Sanshiro

by Sōseki Natsume

  In the end, a pleasant thought occurred to Sanshirō. Mineko had agreed to lend him the twenty yen, but she would not give it to Yojirō. Yojirō might well be untrustworthy when it came to money, but had that been her reason for refusing to give it to him? If not, this meant something very promising for Sanshirō. Her willingness to lend it to him was in itself sufficient indication that she thought well of him, but the fact that she insisted on handing it to him in person… He dared to allow himself this much conceit when a new thought struck him. “Isn’t she just toying with me again?”

  It was enough to make him turn bright red. If someone were to ask him why Mineko would bother toying with him, Sanshirō could not have found an answer. Pressed to think of one, perhaps he could have replied that Mineko was the kind of woman who enjoyed toying with men. It would never have occurred to him, surely, that she did it to punish his conceit, which he believed was caused by Mineko in the first place.

  *

  With two instructors absent the following day, Sanshirō was relieved of classes for the afternoon. He did not bother going back to his rooming house for lunch, but instead made do with a light snack on the way to Mineko’s. He had walked past her house any number of times but had never gone inside. “Satomi Kyōsuke” said the nameplate on the pillar of the tile-roofed gate. What was this Satomi Kyōsuke like? Sanshirō wondered each time he passed by. He had still not met the man.

  The central panels of the gate were locked. He entered through the gate’s small side door. The distance from the gate to the front door was shorter than he had imagined. Oblong slabs of granite marked the path. The door of handsome, narrow latticework was closed. Sanshirō rang the bell. To the maid who appeared he asked, “Is Miss Mineko at home?” He felt strangely embarrassed. He had never asked for a young woman at the door of her home before, and he found it difficult to do. The maid was unexpectedly grave, almost reverential. She left him at the doorway for a moment, then reappeared, bowed respectfully, and led him to the drawing room, a Western room with heavy curtains. It was rather dark.

  “Please wait here. Miss Mineko will be with you shortly.” The maid went out. Sanshirō took a seat in the quiet room. The wall in front of him had a small fireplace. Over it was a wide mirror, and in front of that two candlesticks. Sanshirō stood up to look at his reflection between the candlesticks, and sat down again.

  Just then a violin sounded in another part of the house. It faded immediately, as though a gust of wind had carried it from somewhere, discarded the sound, and blown it away. Sanshirō felt disappointed. Cradled in the overstuffed chair, he listened intently, wishing for more. But there was no more, and in the space of a minute he forgot about the violin. He looked at the mirror and candlesticks. They had a strangely Western air about them that he associated with Catholicism, though why Catholicism he himself did not know. The violin sounded again. This time some high notes and low notes echoed out two or three times in quick succession before the sound was abruptly cut off. Sanshirō knew nothing about Western music, but he could not believe that this was part of a melody. It was just someone making noises on the violin, sounds that were perfectly suited to his emotions. The random notes had fallen like a handful of freak hailstones from the sky.

  Sanshirō moved half-seeing eyes to the mirror, and there stood Mineko. The maid had closed the door, he thought, but now it was open. Mineko was reflected clearly from the chest upward, holding aside the curtain that hung beyond the door. In the mirror, she looked at Sanshirō. Sanshirō looked at the Mineko in the mirror. She smiled. “Welcome.”

  Her voice was behind him. Sanshirō had to turn around. The two came face to face. Mineko bowed with the slightest forward movement of her forward-swirling hair. The gesture implied an intimacy that made bowing unnecessary. Sanshirō, however, raised himself from the chair and bent low in formal greeting. Ignoring his bow, she walked around Sanshirō and sat down facing him, her back to the mirror.

  “So, you’ve finally come.”

  Her tone was as intimate as her little bow. These few words made Sanshirō extremely happy. She wore a kimono of shining silk. Perhaps she had kept him waiting so long in order to change for him? But there was no hint of that in her dignified calm. She sat looking straight at him, saying nothing, a smile about her eyes and lips, and the sight of her filled Sanshirō with a sweet agony. He could not endure being looked at this way, he began to feel, almost from the moment she sat down. He opened his mouth at once in a kind of spasm. “Sasaki…”

  *

  “Yojirō came to see you, I’m sure.” Mineko revealed her white teeth. Behind her, to the right and left, the candlesticks were aligned on the mantelpiece. They were oddly shaped pedestals, fashioned of gold. Sanshirō had assumed they were candlesticks; in fact, he did not know what they were. Behind these inscrutable candlesticks was the clear expanse of the mirror. Obstructed by the heavy curtains, the light from the windows did not illuminate the room sufficiently. The cloudy weather added to the gloom. Sanshirō looked at Mineko’s white teeth.

  “Yojirō did come to see me.”

  “And what did he say to you?”

  “That I should come to see you.”

  “I thought so. Is that why you came?” She insisted on asking the question.

  “Yes.” Sanshirō hesitated. “I suppose so.”

  Mineko concealed her teeth. She rose from her seat, approached the window, and peered outside. “Look how cloudy it is now. It must be cold out.”

  “No, it’s surprisingly warm. There’s no wind at all.”

  “Oh?” She returned to her seat.

  “Actually, about the money, Sasaki—”

  “I know,” she stopped him. Sanshirō did not try to go on. “But what happened to it exactly?”

  “One bad bet at the racetrack.”

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed, but her face showed little surprise. In fact, she was smiling. “What a naughty man,” she added. Sanshirō did not attempt a reply. “It must be hard to second-guess a horse race, harder than guessing what’s in someone else’s mind. Some people wear indexes, too, but you don’t even try to guess what’s in their minds, you’re so easy-going.”

  “I’m not the one who bet on the horses.”

  “You’re not? Who is?”

  “Sasaki.”

  Mineko laughed aloud. Sanshirō, too, was amused.

  “So you didn’t need the money after all. How silly!”

  “No, I’m the one who needs it, all right.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “This is all very strange.”

  “Yes, I know. So I don’t have to borrow it from you.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like the idea?”

  “No, I don’t mind, but I shouldn’t take it from you without telling your brother.”

  “Why not? It’s all right with him.”

  “Oh, then I guess it’s all right. But I don’t really have to borrow it. If I write home I can have the money in a week.”

  “Please don’t let me force you…”

  Mineko grew suddenly distant. It felt as if the woman who had been beside him only a moment ago was standing at the far end of the street. He was sorry he had not taken the money, but now it was too late. He kept his eyes glued on the candlesticks. Sanshirō had never in his life tried to ingratiate himself with anyone. Mineko, too, remained in her distant retreat. After a short time she stood up and peered outside again. “It doesn’t look like rain, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he replied in the same tone.

  “I think I’ll go out, then,” she said, still standing at the window. He interpreted this as a request for him to leave. No, it was not for him that she had changed into shining silk.

  “It’s time for me to go.” He stood up. Mineko saw him to the door.

  He stepped down into the hallway and was putting on his shoes when Mineko said from above, “I’ll walk with you a little way, if that’s all right?”

  “If you
like,” Sanshirō replied, tying his shoelaces.

  A moment later she was stepping down to the concrete floor. She leaned close to him and whispered, “Are you angry?” Just then the maid hurried out to see them off.

  *

  They walked half a block together in silence, Sanshirō thinking all the while about Mineko. Her parents must have raised her to have her own way. And now, as a young woman, she doubtless had more freedom at home than most others and could do anything she pleased. That much was clear if she could walk down the street with him like this without asking anyone’s permission. She could do it because she had no parents and because her elder brother, a young man himself, put no restrictions on her. If she were to try this in the country, though, she would not have it so easy. How would Mineko react if someone told her to live like Miwata Omitsu? Tokyo was different from the country, it was wide open, so perhaps most of the women here were like Mineko. He could only imagine what the others were like, but at a distance they did seem to be a little more old-fashioned than Mineko. It occurred to him how right Yojirō had been: she was an Ibsen woman. But was it only her disregard for convention that made her an Ibsen woman, or did it involve her deepest thoughts and feelings? He did not know.

  Soon they came to the main street of Hongō. They were walking together, but neither knew where the other was going. By this time they had turned three corners, doing so each time without a word, as though they had arranged it all beforehand. As they neared the Yonchōme intersection, Mineko asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Where are you going?”

  They glanced at each other. Sanshirō looked very grave. Mineko could not help revealing her white teeth again. “Come with me,” she said.

  They turned the corner, heading for Kiridōshi. There was a large stone building half a block down on the right-hand side. Mineko stopped when they reached it. She drew a thin passbook and a seal from her obi and held them out to Sanshirō.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Please what?”

  “Please take some money out for me with these.”

  Sanshirō took the passbook from her. In the middle of the cover it said, “Deposit Book,” and under that, “Satomi Mineko.” Sanshirō stood there looking at her, book and seal in hand.

  “Thirty yen,” she said, speaking as if to a man used to withdrawing money from the bank every day. Fortunately, while he was still living at home, Sanshirō had often set out for Toyotsu44 with a bank book. He climbed the stairs at once, opened the door and entered the bank. He presented the book and seal and received the money, but when he came out, Mineko was gone. She had walked a short way down the street toward Kiridōshi. He hurried after her. Catching up, he thrust his hand in his pocket to deliver the money when Mineko asked, “Have you seen the Tanseikai Group’s exhibition?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They sent me two complimentary tickets, but so far I haven’t found the time. Would you like to go now?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Let’s go, then. The show will be closing soon. I owe it to Mr. Haraguchi to stop in once, at least.”

  “Did Mr. Haraguchi send you the tickets?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I met him once at the Professor’s.”

  “He’s an amusing man, don’t you think? He’s planning to practice Idiot’s Delight.”

  “I heard him say he wanted to take up the Noh drum. And—”

  “And?”

  “That he was going to paint your portrait. Is it true?”

  “Yes, I’m a high-class model.”

  Sanshirō was by nature incapable of a clever retort. He could never have topped this. And so he said nothing, even though Mineko seemed to want him to.

  *

  Again Sanshirō put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out the passbook and seal and handed them to Mineko. The money was supposed to be sandwiched in the book, but Mineko asked, “And the money…?” It was gone. He searched the pocket again and pulled out a handful of worn bills. She did not reach for them.

  “Please hold it for me.”

  Sanshirō felt somewhat put-upon, but he preferred not to argue at a time like this. Besides, they were in the middle of the street. He returned the bills, produced at her suggestion, to the place where he had found them. How strange she was!

  Many students passed them on the street. Each one glanced at them without fail as they walked by. A few approaching from the distance stared at them all the way. The road to Ikenohata seemed awfully long to Sanshirō, but not so long that it made him want to take the streetcar. They moved ahead with slow, deliberate steps, and when they reached the museum it was nearly three o’clock.

  The building that housed the exhibition had an unusual sign. The name Tanseikai45—The Red and Green Society—and the design around the characters were something entirely new to Sanshirō, but new in the sense that one could never see them in Kumamoto, and therefore strange. The paintings inside were even more so. To Sanshirō’s eyes the only clear distinction was between oil and watercolor. He did have his likes and dislikes, however. One or two of them he thought he wouldn’t mind buying. As far as technical excellence was concerned, however, he understood nothing. And so he said nothing, resigned from the start to his own lack of critical sense.

  How about this one? Mineko asked. Yes, how about it. This one is interesting, don’t you think? Yes, he supposed it was. He was utterly unresponsive. He might have been one of two things: an idiot who couldn’t carry on a conversation, or a man too important to bother. If an idiot, his lack of affectation was charming; if important, his reserve was infuriating.

  Many of the paintings were by a brother and sister who had traveled abroad extensively. Their works bore the same surname, and their paintings hung together. Mineko stopped in front of one.

  “This must be Venice,” she said.

  Sanshirō could tell that much. It was so Venetian. He wanted to take a ride in a gondola. Gondola was one of his favorite words from College. There was only one way to ride in a gondola: with a woman. The blue water, the tall houses on either side, the inverted reflections of the houses, the bits of red dotting the reflections—Sanshirō viewed them all in silence.

  Then Mineko said, “The brother seems to be a much better painter, wouldn’t you say?” Sanshirō had no idea what she meant.

  “The brother…?”

  “The brother painted this one, surely.”

  “Whose brother?”

  Mineko looked at him with a mystified expression. “The sister’s paintings are on that side. These are the brother’s.”

  Sanshirō took a step back and turned to look at the other side of the passageway down which they had just come. The many paintings hanging there all showed the same kind of foreign scenes as the ones on this side.

  “Someone else did those?”

  “You thought they were all by the same person?”

  “Yes,” he said, and a blank moment followed. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

  Mineko opened her eyes wide in mock astonishment. “Really!” she murmured, taking several quick steps ahead. Sanshirō stayed where he was and examined the Venetian canal again. In her flight, Mineko looked around. Sanshirō was not watching her. She came to a halt, staring hard at his profile.

  Just then, a loud voice called out, “Mineko!”

  *

  Both Mineko and Sanshirō turned in the direction of the voice. Outside a door marked “Office” stood Haraguchi. Behind and partially hidden by him was Nonomiya. Mineko looked at the more distant Nonomiya rather than at the one who had called her name. The instant she glanced at him, she moved back to her place beside Sanshirō. Standing so that the others could not see clearly, she leaned close to Sanshirō and whispered something to him. He had no idea what she was saying. He was going to ask her to say it again, but she withdrew to where the two men stood and was already greeting them.

  Nonomiya turned to Sanshirō and said, “What a s
trange companion!”

  Before Sanshirō could reply, Mineko said, “We’re well matched, don’t you think?” Nonomiya said nothing in reply. Instead, he turned on his heels to face a large painting, perhaps six feet high and three feet wide. It was a portrait, and almost all black. So little light fell on the subject’s hat and clothing that they could not be distinguished from the background. Only the face shone white in the blackness. It was a wasted face, the flesh of the cheeks sunken.

  “This is a copy, isn’t it?” Nonomiya said to Haraguchi. At the moment, Haraguchi was intent on explaining something to Mineko. —The exhibition was about to close. The number of visitors had dropped considerably. He himself had been coming to the office every day at first but rarely bothered now. Something had come up today for a change, and he had brought Nonomiya along. What a fortunate coincidence that they should have met here today. As soon as this show was over he would have to begin preparing for the next and would then be very busy. The New Year’s show ordinarily opened at cherry blossom time, but some of the other artists wanted it to be a little early, which for him was like having two openings, one right after the other. This would call for desperate efforts with brush and canvas. He definitely wanted to have Mineko’s portrait finished by then. It was an imposition, he knew, but would she please go on posing for him straight through to the end of the year? “To make it up to you, I’ll hang the picture here.”

  Only now did Haraguchi turn toward the black painting. Nonomiya had been standing there blankly all that time, looking at the one picture. “How do you like it, the Velazquez? It’s a copy, of course, and not a very good one.” Haraguchi finally began to explain the painting. Nonomiya no longer had to say anything.