He opened at the bookmarker a Western book he had once begun, and he discovered that he could make no connection with what had come before. Such a lapse of memory was rather unusual for Daisuke. Since his student days, he had been something of a reader. Now he prided himself on his situation that, free from the cares of food and shelter, allowed him, even after graduation, to reap as he pleased the benefits of various subscriptions. If he let one day pass without glancing at a single page, habit led him to feel a vague sense of decay. Therefore, in the face of most intrusions, he tried to arrange it so that he could stay in touch with the printed word. There were moments when he felt that books constituted his only legitimate province.
Daisuke puffed absently on his cigarette and flipped back two or three pages that he had already read. He had to struggle somewhat to focus his mind on the arguments and the sequence in which they were being presented. The effort required for this was not as trifling as that for moving from a barge onto the wharf. It was more like puzzling over a piece of a block that would not fit and being forced to move on to another piece with the first still out of place. Even so, Daisuke persevered and kept his eyes on the pages for some two hours. Finally, he could stand it no longer. True, as a collection of print, the words projected a certain meaning on his mind. But they showed no sign of circulating to his flesh and blood. He felt as unsatisfied as if he had bit into ice from outside the ice bag.
He turned the book face down. He decided that it was impossible to read under such circumstances. He also felt that he could no longer rest peacefully. His anguish was not the usual ennui. It was not that he was too listless to do anything; his mind was now in a state in which he could not bear not to do something.
He went to the morning room and threw on the cloak that had been folded. Then he put on the clogs that he had kicked off in the entranceway and all but ran out the gate. It was about four o’clock. He went down Kagurazaka and with no destination in mind took the first streetcar he saw. Asked by the conductor where he was going, he blurted out whatever came to mind. When he opened his billfold, he discovered, buried deep in the fold, what was left of the travel money he had given to Michiyo. Daisuke bought his ticket and counted the bills that remained.
He passed that night in a certain teahouse in Akasaka. There he heard an interesting story. A young and beautiful woman had relations with a certain man and came to harbor the consequences. When it was time for the birth, she shed sorrowful tears. Later, when asked why, she replied that at her age she felt miserable at having to bear a child. The period of love’s supremacy had been all too brief, and in the mercilessness with which parenthood had fallen on her young head, the woman had caught a glimpse of life’s transiency. She was, needless to say, not a respectable woman. Daisuke found the story extremely interesting for the insight it provided into the psychology of a woman who had dedicated herself exclusively to beauty of the flesh and love of the soul without reflecting upon anything else.
The next day, Daisuke finally went to see Michiyo. He was going because he was worried about whether Michiyo had told Hiraoka about the money of the other day, and if so, what effect this had had on the couple: this, at least, was the excuse he made to himself. He decided that it was this worry that had harried him and kept him from enjoying a moment’s peace, and now, having dragged him to the ends of the earth, was blowing him right against Michiyo.
Before leaving the house, Daisuke freshened his spirits by changing from the underwear and unlined kimono he had worn the night before. Outside, it was that time of the year when the mercury climbed higher with each passing day. As he walked, the sun shone so brightly that he actually longed for the damp rainy season. Daisuke, as a reaction to the previous night, was oppressed by his own black shadow falling in the cheerful air. From beneath his broad-brimmed summer hat, he wished that the rainy season would begin quickly. It was only two or three days away. His head, as if to forecast its coming, was dull and heavy.
When he finally stood before Hiraoka’s house, his hair, which formed a thick covering for his cloudy head, was hot and damp. Daisuke removed his hat before going in. The grating was locked. Hearing noises, he followed them to the back, where he found Michiyo fulling cloth with the maid. Still bent over, she leaned her slender neck from the middle of the fulling board, which was propped against the side of the storage shed, and resting the hand that had been painstakingly stretching the wrinkled cloth, looked at Daisuke. At first she did not say anything. Daisuke also stood silent for a moment. Finally, when he said, “I’ve come again,” Michiyo shook her wet hands and went in by the kitchen door almost in a run. At the same time she signaled to him with her eyes to come around to the front. She came out to the stepping-stone to open the lock and explained, “Because it’s unsafe.” Her pale cheeks were flushed from working in the clear sunny air. The color faded into her usual pallor toward the hairline, where a thin layer of sweat gleamed. Daisuke watched Michiyo’s almost transparent skin and waited quietly for the door to open.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Michiyo said, and as if to draw him in, moved aside one step. Daisuke almost brushed against her as he went in. Inside, he found a purple cushion placed properly before Hiraoka’s desk. Seeing it, Daisuke felt a tinge of distaste. In the garden, where the unworked earth gleamed yellow, long, unsightly grass was growing.
As he offered some commonplace apology about disturbing her again when she was busy, Daisuke stared at the tasteless garden. Then the thought came to him that it was unkind to leave Michiyo in such a house. Michiyo folded her hands on her lap; the fingertips were slightly swollen from working in water. She said she had been fulling cloth because she was bored. By being bored Michiyo meant that with her husband out all the time, the tedious hours of housekeeping hung heavy on her hands.
Daisuke deliberately teased, “What a fine position!”
But Michiyo was not evoking the dreariness in her heart to appeal to him. Silently, she stood and went into the next room. She rattled the handles of the Western-style chest of drawers and came out with a red velvet-covered box. She sat before Daisuke and opened it. Inside was the ring Daisuke had given her long ago. “It’s all right, isn’t it?” she said, as if in apology, then got up and went back into the next room. There, as if in deference to society, she furtively returned the keepsake to its place and came back to her seat.
Daisuke said nothing about the ring. Looking at the garden, he said, “If you’ve got so much time on your hands, why don’t you weed the garden?” It was Michiyo’s turn to fall silent.
When this had lasted some minutes, Daisuke asked again, “Did you tell Hiraoka about it?”
In a low voice, Michiyo answered, “No.” “Then he doesn’t know yet?” he asked back.
Michiyo’s explanation was that she had meant to tell him, but Hiraoka was never home long enough these days, and she had just let the time slip by without letting him know. Daisuke of course did not question the truth of her explanation. But it was something that would have required only five minutes to tell. He could not help feeling that for Michiyo to have let the matter go so long, there was something weighing on her mind that made it difficult for her to tell Hiraoka. And he thought that he had made Michiyo a guilty woman before Hiraoka. But this did not wound Daisuke’s conscience all too deeply. For he also felt that whatever the verdict of the law, Hiraoka would clearly share in the censure dealt by nature.
Daisuke tried to sound out Michiyo on Hiraoka’s recent behavior. As usual, Michiyo was reluctant to say much. But it was clear that Hiraoka’s conduct toward his wife had changed since their marriage. Daisuke had already seen as much when the couple returned from Kyoto. Since then, he had never explicitly asked the two about their feelings, but it seemed indisputable that each day their relationship deteriorated with increasing speed. If this estrangement had come about because he, a third person, had come between the couple, then Daisuke might have been more ca
reful in his conduct. But when he appealed to his reason, he could not believe that this was the case. Daisuke traced part of the current state of affairs to Michiyo’s illness, judging that the change in their physical relationship had had an emotional effect upon the husband. He traced yet another part to the death of their child. Other factors were Hiraoka’s dissipations and his failure as a company employee. And finally, Daisuke traced the last part to the financial situation resulting from Hiraoka’s dissipations. When all was summarized, he concluded that Hiraoka had taken a wife he should not have taken and Michiyo had married a man she should not have married. Daisuke sorely regretted having responded to Hiraoka’s request and interceded on his behalf. But he simply could not think that it was because he, Daisuke, had stirred his wife’s heart that Hiraoka was drifting from her.
At the same time, he could not deny outright that the couple’s present relationship constituted a necessary condition for the growth of his love for Michiyo. Leaving aside for a moment the question of the extent to which their relationship had developed before Michiyo was married to Hiraoka, Daisuke was certainly incapable of remaining indifferent to her now. He found the Michiyo who had been stricken with illness more piteous than the old Michiyo. He found the Michiyo who had lost her child more piteous than the old Michiyo. He found the Michiyo who suffered from the difficulties of eking out an existence more piteous than the old Michiyo. But Daisuke was not so bold as to make a direct attempt to sever for good the bond between the couple. His love was not that blind.
Michiyo’s immediate suffering stemmed from financial difficulties. Her intimations made it clear that Hiraoka was not giving her what he could for household expenses. Daisuke thought that as a start, he should at least do something about that. So he said, “I’ll get together with Hiraoka and see if I can’t talk to him.” Michiyo turned to him with a lonely expression on her face. Knowing all too well that it would be fine if things went well, but that if he failed, it would only be worse for Michiyo, Daisuke did not press the point. Michiyo got up again and brought a letter from the next room. The letter was in a pale blue envelope. It had been addressed to Michiyo by her father in Hokkaido. Michiyo pulled the long letter from the envelope and handed it to Daisuke.
The letter described in detail the unsatisfactory conditions there, the high prices that made life difficult, the uncertainty of being without family or relations, and his desire to come to Tokyo if something could be arranged; everything in it was plaintive. Daisuke rolled the letter carefully and handed it to Michiyo. She was holding back her tears.
Michiyo’s father had once owned enough fields and rice paddies to be known as something of a wealthy man. At the time of the Russo-Japanese War, he had followed the urgings of a friend and dabbled in the stock market. He failed completely, manfully sold all the property inherited from his ancestors, and went to Hokkaido. This was the first news Daisuke had had of him since then. As for their relations, Michiyo’s dead brother had often told Daisuke that they might as well not exist. In effect, Michiyo could count only on her father and Hiraoka.
“I envy you,” she said blinking. Daisuke lacked the courage to deny her words. After a pause, she asked, “Why haven’t you found a wife yet?” Daisuke could not respond to this question either.
As he silently gazed at Michiyo’s face, the blood slowly drained from her cheeks until they were even more pale than usual. Then for the first time, Daisuke realized the danger of remaining yet another minute before her. Their words, flowing from a natural sympathy, had driven them on and it was only a matter of two or three minutes before they would be pushed beyond the bounds fixed by society. Daisuke was of course equipped with conversation that, even if they went further, would allow him to retreat as if nothing had happened. He had always wondered at the conversations recorded in Western novels, for to him they were too bald, too self indulgent, and moreover, too unsubtly rich. However they read in the original, he thought they reflected a taste that could not be translated into Japanese. Therefore, he had not the slightest intention of using imported phrases to develop his relationship with Michiyo. Between the two of them at least, ordinary words sufficed perfectly well. But the danger was of slipping from point A to point B without realizing it. Daisuke managed to stand his ground only by a hair’s breadth. When he left, Michiyo saw him to the entranceway and said, “Do come again, please? It’s so lonely.” In the back the maid was still fulling cloth.
Once outside, Daisuke walked unsteadily for about a hundred yards. He should have been relieved at having left just in time, but his heart knew no such satisfaction. Nor, on the other hand, did he regret not having stayed with Michiyo and said all that nature commanded. He remembered that whether he broke off then or five or ten minutes later amounted to the same thing in the end. He remembered that his present relationship was already established the last time he saw her. No, it was even before then. . . . As Daisuke retraced their past, there was no point at which he could not see the flaming torch of their love. Michiyo was in effect married to him when she married Hiraoka. When he had pushed his thoughts this far, Daisuke felt as if something unbearably heavy had been thrown into his heart. His feet faltered under the weight. When he got home, Kadono asked, “You look very pale. Is something the matter?” Daisuke went to the bathroom and wiped the sweat from his pale brow. Then he soaked his overgrown hair in the cold water.
For some two days after that Daisuke did not leave the house at all. In the afternoon of the third day, he got on the streetcar and visited Hiraoka at the newspaper office. He had resolved to see him and have a thorough talk with him on Michiyo’s behalf. He gave his card to the office boy. While he waited in the dusty reception area, he frequently took his handkerchief from his sleeve and covered his nose. Presently, he was shown to a drawing room on the second floor. It was a stuffy, hot, gloomy, cramped room. Daisuke had a cigarette. A door marked “Editorial” swung open and shut to admit a steady stream of people. It was from this door that Hiraoka presently emerged. He was wearing the same summer suit that he had worn the last time; as usual, his collar and cuffs were impeccable.
“Well, haven’t seen you in a while.” He sounded hurried as he stood before Daisuke. Daisuke also felt compelled to stand. The two spoke briefly. Daisuke had come just at a time when there was a good deal of editing to be done, and it was impossible for Hiraoka to get away for any length of time. Daisuke asked when it would be more convenient for him. Hiraoka took his watch from his pocket and said, “Sorry— but would you mind coming back in another hour?” Daisuke took his hat and went down the dark, dusty stairs once more. Outside there was at least a cool breeze.
Daisuke wandered aimlessly about the neighborhood. He mulled over how he should broach his subject once he was with Hiraoka. His objective was to gain immediate peace of mind for Michiyo, however little it might amount to. But he was afraid he would end up irritating Hiraoka instead. He even anticipated the explosion that could occur as the worst possible consequence. Yet he had no plan for saving Michiyo in case of such an outcome. He lacked the courage to let their relationship develop further with their mutual acknowledgment. At the same time, he could not bear not doing anything for her. Today’s meeting, therefore, was not so much a prudent stratagem developed by his reason as an adventure spun out of the whirlwinds of emotion. This was something new to Daisuke, something of which he himself was still unaware. One hour later he stood again before the door marked “Editorial.” With Hiraoka, he went out the gates of the newspaper office.
When they had gone three or four blocks down a side street, Hiraoka stepped ahead and entered a certain house. A wreath of hare’s foot fern hung from the eaves of the room, and the narrow garden glistened with sprinkled water. Hiraoka took off his jacket and immediately crossed his legs. Daisuke did not think it was that hot. For him it sufficed to have a fan in his hand.
Their conversation began with a description of the internal conditions of the newspaper
office. Hiraoka said that it seemed busy, and yet it was a good job, quite relaxing. His tone did not suggest that he was simply trying to conceal a sense of failure. Daisuke teased that Hiraoka liked the job because it was an irresponsible business. Hiraoka became serious and began to defend the profession. He explained that there was no other business today that was as competitive or demanded as much shrewdness.
“True, it’s probably not enough just to be a good writer.” Daisuke showed no sign of being especially impressed.
“I’m only in charge of the financial section, but even there, interesting things come up. Maybe I’ll do a little story on the inside facts of your family’s company.”
Given his long-standing observations, Daisuke was not to be caught off guard with such a remark. “It might be interesting to do that. Only keep it fair, will you?”
“Naturally, I don’t intend to print lies.”
“No, I mean that your muckraking should be directed impartially at everyone, not just my brother’s company.”
Hiraoka laughed maliciously. “It’s no fun just to stop with that Japan Sugar Incident, you know,” he said pointedly. Daisuke drank his sake silently. Their conversation seemed to be losing momentum. Then suddenly, on some impulse, Hiraoka launched into an anecdote that he seemed to think was related to the state of affairs in the business world. It was about an incident that had occured in the Ōkuma Company during the Sino-Japanese War. The Ōkuma Company had been charged with the delivery of more than several hundred head of cattle to the army in Hiroshima. Every day they delivered a certain number and by night stole a few back. On the next day, they would redeliver the same cattle. The officials were buying the same cows every day. Finally, they realized what was happening and branded the cows they had bought. The company unknowingly brought back the same cows on the following day and thus was exposed at last.