I do not know how long he was absorbed in such agreeable reflections. But while still in their grasp, he suddenly remembered that he had been asked to send a contribution to a certain magazine. Under the caption, “Letters to the Youth of Today,” that magazine was getting together the opinions on general morality of distinguished men all over the country. Using that day’s incident as material, he would write and send his impressions at once, he thought, and scratched his head a little.
The hand with which the professor scratched his head was the one in which he held the book. Becoming aware of the book, which he had up till now neglected, he opened it where he had inserted the card a while before at the page he had already begun to read. Just then the maid came and lighted the Gifu lantern above his head, so it was not very difficult for him to read the fine type. He cast his eyes casually on the page without any great desire to read. Strindberg said,
“In my youth, people told about Madame Heiberg’s handkerchief, a story which had probably come out of Paris. It was about her double performance of tearing her handkerchief in two with her hands while a smile played over her face. Now we call this claptrap.”
The professor put the book down on his knees. As he put it down open, the card with the name Nishiyama Atsuko on it still lay between its pages. But what was in his mind was no longer the lady. Nor was it either his wife or Japanese civilization. It was a nondescript something that threatened to break the calm harmony of these. The stage trick that Strindberg had scorned was not, of course, the same thing as a question of practical morality. But in the hint he had got from what he had just read, there was something threatening to disturb the carefree feeling he had had since taking his bath. Bushidō and its mannerisms—