I now felt sure that the youth was really a nephew of mine host. I even saw some resemblance between them.
“You must not say so. You should let your uncle see you off. A river-boat will take him down there in no time. Isn’t that so Shiota-san?”
“Yes. Crossing the mountain will be some job, but by taking a boat, though a little detour....”
The youth did not decline this time; but remained silent.
“Are you going to China?” I ventured to ask.
“Yes.”
The monosyllable left me musing that he might not be the worse for a few more; but I felt no particular necessity to dig, and I held my peace. I noticed that the shadow of “haran” had changed its position.
“Well, gentleman, you see the present war—he was formerly with the colours in one year service—and he has been called out to join his old regiment.”
My old host volunteered in his nephew’s place to let me understand that the youth was destined to leave for Manchuria in a day or two. I had thought that there was only feathered songsters to listen to, only flowers to see fall, only hot spring to warble forth in this dreamy land of poetry in a mountain bosom, in peaceful Spring. Alas, the living world had come crossing the sea and mountain and oozing into this home of a forgotten tribe, and the time may come when a small fraction of blood making a crimson sea of bleak Manchuria may flow from this youth’s arteries. This very youth is sitting next to an artist who sees nothing worth seeing in human life but dreaming. He sits so near that the artist may hear his heart throb. In that throb may be resounding even now, the tide rolling high in a plain hundreds of miles away. Fate has accidentally brought these two together in a room, but tells nothing else, nor gives the reason why.