Pathway to Japanese Literature

Faces emerging from boxes—could they ever be forgotten? Two pairs of Hina dolls. —Buson

This is the story of a certain old woman.

It was around November when the promise to sell the Hina dolls to a certain American in Yokohama was made.
My family, known as Kinokuniya, had served for generations as financial agents to feudal lords, and since my grandfather Shichiku had been counted among the most prominent financiers of his day, even though the Hina dolls were mine, they were quite exquisitely made.
To put it simply, these were Hina dolls of such quality that coral was set into the jeweled necklaces adorning the crown of the female imperial doll, and both the primary and alternate family crests were embroidered in alternating patterns on the male doll's Shiose silk stone-ornamented belt.

For even those were to be sold, how straitened my father’s circumstances must have been—the twelfth-generation Kinokuniya Ihei—this much might well be imagined by Your Excellency. After all, since the collapse of the Tokugawa house, it was only His Lordship of Kaga Domain who reduced the government levies for us. Even that—out of 3,000 ryo in government levies—he reduced them by only 100 ryo. As for His Lordship of Inaba Domain, in lieu of about 400 ryo in government levies, he bestowed upon us only a single Akama stone inkstone. On top of that, we encountered fires two or three times, all our ventures like the umbrella shop ended in failure, and by that time, we had already sold off most of our notable furnishings to keep the family fed.

The one who suggested to Father that we sell even the Hina dolls was Marusa—the bald-headed proprietor of an antique shop (now deceased). Nothing was more comical than Marusa’s bald head. This was because he bore a tattoo at its center, about the size of a medicinal massage plaster. He himself claimed this ink had been needled in his youth to conceal early balding—though regrettably, the rest of his scalp later abandoned all restraint in shedding hair, leaving only this tattoo stranded atop his crown. Be that as it may, Father—likely pitying me at fifteen—seemed to hesitate relinquishing the dolls despite Marusa’s repeated urgings.

The one who finally compelled us to sell them was my brother Eikichi—...he too had since passed away—a hot-tempered eighteen-year-old back then. My brother was what one might call a man of enlightenment—a youth enamored with politics who never set aside his English primer. Whenever talk turned to the Hina dolls, he would rail against them—declaring the Hina Festival an obsolete custom, insisting there was no point keeping such impractical things about. Because of this, I lost count of how often he quarreled with our old-fashioned mother. Yet if parting with the dolls meant seeing through this year's hardships, there could be no doubt—and so Mother, mindful of Father's strained circumstances, could not bring herself to protest too vehemently. As I mentioned before, by mid-November the Hina dolls had finally been contracted for sale to an American in Yokohama. What of me? I did throw tantrums—likely owing to my tomboyish nature. Yet for all that, I never felt particularly sorrowful. After all, Father had promised that selling the dolls would mean buying me a purple satin obi.……

The evening after that promise was made, Marusa came to my house on his way back from Yokohama.

Though I say "my house," after the third fire struck, the rebuilding was never properly completed. We had made the fire-damaged storehouse our family’s residence and erected a makeshift shop adjoining it. To be fair, since we were then running a hastily established pharmacy, gold-lettered signs for medicines such as Shōtokuan, Ankeito, and Taidokusan—those sorts of names—were lined up atop the medicine chest. There was also a Mujintō lamp lit there—...though simply stating this would likely leave you none the wiser. The Mujintō lamp was an old-fashioned lamp that used plant oil instead of kerosene. It may sound strange, but even now, whenever I catch the scent of medicinal herbs—dried citrus peel or rhubarb root—I cannot help but recall this Mujintō lamp. Indeed, that very evening too, the Mujintō lamp cast its dim light amidst the drifting scent of medicinal herbs.

Marusa’s bald-headed proprietor and Father, who had finally adopted the cropped hairstyle, sat with the Mujintō lamp between them.

“Then I shall humbly request you to verify this partial payment—...kindly do inspect it.”

After exchanging seasonal greetings, what Marusa’s proprietor produced was a paper-wrapped bundle of money.
It had likely been agreed that they would receive the deposit that very day.
Father kept his hands near the brazier and bowed in silence.
It was precisely at this moment.
I went to serve tea as Mother had instructed.
But just as I was about to serve the tea, Mr. Marusa raised his voice: “That won’t do!”
“That alone is unacceptable!” he suddenly declared.
I was momentarily stunned, wondering if the tea was unacceptable, but when I looked before Marusa’s proprietor, there was another paper-wrapped bundle of money properly laid out.

“This here’s but a trifling sum, but well… it’s the thought that counts—”

“No, I’ve already received your kindness.”
“But as for this—please take it back…”

“Now, come now… You shouldn’t make me feel so ashamed again.”

“You mustn’t jest.”
“You’re the one making me feel ashamed.”
“We’re not strangers—would Marusa, who’s been beholden to our family since the great patron’s day, do such a thing?”
“Now, please don’t say such standoffish things—just take this over there.”
“……Oh, Young Mistress.”
“Good evening! My, that butterfly chignon is most exquisitely done today, Young Mistress!”

Without any particular thought, I returned to the storehouse while listening to this back-and-forth exchange.

The storehouse might have been twelve tatami mats in size?
Though quite spacious—what with chests of drawers and long braziers, trunks and standing cupboards arranged within—it felt all the more cramped.
Among these household furnishings, what caught the eye most were some thirty-odd paulownia wood boxes.
Of course, it goes without saying these were Hina doll boxes.
They had been stacked against the wall beneath the window, ready to be handed over at any time.
In the center of this storehouse—the Mujintō lamp having been taken to the shop—a dim oil-burning lantern now glowed; by its old-fashioned light, Mother sewed a drawstring bag while Brother pored over his usual English primer at a small antique desk.
There was nothing unusual about this scene.
But when I happened to glance at Mother’s face, there she sat moving her needle, downcast eyes brimming with tears behind her lashes.

Having finished serving the tea, I was looking forward to being praised by Mother—or perhaps "looking forward" is too grand a way to put it, but there was certainly a sense of anticipation.
And then there were these tears?
Rather than feeling sad, I found myself at a loss for how to react, so I sat down beside Brother, doing my best not to look at Mother.
Then it was my brother Eikichi who suddenly looked up.
Brother Eikichi glanced between Mother and me with a puzzled expression, then suddenly gave an odd smile and resumed reading his Western book.
At that moment, I had never hated Brother Eikichi so much for flaunting his Westernization.
Making a fool of Mother—I thought this resolutely.
I suddenly hit Brother’s back with all my strength.

“What are you doing?”

Brother glared at me.

“I’ll hit you!
I’ll hit you!”

I let out a sob and tried to hit Brother again.
By then, I had already forgotten all about Brother’s short temper.
But before I could bring my raised hand down, Brother slapped my temple with a sharp crack.

“You stubborn fool!”

I burst into tears.
At the same moment, a ruler came down upon Brother as well.
Brother immediately snapped back haughtily at Mother.
Mother would not stand for this.
With her low voice trembling, she argued extensively with Brother.

Throughout that argument, I did nothing but continue to cry in bitter regret until Father—having seen Mr. Marusa off—returned from the shop to our side still carrying the Mujintō lamp… No, it wasn’t just me. When Brother saw Father’s face, he too suddenly fell silent. For a man of few words like Father—there was no one, not even Brother back then let alone myself, who didn’t fear him.…

That evening, it was decided that at the end of this month, upon receiving the remaining half of the payment, the Hina dolls would be handed over to that American in Yokohama.
What? The selling price?
Now that I think about it—foolish though it may seem—I believe they said thirty yen.
Even so, by the standards of those days, this was certainly no small sum.

Before long, the day to part with the Hina dolls drew steadily nearer.
As I mentioned before, I hadn’t found this particularly sad.
Yet as each day brought us closer to that appointed date, I somehow began feeling pained at separating from them.
Though I was but a child through and through—I never imagined we could keep what we’d already resolved to relinquish.
Only this remained—before passing them into another’s hands—I wanted one last proper look.
The imperial pair—the Five Musicians—Sakon’s cherry tree—Ukon’s tachibana—paper lanterns—folding screens—gold-lacquered furnishings—to arrange all these once more within our storehouse and behold them—this became my heart’s desire.
But my stubborn father refused this single request no matter how I pleaded.
“Once earnest money changes hands,” he declared sternly,
“they belong elsewhere regardless of location.
You don’t meddle with another’s property.”

Then came a day near month's end when fierce winds blew.
Whether from a chill she'd caught or the millet-sized boil that had formed on her lower lip, Mother complained of feeling unwell and took no breakfast.
After we cleaned the kitchen together, she sat motionless before the long brazier, one hand pressed to her forehead.
But around noon when she lifted her face, that boil-afflicted lower lip alone had swollen up crimson like a Buddhist statue.
The raging fever showed plainly in the unnatural brightness of her eyes.
My shock at this sight needs no telling.
Half out of my senses, I dashed to Father's shop.

“Father!”
“Father!”
“Mother is in a critical state!”

Father… Then my brother, who was there, came to the back room together with Father.
But they must have been stunned by Mother’s terrifying face.
Even Father, who was usually unflappable, this time alone was left dumbstruck, unable to speak for some time.
Yet even amidst this, Mother desperately forced a smile and spoke these words.

“Oh, it is nothing serious. It is just that I scratched the boil a little with a fingernail… I will prepare the meal now.”

“You mustn’t overexert yourself.”
“Even Otsuru can manage meal preparations.”

Father cut off Mother’s words with a tone halfway between scolding.

“Eikichi!
Go call Dr. Honma!”

By the time those words were spoken, Brother had already dashed out of the shop into the gale.

Dr. Honma—the Kampo physician Brother always ridiculed as a quack—crossed his arms with a troubled expression when he saw Mother.
We learned Mother’s swelling was a facial carbuncle.
Of course, had surgery been possible, it wouldn’t have been such a fearsome illness.
But given our hardships then, surgery was out of the question.
All they did was make her drink herbal brews and apply leeches to draw blood—that was all.
Father prepared Dr. Honma’s medicines by her pillow every day.
Brother went out daily to buy leeches at fifteen sen apiece.
I too... I stole away to make repeated prayers at the neighborhood Inari shrine, careful Brother wouldn’t discover me.
With matters thus, we couldn’t bring ourselves to mention the Hina dolls either.
No—for a time, starting with me, none of us so much as glanced at those thirty-odd paulownia boxes piled against the wall.

But on November 29th—the day before we were to part with the Hina dolls—
When I realized today would be my last chance to be with the Hina dolls, I felt such unbearable urgency that I wanted to open those boxes again at all costs.
But no matter how desperately I pleaded, Father remained unyielding.
Then it occurred to me—I immediately thought—to ask Mother to intercede for me, but her condition had worsened even further by then.
She could swallow nothing but thin gruel now.
Worse still, these days her mouth constantly filled with pus streaked with blood.
Seeing Mother like this, even a fifteen-year-old girl like me couldn’t find the courage to mention wanting to display those dolls again.
From dawn until mid-afternoon I lingered by her pillow testing her mood, yet ultimately said nothing at all.

However, before my eyes beneath the wire-meshed window, those paulownia wood Hina doll boxes were stacked up. And after spending this one last night, those Hina doll boxes would be sent off to a distant Westerner’s mansion in Yokohama—or perhaps even all the way to America. When I thought of such things, I could no longer bear it. Taking advantage of my mother’s slumber, I stealthily went out to the shop. The shop was poorly sunlit, but compared to inside the storehouse, the mere sight of people passing through the street still felt somewhat livelier. There, Father was examining the accounts, and Brother was diligently grinding licorice root or something in the mortar in the corner.

“Father.”
“I’m begging you—please—”

I peered up at Father’s face and made my usual plea.
But he showed no sign of even considering it, let alone agreeing.

“Didn’t we settle this already?”
“Eikichi!”
“Go to Marusa’s while there’s still light and come straight back.”

“To Marusa? … Are you telling me to go there?”

“Nothing much—I’m having Marusa bring over a lamp… You can pick it up on your way back.”

“But Marusa doesn’t have a lamp, does he?”

Father, brushing me aside, showed a rare smiling face.

“It’s not like he has candlesticks or anything… I’ve already requested he buy a lamp.”
“Since it’s more reliable than me buying it myself.”

“So you’re abolishing the oil-burning lamp already?”

“It’s about time we retired that one too.”

“We should do away with old things resolutely. If Mother had a lamp instead, it might lift her spirits a bit.”

Father, as before, resumed working the abacus.
But my wish only grew stronger the more it was ignored.
I shook Father’s shoulder from behind once more.

“Hey! Father, are you listening?
Hey!”

“Shut up!”

Father scolded me abruptly without turning around.
Not only that, but Brother was glaring at me with a spiteful look.
I returned quietly to the back room, still utterly dejected.
Then Mother had raised her feverish eyes and was gazing at the palm held above her face.
When she saw me, she said this with unexpected clarity.

“What did Father scold you about?”

I was at a loss for a reply, so I fiddled with the feather toothpick by the pillow.

“Did you ask for something unreasonable again?...”

Mother stared fixedly at me, then continued with apparent difficulty.
“I’m in this state, and since Father handles everything, you must behave properly.”
“Well, the daughter next door frequently attends the theater as well…”

“I don’t want to go to the theater or anything like that, but…”

“No, it’s not just the theater—hairpins or collars or such—you must have all sorts of things you want, you know…”

As I listened to this—whether from regret or sadness—I finally spilled tears.

"You know, Mother... I... I don’t want anything else... but just... before we sell those Hina dolls..."

"The Hina dolls?"
"Before selling the Hina dolls?"

Mother stared at my face with even larger eyes.

“Before we sell the Hina dolls, you know...”

I hesitated slightly.
At that moment, when I suddenly noticed, standing behind me was Brother Eikichi.
Brother looked down at me and said this in his usual mean-spirited manner.

"You blockhead!
"Is it about the Hina dolls again?
"Have you forgotten that Father scolded you?"

"Oh, isn't it fine?
"There's no need to scold so harshly."

Mother closed her eyes in annoyance.
But Brother continued scolding as if he hadn't heard a thing.

“You’re fifteen years old! Shouldn’t you have at least some sense by now?”
“What’s the big deal about those Hina dolls?!”
“Who in their right mind would cling to them?!”

“You’re such a busybody!”
“They’re not even your Hina dolls, are they?”

I retorted without backing down.
The rest was always the same.
After exchanging a few words, Brother grabbed me by the collar and abruptly yanked me down right there.

“You tomboy!”

Had Mother not intervened, Brother would surely have delivered a few more blows at that moment.
But Mother, half-raising her head on the pillow, scolded Brother between gasps.

“Otsuru hasn’t done anything wrong—there’s no call for you to put her through such an ordeal.”

“But no matter how much I tell this one, she just won’t listen, you know.”

“No—it’s not just Otsuru you hate, is it?
“You… you…”

Mother, tears pooling in her eyes, faltered again and again with evident regret.

“You hate me, don’t you? If you didn’t [hate me], would you really sell the Hina dolls… sell the Hina dolls, or torment Otsuru who’s done nothing wrong…? There’s no reason you’d do such things, is there? Isn’t that right? Then why do you hate…”

“Mother!”

Brother suddenly shouted this, stood abruptly by Mother’s pillow, and hid his face in his elbow.
My brother—who had not shed a single tear even when our parents died, who had never once shown weakness from his years of political activism until his confinement in a lunatic asylum—such a brother now began to sob.
This must have been unexpected even for Mother, who was thoroughly agitated.
Mother let out a long sigh and, without saying the words she had started to say, laid her head back on the pillow once more.
...

About an hour after this commotion had occurred, the one who showed his face at the shop after a long absence was Tokuzō the fishmonger. No, he was no longer a fishmonger. He had formerly been a fishmonger but had now become a rickshaw puller—a young regular who frequented our establishment. There was no telling how many amusing stories Tokuzō had. Among these, the one that still comes to mind was the story about surnames. Tokuzō too had become able to take a surname after the Meiji Restoration, but since he was going to take one anyway, he decided to go all out and chose to call himself Tokugawa. However, when he went to submit it to the authorities, it wasn’t that he wasn’t scolded—he was soundly rebuked. According to Tokuzō’s account, it was such an intense scene that he might have been sentenced to beheading at any moment. That Tokuzō came strolling up to the shopfront, casually pulling one of those old rickshaws painted with peonies and Chinese lions. When I wondered why he had come again, it turned out he wanted—taking advantage of having no customers today—to humbly offer Young Mistress a ride in his rickshaw and accompany her from Aizuhara to Renga Street or such places.

“What do you say?
Otsuru.”

Father gazed at my face with deliberate seriousness—my face as I had come out to the shopfront to look at the rickshaw.
In today’s times, riding in a rickshaw probably wouldn’t excite children all that much.
However, for us back then, being allowed to ride in one was about as thrilling as getting to ride in an automobile.
But given Mother’s illness and especially coming right after such a recent uproar, I could not simply declare that I wanted to go.
Still sullen, I answered in a small voice, “I want to go.”

“Then go ask Mother.”
“Since Tokuzō’s gone to the trouble of offering.”

Mother, just as I had thought, smiled without opening her eyes and said, “Splendid idea.”
My mean-spirited brother was conveniently away at Marusa’s.
As if I’d completely forgotten my tears, I immediately leapt into the rickshaw—
into one with a red blanket over its seat and wheels that clattered noisily.

There’s no need to recount the sights we saw while out then.
What still comes up in conversation even now is Tokuzō’s grievance.
No sooner had Tokuzō—with me still aboard—reached the brick-paved avenue than he nearly collided head-on with a carriage carrying a Western lady.
He barely avoided disaster but clicked his tongue irritably before uttering these words.

“Just ain’t workin’.”
“Young Mistress, you’re just too light—I can’t get a proper grip with my feet.… Young Mistress.”
“It’s just too pitiful for the rickshaw puller carryin’ you—you shouldn’t go ridin’ in rickshaws before you’re twenty.”

The rickshaw turned from the brick-paved avenue into a side street toward home.
Then who should we suddenly encounter but my brother Eikichi.
Brother was walking briskly there, still carrying a standing lamp with a smoked bamboo handle.
When he caught sight of me—likely signaling “Wait”—he raised the lamp.
But even before that, Tokuzō had swung the tiller around and drawn the rickshaw toward Brother.

“You’ve had quite the time of it.
“Mr. Tokuzō.”
“Where did you go?”

“Oh, well, today was the young mistress’s Edo sightseeing.”

Brother let out a wry smile and approached the rickshaw.

“Otsuru.
“Take this lamp and go on ahead.
I’ll stop by the oil shop.”

Still smarting from our earlier quarrel, I deliberately gave no reply and simply took the lamp.
Brother began walking away but suddenly turned back, resting his hand on the rickshaw’s mudguard as he called out, “Otsuru.”

“Otsuru—don’t you dare mention the Hina dolls to Father again.”

I remained silent even then.
Even though he had bullied me so much, I thought he was at it again.
However, my brother paid no heed and continued his quiet words.

“The reason Father mustn’t see them isn’t just because we’ve taken a deposit.”
“If he sees them, everyone’ll grow attached—I’ve thought about that part too.”
“Got it?”
“Understand?”
“If you do, don’t go saying you want to see ’em again like before or any such thing.”

I sensed an unusual tenderness in my brother’s voice.
But when it came to someone like my brother Eikichi, there was no one quite as peculiar.
No sooner had he spoken gently than he reverted to his usual self and suddenly threatened me like this.

“Go ahead and say whatever you want.
But expect to suffer for it.”

Having spat out his words hatefully, Brother promptly went off somewhere without so much as a greeting to Tokuzō.

It was that evening.
The four of us gathered around the evening meal inside the storehouse.
Though Mother had merely lifted her face from the pillow, she was not counted among those gathered.
Yet that night's dinner felt more lively than usual.
That went without saying.
For tonight, instead of that dim oil-burning lamp, a new lamp's light was shining.
Even during our meal, Brother and I would occasionally gaze at the lamp.
A glass reservoir glowing with kerosene, a flame guard protecting the motionless fire—we gazed at this rare lamp brimming with such beauty.

“It’s bright.
It’s like daytime.”

Father said with satisfaction, glancing back at Mother.

“It’s nearly too bright.”

On Mother’s face as she spoke these words lingered an expression bordering on unease.

“Well, we were used to oil lamps… But once you light a lamp like this, you can never go back to oil lamps.”

“Everything seems too bright at first.
Whether it’s lamps or Western learning—it all seems too bright at first.”

Brother was more excited than anyone.

“Even so, once you get used to it, it’s all the same.”
“Before long, a time will surely come when even this lamp is called dim.”

“That may very well be the case.
…Otsuru.
“You, what happened to Mother’s herbal decoction?”

“Mother says she’s had enough for tonight.”

I replied just as Mother had said, without giving it any particular thought.

“This is troubling. You have no appetite at all?”

When Mother was asked by Father, she sighed resignedly.

“Yes… Somehow this kerosene smell… It’s proof I’m a stick-in-the-mud.”

After that, we spoke little and continued moving only our chopsticks. However, Mother, as if suddenly remembering, would occasionally praise the brightness of the lamp—or so it seemed. Even on those swollen lips, something like a smile hovered as she did so. That night too, everyone retired past eleven o'clock.

However, even when I closed my eyes, I could not easily fall asleep.
Brother had told me not to speak of the Hina dolls again.
I too had resigned myself to the fact that taking out the Hina dolls to look at them was an impossible proposition.
But my desire to take them out and look at them hadn’t diminished in the slightest from earlier.
Once tomorrow came, the Hina dolls would be gone forever, off to some distant place—just thinking that made tears naturally well up in my downturned eyes.
What if I quietly took them out alone while everyone was asleep?
—That too I considered.
Or should I hide just one of them somewhere outside?
—That too I considered.
But when I thought that if either were discovered—I couldn’t help but falter.
To be honest, I have no recollection of spending that night thinking only of frightening things.
If only there were another fire tonight.
If that happened, then before passing into others’ hands, the Hina dolls would burn up completely.
If not that, then if only the American and the bald-headed master of Marusa would contract cholera.
If that happened, I could keep the Hina dolls just as they were without sending them anywhere—such fantasies rose up.

But no matter what one might say, I was still a child, and within an hour or less, I had somehow nodded off to sleep.

How long had it been since then? When I suddenly awoke, I could hear sounds in the dimly lit storehouse with its oil-burning lamp—sounds that suggested someone was up and about.
Is it a mouse? A thief? Or has dawn already broken?
—I wavered between possibilities and timidly opened my narrow eyes to look.
Then there at my bedside sat Father in his nightclothes, alone, his profile turned toward me.
Father! …But what startled me wasn’t Father alone.
Before Father were my Hina dolls—the Hina dolls I hadn’t seen since the Doll Festival—arranged in display.

To say one might think it a dream—that must be what such a moment feels like.
I watched this marvel unfold, scarcely drawing breath.
In the wavering light of the oil-burning lamp stood the Male Hina doll clutching his ivory scepter; the Female Hina doll with jeweled necklaces spilling from her crown; Ukon’s tachibana tree; Sakon’s cherry tree; attendants bearing long-handled parasols; court ladies presenting tiered stands with downcast eyes; miniature gold-lacquered mirrors and chests; Hina screens inlaid entirely with seashells; lacquered bowls; painted lanterns; handballs wrapped in colored threads; and then—Father’s profile……

To say one thought it a dream—…Ah, I have already spoken of that before.
But could it truly have been a dream—those Hina dolls of that night?
Could it have been an illusion I unconsciously conjured in my desperate longing to see the Hina dolls?
Even now, there are times when I myself find it difficult to answer whether it was real or not.

However, I caught sight of my elderly father gazing alone at the Hina dolls in the dead of that night.
This much is certain.
If that were the case, then even if it were a dream, I wouldn’t feel particularly regretful.
After all, I saw with my own eyes a father no different from myself—a father both effeminate... and yet solemn.

The story of "Hina" was begun several years ago.
The fact that I have now finished writing this is not solely due to Mr. Takita’s urging.
This is also because, four or five days prior, I had encountered a red-haired girl in the parlor of a certain Englishman in Yokohama who was using the heads of old Hina dolls as toys.
Now, even the Hina dolls that appear in this story are perhaps tossed into the same toy box as lead soldiers and rubber dolls, enduring the same wretched fate.

(February 1923)