It was a trifling matter, that I should have noticed the hair and written
about it; but I had noticed it at a difficult moment, and it had come as a sort
of rescue. I had written thus of the day’s session at Hakoné:
The Master’s wife is staying at the inn, ministering to her aged husband.
Mrs. Otaké, mother of three children, the oldest of them six, commutes
between Hiratsuka and Hakoné. The strain on the two wives is painfully
apparent to the onlooker. On August 10, for instance, during the play at
Hakoné, when the Master was desperately ill, the faces of the two women
seemed drained of blood, their expressions were tense and drawn.
The Master’s wife had not been at the Master’s side during play; but
today she sat gazing intently from the next room. She was not watching the
play. She was watching the ailing player, and she did not take her eyes from
him all through the session.
Mrs. Otaké has never come into the room during play. Today she was in
the hall, now standing still, now walking up and down. Finally, the
suspense too much for her, it seemed, she went into the managers’ office.
“Otaké is still thinking about his next play?”
“Yes. It’s a difficult moment.”
“It’s never easy to concentrate, but it would be easier if he had slept last
night.”
Otaké had worried the whole night through about whether to continue
the game with the ailing Master. He had not slept at all, and had come
sleepless to the session that morning. It was Black’s turn at half past
twelve, the hour specified for breaking off the session, and after almost an
hour and a half Otaké still had not decided upon his sealed play. There was
no question of lunch. Mrs. Otaké of course found it difficult to sit quietly in
her room. She too had passed a sleepless night.
