There was no radical change in the Master’s condition on the tenth, and
the doctors allowed the session to proceed. Yet his cheeks were swollen,
and it was clear to all of us that he was weaker. Asked whether the session
should be in the main building or one of the outbuildings, he said that he
could no longer walk. Since Otaké had earlier complained about the
waterfall by the main building, however, he would defer to Otaké’s wishes.
The waterfall was artificial, and so the decision was that it should be turned
off and the session held in the main building. At the Master’s words I felt a
surge of sadness that was akin to anger.
Lost in the game, the Master seemed to give over custody of his physical
self. He left everything to the managers, and made no demands. Even
during the great debate over the effects of his illness upon the game, the
Master himself had sat absently apart, as if it did not concern him.
The moon had been bright on the night of the ninth, and in the morning
the sunlight was strong, the shadows were clean, the white clouds bright. It
was the first true midsummer weather since the beginning of the match.
The leaves of the nemu were open their fullest. The pure white of Otaké’s
cloak-string caught the eye.
“Isn’t it nice that the weather has settled,” remarked the Master’s wife.
But a change had come over her face.
Mrs. Otaké too was pale from lack of sleep. The two wives hovered near
their husbands, the eyes in the worn faces alive with open disquiet. They
looked too like women who no longer sought to hide their egoism.
The midsummer light was powerful. Against it the Master’s figure took
on a darkened grandeur. The spectators sat with heads bowed, not really
looking at the Master. Otaké, so given to jesting, was silent today.
