One day after walking in the country I came back & walked down her street — I heard the opening bars of Chopin’s fourth Ballade in F minor. More than ever was I conscious that I had wronged her — I felt that I must apologize — in agony I walked up and down outside the door, waiting for her to finish — double octaves in the bass melted into the air in a legato of the most perfect unhurried simplicity — I saw suddenly an insuperable difficulty. It is regarded in Japan as a common politeness to take off the shoes on entering a house — but I have always been careless of clothes, I remembered suddenly that that morning I had not been able to find any socks, that I had put on a blue and a red, each with a large hole at the big toe — I could not appear to Mlle Matsumoto like this. Like a madman I ran through the streets of Tokushima, I found a shop, I bought a pair of socks, in my mind I heard the Ballade approaching the arpeggiated chords before the end, I flung down a few yen & ran off, I darted into the precincts of a nearby shrine — no one in sight — I took off my shoes & the old socks, bundled the latter into a pocket, put on the new, put on my shoes, dashed to the house of Mlle Matsumoto. She had come to the moment of stillness before the final explosion. It came to an end — gathering my courage I knocked — she came to the door — I must speak to you, I said, you must allow me to apologize — she gestured for me to enter — I removed my shoes & followed her — we entered the room with the piano — I stood before her, every word of Japanese left my head, I poured forth my reflections of a decade & when I paused she said