Orchard. I suppose you would like to buy it?”
He twisted his mouth in an angry scowl and did not answer. Artist that he was, he was quick to guess my meaning.
It was true that there had been talk of selling the house to a prince, but it had never come to anything, and I was surprised that the artist had even heard the rumor. But that we should have been thinking of him in terms of Lopákhin in The Cherry Orchard was so distasteful that he quite lost his good humor, and after a few minutes more of small talk, he left.
What I ask of you now is not that you be a Lopákhin. That much I can warrant you. But please listen to the presumption of a middle-aged woman.
It is already six years since we met. At the time I knew nothing about you except that you were my brother’s teacher, and at that a rather peculiar teacher. We drank sake together from glasses, and you were a little bold. That didn’t bother me. It only gave me the most curious sensation of buoyancy. I didn’t like or dislike you—I had no feeling at all. Later, in order to please my brother, I borrowed some of your novels from him and read them. Sometimes I found them interesting, sometimes not. I confess I was not a very passionate reader. But during the past six years, from just when I can’t say, the remembrance of you has soaked into me like some all-pervasive fog, and what we did that night on the stairs from the basement has returned to me with absolute vividness. I feel somehow as if that moment was vital enough to decide my fate. I miss you. Perhaps, I think, it may be love, and at this possibility I have felt so utterly forlorn that I have sometimes yielded to uncontrolled weeping. You are completely unlike other men. I am not in love with an author, like Nina in The Sea Gull. I am not fascinated by novelists. If you think me a “literary lady” or anything of the kind, you are off the track. I want a child from you.
Perhaps if I had met you long, long ago, when you and I were both still single, we might have married, and I should have been spared my present sufferings, but I have resigned myself to the fact that I shall never be able to marry you. For me to attempt to push aside your wife would be like an act of brute force, and I should hate myself for it. I am willing to become your mistress. (I really can’t bear the word, but when I was on the point of writing “lover,” I realized that I meant what people generally do by the word “mistress,” and I decided to be blunt.) I gather that the usual mistress has a hard lot. They say that she is abandoned as soon as she ceases to be of use, and that a man, whatever sort of man he may be, will always return to his wife when he approaches sixty. I remember hearing my nurse and the old man of Nishikata Street discussing this matter and concluding that a mistress was one thing a woman should never become. But they were talking about an ordinary mistress, and I feel that our case is different.
I believe that your work is the most precious thing in the world to you, and that if you like me, becoming intimate with me may actually help your work. And your wife would then also be willing to accept our relationship. I know this may seem an odd kind of sophistry, but I am convinced that there is nothing amiss with my reasoning.
The only problem is your answer. Do you like me or dislike me? Or have you no feelings on the subject? I am terrified at what you may reply, but I must ask anyway. In my last letter, I wrote that I was a “self-styled lover,” and in this letter, I have written about the “presumption of a middle-aged woman.” It now occurs to me that unless you answer I shall have no grounds whatsoever even for presumption and shall probably be doomed to waste away the rest of my life alone. I am lost unless I hear from you.
In your novels you often describe love adventures, and people gossip about you as if you were an absolute monster, but it has suddenly dawned on me that you probably are actually an advocate of common sense. I do not myself understand common sense. I believe that the good life consists in being able to do what I like. I want to give birth to your child. I don’t want to bear anyone else’s child, no matter what happens. I ask your advice. If you know the answer, please tell me. Please say clearly what your feelings are.
The rain has stopped and a wind has sprung up. It is now three o’clock in the afternoon. I shall go out now to get our ration of the best quality saké. I shall put two empty rum bottles in a bag and this letter in my pocket, and in ten minutes I shall be on my way to the village down the hill. I shall not let my brother get this sake. I myself intend to drink it. Every night I drink a little from a glass. You know, sake really should be drunk from a glass.
Won’t you come here?
To Mr. M.C.
It rained again today. An invisible, nasty mixture of fog and rain is falling. Every day I have waited for your answer without even leaving the house, but nothing has come. What are you thinking about? I wonder if I did the wrong thing in my last letter in writing about that artist. Perhaps you thought I mentioned his proposal in order to arouse your competitive spirit. But nothing more has come of it. Just a little while ago, as a matter of fact, Mother and I were laughing over it. Mother has recently been complaining about pain in her tongue, but thanks to the “aesthetic treatment” which Naoji prescribed, the pain has been much alleviated, and she has seemed rather better of late.
A few minutes ago I was standing on the porch, and as I looked at the rain being blown and swirled about, I was trying to picture what your feelings are. Just then Mother’s voice called from the dining-room, “I have finished boiling the milk. Please come here.”
“It’s so cold today I’ve made the milk very hot,” she said.
As we drank the steaming milk, we talked about the artist. I said, “He and I are not the least suited, are we?”
Mother answered tranquilly, “No, you aren’t.”
“Considering the wayward type I am, that I don’t dislike artists and, what’s more, that he seems to have a large income, it certainly looked like a good match. But it’s quite impossible.”
Mother smiled. “Kazuko, you’re a naughty child. If you were so sure that it was impossible, why in the world did you lead him on that way by chattering with such relish when he was here? I can’t imagine your motive.”
“Oh, but it was interesting. There’s a lot more I would like to have talked about. I have no discretion, you know.”
“No, you never let anybody go in a conversation. Kazuko, you’re tenacious!”
Mother was in very good spirits today. Then, noticing that I had put my hair up yesterday for the first time, she commented, “That style is made for women with thin hair. Your up-sweep looks much too grand. All that is missing is a little golden tiara. I’m afraid it’s a failure.”
“I’m disappointed. Didn’t you once tell me that my neckline was so pretty that I should try not to hide it? Didn’t you?”
“Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort.”
“I never forget a syllable of praise addressed to me. I’m so glad you remembered.”
“That gentleman who came the other day must have praised you.”
“Yes, he did. That’s why I wouldn’t let him out of my clutches. He said that being with me made his inspiration—no, I can’t go on. It isn’t that I dislike artists, but I can’t stand anyone who puts on those ponderous airs of a man of character.”
“What kind of man is Naoji’s teacher?”
I felt a chill go through me. “I don’t really know, but what can you expect from a teacher of Naoji’s. He seems to be tagged as a dissolute character.”
“Tagged?” murmured Mother with a pleased look in her eyes. “That’s an interesting expression. If he wears a tag, doesn’t that make him harmless? It sounds rather sweet, like a kitten with a bell around its neck. A dissolute character without a tag is what frightens me.”