always, his wife was his spokesman and prompter. She praised the scene
and invited him to agree. He neither nodded assent nor offered objection.
Wanting him to be in the bright sunlight, I invited him into the garden.
“Yes, do let’s go out,” said his wife. “You won’t have to worry about
getting a chill, and it’s sure to make you feel better.”
She was helping me. The Master did not seem to find the request an
imposition.
It was one of those warm late-autumn days when the island of Oshima
lies in a mist. Kites skimmed and dipped over the warm, calm sea. At the
far edge of the lawn was a row of pines, framing the sea in green. Several
pairs of newlyweds were standing along the line between the grass and the
sea. Perhaps because of the brightness and expansiveness of the scene, they
seemed unusually self-possessed for newlyweds. From afar, against the
pines and the sea, the kimonos seemed fresher and brighter, I thought, than
they would have from near at hand. People who came to Kawana belonged
to the affluent classes.
“Newlyweds, all of them, I suppose,” I said to the Master, feeling an
envy that approached resentment.
“They must be bored,” he muttered.
Long after, I remembered the expressionless voice.
I would have liked to stroll on the lawn, to sit on it; but the Master stood
fixed to one spot, and I could only stand there beside him.
We had the car return by way of Lake Ippeki. The little lake was
surprisingly beautiful, deep and quiet in the afternoon sun of late autumn.
The Master too got out and briefly gazed at it.
Pleased with the brightness of the Kawana Hotel, I took Otaké there the
next morning. I was being fatherly. I hoped the place might do a little
toward untying the emotional knots. I invited Yawata, the secretary of the
