To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

by Sōseki Natsume

  He walked around and around the streets in Yarai and noticed that many of the houses had the same numbers on them. He entered a small side street and followed it to the right and then the left, looking over the drenched hedgerows at the houses behind them until he came to the front of an enclosure, apparently a graveyard, surrounded by aged camellia trees. It seemed that Matsumoto's house was not going to be so easy to find. He finally tired of his search and, coming upon a rickshaw station at a corner, asked a young runner for directions. The rickshawman informed him of the location as though it were the easiest thing in the world to find.

  Matsumoto's dwelling was pleasing to the eye. It had a bamboo fence around it at the end of a side street whose entrance was diagonal to the rickshaw station. As Keitaro passed through the gate, he heard the sound of a drum being beaten by a child. Even when he reached the porch and called out for admission, the sound did not stop. Except for that sound, the house was so quiet that it seemed devoid even of human smells.

  At last a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old maid appeared from the further end of the house shut in by the pouring rain, bowing with her hands on the tatami. As soon as she took the letter from him, she withdrew without a word. A few minutes later she returned and said, "We're very sorry, but it's not convenient for us to see you now. Would you come again on another day, when it isn't raining?"

  This excuse sounded strange to Keitaro, even though he was accustomed to being rejected at various places he had visited in search of employment. He was at once tempted to retort as to why her master was hindered from seeing a guest on a rainy day. But to argue with a maid was improper, so instead he merely asked—to make certain as well as to vent his disappointment— "Then shall I be allowed in if I come on a fine day?" The maid merely replied, "Yes."

  Keitaro could do nothing but head out into the rain again. He could still hear the child's drumbeat through the violent downpour. That there existed a man this strange was the thought recurring again and again to Keitaro as he descended Yarai Slope. He wondered if this was not what Taguchi had meant when he had told him that Matsumoto was not an easy person to see even on ordinary matters. If Keitaro returned directly to his lodging, he would be annoyed the entire day, unable to proceed in any direction, his mood forcibly rooted in a state of suspension. So he thought of calling on Sunaga, whom he had not seen for some time, and spending the afternoon by telling him over tea what had happened during this period. But thinking again, he realized that if he went to see him at all, it would be better to wait until he had reached some conclusive stage where he could announce the plot of the story after it had sufficiently been revealed to himself, for otherwise it would not make a good tale. So he gave up the idea.

  The next morning was fine, quite the opposite of the previous day. As he rose, Keitaro looked up at the dazzlingly bright blue sky, all its impurities having been washed away by the force of the rain, and he rejoiced that he could certainly see Matsumoto this very day. He took the walking stick from behind the wicker trunk, where from that other night he had kept it, thinking he might just take it with him.

  As he went up Yarai Slope for the second time, cane in hand, he imagined what he would feel like if the same maid appeared and announced that the occupants were sorry for the trouble he had taken, but they had to request he come some other time when it was a little more cloudy, this being too fine a day!

  Unlike the previous day, however, Keitaro heard no child's drumbeat as he passed through the gate. And in the hall there was a screen that he had not noticed before. It had a single crane on it drawn in light India ink, but what attracted Keitaro's attention was its elongated shape. It was different from usual screens, shaped more like a full-length mirror. As he had expected, the same maid answered his call, but behind her came two children with loud, ill-mannered footsteps. They peeped at him as though he were quite a singular phenomenon. Having recognized this much of a difference from the day before, he was at last led inside by the maid and shown into a drawing room whose glass sliding doors were all closed. In the middle of the room was a porcelain brazier as large as a fishbowl. On either side of this the maid set down circular cushions with an Indian calico print and indicated the one for Keitaro. As he sat down on it, its shape gave him an odd sensation. On the wall of the alcove hung a scroll whose landscape was drawn with the careless bold strokes of a rough brush. Unable to distinguish the trees from the rocks, he looked upon it as an ornament deserving only contempt. The gong next to the scroll, to which a stick had been attached, gave him further evidence of the room's strangeness.

  The sliding partition between the rooms opened and from the other side came his mole-browed host. Saying, "Thank you for coming over," he sat down directly opposite Keitaro. His greeting was far from engaging—he hardly seemed to attach any importance to his guest—yet there was something magnanimous about his manner. Keitaro felt all the more at ease for this. He was thus not made to feel much constraint, even though they were sitting face to face with only the brazier between them. Furthermore, in spite of thinking that his host would certainly remember the face he had seen the other night, Keitaro found that Matsumoto's serene manner as they were seeing each other again revealed in neither word nor look the slightest sign as to whether he remembered it or not, so Keitaro sensed he had still less to be reserved about. And finally, his host said not a word by way of reason or apology for refusing the interview the day before due to the rain. Keitaro had no way of judging whether the man did not wish to refer to it or saw no cause for having to.

  Their talk began naturally enough with Taguchi's introduction. After first ascertaining that Keitaro was looking for a position through Taguchi, Matsumoto asked general questions about the kind of work Keitaro desired and about his university record. Keitaro found himself troubled by the finicky topics Matsumoto kept bringing up, for example, Keitaro's view of the world and of life itself, topics he had never thought about. From time to time Matsumoto showed such flashes of curious logic that Keitaro suspected he was one of those men of learning unacknowledged by the world. And not only that. Matsumoto berated Taguchi, setting him down as a useful man but one deficient in brain power.

  "First of all, a life as busy as his just won't do. It provides no leisure with which to build any system of thought. The brains of that man are exactly like bean paste beaten all year round by a wooden pestle in a mortar. They're so perpetually in motion they have no form, no shape."

  It was quite beyond Keitaro's comprehension why his host was using such abusive language toward Taguchi. But what really seemed odd was that neither in Matsumoto's attitude nor in his tone did there appear anything malignant or repellent in spite of the bitterness of the words he used. This abusive language, when heard through a voice so calm that it seemed never to have been used for scolding, did not provoke in Keitaro's mind any strong contradiction. It merely served to provide a fresh stimulus to his impression that Matsumoto was indeed unique.

  "And yet he plays go, recites from Noh texts, and dabbles in an assortment of other hobbies. Of course in each of these he's quite inept."

  "Isn't that evidence that he does have some leisure time?"

  "Leisure—you call that leisure? I declined to see you yesterday because it was raining and asked you to come again when the weather was fine, didn't I? There's no need to explain why now, but do you think in all the world there's a more capricious reason for declining to see anyone? If it had been Taguchi, he'd never have been able to refuse in that way. Why is it that he is so willing to see people? It's because he's a man who wants something from the world. In other words, he's not a high-class idler like me. He doesn't have the leisure which allows one to remain unconcerned no matter how much offense he gives others."

  "The truth is that I've come without having been told anything about you by Mr. Taguchi. Are you using the words 'high-class idler' in their literal sense?"

  "I'm literally an idler. Why do you ask?"

  Matsumoto placed his elbows on the rim of th
e large brazier and with his jaw supported by one of his fists looked at his visitor. His manner, which apparently indicated he did not really consider Keitaro a guest he was meeting for the first time, had to be, Keitaro was convinced, truly characteristic of high-class idlers. He seemed to delight in smoking and occasionally puffed at the big-bowled Western pipe that was perpetually in his mouth, the smoke like a signal fire giving evidence that the pipe was still lit. His features—features which evinced no need to guard his thought against anyone—coupled with the way in which the smoke vanished around the side of his face gave Keitaro a kind of tranquil feeling he had never experienced with anyone before. His thinning hair was parted in the middle and consequently made the crown of his head seem even more normal and composed. Furthermore, he was dressed in a haori of solid brown, a color seldom worn, and he had on a pair of brown tabi over a white pair. The brown color at once suggested to Keitaro a monk's habit and made him feel that Matsumoto looked all the more singular, all the more unusual. He was the first man Keitaro had ever heard call himself a "high-class idler," and his behavior and attitude took Keitaro by surprise and hurled into his mind the impression that he was certainly typical of such a class of men.

  "Pardon me for asking, but do you have a large family?" Though Keitaro did not know why, he wanted before anything else to put this question to this so-called high-class idler.

  "Yes, I have quite a few children," Matsumoto replied, another burst of smoke coming from his pipe, which Keitaro had almost forgotten about.

  "And a wife? . . ."

  "Of course I have a wife. Why?"

  Keitaro regretted his stupid question, which now he couldn't take back, and he remained at a loss on how to get out of it. Not that Matsumoto looked that offended by the inquiry, but since he was staring as though expecting an explanation, Keitaro found himself required to say something.

  "I asked only because I wondered how a person like you could lead a family life as ordinary people do."

  "A family life? Why couldn't I? Because I'm a high-class idler?"

  "Not necessarily, but I guess I did feel something along that line."

  "Let me tell you, a high-class idler is more domestic than men like Taguchi."

  Keitaro found himself unable to say anything further. In his mind were the embarrassment of having been stuck for an answer, the effort to change the subject at this point, and the desire to gain a clue through this question to Matsumoto's relationship with the woman in the leather gloves. These three were working together so that they cast even darker shadows over his mind, for even at the outset his thoughts had not been systematically organized.

  Matsumoto, however, seemed not to care in the least what Keitaro thought, for he merely glanced coolly at his guest's embarrassed face. If Matsumoto were Taguchi, he would have shown brilliant tact, first dealing a neat blow for the impertinence of the inquirer and then, as soon as the blow had landed, turning the tables so that the other would have been saved from a clumsy stalemate—or so Keitaro thought. However, the man before him seemed to lack utterly the neat dexterity of dealing with people despite his ability to put them at ease. Keitaro was thinking that he had hit upon a difference between the two when, much to his relief, Matsumoto happened to ask, "Seems to me you haven't even bothered to think about such a problem, have you?"

  "No, not ever."

  "You have no need to think about it, do you? Since you're living alone in a boardinghouse. But even so, I imagine you sometimes think about the question of man versus woman, at least in a general way, don't you?"

  "I guess you could say that I'm interested in it rather than that I've thought about it. Yes, of course I'm interested in it."

  For a while they discussed this question which all human beings have an interest in. However, whether due to the difference in age or experience and background, Matsumoto's views on the subject were to Keitaro no more than a skeleton with all the flesh of vital importance removed, utterly lacking the incisive force with which to drive them into Keitaro's being and make them move irresistibly with his blood. On the other hand, Keitaro's desultory fragments lost their warmth as soon as they left his mouth, failing as they did to penetrate Matsumoto's mind.

  In the course of this irrelevant talk, however, Keitaro heard an anecdote that sounded quite novel to him. It concerned the Russian writer Gorki, who had gone to America with his wife for the purpose of raising funds he thought essential for putting into practice the socialism he advocated. He was so popular, so busy with invitations and receptions, and making such steady and easy progress in attaining his objective that all things looked promising. Then the fact came to light that the woman accompanying him all the way from his homeland was not in fact his wife but his mistress. No sooner was this known than his fame, hitherto at its most enthusiastic height, fell off at once until no one the breadth and length of the New World would so much as shake his hand. And so Gorki was compelled to leave. That was the gist of the story.

  "Therein lies that much difference between the Russian and American conception of the relations between the sexes. What Gorki did was so trivial it would hardly have caused public discussion in Russia. How nonsensical!" Matsumoto cried, a contemptuous look on his face.

  "Which of the two," Keitaro offered, "is Japan more like?"

  "More, I should think, like the Russian type. At least I'm for it," said Matsumoto, puffing away with another thick signal-fire outburst.

  Inasmuch as the conversation had taken this turn, Keitaro began to feel he had nothing to fear in asking about the woman of the other day. "I believe I saw you the other night at a restaurant in Kanda," he began.

  "Yes, we did see each other, didn't we? I remember you quite well. Furthermore, we were on the same streetcar on our way back, weren't we? You stayed on, it seems to me, as far as Edogawa. Is that near where you live? You must have had a bad time of it that night, caught in the rain."

  Matsumoto had not indicated that he remembered Keitaro at the beginning of their interview, but neither was he pretending to have been made aware of it just now. His behavior suggested that it was all the same if he mentioned it or not. Whether Matsumoto's attitude came from naiveté, nerve, or inherent magnanimity, Keitaro could not tell.

  "You were with someone . . ."

  "Yes, with a beautiful young woman. You were alone, I believe."

  "Yes. You were alone too on your way back, weren't you?"

  "So I was."

  Their brief flow of brisk talk came to an abrupt end. Keitaro was waiting for some further word about the woman when he was asked a question that had nothing to do with her.

  "Is your boardinghouse in Ushigome or Koishikawa?"

  "It's in Hongo."

  Matsumoto stared at Keitaro as though he had not understood.

  When Keitaro saw that the look in his host's eyes seemed to be demanding an explanation of why he had gone to Edogawa if he lived in Hongo, he decided to make a clean breast of the matter rather than contrive some troublesome pretext. He resolved that if he angered Matsumoto, he would simply apologize, and if his host refused to accept this apology, he would politely bow and leave.

  "The truth is that I deliberately followed you as far as Edogawa," Keitaro said, looking at Matsumoto, whose face did not reveal the change expected, which was somewhat of a relief to Keitaro.

  "What for?" asked Matsumoto in the leisurely tone characteristic of him.

  "I was asked to."

  "Asked? By whom?" said Matsumoto, his voice somewhat surprised. For the first time he had put a stronger stress than usual into his words.

  "Actually, it was Mr. Taguchi."

  "Taguchi? Yosaku Taguchi?"

  "Yes."

  "But . . . you've come to me with a letter of introduction from him!"

  It seemed much easier for Keitaro to bring the matter to an end once and for all by giving a full account of what had taken place rather than to be cross-examined in this way. So he confessed to all the circumstances, leaving nothing co
ncealed, from the opening point of his venture—his receiving Taguchi's specially delivered letter and going at once to Ogawamachi to stand watch at the streetcar stop—to its end—his coming to a standstill in the rain after the streetcar arrived at the Edo-gawa terminus. His chief object in the narrative was to give a consistent sequence of events, avoiding as much as possible bothersome amplification, to say nothing of exaggeration, so it did not take him much time.

  Matsumoto put in no word of interruption. Nor did he look as if he were going to speak up immediately even after Keitaro finished. Keitaro interpreted this silence as a consequence of the offense Matsumoto had received, so before his host became angry, Keitaro was thinking it best to make a quick apology. Suddenly, however, the silence was broken.

  "A really impertinent fellow, that Taguchi. Of all the people you could have been used by. You were made to be quite a fool."

  Keitaro looked at the face uttering these words. It actually gave him more relief than anything, for although it was evident that Matsumoto had been jolted by the particulars, there was less anger on his face than there could have been. As for being called a fool, it was a trifle in the present situation.

  "I'm sorry about what I've done."

  "I don't want your apology. I said what I did only because I feel sorry for you. Being used by that kind of scoundrel."

  "Is'he that bad?"

  "What need could you possibly have to undertake such a ridiculous scheme?"