I suddenly slipped both hands under K’s head as if to cradle it and lifted it a little. I wanted just one glance at K’s dead face. But when I peered up at his face, lying prone like that, from below, I immediately let go. It was not merely that I was struck with horror. His head had felt extraordinarily heavy. For a while I gazed at the cold ear I had just touched, and at the thick, closely cropped hair—no different from usual. I felt not the slightest inclination to weep. I was simply afraid. And that fear was not only the monotonous dread aroused when the scene before my eyes stimulated my senses. I was profoundly made to feel the terror of the fate that this friend, suddenly gone cold, seemed to portend.
Without any presence of mind, I went back to my own room. And then I began to pace round and round the eight-mat space. My head was commanding me to keep moving like that for a while, even if it meant nothing. I felt I had to do something. At the same time I felt it was already impossible to do anything at all. I could not help but circle round and round the room. Like a bear shut in a cage.
Every now and then I was tempted to go to the back and wake the mistress. But the thought that it would be wrong to show a woman such a terrible sight immediately checked me. Above all, a strong will restrained me from ever being able to alarm the young mistress. And so I would start pacing round and round again.
In the meantime I lit the oil lamp in my own room. Then I kept glancing at the clock. Never was there a clock so hopelessly, maddeningly slow as then. I do not know the exact time I got up, but it is clear it was not long before dawn. Pacing round and round, waiting in anguish for that dawn, I was tormented by the thought that perhaps the dark night would go on forever.
We were in the habit of rising before seven. Since school often began at eight, we would otherwise be late for class. The maid, accordingly, got up around six. But that day I went to wake the maid before six. Then the mistress reminded me that today was Sunday. She had been roused by my footsteps. I asked her, since she was awake, to step into my room a moment. The mistress threw her everyday haori over her nightclothes and followed me. No sooner had we entered the room than I slid shut the partition sliding door that had been open. Then in a low voice I told her something terrible had happened. The mistress asked what. With a jerk of my chin toward the next room, I said, “Don’t be alarmed.” The mistress’s face went pale. “Madam, K has taken his own life,” I said again. The mistress stood there as if rooted, looking at my face in silence. At that moment I suddenly dropped to my hands before her and bowed my head. “I am sorry. It is my fault. I have wronged you, and the young mistress as well,” I apologized. Until I faced the mistress, I had not the least intention of saying such words. But the moment I saw her face, I found myself blurting them out unawares. Please understand that I, who could not apologize to K, was now compelled to beg pardon of the mistress and the young mistress. In short, my nature had outwitted my ordinary self and loosed my faltering lips into confession. It was fortunate for me that the mistress did not read any deeper meaning into my words. Pale-faced, she said as if to comfort me, “If it was an unforeseen accident, there is nothing to be done.” Yet upon that face, astonishment and fear were carved as if graven in, the muscles rigidly seized.