“It was before I had yet turned twenty that I lost my parents. I believe I recall my wife telling you about it at some point, but the two of them died of the same illness. And just as my wife aroused your suspicions, they died almost simultaneously, one shortly after the other. To tell the truth, my father’s illness was a terrible typhoid fever. It was transmitted to my mother, who nursed him at his side.
I was the only son born to them. Our household had a considerable fortune, so I was raised rather generously. Looking back on my past, I think that if only my parents had not died then—if at least one of them, father or mother, had lived—I might have carried that generous spirit with me to this day.
I was left behind, dazed, after the two of them were gone. I had no knowledge, no experience, and no judgment. When my father died, my mother could not be at his side. When my mother died, she had not even yet been told of my father’s death. Whether she knew it or, as those around her said, truly believed my father was on the road to recovery, I cannot say. My mother simply entrusted everything to my uncle. Pointing, as it were, to me who was there, she said, ‘Please, whatever you can, for this child.’ I had already obtained my parents’ permission before this to go to Tokyo, so my mother seemed to mean to mention that as well. Thus she added only, ‘To Tokyo,’ and my uncle at once took up the thread and answered, ‘Very well, do not worry in the least.’ My mother must have had a constitution able to endure high fever, for my uncle said, ‘She is sturdy,’ and praised her to me. But whether this was in fact my mother’s dying wish, I cannot say now when I think of it. My mother of course knew the terrible name of the disease my father had caught. And she knew that she herself had been infected by it. Yet whether she believed she would surely lose her life to this illness—on that point, I think there is still ample room for doubt. Moreover, my mother’s words in her high fever, however logical and clear they might be, often left not even a shadow in her memory afterward. So… but such matters are not the issue. I only wish to untangle things in this way, or turn them round and round to examine them—that habit was already firmly mine even then. I think I must warn you of this from the start, but as an example of it, such a description with little bearing on the matter at hand may yet prove useful. I ask you to read it in that spirit. This disposition, extending ethically to a person’s conduct and actions, is I think why I later came to doubt others’ moral sense more and more. That it added a positive, great force to my anguish and suffering is certain, so please remember it.
When the talk strays from the main thread it becomes hard to follow, so let me return to it. Even so, as I write this long letter, I think perhaps I am somewhat calmer than others placed in my position might be. The rumble of those streetcars that can be heard when the world sleeps has now ceased. Outside the shutters, sometime unnoticed, the pitiful cry of insects has faintly begun again, in a tone that quietly recalls to mind the dew-filled autumn. My wife, knowing nothing, sleeps innocently and peacefully in the next room. As I take up the pen, each stroke forms and sounds at its tip. I face the paper in a rather calm state of mind. The pen may stray sideways from unfamiliarity, but I do not think my head is in turmoil and the brush runs wild.
