一

“…I received two or three letters from you this summer. I distinctly remember that the one which said you wished to secure a respectable position in Tokyo and asked for my help was the second to arrive. When I read it, I wanted to do something. At the very least, I felt I ought to reply. But to confess, I made not the slightest effort on your behalf. As you well know, I live so secluded a life that it would be more fitting to say I dwell alone in the world than merely that my circle is narrow; I had no room at all to make such an effort. But that is not the point. The truth is, I was at that time tormented by the question of what to do with myself. Whether to go on existing like a mummy left behind among the living, or else… Every time I repeated the word ‘or else’ in my heart, I shuddered—like a man who has run at full speed to the edge of a cliff and suddenly peers down into a bottomless ravine. I was a coward. And like many cowards, I suffered accordingly. I am not exaggerating when I say that, regrettably, you scarcely existed for me then. To go further, your position, your means of livelihood—such things were utterly meaningless to me. I did not care either way. I had troubles enough of my own. With your letter stuck into my letter rack, I went on, chin in hand, lost in thought. What was a man with a fair fortune at home doing, agonizing over whether he graduated or not, scrambling after positions? With a kind of bitter distaste, I merely cast that one sidelong glance at you, far away. I lay all this bare now only by way of apology for not having answered you. I do not use these blunt words to anger you. I trust that my true intent will be clear once you read on. At any rate, I kept silent where I should have at least offered some greeting, and so I wish to beg your pardon before you for this sin of negligence.

After that I sent you a telegram. Plainly speaking, I simply wanted then to see you for a moment. And then I wished to tell you my past, as you had hoped, for your sake. You wired back that you could not come up to Tokyo just then, and I was disappointed, gazing at that telegram for a long while. But you seemed unsatisfied with the telegram alone, for you sent a long letter afterward, and I came to understand well why you could not come. How could I think you rude, or anything of the sort? With your dear father ill, how could you leave home? It is my own attitude—forgetting whether your father lived or died—that is improper. …Indeed, when I sent that telegram, I had forgotten your father entirely. And yet, when you were in Tokyo, it was I who warned you so earnestly that his was a stubborn ailment and must be watched closely. Such is the contradictory creature I am. Or perhaps it is that my past, pressing upon me more than my own brain, has transformed me into this contradiction. In this regard too I fully own my selfishness. You must forgive me.

When I read your letter—your last letter—I thought I had done wrong. I considered sending a reply to that effect, and took up my brush, but set it down without writing a line. If I was to write at all, I wanted to write this letter; and because it was still a little too soon to write it, I stopped. That is why I sent you only that simple second telegram saying there was no need to come.”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”