Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One

The surviving family of Mr. Irie Shin’nosuke—that renowned Western-style painter who died eight years ago—all appeared to be somewhat eccentric. No—or rather, it wasn’t that they were eccentric; perhaps their way of living was unexpectedly correct, and it was we ordinary households who were truly out of step. Be that as it may, the atmosphere of the Irie home did seem slightly different from that of a typical family. Drawing inspiration from this household’s atmosphere, I had once written a short story some time ago. As I was an unpopular writer, I couldn’t have my works readily published in magazines, and so that short story too remained tucked away at the bottom of my desk drawer for a long time. In addition to that, I had three or four other such unpublished works—pieces buried deep in my literary trunk, so to speak—so in the early spring two years prior, I gathered them all together and abruptly published them as a single volume. It was a meager collection of creative works, but even now, I retain some attachment to it. For in truth, the works in that collection were uniformly sweet, lacked any ambition, and had been written in high spirits. So-called masterpieces tended to feel somehow clumsy, and when their authors later reread them, they might find them unpleasant or the like—but such things didn’t occur with lighthearted pieces. As might be expected, that collection of creative works hadn’t sold particularly well, but I didn’t especially regret that fact. In fact, I even felt glad it hadn’t sold. Even though I felt an attachment to it, this was because I didn’t consider its contents to be of the highest quality. It couldn’t withstand cold, rigorous criticism—in other words, they were all rather sloppy works. Yet an author’s attachment seemed to be of a different nature altogether, for I occasionally found myself surreptitiously opening that saccharine collection on my desk to read. Within it, the most frivolous yet paradoxically most beloved work was none other than the short story—mentioned at the outset—that drew inspiration from the surviving family of Mr. Irie Shin’nosuke. It was, of course, a frivolous, trivial novel—but for some reason, I couldn’t forget it.

—There were five siblings, and they all loved romance.

The eldest brother was twenty-nine years old. He was a Bachelor of Laws. When interacting with others, he had a slight tendency to put on airs—this was a demon’s mask to hide his own weakness—for in truth, he was fragile and exceedingly kind. Going to see movies with his younger siblings, he would declare them trash—wretched productions—yet find himself overcome by the samurai’s code of honor in those very films, always being the first to burst into tears. It was only natural. After leaving the movie theater, he would suddenly become haughty and sullen, not speaking a single word all the way home. He unhesitatingly declared that since birth, he had never once told a lie. That may have seemed questionable, but he did indeed possess a certain straightforward integrity and purity. His school grades were not particularly good. After graduating, he did not take up employment anywhere and steadfastly protected the household. He was studying Ibsen. Lately, he had been rereading A Doll’s House and made a significant discovery that left him thoroughly excited—Nora had been in love at that time. She had been in love with Dr. Rank. He had discovered that. He gathered his younger siblings, pointed out that very point, scolded them loudly, and endeavored to explain—but it was all in vain. The younger siblings merely tilted their heads skeptically, smirked, and showed no signs of excitement whatsoever. Generally speaking, the younger siblings underestimated this brother. They gave off an air of looking down on him.

The eldest daughter was twenty-six years old.
Still unmarried, she commuted to the Ministry of Railways.
She was quite proficient in French.
Her height was five feet three inches.
She was extremely thin.
She was sometimes called Horse by her younger siblings.
She had cut her hair short and wore Lloyd glasses.
With a flamboyant spirit, she would quickly befriend anyone, devote herself wholeheartedly, and end up cast aside.
That was her hobby.
She secretly took pleasure in feelings of melancholy and desolation.
However, there was one time when she became infatuated with a young official in the same department and was ultimately abandoned as usual. On that occasion alone—truly out of character—she became genuinely haggard and self-conscious, lied about having bad lungs, stayed in bed for a week, then wrapped a bandage around her neck and went to see a doctor while coughing excessively. When examined in detail with an X-ray, she was praised for having exceptionally robust lungs.
Her literary appreciation was earnest.
She read voraciously.
She made no distinction between Eastern and Western works.
With energy to spare, she secretly wrote something herself.
These writings were hidden in the right drawer of the bookcase.
A slip of paper inscribed with “To be published two years after my death” was neatly placed atop the accumulated works.
The “two years later” had been revised to “ten years later,” rewritten as “two months later,” and sometimes even changed to “a hundred years later.”

The second son was twenty-four years old.
He was a philistine.
He was enrolled in the Faculty of Medicine at Imperial University.
However, he rarely attended classes.
He had a weak constitution.
He was a real invalid.
He had an astonishingly beautiful face.
He was stingy.
There were times when the eldest brother, having been tricked into buying a bizarre old racket—purportedly used by Monteigne—for fifty yen after haggling down the price, was smugly pleased with himself; the second son, alone in the shadows, would fly into such a rage that he developed a high fever.
That fever ultimately damaged his kidneys.
He had a tendency to scorn people—anyone and everyone.
When someone said something, he would emit an extremely unpleasant laugh—a bizarre sound resembling the cackle of a crow demon.
He was fixated on Goethe.
Even this seemed less an admiration for Goethe’s simple poetic spirit and more an infatuation with his high rank and official status—there was no lack of signs pointing to such a conclusion.
There was something dubious about this.
However, when all the siblings competed in composing impromptu poems and such, he always came out on top.
He excelled.
Being a philistine, his objective grasp of passion—so to speak—was remarkably clear.
If he himself were to apply earnestly, he might perhaps become a second-rate writer.
He was adored to death by the house’s lame seventeen-year-old maid.

The second daughter was twenty-one years old.
She was Narcissus.
When a certain newspaper company had been recruiting for Miss Japan, she writhed in agony for three nights over whether to recommend herself.
She wanted to raise her voice and scream out.
However, after three nights of agonized writhing, she realized her own height fell short and gave up.
Among the siblings, she alone was conspicuously small.
Her height was four shaku seven sun (~142 cm).
But it was by no means unsightly.
It was rather impressive.
Late at night, she would stand naked before the mirror and flash a sharp, cute smile; wash her plump white legs with Hechima Cologne; press a soft kiss to her own toes before closing her eyes in rapture; or once, when a tiny pimple—like a needle prick—appeared on the tip of her nose, attempt suicide out of sheer despondency.
Her literary selections were distinctive.
She would hunt down early Meiji-period works like *Strange Encounters of Beautiful Women* and *Fine Tales of Governing the Nation* from secondhand bookstores, then read them alone while giggling to herself.
She also enjoyed reading translations by Kuroiwa Ruikō, Morita Shiken, and others.
Where she managed to procure them from was a mystery, but she amassed stacks of obscure coterie magazines, muttering “How fascinating… How masterful…” with a straight face as she meticulously read each one cover to cover.
In truth, she had secretly been most fond of reading Kyōka.

The youngest brother was eighteen years old.
He had just entered the Science Division (Class A) of First Higher School that year.
Since entering high school, his attitude changed abruptly.
To his brothers and sisters, this was unbearably comical.
However, the youngest brother remained deadly serious.
In every trivial domestic dispute—no matter how minor—he would invariably materialize unsummoned, ponder deeply with furrowed brow, and deliver solemn verdicts; a habit that left Mother and the entire household exasperated.
Naturally, the youngest brother found himself politely avoided by all.
To him, this neglect proved unbearable.
The eldest daughter—unable to endure his perpetually puffed-up sulk—composed a waka poem: "Though alone you feel grown/None see you adult—how forlorn," presenting it to console this self-styled sage languishing in unrecognized genius.
With his bear-cub face radiating childish charm, his siblings doted on him excessively—resulting in a certain scatterbrained quality.
He adored detective fiction.
Sometimes he would lock himself in his room practicing disguises.
Under pretext of language study, he bought Japanese-English parallel texts of Doyle's works—then devoured only the Japanese portions.
Among all siblings, he alone nursed secret tragic resolve: convinced he was the sole guardian of their household's welfare.—

The above constituted the opening passage of that short story, and from there, a modest incident was set to unfold—though as I mentioned earlier, it was ultimately a rather lightweight work.
My attachment lies stronger with the family within the work than with the work itself.
I liked that entire household.
Indeed, it was a real household.
In other words, it must undoubtedly be a sketch of the bereaved family of the late Mr. Shinnojo Inoe.
That said, it was not necessarily a straightforward account of the facts.
Putting it grandly—though I myself am not a little flustered to say so—it was, so to speak, a matter of having arranged and narrated elements other than poetry and truth with due moderation.
Here and there, I even mixed in outright lies.
But for the most part, it was a depiction of that Inoe family’s true form.
Even if there are discrepancies in a single strand, when it comes to nine oxen, it remains realistic.
However, in that short story of mine, I wrote only about the five siblings and their kind and wise mother, while most impolitely omitting any mention of the grandfather and grandmother for the sake of the work’s composition.
This was indeed an unjust treatment.
To speak of the Inoe family while excluding their grandfather and grandmother still seems somehow incomplete after all.
I now wish to speak of those two as well.
Before that, there is one thing I must clarify.
That is to say, all of my forthcoming accounts do not depict the present-day Inoe family of this year, but are solely concerned with capturing the atmosphere of the Inoe household as it was four years ago when I secretly incorporated them into a short story.

The current Inoe household was slightly different.
Some had married.
There were even those who had passed away.
Compared to four years prior, it seemed to have grown somewhat darker.
And I too could no longer visit the Inoe household as casually as I once did.
In short, both the five siblings and I had all gradually become adults—proper, distant, what you might call those model "proper adults"—and even when we occasionally met, there wasn't the slightest bit of interest between us.
To be blunt, the current Inoe household held little interest for me.
If I were to write, I would want to write about the Inoe household of four years ago.
Therefore, my forthcoming accounts too would depict the Inoe household as it had been four years ago.
Nowadays, it was slightly different.
Having made that sole clarification—now then—the grandfather of that time seemed to spend every day doing nothing but amusing himself.
If there truly flowed an extraordinary strain of romantic blood within the Inoe lineage, it would appear to have originated with this grandfather.
He was already over eighty.
Every day, he would slip out through the back gate of his Kōjimachi residence with an air of purpose.
He moved remarkably swiftly.
This grandfather had been a fairly successful trade merchant in Yokohama during his prime.
When his late son Mr. Shinnojo entered art school, not only had he not opposed it at all, but he'd even gone so far as to boast about it to those around him—such was the mettle of this man.
Even after growing old and retiring, he still never stayed put at home.
Whenever he spotted an opening among the family members, he would nimbly twist around and slip out through the back gate.
He would walk briskly two or three blocks, look back to confirm that none were following him, then take out a bird-hunting cap from his pocket and place it askew on his head.

The gaudy checkered bird-hunting cap was terribly worn-out.
However, he couldn't get into the mood for a walk without wearing it.
For forty years, he had cherished it.
Putting this on, he would head out to Ginza.
He would enter Shiseido and order something called chocolat.
He would linger for one or even two hours with a full cup of chocolat.
Looking around here and there, whenever his old business associates appeared with young geisha in tow, he would immediately call out to them in a loud voice and refuse to let them go.
He would forcibly make them sit in his booth and then leisurely start making sarcastic remarks.
This was an irresistible pleasure.
When returning home, he would always buy a small souvenir to bring back for someone.
Even so, he felt self-conscious.
Lately, he became remarkably attentive to gauging the family’s moods once more.
He invented medals.
The plan involved drilling a hole through a Mexican silver coin, threading it with a red silk cord, and presenting it each week to whichever family member had contributed most notably.
No one really wanted it.
Once someone received that medal, they had to wear it around their neck whenever at home for the entire week—a rule that left the whole family equally exasperated.
Since Mother was filial toward her father-in-law, even when receiving it she would put on a grateful expression and hang it from her obi in as inconspicuous a manner as possible.
Whenever she gave Grandfather an extra bottle of beer with his evening drink, Mother would be forcibly awarded this medal on the spot.
The Eldest Brother, being of a serious disposition, would occasionally find himself inadvertently awarded the medal for merits such as accompanying Grandfather to storytelling performances—yet even so, true to form, he would wear it properly on his chest for a week without showing the slightest embarrassment.
The Eldest Daughter and Second Son were constantly evading them.

The Eldest Daughter skillfully evaded them by firmly declining, stating, "I am not at all qualified for such an honor." The Second Son even went so far as to stash the medal in his drawer and lie about having lost it. Grandfather immediately saw through the Second Son’s lie and ordered the Second Daughter to search his room. Because the Second Daughter had unfortunately discovered the medal, it was this time presented to her. Grandfather appeared to dote on this Second Daughter. Though she was the most conceited in the household and had not a single achievement to her name, Grandfather nevertheless insisted on presenting medals to her at every opportunity. When she received a medal, she would usually tuck it away in her purse. Grandfather permitted such exceptions only for her. She didn’t have to wear it around her neck. In the entire household, the only one who desired the medal even slightly was the youngest brother. Even he, when awarded the medal and made to wear it around his neck, would feel somehow embarrassed and unsettled—yet when it was taken away and given to someone else, he would suddenly grow lonely. There were times when, during her absence, he would sneak into her room, search out her purse, and gaze longingly at the medal inside. Grandmother had never once been awarded this medal. From the very beginning, she had been flatly refusing. She was a terribly decisive person. "Ridiculous," she said. This grandmother doted on the youngest brother so dearly she wouldn’t mind if he were her own eyeball. He once took up hypnosis research and tried casting his spells on Grandfather, Mother, his brothers and sisters—but no one fell under his sway at all. Everyone was glancing around restlessly. It turned into uproarious laughter.

The youngest brother alone was on the verge of tears, sweating profusely, and when he finally tried it on Grandmother, it worked immediately. Grandmother sat in the chair, began nodding off repeatedly, and answered the hypnotist’s solemn questions with complete sincerity.

“Grandma, can you see the flowers?”

“Ah, how beautiful.”

“What kind of flowers are they?”

“They’re lotus flowers.”

“Grandma, what do you like most?”

“It’s you.”

The hypnotist grew slightly disenchanted.

“Who do you mean by ‘you’?”
“Isn’t it Wakko (the youngest brother’s name)?”

The family members who had been watching nearby burst into raucous laughter, so Grandmother snapped out of her trance. Even so, at the very least, the hypnotist’s dignity was preserved—after all, Grandmother had been the only one to succumb to the hypnosis. But later, when the earnest Eldest Brother worriedly asked in secret, "Grandma, did you really succumb?" Grandmother snorted and muttered, "As if I would."

The above is a general sketch of all the members of the Inoe family.

Though wishing to provide a more detailed introduction; however, at present rather than that came the desire to present a rather long "novel" collaboratively written by the entire family.
As had been mentioned earlier,the siblings of the Inoe family all maintained some degree of literary inclination.
They would sometimes embark on creating collaborative works.
Usually on overcast Sundays when all five siblings gathered in the parlor and grew dreadfully bored,the Eldest Brother would propose commencing their game.
It became an exercise where one person introduced an arbitrary character on whim,taking turns fabricating its fate until completing an entire story.
For tales seeming simple enough,the group dictated them orally then and there,yet when beginnings showed particular promise they prudently circulated manuscript paper for sequential writing.
Such collaborative works by them had already accumulated four or five pieces by then.
Occasionally Grandfather,Grandmother,and Mother were also expected to assist.
In this somewhat lengthy tale too,there appeared assistance from Grandfather,Grandmother,and Mother.

Part Two

Usually, despite his lack of skill, it was the youngest brother who first spun the tale.
And he would usually fail.
Yet the youngest brother did not despair.
He psyched himself up, determined that this time would be different.
During the five-day New Year's holiday, they grew somewhat bored and commenced their customary story-telling game.
Even then, the youngest brother volunteered to take the lead, pleading, "Let me do it! Let me!"
As it was a common occurrence, the elder brothers and sisters laughed and permitted it.
As this was both a story for the beginning of the year and a matter requiring prudence, they decided to play it safe by properly writing it on manuscript paper and circulating it in turns.
The deadline was the next morning.
Each of them could take a full day to think and write.
By the fifth night or sixth morning, a story would be completed.
During those five days, the five siblings remained faintly tense yet felt a slight sense of purpose.

The youngest brother had volunteered to take the lead as per custom and been permitted to set the story in motion, but now he found himself without any concrete plan. He might be in a slump. He thought he shouldn’t have taken it on.

On January 1st, the other elder brothers and sisters each went out to amuse themselves elsewhere.
Grandfather had of course vanished from early morning, dressed in a tailcoat.
The only ones remaining at home were Grandmother and Mother.
The youngest brother was doing nothing but resharpening pencils in his study.
He felt like crying.
Having reached his wit's end, he finally plotted mischief.
It was plagiarism.
He thought there was no other way.
With his heart pounding, he devoured Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Grimm’s Stories, The Adventures of Holmes, and the like.
He stole bits from here and there and somehow pieced it together.

Long ago, in a forest of a northern country, there lived a terrifying old witch.
She was truly a wicked, ugly old woman, yet to her only daughter Rapunzel alone she showed kindness, combing her hair each day with a golden comb and doting on her.
Rapunzel was a beautiful girl.
And she was a very lively child.
When she turned fourteen, she stopped obeying the witch.
She even went so far as to sometimes scold her instead.
Even so, the witch found Rapunzel so unbearably adorable that she laughed and yielded.
As the forest trees were stripped bare day by day under withering winds and even the witch’s household began preparing for winter seclusion, splendid prey strayed into this enchanted wood.
A beautiful prince on horseback wandered into the twilight forest.
He was this country’s sixteen-year-old prince.
He had become so engrossed in hunting that he got separated from his retainers and lost his way back.
The prince’s golden armor shone like a torch in the dim forest.
The witch would never let such a sight escape her notice.
She flew out of the house like wind and swiftly dragged the prince down from his horse.

“This young master ain’t half plump!”
“How’s this fair skin?”
“Ain’t been fattened up on walnuts!” she growled.
The witch had grown a long, stiff beard and eyebrows that hung down over her eyes.
“You look just like a plump little lamb.”
“Now, I wonder how you taste.”
“Salted, this one would be perfect for winter provisions,” she sneered with a sly grin, drawing her dagger and taking aim at the Prince’s pale throat—

“Ah!” cried the witch.
This was because her daughter Rapunzel had bitten her ear.
Rapunzel had leapt onto the witch’s back and sunk her teeth into the left earlobe with such force that she wouldn’t let go.

“Rapunzel dear, do forgive me,” said the witch. Having always indulged her daughter, she showed not a trace of anger, forcing an apologetic smile instead.
Rapunzel shook the witch’s back,

“This one will play with me. Give me this pretty one,” she wheedled. Having been doted on and raised to be spoiled, she was stubborn beyond measure; once she set her mind to something, she would never yield. The witch resolved to endure for just one night her urge to kill the prince and salt him away.

“There, there,” she said. “I’ll give him to you. Tonight I’ll treat your guest to a proper feast. But come morning, you must return him to me.”

Rapunzel nodded.
That night, the Prince was treated very kindly at the witch’s house, but he felt as though he wasn’t alive.
The evening’s feast consisted of frog skewers; viper skin stuffed with small children’s fingers; a salad made of tengu mushrooms, damp twenty-day-old mice noses, and green caterpillar entrails; for drinks—bluish slime liquor made by the swamp woman and nitric acid wine brewed from grave soil.
Rusty nails and church window glass were the after-dinner sweets.
The Prince felt sick just looking at them and didn’t touch a thing, but the witch and Rapunzel ate and drank heartily, exclaiming how delicious everything was.
All of these were this house’s special reserved dishes.
When the meal ended, Rapunzel took the Prince’s hand and led him to her room.
Rapunzel was about the same height as the Prince.
After entering the room, she embraced his shoulders, peered into his face, and said in a small voice.

“As long as you don’t come to hate me, I won’t let them kill you.”
“You’re the Prince, aren’t you?”

Rapunzel’s hair shone splendidly like spun gold down to her feet from being combed daily by the witch.
Her face was angelic in its fullness, reminiscent of a yellow rose.
Small lips gleamed strawberry-red.
Eyes black and clear held traces of sorrow.
The Prince thought he had never seen such a beautiful girl.

“Yes,” the Prince answered softly, his guard slipping slightly as his tears fell drop by drop.

Rapunzel stared intently at the Prince with black, clear eyes and gave a slight nod.

“Even if you come to hate me, I won’t let anyone kill you. If it comes to that, I’ll kill you myself,” she said, and then she too began to cry.
Then she suddenly burst into loud laughter, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and similarly wiped the Prince’s eyes. “Now, tonight you’ll sleep with me among my little animals,” she said with feigned vigor, guiding him to the adjacent bedroom.
There, straw and blankets had been laid out.
When he looked up, about a hundred pigeons were perched on the rafters and perches.
They all appeared to be asleep, but when the two approached, they stirred slightly.

“These are all mine,” Rapunzel declared, swiftly seizing a nearby pigeon by its feet and shaking it.
The pigeon flapped its wings in alarm.
“Kiss it for me!” Rapunzel shrilled, smacking the Prince’s cheek with the bird.

“Those crows over there are gangsters of the forest,” Rapunzel said, gesturing with her chin toward a large bamboo cage in the corner of the room. “There are ten of them—but since they’re all gangsters through and through—if you don’t keep them properly locked up in that bamboo cage, they’ll fly off right away.”
“And this here is my old friend Bee,” she said, grabbing a deer by its antlers and dragging it out from the corner of the room.
Around the deer’s neck was fitted a copper collar, and to this was fastened a thick iron chain.
“This one too—if we don’t chain it down tight, it’ll run away from us, you see.”
“Why doesn’t everyone want to stay with us?”
“Whatever.”
“Every night, I tickle this Bee’s neck with a knife.”
“Then this guy gets all scared and starts thrashing around.”
As she said this, Rapunzel took out a long, glinting knife from a crack in the wall and used it to stroke the deer’s neck.
Pitifully, the deer writhed in anguish, sweating greasy sweat.
Rapunzel laughed loudly upon seeing this.

“Do you keep that knife beside you even when you sleep?” the Prince asked softly, a little frightened.

“That’s right.”
“I always sleep clutching the knife,” Rapunzel replied nonchalantly.
“You never know what might happen, after all.”
“Enough about that—let’s just go to sleep now.”
“Now tell me how you came to get lost in this forest.”
The two lay down side by side on the straw.
The Prince haltingly recounted the events that had led him to become lost in the forest that day.

“Are you lonely now that you’ve parted from those retainers?”

“Lonely.”

“Do you want to go back to your castle?”

“Oh, I want to go back.”

“I can’t stand a boy who pulls such a weepy face!” Rapunzel suddenly sat bolt upright. “Wouldn’t it be better to put on a happy face instead? There are two loaves of bread and a ham here—so if you get hungry on the way, eat them. What are you dawdling for?”

Overwhelmed with joy, the Prince involuntarily jumped up.
Rapunzel composed herself like her mother,

“Ah, put on these fur boots.”
“I’ll give them to you.”
“It’ll be cold along the way.”
“I won’t let you feel cold.”
“Here—Grandmother’s big fingerless gloves.”
“Come on, try putting them on.”
“Look—just your hands alone make you the spitting image of my filthy grandmother.”

The Prince shed tears of gratitude.
Rapunzel next dragged out the deer and unfastened its chain,

“Bee, if I could, I’d love to tickle you even more with this knife.”
“It’s just so amusing, you see.”
“But, whatever.”
“I’ll let you go, so take this child to the castle.”
“This child says he wants to go back to the castle.”
“Whatever.”
“There’s no one but you who can outrun Grandmother.”
“Make sure you do.”

The Prince mounted the deer's back,

“Thank you, Rapunzel. I’ll never forget you.”

“I don’t care about that.
“Bee, go on, run!”
“If you shake off the passenger on your back, I won’t stand for it.”

“Goodbye.”

“Ah, goodbye.”
It was Rapunzel who began to cry.

The deer dashed through the darkness like an arrow.
Leaping over thickets，charging through the forest，straight across the lake they went，through wilderness where wolves howled and crows screeched—all while behind them came a sizzling sound like fireworks burning through the air.

“Don’t look back.”
“The witch grandmother is chasing us,” instructed the deer as it ran.
“It’s okay.”
“The only thing faster than me is a shooting star.”
“But you mustn’t forget Rapunzel’s kindness.”
“She has a strong disposition but is a lonely child.”
“Well—we’ve reached your castle.”

The Prince stood before the castle gate with a dreamlike feeling.

Poor Rapunzel.
The witch grandmother had grown furious this time.
She had let her most precious quarry escape.
This selfishness went beyond all bounds.
With that declaration, she confined Rapunzel within a pitch-black tower deep in the forest’s heart.
The tower bore neither door nor staircase—only a single small window in its highest chamber—and there Rapunzel remained, passing her days between waking and sleeping in that solitary room.
Poor Rapunzel.
Years slipped by as she grew ever more beautiful within those dim walls, her loveliness blooming unseen and unappreciated.
She matured into a thoughtful young woman, never once forgetting the Prince.
In moments of overwhelming loneliness, she would sing toward the moon and stars.
Her voice carried such profound sorrow that forest birds wept among the branches, trees shuddered in shared grief, and even the moon’s light grew clouded with tears.
Each month without fail, the witch grandmother came inspecting.
Each month she left behind food and garments.
For though angered, the grandmother still cherished Rapunzel dearly—the thought of letting her starve in that tower proved unbearable.
With her magic wings, the old woman came and went freely to that highest chamber.
Three years passed, then four, until Rapunzel reached eighteen summers naturally within those confines.
There in the gloom she glowed with unconscious beauty, unaware of her own flower’s fragrance like blossoms ignorant of their scent.
That autumn, the Prince rode out hunting only to lose himself once more in the enchanted woods—where suddenly he heard a song so piercingly mournful it stole his very soul, drawing him stumbling toward a tower’s base.

The song pierced his heart so inexplicably that his very soul seemed stolen away, leaving him staggering helplessly to the tower’s base.
Could it be Rapunzel?
The Prince had never once forgotten that beautiful girl from four years before.

“Show me your face!” the Prince shouted at the top of his voice.
“Please stop the sad song.”

From the small window at the top of the tower, Rapunzel leaned out her face and answered.
“And who might you be to say such things?”
“For those who are sorrowful, a sorrowful song is their salvation.”
“And yet you don’t even understand others’ sorrow!”

“Ah, Rapunzel!”
The Prince was ecstatic.
“Remember me!”

Rapunzel’s cheeks turned deathly pale in an instant, then faintly flushed. However, since she still retained a trace of the strong disposition from her childhood, “Rapunzel? That child died four years ago!” she answered in as cold a tone as possible. But then, when she tried to let out a loud laugh and sharply inhaled, she suddenly felt like crying—and instead of laughter, violent sobs came bursting out.

That child’s hair was a golden bridge.
That child’s hair was a rainbow bridge.

The forest birds all began singing a strange song in unison.
While still weeping, Rapunzel caught fragments of that melody and was abruptly seized by what felt like guileless inspiration.
She wound her beautiful locks two or three times around her left hand and took up scissors in her right.
By now her splendid golden hair had grown long enough to brush the floor.
Snip, snip—she severed the strands without hesitation, then plaited them into one lengthy cord.
It became the fairest rope ever seen beneath the sun.
After securing one end tightly to the window ledge, she slid down this radiant golden tress with fluid ease.

“Rapunzel.”
The Prince murmured softly and stood transfixed.

Rapunzel, having reached solid ground, suddenly turned shy and found herself speechless, quietly resting her pale hand upon the Prince’s.

“Rapunzel, now it’s my turn to save you.
No—let me spend my whole life saving you.”
The Prince was now twenty years old.
He appeared thoroughly dependable.
Rapunzel smiled faintly and nodded.

The two slipped out of the forest and, rushing across the wilderness before the grandmother could notice, managed to safely reach the castle.
At the castle, they were welcomed with great rejoicing.”

The youngest brother, after much struggle, finally managed to write up to this point, and then became terribly displeased.
It was a failure.
This way, it didn’t even serve as the beginning of a story.
He had ended up writing all the way to the end by himself.
It was clearer than seeing fire that he would once again be laughed at by his brothers and sisters.
The youngest brother secretly agonized.
The day grew dark.
The brothers and sisters who had gone out to play elsewhere seemed to have returned home around this time, and from the tearoom came the sound of many cheerful voices.

"I am alone," the youngest brother was overwhelmed by an indescribable sense of desolation.

At that moment, a savior appeared.

It was Grandmother.
Grandmother couldn't bear how pitiable the youngest brother was, having been shut alone in his study since earlier.

“Have you started on it again? Did you manage to write it well?” Grandmother said as she entered the youngest brother’s study at that very moment.

“Go away!”
The youngest brother was in a bad mood.

“You messed up again.”
“You’re the one who can’t even do it properly yet jumps into this idiotic competition—that’s your problem.”
“Let me see.”

“What do you know?!”

“You don’t have to cry. Silly thing.”
“Let me see,” said Grandmother as she took out her reading glasses from her obi and began reading the youngest brother’s fairy tale aloud in a soft voice.
Chuckling, she said, “My my, this child knows such precocious things, doesn’t she?”
“Interesting.”
“You’ve written it well.”
“But with this, there’s no way to continue the story, is there?”

“Obviously.”

“What a pickle,” she said. “If it were me, I’d write it this way. ‘At the castle, they welcomed them with great joy—but from here on, misfortunes will pile up,’ I’d write. How’s that? A witch’s daughter and a prince—their stations are worlds apart. However much they dote on each other, it’ll end in tears. A match like this breeds misery.” She jabbed his shoulder with her forefinger. “Well?”

"I know that already. Go away! I have my own ideas, you know."

"Oh? Is that so."

Grandmother was unflappable.
She generally understood the youngest brother's line of thinking.

“Hurry up and finish writing, then come to the tearoom.”
“You must be hungry.”
“Why not eat some zōni and then play cards or something?”
“Such a competition is pointless.”
“Then have your eldest sister take care of the rest.”
“She’s very good at it.”

After expelling Grandmother, the youngest brother slowly added what might be called his own ideas.

"However, from here on, misfortunes will continue.
The witch’s daughter and the prince are of far too different social standings.
From here is where misfortune arises.
The rest I humbly entrust to eldest sister.
Please take good care of Rapunzel."

He wrote exactly as Grandmother had instructed and heaved a sigh of relief.

Part Three

It was the second day. The entire family had gathered to eat zōni, after which the Eldest Daughter alone withdrew immediately to her study. She wore a pure white wool sweater adorned with a small yellow artificial rose at the chest. Settling herself at her desk with knees slightly relaxed, she removed her glasses and began diligently polishing the lenses with a handkerchief while grinning to herself. Having finished this task, she put her glasses back on and blinked exaggeratedly. Suddenly assuming a solemn expression, she straightened her posture and propped her cheek against her hand at the desk, sinking into deep thought for some time. Eventually she took up her fountain pen and began to write.

From the moment the dance of love concludes, the true story always begins.
At the point of being happily united, most movies seem to reach "the end," but what we truly wish to know is this one matter: what kind of life did they begin thereafter?
Life is by no means a continuous succession of exhilarating balls.
We merely go about our daily lives within a destiny faintly tinged with disillusionment.
Our Prince and Rapunzel had merely glimpsed each other’s faces as children, yet felt an irresistible attachment; though they parted swiftly, neither could forget the other for even a moment, and after much hardship, they managed to meet again as adults—but this tale does not conclude here.
What must be told lies rather in their subsequent life.
The Prince and Rapunzel, clasping hands, escaped the demon forest and walked day and night across the vast wilderness without food or drink in complete silence until they finally managed to reach the castle—but then came the real ordeal.

Both the Prince and Rapunzel were exhausted to death but had no time to rest leisurely.
The King, Queen, and all their vassals alike rejoiced at the Prince's safe return and immediately showered him with rapid-fire questions about his adventure. When they discovered that the strangely beautiful girl standing with bowed head behind him was none other than his savior from four years prior, the castle's joy doubled.
Rapunzel was bathed in perfumed water, dressed in a beautiful light gown, then laid beneath a thick fluffy quilt that swallowed her whole body before sinking into a sleep so deep she made no sound.
After sleeping what felt like eternity—until she dropped from slumber like an overripe fig falling from its branch—she awoke fully rested to find the Prince standing at her bedside in formal attire, fully recovered and smiling.
Rapunzel felt intensely ashamed.

“I’m going home. Where’s my kimono?” she asked, half-rising.

“How foolish of you,” the Prince said in a leisurely voice. “The kimono—you’re wearing it, aren’t you?”

“No, it’s the kimono I was wearing in the tower. Give it back to me. That’s the one the old woman sewed for me, gathering only the finest fabrics.”

“How foolish of you,” the Prince said again in a leisurely voice. “Are you feeling lonely already?”

Rapunzel involuntarily nodded, suddenly felt her chest tighten, and when it became unbearable, burst into tears.
It was not that she felt lonely being separated from Grandmother and living in a castle full of strangers.
That was something she had long since steeled herself for.
Moreover, that old woman was by no means a good grandmother, and even if she had been a good grandmother—so long as the one she loves is by her side—a daughter would not feel the slightest loneliness upon being separated from all her blood relatives; she would remain perfectly composed.
Rapunzel’s crying was not due to loneliness.
That must have been due to embarrassment and frustration.
After fleeing to the castle in a frenzy, being dressed in such fine clothes, put to sleep in such a soft futon, and losing consciousness in deep slumber—when she awoke and calmly reflected, she realized: I wasn’t of such standing; I was the lowly witch’s daughter. This made her feel unbearable—not just embarrassed but even intensely humiliated—prompting her to blurt out something abrupt like “I’m going home.”
It appeared that Rapunzel still retained a bit of her stubborn and headstrong nature from childhood.
To the Prince, who knew no hardship, there was no possibility of understanding such things.
When Rapunzel suddenly burst into tears, he was greatly perplexed,

“You’re still tired,” he declared dismissively, “and hungry too. Let’s have them prepare a meal,” he muttered under his breath before flusteredly leaving the room.

Soon, five maidservants came and put Rapunzel into the perfumed bath once more, then dressed her in a crimson kimono heavier than the previous one.
They applied light makeup to her face and hands.
They also skillfully tied up her slightly short blonde hair.
When Rapunzel stood up straight after having a pearl necklace loosely fastened around her neck, all five maidservants let out a deep sigh in unison.
They had never before seen such a noble and beautiful princess, and they thought they would likely never see her like again in this world.

Rapunzel was led to the dining room.
There stood the three of them—the King, the Queen, and the Prince—smiling brightly.

“My, how beautiful!”
The King spread his arms and welcomed Rapunzel.

“Truly,” the Queen also nodded contentedly.
The King and Queen were both deeply compassionate, utterly without arrogance, and exceedingly kind people.
Rapunzel smiled a little sadly and greeted them.

“Please sit here.
“Please sit here.”
The Prince immediately took Rapunzel’s hand and seated her at the table, then sat down closely beside her himself.
He wore a ridiculously triumphant expression.

The King and Queen took their seats with light laughter, and before long a congenial meal had begun; but Rapunzel alone remained utterly flustered.
As dish after dish was brought to the table, she had no idea how to eat any of them.
Though she kept sneaking glances at the Prince beside her and stealthily imitating his gestures to somehow get the food into her mouth, for Rapunzel—who had grown accustomed to eating nothing but Grandmother’s dishes like caterpillar gut salads and maggot simmered preserves—even the King’s most exquisite feast tasted peculiar, leaving her increasingly nauseated.
She thought the egg dishes alone were indeed delicious, but still, she thought they weren’t as delicious as the crow eggs from the forest.

The topics of conversation at the table were plentiful.
The Prince recounted the terror of four years prior and boasted of his recent adventure, while the King, moved by each and every word, nodded deeply and toasted each time, until at last he became heavily intoxicated and was carried on the Queen’s back to retire to another room.

After being left alone with the Prince, Rapunzel said in a small voice.

“I want to go outside.
“My chest feels... so tight.”
Her face was deathly pale.

The Prince, being in such high spirits, had forgotten to sympathize with Rapunzel’s pain.
People, when happy themselves, likely fail to notice the suffering of others.
Even upon seeing Rapunzel’s pale face, he showed not the slightest concern,

“You ate too much. A walk in the garden will fix that right up,” he said lightly and stood up.

Outside, the weather was fine.
Even though autumn was already halfway through, this garden alone was filled with a profusion of various flowers and plants.
Rapunzel finally smiled gently.

“I feel refreshed.”
“Because it was dark inside the castle, I thought it was night.”

“Night? Don’t be ridiculous. You were sleeping soundly from yesterday afternoon until this morning. Because you were sleeping so deeply without even a snore, I was worried you might have died.”

“If only the forest girl had died then and awakened as an elegant princess—but even when I awoke, I was still the old woman’s daughter.”

Rapunzel had said this with genuine regret, but the Prince interpreted it as Rapunzel’s jest and laughed uproariously,

“Hmm, I see. So that’s how it was. That must have been hard for you,” he said mockingly, then burst into loud laughter again.

When they reached the shade of a briar thicket where small, pure white flowers—unnameably fragrant—bloomed in splendid competition, the Prince abruptly halted, his gaze turning solemn for an instant. Then he embraced Rapunzel as if to crush her bones, before performing an unexpected, almost mad gesture.
Rapunzel endured.
This was not the first time it had happened.
Even during their escape from the forest and their sleepless journey through the wilderness day and night, similar incidents had occurred three times.

“You won’t go anywhere else now, will you?” the Prince said in a low voice, having calmed somewhat as he began walking alongside Rapunzel again.
The two of them emerged from the shade of the white-flowered briars and walked toward the small marsh where water lilies bloomed.
Rapunzel suddenly found something inexplicably funny and burst out with a pfft.

“What?”
“What’s wrong?” the Prince asked, peering into Rapunzel’s face.
“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry.”
“You were being oddly serious; I couldn’t help laughing.”
“Where could I possibly go now?”
“It was I who waited for you in that tower for four whole years.”

They arrived at the edge of the marsh. Rapunzel, now wanting to cry, slumped down onto the green grass of the bank. Looking up at the Prince’s face, she asked, “Did the King and Queen grant their forgiveness?”

“Of course.”
The Prince, having regained his former carefree smile, sat down beside Rapunzel and said, “You’re my lifesaver, aren’t you?”

Rapunzel pressed her face against the Prince’s knee and cried.

Then, a few days later, a lavish wedding ceremony was held at the castle.
The bride of that night trembled delicately, like an angel who had lost its wings.
To the Prince, this wild rose of different upbringing first seemed merely novel, but after living together for a month or two, he came to feel irresistible charm—nay, to love her drowningly—in Rapunzel’s eccentric thoughts, actions so lively they verged on cruelty, courage that feared nothing, and childish ignorant questions.
The cold winter had passed, each day growing warmer, and as the garden’s early-blooming flowers began to open, the two walked side by side through the garden at a leisurely pace.
Rapunzel was pregnant.

“How strange.”
“Truly strange.”
“It seems another question has arisen.”

The Prince, having turned twenty-one, seemed to have matured slightly.
“I’d like to hear what sort of doubt has arisen this time.”
“The other day, it was that majestic question about where God resides, wasn’t it?”

Rapunzel looked down and chuckled quietly,

“Am I a woman?” she said.

The Prince was flustered by this question.

“At least, you’re not a man,” he said pompously.

“Will I too give birth to a child and then become an old woman?”

“You’ll become a beautiful old woman.”

“I don’t want that.”
Rapunzel faintly smiled.
It was a very lonely smile.
“I will not bear children.”

“And what might be the reason for that?”
The Prince asked in a composed tone.

“I spent last night awake thinking as well.
When a child is born, I’ll suddenly become an old woman, and you’ll dote only on the child—I’m sure you’ll find me a nuisance then.
No one cares for me.
I understand perfectly.
Because I’m just a low-born, foolish woman—if I become an old crone and grow ugly, I’ll have nothing left to offer.
There is no other choice but to return to the forest and become a witch or something.”

The Prince became displeased.

“You still haven’t forgotten that detestable forest?”
“Consider your current station.”

“I’m sorry.”
“I thought I’d completely forgotten, but on lonely nights like last evening, it suddenly comes back to me.”
“My grandmother was a terrifying witch, but she doted on me and raised me with great indulgence.”
“Even if everyone stops caring for me, I feel that the witch grandmother alone will always surely hold me like a small child.”

“But I’m right here with you,” the Prince said bitterly.

“No, you won’t do.”
“You did dote on me quite dearly, but you only ever treated me as some curious novelty to be amused by—I felt so terribly lonely through it all.”
“Once I bear this child, you’ll grow enthralled with them instead this time, and cast me aside completely.”
“For I’m but a trifling woman after all.”

“You don’t notice your own beauty.” The Prince said in a growling voice, his lips pursed tightly. “You keep saying such trivial things. Today’s question is truly trivial.”

“You know nothing at all. Lately, I have been suffering terribly.” “I am, after all, a barbaric woman who inherited the witch’s tainted blood.” “I can’t help hating the child that’s going to be born.” “I want to kill it so badly,” she said in a trembling voice and bit her lower lip.

The timid Prince shuddered.
He thought she might really kill it.
“Women who know no resignation—those driven by instinct—invariably bring tragedy.”

The eldest daughter, with a confident expression, wrote fluently without hesitation, and having written this far, she quietly laid down her brush. After rereading it from the beginning, she occasionally blushed and twisted her mouth into a wry smile. This was because descriptions that seemed slightly too erotic could be found scattered here and there. She was certain the sharp-tongued second son would sneer at her later but resigned herself to it being unavoidable. She thought it sad how her current state of mind had been so naively laid bare. Yet somewhere within her lingered a faint pride—knowing that even with this alone, among all her siblings, she alone could capture the delicacy of a woman’s heart. The study had no fire lit. Suddenly noticing this now, she muttered “Brr, it’s cold” under her breath, hunched her shoulders as she stood up, and took the finished manuscript out into the hallway—where she nearly collided with the youngest brother standing there with purposeful air.

"My apologies, my apologies."
The Youngest Brother was terribly flustered.

“Wakko, you came to spy, didn’t you?”

"No, no—it is not so."
The Youngest Brother’s face turned bright red, and he grew increasingly flustered.

“I know.”
“You were worried whether I managed to continue it properly, weren’t you?”

“Actually, that’s right.”
The youngest brother confessed plainly in a small voice.

“Mine was probably clumsy. It’s not like it’s any good anyway.” He began vigorously disparaging himself.

“That’s not really the case.”
“Just this once, it’s a masterpiece.”

“Is that so?”
The Youngest Brother’s small eyes shone with joy.
“Sis, did you manage to continue it well?
Did you write Rapunzel well?”

“Well, I suppose that’s how it turned out.”

“Thank goodness!”
The Youngest Brother clasped his hands together toward the Eldest Daughter.

Part Four

The third day.

On New Year’s Day, the Second Son came to visit my house in the suburbs, trashed modern Japanese novels one after another, got himself all worked up, and as dusk fell, muttered, “This is bad.”
“I think I’ve got a fever,” he muttered and hurried back home.
Sure enough, he developed a slight fever that very night, spent yesterday drifting between sleep and wakefulness, and even now this morning has yet to fully recover—still complaining of a heavy head as he mopes under the covers.
Speaking too ill of others’ works will have you catching a cold like this.

“How are you feeling?” said Mother as she entered the room, sat by the pillow, and gently placed her hand on the patient’s forehead. “You still seem to have a slight fever.”
“Please take care of yourself.”
“Yesterday, you ate New Year’s soup, drank spiced sake, kept getting up now and then—it was all quite unhealthy.”
“You must not overexert yourself.”
“When you have a fever, staying still and resting in bed is best.”
“You’re physically frail, yet you insist on being so stubborn.”

He was being scolded vigorously.
The Second Son looked utterly dejected.
Having no words to retort, he simply listened to his mother’s scolding with a faint wry smile.
This second son was the most level-headed realist among his siblings and thus quite a scathing critic, yet for some reason, he remained as obedient as a creeping vine only toward his mother.
His spirits remained utterly deflated.
Perhaps it was also because the awareness that he was always falling ill and causing his mother trouble had seeped deep into his heart.

“Stay in bed all day today.”
“You mustn’t get up and walk around without good reason.”
“Have meals here as well.”
“I’ve prepared some porridge.”
“Sato (the maid) will bring it shortly.”

“Mother.”
“I have a favor to ask.”
His tone was exceedingly feeble.
“Today... it’s my turn.”
“May I write it?”

“What is it?”
Mother had no idea.
“What are you talking about?”

“Look, I’ve started working on that collaborative story again. Yesterday, since I was bored, I asked my sister and managed to get her to show me the manuscript, then spent all last night thinking about how to continue it. This one’s a bit difficult.”

“You must not, you must not.” Mother said with a laugh, “Even literary masters can’t come up with good ideas when they have a cold. Why not have your brother take over?”

“No good. Brother’s no good. Brother, you know, he doesn’t have any talent. When Brother writes, it always ends up sounding like a speech.”

“You mustn’t speak ill of Brother like that.”
“What Brother writes is always so manly and splendid.”
“For my part, I’ve always liked Brother’s work best.”

“You don’t understand.”
“Mother could never understand.”
“No matter what, I must be the one to write it this time.”
“Only I can write that continuation.”
“Mother, I beg you.”
“Let me write it?”

“This won’t do.”
“You must stay in bed all day today.”
“Let Brother take your turn.”
“Why not wait until you’ve properly recovered—tomorrow or the next day—to decide about writing?”

“No good. Mother’s making fun of our game.” He let out an exaggerated sigh and pulled the futon completely over his head.

“Alright.” Mother laughed. “Mother was wrong. Well then, how about this? I’ll write down exactly what you say while you lie there and take your time. There, let’s do that. Last spring, when you were also down with a fever and confined to bed, didn’t Mother manage to transcribe some difficult school paper exactly as you dictated? Back then, Mother was surprisingly good at it, wasn’t she?”

The patient remained covered with the futon and did not respond.
Mother was at a loss.
The maid Sato entered the room carrying the breakfast tray.
Sato had been in service at the Inoe household since she was thirteen.
She was born in a fishing village near Numazu.
Having been there for nearly four years now, she had completely assimilated into the family’s romantic spirit.
She borrowed ladies' magazines from the young ladies and read them during her spare moments at work.
She read old revenge tales with the most excitement.
The saying "A woman’s chastity comes first" also struck her as irresistibly compelling.
Even if it cost her life, she would protect it—she told herself, secretly tensing up alone.
In the wicker trunk, she had stored the silver paper knife received from the eldest daughter.
She intended it as a dagger.
Her complexion was dusky, but hers was a small, taut face.
Her attire was clean and tidy.
Her left leg was slightly impaired, and even the way she walked, dragging it a little, was rather charming.
She revered the entire Inoe family as if they were gods or something divine.
She even felt the grandfather’s silver coin medal to be dazzlingly precious.
She firmly believed there was no scholar in the world who could match the eldest daughter, and no beauty in the world who could rival the second daughter.
However, she especially liked the sickly Second Son to death.
How delightful it would be to accompany such a beautiful master on a vendetta.

Nowadays, since there were no longer any vendetta journeys like in the old days, she was entertaining such foolish thoughts as how dull it all was.

Now, Sato reverently placed the tray by the Second Son’s pillow and felt a bit lonely.
The Second Son remained completely covered by the futon.
Mother was simply watching it quietly and smiling.
Sato was being ignored by everyone.
She sat there quietly, waited for a while, but nothing happened.
Timidly, she asked Mother.

“Is he feeling quite unwell?”

“Well, who can say?”
Mother was laughing.

Suddenly, the Second Son kicked off his futon, swiftly flipped onto his stomach, pulled the meal tray closer and grabbed his chopsticks, then began eating voraciously without getting up.
Sato was startled but quickly composed herself and attended to him.
Seeing the Second Son’s unexpected vigor, she breathed a sigh of relief.
The Second Son ate without a word, slurping his porridge with ferocious speed and indignantly stuffing pickled plums into his mouth—his appetite appeared thoroughly robust.

“What do you think, Sato?”
He blurted out while breaking a soft-boiled egg.
“Say, for example, if I were to marry you—what do you suppose you’d feel?”
Truly, an unexpected question.

Mother was ten times more flustered than Sato.

“Wh—! What a foolish thing to say.”
“Even in jest—Sato—he’s teasing you.”
“That’s too outrageous. Even as a joke...”

“For example,” said the Second Son calmly.
He had been thinking solely about his novel’s plot since earlier.
That analogy pierced Sato’s small chest with pain—he remained utterly oblivious.
What a selfish child.
“How would you feel... Sato?”
“Go on, tell me.”
“It’s material for my novel.”
“This part’s truly difficult.”

“Even if you say such an absurd thing—” Mother secretly felt relieved—“you don’t understand, you know, Sato. Takeshi (the Second Son) is always spouting nonsense.”

“If it were this humble one,” Sato resolved to say anything that might assist the Second Son. Ignoring Mother’s flustered glances, she clenched her fist and declared resolutely: “If it were this humble one, I would die.”

“Oh,” said the Second Son with evident disappointment. “That’s dull. If she dies, it ruins everything. Should Rapunzel perish, the story ends outright. Useless.” He groaned in frustration. “What alternative remains?” He kept obsessing over his novel’s structure while Sato’s earnest reply proved utterly futile.

Sato was deeply dejected—furtively clearing away the meal tray while deliberately laughing with an “Ohohoho” to hide her embarrassment—then took up the tray again and fled from the room; walking down the corridor while thinking of crying but ultimately laughing heartily since she wasn’t truly sad.

Mother felt like quietly expressing her gratitude for the young ones’ innocent simplicity.
She felt ashamed of her own muddled fluster.
She thought it was okay to trust.

“So?”
“Have you sorted out your thoughts?”
“Stay resting as you are and go right ahead and dictate.”
“I’ll take notes for you.”

The Second Son lay on his back once more, drew the futon up to his chest, shut his eyes, pondered various matters, and assumed an expression of anguish.
Then, in a voice dripping with affected solemnity,

“It seems to have coalesced. I request your assistance.”
“I request your assistance,” he said.
Mother inadvertently burst out laughing.

What follows is the full text of that day’s mother-son collaborative dictated transcription.

A jewel-like child was born.
It was a boy.
The castle erupted in joyous uproar.
Yet Rapunzel weakened daily after childbirth.
Though eminent physicians from across the realm gathered and tried every remedy, her condition grew ever more fragile, her life now dangling by a thread.

"That's why—that's why,"
Rapunzel told the prince through quiet tears in her sickbed,
"I told you I didn't want to bear a child, didn't I?
Being the witch's daughter, I can faintly foresee my own fate.
When I conceived this child, I felt certain something dreadful would occur.
My premonitions never fail.
I pray my death alone might end this calamity—yet some terrible intuition whispers this won't suffice.
If there truly exists a God as you've taught me, I would entreat Him now.
We must be hated by someone.
Have we committed some grievous wrong?"

“That’s not true. That’s not true,” said the Prince, pacing restlessly around the bedside and objecting vehemently, though inwardly he was at his wits’ end. The joy over his son’s birth proved fleeting; now, bewildered by Rapunzel’s inexplicable decline, his soul was in turmoil. Unable to sleep at night, he could only wander distractedly around her sickbed.

The Prince had loved Rapunzel with all his heart after all. It was simply that he—utterly enraptured—lavished his caresses upon her solely for her bewitching allure: the beauty of her face and form, the exotic novelty of a flower raised in unfamiliar soil, or the pitiable ignorance born of her blind innocence. To cast aspersions on the essence of his affection for lacking spiritual resonance forged from lofty mutual trust, or for not being a love bound by profound resignation to shared ancestral lineage and martyrdom to destiny—this would be frivolous indeed.

The Prince genuinely found Rapunzel adorable. He loved her to the point of helplessness. He simply loved her. And so—was that not sufficient? That was what pure love meant. I believe what women secretly seek in their hearts is none other than such earnest, honest affection.

Even if one spoke of lofty spiritual trust or martyrdom to a shared destiny—if they disliked each other, it became utter chaos. It amounted to nothing. It was precisely because there existed something endearing that pretentious words like “spiritual connection” or “destiny” came to sound believable—that was all there was to it.

Such words merely served either to make sense of mutual affection’s excess or to reflect upon and justify passionate actions. In young lovers’ affairs, nothing proved more stomach-churning than such excuses. Particularly intolerable were men’s hypocritical claims of “saving women.” If you loved someone—why couldn’t you just say so plainly?

The day before yesterday, when I visited Writer D-san, this very topic arose—yet D-san had the gall to call me a philistine then. But even that D-san—judging from my occasional intimate glimpses into his daily life—why, he was just shrewdly living according to his own likes and dislikes.

That person is a liar.
I don't care if they call me a philistine or anything else.
What I prefer is stating facts plainly as they are.
For humans, doing what they like is best.

I have digressed.
It’s simply that I cannot conceive of love that’s all about being spiritual or intellectual.
The Prince’s love was honest.
I believe it is precisely the Prince’s affection for Rapunzel that embodied purity.
The Prince loved Rapunzel from the bottom of his heart.

“You mustn’t say such foolish things as dying,” he said, pursing his lips in great displeasure.

“Don’t you understand how much I love you?” he also said.
The Prince was an honest man.
However, the virtue of honesty alone could not cure Rapunzel’s grave illness.

“Stay alive!” he groaned.
“Don’t you dare die!” he shouted.
There was nothing else he could say.

“Just live… Just keep living… Stay with me,” he murmured in a lowered voice—and at that very moment,

“Is that so?”
“So long as she lives, that’s all that matters?” came a hoarse whisper at his ear. When he whirled around in shock—ah!—the Prince’s hair stood on end.
It felt as though cold water had been poured over his entire body.
The old woman—the witch—stood silently right behind him.

“What are you doing here?!”
The Prince involuntarily shouted loudly not out of courage, but because of sheer terror.

“You’ve come to save your daughter, haven’t you?”
The witch answered in a composed tone, then smirked.
“I knew it. There’s nothing in this world that this old woman doesn’t understand. Everyone knew. I’ve known all along that you brought my daughter to this castle and have been doting on her, Your Highness. If you had intended to make her your plaything for a fleeting whim, I wouldn’t have stayed silent—but since that doesn’t seem to be the case, I’ve been putting up with it until now. Even I would feel some happiness if my daughter were living contentedly. But it seems it’s no use anymore.”

“You may not know this, but a girl born into a witch’s household—if she is doted on by a man and bears a child—is fated to either die or, failing that, become the ugliest face in the world. Rapunzel did not seem to know that fact clearly—but she must have had some inkling of it through intuition. She must have been reluctant to bear a child, though.”

“What a pitiful turn of events this is.”

“What exactly do you intend to do with Rapunzel? Will you let her die, or do you want to keep her alive even if she ends up with an ugly face like mine? You earlier prayed with all your heart that she would just stay alive no matter what—but tell me, do you truly believe it’s better for her to live even if she ends up with a face like mine?”

“I too was once a beautiful girl who wouldn’t lose to Rapunzel in my youth. But after being doted on by a traveling hunter and giving birth to Rapunzel, when my mother asked whether I wanted to die or live on, I pleaded with her to let me live no matter what—so she cast a spell and saved my life. Thanks to that, I ended up with this splendid face you see before you.”

“Well? Is there any deceit in your earlier wish, Your Highness?”

“Please let me die.”
Rapunzel writhed faintly on her sickbed and said,
“If only I die, then everyone can live safely.”
“Prince, Rapunzel has received your care until now and lacks nothing more.”
“I don’t want to live and suffer.”

“Let her live!”
The Prince declared resolutely, this time summoning true courage.
His forehead glistened with anguished sweat.
“There’s no reason Rapunzel should end up with an ugly face like yours, hag.”

“Why would I lie?”
“Very well.”
“In that case, I shall let Rapunzel live on indefinitely.”
“Even if her face becomes hideously ugly, will Your Highness continue to dote on Rapunzel as before?”

Part Five

The second son’s bedside dictation, though brief, seemed to contain some leaps.
Yet even this arrogant prodigy—who daily sneered at every modern Japanese writer—could only flash a glimpse of his peculiar talent before collapsing, weakened by convalescent gruel and failing to articulate even a third of his premeditated plans.
Even fresh talent, it seemed, could not prevail against the slight fever of a cold.
In a state where its leap had just barely begun, the baton was vainly passed to the next runner.
The next runner was none other than the cheeky Second Daughter.
Burning with showy ambition that demanded nothing less than leaving everyone utterly astonished, she had been restless since morning on the fourth day.
Even when the entire family gathered at the breakfast table, she alone made a point of having only bread and milk for a light meal.
Perhaps this was her calculation—that if she were to consume realistic fare like miso soup and pickled daikon as the rest did, her stomach would grow clouded and her imagination would wither without fail.
After finishing her meal, she went to the parlor and, standing rigidly still, pounded the piano keys indiscriminately.
Chopin, Liszt, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Ravel—she haphazardly tried playing whatever came to mind.
She was trying to invoke divine inspiration.
This girl was quite theatrical.
She thought she had gained inspiration.
With an air of composure, she left the parlor and went to the bathroom where she took off her socks and washed her feet.
This was a peculiar ritual.
However, the Second Daughter believed this act purified her.
It was a baptism of aberration.
With this purification of body and soul now complete, she retreated to her study with measured steps, thoroughly satisfied.
She sat down in her study chair and muttered “Aamen.”
This was utterly preposterous.

This second daughter could not possibly have any genuine faith. She had merely thought it a convenient phrase to express her current tension and temporarily borrowed it for the occasion. Aamen... It really does calm the mind. With an air of gravitas, she burned one stick of Plum Blossom incense in the small Seto brazier beneath her feet, drew a deep breath through her nose, and narrowed her eyes. She felt she could understand the state of mind of Murasaki Shikibu, that classical lady novelist of antiquity. A pleasant sensation came over her as she fleetingly recalled the passage Spring: the dawn, but her enthusiasm waned slightly upon realizing it was from Sei Shonagon’s writing. The book she hastily pulled out from the desk bookstand was Greek Mythology. Namely, it was pagan mythology. Therein lay full explanation for why her “Aamen” had been such a blatant counterfeit. This book was said to be the wellspring of her imagination. When her imagination ran dry, she would open it. Flowers, forests, springs, love, swans, princes, and fairies were said to come flooding before her eyes in an instant—though this claim proved unreliable. This second daughter—her every deed and action—remained utterly untrustworthy. Chopin, inspiration, foot baptism, Aamen, Plum Blossom incense, Murasaki Shikibu, Spring: the dawn, Greek Mythology—what possible connection could exist between these? Utter incoherence. And there she sat, putting on airs. She flipped through Greek Mythology, gazed at an illustration of fully nude Apollo, and let slip an unpleasant smirk. With a thud she threw down the book, opened the desk drawer, and took out a box of chocolates and tin of drops. Using an affectedly pretentious gesture—employing only index finger and thumb while keeping her other three fingers stiffly arched upward in that absurdly dainty manner—she pinched a chocolate, swallowed it before reaching her mouth, immediately tossed in a drop, crushed it with loud crunches, then repeated—chocolate followed instantaneously by drop—devouring them like some ravenous demon of starvation. Even her breakfast of bread and milk meant to keep her stomach light proved utterly futile. This second daughter was by nature a voracious glutton.

She tried to act refined by making do with just bread and milk, but that wasn’t enough.
It was—nowhere near enough.
In other words, having secluded herself in the study and avoiding prying eyes, she now gave full rein to her gluttonous true nature.
All in all, she was a child full of falsehoods.
She swallowed twenty chocolates and ten drops, then nonchalantly began humming La Traviata.
While humming, she brushed the dust off the manuscript paper, dipped her G-pen generously in ink, and lazily began to write.
Her attitude was utterly deplorable.

Women who know no resignation—instinctive women—invariably bring about tragedy.
Ms. Hatsue’s (the eldest daughter) implication also appeared to have encountered some confusion there.
Having been born in an enchanted forest, raised on frog skewers and poisonous mushrooms, indulged to utter caprice under the old woman’s blind affections, and having played among crows and deer in the woods—in short, a child of wild upbringing—it stood to reason that even in her tastes and sensibilities, there remained something instinctually savage.
Moreover, it could be easily inferred that those instinctual words and actions had instead become a charm potent enough to send the Prince into raptures.
However, could we truly say that Rapunzel was a woman who knew no resignation?
While one might acknowledge she was an instinctive, savage woman, did not the present Rapunzel—at this critical juncture of her life—appear to have abandoned all resolve?
"I will die," Rapunzel was saying.
"It would be better to die," she was saying.
Were these not the words of one who had abandoned all resolve?
Yet Ms. Hatsue insisted on identifying Rapunzel as a woman who knew no resignation.
To rashly oppose this would invite reprimand.
As being scolded was disagreeable, I resolved to express agreement with Ms. Hatsue’s conclusion.
Rapunzel was indeed a woman who knew no resignation.
Phrases like "Please let me die" carried a poignantly endearing humility; yet upon closer examination, this proved an exceedingly self-centered and conceited utterance.
She thought only of being loved by others.
So long as she could sustain her conceit that she remained worthy of being loved, life held purpose and the world seemed joyful.
This was only natural.
Yet even while holding the clear awareness that she no longer deserved others’ affection, one must go on living.
Even without the "qualification to be loved," the "qualification to love" should remain eternal.
I believe true humility lies in knowing the joy of loving.

To seek only the joy of being loved—I think that is nothing but a barbaric, ignorant act.
Until now, Rapunzel had thought only of being doted on by the Prince.
She had forgotten to love the Prince.
She had even forgotten to love her own newborn child.
No—she had even felt jealousy toward her own child.
And then, when she realized she could no longer be loved by anyone, she would plead: "Let me die—kill me outright."
What a selfish creature.
She must love the Prince more.
Even the Prince was a lonely soul.
Were Rapunzel to die, how utterly despondent he would become.
Rapunzel must repay the Prince’s affection.
"I want to live," she thought desperately. "I want to survive by any means."
"I want to live for my child’s sake," she resolved, "no matter what torment I endure."
Is not this single-minded wish—to love that child and raise them sturdy and thriving—precisely the humble attitude of one who has learned resignation?
A woman who accepts with sincerity that she cannot be loved for her ugliness, yet resolves to love others secretly from the shadows—uncaring if none ever know—for there exists no greater joy than loving: such a woman is truly God’s favored child.
Though loved by none, she would surely be enfolded within God’s boundless grace.
"How blessed!" Though I, the author, have set forth these solemn pronouncements, my true convictions do not wholly align with what I’ve written.
I confess I still believe nothing surpasses being beautiful and adored by all; yet had I not couched my arguments in such pious terms, I might have risked displeasing Ms. Hatsue—thus did I timidly spout these lofty falsehoods.
For Ms. Hatsue is in truth both my elder sister and my French tutor; hence I must ever kowtow to her wisdom, dedicating myself wholly to sycophancy.

While it is said that age brings precedence, how trying it is for the young! Now then, as we have described above, Rapunzel being an ignorant woman who knows no resignation meant she wished for death even before fully realizing she had lost any entitlement to others' caresses. She remained convinced that living consisted solely of being caressed by the Prince—there was no reasoning with her.

Yet the Prince was now straining every nerve. When distressed, people pray to God—but when driven to utter desperation, they would cling frantically even to the devil himself. The Prince, cornered beyond measure, pleaded desperately with the witch's filthy crone, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Let her live!” he shouted, oily sweat streaming down his face.
He ended up kneeling before the devil and pleading.
To save the life of the person he truly loved, the Prince would not have regretted selling off even his pride and everything else.
A Prince both gallant and pure-hearted.
The old woman smirked slyly.

“Very well.”
“I shall let Rapunzel live on for a long time.”
“Even if she ends up with a face like mine, will you still dote on Rapunzel just as you have until now?”

The Prince roughly wiped the oily sweat from his forehead with his palm.

“Her face—I don’t have the luxury to think about such things now. I just want to see a healthy Rapunzel once more. Rapunzel is still young. As long as she’s young and healthy, no face could possibly be ugly. Now, hurry up and make Rapunzel healthy again!” he declared boldly, though his eyes glistened with tears.

Letting her die while still beautiful might be true profound love—but no, I don’t want her to die. A world without Rapunzel would be utter darkness. No girl is more endearing than one bearing a cursed fate. I want to keep her alive—alive by my side forever. Even if her face grows hideous, it doesn’t matter—I love Rapunzel: a mysterious flower; a forest spirit; a feminine form born of stormy mists; stay with me always! Tormented by melancholy and yearning so unbearable that—were the old woman not before me now—I’d cling to Rapunzel’s gaunt chest and weep without restraint.

The Witch gazed at the Prince’s anguished expression as though beholding something beautiful, narrowing her eyes rapturously while watching with evident pleasure. Eventually, she murmured in a hoarse voice, “Good dear child.” “You’re quite an honest, good dear child.” “Rapunzel, you’re a fortunate woman, aren’t you?”

“No, I am an unfortunate woman,” responded Rapunzel from the sickbed, having heard Granny’s murmured words.
“I am the witch’s daughter.”
“When the Prince showers me with affection, it only makes me all the more acutely aware of my lowly birth, filling me with shame and anguish. I can’t help but feel that back in my homeland’s forest, in that tower where I spoke with the stars and birds, I was far more at ease.”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve thought of running away from this castle and returning to that forest—to you, Granny.”
“But parting with the Prince was unbearable for me.”
“I love him.”
“I would give ten lives.”
“The Prince is a truly kind and noble soul.”
“I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave him—that’s why I’ve lingered here in this castle until today.”
“I was never happy.”
“Every day has been hell.”
“Granny.”
“Women never end up with those they truly love.”
“There’s no happiness at all.”
“Please—let me die.”
“Since I cannot part from him in life... I’ll part from him through death.”
“If I die now—then he and I... we’ll both find peace.”

“That’s your selfishness talking,” the Witch said with a sly smirk. Her tone carried a resonance imbued with deep maternal affection. “The Prince promised to cherish you no matter how hideous your face becomes. My, what an intense fever! How dreadful. In this state, should you die, the Prince might well follow you to the grave. Come now—for the Prince’s sake too, you ought to try regaining your health once more. What comes after can be decided later. Rapunzel—you’ve already borne a child. You’re a mother now.”

Rapunzel let out a faint sigh and quietly closed her eyes.
The Prince, after his fit of passion, had now lost all expression and stood vacantly like a fossil.

Before their eyes, a magic altar was constructed.
The Witch darted out of the sickroom like the wind only to reappear carrying something, then vanished again—through this flickering motion, various items were brought into the sickroom.
The altar was supported by four beastly legs and draped in crimson cloth—a cloth crafted from the tanned tongues of five hundred snake species, its scarlet hue the very color of blood that had seeped from those tongues.
On top of the altar sat an enormous cauldron made of black ox hide, its boiling water seething and bubbling with such ferocity it threatened to spill over despite having no fire beneath it.
The Witch, her hair disheveled, raced round and round the large cauldron while chanting incantations, hurling into the boiling water medicinal herbs and rare curiosities seldom seen in this world: snow that had never melted since ancient times at a towering peak’s base; frost on bamboo leaves moments before vanishing; a ten-thousand-year-old tortoise shell; grains of gold dust gathered under moonlight; dragon scales; eyeballs of sewer rats never exposed to sunlight; mercury spat by cuckoos; pearls from firefly abdomens; a parrot’s blue tongue; eternal poppies; owl earlobes; ladybug claws; a cricket’s molars; a plum blossom from the ocean floor—and other treasures nigh impossible to obtain. These she threw in one after another as she circled the cauldron three hundred times, until its steam shimmered with seven rainbow hues. At that moment, the Witch halted abruptly and called to Rapunzel in a voice brimming with uncharacteristic dignity: “Rapunzel!”
“Mother will perform a once-in-a-lifetime magic,” she declared. “Endure this awhile!”
No sooner had she spoken than she lunged at Rapunzel, plunged a slender knife into her chest, and—before the Prince could gasp “Ah!”—hoisted her emaciated body high and flung it into the cauldron with a splash.
A faint cry like a seagull’s wail echoed from within, then gave way once more to boiling water’s roar and the Witch’s low chants.

The Prince was so overwhelmed he couldn’t immediately utter a sound.
He finally managed in a voice so low it was almost a whisper,

“What are you doing?! I didn’t ask you to kill her! I didn’t tell you to boil her in the cauldron! Give her back! Give me back my Rapunzel! You’re a demon!” was all he managed to say before collapsing onto Rapunzel’s empty bed, lacking even the strength to confront the old woman further. Waaah!” he burst into loud, childlike tears.

The Witch paid no heed, her bloodshot eyes fixed on the cauldron as she chanted incantations with single-minded focus, sweat streaming down her forehead, cheeks, and neck.

The incantation ceased abruptly, and with it the cauldron’s boiling roar died instantly. When the Prince—still weeping—lifted his head to peer suspiciously toward the altar, ah! In response to the Witch’s clear, triumphant call of “Rapunzel, come forth,” there soon appeared Rapunzel’s face.

Part Six

——She was a beauty.
Her face was radiantly beautiful.—Thus did the eldest brother continue writing in great excitement.
The Eldest Brother’s fountain pen was truly thick.
It was about the size of a sausage.
Gripping that imposing fountain pen firmly in his right hand, puffing out his chest, tightening his lips, and writing each character in a truly admirable manner—clear and large—it was regrettable that this eldest brother seemed to lack his younger siblings’ talent for storytelling.
The younger siblings therefore seemed to look down on this Eldest Brother somewhat, but that was their insolent vice, and the Eldest Brother had an incomparable goodness of his own.
He did not tell lies.
He was honest.
And when it came to so-called human emotions, he was fragile.
Even then, he simply could not bring himself to write that Rapunzel emerged from the cauldron with an ugly, terrifying face resembling the Witch’s.
That would have made Rapunzel far too pitiable.
Feeling sympathy for the Prince—even righteous indignation—he had written with fervor that she was a beauty, that her face was radiantly beautiful; yet now he found himself unable to continue.
It seemed the eldest brother was too earnest, and thus his imagination remained woefully impoverished.
It seemed that the talent for storytelling was something most abundantly possessed by cunning individuals who spun lies.
The eldest brother was, so to speak, a person of integrity—a fire of noble ideals burned in his breast, his affections ran deep, and there was neither scheming nor calculation in him—which was precisely why he proved inept at fabricating stories.
To put it bluntly, the story was downright terrible.
No matter what he wrote, it immediately turned into something resembling an academic paper.
Even then, it still somehow took on a speech-like tone.
However, he was nothing but earnest.
He wrote, “Her face was radiantly beautiful,” then solemnly closed his eyes and pondered for a while before slowly continuing to write as follows.

The story itself amounted to nothing, yet between its lines seeped, undeniably, the Eldest Brother’s sincerity and love.

——That face was not Rapunzel’s face.
No—it was indeed Rapunzel’s.
Yet this was not Rapunzel’s former visage from before her illness—not that downy, wild rose-like face full of delicate charm (though it is rude to critique a lady’s features so minutely)—but rather a revived countenance now smiling faintly, which, if one dared compare it to flora (though it’s reckless to liken humanity’s paragon to mere plants), might first call to mind a bellflower.
Or perhaps an evening primrose?
In any case, an autumnal wildflower.
She descended from the magic altar and smiled desolately.
Dignity.
A refined grace she had never before possessed had now settled upon her being.
The Prince instinctively bowed to this noble queen.

“Strange things do happen,” muttered the Witch, tilting her head. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was certain a girl with a face like a toad would come crawling out of the cauldron, but no—something far stronger than my magic must have interfered. I lost. I’ve grown tired of magic. I’ll return to the forest and live out my days as an ordinary, tedious old woman. There are things in this world even I don’t understand.” Having said that, she gave the magic altar a forceful kick, sent it tumbling into the fireplace, and burned it to ashes. The altar’s tools are said to have continued burning for seven days and seven nights, their blue flames licking upward. The old woman returned to the forest and spent her remaining days quietly as an ordinary, unassuming crone.

In conclusion, while it may be said that the Prince’s power of love triumphed over the Witch’s power of magic, according to my observations, it appears that the couple’s true married life was only now about to begin.
To put it bluntly, the Prince’s love up until then could very well have been replaced with the word “caress.”
In youth, even that cannot be helped.
However, it would inevitably reach an impasse.
A crisis would inevitably arrive.
In the case of the Prince and Rapunzel as well, it was indeed due to factors of conception and childbirth that discord had arisen in their love.
Indeed, that had been God’s trial.
However, the Prince’s innocent, earnest prayer moved God to mercy, and Rapunzel was revived as a noble-spirited woman stripped of sensuality.
In response to this, the Prince even involuntarily bowed.
Here it was.
Here began their new second married life.
It was said: mutual respect.
True marriage could not exist without mutual respect.
Rapunzel was no longer a savage girl.
She was no longer another’s plaything.
With a smile tinged with deep sorrow, resignation, and compassion on her lips, she remained composed like a queen born to rule.
The Prince exchanged a quiet smile with Rapunzel, and his heart grew calm and pleasant.
A husband and wife must remarry many times over the course of their lifetime.
In order for them to continue discovering each other’s true worth, they must overcome successive crises, remarry without parting, and press onward.
“The Prince and Rapunzel may yet remarry five or ten years hence,” I thought, “but as they are unlikely to lose that single thread of trust and respect between them, I daresay all is well.”

The Eldest Brother wrote with such excessive earnestness that even he himself no longer understood what he was saying, leaving him utterly flustered.
The story amounted to nothing.
He felt as though he smashed it all to pieces.
The Eldest Brother, still gripping his thick fountain pen, made a deeply troubled face.
Overwhelmed, he stood up, took out various books from the bookshelf, and peered into them.
He found something good.
Paul’s Epistles.
The First Epistle to Timothy, Chapter 2.
Deeming this passage suitable as the concluding words for the Rapunzel story, the Eldest Brother secretly nodded in agreement and transcribed it with great pomp.

——Therefore I desire that men pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands without wrath or dissension. Likewise that women adorn themselves in modest apparel with propriety and moderation, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or costly garments, but which becomes women professing godliness through good works. Let a woman learn in silence with all submission. And I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, but to be in silence. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived fell into transgression. Nevertheless she will be saved in childbearing if they continue in faith, love, and holiness, with self-control.

——

“First, this will do,” the Eldest Brother thought, smiling faintly in spite of himself. It would also serve as a good admonishment for the younger siblings. Had it not been for this passage from Paul, my argument would have been an incoherent, cloying mess—utterly trite—and might well have become fodder for my younger siblings’ ridicule. It had been a close call. The Eldest Brother seemed to feel as though he had narrowly escaped death, thinking he owed Paul his thanks. The Eldest Brother never forgot to impart lessons to his younger siblings. Therefore, he became overly serious, causing the story to fail to maintain a light tone and inevitably take on a preachy manner. The Eldest Brother did indeed have his own hardships as the eldest. He always had to be serious. Fooling around with his younger siblings was something his sense of responsibility as the Eldest Brother would never permit.

And so, it appeared the story had reached a provisional conclusion on the fifth day through what might be called the Eldest Brother’s moral lecture—something akin to a superfluous addition.
Today was the fifth day of New Year.
The Second Son’s cold had also cleared up.
A little past noon, the Eldest Brother emerged triumphantly from his study,

“There, it’s finished!”
“It’s finished!” he announced while making rounds to his younger siblings and gathered everyone in the parlor.
Grandfather arrived too, smirking all the while.
Eventually Grandmother was forcibly dragged in by the Youngest Brother.
Mother and Sato were busy preparing the brazier in the parlor and carrying in tea, sweets, sandwiches in place of lunch, and Grandfather’s whiskey.
They began reading starting with the Youngest Brother.
Grandmother edged her knees forward and interjected approving remarks—“Exactly, exactly”—at every pause in the text, making the Youngest Brother flush with embarrassment as he read.
Grandfather took advantage of the commotion to pull the whiskey bottle closer, remove the stopper, and stealthily begin drinking alone.
The Eldest Brother warned in a low voice, “Grandfather, isn’t that excessive?” To which Grandfather replied in an even softer tone, “It’s customary to listen to romance stories while drunk.”
The Youngest Brother, Eldest Daughter, Second Son, and Second Daughter each finished reading with their own inventive methods of recitation, and finally the Eldest Brother read aloud in a mournful tone reminiscent of patriotic fervor.
The Second Son had been struggling to contain his laughter but finally lost control and fled into the corridor.
The Second Daughter made a theatrical face as though utterly despising the Eldest Brother’s literary talent and deliberately clapped her hands.
She was an impudent creature.

By the time they had finished reading everything, Grandfather was already exceedingly drunk.
"It was excellent—everyone was excellent—but Rumi (the Second Daughter’s name) was especially excellent," he declared, once again favoring the Second Daughter.
However, he opened his bleary eyes wide and lodged an unexpected protest.

"You wrote all about the Prince and Rapunzel, but it's a shame no one touched upon His Majesty the King or Her Majesty the Queen at all."
"Hatsue seemed to have written a bit about them, but that alone isn't enough."
"Fundamentally, the Prince could marry Rapunzel and live happily ever after solely due to His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen's gracious benevolence."
"Had Their Majesties not shown understanding, even the deepest love between Prince and Rapunzel would've ended in chaos."
"Therefore, this story cannot stand without acknowledging Their Majesties' profound magnanimity."
"You're still young."
"You remain blind to such hidden benevolence while obsessing over Prince and Rapunzel's infatuation."
"You still haven't properly included them."
"I came to love Victor Hugo's works through my son's recommendation—that man truly misses no detail."
"And just as he raised his voice to declare, 'Now Victor Hugo was—' Grandmother scolded him."
Though the children were finally enjoying themselves, he was rebuked with "What nonsense are you spouting?" and had his whiskey bottle and glass confiscated.
Grandfather's critique contained some relatively valid points, but delivered in such slovenly tones that everyone ignored it.
Grandfather suddenly deflated.
Unable to bear this sight, Mother quietly handed Grandfather the customary medal.
On last year's New Year's Eve, she'd been awarded that silver coin medal for secretly repaying Grandfather's petty hidden debt.

“It seems Grandfather will award a medal to the person who did the best work,” Mother told the children with a smile.
Mother had wanted to restore Grandfather’s spirits through such means.

However, Grandfather took on an unusually serious expression,

“No—this one should go to Miyo after all,” he said. “I’ll bestow it permanently.” “I entrust the grandchildren to your care.”

The children felt strangely moved. It seemed like a truly magnificent medal.