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.
Endnotes
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Noh is a peculiarly Japanese stage performance of ancient origin, from which sprang the latter-day theatrical plays. It is presented on its own stage to the enjoyment of those who love to see human actions reduced to dreamy gracefulness, beautiful curves, and melodious sweetness. ↩
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Basho Matsuo was the founder of his own school of Hokku and one of the most famous poets Japan has produced. He was a seer in his way. Born in , he died in . ↩
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Hokku, also called Haiku, is an ode consisting of only seventeen Japanese kana syllables, and makes a point of compressing into a couple of lines an impression made by the outside world, thoughts aroused by an event, sentiments felt and all else that affects human heart. In fact, everything that carries poetical sentiments and is uttered in poetical tune within seventeen syllables makes a hokku. It may be a mere whim, an instantaneous impression, or else a very deep thought; but a good hokku is always rich in colour and profound in idea, which it leaves unsaid but only hints, and at least arouses a train of fancies in the reader. ↩
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Danna-sama is a term originally adopted from Sanskrit Dana, meaning “exhibition of charity” and is used in addressing a man of position. Stands for English Sir, Master, or Your Honour; but nearer French Monsieur. Less formally it takes the
