Fortunately, the teacher’s prophecy did not come to pass. At the time, inexperienced as I was, I could not even grasp the obvious meaning contained within that prophecy. I still went to visit the teacher. Before I knew it, I had taken to eating at his table. As a natural consequence, I was obliged to exchange words with his wife as well.
As an ordinary human being, I was not indifferent toward women. But given the circumstances through which I had passed in my youth, I had scarcely formed anything resembling real companionship with a woman. Whether that was the cause is doubtful, but my interest was spent mostly on women I met in the street and did not even know. When I met the teacher’s wife at the front entrance that first time, I received the impression that she was beautiful. Every time I saw her after that, I never failed to receive the same impression. Yet beyond that, I felt as though I had nothing in particular to say about her worth mentioning.
It may be fairer to interpret this as not that the wife lacked distinction, but that no occasion arose for her to show it. But I always regarded her with the feeling that she was merely a part attached to the teacher. She, apparently, treated me with the kindness due to a student who came to her husband. So if the teacher standing between us were removed, the two of us would simply have fallen apart. Thus, regarding the wife as I first came to know her, nothing remains in my memory but that she was beautiful.
Once, at the teacher’s house, I was made to drink sake. The wife came out then and poured for me at his side. The teacher looked more cheerful than usual. He said to her, “Have one yourself,” and held out the cup he had drained. The wife began, “I…” as if to decline, then took it with a troubled look. She drew her pretty brows together and lifted to the tip of her lips the cup I had half-filled for her. A conversation like the following began between the wife and the teacher:
“How strange. You so rarely tell me to drink.”
“Because you dislike it. But you should drink once in a while. It feels good.”
“It does nothing for me. Only misery. But you do seem very cheerful, when you have a little.”
“Sometimes I become very cheerful. But not always.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight I feel good.”
“Then a little each evening would be fine.”
“It won’t go that way.”
“Please drink. Then you won’t be so lonely, and it will be good.”
The teacher’s house held only the couple and a maid. Each time I went, it was for the most part quiet. There was never any trace of loud laughter to be heard. At times it felt as though only the teacher and I were in the house.
“It would be nice if there were a child,” the wife said, turning to me. I answered, “Indeed.” But in my heart no sympathy arose. Having had no child then, I thought of children merely as troublesome things, like flies.
“Shall we adopt one?” said the teacher.
“An adopted child, dear?” the wife again turned to me.
“A child will never come, no matter how long,” said the teacher.
The wife fell silent. “Why?” I asked in her place, and the teacher laughed loudly, saying, “It is heavenly punishment.”
