When he heard this story, Daisuke thought that insofar as it dealt with actual society, it afforded a taste of modern comedy. Hiraoka went on to tell of how the government feared a socialist named Kōtoku Shōsui. Two or three policemen stood on guard at his house night and day. At one point they even put up a tent and watched him from there. When Shōsui went out, the police followed him. If they ever lost sight of him, it was a major event. He’s showed up in Hongō, now he’s in Kanda—the telephones rang all over Tokyo, and the commotion was enormous. The police station in Shinjuku spent one hundred yen a month on Shōsui alone. When one of his group, a candy maker, sat on the street making his candy, the white-clad policemen kept getting in his way.
This story also failed to strike a serious note in Daisuke’s ear.
“It’s just another example of modern comedy, is it?” Hiraoka repeated Daisuke’s last assessment to challenge him. Daisuke said it was, and laughed. Not only was he uninterested in such stories, but today, he had not come to exchange small talk as usual. So he let the topic of socialism slide. For the same reason, when Hiraoka had wanted to call a geisha, he had restrained him, though with difficulty.
“To tell you the truth, I wanted to talk with you about something,” Daisuke said at last.
Hiraoka’s manner changed suddenly, and with uneasy eyes on Daisuke, he came out with the unexpected words, “I’ve been meaning to do something about it for a long time, but as things are now, there’s nothing I can do. Just wait a little more. In exchange, you see I haven’t written about your brother and father.”
Daisuke was taken aback. He did not find the response silly so much as odious. “You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you,” he said coldly.
“I’ve changed as much as you have. What can you do, I’m jaded. Anyway, just wait a little more.” Hiraoka laughed unnaturally.
Daisuke decided that regardless of Hiraoka’s words, he himself would say what he had come to say. If he were to explain that he hadn’t come to press him on the matter of the loan, Hiraoka was sure to try to get the upper hand again; Daisuke found the prospect irritating and so let the misunderstanding lie. Instead, he prepared to launch his campaign. But there was an immediate stumbling block: if he started out by saying he had learned of Michiyo’s budgetary problems from her, then she would be inconvenienced. Yet, if the discussion failed to touch on that point, all his warnings and suggestions would be quite useless. Daisuke chose to detour. “You must be getting quite familiar with places like this—everyone here seems to know you.”
“My wallet isn’t as fat as yours, so it’s nothing grand. I can’t help it—have to keep up my social ties after all.” Hiraoka dextrously lifted his sake cup to his lips.
“This may be none of my business, but with all this, can you manage to make ends meet at home?” It was a determined thrust on Daisuke’s part.
“Oh, I manage one way or another.” Hiraoka had suddenly dropped his tone; his answer was half-hearted.
Daisuke could make no further inroads. He ended up asking, “You must normally be home by now? You seemed to be quite late that night I visited.”
Still evasive, Hiraoka said, “Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not. I can’t help it. It’s in the nature of the job.” His ambiguity seemed to be half in self-defense.
“Michiyo-san must be lonely.”
“No, she’s all right. She’s changed a lot.” With these words, Hiraoka looked at Daisuke.
Daisuke sensed a strange fear in those eyes. Perhaps the couple’s relationship was already beyond repair, he thought. If they were to be split asunder by nature’s ax, then fate held an ineluctable future before his own eyes. The wider the rift between the two became, the closer he and Michiyo would be forced together. Daisuke blurted out as if on impulse, “That can’t be true! Oh, even if she’s changed, it’s only that she’s older. Try to get home regularly so that Michiyo-san’ll feel a little easier.”
“Is that what you think?” Hiraoka took a swig.
“Is that what I think? But anyone would think so.” Daisuke was saying whatever came to mind.
“Do you think Michiyo’s the same Michiyo as three years ago? She’s changed quite a lot. Yes, quite a lot.” Hiraoka took another swig.
Daisuke felt his heart throb in spite of himself. “She’s the same. As far as I can tell, she’s exactly the same. She hasn’t changed one bit.”
“But even when I do go home, it’s not especially pleasant, so what can I do?”
“That can’t be!”
Hiraoka looked wide-eyed at Daisuke. Daisuke’s breathing became a little constricted. But he did not in the least feel like a sinner struck by lightning. He was saying illogical things on impulse, unlike his usual self. But he never doubted for a moment that he was doing this for the sake of the man seated before him. Half-consciously, he was making a last attempt to restore the Hiraoka couple to what they had been three years ago, and on the strength of that, to fling himself forever from Michiyo. He never once thought of it as a deceptive maneuver to blind Hiraoka to his relationship with Michiyo. Daisuke regarded himself too highly to behave in such a dubious manner.
Presently, he returned to his normal tone. “But if you’re always out like this, it’s natural that you’d need money. Then the family budget gets tight, and things get less and less pleasant at home.”
Hiraoka rolled his white shirt sleeves midway up his arms and said, “Home. Home isn’t much to be thankful for. It seems that the only people who take home seriously are bachelors like you.”
At these words, Daisuke found Hiraoka hateful. If he were to have spoken his mind candidly, he would have said outright, if you hate home so much, go ahead and hate it; but I’m going to take your wife. But there was still considerable ground to be covered before their exchange could go that far. Daisuke tried once more to reach Hiraoka from the outside. “When you first came back to Tokyo, I got a lecture from you, right, that I should do something.”
“Right. And I was told your negative philosophy and was shocked.” Daisuke thought it was probably true that Hiraoka had been shocked. At that time Hiraoka was like a feverish man driven by a thirst for action. What did he crave as a result of that action? Was it wealth? Fame? Power? If not these, was he seeking action for its own sake? Daisuke could not tell.
“People like me who are spiritual bankrupts can’t help having negative ideas like that. Anyway, it’s not as if ideas exist first and people conform to them second. First comes the individual, then the ideas suited to him. So my theory applies only to me. I didn’t intend it to cover your fate at all. I admired your spirit then. You’re a man of action, just as you said. I hope you’ll really do something.”
“Of course, I intend to,” was Hiraoka’s only response.
Daisuke inwardly shook his head. “You intend to do it in the newspaper business?”
Hiraoka hesitated for an instant. Then he firmly declared, “As long as I’m in the newspaper business, that’s where I intend to do it.”
“That certainly makes sense. I’m not asking you about your whole life, so that’s a perfectly good answer. But I wonder, can you really do anything interesting in the newspaper business?”
“I’m planning on it,” replied Hiraoka tersely.
So far, their conversation had only advanced on an abstract plane. True, Daisuke had understood the meaning of Hiraoka’s words, but he had yet to get to the heart of the man. He felt as if he were talking to a high government official or perhaps a lawyer. At this point, he resorted to calculated flattery. The example of war hero Lieutenant Colonel Hirose figured prominently in it. When Lieutenant Colonel Hirose fell during a blockade in the Russo-Japanese War, the people of the time idolized and even revered him as a war hero. But now, some four or five years hence, the name of Lieutenant Colonel Hirose scarcely found its way to people’s lips. Thus was the rise and f
all of heroes meteoric. This was because in many cases, the term hero designated one who was of sizable importance to a given age; although the word itself sounded glorious, it actually indicated something extremely practical. Consequently, once the period of importance was over, society set about stripping the hero of his medals. In the midst of war with Russia, the blockade troops might have been important enough; but with the restoration of peace, a hundred Lieutenant Colonel Hiroses made no more difference than a like number of common mortals. Just as people were fickle toward their neighbors, so they were with their heroes. Thus, even among idols, there was a continuous metabolic process, an ongoing struggle for survival. Daisuke had not the slightest yearning to join the ranks of heroes. But if there were an ambitious, energetic young man somewhere, he would be far better off rejecting the momentary power of the sword for the eternal power of the pen, for that would bring him a more durable fame. The newspapers were a leading contributor to this end.
Daisuke tried expounding this much; but the fact that it was all flattery to begin with, and that his words sounded so terribly youthful, made him lose interest—so much so that it seemed slightly comical to him.
Hiraoka’s only response was “Well, thanks.’’ He did not seem particularly annoyed, but on the other hand, it was evident from his answer that he was in no way moved.
Daisuke was embarrassed to have somewhat underestimated him. It had been his design to appeal to his heart and once that was done, to shift and slide into the original topic of his household. But Daisuke had stumbled not far from the starting point of this circuitous and difficult course.
That night Daisuke ended up parting from Hiraoka without having gotten any further. To judge from the results of the meeting, he himself could not tell why he had called on Hiraoka at the newspaper office. It was even more puzzling from Hiraoka’s viewpoint. He never managed to press Daisuke for the reason he had come to the office.
Alone in his study the next day, Daisuke went over and over in his mind the proceedings of the previous evening. In the two hours they had spent talking together, the only time Daisuke had been relatively sincere with Hiraoka was when he was defending Michiyo. Even that was only a sincerity of motivation; the words he had actually used were arbitrary. Strictly speaking, they might as well be called lies. Even the motivation, which he had believed to be sincere, was after all but a means to save his own future. Hiraoka would certainly not have regarded it as forthright. As for the rest of their conversation—well, it was from the start a calculated program in which Daisuke had set out to lead Hiraoka from his original position into a trap designed to serve his, Daisuke’s, purposes. Consequently, he had been unable to do anything with Hiraoka.
If he had been bold, if he had attacked his subject head on, without reserve, alluding directly to Michiyo—then he could have said stronger things. He could have shaken Hiraoka more. He could have penetrated further into his heart. No doubt. But if he had failed, it would have meant troubling Michiyo. It would have meant fighting with Hiraoka. Perhaps.
Daisuke found it cowardly of himself that he had unconsciously adopted a safe but ineffectual course with Hiraoka. If it was true that he had been dealing with Hiraoka from such a position, though all the while unable to trust him for even one minute with Michiyo’s fate—then in that case, he was guilty of a flagrant contradiction inadmissible by the rules of reason.
Daisuke envied the men of old: though they were actually motivated by self-interest, the muddiness of their reasoning enabled them to weep, to feel, to agitate, all the while convinced that it was for the sake of others, and in the end, to effect what they had originally desired. If only his head were as muddy. He might have put on a greater show of emotion last night and reaped more gratifying results. People— especially his father—said that Daisuke was a man without ardor. But according to his own analysis, the truth was as follows: human beings were not so consistently lofty, sincere, and pure of motive and deed as to be worthy of ardor. Indeed, they were far more lowly creatures. To meet their lowly motives and deeds with ardor was the behavior of one who possessed an indiscriminating, infantile mind, or a charlatan who feigned ardor in order to elevate his own position. Hence, Daisuke’s coldness, even if it could not be considered another step in human evolution, was at least the result of an improved analysis of man. Because he was accustomed to scrutinizing his own motives and deeds and discovering in them such craftiness, such insincerity, and, in general, such deceitfulness, he could never bring himself to pursue them with ardor. This was what he firmly believed.
Here he came upon a certain dilemma: was he to allow his relationship with Michiyo to develop in a straight line, as nature commanded, or, on the contrary, ought he to return to the innocent past? Unless he chose one or the other, his existence would as good as lose all meaning, he thought. All other intermediate courses began in fraud and would inevitably end in fraud. They were safe as far as society was concerned, and ineffectual as far as he was concerned. So he thought.
To let his relationship with Michiyo ripen as heaven willed—he could only think of it as the will of heaven—was a socially dangerous course, as he was well aware. A love that obeyed the will of heaven but violated the laws of man was customarily accepted by society only upon the death of its subjects. Daisuke tried to picture the ultimate tragedy befalling the two—and shuddered in spite of himself.
He also tried, on the other hand, to imagine eternal separation from Michiyo. In that event, he would have no choice but to become a martyr to his own will rather than to heaven’s. As a means to this end, he thought of the marriage being urged upon him by his father and sister-in-law. And he thought that in acceding to that marriage, he would be giving a new start to all his relationships.
CHAPTER XIV
TO BECOME A CHILD of nature or a man of will: Daisuke was at a loss. As a matter of principle, he loathed the absurdity of shackling himself like a machine—he who responded instantly even to heat and cold—to a rigid, inflexible policy. At the same time, he was acutely aware that he had arrived at a juncture where he risked having to make a crucial decision.
He had been told to give careful thought to the marriage issue, but he had still not taken the time to consider it in earnest. Once he got home, he had been thankful to have escaped the lion’s den once again and had left the matter at that. His father had not pressed him yet, but he had a feeling that he would be called to Aoyama within two or three days. Daisuke of course did not plan to do any thinking until he was actually summoned. Once there, he could study his father’s countenance and compose a suitable answer on the spot. Daisuke did not necessarily mean to be contemptuous of his father. All responses, he thought, should flow spontaneously from a consideration of oneself and the other party to the discussion.
If he had not felt that his attitude toward Michiyo had been pushed to the brink, Daisuke would undoubtedly have adopted this course with his father. But now, regardless of his father’s countenance, Daisuke would have to cast the die in his hand. Whether the face turned out to be inconvenient to Hiraoka or disagreeable to his father, as long as he was going to cast the die, he had no choice but to obey the laws of heaven. As long as he was going to hold the die in his hand, and as long as he had been fashioned so as to be able to cast the die, then it had to be he and he alone who would determine the die’s face. Daisuke decided in his heart that the final authority rested with him. Neither his father nor his brother nor his sister-in-law nor Hiraoka appeared on the horizon of decision.
He was a coward only where his own fate was concerned. He spent four or five days gazing at the die on his palm. It was still in his grasp today. He wished that fate would rush in from the outside and tap his hand lightly. Yet on the other hand, the realization that he could continue to hold it in his hand gladdened him enormously.
From time to time Kadono came into the study. Each time he entered Daisuke was sitting still at his desk. Once or tw
ice he said, “How about going for a walk? It’s not good for your health to study like this all the time.’’ True, his color was not good. As it had turned summerlike, Kadono drew a bath for him every day. Whenever he entered the bathroom, he spent a long time gazing in the mirror. His beard was heavy, and even the slightest neglect made it appear terribly unsightly to him. When he touched and felt the roughness, it was even more unpleasant.
He continued to take his meals as usual. But the insufficient exercise, irregular sleep, and mental strain produced some disorder in his eliminatory functions. Daisuke thought nothing of it. He scarcely had time to consider physical disorders, so preoccupied was he with one thing, circling it again and again in his mind. Once this became habitual, it was easier to spin around it forever than to make the effort to break loose.
In the end, Daisuke came to abhor himself for his indecision. Since it was inevitable, why not refuse the match with Sagawa’s daughter in order to force his relationship with Michiyo to develop? When he came this far in his thinking, he was startled in spite of himself. But the idea of acceding to the match as a means of severing his ties with Michiyo never once appeared in the course of his mental revolutions.
As for refusing the match itself, he could resolve on that any number of times. But once he refused, that inexorable force which could be appeased only by throwing himself upon Michiyo was sure to set in as a reaction—and Daisuke became fearful again.
Daisuke waited expectantly for his father to press him. But there was no word from him. He thought of going to see Michiyo again but he did not have that much courage either.
Finally, he began to think that although marriage might sever his ties with Michiyo insofar as the conventions of morality were concerned, it would in no way influence them as far as the substance of morality went. If the relationship was able to develop with Michiyo already married to Hiraoka, why should the added circumstance of his being married signify its end? To see it as not continuing was but the public view; yet conventions, which were powerless to fetter the heart, could only increase in painfulness if multiplied. So Daisuke reasoned. He had no choice but to reject the match.