Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I: Sensei and I

I

I always called that person Sensei.
So here too I will simply write "Sensei" and not disclose the real name.
This was not so much reserve born of fear of society as because it felt more natural to me.
Every time I recall that person, I immediately want to say "Sensei."
When I put pen to paper, the feeling remains the same.
I have no desire to use cold, impersonal initials like that.

It was in Kamakura that I became acquainted with Sensei.
At that time, I was still a youthful student.
Having received a postcard from a friend who had gone to the seaside for summer vacation urging me to come, I managed to gather some money and decided to go.
I spent two or three days gathering the money.
However, before three days had passed since my arrival in Kamakura, the friend who had summoned me suddenly received a telegram ordering him to return home.
The telegram stated that his mother was ill, but my friend did not believe it.
He had long been pressured by his parents back home into a marriage he did not desire.
By modern standards, he was too young to marry.
Moreover, he himself was not pleased with the arrangement.
Thus, though he should have naturally returned home during summer vacation, he had deliberately avoided doing so and instead been amusing himself near Tokyo.
He showed me the telegram and asked what he should do.
I did not know how to respond.
Yet if his mother truly was ill, then he ought by all means to return.
In the end, he resolved to go back.
Having come all this way, I found myself left alone.

Since there was still a considerable amount of time before school was to start, and I found myself in a position where I could either remain in Kamakura or return home, I resolved to stay at my original lodgings for the time being. My friend was the son of a wealthy family from Chugoku and had no financial difficulties, but given the nature of our school and his age, his standard of living was not so different from mine. Therefore, being left all alone, I had no particular trouble seeking out suitable lodgings.

The inn was in a remote part of Kamakura.
For modern amenities like billiards and ice cream, one had to cross a single long earthen path before they were within reach.
Even going by car cost twenty sen.
Yet private villas stood scattered here and there in great numbers.
Moreover, being very close to the sea, it was extremely conveniently situated for sea bathing.

Every day, I went out to bathe in the sea.
When I passed through the old smoke-blackened thatched-roof buildings and descended to the shore, the sand was so teeming with men and women who had come to escape the heat that one might have thought this area housed such a multitude of urbanites.
There were times when the sea was as crowded with black heads as a public bathhouse.
Even I, who didn’t know a single person among them, found it delightful to be enveloped in this lively scene—lying sprawled on the sand, letting the waves lap at my knees, and hopping about here and there.

It was truly in this crowd that I found Sensei. At that time, there were two tea stalls along the shore. Through happenstance, I had grown accustomed to frequenting one of them. Unlike those who maintained large villas near Hase, these summer visitors here—having no private changing rooms of their own—found such communal facilities indispensable. They would drink tea and rest there, have their swimsuits laundered, rinse off the briny stickiness from their bodies, and leave hats and umbrellas in safekeeping. Though I possessed no swimsuit myself, I too risked having my belongings stolen, so each time I entered the sea I made a practice of leaving everything behind at that tea stall.

II

When I saw Sensei at that tea stall, he was just taking off his kimono and about to enter the sea.
At that moment, I had conversely emerged from the water, letting the wind dry my wet body.
Between us moved countless dark heads that blocked our view.
Had there been no special circumstance, I might have ultimately missed Sensei.
Yet despite the beach being so crowded and my mind so unfocused, the reason I spotted Sensei immediately was that he was accompanied by a Westerner.

The Westerner's strikingly pale skin caught my attention the moment he entered the tea stall.
He wore an authentic Japanese yukata that he had casually tossed onto a folding stool, standing arms crossed while facing the sea.
Beneath it, he wore nothing but a loincloth like those we used.
This struck me first as peculiar.
Two days prior, I had gone to Yuigahama where I squatted on the sand observing Westerners bathing for hours.
My vantage point was a slight rise beside a hotel's rear entrance—from there I watched numerous men emerge to saltwater bathe, though none bared their torsos, arms or thighs.
Women proved especially guarded about exposing flesh.
Most wore rubberized hoods that floated maroon, navy and indigo upon the waves.
Having just witnessed such modesty, this Westerner standing publicly in mere loincloth appeared astonishingly brazen.

He soon glanced back at his side and said a word or two to the Japanese man crouching there.
The Japanese man was picking up a hand towel that had fallen on the sand when, as soon as he took it up, he wrapped it around his head and began walking toward the sea.
That person was none other than Sensei.

Out of mere curiosity, I watched the retreating figures of the two as they walked side by side down the beach. Then they stepped straight into the waves. Passing through the clamorous crowd near the shallow shore, they reached a relatively open area where both began to swim. They headed out toward the open sea until their heads appeared small in the distance. Then they turned back and returned straight to the shore. When they came back to the tea stall, without even rinsing in the well water, they dried themselves immediately, put on their clothes, and promptly went off somewhere.

After they had left, I sat back down on the camp stool as before and smoked. At that time, I sat blankly thinking about Sensei. I couldn't help but feel that his face was one I had seen somewhere before. However, no matter how hard I tried, I ended up unable to recall when or where I had met him.

At that time, I was not so much carefree as tormented by ennui. So the next day, timing it to when I had met Sensei the previous day, I made a special trip to the tea stall. Then the Westerner did not come; Sensei arrived alone wearing a straw hat. Sensei took off his glasses and placed them on the counter, then immediately wrapped his head with a hand towel and walked briskly down the beach. When Sensei passed through the noisy bathers as he had the day before and swam out alone, I suddenly wanted to chase after him. I splashed through the shallow water until it reached over my head, then began swimming toward Sensei with an overarm stroke from there. Then, unlike the day before, Sensei began returning to shore from an odd direction, tracing a sort of arc. And so my objective was ultimately not achieved. When I climbed ashore and entered the tea stall while shaking my dripping hands, Sensei, already properly dressed in his kimono, passed me by on his way out.

III

The next day, I went to the beach at the same time and saw Sensei’s face.
The following day, I repeated the same thing again.
However, no opportunity to strike up a conversation arose between us, nor did any occasion to exchange greetings.
Moreover, Sensei’s attitude was rather unsociable.
He would come at a fixed hour, detached, and depart just as aloofly.
No matter how lively the surroundings were, there was almost no sign of him paying attention to it.
The Westerner who had initially come with him never showed his face again.
Sensei was always alone.

One day, Sensei came up briskly from the sea as usual and was about to put on the yukata he had left in his usual spot when, for some reason, he found it covered in sand. Sensei turned his back and shook the yukata two or three times to dislodge it. Then the glasses that had been placed beneath his clothes fell through a gap in the boards. After fastening his heko obi over the white linen, Sensei seemed to notice his glasses were missing and suddenly began searching the area. I immediately thrust my head and hand under the stool and retrieved the glasses. Sensei said "Thank you" and took them from my hand.

The next day I followed Sensei into the sea. Then I swam in the same direction as he did. When we had gone out about two hundred meters offshore, Sensei turned around and spoke to me. On the vast azure surface of the sea, there was nothing floating nearby save for us two. The strong sunlight illuminated both water and mountains as far as the eye could see. I thrashed about wildly in the sea, muscles surging with freedom and joy. Sensei abruptly ceased moving his limbs and lay floating on his back atop the waves. I imitated his posture. The blue sky’s glare struck my face with piercing intensity, as if shooting through my eyes. “How delightful!” I exclaimed loudly.

After some time, Sensei—who had righted himself in the water as though rising from the sea—urged me by saying, “Shall we head back now?” Though possessing a relatively sturdy constitution, I had wanted to stay longer playing in the sea.
Yet when Sensei invited me, I immediately replied cheerfully, “Yes, let’s return.”
And so we two retraced our path along the shore.

From then on, I became close with Sensei. However, I still did not know where Sensei was staying.

Then, after an interval of two days—exactly on the afternoon of the third day, I believe—when I encountered Sensei at the tea stall, he suddenly asked me, “Do you still intend to stay here for quite some time?” Being thoughtless, I had not prepared an answer for such a question in my mind. And so I answered, “I couldn’t say.” However, when I saw Sensei’s face smirking, I suddenly felt awkward. “What about you, Sensei?” I could not help but ask in return. This was the beginning of my addressing him as “Sensei”—the word that first passed through my lips.

That evening, I visited Sensei’s lodgings.
Though it was called lodgings, unlike an ordinary inn, it was a villa-like building located within the spacious grounds of a temple.
I also realized that the people living there were not Sensei’s family.
Because I kept calling out “Sensei, Sensei,” Sensei gave a wry smile.
I excused myself by saying that it was my habit of addressing elders.
I ventured to ask about the Westerner from before.
Sensei spoke of the man’s eccentricities, his no longer being in Kamakura, and various other matters, then went on to say how strange it was that he had grown close to such a foreigner when he did not even associate much with Japanese people.
In the end, I told Sensei that I felt like I’d seen him somewhere before but simply couldn’t recall where.
Young as I was, I secretly wondered then whether he too might not harbor the same feeling as I did.
And so, anticipating Sensei’s response in my mind, I positioned myself.
However, after pondering for a while, Sensei said, “I don’t recall ever seeing your face before.
It must be a case of mistaken identity, don’t you think?” he said, and I felt a strange kind of disappointment.

IV

I returned to Tokyo at the end of the month.
Sensei had left the summer resort long before that.
When I parted with Sensei, I asked, “May I visit your home occasionally from now on?”
Sensei simply replied with a brief “Yes, come by.”
At that time, I thought I had become quite close to Sensei, so I expected somewhat warmer words from him.
Thus this unsatisfactory reply slightly wounded my confidence.

I was often made to feel disappointed by Sensei in such matters.
Sensei seemed at once aware of it and yet entirely unaware.
I continued to experience these minor disappointments, yet could not bring myself to drift away from him.
Rather than retreating, each time unease shook me, I found myself wanting to press forward even more.
If I pressed further, I thought, what I anticipated would one day appear before my eyes in full.
I was young.
Yet I had never imagined my youthful blood would act so earnestly toward any person.
I did not understand why such feelings arose in me for Sensei alone.
Only now, after Sensei's death, had I come to understand.
Sensei had never disliked me from the beginning.
Those curt greetings and seemingly cold gestures he occasionally showed me were never meant to push me away.
The pitiable man had been warning all who approached: "Cease - I am unworthy of your closeness."
Sensei, who spurned others' affections, appeared to have despised himself long before ever scorning others.

I had of course returned to Tokyo intending to visit Sensei. Since there were still two weeks before classes began after my return, I thought I would go see him once during that time. However, as two or three days passed after coming back, the mood I had felt in Kamakura gradually began to fade. Layered over it all, the air of the metropolis—charged with the intense stimulation of revived memories—deeply saturated my heart. Every time I saw students' faces in the streets, I felt both hope and tension toward the new academic year. For a time, I forgot about Sensei.

When classes began and about a month had passed, a sort of slackness had begun to form in my mind.
I took to walking the streets with an air of vague dissatisfaction.
I gazed about my room with covetous eyes.
Once more, Sensei’s face rose unbidden in my thoughts.
I found myself wanting to see Sensei again.

The first time I visited Sensei’s house, he was not at home.
I remembered that the second time I went was the following Sunday.
The clear sky seemed to seep into me—it was such a fine day.

That day too, Sensei was not at home. When I was in Kamakura, I had heard directly from Sensei himself that he was usually at home. I had also heard that he rather disliked going out. Having come twice and failed to meet him both times, I recalled those words and felt an unreasonable dissatisfaction somewhere within me. I did not leave the entranceway immediately. When I saw the maid’s face, I hesitated for a moment and remained standing there. The maid, who I remembered had passed on my calling card before, left me waiting and went back inside. Then, a woman who appeared to be his wife came out instead. The wife was beautiful.

I was politely informed by Madam of Sensei’s whereabouts.
Sensei had a monthly custom of going to offer flowers at a certain grave in Zōshigaya Cemetery.
“He has only just left; it hasn’t even been ten minutes yet,” Madam said apologetically.
I nodded politely and went outside.

After walking about a block toward the bustling part of town, I too felt like going to Zōshigaya for a stroll.
A curiosity about whether I could meet Sensei or not was also stirred.
So I immediately turned on my heel.

V

I entered from the left side of the nursery before the cemetery and made my way along a wide path flanked by maple trees on both sides. Then from a tea shop visible at the edge, a figure resembling Sensei abruptly emerged. I drew near until sunlight glinted off the rims of his glasses. Without warning, I called out loudly: “Sensei!” He stopped short and fixed his gaze on me.

“Why… why…”

He repeated the same phrase twice. The words hung oddly in the midday stillness. Suddenly I found myself speechless.

“Did you follow me here? Why…”

Sensei’s attitude was rather composed.
The voice was rather subdued.
Yet within that expression was a kind of indistinct shadow.

I told Sensei why I had come there.

“Whose grave did you go to visit? Did my wife mention that person’s name?”

“No, she didn’t say anything like that.”

“I see—yes, there’s no reason she would tell you that—someone she’s just met. There’s no need for her to say it.”

Sensei finally seemed convinced.
But I had no idea what that meant at all.

Sensei and I, trying to head out to the street, made our way through the graves.
Beside graves labeled things like “The Grave of Isabella So-and-So” and “The Grave of Rogin, Servant of God,” stupas inscribed with phrases such as “All sentient beings possess Buddha-nature” stood erected.
There was also one that read “Plenipotentiary Ambassador So-and-So.”
In front of a small grave carved with “Andore,” I asked Sensei, “How do you read this?”
“They probably meant for it to be read as ‘Andore’ or something,” Sensei said with a bitter smile.

Sensei did not seem to find as much comedy or irony as I did in the varied styles of these tombstones. At first he listened silently as I pointed at round gravestones and slender granite markers while chattering away—but finally said, “You’ve never seriously contemplated death itself, have you?” I fell silent. Sensei too said nothing more.

At the cemetery’s edge stood a great ginkgo tree that seemed to blot out the sky. When we reached its shade, Sensei gazed up at the high branches and remarked, “Soon it will be beautiful. When all its leaves turn gold, this ground becomes buried under golden fallen leaves.” It was his custom to pass beneath this tree once every month.

A man leveling the bumpy ground to create a new cemetery in the distance paused his hoeing and watched us.
We turned left from there and soon came out onto the main street.

Having no particular destination in mind, I simply walked in the direction Sensei was heading.
Sensei spoke less than usual.
Even so, since I didn’t feel particularly constrained, I wandered aimlessly along with him.

“Are you going straight home now?”

“Yes—there’s nowhere else I need to stop by.”

The two of us descended the southern slope once more in silence.

“Is your family’s grave located there?” I asked again.

“No.”

“Whose grave is there? Is it a relative’s grave?”

“No.”

Sensei gave no answer beyond this.
I too dropped the subject there.
Then, after walking about a block, Sensei suddenly turned back.

“There is my friend’s grave there.”

“Do you visit your friend’s grave every month?”

“Yes.”

That day, Sensei said nothing more than this.

VI

From then on, I began to visit Sensei occasionally.
Every time I went, Sensei was at home.
As the frequency of my meetings with Sensei increased, I began to visit his doorstep more and more often.

However, Sensei’s attitude toward me did not change much—neither when we first exchanged greetings nor after we became close.
Sensei was always quiet.
At times, he was so quiet it felt almost lonely.
From the very beginning, I felt there was something elusive about Sensei.
And yet, somewhere within me worked an intense compulsion that I simply had to draw closer.
The one who harbored such feelings toward Sensei might have been me alone among many people.
However, since this intuition of mine alone was later substantiated by facts, even if I were called youthful or laughed at as foolish, I found my foresighted intuition altogether reliable and gratifying.
A person capable of loving others, a person compelled to love, yet a person unable to spread his arms and embrace those who sought to enter his bosom—this was Sensei.

As I have just said, Sensei was always quiet.
He was composed.
Yet at times, a strange shadow would cross his face.
Like a black bird’s shadow cast upon a window.
It would appear to strike, then vanish—though vanish it did.
The first time I noticed that shadow in Sensei’s brow was when I unexpectedly called out to him at Zōshigaya Cemetery.
In that strange moment, I felt the current of my heart—which had been flowing pleasantly until then—slightly dulled.
However, it was merely a temporary stagnation.
Within less than five minutes, my heart had regained its usual elasticity.
I had completely forgotten about this shadow of a dark cloud.
The event that unexpectedly made me recall it again occurred on a certain evening when Indian summer was nearing its end.

As I was talking with Sensei, I suddenly visualized the large ginkgo tree he had called attention to right before my eyes.
When I calculated, Sensei’s customary monthly grave-visiting day fell exactly three days later.
The third day was a light one when my classes ended at noon.
I said to Sensei.

“Sensei, I wonder if the ginkgo leaves in Zōshigaya have already scattered.”

“It probably hasn’t gone completely bare yet.”

Sensei answered while watching my face.
And then he kept his gaze fixed there for some time.
I spoke immediately.

“When you go to visit the grave next time, may I accompany you? I want to take a walk there with Sensei.”

“I go to visit the grave; it’s not for taking a walk.”

“But wouldn’t it be just perfect to take a walk while you’re at it?”

Sensei gave no answer.
After a while, he said, “My visits are solely for paying respects at the grave,” appearing intent on keeping grave visits and walks entirely separate.
Whether this was an excuse not to go with me or something else, in that moment Sensei seemed strangely childish to me.
I felt even more determined to press ahead.

“Then please take me with you even if it’s just to visit the grave.”
“I will visit the grave too.”

In truth, the distinction between grave visits and walks seemed almost meaningless to me. Then Sensei’s eyebrows darkened slightly. A strange light appeared in his eyes. It was a faint anxiety that couldn’t be categorized as annoyance, disgust, or fear. I suddenly recalled with vivid intensity the memory of calling out "Sensei" in Zōshigaya. The two expressions were exactly the same.

“I,” Sensei said.
“I have a reason I cannot tell you—that’s why I don’t wish to visit that grave with anyone else.”
“I haven’t even taken my own wife there.”

Seven

I found it strange.
Yet it was not to study Sensei that I came and went to his house.
I simply let matters take their course.
Looking back now, that attitude of mine was rather something to be cherished in my life.
I believe it was precisely this that allowed me to form a genuinely warm, human connection with Sensei.
Had my curiosity probed at Sensei’s mind with even a hint of scrutiny, the fragile thread of sympathy binding us would have snapped without mercy in that instant.
In my youth, I remained utterly unaware of my own disposition.
Perhaps that very ignorance made it precious—but had I strayed down some mistaken path, what ruin might have befallen our bond?
The thought makes me shudder.
For Sensei already lived in perpetual dread of being coldly dissected by watchful eyes.

I began visiting Sensei’s house two or three times each month without fail.
One day when my visits had gradually become more frequent, Sensei suddenly asked me.

“Why do you come to the house of someone like myself so often?”

“Why? There’s no special reason.”
“But am I being a nuisance?”

“I didn’t say you’re a nuisance.”

Indeed, there was no trace of annoyance to be found in Sensei.
I knew Sensei moved within an exceedingly narrow social sphere.
I also knew that of his former classmates, only two or three remained in Tokyo at that time.
Though students from his hometown would occasionally share the parlor with him, none appeared as familiar with Sensei as I was.

“I am a lonely man,” Sensei said.
“That is why I welcome your visits.
That is why I asked why you come so often.”

“And why is that?”

When I asked this in return, Sensei gave no answer. He simply looked at my face and said, "How old are you?"

This exchange was utterly incomprehensible to me, but at that time, I left without pressing the matter to its depths. Moreover, within less than four days, I visited Sensei again. Sensei burst out laughing as soon as he entered the parlor.

“You’ve come again,” he said.

“Yes, I have,” I said, laughing myself.

If anyone else had said this to me, I surely would have been annoyed.
However, when Sensei said this to me, it was completely the opposite.
Not only did it not annoy me, but it was actually pleasant.

“I am a lonely man,” Sensei repeated those words again that evening. “I am a lonely person, but perhaps you too are a lonely person? When one has aged like me, loneliness can be endured in stillness—but you, being young, cannot remain so. You must want to move as much as you are able. To move and collide with something…”

“I’m not lonely at all.”

“There is nothing as lonely as youth.”
“Then why do you come to my house so often?”

There，once again，the same words as before were repeated from Sensei’s lips.

“Even when meeting me, you’re likely still feeling lonely somewhere.”
“I lack the strength to pluck out that loneliness by its roots for you.”
“You will turn outward and before long have to spread your hands.”
“Before long, your feet will no longer turn toward my house.”

Sensei said this with a lonely laugh.

8

Fortunately, Sensei’s prophecy did not come to pass.
At that time, with my lack of experience, I could not even grasp the clear meaning contained within this prophecy.
I still went to visit Sensei.
Before long, I found myself sharing meals at Sensei’s table.
Naturally, this led me to converse with Mrs. Sensei as well.

As an ordinary person, I was not cold toward women.
But given the circumstances I had experienced up to that point as a young man, I had hardly formed any proper relationships with women.
Whether that was the root cause remains doubtful, but my interest was largely directed toward women I encountered on the streets—women I did not even know.
When I first met Mrs. Sensei at the front entrance, I was struck by beauty.
From then on, every time I met her, I never failed to receive the same impression.
However, beyond that, I felt I had nothing in particular to speak about regarding Mrs. Sensei.

It might be more accurate to interpret this not as Mrs. Sensei lacking distinctive qualities, but rather that she had not yet been given the opportunity to demonstrate them.
Yet I always approached Mrs. Sensei with the sense of being an appendage to Sensei.
She too seemed to treat me merely as a courtesy extended to her husband’s visiting student.
Thus had Sensei—who stood between us—been removed, the two of us would have drifted apart entirely.
When I first became acquainted with Mrs. Sensei, all that remained with me was an impression of her beauty and nothing more.

One time, I was made to drink sake at Sensei’s house.
At that moment, Mrs. Sensei came out and poured sake for me by my side.
Sensei seemed more cheerful than usual.
“You have one too,” he said to Mrs. Sensei and held out his emptied cup.
Mrs. Sensei started to say “I…” in refusal but then reluctantly accepted it.
Mrs. Sensei furrowed her beautiful brows and brought the cup—which she had filled about halfway for me—to the edge of her lips.

Between Mrs. Sensei and Sensei, the following conversation began.

“That’s unusual. You’ve rarely told me to drink, though.”

“Because I dislike you. But once in a while, it’s good to drink. It’ll put you in a good mood.”

“It doesn’t make me feel good at all. It’s just painful. But you seem so very cheerful when you drink a little sake.”

“At times I become quite cheerful. But I can’t always be that way.”

“How about tonight?”

“I’m in a good mood tonight.”

“It would be good if you drank a little each night from now on, you know.”

“That won’t do.”

“Please drink—that way you won’t feel so lonely.”

Sensei’s household consisted solely of the couple and the maid. Every time I went, it was usually quiet. Never once was there any sound of loud laughter. At times, it felt as though only Sensei and I were present in the house.

“It would be nice if we had a child,” Mrs. Sensei said, turning toward me.
“I suppose so,” I replied.
Yet no sympathy stirred within me.
Having never had children myself at that time, I thought of them as nothing more than a nuisance—like flies.

“Shall we adopt one?” said Sensei.

“But an adopted child isn’t… don’t you see,” Mrs. Sensei said, turning toward me again.

“Children will never come, no matter how much time passes,” said Sensei.

Mrs. Sensei remained silent.
“Why?” I asked instead. At that moment, Sensei laughed loudly and said, “Because it’s divine punishment.”

IX

To the best of my knowledge, Sensei and Mrs. Sensei were a harmonious married couple.
Since I had never lived as part of a household myself, I naturally remained unaware of deeper domestic matters; yet when sitting face-to-face with Sensei in the parlor, there were times he would call for Mrs. Sensei instead of the maid on some pretext.
(Mrs. Sensei’s name was Shizuka.)
Sensei would always turn toward the sliding door and call out, “Oi Shizuka.”
This manner of address sounded gentle to my ears.
The way Mrs. Sensei answered and appeared was remarkably compliant.
On occasions when she would emerge bearing meals for us guests, this relationship between them became all the more vividly apparent.

Sensei sometimes took Mrs. Sensei to music concerts and plays.
Moreover, according to my memory, they took trips as a couple lasting within a week on two or three occasions or more.
I still have the picture postcard I received from Hakone.
When they went to Nikko, I also received a letter containing a single maple leaf.

The relationship between Sensei and his wife, as seen through my eyes at the time, was roughly like this.

Among these, there had been a single exception.

One day, when I tried to request entry as usual at Sensei's front door, voices could be heard from the direction of the parlor.
When I listened carefully, I realized it was no ordinary conversation—it seemed they were quarreling.
As Sensei's house had the parlor immediately beyond the entranceway, standing before the lattice door allowed me to discern the tone of their argument.
From the man's voice that occasionally rose, it became clear one of them was Sensei.
The other person's voice being lower than his made identification uncertain, but it somehow felt like Mrs. Sensei.
She also seemed to be crying.
I wondered what to do and hesitated at the entranceway, but quickly resolved to return to my lodging as I was.

A strangely uneasy feeling came over me.
I lost the ability to comprehend anything I read.

About an hour later, Sensei came beneath my window and called my name.
I was startled and opened the window.
Sensei suggested we go for a walk and invited me from below.
When I took out the watch still wrapped in the folds of my obi and looked at it, it was already past eight o'clock.
I had returned and was still dressed in hakama.
I immediately went outside.

That evening, I drank beer with Sensei.
Sensei was by nature a man of little drinking capacity.
He would drink up to a certain point, and if that didn’t make him drunk, he was not one to venture further and drink until he did get drunk.

“Not today,” Sensei said with a wry smile.

“Can’t you cheer up?” I asked sympathetically.

In the pit of my stomach, the matter from earlier remained stuck.
I suffered as though a fish bone had lodged in my throat.
The wavering between considering whether to confess and then reconsidering that it might be better to stop made me strangely restless.

“You seem rather off tonight,” Sensei began.
“To tell the truth, I’m feeling a bit off myself.
Do you understand?”
I could not give any answer.

“To tell the truth, I had a little quarrel with my wife earlier. That’s left me needlessly agitated,” Sensei said again.

“Why…”

The word quarrel would not come to my lips.

“My wife misunderstands me.
“Even when I try to explain it’s a misunderstanding, she refuses to accept it.
“I lost my temper.”

“How deeply does she misunderstand you?”

Sensei made no attempt to answer my question.

“If I were the sort of person my wife imagines me to be, I wouldn’t be suffering like this.”

How profoundly Sensei was suffering remained a matter beyond my comprehension.

10

When the two of them returned, their walking silence continued for one block, then two. Afterwards, Sensei abruptly broke into speech.

“I’ve done wrong.”
“Having stormed out, my wife must be terribly anxious.”
“When I consider it, women are truly pitiable creatures.”
“For my wife has absolutely nothing to rely upon beyond myself.”

Sensei’s words halted there momentarily, yet without awaiting any response, he pressed onward.

“When I say that, the husband comes off as quite self-assured, which is a bit comical.”
“You—how do I appear in your eyes?”
“Do I seem like a strong person? Or a weak one?”

“Average,” I answered.
This answer seemed somewhat unexpected to Sensei.
Sensei closed his mouth again and began walking in silence.

The usual route back to Sensei’s house passed right by my lodging. When I reached that point, I felt that parting ways at the corner would be inconsiderate to Sensei. “Since it’s on my way, shall I accompany you to your house?” I said.

Sensei abruptly stopped me with his hand.

“It’s late already—go home quickly. I’ll hurry back too, for my wife’s sake.”

The words Sensei added at the end—"for my wife’s sake"—strangely warmed my heart at that moment. Because of those words, I was able to sleep peacefully after returning home. For a long time afterward, I did not forget this “for my wife’s sake.”

I understood through this that the turmoil which had arisen between Sensei and his wife was no major matter. That it was moreover a phenomenon that rarely occurred was something I could nearly surmise, having come and gone constantly since then. Far from that, Sensei even let slip such a thought to me on one occasion.

“In this world, I know only one woman as a woman.”
“Women other than my wife scarcely appeal to me as women.”
“My wife, for her part, considers me to be the only man in the world.”
“In that sense, we ought to be the most fortunate pair of people born into this world.”

Because I have now forgotten the sequence of events surrounding that moment, I cannot clearly state why Sensei chose to make such a confession to me.
However, both Sensei’s serious demeanor and his subdued tone remain etched in my memory.
What struck me as peculiar at the time was that final phrase: “we ought to be the most fortunate pair of people born into this world.”
Why did Sensei not declare outright that they were happy people, but instead assert that they ought to be?
This alone perplexed me.
More than anything, the peculiar forcefulness Sensei imbued in those words seemed suspect.
Was Sensei truly happy? Though they should have been ideally suited for happiness, were they perhaps not so content after all?
I could not help but harbor this doubt.
Yet that doubt was temporarily laid to rest.

In time, I went to Sensei’s house during his absence and encountered an opportunity to speak face-to-face with his wife, just the two of us. Sensei was out that day, having gone to Shinbashi to see off a friend who was to board a steamship departing from Yokohama for abroad. In those days, it was customary for those boarding ships from Yokohama to depart Shinbashi on the eight-thirty morning train. Because I needed Sensei to discuss a certain book with me, I visited him at the promised nine o'clock, as I had obtained his prior consent. Sensei’s trip to Shinbashi was a sudden event that occurred that day as a courtesy to the friend who had come the previous day to bid him farewell. Sensei had left instructions for me to wait even if he was out, saying he would return shortly. So I went up to the parlor and, while waiting for Sensei, spoke with his wife.

Eleven

At that time, I was already a university student.
Looking back to when I first visited Sensei’s house, I felt I had matured considerably.
By then I had grown quite close to his wife.
I felt no discomfort in her presence.
We sat facing each other and talked about various things.
Yet being an ordinary conversation without distinctive features, I have now completely forgotten it.
Among it all there was just one thing that caught my ear.
But before speaking of that, there is something I must clarify.

Sensei was a university graduate.
I had known this from the beginning.
However, that Sensei was idling without doing anything was something I first came to understand only some time after returning to Tokyo.
At that time, I wondered how he could remain idle.

Sensei was a man whose name was utterly unknown to the world.
Therefore, regarding Sensei’s scholarship and ideas, there should have been no one other than myself—who was in close relation with him—who paid them respect.
I always said that it was a regrettable thing.
Sensei would only reply, “It wouldn’t do for someone like me to go out into society and speak up,” and would not engage further.
To me, his answer sounded too humble—almost as if he were disparaging the world instead.
In reality, Sensei would occasionally seize upon certain former classmates who were now prominent and subject them to harsh, unsparing criticism.
So I bluntly pointed out that contradiction and ventured to elaborate on it.
My spirit was not so much one of rebellion as it was regret that the world remained untroubled not knowing Sensei.
At that moment, Sensei said in a somber tone, “I am simply a man unqualified to make any impact on the world—there’s nothing to be done.”
A deep, singular expression was vividly carved into Sensei’s face.
I could not tell whether it was disappointment, resentment, or sorrow—but whatever it was, its intensity was so overwhelming that I found myself utterly unable to muster the courage to say anything further.

While I was talking with his wife, the topic naturally shifted to Sensei’s circumstances.

“Why does Sensei stay home thinking and studying like that instead of working in society?”

“He can’t do it.”
“Because he dislikes such things.”

“You mean he’s realized those matters are trivial?”

“Whether he’s realized it or not—well, being a woman, I can’t claim to understand such things, but that’s likely not what he means.”
“He must still want to do something.”
“Yet he remains unable to.”
“That’s why I feel so terribly sorry for him.”

“But from a health standpoint, Sensei doesn’t seem to have any particular issues, does he?”

“He’s perfectly healthy,” she replied. “He has no chronic illnesses whatsoever.”

“Then why can’t he be active?”

“I don’t understand that myself,” she said. “If I could understand it, I wouldn’t be worrying like this. Because I don’t understand, it breaks my heart.”

There was deep sympathy in his wife’s tone. Yet a faint smile lingered at the corners of her lips. To an outside observer, I would have appeared the more serious one. I kept a solemn expression and remained silent. Then his wife, as if suddenly recalling something, spoke again.

“When he was young, he wasn’t like that.”
“When he was young, he was entirely different.”
“He changed completely.”

“When you say ‘when he was young,’ about what time are you speaking?” I asked.

“When he was a student.”

“Have you known Sensei since his student days?”

His wife suddenly flushed faintly.

Twelve

His wife was from Tokyo.
I had heard that from both Sensei and his wife herself and was aware of it.
His wife said, “To tell the truth, I’m a mix.”
While her father was indeed from Tottori or somewhere like that, her mother was a woman born in Ichigaya during the time it was still called Edo, so his wife had said this half-jokingly.
However, Sensei was from a completely different part of the country—a native of Niigata Prefecture.
Therefore, if his wife had known Sensei during his student days, it was clear that it was not due to any connection through their hometowns.
However, his wife, with her slightly flushed face, seemed disinclined to say anything more on the matter, so I refrained from pressing her further.

From the time I became acquainted with Sensei until his death, I had explored his thoughts and sentiments through various matters, yet regarding the circumstances of his marriage, I could scarcely learn anything. At times, I attempted to interpret this charitably. Considering Sensei’s seniority, I supposed he intentionally avoided sharing romantic reminiscences with younger people. At other times, I viewed it unfavorably. Both Sensei and Shizuka—having matured under the conventions of an earlier generation compared to myself—likely lacked the courage to openly reveal themselves when confronted with such amorous subjects, I reasoned. Of course, these were mere conjectures. And behind both assumptions, I had posited the existence of a radiant romance underlying their union.

My assumption had indeed not been wrong.

But I had only been able to imagine one side of their romance.
Sensei had a dreadful tragedy behind his beautiful romance.
And just how gruesome that tragedy had been for Sensei was something his wife had not known at all.
His wife still does not know it.
Sensei hid it from his wife and died.
Before Sensei destroyed his wife’s happiness, he had first destroyed his own life.

I will not speak of this tragedy now.
As for their romance—which could rather be said to have been born from that tragedy—it was as I had already described.
Neither of them told me much of anything.
Shizuka out of propriety, Sensei for a deeper reason beyond that.

There is one thing that remains in my memory.

One time during the flower season, I went to Ueno with Sensei.
There I saw a beautiful pair of a man and woman.
They walked close together beneath the blossoms, looking deeply affectionate.
Given the nature of the place, many people had turned their eyes toward them instead of the flowers, gazing intently.

"They look like newlyweds," said Sensei.

“They seem close,” I replied.

Sensei did not even give a wry smile.
He turned his steps in a direction that would place the man and woman out of his line of sight.
Then he asked me this.

“Have you ever been in love?”

I answered no.

“Don’t you want to fall in love?”

I did not answer.

“You can’t say you don’t want to, can you?”

“Yeah.”

“You saw that man and woman just now and made a cold remark. Within that cold remark of yours, there must have been mingled the voice of your displeasure at seeking love yet being unable to find a partner.”

“Did it sound that way to you?”

“It did sound that way. People who are fulfilled in love speak with a warmer tone. But... but you, love is a sin. Do you understand?”

I was suddenly startled.
I did not reply.

Thirteen

We were in the midst of the crowd.
The entire crowd wore happy expressions.
Until we passed through there and came into the forest where neither flowers nor people could be seen, there had been no opportunity to broach the same subject.

“Is love a sin?” I asked abruptly at that moment.

“It is a sin. Certainly,” Sensei answered, his tone as forceful as before.

“Why?”

“You’ll come to realize why in time.”
“Not ‘in time’—you ought to have realized already.”
“Hasn’t your heart been stirred by love since long ago?”

I probed my chest cautiously.
Yet there lay an emptiness I hadn’t anticipated.
Nothing resembling an answer surfaced.

“Within me exists not a single object of focus.”
“I assure you I’ve concealed nothing from you, Sensei.”

“You move because there’s no object. If there were one, you’d settle down—that’s why you feel compelled to move.”

“I’m not moving around that much now.”

“Isn’t it precisely because you were unfulfilled that you came moving to me?”

“That may be so,” I said. “But that differs from love.”

“It’s a preparatory stage in love’s ascent,” Sensei replied. “Before embracing someone of the opposite sex, you first came seeking a same-sex person like me.”

“To me, the two seem to be entirely different in nature.”

“No—they’re the same.”
“As a man, I am someone who simply cannot give you satisfaction.”
“Moreover, there are certain special circumstances that make me all the more unable to give you satisfaction.”
“I actually feel sorry for you.”
“It can’t be helped that you move away from me.”
“In fact, I am rather hoping for it.”
“But…”

I became strangely sad.

“If you think I will leave you, Sensei, there’s nothing to be done—but I have not yet felt any such inclination.”

Sensei paid no heed to my words.

“But you must be careful,” Sensei said. “Because love is a sin. At my place, while there’s no satisfaction to be had, there’s also no danger—but do you know what it feels like to be bound by long black hair?”

I knew through imagination. But in reality, I did not know. In any case, Sensei’s meaning of “sin” remained hazy and unclear to me. What’s more, I grew somewhat uneasy.

“Sensei,” I pressed, “please explain this ‘sin’ more plainly. Otherwise, let us end this discussion here—until I myself grasp its meaning clearly.”

“I did a bad thing.”
“I believed I was speaking truthfully to you.”
“But in reality, I was only causing you anxiety.”
“I did a bad thing.”

Sensei and I walked from behind the museum toward Uguisudani with quiet steps.
Through a gap in the fence, part of the wide garden where bear bamboo grew thick appeared deeply serene.

“Do you know why I visit my friend’s grave buried in Zōshigaya Cemetery every month?”

Sensei’s question came entirely out of the blue.
Moreover, Sensei was well aware that I could not answer this question.
I did not respond for a while.
Then, as if noticing for the first time, Sensei said this.

“I said something wrong again.”
“Thinking it wrong to cause you anxiety, when I try to explain, that very explanation ends up making you anxious again.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Let us put an end to this matter here.”
“Anyway, love is a sin, you see?”
“And yet it is sacred.”

To me, Sensei’s words were becoming increasingly incomprehensible. However, after that, Sensei did not speak of love again.

14

As a young man, I was apt to become single-minded.
At least in Sensei’s eyes, I seemed to appear that way.
To me, Sensei’s conversations were more beneficial than my school lectures.
Sensei’s ideas were more valuable to me than my professors’ opinions.
Ultimately, Sensei—who kept to himself and spoke little—seemed greater to me than those esteemed people standing at the podium guiding me.

“Don’t get too worked up,” Sensei said.

“I think so as a result of having sobered up,” I answered with full confidence at the time.
Sensei did not approve of that confidence.

“You are in a feverish state.”
“When the fever subsides, you will grow weary.”
“I find it painful to be thought of in such a way by you as you are now.”
“But when I anticipate the changes that will occur in you from now on, it becomes even more painful.”

“Am I thought to be so superficial? Am I so distrusted by you?”

“I feel pity for you.”

“Do you mean that despite your pity, you don’t trust me?”

Sensei turned toward the garden with a troubled look.
In that garden, not a single camellia flower remained—those that until just recently had dotted the space with their heavy, vivid red hues.
Sensei had a habit of often gazing at these camellia flowers from the sitting room.

“When I say I don’t trust, it’s not that I particularly distrust you. I don’t trust all of humanity.”

At that moment, a voice that sounded like a goldfish seller came from beyond the hedge.
Beyond that, there was nothing else to hear.
The alley, which turned two blocks deep from the main street, was unexpectedly quiet.
The house was as hushed as ever.
I knew that Mrs. was in the next room.
I also knew that my speaking voice reached the ears of Mrs., who was silently engaged in needlework or something similar.
However, I had completely forgotten about it.

“Then do you not trust Mrs. either?” I asked Sensei.

Sensei made a slightly uneasy face.
And thus he avoided a direct answer.

"I do not even trust myself.
In other words, because I cannot trust myself, I have come to be unable to trust others.
I have no choice but to curse myself."

“If you think about it so deeply, then nothing would feel certain for anyone.”

“No—I didn’t just think about it. I acted. And after acting, I was shocked. Then I became terribly afraid.”

I wanted to pursue this path of conversation further when Mrs.’s voice called twice from behind the sliding door: “You there! You there!”

Sensei responded to the second call with “What is it?”

“Come here,” Mrs. summoned him to the adjoining room.

I couldn’t grasp what matter had arisen between them.

Sensei returned to the sitting room so swiftly that it left no time to imagine what had transpired.

“In any case, you mustn’t trust me too much. You’ll come to regret it. And then you’ll exact cruel revenge in return for having been deceived.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“The memory of having once knelt before someone will make you want to place your foot upon their head. I wish to reject present reverence to avoid future insults. I would rather endure my lonely present self than an even lonelier future self. We who are born into this modern age saturated with freedom, independence, and self must all taste this loneliness as its sacrifice.”

I did not know what words to say to Sensei, who was resolved in this way.

Fifteen

After that, I became concerned every time I saw Mrs.'s face.
Does Sensei always take this kind of attitude toward Mrs. as well?
If that were the case, would Mrs. be satisfied with that?

Mrs.’s demeanor was such that I could not determine whether she was satisfied or dissatisfied.
I had not had many opportunities to get close to Mrs.
Moreover, Mrs. was always ordinary whenever she met me.
Lastly, because unless it was in a seat where Sensei was present, Mrs. and I rarely met face to face.

My doubts extended even further than that.
Where does Sensei’s resolve toward humanity come from?
Was it simply the result of coldly introspecting upon himself and observing the modern age?
Sensei was a man of contemplative nature.
If one had Sensei’s intellect, would such an attitude naturally arise simply from sitting and contemplating the world?
I could not believe it was only that.
Sensei’s resolve seemed to be one born of lived experience.
It was different from the outline of a stone-built house that had been burned and thoroughly cooled.
As reflected in my eyes, Sensei was indeed a thinker.
Yet behind the ideology that thinker had formulated, there seemed to be woven strong facts.
It did not seem to be composed of facts about others separated from himself, but rather facts he himself had keenly experienced—facts that made his blood boil or his pulse stop—that appeared to be folded within.

This was nothing but conjecture within my heart. Sensei himself had already confessed this to be so. Yet that confession loomed like towering storm clouds. It cast over me something terrifying and unknowable in nature. Still I could not grasp why it frightened me so. The confession remained dimly veiled—and yet it undeniably shook my very nerves.

I came to hypothesize that some intense romantic incident lay at the root of Sensei’s philosophy of life. (Naturally occurring between Sensei and his wife.) Comparing this with his past declaration that love was sin provided some clue. Yet Sensei had explicitly told me he did love his wife. From such mutual affection, such resolve bordering on world-weariness should never have emerged. His words—“That memory of kneeling before someone would make you plant your foot upon their head”—seemed meant for people of this modern age generally, yet somehow ill-suited to describe Sensei and his wife.

The grave in Zōshigaya of someone unknown—this too sometimes stirred in my memory.
I knew it was a grave deeply connected to Sensei.
While drawing closer to Sensei's life yet unable to truly approach it, I accepted that grave into my mind as a fragment of life dwelling within his thoughts.
Yet for me, that grave remained entirely dead.
It never became the key to unlock the door of life standing between us.
Rather, it loomed between us like some demonic being blocking free passage.

While all this was happening, the time came when I had to speak directly with Mrs. again.
It was that hurried autumn when days grew shorter—a chilly season that caught everyone's notice.
In Sensei’s neighborhood, thefts occurred for three or four days in a row.
The thefts all took place in the early evening.
Although few houses had anything significant taken, in every place that was broken into, something was stolen.
Mrs. felt unsettled.

At this point, a circumstance arose where Sensei had to leave the house one evening.
Because a friend from Sensei’s hometown who was working at a provincial hospital had come to Tokyo, Sensei had to take this friend out for a meal along with two or three others at a certain place.
Sensei explained the circumstances and asked me to look after the house until he returned.
I agreed immediately.

Sixteen

The time I arrived was at dusk when the lights were just about to be lit or not yet lit, but the meticulous Sensei was already gone.
“He said it would be improper to be late, so he left just moments ago,” Mrs. said, escorting me to Sensei’s study.

In the study, aside from a Western-style desk and chair, numerous books with beautiful leather spines were lined up and illuminated through the glass by electric light. Mrs. seated me on the zabuton cushion spread before the brazier and said, “Please read one of the books around here for a while,” before excusing herself and leaving. I felt exactly like a guest waiting for Sensei’s return and could not settle down. I remained formal as I smoked tobacco. I could hear Mrs. talking to the maid about something in the tea room. The study was located at a corner that turned sharply after passing through the veranda of the tea room, so in terms of the building’s layout, it commanded a quietness even more secluded than the main sitting room. After Mrs.’s voice ceased for a time, everything fell completely silent. I was in a state of mind like awaiting a thief, staying rigidly alert while keeping my attention dispersed.

About thirty minutes later, Mrs. showed her face at the entrance to the study again.
“Oh,” she said, turning eyes widened in mild surprise toward me.
Then she looked at me with amusement as I sat stiffly like a formal guest.

“Then that must be uncomfortable for you.”

“No, I’m not uncomfortable.”

“But aren’t you bored?”

“No. Because I’m tense thinking a thief might come，I’m not bored either.”

Mrs. stood holding a black teacup in her hand, laughing as she remained there.

“This corner isn’t a good spot for keeping watch,” I said.

“Then if you’ll excuse me—please come out more toward the center. I thought you must be bored, so I made tea and brought it here. If you’d prefer the tea room, I can serve it there instead.”

I followed Mrs. out of the study.
In the tea room, an iron kettle hummed atop an elegant long brazier.
There I was treated to tea and sweets.
Mrs., saying she needed to stay awake, did not touch her teacup.

“Does Sensei still attend such gatherings occasionally?”

“No, he rarely goes out these days.”
“Lately he seems to be growing increasingly averse to seeing people.”

Seeing Mrs.’s composed demeanor showed no particular distress about this situation, I grew emboldened.

“Then are you the sole exception, Mrs.?”

“No, I’m merely another among those he dislikes.”

“That’s a lie,” I said.
“You know full well it’s false yet say so anyway.”

“Why?”

“If you ask me, it’s because he came to love you that he grew to dislike the world.”

“You’re quite skilled—as one would expect from someone who pursues learning,” she said. “How adept you are at wielding hollow arguments... After all, couldn’t one just as well argue that because he came to dislike the world, he ended up disliking even me? By that same logic—”

“Both arguments can be made, but in this case, I am the one who is correct.”

“I’ve had enough of this arguing.”
“Men certainly do love to argue, don’t they? As if it’s so entertaining.”
“I do wonder how you can keep up that endless toasting with empty cups without growing weary of it.”

Mrs.’s words stung a little.
However, in terms of their tone, they were by no means vehement.
Mrs. was not modern enough to derive a kind of pride from making others acknowledge her intellect.
Mrs. seemed to cherish a heart sunk even deeper than that.

Seventeen

I still had things I needed to say afterward.
Yet I restrained myself, fearing Mrs. might perceive me as one who needlessly picks arguments.
Mrs., peering into the emptied teacup’s depths to anchor my silent form, asked, “Would you like another cup?”
I handed the cup back to her at once.

“How many?”
“One?”
“Two?”

Mrs., having picked up a sugar cube in an oddly deliberate manner, looked at my face and asked how many lumps to put in the teacup. Her attitude was not quite fawning over me, yet it brimmed with a charm that seemed determined to offset her earlier sharp words.

I drank the tea silently.
Even after emptying the cup, I kept quiet.

“You’ve grown terribly silent all of a sudden,” Mrs. said.

“Because if I speak now,” I replied, “it might seem like I’m provoking another argument—and then I’d surely earn your scolding.”

“Surely not,” Mrs. said again.

The two of us took that as an opening to resume our conversation.
And then again, we took up Sensei—a subject of shared interest to us both.

“Mrs., would you allow me to speak a little more on the continuation of our earlier conversation?
It may sound like empty logic to you, Mrs., but I’m not saying this distractedly.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“If you were to suddenly disappear now, would Sensei be able to go on living as he does now?”

“I don’t know about that, you.
There’s no other way but to ask Sensei about such things, isn’t there?
That’s not a question to bring to me.”

“Mrs., I am serious. So you mustn’t evade this.”
“You have to answer honestly.”

“I’m being honest,”
“Honestly speaking, I don’t know.”

“Then Mrs., to what extent do you love Sensei?”
“Since this is a question better posed to you rather than Sensei, I’m asking you.”

“Must you ask such things so bluntly?”

“There’s no need to adopt such a solemn tone when asking.”
“Are you saying it’s entirely obvious?”

“Well, I suppose it is.”

“If you—so devoted to Sensei—were to suddenly disappear, what would become of him? Sensei, who finds nothing appealing wherever he looks in this world—what do you think would happen if you vanished? Not from Sensei’s perspective. From yours. From your perspective, would Sensei become happy or unhappy?”

“From my view, I know perfectly well. (Though Sensei might not think so.) If Sensei were to leave me, he would only grow unhappy. He might not even survive. This may sound self-important, but I believe I’m making him as happy as any human could right now. I’ve even convinced myself that no one could make Sensei happier than I do. That’s why I can remain so composed like this.”

“I believe that conviction should appear favorably in Sensei’s heart, but—”

“That’s a separate matter.”

“Are you saying Sensei dislikes you after all?”

“I don’t believe I’m disliked.”
“There’s simply no reason for me to be disliked.”
“But Sensei dislikes society itself, doesn’t he?”
“Or rather, these days he’s come to dislike people altogether.”
“So as one of those people, how could I possibly be an exception?”

The meaning of Mrs. being disliked finally sank in for me.

Eighteen

I was impressed by Mrs.’s perceptiveness. The way her demeanor diverged from that of a traditional Japanese woman stirred something within me. Thus she scarcely employed any of those newly fashionable phrases just then coming into vogue.

I was an unworldly young man who had never known deep companionship with women. As a male driven by instinctual yearnings, I had always envisioned women as objects of romantic longing—yet this was akin to gazing wistfully at spring clouds, a vague and formless dreaming. When confronted with actual women, my feelings would often shift abruptly. Rather than feeling drawn to the female before me, I instead experienced an odd sense of repulsion in those moments. With Mrs., no such reaction ever surfaced. The notion of some inherent disparity between male and female intellects scarcely crossed my mind. I forgot Mrs.’s very womanhood. To me she existed solely as Sensei’s earnest critic and compassionate ally.

“Mrs., when I asked you before—‘Why doesn’t Sensei engage more with the world?’—you said something then, didn’t you? ‘He wasn’t like that originally.’”

“Yes, I said that.”
“He truly wasn’t like that at all, you know.”

“What was he like?”

“The sort of person you would wish for—the sort I would wish for—he was that kind of dependable man.”

“Then why did he change so suddenly?”
“It wasn’t sudden—he gradually became like that over time, you know.”
“Mrs., you were with Sensei all that time, weren’t you?”

“Of course I was there.”
“We’re husband and wife.”
“Then you should properly understand what caused Sensei to change like that, shouldn’t you?”

“That’s precisely why it’s so troubling,” she said. “When you say that, it cuts deep—but no matter how I try to think it through, there’s nowhere for my thoughts to go. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve begged him to open up to me.”

“What does Sensei say?”

“He just says, ‘There’s nothing to tell, nothing to fret over—this is simply how I am now,’ and refuses to engage.”

I remained silent.
Mrs. also trailed off.
The maid in the maid’s room did not make the slightest sound.
I had completely forgotten about the thief.

“You don’t think I’m responsible, do you?” Mrs. suddenly asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Please speak without hiding anything.”
“Being thought of that way cuts deeper than a blade,” Mrs. said again.
“Even so, I believe I am doing everything I can for Sensei.”

“Well, since Sensei himself acknowledges that, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Please rest assured—I guarantee it.”

Mrs. smoothed the ashes in the brazier.
Then she poured water from the water container into the iron kettle.
The iron kettle immediately fell silent.

“I finally couldn’t endure it any longer and asked Sensei.”
“If there’s something wrong with me, please tell me without hesitation—if it’s a flaw I can correct, I’ll correct it.” Then Sensei said, “You have no flaws. The flaws are all on my side.”
“When he says that, I become unbearably sad—the tears come, and I want even more to hear what’s wrong with me.”

Mrs.’s eyes filled with tears.

19

At first, I had regarded Mrs. as an understanding woman.
While I spoke in that frame of mind, Mrs.’s demeanor gradually began to change.
Mrs., instead of appealing to my intellect, began to stir my heart.
Between herself and her husband there was no rift—there should have been none—and yet there was something.
And yet, when she tried to open her eyes and ascertain it, there was still nothing.
The crux of Mrs.’s suffering lay there.

Mrs. initially asserted that because Sensei viewed the world through pessimistic eyes, she too had become disliked as a consequence.
Yet even as she made this declaration, she found no peace in it.
To get to the bottom of it, she was actually entertaining the opposite notion.
She had speculated that Sensei—through coming to dislike himself—had ultimately grown to detest the world itself.
But no matter how she strained, she could never solidify this speculation into fact.
Sensei’s conduct remained unfailingly that of an exemplary husband.
He was considerate and gentle.
Mrs., who had wrapped her mass of doubts in each day’s tenderness and quietly buried it deep within her heart, undid that bundle before me that evening.

“What do you think?” she asked.
“Did he become like that because of me, or because of that view of life you talk about or whatever?”
“Please tell me everything—hold nothing back.”

I had no intention of hiding anything.
But if there existed something there that I did not know, then no matter what my answer was, it could not have satisfied Mrs.
And so, I believed there was something there that I did not know.

“I don’t know.”

In that instant, Mrs. showed the pitiable expression of one whose expectations had been unfulfilled.
I immediately added to my words.

“However, I can guarantee that Sensei does not dislike you.”
“I am merely conveying to you exactly what I heard from Sensei himself.”
“Sensei is not one to lie.”

Mrs. gave no answer.
After a while, she said this.

“The truth is, I do have an inkling of something, though…”

“Are you referring to the root cause of why Sensei became that way?”

“Yes. If that were indeed the cause, then at least I would be free of responsibility—and that alone would make me feel so much easier, but…”

“What sort of thing is it?”

Mrs. hesitated to speak and gazed at her own hands resting on her lap.

“You told me to decide.”
“Because you said that...”

“If it is a judgment I can make, I will do it.”

“I cannot tell you everything.”
“If I say everything, I will be scolded.”
“I will only tell you the parts I will not be scolded for.”

I nervously swallowed my saliva.

“When Sensei was still at university, he had a very close friend.”
“That person died just before graduating.”
“He died suddenly.”

Mrs. said in a hushed voice, as if whispering to my ear, “The truth is, he died under mysterious circumstances.”
It was phrased in a way that compelled one to ask “Why?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”
“But it was after that incident occurred.”
“It was after that when Sensei’s nature began gradually changing.”
“Why that person died—I don’t know.”
“Even Sensei likely doesn’t understand.”
“Yet if you consider that Sensei changed afterward, one can’t say such thinking is entirely baseless.”

“Is that person’s grave the one in Zōshigaya?”

“We’ve agreed not to speak of that either, so I won’t.”
“But can a person really change so much just from losing one close friend?”
“I am dying to know that.”
“That’s why I want you to make this one judgment for me.”

My judgment was leaning rather toward denial.

20

I tried to comfort Mrs. Shizuka within the limits of the facts I had grasped.
Mrs. Shizuka too appeared comforted by me as much as possible.
Thus we two discussed the same issue endlessly.
But I had never truly grasped the root of the matter from the start.
Mrs. Shizuka's anxiety in fact arose from suspicions hovering there like wispy clouds.
When it came to the incident's truth, even Mrs. Shizuka herself knew little.
What she did know, she couldn't fully tell me.
Therefore both I who comforted and Mrs. Shizuka who was comforted floated together on waves, swaying gently.
Swaying thus, Mrs. Shizuka kept reaching out endlessly, trying to cling to my uncertain judgment.

When Sensei’s footsteps were heard in the entranceway around ten o’clock, Mrs. Shizuka abruptly stood up, leaving me behind as though she had forgotten everything that had just transpired. She opened the lattice door and met Sensei almost face-to-face. Left behind, I followed Mrs. Shizuka. The maid alone must have been dozing off, for she never appeared in the end.

Sensei was rather in good spirits.
Yet Mrs.’s demeanor was brighter still.
Having just recalled the glint of tears pooled in Mrs.’s beautiful eyes and the figure-eight creases furrowed between her black eyebrows, I gazed at this transformation with wary attention, judging it unnatural.
Had this not been pretense—and indeed it seemed genuine—then Mrs.’s earlier entreaties might well have been dismissed as an idle feminine diversion, crafted solely with me as audience to indulge her sentimentality.
Yet at that moment, I felt no impulse to scrutinize Mrs. so critically.
Seeing her manner suddenly brighten, I rather found myself relieved.
I reconsidered there had been no need for such concern after all.

Sensei asked me with a laugh, “Thank you for your trouble. Did any burglars come?” Then he said, “Didn’t you lose your edge since they didn’t come?”

When I was leaving, Madam bowed politely and said, “I’m so sorry for the trouble.” Her tone sounded less like an apology for making me waste my time during a busy period and more like a joke expressing regret that burglars hadn’t come despite my having gone to such lengths.

While saying this, Madam wrapped the remaining Western sweets she had brought out earlier in paper and put them in my hand. I slipped them into my sleeve and hurried through the quiet, chilly backstreets with few passersby, winding my way toward the bustling town.

I extracted the events of that evening from my memory and wrote them down here in detail. I wrote this because it needed writing, but truthfully, when I received the sweets from Mrs. Shizuka and left, I hadn’t regarded that night’s conversation with such gravity. The next day, returning home from school for lunch and seeing the package of sweets I’d left on my desk the night before, I immediately pulled out a chocolate-coated russet castella from it and stuffed my mouth. As I ate, I savored it with the awareness that ultimately, this man and woman who had given me the sweets existed in the world as a happy pair.

Autumn ended and winter came without any particular incident.

When I went in and out of Sensei’s house, I took the opportunity to ask Mrs. Shizuka to handle the laundering and tailoring of my clothes.
Up until then, I had never worn an undershirt, but it was from this time that I began layering something with a black collar over my shirts.
The childless Mrs. Shizuka found that taking care of such tasks actually served as a way to relieve her boredom; in the end, she even remarked that it was like medicine for her body.

“This is handwoven. I’ve never sewn a kimono with such fine fabric before. But my, it’s dreadful to work with! The needle simply won’t go through! I’ve already broken two needles because of this.”

Even when voicing such complaints, Mrs. Shizuka did not make a face that looked particularly bothered.

21

When winter arrived, I found myself unexpectedly obliged to return home.
In a letter from my mother describing my father’s worsening condition, she had written that while there was no immediate danger, given his advanced age, he wished me to come back if possible.

My father had long been afflicted with kidney disease.
As commonly seen in those past middle age, his illness was chronic.
Yet both he and our family had firmly believed that no sudden crisis would occur as long as he remained cautious.
Indeed, whenever guests visited, Father would declare that through careful self-care alone, he had managed to scrape by until now.
According to Mother’s letter, he had suddenly felt dizzy and fallen backward while working in the garden.
The family mistook this for a mild cerebral hemorrhage and administered treatment accordingly.
Only later, when the doctor concluded it was not a stroke but rather a consequence of his chronic condition, did they connect the fainting spell to his kidney disease.

There was still some time before winter break arrived.
I thought there would be no harm in waiting until the end of term, so I left matters unchanged for a day or two.
Then during those days, images of my father lying ill and my mother’s anxious face would sometimes rise before my eyes.
Each time I tasted this peculiar unease, I finally resolved to return home.
To spare the trouble and time of having travel funds sent from home, I decided to visit Sensei both to take my leave and ask him to temporarily advance me the necessary money.

Sensei had a slight cold and, saying that coming out to the parlor was troublesome, showed me into the study.
From the glass door of the study streamed a nostalgic, gentle sunlight—the rare kind seen since winter began—onto the writing desk.
Sensei placed a large brazier in this pleasantly sunlit room and was using the steam rising from the metal basin set upon the trivet to prevent his breathing from becoming labored.

“A serious illness I could handle, but a mere cold is truly bothersome,” said Sensei with a bitter smile, looking at me.

Sensei had never experienced what could be called a proper illness.
Hearing Sensei’s words, I nearly laughed.

“I can endure a cold well enough, but anything more serious would be unbearable.”
“You must feel the same way, don’t you?”
“If you’d only give it a try yourself, you’d understand perfectly.”

“Is that so?”
“If I must fall ill, I’d rather contract a fatal disease.”

I did not pay particular attention to what Sensei said.
I immediately brought up my mother’s letter and asked to borrow the money.

“That must be troubling for you.”
“If that’s all you need, I should have enough on hand now. Take it.”

Sensei called his wife and had her lay out the necessary amount in front of me.
Mrs. Shizuka, who had retrieved it from the back tea cabinet or some such place, carefully stacked it on white hanshi paper and said, “That must be worrying for you.”

“Did he faint many times?” Sensei asked.

“The letter doesn’t mention anything specific… Does he really collapse so often?”

“Yes.”

It was then that I first realized Mrs. Shizuka’s mother had died of the same illness as my father.

“It must be serious regardless,” I said.

“Hmm—if I could take his place instead... Is there nausea?”

“The letter doesn’t mention it at all—probably none.”

“As long as nausea doesn’t set in,” Mrs. Shizuka said.

I left Tokyo on the train that evening.

22

My father’s illness was not as bad as we had feared. Even so, when I arrived, he was sitting cross-legged on the bedding and said, “Well, since everyone’s worried, I suppose I’ll have to endure staying put like this.” “There’s really no need to keep lying down anymore.” Yet from the very next day onward, he stopped listening to Mother’s protests and finally had the bedding cleared away. Mother reluctantly folded the heavy-woven futon while remarking, “Your father’s grown suddenly stubborn now that you’ve come home.” To me, Father’s behavior didn’t seem particularly like an act of false bravado.

My brother held a position in distant Kyushu.
He could not freely visit our parents except in dire circumstances.
My younger sister had married into another province.
She too was not someone who could be readily summoned to meet an emergency.
Among us three siblings, the most convenient one remained myself alone, being a student.
That I had abandoned my schoolwork as Mother instructed and returned home before the vacation was a great satisfaction to Father.

“It’s pitiful to make you take leave from school for such a minor illness.”
“It’s all because Mother wrote such an exaggerated letter.”

Father spoke these words.
Not only did he say this, but he had the bedding that had been laid out until now put away and showed his usual vigor.

“If you act too carelessly, you might cause a relapse.”

Father received my caution cheerfully but with great nonchalance.

“It’s nothing—I’ll be perfectly fine as long as I’m careful as usual.”

In reality, Father seemed perfectly all right. He moved freely about the house, neither becoming short of breath nor feeling dizzy. The only thing was that his complexion was much worse than that of ordinary people, but since this was not a symptom that had only now begun, we did not pay it any particular heed.

I wrote a letter to Sensei expressing my gratitude for the loan. I informed him I would bring it when I returned to Tokyo at the New Year and asked him to wait until then. I went on to detail that my father’s condition was not as dire as we had feared, that he seemed stable for the time being, and that he had experienced neither dizziness nor nausea. Finally, I added a brief inquiry about Sensei’s cold. I had actually taken Sensei’s cold lightly.

When I sent that letter, I never expected a reply from Sensei.
After sending it, while talking with my father and mother about Sensei, I imagined his study far away.

“When you go to Tokyo next time, take some shiitake mushrooms to give him.”

“Yes, but I wonder if Sensei would even eat dried shiitake mushrooms.”
“They may not be tasty, but it’s not like anyone particularly dislikes them.”

To me, associating shiitake mushrooms with Sensei felt odd.

When Sensei’s reply arrived, I was somewhat surprised.
I was all the more surprised when its contents contained no particular matter.
Sensei had written me a reply simply out of kindness, I thought.
When I thought that, that simple single letter became a source of immense joy to me.
However, this was indeed the first letter I had received from Sensei.

Now, when I say "first," it might suggest Sensei and I corresponded frequently—let me clarify this was never true. I received only two letters from Sensei during his lifetime. The first was this short reply I mentioned; the second arrived just before his death—an exceptionally long letter addressed solely to me.

Given his condition required limited exertion, Father rarely ventured outside even after rising from bed. Once, on an unusually calm afternoon, he went down to the garden. Fearing complications, I stayed close as an escort. When I offered my shoulder for support, Father merely laughed and refused.

23

I often turned to the shogi board as a companion for my bored father.
Both of us being lazy by nature，we stayed by the kotatsu，placed the board on a stand，and each time we moved a piece，went through the trouble of taking our hands out from under the quilt.
Sometimes we would misplace captured pieces，remaining unaware until the next game began.
There was even a comical scene where Mother would find them in the ashes and pick them up with fire tongs.

“With Go，the board’s too high with legs—you can’t play over kotatsu，but shogi’s perfect—so easy to place like this.”
“Ideal for lazybones.”
“Let’s play another round.”

Whenever Father won, he would invariably say, "Let’s play one more game."
Yet even when he lost, he would say, "Let’s play one more game."
In short, whether he won or lost, he was a man who wanted to sit by the kotatsu and play shogi.
At first, the novelty of this retiree-like pastime gave even me considerable interest, but as a little time passed, my youthful energy could no longer be satisfied with such meager stimulation.
I stretched my fists gripping gold generals and rooks above my head and occasionally let out hearty yawns.

I thought about Tokyo.
And in the depths of the surging blood within my heart, I heard the pulse pounding relentlessly.
Strangely, I felt that sound of pulsation was being amplified by Sensei’s influence from some subtle state of consciousness.

In my mind, I compared Father and Sensei.
From society’s perspective, both were men so quiet that one could hardly tell whether they were alive or dead.
From the standpoint of being recognized by others, they both amounted to nothing.
And yet, even as a mere companion for entertainment, my father’s desire to play shogi left me unsatisfied.
Sensei, who had no recollection of ever socializing for pleasure, had come to influence my mind in a way that surpassed any intimacy born of such conviviality.
But since “the head” felt too detached, I wanted to rephrase it as “the chest.”
Even if I were to say Sensei’s power was embedded in my flesh or that Sensei’s life flowed through my blood, it would not have felt like an exaggeration in the least to me then.
I was startled as though discovering some grand truth when I deliberately laid out before my eyes the plain fact that Father was my true father while Sensei—needless to say—was a complete stranger.

Around the time I began to act listlessly, even in my father and mother’s eyes, I—who had until then been something of a novelty—gradually became trite. I suppose this is a feeling anyone returning home during summer vacation would uniformly experience: for the first week or so, you are pampered and fussed over as if too precious to set down, but once you pass that initial peak—as if measured by some unspoken rule—the family’s fervor gradually cools, until finally you are treated as something dispensable, handled carelessly whether present or absent. I too had passed that peak during my stay. Moreover, every time I returned home, I brought back something strange from Tokyo that neither Father nor Mother could comprehend. To put it in old terms—like bringing the scent of Christianity into a Confucian scholar’s household—what I carried back clashed dissonantly with both Father and Mother. Of course, I kept it concealed. But since it was something inherent to my being, even when resolved to hide it, eventually it would catch my parents’ eye. Before long, I grew disaffected. I yearned to return swiftly to Tokyo.

Father’s illness fortunately remained stable, showing no signs of worsening whatsoever.
As a precaution, we even went so far as to summon a reputable doctor from afar and had them conduct a careful examination, but still no abnormalities beyond what I was aware of were detected.
I decided to leave my hometown a little before winter vacation ended.
Once I announced my departure—human nature being what it is—both Father and Mother objected.

“Are you leaving already? It’s still early,” Mother said.

“Staying four or five more days would still be in time, I suppose,” Father said.

I did not change the departure date I had fixed.

24

When I returned to Tokyo, the New Year pine decorations had already been taken down.
The town yielded to the cold wind’s blowing; nowhere could one see any real semblance of New Year’s festivity.

I promptly went to Sensei’s house to return the money.
I also took along the usual shiitake mushrooms.
However, because simply presenting them would have been somewhat odd, I made a point to explain that my mother had said to give these to you and placed them before Mrs. Shizuka.
The shiitake mushrooms were in a new confectionery box.
After expressing her gratitude politely, Mrs. Shizuka picked up the box as she moved to the next room and, seemingly surprised by its lightness, asked, “What kind of sweets are these?”
When we grew closer, Shizuka would reveal in such moments a remarkably unaffected childlike side.

Amidst their repeated expressions of concern about my father’s illness, Sensei said the following.

“Indeed, when I hear about his condition, it doesn’t seem immediately critical, but given the nature of the illness, one must be extremely careful.”

Sensei knew many things about kidney disease that I did not.

“The defining feature of that illness is that even though one is afflicted themselves, they remain unaware and calm.”
“A military officer I knew was finally done in by it—he died in a manner so sudden it seemed almost unreal.”
“After all, it was to the point where his wife, lying right beside him, had no time at all to nurse him.”
“He said he felt a little unwell in the middle of the night and woke his wife—by morning, he was already dead.”
“And his wife had thought he was merely sleeping—so it’s said.”

Until now, I had been leaning toward optimism, but suddenly I was filled with anxiety.

“Will my father end up like that too?”
“One cannot say it’s impossible,” Sensei replied.

“What does the doctor say?”

“The doctor says it’s fundamentally incurable.”
“Yet he also states there should be no immediate cause for concern.”

“Then that’s alright.”
“Since the doctor says so.”

“The person I just spoke of was someone who went unnoticed—and given that he was quite a rough military man—”

I felt somewhat relieved.
Sensei, who had been gazing intently at my reaction, then added:

“But whether human beings are healthy or ill, they are fragile things either way.”
“Because you never know when something might happen or how one might die.”

“Do you think about such things too, Sensei?”

“Even as healthy as I am, I can’t say I don’t think about it at all.”

A shadow of a smile appeared at the corner of Sensei’s mouth.

“There are those who die suddenly—just like that.”
“Naturally.”
“Then there are those who perish in an instant.”
“Through unnatural violence.”

“What do you mean by ‘unnatural violence’?”

“I can’t say I fully grasp it myself, but those who take their own lives all use unnatural violence.”

“Then being killed must also stem from unnatural violence.”

“The ones killed never gave it a moment’s thought.”
“Now that you mention it, I suppose that’s true.”

That day, I returned home after that.

Even after returning home, Father’s illness did not trouble me much.
Sensei’s words about dying naturally or through unnatural violence left only a fleeting impression at the time and left no lingering fixation in my mind.
I now recalled that I must finally begin writing in earnest the graduation thesis I had repeatedly started only to set aside until then.

Twenty-Five

I, who was supposed to graduate that June, had no choice but to complete this thesis by regulation before April ended.
When I counted the remaining days on my fingers—two, three, four—I began doubting my own fortitude.
Others had long been gathering materials and compiling notes—to any observer they looked properly busy—while I alone hadn't yet lifted a finger.
All I possessed was a resolution to work furiously once the new year began.
I set to work with that resolve.
But then I suddenly ground to a halt.
I—who until now had envisioned some grand problem in my mind, thinking its framework nearly complete—began cradling my head in distress.
I shrank the scope of my thesis topic.
To spare myself the trouble of systematically organizing my refined ideas, I resolved to simply arrange materials from books and tack on a suitable conclusion.

The problem I had selected was closely related to Sensei’s field of expertise.
When I had once asked Sensei for his opinion regarding that choice, he had said it was fine.
Feeling somewhat flustered, I promptly went to Sensei’s place and asked about the reference books I needed to read.
Sensei gladly gave me all the knowledge he possessed and even offered to lend me two or three necessary books.
However, Sensei made no attempt whatsoever to guide me on this point.

“I haven’t been reading much lately, so I’m not familiar with anything new.”
“You’d do better to ask your professors at school.”

I suddenly recalled then how Sensei had once been an avid reader, but for some reason no longer seemed to maintain the same level of interest in such matters—something I’d heard previously from his wife.
Setting my thesis aside, I idly ventured a question.

“Why can’t you take interest in books like you used to, Sensei?”

“There’s no particular reason why...”
“In other words… it’s because I think that no matter how many books I read, I won’t become that much greater.”
“And then...”

“And then… there’s more?”

“It’s not exactly that there’s more to it, but in the past, I felt awkward—as if not knowing something when appearing before others or being questioned was a disgrace. Lately, not knowing no longer seems such a shame, so I suppose I’ve lost the vigor to force myself into reading books.”
“To put it simply, I’ve grown old.”

Sensei’s words were rather calm. Since they lacked the bitterness of one who had turned his back on society, they did not strike me with much force. I returned home neither thinking Sensei had grown old nor feeling particularly impressed by his greatness.

From then on, I suffered with bloodshot eyes like a madman haunted by his thesis. I inquired about various circumstances regarding friends who had graduated a year earlier. One said he had rushed to the office by carriage on the deadline day and barely managed to make it in time. Another had brought his in fifteen minutes past five o’clock and was nearly turned away, but through the department chair’s kindness, it was finally accepted. I felt anxious yet steeled my resolve. Every day, I worked at my desk as long as my vitality lasted. Otherwise, I would enter the dim library and survey the tall bookshelves here and there. My eyes combed through the gilt-lettered spines like a connoisseur excavating antiquities.

As the plum blossoms bloomed, the cold wind gradually shifted its direction southward.
Once that phase had passed, whispers of cherry blossoms began to reach my ears.
Even so, like a draft horse with eyes fixed straight ahead, I was whipped onward by my thesis.
I did not cross Sensei's threshold until finally, when the end of April came, I managed to complete what I had planned.

Twenty-Six

The time I gained my freedom came in early summer, when pale green leaves had begun to extend hazily upon the branches of double-flowered cherry blossoms whose petals had scattered.
With the heart of a bird escaped from its cage, I surveyed the vast world at a glance while beating my wings freely.
I immediately went to Sensei’s house.
The trifoliate orange hedge sprouting tender buds upon its darkened branches and the glossy russet leaves reflecting sunlight with a soft glow from the withered trunk of a pomegranate tree drew my eyes along the way.
I felt a novelty as though seeing such things for the first time in my life.

Sensei, seeing the happy look on my face, said, “So your thesis is finished? That’s splendid.”
“Thanks to you, I’ve finally managed to finish it all. There’s nothing left for me to do now,” I replied.

At that moment, I truly felt buoyant—all my obligations had been completed, and I could now swagger about enjoying myself without a care. I brimmed with confidence about my completed thesis and deep satisfaction in its contents. Before Sensei, I chattered incessantly about its details. He responded in his usual manner with phrases like “I see” and “Is that so?” but offered no substantive critique beyond these perfunctory acknowledgments. I felt less dissatisfied than oddly deflated. Yet that day my energy remained vital enough to challenge Sensei’s seemingly complacent attitude. I resolved to draw him out into nature’s verdant reawakening.

“Sensei, let’s go for a walk somewhere.”
“It feels extremely pleasant once you go outside!”

“Where to?”

I didn’t mind any destination.
I simply wanted to accompany Sensei out to the suburbs.

An hour later, Sensei and I left the city as intended and wandered aimlessly through a quiet area that was neither quite village nor town. I plucked a young, soft leaf from the trifoliate orange hedge and sounded a grass whistle. Having had a friend from Kagoshima and learned naturally through imitation, I was quite skilled at sounding this thing called a grass whistle. As I continued blowing it proudly, Sensei pretended not to notice and walked on, looking away.

Before long, beneath a slightly elevated structure that was lush as though shackled by young leaves, a narrow path opened. Since there was a sign affixed to the gatepost reading "Such-and-Such Garden," we immediately realized it was not a private residence. Sensei looked at the entrance forming a gentle upward slope and said, "Shall we go in?" I immediately replied, "It's a nursery garden, isn't it?"

After winding through the shrubbery and climbing further inward, there stood a house on the left. The interior beyond the open shoji lay utterly vacant; not a single human figure could be seen. Only the goldfish kept in a large basin placed beneath the eaves were moving.

“It’s quiet, isn’t it?”
“Do you think it’s all right if we go in without asking?”

“It should be all right.”

The two proceeded further inward.
Yet there too no human figures could be seen.
Azaleas blazed in riotous bloom.
Sensei pointed at a tall birch-colored specimen among them and said, “This must be Kirishima.”

Peonies had been planted across more than ten tsubo of ground, but none yet bore flowers, the season being unripe.
Beside this peony field, upon an aged bench-like structure, Sensei lay spreadeagled.
I settled on its remaining edge and drew on my cigarette.
Sensei gazed at the sky’s piercing blue clarity.
I found myself entranced by the hues of young leaves enveloping me.
Examining those leaf-colors intently, each differed from its neighbor.
Not even maple trees of matching species bore branches of identical tint.
Sensei’s hat, cast over a slender cedar sapling’s crown, fell wind-blown.

Twenty-Seven

I immediately picked up the hat.
While flicking off the red dirt clinging here and there with my fingernail, I called out to Sensei.

“Sensei, your hat fell off.”

“Thank you.”

Sensei, who had half-risen to take it, remained in that posture that was neither properly sitting up nor lying down, and asked me an odd question.

“This may seem abrupt, but does your family have substantial wealth?”

“It’s not what you’d call substantial.”

“Well, about how much is there? This may sound rude, but—”

“How much? Well, there’s some mountains and fields, but as for money—none at all.”

This was the first time Sensei had made what could be called a proper inquiry into my family’s financial circumstances.
On my part, I had not yet asked anything about Sensei’s living circumstances.
When I first became acquainted with Sensei, I had wondered how he could afford to live idly.
Even after that, this doubt had lingered incessantly in my heart.
However, I always held back, thinking it would be nothing but rude to bring up such a blunt question before Sensei.
Resting my weary eyes on the color of young leaves, my mind chanced upon that doubt once more.

“What about you, Sensei? How much wealth do you possess?”

“Do I appear to you as a man of property?”

Sensei had always dressed rather modestly.
Moreover, his household was small.
Therefore, the house was by no means spacious.
However, the material richness of his life was evident even to eyes like mine that had not entered his inner circle.
In short, Sensei’s lifestyle could not be called luxurious, yet neither was it one of rigidly austere economizing.

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Well, I do have that much money, but I’m certainly not a wealthy man.”
“If I were a wealthy man, I’d build a much bigger house, you know.”

At this point, Sensei sat up and sat cross-legged on the bench. When he finished speaking, he began drawing something like a circle on the ground with the tip of his bamboo cane. Having completed that, he then thrust his cane straight into the ground as if stabbing it.

"Still...my family was once wealthy."

Sensei's words seemed half-muttered to himself. Failing to respond immediately, I remained silent.

"Even so, my family was once wealthy, you know," Sensei repeated, looking at me with a faint smile. Still I said nothing—my social awkwardness left me incapable of reply. Then Sensei shifted the subject once more.

“How has your father’s illness been progressing since then?”

I knew nothing about my father’s illness since New Year’s.
The brief letters that arrived each month with the remittance from home were, as usual, in my father’s handwriting, but there was scarcely any mention of his illness within them.
Moreover, the handwriting was steady.
The tremor common in such patients did not disturb the flow of his brushwork at all.

“There’s been no word about it, so I suppose he’s better now.”

“If he’s better, that’s good—but given the nature of the illness...”

“So it’s still no good after all, I suppose? But it should hold out for a while longer, don’t you think? He hasn’t said anything about it.”

“I see.”

I had listened to Sensei’s questions about my family’s finances and inquiries into my father’s illness as ordinary conversation—the sort of casual talk where one voices whatever comes to mind.
Yet beneath Sensei’s words lay a profound connection between these two matters.
Having never shared Sensei’s experiences, I naturally failed to perceive this linkage.

28

“If there’s property in your family, you ought to have it properly settled now—though this is meddling on my part.”
“Why not make sure to claim what’s rightfully yours while your father remains in good health?”
“Because once something unforeseen occurs, property matters become the most troublesome problem that arises.”

“Yeah.”

I did not pay much attention to Sensei’s words. In my household, I believed there was no one—not just me, but whether it be my father or my mother—who harbored such concerns. Moreover, I was somewhat taken aback by how practical, for Sensei, his words were. However, my usual respect for my elders kept me silent.

"If my choice of words offends you—speaking as though anticipating your father’s passing—please forgive me. But humans are mortal, after all. No matter how healthy someone is, they can never know when they’ll die."

Sensei’s tone was uncharacteristically bitter.

“I’m not the least bit concerned about that,” I defended myself.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” asked Sensei.

Sensei went on to ask about the number of people in my family, whether I had any relatives, and how my uncles and aunts were doing.
And finally, he said this.

“Are they all good people?”

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone particularly bad among them.”
“They’re mostly country people, after all.”

“Why aren’t country people bad?”

I was tormented by this relentless questioning. However, Sensei did not even give me time to consider a response.

“Country people are rather worse than city folk, if anything.”
“Then you said there don’t seem to be any particularly bad people among your relatives, didn’t you?”
“But do you think there exists a distinct category of people called ‘bad people’ in this world?”
“Such cookie-cutter villains can’t possibly exist in reality.”
“In ordinary times, everyone is a good person.”
“At least, they’re all ordinary people.”
“What’s terrifying is how they suddenly turn into villains at critical moments.”
“That’s why you must never lower your guard.”

There was no sign of Sensei’s words coming to an end there.
I tried to say something again.
Just then, a dog suddenly started barking from behind.
Both Sensei and I turned around in surprise.

Beside the cedar saplings planted along the side of the veranda bench toward the back, bear bamboo grew thickly enough to cover about three tsubo of ground.
The dog revealed its face and back above the bear bamboo as it barked furiously.
A child of about ten came running up and scolded the dog.
Still wearing his black cap with a badge, the child circled around to face Sensei and bowed.

“Uncle, when you came in, was there no one at the house?” he asked.

“There was no one there.”

“But Sis and Ma were in the kitchen.”

“Oh, were they there?”

“Oh.”
“Uncle, it would’ve been better if you’d said ‘Good day’ and announced yourself before coming in.”

Sensei gave a wry smile.
Taking out a purse from his pocket, he placed a five-sen white copper coin into the child’s hand.

“Tell your mother,” he said.
“To let me rest here awhile.”

The child—his clever eyes sparkling with laughter—nodded earnestly.

“I’ve just become the Scout Leader.”

The child excused himself in this manner and ran down through the azaleas.
The dog, too, with its tail curled high, chased after the child.
After a while, two or three children of about the same age also ran off in the direction the Scout Leader had gone down.

29

Sensei’s discourse was unable to reach its conclusion due to this dog and child, so I ultimately failed to grasp its essence.
At that time, Sensei’s concerns about property matters held no significance for me whatsoever.
Given both my disposition and circumstances then, there had been no space in my mind to dwell on such thoughts of profit and loss.
Looking back, this was likely because I had not yet entered society nor actually encountered such situations—in any case, to my youthful self, monetary concerns somehow seemed remote.

Of all that Sensei had said, the only thing I truly wanted to grasp completely was the meaning behind his statement that anyone can become a villain in their moment of crisis. As words alone, there was nothing here that I failed to understand. Yet I still wished to know more about this very notion.

After the dog and child had left, the broad garden of young leaves returned once more to its former stillness. And so we remained motionless for a time, like people bound by silence. The lovely hue of the sky then gradually began to fade. Though most trees before me were maples, their branches' clusters of pale green leaves—bursting forth like dripping water—seemed to darken steadily. From the distant road came the rumble of a cart being drawn along. I imagined it to be some villager loading plants onto his cart, perhaps bound for a temple fair. When Sensei heard this sound, he rose abruptly like one revived from deep meditation.

“Well, it’s about time we head back.”
“Though the days seem to have grown quite long, still, when you linger idly like this, before you know it they slip into dusk.”

On Sensei’s back clung marks from where he had lain supine on the veranda bench earlier.
I brushed them off with both hands.

“Thank you. Is there any grease stuck on?”
“It’s come off completely clean.”
“This coat was only just made recently, you see. If I go home carelessly getting it dirty, my wife will scold me.”
“Thank you.”

The two of them came again to the front of the house midway along the gentle slope.
When we had entered earlier, there had been no sign of anyone on the veranda, but now the mistress sat there with a girl of about fifteen or sixteen winding thread onto a spool.
The two bid farewell from beside the large goldfish bowl with a polite “Thank you for your hospitality.”
The mistress returned courtesy with “Not at all—we neglected you terribly,” then thanked him for giving the white copper coin to the child earlier.

When we had walked two or three blocks from the gate, I finally broached the subject to Sensei.

“Earlier, when you said that at the critical moment, anyone can become a villain—that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
“What does that mean?”

“As for meaning—there’s no deep meaning to speak of.—It’s simply a fact.—It’s not logic.”

“The fact itself isn’t an issue, but what I wanted to inquire about was the meaning of ‘at the critical moment’. What kind of situations does it refer to?”

Sensei burst out laughing. It was as though now that the opportune moment had passed, he no longer had the incentive to explain earnestly.

“Money, you see. When people see money, even the noblest gentleman becomes a villain in an instant.”

To me, Sensei’s reply felt too commonplace and lacking depth. Just as Sensei showed no sign of being carried away by the conversation, I too felt deflated. I straightened my posture and began walking briskly ahead. Naturally, Sensei started falling slightly behind. From behind me, Sensei called out, “Hey!”

“There, see?”
“What do you mean?”

“Your mood shifts in an instant with just one reply from me, does it not?”

When Sensei saw my face as I turned back and stopped to wait for him, he spoke these words.

Thirty

At that moment, I resented Sensei deep within my heart.
Even after we started walking side by side, I deliberately refrained from asking what I wanted to know.
However, whether Sensei had noticed this or not, he showed no sign of being concerned with my attitude.
He continued walking with his usual composed and silent stride, which left me somewhat exasperated.
I began to feel like finding some way to take Sensei down a peg.

“Sensei.”
“What is it?”
“You seemed slightly agitated earlier—when we were resting in that gardener’s yard. I’ve seldom seen you like that. Today felt like catching a rare glimpse.”

Sensei did not reply immediately. I sensed this as a meaningful reaction—yet also as a missed opportunity. With no alternative, I resolved to remain silent. Then Sensei abruptly stepped to the roadside. Beneath a neatly trimmed hedge, he hitched up his kimono hem and urinated. I stood vacantly while he attended to his needs.

“Ah, my apologies.”

Sensei started walking again with these words.
I finally gave up trying to corner Sensei.
The path we were taking gradually grew livelier.
The wide fields on slopes and flatlands that had been sporadically visible until now were now completely out of sight as the rows of houses on both sides grew more orderly.
Even so, here and there in the corners of residential plots, scenes of pea vines trained on bamboo poles or chickens kept in wire enclosures could be seen in quiet tranquility.
Packhorses returning from the city passed each other in an endless stream.
Being someone who tends to be easily preoccupied by such things, I had shaken off the problem that had been weighing on my mind until just moments ago.
When Sensei suddenly turned back there, I had actually forgotten about it.

“Did I really appear that agitated earlier?”

“Not to that extent, but a little...”

“No—I don’t mind if it shows.”
“Because I do get genuinely agitated.”
“When I speak of property matters, agitation inevitably takes hold.”
“I don’t know how I appear to you, but I am a man who nurses grievances—because that’s who I am.”
“The humiliations and injuries inflicted upon me—even after ten years or twenty, I shall never forget them, because that’s who I am.”

Sensei’s words carried even greater agitation than before.
Yet what surprised me was not his tone in the slightest.
Rather, it was the very meaning conveyed by Sensei’s words.
To hear such a confession from his lips was utterly unexpected, even for me.
As a defining trait of Sensei’s character, I had never even imagined such tenacity.
I had always believed him to be a weaker man.
And it was upon that fragile pedestal that I had planted the roots of my fondness.
I, who had momentarily sought to challenge Sensei on a whim, now felt diminished before these words.

Sensei said this.

“I was deceived by others.”
“Moreover, it was by my own blood relatives that I was deceived.”
“I will never forget it.”
“They who had seemed virtuous before my father became unforgivable villains the moment he died.”
“I have carried the humiliation and harm from them since childhood until this very day.”
“I will likely bear this burden until I die.”
“I will never be able to forget it until I die.”
“Yet I have not taken revenge.”
“When I consider it, I realize I am doing more than avenging myself against individuals.”
“I don’t merely hate them—I have come to despise all humanity that they represent.”
“That is more than enough for me.”

I could not even bring myself to utter words of comfort.

31

That day's conversation ultimately ended there without developing further.
I rather felt intimidated by Sensei's demeanor and found myself disinclined to proceed further.

The two boarded the train from the outskirts of the city, but inside the car they hardly exchanged a word. When they got off the train, they soon had to part. At the time of parting, Sensei had changed again. In a tone more cheerful than usual, he said, “From now until June will be the most carefree time—in fact, it might be the most carefree time of my life. Make sure to enjoy yourself to the fullest.” I laughed and took off my hat. At that moment, as I looked at Sensei’s face, I wondered where in his heart he truly harbored this hatred for humanity in general. His eyes, his mouth—nowhere did the shadow of world-weariness fall.

I must confess that I received great insight from Sensei regarding philosophical matters. Yet concerning these same issues, I must admit there were often times when, try as I might, I could not grasp his meaning. Sensei's discourses would sometimes conclude without ever reaching clarity. That day's conversation in the outskirts, too, remained lodged in my breast as yet another instance of this obscurity.

Blunt as I was, I finally confessed this to Sensei one day.
Sensei was laughing.
I said this.

“I don’t mind being dull-witted and missing the essence, but it’s vexing when you understand perfectly yet won’t speak clearly.”

“I’m not concealing anything from you.”

“You are concealing something.”

“Aren’t you muddling together my philosophical ideas and my personal past?”
“Though I may be an inadequate thinker, I don’t arbitrarily hide the conclusions I’ve reached through my own reasoning.”
“There’s simply no need for concealment.”
“But if you demand that I lay bare my entire past before you, that becomes a separate matter entirely.”

“I do not consider it a separate matter.”
“Because it is the thought born from Sensei’s past that I place weight on.”
“If you separate the two, they become almost worthless to me.”
“I cannot be satisfied merely being given a soulless doll.”

Sensei looked at me with an expression of utter dismay.
The hand holding his rolled cigarette trembled faintly.

"You are audacious."

"I'm only being sincere."
"I wish to sincerely receive life's teachings."

"Do you intend to excavate my past as well?"

The word "excavate" struck my ears with sudden, dreadful force.
I felt the figure before me had become not my revered Sensei, but a common felon.
Sensei's countenance had turned ashen.

“Are you truly earnest?” Sensei pressed.
“Through the consequences of my past, I’ve grown to distrust people.”
“Therefore, in truth, I distrust even you.”
“Yet somehow I wish not to distrust you alone.”
“You appear too artless to doubt.”
“Before dying, I want to place faith in just one other soul—even a single person—and depart believing.”
“Can you become that sole person?”
“Will you become that person for me?”
“Are you earnest down to your innermost core?”

"If my life is earnest, then what I have just said is also earnest."

My voice trembled.

"Very well," said Sensei. "I will tell you. I will tell you everything about my past. However... No—never mind that. Yet my past may hold little benefit for you. It might be better left unheard. And—since I cannot speak of it now, you must wait with that understanding. I will not speak unless the proper time arrives."

Even after returning to my lodgings, I felt a kind of oppression.

Thirty-Two

My thesis did not seem to appear as favorably in the professor’s eyes as I had evaluated it myself.
Nevertheless, I passed as planned.
On graduation day, I took out my musty old winter clothes from the wicker trunk and put them on.
When we lined up in the ceremony hall, every face looked flushed with heat.
I felt trapped within my own body, sealed beneath the airless thick serge.
As I stood there, the handkerchief in my hand grew thoroughly soaked.

As soon as the ceremony ended, I returned home and stripped naked.
I opened the second-floor window of my lodgings and, through the hole of my graduation diploma rolled up like a telescope, surveyed as much of the world as I could see.
Then I flung the graduation diploma onto the desk.
Then I lay down spread-eagled in the center of the room.
Lying there, I reflected on my past.
I imagined my own future.
Then this thing called a graduation diploma, standing there marking a division between them, seemed to me like a strange piece of paper—both meaningful and meaningless at once.

That evening, I was invited to Sensei’s house for a meal and went.
This was a prior arrangement we had made—that if I graduated, I would not dine elsewhere that day but have my meal at Sensei’s table.

The dining table was set near the edge of the tatami room as promised.
The thickly starched, stiff tablecloth with its woven pattern reflected the electric lamp’s light beautifully and purely.
When one dined at Sensei’s house, chopsticks and teacups would invariably be placed upon white linen like that seen in Western restaurants.
And these were always limited to freshly laundered, immaculately white ones.

“It’s the same with collars and cuffs.”
“If you’re going to use soiled ones, you might as well start with colored ones from the beginning.”
“If it’s white, it must be pure white.”

Hearing this, I realized that Sensei was indeed fastidious.
The study, too, was truly kept in perfect order.
To my indifferent self, those characteristics of Sensei often stood out strikingly.

There was a time when I remarked to Mrs. Sensei, “Sensei is rather high-strung, isn’t he?” To which she replied, “But he doesn’t seem to mind things like his kimono all that much.”
Sensei, who had been listening nearby, said, “To tell the truth, I am high-strung in spirit.
“That’s why I’m constantly tormented.”
“When I think about it, it’s truly a ridiculous disposition,” he laughed.
I could not discern whether “spiritually high-strung” meant what is commonly called neurotic sensitivity or an ethical fastidiousness.
It did not seem to be well understood even by Mrs. Sensei.

That evening, I sat across from Sensei at the usual white tablecloth.
Mrs. Sensei seated us on either side of her and took her place alone facing the garden.

“Congratulations,” said Sensei, raising his cup to me.
I felt no particular joy at this gesture.
Naturally, this stemmed partly from my own heart lacking any soaring happiness that might echo his words.
Yet Sensei’s tone held none of the buoyancy that might kindle such joy.
He laughed as he lifted his cup.
In that laughter, I detected no trace of malicious irony.
Nor could I find any genuine pleasure in his congratulation.
His mirth seemed to say, “How society loves to offer congratulations on such occasions, doesn’t it?”

“Splendid! Your father and mother must be overjoyed,” Mrs. Sensei said to me.
I suddenly thought of my sick father.
I thought I should quickly take that graduation diploma and show it to him.

"What became of your graduation diploma, Sensei?" I asked.

"What happened to it? — Was it still put away somewhere?" Sensei asked his wife.

"Yes, it should certainly be stored away somewhere, but..."

Neither of them knew the whereabouts of the graduation diploma.

Thirty-Three

When dinner was served, Mrs. Sensei had the maid sitting beside her move aside and took on the role of serving herself.
This seemed to be the customary practice of Sensei’s household toward unobtrusive guests.
At first, I felt awkward during those initial one or two times, but as such occasions increased, placing my bowl before Mrs. Sensei became no longer an issue.

“Tea?”
“More rice?”
“You eat quite a lot, don’t you?”

There were times when even Mrs. Sensei would speak with unreserved boldness.
However, that day, given the season’s heat, my appetite wasn’t hearty enough to warrant such teasing.

“I’m finished.”
“You’ve become quite the light eater lately, haven’t you?”

“It’s not that I’ve become a light eater.”
“It’s too hot to eat.”

After calling the maid to clear the dining table, Mrs. Sensei had her bring out ice cream and fruit.

“This was made here at home.”

Mrs. Sensei, having no pressing matters, appeared to have the leisure to serve her guest homemade ice cream.
I had her refill it twice.

“So you’ve finally graduated,” Sensei asked. “What do you intend to do now?”
Sensei half shifted his seat toward the veranda and leaned his back against the sliding door at the threshold.

All I had was the awareness that I had graduated, and no purpose for what I would do from then on.
When Mrs. Sensei saw me hesitating to answer, she asked, “A teacher?”
When I still didn’t answer, she asked again, “Then a government official?”
Both Sensei and I burst out laughing.

“To tell the truth, I still have no idea what to do,” I said. “I’ve barely given any thought to professions at all. You can’t know what’s good or bad without trying things yourself—that’s why choosing feels impossible.”

“That may be true,” Mrs. Sensei replied, “but you have assets, so you can afford such carefree talk. Look at those who struggle—they can’t remain composed like you.”

Among my friends, there had been someone seeking a middle school teaching position even before graduation.
Inwardly, I acknowledged the truth of what Mrs. Sensei had said.
Yet I retorted:

"You've let yourself be influenced by Sensei's ways, haven't you?"

"You never manage to absorb his better qualities."

Sensei gave a wry smile.

“Even if you get influenced by me, that’s fine—but in return, do as I told you before: make sure to have your father divide a substantial portion of the property while he’s still alive.”
“Otherwise, you must never let your guard down.”

I remembered that early May when the azaleas were blooming—when I had talked with Sensei in the back of a spacious garden at a suburban gardener’s place.
On our way back then, I once again repeated to myself the forceful words Sensei had told me in an agitated tone.
They were not merely strong—they were positively terrifying words.
But to me, who did not know the facts, they were also words that did not fully penetrate.

“Mrs. Sensei, does your household have considerable wealth?”
“Why on earth are you asking such a thing?”
“Because even if I ask Sensei, he won’t tell me.”
Mrs. Sensei laughed and looked at Sensei’s face.
“There’s not enough to make it worth mentioning.”

“But please tell me how much one needs to live like Sensei—I’ll use it as a reference when negotiating with my father back home.”

Sensei turned toward the garden and composedly blew tobacco smoke.
The one to respond naturally had to be Mrs. Sensei.

“There isn’t that much to speak of.”
“Well, we just manage to get by like this, you know.—But never mind that—you really must do something from now on.”
“If you just laze around like Sensei...”

“I’m not just idling about all day.”

Sensei turned only his face slightly toward her to refute Mrs. Sensei’s remark.

34

I left Sensei’s house a little past ten that night.
As I was scheduled to return home within two or three days, before rising from my seat, I offered a few words of farewell.

“It will be some time before I can see you again.”

“Will you be coming back in September?”

Since I had already graduated, there was no absolute necessity for me to return in September.
However, I hadn't even considered coming to Tokyo to spend the peak of the hot August.
I had no precious time to seek a position.

“Well, around September, I suppose.”

“Then do take care of yourself.”
“We might go somewhere this summer ourselves—it does look like it’ll be terribly hot.”
“If we do go anywhere, I’ll send you a picture postcard.”

“Where were you thinking of going? If you do decide to go,”

Sensei listened to this exchange with an amused smile.

“Oh, we haven’t properly settled on going anywhere yet.”

As I started to rise from my seat, Sensei suddenly seized my arm. “How has your father been lately?”
I knew almost nothing about my father’s condition.
Since he hadn’t written anything specific, I assumed it couldn’t be too serious.

“It’s not an illness you can regard so lightly.”
“Once uremia appears, it’s already hopeless.”

Neither the word "uremia" nor its meaning was clear to me.
During the previous winter vacation when I met with the doctor back home, I had not heard any such terminology at all.

"You really must take good care of him," Mrs. Sensei added.
"Once the poison reaches the brain, that’s the end, you know."
"It’s no laughing matter."

Inexperienced as I was, I felt a creeping unease even as I smirked.

"Since they say it’s an incurable disease anyway, there’s no use worrying about it no matter how much one does."

“If you can think about it so resolutely, then that settles it.”

Perhaps Mrs. Sensei had recalled her own mother who had died long ago from the same illness; she spoke these words in a somber tone and looked down.
I too genuinely pitied my father’s fate.

Then Sensei suddenly turned toward Mrs. Sensei.

“Shizuka, will you die before me?”

“Why?”

“No reason. Just asking.”
“Or perhaps I’ll be the one to go first?”
“In society, it’s generally taken for granted that the husband dies first and the wife remains behind.”

“It’s not so absolute.”
“But men are always older, aren’t they?”

“So that’s your reasoning for dying first?”
“Then I too must depart for the next world before you?”

“You’re an exception.”

“Is that so?”

“But you’re so healthy.”
“There’s hardly been a time you’ve fallen ill.”
“No matter what happens, I’ll surely go first.”

“Or perhaps I will?”

“Oh no—I’ll definitely go first.”

Sensei looked at me.
I laughed.

“But if I were to go first—what would you do then?”

“What would I do…”

Mrs. Sensei faltered mid-sentence.
An imagined sorrow over Sensei’s death seemed to pierce her heart.
Yet when she lifted her face again, her composure had already returned.

“What would I do? There’s nothing to be done—you know how they say life and death care nothing for youth or age.”

Mrs. Sensei deliberately looked my way and said this as though making light of it.

Thirty-Five

I lowered myself back down from my half-risen position and remained with them until their conversation came to a natural pause.

“What do you think?” Sensei asked.

Whether Sensei would die first or Mrs. Sensei would pass away sooner was not something I could possibly determine.
I simply kept laughing.

“One can never know about lifespan, you know.”
“Nor can I.”

“This alone truly depends on one’s lifespan.”
“When you’re born, you’re given a fixed number of years, so there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Your father and mother—they died around the same time, you know.”

“The day they passed away?”

“Of course not exactly the same day, but...”
“But they were practically the same.”
“Because they just went and died one after the other, you know.”

This knowledge was new to me.
I found it strange.

"Why did they pass away so close together?"

Mrs. Sensei attempted to answer my question.
Sensei interrupted that.

“Stop that talk.”
“Because it’s trivial.”

Sensei deliberately flapped the fan he held in his hand.
Then he looked back at Mrs. Sensei again.

“Shizuka, if I die, I’ll give you this house.”

Mrs. Sensei laughed out loud.

“While you’re at it, give me the land too.”

“The land belongs to someone else, so there’s nothing to be done. In return, I’ll give you everything I have.”

“Thank you very much.”
“But what use would I have for Western books anyway?”

“I’ll sell them to a secondhand bookstore.”

“If you sold them, about how much would you get?”

Sensei did not say how much.
But Sensei’s words remained fixated on the distant matter of his own death.
And that death was assumed to inevitably occur before Mrs. Sensei.
Mrs. Sensei too, at first, seemed to be deliberately making light replies.
That situation had gradually weighed down the sentimental woman’s heart without her realizing it.

“If I die, if I die—how many times must you say that? For pity’s sake, enough already—stop this ‘if I die’ talk. It’s ill-omened! If you die, I’ll do everything as you wish—isn’t that enough?”

Sensei turned toward the garden and laughed. But from then on, he refrained from voicing what Mrs. Sensei found disagreeable. Feeling I had overstayed my welcome, I rose from my seat at once. Sensei and Mrs. Sensei accompanied me to the entrance.

“Take good care of your father,” Mrs. Sensei said.
“Again in September,” Sensei said.

I exchanged farewells and stepped out beyond the lattice. Between the entrance and the gate stood a single dense osmanthus tree, its branches spreading through the night shadows as if to bar my way. Taking two or three steps forward, I gazed up at its boughs cloaked in darkened leaves and envisioned the blossoms and scent that autumn would bring. From time past, I had held Sensei's house and this osmanthus entwined in memory as inseparable entities. When I paused beneath that tree, my thoughts drifting toward the next autumn when I would cross this threshold again, the entrance light shining through the lattice suddenly vanished. Sensei and his wife appeared to have withdrawn deeper into the house. Alone, I emerged onto the darkened street.

I did not immediately return to my lodgings.
I had errands to prepare before returning home and needed to let my stomach—stuffed from the feast—settle, so I simply walked toward the bustling part of town.
The town was still early in the evening.
Amidst men and women who seemed to have no particular purpose milling about, I came across someone who had graduated alongside me that very day.
He dragged me into a bar against my will.
There, I was made to listen to his bluster that frothed like beer foam.
I returned to my lodgings after twelve o'clock.

36

The next day too I braved the heat and walked about gathering requested items.
When first receiving these commissions by letter I had thought nothing of them, but when actually undertaking them felt intensely daunted.
Wiping sweat in the train car, I resentfully thought of provincials who lacked any notion of sparing others time and trouble.

I had no intention of idling away this whole summer.
Having roughly mapped out a schedule for my return home, I needed to acquire books required for its execution.
I resolved to spend half a day on Maruzen's second floor.
Standing before shelves in my relevant section, I began examining each volume systematically from end to end.

Among all my shopping tasks, what troubled me most was women’s collars. When I asked the clerk, he would bring out as many as I wanted, but when it actually came time to choose one to buy, I found myself utterly bewildered. On top of that, the prices were extremely inconsistent. When I thought something looked cheap and asked, it turned out to be extremely expensive; when I assumed something was pricey and didn’t ask, it was surprisingly very cheap instead. There were also some where, no matter how much I compared them, I couldn’t discern what accounted for the price difference. I was utterly at a loss. And in my heart, I regretted why I had not troubled Mrs. Sensei.

I bought a suitcase.
It was nothing more than an inferior Japanese-made article, yet its gleaming metal fittings made it more than adequate to intimidate country folk.
The purchase of this suitcase had been my mother’s specific instruction.
She had expressly written in her letter that upon graduating, I should buy a new suitcase and return home with all souvenirs packed inside.
When I read those words, I laughed aloud.
It was less that I failed to comprehend my mother’s reasoning than that her phrasing struck me as inherently absurd.

As I had stated to Sensei and his wife when taking my leave, I departed Tokyo on the train three days later to return to my home province.
Since this winter I had received various warnings from Sensei regarding my father’s illness; though I was in the position that should have been most anxious about him being ill—for some reason—it did not trouble me greatly.
I found myself feeling more sorry for mother instead—imagining her after father was gone.
Given that much—somewhere deep within my heart—I must have resolved that father was already someone who should pass away.
In the letter I sent to my elder brother in Kyushu—I wrote that there was no prospect of father regaining his former health.
I even wrote that while there might be work obligations—if possible—he should adjust them and come home once this summer just to see his face.
I even employed sentimental phrases like—‘Having just you two elderly parents staying alone in the countryside must feel terribly lonely—as your children—this is a matter of deepest regret for us.’
I had indeed written exactly what came to mind.
However—my feelings after writing were different from when I had written.

I thought about such contradictions on the train.
As I dwelled on them, I began to see myself as a fickle, frivolous creature prone to shifting moods.
I grew displeased.
Then I recalled Sensei and his wife.
Most vividly came back the conversation from that dinner invitation two or three nights prior.

“Which of us will die first?”

That evening, I repeated to myself the question that had arisen between Sensei and his wife.
And I thought that no one could answer this question with confidence.
Yet if it had been clearly known which would die first—what would Sensei have done?
What would Mrs. Sensei have done?
I concluded they could only maintain their present manner of being.
(Just as I could do nothing while my father waited in our hometown, drawing nearer to death.)
I saw humanity as fleeting.
I saw the inherent frivolity of humans—this inescapable lightness of being—as transient.

Middle: My Parents and I

*I*

What struck me as unexpected upon returning home was how little Father’s vigor had changed since I last saw him.

“Ah, you’re back.”
“Well... graduating after all—that’s something.”
“Wait here—I’ll go wash my face and come right back.”

Father had been out in the garden doing something.
With a dingy handkerchief tied to the back of his old straw hat for sun protection fluttering behind him, he made his way around to the rear where the well was.

I, who had considered graduating from school as a matter of course for any ordinary person, felt abashed before my father as he rejoiced over it more than I had anticipated.

“Managing to graduate is… well, commendable.”

Father repeated these words again and again.
In my heart, I compared this joy of Father’s with Sensei’s expression that evening at the dinner table when he had said “Congratulations” on the night of my graduation ceremony.
To me, Sensei—who offered verbal congratulations while inwardly disparaging me—seemed more noble than Father, who appeared delighted by something so trivial as if it were a rare treasure.
Eventually, I began to feel displeasure at the provincial air born from my father’s ignorance.

“Even graduating from university isn’t such a great thing.”
“There are hundreds who graduate every year.”

I finally spoke in this manner.
Then Father made a strange face.

“It’s not that I’m just saying it’s good because you graduated.”
“Of course graduating is commendable, but what I mean holds a bit more significance.”
“If only you would understand that...”

I tried to hear the rest from Father.
Father seemed reluctant to speak but finally said.

“In other words, it comes down to me saying it’s commendable.”
“I have the illness you know about, right?”
“When I saw you last winter, I had thought that perhaps it would only be about three or four months.”
“By what stroke of luck, I’ve managed to carry on like this until today.”
“I’ve been getting by without any difficulty in my daily life.”
“Then you managed to graduate.”
“So I’m happy.”
“Wouldn’t a parent feel happier if the son they’d devotedly raised graduated while they were still healthy, rather than after they were gone?”
“To you with your grand ambitions, being told ‘Well done’ over merely graduating from university mustn’t be very gratifying.”
“However, from my perspective, the situation’s a bit different.”
“In other words, your graduation isn’t so much for your sake as it is for mine.”
“Do you get it now?”

I didn’t say a word.
I hung my head, more abashed than apologetic.
Father appeared to have already resigned himself to his death while still in good health.
Moreover, he seemed to have resolved that he would die before my graduation.
I had been a complete fool, never considering how deeply my graduation had resonated with Father.
I took the graduation diploma from my bag and showed it carefully to Father and Mother.
The diploma had been crushed by something and lost its original shape.
Father carefully smoothed it out.

“You should have carried this rolled up in your hand.”

“It would have been better if you’d put a stiffener inside,” Mother also remarked from beside us.

Father gazed at it for a while, then rose and went to the tokonoma, placing the diploma in a prominent position where anyone’s eyes would immediately fall upon it.
Ordinarily, I would have immediately said something, but at that moment, I was utterly unlike my usual self.
I felt not the slightest inclination to oppose Father and Mother.
I remained silent and let Father do as he pleased.
Once creased, the diploma made of thick Japanese paper stubbornly resisted Father’s attempts to smooth it out.
As soon as it was placed in a suitable position, it immediately regained its natural momentum and tried to topple over.

II

I called Mother to a shaded corner and inquired about Father’s condition.

“Father looks so vigorous going out to the garden and doing such things, but is that truly all right?”

“He seems perfectly fine now.”
“He must have recovered quite well overall.”

Mother was unexpectedly composed. As was typical for women living deep in forests and rice fields far removed from urban life, Mother remained wholly uninformed about such matters. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a peculiar dissonance within myself—she had been so terribly alarmed and anxious when Father collapsed last time, yet now…

“But didn’t the doctor declare back then that his condition was ultimately grave?”

“That’s precisely why I say nothing’s more mysterious than the human body,” Mother replied. “After all those dire warnings from the physician, he’s still bustling about as you see.” She paused before continuing. “I worried myself sick at first too—tried to keep him from moving around much.” A resigned sigh escaped her lips. “That’s just his nature, I suppose.” Her fingers absently smoothed her apron. “He minds his health well enough but remains stubborn as an ox. Once he decides something’s right, my words might as well be whispers in a typhoon.”

I recalled Father’s appearance and demeanor from the last time I returned home, when I had him forcibly get up from bed and shave his beard. When I considered his words at the time—“It’s fine now. Mother’s just making too much of it—that’s the real issue”—I couldn’t bring myself to lay all the blame on Mother alone. “I had been about to say, ‘But you should be a bit more careful,’” but in the end, I held back out of consideration and didn’t voice anything. I simply explained all I knew about the nature of Father’s illness to make them understand. However, most of that was merely material I had obtained from Sensei and his wife. Mother showed no particular sign of being moved. “Oh, so it’s the same illness after all.” “That’s so sad.” “And how old was that person when they passed away?” she asked.

Since there was no other way, I left Mother as she was and turned directly to Father.
Father listened to my counsel more earnestly than Mother had.
“That stands to reason.
You’re quite right.
Still, this body of mine is ultimately mine alone—when it comes to preserving it through regimen, I should know best after all these years of experience.”
At this, Mother gave a wry smile.
“There now,” she said.

“But even so, Father has made his peace with it.”
“He’s so delighted I graduated and came home now precisely for that reason.”
“He thought he wouldn’t live to see me graduate, but bringing the diploma while he’s still healthy made him happy—Father himself said that.”

“He may say that with his mouth, you know.”
“Deep down, he still believes he’s perfectly fine, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“He fully intends to live another ten or even twenty years, you know. Though sometimes he does say things that make me feel uneasy—‘I probably won’t last much longer like this. When I die, what will you do? Do you intend to stay in this house alone?’”

I suddenly imagined the old, spacious country house at a time when Father would be gone and Mother left alone. After Father was gone from this house, would it manage to remain as it was? What would Elder Brother do? What would Mother say? Thinking this, could I really leave this land and live carefree in Tokyo? With Mother before me, I happened to recall Sensei’s advice—that whatever was to be divided should be divided and settled while Father was still in good health.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Those who keep saying ‘I’ll die, I’ll die’ never actually do—so you needn’t worry.”
“Your father too goes on about dying, but who can tell how many more years he might live?”
“No—it’s the quiet ones in perfect health you’ve got to watch out for.”

I listened silently to Mother’s words, which sounded almost proverbial—whether born of logic or statistics, I couldn’t discern.

III

A discussion arose between Father and Mother about cooking red rice and entertaining guests for my sake.
From the day I returned home, I had thought that something like this might happen and had secretly feared it in my heart.
I refused immediately.

“Please don’t make such a fuss.”

I had always disliked our country guests.
They were people who came primarily to eat and drink, behaving as if they hoped some incident might occur to liven things up.
Since childhood, I had felt ill at ease whenever obliged to attend their gatherings.
The thought of them coming specifically on my account made me imagine my discomfort growing even more acute.
Yet out of deference to Father and Mother, I couldn’t bring myself to demand they stop inviting these uncouth people and making a commotion.
Thus I persisted in objecting solely on grounds of excessive extravagance.

“You keep saying ‘too extravagant,’ but it’s not extravagant at all.”
“It’s not something that happens twice in a lifetime. Inviting some guests is only natural.”
“There’s no need for you to hold back.”

Mother seemed to regard my university graduation with the same gravity as if I had taken a bride.

“We don’t have to invite them, but if we don’t, they’ll start saying something again.”

This was Father’s remark.
Father was concerned about their gossip.
In truth, they were the sort of people who would immediately start making critical remarks when things didn’t go as expected in such situations.

“Unlike Tokyo, the countryside is such a nuisance.”

Father added this.

“And Father’s reputation is at stake too,” Mother interjected.

I couldn’t insist on having my way.
I resigned myself to letting them arrange things as they pleased.

“If this is purely for my sake, I must ask you to refrain.”
“But if your concern is avoiding criticism behind your backs, that’s another matter entirely.”
“There’s no sense in me forcing objections that would disadvantage you.”

"When you counter with such logic, it's troubling."

Father made a bitter face.

"It's not that Father means he isn't doing this for your sake at all, but surely you understand our obligations to society."

At this point, Mother, being a woman, began to speak in a flustered manner.
In terms of sheer volume of words, even if you combined Father and me, we were no match for her.

“When you educate people, they just become all argumentative—it’s no good.”

Father said only this much. Yet within that simple phrase, I perceived the full measure of dissatisfaction he had long harbored toward me. At the time, oblivious to the angular rigidity of my own speech, I could only regard Father’s resentment as unreasonable.

That night Father altered his approach, inquiring what date might suit me for receiving guests. To me—idling through days in our old house with neither pressing engagements nor obligations—this question amounted to Father’s surrender. I bowed my head without resistance before this softened man. After consulting together, we fixed a date for the invitations.

Before that appointed date arrived, a major event occurred.
It was news of His Majesty Emperor Meiji’s grave illness.
This incident—which spread instantly throughout Japan via newspapers—swept away my graduation celebration like dust, though it had finally begun to take shape in our country home after numerous complications.

“Well, perhaps we ought to refrain.”

Father, wearing glasses and reading the newspaper, said this.
Father seemed to be silently contemplating his own illness as well.
I found myself recalling His Majesty, who as in previous years had made an imperial visit to the university at the recent graduation ceremony.

Four

In the hushed stillness of an old house too spacious for our small number, I unpacked my trunk and began to leaf through my books. For some reason, I could not settle my mind. In that dazzling Tokyo boarding house’s second floor, listening to the sound of distant trains running while turning each page one by one, I had been able to study with a taut alertness and quiet contentment.

More often than not, I leaned against my desk and dozed off.
At times, I even went out of my way to fetch a pillow and indulged in a proper midday nap.
When I opened my eyes, I heard the sound of cicadas.
The sound, which seemed to have continued uninterrupted from wakefulness, suddenly began to tumultuously scour the depths of my ears.
While I listened intently to it, at times I harbored a sorrowful feeling in my heart.

I took up my brush and wrote short postcards or long letters to various friends.
Some of those friends had remained in Tokyo.
Some had returned to distant hometowns.
Some sent replies, while others sent no word at all.
Of course, I had not forgotten Sensei.
I decided to send him three pages of finely written text on manuscript paper, chronicling my state of being since returning home.
When I sealed it, I wondered whether Sensei still remained in Tokyo.
When Sensei and his wife left their house together, a woman in her fifties with a bobbed haircut would customarily come from somewhere to mind the place.
When I once asked Sensei, "Who is that person?" he countered with, "What do you think they are?"
I had mistaken her for one of Sensei’s relatives.
"I have no relatives," Sensei answered.
Sensei had not exchanged any correspondence with those connected to him in his hometown.
The caretaker woman who had puzzled me was a relative of his wife, unrelated to Sensei.
When mailing the letter to Sensei, I suddenly recalled her figure—the narrow obi tied effortlessly at her back.
I wondered whether, should this letter arrive after they had left for some summer retreat, that bob-haired woman would have the wit and kindness to forward it promptly.
Yet I knew full well there was nothing urgent in that letter.
I was simply lonely.
And so I began anticipating Sensei’s reply.
However, that reply never came.

Father no longer wanted to play shogi as much as he had when I returned home the previous winter.
The shogi board had been pushed to the corner of the tokonoma, dust gathering on it.
After His Majesty’s illness, Father appeared deeply absorbed in thought.
Every day, he would wait for the newspaper to arrive and be the first to read it.
Then he would go out of his way to bring it to where I was.

“Hey, take a look. Today’s paper also has detailed coverage about His Majesty.”

Father always referred to His Majesty as “His Majesty the Emperor.”

“It may be impious to say so, but His Majesty the Emperor’s illness must be rather similar to mine.”

On Father’s face in such moments hung a shadow of deep concern.
When he said this, the worry that I had no idea when Father might collapse flashed through my mind.

“But I’ll be all right. Even someone as worthless as me can still manage to stay like this.”

While giving himself assurances of his own robustness, Father seemed to sense the danger looming over him at any moment.

“Father is truly frightened by his illness.”
“As you say, Mother, he doesn’t seem to have the will to live even ten or twenty more years.”

Mother looked perplexed upon hearing my words.

“Why don’t you try suggesting we play shogi again?”

I took down the shogi board from the tokonoma and wiped off the dust.

Five

Father’s vigor gradually waned.
The old straw hat with its handkerchief trim that had once startled me now lay naturally neglected.
Each time I gazed upon that hat resting atop the soot-blackened shelf, I felt a pang of pity toward Father.
While he still moved about with his former lightness, I worried he might show more restraint.
When Father began sitting absorbed in stillness, I came to feel his prior state had truly been more robust.
I often discussed Father’s health with Mother.

“It’s all in his mind,” Mother said.
Mother’s mind was linking His Majesty’s illness with Father’s.
I couldn’t quite see it that way.

“It’s not psychological.”
“Is his body truly not unwell?”
“It seems his health is deteriorating more than his spirits.”

Having said this, I inwardly pondered whether to call a proper doctor from afar and have him examined.

“This summer must be rather dull for you too. Even though you went to the trouble of graduating, I couldn’t even celebrate you properly—what with my health being as it is. And His Majesty the Emperor’s illness... Might as well have invited guests right when you came home.”

I returned home on July 5th or 6th, and it was a week later that Father and Mother proposed inviting guests to celebrate my graduation. The day they finally settled on was set more than a week after that. Having returned to a leisurely countryside unbound by time's constraints, I found myself spared from unpleasant social obligations—a relief in itself—yet my mother, who did not understand me, seemed entirely unaware of this.

When news of the Emperor’s passing arrived, Father held the newspaper and said, “Ah, ah.”

“Ah, ah, His Majesty the Emperor has finally departed.”
“I too—”

Father did not complete his thought.

I went into town to purchase black mourning crepe.
With it, I wrapped the orb atop the flagpole; with it, I fastened a three-inch-wide mourning streamer to the pole’s tip; with it, I extended the arrangement diagonally from beside the gate toward the street.
Both flag and black streamer hung limp in the windless air.
The roof of our old gate had been thatched with straw.
Weather-beaten by rain and wind, the straw had discolored to a pale gray, its uneven patches now conspicuously visible.
I stepped outside alone and gazed at the black streamer, the white merino backdrop, and the crimson sun disc dyed upon it.
I studied how these colors reflected on the dingy thatched roof.
I remembered how Sensei had once asked me: “What architectural style does your house follow?”
“Does it differ much in character from your hometown?”
I wanted to show Sensei this ancestral home where I was born.
Yet I also felt ashamed to reveal it to him.

I entered the house alone again. I came to where my desk stood and read the newspaper while picturing distant Tokyo’s condition. My imagination fixed upon scenes of how Japan’s greatest metropolis must have been moving through such darkness. Within that restless city—grown unmanageable in its blackness unless kept in motion—I glimpsed Sensei’s house like a solitary lantern’s glow. At that moment I failed to notice how this light was being drawn into a soundless vortex. Nor had I yet realized—could not have realized—that this flame too stood destined to vanish suddenly before my eyes.

I thought about writing a letter to Sensei regarding this recent event and began to take up my brush.
I wrote about ten lines of it and stopped.
I tore what I had written into tiny pieces and threw them into the wastebasket.
(I thought there was no use writing such things to Sensei, and based on past experience, he was unlikely to reply anyway.)
I was lonely.
And so I would write letters.
And so I would think how wonderful it would be if a reply came.

6

Around mid-August, I received a letter from a friend. Inside was written that there was a provincial middle school teaching position and it asked if I wouldn’t like to take it. This friend was a man who, out of economic necessity, sought out such positions himself. This position had initially come to him, but since he had managed to secure a better one elsewhere, he went out of his way to inform me with the intention of passing the remaining opportunity my way. I immediately sent a reply and refused. I wrote that since there were those among my acquaintances who were striving hard to secure teaching positions, it would be better to pass it on to them.

After I sent my reply, I told Father and Mother about the matter.
Both of them seemed to have no objection to my refusal.

“Even without going to such a place, there must still be better positions available.”

Beneath these words of theirs, I discerned the excessive hopes they held for me.
My unthinking father and mother seemed to expect inappropriate status and income from me, who had just graduated.

“As for decent positions—these days, such favorable ones are hardly easy to come by.
Especially since Elder Brother and I have different specializations and are of different times, it becomes rather problematic if we’re both considered in the same way.”

“But now that you’ve graduated, if you don’t at least become independent, it’s a problem for us. When people ask me, ‘What is your second son doing now that he’s graduated from university?’ and I can’t give an answer, it’s embarrassing for me.”

Father made a grimace.

Father’s mindset had never ventured beyond the old, familiar countryside he had long inhabited.
Father, who had been asked by people in his hometown things like “About how much monthly salary will he get once he graduates from university?” or told “Well, maybe around a hundred yen,” wanted to settle me—freshly graduated—in a way that would not sound disreputable to these people.
I, who regarded the vast metropolis as my base, appeared to my father and mother as no different from some peculiar creature walking with its feet turned toward the sky.
On my part as well, I actually occasionally had feelings akin to such a person.
I remained silent before my father and mother, the chasm between us far too vast for me to lay bare my thoughts.

“Why don’t you ask that teacher you’re always calling ‘Sensei’ for help?”
“Especially at a time like this!”

Mother could not comprehend Sensei except through this lens.
That Sensei had been the one to advise me that upon returning home, I should quickly have Father divide the property while he still lived.
Having graduated now, he was not someone who would help secure positions.

“What does Sensei actually do?” Father inquired.

“He doesn’t do anything,” I replied.

I had believed for some time that I had already told both Father and Mother that Sensei wasn’t doing anything.
And Father should certainly have remembered that.

“What do you mean he isn’t doing anything?”
“If he’s someone you respect that much, he ought to be doing something.”

With these words, Father mocked me.
In Father’s view, useful people go out into the world, secure proper positions, and work.
He seemed to have concluded Sensei was ultimately just an idler—a good-for-nothing.

“Even a man like me—I may not draw a salary, but that doesn’t mean I’m lazing about.”

Father added this.
Still I kept silent.

“If he’s such a great man as you say, he’d surely find you a position. Why don’t you ask him?” Mother pressed.

“No,” I answered.

“Then there’s nothing to be done, is there? Why don’t you ask him? At least send a letter.”

“Yeah.”

I gave a noncommittal reply and left my seat.

VII

Father was clearly afraid of his illness.
Yet he was not one to pester the doctor with vexing questions during each visit.
The doctors too remained reserved and said nothing definitive.

Father appeared to be contemplating matters beyond his death.
At least, he seemed to envision our household after his departure.

“There are downsides to making children study too, you know.”
“When you go through all that trouble educating them, they never come back home.”
“This way, it’s as if we’re schooling them all too readily just to drive parents and children apart.”

As a result of his education, Elder Brother was now in a distant province. As a result of my education, I had firmly resolved to live in Tokyo once more. Father’s complaints about raising such children were not unreasonable by any means. Father’s imagination of Mother being left all alone in the old country house they had lived in for many years must have been lonely by any means.

Father firmly believed that our house was something immovable. He also believed that Mother, living within it, was something immovable as long as she had life. The thought of leaving this lonely Mother all alone in our house—now as vast and hollow as an empty temple hall—after his own death was also a source of profound anxiety. And yet, there was a contradiction in my father’s mind as he pressed me to seek a good position in Tokyo. I found that contradiction absurd, while also being glad that, due to it, I could return to Tokyo.

I had to pretend before my father and mother that I was earnestly seeking this position with all possible effort.
I wrote a letter to Sensei detailing my family circumstances thoroughly.
I entreated him to help secure me a position, pledging I would do anything within my power if there were tasks I could undertake.
I wrote this letter convinced Sensei would disregard my request.
Even were he inclined to assist, I wrote believing Sensei—with his narrow social sphere—could likely do nothing regardless.
Yet still I wrote it certain a reply from Sensei would come.

Before sealing and sending it, I said to Mother.

“I wrote a letter to Sensei.”
“Just as you said.”
“Take a look at it.”

Mother did not read it, just as I had imagined.

“I see. Then send it off quickly. You shouldn’t wait for others to notice such things; you should do them yourself right away.”

Mother still thought of me as a child.
I too truly felt like a child.

“But letters aren’t enough.”
“It’ll have to wait until September when I leave for Tokyo anyway.”

“That may be so, but you never know—there might just be some good position available, so it’s best to ask as soon as possible.”

“Yeah.”
“Anyway, a reply will definitely come, so once it does, I’ll discuss it with you again.”

I trusted Sensei’s meticulousness in such matters.
I eagerly awaited Sensei’s reply.
But my expectations were ultimately betrayed.
Even after a week had passed, there was still no word from Sensei.

“He’s probably gone off somewhere to escape the heat.”

I had to use words that sounded like excuses when speaking to Mother. And those words were not just excuses to Mother, but also excuses to my own heart. I felt uneasy unless I forced myself to assume some circumstance and defend Sensei’s attitude.

I sometimes forgot about Father’s illness. I even thought about just leaving for Tokyo right away. Father himself sometimes forgot about his own illness. While worrying about the future, he took no measures to address it. In the end, I passed through without ever finding the opportunity to bring up the matter of dividing the property with Father, as Sensei had advised.

Eight

When September began, I finally prepared to leave for Tokyo once more. I asked Father to continue sending me tuition as before for the time being.

"Staying here like this, I won't be able to obtain the position you speak of."

I told him I was going to Tokyo to secure the position he desired.

"Of course, it's fine until you find a position," he added.

In my heart, I was certain no such position would ever come my way.
But Father, oblivious to the circumstances, clung stubbornly to his contrary belief.

“That should only be a short-term arrangement, so I’ll manage it somehow. But it can’t go on forever. You’ve got to become independent as soon as you attain a suitable position. Since you’ve graduated from school, you shouldn’t need to depend on others’ support from the very next day. Today’s youth seem to know only how to spend money and give no thought at all to earning it.”

Father had various other complaints besides these. Among them were statements like, “In the past, parents were fed by their children, but now parents are only eaten by their children.” I simply listened to those words in silence.

When I thought his lecture had finally ended, I quietly began to rise from my seat.
Father asked when I would depart.
The sooner I could leave, the better it was for me.

“Have your mother pick the day.”

“I will.”

At that moment, I remained uncharacteristically subdued before Father.
I resolved to leave the countryside without needlessly crossing him.
Father detained me once more.

“The house grows lonelier when you go to Tokyo.”
“It’ll just be your mother and me.”
“Not that this body of mine can be counted on—the way things stand, who knows when something might happen?”

I comforted my father to the best of my ability and returned to where my desk stood. I sat among scattered books and repeatedly pondered my father’s desolate manner and words. At that moment, I heard cicadas again—not the earlier summer chorus, but the distinct trill of evening cicadas. Whenever I returned to my summer hometown and sat rigidly amid those searing insect cries, I would often feel an inexplicable sadness. My melancholy always seemed to seep into my heart’s depths alongside their relentless drone. During such moments, I would remain perfectly still, gazing at my solitary self.

My melancholy gradually transformed in tone since returning home that summer.
As the shrill cries of daytime cicadas shifted to the evening cicadas' mournful song, it seemed the fates of those surrounding me had begun to stir within a vast cycle of reincarnation.
While dwelling on Father's lonely demeanor and words, I found myself recalling Sensei once more—how even after sending letters, no reply ever came.
In those aspects where Sensei and Father gave me completely opposing impressions, they easily rose together in my mind for both comparison and association.

I had come to know nearly everything about Father.
If I were to leave Father, there would only remain the lingering attachment between parent and child in matters of affection.
Much about Sensei still eluded my understanding.
I had yet to gain the opportunity to hear that person's past as promised.
In short, Sensei remained dim to me.
I felt compelled to push through that obscurity and reach a place of clarity.
The thought of severing ties with Sensei pained me greatly.

I had Mother choose an auspicious day and fixed my departure date for Tokyo.

Nine

Just as I was finally about to leave (I believe it was two days prior, in the evening), Father suddenly collapsed again.
At that time, I was tying up the trunk filled with books and clothing.
Father had just gotten into the bath.
My mother, who had gone to scrub his back, called out to me in a loud voice.
I saw my father, naked, being supported from behind by her.
Even so, when we brought him back to the sitting room, Father said, "I'm all right now."
As a precaution, I sat by his bedside cooling his head with a wet hand towel, and around nine o'clock finally managed a token supper.

The next day, Father was in better health than expected.
He wouldn’t listen to attempts to stop him and walked to the toilet by himself.

“I’m all right now.”

Father repeated the same words he had said to me when he collapsed at the end of last year.
At that time, things had indeed turned out more or less as he verbally assured.
I thought this time too might follow that pattern.
Yet the doctor only emphasized the need for caution and refused to give a clear explanation even when pressed.
Because of my anxiety, when the day of departure came, I found myself unable to leave for Tokyo.

“Perhaps we should wait a little longer to see how things go,” I suggested to Mother.

“Please do that,” Mother entreated.

Mother remained perfectly composed whenever she saw Father had enough vigor to go out to the garden or descend to the back door, yet whenever something like this occurred, she would fret and worry excessively.

“Weren’t you supposed to leave for Tokyo today?” Father asked.

"Yes, I postponed it a bit," I answered.

"For my sake?" Father asked in return.

I hesitated slightly.
To say yes would have confirmed the gravity of Father's condition.
I wanted to avoid heightening his nervous sensitivity.
Yet Father appeared to have seen straight through me.

"What a pity," he said, turning toward the garden.

I entered my room and gazed at the trunk left discarded there.
It remained tightly bound, ready to be carried out at any moment.
I stood vacantly before it, contemplating whether to undo the ropes again.

I spent another three or four days in that same unsettled mood of having half-risen from my seat while remaining seated.

Then Father collapsed again.
The doctor strictly ordered complete bed rest.

“What should we do?” Mother said to me in a small voice so Father wouldn’t hear.
Mother’s face looked utterly forlorn.
I prepared to send telegrams to my brother and sister.
But the sleeping Father showed almost no signs of suffering.
Judging by his manner of speaking, it was no different from when he had caught a cold.
Moreover, his appetite had grown beyond its usual level.
Even when those nearby cautioned him, he would not readily comply.

“Since I’m going to die anyway, I might as well eat something good before I go.”

To me, Father’s words about eating “something good” sounded both comical and bitterly sad.
Father had not lived in a metropolis where he could put delicious things into his mouth.
When night came, he had someone bake rice crackers and such, which he then crunched noisily.

“Why am I so thirsty?”
“After all, there might still be a resilient part in the heart.”

Mother, though disappointed, instead placed her reliance on that glimmer of hope. Despite this, she used the old-fashioned term "thirsty"—which was only employed during illness—to mean wanting to eat anything at all.

When Uncle came to visit, Father would not let him leave for the longest time. The primary reason was that he felt lonely and wanted them to stay longer, but it also seemed one of his objectives had been for Mother and me to voice complaints about not letting him eat as much as he wanted.

Ten

Father’s illness continued in the same condition for over a week.
During that time, I sent a long letter to my brother in Kyushu.
I had Mother send one to my sister.
I thought to myself that this would likely be the last communication regarding Father’s health that we would send to the two of them.
So I had written that in case it became critical for both of them, I would send a telegram telling them to come.

Elder Brother was occupied with a demanding position.
Sister was pregnant.
Therefore, we could not freely summon them before Father’s danger loomed imminent.
That said, even if they did come after all that trouble, being told they hadn’t made it in time would have been painful.
I felt a responsibility unknown to others regarding when to send the telegram.

“Once matters reach such a definitive state, even I cannot know,” he said. “However, please understand that danger may arrive at any time.”

The doctor we had brought from the town that had a train station said to me.
I consulted with Mother and, through the doctor's mediation, decided to arrange for a nurse from the town hospital.
Father made a strange face when he saw the woman in white who came to his bedside to offer greetings.

Father had long been conscious of suffering from a fatal illness.
Yet he remained oblivious to death itself looming before his very eyes.

"Once I recover, I'll make another trip to Tokyo for a visit."
"You never know when death might come."
"Whatever you want to do, you must do it while you're alive."

Mother reluctantly played along with responses like, "When the time comes, you must take me with you too."

At times, he would become extremely lonely.

“When I die, please take good care of your mother.”

I had a particular memory associated with this “when I die” statement. When leaving Tokyo, Sensei had repeatedly said those same words to his wife—this had occurred on the evening of my graduation day. I recalled Sensei’s face wearing a faint smile and his wife’s manner of covering her ears as if unwilling to hear. Back then, “when I die” had been nothing more than a hypothetical remark. What I now heard was an uncertain reality that could materialize at any moment. I found myself unable to emulate his wife’s attitude toward Sensei. Yet through words alone, I had to find some way to divert Father’s attention.

“You mustn’t say such defeatist things.”
“Once you recover, aren’t you meant to visit Tokyo again?”
“With Mother.”
“You’ll be astonished when you come this time—it’s transformed completely.”
“The new tram lines alone have multiplied tremendously, you know.”
“When trams begin operating, the cityscape shifts naturally, plus there’s ward restructuring underway—when Tokyo gets this intensely busy, well, you might say there’s not a moment’s respite day or night.”

Because I had no choice, I ended up talking about things I didn’t need to mention. Father again listened to this with apparent satisfaction.

With a sick person in the house, there naturally came to be more comings and goings. Relatives living nearby came to visit in turns at a rate of about one person every two days. Among them were those who lived relatively far away and were usually distant. “I was worried, but given how he looks now, he’s fine—he speaks freely and his face isn’t emaciated at all,” some said before leaving. The household, which had been almost eerily quiet when I first returned home, gradually began to bustle with such activity.

Amidst this bustle, Father’s illness remained unchanged, merely continuing to shift in an unfavorable direction.
I consulted with my mother and uncle and finally sent telegrams to my elder brother and younger sister.
A reply came from Elder Brother saying he would come immediately.
There was also a notification from my sister’s husband that he would depart.
Since my sister had previously miscarried when pregnant, her husband—who had always advocated caution—intended to take extra care this time to prevent recurrence; he might come himself in her place.

Eleven

Amidst such restlessness, I still retained enough composure to sit quietly.
Occasionally I even found time to open a book and read ten consecutive pages.
My luggage—once tightly bound—had somehow come undone without my noticing.
I took out various items from it as needed.
When leaving Tokyo, I reflected on the summer routine I had firmly resolved to follow in my heart.
What I had accomplished fell short of even one-third of that daily regimen.
I had accumulated such unpleasant experiences many times before.
Yet rarely had work strayed so far from my intentions as during this summer.
Though telling myself this must be life's natural course, I remained oppressed by an irksome mood.

As I sat enveloped in this discomfort, I contemplated my father’s illness.
I imagined what would follow Father’s death.
Simultaneously, I found myself recalling Sensei.
There at opposite poles of this oppressive mood, I beheld two figures—utterly dissimilar in station, education, and temperament.

I had left my father’s bedside and was sitting alone with my arms folded among scattered books when Mother appeared.

“Why don’t you take a nap? You must be tired too.”

Mother did not understand my mood.
Nor was I such a child that I could have expected her to understand me.
I expressed my thanks simply.
Mother was still standing at the entrance to the room.

“How is Father?” I asked.

"He’s sleeping soundly now," Mother answered.

Mother suddenly came in and sat down beside me.

“Has Sensei still not sent any word?” she asked.

Mother had believed my words at that time.
At that time, I assured Mother there would surely be a reply from Sensei.
Yet even then, I did not expect at all that any reply meeting Father and Mother’s hopes would come.
With full awareness I had deceived Mother—only to end up in this same predicament.

“Why don’t you try writing another letter?” Mother said.

No matter how many useless letters I might write, if they brought Mother comfort, I was not one to avoid the effort. But pressing Sensei with such business was painful for me. I feared being looked down upon by Sensei far more than being scolded by Father or upsetting Mother's mood. I even harbored the misgiving that perhaps the reason I still hadn't received a reply to that request was due to such circumstances.

“Writing a letter isn’t difficult, but such matters can’t be resolved through mail.”
“I must go to Tokyo myself and personally make the rounds to ask.”

“But with Father in that state—how could you possibly know when you’d even get to Tokyo?”

“That’s why I’m not going.”
“As long as it remains uncertain whether he’ll recover or not, I intend to stay right here properly.”

“That much goes without saying.”
“Who could abandon a gravely ill man on death’s doorstep and selfishly run off to Tokyo?”

At first, I pitied Mother in my heart for her unknowingness.
Yet I couldn’t fathom why she had raised such an issue amid this turmoil.
Just as I sat quietly reading while setting aside Father’s illness, I wondered whether Mother too had empty space in her heart to forget the patient before her eyes and dwell on external matters.
Then Mother began, “Well, actually…”

“If your situation could be settled while Father is still alive, I believe it would bring him great peace of mind.”
“Given how things stand, it may already be too late—but even so, since he remains so clear in speech and mind like that, you ought to perform your filial duty and bring him joy while he’s still here.”

Pitiable I was in circumstances that prevented me from fulfilling filial duties.
In the end, I did not send even a single line of a letter to Sensei.

Chapter Twelve

When Elder Brother returned, Father was reading the newspaper while lying down. Father had always made it a habit to read the newspaper above all else, but after taking to his bed, he wanted to read it even more out of boredom. Mother and I did not forcibly oppose this and allowed the patient to have his way as much as possible.

“If you have such energy, that’s splendid. When I came thinking you were in a terrible state, you seem to be in quite good shape, don’t you?”

Elder Brother said such things while talking with Father. The overly lively tone struck me as discordant instead. Yet when he left Father’s presence and faced me, his demeanor was rather subdued.

“Shouldn’t we just stop letting him read the newspaper?”

“I think so too, but if he doesn’t read it, he won’t accept it—there’s no helping it.”

Elder Brother listened silently to my explanation.
After a while, he said, “Do you think he really understands?”
Elder Brother seemed to have observed that Father’s comprehension had become far duller than usual due to his illness.

“That’s certain.
I sat by his pillow for about twenty minutes just now and tried talking about various things, but there was nothing at all out of order.
Given how he looks now, depending on how things go, he might just last quite a while longer.”

The opinion of Sister’s Husband, who had arrived around the same time as Elder Brother, was far more optimistic than ours.
Father asked him various things about Sister.
“Given her condition, it’s better she doesn’t recklessly take trains and get jostled around.
If she were to push herself to come visit, it would only make us worry more.”
“Well, once you’ve recovered, we’ll come visit for the first time in ages to at least show you the baby’s face—there’s no problem with that,” he had said.

When General Nogi died, Father was again the first to learn of it through the newspaper.

“Terrible! Terrible!” he exclaimed.

We, who knew nothing, were startled by these sudden words.

“At that time I thought his mind had finally gone, and I felt a chill,” Elder Brother later said to me.
“I was actually quite startled too,” said Sister’s Husband in a tone that suggested he shared the sentiment.

In those days, the newspapers were indeed filled with nothing but the sort of articles that country folk encountered daily.
I sat at Father’s bedside and carefully read them.
When I didn’t have time to read them, I would quietly bring them to my room and go through every last one.
My eyes could not for a long time forget the figures of General Nogi in his military uniform and his wife dressed like a court lady.

A mournful wind blew into every corner of the countryside, shaking the drowsy trees and grasses, when I suddenly received a telegram from Sensei.
In a place where dogs barked at anyone wearing Western clothes, even a single telegram became a major event.
Mother, upon receiving it, indeed looked startled and deliberately summoned me to a spot where no others were present.

“What is it?” she said, standing beside me waiting for me to open the envelope.

In the telegram was simply written a message expressing that he wanted to meet me briefly and asking if I could come.
I tilted my head.

“It must be about that position I asked him to secure for you,” Mother inferred.

I thought maybe she was right.
But even so, I also thought it was a bit strange.
In any case, having called even my elder brother and sister’s husband, I could not possibly disregard my father’s illness and go to Tokyo.
After consulting with Mother, I decided to send a reply telegram stating that I couldn’t go.
I added a brief note stating that Father’s condition was nearing crisis, but still feeling unsettled, I wrote out a detailed letter explaining the circumstances in full and mailed it that very day.
Mother, who had been utterly convinced it was about securing that position I’d asked for, said with a regretful look, “It’s just bad timing—there’s nothing to be done.”

Thirteen

The letter I wrote was quite lengthy.
Both Mother and I thought that this time, Sensei would surely respond.
Then, on the second day after sending the letter, another telegram addressed to me arrived.
It contained only a brief message stating there was no need to come.
I showed it to Mother.

"He'll probably send a proper explanation by letter."

Mother seemed determined to interpret everything as Sensei securing employment for me.
I too considered that possibility, but judging from Sensei's usual conduct, it felt somehow incongruous.
"Sensei finding me a position."
This struck me as fundamentally implausible.

“In any case, my letter shouldn’t have reached him yet, so this telegram must have been sent before that.”

I stated this obvious fact to Mother.
Mother replied thoughtfully, “I suppose so.”
Though I knew perfectly well that Sensei having sent this telegram before reading my letter offered no insight into understanding him.

That day happened to be when our attending physician was due to bring the hospital director from town, so Mother and I had no further chance to discuss the matter.
The two doctors examined him, administered an enema and other procedures, then departed.

Since being ordered by his doctor to remain bedridden, Father had both his bowel and bladder movements managed by others while lying down.
Fastidious as he was, Father had initially been utterly disgusted by this, but with his body failing him, he reluctantly resigned himself to relieving himself on the bed.
Whether due to his illness causing his mind to gradually dull or some other reason, as days passed, he ceased to mind neglecting his excretory hygiene.
Occasionally, he would soil the futon and sheets, yet remained unperturbed even as those around him frowned in disapproval.
However, due to the nature of the illness, the amount of urine became extremely small.
The doctors were concerned about this.
His appetite also gradually declined.
Even when he occasionally desired something, it was only his tongue that craved it; barely anything made its way past his throat.
He no longer had the strength to pick up even the newspapers he used to enjoy.
The reading glasses beside the pillow remained stored in their black case.
When Sakusan—a childhood friend who now lived about four kilometers away—came to visit, Father turned his clouded eyes toward him and said, "Ah, Sakusan."

“Sakusan, you came all this way.
“You’re so healthy—it’s enviable.
I’m done for.”

“That’s not true.
You’ve got both your children graduated from university—even ill like this, you’ve nothing to complain about.
Look at me.
My wife died, and I’ve no children.
I’m just living like this.
What good is health without joy?”

The enema was given two or three days after Sakusan’s visit.
Father said he felt much better thanks to the doctor and seemed pleased.
His spirits lifted as if he’d gained resolve about his lifespan.
Mother, perhaps caught up in his mood or trying to lift his spirits, spoke of Sensei’s telegram as though my position in Tokyo—exactly as Father wished—were settled.
I felt an itch of discomfort but stayed silent, unable to interrupt.
The patient smiled brightly.

“That’s wonderful,” my sister’s husband also said.

“Do you still not know what position it is?” my elder brother asked.

I now lost the courage to deny it.
I gave an ambiguous reply that even I couldn't make sense of and deliberately left my seat.

Chapter Fourteen

Father’s illness had advanced to the brink of delivering its final blow, yet there it seemed to hesitate for a time.
The family members went to bed each night thinking the declaration of fate would come today—would come today.

Father felt no pain severe enough to distress those around him.
When it came to that, nursing was rather easy.
For caution’s sake, they took turns keeping watch one person at a time, but the rest could retire to their beds at a reasonable hour without issue.
At times when I couldn’t sleep for some reason and mistakenly thought I faintly heard the patient’s groan-like voice, I once slipped out of bed in the middle of the night and went to Father’s bedside just to be safe.
That night, Mother was on watch duty.
However, Mother had bent her elbow to use as a pillow next to Father and fallen asleep in that position.
Father, too, lay quietly like someone gently placed beyond deep sleep.
I stealthily returned to my own bed.

I slept inside the mosquito net with my elder brother. My sister’s husband alone, perhaps because he was treated as a guest, retired to a separate room to rest.

“Seki-san is pitiable too, isn’t he.”
“Ah, he’s been stuck here for days and can’t go back.”

Seki was that person’s family name.

“But since he isn’t that busy, he’s staying over like that, isn’t he?”
“You’d be more troubled than Seki-san now that it’s dragged on this long.”

“There’s nothing to be done about being troubled.
“It’s different from outside matters, you see.”

Sharing a bed with my elder brother, I engaged in such bedtime talk.
In my elder brother’s mind, as well as in my own heart, there existed the thought that Father would not survive after all.
There was also the thought that if he wasn’t going to make it anyway.
We were like children waiting for our parent to die.
However, we as children hesitated to put that into words.
And so we understood well what each other was thinking.

“Father still seems to think he’ll recover,” my elder brother said to me.

There were indeed aspects that appeared just as my elder brother had described.
When neighbors came to visit, Father insisted on meeting them and would not take no for an answer.
Whenever he met them, he would invariably lament not having been able to invite them to my graduation celebration.
Instead, he would sometimes add something like “when I recover.”

“It’s just as well your graduation celebration was called off.”
“I had a hard time with mine, you know,” my elder brother said, prodding my memory.
I recalled the disorderly scene from that time, fueled by alcohol, and smiled bitterly.
Father’s attitude of pressing food and drink on everyone also appeared bitterly distasteful to my eyes.

We were not particularly close as brothers. When we were young, we often fought, and being the younger one, I was always made to cry. The differences in our academic specializations after entering school stemmed entirely from differences in our personalities. During my university days—especially after coming into contact with Sensei—I would observe my brother from afar and always think of him as animalistic. Since I had not seen my elder brother for a long time and had been living far away, whether measured by time or distance, he had never been close to me. Even so, when we met like this after so long, a tender feeling between us brothers welled up naturally from somewhere. The situation itself was also a major factor in this. At the bedside of our father—the father we shared—who lay on the verge of death, my elder brother and I shook hands.

“What are you going to do now?” my elder brother asked.
I posed my elder brother with a question of an entirely different nature.
“What on earth is going to happen to the family’s property?”

“I don’t know.”
“Because Father hasn’t said anything yet.”
“But when it comes down to money, the property isn’t worth all that much.”

For her part, Mother was troubled by Sensei’s lack of reply.

“Hasn’t the letter come yet?” she reproached me.

Fifteen

“Who on earth is this ‘Sensei, Sensei’ you keep talking about?” my elder brother asked.

“Didn’t I tell you the other day?” I replied.
I felt displeased toward my elder brother, who, despite having asked the questions himself, would immediately forget other explanations.

“I did hear about it, but...”

My elder brother meant that he wouldn’t understand even if told. From my perspective, there was no need to make him comprehend Sensei. But I felt irritated. I recognized that characteristic aspect of my brother resurfacing.

Since both Sensei and I revered him so deeply, my brother had concluded this must be some eminent personage. He presumed at minimum a university professor. What value could there be in a nameless man who did nothing? In this regard, my brother’s instincts mirrored Father’s exactly. Yet where Father had been hastily judged idle from incapacity, my brother now insinuated that capable idlers represented humanity’s most contemptible breed.

“Egoism is unacceptable.”
“The very idea of living without doing anything reeks of sheer laziness.”
“People must put their talents to full use—otherwise it’s a lie.”

I wanted to counter my elder brother—to demand whether he truly grasped how I meant that word “egoist.”

“Still, if you can secure a position thanks to that person, well, that’s fine enough. Father also seems pleased, doesn’t he?”

My elder brother said this afterward. As long as no clear letter came from Sensei, I could not bring myself to believe such a thing, nor did I have the courage to voice it. Now that Mother had proclaimed this to everyone based on her hasty assumption, I found myself suddenly unable to find a way to retract it. I awaited Sensei’s letter without even needing to be urged by Mother. And I earnestly prayed that the letter would contain something about securing a livelihood—the kind of thing everyone was expecting. In the presence of my father on the brink of death, in the presence of my mother praying to grant him even a modicum of peace, in the presence of my elder brother declaring that one must work to be human, and in the presence of all the others—my sister’s husband, uncles, aunts—I had to torment my nerves over matters to which I gave not the slightest care.

When Father vomited some strange yellowish matter, I remembered the danger Sensei and his wife had once warned me about.
“When someone lies down that long, their stomach’s bound to go bad,” Mother said. Looking at her face—the face of one who knew nothing—I felt tears well up before her.

When my elder brother and I met in the parlor, he said, “Did you hear?”
That was meant to ask whether I had heard what the doctor had told him on his way out.
I had understood perfectly well without needing any explanation.

“Aren’t you thinking of coming back here to manage the household?” my elder brother asked, turning to me.
I gave no answer.

“Mother alone likely couldn’t manage,” my elder brother said again.
He looked at me as though it would be no loss even if I rotted away in the dirt.

“If all you want is to read books, you can do that plenty in the countryside. And you wouldn’t need to work either—it’d suit you perfectly.”

“Then shouldn’t you be the one to come back, Brother?” I said.

“How could I possibly manage that?” my elder brother shot back.
His mind brimmed with ambitions of making his mark in the world.

“If you refuse, we’ll have to ask Uncle to handle things. But either way, Mother must be taken in by one of us.”

"Whether Mother will move from here or not is already a major question!"

The brothers had discussed matters concerning their father's posthumous affairs in this manner even before his death.

Sixteen

Father began to utter delirious ramblings from time to time.

“I cannot face General Nogi.
"I am utterly disgraced."
“No, I’ll follow right behind you.”

He blurted out such remarks unexpectedly.
Mother felt unsettled.
She wanted to keep everyone gathered by his bedside as much as possible.
To Father, who often grew lonely during his lucid moments, even that appeared to be a source of hope.
Whenever he looked around the room and did not see Mother’s figure, he would invariably ask, “Where’s O-Mitsu?”
Even without asking, his eyes told the story.
I often rose to call Mother.
“Do you need anything?” When she came to the sickroom, leaving her tasks half-done, there were times when he would simply gaze at her face without speaking.
Then again, he would say something entirely unrelated.
At times he suddenly offered kind words like, “O-Mitsu, you’ve done so much for me.”
Mother would inevitably tear up at such moments.
Afterward, she would surely recall Father as he had been in his robust days—holding that image in contrast.

"He says such pitiable things now, but he used to be quite harsh back in the day."

Mother recounted things like the time she had been struck on the back with a broom by Father.
My elder brother and I, who had been made to hear this many times before, now listened to Mother’s words in a mood entirely different from usual, as though receiving them as mementos of Father.

Father gazed at the dimly looming shadow of death before his eyes, yet still did not utter anything resembling a will.

“Don’t you think we should ask him something now while we can?” my elder brother said, looking at me.

“I suppose so,” I answered.
I had considered that taking the initiative to bring up such matters myself might have both advantages and disadvantages for the patient.
The two of them, unable to reach a decision, finally consulted their uncle.
Uncle also tilted his head.

“It would be a shame if he were to die without saying what he wants to say, but then again, it might be wrong for us to press him on it.”

The discussion dragged on indecisively.
Then the coma set in.
True to form, Mother—knowing nothing—mistook it for ordinary sleep and was rather relieved.
“Well, if he can rest so peacefully like that, it’s a help to those around him too,” she said.

Father would occasionally open his eyes and suddenly ask things like, "What happened to so-and-so?"
The "so-and-so" referred exclusively to the names of those who had been sitting there until just moments before.
In Father’s consciousness, there were dark places and bright places formed, and only those bright places appeared to continue intermittently like a white thread stitching through darkness, spaced at intervals.
It was no wonder that Mother mistook the coma for ordinary sleep.

His tongue gradually became increasingly slurred.
Even when he managed to start speaking, his words would trail off into incoherence, often leaving him unable to convey his meaning clearly.
Yet whenever he began to speak, he would project such a strong voice that one could hardly believe he was a critically ill patient.
We had to raise our voices even more than usual and bring our mouths close to his ear.

"Does cooling his head make him feel better?"

"Yeah."

With the nurse assisting me, I replaced Father’s water pillow and placed a new ice bag filled with fresh ice on his head.
While the jagged ice fragments—roughly broken and sharply pointed—settled inside the bag, I gently held them in place just beyond Father’s balding forehead.
At that moment, my elder brother entered through the corridor and wordlessly handed me a letter.
Extending my free left hand to take it, I immediately felt suspicious.

It was considerably heavier than an ordinary letter. It hadn't been placed in a standard envelope. Nor was its bulk suitable for a standard envelope. It was wrapped in Japanese writing paper, with the seams carefully pasted shut using glue. When I received it from my elder brother's hand, I immediately realized it was registered mail. Turning it over, I found Sensei's name written in restrained characters. Unable to free my hands to open it right away, I slipped it into my pocket.

Seventeen

That day, Father’s condition seemed especially grave.
When I rose to go to the toilet, my elder brother intercepted me in the hallway and barked like a sentry: “Where are you going?”

“His state looks precarious—we ought to stay close,” he warned.

I agreed.
I went back to the sickroom, leaving the letter still tucked in my pocket.
Father opened his eyes and asked Mother to name those gathered around him.
As Mother identified each person—“That’s Mr. So-and-so,” “This is Mrs. Such-and-such”—Father nodded each time.
When he failed to nod, Mother raised her voice insistently: “It’s Mr. So-and-so—do you understand?”

“Thank you for all your kindness.”

Father said this.
And then Father fell into a coma once more.

The people gathered around the bedside gazed silently at the patient's condition for some time. Eventually one among them stood and went to the adjoining room. Then another rose. As the third to leave, I too finally quit my seat and returned to my own chamber. My purpose was to open and inspect the postal matter I had earlier slipped into my pocket. This was an action that could easily have been performed even at the patient's bedside. But the sheer volume of written contents made it impossible to read through in one sitting there. I purloined a special interval of time to dedicate to it.

I clawed at the sturdy fibered wrapping paper and tore it open.
What emerged from within was a manuscript-like document, neatly written within ruled lines drawn both vertically and horizontally.
And thus, for the convenience of sealing, it had been folded into quarters.
I reversed the folded creases of the Western paper and flattened it to make it easier to read.

My mind was astonished, wondering what this mass of paper and its imprint would tell me.
At the same time, I worried about the sickroom.
As I began reading this writing, I had a premonition that before I could finish it, something would happen to Father—at the very least, I was certain to be summoned by my elder brother, Mother, or if not them, then my Uncle.
I could not bring myself to read Sensei’s words calmly.
Restlessly, I read only the first page.

That page was written as follows.

“When you pressed me about my past and I lacked the courage to answer, I now believe I have gained the freedom to lay it bare before you. However, this freedom is nothing more than a worldly freedom that will be lost while waiting for your return to Tokyo. Therefore, if I do not make use of it while I can, I will forever lose the opportunity to impart my past to you as an indirect experience in your mind. If that happens, those words I so firmly promised you then would become nothing but a lie. I have had no choice but to put into writing what I should have conveyed to you in person.”

It was only after reading that far that I finally came to clearly understand why this lengthy text had been written.
I had believed from the outset that Sensei would never trouble himself to send a letter concerning such mundane matters as my livelihood.
But why would Sensei—who so detested putting brush to paper—choose to write about that incident at such length and show it to me?
Why couldn’t Sensei wait until my return to Tokyo?

“Now that freedom has come, I will speak. But that freedom must also be lost forever.”

In my mind, I kept repeating these words, yet struggled to grasp their meaning.
I was suddenly seized by anxiety.
I tried to continue reading what followed.
At that moment from the sickroom's direction came my elder brother's voice loudly calling me.
Startled again, I stood up.
I went toward where everyone was as though dashing through the hallway.
I steeled myself, finally accepting that Father's final moment had come.

18

Before anyone realized it, a doctor had arrived in the sickroom.
With the intention of making the patient as comfortable as possible, they were about to attempt an enema again.
The nurse was sleeping in another room to rest from her fatigue of the previous night.
Unaccustomed to such tasks, my elder brother had gotten up and was fumbling about.
When he saw my face, he said, "Could you lend me a hand?" and then sat back down.
I took my elder brother’s place, positioning the oilpaper under Father’s buttocks.

Father’s condition had eased somewhat.
The doctor, who had been sitting by the bedside for about thirty minutes, acknowledged the results of the enema and left, saying he would return.
As he was leaving, he made a point to instruct them to call him immediately if anything were to happen.

I withdrew from the sickroom that seemed poised for sudden change and tried once more to read Sensei's letter.
Yet I found no semblance of calm within myself.
The moment I sat at the desk, I became certain my elder brother would call out to me again in that booming voice.
The terror that this next summons would mark the final one set my hands trembling.
I mindlessly flipped through the pages of Sensei's letter.
My eyes registered the characters neatly boxed within their ruled lines.
But I lacked the composure to read them properly.
I couldn't even muster the focus to skim.
I methodically opened each page to the very end, then attempted to refold them precisely as before and lay the letter on the desk.
It was then that a phrase near the conclusion abruptly seized my gaze.

“By the time this letter reaches your hands, I shall no longer be in this world. Without doubt, I will already be dead.”

I gasped.
The turbulent churning in my chest suddenly felt like it had coagulated into stillness.
I flipped back through the pages once more.
Then I began reading frantically, scanning each page for just a line or two.
In that split second, I tried to stab through the shimmering characters with my eyes, desperate to extract what I needed to know.
At that moment, all I wanted was confirmation of Sensei's wellbeing.
That shadowed past he'd once promised to reveal - those murky memories meant nothing to me now.
Flipping pages with increasing violence, I crumpled the endless letter that stubbornly withheld its crucial truth.

I went again to the sickroom doorway to check on Father’s condition. The patient’s bedside was unexpectedly quiet. I beckoned to Mother—sitting there with a tired, helpless expression—and asked, “How does he seem?” Mother replied, “He appears to be holding steady for now.” I brought my face close to Father’s and inquired, “How are you feeling? Did the enema help somewhat?” Father nodded. He clearly said, “Thank you.” His mind remained surprisingly unclouded.

I left the sickroom once more and returned to my own room.
There I checked the train timetable while looking at the clock.
I suddenly stood up, tightened my obi again, and threw Sensei’s letter into my sleeve.
Then I went out through the back door.
I rushed frantically into the doctor’s house.
I tried to get a clear answer from him about whether Father would last another two or three days.
I attempted to beg him to keep Father alive with injections or any means necessary.
The doctor was unfortunately out.
I had not a moment to spare waiting for his return.
My mind remained utterly unsettled.

I immediately had the rickshaw hurry to the station.

I pressed a scrap of paper against the station wall and wrote a letter in pencil addressed to my mother and elder brother. The letter was exceedingly brief, but thinking it better than departing without word, I hastily asked the rickshaw man to deliver it to our house. Then with desperate resolve, I flung myself aboard the Tokyo-bound train. In the rattling third-class carriage, I pulled Sensei’s letter from my sleeve once more and at last read it through from start to finish.

Part III: Sensei and the Testament

I

“...This summer I received two or three letters from you.”
The one that wrote about wanting to secure a respectable position in Tokyo and asking for my assistance was, I believe, the second one I received.
When I read it, I thought I wanted to do something about it.
At the very least, I thought I must send a reply.
But to confess—I made no effort whatsoever regarding your request.
As you know, for someone like me—who lives practically alone in the world rather than merely having a narrow social circle—there was simply no room to make such efforts.
But that is not the issue.
To tell the truth, I was then agonizing over what to do with myself.
Should I continue existing like a mummy left behind among humans? Or... Each time I repeated that 'or' in my heart during those days, I shuddered—
Like someone who had run to the edge of a precipice and suddenly peered down into a bottomless chasm.
I was cowardly.
And so I was tormented to the same degree as many cowards.
Regrettably, it would not be an exaggeration to say that for me then, you hardly existed.
To go further—your status, your means of livelihood—such things were utterly meaningless to me.
I did not care in the slightest.
I was in no state to concern myself with such matters.
I placed your letter in the letter holder and remained seated with folded arms, still deep in thought—
Why must those with adequate household assets torment themselves flailing about for status after status before even graduating—or not graduating at all?
Rather than sympathy, I gave you—distant as you were—nothing more than this bitter glance.
It is to you—to whom I cannot leave matters without reply—that I now disclose these things by way of explanation.

I do not deliberately use discourteous words to anger you.
I believe you will fully understand my true intentions when you read what follows.
In any case, since I remained silent when I should have offered some acknowledgment, I wish to apologize before you for this fault of negligence.

After that, I sent you a telegram.
To put it bluntly, at that time I wanted to see you for a moment.
And then, according to your wish, I wanted to tell you my past.
You sent a return telegram declining my request, stating you couldn’t come to Tokyo now, but I was disappointed and spent a long time gazing at that telegram.
You too, it seems, were not satisfied with just a telegram, for you later sent me a long letter, and through it I came to fully understand the circumstances preventing your departure for Tokyo.
I have no reason to think of you as a rude man or anything of the sort.
How could you possibly leave your home while setting aside your critically ill father’s condition?
It is my attitude—as though forgetting your father’s life-and-death situation—that is truly improper. In truth, when I sent that telegram, I had forgotten about your father.
Yet even though I was the one who had advised you so emphatically, back when you were in Tokyo, that it was a serious illness requiring careful attention.
I am such a contradictory person.
Or perhaps it is not my brain, but rather my past oppressing me, that has transformed me into such a contradictory person.
In this regard too, I fully acknowledge my own ego.
I must have you forgive me.

When I read your letter—the last one that came from you—I felt I had done wrong.
So I considered sending a reply to that effect and even began taking up my pen, but stopped without writing a single line.
If I were to write at all, it was because I wanted to compose this very letter for you; yet since the time remained slightly too soon for writing it, I held back.
That is why I sent another brief telegram stating there was no need for you to come.

II

“I then began to write this letter. For me—unaccustomed to holding a pen in daily life—it was an oppressive agony that neither events nor ideas would flow as I intended them. I came within a hair’s breadth of casting aside this obligation I owed you. Yet however much I resolved to stop and lay down my brush, it proved futile. Within less than an hour, the urge to write would seize me again. To your eyes, this may seem characteristic of one who prizes the fulfillment of duties—and I do not deny it. As you know, being a solitary man with scarcely any dealings in society, when I look about me—left and right, before and behind—no obligations worthy of the name have taken root in any quarter. Whether by design or nature, I had pared my existence down to the barest essentials. Yet this did not stem from indifference toward duty. Rather, being too acutely sensitive yet lacking the vigor to endure such stimuli, I came to pass my days in passivity—as you have observed. Thus once having made a promise, leaving it unfulfilled becomes intolerably distasteful. Even if only to spare myself this distaste where you are concerned, I must take up the brush again.”

But beyond that, I want to write.
Setting duty aside, I want to write about my past.
Since my past is an experience that belongs solely to me, it might as well be called my exclusive possession.
To die without passing it on would indeed be deemed wasteful.
I too carry a trace of that sentiment.
Yet if it means giving them to those who cannot accept them, I would rather bury my experiences with my life.
In truth, had there not been a man like you, my past would have remained mine alone, never even indirectly entering another's knowledge.
Among tens of millions of Japanese, it is only to you that I wish to recount my past.
Because you are earnest. Because you declared you wanted to draw living lessons from life itself.

I will cast the shadow of this dark world unsparingly upon you.
Yet do not fear.
Fix your gaze upon these shadows and take from them what can be of use.
When I speak of darkness, I mean an ethical darkness from the very core.
I was born with ethics.
I was raised with ethics.
These ethical principles of mine may differ greatly from those held by today's youth.
But however flawed they may be, they are mine alone.
Not some rented garment hastily thrown on.
Therefore I believe they may yet serve as reference for you who stand poised to grow.

You must remember how frequently you turned our discussions toward modern ideological issues.
You surely understood my attitude toward them.
Though I never scorned your opinions, neither could I bring myself to respect them.
Your thoughts lacked foundation; you were too young yet to possess your own past.
At times I laughed.
You would often give me looks of dissatisfaction.
Ultimately, you demanded that I unroll my past before you like an illustrated scroll.
In that moment, I felt true respect for you for the first time within my heart.
Because you resolved to seize some living truth from my innermost depths.
Because you sought to split open my heart and drink its warm-flowing blood.
At that time I still lived.
I had no wish to die.
Thus I postponed your request with promises of another day.
Now I rend open my own heart to drench your face with its blood.
Should new life quicken in your breast when my pulse ceases its beat, I shall die content.

III

“I lost my parents when I was not yet twenty years old.”
I seem to recall my wife once told you this as well—they both died of the same illness.
Moreover, just as my wife had aroused your suspicion, they died almost simultaneously—one right after the other.
To tell the truth, my father’s illness was the dreaded typhoid fever.
It infected my mother, who had been nursing him at his bedside.

I was their only son.
With considerable wealth in our household, I had been raised rather liberally.
Looking back on my past, I believe that had my parents not died then—or if even one of them had survived—I could have maintained that liberal disposition until now.

I was left behind in a daze after their passing.
I had no knowledge, no experience, and no judgment.
When Father died, Mother could not be at his side.
When Mother died, they had not yet even told her of Father's death.
Whether Mother remembered this fact, or believed—as those around her claimed—that Father was actually entering recovery, I cannot say.
Mother had simply entrusted everything to Uncle.
Pointing at me where I stood present, she said, "Please take care of this child."
I had already obtained my parents' permission to go to Tokyo beforehand, so Mother had likely meant to mention that as well.
Thus when she added only "to Tokyo," Uncle immediately continued her thought and replied, "Very well. You needn't worry about anything."
Was Mother truly a woman of such robust constitution that she could endure high fevers? Uncle praised her strength to me.
Yet now I cannot say for certain whether these truly constituted Mother's last words.
Mother certainly knew the dreadful name of Father's illness.
And she knew she herself had contracted it.
But whether she truly believed this illness would claim her life—on that matter, there remains ample room for doubt.
Moreover, even when Mother's words during her high fever were perfectly logical and clear, they often left no trace of memory in her mind.
So... but such matters are not the issue.
This habit of unraveling things or turning them over and over to examine—this tendency was already fully formed within me by that time.
I believe I must explain this to you from the outset, but as a concrete example, I think such descriptions unrelated to the immediate matter may paradoxically prove useful.
Please keep this in mind as you read.
I believe this disposition—when applied ethically to personal conduct—led me to increasingly doubt others' moral integrity as years passed.

Please remember that it is certain this disposition has actively contributed significant force to my anguish and suffering.

If my digression makes the thread harder to follow, I must return to where I left off.
Yet as I write this lengthy letter, I wonder if I might be somewhat calmer than others placed in my position.
The streetcar's rumble that signals the world's slumber had already faded.
Beyond the storm shutters, pitiful insect voices now faintly chirp—their tone stealthily recalling dewy autumn.
My unknowing wife sleeps innocently in the adjoining room.
When I take up my brush, each stroke forms as the pen tip hums.
I face the paper rather calmly.
Though my unpracticed hand may let the pen stray sideways, I don't believe my mind wanders enough to make these characters chaotic.

IV

"In any case, having been left utterly alone, there was no path for me but to rely on this uncle as my mother had instructed."
My uncle took charge of everything and handled all matters.
He arranged for me to go to Tokyo as I desired.

I came to Tokyo and entered high school.
The high school students of that time were far more violent and unruly than those of today.
Among those I knew was someone who got into a fight with a workman late at night and wounded the other’s head with his geta.
This happened after drinking sake—in their frenzied scuffle, he ended up having his school cap seized by his opponent.
However, inside that cap was clearly written his name on a white diamond-shaped cloth.
This complicated matters, and he nearly faced police inquiries to the school.
But my friend exerted great effort and finally settled it without public exposure.
If I were to tell you modern youths raised in today’s refined climate about such brutish acts, you would surely find them absurd.
I myself consider them absurd.
Yet they possessed a certain rustic simplicity absent in today’s students.
The monthly sum I received from my uncle then was far smaller than what you now get from your father for educational expenses.
(Of course, prices differed.)
Yet I never felt wanting.
Moreover, among my classmates financially speaking, I was hardly in any pitiable position to envy others.
Looking back now, I was likely the envied one.
This was because beyond fixed monthly remittances, I often requested book funds—I’d loved buying books since those days—and extra expenses from my uncle, spending them freely as I pleased.

I, who knew nothing of the world, not only trusted my uncle but always respected him with heartfelt gratitude as someone truly worthy of reverence.
My uncle was a businessman.
He even became a prefectural assembly member.
Perhaps owing to these connections, I recall he also had affiliations with political parties.
Though he was my father's own younger brother, in terms of character he seemed to have developed along a path entirely different from my father's.

Father was a man of steadfast integrity who carefully preserved the inheritance passed down from his ancestors. For his pastimes, he engaged in tea ceremonies and flower arranging. He also enjoyed reading poetry collections. He seemed to have cultivated many refined interests in calligraphy, paintings, and antiques. Though our house stood in the countryside, antique dealers would occasionally make the two-ri journey from the city where my uncle resided—bringing hanging scrolls and incense burners specifically to show Father. To put it simply, one might describe Father as a man of means—a country gentleman with rather cultivated tastes. In temperament, there existed an immense chasm between him and his open-hearted younger brother. Yet despite this, the two maintained an oddly close relationship. Father often praised Uncle as being far more capable and reliable than himself. He would say that those like him who inherited family wealth inevitably saw their innate abilities atrophy—that lacking necessity to struggle in society rendered one deficient. Mother too heard these words. I heard them as well. It seems Father spoke them intending them as guidance for me—he made deliberate eye contact while saying, “You would do well to remember this.” That is why I still retain them clearly now. How could I have doubted an uncle so trusted and praised by my own father? To me he already stood as someone deserving pride—but after my parents’ deaths left me entirely dependent on his care, he became more than mere pride; he transformed into someone indispensable to my very existence.

V

"When I first returned home during summer vacation using my break, my uncle and his wife had taken up residence in my home—now bereft of my parents—as its new occupants."
"This arrangement had been settled before I departed for Tokyo."
"With me being left completely alone yet absent from the house, there remained no alternative but to proceed thus."

At that time, my uncle had been involved with various companies in the city.
From a business standpoint, he remarked with a laugh that remaining in his current residence would be far more convenient than moving to my house two ri away.
This observation had escaped him during our discussions about handling the estate after my parents' death and my departure for Tokyo.
My house possessed a long history and was somewhat renowned in the neighborhood.
I imagine it would be the same in your hometown—in rural areas, destroying or selling an ancestral home when an heir exists counts as a grave matter.
The present me would dismiss such concerns, but back then I remained a child—having left for Tokyo yet compelled to preserve the house intact—and found myself profoundly distressed by this predicament.

My uncle reluctantly agreed to move into my vacant house.
However, he said he would be in trouble unless he could keep his residence in the city as it was and have the convenience of moving back and forth between both places.
I naturally had no grounds for objection.
I was thinking any conditions would be acceptable as long as I could go to Tokyo.

In my childlike way, even after leaving my hometown, I still gazed longingly at my family home through the mind's eye. Naturally, I gazed upon it with the heart of a traveler who still had a home to return to there. The feeling that I had to return home when breaks came was powerfully present even in me, who had so longed for Tokyo that I ventured out here. I often dreamed of the family home I believed I could return to during breaks after diligently studying and enjoying myself.

During my absence, I never knew how my uncle had been moving between both residences.
When I arrived, all family members were gathered together inside the one house.
The school-going children had likely been living in the city ordinarily, but they too had been brought back to the countryside for vacation in a manner half meant for play.

Everyone showed delight upon seeing me.
I too felt gladness seeing how the house had grown livelier and more cheerful than when my parents were alive.
My uncle made the eldest boy vacate what had formerly been my room and moved me into it.
Though I protested that another room would suffice given there were plenty available, my uncle refused to listen, insisting it was rightfully my house.

Apart from occasionally remembering my deceased father and mother, I spent that entire summer with my uncle’s family without any unpleasantness and returned to Tokyo.

The one event of that summer that cast a dim shadow over my heart was when my uncle and aunt, speaking in unison, urged me—who had just entered high school—to marry.
That must have been repeated three or four times in total.
At first, I was merely startled by how sudden it was.
The second time, I clearly refused.
By the third time, I finally had to turn around and question their reasoning myself.
Their reasoning was simple.
It was simply that they wanted me to quickly take a bride, return to this house, and inherit my deceased father’s position.
I thought that as long as I returned home during vacations, that was sufficient for the house.
To inherit Father’s position, one needs a bride—both points made logical sense in theory.
Being someone who knew the ways of the countryside, I understood this well.
I probably did not absolutely dislike it either.
However, for me—who had just departed for Tokyo to further my studies—it appeared only as a distant prospect, like viewing something through a telescope.
I did not consent to Uncle’s proposal and finally left my home once more.

VI

"I had nearly forgotten about the marriage proposal altogether."
When I looked at the youths surrounding me, not a single face appeared burdened by domestic life.
Everyone seemed free—each one solitary in their own way.
Among these carefree souls, there might have been some who, beneath the surface, had taken wives out of unavoidable family circumstances—yet in my childlike state, I failed to perceive this.
Moreover, those in such special situations likely restrained themselves from discussing private household matters that felt alien to student life, mindful of their surroundings.
Looking back now, I realize I too belonged to that group—yet unaware even of this truth at the time, I simply walked my scholarly path with childish delight.

At the end of the school year, I once again packed my traveling case and returned to the countryside where my parents' graves lay. Just as I had the previous year, within the home where my parents had lived, I saw again the unchanged faces of my uncle and aunt and their children. There I caught once more the scent of my hometown. That scent remained as dear to me as ever. It must have been a welcome change if only to break the monotony of the academic year.

Yet within this same scent that had raised me, I found myself suddenly confronted again by the marriage issue thrust before me by my uncle. What my uncle said was merely a repetition of last year's proposal. His reasoning too remained unchanged. But whereas there had been no specific candidate when first proposed, this time they had secured the very person in question, leaving me even more troubled. The person in question was my uncle's daughter - a woman who was my cousin. My uncle claimed that marrying her would be convenient for us both, and that Father had spoken of such matters during his lifetime. I too thought this arrangement would be convenient. I considered it possible that Father had indeed discussed this with my uncle. Yet this was something I only realized after being told; it was not something I had known beforehand. Thus I was surprised. Though surprised, I came to fully understand there was nothing unreasonable in my uncle's wish because of it. Was I being obtuse? Perhaps so, but likely my fundamental lack of interest in that cousin lay at the root of it. From childhood I had frequently visited my uncle's house in the city. Not only visited, but often stayed there overnight.

And so, I had been close with this cousin since that time.
You are surely aware that there are no instances of romantic love arising between brothers and sisters.
I may be arbitrarily extending this commonly accepted fact, but I believe that between men and women who are always in contact and become overly familiar, the freshness of feeling necessary to spark romantic love is lost.
Just as one can only catch the fragrance of incense at the very moment it begins to burn, and just as the savor of sake exists only in that first instant of drinking, I can only think that romantic impulse too has such a precise moment in time.
Once someone passes through that point unscathed, the more accustomed they become, the more their familiarity grows—only for their capacity for romantic passion to gradually numb.
No matter how much I reconsidered, I could not bring myself to take this cousin as my wife.

Uncle said that if I were to insist, it would be acceptable to postpone the marriage until my graduation. However, he added that since there’s a proverb about striking while the iron is hot, he wanted to at least have the wedding toast settled now if possible. To me—who had no desire for the person in question—it made no difference either way. I refused again. Uncle pulled a displeased face. My cousin cried. Her sadness wasn’t because she couldn’t be with me. It was because the rejection of her marriage proposal pained her as a woman. Just as I did not love my cousin, she did not love me either—this I knew well.

I left for Tokyo again.

VII

"The third time I returned home was at the start of summer, a year after that incident. I would always flee Tokyo the moment my term exams ended. For me, my hometown inspired such profound longing. You must recall this too—how the air of one’s birthplace holds a different hue; how the earth exudes a singular scent; how memories of my father and mother hang thickly about the place. To spend July and August enveloped in that atmosphere, coiled motionless like a snake in its burrow, brought me a warmth and comfort beyond all else."

Naive as I was, I thought there was no need to worry much about the marriage issue with my cousin. If something was unpleasant, I would refuse it; once refused, nothing would remain afterward—this was what I believed. Therefore, despite not bending my will as my uncle had hoped, I remained rather unperturbed. Throughout the past year, I had no memory of ever being troubled by such matters and returned to my hometown as energetic as ever.

However, upon returning home, I found my uncle’s attitude had changed. He no longer made a kind face as before and did not try to embrace me in his bosom. Despite having been raised with an easygoing nature, I remained unaware for four or five days after returning. It was just that, on some occasion, I suddenly recalled it strangely. But what was strange wasn’t limited to my uncle. Aunt too was acting strangely. The cousin too was acting strangely. Even Uncle’s son—who had graduated from middle school and was planning to enter Tokyo Higher Commercial School next, having exchanged letters inquiring about the situation—was acting strangely.

By my very nature, I could not help but reflect.
Why had my state of mind changed like this?
No—why had they changed like this?
I began to suspect that my deceased parents had washed my dull eyes, suddenly making the world clear to me.
I had believed somewhere deep in my heart that even after my father and mother were gone from this world, they would continue loving me as they had when alive.
Even then, I was by no means a man insensitive to reason.
Yet the mass of superstitions inherited from my ancestors had also been lurking powerfully within my blood.
They are likely still lurking there even now.

I went alone to the mountain and knelt before my parents' grave—half in mourning, half in gratitude. With the feeling that my future happiness still lay clasped within their hands beneath that cold stone, I prayed for them to safeguard my fate. You may laugh at this. I suppose I deserve to be laughed at. But that was the sort of person I was.

My world had turned over as though flipping a palm—though this was not the first such upheaval I'd experienced. When I was sixteen or seventeen, that first discovery of beauty's existence in the world struck me like lightning. I doubted my eyes, rubbed them raw, then cried out silently within: "How beautiful!" Sixteen or seventeen—that age when desire awakens in both youths and maidens. Having come into this bloom of longing, I could at last perceive women as embodiments of worldly beauty. Eyes once blind to the opposite sex flew open in that instant. From then on, my universe transformed completely.

My realization about my uncle’s attitude must have been exactly like this.
I realized it abruptly.
It came without any premonition or preparation.
Suddenly he and his family appeared before my eyes as something entirely different from before.
I was astonished.
And then I began to feel that leaving things as they were would leave my future path uncertain.

VIII

"I had left the family property entirely in my uncle’s hands until then, but now I felt I could not face my deceased parents without gaining detailed knowledge about it."
As if proclaiming himself a busy man, my uncle did not sleep in the same place each night.
He would spend two days at home and three days in town, shuttling between both places with a restless expression each day.
And he used the word 'busy' like a habitual phrase.
At times when no suspicions arose, I too genuinely believed he must actually be busy.
Moreover, I came to interpret it with irony—that unless one put on a show of busyness, it wouldn’t be considered fashionable in this day and age.
However, when I observed this show of busyness through eyes that were now determined to discuss the time-consuming matter of the property, I could no longer perceive it as anything but a mere excuse to avoid me.
I found it difficult to get an opportunity to confront my uncle.

I heard a rumor that my uncle had a mistress in the city.
I heard that rumor from a friend who had been my middle school classmate long ago.
For someone like this uncle, keeping a mistress was nothing to be suspicious about, but having never heard such rumors while my father was alive, I was shocked.
My friend also told me various other rumors about my uncle.
Although it had been thought by others that his business was on the verge of failure at one point, the fact that it had suddenly recovered over the past two or three years was another of those rumors.
Moreover, that was one of the things that strongly reinforced my suspicions.

I finally opened negotiations with my uncle.
To call them 'negotiations' might be slightly improper, but given how matters progressed, they had naturally reached a state where no other term would suffice.
My uncle persistently tried to treat me as a child.
I had been facing him with suspicious eyes from the very start.
There was no possibility of peaceful resolution.

Regrettably, I am now too pressed for time to detail here the full course of those negotiations.
Truthfully, I have something far more significant awaiting narration.
My pen had been straining toward that point from the outset, barely restrained until now.
Having permanently lost the chance to meet and speak quietly with you, I must not only plead unfamiliarity with brushwork but also omit desired details out of regard for preserving precious time.

You must still remember how I once told you there are no born villains in this world—how many good people suddenly turn wicked in crucial moments, so one must never lower their guard. At that time, you cautioned me about my agitation. Then you asked under what circumstances good people transform into villains. When I answered simply "money," you made a dissatisfied face—I remember that expression clearly. Now I confess to you: I was thinking of this uncle then. As living proof that ordinary people become villains at the sight of money, as evidence that nothing in this world can be truly trusted, I regarded him with hatred through that lens. My answer may have seemed inadequate to you plunging into philosophy's depths—perhaps even trite. But to me, it was vital truth. Was I not truly agitated? I believe heatedly expounding common theories feels more alive than coolly uttering novelties—for blood moves the body's force, and words transmit not just air's vibrations but act upon sterner things with greater power.

IX

"In short, Uncle embezzled my property."
The matter had been easily carried out during the three years I was away in Tokyo.
I, who had left everything to my uncle and remained unconcerned, was by societal standards a true fool.
If evaluated from a viewpoint beyond societal standards, one might perhaps call me a man of pure nobility.
Looking back at myself at that time, when I wonder why I wasn’t born a worse person, I find my overly honest self unbearably vexing.
Yet at the same time, I also feel a desire to somehow return to that pure state I was born into and try living once more.
Please remember—the me you know is myself after being soiled by dust.
If we call those who have been soiled for many years seniors, then I am indeed your senior.

If I had married my uncle's daughter as he wished, would that have been materially advantageous for me?
This requires no deliberation, I think.
My uncle tried to foist his daughter upon me through scheming.
Rather than acting from goodwill to benefit both families, he was driven by far baser self-interest when pushing this marriage matter onto me.
I did not love my cousin, nor did I dislike her, but looking back now, I find some small satisfaction in having refused.
Being deceived would have been inevitable either way, but by rejecting my cousin—thereby thwarting their designs—I did at least assert my own will to some degree.
Yet this was an almost negligible trifle of a matter.
To you, who stand apart from these affairs, it must seem like sheer obstinacy.

Other relatives intervened between my uncle and me.
I did not trust those relatives in the slightest.
Not only did I not trust them—I rather viewed them as enemies.
When I realized my uncle had deceived me, I became convinced that others would surely deceive me too.
If even the uncle my father had praised so extravagantly turned out this way, what of others? That became my logic.

Still, they compiled everything under my ownership for me.
When converted to money, it amounted to far less than I had expected.
For me, there were only two options: either accept it silently or take my uncle to court.
I burned with indignation.
I wavered.
I feared a lawsuit would take too long to resolve.
As I was still pursuing my studies, I also found it agonizing to imagine losing precious academic time.
After much deliberation, I asked an old middle school friend in the city to liquidate all my assets into cash.
My old friend advised me it would be wiser to desist, but I refused to listen.
It was then that I resolved to leave my hometown forever.
I vowed inwardly never to lay eyes on my uncle again.

Before leaving my hometown, I visited my father and mother’s grave once more.
I have never laid eyes on that grave since.
The chance to see it again will likely never come.

My old friend handled it exactly as I had instructed.
However, that was a good while after I had arrived in Tokyo.
In the countryside, trying to sell farmland and such was no easy task, and moreover, there was the risk of being taken advantage of when matters came to a head, so the amount I ultimately received ended up being far below market value.
To confess, my property consisted solely of the few government bonds I had taken with me when leaving home and the money later sent to me by this friend.
As my parents' inheritance, there was no doubt it had significantly diminished.
Moreover, since I had not actively reduced it myself, I felt all the more uneasy.
But for living as a student, it was more than sufficient.
To tell the truth, I could not even use half of the interest it generated.
This financially comfortable student life of mine plunged me into unforeseen circumstances.

X

"Since I wasn't strapped for cash, I began considering leaving the noisy boardinghouse to set up my own place."
However, this would require buying household goods, finding a reliable housekeeper, and worrying about leaving the property unattended—all of which made taking immediate action seem impractical.
One day, driven by restless curiosity to at least scout locations, I went walking—descending westward from Hongōdai and climbing straight up Koishikawa slope toward Dentsū-in Temple.
Though the area later transformed when tram lines came through, back then the left side had the Artillery Arsenal's earthen wall while the right was an ambiguous stretch of wild grassland—neither quite plain nor hill—thick with vegetation.
I stood amidst that grass gazing absently at the distant cliffs.
The view remains decent even now, but in those days the western aspect held an entirely different charm.
Just seeing that endless expanse of deep green soothed my nerves.
Suddenly it struck me—might there be suitable houses around here?
I immediately cut across the field and headed north along a narrow lane.
The rows of houses there—still not quite proper town dwellings, creaking and dilapidated—looked thoroughly shabby by that era's standards.
I wandered through Royaji district, turning down alleys and circling aimlessly.
Finally I asked Ms. Ue at the sweetshop if she knew of any compact rentals nearby.
Ms. Ue tilted her head thoughtfully before replying, "Hmm...rental houses..." in a tone suggesting no leads.
I gave up and turned to leave.
Then she called after me: "What about a private boardinghouse?"
My perspective shifted instantly.
It occurred to me that lodging quietly in an amateur household might actually prove simpler than maintaining my own place.
I took a seat at her shop counter and had her explain the details.

That was a house where a military man's family—or rather, his bereaved family—lived.
Ms. Ue said that the master had apparently died during the First Sino-Japanese War or something like that.
“Until about a year ago, they had been living near the Ichigaya Military Academy,” Ms. Ue explained, “but since there were stables and the mansion was too spacious, they sold that place and moved here; however, finding it desolate with no one around, they had asked if a suitable person could look after it.”
I confirmed with Ms. Ue that in that house there were only a widow, her only daughter, and a maid.
I thought to myself that it would be quiet and extremely pleasant.
However, I also worried that even if someone like me were to suddenly approach such a family under the label of an unknown student lodger, might I not be immediately rejected?
I even considered giving up.
However, as a student lodger, my attire was not so shabby.
Moreover, I was wearing my college cap.
You’ll laugh—asking, “What’s with the university cap?”
However, university students back then were quite different from today—they were considerably trusted in society.
In that situation, I found a sort of confidence in this square cap.
And then, just as I had been instructed by Ms. Ue at the sweetshop, I visited the military man’s bereaved family’s house without any introduction or formality.

I met with the widow and stated my purpose.
The widow asked me various questions about my background, school, and field of study.
Having presumably found sufficient grounds to deem me acceptable, she promptly gave me permission to move in at any time.
The widow was an upright person, and a clear-headed one at that.
I thought all military men’s wives must be like this and was deeply impressed.
I was impressed, but I was also surprised.
I doubted how someone with such a temperament could feel lonely.

XI

"I promptly moved into that house.
I rented the room where I had spoken with the widow during my initial visit.
That was the finest room in the residence.
This occurred when houses resembling high-class boarding accommodations were beginning to appear around Hongō, and as a student lodger, I understood precisely what constituted the most desirable rooms one might secure.
The room I now occupied surpassed all those in splendor.
Initially, it struck me as excessive for a student."

The room was eight tatami mats in size. Alongside the tokonoma alcove were staggered shelves, and on the side opposite the veranda was a closet. Although there were no windows, bright sunlight often streamed in through the south-facing veranda instead.

On the day I moved in, I saw flowers arranged in the tokonoma alcove of that room and a koto placed upright beside them. Neither suited my taste. Because I was raised by my father, who enjoyed poetry, calligraphy, and sencha tea, I had developed Chinese-influenced tastes from childhood. Perhaps because of this, I had unconsciously developed a habit of despising such showy decorations.

The tools my father had collected during his lifetime were utterly ruined by that uncle of mine, yet some still remained.
When I left home, I had my old friend from middle school keep those items.
From among them, I selected four or five interesting-looking scrolls, removed them from their frames, and placed them at the bottom of my trunk.
I intended to take them out and hang them in the tokonoma as soon as I moved in.
But seeing the koto and flower arrangement I mentioned earlier made me suddenly lose courage.
When I later learned these flowers had been arranged as hospitality for me, I smiled bitterly to myself.
Of course, the koto had been there all along—they likely left it propped up for lack of better storage.

When I relate such matters, naturally the shadow of a young woman would flit through your mind.
Even before moving in, such curiosity had already stirred within me from the very outset.
Whether these impure fancies had prematurely unsettled my natural composure or whether I remained socially unseasoned, when I first met the young lady there, I offered a flustered greeting.
In turn, the young lady too reddened.

I had until then imagined everything about this young lady based on the widow’s appearance and demeanor.
However, those assumptions were not particularly favorable toward the young lady.
Since she was a military man’s wife, she must be like that; since she was that wife’s daughter, she must be like this—my assumptions expanded step by step in such an order.
However, all those assumptions were completely negated the moment I saw the young lady’s face.
And into my mind came a new scent of femininity I had never before imagined.
From then on, I no longer disliked the flowers arranged in the front of the tokonoma alcove.
The koto placed on the same tokonoma alcove also no longer felt like a hindrance.

When those flowers withered at their regular intervals, they would be replaced with fresh arrangements.
The koto too was often carried away to the room with L-shaped diagonal crossbeams.
In my sitting room, leaning on the desk with my cheek propped in my hand, I would listen to the sound of that koto.
To me, it remained unclear whether this koto playing was skillful or unskilled.
Yet observing that she never attempted particularly intricate techniques, I concluded she was likely not proficient.
I supposed her skill level matched that of her flower arrangements.
While I could properly appreciate floral artistry, the young lady was by no means accomplished in that either.

Even so, various flowers unabashedly decorated my tokonoma alcove for me.
However, her style of flower arrangement remained unchanged no matter when I looked.
Nor was there ever any variation in the vase used.
Yet when it came to the other art—the music—it proved even more unchanging.
She would only pluck the strings intermittently, never once allowing her actual voice to be heard.
It wasn't that she didn't sing, but she only let out a small voice as if whispering secrets.
Moreover, when scolded, her voice would cease entirely.

I would look at these clumsy flower arrangements with pleasure, then turn my ear to the unskillful sound of the koto.

XII

"My mood was already world-weary when I left my homeland."
The conviction that others were unreliable had seeped deep into my bones by then.
I came to regard my hostile uncles and aunts and other relatives as if they embodied all of humanity.
Even when boarding steam trains, I began discreetly observing those seated around me.
If someone tried to strike up a conversation, I felt compelled to double my vigilance.
My heart was steeped in gloom.
There were times when I would feel a leaden heaviness, as if I had swallowed lead.
Yet my nerves had become razor-sharp in the manner I just described.

The fact that I came to Tokyo and sought to leave my boarding house seems to have stemmed largely from this as a primary source. To say that it was precisely because I had no financial difficulties that I came to consider setting up my own household would be putting it simply. Had I remained the person I once was, even with ample funds in my pocket, I would never have willingly involved myself in such troublesome matters.

Even after moving to Koishikawa, for some time I could not allow myself to relax from this tense mood. I kept glancing around my surroundings so furtively that I felt ashamed of myself. Strangely enough, only my head and eyes were functioning well, while my mouth, in contrast, gradually ceased to move. While observing the household members like a cat, I sat silently at my desk. At times I focused such unrelenting attention on them that I even felt sorry for them. I am like a pickpocket who doesn’t actually steal anything, I thought, growing disgusted with myself at times.

You must surely find this strange.
How could I, in such a state, have found leisure enough to care for that young lady?
How could I have found leisure enough to gaze happily at her clumsy flower arrangements?
How could I have found leisure enough to gladly listen to her equally clumsy koto playing?
When faced with such questions, I can only present these as facts to you—for they were indeed facts—with no alternative.
As for interpretation, I leave that to your discerning mind—I will simply add one thing more.
Though I had come to distrust humanity regarding money, concerning love, I still retained faith in humankind.
Thus even what seemed strange to others, or contradictory upon my own reflection, coexisted undisturbed within my breast.

Since I had always referred to the widow as “Madam,” from now on I will call her “Madam” instead of “the widow.” Madam described me as a quiet person, a gentle man. She also praised me as a studious person. However, she never mentioned anything about my anxious gaze or furtive demeanor. Whether she hadn’t noticed or was being reserved—I couldn’t tell which—but in any case, she seemed to pay no attention to those matters at all. Not only that, there were times when she called me a magnanimous person and spoke in a manner that seemed quite respectful. At that moment, honest as I was, I blushed slightly and denied her words. Then Madam seriously explained, “You say that because you don’t realize it yourself.” Madam apparently had not initially intended to take in a student lodger like me at her house. It seems she had intended to rent out the room to someone working at a government office or the like and had asked neighbors to arrange it. The notion that this was someone whose salary was insufficient and who therefore had no choice but to lodge in an ordinary household must have already been somewhere in Madam’s mind from the start. Madam compared the imagined lodger she had envisioned with me and praised me as being the more magnanimous one. Indeed, compared to someone leading such a frugal life, I may have been magnanimous when it came to money. However, since that was not a matter of temperament, it had almost no bearing on my inner life. Moreover, being a woman, Madam endeavored to extend this assessment to my entire being and apply the same term.

XIII

"Madam’s attitude naturally began to influence my mood."
After some time, my eyes no longer darted around as much as before.
I began to feel as though my heart settled properly into the place where I sat.
In short, Madam and the rest of the household likely gave me great happiness by paying no attention whatsoever to my resentful eyes and suspicious demeanor from the very beginning.
My nerves gradually calmed because there was no reflection—no reactive responses—coming back from others.

It may be that Madam, being a discerning person, deliberately treated me in that manner—or perhaps she had genuinely observed me as magnanimous, just as she openly professed. My restlessness was a phenomenon confined to my mind and likely did not manifest outwardly very much; thus it may be that Madam was feigning ignorance of it.

As my mind grew calm, I gradually drew closer to the family members. I began exchanging lighthearted banter with both Madam and the young lady. There were days when I would be summoned to their room simply because tea had been prepared. There were also evenings when I would buy sweets myself and invite them over here. I suddenly felt my social sphere expanding—though this meant my precious study hours were frequently interrupted. Strangely enough, such disruptions did not trouble me in the least.

Madam was naturally a woman of leisure. Though one might expect the young lady—attending school while taking lessons in flower arrangement and koto—to be constantly occupied, she always appeared to have time in abundance. Thus whenever we three caught sight of one another, we would gather to chat idly while amusing ourselves.

It was usually the young lady who came to call me.
The young lady would sometimes turn at a right angle along the engawa and stand before my room, or pass through the tearoom to appear from behind the sliding door of the adjacent room.
She would come there and pause for a moment.
Then she would call my name and ask, "Are you studying?"
I usually had difficult books open on my desk and would stare at them, so to an observer, I must have appeared quite studious.
However, in truth, I was not studying the books with such earnestness.
Though my eyes were fixed on the page, I was merely waiting for the young lady to come call for me.
If I waited and she did not come, I would have no choice but to stand up myself.
Then I would go to the front of the room across and ask from my side, "Are you studying?"

The young lady’s room was a six-tatami space adjoining the family parlor.
Madam would sometimes be in that parlor, and at other times in her daughter’s room.
In essence, these two chambers functioned as one despite their partition, with mother and daughter drifting between them in fluid occupation.
When I called out from the hallway, it was always Madam who answered “Do come in.”
Even when present, the young lady seldom responded.

Occasionally there came instances where the young lady would enter my room alone on some errand and sit there talking at length. At such times, a strange uneasiness would invade my heart. Yet I could not convince myself this disquiet stemmed merely from sitting face-to-face with a young woman. I would grow restless without knowing why. This unnatural attitude of self-betrayal tormented me. Yet she remained perfectly composed. She showed no trace of embarrassment—so much that one might doubt this was the same woman who could barely speak when tending to her koto. Even when her mother called from the tearoom as our conversations dragged on, she would merely answer "Yes" without rising promptly. And yet she was no child—this much was clear to my eyes. There were even unmistakable traces of her deliberately behaving with such perceptible understanding.

XIV

"I would let out a sigh of relief after the young lady left."
Simultaneously, I would feel both unsatisfied and remorseful.
I may have been rather effeminate.
To you young people today, this would likely seem even more pronounced.
But most of us were like that in those days.

Madam seldom went out.
Even on rare occasions when she left home, she never left just the young lady and me alone together.
Whether this was accidental or intentional, I could not discern.
Though it may sound peculiar coming from me, through careful observation of Madam's mannerisms, she appeared to desire bringing her daughter and me closer.
Yet in certain situations, she maintained an implicit wariness toward me, so I—facing such circumstances for the first time—often felt unsettled.

I wanted Madam to settle her stance decisively either way. From the perspective of rational thought, this was undeniably a clear contradiction. Yet with my uncle's betrayal still fresh in memory, I found myself harboring deeper suspicions still. I concluded that one aspect of Madam's behavior must be genuine while the other was feigned. Thus I wavered in judgment. More than mere indecision—I couldn't grasp why she would act so strangely. When no reason would come despite my efforts, I sometimes smeared the blame across that single character: 'woman.' After all, she was a woman—women are foolish creatures by nature. Whenever my thoughts reached an impasse, they always circled back here.

I who had so looked down upon women found myself utterly unable to look down upon the young lady.
My logic stood completely still before that person, rendered utterly useless.
I held for that person a love almost akin to religious devotion.
You may find it strange to see me apply this term—one I use exclusively for religion—to a young woman, but even now I firmly believe it.
I firmly believe true love differs little from religious devotion.
Every time I saw the young lady's face, I felt myself growing more beautiful.
When I thought of her, it seemed a noble sentiment would immediately permeate my being.
If love—that mysterious force—has two poles, with sacred feeling at its zenith and carnal desire at its nadir, then my love had indeed grasped that highest extreme.
Naturally, as a human being, I was bound by the flesh.
Yet my eyes gazing upon the young lady and my heart contemplating her bore no trace of earthly desire.

As I harbored resentment toward Madam while my romantic feelings for her daughter grew in intensity, the relationship among us three gradually became more complex than when I first began lodging there.
However, those changes remained almost entirely internal and never manifested outwardly.
Eventually, through an unexpected turn of events, I came to suspect I might have misunderstood Madam all along.
I reconsidered that both of Madam’s contradictory attitudes toward me could be genuine.
Moreover, I began to think these two states didn’t alternate control over her heart but coexisted within her breast at all times.
In other words, though it seemed paradoxical that Madam sought to bring the young lady closer to me while maintaining vigilance toward me, I observed she neither forgot nor reversed either attitude when exercising caution—she still fundamentally desired our proximity.
I interpreted this as her detesting any intimacy between us that surpassed what she considered proper.
As for the young lady—I who felt no carnal inclinations toward her—I deemed this concern unnecessary at the time.
Yet from that moment onward, I ceased viewing Madam with ill will.

XV

"I considered various aspects of Madam’s attitude and confirmed that I was fully trusted in this house."
Moreover, I even discovered evidence that this trust had existed since our very first meeting.
In my heart—which had begun to suspect others—this discovery struck me as slightly odd.
I thought women must possess richer intuition than men.
At the same time, I thought this very quality might be why women are deceived for men’s sake.
That I, who observed Madam thus, was applying the same intuition so forcefully toward the young lady makes it seem strange to me now when I reflect.
Though I had vowed in my heart to distrust others, I trusted the young lady absolutely.
And yet that I found Madam—who trusted me—strange makes it seem...

I did not speak much about my hometown.
Especially regarding this recent incident, I said nothing.
Even merely bringing it to mind filled me with unease.
I endeavored to focus solely on listening to Madam's side of conversations.
Yet this approach proved unacceptable to her.
At every turn, she pressed to know about my family circumstances back home.
In the end, I revealed everything.
"I will never return there," I declared.
When I explained that even if I did return, nothing remained but my father and mother's graves, Madam appeared deeply moved.
The young lady wept.
I believed I had done right by speaking openly.
I felt content.

Having heard everything from me, Madam assumed a face that all but declared her intuition had indeed been correct.
From then on, Madam began to treat me as though I were a young relative or something of the sort.
I did not get angry.
In fact, I even felt rather pleased.
However, before long, my suspicion arose again.

It was from a very trivial matter that I began to suspect Madam.
However, as I accumulated those trivial matters, my suspicions gradually took root.
By some chance, I suddenly began to think that Madam was endeavoring to bring the young lady closer to me in the same sense as my uncle had.
Then the person who had until then seemed kind suddenly appeared in my eyes as a cunning schemer.
I bit my lips bitterly.

Madam had declared from the start that she took in lodgers and looked after them because the house stood empty and desolate.
I never thought this was a lie.
Even after growing close and hearing her various confidences, there still seemed no falsehood in it.
Yet their overall financial circumstances were hardly prosperous.
When viewed through the lens of material interests, forming a special bond with me could never have been disadvantageous to them.

I became cautious again.
But what would it achieve for me—who held such strong love for the young lady as I had previously described—to be cautious toward her mother?
I laughed derisively at myself alone.
There were times I called myself a fool and cursed myself.
Yet if the contradictions had remained at that level, even a fool like me could have endured without such agony.
My torment began when confronted with the suspicion that the young lady might be a schemer like Madam.
When imagining them conspiring behind my back, I would suddenly feel suffocated beyond endurance.
It was not mere discomfort.
It became an inescapable dead end—a complete mental impasse.
Yet simultaneously, I maintained absolute faith in the young lady without doubt.
Thus stranded between conviction and uncertainty, I found myself utterly paralyzed.
For me, both possibilities existed as imagination and truth alike.

XVI

"I was still attending school. However, the lectures from the person at the lectern felt as though they reached me from some distant place. My studies fared no better. The printed characters entering my eyes would vanish like smoke before ever seeping into my heart. I grew even more silent. A few friends misunderstood this silence and told others I must be deep in meditation. I made no effort to correct their misconception. Rather, I welcomed this convenient mask they had given me as a blessing. Yet there must have been moments when it chafed, for I would sometimes startle them with sudden fits of restlessness."

My boarding house was a place with little coming and going.
They did not seem to have many relatives.
The young lady’s school friends would occasionally visit, but they would always talk in such hushed tones that it was hard to tell whether they were even there before leaving.
No matter how much I pondered, it never occurred to me that this was out of consideration for me.
The visitors who came to see me were no ruffians, yet not a single one showed enough consideration for the household.
In such circumstances, I, the lodger, might as well have been the master of the house, while the young lady who mattered most found herself relegated to the position of a mere guest.

However, this is merely something I wrote down upon remembering it, and in truth, it's a point of no real consequence. Yet there was one matter that was not inconsequential. Either in the living room or, if not there, in the young lady’s room, a man’s voice would suddenly be heard. That voice, unlike those of my visitors, was exceedingly low. So I couldn’t make out at all what they were talking about. And the less I could understand, the more it stirred up a kind of nervous excitement in me. I sat there and began to feel strangely irritated. I first considered whether that person was a relative or merely an acquaintance. Then I pondered whether he was a young man or an older person. There was no way for me to know such a thing just by sitting there. Even so, I still could not bring myself to get up and go open the shoji to look. My nerves did not so much tremble as surge in great undulating waves that tormented me. After the guest had left, I made sure to ask that person’s name. The young lady and Madam’s replies were again extremely simple. While showing them a dissatisfied expression, I lacked the courage to press them further until satisfied. Of course, I probably had no such right. I simultaneously displayed before them both the self-respect born from an education that demanded I value my personal dignity, and the covetous expression that now betrayed that very self-respect. They laughed. Whether their laughter stemmed not from mockery but goodwill, or whether they intended it to appear kind, I became so flustered that I could not immediately find room for interpretation. And after the matter was settled, I would repeat in my heart again and again, "I was mocked—wasn't I being mocked?"

I was free. Whether I left school midway, went off to live however I pleased, or married whomever from wherever—I stood in a position needing no consultation with anyone. Time and again I had resolved to broach the matter with Madam about taking the young lady's hand in marriage. Yet each time I hesitated, never bringing it to my lips. It was not because I feared rejection. Had I been refused, though my fate might have changed unpredictably, standing in some new direction would have let me survey a fresh world—that much courage I could have summoned. But I detested being lured in. Being ensnared by others' designs was more infuriating than anything. Having been deceived by my uncle, I resolved that henceforth, come what may, I would never again let myself be deceived by anyone.

XVII

"Seeing I bought nothing but books, Madam said, 'You should have some clothes made.'"
I truly owned nothing but cotton garments woven in rural areas.
Students back then didn't wear silk-lined undergarments against their skin.
Among my acquaintances was a Yokohama merchant whose household lived quite extravagantly, and one day a habutae undergarment arrived there by delivery.
Everyone saw it and burst into laughter.
The man flushed with embarrassment and offered various excuses, yet ended up stuffing that fine undergarment unused into the bottom of his trunk.
Then a crowd gathered and forcibly made him wear it.
Unfortunately, lice soon infested that undergarment.
My friend must have considered this fortuitous - he tightly rolled up the notorious garment and, during an evening stroll, discarded it into Nezu's great muddy ditch.
Standing on the bridge beside him, I laughed while observing his actions, yet not a shred of regret for this wastefulness stirred within me.

Compared to that time, I had become quite an adult.
Yet I still lacked the discernment to have proper going-out clothes made for myself.
I harbored this peculiar notion that until the era arrived when I would graduate and grow a beard, there was no need to trouble myself over matters of attire.
Thus I told Madam that while I needed books, I required no clothes.
Madam knew the quantity of books I purchased.
She would ask whether I read all the volumes I acquired.
Among my purchases were dictionaries, yet there remained several whose pages I hadn't even cut - though naturally I should have at least perused them - leaving me at a loss for response.
I came to realize that if I were buying unnecessary things regardless, it mattered little whether they were books or garments.
Moreover, under the pretext of being indebted in various ways, I wished to purchase an obi or bolt of cloth that might please the young lady.
And so I entrusted all arrangements to Madam.

Madam did not suggest going alone.
She ordered me to accompany her as well.
She insisted the young lady must also go.
We students, raised in an atmosphere different from today's, had no custom of walking about with young women in our station.
Being then more enslaved to convention than I am now, I hesitated somewhat but steeled myself to go.

The young lady was elaborately dressed.
Her natural complexion being fair to begin with, she stood out all the more for the heavy application of powder.
People on the street would stare intently as they passed by.
Those who had looked at the young lady would inevitably shift their gaze to look at my face, which made it all feel rather strange.

The three of them went to Nihonbashi and bought what they wanted to buy.
Because they kept changing their minds about various things even while buying, it took more time than expected.
Madam would deliberately call my name to consult me about how something looked.
From time to time she would place a bolt of cloth vertically from the young lady's shoulders down to her chest and tell me to step back two or three paces to look.
Each time, I would say things like "That won't do" or "That suits her well"—in any case, I offered my full-fledged opinions.

All this took time, and by the time we returned, it was already dinnertime. Madam said she would treat me to something as thanks and took me to a narrow alley containing a vaudeville theater called Kihara Store. The alley itself was narrow, and the restaurant where we ate was cramped too. Being completely unfamiliar with the area's layout, I was rather astonished by Madam's knowledge of it.

We returned home after night fell.

The next day being Sunday, I shut myself up in my room all day.
When Monday came and I went to school, I was teased first thing in the morning by one of my classmates.
I was asked in an affected manner when I had taken a wife.
Then he would praise my wife as being extremely beautiful.
It appears that man saw us somewhere when I went out to Nihonbashi with the three of us.

XVIII

"I returned home and told Madam and the young lady about that incident.
Madam laughed.
However, saying 'It must be a bother,' she looked at my face.
At that moment, I thought this must be how men try to catch women's attention.
Madam’s eyes held enough meaning to make me think so.
At that moment, perhaps it would have been better if I had just confessed exactly what I was thinking.
But by then, a mass of lingering doubt had already clung to me.
I tried to confess but abruptly stopped.
And then I deliberately shifted the angle of the conversation slightly.

I extracted myself—the crucial element—from the equation. Then I sounded out Madam regarding the young lady's marriage prospects. Madam disclosed several matters that hinted at existing discussions. She explained they were in no particular hurry, given her youth and continued schooling. Though unspoken, Madam clearly valued the young lady's striking appearance highly. She even remarked they could settle things anytime they wished. The absence of other children made them reluctant to part with her easily. There were indications they vacillated between finding her a husband or taking in a son-in-law.

As we talked, I felt I had gained a good deal of knowledge from Madam. Yet precisely because of this, it left me as if I had missed my chance. About myself, I ultimately couldn't speak a single word. I ended the conversation at what seemed an appropriate moment and tried to return to my room.

The young lady, who had been right beside me until just moments ago laughing and saying things like “That’s too much!”, had moved to the far corner and turned her back toward me.
When I began to rise and turned around, I saw her retreating figure.
There’s no way to discern a person’s heart merely from their back.
I couldn’t begin to guess what the young lady thought about this matter.
She sat before the cupboard.
Through its slightly opened door—about one foot ajar—she seemed to have taken something out and was gazing at it on her lap.
My eyes found the bolt of cloth we had purchased two days earlier at the edge of that gap.
Both my kimono and hers lay stacked together in the same corner of the cupboard.

When I began rising from my seat without saying anything, Madam suddenly adopted a formal tone and asked me what I thought.
The abruptness of her question was such that one would have needed to ask in return what exactly she meant by "what do you think?"
When it became clear she was asking whether it would be wiser to settle the young lady's situation quickly, I replied that a more gradual approach might be better.
Madam said she felt the same.

At this juncture in our relationship—Madam, the young lady, and myself—it became necessary for another man to enter our midst.
The consequences of that man joining our household brought tremendous change to my fate.
Had he not crossed the path of my life, I likely would never have needed to leave you this lengthy account.
It was as if I stood powerless before a passing demon, my entire life cast into shadow by its momentary presence without my ever realizing it.
To confess plainly: I myself brought that man into our home.
Naturally requiring Madam's consent, I initially laid everything bare and pleaded with her.
But Madam said, "Don't."
Though I had compelling reasons that made bringing him unavoidable, Madam—who urged against it—offered no coherent rationale.
Thus I forcibly executed what I believed right.

XIX

"I will refer to that friend’s name here as K."
I had been childhood friends with this K.
Speaking of since childhood—though I needn’t explain—you must already understand: the two of us had a connection of being from the same hometown.
K was the son of a Jōdo Shinshū priest.
However, he was not the eldest son, but the second.
Therefore, he was sent to a doctor’s household as an adopted son.
The region where I was born was a place where the Hongan-ji sect held considerable influence, so Jōdo Shinshū priests seemed to fare better materially compared to others.
To give an example, if a priest had a daughter and when she came of age, the parishioners would confer and arrange to marry her off to a suitable place.
Of course, the expenses do not come from the priest’s own pocket.
For such reasons, Jōdo Shinshū temples were generally prosperous.

K’s family was also living comfortably.
However, I do not know whether they had sufficient means to send their second son to Tokyo for his studies.
Moreover, since there was the convenience of being able to pursue training elsewhere, whether they had finalized the adoption arrangements—that too I do not know.
In any case, K was adopted into a doctor’s household.
This occurred when we were still in middle school.
I still remember my surprise when, during roll call in the classroom, K’s surname had abruptly changed.

K’s adoptive family was also quite a wealthy household.
K received tuition money from them and came to Tokyo.
Though he hadn’t arrived in Tokyo with me, we moved into the same boarding house immediately after reaching the city.
In those days, it was common for two or even three people to share a single room with desks lined up for both study and sleeping.
K and I shared such a room together.
We must have resembled wild animals caught in the mountains—clinging together in our cage while glaring outward.
We stood in awe of Tokyo and its people.
Yet within our six-tatami room, we spoke as though surveying the entire world.

However, we were earnest. We truly intended to become great men. K in particular was intense. Born into a temple household, he constantly invoked the word "ascetic diligence." Every one of his actions and behaviors appeared to me wholly describable by this single term. In my heart, I always revered K.

From our middle school days onward, K had troubled me with difficult questions about religion and philosophy. Whether this stemmed from his father's influence or the atmosphere of his birthplace—that temple, a structure of peculiar sanctity—I cannot say. In any case, he seemed to possess a character far more priestly than ordinary priests. Originally, K's adoptive family had sent him to Tokyo intending him to become a doctor. Yet stubbornly resolved against this path, he came to Tokyo regardless. I confronted him, arguing this amounted to deceiving his adoptive parents. With characteristic boldness, he affirmed it did. He insisted such deception became permissible when undertaken for the Way's sake. That word "the Way"—I doubt even he fully grasped its meaning then. Nor can I claim understanding myself. Yet in our youth, these nebulous words rang with solemn dignity. Even uncomprehending, we found ourselves governed by noble sentiments; no trace of baseness could be detected in our resolve to advance along that path. I endorsed K's argument. What weight my agreement held for him remains beyond my knowing.

Stubborn as he was, I could infer that even had I opposed him however strenuously, he would still have persisted in his own way. Yet even as a child, I believe I understood well that should the worst come to pass, some measure of responsibility would inevitably fall upon me—the one who had offered cheers of support in agreement. And though I may have lacked such resolve at the time, I had voiced my assent in a manner suggesting that if ever required to revisit these events through adult eyes, it would be only fitting for me to shoulder whatever portion of responsibility had been apportioned to me.

XX

"K and I entered the same department.
With an air of perfect composure, K began walking his chosen path using funds provided by his adoptive family.
One could only conclude that K's heart held two things simultaneously: the assurance that his secret would remain undiscovered, and the boldness to not care even if it were revealed.
K remained more composed than I.

During the first summer vacation, K did not return home. He said he would rent a room in a temple in Komagome and study there. When I returned in early September, he had indeed shut himself away in a shabby temple beside the Daikannon. His room was a narrow chamber right next to the main hall, but he seemed pleased that he could study there as he wished. At that time, I thought I recognized how his life was gradually becoming more priest-like. He wore a rosary around his wrist. When I asked him what it was for, he showed me by pretending to count one, two with his thumb. It seemed he counted the beads of his rosary many times a day in this manner. However, I did not understand its meaning. If you count each bead of the circular rosary one by one, there will be no end no matter how far you count. In what place and with what state of mind did K stop moving his counting hand? It’s a trivial matter, but I often find myself thinking about it.

I also saw a Bible in his room.
Up until then, I had often heard him mention sutras by name, but since he had never asked me about Christianity nor had I ever been questioned on the matter myself, I was somewhat taken aback.
I could not help but ask him why.
“There’s no reason,” K said.
“If it’s a book people revere so much,” he added, “it’s only natural to read it.”
“Moreover,” he continued, “if I get the chance, I intend to read the Koran too.”
He seemed to have a profound interest in phrases like “Mohammed” and “sword.”

In the summer of the second year, he finally returned home after being urged by his family.
It appears he never mentioned his academic discipline even after returning.
Even his family had failed to notice this.
As someone educated through formal schooling, you must understand such circumstances well, yet society remains astonishingly ignorant regarding student life and institutional regulations.
What we consider trivial never reaches beyond our insular sphere.
We who breathe only this inward-looking air tend to overestimate how thoroughly every school matter—great or small—is known to the wider world.
K, more attuned than I to such realities, must have understood this well; he returned wearing his usual composed expression.
When we departed his hometown together, I asked him about the outcome almost immediately upon boarding the train.
K replied that it had amounted to nothing.

The third summer coincided with the year I resolved to leave my parents' gravesite forever. At that time, I urged K to return home, but he refused. "What's the point of going back every year like this?" he said. It appeared he intended to remain and continue his studies instead. Left with no alternative, I decided to depart Tokyo alone. As for how those two months spent in my hometown would shape my fate—events I've already recounted—I shall not repeat them here. Carrying in my heart a blend of discontent, melancholy, and solitary loneliness, I met K again when September arrived. Then his destiny too had shifted course like mine. Without my knowledge, he had written to his adoptive family and confessed his deception of his own accord. They say he had been prepared for this from the very beginning. Perhaps he meant to force them into saying, "Since it's come to this, we might as well let you do as you please." In any case, it seems he never intended to keep deceiving his adoptive parents even after entering university—or perhaps he had discerned that such deception could not long endure.

21

When K’s foster father saw the letter, he became furious.
He immediately sent back a harsh reply stating that he could not possibly send tuition money to a scoundrel who would deceive his own parents.
K showed it to me.
Around the same time, K also showed me a letter he had received from his biological family.
This one too contained words of reproach no less severe than the previous.
This was perhaps due to a sense of obligation toward his adoptive family, but they had written that they would not interfere in any way on their end.
Whether K would be reinstated into his family registry over this incident or find some other compromise to remain with his adoptive family were matters yet to unfold; the immediate issue that needed addressing was the monthly tuition required.

I asked K if he had any thoughts on that matter.
K replied that he intended to work as a night school teacher.
At that time—compared to now—society was surprisingly accommodating, so opportunities for part-time work were not as scarce as you might imagine.
I thought K could manage well enough with that.
Yet I felt my own responsibility weighing upon me.
When K defied his adoptive family's expectations to pursue his chosen path, I had been the one who supported him.
I could not remain passive.
I promptly offered him financial assistance on the spot.
K refused outright without hesitation.
Given his nature, self-sufficiency likely felt far more dignified than accepting a friend's patronage.
Having entered university, he declared a man unworthy if he couldn't sustain himself alone.
To honor my responsibility, I couldn't bear to injure his pride.
Thus I yielded to his wishes and withdrew my involvement.

K soon found the position he desired. Yet one can imagine how grueling this work must have been for him, who so valued his time. He plunged ahead under new burdens without easing up on his studies in the slightest. I worried for his health. But K, ever resolute, merely laughed and brushed aside my concerns.

Meanwhile, his relationship with his adoptive family grew increasingly strained. As his schedule left no room for our former conversations, I never learned the full details, though I knew resolution grew more distant by the day. I was aware someone had stepped in to mediate—this third party urging K by letter to return home, which he flatly refused. What K called unavoidable due to academic obligations struck them as pure obstinacy. This very rigidity seemed to exacerbate matters further still. He managed to alienate both his adoptive family and provoke his biological kin's wrath.

When I wrote letters seeking reconciliation between the factions, my efforts proved futile. Not a single reply came—my words vanished into silence. My frustration mounted. Where before I'd maintained surface-level sympathy for K's plight, from that moment I resolved to champion his cause unconditionally.

In the end, K finally decided to be reinstated into the family registry.
The tuition provided by his adoptive family was to be repaid by his biological family.
In return, since his biological family no longer concerned themselves with him, they told him he could now do as he pleased.
To use an old-fashioned term, it amounted to disownment.
Or perhaps it was not quite so severe, but that was how he interpreted it.
K was motherless.
One aspect of his character could indeed be seen as stemming from being raised by a stepmother.
Had his biological mother been alive, I think such estrangement from his family might never have occurred.
Needless to say, his father had been a priest.
Yet in his rigid sense of duty, I suspect there was something rather akin to a samurai.

22

“After K’s affairs had reached some resolution, I received a lengthy sealed letter from his sister’s husband. The family into which K had been adopted were relatives of this man, so K had explained to me that his opinion carried considerable weight both during the initial mediation and when arranging K’s reinstatement.

The letter requested information about K’s current circumstances. It added an urgent plea for a swift reply due to his sister’s anxiety. K had always preferred this sister who married into another household over the brother who inherited the temple. Though all were siblings born of the same womb, a considerable age gap existed between this sister and K. Thus during K’s childhood, she likely appeared more as a true mother to him than his actual stepmother ever did.

I showed K the letter.
K said nothing in response but confided that two or three letters of similar intent from this sister had arrived at his residence.
He had apparently replied each time that there was no need for concern.
Unfortunately, this sister had married into a household without financial means, so however much she sympathized with K, she couldn't materially assist her brother.

I sent a reply akin to K's to his brother-in-law.
Within it, I strongly worded that they should rest assured—in case of emergency, I would handle matters regardless.
This was entirely my own decision.
While naturally containing goodwill toward his sister who fretted over K's circumstances, there was also stubborn pride toward his biological and adoptive families—who could do naught but despise me.

K had been reinstated into the family registry during his first year. From then until the middle of his second year, for about a year and a half, he supported himself entirely by his own efforts. However, this excessive exertion gradually began to take its toll on both his health and his mental state. This was no doubt compounded by the vexing issue of whether to leave his adoptive family or not. He was gradually becoming sentimental indeed. At times, he would say things like he alone was standing there shouldering all the world’s misfortunes. And if one were to deny it, he would immediately grow agitated. Moreover, he began to feel as though the light of his future was gradually receding from his sight, and this made him grow increasingly agitated. When people first embark on academic pursuits, it is customary for them to set out on this new journey with grand ambitions; but as one year passes, then two, and graduation draws near, most naturally become disappointed upon suddenly noticing their own sluggish progress—while K's situation was no different in this regard, his manner of anxiety proved far more severe compared to ordinary cases. I finally resolved that my sole focus must be to calm his spirits.

I told him to stop doing unnecessary work. I advised him that for the time being he should ease his body and that indulging in leisure would be a wiser strategy for his greater future. Given K’s stubborn nature, I had long anticipated he would not easily heed my words; yet when I actually tried to persuade him, it proved far more difficult than imagined, leaving me at a loss. K insisted academic study was not his purpose. He asserted his own idea was to cultivate willpower and become a strong person. To achieve this, he concluded he must remain in as constricting a situation as possible. To ordinary people, it would appear as nothing but drunken folly. Moreover, his will, constrained by such circumstances, had not grown stronger in the least. He was rather on the verge of neurasthenia. As there was no other way, I pretended to wholeheartedly agree with him. I finally declared outright that I too had intended to advance through life toward that very point. (Of course, these were not entirely empty words for me either. For as I listened to K’s arguments, I found myself being drawn into that very mindset—such was the power he wielded.) In the end, I proposed that K and I live together and follow the path of self-improvement side by side. To bend his stubbornness, I dared to kneel before him. And so, after much difficulty, I brought him to my house.

23

"In my parlor there was an attached four-and-a-half-mat room that served as a sort of antechamber. To reach my quarters after entering through the genkan, one had no choice but to pass through this four-and-a-half-mat space first, making it an exceedingly inconvenient room from a practical standpoint. I installed K there. Though initially I had considered placing two desks in the same eight-mat room and sharing the adjoining space between us, K insisted he preferred being alone even in cramped conditions and chose that option himself."

As I mentioned before, my wife was initially opposed to this arrangement of mine.
If it were a boarding house, having two people would be more convenient than one, and three more profitable than two, but since this isn’t a business, she said it would be better to avoid it if possible.
When I said that since I was by no means a troublesome person, there would be no need to worry, she would reply that even if I wasn't troublesome, she disliked people whose true nature she couldn't discern.
When I pressed her by saying, “Then isn’t my current imposition the same?” she would offer no defense beyond insisting she had understood my true nature from the very beginning.
I gave a bitter smile.
Then my wife shifted her line of argument again.
She amended her argument, saying, “Don’t bring such a person here—it’s bad for me.”
When I asked why it was bad for me, this time she gave a bitter smile.

To tell the truth, even I didn't particularly need to force myself to live with K. However, I thought that if I were to lay out the monthly expenses in monetary form before him, he would surely hesitate when accepting it. He was a man of such strong independence. Therefore, I kept him at my house and attempted to quietly pass two portions of provisions into my wife's hands without his knowledge. However, I had no intention of disclosing a single word to my wife about K's financial matters.

I merely discussed K's health.
I said that leaving someone alone would only make them more obstinate.
Furthermore, I told her about K's strained relationship with his adoptive family and his estrangement from his biological home.
I declared I would take K in with the resolve to embrace a drowning man and impart my own warmth to him.
With that intention, I asked both my wife and daughter to care for him kindly.
It was only after all this that I finally persuaded my wife.
Yet K—who never questioned me—remained entirely unaware of these developments.
I found satisfaction in this arrangement and greeted K with feigned nonchalance as he lumbered into his new quarters.

My wife and daughter kindly took care of tasks such as unpacking his luggage and other things for him.
I interpreted all of this as stemming from goodwill toward me and rejoiced inwardly.
—Despite K remaining as sullen as ever.

When I asked K how he felt about his new residence, he merely replied with a single word: "Not bad." To my mind, it was far more than not bad—it was excellent. His previous dwelling had been a north-facing room—damp, malodorous, and filthy. The meals there had been equally wretched, matching the squalor of those quarters. Moving into my home, he might as well have been transplanted from some shadowed ravine to stand beneath a towering tree. That he showed no particular awareness of this contrast stemmed partly from his obstinacy and partly from his convictions. Steeped in Buddhist doctrine, he considered any indulgence in food, clothing, or shelter akin to immorality. Having immersed himself in accounts of ancient sages and saints, he harbored a tendency to divorce spirit from flesh with alarming ease. There may well have been moments when he believed scourging the body could heighten the soul's radiance.

I adopted a policy of not opposing him whenever possible.
I devised a method of placing ice in sunlight to melt it.
I thought that once it had melted into warm water, the time would surely come when he himself would become aware.

24

"As a result of being treated in that manner by my wife, I gradually grew more cheerful."
Having become conscious of this, I resolved to apply the same method to K this time.
Though I—through our long association—understood full well that K and I differed greatly in temperament, I reasoned that just as my nerves had grown somewhat smoother since entering this household, K's mind too might eventually settle if placed here.

K was a man of stronger resolve than I. He must have studied nearly twice as much as I did. Moreover, the innate quality of his mind was far superior to mine. Later on, since our specializations differed, I cannot say definitively, but throughout middle school and high school—as long as we shared classes—K always held higher standing than I did. I had always been conscious that no matter what I attempted, I could never equal K. Yet when I forcibly brought him to my house, I believed I understood the true nature of things more clearly. To put it plainly, he seemed not to grasp the distinction between mere endurance and true perseverance. This is something I particularly wish to emphasize for your understanding, so attend carefully. Our physical and mental faculties—all our capabilities—may develop or be destroyed through external stimuli. Since we must gradually intensify these stimuli regardless, failure to consider carefully risks advancing toward perilous ends without oneself or others noticing until too late. Doctors say nothing rivals the human stomach in laziness. If one subsists solely on porridge, they claim, the capacity to digest heartier fare will inevitably atrophy. Hence their admonition to train oneself to eat all manner of foods. Yet I believe this signifies more than mere habituation—it must mean that as stimuli increase incrementally, so too does the digestive system's resistive power strengthen proportionally. Consider conversely how gastric weakness would unfold—the conclusion becomes self-evident. Though K surpassed me in greatness, he remained utterly blind to this principle. He appeared convinced that simply growing accustomed to hardship would render it negligible in time. He seemed absolutely certain that through sheer repetition of trials, one would inevitably reach an epoch where those very trials ceased to burden the soul.

When I tried to persuade K, I very much wanted to clarify that point for him.
However, had I said it, he would certainly have resisted.
I knew he would undoubtedly invoke examples from ancient sages.
Then I too would have been compelled to clearly delineate how K differed from those men.
Had K been one to readily concede such points, all would have been well—but by nature, once an argument reached that stage, he would not retreat.
He pressed onward.
Then set about actualizing through deeds what he had proclaimed in words.
When thus roused, he became a man to be feared.
A great man.
One who advanced while destroying himself.
Viewed by outcome alone, his greatness lay solely in shattering his own success—yet even so, he remained extraordinary.
Knowing his temperament well, I ultimately could say nothing.
Moreover, from my perspective—as I mentioned earlier—he appeared somewhat afflicted by neurasthenia.
Even had I persuaded him, he would surely have grown agitated.
I did not fear quarreling with him; yet contemplating my own circumstances—how I could not endure loneliness—the thought of casting my dear friend into that same desolate state became unbearable.
To thrust him into deeper isolation seemed still more abhorrent.
Thus even after his move into my house, I refrained for some time from offering critical remarks.
I resolved instead to calmly observe how his surroundings might affect him.

25

"I went around to the back and asked my wife and our daughter to speak with K as much as possible.
I believed that the silent life he had been leading was now taking its toll on him.
Like unused iron that rusts, I could not help but think that corrosion had formed in his heart.

My wife laughed and said he was impossible to get a handle on.
Our daughter would then go out of her way to cite those examples and explain them to me.
When asked if there was fire in the hibachi, K would reply there was none.
Then when someone would say they would bring some, he would refuse, saying he didn’t need it.
When they asked if he was cold, he would say he was but didn’t need anything, then stop engaging.
I could not very well just smile bitterly.
Feeling sorry for him, I had no choice but to say something to smooth over the situation.
Of course, this being spring, there was no real need to insist on heating the hibachi, but I thought it was no wonder they said he was impossible to get a handle on.

Therefore, I endeavored to place myself at the center and work to connect K with the two women.
Whether calling the women over when K and I were conversing, or dragging K out when I found myself in a room with them, I employed whatever method suited the occasion to bring them closer.
Naturally, K did not care much for this.
Sometimes he would abruptly rise and exit the room.
Other times he refused to emerge no matter how I called.
"What could possibly be interesting about such trivial talk?" K would say.
I would simply smile in response.
Yet deep within, I knew full well that K despised me for this.

In a certain sense, I may indeed have deserved his scorn.
It might be said his gaze was fixed upon heights far beyond my own.
I make no attempt to deny this.
Yet eyes alone fixed on lofty realms, unbalanced by earthly substance, amount to nothing but pitiable deformity.
Above all else at that time, I resolved my sole purpose must be to make him more human.
I had discovered that however filled his mind might be with visions of great men, these would prove utterly worthless unless he himself grew into greatness.
As the primary means to humanize him, I devised a method to place him in proximity to women.
Having exposed him to the atmosphere emanating from such company, I then sought to renew his blood that had begun to rust.

This attempt gradually met with success.
What had initially appeared resistant to merging began steadily coalescing into unity.
He seemed to be gradually awakening to the existence of a world beyond himself.
One day he remarked to me that women perhaps did not deserve such contempt.
It appeared K had initially demanded from women the same depth of knowledge and scholarship he found in me.
When this proved absent, contempt would immediately arise in him, or so I surmised.
Until then, he had observed all men and women through an undifferentiated lens, unaware that one's perspective should shift according to gender.
I told him that if we two men continued exchanging words indefinitely, we would simply advance along a single linear path.
He conceded this was true.
At that time, being somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of the young lady, I likely adopted such phrasing naturally.
Yet I divulged nothing of these underlying circumstances to him.

Watching K's heart—which until now had been barricaded within a fortress built of books—gradually beginning to open was more delightful to me than anything else.
Since I had undertaken this matter with that purpose from the beginning, I could not help feeling the joy that accompanied my success.
Instead of telling him directly, I told Mrs. Shizuka and the young lady exactly what I had in mind.
Both of them appeared satisfied.

26

"While K and I were in the same department, our fields of study differed, so naturally there were times when we left or returned at different hours."
If I left earlier, I would simply pass through his empty room, but if I was late, I had made it a habit to exchange brief greetings and enter my own room.
K would lift his usual gaze from the book and glance briefly at me as I opened the sliding door.
Then he would ask if I had just returned.
Sometimes I would simply nod without answering; other times I would just say "Mm" and pass by.

One day I had an errand in Kanda and returned home much later than usual.
I hurried to the front gate and slid open the lattice door with a clatter.
At the same moment, I heard the young lady's voice.
I distinctly thought the voice had come from K’s room.
If you go straight from the entrance, you pass through the tea room and the young lady’s room in succession, and turning left from there leads to K’s room and my room—so having stayed there so long, I could easily discern where and whose voice was coming from.
I immediately closed the lattice door.
Then the young lady’s voice abruptly ceased.
As I was taking off my shoes—I had been wearing high-collar boots with cumbersome laces since that time—and as I crouched to untie them, no voices came from K’s room.
I found it strange.
I considered that it might have been a nervous delusion.
However, when I tried to pass through K’s room as usual and opened the sliding door, there sat both of them properly.
K asked if I had just returned now, as was his habit.
The young lady too greeted me with a "Welcome back" while remaining seated.
To me—whether imagined or not—that simple greeting sounded slightly stiff.
It struck my ears with an unnatural tone that seemed to have veered off its proper course.

I asked the young lady where Mrs. Shizuka was.
My question held no particular meaning.
The house simply felt quieter than usual, so I inquired.

Mrs. Shizuka was indeed out.
The maid had gone out with Mrs. Shizuka too.
Thus only K and the young lady remained in the house.
I tilted my head slightly.
Though we had long been under her care, Mrs. Shizuka had never before left the house with just the young lady and me remaining.
I asked the young lady again if some urgent matter had arisen.
The young lady merely laughed.
I disliked women who laughed at such times.
One might call it a common trait among young women, but she too was prone to laughing at trifles.
Yet upon seeing my expression, she promptly resumed her usual demeanor.
"It wasn't an emergency," she answered earnestly, "but she went out on a small errand."
As a lodger, I possessed no right to press further.
I remained silent.

As I was changing into my kimono and about to take my seat, Mrs. Shizuka and the maid returned.
Before long came the time when we all gathered around the dinner table.
When I first began lodging there, everything was handled with full guest treatment—the maid would bring my meal tray each time—but gradually this custom eroded until it became routine for me to be called over to their side at mealtimes.
When K newly moved in too, I insisted on having him treated exactly as I was.
In exchange, I presented Mrs. Shizuka with a collapsible-legged dining table made of thin planks—flimsy by design.
Nowadays such tables seem commonplace in every household, but back then few families would sit gathered around one to eat.
I had gone specially to a furniture shop in Ochanomizu to have it made precisely to my specifications.

At that table, I was given an explanation by Mrs. Shizuka that because the fishmonger had not come at the usual time that day, she had had to go into town to buy food for us.
When I thought that indeed, since they were hosting guests, this too was a natural course of action, the young lady looked at my face and began to laugh again.
However, this time she was scolded by Mrs. Shizuka and immediately stopped.

27

"About a week later, I again passed through the room where K and the young lady were talking together."
The moment she saw my face, the young lady started laughing.
I should have asked right then what was so amusing.
But I stayed silent and went into my own room.
Because of that, K couldn’t call out his usual greeting asking if I’d just returned.
The young lady seemed to quickly open the sliding door and go into the tea room.

At dinner, the young lady called me a strange person.
At that time too, I did not ask why she thought I was strange.
I only noticed Mrs. Shizuka directing a glare-like gaze at the young lady.

I took K out for a walk after dinner.
We walked from behind Dentsū-in Temple, circled around Botanical Garden Street, and emerged again at the foot of Tomizaka.
Though not particularly short for a stroll, we exchanged very few words during it.
By nature, K was a man of fewer words than myself.
Nor was I particularly talkative.
Yet as we walked, I made every effort to engage him in conversation.
My focus lay chiefly on the family with whom we lodged.
I wanted to understand how he regarded Mrs. Shizuka and her daughter.
But his replies remained ambiguous as whether they concerned matters of land or sea.
Moreover, these answers proved maddeningly brief while avoiding substance.
He appeared more engrossed in his academic discipline than in either woman.
This being near the time of our looming second-year examinations, any ordinary observer might have deemed him the more exemplary student.
To compound matters, he spoke at length about Swedenborg's doctrines, astonishing my untutored mind.

When we had successfully completed our exams, Mrs. Shizuka expressed her joy, saying we both now had only one more year left. The graduation of the young lady—what might be considered Mrs. Shizuka's greatest pride—was likewise soon approaching in due course. K remarked to me that women leave school without knowing anything at all. He seemed to pay no mind whatsoever to the young lady's pursuits beyond academics—her sewing, koto practice, flower arrangement. I laughed at his obliviousness. Then I repeated before him our old argument that a woman's worth does not reside in such things. He offered no particular rebuttal. Nor did he show any sign of agreement. I found this amusing—for his dismissive 'hmph' still carried that contemptuous tone toward women. It seemed he didn't consider the young lady, whom I regarded as womanhood's very exemplar, worthy of serious regard. Looking back now, my jealousy toward K had already taken full root by then.

I consulted K about going somewhere during summer vacation.
K showed a tone as though he didn’t want to go.
Of course he was not in circumstances allowing him to go anywhere of his own volition; yet his situation was such that if I were to invite him anywhere at all，he could do so without issue.
I asked him why he did not want to go.
He said there was no reason at all.
He said it was more convenient for him to stay home and read books.
When I argued that studying at a cool summer resort would benefit one’s health，he said，“Then I should just go alone.”
However，I could not bring myself to leave K alone here.
To begin with，I did not feel very good about watching K and the household members gradually grow closer.
If one were to ask why things turning out exactly as I had initially hoped would worsen my state of mind，then there would be nothing more to say.
I must be a fool.
Unable to bear watching their endless argument any longer，Mrs．Shizuka intervened.
In the end，the two of them decided to go to Bōsō together．

28

"K was not a man who traveled much. Bōsō was my first time as well. Knowing nothing about the place, we disembarked where the ship first made landfall—a spot I believe was called Yasuda or something similar. I cannot say how it may have changed now, but in those days it was a wretched fishing village. First off, everything reeked of fish. Then when we entered the sea, the waves would knock us down and scrape our hands and legs raw. Fist-sized boulders churned endlessly in the crashing surf, tumbling about without respite."

I soon grew tired of it.
However, K did not say whether it was good or bad.
At least his facial expression remained calm.
And yet every time he entered the sea, he would inevitably sustain injuries somewhere.
I finally persuaded him and went from there to Tomiura.
From Tomiura, we moved again to Nago.
Since this entire coastline had already become primarily a gathering place for students from that time, everywhere was just the right kind of beach for us.
K and I would often sit on the coastal rocks, gazing at the distant hues of the sea and the depths of the water below us.
The water seen from the rocks was also particularly clear.
Small fish with hues of red and indigo—colors not commonly seen in ordinary markets—swam here and there through the translucent waves, their vivid forms sharply defined against the currents.

I would sit there and open my book.
K remained silent more often than not.
To me, it was completely unclear whether he was lost in thought, mesmerized by the scenery, or weaving some cherished fantasy.
I would sometimes look up and ask K what he was doing.
He would only reply tersely that he was doing nothing.
I often imagined how pleasant it would be if the figure sitting so still beside me were not K, but the young lady.
That alone would have been tolerable—but at times I would suddenly suspect that K too might be sitting on those rocks nurturing the same hopes as I.
Then the very act of calmly reading my book would sicken me.
I would spring to my feet.
I would bellow with unbridled force.
I could never manage those genteel pastimes—reciting polished verses or humming tunes with feigned delight.
I roared like a savage.
Once I abruptly seized his collar from behind and yanked him toward me.
"What if I threw you into the sea like this?" I demanded.
K did not stir.
Still facing away from me, he answered: "An excellent idea—do it."
I instantly released my grip on his neck.

K’s neurasthenia had improved considerably by this time.
In inverse proportion, I was growing increasingly sensitive.
I looked at K—calmer than myself—with envy.
And resentment.
For he showed no inclination to engage with me.
To my eyes, this seemed a form of confidence.
Yet acknowledging that confidence brought me no satisfaction.
My suspicion advanced another step, craving revelation.
Had he regained bright prospects for his path forward—in scholarship or career?
Were that all, no conflict need arise between us.
I might even have rejoiced at finding purpose in aiding him.
But should his peace lie with the young lady, forgiveness became impossible.
Strangely, he appeared oblivious to my affections for her.
Though truthfully, I too avoided conspicuous behavior that might alert him.
K was inherently obtuse in such matters.
This very obtuseness had reassured me when first bringing him into our home.

29

"I resolved to lay bare my heart to K. Not that this impulse began at that particular moment—even before we set out on our journey, I had steeled myself for such a confession. Yet neither seizing an opportune moment nor contriving one came naturally to my awkward hands. Looking back now, those surrounding me then were all peculiar creatures. Not one among them spoke frankly of women. Many likely lacked any experience worth relating, but even those who had some would keep silent as a rule. To you who now breathe freer air, this must seem strange indeed. Whether it stemmed from lingering moralism or a kind of bashfulness, I leave that judgment to your discernment.

K and I shared a rapport where we could discuss anything.
Though matters of love and romance would occasionally surface between us, they invariably dissolved into abstract theorizing.
Even these instances were rare.
Our conversations largely remained confined to discussions of books, academic pursuits, future ambitions, aspirations, and self-cultivation.
However intimate we became, once our interactions had settled into this formal pattern, we found ourselves unable to abruptly shatter its rhythm.
We simply grew close within those rigid parameters.
From the moment I resolved to confess my feelings about the young lady to K, I suffered through countless episodes of maddening frustration.
I wanted to pierce some part of K's skull and breathe soft air into his mind.

What might seem utterly absurd to you all was in truth an immense struggle for me at that time. Even during our travels, I remained as craven as I had been at home. Though I constantly watched K, seeking any opening, I found myself powerless against his unnervingly detached demeanor. To put it plainly, his heart seemed encased in layer upon layer of black lacquer. Every drop of vitality I tried to pour into it simply slid away, utterly repelled.

There were times when K's demeanor grew so intense and lofty that I actually felt relieved. While regretting my suspicions deep within, I simultaneously apologized to him in my heart. Yet even as I apologized, I saw myself as utterly base and was suddenly overcome with disgust. But after a short while, my former suspicions would reverse course and come surging back with redoubled force. Since everything was deduced from suspicion, everything worked to my disadvantage. In appearance too, K seemed more likely to be favored by women. His temperament—unlike my own fretful nature—appeared better suited to appeal to the opposite sex. That very absent-mindedness of his paradoxically made his reliable masculine qualities seem more advantageous than mine. Academically too, though our fields differed, I knew full well I couldn't rival him. ——When all his virtues thus swarmed before my eyes at once, my momentary relief would instantly revert to primal anxiety.

K noticed my restlessness and suggested we could head back to Tokyo if it was too much, but hearing this made me suddenly reluctant to return.
In truth, I may not have wanted K to go back to Tokyo.
We rounded the cape of the Bōsō Peninsula and emerged on its far side.
Under the scorching sun we trudged onward, enduring the hardship while being misled by each deceptive ri of Kazusa.
To me, this endless walking held almost no meaning I could grasp.
I remarked to K half-jokingly.
He retorted, “We walk because we have legs.”
When the heat grew unbearable, we’d plunge into the sea wherever we happened to be.
Afterwards, the fierce sun would batter us again until our bodies turned leaden with exhaustion.

30

"Walking like this in the heat and exhaustion, my body would naturally begin to lose its rhythm."
Yet this was no illness.
It felt as though my soul had been transplanted into another body.
Though I spoke with K as usual, part of me grew detached from my ordinary state of mind.
Both my affection and resentment toward him took on a transient quality unique to our travels.
Through the relentless heat, the sea's tides, and the very act of walking itself, we must have entered an entirely new relationship unlike anything before.
We became like peddlers who'd chanced upon shared roads.
However much we talked, our conversations never touched upon those intricate matters that demanded mental exertion.

We finally reached Chōshi in this manner, but there was a single exception along the way that I cannot forget to this day.
Before we had even left Bōshū, the two of us visited a place called Kominato to see Tainoura.
A considerable number of years have passed since then, and moreover, as it was something I had little interest in, I cannot remember clearly, but I believe it was said to be the village where Nichiren was born.
There is a legend that on the day Nichiren was born, two sea bream were washed up on the rocks.
Since then, the village fishermen have refrained from catching sea bream to this day, which is why there are so many in the inlet.
We hired a small boat and went out specifically to see those sea bream.

At that time, I was simply staring fixedly at the waves. And I gazed endlessly at the faintly purplish forms of sea bream moving through those swells as one fascinating phenomenon. Yet K seemed unable to share my fascination. His mind appeared occupied not with fish but with envisioning Nichiren himself. There stood a temple called Tanjō-ji—a name likely derived from being in the village of Nichiren’s birth—its grand architecture a testament to devotion. K proposed visiting the temple to meet its head priest. Truth be told, we made quite the disheveled pair: K had lost his hat to the sea winds and now wore a peasant’s sedge hat, while both our robes were stiff with grime and reeked of sweat. I argued against approaching priests in such a state, but stubborn K insisted—even suggesting I wait outside if displeased. Reluctantly I followed him to the entrance, certain we’d be turned away. Yet priests proved unexpectedly gracious, promptly ushering us into an expansive tatami hall. My thoughts then diverged sharply from K’s; while he pressed the priest with questions about Nichiren’s deeper significance, I paid scant attention—until the priest’s remark about “Kusa Nichiren” excelling at cursive script made K grimace contemptuously, his own handwriting being notoriously poor. Whether this exchange satisfied K remained unclear, but once outside he launched into endless Nichiren discourses while I—sweltering and spent—could manage only tepid murmurs of acknowledgment.

That too became troublesome, and in the end, I fell completely silent.

I believe it was indeed the following evening when, after arriving at the inn and eating our meal—just before we were about to retire—we suddenly launched into a difficult discussion.
K resented how I'd dismissed his Nichiren discourse from the previous day.
He declared anyone lacking spiritual ambition a fool, cornering me as if I were some shallow dilettante.
But with thoughts of the young lady coiled tight in my breast, I couldn't simply laugh off his near-scornful words.
For my part, I began mounting a defense.

31

“At that time, I kept using the phrase ‘human-like.’”
K asserted that through this term ‘human-like,’ I was concealing all my weaknesses.
Looking back now, it was indeed exactly as K had said.
Yet for me—who had begun using that phrase to make K acknowledge its inhuman meaning—my starting point was already rebellious, leaving no room for reflection.
I pressed my argument even harder.
Then K demanded to know what aspect of him I considered inhuman-like.
I told him:
“You are human-like.”
“Or perhaps too human-like.”
“Yet with mere words you speak of inhuman-like things.”
“And try to behave in inhuman-like ways.”

When I said this, he merely replied that it might appear that way to others because his self-cultivation was lacking, and he made no effort to counter me. Rather than losing my edge in the argument, I instead felt pity for him. I promptly ended the discussion there. His demeanor grew increasingly somber. "If I had known people of old as he did," he said despondently, "I would never have launched such an attack." The ancients K spoke of were neither heroes nor paragons of virtue. They were those ascetics who mortify their flesh for spiritual purity and flagellate their bodies in pursuit of enlightenment. K declared it profoundly regrettable that I couldn't grasp how deeply he suffered for these ideals.

With that, K and I went to sleep.
And from the very next day, we returned to our peddlers’ demeanor, sweating and groaning as we walked.
Yet as we trudged along, fragments of that night’s conversation kept resurfacing in my mind.
Though I had been granted a perfect opportunity, the searing regret of why I had feigned ignorance and let it slip by burned within me.
I realized then that instead of cloaking myself in abstract phrases like “human-like,” I should have laid bare a simpler truth before K.
To confess—my coining of such terms stemmed entirely from my feelings for the young lady. Exposing those raw emotions directly would have served me better than distilling facts into hollow theories.
Here I admit my failure: our scholarly camaraderie bred a certain inertia, leaving me without the courage to shatter it.
Call it affectation or vanity if you will—though my meaning diverges from common usage—so long as you grasp this truth, I am content.

We returned to Tokyo thoroughly sunburnt. By the time we returned, my state of mind had changed again. The petty arguments about what was human-like or not had almost entirely vanished from my mind. In K too, there was no longer any trace of the demeanor befitting a religious devotee. At that time, there was likely no place in his heart where questions of spirit versus flesh could have taken root. The two of us, with faces like those of foreigners, gazed around at the bustling Tokyo. Then we came to Ryogoku and ate gamecock despite the heat. K proposed carrying on that momentum and walking all the way back to Koishikawa. In terms of physical strength, I was stronger than K, so I readily agreed.

When we arrived home, Shizuka was surprised to see us.
Not only had our skin darkened, but from all that walking, we had become terribly emaciated.
Yet Shizuka praised us, saying we looked sturdier.
The Young Lady laughed again at Shizuka's contradiction.
Even I, who had often felt irritated before the trip, found myself cheerful in that moment alone.
It must have been due to the circumstances and because I hadn't heard it in so long.

32

"Moreover, I noticed that the Young Lady’s attitude had changed somewhat from before."
After returning from our long journey, settling back into our usual routine required assistance in all matters from the women of the household. While my wife attended to things regardless, the Young Lady appeared to prioritize me in everything while putting K second.
Had she done it so blatantly, even I might have been inconvenienced.
Under certain circumstances, I might even have felt displeasure, but as the Young Lady’s conduct in that regard was remarkably tactful, I was pleased.
In other words, she had allocated an extra measure of her natural kindness specifically toward me in a way that only I could perceive.
Therefore, K remained unperturbed without making any unpleasant expression.
Silently in my heart, I composed a triumphant song for him.

As summer finally passed, from mid-September onward we were once again required to attend to our academic obligations. Due to our individual schedules, discrepancies began to emerge again in the times K and I would leave and return home. I found myself returning later than K about three times a week, yet whenever I came back, I could no longer catch even a glimpse of the Young Lady in K’s room. K would turn those characteristic eyes of his toward me and repeat, with mechanical regularity, “You’re back now?” My nod in response was nearly as mechanical in its brevity and emptiness.

I believe it was around mid-October.
Having overslept, I once rushed to school still wearing Japanese clothes.
With no time to fasten my gaiters properly, I simply slipped into sandals and dashed out.
According to that day's timetable, I was supposed to return home before K.
When I arrived back, I flung open the lattice entrance door with that expectation.
Just as I assumed him absent, K's voice abruptly reached me.
Simultaneously, the Young Lady's laughter reverberated in my ears.
Since I wasn't wearing my usual cumbersome footwear, I immediately stepped up to the entrance and slid open the partition door.
There sat K before his desk as always.
Yet the Young Lady was no longer present.
I merely glimpsed her retreating figure slipping away from K's room.
"Why did you return early?" I asked K.
"I wasn't feeling well," he replied.

When I entered my room and sat down as I was, the Young Lady soon brought me tea.
At that moment, for the first time, the Young Lady greeted me with a "welcome back."
I was not the sort of man who could laugh and casually ask why she had run off earlier.
And yet, deep down, I was precisely the sort of person who couldn't help being bothered by it.

The Young Lady immediately rose from her seat and went off along the veranda toward the opposite side. However, she stopped in front of K’s room and exchanged a few words through the door with him inside. That exchange seemed like a continuation of their earlier conversation, but having missed its beginning, I could make no sense of it at all.

Gradually, the Young Lady’s demeanor regained its composure. Even when K and I were both at home, she would often come to the veranda of his room and call his name. Then she would enter and linger there leisurely. Of course, there were times when she brought mail or left laundry—interactions that between two people sharing a house should be considered natural. Yet driven by my fierce determination to possess her entirely, I inevitably perceived them as exceeding mere propriety. There were even moments when she seemed to deliberately avoid coming to my room while visiting K’s side exclusively. You will ask why I didn’t simply have K leave the house. But doing so would nullify the very purpose for which I had forcibly brought him here. I could not bring myself to do it.

33

"It was a cold, rainy day in November."
I returned home drenching my overcoat as usual, passing through Konnyaku Enma and ascending the narrow slope road.
K’s room stood empty, but in his brazier, a freshly stoked fire burned warmly.
Wanting to quickly warm my cold hands over the red coals, I hurriedly opened my room’s partition.
There in my brazier lay only cold white ashes – even the embers had died out.
A sudden unpleasantness came over me.

At that moment, the one who came out upon hearing my footsteps was Shizuka. Shizuka saw me standing silently in the middle of the room and sympathetically helped me out of my overcoat and into Japanese clothes. Then, hearing me say I was cold, she immediately brought K’s brazier from the next room. When I asked whether K had already returned home, Shizuka answered that he had come back and gone out again. Since K was scheduled to return later than me that day too, I wondered what could have happened. Shizuka said he’d probably had some business to attend to.

I sat there for a while reading.
The house grew utterly still, and in that silence where no voices could be heard, the chill and desolation of early winter began seeping into my body.
I immediately closed my book and stood up.
I suddenly wanted to go somewhere lively.
The rain had finally let up, but the sky still hung heavy like cold lead. As a precaution, I shouldered my snake-eye umbrella and descended the eastern slope along the earthen wall behind the Artillery Arsenal.
At that time, road improvements had yet to be carried out, making the slope far steeper than it is now.
The road was narrow and anything but straight.
Moreover, descending into that valley—where tall buildings blocked the south and drainage was poor—left the thoroughfare a muddy morass.
The stretch from crossing the narrow stone bridge to emerging onto Yanagimachi Street proved particularly treacherous.
One could not walk carelessly, whether in geta or long boots.
Everyone had to trace with utmost care the narrow strip of mud scraped clear along the road’s center—as though their very lives depended on it.
This path measured barely a foot or two wide, making it no different than stepping over a belt laid across the roadway.
All those passing through formed a single line and inched forward slowly.
It was on this narrow strip that I abruptly encountered K.
Preoccupied with watching my footing, I had remained entirely unaware of his presence until we stood face to face.
When my path was suddenly blocked and I glanced up, I recognized K standing there at last.
I asked where he had gone.
“Just out briefly,” K replied curtly.
His tone carried its usual brusqueness.
K and I exchanged places on the slender pathway.

Then I saw a young woman standing right behind K.
With my nearsightedness, I hadn't clearly discerned her until after passing K and seeing her face, at which point I was considerably startled to realize it was our Young Lady.
The Young Lady greeted me with a faintly flushed face.
The chignon of that era differed from today's styles—lacking any protruding brim, with hair coiled serpent-like at the crown.
I was absently gazing at the Young Lady's head when suddenly realizing one of us must yield the path.
Resolutely I plunged one foot into the mire.
Having cleared a relatively passable space, I let the Young Lady through.

After emerging onto Yanagimachi Street, I no longer knew where to go even within myself.
Wherever I might go felt utterly unappealing.
I strode recklessly through seas of powdery mud, heedless of the flying mire.
Then I immediately returned home.

34

"I asked K if he'd gone out with the Young Lady."
K denied it.
He explained they'd met by chance in Masagochō and walked back together.
I had to refrain from pressing further.
Yet at dinner, I found myself wanting to pose the same question to the Young Lady.
She let out that laugh of hers I so detested.
Then she finally challenged, "Go on—guess where I went."
In those days I was still prone to fits of anger, and this frivolous treatment by a young woman stoked my irritation.
But among those at the table, only Shizuka seemed to notice.
K remained utterly unperturbed.
The Young Lady's manner left me uncertain—was this deliberate provocation or artless innocence?
Though undeniably thoughtful for her age, she wasn't free from those feminine traits I'd always disliked.
These very traits had only become apparent to me after K's arrival.
I wavered between attributing this to my jealousy of K or interpreting it as some calculated ploy by the Young Lady against me.
Even now I make no attempt to deny that jealousy.
As I've often said, I recognized this emotion as love's shadow-self.
To outside eyes, it might seem absurd how such trifles could rouse that serpentine feeling.
This digression aside—isn't such jealousy love's inevitable counterpart?
After marrying, I came to feel this emotion gradually fade.

On the other hand, my affection was by no means as intense as it had once been.

I began considering whether to hurl my hesitating heart decisively into another's chest.
The object of my focus wasn't the Young Lady—it was Shizuka.
I contemplated initiating direct negotiations with Shizuka to demand she grant me the Young Lady.
Yet each day I deferred this decisive action while maintaining my resolve.
This admission may paint me as hopelessly indecisive—an image I accept—but my stagnation sprang not from weak willpower.
Before K's arrival, stubborn refusal to be manipulated paralyzed me.
After K came, ceaseless suspicion that the Young Lady favored him shackled me.
Had her heart truly inclined toward K over myself, I'd resolved this love deserved no utterance.
This differed fundamentally from mere humiliation avoidance.
However fervently I burned here, should her inner eye dwell on another man, I wanted no union with such a woman.
True—men exist who forcibly wed desired women and rejoice—but then I judged such acts fit only for worldly cynics or love-blind fools.
I burned too fiercely to stomach philosophies claiming possession brings resolution.
Thus stood I—love's most lofty theorist.
Simultaneously—love's most tortuous practitioner.

Opportunities to directly confess my true self to the Young Lady who mattered most did occasionally arise during our prolonged time together, but I deliberately avoided them.
I was acutely aware that such matters were not permitted under Japanese custom.
Yet it cannot be said that this alone constrained me.
I had concluded that we Japanese—particularly our young women—lacked the courage to speak their minds freely and without reserve in such situations.

35

"For this reason, whichever direction I turned, I was unable to move forward and stood frozen."
When one takes a nap while unwell, their eyes may open to clearly see their surroundings, yet find themselves utterly unable to move their limbs.
At times, I felt that kind of agony in secret.

Before long, the year ended and spring arrived.

One day, Shizuka suggested to K that since they would be playing karuta, he should bring some friends along.
Then K immediately replied that he didn’t have a single friend to speak of, leaving Shizuka utterly astonished.
Indeed, K did not have a single friend worthy of the name.
There were a few acquaintances he would exchange greetings with when passing on the street, but they were hardly the sort to play games like karuta.
Shizuka then amended her suggestion, saying that if that were the case, she could invite someone she knew instead. But as I was unfortunately not in the mood for such a lively game either, I gave a noncommittal reply and let the matter drop.
However, when evening came, K and I were finally dragged out by the Young Lady.
Even though no guests came, since it was a karuta game meant to be played privately among just a few of us, it turned out to be an extremely quiet affair.
Moreover, K, being unaccustomed to such games, was just like someone sitting with folded arms.
I asked K whether he knew the Hyakunin Isshu poems at all.
K answered that he didn’t know them well.
When the Young Lady heard my words, she probably took it to mean I was looking down on K.
Then she began conspicuously assisting K.
In the end, it reached a point where the two of them practically teamed up against me.
I might have started a quarrel depending on how the other person acted.
Fortunately, K's attitude had not changed at all from the beginning.
Not detecting any triumphant air about him anywhere, I was able to bring the situation to a close without incident.

It was probably two or three days later when Shizuka and the Young Lady left the house in the morning, saying they were going to visit relatives in Ichigaya.
Since neither K nor I had school starting yet, we remained behind as de facto caretakers.
Because I found both reading books and going for walks distasteful, I simply rested my elbows on the edge of the brazier, propping up my chin, and sat lost in thought.
K in the adjacent room made no sound whatsoever.
Both of us were so quiet you couldn’t tell whether anyone was present at all.
Of course, such occurrences were nothing unusual between us, so I paid no particular heed to it.

Around ten o'clock，K suddenly slid open the partition door and faced me.
He stood on the threshold and asked what I was thinking.
I hadn't been thinking of anything at all.
If anything，it might have been about the Young Lady，as usual.
Of course my wife doted on her too，but lately K himself had become an inseparable presence whirling through my mind，complicating matters.
When our eyes met，though I'd vaguely sensed him as an obstruction until then，I found myself unable to voice this directly.
I kept staring at his face in silence.
Then K strode into my room from his side and sat before my brazier.
I immediately withdrew my elbows from its edge and pushed it slightly toward him.

K began a conversation unlike his usual self.
He wondered where Shizuka and the Young Lady had gone in Ichigaya.
"I answered that they were probably at my aunt's place."
K asked again what that aunt was.
"I told him she was indeed the wife of a military man."
Then he questioned why they had gone out so early when women's New Year visits are usually after the 15th.
I had no choice but to respond that I didn't know why.

36

K persisted in talking about Shizuka and the Young Lady.
In the end, he began asking intrusive questions that even I couldn’t answer.
I was struck more by a sense of wonder than annoyance.
When I recalled him from the time I had initiated discussing the two of them, I could not help but notice the change in his demeanor.
I finally asked him why he kept saying such things only today.
At that moment, he suddenly fell silent.
However, I stared intently at the quivering movement of the flesh around his tightly closed mouth.
He was by nature a man of few words.
In daily life, whenever he tried to say something, he had a habit of working his mouth around before speaking.
His lips—as though deliberately defying his will—refused to open easily; it was precisely in this resistance that the weight of his words must have resided.
Once his voice broke through his lips, it carried twice the force of an ordinary person’s.

When I glanced at his mouth, I immediately tensed up, sensing something was about to emerge—yet I had absolutely no inkling of what that might be. That’s why it shocked me so. Imagine me in that moment when his solemn voice laid bare his anguished love for the Young Lady. I turned to stone as if struck by a wizard’s staff. Even the ability to move my lips deserted me.

At that moment, I was—whether you call it a mass of terror or a mass of anguish—simply a single solid mass. I hardened suddenly from head to toe like stone or iron. I stiffened to the point of losing even the elasticity needed for breathing. Fortunately, this state did not last long. After an instant, I regained my human composure. Then I immediately thought I had made a blunder. I thought I had been outmaneuvered.

However, not a shred of discretion arose as to what to do next.
It was likely because there had been no room for it to arise.
I endured resolutely and remained motionless as clammy sweat oozing from under my arms seeped through my undershirt.
All the while, K continued breaking his characteristically heavy silence at intervals, haltingly revealing his heart.
I was unbearably tormented.
I imagine my anguish must have been plastered across my face like a glaring billboard with stark lettering.
However absorbed K might have been, he surely must have noticed—yet he remained so entirely concentrated on himself that he likely had no moment to spare for my expression.
His confession maintained the same unvarying tone from beginning to end.
Though ponderous and dull, it impressed me as something immovable.
My mind half-listened to his confession while being ceaselessly churned by thoughts of what to do—so that when it came to particulars, they scarcely registered—yet still, the cadence of his words struck my chest with force.
Because of this, I felt not only the earlier pain but also began at times to experience a kind of terror.
In other words, a terror—that this man was stronger than I—had begun taking root within me.

When K had finished speaking, I could not say anything.
Should I too have confessed my feelings before him? Or would keeping them unspoken have been more advantageous? It was not out of such calculations of gain and loss that I remained silent.
I simply could not speak.
Nor did I feel any inclination to speak.

At lunchtime, K and I took seats facing each other.
With the maid serving us, I finished an uncharacteristically tasteless meal.
The two of us hardly exchanged a word throughout the meal.
I did not know when Shizuka and the Young Lady would return.

37

"The two of us retreated to our respective rooms and never met face-to-face again."
K’s silence remained unchanged from the morning.
I too sat absorbed in thought.

I felt I ought naturally to confess my feelings to K.
Yet I also sensed the opportune moment had already slipped away.
Why hadn’t I cut off K’s words earlier and launched a counterattack from my side? This now struck me as a critical oversight.
I even reflected that had I followed K’s lead and spoken my mind then and there, things might still have turned out better.
But with K’s confession now concluded, reopening the same topic myself felt utterly unnatural however I considered it.
I knew no way to surmount this awkwardness.
My head swayed unsteadily under remorse’s weight.

I wished K would slide open the partition door again and rush in from his side. To me, what had just occurred was no different from being ambushed. I had no preparation whatsoever to respond to K. I nursed an ulterior motive to reclaim what I had lost that morning. So I periodically raised my eyes to gaze at the sliding door. Yet that door remained shut no matter how long I waited. And thus K stayed perpetually silent.

Gradually, my mind grew increasingly agitated by this stillness.
Whenever I wondered what K might be thinking beyond the sliding door, I became unbearably fixated on it.
Though we had often sat in mutual silence with nothing but a single partition between us—and I would typically forget K's presence the quieter he grew—my mental state at that time must have been profoundly disordered.
Yet I could not bring myself to open the door from my side.
Having missed my chance to speak first, I had no choice but to wait for K to make a move from his side.

In the end, I could no longer hold myself still.
If I tried to force myself to stay rigid, I felt compelled to rush into K’s room.
I stood up and stepped out onto the veranda.
From there, I went to the tearoom and poured water from the iron kettle into a teacup and drank it all.
Then I went out to the entrance.
Deliberately avoiding K’s room, I found myself standing in the middle of the street.
I had no destination in mind.
I simply couldn’t keep myself still any longer.
And so I wandered aimlessly through the New Year’s town, paying no heed to direction.
No matter how far I walked, my thoughts remained filled with K.
I hadn’t set out intending to shake him off.
Rather, I wandered purposefully while turning his image over in my mind.

To me first and foremost, he appeared as an unfathomable man. Why had he suddenly confessed such things to me? Why had his love grown so urgent that he couldn't keep silent? Where had his ordinary self disappeared to? All these questions defied my understanding. I knew his strength. I knew his earnestness. I believed I needed to learn much more about him before deciding how to act going forward. Yet at the same time, I found something unnerving about facing him hereafter. As I wandered distractedly through town, his figure sitting rigidly in my room kept materializing before my eyes. No matter how far I walked, some inner voice insisted I could never shift him from that spot. Perhaps this was because he now struck me as a kind of demonic presence. I even began fearing his curse might haunt me eternally.

When I returned home exhausted, his room remained as quiet as if devoid of people.

38

“When I entered the house, I soon heard the sound of a rickshaw.”
Since this was an era before rubber tires like today’s, that unpleasant clattering noise carried clearly even from a considerable distance.
The rickshaw soon came to a halt before the gate.

It was about thirty minutes later when I was called to dinner, yet Shizuka and the Young Lady’s festive garments still lay discarded in disarray, strewn across the adjoining room.
They had apparently rushed back so as not to inconvenience us by being late for dinner preparations.
But Shizuka’s thoughtfulness proved nearly meaningless for both K and me.
At the table, I offered only curt greetings like a man grudging with words.
K spoke even less than I.
The two women—who rarely ventured out together as mother and daughter—were in unusually high spirits compared to their usual selves, making our demeanor stand out all the more.
“Is something wrong?” Shizuka asked me.
“I’m feeling slightly unwell,” I replied.
In truth, I did feel unwell.
Then this time, the Young Lady posed the same question to K.
Unlike me, K did not claim physical discomfort.
“I simply don’t wish to speak,” he said.
The Young Lady pressed him further: “Why don’t you wish to speak?”
At that moment, I suddenly lifted my heavy eyelids and looked at K’s face.
I felt curious about how he might respond.
K’s lips trembled faintly as they always did.

To someone who didn’t know him, it could only be perceived as hesitation over how to respond.
The Young Lady said with a laugh that he must be pondering something complicated again.
K’s face turned faintly red.

That evening, I went to bed earlier than usual.
Because I had mentioned feeling unwell during the meal, Mrs. Shizuka brought me some buckwheat tea around ten o'clock.
However, my room was already pitch dark.
Mrs. Shizuka exclaimed "Oh dear!" and slid the partition door open a crack.
The dim light from K’s desk lamp slanted faintly into my room.
K appeared to still be awake.
Mrs. Shizuka sat by my pillow and said that since I had probably caught a cold, I should warm myself up, then thrust the teacup close to my face.
I had no choice but to drink the thick buckwheat tea right in front of Mrs. Shizuka.

I lay thinking in the dark until late into the night.
Of course, all I did was revolve a single problem endlessly in my mind, achieving nothing beyond that.
I suddenly found myself wondering what K might be doing in the next room.
Half-unconsciously, I called out “Hey.”
A “Hey” came back in reply.
K was still awake too.
Through the sliding door, I asked if he wasn’t going to sleep yet.
There came a brief response: “Going to sleep now.”
“What are you doing?” I pressed again.
This time there was no answer from K.
Instead, five or six minutes later, I heard the closet door clatter open and the crisp sound of him laying out his futon as clearly as if I could reach out and touch it.
“What time is it now?” I asked again.
“Twenty past one,” K answered.
Soon came the soft puff of a lamp being extinguished, and in the pitch darkness that swallowed the house, everything fell utterly silent.

However, my eyes only grew keener in that darkness.
In a half-unconscious state, I called out "Hey" to K.
K answered with a “Hey” in the same tone as before.
I finally broached the subject from my side, saying I wanted to discuss in more detail what I’d heard from him that morning and asking about his convenience.
I certainly had no intention of having such a conversation through the sliding door but thought I could at least get an immediate reply from K.
Yet K—who had answered twice before when called “Hey”—did not respond this time.
"Hmm," he murmured hesitantly in a low voice.
I was startled anew.

Thirty-Nine

K’s perfunctory replies persisted even the next day and the day after that, and they were clearly evident in his attitude.
He never showed any sign of voluntarily broaching the issue in question.
However, there was simply no opportunity after all.
Unless Shizuka and the Young Lady both left the house for an entire day, the two of us couldn’t calmly settle down to discuss such matters.
I was well aware of that.
Yet despite being fully aware, I found myself growing strangely restless.
As a result, I—who had initially intended to wait for him to approach while making implicit preparations—came to resolve that if an opportunity arose, I would broach the subject myself.

At the same time, I silently observed the household members' behavior.
However, there was nothing particularly different from usual in either Shizuka's attitude or the Young Lady's demeanor.
If there was no discernible difference in their behavior before and after K's confession, then his confession must have been meant solely for me—it was certain that neither the crucial person herself nor Shizuka, acting as her guardian, had yet been informed.
When I realized this, I felt somewhat relieved.
Therefore, rather than forcing an opportunity to broach the subject artificially, I resolved it would be wiser to seize what opportunities naturally arose without letting them slip away—and so decided to leave the matter untouched for a time.

Putting it this way makes it sound deceptively simple, but within that mental process were undulations as varied as the ebb and flow of tides. I observed K’s motionless state and attached various meanings to it. I observed Shizuka and the Young Lady’s speech and actions and even began to doubt whether their hearts were truly as they appeared there. And I wondered whether the complex mechanism installed within the human breast could, like clock hands, clearly and truthfully point to the numbers on its dial. In short, please understand that after turning it this way and that over the same matter, I have finally settled here. To complicate matters further, perhaps the word "settled" was never truly appropriate here in the first place.

Before long, school began again.
On days when our schedules aligned, we would leave the house together.
If convenient, we would also return together.
To outside observers, K and I appeared as close as ever, as if nothing had changed.
Yet inwardly, each of us must have been lost in our own thoughts.
One day, I abruptly confronted K on the street.
My first question was whether his recent confession had been meant solely for me or shared with Mrs. Shizuka and the Young Lady.
I resolved that my future conduct would hinge entirely on his response.
He plainly stated he hadn't disclosed it to another soul.
I felt secret satisfaction at this confirmation of my suspicions.
I knew K surpassed me in irresponsibility.
I recognized my inability to match his boldness.
Yet paradoxically, I trusted him completely.
Though he'd deceived his foster family for three years about tuition funds, my faith in him remained unshaken.
Indeed, that very duplicity made me trust him all the more.
Thus even my skeptical nature couldn't refute his unambiguous answer within my heart.

I asked him again how he intended to handle his love.
I pressed whether it was merely a confession or whether he meant to pursue tangible outcomes following that admission.
Yet when it came to that point, he gave no answer.
He silently lowered his gaze and began walking.
I implored him not to conceal anything and to speak his mind fully.
He stated unequivocally that he had nothing to hide from me.
But regarding the specifics I sought to clarify, he offered not a single word in reply.
As we were on a public thoroughfare, I could not reasonably detain him to press the matter further.
In the end, matters were left unresolved.

Forty

One day I entered the school library for the first time in ages.
Sitting at the corner of a wide desk with window light falling across half my body, I flipped through a newly arrived foreign magazine.
My homeroom teacher had ordered me to research certain matters related to my field of study by the following week.
But being unable to find what I needed easily, I had to exchange magazines two or three times.
Finally discovering the required paper, I began reading it intently.
Suddenly a small voice called my name from across the broad desk.
Looking up abruptly, I saw K standing there.
K bent his upper body over the desk, bringing his face close to mine.
As you know, one cannot speak loudly in libraries lest they disturb others—K’s posture being perfectly ordinary under such circumstances—yet I felt an odd sensation just then.

K asked in a low voice if I was studying.
"I have some research to do," I replied.
Yet K kept his face close to mine.
In the same hushed tone, he asked if I would go for a walk with him.
"I could wait a little longer," I answered.
He settled into the empty seat before me as promised.
My concentration broke abruptly, leaving the magazine's text unreadable.
Somehow I felt certain K carried hidden intentions—as if he'd come to force some confrontation.
I closed the half-read magazine and started to get up.
"Finished already?" K inquired with unnatural calm.
"It can wait," I said, returning the journal before leaving the library with him.

Since they had nowhere else to go, they left Tatsunokachō for Ikenohata and entered Ueno Park.
At that moment, he suddenly broached the subject of that incident himself.
Considering the circumstances before and after, it seemed K had deliberately taken me out for a walk specifically for that purpose.
However, his attitude still showed no progress toward any practical direction.
He turned to me and vaguely asked what I thought.
What he meant by "what do you think?" was a question about how I viewed him—him who had fallen into love's abyss—and with what eyes I was looking at him.
In a word, he seemed to want my evaluation of his current self.
At that point, I thought I could indeed recognize aspects that differed from his usual self.
I may repeat myself, but his innate nature wasn't so weakly constituted as to be deterred by others' opinions.
Once he believed in something, he was a man with both the boldness and courage to forge ahead alone.
Given that K's distinctive traits had been deeply carved into my heart through the foster family incident, it was only natural I clearly recognized this situation as different.

When I asked K why my criticism was necessary at this juncture, he replied in an uncharacteristically despondent tone that he was truly ashamed of being a weak person. He said that being so conflicted made him lose self-understanding, leaving him no choice but to seek impartial judgment from me. I immediately demanded clarification about this conflict. He explained it meant being torn between advancing or retreating. I stepped forward physically and asked, “If you wish to retreat, can you actually do it?” His words abruptly faltered there. He merely uttered that it was agonizing. Indeed, his expression unmistakably manifested torment. Had the object of his affections not been the Young Lady, I might have showered his parched countenance with convenient responses like merciful rain—I who believe myself born with such capacity for noble compassion. Yet at that moment, I stood transformed.

Forty-one

"I was watching K with the focused attention of someone facing an unfamiliar martial arts style."
I prepared my eyes, my heart, my body—every element that constituted my being—without leaving even a five-minute gap in readiness as I confronted K.
Innocent K was so defenseless that describing him not as full of holes but rather as left completely unbarred would have been more fitting.
It was as if I had taken the map of his fortress directly from his hands and could now leisurely scrutinize it before his very eyes.

Having discovered K wavering between ideal and reality, I focused solely on how I could take him down with a single blow. I immediately exploited his vulnerability. Turning to him, I assumed a solemn, formal attitude. Though calculated, my tension matched this demeanor so completely that I had no room to feel either ridiculous or ashamed. I first declared, “Those without spiritual ambition are fools.” This was the very phrase K had used toward me during our travels in Bōshū. I hurled back his own words in his exact tone. But this was no mere retaliation. I confess my intent carried cruelty surpassing revenge. With that single statement, I aimed to barricade the path of love stretching before K.

K was born into a Shin Buddhist temple. However, from his middle school days onward, his inclinations had never aligned with his family’s sect. Though I knew myself unqualified to speak on doctrinal distinctions—being largely ignorant of them—I recognized this divergence specifically in matters concerning relations between men and women. K had always favored the term “ascetic discipline.” I had interpreted this as encompassing self-restraint, but later learned to my surprise that it carried an even stricter meaning. His fundamental creed demanded sacrificing all for one’s path—not merely curbing desires through abstinence, but rejecting even love itself if divorced from carnal impulse, as an impediment to spiritual progress. During K’s period of self-reliance, I often endured his lectures on these principles. Having already begun nurturing feelings for the Young Lady at that time, I found myself compelled by circumstance to oppose him at every turn. Whenever I contradicted him, he would adopt an expression of pity—though contempt showed more plainly than sympathy within it.

Given that such a past had passed between us, the words “Those without spiritual ambition are fools” must have been painful for K.
However, as I said before, I did not intend with this single statement to trample over the past he had so painstakingly built.
On the contrary, I tried to make him continue building it up as he had done.
Whether it reached the path or touched the heavens mattered not to me.
I was simply afraid K might suddenly change the course of his life and clash with my interests.
In short, my words were but a manifestation of selfishness.

“Those without spiritual ambition are fools.”

I repeated the same words twice.
And I was watching intently to see how those words would affect K.

“Fool,” K answered after a moment.
“I am a fool.”

K stopped dead in his tracks and stood motionless.
He stared fixedly at the ground.
I found myself startled despite myself.
In that moment, K struck me as a burglar steeling himself to fight back.
Yet when I noticed how utterly devoid of strength his voice sounded,
I tried to glean something from his eyes, but he never once looked at my face until the end.
Then he gradually began walking again.

Forty-two

I walked alongside K, steeling myself inwardly for his next words.
Or perhaps "lying in ambush" would have been more apt.
At that moment, I felt resolved enough that even a treacherous strike against K would not have given me pause.
Yet even I retained some semblance of conscience from my education—had someone come to my side and hissed "Coward," I might have regained my senses that very instant.
Had K been that person, I would surely have flushed crimson before him.
But K was too honest to rebuke me.
Too artless.
Too unwaveringly noble in character.
Blinded, I forgot to honor that nobility and instead exploited it.
I sought to wield it as a weapon to vanquish him.

After a moment, K called my name and looked toward me.
This time, I naturally stopped walking.
Then K stopped too.
At that moment, I was finally able to look directly into K's eyes.
As K was taller than me, I inevitably had to tilt my head upward to see his face.
In that posture, I aimed my wolfish heart at this guiltless lamb.

“Let’s stop this talk now,” he said.
In his eyes and words lingered a strangely anguished quality.
I found myself unable to respond.
Then K rephrased it as an entreaty: “Stop this.”
At that moment, I directed a cruel answer toward him.
Like a wolf seizing its chance to sink fangs into a sheep’s throat.

“You’re telling me to stop? I wasn’t the one who started this—you’re the one who brought it up first. But if you want to stop it, go ahead—though merely mouthing ‘stop’ won’t suffice. Not unless you’ve the resolve in your heart to truly cease. What exactly do you mean to do about those lofty principles you’ve always preached?”

When I said this, the tall K seemed to shrink before me as if diminished. He was, as always described, an extremely stubborn man, yet being a person of exceptional honesty, he could never remain composed when harshly criticized for his contradictions. Seeing his demeanor, I finally felt relieved. Then he abruptly asked, “Resolve?” And before I could respond, he added, “Resolve—there’s no reason I can’t resolve myself.” His tone resembled a soliloquy—or perhaps words from a dream.

The two of them ended their conversation there and headed toward the lodging in Koishikawa.
It was a relatively windless and warm day, but being winter after all, the park stood desolate.
Particularly when I turned to look back at the cedar grove—stripped of their bluish hue by frost and now tea-brown—their treetops standing tall in rows beneath a dusky sky, I felt as though the cold had bitten into my back.
We hurried through Hongōdai in evening's dusk and descended into Koishikawa valley to climb the opposite hill.
Only then did I finally begin to feel some warmth in my body beneath my coat.

Perhaps because we had hurried, we hardly spoke on our way back.
When we returned home and sat at the dining table, Mrs. asked why we were late.
I answered that I had gone to Ueno after K invited me.
Mrs. showed surprise at us going out in such cold weather.
The Young Lady wanted to know what had happened in Ueno.
I replied there was nothing to tell—we had merely taken a walk.
K, habitually quiet, stayed even more silent than usual.
Even when Mrs. addressed him or the Young Lady laughed, he gave no proper response.
Then he shoveled down his food as if gulping it and withdrew to his room before I had left the table.

Forty-three

"At that time, terms like 'awakening' or 'new life' had not yet come into existence. However, K's failure to lightly cast aside his old self and charge toward new horizons wasn't due to any lack of modern thinking. It was because he possessed a past too precious to discard. One could almost say that was why he had lived up until then. Therefore, we cannot take K's failure to charge straight toward the object of his love as proof of tepid affection. However fiercely those emotions burned within him, he couldn't act recklessly. Unless granted an impulse strong enough to make him forget all else, K had no choice but to pause and reflect on his past. Doing so inevitably forced him back onto the path his past had laid out. Moreover, he possessed a stubbornness and endurance foreign to modern people. In both these respects, I believed I had thoroughly discerned his heart."

The night after returning from Ueno was relatively quiet for me.
I followed K as he withdrew to his room and sat down beside his desk.
Then I deliberately engaged him in trivial small talk.
He seemed annoyed.
My eyes likely glinted with triumph; my voice undeniably carried a victorious tone.
After warming my hands with K over the same brazier for a while, I returned to my room.
Even I—who could never surpass him in outward matters—at that moment felt conscious that he posed no threat.

I soon fell into a peaceful sleep.
However, I was suddenly awakened by a voice calling my name.
When I looked, the sliding door between us was open about two feet, and there stood K’s black shadow.
And in his room, the lamp still burned as it had since evening.
As the world suddenly transformed around me, I found myself unable to utter a single word, dazedly staring at the scene.

At that time, K asked if I had already gone to sleep.
K was a man who always stayed up late.
I asked the shadowy figure of K in return if he needed something.
K answered that it was nothing important—he had just gone to the bathroom and, wondering whether I was already asleep or still awake, had taken the opportunity to check.
Since K had his back to the lamp light, I could not make out his complexion or the look in his eyes at all.
However, his voice was even calmer than usual.

K soon snapped the opened sliding door firmly shut.
My room immediately returned to its original darkness.
I closed my eyes again to seek a dream more tranquil than that darkness.
I knew nothing beyond that.
However, when I thought about last evening’s events the next morning, it all felt somehow strange.
I wondered if perhaps it had all been a dream.
So during the meal, I asked K.
K said that he had indeed opened the sliding door and called my name.
When I asked why he had done such a thing, he gave no clear reply.
When the momentum had died down, he instead asked me whether I had been able to sleep soundly lately.
I had a strange feeling.

As their lectures were scheduled to begin at the same time that day, we both soon left the house together.
Since that morning I had been preoccupied with what had happened the previous evening, and on the way I pressed K again.
But K still did not give me an answer that satisfied me.
I pressed him once more, asking if he hadn’t intended to say something about that incident.
K declared firmly that he had not.
It sounded almost like a rebuke—as if reminding me, “Didn’t we agree yesterday at Ueno to drop that subject?”
K was a man of acute self-respect when it came to such matters.
Suddenly recognizing this, I abruptly recalled the word “resolve” he had used.
Then those two characters—which until then had scarcely concerned me—began pressing down on my head with an uncanny force.

Forty-four

"I knew K's character well - one rich in decisiveness."
"I had fully grasped why he alone showed hesitation regarding this matter."
"In other words, I was smugly confident that having understood general principles, I had firmly grasped exceptional cases."
"But as I repeatedly mulled over his word 'resolve' in my mind, my confidence gradually faded until it began wavering unsteadily."
"It occurred to me that perhaps even this situation wasn't an exception for him."
"I began suspecting he might harbor within his breast a final means to resolve all doubts, anguish and agony at once."
"When I re-examined those two characters 'resolve' in this new light, I started in surprise."
"Had I used this shock to fairly reconsider the substance of the resolve he spoke of then, things might still have been salvaged."
"Sadly, I was one-eyed."
"I interpreted those words solely as meaning K was advancing his courtship of the young lady."
"I became single-mindedly convinced that his decisiveness - when applied to love - must indeed constitute his 'resolve'."

I heard an inner voice telling me that I too needed a final resolution.
I immediately summoned courage in response.
I steeled myself to act before K could, ensuring he remained unaware.
I waited silently for my chance.
Yet two days passed, then three, without success.
I resolved to approach Mrs. Shizuka only when both K and the young lady were absent.
But each day brought new obstacles—if one was gone, the other lingered—and never did that perfect moment cry "Now!"
My nerves grew frayed.

After a week, I finally could no longer endure it and resorted to feigning illness.
Urged by Mrs. Shizuka, the young lady, and even K himself to get up, I merely gave vague replies and stayed under the futon covers until around ten o'clock.
I waited until both K and the young lady had left and the house had fallen completely silent before emerging from bed.
When Mrs. Shizuka saw my face, she immediately asked what was wrong.
She advised that since she would bring meals to my bedside, I should stay resting longer.
With nothing actually wrong with me, I couldn't bring myself to sleep any more.
I washed my face and ate in the tea room as usual.
At that time, Mrs. Shizuka served the meal from across the elongated brazier.
Clutching the tea bowl that lingered between breakfast and lunchtime, I remained so completely preoccupied with how to broach the subject that I must have truly appeared like an unwell patient in outward appearance.

I finished my meal and began smoking tobacco.
Since I showed no sign of rising, Mrs. Shizuka could not leave the brazier’s side.
She called the maid to clear away the trays, then poured water into the iron kettle and wiped the brazier’s edge, keeping pace with my lingering.
“Did you have some particular business?” I asked Mrs. Shizuka.
“No,” she replied, then countered, “Why do you ask?”
“There’s actually something I wish to discuss,” I said.
“What is it?” she asked, studying my face.
Mrs. Shizuka’s tone remained airy, impervious to my mood, making me falter over my next words.

I had no choice but to wander haphazardly through my words, and in the end, I asked Mrs. Shizuka if K had said anything of late.
Mrs. Shizuka looked completely taken aback. “About what?” she asked in return.
And before I could answer, she asked in return, “Did he say something to you?”

Forty-five

Having no intention of conveying to Mrs. Shizuka the confession K had made to me, I immediately felt displeased with my own lie after saying “No.”
Since there was no alternative—and as I had not been specifically entrusted with anything—I amended myself by stating it was not a matter regarding K.
“I see,” said Mrs. Shizuka, waiting for me to continue.
I felt compelled to broach the subject.
“Mrs. Shizuka, please give me the young lady,” I blurted out.
Mrs. Shizuka did not appear as startled as I had anticipated, yet she seemed momentarily unable to reply and silently studied my face.
Once I had spoken, I could not afford to mind how intently she scrutinized me.
“Please—by all means give her to me,” I insisted.
“Please give her to me as my wife,” I declared.
Mrs. Shizuka, being older, remained far calmer than I.
“I could give her to you,” she said, “but isn’t this rather sudden?”
When I retorted at once, “Because I want her immediately,” she laughed.
“And have you truly considered this?” she pressed.
Though my proposal had been abrupt, I explained emphatically that my deliberation had not been hasty.

After that came two or three more exchanges, but I have forgotten them.
Mrs. Shizuka, with her man-like clarity and decisiveness, was unlike most women—someone who could discuss such matters quite comfortably.
“Very well, I shall give her to you,” she said.
“I’m hardly in a position to speak so grandly of ‘giving her away.’”
“Please take her.”
“As you know, she’s a pitiable fatherless child,” she added imploringly.

The matter was settled simply and clearly.
From start to finish, it probably didn’t take even fifteen minutes.
Mrs. Shizuka did not bring up any conditions.
“There’s no need to consult relatives,” she said. “Refusing them afterward would suffice.”
She explicitly stated that there was no need to even confirm the young lady’s intentions.
When it came to such matters, I—the one with academic learning—seemed instead to be clinging to formalities.
When I pointed out that regardless of relatives, it seemed proper to first speak with the person in question and obtain their consent, Mrs. Shizuka said, “It’s all right. I would never send that child off to a place she does not wish to go.”

Returning to my room, I found myself feeling strangely unsettled as I considered how effortlessly the matter had progressed.
Even a doubt—Is this truly all right?—had crawled up from somewhere into the depths of my mind.
Yet the notion that my future fate had now been decided in broad terms renewed everything within me.

Around noon, I went out to the tea room again and asked Mrs.Shizuka when she intended to inform the young lady about that morning’s discussion.
Mrs.Shizuka said something to the effect that as long as she herself consented, it wouldn’t matter when we told her.
At this point, somehow she seemed more manly than I, so I tried to withdraw then and there.
Then Mrs.Shizuka stopped me and said that if I preferred it sooner, today would be fine—once she returned from her lessons, she would speak to her right away.
I replied that it would be more convenient for me if she did so and returned to my room again.
However, when I imagined myself sitting silently at my desk listening to their secret conversation from afar, I somehow felt unable to remain composed.
I finally put on my hat and went outside.
And then at the foot of the slope I encountered the young lady.
The young lady who knew nothing seemed surprised when she saw me.
When I took off my hat and asked “Just returning now?” she inquired with apparent surprise “Has your illness already healed?”
“Yes I’m healed healed” I answered and briskly turned toward Suidōbashi.

Forty-six

"I left Sarugakuchō and came out onto Kanda-Jinbōchō Street, then turned toward Ogawamachi. My usual purpose when walking through this district was to browse used bookstores, but that day I found myself utterly disinclined to look at dog-eared books or anything of the sort. As I walked, my thoughts remained fixed on household affairs. Vivid recollections of Mrs. Shizuka from earlier persisted in my mind. Then came imaginings of how matters might unfold after the young lady returned home. These twin preoccupations seemed to propel my very footsteps. At intervals I would halt abruptly in the middle of the thoroughfare without conscious intent. In those moments I wondered whether Mrs. Shizuka had already broached the subject with her daughter by now. At other times I convinced myself their conversation must surely have concluded."

I finally crossed Mannenshashi Bridge, ascended Myōjin Slope, came to Hongō Plateau, then descended Kikuzaka Slope, and finally went down into Kōishikawa Valley.
The distance I walked spanned three districts and could be said to have traced a misshapen circle, but during this long stroll, I hardly thought of K at all.
Looking back on myself at that time, even when I ask myself why, I still cannot comprehend it in the slightest.
I just find it strange.
If one were to consider that my mind had been so intensely focused on one thing that I could forget K, then that would be one thing—but my conscience should never have permitted such a thing.

The awakening of my conscience toward K came when I opened the lattice door of the house and was passing from the entrance to the sitting room—at that very moment I was about to walk through his room as usual.
He was sitting at his desk reading, as always.
He lifted his eyes from the book, as always, and looked at me.
Yet unlike always, he did not ask if I had just returned.
Instead he inquired, “Has your illness healed? Or did you visit a doctor?”
In that instant, I wanted to throw myself before him and beg forgiveness.
And this impulse was by no means feeble.
Had K and I stood alone in some desolate wilderness, I believe I would have yielded to my conscience and apologized then and there.
But others were present in the house.
My instinctive reaction was stifled at once.
And tragically, it never stirred again.

At dinner, K and I met again.
K, who knew nothing, remained silent and did not cast a single suspicious glance my way.
Mrs. Shizuka, who knew nothing, seemed happier than usual.
I alone knew everything.
I ate a meal like lead.
At that time, the young lady did not join everyone at the dining table as usual.
When Mrs. Shizuka pressed her, she only answered from the next room, "Just a moment."
K listened to this with a puzzled expression.
Finally, he asked Mrs. Shizuka what was wrong.
Mrs. Shizuka said it was probably just her feeling awkward and glanced briefly at my face.
K, still looking puzzled, began to press further, asking why she would feel awkward.
Mrs. Shizuka smiled while looking at my face again.

From the moment I sat down at the dinner table, I had already deduced how things would unfold from Mrs. Shizuka's expression. Yet I thought it unbearable if she were to lay it all out before K in my presence. Since Mrs. Shizuka was precisely the sort of woman who would nonchalantly do such things, I grew increasingly anxious. Fortunately, K reverted to his customary silence. Though in better spirits than usual, Mrs. Shizuka ultimately stopped short of addressing the very matter I dreaded most. With a sigh of relief, I retreated to my room. Still, I couldn't help but agonize over what stance I ought to take toward K henceforth. I concocted various defenses within my mind's chamber. Yet none proved adequate to confront him directly; in my cowardice, I came to loathe the very notion of explaining myself to him.

Forty-seven

"I spent the next two or three days as I was.
Needless to say, during those two or three days, my constant anxiety toward K weighed heavily on my heart.
Even under normal circumstances, I felt I had to do something to make things right with him.
On top of that, Mrs. Shizuka’s demeanor and the young lady’s attitude kept pricking at me like constant stimuli, making my ordeal all the more unbearable.
Mrs. Shizuka, who had a somewhat masculine temperament, might at any moment blurt out my business to K at the dinner table.
I could not assert that the Young Lady’s behavior toward me—which had come to seem more pronounced since then—would not become a seed of doubt clouding K’s mind.
I found myself in a position where I had to somehow inform K of the new relationship that had formed between me and this family.
However, for me—who acknowledged my own ethical shortcomings—it felt like an insurmountable task.

As there was no other way, I considered asking Mrs. Shizuka to tell K about it again.
Of course, this would have to be done when I was absent.
Yet if she were to tell him everything truthfully, it would merely differ in being indirect rather than direct—the shame would remain unchanged.
But if I asked her to fabricate a story, Mrs. Shizuka would inevitably press me for reasons.
If I were to confess all circumstances to Mrs. Shizuka and request her assistance, I would have to willingly expose my weaknesses before both my lover and her mother.
To my earnest self, this seemed bound to affect my future credibility.
To lose my lover's trust before marriage—even by the slightest margin—appeared to me as intolerable misfortune.

In short, I was a fool who had meant to walk an honest path but ended up slipping. Or perhaps I was a cunning man. And at that point, those aware of this were only heaven and my own heart. Yet to regain my footing and take another step forward, I found myself in a predicament where my recent slip had to be revealed to those around me. I stubbornly wished to conceal that I had slipped. At the same time, I could not help but move forward. Caught between these impulses, I stood frozen once more.

Five or six days later, Mrs. Shizuka suddenly turned to me and asked whether I had told K about that matter.
"I answered that I still hadn’t told him."
“Then why haven’t you told him?” Mrs. Shizuka pressed me.
I stiffened before this question.
I still remember the words Mrs. Shizuka said that startled me at the time.

“No wonder he made such a strange face when I told him.”
“You aren’t being fair either, you know.”
“Even though you’re usually so close, to stay silent and pretend not to know—”

I asked Mrs. Shizuka whether K had said anything at that time.
Mrs. Shizuka answered that he had not said anything in particular.
However, I could not help but proceed to ask even more detailed questions.
Mrs. Shizuka naturally had no reason to conceal anything.
While saying there wasn’t much to tell, she proceeded to recount every detail of K’s reaction.

When I synthesized what Mrs. Shizuka had said, it appeared K had received this final blow with composed astonishment.
Regarding the newly established relationship between the Young Lady and myself, K had reportedly only uttered “Is that so?” initially.
Yet when Mrs. Shizuka declared “You must share our joy,” he finally looked at her face, allowed a faint smile to escape as he murmured “Congratulations,” then rose from his seat.
Before sliding open the tearoom’s shoji screen, he turned back to her once more and inquired “When will the wedding be held?”
He added “I wish to present a gift of celebration but lack the means to do so,” according to her account.
Seated before Mrs. Shizuka, hearing this narrative filled me with a suffocating pain that seemed to block my very chest.

Forty-eight

"When I calculated it, over two days had already passed since Mrs. Shizuka spoke to K."
During that time, K showed not the slightest change in his demeanor toward me, so I remained completely unaware of it.
His aloof demeanor—even if only in appearance—was something I considered worthy of respect.
When I compared him to myself in my mind, he appeared far more admirable.
The feeling that "Even if I won through scheming, I have lost as a human being" surged within me.
At that moment, thinking K must surely be looking down on me, I blushed alone.
But to now go before K and be shamed would cause unbearable pain to my self-respect.

It was on a Saturday night that I resolved to wait until the next day while considering whether to proceed or hold back.
However, that very night, K took his own life.
Even now, recalling that scene makes me shudder.
Though I had always slept with my pillow facing east, that night alone I happened to lay my bedding facing west—perhaps some karmic twist.
I awoke abruptly to cold wind blowing from my pillow.
Looking up, I saw the sliding door between K’s room and mine—normally kept shut—standing as open as it had been that previous night.
Yet unlike before, K’s dark figure did not stand there.
As if entranced, I propped myself up on an elbow and peered sharply into K’s room.
The lamp burned dimly.
The bedding lay spread out.
But the quilt lay piled at the foot like something thrown back.
And there was K himself, facedown.

I called out, “Hey!”
But there was no answer.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I called out to K again.
Still, K’s body did not move at all.
I immediately got up and went to the threshold.
From there, I surveyed his room in the dim lamplight.

The first sensation that struck me then was nearly identical to when K had suddenly confessed his love.
The moment my eyes glimpsed inside his room, they lost all capacity to move—like glass prosthetics frozen in their sockets.
I stood rigid as a post.
After this realization tore through me like a gale, I thought again: Ah—I’ve blundered irreparably.
A black radiance of finality pierced my future and in one dreadful instant illuminated my entire life sprawled before me.
Then I began trembling violently.

Even so, I could not ultimately forget myself.
I immediately noticed the letter lying on the desk.
It was addressed to me as expected.
I feverishly tore open the envelope.
Yet inside lay none of what I had anticipated.
I had braced for words that would lacerate me with their cruelty.
And there was terror—if Mrs. Shizuka or the Young Lady were to read this, what bottomless scorn might they pour upon me?
My eyes skimmed the lines, and relief surged through me.
(Relief in mere social propriety, yet in this moment, that propriety loomed as a matter of mortal gravity.)

The letter was simple in content.
Moreover, it was abstract in nature.
"I am weak-willed and irresolute, with no hope for my path forward; thus, I shall take my own life," it stated.
Then came a terse expression of gratitude for all my past assistance.
He also requested that I handle his posthumous affairs while attending to these matters.
There was a line asking me to convey apologies to Mrs. Shizuka for the trouble he had caused.
A further entreaty asked me to inform his family back home.
Among all necessary matters succinctly addressed, the Young Lady's name remained conspicuously absent.
When I finished reading, I immediately understood K had deliberately omitted it.
Yet what struck me most keenly were words seemingly added last with leftover ink: "Why have I lived this long when I should have died much sooner?"

With trembling hands, I rolled up the letter and placed it back into the envelope.
I deliberately placed it back on the desk exactly as before, so that everyone would notice.
And then, turning around, I saw for the first time the pool of blood splattered across the sliding door.

Forty-Nine

I suddenly lifted K’s head slightly with both hands as though cradling it. I wanted to see K’s dead face. However, when I peered up at his prone face from below like this, I immediately let go of his head. It was not merely that I shuddered. His head felt extraordinarily heavy. From above, I gazed for a while at the cold ear I had just touched and the thick, closely cropped hair that looked unchanged from usual. I could not bring myself to cry even slightly. I was simply terrified. And this terror was not just the monotonous dread arising from the scene before me stimulating my senses. I deeply felt the terror of fate that had been implied by this friend who had suddenly turned cold.

I returned to my room without a thought.
And then I began circling around the eight-mat room.
My head commanded me to keep moving like this for a while, even meaninglessly.
I felt I had to do something.
Yet at the same time, I thought I could no longer do anything.
I became unable to stop circling round and round the room.
Like a bear thrust into a cage.

I sometimes felt like going to wake Mrs. Shizuka in the back rooms.
But immediately, the thought that showing this dreadful scene to them would be wrong stopped me.
More than anything, my strong resolve that I absolutely could not startle the Young Lady held me back.
I began circling round and round once more.

In the meantime, I lit the lamp in my room.
Then I kept glancing at the clock.
Never had a clock felt so unbearably slow as it did then.
Though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when I had awoken, it was clear dawn approached.
Circling endlessly as I desperately waited for daybreak, I agonized over whether this dark night might stretch on forever.

We had made it our habit to rise before seven o'clock.
Since classes most often began at eight, we needed that early start to arrive on time.
This arrangement required the maid to wake around six.
Yet that morning found me rousing her before six had even struck.
“Today is Sunday,” Mrs. Shizuka reminded me quietly.
She had been woken by my footsteps.
I asked Mrs. Shizuka—if she was already awake—to come to my room.
She threw a haori over her nightclothes and followed me.
The moment we entered, I shut tight the partition doors left standing open.
“I’ve done something drastic,” I whispered.
“What?” she asked.
I jerked my chin toward the neighboring room.“Don’t be alarmed.”
Her face drained of color.
“Mrs. Shizuka—K has killed himself.”
She stood frozen there, staring at me in silence.
Before I knew it, my hands were splayed before her on the floorboards, forehead pressed to tatami.
“Forgive me.”
“This is my doing.”
“I’ve wronged you both—you and the Young Lady.”
Until facing her directly, I’d never imagined speaking these words.

However, when I saw Mrs. Shizuka’s face, I blurted it out without even realizing what I was doing.
Please understand that I, who could not apologize to K, ended up having to apologize to Mrs. Shizuka and the Young Lady like this.
In other words, my true nature had outwitted my usual self and unsteadily forced open the mouth of confession.
The fact that Mrs. Shizuka did not interpret my words with such profound meaning was fortunate for me.
While pale-faced, she said consolingly, “It can’t be helped if it was an unforeseen event.”
Yet on her face, surprise and fear seized the muscles as though carved there, leaving them rigid.

Fifty

“Though I felt terrible for Mrs. Shizuka, I stood up again and opened the sliding door I had just closed.”
By then, the oil in K’s lamp must have run out, leaving the room nearly pitch black.
I turned back and stood at the entrance holding my own lamp, glancing over at Mrs. Shizuka.
She peered into the four-and-a-half-mat room from behind me as though hiding.
Yet she made no move to enter.
“Leave it as it is and open the storm shutters,” she told me.

After that, Mrs. Shizuka’s demeanor was indeed efficient, as befitting a military man’s widow.
I went to the doctor’s office.
I went to the police.
However, I did all of this under Mrs. Shizuka’s orders.
Mrs. Shizuka did not allow anyone into K’s room until those procedures were completed.

K cut his carotid artery with a small knife and died instantly.
Externally, there was nothing resembling a wound.
The pool of blood I had seen on the fusuma in the dim, dreamlike lamplight must have gushed all at once from his carotid artery.
In daylight, I clearly gazed upon those traces once more.
And then I was astonished at the fierce force of human blood.

Mrs. Shizuka and I cleaned K's room with all possible efficiency and resourcefulness.
Most of his blood had fortunately been absorbed by his futon, so the tatami mats remained relatively unstained, making the cleanup somewhat manageable.
We moved his corpse into my room and laid it in the same position he normally slept.
Then I went out to send a telegram to his family home.

When I returned, incense sticks already stood by K's pillow.
The moment I entered the room, incense-heavy smoke assaulted my nostrils, and through that haze I made out two women sitting there.
This was my first glimpse of the Young Lady's face since last night.
The Young Lady was weeping.
Mrs. Shizuka's eyes had reddened.
Until then I'd forgotten to cry since the incident began, but now at last sadness drew me in.
My heart found such relief in that grief I cannot measure.
What brought a drop of moisture to my heart—clenched tight by pain and terror—was precisely that moment's sorrow.

I sat silently beside the two women.
Mrs. Shizuka told me to offer incense too.
I offered incense and sat in silence once more.
The Young Lady said nothing to me.
Now and then I exchanged a few words with Mrs. Shizuka, but only about immediate necessities.
I still lacked the composure to speak with the Young Lady about K’s life.
Even so, I felt it was fortunate I’d spared her last night’s ghastly spectacle.
To show something horrific to someone young and beautiful—I feared it might shatter that hard-won loveliness.
Even when terror prickled at my very hair ends, I couldn’t disregard that thought.
Within me festered a revulsion like lashing an innocent flower without cause.

When K’s father and elder brother came from their hometown, I stated my opinion regarding where to bury K’s remains.
During his lifetime, I had often taken walks with him around Zōshigaya.
K had been very fond of that place.
So I half-jokingly made a promise that if he loved it so much, I would bury him there when he died.
Even now, having buried K in Zōshigaya exactly as promised, I wondered how much merit it would bring.
But as long as I lived, I wanted to kneel before K’s grave and renew my penitence each month.
Perhaps out of a sense of obligation that I, who had taken care of K in all matters despite his father and brother having neglected him until then, K’s father and brother both agreed to what I proposed.

Fifty-One

“On the way back from K’s funeral, I was asked by one of his friends why he had committed suicide.”
Since the incident occurred, I had already been tormented countless times by this question.
From Mrs. Shizuka and the Young Lady to K’s father and brother who had come from the countryside, from acquaintances who had received notifications to newspaper reporters with no connection to him whatsoever—there was not a single person among them who did not pose the same question to me.
My conscience ached as though being pricked each time.
And beneath this question, I detected a voice urging, *Hurry up and confess that you killed him.*

My answer was the same to everyone.
I merely repeated the letter he had left addressed to me and did not add a single word beyond that.
On the way back from the funeral, K’s friend—who had posed the same question and received the same answer—took out a newspaper from his pocket and showed it to me.
I read the section indicated by that friend while walking.
In it was written that K, having been disowned by his father and brother, had developed pessimistic thoughts and committed suicide.
Without saying a word, I folded the newspaper and returned it to my friend’s hand.
The friend also informed me that there were other newspapers which wrote that K had gone mad and committed suicide.
Being busy, I had almost no time to read newspapers and thus was utterly lacking in knowledge of such matters, yet deep down, it weighed on my mind constantly.
Above all else, I feared the publication of articles that would cause trouble for the household.
Above all, I thought it would be unbearable if the Young Lady’s name were brought up, even if only in passing.
I asked that friend whether there was anything else written about it.
The friend answered that only those two kinds had caught his eye.

I moved to the house where I now reside not long after that.
Mrs. Shizuka and the Young Lady disliked remaining in the previous place, and I found it painful to relive the memory of that night every evening, so after discussing it, we settled on moving.

About two months after moving, I safely graduated from university.
Within less than half a year after graduating, I finally married the Young Lady.
From an external perspective, everything proceeded as expected, so it must be called auspicious.
Mrs. Shizuka and the Young Lady appeared genuinely happy.
I was also happy.
But my happiness was accompanied by a black shadow.
I thought that this happiness might be the fuse that would ultimately lead me to my sad fate.

When we married, the Young Lady—now my wife, as she was no longer a young lady—for some reason suggested that we visit K’s grave together.
I was startled for no reason.
I asked why she had suddenly thought of such a thing.
“If the two of us visit together, K would surely be pleased,” my wife said.
I found myself staring gloomily at my wife’s face—she who knew nothing—and only became aware of my expression when she asked why I looked that way.

As my wife wished, the two of us went together to Zōshigaya.
I poured water over K’s new grave and washed it.
My wife placed incense and flowers in front of it.
We bowed our heads and pressed our hands together in prayer.
My wife must have intended to recount to K the circumstances of how we came to be together and have him rejoice.
In my heart, I simply kept repeating that I was the one at fault.

At that time, my wife touched K’s grave and remarked that it looked splendid.
Though the grave was nothing remarkable, my wife likely wanted to say this especially due to my having personally gone to the stonemason to select it.
I could not help but feel fate’s cold mockery as I compared the new grave, my new wife, and K’s newly buried white bones beneath the earth.

From then on, I resolved never to visit K’s grave with my wife.

Fifty-Two

“This feeling toward my deceased friend persisted endlessly.”
In truth, I had feared this outcome from the very beginning.
Even the marriage that had been my long-cherished hope—it would not be inaccurate to say I conducted the ceremony in a state of anxiety.
Yet being a man who cannot foresee his own path, I also thought this might mark the threshold of a new life—a complete transformation of my inner state.
But when I finally faced my wife morning and evening as her husband, my fragile hope was ruthlessly shattered by harsh reality.
While facing her, I would be abruptly startled by K’s presence—
as if my wife stood between us, binding K and me together inextricably.
Though I found no fault in her otherwise, in this single matter alone I yearned to keep her distant.
This intention immediately registered in her heart—
registered yet remained incomprehensible to her.
I was often interrogated—“Why do you brood so?” or “Is something displeasing you?”
When I laughed it off, peace prevailed temporarily, but at times her vexation flared dangerously.
Ultimately came reproaches: “You must despise me,” or “You’re hiding something.”
Each time, agony consumed me.

There were many times when I resolved even more firmly to confess everything truthfully to my wife.
But when the critical moment came, some external force would suddenly emerge to hold me back.
You understand me, so I needn't explain, yet I must speak of what ought to be told.
In those days, I had no thought of putting on airs before my wife.
Had I laid bare my confession with the same sincerity I'd shown my deceased friend, she would surely have forgiven my sins through tears of joy.
In me who dared not do this, there could be no calculation of profit and loss.
I withheld confession only because I couldn't bear imprinting a single dark stain upon her memory.
Please understand—to mercilessly cast even one drop of blemish upon pure whiteness caused me unbearable pain.

Even after a year had passed, my heart—unable to forget K—remained perpetually uneasy.
I endeavored to drown myself in books to drive away this uneasiness.
I began studying with tremendous intensity.
And then I waited for the day when those results would be made public to the world.
But forcing myself to fabricate a purpose and forcing myself to wait for the day that purpose might be achieved was a lie and thus unpleasant.
I could no longer keep burying my heart in books.
I crossed my arms and began to gaze out at the world once more.

My wife seemed to observe that a laxness had emerged in my heart because we lacked no necessities in the present.
Since my wife’s family had wealth sufficient for a parent and child to live without working, and since I was in circumstances where I had no pressing need to seek employment, it was only natural for her to think so.
I may have been somewhat indulged as well.
However, the main cause of my paralysis was not there at all.
At the time I had been deceived by my uncle, I had indeed keenly felt how unreliable other things were, but precisely because I judged others harshly, I still felt certain of myself.
No matter what the world was like, there had existed somewhere within me a belief that this self of mine was an admirable person.
When that belief had been utterly destroyed by K, and I became conscious that I was the same as that uncle, I suddenly reeled.
Having become disillusioned with others, I became disillusioned with myself and found myself unable to move.

Fifty-Three

There was a time when I, unable to bury myself alive in books, tried to forget myself by immersing my soul in alcohol.
I do not claim to like alcohol.
Yet being of a constitution that could drink endlessly once started, I strove to drown my heart through sheer quantity.
This shallow expedient only rendered me more misanthropic with time.
In the midst of drunken stupor, I would suddenly become aware of my position.
I would realize I was a fool deliberately playacting to deceive myself.
Then with a shudder, both eyes and mind would snap back to clarity.
At times, no matter how much I drank, I found myself unable even to enter this charade and sank deeper into despondency.
Moreover, after purchasing fleeting pleasure through artifice, there always came a reaction of dark melancholy.
I had to expose this state constantly before my beloved wife and her mother.
And they began interpreting me through their own natural lens.

My wife’s mother seemed to occasionally make awkward remarks to her.
My wife kept these hidden from me.
Yet she herself appeared unable to rest unless reproaching me alone.
To call them reproaches—they were never harsh words.
There were scarcely any instances where I grew agitated over something my wife said.
She often entreated me to frankly tell her what displeased me.
Then she counseled me to quit drinking for my future.
At times she would weep and say, “You’ve become a different person lately.”
“That alone I could have borne,” she continued, “but then she adds, ‘If Mr. K were alive, you wouldn’t have turned out this way.’”
There was a time when I replied that this might be so, but since the meaning of my answer and what my wife understood were wholly different, I felt profound sorrow within.
Even then, I could not bring myself to explain anything to my wife.

I sometimes apologized to my wife.
This was often on mornings after I had returned home late and drunk.
My wife would laugh.
Or she would remain silent.
At times tears would stream down her face.
Whichever it was, I found myself unbearably distasteful.
Therefore, apologizing to my wife amounted to apologizing to myself.
I finally stopped drinking.
It would be more accurate to say I stopped not because of my wife's advice, but because I had grown weary of it myself.

I stopped drinking, but I had no inclination to do anything.
With no other choice, I read books.
But even when I read them, I would simply set them aside.
My wife often asked me why I studied.
I merely forced a bitter smile.
Yet deep down, when I thought that even the one person in this world I trusted and loved most did not understand me, I was overcome with sadness.
Even though there were means to make her understand, when I thought that I could not muster the courage to do so, it made me all the more sad.
I was desolate.
There were often times when I felt as though I were cut off from everything and living all alone in the world.

At the same time, I repeatedly pondered the cause of K's death.
At that time, perhaps because my mind was wholly dominated by the single word "love," my observations were rather simplistic and linear.
I immediately concluded that K had died precisely from failed love.
Yet as my mind gradually settled and I confronted the same phenomenon anew, it no longer seemed so easily resolvable.
The clash between reality and ideals—even that explanation remained insufficient.
In the end, I began to suspect that K, having become unbearably lonely all alone like myself, had suddenly resolved to take his own life as a result.
And then I shuddered again.
A premonition that I too was treading the path K had walked, in exactly K's manner, began to sweep through my chest like gusts of wind from time to time.

Fifty-Four

“Before long, my wife’s mother fell ill.”
When we showed her to a doctor, he pronounced it ultimately incurable.
I nursed her as devotedly as my strength allowed.
This was for the patient herself, and for my beloved wife too, but in a larger sense, it was finally for humanity.
I had long been desperate to do something—anything—but being unable to act, must have resigned myself to idleness with folded arms.
It was then that I, severed from society, first gained awareness of having reached out on my own initiative to do some small good.
I was dominated by a mood that could only be called atonement.

My mother died.
My wife and I were left with just each other.
My wife said to me, “Now there’s only one person left in the world I can rely on.”
Even though I couldn’t rely on myself, when I looked at my wife’s face, tears welled up unbidden.
Then I thought of her as a woman to be pitied.
I even let slip that she was an unfortunate woman.
“Why?” my wife asked.
She couldn’t grasp my meaning.
Nor could I explain it.
She wept.
I cursed myself—my habitually warped way of observing her had made me utter such words.

After my mother’s death, I treated my wife as kindly as I could.
However, it was not solely because I loved her.
My kindness seemed to have a broader background that transcended the personal.
It seems my heart had been moved in the same sense as when I nursed her mother.
My wife appeared satisfied.
Yet within that satisfaction, there seemed blurred, tenuous aspects arising from her inability to understand me.
But even had my wife understood me, this sense of lack would neither have increased nor diminished.
For women seem to possess a stronger inclination than men to find greater joy in kindness concentrated solely upon themselves—even when slightly breaching social propriety—rather than in love rooted in grand humanitarian principles.

My wife once said, “Is it truly impossible for a man’s heart and a woman’s heart to ever become perfectly one?”
I simply gave a vague reply that perhaps if we were young, it might be possible.
My wife seemed to be looking back on her past but eventually let out a faint sigh.

From around that time, a terrifying shadow would occasionally flash through my chest. At first, it assailed me from without by chance. I was surprised. I shuddered. However, after some time had passed, my mind began to respond to that monstrous flash. In the end, even without coming from outside, it began to seem as though it had been lurking in the depths of my chest since birth. Every time I felt that way, I would doubt whether something was wrong with my head. However, I did not feel like having a doctor or anyone else examine me.

I felt deeply the sin inherent in humanity.
That feeling compelled me to visit K’s grave every month.
That feeling compelled me to care for my wife’s mother.
And that feeling commanded me to show kindness to my wife.
Because of that feeling, there were times I even wished to be whipped by strangers on the roadside; yet as I gradually went through these stages, I came to feel that rather than being whipped by others, I should whip myself.
The thought arose that I should kill myself rather than whip myself.
Having no alternative, I resolved to live as though already dead.

How many years had passed since I made that resolution until today? My wife and I continued to live as harmoniously as before. My wife and I were certainly not unhappy; we were happy. However, this single point I possessed—this point that was anything but easy for me—seemed to have always appeared as impenetrable darkness to my wife. When I think of that, I feel terribly sorry for my wife.

55

“Having resolved to live as though dead, my heart would sometimes leap in response to external stimuli.”
But no sooner would I resolve to break out in some direction than a terrifying force would emerge from nowhere, seizing my heart in its grip and rendering me completely immobile.
Then that force would tell me, as if to crush me, “You are a man who has no right to do anything.”
At those words, I would immediately wilt like a parched plant.
When I tried to rise again after some time had passed, the restraint would return.
I would clench my teeth and shout, “Why must you interfere?”
The mysterious force would laugh coldly.
“Even though you know perfectly well,” it would say.
I would slump back down again.

Please understand that within me—though I led an uneventful life without turmoil or twists—there had always existed this agonizing conflict.
Long before my wife saw and grew frustrated, I myself had likely accumulated layers upon layers of frustration.
When I could no longer bear remaining motionless within this prison cell, and when I found myself utterly unable to break through its walls, I came to realize that ultimately, the only action I could perform with minimal effort was suicide.
You may open your eyes wide and ask why, but that mysterious terrifying force which always comes to clutch at my heart blocks my path in every direction while leaving only death's road freely open before me.
If I stayed still, that was one thing—but once I moved even slightly, I had no choice but to walk forward along that path.

Up until today, I had already attempted two or three times to proceed in the easiest direction that fate was leading me.
However, I was always drawn back by thoughts of my wife.
And I certainly did not possess the courage to take my wife with me.
Since I was incapable of confessing everything to her, even the mere thought of committing such a violent act as sacrificing her natural lifespan to my fate filled me with terror.
Just as I had my fate, my wife had her own circumstances; to bundle us together and burn us in the flames seemed to me, even from the perspective of impossibility, nothing but a cruel extreme.

At the same time, when I imagined my wife after I alone was gone, she seemed truly pitiful.
At the time of her mother’s death, I had been made to remember her reminiscence—that from then on, there would be nothing left in the world for her to rely on besides me—as though it were seared into my very being.
I always hesitated.
There were times when, upon seeing my wife’s face, I thought it was good I had stopped.
And then I would freeze rigid and cower in paralysis again.
And then I would sometimes be gazed upon by my wife with eyes that seemed unsatisfied.

Please remember.
I lived in this manner.
When I first met you in Kamakura, and when we walked together through the suburbs, there had been no real change in my state of mind.
A black shadow always clung behind me.
It was as though I dragged my life through this world for my wife's sake.
When you graduated and returned home, it remained unchanged.
When I promised to meet you again in September, I told no lie. I fully intended to meet you.
Even after autumn passed, winter came, and that winter ended, I remained determined to see you without fail.

Then, in the height of summer, Emperor Meiji passed away.
At that moment, I felt as though the spirit of Meiji had begun with the Emperor and ended with him.
The intense feeling that we who were most strongly shaped by Meiji now surviving into this new age were ultimately anachronisms struck me profoundly.
I said this to my wife regarding Emperor Meiji.
My wife laughed and did not engage, but for some reason, she suddenly teased me, saying, "Then why don't you commit junshi?"

56

“I had almost forgotten the word *junshi*.”
Since it was a term I never needed in daily life, it had sunk to memory’s depths and begun to rot there.
When my wife’s jest first made me recall it, I answered her that if I were to commit *junshi*, it would be to follow the spirit of Meiji.
My reply was of course mere jest—yet in that moment, I felt I’d somehow infused that obsolete word with new significance.

After that, about one month passed.
On the night of the grand state funeral, I sat in my study as usual and heard the signal cannons.
To me, they sounded like an announcement that Meiji had departed forever.
When I later reflected on it, they had also been the announcement of General Nogi’s eternal departure.
I took hold of the extra edition and exclaimed to my wife: “Junshi! It’s junshi!”

I read in the newspaper what General Nogi had written before his death.
When I saw the passage stating that since having his banner seized by the enemy during the Satsuma Rebellion, he had resolved to die for atonement yet lived on until this day, I involuntarily counted on my fingers, calculating how many years he had endured while prepared for death.
The Satsuma Rebellion occurred in Meiji 10, making it a span of thirty-five years until Meiji 45.
General Nogi had apparently spent those thirty-five years intending to die, intending to die, waiting for the chance to end his life.
For someone like him, I wondered which was more agonizing—the thirty-five years he lived through, or that single instant of plunging a sword into his belly.

Then, after two or three days, I finally resolved to commit suicide.
Just as I do not fully comprehend the reason for General Nogi’s death, you too may fail to grasp clearly why I take my own life—but if that be so, there is nothing to be done, for such differences stem from humanity’s variance across shifting eras.
Or perhaps it would be truer to call it a difference in the inherent natures with which individuals are born.
I believe I have expended myself utterly in this narrative thus far to make you comprehend this unfathomable self of mine to the fullest extent possible.

I would leave my wife behind.
It was a blessing that even after I was gone, she would have no worries about food, clothing, or shelter.
I did not wish to inflict cruel terror upon her.
I intended to die without showing her the color of blood.
I would vanish from this world secretly, without her knowledge.
After I died, I wanted her to think it had been a sudden death.
Even if she believed I had gone mad, I would be satisfied.

It has been over ten days since I resolved to die, but please understand that most of that time was spent writing this lengthy passage of my autobiography for you.
At first I intended to meet and speak with you directly, but when I tried writing instead, I felt a sense of joy at being able to delineate myself more clearly through this method.
I am not writing this in drunken revelry.
Since no one but myself can recount the past that formed me—this fragment of human experience—my effort to truthfully record and preserve it will not, I think, prove futile for you or others seeking to understand humanity.
I recently heard Watanabe Kazan postponed his death by one week to complete a painting titled *Kantan*.
To others this may seem superfluous, but one could say he had no choice given the personal imperative within his heart.
My efforts are not merely to fulfill my promise to you.
More than half were compelled by my own imperatives.

However, I have now fulfilled that demand.
There is nothing left for me to do.

By the time this letter fell into your hands, I would likely no longer be in this world.
I would certainly be dead.
My wife had gone to her aunt’s in Ichigaya about ten days prior.
Since her aunt was ill and short-handed, I had suggested she go.
I wrote the majority of this lengthy work during my wife’s absence.
Whenever my wife returned occasionally, I would immediately hide it.

I intend to offer my past, both good and evil, for others' reference. However, please understand that my wife alone is the exception. I do not wish to let my wife know anything. "Since my sole wish is to preserve my wife's memory of my past as unsullied as possible, even after my death—so long as she lives—please keep it all locked within your heart as my secret confided to you alone."