Three

by Natsume Sōseki

I stepped into the school for the first time. When I entered the classroom and stood at a high position, I felt a strange sensation. While giving the lecture, I wondered if I could really manage as a teacher. The students were noisy, and occasionally called out "Teacher" in loud voices. Being on the receiving end of that was a completely different feeling from when I was called "Teacher" every day at the physics school. The soles of my feet began to tingle. I am neither a coward nor a timid person, but unfortunately, I lack courage. When the students' voices calling "Teacher" echoed, it felt as if I had heard gunfire in Marunouchi when I was hungry. The first hour passed somewhat haphazardly, but I managed to avoid any particularly troublesome questions. When I returned to the waiting room, Yama-arashi asked, "How was it?" After I answered briefly, Yama-arashi seemed relieved.

When I left the waiting room with chalk in hand for the second period, I felt as if I was about to invade enemy territory. Upon entering the classroom, I found that this class was filled with larger students than before. Being a slender Edoite, I couldn't project an intimidating presence even when standing tall. While I could take on a sumo wrestler in a fight, it was difficult to impress forty large students with just my tongue. However, thinking that showing weakness to these country bumpkins would become a habit, I began the lecture in a loud voice, using a bit of a rolled tongue. At first, the students were dazed and confused, so I became more confident, speaking in a casual manner, when suddenly the strongest-looking student in the middle of the front row stood up and called out, "Teacher." As I wondered what was coming, he asked, "I can't understand because you're speaking too fast, could you please speak a bit slower?" The phrase "Are you not getting it?" had a warm tone to it. If it's too fast, I'll speak slowly, but since I'm an Edoite, I can't use your dialect. If you don't understand, just wait until you do, I replied. The second period went better than I expected. However, just as I was about to leave, one of the students brought up a geometry problem that was impossible to solve, causing me to break out in a cold sweat. With no other choice, I hurriedly said, "I don't really understand this, I'll explain it next time," and as I retreated, the students cheered, "Wow!" Among them, I heard voices saying, "Can't do it, can't do it." It's ridiculous; it's only natural that even a teacher can't do everything. Is it strange to say that something can't be done? If I could do such things, I wouldn't have come to this countryside for forty yen, and I returned to the waiting room.Once again, Yama-arashi asked how it went. I simply replied, "Yeah," but that wasn't enough, so I added, "I don't understand the students at this school." Yama-arashi had a strange expression on his face.

Both the third and fourth periods, as well as the hour after lunch, were all quite similar. The classes that had started from the first day had all experienced slight failures. I thought that being a teacher was not as easy as it looked from the outside. The lessons had mostly finished, but I still couldn't go home. I had to wait quietly until three o'clock. At three o'clock, the students I was in charge of would come to clean the classroom and report back, so I had to confirm that. After that, I would check the attendance book briefly, and only then could I finally go home. Even if I was hired as a body on a monthly salary, is there a law that binds me to the school until the free time and makes me stare at my desk? However, since everyone else was quietly following the rules, I thought it wasn't right for a newcomer like me to complain, so I endured it. As I was leaving, I appealed to Yama-arashi, saying, "It's foolish to make everyone stay at school until three o'clock for everything," and Yama-arashi laughed, "Ahahaha," but then became serious and advised me, "You shouldn't complain too much about the school. If you do, just talk to me. There are strange people around." Since we parted at the corner, I didn't have time to ask for more details.

When I returned home, the innkeeper came to make tea. Since he said he would make tea, I thought he would treat me to something, but instead, he poured himself some tea without hesitation and drank it. At this rate, he might be making tea on his own even when I'm not around. According to the innkeeper, he likes calligraphy and antiques, and it seems he has started this kind of business privately. From what I can see, you also seem to have quite an artistic flair. He suggests, in a rather outrageous manner, that I should try indulging in a little hobby. Two years ago, when I went to the Imperial Hotel on someone’s errand, I was mistaken for a locksmith. When I wore a hood and visited the Great Buddha in Kamakura, I was called "master" by the carriage driver. Besides that, there have been many instances until today where I have been overlooked, but no one has ever caught me and said, "You seem quite artistic." Usually, one can tell by appearance or demeanor. A person of artistic flair is someone who, even when looking at a painting, wears a hood or carries a strip of paper. To seriously claim oneself as an artistic person is merely a sign of being a rogue. When I said I disliked such carefree behavior typical of a retired person, the innkeeper chuckled and said, "No, no one starts out with a particular liking, but once you enter this path, it’s hard to get out." He poured himself more tea and drank it in a strange manner. In fact, I had asked him to buy tea last night, but I dislike such bitter, strong tea. After one cup, it feels like it resonates in my stomach. When I told him to buy something less bitter next time, he replied, "Understood," and squeezed out another cup to drink. He’s the kind of guy who drinks recklessly, thinking it’s someone else's tea. After the innkeeper stepped back, I read through tomorrow's materials and quickly fell asleep.

Every day, I went to school and continued my days working according to the rules. When I returned home, my husband would say, "Shall I make some tea?" After about a week of such a life, I gradually began to understand the situation at school, and I also got a general sense of the personalities of the couple running the boarding house. When I asked other teachers, they seemed very concerned about how their reputation would be after receiving their appointment, whether it would be a week or a month, but I didn't feel that way at all. I only felt a bit down when I made mistakes in the classroom, but within thirty minutes, that feeling completely disappeared. I am not the type to worry about anything for long. I was completely indifferent to how my mistakes in the classroom would affect the students and how the principal or vice-principal would react to it. As I mentioned before, I am not a very courageous man, but I am quite decisive. I was prepared to leave for somewhere else immediately if this school did not suit me, so the raccoon and the red shirt were not terrifying at all. Moreover, I had no intention of using charm or flattery towards the children in the classroom. That was fine for the school, but it was not the case for the boarding house.

I could tolerate my husband coming to drink tea, but he brought various things with him. The first thing he brought was a seal, lined up about ten of them, saying, "Three yen is cheap, buy one." Since I am not a clumsy painter from the countryside, I declined, saying I didn't need such things, and then he brought a hanging scroll of flowers and birds by a man named Kasan. He hung it himself in the alcove and asked, "Isn't it a nice piece?" When I casually replied, "Is it?" he gave a silly lecture, saying, "There are two Kasans, one is something Kasan, and the other is something Kasan, but this width is from that something Kasan." After that, he urged me, "How about it, I'll let you have it for fifteen yen. Buy it." When I declined, saying I had no money, he stubbornly replied, "Money is always fine." When I told him I wouldn't buy it even if I had money, I sent him away at that time.

The next thing he brought was a large inkstone that looked like a demon tile. He kept repeating, "This is Huánqū, this is Huánqū," so out of curiosity, I asked, "What is Huánqū?" He immediately began to explain. Huánqū has upper, middle, and lower layers, and nowadays, everything is upper layer, but this is definitely middle layer. Look at this eye. It's rare for there to be three eyes. The quality of the ink splash is also very good; try it out, he said, thrusting the large inkstone in front of me. When I asked how much it was, he said, "The owner brought it back from China and insists on selling it, so let's make it a reasonable thirty yen." This man must be a fool. It seems I can somehow manage at school, but encountering antique dealers like this makes it hard to continue for long.

Eventually, I grew tired of school. One evening, while taking a walk in a place called Omachi, I noticed a sign next to the post office that said "Soba," with "Tokyo" added below. I love soba. Even when I was in Tokyo, whenever I passed by a soba shop, the aroma of the condiments would entice me, and I couldn't help but want to slip through the noren. Until today, I had been so absorbed in mathematics and antiques that I had forgotten about soba, but seeing the sign made it impossible for me to just walk by, so I thought I would stop in for a bowl. However, my expectations based on the sign were betrayed. If it was going to call itself Tokyo, I wished it would be a bit cleaner, but it seemed either they didn't know what Tokyo was like or they didn't have any money, as the interior was terribly dirty. The tatami mats had changed color and felt rough with sand. The walls were pitch black with soot. The ceiling was smoky with lamp oil, so low that I instinctively wanted to shrink my neck. Only the price list with the name of the soba was completely new. The first item on the price list was tempura. When I shouted, "Hey, bring me the tempura!" the three people in the corner looked my way. It was dark in the room, so I hadn't noticed, but when our eyes met, I realized they were all students from school. Since they greeted me first, I returned the greeting. That evening, after a long time, I ate soba, and the tempura was so delicious that I ended up finishing four bowls.

The next day, when I entered the classroom without a care, "Tempura Sensei" was written all over the blackboard. Everyone laughed when they saw my face. I thought it was ridiculous and asked, "Is it funny just because I ate tempura?" Then one of the students said, "But four servings is a bit much." Whether I eat four servings or five, it's my money and my choice, so I quickly finished the lecture and returned to the waiting room. After about ten minutes, when I went to the next classroom, it said on the blackboard, "Four servings of tempura. However, do not laugh." I wasn't particularly angry earlier, but this time it irritated me. Jokes can become pranks if they go too far. Just like no one praises a burnt rice cake. The country bumpkins probably think they can push as far as they want because they don't understand this nuance. Living in a narrow city where there aren't even any towns to visit after walking for an hour, with no talent to show outside, they spread the tempura incident like it was the Russo-Japanese War. Poor fools. Since childhood, they have received such education, resulting in twisted little people like a maple tree in a flowerpot. If they were innocent, it would be fine to laugh together, but what is this? Despite being children, they possess an oddly toxic attitude. I silently erased the word tempura and questioned whether such a prank was amusing or a cowardly joke. When I asked, "Do you know the meaning of cowardice?" one of them said that getting angry when laughed at for something they did was cowardly. What a nasty person. Thinking that I came all the way from Tokyo to teach such a person made me feel pathetic. I scolded them to study without saying unnecessary things and started the lesson. Then, when I entered the next classroom, it said, "Eating tempura makes one want to talk back." This really is unbearable. I was so angry that I said I wouldn't teach such a spirited brat and quickly left. The students seemed happy that class was canceled. At this point, I thought that antiques were still better than school.

I ate tempura soba and returned home, and after sleeping for a night, I felt a little calmer. When I went to school, the students were also there. I felt a sense of confusion. For about three days, things were peaceful, but on the fourth evening, I went to a town called Sumita and ate dumplings. This Sumita is a town with hot springs, just ten minutes by train from the castle town, and about thirty minutes on foot. There are restaurants, inns with hot springs, parks, and even a red-light district. The dumpling shop I entered was at the entrance of the red-light district and had a good reputation, so I decided to stop by a little on my way back from the hot springs.

This time, I thought no one would know since I didn't meet any students. However, when I went to school the next day and entered the first-period classroom, I saw "Two plates of dumplings, seven sen" written on the blackboard. In fact, I had eaten two plates and paid seven sen. They are quite troublesome. In the second period, when I thought something else would be written, it said, "The dumplings from the red-light district are delicious." What a ridiculous bunch. Just when I thought the dumpling talk was over, now "red handkerchief" became the topic of conversation. I wondered what it was about, and it turned out to be a trivial origin.

Since I came here, I had decided to go to the hot springs in Sumita every day. No matter what I saw in other places, it couldn't compare to Tokyo, but the hot springs were splendid. Since I had come all this way, I felt like I should enjoy them every day, so I set out for a bit of exercise before dinner. However, whenever I went, I always carried a large Western-style handkerchief. When this handkerchief soaked in the hot water, red stripes would flow out, and at a glance, it looked crimson. I always hung this handkerchief on my way there and back, whether I was on the train or walking. That's why the students called me "Red Handkerchief, Red Handkerchief." It seems that living in a small place makes things noisy.

There is more. The hot spring is a newly built facility on the third floor, and they lend you a fine yukata, allowing you to enjoy it for just eight sen. Moreover, a woman serves tea on a tenmoku dish. I always enjoyed it in a luxurious manner. Then, I started to say that it was extravagant to enjoy such luxury every day on a monthly salary of forty yen. That was unnecessary concern. Furthermore, the hot water tub was partitioned with granite and had a size of about fifteen tatami mats. Usually, there were thirteen or fourteen people in it, but sometimes there was no one at all. The depth reached up to my chest when standing, and swimming in the water for exercise was quite enjoyable. I was delighted to swim around the fifteen-tatami hot water tub when I saw that no one was around.

However, one day, I cheerfully came down from the third floor and peeked in, wondering, "Can I swim today too?" When I looked, there was a large sign that read, "No swimming in the water," posted prominently. Since there probably aren't many people who swim in the water, this notice might have been specially prepared just for me. After that, I gave up swimming. Although I stopped swimming, when I went to school, I was surprised to see "No swimming in the water" written on the blackboard as well. It felt as if the entire class was investigating me alone, which was disheartening. No matter what the students said, I am not the type to give up on what I wanted to do, but thinking about why I ended up in such a cramped place made me feel pathetic. So when I returned home, I was still thinking about antiques as usual.