A Dark Night's Passing

by Naoya Shiga

He stood up, opened the low screen door and looked out. Just above the stone embankment was the road, unlighted and dark. On the other side of it was a row of five or six warehouses, their gables outlined against the night sky. Rickshaws passed by, carrying women who were talking to each other in high-pitched, excited voices. They were probably geisha from the pleasure quarter on their way to some inn to entertain guests.

  There must be many others besides himself, he thought, who also had been conceived in sin; and perhaps all of them so conceived had inherited some dreadful congenital trait. Yet, though he was ready at that moment to believe that a bad seed had been planted in him, he did not forget that he was blessed with aspirations too, aspirations which would help him contain its growth. He must learn to be abstinent, he told himself; now that he knew about his own birth, he simply had to try doubly hard to lead a disciplined life. Why should he allow this inherited trait, if it existed, to destroy him? Was he not more fortunate than a child conceived by a man in a drunken stupor and thus maimed for life? Yes, he would in future try to curb his dissolute ways.

  The boy marched in carrying a huge tray. He placed this on a small, wobbly table, bowed with charming quickness and marched out.

  Kensaku had thought he was hungry, but all he could eat from the tray were the vinegared oysters.

  He felt something small and hard on his tongue. He brought it to his lips and placed it gently on the tip of his forefinger. It was a pearl the size of a killifish’s eye. Of course, it was of little value; but that such a thing should have got into his mouth struck him as a good omen.

  8

  Ten days went by. In that time he went through alternating periods of depression and of cheer. When he felt cheerful, he would resolve never to be depressed again. But when the sense of well-being, or excitement, passed, depression would come over him again like a fever. He would then wait patiently for it to run its course and hope that perhaps in time it would stop recurring.

  He sent the little pearl that he had found on the oyster boat to Sakiko. A few days later a letter from her arrived thanking him for the present. And in the same post was a letter from Nobuyuki. This was what it said:

  “I’m afraid I’ve done something very stupid, and I hope you will forgive me. I had a terrible fight with father, probably the worst I’ve ever had with him. It would never have happened if I had not been so thoughtless. I’m afraid I’ve done you a great disservice.

  “You see, I went and told mother about your proposal to Oei. I shouldn’t have, I suppose, but at the time it didn’t occur to me that I was doing anything indiscreet. At any rate father heard about it immediately. His fury was such that at first I was dumbfounded by it. I had never seen him so angry before. ‘Absolutely not!’ he said. ‘Dismiss Oei at once!’

  “I think I can understand now how he must have felt; and when I consider what it was that made him act that way, I am filled with pity for him. His anger is not directed at you or Oei, but at what he calls ‘this thoroughly unacceptable, immoral thing.’ I should have understood this at the time, but I didn’t. I was too taken aback by the violence of his response to think clearly. What was uppermost in my mind then was that I had let you down, and that the least I could do was to say something on your behalf.

  “I thought, too, that in insisting on Oei’s immediate dismissal, father was overstepping the bounds of his authority. He had no right to give such orders; he had no right to want to treat Oei so arbitrarily. I had of late come to like and respect her very much; besides, she had always been kind and loyal to the family, and we owed her a great deal. And so I’m afraid I got a bit angry. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I spoke up for you and for Oei, mostly for Oei, and not with much tact.

  “ ‘So you, too, are like that, are you!’ he shouted, and threw the pen box that lay on his desk at me. It hit the floor just in front of me, and as it did a pen nib flew out, landed neatly on its point and stuck in the mat. I remained silent for a while, thinking that it was useless to say more; yet I did finally say, ‘Kensaku will not listen to you.’

  “ ‘I won’t allow it!’ he said. I left him then. Later, when I had calmed down a little, I began to understand father’s feelings. For the first time in years, I wept. What a fool I was, I thought. Through carelessness I had brought you and Oei unexpected trouble and caused father to remember afresh that painful, half-forgotten episode in his life. Please try not to reproach me too much. I failed you, but I did so through thoughtlessness, not out of any ill will.

  “This is a difficult letter for me to write. There is nothing pleasant I can say in it. I have repeatedly disappointed you. I have done nothing to merit your trust. You have every right to expect more of your elder brother. (I don’t care what the facts are, you are still my younger brother as far as I am concerned.)

  “On the evening of the same day I saw father again. He was much calmer, as was I. But he had not changed his mind one whit. I could not oppose him anymore, and I promised him my support.

  “What he wants may be expressed, for form’s sake, as follows. So long as you are in Onomichi, there seems to be no reason why you should maintain a house in Tokyo. Besides, Oei, her situation being what it is, can have no expectation of remaining with you forever. Surely it would be kinder to her to help her become independent now so that she need have no fears for her future.

  “Father said it had always been his intention to give her two thousand yen when it came time for her to leave, and was quite prepared to give her that money now. I said that she could hardly be expected to start a shop or whatever with so small an amount, and asked him to give her five thousand. He would not consider that, but in the end he agreed to give her three thousand. No doubt you will find my giving you such details distasteful. But please understand, I had to make sure of father’s intentions just in case you should decide to accede to his demand. I realize, of course, that there’s only a very slim chance of your doing so.

  “Mother is as sorry as I am that she told father about you. But it is just as well for us that she cannot interfere in this matter. At any rate, I went to your house yesterday to tell Oei what had happened—not to relay father’s ‘command,’ you understand, but merely to inform her of what he said to me, for I am aware that this is something that requires the consent of everyone concerned.

  “To put it frankly, this is where you and she stand. Father knows that you are free to reject his demand, that he cannot order Oei to leave you. But what he means you two to know is that should you decide to be difficult, Oei might not get any money at all. I told Oei exactly what I have just said, crude as it was. Oei, on her part, refused to give a definite answer. I could understand her dilemma. The money involved is not much, but she is hardly in a position to dismiss it lightly. She has no intention of marrying you; which means that one day, when you marry someone else, she will have to go. The question for her, then, is this: should she stay with you, knowing that one day she will have to go anyway, and thus forfeit the money just for the sake of postponing her inevitable departure? Obviously, she sees the advantage of doing as father says. On the other hand, I could see plainly how extremely painful to her was the thought of having to leave you now. ‘I can’t say,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it to you and Kensaku to decide.’ Indeed, what else could she have said? And so I left without any clear answer from her. She did say repeatedly, however, that if you were going to stay in Onomichi much longer she would like to move into a smaller house. There was no sense, she said, in continuing to keep up such an expensive house just for her. I agreed with her.

  “I got home rather late last night—partly because I didn’t want to have to see father—and found your letter, written on the twenty-eighth, waiting for me. How much like you, I thought, to refuse to be completely crushed by what I told you. I was impressed. I can imagine what pain my letter must have caused you. Yet here I am, writing you this unpleasant letter. I feel helpless and depressed. And now that I have read your letter and seen how little inclined you are to chan
ge your mind about Oei, I can’t help worrying lest this new obstacle put up by father should make you even more determined. I know, it is presumptuous of me to say that I’m worried; but I am worried. I am worried for you, of course; but I am more worried for father, who would suffer if you should have your way in this matter. I feel so helpless, I don’t know where to turn. If I were a stronger man, perhaps I could do something useful. But caught in the middle of all this, with father on one side and you on the other, I find that I am quite powerless. Father makes his pronouncements; you on your part insist on acting according to your wishes. I sympathize with both, for you’re right in your own way and he is right in his. But when I stand back and ask myself what my role is to be, what is the right thing for me to do, I am at a complete loss.

  “I am a real coward. A few years ago there was a certain woman. I got her a house and she lived in it for about a year. I had made her a promise, but I broke that promise. I knew that father would never approve, and I didn’t want to have a fight with him on her account. I shouldn’t have minded a fight, perhaps, but supposing I had won, what would that have done to father? I simply didn’t want to force the issue. Luckily the woman was very understanding. I suppose to you what I did would seem unthinkable. I remember that on the day before you left, I told you that I wanted to change my way of life, and you asked me why I didn’t resign from my company right away. This is no place for me to go into details, but I really do want another kind of life. But here, too, I seem incapable of doing anything. That I myself at times become tired of my own weakness is, I’m afraid, no consolation to you.

  “All I can do is to tell you simply that I wish you would give up the idea of marrying Oei. As I tried to say in my last letter, I don’t wish this mainly for father’s sake; I feel that such a marriage will darken your entire future. I wish, too, that you would take this opportunity to part from her. I am sure that later all of us concerned will see that it was a good thing to do. You are proud, and you will not be easily persuaded to change your mind. But if you can allow yourself to be persuaded, then all of us will benefit. I, of all people, have no right to ask anything of you. My only defense is that I have honestly said what I should like to see you do. That you had every reason to expect more of me, I know only too well.

  “I could have sent this letter much earlier, but I put off doing so as long as I could, for the thought of your having to read it so soon after the other one was no less pleasant than my having to write it. I have not been to see Oei, though I am concerned about her; and I have avoided father since my last meeting with him.”

  Kensaku was filled with anger as he finished reading the unpleasant letter. He did not necessarily think that his anger was just; but neither did he think that his father’s anger was any more just.

  He had never forgotten his father’s coldness toward him when he had gone to speak to him about Aiko. “You’re the head of your own household,” he had said. “Go and talk to her family yourself.” Kensaku had been hurt by his father’s attitude, but had gradually come to find solace in the thought that at least it implied his independence. And so this time, though he had of course expected his father to be displeased, he had never imagined that he would be quite so violent and autocratic. It was his willful inconsistency that angered Kensaku.

  He did not feel particularly kindly toward Nobuyuki either. Why should Nobuyuki have mentioned the matter at all to their stepmother when it was still at such a tentative stage? There had been no immediate need to consult her; in other words Nobuyuki had simply gossiped. Another thing that annoyed him about Nobuyuki was that for all his expression of sympathy toward him, he seemed to regard their father’s wishes as absolute.

  It was not that Kensaku did not sympathize with Nobuyuki’s feelings. He even felt that he owed it to him to be understanding. At the same time he had to ask himself, “But where does that leave me?” And there was yet another thing that raised a question in his mind about Nobuyuki. In the letter he had let it seem that in his conversation with their father he had only mentioned Kensaku’s proposal to Oei, and so by implication that he had said nothing about his own disclosure to Kensaku of the true circumstances of his birth. But Kensaku was certain that Nobuyuki had mentioned it. How could he not have? Then why not say so in the letter? Presumably because he was afraid to have to confess to yet one more act of weakness on his part. For once having told their father that Kensaku already knew about his own birth, he should then at least have tried to persuade him that Kensaku must be allowed to manage his own affairs. And what was all this talk about three thousand yen? Did he really think that it was an achievement to have raised Oei’s prize by one thousand?

  He sat down and wrote a reply immediately.

  “I have just read your letter. I was annoyed by father’s attitude. All this difficulty might have been avoided if the relationship between him and me had been made clear. That you should have told him about Oei before such an understanding between him and me had been reached was a bad mistake. There’s no point in my berating you about it now. But I want you to know that I have no choice now but to act as though he and I were both formally aware of our new relationship. In other words, I shall have to act the way I see fit.

  “Of course, with regard to the proposed marriage, the decision is not mine alone to make. But that question aside, I should like to insist that whether Oei and I should or should not live apart is for the two of us, and no one else, to decide. (That we may eventually have to separate is at the moment irrelevant.) I shall add this: if I do not marry her, then I am determined to continue to live with her as I have always done, and to be careful not to enter into any other kind of relationship with her; in which case everything will be exactly as it was before, and father should be satisfied. I say I will be careful not because I am concerned about father, but because I know I must guard myself against my own inherent weakness.

  “It was good of father to offer Oei the money. Though I know it isn’t exactly my place to do so, I must nevertheless reject the offer on Oei’s behalf. I have money of my own—albeit money that once belonged to father—and I shall give some of it to her.

  “I don’t think it is all that necessary for Oei to move, but if she wants to, she can of course do so with my blessing. I am sure she will be able to find the sort of house she likes in one of the suburbs.

  “I can understand why father should have been so upset. But I can hardly be expected to accept his authority quite so unquestioningly as you do. And I must say that I feel no less dubious about your willingness to suffer the discomfort of being unsympathetic to both him and me. Perhaps I am being selfish here. All I know is that I should feel quite unnatural if I were to behave as you would have me behave. Don’t think ill of me.”

  9

  Kensaku left Onomichi shortly thereafter, before Nobuyuki had had time to answer his letter. The immediate cause of his departure was a mild case of tympanitis. The local doctor who examined him had told him that if he was intending to return to Tokyo in the near future anyway, he might as well leave as quickly as possible and go to a specialist. But even if his ear had not given him trouble, he would probably not have stayed in Onomichi much longer. Of course he left with great uneasiness. The thought of once more living the way he had done those last three months in Tokyo was almost enough to detain him. There was his work too, nowhere near completion. How could he live like that again, he wondered, rushing about frantically yet always with that oppressive feeling of guilt? The effect on him of such a life, he suspected, would be much worse now than it had been before. He had become more vulnerable; and whatever he had imagined was chasing him then would seem even more real now. Yes, he told himself, he would simply have to make up his mind not to lead that sort of life again once he was back in Tokyo. But, he wondered, what did such a resolution amount to? How firm was it, and how long would it last? The truth was that he had little confidence in his own ability to restrain himself. And in view of his past experience, he would have been unr
ealistic had he trusted himself more.

  The sky had been cloudy in the early evening, then sometime during the night it had suddenly cleared, and the humid, warm air had turned chilly by dawn. He had gone to sleep with only a thin coverlet over him, and the cold woke him up. Too lazy to get up and find a heavier covering he had curled up and gone back to sleep. When he woke up again, he had caught a cold. By the following evening one of his ears had begun to hurt. He must have blown his nose too often and too hard. It was a dull, heavy ache, not unbearable but bad enough to wake him up several times during the night and make the morning seem very slow in coming.

  He had gone to see the doctor immediately the next morning. Incipient tympanitis, the doctor had said. He gave Kensaku olive oil and some stuff for a poultice, and advised him to see a specialist soon. Kensaku had come away happy that something beyond his control had made his return to Tokyo necessary. And once his mind had been made up for him he set about immediately and with unseemly haste to prepare for his departure.

  The old lady helped him pack, and her husband went into town to pay his electricity and gas bills. In less than an hour he was ready to leave.

  Though Onomichi was officially a city, the express trains did not stop there. He decided to go as far as Himeji on a slow train and then catch an express there.

  He went to the station just before noon, accompanied by the old couple and another neighbor named Matsukawa who carried his rather heavy suitcase for him.

  Kensaku got on the train, opened the window and stuck his head out to say his final farewell. His face was wrapped in an incongruously large, white kerchief. The old couple kept on saying awkwardly how sorry they were to see him go. Kensaku, too, was sorry to leave them. But he did not think he would want to see Onomichi again, a good place though it was; for he could not separate it in his mind from the pain he had suffered there. He wanted now to get away from it as quickly as possible.