Broken Butterflies

by Henry W. Kinney

Kent went out to Sadako-san. She was squatting on the floor, head resting against the low rail, staring abstractedly out over the scattered roofs below, towards the hillside over which was rising a white crescent moon, faintly silvering the trees along the ridges. "Sadako-san." She gave no answer. Far down below the stream was murmuring; cicada violins shrilled a quavering treble serenade. "Sadako-san," he took her hand, drew her towards him, placed his arm about her, brought her close, held her tightly. She offered no resistance, her gaze directed fixedly, dreamily, into the distance, sadly. The poor, dear, lovely girl. Suddenly all idea of abstaining from caresses, from love, seemed distant, a thing utterly of the past. As he felt the pulsating warmth of her body, sensed the beating of her heart, the heaving of her bosom, the implied consent of her inertness, that old thought of avoiding love seemed stupid, absurdly futile. She was beautiful, lovable; they were young, what was life for? He loved her. He turned her face towards his own. Slowly, looking steadily, deeply into her eyes, he brought it close. Then he kissed her. They clung lips to lips. Her arms went about his neck. The murmur of the stream and the cicada violins faded into an indefinite, soft, distant obligato.

"Sadako-san, I love you."

Slowly she drew her face from his, eyes wide as if in surprise, fear. Suddenly she threw his hands from her, held out her own against him, stared at him, lips parted. "Hugh-san, oh, Hugh-san, why did you do it?" Her hands grasped the rail and she buried her face on her arms. He could hear her sobbing. With gentle hands he tried to soothe her, but the mere touch caused her to tremble convulsively, it seemed almost hysterically. "Sadako-san, Sadako-san." He spoke soothingly as he might have done to a frightened child. Gradually the sobbing ceased, the nervous tenseness of her body gave way to passive inertness. He contrived to place his arm about her. "And now, Sadako-san, little girl, don't be frightened of me. I shan't hurt you, or kiss you, or do anything you don't wish me to do. But don't you understand that I love you? Don't you care for me at all?"

"Hugh-san, I know you are good. I am not afraid of you. I'd do anything you want, but—I can't. It's impossible, oh, oh, Hugh-san." He could see tears tremble on long, black lashes, enhancing the depth, the luster of these dark eyes, the quality that had so overcome him when he first saw her. Beautiful, unhappy, wholly adorable. "Sadako-san, of course, it is not impossible. Dearest, I want to marry you."

But she shook her head, kept shaking it, rocked her whole body. Again he soothed her, brought her cheek up against his. "Sadako-san, little girl, what is the matter? Tell me, dear, only tell me." Presently she straightened, took his arm from her waist, grasped both his hands, held them, looked straight at him. "All right, Hugh-san, I shall tell you all, all about myself. Then you'll understand.

"While I was still small, my mother died, and my father didn't marry again; he didn't want me to have a stepmother. Oh, he was a good man, my father. He was a professor in the Imperial University, in political economy, and all he lived for was to make me wise and good. I went to a good school and he taught me much himself, many things that he did not dare teach his classes, showing me how Japan is being corrupted by the money evil, the big capitalist houses that are gradually sucking into themselves all the money, all the treasures, all the happiness of Japan; and the narikins, the new profiteers, who are like jackals that take what the lions leave, so there's nothing at all left for the people. He told me that all that was good, all that was fine and noble about old Japan was being thrust out of the way by the money worshipers; the samurai, the Bushido code, the splendid old courtesy and customs, all were being sacrificed that these people might make money, by any means, fair or foul, by corrupting the government and by grinding down the common people. He told me so much about it because he dared not talk to others. He was afraid he might lose his position or even go to jail for harboring 'dangerous thoughts.' For himself he wouldn't have minded that, but he was saving up money for my education, for he wanted me to go to the big universities in America and Europe, and every month he went down to Yokohama and put money in the Machi Bank. I didn't care much about these things then, politics, economics; I wanted to be a doctor; but later I remembered everything he had said.

"Then came the big crash in business and Machi failed. We lost all we had; so did the other poor depositors. No one would do anything for us; the rich men and the other banks were all sorry for Machi, who had lost so many millions. But he still has his automobiles and his villa at Hayama—and we had nothing. My father had been failing for some time before that. Then he died. I am sure that disappointment killed my father."

Her voice died away in a whisper. She fell silent, looked out over the valley, absorbed in her memories. So she was another of the victims of the Machi failure. He had reason to remember the incident well. The Machi Bank had been the first big concern to tumble in the crash, and in working up the story he had learned his first astounding lesson in Japanese high finance. Out of his bank's assets of some seventy million yen, Machi had invested sixty millions in his own silk and menthol speculations, and had lost it all. The very point made by Sadako-san, the wave of sympathy for Machi on the part of the rest of the plutocrats, the absolute unconcern regarding the depositors, had caused him to wonder. He had interviewed one of Japan's leading financial authorities, a high official in the Treasury Department, about it. But it had been very unsatisfactory. Why, hadn't Machi lost all his capital, millions and millions? Of course, one must be sorry for him.

"Then Machi is lucky that he's in Japan," Kent had said. "If he had been in America, he would be in jail now." But the official had refused to believe it. Why? Had followed a long discussion. Had they then no laws whereby bankers were prevented from gambling with funds placed in their care? The official had plainly thought that Kent was childish in his ignorance of high finance. Did he not understand then that bankers had to invest the funds entrusted to them; that was the very essence of banking. But was there then nothing to prevent a Japanese banker from investing the funds in his charge in a poker game or in roulette, if he so pleased? No, naturally the Japanese Government did not wish to limit its financiers in the exercise of their talents. And, anyway, of course, the bankers did not put the money in poker games? No, possibly not, but what about Machi? As a gamble, poker became a child's game as compared with silk and menthol. The great authority had shown signs of impatience; anyway, poker was gambling and silk was business; every one knew that, and, of course, there was always a certain element of chance in business. Kent had tried once more. "But now that you have the example of the Machi case before you, with more like that almost certain to come, don't you think it would be well to regulate such business by law? What do you trust to, anyway?" No, the Japanese laws were quite satisfactory, quite, and the authority had drawn himself up with great dignity. "We trust," he had said solemnly, "we trust in the integrity of our bankers."

Kent had picked up his hat and had left. What was the use? Could you beat it? Here Machi had gambled away sixty millions, and still they babbled inanely about trusting in the integrity of such. At the time he had felt intense sympathy with the victims, unknown to him, orphans, widows, old men doubtless,—and now here he saw at first-hand one of the countless little tragedies left in the wake of Japanese high finance indiscretion. So she really had good reason for her peculiar aversion to the plutocracy, poor little girl. He leaned forward, intercepted her glance. "And then?"