Four to six

by Natsume Sōseki · 2026-05-13

I returned to Tokyo at the end of the month. It was long before that when the teacher had left the summer resort. When we parted, I asked, "May I visit your home from time to time?" The teacher simply replied, "Yes, come." At that moment, I thought I had become quite close to the teacher, so I was expecting a warmer response. Therefore, this unsatisfactory reply slightly hurt my confidence.

I was often disappointed by the teacher in this way. It seemed that the teacher was aware of my disappointment, yet at the same time, completely oblivious to it. Even while experiencing light disappointment repeatedly, I did not think of distancing myself from the teacher. Rather, every time I was shaken by anxiety, I wanted to move forward even more. I thought that if I moved forward more, something I expected would eventually appear before me satisfactorily. I was young. However, I did not think that young blood worked so straightforwardly for all humans. I did not understand why I felt this way only towards the teacher. It was only now, after the teacher's passing, that I began to understand. The teacher did not dislike me from the beginning. The occasional curt greetings and seemingly cold actions the teacher showed me were not expressions of discomfort meant to push me away. The unfortunate teacher gave a warning that I was not worth approaching, as I was not worth getting close to. The teacher, who did not respond to other nostalgia, likely first despised himself before looking down on others.

I, of course, returned to Tokyo with the intention of visiting my teacher. Since there were still two weeks until classes started after my return, I thought I would go once during that time. However, after two or three days of being back, the feeling I had while in Kamakura gradually faded away. And on top of that, the atmosphere of the big city, along with a strong stimulus that accompanied the revival of memories, deeply colored my heart. Every time I saw students' faces on the street, I felt hope and tension for the new school year. For a while, I had forgotten about my teacher.

About a month after classes started, a certain slackness began to form in my heart again. I started walking around the streets with a feeling of something lacking, looking around my room with longing. Once again, my teacher's face came to mind. I wanted to see my teacher again.

The first time I visited my teacher's house, he was not home. I think the second time I went was the following Sunday. It was a beautiful day with clear skies that felt refreshing. On that day too, my teacher was not home. When I was in Kamakura, I had heard from my teacher himself that he was usually home most of the time. In fact, I had also heard that he disliked going out. Having come twice and not being able to meet him either time, I recalled those words and felt a sense of dissatisfaction for no reason. I did not leave the entrance immediately. I hesitated a bit, standing still as I looked at the maid's face. The maid who had previously delivered my business card made me wait and went back inside. Then, a woman who seemed to be the wife came out instead. She was a beautiful woman.

I was politely informed by her about my teacher's whereabouts. It seems that my teacher has a habit of going to a certain Buddha at the Zoshigaya cemetery to offer flowers every month on that day. "He just left a moment ago, and it’s uncertain whether he will be back in time," the wife said sympathetically. I nodded and went outside. After walking about a block towards the lively town, I felt inclined to take a walk to Zoshigaya. My curiosity about whether I could meet my teacher or not stirred within me. So, I immediately turned back.

I entered from the left side of the seedbed in front of the cemetery and proceeded along the wide path lined with maple trees. Then, a person who seemed to be a teacher suddenly appeared from the teahouse visible at the end. I saw the rim of that person's glasses glinting in the sunlight and approached closer. Without thinking, I called out loudly, "Teacher." The teacher suddenly stopped and looked at my face.

"Why... why..."

The teacher repeated the same words twice. Those words echoed in an unusual tone in the quiet afternoon. I suddenly found myself unable to respond at all.

"Did you follow me? Why..."

The teacher's demeanor was rather calm. The voice was somewhat subdued. However, within that expression, there was a kind of cloudiness that could not be clearly articulated.

I explained to the teacher why I had come here.

"Did your wife mention whose grave you were visiting?"

"No, she didn't say anything like that."

"I see. — Yes, she wouldn't have said that to you, whom she met for the first time. There's no need to say it."

The teacher seemed to finally understand. However, I had no idea what that meant at all.

The teacher and I were about to exit to the street and passed between the graves. Near the graves of Ibaraki and the divine servant Rogin, there were also tombstones inscribed with "All sentient beings have Buddha nature." There was also one for the plenipotentiary minister. I asked the teacher in front of a small grave engraved with "Andore," "How do you read this?" "I suppose they intend for it to be read as 'Andore,'" the teacher said with a wry smile.

The teacher seemed not to feel the same absurdity or irony towards these various styles represented by the tombstones as I did. At first, he silently listened to me as I pointed at the round gravestones and elongated stone monuments, wanting to say this and that, but eventually said, "You have not yet seriously considered the fact of death, have you?" I fell silent. The teacher also stopped saying anything after that.

At the boundary of the cemetery, a large ginkgo tree stood, hiding the sky. When we arrived beneath it, the teacher looked up at the tall branches and said, "In a little while, it will be beautiful. This tree will be completely yellow, and the ground around here will be covered with golden leaves." The teacher always passed under this tree once a month.

A man was leveling the uneven ground to create a new cemetery, and he paused his work to look at us. We turned left from there and soon emerged onto the highway.

I was walking behind the teacher without any particular purpose, and I felt no particular discomfort, descending the slope with a relaxed feeling. The teacher spoke less than usual, but I didn't mind and quietly continued walking.

When I asked, "Are you going home soon?" the teacher replied, "Yes, I have no particular place to stop by."

Once again, the two of us proceeded south in silence. After walking a little, I boldly opened my mouth. "Is your family's cemetery over there?"

"No," the teacher replied briefly.

"Whose grave is there? Is it a relative's grave?"

"No," the teacher said, and did not say anything more. I decided to stop the conversation there, and silence returned. After walking for a while, the teacher suddenly said, "There is my friend's grave over there."

"Do you visit your friend's grave every month?" I asked.

"Yes," the teacher replied. That day, he did not speak of anything else.

After that, I began to visit the teacher from time to time. Each time I went, the teacher was at home, and as the number of my visits increased, I found myself going to that entrance more and more.

However, the teacher's attitude towards me did not change much, whether it was the first time we exchanged greetings or after we became closer. He was always quiet, and sometimes too quiet, which made me feel lonely. From the beginning, I thought the teacher had a mysterious aura that made him hard to approach, yet I felt a strong urge to get closer to him that I couldn't resist. Perhaps I was the only one who had this feeling. However, since that intuition was later proven to be true, I felt happy believing in my intuition, even if I was laughed at for being young. He was a person who loved others and couldn't help but love, yet he was someone who couldn't embrace those who tried to come into his embrace; that was the teacher.

The teacher was always calm and composed, but occasionally a strange cloud would appear on his face. It was like a shadow of a black bird passing by the window, quickly disappearing. The first time I saw that cloud on the teacher's forehead was when I unexpectedly called out to him in the Zoshigaya cemetery. At that moment, the heartbeat that had been flowing pleasantly until then dulled slightly. However, it was just a temporary thing, and soon my heart regained its original elasticity. I forgot about the shadow of that dark cloud, but I was reminded of it again one evening towards the end of early spring.

While I was talking with the teacher, I suddenly thought of the ginkgo tree that he had kindly told me about. Upon reflection, the day he went to visit the grave was just three days away. That day was a comfortable day when my classes ended in the morning. I said to the teacher, "Teacher, has the ginkgo in Zoshigaya already fallen?"

“It shouldn’t be bare yet,” the teacher replied while staring intently at my face.

“Can I accompany you when you go to visit the grave next time? I would like to take a walk there,” I continued.

“I am going to visit the grave, so I won't be going for a walk,” the teacher said.

“But wouldn’t it be just right if you took a walk while you’re at it?” I pressed on.

The teacher didn’t answer anything. After a while, he said, “My visit is just a real grave visit,” and it seemed he was trying to separate the grave visit from the walk. At that moment, the teacher appeared innocent and strangely childlike to me.

“Then please take me with you for the grave visit, it’s fine. I will also pay my respects,” I said.

In fact, to me, the distinction between a grave visit and a walk seemed almost meaningless. Then, the teacher’s brow slightly furrowed, and an unusual light appeared in his eyes. It wasn’t annoyance or disgust, but rather a faint sense of unease. I immediately recalled the memory of calling out “Teacher” in Zoshigaya. The two expressions were exactly the same.

“I,” the teacher said. “I have a reason I cannot talk to you about, and I don’t want to go there for a grave visit with anyone else. I haven’t even taken my own wife there yet.”