“I am a lonely man,” he said again that evening. “And is it not possible that you are also a lonely person? But I am an older man, and I can live with my loneliness, quietly. You are young, and it must be difficult to accept your loneliness. You must sometimes want to fight it.”
“But I am not at all lonely.”
“Youth is the loneliest time of all. Otherwise why should you come so often to my house?”
Sensei continued: “But surely, when you are with me, you cannot rid yourself of your loneliness. I have not it in me to help you forget it. You will have to look elsewhere for the consolation you seek. And soon, you will find that you no longer want to visit me.”
As he said this, Sensei smiled sadly.
Fortunately, Sensei was mistaken. Inexperienced as I was then, I could not even understand the obvious significance of Sensei’s remarks. I continued to see Sensei as before. And before long, I found myself dining at his house occasionally. As a result, I was obliged to speak to Sensei’s wife also.
Like any other young man, I was not indifferent to women. But being young and my experience of the world being what it was, I had so far not had any opportunity to form any friendship with a woman. My interest in women had been limited to glances thrown at those who were completely unknown to me. The first time I met Sensei’s wife in the front hall, I thought her beautiful. And each time I saw her after that, I was similarly impressed by her beauty. But I felt, at first, that there was nothing of any interest that I could speak to her about.
Rather than to say that she possessed no special qualities worthy of note, it would perhaps be more correct to say that she had never been given an opportunity to show them. My feeling was always that she was little more than a necessary part of Sensei’s household. And it would seem that she regarded me, albeit with goodwill, simply as a student who came to talk with her husband. Apart from Sensei, there was no bond of sympathy between us. My memory of the early part of our acquaintance, then, consists of nothing more than the impression of her beauty.
One evening, I was invited by Sensei to join him in a cup of saké. Sensei’s wife came to serve us. Sensei seemed more cheerful than usual. Offering his empty cup, he said to his wife, “You have some too.”
“No, I don’t really . . . ,” she began to say, then accepted the cup somewhat unwillingly. Frowning slightly, she raised to her lips the cup that I had half-filled for her. A conversation then followed between her and Sensei.
“This is so unusual,” she said. “You hardly ever ask me to drink saké.”
“That’s because you don’t like saké. But it does you good to drink occasionally. This will cheer you up.”
“It certainly will not. It makes me feel uncomfortable. You, however, seem to have become quite gay. And you haven’t had much.”
“Yes, sometimes, it seems to cheer me up. But, you know, it doesn’t always.”
“And how do you feel tonight?”
“Oh, tonight, I feel good.”
“Then from now on, you should drink—just a little—every evening.”
“That, I cannot do.”
“Please do. Then you will stop being melancholy.”
Apart from them, there was only the maid in the house. Every time I went there, the house seemed to be absolutely quiet. I never heard the sound of laughter there, and sometimes it seemed almost as if Sensei and I were the only people in it.
“It would be so nice if we had children,” Sensei’s wife said to me. “Yes, wouldn’t it?” I answered. But I could feel no real sympathy for her. At my age, children seemed an unnecessary nuisance.
“Would you like it if we adopted a child?”
“An adopted child? Oh, no,” she said, and looked at me.
“But we’ll never have one of our own, you know,” said Sensei.
Sensei’s wife was silent.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Divine punishment,” Sensei answered, and laughed rather loudly.
Sensei and his wife seemed to me to be a fond enough couple. Not being a member of the family, I could not of course know how they truly felt towards each other. But whenever I was with Sensei, and if he happened to want anything, instead of the maid, he would call his wife. (The lady’s name was Shizu.) “Shizu,” Sensei would call, turning towards the door. The tone of his voice, when he did so, always sounded gentle to me. And her manner, when she appeared, seemed always willing and obedient. And whenever they kindly invited me to dinner, and I had occasion to see them together at the table, my pleasant impression of their feelings towards each other would be confirmed.
Sometimes, Sensei would take his wife to a concert or to the theatre. Also, I remember that they went away together for a week’s holiday at least two or three times during the period I knew them. I still have with me a postcard that they sent me from Hakone. And I remember that the time they went to Nikko, I received from them a letter with a maple leaf enclosed.
There was, however, one incident that marred my general impression of their married life. One day, I was standing as usual in their front hall, and was about to announce myself. I heard voices coming from the living room. An argument, rather than an ordinary conversation, seemed to be taking place. The living-room was immediately adjoining the front hall, and I could hear well enough to know that it was a quarrel, and that one of the voices, which was raised now and then, belonged to Sensei. The other voice was lower in tone than Sensei’s, and I could not be sure whose it was. But I was almost certain that it was his wife’s. She seemed to be weeping. I stood there for a short while, not knowing what to do. Then I left, and returned to my lodgings.
A dreadful anxiety filled my heart. I tried to read, but found that I could not concentrate. An hour later, I heard Sensei calling from beneath my window. Surprised, I looked out. “Let us go for a walk,” he said. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was past eight o’clock. I had not bothered to take off my dress trousers when I returned. I left my room immediately.
That evening, Sensei and I drank beer together. Sensei was not a heavy drinker. He was not the sort of person to go on drinking if a reasonable amount did not have any cheering effect on him.
“It just won’t work this evening,” Sensei said, with a wry smile.
“Can’t you feel gay?” I asked, feeling sorry for him.
I could not forget what had happened earlier that day. It bothered me terribly, like a fish bone in my throat. I could not decide whether I should tell him about it or not. Sensei noticed my anxiety.
“There seems to be something the matter with you this evening,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I am not my usual self either. Have you noticed?”
I could not say anything in reply.
“As a matter of fact, I quarreled with my wife a short while ago. And I allowed myself to become stupidly excited.”
“But why did you . . . ?” I began, but could not bring myself to say “quarrel.”
“You see, sometimes my wife misunderstands me. And when I tell her so, she refuses to listen. That is why today, for instance, I unwittingly lost my temper.”
“In what way does she misunderstand you, Sensei?”
Sensei did not answer my question. He said:
“If I were the sort of person she thinks I am, I would not suffer so.”
How he suffered, my imagination then could not conceive.
On our way back, we walked for a while in silence. Then he began to speak again.
“I did a terrible thing. I should not have left home in such a fit of temper. My wife must be worried about me. When we think about it, women are unfortunate creatures. My wife, for instance, has no one in this world but me to depend upon.”
He was silent for a while. He seemed not to expect a reply from me. He then continued: