Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kunikida Doppo

I

As autumn deepened and winter drew near, every seaside area inevitably grew desolate—Kamakura being no exception. For those like me who lived there year-round, even when going down to the shore, one would see only village children, fishing hamlet youths, men hauling seine nets, or peddlers moving along the beach; sightings of what might be called city people were rare indeed.

One day, following my usual routine, I went for a walk along the Namegawa River and climbed the sand hill. To my surprise, the north wind bit into me so sharply that I immediately descended to the base. Scanning the area for a sunny spot where I could stretch out and read my book comfortably proved futile. After wandering about searching here and there, I finally discovered one particularly intriguing place.

The sand hill had partially collapsed, its roots barely holding it together, leaving the area beneath like a cliff. I sat at its base with my legs stretched out, my back leaning against the sand hill behind me and my right arm resting on a small elevation beside me—it felt as though I were reclining in a sofa chair, truly a pleasant spot.

I took out the novel I had brought from my pocket and began reading leisurely. The sun shone warmly while the sky stretched clear and high above—no sea visible from here, no human voices audible save for the calm, heavy sound of waves rolling along the shore—and all around lay in perfect stillness. Before I knew it, my mind became wholly absorbed in the book.

However, when I absentmindedly raised my head at what seemed to be a sudden noise, there stood a person about four or five ken away from me.
I hadn’t noticed when he had come here or from where he had appeared, so he seemed to have welled up from beneath the earth. Startled, I looked closely: a man around thirty years old with an oblong face and a high nose, his stature slender yet robust. His attire and bearing made it clear at a glance—he was either someone staying at a villa or a gentleman lodging at an inn.

Seeing the rigidly fixed stare he directed at me as he stood there, I grew even more startled and suspicious.
Eyes burning with rage toward an enemy? Yet their fire seemed feeble.
Eyes clouded by suspicion of others? Yet their gleam appeared dulled.
For eyes that merely gazed vacantly elsewhere, they held a disquieting sharpness.

Deeming him a strange fellow, I stared back momentarily until he abruptly lowered his gaze to the sand and commenced walking away with measured, silent steps.
Yet rather than quit this hollow, he merely loitered around its periphery while periodically fixing me with that fearsome stare. The utter abnormality of his bearing unsettled me so profoundly that I resolved to relocate. Having risen and ascended the sand hill's crest, I turned to look back—and lo! That uncanny man had already flung himself down exactly where I had been seated!
Though I anticipated him watching my departure, there he remained—knees drawn upright, arms folded across them, face plunged deep between his sleeves.

Intrigued by his strange behavior, I resolved to observe him closely. Beneath a small bush where rabbits might hide, I spread dried grass and crouched low, pretending to read my book while occasionally lifting my head to peer at the man.

He did not raise his face for some time.
However——not waiting even ten minutes for me——like an invalid rising weakly yet purposefully, once upright he immediately turned about-face toward the sand hill’s precipice and began digging at its base with his right hand.
What emerged was an enormous jug; producing a handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe away clinging sand before drawing forth a diminutive Western-style cup from those same folds——uncorking——pouring——three——four swift successive draughts swallowed——then setting down the vessel soundlessly——cup remaining clutched——head tilting back imperiously——eyes fixed upon heaven’s expanse.

And then he drank another cup.
And then, when he abruptly turned his gaze toward me, he came striding over with the Western-style cup still in hand; the vigor in his stride was entirely different from his previous demeanor.

I was so startled that I thought about running away.
However, upon immediately reconsidering and lying there motionless, he soon came to my side, wearing a strange smile while—

“Did you see what I just did?”

The voice that had spoken was slightly hoarse.

“I saw it,” I answered clearly.

“Do you think it’s acceptable to spy on others’ secrets?” he said, deepening his increasingly peculiar smile.

“I don’t think it is.”

“Then why did you spy on my secret?”
“I have the freedom to read books here.”

“That’s a separate issue,” he said, briefly casting his eyes on my book.

“It is not a separate issue.”
“Whatever you do and whatever I do, as long as it doesn’t harm others, we’re each free to act as we please.”
“If you have a secret, then you should first keep it to yourself.”

He suddenly grew restless, scratching his head with his left hand as if tousling his hair while,

“Yes, yes.”
“But that is the utmost secret I can manage,” he said, then fell silent for a while, looking dejected.
“I was wrong to blame you, but could you please keep what you just saw a secret?”
“If it’s your request, I’ll keep it secret.”
“It’s not particularly something I’m involved in.”
“Thank you very much.”
“That put my mind at ease.”
“No, I truly must apologize for hastily confronting you like that...” His demeanor had completely transformed from his initial intimidating bluster into this feeble apology. Seeing this, I too felt pity,

“There’s no need to apologize like that. Truthfully, I also came here to spy on what you were doing because there was something undeniably suspicious about how you stood there earlier, staring only at me.”
“After all, I was spying on you.”
“But if his matter is your secret, I will firmly keep that secret, so rest assured.”

He remained silent, staring at my face.

"You're surely someone who'll keep it," he said, his voice quivering.

"How about accepting a cup from me?"

"Is it liquor? If it's liquor, I shouldn't drink."

"You shouldn't drink!"
"You shouldn't drink!"
"Naturally you shouldn't!"
"If I could stop drinking altogether, I too would abstain."
"But I do drink."
"That's my secret."
"How about this—isn't our talking here some twist of fate? A warped destiny, an uncanny bond... Won't you take a cup from my secret store? Eh? How about it—won't you accept?" Every cadence of his speech, every tremor in his voice, the look in his eyes and pallor of his face—all seemed to shroud some immense, agonizing secret.

“Very well. Then I shall partake in one cup.” As soon as I answered, he immediately turned and led the way back to the original spot, so I followed behind him.

II

“This is premium brandy.”
“Though I’m no judge of quality myself, when I went up to Tokyo the other day, I secretly bought three bottles of their finest at Kameya in Ginza and stashed them here. I’ve already finished one and thrown the empty jar into the Namekawa River.”
“This is the second bottle. There’s still one buried in this sand. When they’re gone, I’ll buy more.”

I accepted the cup he offered, sipping it little by little as I listened to his words, but the more I listened, the more I found myself unable to suppress my growing suspicion of him. But I never thought to pry into his secret.

"So when I came here earlier and saw—to my surprise—that you had already occupied this spot," he said with a smile, "I was astonished. What an outrageous person, violating my alcohol stash and stealing my drinking mat while calmly reading a book! That’s why I stayed here staring at you instead of leaving." In his eyes flickered a glimpse of the kind, honest nature buried deep within him, which only made him appear all the more pitiable to me. Thus I too forced a smile,

“Of course you would. Otherwise there’d be no reason for you to look at me with such eyes—so full of resentment.”

“No resentment—shame,” he corrected. “Ah! To think even the liquor I’d hidden would end up crushed beneath some stranger’s backside someday—is that my cursed fate?” His laugh held no mirth. “Though ‘cursed’ sounds too grand—I lack the vigor for proper damnation.” The brandy jar trembled in his grip as he leaned closer. “Fate’s cursing me—don’t you think? This... thing we call fate.” He hoisted the jar higher, its shadow slicing across his hollow cheeks. “Another?”

“No, I’ll have no more,” I said, returning the cup to him. “I am no fatalist.”

He poured his own drink, drank it, and exhaled the scent of alcohol,

“Then are you a believer in chance?”

“I believe solely in the law of cause and effect.”

“But those causes stem from human power, and not only do their results come raining down upon us—there are many cases where humans receive results caused by forces beyond their power. At such times, don’t you sense fate—a force beyond human power?”

“I feel it—but it is a natural force.”
“And since I believe that nature operates solely through the law of cause and effect, I cannot attribute its power to something as mystical as fate.”

“I see, I see. Understood.”
“So you hold the view that the universe holds no mysteries—in short, that the meaning of life within this cosmos is utterly plain and clear to you. Your mind operates on two plus two equals four, and everything adds up neatly.”
“Your universe isn’t three-dimensional—it’s a flat plane.”
“To you, even the fact of infinity—boundless and endless—is no immediate, monumental truth that stirs wonder, dread, or contemplation. You’re just another comrade of those mathematicians trying to reduce the infinite to equations with endless numbers.” He let out an anguished sigh, his tone icy and mocking,

“But in truth, you are the fortunate one.”
“In my words, you are one blessed by fate; in your words, I am a man bearing the brunt of unfortunate consequences.”

“Well then, I’ll take my leave here,” I said as I stood up. Then he stopped me in a fluster, saying, “W-wait—are you angry? If what I said offended you, I beg your pardon. You see—it’s just that I torment myself with all sorts of foolish, pointless thoughts of my own making, so I end up rambling without discretion. No—I’ve never spoken of such things to anyone before. But somehow I felt compelled to tell you—so I spouted my selfish fervor without restraint, though you may laugh at me for it. To me, it still feels as though some mysterious fate has bound you and me together. If you think me an unfortunate man… won’t you speak with me a little longer? Just a bit more…”

“But there’s nothing in particular I have to say…”

“Don’t say that—please stay here a little longer, just a little more….”
“Ah—!”
“Why must I keep making such unreasonable demands!”
*Am I drunk?*
“Fate, fate—it must be. If you have nothing to say, I will speak.”
“I will speak, so please listen—at least listen to my unfortunate fate!”

Who could hear this anguished cry and remain unmoved?
I stopped just as I was,

"I will listen, of course. If my listening poses no inconvenience, I shall hear whatever you have to say."

"You will listen? Then I shall speak. But since I am one bewildered by fate's mysterious power, please hear me with that understanding. If you insist on calling it the law of cause and effect—so be it. Yet were you to learn how this chain of causation has developed so far beyond human anticipation that a single young man now drowns in endless anguish—knowing this—you would surely concede it reasonable to call it fate's mysterious force. So I ask you: Suppose there exists a man who, while walking innocently down a road, is struck dead by a stone hurled from nowhere. His wife and children starve, mother turns against child, parent and child enact tragedy so bloody it stains their hands—do you believe such a thing could exist in this world?"

“I don’t know whether it’s something that has actually happened or not, but I do believe it’s possible—that.”

“Exactly—then you must acknowledge this truth: that through causes defying human expectations, through trivial causes, immense tragedy all too easily comes crashing down upon people’s heads. In my case, it is precisely so—an almost inconceivable, sinister fate toying with me.”
“I call it fate.”
“Because I can’t believe otherwise,” he said, letting out a snort and a sigh,

“But will you listen?”

“Of course I’ll listen! Please do tell me your story.”

“In that case, let me begin with what’s closest at hand—the alcohol.”
“You must find it strange,” he said, “but in truth, it’s something utterly ordinary in society—a bewitching draught I use to forget my anguish.”
“I hide it in the sand because circumstances at home force me to drink in secret. Moreover, this place is so perfectly quiet and open—devoid of any dark shadows where venomous demons of fate might hide to spy on people—that it suits my purposes.”
“When I lie here surrendering to alcohol’s power and gazing up at the boundless sky, it’s the only time my heart finds some semblance of freedom.”
“And within that freedom, I believe this fierce liquor will gradually ravage my already failing heart until at last I achieve my own destruction.”

“Then are you wishing for suicide?” I asked in surprise.

“It’s not suicide—it’s self-destruction.”
“Fate won’t even permit me to commit suicide.”
“You—the demon of fate’s most skillfully wielded tool is ‘Bewilderment’.”
“‘Bewilderment’ transforms sorrow into anguish.”
“It squares anguish further.”
“Suicide is a decision.”
“For one constantly tormented by Bewilderment, how could such resolve ever arise?”
“Therefore, to escape the dull, oppressive anguish of ‘Bewilderment,’ there remains no other plan but the sluggish method of self-destruction.”

As he uttered these words with profound intensity, a shadow of clear despair stirred across his face.

"I don't know what reason there may be, but I cannot stand idly by knowing someone is committing suicide."
"Even if you call it self-destruction, it's still suicide after all," I said, and—

"But suicide is people's freedom, I suppose," he said with a wry smile.

“That may be the case.”
“However, if one can stop this, then stopping it is both people’s freedom and duty.”

“Very well.”
“I too have no wish for self-destruction. If you would hear my entire tale and then devise a way to save me, that would be my utmost happiness.”

“Hearing this, I too could no longer remain silent—”

“Enough! Please let me hear everything in full. This time I must make the request myself.”

Three

"My name is Takahashi Shinzo, though the Takahashi surname is one I adopted from my foster family—my original surname was Ōtsuka."

"I'll begin from when I was called Ōtsuka Shinzō. My father was Ōtsuka Gōzō—you might have heard of him—a man somewhat known in society as a judge at the Tokyo Court of Appeals and, true to his name 'Gōzō' meaning 'unyielding,' a man of rigid integrity."
"He seemed to have exerted great effort in educating me."
"Yet somehow I disliked studies from childhood; I simply preferred withdrawing alone into shadowy corners and sitting blankly without any particular thought."
"I believe I was twelve then—late spring, evident from the garden's cherry blossoms having nearly all scattered. Even now I can clearly recall those faded petals still clinging to branches, intermittently loosening from among young leaves to flutter down one or three at a time."
"As I sat on the stone steps of the storehouse gazing vacantly at the garden as usual, the setting sun slanted through the trees. The already quiet garden grew even more solemn and still as I watched, until my boyish heart felt something both sorrowful and sweet—what you might call spring melancholy—settling over me."

Those who understand the mysteries of the human heart would not deny that even in a child’s breast, there may indeed dwell the capacity to perceive the quietude of a spring evening.

In any case, I was that sort of boy.
My father Gōzō was greatly troubled by this and repeatedly scolded me as a monkish brat, even yelling things like, “If you want to be a monk, I’ll send you off to a temple!”
In contrast, my younger brother Shūsuke was a mischievous brat. Though two years my junior, his physique resembled our father’s robust build, and his temperament differed entirely from mine.

When my father scolded me, my mother and brother would always watch from the side, laughing.
My mother—her name was Otoyo—was a woman of few words, gentle in appearance yet resolute in nature. She never scolded me, but neither did she dote on me to the point of indulgence; one might say she kept me at arm’s length.

So whether my temperament is innately as I have just described, or perhaps not—it may be that as a child, I was placed too early into unnatural circumstances and unwittingly led a life of solitude.

Indeed, my father was troubled by me.
However, this concern differed from that of ordinary parents worrying over their child. Thus, my father would mutter complaints like, “If you were born a man, then act like one. A man who resembles a woman isn’t worth raising.” Even within those words lay the first hints of my ominous fate—though as a boy, I had yet to notice them.

I had neglected to mention this earlier—at that time, my father served as Chief of the Okayama District Court, and the Ōtsuka family resided in Okayama City; their relocation to Tokyo would not occur until much later.

One day, I had gone out into the garden as usual and sat dazedly at the base of a pine tree when, unnoticed by me, my father approached.

“What are you thinking about?”
“If it’s your innate temperament, nothing can be done—but this father detests such a disposition in you. At least show some resolve.”

He spoke with grave seriousness, so I kept my head bowed in silence.
Then he settled himself beside me,

“Hey Shinzo,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice. “Did you hear something from someone?”

Because I had no idea what he was talking about, I looked up at Father’s face in surprise, but strangely, tears welled up in my eyes without my realizing it.
Seeing this, Father’s complexion abruptly changed, and he lowered his voice even further,

“There’s no need to hide it. If you heard something, say you heard it.”
“Then your father has devised a plan.”
“Come now, speak without hiding.”
“You heard something, didn’t you?”

At this moment, Father’s demeanor seemed greatly flustered.
Father’s very voice had changed from its usual tone, and as I grew frightened and burst into tears, Father became all the more flustered,

“Now speak! If you heard something, say you heard it! You’re hiding this!” he glared at my face—which made me grow even more terrified.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I apologized repeatedly.

“I’m not telling you to apologize.”
“I’m asking because I suspect you’ve heard something strange and are brooding over it.”
“If you haven’t heard anything, then that’s fine.”
“Now, speak the truth!” he said, this time truly angry. Since I had no idea what this was about, I could only think I’d done something terribly wrong, my voice trembling as I—

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Fool! You utter fool!”
“Who told you to apologize?”
“Twelve years old and already a man, yet you cry at the drop of a hat.”

Having been yelled at, I looked up at Father’s face through startled tears. He too fell silent for a while, staring intently at me until his own eyes suddenly brimmed with tears—
“You may cry. I won’t press you anymore. Now go inside,” he said gently. Though few in number, those words overflowed with paternal affection.
After that incident, Father ceased speaking of me so frequently.
Yet it was also after that time that an ominous cloud-shadow sank into the depths of my heart.
It was precisely then that fate’s mysterious demon drove its claws into my being.

I couldn’t stop being preoccupied with my father’s words.
An ordinary child would likely have soon forgotten this incident, but far from forgetting, I pondered incessantly—why had Father asked such a thing? Seeing how greatly flustered he had been, I concluded in my boyish heart that it must concern something gravely significant, and came to believe this matter pertained directly to my own fate.

Why was that?
To this day, I still find it strange.
Why did I come to believe that Father’s questioning pertained to my own circumstances?

Just as those accustomed to darkness can see well within it, I think the boy placed in unnatural circumstances must have come to perceive the dark blemish lurking at the depths of that shadowed unnaturalness.

However, it was much later that I came to grasp the truth of that dark blemish.
Though it weighed on my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to ask my father about this matter, nor could I even consider asking my mother, and so I spent my days agonizing over it in my young heart.
And at fifteen years old, I was put into my middle school’s dormitory—but before that, there was one thing I needed to tell you.

Next to the Ōtsuka estate lay an expansive mulberry field, and beside it stood a small wooden-shingled house where an elderly couple lived with their daughter, then sixteen or seventeen years old. They were once a distinguished samurai family, and the mulberry garden was said to be the site of their former estate. This old man was a friend of mine, and one day he taught me the game of Go. A few days later when I told my parents about this during supper, my father—who usually paid little mind to games—glared and scolded me, while even my mother stared at me with wide, startled eyes. And because the way my parents looked at each other was so unusual, I felt deeply unsettled.

Why I had to regard Go as an enemy—that too I came to understand later—but it was precisely when I understood this that I was utterly overwhelmed by the demon of fate, marking the beginning of my present suffering that I have tasted to its fullest.

IV

When I was sixteen, my father was transferred to Tokyo, so the Ōtsuka family relocated with him, but I alone was left behind at Okayama Middle School’s dormitory.

When I thought of my life in the three years that followed, I realized that my true life in this world had been only during those school days.

All the students were kind to me.
I regained freedom of mind, escaped the clutches of misfortune, gradually shed the doubts about my origins, and even my melancholic disposition melted away like snow until I came to embody the carefree spirit of youth.

However, in the autumn of my eighteenth year, a letter suddenly arrived from my father in Tokyo ordering me to come to the capital.
My tranquil mind was suddenly thrown into turmoil, and I struggled to discern Father’s true intentions. Having sent a reply and pressed him for nearly a year—even considering whether to remain as I was until graduation—I ultimately changed my mind and departed immediately for Tokyo.
Upon arriving at the Kōjimachi residence, Father summoned me into a room and said, “There’s something I need to discuss with you right away.”
“Do you have no intention of studying law from now on?”

Those were utterly unexpected words.
I stared at Father’s face in shock, finding myself unable to open my mouth.

“I did consider explaining everything in detail through a letter, but it seemed too convoluted, so I summoned you instead.”
“You likely thought to stay until graduation, or even aspired to university—but you must know it’s better for one to begin an independent life as soon as possible.”
“Therefore, you shall enter a private law school immediately from now on.”
“You will graduate in three years.”
“You will take the lawyer’s exam.”
“Once that’s accomplished, I’ll arrange for you at a law office acquainted with me, where you’ll undergo four or five years of practical training.”
“If you then become independent and open your own office, that would be splendid—you could become a dignified gentleman before even turning thirty.”
“How about it? That’s the shortcut for you.” As I listened to Father’s words, it’s no wonder my heart was utterly shaken.

These were truly another person’s words. Another person’s kindness. It was the benevolence a master shows to a live-in student.

Ōtsuka Gōzō had unknowingly reverted to his natural self. Without realizing it, he had ended up exposing that nature. Three years of keeping me at a distance; three years of doting solely on his biological son Shūsuke; three years nearing the gate through which humans must return to their innate nature—the grave—these three years had made him revert to his true self. Yet he still could not acknowledge this nature, persisting in trying to see himself as the father he once was and me as the child I once had been.

At that point, I was no longer in a position to proactively state my hopes.
I merely answered that I would comply with this command and left my father’s room.

Not only my father, but my mother’s demeanor had also completely changed.
As days passed, I grew increasingly convinced of a great secret concerning my circumstances, and the more I paid attention to my parents’ behavior, the more my doubts only multiplied.

For a time, I even wondered if this was merely my own delusion, yet when I recalled that incident at twelve years old—when Father interrogated me in the garden—and thought of him now, I could no longer doubt the secret of my origins.

In the midst of my anguish, I had spent about three months attending Kanda Law School.
I resolved that today, without fail, I would face Father and resolutely bring up the matter myself to ask whether there was a secret. After returning from school at dusk and finishing supper, I went to Father’s room.
Father was composing a letter under the lamp, but upon seeing me, he asked, “What business do you have?” while still gripping his brush.
I sat beside Father’s brazier and remained silent for a while when—seemingly at last—the sky that had been threatening rain finally began to shower, and the pattering sound of hail striking the eaves reached my ears.
Father laid down his brush and slowly turned toward me.

“Do you have some business?” he asked gently.

“There is something I wish to ask you,” I began hesitantly, but Father had already discerned the situation.

“What is it?” he asked solemnly, leaning forward.

“Father, am I truly your child?” I asked directly, just as I had resolved beforehand.

“What did you say?” Father’s single utterance—the sharpness of his gaze! But immediately Father softened his expression, “Why do you ask me such a thing? Have we done something unparental to you that would make you say so?” “That is not the case, but this doubt has weighed on my heart since long ago, and I have been tormented by it ceaselessly. Though you, Father, may remain silent because it is a secret better left untold, I must know the truth,” I declared quietly yet resolutely.

Father sat with his arms crossed, thinking for a while, then slowly raised his face.

“I had known of the doubts you harbored.”
“Lately, I had even thought it better if I were to speak first.”
“Since you’ve now asked directly, I suppose I must tell all.” Then Father began a lengthy account.

However, the facts that Father informed me of were only this much.
When Father was employed at the Suō-Yamaguchi District Court, there was a go master named Baba Kinnosuke who formed a close bond with him and associated with him like brothers.
That man named Baba possessed an extraordinary quality, and Father respected him beyond just Go.
That only child was none other than myself.

At that time, Father was thirty-eight and Mother thirty-four; having given up hope of having children of their own, when Baba fell ill and passed away, followed shortly by his wife departing this world, what remained was a two-year-old boy—taking this opportunity, Father took him in as his own child and raised him, so from Father’s perspective, it was partly a chivalrous act of rescuing an orphan.

My biological parents were still young—my father was thirty-two and my mother twenty-five, it is said. However, I was born before Mother’s registration into the Baba family’s register was completed, and likely because of this—as my birth had not yet been reported—Ōtsuka’s father, upon taking me in, promptly registered me as his own child.

Having related all of this, Ōtsuka’s father said:

“After that, I soon left Yamaguchi, so there are not many who know you are not my biological child.”
“We have raised you all along with the unwavering intention of you being our biological child.”
“Since things will remain the same going forward, you must never let such doubts take root. Continue to regard us as your parents and see us into our old age.”
“Shūsuke is my biological son, but he will never know of your origins. So you must become his true brother and support him all your life.” Before the old man’s eyes could well with tears, I was already weeping.

There, my adoptive father and I made a pact to never divulge these secrets to anyone, and I promised him that even if I were to visit Yamaguchi for some reason in the future, I would merely visit my parents’ graves as an outsider and never make the matter public.

The days that followed passed more peacefully than before. My adoptive father, having revealed the secret, seemed all the more at ease, and I, whenever I reflected on my adoptive parents’ profound kindness, came to devote myself to revering them and applied myself diligently to my studies. And I resolved deeply in my heart to become able to lead an independent life as soon as possible, to part from the Ōtsuka household, and to transfer the family headship to my adoptive younger brother Shūsuke. Three years passed in an instant, and I successfully graduated from school. Following my adoptive father’s advice, I studied for another year, and when I took the bar exam—to my surprise, I passed with flying colors. Overjoyed, my adoptive father promptly arranged for me to join his friend Dr. Inoue’s law firm.

Be that as it may, I had become a full-fledged lawyer commuting daily to an office in Kyōbashi Ward, but had things remained as he intended, my adoptive father would have disposed of me as planned, and I would have spent tranquil days enjoying ever-increasing happiness in my future prospects.

However, no matter what, I was a child of misfortune.

A pitfall that almost no one could imagine had formed before me, and the demon of misfortune mercilessly pushed me into it.

V

Dr. Inoue maintained an office in Yokohama as well, and in the spring of my twenty-fifth year, I came to be stationed at this office. Though nominally his subordinate, in practice it was the same as working independently.
I suppose one might say it was an early advancement for my age.

However, in Yokohama there was a prosperous sundries business under the name Takahashi. Its proprietor was a woman named Ume—her husband having died two or three years prior—who lived luxuriously with her only daughter, Satoko.

Due to legal affairs, I began visiting their household, and Satoko and I grew close. To put it succinctly, within half a year we had become so inseparable that parting was unthinkable.

And so, with Dr. Inoue serving as matchmaker, I ultimately withdrew from the Ōtsuka household and was adopted into the Takahashi family.

It may sound strange coming from me, but Satoko, while not what one would call a beauty, possessed looks that quite caught the eye—a round-faced, amiable woman. And to speak without reserve, she truly did love me—but this love had now become a major factor causing me suffering. Were Satoko not to love me to this extent, and were I not to love Satoko to this extent in return, I would not have been suffering so profoundly.

Ume, my adoptive mother, was now fifty years old, but to look at her, she appeared only around forty—a petite woman possessing the countenance of a beauty, altogether a splendid lady. And speaking of her passionate and honest character, one could immediately tell that her wisdom was somewhat lacking. She was cheerful, laughed often, and talked animatedly, but at times she wore an expression so gloomy it was frightening, and there were days when she would not exchange a word with anyone for half the day. I had been paying attention to her character even before becoming an adopted son, but not long after marrying Satoko and coming to live in the Takahashi household, I discovered something strange.

When evening approached nine o'clock, my adoptive mother would seclude herself in her room and devote herself wholeheartedly to worshiping Fudō Myō-ō—muttering something under her breath as she prostrated herself before the enshrined statue of fiery visage in the alcove—and this would continue until ten, then eleven, sometimes even past midnight. On evenings when she was particularly gloomy within that room, this fervor would grow especially intense.

At first, I too kept silent, but finding it too strange, one day when I asked Satoko about this matter, she waved her hand, lowered her voice, and said, “Please keep quiet about it.”
“That started two years ago, so if you mention that to Mother, she’ll be in a terrible mood—it’s best to pretend you don’t notice as much as possible.”
“See? She’s completely mad.” Since she seemed utterly unconcerned, I didn’t press her further with questions.

However, about a month later, one day when I returned from the office, finished supper, and was engaged in small talk, my adoptive mother suddenly asked:

"Do vengeful spirits never disappear, no matter how many years pass?"

Then Satoko, unperturbed,

"Vengeful spirits don't exist!" tried to dismiss it with a single remark, but Mother turned on her,

"Don't get smart with me!"
"You've never seen one!"
"That's why you say such things!"

"Then have *you* seen them, Mother?"

“I certainly have.”

“Oh really? What’s that look on your face?”
“I’d love to see that myself,” Satoko pressed on with relentless mockery.
Then Mother’s complexion changed terrifyingly,

“You want to see vengeful spirits? You want to see vengeful spirits?”
“You dare speak such impertinence!” she snapped, then abruptly stood and withdrew to her room.
I couldn’t help but—

“Mother isn’t acting like herself… You need to be careful or—”

Satoko wore an uneasy expression,

“I’m truly creeped out.”
“Mother is undoubtedly thinking something strange.”

“Her nerves seem a bit frayed,” I replied, yet when morning came there remained nothing particularly unusual.
The only alteration lay in her continuing nightly worship of Fudō-sama as always—a sight we’d long grown accustomed to, and thus paid little heed.

It was May of this year when I returned home from the office two hours earlier than usual. An overcast sky left the house dimly lit, though Mother’s room proved darker still.
Having business with her, I slid open the fusuma unannounced to find her sitting solitary by the hibachi—but at sight of my face,

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” she screamed, jerking upright only to collapse back onto her haunches—the pallor of her face as she stared fixedly at me! Startled at the possibility that Mother had fainted, I rushed to her side.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Hearing my shouts, Mother barely managed to sit upright—
“It was you… I… I…” she murmured while rubbing her chest, yet all the while continued staring at my face with a look of bewilderment.
I was startled—
“What’s wrong, Mother?” I asked when—
“Because you barged in so suddenly, I thought you were someone else.”
“Oh, I was so startled,” she said and immediately spread out bedding to rest.

After this incident, Mother’s nerves grew increasingly erratic; not only did she worship Fudō Myō-ō, but I too ended up bringing back countless unnamed talismans from who-knows-where and pasting them all over my own living quarters.
And what was even stranger was that whereas she had previously maintained her own arbitrary faith alone, after being startled by my appearance, she started demanding that I too believe in Fudō. When I asked why I must believe—

“Just believe without question.”
“Otherwise I’ll feel uneasy.”
“If practicing this faith would ease your mind, Mother, I’ll do it—but in that case Satoko would be better suited than I.”

“Satoko won’t do.”
“Because it has nothing to do with her.”
“Then does this have something to do with *me*?”
“Oh, don’t say such things—just keep believing, for the sake of the afterlife.” Satoko, who was listening nearby, could only stare in disbelief—

“How strange, Mother—why would Fudō-sama have a connection to you and Mr. Shinzo but not to me?”

“That’s precisely why I’m asking—if I could simply state the reason, I wouldn’t need to make this request.”

“But that’s absurd—telling Mr. Shinzo to worship Fudō-sama? Trying to force such things on people these days…”

“Then I won’t ask!” Mother snapped, so I softened my words,

“Well—it’s not as though I’m entirely unwilling to believe in Fudō-sama.”
“So, Mother—please tell me that reason.”
“I don’t know what it might be, but since we’re parent and child, there shouldn’t be anything we can’t reveal to each other,” I pressed.
This was because I thought that perhaps there might be a method—based on what Mother said—to suppress superstitions and calm her nerves.
Then Mother thought for a while, let out a sigh, and lowered her voice:

“What I’m about to tell you must never leave this room. You mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“When I was still young—before I married Satoko’s father—a certain man approached me and pursued me relentlessly.”
“But I could not bring myself to obey that man’s wishes.”
“Then that man fell ill, and on his deathbed, he resented me terribly and said all sorts of things, I’m told.”
“So I didn’t feel at ease either, but after marrying into this household, I lived without giving it much thought.”
“But ever since my husband passed away, that man’s vengeful spirit would appear out of nowhere, glaring at me with a terrifying face as if it were about to kill me at any moment.”
“So when I earnestly pray to Fudō-sama, that vengeful spirit gradually fades away.”
“And also,” Mother continued, lowering her voice even further, “lately it seems that vengeful spirit has latched onto you.”

“Ugh, how awful!” Satoko frowned.

“Because, you see, sometimes Shinzo’s face looks exactly like the vengeful spirit to me.”

That’s why she kept urging me to believe in Fudō-sama.
But since I couldn’t bring myself to do such a thing, Satoko and I tried to convince her through various arguments that vengeful spirits and such things couldn’t possibly exist—but it was futile.
Since Mother firmly believed without doubt, we were at a loss and forcibly persuaded her that coming to Kamakura might calm her mind—finally having her move into this villa in May of this year.

VI

Takahashi Shinzo had reached this point in his story when he suddenly raised his head and gazed sorrowfully at the sun’s westward-casting shadow, appearing unable to endure his anguish; yet he swiftly lifted his cup and drained it in one gulp.

“I don’t have the courage to speak about what comes next in detail.”
“I will state the facts bluntly and concisely—beyond that, I can only ask for your conjecture.”

“Takahashi Ume—that is, my adoptive mother—was my true mother, my biological mother.”
“My wife Satoko was my sister with a different father.”
“How about it—if this isn’t a strange fate, then what is?”
“If you call even this the law of cause and effect, then that’s all there is to say.”
But from my perspective—having unknowingly placed myself under such a law—I resent that even such a cruel law exists and operates within this universe.

First, to briefly explain how these facts came to be known to me: One month after Mother had come to Kamakura, I was to go to Nagasaki for a lawsuit, and as I had planned to stop by Yamaguchi, Hiroshima, and other places along the way, when I came to Kamakura under the pretext of visiting and informed Mother of this plan, her eyes changed color as she told me not to go near Yamaguchi or such places.
However, since I had resolved in my heart to visit the graves of my biological parents, I gave Mother an evasive answer and finally stopped by Yamaguchi.

Because I had heard about it beforehand from Ōtsuka’s father, I found the temple right away. However, though I located Baba Kinnosuke’s grave, I did not see the grave of the mother I had been told was dead. Growing suspicious, I met with an old monk and inquired about the matter mentioned earlier—though I disclosed nothing of my personal circumstances except to those directly involved.

Then the old monk stated there should be no grave for Baba Kinnosuke’s wife Oshin. He explained that during Kinnosuke’s illness, she had become entangled with a Go disciple—the younger brother of a certain wealthy merchant in town—and without showing the slightest remorse for how this worsened Kinnosuke’s condition, she ultimately abandoned her nursing infant and fled.

The old monk even went so far as to recount how Father had berated Mother during his illness and how he had entrusted his child to Ōtsuka Gōzō on his deathbed.

The fact that Oshin was Takahashi Ume was something no one knew.
I have no evidence either.
However, even as the old monk spoke of Oshin, I had already become convinced that my current adoptive mother was indeed her.

I thought about dying right then in Yamaguchi.
At that time—truly at that time—had I resolved to commit suicide, I would have been fortunate indeed.

But I came back.
One reason was my desire to somehow obtain definitive evidence; the other was being drawn back to Satoko.
Though Satoko is undeniably my sister—making the unethical nature of our marriage self-evident—I find myself utterly unable to regard her as a sibling, no matter how I struggle.

There exists nothing more mystifying than the human heart.
The label of "transgression" cannot vanquish the reality of love.
This truth forms the crux of why I stated earlier that my bond with Satoko only deepens my torment.

I embraced Satoko and wept.
I wept many times.
I too became deranged like Mother; the pitiful one was Satoko.
Everything was an unfathomable mystery to Satoko; she wandered lost in confusion until finally she came to believe in a vengeful spirit like Mother and now remained at their Yokohama residence with her, earnestly praying to Fudō Myō-ō.
Satoko did not know the true form of the vengeful spirit; she simply believed that both Mother and I were being tormented by this spirit and, with sincere prayers, was trying to save Mother and her husband.

I tried as much as possible not to look at Mother.
Mother also did not like to meet me.
In Mother’s eyes, I must indeed have appeared identical to the vengeful spirit’s face.
I was the child of a vengeful spirit!

I am supposed to love my mother as a mother—but when I think of how she abandoned my father on his deathbed; abandoned me on my dying father’s sickbed; and ran off with her lover—an unspeakable resentment wells up within me.
In my ears rings the voice of my deceased father’s curses.
Before my eyes appears his figure—raising his exhausted body to embrace the innocent child who knew nothing—weeping bitterly like a man.
And hearing this voice and seeing this figure—the vengeful spirit’s energy truly possesses me.

In the dim twilight hour, anyone who saw me leaning against a pillar—suddenly widening my eyes, holding my breath, and glaring at one corner of the sky—would have fled even if they weren’t my mother. Had it been Mother herself, she would have fainted.

Yet when I think of Satoko, both resentment and anger vanish as I sink into boundless sorrow—a sorrow within whose depths love and despair wage endless war.

It was this September when anguish drove me—who normally rarely touched a wine cup—to drink recklessly despite Satoko’s pleas until I lay sprawled like a human cross in the parlor’s center. Then Mother abruptly returned from Kamakura and summoned Satoko alone to that very room.
Even through drunkenness, I instantly grasped this summons bore no ordinary purpose.

After about an hour had passed, Satoko returned to my parlor with eyes swollen from crying, so when I asked, “What happened?” Satoko collapsed beside me and began to sob.

“Did Mother tell you to divorce me?” I shouted before I could stop myself.
Then Satoko—flustered—

“So please—no matter what Mother says—pay no mind.”
“Please—just think me mad and cast me aside, won’t you? I beg of you,” she implored through tears, making me snap back, “If that’s how it stands, I can’t simply cast you aside,” as I abruptly stormed into Mother’s parlor.
Satoko hadn’t the chance to stop me before following into the room.
The moment I sat facing Mother—

“I hear you told Satoko to divorce me—let’s hear your reasons.”
“If you want a divorce, go ahead—I won’t mind.”
“Or rather—it is precisely what I desire.”
“But state your reasons—I must hear those reasons,” I pressed forward, fueled by drunkenness.
Then Mother, startled by the excessive sharpness of my fierce demeanor, could only stare at my face—she did not utter a single word.

“Let’s hear your reasons.”
“It’s because a vengeful spirit has possessed me that you find me unsettling, isn’t it?”
“That must disgust you.”
“I am the child of a vengeful spirit, after all!” I declared. In an instant, Mother’s complexion changed; without uttering a word, she fled from the room.

I remained lying there in Mother’s parlor.
When I opened my eyes, the alcohol’s intoxication had faded, and there sat Satoko at my head, watching my face with concern.
Mother had immediately returned to Kamakura.

Since then, Mother and I have not met.
I came here alternating with Mother—she now resides at our Yokohama home—while Satoko alternately cares for both of us. Alone, she earnestly interprets their misfortune as nothing but the work of vengeful spirits, wholly unaware of the true anguish in their hearts.

I had been forbidden from drinking alcohol by both Satoko and the doctor.
But what could I do?
Was it truly unreasonable for me—facing such circumstances—to secretly drink brandy?

Now my strength had been utterly crushed by misfortune’s demon.
I lacked even the power for suicide, having become so devoid of spirit that I could only await self-annihilation.

What do you think? Having now roughly recounted the course of my life up to this day, I want you to understand my state of mind.
Can one maintain a cold detachment toward this as if it were merely the law of cause and effect—like a mathematical formula?
My biological mother is my father’s enemy; my beloved wife is my sister.
This is the cold fact.
And this is my fate.

"If there exists someone who can save me from this fate, I would reverently follow their teachings. That person is my savior."

Seven

He listened to the above story without exchanging a single word.
After finishing listening, he could not utter a single word for some time.
Indeed, he felt deeply sorry for this man who had fallen into such tragic circumstances.

But if it could not be helped—

“Why don’t you resolutely pursue a divorce?”

“That would only create a new fact.”
“The existing fact will not disappear because of that.”

“But that cannot be helped, I suppose.”

“That’s why it’s fate.”
“Even if we divorce, the fact that my biological mother is my father’s enemy will not disappear.”
“Even if we divorce, my love for my sister as my wife will not change.”
“As long as people cannot erase past facts with human power, they will never escape fate’s dominion.”

He shook hands and silently bowed farewell to this unfortunate young gentleman; the sun had already set, its lingering light brilliantly dyeing the evening clouds. When he looked back, the fatalist stood atop the desolate sand hill, gazing far out to sea.

After that, he never encountered this man again.