Target Practice

Sanétomo

On the day that Henry Brillon took a wife, he renounced — with a pang here and there — the habits and possessions of his single life.

Most important of all was the change from the luxurious bachelor apartments on Forty-sixth Street to a still more luxurious home on Riverside Drive; it he furnished in a style calculated to strain the purse even of a successful broker. Besides his clothing and some paintings and bric-à-brac, he kept only three articles from the downtown apartment: a lacquer-wood humidor, a case of books, and his Japanese manservant, Sanétomo. He could bring himself to part with none of these. Poor Sanétomo! He was lost in the great house on the drive. He could still dress his master; he could still arrange the shining linen, the trousers, the jackets, in neat rows for a hasty selection; but that was all. No longer was he called on to prepare those savory midnight repasts, those dainty breakfasts, those perfect little teas, which had made Harry Brillon’s rooms the Mecca of all jaded palates.

The house on the drive had a butler, a great man whom Sanétomo detested and feared, to attend to such things. Sanétomo was no longer a factotum and an artist; he was the merest valet.

And he could remember the time he had overheard the beautiful Nella Somi say to his master: “My dear M. Brillon, I do not come here for love of you, but to taste this gibelotte of Sanétomo’s!”

So it is not a question which of the two men, the master or the servant, most regretted the old free life. It may be doubted, in fact, whether Henry Brillon regretted it at all; at least in the first year or two of his marriage.

His wife, who had been Dora Crevel, daughter of old Morton Crevel, was fair — fair to divinity; and in her large, dark eyes, with their shadowy depths, Brillon found happiness and the recompense for his sacrifice of freedom.

Her face was noted for its beauty; she was young and healthy; she was intelligent; she was in love with the man she had married — small wonder if she filled his thoughts.

So they prospered and were happy. If now and then a tiny cloud appeared on the horizon, they rushed together to drive it away.

One or two small irritations there were, of course. Brillon’s favorite painting, a copy of a Degas, which hung in the reception hall, was an eyesore to his wife, though he never knew it. He was more frank in his disapproval of her activities — feeble and innocent enough, goodness knows — in the interests of women’s rights.

Of more importance, perhaps, than either of these, since it did cause them some slight inconvenience, was the unaccountable dislike Mrs. Brillon had taken to the Japanese valet.

She had said to her husband one night, a month or two after the wedding:

“Ugh! Every time I see him I shudder.”

“Who? Sanétomo?” asked Brillon in surprise.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” Already Dora was sorry she had spoken. “He seems so snaky, so silent — I don’t know just what. It makes me feel creepy to know he is near me.”

“In point of fact, he isn’t very pretty to look at,” Brillon admitted. “He’s even ugly. But you see, darling, I’ve grown attached to him; he’s been with me ten years now, and he saved my life once in Brazil. I don’t believe I could get along without him. You don’t mean — are you really annoyed by his being here?”

Of course, Dora replied “No,” and punctuated it with a kiss. For the moment Sanétomo was forgotten.

But as time went on her repugnance for the little yellow man increased until she could scarcely bear the sight of him; not that this caused her any great discomfort, since he scarcely ever left his master’s dressing room. She would probably not have seen him oftener than once or twice a month but for the fact that she had contracted the habit of spending a half-hour or so before bedtime in that very room with her husband; it had been begun by her desire to read aloud to him a novel of Dreiser’s.

One evening as she read she became suddenly aware that the Japanese was sitting on a stool at the farther end of the room, absolutely motionless, with his little, expressionless eyes gazing straight ahead. Sometime later, when he had gone, she had said to her husband:

“Really, Harry, I don’t think it’s a good idea to allow the servants to sit around like that.”

But he had only laughed, and replied that Sanétomo was not a servant, but a seneschal.

Every evening thereafter the yellow man could be seen on his stool in the corner; and when the sight of him became an irritation too strong for Dora’s nerves, she solved the difficulty by simply turning her chair the other way. There she would sit for an hour or so, usually after midnight, three or four times a week, reading aloud from a novel or play, or conversing with her husband, who would he stretched out in a big Turkish chair in front of her.

And Sanétomo would squat on his stool in the shadow, unnoticed and unheard. Not a sound would come from him during the whole hour; not a cough, nor a movement of the body, nor even a deep breath; none of those little noises by which a human being reveals its presence even in sleep.

Heaven only knows what he was thinking of, or why he sat there. He gave no evidence of any interest in the story that was being read; Brillon might roar with laughter at a humorous passage, or Dora’s voice tremble and her eyes fill with tears at a tragic or pathetic one, but Sanétomo gave no sign.

After learning that her husband was genuinely attached to the Japanese, and that it would give him real pain to part with him, Dora said no more about it. But her feeling of aversion increased, in spite of her desire to ignore it.

She would feel his eyes on the back of her head, and then, turning suddenly, would see plainly that his dull and impassive gaze was either fixed straight before him or on the floor, and she would become impatient with herself for her childishness.

“Certainly I am not afraid of him,” she would argue with herself; “men why in the name of common sense do I think of him at all? It’s absurd; mere stupid fancy; the poor, harmless thing!”

Then she began to come across him in other parts of the house; in the corridors, in the servants’ room downstairs, once even in the reception hall; and though she never once succeeded in catching his eye, she persuaded herself to the belief that his gaze was constantly on her.

The day she met him in the reception hall she turned in a sudden flash of anger and said:

“What are you doing down here? Why aren’t you upstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sorry,” replied Sanétomo, backing off.

“I suppose you know you should not be here,” said Dora quietly, ashamed at having shown temper with a servant.

“Yes, ma’am.”

And he backed clear to the door and disappeared without turning.

These were small incidents, of course, in the life of the wealthy and fashionable Mrs. Brillon; the little yellow man was for her merely one of those petty annoyances of existence which meet us in so many forms and disguises, and he probably would have remained so indefinitely — for she had finally decided to tolerate his presence out of consideration for her husband — had it not been for the curious adventure which explained Sanétomo and finished him all at once.

Early in the summer of the year which saw the second anniversary of his wedding, Brillon took it into his head that he wanted to see the Rocky Mountains; the idea having been suggested by a friend who offered him the use of a bungalow on a ranch near Steamboat Lake, some three hundred miles west of Denver.

Mrs. Brillon, having looked forward to a season at Newport, made some objections, but was won over with little difficulty, and toward the middle of July they departed for the West, accompanied only by Mrs. Brillon’s maid and Sanétomo.

They found the ranch, consisting of a few hundred acres of wild forest and tumbling streams — for everything from a cabbage patch to a mountain range is called a ranch in Colorado — sufficiently delightful to repay them for their tiresome journey. More important still to these New Yorkers, the bungalow was furnished completely throughout its nine or ten large rooms, and had been kept in excellent order by the caretaker, an old grizzled veteran of the mountainside who called himself Trapper Joe.

There were some difficulties at first. They had brought several articles with them from Denver: a case of guns and tackle, three donkeys, a cook, and an automobile. The guns were useless, since it was closed season on everything but chipmunks and small birds. As for the donkeys, Steamboat Lake — the village — was already full of them.

The automobile had beautiful lines and its engine was smooth as butter; but it refused to climb hills, and the Rockies will slope.

But worst of all was the cook. In his sober moments — that is to say, for the first day or two — he was bad enough; but the third morning — He had evidently decided that Mr. Brillon had brought along just one too many cases of champagne, and attempted to remedy the error in one heroic coup.

When they found him he was frightfully drunk, even for a cook. Brillon packed him off with a ticket back to Denver.

And that was how Sanétomo came into his own again.

“You don’t object to cooking for us, do you, ’Tomo?” asked his master.

A swift gleam appeared in the eyes of the yellow man.

“No, sir. I like.”

“All right. Thank the Lord! Luncheon at one. Come on, Dora, let’s see if we can push that confounded car uphill.”

Many pleasant days followed. There were peaks to be climbed, trout to be caught, cañons and forests to be explored; and best of all, Brillon finally succeeded in persuading the automobile that it was the duty of a Christian car to toil upward.

After that they made delightful daily excursions. They would coax the motor through some winding valley or along a narrow road at the brink of a precipice until the way became steep beyond all reason, and then they would get out and open a hamper; and there, on the cool grass beside a little tumbling mountain stream, with the light, winey air in their nostrils and the songs of birds in their ears, they would sit and eat good things and perhaps while away a whole afternoon reading or talking, or merely gazing in silence at the soft green of the valleys below and the dim gray and purple peaks in the distance.

They usually took Sanétomo along to look after the hamper. Brillon insisted on it, and Dora kept her objections to herself.

It was really a sacrifice on her part, for the yellow man’s presence took away a good half of her pleasure. It sounds unreasonable enough, and indeed she thought it so herself; but she hated the very sight of him. Instinctive aversion is stubborn, and grows.

There was certainly nothing in Sanétomo’s behavior or appearance to warrant dislike, beyond the fact that his skin was yellow. He was always quiet, always efficient, and never impudent or obtrusive. In the automobile he sat in front with his master, who drove; and not once would he turn his head; nor would he betray the slightest sign of anxiety or fear when they crept along at the edge of a chasm and Dora would be begging her husband to stop with every turn of the wheels.

Arrived at a halting place, Sanétomo would unstrap the hamper and find a shady spot of green to spread the cloth — and with what a feast would he cover it! The meal over, he would pack up again; and then he would sit down somewhere against a tree and — what?

That was a question. What was in his mind? Dreams of far-away Nippon? Considerations of the ragout to be served at dinner that evening? Or simply nothing at all?

He would sit for hours without moving a muscle of his face, with his little black eyes staring dully, apparently at nothing. Sometimes he would turn them on his master, more seldom on his master’s wife. But they would remain utterly expressionless; no one could have guessed his thoughts, or whether he had any.

Once Dora, happening to turn and meet his gaze, addressed her husband in a tone of irritation:

“Harry, I wish you would tell Sanétomo to stop looking at me. He annoys me.”

Brillon, who was lying on his back in the grass, laughed good-humoredly.

“Is he looking at you? I don’t blame him. You grow more bewitching every day here in the mountains.”

“I say he annoys me,” repeated Dora angrily, ashamed of her petulance, but too irritated to keep the words back.

“Really?” Brillon turned lazily. “ ’Tomo, you hear what your mistress says. Don’t annoy her. Look the other way.”

The Japanese had turned the offending eyes on the ground.

“Tatta Sanétomo,” he said quietly. “I sorry.”

And after that Dora met his gaze no more. But yes — once.

One day toward the end of August they had left the bungalow quite early in the morning, intending to reach Cotton Pass, about sixty miles north of Steamboat Lake, by midday. But the latter half of the way was unknown to them, and they met more hills and dangerous roads than they had bargained for.

Several times Brillon was forced to stop the car and walk some distance ahead to see if a passage was safe, or even possible; and when noon came they found themselves still twenty miles short of their destination.

Soon after they came across a clearing at the roadside where even the scrub oak had not found sufficient soil for its tough roots; and Brillon turned the wheels to the left and stopped the motor with a sigh of relief.

“Come on, ’Tomo, break out the grub,” he directed, jumping down. “Here you go, Dora. Gad, I’m hungry! And I haven’t a nerve left in my body. What an infernal road!”

Beyond the clearing they found a grassy spot under some trees, and there Sanétomo carried the hamper and spread out its contents on a dazzling white cloth.

Brillon was in ill-humor, and Dora, badly shaken by the rough and dangerous journey, was enjoying a well-developed attack of nerves; also they were disappointed at being forced to give up the visit to Cotton Pass.

Naturally they took it out on Sanétomo. Nothing was right. Why hadn’t he brought Fantori instead of Megauvin? He should have known that Megauvin will not stand shaking. The bread was too dry; surely he ought to be able to wrap bread properly. And are these the best olives to be procured? Better, a thousand times better, no olives at all!

Sanétomo merely kept repeating: “I sorry,” without the slightest change of countenance, filling and refilling their glasses and plates.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t say that again!” cried Dora suddenly dropping her napkin. “You’ll drive me crazy!”

“Yes,” agreed Brillon; “keep still, ’Tomo.”

“I sorry,” said the Japanese gravely.

“ ’Tomo!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to go away,” said Dora crossly. “I wish you wouldn’t bring him along at all Harry. Creepy little yellow thing!”

“Oh, come now—” Brillon began to protest, but she interrupted him:

“Yes, he is! He gets on my nerves.”

“Dora!”

Brillon glanced at Sanétomo, who was gathering up the dishes and bottles without any indication that the conversation concerned him in the slightest degree; so he merely shrugged his shoulders and took another sandwich.

When the meal was finished they lay on the grass for half an hour, Brillon smoking cigarettes and Dora trying to rest, while Sanétomo repacked the hamper and strapped it in the car. Then Brillon rose to his feet, saying that they must make sure of reaching Steamboat Lake before nightfall or they might not reach it at all.

He helped Dora to the tonneau, then took the wheel with Sanétomo at his side.

There was barely room in the clearing to turn the car, and after a great deal of backing and starting Brillon managed to get its nose pointed south. With a sigh he settled to his task, cursing himself for having undertaken a road avoided by everyone else for its discomfort and danger.

As soon as Dora reached her seat in the tonneau she had settled back against the cushions and closed her eyes, as if to say: “Let it come if it’s going to!”

As for Sanétomo, he sat as always with his arms folded, looking straight ahead with stoical eyes, except now and then when he would turn them aside to follow the line of a distant purple peak or one nearer crowned with white.

They crawled along thus for two hours, occasionally speeding up a little as they entered a pass between two cliffs with the walls rising almost perpendicularly above their heads on either side; but for the most part barely going forward as they cautiously followed the narrow road, often no more than a path, coiling around the side of a mountain like a huge snake.

But at least they made better time than they had in the morning, when Brillon had been forced to reconnoiter on foot every mile or so to avoid getting caught in a cul de sac; and five o’clock found them within ten miles of Steamboat Lake, with the worst passed.

They began to liven up a little; Brillon chatted with Sanétomo, and Dora had opened her eyes to follow the wonderful changing colors of the sun on the snowcapped hills to the right. Then a great cliff obstructed her view, and she turned to the other side and looked into the valley far below; not ten feet from the wheels of the car a precipice yawned, its bank so straight that she could see only the jagged edge, with here and there a spot of green where a scrub oak clung stubbornly to the granite with its scanty foot of soil.

But ten feet was enough and to spare — many times that afternoon they had had a margin of only two or three — and the accident that befell them was directly and entirely the fault of Brillon himself.

The contributing cause was his desire for a smoke; and presumably it was overconfidence that induced him to reach in his own pockets for cigarette case and matches instead of getting Sanétomo to do it, as he had done before.

So it happened.

Even after the wheel struck a rock and turned he could have kept the road if he had only retained his presence of mind. But his nerves were already shaken by the trying journey, and his frantic pull at the steering wheel was in the wrong direction.

There was a startled oath, a flying leap, a cry of fright from the tonneau, and the next instant the car had flopped over and was rolling down the precipice.

No one could possibly have told afterward just how it happened, Dora least of all. She tried to jump, but was on the left side of the car and thus could not reach the road. She shut her eyes as the thing went over.

Then she felt blows all over her body and a fearful din in her ears, as something seemed to be pressing her mercilessly against the hard rock. Then she felt herself released, pawing at the air frantically, wildly, and her hands closed on something small and round that seemed to hold. She clung on desperately.

She opened her eyes and saw that she was hanging to a limb of a small scrub oak, suspended on the bank of the precipice. A frightful clatter came from below; it was the automobile rolling to destruction. She felt the branch bending dangerously with her weight.

She called in terror and agony:

“Harry! Harry! Harry!”

Immediately a frenzied voice came from above:

“Dora! Thank God!”

She looked up and saw her husband’s face peering over the edge of the precipice, ten feet away.

“Hold on, hold on!” he was shouting. “I’ll make a rope of something Just a minute, dearest! For God’s sake hold on!”

“Yes—” she shouted back, then stopped. She became suddenly aware of a form on her right, not five feet away.

It was Sanétomo, clinging to the same branch as herself!

She looked at the little yellow man dangling there beside her, and, while her arms were aching with the strain and her ears rang with her husband’s shouts of encouragement from above, an irresistible desire to laugh seized her. He looked so funny hanging there! There they were, like two vaudeville acrobats on a trapeze!

Suddenly Sanétomo’s eyes met hers. She felt the branch giving way as it bent under their weight. An ominous snap sounded. She felt herself going down, slowly down. Another snap!

“My God!” she cried in horror.

She heard Sanétomo’s calm voice:

“It break. We too heavy.”

She looked into his eyes as if fascinated. And as she looked there appeared in them a sudden flame of passion that seemed to leap out and scorch her.

It was all in an instant; it must have been, for the branch was cracking and snapping now under their hands. It was all in an instant, but the impression of those glowing eyes was imprinted on her brain forever.

Then Sanétomo’s voice came clearly:

“For the master — seppuku! Sayonara!” (“Suicide! Good-by!”)

Dora met a gleam of wild joy from his eyes; she saw his hands loosen their grasp, and his body dropped like a shot from her sight. She heard noises on the rocks below, and she grew so faint and sick at the sound that she nearly lost her own grip and followed Sanétomo in his fall to death.

But by that fall she was saved. The branch, relieved of half its load, held firm; it even sprang up a little. And two minutes later she was dragged to safety by a line made from strips of cloth from her husband’s coat.

It was eight o’clock when they reached Steamboat Lake after a walk of nearly ten miles, tired, bruised, and sore.

The following morning Brillon took some men from the village and went to look for Sanétomo’s body. And when they found the mangled and shapeless heap at the foot of the precipice, the master gave his faithful servant the tribute of a few tears before they covered the little grave on the mountainside.

But he never learned how and why the little yellow man had saved the life of the one dearest to him: Dora Brillon never told. In the flame of Sanétomo’s eyes, in the greatness of his sacrifice, her dislike for him was burned up, and from its ashes rose an admiration that would not sully the memory of a hero.

For is he not a hero who at the cost of his own life gives back to one he loves the life of another — whom he hates?