Later on I sent you a telegram. In all honestly, at that time I was wishing to see you. I was ready to share with you the story of my past, just as you'd requested. You wired back that at present you couldn't come to Tōkyō. Disappointed, I gazed for a long while at that telegram. It seemed you were not satisfied with just the telegram, and you followed up with a long letter, from which I understood fully why you couldn't come. By no means did I feel you were slighting me. How could you leave home and abandon your father on his sickbed? My request, in light of your father's condition, was inappropriate. --- In truth, when I sent that telegram the plight of your father had fully slipped from my mind. That despite what I'd said to you here in Tōkyō, about the severity of his illness and how vigilant you must be in tending to him. I've exposed myself as temperamental. Maybe the weight of my past has made me so, subjugating my rational thoughts. On this point, I'm aware of my own shortcoming, and I ask for your understanding.
When I read your letter --- that last one you sent --- I felt as though I'd wronged you. I thought to write you back to that effect, and I took up my pen to do so, but I didn't produce a single line. If I was going to write you, it had to be this letter, which I was not yet ready to write, so I stopped. That was why I only wired back, telling you that you needn't come.