Twenty-two to twenty-four

by Natsume Sōseki

My father's illness was not as serious as I had thought. However, when I returned home, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and said, "Everyone is worried, so I'm just sitting here like this. It's okay for me to get up." But from the next day, he ignored my mother's pleas and finally got up from the floor. My mother, while folding the thick futon with a dissatisfied look, said, "Your father suddenly got better because you came back." To me, it didn't seem like my father was putting on a brave front.

My older brother was working far away in Kyushu. He was a man who could not see our parents unless there was an emergency. My younger sister had married into another country, so I couldn't suddenly call her back. Among the three siblings, I was the only one who was the most convenient, being a student. My father's great satisfaction came from the fact that I had returned home, abandoning my schoolwork as my mother instructed.

"It's unfortunate to have to miss school for such an illness. It's not good that your mother writes such exaggerated letters," my father said. As soon as he said that, he had the floor he had been lying on lifted and showed his usual energy.

"You shouldn't act so rashly, or you might end up back where you started," I warned him, and my father, looking amused, lightly brushed it off. "It's okay, as long as I take care of myself like usual," he said.

In fact, my father seemed to be okay. He moved freely around the house, didn't get out of breath, and didn't feel dizzy. His complexion was worse than that of a normal person, but since that wasn't a new symptom, we didn't pay it much mind.

I wrote a letter to my teacher, expressing my gratitude for the favor. I declined to bring it when I came to Tokyo for the New Year, asking him to wait until then. I also mentioned that my father's condition was not as serious as I had thought, that he would be fine for the time being, and that he had no dizziness or nausea. Finally, I added a word of concern for my teacher's cold. I actually considered my teacher's cold to be quite mild.

When I sent the letter, I never expected a reply from the teacher. After sending it, I imagined the teacher's study far away while gossiping about the teacher with my father and mother.

“Next time you go to Tokyo, bring some shiitake mushrooms for him,” my mother said. “But I wonder if he would eat the dried shiitake mushrooms,” I replied, to which my mother said, “They may not be delicious, but I don't think anyone dislikes them.” It was strange for me to associate shiitake mushrooms with the teacher.

When the teacher's reply arrived, I was a bit surprised. Especially since it did not contain any special matters, I was taken aback. I thought the teacher had simply written back out of kindness. Once that thought crossed my mind, that simple letter became a great joy for me. After all, this was the first letter I had ever received from the teacher.

Speaking of firsts, it might seem like there was frequent correspondence between the teacher and me, but in reality, that was not the case. I had received only two letters from the teacher during his lifetime. One was this simple reply I just mentioned, and the other was a long letter he wrote specifically to me before he passed away.

Due to the nature of his illness, my father had to refrain from physical activity, so he hardly went outside even after being bedridden. Once, on a sunny afternoon, he went down to the garden, but I stayed close by just in case. When I worriedly offered my shoulder for support, my father laughed and did not accept it.

As a companion to my boring father, I often faced the shogi board. Since both of us had lazy personalities, we placed the board on the kotatsu and would move the pieces while deliberately pulling our hands out from under the blanket each time. Sometimes, we would lose pieces and not notice until the next game came. There were also comical moments when my mother would find them in the ashes and pick them up with the fire tongs.

“In shogi, the board is too high for my feet to touch the ground, so I can't play on the kotatsu, but the shogi board is nice; I can play comfortably like this. It's perfect for a lazy person. Let's play another game,” my father said. When he won, he always said to play another game, and he said the same thing when he lost. In short, whether he won or lost, he was a man who wanted to play shogi while sitting by the kotatsu. At first, it was unusual, and this somewhat old-fashioned pastime piqued my interest considerably, but as time passed, my youthful energy could no longer be satisfied with such a level of stimulation. I stretched my fist, holding the gold and the lance, above my head and occasionally let out a bold yawn.

I thought about Tokyo. And deep within the rhythm of my heartbeat, I heard the sound of an active blood flow continuing to pulse. Strangely, I felt that the sound of that heartbeat was being amplified by the teacher's power from a certain subtle state of consciousness.

I compared my father and the teacher in my mind. To the outside world, both were quiet men to the extent that it was hard to tell if they were alive or dead. In terms of other recognizably positive traits, both were at zero. Even so, my father, who wanted to play shogi, was not enough for me even as a mere entertainment partner. The teacher, who I had no memory of visiting for fun, had somehow influenced my heart beyond the familiarity born from socializing for pleasure. However, my head was too cold, so I wanted to rephrase it as my chest. Even if I said that the teacher's power was embedded in my flesh, or that the teacher's life flowed through my blood, it did not seem like an exaggeration to me at that time. I was astonished to lay out the obvious fact that my father was my true father, and the teacher was, needless to say, a complete stranger, as if I had discovered a great truth for the first time.

When I return home, I have gradually begun to appear commonplace in the eyes of my father and mother, who once found me rare. I believe this is a sentiment experienced by anyone who returns to their hometown during summer vacations or similar occasions. For the first week or so, I am treated with special attention and hospitality, but after that, the family's warmth begins to cool, and ultimately, I tend to be treated as an existence that doesn't matter whether I'm there or not. I too crossed that boundary during my stay. Each time I returned, I brought back a unique sense of Tokyo that my father and mother could not understand. Just as I would bring the scent of Christianity into an old Confucian home, what I brought back did not harmonize with either my father or my mother. Of course, I tried to hide it, but since it was something I had internalized, even if I tried not to show it, it inadvertently caught my father and mother's attention. I gradually became uninterested and wanted to return to Tokyo quickly.

Fortunately, my father's illness was stable, and there were no signs of deterioration. As a precaution, I invited a doctor from afar to carefully examine him, but as far as I knew, no abnormalities were found. Just before the winter break ended, I decided to leave my hometown. When I expressed this, human emotions are strange, and both my father and mother opposed it.

“Are you leaving already? Isn’t it still too early?” my mother said.

“You could still stay for four or five more days,” my father said.

I had no intention of changing the departure date I had decided on.

When I returned to Tokyo, the New Year's decorations had been taken down without me noticing. The town was exposed to the cold wind, and there was no sign of the New Year's spirit anywhere I looked.

I immediately went to return the money to the teacher. I also brought the shiitake mushrooms. Since I thought it was a bit strange to present them, I made a point to say, "My mother asked me to give this to you," and placed them in front of his wife. The shiitake mushrooms were in a new gift box. The wife, who politely expressed her gratitude, seemed surprised by the lightness of the box when she picked it up in the next room and asked, "What kind of sweets are these?" When she became familiar with us, she showed a very simple and childlike heart in such matters.

Both of them expressed various words of concern about my father's illness, and the teacher said this.

“Indeed, from what I hear about his condition, it seems there are currently no particular issues, but since it is an illness, we must be very careful.”

The teacher knew a lot about kidney diseases that I was unaware of.

“One characteristic of that illness is that people do not realize they are sick and remain unconcerned. I know of an officer who ultimately lost his life because of it, and it was a death that seemed utterly unbelievable. After all, his wife, who was sleeping beside him, had no time to care for him, and he merely woke her up in the middle of the night to say he was feeling a bit uncomfortable, and by the next morning, he was already dead. Moreover, it seems the wife thought her husband was just sleeping.”

I, who had been optimistic until now, suddenly felt anxious.

“Will my father end up like that? It’s not impossible.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“The doctor says it is absolutely incurable. However, he also says there is no need for concern for the time being.”

“That’s good then. If the doctor says so. What I just mentioned was about someone who was unaware of their condition, and that person was quite a rough soldier.”

I felt a little relieved. The teacher, who had been watching my reaction closely, added further.

“However, whether healthy or ill, humans are fragile. You never know when, how, or in what manner you might die.”

“Do you also think about such things, teacher?”

"Even I, who am quite sturdy, do not completely disregard such thoughts."

A smile appeared on the teacher's lips.

"There are people who die suddenly, you know? Naturally. And then there are those who die in the blink of an eye. By unnatural violence."

"What do you mean by unnatural violence?"

"I don't really understand it well either, but I suppose everyone who commits suicide uses some form of unnatural violence."

"So, being killed is also due to unnatural violence, isn't it?"

"The one being killed had not thought about it at all. I see, if you put it that way, it makes sense."

That day, I went home with that. Even after returning, my father's illness did not trouble me much. The words the teacher said, "dying naturally" and "dying by unnatural violence," only left a shallow impression at that moment, and nothing lingered in my mind afterward. I remembered that I had to finally start writing my graduation thesis, which I had attempted to tackle several times before but had always pulled back from.