I imagined the state of mind I might be in after returning home, afraid that I might be even more irritated than I had been at Kamakura, where right before my eyes was the cause of my irritation. And I uselessly pictured myself in the unbearable pain of being annoyed all alone with no opponent to contend with. By chance, though, the results were turned in another direction.
As I had hoped, it was fairly easy for me to bring back the usual quiet, composure, and indifference to my lonely upstairs room at home. I hung a mosquito net with its fresh odor of flax in the best room in the house and lay there enjoying the sound of a wind-bell under the eaves. In the evening I took a walk along the streets and returned home carrying a potted flowering plant. Since my mother wasn't there, the maid, Saku, took care of everything. When I sat down to my first meal at home after returning from Kamakura and as I saw Saku sitting properly before me ready to serve me with a black-lacquered tray on her lap, I was freshly struck by the difference between her and the sisters now at Kamakura. She was not the least bit attractive, but her figure — she apparently knew nothing except how to sit formally in my presence — made me aware of how modest she looked, how reserved, how she could move one to pity. She was sitting politely before me as if she had seemingly taken it for granted it was too presumptuous of her in her humility even to think about what love was. It was with unaccustomed tenderness that I spoke to her. I asked her how old she was. Nineteen, she replied. And suddenly I asked her if she didn't want to get married. She merely looked down and blushed, and that made me feel sorry for my blunt inquiry. Words had seldom been spoken between her and me except for necessary things. It was not till this moment that, as a reaction to the remembrances I had brought back from Kamakura, I became aware of the womanliness in the maid serving us at home. Of course "love" is not a word that can possibly be used between her and me. It was just that I loved the calm, easy, modest atmosphere emanating from her.
That I was able to receive some comfort from a maid sounds odd even to me. And yet reflecting back now and thinking of no other cause for that comfort, I have to think all the same it was Saku — or rather the aspect of womanhood represented by her at that moment — who had calmed my mind, which was apt to be irritated even by some imaginary incitement. I confess that from time to time the scenes at Kamakura appeared before my eyes, scenes in which of course human beings were acting. But it was a happy sign for me that those actions were apparently far removed from me, their interests never coinciding with my own.
I went upstairs and began putting my bookshelves in order. Though my mother, fond of cleanliness as she is, always takes care to dust and sweep thoroughly, I found as I rearranged the books one by one a thin collection of dust behind them which my mother could not have seen. So it took a fairly long time rearranging all the books. I had undertaken the task as something to occupy my time on a hot day, so I moved along as slowly as a snail. I planned to spend as much time as I wished, intending to indulge myself by reading any book that happened to interest me enough. Saku heard the untimely sound of the duster, and her face suddenly appeared along the stairway, her hair in the ginkgo-leaf style. I had her use a dustcloth over a section of the bookshelves. But I soon made her go downstairs, since I felt sorry to have her continue helping me on a task I didn't know when I'd finish. For about an hour I went on taking down books and putting them back, and then I felt a little tired. I was resting, smoking a cigarette, when Saku again showed her face on the staircase. She told me that she'd be glad to be of help. I wanted to have her do something for me, but unfortunately, the books I was arranging were those she could not handle, since she had no knowledge of the Western alphabet. I felt bad to have to tell her that there was nothing for her to do and sent her back downstairs.
There's no need to give a detailed account of Saku. I spoke about her only because I remembered her actions in connection with the events I mentioned before. After I finished my cigarette, I set about my task again. This time I went straight through the second shelf without Saku's disturbing my solitary world. Then I happened to discover at the back of a shelf a strange book I had long ago borrowed from a friend and had carelessly forgotten to return. It was a rather thin book covered with dust that had slipped behind some others to remain unnoticed until that moment.
The friend who lent me the book had a passion for literature. I had once talked with him about novels and had said that a man given to thought more than anything else would make a dull character for a novel because he would merely ponder everything and would lack the courage to translate his thoughts into some striking action. I had been tempted to say such a thing to him because I had often thought that the reason why novels were usually not the kind of book I enjoyed reading was that my own way of sitting around and thinking all the time disqualified me from being a character in one. Whereupon my friend pointed to the book on his desk and told me that the hero in that novel had remarkable powers of thought combined with decisive action of the most terrible kind. I asked him what was written in it. He told me only to read it and handed it to me. Its title in German was Gedanke. My friend explained that it was a translation of a Russian novel. Accepting the slim volume from him, I again asked what the story was about. He replied that that wasn't the important thing, explaining that it would be difficult to understand the book as being about jealousy, revenge, mischief, intrigue, serious action, a madman's reasoning, or even a normal man's calculation. He just said that since there was spectacular action going on with spectacular thought, I should at least read it and see.
I did bring the book home, but I didn't feel like reading it. Not being an enthusiastic reader of novels, I had made little of novelists in general. Furthermore, what my friend had told me failed to arouse in me any real interest in the book.
I had forgotten the entire incident and, quite unaware of it, had merely pulled out the book from behind the bookshelf to wipe off the thick layer of dust on it. With my eyes on the German letters of the title, I was reminded of my friend who was so fond of literature and of what he had told me at that time. A sudden curiosity came over me — from where I couldn't tell — and at once I opened the book to the first page and began reading. Inside I discovered a story of real terror.