One spring about ten years ago I was asked to lecture on practical ethics, and I spent a week, all in all, in Ogakimachi in Gifu Prefecture. I have always been repulsed by the embarrassing hospitality of civic-minded provincials, so I sent the group of educators who had invited me a form letter demanding that I be spared the welcomes, the banquets, the tours of local attractions, and all the other completely useless wastes of time that come along with lectures. Fortunately the reports of my strangeness had long since been heard in this area; when I finally arrived I learned that through the efforts of the mayor of Ogakimachi, the chairman of the sponsoring group, not only were my wishes to be followed in everything, but instead of being lodged in a regular inn, I was to have a quiet stay in the country cottage of the town's wealthy Mr. "N". What I intend to relate now is a description of a tragic occurrence which happened to come to my ears during my stay in that cottage.

The place I was staying was the most distant block of Kuruwamachi, which is near Koroku Castle. There was not much sunlight, especially in the eight-mat study I was lodged in, but the room was quite serene, with paper panes of just the right age in the sliding screens. The wife of the caretaker, who had been put to the trouble of assisting me, was always in the kitchen if she had nothing particular to do, so this dim eight-mat room was deserted and still. It was so quiet that I could hear clearly the sound of the the white blossoms which occasionally fell from the lily magnolia which stretched its branches above the granite wash basin. Since I lectured only in the morning of each day, I was able to spend my afternoons and evenings in this room quite undisturbed. But since I was accompanied only by the suitcase containing my reference books and fresh clothes, I sometimes felt the coolness of spring.

Actually, I was distracted by callers on some afternoons and didn't feel particularly lonely. But when the lamp in its old bamboo stand was finally lit, the world of men suddenly shrank to the dim circle of light around me. Moreover, I felt no need to rely on anything outside that circle. A bronze vase, devoid of flowers, sat firmly and sternly in the alcove behind me. Above it, the spindle held by a Yoryu Kannon marked the line between darkness and blackness in the sooty brocade on which it was mounted. When I looked up from reading and saw this old Buddist image, I seemed to sense the scent of incense when none was burning. The tranquility of a temple was that strong in the room. And so I would often turn in early. But even though I lay down, it was not that easy to fall asleep. I was surprised by the call of a night bird somewhere outside the rain doors. The call brought to my mind the keep of the castle which rose above me. In daylight the white walls of the keep rose three stories above the dense pines and scattered countless crows to the sky that arched above it. Eventually I dozed off, but I was still aware of the cold spring which lay like a pool within me.

It was one such evening when my schedule of lectures was about to end. As usual I was sitting cross-legged before the lamp, leisurely reading, when suddenly the sliding door separating me from the next room opened with unnatural silence. When I noticed it was open I glanced up, unconsciously hoping it was the caretaker, whom I would ask to mail a postcard I had just written. But there in the shadows beyond the screen a man I had never seen, about 4O years old, was seated stiffly. To tell the truth, at that moment I felt shock and alarm-- or rather, I was moved by a feeling close to superstitious dread. In fact the appearance of the man, rather ghostly in the dim light of the lamp, was shocking. But when our eyes met, he bowed respectfully in the old way, with elbows held high, and spoke in an unexpectedly young voice, courteously and almost mechanically.

"There is no excuse for troubling you when you are so busy this evening. If you can allow me a moment there is something I would like to say, and so I have ventured to call on you."

I recovered from the initial shock while my companion was addressing me, and I looked at him more carefully. He had a broad forehead, hollow cheeks, lively eyes which belied his age, and respectably greying hair. He was wearing formal dress in good condition, but with no family crest, and a folding fan was right in place across his knees. But what set me immediately on edge was the realization that he was missing a finger on the left hand. Once I noticed, I was unable to keep my eyes from his hand.

"What is it you want?"

I spoke rather curtly, not closing the book I was reading. Needless to say, I was surprised and annoyed by his sudden appearance. At the same time, it seemed strange that the caretaker would admit this caller without a word. But the man was not deterred by my coolness; he bowed again and spoke as though reciting.

"Please excuse me. My name is Nakamura Gendo. I have gone to your lecture each day, but of course I am one of many and you wouldn't recognize me. But with just that connection between us, I would like to request your guidance."

Finally I felt that I knew why he had come. But I was still displeased that he had disrupted my evening reading.

"You have some question, I take it, about my lectures?"

My purpose in asking this was to dismiss him by next saying I would entertain his question at the next day's lecture. But my companion did not move; he sat with his eyes fixed on the knees of his hakama.

"No, I don't have a question. No question, but I would like to learn your views on good and evil in regard to my own life. That is, some twenty years ago now I experienced something unimaginable, and now I can no longer understand myself. Accordingly, I wish to ask the view of a master of ethics like yourself and thus learn what is correct. That is why I have come tonight. Is that all right? Will you not listen to my story, even though it may be boring?"

I did not reply immediately. Although I was certainly a moral philosopher in the technical sense, I could not claim, unfortunately, to have the flexibility of mind which would allow me to apply my expert knowledge and immediately provide some mysterious solution to a real and immediate problem. Appearing to notice my hesitation at once, he raised his gaze from the knees of his hakama and timidly looked, almost pleading, directly at me as he went on with a polite but somewhat more natural tone.

"No, I don't mean to ask you for a firm decision of right and wrong. But I have a problem that had never troubled me at all until this year, so I wanted to console myself by having you at least listen to what has troubled me lately."

I knew there was no polite way I could avoid listening to the tale of this unknown man. At the same time, a premonition of misfortune and a vague sense of responsibility weighed heavily upon me. Wanting to wipe away these uneasy feelings, I forced a less severe attitude and waved my companion closer to the dim lamp.

"Well, let's hear your story, anyway. I'll listen, but I don't know that I can tell you anything particularly useful."

"No, if you'll just listen, that will be more than I could hope for."

So the man named Nakamura Gendo lifted his fan from the mat with his hand which was missing one finger and, occasionally lifting his eyes and stealing a glance less at me than at the Yoryu Kannon in the alcove, began this story in a flat, somber tone.

---

It was 1889, the 24th year of the Meiji emperor. That year, as you know, was the year of the great Nobi earthquake. The appearance of Ogakimachi has changed greatly since then, but at that time the town had two elementary schools; one had been erected by the daimyo, and one by the people of the town. I was employed at the "K" elementary school which had been built by the daimyo. I had graduated at the head of my class, two or three years earlier, from the prefectural normal school, and since then I had continued to enjoy the great confidence of my principal and others, so received a salary of 15 yen per month, which was high for one my age. These days 15 yen a month will not keep one alive, but this was over twenty years ago, and one could live comfortably, though not plushly. Thus I was the object of envy among my fellows.

The only family I had was my wife, and we had only been married about two years. My wife was a distant relative of the principal and had been raised like a daughter by him and his wife from infancy, when she was separated from her parents, to the time she came to me. Her name was Sayo, and though I shouldn't brag, she was a wonderful person. She was quite submissive and bashful-- in fact she was too quiet, and had an unobtrusive, solitary personality. But she and I were well matched and though we were not, perhaps, really gloriously happy, our days passed peacefully.

Then there was the earthquake-- I can never forget it-- at about 7 a.m. on the 28th day of the 1Oth month. I was brushing my teeth out at the well and my wife was in the kitchen scooping the rice out of the pot. --The house collapsed around her. It was only a matter of a minute or two; I could hear a terrible roar like a typhoon, I saw the house begin to lean, and then I saw nothing but roof tiles flying. Before I could shout, the fallen roof was spread all around. For a moment I was frozen into inaction, and then I was thrown to the earth by the great wave that rolled through it. When I could see through the clouds of dust, there was my house, flattened to the ground, with bushes poking up through the tiles.

You could say I was startled at that time. You could say I was rattled. My mind was blank and I was unable to rise. I looked up over the houses whose roofs were crashing down to the right and left just like a stormy sea and I vaguely heard an uproar which combined the rumble of the earth, the thud of falling roofbeams, the snapping of trees, the crumbling of walls and the voices of thousands of people trying to escape. But after that brief instant I saw something moving under the eaves before me. I leaped up with the empty cry of one just awakened by a nightmare and I rushed over. My wife Sayo, with the lower half of her body pinned under a beam, was writhing in agony under the eaves.

I took her arm and pulled. I tried to lift her shoulders. But the pressure of the beam didn't leave room for a worm to crawl out. I was all confused and ripped a board from the eaves. As I pulled, I kept calling "Be Brave!" to my wife. My wife? I was really trying to encourage myself. Sayo said "It hurts." She said "Please do something." But I didn't need to be urged-- I looked like a new man, and pulled at the beam with all my might. Even now I have a vivid, bitter memory of her hands, so smeared with blood that the nails didn't show, trembling and clawing at the beam.

This went on a long time. When I finally became conscious of my surroundings, a thick cloud of black smoke had come rolling in across the rooftops from somewhere and blew into my face, stifling me. I realized the noisy crackling of a fire was coming from the same direction as the smoke, and here and there golden sparks were flying through the air. I clung to my wife like a madman. Then I made one final effort to pull her from under the beam. But the lower half of her body would not move even an inch. With the smoke blowing all around me, I knelt against the eaves and snapped something at her. You may wonder what I said-- you are sure to wonder. But I have no recollection myself of what I said. I do remember that she grabbed my arm with her blood-smeared hand and said one word-- "Husband." I stared at her face. It was unnatural and devoid of expression, with the eyes wide open but not looking. Then the smoke and a ash from a burst of flames concealed me from those eyes. I saw that nothing more could be done. I that saw my wife, still alive, would be burned and die. Still alive? I clutched her bloody hand and cried out. She repeated the word "husband." That word was filled with meanings, filled with emotions. Still alive? Burned alive? I again cried out. It was as if she had said "die." As if she had said "I will die." Without a word I reached out and picked up a roof tile and in the same motion smashed it against her head.

I will leave what followed to your imagination. I lived, a widower. Driven by the flames and smoke which almost completely destroyed the town, I made my way through the roofs of houses which blocked the road like small hills, and managed to save my life. I really don't know if that was fortunate or unfortunate. I do know that as I sat with a few companions that evening at a small out-building of the crushed school, staring out at the flames still burning against the dark sky, my tears flowed unchecked as I picked up a handful of the emergency relief rice.

---

Nakamura Gendo fell silent, and his timid gaze dropped to the floor. Suddenly hearing such a story, I felt the coldness of spring pushing against my neck, and I couldn't even say, "I see."

The sound of the oil sucked up in the lamp could be heard in the room. My pocket watch, on the desk, could also be heard clipping off the moments. There was also a faint sigh, which I almost took for the stirring of the figure of Yoryu Kannon in the alcove.

I looked up, startled, and watched my companion, who sat there despondent. Perhaps it was he who had sighed. And perhaps it was me. Before I could decide, Nakamura Gendo continued his story, unhurried and still in a low voice.

---

Needless to say, I lamented the passing of my wife. Indeed, I wept openly at the sympathetic words of the principal and my associates. But I was strangely unable to bring myself to say I had killed my wife during the earthquake. I would hardly be sent to prison for simply saying I had taken her life rather than let her be burned alive. In fact, I would surely receive all the more sympathy from the world. But if I attempted to say what had happened, my throat would suddenly go dry, and I could not pronounce a single word.

At the time I thought this was entirely a matter of my timidity. But the reason was lodged far deeper than mere timidity. I did not understand it myself until talk of remarriage began and I tried to start a new life. And when I did understand, I knew I was not one who could again lead an ordinary life, but only a wretched, spiritual wreck.

The talk of remarriage began with the principal, who had served as Sayo's father. He said, and I believed, that this was purely for my own benefit. In fact, even before he broached the subject about a year after the great earthquake, I had considered such a thing privately and put out feelers on more than one occasion. But I was surprised to hear that the principle seemed to be thinking of the second daughter of the "N" family, herself a teacher and the older sister of the oldest son, a rather ordinary fourth-year student I had been tutoring outside class from time to time. Of course I declined. The difference of status between myself, a Level One instructor, and the asset-laden "N" family was too great, and people would say there must be some reason for marriage resulting from my having been a private tutor. I did not want to become the object of unwarranted suspicion. Another reason I did not go ahead was that the face of the wife I had killed, a memory which had gradually become less painful, came floating back with the dimness of the tail of a comet.

But after listening carefully to my feelings, the principal cheerfully explained a number of things to me-- that it would be difficult for a man of my age to go on leading the life of a bachelor, that he had proposed the marriage to me at the request of the "N" family, that since he himself had served as intermediary there should be no fear of gossip, that such a marriage would be quite opportune in terms of my ambition to further my education in Tokyo, and so on. When it was put in that way, there was really no way I could refuse outright. Besides that, the girl was known as a beauty and, I am embarrassed to say, I was also aware of the "N" family's fortune. Thus as the principal continued to press me, my replies began to soften from "I'll think about it" to "Perhaps in another year." And so in the early summer of the next year, 1891, it was finally arranged that we would marry that fall.

But once that was decided I grew rather moody, so much so that I thought it strange myself, and my old enthusiasm disappeared. When I went to school, for example, I would slump over a desk in the instructors' lounge, vaguely thinking of this or that, and would often not even hear the sound of the wooden clappers announcing the beginning of class. I myself could not clearly perceive what was troubling me. But it seemed that somewhere in my head the gears were not meshing, and some unpleasant emotion was stored up, like a secret that went beyond my own understanding, in the area where the gears didn't mesh.

One evening about two months later, during the summer recess, I was taking a walk when I looked into a bookshop behind the Honganji branch temple. There were five or six issues of a magazine called "Life Illustrated," which was well-received at that time, and the lithographed covers of things like "Late Night Adventures" and Ogata Gekko illustrations. As I paused before the shop and picked up an issue of "Life Illustrated," I saw that the cover had a picture of a fire starting to burn in a toppled house and the words, "Nov. 30, 1899 Issue: Record of the Oct. 28 Earthquake." My heart began to pound when I saw it. I heard someone laughing derisively, and thought to myself, "This is it." The lights of the shop were still burning, and I hurriedly flipped through the pages. First was a picture of a whole family crushed and killed by fallen beams. Next was a picture of a crack in the earth swallowing up a girl who lost her footing. And then-- I will not go through each picture, but every detail of the great earthquake two years earlier unfolded before me again as I looked at that issue of "Life Illustrated." Appalling pictures followed one after another-- the fallen steel bridge at Nagara river, the collapse of the Owari textile mill, the burial of bodies by the soldiers of the Third Division, care for the wounded-- and I was dragged into memories of that accursed time. My spirits were completely drained of emotions of pain or joy. When the last picture came before my eyes, there was nothing in my heart but the shock I had felt at the time. This picture showed a woman, her hips pinned by a fallen beam, twisted in agony. Black smoke was rolling up across the beam, and I even seemed to see the burning red sparks flying all about. Who could that be if not my wife? What could it be if not her last moments? I very nearly dropped the "Life Illustrated." I very nearly cried out. What terrified me at that moment was that suddenly everything glowed red and my nose was filled with the smell of smoke. Forcing myself to calm down, I put back the "Life Illustrated" and looked around the shop. A shop boy had just lit a lamp hanging in front of the shop, and the smoke from the discarded match was still wisping up through the night air.

After that I became gloomier than ever. Previously I had been vaguely uneasy without knowing what it was that menaced me, but now a certain suspicion had come into my head and oppressed me day and night. That is, was the killing of my wife at the time of the great earthquake really unavoidable? More baldly put, hadn't I killed my wife because I had wanted to kill her all along? Hadn't the great earthquake simply provided me with an opportunity? This was my suspicion. When it came to mind I naturally snapped back, "Certainly not!" But had I not heard, as I stood in front of the book store, a murmured "This is it," and derisive laughter, and "Why, then, are you unable to admit that you took her life?" As I thought about it I was stricken with terror. Oh why, if I could I kill my wife, could I not say I had killed her. Why had I kept such a frightful experience hidden away?

Something which has remained fresh in my memory of that time is my inner loathing of my wife Sayo. This is shameful to say, but otherwise you may not fully understand me: my wife unfortunately had a physical problem. [The next 82 lines have been deleted.] . . . Thus up to that time I believed that my sense of morality had won out, if only barely. But when the great upheaval of that earthquake occurred and all social restraints disappeared, a fissure may also have opened up in my sense of morality. My own selfishness may somehow have been heated up in the flames. Previously I had not allowed myself to suspect that I had killed my wife for the purpose of killing her. It can be said that the gloominess which had come upon me was a natural consequence.

But I still had one defense: "If I had not killed her, she would certainly have burned to death in the fire. Therefore it can be said that it was not really my fault that she died." But one day when midsummer had changed to late summer and school had started up again, we teachers were grouped around the table in the instructors' lounge drinking tea when the conversation happened to turn to the great earthquake two years earlier. At that time I neither spoke nor really listened to what my companions were saying. They went on from one story to the next-- the fall of the roof of the Honganji branch temple, the destruction of the dikes in Funamachi, the cracks in the streets of Tawaramachi. Eventually one of the teachers told of a woman who ran a bar called "Bingo" in Nakamachi who was pinned under a fallen beam and unable to move; when the fire reached her the beam fortunately burned through and her life was saved. When I heard him say this everything suddenly grew dark, and for a moment I couldn't even breath. I must have appeared to be in a trance. When I came around, my companions were crowded around me trying to give me water or a medication; they said I had suddenly changed color and nearly fallen out of my chair. But now my head was so full of suspicions that I couldn't even apologize to them. Hadn't I purposefully killed my wife? Hadn't I beaten her to death because I feared her life might be saved even though the beam was pressing down on her? If I had not killed her then, my wife might have had the same narrow escape as the "Bingo" woman. So I had heartlessly used one blow with a tile to kill her-- I leave to your imagination the anguish I felt at that time. Feeling this anguish, I resolved to break off the discussion of marriage with the "N" family and try to cleanse myself to some degree.

But when it came time to carry out my decision, I found my firm resolution had weakened. Would it not be clear, from the fact that I wanted to suddenly call off the wedding when it was so close, that the uneasiness I had felt was due to my having murdered my wife at the time of the great earthquake? Coward that I was, I did not have the courage when the time actually came to break it off, no matter how much I goaded myself. Again and again I scolded myself for this timidity. But I scolded in vain-- I took no action as the heat of the summer turned to early autumn, and the date of the ceremony gradually pressed closer and closer.

By that time I had become so withdrawn that I hardly spoke to anyone. Several of my companions asked if the wedding should be postponed. The principal advised me three times to see a doctor. But even in the face of these kind words, I no longer had the strength to make an appearance of concern for my health. At the same time, I could not consider taking advantage of the concern of my friends for a weak, temporary measure like postponing the wedding because of poor health. And the head of the "N" family seems to have taken the effect of my single life to be the cause of my depression. He insisted that the wedding be held as soon as possible, and so it came about that the the wedding would be held in the main house of the "N" family in October, within a day or two of the anniversary of the great earthquake. Exhausted from days of worry and dressed in the formal costume of the bridegroom, I was led into a spacious room lined with magnificent gold screens-- it embarrasses me to think of it today. I felt as though I were a scoundrel who had committed a great crime unknown to anyone. No, I can't say "as though." I actually was a fiend who had hidden the crime of murder and was plotting to steal the daughter and the wealth of the "N" family. My face turned red. My breast was filled with pain. I wanted to confess then and there that I had killed my wife-- this thought began to rush violently through my mind like a storm. And then two small feet, covered in white, appeared as though out of a dream on the mat where my gaze had rested. I saw a border pattern of pines and cranes floating in the air above faint waves. When I saw the gold brocade sash, the silver chain at her breast, the white collar, and then the tortoiseshell combs in her heavy Takashimada hairdo, I was overwhelmed with such extreme panic that I could hardly breathe. Without thinking, I pressed both hands against the mat and cried out in a desperate voice, "I am a murderer! I am the foulest of criminals!"

---

When he had ended his story, Nakamura Gendo stared at my face a few moments, then forced himself to smile and continue.

"There is no need to describe what happened next. But I do want to say that since that day I have been branded a criminal and have passed a miserable life. I will leave it to you to judge whether I am really a criminal. But if I am, I must have been made a criminal by a monster which lurks at the bottom of human hearts. As long as that monster is present, even those who mock me as a criminal today could become criminals like me tomorrow. At least that is what I think-- what is your view?"

The lamp still flickered coldly between me and my strange guest. I sat silently, with my back still turned to the Yoryu Kannon, lacking even the nerve to ask what had happened to his finger.
(June 1919)