七

I found it strange. But I was not visiting his house with the intention of studying the master. I simply let it pass as it was. Looking back now, I think that attitude of mine at the time was among the things in my life worthy of respect. I believe it was precisely because of that that I was able to have a genuinely human and warm relationship with the master. If my curiosity had turned even slightly toward the master's heart, working to analyze him, the thread of sympathy connecting the two of us would surely have snapped without mercy then and there. Young as I was, I was entirely unaware of my own attitude. That may be why it was precious; but if I had mistakenly gone about it the wrong way, what sort of result would have befallen our relationship? The mere thought makes me shudder. The master, as it was, constantly lived in fear of being studied with cold eyes.

I began to visit the master's house regularly, two or three times a month. As my visits grew more frequent, one day the master suddenly asked me: "Why do you come to the house of someone like me so often?" "Why? There's no special meaning to it. —But am I being a nuisance?" "I wouldn't say you're a nuisance."

Indeed, not the slightest sign of bother could be seen anywhere in the master. I knew that the master's circle of acquaintance was extremely narrow. I also knew that of his former classmates, almost none—only two or three at most—were in Tokyo at the time. Though he occasionally found himself seated with students from his home province at gatherings, none of them seemed to feel as close to the master as I did. "I am a lonely person," the master said. "That is why I am glad you come to see me. That is why I asked why you come so often." "And why is that?"

When I asked this in return, the master gave no answer. He only looked at my face and said, "How old are you?"

This exchange was quite unsatisfying to me, but I went home that time without pressing the matter to the bottom. And yet, within less than four days, I visited the master again. The moment he came into the room, the master burst out laughing. "You've come again," he said. "Yes, I've come," I said, and laughed too.

Had anyone else said such a thing to me, I would surely have been offended. But when the master said it, it was quite the opposite. Far from being offended, I was rather pleased. "I am a lonely person," the master repeated that evening the words from before. "I am a lonely person, but perhaps you are lonely too. I may be lonely, but since I am older, I can stay still; but you, being young, cannot do that. You must want to move about as much as you can. You must want to go out and bump into something…" "I am not lonely at all." "There is nothing as lonely as youth. Then why do you come to my house so often?"

Here again the master repeated the words from before. "Even meeting me, you are probably still lonely somewhere inside. I have not the power to pull that loneliness out by the roots for you. You will have to turn outward and spread your arms before long. Before long, your feet will stop coming this way."

The master said this and gave a lonely smile.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”