Pathway to Japanese Literature

May 3, 1897 (Meiji 30)

It’s a common occurrence—when four or five people gather and start reminiscing about the past, the talk inevitably turns to those who have vanished from their midst.

This Taiga Imazo—even now, he was likely being discussed in the same manner. “Speaking of which—what became of Taiga?” The Old Man of Masuya broke the silence. “He’s probably dead by now,” someone offered carelessly. “Truly, no soul deserves more pity than that man,” the old man intoned with his usual mournful cadence. That they should deign to pity me was appreciated. Yet whether through fortune or misfortune, the man called Taiga still lived—nay, thrived in rude health—and who could say how many decades more he might linger breathing upon this earth? Presumptuous though it might be to declare, I remained but thirty-two.

You’d never imagine—that I’ve become one among 123 souls on this tiny speck called Umajima Island, teaching syllabaries to some twenty children as a tutor now in this private school. It’s only natural they wouldn’t know—even I, who write these words, never dreamed in my wildest imaginings that my drifting self would end up living such days on this unforeseen island.

Speak of the devil—were I to suddenly appear before him now, the Old Man of Masuya might be so astonished his gaping mouth would never close.

“What on earth has become of you?” he managed at last to say.

Then, after talking for an hour, he was startled again—this time in the pit of his stomach. "What on earth has happened to this man? In just five years apart, even his very bearing has completely transformed." There was good reason for such astonishment. First and foremost—that I, who had never kept a diary before, should now be diligently wielding my brush to jot down every trivial happening in the life of an inconsequential man like myself from this day forth—this alone proved I was no longer the Taiga of five years past.

Ah, how carefree I was now. This island and its people had completely grown on me. That there existed such an island in the Seto Inland Sea—that it allowed a man like me to live in such carefree ease—made me want to declare this very moment a chapter from some dreamtale. When I wrote while drinking, my hands trembled slightly—a nuisance. But were I to write without drinking, my heart might have trembled instead. What a weak-willed man I was! Where had I changed? This must have been my true self after all.

Since my dear, dear Otsuyu had come to visit, I would lay down my brush for today.

May 4

The day I received 100 yen from the Old Man of Masuya and placed it in my desk drawer remains unforgettable—October 25th. This day marked the beginning of everything—afterwards, whenever that date came around again, I would hunch my shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut. I had tried desperately not to remember that day, but now I face it unflinchingly.

The incident floats up vividly before my eyes. In those days, I was a serious man—upright and honest, rigid to a fault—who abstained from alcohol though capable of drinking. The old folks had become utterly infatuated. First and foremost Taiga, second only to Taiga. When it came to matters at Yagumo Public Elementary School, not even purchasing a single bamboo broom could be decided without Taiga. In my second year as principal, the Old Man of Masuya even arranged a wife for me—I made Omasa my own. We had a child. Omasa and the child were both sickly; I alone remained healthy. Even so, our family lived peacefully—no remarkable joys to speak of, but equally no particular worries either.

But then came the First Sino-Japanese War—a string of victories, cries of "Long live the military!", an era where unless you were a military man, you couldn't tell night from day in this celebratory fervor—and thus my mother and sister succumbed to depravity.

Mother and sister found living with us couples cramped, so they opened a boarding house in Akasaka Ward’s Shinmachi. And not an official one at that—that amateur boarding house of theirs. Putting on absurd airs of superiority—since the house was spacious, and since they were idle anyway—all they did was look after young men, with a grand proclamation that those of questionable character need not apply. As for myself, I found the whole enterprise distasteful and repeatedly tried to dissuade them—but my obstinate mother and willful sister (a woman thoroughly spoiled by her upbringing, trained even in shamisen, who had successfully transformed into a debauchee)—would not heed my warnings. With their declaration that "We won’t be any trouble to you," I abandoned my objections from the outset.

Half a year passed without notable missteps—then came the Sino-Japanese War, and soldiers began lodging there. First came a single non-commissioned officer. This became the fuse; kind attracting kind, until finally there was sake, songs, military chants, and cries of "Long live the Japanese Empire!" And then—the corruption of Mother and sister. Whether those soldiers—those "bulwarks of the nation"—were at fault, or whether Mother and sister were to blame, matters little to debate now. There remained one undeniable fact: every parent with daughters—be they nobility, wealthy families, government officials, or merchants—all burned with fervent desire to claim soldiers as sons-in-law.

As for daughters themselves, they seemed to consider having soldiers as lovers something to take pride in—nay, even boast about. As for soldiers themselves—particularly those below commissioned rank—they exploited not only unmarried daughters but widows too, even others' wives, carrying on as if this were both their natural right and a national duty. Three yen, she’d demand. Five yen, she’d demand. Mother had begun to pressure me. I did my utmost to meet those demands, devising ways amidst hardship to produce what was asked.

Monthly salary: fifteen yen. With that, we three managed to subsist. How could there be any surplus? The era decreed that elementary school teachers must eat three meals of burnt salt or the like, so they might drill into children aged seven to thirteen or fourteen this lesson: worship soldiers as pillars of the nation. Dutifully I obeyed this command. Yet when I considered how Mother and sister had offered their virtue to those military excellencies—how from these fifteen yen I must carve out five here, three there for their drunken revelries—even this trusting fool found himself utterly confounded.

The sake is wearing off!

I’ll stop here for today.

May 6th

Yesterday, three or four youngsters barged in, and we drank until past midnight, belting out songs in gravelly voices until I was spent; morning had broken before I knew when sleep took me—and now today. Hence yesterday’s diary went unwritten. What a carefree teacher I am! Whether I drink sake, sing off-key, or dote on Otsuyu and take her to bed—not a soul on this island would carp about my teacherly credentials. Instead of formal respect, they fling whatever they’ve caught or grown—fish when there’s fish, vegetables when there’s vegetables—into my kitchen without a word. An elder appeared dangling a gallon-sized sake bottle: “Sensei—begging your pardon—this rotgut’s hardly proper—try it with Otsuyu’s pours,” he said, depositing it on the veranda before shuffling off.

How carefree! How free! I need no mother, no sister, no wife and child. No wants, no gains. And yet, isn't it strange how unreasonably dear Otsuyu has become? What's strange about that? Because she's dear, simply because she's dear—with Otsuyu, I'd die anytime.

Ten days ago, I stepped onto the veranda and gazed at the moon. Looking down at the sea—hazy as a mist-shrouded lake—while drinking sake poured by Otsuyu, I suddenly recalled my dead wife and child, my mother and sister in Tokyo, and pondered the transience of my existence. Unconsciously, tears fell. Otsuyu watched this, her bell-like eyes filling with tears until they brimmed over. Prior to that, I had never shown tears to Otsuyu, and Otsuyu had likewise never shown tears to me. And yet this dear girl—whether sensing something unusual in this Taiga with his acorn eyes and monkey-like face—would attach herself to me morning and night, showing kindness with all her maidenly heart in such a pitiable display of tenderness.

Miyoshi the simpleton may not complain, but as things stand now—this island with neither glorious history nor soldiers standing as bulwarks of the nation—there remains nothing beyond these shores to desire. To be born on this island and die on this island—to join in death those resting in that quiet mountainshadow graveyard where winds now wail—I wished only to become this island's soil. When Rokubei told me, "Take Otsuyu as wife and become island folk yourself—even if you laze about alone, we islanders will sustain you lifelong," I wanted to weep from both gladness and wretchedness.

And when I look around, a shadow of misery seems to envelop my surroundings, perhaps naturally inviting people’s compassion. In my nature there exists somewhere a sociable aspect, and perhaps because of this, I receive affection from both myself and others.

Be that as it may, in my nature there existed no resolute aspect that allowed me to decisively oppose others—so there were many instances where even when thoughts formed in my heart, I could not put them into action. Ah, what a pitiful, utterly wretched man! That I ultimately failed to stop the boarding house matter—knowing full well it would harm Mother and Sister—was only natural. That I recognized Mother and Sister’s squalid depravity yet could not bring myself to confront them—that even had I spoken out, I would have been unable to oppose them—was only natural. That I scraped together funds through hardship and reluctantly offered them up for Mother and Sister’s drunken debauchery—this too was only natural.

It was the evening of the 24th when a letter came from Mother demanding I urgently procure five yen by the afternoon of the following day, the 25th—at which I involuntarily sighed and remained seated before the long hearth with folded hands, bowing my head. "What’s wrong?" asked my sickly wife in surprise. "Read this," I said, handing her the letter. She looked at it, then silently sighed and set it down. "Why must she keep making such impossible demands?"

“Well…” "There’s not a single penny left?" "I have barely one yen." “Even if we have it—if we give that away—the household will collapse.” “It’s alright. When Mother-in-law comes tomorrow—I’ll refuse outright.” “If we yield so easily every time—we’ll drown ourselves.” “Were this for sustaining your mother and sister’s wretched lives—some noble cause—I’d pawn clothes myself! Borrow! Scrape together three yen! Five! But soldiers’ bribes? Unfathomable funds! Enough—tomorrow I’ll speak plain: refuse us again—do as you will!”

“Please don’t say that.” “Why shouldn’t I? I’ll say it. I’ll say it tomorrow without fail!” “Because you know how Mother is—she’ll inevitably start shouting again, and if the neighbors hear, it’ll disgrace us all! And if you speak your mind so boldly, she’ll resent me immediately. Even now she spreads rumors that ‘I couldn’t bear living with her,’ forcing us into this detestable boarding house separation against my will!” By now, Omasa’s voice had dissolved into tears.

“But realistically, even if Mother comes tomorrow, there’s no money to give her, right?” “I’ll find a way by tomorrow noon.” “‘Find a way’? If you can manage it, then I ought to be able to handle it too—but isn’t this situation truly beyond remedy?” “Please entrust this one time to me—I’ll make it work,” she said. Without pressing further, I rallied my sunken spirits, tended briefly to renovation documents, and retired to bed.

May 7th

Just as I thought I had dozed off, my eyes suddenly opened—no, it wasn’t that my eyes had opened. A dreadful force reached up from the depths of darkness to shake me awake.

At that time regarding school renovations, I served as committee chairman. Though there were six other committee members besides myself, most were nominal appointments—the only one who genuinely shared the workload was the old man of Masuya. I spearheaded everything from budgeting to donation collection, shouldering the burdens alone. From land acquisition and price negotiations to contractor dealings, donation collection drives, and cash management—since all these duties fell solely to me—the abacus became a permanent fixture on my desk. My natural disposition made it impossible to stay ahead of tasks, and with worries persisting from dawn till bedtime came Mother and Sister's corruption scandal. Perhaps due particularly to Mother's accumulating unreasonable demands that tormented me, that night I slept restlessly, haunted by bizarre dreams until I could no longer distinguish waking from sleeping.

The moment I thought I heard a sound, I awoke. Thinking it must be thieves, I half-rose and peered around restlessly, but the forest showed no such signs. Was it a dream or reality? My mind was in such chaos that I couldn’t discern clearly. An indescribable terror surged through my body, and since I simply couldn’t remain lying there any longer, I resolutely sat up.

The sliding door to the adjacent eight-tatami room had been deliberately left open a crack, but the flame of the bean-sized lamp did not reach even to its entrance, leaving the interior in utter darkness. Even the six-tatami room where I slept was darkly shrouded by the shadow of the sooty ceiling, seeming as though a mist had settled over it. My wife Omasa slept soundly, and beside her, our two-year-old Tasuke pressed his face into the small pillow while thrusting his adorable hands without hesitation beneath his mother’s chin. Omasa’s pallor. Even under normal circumstances, her face was pale and devoid of healthy color, but in the dim light of night, it looked so much like a corpse’s that one might have mistaken her for dead. Moreover, her disheveled hair fell over cheeks whose flesh had slightly sunken, showing both physical frailty and the mental distress weighing on her heart. I walked soundlessly past her bedside and retrieved the bean-sized lamp from atop the long hearth.

For a while I stood rigidly with ears pricked up, listening for something though there was nothing to hear—this because I doubted whether I still needed to inspect the eight-tatami room. But I had definitely heard the sound of a chest being opened; I had heard the shoji sliding open smoothly. Whether it was a dream or reality, I crept into the eight-tatami room to check—but found nothing amiss. From the edge of the veranda, when I stepped out into the kitchen and peered into the pitch darkness, a cold, foul-smelling air unpleasantly brushed against my face. Standing at the threshold, I held the bean-sized lamp aloft and scrutinized every corner of the pitch darkness until my eyes caught sight of a black cloth bundle half-emerging from its hiding place beside the stove. Feeling suspicious, I opened it to find a single woman’s obi revealed inside.

Was it any wonder? This was Omasa's sole ceremonial obi - the very item the old man of Masuya had presented as a celebratory gift. Why was this hidden here? Having waited until I fell asleep, Omasa must have secretly withdrawn this from the chest. When I realized she meant to take it to the pawnshop at dawn to obtain money for Mother, I found myself powerless to stop the tears streaming down my face. I rewrapped the obi in its furoshiki and returned it to its hiding place, then withdrew to the bedroom where I sat before the long hearth, smoking tobacco while sinking into contemplation. A dreadful suspicion arose within me - could I truly be Mother's biological child? In truth, my temperament differed entirely from both Mother's and Sister's dispositions. Yet having parted from Father at age ten, I couldn't know whether I'd inherited his nature instead. What faint memories remained suggested Father had been gentle, never harshly scolding Mother or myself. I recalled being tied to a pillar after Mother's reprimand, only for Father to release me. Remembering how Mother had then turned her wrath upon him with miserly words, my thoughts wandered from Father to Mother and beyond, until I became immersed in contemplating familial bonds - between parent and child, siblings, husband and wife - feeling I'd brushed against profound human truths previously unknown to me.

Omasa was pitiful, Tasuke adorable; Father longed-for and missed; Mother and Sister both wicked and pitiful; childhood memories when recalled became nostalgic; suddenly remembering the donation funds brought unbearable anxiety; even considering the gravel to spread on the schoolyard—my head swirled dizzily until consciousness grew distant, yet my nerves remained tinged with restless agitation somewhere...

Ah! Why didn't I drink alcohol back then? Why didn't I drink this alcohol back then - this alcohol I now drink with a click of my tongue, that intoxicates when drunk and brings joy when intoxicated?

May 8th

When dawn breaks on October 25th—a day of great calamity for me.

I woke in the morning and, since it was Sunday, did not hurry through breakfast. Carrying the child into the garden, I wandered about while pondering—should I broach the matter of the obi myself and then drop it? But even if I tried to stop her, I couldn’t come up with the funds myself, and yet to flatly refuse Mother was something my wife would prevent. In the end, I resolved to feign ignorance and leave everything to my wife’s devices. I had just finished breakfast and was attending to renovation work at my desk when the old man of Masuya called out from beyond the hedge.

“Good morning,” he said while circling around to the veranda. “Already hard at work this early in the morning?”

“Even my hard-earned Sundays have been consumed entirely lately.” “Ha ha ha! You’ll find leisure soon enough! Once that school stands complete and proper, I mean to contend over every detail with solemn earnestness—I already relish the prospect.”

The old man sat down and took out his pipe. This old man and I, along with five or six others—villagers and townspeople, the substitute doctor from the branch office, the police officer from the local station—were members of an informal Go group; particularly, whenever we had free time, Masuya’s old man and I would delight in drawn-out matches. But ever since the renovation commotion began, while others might manage somehow, I had been unable to play even Go—my sole hobby and greatest pleasure. “It seems we won’t be able to play a full game next month either.”

“But winter break is just around the corner.” “The pleasure of playing Go with braziers on either side and sipping sweet tea makes for quite another experience,” said the old man as he took a newspaper from his pocket and abruptly turned solemn. “Please take a look at this.”

He spread open the newspaper and pointed to the telegraph section on the second page. There was a report of an extraordinary incident: on the very day a newly built elementary school held its completion ceremony in a certain region, a corridor railing had collapsed, causing forty to fifty children to plummet into the courtyard—two sustaining serious injuries and thirty minor ones. "How dreadful," I said. "What do they say caused it?" "That's precisely what I've been telling them," he replied. "Build cheaply, and this is exactly what happens. Hara kept arguing about excessive costs, but with concrete examples like this surfacing, he can't possibly complain now. When you gather hundreds of precious children, you must construct buildings sturdy upon sturdy foundations. Today I must meet Hara and show him this newspaper."

“While one can’t act recklessly, the current design certainly doesn’t require an exorbitant budget. Given that floor area, eight thousand yen is rather inexpensive.” “No, I can’t stomach that cheap option,” he said, “but since our discussions have settled on that budget, I don’t think they’ll end up building some rickety thing where railings collapse straightaway.” Changing tack, he added, “Now, about the donation funds—aren’t there still two or three major contributors left?”

“There are still about three donors remaining.” “In that case, I’ll go make the rounds now.” “I see. Then I shall request Lord Ooi.” “He said to send someone over today since he’ll hand it over.” “It was 100 yen, wasn’t it?” pressed the old man. “That’s correct.” There, as the old man set out to make his rounds toward the not-too-distant House of Ooi, a noble family, he passed by Omasa returning from outside. While the old man and I were talking, she had gone to the pawnshop.

“Did you manage to get the money?” I asked, maintaining my feigned ignorance to the very end. My wife, “It’s done,” she said while lowering the child from her back and placing him on her lap. “How did you manage it?” I couldn’t help but ask. “It’s fine no matter how—I’ll…” she began, then let escape a lonely smile. “That’s right—since I left it to you... By the way, when Mother comes, why don’t we try telling her to stop the boarding house and have us live together?”

“It would be futile even if you said so.” “It can’t be entirely futile. If I plead earnestly enough—” “It would be futile—you’d only end up upsetting her.” “It might upset her somewhat, but if we don’t speak up, who knows what might happen from here on out.” “Well... but matters involving the soldiers—it would be better if you were the one to bring them up.” “Surely it won’t come to having such things mentioned—”

Within less than an hour, the old man of Masuya returned and,

“It went smoothly,” said the old man as he sat down. “Thank you for your trouble.” “Yes, exactly 100 yen. Here it is—I handed it over.” He placed the paper packet before me. “Please verify it.” “Since today is Sunday and the bank is closed, would you keep it at your residence today? My house isn’t secure,” I said, but he laughed dismissively. “It’s fine—just for tonight! My place isn’t some liquor store with a safe installed—ha ha ha ha! When thieves come calling, my house would be no safer anyway. Now that Lord Ooi’s settled, who’s meant to handle the remaining two households?”

“I intend to make the rounds this afternoon.”

The Old Man of Masuya left, and I placed the 100-yen paper packet into the desk drawer.

May 9th

I was writing about events from five years ago. I was writing about what happened on October 25th. The disgust had settled into my bones. To put pen to paper felt unbearable.

But I write; I write while drinking sake. Lately I've been practicing Gidayū with the island's youth. Right—I'll write while chanting "Tamazo". How amusing!

--After finishing lunch, I was about to go out when Mother came. I had arranged for her to wait until my return when Mother came. A dark complexion, eyes that held a sword-like sharpness, a face that at first glance suggested hidden depths—this was Mother’s countenance. In height, she differed from myself—tall and slender. Her words carried weight. When faced with this Mother, my wife became a pitiful creature. For every word my wife spoke, Mother would utter three or five. My wife said, fidgeting nervously.

Mother spoke as if issuing a military command. By her third sentence, Mother had turned belligerent; my wife, berated, turned pale and shrank. I couldn’t help but wonder if women could differ so completely.

That mother of mine made her entrance. In that awkward space by the entrance where no one had yet managed to utter a proper greeting, Mother strode up and planted herself squarely across the long brazier, With that single remark—"Has the letter arrived?"—she shattered our spirits. “It has arrived,” I answered. “Have you managed to arrange what was discussed?”

“I’ve prepared it,” Omasa said in a small voice. Mother gradually adjusted her tone, “How kind of you. I do feel terrible every time, you see, but what with the money I’m supposed to collect not coming through as smoothly as one might hope—well, I’m well aware it must be a bother for you here, but there’s simply nowhere else for me to turn, you see,” she said with a gracious smile. When observed closely, Mother’s face was by no means vulgar in its features. When she adopted a gentle demeanor and composed herself calmly, that sword-like gaze of hers instead exuded authority—there were moments when one might have mistaken her for some noble lady from an esteemed household.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all,” Omasa said, then cast her eyes downward and began stroking Tasuke’s head. Mother glanced briefly at Tasuke—she didn’t seem the type to humor her grandchild even insincerely, and in truth, she wasn’t. Such things could be managed depending on time and circumstance. “Tasuke’s complexion doesn’t look good at all. Since he’s a sickly child, you must take considerable care,” she said, now turning toward me. “How goes the school?”

“It’s been exceedingly busy—it’s quite troublesome. “Today, I was about to go out again regarding the donation funds.”

“I see. Don’t mind me—go ahead and leave. I can’t afford to sit around leisurely today either, it being Sunday.” “Ah yes, Sunday was the day when many soldiers came,” I remarked carelessly. Then Mother—perhaps feeling a pang of guilt—slightly altered her expression, her voice taking on a metallic edge, “Why, all our lodgers are Sergeant Major sirs, so Sundays are no different from any other day.” “But you see, on Sundays soldiers come to visit, and when they do come by, we naturally have to serve them sake and send them off, so of course we end up busy.” “Soldiers are just so good for business, aren’t they?”

“Is that so?” I offered a perfunctory response, which only made Mother’s expression grow increasingly stern. “But isn’t that right? It’s because Japanese soldiers are superior that we keep winning this war too, isn’t it? Japan exists because of its soldiers—isn’t that right? We common folk like soldiers best.” Given this tone, I ultimately couldn’t bring up the idea of us living together. If I were to spread rumors about her conduct or offer unsolicited advice, who knows how Mother might scream at me. It was not unreasonable that my wife had tried to stop me.

“I absolutely detest schoolteachers—all that dithering and incessant blinking makes them look like wartoads that missed their mosquitoes!”—these were words she once used to berate me.

In the absence of wartoads, I—

“I’ll just step out for a moment, Mother,” I muttered furtively before slipping away.

"What a spineless man I am!"

Looking back, it was inevitable that Mother—with her domineering nature—would seize my money and ultimately cast me into the abyss of despair. From the very beginning, my wife and I had been utterly overpowered by Mother; though we raged at her deeds, nursed resentment toward her, and even hurled curses her way, our own strength proved inadequate to oppose her.

It seems an ironclad truth—those who abstain from drink are destined to be crushed by those who imbibe. Just look at what I’ve become! I have objections.

“Mother, isn’t it soldiers you like best?” I glared sidelong at her profile. Knowing her nature— “Oh my, what a strange thing to say! Let’s hear you repeat that,” she’d retort, eyes narrowing as she leaned in— “If I’ve offended you, I beg your pardon.” I respectfully presented a sake cup. “I could’ve launched into that kuse passage about ‘Father watching from beneath the grass...’” But back then—why had I been such an oaf?

Someone passed along the beach, humming a tune. That melodic phrasing belonged to Yoshitsugu. That fellow’s voice was truly beautiful.

May 10th

I returned from outside around three o'clock. My wife was hunched over crying. "What's wrong? What happened?" I asked in alarm, but being Omasa, she could only weep without managing to reply. Crying was this woman's nature—she shed tears over the slightest things. Yet this time it appeared something grave had occurred—the more I pressed her with questions, the harder she wept. At this point, I could not help but become flustered. When I brought her water and suchlike, I finally managed to understand the details of the matter in full.

Omasa's earnest efforts had failed to fully satisfy Mother. Despite her best efforts, the obi only fetched three yen. With no other choice, after I had left, Omasa handed these three yen to Mother, who flew into a rage.

Their exchange unfolded as follows.

“You said it was five yen!”

"But this is all I have at present..."

“But didn’t you say you had it ready earlier?” “So I’ve barely managed to gather three yen…” “Oh.” “Barely scraped it together, did you?” “How pitiable for you, going through all that trouble.” “This must be money you brought from Shichiya or somewhere.” “I won’t borrow coin that comes with such strings attached!” “How utterly tedious.” “Fine—I’ll wait for Imazo to return.” “I’ll tell Imazo myself.” “But my husband knows nothing of this…”

“Oh? Imazo doesn’t know?” “I’m shocked! So you’re the one who secretly lent from household funds?” “Don’t lie! Lies!” “That Imazo wretch must’ve told you to send them packing with three yen or some such nonsense.” “So that’s why he ran off avoiding me.” “Fine then—I’ll wait.” “I’ll wait even till evening for you.” “My husband truly… truly knows nothing of this…” my wife wept, unable to form words.

“There’s no need to cry, is there? You’ve done exactly as your husband told you—isn’t that good enough? Hmph—you start weeping the moment anything’s said. After all, I’m just an ogre woman—anything I say must seem terrifying to you.” No matter what was said, one party could only weep while Mother sat alone laying out her grievances. “If you couldn’t manage it, you should have simply said so and sent word. I don’t have time to come all the way from Shinmachi to these Aoyama backwaters just to collect a paltry three yen. It’s because you’ve no backbone that he can’t even support one parent and one sister—yet here he runs a boarding house while teaching children loyalty and filial piety. What an unusual sort of esteemed teacher we have here. But Omasa-san, you’re fortunate—no matter how unfilial a man becomes toward his parents, he still dotes on his wife. There are women like Omi who must scrape by meals by catering to soldiers’ whims—you mustn’t feel hard done by at all.”

Having exhausted her sarcasm, she sat smoking her tobacco for a while, then glanced up at the clock. “After all, he’s gone to such lengths to avoid me—he probably won’t be coming back for a while.” “Let’s go home—I’m a busy woman with my own life to attend to.” “I’ve got meals to prepare for my guests too,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet.

“I’ll borrow paper and a brush—need to leave a note,” I said as I went to the desk.

At this moment, as Tasuke burst into violent sobs, my wife picked him up and went down to the garden beyond the hedge—I too wandered about half in tears, trying to put the child to sleep. After a while, suddenly Mother shouted in a loud voice— “Omasa! “Omasa! Omasa!” she called. When my wife entered the room, Mother glared with eyes sharpened like horns. “You needn’t flee too. “You’re making a fool of me.” “I won’t write any letter, so tell him that when you return.” “I don’t need these three yen either!” she threw down the money. “Tell him I’ll never come again, and Imazo shouldn’t either! Say we’re neither parent nor child to each other anymore!”

With tremendous fury, Mother stormed out, and my wife remained prostrate in tears. I had listened to every detail, and if it were the current me—

“Fine! If she doesn’t need it...” Don’t cry—isn’t it fine? If Mother herself says we’re neither parent nor child anymore... They ought...

But back then, I wasn't like that. When told I was an unfilial child, it weighed on me terribly. That it troubled me carried various implications—there was the matter of public appearances, and I seemed to lack the foremost qualification of being an educator—in other words, I somehow found myself unable to feel at ease. Moreover, I hadn't known about the three yen either—on that point, I suppose I was at fault, "What a mess," I muttered, crossing my arms and sighing for a while,

"Even though I'm the one arbitrarily running this boarding house, when such things are said to me, it sounds completely like we're at fault." "Fine—I'll go there tonight." "And hand over just three yen."

May 11th

Today, since morning, rain has been falling and wind rising; even the lake-like sea roars with high waves. The mountain is roaring.

Tonight Otsuyu wasn't coming either. The young man who had been drinking with me until just now had also left. I am pleasantly drunk. Though I am drunk，I cannot bear this feeling of loneliness. In short，I am lonely.

What is a person’s life for? I am neither philosopher nor religious man, so I know nothing of profound reasonings—but what I sense in this now, this very moment of now, is naught but fleetingness.

Life must indeed be fleeting. Setting aside logic, truth itself appears transient. Were existence not so ephemeral—were human life not so evanescent—then however low people might sink in their circumstances, they would never feel such profound sorrow as I now feel. Parents and children, siblings and friends, society itself—around every person exist things that stir the heart. Distractions take form. If all these were to vanish—if I were to dwell alone on some barren island shore like a solitary pine clinging to a mountain crag—what then? When winds howl suddenly, rains darken the world, and seas wail ominously, could anyone truly perceive human existence—this earthly sojourn—as joyful or hopeful?

Therefore human bonds are man’s sustenance. Just as rice and meat are necessities for man, the affections between parent and child, man and woman, and friends are food for the human heart. This is not a metaphor but fact. Just as one fertilizes land, people create various phrases to nourish these bonds. Considering this, God has leniently made man. Humans not made so have leniently evolved from monkeys. Oh!

There was a knock at the door, in this rain. It was Otsuyu. Otsuyu is lovely.

That's right. Humans have leniently evolved from monkeys.

May 12th

While writing these lonesome thoughts, Otsuyu came, so last night I never began continuing the main text. Now then—

If Omasa had been a stronger-willed woman, when I said that night I would take three yen and visit Mother— "If you detested money from pawnshops so much, you needn't have taken it at all!" someone might have snapped through gritted tears—but Omasa couldn't do that. When she wept from Mother's cutting remarks and sarcasm, it was purely out of grief; if I gently soothed her, her heart would gradually still, leaving no room for protest.

Now then, Mother stole the 100 yen and left. I now write this coolly, but when I opened the desk drawer and discovered the missing 100-yen paper bundle, I could only cry out “Oh!” and found myself utterly speechless.

“You didn’t open this desk drawer, did you?” “No.” “But I can’t see the bundle of donation money I put in here earlier!” “Wh—?” she gasped, her face turning deathly pale. I panicked, yanked open the second drawer, and checked every single item inside—but what’s gone is gone. “Mother opened it earlier to leave a note!”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, slapping my knee—the sensation like being doused with cold water from head to toe. The sensation of teetering on the cliff’s edge in that instant. I stared vacantly at the desk drawer for a while, but tears began streaming down my cheeks unbidden. “It’s too cruel,” I barely managed to utter. My wife’s fountain of tears had dried up; she merely stared at my face, her bloodless lips trembling uncontrollably. “Then Mother…,” she began to say, but I waved my hand to cut her off,

“Stay quiet, stay quiet,” I said, glancing around. “I’m going to Shinmachi now.” “But you’re…” “No—I’ll go meet Mother and get it back. “It’s too much. Too much. “Could even a parent stay silent about this? “But why would she have conceived such a despicable thought…”

I could not stop my tears. My wife finally began to cry. The husband and wife could only weep in utter despair. When I think back, Mother’s act of throwing out three yen and her shouting something as outrageous as severing our parent-child bond before leaving—all of it laid bare her true intentions.

“I’ll be right back. “I can’t brand my own parent a thief. “You wait here without worrying—I’ll definitely go retrieve it,” I said, hurriedly preparing and taking my deceased father’s photograph from the handbox to tuck into my pocket.

On a Sunday in the mild late-autumn weather, with Aoyama’s streets crowded with people, the vast sky clear, and the wind blowing without stirring up dust—as everyone busied themselves with outings—O unfortunate man, I walked outside as if traversing a dreamscape. Even now, whenever I recall this moment, I cannot help but despise the metropolis that is Tokyo. When I reached the side of the Togu Palace, someone suddenly called out, “Taiga-kun! Taiga-kun!” When I looked, it was Saitō—another member of the construction committee— approaching with a faint smile,

“I must apologize—I’ve been completely idle.” “Have the donation funds been generally collected?” When he mentioned the donation funds, I found myself involuntarily flustered but managed to answer “Mostly collected” before immediately turning aside. “If there are rounds needing to be made, I can handle them.”

"I said 'Thank you,' but as I hesitated, Saitō eyed me suspiciously before muttering 'No, my apologies' and walking away."

Ten steps away, he must have looked back. I instinctively hunched my shoulders. If I meet Mother, how should I broach it? As I drew nearer to Shinmachi, this anxiety became unbearable. When imagining Mother shouting at me instead—her furious visage flashing before my eyes—my legs reflexively stiffened. Each time the thought "What if she refuses to return it?" arose, a crushing weight pressed my chest as I walked on while forcibly suppressing it.

The nameplate read "Taiga Tomi." A two-story structure with lattice doors—from its appearance, a minor official’s residence. Bearing a woman’s full name, it gave off the air of a moneylender’s establishment. For a moment I considered turning back to convey my message by letter, but deeming this far too critical a matter, I steeled myself and slipped through the lattice door.

May 13th

When I passed through the kitchen area, Mother was sitting beyond the long brazier and greeted me with a terrifying face. In the iron kettle was a sake flask. Upstairs, soldiers were in the midst of drinking. But it was quieter than I had expected—only my sister Omi’s frivolous laughter and two or three men’s deep voices accompanying it. Mother merely glared sharply at me without uttering a word, then called out in a loud voice, “Omi, the sake flask is ready,” she called toward the upstairs entrance. “Yes,” Omi came down and looked at me,

“Oh, Elder Brother,” she said without even a smile, her expression purely one of surprise. Her attire was completely red—no matter how one looked at her, she could only be taken for a tavern waitress. I was comparing Mother’s terrifying face with my own solemn one,

“And then, Mother... ‘Please bring the sushi,’” she said. “Right. How much exactly?” “I’m not sure of the amount. “Whatever’s reasonable should suffice.” “And then they said, ‘Please have Mother join as well.’” “Ah...” Mother said, giving Omi a peculiar look, but Omi simply went upstairs without so much as glancing my way. I remained seated, waiting for Mother to say something. “What did you come here for?” Mother blurted out abruptly.

“I apologize for earlier,” I said, doing my utmost to remain composed while feigning nonchalance. “Think nothing of it. I must have caused you all sorts of worries, haven’t I? When I left earlier, I told Omasa-san something—did you hear it?” she said with unrelenting coldness and resentment as she stood up. “I came out here on business for a guest. If you have business yourself, wait here,” she added before exiting through the kitchen entrance. I sat with my arms crossed, brooding intently. Even though she was my own mother, I couldn’t help but find her truly a wicked woman—the more I dwelled on it, the more pitiful it all seemed. Seeing how she had settled things so callously, I began to feel that speaking to her would be futile. Instead, perhaps I should bring the matter to public judgment and be done with it. However, since it was my current mother who stole from her child’s desk drawer, even if it were public funds, I—bound by filial duty—could find no justification to bring charges. If I could neither bring charges nor retrieve it from Mother, then there remained no other recourse but to secretly compensate for it myself. To falsify the accounts and conceal 100 yen from a sum of around 8,000 yen—even if I could manage it—would be discovered immediately afterward. Moreover, for me, even merely contemplating such dishonest acts made my very body tremble. If I were to compensate for it, where would I get that money from?

The more I thought about it, the more unsure I became of what to do. "No matter what, I must retrieve it from Mother," I resolved—just as she returned from outside and sat wordlessly across the brazier. “Well? Did you hear what I said?” she asked, taking up her long pipe. “What do you mean?” I said while looking at Mother’s face. “Well, if you didn’t hear.” “But what’s this business of yours?”

I took three yen from my pocket and placed it beside the brazier, “This is two yen short, but since Omasa had gone to the trouble of preparing it, please take it. If you don’t…” “It’s no longer needed.” “So I won’t trouble you all again either.” “You needn’t regard someone like me as your parent.” “That would be to your benefit, wouldn’t it?”

“Mother—why must you say such things so abruptly?” I swallowed back tears. “If speaking abruptly was improper, then I apologize,” she replied. “Though had I said this a year ago, you all might have found happiness.” What cruel irony! Were it me now, I would resolutely— “Is that so? Very well.” “Then I shall heed your words—I will no longer regard you as my parent. Please do not consider me your child either.” “For should you persist in seeing me as your child, I fear it may invite unforeseen resentment.” “Regarding today’s matter: I placed 100 yen in my desk drawer, which vanished precisely when you returned. Might I inquire—could you have mistaken it for scrap paper and slipped it into your sleeve?” With a voice rising from my gut, I thrust straight to the core.

“What did you say? I won’t stand for being called a thief by my own child!” she intercepted my approach mid-motion, suppressing it as a smirk played across one cheek. “This is outrageous! “Our parent-child bond should have been severed by now. “Very well—if you refuse to return it, I shall simply report the aforementioned circumstances,” I bluffed boldly—a stance that would have made even Mother capitulate halfway—but how could I have performed such an act back then? Having been subjected to this vicious sarcasm, I became utterly paralyzed—hands clasped tight, head bowed for what felt like an eternity, tears trickling down unchecked—when

“Mother, that is beyond the pale,” I managed haltingly—Mother remained endlessly adept, “What’s this ‘I’ business? That’s my line.” “Hah! The crybabies are all here.” “How utterly droll!” I was crushed. Once again blocked by her retorts, but mustering my resolve, I placed Father’s photograph before Mother while “With Father here as my witness, this is my plea.” “Mother, please... return it. If you don’t, I’ll—” I managed to say with a final surge of resolve. Mother’s face immediately twisted in rage,

“Well, what sort of act is that?” “What an absurd thing you’re doing.” “What’s the big deal about Father’s photograph?” “Please don’t say such things—I beg you to return it. "What you brought back today..." “You’ve been saying strange things since earlier—what exactly have I borrowed from you?” “I won’t say a word about it, so please—without such harsh words—return it. If you don’t, I’ll have nowhere left to stand…” Before I could finish pleading, Mother shifted her knees sideways by the brazier,

“What outrageous nonsense! So you’re claiming I took something from your place today? I won’t tolerate such accusations!” she pressed aggressively, raising her voice. “W-well, there’s no need to shout like that…” I stammered, flustered. “What’s wrong with shouting? I’ll shout all I want... Go on—say it again now.” “If we must formalize this, I’ll call Omi as witness!” she declared with a sword-sharp glare. At that moment, the laughter upstairs abruptly ceased, and unseen figures peered down while straining to listen. I stood speechless in dismay. As I fidgeted helplessly, a voice called from the kitchen entrance: “Your order has arrived.” Mother,

“Omi, Omi! The sushi’s here,” she called. Omi came down. As soon as the lattice door opened, a sergeant entered with a “Good day.” He glanced sidelong at me,

Watching Omi carry the large plate of sushi with her “Here you go,” the Sergeant staggered, landed on his backside, and plopped down beside the long brazier. “My, what a fine color!” said Mother, her eyes—which had just been glaring at me—now assuming a coquettish glint. “Where did you—” “Ha ha… That falls under military secrets,” the Sergeant said, reeking of alcohol on his breath. “Give me a cup of tea.”

“I’m pouring it right now, you impatient boy,” said Mother as she filled the teacup to the brim, her manner suggesting she had already forgotten my presence. From upstairs came a loud voice,

“Otsuka! Otsuka!”

“Sergeant, do come down here,” Mother called. Sergeant Otsuka looked upward, “Omi-san! Omi-san!”

Outside, the tofu seller’s booming calls filled the evening air as dusk approached the bustling street. Realizing this situation was hopeless, I suddenly stood to leave—when Mother, in an unnervingly sweet voice, "Oh? Leaving already? "Well now, isn't that just fine. "Then do come again," she performed for the Sergeant's benefit. Once outside, I couldn't bring myself to go home directly—nor was this something to confide in others about. Grieving over this fresh disaster that had struck me as if it were brand new, I wandered like an empty husk until reaching the reservoir's edge.

I was utterly at a loss for ideas, yet I had to somehow settle on a course of action. The day was growing dark and dinner time had come, but I had no appetite for anything.

Noticing crows flocking to Sannōdai’s woods, I crossed Hiyoshi Bridge intending to sit awhile on that bench and quietly think things through.

Poor, pitiable Teacher! One couldn’t help but want to say, “What a shabby figure he cuts from behind.” Alcohol, alcohol—why didn’t I just dash into a soba shop back then and knock back a bottle or two with gusto?

May 14th

Leaning on a bench in the desolate, peopleless shade of the woods—how many hours had I remained motionless? Although the day completely ended and the surroundings turned pitch-dark, I remained utterly unaware—merely crossing my arms, letting out intermittent sighs, wholly immersed in brooding contemplation. No practical plans that could prove beneficial emerged; thus I found myself conjuring up various fantasies only to shatter them, then conjuring them anew. From fantasy to fantasy, branches sprouting from branches—it was nearly impossible to stop.

In the throes of passion, Mother and Omi were killed by the sergeant. When I conjured one fantasy, the tragic scene materialized before my eyes—Mother and Omi, covered in blood as they fled, appeared vividly visible. "Imazo! Imazo!" Mother called out while fleeing; I tried to rush in and save her, but a soldier grabbed hold of me, immobilizing me... Ah!—the fantasy shattered. I thought of pretending that while carrying 100 yen to deposit at the bank, I’d been pickpocketed—of filing a report to that effect. Then suspicion would fall on me, I’d be arrested, and Omasa and Tasuke would fall ill and die during my detention—my fantasies kept shifting toward these wretched scenarios.

The completion of the school building, the scene of its inauguration, even the delighted face of the old man from Masuya—all rose vividly before my eyes. Ah, if only I had 100 yen—this thought made me feel, as if for the first time, the strange and terrifying power of money that had never troubled me so profoundly before. If only there had been 100 yen—if only that money had existed—Mother wouldn’t have turned to theft. Even if Mother did commit theft—if only I had that money now, we as a couple would be completely saved—contemplating this made me both desire money and resent it. At the same time, I grew envious of those who live untroubled by such financial concerns, passing peacefully through this world, yet also came to bitterly hate them. All these bitter emotions had never once arisen in my heart—mine, that of Taiga Imazo, diligent elementary school teacher of sterling reputation—and so I inadvertently gave voice to my longing: "Ah, how I want money!" before staring intently into the dark depths of the forest.

Then came a boisterous group—men and women mingling noisily, joking as they climbed upward. "Isn't this place dreary? Let's go back." "We can't linger in such a spot any longer." The woman's voice was unmistakably Omi's. I started and tried to rise, but as they drew near to where I sat, I froze motionless to observe them. The group seemed entirely unaware of my presence. I thought Mother might be among them if Omi was here, but there was only Omi with two men.

“Hey, let’s go back already—Mother’s waiting,” came a sickly sweet voice. “Why didn’t Mother come out with us? Don’t you know?” said one man, then another— “She said she had a headache or something, didn’t she?” No sooner had someone uttered this than all three began whispering in hushed tones before bursting into laughter together, one man clapping his hands and shouting “Heave-ho!” Unremarkable matters clung to me from every direction. The moment the trio passed by, I clicked my tongue and stood up, making my way down the mountain to Omote-machi.

Resolved to settle matters by tomorrow—on one hand intending to try appealing thoroughly to Mother through a letter once more, on the other planning to properly discuss with my wife what final measures we might take when the time came—I proceeded reluctantly until reaching the side of the East Palace, then followed the embankment rightward and emerged onto Aoyama Field. Crossing the field was the shorter path.

When crossing the field, I picked up a single leather handbag.

May 15th

There was no need to detail the precise procedure of how I came to pick up the leather handbag. I simply picked it up because it had struck my foot; upon picking it up and examining it, it turned out to be a leather handbag.

As soon as I picked it up—money! The thought 'Money!' flashed through my mind. I took it for an omen, and somehow thought it might be a dream. This was because at Sannōdai, while conjuring various fantasies, I had shamefully entertained the notion—what if I found something like a thousand ryō?—and now that very fancy seemed made real. The leather handbag opened easily. Three bundles of paper money, along with other documents, lay inside. When I held them up to the starlight, in that moment I could only think this must be a dream; I couldn't bring myself to consider whether reporting it or stealing it would be the height of disgrace.

I simply thought of it as heaven’s gift. How strange—once you lose conscience’s power, you instead strive all the more earnestly to commit wrongs and carry out these unforeseen great crimes.

I quietly concealed this leather handbag among the lumber stacked beside my house, skillfully hiding it, then slipped a bundle of bills into my pocket and entered the house with an innocent expression.

My wife leapt up to greet me at the sound of my footsteps. She had lain down after putting Tasuke to sleep, waiting restlessly for my return. "How did it go?" she asked the moment she saw my face. "I got it back!" I blurted out instantly when questioned. This answer came unbidden—I spoke the lie without any intent to deceive.

Now that things had come to this, I stood utterly isolated. The person safeguarding Mother’s secret now had to become confined within my own. "Oh, how did you manage that?" my wife asked cheerfully. I met her inquiry with a bitter smile and casually— "Once I properly explained the situation, they handed it over," was all I said. My wife seemed to want to hear every detail of what had transpired, but upon seeing my reluctance, she refrained from pressing further, "You can’t imagine how worried I was! I kept worrying myself sick thinking, ‘What if they hadn’t given it back?’" she said with the joy of one who’d unburdened herself of a ten-thousand-pound weight.

I kept one hand thrust in my breast pocket clutching the bundle, still caught in that half-awakened dream-state as I stared vacantly into space. "Have you eaten?" "I ate earlier."

“At Mother’s place?”

"Ah." "You look terribly pale," my wife said, staring at my face. "Probably from worrying too much." "You should go to bed right away." "No, I need to inspect the account books. You go on to bed first," I said, entering the eight-mat room and sitting at the desk. However, since my wife showed no sign of falling asleep easily, "I told you to go to bed already." Never before had I directed such sharp words at my wife. My wife seemed to be looking at me suspiciously but ultimately went to bed. I deliberately went to the brazier's side once and smoked tobacco, closed the sliding door between the rooms tightly, and finally secured my privacy.

I stealthily drew out the bundle of banknotes from my breast pocket as if pilfering them, but my manner must have been identical to when Mother had withdrawn the paper-wrapped bills from the desk drawer. One-yen bills—a hundred of them! It was precisely as ordered. The hand counting these trembled, and when I finished, I stared fixedly at the lamp’s flame. I immediately decided I would deposit this in the bank tomorrow and use it to balance the ledger.

Fearing they might be stolen again, I stored them in the chest and locked it, then turned to dealing with the leather handbag. This could only be done once my wife had fallen soundly asleep, so I first feigned an innocent expression and slipped into bed.

When I lay in bed with closed eyes, one might expect the eye of conscience to awaken somewhat at such a moment—but in reality, it did not. For the sole purpose that the demon had cast upon me, a fierce will—not conscience—operated coldly, single-mindedly listening for my wife’s breathing. Two hours passed thus, and when midnight struck, having confirmed that pale-faced Omasa lay as still as a corpse, I who the previous night had slipped out of bed suspecting thieves now emerged from the bedroom like a thief myself, even more quietly and skillfully than before, easing the veranda door open inch by inch until I stood barefoot outside.

The stars shone piercingly clear, the wind lay dead, the autumn night's stillness—insects filled the air with their cries. What struck me as strange was that even as I stepped outside for this purpose, when I took two or three steps and paused for a moment, the desolate, silent, and solemn spectacle of that autumn night pierced my eyes so profoundly that it made every hair on my body stand on end. I still haven't forgotten the beauty of the sky from that moment. And when I observed this, it became clear that whether for good or evil, when a person's spirit is focused and free of distractions, their capacity to receive impressions from external things appears all the stronger.

Retrieving the leather handbag from between the lumber pile and easily carrying it into the parlor, upon looking inside I found the other two bundles were also 100-yen stacks—amounting to 300 yen in total. The documents consisted of receipts and similar paperwork. There was a thin ledger too, along with business cards. It became clear that the person who had lost it was a certain Hyuga of such-and-such address in Yotsuya Ward, operating a grain wholesaling business. As is typical of weak-willed people when committing misdeeds—as though I couldn’t accept my own actions without fabricating some excuse—the moment I learned the name and address of that person who’d lost it, I immediately crafted a flawless justification myself and rejoiced as though I’d glimpsed a ray of light.

Temporary loan! First I would borrow it temporarily to save myself from this immediate crisis; then—whether by reclaiming it from Mother or devising some way to earn the money myself—by whatever means, I would return the hundred yen I had taken back into the leather handbag and secretly deliver it to its owner.

Truly, this was heaven’s gift—I rejoiced beyond measure—then set about devising a way to conceal the leather handbag still holding two hundred yen. However, given how cramped the house was by nature, there could be no truly secure hiding place to speak of. Having exhausted all options, I finally resolved to place it in the drawer of the chest where I kept only my personal documents and school ledgers, heaped more papers atop it, and determined never to let the key part from my person day or night—at last attaining a sliver of relief.

No sooner had I gone to bed than two o'clock struck; disappointed, I immediately fell asleep and the night was over.

May 16th

The unforgettable October 25th had passed.

From the next day onward, I conducted classes and attended to renovation duties as usual, outwardly maintaining not the slightest change from before. Mother too remained silent, and I even ceased pressing her through letters, letting each day pass uneventfully one after another. Yet I am no villain after all, nor a man of courage. Precisely this weakness let Mother corner me, turning her into a thief and ultimately myself into one too. Therefore, having become a thief, it was only natural I should begin my torment anew. All men like me walk this same path—call it fate if you will. The same fate that keeps a frog forever a frog. There lies no mystery in this.

What one might call conscience began to stir within me. The key I always carried on my person grew increasingly unbearable to bear. Particularly as a teacher of children entrusted with ethics instruction, I had to perpetually expound on loyalty and filial piety; lecture on good versus evil; solemnly stress the vital importance of matching deeds to words—and with each such occasion, my heart would churn with unease. Among the students' inquiries came those that stabbed at my chest like daggers. At times I'd suspect some might pose their questions knowing my secret, catching myself involuntarily meeting a pupil's gaze only to immediately turn my face away.

One day, a child of about ten came, “Principal, Iwasaki-san picked up my pencil and won’t return it,” came the complaint. Incidents of picking up, losing, or dropping things were commonplace and hardly worth suspicion given the number of children gathered there—yet when suddenly confronted with this complaint, I felt a jolt strike my chest.

"It's your own carelessness that made you drop it. Wait here—I'll summon Iwasaki immediately." This was utterly unlike my usual self, and the child gaped up at me in astonishment. When I called over Iwasaki, a twelve-year-old pupil, and demanded, "Did you pick up that pencil?" he flushed crimson and squirmed uneasily.

“You picked it up, didn’t you? If one finds something that belongs to another, it is only natural to bring it to me immediately. Yet by making it your own, you are no different from a thief—this is most improper.” He solemnly commanded, “Return that pencil to this person at once.”

Then why am I hiding someone else’s leather handbag in my own chest? I finished my school duties that day and immediately returned home, shut myself in a room, and agonized. I considered turning myself in—and also considered resigning from the school. I agonized further over choosing between these two options, yet could resolve myself to neither. I thought of my wife and child should I turn myself in; I thought of my livelihood should I resign; but what moved me more than mere sustenance was the profound regret I felt at abandoning the school building renovation—a project I had painstakingly planned and brought to splendid completion.

Therefore, making 100 yen as soon as possible became paramount—this time I devoted myself solely to that aim—yet there remained no viable path whatsoever. For an elementary school teacher like myself, a side occupation yielding 100 yen proved too heavy a burden. I did nothing but lose myself in empty fantasies. Awake, it was money; asleep, a hundred yen.

One day, I took one of the female students and went on a suburban walk. In those earlier days, I would often take three or four students out for walks. It was a beautiful autumn day, my body feeling light, and the girl skipped along four or five steps ahead of me, singing a school song with apparent delight. As the path wound through the silver grass of the field and reached a slightly elevated spot, what caught my eye was a paper-wrapped bundle emerging from between the blades. I ran over, picked it up, and upon looking inside found a single 100-yen bundle within. I panicked and stuffed it into my pocket. Then the student,

“Teacher, what did you find?” she asked as she approached. “It’s nothing important!” “But what was it? Let me see! Let me see!” she pleaded, clinging to me with childish insistence.

"I told you it's not allowed!" I shoved the girl, sending her reeling backward. As she began to fall, I instinctively cried "Ah!" and reached out to catch her—only to awaken and realize it had all been a dream. There I sat in the faculty room after lunch, still slumped against my chair where I'd been dozing.

Trying to fill the hole left by the stolen money, I agonized only to pick up money again in my dreams. After I awoke, I keenly felt the wretchedness of the human heart.

May 17th

Omasa, my wife, seemed startled by the change in my demeanor. I am not a man who can keep such torment in my heart from showing even slightly. Moreover, while at home I agonized over what would happen if my wife were to discover this secret—another torment added to my burden—and whenever I looked at her face, I would scrutinize her eyes for any sign she might have noticed. Not only was I constantly glancing about and fidgeting restlessly without finding peace, but because there was a festering wound in my heart, I sometimes used harsh words with my wife over trivial matters. There were days I spent in complete silence, my naturally gentle and amiable disposition—what one might call my defining trait—having nearly vanished, while the stubbornly perverse side of my nature, like jagged rocks exposed by the receding tide, jutted out persistently. That my wife harbored inner astonishment at this transformation was hardly surprising.

There can be nothing as unpleasant as a person whose only redeeming qualities are gentleness and honesty losing those very qualities. Like a persimmon that’s had its astringency removed and begun to rot—one cannot approach it at all. It was only natural that my wife found me displeasing and unsettling, remained perpetually sullen, and occasionally let out sighs that seemed utterly devoid of spirit.

Seeing this, my heart only festered further. Yet fate did not long toy with these unfortunate man and woman; one month to the day since I had hidden the leather bag, the night of November 25th deigned to become our pivotal juncture.

On this night when I returned from school business in Kanda around nine o'clock, I found my wife sitting before the brazier with Tasuke still strapped to her back—her face less pale than truly ghastly. Even upon my homecoming, she offered no greeting. The tear stains around her eyes showed plainly under the light. Seeing this state, I felt not surprise but dread—no, not even dread but outright horror. "Hey—what's wrong? What's happened to you?" I pressed urgently, but she only fixed me with those terrible eyes and remained silent. When my gaze suddenly fell upon it, I saw the closet door where we kept the chest of drawers standing wide open—the secret drawer half-exposed within. I sprang up from the floor.

“Who opened this?!” I shouted, grabbing the desk drawer.

“I opened it,” my wife replied with glacial composure. “Why did you open it? How could you open it?” “The committee came asking to borrow the ledger, so I opened it and handed it over,” she said, fixing me with a razor-sharp glare. “What do you mean you handed it over when I wasn’t here? Huh? What do you mean you handed it over?” “This is unconscionable!” I shouted as I looked into the desk drawer—the leather bag lay exposed, its mouth gaping open.

“You saw this!” I shouted. “Fine—I’ve resolved myself! I’ve resolved myself!” Bellowing these words, I slammed the desk drawer shut, locked it with a clang, and stormed outside in a terrifying rage.

In a daze I wandered those paths until emerging at Aoyama Field—yet still walked without direction. But ultimately, with my wife having discovered the secret, I possessed no particular resolve—no resolve whatsoever. I had simply shouted from sheer shock and cried out in my panic—bursting outside amounted to nothing but flight. Thus as I walked on, my mind gradually grew calm. In this state I resolved to confess everything to my wife and consult about our future; by doing so we might even escape this unpleasant stalemate between us—with this thought I hastened home.

Why hadn't I consulted her when I picked up the leather bag and brought it home? Stop questioning. Such was Taiga Imazo's narrative method in all things.

When I returned home, my wife was nowhere to be seen. No wonder she wasn't visible—she had died in the back well with Tasuke still strapped to her back.

Omasa had never before done something like opening the place where she had removed her own lock. However, she must have deduced from my behavior at some point that there was a secret in the desk drawer and, seizing the opportunity when asked to retrieve the ledger, forced it open without permission. The key she used appeared to be from the household chest. How shocked she must have been when she saw what was inside the leather bag. She undoubtedly believed I had stolen it. Yet no suicide note was found. Why did she die? Not a single soul knows this secret. The Old Man of Masuya speculated that Omasa—being innately melancholic and chronically ill—must have lost her mind because of her frail health. As conjectures from those unaware of my secret went, this came closest to the truth—her gloomy disposition and physical weakness certainly contributed as partial causes. Had this been someone like my mother, she would never have resorted to suicide.

I immediately submitted my resignation. Needless to say, they strenuously tried to dissuade me, but in the end—deeming it unavoidable under the circumstances and that forcing me to stay would only cause undue hardship—they released me with a three-hundred-yen severance payment.

In truth, whether they released me or not, I had already lost all capacity to act. People pitied me, the one who survived, more than my dead wife. It was through the initiative of individuals like the Old Man of Masuya that they even disbursed an extraordinary severance payment of three hundred yen.

Both my mother and sister came to my wife and child's funeral. People found this natural, and the two comported themselves accordingly. When I looked upon my mother or sister, they differed not at all from ordinary mourners. When receiving the three hundred yen, I felt neither joy nor gratitude nor resentment. From this sum I allocated one hundred yen for funeral expenses, returned another hundred to the leather bag, then departed Tokyo with what remained—the final hundred plus proceeds from selling our household goods—as travel funds. On departure's eve I secretly delivered that hand-carried leather bag to its owner in Yotsuya.

No one knew when I left Tokyo or where I headed out toward—not even Mother received a single letter. Without so much as glancing at the new school building, its formalities completed and interior work half-finished, I secretly slipped away into the night.

Drifting west through Osaka, Okayama, and Hiroshima, I finally washed ashore on this island last spring. After my wife and child’s drowning, I became utterly like a man in a daze; since leaving Tokyo, I had lost count of how many times I’d contemplated suicide. To secure food and clothing, I took up various occupations, encountered all manner of people and circumstances, was battered by rain and buffeted by winds, wept over bygone days and agonized over the present—and so five years had passed, years that stagnated yet flowed unceasingly, molding me into what I am now: a human mass like froth, a pumice stone adrift.

Until three years ago, the cries of my dead infant would catch in my ears, and the pale figure of my wife soaked through would flash before my eyes—but through sake's grace, I finally drove them away. Yet even now, when I wake suddenly in midnight's depth with the liquor mostly faded, there come times when Omasa—our child lashed to her back—spins before my vision, drawing near then far until dissolving into shadow. Yet this holds no particular terror. Omasa now reveals only her profile to me. Before long, I think she'll turn fully that way and disappear. The strange truth is this: when earnestly recalling Omasa, her wretched form never surfaces; her manifestations always come unbidden.

When I compare her to the adorable Otsuyu, Omasa becomes nothing at all. Mother becomes even less than nothing.

May 19th

Last night, Rokubei came and we drank until late. Rokubei's way of speaking is rather amusing, isn't it?

“Take Otsuyu as your wife.”

“I suppose taking her wouldn’t be bad.” “I ain’t sayin’ you should take her or not—how can you still have complaints when she dotes on you that much?” “That girl is truly adorable. Why is she so adorable? Ha ha ha ha...” “Over there they’re sayin’ the same—‘Why on earth’s Teacher so dear? Can’t make heads or tails of it,’ they say.” “Indeed—what could possibly be good about a man like me? It’s baffling how Otsuyu dotes on me so unreasonably.” “This is something even I don’t understand.”

“That’s not it—everyone dotes on someone like you, Sensei.” “Otsuyu dotin’ on you ain’t no wonder at all.”

“Ha ha ha ha… Why? Why?” “Well now, if you ask me why… it’s hard to say, but put simply, Sensei, you’re a man who’s known hardship.” “And yet you’ve got your amusing side and your gentle side.” “Drinking like this with you, Sensei, even makes an old man like me want to spin tales of loves from forty years back—and I reckon you’d sit quiet and listen to ’em.” “There ain’t a soul on this island who don’t take a shine to Sensei.” “Otsuyu and I, to start with—” Why is it that I endear myself to old people like this? Speaking of old people, I wonder who the Old Man of Masuya is playing Go with these days.

Rokubei spoke up again.

“Sensei mustn’t have ever taken a wife before.” “How could you know?” “What’s this ‘how’? These old eyes see clear enough.”

"There certainly was one, but she died long ago." "Ah, that's a dreadful thing you've had to endure." "But you know, Rokubei-san, my dead wife wasn't as lovely as Otsuyu. She was nothing at all." "That's unfaithful. You're quite the philanderer yourself, Sensei! The new one's just fine," laughed the old man.

I too merely laughed and didn’t answer. Unfaithfulness or philandering—I know nothing of such matters. Otsuyu is adorable. Omasa was pitiable. This isn’t just drunken rambling, but marriage isn’t such a difficult thing. As for Omasa in particular—that was because the Old Man of Masuya gave her to me; because he gave her, I took her; and because I took her, a child came to be. Mother is the same way—because she gave birth to me, she’s my mother; because she’s my mother, she raised me. If there’s parental affection, they’re truly parent and child; if there’s none, they’re strangers. It’s laughable to complain about severing parent-child ties while having stolen a hundred yen. They were strangers from the start.

I never got along with Mother since childhood. Mother too showed me scant affection.

Tomorrow is Sunday. We had arranged to set out by boat with a group of four or five, but I wanted to bring Otsuyu along.

Taiga Imazo’s diary ended here.

The following day, he accidentally fell from the boat and ultimately drowned. Yielding to drunkenness, he rose and danced wildly, then suddenly peered into the water's surface; repeatedly crying "Omasa! Omasa!" he plunged down headlong—so it is told.

Last year, the reporter returned home and met an old friend who was an elementary school teacher; this diary had been secretly kept in his possession. On Umajima there was a pitiable girl who gave birth to a child four months after Taiga’s death; this was Taiga’s flesh and blood, and the girl was none other than Otsuyu.

According to further accounts from my friend: though Otsuyu was no beauty, her eyes overflowed with a power to move people; though petite, she possessed a robust physique. Many island youths had secretly competed to win her favor, yet once the maiden’s heart shifted to Taiga, they all celebrated this for his sake without a trace of jealousy—so it is said. Otsuyu lived for the child; the child was held by many islanders; Taiga attained his wish and came to rest in a dark, pine-shaded graveyard deep within the island.

Through the unfortunate Taiga’s diary, this reporter finds himself unable to grasp the totality of Taiga’s being, for the diary was written by Taiga himself, and yet within its pages he scarcely chronicles his life on Umajima. Therefore, in understanding him, we must not only come to know his past through his diary but also infer his daily life on Umajima.

The reporter could only point to him and call him "an unfortunate man," unable to bring himself to say more; he too, pitying himself, would often exclaim, "Ah, what an unfortunate man!" Diary in Liquor was the title Taiga himself had given it. To title it Diary in Liquor was itself pitiable; how much more so when in reality he took up his brush solely in drunkenness. When reading this diary, what one must particularly remember is indeed this very fact. Omasa carried the child on her back and preceded him; Otsuyu was left behind by him and carried the child. Which was the misfortune; what was the tragedy?