Pathway to Japanese Literature

In October, I moved to Waseda.
When I sat alone in my cathedral-like study, resting my clean-shaven face in my hand, Sangenyoshi came and said, "Please keep a bird."
I replied that it would be fine.
However, wanting to confirm, when I asked what kind of bird he meant, the reply was: "A Java sparrow."

Since Java sparrows appear in Sangenyoshi's novels, I concluded they must be beautiful birds and requested, "Then please buy one for me."
Yet Sangenyoshi persisted with similar urgings: "You really must keep one."
"Yeah, I'll buy it, I'll buy it," I mumbled, still propping my cheek in my palm. As I kept muttering, Sangenyoshi fell silent.
It must have been my cheek-propping that wore out his patience—this realization struck me for the first time now.

Then, after about three minutes, he began saying, “You must buy a cage.” When I replied that this too was acceptable, rather than pressing further with “You really must buy it,” he launched into an explanation about birdcages. His lecture was quite elaborate, but regrettably, I forgot all of it. Just when he reached the part about good ones costing around twenty yen, I hastily interjected that something less expensive would suffice. Sangenyoshi grinned.

Then, when I asked where exactly to buy it, he gave a rather ordinary answer: “They’re available at any bird shop.” When I asked about the cage in return, he said something magnanimous yet vague like, “The cage? Well, cages are… you know… they must be available somewhere.” But when I showed a face as if to say, “You must have an address, mustn’t you?” Sangenyoshi put his hand to his cheek and said, “Well, there’s supposedly a cage master in Komagome, but he’s old, so he might already be dead,” growing visibly uneasy.

After all, it was only natural to make the one who suggested it take responsibility, so I promptly decided to entrust everything to Sangenyoshi. Then, he immediately demanded the money. I certainly handed over the money. Sangenyoshi carried in his pocket a nanako-patterned tri-fold wallet—wherever he had acquired it—and had a habit of putting all money into this wallet, whether it belonged to others or himself. I witnessed Sangenyoshi firmly push the five-yen note into the bottom of this wallet.

Thus, the money had indeed fallen into Sangenyoshi’s hands.
However, the bird and cage did not arrive readily.

Before long, autumn gave way to a spell of late autumn warmth.
Sangenyoshi came often.
He would often talk about women and such before leaving.
No mention was made of the Java sparrow or the cage.
Through the glass door, sunlight fell generously upon the five-foot veranda.
If I were going to keep a Java sparrow anyway, I thought to myself in such a warm season as this, placing its cage on this veranda would surely make the bird sing quite beautifully.

According to Sangenyoshi’s novels, Java sparrows were said to sing “Chiyo-chiyo.”
Evidently quite taken with its song, he had used “Chiyo-chiyo” time and again.
Perhaps he had once been enamored of a woman named Chiyo.
Yet he himself never breathed a word of such things.
I never ventured to ask either.
Sunlight still fell generously upon the veranda.
And still the Java sparrow did not sing.

Before long, frost began to fall.
I spent my days in my cathedral-like study, sometimes tidying up my cold face, sometimes letting it become disheveled, sometimes propping my cheek in my hand and then stopping.
I closed the double doors tightly.
I did nothing but add charcoal to the hibachi.
I finally forgot about the Java sparrow.

Just then, Sangenyoshi came bustling through the gate.
It was early evening.
The cold had driven me to hunch over the hibachi, deliberately reddening my sullen face with its heat, when I abruptly brightened.
Sangenyoshi arrived with Toyotaka in tow.
Toyotaka wore a distinctly put-upon expression.
Each carried a cage.
Moreover, Sangenyoshi clutched a large box against his chest.
That early winter night witnessed the five-yen note’s metamorphosis into a Java sparrow, cage, and box.

Sangenyoshi was triumphant.
“Do have a look,” he said.
“Toyotaka, bring that lamp closer over here,” he said.
Despite this, his nose tip was slightly purple from the cold.

Indeed, a splendid cage had been made.
The base was lacquered.
The bamboo had been finely shaved and dyed.
It was said to be three yen.
"It’s cheap, don’t you think, Toyotaka?" he said.
“Yeah, it’s cheap,” said Toyotaka.
“I can’t clearly tell whether it’s cheap or expensive, but I suppose I’ll say it’s cheap.”
“It was said that the good ones could cost as much as twenty yen.”
Twenty yen—this was the second time it had come up.
Compared to twenty yen, it was of course cheap.

“You see, Sensei, if you leave this lacquer out in the sun, the blackish tint will fade and the vermilion color will gradually come through—and since this bamboo has been boiled properly once, it’s perfectly sturdy,” he kept explaining.
“What exactly is ‘sturdy’ about it?” I asked back. “Well, just look at the bird—isn’t it beautiful?” he said.

Indeed, it was beautiful.
They had placed the cage in the next room, and viewed from about four feet away, it didn’t move at all.
In the dimness, it appeared pure white.
Were it not huddled in the cage, one wouldn’t think it a bird—so white was it.
The bird looked somehow cold.

“It must be cold for it, don’t you think?” I asked. “That’s precisely why I made this box,” he replied.
“At night, you’ll put it in here,” he continued.
When I inquired about the purpose of having two cages, he explained, “You transfer it to this plainer one to let it bathe occasionally.”
Just as I was thinking this sounded rather involved, he added, “And since it’ll soil the cage with droppings, you must clean it regularly.”
Sangenyoshi proved remarkably adamant regarding the sparrow’s care.

When I obediently accepted this, Sangenyoshi next produced a bag of millet from his sleeve.
“You must feed this every morning.
If you don’t replace the food, take out the food container and blow off just the husks.
If you don’t do that, the Java sparrow will have to pick out the millet grains one by one.
Change the water every morning as well.”
“Since Sensei is a late riser, this should work out perfectly,” he said with exaggerated consideration for the bird.
So I agreed that everything was acceptable and took charge of it all.
Just then, Toyotaka took out the food container and water container from his sleeve and arranged them neatly before me.
Having thus prepared everything completely, when pressed to put it into practice, I now had no choice but to care for the Java sparrow out of obligation.
Inwardly I was quite uncertain, but resolved at least to try.
If I couldn’t manage it, I thought someone in the household would handle it somehow.

Eventually, Sangenyoshi carefully placed the birdcage into the box, carried it out to the veranda, said “I’ll leave it here,” and departed.
I laid out a futon in the center of my cathedral-like study and slept in the cold.
The feeling of carrying the Java sparrow in my dream was somewhat chilly, but when I fell asleep, it became as calm as any ordinary night.

When I awoke the next morning, sunlight was shining on the glass door.
I immediately thought I had to feed the Java sparrow.
But getting up felt troublesome.
While thinking “I’ll do it now, I’ll do it now,” it finally became past eight o’clock.
With no alternative, using washing my face as an excuse while stepping barefoot onto the cold veranda, I removed the box lid and set out the birdcage.
The Java sparrow was blinking its eyes.
When I imagined how much earlier it must have wanted to wake up, I felt sorry for it.

The Java sparrow’s eyes were jet-black. Around its eyelids were thin lines resembling pale red silk threads sewn on. Each time it blinked, the silk threads would abruptly gather into a single line; then, just as suddenly, they would round out again. As soon as I took the cage out of the box, the Java sparrow tilted its white neck slightly, shifted its black eyes, and looked at my face for the first time. And then it chirped “chichi.”

I quietly placed the birdcage on top of the box. The Java sparrow abruptly left the perch and then returned to it. There were two perches—bluish-black shafts bridged at a suitable distance and arranged side by side. When I looked at the foot that had lightly stepped onto one of them, it appeared exquisitely delicate. At the tip of its slender, pale red foot were claws like carved pearls, gently clasping the appropriately sized perch. Then its eyes fluttered—the Java sparrow had already changed direction on the perch. It kept tilting its head left and right. Just as its head began to tilt only to suddenly straighten again, when I thought it had leaned slightly forward, its white feathers fluttered faintly once more. The Java sparrow’s foot landed neatly around the middle of the opposite perch. It chirped faintly and peered into my face from a distance.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face.
On my way back, I detoured to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took out the bag of millet that Sangenyoshi had bought and brought over the previous evening, poured food into the food container, filled the other one with water, and returned to the veranda of my study.

Sangenyoshi was a thorough man; the previous evening, he had carefully explained the procedure for feeding the bird.
According to his instructions, if one carelessly opened the cage door, the Java sparrow would escape.
Therefore, while opening the cage door with your right hand, you had to place your left hand beneath it to block the exit from the outside—otherwise it was dangerous.
The same care had to be taken when removing the food container.
He even demonstrated the exact hand movements for this, but with both hands occupied like that, how could one possibly get the food container into the cage? I neglected to ask.

I had no choice but to lift the cage door gingerly upward with the back of my hand while still holding the food container. At the same time, I immediately blocked the opened gap with my left hand. The Java sparrow glanced back slightly. And then it chirped faintly. I was at a loss over what to do with my left hand blocking the exit. Since it didn’t seem like a bird that would wait to seize an opportunity to escape, I somehow felt sorry for it. Sangenyoshi had taught me the wrong way.

Slowly and carefully, I inserted my large hand into the cage. Then, the Java sparrow suddenly began flapping its wings. From between the thinly shaved bamboo slats, warm down feathers scattered white as its wings clattered. I suddenly came to hate my own large hand. As soon as I finally managed to place the millet container and water container between the perches, I withdrew my hand. The cage door fell shut naturally with a clatter. The Java sparrow returned to the perch. Tilting its white neck halfway to the side, it looked up at me standing outside the cage. Then, straightening its bent neck, it gazed at the millet and water beneath its feet. I went to the dining room to eat.

At that time, I was in the habit of writing a novel as part of my daily routine.
Between meals, I was usually at my desk holding a brush.
In quiet moments, I could hear the sound of the pen running across paper.
It was customary that no one entered the temple-like study.
There were mornings, noons, and evenings when I found loneliness in the sound of the brush.
However, there were quite a few occasions when this brush would abruptly cease its sound—times when I had to stop.
At such times, it was my habit to rest my chin on my palm with the brush still clasped between my fingers and gaze through the glass at the storm-swept garden.
Once done gazing, I would adjust my chin.
Even then, when brush and paper refused to cooperate, I would stretch out this gathered chin with two fingers.
Then on the veranda, the Java sparrow at once called out “Chiyo-chiyo” twice in succession.

I laid down my brush and quietly went out to check. The Java sparrow remained facing my direction, leaning precariously forward from its perch to thrust out its white chest as it loudly called "Chiyo."
In such a beautiful voice that I thought Sangenyoshi would surely be delighted if he heard it, it called "Chiyo."
Sangenyoshi had assured me, “Once it gets accustomed, it will sing ‘Chiyo’—it will surely sing,” before leaving.

I squatted again beside the cage.
The Java sparrow adjusted its puffed-up neck two or three times—first vertically, then horizontally.
Soon its white form suddenly darted out over the perch.
No sooner had I registered this than the beautiful claws of its feet emerged halfway over the edge of the food container.
The food container—which looked ready to tip over at the touch of a little finger—remained as quiet as a temple bell.
Truly, the Java sparrow was so light.
It felt somehow like a spirit of light snow.

The Java sparrow suddenly dipped its beak into the center of the food container.
Then it shook its head two or three times from side to side.
The neatly leveled millet scattered down to the bottom of the cage.
The Java sparrow raised its beak.
A faint sound came from its throat.
Again it dipped its beak into the center of the millet.
Again it made a faint sound.
That sound was fascinating.
Listening quietly, it was round, delicate, and remarkably swift.
It felt as though a person as small as a violet were continuously striking agate go stones with a golden hammer.

When I looked at the color of its beak, it resembled red tinged with a faint purple.
That red gradually spread, leaving the area around the tip of the beak pecking at the millet white.
It was a whiteness like semi-transparent ivory.
When this beak entered the millet, it moved extremely quickly.
The millet grains scattered left and right appeared very light.
Without even turning upside down, the Java sparrow thrust its pointed beak into the yellow grains and shook its puffed neck vigorously from side to side.
I could not tell how many millet grains had scattered across the cage floor.
Even so, only the food container remained quietly still.
It was heavy.
I estimated the diameter of the food container to be about four and a half centimeters.

I quietly returned to the study and ran the pen across the paper in solitude.
On the veranda, the Java sparrow chirped faintly.
At times, it would also sing "Chiyo-chiyo."
Outside, a cold wind was blowing.

In the evening I saw the Java sparrow drinking water.
Perching slender legs on the edge of its container and tilting back its head with care，it swallowed a single droplet caught in its small beak.
Thinking one full container might last ten days at this rate，I returned again to my study.
At night I stored it away in its box.

When I looked outside through the glass door before going to bed, the moon was out and frost had formed.
The Java sparrow didn't make a single sound inside the box.

The next morning—another regrettable day—I rose late again, and it was past eight o'clock when I took the cage out of the box.
Inside that box, it must have been awake for quite some time.
Even so, the Java sparrow showed no sign of displeasure.
The moment the cage emerged into brightness, it suddenly blinked its eyes, drew in its neck slightly, and looked at my face.

Long ago, I knew a beautiful woman.
When this woman was leaning against her desk deep in thought, I quietly approached from behind, took the long-dangling end of her purple obi's tassel, and ran it along the slender curve of her neck from above; she turned around languidly.
At that moment, the woman's eyebrows drew together slightly into a faint figure-eight shape.
Thus, at the corners of her eyes and lips, a smile was budding.
At the same time, she drew up her shapely neck to her shoulders.
When the Java sparrow looked at me, I suddenly remembered this woman.
This woman has now married and left.
It was two or three days after her marriage had been arranged that I played that prank with the purple obi.

The food container was still about eighty percent full of millet.
However, a considerable amount of husks had mixed in.
In the water container, millet husks floated thickly across the surface, leaving it severely murky.
I had to change it.
Again I put my large hand into the cage.
Despite my utmost care in doing so, the Java sparrow flapped its white wings wildly in agitation.
Even if a single small feather were to come out, I felt I would be failing the Java sparrow.
I blew away the husks cleanly.
The blown husks were carried off somewhere by the cold wind.
I changed the water as well.
The water was bitterly cold from the tap.

That day passed with me listening to the lonesome sound of my pen.
At intervals during that time, I also heard cries of "Chiyo-chiyo."
I wondered whether the Java sparrow too was calling out of loneliness.
But when I went out to the veranda to look, it kept flying back and forth between the two perches without pause—now here, now there.
Not the slightest hint of discontent showed in its manner.

At night, I put it in the box.
When I awoke on a bright morning, the outside was white frost.
The Java sparrow was likely awake too, but I couldn't bring myself to rise.
Even reaching for the newspaper by my pillow felt laborious.
Still, I smoked a cigarette.
As I watched the smoke drift from my mouth, I resolved that once this one was finished, I would get up and release it from the cage.
Then within that smoke appeared momentarily the face of that woman from long ago—her neck hunched, eyes narrowed, brows faintly drawn together.
I sat upright in bed.
Throwing my haori over my sleeping robes, I went straight out to the veranda.
Removing the box lid, I took out the Java sparrow.
Emerging from confinement, the bird sang "Chiyo-chiyo" twice.

According to Sangenyoshi’s theory, as it grew accustomed to people, the Java sparrow would apparently start chirping when seeing a human face.
In fact, Sangenyoshi’s own Java sparrow had apparently kept singing “Chiyo-chiyo” incessantly whenever he was nearby.
Not only that, but it was said to eat food directly from his fingertips.
I thought I too wanted to try feeding it from my fingertips someday.

The next morning, I was neglectful again.
I did not even recall the face of the woman from the past.
After washing my face and finishing my meal, I finally went out to the veranda as if noticing something—only to find that the cage had somehow been placed atop the box.
The Java sparrow was already hopping back and forth between the perches with apparent delight.
It would occasionally stretch its neck and peer out of the cage from below.
Its manner remained utterly guileless.
The woman with whom I had played that prank involving the purple obi wore long-collared garments, possessed a slender back, and had a habit of slightly tilting her head when regarding others.

There was still millet.
The water was still there.
The Java sparrow was satisfied.
Without changing the millet or water, I retreated to my study.

In the afternoon, I went out to the veranda again.
I intended to read while strolling along five or six ken of the encircling veranda as a form of post-meal exercise.
However, when I went out to check, the millet was already about seventy percent gone.
The water was also completely murky.
I tossed my books onto the veranda and hurriedly changed the food and water.

The next day, I also woke up late. Moreover, until I had washed my face and eaten my meal, I did not look out at the veranda. After returning to my study, wondering if perhaps the family had left the cage out again as they had yesterday, I peeked just my face out to the veranda—and sure enough, it was there. Moreover, the food and water had both been renewed. I finally felt relieved and pulled my head back into the study. The moment I did, the Java sparrow sang, "Chiyo-chiyo." So I stuck my head out again to look. But the Java sparrow did not sing again. With a puzzled expression on my face, I gazed at the frost in the garden through the glass. I finally returned to my desk.

In the study, the pen continued its dry rustling.
The half-written novel had made considerable progress.
My fingertips were cold.
The Sakura charcoal buried that morning had turned white, and the iron kettle on the Satsuma trivet was nearly cold.
The charcoal scuttle stood empty.
I clapped my hands, but the sound barely carried to the kitchen.
When I rose and opened the door, the Java sparrow sat motionless on its perch—uncharacteristically still.
Looking closer, I saw it had only one leg.
I set the scuttle on the veranda and bent over to peer into the cage.
However long I stared, there remained just one leg.
Entrusting its entire body to that single delicate limb, the Java sparrow kept silent watch within its cage.

I found it strange.
Even Sangenyoshi, who had explained everything about the Java sparrow, appeared to have omitted this one detail.
When I returned after putting charcoal in the charcoal container, the Java sparrow still had only one leg.
I stood on the cold veranda for a while gazing at it, but the bird showed no sign of moving.
When I stared without making a sound, the Java sparrow gradually began narrowing its round eyes.
Assuming it was probably sleepy, I tried to quietly slip back into my study—but the moment I took a single step, the Java sparrow opened its eyes again.
At the same time, it extended one slender leg from its pure white chest.
I closed the door and stoked the brazier with charcoal.

The novel grew increasingly demanding.
I still overslept in the mornings.
Once someone from the household took care of the Java sparrow, I somehow began feeling my responsibility had lightened.
When they forgot, I would give it food and water.
I would take the cage in and out.
When I didn’t, there were times I called someone from the household to have them do it.
My role seemed reduced to merely listening for the Java sparrow’s voice.

Even so, whenever I went out to the veranda, I would always stop before the cage to observe its condition.
Usually it moved contentedly between the two perches, seemingly unbothered by the narrow cage.
On fine days it bathed in thin sunlight through the glass door and chirped incessantly.
Yet as Sangenyoshi had said, there remained no sign it sang deliberately upon seeing my face.

There was naturally no such thing as the Java sparrow eating directly from my finger. On occasions when I was in a good mood, I would stick breadcrumbs to my index fingertip and poke it through the bamboo bars, but the Java sparrow would never approach. When I pushed it in more boldly, the bird—startled by my thick finger—would only flutter its white wings in disarray and thrash about the cage. After two or three attempts, I felt so remorseful that I abandoned this endeavor for good. I gravely doubt whether anyone in this modern world could accomplish such a feat. It must have been the work of ancient saints. Sangenyoshi must have lied.

One day, as I was in my study making the usual scratching sounds with my pen while writing desolate things, a strange noise suddenly reached my ears. On the veranda came rustling, rustling sounds. It could be taken for a woman adjusting the hem of her long garment, though for an ordinary woman’s doing so, it seemed far too elaborate. I thought it might best be described as the sound of imperial dolls’ hakama pleats rustling as they walked across tiered platforms. Setting aside the novel I had been writing, I stepped out onto the veranda still holding my pen. There I found the Java sparrow bathing.

The water had just been freshly changed.
The Java sparrow dipped its light feet into the center of the water container up to its breast feathers, sometimes spreading its white wings to either side while pressing its belly down as if squatting into the water, shaking all its feathers at once.
And then it lightly flew up onto the edge of the water container.
After a while, it dove back in.
The diameter of the water container was no more than about an inch and a half.
When it dove in, its tail stuck out, its head stuck out, and of course its back stuck out.
Only its legs and chest were submerged in the water.
Nevertheless, the Java sparrow was cheerfully taking its bath.

I abruptly fetched the replacement cage.
And transferred the Java sparrow to this one.
Then I took the watering can, went to the bathroom, drew water from the tap, and poured it over the cage with a splashing sound.
By the time the watering can was empty, water dripping from its white feathers had formed into beads that rolled away.
The Java sparrow kept blinking its eyes incessantly.

There was a time when a woman who once mischievously played with her purple obi had spring sunlight reflected onto her face using a pocket mirror from the back second-floor room while she was working in the tatami room.
The woman raised her faintly flushed cheeks and, shielding her forehead with a slender hand, blinked in bewilderment.
This woman and this Java sparrow were probably feeling the same way.

As days passed, the Java sparrow sang beautifully.
Yet it was often neglected.
There came a time when the food container held nothing but millet husks.
Another time found the cage floor caked with droppings.

When I returned late one evening from a banquet, the winter moon was shining through the glass, and within the faintly illuminated expanse of the veranda, the birdcage sat silently atop the box.
In that corner, the Java sparrow’s body appeared faintly pale as it remained perched, seeming barely there.
I flipped back the collar of my coat and immediately placed the birdcage into the box.

The next day, the Java sparrow was singing as vigorously as ever.
From then on, there were times when even on cold nights I forgot to put it away in the box.
One evening, as I sat absorbed in my study listening to the scratching of my pen as usual, there was suddenly a clattering crash from the direction of the veranda.
However, I did not get up.
I was still writing the novel I needed to finish.
It would be vexing to go out of my way only to find nothing amiss—though I couldn't help being concerned—so I merely pricked up my ears while keeping up the pretense of ignorance.
I went to bed that night past twelve o'clock.
On my way back from the toilet, still uneasy, I made a detour to check the veranda just in case—

The cage had fallen from the box. It lay sideways. The water container and food container had both been overturned. Millet was scattered all over the veranda. The perches had come loose. The Java sparrow clung quietly to the birdcage’s bars. I vowed that starting tomorrow, I would keep cats out of this veranda.

The next day, the Java sparrow did not sing.
I heaped millet into its container.
I filled its water container until it overflowed.
The Java sparrow stayed motionless on its perch for a long time, balanced on one leg.
After eating lunch, I thought to write a letter to Sangenyoshi. I had just penned a few lines when the Java sparrow chirped faintly.
I set down my pen.
The Java sparrow chirped faintly again.
When I went to check, both the millet and water had diminished considerably.
I tore up the unfinished letter and discarded it.

The next day, the Java sparrow did not sing again.
It had descended from its perch and was pressing its belly against the bottom of the cage.
The area around its chest was slightly swollen, and its small feathers appeared disheveled like ripples.
That morning, I received a letter from Sangenyoshi asking me to come to a certain place regarding that matter.
As the request specified arriving by ten o'clock, I left the Java sparrow as it was and went out.
When I met Sangenyoshi, that matter became drawn out in various ways, and we had lunch together.
We had dinner together.
On top of that, I even arranged a meeting for the following day and returned home.
It was around nine o'clock at night when I returned.
I had completely forgotten about the Java sparrow.
Because I was tired, I immediately went to bed and fell asleep.

The moment I woke up the next day, I immediately remembered that matter.
No matter how much the person themselves might consent, sending her off to such a place as a bride would likely end badly—being still a child, she probably felt compelled to go wherever told.
Once she went, she couldn’t simply leave on a whim.
There are many in this world who fall into misfortune while feeling content—thinking such thoughts, I used a toothpick after breakfast and set out again to settle that matter.

I returned around three o'clock in the afternoon.
After hanging my coat in the entranceway and intending to enter my study via the corridor, when I stepped out onto the veranda, I found the birdcage placed atop its box.
But there lay the Java sparrow overturned at the bottom of its cage.
Its two legs were stiffly aligned and stretched straight from its body.
I stood by the cage and watched the Java sparrow intently.
Its black eyes were closed as if sleeping.
The color of its eyelids had turned a pale bluish.

The food container was filled with nothing but millet husks.
There was not a single grain left to peck.
The water container had dried until its bottom gleamed.
The western sun filtered through the glass door and slanted down onto the cage.
The lacquer applied to the stand had, just as Sangenyoshi had said, gradually lost its black tint and revealed its vermilion hue.

I gazed at the vermilion stand tinged by winter sunlight.
I gazed at the empty food container.
I gazed at the two perches bridging empty space in vain.
And I gazed at the stiffened Java sparrow lying beneath them.

I crouched down and held the birdcage in both hands.
Then I carried it into the study.
I set the birdcage down in the center of the ten-mat room, knelt formally before it, opened the cage door, thrust a large hand inside, and tried to grasp the Java sparrow.
The soft feathers were cold.

Pulling my fist out of the cage, when I opened my clenched hand, the Java sparrow lay quietly on my palm.
I stared at the dead bird for a while, my hand remaining open.
Then, I gently set it down on the cushion.
And then, I clapped my hands fiercely.

The sixteen-year-old maid said “Yes” and knelt by the threshold with her hands on the floor.
I suddenly grabbed the Java sparrow lying on the futon and hurled it before the maid.
The maid kept silent, bowing her head as she stared at the tatami mats.
I glared at the maid’s face and said, “It died because you didn’t feed it.”
The maid remained silent still.

I turned back toward the desk.
Then I wrote a postcard to Sangenyoshi:
“Since the household didn’t feed it, the Java sparrow finally died.
To cage a creature unasked and then neglect even the basic duty of feeding it—this is cruelty itself.”

I told the maid to go and mail this, and then take that bird away.
The maid asked in return, “Where should I take it?”
When I yelled, “Take it wherever you want!” she startled and hurriedly took it toward the kitchen.

After a while, in the backyard, children were making a commotion, shouting “Bury it! Bury it!” about the Java sparrow.
The gardener I had asked to tidy the garden said, “Miss, this area should do nicely here.”
Unwillingly, I was moving my pen in the study.

The next day, my head felt strangely heavy, so I finally got up around ten o'clock. While washing my face and looking into the backyard, I noticed a small public notice standing alongside a clump of blue horsetail where the gardener’s voice had been heard yesterday. Its height was much lower than the horsetail. Putting on garden clogs and crushing the frost in the shaded spots, when I approached to look, the front of the public notice read, "Do not climb this embankment." It was Fudeo’s handwriting.

In the afternoon, a reply arrived from Sangenyoshi.
The reply merely stated that the Java sparrow had met with a pitiful end, without containing a single word blaming the household or calling them cruel.