To the Spring Equinox and Beyond (35 page)

That night I returned to Tokyo alone. My mother was detained by everyone and consented to stay another few days at Kamakura on condition that Goichi or someone else see her home. I wondered how she could settle down so good-naturedly just by their persuading her, and my nerves, which were already on edge, were further irritated by her being so at home.

I have not seen Takagi at all since then. The triangular relationship involving Chiyoko and Takagi and me developed no further after that. As the weakest of the three, I escaped from the whirlpool halfway, as though I knew beforehand the ultimate workings of fate, and so my story must be quite disappointing to a listener. I feel somewhat like a fire fighter who's put down his standard too hastily, before the fire's been extinguished. My words may suggest I took the trouble of going to Kamakura with some object in mind from the very start, but even I, jealous in spite of my deficiency in competing, had an adequate portion of conceit flickering somewhere in my gloomy mind. I've made quite a study of this contradiction. Because I did not dare to make thorough use of my self-conceit on Chiyoko, however, I found different thoughts and feelings muddling in one after another to occupy my mind, so that I was pestered by their intrusion.

Sometimes it seemed to me that Chiyoko loved me as though I were the only person in the world. And even then I couldn't make a move. Yet whenever it occurred to me to close my eyes to the future and take a desperate step, she almost always escaped from my reach and assumed a look no different from a stranger's. During the two days I stayed at Kamakura, this ebb and flow of the tide occurred a few times. And occasionally I even had the dim suspicion smoldering in me that she had voluntary control over these changes in herself, intentionally coming toward me at one time and removing herself at another. And not only that. There were a number of instances when after immediately interpreting her words and conduct in one way, I could interpret them in a totally different way, so that I really did not know which interpretation was correct. I felt vexed by my vain endeavor to reach a definite conclusion.

During those two days I seem to have been enticed by a woman I had no intention of marrying. And as long as that Takagi kept hanging around the least bit in my sight, I was in real fear of being enticed to the very end against my will. I've already said I wasn't competing with him, but to prevent any misunderstanding, I'm repeating it again. I must assert that if the three of us in our triangular struggle went wild in a whirlpool of desire or love or tenderness, the force that would move me to act would certainly not be the spirit of competition trying to triumph over Takagi. I affirm that this is the same nervous reaction which makes one who looks down from a high tower feel, along with the sensation of awe, that he can't help but jump. From the outward result—a triumph over Takagi or a defeat by him—it might look as if we had competed, but the power moving me is one quite different from the competitive spirit. Moreover, it never came over me if Takagi was not in sight. During those days I felt the terrible flashes of that weird power. So I definitely resolved to leave Kamakura at once.

I'm such a weakling I'm unable to bear a novel that fully incites its readers. And still less am I able to put into practice the actions in that novel. The moment I discovered my sentiments were turning into a kind of novel, I became astonished and returned to Tokyo. While I was on the train, I felt half of me was superior, the other half inferior. In that fairly empty second-class coach, I imagined various sequences to the novel I had started writing and had torn to shreds. The sea, the moon, and the beach were there. And the shadow of a young man and that of a young woman. At first the man raged and the woman wept. And then the woman raged and the man pacified her. At last the two held hands and walked along the silent sands. Or there was a framed picture and straw mats and a cool breeze. There two young men engaged in a meaningless dispute. The words brought blood to their cheeks, and in the end both were driven to using language affecting their integrity. And finally they stood and fought with their fists. Or. . . . As in a play, scene after scene was depicted before my eyes. I was all the more happy for having lost the opportunity of trying to experience any one of these scenes. Others may ridicule me for acting like an old man. If they call someone who appeals only to poetry without carrying through any action in the world "an old man," I am content to be ridiculed as such. But if it is an old man whose poetry has dried up and withered, that comment I refuse to accept. I'm always struggling for poetry.

I imagined the state of mind I might be in after returning home, afraid that I might be even more irritated than I had been at Kamakura, where right before my eyes was the cause of my irritation. And I uselessly pictured myself in the unbearable pain of being annoyed all alone with no opponent to contend with. By chance, though, the results were turned in another direction.

As I had hoped, it was fairly easy for me to bring back the usual quiet, composure, and indifference to my lonely upstairs room at home. I hung a mosquito net with its fresh odor of flax in the best room in the house and lay there enjoying the sound of a wind-bell under the eaves. In the evening I took a walk along the streets and returned home carrying a potted flowering plant. Since my mother wasn't there, the maid, Saku, took care of everything. When I sat down to my first meal at home after returning from Kamakura and as I saw Saku sitting properly before me ready to serve me with a black-lacquered tray on her lap, I was freshly struck by the difference between her and the sisters now at Kamakura. She was not the least bit attractive, but her figure—she apparently knew nothing except how to sit formally in my presence—made me aware of how modest she looked, how reserved, how she could move one to pity. She was sitting politely before me as if she had seemingly taken it for granted it was too presumptuous of her in her humility even to think about what love was. It was with unaccustomed tenderness that I spoke to her. I asked her how old she was. Nineteen, she replied. And suddenly I asked her if she didn't want to get married. She merely looked down and blushed, and that made me feel sorry for my blunt inquiry. Words had seldom been spoken between her and me except for necessary things. It was not till this moment that, as a reaction to the remembrances I had brought back from Kamakura, I became aware of the womanliness in the maid serving us at home. Of course "love" is not a word that can possibly be used between her and me. It was just that I loved the calm, easy, modest atmosphere emanating from her.

That I was able to receive some comfort from a maid sounds odd even to me. And yet reflecting back now and thinking of no other cause for that comfort, I have to think all the same it was Saku—or rather the aspect of womanhood represented by her at that moment—who had calmed my mind, which was apt to be irritated even by some imaginary incitement. I confess that from time to time the scenes at Kamakura appeared before my eyes, scenes in which of course human beings were acting. But it was a happy sign for me that those actions were apparently far removed from me, their interests never coinciding with my own.

I went upstairs and began putting my bookshelves in order. Though my mother, fond of cleanliness as she is, always takes care to dust and sweep thoroughly, I found as I rearranged the books one by one a thin collection of dust behind them which my mother could not have seen. So it took a fairly long time rearranging all the books. I had undertaken the task as something to occupy my time on a hot day, so I moved along as slowly as a snail. I planned to spend as much time as I wished, intending to indulge myself by reading any book that happened to interest me enough. Saku heard the untimely sound of the duster, and her face suddenly appeared along the stairway, her hair in the ginkgo-leaf style. I had her use a dustcloth over a section of the bookshelves. But I soon made her go downstairs, since I felt sorry to have her continue helping me on a task I didn't know when I'd finish. For about an hour I went on taking down books and putting them back, and then I felt a little tired. I was resting, smoking a cigarette, when Saku again showed her face on the staircase. She told me that she'd be glad to be of help. I wanted to have her do something for me, but unfortunately, the books I was arranging were those she could not handle, since she had no knowledge of the Western alphabet. I felt bad to have to tell her that there was nothing for her to do and sent her back downstairs.

There's no need to give a detailed account of Saku. I spoke about her only because I remembered her actions in connection with the events I mentioned before. After I finished my cigarette, I set about my task again. This time I went straight through the second shelf without Saku's disturbing my solitary world. Then I happened to discover at the back of a shelf a strange book I had long ago borrowed from a friend and had carelessly forgotten to return. It was a rather thin book covered with dust that had slipped behind some others to remain unnoticed until that moment.

The friend who lent me the book had a passion for literature. I had once talked with him about novels and had said that a man given to thought more than anything else would make a dull character for a novel because he would merely ponder everything and would lack the courage to translate his thoughts into some striking action. I had been tempted to say such a thing to him because I had often thought that the reason why novels were usually not the kind of book I enjoyed reading was that my own way of sitting around and thinking all the time disqualified me from being a character in one. Whereupon my friend pointed to the book on his desk and told me that the hero in that novel had remarkable powers of thought combined with decisive action of the most terrible kind. I asked him what was written in it. He told me only to read it and handed it to me. Its title in German was
Gedanke.
My friend explained that it was a translation of a Russian novel. Accepting the slim volume from him, I again asked what the story was about. He replied that that wasn't the important thing, explaining that it would be difficult to understand the book as being about jealousy, revenge, mischief, intrigue, serious action, a madman's reasoning, or even a normal man's calculation. He just said that since there was spectacular action going on with spectacular thought, I should at least read it and see.

I did bring the book home, but I didn't feel like reading it. Not being an enthusiastic reader of novels, I had made little of novelists in general. Furthermore, what my friend had told me failed to arouse in me any real interest in the book.

I had forgotten the entire incident and, quite unaware of it, had merely pulled out the book from behind the bookshelf to wipe off the thick layer of dust on it. With my eyes on the German letters of the title, I was reminded of my friend who was so fond of literature and of what he had told me at that time. A sudden curiosity came over me—from where I couldn't tell—and at once I opened the book to the first page and began reading. Inside I discovered a story of real terror.

A man loved a woman, but the woman ignored him and married one of his acquaintances, so with a grudge against her he plotted to kill the husband. But not merely kill him. The murderer would gain no real satisfaction unless the crime occurred before the wife's eyes. Furthermore, he would have to kill the man in so complicated a way that the wife, seeing him do it and knowing that he was the murderer, could do nothing but look on as a spectator, unable to take any action against him. To accomplish this he devised a scheme. The opportunity to carry it out occurred at a dinner party, where he began to feign sudden attacks of violent fits. His performance as a madman was so realistic that everyone present believed him quite insane. He secretly congratulated himself on the success of his ruse. After repeating his act a few times in the social arena, where he was easily able to attract attention, he succeeded in gaining the reputation of being a dangerous man susceptible to fits of mental derangement. His intention was to perform through these elaborate preparations an act of homicide that no one would be able to do anything about. As his frequent fits began to darken the lively atmosphere of the parties he attended, many homes which until then had been on familiar terms with him cut him off completely. But that didn't bother him in the least. He still had one house freely available to him, the very home of his friend and the friend's wife, the former of whom he was to kick into the region of death.