七 2
“Is he a good person, I wonder?” “Who’s this Yamarashi you speak of?” “Yamarashi is another name for Hotta.” “Well, Hotta-san does seem the stronger of the two, but Red Shirt is a graduate, so he’s surely the more capable one. And as for gentleness, Red Shirt is the gentler, but the students say Hotta-san has the better reputation.” “So which one is better, then?” “Whichever draws the bigger salary is the greater man, I’d say.”
Since there was no use asking further, I dropped it. Then two or three days later, when I came home from school, the old woman greeted me with a smile: “Oh, welcome back, sir. It’s finally arrived,” and she brought me a letter, saying, “Do take your time and read it,” then withdrew. I picked it up and saw it was a note from Kiyo. There were two or three slips of paper attached, and on checking carefully, I found it had been forwarded from Yamashiroya to the Ika-gin, and from the Ika-gin to Hagino. Moreover, it seemed Yamashiroya had held it for about a week; being an inn, they probably meant to lodge the letter as well as travelers. Opening it, I found it extraordinarily long. It began:
“After receiving your letter, Master, I meant to reply at once, but unfortunately I caught a cold and was in bed about a week, so I am late and beg your pardon. Besides, not being clever with pen and paper like the young ladies of today, even writing such poor characters costs me a great deal of effort. I thought of asking my nephew to write for me, but felt it would not do to let another hand pen what I send to you, Master, so I carefully drafted it once over, and then made a fair copy. The fair copy took two days, but the draft took four. It may be hard to read, but I wrote it with all my might, so please read it through to the end.”
Thus prefaced, some four feet of writing followed, this and that. Indeed it was hard to read. Not only were the characters poor, but it was mostly in hiragana, so dividing where one phrase ended and the next began took no little pains. Being of an impatient nature, I would have refused such a long and puzzling letter even if offered five yen to read it; but this time I turned serious and read it from first to last. That I read it through is fact, but the reading taxed me and the sense would not connect, so I read it again from the beginning. The room had grown dim, and harder to see than before, so at last I went out to the veranda, sat down, and perused it with care. Then the early autumn wind stirred the banana leaves and, brushing my bare skin, flipped the letter I was reading toward the garden; near the end the four-foot scrap fluttered and rustled, and if I loosed my hand it seemed ready to fly to the hedge beyond. I had no leisure for such matters.
“Master, you are of a nature split like bamboo, but your temper is too fierce, and that worries me. — Giving people random nicknames only breeds resentment, so do not use them lightly; if you must, write to me alone and tell me. — They say country folk are wicked, so take care not to meet with ill treatment. — The climate is surely more unkind than Tokyo’s, so do not catch cold by sleeping in the cool. Your letter was too short to tell me how you fare, so next time write at least half as long as this one. — Giving the inn five yen for tea money is well, but will you not be straitened later? In the country money is your only stay, so save what you can against need. — You may be pinched for pocket money, so I send ten yen by postal order. — The fifty yen you sent me before, Master, I deposited at the post office toward the time you return to Tokyo and set up house; subtracting this ten leaves forty, so all is well.”
Truly, women are thorough.
As I sat on the veranda letting Kiyo’s letter flutter, sunk in thought, the old woman of Hagino slid open the sliding door and brought my supper. “Still reading, sir? My, what a long letter,” said she, and I answered, “Yes, it is an important letter, so I read it, let the wind blow it, read it again” — a reply even I knew made no sense — and fell to. Looking, tonight again it was stewed sweet potato. This house, compared to the Ika-gin, is careful, kind, and refined, but regrettably the food is poor. Yesterday potato, the day before potato, tonight potato. I had no doubt declared my great love of potato, but fed thus in succession, life will not last. Far from laughing at Unari, I myself shall soon become another potato Unari. Had Kiyo been here, she would feed me raw tuna or broiled fish cake as I like, but a stingy old poor samurai is beyond help. Think as I might, it will not do without Kiyo. If it seems I am to stay at that school long, I shall send for her from Tokyo. No tempura soba, no dumplings, and lodged here eating only potato till you turn yellow — hard is the educator’s lot. Even a Zen priest indulges his mouth more than this. — I finished one plate of potato, took two raw eggs from my desk drawer, cracked them on the bowl’s rim, and barely kept body together. Without such raw-egg nourishment, how face twenty-one hours a week of classes?
Today Kiyo’s letter made me late for the bath. Yet missing even one day of my daily trip sat ill with me. Thinking to ride the train, I slung the red towel and came to the station, but the train had left two or three minutes prior, so I must wait. Seated on the bench, smoking a Shikishima, I chanced upon Unari. Since hearing the tale, Unari seemed to me more pitiable yet. Always before he looked small, as if a lodger between heaven and earth, which struck me as lamentable, but tonight it passed lament. Had I the means, I would double his pay, marry him to Miss Toyama tomorrow, and send them to Tokyo a month’s holiday — and just as this thought crossed me, I cried briskly, “To the bath, sir? Here, sit by me,” and gave him place. Unari, in humble guise, said, “No, pray do not trouble,” and stood, whether shy or what. “It won’t go without a wait; you’ll tire, sit,” I urged again, for I felt so sorry I almost wished he’d sit beside me. “Then I intrude,” he said, and at last obeyed. In this world are boors who thrust their rude faces where unneeded, and men like Yamarashi who carry on their shoulders the look that Japan would fail without them, and others like Red Shirt who deem themselves wholesale dealers in cosmetics and handsome men, and badgers who all but say, “Education lives and dons a frock coat and becomes me.” All puff themselves as fits, but never have I seen one so quietly there-yet-not as Unari, meek as a hostage doll. His face is plump, yet Madonna spurns such a fine man for Red Shirt — she must be a senseless minx. Were Red Shirt and a dozen like him stacked, they’d not make so fine a gentleman.
“Are you unwell, sir? You look most weary…” “No, no particular ailment…” “Good. An ailing body ruins a man.” “You seem very hale, sir.” “Lean, but never ill. I hate illness.”
Unari smiled faintly at my words. Then from the entrance came a young woman’s laugh; I turned without thought and beheld a formidable pair: a tall, fair, modern-coiffed beauty, and a lady of forty-five or so, stood side by side before the ticket window. I am no hand at describing beauties, so say naught, but she was surely beautiful. I felt as if a crystal bead warmed in perfume were cupped in my palm. The elder was shorter, but the face alike, so mother and daughter. The moment I thought “Ah, she comes,” I forgot Unari entirely and watched only the young woman. Then Unari rose from beside me and stepped slowly toward the women, and I started — thought her Madonna. The three exchanged light greetings before the window; too far to hear.
The station clock said five minutes to departure. “Would the train came,” I mused, partnerless and impatient, when another came running in: Red Shirt. He wore a flimsy robe with a crumpled silk sash slung loose, and as ever swung his gold chain — which is false; thinking none would know, he flaunts it, but I know well. Red Shirt, having run in, peered about, then bowed politely to the three at the window, spoke two or three words, then turned to me, walked cat-footed as ever, and said, “Ah, to the bath too? I feared I’d missed it and hurried, but there’s three or four minutes yet. That clock’s unreliable,” and showing his gold watch, said it differed by two minutes, then sat by me. The young woman never looked back, chin on cane, gazing front. The elder glanced at Red Shirt now and then, but the young kept her face averted. Surely she is Madonna.
Soon the whistle blew and the train came. The party boarded in a stream, each his own. Red Shirt sprang into first-class car one. First-class is no pride: to Sumita, first is five sen, third three, a mere two sen difference marks the divide. Even I, such as I am, splurge on first and take the white ticket.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”