The Gate

by Sōseki Natsume

  The three of them continued this discussion for a while, but in the end Sōsuke said, “No matter what line of business you’re in, success just doesn’t come that easy.”

  “Yes, the best thing is to be rich like Sakai-san and then do whatever you like.”

  Oyone’s comment in his ears, Koroku returned to his room.

  Apart from these occasional reports gleaned from Koroku’s visits to the Saekis, the couple for the most part had no idea of how they were getting along.

  One day Oyone asked Sōsuke, “Do you suppose that every time Koroku stops by at Yasu-san’s he comes away with a bit of money?”

  “Why do you ask?” Not having paid much attention thus far to Koroku’s doings, Sōsuke was startled by Oyone’s sudden question.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Oyone said, “Yes, well, lately when he comes home, you can tell he’s been drinking.”

  “Oh, Yasu-san’s probably treating him in exchange for his listening to all that stuff about making a bundle on his inventions,” he said with a laugh, at which their conversation broke off with nothing further said about the matter.

  Three days later, Koroku again failed to come home by mealtime. The couple waited awhile, but Sōsuke finally declared he was hungry and, ignoring Oyone’s suggestion that he take this time to go to the bathhouse, sat down to eat.

  Seizing the opportunity, Oyone said, “Could you possibly have a talk with Koroku about his drinking?”

  “You mean he’s drinking so much that I should speak to him about it?” asked Sōsuke, looking somewhat alarmed.

  Well, no, it didn’t seem all that serious, Oyone replied, now feeling obliged to shield Koroku. But in truth she found it unnerving to have Koroku coming home so red in the face in broad daylight, when she was there alone. Sōsuke did not return to the subject. Inwardly, however, he began to suspect that his wife might be onto something: that his brother might in fact be borrowing, or at any rate accepting, money from someone and indulging in drink, even though he had never shown much taste for it before.

  The year slipped away, and nighttime steadily encroached until it laid claim to two-thirds of their day. The wind whistled fiercely, day in and day out. The mere sound of it was enough to send people into depression. Koroku simply could not bear to stay confined all day to his six-mat room. The longer he was left to his own thoughts, the lonelier he felt, until it became intolerable for him to remain there another moment. The idea of going over to the sitting room and chatting with his sister-in-law was even less bearable. With no other alternative, he left the house and made the rounds of various friends’ lodgings on foot. At first these friends treated Koroku as of old, regaling him with the sort of anecdotes that students find amusing. But then, even after they had run out of anecdotes, Koroku would turn up for more. They concluded that he came around mainly out of boredom and a desire to hone his conversational skills. There were times when his friends went out of their way to act preoccupied with research projects or class preparation. It was torture for Koroku to be treated in this fashion as a carefree idler. Yet he simply could not settle down at home for long enough to do any serious reading or thinking. In short, whether it be ascribed to insufficient motivation or external constraints, he was utterly incapable of the self-discipline and exertion that, for a young man at his stage of life, serve as indispensable stepping-stones on the path to maturity.

  Despite his restlessness, when there was a driving rain or when the roads were mired in mud from melting snow, even Koroku would refrain from going out, daunted by the prospect of getting soaked and muddying the socks he wore with his clogs. At such times, clearly at his wits’ end, he would occasionally venture out of his room, shuffle over to the sitting-room brazier, and pour himself a cup of tea. And if Oyone happened to be there, he even managed to bring himself to chat with her a bit about one thing or another.

  Oyone would ask him questions along the lines of how many bowls of rice dumplings in broth he wanted come New Year’s, and whether he was fond of saké. As these occasions multiplied the two of them gradually came to achieve a certain rapport. Eventually it reached the point where Koroku was not shy about asking some favor of his “sister,” as he called her, such as mending his jacket. Then, as Oyone proceeded to repair the holes in the splash-patterned sleeves, he just sat there staring at her hands. When she did something like this for her husband she was content to sew away in silence, but it was not in her character to treat Koroku so casually. She made a special effort to keep up a conversation with him. At times like this Koroku was prone to steer the topic toward the matter so much on his mind: his uncertain future.

  The first couple of times the subject came up, Oyone simply offered a few words of encouragement. “But really, Koroku-san, you’re still so young, you know. There’s plenty of time for you to do whatever you want. To be so gloomy about the future—you should leave that to your brother.” The third time around, however, she asked him, “Didn’t Yasu-san agree to help you out one way or another in the coming year?”

  “Well, if every thing works out just as he says it will, sure, there’d be no problem,” said Koroku, with a look that was far from confident. “But the more I think about it the less likely it seems to me that things will all turn out the way he plans. I mean, he hasn’t made much off those bonito boats.”

  Mentally juxtaposing the utterly forlorn figure now in front of her and the Koroku who had been coming home smelling of alcohol, with the ferocious look of someone wronged, though by what or by whom it was not at all clear, Oyone found herself feeling sorry for him. At the same time she couldn’t help feeling amused. Yet it was out of genuine sympathy, and not out of a desire to ingratiate herself, that she said, “I know what you mean. If only your brother had the money, I’m sure he’d do anything to help.”

  It was that same evening, perhaps, when Koroku wrapped a cloak around his shivering frame and went out again. He came home after eight and produced a white, tubular package from his kimono sleeve and presented it to Oyone and his brother. He explained that with this cold weather a craving had come over him for buckwheat noodles and so he’d bought some on his way back from the Saekis. Oyone put the kettle on and, mentioning something about broth, threw herself into grating a chunk of dried bonito.

  The couple then heard from Koroku the latest news from the Saeki household: Yasunosuke’s wedding was to be postponed until the spring. Negotiations for this marriage had been entered into shortly after Yasunosuke’s graduation; by the time Koroku had returned from the seashore to learn from his aunt that there would be no more money for tuition, his cousin’s engagement had been all but confirmed. In the absence of any formal announcement, Sōsuke had no idea when the negotiations had in fact been concluded, and it was only through hearing this and that from Koroku after his periodic visits to the Saekis that he had come to suppose that the wedding would take place before year’s end. It was likewise by way of his brother that Sōsuke came to learn that the fiancée’s father was employed by a large company, that the family lived quite comfortably, and that the fiancée had attended the Tokyo Women’s Academy.[42] And it was Koroku alone who’d had a glimpse of her, or at any rate had seen a photograph.

  “Is she pretty?” Oyone had asked once.

  “Better than average, I think,” Koroku had answered.

  While waiting for the noodles to be prepared, the three of them addressed together the question of why the wedding was no longer to take place before the New Year. Oyone surmised that it had been called off on astrological grounds. Sōsuke thought that it was due to lack of time.

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s because of money,” said Koroku, uncharacteristically the only one among them to voice a down-to-earth view. “I mean, the other family is pretty extravagant, so our aunt can’t get away with cutting lots of corners.”

  11

  IT WAS in late autumn, when the crimson leaves had darkened and shriveled, that Oyone began to show signs of ailing. Apart from their time i
n Kyoto, Oyone had seldom enjoyed extended periods of good health, whether in Hiroshima or Fukuoka, and in this respect their move back to Tokyo had not brought about any great improvement. Sōsuke had even begun to wonder if the very air here, in the place she had been born and raised, actually disagreed with her.

  Of late, however, her chronic affliction had noticeably abated; episodes of the sort that caused Sōsuke alarm had dwindled to a mere handful in any given year, such that both of them gained peace of mind in equal measure, he in the course of his daily stint at the office, she in her routine at home in his absence. And so she had not concerned herself unduly when, toward the end of autumn, with the wind blowing over the frost and chilling her to the bone, she had again begun to feel unwell. At first Oyone said nothing to her husband; yet when he saw for himself that all was indeed not well with her and urged her to see a doctor, she balked.

  Then the time had come for Koroku to move in. The true state of Oyone’s health, in both mind and body, was clearly visible to her husband, who was reluctant to upset the household by introducing a new member. But circumstances had tied their hands, and they were forced to carry on without further debate. Still Sōsuke mouthed words of advice about her getting plenty of rest, mindful though he was about his own inconsistency. Her smiling reply that she was perfectly all right did nothing to reassure him.

  Remarkably enough, Oyone experienced a heightened sense of well-being after Koroku moved in. It appeared that this minor increase in her responsibilities had a bracing effect on her; she applied herself with unexpected vigor to looking after her husband and now his brother. If all of this was lost on Koroku, Sōsuke realized fully the extent of her extra efforts on their behalf. Even as he redoubled his appreciation for her diligence, he worried that the stress of their augmented household might deal a sudden, serious blow to her frail health.

  Toward the end of the year, unfortunately, around the twentieth of December, Sōsuke’s fears were in effect realized, and like tinder touched by a spark he erupted in panic. The day had dawned heavily overcast; not a single ray of sun struck the earth, and a heavy chill weighed down on people’s heads. Having scarcely slept at all the night before, Oyone began the day with a headache but found, as she stoically went about her chores, that while certain motions triggered a degree of pain, these exertions, owing, perhaps, to the comparatively pleasant stimulation afforded by her surroundings, in fact made things more bearable than when she lay in bed with her mind focused on the pain alone. Up to the moment she saw Sōsuke out the door she also gained strength from the expectation that, as always, her condition would slip into a kind of equilibrium. But as soon as he had gone and she permitted herself some momentary relief after having got through the first chores of the day, her head became increasingly oppressed by the leaden skies. Outside everything looked frozen, and inside the house the cold seemed to seep through the light-starved shoji; meanwhile her head began to burn with an intense heat. She had no choice but to retrieve her futon from where it had been stored, spread it out again in the parlor, and lie down. This having brought no relief, she had Kiyo bring her a damp towel that she draped over her head. The towel quickly turned lukewarm, so she had a basin of water placed near her pillow in which to immerse it from time to time.

  Oyone kept up this makeshift treatment until noontime. It brought her no relief at all, however, and she lacked the strength to join Koroku at lunch. Asking Kiyo to set out the tray and serve Koroku his meal, she remained on her sickbed. She had Kiyo bring the puffy pillow that Sōsuke normally used and exchanged it for the stiff one on which her head had been resting up to now. Even the spirit of womanly concern about her hair coming undone had fairly deserted her.

  Koroku, emerging from the six-mat room, slid open the parlor door and peeked in at her for a moment, but finding her with her head turned toward the alcove, eyes shut, and assuming, perhaps, that she was asleep, he closed the door without a word. With the ample sitting-room table all to himself, he ignored proper etiquette and began his meal by pouring tea into his rice and audibly slurping it down.

  Around two o’clock Oyone finally dozed off for a while. When she woke up, the damp towel she had draped over her forehead was warm and nearly dry, but at least her headache had receded some. Now, however, she was assailed by a different, crushing form of pain that spread from her shoulders down her spine. Telling herself it would make things far worse not to take some nourishment, she struggled to her feet and nibbled on a late lunch. Kiyo fussed over Oyone as she served her meal, repeatedly asking how she felt. She appeared in fact to be a good deal better and, after having the futon removed, sat down by the brazier to wait for her husband’s return.

  Sōsuke came home at the usual hour. He described for Oyone the sights he had seen in the streets of Kanda: the banners displayed at all the shops, where the year-end sales were in full swing; the white-and-crimson curtain that had been hung up in the bazaar,[43] providing the band that played there with a splendid backdrop. He ended by urging her, “It’s very lively. You should go and see for yourself—it’s easy enough to get there by streetcar.” These utterances issued from a face so ruddy it appeared as though corroded by the cold.

  With Sōsuke offering Oyone such thoughtful suggestions, it was all but unthinkable for her to rebuff him with protestations of poor health. And at the moment she did not in fact feel very sick. As darkness fell she helped her husband change, folding his office clothes and the like with her usual placidity.

  Around nine o’clock, however, Oyone suddenly turned to Sōsuke and said that she would retire early, as she was feeling under the weather. Since she had been chatting with him until then in her normal affable fashion, Sōsuke was somewhat taken aback by this announcement. Reassured by her insistence that it was nothing serious, however, he finally sent her off to bed.

  He spent the next twenty minutes looking about the room in the quiet of evening, bathed in the soft lamplight, while listening to the gurgle of the iron kettle. He called to mind the reports of a general salary increase for government workers slated for the coming year. His thoughts then turned to rumors of the administrative reform and staffing retrenchment that would ineluctably precede the pay raise; he wondered with some apprehension which category he would fall into in such a process. He regretted that Sugihara, who had arranged his transfer to Tokyo, was no longer a section chief in his department. Where attendance was concerned, Sōsuke had not been ill even once, remarkably, since the move, and he had not taken a single sick day. It was true, though, that after dropping out of Kyoto University he had scarcely read a book, and he was less learned than the average person in his position. Still, his general intelligence was not so limited as to impede him from carrying out his duties in the bureaucracy.

  Having mulled over an array of factors, Sōsuke concluded that things would turn out satisfactorily for him in the end. He gently flicked a fingernail against the rim of the iron kettle. Just then Oyone called out to him in distress. Without thinking he leapt to his feet and rushed to the parlor.

  There he found Oyone half out of the covers, her upper torso completely off the futon. Her brow was furrowed, and she was gripping her shoulder tightly with her right hand. Sōsuke unconsciously reached out and placed his hand on hers. He then pressed where she pressed, right on the shoulder blade.

  “A little farther over,” Oyone implored. It took several more tries before his hand found the right spot, just below the base of her neck and close to the ridge of her spine. Pressing down with his fingers, he felt a stonelike nodule. She begged him to bear down on the spot with all his might. Sōsuke pressed down so hard that his forehead broke out in a sweat, but even this exertion was not enough to give his wife relief.

  Sōsuke was aware of a condition known by the old-fashioned term “courier’s shoulder.”[44] When he was just a child his grandfather had told him the story of a samurai who, suddenly stricken with a shoulder spasm during a mission, had leapt down from his horse, drew his sword, and immediatel
y cut into the top of his shoulder, letting the blood gush out and thus managing to save his life. Now the memory of this story came flooding back. Sōsuke was of no mind to perform the remedy presented in this anecdote. Still, he couldn’t help wondering whether or not cutting into the shoulder with a sharp blade would have the desired effect.

  Oyone’s face was uncharacteristically flushed; even her ears were tinged with red. When Sōsuke asked if she felt hot she replied, with difficulty, that she did. He called out loudly to Kiyo, directing her to fill an ice bag with cold water and bring it to him at once. Unfortunately, it seemed they had no ice bag, and Kiyo produced instead, as she had earlier in the day, a hand towel immersed in a basin of water. While she applied the damp towel to Oyone’s forehead, Sōsuke immediately resumed his efforts to bear down as hard as possible on the back of her shoulder. He asked her repeatedly if she felt any relief, but all she could do was to murmur faintly that it still hurt. Sōsuke was at his wits’ end. On the verge of rushing out of the house in search of a doctor, he realized that he could not possibly set foot outside the door for fear of what might happen in his absence.

  “Listen, Kiyo,” he said, “go out to the main road right away, buy an ice bag, and then find a doctor. It’s early enough. You’ll be able to find someone.”

  “It’s a quarter past nine,” said Kiyo, who had hurried over to the clock in the sitting room. She proceeded from there to the kitchen door and was rummaging around for her clogs when, fortuitously, Koroku returned to the house. As he made his way toward his room, without announcing himself to his brother, Sōsuke called out to him in a sharp tone that stopped him in his tracks. Koroku hesitated for a moment in the sitting room, but after hearing his name called twice more in rapid succession he was compelled to mutter a reply and poke his head into the parlor. His eyes were bloodshot—the lingering effect of drink. Only after a closer look around the room did he register astonishment.