minnows with a net in the streams at home.”
We were walking on a road which followed a stream that flowed with a faint rustle at the bottom of the darkness.
“You aristocrats are not only absolutely incapable of understanding our feelings, but you despise them.”
“What about Turgenev?”
“He was an aristocrat. That’s why I dislike him.”
“Even his Sportsman’s Sketches?”
“That book—it’s his only one—is not bad.”
“It really captures the feeling of village life.”
“He was a rustic aristocrat—shall we compromise on that?”
“I’m also a country girl now. I cultivate a field. A poor country girl.”
“Do you still love me?” His voice was rough. “Do you want a child from me?”
I did not answer.
His face approached mine with the force of a landslide, and I was furiously kissed. The kisses reeked of desire. I wept as I accepted them. My tears were bitter, like tears of shame over a humiliation. The tears poured from my eyes.
As we walked again, side by side, he spoke. “I’ve made a mess of it—I’ve fallen for you.” He laughed.
I was incapable of laughter. I contracted my brows and pursed my lips. If I were to have expressed my feelings in words, it would have been something like “It can’t be helped.” I realized that I was dragging my feet in a desolate walk.
“I’ve made a mess of it,” the man said again. “Shall we go through with it?”
“Don’t strike a pose!”
“You devil!” Mr. Uehara rapped my shoulder with his fist and again gave a great sneeze.
Everyone seemed to be asleep at Mr. Fukui’s house.
“Telegram, telegram! Mr. Fukui, it’s a telegram!” Mr. Uehara shouted, beating on the door.
“Is that you, Uehara?” a man’s voice called.
“Quite correct. The prince and the princess have come to beg a night’s lodgings. It’s so cold that all I can do is sneeze, and after going to so much trouble, our lovers’ journey is winding up as a comedy.”
The front door was opened. A short bald man of about fifty in gaudy pajamas greeted us with a curiously shy smile.
“Please.” This was the only word Mr. Uehara spoke as he charged into the house, without so much as removing his coat. “Your atelier is hopelessly cold. I’ll take the second-floor room. Come on.” He took me by the hand and led me through the hall to a staircase at the end, which we climbed. We entered a dark room. Mr. Uehara switched on the lights.
“It’s like a private dining-room in a restaurant, isn’t it?” I said.
“The tastes of the nouveau riche. Still, it’s much too good for a rotten artist like Fukui. When you’ve got the devil’s own luck, you’re immune from the usual run of disasters. Such people must be utilized. Well, to bed, to bed.”
He started pulling bedding out of the cupboard as if he were in his own home. “You sleep here. I’m going. I’ll come for you tomorrow morning. The toilet is downstairs and to the right.” He thumped so loudly down the stairs that it sounded as though he had rolled down. That was all. The place became absolutely still.
I switched off the light again, removed my velvet coat made of material Father once had brought back as a souvenir from abroad, and crawled into bed still in my kimono, barely loosening my obi. My body felt heavy, probably because of the liquor I had drunk when I was already fatigued, and I soon dozed off.
I don’t know when it happened, but I opened my eyes to find him lying next to me. For almost an hour I maintained a determined wordless resistance.
Suddenly I felt sorry for him and yielded.