The only one who slept was Mr. Otaké, Junior. He is a splendid young
man now in his eighth month, so splendid that if someone were to inquire
of me about the nature and the spirit of Mr. Otaké, Senior, I would want to
show him the child, a veritable embodiment of that spirit. It has been one of
those days when a person finds it impossible to face an adult, and for me
this little Momotaro has been a savior.
Today I discovered for the first time a white hair about an inch long in
the Master’s eyebrow. Standing out from the swollen-eyed, heavy-veined
face, it too somehow came as a savior.
From the veranda outside the players’ room, which was ruled by a sort of
diabolic tension, I glanced out into the garden, beaten down by the
powerful summer sun, and saw a girl of the modern sort insouciantly
feeding the carp. I felt as if I were looking at some freak. I could scarcely
believe that we belonged to the same world.
The faces of both the Master’s wife and Mrs. Otaké were drawn and pale
and wasted. As always, the Master’s wife left the room when play began,
but almost immediately she was back again, and she sat gazing at the
Master from the next room. Onoda of the Sixth Rank was there too, his
eyes closed and his head bowed. The face of the writer Muramatsu Shofu,
who had been among the observers, wore a pitying expression. Even the
talkative Otaké was silent. He seemed unable to look up at the Master’s
face.
The sealed play, White 90, was opened. Inclining his head to the left and
to the right, the Master played White 92, cutting the diagonal black stones.
White 94 was played after a long period of meditation, an hour and nine
minutes. Now closing his eyes, now looking aside, occasionally bowing as
if to control a spell of nausea, the Master seemed in great distress. His
figure was without the usual grandeur. Perhaps because I was watching
against the light, the outlines of his face seemed blurred, ghostlike. The
room was quiet, but with a different quietness. The stones striking the
