十二

The mistress was from Tokyo. I had learned this before, from both the master and the mistress herself. The mistress said, "To tell the truth, I'm a child of the city." Her father was certainly from Tottori or somewhere thereabouts, but her mother was a woman born in Ichigaya back when it was still called Edo, so the mistress said it half in jest. The master, however, was a native of Niigata Prefecture, the complete opposite direction. Thus, if the mistress knew anything of the master's student days, it was clearly not through ties of hometown. But the mistress, with her faintly ruddy face, seemed unwilling to speak of anything further, and I for my part did not press her.

From the time I became acquainted with the master until his death, I touched upon his thoughts and sensibilities on a great variety of subjects, yet I was able to hear almost nothing about the circumstances of his marriage. At times I interpreted this in a kindly light. Being an older man, I thought, he was deliberately reticent about revealing amorous recollections to a younger person. At other times I took it in a worse sense. Not only the master but the mistress too, having come of age within the conventions of an earlier era than myself, lacked perhaps the courage to frankly open themselves up on such tender matters. Of course, both were mere conjecture. And behind either conjecture lay the assumption that a splendid romance rested at the root of their union.

My assumption was indeed not mistaken. Yet I could only imagine one half of love. Behind the master's beautiful romance lay a terrible tragedy. And how ghastly that tragedy was to the master, the mistress as the other party had not the slightest inkling. The mistress remains even now without knowledge of it. The master died hiding it from her. He destroyed his own life first, before destroying the mistress's happiness.

I shall say nothing of this tragedy now. As for the love between the two, which might be called born rather of that tragedy, it was as I said earlier. Neither told me almost anything. The mistress from reserve, the master from a reason deeper still.

There is but one thing remaining in my memory. Once, in the blossom season, I went with the master to Ueno. There we saw a beautiful pair of man and woman. They walked beneath the flowers, close and affectionate. As the place was what it was, many turned their eyes not to the blossoms but to them.

"They look like a newlywed couple," said the master.

"They seem to be on good terms," I answered.

The master did not even smile bitterly. He turned his steps in a direction that placed the pair outside his line of sight. Then he asked me:

"Have you ever been in love?"

I replied that I had not.

"Do you not wish to be?"

I did not answer.

"You would not say you do not wish to, would you?"

"No."

"Just now, seeing that man and woman, you offered a cool appraisal. Within that cool appraisal was mingled, surely, the voice of your displeasure at seeking love yet finding no partner."

"Did it sound that way to you?"

"It did. One who has tasted the satisfaction of love speaks with a warmer voice. But... but my friend, love is a sin. Do you understand?"

I was suddenly struck with surprise. I gave no reply.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”