Natsume Soseki - Light and dark

Tsuda was a little hurt. But the pain went to his heart, not his head. In his head he responded to this ungloved blow with cool disdain. Madam Yoshikawa hinted at a smile.

“If you think I’m mistaken, try asking your wife when you get home. I know O-Nobu will agree with me. And not only O-Nobu — there’s someone else too, for certain!”

Abruptly Tsuda’s face tightened and his lips quivered. With his gaze adamantly fixed on his lap, he said nothing.

“I’m sure you know whom I mean?”

Mrs. Yoshikawa sought to peer into Tsuda’s face as she spoke. Of course he knew perfectly well to whom she referred. But he had no intention of confirming her prompting. Lifting his head again, he directed his silent regard in her direction. Madam Yoshikawa failed to understand what his eyes were saying in their silence.

“Forgive me if I’ve offended you. That’s not what I intended.”

“It doesn’t bother me—”

“Truly?”

“I’m not in the least concerned—”

“I’m so relieved.”

Madam Yoshikawa’s voice was buoyant again.

“There’s still a little boy hiding inside you, isn’t there! He comes out when we talk this way. Men seem to be having the rougher time, but it turns out you’re the lucky ones. Here you are thirty, and O-Nobu turning twenty-three this year, a big gap in years. But judging by your behavior, it’s O-Nobu who seems older. Maybe ‘older’ sounds impolite — how shall I put it?”

Madam Yoshikawa appeared to be deliberating about a word to describe O-Nobu’s manner. Tsuda awaited her choice with a degree of curiosity.

“Evolved, maybe? She’s certainly very clever; I’ve rarely seen such a clever person. Take good care of her.”

Her tone of voice suggested that Madam might as well have been saying “Watch out for her!”

JUST THEN the electric light hanging above their heads came on. The student who had greeted Tsuda on his arrival padded into the room, carefully lowered the blinds, and left again without a word. Tsuda, who had been watching carefully as the color of the gas heater gradually deepened, tracked in silence with his eyes the youth’s departure. He had the feeling it was time to terminate the conversation and be on his way. He sipped the tea that remained in the teacup in front of him, avoiding the slice of lemon floating coldly at the bottom. Replacing the cup, he revealed the nature of the errand he had come on. It was a straightforward matter. It was not, however, the sort of thing that could be approved on the spot at Madam Yoshikawa’s discretion. Certainly she had no idea where in the month he should take the week or so he said he would require for personal reasons.

“I doubt it matters when. As long as you’ve made arrangements.”

Her expression of good will toward Tsuda was ever so effortless.

“I’ve made sure everything is in order.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem — why not take off beginning tomorrow?”

“I’d better check first.”

“I’ll speak to Yoshikawa when he gets home. You needn’t worry about a thing.”

Madam Yoshikawa volunteered her services cheerfully. She appeared pleased to have stumbled on yet another excuse to act on someone else’s behalf. It made Tsuda happy to see before him this spirited and sympathetic lady. It was additionally pleasing to realize that her generosity had its source in his own attitude and behavior.

Tsuda enjoyed being treated like a child by Madam for the particular reason that he was able to experience a certain intimacy created between them as a result. When he dissected this, it turned out to be that special variety of intimacy possible only between a man and a woman. It was if anything akin to the pleasurable feeling a man enjoys when, for example, he receives a clap on the back from a young hostess at a teahouse.

At the same time, he held in reserve an abundant portion of himself that neither Yoshikawa’s wife nor any one else could treat as a child. He was careful to prepare for coming into her presence by hiding this place away. And even as he allowed himself a superficial sense of amusement at being taunted, he was leaning against the thick wall he had constructed inside himself.

Having completed his errand, he was rising from his chair when his hostess spoke up.

“I hope you won’t cry and moan like a baby again, a big brute like you.”

Tsuda involuntarily recalled his agony the previous year.

“Last time it was more than I could bear. Every time the door slid open or shut I felt it in the incision and my whole body went into spasm. This time I’ll be fine.”

“Truly? You have a guarantee? It sounds iffy to me. When you sound so confident it makes me feel I’d better look in on you.”

“It’s not the sort of place I could allow you to visit. It’s cramped and not that clean — it’s a nasty room.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

It wasn’t clear from her tone whether the matron was serious or teasing again. About to explain that his doctor’s specialty was in an area somewhat tangential to his particular illness and that as such his offices were not the sort of place that ladies would find inviting, Tsuda, at a loss how to begin, faltered. Mrs. Yoshikawa seized the opportunity his hesitation afforded to bear down.

“I’ll definitely look in on you. I have something I’d like to discuss that’s hard to talk about in front of O-Nobu.”

“Then why don’t I drop over again.”

Tsuda rose as if to flee, and Madam Yoshikawa, laughing, saw him out of the room.

EMERGING ONTO the main street, Tsuda gradually put distance between the Yoshikawa house and himself. His mind, however, was unable to leave behind as quickly as his feet the drawing room where he had just been. As he made his way through the dusk of the relatively deserted neighborhood, pictures of the bright interior flashed in front of him. The chilly gleam of the cloisonné vase, the colors of the bright pattern splashed across its glossy surface, the silver-plated tray that had been brought to the table, the sugar and milk bowls of the same color, the heavy drapes, blue-black with a lighter pattern in brown of Chinese grasses, the table-top album with gilt-edged pages — the strong impressions created by these objects, already distant from the night lamps in the room, unfurled randomly across his vision in the gloom of the street.

He was of course unable to forget as well the phantom of his hostess sitting amid this whorl of colors. Walking along, he recalled bits and pieces of their conversation. And when he came upon a certain portion of it he sampled its flavor, chewing, as if it were a mouthful of toasted soybeans.

It might just be that she still has a mind to say something to me about the incident. The truth is, I don’t want to hear it. Yet I’m eager to hear .

Instantly, proclaiming to himself both tenets of the contradiction, he colored in the middle of the dark street, like a man who has exposed his own weakness. Hoping to get beyond his red face, he forced himself to proceed.

Assuming the lady does have something to say to me, I wonder what her point will be .

For the moment, he was unable to resolve his own question.

Does she intend to mock me?

He couldn’t say. She had always been a woman who enjoyed needling others. And their relationship provided her with an abundance of the freedom she needed for that activity. Beyond that, she had become over time, without noticing, a result of social privilege, imprudent. To sample the simple pleasure it gave her to aggravate him, she might well overstep the boundaries of decorum.