Natsume Soseki

To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

About the Authors

Sōseki Natsume (1867–1916) is widely considered the foremost novelist of the Meiji period (1868–1914). After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University in 1893, he taught high school before spending two years in England on a Japanese government scholarship. He returned to lecture in English literature at the university. Numerous nervous disorders forced him to give up teaching in 1908 and he became a full-time writer for the Asahi Shimbun. His nine major novels of which this was the sixth, thus appeared first in the columns of the Asahi. Today, Sōseki's novels still enjoy immense popularity in Japan, and contemporary Japanese writers continue to be affected by his work.

Sanford Goldstein, Professor Emeritus of Purdue University, USA, and Professor Emeritus of Keiwa College in Japan, holds a Ph.D from the University of Winconsin. He spent most of his working life at Purdue University, but also held positions at Niigata University and Nagasaki University. After his retirement from Purdue in 1992, he spent 11 years at Keiwa College. He is currently a visiting researcher at Keiwa Liberal Arts Research Institute. Professor Goldstein is a gifted tanka poet and founding editor of Five Lines Down, the influential American tanka magazine, and has had two recent anthologies dedicated to him. He has translated several classics of modem Japanese literature.

The late Professor Kingo Ochiai was a graduate of Tokyo University. He worked for many years at Niigata University in the Department of English, where he retired Professor Emeritus. While colleagues at Niigata, Goldstein and Ochiai collaborated on several translations, including The Wild Geese and To the Spring Equinox and Beyond.

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To the Spring Equinox and Beyond (Higan-sugi made) first appeared in serial form in the Asahi Shimbun from January to April, 1912. Like most of Soseki Natsume's works, this novel is still in print in various forms in Japan today. The subdivisions of the titled sections of the novel, separated in this translation by asterisks, represent the installments in the original serialization.

To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

1: After a Bath

After a Bath

For some days past Keitaro had been wearing himself out running around in search of a job without finding anything promising. If it had simply been a matter of scurrying here and there, he knew his strong physique could have easily carried him through. But as he was baffled time and again by opportunities that had seemed favorable, yet which suddenly became entangled and were brought to a standstill or which somehow slipped away just as he was stretching out his hand to unravel the situation, he found his mind failing him sooner than his body.

One night at supper, half out of spite, he drank several bottles of beer even though he didn't really want to, merely hoping to induce in himself as much pleasure as he could. But no amount of beer could dispel the consciousness that he was attempting to be cheerful, as it were, in another's apparel, so he called in the maid to have the supper things removed.

"Tagawa-san!" she cried out, glancing at his face, this followed by "Oh, heavens, Tagawa-san!"

Passing his hand over his face, Keitaro said, "Red, isn't it? It's too precious a color to keep this long under an electric lamp. I'd better get to bed. Please make it up for me." Warding off another remark from the maid, he went out into the hallway. After washing up, he slid into bed, muttering to himself that he would rest a few days.

He woke twice during the night, once from thirst, once from a dream. When he opened his eyes a third time, the day was dawning. As soon as he was aware of the world being astir, he said to himself, "Rest, rest," and again dozed off. He was next awakened by the boarding-house clock rudely striking the hour into his ear. To sleep after that was impossible no matter how hard he tried. Giving up, he smoked until the ashes of the half-finished cigarette dropped onto his white pillowcase. Still he resolved not to leave his bed. But the bright sun came through the eastern window, the rays giving him a slight headache. At last he yielded, got up, and went over to the public bathhouse, a toothbrush in his mouth, a towel in his hand.

It was just after ten by the bathhouse clock. All the wooden buckets in the bath area were piled on one side. No one was there except a man whose profile could be seen in the tub. He was idly dabbing his hands in the water as he looked at the sunlight coming through the windowpanes. It turned out to be Morimoto, who lived in Keitaro's boardinghouse. Keitaro's "Good morning" was returned, the other adding, "Say, you've got a toothbrush in your mouth at this late hour. That accounts for there being no light in your room last night, doesn't it?"

"My light was on all evening. Mine's a clean life— unlike yours. You know very well I seldom go out on the town at night."

"Right. You're a man of exemplary conduct, so much so I envy you."

Keitaro felt slightly embarrassed by this. Morimoto, his body below the midriff immersed in the bath, still kept dabbing at the water, his face rather serious.

Keitaro, looking at each drenched hair of the man's moustache drooping down on his carefree face, said, "Let's forget about me. What's wrong with you? Aren't you going to work today?"

"It's a holiday," Morimoto answered, his elbows languidly on the rim of the tub, his forehead down on them as if he were suffering from a headache.

"What for?"

"Oh, for nothing in particular. One I'm taking on my own."

Keitaro felt as if unexpectedly he had found someone of his own sort. He cried out, "So you're taking a day off too!"

"That's right," Morimoto replied, still leaning over the rim of the tub.

Not until Keitaro stood before a wooden bucket and the bathman began washing his back did Morimoto emerge from the water, his body so red that steam rose from it. He squatted on the floor, an expression of exquisite comfort on his face. Looking in admiration at Keitaro's muscular body, he said, "That's quite a physique you've got!"

"It's gotten worse lately."

"Hardly. If you call yours worse, mine's. ." Morimoto drew Keitaro's attention to his stomach, slapping it with his hand. His belly had so caved in that it seemed drawn toward his back. "My job, you know," he observed, "makes it worse and worse. Though I've aggravated it by a good deal of intemperance." He then burst into a laugh as though he had suddenly remembered something.

"How about one of your old stories?" Keitaro suggested, his voice attuned to the other's laugh. "It's been quite a while since I've heard one. I have lots of free time today."

"Certainly," Morimoto replied, but while he showed briskness in response, he was quite slow to move. Or rather, it was a temporary suspension of activity caused by the boiling of his muscles in the hot water.

While Keitaro rubbed his soaped head, the soles of his feet, and the roots of his toes, Morimoto remained seated on the floor, showing no sign of washing any part of his anatomy. At last he flung his emaciated body into the heated water again, and at about the same time as Keitaro, he got up to dry off.

"Sometimes it's nice to have a bath in the morning, when the water's clean," Morimoto said.

"Yes, especially for you, since you take it not to wash yourself, but just to be in hot water — I mean, not for any practical purpose but merely for the pleasure of bathing."

"I'm not that particular when I bathe; I just couldn't be bothered washing up when I come in the morning. Whether in or out of water, I'm idle. Compared to me, you're three times more industrious. You wash from head to toe and leave no part untouched. You even brush your teeth! I'm impressed by your thoroughness."

They left the bathhouse together. Morimoto wanted to buy a roll of writing paper from a shop on a nearby street, and Keitaro thought he might as well go along. Turning east at the corner of the side street, they found the main road in bad condition. With a kind of contempt over the traces of mud kneaded and splattered by horses and vehicles and pedestrians that had trampled the dirt soaked by last night's rain, the two walked on. The sun was high overhead, but the vapor rising from the earth still seemed to be drawing its waves on the horizon.

"A pity," Morimoto said, "that a late riser like you missed the sights we had early this morning. The sun was high, but there was a thick mist. You could make out all the streetcar passengers distinctly silhouetted like shadows on a screen. With the sunlight behind them, each looked like a grayish monster. It was the funniest sight, really extraordinary."

Morimoto went into the stationer's, leaving Keitaro waiting, and soon came back out, his hand keeping the envelopes and rolled writing paper from falling out of the front of his kimono. The two retraced their steps and returned to their boardinghouse, where they climbed the two flights of stairs to their floor, the padded sound of their slippers audible. Keitaro opened the shoji to his room and invited Morimoto in.

"But it's nearly lunchtime," Morimoto said, showing none of the hesitation his words implied and following Keitaro in as easily as if the room were his own. "You've got a fine view all the time," he commented as he opened the shoji window and put his wet towel on the wooden railing outside.

Keitaro had long been curious about this person who went to Shimbashi Station every day and who seldom fell ill despite his emaciated body. Over thirty and still a bachelor living in a boardinghouse, he was working at the station, but what he was in charge of or what actual work he was engaged in was all a blank to Keitaro, for he had never asked Morimoto about it, nor had the other mentioned it. When Keitaro occasionally went to the station to see someone off, he was too busy among the crowds even to associate the place with Morimoto, and there were no instances when Morimoto came into view to remind Keitaro of his existence. Their acquaintance was merely one which had begun by exchanges of greetings and talk on everyday topics simply because of their lodging in the same house for a long time or because of a mutual sympathy shared by such men.

This being their relationship, Keitaro's curiosity about Morimoto was perhaps less in terms of Morimoto's present state of affairs than his past. He had once heard from Morimoto about his having been an honest husband whose wife had given birth to a child who had later died. Keitaro still remembered being amused by the words the other had spoken at the time: "I guess you could say that my kid's death rescued me — I was in great fear, you know, of my sanjin's curses." Keitaro had not even known what a sanjin was. Morimoto informed him, "It's only 'mountain god' pronounced in the Chinese way." In recollecting what Morimoto had told him, Keitaro felt the man's past had in it a touch of romanticism which emitted a light as mysterious as a comet's tail.

In addition to anecdotes about women joined to or separated from him, Morimoto was the hero of various adventures. Apparently he had not yet gone seal hunting with a gun on Kaihyo Island, but it seemed certain he had once made a fortune from salmon fishing somewhere in Hokkaido. And it was undoubtedly a fact, since Morimoto had himself confessed it, that he had started a rumor about a vein of antimony in a mountain in Shikoku from which no antimony had yet been extracted. But the most extraordinary event of all was his plan to establish a company for manufacturing taps. He said he had hit on the idea out of the fact that few craftsmen in Tokyo were making these for sake casks, but to his lasting regret, a quarrel with an artisan he had summoned from Osaka had ruined the entire scheme.

When it came to stories outside his business dealings, he easily proved himself in possession of a rich stock of material. That he saw many a bear taking a nap on its back on rocks in the mountains beyond the upper part of the Chikuma River in Shinano Province was the least extraordinary part of one of his tales. He proceeded to tell a still more unusual story concerning his having been surprised by a blind man climbing to the summit of Mount Togakushi, which is too steep even for ordinary men. A pilgrim aiming to get to the sanctuary at Togakushi Shrine is compelled, no matter how strong his legs, to spend a night on the path. About halfway up, Morimoto was passing the night by a fire he had made to ward off the chill. Suddenly he caught the tinkling sound of a bell below. He was wondering about it as it drew nearer until all at once a blind man appeared. And, what was more, the blind man wished him a good night and went on his way. On being questioned by Keitaro, who found the story a bit unbelievable, Morimoto explained that the blind man had a guide with a bell tied to his belt and that he could follow the route by the sound. Though partly satisfied with this explanation, Keitaro still considered the story rather strange.

Morimoto proceeded still further with his odd tales. What might almost be called a mystery emerged in full detail from those lips under the drooping moustache. He had once visited Yabakei Valley and Rakanji Temple there. It was already dark when he had come down from the temple along a road lined with huge cedar trees.

Suddenly a woman went by — a woman dressed in a long-sleeved kimono and a rich sash, her face powdered and rouged, her hair done up as if for a wedding ceremony. She was walking all alone in sandals toward the temple. It was hardly possible that she had any business there, since the gate of the temple would have already been closed by that time. Yet the woman in full dress, Morimoto had said, was going up that dark way all by herself.

Whenever Keitaro heard such stories, he could not help smiling with incredulity and saying, "Really!" Nevertheless, he was eager to give a willing ear to Morimoto's eloquent narratives.

That day too it was with just such an expectation that Keitaro had accompanied him from the bathhouse, even taking a roundabout way back. Morimoto was not much older than the other, but to Keitaro, fresh out of school, the experiences of a man who seemed to have gone through all sorts of barriers in the world were not only interesting but, if properly considered, profitable.

Moreover, Keitaro was a youth with a romantic cast to his personality and a hatred of mediocrity. When tales of a certain Otomatsu Kodama appeared serially in the Asahi newspaper, he read them each morning with the zeal of a middle school boy. He was especially interested in those passages describing Otomatsu's fight with an octopus monster that had leaped from its den. Keitaro had enthusiastically repeated the story to a student in his department — how the hero had fired his revolver at the huge octopus head, all to no avail because it was so slippery that the bullets merely slid away. Eventually small octopuses that had come out after their leader formed a ring around the man. The hero wondered what they were going to do; it turned out that they were spectators eager to see which party would win. The friend to whom Keitaro had told the story said half in jest, "You're quite a character! I suppose you'll never be content to take the higher civil service exams and pursue a steady career. When you graduate, you'd be better off heading for the South Seas to hunt octopuses, since you seem to like them so much!" Among Keitaro's friends the phrase "Tagawa's octopus-hunting" became fashionable. Whenever they met him in his search for entrance into the world, walking himself lame since his graduation that summer, they asked him, "Well, have you been successful on your octopus hunt?"

To hunt octopuses in the South Seas was too fanciful an occupation even for Keitaro to attempt seriously. But in his student days he had contemplated cultivating rubber plantations in Singapore. At that time he had never tired of imagining himself the superintendent of a plantation, his bungalow built in the midst of a limitless plain filled with millions of well-kept rubber trees. According to his plan, the bungalow would have its bare floor covered with a huge tiger skin. One wall would hold a pair of buffalo horns cradling a gun, and underneath would be a Japanese sword protected in a brocaded bag. He himself, a white turban round his head, would magnanimously be smoking a strong-smelling Havana cigar as he rested on a rattan lounge chair set on a spacious veranda. Moreover, under his feet with its back raised like a hill would crouch a mysterious Sumatran black cat with a coat of fur smooth as velvet, eyes of pure gold, and a tail far longer than its body.

With everything thus furnished to his imagined satisfaction, Keitaro had set about calculating the necessary expenses. To his disappointment he found that renting the plantation grounds would be troublesome and would take a long time. And even with the ground finally secured, there came the great difficulty of cultivation. Expenses for breaking ground and planting were far more than he had anticipated. Besides these complexities, he learned he would have to employ men to weed all year round, and then, with arms folded like a fool, he would have to wait six years for the saplings to grow. All of this resulted in his beginning to regard these as sufficient reasons for withdrawing his plan. At this point, the expert in the business who had given him this information warned him that the supply of rubber produced in the region would soon exceed the world demand and that it was certain the cultivators would be in a panic a few years hence. After Keitaro heard about all these circumstances, never again did he speak of rubber.

Though thus thwarted once, Keitaro's passion for the extraordinary was not to be cooled down by such a trifle. Living in a large city, he took delight not only in dreaming of distant countries and their peoples, but the mere contemplation of commonplace women who happened to be on the same streetcar with him or matter-of-fact men going past him on his walks raised in him the suspicion that each of them might be concealing under his mantle or in the sleeve of her overcoat something out of the ordinary. And it was his wish to turn that mantle or overcoat inside out to catch a glimpse of that uncommonness, and then, having viewed it, to resume an air of indifference.

This bent in Keitaro seemed to have started to assert itself forcibly during his high school days. A teacher of English at his school used Stevenson's New Arabian Nights as the class text. Until then Keitaro had a strong dislike of English, but the book so interested him that he never failed to prepare his lessons, and each time the teacher called on him, he stood and translated the assigned passage. Once he was so excited by the story that, forgetting the distinction between fiction and reality, he asked the teacher quite seriously, "Did such things really happen in nineteenth-century London?"

A recent returnee from England, the teacher drew a linen handkerchief from a hip pocket under his black melton morning coat and, patting his nose, replied, "Possibly, and not only in the nineteenth century, but at present as well. London is really the strangest city."

This reply caused Keitaro's eyes to sparkle.

"But," the teacher went on, rising from his chair, "our writer is, as you know, noted for his original observations, and naturally his view of events is different from that of ordinary men, which might be why he came up with such stories. He was the type who even found romance in a hansom moving along the street."

Keitaro could not understand how a hansom and romance could be linked, so he ventured to ask. The teacher's explanation satisfied him.

Since that time, whenever he saw a rickshaw — that most commonplace vehicle in the most commonplace city of Tokyo — waiting for hire, he thought that perhaps this same one the night before had had in it a man carrying a kitchen knife to be used in committing a murder, or that it might have transported a beautiful woman under its hood, bringing her to some station to catch a train that would take her in the opposite direction from the one in which her pursuers thought she was going. In this way Keitaro often amused himself with imaginary terrors and delights.

As he indulged in such fantasies, there arose in him the idea that in so complicated a world something ought to happen to him that would send a fresh stimulus through his nerves, something unusual, even though it might not be exactly what he anticipated. Ever since he had left school, however, his life consisted of merely going about on streetcars and visiting strangers with letters of introduction, so there was nothing in it particularly like a novel. He was bored to death each day to see the same face of the boardinghouse maid and to eat the meals she served him. If a possibility to work for the Manchurian Railway or the Governor General of Korea had been realized, it would have at least relieved him of boredom, providing stimulus of a sort as well as a livelihood. But a few days ago it had become quite evident that he had little chance for such a job, so he had fallen into a listlessness which made him feel that the common-placeness around him was closely related to his own incompetence. He even lost the courage to make one of his desultory explorations of human lives on streetcars, which could be done as easily as walking in search of small coins fallen on the road. Still less could he bring himself to run about looking for some means of earning a living. And so in spite of having no real desire to, he had consumed a large volume of beer the previous night and had gone to bed early.

On such occasions it was a kind of stimulation for Keitaro to look at the face of a Morimoto, who could only be described as a commonplace type with an abundance of uncommon experiences. It was for this reason that Keitaro had invited Morimoto into his room, even going so far as to accompany him to a shop merely to buy a roll of writing paper.

Sitting at the window, Morimoto gazed outside for some time. "A fine view you get any season of the year," he said, "but especially on a day like today. It certainly makes a picture, doesn't it? That red brick house there among the trees, the warm-colored leaves under a sky as clean as though it's just been washed."

"Yes, perhaps," said Keitaro, not knowing how to respond.

Morimoto turned his eyes to the boards projecting about a foot outside the windowsill on which he was resting an elbow. "This could only look right if it had a bonsai or two on it," he said.

Keitaro thought that might be true, but lacking the courage to repeat the same "Yes, perhaps," he asked instead, "Do you even have a taste for things like paintings and bonsai?"

"Have a taste for? That's a good question — they certainly don't seem to fit my character, do they? But believe me, though I'm telling you myself, I've dabbled in bonsai and kept goldfish, and at one time I drew for the fun of it."

"You seem capable of anything."

"A jack-of-all-trades has ultimately become a master of none, as I am now." At these words no sharp lines of grief for his past or despair over his present appeared on his face. In fact, he showed no change of expression as he looked at Keitaro.

"But," Keitaro began seriously, "I'm always wanting, no matter how small a share, the varied kind of career you've had—"

Morimoto hurried to interrupt, holding out his right hand in front of his face and waving it back and forth as a drunken man might. "That's about the worst idea that can exist," he said. "Young men — though I may not be much older than you — anyway, young men want to do something strange and new. But when you've done all those things which are supposed to be strange and new and when you look back on them, you think, 'How meaningless all that was! How much better it would have been if I hadn't done them, if it's only come to this.' You're a young man with the world before you. Just be what you are and you'll gain as much prosperity as you wish. To risk your life on such things as speculation or adventure at this important time, well, it deserves the name of disloyalty to your loving parents. But, I've been thinking for some time about asking you but couldn't because I was too busy — have you found a good job?"

Honest by nature, Keitaro told the truth without disguising his dejection, adding that he was resting a few days because for the time being he had little prospect of success.

"Really?" exclaimed Morimoto with a surprised look. "I didn't know there was even the slightest difficulty for university graduates in finding jobs. A very bad time indeed. I guess it must be, seeing that we're well into the forties of Meiji." He spoke with his head inclined, as though he were ruminating on the truth behind his own reasoning.

The man's attitude did not seem that ridiculous to Keitaro, but caused him to wonder whether his friend had deliberately chosen his words with an awareness of their philosophical implications or whether he was unable to express himself in words other than these because of ignorance.

Suddenly Morimoto, holding his head upright, continued, "Well, if you like, how about a railway job? If you have no objection, should I talk to someone?"

Romantic as he was, Keitaro could not imagine that a good position could be obtained through the influence of this man. On the other hand, Keitaro was not that sophisticated to feel that a kind-hearted suggestion dropped so casually was made merely to poke fun at him. He did not know what answer to give, so he merely smiled and called the maid to tell her to bring in Morimoto's lunch together with his own and some sake too.

At the start Morimoto said he had been abstaining from drink recently because of his health. Nevertheless, he emptied his sake cup as soon as Keitaro filled it. And when he finally said, "Let this be the last," he took up the sake container and helped himself. He was usually a quiet man with an easy, careless air about him. But as he drank one cup after another, his quietness took on an ardor, and his carelessness seemed to swell out larger and larger.

"Now I'm equal to anything," he began bragging. "I wouldn't be the least bit worried if they fired me tomorrow." When he noticed Keitaro, who was a poor drinker, keeping him company by taking a sip every now and then as if he only just remembered the cup before him, Morimoto went on, "You really can't drink, can you, Tagawa-san? Strange, you don't like sake, and you love adventure. Yet all adventure begins with drink and ends with a woman."

A few minutes before, he had been disparaging his past life as worthless. But now elated with drink, he changed radically and began talking big, a halo, as it were, reflecting back on himself. And most of his bragging was about his failures.

"Why, my friend," he dared to say as if in defiance of Keitaro, "let me tell you — you're fresh from school and know nothing of the world yet. Let anyone display his M.A. or Ph.D. as much as he wants. I wouldn't be cowed in the least. I know better — I'm all practice and experience." He spoke in a challenging and rude way, as though he had completely forgotten the deep respect he had paid a moment earlier to education. But suddenly with a sigh as loud as a belch, he began to complain about his ignorance.

"In a word, I've gotten along in this world like an ape. I flatter myself that I know ten times as much of the world as you do, yet I'm still bound to earthly passions. That's because of my ignorance, my total lack of education. Though you know, of course, an educated man wouldn't be allowed the kind of varied life I've had."

Since Keitaro had for a while been looking upon Morimoto as if he were a pitiable pioneer, he had been listening to him with considerable attention. But whether or not it was the effect of the sake Keitaro had treated him to, Morimoto's talk, to his listener's regret, tended toward bombast and complaint rather than to those characteristic stories of his which usually excited in Keitaro a pure interest in listening. Keitaro eventually brought the drinking to an end, but Morimoto's talk still remained ungratifying. So Keitaro made some fresh tea and, offering the other a cup, said, "I always find stories of your experience quite interesting. Not only that, but they're profitable to someone as inexperienced as I am. So I'm grateful to you. But of all the things you've done, what do you think was the most exciting?"

Morimoto, remaining silent, blew on the hot tea, his bloodshot eyes blinking a few times. "Well," he said at last after he emptied the deep cup, "looking back on those things I did, all of them seem both interesting and worthless at the same time, so I can't tell which is which. Now, when you say exciting, do you mean something with a woman in it?"

"Not necessarily, but I have no objection to a woman's having something to do with it."

"Now I see that you prefer such a story — but to be serious, Tagawa-san, whether exciting or not, I once had a life that seemed to me more carefree than any I know of in the world. Shall I tell you something to gossip about over tea?"

Keitaro's response was immediate.

"Then let me go to the toilet first," Morimoto said rising, "but I warn you — there's no woman involved. In fact, there are few human beings."

With these words behind him, Morimoto left the room. Keitaro, his curiosity aroused, waited for him to return.

Five minutes passed while he waited and then ten, but the adventurer failed to reappear. Getting impatient, Keitaro at last went down to the toilet, but Morimoto wasn't there. Just to make sure, he went upstairs again to try Morimoto's room. The shoji was open a few inches, and Morimoto was lying in the middle of the room, his head resting on one bent arm, his back toward the entrance. Keitaro called out two or three times, but the other gave no sign of moving. Good-natured as Keitaro was, he was annoyed, so entering without permission, he grabbed Morimoto by the neck and shook him vigorously. Morimoto half jumped to his feet with a cry, as though he had unexpectedly been stung by a wasp. But no sooner did he look back at Keitaro's face than he lapsed again into dreamy eyes, saying, "Is it you? Perhaps I drank too much — I felt a little sick. So I came back to rest a few minutes and dozed off."

Since the excuse had no mockery in it, Keitaro could no longer be angry. But he realized that the story he was so eager to hear was as much as brought to a halt, so he decided to return to his room alone. Morimoto, however, came after him saying, "Sorry. Thanks for coming in."

Back in Keitaro's room, Morimoto sat up straight with knees folded squarely on the same cushion he had been sitting on before. "Now then," he began, "shall I start my story of the world's most unique, carefree life?"

The story he termed the most carefree life involved an experience that he had had more than a dozen years ago while he was traveling through the interior of Hokkaido as a survey engineer. Night after night his party pitched its tent in places devoid of human habitation. As soon as work at a particular region was finished, the tent was carried to the next site. As Morimoto had said earlier, it was only natural that no women appeared in the story.

"Imagine the difficulty of making your way by cutting a path through bamboo twenty feet high!" He held his hand above his head to show how high the bamboo grew and then proceeded to tell about seeing coiled adders lying on either side of the newly cut path, enjoying the morning sun shining on their scales. From a safe distance, one of Morimoto's companions would hold down an adder with a long stick while another man beat it to death. "Then they'd broil the flesh and eat it."

"How did it taste?" asked Keitaro.

"I don't remember that well," he replied, "but it was sort of between fish and meat."

At night they would fling their exhausted bodies under thick piles of bamboo leaves and twigs with which they had covered the ground inside the tent. But sometimes they spent the night around a fire they had made outside, and on such occasions they often saw huge bears right before their eyes. The group always used a mosquito net to ward off the numerous insects. Once they took it down to a stream in a valley and caught fish with it. That night and some nights thereafter they were troubled by a fishy smell from the net. All this was part of what Morimoto had called his carefree life.

He also talked about trying every kind of edible mushroom. One called masu-dake was as big as a large tray, and when cut into pieces and boiled in miso soup, it tasted exactly like fishpaste; another called tsukimi-dake was a monster of a mushroom, huge as a circle made by two outstretched arms, but to the regret of the party inedible; and then there was one called nezumi-dake, which was pretty, like trefoil root. Of these mushrooms Morimoto gave detailed accounts. He also added that he used to pick wild grapes, put them in a large hat, and eat so many so often that he roughened his tongue to the point where he couldn't even eat rice.

Morimoto's story did not end with his episode of eating. He also recounted the miserable experience of his party's having no food for an entire week. This had occurred when the carriers had gone down to a village for rice. The route lay along the bottom of a ravine, and after the party had descended, heavy rains suddenly filled the valley with flood-like torrents, making it impossible for the carriers to ascend with heavy loads of rice on their backs. Almost starving to death, Morimoto lay stretched out, simply gazing upward at the sky until he became so dazed he could no longer tell day from night.

"When you don't eat or drink that long, you have no excrement, I suppose?" Keitaro asked.

"Well yes, I still had some," Morimoto answered in an easy tone.

Keitaro couldn't help smiling. But what was even more humorous was Morimoto's description of the heavy winds he had experienced. While on this surveying trip through a wild tract thick with pampas grass, his party had once been caught in a gale so violent they couldn't hold their faces against it. They had crept on all fours into a dense wood nearby. Huge trees measuring a few arm spans around were being whipped and swayed by these gusts, boughs and branches making tremendous sounds. The trees were shaking even to their roots, the result being that the ground the party was creeping along shook as if from an earthquake.

"Then you weren't able to keep standing even sheltered in the woods?" asked Keitaro.

"We were lying flat on the ground!" Morimoto replied.

Keitaro burst out laughing in spite of himself, for he could not believe that even such violent winds could have been powerful enough to cause an earthquake by moving the roots of huge trees extended deeply underground. Morimoto also began laughing aloud as if the story were someone else's, but when he finished laughing, he suddenly turned serious, his hand stretched out as if to stop Keitaro's mouth.

"It may sound funny, but it is true. I know I'm a crude person, one who's had some rather out-of-the-ordinary experiences — things that are not up to common sense— yet it's true, although I must admit that it might seem quite unbelievable to you with all your learning. But let me tell you, Tagawa-san, there are many odd things in this world besides the gale I just spoke about, and although you seem to be hankering after such things, you must give them up. You're a university graduate, you know. And when the time comes, in nine cases out of ten you'll only think of your own status anyway. Even if you are determined to lower it, none of you students nowadays have that much curiosity to throw away your positions to go wandering about in the world as they did in the old days to avenge a parent's murder or something. In fact, you're safe from such whims because the people around you won't allow you to carry them out."

To Keitaro, these words sounded like those of a man in exultation as well as adversity. He thought a life so removed from the beaten track might, as Morimoto had asserted, be impossible for an ordinary university graduate. But not content to admit it, he said in a deliberately contradictory tone, "Yes, I am a university graduate. Yet I haven't yet found any of those positions you make so much of. In fact, I'm tired of looking around for one."

When Keitaro spoke as if he were abandoning his efforts, Morimoto put on a rather more solemn look than usual. "You don't have a position and yet you do. I have a position and yet I don't. That's the difference between us," he said as if expostulating to an inexperienced youth.

This oracular sentence did not make much sense to Keitaro. For a while they smoked on silently.

"I too — I too," Morimoto said, beginning again, "am tired of the railway job I've been at now for nearly three years, and soon I'm going to quit. If I don't, I'm sure they'll fire me. Three years at one job is a long time for me."

Keitaro offered no opinion as to whether it was better for Morimoto to give up his job or not. As he had no experience of resigning from a post or even of being forced to, he was indifferent to the other man's problem about keeping his job or leaving it. He was conscious only of becoming weary by talk that had taken a practical turn.

Morimoto seemed to have noticed that he was boring Keitaro; he suddenly changed the tone and subject of his talk to some cheerful, gossipy topics and after ten minutes or so rose to leave. "Thanks a lot. And Tagawa-san, whatever you have to do, you should do it while you're young." With these words, which might have been expected from the mouth of someone over fifty, he left Keitaro's room.

For a week or so Keitaro had no opportunity to have any long chats with Morimoto. But living in the same boardinghouse, they seldom missed seeing each other in the morning or evening. When they met at the wash-stand, Keitaro invariably noticed Morimoto's padded robe with its neckband of black cloth. And when Morimoto returned from work, Keitaro often noticed that he changed into a new suit with an open jacket and went out again carrying a queer-looking stick. In Keitaro's own departures and returns, he knew upon seeing this cane in the porcelain umbrella-stand on the dirt floor of the boardinghouse entrance that Morimoto was in the house. And then it happened that even though the cane was where it usually was, its owner had suddenly disappeared.

A few days passed without Keitaro's being aware of anything amiss with Morimoto, but when Keitaro had seen nothing of him for about five days, he began to wonder. From the maid who waited on him at breakfast, he learned that Morimoto had gone on a business trip. Since he was a government clerk, it was possible he had been sent somewhere on official duty. Yet to Keitaro, who had appraised the man as a functionary whose job was no more important than forwarding baggage, this information was somewhat unexpected. But when the maid further explained that Morimoto had said upon departing that he would be traveling for five or six days and that his return was to be on this day or the next, Keitaro was satisfied with her account. However, the days Morimoto was due back passed, and his figure in the padded dressing gown was not seen at the washstand. Only his queer cane remained in the umbrella holder.

At last the landlady came to ask Keitaro if he had received a letter from Morimoto. Keitaro replied that he himself had been thinking of going down to ask her the same thing. She left the room with an anxious look flickering in her round, owl-like eyes. Another week elapsed without bringing Morimoto back. Keitaro began having suspicions too. Passing the boardinghouse office, he deliberately stopped to inquire about Morimoto. But after that, he thought it better to start searching for a job again, so he was too occupied to inquire further. The truth was that he had, as Morimoto had predicted, given up the right to be an adventurer in order to seek a livelihood.

One night, the landlord went up to Keitaro's room and asked if he could come in. After he had opened the shoji and entered, he brought out from between his sash and kimono an oldish pipe case and a tobacco pouch, pulling open the case with a loud popping sound. He filled the silver bowl of his pipe with tobacco and deftly blew two thick columns of smoke through his nostrils. Keitaro was wondering why the landlord was taking his time about informing him of the purpose behind this visit until the man at last spoke up plainly.

"I've come to ask a favor," he began. Then lowering his voice, he added abruptly, "Would you please tell me where Morimoto-san is? I promise you won't get into any trouble by telling me."

The question was one that Keitaro least expected, and for a while he did not know what to say. "What on earth's wrong?" was all he could finally come out with as he looked into the landlord's face. He tried to read in it the man's intention. The landlord, his pipe apparently blocked, was using a metal charcoal stick from Keitaro's brazier to pick at tar in the bowl of the pipe. This task done, he puffed several times at the mouthpiece to see if the bamboo stem drew well. It was only after he had done these things that he set about to explain.

According to the landlord, Morimoto's rent was about six months in arrears. Because he had been a lodger in the house for nearly three years and had not idled about, the landlord had not pestered him for payment, relying on his word that he would find some means to clear everything up by the end of the year. And now he had gone on a trip. Everyone in the house believed, as Morimoto had told each of them, that he was away on business, but since he had not returned even some days after the appointed time and had not written a letter of any sort, they had begun to have doubts. So they had examined his room, and at the same time the landlord inquired at Shimbashi Station as to where he had been sent. All his things were in the room as before, but the information received at the station was surprising: Supposedly on a business trip, Morimoto had actually been dismissed at the end of the previous month.

"Such being the case," the landlord said, "I thought you might let me know where he is, since you were so friendly with him. That's why I've come. I don't intend to ask you to do anything about his rent. Could you please just let me have his address?"

Keitaro was rather annoyed by the landlord's treating him as if he were a crony of the missing man and had something to do with his dishonorable conduct. True, Keitaro had recently been approaching Morimoto with a kind of secret admiration, but to be regarded as his confidant in such a vulgar affair was, he felt, a disgrace to a youth on the threshold of life.

The honest Keitaro was angry with the landlord for the mistaken accusation. But even before anger, he had received an impression of something uncanny, as if his hand had grasped unawares the cold body of a snake. The misunderstanding by this fellow who, with a peculiar sort of composure, filled his pipe with tobacco scooped from an old-fashioned pouch, gave Keitaro as much uneasiness as if the misconjecture had been correct. The landlord handled his pipe as deftly as if it were a part of the art of negotiating. Keitaro observed this behavior for some time; at the same time he felt regret at finding no means to dispel suspicion save by emphasizing his own ignorance. As he expected, the landlord did not soon stow away his smoking equipment, but put his pipe in and out of the case, inevitably repeating that popping sound each time until Keitaro began to feel he had to silence it by any means.

"I am, as you know, a poor student fresh from school with no definite position yet, but I think I'm a man of some education. It's an insult to my pride to be lumped together with a vagabond like Morimoto, still more to be suspected of having a connection with him in some underhanded scheme. It's impertinent of you to be so insistent in your suspicions when I've said I know nothing of his whereabouts. If that's your way of treating a lodger who's lived here for two years, so be it. I have my own thoughts on the matter. During the two years that I've lived here, have I ever been in arrears for even a month?"

The landlord affirmed repeatedly that he had no doubts whatsoever about Keitaro's integrity and, asking once more not to forget to let him know Morimoto's address if Keitaro should receive a letter from him, said he would apologize as much as Keitaro wished if what he had said had given offense.

Keitaro replied simply, "Good," desiring only to have that pouch put rapidly away, and at last the tools of negotiation were stowed behind the sash. When the man left the room, there was no indication of his doubting Keitaro, so he thought he had done well to show his annoyance.

Some days later, a new lodger was occupying Morimoto's room. Keitaro was curious to know what had been done with Morimoto's possessions, but ever since the landlord had brought in those smoking utensils for that parley, Keitaro was determined not to ask again about Morimoto's affairs, so at least outwardly he behaved as if he were quite indifferent. He continued indefatigably but with less impatience to hunt for a position even though he remained dubious of success, thinking it his immediate obligation to make the effort.

One evening his search took him to Uchisaiwaicho, but he found that the man he was calling on was away from home. Returning by streetcar, he was attracted to a woman seated just opposite him. On her back under a short coat of yellowish silk she carried a baby. She was a rather smart-looking woman of the geisha type, her eyebrows dark and slender, her neck graceful, and by no means looking like someone who should be carrying on her back an infant under a short coat, though Keitaro thought it had to be her own child. He was even more puzzled when he further observed that she wore under her short apron a rich checkered kimono of silk crepe. It had been a rainy day, and each of the five or six passengers held a closed umbrella in one hand like a cane. Hers was a black janome, which she propped beside her seat, apparently averse to touching the cold and wet lacquered ribs. Near the top of the closed umbrella, Keitaro noticed three Chinese characters, Ka-ru-ta, written in red lacquer.

The woman, whose background was difficult to ascertain, whether as a professional geisha or an ordinary housewife; the baby whose legitimacy seemed dubious; the white complexion and downcast eyes under slightly slanted dark eyebrows; the kimono of silk crepe and the distinct characters on the janome denoting the woman's geisha-like name — these alternately came to excite Keitaro's imagination and to remind him suddenly of the woman Morimoto had spoken of — the woman who had once been married to him and who had borne their child. Bit by bit Keitaro recalled Morimoto's own words: "You'll laugh at my lingering attachment to her after this length of time, but she was rather good-looking with those dark eyebrows of hers that often slanted when she spoke." Keitaro gave renewed attention to the owner of the umbrella with the name written on it. Presently the woman got off the streetcar and disappeared in the rain, leaving him recalling Morimoto's face and bearing and thinking of the destiny that had taken him to he knew not where. When Keitaro returned to his boardinghouse, he found on his desk a letter, the sender's name missing from the envelope.

His curiosity aroused, Keitaro tore open the anonymous envelope. His eyes were drawn first to the "My dear Tagawa" on the first line of the ruled foreign-style paper and then to the end of the same line, where "from Morimoto" was written. Keitaro immediately picked up the envelope again and tried reading the postmark, scrutinizing it from various angles, but it was so thinly inked he could not make it out. Giving up, he returned to the contents of the letter, which ran as follows: My sudden disappearance must have surprised you, I dare say. If not you, certainly the Marten and the Owl. [Morimoto had been in the habit of calling the landlord and his wife by these nicknames.] Frankly, I was somewhat in arrears with my rent. I thought if I told them my intentions, they would make things difficult, so I said nothing and acted on my own. The things I left in my room — clothing and other items all packed in a wicker trunk — will, I hope, bring them a considerable sum when they are disposed of. Please tell them they can sell these things or use them in whatever way they wish. But the Marten — you know what an old fox he is — may have already done whatever he wished without my permission. Furthermore, made bold by peaceful attitude, he may, I fear, get you into trouble by asking you, quite preposterously, to make up for the loss of my rent. In that case, take no heed of what he says. Beware of fellows such as the Marten who attempt to prey on persons like you who have emerged into the world fresh from seats of learning. Uneducated though I am, I know how bad it is to bolt without paying one's debts. I really intend to pay up this coming spring. I'll feel very sad if my odd career has led you to doubt my honesty, for it would mean to me the loss of a dear friend. Therefore, let there be no misunderstanding because of what fellows like the Marten say about me.

Morimoto next stated that he was employed as caretaker of the amusement grounds of the Electric Park in Dairen and that he would be in Tokyo next spring to buy some motion pictures, so he was looking forward to seeing Keitaro after this long absence. After that bit of news he cheerfully added a brief description of the various places in Manchuria he had visited. What surprised Keitaro most among these was the scene of a gambling den in Changchun. It was run by a Japanese who had once been captain of a band of bandits on horseback. Hundreds of begrimed Chinese were bustling and jostling there, all with frantic eyes, all emitting some sort of stench. The place was often secretly resorted to by wealthy townspeople deliberately clad in dirty garb. Keitaro thought that Morimoto as well had done heaven knows what there.

Near the end of the letter Morimoto wrote about a bonsai: That potted plum in my room is one I bought from a gardener at Dozaka. Though the tree is not very old yet, it's perfectly suitable for being looked at morning and evening on a boardinghouse windowsill. I want to present it to you as a gift, so please take it to your room. But the tree may have perished in my alcove, untended by people deficient in artistic taste. My cane at least must be in the umbrella stand on the dirt floor at the entrance. It isn't a very good cane in terms of value, but as it was one I habitually used, it's my wish that you accept it as a token from me. Even the Marten and Owl won't object to your taking it. Don't be shy. Just take it and use it.Manchuria is an agreeable spot to live in, especially Dairen. At least for the present, there's hardly any area better where a promising youth like yourself can realize some great expectation. Why not come and live here? If you are so disposed, I think I can take care of you, for since my arrival I've become acquainted with many persons in the Manchurian Railway Company. If you do come, please don't forget to write before you start out. Sayonara.

Keitaro folded the papers and put them into his desk drawer. But neither to the landlord nor his wife did he say anything about Morimoto's letter. The cane remained in the umbrella stand. Each time Keitaro left the house and returned, he saw it and had a queer sort of feeling about it.

2: At the Streetcar Stop

At the Streetcar Stop

Keitaro's friend Sunaga was a soldier's son who nevertheless detested the military. He had majored in law, yet had no interest in civil service or business. He was a rather backward type, at least he seemed so to Keitaro. The father, Keitaro had heard, had been dead these many years, leaving Sunaga and his mother to live an apparently lonely yet tasteful life together. His father had not only reached the high position of army paymaster, but was clever at accumulating funds, so that even now his wife and son were well-off and had none of those discomforts that come with making a living. Sunaga's tendency to lead a retired life was probably half due to the security in which he had been raised, and perhaps it resulted in depriving him of the stimulus of self-exertion. This was shown by the fact that when some of his respectable and helpful relatives were ready, out of respect for the elevated position of his deceased father, to offer help in placing Sunaga in a position that promised a successful career, he remained willful, indulging himself by finding fault with the posts offered and remaining undecided about the course of his life.

"You're too particular. And you're wasting some good opportunities. If you don't like the jobs, at least hand one over to me," Keitaro occasionally importuned Sunaga, half in jest. Sunaga would refuse with a slight smile of sorrow and pity, saying, "Well, unfortunately, they're not being offered to you." Even while knowing he had asked in jest, Keitaro was not pleased by the rejection. His pride flared up, and he told himself he would do everything alone. Still, his temperament was not one that adhered that much to a triviality to maintain any lasting antagonism toward his friend. Furthermore, with his own position still undecided and with no real connections to fall back on, Keitaro could not bear the dreariness of sitting in his boardinghouse room from morning till night. Even when he had nothing to do, he went out for at least half the day and often visited Sunaga. For one thing, Keitaro found it worth going because his friend was seldom out no matter what the hour.

"A job," Keitaro once said to Sunaga, "is of course important, but what I want, even before that, is to come across some event worthy of wonder. Yet no matter how often I ride the streetcars around the city, nothing turns up. I haven't even had my pocket picked yet!" On another occasion he sighed in regret, "I first thought education was a right, but actually I've found it a kind of yoke. Where's the right when after graduating from a university, you can't even find the means of making a living? On the other hand, can we disregard our university status and do as we wish? Definitely not! It restricts us horribly, this education of ours."

Sunaga seemed unsympathetic to both of Keitaro's complaints. In the first place, Keitaro's way of speaking made it difficult for him to know whether his friend was being serious or merely jesting. After one such vehement speech on these fantastic ideas, Sunaga asked in reply, "Well, aside from the question of making a living, what is it you want most?"

Keitaro replied that he wished to do what detectives in the Metropolitan Police do.

"Well, why not do it then? It's quite simple."

"It's not that simple."

And Keitaro offered a serious explanation on why detective work was impossible for him. By the very nature of his profession a detective is a diver who plunges from the surface of society to its depths. Almost no other profession is so suitable for grabbing hold of human mysteries. Moreover, a detective has the undoubted advantage of being able to observe the darker side of mankind without any of the dangers of degrading himself. Nevertheless, it is undeniable that his original purpose lies in disclosing the sins and crimes of others, that his profession is based on the malignant intention of trapping his subjects. Keitaro could not bring himself to do such inhuman actions. All he wanted was to study human beings — no, rather, to look with wonder and admiration at the incredible machinery of humanity operating in the darkness of night. Such was the drift of Keitaro's contention.

Sunaga had been listening without offering a word, neither of contradiction nor of comment. To Keitaro, such behavior appeared mature, but he actually took it as mediocre. He left hating the calm way in which the other listened, seemingly unconcerned about his aspirations. Yet before five days had elapsed, he wanted to see his friend again, and as soon as he left his boardinghouse, he caught a streetcar for Kanda.

A stranger would have found Sunaga's house extremely difficult to locate. To reach it one had to turn two or three times along a twisting side street sloping upward and branching off to the right from Sudacho, where a tall building, formerly the Ogawatei but now the Tenkado, stood at the corner. Since Sunaga's house was on a back street crowded with many small residences, the lots were not as wide as those in the uptown area. Nevertheless, it was a fine house. Leading from the gate to the bell by the lattice door at the entrance was a path of some yards paved with granite flagstones.

Sunaga's father had owned the house and had rented it for many years to a relative. But after his death his wife thought that this house would be more convenient for her small family, especially in terms of location and size, so their residence on Surugadai was sold and they moved. When Keitaro once heard from Sunaga that the house was considerably repaired, almost rebuilt, he looked with renewed interest at the upstairs alcove post and the boards lining the ceiling. This second-floor room had been added later as a study for Sunaga. Except for some slight reverberations on very windy days, it was a perfect room of its kind, clean and bright and divided into two parts, one of four tatami, the other six. Sitting in this room, Keitaro could see the branches of a pine tree in the garden, as well as the upper part of a wooden fence that had traces left by the carpenter's adze and a protective line of spikes at the very top. Looking down through the railing of the balcony outside the study, Keitaro noticed some white flowers at the foot of the pine and, asking Sunaga their name, was told they were snowy herons.

Each time Keitaro visited Sunaga and was shown into this room, he could not help being reminded of the clear difference between his friend and himself, one the young master, the other not much better than a university student. And while he felt contemptuous of Sunaga for living so settled and cozy a life, he envied the comfortable though too quiet pattern of his friend's existence. He thought it bad for a youth to live in this way, yet at the same time he wanted to become what Sunaga was. This time too, with that divided interest of these two contradictory thoughts within him, Keitaro proceeded to his friend's house.

When, after following the twisting side street, he came to the corner where it crossed the street Sunaga's house was on, he saw before him a young woman just entering the gate of the house. He had caught only a glimpse of her back, but that curiosity common to young men, combined with his own peculiar romantic strain, made him hurry to the gate as if he were being pulled there by some invisible string. He cast a glance inside, yet even the woman's shadow had vanished. He saw only that the shoji—those familiar doors whose handles were adorned with maple leaves inserted between transparent paper — were quietly closed as usual. He stood looking wistfully at the closed shoji for some time. But presently he noticed a pair of clogs, a woman's, on the stepping-stone. They had been placed neatly together, the front of them facing the inside of the house, indicating that the maid had not turned them in the proper direction. Keitaro, combining in his mind the direction of the clogs and the unexpected promptness with which the woman had gone inside, concluded she was a frequent guest, someone who had no need to announce herself and who could easily slide open the shoji. Or perhaps she was part of the household — but this latter thought seemed a little odd to him, for he knew quite well that only four persons were living there: Sunaga, his mother, a maid, and a kitchen servant.

For a while Keitaro remained standing in front of Sunaga's gate. He wanted not so much to watch secretly from outside the wooden fence the behavior of the woman who had gone into the house as to imagine the pattern of romance being woven by her and Sunaga. But all the same he found himself listening attentively. Yet it was, as usual, quiet inside. He heard not so much as a cough and certainly no woman's amorous voice.

His fiancee? Such was Keitaro's first thought, but his imagination had not been disciplined enough to remain content with that. I bet his mother is out with the maid visiting a relative. The kitchen servant has retired to her room. And right now Sunaga and the girl must be whispering tete-a-tete. If this were true, it would be out of place to clatter open the lattice door as he usually did and in a loud voice ask for admittance. Or perhaps Sunaga, his mother, and the maid have all gone out together, and the kitchen servant is taking a nap. At just such a moment, the woman entered the house. If so, she must be a thief. It would be unpardonable for me to go away and leave things as they are.

Keitaro stood there in a daze as though he had been bewitched by a demon.

Presently the shoji of the upstairs room opened, and Keitaro was awakened from his reverie by the sudden surprise of seeing Sunaga along the passageway, a green glass bottle in his hand.

"What are you doing down there? Did you lose something?" Sunaga asked, as though he found it odd to see Keitaro just standing there. Around Sunaga's throat was a white flannel cloth. The bottle in his hand seemed to be for gargling. Keitaro looked up and exchanged a few words about whether Sunaga had caught cold, but continued to stand where he was. Finally Sunaga told him to come up. Keitaro cautiously asked if it was all right to. As if not understanding, Sunaga nodded and withdrew behind the shoji.

As Keitaro walked upstairs, he thought he heard a slight rustle of clothing in the inner room below. On the second floor he noticed nothing unusual except for a padded dressing gown with a black collar which his friend seemed to have been wearing and had discarded on the mats. From Keitaro's temperament and from his intimacy with Sunaga, it might have been expected he would ask straight out about the woman who had given him such concern, but owing to his sense of having wronged his friend in giving too free a rein to thoughts not altogether innocent, and because of his awareness that his imagination had settled on a conjecture too cynical to mention directly, Keitaro was deprived of the courage to ask freely who the girl was who had just entered the house. Instead, as if trying to hold back a thought that wanted to rush forward, he said, "For the time being I'm abandoning my dreams. I've come to the realization that earning a living is more important."

He asked quite seriously that Sunaga introduce him to the uncle he had previously spoken of, the one living on Uchisaiwaicho, saying he wanted to have an interview with him for that very purpose. This uncle was the husband of the younger sister of Sunaga's mother. He had gone into business after leaving government service and was now connected to several companies. Sunaga apparently had no intention of asking his uncle for help in finding a position. Keitaro remembered Sunaga's once saying that this uncle had offered him any number of possibilities, but that none of them appealed to him.

Sunaga had arranged, he said, to see his uncle that morning, but a sore throat had prevented him from going out. In a few days he would be able to, so at that time he would definitely speak to his uncle about Keitaro. Then he added, whether as a precaution or for some other reason, "He's a very busy man, you know. Besides, he has job applicants from all over. I have no idea what he'll say, but it wouldn't hurt to go see him." Keitaro interpreted these words as a warning not to expect too much. One interview would at least be better than none, and in contrast to his usual behavior he pleaded with Sunaga to inquire on his behalf.

Actually, though, Keitaro was not as worried or as anxious as his words implied. It was true, as he had himself asserted, that he had been and still was racking his brains and wasting no effort running about trying to find a job since his graduation from university. But there was exaggeration in the painful tone of voice— in half of it at least — with which he appealed to others, claiming he had not yet been given even the first glimmer of hope. He was not, as Sunaga was, the only child in his family, but like Sunaga he had only his mother at home, his younger sister having married. While he had no house or lot to rent as Sunaga did, he did own a small plot of farmland in the country. This tenanted land brought him yearly yields of rice — not much, but enough so that when the harvest was converted to cash according to the market price, he had no difficulties over the twenty or thirty yen required for his room and board each month. Furthermore, many a time had he requested extra expenses from his indulgent mother as if, so to speak, he were preying on himself. Under these circumstances, his clamoring for a position, though not altogether false, was certainly raised aloud through vanity in the hope of boasting about it to the people back home, to friends, and even to himself. Had the position itself been his real concern, he ought to have worked harder at the university in compiling a better record, but romantic that he was, he had made it a point to be as idle as he possibly could, the result being that his graduation was hardly a brilliant success.

Keitaro talked with Sunaga for an hour or so. He had himself brought forward those urgent questions of position and subsistence, but since he was more concerned about the woman he had seen from behind a while ago, he was not as seriously attentive to those momentous issues as his words implied. At one point when he suddenly heard the laughing voice of a young woman coming from the drawing room below, he felt tempted to ask if Sunaga had a visitor. Yet the very moment in which he was weighing the question became the instrument for destroying the naturalness of its utterance and making it an untimely remark. And so it remained unasked after all.

As for Sunaga, he tried bringing up topics that would humor Keitaro's curiosity as much as possible. He described how the back street he lived on just off the streetcar line was divided by small houses and narrow lanes into cubes that formed a hive of nameless townspeople in almost each of whose homes a drama was being enacted which would never surface to society at large.

He began with a woman who lived several houses down from his, the mistress of a retired hardware dealer whose store was in Nihombashi. She had apparently taken a lover, an actor belonging to some theatrical troupe. The retired merchant knew about the affair but said nothing. On a side street opposite her home was a neat little nondescript house with lattice doors in front owned either by a pettifogger or an employment agency, and sometimes the blackboard in front had such advertisements as "Immediate Openings: Woman Reporter. Woman Cook." Once a pretty woman twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old came looking for a job. Enfolded in her long dark blue twilled mantle with frills on it, she resembled a Western nurse. The gist of the story was that both the master of that house and his wife were surprised to discover she was the daughter of the man he had once served as a houseboy.

Sunaga next mentioned a gray-haired usurer that lived with his wife, who was about twenty years old, in a back alley behind Sunaga's house. It was said he had taken her as security for a loan. The neighboring residence was occupied by a professional gambler. While his dice-rolling cronies gathered there rubbing bloodshot eyes, the wife of one of the gamesters, a baby on her back under a nursing coat, occasionally came to fetch her husband, who was frenzily engrossed in his wagering. Crying, she would beg him to return, and the husband would assure her he would, but only in an hour when he had won back his losses. And then, almost hanging on to him, she would plead with him to leave at once, saying that the more he would try to win back, the more he would lose. Along that frozen midnight street the voice pleading for return and the one adamant against it would disturb the sleep of the neighbors.

As Keitaro listened to these stories, he began to suspect that Sunaga, who had long been in this place rampant with such real-life novels, might likewise be playing a part in a secret drama of his own but feigning innocence. Of course, behind this conjecture was the faint shadow cast by the woman Keitaro had seen from behind.

"While you're on the subject, let me in on your own story," Keitaro said, trying to attack, but Sunaga merely brushed aside the remark with a slight smile. "Well," he replied, "I've got a sore throat today." It sounded as if he had a story to tell, but not to Keitaro.

When Keitaro went downstairs, the woman's clogs were no longer at the entrance. Whether their owner had left or they had been put in the clog box or were hidden by discreet hands, he could not guess. As soon as he was out on the street, he hurried into a tobacconist's, urged on by one knew not what, and emerged with a cigar in his mouth. Smoking, he walked along to Sudacho where, just as he was about to board a streetcar, he remembered the regulations against smoking, so he moved on toward Mansei Bridge. With the intention of making the cigar last until he reached his boardinghouse, he sauntered along, still thinking about Sunaga. Now, the image of his friend did not appear just by itself — it was invariably followed by the flitting figure of the woman he had seen.

Ultimately he felt as if he were being jeered at by Sunaga: "How can you expect to come off looking good in romantic exploration by observing the world through a telescope from the third floor of a boardinghouse on Daimachi in Hongo?"

Keitaro had never been familiar with or even interested in what Tokyoites referred to as the "lower-town life." Occasionally passing through some back street around Nihombashi, he had seen a lattice door so narrow that one had to move sideways to pass through it, an iron lantern hanging for no apparent reason above the earthen floor at the entrance, shining inlaid bamboo filling the gap under the stepping-board, and a sliding door whose lower part was paneled with boards of cedar or some other wood so thin that the sunlight had tinged it translucent red. When he took in these items, he was left with a cramped feeling. He thought he could not bear such a constrained life, one with everything around him so tidily ordered in trivial ways, and so glossy too. People living in such houses were, he imagined, so neat and punctual that they were even likely to be particular about the sharpness of a toothpick used after a meal. He conjectured that these minute points in their mode of living were all governed by traditional rules and, like their tobacco sets, shone dreadfully with the luster of custom which generation after generation of their forefathers had rubbed and polished.

Even at Sunaga's house when he saw some useless pine tree guarded against snowfall by straw ropes or the small garden over which dead pine needles had been strewn with excessive scrupulousness, he could not help associating these things with the image of the young master of the house raised tenderly in the bosom of that delicate civilization of Old Edo. For one thing, Sunaga's habit of wearing a stiff sash tightly bound round his kimono waist and his way of sitting squarely on his seat seemed strange to Keitaro. Sometimes Sunaga's mother would come in and join them in their talk. Sunaga had told him she was fond of reciting the classical epic songs, and when Keitaro listened to the words spoken in her sweet, engaging manner, words mellifluous yet quite articulate, he felt in them a delicious refinement not found in ready-made speech, as though they had just been brought from a cellar where they had been kept in storage for ages. He did not of course think that her speech was made up of hackneyed and set phrases, but he could not help recognizing that hidden beneath their surface was the deftness of an age-long practice in phraseology.

In short, Keitaro wanted something freer, something more off the beaten track. However, on that particular day he hadn't been his usual self, at least not in his imagined fancies. He wished he had been brought up in a house of his own inherited from his father, a house along some back street where rows of black-walled residences built in the warehouse style stood with that moist atmosphere of the Tokugawa period still lingering over them. In that neighborhood playmates would have gently called out, "Kei-chan, come and play with us," and they would have played at gangsters or soldiers. Once a month he might have lit a sacred fire as he visited Suitengu Shrine in Kakigaracho or Fudo Temple in the Fukagawa district. (Indeed, Sunaga automatically accompanied his mother in observing this old-fashioned practice.) He might have worn a plain iron-blue haori and walked in ecstasy along streets imbued with the atmosphere of the Kabuki world modified by modern taste, discovering some amorous intrigues bound up in the conventions but at the same time vaulting over them.

All at once the name Morimoto came to him, and it turned Keitaro's fancy a strange hue. He had, out of curiosity, willingly sought to shake hands with this shady-eccentric, the result being that he had nearly gotten involved in troubles he least expected. Fortunately. Keitaro's landlord believed in his integrity. If the landlord had had any mistrust in him, Keitaro might have been summoned to the police, his situation open to suspicion. The moment he thought of this possibility, the romantic dream he had been building suddenly lost its warmth and broke away meaninglessly like a bank of clouds made up of ugly fancies. But behind this ruin persisted the image of Morimoto's lean face with its double eyelids and its disheveled drooping moustache. Keitaro felt a certain fondness for that nondescript face, as well as contempt and pity; it seemed to him that behind it there loomed something mysterious. And with all these thoughts he associated that queer walking stick Morimoto had given him as a token of their friendship.

It was a rather simple bamboo cane, its root curving into the handle. It was different from ordinary canes in only one respect: the handle was carved into the shape of a snake. Unlike the vulgar canes with the whole length of a curved snake winding round and round the stick, the kind often exported, his had only a carved snakehead. And that head, with its mouth open as if it were about to swallow something, served as the handle. But what the mouth was about to swallow, whether a frog or an egg or whatever, no one could tell, because the very tip of the handle had been carved round and smooth. Morimoto had said he had cut and carved the cane himself.

On entering his boardinghouse, Keitaro turned his attention first of all to this walking stick. Rather, it was the associations made on his way home that caused his eyes to turn toward the porcelain umbrella-stand as soon as he had opened the glass door at the entrance. As a matter of fact, from the day he had received Morimoto's letter, the sight of the cane had always given him a queer feeling that he could not explain, so much so that in coming and going he had tried to avert his eyes from it as much as possible. But then passing the umbrella stand and pretending not to see it had begun to so worry him that he came to feel, though only to a slight degree, haunted by the weird cane. He finally started wondering about his nerves.

It was certainly weak of him to be unable to tell the landlord and his wife Morimoto's address and his message to them because he had feared, out of his own self-interest, a return of that suspicion about his and Morimoto's past relationship. Not that this weakness was one that cast the least shadow on his conscience though. It was unpleasant, of course, not to accept a gift kindly offered as a token, for that was to bring another's generosity to naught. But this too did not cause him much concern.

Suppose, however, that Morimoto's earthly life reached its end in the near future — perhaps he would be found dying in some roadside ditch. And in anticipation of that miserable end, suppose the walking stick remained in the umbrella stand, its bodiless snakehead carved by the versatile man forever attached to the end of the bamboo cane, its wide-open mouth about to swallow something and yet not swallowing it, or about to vomit something and yet not vomiting. When Morimoto's fate and the snakehead representing that fate were thus combined in Keitaro's thoughts, and when Keitaro realized that he had been asked by this very man about to die on the road to walk every day with the snakehead clutched in his hand, it was at just such moments that he had that queer sensation. The fact that he could neither take the cane from the umbrella stand nor order the landlord to put it away out of sight was, while an exaggeration of a sort, a kind of destiny. But as colors heightened by poetry are not always pervasive enough to be incorporated into the prose of the real world, it must be admitted that Keitaro had not found the walking stick sufficiently worrisome to cause him to change his lodgings.

On that day as usual, the walking stick was in the umbrella stand, its snakehead turned toward the clog box. Looking sideways at it, Keitaro went up to his room. Presently, he sat down at his desk and began writing to Morimoto. First he thanked him for his letter, then wanted to add a few lines to explain why he had not replied sooner. But if he were to state the reason point-blank, he would have had to write that he could not bring himself to correspond due to the dishonor attached to having among his acquaintances a vagabond like him. Since that obviously would not do, he glossed everything over by writing simply that he had been too busy running around for what Morimoto knew only too well. Next, Keitaro put in a few congratulatory words on Morimoto's finding a good position in Dairen, and he followed these with the considerate remark: "At this time when Tokyo is getting colder by the day, how difficult the frost and wind in Manchuria must be. I imagine it is quite trying physically. Please take every precaution against illness."

As far as Keitaro was concerned, this last part was actually his main reason for writing. Therefore, he wanted to so word it aptly and in as many lines as possible so that it would convey sympathy to the person addressed and seem quite sincere to whoever happened to read it. On rereading his words, however, he was somewhat disappointed to find them as stale as those used by common people in offering compliments of the season. But as he had known beforehand, it was only-natural that they lacked the passionate warmth with which a love letter to one's sweetheart is phrased. So under the pretext that he was a poor writer and that no amount of revision could improve it, he let it stand and continued.

As for the disposal of the items Morimoto had left in the boardinghouse, Keitaro felt he ought to add something about them if only for the sake of courtesy. But he had no intention of asking the landlord what he had done with them, though without doing so Keitaro could not give Morimoto a detailed report. As he held his writing brush in midair, he thought about it a while.

"You asked me," he wrote at last, "to tell the landlord that he could do whatever he wished with your things. But please understand, as your own clairvoyance has already told you, that the Marten disposed of your property even before I had a chance to say something about it. You also offered me your plum bonsai, but I couldn't accept it because no trace remained either of its form or shadow. I merely want to thank you for your kind intention. Also. ."

He again came to a halt. He had at last reached the point where he had to mention the walking stick. He was by nature too honest to write the lie that he had gratefully accepted the gift and was carrying it on his daily walks. Still less could he write that in spite of the gratitude he owed Morimoto for his kindness, he did not want it.

"The cane," he was driven to state, "is still in the umbrella stand. And it is standing there as if waiting day and night for the return of its owner. Even the Marten doesn't dare touch that snakehead. Each time I see it, I cannot help but admire your skill as a carver."

With this random compliment Keitaro tried to obscure the actual situation.

As he was writing Morimoto's address on the envelope, he attempted, though without success, to recall Morimoto's first name. He was forced to write only, "Mr. Morimoto, Official in Charge of Amusements, Electric Park, Dairen."

Because of the previous difficulties, the letter ought not to be seen by the landlord or his wife, so Keitaro could not call the maid to tell her to take it to the mailbox. He concealed the letter in his kimono sleeve, intending to mail it on his after-dinner walk. But just as he reached the foot of the cold stairs on his way out, he received a phone call from Sunaga.

What his friend wanted to tell him was that his cousin from Uchisaiwaicho had come that day and had informed him his uncle would be going to Osaka on business in four or five days. "I phoned him," Sunaga said, "and asked him to see you before he leaves since I thought it would be better for you not to put it off till his return. He agreed. So if you want to see him, the sooner the better. Just keep in mind that I couldn't talk about you in detail over the phone with my sore throat."

"Thanks very much. I'll call on him as soon as possible," said Keitaro. As he put down the receiver, it occurred to him that since he had to make the visit, he might as well do it that night. Again he returned to his room, put on the serge hakama he had recently had made, and left.

He did not forget to slip his letter into the mailbox at the corner of the street, but by that time his concern for Morimoto's welfare retained only a slight glow, though when he heard the thud of the letter dropping to the bottom of the box after sliding it through the slot, it was with a not altogether unpleasant feeling that he imagined Morimoto opening it within a week.

He walked straight ahead until he caught a streetcar, his thoughts directed straight toward Uchisaiwaicho. By the time the streetcar had passed the stop at the foot of Kanda Shrine, he found himself repeating in his mind what he had heard Sunaga say on the phone a while ago, when suddenly some of the words came out automatically and startled him: "Today a cousin of mine from Uchisaiwaicho visited me." Those had been Sunaga's exact words. No doubt this cousin was the child of Sunaga's uncle. But the imperfection of the Japanese language failed to indicate whether the cousin was male or female.

"Which is it?" Keitaro was suddenly obsessed by this question. If male, it gave no clue about the woman he had seen from behind. This woman who had so aroused his curiosity would then remain standing in obscurity. But if the cousin were a woman, she was most likely the same person who had entered Sunaga's house before Keitaro had: the day, the hour, and the way she had gone into the house would prove her identity. Skillful at combining the imagined and the real, Keitaro decided the latter was true before it was proved. The moment he had interpreted everything in this way, he felt the satisfaction of having poured cold water onto his seething curiosity, but at the same time he experienced a disappointment in finding a clue in a quarter less extraordinary than he had expected.

When he came to Ogawamachi, he had half a mind to get off the streetcar for a moment and drop in at Sunaga's to ascertain the fact from his very lips. But unable to find any grounds for meddling into another's personal affairs, save his own rather simple curiosity, he suppressed the inclination and changed for the Mita Line. Still, as his streetcar rapidly passed over Kanda Bridge and ran through Marunouchi, he was quite conscious of his rushing toward the house of Sunaga's cousin. So taken was he by this thought that he inadvertently rode to Sakurada-Hongocho, one stop past the stop near the Kangyo Bank where he ought to have gotten off. Surprised, he went back toward the darker quarter. The street at night was deserted, but he had no difficulty in finding the house he was to visit. Looking in from the gate with its gaslight globe on which the name Taguchi was written, he found the house set further back than he had thought it to be. On entering the grounds, however, he discovered that a graveled path curving obliquely toward the porch hid it from the street and that a dark cluster of trees screening the facade added to the dignified impression of the house in the darkness of the night. Seeing this, Keitaro realized that the residence itself was not as extensive as it appeared.

The porch had two glazed front doors in pseudo-foreign style. These were closed, and no servant came to respond either to Keitaro's call or to his ringing of the doorbell. Not knowing what to do, he stood a while looking into the interior. At last he heard footsteps from somewhere, and suddenly the frosted glass in front of him lit up. He noted the sound of a few steps made by garden clogs on the earthen floor, and one of the doors opened.

Keitaro had merely been standing there idly, having no particular curiosity about the look of the servant who would usher him in. Still, he had expected a houseboy wearing a cotton haori with a splashed pattern or a maid in a cotton-padded kimono to take his namecard and greet him with some show of respect. But the person who stood at the half-opened door was an older gentleman so elegantly dressed that Keitaro was jolted. With the electric light behind the man, his features were not distinctly visible, but his kimono sash of white silk crepe immediately caught Keitaro's notice. The moment Keitaro saw him, it flashed through his mind this had to be Sunaga's uncle Taguchi. The man's appearance so surprised Keitaro that he stood somewhat dazed, forgetting his greeting. Moreover, Keitaro, who thought himself a very young man, was not used to older people — whether in their forties, fifties, or sixties, they all looked ancient to him. Not only did he not have enough familiarity with his elders to distinguish a man forty-five years old from one fifty-five, but usually both seemed to him members of some alien and uncanny race, at least until he was accustomed to them. And so his confusion increased.

The other, however, seemed indifferent to his visitor. "What is it that you want?" he asked. There was neither courtesy nor contempt in the offhand way he uttered these words.

Slightly recovering his courage, Keitaro seized the opportunity to give his name and the purpose of his visit.

"Oh, oh, I see," said the older man as if just remembering. "Ichizo told me over the phone only a while ago. But I wasn't expecting you tonight."

Keitaro saw in these words the implication that he should not have come this soon, so he had to give the best explanation he could.

The man stood there in such a way that it couldn't be told whether he was listening or not. "Come again then," he said. "I'll be leaving on my trip in four or five days. If I find time to see you before I leave, I've got no objection."

Keitaro offered some courteous words and left through the gate. In the darkness he felt his thanks had been a little too polite.

As he learned much later from Sunaga, the master of the house had on that night been sitting alone at a go board in a Western-style drawing room adjacent to the entrance and had been alternately putting down white and black stones, immersed in one of the strategies of the game. He had been trying to solve a problem after having played go with a guest. Just at a vital point he had been interrupted by Keitaro's clamor at the door and felt as though he were being disturbed by some country bumpkin. His irritation had made him go out to the hall himself to get rid of the intruder in order to concentrate on the go problem. When Keitaro heard these details from Sunaga, he felt that his politeness toward Taguchi had been all the more excessive.

Two days later Keitaro phoned Taguchi and asked outspokenly if the time were appropriate for a visit. The party that answered seemed to have regarded Keitaro's language and manner as rather arrogant and consequently those of a man of considerable position.

"Please wait a moment, sir," the courteous voice said. "Let me ask if your visit is convenient, sir. I will soon bring a reply." But when he returned with the answer, his manner of speech had changed considerably: "You still there? Right now we've got a visitor, so we can't see you. If you want, you can drop in at one in the afternoon."

"Fine, I'll come around one. Remember me to your master." Keitaro put down the phone in disgust.

He had ordered the maid to bring lunch at noon sharp, but it had not come at the appointed hour. As if urged on by the noisy bell from the university tower, he told her to hurry it in, and he finished as quickly as he could.

On the streetcar Keitaro recalled Taguchi's attitude toward him two nights ago. This time too would he be treated in the same rough off-handed manner? Or would he be given a more favorable reception, since the other party had consented to see him? He was prepared to stoop a little, even to put up with being made to feel awkward, as long as he could obtain a good position through the gentleman's kind offices. But he had been offended by the servant who had received his telephone call and who, in less than five minutes, had changed his manner of speech for the worse. He hoped the impertinent boy would not greet him at the door. His frame of mind was such that while he had been insulted by the servant's manner, he was himself unaware that he himself had spoken over the phone somewhat too arrogantly for a person of his status.

At the corner of Ogawamachi, a glimpse from the streetcar to the side street leading to Sunaga's reminded him suddenly of the woman's figure he had seen from behind, and his imagination emerged all at once from shadow to sunshine. It was far more exhilarating to tell himself that he was on his way to the place where Sunaga's pretty cousin lived than to be conscious that he was out to beg some means of livelihood from an old man who, for all the pains he was being put to, would certainly not present a smiling face to him. He had decided, quite arbitrarily, that old Taguchi and Sunaga's cousin had to be father and daughter. Yet the two were decidedly separate in his mind. The other night when he had stood face to face with Taguchi at the entrance to his house, the light had made it difficult to discern the other's features, but as far as he had judged from the contour of Taguchi's face, it was not dignified. That first impression of the older man, even if seen only at night, was indisputably registered in his mind. Yet in spite of this impression, it had never occurred to him that the man's daughter, whatever her relationship to Sunaga, was not good-looking. The idea he had of the Taguchis, therefore, was like a double-sided picture, as it were, light in front, dark in back, each side seeming to be simultaneously separate and yet united into one sheet.

Having turned the picture this way and that, Keitaro found himself standing before Taguchi's gate. The sight of an automobile parked there with a chauffeur inside gave him a slightly uneasy feeling.

He went up to the entrance and handed his card to a young houseboy in a duck-cloth hakama. The houseboy told him to wait a moment and carried his calling card inside. Finding that the voice was certainly the same as the one he had heard on the phone, Keitaro, watching the retreating figure, thought him an obnoxious kid.

The boy returned with the card still in his hand. "Sorry," he said, standing in front of Keitaro, "but we have a visitor. Some other time, please."

Vexed, Keitaro said, "I inquired just before on the phone. I was told that you had a visitor then and that I should come around one in the afternoon."

"The visitor hasn't left yet. They're busy with lunch and so forth."

If listened to with composure, the excuse might have been regarded as not altogether implausible, but to Keitaro, who had already been aggravated with the boy since their telephone conversation, these words gave further offense. "Are they really?" he said, and then added, perhaps anticipating what the boy ought to have replied, "Sorry to have caused you so much trouble," concluding with, "Return my thanks for your master's kindness!"

With these inconsistent words as a parting shot, Keitaro whisked round the automobile at the gate as if to say, "Damn that car!"

After finishing the interview, Keitaro had planned to visit a friend who had recently married and settled in a new house in Tsukiji, talking with him till evening and offering an enjoyable account of the relations with Sunaga, Sunaga's cousin, and his uncle, all pieced together by the string of his imagination. When he left Taguchi's front gate and stood beside Hibiya Park, however, his mind was too full to carry out his plan. He found nothing to cheer him in having visited the home of the woman he had seen from behind, that woman whose whereabouts he had finally located. Even less was he aware of having gone there to find a job. The only thing that filled his mind was an annoyance resulting from feelings of humiliation. And he felt that Sunaga, who had introduced him to a man like Taguchi, should assume full responsibility for the treatment he had received. He thought of dropping in on Sunaga on the way home and, after recounting all that had happened, laying before him to his heart's content all these grievances.

He turned around and caught a streetcar straight to Ogawamachi. His watch indicated it was about twenty minutes to two. Arriving at Sunaga's house, he deliberately called his friend's name twice from the street, but whether he was in or out, the upstairs screens remained closed. The rather prim Sunaga, who had told him he hated being called in this boorish way, might have been ignoring Keitaro's shout even if it had reached him. So Keitaro went up to the lattice door at the entrance to make a formal call. When he heard the maid at the door say that Sunaga had gone out just after noon, he stood there disappointed, silent for a moment.

"I thought he had a cold."

"Yes, he did, but he said he felt better today and went out."

Keitaro was about to leave when the maid said, "Just a minute, please. I'll inform his mother," and left Keitaro standing inside the lattice door. Sunaga's mother soon appeared from behind the open sliding door. She was a tall woman with an elongated face and manners in the refined lower-town style.

"Please do come in. He ought to be back before long."

Keitaro, unaccustomed to Edo etiquette, had not yet learned how to decline and depart. Besides, the flow of her words reaching his ears was so smooth that he could hardly find a pause for declining her invitation. Her words were not conventional compliments. In fact, while he was being detained, he seemed to forget the reserve he should have maintained because of the trouble he was causing her, and he felt it would be a pity not to keep her company.

Keitaro finally found himself seated in Sunaga's study. Remarking that it was cold, Sunaga's mother closed the sliding doors and urged Keitaro to warm his hands over the glowing charcoal brazier. As he did so, the agitation he had felt for some time slowy began to subside. He looked at the sliding doors with their huge pattern printed over the white silk paper and then at the small brazier, perhaps made from mulberry, bright with its yellow sheen. Meanwhile, the mother, gentle, eloquent, and seemingly tactful in dealing with every kind of person, talked on. He learned that Sunaga had gone to visit an uncle living in Yarai.

"I asked him," she said, "to go around to Kobinata to visit the temple there, for it lies that way. And he left scolding me: 'Lately, mother, you've gotten to be a stay-at-home. You sent me there last time too instead of going yourself, didn't you? Because of your age, is that it?' You know, he caught a cold the other day and still has a sore throat. So I said he had best not go today. Usually he's rather cautious in his habits, but he is, like other young men, reckless at times and takes no heed of the words of an old woman. . "

Whenever Keitaro called on Sunaga and found him absent, his mother would talk of her son in this manner, as if it were the one and only pleasure in her life. Should Keitaro bring up the subject, say, of Sunaga's reputation among his friends, it was her habit to dwell on it eternally, the topic not easily changed. Keitaro was accustomed to this, and on this occasion as well was patiently listening, acknowledging what she was saying with many a nod of the head and waiting for a pause in her flow of words.

In time the subject of their talk drifted from Sunaga to his uncle at Yarai. Keitaro had heard from Sunaga that this uncle was his mother's younger brother and, unlike the uncle at Uchisaiwaicho, was a man of aesthetic tastes. Keitaro still remembered anecdotes about this uncle's insisting it was a disgrace to wear an overcoat whose lining was not satin or about his habit of treasuring what seemed to Sunaga a quite useless thing — he couldn't tell if it was a gem or coral — proudly dubbing it "an Indian jewel imported of old."

"His life," Keitaro said, "is really enviable. What's better than to be able to live in luxury doing nothing?"

"Oh no, it's far from that," said Sunaga's mother, quickly contradicting him. "To be quite frank, at best he can just manage to get along. He's not at all so fortunate as to be able to live luxuriously or even comfortably."

As the question of the wealth of Sunaga's uncle had little to do with Keitaro, he said no more about him. She resumed her talk immediately then as if a break in their conversation indicated some flaw in herself.

"Fortunately, my sister's husband seems well off due to his connections to several companies. But my brother's family and my own are, so to speak, no better than lordless samurai, and often we laugh together over our lives, saying we've become as poor as crows when we consider what we once were."

Somehow reminded of his own state, Keitaro felt a secret shame. Luckily, Sunaga's mother continued talking uninterruptedly, so he was able to dispense with the trouble of finding words to respond with. Thinking this at least a convenience, he continued listening.

"Besides, as you know quite well, Ichizo is such an unenterprising boy. So even after his graduation from the university, I'm not free from worry. I'm quite at a loss. Sometimes I tell him to hurry and find some nice girl to be his wife and to give his old mother peace of mind. He takes no notice of what I say though, telling me that in this world things don't take place just to convenience me. It would comfort me if he would at least ask someone to help him find a job — any kind of job whatever — but about that too he cares not at all. . "

Keitaro, who had always thought Sunaga selfish in this regard, said sympathetically, "It may sound presumptuous coming from me, but how about asking the advice of someone in a position superior to your son? Say the uncle at Yarai you spoke about just now?"

"But that one too has the queerest ideas, isolating himself as he does from all society. Instead of advice, he says that only a fool would serve in a bank and rattle away his life on an abacus. How could I depend on someone with that kind of notion? And that delights Ichizo all the more. He calls on him quite often, saying he likes his Yarai uncle better than others and agrees with him more. Since it was Sunday and fine outdoors, I thought it best for him to visit his uncle at Uchisaiwaicho before he left for Osaka, but he said he preferred Yarai and ended going where he wished."

Keitaro's mind now reverted to the reason he had rushed to this house that day. He had thought that as soon as he saw Sunaga, he would, with the harshest words the occasion demanded, reprove him for the unfair treatment he had received and would leave him with some such speech as "Remember, I'm determined never to enter the gate of that house again!" Sunaga, however, for whom these words were intended, was out, so quite the reverse, Keitaro had been talked to on many subjects by Sunaga's mother, who knew nothing about these circumstances concerning him, and quite naturally Keitaro's anger had faded. But it would be better and even necessary to inform the mother, even though she was not concerned in the matter, of how the interview with Taguchi had failed. Accordingly, when the question of Sunaga's visit to Uchisaiwaicho drifted into their talk, Keitaro thought it the best moment to inform her of the particulars.

"To tell the truth," Keitaro began, "I too visited your relative at Uchisaiwaicho today."

"Oh, did you?" said Sunaga's mother, her face suggesting she was apologizing for having been so concerned about her son she had failed to pay attention to Keitaro's situation. She must have known perfectly well either by seeing it herself or hearing of it from her son that Keitaro had been desperately trying to find a job for some days past, that after several unsuccessful efforts he had asked Sunaga for an introduction, and that Sunaga had arranged an interview for him with his uncle at Uchisaiwaicho. She was probably thinking that with this knowledge about Keitaro's circumstances, a considerate person ought to have asked him about it before he had mentioned it himself.

With this observation of her state of mind, Keitaro tried to make his words into an introduction of the entire course of events that had taken place. But the interjections she uttered every now and then—"That is certainly correct!" or "My, what an unfortunate occurrence!" — which could be interpreted as sympathetic to either party, caused him to omit from his narrative all the abusive language he had used in his fit of anger. After many a repetition of the word "Sorry," she said as if defending Taguchi, "He's truly an enormously busy man. So much so that even my sister, living under the same roof, is unlikely to have even a single day in the week to talk with him undisturbed. I can't stand by indifferently, so I often say to him, 'What good, Yosaku-san, is all the money you earn if you ruin your health by such hard labors! Relax a little. The condition of your body is everything, is it not?' And he replies, 'My thought exactly. But business comes to a boil so quickly that unless you ladle it out soon, it spoils. It can't be helped.' And so he laughs away my advice. But then he sometimes surprises his wife and daughters by saying, as if the idea had just struck him, 'I'm taking all of you to Kamakura. Go get ready.'"

"He has daughters?"

"Yes, two. And both at the marriageable age. Sooner or later the parents will have to find them husbands, either marrying them off or getting them husbands willing to take the girls' family name as their own."

"Isn't one of them expected to become your son's wife?"

For a moment words failed her. Keitaro realized he had gone too far in trying to satisfy his curiosity. He was wondering how he could change the subject when she said, "Well, I don't know. There are always the parents' feelings to consider. And I can't be certain of what's between the two persons in question unless I ask them. In such matters, however eagerly one may desire to do this or that, one can't bring about what one really wishes."

At these significant words, Keitaro's curiosity, which had been receding, started to roll forward, but he checked its improper impetus.

Sunaga's mother continued to defend Taguchi. Sometimes, due to being so busy, he might possibly have been unable to keep a promise in spite of his good intentions. But once he took something upon himself, he never let it drop. Whether by way of caution or comfort, she advised Keitaro to wait for Taguchi's return from his trip and to see him again when he could spare more time.

"The uncle at Yarai, even when he's at home, won't see anyone, and there's nothing to be done about it. But the one at Uchisaiwaicho has such character that he'll run back home as soon as he has time for someone who has come during his absence. When he returns from his journey, I'm sure he'll say something to Ichizo, even without a word from us. You may depend upon that."

Her words made Keitaro feel Taguchi must certainly be this kind of man. But he would show kindness only to those who behaved well, certainly not to someone who had gone off in a rage as he had that day. Because it was too late to confide this fact to her, Keitaro remained silent.

"With that face of his," Sunaga's mother went on with a slight laugh to herself, "he's quite waggish, and yet he has more sincerity than his appearance suggests."

The epithet "waggish" least coincided with Keitaro's idea of Taguchi's character judging from his appearance and behavior. But on hearing some anecdotes about him, Keitaro thought the word might not be inappropriate.

Once, long ago, when Taguchi had stopped at a teahouse, he had said to the maid, "This electric lamp is too hot. Will you make it a little dimmer?" A puzzled look on her face, the maid asked if she should bring a smaller bulb. "No," Taguchi said quite seriously. "I'm just asking you to turn it down to make it dim." The maid, who probably took him for a man up from the country where no electric lights were used, said giggling, "You see, sir, an electric light can't be turned down like an oil lamp. When turned, it simply goes out — like this!" With a click she turned off the light and, after leaving the room in darkness for a moment, turned it on again, uttering a loud "Boo!" Not the least intimidated, Taguchi said, "Why, such an old-fashioned light still in use here? It's unworthy of the fine reputation of your house. You'd better ask a dealer right away for the latest kind. You'll have to wait your turn." His advice was given with such plausibility that the maid, much impressed, finally said in approval of the innovation, "Yes, this light is certainly very inconvenient. I guess it must be bad for people who want to go to bed with the light on."

Another story — a much more elaborate one — concerned a business trip to Shimonoseki, or maybe it was Moji. Something had prevented A, Taguchi's companion, from going with him at the same time, so Taguchi had been waiting two days for him at an inn. To kill time, he devised a trick to play on his friend. The idea occurred to him as he was walking and found himself in front of a photographer's shop. He went inside and bought a picture of one of the geisha of the city. On the back of the photograph he wrote, "To my dear A," and then wrapping it to make it look like a gift, attached a note that he hired a woman to write, giving her ample time to word it coquettishly enough to captivate the man as much as possible. It was composed with sufficient tenderness to please any man receiving it, including such intimacies in it as her reading in the newspaper about his arrival the next day and her writing after so many months of his absence and wishing him to come to such and such a place as soon as he read her note. That evening Taguchi himself mailed the note, received it himself when it was delivered the next day, and waited for A to arrive. When A came, Taguchi did not produce the letter at once. He diligently kept their consultation on the topic of business matters, as if these were of the utmost importance, until they sat down for dinner, whereupon, as if suddenly reminded, he took out the letter from his kimono sleeve and handed it over.

Finding the envelope marked "Confidential and Urgent," A put down his chopsticks, opened the letter immediately, rapidly read down the note, slipped the picture out of the wrapper, and, as soon as he glanced at the back of the photograph, rolled everything into a heap and stuffed it into the front of his kimono. Taguchi asked if he had anything urgent to do, to which A replied, "Well, no, nothing in particular," and absent-mindedly picked up his chopsticks again. But his manner grew restless, and though their business discussion had not yet concluded, he said before withdrawing to his own room, "Excuse me awhile. I've got a pain in my stomach."

Taguchi summoned a maid, told her that A would depart within the quarter hour, ordered her to ready a rickshaw for him and to tell the driver that as soon as A got in to rush forward without waiting for instructions and to set him down in front of the house to which he intended to go.

Taguchi himself went to the same house before his friend arrived. Immediately calling the mistress, he told her that such and such a gentleman would be arriving in a rickshaw with the name of his inn marked on the lantern, that she should show him into a clean room the moment he arrived, that she should treat him very attentively and inform him before he said a word that his companion had long been waiting for him, and, these words uttered, withdraw at once and return to Taguchi to report the man's arrival.

Then Taguchi smoked on alone with arms folded as he waited. Finally, with everything proceeding as planned, he knew it was time to make his own appearance. He went to the room adjoining his friend's, opened the sliding door between the rooms, and greeted him: "Well, thanks for coming so soon." A, his face paling, was astounded. Taguchi sat before him and confessed to all the details of his practical joke. Laughing, he said, "Let me treat you tonight — because of my tomfoolery."

Sunaga's mother laughed too as if amused by the story she had told. "That's the kind of wag he is, you see."

Keitaro returned to his boardinghouse thinking, "Surely that automobile wasn't one of his practical jokes."

Since the automobile incident Keitaro had given up the idea of counting on Taguchi for help. At the same time he felt his attempt to know the real identity of the woman he had seen from behind and whom he had assumed to be Sunaga's cousin had come to a thudding halt only a few steps after it had started. And in the depths of that thought was something unpleasant, something seemingly tantalizing and inconclusive.

To this very day Keitaro had never been conscious of pursuing a thing fully under his own power. No matter what he had earnestly set out to do, be it study, sport, or anything else, he had not once followed anything through to its completion. The only thing in his life he had ever finished was his graduation from university. And even there he tended to be lazy, to lie coiled like a snake until the university of its own accord dragged him out of its campus cage. Therefore, while he had had no tedious stoppages on his path through the university, he had never felt the exhilaration one would feel, for example, in having dug through to a well after painstaking effort.

He passed several days in a kind of daze. Suddenly he recalled a discourse he had heard in his school days, one delivered by a teacher of religion invited to the school. The man's circumstances had been such that he had no grievance against either his family or society, but of his own free will he had become a Buddhist monk. In the course of explaining his situation, he said he had chosen the religious life because he had been confronted by an inexplicable problem.

No matter how bright and clear the skies above him, he said he felt as if he were undergoing the torment of an imprisonment coming from every direction. Trees, houses, people walking along the street, all these were clearly visible to him, yet he constantly felt as if he alone had been put into a glass cage, separated from direct contact with the outside world until his pain became so excruciating that he felt he was suffocating.

After hearing the talk, Keitaro had suspected that the man had been victimized by a kind of neurosis, and with this reflection Keitaro gave no further concern to such a state of mind. But when he thought it over during these several days of worrisome idleness, he found some resemblances between himself — who had never once experienced the delight of completing anything — and the feelings of this religious man before he became a monk. Of course, since his own suffering was incomparably trivial and of an entirely different nature, he did not have to make the kind of great decision that the religious teacher had to make. If only he had learned how to brace himself a little more, how to exert himself just a bit, he might have been able to be more satisfied with himself, whether his aims were attained or not. Up to the present moment he had not given sufficient attention to this deficiency in himself.

Thinking alone in this way, Keitaro felt he had to make some headway in any direction whatsoever. On the other hand, it seemed that all his decisions had come too late, and he idled away the next days without any objective in mind. During this interval he had gone to see a play at the Yurakuza Theater, had heard comic tales told by professional storytellers at a variety hall, had chatted with friends, had walked the streets, and had done various other things. But in none of these activities could he lay hold of the world any more than he could hair on a bald head. It was as if, wanting to play go himself, he was forced to watch others at their game. And he wished, since he had to remain a mere spectator, to at least be watching a more exciting game full of critical moves.

This wish at once brought into his imagination the relationship between Sunaga and the woman seen from behind. He felt that their relationship was not likely to be as deeply constructed as his wild fancy had colored it, and even if it were, his interest would amount to no more than poking his nose into another's affair. He derided himself for his folly and considered all his interest absurd, yet right after such thoughts his curiosity was aroused, and the idea that something lay behind their relationship flashed through his mind from time to time as it had just then. These thoughts led him to the consideration that if he pushed himself further ahead along this route with a little more patience, he might come across something more romantic than he had yet experienced. He began to regard his own short temper, which had caused him to get angry at Taguchi's door and had made him give up his research on the woman, as a weakness unworthy of his own strong curiosity.

As for a job, he reflected that he ought not to have alienated himself from Taguchi by letting out, if even only a few words, a spiteful remark due to a trivial mishap. Those words had cut short a future that was still evolving, indefinite though it was about its success or failure. And so he had brought on himself an annoying dissatisfaction with his own irresolute self.

Sunaga's mother had assured him that Taguchi was of a kindlier disposition than his appearance suggested. If so, it might well be that he would condescend to see Keitaro again after returning from his trip. But it would be stupid to ask for a second interview and be scorned as someone who was deficient in common sense. Yet in order to at least take firm hold of the feeling of thoroughly proceeding toward some end, he perhaps had to push his way even to the extent of enduring the pain of being called fool.

In such ways did Keitaro's thoughts turn during those perplexing days.

But Keitaro's situation was quite different from the kind that demands an immediate decision on a question of the greatest importance to a person's life. In his mind something light and buoyant was hovering in spite of his apparent worry. Should he proceed along this route to the very end, or should he abandon it and make preparation to shift to something new? The question needed no real analysis, for from the very beginning it had been quite simple. The perplexity in his mind came not from the fear that once having drawn a losing lottery ticket, he would sink into depths from which he would not be able to emerge, but rather from the unconscious working of his idle thought that whatever the outcome, it would not ultimately affect him that much. Like a person who reads a book while feeling drowsy yet who tries to catch the clear meaning of the letters without making a conscious effort to resist that drowsiness, Keitaro was worried that the egg of prompt resolution warming in his rather easygoing bosom would not hatch properly.

Under the pretext that he had to free himself from his own irresolution, he tried to fan secretly the flame of his own love of curiosity. The idea occurred to him that he ought to size up his future by appealing to a fortuneteller. The education he had received was not that unscientific to make him fully believe in such things as incantations, prayers, charms against evil, exorcisms, or mediums, but he had retained from his boyhood years not a little interest in all these mysteries. His father had been a nervous man who had gone deeply into the study of directions and horoscopy. One Sunday, Keitaro, a primary school boy at the time, saw his father sally out into the garden, his kimono tucked up and a hoe on his shoulder. He wondered what his father was going to do and was about to follow when his father said, "Stay here and keep your eye on the clock. As soon as it begins to strike twelve, give a loud shout, and I'll start digging at the root of the plum tree standing to the northwest." Keitaro's boyhood mind took it as another of his father's cherished theories on the aspects of houses, and the moment the clock began striking, he cried aloud as commanded, "It's exactly noon!" Nothing amiss occurred at that moment. But Keitaro wondered why his father, so anxious to be punctual in the first digging with the hoe, had not taken care to set the clock right beforehand, for Keitaro knew that according to the clock in his school, theirs at home was wrong by about twenty minutes.

On a subsequent day when the family returned from a herb-gathering excursion, Keitaro was kicked by a horse and fell down an embankment. Strangely enough, no injury appeared anywhere on his body. Delighted, his grandmother said to him, "You've been saved by the grace of Jizo-sama, for he put himself in your place. Come see!" She led him to a stone image of the guardian-deity for children standing by the spot where the horse had been tied. The head of the stone Jizo-sama had broken off; only the traditional bib placed there by some mother remained around its neck. At that moment a cloud of strange hue drifted into Keitaro's mind. Though it varied in its density according to Keitaro's bodily condition or the circumstances surrounding him, quite evidently it had not slipped away even though he had grown to adulthood.

For this reason Keitaro always regarded a fortuneteller on the street, his paper lantern on a handle shaped like a bow, as belonging to one of the interesting professions handed down from past generations to the civilized world of Meiji. His belief, however, was not ardent enough to allow him to spend his money listening to the sounds of divining rods twirled in the hands of a fortune-teller, but often on his walks when he saw a woman standing forlornly before a diviner's stall, her chilled face illuminated by the lantern, he would half in fun, yet driven by curiosity, steal into the shadows to eavesdrop on what hopes, anxieties, fears, or assurances were being given to the helpless woman brooding over the gloom cast onto her future.

Once a friend of Keitaro's, despairing of his own talent, was troubled about whether to take his final examinations or to leave school. During a trip an acquaintance of this student had visited Zenkoji Temple and sent him a sacred Buddhist lot that he had drawn for him. This good luck fortune, numbered 55, contained such sentences as "The clouds are dispersed and the moon is bright again" and "The flowers are in bloom and prosperity returns." Encouraged by these words, Keitaro's friend undertook the examination as a trial and passed. This incident interested Keitaro so much that he went around to various shrines and randomly drew sacred lots, although at that time he had no particular objective in mind. So it could be said that even in ordinary times Keitaro had sufficient qualification to be a fortuneteller's client. On the other hand, even in the situation in which he now found himself, a considerable amount of frivolous pleasure was mixed into his idea of consulting an augury.

Keitaro searched his memory for a fortune-teller he could visit, but he couldn't come up with anyone. He had heard the names of some professional ones, one near Hakusan, another in Shiba Park, and still another in a certain block on the Ginza. Yet he could not bring himself to go to them because their very fame made him suspicious of quackery. Still less did he wish to fall prey to the impertinence of an imposter who would utter quite plausibly a random guess he actually knew was untrue. Keitaro hoped to find some old man with a generous growth of beard who, in a house not too crowded with clients, would get to the point in words that were succinct and epigrammatic. As he was thinking of such a fortuneteller, he recalled the image of the retired priest from Ipponji Temple in his hometown, a man his father used to visit for consultations.

Keitaro suddenly seemed to awaken from the foolish state he had been in, unable to tell exactly whether he had been meditating or merely sitting. So he put on his hat, thinking vaguely he would at least go out and perhaps be lured by destiny toward some fortune-teller's shingle.

It had been quite a while since he had last gone to Kurumazaka in the Shitaya district. He walked straight east along the street on both sides of which he saw temple gates, dealers in Buddhist articles, old-fashioned druggists, and shops which had heaps of junk handed down from the Tokugawa era lined up for sale, dust and all. He deliberately passed through the old grounds of Monzeki and came out at the corner where the Yakko, a restaurant famous for broiled eel, stood.

As a boy he had often heard about the prosperity of the temple in Asakusa dedicated to Kannon, his grandfather knowing this district quite well at the time Tokyo was called Edo. In the old man's stories were the names of such places as Nakamise, Okuyama, Namiki, Komagata, and even some little used by Tokyoites nowadays, where, his grandfather had told him, various delicacies could be found. There was, for example, an elegant restaurant on Hirokoji, the Sumiya, famous for its rice boiled with rape leaves and bean curd baked and coated with miso, and there was another famous freshwater-fish restaurant with its pretty rope curtains hanging at the entrance just opposite a shrine at Komagata. But what had impressed the young Keitaro most was the old man's account of the swordplay artistry of Hyosuke Nagai, the sword-swallowing magician Mamezo, and the dried-up bodies of big toads with four forelegs and six behind, apparently caught at the foot of Mount Ibuki in Omi Province.

Abundant explanations of these mysteries were conveniently offered to a child's imagination by the old picture books stowed away in a chest on the upper floor of the family storehouse. A man crouching on a small wooden table and wearing a pair of high clogs with only one thin support, his kimono sleeves tucked up with a sash as he was about to draw from its sheath a curved sword longer than his own height; Jiraiya, master of the occult sitting cross-legged on the back of a huge toad as he practiced the black arts; an ancient gray-bearded man at a Chinese desk holding a physiognomist's magnifying glass larger than his face, looking down through it at a man with a top-knot who was lying prostrate before him — most of these strange characters had come from those early picture books and had their existence in Keitaro's imaginary Asakusa.

Thus, the image Keitaro had ever since his boyhood days of the compound of Kannon around the thirty-six-yard frontage of its main temple had always been enveloped in historically luring mysteries and dazzling colors. Since he had come to live in Tokyo, these strange illusions had inevitably been shattered, yet at times he would still drift back to fancy that under the roof of Kannon's temple one might find a stork's nest. Just some such vagary working latently in him had made him think Asakusa might hold what he wanted, involuntarily directing his steps there. But when he came out from the back of Lunar Park onto a street with a number of movie theaters, he was surprised by the congestion and felt this was hardly the place for diviners.

He thought, before leaving the area, that he would at least pass his palm over the head of the Pindola for luck, but he could not remember in which part of the grounds it was. He went up to the main temple and, after looking only at a great paper lantern dedicated by a fishmongers' guild and at a votive tablet of Yorimasa killing the chimera, left by the Gate of Thunder.

Keitaro was expecting to find a fortune-teller or two by the time he reached Asakusa Bridge. If he did, he would enter no matter what sort of fortune-teller it was. Or perhaps he might turn at the crossing just before the College of Technology and head toward Yanagibashi. He walked along as lightheartedly as if he were looking for a good place to eat.

As often happens when one is searching for something, Keitaro could not find a single fortune-teller on the broad street he was walking along, though on his usual walks no matter where he went he would see any number of shingles for divination. He reached Kuramae feeling somewhat disappointed, thinking that in this attempt too, as was typical with him, he might have to stop halfway without seeing it through to the end.

At last he caught sight of the kind of house he was looking for. He saw a thick oblong board of hardwood on which was written in two lines "Divination in Personal Matters," and under these characters were engraved in white the words "Fortune-telling with Bunsen Coins." Beneath these characters was a picture in red lacquer of a cayenne pepper. It was to this quaint sign that Keitaro's eyes were first drawn.

As he looked more closely, he realized that the house was part of an apothecary shop which had been partitioned off, the narrow part having a neat built-in section like a lean-to attached to it. Inside were rows of bags filled with powdered spices, showing that the owner not only told fortunes but, as indicated by the picture on the signboard, sold these condiments as well. Having made this observation, Keitaro peered into the lean-to, which looked rather like a shop specializing in bean-jam rice dumplings, and discovered a small elderly woman doing needlework.

Though there seemed to be no more to the living quarters than this narrow room, nothing could be seen of any fortune-teller. Keitaro thought he might be out, his wife taking care of the shop in his absence. But the construction of the shop suggested it was connected with the apothecary in back, so Keitaro could not conclude right then that the master was absent. He proceeded a few steps ahead and looked into the apothecary. He found no dried lampreys suspended there, nor any turtle shells exhibited. Nor did he see that old-fashioned anatomical model of the human body, the abdomen hollowed out to reveal its internal organs in various colors, each set on a shelf fixed into the torso. And of course there was no elderly bearded man inside bearing any resemblance to the retired priest at Ipponji Temple.

Keitaro retraced his steps to the entrance with its signboard and went inside under the short curtain hanging in front. The old woman stopped sewing, stared over her big glasses at him, and uttered only a single word: "Divination?"

"Yes," replied Keitaro. "Just a little thing I'd like to know. But the master's out, isn't he?"

"Come in," the old woman said, putting in a corner the silk material she had on her lap.

Keitaro went in. He found the room tidy though small, and certainly comfortable enough. The tatami, newly recovered, smelled of fresh rush. The woman poured boiling water from an iron kettle into a cup and set a spiced drink before her guest. Then from a shelf that had perhaps originally been made for holding a medicine cabinet, she took down a small desk covered with a cloth of plain wool and set it in front of Keitaro. Returning to her seat, she said, "I'm the one who tells fortunes."

Keitaro was jolted. He had not given the slightest thought to the possibility that this simple, homely woman who had been so intently engaged in sewing, her hair done up into a small chignon, her kimono with its black satin neckband worn under a plain striped haori, should be the predictor of his destiny. He wondered all the more when he saw neither rods nor divining blocks nor a magnifying glass on her desk. From a long slender bag that she had placed on the desk, she jingled out nine coins, the kind with a hole in the center. Keitaro could only guess that these were the bunsen, the word he had read on the shingle. But of course he could not imagine in what way those nine coins should be related to the invisible strings of fate manipulating him. So he remained silent, looking now at the patterns engraved on the coins, now at the bag from which they had been taken. The latter seemed to have been made from costume material for a Noh play or from some remnant of cloth for mounting a hanging scroll. Gold strings on it glittered here and there, but its original bright colors had faded entirely through time and use.

The old woman, whose fingers were white and delicate for her age, arranged the nine coins in rows of three. Suddenly she looked up at Keitaro and asked, "Do you want to know your future?"

"It wouldn't be bad knowing about my entire life. But I've got something that seems more important for me to decide now. So please tell only about that."

"I see," she said and then asked how old he was. She also made certain of the day and month of his birth. She began to count on her fingers as though she were mentally calculating something and then fell into a kind of reverie. Presently with her pretty fingers she arranged the coins. On the faces of some there was a wave pattern; others showed the character bun. Keitaro was staring at them as if he were seeing something deep in their order and arrangement.

The old woman remained silent for some time, her hands on her knees as she gazed at the old coins. Soon her expression indicated that she had settled on a clear point.

"You are now vacillating," she affirmed, looking directly at him.

He deliberately remained silent.

"You are undecided about continuing something or abandoning it. But that is to your disadvantage. Go forward, for even though it may seem unfavorable, it will turn out all right in the end." She paused, her lips closed as she threw another searching glance at him.

From the beginning he had been determined only to listen and say nothing. But her words aroused him, made him feel as if his own vague thoughts were suddenly being revealed in her voice, and he was involuntarily tempted to respond to the stimulus she had given him.

"If I go ahead, won't I make a mess of it?"

"Yes, you may. So behave as best you can, and take care not to be short-tempered."

This was not fortune-telling, Keitaro thought, but merely a piece of advice that common sense would teach anybody. But in her way of speaking he saw no affectation, so he proceeded to ask, "As to the question of going forward, which direction should I take?"

"That you ought to know quite well. All I'm saying is for you to go on a little further because it's better for you."

Since he had touched on the subject, he could not merely say, "Is that so?" and withdraw. "But I have two ways to go," he said, "and I'm asking which one I should take."

The old woman silently turned her gaze to the bunsen coins again and said in graver tones than before, "They're almost the same."

She picked up some pieces of thread that lay scattered where she had been sewing, and selecting from them two longer silk threads, one dark blue and the other red, she began to twist them neatly together. Keitaro did not pay much attention to what she was doing, thinking she was merely fingering them for want of something better to occupy herself with. She braided the threads elaborately into a single string five or six inches long and placed it on the coins.

"Look at this," she said. "When twisted together, two threads become one string, and the one string is made up of two threads, one bright red, the other dark blue, as you can see. Young men are apt to rush toward the bright one and blunder. But you are blessed, for your circumstances seem at least for the time being to be wound around each other quite harmoniously like this yarn here."

He found her comparison of the silk threads to his circumstances interesting, though he didn't know exactly why, but when she said he was blessed, he felt more amused than delighted. "Are you saying then," he asked in a tone which implied that he had swallowed her words, "that if I follow the sober way of the dark blue thread, the cheerful red one will turn up every now and then?"

"Yes," she replied. "It ought to."

From the very beginning Keitaro had not been in such straits as to have to depend solely as a last resort on the words of a soothsayer in deciding once and for all about which way to go. Yet he still felt something was lacking. If the words she had spoken had involved a world utterly foreign to his thought, he would not have been concerned about them in the least. But as they admitted an interpretation that made them applicable to his present situation, he felt detained by something in them.

"Don't you have anything else to tell me?"

"Well, something may happen to you one of these days."

"Something bad?"

"Not necessarily, but unless you're careful, you'll blunder, and if you do, it can never be undone."

Keitaro's curiosity was somewhat sharpened. "What kind of thing?"

"You can't know until it happens. But it doesn't seem as if it involves being robbed or drowned."

"So you can't tell me either how I can avoid making a blunder, can you?"

"It's possible to know. If you wish, I can try another divination."

Keitaro had no choice but to ask her to. Again the old woman's delicate fingers moved cleverly and reversed each of the bunsen coins on her desk. To Keitaro's eyes this arrangement was almost the same as the previous one, but it seemed to provide an important difference to her. In turning over each coin, she did not do it rapidly. After she had arranged the coins with great care, she said to Keitaro, "I understand almost all of it."

"What should I do?"

"What should you do? you say. In divination, great truths are only revealed in terms of the negative and positive principle, the yin and yang. The only thing you can do is consider the most practical way in a specific situation in terms of the general truth revealed. It is this: You have something which seems your own and at the same time another's, something long and short, something which goes out and comes in. The next time you have an emergency, be careful not to forget that something. It will carry you through."

Keitaro was utterly mystified. However great the general truth might be in terms of the yin and yang, it was like being in a fog in which he could not even guess the direction. He repeated his questions a few times, trying to draw from her an answer, whether truth or not, if only a little more definite and applicable, but nothing satisfactory came from his attempts. Finally he left the old prophetess, holding in his bosom what seemed like a Zen priest's gibberish, which offered as much heat as a body-warmer wrapped in a towel under one's clothes. Added to the bargain he carried off two bags of spices in his kimono sleeve, having bought these on his way out.

The next day at breakfast as Keitaro removed the cover from his bowl of steaming miso soup, he suddenly remembered the spices and took them from his sleeve. He sprinkled an ample portion over the soup, the result being that he had to put up with a burning sensation throughout the meal. He recalled the old woman's "great truth based on the principle of yin and yang," but it remained as nebulous as a gas. Yet since he was not that ardent a believer in divination to fret about an impossible puzzle, he did not undergo the anxiety of those who harass themselves over interpretations. Only the fact that it was beyond his comprehension aroused his curiosity. While he still remembered the riddle, though, he wrote the words down on a slip of paper just as the old woman had recited them and slid the scrap into his desk drawer.

As to whether or not he should take steps to see Taguchi again, Keitaro interpreted the old woman's advice as conclusive. Not that he was going to go because he believed in fortune-telling, but simply because his fortune-teller had given an impetus to what he himself had been on the point of actually doing.

Keitaro thought of going to Sunaga to learn if his uncle had returned from Osaka, but the automobile incident still weighed so heavily on his mind that he lacked the courage to direct his steps there. He found it equally difficult to phone. Ultimately he decided to write Sunaga a letter. After stating briefly the circumstances of his interview with Taguchi in nearly the same way he had recited them to Sunaga's mother a few days ago, he asked Sunaga to inquire whether or not Taguchi was back from his trip. If so, he would be most grateful if the uncle could spare some time from his busy schedule, since he was himself totally free and would be able to visit whatever the hour on the appointed day. The tone of the letter suggested that Keitaro had utterly forgotten his hot-tempered determination of the other day.

When Keitaro mailed the letter, he expected Sunaga's reply the next day. But with two days and even three passing without a response, a slight anxiety began to trouble him, and mixed into this anxiety was a remorse for the shame he might be put to for ever being influenced by the words of a fortune-teller.

Suddenly on the morning of the fourth day Taguchi telephoned him.

When Keitaro picked up the receiver, he was surprised to hear Taguchi's own voice asking simply if he could come at once. He would leave immediately, he replied, but thinking it too abrupt and uncivil to hang up with merely a curt answer, he asked whether Sunaga had said anything about him.

"Yes, Ichizo told me of your request, but to save trouble, I called up myself. I'll be waiting. Come at once, please."

The voice stopped there. Keitaro put on his hakama, thinking this time it finally looked good on him. From the rack he took down a soft felt hat he had recently purchased, and he left in cheerful spirits, his face animated by fresh hope for the future. The sun had melted the morning frost and was now shining mildly over the streets. There was no sign of a wintry wind to sweep away the brightness. On the streetcar rushing along the thoroughfare, Keitaro felt as if he were cleaving his way through bright light.

Unlike the other day, the entrance to Taguchi's house was very quiet. When the same hakama-clad houseboy came to answer the bell, Keitaro felt somewhat awkward. He could not say, of course, that he was sorry for his previous conduct, so with a look of innocence on his face, he politely offered the purpose of his visit. Whether remembering Keitaro or not, the houseboy merely replied, "Yes, sir," and took his calling card inside. He returned saying, "This way please," and ushered Keitaro in.

Keitaro donned the pair of slippers the houseboy put before him and was shown into the Western-style drawing room, but he was puzzled about which one of several chairs he should take there. His humble thought that the smallest would be safest made him choose one in an inconspicuous place — a lightweight, high-backed chair with neither arms nor ornament.

Presently the master of the house appeared. With formal expressions he was not used to uttering, Keitaro offered the usual salutations used in meeting someone for the first time and expressed his appreciation for the interview. But the other took little notice of these words and merely responded with an occasional "Hmm." Further, he said nothing when Keitaro came to a halt.

Keitaro was not so much disappointed in Taguchi's attitude as he was embarrassed at finding his own words not lasting as long as he had wanted them to. When he had said all he had prepared for his greeting, he was obliged, in spite of the awkwardness he felt, to be silent for lack of something to add. Taguchi took a cigarette from a box on the table and then pushed the box slightly toward Keitaro.

"I've heard," Taguchi began, "a bit about you from Ichizo. What kind of job is it you want?"

Actually Keitaro had nothing specific in mind. He had only thought about acquiring some considerable position, so he could answer only vaguely that he had "aspirations in all fields."

Taguchi burst out laughing. Good-humoredly he explained that even if one had fine recommendations, it was very difficult to obtain a good position right away with so many university graduates out looking for jobs nowadays. But this Keitaro had long known only too well without having Taguchi inform him of it as if it were a new fact.

"I'm prepared to do anything."

"Anything? Certainly you're not ready to punch tickets for the railway, are you?"

"Yes, yes I am. That's better than doing nothing. I'm honestly ready to take any job as long as it promises something for the future. It'll be a blessing just to be freed from the pain of doing nothing."

"If that's your idea, I'll try to find you something. Though it won't be soon, I'm afraid."

"Yes, please do. Only try me out — with something, say, in your house. No, that doesn't sound right. I mean, just let me do something personal for you."

"Are you ready to do even that?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe I will. You don't mind when?"

"No. In fact, the sooner the better."

Keitaro thus brought the interview to an end. His countenance was cheerful as he left Taguchi's house.

A few mild winter days ensued. From his third-floor window Keitaro looked out at the sky, trees, and tiled roofs, the pleasant thought occurring to him that the sun now gently warming nature in an orange tinge was streaming down upon the world just for him. He was convinced his recent interview would soon bring forth the desired result, so he spent his days waiting in eager expectation, imagining what strange shape it would take when it appeared before him.

When he had asked Taguchi for a position, he had meant for it to have in it something more than an ordinary applicant would want. Not only did he wish to do those duties required by a given profession, but he also expected from Taguchi something that, while temporary, would nevertheless be filled with excitement. It was characteristic of Keitaro to feel vaguely that if the shadow of success were to flit across his path, perhaps something peculiarly scintillating, something outside the range of common jobs, would abruptly be cast before him. Absorbed in such hopes, he spent the days basking in a sunlight he found beautiful.

In about four days Taguchi telephoned again. He had something he wanted Keitaro to do, but as it would cause too much trouble to have him come to his house and since speaking about it over the phone would take too much time and be even more troublesome, he had decided to send a special delivery letter in which Keitaro would be given all the particulars. Should there be anything in it Keitaro could not understand, all he had to do would be to ask Taguchi by phone. Keitaro was delighted, like someone who has hit on the right focus of the telescope, seeing clearly what had been seen but dimly before.

He remained at his desk, waiting for the letter and giving rein to his imagination. He found the figure of the woman he had seen from behind at Sunaga's gate apt to intrude into his thoughts without permission, whereupon he would suddenly become aware that he ought to be more practical; in such cases, he would, though for that moment only, rebuke his deviating fancy. And so the tantalizing hours passed.

At last the long-awaited letter reached him. He tore open the envelope, breathlessly read through from end to end of the rolled letter paper, and involuntarily uttered a low cry. For the "business" given him was even more romantic than his imagination had anticipated.

The letter was written in simple words and contained no more information than was necessary for the purpose at hand. It stated that between four and five that very day a man about forty years old would alight at Oga-wamachi from a streetcar coming from the direction of Mita. He would be wearing a black fedora and a salt-and-pepper cloak. He would be tall and lean with a longish face and a mole between his eyebrows. With these characteristics to guide him, Keitaro was to spy on the man's movements during the next two hours and then report on them. That was all the letter contained.

For the first time in his life Keitaro felt himself the hero playing a leading role in a detective story fraught with danger. At the same time, doubts arose in him as to Taguchi's intentions: whether, in order to protect his interest in society, he would dare to resort to such a surreptitious act to find out someone's weak points for some future use. When Keitaro thought about the dishonor and guilt he would feel in being used as a spy for someone, he broke out in a cold sweat. With his hand holding the letter, his body turned rigid and his eyes became fixed in a stare. Yet when he considered what he had heard from Sunaga's mother about Taguchi's character, and when he combined that information with his own personal impressions of the man, he could not feel, on the whole, that Taguchi was that ill-natured a person. And once Keitaro concluded that spying on another's personal behavior did not necessarily come from base motives, the stiffness of his muscles relaxed and set his warm blood flowing again. Regaining his composure, he could now regard the problem from the vantage point of pure interest, one free of the disgust he might feel in going against his own moral integrity.

At any rate, he felt inclined to accomplish the job in the way Taguchi had asked him to and to regard the experience as his first real contact with the outside world. Again he read Taguchi's letter, more carefully this time, reexamining it to see whether or not he would actually be able to obtain a satisfactory result only from the person's characteristics and the conditions written therein.

Of those characteristics Taguchi had described, the only one inseparably connected to the man's person was the mole between his eyebrows. But it would not be easy to be absolutely certain such a tiny mark on the face belonged to the right person, especially when, at four or five in the afternoon during this time of the year, the winter light was scant and many passengers were busily getting on and off streetcars. Indeed, great numbers of rush-hour commuters would be heading home from Marunouchi by the only line across Kanda Bridge. And there was something else. He had to take into account the streets, which would be even more congested at this time of the year-end sales when shops on both sides of Ogawamachi would be trying to attract chance customers with bunting, bands, and gramaphones, not to mention the usual electric illuminations.

When Keitaro considered these points in relation to the probability of the success of the task at hand, he felt extremely uncertain about his ability to do it alone. Nevertheless, since it was definite that the person he was to look for would be dressed in a salt-and-pepper cloak and a black fedora, there seemed to be a ray of hope. Of course he ought not to expect much of a clue only from the cloak, whatever its style might be. But since the man would be wearing a black fedora, he could easily be spotted because nearly all men nowadays wearing fedoras preferred colors other than black. If he looked carefully for this sign, he just might succeed.

Reasoning in this way, Keitaro came to the conclusion that successful or not, he should at least go to the streetcar stop. He looked at his pocket watch and found it was just one o'clock. To reach his destination half an hour before four, there would be plenty of time if he left at around three. He still had two hours. He remained in his room sitting quietly, thinking about how to put those two hours to the best use. Yet before his eyes only the congested crowds at the T-shaped concourse where Mitoshirocho and Ogawamachi met seemed to come and go all jumbled together without bringing him any plan conducive to success. The more he thought, the more his mind stuck fast to the same spot, completely unable to move. And a fear that he might never be able to meet the man he was looking for crept in to disturb him.

The thought occurred to him that he might as well pass the time walking until the appropriate hour. He put his hands on the edge of his desk and was about to rise vigorously to his feet when he suddenly recalled the words of caution the old fortune-teller at Asakusa had given him: an event would occur one of these days and he ought not to forget to bring along with him a "something." Although he had allowed the old woman's words on that occasion to almost slip out of his mind, he remembered having taken the trouble to write them down on a slip of paper and having put them in his desk drawer for future reference. So he took out the scrap and untiringly perused the phrasing: "Something which seems your own and at the same time another's, something long and short, something which goes out and comes in."

At first, as before, he could find no meaning in it, but as he read it over and over again, he began to think that if he concentrated patiently on the words, an object with these queer properties might turn up. What was more, he remembered the old diviner's advice that since the thing was in his possession, he should not forget to use it when the occasion arose. He began to think that if only he could hit on something, anything, no matter what, something having these properties within the narrow range of his own surroundings, he might be able to solve the question — and in a shorter time than he had thought it would take. He decided to make good use of the two hours before him by solving the riddle.

He began with objects around him — his desk, books, towels, cushions-and then proceeded in turn to his wicker trunk, suitcase, and socks, but already an hour had elapsed without his lighting upon anything even closely resembling the puzzle. He became irritated, confused. His thoughts rushed around the room restlessly until disregarding all restraint, they forced themselves out the door and ran wildly in every direction.

Presently appearing distinctly before him with all the authority of the person Keitaro was in search of was a tall, lean gentleman in a salt-and-pepper cloak and a black fedora. And all at once the face was transformed into Morimoto's in Dairen. The instant Keitaro visualized in his imagination the visage of Morimoto with its loosely hanging moustache, he uttered a cry like that of someone who has just been jolted by an electric shock.

The name Morimoto had long been a medium through which strange sounds came to Keitaro's ears. And lately it had grown into a kind of perfect signal. Although the man's name had inevitably associated itself with the walking stick from the beginning (whether the stick was interpreted as a connection between Morimoto and Keitaro or whether it was regarded as something standing between them), there had been a certain gulf between Morimoto and the stick itself which had prevented Keitaro from going from one to the other at a leap. But of late the two had become so closely joined that the name Morimoto instantly called up to Keitaro's mind the walking stick, and vice versa.

As Keitaro's thoughts were carried away by the warm flow of blood under the stimulus that Morimoto's name had given him, he hit on the idea that the walking stick was something whose ownership was not settled as being Morimoto's or his own. The moment this occurred to him he exclaimed, "That's it!" and laid firm hold of the cane among the dark and disordered phantoms scurrying away from him.

He was pleased with himself, believing the first part of the old woman's riddle, "something which seems your own and another's," was solved. But he had not yet considered the remaining parts, "something long and short, something which goes out and comes in." And so he began with renewed endeavor to try to find these two remaining properties in the same stick.

At first he thought the angle at which one looked at the stick might make it seem sometimes short and sometimes long, and he followed that line of reasoning. But he felt this was too commonplace an interpretation. So he retraced his way and started anew, repeating any number of times the phrase "long and short." It seemed unlikely, however, that he could reach a solution in so brief an interval. His watch showed he had only thirty minutes left of the two hours he had started with.

He began to doubt his reading of the riddle — wondering if he were not struggling hopelessly in a cul-de-sac he had mistaken for a through street. If he couldn't get past, he thought it best to return to the point at which he had started and try to find a new path. But the time remaining was too limited for that.

Since he had partially succeeded, it would be more reasonable to take his success as a good omen and to follow the original line of reasoning as far as he could. In the course of the confused, meandering search, in which he grasped at anything that offered even a faint hope, his image of the stick was suddenly transferred from its entirety to only the head of the snake carved at the handle. In that instant, almost unawares, he compared a snake's short, spoon-bowl head to its long, thin torso covered with glittering scales and realized that because the head of the snake on the cane had been cut short at the neck from the long torso to which it ought to have been connected, the thing was something both long and short at the same time. This answer, flashing through his mind like lightning, made him leap for joy.

The rest of the riddle, "something which goes out and comes in," did not require much thought, only about five minutes' worth. It occurred to him that what was half-hidden in the snake's mouth and half out of it— whether intended as an egg or a frog he couldn't be certain — and neither swallowed nor escaping, could be determined as going out or coming in. At once he concluded that was it.

Keitaro, thinking he had solved the entire riddle perfectly, sprang from his desk. He secured his watch by twisting its chain around his kimono band. With hat in hand, he was about to leave without even putting on his hakama when the question of how to take out the walking stick made him pause for a moment.

A long time had elapsed since Morimoto had left it in the umbrella stand. Keitaro might touch it or even remove it without any fear of reproach or suspicion from the landlord, even if nothing were told to the man beforehand. But it would take some planning to make off with it at a time when the landlord's family were not nearby, or, if they were, to do so without their noticing it. Having been raised in a superstitious family, he had often heard his mother tell him that if someone wanted to acquire something to be used right away in a spell, that object would lose its efficacy unless it were stolen without being seen by others.

He went halfway down the stairs from the second floor and peered below, pretending to look at the board-inghouse clock in the front hall.

As usual, the landlord was sitting by the big round porcelain brazier in his six-mat room. His wife was not present. While Keitaro was leaning over from the middle of the stairway to look into the room through the glass panes in the sliding doors, the bell above the landlord's head suddenly began its noisy ring. The landlord glanced up at the number of the room asking for service and called into the adjoining room, "Hey, anyone there?" Keitaro crept back to his quarters on the third floor.

He opened the closet door and took out his serge hakama, which he had thrown over the wicker trunk. As he walked about the room putting the hakama on, its backstay dragged behind him along the tatami. He then pulled off his tabi and changed into a pair of socks. With that much done, he again went downstairs.

Glancing into the parlor, he did not see the landlord's wife or the maid. Nor did the bell ring this time. All was quiet throughout the house. But the landlord, as earlier, was still leaning against the big round brazier, his eyes toward the entrance. Keitaro, from the angle at which he was looking before reaching the foot of the stairs, could see the landlord's bent back. He knew that the time was not yet ripe. Nevertheless, he ventured down. As he feared, the landlord asked him if he was going out and at once called the maid to take his footgear out of the box in which the shoes and clogs were kept. Keitaro, with troubles enough dodging one man's notice, did not want to add to the problem by having the maid present. "Don't worry about me," he said and raising the wooden lid promptly lifted out his shoes. Fortunately the maid failed to appear by the time Keitaro was standing on the earthen floor at the entrance. But the landlord was still observing him.

"Would you do me a small favor?" Keitaro said. "This month's issue of the Law Society Journal is on my desk. Could you get it for me? I've already put my shoes on and, well, I don't want to have to take them off again." Keitaro knew the man had a smattering knowledge of law, so the request had been deliberate.

"Certainly," the landlord replied. Seeing that only he could carry out Keitaro's request, he rose promptly and started up the stairs.

In that spare moment Keitaro pulled the walking stick from the umbrella stand and held it tight against his arm under his haori. He stole out of the house before the landlord returned.

He hurried to Hongo Street with a feeling of pressure under his right armpit caused by the curving angle of the snakehead. On reaching the street, he removed the stick from under his cloak and gazed at the head of the snake. He took a handkerchief from his kimono sleeve and wiped the dust off the cane from top to bottom. This done, he held the stick in his right hand as if it were any ordinary cane and walked on wielding it vigorously.

On the streetcar he sat with hands folded over the snakehead, his chin resting on them. He sighed with relief as he looked back over the great pains he had been taking but which had now come to a brief halt. At the same time, his misgivings began again about the undertaking at the carstop he was now heading for. On reflection it was totally beyond his reasoning power how a walking stick he had exerted so much effort to carry off— almost as if committing a theft — could be useful in identifying a mole between a pair of eyebrows. He had merely followed the old woman's words and had sought as best he could something that was at once his own and another's, was long and short, and apparently went out and came in, and he was now carrying it with him as she had advised.

This mysterious-looking, yet actually quite commonplace and exceedingly light bamboo cane, whether set down, held in the hand, or hidden under a sleeve— what use, he wondered, could it ever be in locating that strange person? In this moment of doubt he glanced around the car, his face as blank as that of a person who has just shaken off an attack of ague. He felt ashamed of the efforts he had exerted a short while back with an ardor so impatient that it seemed as if steam had been rising from the very pores of his head. To distract himself from these thoughts, he laid firmer hold of the stick and lightly tapped the streetcar floor with it.

Soon he reached his destination. He hurriedly went back toward Ogawamachi from the carstop near the YMCA building. It was still only about a quarter to four. He crossed to the other side of the street, which was filled with the noise of pedestrians and streetcars, and there found a police box. He stood beside a red mailbox in a pose similar to a policeman's before his station and looked at the thoroughfare running straight south and at another broad street into which the former turned, curving gently left and right at the juncture.

Having thus surveyed the stage on which he was to soon play an active role, Keitaro now began to verify the whereabouts of the streetcar stop.

A dozen yards east of the mailbox he saw a red iron pole with characters in white paint that read "Ogawamachi." If only he stood there and waited, he could at least say on his own behalf that despite the possibility of missing the man in question among these jostling crowds, he had been at his post on time. Having gained this much assurance, he left the marked pole to look at his surroundings.

A porcelain dealer's shop built in the warehouse style was directly behind him. Under the eaves a box in the shape of a framed tablet and containing many small sake cups arranged in rows had been put up. Hanging there was a metal birdcage to the outside of which were tied innumerable porcelain cups for birdseed. Next to this shop was one dealing in leather goods. Its most conspicuous decoration was a large tiger fur with lifelike eyes and genuine claws and a border of red woolen cloth. Keitaro stood gazing at the animal's amber eyes. At the end of a long narrow muffler of snow-white fur was what looked to Keitaro like a small badger's humorous face.

Keitaro pulled out his watch, calculated the time remaining, and then moved on to the next shop, a jeweler's. He peered into the show window where in addition to gold rings and various cuff links he found a brilliant display of such items as a translucent rabbit carved from agate, some square-shaped personal seals made of amethyst, negake hair ornaments of green jade, and malachite fasteners.

Glancing into these shops one after another, Keitaro walked along until he had passed the Tenkado department store and came to a cabinetmaker's. At that moment he saw a streetcar which had come from behind him stop short, just opposite the pavement he was walking along.

Thinking there might possibly be another streetcar stop with the same name, he cut across the street and approached a foreign goods store at the corner of a narrow side street. There, written in white on another iron pole were the characters "Ogawamachi," the same as on the previous pole he had seen.

To double-check, he waited at this corner for a few streetcars to pass. The first was for Aoyama, the second for Shinjuku via Kudan. All these cars came straight from Mansei Bridge, so he was reassured that he need not worry the man in the fedora would get off at this stop. But just as Keitaro was retracing his steps to return to his former position on the other side of the street, a streetcar from the south swerved at the corner of Mitoshirocho and stopped near the spot Keitaro was standing at. It was only when he read the word "Sugamo" written in black characters above the motorman's head that he realized for the first time how careless he had been.

A passenger taking a streetcar from Mita through Marunouchi to get off at Ogawamachi would, after passing over Kanda Bridge, find the car turning either to the left and would therefore get off at the stop Keitaro was now standing at, or would find the car turning right and would get off in front of the porcelain shop Keitaro had checked a short while ago. And since each spot with its white sign indicated that the stop was Ogawamachi, Keitaro could not be certain at which of the two his man in the black fedora would alight.

With his eyes he measured the distance between the two red streetcar poles. Not more than a hundred yards. Doubtful of his powers of observation in checking even one place, Keitaro felt that no matter how highly he would have liked to estimate his own resourcefulness, it was absolutely impossible to demand the skill in himself to cover two areas thoroughly even though the distance between them was not great.

The streetcar line that Keitaro usually took from the area in which he lived was the one connecting Hongo to Mita. Not having known until that moment that there was another line that ran from Sugamo through Suidobashi to Mita, he couldn't help regretting his heedlessness. Totally at a loss, he suddenly thought as a last resort of asking Sunaga for help. But already it was seven minutes to four. Although Sunaga's house was on a side street not too far away, Keitaro knew he would not have sufficient time to rush there and make his friend comprehend the situation. Even if he had the time, should the gentleman get off at the stop Sunaga was guarding, Sunaga would then have to inform Keitaro about it somehow or other. A hand raised or the wave of a handkerchief would not be easily recognizable among a dense crowd of people. To make it absolutely certain that Keitaro would get the message, his friend would have to cry out so vehemently that it might startle all the pedestrians along the street. Yet Keitaro couldn't expect the straight-laced Sunaga to do such an eccentric thing even in an extraordinary situation. And even if Sunaga did agree to do it, perhaps the man in the black fedora would have disappeared before Keitaro had run across to Sunaga's station.

Having so reasoned, Keitaro was driven to take his own chances; consequently, he made up his mind to guard only one of the two stops.

Keitaro had made his decision but not without feeling a certain uneasiness, for actually it amounted to no more than remaining lazily where he was while knowingly doing his job without regard to its success. He craned his neck to look again at the stop toward the east. Whether because of its location or the direction it was in or possibly out of his own habit of getting on and off at that stop, it seemed to him much livelier. He felt that the man he was searching for was more likely to get off at that spot.

He considered changing his lookout, but for some time he wavered, hesitant about what to do. Suddenly a streetcar bound for Edogawa dragged to a halt. Having ascertained that no passengers were getting off, the conductor was about to signal the motorman that he should start in less than a minute. Keitaro, who was standing with his back to the alley that runs into Nishikicho, was so lost in thought vacillating between staying where he was or moving to the other stop that he was paying little attention to the car before him.

Just at that moment a man suddenly ran out from the alley, brushed Keitaro aside as he rushed past him, and jumped on the platform the moment the motorman was putting his hand to the handle to start up the car. Before Keitaro had a chance to recover from his surprise, the car had already jerked forward. The man, his body only half through the door, called out, "Sorry!" As the two exchanged glances, Keitaro noticed that the man's final stare was cast toward Keitaro's feet. The moment the other had run against him, he had kicked the walking stick from his hand onto the ground. As Keitaro quickly stooped to pick it up, he noticed that it had fallen with the snakehead toward the east. The shape of the head made him feel that it was a fingerpost.

"So it's better to be at the eastern stop after all."

He hurried back to the porcelain dealer's. He remained there determined to single out the face of every passenger that got off any streetcar marked "Hongo 3-Chome." He scrutinized the first few cars with a glance so fierce that he might have been stalking a parent's murderer. Then, as he regained his composure, he gradually came to feel more confident.

He regarded the plaza within his field of vision as a wide stage and discovered on it three men whose attitude was more or less similar to his own. One of these, a policeman at the police box, was on watch as Keitaro was and was looking in the same direction. Another was a switchman in front of the Tenkado store. The last was a middle-aged man who, in the center of the square, was alternately waving a red flag and a green one as if they were some sort of sacred symbols. Keitaro felt that of all these men, it was he and the policeman, apparently standing in boredom from the point of view of any passer-by, who were actually expecting something to happen at any moment.

Streetcars came one after another and ground to a halt before him. Passengers getting on shoved their way into the congested passageway inside the car, and those getting off bore down imperiously from above. Keitaro saw many a scene of rude struggle enacted by nameless men and women in their gathering and dispersing. But in spite of his long wait, the object of his surveillance, the man in the black fedora, failed to appear. Perhaps he had long since descended at the western stop.

Keitaro felt that it was idiotic to remain standing in one spot scrutinizing these faces uselessly and with such intensity that his eyes were going out of focus. He began to feel that it would have been far more sensible if, instead of spending those two hours in feverish absorption before his boardinghouse desk, he had made sufficient arrangements with Sunaga to assist him in the undertaking. By the time he keenly felt his regret, the sky was gradually losing its light, and the colors of everything in sight began to subside into a dark-bluish shade. Some electric lamps and gaslights started to brighten the glazed shop windows here and there and to disperse the gloom of the winter twilight.

Suddenly he became aware of a young woman standing about six feet from him, her hair done up in a low pompadour. Each time a streetcar let its passengers in and out, he thought he remembered spending the rest of his attention glancing to his left and right. So he was especially surprised by the presence of this woman who had unexpectedly turned up quite near him, the when and where of her arrival a mystery.

She had on a somber-colored coat, its trailing length suitable for a person her age. Keitaro imagined under this the lively colors adorning a young woman's body. She seemed to be standing there trying to conceal these from the world. Even the ornamental neckband of the undergarment she would be dressed in was concealed by a silk scarf. She had on nothing that would attract anyone's attention except for this scarf, whose whiteness emerged all the more conspicuously in the thickening gloom of evening.

Indeed, what struck Keitaro as most prominent about her was this white color, which indicated a tendency to disregard the seasonal fashion. It did not make him feel that he had come upon something strange and incongruous under a cold, darkening sky, but rather gave him an agreeable mood of having found something fresh amid the sooty street. His attention was thus drawn to the area about her neck. Aware of his glancing at her so directly, the woman turned away slightly. But apparently still ill at ease, she had raised her right hand to her ear as if to comb back a stray hair. Since her hair had obviously been perfectly arranged, Keitaro felt that this gesture was quite useless. But the woman's hand exacted his renewed attention.

She did not have on those silk gloves that women of her class would have worn. Instead, the pair of kidskin gloves snugly fit her delicate fingers. In fact, the gloves fit so well that not a crease or even any looseness appeared anywhere, so much so that the leather seemed like a thin coat of colored wax applied evenly to the back of her hands. Keitaro had noticed when her hand was raised that the glove extended down her wrist by about three inches.

He turned his attention from the woman to look at a streetcar. But the person he was expecting failed to emerge among the throng getting off. He had a two- or three-minute respite from his vigilance. He was not that attracted to the woman to look forward to his free time just to watch her, yet in the intervals of the arrivals of streetcars, he stole observant glances in her direction, careful not to be perceived.

He had first thought she was waiting to catch a streetcar either for Hongo or Kamezawacho. Presently, the streetcar for each of these destinations came by and stopped, but she gave no sign of taking either, so he was slightly puzzled. The idea occurred to him that she might be one of those people who, instead of forcing themselves onto a congested car and enduring the pain of being crushed, strike a balance and deem it more profitable to wait, even if a few moments are wasted. But when a streetcar came without the "Car Full" sign showing, one that might even have had one or two empty seats, she still showed no intention of boarding, so he was all the more confused.

The woman seemed aware of the excessive attention given her by Keitaro, for on the slightest change in his behavior, she appeared consciously to prepare to avoid his glance, like a person who opens an umbrella before a single raindrop falls. She deliberately looked in the opposite direction or took a few steps away from him. Made to feel oddly constrained by such actions, Keitaro tried to keep himself from openly staring toward her.

But it eventually occurred to him that she might be unfamiliar with the area and was waiting at the wrong stop. If that were the case, he ought to be kind enough to inform her. His courage suddenly called forth, he turned unhesitatingly toward her. Then all at once she broke into a walk toward the jewelry shop several yards ahead, and there, her brow almost against the store window, she began looking at the rings, sash-clips, coral branches for ornamenting an alcove, and other items displayed — as if she had taken no notice of Keitaro's existence. He regretted his stupid loss of dignity in trying to show an uncalled-for kindness to a stranger.

He had noticed from the first that her features were not that remarkable. Although when observed directly in front it was not that noticeable, from the side her nose was decidedly flat. To make up for the deficiency though, her complexion was fair, her eyes clear. The light through the glass pane of the jeweler's falling upon her nose, part of her soft, full cheek, and her brow offered to Keitaro, from the angle at which he was standing, a strangely impressive contour made up of light and shadow.

With that contour and the fine figure of the woman wrapped in her long coat still in his mind, he again turned toward the streetcars.

Two or three came again, and each ran eastward to repeat Keitaro's disappointment. He took his watch from under his kimono sash and peered at it like a man who has abandoned all hope of success. It was long past five. He glanced at the dark sky overhead as if he were noticing it for the first time. Bitterly he clicked his tongue. The bird had escaped the net he had taken so much trouble to set up. It had easily flown away at the western stop. The old woman's prophecy concocted purposely to deceive, the bamboo cane he had brought with him as if it were something precious, and the direction the walking stick had suggested — all these turned out to be sources of vexation.

He looked around at the electric lights flickering before his eyes and deceiving the darkness of the night. Finding himself standing amid them, he felt that they were but the shadow of a dream he had not yet dreamed to the end. While awakened to his disillusionment to this extent, he had not yet lost the feeling of being to the same extent in a daze.

A little while later he made up his mind to return to his lodging to try to become a sane person again. He decided to break that mocking reminder of his folly in two on the way back at a place where no one could see, shattering the snakehead and the iron ring of the ferrule and hurling it all into the Ochanomizu River from Mansei Bridge.

About to move a step forward, he was aware of the woman's presence again. She had left the jeweler's window and was standing in her former position about two yards from him. The well-shaped limbs that matched her height, limbs longer than those of ordinary women, had from the first been a pleasing sight to him. But now it was her right hand that drew his attention. She had allowed it to hang down gracefully in a natural way, hardly conscious of her being seen by others. He perceived in the night lights its five graceful fingers extended in fine proportion, its wrist bound tightly in soft leather, and the color of its flesh appearing slightly between the wrist and the opening of her coat sleeve.

The wind was minimal, but the night chill was painful to someone standing stationary for a long while. Drawing her chin into her scarf a little, the woman stood there quietly with her eyes down. From this look, which seemed to have been assumed deliberately to make it appear that she took no notice of his presence, Keitaro believed he had sufficient evidence to prove, on the contrary, that she had been giving him special attention. Had she not been shooting at him incessant arrows of observation all the while he had been keeping his eager eyes out for the gentleman in the black fedora, her attention as keen and concentrated as his had been? Had he not spent over an hour in this spot spying out a man and being spied on by a woman? But he could no more figure out why he should be made the object of spying by a woman he didn't know and who knew nothing about him, any more than he had any idea of why he was himself spying on the actions of a man whom he knew nothing about.

He thought that if he walked a little, he would know more clearly how she would react. So he moved at a slow pace westward, passing behind the police box. Of course, he strictly refrained from glancing back for fear of arousing her suspicion. But since it would not do for him to keep walking on merely looking ahead if he wanted to note her reaction, he paused after twenty or so yards and, pretending interest in a shop window featuring a girl's mantle with velvet lapels, stole a glimpse backward.

The woman was not behind him. Indeed, far from that, nothing at all of her white scarf or long coat was visible, however much he stretched himself to detect it. She was hidden behind all sorts of people passing him one after another. He doubted if he had the courage to go further on.

As for the man in the black fedora, Keitaro, now that the appointed time was up, did not feel much regret in abandoning his search, but he wished to continue observing the woman even if it might end in nothing. He was seized by the curious fancy of throwing the woman's suspected espionage back to her and for a while longer maintaining careful watch on her movements.

He walked back near the police box in the hurried pace of a man trying to retrieve something he has dropped. There he hid in the dark shadows to observe her. She was still standing, quietly looking toward the street, apparently quite unaware of his return.

Just then, the question of whether the woman was a housewife or not occurred to him. The low pompadour arrangement was in general use at the time among Japanese women, so it could not help him in making the distinction. But when he began observing her from his concealed position as she stood with her back half-turned toward him, this question was the first thing that came to his mind. Her appearance seemed to indicate that she had experienced married life, but judging from her well-developed physique, far above the average, she might actually have been younger than she looked. If so, why was she wearing clothing of such subdued colors?

Keitaro had no authority when it came to commenting on the color and design of women's garments. Yet he had a vague idea that young ladies usually wore colors bright enough to dispel the gloom in the December air. He thought it odd that nowhere about her did she show any stimulating, gay patterns that would warm even her own youthful blood. There was only the silk scarf about her neck, but its color was a cold one that gave forth only a feeling of purity. The rest of her clothing lay concealed under the long coat that matched the bleak winter sky.

Looking again at the clothing so excessively devoid of any attractive feature in keeping with the wearer's age, Keitaro judged that it was the woman's experience with a man that had made her dress in such a somber way. Furthermore, she had in her demeanor something of the composure of an adult. He could not regard this self-possession as an attribute acquired from character or education. He suspected that like perfume in a handkerchief which loses its odor through contact with the air, she too had lost her innocent shyness due to contact outside the family. And there was something else. A short while ago he had witnessed some restless action of her muscles, betrayed through her outward calm by occasional movements of her entire body, her eyebrows, or lips. He noticed that the most sensitive movement was in her eyes. At the same time, he could not help perceiving she kept trying to force those eyes, so prone to moving sensitively, not to move. He judged, therefore, that her composure was one attended by a conscious effort to suppress her own nervousness.

Yet observed from behind, her body and mood were well balanced, both being quieter now than they had been before. Unlike a short while ago, she now gave no indication that she was going to begin to walk slowly away or stand up against a shop window, nor did she show any sign of being chilled, standing as she was at the edge of the elevated pavement in a way that could only be described as elegant.

Near her were a few persons waiting, all of whom were watching the approaching streetcars, seeming to beckon them to arrive as quickly as possible. The woman, who now appeared much relieved by Keitaro's departure, was one of those eagerly waiting, and she kept her gaze fixed toward the corner across the street where the streetcars turned.

Keitaro went around the farther side of the police box and stepped down onto the road. Shielded by the painted booth, he fixed his gaze upon the woman's face through the gap between the box and the policeman standing in front of it. And he was again surprised, this time by the change in her expression. When he was looking at her from behind in the shadows, he had played too freely with his imagination in drawing certain conclusions from her drab, inconspicuous overcoat, her tall stature, and the large roll of her pompadour. But now that he was focusing on her without reserve while she remained unaware of it, he could not help feeling that he was seeing a completely different person, one he was meeting for the first time. In short, she looked much younger than she had before. Her eyes and lips, with their eager expectation of something, seemed full of a kind of vivid liveliness. He noticed nothing except the expression on her face. In it he discovered even the innocence of a young girl.

Presently a streetcar came from the direction in which she had been gazing and turned slowly along the curved tracks. When it slid to a halt before the woman, two men got off. One of them quickly passed the policeman and stepped up on the sidewalk carrying in his hand what looked like a cardboard box wrapped in paper; the other went straight to the place where the woman was standing and stopped before her.

For the first time Keitaro saw the woman laugh. Earlier he had noticed that one of her characteristic features was a mouth too large, considering how thin her lips were, but now her beautiful teeth and her large black eyes, richly luminous with the upper and lower lashes so close they almost touched one another, gave him an impression of her he hardly expected. More surprised than fascinated by her laughing face, he shifted his glance to her companion.

It was then that Keitaro noticed the black fedora on the man's head. He could not see whether the man's cloak was salt-and-pepper or not, but it had the same dark sheen as the hat. Furthermore, the man was tall, and thin as well, but Keitaro had a difficult time discerning how old he was. He concluded, though, that since the newcomer was obviously far more advanced in life than he himself was, he must be over forty.

As he rapidly and haphazardly took in these characteristics, he was forced to conclude that this man who had just gotten off the streetcar was the one he had exhausted himself in looking for so foolishly. He thought it fortunate that although the stated time interval had long since elapsed, he had, due to a strange whim, loitered in the same place. Indeed, he felt grateful to the young woman for happening to be there to arouse his curiosity, and he counted it a piece of good fortune that she had been twice as confident and patient as he had been in waiting to the last for this very man he himself had been searching for. He believed that not only would he be able to supply Taguchi with some information about the man x; at the same time his own curiosity about the woman y would be somewhat satisfied by this same information.

The two stood talking to each other, paying no heed to their surroundings and apparently quite unaware of Keitaro's presence. The woman continued to smile. Occasionally the man burst into laughter. Judging by their way of greeting, it was obvious that they knew one another quite well. Keitaro could find none of that courtesy between a polite man and a polite woman which seems to join them, but which in fact serves to separate them. The man had not even taken the trouble to touch the brim of his hat. Keitaro was anxious to come face to face with him to verify the mole, which had to be under the hat's brim. Had the woman not been present, he might have walked straight up to the man and asked anything that came to mind, merely to ascertain the presence of the strange mark. If this were going too far, he would have at least come near enough to stare into the man's face to satisfy himself.

It was the woman standing before the man that barred Keitaro from such a bold undertaking. Apart from the question of whether or not she was ill-disposed toward Keitaro, he had definitely perceived that she had been suspicious of him during the long period that he had been standing at the same spot alongside her. If, knowing she was, he should intrude into her sight again, it would not only be an ungentlemanly act, but would set even greater fire to those suspicions and thus mar his own objective.

With these thoughts in mind Keitaro concluded that he had better delay examining whether the man had a mole or not until an opportunity under more natural circumstances eventually offered itself. He decided, therefore, to follow the two at a distance and if possible overhear fragments of their talk. He did not deem it necessary to consult his own conscience regarding the morality of his taking note of their conversation and actions without their consent. He simply believed that Taguchi, as a man of the world, would certainly make well-intentioned use of the results of these efforts.

It looked now as if the man was inviting the woman somewhere and the woman, laughing, was refusing. They had been standing half-facing one another, but finally they began walking shoulder to shoulder toward the porcelain shop. From there they walked on eastward, so close that it was almost as if they were arm in arm. Keitaro quickened his pace for several yards, and when he came just behind them, he adjusted his step to theirs. In case she looked back, he would avoid suspicion by not setting his glance directly at them, but would walk on with his eyes deliberately turned elsewhere, as if he were a casual pedestrian who happened to be going along the same direction on a public thoroughfare.

"That was really something! Keeping a person waiting so long."

This was the first of her speech that reached Keitaro, yet he could catch nothing of her companion's reply. Then after several yards their pace suddenly lost its briskness, and their two silhouettes were so close to him that they barred his progress. If he didn't pass them soon, he was going to bump up against them from behind. Fearing they might turn back, he whisked himself off to the front of a confectionary shop that happened to be located there. He waited for the couple to move on, pretending he was looking at a glass jar filled with cookies.

The man seemed to be putting his hand inside his cloak and then, turning a little to the side, looking down at an object which he held in his right hand and which he brought toward the light of the shop. Keitaro saw that the glittering thing under the man's scrutiny was a gold watch.

"It's only six. It's not that late."

"It is late if it's six. I was just about to go home."

"I'm really sorry."

Again the two started walking. Keitaro abandoned his cookie jar and followed. They proceeded to Awajicho and then turned into a narrow side street leading to the foot of Surugadai Slope. Keitaro was turning too when he saw them enter a foreign-style restaurant at the corner of the street. He caught a glimpse of the profile of the man and woman in the strong light streaming from the entrance.

Keitaro had had no idea where the two were going when they had left the streetcar stop. But now that he had found them suddenly entering this establishment, he could not help feeling it all the more beyond his expectations that their rendezvous was turning out to be at such an ordinary place.

The restaurant, the Takaratei, had recently been rebuilt. It was known to Keitaro as a place that had been catering to his university for many years. Often passing it, he had noticed its newly painted facade, half of it facing the streetcar line, the other half with its gable cutting obliquely toward the south. And he remembered those occasions in which he had vigorously wielded his own knife and fork as he sat under a framed picture advertising Munich Beer in a room whose outside walls were painted a glossy pale blue color. To Keitaro, who had no clear expectation of where the two would go, but who had trailed them under the vague impression that he might himself be drawn into some maze enshrouded in purplish hues, it all seemed too commonplace, this foreign-style restaurant whose kitchen poured forth even onto the street the strong smell of potatoes and meat frying in oil. But then he thought that having them penned within this common restaurant accessible to anyone was safer and far more convenient for him than it would have been had they hidden themselves never to appear again in a place far too elegant and mysterious for him to enter. Fortunately, he had enough money in his wallet to appease his appetite, made keen by the winter air, at a place of this class.

He had intended to go directly up to the second floor after them, but when he came to the entrance with its strong light cast onto the street, it suddenly occurred to him that since his face was already known to the woman, it would be unwise to thrust himself almost simultaneously into the same room, thus possibly arousing her suspicions that he had been following her. Assuming the casual look of a pedestrian, he stepped across the light thrown on the street and continued walking down the dark, narrow lane about a hundred yards until it came to an end at the foot of the slope. From there he retraced his steps stealthily, almost as if his own shadow were folded back into his body. He returned to the lighted entrance and went in.

As he had been there several times, the interior he knew. There were no rooms for guests downstairs. Meals were served on the second and third floors, but the latter was only used on the few occasions when there were too many diners. He felt certain he would find the two of them either in the dining hall on the left near the landing or in the one to the right farther down. If they were not in either of these rooms, he would even dare to open the door of the long and narrow room in front. With such thoughts in mind as he was about to head upstairs, he saw a waiter in a white uniform standing at the foot of the stairway, ready to show him into a dining room.

Since Keitaro was still carrying his walking stick when he arrived at the top of the stairs, the waiter took it from him before showing him to his seat. "This way please," said the waiter, leading him into the dining room on the right. Keitaro watched where the waiter was putting the cane. Hanging in the same place was the black fedora he had noticed some time ago, and there as well were what looked to be a salt-and-pepper cloak and an overcoat the same color as the woman's. As the waiter pushed the bottom of the coat aside to put in the bamboo stick, the coat's silk lining with its large patterns caught Keitaro's eye. When the head of the snake had vanished behind the coat, Keitaro allowed his eyes to drift to its owner.

Fortunately, her back was toward the entrance as she faced the man she was sitting with. Realizing that a woman who hears a newcomer enter a room may feel like turning around except that the fear of losing her dignity will keep her from doing so (unless the action is absolutely necessary), Keitaro felt momentarily relieved as he observed her back. And exactly as he had calculated, the woman did not turn. He proceeded near her table and was about to sit in the row next to theirs, right behind her, back to back. At that moment the man lifted his face and looked at Keitaro, who had not yet turned to seat himself. The man's table was decorated with a bonsai, a pine and a plum tree in a Chinese-style pot. A dish of soup was before the man. Without lifting his soup spoon from the dish, he exchanged a glance with the newcomer. The distance between the two of them, less than six feet, was lit up by electric lamps whose brilliance was further heightened by the white tablecloths all around them. Under such favorable conditions, Keitaro looked at the man's face to his heart's content. He recognized exactly as Taguchi had described to him the large mole between the man's eyebrows.

Except for the mole, Keitaro noticed nothing remarkable in any of the man's features. The eyes, nose, and mouth, when seen separately, were each common enough, yet when these were put together, each occupying its position on the man's longish face, it was evident to anyone that the face possessed the dignity of a gentleman. When the man's eyes met Keitaro's and he stopped the movement of the spoon in his dish, Keitaro was given the impression that there was something noble in the other's bearing. After he sat down with his back to the man, he thus began to reflect upon what was usually meant by the word "spy." It seemed to him that there was nothing in this gentleman's manner or physiognomy that justified his being spied upon. When each of his features were taken into account individually, Keitaro felt them too commonplace to conceal any secrets. By the time he had settled down in his seat at the table, he felt disappointed, as if a third of the interest in this task entrusted to him by Taguchi had evaporated. He began to have renewed doubts about whether it was morally right to have accepted such a job.

After giving his order, Keitaro looked as if he were in a daze, his hands not even touching the bread before him. The man and woman had stopped speaking for a while, perhaps in modest consideration of the new guest seated near them. But by the time a white dish warmed for serving soup was set before Keitaro, they seemed to have recovered their mood, and Keitaro heard their resumed dialogue.

"No, I can't tonight. I've got something to do."

"What?"

"Well, something important. It's not something you can easily talk about."

"Then don't. I know exactly what it is. As if keeping a person waiting so rudely wasn't enough!" She seemed to be pouting.

The man, perhaps conscious of the people around them, broke into a low laugh, and their conversation subsided.

The male voice then said fitfully, "Anyway, it's too late now. Let's go some other time."

"It's not late at all. We can get there soon enough by streetcar."

That the woman was urging and the man hesitating were obvious to Keitaro, but of where they were arguing about going, the place in question, he had no idea.

Keitaro kept staring at his knife and at a piece of reddish carrot beside it which he had left on his plate, hoping perhaps to be able to locate the place by listening to them a little longer. The woman continued to urge the man to go. Although he warded off each of her attacks with some excuse or other, he was invariably tender in his attitude toward her, careful not to make her angry.

By the time Keitaro's next dish, meat and green peas, was set before him, the woman began to yield. Keitaro had been secretly wanting her to insist on having her own way or the man to eventually give in. To his disappointment, Keitaro found her not resolute enough.

He wished for the chance to at least catch the name of the place they were speaking about — it hadn't been mentioned yet — but now that they were not to go, the subject had to change, and for the time being, he had to resign himself to not knowing.

"Then we don't have to go," the woman began again, "but let me have it instead."

"'It?' What do you mean by 'it'?"

"You know. That thing from the other day."

"I don't have the slightest idea—"

"You really are rude! You know very well!"

Keitaro wanted to turn slightly just to glance at them. At that moment, though, loud footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and a few guests came noisily in. One was a soldier in khaki and long boots. As he walked across the floor, the saber hanging from his belt rattled. The group was shown into the room on the left. Their noise had interrupted the conversation between the man and woman, and Keitaro's curiosity had accordingly been suspended until the light from the glittering sword had subsided.

"You showed it to me the other day. Remember?"

The man did not say whether he had or hadn't. Keitaro of course had no idea what they were talking about. He regretted that the woman had not come out directly with the name of the object she desired to have. Somehow he himself was anxious to know what it was.

"How could I have brought such a thing here with me now?" the man asked.

"No one ever said you had it on you. I'm only asking you to give it to me. The next time."

"If you want it so much, you can have it. But—"

"Wonderful!"

Again Keitaro wanted to look back, wanted to look at the woman's face. And at the same time he wanted to catch a glimpse of the face of the man. But considering that he was sitting in a direct line back to back with her, he had to restrain himself from that rash an act. He merely stared blankly ahead, like a person too embarrassed to know where to turn his eyes. Soon a waiter came up from the kitchen with two white plates, set them before the couple, and took the old ones away.

"It's a little bird. Would you like to try it?"

"Thank you, but I've had enough."

She seemed not to touch the broiled bird. Instead, she moved her unoccupied mouth much more freely than her companion did. Keitaro inferred from their conversation that what the woman had asked for was perhaps a coral or some such stone. Speaking as if he were a connoisseur of these items, the man explained various things to her. But the information could have pleased only a dilettante; Keitaro himself found it neither interesting nor comprehensible. The man told her in detail about ingenious imitations made of paste, fingerprints pressed onto their surfaces to dupe the innocent, but these counterfeits, due to their less smooth feel, could easily be distinguished from the genuine coral imported of old. From the context, Keitaro could make out that she had exacted his promise to give her a very precious and very rare piece, quite an antique and hardly obtainable nowadays.

"Yes, I'll give it to you, but what use will you make of it?"

"What use do you make of it? You, a man, having such a thing?"

Presently the man asked, "Would you rather have cake or fruit?"

"Either will do."

This signal of the approaching end of their meal sounded to Keitaro, who had been carried away by their talk, like a sudden reminder of his duties. He had already formed a plan for his actions as the observer of their conduct after dinner. He had known from the first that it would be unwise to go downstairs with them. If he were to leave his seat later than they, he would, even in less time than it takes to smoke a cigarette, certainly lose sight of them in the nighttime darkness and the throng of pedestrians along the pavement. If he wanted to be certain about tagging along behind them, it was absolutely necessary for him to leave first and to wait for them somewhere in the shadows, unseen by the couple. It would be best, then, to settle his bill as soon as possible, so he called the waiter to bring it.

The man and woman were still quietly talking. They no longer had any particular subject to give them an opportunity for an exchange of views or sentiments, so their conversation flowed on like loose clouds blown away one after another.

The woman came out with a comment on that distinguishing mark of the man, the mole between his eyebrows.

"How did you come to have it on that part of your face?"

"It didn't just suddenly appear the other day! It was there when I was born."

"Well. . it's too bad you have it right there."

"Too bad or otherwise — it can't be helped, since I was born that way."

"You ought to have it removed at the University Hospital."

At these words Keitaro lowered his face so much that he saw his reflection in the fingerbowl water. Placing his hands on his temples as though he were trying to hide them, he chuckled to himself. Just then the waiter brought in Keitaro's change on a small tray. Keitaro rose quietly and stepped unobtrusively to the landing. The waiter standing there announced down the stairs in a loud voice, "Guest leaving!" At that moment Keitaro realized he had forgotten to pick up his walking stick, which he had handed earlier to the waiter. It was where it had been placed, behind the skirt of the woman's long overcoat hanging from the hat rack in the corner of the dining room.

Keitaro stole back, careful not to draw the attention of the man and woman, and quietly withdrew the walking stick. As he put his hand to the snakehead, he felt on the back of his hand the smooth silk lining of the woman's overcoat and the soft wool on the inside. Again he went over to the landing, almost on tiptoe, and there, with a sudden change of pace, stepped rapidly down the stairs.

As soon as he was outside, he crossed the streetcar tracks to the opposite side of the street where there was what looked like a tailor's or a second-hand clothing store. He remained standing in front of the shop, his back toward the light coming from it. In this position he felt certain not to miss the two coming from the restaurant, whether they turned to the right or left or headed toward Renjakucho around the corner from Nakagawa or proceeded directly from the entrance toward Surugadai Slope along the narrow side street. He leaned securely on his cane as he watched the restaurant entrance.

When ten minutes or so had gone by without bringing even the shadow of the persons into the focus of his attentive eye, he began to have doubts. All he could do was look up at the windows on the second floor, the only lighted ones, and peer vainly through, hoping for their early departure. Whenever he turned his wearied eyes away from the restaurant, he looked up at the dark sky spread over the rooftops. He had entirely forgotten the existence of the great night, deluded as he had been by the artificial light shining only on the earth. A cold rain seemed to be threatening in the darkness overhead, and Keitaro felt the lonelier for it. It suddenly occurred to him that while he had been in the restaurant, the couple had taken his presence into account and had thus chatted on ordinary matters, but now that he was fortunately gone, they might have entered into a serious discussion it behooved him to catch. With this doubt in his mind, he looked up at the black sky and saw there the vivid figures of the two persons sitting tete-a-tete.

He regretted his excessive precaution in leaving the restaurant so early. But again he thought that if he had kept rooted to his seat, he would have heard them talking only on ordinary topics, so the result would have been almost the same as leaving early. There was no other way but to endure the cold and maintain his watch from where he now was. The sudden fall of a few raindrops on the brim of his hat made him look up into the black sky again. Overhead all was darkness and, unlike the street with its tram lines where he stood, very quiet. For a long while he kept his face turned upward, expecting rain on his cheeks. While he was thus gazing at the formless dark, his anxiety about the threatening weather left him, and there rose in him instead the sudden wonder of why he had chosen to do such a disquieting job under such a quiet sky. At the same time he fancied that the bamboo walking stick he now held in his hand was responsible for everything. He gripped the inevitable snakehead, and two or three times cut the air with it as if taking revenge on the cold. Just then the shadows of the two persons for whom he had waited so impatiently emerged at the restaurant entrance.

Keitaro's eyes first went to the white scarf around the woman's slender neck. The couple immediately turned into the thoroughfare and, opposite the side Keitaro was on, were about to retrace the way they had come. Keitaro crossed over. The two walked along rather slowly, glancing into each gaily decorated shop front. Behind, Keitaro had considerable difficulty in keeping his pace attuned to their excessively slow steps. The man had an aromatic cigar in his mouth, and as he walked, slightly colored puffs of smoke were exhaled into the night air. When they were wafted behind by the wind, they gave an agreeable stimulus to Keitaro's nose. Sniffing, he patiently traced their slow steps.

The man's height when observed from the rear made him look a little like a Westerner, and the strong odor from his cigar helped somewhat in maintaining the illusion. Then Keitaro's association of ideas transferred itself to the man's companion. He imagined the woman as the foreigner's mistress, her leather gloves a gift from the man. As he secretly amused himself with this fantasy, which he knew was quite unreasonable, the two reached the streetcar stop where they had met. Halting a moment, they soon crossed the tracks to the other side. Keitaro did the same.

Again they went from the corner of Mitoshirocho over to the farther side. Keitaro crossed to the same side. The two walked on toward the south. About fifty yards from the corner was another of those iron poles painted red, next to which they stopped. Realizing for the first time that they were going to head southward by way of the Mita line, Keitaro decided he too should take the same car. Both looked back toward his direction simultaneously. Their action was quite natural because the streetcar would come from that direction. Nevertheless, Keitaro felt ill at ease. He turned up the brim of his hat and pulled it down forcefully. He passed his hand over his face. He went and stood as far back as he could under the eave of a house. He looked around in different directions. These were trying moments for him as he waited impatiently for the streetcar.

Presently it came. Keitaro thought that he could avoid being suspicious if he deliberately got on after they did, so he lagged behind the others. The woman stepped up onto the motorman's platform, almost treading on her long coat trailing behind her. But, unexpectedly, the man, contrary to Keitaro's thought that he would immediately follow her, showed no sign of doing so. He remained stationary, his hands in his cloak pockets.

Only at that moment did Keitaro realize that the man had escorted her only to see her off. Actually, Keitaro was more interested in the woman. If the two had to separate, he wished of course to abandon the man and stand by her to know her destination. It was, however, only about the conduct of the man in the black fedora, not the woman, that he had been entrusted to report on by Taguchi, so he restrained himself from leaping onto the streetcar platform.

From the motorman's platform she gave a little salute with her eyes and disappeared within the car. As it was a winter night, all the windows were closed. She did not take the trouble to open one and lean out. Nonetheless, the man remained motionless, waiting for the car to start. It began to move, electric power carrying the lighted windows southward as if it had recognized that there was no further occasion for an exchange of goodbyes between the two. The man took the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the ground. Then turning around, he went back to the concourse that forked into three streets, this time heading left and stopping by the foreign goods shop. The streetcar stop there was fresh in Keitaro's memory, the place where the stranger had run up against him, causing him to drop the bamboo walking stick.

Keitaro stealthily followed his man. As he looked at various items in which he had little interest — neckties in the new fashion, top hats, blankets with fancy stripes — he thought that this furtiveness was taking the fun out of spying. He was not ready to say he was tired of the work, but now that the woman was gone, he suddenly began to feel to a much greater degree the constraints imposed on him, although they ought to have been the same as before. Since he had been asked to observe the man in the black fedora for only two hours after his alighting from the Ogawamachi stop, he had already done his duty, so he would sooner return to his boardinghouse and go to bed.

The streetcar that the man seemed to be waiting for came. He laid his long hand on the iron rod at the entrance and lifted his body adroitly onto the car, which had not yet come to a complete stop. Keitaro, who had been hesitating until then, suddenly thought he hadn't a moment to lose. He jumped up into the car. It was not that crowded, so there was enough room for the passengers to see each other's faces. As soon as Keitaro entered the car, he attracted the attention of several who were already seated, among them the man in the black fedora. In the man's eyes Keitaro saw a surprised recognition, but nothing of the suspicion of being spied on. Relieved, he chose a seat on the same side.

He wondered where the streetcar would take him and, looking toward the front of the car, saw "For Edogawa" written in black characters. Each time the car came to a halt, he stole a furtive glance at the man, prepared if the other should transfer to do the same. The man was looking mostly either straight before him or down on his lap, his hands all the while in his pockets. His demeanor seemed to be that of a person lost in musing over something without actually thinking about anything in particular. But as the streetcar was nearing Kudanshita, he began glancing out the window, often craning his long neck, as if trying to ascertain something. Keitaro too was drawn into peering through the window into the obscurity outside. Presently, above the noise of the running vehicle, his ears caught the sound of raindrops striking the windowpanes. He looked at the bamboo cane he was carrying, wishing it were an umbrella instead.

Ever since they had been in the restaurant, Keitaro had taken notice of the man's personality and also of the look in his eyes, which seemed to indicate that he had no doubts about the world around him. The result was that Keitaro suddenly thought it much more sensible, even though it was late now, to speak frankly to the man and to report to Taguchi only those facts which the man himself admitted, rather than trying to gather material under such restricted conditions. With this thought in mind, Keitaro began to devise the best means of introducing himself.

Meanwhile, the streetcar came to the end of the line. The rain seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, for when the car halted, the sound of a downpour suddenly attacked Keitaro's eardrums. The man in the fedora muttered to himself, "What a bother," and lifted the collar of his cloak and rolled up his trouser cuffs. Keitaro used his walking stick for support as he rose from his seat.

As soon as the man got off into the rain, he caught one of the rickshaws coming up for hire. Keitaro hired another at once. "Where to, sir?" his rickshawman asked as he lifted the shafts. Keitaro ordered him to follow the rickshaw ahead of them. The man shouted and began running desperately.

When the rickshawman had run the straight road to a point below the police box on Yarai Slope, he again asked which way Keitaro wanted to go. The other rickshaw was nowhere to be seen. Keitaro raised himself from under the rickshaw hood, but not a trace of the other was in sight. He was at a loss about where to direct the rickshaw in the driving rain, his walking stick held firmly against the rickshaw floor.

3: The Report

The Report

When Keitaro opened his eyes, he thought it odd to find himself in the six-mat room to which he was so accustomed. All the events of the previous day seemed real. Yet they also seemed like an incoherent dream. To describe it more exactly, they seemed like a "real dream." They were also accompanied by the memory that he had acted on the streets in a state of intoxication or rather— this was the feeling that was strongest in him — that the world itself had been overflowing with an aura of intoxication. The streetcars and their stops were filled with it. The jewelry store, the tanner's shop, and the signalman with his red and green flags were imbued with the same atmosphere. The second floor of the restaurant with its light blue paint and the gentleman with the mole between his eyebrows and the fair-complexioned woman who had taken seats there, all were wrapped in it. The unnamed place in their talk and the coral the man had promised the woman, these too were endowed with a kind of ecstasy. And what was saturated most with this feeling and what had played the greatest part was the walking stick. And that moment in which he had been perplexed about which direction to take — the bamboo stick in his hand against the floor of the rickshaw, the rain beating against the rickshaw hood — that moment had been a scene just before the fall of the curtain in which this ecstatic feeling had reached its zenith and he himself had seemed like a person possessed.

At that moment, when he had looked around at the wet street faintly illuminated by shop lights, at the small police box that at the top of the slope seemed smaller in the rain, and at the clump of trees to the left silhouetted dark and dim, he had wondered if this were to be the result of his day's efforts. He remembered that he had been able to do nothing except order the rickshawman to turn the shafts around and head toward Hongo, the direction least likely to be taken by the other rickshaw.

Now in bed looking up at the ceiling, Keitaro made the previous day's world rotate again and again before his eyes. His head and eyes were still affected by this hung-over feeling as the pictures in his mind emerged one after another like thread spun by a silkworm, but finally the drifting images bothered him so much that he could hardly endure them any longer. Yet they continued to spin of their own accord. He began to entertain the suspicion that sane as he was, he might actually be possessed by something. Thus he could not help recalling the walking stick.

The man and woman were as clear to him as if he were gazing at a picture of them. Their clothing and their way of walking, to say nothing of their faces — everything was reflected in clear images in the mirror of his memory. Yet he had the feeling that the two of them were actually in some faraway land from which they were reaching the pupils of his eyes with vivid colors and distant shapes as though they were right nearby. Somewhere in his mind Keitaro had the feeling that this strange influence came from the cane itself. When he had passed through the hall of his boardinghouse last night after paying the exorbitant rickshaw fare, he had unconcernedly carried the cane up to his own room and then, with a serious look on his face as if he had concluded that the stick was not to be kept where anyone could see it, had flung it behind the wicker trunk in the interior of his closet before he went to bed.

But this morning the snakehead did not seem to have all that much significance. It seemed even less so when the practical problem occurred to him that he had to meet Taguchi soon and report the results of his espionage. He was definitely conscious of his having been intoxicated by a kind of atmosphere for one single day from noon to evening, but when it came now to the question to putting the results of his activities into a consistent, orderly report to be made use of in a concrete way by an ordinary mortal, he hardly knew whether the task he had undertaken was a success or a failure. Consequently, it was not clear whether he was actually indebted to the cane or not. Still in bed, he again traced the course of the previous day's events. He seemed to feel indebted to the cane, and he also thought he wasn't indebted to it in the least.

At any rate, he resolved that the first thing he had to do was to get rid of the devilish aftereffects. Flinging aside the covers, he sprang up and went down to the washroom, where he doused his head with icy water. He felt he had shaken yesterday's dream from the roots of his hair; in fact, he felt as if he had returned to the world of ordinary men. His spirits soaring, he bounded back up to the third floor. Flinging open the window in his room, he stood erect facing east, and while bathed from head to foot in the rays of the sun high above the woods at Ueno, he inhaled a series of deep breaths. After thus spurring his mind on to normal activity, he lit a cigarette and turned over his thoughts, endeavoring to be as practical as he could in arranging the items of the affair in proper order for his report to Taguchi.

When Keitaro boiled down the previous night's business to its essentials, it seemed to him that he had not come away with any substantial item likely to be of use to Taguchi, so he felt he had but a slim hope of success. But he sensed a certain urgency, as if the other party were expecting an account that very day, so he telephoned Taguchi's house and asked if it would be all right to go there immediately. After being kept waiting a considerably long time, the same houseboy returned with the answer that he could come over. Without a moment's delay, Keitaro left for Uchisaiwaicho.

Two rickshaws were waiting in front of Taguchi's gate, and at the entrance to the house there was a pair each of shoes and wooden clogs. The room Keitaro was shown into this time was, unlike that of his last visit, Japanese style. It was a drawing room of about ten mats, its wide alcove containing a pair of large hanging scrolls. He was served tea in a deep cup by the houseboy, who also brought in a small brazier hollowed out of paulownia and who offered a soft cushion as well. No woman appeared in the room.

Keitaro sat formally rigid in the middle of the large room as he waited uneasily for the approach of the master's footsteps. Evidently, Taguchi's business consultation was not yet finished; it seemed to Keitaro that he was being made to wait an eternity. Having nothing to do, he imagined the value of the aged brownish scrolls, passed his hand around the edge of the small brazier, and placing both hands properly on the lap of his hakama, tried to look ceremonious even though no one else was there. Everything around him was neatly arranged; he could not easily make himself feel at home due to the novelty of being in such a room. Finally, he thought of taking down what looked like a picture album from a shelf in the alcove, but its beautiful glittering cover seemed to declare that it was not an embellishment to be touched, so he dared not put forth his hand.

After a little less than an hour, the man who had tried Keitaro's patience finally came out from the Western-style drawing room.

"Sorry about the delay. My caller simply wouldn't leave."

Keitaro gave a short greeting which seemed appropriate enough for Taguchi's apology; in addition, he made a polite bow. He was about to speak immediately on the events of the preceding day, but at just that moment he was again puzzled about what item would be most convenient to report first and how to say it, so he let his chance of broaching the subject slip. Moreover, Taguchi, while conveying from the first through his voice and manner an air of apparent busyness, was not at all hasty in asking about the results of the detective work, as if somewhere in his mind he kept a storehouse of leisure. Although he spoke with apparent interest, he merely went on and on about such things as whether or not the temperature had reached the freezing point in Hongo, whether the wind blew forcefully against the third floor of the boardinghouse, and whether or not the place had its own phone. Keitaro proceeded with answers just satisfying the inquiries, but while this apparently meaningless talk was carried on, he was vaguely aware that it was to his behavior that Taguchi seemed to be paying secret attention. But why Taguchi should be regarding him so scrupulously was utterly beyond his comprehension.

"Well, how did you fare yesterday?" Taguchi asked abruptly. "Did it go well?"

From the first Keitaro had expected to be questioned in this way, but since an honest reply such as "I'm not at all certain" would only be half-hearted and therefore impolite to Taguchi, he said after faltering a bit, "Yes, I finally detected the person you informed me about."

"Did he have a mole in the middle of his forehead?"

Keitaro replied he had recognized a small protuberance, a black spot in that area.

"Was his clothing as I told you? A salt-and-pepper overcoat and a black fedora?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Then there's no doubt about it. He got off at Ogawamachi between four and five, right?"

"Perhaps a little later than that."

"About how many minutes?"

"I don't know, but it seemed considerably past five."

"Considerably past? If so, you needn't have waited for him. Since I deliberately stated that the time would be between four and five, wasn't it as much your obligation to be gone after five? Why didn't you go home right then and let me have the information just as it was?"

Keitaro had never dreamed that this man who had been speaking with such quiet good humor up to then would suddenly be giving him a harsh reprimand.

Until this moment the figure before Keitaro's eyes had been that of an easy-mannered, lower-town master, but when he suddenly overwhelmed him with a severity reminiscent of that which a thoroughly disciplined soldier would receive, his mind was thrown off balance. Had they been good friends, Keitaro might have said in return, "I did it for you," but those words would have served absolutely no purpose in this instance.

"It was simply for my own convenience that I remained standing there even after the time was up."

No sooner had Keitaro answered with these words than Taguchi's stern manner changed. "That was quite convenient for me too," he said with good humor, adding, "but what was this convenience of yours?"

Keitaro hesitated.

"Well, you needn't tell me. It's your own concern. If you don't want to talk about it, I can do without it."

With these words Taguchi drew toward himself a portable smoking set, rummaged through its drawer, and pulled out a long thin earpick made of horn. Inserting it in his right ear, he poked around as if he had an unendurable itch. Keitaro felt something ominous in the frowning face of Taguchi, who seemed to be deliberately looking at him while pretending not to, apparently absorbed entirely with his ear.

"The truth is that a woman was standing at the stop," Keitaro said, driven at last to confess.

"Was she young or old?"

"Young."

"Ah, I see."

Taguchi did not follow this brief remark with anything. Keitaro too was brought to a standstill. Face to face, they remained silent for some time.

"No, whether she was young or old, I shouldn't have asked about her. Since that's your own concern, let's drop the subject. What concerns me is only the result of your investigation of the man with the mole on his face."

"But the woman took part in whatever the man did. First of all, she was waiting for him."

"Oh?" Keitaro's words had evidently been unexpected. "Well, then she wasn't an acquaintance of yours, was she?"

Keitaro did not of course have the courage to say that she was. Even though he felt awkward about it, he had to admit honestly that he had never seen her or spoken to her before.

Taguchi merely replied in a calm way, "Is that so?" showing no sign of further inquiry, but then suddenly asked in an easy tone of voice, "What kind of woman was she? The woman you spoke of. What about her looks?" As he spoke he thrust over the portable smoking set a face suffused with interest.

"Well, she's not worth mentioning," said Keitaro, compelled to answer under the circumstances. He actually felt, recalling her now, that this was so. Yet if he had been speaking to a different companion in a different situation, he might have said quite naturally that she wasn't half bad. Hearing Keitaro's judgment, Taguchi burst into a loud laugh. Keitaro, though hardly able to understand the meaning behind Taguchi's outburst, felt as if a huge wave had broken overhead. His face flushed.

"That's quite all right. Then what happened? When the man came to the stop where the woman was waiting?" Taguchi returned to his usual tone of voice as he seriously prepared to listen to how the event had worked out.

Actually, Keitaro had intended in his opening remarks to amplify his own difficulties in obtaining the information he was reporting on, from his puzzlement about the two stops with the same name to his bringing forth and making good use of the walking stick in which the mysterious oracle was working as a living force, recounting these details fully so that his merit might sound all the higher in Taguchi's ears. However, having immediately been attacked about staying too long at the stop and having been made to feel awkward by ascribing his extended surveillance to a woman who, in the course of the talk, had turned out to be an utter stranger hardly worth supplying him a valid reason for staying — Keitaro was deprived of the courage to advertise himself before Taguchi. So he reported quite simply on those events from the moment the man and woman entered the restaurant, the result being that the account, as he had feared when he left his boardinghouse, turned out as meager as if he had opened his hand before Taguchi's nose and had shown him a fistful of intangible gray cloud.

Yet Taguchi's face did not show any displeasure. His calm manner remained unchanged as he listened with arms folded. He merely threw in at times a "Hmm" or "Really?" or "And then?" in order to allow Keitaro to keep the account going. Even when the report ended, Taguchi's demeanor did not change too soon, apparently expecting something yet to come. Keitaro had to say, "That's all," adding, "I'm really sorry the results are so poor."

"No, you've furnished me with quite a bit of information. Thanks for your pains. It was probably a difficult job."

Taguchi's compliment did not contain much gratitude, but as Keitaro had just made himself look quite stupid, this much affability was more than enough for him. Only now did he feel any relief in finding he had narrowly escaped being disgraced. At the same time a feeling of relaxation so worked on him that he immediately said to Taguchi, "Who is that man?"

"Well, who could he be? What do you guess him to be?"

The image of the man in the black fedora dressed in his salt-and-pepper cloak with its open collar vividly appeared before Keitaro's eyes. He had a clear vision of everything about the man — his appearance, his way of speaking, his walk — yet he could come out with no reply to Taguchi's question.

"I don't have the slightest idea."

"Then what kind of personality do you think he has?"

Keitaro had some idea about that. "I thought he seemed like a quiet person," he said, responding as he had actually observed the man to be.

"You're just saying that because you saw him talking to a young woman, aren't you?"

Noticing the flicker of a smile at the corners of Taguchi's lips the moment these words were said, Keitaro closed his mouth again just as it was about to form an answer.

"All men are tender to young women, you know. Probably even you are not without some experience in that area. That fellow especially may be tenderer than most," said Taguchi, bursting into unrestrained laughter. Even while laughing, however, Taguchi kept his eyes on Keitaro.

Imagining what a simpleton he must appear to anyone seeing him there, Keitaro had to laugh too, even though he was pained inwardly.

"Well, what kind of woman do you think she was?" asked Taguchi, suddenly shifting the topic and now putting this sort of question to Keitaro.

"She was even more difficult to understand than the man," Keitaro blurted out.

"Can't you even tell if she's an ordinary woman or a professional?"

"Well," said Keitaro, pausing a moment to think. In rapid succession there welled to the surface of his memory the leather gloves, the white scarf, the beautiful smiling face, and the long coat, yet all these together did not provide him with enough evidence to reply. "She wore a rather somber-colored coat and leather gloves, but. ."

These two items, which had especially drawn Keitaro's attention among the articles worn by the woman, did not seem to arouse the slightest interest in Taguchi. His face turned serious, and he proceeded to ask further, "Well, don't you have any opinion about their relationship?"

Already complimented a while ago as proof that his report had passed off smoothly, Keitaro had not expected these ticklish inquiries to crop up one after another. What was more, possibly because he was puzzled, he was made to feel each new question increased in difficulty over the preceding one.

Seeing that Keitaro was at a total loss, Taguchi put the same question in other words: "For example, could they be a married couple or a brother and sister or simply friends, or could she be his sweetheart? Of these various relationships, what do you think theirs is?"

"When I saw the woman, I wondered if she was married or not, but somehow they didn't seem like a married couple."

"Granted then that they aren't married, do you think their relationship is physical?"

From the beginning, Keitaro had not been without sprouts of suspicion. If he were to thoroughly reexamine his thoughts on the matter, he might have found that he had a supposition that the two had already established some clandestine relationship exerting its influence on him even from a distance and, because of that influence, intensifying his interest in spying. He was not that much of a theorist to assert that no relationship worthy of note other than a physical one can occur between a man and a woman, but as is usual with warm-blooded young men, he thought that a man and a woman could be considered as "man and woman" only when viewed from this physical aspect. So thinking, he wanted to survey the world as much as possible from this point of view.

To his youthful eyes the large world of humankind was not clearly perceptible; instead, the microcosm of man and woman was vividly mirrored in terms of the physical. Accordingly, he enjoyed reducing most social relationships to sexual ones. It seemed that the relationship between the two people who had met at the streetcar stop had, in the depths of his mind, been linked from the start as one such couple. Moreover, he was not that much of a moralist to fear needlessly some gross sin behind relationships of this kind. He was one of the common lot of men who possess an average awareness of morality, but his own moral outlook, quite unlike his imaginative powers, was not usually active except when the occasion demanded, so he had not experienced any particular offense when he attributed the relationship between the man and woman to the type that most interested him. The only doubts he had about their relationship concerned the considerable difference in their ages. On the other hand, this difference seemed to indicate to him all the more markedly a characteristic feature of "the world of men and women."

To such an extent had he unconsciously given rein to his imagination concerning the two of them, but when he was asked by Taguchi if it were actually true of them, a decisive reply, irrespective of the responsibility for giving it, did not easily reveal itself in definite form to Keitaro's mind. So he said, "Maybe, or maybe not."

Taguchi merely smiled. At that moment the houseboy in hakama brought in a calling card on a tray. As Taguchi held up the card for an instant, he replied to Keitaro, "Well, it's only natural you don't know," and then immediately turning to the houseboy, ordered him to show the guest into the Western-style drawing room.

As Keitaro had for some time been in a quandary, he thought of seizing this opportunity to take his leave and was about to rise when Taguchi purposely interrupted him before he was able to. In spite of Keitaro's discomfiture, Taguchi proceeded with his questions. To almost none of them was Keitaro able to give a clear answer, finding them even more trying than the oral examination he had undergone at the university.

"Well, let's make this the last one. You've found out the names of the man and the woman, haven't you?"

To this final question Keitaro had no satisfactory response either. While at the restaurant, he had been paying attention to the conversation of the two people, looking forward to their mentioning "Mr. So-and-so" or "Miss So-and-so" or simply a pet name, but no names, even those of a third party, to say nothing of their own, had ever been referred to, as if they had some particular reason for avoiding them.

"I really don't know their names either."

Hearing this response, Taguchi, his hands moving against the sides of the small brazier, began tapping its paulownia rim with his fingertips, seemingly beating time. Continuing this for a while, he said, "It seems somehow that you missed the main points," but added immediately, "Yet you're honest. That's probably your best quality. Maybe that's much better than reporting what you don't know as if you knew it. If you have one strong point, that's what I appreciate in you," and he burst out laughing.

Keitaro discovered, as he had expected, that his own observations were of no practical value and so felt somewhat ashamed of his failure, but since he firmly believed that only a few hours of attentiveness, patience, and conjecture would not have been enough to obtain a result that would have satisfied Taguchi even if a man ten times more competent had been employed, he did not feel that much pain from Taguchi's evaluation. On the other hand, he was not all that delighted to be praised for his honesty, for to be as honest as he was seemed to him nothing more than what an ordinary person's honesty would be.

Having wished for some time to speak out once and for all to Taguchi, even if only a word about what he had in his mind, Keitaro, who had been completely pinned down, had the sudden thought that if he didn't speak now, there would be no further opportunity to.

"I too am sorry about a result that falls so short of the mark, but personal matters of the kind you asked me are almost impossible to ascertain in such a short time by someone as dull as I am. This may sound impudent, but I think it would be better to meet the man openly and ask him exactly what you want to know rather than resorting to petty tricks like spying on him. It would save trouble and allow you to get more accurate and reliable information." Having said that much, Keitaro looked at Taguchi, expecting to be laughed at or played with by someone so rich in worldly wisdom.

On the contrary, Taguchi said rather seriously, "So you understand that much. I'm impressed."

Keitaro deliberately refrained from responding.

"The method you suggest seems the most tactless, yet the most expedient, the fairest. That you were aware of it proves how fine your character really is."

Again praised by Taguchi, Keitaro was even more confused on how to reply.

"It was wrong of me to have asked you to do such a petty thing, not realizing how fine your thoughts are. That was making a mistake in estimating a man of character. But in introducing you to me, Ichizo told me you were interested in some job along the detective line. So I went and asked you to do such an outrageous task. I ought to have known better."

"No, no. I do remember telling that to Sunaga," said Keitaro, embarrassed.

"You did?"

Taguchi disposed of Keitaro's inconsistency with this brief expression, not venturing to pursue such a foolish subject any further. "How about this then?" he said, immediately turning their talk to a new direction. "Instead of trailing him secretly, how about going directly into the lion's den? Do you have that much courage?"

"I think I could do it."

"Even after trailing him the way you did?"

"No matter how I trailed them, I certainly haven't made any observations which would harm their character."

"Yes, you're quite right. Try it once. I'll give you an introduction." Even as Taguchi was speaking, he came out with a loud laugh.

Keitaro, however, did not take this proposal as a mere joke and so brought himself to think that he would actually like to talk face to face with the mole-browed man. "Yes, please write me a letter. I would like to talk with him," he said.

"Fine. This will also be a good experience for you. Meet him and study him firsthand. The way you are, I'm sure you'll say you followed him the other night because Taguchi asked you to. But I don't care. If you want to mention it, it's all right with me. You needn't hold back. And his relationship with that woman, ask about that too if you have the courage. Do you think you have enough nerve to ask even about that?"

Taguchi broke off for a moment and looked at Keitaro. Before Keitaro could get out an answer, however, the other went on: "But until the turn of conversation makes it natural to bring up either of those subjects, don't mention them or ask about them. Doing so would only make you appear deficient in common sense, no matter how brave you claim you are. No, it would be much worse than that, since he's quite particular about receiving visitors even under ordinary circumstances. So if you speak about such matters without using discretion, it's very possible that he'll ask you to leave right then. So in return for my introducing you, I hope you'll be prudent. . "

Keitaro replied that he would of course respect Taguchi's wishes. In his mind, however, the man with the black fedora could by no means be taken as Taguchi had described him.

Taguchi sent for his inkstone case and some rolled letter paper and easily began his letter of introduction. When he had put the addressee's name at the end, he said, "I've set it down in quite the usual way. That's enough, isn't it?" And holding the letter over the small brazier, he read it to Keitaro. As Taguchi had himself declared, it contained nothing worth paying any real attention to. All it said was that its bearer was a bachelor of laws fresh from the university, this declaration followed by the words, "Please see him, as he is someone I may have to help find a position." Assured from Keitaro's look that he had no objection, Taguchi at once rolled up the paper, inserted it in an envelope, wrote over the front in large letters, "Mr. Tsunezo Matsumoto," and handed the deliberately unsealed envelope to Keitaro, who kept staring at the characters written on it. The brush strokes were thick and slovenly, so unskillful in fact that he wondered how a man like Taguchi could have written in such an awkward way.

"Stop admiring my calligraphy like that!"

"There doesn't seem to be an address."

"Oh. I guess I forgot." Taguchi took back the letter and added the street and number. "Well, it's all right now, I suppose. My writing is large and tasteless, like the sushi one eats at Dobashi. But for its purpose it'll do. You can put up with the poor handwriting."

"Oh no, it looks fine to me."

"By the way, shall I write a letter for the woman as well?"

"Do you know her too?"

"Possibly," Taguchi said, his smile full of meaning.

"If you don't mind, it would be good to have it while you're at it," Keitaro said half-jokingly.

"Well, it's probably safer not to. If I introduce a young man like you to a young woman and something improper happens, I'd be responsible. You're the type they call roman—what's the word I want? I'm not a man of much learning, so these words in fashion now soon slip out of my mind. What do you call it, that word often used by modern novelists?"

Keitaro could not bring himself to refresh Taguchi's memory. All he did was continue grinning like an idiot. He thought that it was about time to drop the matter and take his leave, for the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to be ridiculed. He put the letter of introduction into the upper part of his kimono and slid off the soft silk cushion. "I'll go visit Mr. Matsumoto in a few days," he said. "And I'll come again to see you if I have anything to report."

Taguchi bowed politely and replied, "Thank you for your trouble." He stood up, looking as though he couldn't care less whether the word was "romantic" or "cosmetic."

On his way back, Keitaro pondered on the possible relationship of Taguchi, whom he had just seen, Matsumoto, whom he was going to see, and the graceful-looking woman who had been waiting for Matsumoto and had finally met him at the streetcar stop, sometimes joining all of them and sometimes splitting them up. He had the amused feeling of a man who the more he speculates, the deeper into a maze is he lured with each succeeding step. The game he had captured at Taguchi's that day was merely the name Matsumoto, but that name seemed to be a mysterious bag in which were tied for his benefit various intricate and knotty facts. He thus anticipated the greater pleasure for not knowing what things would emerge from it. Taguchi's account of Matsumoto gave Keitaro the impression he was not an easy man to approach, but from what Keitaro had already seen of him, he seemed several times easier to talk to than Taguchi had been. On the other hand, the impression Keitaro had gained of Taguchi today was that in spite of finding him admirable in the tactful way he dealt with people and even in spite of something eminent reflected every so often in his bright, piercing eyes, he could not remove the feeling he had of being confined all during the time he had been sitting before him, restricted, fettered, deprived of the freedom of movement. This state of being put under constant surveillance seemed to Keitaro not a temporary one but one that could never be worn down no matter how many opportunities he had of meeting Taguchi. Keitaro's imagination persisted in placing Taguchi and Matsumoto at opposite poles. He felt ill at ease with the former, yet with Matsumoto he had the impression that he could ask any question freely without fear of offending. His way of speaking was itself so agreeable that it had already attracted Keitaro.

Early the following morning Keitaro was ready to go off to see Matsumoto when, as ill luck would have it, a chilly rain began falling. He slid open his window a bit and surveyed the scene from the height of his third-floor room. Everything was drenched. For some time he contemplated the dismal hue permeating the very roof tiles.

The letter of introduction Taguchi had written was lying on his desk. For a while he was undecided about whether to go or not, but urged by the strong desire to see Matsumoto as soon as possible, he at last left his desk and descended toward the entrance, where he heard a bean-curd vendor's horn piercing the gloomy atmosphere and ringing out sharply down the street.

Matsumoto's house was in Yarai. Keitaro came to the spot below the police box, wondering what the site would look like where the other night he had felt as though he had been bewitched by a fox. There he saw that the street forked up and down a sloping piece of land, the area between irregularly bloated. He paused in the cold rain, disregarding the skirt of his hakama, which was catching the downpour blown by the wind, and he looked around speculating if this was the place where the rickshawman, still grasping the shafts of his vehicle, had come to a halt the other night, hopelessly befuddled. It was raining now as heavily as it had been then, and the earth under his feet was as soaked as if the lead pipes below the ground had corroded through. But some faint light of the day was now showing in the gloom around him, so his impression of the area was quite different from that of the other night. He climbed the slope with the woods on Mejirodai behind him and an obscurely overlapping cluster of trees along the approach to Mizu-Inari Shrine on his right.

He walked around and around the streets in Yarai and noticed that many of the houses had the same numbers on them. He entered a small side street and followed it to the right and then the left, looking over the drenched hedgerows at the houses behind them until he came to the front of an enclosure, apparently a graveyard, surrounded by aged camellia trees. It seemed that Matsumoto's house was not going to be so easy to find. He finally tired of his search and, coming upon a rickshaw station at a corner, asked a young runner for directions. The rickshawman informed him of the location as though it were the easiest thing in the world to find.

Matsumoto's dwelling was pleasing to the eye. It had a bamboo fence around it at the end of a side street whose entrance was diagonal to the rickshaw station. As Keitaro passed through the gate, he heard the sound of a drum being beaten by a child. Even when he reached the porch and called out for admission, the sound did not stop. Except for that sound, the house was so quiet that it seemed devoid even of human smells.

At last a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old maid appeared from the further end of the house shut in by the pouring rain, bowing with her hands on the tatami. As soon as she took the letter from him, she withdrew without a word. A few minutes later she returned and said, "We're very sorry, but it's not convenient for us to see you now. Would you come again on another day, when it isn't raining?"

This excuse sounded strange to Keitaro, even though he was accustomed to being rejected at various places he had visited in search of employment. He was at once tempted to retort as to why her master was hindered from seeing a guest on a rainy day. But to argue with a maid was improper, so instead he merely asked — to make certain as well as to vent his disappointment— "Then shall I be allowed in if I come on a fine day?" The maid merely replied, "Yes."

Keitaro could do nothing but head out into the rain again. He could still hear the child's drumbeat through the violent downpour. That there existed a man this strange was the thought recurring again and again to Keitaro as he descended Yarai Slope. He wondered if this was not what Taguchi had meant when he had told him that Matsumoto was not an easy person to see even on ordinary matters. If Keitaro returned directly to his lodging, he would be annoyed the entire day, unable to proceed in any direction, his mood forcibly rooted in a state of suspension. So he thought of calling on Sunaga, whom he had not seen for some time, and spending the afternoon by telling him over tea what had happened during this period. But thinking again, he realized that if he went to see him at all, it would be better to wait until he had reached some conclusive stage where he could announce the plot of the story after it had sufficiently been revealed to himself, for otherwise it would not make a good tale. So he gave up the idea.

The next morning was fine, quite the opposite of the previous day. As he rose, Keitaro looked up at the dazzlingly bright blue sky, all its impurities having been washed away by the force of the rain, and he rejoiced that he could certainly see Matsumoto this very day. He took the walking stick from behind the wicker trunk, where from that other night he had kept it, thinking he might just take it with him.

As he went up Yarai Slope for the second time, cane in hand, he imagined what he would feel like if the same maid appeared and announced that the occupants were sorry for the trouble he had taken, but they had to request he come some other time when it was a little more cloudy, this being too fine a day!

Unlike the previous day, however, Keitaro heard no child's drumbeat as he passed through the gate. And in the hall there was a screen that he had not noticed before. It had a single crane on it drawn in light India ink, but what attracted Keitaro's attention was its elongated shape. It was different from usual screens, shaped more like a full-length mirror. As he had expected, the same maid answered his call, but behind her came two children with loud, ill-mannered footsteps. They peeped at him as though he were quite a singular phenomenon. Having recognized this much of a difference from the day before, he was at last led inside by the maid and shown into a drawing room whose glass sliding doors were all closed. In the middle of the room was a porcelain brazier as large as a fishbowl. On either side of this the maid set down circular cushions with an Indian calico print and indicated the one for Keitaro. As he sat down on it, its shape gave him an odd sensation. On the wall of the alcove hung a scroll whose landscape was drawn with the careless bold strokes of a rough brush. Unable to distinguish the trees from the rocks, he looked upon it as an ornament deserving only contempt. The gong next to the scroll, to which a stick had been attached, gave him further evidence of the room's strangeness.

The sliding partition between the rooms opened and from the other side came his mole-browed host. Saying, "Thank you for coming over," he sat down directly opposite Keitaro. His greeting was far from engaging — he hardly seemed to attach any importance to his guest — yet there was something magnanimous about his manner. Keitaro felt all the more at ease for this. He was thus not made to feel much constraint, even though they were sitting face to face with only the brazier between them. Furthermore, in spite of thinking that his host would certainly remember the face he had seen the other night, Keitaro found that Matsumoto's serene manner as they were seeing each other again revealed in neither word nor look the slightest sign as to whether he remembered it or not, so Keitaro sensed he had still less to be reserved about. And finally, his host said not a word by way of reason or apology for refusing the interview the day before due to the rain. Keitaro had no way of judging whether the man did not wish to refer to it or saw no cause for having to.

Their talk began naturally enough with Taguchi's introduction. After first ascertaining that Keitaro was looking for a position through Taguchi, Matsumoto asked general questions about the kind of work Keitaro desired and about his university record. Keitaro found himself troubled by the finicky topics Matsumoto kept bringing up, for example, Keitaro's view of the world and of life itself, topics he had never thought about. From time to time Matsumoto showed such flashes of curious logic that Keitaro suspected he was one of those men of learning unacknowledged by the world. And not only that. Matsumoto berated Taguchi, setting him down as a useful man but one deficient in brain power.

"First of all, a life as busy as his just won't do. It provides no leisure with which to build any system of thought. The brains of that man are exactly like bean paste beaten all year round by a wooden pestle in a mortar. They're so perpetually in motion they have no form, no shape."

It was quite beyond Keitaro's comprehension why his host was using such abusive language toward Taguchi. But what really seemed odd was that neither in Matsumoto's attitude nor in his tone did there appear anything malignant or repellent in spite of the bitterness of the words he used. This abusive language, when heard through a voice so calm that it seemed never to have been used for scolding, did not provoke in Keitaro's mind any strong contradiction. It merely served to provide a fresh stimulus to his impression that Matsumoto was indeed unique.

"And yet he plays go, recites from Noh texts, and dabbles in an assortment of other hobbies. Of course in each of these he's quite inept."

"Isn't that evidence that he does have some leisure time?"

"Leisure — you call that leisure? I declined to see you yesterday because it was raining and asked you to come again when the weather was fine, didn't I? There's no need to explain why now, but do you think in all the world there's a more capricious reason for declining to see anyone? If it had been Taguchi, he'd never have been able to refuse in that way. Why is it that he is so willing to see people? It's because he's a man who wants something from the world. In other words, he's not a high-class idler like me. He doesn't have the leisure which allows one to remain unconcerned no matter how much offense he gives others."

"The truth is that I've come without having been told anything about you by Mr. Taguchi. Are you using the words 'high-class idler' in their literal sense?"

"I'm literally an idler. Why do you ask?"

Matsumoto placed his elbows on the rim of the large brazier and with his jaw supported by one of his fists looked at his visitor. His manner, which apparently indicated he did not really consider Keitaro a guest he was meeting for the first time, had to be, Keitaro was convinced, truly characteristic of high-class idlers. He seemed to delight in smoking and occasionally puffed at the big-bowled Western pipe that was perpetually in his mouth, the smoke like a signal fire giving evidence that the pipe was still lit. His features — features which evinced no need to guard his thought against anyone — coupled with the way in which the smoke vanished around the side of his face gave Keitaro a kind of tranquil feeling he had never experienced with anyone before. His thinning hair was parted in the middle and consequently made the crown of his head seem even more normal and composed. Furthermore, he was dressed in a haori of solid brown, a color seldom worn, and he had on a pair of brown tabi over a white pair. The brown color at once suggested to Keitaro a monk's habit and made him feel that Matsumoto looked all the more singular, all the more unusual. He was the first man Keitaro had ever heard call himself a "high-class idler," and his behavior and attitude took Keitaro by surprise and hurled into his mind the impression that he was certainly typical of such a class of men.

"Pardon me for asking, but do you have a large family?" Though Keitaro did not know why, he wanted before anything else to put this question to this so-called high-class idler.

"Yes, I have quite a few children," Matsumoto replied, another burst of smoke coming from his pipe, which Keitaro had almost forgotten about.

"And a wife?. ."

"Of course I have a wife. Why?"

Keitaro regretted his stupid question, which now he couldn't take back, and he remained at a loss on how to get out of it. Not that Matsumoto looked that offended by the inquiry, but since he was staring as though expecting an explanation, Keitaro found himself required to say something.

"I asked only because I wondered how a person like you could lead a family life as ordinary people do."

"A family life? Why couldn't I? Because I'm a high-class idler?"

"Not necessarily, but I guess I did feel something along that line."

"Let me tell you, a high-class idler is more domestic than men like Taguchi."

Keitaro found himself unable to say anything further. In his mind were the embarrassment of having been stuck for an answer, the effort to change the subject at this point, and the desire to gain a clue through this question to Matsumoto's relationship with the woman in the leather gloves. These three were working together so that they cast even darker shadows over his mind, for even at the outset his thoughts had not been systematically organized.

Matsumoto, however, seemed not to care in the least what Keitaro thought, for he merely glanced coolly at his guest's embarrassed face. If Matsumoto were Taguchi, he would have shown brilliant tact, first dealing a neat blow for the impertinence of the inquirer and then, as soon as the blow had landed, turning the tables so that the other would have been saved from a clumsy stalemate — or so Keitaro thought. However, the man before him seemed to lack utterly the neat dexterity of dealing with people despite his ability to put them at ease. Keitaro was thinking that he had hit upon a difference between the two when, much to his relief, Matsumoto happened to ask, "Seems to me you haven't even bothered to think about such a problem, have you?"

"No, not ever."

"You have no need to think about it, do you? Since you're living alone in a boardinghouse. But even so, I imagine you sometimes think about the question of man versus woman, at least in a general way, don't you?"

"I guess you could say that I'm interested in it rather than that I've thought about it. Yes, of course I'm interested in it."

For a while they discussed this question which all human beings have an interest in. However, whether due to the difference in age or experience and background, Matsumoto's views on the subject were to Keitaro no more than a skeleton with all the flesh of vital importance removed, utterly lacking the incisive force with which to drive them into Keitaro's being and make them move irresistibly with his blood. On the other hand, Keitaro's desultory fragments lost their warmth as soon as they left his mouth, failing as they did to penetrate Matsumoto's mind.

In the course of this irrelevant talk, however, Keitaro heard an anecdote that sounded quite novel to him. It concerned the Russian writer Gorki, who had gone to America with his wife for the purpose of raising funds he thought essential for putting into practice the socialism he advocated. He was so popular, so busy with invitations and receptions, and making such steady and easy progress in attaining his objective that all things looked promising. Then the fact came to light that the woman accompanying him all the way from his homeland was not in fact his wife but his mistress. No sooner was this known than his fame, hitherto at its most enthusiastic height, fell off at once until no one the breadth and length of the New World would so much as shake his hand. And so Gorki was compelled to leave. That was the gist of the story.

"Therein lies that much difference between the Russian and American conception of the relations between the sexes. What Gorki did was so trivial it would hardly have caused public discussion in Russia. How nonsensical!" Matsumoto cried, a contemptuous look on his face.

"Which of the two," Keitaro offered, "is Japan more like?"

"More, I should think, like the Russian type. At least I'm for it," said Matsumoto, puffing away with another thick signal-fire outburst.

Inasmuch as the conversation had taken this turn, Keitaro began to feel he had nothing to fear in asking about the woman of the other day. "I believe I saw you the other night at a restaurant in Kanda," he began.

"Yes, we did see each other, didn't we? I remember you quite well. Furthermore, we were on the same streetcar on our way back, weren't we? You stayed on, it seems to me, as far as Edogawa. Is that near where you live? You must have had a bad time of it that night, caught in the rain."

Matsumoto had not indicated that he remembered Keitaro at the beginning of their interview, but neither was he pretending to have been made aware of it just now. His behavior suggested that it was all the same if he mentioned it or not. Whether Matsumoto's attitude came from naiveté, nerve, or inherent magnanimity, Keitaro could not tell.

"You were with someone. ."

"Yes, with a beautiful young woman. You were alone, I believe."

"Yes. You were alone too on your way back, weren't you?"

"So I was."

Their brief flow of brisk talk came to an abrupt end. Keitaro was waiting for some further word about the woman when he was asked a question that had nothing to do with her.

"Is your boardinghouse in Ushigome or Koishikawa?"

"It's in Hongo."

Matsumoto stared at Keitaro as though he had not understood.

When Keitaro saw that the look in his host's eyes seemed to be demanding an explanation of why he had gone to Edogawa if he lived in Hongo, he decided to make a clean breast of the matter rather than contrive some troublesome pretext. He resolved that if he angered Matsumoto, he would simply apologize, and if his host refused to accept this apology, he would politely bow and leave.

"The truth is that I deliberately followed you as far as Edogawa," Keitaro said, looking at Matsumoto, whose face did not reveal the change expected, which was somewhat of a relief to Keitaro.

"What for?" asked Matsumoto in the leisurely tone characteristic of him.

"I was asked to."

"Asked? By whom?" said Matsumoto, his voice somewhat surprised. For the first time he had put a stronger stress than usual into his words.

"Actually, it was Mr. Taguchi."

"Taguchi? Yosaku Taguchi?"

"Yes."

"But. . you've come to me with a letter of introduction from him!"

It seemed much easier for Keitaro to bring the matter to an end once and for all by giving a full account of what had taken place rather than to be cross-examined in this way. So he confessed to all the circumstances, leaving nothing concealed, from the opening point of his venture — his receiving Taguchi's specially delivered letter and going at once to Ogawamachi to stand watch at the streetcar stop — to its end — his coming to a standstill in the rain after the streetcar arrived at the Edo-gawa terminus. His chief object in the narrative was to give a consistent sequence of events, avoiding as much as possible bothersome amplification, to say nothing of exaggeration, so it did not take him much time.

Matsumoto put in no word of interruption. Nor did he look as if he were going to speak up immediately even after Keitaro finished. Keitaro interpreted this silence as a consequence of the offense Matsumoto had received, so before his host became angry, Keitaro was thinking it best to make a quick apology. Suddenly, however, the silence was broken.

"A really impertinent fellow, that Taguchi. Of all the people you could have been used by. You were made to be quite a fool."

Keitaro looked at the face uttering these words. It actually gave him more relief than anything, for although it was evident that Matsumoto had been jolted by the particulars, there was less anger on his face than there could have been. As for being called a fool, it was a trifle in the present situation.

"I'm sorry about what I've done."

"I don't want your apology. I said what I did only because I feel sorry for you. Being used by that kind of scoundrel."

"Is'he that bad?"

"What need could you possibly have to undertake such a ridiculous scheme?"

Keitaro could hardly bring himself to say at that moment that he had undertaken it out of curiosity. He got around the question by implying that even though he knew the task was unpleasant, he had complied with Taguchi's request because he had to depend on him for a livelihood.

"If you're that desperate for a job, perhaps it couldn't be helped. But you'd better not get involved in that kind of nonsense again. You're putting yourself through unnecessary trouble, aren't you? — following someone in the cold rain."

"I've learned a little from my experience. I don't intend to do it again."

Matsumoto said nothing on hearing this reflection, but gave only a bitter smile. Whether it could be taken either as derision or pity, Keitaro, at any rate, was made to feel humiliated.

"You look sorry for having treated me wrongly, but are you really that repentant?"

Actually, Keitaro did not feel remorseful in terms of any fundamental principle, but when asked in this way, he was compelled to feel so and to reply so under the circumstances.

"Well then, go to Taguchi and tell him the girl I was with the other day was a high-class prostitute. Tell him I will guarantee she was."

"Is she really that kind of woman?" Keitaro asked, somewhat surprised.

"No matter what she is, just tell him that."

"I see."

"Don't say 'I see.' Just tell him. Could you do that for me?"

As one of the younger generation brought up in the modern world, Keitaro was not a person who shrank from the rudeness of using such words before his elders. But as he suspected that there might be something unpleasant behind Matsumoto's persistence in forcibly pushing those words at him, he was not disposed to consent hastily.

Seeing Keitaro frown in perplexity, Matsumoto said, "You needn't worry. It's only Taguchi you have to tell it to." But after a moment he added, as though he had become aware of something just then, "You still don't know about how Taguchi and I are related, do you?"

"No, I know nothing about it," Keitaro replied.

"If I tell you about it, you'll have even less courage to inform Taguchi that she's a high-class prostitute, so it goes against my interest to. But I'll tell you, for it's a pity to allow your innocence to always be made a fool of."

With these preliminary words Matsumoto gave Keitaro an explanation of his social contacts with Taguchi. As the explanation was one that was concluded in the simplest way, it was all the more surprising to Keitaro. In a word, Taguchi and Matsumoto were near relatives: Matsumoto had two elder sisters, one of them Sunaga's mother, the other Taguchi's wife.

When Keitaro grasped for the first time how these two men were related, the fact that Taguchi's brother-in-law Matsumoto had met the former's daughter, his own niece, at the streetcar stop at an appointed hour and had dined together in a restaurant appeared now to Keitaro to be one of the most commonplace affairs in the entire world. He realized how ridiculous it had been of him to have assumed that there was some complex intrigue behind "the affair" and to have run around after it as though it had had some luring glimmer. He now understood that it was nothing but a flickering will-o'-the-wisp of his own heated fancy.

"What did Miss Taguchi go out there for? Only to entice me?"

"She went there on her way home from the Sunagas'. I'd been talking with Taguchi at his house when she telephoned me and asked me to get off at the stop on my way home at about 4:30, where she'd be waiting for me. I thought it would be a bother and didn't feel like going, but she said she had to see me and so on and so forth, so I got off there. She told me then that her father that very morning had informed her I'd buy her a ring as a year-end gift and she should wait for me at the stop and not let me get away until she had gone with me to purchase it. And so she had, as she said, been waiting quite a while before I came. She wouldn't budge on this demand she had come up with so willfully, totally disregarding my own say in the matter. So I was obliged to put her off by treating her to a foreign-style dinner. Hence our dining at the Takaratei. Damn that Taguchi! Why on earth does he go to so much trouble with his nasty tricks? He's far more in the wrong than you, victimized as you've been by him."

To Keitaro, it seemed that he had himself been a far greater simpleton to have been in the wrong, duped by the man. He couldn't help blushing, for had he known about this relationship, he would have used more discretion at the time he had given Taguchi the report on his detective work.

"Then you didn't know at all about being spied on?"

"How could I? You see, even a high-class idler like me has no time to spare for that kind of nonsense."

"How about Miss Taguchi? It seems to me she knew about it."

"Well," Matsumoto said, meditating a while before declaring, "No, she probably didn't. I'd have to say that even Taguchi, fool though he is, is not without some redeeming points. No matter what mischief he's up to, at the moment when the butt of his joke is about to be shamed, he either brings it all to a halt or shows up himself and puts a neat end to it before the person's honor is affected. At least in that there's something to praise him for, his foolishness notwithstanding. After all, even though his way of doing things is unscrupulous, he ultimately reveals his own humanity, imbued with a sort of warm benevolence. In this affair of ours too, he's probably kept it all to himself. If you hadn't come to visit me, I would certainly have remained unaware of it. He's not that merciless a person to announce to anyone beforehand, even to his own daughter, some strategy that will prove the stupidity of the one being made the butt of his joke as you've been. Since he is that way, he'd be better off giving up these pranks. But he won't — it's his damn foolishness."

As Keitaro listened silently to this criticism, he was conscious that a feeling of reliability for the man who had played this trick on him was definitely gaining the upper hand in his mind; it was by now much stronger than the regret he felt in looking back at his own foolish behavior and stronger than his bitterness against the one responsible for making a fool of him. But again there sprang forth in Keitaro the suspicion that if Taguchi were really the kind of man he now felt him to be, why was it that while he was speaking with him, he experienced that enormous feeling of constraint?

"What you've told me about Mr. Taguchi has given me a better understanding of him. But when I'm with him, I somehow feel ill at ease. There's this strange sensation, like being in a kind of pain."

"Why, that's because he himself is on guard against you."

Explained thus, Taguchi's way of looking and speaking, vividly recalled by Keitaro, was now much clearer to him. But why such an old hand as Taguchi had to bother about a stripling fresh from school, Keitaro found quite inexplicable. He firmly believed that he would pass before anyone's eyes just as he actually was, and as such he had thought so little of himself that he had not even felt a claim to be kept at a distance or to be bothered about. So he began thinking that it was rather strange to have been treated so differently from the way he had expected by a man so much older than he was, one far exceeding him in experience.

"Do I look like such a two-faced person?"

"Well, you can never tell that kind of subtlety at first glance. But whether you are or not, you don't have to worry about it. It has nothing to do with my treatment of you."

"But I have to if Mr. Taguchi looks at me that way."

"It's not you alone he regards in this way. It's the way he is — he looks at everybody like that. He's been an employer for a long time, so he must have many cases of deception. Even if a man pure as nature happened to turn up, Taguchi could not be relaxed with him. You should take it as the fate of such men. While it may sound improper to praise one's relative, I can honestly say that my brother-in-law was born with some good qualities. He's basically not a bad fellow at all. Only for years he's been battling his way through the world, thinking only of success in business as his main object in life. So he has an odd bias in his view of man. He cares only whether someone will be useful or reliable on a job, I guess. Once you get that way, even if you're loved by a woman, you can't help doubting whether she really loves you or your money. And if a beautiful woman is in for that kind of treatment, a man ought to take it for granted that he's going to be treated with constraint. That's what makes Taguchi Taguchi."

This comment seemed to give Keitaro an even greater understanding of Taguchi's character. But what sort of person was Matsumoto himself? —tossing off such judgments one after another, each of which struck into Keitaro's head as though it were being driven by an iron hammer. As far as this aspect of Matsumoto was concerned, Keitaro still felt as if he were confronting a vast mass of cloud. And he felt that even the Taguchi that existed before Matsumoto's elucidation was more of a human being.

As Keitaro observed this Matsumoto, who the other night had been saying something about a coral with Taguchi's daughter at a restaurant in Kanda, he thought that the earlier Matsumoto had moved with much more life in him. The man sitting before him now merely gave him the impression of a wooden statue with a large pipe in its mouth, a statue endowed with spirit and speech, and as such it baffled his attempt to get an image of his real substance. Filled with admiration for Matsumoto's lucid criticism on the one hand and thinking on the other about his personality, Keitaro began having doubts about himself, that his intelligence was below average and his intuition dull, when the vague Matsumoto spoke up again.

"And yet Taguchi's folly is after all bringing you luck, isn't it?"

"How could that be?"

"I'm certain he'll get you a position. If he doesn't, he's neither Taguchi nor anyone else. I'll vouch for that. I'm the one who's the loser, having been spied on and receiving nothing in return."

They looked at each other and laughed. When Keitaro rose from his circular calico cushion, his host took the trouble to accompany him to the front door. His tall thin body paused before the screen depicting the crane drawn in India ink, and he looked down at Keitaro from behind as he was putting on his shoes.

"That's a queer-looking cane. Let me see it," he said, taking it from Keitaro's hand. "My, a snake's head. And very well carved. Did you buy it?" he asked.

"No, it was done by an amateur who gave it to me."

Flourishing his walking stick, Keitaro again went down Yarai Slope toward Edogawa.

4: A Rainy Day

A Rainy Day

A long period of time passed without Keitaro's receiving an opportunity to learn from Matsumoto himself the reason for his refusal to see visitors on rainy days. It had even slipped from his own mind, much too busy as he was to concern himself with it. Only after he had gained a position through Taguchi's assistance, which led to free access to the Taguchi household, did he by chance hear about it.

By that time his experience at the streetcar stop had begun to lose the freshness it once had. When Sunaga occasionally brought up the subject, all Keitaro could do was shrug off the entire incident with a smile. Sunaga would demand why Keitaro had not taken him into his confidence before he had even attempted the scheme. And he would also chide him that since his mother had informed Keitaro about his Uchisaiwaicho uncle's habit of tricking others, he certainly ought to have known about it. And finally Sunaga began badgering Keitaro for having too much interest in women. Keitaro braved it out by telling Sunaga to keep quiet, but each time there came to his mind the image of the woman he had seen from behind at Sunaga's gate, the woman who he had realized was the same one he had seen at the streetcar stop. And in some remote way he felt ashamed. That her name was Chiyoko and that her younger sister was called Momoyoko were items of information that no longer held any novelty for him.

After learning all the inside information through Matsumoto at their first encounter, Keitaro had felt embarrassed about putting in an appearance at Taguchi's, but because the conclusion of some business demanded his presence, he had passed through Taguchi's gate prepared to be laughed at, and Taguchi, as Keitaro had expected, did just that. However, Keitaro interpreted in Taguchi's laugh not so much the sound of haughty pride in his resourcefulness as that of triumphant joy in having put on the right path a man who had gone astray. Taguchi did not use any condescending words and thus imply the trick had been done for admonition's sake or as a means of education. Instead, he asked only that Keitaro not be angry because no harm had been intended and immediately gave an on-the-spot promise that he would have a considerable position available for the young man. Taguchi then clapped his hands to summon his older daughter, the one who had been waiting at the stop for Matsumoto. He formally introduced her to Keitaro, thus confirming her as his daughter. He also told her that Keitaro was a friend of Ichizo's. She gave a cold though polite greeting, apparently a little confused at being introduced to a stranger. It was then that Keitaro had learned her name was Chiyoko.

This first opportunity for him to come in contact with Taguchi's family led to frequent visits on business and other matters. Sometimes he even entered the houseboy's room beside the entrance to gossip with the one he had once bickered with over the phone. There were even occasions in which he had to go into the back part of the house, sometimes to talk with Taguchi's wife about something connected with the running of the household. He was frequently at a loss about questions concerning English put to him by the Taguchis' only son, a middle school student.

As the frequency of his visits increased, it was natural that he had more opportunities to come in contact with the two daughters. However, his slow response on the one hand and the comparatively vivacious behavior of the two girls — which seemed to be a family trait — on the other, as well as the very few chances they had to sit down face to face left them under conditions whose reserve was not easily broken through. The words they exchanged were of course not limited to rigid formal pronouncements, but most were taken up with mere day-to-day matters that required less than five minutes to dispose of. There was thus not enough time for any degree of intimacy to develop. Only at a New Year's poetry-card party given a little after the middle of January did he have the chance to sit knee-to-knee with them for an unusually long time. They were up late into the night engaged in unreserved conversation. Chiyoko had said to him, "You're really slow at this game!" And Momoyoko had scolded, "If you're my partner, we're bound to lose."

One Sunday about a month later, when news of blossoming plum trees began appearing in the newspapers, Keitaro was spending the afternoon with Sunaga in his upstairs study after a long interval in which he had not visited him. Chiyoko had also come for a visit, and as the three chatted over one thing and another, she happened to mention something about her uncle.

"He's quite cranky," she said. "For a while he refused to see visitors on rainy days. I wonder if he still does that?"

"Actually, I was one of the ones he wouldn't let in on one of those rainy days."

As soon as Keitaro began his confession, both Sunaga and Chiyoko, as though it had been prearranged, burst out laughing. "Well, well, isn't that too bad," Sunaga said. "Perhaps it was because you didn't take that cane of yours with you."

"You can't expect someone to carry a cane in the rain. Right, Tagawa-san?"

At this reasonable defense from Chiyoko, Keitaro too could not but smile.

"This cane of yours — really, what's it like?" Chiyoko asked. "I'd like to have a look at it. Show it to me please, Tagawa-san. May I go downstairs to see it?"

"I don't have it with me today."

"Why not? When it's such a fine day."

"Because it's a very precious stick," said Sunaga. "I hear Tagawa doesn't take it out on ordinary days."

"Really?"

"Yes, I guess so," said Keitaro.

"Then do you carry it only on holidays?"

Keitaro found it somewhat difficult to fight the two of them, so he warded off Chiyoko's persistence by promising to show it to her on his next visit to Uchisai-waicho. In return he got Chiyoko to tell him the reason Matsumoto refused visitors on rainy days.

One cloudy November afternoon after a spell of fine weather, Chiyoko had gone to Yarai at her mother's request to bring Matsumoto one of his favorite foods, seasoned sea-urchin eggs. Chiyoko wanted to spend the day with his family, since she had not been there for some time, so she sent back the rickshaw she had come in and decided to stay on.

Matsumoto's children included a girl of twelve, the eldest, followed alternately by a boy, a girl, and a boy at two-year intervals, all growing up quite normally. In addition to these lively adornments that added such a bright aura to their home, the Matsumotos had a two-year-old girl named Yoiko, whom they held in as tight an embrace as a jewel set in a ring. On the eve of the Doll's Festival the preceding year, they had been blessed with this daughter, whose skin was as lucid as pearl and whose large pupils were dark as lacquer.

Of the five Matsumoto children, Chiyoko was most fond of this infant. Whenever she came to visit, she always brought her a plaything of some sort or another. Once, scolded by her aunt for giving Yoiko too many sweets, Chiyoko took the precious child in her arms and went out to the veranda. "My dear, dear Yoiko," she said, as if to purposely show her aunt how intimate the two were. Laughing, her aunt said, "Why, you'd think I'd been quarreling with my own baby." And Matsumoto teased Chiyoko, saying, "If you're so fond of her, we'll give her to you as a wedding gift to take to your husband."

On that day in late autumn as well, Chiyoko, the minute she sat down in the Matsumoto home, began playing with the child. Yoiko had never had her hair cut in front, so that it was soft, long, and curly, and when shone on by the sun, it had a dark violet tint, perhaps from the reflection against the pale scalp beneath. "Yoiko, I'll do up your hair," said Chiyoko, carefully combing the child's curls. Separating a tuft of the scanty sidelocks, Chiyoko tied at its roots a red ribbon. Yoiko's skull was broadly flat on top yet round like a piece of layered ricecake offering. With an effort, the infant lifted her short arm to touch a corner of the "offering" and, putting her tiny hand at the ribbon's edge, tottered over to her mother and lisped, "Ibbon, ibbon!"

"Oh, you've done it up quite nicely," her mother said, and Chiyoko, quite pleased as she looked at Yoiko from behind, instructed the child, "Now go to your father and show it to him."

Yoiko tottered to the entrance of Matsumoto's study and got down on all fours. Whenever she went in to see her father, she would greet him in this way. She raised her hips as high as she could, and lowering her ricecake-offering-like head a few inches from the threshold, again said, "Ibbon! Ibbon!"

Matsumoto turned his eyes from the book he was reading. "Ah, your head is very pretty," he said. "Who made you up?" With her head still bowed, Yoiko replied, "Chii, Chii." The lisping child usually called Chiyoko by this name. Standing behind the girl, Chiyoko heard her name coming from the tiny lips and laughed aloud in delight.

Meanwhile, the other children returned from school, suddenly adding their own varied colors to the scene hitherto centered solely on the red ribbon. The six-year-old came back from kindergarten with what looked like a war drum with a crest of three commas shaped into a circle painted on it. He led Yoiko away, promising to let her beat on it. Chiyoko gazed at the shadow of Yoiko's red woolen socks, which looked like two money pouches moving along the corridor. The round tassel at the end of the string binding each sock skipped with every jumping step of her tiny feet.

"I believe that's the pair you knitted for her."

"Yes, they do look cute on her, don't they?"

For a while Chiyoko sat talking with her uncle. A dreary rain, suddenly falling from clouded skies, splattered down and rapidly drenched the bare paulownia trees. Matsumoto and Chiyoko turned their eyes simultaneously toward the dreary color of the rain beyond the glass doors of the veranda, their hands held over the small brazier.

"The plantain really makes the rain sound noisy," Chiyoko said.

"It certainly holds on. I've been watching it every day, thinking it would wither this day or the next, but it's still fresh. The flowers of the sasanqua are gone, and the paulownia are bare, yet the plantain still has its green leaves, as you can see."

"You do wonder about funny things, Uncle. That's why a certain somebody says that Tsunezo's an idler."

"Your father would never be able to study the plantain all his life like an idler."

"I wouldn't want to either — to study that. But you're so much more learned than my father. I truly admire you for it."

"Don't be fresh!"

"I'm telling the truth! No matter what I ask, you never fail to give me an answer."

As they were talking, the maid entered to hand Matsumoto something that looked like a letter of introduction. "A gentleman has just come with this," she said.

Matsumoto stood up laughing. "Wait here, Chiyoko. I have something interesting to tell you."

"Not if it's that horrible stuff you told me the other day — asking me to learn a ridiculous number of foreign tobacco brand-names!"

Without responding, Matsumoto went out toward the drawing room. Chiyoko returned to the living room. Someone had already put on the electric lamps, since the daylight coming through the heavy downpour was now scant. Blue flames from the gas burning busily on two portable stoves in the kitchen indicated that supper preparations had begun. Soon the children sat down facing one another on either side of the large table. It was customary for Yoiko to be fed by a maid apart from the family, but Chiyoko took the maid's role that evening. Carrying a tray with a petite vermilion-lacquered bowl of rice porridge and a plate of cooked fish on it, she led the child into the small six-mat room used mainly for changing clothes, a room just off the living room. Two chests of drawers stood against the wall as did a full-length mirror, in front of which Chiyoko placed the tray containing the toy-like bowl and the porcelain dish.

"All right, Yoiko-san, here's your supper, what you've been waiting for."

With each spoonful of rice porridge that Chiyoko put into Yoiko's mouth, the child was pressed into saying things like "Umm-mm!" and "More, more!" Finally she insisted on feeding herself and took the spoon from Chiyoko, who carefully taught her how to hold it. Yoiko, who could of course pronounce only the simplest short words, inclined her flattish ricecake-like head and asked, "So? Like so?" each time she was told she was holding the spoon wrong. Amused over how she said it, Chiyoko made her repeat the words again and again.

As the child began to say the phrase yet another time, her big eyes looking slightly sideways at Chiyoko, she suddenly let her spoon fall and dropped face down in front of Chiyoko's knees.

"What are you doing?" Unaware that anything was wrong, Chiyoko lifted the child in her arms. But she felt the body go limp, like that of a sleeping child, and cried aloud, "Yoiko-san! Yoiko-san!"

Yoiko lay propped on Chiyoko's lap with her eyes half-closed and her mouth half-open as though she had dozed off. Chiyoko patted her on the back a few times, but it produced no effect.

"Auntie, come quickly! Something awful has happened!"

The child's mother flung aside her chopsticks and rice bowl and ran noisily into the room. "What is it?" she cried, turning Yoiko's face directly up under the electric bulb. Already the lips were purplish. She held her palm over the child's mouth but felt no breathing. In a choked, agonized voice, she had the maid fetch a damp towel. Placing it on Yoiko's forehead, she asked Chiyoko whether there was any pulse.

Chiyoko instantly clasped the tiny wrist but did not know where to feel for the pulse. Pale and beginning to cry, she said, "Auntie, what can we do?"

The mother ordered the other children, who were standing there stunned, to hurry and call their father. All four ran to the drawing room. Soon after their footsteps ceased at the end of the hallway, Matsumoto came in, a baffled look on his face.

"What happened?" he said, leaning over his wife and Chiyoko and peering down at Yoiko. A single glance at the child was enough to make him frown.

"The doctor. ."

He wasted no time in arriving. "There's something strange about the symptoms," he said, immediately giving the child an injection. But there was no change.

"Is it hopeless?" This painfully strained question passed the father's tightly closed lips.

The eyes of the three, filled with extraordinary light as if hoping against hope, were fixed on the doctor. He had been looking into the child's eyes with a speculum and now, when asked this question, began rolling up Yoiko's kimono to examine her further.

"There's nothing I can do. The pupils and anus are dilated. I'm very sorry."

In spite of his words, he injected another drug into the region of the child's heart. As he had expected, it did nothing for her. When Matsumoto saw the needle pierce his tiny daughter's almost transparently clear skin, he knitted his brows in spite of himself.

Chiyoko's eyes welled with tears, which fell to her lap.

"What caused it?" asked Matsumoto.

"It's strange, very strange. No matter how I analyze it," said the doctor, meditating.

"How about a mustard bath?" said Matsumoto, offering a layman's suggestion.

"I have no objection." The doctor's response was immediate, but his face showed no sign of encouragement.

Soon a washtub filled with steaming water was brought in, and a bag of mustard was emptied into it. The mother and Chiyoko silently removed Yoiko's kimono. The doctor, patting his hand onto the hot water, cautioned, "Pour in a little more cold so she doesn't get scalded."

The doctor held Yoiko in his arms and placed her into the bath for several minutes. In breathless suspense the three others watched the color of the child's soft skin. "This is enough. If it's too long. ." he said and lifted the child from the tub.

The mother took the infant in her hands, drying her carefully with a towel before putting her clothing back on. But she remained as limp as ever, showing no sign of change. "Let's leave her lying as she is for a while," the mother said, casting a sad glance at her husband.

Saying simply "All right," Matsumoto returned to the drawing room and saw his visitor off at the entrance.

Presently a small pillow and bedding were taken from the closet. Seeing the child lying there as though she had fallen asleep as peacefully as she usually did at night, Chiyoko broke down, sobbing hysterically. "Oh, what have I done!"

"It's not your fault, Chiyo-chan."

"But I was the one feeding her. I must beg forgiveness from my aunt and uncle!"

In faltering words Chiyoko related again and again how the child looked her usual self just a while ago when she had been helping her eat.

"And still, it's so odd," Matsumoto said, his arms folded. "Come, Osen," he urged, "it's too sad leaving her lying here. Let's carry her into the drawing room."

Chiyoko helped move the bedding.

Gently they laid the infant in bed with her head to the north, as custom demanded. The place in the room was suitable, though open to view, as they did not have the proper folding screen for the occasion. Osen brought in from the living room a balloon Yoiko had been playing with in the morning and placed it beside the pillow. A bleached cotton cloth was put over Yoiko's face. Often Chiyoko uncovered it to observe the child, and often she cried.

"Just look," Osen sobbed, her nose clogged as she glanced back to her husband. "Her face is as lovely as a Kannon-sama's."

"Mm," Matsumoto said, peering at the child's face without moving from his seat.

Soon a plain wooden desk was set down, and a twig of anise, an incense burner, and white dumplings were arranged on it. When they saw the feeble light from the candles, the three adults were struck for the first time with the lonely feeling that a great distance now separated them from Yoiko, who would never awaken. Each in turn lit an incense stick. The odor from the burning incense stimulated the nostrils of the three, drawn into a quite different world from the one they had been in two hours ago. The children had been sent to bed early as usual except that the eldest, Sakiko, would not leave the spot where the incense was burning.

"You go to bed too," her mother said.

"But no one has come yet from Uchisaiwaicho or Kanda."

"They'll be here soon. It's all right. You can go to bed before they get here."

Sakiko went out to the corridor, but she looked back and beckoned Chiyoko. When Chiyoko came out, the girl whispered to be taken to the toilet. She was afraid because the room had no light. With a match Chiyoko kindled a hand lamp and turned the corner of the corridor with Sakiko. On the way back Chiyoko happened to glance into the servants' room, where in undertones the kitchen maid was talking over the brazier with a rick-shawman patronized by the family. She's probably giving him a detailed account, thought Chiyoko. The other maid was wiping trays in the living room, readying teacups in preparation for visitors.

Before long a few of the relatives who had been informed of the news came to pay their condolences. Some of the visitors left soon, promising their attendance at the funeral. To each visitor Chiyoko repeated her account of Yoiko's last moments, which had come on so suddenly. After midnight Osen brought in a portable warmer for those keeping the wake, but none would use it. The Matsumotos were exhorted to retire and, against their will, did so. Afterward Chiyoko kept the incense fresh and burning continuously by adding new sticks to those that had burned down. The rain had not yet stopped, but she no longer heard the sound of the downpour striking the plantain leaves. Rather, the sound on the zinc-roofed eaves sent into her ears the ceaseless drops of a desolate and lonely sadness. From time to time until the dawn broke, she took the cloth from Yoiko's face and sobbed.

The next day all the women present helped sew a hemp kimono in which to clothe Yoiko. The little sleeves and kimono skirt went round from hand to hand among the women, including Momoyoko, who had arrived from Uchisaiwaicho, and two wives from neighborhood families on friendly terms with the Matsumotos. Chiyoko carried in sheets of paper, a brush, and an inkstone to those gathered there, asking each to write on a single sheet the six Chinese characters Na-mu A-mi-da Butsu. When she came to Sunaga, she said, "Please, Ichi-san, copy some too."

"What are you going to do with them?" he asked with a puzzled look on his face as he took the brush and paper.

"Write as many of the characters as you can, as small as you can, all over the paper. Later we'll cut it into small strips, each with the six characters on it, and they'll be scattered into the coffin."

Everyone sat formally writing the prayer for Buddha's mercy. "Don't look at me while I'm writing," said Sakiko, screening her paper with her kimono sleeve as she composed her crooked strokes. The ten-year-old son said that he would write his prayer in kana. He copied several lines, all in syllabary letters as in a telegram.

In the afternoon just before Yoiko's body was to be placed into the coffin, Matsumoto told Chiyoko to dress it in the newly sewn kimono. Chiyoko, so choked with tears that she was unable to reply, took off Yoiko's clothes and raised the cold naked body in her arms. All over the child's back were purple spots. When it had been changed into its hemp kimono, Osen passed a small string of beads around its folded hands. A small braided hat and an equally small pair of straw sandals were placed into the coffin, as were the pair of red woolen socks that Yoiko had worn until the evening before. At once there drifted before Chiyoko's eyes the image of the dangling tassels attached to the strings of those socks. All the toys that had been given to the child were crowded into the space at the child's head and feet. And last of all, over the body were strewn like piles of snow the strips of paper containing the prayer to Buddha. Then the lid of the coffin was put into place, and a cloth of white figured satin was placed gently over it.

Osen objected to having the funeral fall on the inauspicious tomobiki, "pulling-your-friend day," so the ceremony was delayed for twenty-four hours. Thus, in spite of the gloomy atmosphere, the house had more people in it than usual. The six-year-old Kakichi was scolded for beating his toy war-drum. He silently came over to Chiyoko to ask if his little sister would ever return. Laughing, Sunaga teased him, "We plan to take Kakichi to the crematory tomorrow too and burn him with Yoiko-san!" The boy's big eyes bulged out even more as he replied, "I don't like that plan!"

Sakiko begged her mother to be taken to the funeral. And the eight-year-old Shigeko said, "Me too!"

Osen, as if reminded just then by her children's request, called Matsumoto from the room where he was talking with the Taguchis and asked, "It's not the custom, but will you be going to the crematory tomorrow with the others?"

"I intend to. You ought to go too."

"Yes, I've decided to. What should the children wear?"

"Haori with the family crest will do."

"But the patterns are too bright.. ."

"They can put on hakama over them, and it should be all right. And sailor suits will be enough for the boys. You'll be in a mourning kimono with the family crest, I suppose. Do you have a black obi?"

"Yes, I have one."

"Chiyoko, you wear a mourning kimono too if you have one, and accompany the coffin."

Having given these instructions, Matsumoto went back to his guests. Chiyoko rose to offer more incense. On the coffin was a pretty garland she had not noticed before. "When did it arrive?" she asked her sister, who was there beside her.

"Just a few minutes ago," Momoyoko explained in an undertone. "Auntie ordered it especially made up of red flowers as well as white ones because she thought that only white flowers would be too lonely for a child."

The sisters continued to sit there side by side. Several minutes later Chiyoko whispered into her sister's ear, "Momoyo-san, did you see Yoiko's face?"

"Yes," Momoyoko nodded.

"When?"

"You know I did when we put her in the coffin. Why?"

Chiyoko had forgotten. What she had been thinking was that if her sister had said she had not seen it, they could have reopened the coffin.

"Oh don't do that! I'd be afraid to," Momoyoko said, shaking her head.

At night a priest engaged for the wake came to recite the sutras. As Chiyoko listened nearby, she heard her uncle arguing with him on such esoteric subjects as the Sutra Trilogy and Japanese translations of Buddhist hymns. The names of the saints Shinran and Rennyo often cropped up in their talk. But a little after ten Matsumoto placed some cakes and alms before the priest. "It would be all right if you left now, as we've had enough prayers for tonight," he said.

Once the priest had gone, Osen asked her husband why he had dismissed the man so soon.

"He'll be better off if he gets to bed early. Besides, Yoiko doesn't like hearing sutras either," Matsumoto replied nonchalantly.

Chiyoko and Momoyoko exchanged smiling glances.

The next day the small coffin moved quietly under a clear, windless sky. People on the street gazed after it as if it were something wondrous to behold, for instead of the usual white paper lanterns and plain wooden bier, which Matsumoto said he disliked, he had the coffin placed on a wheeled hearse. Whenever the black curtain hanging around it swung, one caught glimpses of the garland decorating the small coffin covered with its white figured satin. Children playing here and there ran up to peep in with curious eyes. Some pedestrians removed their hats when they passed the vehicle.

At the temple the sutra-chanting and incense-burning were carried on as ceremony demanded. Oddly enough, no tears appeared in Chiyoko's eyes as she sat in the wide area of the main part of the temple. When she looked at her uncle and aunt, she found neither of their faces perceptibly downcast. She could hardly suppress a laugh when she saw Shigeko's mistake during the incense-burning: the girl, instead of taking a pinch of incense powder and letting it fall into the incense burner, pinched some ashes in the burner and dropped these into the incense receptacle.

When the ceremony was over, Matsumoto and Sunaga accompanied the coffin to the crematory with a few of the others. Chiyoko returned to Yarai with the rest of the relatives. In the rickshaw she thought that the painful sorrow she had felt during the past two days seemed to her to contain in it more of the pure and beautiful than the less anguished mood she was now in, and she experienced rather a longing for that acute grief undergone then.

Four persons went to gather Yoiko's ashes: Osen, Sunaga, Chiyoko, and the maid Kiyo, the one who had actually looked after the infant. The crematory was only a few hundred yards from the Kashiwagi train station, but since they had not realized this, they had hired rickshaws all the way from Yarai. It had thus required considerably more time to get there than it would have if they had taken the train.

It was Chiyoko's first experience at a crematory. The suburban sights, which she had not seen for a long while, provided her with the kind of pleasure that one has in being reminded of something long forgotten. Green wheat fields came into view as did radish gardens and forests of evergreen in which were mingled various reds, yellows, and browns. From time to time Sunaga looked back from his rickshaw, which was running ahead of Chiyoko's, to inform her they were passing such sights as Ana-Hachiman Shrine or the Suwa Woods. As the rickshaws went down a gentle shadowy slope, he pointed out a tall, lean pagoda standing amidst a clump of high cedars. Carved characters noted that the pagoda had been erected for the repose of Saint Kobo's soul on his one thousand fiftieth anniversary. Down the slope at the foot of a bridge was a tea stall, behind which was an artesian well surrounded by a thick growth of bamboo, all lending picturesqueness to the country lane. Small leaves of various colors fell occasionally from the nearly bare branches of tall trees. Spinning rapidly round and round in the air, they offered a vivid impression to Chiyoko's eyes; that they did not fall to the ground at once but remained whirling in the air for a long while was also a novel sight for her.

The crematory, its front facing south, stood on sunny, level ground, so when the rickshaws were drawn through the gate, the light beamed down on Chiyoko more brightly than she expected. When Osen gave her family name at the reception window, which looked like a counter at a post office, the man sitting there asked if she had the furnace key with her. She looked puzzled and began groping for it in her kimono bosom and the folds of her old sash.

"Now I've done it! I've left the key on the cabinet in the living room and. ."

"You didn't bring it with you? How awful! You'd better ask Ichi-san to go back and get it. We still have plenty of time."

Sunaga, who had been listening apathetically behind them said, "If it's the key you're worried about, I have it." He took from his kimono sleeve the cold, heavy object and handed it to his aunt.

When Osen went back to the counter with the key, Chiyoko rebuked Sunaga. "You're really nasty, Ichi-san! If you had the key on you, why didn't you take it out sooner and hand it over? Aunt Osen is so upset about Yoiko, you know, so it's quite natural she'd be forgetful."

Sunaga merely stood there smiling.

"A callous person like you shouldn't have come at all on an occasion of this sort. Yoiko is dead, yet you haven't shed a single tear for her."

"It's not that I'm callous. I've never had a child, so I don't know much about the affection between parents and kids."

"What! How can you say such a thoughtless thing right in front of Aunt Osen? And what about my own feelings? When on earth did I ever have a child?"

"Whether you've had one or not, I wouldn't know. But you're a woman, Chiyo-chan, so in all probability you've got a more tender heart than a man has."

As soon as she finished her business at the office, Osen, pretending that she had not heard their bickering, walked over toward the waiting room. She sat down and beckoned to Chiyoko, who had remained standing and who now came and sat beside her. Sunaga also followed Chiyoko into the room and sat opposite them on what looked like the kind of bench people use for cooling off on a summer evening. He called Kiyo and made room for her.

While they waited drinking tea, a few people arrived to gather the ashes of their deceased relatives. The first of these was a rustic-looking woman who spoke little, apparently out of consideration for the clothing Osen and Chiyoko were wearing. Next came a father and son who both had their kimono hems tucked up into their waistbands. In a lively voice one asked for an urn, bought the cheapest for sixteen sen, and then went off. The third party consisted of a girl in a violet hakama leading a blind person — whether a man or woman it was difficult to tell — whose hair was disheveled and who was wearing a stiff sash. Having ascertained that they had enough time, the blind person took a cigarette from a kimono sleeve and began smoking. As soon as Sunaga saw the blind person's face, he abruptly rose and went outside and for a long time failed to return. When a clerk came to inform Osen that it was time for the ash-gathering, Chiyoko went to the rear of the building to call Sunaga.

After she passed through the back part of the building, where lined on both sides were dismal-looking furnaces of ordinary grade, each with a brass plate on which the name of the cremated was written, she came out into a spacious yard in one corner of which she noticed a huge pile of pine for firewood. The yard was surrounded by a luxuriant growth of thick-stemmed bamboo. The view to the north — a series of high undulating hills beyond a wheat field below the bamboo grove — was especially clear and bright. Standing at the end of this open yard, Sunaga was looking out in a kind of abstracted gaze at the panorama.

"Ichi-san, they say it's ready."

Hearing Chiyoko's voice, Sunaga returned without a word, but then said, "That bamboo grove over there is quite fine. Somehow it seems, doesn't it, that the plants have grown this vigorously because they've been fertilized by the remains of the dead. The bamboo shoots they harvest here must taste excellent."

"How horrible!" Chiyoko said over her shoulder, hurrying past the lower-grade furnaces again.

Since the furnace in which Yoiko was cremated was among those of the first grade, a violet curtain hung over its folding doors. On a table in front of those doors was the garland of flowers brought the previous day, lying quietly, slightly withered. To Chiyoko, these seemed a memento of the heat that had burned Yoiko's flesh the previous evening. She suddenly felt as though she were suffocating.

Three fire-tenders appeared. The oldest requested the dead child's family to break the seal, but Sunaga replied that it would be all right if the man himself did it. Obediently, he tore the sealing paper and drew off the latch with a clang. The black iron doors opened on both sides, and at the dim farther end of the cavity something gray and round was visible, something black and white, all in an amorphous mass. The cremator said they would have it out shortly and, attaching two rails, put what looked like two iron rings at the ends of the coffin rack. Then, with a sudden rattle, out under the very noses of the four bystanders came the shapeless mass of what remained of the burned corpse. Chiyoko recognized in the remains Yoiko's skull, all puffed out and round, just as it had been in life with its resemblance to a ricecake offering. She immediately bit down hard on her handkerchief. The cremators left the skull and cheekbones and a few of the other larger bones on the rack, saying they would sift the rest neatly and bring them soon.

Each of the four gatherers had a pair of chopsticks, one of wood, the other of bamboo, and all picked up whatever white bones each thought fit to place into the white urn. And they wept as if invited to by each other's tears, all except Sunaga, who, pale-faced, neither spoke nor sniffled. The cremator asked if they wanted any of the teeth set apart from the other bones and deftly picked a few from the jaws, which he had begun to crush. Seeing this action, Sunaga said almost to himself, "Handled this way, it no longer resembles anything human. It's like picking small pebbles out of sand." Tears fell from the maid's eyes to the concrete floor. Osen and Chiyoko laid their chopsticks aside, their handkerchiefs pressed to their faces.

When Chiyoko got into her rickshaw, she held in her arms the cedar box containing the urn and settled it on her lap. As the rickshawman began his run, a chill wind crept in through the space under the blanket covering herself and the box on her lap. The slender branches of the zelkova trees, whose tall light-brownish trunks lined both sides of the road, swayed as though they were welcoming them and seeing them off. Although the fine twigs grew out so thickly that they crossed each other high overhead, the streets the vehicles were traveling through were strangely brighter than Chiyoko thought they would be. Thinking this to be quite unusual, she raised her head again and again to look toward the distant sky.

On their arrival home Chiyoko placed the ashes in front of the Buddhist family altar. The children immediately gathered around and asked her to take off the lid to let them see what was inside, but she absolutely refused.

Soon the entire family sat down to lunch in the same room. It was Sunaga who started the conversation. "I guess it still looks like you have lots of children, but one is missing now, isn't she?"

"I don't think I made so much of the child while she was living, but now that she's gone," Matsumoto said, "it seems I've lost the most precious thing. So much so that I almost wish one of these here could take her place."

"That's not nice," Shigeko whispered to Sakiko.

"Oh please, Auntie, try to have another child just like Yoiko-san — as like as two peas — so that I can embrace it."

"A child like Yoiko wouldn't do unless it actually was Yoiko herself. It's not like making a porcelain plate or a hat. Even if I did have a new baby to take her place, we'd never forget the lost one."

"I've come to hate seeing any visitor with a letter of introduction on a rainy day."

5: Sunaga's Story

Sunaga's Story

Ever since Keitaro had seen the figure of the woman before Sunaga's gate, he had imagined some string of destiny binding her with Sunaga. This string was as subtle as an aroma in a dream; thus, while he was actually seeing the real Sunaga and the real Chiyoko, it often disappeared somewhere and floated away. But while their existence as common mortals did not ordinarily provide any stimulus to his unaided eye, there were times when the bond linking them came into view, uniting them inseparably as though such were ordained by karma. Even after Keitaro had gained access to Taguchi's house, he heard not a word about any relationship between Sunaga and Chiyoko, nor did his direct observation offer him any kind of hint beyond their ordinary kinship as cousins. And yet his original association dominated him so insistently that somewhere in his mind he always felt inclined to regard them as a couple, as a connected man and woman. It seemed to him that a young man unaccompanied by a girl, or a young woman without a man to link arms with, was, after all, a kind of deformity — they were not being what nature intended each to be. His linking of Sunaga and Chiyoko according to his own perceptions may have arisen from his own moral demand to confer as quickly as possible on the two of them, still fluttering about in their "deformed" state, the capacities that nature had endowed them with.

We need not inquire more deeply into this thorny problem in order to argue about it on behalf of Keitaro, that is, to debate whether his thought had arisen from some moral imperative or anything else, but the fact is that when he happened to hear of late some talk about Chiyoko's marriage arrangements, he was somewhat troubled by the contradiction between the world inside his own mind and that outside. He had heard this talk from the houseboy, Saeki. Of course, houseboys are not in a position to know completely the behind-the-scenes circumstances of an affair before it is brought to a conclusion. With the muscles of his moony face more strained than usual, he had merely said, "It's been talked about a lot." The name of the man who would become Chiyoko's husband was of course unknown to the boy, but it was evident that his status was that of a businessman.

"I'd taken it for granted that Miss Chiyoko would marry Mr. Sunaga. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be?"

"I guess not."

"Why not?"

"When you ask it like that, it's hard to give a clear answer, but if you think about it a bit, you'll see that it would just be too difficult."

"You really think so? They look like a perfectly matched couple to me, what with their relationship and their ages — five or six years' difference is just right."

"Well, if you're not in the know, they seem so. But behind it all there probably are lots of complications."

Keitaro wanted to inquire minutely into what Saeki had called "complications," but he was annoyed that the houseboy seemed to be treating him as an outsider. Moreover, it would have been a disgrace to Keitaro if it became known that he had pried into the family's affairs by pumping information from no more than a doorkeeper. Finally, there was little likelihood that Saeki could know as much as his words laid claim to, so Keitaro decided to let the matter stand. On this occasion he had gone by chance to the back room of the house to greet Taguchi's wife and to talk awhile, but since she seemed her usual self, he did not have the nerve to bring up any words of congratulation.

Keitaro had made this visit to the Taguchis a few days before he went to Sunaga's house, where he had heard from Chiyoko the misfortune of her uncle's family at Yarai. It was actually with the intention of ascertaining Sunaga's feelings about the marriage problem that he went, after so long an absence, to visit his friend. No matter which woman from whatever place Sunaga married, and no matter which man of whatever origin Chiyoko was given to in marriage, none of it obviously had anything to do with Keitaro. Yet could the destinies of these two people be so easily parted without leaving behind some lingering regret? Was not, as Keitaro imagined, some phantasmal string, some bond invisible to themselves, binding them in the darkness of the unknown? Was not a flickering glimmer of what might be described as a sash woven of dreams sometimes clearly visible to their eyes while at other times cut off from their vision so that they were left alone, separated from each other? Such was what Keitaro wished to ascertain. Of course, he was clearly conscious that this desire was no more than his own curiosity. He was equally aware, however, that as far as Sunaga was concerned, it was not improper for him to have his curiosity satisfied. More than that, he even believed it his right.

Unfortunately, Chiyoko's story that day and then Sunaga's mother's joining them prevented Keitaro from finding an opportunity to bring up this personal matter with Sunaga, although he ended up spending a considerably long time at his friend's house. When it suddenly occurred to him that the three persons who happened to be before him would certainly be well matched as son, wife, and mother-in-law, he thought on his way back home that it would be the easiest task in the world to unite them according to the formalities of the world.

The following Sunday favored all office workers with fine weather, so Keitaro called on Sunaga early in the morning to invite him for a walk in the suburbs. Sunaga came out to the entrance, but being indolent and self-willed, he did not readily acquiesce. However, he was at last compelled to slip on his shoes after some strong urging from his mother. Once someone got Sunaga to put his shoes on, he would easily move in any direction Keitaro wanted, silently accepting his friend's lead and not, when consulted about where to go, insisting on any particular direction himself. When he and his Yarai uncle, Matsumoto, went out together, they would both walk on without considering where they were headed, so that they often ended up at a place least expected by either. Keitaro had heard about such instances from Sunaga's mother.

That day they went by train from Ryogoku as far as a station at the foot of Konodai Plateau. They strolled leisurely along the bank of the beautiful wide river there. In a lighthearted mood that he had not felt for some time, Keitaro looked out over the water, the sailboats, and the hills. Sunaga praised the view too, but complained about the cold, blaming Keitaro by saying it was not yet the season for walking along such a bleak embankment. Telling Sunaga that if he'd walk faster, he'd warm up, Keitaro began to quicken his pace. Sunaga followed with somewhat of a bewildered look on his face. They reached a spot near Taishakuten Temple at Shibamata and stopped at a restaurant called the Kawajin. Sunaga was again compelled to frown, this time claiming that the broiled eel they had ordered had been sweetened too much.

Keitaro, distressed that because their mood was not ripe for it he could find no opportunity to enter into any kind of confidential talk, took the occasion to remark, "You Edoites are quite fastidious, aren't you? Are you even so hard to please about finding wives?"

"Any man would be if he were allowed a voice in the matter. It's not limited to Edoites. Even a country bumpkin like you would be," Sunaga replied with perfect nonchalance.

"You Edoites are also rather blunt, aren't you?" Keitaro couldn't help saying and burst into a laugh. Sunaga seemed equally amused and laughed aloud.

After that their conversation progressed as harmoniously as their mood. Sunaga commented that lately Keitaro seemed to have settled down quite a bit, which Keitaro accepted quietly.

"You mean I've gotten a little more serious? But you're tending to become more and more obstinate," Keitaro bantered.

Sunaga, with good grace, admitted his weakness. "Sometimes I hate myself for being like that."

They were now in a congenial mood in which they could look directly into one another's eyes without feeling any restraints. It was fortunate for Keitaro that the problem of Chiyoko was brought up during such a time, since he had been wanting to hear what the actual story was. He directly assailed Sunaga with the rumor he had heard the previous week that she was shortly to be married. Sunaga didn't show the least sign of agitation, but in more somber tones than usual replied, "Apparently another offer's about to be made. I hope it's settled this time." He then added with a sudden change in tone that seemed to indicate he had grown weary of the subject, "Unknown to you of course, there have been many such discussions."

"You don't feel at all like marrying her yourself?"

"Does it look that way?"

And so their talk proceeded, each trying to drag the topic on until it was driven either to the point where something critical had to be confessed or the subject had to be dropped. Finally, with a wry smile Sunaga said, "You've brought your cane with you again, haven't you?"

Keitaro, smiling too, went out to the restaurant's open corridor and returned with the inevitable cane. "Uh-huh," he said and showed Sunaga the snakehead.

Sunaga's story was much longer than Keitaro had expected.

My father died years ago. He died suddenly when I was very young, when I had no real understanding of the affection that exists between a parent and child. Since I have no children, my affection toward those of my own flesh and blood may still be comparatively weak, but the feeling of endearment I have toward the parents who brought me into the world has developed considerably since that time. I often wish that in those days I had had the love for them I now have. I was, in short, quite cold toward my father, although he himself never indulged me either. The portrait I have of him in my mind is merely that of a stern face, one with high cheekbones and a sallow complexion, a face that could scarcely endear itself to a child. Each time I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of the remarkable resemblance between my own face and the face of my father that I've stored in my mind, and this displeases me. I feel ashamed not only because I have to worry about giving others as unpleasant an impression of myself as my father gave of himself, but also because of the miserable feeling of a son remembering only the unfavorable surface of his father as the sole memento of that father. Judging from myself as I am now — I do have a warmer affection flowing in me than my own gloomy eyebrows and forehead suggest — I suspect my father to have had at the bottom of his heart tears much warmer than my own despite the callousness of his outward appearance.

A few days before my father died, he called me to his bedside. "Ichizo," he said, "when I die, you'll have to be looked after by your mother. You realize that, don't you?" Since it was my mother who had taken care of me from the day I was born, it struck me as odd to be warned anew in this way by my father at the last moment. I merely sat there silently, having nothing to say. My father — it seemed like he had to forcibly move the lines on his face, which was all skin and bone — spoke again. "If you continue to be as mischievous as you are now, your mother won't be here to watch over you either. So behave yourself." I knew quite well that my mother had taken care of me until that time, so I didn't feel like I had to change the way I'd been. Thinking that his rebuke was totally unnecessary, I left the sickroom.

When my father died, my mother cried a great deal. Just before the coffin was to be taken from the house, I was alone in the open hallway. I had changed into my funeral attire and, since I didn't have anything else to do, was looking up at the blue sky when my mother, dressed in the white silk kimono bereaved wives wear, suddenly came over to me. Taguchi and Matsumoto and the others who were to go with the coffin were all busily occupied in another part of the house, so no one was there except my mother and me. All at once she put her hand on my close-cropped hair and fixed on me her eyes, which were swollen from crying. Then in an undertone she said, "Even though your father has just died, don't worry. I'll look after you just as I always have." I didn't say anything. Nor did I cry. It was an incident that was over and done with in a moment, but I've since come to feel keenly that it was those remarks of my parents that have cast a shadow over the memory I have of the two of them.

Whenever I asked myself why I had harbored such doubts about those words, words that didn't need to have any particular significance attached to them, I found myself unable to explain the reason. At times I had half a mind to question my mother directly about them, but whenever I looked at her face, my resolve failed. And somewhere in my mind something cropped up and whispered to me that once I confided my secret thoughts to her, the close relationship of mother and son would be so damaged that we would never be given the chance to recover the harmony we were enjoying. If it didn't come to that, it was likely that my mother would gaze at my overly serious face and laugh everything away by saying, "Was there ever actually such a thing?" When I thought about the cruel effect that such an evasion would have on our relationship, I resolved to keep quiet at any cost about my secret doubt.

I was never an obedient son. As is obvious from the fact that I was called to my dying father's bedside to be scolded, I really had often disobeyed my mother during my childhood days. Even after I grew up and had enough sense to desire to be kinder to her because she was, after all, my mother, I still did not do as she wished. Especially during these last two or three years, I've caused her constant anxiety. On the one hand, I had the idea that no matter what might be said freely between a mother and child, they should always be just that — mother and child. On the other hand, I was afraid that if, relying on the fact that nothing had ever happened which had damaged, either seriously or slightly, this precious relationship, I broached the earlier matter and both of us received a wound that would leave an indelible scar of remorse, it would be a misfortune we'd never recover from. I suspected that this fear might have been created by my nervous temperament, though more often than not, it seemed to exist more clearly in the future than in the present. And that is why even now I feel sad that I wasn't able to forget my parents' words as soon as they had been uttered.

I have no idea how well my father and mother got along together. Since I haven't been married yet, I may not be qualified to say anything about such a relationship, but I think it's usual with any husband and wife, no matter how much they love one another, to have their disagreements. So I think that during my parents' long married life as well, there must have been times when they found in each other's minds some unpleasant stains and had to keep such discoveries to themselves, sometimes even harboring them bitterly, I guess. And yet to the very end of my father's life, I never witnessed any quarrel between them, for in spite of his having been a quicktempered man, he had a rather secretive personality. And my mother by her very nature cannot raise her voice unless it's to recite a classical song. I suppose that it would be rare to find a family as orderly and as serene as ours was. Even my uncle Matsumoto, who is so outspokenly harsh in his criticism of others, still firmly believes this was so.

Whenever my mother speaks to me about my father, she invariably describes him as having been among all husbands in the world the closest to perfection. This seems to me partly a defense of him due to her desire to purify that memory of him which lies somewhere muddied in the depths of my mind. Or it may be an attempt to bring more luster to her own memory by polishing it with the rag of time. Whatever the reason, whenever she introduced my father to me as someone totally imbued with parental affection, her own attitude underwent a sudden and thorough transformation. There were even times when I was so overwhelmed by her austere spirit that I wondered how the mild and gentle mother I was so accustomed to could change into such a serious one. It was when I was moving from middle school to college preparatory high school that I had that impression, but nowadays, no matter how much I plead with her to repeat those earlier words about my father, I can never experience those exalted sentiments of my earlier days. Perhaps my own feelings from that time to my graduation from the university have grown utterly desolate, like those of the heroes in recent novels. When I feel like cursing this self of mine, poisoned as it is by the modern age, I sometimes have the desire to touch once again that sublime feeling I had experienced with my mother. Yet at the same time I'm filled with the sad thought that this desire is a bygone dream I can never recapture.

My mother's character can be described most easily as that of an affectionate mother. From my point of view, she is certainly a woman who was born for the sake of those two words and who will die for them. Actually, that makes me feel sorry for her, yet since her one satisfaction in life is concentrated on this one point, I realize that as long as I do what I should as a good son, she'll find no greater delight than that. And it follows that if I go against her wishes too many times, it will cause her the greatest misery. Sometimes it gives me real pain when I think about that.

I've almost forgotten to tell you something else — that I was not an only child. Even now I can remember playing as a kid with my younger sister, Tae-chan. She usually wore a long coat with large patterns on it over her kimono. She had her hair cut short, hanging down like a doll's. She used to call me "Ichizo-chan," never "big brother." Several years before our father's death, she died of diphtheria. No serum had yet been discovered, so it must have been extremely difficult to treat. I didn't even know what the disease was called. Once Matsumoto came to inquire after her health and teased me by asking, "Are you diphtherial too?" and even now I can remember replying, "No, I'm not. I'm a soldier!"

For some time after my sister's death, the stern face of my father looked much more tender. When he said to my mother, "I'm truly sorry for you," the especially gentle expression on his face as he uttered that remark was engraved on my boyish mind, as were the very words he used at that moment. But I don't remember at all what my mother's answer was. No matter how much I try recalling it, I can't. It probably slipped out of my memory the moment she said it.

It seems funny, I guess, that for a boy who was keenly observant and sensitive toward his father, I didn't pay much attention to my mother. If it's true that people tend to want to know more about others than about themselves, I'd say that my father seemed more like a stranger to me than my mother did. To put it another way, my mother was so familiar to me that she wasn't worth observing.

Well, at any rate, my younger sister died. So from that time on I became my parents' only child. And long after my father's death, I am still my mother's only son.

So I think it's my duty to treat my mother as considerately as I can. But the truth is that the same cause makes me all the more perverse. From the moment I graduated from the university last year until now, I haven't troubled myself even once about getting a job. I graduated with a rather good record, so if I had chosen to make use of the custom of selection based on academic standing to get a job — the usual way nowadays — I could have had a position that would make me the envy of most of my friends. Actually, I remember having once been called in by a certain professor of mine, who was entrusted by some employer with the selection of a suitable job candidate, to be sounded out about my future intentions. And still I didn't make a move. You realize, of course, that I'm not telling you this to boast about it. It's really the reverse of boasting — it makes me feel uncomfortable about myself, since I'm revealing my diffidence, my utter lack of conviction. Nevertheless, I've since been haunted by the idle thought — I had it when I declined that offer — that to win esteem in the world by wearing myself to the bone from morning till night, what's the point? I don't think I was born to make a name for myself in the world. Had I majored in botany or astronomy instead of law, the fates might have bestowed on me some job suited to my personality. I think this way because while I'm extremely timid toward society, I can really persevere when it comes to myself.

I think you already know that it's the small bit of property my father left me that allows me to indulge myself as I do. When I think about the fact that if it weren't for that I'd have to use my law degree and fight the world no matter how painful it would be, I can only offer thanks to my dead father. At the same time I have to realize how very unstable and frivolous my perverseness must be, since it exists only by virtue of that inheritance. And I feel all the more sorry for my mother, who has been made a victim of my perversity.

As is usual with women educated in the old ways, my mother has above all else the notion that the primary duty of a son is to elevate the family name. But she has no real understanding about what that means, whether it's done by honor, property, power, or virtue. She merely has some vague idea that if any of these fall along the way, the rest will somehow come together one after another. I myself lack the courage to talk to her about this sort of thing. I don't believe I'd be qualified to until I've actually elevated my family's name in a way that fits in with my own view of the world. And yet I'm someone who cannot in any way whatsoever elevate his own family name. All I can do is to keep in mind some nobility of spirit not unworthy of my family's reputation. If I presented this idea to my mother, though, it would, far from pleasing her, only make her uneasy, since it's an idea quite alien to her. That also makes me feel sad.

Among the many anxieties I've given my mother, what I'd mention first is this shortcoming I've just spoken about. But she loves me enough to allow us to get along together even without mending my bad points, so without losing this feeling of being sorry for her, I believe we can push on as we are now doing. But what torments me secretly even more than my perverseness, for fear that it will give my mother an even sharper disappointment, is the problem of my marriage. Rather than a problem of marriage, it may be more appropriate to call it the circumstances surrounding Chiyoko and me. To explain all this in the proper sequence, I'll have to go back to the days before her birth.

The Taguchi of that time was neither a man of influence nor fortune, as he is now. But he was a young man of promise, so my father interceded on his behalf so that he could marry my mother's sister. Taguchi looked up to my father as his senior; he sought his advice and was given assistance in one way or another. The close relationship established between the two families was moving along more smoothly month after month by the time Chiyoko was born. I heard that my mother asked at the time, though I don't know even now what made her think of it, if the Taguchis would give this child in marriage to "her Ichizo" when she grew up. According to what I heard from my mother, they readily gave their assent on that occasion. Momoyoko was born later, and then they had a son, Goichi. Since there was a male heir now, the Taguchis could freely give Chiyoko in marriage to whomever they wished. I myself don't know whether they had definitely pledged to my mother that they would give her to me.

At any rate, there was that kind of tie between Chiyoko and me from that early time on even without our being aware of what was happening around us. But the ties binding us were rather uncertain ones. The two of us grew up as freely as skylarks soaring toward heaven. Even those who had twisted those ties might not have been aware that they were holding them so firmly at their ends. I feel a deep sadness for my mother in not being able to use the words "uncertain ties" as meaning the strange workings of fate.

When I entered college preparatory high school, my mother hinted at the affair concerning Chiyoko. At that age I was of course conscious of the other sex. But no idea had yet formed in my mind about who would be my future wife. I was not mature enough; I was still too restless to give the topic any serious thought. Actually, the girl who had played and quarreled with me since childhood and who was as familiar to me as if she had practically grown up in the same house seemed so very close to me that she looked too commonplace to provide the usual stimulus a man feels about the opposite sex. I think that these feelings were not mine alone but were probably the same with Chiyoko. As evidence, I cannot recall a single experience throughout our long association in which she treated me as a male. In her eyes, whether I'm angry or crying or posing amorously and making eyes at her, I'm invariably nothing more than her cousin. This comes partly, though, from her disposition, in which an inherent purity is dominant — this temperament of hers I know better than anyone else. But her disposition could not be the only thing that removes so completely the barriers set up to make us aware of the sexes. Only once did — well, I'll tell about that later.

My mother interpreted my deafness to what she said as coming from shyness, so she put the question away as though she were waiting for another occasion to mention it. I don't have the courage to deny that I was shy at the time. But my mother's interpreting the fondness I have for Chiyoko as shyness really amounts to acknowledging the exact opposite for a fact. The upshot of the matter is that all my mother's endeavors to bring us up on as friendly terms as possible in preparation for our future have only resulted in putting us further and further apart as man and woman. And yet my mother herself was quite unaware of this. And it was cruel of me to have brought it to her attention.

It really pains me to tell you what happened one day. Ever since that time during my high school days when my mother hinted about the question of Chiyoko, she seemed to have been brooding over it in her heart— until one night in my second year at the university, that is. During spring vacation when news of the blooming of the cherry blossoms was being talked about, she laid the question gently before me. By that time I was much more mature, so I could afford to take up the matter quietly and examine it carefully from all angles. This time she didn't merely drop some remote hint, but took care in phrasing her hope in an appropriate form. I simply replied that I found the situation distasteful because a cousin is related by blood. To my surprise, my mother said that she had requested that Chiyoko be given to me as my wife — she asked this right when Chiyoko was born — so that I really ought to marry her. When I asked why she had made such a request, she answered that it was because she liked the child, and that there was no reason why I shouldn't either. Such a reply, hardly applicable to the baby I was at the time, made me feel embarrassed. I pressed her further until she said with tears in her eyes that it wasn't, in fact, for my sake, but for her own. And yet she would not give me the answer to my repeated question of why it would be good for her. Finally she asked if it was impossible to bring myself to accept Chiyoko as my wife. I told her that I had no dislike for Chiyoko, but that since she herself had no desire to become my wife, nor did her parents want her to, it was better not to make such a proposal because it would only cause them trouble. My mother insisted that no matter what trouble they might be caused, it involved a promise, nor was there any reason to worry about causing them trouble. She then proceeded to give a number of instances in which Taguchi had been helped by my father and had given trouble to him. There was no dissuading her, so I suggested that we put off the final answer until my graduation. With a gleam of hope amid such misgivings to light up her countenance, she asked me to think it over once again.

These were the circumstances which forced me to share this problem which until then had been carried only in my mother's heart. Are not the Taguchis brooding over this very same problem in their own way? If they were to give Chiyoko in marriage to another family, they would at least have to get our approval at the last moment. That must be a source of worry to my uncle as well.

I began to feel uneasy. Whenever I saw my mother's face, I felt qualms, since it seemed to me as though I were shuffling through day by day by deceiving her. Once I actually reconsidered everything and decided, if it were possible, to marry Chiyoko as my mother wished. With that purpose in mind, I went out of my way to visit the Taguchis even when I didn't have any real business there, merely to sound out my aunt and uncle indirectly. Neither in words nor bearing did they show any sign of shunning me as they could have if they had been anticipating my mother's hard pursuit. They're not that shallow or unkind. Yet what a pitiful image they had of me as a would-be husband for their daughter. Their impression hadn't improved in the least from what I could tell it had been earlier; in fact, it had gotten worse. In the first place, my weak physique and pale complexion were unacceptable in their view of me as a potential son-in-law. I admit, though, that with my over-sensitivity, I'm apt to exaggerate or bring some undue prejudice to bear on someone's appraisal of me. So I think I'd rather avoid the impropriety of speaking too freely about the close observations I've made of my aunt and uncle, and keep them to myself. Anyway, they had probably committed themselves at that early time to giving Chiyoko to me as my wife — at least they had probably thought that they might as well. But later on, their rising social status, as well as their own view of my character, with its course quite opposite their own, must have doubly deprived the engagement of its feasibility, and now only the empty slough of obligation has been left behind somewhere in their minds. That may be how the affair now stands.

There was seldom any opportunity for them and me to talk even in general terms about marriage. Except that my aunt and I once had the following conversation:

"Ichi-san," she said, "you're old enough to be looking for a wife. It seems that your mother has been worrying about it for a long time."

"Well, if you find someone nice, please let my mother in on it."

"Someone gentle and tenderhearted would be best for you, Ichi-san. As attentive as a kind nurse, I should think."

"If I advertised for a bride that was like a nurse, I doubt if anyone would turn up," I said, smiling with self-scorn.

Chiyoko, who was doing something in a corner of the room, raised her head. "Shall I come nurse you?" she asked.

I looked intently into her eyes, and she looked into mine. But neither of us recognized anything meaningful there.

Without even turning her head toward Chiyoko, my aunt said, "How could Ichi-san have a liking for someone as outspoken and boisterous as you?"

In my aunt's low voice I caught something that sounded like fright as well as reproach. Chiyoko came out with only an amused laugh. At that time Momoyoko was sitting beside us too. She left her seat, smiling at her elder sister's words. After some time I got up to leave, interpreting what had been said as an informal refusal.

After this incident I found it more and more humiliating to try to gratify my mother's wish. As the son of a proud father, I find that my hypersensitivity in this respect surprises even me. Of course, on that occasion I took no offense at my aunt's words. Since she had not received any explicit proposal from us, she could not have revealed her opinion in any other way than she had. As for Chiyoko, whatever it was she said or laughed at, I took it only as a frank expression of what she was feeling at that moment in her ever candid heart. Judging from her words and behavior, I knew with certainty, as I previously had, that she was not willing to marry me, but at the same time I had something of a secret fear that if my mother were to have a confidential, intimate talk with her, Chiyoko might say right then and there, "If that's the case, I'll join your family." I had always believed her to be so singularly pure as to be able on such an occasion to sacrifice her own interests or even her parents' wishes as if none of that mattered in the least.

Being so strongly self-willed, I wished more to keep my ego from being bruised than to please my mother. Therefore, I tried discreetly to prevent what I feared might come to pass — that conversation in which Chiyoko would be persuaded by my mother into complying without my knowing anything about it. Since my mother had decided that Chiyoko would be my wife the minute the girl was born, it's obvious that she was my mother's favorite among all her nephews and nieces. And ever since she was a child, Chiyoko has regarded my home as her own, thinking nothing of coming and staying overnight. Even today, when our two families have less familiarity than they once had, she frequently visits us by herself, her face cheerful as she calls on her dear aunt as if she were her own mother. With that simplicity so characteristic of her, she has, concealing nothing, confided to my mother even the occasional marriage negotiations concerning herself. My good-natured mother would merely listen quietly, unable to reveal a single expression of her own disappointment. That intimate talk I was so afraid of could have occurred at any such moment between those two women of such deep connection.

What I've called discretion on my part was nothing more than a precaution against my mother's broaching the subject. But when I did try to bring up the question anew, I felt vaguely from somewhere inside me that it was cruel of a son to deprive his weak mother of her freedom in order to have his own way, so more often than not I left everything unuttered. But the image of my mother's frown was not the only reason for my abandoning the topic. I was also partly restrained toward her by the reflection that since she had not yet confided to Chiyoko her definite desire in spite of their close relationship, she might, if left alone, not do it for a considerable time.

And so I was able to let time go along without taking any definite steps concerning Chiyoko. In that interval though, during which I let the days pass in this kind of uncertainty, my connection with the Taguchi family was not wholly severed. I remember having occasionally used the streetcar to go to Uchisaiwaicho, if only for the purpose of seeing the delight on my mother's face. On the evening of one such day I was detained by Chiyoko, a rare moment in a long while. She said she'd serve me an unusual dish that she'd just learned how to make, and so I stayed for dinner. My uncle, who is away from home most of the time, happened to be present on that occasion and, as is his habit, told funny stories throughout the meal. Soon the whole room was in an uproar, until even the shoji were shaking from our laughter.

After dinner my uncle suggested to me — though I don't know why — that we try our hand at a game of go, since we hadn't played in a long time. I didn't feel much like playing, but since he had been kind enough to ask, I agreed, and we moved into another room. We played two or three games. Since we were both poor at go, it didn't take much time, so when the stones were put away, it wasn't that late.

We began talking over cigarettes. I found an appropriate time to ask whether Chiyoko's marriage had been settled yet or not. I had asked simply in order to show that I had no objection to her getting married. Also, I had done it because I thought the sooner the problem was solved, the more at ease I'd be and the happier Chiyoko would be too.

My uncle then said in his frank way, "No, and it's not likely to be settled soon. Every once in a while we have an offer, but each of them has something difficult that troubles us. Moreover, the more we inquire, the more complicated it all becomes. So I'm thinking of having it settled, if possible, by not getting so deeply involved in the particulars. Marriage proposals are rather odd things, aren't they? I might as well tell you now. When Chiyoko was born, your mother said that she wanted her as your future wife — she said this about an infant just out of the womb!" My uncle was laughing and looking directly at me.

"I understand my mother was very much in earnest when she said that."

"Of course she was in earnest. She's an honest woman, my sister-in-law. And really a very nice person. Even now I understand she talks about it quite seriously with your aunt."

He burst into another laugh. I thought that if he took the incident that lightly, I would speak up on my mother's behalf. But at the same time I reflected that if all this was the skillful means by which a man of the world got another person to understand a particular situation, any words put in by me would only be proof of my own stupidity, so I kept quiet. My uncle is a kind man as well as an experienced one. Even now I don't know which of those two sides his words are to be attributed to. But the fact remains that ever since then I have been inclined more and more toward not marrying Chiyoko.

After that evening I stayed away from the Taguchis for about two months. If only my mother hadn't been concerned about it, I might have gotten along quite well without once turning my steps toward Uchisaiwaicho. And even if she was anxious, had my concern about her been the only question, I might have persevered to the very end in having my own way. That's the kind of person I am. But toward the end of those two months I suddenly realized it wasn't in my own best interest to remain so obstinate. The truth was that the more I alienated myself from the Taguchis, the more my mother began trying to find every possible opportunity to be in contact with Chiyoko. So the situation was becoming even more tense in that what I most feared — my mother's entering into direct negotiations with Chiyoko— might occur at any moment. I made up my mind to move the crisis one stage forward. With this resolve I again began crossing the Taguchi threshold.

Their behavior toward me hadn't changed in the least, of course. And mine toward them was the same it had been two months earlier. As before, we laughed, joked around, and made light of each other's faults. In short, the time I spent with them was cheerful enough to be called uproarious. But to be honest, it was a little too cheerful for me. I was left feeling mentally exhausted by such empty endeavors. I think a sharp eye might have easily detected the deceptive light that was casting ugly colors upon my true self.

In the course of these visits I remember only one occasion in which I felt the pleasure of having my mood and my words perfectly joined, like the two sides of a sheet of paper. The incident occurred on a day when the Taguchi family was following its custom of going out together once or twice a year. I had gone toward the back of the house and found, to my surprise, Chiyoko sitting quietly alone. She seemed to have caught a cold and had a compress applied around her throat. Her complexion was pale, which was unusual for her, and it made her seem lonely. I hadn't realized that all the others were out until she said with a smile that she was the only one home.

That day, perhaps because of her illness, she was much quieter and calmer than usual. When I saw her there so solitary and strangely depressed — this girl who the moment she saw me could not resist the challenge to tease me with all the powers at her command and have me tease her back — I suddenly felt something tender rising within me. No sooner had I seated myself than some gentle, soothing words unintentionally escaped my lips. With a funny look she said, "You're awfully sweet today. When you get married, you'll have to be this kind to your wife."

For the first time in my life I realized that my maintaining such an unreserved friendliness toward her had, until that moment, implicitly given me the freedom to treat her as unamiably as I wished. When I perceived something like a pleased, though faint, look wavering in her eyes, I regretted my injustice to her.

We drifted back over a past so intimate to each of us that it seemed that we had been reared together. Reminiscent words of bygone days passed our lips to help revive those earlier times. It surprised me to find her own recollections, vivid even in trifling details, far superior to mine. She could even remember that moment four years ago when she had stitched up a tear in my hakama as I stood by the front door of her house. She even recalled that the thread she had used was silk, not cotton.

"I still have those pictures you painted for me."

Only when she said this did it come back to me that I had given some pictures to her. But that had been when she was eleven or twelve. She had thrust in front of me some colors and sheets of paper her father had bought for her, forcing me to draw something.

The fact that I have never once touched a paintbrush since those days is evidence of my accomplishment in art, so her interest in those drawings must have been nothing more than a momentary stimulus from some red and green colors. I smiled in embarrassment upon hearing that she still had them.

"Shall I show them to you?"

I told her not to bother. Disregarding my request, she went and brought from her own room a small box containing the paintings.

She took out several of my drawings. They were no more than simple sketches of red camellias, purple asters, and fancy dahlias. But the careful execution of neatly painted detail, trouble taken where it was obviously not needed and without begrudging the waste of time, was almost a complete surprise to me as I now am. I was caught up in admiring that earlier self, the one that had worked with such conscientious meticulousness.

"When you painted these for me, you were much kinder than you are now!" Her words came abruptly.

I couldn't make any sense out of what she had really meant. When I looked up from the pictures to her face, I found her large dark pupils staring straight at me. I asked her why she had said that.

Without answering, she continued to gaze at me. Then in a voice lower than usual she said, "If I asked you to paint for me now, you wouldn't work as diligently as you did then, would you?"

I couldn't come out with a yes or no. But I secretly admitted to myself that she was quite right. "Still, it never occurred to me that you'd keep such things so carefully," I said.

"I intend to keep them even when I get married."

An odd feeling of sadness came over me as I heard those words. And yet I was even more fearful that this same feeling was likely to find a response in her heart. I imagined at that very moment a pair of big dark eyes already brimming with tears.

"You can't take that kind of trash with you."

"Why not? They're mine," she said and piled the red camellias and violet asters and whatnot one over the other back into the box.

To help change the mood, I asked when she intended to get married.

"Soon."

"But the final decision hasn't been made yet. ."

"No, everything's all been settled."

Her reply was clear. Till then I had wished, as a last resort to setting my mind at ease, that she would make her wedding match as quickly as possible, but at this response my heart gave a start like a sudden dashing of waves, and I was surprised to feel a clammy sweat creeping out of the pores of my back and under my arms.

She stood up with the small box in her arms. As she opened the shoji, she looked down at me and said very succinctly, "I made it all up," and then went to her room.

I remained where I was with no thought whatsoever of moving. I didn't feel even the slightest vexation. For the first time I had actually been made aware of how I might be affected by her marrying or not, and I was thankful that she had given me this awareness by poking fun at me. It's possible that I might have been in love with her without realizing it until then. Or she herself might have been in love with me without any realization on her part. For a while I was bewildered by one thought: Is what I really am so incomprehensible and so dreadful?

In the distance I heard the phone ringing. Chiyoko came hurrying along the corridor to ask me to answer the call with her. I couldn't make out what she meant by answering the call together, but I got up at once and followed her.

"I've asked someone to call me, but my voice is hoarse, and speaking only makes my throat feel worse. So you speak for me, and I'll be the listener," she said.

I bent forward, prepared to speak to someone I not only didn't know, but couldn't even hear. Chiyoko was already holding the receiver against her ear. Since she was monopolizing the words coming through to her, my only role was to tell the other party with my louder voice what she was saying in her low voice, although I didn't know what anything meant. At first I went at it, not minding how ridiculous and time-consuming it was, but soon her questions and answers began to arouse my curiosity until, all bent over, I stretched out my hand toward her and called out for her to give me the receiver. Smiling, she shook her head. I straightened and tried to grab it from her. She wouldn't let go. We began fighting to hold it when suddenly she hung up. And then she burst into a loud laugh.

Afterword I thought again and again — if only we had such a scene a year earlier. And each time this thought came to me, it seemed as though fate had pronounced the time too late, and the chance had already fled. There were other times when that same fate incited me, hinting at possible opportunities to seize the moment to repeat two or three scenes of the same sort. If we had actually dared use the light in our eyes as the only reflection of each other's affection, we might have from that day come to love each other with a love never to be severed by worldly concerns. As it turned out, I took the opposite route.

Setting aside the intentions of the Taguchis and my mother's own wishes as having as little significance as the suggestions of an outsider, just the comparison of Chiyoko's personality to my own, each stripped of all it had acquired, always made me feel that the two of us had no possibility of ever being united. I believe this, though I may not be able to provide a satisfactory reason for it. Yet it's not to give others an explanation that I believe it.

Once a friend of mine with literary tastes told me an anecdote about the writer D'Annunzio and a young woman. According to my friend, D'Annunzio is now Italy's most famous novelist, so his intention in recounting the story was probably to let me know how influential the man was. But I was far more interested in the woman than in the writer himself. The story went something like this:

Once D'Annunzio was invited to a party. As it is customary in the West to make literary figures an adornment of the entire nation, the gathering there treated him with respect and affability as a great man. And while he was sauntering here and there in the hall attracting all the attention to himself, he accidentally dropped his handkerchief. The place was so crowded that neither he nor the people near him noticed it. Then a beautiful young lady picked up the handkerchief and brought it to him. "Is this yours?" she asked, offering it to him. D'Annunzio thanked her, but thought it necessary to add a compliment on the lady's beauty. "Keep it as your own," he said, anticipating her happiness. "I present it to you." She made no reply, but merely holding the handkerchief between her fingers, quietly went to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. Everyone there, except D'Annunzio himself, smiled.

When I heard the story, it provided me with an image not of a beautiful Italian woman with brown hair but, instead, of Chiyoko with her own eyes and eyebrows. I further thought that if the girl were not Chiyoko but her sister Momoyoko, she would no doubt have gracefully accepted the gift with at least outward civility, no matter what her own personal feelings would have been. For Chiyoko that would have been impossible.

My uncle Matsumoto, in his usual sarcastic way, has given the two sisters nicknames. He calls them Big Toad and Little Toad because their lips, which are a little too long for their thinness, resemble the toad-mouth-like metal clasp of a coin purse. He's always either made them laugh or angered them by this comparison. Calling them "toad" refers only to their physical features and has nothing to do with their personalities, though. But my uncle also has the habit of saying, "Little Toad's lovable for her gentleness, but Big Toad's a little too fierce." When I hear him make this comment, I want to question his critical eye, wondering what he takes Chiyoko to be. Her speech and behavior sometimes seem fierce not because she has something unwomanly or coarse in her, but because she abandons herself to her own too feminine tenderness, oblivious of everything around her — I'm sure this is right. Her discernment of good and bad, of right and wrong, is almost independent of anything she has learned or experienced. It merely flares up intuitively and takes direct aim at the person she happens to be dealing with. So you sometimes feel as if you've been struck by lightning; the strong jolt you receive means that sparks of purity are bursting from her. The sensation is completely different from what you would feel if thorns were flung at you or poisons poured into you. As evidence, I can vouch that many a time, no matter how violently she's scolded me, I've felt as if I'd had my very heart purified by her. I've even experienced some rare moments when I thought I had met in her one of the exalted. Standing alone, I would like to vindicate her to the world as the most womanly of all women!

Where is the discontent I feel about Chiyoko in the role of my wife, this Chiyoko whom I think so much of? Once I asked myself this question. Even before I began thinking about the reason, I was frightened. I couldn't bear imagining for very long the two of us as man and wife. My mother would undoubtedly be astonished to hear these words. Even friends my own age would probably be unable to understand. However, since there's no need to let these solitary thoughts lie buried in silence, I'll tell them to you now. In a word, Chiyoko's a woman who does not know fear, but I'm a man who knows only that. And so, not only are we ill-matched, but if we were to get married, we would have to reverse our relationship as man and wife.

I've always thought, "There's nothing more beautiful than a pure feeling. There's nothing stronger than something beautiful." It's quite natural that the strong shouldn't be afraid. If I took Chiyoko as my wife, I couldn't endure the powerful light emanating from her eyes. That light would not necessarily be expressive of anger — if it were one of mercy, love, or adoration, I would still feel the same. I would most certainly be cowed by it because I'm too deficient in emotion to return anything as bright as her emotion, much less anything brighter. I've been raised by the world as a poor drinker, unqualified to fully appreciate a cask of mellowed wine given to me.

If Chiyoko were to become my wife, she'd certainly experience a cruel disappointment. In return for lavishly bestowing on her husband so much of the beautiful feeling that she's been endowed with, she'd certainly expect him to be active in society as the one reward for the mental nourishment she's given him. A woman as young and unlearned and narrow in outlook as Chiyoko is— pitifully so — would not regard a man as a man unless he grabbed the power or fortune actually visible to her eyes and devoted his entire mind and talents to worldly success. With the kind of simplicity she has, she's obsessed by the idea that if she were to become my wife, she could demand such activity of me and expect that I'd be capable of doing it merely because she demanded it. This is where the source of the unhappiness between us lies. And I am, as I said, of such a somber disposition that I'd be incapable of accepting the amount of that beautiful feeling she would offer as my wife. Even if I were able to absorb it — as thirsty soil absorbs water poured onto it— I could never be made to put it to the good uses she'd want me to. If her purity actually affected me in some way or another, it would only reveal itself in some unexpected form she'd never understand, no matter how often I explained it to her. And if she actually noticed it, she'd no more appreciate it than if I applied pomade to my hair or wrapped my feet in tabi of expensive silk. What I'm saying is that from her point of view, she'd only be wasting her beauty on me, and eventually she'd come to lament more and more our unhappy union.

Whenever I compare myself to Chiyoko, I'm inclined to repeat the words "a woman unafraid and a man afraid" until the proposition seems not my own invention but one found in the pages of a Western novel. The other day my uncle Matsumoto, in one of his usual lectures, made a distinction between poetry and philosophy, and since then those words about fear have reminded me of poetry and philosophy, subjects quite alien to me. Although he's only a dilettante, he is rather well versed in those fields, so he was able to tell me a number of interesting things. But he was wrong in calling me "an emotional person like you," as if he implicitly attributed to me a poet's personality. The way I see it, not being afraid is characteristic of poets, while being afraid is the destiny of philosophers. My hesitancy, my inability to be resolute, comes from an oversolicitous concern about the results of my actions. Chiyoko's ability to behave as freely as the wind comes from the instantaneous outpouring of her heart. Her emotion is so strong that it blinds her to the future. She's one of the most fearless persons I know. And so she despises my own fearfulness. For my own part I have deep pity for her, liable as she is to stumble from the burden of emotion of a poet who does not realize the irony of fate. No, sometimes I shudder in terror for her.

Keitaro had some trouble understanding the last part of Sunaga's narrative. Perhaps he was in his own way a poet or a philosopher. But these would merely be words used by others to characterize him as they saw him, and he considered himself neither. The words "poetry" and "philosophy" meant to him something dreamlike, almost beneath notice, with no value except possibly on the moon. Moreover, he had a thorough dislike of theory. A mere theory lacking the power to guide him, no matter how finely it was conceived, was as useless to him as a counterfeit bill. Therefore, he should not have allowed the phrase "a man afraid and a woman unafraid," which sounded like words found in a fortune-telling cracker sold by a street hawker, to pass without some comment. But since it was introduced into Sunaga's personal history as a natural sequence of the narrator's intimate thoughts, Keitaro felt he had to listen submissively in spite of not really knowing what it all meant.

Sunaga also noticed that he had digressed. "This has gotten too theoretical, too complicated. I've let myself run on and on."

"Never mind. It's really been quite interesting."

"It's all because of your cane, isn't it?"

"It seems so, oddly enough. While you're at it, why not go on a little more?"

"I've got nothing more to add," Sunaga replied quite definitely and turned to look at the quiet flow of water.

Keitaro too was silent for a time. For some strange reason, what he had heard from Sunaga — whether poetry or philosophy he couldn't tell — remained in his mind, towering like a huge column of a shapeless cloud that would not soon vanish. The silent Sunaga that Keitaro found sitting before him now looked like some singular person quite removed from the image of the friend so familiar to him. Certain that Sunaga still had something of the story yet to unfold, Keitaro asked when that incident last spoken of had occurred. Sunaga said that it was in about his third year at the university. Keitaro then asked what course the relationship had taken in this period of over a year, how it was proceeding, and what resolution Sunaga had come to. Sunaga merely smiled and said, "Let's get out of here first." They paid for their meal and left. As Sunaga observed the shadow of the cane Keitaro wielded so proudly, he came out with another helpless smile.

When they entered the compound of Taishakuten Temple of Shibamata, they looked as if they were obligated to pay homage to its commonplace edifice. Soon they went out the gate. Both were thinking that they would immediately take a train back to Tokyo, but at the station they found that they still had a great deal of time left before one of the slower local trains was due. They entered a nearby teahouse to rest. What follows is the story Keitaro got Sunaga to tell him on the strength of that earlier promise.

There was one incident during the summer vacation intervening between my third and fourth year at the university. I was in my upstairs room, wondering how I would get through the impending hot season, when my mother came up to suggest a visit to Kamakura if I had the time. About a week earlier the Taguchis had gone there for the summer. My uncle actually doesn't like seaside resorts, so the family usually spent each summer at his villa in Karuizawa. But when my cousins insisted that year, he allowed them to spend the vacation swimming in the sea and so had rented a villa at Zaimokuza in Kamakura.

Before the Taguchis left, Chiyoko had come over to say good-bye and to give us some information about the place. I had heard Chiyoko eagerly inviting my mother to visit them, telling her that even though she herself had not yet seen it, she had been told the house was rather large, built in two or three tiers on a cool bluff in the recess of a hill. So I advised my mother to go by herself, since it would be quite pleasant for her. She took from her kimono a letter that Chiyoko had given her. It was signed by both Chiyoko and Momoyoko, and conveyed what seemed to be their mother's order to have my mother and me join them. If my mother was to go, I would have to accompany her, for it would be worrisome to have someone her age riding the train alone. As for me, unsociable as I am, I hated causing trouble by forcing ourselves on a family already in confusion in a new place, even though we might not actually be a burden to them. But my mother's face indicated her desire to go, although it seemed much more for my own sake than hers, and that made me all the more disinclined. However, we decided to go after all. Others may not be able to understand me, but I'm that strong-willed and weak-willed at the same time.

My mother, being of a retiring disposition, doesn't usually like going on trips. My father had been a strict man and had always demanded respect, so it seems she could seldom afford to be away from home. Actually, I have no memory of my mother and father ever being away for their own pleasure. Even after my father's death, when she had more free time, she unfortunately didn't have many opportunities to go when and where she liked. Without the convenience of traveling far from home or of remaining away a long time, she saw the years advance as the two of us, mother and child, remained in our house.

I carried our suitcase to the train on the day we planned to head for Kamakura. When the train started, my mother smiled at me sitting there beside her and remarked on how long it had been since she was on a train. For that matter, it wasn't a frequent experience for me either. Our talk, under the influence of a fresh mood, was more lively than usual. We discussed what neither of us would ever remember in the least, allowing the conversation to follow its own course. Before we realized it, the train had arrived at our station.

Since we hadn't notified anyone beforehand, no one was there to meet us. But when we hired rickshaws and told the rickshawmen the name of the owner of the villa, they recognized it at once and started off down a sandy road. I noticed that the number of new houses had greatly increased since my last visit. As I looked between the pine trees standing along the road, I saw some strikingly beautiful yellow flowers in the distant fields. At first glance I thought I'd never seen that kind of flower before. They looked something like rape plants. Over and over in the rickshaw I thought about the species this shimmering color belonged to until I realized that they were nothing more than pumpkin flowers, which amused me.

When the rickshaws arrived at the gate of the villa, figures moving back and forth in the drawing room, which had had all its shoji removed, were easily visible from the road. Among them I saw a man in a white yukata, and the thought occurred to me that it was probably my uncle who had come a day or so before from Tokyo to spend the night. But when the entire family came out to the doorway to greet us, that man failed to appear. If it was my uncle, it seemed to me that he might just as soon have remained indoors. But when we went into the drawing room, he was not there either.

As I was looking around for him, my aunt and mother began exchanging those wordy greetings typical of older women: "How awfully hot it must have been on the train," and "How fortunate to have come upon a house with such a fine view," and on and on. Chiyoko and Momoyoko offered my mother a summer yukata to change into and hung her traveling kimono out to air. A maid showed me to a bathroom where I could wash up with cold water. Although the villa was situated near a range of hills quite distant from the beach, the water was not as good as I had expected. When I wrung out the towel and glanced at the bottom of the washbasin, I found a sand-like sediment.

"Use this." Chiyoko's voice came from behind.

I looked back and saw her holding a dry white towel over my shoulder. I took it and stood up. From a drawer in the mirror stand nearby she handed me a comb. While I sat before the mirror combing my hair, she leaned against the bathroom doorpost and looked at my wet head.

Since I didn't say anything, she spoke first. "The water isn't too good, is it?"

Without turning my eyes from the mirror, I replied, "Why is it this color?"

When the subject of the water came to an end, I put the comb on the mirror stand and stood up with the towel still over my shoulders. But before I did, she had left the doorway and started toward the drawing room. All of a sudden I called her to ask where my uncle was. She came to a halt and turned around.

"He was here several days ago, but the day before yesterday he went back to Tokyo on what he said was business."

"He's not here then?"

"No. Why? Perhaps he'll come again this evening with Goichi."

Chiyoko added that if the weather was good the next day, they were all to go fishing, so if her father didn't manage to arrive by evening, it would inconvenience everyone. And she urged me to join them.

I was more concerned about the whereabouts of the man in yukata I had seen just before than I was about fishing.

"A while ago wasn't there a man in the drawing room?"

"Oh, that was Takagi-san, Akiko's brother. I think you know him."

I didn't answer whether I did or not. But I recognized the name right away. I knew Momoyoko had a friend at school whose name was Akiko Takagi. I knew her face too from a photograph taken with Momoyoko, and I had seen her handwriting on a picture postcard. I had also heard that her only brother was in America or had just returned. As the son of a family that was rather well-off, it was no surprise he should be spending the summer in Kamakura. It would not even have surprised me if his family had a villa there. But I felt like inquiring from Chiyoko where this Takagi was living.

"Just below us," was all she said.

"In a villa?"

"Yes."

We went toward the drawing room without any further words about him. There my mother and aunt were discussing such things as the color of the sea and the direction the enormous statue of Buddha at Kamakura was in, talking as if these trivialities were of the utmost importance. Momoyoko informed Chiyoko that their father had sent a message that he'd join them by evening. Between them they talked about the pleasure of tomorrow's fishing expedition as if they were visualizing it before them and holding the delight in their very hands.

"Takagi-san will come too, won't he?"

"Ichi-san, you come too."

I said I wouldn't. By way of explanation I added I had something to do at home and so had to go back to Tokyo that evening. Actually, I was afraid if Taguchi came with Goichi into this already congested house, there would hardly be room enough to lay my head down. Besides, I felt it would be annoying to meet Takagi. Momoyoko told me he had been speaking about me with them, but in deference to us on my arrival had gone out the back gate to return home. I was glad I had been relieved of the strain I might have had to go through. That's how backward I am in having to meet people I don't know.

When the sisters heard me say I'd be heading back, their faces changed to surprise, and they began to try to dissuade me. Chiyoko was especially bent on detaining me. She called me eccentric. She said that it was unreasonable to leave my mother alone and that even if I wanted to go home, she wouldn't let me. She's privileged to speak much more freely to me than she is even to her own sister or brother. I have often imagined how pleasant it would be for me, despite my many shortcomings, to walk through life if only I could behave as Chiyoko did to me, boldly, frankly, and — as she sometimes did though with good intention — despotically. I have often envied the little tyrant.

"How threatening you are!" I said.

"You're not being a good son!"

"I'll go ask your mother. If she says you'd better stay, then stay," Momoyoko said. She sounded like she was trying to arbitrate between Chiyoko and me as she walked into the drawing room where the women were still talking.

There was of course no need to ask my mother her preference, so it's superfluous to tell you the reply Momoyoko brought back. I was taken captive by Chiyoko.

Under the pretext of wanting to walk to town, I soon went out and strolled at random among the villas, carrying an umbrella to shade myself from the hot afternoon sun. I guess you could say that I went out in order to recall what the place had been like when I had last seen it long ago, but even if I had any such poetic taste at all, I wasn't calm enough at the time, nor did I have room enough in my mind to indulge in such things. All I did was aimlessly walk around reading nameplates on various houses. When I recognized the two characters Taka-gi on a nameplate attached to the gatepost of a finely built single-storied residence, I paused in front for a while, thinking that it must have been his. After that I resumed my ramble for about a quarter of an hour. But this latter walk was simply my way of telling myself that I had not gone out for the sole purpose of locating Takagi's house. I then returned in a hurry.

To be truthful, I actually had known almost nothing about Takagi. Only once had I heard something about him from Momoyoko — that he was on the lookout for a suitable wife. At the time, I remember she glanced at my face as if she were trying to sound out my advice and asked, "How about my sister for him?" And I remember saying in my usually cold tone, "perhaps. Speak to your father and mother about it." Since that moment I don't know how many times I've visited the Taguchis, but at least in my presence the name Takagi failed to cross anyone's lips. So what interest could I possibly have in exposing myself to the heat of the burning sand by looking for the house of a man I hardly knew, a man whose face I had not even seen before? Until now I've told no one my reason for having done it. I wasn't even able to give a satisfactory explanation to myself at the time. I had only some vague feeling that a kind of apprehension lying in wait from afar had come to move me. In the course of those two days I spent at Kamakura, I found this apprehension had ultimately developed into an unmistakable shape, and judging from the result, I think now it must have been the same force that drew me out on that stroll.

An hour or so after I returned to the villa, the man whose name was the same as the one I had seen on the nameplate made his appearance. My aunt politely introduced him. I noticed right away that he was well-built and had a healthy complexion. He might have been older than me, but he was so full of vigor that in order to describe his energetic countenance, you had to use the word "young." When I saw him for the first time, I suspected that nature had deliberately placed us side by side in the same drawing room in order to make a comparison of opposites. As the representative of the disadvantaged party, I could only take our being introduced formally to each other as nature's practical joke.

Our features already presented an ill-natured contrast. But just from the way we carried ourselves and our manner of speaking, I couldn't help being conscious of a still greater difference. All those who were there — my mother, my aunt, and my cousins — were all my own relatives, yet compared to Takagi, I looked more like some guest that had come out of nowhere. He handled himself perfectly, without reserve, and yet without lowering to any degree the dignity he possessed. From the point of view of someone who is so afraid of meeting strangers, I wanted to criticize him as a man left to the fashionable world as soon as he was born and to this day raised in that very same place. In less than ten minutes he had deprived me of my share in the conversation and had it all to himself. Meanwhile, he was careful not to leave me completely out in the cold, and so from time to time he cast me a word or two. But the subjects offered were anything but interesting, so I could talk neither to the entire group nor to Takagi alone. He addressed my aunt as if she were his mother. And as if it were a demand of nature, he called Chiyoko "Chiyo-chan," the intimate name reserved for childhood friends like me. "I was speaking with Chiyo-chan about you when you arrived," he said.

The moment I saw him, I envied his good looks. And the moment I heard him speak, I knew at once I wasn't his equal. These facts alone might have been sufficient in this situation to make me feel uncomfortable. But as I observed him, a suspicion arose in me that he was displaying his strong points triumphantly before his inferior. I suddenly began to hate him and deliberately kept my mouth shut even when I was given a chance to speak.

As I look back now on the affair in a more composed state, I realize that my interpretation of Takagi's behavior might have come merely from my own sense of inferiority. Although I tend to doubt others, I am at the same time a person who by nature cannot but doubt himself, which makes it difficult for me to make an assertion either way about something ambiguous. But if my interpretation was actually based on my own warped personality, then there must also be a jealousy behind it which hasn't yet coagulated itself into any definite form.

I myself am not certain whether, for a man, my own jealousy is strong or weak. As an only child brought up with great care and without any rivals, I had no occasion to be jealous of anyone, at least not at home. I easily breezed through primary and middle school, mainly because there were few pupils who did better than I did. In the course of my academic career from high school up through university, it was the general custom with students not to attach much importance to class standing, and since year after year we took more and more pride in appraising ourselves more highly, I didn't much care about the grades I received. These points aside, I had never seriously fallen in love. And even less had I competed with another man in the pursuit of a woman.

I do confess I'm a man who's able to pay more than the usual close attention to a young woman, especially a beautiful one. As I walk along the street, if I happen across a pretty face and kimono, I feel like the sun has broken through clouds. Sometimes I even have the desire to possess that face and kimono. But a moment later the anticipation of the pitiful transformation that face and garment would undergo casts the same chill over me that a drunk suddenly shudders with when he finds his intoxication has passed away. What prevents me from persistently following a beautiful face is nothing other than the loneliness of being abandoned by that intoxicating liquor. Whenever this hopeless feeling takes hold of me, I sink into the depths of unpleasantness, as though I had suddenly been transformed into an old man or a monk. On the other hand, this may be what's kept me from knowing the jealousy that comes from love.

Since I want to be an ordinary person, I don't care in the least about boasting of never having experienced jealousy. But for the reasons I've just given, I had never been strongly gripped by this emotion until I actually came in contact with Takagi. I clearly remember the feeling of indescribable displeasure I received from him at the time. And when I thought that the feeling of jealousy began burning in me because of Chiyoko, who was not my possession or even my intended possession, I thought I wasn't doing justice to my personality unless I was somehow able to keep it under control. Along with this jealousy — which is something that shouldn't have even been there — an agony, unseen by anyone, began to grow in me.

Fortunately, Chiyoko and Momoyoko said that they'd go to the beach when it cooled off a little, and I thought that certainly Takagi would accompany them and that I'd be left alone as soon as possible. And as I expected, they did invite him. Instead of joining them, as I hoped, though, he made some excuse or other. I figured that it was out of consideration for me and frowned even more. Next, they invited me. I, of course, said no. I wanted to be given the opportunity to escape from Takagi — or if not the opportunity itself, at least the chance to hold out my hands and snatch it — but the mood I was in then was such that the exertion of going to the beach with the girls was itself distasteful. My mother, her face showing disappointment, urged me to go with them. I remained seated, silently looking at the distant sea. And then laughing, the two girls stood up.

"You're as obstinate as usual! You look just like a brat!" Chiyoko said.

As the abusive words indicated, I must have looked like that to everyone. I even felt so myself. With characteristic sociability, Takagi went out to the veranda to take down for the girls some big straw hats that resembled sedge hats and, handing them to them, saw them off with the usual civilities.

After the sisters went out the gate of the villa, Takagi stayed a while longer to talk with the women. He said it was quite pleasant to be summering there, but the problem became one of how to pass each day, so much so that his life had actually become all the more tedious. In fact, he looked as if in the heat and boredom he did not know what to do with that robust physique of his. He then murmured something to himself about how he should while away the time till evening. And then as if suddenly hitting on an idea, he said to me, "How about some billiards?" Fortunately, I had never once tried the game and declined immediately.

"Too bad. I thought I might have found a good match in you," he said before leaving. Looking from behind at his vigorous movement, I thought he would definitely head for the beach where the girls were. But I myself didn't move from the spot I was sitting in.

After Takagi left, my mother and aunt continued speaking about him for quite some rime. It seemed that my mother was very much impressed by this man she had seen for the first time. She praised his easy manners and considerate attentiveness. And my aunt seemed to confirm each of my mother's comments with illustrative examples. Hearing their words, I discovered I had to correct almost everything about the little I had known of him. I had heard from Momoyoko he had returned from America, but according to my aunt, he had been educated entirely in England. My aunt seemed to have picked up from somebody the words "English gentleman" and not only used them a few times, to the surprise of my mother, who knew nothing about them, but explained that this was the reason there was something refined about him. My mother simply said "Indeed" to express the deep impression she had felt.

While they talked on in this way, I said almost nothing. Though my mother showed no change in her usual manner as far as I could tell from the outside, I wondered what she was thinking, perhaps comparing Takagi with me. When I thought about that, I felt sorry for her, even regret. I imagined how she might feel about the old relationship between Chiyoko and me on the one hand, and the new one between Chiyoko and Takagi on the other. And so what I had done amounted to no more than having taken her on this excursion to give her what little uneasiness I could have warded off. Piled upon the unpleasant feelings I already had was one more pain in having wronged my aging parent.

This was merely my own conjecture from the circumstances of the time and not what actually turned up as fact, so that I'm not certain about it, but it may have been my aunt's intention to make the occasion one for confiding to my mother and me, in a form that could be called neither consultation nor pronouncement, that she intended to give Chiyoko in marriage to Takagi if the circumstances were favorable. It was doubtful whether my mother, while usually attentive to everything, was as sensitive as I was in this kind of situation, but I was actually expecting to hear from my aunt about the first step in the negotiations which would separate me for good from Chiyoko's hand in marriage. Luckily or unluckily, before she said anything about it, the girls came back from the beach, the brims of their straw hats fluttering. Actually, I was glad for my mother's sake that my guesswork had not come true. But at the same time it is not a lie to say I felt irritated by the same course of events.

Toward evening I went with the sisters to the station where, as my mother had ordered, I was to greet my uncle coming from Tokyo. The sisters were dressed in yukata of the same pattern and were wearing white tabi. What pride glowed in their mother's eyes as she looked after their retreating figures. And with what more than commonly high value did my mother set on that picture of me walking alongside Chiyoko. The painful thought that nature had used me as a means of deceiving my mother made me look back as I went through the gate. I saw that she and my aunt were still staring after us.

About halfway to the station Chiyoko stopped suddenly as if she had been reminded of something. "Oh dear, I've forgotten to invite Takagi-san," she said. At these words Momoyoko glanced at me. I stopped walking but said nothing.

"We don't have to, do we?" Momoyoko said. "We've already come this far."

"But he asked me to call him a while ago," said Chiyoko.

Momoyoko hesitated, again looking at me.

"Ichi-san, did you bring your watch? What time is it?"

I took it from my kimono sash and showed it to her. "There's still time. You can go back and call him if you like. I'll go on ahead and wait."

"It's too late for that. If Takagi-san intends to come, he'll come by himself. We can apologize afterward for having forgotten, and it'll be all right." After discussing it for a minute, they finally decided not to go back.

As Momoyoko had predicted, Takagi hurried into the station before the train arrived. "That was quite unfair of you," he said to the sisters, "when I asked you to let me come along. Hasn't your mother come?" He then turned and greeted me affably.

That evening, supper was later than usual, not only because it had been put off until my uncle and cousin arrived, but also because my mother and I had joined in as late arrivals. Further, as I had privately feared, there was a scene of great confusion with rice bowls and pairs of chopsticks busily moving around. Laughing, my uncle said, "Ichi-san, it's like some scene at a fire, isn't it? Occasionally, though, I find it enjoyable having a meal all noisy like this." It seemed to me he was indirectly apologizing. My mother, who is used to quiet meals, looked quite pleased. Despite the fact that she's shy, she actually likes that kind of spirited gathering. She kept praising the small saurel, broiled and lightly salted, that they were serving that night.

"If you ask a fisherman for them," my uncle said to her, "he'll bring them seasoned, as many as you like. If you want, take some with you when you go back. I'd thought of giving you some earlier, since I know you like them, but I didn't get a chance to. Besides, they don't keep too long."

"Once I ordered them at Oiso and brought them back to Tokyo," my aunt said, "but unless you're quite careful with them on the way, they. . you know. ."

"Get rotten?" Chiyoko asked.

Momoyoko said to my mother, "You don't like Okitsu bream? I like it better than these."

"Okitsu bream's very good too in its own way," my mother gently responded.

I remember such trivial talk because I took particular notice of the contented look on my mother's face at the time and also partly because I liked the salted saurel as much as she did.

Incidentally, let me mention something here. There are two sides to me in my tastes and disposition in which I'm very much like my mother and quite different from her. This is something I've never told anyone else before, but actually for a number of years I've made a meticulous study, unnoticed by anyone and merely for my own personal knowledge, of where and how I'm different from my mother and where and how we're similar. If ever she had asked me why I was doing such a thing, I wouldn't have been able to reply. I've asked myself and haven't been able to come up with a definite reason. But the result has been this: When I found a trait I shared with her, even if it was a defect, it made me quite happy. And if I had a trait that she didn't, even if it was a strong point, that displeased me very much. What concerned me most of all was that I looked only like my father, that my features had nothing in common with my mother's. Even now when I look at myself in the mirror, I imagine that if I had inherited more of my mother's facial features, even if they made me look more homely, it would have made me feel much better about myself, much more like I was my mother's child.

Since the supper hour was delayed, we got to bed exceedingly late. Moreover, the sudden increase in the number of people gave my aunt a great deal of trouble in finding room for all of us and arranging the beds. The three males were put together in one room and lay inside the same mosquito net. My uncle found it difficult settling his stout body in the summer heat and busily flapped a round fan.

"Ichi-san, how do you like it, this awful heat? We'd have been much more comfortable in Tokyo tonight, huh?"

Goichi, lying next to me, agreed with me that we would have. Not one of the three of us could account for our coming so far down to Kamakura to lie huddled this close together inside a mosquito net.

"Well, this is fun too," my uncle said, settling the question once and for all. But the heat remained to keep us from sleeping.

Goichi, with a boy's curiosity, asked his father one question after another about the fishing excursion. And my uncle, half in jest, told a pleasant story about the fish yielding themselves up of their own accord if only we could get ourselves into a boat. I found it somewhat odd that not only did my uncle relate the story to his son but every so often calling my name made a listener out of me in spite of my having no interest whatever in it. However, as I had to make some response, I found myself committed before his talk ended to joining the fishing party. As I had earlier had no intention of going, this change was totally unexpected. My uncle, looking thoroughly unworried, soon began snoring loudly, and Goichi as well soon fell into a calm sleep. I alone deliberately kept my sleepless eyes closed and reflected on various matters late into the night.

When I awoke the next morning, I saw that Goichi had slipped off somewhere. With my head still on my pillow for want of sleep, I was traveling along a path that could be called neither dreaming nor meditating. Occasionally I stole a glance at my uncle's sleeping face. I thought he looked like a quite different species. And I wondered if I too looked as free from care as he did while sleeping and being observed by others.

Goichi suddenly came in. "Ichi-san, the weather today, what do you think?"

Urged to go and take a look, I rose and went out to the open veranda. A soft curtain of mist hung over the entire area in the direction of the sea. Even the trees on the nearer headlands did not appear in their usual color. "Is it raining?" I asked.

He jumped down onto the ground and glanced at the sky. "A little."

He seemed so worried about the day's boating trip being called off that he even dragged his two sisters out to the veranda and time and again repeated, "Well? Well? What do you think?" He at last seemed to have reached the conclusion that his father's opinion as the final arbiter was necessary, so he went to wake him up.

With sleepy eyes my uncle glanced in apparent indifference over the sky and sea. "From the appearance of things, I'm sure it'll be fine before long."

His words reassured Goichi, but Chiyoko looked at me and said, "I'm worried. We can't rely on such an irresponsible forecast." I could say nothing.

"Don't worry. It'll be fine," my uncle assured us again and went off to wash up.

As we finished breakfast, a rain as thin as fog began falling. Yet since there was no wind, the sea looked calmer than usual. My good-natured mother sympathized with us about the unlucky weather. My aunt warned us against going, saying it was likely to turn into a regular rain. Nevertheless, the rest were all insistent.

"Well then," my uncle said, "all the young people will go, and the old ladies can stay behind."

"And which side is the old man on?" my aunt retorted, setting everyone laughing.

"I belong to the younger set today." Whether to prove this or not I don't know, but he stood up, tucked up the bottom of his yukata, and stepped down from the veranda. The two sisters and Goichi followed suit, but without adjusting their clothes.

"You'd better tuck up the bottom of your kimono like mine."

"Oh, Father!"

I looked down from the veranda and observed this strange, rustic quartet — my uncle with his hairy banditlike legs; the two young women in their straw hats resembling the braided hat worn by Lady Shizuka, the heroine of medieval legend; and their brother, his black waistband tied into a knot behind.

Momoyoko looked up at me and said with a slight smile, "Ichi-san's looking at us as if he's about to make a nasty remark."

"Hurry up and come down," Chiyoko scolded.

"Get him an old pair of geta," my uncle said to her.

I went down. Takagi, who had been expected to come over, had not yet arrived, however. Thinking he had probably put off coming because of the weather, we agreed to start out and walk slowly ahead and send Goichi for him.

My uncle talked on and on to me in his usual way, and I attuned myself to him. Before long our masculine pace carried us way ahead of the sisters. Once I looked back and saw that they didn't care in the least about having fallen behind — they weren't making the slightest effort to catch up. I could only assume they had purposely lagged behind in order to wait for Takagi. That might be what they should do out of courtesy to an invited guest, but at that time it didn't seem to me the reason. I couldn't feel that such was their motive even if I made allowance for it. I had looked back with the intention of giving them a sign to quicken their pace, but I abandoned that and kept up with my uncle.

We reached the cape, where the path turned into Kotsubo. There at the side of the headland jutting out was a narrowly cut, sloping path which allowed a single person to pass around to the other side of the cape. My uncle halted at the highest point along the slope.

Suddenly he called out to his daughters, his powerful voice quite in keeping with his physique. I have to say frankly that more than once I had attempted to look back. But each time I had tried to, I had had — either from shame or self-respect — a sense of something that had stiffened my neck as hard as a boar's so that I couldn't.

They were more than a hundred yards below us. Takagi and Goichi were close behind them. When my uncle had called out "Yo-ho!" in his booming voice, the girls looked up simultaneously, but then Chiyoko immediately turned to glance behind at Takagi coming along after them. He took off the straw hat with his right hand and waved it toward us. But of the four only Goichi offered any oral response to my uncle's call. He shouted his reply with his hands above his head. Since he had probably trained himself for commands at school, his voice was so loud that it almost echoed along the cliffs and sea.

My uncle and I were standing at the verge of the cliff waiting for everyone. They came up talking together without changing their slow pace even after my uncle's shout. It seemed to me that they weren't talking in an ordinary way but quite playfully. Takagi was wearing something brown and baggy like an overcoat. He had his hands in his pockets sometimes. At first I wondered about it, thinking it impossible in this heat to be wearing an overcoat, but as he came nearer, I saw that it was a thin raincoat.

Just then my uncle said, "Ichi-san, it certainly would be fun sailing around out on the sea in a yacht." As if I hadn't noticed it before, I turned my eyes from Takagi to the sea below our feet. Near the beach was an empty white boat quietly floating on the waves. A fine rain thinner than a drizzle was still falling, obscuring the surface of the sea. The trees and rocks on the cliffs on the opposite side of the bay were almost in monochrome, unlike a typical day when they are so distinctly defined. Meanwhile, the four stragglers at last came up to where we were standing.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," Takagi said, excusing himself as soon as he saw my uncle. "I was shaving and couldn't stop halfway."

"Don't you feel hot with all that stuff on?" my uncle asked.

"He can't take it off," said Chiyoko laughing, "no matter how hot he is. He may be elegant on the outside, but underneath he's barbaric."

Opening his raincoat, Takagi said, "Look."

He had on a thin short-sleeved shirt, an odd-looking pair of knickers from which his bare legs emerged, black tabi, and a pair of block-like geta.

"It's a relief to return to Japan from abroad with the freedom to wear whatever I want, even in front of ladies."

Our party, tramping single file along a road about six feet wide, came to a squalid fishing village, whose offensive odor struck us at once. Takagi took a white handkerchief from his pocket and covered his short moustache.

Suddenly my uncle put a strange question to a small boy standing nearby looking at us. "Where's the house of the man from the west who came from the south to be an adopted son?"

"I don't know," said the child.

I asked Chiyoko why her father had asked the question in such an odd way. The master of the house to whom they had inquired the previous night, she explained, had forgotten the fisherman's name, but said that we would find him if we went into this village asking for such-and-such a person. Hearing this carefree set of instructions and method of inquiry, I couldn't help feeling strangely envious when I compared them with my own meticulousness and rigidity.

"Will they understand such a funny question?" Takagi asked doubtfully.

"It'll be a miracle if they can," said Chiyoko, laughing.

"They'll understand," my uncle said with assurance.

Goichi, half in fun, asked everybody we met, "Where's the house of the man from the west who came from the south to be an adopted son?" — each time to our amusement. We finally came upon a dirty tea stall in which a young lute player wearing a braided hat on her head, leggings, and a pair of white coverings for the back of her hands was resting. When Goichi asked the question to the elderly keeper of the stall, she quite unexpectedly replied simply, "It's right near here." All of us clapped our hands and laughed. It turned out to be a small straw-thatched house along a slope at the end of about three flights of stone steps from the road.

We must have appeared a strange group as one by one the six of us climbed the narrow stone steps, each of us in a different outfit. Moreover, it was so amusingly easygoing that not one of us had any clear idea of what was going to happen next. Even my uncle, leader of the troop, though he knew only that we were to go out in a boat, apparently didn't know anything specific, such as whether the fishing was with rods or nets, or even how far we were to head out. As I stepped along behind Momoyoko on those stones worn down by the force of treading feet, I thought it a real pleasure of summering to have been able to abandon myself to this kind of meaningless behavior. At the same time, though, I suspected that behind it all a very important act in a serious drama was being played between a man and a woman. And if there were any part I was to- take in that drama, it could only be in the role of lightly being made fun of by calm-faced Fortune. And finally it occurred to me that if my uncle, dealing artlessly and uncalculatedly in everything, were to give this act its finishing touch unnoticed by anyone, he should be called a playwright endowed with an incomparable deftness of execution. As such thoughts came running across my mind, Takagi, who was right behind me, said, "It's too hot to bear! If you don't mind, I'm going to take off my raincoat."

The house seemed even smaller and shabbier than when we had looked up at it from below. There was a wooden dipper nailed above the door, a charm against evil with characters written on it forbidding whooping cough to enter the house of the Heikichi Yoshino family. At last we knew the name of the owner. It was to Goichi's credit that he had been alert enough to find it and read it aloud to us. We glanced inside the house, whose ceilings and walls were all in a black luster.

The only person there was an old woman. By way of apology she explained that since the weather was bad, the fisherman had assumed the party would not come, so he had gone down to the sea quite early. "I'll go to the shore and call him back," she said.

"Did he go out in a boat?" asked my uncle.

The woman pointed toward the water. "Looks like that's his boat there."

Though the mist had not yet cleared, the sky was brighter, and we had a comparatively clear view of the offing where the small boat was lying.

"That won't be easy to signal," said Takagi, looking through the binoculars he had with him.

"She's certainly easygoing about it. How on earth can she call it back from that distance?" Chiyoko said with a laugh, accepting the glasses Takagi handed her.

"It's easy," the old woman replied and hurriedly descended the stone steps in her straw sandals.

My uncle laughed. "How relaxed country people are!"

Goichi ran down after her. Absentmindedly, Momoyoko sat down on the dirty veranda. I glanced around the yard, which hardly deserved the name, since it was a mere dozen or so square yards in front of the house. In a corner was a fig tree with only a few green leaves moving in the fishy breeze. On its branches were some unripe figs that barely testified to its ability to bear fruit. An empty insect cage was suspended from a fork in one of the branches. Beneath it a few lean hens wildly scraped the ground with their claws, pecking at the earth with their hungry beaks. What looked like a coop made of wire was close by, and it amused me to see its ludicrous shape irregularly warped like a btishukan orange.

Just then my uncle said, "It certainly does stink!"

In a feeble voice Momoyoko said, "I don't want to go fishing any more. I'd like to go home."

Takagi, who had been looking through the binoculars toward the sea and talking incessantly with Chiyoko, turned around. "What could they be doing? I'll go see." He then turned toward the veranda to put down his raincoat and binoculars.

Chiyoko, who was beside him, held out her hands even before he began to move. "Give them here. I'll hold them for you." When she took these from him, she again looked at him in his short-sleeved shirt. "Now you're a real Bohemian," she said with a laugh.

Takagi only smiled helplessly as he began his descent to the beach.

I silently observed the well-developed muscles around his athletic shoulders, which moved vigorously with the swinging of his arms as he hurried down the stone steps.

About an hour later all of us were at the beach ready to sail. I was attracted to two tall flagpoles, each embedded deeply in the sand for some festival that had taken place or was about to occur. From somewhere along the sandy beach Goichi had picked up a withered branch washed ashore and was drawing a series of enormous faces and large characters on the broad stretch of sand.

"All right, get in," said the boatman, whose hair was clipped short, and the six of us clambered without order over the side of the boat. Somehow Chiyoko and I were pushed by the others into the prow, which was partitioned off from the rest of the boat, and sat down knee-to-knee. Before anyone else had a chance to, my uncle ensconced himself like a patriarch cross-legged in the wide middle section — what do you call it, the waist? He shouted for Takagi to sit beside him, probably intending to treat him as the guest of the day, so Takagi had to settle there. Momoyoko and Goichi went astern with the boatman into another partitioned part.

Takagi looked back to Momoyoko and told her to come and sit with him, since there was plenty of room. She thanked him but did not move from her seat.

From the first I didn't want to sit on that one thin matting with Chiyoko. I've already confessed my jealousy of Takagi, and I probably was as jealous that day as the day before. But not even a whiff of competitive spirit stirred in me along with the jealousy. Being a man, I may fall passionately in love with a woman someday, but I positively assert that if I had to get involved in a rivalry as intense as the love itself in order to win the object of love, I would sooner give her up by standing aloof with my hands in my pockets, no matter what pain or sacrifice I might have to endure. Others may criticize me as unmanly, cowardly, weak-willed, or whatever. But if the woman is one so wavering between her suitors that she can only be won through that kind of painful competition, I can't regard her as worth the bitter rivalry. It's far more satisfying to my conscience to have the manliness to allow my rival free play in the field of love and for me to gaze in loneliness at the scars of love than to have the pleasure of embracing by force a woman who would not willingly give me her heart.

"Isn't it better over there, Chiyo-chan? It's a lot more comfortable," I said.

"Why? Am I in your way here?" So saying, she showed no sign of moving.

I had no courage to explain that the reason for my suggestion was Takagi's presence there; my words would have sounded too direct or too obviously sarcastic. That a flash of joy spread through me on hearing her reply was good evidence for the inconsistency of human speech and human feeling, and this dealt me a hard blow, so unaware was I of my own weak character.

Perhaps it was my own imagination, but Takagi seemed more reserved than he had been the previous day. He was pretending indifference to the words Chiyoko and I had exchanged even though he was obviously hearing them. As the boat moved away from the beach, he was speaking with my uncle, saying something about how lucky we were to be having nicer weather, how much better it was not to be exposed to the hot sun, and how ideal the situation was for boating.

Suddenly my uncle asked in his loud voice, "Well, skipper, what're we going to catch?" None of us, my uncle included, had known what we were going to be fishing for.

In a coarse manner the fisherman said, "Octopus, that's what."

This extraordinary answer provided more amusement than surprise to Chiyoko and Momoyoko, who both came out with a laugh.

My uncle asked, "And where are these octopuses?"

And the fisherman responded, "Right around here somewhere."

He placed on the water an oval wooden bucket a little deeper than the kind used in public bathhouses but with a glass bottom and, thrusting his head into it, peered at the bottom of the sea. He called this unusual tool a mirror. He had a few others, which he passed around. Since Goichi and Momoyoko were seated nearest him, they were the first to try.

The mirrors went around from person to person. "This makes it all look clear. You can really see everything!" my uncle said, full of admiration. While he tends to underestimate most things, probably because of his wide knowledge of numerous aspects of society, he's apt to be easily overwhelmed when confronted by such natural phenomena.

I took the mirror Chiyoko handed me — I was the last to use it — and looked through it into the sea only to find a most ordinary scene little different from what I had imagined. There among a range of small, jagged rocks sprawled endless masses of dark green seaweed. Their slender stalks wavered back and forth quietly and endlessly to the rhythm of the undulating waves as though they were being played with by a warm wind.

"Any octopuses down there, Ichi-san?"

"Not a one."

I raised my head. Chiyoko poked her face back into the bucket. The fluttering brim of the straw hat she was wearing dipped into the water and raised tiny ripples whenever it went against the advance of the boat propelled by the fisherman. I looked at her dark hair and the white nape beneath it. I thought that her neck was even lovelier than her face.

"Are you finding any, Chiyo-chan?" I asked.

"No such luck. Not an octopus swimming anywhere."

"I've heard they're very difficult to see unless you're used to looking for them," Takagi explained.

With both her hands on the bucket against the water, Chiyoko twisted her body toward him even while she was hanging out the side of the boat. "Well, I guess that's why I can't see any." As she bent forward, she jerked the bucket, plunging it in as though playing with the water. "Chiyoko!" Momoyoko called out in warning from the opposite end of the boat.

Goichi was eagerly trying to thrust around for octopuses without knowing where any were. An odd tool is used for stabbing an octopus, a long and lean bamboo rod about a dozen feet in length with a kind of spearhead attached to one end. Our fisherman held the bucket in his mouth with his teeth, managing the rod with one hand even as the boat kept moving. As soon as he located one of the limp monsters, he deftly pierced it with the long bamboo harpoon.

A great many octopuses were thrown aboard single-handedly by the boatman, but all were nearly the same size, none of any surprising bulk. At first all of us were shouting at the novelty of each catch, but afterward, even my uncle, man of vigor that he is, seemed to tire of the sport and called out, "It's no fun just to keep catching octopuses this way!"

Takagi, smoking now, began gazing at the mass at the bottom of the boat. "Chiyo-chan, have you ever seen octopuses swimming? Come over and have a look. It's quite strange." Glancing at me he said, "And how about you, Sunaga-san? The octopuses are having a swim."

"Are they?" I replied. "That's nice." But I did not immediately rise from my seat.

"Well, let's see," said Chiyoko, moving toward Takagi and taking a seat beside him.

I asked her from my seat whether they were still swimming.

"Yes, it's quite interesting. Come and look."

Each octopus put its eight legs together and with its body elongated went straight ahead, pausing momentarily after each glide until it collided against a plank of the boat. Some of the octopuses ejected a black ink, just as squid do. I bent forward merely to glance at the sight and soon sat back down, but Chiyoko remained at Takagi's side.

"That's enough octopus," my uncle said to the boatman.

"Want to go back?" the man asked.

What looked like a few bamboo cages were floating in the distance, and my uncle, hoping to give some variety to the single kind of catch we had had so far on the trip, made the boatman row over to one of them. All of us stood up at once in the boat to look into the cage. There we found fish seven or eight inches long swimming in every direction within the narrow confines of their watery cage. Some of them had on their scales a blue sheen indistinguishable from the blue of the water, and these shone as though the tiny waves that the fish made as they rushed to and fro were sparkling transparently through their flesh.

"Try to scoop one up," Takagi said and had Chiyoko grab the handle of a large net. For the fun of it she took the net and tried moving it in the water, but didn't get anywhere. Takagi offered her his hand, and together they rummaged around with great difficulty inside the cage. But the effort fell far short of scooping up a fish, and soon Chiyoko returned the net to the boatman. With the same net he picked out as many fish as my uncle ordered him to.

Again we were on the beach, glad to have relieved the monotony of the catch of eerie-looking octopuses by having a variety of fish — grunts, sea bass, and black bream.

That night I returned to Tokyo alone. My mother was detained by everyone and consented to stay another few days at Kamakura on condition that Goichi or someone else see her home. I wondered how she could settle down so good-naturedly just by their persuading her, and my nerves, which were already on edge, were further irritated by her being so at home.

I have not seen Takagi at all since then. The triangular relationship involving Chiyoko and Takagi and me developed no further after that. As the weakest of the three, I escaped from the whirlpool halfway, as though I knew beforehand the ultimate workings of fate, and so my story must be quite disappointing to a listener. I feel somewhat like a fire fighter who's put down his standard too hastily, before the fire's been extinguished. My words may suggest I took the trouble of going to Kamakura with some object in mind from the very start, but even I, jealous in spite of my deficiency in competing, had an adequate portion of conceit flickering somewhere in my gloomy mind. I've made quite a study of this contradiction. Because I did not dare to make thorough use of my self-conceit on Chiyoko, however, I found different thoughts and feelings muddling in one after another to occupy my mind, so that I was pestered by their intrusion.

Sometimes it seemed to me that Chiyoko loved me as though I were the only person in the world. And even then I couldn't make a move. Yet whenever it occurred to me to close my eyes to the future and take a desperate step, she almost always escaped from my reach and assumed a look no different from a stranger's. During the two days I stayed at Kamakura, this ebb and flow of the tide occurred a few times. And occasionally I even had the dim suspicion smoldering in me that she had voluntary control over these changes in herself, intentionally coming toward me at one time and removing herself at another. And not only that. There were a number of instances when after immediately interpreting her words and conduct in one way, I could interpret them in a totally different way, so that I really did not know which interpretation was correct. I felt vexed by my vain endeavor to reach a definite conclusion.

During those two days I seem to have been enticed by a woman I had no intention of marrying. And as long as that Takagi kept hanging around the least bit in my sight, I was in real fear of being enticed to the very end against my will. I've already said I wasn't competing with him, but to prevent any misunderstanding, I'm repeating it again. I must assert that if the three of us in our triangular struggle went wild in a whirlpool of desire or love or tenderness, the force that would move me to act would certainly not be the spirit of competition trying to triumph over Takagi. I affirm that this is the same nervous reaction which makes one who looks down from a high tower feel, along with the sensation of awe, that he can't help but jump. From the outward result — a triumph over Takagi or a defeat by him — it might look as if we had competed, but the power moving me is one quite different from the competitive spirit. Moreover, it never came over me if Takagi was not in sight. During those days I felt the terrible flashes of that weird power. So I definitely resolved to leave Kamakura at once.

I'm such a weakling I'm unable to bear a novel that fully incites its readers. And still less am I able to put into practice the actions in that novel. The moment I discovered my sentiments were turning into a kind of novel, I became astonished and returned to Tokyo. While I was on the train, I felt half of me was superior, the other half inferior. In that fairly empty second-class coach, I imagined various sequences to the novel I had started writing and had torn to shreds. The sea, the moon, and the beach were there. And the shadow of a young man and that of a young woman. At first the man raged and the woman wept. And then the woman raged and the man pacified her. At last the two held hands and walked along the silent sands. Or there was a framed picture and straw mats and a cool breeze. There two young men engaged in a meaningless dispute. The words brought blood to their cheeks, and in the end both were driven to using language affecting their integrity. And finally they stood and fought with their fists. Or. . As in a play, scene after scene was depicted before my eyes. I was all the more happy for having lost the opportunity of trying to experience any one of these scenes. Others may ridicule me for acting like an old man. If they call someone who appeals only to poetry without carrying through any action in the world "an old man," I am content to be ridiculed as such. But if it is an old man whose poetry has dried up and withered, that comment I refuse to accept. I'm always struggling for poetry.

I imagined the state of mind I might be in after returning home, afraid that I might be even more irritated than I had been at Kamakura, where right before my eyes was the cause of my irritation. And I uselessly pictured myself in the unbearable pain of being annoyed all alone with no opponent to contend with. By chance, though, the results were turned in another direction.

As I had hoped, it was fairly easy for me to bring back the usual quiet, composure, and indifference to my lonely upstairs room at home. I hung a mosquito net with its fresh odor of flax in the best room in the house and lay there enjoying the sound of a wind-bell under the eaves. In the evening I took a walk along the streets and returned home carrying a potted flowering plant. Since my mother wasn't there, the maid, Saku, took care of everything. When I sat down to my first meal at home after returning from Kamakura and as I saw Saku sitting properly before me ready to serve me with a black-lacquered tray on her lap, I was freshly struck by the difference between her and the sisters now at Kamakura. She was not the least bit attractive, but her figure — she apparently knew nothing except how to sit formally in my presence — made me aware of how modest she looked, how reserved, how she could move one to pity. She was sitting politely before me as if she had seemingly taken it for granted it was too presumptuous of her in her humility even to think about what love was. It was with unaccustomed tenderness that I spoke to her. I asked her how old she was. Nineteen, she replied. And suddenly I asked her if she didn't want to get married. She merely looked down and blushed, and that made me feel sorry for my blunt inquiry. Words had seldom been spoken between her and me except for necessary things. It was not till this moment that, as a reaction to the remembrances I had brought back from Kamakura, I became aware of the womanliness in the maid serving us at home. Of course "love" is not a word that can possibly be used between her and me. It was just that I loved the calm, easy, modest atmosphere emanating from her.

That I was able to receive some comfort from a maid sounds odd even to me. And yet reflecting back now and thinking of no other cause for that comfort, I have to think all the same it was Saku — or rather the aspect of womanhood represented by her at that moment — who had calmed my mind, which was apt to be irritated even by some imaginary incitement. I confess that from time to time the scenes at Kamakura appeared before my eyes, scenes in which of course human beings were acting. But it was a happy sign for me that those actions were apparently far removed from me, their interests never coinciding with my own.

I went upstairs and began putting my bookshelves in order. Though my mother, fond of cleanliness as she is, always takes care to dust and sweep thoroughly, I found as I rearranged the books one by one a thin collection of dust behind them which my mother could not have seen. So it took a fairly long time rearranging all the books. I had undertaken the task as something to occupy my time on a hot day, so I moved along as slowly as a snail. I planned to spend as much time as I wished, intending to indulge myself by reading any book that happened to interest me enough. Saku heard the untimely sound of the duster, and her face suddenly appeared along the stairway, her hair in the ginkgo-leaf style. I had her use a dustcloth over a section of the bookshelves. But I soon made her go downstairs, since I felt sorry to have her continue helping me on a task I didn't know when I'd finish. For about an hour I went on taking down books and putting them back, and then I felt a little tired. I was resting, smoking a cigarette, when Saku again showed her face on the staircase. She told me that she'd be glad to be of help. I wanted to have her do something for me, but unfortunately, the books I was arranging were those she could not handle, since she had no knowledge of the Western alphabet. I felt bad to have to tell her that there was nothing for her to do and sent her back downstairs.

There's no need to give a detailed account of Saku. I spoke about her only because I remembered her actions in connection with the events I mentioned before. After I finished my cigarette, I set about my task again. This time I went straight through the second shelf without Saku's disturbing my solitary world. Then I happened to discover at the back of a shelf a strange book I had long ago borrowed from a friend and had carelessly forgotten to return. It was a rather thin book covered with dust that had slipped behind some others to remain unnoticed until that moment.

The friend who lent me the book had a passion for literature. I had once talked with him about novels and had said that a man given to thought more than anything else would make a dull character for a novel because he would merely ponder everything and would lack the courage to translate his thoughts into some striking action. I had been tempted to say such a thing to him because I had often thought that the reason why novels were usually not the kind of book I enjoyed reading was that my own way of sitting around and thinking all the time disqualified me from being a character in one. Whereupon my friend pointed to the book on his desk and told me that the hero in that novel had remarkable powers of thought combined with decisive action of the most terrible kind. I asked him what was written in it. He told me only to read it and handed it to me. Its title in German was Gedanke. My friend explained that it was a translation of a Russian novel. Accepting the slim volume from him, I again asked what the story was about. He replied that that wasn't the important thing, explaining that it would be difficult to understand the book as being about jealousy, revenge, mischief, intrigue, serious action, a madman's reasoning, or even a normal man's calculation. He just said that since there was spectacular action going on with spectacular thought, I should at least read it and see.

I did bring the book home, but I didn't feel like reading it. Not being an enthusiastic reader of novels, I had made little of novelists in general. Furthermore, what my friend had told me failed to arouse in me any real interest in the book.

I had forgotten the entire incident and, quite unaware of it, had merely pulled out the book from behind the bookshelf to wipe off the thick layer of dust on it. With my eyes on the German letters of the title, I was reminded of my friend who was so fond of literature and of what he had told me at that time. A sudden curiosity came over me — from where I couldn't tell — and at once I opened the book to the first page and began reading. Inside I discovered a story of real terror.

A man loved a woman, but the woman ignored him and married one of his acquaintances, so with a grudge against her he plotted to kill the husband. But not merely kill him. The murderer would gain no real satisfaction unless the crime occurred before the wife's eyes. Furthermore, he would have to kill the man in so complicated a way that the wife, seeing him do it and knowing that he was the murderer, could do nothing but look on as a spectator, unable to take any action against him. To accomplish this he devised a scheme. The opportunity to carry it out occurred at a dinner party, where he began to feign sudden attacks of violent fits. His performance as a madman was so realistic that everyone present believed him quite insane. He secretly congratulated himself on the success of his ruse. After repeating his act a few times in the social arena, where he was easily able to attract attention, he succeeded in gaining the reputation of being a dangerous man susceptible to fits of mental derangement. His intention was to perform through these elaborate preparations an act of homicide that no one would be able to do anything about. As his frequent fits began to darken the lively atmosphere of the parties he attended, many homes which until then had been on familiar terms with him cut him off completely. But that didn't bother him in the least. He still had one house freely available to him, the very home of his friend and the friend's wife, the former of whom he was to kick into the region of death.

One day he casually knocked at his friend's door. There, apparently whiling away the time in idle gossip, he was secretly watching for the chance to pounce upon the man. Picking up a heavy paperweight lying on a desk, he suddenly asked, "Could you kill a man with this?" His friend, of course, didn't take the question seriously. Without waiting for a response, the man put all his strength behind the paperweight and struck dead the beloved husband before the very eyes of his wife. The murderer, on a charge of insanity, was sent to a madhouse. With remarkable powers of thought, discretion, and reason, he vigorously pleaded his sanity, basing his arguments on the circumstances I've just told you about. But then he began to doubt his own self-vindication. Moreover, he tried to vindicate his own doubts. Was he, after all, sane or insane?

With that book in my hand I trembled in fear.

My head seems to have been created to restrain my heart, which seems the normal way of man. Judging from the results of my conduct, I haven't had much to regret in my past. It is, however, enormously painful, as everyone knows, to have your heart, whenever it gets stirred up, kept under the pressure of your solemn head. Obstinate as I am, I'm rather short-tempered in a negative way, so I've seldom suffered the pain you feel when your heart gets worked up and is suddenly restrained by reason, like a wildly careening automobile that's suddenly checked. Even so, I have on occasion felt within me a combustion of vital energy that could only be described as a powerful twist given to the axis of life. Whenever a struggle occurred between these two forces, I used to obey the orders of my head, thinking at times my head could rule because it was strong, thinking at other times that my heart obeyed because it was weak. And knowing somehow that the struggle was an inevitable one for my life, I could not free myself from the secret awe of its being a struggle that would consume my life.

Therefore, the hero of Gedanke overwhelmed me. He had thought no more of his friend's life than he did an insect's, and he refused to admit any contradiction or antipathy between reason and feeling. He felt no repentance whatever in using his entire intellect as fuel for revenge and letting it serve as the means for the dextrous accomplishment of a brutal murder. He was a superb actor who with careful control of his thoughts could pour over the head of his antagonist the venomous blood of vengeance. Either that, or he was a madman possessed of a combination of brain power and passion beyond those of ordinary mortals. When I compared myself with him, I envied his ability to act so intently without reflection. At the same time I was so terrified by all of this that I had broken out into a sweat. How thoroughly satisfying it must be to act that way, I thought. But I also thought that after such a deed one's conscience must be put through unbearable tortures.

Nevertheless, I wondered what would happen if the jealousy I had of Takagi took some strange course and grew a hundred times more powerful in consuming me. But I could not imagine how I would feel at that moment. At first I was about to abandon my thoughts simply from the standpoint that I would never be able to follow the novel's hero, since I had not been made that way. But then it occurred to me that I myself might, in fact, be capable of attaining the same degree of revenge. I finally began to believe that only a person like myself who was usually undecided while suffering from the conflict between head and heart would be bold enough to commit such an atrocity coolly, methodically, calculatedly. I myself don't know why I ultimately came to entertain such an idea. But when I hit on that thought, an unusual mood unexpectedly came over me. It was not simply one of terror or misgiving or unpleasantness— it seemed far more complex than these. From the way in which it revealed itself on the whole to my heart, it was similar to the mood of a man who, while otherwise gentle in nature, has become emboldened by alcohol and feels satisfied in being capable of doing anything because of the state he is in, yet at the same time is made aware that he has degraded himself into a being far more inferior than he usually is, but that since the degradation has been brought about by liquor, there is no way of escaping no matter how much he tries to ward it off, so he abandons himself to despair. In this strange mood, I was lost in the wide-eyed daydream of taking a heavy paperweight and striking Takagi from the top of his skull to the bottom, all before Chiyoko's eyes. Suddenly amazed, I stood up.

I went directly into the bath downstairs and poured water over my skull again and again. I saw by the clock in the sitting room that it was past noon, just the time to have lunch. As usual, Saku waited on me. After eating a few mouthfuls of rice, I asked her all at once if there was anything unusual about my complexion.

Saku's eyes opened wide in surprise, and she replied that there wasn't. A pause followed, and then she asked if anything was the matter.

"No, nothing much," I replied.

"I guess since it's become so hot out. . "

In silence I finished two bowls of rice. Drinking the tea she poured me, I again said to her suddenly, "It's better to be quiet at home than to be in that muddle at Kamakura."

"But I suppose it's cooler there than in Tokyo," she said.

"No, it's even hotter than in Tokyo," I explained. "It's no good living in such a place. You only get into a fret there."

"Will Madam be staying for some days more?" she asked.

"She'll be back soon," I replied.

Saku's figure before me looked like a morning glory drawn with one stroke of the brush. My only regret was that the drawing was not by the hand of a master. And yet to me her mind could only have been composed as simply as that kind of drawing. You may ask what possible use it is to compare her character to a drawing. Probably not much, but the truth was that while she waited on me, I was comparing myself, who had just read through Gedanke, with Saku, who was now sitting quietly, a black-lacquer tray on her knees, and I was jolted by the thought of why my own mind was as complicated as a painting done in thick oils. I had to confess that until then I had been proud of my mind working in a way more complicated than that of others, evidence of the high education it had received. But somehow the functioning of that mind was exhausting me without my having been aware that it was. As ill luck would have it, I found it sad to realize I could not live without analyzing everything minutely. As I put down my ricebowl on the table, I saw in Saku's face something sacred.

"Saku, do you sometimes think over various things?"

"I have nothing special to think about, so. ."

"You say you don't think? That's good. It's best not to think about anything."

"If I do, I don't have the brains to put things right, so there's no point in trying to."

"How lucky you are!"

My outburst startled her. Perhaps she felt I had ridiculed her. I was sorry I had spoken in that way.

To my surprise, my mother returned from Kamakura that evening. At that moment I had been sitting on a rattan chair in the shade of the open hallway upstairs watching the sun setting and listening to Saku, barefoot in the front garden, sprinkling the grounds. When I went down to the entrance, I was even more surprised to see Chiyoko instead of Goichi, whom I had expected to accompany my mother home. She was just coming up from the stepstone behind my mother. I had been sitting on that rattan chair with no thought in mind of Chiyoko at all. And if I had actually thought of her, I couldn't have done so without linking her to Takagi. I believed that for the time being these two couldn't possibly leave the stage at Kamakura. Even before exchanging greetings with my mother, whose sunburned complexion had slightly darkened, I wanted to ask Chiyoko why she had come. And those actually were my first words.

"I came to bring my aunt home. Why? Does it surprise you?"

"That was very kind of you," I replied. My feelings toward Chiyoko after my trip to Kamakura differed considerably from what they had been prior to the visit. And there was a considerable difference between the feelings I had during the visit and those I had experienced since returning home. Furthermore, there was quite a difference in my feelings on seeing Chiyoko together with Takagi and having her here before me separated from him. Chiyoko said she had accompanied my mother because entrusting her to Goichi's care would have been too great a worry. While Saku was washing and wiping her feet from working in the garden, Chiyoko acted the faithful niece she used to be by taking a summer kimono from my mother's dresser and helping her change out of her traveling clothes.

I asked my mother if she'd had a nice time since my deparature.

"Nothing particularly eventful happened," she replied with a satisfied look on her face. "Yet," she added, "it's been a long time since I've had such a good time, thanks to all of you."

It sounded to me as if my mother were acknowledging to Chiyoko, who was beside her, the kindness owed her. I asked Chiyoko if she planned to return to Kamakura that evening.

"I'll stay overnight."

"Where?"

"Well, I could go to Uchisaiwaicho, but the house is so big that it would be too lonely. I wonder if I should spend the night here — it's been such a long time since I stayed over. May I, Auntie?"

It seemed to me that Chiyoko had left Kamakura with the definite intention of spending the night at my home. I confess that in less than ten minutes I had been compelled, while sitting before her, to observe, estimate, and again interpret her words and behavior from a certain angle. My awareness of this made me feel uncomfortable. Moreover, my nerves felt too worn out for that kind of effort. Was I being unavoidably obliged to make my mind work in spite of my desire not to? Or was Chiyoko forcing me to move against my will? Whichever it was, it annoyed me.

"Chiyo-chan, you didn't have to take the trouble to come when Goichi could just as easily have done it."

"But it was my responsibility. I was the one who invited my aunt down, wasn't I?"

"Then I ought to have asked you to accompany me home, since you invited me too."

"Then you ought to have listened to us and stayed longer!"

"No, I mean the time — at the time I was leaving."

"Well, I would have looked like a hospital nurse then. Of course I wouldn't have minded looking like one. I'd have come with you. Why didn't you speak up at the time?"

"Because it seemed that if I had, I might have been turned down."

"I'd have been the one most likely to have been turned down if I had offered to accompany you, wouldn't I have, Auntie? When, on this rare occasion, you finally accepted our invitation, you looked sullen and serious the entire time. You really are a little sick."

"Maybe that was why he wanted you to accompany him," my mother said laughing.

Until just about an hour ago when my mother had returned, I hadn't in the least expected Chiyoko to be coming with her. I don't have to repeat that here, but I had expected that the information my mother would bring me about Takagi would almost certainly be about Chiyoko's future. I had also anticipated the sorrow of seeing the mild face of my mother darkened pitifully with anxiety and disappointment. But at that very moment I actually saw the opposite. Unchanged before me were aunt and niece, as intimate as they had always been. Each of them added her warmth and freshness to the other's and, to my own pleasure, to me as well.

Sparing time from my evening walk, I talked with them as we enjoyed the coolness in the upstairs room. At my mother's request I hung at the end of the eave a Gifu paper lantern with the seven autumn flowers printed on it and lit the small candle inside. Chiyoko suggested turning off the electric lamp because it gave off too much heat and did so without waiting for anyone's consent, throwing the matted floor into darkness. The moon had risen high in the windless sky. Leaning against a pillar, my mother said the moon reminded her of Kamakura.

"It seems strange somehow to see the moon at a place where we can hear streetcars," said Chiyoko, who had grown accustomed to living at the seaside for the past several days. Settled in my rattan chair, I flapped a round fan.

Saku came upstairs a few times. Once she brought in a tobacco tray with a charcoal fire and placed the set near my feet. The second time she came in carrying a tray with ice cream ordered from a neighborhood shop. Each time I couldn't help comparing the two young women, one who accepted as her lot in life the position of a humble maid, as though she had been born back in the feudal age when strict class distinctions existed, the other endowed with enough pride to behave as a lady in no matter whose presence. Chiyoko took no more notice of Saku's existence than she would have of any other woman's. On the other hand, Saku, after she stood up to return downstairs, did not fail to look back at Chiyoko from the head of the staircase. Reminded of the two days I had passed at Kamakura with Takagi living close by me, I looked with pity at Saku who, though she had stated quite definitely she had no need to think because she had no subjects to think about, was now presented with the elegant and poisonous question of one Chiyoko.

"What about Takagi?" was often at the tip of my tongue. However, because something other than a simple interest in information was driving me forward, something nastily mixed with ulterior motives, each time I was about to bring up the topic, I felt I was being scolded from afar for the unfairness of the question, so that I finally thought it unworthy of me to ask. What's more, I felt that as soon as Chiyoko departed and my mother was alone with me, we could freely talk about him. In truth, though, I wanted to hear about him directly from Chiyoko and to definitely keep in mind what she thought of him. Was this induced by jealousy? If anyone listening to my story says that's what it was, I have no objection. As I view it now, it seems hard to call it by any other name. And if so, am I that much in love with Chiyoko? If the question comes to that, I can't help being at a loss for an answer. As a matter of fact, I did not feel the pulsation of that passionate a love for her. It may then follow that I am two or three times more jealous than most men. Perhaps I am. A more appropriate criticism, however, might be that it was all due to my inherent egoism. Let me add only one thing: From my point of view, if jealousy of Takagi still kept burning in me even after my departure from Kamakura, it was not only because of some defect in my disposition, but because Chiyoko herself was deeply responsible. I won't hesitate to assert that due to the fact that it was Chiyoko who concerned me, my defect came to dye my heart in a deeper color. Then which aspect of Chiyoko was corrupting my character? The answer to that question was beyond my comprehension. And yet it occurs to me that possibly it was her kindness that was affecting me.

As usual, Chiyoko was outspoken. No matter what subject came up, she had something to say about it. I took this as evidence that she had nothing on her mind. She said that since going to Kamakura, she had begun to teach herself how to swim and that she was now enjoying going out over her head. She had been amused by Momoyoko, who was quite cautious and who had tried to stop her by calling out in a loud voice, almost apologizing, "It's not safe!"

Listening to Chiyoko, my mother looked half-anxious, half-amazed. "What a rash thing for a woman to do! For my sake I beg you never to do such a dangerous prank again. Be a good girl," she implored.

Laughing, Chiyoko said only, "You can trust me," and then she casually turned toward me as I sat on my chair in the open hallway. "And I suppose you too, Ichi-san, don't like such tomboys?" she asked.

All I said was "Not very much" and looked outside at the moonlight flowing over everything. If I had forgotten to pay respect to my character, I would certainly have added, "But Takagi-san does." That I hadn't dragged myself that low was at least fortunate for appearance's sake.

Anyway, that was how outspoken Chiyoko was. But even late into the night when my mother finally suggested we all ought to go to bed, Chiyoko had not brought into the conversation a word about Takagi. I saw a great deal of deliberateness in that. I felt as if a dark blob of ink had dropped on a white sheet of paper. Until I had gone to Kamakura, I had believed Chiyoko to be one of the purest women in the world, but in the short two days I had spent there, a suspicion of her "art" had been raised. And that suspicion was now taking root in me.

"Why wouldn't she talk about Takagi?"

This question tormented me as I was lying in bed. At the same time I was quite aware of the ridiculousness of having my sleep disturbed by such a question and was all the more irritated for the foolishness of being that tormented by it. As usual I was in bed alone upstairs. My mother and Chiyoko had their beds laid side by side inside a mosquito net in a downstairs room. Imagining her calmly asleep just below me, I couldn't help thinking that it was I, sleepless and wriggling, who was after all the defeated one. I even hated turning over in bed. It seemed a disgrace to have the weakness of my still being awake heard downstairs like some kind of intelligence report of her victory.

While I was thinking over this same problem from different angles, its various phases became apparent. Her silence in not even mentioning Takagi's name was nothing more than her kindness to me. She had deliberately kept away from this topic out of sheer consideration not to offend me. When interpreted this way, it made me feel I had behaved in such an irrationally ill-humored way during my Kamakura stay that it had robbed Chiyoko, who was so simple and pure, of the courage to say even Takagi's name before me. If so, then I was a disagreeable animal that showed itself in public only to offend. And so it would be better to stay at home, to keep myself from associating with others. But if it was "art" without that "kindness" preceding it and this was what she really was. .

I broke up the word "art" into minute parts and pondered its meanings. Was her real intention to lure me by making Takagi a decoy? And in so luring me, was her intention without any ultimate purpose except to enjoy herself by giving a momentary stimulation to my affection for her? Or was it to tell me to become like Takagi in a certain way? And when I did, was she going to tell me she might as well love me? Or was it to say that she would enjoy seeing Takagi and me fight over her? Or was it to tell me to give her up by bringing him before me and letting me realize that she had already found her man? I went on and on theorizing like this. And I thought that if it's art, it would mean battle, and if it's battle, it must inevitably end in either victory or defeat.

I remained vexed at myself, defeated and sleepless. As I had turned off the electric light after the mosquito net had been hung, the darkness pervading the room oppressed me so much I felt suffocated. It grew unbearably painful keeping my eyes open, looking at what they could not see, and having only my mind working. I had patiently resisted even turning in bed, but I suddenly got up to switch on the light. I went out to the hallway to open the shutter a little. There was not even a breeze under the declining moon. I felt on my skin and throat only a relative coolness.

I awoke the next morning about an hour and a half earlier than I had when I had been alone at home. I immediately went downstairs and found Saku sifting ashes in the oblong brazier in the sitting room, her ginkgo-leaf hairdo covered with a white towel. Seeing me, she said, "Oh, you're up so early!" and she went to arrange the things I needed to wash up with. On returning from the bathroom, I walked on tiptoe through the dust-filled sitting room and went out to the entrance. On my way I peered toward the room where my mother and Chiyoko were lying inside the mosquito net. My mother, who was apt to be awakened by the slightest sound, was still in a quiet sleep, perhaps fatigued from her train journey the previous day. Chiyoko was of course sound asleep, as though buried at the bottom of a dream, her neck against her pillow.

I went out to the front of the house with no particular aim in mind. I had long forgotten what a morning walk was like. The colors of the street, though little different from usual, were yet untouched by heat and throngs of people and so seemed as peaceful as a Sabbath. The streetcar tracks, stretching straight ahead along the ground and giving off a burnished light, enhanced the calm. But I had not exactly come out to walk. Since I had gotten up too early and was merely walking to fill up a superfluous fragment of life with some kind of physical movement, I could not find much interest in heaven or earth, nor on the streets either.

About an hour later I got back looking rather tired, only to be greeted by the questioning faces of both my mother and Chiyoko.

"Where have you been?" my mother asked. "Your color isn't good. Is anything the matter?"

"You didn't sleep well last night, did you?" Chiyoko added.

I didn't know in the least how to answer the latter question. I wanted to retort elatedly, "I slept quite well!" Unfortunately, I wasn't that much of an artist. But then I was too proud to confess I had slept poorly. The result was that I failed to reply.

The three of us had breakfast at the same table, and as soon as we were finished, the hairdresser arrived, my mother having asked her the day before to come in the morning when it was cool. With her newly washed white apron covering the front of her figure, the woman put her hands on the floor beyond the threshold and made a friendly greeting regarding my mother's safe return. The woman had that facile way of speech common in her trade, and she gave full play to her skill. Each sentence she uttered gave my shy mother the opportunity to talk proudly about her summer trip. My mother looked sufficiently pleased, but couldn't talk that glibly about it. Soon the hairdresser chose the youthful Chiyoko as someone she could have more of an effect on. With invariable ease Chiyoko was quite naturally able to deal with anyone she happened to be with, so whenever she was addressed as "young lady," she could enliven the conversation by responding at considerable length. When the subject of Chiyoko's swimming came up, the hairdresser said, "That's quite fine. And very active. All the young ladies nowadays are learning to swim," which sounded to everyone like the concocted flattery it was.

It must sound ridiculous to mention this odd fancy of mine, but actually, I like seeing women having their hair made up. The way the woman somehow contrived to bind my mother's thinning hair into a little round knot wouldn't have made a nice picture to look at, even if a skillful hairdresser had done it; still, it furnished me with enough diversion for killing time. As I watched her hands move, I began imagining to myself how magnificent Chiyoko's hair would be if it were combed out and arranged in such a Japanese way. Chiyoko's hair has a beautiful gloss to it; it's soft and smooth, long and luxuriant. Had I been my usual self on this sort of occasion, I would have suggested that it would be a good chance for her to have her hair done too. But just then it was difficult for me to make such an intimate request. Yet it so happened that she herself said that she somehow felt like having her hair set.

"Go ahead. It's been quite a while since it was done," my mother encouraged. And the hairdresser chimed in eagerly, "Yes, have it done up! The moment I saw your hair, I had the thought that it was too good to be in that foreign style." Finally Chiyoko sat down before the mirror stand.

"I wonder what style it should be."

The hairdresser recommended the shimada. My mother was of the same opinion. Suddenly Chiyoko called out to me, her long hair combed back down over her shoulders. "Ichi-san, what style would you like?"

Her words startled me. "I'm sure your husband would like shimada as well."

Chiyoko herself didn't look the least bit disconcerted. She deliberately turned toward me to say with a laugh,

"Then shall I show you my hair in shimada?"

I went upstairs before her hair was finished. If you're as nervous as I am, and particularly scrupulous about things, you behave in such a way that to the eyes of the unconcerned your conduct is almost juvenile. I separated myself from the mirror stand when the task was halfway through with the intention of freeing myself from the tax of admiration that a woman with a pretty hairdo imposes on a man. That was how deficient I was in the kind of goodwill necessary to flatter Chiyoko's vanity.

I don't like to make myself look good by glossing over some deficiency or other I may have. But even someone like me has enough brains to think about problems slightly deeper than the tricks often played around a brazier in a sitting room. Only, it's my weakness that once dragged down as low as I was then, I can't let myself be sidetracked. And since I know quite well how silly it all was, I hated myself for having gone and gotten involved.

I hate bravado as much as meanness, and I believe it's to my credit to speak of myself as I actually am even if I look degraded or small, so I'm making it a point to be as honest with you as I can. Yet are all those so-called great men of the world above the petty discords that occur around the sitting-room brazier or kitchen table? I'm still a green youth fresh from school, so my worldly experience is nothing to speak of, but insofar as I'm able to use my intelligence and imagination, I doubt if so great and noble a person has ever existed. I do respect Matsumoto, my uncle. But to put it bluntly, it's sufficient to say that he's the type who merely looks great and shows himself high-minded. I don't want to be so discourteous and biased as to label my respected and beloved uncle an imposter or a fake. But as a matter of fact, though he looks with indifference on the mundane world, he's quite attached to it. He stands calmly with his arms folded, apparently unworried by trifles, yet in the back of his mind he does worry about them. I'm inclined to compliment him on his being more refined than ordinary people only in that he keeps his own worries unrevealed. That he can keep them from outward show is due to his property, his age, and his culture, discernment, and self-discipline. And lastly, it's due to the fact that he's in harmony with his home life. His relationship with society, which is seemingly in opposition to it, is actually in keeping with it. Well, I've digressed. Perhaps I've dwelled too long in defending my own fussiness over trifles.

As I said a moment ago, I had gone upstairs. Though the heat was harder to bear there than downstairs because the room was nearer the sun, I was in the habit of spending most of my day there due to my long use of it. As usual, I was sitting blankly at my desk, my chin against my hands. I noticed before my elbows that the Majorca ashtray into which I had earlier dropped some cigarette ashes had been cleaned. Looking at the two geese depicted on it, I imagined Saku's two hands cleaning away the ashes. It was then that I heard someone coming up the stairs. The minute I heard those sounds, I knew they were not being made by Saku's feet. I felt humiliated in having Chiyoko see me in this listless pose of boredom. On the other hand, I don't like using the clever tactic of opening a book near at hand and pretending I'd been reading.

"It's finished. Take a look," she said and immediately sat down in front of me. "I probably look funny. It's been a long time since I've had my hair arranged this way."

"It came out beautifully. After this you ought to always have it done in shimada."

"I'll have to have it taken down and reset a few times to get my hair trained to this style."

After several exchanges of this sort, I found before me without my consciously realizing it the pretty, unsophisticated, and innocent Chiyoko I had known earlier. It's hard to say definitely whether my mood somehow happened to be softened or whether she was seeing me from a different angle. As far as I remember, there seemed to be nothing on either side that could account for this feeling. If this easy state between us had lasted an hour or two longer, the odd suspicion I had had about her might have been blotted out as a mere misunderstanding by drawing a straight black line through it back to its origin. But I made a mess of it, carelessly.

It happened this way. As we talked on a while, I realized she had come upstairs not only to show me her new hairdo but to say good-bye, since she was returning to Kamakura that day. It was then that I made my faux pas.

"So soon? Must you?" I asked.

"It's not that soon," she replied. "I've already been here a night. But it's a little funny, isn't it, going back with my hair like this — as if I were going to be married."

"Are all of you still at Kamakura?" I asked.

"Of course. Why?"

"Takagi-san too?"

This was the name that she had not mentioned and that I too had deliberately been keeping from our talk. But by chance we had somehow regained the feeling of throwing off all restraints, and just at the moment that I was drawn into this mood, the name had dropped from my lips quite inadvertently. The minute I looked at her face, I regretted my careless question.

As I told you earlier, she has a kind of contempt for me as someone who is given to indecision and who has little tact in dealing with the world. And to tell the truth, our intimacy has been established only on each other's tacit recognition of this fact. To make up for my deficiency, I had fortunately one point in my favor that always awed her. That was my reticence. A woman like her who is not satisfied unless she openly shows whatever she has on her mind would never be content with the sullen, undemonstrative attitude I always assume, but in that attitude there is a glimmer that suggests the existence of a mind somehow difficult to penetrate, and this forces her to look upon me as a man she'll never be able to know completely and who, in spite of her contempt, has something in him to be feared, so she has long paid me a kind of respect. She has never explicitly stated it, but in her mind she admits it, and actually it is something I too have implicitly demanded of her as my right.

But the moment Takagi's name fell accidentally from my lips, I felt as though that respect was lost forever. A sudden change came over her face. I don't want to admit it was necessarily an expression of triumph, but without a doubt a kind of scorn flashed in her eyes that I had never seen there before. I stopped short like a man who has been unexpectedly slapped hard in the face.

"Are you that concerned about him?" She then burst into such a loud laugh that I wanted to cover my ears with my hands. I was given a sharp momentary humiliation. But I couldn't make a prompt reply.

Then she said, "You're a coward!"

I was equally startled by this attribute she had given me. I had half a mind to say, "You're the one who's the coward, deliberately inviting me where you didn't have to." But I restrained myself, thinking it too early to use against a young woman words as violent as hers were. She too remained silent after that. At last I merely asked, "Why?"

Her thick eyebrows moved then. She seemed to have interpreted this question as a cover-up of my weakness when it happened to be pointed out by someone, even though I was well aware of my own cowardice.

"'Why?' you ask! You yourself know why quite well!"

"No I don't. Tell me."

I thought of my mother downstairs, and I thought too that I knew only too well the tendency of young women to be carried away by emotion, so in order to mollify her into talking calmly, I spoke in a low, slow voice, which was almost unnatural under the circumstances. It seemed to make her all the more disgusted.

"If you don't know, you're a fool!"

Perhaps my face became paler than usual. I remember only that I fixed my eyes on her. I also remember that her eyes, fearing nothing, met mine head on at that moment, and both of our glances stopped there in silence for some time.

"To someone as lively as you, Chiyo-chan, an overly cautious person like me may naturally look like a coward. I know I'm extremely hesitant and don't have the courage to say what I have on my mind and put it into action. If you call me a coward for that, I have nothing to say against it, but. ."

"Who in the world would call such a person a coward!"

"But you despise me for that. I know quite well you do."

"It's you who despise me! I know that much better than you do!"

I saw no particular need to acknowledge her words, so I deliberately held back.

"You assume I'm a woman without learning, without intelligence, and beneath notice, and you despise me out and out in your mind!"

"It's the same thing as your belittling me for being dull. I don't mind your calling me a coward, but if you mean that I'm a coward in a moral sense, then you're wrong — at least as far as my conduct goes, I don't remember ever having done anything cowardly to you in a moral sense. If you use the word 'coward' where you should be calling me sluggish or irresolute, it sounds as if I were a person lacking in moral courage — no, rather, someone without any morals at all. That, I don't appreciate, so please mend your word. Or if I ever wronged you in the sense I've just mentioned, then don't hesitate to tell me what it was."

"Then I'll tell you what cowardice means," said Chiyoko, beginning to cry.

Until that moment I had looked on her as someone stronger than me. But I had only understood her strength as an incarnation of the womanly spirit coming solely from simple tenderness. However, the Chiyoko now revealing herself before me seemed to me nothing more than a vulgar woman, one quite common in the world, a woman bent on conquering. Without being moved by her tears, I merely waited, ready for whatever explanation came. I firmly believed that what would come from her lips would be nothing more than some sophistry to embellish her appearance.

She blinked her wet eyelashes a few times. "You're always sneering at me as if I were some silly, romping girl. You do not. . love me. You have no desire. . to be married to me. . "

"And for all that neither do you—"

"Just listen. You were going to say that it's the same on both sides, right? Well, all right. I'm not begging you to take me. Only why is it that you neither love me nor think of taking me for your wife. . and yet. ."

Here she suddenly faltered. I was not clever enough to guess what was going to follow. "And yet — what?" I said, half-urging her on.

"Why are you jealous?" she said, breaking through the barrier with a sudden force and crying even more.

I felt a burning sensation as the blood came rushing to my cheeks. She hardly seemed to notice.

"You're a coward. A moral coward. You've already had your doubts about my reasons for inviting you and your mother to Kamakura. That's already cowardly, but that's not the point. Why, having accepted my invitation, couldn't you make yourself agreeable as you usually do? My invitation to you turned out to be the same as having invited you to disgrace myself. You insulted a guest of my family, and the result is that you insulted me too."

"I don't remember insulting anyone."

"But you did. It's not a question of what you said or did — it's your attitude that's insulting. And even if it's not your attitude, it's in your heart."

"I don't have to put up with such prying and meddlesome criticism."

"A man can be so cowardly as to make that kind of worthless response. Takagi-san is broadminded enough to accept even someone like you because he's a gentleman. But you'd never be capable of accepting him— because you're a coward!"

6: Matsumot's Account

Matsumot's Account

I don't know what happened between Ichizo and Chiyoko after that last episode. Probably nothing of any real importance. At least as far as one can see from the outside, their relationship up to now doesn't seem to have changed at all from the earlier days. If you ask them about it, they'll offer a variety of views on the subject, but these are governed by their state of mind at the moment. So you may not be wrong in thinking they're telling plausible lies quite deficient in coherence, yet telling them as if they were of lasting value.

I also heard about that last incident between them— from both of them. It certainly didn't come from any misunderstanding on either side. Each of them believes in what they took each other to be, and the way they believe it is so natural that the collision they had is probably quite reasonable as well. Consequently, whether they are to get married or remain friends, there's no way to escape collisions of this kind, which must be regarded as the fate they were born to. In a way, however, the two of them are, unfortunately, quite attracted to each other. And it's dreadful when you realize that the way they're attracted has been dominated by a destiny no one has any authority over. They've formed themselves into a pitiable pair who, to phrase it in a neat epigram, meet to part and part to meet. I'm not certain you'll understand me when I say that if they do get married, the result will be equivalent to marrying in order to breed unhappiness, and if they don't get married, they'll feel discontented, as though they had remained unmarried only to continue their unhappiness. And so I think the wisest way is to let fortune take its course and let things develop directly through the hands of Nature. It will be all the worse for them if you or I poke our noses into the affair. As you know, I'm not a stranger to either Ichizo or Chiyoko. I've often been specifically asked by Ichizo's mother, my elder sister, for assistance or advice about their chances. But how can I arrange what is difficult to bring about even through heaven's own hands? After all, my sister has been dreaming her own impossible dream.

Both my sisters, Ichizo's mother and Taguchi's wife, are surprised at the great similarity between my character and Ichizo's. I myself have wondered how two such eccentrics could have come into existence among our close-knit group of relatives. It is his mother's view that Ichizo as he is now is solely the result of the influence I've had over him. Of the numerous faults of mine that displease her, the one that annoys her the most is this alleged evil influence I've unwisely exerted over my nephew. I readily admit I deserve the reproach when I reflect on the attitude I've taken toward Ichizo even to this very day. And I also admit, by the way, that she's quite justified in her complaint that I'm the cause of estranging her son from the Taguchis. However, that both my sisters are knitting their brows over Ichizo and me, regarding us as two eccentrics cut from the same mold, is unquestionably wrong.

Ichizo's disposition is one that coils inwardly whenever he comes in contact with the world. Whenever he receives an impulse, it turns round and round, driving itself in more and more deeply and carving itself more and more finely into the recesses of his mind. And it distresses him that this encroachment upon his mind continues, knowing no bounds. He's so worried about, it that he prays for any escape whatever from this inner activity, but he's dragged on by it as though it were a curse beyond his power to drive out. The time is going to come when he'll inevitably collapse, totally alone, under his own mental exertion. He's going to come to dread that moment. When it happens, he'll be exhausted, like a madman. This is the great misfortune lying at the very core of his life. In order to turn it into a blessing, there's no other way except to reverse the direction of his life and to make it uncoil outward. We must get him to use his eyes so that instead of carrying outside things into his head, he can look with his mind at things as they exist outside. He should find one thing under heaven— and a single thing is enough — which is so great or beautiful or gentle that it will engross his entire being. In a word, he has to become frivolous. At first, he had little regard for such an attitude. Now he's thirsting for it. Now, for the sake of his own happiness, he's praying with all his heart to the powers above to somehow become a wit, flippant and wanton. He already knew before I advised him that the only way in the world to save himself was by assuming a flippant pose. But he's struggling, still unable to put it into practice.

My relatives bear a silent grudge against me as the person responsible for having made Ichizo into the kind of person he now is. And I have to admit I have great qualms of conscience in that regard. I was, in fact, ignorant of the art of guiding a man according to his own character. I was indiscreet enough to think it proper to pass on to him as many of my own tastes as I could, and I got used to moving the pliable mind of this youth wherever it pleased me to. That seems to have been the cause of all the trouble. It was two or three years ago that I became aware of this fault. But when I noticed it, it was already too late. With my incapable arms folded, all I could do was offer an inward sigh.

What I'm saying is, the life I'm now leading suits me best, but it would never do for Ichizo. I'm fickle by nature; to give a cheap criticism of myself, I'm a born wanton. My mind is constantly flowing outward. And so it can be turned in any direction and be made subject to any external stimulus. Putting it this way, though, may not satisfy you sufficiently. Ichizo was born to reform the established order, while I came into the world to be educated by the world as it is taken for granted by ordinary people. In spite of being as old as I am, I have something quite young about me, but Ichizo, on the contrary, was already mature in his high school days. He uses society as material for his thought. I merely get on board, carried along by society's way of thinking.

His strong point is there, and there at the same time lurks his misfortune. And there too lies my own weakness as well as my happiness. When I'm at a tea ceremony, my mind is quiet. I get a feeling of sabi while twiddling a curio. At other places — storytelling halls, theaters, wrestling matches — at all these I can put myself into the appropriate frame of mind. I'm so diverted by these interests that quite naturally I reach the point in which I can't help feeling emptied even of my very self. That's why I'm leading such a detached life, forcing my ego to push through. Ichizo, however, is a person who from the very first had nothing but his own ego. To make up for this deficiency — or rather, to curtail his unhappiness — the only possible way that his life should turn is to respond to the external universe instead of perpetually crawling into his inner world. But it is I who have indirectly deprived him of the one and only resource by which he could have made himself happy. The bitterness my relatives hold against me is absolutely justified — so much so that I consider it at least fortunate that Ichizo himself doesn't have anything against me.

The incident I want to talk about occurred, I believe, about a year ago, when Ichizo had not yet graduated from university. He came over on a day when I was in my study dipping into the history of Japanese flower-arrangement to answer an acquaintance's question on the subject. I was so absorbed in the job that when he greeted me, I merely looked over my shoulder and said hello. But I noticed that his color was quite bad. Worried about it, I went out of my study to look for him as soon as I came to a place in my investigation where I could leave off. As he regards my wife as a friend, I thought he might be talking with her in the sitting room, but he wasn't there. My wife suggested he was in the children's room, so I went down the hallway and opened the door to that room. He was sitting at Sakiko's desk, looking at a photograph of an attractive woman on the front page of a woman's magazine.

At that moment he looked around at me and informed me that he had just discovered a beautiful woman. "We've been looking at each other for about ten minutes," he said. He added that as long as that face was before him, he forgot the pain in his head and felt an involuntary pleasantness. At once I asked him whose daughter she was and where she lived. Oddly enough, he hadn't even read the name written below her photograph. "That's rather careless," I said. "If the face has attracted you that much, why not fix her name in your mind?" I thought that if the occasion arose, it was not absolutely impossible for him to take her as his wife. But he eyed me as if he were saying, "Why do I need to remember her name and address?"

The point of this example is that I looked at the photograph from the first as a representation of reality itself, while he merely looked at it as a picture. If somehow the woman's real position, status, education, or character had been added to the photograph in an attempt to transform the portrait on a piece of paper into a living being, he would just as soon have discarded all of it along with the face he had taken such a fancy to. This is where Ichizo and I are fundamentally different from each other.

A few months before Ichizo graduated from university — I think it was around April last year — I was consulted by his mother about his marriage for a much longer time than ever before. As usual, she expressed the simple yet stubborn desire to have Taguchi's elder daughter as her son's wife. It's my belief that it's not worthy of a man to reason with a woman, so I refrained as best I could from going into difficult arguments, but used plain and simple terms to convince my old-fashioned sister that what she wanted amounted to going against a parent's duty in that it wasn't allowing the person in question the greatest freedom. As you know, my sister is a very gentle woman, but she possesses more than the average amount of that characteristic common to her sex of persistently and untiringly repeating the same opinion whenever the occasion demands it. It wasn't so much that I disliked her persistence as it was that I was moved so strangely by the pathos in her excessive perseverance. This made me willingly accept her request to at least have Ichizo over to talk about it, since, as she said, there was no one else among our relatives he had any respect for.

I remember it was a Sunday morning four days after my sister's visit that I met Ichizo in this drawing room in order to carry out her request. He'd been having a busy time with his graduation exams just up ahead, but he said with a slight smile as he sat down that it didn't matter to him what the examination results were.

According to his explanation, the subject of the marriage was a stale one which had been brought up quite often by his mother, its conclusion put off by him time and again. But in inverse proportion to his assertion about the staleness of the topic, his attitude toward the problem seemed to reveal that it had been quite an ordeal for him. The last time she had entreated him, he said, he had asked her to wait until his graduation, after which he would bring the matter to a conclusion. Since he had been summoned by me in spite of the fact that his examinations were not yet finished, he not only showed by his looks that he had been put to some trouble, but he even complained that the old woman's impatience was embarrassing. I too thought he might well be justified in saying that.

My conjecture was that his putting off a definite answer until his graduation was merely an evasion, that he had judged that Chiyoko's marriage negotiations would in the meantime entwine a more suitable candidate, so that instead of directly disappointing his mother, he would wait for the circumstances in and of themselves to pressure her and dissuade her from her intention. "Isn't that so?" I asked him. He said it was.

I asked if he didn't have any intention of satisfying his mother's wishes. He replied that he definitely intended to in a great many things, but he had never said he would take Chiyoko as his wife. When I asked if he wasn't refusing her just to be obstinate, he affirmed that that may have been the case. I then asked, to make certain, what he would do if Taguchi agreed to give her to him and if Chiyoko herself consented. He made no response, but merely looked silently at me. When I saw that look on his face, I couldn't bring myself to proceed with our talk. The impression that his look gave me — awe is too exaggerated a word, pity sounds much too doleful — I'm almost at a loss to describe it. It was a peculiar expression suggesting the despair of someone who's been obliged to forever give up his loved one, but with something grim and yet tender added to it.

A little later he suddenly came out with an unexpected remark, one which must have revealed his state of mind at the moment. "Why am I so disliked by others?" he asked. I was surprised by the untimeliness of his words and by how incongruous it was for him to say such a thing.

"Why bring up that kind of sentimental complaint?" I demanded, my tone one of rebuke.

"It's not a complaint. I said it because it's a fact."

"Well, then, who is it that dislikes you?"

"You do, for one."

Again I was surprised. As this was rather odd, I asked a few more questions and gathered that the attitude I had assumed when I had stopped talking because of that peculiar look on his face had apparently been interpreted by him as entirely coming from my own aversion to him. With all the powers at my command I began trying to break down his misunderstanding.

"Why should I hate you?" I asked. "From the connection we've had since you were a child, you ought to know very well that I don't. Don't be ridiculous!"

Scolded like that, he continued to look at me without showing the least bit of excitement on his face, but rather, with a still paler countenance. I felt as though I were sitting before a phosphorescent glow.

"I'm your uncle. Where in this world is there an uncle who hates his own nephew?"

The moment Ichizo heard my words, his thin lips curved into a lonely smile. I saw behind its loneliness something tinged with deep contempt.

I confess that Ichizo's head is better than mine when it comes to intelligence. I know that only too well. So when we came in contact with one another, I was always on guard to reveal as little as possible of anything foolish that he might deride. But there were times when with the haughtiness of an elder looking down on a youth I could place full confidence in, I lectured him, attaching importance to some senseless expediency even while knowing how shallow it was. He was too wise to dare so uncivil an action as to take advantage of his superiority in order to put me to shame, but I used to feel mortified at finding myself falling in his estimation on each of these occasions. And this time too I immediately started to mend my words.

"In this wide world," I began again, "there may be parents and children who are mutual enemies and even husbands and wives who think about murdering one another. But generally speaking, there must exist somewhere an affectionate connection that deserves the name 'brother' or 'uncle and nephew.' You've had a very fine education, and you're quite intelligent as well, and yet in some strange way you have a kind of inferiority complex. That's your major shortcoming. You must definitely correct it. It makes you look disagreeable in the eyes of others."

"And that's why I say that even you dislike me."

I didn't know how to respond to that. I felt he had put his finger on my own contradiction, which I hadn't been aware of until that moment. "Just throw it away once and for all, and everything will be all right," I said casually, as though it were the easiest thing to do.

"Do I have an inferiority complex?" he asked quite calmly.

"You do," I said without giving much thought to my response.

"Where does this inferiority complex exist? Please tell me clearly."

"Where? Well. . you have it. I wouldn't have said so if you didn't."

"Supposing I do have such a shortcoming. Where do you suppose it came from?"

"That's your own problem. It would be a good idea if you thought a little about it yourself."

"You're so unkind," Ichizo said, his voice desperately sad and serious.

First of all his tone of voice disconcerted me. Next I shrank from his eyes. They were fixed on me with a look of sad reproach. I couldn't muster up enough courage to say even a word in return.

"I've been thinking about that problem long before you mentioned it," he went on. "I've been thinking about it because I know it's my own problem without your having to tell me. And I've been thinking about it all by myself because no one had told me about it. I thought about it every day and every night. I thought and thought until my body as well as my mind could no longer continue under the burden of the thought. And still I haven't been able to solve the problem, and so I asked you about it. You declared yourself to be my dear uncle. And you claimed that because you're my uncle, you're kinder to me than other people are. But what you said just now, even though it came from your own lips, sounded to me much more callous than the words of a stranger."

I saw the tears coming down his cheeks. I assure you that such a scene had never occurred between us in the long acquaintance from his childhood until that day. And, I must admit, I didn't in the least know how to deal with a young man this excited. I could only sit there with my arms folded, bewildered. And he himself was in no position to adjust his words out of any consideration for my attitude.

"Do I have an inferiority complex? I suppose I do. Even without your telling me, I know I do. Yes, an inferiority complex. I know about it quite well without having to be reminded of it by you. Only I want to know how I've become what I now am. My mother, my aunt Taguchi, and you — all of you know why. I'm the only one who doesn't. I'm the only one who hasn't been told. I asked you because of all the people in the world you're the one I trust most. And yet you've cruelly rejected my request. From here on I'll curse you as my lifelong enemy!"

Ichizo stood up. In an instant I made a decision and called out to stop him.

I once heard a lecture by a certain scholar. He analyzed our present civilization in Japan and revealed quite bluntly to his audience why, if we're not destined to become shallow and superficial, we're in for nervous collapse. He argued that when the truth is not known, we desire to know it, but once we do know it, there are not a few cases in which we repent our knowing and envy that earlier time when we lived blissfully ignorant. "That, or something like it," he said, "is my conclusion," and smiling with a kind of resignation, he left the platform. At that time his remarks reminded me of Ichizo, and while I felt it was a sorry thing for any Japanese to have to listen to such bitter truths, it was even more pathetic for a young man like Ichizo to fear trying to take hold of a secret relating to himself and yet again to have to try in spite of the fear. Inwardly I shed tears of compassion for him.

This account concerns only my relatives and has nothing to do with you, so if it weren't for the past circumstances in which you showed such concern about Ichizo's welfare, I would never confide it to you — but to tell the truth, his sun was already hidden by clouds from the very day he was born.

As I would declare without hesitation to anyone, I hold to the principle that no secret ever settles down in its natural state until it is set free and fully revealed, so I don't attach as much importance as most people do to such words as "safeguarding the peace" or "maintaining the status quo." Therefore, it seemed a rather strange oversight on my part that until then I had not of my own free will thrown any light on Ichizo's fate, which dated back to the time of his birth. Now that I think about it, it hardly seems to make much sense that I kept it secret until the moment he cursed me. For little had I dreamed that even if fresh air were let in on what had been kept concealed, his relationship with his mother would have been any the worse for it.

You, who are on such intimate terms with Ichizo, may have understood the fact implied in my words about his sun already being hidden from the day he was born. In a word, Ichizo and his mother aren't related by blood. And to add a word to prevent any misunderstanding: As a stepmother and stepson they are far more closely related than a real mother and son. They are so inseparably bound by nature with threads of affection that they may well despise the mere blood relationship between a parent and a child. Since this binding thread could not be cut asunder even by the edge of an axe wielded by a demon, there could be nothing to fear in disclosing any secret to Ichizo. And yet my sister had always been afraid to. Ichizo too was terrified. They were both in terror, she with the secret held in her hand, he with the expectation that he would be made to take hold of it. At last I took out the reality he had feared and simply brought it into the open for him.

I don't dare recount to you each and every one of the questions and answers exchanged at the time. From the first, the affair hadn't seemed to me so great an event, and also from the need I had to maintain my cool as best I could, I told the story as though it were, after all, a matter of little importance, but Ichizo, being under extreme tension, took the information as though it were a matter of life and death. To keep the sequence of what I told you before, I'll set down the facts briefly. He was not my sister's child but a housemaid's. Since the incident did not occur in my home and since it happened more than a quarter of a century ago, I haven't been able to ascertain its details. I did hear that when the maid was found to be pregnant by my brother-in-law, my sister dismissed her after giving her a considerable amount of money. She waited until the woman, who had gone back to her home, had given birth to the boy, and then she took charge of him and raised him as her own son. She did this mainly to save her husband's honor, but it must have been partly motivated by a desire to foster the child, since at that time she had been worrying about being unable to have one of her own. As it turned out, as you and all of us relatives have seen, the two of them have gotten along until today as a most loving mother and son, so there would have been no trouble at all had the real situation been confided. From my own viewpoint, they may well feel infinitely more proud than those real parents and children who so frequently in this world fail to get along. For themselves, too, how much more pleasant it would have been to know the real truth and to reflect back on all the affection they had for each other. At least that would be so for me. And so for Ichizo's sake I didn't spare any effort in painting the beauty of this one point.

"I actually think so. Therefore, I see no need to hide it. If you have a sound mind, you should think the same as I do, shouldn't you? If you say you can't, it's your feeling of inferiority. Do you understand?"

"I understand. I understand quite well," Ichizo replied.

"If you do, good. Let's not talk about it anymore."

"I'll say no more about it. There'll never be another day when I bother you about it. You were right in saying that I've been putting a warped interpretation on everything. Until you told me, I was terribly afraid, so much so that my flesh cringed. But now that what you've told me has made everything clear, I'm very much relieved. I no longer have anything to fear, not anything. Though I've suddenly become helpless somehow. Lonely. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the world."

"Still, your mother's what she's always been, you know. I too am what I was. None of us will be any different toward you. Don't get so nervous about it."

"Nervous or not, I do feel lonely all the same. I can't help it. When I get back home and see my mother's face, I'm sure I'll be in tears. Just imagining those tears now makes me feel unbearably lonely."

"It's better not to mention any of this to your mother."

"Of course I won't. If I did, I can't even imagine the pain on her face."

We sat silently facing each other. To relieve the awkwardness I felt, I knocked the ashes from my pipe into a bamboo pot in the smoking set. Ichizo looked down at the hakama covering his knees. Soon he glanced up with that lonely face of his.

"I have something else I want to ask you. Would you please hear me out?"

"I'll tell you anything I know about."

"Where's my real mother living now?"

She had died soon after giving birth to him, from some post-natal complication or from a disease, so I had heard. Of this too my memory was too sketchy to give an account detailed enough to appease his hungry eyes. The account I gave him of the last of his real mother's fate ended in a few minutes. With a pitiful look he asked her name. Fortunately, I hadn't forgotten her old-fashioned name— it was Oyumi. He next asked how old she was when she died. Of that detail my knowledge was the least reliable. Finally he asked if I had ever seen her working at his family's house. I told him I had.

"What did she look like?" he asked.

Unfortunately, my memory about that was quite vague. I was only about fifteen or sixteen at the time.

"I once saw her having her hair done up in shimada." I was sorry I couldn't give a more pertinent answer.

At length, he asked with a resigned look, "Then please just tell me the temple. At least I want to know where she's buried."

How could I have known where her family temple was? I groaned and told him that as a last resort, he'd have to ask his mother.

"Is there no one else besides my mother who knows?"

"Probably not."

"Then I'll have to be content to remain in the dark."

I felt half-sorry for him, half-penitent, as if I'd done him some wrong. For a while his eyes gazed out at a large camellia tree in the garden blooming in the bright sunlight. And then he turned his glance back.

"My mother's insistence that I take Chiyo-chan for my wife is meant, after all, in consideration of the family line, isn't it?"

"Exactly. It's nothing more than that."

Still, he didn't say if he would marry her. Nor did I ask then if he would.

That talk with Ichizo was one of the most beautiful experiences I've ever had. It embellished my meager past in the sense that both of us were able to completely and unhesitatingly bare our thoughts to each other. I felt that from Ichizo's point of view too, it had perhaps been the first time in his life he had ever been consoled. After he left, what remained with me was the pleasant sensation of having done something good.

"You don't have to worry. I'll take charge of everything." I had warmly tossed off these words as I saw him to the entrance, though I did feel quite awkward when it came to reporting to my sister the results of my talk. For the time being I could only soothe her with words I thought might sound reasonable, reminding her that it would be better for her to wait until Ichizo had graduated, since he himself said that when he left school and had more time to think everything over, he'd definitely settle the question of his marriage one way or another. I also said that it would only disturb his studying for examinations if at this moment he kept being pressed for a definite answer.

At the same time, I told Taguchi the situation Ichizo was now in, with the intention of trying to speed up the question of Chiyoko's marriage before Ichizo's graduation if possible. When Taguchi heard the entire story from me, he responded in his usually tactful, off-hand manner: He said he knew how to deal with it without my having to remind him. "After all, we have to marry her off for her own sake, so we can't forcibly advance it or postpone it just for Ichizo's or his mother's convenience, though putting it that way may sound rude."

"Quite right," I replied, having to admit he was.

I associate with the Taguchis as their relative, of course, but I had never actually meddled in their daughter's marriage negotiations, nor had I ever been asked for advice about it. So until that day I had not heard about any of the marriage prospects, nor had I heard even indirectly any rumors about candidates. I remembered only the name Takagi, whom Ichizo had met and disliked the year before when they were at — Kamakura, was it? — and whom both Ichizo and Chiyoko had mentioned to me. I asked Taguchi how it was going with the young man. With an amiable laugh he replied that from the outset Takagi hadn't come forward. But he also told me that inasmuch as any bachelor of good status and education had a claim as a suitor, it couldn't be said that he was definitely out of the running. I was given further particulars regarding this young man about whom I knew very little and learned that he was in Shanghai and that his return was indefinite. Nothing has developed between him and Chiyoko, though their exchange of letters continues, but I ascertained that it is maintained on the condition that she can read his letters only after her parents do. I suggested unhesitatingly that he might be a good match for her. Whether desiring someone better or thinking otherwise, Taguchi didn't encourage my suggestion. Knowing nothing whatever about Takagi's character, I had no right to recommend him further, so I returned home, leaving that question as it was.

For a long time after our meeting — actually, it was only about a month and a half — I didn't get to see Ichi-zo. I was quite worried about his having to burden himself with family problems while his graduation exams were coming up. I secretly visited my sister just to spy out his condition. She was unconcerned and said quite calmly that he seemed very busy and that such was only to be expected just before his graduation. Since I was still uneasy about him, I made him spare an hour one evening to have dinner with me. We ate together at a Western-style restaurant near his house. I privately studied his frame of mind. As usual, he was calm. It was not altogether mere bluff when he assured me that his exams were of no real importance and that somehow he'd manage to come off fairly well. When I asked him if he was quite confident, his face suddenly became sad. He replied, "The human brain is made of sturdier stuff than we think, isn't it? I confess I've been in great fear for mine, but oddly enough it still hasn't collapsed. I'll probably be able to use it for some time yet."

These words, half-joking, half-serious, gave me an odd feeling of deep pity for him.

The season of fresh foliage was over, and on a day that you feel like flapping a round fan into the open chest of an unlined summer kimono after a bath, Ichizo suddenly turned up again. As soon as I saw him, I asked how his exams were going. He said that he had finished them only the day before. Then he informed me that he would be off on a short trip the next day, so he'd come to say good-bye. Once more I felt somewhat uneasy about his state of mind in heading for a distant spot before knowing the results of his examinations. He hoped to start his tour from Kyoto or thereabouts, pass through Suma and Akashi, and possibly go as far as Hiroshima or some place in that direction. I was surprised by the rather extensive tour he was planning. When I hinted at my disapproval by saying the trip might be quite all right if only he was certain of graduating, he responded curtly, showing much less concern about the examination results than I expected. He almost ignored my suggestion and told me that my caring about such a trifle didn't at all suit the way I usually am. As I talked on with him, I discovered that his idea had sprung from motives that had nothing to do with his graduation record.

"The truth," he said, "is that since that talk between us, I've been racking my brains somehow, so it's recently become too difficult for me to sit calmly in my study at home. I'm badly in need of a trip of some sort, so please let me go as a reward for my admirable conduct in not giving up halfway through my exams."

I told him that he was certainly justified in going wherever he wished with his own money. I said that I thought it might do him good to wander here and there and enjoy himself.

"Thanks," he said, looking slightly satisfied, but then he added, "Actually, I feel sorry for my mother, and though it may not even be right to say this aloud, ever since I heard the account from you, I've been overwhelmed by a strange feeling each time I see her face."

"Do you feel anything unpleasant?" I asked somewhat solemnly.

"No, only a kind of pity," he replied. "At first, I felt unbearably lonely. Then bit by bit, it changed to pity. Just between you and me, it's been too painful lately to see my mother's face day in and day out. Speaking of trips, I'd been thinking for some time that after I graduated, I'd take her to see Kyoto, Osaka, and Miyajima, so if my feelings had remained as they had been, I would have asked you to take care of our house while I accompanied her. But as I've just told you, the circumstances have been completely reversed, so I've come to feel it's better if I went away without her, if only for a short while."

"That you've come to feel so strange embarrasses me," I said.

"I should think I'm likely to miss her quite a bit when I'm away from home. What do you think? Will it turn out all right?" It was with real anxiety that he asked this question.

Pretending I was his much more experienced senior— which I am — I myself could hardly imagine what his future life would be like in this respect. I could only feel pity for him that because of his lack of self-confidence he was so eager to be reassured by someone else about a problem that belonged only to him. Ichizo, in spite of looking amenable on the surface, is actually quite strong-willed, but this was almost the first time that he had betrayed such a weakness. I tried as best I could to reassure him.

"There's no point in worrying. You can take my word for it that it'll be all right. Go ahead with your trip and enjoy it fully. Your mother's my sister. And what's more, she's made of purer stuff than I am because she's learned much less than I have. She's a woman worthy of anyone's love and respect. How could such a mother and so devoted a son as you ever be separated from each other for good? You can be sure that's impossible, so set your mind at ease."

Ichizo looked as if my words had actually reassured him. I myself felt slightly reassured. On the other hand, the suspicion arose in me that if consolatory words as groundless as mine were having some effect on so clearheaded a person as Ichizo, it must be indicative of a nervous system that had gone slightly out of tune. Suddenly I imagined something extreme happening, and I began having misgivings about letting him travel by himself.

"How about my going with you?"

"Together. . well. ." He came out with an embarrassed smile.

"You'd rather I didn't, you mean?"

"Under ordinary circumstances I'd have asked you to come along. But I myself don't know just when and where I'll go. It's a journey without order that's going to take me wherever my whims lead me, so you'd be inconvenienced. Besides, it would be less pleasant for me if I were restricted by you. . "

"Then I won't go," I said, withdrawing my suggestion.

After Ichizo left, I still found myself oddly concerned about him. Since I had branded that dark secret on his mind, I felt I should shoulder the responsibility for anything resulting from it. I felt like seeing how my sister was and hearing from her how Ichizo had been recently. I called my wife from the sitting room to tell her all that had happened and to ask her advice. As one who takes things in her stride, which is rather unusual for a woman, she said that the trouble had come from my talking too much about what was unnecessary. At first she paid little attention to what I was saying, but eventually she assured me. "How can Ichizo possibly go wrong?" she said. "Young as he is, he has a lot more discretion than you!"

"What you say sounds as if Ichizo's anxious about me."

"Of course anyone would be anxious about you, seeing you sitting there with your hands in your pockets and that imported pipe in your mouth!"

Before long our children returned from school, and the entire house suddenly became noisy. I forgot about Ichizo and had no time to think of him further until evening, when my sister unexpectedly turned up. Her visit gave me a sudden chill.

As usual, she sat in the midst of our family gathering, exchanging with my wife long apologies for not calling and offering the usual compliments of the season. As I had been sitting with them, I lost the opportunity to escape. "I hear Ichizo's leaving on a trip tomorrow," I put in during the course of their talk.

"As for that—" my sister began, looking somewhat more seriously at me.

Without letting her finish, I said by way of defending him, "If he wants to go, let him. He's worked hard on his exams. If he gets no rest after racking his brains like that, it'll be bad for his health."

She agreed, of course, but stated that her only fear was that his health might not be good enough to get him through the trip. Finally she asked me if I thought his condition was all right from what I had seen of him. I told her it was, and my wife also thought as much. My sister looked more dissatisfied about something than reassured. I thought her use of the word health did not really concern Ichizo's physical condition but must have meant his mental state, and I felt a private stab of pain. She had engraved on her brow misgivings that seemed to have come from something she gathered intuitively from my look. She asked me, "Tsune-san, was there anything unusual about Ichizo when he visited you a while back?"

"Not at all. It was quite the usual Ichizo I saw. Right, Osen?"

"Yes, he wasn't the least bit different."

"I think so too," said my sister. "But somehow there's something odd about him these days."

"In what way?"

"Well, it's hard to explain."

"It's all because of the examinations," I quickly put in, denying her statement.

"It's only your imagination, dear sister," my wife added.

Both of us having comforted her, she at last looked somewhat satisfied and talked on until she agreed to have supper with us. Later, my children and I saw her to the streetcar stop. I had intended only to take a stroll, but I remained uneasy and sent the children home by themselves. I took a seat beside my sister on the streetcar in spite of her telling me to return. We finally arrived at her house.

Going in, I called out before she did for Ichizo, who was fortunately in his room upstairs, to come down. I told him that his mother had been quite worried about him and had taken the trouble to visit me at Yarai and that I had just now managed to set her mind at rest by having a talk with her. Accordingly, it was on my responsibility that he was being allowed to make his trip. "So to give us as little trouble as possible, you should take care to write immediately on arriving or setting out from wherever you happen to be or from wherever you stay so that we can call you back in case you're needed." Ichizo replied that he was already quite aware of such precautions without my having to warn him. He smiled as he glanced at his mother's face.

I believed I had somewhat succeeded in easing my sister's concern, and I returned by streetcar to Yarai at around eleven o'clock.

My wife came out to the porch to meet me. "How did it go?" she asked, as though she had been waiting impatiently.

"Well, I think we can relax," I replied. Actually, I did feel relieved, so I didn't go to Shimbashi Station the following day to see Ichizo off.

The letters he promised came from all the places he reached. They amounted to nearly one a day, but most of them were no more than two or three lines of simple description on picture postcards of the places he visited. My wife ridiculed me for looking relieved each time I received one. Once I said to her that, judging from the cards, he didn't seem to be in any danger and that it appeared her prediction had come true. She answered bluntly, "It's only natural. Heaven forbid that those things you read in the newspaper and in novels should happen so often!" My wife is a woman who regards newspaper articles in the same light as novels. And she firmly believes both untrue. She's a woman who's that alienated from romance.

I was quite satisfied with the postcards, but my brows relaxed even more when letters in envelopes began reaching me. For in them I found no trace, as I had originally feared, of a hand dyeing the rolled letter paper with melancholy hues. Unless you actually read them, you couldn't possibly know how those phrases on stationery indicated with so much more clarity than those postcards did his change in mood. I have a few here that I've kept.

Among the various things accounting for this change in mood — for example, the air in Kyoto and the water in Uji — what seems to have given our Tokyo-bred Ichizo the greatest stimulation was the way of speech of the people who live around Kyoto and Osaka. To those of us who have frequented that area, this probably sounds ridiculous, but the smooth, quiet drawl of their speech may have had a much more soothing effect on Ichizo's nervous condition than sedatives would have. What? Such an accent from the lips of young women? I don't know about that. Of course, words from a pretty young mouth would probably have a much greater effect than those from any other. And since Ichizo is young, he might approach such a woman on his own. But, oddly enough, what he's written has to do with old women: To hear people of this region speak makes me feel as if I were submitting myself to a slight drunkenness. Some say they dislike that way of speaking for sounding too clammy, but it seems just the reverse to me. What I dislike is Tokyo speech. Tokyoites are unduly proud of speaking in tones as angular and rough as confetti, and they swagger, jarring their listener's mood. Yesterday I came to Osaka from Kyoto, and today I called on a friend who works for the Asahi newspaper. He took me to Mino'o, famous for its maple leaves in the fall. Of course I didn't see any colored leaves at this time of year, but the place was splendid, with mountains and rills and waterfalls down a precipice where the path ends.To give me a rest, my friend took me into a two-storied building he said was his newspaper clubhouse. Inside was a wide dirt floor extending the entire length of the building. The floor had been entirely tiled, so that it gave me an impression as tranquil as if I were in a temple in China. I was told the house had first been built as a villa but was later bought by the Asahi and turned into a clubhouse. Even if it had been a villa, what was the use of this broad area all paved with tiles? It looked so odd that I asked my friend, but he had no idea about it. Actually I'm not really that much concerned. Only I thought that since you're versed in such matters, I'd add this superfluous detail.What I really wanted to tell you about is not this wide floor but rather about the old women who were there. There were two of them, one standing, the other sitting on a chair. Both of them had their heads shaved. The one standing greeted my friend as soon as we entered. "Oh, sorry," she said, "I was just shaving granny here. She's eighty-six. . Sit still a moment, dear. There's only a little to finish. . There now, you're clean-shaven, not a hair left. There's nothing to worry about." The one sitting passed her hand over her head and said, "Why, thanks!" My friend looked back at me and laughed. "Quite a rustic scene, isn't it?" he said. I laughed too. Not only did I laugh, but I felt as much at home as if I had been born a century ago. I want to take this feeling back to Tokyo as my souvenir.

I too hoped he would bring to my sister this feeling as his travel gift to her.

The next letter, from Akashi, is somewhat more intricate and therefore indicates more distinctly Ichizo's character.I came here this evening. The moon is up and the garden is bright, quite a contrast to my room in the shade, which seems gloomy. I had my supper and I was smoking and looking out toward the sea — it's just in front of the garden. As it's a calm evening without even a ripple of wave, the beach looks scarcely distinguishable from a riverside or the edge of a pond. One of those barges people sit on to enjoy the evening cool came drifting by. The figure of the boat was hardly perceptible in the darkness, but with its broad flat bottom it had so gentle a shape that I could hardly imagine it was floating on the sea. I suppose it must have had a roof over it, for hanging from its eaves were a number of painted paper lanterns. Beyond the faint light from these lanterns some people seemed to be sitting. I heard the sound of a samisen too. But on the whole it was very quiet and slid away before me as if it were enjoying its smooth movement.As I quietly followed its shadow with my eyes, I was reminded of an anecdote about my grandfather in his young days. Of course I think you must remember it, the story of his having gone boating to enjoy moon-viewing as men about town are said to have done during the Edo period. My mother told it to me a few times. It went something like this, didn't it? He had a boat with a roof over it rowed up the Sumida as far as the Ayase. Standing in the midst of the perfect harmony of the silent moon and the silent water reflecting the moonlight, each enhancing the other's beauty, he hurled up into the light of the moon an unfolded silver fan he had brought along with him especially for that purpose. The fan turned round and round on its pivot, its silver-painted paper gleaming until it dropped onto the water. What a beautiful spectacle that must have been! And not only that single fan, but each of the others in the boat tossed up his own flickering glimmer, each fan competing with the other — a scene of weird beauty even in imagination.Grandfather was said to be such an extravagant man that he had a copper boiler used for warming bottles of sake filled with sake instead of water, and he made them throw away the sake in the boiler afterward. For the kind of man he was, he probably didn't care in the least if as many as one hundred silver-gilt fans were tossed away at one time. For that matter, whether it's something hereditary or not, you, dear uncle, in spite of your not being wealthy — pardon the liberty I've taken in saying that! — have something extravagant about you. And from way back I've noticed that my shy, retiring mother has, oddly enough, a trait of liking things that are gay and merry. Only I alone— you're probably coming to the hasty conclusion that I'm bringing up that subject again, but please be at ease because I don't think I'm troubling myself as much about it as you may be anxiously thinking I am. When I mentioned 'I alone,' it wasn't said at all with any bitterness. What I wanted to say was that I was born along lines different from yours and mother's. Raised in relative ease as a child enjoying material comfort, I was happy and lived a carefree life of luxury without knowing it was luxury. I took it for granted I'd have clothing I could wear in public without feeling ashamed, clothes my mother took care of. But that assumption was due to my own ignorance fostered through long habit, and once I become aware of this, I suddenly grow uneasy. Aside from the question of clothing and food, I become frightened, as I did the other day for example, when I heard about a man of great wealth who recklessly squandered his money. He had gathered round him a great many geisha and professional jesters. From his briefcase he took a bundle of money, tore it into shreds, and gave it to them, their tip he called it. On another occasion, completely dressed in an elegant kimono, he plunged into a hot bath and later gave his clothes to the bath attendant. I heard of more instances of his debauchery, all of which flaunted an arrogance that had no fear of heaven. I detested the man when I heard about him. Or rather, lacking in spirit as I am, I feared him more than hated him. The way I see it, his conduct seems to be similar to that of a burglar threatening innocent people by sticking a drawn sword into tatami. I do fear in a truly religious sense that such acts wrong heaven or humanity, God or Buddha. That's how timid I am. Even while viewing extravagance from afar, I'm frightened to death imagining what would happen to a man riding at the summit of luxury after a momentary turn of Fortune's Wheel.With such thoughts in mind, I was watching that boat quietly floating by in the evening cool, and it occurred to me that such a diversion was best suited to life. As you once advised me, little by little I'm becoming frivolous. Please praise me for this.I was told that the guests in an upper room facing the moonlight were on a visit from Kobe. They used only that Tokyo speech I dislike so much, and occasionally they recited Chinese poems. Mixed into their talk were the coquettish voices of some women, but about twenty or thirty minutes ago it suddenly grew quiet in their room. A maid told me they had already gone back to Kobe. It's getting quite late, so I'll retire now too.

I wrote you last night, but today as well I'm reporting what has happened since this morning. Seeing me write so continuously only to you, dear uncle, you'll certainly say to yourself with a sarcastic half-smile, "Poor boy, he's got no one to write to, so he's forced to spend all this time writing so diligendy only to me and his mother." As I put my brush to the paper, that thought occurred to me. If I had a sweetheart, though, and you received no letters from me, you'd probably bless me for it. I think I'd be happier too if I neglected writing you because of that. In fact, when I went upstairs after waking this morning to look down toward the sea, one such happy couple was walking along the beach toward the west. Perhaps they're staying at this hotel. It was with envy that I looked at their receding figures, the woman with her cream-colored parasol over her and the skirt of her kimono slightly tucked up as she walked barefoot with the man through the rippling water. Since the water's clean, the sea near the shore when you look down at it from a high place is as transparent as air in sunlight. You can even see jellyfish floating in it. Two of the hotel guests are out swimming now. Every single movement of their limbs is distinctly visible, all to the detraction of their expertise as swimmers. (7:30 a.m.)This time a European's in the water alone. A young woman has come outdoors after him. Standing in the water, she keeps calling to another foreigner who has remained upstairs. She uses such English as "You come here!" And again and again she says something like "It is very nice in water." Her English is skillful, fluent, enviably good. I'm listening to her with admiration; she speaks far better than I ever could. Whether this young woman couldn't swim or didn't want to, she was only standing in water up to her chest. Then the foreigner who had gone into the water took her by the hand and tried to lead her in deeper. Apparently she held back, refusing to go. Finally he lifted and cradled her in the water. The splashing of the struggling woman and her giggling, shrieking voice were audible way in the distance. (10:00 a.m.)A little while ago a guest in a room downstairs who had brought two geisha with him came out to row. Where he had rowed his boat from I didn't know, but it was very small and quite unreliable. He tried to urge the two into the boat, saying he'd row, but they were afraid and wouldn't get in, though at last they were persuaded to. The air of exaggerated surprise the younger geisha put on was ludicrous. When he rowed them once around and returned, the older geisha called aloud toward a Japanese-style boat moored close to the rear of the inn, "Mr. Boatman, is your boat free?" This time she intended to carry some refreshments on board and head out to sea again. As I was looking on, she ordered some maids from the inn to bring beer, fruit, and a samisen onto the boat, and finally the geisha themselves got on board. But this patron of theirs, apparently quite a vigorous man, was still rowing offshore. He seemed to have failed to get anyone else to accompany him, but he had captured a naked dark-skinned village boy. The older geisha kept looking toward the rowboat, her face aghast for some time until she called at the top of her voice, "You fool!" Then he began rowing back. I found the geisha amusing, and the guest too. (11:00 a.m.)Dwelling on these trifles as though they were rarities will likely as not earn your mocking smile over my whimsical curiosity. But take this as proof that I've improved, thanks to my trip. For the first time I'm learning how to make a companion of the free air. Doesn't my not hating to write in detail about such trivia indicate that I can, after all, observe without thinking? To look without thought is now the best remedy for me. If I say this short journey is curing me of my nervousness, I'm ashamed at how inexpensive the recovery is. I do wish my mother had borne me ten times more cheaply, though.A great many white sails, like so many pieces of cloud, are passing in front of Awaji Island. I understand that on a hill of pine over against the sea, there's a shrine dedicated to the poet Hitomaro. I don't know much about him, but if I can find the time, I may as well visit his shrine before I leave.

Conclusion

Conclusion

Keitaro's adventures began with a story and ended with one. The world he had wanted to know was at first lying far off. Of late it lies just before his eyes. But in the long run he looked like an outsider who could neither enter that world nor play any part in it. His role was merely that of a kind of reporter who constantly puts a telephone receiver to his ear to listen to "the world."

Through Morimoto's lips he heard fragments of the vagabond life. But these fragments were quite superficial, composed only of outline and surface. And so they served only to inflate Keitaro's mind with innocent diversions, a mind already filled with wild curiosity. Yet through a gap in that mind inflated with fuzzy tales of adventure, Keitaro was able to catch sight of the image of Morimoto as a human being hovering between dream and reality. In addition to this knowledge of a form of human life, Keitaro had acquired both a sympathy and antipathy to Morimoto as a human being.

From Taguchi, that practical man of affairs, Keitaro learned something of the way a man views society. And at the same time he heard from Matsumoto, who had called himself a high-class idler, a portion of his view of life. Engraved on Keitaro's mind was the contrast between these two persons who, though connected by close social ties, were utterly opposite types. Knowing them made him feel that his own worldly experience had widened somewhat. But that experience extended only in breadth, hardly in depth.

Through the lips of a woman called Chiyoko, Keitaro heard about the death of a child. The death described by her was different from death as he imagined the world takes it to be. It drew out his finer feelings as though he were observing a beautiful picture. But mingled in that fine feeling were tears — tears not so much forced to try to escape pain, but shed in the sense of desiring to embrace a sorrow as long as possible. As an unmarried young man, Keitaro had little sympathy for young children. Still, the death of a beautiful child buried in a beautiful way aroused in him feelings of pity. It was the sad tale of an infant girl born on the eve of the Doll's Festival as though her fate had been that of a doll.

From Sunaga, Keitaro was surprised to hear of the slight dissonance between a mother and son. Keitaro had his own mother in his own hometown. But their relationship, while far from being as intimate as Sunaga and his mother's, did not have as entangled a fate as that of his friend. Keitaro had absolutely no doubts about how to understand the relationship with his own mother, since he was her child; at the same time he had been resigned to its prosaic quality. A more complicated relationship between parent and child, even though he could imagine it, could not really be felt by him in its reality. He thought his view of such connections had been much more deeply delved into, though, through learning about Sunaga's situation.

He heard too from Sunaga about his relationship with Chiyoko. And he wondered if eventually the two were made for one another as husband and wife, or whether they were to continue as intimate friends, or else remain at odds as enemies. These doubts had made Keitaro, driven half by curiosity, half by goodwill, run to Matsumoto. He unexpectedly discovered that Matsumoto was not merely a bystander observing the world with an imported pipe in his mouth. Keitaro heard a detailed report from him on what he had thought of Sunaga and how he had dealt with him. And Keitaro had also been fully informed as to why Matsumoto had felt compelled to treat Sunaga as he had.

In retrospect, Keitaro's career since his departure from school, at which time he had aspired to come into contact with the real world, was nothing more than his proceeding here and there among various people and listening to their tales. The one instance in which knowledge or feeling had not been imparted to him through the ear was limited almost entirely to the time he had stood at the Ogawamachi streetcar stop with the precious cane in his hand and had followed the man in the salt-and-pepper cloak after he had left the streetcar and gone into a Western-style restaurant with a young woman. Even that moment, when viewed at present on the board of memory, was mere child's play, hardly to be designated as adventure or exploration. True, it was through this experience that Keitaro had found a job. But as a man's experience the action proved serious only to himself; to the eyes of others it was ridiculous in its significance.

In short, all the knowledge and feeling Keitaro had recently received about life came by way of his eardrum. A series of long tales beginning with Morimoto and ending with Matsumoto had moved him at first widely and superficially and then, by degrees, deeply and subtly until the series of tales ceased abruptly. But, after all, Keitaro himself could not enter their world. And that was the point where he felt something unsatisfactory and at the same time something felicitous. In one sense he cursed the snakehead for his dissatisfaction and in another blessed it for his happiness. And then looking up at the great firmament, he thought of how this drama, which seemed to have come to a sudden halt, would hereafter flow and turn forever.

Translator's Afterword

A great deal has been written about the life of Soseki Natsume (1867–1916), so there is perhaps no need to recount a detailed biography here. It may be sufficient to remind readers that his boyhood was psychologically though not materially painful; that he seriously began to study English at the famous First Higher School in Tokyo; that he majored in English at Tokyo University; that he studied for almost two years in London as a government scholar; that he succeeded Lafcadio Hearn as lecturer at Tokyo University; and that he jolted academic and literary circles in 1907 by resigning from the University and other institutions at which he was employed as a teacher and by accepting an offer from the Asahi Shimbun, the largest daily newspaper in Japan at the time, to begin serializing his novels in its columns. His nine major novels were written for the Asahi.

Not enough has been written in English, however, about Soseki's newspaper career. That a prestigious member of a prestigious university could take the "inferior" role of a newspaper novelist did indeed jolt the intellectuals of the Meiji era, a time when a journalist's status was quite lower than it is today, but the move seems typical of Soseki. Early in his career, in 1895, he had taken an "inferior" position as a high school teacher of English in Matsuyama, a town on the island of Shikoku — a relatively remote part of Japan — removing himself by choice from the active literary and intellectual scene in Tokyo. It would seem that life in Matsuyama would be a total decline for one with Soseki's brilliant academic record and artistic, philosophical, and creative bent. Yet because of his own belief in self-assertion and independence and because of his own insistent questioning of life and its perpetual opposites, what seems startling to us had begun in the early Soseki and persisted until his death. Soseki continues to fascinate us because of the tensions between what a public expects and what the writer's own inner world makes immediate and imperative.*

Soseki's life as a lecturer at Tokyo University and a full-time professor at the First Higher School, he discovered, lessened the time that he could devote to writing, despite the fact that he had been able to create his satiric work I Am a Cat (1905-6) and several stories, in addition to poems and scholarly articles. He revealed in letters that teaching brought him less and less satisfaction. On May 9, 1905, he wrote, "I am a teacher, but it seems more agreeable to my nature to establish myself as a hack writer than to be a successful teacher. So henceforth I intend to make an effort to cut a figure in the literary world." And on September 17, 1905: "My time is wasted every day over visitors. On reflection, I've come to remember that I ought not to be doing this until my death. It is going against nature unreasonably to try to do so many things at once — teaching at three different schools, receiving so many guests and visitors, studying freely for myself, and doing creative work as well. I'm essentially a man of few wants who will be content if I am able to write during my whole life two or three works that will seem satisfactory to myself; if this is possible, I don't care in the least about other things. But to do that I've got to eat beef and eggs, and because of such a requisite, it has come about that I have been forgetting my own nature in that I am following, to my infinite regret, a profession against my will. (This sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?) Anyway, what I want to quit is teaching, and what I desire to do is creative work."

It was not until the spring of 1907 that Soseki actually undertook the move to the Asahi. Overtures had been made by the Yomiuri, another influential Tokyo daily, to take charge of its literary columns, and by the Hochi and Kokumin newspapers. In addition, Tokyo University offered Soseki a professorship in March 1907. His rejection of all these had been immediate, for to enter the new profession meant to be plagued by various political aspects of literary partisanship and rivalry that would not allow him the personal freedom he wanted, and to continue in the other meant extending the burden of teaching. Furthermore, he was of course concerned about the welfare of his family if he were to leave teaching, so he was cautious and would not give his consent to any proposal from the newspapers unless they would guarantee following through on all his conditions, namely, that his remuneration (at a level at least equivalent to what he was receiving from teaching) was guaranteed and that there would be no dismissal without cause by the editors or the owner of the newpaper. Evidently, the Yomiuri, Hochi, and Kokumin were not prepared to fully meet these requirements.

Despite these refusals, the wide and great favor of the novels Soseki had published in rapid succession in 1906 must have made him feel confident of his powers in maintaining his life as a novelist. Thus, when the Asahi approached him in February 1907 with greater earnestness than its competitors had, he was satisfied that his conditions had been met and additionally that his novels would be published whether they were suitable for newspaper readers or not, whether he was fashionable or not. His monthly salary would be two hundred yen (equivalent then to about one hundred dollars; equivalent today to about one million yen, or four thousand dollars), and he would receive various fringe benefits. Apparently Soseki had agreed to write two novels a year, each in perhaps one hundred installments; if the novels were short, they might number three a year.

To the Spring Equinox and Beyond (1912) was the sixth novel Soseki serialized in the Asahi. The five novels which appeared before this were The Poppy (1907), The Miner (1908), and the famous trilogy of Sanshiro (1908), And Then (1909), and The Gate (1910) (published in English under its original Japanese title, Mon). What seems clear is that Soseki in these novels was finding his way, experimenting, changing his emphasis. The first two show more experimentation and less staying power, whereas the latter three before Equinox reveal Soseki's evolutionary maturation as an artist, concentrating as he does on a kind of general though not strictly adhered to time span in which the lives of his main characters focus on the university world, the world outside the university, and the world of middle age. Equinox possibly relates more to Sanshiro than to the other two of the trilogy in that the hero, Keitaro, like Sanshiro himself, is on a journey through life. Nothing much seems to happen to him, yet everything he experiences is part of the maturation process of a young man.

A look at the Foreword to Equinox, which appeared in the Asahi in 1912, as well as at the immediately previous occurrences in Soseki's life, is revealing as background to the novel itself, both in terms of the writer's state of mind and the possible change in attitude toward the world that these momentous experiences wrought in him. In the Foreword, Soseki first refers to his stay at a Shuzenji spa. He had finished The Gate in June 1910 and immediately thereafter was hospitalized for a gastric ulcer for over a month. In August, he went to Shuzenji to try to recover, but on August 24, he vomited an enormous quantity of blood and was in a syncopal state for about half an hour. Even the doctors attending him thought the case hopeless. Miraculously, though, he mended, but had to remain in Shuzenji until October, whereupon he returned to Tokyo and was again hospitalized for further treatment until February 1911. A series of lectures in the Kansai district sponsored by the Osaka Asahi during the summer of the same year further affected his health, and he required additional hospitalization. Home in Tokyo in September, he had to be operated on again, for hemorrhoids this time, the treatment for which lasted about six months. The greatest trauma of the year, however, was the shock of the sudden illness in November of the Sosekis' fifth child, a daughter named Hinako, whose equally sudden death from an unknown cause brought Soseki to the brink of collapse. It is no wonder that no novel appeared in 1911.

What went through Soseki's mind during this period is revealed in his essays and diary entries. In "Things Recollected," a series of essays written during his hospitalization in 1910, he wrote, "Lying on my back and looking at the ceiling, I thought that other people in the world were kinder than I was. There came suddenly a warm breeze into this world I had thought too hard to live in, I who had so little dreamt of the busy world expending so much time and trouble upon a man over forty, a man going to be combed out by Nature, a man having few merits in his past returned to life not only in body but in mind as well. I thanked Heaven for this illness and I thanked those who had not spared trouble and time over my recovery. Would that I were a good man! That was my wish. And I swore within myself that one who would destroy this blissful thought would be my eternal foe!"

In a diary entry for September 26, 1910, Soseki noted, "As I become convalescent, I have all the more a hankering after illness. After complete recovery, my life of enjoying generosity without any stress and having my mind go wherever it will from morning to night, being indulged by all people, men in society, acquaintances and friends, and my employers who do me good turns and take every care while waiting on me day and night — all of these will vanish like a brief dream, leaving behind a world hard as iron, a will to be sharpened, and a society to be fought through. I don't at all like relinquishing the bliss I'm now having." And in a further diary entry for October 31, 1910, he commented, "The friends I want now are men of taste, not those who want to argue about life and art and other things of that sort. In my present state I prefer a bird's voice to that of a human, the color of the sky rather than the faces of women, flowers more than visitors and guests, meditation more than familiar talk, and reading more than playing games. What I wish to have is agreeable leisure; what I dislike is worldly business."

It seems Soseki wished to remain, if possible, in a world of complete peace and freedom aloof from the real world. This was the kind of Utopia he had had a longing for ever since his younger days. As a boy who had once gazed at the India-ink landscape of a nanga painting, he had wanted to dwell in such an idealistic, romantic place even if only once in his lifetime. In Grass Pillow (1906) (published in English under the title The Three-Cornered World), Soseki had cited lines from two Chinese poems and talked about the virtues of oriental poetry; his experience with Zen, equally related to the arts, made him aware of the life of meditation. Yet in his diary entry of December 3, 1911, he wrote, "My stomach has cracked. My mind, too, it seems, for I feel an incurable sorrow each time I recall [the loss of my child]." The poignant fourth section in Equinox depicts the death and funeral of Matsumoto's youngest child.

Soseki notes in the Foreword to Equinox that it was on New Year's Day, 1912, that he began what he felt was a disburdening of a duty he had long delayed, yet he wondered if he could bring the novel off successfully. He hoped to produce an interesting work, since he had satisfied neither his friends nor his readers for a long time. Nevertheless, he felt that it was in the nature of creative writing itself that an author might be unable to predict if the work would turn out as he himself wished. Soseki did not see any need, as he had in the announcement to Sanshiro, to state anything about the subject matter or his own view of the work or even what the work claimed to be attempting. He pointed out that he was neither a writer of naturalism nor symbolism, "still less one of those neo-Romanticists we often hear of recently. I am one lacking in confidence that his work will be dyed sufficiently in any definite color to attract the attention of passers-by. . Only I have a faith that I am working on my own. So long as I follow my own instincts, I don't care a bit whether I'm a naturalist or a romanticist wearing 'neo' on his head." He continued by expressing his fear that he might disappoint his readers by falling below the standards he had set for himself. He had no interest in trying to create something novel or unique or "brand new." Yet he equally feared that vanity might make him try something beyond his skills.

The title of Equinox is intriguing. Soseki seems to claim it was chosen because he intended to start the novel on the first day of the New Year of 1912 and to continue it until some day past the spring equinox. He writes in the Foreword, "It is indeed a meaningless title. But I have long entertained an idea that if individual short stories are piled one over another and these so interlaced as to compose themselves into one long story, it may be that such a story will, as a newspaper novel, be read with more interest than is expected from the usual long story."

That Soseki is again experimenting is obvious in spite of his earlier indication that he was not trying anything unique or new. Yet he seems to qualify even this approach to the content and structure of his work: "However, since a novel, no matter how unskillful the writer may be, must, unlike an architect's plan, have in it activity and development of its own, it does not progress as he had planned it beforehand." He concludes, ". . going well or not, it may at least be anticipated that we are to have a series of short stories that will be difficult to classify definitely as short stories or as ones having a link between them. It now seems to me that such a form will be all right."

That Soseki, then, was attempting in Equinox a form of linked stories that somehow did double duty as individual story, yet as story forming part of a larger world of the novel, accounts for the division of the work into six books plus a conclusion. A glance, say, at the third section indicates that the novel superseded the individual story. What might have become purely picaresque adventures involving Keitaro did not take that less artistic shape; instead, Equinox assumes the form of a novel of education, the young university graduate Keitaro somehow stumbling through the world beyond academia eventually to experience, however directly or indirectly, the romantic, the practical, the philosophical, and the existential. The first choice Keitaro makes, that of becoming a detective, if even temporarily, he must in the end realize is a choice inferior to the kind of choices his friend Sunaga has available to him. It is through indirection that Keitaro proceeds and ultimately gets closer to the very core of life itself.

Certainly Keitaro is far more active in the beginning of the novel. The later stories find him in the role of listener, drawing out the narratives from the other characters. If the reader, however, sees Keitaro merely as a narrative device for the more dramatic story of his friend Sunaga, this would limit Keitaro's appeal, which he certainly has, for he is affected by the contradictory aspirations of life, not merely those in the realm of love. Death, family relationships, existential choice, multiple motives of human conduct and aspiration, and suicide, all these are whirling around him, and not to be affected by them would make him not even worthy of being a point-of-view-strategy.

While Keitaro is struggling to find a position in the world, Sunaga, like his uncle Matsumoto, refuses to look for work. Sunaga has also graduated recently but, able to live comfortably enough in the economic security inherited from his father, makes no effort in the direction of the utilitarian life in spite of the offers that have come his way. Unlike his other uncle, Taguchi, Sunaga refuses to take part in any kind of mundane world, even that of the practical joker.

Sunaga, we discover, is a sharp thinker whose mental activity knows no rest as he is sometimes driven even to the brink of madness. It is not an exaggeration to say that all of Sunaga's energy is directed toward finding those home-truths that elude one in the world of modernity: who am I? what am I to become? how is one to live facing the ambiguities of self-identity, faith, and love? The journey Sunaga takes at the end of the novel is his own search in attempting to answer these questions. For Keitaro, these pursuits are equally important, for he is the tuned-in listener to whom all these probings are eventually directed, first by Chiyoko, then by Sunaga, and finally by Matsumoto.

To be active in the world as Sunaga's uncle Taguchi is and as the romantic in Keitaro himself wishes to be is one choice open to all young men; on the other hand, there is the possibility of being a dilettante like Matsumoto, whose philosophy has highly motivated and equally disturbed the young Sunaga. Both Sunaga and Matsumoto refuse to be bound by work. They are allowed to be "high-class idlers" — the way of life Soseki himself desired, especially after the Shuzenji crisis. Sunaga, we might say, is the Soseki of his younger years, Matsumoto the mature Soseki. Sunaga attempts a thorough analysis of himself and his problems in order to reach self-realization. The attempt, however, leads to an impasse, and this is the Soseki who often fell into nervous disorder verging on breakdown. Extremely important to the West has been this sort of analytical approach to the world, yet Soseki as an Oriental was unable to absorb the analytical approach so seemingly valuable to the West as a source of salvation. It is Matsumoto, the mature Soseki, who realizes the contradictions inherent in this approach to life and who tries to turn his nephew from the introvert's eternal problem of self-identification through logic to the outward observation of things as they are without thinking about them.

The positive note on which Equinox ends despite the remaining complexities of Sunaga's relationship with the beautiful and individualistic Chiyoko seems to point to Soseki's faith in those humane values so often connected to his life and work.

KINGO OCHIAI

Tokyo, Japan

SANFORD GOLDSTEIN

West Lafayette, Indiana, U.S.A.

Footnote

* That Soseki was not meant to follow the usual paths was perhaps foreshadowed by his stay for a few weeks at a Zen temple in Kamakura in 1894, a stay that he imposed on himself by a crisis in his literary, social, and personal life. He had been suffering from a great deal of restlessness, having changed his living quarters three times during half a year and having "wandered about" in three different places away from Tokyo, all the while quite distressed about what may be taken as the fundamental problems of life and being. On the one hand he was expected, and imposed the duty on himself, to be useful and to distinguish himself in the scholarly world; on the other, he had a strong distaste for worldly ways to success, which his inherent and highly sensitive moral sense would not allow him to yield to. In addition, he was suffering from other internal contradictions — between the imperative demand of doing what he should in his own way and the awareness of lacking the boldness to forge ahead without caring either for praise or censure from the world around him. This state of mind led him to extreme pessimism and misanthropy and to those morbid symptoms of insanity in his later years — he was even thought to have gone "mad" in London. We see such a tendency in such heroes as Ichiro in The Wayfarer (1914), Kenzo in Grass on the Wayside (1915), and, to some extent, Sunaga in Equinox. Soseki's trip to the Zen temple was an attempt to rescue himself from his agonizing restlessness. This experience is represented in The Gate (1910). It was probably his own resolution to abandon everything and cut off all relationships that made him choose to go to Matsuyama.

Glossary

bushukan: an irregularly shaped orange with finger-like extensions (hence the name bushukan, lit., Buddha's hand citrus)

fire fighter's standard: the banner of a company of firemen held up by their leader until the fire is extinguished

geta: wooden clogs

go: a game for two players using a board and small round white and black checker-like pieces

hakama: a pleated skirt worn over the lower half of a kimono

haori: a loose, knee-length coat

janome: (lit., serpent's eye) an umbrella made with a thin, lacquered bamboo frame and a dark-colored oil paper with a region of light color which looks like a bull's-eye

kana: the Japanese syllabaries as opposed to the Chinese characters

Kannon: in Buddhism, the bodhisattva of mercy

lower town: a literal translation of the word shitamachi, an appellation referring to Tokyo's low-lying areas, the home of the artisan and merchant

Meiji: the era lasting from 1868 to 1912; "the forties of Meiji" would thus be about the 1910s

miso: fermented soybean paste; used most commonly in making soup

Namu Amida Butsu: a prayer to Buddha meaning something like "Hail, merciful Buddha"

negake: a piece of jewelry for adorning a woman's top-knot

roman: a shortened form of "romance," "romantic," or "romanticism"

sabi: a term used of poetry, art, etc., often translated as "elegant simplicity"

sanjin: the pronunciation derived from Chinese of the characters usually pronounced yama-no-kami, literally "mountain god," but meaning a nagging wife

shimada: a bouffant hairstyle, worn by unmarried women

shoji: a sliding wood-framed door paneled with white paper; in a boardinghouse of the type Keitaro lived in, smaller shoji served as the window to a room, glass windows not being standard at the time

sushi: rice seasoned with vinegar, usually flavored with a kind of horseradish, and most often topped with a slice of raw fish or rolled with various ingredients in dried laver

tabi: a sock-like covering for the foot, having a separate section for the big toe

talami: thick rectangular rice-straw mats of set dimensions (about 1 x 2 m.) covered with woven rush, placed into and serving as the floor in most rooms of a Japanese house

tomobiki: (lit., friend-pull) one of six days used in divination based on ancient Chinese philosophy; as a day for a funeral it is thought to be inauspicious because a relative of the dead person might be pulled into death as well

yukata: an unlined cotton kimono for summer wear or night-wear

Content

Natsume Soseki
To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

About the Authors

~ ~ ~

To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

1: After a Bath

2: At the Streetcar Stop

3: The Report

4: A Rainy Day

5: Sunaga's Story

6: Matsumot's Account

Conclusion

Translator's Afterword

Glossary