I shall not speak here of the tragedy in Sensei’s life. And, as I have said before, Sensei and his wife told me almost nothing of their courtship, which had come into being as though for the sake of the tragedy. Sensei’s wife said little about it for modesty’s sake, but there was a far profounder reason for Sensei’s silence.
One day, during the flower-viewing season, Sensei and I went to Ueno. I remember that day well. While we were strolling there, we happened to see a good-looking couple walking close together, beneath the flowering trees. They seemed unusually fond of each other. The place being rather public, they, rather than the flowers, seemed to be the object of interest for many people.
“They look like a newly married couple,” said Sensei.
“They seem to be pretty fond of each other, don’t they?” I said, in an amused tone of voice.
There was not even a trace of a smile on Sensei’s face. He began deliberately to walk away from the couple. He then said to me:
“Have you ever been in love?”
I said no.
“Don’t you want to be in love?”
I said nothing in reply.
“It isn’t that you don’t want to fall in love, is it?”
“No.”
“You made fun of that couple, didn’t you? But actually, you sounded to me like a person who is dissatisfied because he has not yet been able to fall in love, though he wants to.”
“Did I sound like that?”
“Yes, you did. A person who has been in love himself would have been more tolerant and would have felt warmer towards the couple. But—but do you know that there is guilt also in loving? I wonder if you understand me.”
I was surprised, and said nothing.
There was a large crowd around us, and every face in it looked happy. We had little opportunity to talk until we reached the woods, where there were no flowers and no people.
“Is there really guilt in loving?” I asked suddenly.
“Yes, surely,” Sensei said. He seemed as certain as he did before.
“Why?”
“You will soon find out. In fact, you ought to know already. Your heart has been made restless by love for quite some time now.”
Vainly, I searched my heart for an answer.
“But there is no one whom you might call the object of my love,” I said. “I have not hidden anything from you, Sensei.”
“You are restless because your love has no object. If you could fall in love with some particular person, you wouldn’t be so restless.”
“But I am not so restless now.”
“Did you not come to me because you felt there was something lacking?”
“Yes. But my going to you was not the same thing as wanting to fall in love.”
“But it was a step in your life towards love. The friendship that you sought in me is in reality a preparation for the love that you will seek in a woman.”
“I think that the two things are totally different.”
“No, they are not. But being the kind of man that I am, I cannot help you to rid your heart of that feeling of want. Moreover, peculiar circumstances have made me even more useless than I might have been as a friend. I am truly very sorry. That you will eventually go elsewhere for consolation is a fact I must accept. Indeed, I even hope that you will. But . . .”
I began to feel a strange kind of sorrow.
“Sensei, if you really think that I shall drift away from you, there is nothing I can do about it. But such a thought has so far never crossed my mind.”
Sensei did not listen to me.
“But you must be careful,” he continued. “You must remember that there is guilt in loving. You may not derive much satisfaction from our friendship, but at least, there is no danger in it. Do you know what it feels like to be tied down by long, black hair?”
I could imagine what Sensei meant, but inexperienced as I was, his words held no reality for me. Also, I had no notion of what Sensei meant by “guilt.” I felt a little discontented.
“Sensei, please explain more clearly what you mean by ‘guilt.’ Otherwise, please let us not discuss this matter again, until I have myself found out what this ‘guilt’ is.”
“It was wrong of me. I had intended to make you aware of certain truths. Instead, I have only succeeded in irritating you. It was wrong of me.”
Sensei and I walked slowly in the direction of Uguisudani, past the back of the museum. Through the gaps in the fencing, we could see dwarf bamboos growing thickly in one part of the garden. There was about the scene an air of deep, secluded peace.
“Do you know why I go every month to my friend’s grave in Zoshigaya?”
Sensei’s question was totally unexpected. He should, of course, have known that I did not know. I remained silent. Then, as though realizing what he had just said, Sensei went on:
“I have said the wrong thing again. I was trying to explain my earlier remarks because I thought they had irritated you. But in trying to explain, I find that I have upset you once more. Let us forget the whole matter. But remember, there is guilt in loving. And remember too, that in loving, there is something sacred.”
I was more mystified than ever by Sensei’s talk. But I never heard him mention the word “love” again.
Being young, I was rather inclined to become blindly devoted to a single cause. At least, so I must have appeared to Sensei. I considered conversation with Sensei more profitable than lectures at the university. I valued Sensei’s opinions more than I did those of my professors. Sensei, who went his solitary way without saying very much, seemed to me to be a greater man than those famous professors who lectured to me from their platforms.
“You must try to be more sober in your opinions about me,” Sensei once said to me.
“But I am being sober,” I cried, confidently. Sensei, however, refused to take me seriously.
“You are like a man in a fever. When that fever passes, your enthusiasm will turn to disgust. Your present opinion of me makes me unhappy enough. But when I think of the disillusionment that is to come, I feel even greater sorrow.”
“Do you think me so fickle? Do you find me so untrustworthy?”
“I am simply sorry for you.”
“I deserve your sympathy, but not your trust. Is that what you mean, Sensei?”
He seemed vexed as he turned his face towards the garden. Not long before, the garden had been full of camellias. But now, the flowers, which had brightened the scenery with their rich, red color, were all gone. It had been Sensei’s custom to look out from his room, and gaze at them.
“It is not you in particular that I distrust, but the whole of humanity.”
I could hear the cry of a goldfish vendor from the lane on the other side of the hedge. There was no other sound. The house was some distance from the main road, and we seemed to be surrounded by a complete calm. All was quiet, as usual, inside the house itself. I knew that Sensei’s wife was in the next room, busy at her sewing or some such work. And I knew also that she could hear what we were saying. But I momentarily forgot this, as I said:
“Then you have no trust in your wife either?”
Sensei looked a little uneasy. He avoided giving a direct answer to my question.
“I don’t even trust myself. And not trusting myself, I can hardly trust others. There is nothing that I can do, except curse my own soul.”
“Surely, Sensei, you think too seriously about these things.”
“It is not a matter of what I think. It is what I have done that has led me to feel the way I do. At first, my own act shocked me. Then, I was terribly afraid.”
I wanted to pursue the conversation, but we were interrupted by the voice of Sensei’s wife, calling him from behind the door. “What is it?” Sensei said. “Can you come here a minute?” his wife said. I had hardly begun to wonder why Sensei had been called to the next room when he returned.