四

I returned to Tokyo at the end of the month. Mr. Sensei had left his summer retreat long before that. When I parted from him, I asked, "May I come to visit your home from time to time?" Mr. Sensei merely replied briefly, "Yes, do come." At that time I considered myself to have become quite intimate with him, so I had expected rather warmer words from him. This unsatisfying reply thus somewhat wounded my self-confidence.

I was often disappointed by Mr. Sensei in such ways. He seemed both aware of it and completely unaware of it. Even as I repeated these slight disappointments, I could not bring myself to distance myself from him. Rather the opposite—each time I was shaken by unease, I wanted to advance further. I thought that if I pressed on, the thing I expected would surely one day appear before my eyes to my satisfaction. I was young. Yet I did not think that toward all people young blood would act so obediently. I did not understand why such feelings arose only toward Mr. Sensei. It is only today, after Mr. Sensei's death, that I have begun to understand. Mr. Sensei had not disliked me from the start. The sometimes curt greetings and seemingly cold gestures he showed me were not expressions of displeasure meant to drive me away. The sorrowful Mr. Sensei was warning those who drew near him: stop, for you are of no worth enough to draw near. Mr. Sensei, who answered no one's affection, appears to have despised himself before despising others.

I of course returned to Tokyo intending to visit Mr. Sensei. Since there were still two weeks before classes would begin, I thought I would go once during that time. But as two or three days passed after my return, the feelings I had had in Kamakura gradually faded. Then the air of the great city, coloring all above it, dyed my heart deeply along with the strong stimulation that accompanied the revival of memory. Each time I saw a student's face in the street, I felt hope and tension for the new academic year. For a while I forgot about Mr. Sensei.

When classes began and about a month had passed, a kind of laxness formed again in my heart. I began walking the streets with a somehow unsatisfied look. I glanced about my room as if longing for something. Mr. Sensei's face floated again in my mind. I wanted to see Mr. Sensei once more.

The first time I visited his home, Mr. Sensei was out. I remember the second time was the following Sunday. It was a fine day when the clear sky seemed to seep into one's very being. That day too Mr. Sensei was out. While in Kamakura, I had heard from Mr. Sensei himself that he was generally at home all the time. I had also heard that he rather disliked going out. Having come twice and met him neither time, I recalled those words and felt a groundless dissatisfaction somewhere. I did not leave the entrance at once. I looked at the maid's face, hesitated a little, and stood there. The maid, who remembered having delivered my card before, left me waiting and went inside again. Then a lady who seemed to be the mistress came out in her place. She was a beautiful mistress.

She politely told me where Mr. Sensei had gone. It seemed Mr. Sensei had a habit of going on that day each month to offer flowers at a certain grave in the Zoshigaya cemetery. "He just left, not even ten minutes ago," the mistress told me with an apologetic look. I nodded and went outside. After walking about one block toward the busy town, I felt like going to Zoshigaya on a stroll myself. Curiosity as to whether I might meet Mr. Sensei also moved me. So I turned on my heel at once.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”