To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

by Sōseki Natsume

  I began to feel uneasy. Whenever I saw my mother's face, I felt qualms, since it seemed to me as though I were shuffling through day by day by deceiving her. Once I actually reconsidered everything and decided, if it were possible, to marry Chiyoko as my mother wished. With that purpose in mind, I went out of my way to visit the Taguchis even when I didn't have any real business there, merely to sound out my aunt and uncle indirectly. Neither in words nor bearing did they show any sign of shunning me as they could have if they had been anticipating my mother's hard pursuit. They're not that shallow or unkind. Yet what a pitiful image they had of me as a would-be husband for their daughter. Their impression hadn't improved in the least from what I could tell it had been earlier; in fact, it had gotten worse. In the first place, my weak physique and pale complexion were unacceptable in their view of me as a potential son-in-law. I admit, though, that with my over-sensitivity, I'm apt to exaggerate or bring some undue prejudice to bear on someone's appraisal of me. So I think I'd rather avoid the impropriety of speaking too freely about the close observations I've made of my aunt and uncle, and keep them to myself. Anyway, they had probably committed themselves at that early time to giving Chiyoko to me as my wife—at least they had probably thought that they might as well. But later on, their rising social status, as well as their own view of my character, with its course quite opposite their own, must have doubly deprived the engagement of its feasibility, and now only the empty slough of obligation has been left behind somewhere in their minds. That may be how the affair now stands.

  There was seldom any opportunity for them and me to talk even in general terms about marriage. Except that my aunt and I once had the following conversation:

  "Ichi-san," she said, "you're old enough to be looking for a wife. It seems that your mother has been worrying about it for a long time."

  "Well, if you find someone nice, please let my mother in on it."

  "Someone gentle and tenderhearted would be best for you, Ichi-san. As attentive as a kind nurse, I should think."

  "If I advertised for a bride that was like a nurse, I doubt if anyone would turn up," I said, smiling with self-scorn.

  Chiyoko, who was doing something in a corner of the room, raised her head. "Shall I come nurse you?" she asked.

  I looked intently into her eyes, and she looked into mine. But neither of us recognized anything meaningful there.

  Without even turning her head toward Chiyoko, my aunt said, "How could Ichi-san have a liking for someone as outspoken and boisterous as you?"

  In my aunt's low voice I caught something that sounded like fright as well as reproach. Chiyoko came out with only an amused laugh. At that time Momoyoko was sitting beside us too. She left her seat, smiling at her elder sister's words. After some time I got up to leave, interpreting what had been said as an informal refusal.

  After this incident I found it more and more humiliating to try to gratify my mother's wish. As the son of a proud father, I find that my hypersensitivity in this respect surprises even me. Of course, on that occasion I took no offense at my aunt's words. Since she had not received any explicit proposal from us, she could not have revealed her opinion in any other way than she had. As for Chiyoko, whatever it was she said or laughed at, I took it only as a frank expression of what she was feeling at that moment in her ever candid heart. Judging from her words and behavior, I knew with certainty, as I previously had, that she was not willing to marry me, but at the same time I had something of a secret fear that if my mother were to have a confidential, intimate talk with her, Chiyoko might say right then and there, "If that's the case, I'll join your family." I had always believed her to be so singularly pure as to be able on such an occasion to sacrifice her own interests or even her parents' wishes as if none of that mattered in the least.

  Being so strongly self-willed, I wished more to keep my ego from being bruised than to please my mother. Therefore, I tried discreetly to prevent what I feared might come to pass—that conversation in which Chiyoko would be persuaded by my mother into complying without my knowing anything about it. Since my mother had decided that Chiyoko would be my wife the minute the girl was born, it's obvious that she was my mother's favorite among all her nephews and nieces. And ever since she was a child, Chiyoko has regarded my home as her own, thinking nothing of coming and staying overnight. Even today, when our two families have less familiarity than they once had, she frequently visits us by herself, her face cheerful as she calls on her dear aunt as if she were her own mother. With that simplicity so characteristic of her, she has, concealing nothing, confided to my mother even the occasional marriage negotiations concerning herself. My good-natured mother would merely listen quietly, unable to reveal a single expression of her own disappointment. That intimate talk I was so afraid of could have occurred at any such moment between those two women of such deep connection.

  What I've called discretion on my part was nothing more than a precaution against my mother's broaching the subject. But when I did try to bring up the question anew, I felt vaguely from somewhere inside me that it was cruel of a son to deprive his weak mother of her freedom in order to have his own way, so more often than not I left everything unuttered. But the image of my mother's frown was not the only reason for my abandoning the topic. I was also partly restrained toward her by the reflection that since she had not yet confided to Chiyoko her definite desire in spite of their close relationship, she might, if left alone, not do it for a considerable time.

  And so I was able to let time go along without taking any definite steps concerning Chiyoko. In that interval though, during which I let the days pass in this kind of uncertainty, my connection with the Taguchi family was not wholly severed. I remember having occasionally used the streetcar to go to Uchisaiwaicho, if only for the purpose of seeing the delight on my mother's face. On the evening of one such day I was detained by Chiyoko, a rare moment in a long while. She said she'd serve me an unusual dish that she'd just learned how to make, and so I stayed for dinner. My uncle, who is away from home most of the time, happened to be present on that occasion and, as is his habit, told funny stories throughout the meal. Soon the whole room was in an uproar, until even the shoji were shaking from our laughter.

  After dinner my uncle suggested to me—though I don't know why—that we try our hand at a game of go, since we hadn't played in a long time. I didn't feel much like playing, but since he had been kind enough to ask, I agreed, and we moved into another room. We played two or three games. Since we were both poor at go, it didn't take much time, so when the stones were put away, it wasn't that late.

  We began talking over cigarettes. I found an appropriate time to ask whether Chiyoko's marriage had been settled yet or not. I had asked simply in order to show that I had no objection to her getting married. Also, I had done it because I thought the sooner the problem was solved, the more at ease I'd be and the happier Chiyoko would be too.

  My uncle then said in his frank way, "No, and it's not likely to be settled soon. Every once in a while we have an offer, but each of them has something difficult that troubles us. Moreover, the more we inquire, the more complicated it all becomes. So I'm thinking of having it settled, if possible, by not getting so deeply involved in the particulars. Marriage proposals are rather odd things, aren't they? I might as well tell you now. When Chiyoko was born, your mother said that she wanted her as your future wife—she said this about an infant just out of the womb!" My uncle was laughing and looking directly at me.

  "I understand my mother was very much in earnest when she said that."

  "Of course she was in earnest. She's an honest woman, my sister-in-law. And really a very nice person. Even now I understand she talks about it quite seriously with your aunt."

  He burst into another laugh. I thought that if he took the incident that lightly, I would speak up on my mother's behalf. But at the same time I reflected that if all this was the skillful means by which a man of the world got another person to understand a part
icular situation, any words put in by me would only be proof of my own stupidity, so I kept quiet. My uncle is a kind man as well as an experienced one. Even now I don't know which of those two sides his words are to be attributed to. But the fact remains that ever since then I have been inclined more and more toward not marrying Chiyoko.

  After that evening I stayed away from the Taguchis for about two months. If only my mother hadn't been concerned about it, I might have gotten along quite well without once turning my steps toward Uchisaiwaicho. And even if she was anxious, had my concern about her been the only question, I might have persevered to the very end in having my own way. That's the kind of person I am. But toward the end of those two months I suddenly realized it wasn't in my own best interest to remain so obstinate. The truth was that the more I alienated myself from the Taguchis, the more my mother began trying to find every possible opportunity to be in contact with Chiyoko. So the situation was becoming even more tense in that what I most feared—my mother's entering into direct negotiations with Chiyoko— might occur at any moment. I made up my mind to move the crisis one stage forward. With this resolve I again began crossing the Taguchi threshold.

  Their behavior toward me hadn't changed in the least, of course. And mine toward them was the same it had been two months earlier. As before, we laughed, joked around, and made light of each other's faults. In short, the time I spent with them was cheerful enough to be called uproarious. But to be honest, it was a little too cheerful for me. I was left feeling mentally exhausted by such empty endeavors. I think a sharp eye might have easily detected the deceptive light that was casting ugly colors upon my true self.

  In the course of these visits I remember only one occasion in which I felt the pleasure of having my mood and my words perfectly joined, like the two sides of a sheet of paper. The incident occurred on a day when the Taguchi family was following its custom of going out together once or twice a year. I had gone toward the back of the house and found, to my surprise, Chiyoko sitting quietly alone. She seemed to have caught a cold and had a compress applied around her throat. Her complexion was pale, which was unusual for her, and it made her seem lonely. I hadn't realized that all the others were out until she said with a smile that she was the only one home.

  That day, perhaps because of her illness, she was much quieter and calmer than usual. When I saw her there so solitary and strangely depressed—this girl who the moment she saw me could not resist the challenge to tease me with all the powers at her command and have me tease her back—I suddenly felt something tender rising within me. No sooner had I seated myself than some gentle, soothing words unintentionally escaped my lips. With a funny look she said, "You're awfully sweet today. When you get married, you'll have to be this kind to your wife."

  For the first time in my life I realized that my maintaining such an unreserved friendliness toward her had, until that moment, implicitly given me the freedom to treat her as unamiably as I wished. When I perceived something like a pleased, though faint, look wavering in her eyes, I regretted my injustice to her.

  We drifted back over a past so intimate to each of us that it seemed that we had been reared together. Reminiscent words of bygone days passed our lips to help revive those earlier times. It surprised me to find her own recollections, vivid even in trifling details, far superior to mine. She could even remember that moment four years ago when she had stitched up a tear in my hakama as I stood by the front door of her house. She even recalled that the thread she had used was silk, not cotton.

  "I still have those pictures you painted for me."

  Only when she said this did it come back to me that I had given some pictures to her. But that had been when she was eleven or twelve. She had thrust in front of me some colors and sheets of paper her father had bought for her, forcing me to draw something.

  The fact that I have never once touched a paintbrush since those days is evidence of my accomplishment in art, so her interest in those drawings must have been nothing more than a momentary stimulus from some red and green colors. I smiled in embarrassment upon hearing that she still had them.

  "Shall I show them to you?"

  I told her not to bother. Disregarding my request, she went and brought from her own room a small box containing the paintings.

  She took out several of my drawings. They were no more than simple sketches of red camellias, purple asters, and fancy dahlias. But the careful execution of neatly painted detail, trouble taken where it was obviously not needed and without begrudging the waste of time, was almost a complete surprise to me as I now am. I was caught up in admiring that earlier self, the one that had worked with such conscientious meticulousness.

  "When you painted these for me, you were much kinder than you are now!" Her words came abruptly.

  I couldn't make any sense out of what she had really meant. When I looked up from the pictures to her face, I found her large dark pupils staring straight at me. I asked her why she had said that.

  Without answering, she continued to gaze at me. Then in a voice lower than usual she said, "If I asked you to paint for me now, you wouldn't work as diligently as you did then, would you?"

  I couldn't come out with a yes or no. But I secretly admitted to myself that she was quite right. "Still, it never occurred to me that you'd keep such things so carefully," I said.

  "I intend to keep them even when I get married."

  An odd feeling of sadness came over me as I heard those words. And yet I was even more fearful that this same feeling was likely to find a response in her heart. I imagined at that very moment a pair of big dark eyes already brimming with tears.

  "You can't take that kind of trash with you."

  "Why not? They're mine," she said and piled the red camellias and violet asters and whatnot one over the other back into the box.

  To help change the mood, I asked when she intended to get married.

  "Soon."

  "But the final decision hasn't been made yet . . ."

  "No, everything's all been settled."

  Her reply was clear. Till then I had wished, as a last resort to setting my mind at ease, that she would make her wedding match as quickly as possible, but at this response my heart gave a start like a sudden dashing of waves, and I was surprised to feel a clammy sweat creeping out of the pores of my back and under my arms.

  She stood up with the small box in her arms. As she opened the shoji, she looked down at me and said very succinctly, "I made it all up," and then went to her room.

  I remained where I was with no thought whatsoever of moving. I didn't feel even the slightest vexation. For the first time I had actually been made aware of how I might be affected by her marrying or not, and I was thankful that she had given me this awareness by poking fun at me. It's possible that I might have been in love with her without realizing it until then. Or she herself might have been in love with me without any realization on her part. For a while I was bewildered by one thought: Is what I really am so incomprehensible and so dreadful?

  In the distance I heard the phone ringing. Chiyoko came hurrying along the corridor to ask me to answer the call with her. I couldn't make out what she meant by answering the call together, but I got up at once and followed her.

  "I've asked someone to call me, but my voice is hoarse, and speaking only makes my throat feel worse. So you speak for me, and I'll be the listener," she said.

  I bent forward, prepared to speak to someone I not only didn't know, but couldn't even hear. Chiyoko was already holding the receiver against her ear. Since she was monopolizing the words coming through to her, my only role was to tell the other party with my louder voice what she was saying in her low voice, although I didn't know what anything meant. At first I went at it, not minding how ridiculous and time-consuming it was, but soon her questions and answers began to arouse my curiosity until, all bent over, I stretched out my hand toward her and called out for her to give me the receiver. Smiling, she shook her head. I straightened and tried to
grab it from her. She wouldn't let go. We began fighting to hold it when suddenly she hung up. And then she burst into a loud laugh.

  Afterword I thought again and again—if only we had such a scene a year earlier. And each time this thought came to me, it seemed as though fate had pronounced the time too late, and the chance had already fled. There were other times when that same fate incited me, hinting at possible opportunities to seize the moment to repeat two or three scenes of the same sort. If we had actually dared use the light in our eyes as the only reflection of each other's affection, we might have from that day come to love each other with a love never to be severed by worldly concerns. As it turned out, I took the opposite route.

  Setting aside the intentions of the Taguchis and my mother's own wishes as having as little significance as the suggestions of an outsider, just the comparison of Chiyoko's personality to my own, each stripped of all it had acquired, always made me feel that the two of us had no possibility of ever being united. I believe this, though I may not be able to provide a satisfactory reason for it. Yet it's not to give others an explanation that I believe it.

  Once a friend of mine with literary tastes told me an anecdote about the writer D'Annunzio and a young woman. According to my friend, D'Annunzio is now Italy's most famous novelist, so his intention in recounting the story was probably to let me know how influential the man was. But I was far more interested in the woman than in the writer himself. The story went something like this:

  Once D'Annunzio was invited to a party. As it is customary in the West to make literary figures an adornment of the entire nation, the gathering there treated him with respect and affability as a great man. And while he was sauntering here and there in the hall attracting all the attention to himself, he accidentally dropped his handkerchief. The place was so crowded that neither he nor the people near him noticed it. Then a beautiful young lady picked up the handkerchief and brought it to him. "Is this yours?" she asked, offering it to him. D'Annunzio thanked her, but thought it necessary to add a compliment on the lady's beauty. "Keep it as your own," he said, anticipating her happiness. "I present it to you." She made no reply, but merely holding the handkerchief between her fingers, quietly went to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. Everyone there, except D'Annunzio himself, smiled.