I supposed that Sensei's worldview had been shaped by passionate love (occurring, of course, between Sensei and his wife). Sensei's insistence that love is iniquity was partly what led me to this supposition. However, Sensei had told me himself how deeply he cared for his wife. How could their love, then, have led him to despondent resignation? Sensei had told me, "The thought that you once admired a man will drive you later to tear him down." These words were directed, it seemed, to the modern world in a general way. They did not at all apply to Sensei and his wife.
The grave in Zōshigaya, whomever it might belong to, crossed my mind from time to time. I knew that Sensei felt a deep connection to it. It occupied a corner in his mind, and as I strived to be close to him, I couldn't help but dwell on it myself as well. To me, though, it was something utterly lifeless. It would never unlock the door that held Sensei so aloof. In fact, it stood between us, like an apparition, inhibiting our intimacy.
By and by, another occasion brought me face to face with Sensei's wife. It was late autumn, with a marked chill already in the air, and folks hurrying on their ways through waning daylight. Over a short period, a number of homes in Sensei's neighborhood had been burglarized, all in the evening hours. In most cases, nothing of great value was taken. Nevertheless, in all cases, something was missing. Sensei's wife was on edge, and on one particular evening Sensei could not stay home with her. A friend from his home town, now serving at a provincial hospital, had come to Tōkyō. Sensei, along with several other gentlemen, had arranged to take this friend to dinner. Sensei explained the circumstances to me and asked if I could mind the house in his absence. I readily accepted.