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
