Broken Butterflies

by Henry W. Kinney

She was plainly pleased as she made the introductions. Kent was a friend, she blushed a little. The newcomer was Sugawa, "a great artist," she added, "one of our best."

Sugawa smiled to Kent. "Women exaggerate so," he remarked in perfect English. Then he fell back to Japanese, evidently for the benefit of the girl. "I saw you at the exhibition this afternoon, and now again here, and I am sure that you don't like what we do. You are an American, are you not? I thought so. And you know we Japanese like Americans for their frankness, the American frankness. I wish you would tell me just what you think about it, and, if you care, I'll tell you just what we think, what we are trying to do."

"The American frankness." That was the usual prelude, the favorite gambit for opening a conversation in which Japan drew out skillfully the thoughts and views of America, but only so seldom gave like return, remaining unrevealed, unknown, behind that curiously baffling wall of national reticence. His courtesy had been perfect, disarming; still what business had he to come breaking in upon them like that! "American frankness." He probably wouldn't like it when he received it, but since that was what he asked for, he should have it, in full measure.

"In the first place, I must tell you that I am no artist and have but small knowledge of such matters, but I can tell you how I feel, how probably most of us foreigners feel when we see you lightly abandoning the immeasurably fine heritage from your forefathers to make mediocre offerings to foreign idols." He swept on, expressed his feelings just as he would have spoken to Kittrick or Karsten; it became almost a tirade. He began referring to pictures he had seen that afternoon, things he particularly remembered; but as he went on picking into bits, relentlessly, this and that painting, the clumsy clay images, the other's face showed no resentment, expressed instead absorbed, intelligent attention. Kent felt that he had gone a little too far and wished to tone it down a little.

"Even if you, some of you, at least, have done surprisingly well, especially considering the shortness of time, what particular good will it do? Even if in time you should bring forth a Gauguin or a Matisse, the others are doing all that; you will have but added to the cumulative results; whereas in your own field you are unique, undisputed masters of an art that is valuable and fine, that will become lost if you fellows don't follow it up. I hope that I have not offended you, but it seems such a pity."

The other smiled. "No, of course I'm not offended. I asked for frankness and got what I asked for. And, you know, it is not new to me, this feeling of you foreigners that we should continue along the old line. That's what my teachers were telling me, in America and in Paris. That's what you Westerners always want, in art, in architecture, in dress, customs, life, to have us remain the quaint, exotic, strange country. You are like the people who think it a pity that a pretty kitten must grow up to be a cat, and who would like to have a child remain always a child. On one hand you praise the adaptability with which we have acquired your civilization, and on the other you hate to see the old, quaint Japan go—to see it change so as to become but one more of the many countries of the earth which are so much alike. You feel that the world is becoming too much the same all over, that London, and New York, and Paris, and now Tokyo will be all the same, will afford no new, strange sights and sensations; that Japan is being lost as a charming playground for you. But what about us? In the first place, we wanted to remain as we were, but the foreigner forced us to become one with him. No," he smiled, "I don't resent it. I am glad it happened, but the fact remains. You praise us for adopting your civilization, and still that doesn't mean only building steamships, and railroads and all that. That's the least part of it. That's superficial. What really counts is our emancipation from feudalism, from the rule of the few masters, attaining expression of the individuality, and that's the real Western civilization which Japan, the Japanese people, has just begun to grasp. Then why shouldn't we follow our own wishes, each his own, each man, for instance, painting as he pleases, old style, modern style, after Hokusai or after Gauguin. You say that we are not producing the art of our forefathers, but you don't see Europe producing any Titians or Tintorettos. Of course, so far we are only imitating, we are learning, copying, but why shouldn't we some day do as well as you do, maybe even better? Now we have joined in the march of progress of common civilization. We can't go backwards, we can't remain stationary. We must go on. Art is only one phase of the whole thing, but——"

But he was interrupted by a jangling of bells, clamor of voices.

"Gogai!" the hoarse shout came in from the street. "Gogai!"

An extra. They were rushing to the windows, the door. "Hey, come here, in here."

A little old man ran in, breathless, amid a jingle from a bunch of small bells clustered from his belt. Under his arm he held a bundle of small printed sheets, the gogai, extras, great news of some kind. They all crowded around him, tore the papers from him as he gathered in their coppers.