Pathway to Japanese Literature

May 3rd (Meiji 30)

"It’s a common occurrence—when four or five people gather and past stories come up, the conversation inevitably shifts to those who vanished without a trace."

This Taiga Imazo—perhaps even now he was being gossiped about in just that manner. “By the way, what ever became of Taiga?” cut in the old man from Masuya.

“He’s probably dead already,” someone replied disinterestedly. “There’s truly no one more pitiable than that man,” the old man said in his usual plaintive voice. It was kind of him to pity me. But whether by fortune or misfortune, the man called Taiga still lived—indeed remained in robust health—who knew how many more decades he would keep drawing breath in this world. Though it might seem impertinent, I was still thirty-two. You could never have imagined it—that I had become one among a population of 123 on this tiny island called Mshima, teaching twenty-odd children as a teacher still, though now at a private school, drilling them in the ABCs. This ignorance was only natural—even I, who spoke these words, had never dreamt my existence would drift like flotsam to this unimaginable island and take root in such a life.

Speak of the devil—if I were to suddenly appear before them, the Old Man from Masuya would be so shocked his gaping mouth might never close.

“What on earth has become of you?” he finally managed to say. After talking for about an hour, he’d be shocked again—this time in his gut. “What on earth has happened to this man? In five years without seeing him, even his entire bearing has changed completely.” There’s good reason you shouldn’t be surprised. First of all, the very fact that I—who had never kept a diary—now found myself diligently scrawling with a brush to jot down every mundane incident from the life of an inconsequential man like myself, beginning today with whatever came to mind—this alone proved I was no longer the Taiga of five years past.

Ah, how carefree I am now. This island and its people have grown completely to my liking. That there exists such an island in the Seto Inland Sea allowing a man like me to live carefree at all makes me want to declare this very moment a chapter from a dream story. When I write while drinking sake, my hand trembles slightly—a nuisance. Yet if I were to write without drinking, my heart might quake instead. "Ah, what a weak man I am!" Where have I changed? This must be my true self after all.

Because my sweet, sweet Otsuyu has come to visit, I’ll put down my brush for today.

May 4th

The day I received one hundred yen from the Old Man from Masuya and put it away in the desk drawer was an unforgettable October 25th. The beginning of it all was this day, and ever since, every time this date comes around, I cringe and shut my eyes. I had tried not to recall the events of that day as much as possible, but now I am unfazed. The incident floats vividly before my eyes. In those days I was a serious man—though I could drink sake, I abstained, upright and honest, indeed a rigidly upright man.

The old men were completely taken with me. Taiga this, Taiga that. When it came to matters at Yagumo Public Elementary School, not even the purchase of a single bamboo broom could be decided without Taiga. In my second year as principal, the Old Man from Masuya finally went so far as to arrange a wife for me—and so I took Omasa as my wife. A child was born. Both Omasa and the child were sickly; I alone remained healthy. Even so, our household lived peacefully—though there were no particularly exciting events to speak of, neither were there any real worries to trouble us.

But then came the Sino-Japanese War—continuous victories, "Long live the military!" An auspicious time when unless one was military personnel, neither night nor day would pass without celebration—and then my mother and sister became corrupted.

Mother and sister found living with us as a married couple too cramped and opened a boarding house in Shinmachi, Akasaka Ward—not an official establishment but rather an amateur lodging operation. They put on airs of respectability, claiming that since their house was spacious and they were idle anyway, it was merely about looking after young men, though they made a point of announcing they’d refuse anyone of dubious character. I myself found the whole affair disagreeable and repeatedly tried to stop them, but my inherently stubborn mother and willful sister—the latter having been spoiled by Mother, trained even in the shamisen, and successfully transformed into a degenerate—dismissed my concerns from the outset with their remark that it should be acceptable as long as they didn’t become a burden on me.

Half a year passed without any major incident, and with the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War, soldiers began lodging there. At first, a single non-commissioned officer. This became the fuse—like attracting like—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 it was the fault of “military personnel as pillars of the state” or of my mother and sister was no longer a question worth debating by then. There remained only one immutable fact: all parents with daughters—be they nobility, wealthy elites, government officials, or merchants—harbored a fervent desire to have a military man as their son-in-law.

As for daughters, they seemed to think keeping military men as paramours was rather something to boast of. As for military men—they being military men—particularly those below non-commissioned rank appeared convinced that toying not just with daughters and widows but even others' wives was both their natural right and civic duty. "Lend three yen," "lend five yen"—Mother had begun pressing me. I strove to meet these demands, devising means to provide despite the strain.

My monthly salary was fifteen yen. With that, we three managed to subsist. How could there be any room for surplus? The era commanded that elementary school teachers eat their three meals with burnt salt or similar meager fare so they might instruct children aged seven to fourteen in classrooms to revere military personnel as pillars of the state. I obeyed this decree without question. Yet when I considered how Mother and Sister had surrendered their virtue to those military Excellencies—and how from these same fifteen yen I must carve five here, three there for their drunken revelries—even my obliging nature found itself thoroughly confounded.

The sake was beginning to wear off! I’ll stop here for today.

May 6th Yesterday three or four young people came crowding in; we drank until past midnight, and they bellowed out songs in raspy voices until I became exhausted. Without knowing when I fell asleep, night turned to dawn and now today has come. That’s why I skipped yesterday’s diary entry. What a carefree teacher. Whether I drink sake or sing, dote on Otsuyu and take her to bed—there’s not a soul on this island who fusses over whether that disqualifies me as a teacher. In exchange for not particularly respecting me—if there’s fish then fish; if there’s vegetables then vegetables—someone leaves them tossed in the kitchen without anyone knowing who brought them. There’s even an old man who comes carrying a one-sho tokkuri and says “Teacher—if you’ll pardon my forwardness—this isn’t local brew! Why don’t you try drinking it with Otsuyu’s serving?” before leaving it on the veranda.

Ah, how carefree! How free! I need no mother, no sister, no wife or child. No desires, no gains. And yet isn’t it strange that Otsuyu should be so unreasonably dear?

What’s so strange about that? She’s dear because she’s dear—with Otsuyu, I could die anytime.

Ten days ago, I stepped onto the veranda to gaze at the moon. Looking down at the sea—hazy like a mist-laden lake—while drinking sake poured by Otsuyu, I suddenly recalled my dead wife and child, my mother and sister in Tokyo, and pondered this transient existence of mine. Unaware, I shed tears. Otsuyu watched me, her bell-shaped eyes brimming with tears. Before that time, I had never shown Otsuyu my tears, nor had Otsuyu ever shown me hers. What an endearing girl she was—that despite this Taiga with his gimlet eyes and simian countenance having some peculiar quality about him—she would cling to him morning and night, pitifully bestowing every kindness her maidenly heart could muster.

Miyoshi, born wild to this soil, made no complaint—but now there remained nothing to desire beyond this island that held neither glorious history nor military men standing as bulwarks of the state. To be born upon this island and die upon this island; to join those sleeping in yon quiet graveyard where winds now wail through mountain shadows—this alone I wished: to become this land’s very earth.

When Rokubei told me, "Take Otsuyu as your wife and become one of us islanders—even if you never lift a finger, we'll provide for you all your life," I felt such mingled joy and wretchedness that tears nearly came. And looking about me now, perhaps some shadow of misery clings to my surroundings, naturally drawing others' pity. In my nature there lies somewhere a sociable quality—perhaps this allows me to receive affection from both myself and others.

In any case, my nature lacks any resolute core that would allow me to decisively oppose others—there are many instances where even when feeling something in my heart, I cannot act upon it. Ah, what a pitiful, utterly wretched man! That I ultimately failed to stop the boarding house matter I had deemed ill-advised for Mother and Sister was only natural. Knowing full well of Mother and Sister’s shameful degradation yet being unable to bring myself to speak out—and even had I spoken out, being incapable of opposing them—this too was only natural. That through my strained financial juggling I reluctantly offered up funds for Mother and Sister’s debaucheries—this again was only natural.

It was the evening of the 24th when Mother’s letter came demanding I urgently procure five yen by the afternoon of the following day—the 25th—as she would be arriving then; I found myself heaving a sigh before the oblong brazier, remaining seated with folded hands and bowed head.

“What’s wrong?” my ailing wife asked in alarm.

“Take a look at this,” I said as I handed the letter to my wife. My wife had been watching, but she too remained silent, sighed, and set the letter down. “Why does she keep making such unreasonable demands?” “Well…” “We have not a single sen left, do we?” “There’s just about one yen left.” “Even if we have that, handing it over would put our household in a bind. It’s fine. When Mother comes tomorrow, I’ll firmly refuse. If we keep yielding like this, we’ll be ruined too. If it were for some proper purpose today—like sustaining Mother and Mitsu’s meager lives—I’d go into debt or pawn our clothes to scrape together five or three yen through my own efforts. But this is money for pandering to soldiers or gods know what! Fine—tomorrow I’ll speak my mind outright. If she won’t listen, I’ll tell her to do as she damn well pleases!”

“You mustn’t say that.” “Why shouldn’t I? I’ll say it—tomorrow I’ll say it for sure!” “But you know how Mother is—she’ll start shouting again without fail. If the neighbors hear, it’ll damage our reputation. And then, if you declare something decisive like that, I’ll be the one resented. Even without that, she already goes around saying we had to separate against our will and live in this wretched boarding house because she can’t stand me.” By now Omasa’s voice had turned tearful.

“But in reality, even if Mother comes tomorrow, there’s no money to give her, is there?” “I will manage it by tomorrow noon.”

“If you can manage it that easily, then I could probably do something about it too—but wouldn’t that actually be impossible to handle?”

“Please, just this once, leave it to me. I’ll manage somehow,” she said. I did not press the argument, mustered my despondent mood to handle a small amount of renovation paperwork, and went to bed.

May 7th

Just when I thought I had dozed off, I suddenly awoke—no, it wasn’t that I awoke, but rather that a terrifying force reached up from the depths of darkness and shook me awake.

Around that time, I was the chairman overseeing the school renovations. Even with six committee members apart from me, most were nominal in their roles, and apart from me, only the old man from Masuya truly devoted himself to the work. I took the lead in handling everything from the budget to donations, enduring the hardships. From acquiring land and negotiating its price to haggling with contractors, collecting allocated donations, and managing cash—all these tasks fell to me, so the abacus remained perpetually on my desk. My innate disposition made it impossible to keep up with everything, and just as worries plagued me from dawn till dusk, there came the matter of Mother and Sister’s corruption. Perhaps particularly due to the recent unreasonable demands from Mother that plagued my mind, that night I slept fitfully, seeing nothing but strange dreams—to the point where even I myself could not discern whether I was asleep or awake.

I awoke to what I thought was a noise. Thinking it must be an intruder, I half-rose and peered frantically about, but found no sign of anyone in the silent darkness. Was this dream or reality? My mind churned too chaotically to tell. An unspeakable terror surged through my limbs—remaining abed became impossible. With resolve, I sat upright. The sliding door to the adjacent eight-mat room stood deliberately cracked open, yet the bean-sized oil lamp's glow failed to pierce even that threshold, leaving the space beyond in absolute blackness. Even my own six-mat room lay smothered under the sooty ceiling's shadowed embrace, as though veiled in clinging mist.

My wife Omasa lay fast asleep, while beside her two-year-old Tasuke pressed his face into a small pillow and thrust his adorable hand unhesitatingly beneath his mother’s cheek. Omasa’s pallor. Even in daylight her face was deathly pale and devoid of color—by night, one might mistake her for a corpse. Her disheveled hair fell across her cheeks; the flesh of her cheeks had slightly hollowed, betraying both her frail health and the many troubles weighing on her mind. I walked soundlessly to the pillow and took up the bean-sized oil lamp atop the oblong brazier.

The reason I stood there for a while, straining my ears without hearing anything, was that I still doubted whether it was necessary to inspect the eight-mat room. Yet I had distinctly heard the sound of a chest being opened; I had heard the shoji sliding open smoothly. Uncertain whether it was dream or reality, I crept into the eight-mat room on stealthy feet 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 oil lamp aloft and scrutinized every corner of the pitch darkness; my eyes caught on a black cloth-wrapped bundle half-emerging from beside the hearth. Suspicious, I opened it to find a single woman’s obi.

No wonder—this was Omasa’s sole obi for outings, the very item the old man from Masuya had specially gifted her in celebration. Why would she hide this here? After waiting until I fell asleep, Omasa had quietly taken this obi from the chest—when I realized she meant to bring it to the pawnshop at dawn to get money for Mother, I found myself unable to wipe away the tears streaming down my cheeks.

I wrapped the obi back in the cloth and returned it to its original place, then went back to the bedroom and sat before the long brazier, sinking into thought as I smoked tobacco. A strange, wretched thought arose within me: Could I truly be that mother’s biological child? In reality, my temperament and the dispositions of Mother and Sister were entirely different. However, since I had parted from Father at age ten, I could not know whether I had been born with a disposition resembling his. From what I dimly recalled, Father had been a gentle man who never harshly scolded Mother or me. I remembered being scolded by Mother and tied to a pillar, only for Father to come untie me. I recalled how Mother had redirected her anger toward Father and spoken harshly at that time; my thoughts linked from Father to Mother and onward until I found myself contemplating parental love, fraternal love, marital love—and felt as though I had touched upon some profound secret of human emotion previously unknown to me.

Omasa was pitiful, Tasuke was dear, Father was longed-for and cherished; Mother and Mitsu were both wicked yet pitiable. When recalling childhood times, they became nostalgic too. Suddenly remembering the donation money brought unbearable anxiety—even considering the gravel needed for the playground—until my head spun dizzily and consciousness grew faint, yet my nerves burned restlessly somewhere... Ah! Why didn't I drink sake at that time? Why didn’t I drink this sake that I now down with a click of my tongue—this sake that intoxicates when drunk and brings joy when intoxicated?

May 8th

When October twenty-fifth arrived—a cursed day for me.

I woke in the morning and, since it was Sunday, did not hurry through breakfast. Carrying the child, I went out to the garden. As I wandered about there in idle stroll, I considered whether I should broach the matter of the obi myself and put a stop to it.

But even if I tried to stop her, I couldn't manage to procure the money myself, and yet outright refusing Mother was something my wife would have stopped me from doing. In other words, I resolved to keep up a pretense of ignorance and leave my wife to act as she would.

As soon as I finished breakfast and sat down at my desk to work on the renovation matters, the old man from Masuya called out to me from outside the hedge. “Good morning,” he said as he came around to the veranda. “Working first thing in the morning, eh?” “Even my precious Sundays are being consumed by work these days.” “Ha ha ha ha! You’ll have time for leisure soon enough. Once the school’s splendidly built, I’d like to have a proper game—I’ve been looking forward to that already.” The old man sat down and took out his kiseru pipe. The old man and I, along with villagers, townspeople, a substitute doctor at the branch office, a police officer at the local station, and five or six others, were companions in casual Go games—a pastime played with bamboo sieves. Masuya and I especially would compete in leisurely matches whenever time allowed, delighting in these contests. But since the renovation uproar began, while others might manage occasional games, I myself could no longer indulge even in Go—my sole cherished pastime above all else.

“It seems I won’t be able to play a full game next month either.” “But winter break itself will soon be upon us.” “The pleasure of playing with braziers at our sides while sipping sweet tea—that’s an entirely different joy,” he said as he produced a newspaper from his pocket and abruptly sobered his expression. “Look at this.”

He opened it and pointed to the telegraph column on the second page. When I looked, it reported a bizarre incident where, on the very day of an elementary school’s new building completion ceremony in a certain region, a corridor railing collapsed, causing forty to fifty children to tumble into the courtyard—two with serious injuries and thirty with minor ones. “How dreadful. What do you suppose happened?” “Haven’t I been saying this all along? Exactly as I said—build cheaply, and this is what happens. Hara and his lot kept spouting nonsense about excessive foundation costs, but with this real-world example before us, there can be no objections. When you gather hundreds of precious children together, it’s only natural to build sturdy upon sturdy. Today I must go show Hara this newspaper.”

“I can’t act recklessly, but this design’s budget is by no means excessive. Given the building’s square footage, eight thousand yen is rather reasonable.” “No—it’s precisely that cheapness I disapprove of. But since our discussions have settled on proceeding with that budget, I suppose they won’t slap together some flimsy, hazardous thing where railings collapse straightaway.” He shifted tone abruptly. “Now, about the donations—aren’t there still a couple of large pledges outstanding?”

“There are still about three large pledges remaining.” “In that case, I’ll go make the rounds now.”

“I see. In that case, let us request Lord Ōi.” “They said to send someone over today since they’ll hand it over.”

“It was a hundred yen, wasn’t it?” pressed the old man for confirmation. “That’s correct.”

There, as the old man departed to make his rounds to the nearby noble House of Ōi, Omasa returned home from outside, passing him by. While the old man and I had been talking, she had gone to the pawnshop. “Did you manage to get the money?” I asked, maintaining an utterly clueless expression. My wife— “Yes, it’s done,” she said as she took the child down from her back and placed him on her lap. “How did you manage it?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Why must you ask? I’m the one who—” she started to say before letting out a desolate smile.

“That’s right—since I’ve left it to you… By the way, when Mother comes, why don’t we try telling her to stop the boarding house and live together?” “It would be futile even if you were to say so.” “It need not be entirely futile. If I plead earnestly…” “It’s futile. You’ll only upset her further.” “She might take some offense, but if we don’t speak up, who knows what it might lead to.”

“Well... But matters concerning the soldiers would be better if you were to bring them up.” “Surely there’s no need to mention such things at all.”

Before an hour had passed, the old man from Masuya returned. “It went smoothly,” he said as he sat down. “You’ve done well.”

“Yes, indeed—a hundred yen. I handed it over.” “Please verify this,” he said, placing the paper packet before me. “Since today is Sunday and the bank is closed, would you be so kind as to keep this at your residence?” “The security at my residence is inadequate,” I said, but the old man laughed and dismissed my concern,

“It’s fine—just for tonight.” “My place isn’t some liquor store equipped with a safe—hahahahaha!” “When it comes time to be stolen from, my place is no different.” “Assuming Lord Ōi’s matter is settled, who is supposed to visit the remaining two households?”

“I intend to make the rounds this afternoon.”

The old man from Masuya left, and I placed the hundred-yen paper packet into the desk drawer.

May 9th

I am writing about events from five years ago. I am writing about the events of October 25th. I grew sick of it all. I don’t want to write.

But I write. I write while drinking sake. Lately I've been practicing gidayū with the island youths. Right—I'll write while growling through Tamazo. Amusing!

After finishing lunch, I was about to go out when Mother came. I had arranged for her to wait until my return when— A swarthy complexion, eyes like drawn blades, a face that hinted at singular peculiarity—this defined Mother’s countenance. Her frame stood slender and tall where mine fell short. Her speech held force.

When faced with this Mother, my wife became a pitiful creature. While the wife managed a single word, Mother would interject three or five. The wife spoke hesitantly while fidgeting. Mother issued words like military commands. By her third phrase Mother would square up for battle; berated into pallor and diminishment went the wife. It was astonishing how vastly different women could be.

Mother’s arrival.

At the entranceway, where no one had yet uttered even a perfunctory greeting, Mother strode in and planted herself squarely before the long hibachi. “Did the letter arrive?” With those words alone, our spirits were crushed.

“It has arrived,” I answered. “Have you managed to arrange what I asked for?” “I have prepared it,” Omasa said in a small voice. Mother gradually softened her demeanor, “Ah, thank you for that. “I do feel terrible every time,” she said with a gracious smile, “but you see, the payments I’m meant to receive never come through properly either. I know it must trouble you terribly, yet I’ve nowhere else to turn—truly.” Upon closer inspection, Mother’s face was by no means crudely formed. When she maintained a gentle composure and sat with perfect poise, those sword-like eyes of hers instead exuded authority, giving her the air of some noblewoman from a distinguished household.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all,” Omasa said, lowering her eyes and stroking Tasuke’s head. Mother glanced at Tasuke but hardly seemed the type to flatter a grandchild—and indeed was not. Depending on the time and situation, such things could always be managed. “Tasuke’s complexion doesn’t look good at all.” “Since the child is sickly, you must be very careful,” she said, now turning toward me. “How goes things at school?”

“It’s been so terribly busy—it’s quite a bother.” “Today too, I was about to go out regarding the donation funds.” “I see. Please don’t mind me and go ahead. I can’t afford to be idle either, since today is Sunday.” “Ah yes, Sunday was the day many soldiers came,” I remarked offhandedly. Then Mother, perhaps indeed feeling guilty, slightly altered her demeanor, her voice taking on a metallic edge, “Oh, those lodging at our place are all Sergeants, so Sundays aren’t so different from regular days.” “But you see, soldiers come to visit on Sundays, and when we host them properly, we must at least serve them sake in return—so naturally we end up quite occupied.” “Military men always bring such lively business, don’t they?”

“Is that so?” I offered a perfunctory response, which only made Mother grow even more livid. “But isn’t that right, you? It’s because Japan’s military personnel are so splendid that we always win even this war.” “Japan exists because of its military personnel, ne? We like military personnel best, sa.” Given how things were going, I ultimately could not bring myself to propose living together. If there were even rumors about conduct, or if one were to offer admonishing advice, who knows what Mother might have shouted. It was no wonder my wife had tried to stop me.

“I hate schoolteachers—all that dawdling and blinking like some warty frog that missed catching a mosquito!” These were the words she had once hurled at me. Without becoming that warty frog myself, I— “I’ll step out briefly, Madam,” I muttered before slipping away furtively.

What a spineless man I am!

When I think back, it’s no wonder Mother—with her overbearing nature—stole my money and ultimately plunged me into misery’s depths. From the very beginning, we as husband and wife had been overwhelmed by Mother; though we raged at her deeds, resented her, even cursed her, with our own strength alone there was nothing we could do to her. It seems a foregone conclusion that those who don’t drink sake will be crushed by those who do. Just try being who I am now! I’ve grievances enough. “Mother,” I said, glaring sidelong at her profile, “you must favor military men above all others.” Given that it’s Mother—

“My, what an odd thing to say. Repeat it if you dare,” she would press closer, eyes narrowing sharply. “If I’ve offended you, I beg your pardon. Let me offer you one,” I said, presenting a cup. ‘From the grassy shade where Father watches…’ I had meant to continue with that poetic line, but why was I such a blundering fool back then?

Someone passes by the shore, groaning. That melodic phrasing belongs to Yoshitsugu. That fellow’s voice is truly beautiful.

May 10th

I returned from outside around three o'clock. My wife had thrown herself down and was crying. "What's wrong? What happened?" I asked in alarm, but being Omasa, she could only weep without managing to speak. Crying was this woman's nature—she would spill tears over the slightest thing. Yet this time something grave must have occurred, for the more I pressed her with questions, the more she dissolved into tears. At this point I could not help but panic. When I brought water and tended to her, I finally came to understand the details of the matter.

Omasa’s earnest efforts had not sufficiently satisfied Mother. Though it was a prized obi, it had only fetched three yen; with no alternative, Omasa handed these three yen to Mother after departing herself, whereupon Mother flew into a rage.

Their exchange unfolded as follows. “I said five yen!” “But this is all I have at the moment…” “But didn’t you say earlier you had it prepared?” “So I’ve barely managed to prepare three yen…” “Oh, I see.” “So you barely scraped this together for me?” “How pitiful for you, all this trouble I’ve caused.” “This must be money you begged from Shichiya or somewhere.” “I won’t borrow cash you’ve scraped up like this.” “How utterly tiresome.” “Fine then. I’ll wait till Imazo comes back.” “I’ll tell Imazo.”

“No, my husband knows nothing of this…”

“Oh? Imazo doesn’t know?” “Well! So you’re the one who secretly lent it.” “Don’t you lie to me! Lies!” “That Imazo wretch must have told you to send me away with three yen or some such.” “That’s why he went out—to avoid me, I suppose.” “Fine, I’ll wait.” “I’ll even wait until evening for you.” “My husband truly… truly knows nothing of this…” my wife sobbed, unable to form words. “There’s no need to cry.” “You did exactly as your husband told you—what’s wrong with that?” “Hmph. The moment I say anything, you start bawling.” “After all, I’m just a witch—anything I say must seem terrifying to you.”

No matter what was said to her, she could only keep crying—Mother continued her tirade alone. “So if you cannot do it, you should have just said you couldn’t and sent it back.” “I don’t have time to come all the way from Shinmachi to distant Aoyama just to collect a paltry three yen.” “Because you lack backbone and can’t even support one parent and one sister—yet here you are running a boardinghouse operation on the side while teaching children the path of loyalty and filial piety—what a peculiar sort of teacher we have here.” “But you’re fortunate, Omasa-san—even a man who’s unfilial to his parents still dotes on his wife.” “There are women like Mitsu who go so far as catering to soldiers’ whims just to scrape together a meal—so you shouldn’t feel lacking in the least.”

Having exhausted her sarcasm, she sat for a while blowing tobacco smoke, but then looked up at the clock, “Since he’s gone to such lengths to avoid me, he probably won’t be back for a while.” “Let’s go home—I’m a busy woman, you know.” “I have to prepare meals for the guests and—” she suddenly stood up. “I’ll borrow some paper and a brush.” “I’ll leave a note,” she said, going to the desk. At this moment, Tasuke burst into violent tears, so my wife picked him up and went down to the garden outside the hedge; I too, half-crying, was strolling aimlessly trying to put the child to sleep. After a while, Mother suddenly raised her voice

“Omasa-san!” “Omasa-san!” she called out. When my wife stepped up into the tatami room, Mother glared with eyes sharp as blades. “You needn’t run away too.” “Making a fool of me.” “I won’t write any letter—tell him that when he returns.” “I don’t want this three yen either!” She flung down the coins. “I’ll never come again! Let Imazo stay away too! Tell him not to call me mother—I won’t claim him as my son!” In terrible fury Mother stormed out, while my wife remained collapsed in weeping.

Having heard every detail, if it were me now—

“Fine then! If it’s unwanted, I won’t give you even three yen! Stop crying, stop crying. If Mother herself says we’re neither mother nor child anymore, then there’s nothing to be done. You’ll have to stop pushing things beyond reason.” However, back then, I was not like that. When told I was an unfilial child, it weighed on me terribly. To say it weighs on me contains various meanings—there’s social reputation to consider, I seem to lack the primary qualification of a teacher, and thus I find no peace of mind whatsoever. Moreover, I hadn’t known about the three yen either—in that regard, I suppose I’m at fault,

“What a mess,” I muttered, crossing my arms and sighing for some time before “Even though I was the one who arbitrarily started running this boardinghouse, when she says such things, it makes it sound entirely like we’re at fault. Fine, I’ll go tonight and hand over just three yen.”

May 11th

Today from morning the rain falls and wind rises; even this lake-like sea roars with high waves. The mountains roar.

Tonight Otsuyu isn’t coming either. The young man who had been drinking with me until moments ago has already left. I’m pleasantly intoxicated. Yet even drunk like this—I can’t endure this loneliness. In short: I am alone.

What is a person’s life for? I am neither a philosopher nor a religious man, so I know nothing of profound theories—but what I feel in this very moment, this now, is nothing but transience. Life must indeed be something transient. Setting aside logic, the truth itself appears to be something transient. If life were not transient, then no matter what circumstances people might fall into, they should not feel the deep, deep sorrow that I now feel. Parents, children, siblings, friends, society—all these things exist around people to stir their hearts. Distractions exist. What if all these were to vanish, and I lived alone on a desolate island shore like a solitary pine tree standing on a mountain? When the wind rages suddenly, the rain turns the world dark, and the sea howls eerily, could anyone perceive human life—the existence of those dwelling on this earth—as something joyful or hopeful?

Therefore, human compassion is nourishment for people. Just as rice and meat are necessities for people, the affection between parent and child, man and woman, and friends is nourishment for the human heart. This is not a metaphor but a fact.

Therefore, just as one applies fertilizer to land, people create various phrases to nourish these emotions.

Considering this, God has made humans leniently. Humans who are not that have leniently evolved from monkeys. Oh! There’s someone knocking at the door, in this rain. It's Otsuyu. Dear Otsuyu.

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

May 12th

While I was writing desolate thoughts, Otsuyu came, so last night I didn’t start writing the continuation of the main text.

Now then――

If Omasa had been a strong-willed woman, when I said that night I would take three yen and visit Mother, “Since you declared you detested money from pawnshops, there’s no need to take it at all!” she would have proclaimed while shedding bitter tears—but Omasa could not do this. When Mother made cutting remarks and she cried, it was simply crying from sorrow; when I gently comforted her, her heart gradually settled, and there were no further complaints.

Now, Mother stole the hundred yen and left. I now write this dispassionately, but when I opened the desk drawer and found the bundle of hundred-yen notes missing, I could only exclaim “Oh!” and remained utterly speechless. “Didn’t you open this drawer?” “No.” “But I can’t see the bundle of donations I just put in here.”

“Goodness!” The wife turned deathly pale. I panicked and yanked open the second drawer, checking every item inside, but there was nothing—absolutely nothing. “Mother opened it just now to write a note!” “That’s it!” I slapped my knee, feeling as though I’d been doused with cold water from head to toe. The feeling one has in the instant of trying to step off a cliff. For a while, I stared vacantly at the desk drawer, but before I knew it, tears streamed down my cheeks. “Too cruel,” I barely managed to utter. The wife’s spring of tears had run dry; she merely stared at my face, her bloodless lips trembling uncontrollably.

“Then Mother must have…” she began, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand, “Stay quiet, stay quiet,” I said while glancing around. “I’m going to Shinmachi now.”

“But you—”

“No—I’ll go meet Mother and get it back.” “It’s too much, too much.” “Even a parent couldn’t stay silent about this matter?” “But why would she conceive such a wretched thought……” I couldn’t stop the tears. The wife finally burst into tears. The couple, utterly at a loss, could do nothing but weep. Looking back, both Mother’s discarding three yen and her shouting about severing our bond laid bare her true heart. “I’ll go and come right back.” “I can’t turn my own parent into a thief.” “You wait here without worrying—I’ll definitely get it back,” I said while hurriedly preparing, taking my deceased father’s photo from the handbox and tucking it into my pocket.

On a Sunday in late autumn’s lingering warmth, Aoyama’s streets swarmed with crowds; the great sky was crystal clear, the wind blew without raising dust, and people bustled about their leisure—amid this scene, I, a man of misfortune, walked outside as if traversing a dreamscape. Even now, when I recall this moment, I cannot suppress my revulsion toward that metropolis called Tokyo.

When I reached the side of the Crown Prince's Palace, someone suddenly called out, “Taiga-kun! Taiga-kun!” Looking over, I saw it was Saito—another member of the construction committee. With a gentle smile, he approached me, “My deepest apologies—I’ve been completely idle.” “I imagine the donations have mostly been collected by now?” At the mention of donations, I involuntarily flustered. “Mostly collected,” I answered tersely before immediately turning my gaze aside.

“If there are any rounds to make, I can handle them.” I said “Thank you” and hesitated, so Saito looked at me suspiciously, but he said “No, my mistake” and left. He must have looked back after ten steps. I involuntarily shrank my neck.

When I meet Mother, how should I broach the matter? As I drew nearer to Shinmachi, this anxiety grew unbearable. The moment I imagined Mother shouting back at me instead, her fierce expression floated before my eyes, and my legs froze of their own accord. Whenever the thought "If she absolutely refused to return it" arose, I felt as though my chest were being crushed, so I walked on, dismissing the notion again and again. “Taiga Tomi” nameplate. A two-story structure with a lattice door; from appearances, it seemed like the residence of a minor official. With only a woman’s full name on the plaque, it looked like it could even be a moneylender’s establishment. I even considered turning back and conveying my message through a letter, but deeming this a grave matter, I steeled myself and slipped through the lattice door.

May 13th

When I passed through to the kitchen area, Mother was sitting beyond the long brazier, greeting me with a fearsome face. In the iron kettle was a sake bottle. Upstairs, soldiers were in the midst of drinking. But it was quieter than I’d expected—only my sister Mitsu’s frivolous laughter and the accompanying deep voices of two or three men. Mother shot me a piercing glare but said not a word; in a loud voice, “Mitsu, the sake flask is ready,” she called toward the upstairs entrance. “Yes,” Mitsu came downstairs and looked at me,

“Oh, Elder Brother,” she said without laughing, her expression merely one of surprise; decked entirely in red from head to toe, she looked for all the world like nothing but a tavern maid. She was comparing Mother’s fearsome face and my solemn one. “And then, Mother—they said to please bring the sushi.” “I see. How much exactly?”

“How much exactly…” “An approximate amount should suffice.” “And then they also said, ‘Mother, please come in.’” “Ah,” Mother said, fixing Mitsu with a peculiar gaze, but Mitsu simply climbed the stairs without so much as a glance in my direction. I remained sitting still, waiting for Mother to say something. “What did you come here for?” Mother uttered bluntly.

“I apologize for earlier,” I said as calmly as I could manage, my posture betraying nothing. “Not at all. I must have caused you so much worry. Did you even listen to what I told Omasa-san when I left?” she said with icy resentment, rising. “I’m here on the guests’ business—if you have matters, wait.” She disappeared through the kitchen door. I sat arms crossed, brooding. Though my own flesh and blood, I felt wretched acknowledging her vileness. Seeing her resolve, I nearly resolved to make this public. Yet how could a son accuse his mother for stealing from his drawer—even public funds? If neither legal action nor retrieval works, secret compensation alone remains. Even if I managed to falsify accounts to hide a hundred yen from eight thousand, discovery would follow swift. The mere thought of such deceit made my body tremble. And where would I find compensation money?

The more I thought about it, the less I understood what to do. Having resolved that I must retrieve it from Mother by any means necessary, she returned from outside and sat wordlessly across the hibachi. “Well? Did you listen?” she said, picking up her long pipe.

“About what?” I said while looking at Mother’s face. “Well, if you didn’t hear.” “But what exactly is this business of yours?”

I took three yen from my pocket and placed them beside the hibachi, “This is two yen short, but since Omasa went to the trouble of preparing it, please take it. If you don’t…”

“It’s no longer necessary.” “So I too shall never trouble you again.” “You had better not consider someone like me your parent.” “That would be to your benefit, wouldn’t it?”

“Mother… Why must you suddenly deign to say such things?” I inadvertently swallowed my tears.

“If my abruptness in saying it was improper, I apologize.” “That’s right—if I’d said this about a year ago, you all could have been happy.”

What an ironic remark! If it were the present me, I would resolutely— "I see. Very well then." "In that case, since I shall obey your words, I will not regard you as my parent—please do not consider me your child." "For if you were to consider me your child, I fear such a thing might invite extraordinary resentment." "In that regard—today I placed 100 yen in my desk drawer, which disappeared precisely when you returned. Might I inquire whether you perhaps mistook it for scrap paper and slipped it into your sleeve?" Using a voice from the gut, I thrust straight for the vitals.

“What’s this? I won’t stand for you arresting your own parent and calling them a thief!” she intercepted his approach, seizing him as a half-smile played at one corner of her mouth,

“This is outrageous! Shouldn’t the parent-child bond already be severed? Very well—if you refuse to return it, so be it. I shall simply report the aforementioned circumstances,” I bluffed boldly—though even Mother would have half-crumbled at such a declaration—but how could my past self have staged such a performance?

Subjected to her vicious sarcasm, he came to a complete standstill—arms folded, unable to even lift his head for some time as tears trickled down—but “Mother, that is going too far,” he managed feebly—but Mother remained unassailable, “What do you mean ‘too far’? That’s my line.” “The crybabies are all here.” “Not amusing in the least!”

I am undone. Again blocked by her words, but summoning my resolve, I placed my father’s photograph before Mother while— “With Father here as my companion, I humbly make this request.” “Mother... I implore you... please return it. If you don’t... I’ll—” I managed haltingly. Mother’s face immediately twisted in fury,

“Well! What sort of act is this?” “What an absurd thing you’re doing!” “What’s this about your dear father’s photograph?” “Please do not speak in such a way—I beg you to return it. "The item you took today..."

“You’ve been spouting nonsense since earlier—what exactly have I borrowed from you?” “I won’t speak of it to anyone, so please—without deigning to say such things—I beg you to return it. If you don’t, I’ll have no standing left...” Before he could finish pleading, Mother shifted her knees sideways past the hibachi,

“You speak outrageously! So you’re saying I took something from your place today? I won’t let that pass!” she declared, raising her voice as she pressed the attack. “P-Please, not so loud…” I fumbled. “What’s wrong with a loud voice? I’ll make as much noise as I want… Go ahead—say it again.” “If we’re to do this properly, I’ll have Mitsu join us as witness!” she snarled. At that moment, the laughter from the second floor abruptly ceased, and they seemed to be peering down, straining to listen. I was flustered and could not muster a word. As I fidgeted, a voice called from the kitchen doorway: “Your order has arrived.” Mother,

“Mitsu, Mitsu! The sushi’s here,” she called. Mitsu came downstairs. No sooner did the lattice door open than “Good day” came from a sergeant who entered. Casting a sidelong glance at me, “What a feast,” he muttered while eyeing the large plate of sushi Mitsu carried in, then staggered, fell on his backside, and plopped down beside the long hibachi.

“My, what a lovely complexion!” Mother’s eyes, which had been glaring at me moments before, now took on a coquettish glint as she asked, “Where did you—” “Ha ha… That falls under military secrets,” the Sergeant slurred, then added, “I’ll have a cup of tea.” “I’m pouring it right now, aren’t I? Impatient boy,” Mother said as she filled the teacup to the brim, acting as though she had already forgotten my presence. From the second floor came a loud voice, “Otsuka! Otsuka!” “Sergeant, come down here,” Mother called. Sergeant Otsuka looked up,

“Mitsu-san! Mitsu-san!” Outside, the tofu seller’s hawking rang out loudly amidst the bustling energy of the thoroughfare as evening drew near. Just as I suddenly rose to leave—thinking things looked hopeless like this—Mother said in a gentle voice, “You must leave now. “Well, isn’t that just fine?” “Then do come again,” Mother put on airs before the Sergeant. I went outside but couldn’t return home immediately—nor was this a matter I could discuss with anyone—grieving over the calamity that had befallen me as if it were fresh misfortune, walking aimlessly like a hollow man until I came to the reservoir’s edge.

I was utterly at a loss, but I had to somehow settle on a course of action. The day was growing dark and dinner time came, but I had no desire to eat anything.

Noticing a flock of crows gathering in the woods of Sannōdai, he crossed Hiyoshi Bridge intending to sit quietly on a bench there and devise a plan.

Pitiable, wretched Teacher! I want to call it "a shabby figure from behind." Sake, sake—why didn’t I just dash into a soba shop back then and heartily down a bottle or two?

May 14th

Leaning against a bench in the desolate, lifeless shade of the woods—how many hours had I remained motionless? Though day had fully darkened into pitch-black night around me, I noticed nothing at all, merely sitting with arms crossed, heaving sighs from time to time as I sank ever deeper into brooding thought. No practical plans of any use in practice came to mind—in this state I would conjure up various fantasies only to shatter them, then conjure them anew. Fantasy begot fantasy, branch sprouting from branch, with scarcely any end in sight.

From the culmination of a jealous affair, Mother and Mitsu get killed by the Sergeant. When I conjure one such scenario, the tragic spectacle materializes before my eyes—I see Mother and Mitsu drenched in blood, scrambling to flee in vivid detail. “Imazo! Imazo!” Mother cries while fleeing—I leap in to save her, but a soldier grabs hold of me and pins me down... Agh!—the fantasy fractures. When I was carrying 100 yen to deposit at the bank, I contemplated staging a pickpocketing incident to report—yes, resolved to do just that—then suspicion would fall upon me, I’d be taken into custody, Omasa and Tasuke would sicken and die during my detention—my delusions plunged into even more wretched territory.

Visions of the completed school building rose before my eyes—the inauguration ceremony’s spectacle，even Old Man Masuya’s delighted countenance floating into view. Ah，if only I’d possessed a hundred yen! Though monetary matters had never truly vexed me before，now I felt money’s sinister power anew—terrifying，as though encountering it for the first time. Had that hundred yen existed，Mother might never have turned thief. Even had she stolen—were those funds mine now，we husband and wife could have been saved! Such thoughts bred both craving and loathing for money，while kindling envy—nay，bitter hatred—toward those who dwelled untroubled by its grasp. All these acrid sentiments，unknown to Taiga Imazo—that diligent，trustworthy elementary schoolteacher—now surged through him until he blurted，“Ah，how I want money!” and glared fixedly into the forest’s dark maw.

Then came a boisterous mix of men and women, climbing up while horsing around.

“You must be lonely here. Let’s return.” “There’s no point staying here any longer.” The woman’s voice was unmistakably Mitsu’s. I started in surprise and tried to rise, but as they approached immediately, I remained motionless and kept watch on their movements. The people seemed completely unaware that someone was here. He looked expecting Mother to be there if Mitsu was present, but the woman was Mitsu alone, and the men were two. “Hey, let’s go home already—Mother’s waiting,” came a saccharine voice.

“Why didn’t Mother come out together? Don’t you know?” said one man. “She said she had a headache or something,” whereupon the three suddenly began whispering in hushed voices, then burst into laughter simultaneously as one shouted “Heave-ho!” and clapped his hands. Uninteresting things clung to me everywhere. As soon as the three passed by, I clicked my tongue, stood up, and hurriedly descended the mountain to emerge onto the main street.

Resolved to settle this matter somehow by tomorrow—on one front by pleading earnestly with Mother through a letter once more, on another by discussing thoroughly with my wife what final measures to take when matters came to a head—I reluctantly made my way past the side of Tōgū Gosho, followed the embankment turning right, and emerged onto Aoyama Field. It was quicker to cut across the field.

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

May 15th

There’s no need to detail why I picked up the leather handbag or the precise circumstances of how I did so. I simply picked it up—because it had struck my foot, I picked it up—and when I lifted it to look, it was a leather handbag. As soon as I picked it up—Money! The idea flashed through my mind. I thought I’d seized it—and somehow wondered if it was a dream. This was because back at Sannōdai, when I’d spun various fantasies—though ashamed to even entertain the notion of finding a fortune—that very scenario now appeared to have materialized. The leather bag opened easily.

Three bundles of banknotes, along with other documents inside. When I held this up to the starlight and saw it, at that moment I could only think it must be a dream; I couldn’t bring myself to consider whether I should report it or whether seizing it would be the height of disgrace. In that moment, I simply thought it a gift from heaven. Strange how once one loses the power of conscience, they seem to strive all the more actively to accomplish wrongful deeds—unforeseen grave sins.

I quietly hid this leather bag among the lumber piled beside my house—concealing it skillfully—then slipped a bundle of banknotes into my pocket and entered the house feigning ignorance. The moment she heard my footsteps, my wife sprang up to greet me. She had put Tasuke to bed and lain down to wait anxiously for my return. "How was it?" she asked as soon as she looked at my face. "I retrieved it!" I blurted the moment she asked. This answer too had escaped me unbidden; I uttered the lie without any intention to deceive.

Now that things had come to this, I stood in complete isolation. The self tasked with safeguarding Mother’s secret now had to become confined within my own. “How on earth…?” I parried my wife’s cheerful inquiry with a bitter smile, casually— “I explained everything properly and handed it over,” I said curtly. My wife seemed to want to hear even the details of the situation, but upon seeing my unwilling demeanor, she refrained from probing any deeper, “How worried I must have been! I kept agonizing over what if I hadn’t handed it over,” she said with the joy of having unburdened a thousand-pound weight. I kept one hand in my pocket, clutching the stolen money, but still felt trapped in an unbroken dream, standing there in a daze.

“What about dinner?” “I ate already.” “At Mother’s place?” “Ah.” “You look terribly pale,” my wife said, staring at my face.

“It’s from worrying too much.” “You should go to bed right away.”

“No, I need to check the account books. You go to bed first,” I said, entering the eight-tatami room and sitting at the desk. However, since my wife showed no sign of going to bed easily, “I told you to go to bed already.” I had never before directed such sharp words at my wife. My wife seemed to look at me suspiciously but eventually went to bed. I deliberately went to the brazier once, smoked tobacco, shut the sliding door between the rooms tightly, and finally gained full control over the secret.

I slipped the bundle of banknotes from my breast pocket as if stealing it, but this act must have mirrored how Mother had taken the paper-wrapped money from her desk drawer. A hundred one-yen bills! It was exactly as ordered. My hands trembled as I counted them, and when I finished, I stared fixedly at the oil lamp’s flame. I decided I would deposit this in the bank tomorrow and falsify the account books. Fearing it might be stolen again, I locked it away in the chest, then turned my attention to disposing of the leather handbag. Taking advantage of my wife having fallen asleep, I got into bed pretending not to know a thing.

When I lay in bed with my eyes closed—at such a moment, one might expect some flicker of conscience to awaken—but in reality, none came. For the sole purpose that the demon had cast upon me, a fierce will—no, not conscience—operated coldly as I single-mindedly watched my wife’s breathing. Two hours passed thus, and when twelve o'clock struck, having confirmed that Omasa—her face pale as a corpse—lay motionless, I, who the previous night had slipped out of bed suspecting thieves, now exited the bedroom even more quietly and skillfully than before, like a thief myself, inching the veranda door open bit by bit until I emerged barefoot into the night.

The stars burned with crystalline clarity; the wind lay dead. In the stillness of the autumn night, insects shrilled without cease. What struck me as strange was this: though I had emerged outside at this hour for such a purpose, when I took two or three steps into the night and stood still awhile, the desolate, silent, and solemn spectacle of that autumn night pierced my eyes until every hair on my body stood erect. I still have not forgotten the beauty of the sky from that moment. And when I observed this, it became clear that whether directed toward good or evil, when one's mind is focused and free of distractions, the capacity to receive impressions from external things appears all the keener.

I retrieved the leather bag from between the lumber and carried it without difficulty to the sitting room. When I brought it in and looked, the other two bundles were also stacks of one hundred yen each, which made a total sum of three hundred yen. The documents consisted of receipts and related materials. There was a thin ledger and some business cards. I ascertained that the person who had lost it was one Hyuga of such-and-such town, such-and-such block in Yotsuya Ward—a man engaged in the grain wholesaling business. As is typical when weak-willed individuals commit misdeeds—as though I could not rest until fabricating some excuse—the moment I learned the lost person’s address and name, I immediately crafted an elaborate justification myself and rejoiced as though I had glimpsed a single ray of light.

"I'll just borrow this temporarily! I would borrow it temporarily to save myself from this immediate crisis—whether by retrieving the amount from Mother, devising a way to earn the money myself, or by whatever means necessary—then put the hundred yen I’d taken back into the leather bag and secretly deliver it to its owner. I rejoiced that this was indeed a heaven-sent gift, then set about devising a way to hide the leather bag still containing two hundred yen. However, given how narrow the house was by nature, there could be no separate safe hiding place. After exhausting all considerations, I finally decided to place it in the drawer of the chest that held only my personal documents and school account books, piled more documents on top, and resolved never to let the key leave my person day or night—only then did I feel some measure of relief."

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

May 16th

The unforgettable October 25th had passed. From the next day onward, I resumed my usual classes and reconstruction duties as always; on the surface, nothing changed at all. Mother too said nothing further, and I even abandoned pressing her through letters—and so each day passed uneventfully.

But I am ultimately not a villain, nor am I a man of courage. Precisely because of this, I was pressured by Mother—first turning her into a thief, then ending up a criminal myself. Therefore, having become a thief, it was only natural that I began to torment myself anew. All men like myself follow the same path—if you call it destiny, then destiny it is. A frog remains a frog forever—that is the nature of destiny. There’s nothing strange about it. What one might call a conscience began to raise its head. And then the key I always carried on my person began to torment me unbearably.

What tormented me most was being both a children's teacher and ethics instructor—I had to lecture on loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness; I had to expound on good and evil, right and wrong; I had to solemnly emphasize the importance of consistency between words and deeds. Each time I did so, my heart would grow strangely unsettled. Among the students’ questions, there were ones that occasionally pierced my heart. Among them, I sometimes suspected they might be asking such questions knowing my secret, and there were times when I involuntarily looked at a student’s face only to immediately turn my own away. One day, a child of about ten came.

“Principal! Iwasaki picked up my pencil and won’t return it,” came the complaint. Such matters—claims of finding, losing, or dropping things—being commonplace when gathering numerous children and hardly worth suspicion, yet when suddenly confronted with this complaint, I felt it jolt through my chest. “It’s your own carelessness that made you drop it. Wait here—I’ll call Iwasaki right now.” Uttering this was utterly unlike my usual self, and the child looked at my face in astonishment.

I called over a twelve-year-old student named Iwasaki and asked, “You didn’t happen to pick up a pencil, did you?” He blushed and began fidgeting. “You picked it up, didn’t you? If you find someone else’s property, you ought to bring it straight to me—yet keeping it for yourself is no different from stealing. This is most improper.” I solemnly commanded, “Return that pencil to this person immediately.” Then why was I hiding someone else’s leather bag in my own chest of drawers?

I finished my school duties that day and immediately returned home, where I huddled alone in a room and writhed in torment. I considered turning myself in or resigning from the school. Though I agonized further over choosing between these two options, I could not bring myself to decide on either. I thought of my wife and children after confessing; I thought of my livelihood after resigning—but what moved me more than mere survival was the excruciating regret of abandoning the school renovation I had painstakingly planned, now so splendidly nearing completion.

Therefore, making one hundred yen as soon as possible became my foremost priority, and now I devoted myself entirely to that aim—yet there was no prospect whatsoever. For a primary school teacher, a side job earning a hundred yen was too heavy a burden. I merely indulged in daydreams. When awake, money; when asleep, one hundred yen. One day, I took one of the female students out for a walk in the suburbs. Before that, I would often take three or four students out for walks.

It was a beautiful autumn day, and my body felt light. The girl skipped along four or five steps ahead of me, singing a school song with apparent delight. As the path parted through the field’s pampas grass and rose slightly, my eye caught a paper bundle peeking through the blades. I dashed over, picked it up, and peered inside—a single stack of one hundred yen bills lay within. Flustered, I crammed it into my pocket. Then the student approached: “Teacher! What was that?” “Nothing at all!”

“But what is it?” “Let me see!” “C’mon, let me see!” she pleaded coquettishly, clinging to me. “I said no!” I shoved the girl, and as she started to fall backward, I instinctively cried “Agh!” and tried to catch her—only to jolt awake and realize it was all a dream. I had been dozing in my chair in the teachers’ room after lunch, slumped against its back. Tormented by the need to fill the hole left by the money I had taken, I again picked up cash in a dream. After waking, I felt with terrible clarity the wretchedness of the human heart.

May 17th My wife Omasa seemed startled by the change in my demeanor. I am not a man who can harbor such torment in his heart without letting the slightest trace show outwardly. Moreover, while at home, I agonized over what would happen if my wife discovered this secret—another source of anguish—and whenever I looked at her face, I would scrutinize her eyes for any sign she might have noticed. Not only was I perpetually glancing about and fidgeting restlessly without finding peace—due to this festering within my heart—but I would sometimes use harsh words toward my wife over trivial matters. There were days I spent in silence, my nature’s defining trait—that gentle affability—all but vanished, while the stubborn, twisted aspects lurking beneath my character remained exposed like jagged rocks after the tide’s retreat. That my wife harbored inner astonishment at this was hardly surprising.

A person whose only merits are gentleness and honesty—there can be nothing more unpleasant than such a one losing those very merits. Like a persimmon stripped of its astringency now beginning to rot—one cannot approach it. That my wife found me unpleasant and eerie, remained perpetually sullen, and occasionally let out sighs that seemed utterly devoid of spirit was by no means unreasonable. Upon seeing this, my heart only rotted all the more. But fate did not long toy with this unfortunate man and woman, deeming November 25th—exactly one month after I hid the leather bag—as our night of reckoning.

That night I went to Kanda on school business and returned home around nine to find my wife sitting before the brazier with Tasuke on her back—her face not so much pale as ghastly. Even when I returned home, she offered no greeting. Around her eyes lingered traces of frantic weeping, unmistakably clear. Seeing this state of affairs, I felt less surprise than dread—less dread than visceral trembling.

“Hey, what’s wrong? “What’s wrong with you?” I pressed urgently, but my wife merely glared at me with those terrifying eyes and uttered not a single word. When I suddenly noticed, the closet containing the chest of drawers stood wide open, its secret drawer half-ajar. I leapt up.

“Who opened this?!” I shouted, grabbing the drawer. “I opened it,” my wife replied calmly. “Why did you open it? How did you open it?” “The committee came asking to borrow the account book, so I opened it and handed it over,” she said, glaring at me. “Why did you hand it over when I wasn’t here? What do you mean you handed it over?!” I bellowed while looking inside the drawer—only to find the leather bag lying there with its mouth left agape.

“You saw this, didn’t you!” I shouted. “But I too am resolved—am resolved!” I bellowed as I slammed the drawer shut, removed the lock, and stormed outside in a furious rage. In a frantic daze, I walked around there until I found myself at Aoyama Field, yet still wandered aimlessly. However, in the end, since my wife had discovered the secret, I truly had no resolve whatsoever. I had shouted out of sheer surprise and yelled out of panic—my rushing outside was nothing more than fleeing.

Therefore, as I walked on, my mind gradually began to calm. Given this situation, I decided to confess everything to my wife and discuss what lay ahead—by doing so, we might even escape the current unpleasantness between us—and hurried back home. Why then hadn’t I consulted her when I brought home the leather bag? I must stop this questioning. This was the essence of Taiga Imazo’s narrative method in all matters. When I returned and looked, my wife was nowhere to be seen. It was only natural she couldn’t be seen—she had died in the back well with Tasuke still strapped to her back.

Omasa had never once opened the compartment where I left the lock undone. Yet at some point she must have deduced from my behavior that there was a secret in the chest of drawers, and when they came requesting the account book, she undoubtedly forced it open under that pretext. The key appeared to be from the clothes chest. How shocked she must have been upon seeing inside the leather bag. No doubt she believed I had stolen its contents. Yet no suicide note was found. Why did she die? Not a soul knows this secret. The old man from Masuya conjectured that Omasa—innately melancholic and sickly, her health ever frail—must have lost her mind because of it. As conjectures from those unaware of my secret go, this comes closest to the mark—her melancholic nature and sickly constitution surely contributed in part. Had this been someone like my mother, suicide would never have occurred.

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 compound my misery—they released me with a three hundred yen severance payment. In truth, whether they would release me or not no longer mattered—I had already lost all strength to do anything. People pitied me, the survivor, more than my dead wife. It was through the initiative of individuals like the Old Man from Masuya that this extraordinary severance payment of three hundred yen came to be expended.

At the funeral of my wife and child, Mother and my sister came. And people found this natural, and the two comported themselves as though it were only natural. When I looked at Mother or my sister, there was no difference from seeing ordinary mourners. When I received the three hundred yen, I felt neither joy nor gratitude, nor even disgust. From this sum, I allocated one hundred yen for funeral expenses, returned one hundred yen to the leather bag, and with the remaining hundred yen plus the money from selling off all household belongings as travel funds, I left Tokyo with detached ease. On the eve of my departure, I secretly delivered that hand-carried leather bag to its owner in Yotsuya.

No one knew when I had left Tokyo or where I had headed; without sending even a single letter to my mother, without so much as a glance at the newly constructed school building—its formalities completed and interior work half-finished—I stole away into the night.

Drifting westward through Osaka, Okayama, and Hiroshima, I finally washed ashore on this island last spring.

After my wife and child’s drowning deaths, I became a senseless husk and left Tokyo—who could count how many times I’ve thought of suicide since then? To secure food and clothing, I engaged in sundry labors, encountered all manner of people and events, been battered by rain and buffeted by wind, wept over bygone days and agonized over the present—and thus, as five years flowed ceaselessly though mired in stagnation, they forged this current self of mine: a man like a mass of bubbles, like porous pumice stone. Until three years ago, the cries of my dead infant would frequently catch in my ears, and the ghastly figure of my pale wife drenched in water would flicker before my eyes, but thanks to sake, I finally managed to drive them away. Even now, when I suddenly wake in the dead of night—the sake mostly worn off—there are times when Omasa appears before my eyes, spinning round and round with our child strapped to her back, drawing near then receding until she finally vanishes into the darkness. However, it isn’t particularly frightening. Omasa now only shows me her profile. I imagine she’ll soon turn toward that direction and vanish for good. The strange thing is that whenever I earnestly think of Omasa, her wretched form never appears before my eyes—it always manifests suddenly.

Compared to adorable Otsuyu, Omasa was nothing. Mother was even less than nothing.

May 19th

Last night, Rokubei came and we drank until late. Isn't Rokubei's way of speaking amusing?

“You should take Otsuyu as your wife.” “I could take her as my wife, I suppose.” “I ain’t sayin’ you gotta keep ’em forever—when she’s that sweet on ya, you still got complaints?” “That woman is truly adorable. Why is she so adorable? Ha ha ha ha...” “She’s been saying things like that too—I tell ya, I can’t figure out why Teacher’s so adorable.” “Yes indeed—Otsuyu dotes on me so inexplicably despite being the sort of man I am, which is truly baffling.” “This is something even I don’t understand.”

“That ain’t so—anyone would dote on a man like you, Teacher, I tell ya.” “No wonder Otsuyu dotes on you—no force needed there.” “Ha ha ha ha! Why? Why?” “When you ask me why—I tell ya—it’s a bit awkward to explain, but put simply, Teacher here’s a man who’s known hardship.” “And yet you’ve got your amusing side and your kind side, I tell ya.” “Drinking like this with you, Teacher—why, even an old man like me gets tempted to spin some tale of romance from forty years back. Reckon you’d just sit quiet and listen to it, wouldn’t ya?” “Ain’t a soul on this whole island who likes Teacher ’cept...” “...’cept Otsuyu and me, to start with.”

Why on earth does an old man take a liking to me? Speaking of old men, I wonder who the old man from Masuya might be playing go against at this hour. Rokubei spoke again: "You must have had a wife once." "How would you know?" "How'd I know? That's plain to an old man's eyes, I tell ya." "There certainly was one, but she died long ago." "Ah, that's a pitiful thing to have happened." "But listen, Rokubei-san—my dead wife wasn't half as lovely as Otsuyu. She amounted to nothing at all."

“That’s unfaithful.” “Teacher’s quite the philanderer, ain’t he? Taken a shine to the new one,” the old man laughed.

I too simply laughed and did not answer. Unfaithfulness or philandering—I don’t know which it is. Otsuyu is adorable. Omasa is pitiable.

Though this wasn’t mere drunken rambling, the bond between husband and wife wasn’t particularly precious. As for Omasa in particular—that was because the Old Man from Masuya gave her to me; because he gave her I took her; because I took her a child came to be. Mother was the same—because she gave birth to me she was my mother; because she was my mother she raised me. Where parental affection exists they are true parent and child; where it does not they are strangers. It was absurd how she complained about severing the parent-child bond while having stolen a hundred yen and kept it. We were strangers from the very beginning.

I never got along with Mother since childhood. Mother too had little affection for me.

Tomorrow was Sunday. We had agreed to push off by boat with four or five of us together，but I wanted to bring Otsuyu along.

The diary of Taiga Imazo ended here.

He accidentally fell from the boat the next day and met his end by drowning. Drunkenly rising to dance, he suddenly peered into the water’s surface, cried “Omasa! Omasa!” again and again, and thus plunged to his demise.

The reporter returned home last year and met an old friend who was an elementary school teacher; this diary had been kept secret in his possession. On Mshima Island 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 Otsuyu. According to further accounts from the friend, Otsuyu was no beauty, yet her eyes brimmed with a compelling force, her petite frame housing a robust physique. Many of the island’s young men had secretly vied to win her favor, yet when her heart shifted to Taiga, they all celebrated his fortune without a trace of jealousy.

Otsuyu lives for the child, the child is held by several islanders, and Taiga, having achieved his desired end, rests in a shadowy graveyard deep within the island's interior. The reporter reflected that through the unfortunate Taiga’s diary, one could not know the entirety of Taiga, for the diary was written by Taiga himself, and moreover, it scarcely recorded his life on Mshima Island. Therefore, we must not only come to know his past through his diary but also infer his daily life on Mshima Island.

The reporter referred to him only as "that unfortunate man," unable to bring himself to say more, while he too pitied himself, often exclaiming, "Ah, what an unfortunate man I am!" The title "Sake Diary" was one Taiga himself had chosen. To have titled it 'Sake Diary' was already tragic—how much more so when in reality he only ever took up his brush in drunkenness. When reading this diary, what one must particularly remember is indeed this very fact. Omasa bore the child on her back and preceded him; Otsuyu was left behind by him and bore the child on her back. Which was the misfortune? What was the tragedy?