The Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai

CHAPTER FIVE / THE LADY

This summer I sent three letters to him. But no reply came, it seemed at the time that there was nothingelse I could possibly do, and I put into the three letters all that was in my heart. I posted them with thefeeling of one who leaps from a promontory into the raging billows of the sea, but although I waited avery long time, no answer came.

I casually inquired of my brother Naoji how that man was. Naoji replied that he was much the same asusual-that he spent every night in drunken carousals, that his literary productions consisted exclusively ofworks of an increasingly immoral nature, and that he was the object of the scorn and loathing of all decentcitizens. Moreover, he had urged Naoji to start a publishing house, a suggestion which Naoji eagerlyaccepted. As a preliminary step, Naoji persuaded two or three novelists besides that person to appointhim as their agent, and the question now was whether or not they could unearth someone with capital tolend the project. As I listened to Naoji's words, it became increasingly evident that not a particle of myodor had seeped into the atmosphere around the man I loved. It was not so much shame that I experiencedas the feeling that the actual world was an unfamiliar organism utterly unlike the world of my imagination.I was assailed by a sensation of desolation more intense than anything I had previously known, as if I hadbeen abandoned at dusk in an autumnal wasteland where no answering sound would ever come, howeveroften I called. Is that, I wonder, what is meant by the pat phrase "disappointed love"? I asked myself if Iwere doomed to die, numbed by the night dews, alone in the wasteland as the sun dropped completelyfrom sight. My shoulders and chest were fiercely shaken, and I was choked by a dry sobbing

There is nothing left for me now but to go up to Tokyo, cost what it may, and see Mr. Uehara. My sailshave been lifted, and my ship has put forth from the harbor. I can not wait any longer. I must go where I amgoing. These were my thoughts as I began secretly to prepare for the journey to Tokyo, only to haveMother's condition take an unexpected turn

One night she was racked by a terrible cough. When I took her temperature, it was already 102degrees

"It must be because it was so chilly today," Mother murmured in between spasms of coughing."Tomorrow I'll be better." But somehow it didn't seem just a cough, and to be on the safe side I decided tohave the village doctor pay a call the following day.

The next morning Mother's temperature dropped to normal and her cough had much abated. All thesame, I went to the doctor and asked him to examine Mother, describing her sudden weakening of late, herfever of the previous night, and my belief that there was more to her cough than a mere cold."I shall be calling presently," the doctor said, adding, "and here is a gift for you." He took three pearsfrom a shelf in the corner of his reception room and offered them to me. He appeared a little after noon inhis formal clothes. As usual he spent an interminable time in ausculation and percussion, at last turning tome with the words, "There is nothing to excite alarm. If your mother takes the medicine which I shallprescribe, she will recover."

I found him curiously comic but controlled my smiles to ask, "How about injections?"

He answered gravely, "They will probably not be necessary. We have here to do with a cold, and ifyour mother remains quiet, I think we can get rid of it shortly."

But even after a week had passed Mother's temperature did not disappear. Her cough was better, buther temperature fluctuated between 99 in the morning and 102 degrees at night. Just at this juncture thedoctor took to bed with an upset stomach. I went to his house for some medicine and took the occasion todescribe Mother's discouraging condition to the nurse, who transmitted my words to the doctor. "It's anordinary cold and should cause no anxiety," was his reply. I was given a liquid medicine and a powder

Naoji as usual was off in Tokyo. It had already been more than ten days since he left. Alone and in anexcess of depression, I wrote a postcard to my Uncle Wada informing him of the change in Mother'shealth.