Just then Mr. Nakai reappeared, having changed his clothes in the meanwhile, and began to shout all out of breath, “What’s all the fuss about? Just a little wood got burned. It never turned into a real fire.” He was obviously trying to cover up my stupid mistake.
“I understand perfectly,” said the mayor nodding. He spoke for a few minutes with the policeman, then said, “We’ll be going now. Please remember me to your mother.” They all left except for the policeman, who walked up to me, and in a voice so faint it was only a breathing said, “No report will be made on what happened tonight.”
After he had gone Mr. Nakai asked in a tense voice what the policeman had said. I answered, “He told me that they wouldn’t make a report.” The neighbors who were still standing around apparently caught my words, for they began gradually to drift away, murmuring expressions of relief. Mr. Nakai wished me a good night and started off. Then I stood alone, my mind a blank, by the burned woodpile. In tears I looked up at the sky, and I could see the first traces of the dawn.
I went to wash my hands, feet, and face. Somehow the thought of appearing before Mother frightened me, and I idled around the bathroom, arranging my hair. I went then to the kitchen where I spent the time until it grew light in making a quite unnecessary rearrangement of the cooking utensils.
I tiptoed to Mother’s room only to find that she was already completely dressed and seated, looking absolutely exhausted, in an armchair. She smiled when she saw me, but her face was dreadfully pale.
I did not smile in return but stood without a word behind her chair. After a little while, Mother said, “It wasn’t anything, was it? Only firewood that was meant to be burned.”
I was swept by a wave of happiness. I remembered from childhood Sunday school classes the proverb in the Bible, “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver,” and I thanked God from the bottom of my heart for my good fortune in having a mother so full of tenderness.
After finishing a light breakfast, I set to work disposing of the burned woodpile. Osaki, the proprietress of the village inn, came trotting up from the garden gate. “What happened? I just heard about it. What happened last night?” Tears shone in her eyes.
“I am sorry,” I murmured in apology.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. What about the police?”
“They said it was all right.”
“Oh, that’s a relief.” She looked genuinely glad.
I discussed with Osaki how I should express my thanks and apologies to the village. She was of the opinion that money would be most suitable and suggested the houses I should visit with presents of money and apologies. She added, “If you had rather not make the rounds all by yourself, I’ll join you.”
“It would be best, wouldn’t it, for me to go alone?”
“Can you manage it alone? If you can, it would be.”
“I’ll go alone.”
When I had finished disposing of the wood, I asked Mother for some money, which I wrapped in little packets of 100 yen each. On the outside I wrote the words “With apologies.”
I called first at the village hall. The mayor was out, and I gave the packet to the girl at the reception desk saying, “What I did last night was unpardonable, but from now on I shall be most careful. Ple
ase forgive me and convey my apologies to the mayor.”
I next visited the house of the fire chief. He himself came to the door. He gave me a sad little smile but did not say anything. For some reason, I burst into tears. “Please forgive me for last night.” I took a precipitous leave and ran through the streets with the tears pouring down my face. I looked such a fright that I had to go back home to put on some fresh make-up. I was just about to set out again when Mother appeared. “Not finished yet? Where are you going this time?”
“I’ve only just begun,” I answered, not lifting my face.
“It must be a terrible ordeal for you.” Mother’s tone was warmly understanding. It was her love which gave me the strength to make all the rest of the calls, this time without once weeping.
Wherever I went the people sympathized and attempted to console me. Mr. Nishiyama’s young wife—I say young but she’s already about forty—was the only one who rebuked me. “Please be careful in the future. You may belong to the nobility, for all I know, but I’ve been watching with my heart in my mouth the way you two have been living, like children playing house. It’s only a miracle you haven’t had a fire before, considering the reckless way you live. Please be sure to take the utmost care from now on. If there had been a strong wind last night, the whole village would have gone up in flames.”
I felt the truth of Mrs. Nishiyama’s accusation. Things were really exactly as she described, and I couldn’t dislike her in the least for having scolded me. Mother had tried to comfort me by making the joke about the firewood being for burning, but supposing there had been a strong wind, the whole village might have burned down, just as Mrs. Nishiyama said. If that had happened, not even my suicide could have served as sufficient apology, and my death would not only have caused Mother’s but have blackened forever my Father’s name. I know that the aristocracy is now not what it once was, but if it must perish in any case, I would like to see it go down as elegantly as possible. I couldn’t rest in my grave if I died in atonement for having started a fire.
I began from the following day to devote my energies to working in the fields. Mr. Nakai’s daughter sometimes helps me. Ever since my disgraceful act of having started a fire, I have felt somehow as if the color of my blood has turned a little darker, as if I am becoming every day more of an uncouth country girl. When, for instance, I sit on the porch knitting with Mother, I feel strangely cramped and choked, and it comes as a relief when I go out into the fields to dig the earth.
Manual labor, I suppose one would call it. This is not the first time I’ve done such work. I was conscripted during the war and even made to do coolie labor. The sneakers I now wear when I work in the fields are the ones the Army issued me. That was the first time in my life I had put such things on my feet, but they were surprisingly comfortable, and when I walked around the garden wearing them I felt as if I could understand the light-heartedness of the bird or animal that walks barefoot on the ground. That is the only pleasant memory I have of the war. What a dreary business the war was.
Last year nothing happened
The year before nothing happened
And the year before that nothing happened.
An amusing poem to this effect appeared in a newspaper just after the war ended. Of course all kinds of things actually did take place, but when I try to recall them now, I experience that same feeling that nothing happened. I hate talking about the war or listening to other people’s memories. Many people died, I know, but it was still a dreary business, and it bores me now. I suppose you might say I take a very egocentric view of it. Only when I was conscripted and forced to do coolie labor in sneakers was I able to think of it except in terms of its dreariness. I often had harsh thoughts about the coolie labor, but thanks to it I became quite robust, and even now I sometimes think that if ever I have difficulty in eking out a living, I can always get along by performing manual labor.