Pathway to Japanese Literature

Since then，I had hidden myself without sending even a single letter—how terribly rude you must think me. When I thought about how I might make amends，my chest swelled full，and my heart grew ever weaker with sad，pitiful feelings. And then，with great difficulty，I secretly returned to Tokyo the night before last，immediately obtained two or three newspapers from after that time，and read through them one after another—but of all the various newspaper articles concerning me，not a single one failed to condemn and torment my heart.

Regarding how I suddenly suffered hemoptysis during the spring conference of the Meiji Music Society held at Marunouchi Engi Hall, was hospitalized at the nearby general hospital, and then disappeared that very night—the overwhelming sympathy extended by newspapers and others felt utterly undeserved. Moreover, the anguished concern shown by Dr. Okazawa and his wife—who cared for me until the end—which surpassed even familial devotion... And amidst all this, most especially how your esteemed self not only refrained from condemning my transgression of having unwittingly withdrawn from your presence since that time, but even suspended stage performances to worry over someone as insignificant as myself, exhausting every means to search for my whereabouts—only to unexpectedly develop hemoptysis identical to mine in the process. And when I read in the gossip column titled ‘In the same place...’ that your esteemed self had been hospitalized at that same Marunouchi General Hospital while continuously calling my name—the anguish I felt then… And in that same moment, when I realized your esteemed self and I had fallen into fate’s hands this way—that we’d contracted the same illness and become beings spitting blood alike—was no coincidence at all, the hollow terror I felt… It was simply that until this labored breath finally ceased, I kept wringing my handkerchief and weeping.

Now that things have come to this, what could I possibly hide from you?

Long before I ever had the honor of meeting your esteemed self directly, I knew well from afar that your esteemed self—under the name of Mr. Nakamura Hanjirou, renowned even abroad as kabuki's youngest and most beautiful onnagata specialist—was indeed Mr. Hishida Shintarou. But that is not all. Though it may be terribly rude of me to say so, I was well aware not only that your esteemed self shares my age of twenty-three years, but also that you have maintained until today a reputation for aversion to women without permitting any woman to approach.

Therefore, if I may venture to say, perhaps your esteemed self—unaware even to yourself—were bound by a mysterious thread of fate that only I in this vast world knew of, and that this might be why you did not turn toward other women...... To phrase it differently, might the woman destined to be tied to your esteemed self's fate be none other than myself alone in this world...... Such thoughts I harbored day after day, quivering with fearful uncertainty deep within my heart, having survived until today through this conviction.

That being said, as an unskilled piano teacher of low standing who would never catch the eye of esteemed personages such as yourselves, if others were to discover that I entertained thoughts of such unattainable matters, how terribly I would have been laughed at. All women in Japan who knew Mr. Nakamura Hanjirou—that is, Mr. Hishida Shintarou—saw the same dream, so there was no need to worry. There must be limits to one’s self-conceit—I was ridiculed nearly to death for it.

Even for your esteemed self who knew nothing of these matters, had I suddenly brought such things to your ears, you would surely have been astonished. "I alone had secretly been aware of your esteemed self's fate since long ago. "I spent my days trembling and quaking through passing months and years, repeatedly imagining there could be no woman other than myself who would receive a marriage proposal from your esteemed self."

Were I to say this, your esteemed self would immediately think there could be no possibility of such a thing existing. You must suspect that I am fabricating such stories afterward in an attempt to avoid marriage. But what would be gained by inventing tales in such circumstances? I will never forget—it was during the second day of my inept piano solo performance in Marunouchi Engi Hall's concert venue. Mr. Matsutomi, serving as director of the Meiji Music Society, lightly tapped my shoulder at the dressing room entrance and uttered these words:

“Ms. Inokuchi.” “Steady now.” “The renowned actor Mr. Hishida Shintarou has been coming alone to that very back seat since yesterday. Mr. Shintarou is famous for hating women and Western music, you know.” “He’s known to be a man-hater, yet he comes to listen to your performance, and once your turn is over, he promptly leaves, you see.” “Just now, a newspaper reporter informed me about that matter, so I replied that you probably still don’t know anything about it, but...” “It seems it’s about to become quite a sensation. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

How great must have been my astonishment when I received this news! The dreamlike, mysterious bond of fate between your esteemed self and me—which until now I had only imagined—began to manifest in reality with such vivid clarity in an unexpectedly public setting that, overcome by terror, I became utterly overwhelmed. I became so breathless that I even thought of fleeing the performance venue under the pretext of illness, and my heart pounded violently.

However, until that moment I had only ever encountered your esteemed self through photographs, so I was detained by this helpless longing—to behold your true face even once before parting from this world—and thus continued playing the "Moonlight Sonata" with a pounding heart. Then your esteemed self entered through the front entrance wearing a hunting cap and tailcoat, large tinted glasses upon your face, and quietly leaned against the wall beneath the electric lights.

When I glimpsed your esteemed figure from behind the sheet music, how my chest roared! At that moment—perhaps because your esteemed self had come in haste—you pressed your body against the wall to avoid notice, removed your tinted glasses, wiped your sweat, and then quietly looked in my direction. While retaining your face vividly in my eyes, I was struck by such a strange astonishment that I thought I might die, inadvertently losing consciousness and causing everyone no small amount of concern. Not only that, but I unexpectedly coughed up blood and stained the Meiji Music Society’s one and only precious piano, resulting in the cancellation of the long-awaited concert—truly, I can only sigh repeatedly, wondering how I can possibly apologize for this. Everyone presumes this occurred solely due to the illness I had long concealed through excessive devotion to my profession, and I hear they have bestowed upon me such unbearable sympathy—truly, how undeserving this is.

However, to tell the truth, my fainting was not due to that illness. At that moment, the instant I beheld your esteemed self’s face after you removed your tinted glasses, I almost—

"Ah... Mother..." "Mother..." I nearly cried out. It was because your esteemed self's face bore such resemblance to my deceased mother that this came to pass. Of course, I had long been well aware through photographs in various magazines that your esteemed self’s appearance closely resembled my mother’s. However, that your esteemed self's loving gaze—which had looked upon me so quietly in that manner—should prove identical in every particular to my mother's living likeness was something I could never have imagined even in dreams. Though these words may seem impertinent, at that moment your esteemed self could only be thought of as my mother's reincarnation.

The moment I thought that, I realized with vivid clarity that my fate was reaching an impasse before my very eyes. And then, having nearly lost consciousness in that moment, I sincerely believe it was not due to illness. As I have mentioned before, I had steeled myself from long ago that without fail once in my lifetime, I would receive a marriage proposal from your esteemed self. And yet together with this, regarding precisely that proposal from your esteemed self—that I must never accept it no matter what state my heart might be in... I had come to know with every fiber of my being that I carried a fate both tragic and terrifying enough to warrant such words.

The anguish and wretchedness I feel at having to now fully disclose the reason to your esteemed self—it is as though my very flesh were being sliced. That being said, when I consider how I have become able to meet your esteemed self—the only person in all this world who might understand these reasons—even if but for a single glance, and thereby send such a letter as this, I must be infinitely more fortunate than were I to depart for the next world still keeping this secret locked within my breast.

The first reason, I must state, is this illness that currently afflicts both your esteemed self and me in the same manner. Moreover, mine has been passed down through generations in my family from Mother, so there remains no hope of recovery whatsoever. Now, as for the next reason I must state—though I know not whether this will shock your esteemed self—it concerns a sword stab wound running from my right back to beneath my right breast. As for this scar's mark and the lifelong secret connected to it alone—which I resolved to keep hidden from others even at life's cost, concealing it even from doctors despite falling ill—I now believe the time has come when I must absolutely disclose them to your esteemed self alone.

And now, the most crucial reason I cannot entrust this body to your esteemed self is none other than... Though it may be presumptuous of me to say so, I have come to believe that your esteemed self and I were never mere strangers from the moment we were born into this world. As one piece of evidence, your esteemed self—as I have mentioned before—exist in the exact likeness of my mother’s appearance, while on the other hand, my own form has also borne the precise semblance of your esteemed self’s youthful visage transformed into that of a woman, which I had been well aware of since I was still small.

Even having stated this much alone, your esteemed self would readily discern evidence that my words hold no falsehood. Thereupon, you must at once conceive me as a blood-divided sister and know what anguish this must cause you. Yet I implore you most earnestly—compose your heart and deign to peruse in full what I shall here set down.

Should your esteemed self do so [read calmly], you will gradually come to understand that while your esteemed self and I remain in these forms having exchanged the visages of our parents, there could indeed exist no blood connection between us—a fact that has become clearly demonstrable. And that this mysterious bond of fate which seeks to bind me to your esteemed self might be either the abominable work of some demon or the noble will of divine providence—this tormented uncertainty that leaves me writhing in confusion shall likewise become clear to your understanding.

At that concert hall, the very moment I looked up at your esteemed face, I realized with vivid clarity how this strange torment surrounding our fates—which I had long imagined—now pressed urgently before my eyes. I beg your pardon. My thoughts have become so disordered that I seem to be writing nothing but incoherent matters. Yet regardless of all else, until this mysterious bond of fate connecting us becomes clear, I cannot entrust this body to your hands—no matter what form our feelings might take. Rather than having my figure catch your eye, I had prayed it would be better for your sake if I perished from this illness first. Yet when matters unfolded thus and I was taken to the general hospital near the concert hall—that late night when you found a gap in the nurse's vigilance and stole into my hospital room—the mingled joy and sorrow I felt when you uttered those words...

“I’ll surely cure that illness for you. “If only you would consent, you are my wife. “Because I don’t need life or anything else. “As proof—here, a kiss… a kiss………”

Ah... What a valiant heart you possess. What kindness you show. If I had not fainted at that time, what might have come to pass?

When I finally came to my senses of my own accord, how dear was the lingering warmth of your esteemed self that remained upon my lips and cheeks. How sorrowful it was...

Ah... How I wept at that time! How I resented and agonized over my sinfulness in causing such suffering to your esteemed self who knew nothing, and over the cruelty of fate—how I wept! As dawn approached, I rose while watching for the attending nurse's sleeping breaths, and disregarding my unsteadiness from high fever, gathered my belongings and slipped out of the hospital. Then, still wearing the haori I had put on over what I wore during the performance, I boarded the train and returned to my hometown of Fukuoka in Kyushu. Then I disembarked at Hakozaki Station two stops before Hakata Station, and while avoiding notice, paid my respects at Kushida Shrine in Hakata—the shrine of my guardian deity—where I bade "farewell" to the two oshi-e artworks framed in the votive picture hall.

The mysterious secret concerning your esteemed self’s and my fate lies hidden within those two oshi-e. The stab wound upon my back and breast, as well as the reason I became unable to accept your esteemed self’s lips with peace of mind—when traced to their origin, it was all something those two oshi-e had wrought. Therefore, it is precisely because I wished to bid farewell to that fate that I made the journey all the way to Kyushu. Sooner or later, I believe my life is beyond saving...

But as I gazed up at those two oshi-e, I began to feel as though some sort of lofty force was drawing me upward. One of them depicted a scene from *The Eight Dog Chronicles* where Inuzuka Shino and Inukai Genpachi dueled atop Hōryūkaku Pavilion, while the other portrayed the stage scene of Agoya’s Harp Torture. Both were housed in large glass-fronted frames wrapped with another layer of sturdy wire mesh and displayed along the western front of the votive picture hall, but as I gazed up at them, my very being shuddered so intensely—to the point where I thought perhaps that mystical force enshrined within those oshi-e, which enveloped your esteemed self’s and my fate, was stirring anew within my heart—that I found myself feeling as though intoxicated by some mysterious wine.

Never before in my life had I felt the power of fate so profoundly as something joyous and delightful as I did at that moment.

There is not a single thing in this world that is not fate. Therefore, I am not necessarily fated to die from this illness. It cannot be said for certain that there is no possibility I might miraculously regain a healthy body once more and have the chance to meet your esteemed self again. The only ones who know such fate are these two oshi-e... And among them, only the two figures—Inuzuka Shino raising his sword and Agoya plucking her koto—know everything with perfect clarity. What use is there in my feeble strength opposing that destiny?

I shall come to your esteemed self’s side, cradled in these hands of fate. Then I shall cling to your cherished bosom, confess everything that has transpired until now, and allow myself to weep to my heart's content.

That must be my true fate. In such manner—with a spoiled, tranquil state of mind like that of a seven- or eight-year-old child’s dreaming—I boarded the upbound train in a daze, dozing off as I did so.

When I arrived back in Tokyo, I deliberately stayed at a small, nameless inn on the outskirts. And as I mentioned before, it was there that I read the subsequent newspapers—but even among those articles, what particularly tormented me was the extent of your esteemed self’s kindness... Though I were to lay bare before your eyes all those terrifying, mysterious secrets clinging to my flesh and heart, your heart’s resolve that seemed unlikely to retreat afterward; and upon learning how your illness had suddenly grown severe because of this—at that very moment, how dreadfully did I come to realize the mystical force of those oshi-e governing your esteemed self’s and my fate. How I must have clutched that newspaper and wept myself drenched.

And no matter how many times I pondered it, there remained no path but to entrust this body to fate, meet your esteemed self, and confess this secret. Should we do so, your illness and mine might heal of their own accord. But no—that your esteemed self and I succumbed to this same malady might stem from that invisible hand of fate exercising mysterious compassion, forcibly pulling back me who sought to selfishly depart from your side... With my heart throbbing from such fragile, desperate thoughts, how many times did I rewrite letters to your esteemed self! How many sheets of paper I tore up and discarded, agonizing over my shameful heart and clumsy writing.

That being said, such thoughts of mine were likely nothing but phantoms born from my fever-addled mind. I soon had to awaken to reality. In that manner, as I rewrote the letters to your esteemed self over and over, I became so unbearably frustrated that I could no longer endure it. I became completely overwhelmed by the feeling that I might die if I did not meet your esteemed self immediately. As I continued writing this letter in such a state, I grew so breathless that I thought my vision might darken and I would collapse, so I immediately settled the inn’s payment and began packing a small amount of luggage with the intention of discreetly paying your esteemed self a visit. But as I was folding the gray blanket I had acquired in Hakata, before long I experienced yet another—my second—hemoptysis.

I beg of you to please forgive me.

At that moment, collapsed upon the blanket, I saw with vivid clarity the phantom of our fates being miserably crushed. A blue-blue, vast-vast expanse—so pure and beautiful I couldn't tell sky from sea—appeared trying to engulf our blood-spewing bodies locked in embrace, glittering distantly as it waited. And as we were drawn inexorably toward it, I found this ineffably pleasant.

But when that phantom vanished, I mustered every ounce of my strength to regain my composure. And so, while gasping for breath, I concealed the traces of blood and rode a rickshaw to Dr. Kitasato’s sanatorium. Though convinced my life was already spent—while heeding the attending physician’s warning not to overexert myself—I secretly hid this paper and pencil beneath my bedding and have been writing this letter whenever I find gaps between the nurses’ watchful eyes.

If your esteemed self reads this letter to its conclusion, I believe you will surely recall one particular matter immediately. Though I imagine this matter holds no significance whatsoever to your esteemed self—being something you already comprehend fully—I trust that should you but recall it, you will unravel all secrets without the slightest difficulty. In any event, the one who can solve the mysterious enigma of fate entwined between your esteemed self and myself exists nowhere in this vast world save your esteemed self alone.

I have been—while tormented by an unbearable desire to ask your esteemed self just that single thing—as one who has lived on until today without being able to muster such courage. Though I think this, I know not where to begin telling you. What shall I do with this torment? What shall I do with this pen's stubbornness that refuses to advance no matter how I hasten? Ah. Would it be wrong for me to depart to the next world bearing your tearful words and kiss as lifelong memories?

Lately, I have been dreaming of nothing but those oshi-e every single night. I repeatedly dream of the gallant figure of Inuzuka Shino straddling the deepest blue roof tiles at the very pinnacle of Hōryūkaku Pavilion while brandishing a silver sword, and of Agoya's modest figure with faded colors playing the koto before stern Hatakeyama Shigetada. Along with that, my father’s face, my mother’s face, and even the appearance of my childhood home where I lived for twelve years after birth appear beautifully like a magic lantern, seen in tattered fragments. And when I awaken, tears both sweet and nostalgic—as if returning to that childhood heart—flow endlessly without cease, leaving me utterly helpless.

That is not solely due to the fever, I believe.

It must be because what remains of my life has dwindled to so little... When I think this, your esteemed face is recalled all the more fondly yet sorrowfully, and my chest grows tight. My childhood home stood upon the delta at the mouth of the Nakagawa River that flows through central Fukuoka City and empties into Hakata Bay. This delta was called Higashi Nakasu, situated between Hakata Town—renowned for Hakata-ori textiles—and Fukuoka Town that served as Lord Kuroda's castle domain. Though numerous bridges spanned from both towns, my family home stood beside the venerated Kijin Jizo-sama statue at the base of Mizushabashi Bridge on Hakata's southernmost edge. The house remains encircled by its original cedar fence even now, positioned alongside Jizo-sama near Seventeenth Bank's tennis courts, so any visitor would recognize it immediately.

To be sure, Higashi Nakasu from about twenty years ago when we lived there was not the bustling place it is today, with only a single row of houses near the northwestern coastline and where the river split into two branches at the southern tip. Thus our house alone always stood midway along the Hakata-side riverbank, surrounded by rapeseed flowers, pumpkin blossoms, and green wheat fields—a solitary dwelling those of advanced years will surely recall.

My family belonged to the five hundred koku mounted guard lineage of the Kuroda domain. Though my father was an adopted son, he possessed that old-fashioned stubbornness often found in books and tales. He was precisely the sort of man one would imagine, teaching Chinese classics to youths in our neighborhood. Being naturally averse to drink yet exceedingly fond of sweets, by the time I turned ten he suffered such severe stomach troubles that he often worked the fields under pretext of recuperation—perhaps why his complexion grew swarthy, with bushy eyebrows, deep-set eyes, a broad mouth, and a fearsome countenance worthy of a samurai.

By contrast, my mother was extraordinarily beautiful—and an enigmatic presence.

My mother appeared to take meals only for the sake of living. How on earth she maintained her health with that—I was made to wonder even as a child—was how little she ate. Moreover, Mother,

“How does she manage to observe [the latest styles] while living in that solitary house?” To the extent that acquaintances marveled—her hair perfectly styled in the latest fashion and white garments lightly draped about her—that very simplicity made her appear indescribably beautiful without pretense. The wet nurse who raised Mother—an energetic old woman named Oseki—carried large stacked paulownia wood boxes on her back while peddling sundries through rural areas at that time. Yet Mother never acquired anything luxurious from her beyond occasionally purchasing oil or hair ties; rather, Oseki received tie-dyed sashes and brocade amulet bags made by Mother’s hand to sell for profit in the countryside. In summer when she wore the dark blue tie-dyed unlined kimono she had dyed herself, its hue harmonized with her moon-pale face, the nape of her neck, and her complexion to create true elegance. One time when she said she would bake me manju sweets, tying a hand towel like an elder sister about her head as she sat before the brazier—the grace of that figure remains etched in my eyes to this day.

“I wish to say your mother resembles a painting, but she is far, far more beautiful than any painting.” A certain person said. “Even women find themselves enraptured.” There was even an instance where the konbu seller woman left while glancing back repeatedly after saying this. I cannot say whether it was true or false, but there was a popular song in Fukuoka at that time that went: “Everyone, everyone—in Fukuoka Hakata, what does it matter if they’re mismatched? Na.” Toko-ton yare ton yare na. That is Mr. Inokuchi and his wife. In Nakasu—without tears—they live in harmony; isn’t that strange? “Toko-ton yare ton yare naa.”

I recall having heard there was such a song from someone, but I forgot who taught it to me. However, Mother’s true mystery was not such matters. “Your mother has fingers like mine, yet how can she perform such mysterious work?”

This was what all the people who came to our house would say. My mother was so supremely skilled at her finger work that people marveled at it to such an extent. According to accounts from my grandmother—who lived until the winter I turned eight—Oseki, and others, Mother had been the sole heir of the Inokuchi family; yet when she was seven years old during her first Doll Festival, she reportedly broke the oshi-e doll she had received, then remade it herself and thus learned the method of creating oshi-e. Afterward, once her calligraphy practice was finished, she would draw doll faces and flower patterns on scraps of tissue paper or waste paper, playing with them endlessly—so it is said—and as for friends, unless they came to visit her first, she never took the initiative to go out to meet them. When she was around ten years old, the oshi-e dolls she made as playthings gained renown and began to sell, so my grandfather and grandmother were astonished, so it is said.

When Mother turned eleven thereafter, she went to stay with a grandmother from her maternal relatives in a place called Koyama in Hakata to learn weaving, sewing, and such. Though this grandmother was a renowned instructor of Yakamashi-ya textile work, Mother alone never received any criticism—so it is said—and by age fourteen, she had become nearly indistinguishable from the master herself. As for embroidery and such, those she created as playthings from that time onward were said to be more beautiful and sturdier than those made by adults.

My father entered our family as an adopted son from the Tsukigawa household when my mother was fifteen years old; my father was indeed twenty-four years old at that time. Now regarding Mother—in her sixteenth year during the New Year following her wedding ceremony—when she paid respects at her craft instructor’s residence for seasonal greetings—the instructor prepared zōni soup considering their familial relation. At that time someone brought a man’s obi of Hakata-ori fabric thick as a board—this being a sumo wrestler’s belt specially ordered from Hakata weavers then tailored in Kansai—but due to unsatisfactory knotting that displeased him despite repeated alterations. They explained they had come because no other place remained except our local Hakata-ori master for remaking such work. Then appeared precisely then—the master’s elderly woman. “Now that Fukuoka’s most accomplished beauty graces us,” she declared—and thrust this task upon Mother.

Mother could not defy the intimidating words of that spiteful instructor, and being well aware of how my father detested losing anything, she feared the consequences should it later be discovered she had refused and fled home without even partaking of the zōni soup. Thus she tearfully accepted the task, but as this obi had been remade numerous times already, the hardship of sewing through its stubborn layers brought both physical strain and emotional anguish. It is said that tears came forth. However, in any case, she finished before the zōni was ready and promptly had it sent off. But it seems he liked it so much that he immediately sent over a large sum for the tailoring, which Mother firmly refused—or so the story goes. Then, the sumo wrestler came to Mother’s residence by rickshaw the very next day, carrying a platform loaded with a great quantity of crepe silks and damasks to express his gratitude. Since Father knew nothing of the circumstances, he was utterly astonished. And then he himself came out to the entrance.

“My wife does not associate with the likes of you people.” After Father had said this, Mother, who had come out afterward, managed to intervene and finally accepted the gifts, but the sumo wrestler was turned away at the entrance.

“That man must have come to see you. From now on, you shall not sew anything for sumo wrestlers.” It is said Father later severely reprimanded Mother. Then another matter—when Mother was eighteen years old in February, a man called Shiba Chuubee (truly named Shibata Chuubei), reputed to be Hakata’s wealthiest individual, came personally to meet Father and made this request.

“The purpose of my visit today is to humbly request your permission to have your esteemed wife’s oshi-e adorn my daughter’s first Doll Festival—this being the entreaty that brings me before you.” “Regarding this matter, in four or five days’ time, Nakamura Handayu—the thousand-ryō actor from Tokyo (your honored father, if I may beg pardon for my presumptuous phrasing)—will arrive in Hakata to perform at Hyōrakuzai Theater for ten days.” “The featured production for this debut performance will be *The Harp Torture of Agoya*, with Handayu undertaking the role of Agoya. Might we implore you to view the performance and recreate that very scene in a five-panel composition?” “To facilitate this, I have secured the finest front-row box seats from opening day through closing night, that you might observe every detail at leisure.” “I have here brought the foundational brocade patterns.” “Though this three-panel design remains at your disposal, you may alter it freely after attending the performance.” “Should you wish to examine the costumes firsthand, you may visit the dressing rooms to inspect them directly.” “I myself shall serve as your guide.” “I must apologize for this impertinence, but sparing neither expense nor effort, I beseech you—let us receive a work befitting your wife’s life-defining masterpiece, an heirloom for posterity through which my daughter might borrow its radiance. What say you?”

Such was his heartfelt plea. However, my strict Father did not easily grant permission. When he inquired about matters such as what kind of story the play called *Agoya's Harp Torture* entailed and whether men could enter dressing rooms at all, Mr. Shiba Chuubee offered explanations—that theater served as a form of street education instilling lessons of benevolence and morality; that while actors were traditionally considered riverbed folk, Tokyo actors weren't all like that, with accomplished ones being upstanding individuals of proper etiquette quite distinct in status from sumo wrestlers—and after elaborating exhaustively on these points, finally,

“Very well, let us go see it.”

It is said he declared this. When the play began thereafter, they summoned Oseki—the trinket seller—to keep watch at home, and Grandmother, Father, and Mother went together to Hyōrakuzai Theater for three days. On that first day, Mr. Nakamura Handayu appeared at their viewing seats wearing a haori and hakama to offer his greetings.

And then, “That my stage likeness should pass through the hands of Fukuoka’s renowned lady would be the honor of a lifetime. “I humbly beg your kind assistance...” Having said this, he presented Grandmother with a tea set, Father with a tobacco tray, and Mother with a stationery case as gifts—each bearing our family crest of interlocking rings rendered in gold and silver, which left Father utterly astonished. Thereafter, being deeply impressed by Mr. Handayu’s character, he remarked to others, “Were he a samurai, he’d command a thousand koku,” or so it is said.

However, when four or five days had passed since then, Father declared, "I'm about to get a headache." "Since Grandmother has grown weary too, I'll stay home with her." "You have my permission—go see it with Oseki." "This comes from Shiba Chuubee's earnest request."

It is said he declared this; yet even when Mother politely declined, Mr. Shiba Chuubee—who had come to fetch her—pressed so insistently that she ended up attending for three more days, or so the story goes. Then on the fifth day of viewing, she quickly sketched a draft; after watching the performance once more on the sixth day to refine details, she commenced her work—and within a week, the five-panel composition dolls of *The Harp Torture of Agoya* had been splendidly completed, or so it is said. These oshi-e dolls not only had each strand of Agoya's hair meticulously embedded using black satin threads, but through Mother's ingenuity featured eyeballs coated with glue to shine. Upon scarlet crepe silk robes she embossed white and dyed peonies, suspending fluttering gold-silver butterflies with hairpin wires above them, while the obi's arabesque patterns were carved in relief. Within a beauty wholly distinct from brocade prints or stage sets—dazzling enough to make eyes ache—Agoya's likeness gazed downward with vivid lifelikeness. When your esteemed father—who had staged the extended second run at Hyōrakuzai Theater—viewed it,

“This is astonishing! The aspect I’ve struggled with most—the physical poise of courtesans from ages past—how could she have observed them in such meticulous detail? This courtesan’s bearing is something even today’s finest ukiyo-e artists cannot depict—it constitutes the most difficult secret technique passed down in our family’s art... That lady is truly a marvel.”

It is said he spoke these words with such astonishment that his tongue nearly rolled out—a tale that remains in Hakata's gossip to this day. When those five-panel dolls of *The Harp Torture of Agoya* were displayed on the small pure hinoki stage at Mr. Shiba Chuubee’s residence, the spectacle was said to have been truly extraordinary. Needless to say, at that time both Father and Mother were invited to Mr. Shiba Chuubee's residence, where a grand feast was reportedly served. However, even just receiving relatives who had specially journeyed from afar to see the oshi-e, along with acquainted Doll Festival guests, kept Mr. Shiba Chuubee so busy he could barely keep his eyes straight—or so it is said. And so, even after the Doll Festival had passed, such guests showed no signs of abating, until finally Mr. Shiba Chuubee himself, laughing, proposed the following—or so it is said.

“This is unbearable! Even if it is my daughter’s celebration, if travelers from Kyoto and Osaka are hearing tales of it and coming to see, I’ll soon face ruin.” “There’s no such thing as an oshi-e that costs this much!” “In any case, since this is something into which Mrs. Inokuchi poured her once-in-a-lifetime soul and spirit, it might be better to just dedicate it to the clan deity under my daughter’s name.” Thus it was decided. Thus, that oshi-e was placed into an ornate glass-paneled frame, further reinforced by wrapping it in wire mesh, and enshrined in Kushida Shrine’s votive picture hall. The frame interior featured a stage crafted through pure hinoki joinery work that protruded in relief, and even the fittings employed miniature replicas made with the same meticulous effort as actual components. Given its immense weight, it reportedly took four or five people nearly half a day to finally hoist it into place.

As a result of these circumstances, Mother’s reputation grew to twice what it had been before, and needless to say, the commissions that came her way increased to twice as much or even more than their previous number. However, not long after that, when Mother became aware she would be giving birth to me near year's end, she reportedly refused all commissions that arrived after August without exception. The commotion that arose from Grandmother and my parents around the time of my birth apparently appeared so comical from an outsider’s perspective that it was utterly unbearable to behold—or so it is said.

"They often say things like 'A beauty bears no children' or 'A high-strung woman has scant seed,' but as my Mother embodied both, Grandmother worried endlessly over this matter and frequently voiced such complaints—or so it is said." "Though Father apparently remained silent on such matters, despite Fukuoka having the custom that 'If no child is born within three years, [the wife] must leave,' since Mother belonged to the main family line while Father had been adopted into it, Grandmother likely found herself unable to take any action."

Even so, how Grandmother must have yearned to see her first grandchild’s face. Therefore, Grandmother would sometimes take it upon herself to bring Mother along to worship at Jizō statues, Kannon statues, sacred trees, and such; have her receive amulets and holy water; and undertook all manner of devoted efforts, or so it is said. She would say things like "You know today's Kannon's day" or "Tomorrow's such-and-such for Jizō," sending Mother out two or three times a month—and at those times, no matter how busy Mother was with work, she would always say "Yes" and go. Father too, in addition to praying to gods and buddhas morning and evening, would humbly accept the amulets and holy water that Grandmother recommended—it is said he never dismissed them as superstition.

Given all that—how the entire household had yearned for a child—when one such as myself came into being, what joy must have been theirs. Father, who had remained silent until then, reportedly initiated what is called prenatal education when Mother began wearing the sixth-month Iwata belt that August. As for its origins, I cannot say with certainty what historical precedents existed, though it must have derived from Chinese studies transmitted from China. Mother—who until then had slept with Father in the sitting room—was now made to sleep alone in the tea room beside the kitchen's broad wooden-floored area, leaving Father remaining in the sitting room while Grandmother continued sleeping as always in her chamber by the entrance. All around this tea room where Mother slept, they had pasted up pictures of historically famed figures and valorous events or mounted them in frames. By having Mother gaze upon these images and writings each dawn and dusk, they believed the child in her womb would absorb her noble sentiments and grow exemplary—this being what they termed prenatal education. Those pictures and writings still lined the tea room walls even after I had grown older—soot-darkened lithographs mingling valor with brutality: Kusunoki Masashige's final battle; Byakkotai youths committing seppuku; Shōgitai warriors fighting at Ueno; Yamato Takeru subduing the Kumaso. These stood alongside Saigō-sama's portrait and Takayama Hikokurō's calligraphic "Loyalty." Surveying them revealed with painful clarity how Father had resolved I would be a son long before my birth.

Then, when the time of my birth finally drew near, Oseki-baa—whom I mentioned earlier—came to stay overnight, laying out bedding in the kitchen’s wooden-floored area. This old woman lived until I was about five or six years old—a remarkably vigorous yet greedy woman whom Father apparently did not much care for. However, as she had experience bearing nearly ten children, Father permitted her to attend to Mother without uttering a word of objection on this occasion. I still remember it well. She was a plump, dark-skinned woman with bulging eyes, and whenever Mother was mentioned,

“I’m the one who raised her… Madam Dowager.” When she said this, she would open her mouth wide and laugh like a man—but I distinctly remember that for a woman of her age at the time, she was unusually not wearing blackened teeth. According to rumors, she had once served in Yanagimachi (the pleasure district), but when that old woman came and took one look at Mother’s belly,

“This one’s big.” “It must be quite a large boy.” “The days will likely be prolonged somewhat before the birth.”

Having been told this, Father was said to have been overjoyed. However, this old woman’s prophecy did not come true—I was born an ordinary-sized girl. Though only the days had been extended by about a week, far from feeling discontent, Grandmother and Father pressed their hands together toward Oseki-baa, “Ah… Thanks to you, we were relieved.” it is said they spoke these words through tears. I was born on December 29th of Meiji 13—a morning of heavy snowfall—or so I’m told. At that time, both Grandmother and Father had grown utterly exhausted from their constant vigil over Mother’s impending labor. Following Oseki-baa’s instruction—“Wait until the very moment arrives”—they dozed by the sitting room kotatsu while I entered this world. When daybreak brought my cries echoing through the house, both were said to have started in astonishment. Yet Oseki-baa remained unyielding—when Father rushed in to see me,

“Go over there at once! I’ll let you hold the baby now. Gentlemen should not enter the birthing area.” Having been scolded thus, Father once again hurriedly retreated into the kotatsu and pulled the futon over his head from top to bottom. Because of this, the kotatsu’s frame was left half-exposed, with Father’s black-clad legs shooting out straight on either side—or so it is said. “The sight of him was so comical…”

It was much later that I heard how Oseki-baa would often tell people this story and laugh. There were still various things I came to hear later about events surrounding my birth. Among these matters, what I must first relate above all else is the handball song that became popular shortly after I was born, which it is said Fukuoka’s nursemaids still sing to this day. “Itcho begins, one kiri kanjo…”

Makes his living with a single staff—that’s Mr. Otsuka. (Referring to the teacher of jōjutsu) Makes his living through niyōbo—that’s Mr. Inokuchi.

Makes his living with a three-legged ritual tray—that’s Mr. Nagasawa. (Referring to the chief priest of Kushida Shrine) Makes his living through moneylending—that’s Mr. Terakura (moneylender). Five pardons granted—oh, six brings shame! Seven—burns all manner of jealousies. Nine pardons, ten pardons—grant them all! Avert your eyes, tug your sleeves—still just a mistress. Even if a child is born, it’s from a concubine’s womb. Your womb isn’t something to be borrowed! The master flaunts his charms with whomever he fancies. The child she bore bears no mark, but... The one I longed for—a living image.

“Oh, one-two, one-two, up we go!” Though I speak of this song, I question the propriety of mentioning such matters—yet it was indeed a satire aimed at Father and Mother and myself, exaggerated further through gossip about the sumo wrestler whose sashes Mother sewed and the oshi-e she crafted depicting your father. As I have mentioned before, my father was a dark-complexioned and sturdy man—one might even say unattractive—while my mother stood as his complete opposite, a woman of such extraordinary beauty that it seems inevitable people would say all manner of things about them.

It is said that once such songs began circulating, Father would not permit Mother to step outside even once except for daily grave visits, prayers for safe childbirth at various shrines and temples, and thanksgiving pilgrimages. To be sure, Father had always been a solemn man who never uttered even a single jest in ordinary times, so he likely failed to grasp the true meaning concealed behind such songs. Yet as the song did mention him, it seems to have struck a nerve—Father would become like a madman berating those nursemaids who came to spitefully sing such songs before our house, his scolding voice said to carry all the way to the koto instructor’s residence across the river.

Moreover, our household’s livelihood at that time was sustained solely by meager tenant rice payments and fees from Father’s Chinese classics instruction, supplemented by Mother’s oshi-e artworks and needlework. Thus I imagine my parents endured considerable hardship both before and after my birth—hardships that seem encoded within this very handball song. Though I know not who composed it, each recollection fills my heart with such bitter resentment that it swells near to bursting.

Yet perhaps because of this, Mother would insist she was developing night blindness—ignoring Oseki-baa’s attempts to dissuade her—and begin washing her hair earlier than most or start her needlework—or so it is said. From that time onward, Father too reportedly began going out himself even for morning and evening shopping, heedless of people’s laughter—so long as Mother remained quietly at home working—and because Father’s mood improved under these conditions, Grandmother was said to have been greatly troubled.

However, now that I consider it carefully, I feel I understand Father’s state of mind quite well.

Though it pains me to speak critically of my parents, I must state this matter plainly lest you fail to understand what follows in this account. To write without concealment: my Father, through a mentality that conflated the joy of making my beautiful Mother work tirelessly to accumulate money with his affectionate desire to cherish and protect her, conducted himself in such a manner that even to my eyes after I had gained awareness of the world, it appeared quite clear. Therefore, I believe Father found nothing more delightful and pleasing than seeing Mother remain at home, working through sleepless nights—a sight that kept him in good spirits.

Though I say this, when considered from another perspective, I believe it cannot be denied that my mother’s fondness for work had already by that time surpassed what is ordinarily meant by such a fondness. However mercilessly Father’s jealous heart may have forced Mother to work beyond her limits, and however much Mother herself may have been fond of her work, the manner of Mother’s labor after my birth was said by people to be something beyond human capability.

When I consider this matter now, Mother's state of mind seems profoundly clear to me—to put it plainly, I perceive that after giving birth to me, Mother's heart withdrew from the human world entirely, pouring itself solely into her work while striving to forget other matters (though what precisely those matters were, I imagine no one could discern).

No matter what I say, I was born on one of the final days of the twelfth month in the year when the Agoya's Harp Torture doll was completed. Yet when mid-February arrived about a month and a half later, she apparently never refused any work—be it household matters or old calendar New Year commissions from outside like sewing, embroidery on ceremonial cloths, crest stitching, or intricate oshi-e dolls—no matter how overwhelming her schedule became. This remained unchanged even after I gained awareness of the world—in addition to creating haori jackets, hakama trousers, and wedding finery for urgent commissions while working through sleepless nights, about ten young women from the neighborhood would come for lessons following Father’s Chinese classics instruction. While teaching them, Mother would even sew clothes for all four family members (including Grandmother’s), so her diligence and dedication were such that even my childish mind found them admirable. In the sweltering nights of summer, she paid no heed even when tormented by mosquitoes, and on frigid winter days, she worked so assiduously that she scarcely had time to warm her hands and feet.

At that time in Hakata-Fukuoka—the town adjoining ours—oshi-e had become tremendously fashionable, so when affluent townspeople had daughters born to them, they would all emulate Shiba Chuubee’s example for the first seasonal festival by crafting small theatrical stages to display oshi-e dolls within. Thus they came commissioning works, themselves setting extravagant prices—three yen for trios, five yen for quintets. Even when Mother protested that allocating such funds would compromise quality, they paid no heed. Moreover, Father would declare, “I’ll help as much as I can,” and since he made such pronouncements while refusing to countenance refusal, Mother reluctantly accepted these commissions through tears. In those days, was rice not priced below ten sen per shō?

“When rice costs ten sen—tra la la la!”

Such was the popularity of that song—"When rice costs ten sen—tra la la la!"—but Father handled all monetary matters himself, depositing today's earnings and tomorrow's at the Eteikyoku (though it was already called the Postal Bureau by then, Father stubbornly used the old name), so Mother seemed truly plunged into a hell of labor. However, even so, Mother's work showed greater meticulousness than others'.

For the hair, unless using extremely cheap materials, she would unravel black satin threads and implant each strand individually; she stuffed cotton into even the smallest fingertips before attaching nails, gave each garment a rounded shape appropriate to its form, then cut out various patterns to apply—and because each pattern’s weave aligned meticulously with the fabric’s grain, these appeared as skillfully executed as woven designs. When creating large New Year's battledores, they weren't merely wooden boards—the stretched upper portions would be hollowed out, with stage props like lattice doors, water basins, stone lanterns, and plantings commissioned from lantern painters alongside painted backdrop designs. But Mother would bring these elements to the veranda, painting them herself with various mixtures of white shell powder to harmonize with her oshi-e creations. The preliminary sketches for the oshi-e emerged from Mother’s collection of about twenty nishiki-e prints and the numerous borrowed drafts she had copied from her students—but the fascination lay in watching gentle or stern expressions take shape before one’s eyes... Or observing how strange-shaped flowers and butterflies embroidered with gold, silver, and multicolored threads on enormous ceremonial cloths gradually interconnected into unified patterns... Father seemed to find nothing more delightful than viewing such works of Mother’s from across the round paulownia brazier with me. The kindness he showed by occasionally helping cut bamboo for the oshi-e dolls’ legs.

I must have been a quiet child, for I have little memory of crying or such behavior. By the time I was six or seven, I would receive fabric scraps from Mother to make round-headed dolls or gaze endlessly at the preliminary sketches she had traced onto Mino paper, playing without pause. Among these activities, watching Mother's oshi-e work became my greatest delight—so intensely that I resented how Father would call for her while working in the fields.

But above all—especially when Mother painted the facial features of oshi-e dolls—she would invariably call me to sit before her, saying things like “Turn to the right” or “Turn to the left,” then scrutinize my eyes, nose, and mouth before moistening the tip of her slender brush and painting them onto the faces of dolls lined along the brazier’s edge. The faces were varied, and there should not have been a single one resembling me, yet as I looked at them day after day, I, with my childish mind, became able to effortlessly pick out eyes, noses, and mouths resembling my own from among them. At that time, after Father had gone out to the fields,

“This is my eye. This mouth too… this nose too… these eyebrows too…” When I said this, Mother “You’re quite observant. Your face is as beautiful as an actor’s, so I’m using it as my model.” With those words she laughed, but then suddenly hung her head with such a sorrowful expression that tears plopped into the brazier’s ashes. I too felt inexplicably saddened, and never spoke of such things again. Though unclear in memory, I believe it was after this that Mother would set her mirror stand before her—alternately studying her own reflection and peering at my face—combining my features with hers to fashion the countenances of her oshi-e creations.

Having finished the New Year dolls, Mother would already begin working on the March third Doll Festival figures. There were orders for mid-grade pieces from several Hakata shops, and from the countryside came requests for as many as two or three hundred of the cheapest items in bulk. When February arrived, stores began commissioning high-quality pieces sorted by preference, so that by month's end Mother's workload grew overwhelming—all-nighters became commonplace—and I often found myself falling asleep in Father's embrace before realizing it.

When March arrived and I thought I could finally be held securely by Mother, before long she would undertake weaving during the rainy season, laundering bedding, and putting away the year’s formal attire—yet even during that period, sewing and embroidery commissions would arrive. When June arrived, she would gradually begin working on the dolls for the August festival. In Fukuoka custom, girls born after March were celebrated in August, but as the timing never quite aligned, Mother did not seem particularly busy during that period.

When August arrived, preparations would begin for the New Year’s oshi-e—though in those days, lacking cardboard as we have today, Mother would commission waste dealers to buy large quantities of scrap paper to craft layered sheets. This too proved an immense task, with autumn sunlight often illuminating these sheets spread out to dry everywhere from the garden to the fields and even across the veranda. At such times, Father would arrange in the formal room the money that had been kept strung into coin bundles up until then, or re-tie them into new bundles while...

“At least I can manage that much help,” he would often say. Father’s hands were roughened from fieldwork, so when he handled pasted papers, they would snag or cling, making the task take longer than if Mother had worked alone. I too, whenever I saw how busy Mother was, desperately wished to assist her, yet despite having the same fingers, I could not manage a single task like her sewing needles or laundry—only writing characters and playing the koto held my extraordinary passion. And so every day after school, I would stop by the koto teacher’s residence in the lively riverside district across the river for my lessons. Yet returning home to practice what I had reviewed before Father and Mother became nothing short of my greatest joy. The two of them doted on me so dearly they could have devoured me, such that whenever I played, they would praise my performance and bestow upon me various sweets as rewards.

“Koyatsu (people in Fukuoka often refer to their children this way) seems to have inherited my grandmother’s bloodline.” “She’ll surely become as skilled at the koto as Agoya herself.” “Even her playing gestures match that oshi-e exactly.” Father would often say. Yet strangely enough, whenever Father would say such things, Mother never gave a proper response. She would only give faint replies like “Oh...” or “Ah...,” that lonely yet sorrowful smile playing about her lips as she continued moving her needle and brush. At times, there were even moments when tears would well up in her eyes.

However, it seems Father never once noticed such things. Only I had long since noticed; as a child, I kept thinking I would someday ask Mother about it, yet it ended up remaining that way.

Before long, I welcomed the spring of my twelfth year. Father turned thirty-eight and Mother twenty-nine, and by this time our household circumstances had apparently improved considerably, for Father set about repairing various parts of the house, removing the surrounding hedges to prevent dogs and cats from damaging the fields and replacing them with red brick walls that had just begun trending at the time, until everything became splendid beyond recognition. While the three of us—father, mother, and child—were walking through and inspecting it, Father

“Why hasn’t Koyatsu’s younger sibling—my sister or brother—been born?” “Without one or two more children, this house feels too spacious though.”

There had been times when Father would say such things, but even then, I remember Mother making an indescribably dark and cold expression.

As our household prospered in this manner, Mother too ceased taking on only inexpensive commissions as she had before. Apart from instructing students from the neighborhood who came for lessons, she focused solely on creating the most exquisite oshi-e and embroideries—yet even so, with both the sheer quantity and pieces requiring five or ten times the effort of simpler work, her days appeared deceptively calm while proving truly taxing. The countenances of those oshi-e still blended my facial features with Mother's own, yet the more refined the artwork became, the more prominently Mother would use my eyes and nose—a peculiarity that filled me with wonder as a child.

However, among those, there were merely two times when she used Father’s countenance. Both instances occurred in the spring when I turned twelve years old—the first time being when a shop in Osaka came requesting gold-framed oshi-e to sell to foreign millionaires. For this commission, Mother devised various techniques; reasoning that Chinese figures would suit foreign tastes better than Japanese ones, she created Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Liu Bei from Romance of the Three Kingdoms with utmost care. Regarding that, if we followed the ukiyo-e prints exactly for the facial models, Guan Yu would be Danjuro, Zhang Fei Sadanji, and Liu Bei Enzo (or so I believe). (I may be mistaken)—since those ukiyo-e prints were already old editions thoroughly faded to a mouse-gray color, Mother did not favor them. She requested Father to sit before the hibachi and had him redraw the faces again and again. At that moment,

“I’ll become your oshi-e and go abroad to glare those foreigners to death for you.” “...Like this...” As he said this, Father suddenly rose to his knees and glared at Mother with wide-eyed intensity—the terror of that expression… Both Mother and I gasped and recoiled in shock. And then, when the three of us collapsed in laughter afterward—the hilarity of it—I thought I might die from it.

“Oh my, do look.” “The brush fell into the hibachi.” As she said this, Mother retrieved the ash-covered writing brush with fire tongs, and the three of us once again collapsed in laughter until tears streamed down—though I believe this was the only time I ever saw Mother laugh so wholeheartedly. When the faces were thus completed, beards and hair were added—with Guan Yu and Zhang Fei even receiving implanted eyebrows—then Mother’s signature raised-relief dolls took form, their solemn grandeur so striking it dazzled the eyes. Yet among them all, Zhang Fei’s eyes appeared the very living image of Father’s own. A great number of people came to see it through word of mouth, and among them was that wealthy Mr. Shiba Chuubee, who exerted himself in admiration as he made this remark.

“I must say, Mrs. Inokuchi—your skill continues to astonish me even now.” “Excuse my forwardness, but you seem to have become a true master since your previous work on Agoya’s Harp Torture.” “In light of this—though you must be exceedingly busy—I should like to request one more piece of this caliber be created, that we might enshrine it alongside Agoya’s Harp Torture at Kushida Shrine, tutelary deity of we Hakatakko. How would that be?” “To speak frankly, when I kept that previous Agoya doll at my residence, the visitors it attracted became unbearably disruptive—so I dedicated it to Kushida Shrine under my daughter’s name. At the time, one might say the shrine’s offerings changed entirely due to those coming to view it… No no, I assure you this is no empty flattery.” “Truly, everyone marveled at how Hakata lives up to its reputation as a city of arts... Now that the stock exchange I petitioned Kushida-sama to help establish has recently been settled on my property in Iwashi Town, I thought it appropriate to propose dedicating your oshi-e artwork to fulfill that vow—surely the gods would rejoice at such an offering.” “If you require fine nishiki-e prints, I shall procure any quantity you desire.” “Since we now have trains these days, if you send a telegram to Tokyo, it will arrive in less than ten days.”

Such was his proposal. The sight of Mother’s joy at that time remains vividly imprinted in my eyes to this day. Rubbing her hands together, her face flushed crimson, her eyes brimming with anxious moisture as she awaited Father’s reply—her entire bearing appeared as endearingly restless as a baby’s.

Father immediately granted permission. Moreover, with a magnanimous air, "My wife modeled these Romance of the Three Kingdoms dolls after my face, you see." Father then proudly recounted the details of that occasion, causing Mother to blush crimson in embarrassment and flee to the kitchen. I immediately chased after her, but to my astonishment, Mother had somehow turned pale-faced and sat sobbing quietly at the kitchen entrance, leaving me utterly startled. When I wondered what had happened and went to her side to peer at her face, Mother pulled my now-grown body close like an infant’s, fixing my nose’s makeup with a tissue while,

"I would be satisfied with just the nishiki-e prints—I don’t need any money—yet Father persists in speaking of such avaricious matters......" With this she bit her lip as though vexed, tears spilling forth in quiet rivulets. At that precise moment, Father and Mr. Shiba Chuubee's raucous laughter came drifting from the parlor, piercing through our shared sorrow—I too found myself suddenly overcome, clutching Mother as we wept together in that fragile embrace. Days later arrived a Tokyo-bound parcel resembling an oversized confectionery box addressed to Mother. When Father pried it open with nail-puller and hammer—what revelation awaited within? There they lay, bundled tight like sacred scrolls: a trove of nishiki-e prints.

“Oh my… these… they’re all just pictures…” Having uttered this while deathly pale and pressing a hand to her rouged lips, I distinctly remember how Mother’s little finger trembled uncontrollably. How beautiful those nishiki-e prints were……and how indescribably nostalgic the scent of their paper and pigments……It was summer then, with all the sliding doors of the ten-mat parlor thrown open wide—yet through the scattered colors and fragrance of those spread-out prints, the entire space seemed to brighten. First Father would look at a picture, then I would view it and pass it to Mother—the three of us sighing and praising in unison, then praising and sighing again, until we nearly forgot to eat our midday meal.

Among them were two or three sets of triptychs depicting Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Liu Bei—all different from those Mother had previously owned—with paints so dazzlingly vivid they seemed to awaken the eyes, their gold and silver hues glittering brilliantly. I had thought how exquisitely beautiful it would be if Mother were to create these, yet to my surprise, she selected from those pictures a five-panel series depicting Inuzuka Shino, Inukai Genpachi, and three constables from The Eight Dogs Chronicles.

“I should like to make this,” she said. “And I wish to render the roof tiles and Genpachi’s apron as lifelike as possible.”

Mother consulted Father. Father also seemed to make a slightly surprised face at that moment, but—

“Hn. “That will suffice.” “Show me.” Having said this, he gazed in awe at the faces of Shino and Genpachi. However, how great must my shock have been when I peered at Shino’s face from the side. In the small red tanzaku strip immediately beside that face were written the four characters “Nakamura Sanyoku”—and since I did not know your father had changed his name, I briefly wondered if it might depict another person. Yet even then, with merely Agoya’s face turned leftward and given masculine long eyebrows, my childish heart instantly understood it became Shino’s exact likeness. At once, I felt I had glimpsed Mother’s true motives in selecting those nishiki-e prints—yet also sensed something remained obscurely unknowable… something wondrous yet dreadful… Struck by this suffocating urge to confess these suspicions yet being unable to question Mother, how fiercely my small chest pounded. But at that time, I lacked the capacity to examine my own feelings so deeply. I believe I sat overwhelmed by a terrifying sense of concealed wrongdoing—unable to meet Father or Mother’s gaze—tilting the tobacco tray’s edge while intently comparing Shino and Genpachi’s countenances.

At that time as well, Father seemed not to have noticed anything—though this was likely due to your father’s name having been altered. “How will you make these roof tiles look exactly like real ones?” He was smiling enigmatically and, I believe, asked Mother... Mother transferred that five-panel composition onto ganpi paper starting that day, meticulously pasting and cutting the layered papers as she set to work, until on the fifth day she completed her masterpiece and affixed it to a single camphor wood panel.

The camphor wood panel had grain resembling clouds, and upon its surface were affixed Hōryūkaku Pavilion’s golden shachihoko and blue roof tiles, crafted to look so real they seemed genuine. Shino’s face—kneeling before that golden shachihoko with sword raised high—had been rendered by Mother using my exact eyes and nose transformed into masculine features, while Genpachi’s face facing him off bore Father’s eyes and nose glaring back vividly. But above all, how exquisite Genpachi’s apron was… for Mother had embroidered it with such exacting realism… that this alone must have been worth a fortune per square inch. Mr. Shiba Chuubee, who had come to inspect it, reportedly said, "We must devise a way so that even when enshrined in Kushida Shrine’s votive picture hall, they won’t be stolen..."

The oshi-e artworks were enshrined in Kushida Shrine’s votive picture hall before Hakata’s renowned Yamakasa Festival at the end of that spring. The frame was indeed sealed by Mr. Shiba Chuubee's ingenuity—first encased in a thick glass box, then enclosed in bronze netting—before being enshrined alongside the Agoya's Harp Torture doll at the eastern front of the votive picture hall. When compared to the Agoya doll, whose colors had faded to pure white from decades of exposure to hinoki cypress fragrance, [the new oshi-e] appeared truly eye-catching. For a time, it gained such renown that the votive hall reportedly became packed with visitors.

Whether Father had heard of this reputation or not I cannot say, but he—on that unforgettable midday of May 24, Meiji 24—

“I’ll go take a look at those visitors for a bit.” Having said this, he donned a new kasuri-patterned kimono and fastened his usual Ogura silk formal obi before setting out. The sun was blazing fiercely that day, but Father, “It might rain.”

Having said this, he took up a large white oilcloth-lined Western umbrella, donned a bamboo-woven top hat, and put on mid-height geta. I also wanted to go, but Father— “It’s too dangerous with all those people around. I’ll take you another time.” “I’ll bring you back a souvenir, so wait here.” Having said brusquely, he proceeded along the riverside toward Suishabashi. Even now, I can still vividly picture that profile of him walking away with a smile.

After seeing Father off, I took out the koto that had been propped in the alcove and began playing the variation of "Aoi no Ue" that I had learned the previous day. Mother seemed to be arranging her hair in the kitchen while I played "Aoi no Ue," then "Aoyagi," and when I proceeded to perform "Ran"—which I hadn't played in ages—my fingers grew weary. Fiddling with my square plectrums, I gazed absentmindedly at Father's prized irises blooming in the westward garden pond when suddenly the blazing sun became veiled by clouds, plunging everything into gloom. The kitchen noises too seemed to have ceased.

At that moment came the violent sound of the lattice door being thrown open—it seemed someone had entered. I started up in sudden alarm for no particular reason, and then Father came striding briskly into the room, startling me anew,

"Welcome home, Father." I steadied myself with my hand. As this had never happened before—for he would always stand at the entrance upon returning home— “Ah… I’ve returned now.” Father would call for Mother.

Father’s face at that time was drained of color like a sick man’s, appearing gaunt and wraithlike. Then, unlike his usual self, he made no move to pat my head. With heavy thuds across my koto, he went to the deer-antler sword rack in the alcove, drew the scabbard from the long black sword resting there, and examined it briefly. After replacing it, he fixed upon me a terrifying-terrifying gaze—one that still makes my body shrink to recall—staring intently at my face before assuming an eerie smile. Lifting my trembling form, he sat before the alcove and continued staring fixedly at me. The corners of his mouth quivered and twisted as great tears fell from those large eyes.

I was unable to cry, utterly consumed by a feeling both frightening and sorrowful, doing nothing but stare at Father's face. Then—what must Father have been thinking?—he suddenly pushed me away and struck my left cheek with all his might, so that I collapsed onto the tatami mat and burst into loud, wailing sobs. That instance when Father struck me would remain the first and last time he ever did so, both before and after.

“Oh… you… what are you doing?” A voice came from the kitchen uttering those words—Mother made as if to come rushing out. So I tried rising toward Mother when suddenly I was seized at my obi by Father and slammed onto tatami with breath-stopping force. At that impact—terror overwhelming—my tears ceased flowing through sheer fright’s compulsion.

Mother had applied light makeup to her lustrous newly styled marumage chignon and was wearing the indigo-dyed hemp robe she had colored herself. Having done so, she placed the paper with which she had been wiping her hands into her left sleeve, then at the entrance to the reception room positioned three fingers respectfully against the floor. “Welcome home… Oh… why would you do such a rough thing…” As she said this and attempted to draw near me, Father’s voice boomed like a cannon from behind me.

“...Shut up!” “…Sit there!” Mother looked surprised but obediently sat down. And supporting both hands, “Yes...” Saying this, she proceeded to compare my stricken cheek with Father’s face. Yet she still did not show any tears. “Come closer!”

Father said insistently. “Yes...” Mother advanced gracefully until she reached near the center of the ten-mat reception room, then once more placed three fingers against the floor.

Father appeared to be silently glaring at Mother’s face, but as I was facing toward Mother with my legs splayed out and my obi had been firmly grasped, I could not see. Mother too gazed intently at Father’s face, but with those large, beautiful eyes, she blinked twice. "...Y-You... must remember... comm-committing adultery with Nakamura Handayu!"

Father’s voice then resounded like thunder from behind me. Father’s hand that was gripping my obi trembled violently. “Ah… Goodness…” Mother’s eyes widened in shock as she fell back onto her hands, but in an instant, she folded both sleeves before her knees and collapsed into sobs.

Father remained silent, observing her figure with a dignified air, but after some time had passed, he spoke again in a low, pressing voice, his words deliberate. "You must remember… do you not?" "What…! I have no knowledge of such a thing… Not even in my wildest dreams… Gracious!" Mother raised her pallid face and crimsoned eyes.

“Shut up!”

And Father’s voice once again thundered like thunder from behind me. My right ear was ringing so intensely it felt like it might burst. “Even if you deny it, I have evidence!” Mother, while gazing fixedly at Father’s face as he spoke those words, placed both hands firmly atop her kasuri-patterned apron in an apparent effort to compose herself—but that anguished, pitiful figure of hers is one I shall never forget, even in death. But Mother’s voice was different from usual—trembling and cracked.

“Wh… what kind of…” “Shut up! Shut up! What do you mean ‘what kind’—how disingenuous!... Who did you model the face of Inu-zuka Shinno in that Kushida Shrine oshi-e after?” Mother let out a long, drawn-out sigh. She said calmly while looking at my face: “I modeled it after Toshiko.” “Who does this Toshiko’s… this brat’s face resemble?”

As soon as he said this, Father grabbed my head—which was styled in the tobacco-tray coiffure—with both hands firmly and turned it toward Mother.

“Wh... What?!”

I could hear Mother’s voice saying this, but one of Father’s fingers had entered my left eye, and as it throbbed with pain, I became unable to open my eyes, so I thrashed about while clutching Father’s hand. Father’s voice continued to press on. “I hadn’t known until today. But earlier, while looking at that plaque at Kushida Shrine and listening to people’s gossip, I realized that the face of that Inu-zuka Shinno oshi-e was an exact likeness of Nakamura Handayu on stage. Not only that. The more the faces of the dolls you made became masterpieces, the more they resembled Nakamura Handayu—a fact I first became aware of through the rumors of those present there. That this brat’s (my) features were the spitting image of Nakamura Handayu—something even the neighborhood nursemaids knew—was something I first heard in that votive plaque hall. Now I finally understand why you hadn’t borne a child all these years… Y-You… how dare you make me endure this shame for so long!”

As these voices resounded, Father removed one hand from my head, so I was finally able to open my eyes. Mother had collapsed forward onto the tatami mat with both sleeves overlapping. And she continued weeping with suppressed sobs, yet strangely made no attempt to offer even a single word of explanation. I had always thought Mother would immediately apologize as she usually did whenever Father flew into one of his rages, but for some reason this time she did nothing but weep, until finally she seemed to have abandoned all restraint and simply cried to her heart's content.

Father, who seemed to have been listening intently to her voice, then spoke in a dignified tone befitting a samurai. “I have resolved myself. If your answer alone determines it, I’ll cut you down on the spot with this sword without letting you leave. I intend to make my defiling of the ancestral mortuary tablets my excuse. Well, won’t you answer?” As he said this, Father released his hand from my head and once again seized me by the obi. At that moment, Mother abruptly stopped crying and quietly raised her face. With her head still bowed, Mother quietly untied her indigo-dyed kasuri apron, folded it neatly and placed it beside her, then used a tissue to tidy her disheveled face. After combing back her tousled hair with a round comb, she slowly raised her eyes to look at Father—and in that moment, how divine Mother appeared… She seemed like a purified goddess, all traces of sorrow and surprise vanished from her being.

Mother then aligned both hands firmly on the tatami mat, and while gazing intently up at Father’s face, she spoke.

“I deeply apologize… Your suspicions are entirely warranted.” As she spoke, new tears glistened and trailed down from her long lashes to her white cheek, but Mother continued speaking without pause. “Please, do as your heart desires.” “I have no recollection of ever committing infidelity…”

“Wh... What?!” “I have no recollection of ever committing infidelity… but I can no longer continue this shrine service.” “……………” “Though I am loath to part, to perish by your hand…” “Wh... What did you say?!” As he said this, Father shook me violently. Mother pressed the falling tears with a tissue.

“Just… please spare Toshiko alone…” “That child is truly your—” “What… How dare you speak so brazenly again—” “No… At least this much is true…” “Wh… What?! You still dare—” “Yes… This much at least…” “Silence!… Enough!” The instant Father uttered this, he thrust me away, making me collapse heavily and sprawl across the koto. Along with this, two or three koto bridges toppled with a violent snapping sound, I recall.

I cannot bear to write of what happened next.

However, if I do not write of what happened next, I believe everything will remain unresolved; therefore, I shall set it down exactly as I remember.

When I finally managed to sit up from atop the koto, I saw Mother formally seated on the tatami with both hands placed on her knees and head hung low, and Father standing rigidly facing her against the dark garden's backdrop. Though Father should have been holding a sword in his right hand at that moment, the blade remained concealed within his shadow and never entered my sight. However, I saw red petal-like droplets scattered here and there on the wall behind Mother, though at that time I did not comprehend what they were.

Before long, from Mother’s white collar line, something red gushed out. No sooner had I thought this than from beneath the blue garment at her left shoulder, a mass of deep crimson welled up thickly and began crawling like living worms down toward her bosom. I think something red was flowing out from Mother’s left hand like threads as well. At the same moment, when the collar of that blue garment tore away in a triangular shape and fluttered down, part of a perfectly round white breast—enmeshed in a web of blood—became visible. Yet Mother remained seated with her head bowed, neatly stacking her hands upon her knees.

I think I became frantic then and rushed to cling to Mother. I think Mother may have drawn me close then, but I do not clearly remember. At that moment, while I felt something burning like fire touch my back and chest, I also think I collapsed in a heap over Mother, but as I was in such a frenzy, I cannot clearly recall what emotions I felt. In any case, after that I lost all awareness, so when I came to my senses, I found myself lying on a sickbed in some hospital, surrounded by people wearing white garments.

After Mother's shoulder had been slashed, Father's sword—which had stabbed through both Mother and me together—missed my lung, which is why I survived, or so I am told. However, as Mother had been pierced through the heart, it is said she expired on the spot; yet even so, she had firmly embraced me with one hand, or so I am told.

Furthermore, it is said that Father later donned hakama trousers and performed seppuku properly before the Buddhist altar in the storage room, though I do not know the details. As for everything that followed, it is said that Mr. Shiba Chuubee took care of all matters; however, no matter who inquired about that time, it is said that Mr. Shiba would grimace and give no reply. Therefore, I too took care to ensure I did not ask Mr. Shiba about my parents.

After the wound beneath my breast healed, I spent three full years under the care of Mr.Shiba Chuubee in Hakata Ohama. Afterward, they kindly allowed me to attend Fukuoka Elementary School, but the benevolence shown by Mr. and Mrs.Shiba Chuubee during that time was truly beyond what any brush or words could convey. Particularly regarding the young lady for whom my Mother had created the Agoya oshi-e doll—though an adopted son had already come into her household—both of them cherished me as if I were their own dear sister.

However, soon after graduating from higher elementary school in the spring of my sixteenth year, I resolutely requested leave from Mr. Shiba Chuubee and resolved to enter Tokyo Music School. This was partly because around that time, having learned to play something called an organ at a church in the town of Ichikoji not far from Ohama, Western music had become fascinating beyond measure to me, but also because I had come to feel that no matter how much I might endure, I could no longer remain in my birthplace of Fukuoka.

The reason I say this is simply... ...that I came to understand as I grew older—how people pointed and stared, calling me the child from that newspaper article about the adulteress...the mysterious offspring born between Tokyo's greatest onnagata actor and Fukuoka's most beautiful wife. During ethics classes at school, when teachers would innocently speak of virtuous women only to catch sight of my face—suddenly making strange expressions and falling silent—the torment of those moments. The ache. As a child, feeling the gazes of my entire class searing into my body, bowing my head to weep—the humiliation of those times.

“I hear there’s a girl here who’s the spitting image of Nakamura Handayu in his stage roles—I’d love to get a peek at her, I must say!”

In response to the guest’s voice, Mr. Shiba Chuubee,

“Oh, I’ll bring some tea now, so you can have a proper look then. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

How bitterly frustrating it was when I heard that faintly laughing voice beyond the shoji screen and hid myself away in the storehouse to weep prostrate. Then again, as I grew a little older, I became unbearably ashamed of people seeing the scar on my body, so I quietly pleaded with Mrs. Okazawa to let me bathe in the inner bath well past midnight. But one winter night, outside the sliding door—

“So what if it’s visible...” “Yeah. “It’s there, plain as day.” “A terrifyingly large scar.” “Hmm…” Upon hearing such whispers from the male servants, I remained submerged up to my neck in the bathwater until it turned cold—how wretched that was…… Later, trembling beneath the bedding, I spent the entire night crying and crying until dawn. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that my mother of all people would never do such a thing... the fact that my facial features resembled Nakamura Sanjuurou-sama’s stage appearance remained utterly inescapable.

But that was not all there was to it. As for my resolve to go to Tokyo, there were reasons even more mysterious than I myself could comprehend. Though I was made to weep in such a way, I never failed to peer into the bathhouse mirror each night after taking my evening bath and finishing cleaning—until one day I began noticing something strange within it. Was this merely a trick of my mind, or did it arise from my daily state of heart? After the entire household of Mr. Shiba Chuubee had fallen asleep in such a manner, when I sat alone facing the bathhouse mirror, I noticed that my reflected face not only gradually came to resemble your father’s countenance but also began bearing likeness to either Inuzuka Shinno’s visage or Agoya’s features—both preserved in the framed votive plaques at Kushida Shrine’s ema hall—with the resemblance shifting daily such that yesterday it appeared as Shinno’s face... tonight as Agoya’s, creating an entirely different impression each time.

It was something indescribable... a mysterious phenomenon that only I had noticed, and night after night, observing it became an inexpressible secret pleasure for me. Though I knew not why, I even came to think this might be my poor mother's revenge upon the human world—she who had lived such a wretchedly brief life—and I would often shudder while pressing my own soft, warm cheeks.

I am not an ordinary girl. I am the congealed mass of Mother's lingering sentiments left in this world. ...Mother's heart—unspeakably beautiful yet subjected to incomparably cruel suffering before perishing without uttering a word—manifests itself unaltered through my very form. I needed only to live until Mother's resentment ran its course—that would suffice. "...Ah, Mother... Here I remain in good health like this... But... but what should I do from now on?... Ah, Mother..." Such feelings I would pour into my mirrored visage time and again, tears streaming down my face.

And then... though you might find this laughable... after crying like that, when I would fall into an empty mood where I couldn't tell if I was happy or sad, I would play at making my face in the mirror take on the brave expression of Shinno biting his lip and raising his sword, or assume the troubled figure of Agoya playing her koto—and there were even times when I would let out a pleasant little laugh all by myself. And as this came to feel like Mother's venting of resentment against the world, even the name "child of an adulteress" began to seem strangely comforting to me.

I must apologize for recounting such matters, but these events occurred between my twelfth and fourteenth or fifteenth years, and I believe it was during that time that I unwittingly developed a disposition of being unappreciative of kindness from men. However, when I reached fourteen or fifteen, I began to feel that my feelings were changing little by little again. As I mentioned earlier, until that time, after the entire household had fallen asleep each night, sitting alone before the bathhouse mirror stand had become something like my secret pleasure. And so night after night, lost in such musings, there was not a night when I did not cry or laugh; but before long, I began to notice with frequent starts that the contours of my face in the mirror had somehow come to resemble those of my late Mother. While my facial features remained entirely unchanged from before, when my face grew slightly elongated and a faint bluish pallor tinged my chin and neckline, those areas—despite wearing no face powder whatsoever—came to appear as a living likeness of Mother. Day after day, each time I looked, this understanding grew clearer within me, until finally it reached a point where I could only think that Mother—bearing the eyes, nose, and lips of both Inukai Shinno and Agoya—was clearly seated within the mirror, watching over me.

That figure of Mother, strangely enough, could not help appearing before me as Her indescribably divine, pure form from just before Father cut Her down—this was how it appeared to me. As I gazed intently at that form, Mother’s lips in the mirror began moving of their own accord, and the words She had uttered in those final moments pierced through with crystalline clarity, resounding in my ears. “I have absolutely no recollection of committing infidelity… but I cannot continue in this marital service.”

In such a manner….

Every time I heard that voice, I would startle and find myself turning to look behind me. And once I confirmed no one was there, I would repeat Mother's mysterious words within my own mouth once more, unable to stop tears from streaming down my cheeks just as she had shed them then. From then on, I gradually grew terrified to look in mirrors. My face reflected there would seem something utterly strange and eerie at times, yet unbearably dear at others—each time making the mirror itself feel like an utterly nonsensical object, foolish yet terrifying or unbearably irritating beyond measure. In the end, even seeing shop windows during my school commute made me feel sad and eerie, my heart pounding.

And then before I knew when it had begun, ...No matter what happened, I would never look at a mirror again. I would not apply makeup either. I would pull back my hair tightly and wrap it in a coil. And until I understood the true meaning of Mother’s mysterious words, I would not marry. I resolved to immediately go up to Tokyo and have an audience with Nakamura Sanjuurou-sama to request his explanation of Mother’s firmly declared words—“I have absolutely no recollection of committing infidelity... but I cannot continue in this marital service”... Until I clearly verified that I was not Mother’s child of infidelity—even if it meant death—I vowed never to accept any kindness from men...

I had come to feel almost like a man.

When I made this resolution, one evening I stealthily slipped out of Mr. Shiba Chuubee’s house and went to the stone wall of Hakata Port. Then, taking out the crude hand mirror—the only one I possessed—from my obi and bidding farewell to my own face, I cast it into the deeply blue, swelling tidewater. And I watched as that mirror sank about ten feet deep, swayed by the round, gentle waves, glittering until it disappeared from view toward the bottom.

That was the spring of my sixteenth year. Mr. Shiba Chuubee graciously accepted my willful request of this nature.

“That is an excellent idea.” “As it happens, there’s a man named Okazawa who lectures at the Tokyo Music School and serves as a professor at Imperial University—he’s an old childhood friend of mine—so I’ll write you a letter of introduction to him.” “They’re a good-natured couple without children who’ll gladly take you in.” “Regarding the funds from selling the Nakasu residence—I’m managing them, so please inform me whenever you require access.” “And take this small token from me—keep it securely on your person against theft.” “Unexpected events often occur when traveling... and you’ve now become the Inokuchi family’s sole heir...”

With such thoroughly kind words, he provided not only travel expenses but also wrote me a letter of introduction along with a one-hundred-yen note—the first I had ever seen in my life. The letter of introduction remained unsealed, and Mr. Shiba Chuubee instructed me to be sure to read it through once. I was then shown the contents of another letter he had sent separately to Dr. Okazawa, and since both described me simply as the only daughter of a deceased friend without any mention of my parents whatsoever, I felt profoundly relieved.

Having written at great length these repetitive, incoherent words of mine, you must surely have grown weary. However, at that time, I was filled with desperate resolve. Perhaps because of this resolve, I rode the steamship from Moji to Onomichi in Bingo without suffering any seasickness, and upon arriving at Shinbashi after three days and three nights, was welcomed by Dr. Okazawa and his wife to take shelter at their quiet residence in Yanaka. Yet from that time onward, though I would think each day "Shall I visit Nakamura Sanjuurou-sama today?" or "Shall I go to Kabukiza tomorrow?", I found myself in such pitiable straits that I lacked not only proper connections but even knowledge of directions... And being unable to confide such matters to Dr. Okazawa, I remained utterly at a loss. Combined with Tokyo’s dizzying pace and liveliness, the challenging coursework at Ueno’s Bukkwa Women’s School where I had provisionally enrolled, and then another thing—the fascination of piano lessons taught to me for the first time by Dr. Okazawa—I became so engrossed that nearly a year passed as if in a dream.

And then, before long, when spring of the following year arrived, it was during a certain evening meal. Dr. Okazawa, who had been drinking cup after cup as Mrs. Okazawa poured for him, unexpectedly brought up such a matter. “Toshiko-san, you had not yet seen Kabukiza, had you?”

I involuntarily gasped at that moment and turned bright red as I looked up at Dr. Okazawa who had uttered those words. I felt as though he had pierced through the secret buried in my heart's deepest recesses, while simultaneously suspecting he might know something of such matters and was broaching this subject through discreet kindness...

But from beside him, Mrs. Okazawa, who seemed to know nothing of this, smiled kindly.

“Oh! “Really.” “Toshiko-san, I thought you’d become quite the Tokyo expert, yet you’d gone and overlooked the most essential Kabukiza of all.” “Oh ho ho ho!” “If it’s all right, since tomorrow is Sunday, won’t you take us?” “It’s been just as long for me as it has for Toshiko-san…”

Then Dr. Okazawa, seemingly unaware of anything, smiled gently and looked upon the faces of the two of us. “Yeah. I’d been thinkin’ the same thing myself.” “I’d always reckoned Kabukiza was just for country bumpkins to gawk at, so I plumb forgot ’bout takin’ ya.” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” “But nohow’s that tightly wound hair bun o’ yours gonna do.” “Can’t have folks thinkin’ the Okazawas got kin rustlin’ up on Izu Ōshima now...”

“Oh…” “Such a pitiful thing…” Amidst such jesting, Dr. Okazawa and his wife told me various stories about kabuki plays. Their fascinating discussions about the relationship between music and theater, the musical value of wooden clappers and their connection to stage expression continued endlessly from one topic to another, but I remained completely distracted, mechanically bringing rice to my mouth while suppressing sighs that kept threatening to escape, and thus forgot everything they said. The only thing that caught my ear amidst all this was a story I heard from Mrs. Okazawa—that tomorrow’s central performance piece would be none other than Agoya’s Harp Torture, which has become your family’s signature performance, constituting what one might call a strange twist of fate. The one performing that Agoya role was Nakamura Hanjirou-sama, who shares my age and has just turned seventeen this year—none other than you, my lord—and there exists no tale from times past of an actor so young yet becoming a leading female-role actor. That your costume weighs thirteen kanme [approximately forty-nine kilograms], and that you handle it with such ease despite your youth has become a tremendous sensation. And that this time’s Kabukiza performance was for the memorial of your father, Mr. Nakamura Sanjuurou, who passed away last spring… and such matters.

I could not remember at all how many bowls of rice I had eaten then, or whether I had eaten only one bowl. I seemed to be in a dreamlike state as I served Dr. Okazawa and his wife while thinking only of matters elsewhere. Dr. Okazawa had said, "I carelessly forgot to show you Kabukiza," but in truth it was I who had been negligent—for what purpose had I taken leave from Mr. Shiba Chuubee's household? With what aim had I come to Tokyo? Had I not completely forgotten until that very moment? And in my heedless state, had I not even failed to notice that Mr. Nakamura Sanjuurou—the sole keeper of Mother's precious secret—had passed away? Had this occurred a year earlier, such an opportunity would have been more than welcome... I might have gained the chance to introduce myself as Inokuchi's daughter and meet Mr. Nakamura Sanjuurou... When I considered what an unfortunate soul I was, tears of bitter frustration welled up, so I pretended to fetch hot water and made my way to the kitchen.

However, after that dinner, when I was sent on an errand by Dr. Okazawa to mail a letter at a hardware store two or three blocks away, I took a long detour on my way back and hurriedly purchased a copy of that month’s Kabuki Times magazine from a small stationery shop that also sold magazines in the backstreets. Having done so, when I returned to my room on the second floor, I sat by the window where the evening light streamed in and gingerly opened it as if beholding something terrifying.

I was truly a country girl who had never even touched such magazines before. Though I may have known more actors' names than others might, they were all ancient names from Mother's brocade pictures—not a single contemporary one did I recognize. Let alone knowing Mr. Nakamura Sanjuurou had a son, that you—being my exact age—were called Mr. Nakamura Hanjirou... Such matters had never entered my wildest dreams. Thus when I learned this truth, a peculiar nostalgia swelled within me until I thought my face might burn through the unopened cover.

Needless to say, that was the first time I had ever beheld photographs of your true face and your father’s. And though it is truly impertinent of me to say so, as I stood gazing up at the prominently featured photograph of your father in his juttoku robe, my own face that I had seen in Mr. Shiba Chuubee's bathhouse mirror emerged before me with startling clarity—what thunderous roar must have resounded through my chest at that moment. A feeling now both wondrous and dreadful... unbearably nostalgic... yet one I must not entertain... trembling with this indescribable emotion, how long must I have been gazing at that photograph?

However, all such thoughts of mine were swept away when I opened the next page. Even if I were to encounter a ghost in broad daylight, I would not have trembled and quivered as I did at that time... When I beheld your Western-suited figure captured in a large three-quarter portrait on that page, I understood in but a single glance how remarkably you resembled Mother—so much so that I thought it might be her in disguise. At that moment, I placed both hands on the tatami and, gazing fixedly at your photograph... found myself utterly overwhelmed by a wonder piled upon wonder. And in that state where everything had become unclear, I believe I kept gasping for breath, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. In the end, both my wrists went numb, and even as my hair fell disheveled before my face, I remained unable to move a muscle, lost in a relentless succession of terrifying thoughts—or so it seems to me now.

“I have no recollection whatsoever of having committed any infidelity.” While vividly recalling Mother’s words—those she had uttered...

But when I noticed that the room had become completely dark, I finally regained my composure. I lit the small lamp I had placed at the edge of the desk and, with trembling fingers, opened to your commentary listed in the table of contents; but as I read through it, I became so overwhelmed with the urge to cry aloud that I had to bite down on my sleeve again and again to endure it.

It concerned your lordship’s remarks shared with the magazine reporter regarding this memorial performance—a story I had carefully clipped out along with your photograph at the time and stored away， which I now enclose here． As it is an old matter， I thought you may have already forgotten．．．

First Major Role: "Harp Torture"

Nakamura Hanjirou-sama Discussion I am deeply grateful. Thanks to everyone's support, my fever has subsided, and given these exceptional circumstances, I am devoting myself completely to my training with my very life at stake. This Agoya's Harp Torture has been passed down from an ancestor six generations back in our family named Shirai Hannosuke. Since my father's generation began performing it in various locales, it has always been met with great success. The costume styling followed our family's traditional preferences, but when it came to my father's era, we settled definitively on peonies and butterflies as the motif. The obi features gold and silver arabesque patterns on black fabric—only the collar remains undecided. However, elaborate subdued color schemes like my father's use of black or yellow are beyond my capabilities as someone still inexperienced, so I'm considering alternatives like ancient purple or light blue. Since this is for my father's memorial service, I did contemplate a white collar, but given my current abilities, I fear I cannot adequately convey that solemn sentiment through such a choice—I'm still deliberating on how best to proceed.

The origin of the thirteen-kanme [approximately forty-nine kilograms] costume? ...I don't know the details myself, but apparently from New Year's of my birth year (Meiji 24 [1891]), Father went on a performance tour through the Kansai region, concluding from Nagasaki to Hakata before returning in time for the March theater production. At that time, he must have seen and been struck by something somewhere. He said it was a souvenir from that trip and began creating this costume; since he claimed it was the finest, he reportedly never altered it throughout his entire career.

However, as you well know, Father was extremely meticulous, so his design specifications were so elaborate that the craftsmen were reportedly constantly flustered. We particularly modified aspects of the performance style for this costume. Initially called "Azumaya," the actor wears a grass-green karaori brocade hitatare robe modeled after a certain family's treasured heirloom. Before approaching the harp scene, he turns his back to remove this robe, allowing everyone to view the full costume ensemble by the time he faces front again.

Now, regarding the five blooming peonies and three butterflies fluttering above them within the design—these were artificial decorations affixed so they swayed gently with every stage movement. To achieve this effect, they created bases on the costume and devised an elaborate system where during the removal of the hitatare robe, each piece was swiftly secured one by one. Furthermore, every corner had been designed with stage spectacle as the primary focus—in key areas they liberally used wires, whale baleen, and lead weights. Yet since the requirement demanded both crispness and suppleness, the craftsmen must have been thoroughly driven to distraction.

Though Father was inherently meticulous by nature, this costume alone was exceptionally special—so much so that he reportedly even commented on the lining. It took nearly a full year before he became completely satisfied with it, barely being completed in time for the spring performance in the year following my birth. Prior to that, Father went somewhere—likely Kansai—about twice to examine reference materials for this costume and revised various detailed instructions accordingly. Then, just before the spring production, he later told me he had gone out once more to check the dressing and how the costume fit on the body—but whether those reference materials were brocade pictures or oshi-e artworks... Moreover, as he never once spoke of where they might have been or such matters, I still find it mysterious to this day.

Moreover, whether you ladies and gentlemen are aware of this or not, Father reportedly had a habit of traveling disguised as a woman—wearing a plain juttoku robe, donning a kōso hood, and putting on health-preserving spectacles, through which he apparently resembled a moderately wealthy widow. During performances too, whenever something displeased him, he would conceal himself in such manner and watch from nearby as the theater managers struggled, finding amusement in their predicament. So during that trip, he must have boarded the train in that very disguise. As no one had seen Father’s figure, the true nature of the model for this costume ultimately ended up remaining unknown.

Around that time, from before and after the spring performance onward, Father's health had visibly deteriorated, so tailors and the like were whispering behind his back that it must be due to some curse from the costume—though it was likely just his naturally frail constitution combined with the strain of those unreasonable travels. He abruptly ceased those secret journeys altogether and, save for when taking the stage, devoted himself entirely to rest until he somehow managed to hold on until last spring. For my part, I too had inherited this sickly constitution and, having lost my mother early while being raised on cow's milk as a frail child, most of what was passed down from Father might well be called mere oral tradition. The true training I received was thanks to my uncle (Shiba Sarujou) and my teacher in Tsukiji (Mr. Fujita Kanjurou). Yet even that—due to my weak constitution—I was unable to study properly, leaving me in a most humiliating position.

Amidst all this, when it was decided that this production would serve as Father’s memorial performance—not only was I permitted to take the stage through everyone’s exceptional favor—but an order came for a major role I had never even dreamed of, whose announcement left me utterly losing my nerve when my uncle rushed to inform me at my sickbed where I lay feverish. At first, thinking it merely my uncle’s usual habit of teasing me, I laughed while giving vague replies, but when Mr. Onuma of Hatchobori and Master Shikou of Hirakawacho arrived—making it undeniably real—I found myself weeping freely. And so I began rehearsals resolved that once this performance concluded, I wouldn’t care what became of me afterward. Fortunately, both Father and I were somewhat tall and slender in build with matching shoulder proportions among other measurements, so the costumes needed little adjustment.

However, this costume weighs thirteen kanme [approximately forty-nine kilograms] in total, with the shaguma wig alone accounting for nearly one kanme [about 3.75 kilograms]. For it to be worn by a weakling whose art and physique amount to less than a fraction—ordinarily, even standing up would prove arduous—yet when I take to the stage embodying a woman staking her very life, I find myself moving with inexplicable ease; thus I believe my late father’s spirit must have inhabited these robes to lighten their burden...

At this moment, I collapsed over this article—how desperately I must have wept. When I realized what lay behind your father's act—he who had seen my Mother's oshi-e and lavished such meticulous care on the peony and butterfly motifs in his costuming—I found myself unable to remain still, whether standing or sitting.

Mr. Nakamura Hanjirou and I must have been those couple's children from the stories I had heard—one resembling Mother, one resembling Father—twins born of necessity. And so Mother gave birth to us both, then soon after—without Father's knowledge—sent the boy away to his true father; she who must have managed everything and assisted in this secret was none other than that Oseki. I could find no other way to think of it—what else was I to do?

“Ah... Nakamura Sanjuurou-sama… You cherished my Mother so profoundly… And Mother, you too…” As I began to cry out, I gasped and covered my mouth with my own hands. Looking back now, it seems strange beyond measure that I did not go mad at that time. No.

I might have been insane for some time after that. Late that night in the bathroom at Dr. Okazawa's residence, I sat before the mirror I had resolved never to look at again—for the first time in a full year—and remained there staring at Mother's face reflected within while tears streamed endlessly down my cheeks. Had you seen me then, Brother, you surely would have thought I had lost my mind.

Brother... Ah... My dear, longed-for Brother... It may be improper for me to say such things, but I beg your forgiveness. For from that night onward, I had resolved you were my one and only Brother. And should no true Brother exist in this world, then I wished to go to my death yearning for you as Brother—a Brother far dearer than any real one could be, my most precious secret Brother—and it was from that night I came to pray this wish to God alone......

The following morning, I seemed to have developed a fever and occasionally felt dizzy enough to collapse, but I desperately endured it, applying white makeup as heavily as I could to conceal my pallid complexion.

When Mrs. Okazawa saw this,

“Oh! Toshiko-san! What a fluster!” Mrs. Okazawa called a hairdresser while laughing at my discomposure. As I sat facing the mirror thinking, “This is the first time someone else has done my hair,” my mind seemed steeped in drowsiness. When I came to my senses and saw my hair fully styled into a takashimada updo, I involuntarily exclaimed “Oh!”—prompting laughter from the hairdresser.

Then, when leaving my hometown, I changed into the one good kimono I had received from Shiba Chuubee's daughter and accompanied Dr. Okazawa and his wife as we boarded the horse-drawn railway from Ueno. Perhaps because I had tightly fastened a thick obi for the first time in ages—which made me feel alert—or perhaps because a cold wind still blew outside, I did not nap at all during the carriage ride. However, upon entering the Kabukiza and sitting in the pit seating area, perhaps because it had grown warm from the crowd’s presence, I grew dazed once more and could only listen as if in a dream to Dr. Okazawa—a theater connoisseur—and his wife as they kindly explained various aspects of the performance.

Even when Brother appeared on stage dressed as Akuya, I remained equally drowsy and dazed, still vividly recalling the torment of forcing my eyes to stay open through sheer willpower. Later accounts revealed Brother had been unwell that day yet compelled himself to perform—they said his anguished appearance during the koto torture scene resonated powerfully with viewers—yet my memory retains only uncanny clarity of silver-threaded wave patterns shimmering on his white underrobe's collar, his pale face and crimson robes lingering in my vision like a bleached watercolor... I comprehended nothing of the plot. And then, after returning home,

“Did you find it interesting?”

Even when Dr. Okazawa asked me about it, I could not give a single answer—how mortifying that was... Still, I ultimately succeeded in concealing my illness completely. "If letting a doctor see this scar on my chest means that—then I would rather die... No. I shall wait for this illness to grow ever more merciless and for death's hour to draw near. Then I will go where Mother awaits me in the afterlife—cling to her with all my strength and weep." Though all else might differ, I convinced myself Mother alone must truly be my mother—and so whenever fever threatened to plunge me into dreamlike stupor, I endured by biting my lips until they throbbed, forcing myself through each following day and then another to attend school—until one day I realized my illness had mysteriously healed without my knowing when it began. This must have been because I carried a fate that demanded I meet you—Brother—at least once without fail...

But at that time, I came to deeply resent Heaven for why this illness too had healed.

From then on, I came to feel as though a large placard reading "Child of Infidelity" had been unmistakably and firmly affixed to me. I spent each day feeling ashamed even to be seen in daylight, so it was.

“Ah, Mother... You told such a lie solely to protect me.”

How many times must I have been overcome with tears while thinking so? Whenever I saw characters such as Nakamura or Hishida, how my frail heart must have quivered with anxiety. Though truly the height of impropriety, whenever such characters entered my sight, I would immediately recall the characters for "infidelity." At times, I would realize I had unknowingly been walking toward Kabukiza and, feeling somehow culpable, would abruptly turn down another side street. How mortifying that was...

However, when summer vacation arrived, I found myself—through circumstances I could never have imagined—delivered from these sad, wretched worries. This began when I casually pulled out and opened an old copy of *Hakkenden* that had long been kept in Dr. Okazawa’s study.

I was truly without any thought at all. As I gazed idly from my second-floor window at the neighboring roof through long days of tedium, I suddenly recalled the oshi-e of Hōryūkaku Pavilion and found myself slightly wondering why Shino and Genhachi had to fight upon that high rooftop. Thus I searched out where that scene was depicted in the book and began reading forward page after page, until before I knew it, I had become thoroughly engrossed in the story's fascination. And before I knew it, I had returned to the very beginning and read through to the part where Princess Fuse—the overarching heroine of Hakkenden—conceived without physical contact with Yatsufusa, the dog honored as her husband... reaching that portion of the tale.

Regarding that tale, Kyokutei Bakin had drawn upon various examples from antiquity and written it in such an utterly convincing manner—but my astonishment when I read it—ah, how overwhelming it was! Needless to say, until that moment I myself had possessed no knowledge whatsoever regarding such matters, yet even so—how resolutely I came to believe then that such things must surely exist in this world. I became convinced that the key to unraveling the secret of Mother’s words lay nowhere but in this tale, and how utterly consumed with joy I grew. And as I read further still, was there not even detailed writing about how each of the eight markings that had been upon their father Yatsufusa’s canine form appeared as large moles upon the bodies of the eight dog warriors—born as children of longing—thus serving as parent-child tokens?

For me, this was nothing less than a miraculous joy so dazzling it nearly blinded me. I would clutch my chest tightly and continue reading, at times even sighing through tears. That a man and woman could bear children resembling their beloved simply through mutual longing—what a splendidly childish fantasy this was. Yet at that time, I could not help but believe such a thing must truly be possible. And so thereafter, wanting to verify whether such facts existed, I began visiting Ueno Library nearly every day. I must have fumbled through dozens of difficult obstetrics texts and psychology books. The library staff likely thought I was preparing for midwifery exams—they kindly taught me various book titles, for which I was truly grateful, though looking back now, it strikes me as rather comical.

However, books that discussed such mysterious phenomena were nowhere to be found. Not only that, but each time I learned something new for the first time in my life—each discovery leaving me astonished—the embarrassment of reading such books in public made me consider abandoning my library visits altogether. Yet as I casually leafed through a book on genetics during this period, I made another shocking discovery.

It was a scientific theory that demonstrated through examples how "female children tend to resemble their fathers, and male children their mothers."

When I read that, my entire body became sweaty as if splashed with water. And then, my heart—which had been so joyously uplifted—grew heavy as stone once more.

"Brother and I are, after all, children of infidelity. And the only one in this world who knows that is me…" As I thought this, my vision grew steadily darker before me—so it was. After that, my heart became so utterly exhausted that I no longer had the strength to go to the library. Even meals became difficult to swallow, and I could only force myself to sit at the table so as not to worry Dr. Okazawa and his wife.

“Lately, Toshiko-san’s appearance has become so refined… It makes coming to Tokyo worthwhile… Don’t you agree, dear…” How trying it was when the two of them would praise or tease me…

And yet, even so, in the depths of my heart, there still remained something I could not entirely relinquish. From time to time, as if suddenly remembering, I would visit Ueno Library and haphazardly read through books documenting strange medical occurrences and rare facts—until once again, amidst this aimless browsing, I discovered an astonishing account in a most unexpected volume that left me utterly astounded.

The author of that volume was Dr. Ishigami Tafumi, Doctor of Medical Science, who had already passed away by that time—I believe it was indeed a translation from Western texts made around Meiji 20 (1887). The title being *Forensic Medicine Night Stories*, it contained various mysterious incidents that had become forensic medical issues from ancient times to the present day, all written in an old-fashioned style with engaging flair, but toward its conclusion there was included a story of the following nature. As the book was no longer available at any bookstore, I subsequently visited the library repeatedly to copy out only that particular story, which I kept close to my person along with your photograph and articles about you. I fear it may be difficult to read, but I enclose it here exactly as written.

*Forensic Medicine Night Stories* (Dr. Ishigami Tafumi)

*Chapter 5: Eerie Phenomena of the Human Body - Part 1: Miraculous Pregnancy Stories* Anecdotes concerning eerie phenomena of the human body and other matters of forensic medical interest are by no means rare. Among these, the most astonishing are miraculous tales concerning pregnancy—many of which utterly defy judgment by common sense. The first that should be listed is a miraculous phenomenon that occurred unto a queen of Greece in ancient times (around 370 BCE).

◇ Translator’s note: Regrettably, the original text does not clearly state the names of the king and queen. At that time, within Greece excluding the city of Athens, several despotic monarchies existed divided; thus it is surmised that this incident occurred in one of those kingdoms. The queen conceived shortly after her coronation and spent her days confined to a single chamber, occupied with spinning and recuperation. In that room’s transom hung a solitary portrait of a black slave who had loyally died in place of the previous king. That countenance appeared as though it were smiling while gazing down upon the queen’s sickbed. The queen too, while lying upon her bed, would at idle moments gaze intently upon that portrait of the black slave. Yet when she beheld the infant born at full term—expecting to see handsome features befitting the king’s lineage—it proved instead a jet-black child. The queen’s shock knew no bounds, and she fell into such violent swooning that she nearly breathed her last—so the account goes.

However, the king’s shock and fury upon learning of this were no less profound. Immediately commanding his soldiers to confine the queen, he simultaneously had all those black slaves who had served him at that time apprehended and cast into prison cells, subjected each one to torture; yet as they had no memory of any wrongdoing, not a single soul confessed, until at last it took on the appearance of a grave unsolved case. Moreover, at that time in Athens, there existed an elderly physician known as Hippocrates. This man—preeminent in virtue, scholarship, and skill above all others of his age—upon hearing of this matter specially appeared before His Majesty to explain through cited examples and evidence how it was not necessarily unreasonable that when a woman with child fixates upon someone's appearance, or patiently contemplates or gazes upon objects of specific shapes and colors, she might bear a child resembling either that person's form or those objects' hues. Thereupon did the king's suspicions gradually dissipate; the false charges against both queen and black slaves were wholly cleared; and only that portrait of the black slave was subjected to punitive disposal by burning. This marked the very genesis of forensic medicine and is said to have been the pioneering instance where a physician’s counsel was adopted in the courts of law.

◇ Translator’s note: When viewed through Hippocrates’ perspective, the prenatal education traditions transmitted in China cannot be categorically dismissed as utterly preposterous superstitions. Nor can it be denied that there may exist profound and subtle scientific principles between these phenomena—principles that can only be comprehended through the most advanced methods of scientific inquiry. This is a matter that truly warrants heed. Next, what follows is an incident from approximately twenty years ago (1866 CE) that became a profound focus of attention within British legal circles and was reported in overseas specialized journals. While some readers may still recall it freshly, for those unfamiliar, I shall provide an abstract: There existed in a rural part of Scotland (location withheld) a nobleman and red-haired magnate of considerable renown known as Baronet Conrad (pseudonym). Having reached forty years of age, he took as his wife a young woman called Alina (pseudonym), born to the prestigious Takagashuku family dwelling several miles distant. Though this woman was originally a peerless beauty, she had for unknown reasons rejected every marriage proposal that came from all quarters. Though she had resolved to become a nun and enter a convent, he exhausted every means from all quarters and barely succeeded in obtaining her hand in marriage; thus the Baronet’s elation was beyond compare. They invited not only their own relatives and acquaintances but also the new bride's parents and blood relations, along with Mr. Randolph Talisman—a physician residing in Takagashuku's neighboring house who held both medical and legal licenses and was renowned for his erudition—to hold magnificent nuptial rites that left nearby residents staring with eyes wide in envious admiration.

In due course, Alina—the new wife—conceived and bore the Baronet’s child. When she reached full term and delivered a son fair as jade, but at first sight of the infant’s countenance, the Baronet’s complexion transformed abruptly. He raised his voice and declared: “In our house, through all generations, not one soul has ever been born bearing such jet-black hair. That no such individual exists in your family lineage is common knowledge—indeed, this very point formed my reason for taking you as wife! Had I but known... By my reckoning, you must have lain secretly with some black-haired man and conceived this child. I cannot present such a creature as heir to my house. Take this infant and begone to your parents’ home at once. And know this—count yourself fortunate for my merciful judgment!”

Thus did he revile her. Yet in response to this, Mrs. Alina strangely did not attempt even a single word of explanation. That night, late, she carried the jet-black-haired infant and secretly staggered out of the birthing chamber; walking barefoot for several miles, she arrived at her parents’ home by noon the following day. Seizing a moment when the household was distracted, she entered the parlor beside the entranceway, approached the portrait of a black-haired handsome youth hanging upon its front wall, and collapsed upon the stone pavement—there she breathed her last. When some time had passed and her birth parents discovered this, they were struck with such astounding horror that they could not comprehend how to act. They immediately summoned Mr. Talisman from the neighboring house and bustled about fetching water and medicine, but to no avail—only the black-haired infant survived, crying for milk, which was the very epitome of pitifulness.

Thereafter, this incident became a legal dispute, with Mrs. Alina's biological father and Baronet Conrad contesting the truth regarding Alina's chastity in court. While the Baronet firmly asserted the existence of an individual matching the black-haired youth in the portrait, Mr. Randolph Talisman—the physician and lawyer who had aligned himself with Mrs. Alina's biological father—stubbornly rebutted these claims without yielding an inch. Ultimately, Mr. Talisman specially crossed to France and brought back the painter who had created the portrait in question—the image not having originally been painted in Britain, but rather having been rendered by said painter as a depiction of a Spanish bullfighter who had died, shown wearing hunting attire according to his lover’s preference. As it was a reputed masterpiece that had been stolen during production and passed through various hands to Britain, he had the painter indicate one by one the numerous portions that remained unfinished in its details. Thereupon, Mr. Talisman—from the perfect correspondence between the old and new traces of kisses and cheek presses imprinted upon the canvas, tear stains, and fingerprints left by hands supporting against the painting’s surface on one hand, and Mrs. Alina’s height, fingerprints, and other attributes on the other—proved that Mrs. Alina had long harbored unrequited affection for this portrait, clarified the psychological truth behind her former resolve to enter a convent, and exhaustively argued across all fronts regarding her physical chastity and undivided purity. Having demolished arguments against such cases' possibility by citing the aforementioned example of a Greek queen, he then strengthened his tone and declared:

“In our Britain as well, there exists an instance that can prove the possibility of such phenomena in genetics. Recently, a certain mare kept at a stud farm near Radley mated with a show zebra three years prior and gave birth to a hybrid foal, causing its owner to gain unexpected profit. Yet when they mated the said mare with an ordinary riding horse two years later—that is, last year—strange to say, it gave birth to a foal bearing stripes from its rump to its thighs identical to those of its previous mate, the show zebra. This has now become central to debates among specialists in this field and geneticists alike. Moreover, among theories that might explain such wondrous phenomena, there currently exists only one that holds the greatest authority and overwhelms all others—”

“The resemblance in appearance and character between biological parents and their offspring stems solely from profound memories latent in the parents’ psyche influencing their spermatozoa and ovum—that children bearing striking resemblance to individuals other than their direct parents may be born without any act of infidelity occurs according to this principle—” “Thus it is. Therefore, when considering precedents wherein numerous trials in our nation’s past were decided according to the most authoritative scientific theories of their respective eras, I can resolutely assert that this lawsuit too should be concluded by recognizing this theory as truth.” “This case arose from the Baronet pursuing Miss Alina—who had been avoiding marriage while in the aforementioned psychological state—until he exhausted her means of refusal and forcibly obtained her consent to cohabitation; thus it should be said that the guilt for violating this woman’s spiritual chastity toward this portrait lies rather with the Baronet’s side.” “Miss Alina wed without being able to utter a word of anything, and perished without being able to utter a word of anything.” “If one were to doubt the loftiness of her chastity and purity of her nature, where in all the world could one seek justice?” “If one were to withhold sympathy for this, where on earth could one recognize humanity?”

When he passionately argued with tears streaming down, the entire courtroom fell into a hushed silence, at a loss for words. There was only Alina’s birth parents in the witness stand, sobbing. At last this lawsuit concluded with Baronet Conrad’s defeat, as a vast fortune was divided to provide support payments for the child born of Alina’s spirit and the Baronet’s bloodline, along with consolation money to the child’s biological father. When viewing this through these examples, one cannot say there have been no such cases among women throughout history who, unable to defend themselves against suspicions regarding their chastity, perished under false charges. Moreover, when one accepts these judicial precedents and theories as truth and extrapolates from them, it follows that even men could potentially father children resembling women to whom they were once attached or whom they remember with their current spouses. Consequently, in certain cases, the presence or absence of spiritual chastity between men and women might come to be concretely proven through physical phenomena—such as characteristics manifested in their children—thereby rendering the legal definition of chastity far narrower and more stringent than at present, until it becomes utterly irreconcilable with the moral conception of chastity. Simultaneously, one cannot help but foresee that in the near future, an era may arise where facts of adultery concealed through malicious exploitation of these very academic principles emerge in succession.

◇ Translator’s note: In summation, that the workings of spiritual consciousness within the biological realm remain mysterious and unfathomable—beyond what modern scientific knowledge can fully pursue or apprehend—is made manifestly clear even when illuminated by the aforementioned two or three special cases concerning pregnancy. How much greater, then, is the peril and uncertainty when—as in the courts of our nation—such delicate phenomena are entrusted solely to a fragmentary legal statute or shallow common-sense judgment, with profound medical research utterly disregarded? Moreover, when one contemplates the inhumanity of punishing countless innocents without compunction, one’s hair must stand on end beneath the blazing sun. The advancement of forensic medicine in advanced Western nations, and the greatness of its social authority—truly, it must be said to be enviable.

(The following is omitted.) It was then precisely evening.

When the sound of Nikolai Cathedral's bell from the direction of distant Surugadai reached me, it was not long before the library staff began closing the windows. By then I finally noticed I had become the sole remaining person in that vast room. I returned the book to the librarian and walked out with bowed head, making my way to a deserted spot near the cedar grove before Kan'ei-ji's sacred gate. Sitting at the base of a large tree, I wept and wept and wept, wringing out every last tear.

How could I ever convey to you, dear brother, what my heart felt in that moment… If such a thing were indeed possible, then would not the circumstances of you, dear brother, and myself be the most perfect example? Your father and my mother fell in love with but a single glance. And so they kept the images of those they yearned for deeply hidden in their hearts, never forgetting them whether waking or sleeping... Might it not be that those feelings have manifested in your form and mine, so that we remain in this world to fulfill what they could not?

When this realization struck me, I felt my small chest being crushed as my vision went completely dark; within that darkness, I thought I dimly glimpsed two pale will-o’-the-wisps writhing together as they drifted away. Yet regaining my composure, I once again carefully pondered everything from beginning to end—but the more I thought, the more things became clear, emerging one after another without cease.

My mother, who day and night beheld my appearance resembling your father, must have surely realized something deep in her heart regarding this mystery. How could one not think that in my mother’s heart—she who deliberately avoided Mr. Shiba Chuubee’s request to title the framed artwork dedicated to Kushida Shrine’s ema hall “Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” instead intentionally crafting the scene of “Two Dog Warriors on Hōryūkaku Pavilion”—there lay concealed, unknown to others, the same astonishment and joy I myself realized just the other day when reading Princess Fuse’s tale, intertwined with an unspeakable maternal sorrow? How could one think that my mother alone was unaware of the Tales of the Eight Dogs, which every samurai household in Fukuoka at that time customarily kept a copy of?……And was it not precisely because she harbored such a dreadful, tormenting mystery in her heart day and night that Mother resolved herself so decisively to accept Father’s judgment? Though she knew full well that I was indeed a daughter who bore my father’s blood, was it not precisely because she had come to realize such a mystery that she offered no explanation whatsoever…

Alas. How noble to contemplate... how terrifying, Mother's pure-hearted power... Sacred Mother who devoted both spirit and flesh to three paths—the way of art, the way of humanity, and the inescapable way of fallen love—only to leave this world all too soon... Pitiable Mother... Endearing Mother... Cruel... Sad... Beloved... When I thought this, I became so overwhelmed I felt I might lose my mind and abruptly raised my face. When I did, the day had already grown completely dark, and countless fallen leaves, mingled with pure white dust, seemed to come swirling toward me with a terrible roar; thus I finally rose and began making my way back toward Yanaka. I cried and cried and cried until I felt utterly empty inside...

But as I walked unsteadily through the fierce autumn wind blowing under the starry sky, I began to feel the world gradually brighten once more. And so that night, drenched in tears, I slept peacefully without dreaming a single dream, and the following morning, rising much earlier than usual, I cleaned both the front and back of Dr. Okazawa’s house. "I shall never marry in this lifetime. Since dear brother still knows nothing... I cannot possibly take the initiative to reveal this secret... For you may build a happy home with someone else……. So as not to interfere... I shall keep my very existence in this world absolutely hidden from you, dear brother, and devote myself to art. I shall lead a pure life so as not to be outdone by Mother."

And so it was that I would look up at the deep blue, serenely clear morning sky each time these thoughts came to me.

From then on, I did nothing but continue to firmly and resolutely uphold such resolutions in my heart while fighting against various temptations and persecutions from without. When I graduated from the music school—and again when Dr. Okazawa recommended that I study abroad—I declined in such a way as not to give offense. ……To tell the truth, I could not help feeling as though I might take wing; yet when I imagined my photograph appearing in the newspaper for that very reason and catching your eyes, dear brother, an unfathomable dread would overcome me and stay my hand. Perhaps this too was part of the mysterious workings of fate that had long bound you and me together—though... And when marriage proposals occasionally came through Dr. Okazawa, I declined them in the same manner. How could I possibly show this scar upon my breast to anyone but you, dear brother… so I thought…

And so I did nothing but play the piano from dawn till dusk. It was just after the Sino-Japanese War, when Western music had abruptly ceased to be fashionable for a time—leaving only military bands and school songs remaining—but paying no mind whatsoever, I made daily visits to Professor Kéber’s home at the university and Professor Yamauchi’s residence at the Imperial Household Ministry. I tried with all my might to lose myself in the joy of copying new sheet music and playing it—copying and playing.

Yet every time I touched the white, smooth texture of the piano keys, I would recall Mother's beloved white skin and shed scalding tears. When I saw the gleam of those black keys, I would always recall the beauty of Mother's blackened teeth that she had maintained. And again, when I saw the red hues of the dahlias and salvias blooming in Dr. Okazawa's garden, I would recall the droplets of blood that had clung to the white wall behind Mother until my heart verged on madness.

As I repeatedly dwelled on such thoughts, it became impossible to doubt that just as your father's heart had manifested in your form, dear brother, my mother's longing had remained in this world through my likeness. And day by day, I came to feel ever more clearly that the fate demanding the love your father and my mother concealed until death be fulfilled through you, dear brother, and myself—with our visages transposed—drew nearer moment by moment.

Alas. What am I to do? The world remains utterly convinced I carry your father's bloodline. Should you and I ever become joined, what would society declare? They would never permit it - that abhorrent love between siblings.

As evidence that you, dear brother, and I are not truly siblings—even if we were to cite the story from that old book as proof—how many people would be convinced? Or what proof could the two oshi-e dolls hanging in Kushida Shrine’s ema hall possibly serve? On the contrary, they would only serve to make you and me into a couple cursed by the world.

Not only that, but at that time such matters had also come to be considered by me.

Might it be that you, dear brother, heard this story from your father long ago?... That regarding this matter—knowing far more than I—you keep it hidden outwardly while in your heart remain tormented by the same thoughts as mine? That you calmly maintain your reputation as a woman-hater must stem from such feelings—might it be that in truth, unbeknownst to others, you think of me… that you are searching for me in various ways…

And might it be that if—by one chance in ten thousand—you were to find me, dear brother, your resolute manly heart would declare such matters of no consequence whatsoever, immediately discarding your present honorable position to come rescue me...?

If such a situation were to occur, what should I do? How could I possibly show you, dear brother, this terrible scar running through from my back to my breast? And even if you were to know full well of this and pay it no mind, what was I to do when I already knew from that time onward that I had been seized by an incurable disease with no hope of recovery in this lifetime?

Because I tried so desperately to conceal this illness, I forgot everything and continued studying with single-minded devotion. I existed solely through force of will. And as I maintained this fragile state of being, there came a moment—I cannot say precisely when—when I unwittingly grasped the latter half of meaning within those mysterious final words my departed Mother had left at life's end.

"I have absolutely no recollection of having committed any impropriety. However... I cannot continue serving in such a position." I had come to realize with piercing clarity that within those words Mother had firmly declared to Father—"However... I cannot continue serving in such a position"—there must have been contained unbearably painful and desperate feelings filling Mother to the brim at that time, when she too had been afflicted with the same illness as myself and had been engrossed in her work with the same state of mind as mine.

What should I conceal? My family had been cursed with this illness for generations through its bloodline, so much so that one could say there were none who would marry into it. Therefore, I can only conclude that Mother left those words and departed this world prematurely for no reason other than her wish that I alone might find happiness... that she desired to protect what little happiness remained mine alone. How could I possibly offer this body saturated with the same virus as Mother's to you, dear brother—you who are still young yet already afflicted? How could I ever ask you to cast aside your esteemed honor and artistic calling for my sake?

Each time I thought this, my heart would feel as though it might burst. While wiping away tears that kept falling no matter how many times I wiped them from the piano keys, I would gently close the lid and press my feverish cheek fervently against that cold wooden board—how many times must there have been?

But dear brother. I have now reached a point where I can no longer comprehend anything at all. It is only... that if you, dear brother, were to read this letter, everything would become completely clear... and clinging solely to this hope alone, I have written this far with utmost care. The reason I say this is that I believe you, dear brother, might perhaps know your true mother. And it is because I believe you are also aware of the true cause of your father's illness in addition to this.

And furthermore, should there be no such matter—should you, dear brother, truly know nothing whatsoever regarding these affairs—then it is because I could easily discern that your father must have been a man who lived an incomparably noble life, just as my mother did, keeping one single love concealed in his heart... never disclosing it even to you...

Please forgive me. Disregarding your current illness and driven by the pangs of a woman’s heart, I have subjected you to such a lengthy account—I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to read and how wearying it must have been for you. However, the only person in this world to whom I can confess this matter and entrust the judgment of its truth is you, dear brother. It is that I no longer possess the strength to keep such secrets within my breast. There remains no other course but to cling solely to your heart, dear brother.

Dear brother, if you truly are my dear brother who exists in this world, I beseech you even at the cost of my life as your one and only sister. When I hear the nurses’ indirect conversations, dear brother, and learn that your condition has greatly improved since then, just knowing that alone makes me feel reassured, as if my own illness were easing away. I beg of you, please become even better than you are now, and until you have fully returned to your former self, forget me as much as you can, and devote yourself to peaceful recuperation. I cling solely to this hope and am receiving treatment at this hospital. And while I live on, I pray to God for nothing else but to catch even a single glimpse of your healthy form, dear brother.

In this world, I had already lost all enjoyment save for thinking of you, dear brother... But should I pass away before you regain your robust health and freedom of body—though it pains me to ask—I beg you visit my grave just once, and if you would be so kind, offer not many flowers but those irises instead. For they were the flowers of memory blooming before the tatami room when Mother was struck down...

I beg you, I implore you. Please do not overexert yourself... For should I learn that you were to do such a thing, I am resolved not to let you strain yourself further—this I swear with all my being... At the very least, I pray only this—that you, dear brother, may safely remain in this world and bring Mother’s artistry into its fullest flower—it is for this reason that I beseech you…….

But if that were not so—if you and I were not siblings bound by blood—if we were truly the living testament to your father's and my mother's aching hearts—...... Ah... What am I to do...

The love between your father and my mother was supremely pure and immaculate. And it remained eternally noble. May the love between you, dear brother, and me also—like theirs—forever remain noble and pure, ending in sorrow…… When I think how I long to see you once more…… I am once again tormented by this maddening sensation. But even these feelings of mine, when compared to the nobility of their love, seem shameful and defiling…….

My thoughts have become disordered, and my brush no longer moves. How sorrowful I feel at this parting.

Most respectfully,

March 29, 1902

From Inokuchi Toshiko

Mr. Hishida Shintarou

At your feet.