Four to six

by Natsume Sōseki

The old house, too large for such a small number of people, was silent. I unpacked my belongings and began to spread out my books. However, for some reason, my mind was restless. It was more focused and productive to turn the pages one by one while listening to the distant sound of trains from the second floor of that bustling Tokyo boarding house.

Occasionally, I would lean against the desk and doze off. Sometimes, I would even take out a pillow and enjoy a proper nap. When I woke up, the sound of cicadas echoed in my ears. That sound seemed to continue from my dreams and suddenly disturbed the depths of my ears. While listening intently to that sound, I sometimes held a feeling of sadness in my heart.

I took up my pen and wrote short notes and long letters to my friends. Among my friends, some remained in Tokyo, while others had returned to their distant hometowns. Some replied, while others fell out of touch. Of course, I had not forgotten about my teacher. After returning to my country, I decided to write about myself in fine print on three sheets of manuscript paper and send it. As I sealed the letter, I wondered if my teacher was still in Tokyo. When my teacher was away from home with his wife, a woman with a bobbed haircut in her fifties would come from somewhere to keep watch. Previously, when I asked who that person was, my teacher replied, "How does she look to you?" I had assumed that she was a relative of my teacher, but he answered, "I have no relatives." My teacher had no contact with the people from his hometown. That woman who kept watch was actually a relative of his wife, unrelated to my teacher. When I sent the letter to my teacher, I suddenly recalled the image of that woman tying a thin obi comfortably. I wondered if, after my teacher and his wife went somewhere for a summer retreat, this letter would reach them, and whether that bobbed-haired lady would have the presence of mind and kindness to send it to their destination right away. On the other hand, I understood well that there was nothing particularly necessary written in the letter. I was simply lonely. And I was eagerly waiting for a reply from my teacher, but that reply never came.

My father had become less inclined to play shogi since he returned last winter. The shogi board was gathering dust, pushed into a corner of the tatami room. Especially after His Majesty the Emperor fell ill, my father seemed to be deep in thought all the time. He would wait for the newspaper to arrive every day, read it first, and then bring it to me where I was.

"Hey, look. There's detailed news about His Majesty again today,"

My father always referred to His Majesty as "the Emperor."

"It's a pity, but the Emperor's illness is probably similar to your father's,"

The shadow of deep concern was cast over my father's face. When I heard this, a sense of anxiety crossed my mind about when my father might collapse.

"But it should be fine. Even someone as dull as me can still be here like this,"

My father seemed to feel the danger that was about to befall him while assuring himself of his own health.

"Dad is really afraid of getting sick. As Mom says, he doesn't seem to have the intention of living for ten or twenty more years."

Upon hearing my words, my mother looked puzzled.

"Why don't you suggest playing shogi again?"

I took the shogi board down from the alcove and dusted it off.

My father's vitality gradually declined. The old straw hat with a handkerchief that had surprised me was also left untouched. Every time I looked at that hat sitting on the blackened shelf, I felt pity for my father. I worried that if he could still move lightly like before, he would be a bit more restrained. However, when my father began to sit still, I felt that he was indeed healthier before. I often discussed my father's health with my mother.

"It's just your imagination," my mother said. She was connecting the Emperor's illness with my father's, but I couldn't quite think that way.

"It's not just in my head. Is he really not unwell? It seems that his health is getting worse rather than just his mood,"

I thought to myself, while saying this, about calling a doctor from afar to have him checked once.

"This summer, you must not be bored. Even though you just graduated, we couldn't celebrate, and Dad's health is like that. Plus, with the illness of the heavenly prince... It might have been better to call guests as soon as we got back,"

I returned home on July 5th and 6th, and it was a week later that my father and mother suggested inviting guests to celebrate my graduation. The day that was finally decided was another week after that. Having returned to the leisurely countryside, free from the constraints of time, I was ultimately saved from the unpleasant social discomfort, but my mother, who did not understand me, seemed completely unaware of it.

When the news of the emperor's passing was conveyed, my father held the newspaper and said, "Ah, ah."

“Ah, ah, the emperor has finally passed away. I too…”

My father did not finish his sentence.

I went to town to buy a black mourning outfit. I wrapped the ball of the flagpole and attached a three-inch wide fluttering piece to the top of the flagpole, extending it diagonally from the side of the gate. The flag and the black fluttering piece hung limply in the still air. The roof of my old house's gate was thatched with straw. The straw, beaten and blown by rain and wind, had particularly discolored, taking on a light gray hue, and the unevenness was noticeable in places. Alone, I stepped outside the gate and gazed at the black fluttering piece, the white merino ground, and the red rising sun color dyed on the ground. I also watched it reflect on the dirty straw of the roof. I remembered being asked by my teacher, "What kind of appearance does your house have? Is it quite different from the style of my hometown?" I both wanted to show this old house where I was born to my teacher and felt embarrassed to do so.

I entered the house alone once again. Sitting in front of my desk, I read the newspaper while imagining the distant scenery of Tokyo. In my imagination, the largest city in Japan vividly emerged, bustling with life even in the darkest of times. Amidst such a dark city, I could see my teacher's house like a single point of light, caught in the inevitable anxiety and commotion of the urban environment. At that moment, I did not realize that this light was silently being drawn into the whirlpool. I had no idea that soon, that light too would be destined to vanish.

I considered writing a letter to my teacher about the recent incident and began to take up my pen. However, after writing about ten lines, I stopped. The content I had written was immediately torn up and thrown into the wastebasket. I thought it was pointless to write such things to my teacher, and based on past experiences, I felt the likelihood of receiving a reply was low. I was lonely. That was why I felt compelled to write a letter. I hoped that if a reply came, it would be nice.

Around mid-August, I received a letter from a friend. It contained an offer for a position as a junior high school teacher in a rural area, asking if I would be interested. This friend was a man who was searching for such a job due to financial reasons. Initially, the opportunity had come to him, but since he had been able to consult about a better position, he kindly informed me to pass on the remaining one. I quickly replied and declined. I wrote that among my acquaintances, there were those who were struggling to secure teaching positions, so it would be better to pass the opportunity on to them.

After sending my reply, I discussed the matter with my father and mother. It seemed that neither of them had any objections to my refusal.

"Even without going there, there are still good opportunities available, right?"

I felt that behind those words, there were excessive expectations from both of them towards me. My innocent father and mother seemed to expect an inappropriate position and income for me, who had just graduated.

“There aren’t many good jobs for a suitable mouth these days. Especially since my brother and I have different specialties and we live in different times, it’s troubling to think of us both the same way.”

“However, now that you’ve graduated, at the very least, you need to be independent; otherwise, it’s a problem for us too. When people ask, ‘What is your second son doing after graduating from university?’ and I can’t respond, it makes me feel uncomfortable.”

My father made a grim face. His thoughts were rooted in a hometown he had never left. When people from his hometown asked how much a graduate could earn monthly, suggesting it might be around a hundred yen, my father wanted to handle me, who had just graduated, well in front of those people. From my perspective, thinking from a broad city base, my father and mother seemed like strange people walking towards the sky. Occasionally, I too felt like I was one of those strange people. I remained silent in front of my father and mother, who were too distant for me to openly share my thoughts.

“Why don’t you ask the teacher you often mention? This is the time to do so.”

My mother said that, but she couldn’t interpret the teacher. That teacher was someone who advised me to quickly divide the inheritance while my father was still alive when I returned to the country. He wasn’t someone who would introduce me to a position just because I graduated.

“What is that teacher doing?” my father asked.

“He’s not doing anything,” I replied.

I had long intended to convey to both my father and mother that the teacher was doing nothing. And my father should certainly have remembered that.

“What do you mean by saying you’re not doing anything? If he’s someone you respect so much, he should be doing something.”

My father said that and teased me. In his view, useful people go out into the world, gain appropriate positions, and work. He seemed to conclude that I was just playing around because I was a yakuza.

“Even someone like me doesn’t get a salary, but I’m not just playing around all the time.”

My father said that, but I remained silent.

“If he’s as great as you say, he’ll surely find something for you. Why don’t you ask him?” my mother inquired.

“No,” I replied.

“Then there’s nothing that can be done. Why don’t you ask? Even a letter would be fine, just try sending one.”

“Okay.”

I gave a half-hearted response and stood up from my seat.