外科室 English

Part One

Out of curiosity, and using my occupation as a painter as a convenient pretext, I compelled my near-brotherly friend the medical doctor Takamine to allow me to witness, at a certain hospital in the vicinity of Tokyo on the appointed day, the surgery he was to perform on the Countess Kifune.

That day I left home shortly after nine in the morning and rushed to the hospital by rickshaw.

As I made my way toward the operating room, two or three women of comely appearance—who seemed to be ladies-in-waiting to some noble family—came sliding out through the door ahead of me, and we passed each other midway down the corridor.

I noticed that among them they were attending to a single girl of seven or eight years, dressed in a hifu coat; watching them, I lost sight of the group.

And this was not all: along the long corridor connecting the entrance hall to the operating room, and the operating room to the sickroom on the upper floor, gentlemen in frock coats, military officers in uniform, and persons attired in haori and hakama, along with noble ladies and their daughters—all of unmistakably distinguished bearing—crossed paths here and there, gathered together, walked, or stood, moving back and forth as thickly as threads in a loom.

I silently nodded to myself, thinking of the several carriages I had seen before the gate.

Some of them wore expressions of deep grief, others of anxious worry, and others of urgent haste; all had faces far from serene, and the busy sound of their quick-stepping shoes and sandals echoed with a strange resonance through the high ceilings, broad fixtures, and long corridors of the hospital—at once hushed and desolate—creating an altogether gloomy atmosphere.

After a little while I entered the operating room.

When he caught my eye, the medical doctor had a faint smile on his lips and sat leaning slightly back in his chair with his hands folded together.

It was nothing new, yet for a man bearing such weighty responsibility—one that touched upon the joys and sorrows of almost the entire upper society of our nation—to sit so perfectly composed and cool, as if attending a dinner party, was something only he, I imagine, could manage.

There were three assistants, one attending medical doctor, and separately five nurses from the Red Cross.

Among the nurses themselves, some wore decorations on their chests—one could well imagine these had been specially sent from certain exalted quarters.

There were no other women present.

A certain prince, a certain marquis, a certain count—all were attending family members.

And there, standing with a mournful expression impossible to describe, was the Count himself—the patient's husband.

Watched over by all these people within the room, and anxiously waited upon by those outside, the Countess lay on the operating table—placed at the center of the operating room, which was so bright one could count every mote of dust, and yet somehow forbidding and unapproachable—her body wrapped in pure white robes, lying still as a corpse, her face utterly pale, her nose fine and high, her chin slender, and her hands and feet seemingly too delicate to bear even the lightest silk.

Her lips had faded somewhat in color, revealing faintly her pearlescent teeth; her eyes were firmly closed, and her brows appeared, as it seemed to me, to be furrowed.

Her hair, loosely gathered, lay spread over the pillow in a full, flowing mass, spilling over the edge of the table.

At the first sight of that frail yet noble, pure, precious, and beautiful patient, I felt a shudder of cold run through me.

Glancing at the doctor, I found that he alone in the room remained seated in his chair, appearing utterly composed and vacant, as though not a drop of emotion stirred within him.

His extreme composure—if one might call it reassuring, then reassuring it was—yet to my eyes, having just seen the Countess in such a condition, it seemed almost heartless.

At that moment, quietly parting the door and calmly entering the room was the woman who had stood out most among the three ladies-in-waiting I had passed in the corridor earlier.

Turning gently toward Count Kifune, in a subdued tone she said:

"My lord, the young princess has at last stopped crying and is sitting quietly in the adjoining room."

The Count nodded without a word.

One of the nurses stepped forward to our medical doctor and said:

"Then, if you please, doctor—"

"Very well."

That single word from the doctor reached my ears with a slight tremor in his voice.

And his complexion—for some reason—had suddenly changed slightly.

So even a man like him, I thought with sympathy, cannot help but feel some apprehension when the critical moment arrives.

After receiving the doctor's instructions, the nurse turned to the lady-in-waiting and said:

"Now, would you please, on my behalf—just a word—to her—"

The lady-in-waiting understood and glided close to the operating table, lowering both hands gracefully to knee level in a gentle standing bow, and said:

"My lady, we are about to administer the medicine. Please listen carefully, and kindly count, whether the syllables of the alphabet or numbers, as you please."

The Countess gave no reply.

The lady-in-waiting, timidly repeating herself, said:

"Have you heard and understood?"

"Yes."

That was all Her Ladyship answered.

Pressing further:

"Then you are agreeable?"

"What, the sleeping medicine?"

"Yes—it is only for a brief while, until the surgery is completed, but you must sleep, they say."

The lady was silent for a moment, thinking, then said:

"No. I will forgo it."

Her voice saying so came through with perfect clarity.

Everyone exchanged glances.

The lady-in-waiting, as if gently reasoning with her, said:

"But then, my lady, the treatment cannot be performed."

"Oh, it does not matter if it cannot."

The lady-in-waiting fell silent and turned to read the Count's expression.

The Count stepped forward and said:

"My dear, you must not say such unreasonable things. How can you say it does not matter if it cannot be done? You must not be so willful."

The Marquis, for his part, interjected from the side:

"If she is being so unreasonable, perhaps bring the princess to show her. How can she not want to recover quickly?"

"Yes."

"Then are you now willing?"

The lady-in-waiting mediated between them.

The lady shook her heavy head.

One of the nurses said in a gentle voice:

"Why do you dislike it so? It is not unpleasant at all. You drift off to sleep, and it is over in no time."

At that moment, the lady's brow moved and her lips twisted, as though for an instant she could bear her pain no longer.

Half opening her eyes, she said:

"If you insist so, I have no choice. But I have a secret in my heart. They say the sleeping medicine makes one talk in one's sleep, and I am terribly afraid of that. If the treatment cannot be done without sleep, then please, please, let it go. I would rather not recover at all."

To listen to her, the Countess feared that the secret within her heart might escape her lips in that borderland between dreaming and waking, and was resolving to guard it even unto death.

What must have been the heart of her husband when he heard this?

Had these words been spoken in ordinary circumstances they would surely have given rise to some measure of strife; yet those who stand in a position of care toward the sick must leave all such matters unquestioned.

Moreover, to consider the lady's state of mind when she had thus forthrightly declared that she had a secret she could not allow others to hear:

The Count, mildly and warmly, said:

"Even from me, is it something you cannot share? Is it, my dear?"

"Yes. It cannot be told to anyone."

There was something resolute in the lady.

"Surely it is not certain that merely inhaling the anesthetic will make one speak in delirium."

"No—as strongly as I feel it, I am certain I will say it."

"That again is an unreasonable thing to say."

"I beg you to excuse me."

Saying this as if throwing the matter aside, the Countess tried to turn over and lie with her back to them, but her ailing body would not obey her, and the sound of her teeth clinking together was heard.

Of all those present, only the one medical doctor's face showed no change of expression.

He had, a moment before, momentarily lost his usual composure—but now he was himself again, perfectly self-possessed.

The Marquis made a sour face and said:

"Kifune, there is nothing for it but to bring the princess and show her. No matter how stubborn a woman, at the sight of her child's love, she will yield."

The Count nodded and called out:

"Aya—"

"Yes?"

The lady-in-waiting turned around.

"Go and fetch the princess."

The lady could not bear it and cut in:

"Aya, you need not bring her. Why is it that the treatment cannot be done without sleep?"

One of the nurses, with a smile of perplexity, said:

"We must make a small incision in your chest, and if you were to move, it would be dangerous."

"I shall be perfectly still. I will not move—so please cut me."

At such utter guilelessness, I could not help an involuntary chill running through me.

I thought surely there would be no one who could watch today's incision with open eyes.

The nurse spoke again:

"My lady, however you look at it, you will feel some pain—this is quite different from having a fingernail trimmed."

At that, the lady flung her eyes wide open.

Her senses seemed to have cleared, and in a ringing voice she said:

"The one who is to wield the blade—it is Dr. Takamine, is it not!"

"Yes, he is the chief of surgery. But even Dr. Takamine cannot cut you without causing pain."

"That is all right. It will not hurt."

"Madam, your illness is not so simple a matter. The flesh must be pared and the bone scraped. Please endure it for just a short while."

The attending medical doctor said this for the first time.

This was something no one but Guan Yu of the pass could have endured.

And yet the lady showed no sign of alarm.

"I am aware of that. But it does not matter to me in the slightest."

"The seriousness of her illness must have deranged her somewhat," said the Count, sorrowfully.

And the Count was filled with grief.

The Marquis, from the side, said:

"Regardless, what if we postpone things for today and speak to her calmly at greater leisure afterward?"

The Count, with no objection, and seeing everyone else in agreement, was interrupted by the attending medical doctor:

"If we delay even a moment, there will be no recovering from it. You are all treating the illness too lightly, and that is why nothing is getting done. To make much of sentiment is mere temporizing. Nurses, please restrain her."

Under that exceedingly grave command, the five nurses scattered around the lady, attempting to hold down her hands and feet.

Theirs was a duty of obedience.

It was enough simply to carry out the doctor's orders; they had no need to consider any other feeling.

"Aya! Come to me. Ah!"

The lady called for her attendant in a fading breath, and the lady-in-waiting rushed to intercept the nurses:

"Please, just a moment. My lady, please forgive us—"

The gentle attendant spoke with a trembling voice.

The lady's face turned pale as ash, and she said:

"Will you truly not listen? Then even if I recover I will die. I am telling you to perform the surgery just as I am."

Reaching out her pale and slender hand, she loosened her collar slightly with difficulty, baring her chest—white as jade—

"There. Even if I am killed, it will not hurt. I will be completely still, I promise. You may cut me."

She spoke with absolute resolve, and her expression and bearing admitted no refutation.

As befitted her high station, her dignity swept the room; the entire assembly swallowed their voices in unison, not even a cough escaped, and in that moment of perfect silence, Takamine—who from some time before had not stirred a hair, appearing as cold as dead ashes—rose lightly from his chair,

"Nurse—the scalpel."

"Yes—"

And one of the nurses, eyes wide, hesitated.

As the whole assembly turned to stare in unison at the doctor's face in astonishment, another nurse, trembling slightly, took the disinfected scalpel and handed it to Takamine.

The doctor took it and, with light footsteps, moved calmly and directly to the operating table.

A nurse, fidgeting nervously, said:

"Doctor, is this really all right?"

"Yes, it will be fine."

"Then shall we hold her down?"

The doctor raised his hand slightly and lightly stayed her, saying:

"No, that will not be necessary."

Before the words were out, his hand had already opened the patient's chest.

The lady folded her hands on her shoulders and did not stir a muscle.

At that moment, the medical doctor, in a tone solemn and weighty as an oath, said:

"Madam, I will perform this surgery and take full responsibility."

At that instant, Takamine's bearing took on a singular, sacred, and inviolable quality unlike any other.

"Please."

Those single words she answered with, and across the Countess's ashen pale cheeks a flush of crimson spread as if brushed on.

Fixing her gaze steadily on Takamine, she made no attempt to close her eyes even against the knife that hovered over her chest.

Then—like red blossoms on winter snow—blood streamed from her chest and swiftly stained the white robe; at the same moment the lady's face returned to its former state, utterly pale, and true to her word, she did not so much as stir a toe.

Up to this point, the doctor's movements had been swifter than a startled hare and completely without pause; when he opened the Countess's chest, there had been not a sliver of time for anyone—not even the attending doctor—to interpose a word, but now, some trembled, some covered their faces, some turned their backs, some bowed their heads, and I, for my part, forgetting myself entirely, felt a chill that reached nearly to my heart.

Within three seconds his surgery had already advanced to its crucial phase; and when it seemed the scalpel had reached the bone—

"Ah—"

With a sound wrenched from the depths of her being, the Countess—who I had heard had not been able even to turn over in bed for the past twenty days—suddenly shot up like a mechanism, half raising her body, and seized with both hands the right arm of Takamine, who held the blade.

"Does it hurt?"

"No—because it is you. Because it is you."

Saying this, the Countess fell back suddenly, and with her final eyes—utterly cold and still—stared fixedly at the doctor:

"But you—you would not know me!"

Before the words were out, she placed her own hand over the scalpel in Takamine's grip and drew it deep below her breast.

The medical doctor went pale as chalk and began to tremble:

"I will never forget you."

That voice, that breath, that figure—that voice, that breath, that figure.

The Countess, with a joyful and utterly innocent smile, released her hands from Takamine's and fell back against the pillow—or so it seemed—and the color of her lips changed.

In that moment, the state of the two of them was as though, around those two figures, there was no heaven, no earth, no society, no one else in all the world.

Part Two

If one counts back, it was already nine years ago.

At that time Takamine was still a student at the medical university.

One day I strolled with him through the botanical garden in Koishikawa.

It was the fifth of May, and the azaleas were in full bloom.

Hand in hand with him, we passed in and out among the fragrant grasses, circled the pond in the garden, and admired the wisteria in full flower.

Turning our steps to climb the azalea hill over there, as we walked along the edge of the pond, a group of sightseers came toward us from the other direction.

A bearded man in Western dress, wearing a top hat, led the way; three women were enclosed in the middle, and behind them came another man of similar appearance.

They were attendants to a noble family.

The three women in the center each held aloft a deep-brimmed parasol, and as they glided forward with a clear rustling of trailing hems, Takamine, as we passed them, unconsciously glanced back.

"Did you see them?"

Takamine nodded.

"Mm."

And so we climbed the hill and viewed the azaleas.

The azaleas were beautiful.

Yet they were only red.

On a nearby bench sat a young man who had the look of a tradesman.

"Yoshi, we did a good thing today, didn't we."

"That's right—for once it was worth listening to you; if we'd gone to Asakusa instead of coming here, we'd have missed out on that sight."

"All three of them together like that—who can tell which is the peach and which is the cherry blossom?"

"Wasn't one of them in a marumage hairstyle?"

"Either way, they're not the sort you'd be invited to call on—marumage, western style, or even a wig, it makes no difference."

"Given their manner, you'd expect bunkin style, yet she came out with an icho—what do you suppose was the thinking behind that?"

"Doesn't the icho make sense to you?"

"Not a particularly elegant touch."

"In any case, they're going incognito—trying not to draw attention. You see, the middle one with the lovely profile—the other two are decoys, if you ask me."

"And what did you make of her dress?"

"Wisteria-colored, that's what I'd say."

"Eh—just 'wisteria-colored' and the story doesn't quite come together. You don't seem like the discerning type."

"She was so dazzling I hung my head—I couldn't lift my eyes of my own accord."

"So you kept your eyes on her below the sash, did you?"

"Don't talk nonsense—what a sacrilege. It was over before I knew whether I'd truly seen her or not. What a pity."

"And the way she walked—there's no describing it. She seemed to drift forward as if riding on mist. Trailing hems, unslipping hems—I really understood what that means for the first time today. The difference in upbringing is simply of another order entirely. That must be someone who has naturally and by birth become a being of the clouds above. How could any creature of this lower world ever hope to imitate it?"

"That's a harsh thing to say."

"I mean every word. As you know, I've kept a vow to Konpira and stayed away from the pleasure quarter for three years. But what good did it do? I've been going out at midnight past the embankment with a charm around my neck—it's a wonder I haven't been struck down. Today—today of all days—I've truly made up my mind. To hell with those wretched creatures. Look over there—you see bits of red fluttering here and there, all around? It looks just like scraps of rubbish or maggots squirming, doesn't it? What a farce."

"That's rather severe."

"I'm perfectly serious. Look here—they've got hands too, and they stand on two feet, and they're wearing kimono and haori, and they're standing there with the same sort of umbrellas, if you'll pardon the comparison, they're human women, all right. Women, young women indeed—but compared to what we just worshipped, what do you say? They look altogether smoky—squalid is the only word. And yet they're the same kind of creature—women. Hmph. It beggars belief."

"Well, well—you've said something remarkable. But you're entirely right. I, too—until now, whenever I saw a reasonably pretty woman, I couldn't help myself—and you, walking beside me, must have found it rather trying. But after seeing her, my mind is clear and bright. Somehow I feel unburdened. From now on I'm done with women altogether."

"Then you'll never get your chance in life. A princess like that is hardly going to speak to the likes of you, Genkichi."

"Well, I'd deserve to be struck down if she did."

"But what would you do if she actually spoke to you?"

"Honestly, I'd run."

"You as well?"

"And you?"

"I'd run too."

And they looked at each other.

For a time, words ceased between them.

"Takamine—shall we walk a little?"

I rose with Takamine and, once we had moved well away from those young men, Takamine, with a deeply moved expression, said:

"Ah—this is how true beauty moves people, as you've just seen. It is your domain; you must study it well."

I, being a painter, was moved no less.

Walking several hundred paces, I caught from far away a brief glimpse of the hem of a wisteria-colored robe passing through the deep, faintly shadowed shade beneath the great spreading camphor trees.

At the garden gate stood two tall and powerful horses harnessed to a carriage fitted with frosted glass, with three grooms resting nearby.

In the nine years that followed, until the incident at the hospital, Takamine had not said a single word to me about that woman; yet despite being at an age and station that called for a household mistress, he had no wife, and moreover, from the time when he had been a student, his conduct had been all the more strictly upright.

I will not say more.

One in Aoyama cemetery, the other in Yanaka cemetery—the locations differ, yet on the same day, one after the other, they departed this world.

I address these words to all the religious authorities of the world: for having done what they did, are those two souls to be denied entry into heaven?