I RECEIVED two or three letters from you this summer. If I remember rightly, it was in your second letter that you asked me to help you find a suitable post. When I read it, I felt that the least I could do was to answer your letter. But I must confess that in the end, I did nothing. As you know, my circle of acquaintances is very small. Indeed, it would be more correct to say that I live alone in this world. How could I, then, have been of any help to you? However, that is of little importance. You see, when your letter came, I was trying desperately to decide what I should do with myself. I was thinking, "Should I go on living as I do now, like a mummy left in the midst of living beings, or should I...?" In those days, every time I thought of the latter alternative, I was seized with a terrible fear. I was like a man who runs to the edge of a cliff, and looking down, sees that the abyss is bottomless. I was a coward. And like most cowards I suffered because I could not decide. Unfortunately, it would not be an exaggeration to say that at the time I was hardly aware of your existence. To go further, such a matter as your future livelihood was to me almost totally without significance. I did not care what you did. It was not, to my way of thinking, worth all the fuss. I put your letter in the letter rack and continued to worry about my own problem. One brief and contemptuous glance in your direction, that is about all I thought you deserved. Why should a fellow, I asked myself, as comfortably placed as you, start whining for a job so soon after graduating? It is because I feel that I owe you some sort of explanation for my conduct that I tell you all this. I am not being purposely rude in order to anger you. I believe that you will understand when you have read my letter. At any rate, I should have at least acknowledged your letter. Please forgive me for my negligence.

Some time later, I sent you a telegram. To tell you the truth, I simply wanted to see you again. Also, I wanted to tell you the story of my past as you had once asked me to. When your telegram came, saying that you could not come to Tokyo, I was deeply disappointed. I remember I sat still for a while, staring at it. You too must have felt that a telegram was not enough, for you kindly wrote me a letter soon afterwards. The letter made it quite clear why you could not come to Tokyo. I had no reason to resent your not complying with my request. How could you have left home with your own father so ill? It was I who was at fault. I should have remembered your father's condition. As a matter of fact, when I sent you that telegram, I had forgotten all about him. I, who had previously warned you of the seriousness of his illness, could not remember . . . You see, I am an inconsistent person. This inconsistency may not be so much a natural part of my character as the effect that the remembrance of my own past has had on me. At any rate, I am well aware of my failing. You must forgive me.

When I read your letter--your last letter to me--I realized I had done wrong. I thought I would write to you and say so. I went so far as to pick up my pen but, in the end, put it back on the desk without writing a single line. The truth is, the only things I would have thought worth saying at the time are those things which I shall say here, and it was then too soon for me to write such a letter. That is why I sent you that simple telegram, telling you that there was no need to come.

*

I began then to write this letter. I am not accustomed to writing, and it pained me much to find that many of the incidents and my own thoughts I could not describe as freely as I wished. Often, I was tempted to abandon the task, and so break my promise to you. But every time I dropped my pen thinking I could not go on, I found that, before a full hour had passed, I was writing once more. You may take this as a manifestation of my naturally strong sense of obligation. I will not contradict you if you do. As you know, I have led a very secluded life and have had little contact with the outside world. As I look about me, I find that I really have no obligations. Either through force of circumstances or through my own designing, I have lived in such a way as to free my life of obligation. But this is not because I have not it in me to feel a sense of obligation towards others. Rather, it is because I feel it so sharply that I have led such a negative kind of life. I am not strong enough to bear the pains that it inflicts on one. You will understand, then, that if I had not kept my promise to you I should have felt very uneasy. The desire to avoid such uneasiness was in itself enough to make me pick up my pen again.

But that is not the only reason why I wanted to write this. You see, apart from any sense of obligation, there is the simple reason that I want to write about my past. Since my past was experienced only by me, I might be excused if I regarded it as my property, and mine alone. And is it not natural that I should want to give this thing, which is mine, to someone before I die? At least, that is how I feel. On the other hand, I would rather see it destroyed, with my life, than offer it to someone who does not want it. In truth, if there had not been such a person as you, my past would never have become known, even indirectly, to anyone. To you alone, then, among the millions of Japanese, I wish to tell my past. For you are sincere; and because once you said in all sincerity that you wished to learn from life itself.

Without hesitation, I am about to force you into the shadows of this dark world of ours. But you must not fear. Gaze steadily into the shadows and then take whatever will be of use to you in your own life. When I speak of darkness, I mean moral darkness. For I was born an ethical creature, and I was brought up to be an ethical man. True, my ethics may be different from those of the young men of today. But they are at least my own. I did not borrow them for the sake of convenience as a man might a dress suit. It is for this reason that I think you, who wish to grow, may learn something from my experience.

You will remember how you used to try to argue with me about contemporary ideas. You will remember too what my attitude was. Though I did not exactly disdain your opinions, I must admit I could not bring myself to respect them either. Your thoughts were without solid foundation, and you were too young to have had much experience. Sometimes, I laughed. Sometimes, you used to look at me discontentedly. In the end, you asked me to spread out my past like a picture scroll before your eyes. Then, for the first time, I respected you. I was moved by your decision, albeit discourteous in expression, to grasp something that was alive within my soul. You wished to cut open my heart and see the blood flow. I was then still alive. I did not want to die. That is why I refused you and postponed the granting of your wish to another day. Now, I myself am about to cut open my own heart, and drench your face with my blood. And I shall be satisfied if, when my heart stops beating, a new life lodges itself in your breast.

*

I was not yet twenty when I lost both my parents. I think that my wife once mentioned to you that they died of the same disease. Also, if I remember correctly, she told you, much to your surprise, that they died almost at the same time. My father, to tell the truth, was killed by that dreadful disease, typhoid; and my mother, who was nursing him, caught it from him.

I was their only son. Our family was well off, and so I was brought up in an atmosphere of generosity and ease. As I look back on my past, I cannot but feel that had my parents--or at least one of them--survived, I might have been allowed to keep my generous nature.  

I was left behind alone, helpless as a lost child. I was inexperienced and knew nothing of the ways of the world. My mother could not be with my father when he died. And when my mother was dying she was not told that my father was already dead. I do not know whether she knew, or whether she actually believed us when we told her that he was recovering. All I know is that she asked my uncle to take care of everything. I was there at the time: she nodded towards me, and said to my uncle, "Please look after my child." It would seem that she wanted to say much more, but she succeeded only in saying, ".... . to Tokyo..." My uncle quickly said, "All right. You mustn't worry." It may be that my mother's constitution did not succumb too easily to fever, but at any rate my uncle later said to me praisingly, "She's a brave woman." I do not know whether those few words of my mother's were her last or not. She of course knew the terrible nature of her own disease, and that she had caught it from my father. But I am by no means certain that she truly believed that she would die from it. And no matter how clear those words which she spoke in high fever might have been, they often left no trace in her memory when the fever subsided. That is why I... but never mind. What I am trying to say is that even then I was beginning to show signs of a deeply suspicious nature which could not accept anything without closely analyzing it. Irrelevant as the above account may be to the main part of my narrative, I feel that it will help you to understand one side of my character. Please read all such passages, then, in this light. This nature of mine led me not only to suspect the motives of individual persons but to doubt even the integrity of all mankind, and to what extent it increased my capacity for suffering you will see for yourself.  

I have digressed enough. Considering my situation, I am really quite calm. Even the sound of trams, which seems to become audible only when the rest of the world has gone to sleep, I can hear no more. The forlorn singing of the insects reaches me through the closed shutters, and one feels that their song is of the dews of coming autumn. My wife sleeps innocently in the next room. The pen in my hand makes a faint scratching sound as it traces one character after another down the page. My heart is tranquil as I sit before my desk. If the strokes of my characters seem sometimes ill-arranged, you must not think this due to my mental state. Attribute it, rather, to my inexperience with the pen.

*

At any rate, I, who was left alone, had no choice but to rely on my uncle in accordance with my mother's wishes. My uncle, on his part, accepted full responsibility and looked after my affairs. And he arranged, as I had hoped, for me to go to Tokyo.

I came to Tokyo and entered the college. College students in those days were considerably more violent and barbaric than they are now. One student I knew, for example, got into a fight with an apprentice one night and hurt him rather badly on the head with his wooden clogs. He had been drinking, and so did not see the other fellow taking his college cap from him in the midst of the violent fight. His name, of course, was carefully written on a label inside the cap. The police were ready to report him to the college, but thanks to the intercession of his friends the matter was prevented from becoming public. You went to college in more gentle days, and so you must feel contempt for such rough doings. I also, when I look back on those days, feel that we were all pretty silly. There was, however, a certain kind of admirable simplicity in the life of the student then which one does not find today. My monthly allowance, which my uncle sent me, was considerably less than what your father used to send you. (Of course, the cost of living has gone up since my student days.) But I do not remember wanting any more money than I received. Besides, my financial position was such that there was no reason for me to envy my classmates. When I think of it, it is likely that many of them envied me. In addition to my regular allowance, I used to receive allowances for books--I was already fond of buying books--and for incidental expenses which I spent freely.

Being innocent, I not only trusted my uncle completely, but admired him and even considered myself indebted to him. He was a business man. He was also, at one time, a member of the prefectural assembly. I seem to remember that, through his membership in the assembly, he had connections with some political party. Though he and my father were brothers, it would seem that their characters developed in quite different directions. My father was a simple, upright man, whose main purpose in life was to keep intact the property left him by his ancestors. He took pleasure in the tea ceremony and in the arrangement of flowers, and he loved to read poetry. Paintings and antiques seemed to interest him too. Our house was in the country, and I remember that a dealer from the town used to visit my father, bringing with him paintings, incense burners, and so on. (The town was about six miles away, and it was there that my uncle lived.) My father was, I suppose, what one might call a "man of means," [note 1] a country gentleman of taste. There was, therefore, quite a contrast between him and his active, worldly brother. Oddly enough, they seemed quite fond of each other. My father would often speak of my uncle in glowing terms, saying what a sound fellow he was, and how superior his brother's qualities were to his own. "The trouble with inheriting money from one's parents," he once said to my mother and to me, "is that it dulls one's wits. It's a bad thing not to have to struggle for one's living." I believe that he said this for my benefit. At least, he gave me a meaningful look at the time. That is why I remember his words so well. How could I doubt this uncle of mine, whom my father trusted and admired so much? It was natural that I should be proud of him. And when my father and mother died, he became more than someone to be proud of: he became a necessity.

*

When I went home the following summer, my uncle had already moved into our house with his family, and was now its new master. This had been arranged between us before I left for Tokyo. So long as I was not going to be in the house all the time, some such arrangement was necessary.

My uncle was at that time connected with many business enterprises in the town. I remember that when we agreed that he should move into the house and manage the property during my absence, he said to me with a smile: "Of course, from the point of view of my own business, it would be much more convenient to live in my own house than to live six miles from town." My house had a long history, and was not unknown in the district. In the country, as you are probably well aware, it is a very serious thing to tear down or sell a house with a long tradition when there is an heir. Such things do not worry me now, but I was young then, and I was torn between the desire to go to Tokyo and the fear of shirking the responsibility of my inheritance.

Unwillingly, my uncle consented to move into my house. He insisted, however, that he be allowed to keep his old residence in town so that he might stay there whenever it was necessary. Naturally, I had no objections; I was willing to agree to any arrangement which would enable me to go to Tokyo.

As a child will, I loved my home; and when parted from it, there was a yearning for it in my heart. I was like a traveler who, no matter where he goes, never doubts that he will some day return to his place of birth. I came to Tokyo of my own free will, but I had little doubt that I should return when the holidays came. And so I studied and played in the great city, dreaming often of my home.

I have no idea how my uncle divided his time between the two residences during my absence. At any rate, when I arrived, he and his whole family were living in my house. I suppose that those of his children who were still at school lived normally in the town house, but had been brought to our house in the country for the holidays.

They were all pleased to see me. I was pleased too, for the house had become a gay place; much gayer certainly than when my parents were alive. My uncle chased out his eldest son who had taken over my own room, and put me in it. I objected, saying that since the house was so crowded, I did not mind staying in some other room. But my uncle would not listen: "This is your house, after all," he said.

There were unhappy moments when I thought of my father and mother, but on the whole I had an enjoyable summer with my uncle's family. There was one thing, however, which cast a slight shadow on my memory of the summer: my uncle and aunt had more than once tried to persuade me, who had only just entered college, to marry. The first time they mentioned marriage to me, I was somewhat shocked, for the subject had been introduced suddenly: the second time, I positively refused to consider it; and the third time, I was forced to ask them why they wanted to discuss such a thing. The reason they gave was quite simple: I should, they said, get married as soon as possible and succeed my father. I myself had been under the happy impression that, so long as I came home for the holidays, all would be well. Of course, I was too well acquainted with the ways of the country not to see the reasonableness of my uncle's wish that I should get married and settle down properly as my father's heir. Moreover, I do not think that I really disliked the prospect; but I had only recently begun my studies at college, and it was no more real to me than a distant scene observed from the wrong end of a telescope.

*

I forgot all about the subject of marriage. None of the young men in my group seemed to me to have that domesticated look. They all seemed to do as they liked, and, as far as I could tell, were all bachelors. It is possible that, if one had examined their personal histories carefully, one might have discovered that, despite their easygoing ways, some of them had already been forced into marriage; but I was too young to even suspect such a thing. Besides, even if there had been such men in our midst, it is doubtful that they would have wanted to talk about marriage, a subject far removed from the thoughts of young students. To think of it, I was myself in this position; but I was not worried, and managed to spend another year happily at the college.

At the end of that academic year, I packed my bag once more and returned to my parents' resting place. In my house, where once my father and mother had lived, I saw the cheerful faces of my uncle and his family. Again I was able to breathe the air of my native place, which was as dear to me then as it ever was before. It was good to be back after a year of student life.

But I was not allowed to enjoy for long the familiar surroundings which had become almost a part of me. Once more, my uncle brought up the subject of marriage. His reasons for wanting to see me get married were the same as those he gave the previous year. But this time, he had someone in mind for me, which made the matter all the more embarrassing. The person that he suggested as a suitable bride was his own daughter, my cousin. "It will be a convenient arrangement for both parties," he said. "Your father, before he died, seemed to be of the same opinion." I could myself see the convenience of such a union; and I could quite easily believe that my father had been in agreement with my uncle. But the idea of marrying my cousin had never crossed my mind before, and had my uncle not pointed out the advantages of the marriage they would certainly have never occurred to me. I was therefore surprised; yet I had to admit to myself the reasonableness of my uncle's wishes. Perhaps I am a thoughtless sort of person. At any rate, I believe that the main source of my reluctance to marry my cousin lay in my complete indifference to her. As a child I had frequently gone to play at my uncle's home in town. I remember that I often spent the night there. My cousin and I were therefore childhood friends. You know of course that a brother does not fall in love with his sister. I may be simply repeating what has always been known, but I do believe that for love to grow there must first be the impact of novelty. Between two people who have always known each other, that necessary stimulus. can never be felt. Like the first whiff of burning incense, or like the taste of one's first cup of saké, there is in love that moment when all its power is felt. There may be fondness, but not love, between two people who have come to know each other well without ever having grasped that moment. No matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to want my cousin for a wife.

My uncle said that if I should insist, he would be willing to postpone my wedding until I had graduated. "But," he added, "as the saying goes, 'don't put off the good things.' I should like, if possible, to announce the engagement now." As far as I was concerned, a fianceé was no more desirable than a wife; and so I refused. My uncle pulled a sour face. My cousin cried; not because she was saddened by the prospect of a life without me, but because her woman's pride had been hurt by my refusal to marry her. I knew very well that she was no more in love with me than I was with her. I returned once more to Tokyo.

*  

The following summer, I went home for the third time. I had as usual awaited the end of the examinations impatiently, and then had hurried away from Tokyo as quickly as I could. Home was indeed very dear to me. You know of course that the very air of one's native place seems different from that of anywhere else. The smell of the earth, even, seems to have a special quality of its own. Besides, I found there to comfort me the tender memory of my father and mother. I looked forward to the months of July and August, when I could live like a snake hibernating in its hole, secure and comfortable in familiar surroundings.

I was so simple as to think that the question of marriage between my cousin and myself had been settled, and that there was no more need for me to worry about it. I believed that in life, so long as one rejected openly what one did not want, one would be left alone. And so the fact that I had not yielded to my uncle's persuasion worried me very little. After having spent a year without giving it much thought, I went home in my usual cheerful mood.

My uncle's attitude towards me, however, had changed. He did not receive me with open arms as he had done before. But being a rather easygoing sort of fellow, I did not notice this until I had been home for four or five days. Some incident or other brought it to my notice; and when I looked about me I saw that not only had my uncle become strange, but my aunt and my cousin also. Even my uncle's eldest son, who had not long before written to me for advice, saying that he was intending to go to a commercial college in Tokyo after his graduation from high school, seemed to behave strangely.

It was in my nature to begin wondering. "Why is it that my feelings have changed?" I asked myself. But quickly the question became: "Why is it that their feelings have changed?" And suddenly, I began to think that my dead father and mother had lifted the veil from my eyes so that I could see the world clearly for what it really was. You see, somewhere in my heart I believed that my parents, though they had departed from this world, still loved me as they had done when alive. I do not think that, even at that time, the rational part of me was undeveloped. But there was deeply rooted in my system a core of superstition bequeathed to me by my ancestors. I think that it is there still.

I went alone to the hill where my parents were buried and knelt down before their grave. I knelt partly in sorrow, and partly in gratitude. And as though my future happiness were held in the hands of these two buried under the cold stone, I prayed to them to watch over my destiny. You may laugh; and I will not blame you if you do. But I was that sort of person.

All of a sudden, my world had changed. I had had this experience before. It was, I think, in my sixteenth or seventeenth year that with a shock, I discovered that there was beauty in this world. I rubbed my eyes many times, not believing what they saw. And then my heart cried out: "How beautiful!" It is at the age of sixteen or seventeen that, both boys and girls become--to use a popular expression--"loveconscious." I was no different from the others, and for the first time in my life I was able to see women as the personification of beauty in this world. My eyes, which had been blind to the existence of the opposite sex, were suddenly opened; and before them a whole new universe unravelled itself.

My awareness--my sudden awareness--of my uncle's attitude was, I suppose, a similar experience. It rushed at me without warning. My uncle and his family appeared before my eyes as totally different beings. I was shocked. And I began to feel that, unless I did something, I might be lost.

*

I thought that I owed it to my dead parents to find out from my uncle the details of the family fortune which I had left to his management. It seemed that he was as busy as he professed to be, for he never slept under the same roof for more than a few nights at a time. For every two days in our house, he would spend three in town. Whenever I saw him, I found him in a fidgety mood. "I am so busy, so busy..." he would automatically say, and then hurry away. Before I began to doubt him, I was inclined to believe that he was really busy, or, when in a cynical mood, I would tell myself that it was probably the latest fashion to appear busy. But after I had decided to have a long talk with him about my inheritance, I began to suspect that he was trying to avoid such a talk--At any rate, I did not find it easy to get hold of him.

Then I heard that my uncle was keeping a mistress in town. The rumor reached me through an old friend of mine, who had been a classmate at high school. Considering my uncle's character, his having a mistress was nothing to be surprised about, but I, who had never heard such rumors about him during my father's lifetime, was shocked. My friend told me of other things that were being said about my uncle: one of them was that though at one time his business enterprises were thought to be failing, his situation seemed to have improved considerably in the last two or three years. I was given another reason for suspecting my uncle.

At last, I had a conference with him. To say that "I had a conference" may sound odd, but that is about the only way I can describe our talk. My uncle persisted in treating me like a child, while I regarded him with suspicion from the beginning. There was certainly no chance of our talk ending amicably.

Unfortunately, I am in too much of a hurry to describe the results of the "conference" in detail. To tell the truth, there is something much more important that I want to write about. I am hardly able to restrain my pen, which seems anxious to reach the main part of the narrative. Having lost forever the opportunity of talking to you at my leisure, I cannot say all the things that I wish to say. I am a slow and inexperienced writer, and I have little time.

You remember of course that day when I said that there was no such thing in this world as a species of men whose unique quality is badness; and that one should always be careful not to forget that a gentleman, when tempted, may easily become a rogue. You were then good enough to point out to me that I was excited. You also asked what it was that caused good men to become bad; and when I answered simply, "Money," you looked dissatisfied. I remember well that look of dissatisfaction on your face. I now confess to you that I was then thinking of my uncle. With hatred in my heart, I was thinking of my uncle, who seemed to typify all those ordinary men who become evil for the sake of money, and who seemed to me the personification of all those things in this world which make it unworthy of trust. To you who wished to probe deeply into the realm of ideas, my answer must have been quite unsatisfactory: it must have seemed trite. But for me, the answer that I gave was a living truth. Was I not excited? I believe that words uttered in passion contain a greater living truth than do those words which express thoughts rationally conceived. It is blood that moves the body. Words are not meant to stir the air only: they are capable of moving greater things.

*

In short, my uncle cheated me of my inheritance. He managed to do so without much difficulty during the three years that I was away in Tokyo. I was incredibly naive to have trustingly left everything under my uncle's management. It depends of course on the point of view: some, who do not consider worldliness a great virtue, may admire such a display of innocence. At any rate, I can never think of those days without cursing myself for being so trusting and honest. I find myself asking, "Why was I born so good-natured?" But, I must admit, I sometimes wish that I had never lost my old innocence, and that once more I could be the person that I was. Please remember that you met me after I had become soiled. If one respects one's elders because they have lived longer and have become more soiled than oneself, then certainly I deserve your respect.

There is little doubt that if I had married my cousin as my uncle wished, I would have profited materially. His real reasons for wanting me to marry his daughter were of course selfish. It was not simply the interest of the two houses that he had at heart: our marriage was to further his own base designs. I did not love my cousin, but I did not dislike her either. I find that now I take a certain amount of pleasure in the fact that I refused to make her my wife. It is true that I would have been cheated even if I had married her, but I have at least the consolation that in one matter at least, I had my way. This is, however, an unimportant detail. To you, it must seem that I am being rather silly and petty.

Other relatives of mine stepped in to settle the quarrel between me and my uncle. I had no trust in any of them. In fact, I regarded them as my enemies. I took it for granted that since my uncle had cheated me, they also would do the same. "If my uncle," I said to myself, "whom my father praised so much, could cheat me, then what reason have I to trust them?"

It was through their mediation, however, that I managed to receive all that remained to me. It amounted to far less than I had expected. There were two courses open to me: one was to accept quietly what was offered to me; and the other was to sue him. I was angry, but I hesitated. I feared that, if I took the latter course, I would have to wait a long time before the court reached a decision. I was a student, and time was very precious to me. I did not want my studies interrupted. I went to an old high school friend of mine who lived in town, and asked him to help me convert all my assets into cash. He advised me against doing so, but I would not listen. I had decided to leave, and stay away from home for a long time to come. I had made a vow never to see my uncle's face again.

Before leaving, I paid another visit to my parents' grave. I have not seen it since. I don't suppose I shall ever see it again.

My friend settled my affairs for me as I had asked, though he was not able to do so before a long time had passed after my return to Tokyo. It is not an easy thing to sell one's lands in the country. Besides, prospective buyers are always quick to take advantage of one's difficulties. The amount I finally received was much less than what my lands were worth. To tell the truth, my entire capital consisted of a few bonds that I had brought with me when I left home, and the money that I subsequently received through my friend. No doubt, my original inheritance was worth far more. What I found particularly galling was the fact that I myself had not been responsible for the dwindling of the family fortune. What I had, however, was certainly more than adequate for a student. As a matter of fact, I could not spend more than half the interest that accrued from my capital. Had I been in less easy circumstances as a student, I might not have been forced into such undreamt-of situations as later came my way.

*

As there was no more need for me to live as economically as I had done before, I began to toy with the idea of leaving the noisy boarding house and settling in a house of my own. I was, however, somewhat hesitant at first to put the idea into practice. I did not relish the thought of having to buy the necessary household goods, and of having to find an old housekeeper who was honest and whom I could depend upon to look after the house properly while I was away. At any rate, I decided one day to go for a walk and at the same time see if there were any vacant houses that I might find particularly attractive. I walked down the west side of Hongodai Hill and then up the slope of Koishikawa towards Denzuin Temple. The whole area has changed in appearance since the trams started going through there but, in those days, there was merely the mud wall of the Arsenal on the left as one walked up the slope, and on the right there were only open fields. I stopped for a moment, and thinking of nothing in particular, looked towards the hill on the other side of the valley. The view is not bad even now, but it was much more pleasant then. All was green as far as I could see: it was a soothing sight. I then began to wonder whether a suitable house could not be found in the neighborhood. I walked across the fields until I came to a narrow lane, and then followed it northward. Even today, that neighborhood has a higgledy-piggledy look. You can imagine what it was like in those days. I walked around in circles through innumerable little alleys until I came upon a small confectioner's. I went in and asked the woman who kept the shop whether she knew of a small but neat house that I could rent. "Well, let me see now .. ." she said, and for a while appeared to be in deep thought. She then said, "I am afraid I can't think of one at the moment." I decided there was no hope, and was about to leave the shop when she said: "Would you mind living with a family?" I became interested. After all, I thought to myself, living as the only paying guest in a quiet household would probably be more convenient than having a house of one's own. I sat down, and the woman began to tell me about a family she knew of that might take me in.

It was an army family; or, to be more accurate, a family that had once been connected with the army. The head of it had been killed, the woman believed, in the Sino-Japanese War. The bereaved family had lived in their old house near the Officers' School at Ichigaya until the previous year, but had found it too large--it was the sort of house with stables attached to it--and so had sold it and moved into a smaller one. There were only three people living in the house, the woman told me: the widow, her daughter, and one maid. The widow had apparently said to the woman that it was rather lonely in the new house, and that she would like a boarder, if someone suitable could be found. I thought that the house would be very quiet and that it would suit me very well. But I was afraid that such a family would not wish to take in a student about whom they knew nothing. I was tempted to give up the idea of going to the house. I reminded myself, however, that for a student I looked quite respectable. Besides, I was wearing my university cap. Of course, you will laugh and say, "What is so impressive about a university cap?" But in those days, university students were regarded with more respect than they are now. My square cap, then, gave me the confidence I needed. Following the directions given me by the woman in the confectioner's, and without proper introduction of any kind, I made my way to the house.

I introduced myself to the widow and told her the purpose of my visit. She questioned me closely concerning my background, my university, my field of study, and so on. My answers must have satisfied her, for she did not hesitate to say that I could move in as soon as I wished. The lady had an honest and direct manner. I was quite impressed, and thought to myself: "Are all soldiers' wives like her?" At the same time, I was surprised that a lady of such obvious strength of character could ever feel lonely.

*

I moved immediately. I was given the room in which our interview had taken place. It was the finest room in the house. I had by no means been living in squalor before: by my time, there were already a few high-class boarding houses in existence in the Hongo area. I had become accustomed to living in rooms which, by student standards, were more than adequate. But my new room was far more impressive than any I had had before in Tokyo. When I first moved into it, I felt that it was perhaps a little too grand for a student.

It was an eight-mat room. There was an alcove, and beside it, some ornamental shelves. On the side opposite the verandah, there was a closet six feet wide. There were no windows, but the room opened onto a sunny verandah, facing the south.

As soon as I moved into the room, I noticed a vase of flowers in the alcove. A koto [note 2] stood against the wall of the alcove, next to the flowers. Neither the flowers nor the koto pleased me. Having been brought up by a father who was fond of such things as Chinese poetry, calligraphy, and the tea ceremony, I was from childhood inclined to severity in my taste. I had learned to be contemptuous of such obvious attempts at charm as I found in the alcove.

Thanks to my uncle, the greater part of my father's art collection had disappeared, but there still remained to me a few items of value, most of which I had left with my friend at home for safekeeping. There were, however, four or five hanging scrolls that had struck my fancy, and these I took out of their wooden cases and put at the bottom of my trunk before leaving for Tokyo. I had been looking forward to hanging one of them in the alcove of my new room, but when I saw the flowers and the koto, I lost heart. When I learned later that the flowers had been put there to please me, I was secretly amused and exasperated. The koto apparently had always been there, and I suppose they could not find another place for it.

I think it likely that the shadow of a young woman has already begun to pass before your mind's eye. I must admit that I began to be curious about the young lady even before I moved in. Perhaps this vulgar curiosity on my part made me self-conscious, or perhaps I had not yet overcome my youthful shyness; but whatever the reason may have been, I behaved very awkwardly when I was introduced to Ojosan. [note 3] She, on her part, blushed.

I had already formed a picture in my mind of what she would be like from my observation of her mother's appearance and manner. The picture was not altogether flattering. Deciding that her mother was the soldier's wife par excellence, I had gone on to imagine what a typical soldier's daughter would be like. But all my preconceptions about Ojosan vanished as soon as I saw her face. And I was filled with a new awareness, far greater than any that I had ever experienced before, of the power of the opposite sex. After that, the flowers in the alcove ceased to displease me. The presence of the koto did not annoy me any more.

Whenever the flowers in the vase showed signs of wilting, she would come in to replace them. Sometimes, she came in to take the koto away to her room, which was diagonally opposite mine. I would then sit quietly at my desk, my chin resting on my hands, and listen to the sound of the koto. I could not be sure whether her playing was good or bad. But as she never played a piece that sounded complicated, I was inclined to suspect that she was not quite an expert. In fact, I thought it likely that her koto-playing was no better than her flower arrangement. I know something about the latter art, and I can safely say that Ojosan was by no means a master of it.

Unblushingly, however, she persisted in decorating my alcove with flowers of all kinds. They were arranged always in the same way and always in the same vase. Stranger still was the music. All that one heard was a series of hesitant, disconnected plucking sounds, and one could hardly hear the singing that these sounds were meant to accompany. I do not say that she did not sing. But her singing was rather timid, and had what one might call a confidential tone. When scolded, she became even less audible.

Happily, however, I gazed at the badly arranged flowers and listened to the strange music.

*

I was already a misanthrope when I left home for the last time. That people could not be trusted must already have become a conviction deeply rooted in my system. It was then that I began to think of my uncle, my aunt, and all the other relatives whom I had come to hate as typical of the entire human race. On the Tokyo-bound train, I found myself watching suspiciously my fellow passengers. And when anyone spoke to me, I became even more suspicious. My heart was heavy. I felt as though I had swallowed lead. But my nerves were on edge.

I am quite sure that my state of mind was largely responsible for my wanting to leave the boarding house. It would of course be simpler to attribute my desire to have a house of my own to my sudden affluence; but I am convinced that I would not have gone to the trouble of moving if the change had been merely economic.

For quite a while after I had moved to Koishikawa, I could not relax. I looked at everything around me with such obvious shiftiness that I became ashamed of myself. Strangely enough, I became less and less inclined to talk, while my mind and eyes increased their activity enormously. I sat Silently at my desk and, like a cat, watched the movements of others in the house. I was so much on my guard that sometimes I had the grace enough to feel guilty towards them. "I am behaving like a pickpocket who doesn't steal," I would tell myself disgustedly.

You are probably asking yourself: "If he was indeed in such a state, how is it that he was able to feel affection for Ojosan? How could he have enjoyed her bad flower arrangement and her koto-playing?" I can only answer that I truly did experience these conflicting emotions at the time, and that I can do no more than describe them to you as faithfully as I can. I am sure that you are quite capable of finding a satisfactory explanation yourself. But let me say this: I had come to distrust people in money matters, but I had not yet learned to doubt love. And so, strange as it may seem to another person and inconsistent as it may seem even to me when I think about it, I was quite unaware of any conflict between the two states of mind.

It was my custom to call the widow "Okusan," [note 4] so I shall refer to her as such from now on. Okusan was wont to comment on my calm disposition--as she would call it--and my quietness, and on one occasion praised me for being so studious. She said nothing about insecurity or shiftiness. I don't know whether she failed to notice my odd behavior or whether she was too polite to mention it, but she certainly seemed inclined to view me in a favorable light. She once went so far as to say to me in an admiring tone that I had a generous heart. I was honest enough to blush and to say that she was mistaken. She said quite seriously, "You say that because you are unaware of your own virtues." It seems that she had not expected to have a student in her house. When she let it be known in the neighborhood that she was willing to take in a boarder, she was apparently hoping for some kind of civil servant to apply. I suspect that she was quite resigned to the fact that only an underpaid petty official would want a room in someone else's house. When she called me a generous-hearted person, she must have been comparing me with this shabby civil servant of her imagination. True, I had some money, and, I suppose, lived in a way which is impossible for those who are financially embarrassed. In money matters, then, I could afford to be liberal. But this kind of liberality has nothing to do with one's nature. It seems that Okusan, in the way that women have, was apt to assume that my attitude towards money was an indication of the generosity of my heart.

*

Okusan's manner towards me gradually changed my own state of mind. I became less shifty, and began to feel more relaxed. I suppose the fact that Okusan and the rest of the household took no notice of my suspicious and withdrawn mariner gave me great comfort. Since there was nothing in my surroundings that seemed to justify watchfulness, I began to calm down.

Okusan was a woman of some understanding, and it is possible that she behaved as she did because she knew my mood. It is also possible that she really did think me a peaceful, generous, and easygoing person. The latter is more likely, for I do not suppose that my outward behavior betrayed the confusion within very often.

Gradually, as I grew more calm, I came to know the family better. I began to exchange witticisms with Okusan and Ojosan. There were days when I was invited to drink tea with them. There were evenings when I would go out and buy sweets and then invite them to my room. I felt that suddenly, my circle of acquaintances had been considerably enlarged. True, many hours were wasted in conversation which should have been spent in study. But I was surprised to find that I did not mind this. at all. Okusan, of course, had little to do all day. But to my surprise, Ojosan, who not only attended school but was studying flower arrangement and the koto as well, never seemed busy either. And so the three of us were willing enough, whenever the opportunity presented itself, to get together and entertain one another with small talk.

It was usually Ojosan that came to call me. She would sometimes appear on the verandah, and sometimes she would come through the morning room and appear at my door. She would stand still for a moment, and then call my name and say, "Are you studying?"

I was usually staring hard at some heavy tome lying open on my desk, and so I must have seemed a rather scholarly fellow. But to tell the truth, I was not much of a student in those days. I might have looked at a lot of books, but I was usually waiting for Ojosan to appear.  

If by chance she failed to do so, then I would get up and go to her room and say, "Are you studying?"

Ojosan's was a six-mat room next to the morning room. Okusan would sometimes be sitting in the morning room and sometimes in her daughter's room. The two rooms were really used like one large room by the two ladies, neither of whom seemed to regard either room as exclusively hers. Whenever I called to them from outside the door, it was invariably Okusan who said, "Come in." Ojosan, even when she was there, hardly ever joined her mother in the invitation.

Occasionally, when Ojosan came to my room on some errand, she would sit down for a chat. At such times, I felt strangely uneasy. Afterwards, I would try, with little success, to convince myself that my uneasiness was no more than the natural embarrassment of a young man finding himself alone with a young woman. It was not so much embarrassment as a feeling of restlessness; and the cause of this restlessness was the unnatural feeling that I was somehow being a traitor to my true self. She, on her part, seemed perfectly at ease. She was, in fact, so self-possessed that I would ask myself, "Is this the same girl that is so selfconscious of her voice during her koto lessons?" Sometimes, when she stayed too long, her mother would call her. I remember that on more than one occasion she merely answered, "I'm coming," and remained where she was. Ojosan was by no means a child, however. This was quite clear to me. What was also clear to me was that she wanted me to know she was no longer a child.

*

After her departure I would sigh with relief. At the same time, the room would seem empty, and I would apologize to her inwardly for the relief I had felt. Perhaps I was behaving like a woman. It must certainly seem so to a modern young man like yourself. But most of us were like that in those days.

Okusan hardly ever went out of the house. Whenever she did so, she was sure to take Ojosan with her. I could not tell whether she did this for a particular reason or not. Perhaps it is not quite proper for me to say this, but it did seem to me, after I had carefully watched Okusan for a while, that she was encouraging me and her daughter to become better acquainted with each other. On the other hand, there were times when she appeared to be on her guard against me. The first time she gave me this impression, I was a little annoyed.

You see, I wanted to know precisely what her attitude was. From my point of view at least, her conduct was quite illogical. And having only recently been cheated by my uncle, I could not stop myself from suspecting Okusan of duplicity, and from assuming that one of her two attitudes was a deliberate deception. I could not understand the reason for her seemingly inconsistent behavior. "Why should she behave so strangely?" I would ask myself. And finding no answer to the question, I would angrily mutter to myself, "Women!" Then I would try to find comfort in the thought that Okusan behaved as she did because she was a woman, and women, after all, were idiots.

In spite of my contempt for women, however, I found it impossible to be contemptuous of Ojosan. It seemed that reason was powerless in her presence. My love for her was close to piety. You may think it strange that I should use this word, with its religious connotation, to describe my feeling towards a woman. But even now I believe--and I believe it very strongly--that true love is not so far removed from religious faith. Whenever I saw Ojosan's face, I felt that I had myself become beautiful. Whenever I thought of her, I felt a new sense of dignity welling up inside me. If this incomprehensible thing that we call love can either bring out the sacred in man or, in its lowest form, merely excite one's bodily passions, then surely my love was of the highest kind. I am not saying that I was not like other men. I am made of flesh too. But my eyes which gazed at her, and my mind which held thoughts of her, were innocent of bodily desire.

As you can well imagine. relations between the three of us became rather complicated. I was growing more and more fond of the daughter while my antagonism towards the mother increased. Our feelings, however, were hardly ever allowed to appear on the surface, and the change of atmosphere in the house was not openly recognized. And then suddenly, for some reason or other, I began to wonder if I had not been mistaken about Okusan. I began to think that perhaps her apparent inconsistency was not a sign of dishonesty, and that, contrary to my previous suspicion, perhaps neither of her two attitudes was a conscious attempt to deceive me. I came to acknowledge the possibility that the two seemingly conflicting attitudes existed side by side, and that the existence of one need not necessarily preclude the other. I decided finally that even when she seemed suddenly to become watchful after having encouraged her daughter to be friendly with me, she was not truly changing her mind: she was merely preventing us from becoming closer to each other than her sense of propriety allowed. I, who had no dishonorable intentions, did feel that Okusan was worrying unnecessarily, but I ceased to bear her a grudge.

*  

Shortly thereafter, when I had observed Okusan's behavior towards me in a different light, I came to the conclusion that she put considerable trust in me. Moreover, I was given reason to believe that she had begun to trust me from the time of our first meeting. This discovery was a great shock to me, who had learned to be distrustful of everybody. "Are women endowed with intuitive powers so great, I asked myself, that they know at a glance whom to trust and whom not to trust?" But later, I said to myself: "Is it not because women are so trusting that they are constantly being deceived by men?" It is amusing to think that it never occurred to me then to examine my own confidence in Ojosan, which was based on nothing more than intuition. Though I had vowed never to trust people, I trusted Ojosan absolutely. Yet I found Okusan's trust in me quite incredible.

I told them very little about my home. Concerning the incident that caused me to leave, I said nothing. It was unpleasant for me to think about it, let alone talk about it. I tried always, therefore, to steer the conversation to Okusan's past life. But she would not co-operate. She insisted many times on hearing about my home. Finally, I told them everything. When I said that I would never go home again since there was nothing left for me there except my parents' grave, Okusan seemed very moved. Ojosan cried. I felt that I had done the right thing in telling them my story. I was glad.

After our conversation, Okusan began to act as though her intuitions about me had been confirmed and to treat me as she would a young relation of hers. This did not annoy me. I was even pleased. Before long, however, I began once more to suspect her motives.

It was only something very petty that put me in a suspicious frame of mind. But this did not prevent me from becoming more and more suspicious as time went by. Some small incident--I forget what--put the idea into my head that Okusan was forcing her daughter onto me from the same motives as those which prompted my uncle when he wished me to marry his daughter. Okusan, whom I had taken for a kindly person, quickly became a cunning schemer in my eyes. I was filled with disgust.

When Okusan first told me that loneliness was the reason why she had wanted a boarder, I believed her; and after I had come to know her well, I found no cause to change my mind. On the other hand, she was by no means a wealthy woman and, from the financial point of view, I was certainly not unattractive as a prospective son-in-law.

Once more, I found myself on the defensive. Of course, I stood to gain nothing from such an attitude, since I remained very much in love with Ojosan. I laughed at myself in scorn. I told myself that I was an idiot. If my suspicions had gone no further, I should not have suffered very much, and I should simply have laughed at myself for being such an inconsistent fool. But I began to be really miserable when the thought occurred to me that perhaps Ojosan was no less of a schemer than her mother. It was unbearably painful to imagine the two of them plotting behind my back. I was not merely unhappy: I was desperate. But there was another part of me that trusted Ojosan absolutely. I stood still, unable to move away from the half-way point between conviction and doubt. To me, both seemed like figments of my imagination, and yet both seemed real.

*  

I continued to attend lectures at the university. But the professors who stood on the platforms seemed very far away, and their voices faint. I could not study either. The printed characters that my eyes saw disappeared like rising smoke before they reached my mind. Also, I became silent. Two or three of my friends misconstrued my silence, and reported to the others that I seemed to be deep in some kind of philosophic meditation. I did not try to undeceive them. Indeed, I was happy to hide behind the mask that they had unwittingly put on me. I cannot have been entirely satisfied with the role, however. I would sometimes throw fits of riotous merrymaking that would shock them considerably.

There were not many visitors to the house. Okusan seemed to have a few relatives. Ojosan's school friends visited her occasionally, but they were so quiet that one could hardly tell that they were in the house. They were being quiet for my sake; but I did not know this. My own friends who came to the house were none of them rowdy fellows, but they were not so demure as to start whispering for the sake of other people's comfort. At such times, I seemed to enjoy all the rights due to the owner of the house, while Ojosan's position was hardly better than that of an unwanted guest.

This is not of great importance, however. I wrote it down simply because it came to my mind: besides, it leads me to something less insignificant. One day, I heard a man's voice coming from Ojosan's room. Being Ojosan's guest, he spoke far more quietly than any of my friends would have done. I found it impossible, therefore, to hear what he was saying. I remained seated at my desk in helpless indignation. Was he a relative, I asked myself, or was he merely an acquaintance? Was he young, or was he old? It was of course impossible to find answers to these questions in my room. But I could hardly barge into Ojosan's room to inspect the visitor. I was more than irritated: I was truly in agony. As soon as the man went away, I left my room to ask who he was. They gave me a simple answer. It was too simple to satisfy me. I looked at them discontentedly, lacking the courage to question them further. I had no right, of course, to be so curious. I had to maintain my dignity and my self-respect which I had been taught to value. But the fact that this self-respect was not succeeding too well in overcoming my vulgar curiosity showed in my discontented face. They laughed. Whether they did so in derision, or out of friendliness, I was too flustered at that moment to find out. Afterwards, I repeatedly asked myself: "Did they make a fool of me, or didn't they?"

I was free to do anything I liked. Without consulting anyone, I could leave the university at any time, I could go anywhere, live in any way that suited me, and get married if I wished. Often, I was on the verge of asking Okusan for permission to marry her daughter. But each time I decided to do so, I quickly changed my mind. The prospect of being refused did not frighten me. True, life would be different without Ojosan, but I thought that there would at least be the compensation of being able to look at a new world from another vantage point. Besides, I thought that I had the necessary courage to accept such a change. But I hated the idea of being enticed by Okusan to swallow her bait. No matter what happened, I vowed to myself, no one would ever dupe me as my uncle had done.

*

Seeing me buy nothing but books, Okusan said that I should buy myself some new clothes. Indeed, all the clothes that I possessed had been made at home, of cotton woven locally. It was not the custom for students to wear silk in those days. I remember that a friend of mine once received a heavy silk garment from home. His father, incidentally, was a Yokohama merchant whose tastes were rather ostentatious. When the garment arrived, we all laughed at the fellow. He was quite embarrassed, and made all sorts of excuses. He tossed it into his trunk, and would not put it on. We finally bullied him into wearing it. Unfortunately, it caught fleas from somewhere. My friend must have been pleased, for he wasted no time in getting rid of the famous garment. He rolled it up into a bundle, and taking it with him on one of his walks, threw it into the large ditch in Nezu. I was with him at the time. I remember standing on the bridge and watching my friend with amusement. It never occurred to me then to think that he was being wasteful.

All this happened when I was still living in a boarding house. I had matured somewhat since then, but I was not yet so clothes-conscious as to start worrying about being well-dressed. I still had the odd notion that good clothes, like a mustache, came after graduation. This is why I remarked to Okusan that though books were necessary, clothes were not. She knew that I bought a great number of books, and she asked me: "Tell me, do you read them all?" Amongst them were, of course, such necessary books of reference as dictionaries, but there were also many that I had not yet even opened. I was at a loss for an answer. And I thought that, as long as I was going to buy unnecessary things, I might just as well spend money on clothes as on books. Besides, I had been wanting to buy Ojosan a present, such as a sash or a length of material, under the pretext of showing my appreciation for their many kindnesses. I asked Okusan, therefore, if she would be good enough to buy something suitable for her daughter, and for myself.

Okusan refused to go by herself. She commanded me to accompany her. She insisted also that her daughter come too. Brought up as we were in an atmosphere quite different from that of today, we students were not accustomed to being seen in the streets in the company of young women. Then, I was even more of a slave to convention than I am now. I hesitated at first, but I finally overcame my scruples and set out with the two ladies.

Ojosan had taken great care over her appearance. Though she was naturally very light-complexioned, she had covered her face liberally with white powder, which made her conspicuous. Passers-by stared at her. What gave me a strange feeling was the fact that after they had had a good look at her, they would begin to stare at me.

The three of us went to a shop in Nihonbashi and bought what we wanted. It was difficult to decide what to buy, and we spent more time there than I had expected. Okusan insisted on my giving an opinion on everything that was shown to us. She would drape a piece of cloth on Ojosan's shoulder, then ask me to step back a few paces, and say: "Well, how do you like it?" I tried to play my part properly, and never failed to give some kind of opinion. "I don't think that looks very good," I would say; or "Yes, that would suit her very well."

When we finally left the shop, it was time for dinner. Okusan said that to thank me for being so kind, she would like to take me out to dinner. She led us into a narrow side street called Kiharadana where there was, I noticed, a small old-fashioned theater. The restaurant we went into was as poky as the street. I was not at all familiar with the neighborhood, and I was amazed that Okusan should know it so well.

It was quite late in the evening when we returned home. The next day was Sunday, and I spent it in my room. As soon as I appeared at the university on Monday morning, a class-mate of mine came up to me and began to tease me. "When did you get married?" he said in mock seriousness. "Your wife is quite a beauty, I must say!" He must have seen the three of us in Nihonbashi.

*

When I got home, I told Okusan and Ojosan what my friend had said. Okusan laughed. She then gave me an odd look, and said: "It must have been rather annoying for you." I immediately thought that this was probably a woman's way of sounding out a man's inner thoughts. Perhaps I should then have told her frankly how I felt towards her daughter. But I was too suspicious to be honest. I restrained my impulse to tell her the truth, and deliberately steered the conversation away from myself to the subject of Ojosan's marriage.

I tried to find out what Okusan's plans were for her daughter. She clearly implied that Ojosan had already received some offers of marriage. She explained that since her daughter was still at school, she felt that there was no need to hurry. Though she did not say so outright, it was obvious that she set great store by her daughter's good looks, and hinted that she could marry her off any time she wished. Ojosan was her only child, and of course she was reluctant to part from her. I suspected that she was in a quandary as to whether she ought to allow her daughter to marry into another family, or whether she should arrange to adopt a son-in-law who would become a member of her own household.

As the conversation progressed, I felt that I was learning much that was of interest to me from Okusan. But I had lost the opportunity of talking about myself. Thinking that I could not, at this late stage in the conversation, put in a word on my own behalf, I decided to leave as soon as I could do so without seeming rude.

Ojosan was sitting near me when I told them what my friend had said that morning: she even said merrily, "That's going too far!"; but she had quietly withdrawn to the corner of the room in the course of the conversation, and was now sitting with her back turned towards me. I was not aware that she had moved until I was about to get up and go. I saw her back when I turned around to look at her. It was of course impossible to read her thoughts without seeing her face. I could not even begin to guess how she felt about marriage. She sat near the closet. The door was open, and I decided that she had taken something out of it, placed it on her lap, and was looking at it. Through the open door of the closet, I caught a glimpse of the pieces of cloth that I had bought two days before. The cloth that I had bought for her, and the cloth that I had bought for myself, were lying one on top of the other.

I said no more, and I was about to stand up when Okusan suddenly said to me in a serious tone, "What do you think?" Her question was so sudden that for a moment I wondered what she was talking about. Then I realized that she was asking me whether or not her daughter should get married soon. "Oh, I think that she should wait a while, don't you?" I said. Okusan said that she thought so too.  

The relationship between the three of us had developed thus far when another man appeared on the scene. He became a member of the household and, by doing so, changed the course of my destiny. If this man had never crossed my path, I don't suppose there would ever have arisen the necessity for me to write this long letter to you. The devil had passed before me, so to speak, casting his shadow over me for a moment. And I did not know that his passing had darkened my life for ever. I must tell you that it was I who dragged this man into the house to live with us. Needless to say, I had first to get Okusan's permission to do so I told her everything about the man, and asked her if he might come and stay with me. At first she said no. But while I felt myself absolutely obliged to invite him, she seemed to have no reasonable basis for her objection. Finally, I had my way. I was able to do what I thought was right.

*

I shall here call my friend "K." K and I were friends from the time we were children. Needless to say, then, we were from the same part of the country. K was the son of a priest of the Shinshu sect. He was the second son, and was sent as an adopted son to the house of a certain doctor. The Hongan church was very powerful in my native district, and so Shinshu priests were more affluent than the priests of other sects. For example, if a Shinshu priest happened to have a daughter of marrying age, he would have little trouble marrying her into a suitable family through the kind offices of a parishioner. Of course, wedding expenses would not come out of the priest's pocket. For reasons such as this, Shinshu priests were generally quite prosperous.  

K's family lived comfortably. But whether they possessed enough means to send their younger son to Tokyo to complete his studies, I do not know. Nor do I know that arrangements for his adoption were made in order that his chances of farther education might be improved. Whatever the reason, then, K went as an adopted son to the house of the doctor. This happened when we were still in the secondary school. I remember even now my surprise when, during roll call in class one day, I found that my friend's name had suddenly been changed.

K's new family was a wealthy one, and his education was to be financed by them; so he came to Tokyo. Though K and I did not travel up together, we moved into the same boarding house. In those days, it was common practice for two or three students to live and sleep in one room, and work at desks placed next to each other, as did K and myself. We were like wild beasts captured in the mountains, that hug each other and stare angrily from their cage at the world outside. We feared Tokyo and the people in it. Nevertheless, when we were in our little six-mat room, we would talk contemptuously of the whole world.

But we were in earnest, and seriously intended to become great men one day. Indeed, K was very earnest. Having been born in a temple, he often spoke of "concentration of mind." And to me, it seemed that this phrase described completely his daily life. My heart was filled with reverence for K.

From the time we were at school, K was in the habit of embarrassing me by bringing up such difficult matters as religion and philosophy. I do not know whether this was the result of his father's influence, or the result of having been born in a house possessing an atmosphere peculiar to temples. At any rate, it seems to me that he had more of the priest in him than the average priest. K's foster parents had originally sent him to Tokyo with the intention of making him a doctor. But K, who was very stubborn, had come to Tokyo resolved never to become a doctor. I reproached him, pointing out that he was deceiving his foster parents. Undaunted, he agreed with me, and then answered that he did not mind doing such a thing, so long as it led him to "the true way." In all likelihood, even he did not know what he meant by "the true way." I certainly did not know. But to us who were young, these vague words seemed quite sacred. Ignorant though I was, I was certain that there was no meanness in his enthusiastic decision to follow the dictates of what seemed to me to be noble sentiments. I fully agreed, therefore, with K's views. To what extent K was encouraged by my agreement, I do not know. Undoubtedly, K, single-minded as he was, would not have altered his opinion, no matter how much I might have disagreed with him. And though only a child, I was, I thank, more or less aware of my future responsibility through having encouraged K, should anything happen to him as a result of his decision. My enthusiastic approval implied that in the future, if such an occasion should arise when we would cast our more mature eyes back on what he had done, I would be fully prepared to bear my proper share of responsibility, even though at this moment I might not have felt fully prepared for such a necessity.

*

K and I entered the same faculty. Without any show of bad conscience, he began to follow his beloved "true way" with the money that his foster parents sent him, and I can only say that he was less troubled than I by his deception; he seemed quite certain that he would never be caught, and he seemed assured enough that, even if he were caught, he would not mind at all.

When the time came for our first summer vacation, K did not go home. He said that he was going to rent a room in some temple in Komagome. And true enough, when I returned to Tokyo in early September, I found him holed up in a dirty temple by the Great Kannon. His room was a small one very close to the main temple building; he was very happy that there he had been able to study to his heart's content. It was then, I think, that I saw that his life was becoming more and more like that of a priest. He was wearing a rosary around his wrist, and when I asked him what it was for, he showed me how he counted the beads with his thumb, saying one, two, and so on. Apparently, he counted them many times a day. But the meaning behind all this counting I did not understand. Surely, I thought, there is no end to counting beads strung together in a circle. With what thoughts in his mind did K count those beads? This worthless question often comes to my mind now.

I also noticed a Bible in his room. I was a little surprised. Though I could recall that on occasion he had spoken of the sutras, I could not remember his ever having mentioned Christianity. I could not therefore resist asking him why the Bible was there. K said that the Bible was there for no particular reason, except that he thought it only natural that one should read a book so highly valued by others. He added that he intended to read the Koran when he had the opportunity. He seemed particularly interested in the phrase "Mohammed and the sword."  

Finally, after being urged to do so by his people, he went home for the following summer vacation. It seems that, when at home, he said nothing about his field of study. His family seemed not at all suspicious. You, being a well-educated person, are obviously well-informed about such matters, but the world in general is surprisingly ignorant about student life, academic rules, and so on. These things, which are common knowledge to us, are not known at all in the outside world. Also, we who live in a comparatively isolated atmosphere are not entirely blameless, in that we tend to assume that academic matters, whether important or not, are well-known throughout all walks of life. In this particular matter, however, it seems that K was more worldly than I. Looking quite unperturbed, he left home. We were travelling to Tokyo together, and as soon as we boarded the train I asked K how things stood between him and his family. He answered that all was well.

At the beginning of the third summer vacation--it was at the end of this that I decided to leave forever the birthplace of my parents--I urged K to go home; but he would not listen. Indeed, he asked me why it was that I went home every year. Evidently he wished to remain in Tokyo and study. With reluctance I left him in Tokyo and went home alone. Concerning the two months that I spent at home, which so affected my future life, I shall not write again, since I have already done so. With my heart filled with dissatisfaction, melancholy, and loneliness, I saw K again in September. And I found that circumstances had changed for the worse for him too. Without my knowing, he had written to his foster parents, confessing that he had been deceiving them. Apparently, he had from the start intended to write such a confession eventually. Perhaps he hoped they would say that it was too late to change his plans, and permit him, no matter how grudgingly, to pursue his studies as he wished. At any rate, it seems K had no desire to deceive his foster parents once he was ready to enter the university. He may have perceived that he could not possibly go on with the deception indefinitely, even if he wanted to do so.

*

K's foster father was furious when he read K's letter. He sent back a severe reply, in which he said that he could not possibly finance the education of one so unprincipled as to cheat his parents. K showed the letter to me. He also showed me another letter that arrived about the same time as the first. It was from his original family. It was a letter of reprimand as severe in tone as the other. Perhaps the severity was due to his family's sense of obligation to those that had adopted K. At any rate, K was told that for anyone to worry about him would be a waste of time. Whether he should return to his original family because of the unhappy incident, or whether he should consider some way of compromise and remain with his adopted family, was a problem for the future, but what required his immediate attention was the question of how he was to pay for his education.

I asked K whether he had any definite ideas about the matter. K said that he thought he might teach in some night school. Compared with now, conditions were surprisingly easy in those days, and it was not as difficult as you might think to find some way of supplementing one's income. I therefore thought that K would manage well enough. At the same time, I felt my own responsibility in the matter. When K decided to go against his foster father's wishes and to follow his own inclinations, it was I that encouraged him. At this stage, then, I could not very well stand aside and idly watch my friend in his predicament. I immediately offered K material assistance. K refused without hesitation. It was in his character to feel greater pleasure in being able to fend for himself than in receiving assistance from his friend. His view, in short, was that once having entered the university, it would be a disgrace to him as a grown man not to be able to solve his own problems by himself. I could not hurt K's feelings merely to satisfy my own sense of responsibility. I therefore withdrew, leaving K to do as he saw fit.

Shortly after, K found the kind of work he wanted. You can well imagine how painful it was for K, who valued his time so much, to have to do such work. And with this new burden on his shoulders, he drove himself harder than ever, so that he might study as he had done before. I began to worry about his health. But he was a stouthearted fellow, and took no notice of my anxious warnings.

About this time, relations between him and his adopted family grew steadily worse and more complicated. As K had now no time to spare, we had little opportunity to talk as we had done before, and I did not hear all the particulars; but I knew how much more difficult of solution the whole problem had become. I knew also that one person had tried to act as mediator between the two parties. This person had actually tried by letter to persuade K to come home. But K refused, saying that it was absolutely impossible. This stubbornness on his part--or so it seemed to the people at home, though K had pointed out to them that he could not leave Tokyo during term-time--made the situation worse; not only did he hurt his foster parents' feelings, but he angered his original family as well. In my anxiety, I wrote a conciliatory letter to soothe their feelings, but it seemed to have no effect whatsoever. My letter, it seems, did not merit even a word in reply. I also became angry. Circumstances had so far made me sympathize with K; but now I was determined to stand by K, whether he was right or wrong.

In the end K decided to become officially a member of his original family once more. They arranged to pay back to K's late foster parents the money spent on his education so far. However, beyond this, his family would do no more. They had washed their hands of him, they said. He was, I suppose, "expelled from his father's house," to use an old-fashioned phrase. On the other hand, perhaps his family did not intend to be so final in their treatment of K; but K, at least, felt that he had been disinherited. K was motherless, and it is more than likely that a part of his character was the result of his having been brought up by a stepmother. I cannot but feel that had his real mother been alive, such a wide gulf might not have come to exist between him and his family. I have already said that K's father was a priest. But I believe that in his unbending regard for honor, he was perhaps more like a samurai than a priest.

*

The excitement over K had abated somewhat when I received a long letter from his elder sister's husband. K told me that this man was related to his foster parents, and had therefore played an important part in the proceedings when he was adopted and when his adoption was revoked.

In the letter, the brother-in-law asked me to let him know if all was well with K. He said that K's sister was worried, and that she would like to have news of him as soon as possible. K was fonder of his sister than he was of his elder brother, who had succeeded to his father's rectory. They were born of the same mother, but there was a considerable difference in age between K and his sister. To K, she must have seemed more of a mother than his stepmother ever did.

I showed the letter to K. He made no comment, except that he himself had received two or three letters similar in content from his sister, and that he had written back saying that there was no need to worry. Unfortunately, his sister had not married into a well-to-do family. Though she sympathized with K, she could give him no material assistance.

I wrote a reply to the brother-in-law, repeating more or less what K had already said in his letters. I did add, however, a strongly worded assurance that K could always count on my assistance whenever it was necessary. I was, of course, sincere in my assurance. I felt too that I should try to comfort K's sister as best I could. But there is no doubt that in insisting so strongly that I would and could assist K, I was also being indirectly spiteful to his father and to his foster parents, who had, it seemed, treated me with contempt.

K's adoption was revoked in his first year at the university. For a year and a half after that, he worked hard to support himself. Eventually, I began to think that this continual strain was affecting his physical and mental condition. Of course, the squabbling that preceded his decision to leave his adoptive family must have left its mark on him. He became more and more sentimental, [note 5] and occasionally he would talk as though he carried on his own back the misfortune of all mankind. When one pointed out the unreasonableness of such an attitude, he would become infuriated. Then he would begin to worry about his future, which seemed not as promising as it did before. It is true that everybody begins his university career cherishing great ambitions, like a man who sets out on a long journey; and that, after a year or two, most students suddenly realize the slowness of their progress and, seeing that graduation is not far off, find themselves in a state of disillusionment. K had, no doubt, reached this stage in his career. But his despondency was far greater than was normally found among his fellow students. I finally decided that the only thing to do was to try to calm him down a little.

I said to him that he should do no more work than was necessary. I told him that for the good of his own great future, he should rest and enjoy himself. Knowing K's stubbornness, I did not expect to find my task easy. But once begun, I found it far more difficult and exasperating than I had ever imagined. He held that scholarly knowledge was not his only objective. What was important, he said, was that he should become a strong person through the exercise of will-power. Apparently, this could be done only by living in straitened circumstances. Judged by the standards of a normal person, he was perhaps a little mad. Moreover, straitened circumstances seemed not at all to be strengthening his will-power. Indeed, they were making a neurotic out of him. In desperation, I pretended to be in wholehearted agreement with his views. It had always been my wish, I said, to lead a life such as his. (I was not being totally insincere. I had always found K persuasive in argument, and he could momentarily convince me of almost anything.) Finally, I suggested that he live with me, so that I might learn to lead his kind of life. Because of his stubbornness, I was forced to bow to him. At last, I succeeded in bringing him to the house.

*

There was attached to my room a small anteroom of four mats. One had to go through it to get to my room from the front hall. It was not therefore very conveniently situated. I put K in there. It had been my intention to share my own room with K, and to leave the other room free for both of us to use as the occasion demanded. But K would not listen to my suggestion, saying that he would rather have a room of his own, however small it might be.

As I said, Okusan was against this arrangement from the first. In a boarding house, she said, two lodgers would be more convenient than one, and three would be more profitable than two. But, she pointed out, she was not running a boarding house, and she had no wish to take in another lodger. I said that my friend would give her no trouble. Trouble or no trouble, she answered, she disliked having a stranger in the house. But I was a stranger too, I said. Her answer was that she had from the first known that she could trust me. I smiled. She then changed her tactics. She said that I would later regret having brought such a person into the house. I asked her why she thought so. It was her turn to smile.

Indeed, there really was no reason why I should insist on sharing my apartment with K. But I felt that he would hesitate to accept my assistance if I were to offer it to him every month, in the form of money. He was a very independent-minded person. For this reason, I thought it advisable to have him live with me, and to give Okusan, without his knowledge, enough money to pay for our food. But I had no wish to tell Okusan about K's financial difficulties.

I did, however, say that I was worried about K's health. I said that, if allowed to keep on living in solitude, he was sure to become more eccentric than ever. I told her also of the troubles he had had with his foster parents, and of his later expulsion from his original family. It was, I said, in the hope of lending warmth to his cold and lonely life that I wanted him to come and stay with me. Would not Okusan and Ojosan, I asked, look after him with the warm kindness that he so much needed? Okusan raised no more objections. I said nothing about this conversation to K. I was glad that he had no inkling of what had been said with regard to his entering our household. He arrived with a dignified and absent-minded air. In my normal manner, I received him.

Okusan and Ojosan helped him unpack his bags, and were otherwise very kind to him. I was very happy--despite the fact that K remained his usual moody self--for I felt that their kindness to him arose out of their regard for me.

When I asked K what he thought of his new home, all he said was: "Not bad." His answer struck me as being somewhat incongruous, considering that he had been living, until then, in a squalid, damp room which faced the north. His food had been in keeping with his room. As far as I was concerned, he had been raised from the bottom of a dark valley to the top of a sunlit mountain. No doubt his stubbornness was partly responsible for his apparent indifference towards the change; but I am sure also that he was being indifferent on principle. Having grown up under the influence of Buddhist doctrines, he seemed to regard respect for material comfort as some kind of immorality. Also, having read stories of great priests and Christian saints who were long since dead, he was wont to regard the body and the soul as entities which had to be forced asunder. Indeed, he seemed at times to think that mistreatment of the body was necessary for the glorification of the soul.

I decided that the best thing for me to do was to avoid arguing with him at all costs. I decided to leave the piece of ice out in the sun, and wait until it had melted and turned into warm water. Then, I thought, he would begin to see the error of his ways.

*

Okusan was giving me a similar treatment, and I was gradually becoming more cheerful. Knowing the efficacy of this treatment when applied to myself, I decided to try it on K. I had known him too long not to know that there was a considerable difference in our characters, but I thought nevertheless that just as my nervousness had become less acute since I entered the household, so also would K be soothed by its atmosphere.

K had more will-power than I. He must have studied twice as much as I did. Moreover, he had greater natural intelligence. I cannot say much concerning his academic standing at the university, since we were in different fields; but at both secondary school and college, where we were in the same class, he was always ahead of me. I had indeed come to regard myself as inferior to K in every way. But when I talked K into moving in with me, I believed that I was for once displaying greater common sense than he. It seemed to me that he did not see the difference between stubbornness and patience. I want you to pay attention to what I am now going to say; it is intended for your benefit. The development--or the destruction--of man's body and mind depends upon external stimuli. Unless one is very careful, and unless one sees to it that the intensity of the stimuli is gradually increased, one will find too late that the body, or the mind, has atrophied. According to doctors, there is nothing that requires more attention than the human stomach. Give it nothing but gruel, and you will apparently find one day that it has lost the power to digest anything else. That is why the doctors tell us to accustom our stomachs to all kinds of food. But I do not think that it is simply a matter of habituation. It is, I think, more a question of increasing the efficiency of the stomach through the gradual adding of stimuli. You can imagine what will be the effect if the process were reversed. K was a much abler fellow than I, but he seemed not to see the simple truth of this principle. He seemed to be under the impression that once one had become accustomed to hardship, one would quickly cease to notice it. The mere repetition of the same stimulus was to him a virtue. He believed, I think, that there would come a time when he would become insensitive to hardship. That it might eventually destroy him never entered his head.

I wanted to say all this to K. But I knew that he would violently disagree with me. And no doubt, I thought to myself, he would in the course of his argument refer to those men of the past. Meek as I was in his presence, I would then be obliged to point out the difference between him and them. He would take this as a rebuke, and would advance to a position more extreme than ever before in order to prove his consistency. And having done this, he would later feel compelled to put into practice what he had maintained in his argument with me. In this respect, he was really quite frightening--and very impressive. He would wilfully proceed to his own destruction. But, however one looked at him, he was certainly no ordinary fellow. At any rate I knew his character too well to think that I could tell him what I honestly thought. Moreover, I was afraid that he had become a little neurotic of late; and supposing that I could have worsted him in an argument, he would still have become terribly agitated. I was not afraid of quarreling with him, but remembering what pain my own loneliness had given me, I did not have the heart to place K, who was my friend, in a state of lonely isolation such as mine had been--or, worse still, push him into far greater loneliness than I myself had ever experienced. And so I tried not to be openly critical of his ways even after he had moved in with me. I decided to wait quietly and see what the change of surroundings would do for him.

*

Secretly, I went to Okusan and Ojosan and asked them to talk to K as much as possible. It was my opinion that the silent life K had so far been living had had bad effects on him. I could not help thinking that his heart, like a piece of iron, had gone rusty from disuse.

Okusan laughingly said that K was an unapproachable sort of person. Ojosan, by way of illustration, told me of an encounter she had had with K. She had apparently gone to K and asked him if there was any fire in his brazier.

"No," he had said.

"Well, would you like a fire?"

"No, thank you."

"Aren't you cold?"

"Yes, I am. But I don't need a fire." And he had refused to discuss the matter any further.

I could hardly laugh such an incident off with some such comment as, "Eccentric, isn't he?" I felt that I owed them some kind of explanation. True, it was spring, and a fire was not absolutely necessary. But I could not blame the two ladies for thinking that K was a difficult man to handle.

I tried very hard, in the role of perpetual go-between, to establish a harmonious relationship between K and the two ladies. If I happened to be conversing with K, I would ask the ladies to join us. If I happened to be with the ladies, then I would try to get K to come out of his room and be with us. Suiting my tactics to the occasion, I did everything I could to bring them together. K did not like this, of course. Sometimes, he would suddenly get up and leave our company, without a word. Sometimes, he would refuse to come out of his room when I called him. "Why is it," he once asked me, "that you take so much pleasure in useless small talk?" I merely laughed--though I knew in my heart that I was being despised.

It is possible that, in a sense, I deserved his contempt. His point of view of everything was much loftier than mine. I do not deny this. But when the loftiness is merely in one's point of view, then one is hopelessly handicapped as a human being. I decided that what he needed, above all else, was humanizing. No matter how full one's head might be with the image of greatness, one was useless, I found out, unless one was a worthy man first. In an attempt to make him more human, then, I tried to encourage him to spend as much time as possible with the two ladies. And, I thought, when he had once become accustomed to that atmosphere which the presence of women seems to bring about, he would become less of a recluse and more lively.

My experiment seemed gradually to succeed. What had at first seemed difficult of accomplishment became more and more easy. K, I thought, was learning to acknowledge the existence of a world other than his own. He said to me one day that women were, after all, not as contemptible as one might thank. K had always expected the same kind of knowledge and education from women as he did from men. And in his disappointment, he had come to regard them with contempt. He had not known that there was a way to judge women and a way to judge men. "If you and I," I said to him, "were to spend the rest of our lives as bachelors, forever talking to each other, we would advance merely in straight parallel lines." "Of course," he said. My mind was full of Ojosan at the time, and my opinions were naturally influenced by this fact. But I said not a word to K about the underlying cause of my remark.

It was very pleasing to me to see him gradually emerge from his fortress of books, and to see his heart beginning to thaw. Such had been my hope when I first brought him to the house, and it was natural that I should be happy to see my plan succeeding so well. I told Okusan and Ojosan--though not K himself--how happy I was to see the change in him. They seemed pleased too.

*

Although K and I were students in the same faculty, we studied different subjects. We would therefore leave the house and return to it at different times. If I was the first to get back, I would simply walk through his room to get to my own; but if I happened to return after him, then I would say a word or two to him in passing. K would look up from whatever he was reading when he heard me opening the door, and say, in answer to my greeting: "Did you just get back?" I would nod silently, or say "Yes," as I walked past his desk.

One day, it so happened that I had to go to Kanda on my way home, and I returned much later than usual. With hurried steps I walked up to the front door and slid it open, not without some noise. Just as I did so, I heard Ojosan's voice. I was certain that it came from K's room. Facing the front hall was the morning room, and behind it, Ojosan's room. To the left of the front hall was K's room, and then mine. I had lived in the house too long not to be able to tell where the voice was coming from. Quickly, I closed the door behind me. Then Ojosan stopped talking. While I was taking off my boots--I had just begun wearing those cumbersome lace-up boots which were then fashionable--there was not a sound in K's room. I thought this strange. I began to think that perhaps I had been mistaken. But when I opened the door to K's room as usual, I found the two of them seated comfortably, facing each other. "Did you just get back?" said K. Ojosan remained seated, and said: "Welcome home." It may have been my imagination, but I thought I detected a little stiffness in her simple greeting. Her tone struck me as being somehow unnatural. I said to Ojosan, "Where's Okusan?" My question contained no subtle meaning. I asked it simply because the house seemed unusually quiet.

Okusan, it turned out, was not at home. She had gone out with the maid. K and Ojosan, then, were alone in the house. I could not but wonder at this. Okusan had never left me alone in the house with Ojosan; and I had lived with them considerably longer than K. I asked Ojosan if Okusan had left on some urgent business. She merely laughed. I disliked women who laughed at such times. I suppose one can dismiss this weakness as something that is common to all young women. At any rate, Ojosan was wont to find cause for laughter in the most trivial things. When Ojosan saw the expression on my face, however, she became serious again. No, it was nothing urgent, she said. As a boarder, I had no right to question her further. I said no more.

I had hardly changed my clothes and settled down in my room when Okusan and the maid returned. Shortly thereafter, we sat down to dinner. Before I came to know the family well, it used to be the custom for the maid to bring all my meals to my room on a tray. But they soon ceased to treat me like a boarder, and I began to eat regularly with them. When K moved in, therefore, I asked them to invite him to join us at mealtimes. And to show my appreciation for doing as I asked, I bought them a light dining table made of thin wood, with folding legs. It would seem that such tables are to be found in all houses now, but in those days, there were very few families that owned them. I took the trouble of having one specially made by a furniture maker in Ochanomizu.

It was while we were seated around this table, then, that Okusan told me the fish vendor had failed to come that day at the usual hour, and that she had consequently gone out to buy some fish for us. Why, of course, I said to myself, one had to do such things when one had boarders. Ojosan looked at me, and began to laugh. She stopped quickly enough when her mother scolded her.

*

Again, about a week later, I returned home to find K and Ojosan talking to each other in his room. On that occasion, Ojosan began to laugh as soon as she saw me. I suppose I should have asked her then what it was that she found so amusing. Instead, I went straight to my room without saying a word. I gave K no time to greet me with his usual "Did you just get back?" Very soon afterwards, I thought I heard Ojosan going back to the morning room.

At dinner, Ojosan said that I was a strange person. I did not ask her why she thought so. I did notice, however, that Okusan was glaring at her.

After dinner, I persuaded K to go for a walk with me. From the back of Denzuin Temple, we went around the botanical garden and returned to the bottom of the slope at Tomizaka. It was a fairly long walk, but we said very little during it. K was by nature less talkative than I. I was not a very talkative person myself. But on this occasion, I tried to carry on a conversation with him. I wanted mostly to discuss the family with whom we were staying. I wanted to know how K regarded Okusan and Ojosan. But to my questions he gave replies so vague that one could not tell whether they came from the mountains or the sea. Despite their vagueness, however, they were rather simple answers. The subject of his special study seemed to interest him more than the two ladies. True, our second-year examinations were drawing near, and I suppose that from the point of view of a normal person, K was behaving more like a student than I was. I remember that he amazed me--I was not very scholarly--with references to Swedenborg and so on.

When we had successfully completed our examinations, Okusan was very pleased for our sake, and said: "Well, you now have only one year to go." Ojosan too, who was Okusan's one real pride, was due to graduate soon. K remarked to me that women seemed to graduate without having learned a thing. He attached no importance whatsoever to those things which Ojosan was studying outside of school, such as the koto, flower arrangement, and sewing. I laughed at his stupidity. Once more, I told him that his was not the proper way to judge the worth of a woman. He did not argue with me. On the other hand, he did not appear to be convinced. This pleased me. His attitude, which seemed to suggest that the subject did not merit serious discussion, I took to be an indication of the contempt with which he still regarded women. I decided that Ojosan, whom I looked upon as the embodiment of womanly qualities, was of little significance to K. It is obvious to me now that I was already more than a little jealous of him.

I suggested to K that we should go somewhere during the summer holidays. He said that he was not very anxious to leave Tokyo. He was certainly in no position to go anywhere he liked, but there was nothing to prevent him from joining me if I invited him. I asked him why he did not wish to go away. There was no particular reason, he said; he simply wanted to stay and read books. I pointed out that it would be far better for our health if we went to some cool resort and read our books there. Well, he said, if that was why I wanted to go away, then I should go alone. But I did not want to leave him in the house. I had already come to regard his growing familiarity with the two ladies with some discomfort. "But wasn't that what you wanted?" you might ask. "Didn't you force K on them?" Certainly, I was a fool. Okusan, seeing that we would never reach an agreement if left alone, stepped in and helped us make up our minds. At last it was decided that the two of us should go to the coast of Boshu.

*

K had not traveled very much, and it was my first trip to Boshu. Knowing nothing about that part of the country, therefore, we got off the boat as soon as we could. We found ourselves--I remember quite clearly-in a place called Hota. It may be quite different now, but in those days it was a very unpleasant fishing village. There was the smell of fish everywhere and, whenever we tried to bathe, we were beaten down by the waves and knocked about among huge pebbles, until we emerged with our hands and feet quite raw.

I soon tired of the place. But K showed neither approval nor disapproval. Despite the fact that he never came out of the sea unwounded, he seemed, at least outwardly, quite indifferent to his surroundings. Finally, I managed to convince him of the unpleasantness of Hota, and we left for Tomiura. From there, we went to Nako. That part of the coast was by then very popular with students, and we found no difficulty in finding suitable places for bathing. K and I often sat on the rocks near the shore, and watched the sea stretching far beyond towards the horizon, or the sandy bottom visible through the water nearby. The scene below the rocks was especially beautiful. We could see brightly colored fish, some of them red and some of them deep blue, which one would never find in the fish markets, swimming about in the clear water.

Often, I took books with me to the rocks, and read them there. K, on the other hand, usually did nothing, and sat near me in silence. I could not decide whether he was meditating, or drinking in the beauty around him, or simply daydreaming. I would occasionally look up and ask him what he was doing. "Nothing," he would say. Often, I found myself thinking how nice it would be if the person sitting so quietly by my side was not K, but Ojosan. Unfortunately, this pleasant thought invariably led me further to the point where I would begin to wonder whether K was not sitting there indulging in exactly the same reverie. Then I would become restless and cease to enjoy the book I happened to be reading; and I would begin to shout in a loud voice. I could find no satisfaction in such mild forms of emotional release as reciting a poem or singing a song. Instead, I shouted as an uncontrolled savage might have done. Once, I grabbed K's neck from behind. "What would you do," I said, "if I pushed you into the sea?" K did not move. Without looking back, he said: "That would be pleasant. Please do." Quickly, I withdrew the hand that had been holding his neck.

It would seem that by then, K's nervous condition had improved considerably. My nerves, on the other hand, had become increasingly high-strung. I envied K who was so much calmer than I. I hated him. What annoyed me was that he took no notice of me, no matter what I did. I took this as a sign of K's self-confidence. But that K had grown more confident of late gave me little satisfaction. I wanted to discover the real cause of the change in him. Had he simply become optimistic about his studies and his future career once more? If so, there was no reason why there should be any rivalry between us. Indeed, I would find satisfaction in the fact that my efforts to help him had not been in vain. But if his new serenity had come as a result of his contact with Ojosan, then I would find it impossible to forgive him. K seemed totally unaware of my love for Ojosan. Of course, I had been careful not to be too obvious about it. But there is no denying that, in such matters, K was quite insensitive. And I must confess that it was because I was aware of this insensitivity in him that I was less reluctant than I might have been to invite him to live with us.

*

I decided to confide my secret to K. Actually, I had been wanting to do so for some time. But I had found myself incapable, when talking to K, of seizing, or creating, the right moment to introduce the subject casually. When I think about it, my acquaintances in those days were all rather odd. There was not one among them that showed any inclination to discuss his own romantic problems without restraint. I suppose many of them really had nothing to talk about. At any rate, it would seem that it was the custom not to exchange confidences concerning women. You, who are used to a more liberal atmosphere, must think this strange. Whether we were still under the influence of Confucian teachings, or whether we were only being shy, I shall leave you to decide for yourself.

K and I were close friends, and there was little that we did not feel free to discuss with each other. On rare occasions, we would talk about love, but never was the subject allowed to go beyond abstract theorizing. And as I said, it was very seldom discussed. We hardly ever talked of matters other than our future careers, our ambitions, means of disciplining our minds, our scholarly interests, books, and so on. Though we were good friends, there was a stiff formality about our friendship, and it was difficult for me to break through this wall of formality. The character of our friendship had already been formed, and we could come closer only in a very limited way. Many times, I was on the verge of telling him about Ojosan, but always I was checked by the insurmountable wall that stood between us. Often, in exasperation, I would feel like hammering a hole somewhere in his head, so that a gentle, warm breeze might blow into it.

All this must seem quite absurd to you. I was nevertheless in great torment at the time. I was no less timid than I had been in Tokyo. I watched K closely, hoping that he would give me a chance to confide in him. But not once did he emerge from his forbidding aloofness. It was as though his heart was encrusted with a layer of black lacquer, so thick that no warm blood could ever penetrate through it.

There were times, however, when I found some consolation in his apparent high-mindedness. And I would regret having suspected such a person, and inwardly apologize to him. I would then begin to hate myself for my baseness. I was never contrite for long, however. For very soon I would be assailed by the same old doubts. At such times, I would compare myself with K--always unfavorably, of course, since the desire to compare originated in doubt. Surely, I would tell myself, he is better-looking than I; and his nature too, which seemed so much less fussy than my own, must be more appealing to the opposite sex. As for his absent-minded air, would not women say that that was a sign of manly strength? True, we were studying different subjects, but I knew only too well that, in intellectual ability, I was not his equal either. All in all, I would decide, I was a rather unappealing fellow in comparison. And so my momentary relief would soon be replaced by my old fears.

K noticed my unsettled state, and said that it would be all right with him if we went back to Tokyo. When he said this, the idea of returning to Tokyo suddenly became distasteful to me. It is possible that I did not want to let him go back. At any rate, we decided to continue our trip. We went around the headland of Boshu. Groaning in the heat of the mid-summer sun, we walked on. The walk began to seem quite senseless to me, and I said so, in a half-joking manner, to K. "We are walking because we have legs," he answered. When it got too hot for us, we would take our clothes off, and jump into the sea. What with the swimming and the broiling heat, we were completely exhausted by the end of the day.

*

Such strenuous walking in the heat cannot but affect one's body. It is not like being ill. Rather, one feels as though one's soul has found for itself a strange home. I talked to K as usual, but my feelings had somehow changed. My affection and my hatred for K acquired a character peculiar to that journey on foot. What I mean is that perhaps because of the heat, the swimming, and the walking, our relationship shifted temporarily to a different plane. We were like two far-traveling peddlers who had met by chance on the road. We talked to each other, but we said nothing that was of serious concern to us.

In this way, we finally reached Choshi. There was, however, one exceptional incident which I still remember. Before leaving Boshu, we stopped at a place called Kominato, and went to see the Bay of Tai. [note 6] Many years have passed since then, and I have never been interested in such things, so I cannot remember very clearly; but it seems that it was at Kominato that Nichiren [note 7] was born. According to the local legend, two tai were thrown up on the beach at the time of his birth. In deference to this legend, the men of the village have always abstained from fishing in the bay. Hearing that the bay was full of tai for this reason, we hired a small boat and went out to look at them. I was enthralled by the scene under the water, and I felt that I would never tire of watching the violet-tinged fish twisting and turning beneath the waves. K, however, seemed not as interested as I was in the fish. He seemed rather to be thinking about Nichiren. We had found a temple in the village by the name of Tanjo-ji. [note 8] I presume it was called this because Nichiren had been born there, in Kominato. It was certainly an impressive temple. K said that he wanted to meet the chief priest. To tell the truth, we were at the time a shabby-looking pair. K looked especially disreputable. His cap had been blown away during the hike along the coast, and he was now wearing a sedge hat. Our clothes were soiled, and smelled of sweat. I did not think that the priests would welcome our company, and I said so to K. But he was stubborn, and would not listen to me. "If you don't want to come in, you can wait out here," he said, when we had reached the gate of the temple. I was obliged to accompany him into the front hall. I was quite certain that we would be refused admittance. But I was mistaken. Priests, I discovered, are on the whole more gracious than one might expect. We were shown into a large and fine room, and there received by the chief priest. In those days, my interests were very different from K's, and so I did not listen very carefully to what K and the priest were saying; but I do remember that K asked him many questions about Nichiren. When the priest remarked that Nichiren was such a master of the grass script [note 9] that he was called "Grass" Nichiren, I remember that K, who was a poor calligrapher himself, looked impatient. I suppose he regarded such facts as irrelevant and trivial. Obviously, he wanted the priest to say something more profound about the great man. I do not know whether K was satisfied with the conversation or not: at any rate, when we came out of the temple, he began to give me a lecture on Nichiren. I was too tired and hot to be much interested, and my comments were half-hearted and bored. Eventually, I stopped saying anything at all.

It was, I think, the following evening that we had an argument. We had had our dinner at the inn, and were preparing to go to bed. I discovered that he had resented my lac