chanced to notice the lady’s knees. On them, rested her hands

holding the handkerchief. Of course this alone was no discovery. But at

the same instant he realized that her hands were trembling fearfully.

And he noticed that, probably due to her endeavor to suppress the

agitation of her emotions, her hands, as they trembled, grasped the

handkerchief on her knees so hard that they all but tore it in two.

Finally he perceived that the embroidered edge of the wrinkled silk

handkerchief moved between her delicate fingers as if stirred by a

light breeze. The lady smiled with her face, indeed, but the truth was

that she had been weeping with her whole body from the first.

When the professor had picked up the fan and raised his face, there

was an expression on it which had not been there before. It was a very

complicated expression, as if a reverent feeling at having seen what

he should not have seen and a certain satisfaction arising from the

consciousness of that feeling had been exaggerated by more or less

theatricality.

“Ah, even I who have no children can understand your grief perfectly,”

said the professor in a low voice full of feeling, tilting his head

back a little as if dazzled by something.

“Thank you. But, whatever we say, it’s beyond help now, so--”

The lady lowered her head the least little bit. A bright smile beamed

from her unclouded face as before.

* * * * *

It was two hours later. The professor had taken a bath, finished his

supper, eaten some cherries for dessert and settled down comfortably in

the cane chair on the veranda.

The twilight of the long summer evening lingered on and, in the large

veranda, with its glass windows wide open, there was yet no sign of

darkness falling. The professor, with his left knee crossed over his

right and his head resting on the back of the chair, was gazing at the

tassels of the Gifu lantern in the dim light. Though he had that same

book of Strindberg’s in his hand, he appeared not yet to have read

another page of it. That was natural. His head was still full of the

brave behavior of Nishiyama Atsuko.

During supper, he had told his wife the whole story. And he had praised

it as an illustration of the Bushidō of the women of Japan. On hearing

it, this lover of Japan and the Japanese could not but sympathize. He

had been pleased to find an eager listener in her. His wife, the lady

and the Gifu lantern--these three now floated in his consciousness with

a certain ethical background.

I do not know how long he was absorbed in such agreeable reflections.

But while still in their grasp, he suddenly remembered that he had been

asked to send a contribution to a certain magazine. Under the caption,

“Letters to the Youth of Today,” that magazine was getting together the

opinions on general morality of distinguished men all over the country.

Using that day’s incident as material, he would write and send his

impressions at once, he thought, and scratched his head a little.

The hand with which the professor scratched his head was the one in

which he held the book. Becoming aware of the book, which he had up

till now neglected, he opened it where he had inserted the card a while

before at the page he had already begun to read. Just then the maid

came and lighted the Gifu lantern above his head, so it was not very

difficult for him to read the fine type. He cast his eyes casually on

the page without any great desire to read. Strindberg said,

“In my youth, people told about Madame Heiberg’s handkerchief, a

story which had probably come out of Paris. It was about her double

performance of tearing her handkerchief in two with her hands while a

smile played over her face. Now we call this claptrap.”

The professor put the book down on his knees. As he put it down open,

the card with the name Nishiyama Atsuko on it still lay between its

pages. But what was in his mind was no longer the lady. Nor was

it either his wife or Japanese civilization. It was a nondescript

something that threatened to break the calm harmony of these. The stage

trick that Strindberg had scorned was not, of course, the same thing

as a question of practical morality. But in the hint he had got from

what he had just read, there was something threatening to disturb the

care-free feeling he had had since taking his bath. Bushidō and its

mannerisms--

The professor shook his head unhappily two or three times and then,

with upturned eyes, began again to gaze intently at the bright light of

the Gifu lantern covered with pictures of autumn flowers.