Pathway to Japanese Literature

While the nurse was asleep, I took this chance to scrawl these clumsy lines in a woman’s hand, so I feared they must be terribly difficult to read and comprehend. Yet I begged your forgiveness a thousandfold for this hasty account.

After that incident, how profoundly you must have regarded my discourtesy in concealing myself without sending even a single missive. When I pondered what manner of apology might prove adequate, my chest tightened into one suffocating mass, and my heart could only grow feebler beneath this sorrowful and pitiable anguish. Then when at last through great exertion I stealthily returned to the capital two nights past, I straightaway had two or three newspapers from that period delivered, and though I pored over them one after another repeatedly, among the various articles concerning myself that appeared in these journals, there was not a single one that did not reproach and afflict my heart.

Regarding that matter—how newspapers and other kind persons had extended their undeserved sympathies about my sudden hemoptysis at the spring assembly of the Meiji Music Society held at Marunouchi Engeikan Hall, followed by my hospitalization at the nearby general hospital and subsequent disappearance that very night. Then again, the agonizing concern shown by Dr. Okazawa and his wife—who had cared for me until the very end—that surpassed even familial devotion... And amidst all this, Your Excellency—not only did you refrain from condemning my guilt in having unwillingly withdrawn from your presence since that time—but even went so far as to suspend your theatrical performances to worry over this insignificant self of mine, exhausting every means in searching for my whereabouts until you unexpectedly suffered hemoptysis identical to my own. And then when I read in the gossip column’s article bearing the headline ‘The situation is identical...’ that you had been admitted to the same Marunouchi General Hospital and were calling my name without cease—the anguish I felt then... And at that same moment when I came to understand it was no coincidence how Your Excellency and I had thus fallen into fate’s hands alike, becoming those who contracted the same illness and now spat blood in identical fashion—the hollow terror of that realization... All I could do was weep while wringing my handkerchief until this already labored breath of mine ceased entirely.

Having come to this, what remains for me to conceal?

Long before I ever had the honor of meeting Your Excellency directly, I had been well aware—albeit from afar—that Your Excellency were none other than Mr. Nakamura Handayu, that is to say, Mr. Hishida Shintarou: the youngest and most exquisite onnagata virtuoso in contemporary kabuki, its foremost female-role performer whose renown reaches even foreign shores. But that is not all.

Though it may be terribly presumptuous of me to say so, I was well aware not only that Your Excellency shares my age of twenty-three years, but also that you had maintained your reputation as a woman-hater to this very day without ever permitting any lady to draw near. Thus, if it were possible, might Your Excellency be bound by some mysterious thread of fate—unknown even to yourself—that I alone in all this wide world knew of? And might this be why you turned toward no other woman?... To phrase it differently: might I be the sole woman in this world destined to be tied to Your Excellency's shared fate?... Such thoughts I had harbored daily in the deepest recesses of my heart, trembling in fearful uncertainty as I survived until this very day.

That being said, as a lowly piano teacher such as myself—one who would never catch the eye of renowned personages like Your Excellencies—were others to discover that I have been entertaining such presumptuous thoughts beyond my station, how they would mock me.

All women across Japan acquainted with Nakamura Handayu-sama—now known as Hishida Shintarou-sama—are all dreaming the same dream, so there’s no need to worry. They must have said my self-conceit knew no bounds and ridiculed me nearly to death. Even for Your Excellency, who remains unaware of all matters, were I to suddenly bring such things to your ears, you would surely be astonished. “I alone have secretly known Your Excellency’s fate since long ago. That there could be no woman other than myself who would receive Your Excellency’s marriage proposal—this I imagined over and over, trembling and quivering as I spent my days.”

Were I to say such things, Your Excellency would immediately think there could be no possibility of their truth. Your Excellency would suspect that I am fabricating such a story afterward in an attempt to avoid marriage. But what purpose would there be in fabricating such things under these circumstances? I shall never forget—it was on the second day of my clumsy piano solo performance in the concert hall of that Marunouchi Engeikan Hall. Mr. Matsutomi, who serves as the director of the Meiji Music Society, lightly tapped me on the shoulder at the dressing room entrance and said such things.

“Ms. Inokuchi.” “Steady now.” “The renowned actor Mr. Hishida Shintarou has been coming alone to that very back seat since yesterday—Mr. Shintarou being famous for hating both women and Western music, you know.” “He who’s notorious for despising men comes to hear your performances and promptly leaves once your turn ends.” “A newspaper reporter just informed me of this matter, so I responded that you likely wouldn’t know anything about it yet.” “Apparently, it’s becoming quite a sensation. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

When I received this news, how great was my astonishment! The dreamlike and mysterious fateful connection between Your Excellency and myself that I had only imagined until now—manifesting with dreadful clarity in this unexpectedly radiant place as it began to materialize in reality—left me utterly entranced. I grew so breathless that I even considered fleeing the performance venue under the pretext of illness, and my heart pounded violently.

Yet until that moment, I had never had the honor of beholding Your Excellency except through photographs, and thus remained detained by this helpless yearning—to gaze upon your true countenance even once before making my farewell to this world—that I continued playing the Moonlight Sonata while trembling with anticipation. Then, before long, Your Excellency—wearing a hunting cap and Western suit, large tinted glasses upon your face—quietly entered through the main entrance and leaned against the wall beneath the electric light.

The thundering in my chest when I caught a fleeting glimpse of your figure from behind the sheet music—what must it have been like. Perhaps because Your Excellency had arrived in haste at that moment, after pressing your body against the wall to avoid notice, removing your tinted glasses, and wiping away your sweat, you quietly turned your gaze toward me.

While retaining that face vividly in my eyes, I—struck by such a strange astonishment that I thought I might die—inadvertently lost consciousness, causing everyone no small concern. Not only that, but I unexpectedly suffered hemoptysis and stained the precious piano—of which there was but one at the Meiji Music Society—thereby causing the long-awaited concert to be canceled. Truly, how can I ever apologize? I find myself sighing repeatedly whenever I recall this. Everyone believes this to be solely due to the illness I had zealously concealed in my dedication to my profession, and I am told they have bestowed upon me such unbearable sympathy—ah, what an undeserved kindness this is!

However, to tell the truth, my fainting was not due to that illness.

At that moment, when I beheld Your Excellency's face after you had removed those tinted glasses, I almost— "Ah! Mother..."

I nearly cried out. It was because Your Excellency’s face bore such a striking resemblance to my late mother’s. To be sure, I had long been well aware through various magazine photographs that Your Excellency’s appearance bore a striking resemblance to my mother’s. However, that Your Excellency’s gaze—so filled with affection as you quietly observed me in such a manner—should prove an exact living likeness of my late mother’s very own was something I had never dared imagine even in dreams. Though I know not whether these words be impertinent, at that moment you seemed none other than my mother’s reincarnation.

The moment I thought that, I realized with stark clarity that my fate was reaching an impasse before my very eyes. And so, having grown faint in that moment, I believe from my very soul that it was not due to illness. As I have stated before, I had long since prepared myself for the certainty that I would receive a marriage proposal from Your Excellency once in my lifetime. And along with that, I had known with every fiber of my being—this matter of possessing a fate so tragic and dreadful that even were my heart inclined otherwise, I must never accept Your Excellency's proposal... this I had known with visceral certainty.

The anguish and wretchedness I feel at being compelled to fully disclose these reasons to Your Excellency from this moment onward—it is as though my very flesh were being flayed. Yet when I consider how I have become one permitted to behold Your Excellency—the sole soul in all this world who might comprehend these truths—if only for a fleeting glance, and how I may now present this letter, I find myself immeasurably more blessed than were I to journey to the next world with this secret sealed within my breast.

The first reason I must state is this illness that currently afflicts both Your Excellency and myself in equal measure. Especially as mine had been passed down through generations of my family to Mother, there remained no hope whatsoever of recovery. Next, as for the second reason—though I know not whether it may astonish Your Excellency—it is the sword stab wound that passes through from my right back to beneath my right breast. As for this scar's mark and the secret of my lifetime entwined with it alone—though I had concealed and guarded them even from doctors despite having fallen into such illness, all for fear that others might notice them even were it to cost me my life—I now believed the time had come when I must disclose them to Your Excellency alone.

And now another—the most crucial reason I cannot entrust myself to Your Excellency—is none other than this. Though it may be impertinent of me to say so, it seems to me that Your Excellency and I have not been complete strangers since the moment we were born into this world. As one piece of evidence for this, Your Excellency—as I have previously stated—bears the exact likeness of my mother’s appearance, while on the other hand, my own form has also retained Your Excellency’s youthful visage in female guise, a fact I had been well aware of since childhood.

Even having stated this much alone, Your Excellency would readily discern proof that my words hold no falsehood. And thus you must already be considering me as your blood-sister—how profoundly Your Excellency must be suffering. Yet I earnestly entreat Your Excellency to compose your heart and peruse to the end what I shall now commit to writing.

Should Your Excellency proceed thus, you will gradually come to understand how—though we have come to bear these forms with exchanged parental visages—it may indeed be clearly proven that there could exist no blood connection whatsoever between us. And thus, Your Excellency shall come to understand this tormented state of my heart as well—how this mysterious bond that seeks to unite us might be either some abominable devil's work or God's sacred design, though I remain lost in anguish without knowing which.

At that concert hall, the very moment I raised my eyes to behold Your Excellency's face, I realized with vivid clarity that this strange torment concerning our fates—which I had long imagined—now pressed urgently before my very eyes.

I humbly beg your forgiveness. My thoughts are now in utter disarray, and it seems I am merely setting down matters of no consequence. That being said, unless this mysterious bond between Your Excellency and myself becomes fully clear—no matter how our mutual affections may develop—I cannot entrust this body to Your Excellency's hands. Rather than this, I had prayed with all my heart that it would be better for Your Excellency's sake were I to perish from this illness before my form could catch Your Excellency's eye—yet when that incident occurred and I was transported to the general hospital near the concert hall, Your Excellency later that night seized a moment when the nurses were distracted to steal into my sickroom and utter those words... The mingled joy and sorrow I felt in that moment—

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

Ah. What a gallant spirit it was. What kindness this was. Had I not lost consciousness at that moment, what might have become of us? When I eventually came to my senses alone, how dearly nostalgic was the lingering warmth of Your Excellency that remained upon my lips and cheeks. How sorrowful it was…

Ah. How bitterly I wept at that time! How bitterly I resented and lamented through tears—my own sinfulness in tormenting Your Excellency who remains unaware of all things, and the malice of fate itself! As dawn approached, I rose quietly while watching the attending nurse’s slumber, and disregarding how my high fever made me reel, gathered my belongings and stole away from the hospital. Then, still wearing the haori over the clothes I had worn for the performance, I boarded a steam train and returned to my hometown of Fukuoka in Kyushu. And then, alighting at Hakozaki Station two stops before Hakata Station, I stole away from prying eyes to pay homage at Kushida Shrine in Hakata—my family’s tutelary deity—where I bid farewell to the two framed pressed fabric artworks displayed in its ema hall.

That mysterious secret which pertains to Your Excellency's and my fate resides concealed within those two pressed fabric artworks. The stab wounds upon my back and breast as well as the cause that rendered me unable to accept Your Excellency’s lips with peace of mind—when traced back to their origin—were all ultimately deeds wrought by those two pressed fabric artworks. Therefore, it is precisely to bid farewell to that fate that I specially came as far as Kyushu. Sooner or later, I know this life of mine cannot be saved...

However, as I gazed up at those two pressed fabric artworks, I came to feel as though some noble force were drawing me forward.

One of them depicted a scene from the Eight Dog Chronicles where Inuzuka Shino and Inukai Genpachi were engaged in combat atop Hōryūkaku Pavilion, while the other presented a stage scene of Akuya’s Torture. Both were enclosed within large glass-fronted frames, wrapped in an additional layer of sturdy wire mesh, and displayed along the western front of the ema hall—yet as I gazed up at them, such a shudder ran through me that I nearly thought perhaps that mysterious force enshrined within those pressed fabric artworks, which enveloped Your Excellency's and my fate, might once again be newly exerting its influence upon my heart, until I found myself feeling as though intoxicated by some mysterious elixir.

Never before in my life had I felt fate's power so exquisitely joyful and rapturous as in that moment. There exists nothing in this world untouched by fate. Thus it follows that my death from this illness remains undecided.

It may not be impossible that I should once again mysteriously regain a healthy body and have the chance to meet Your Excellency. It is these two pressed-fabric artworks alone that know such fate… And even among them, only Inuzuka Shino—sword raised high—and Akuya—plucking her koto—know everything in perfect clarity. What use would there be in my frail strength attempting to defy that destiny? I shall come to Your Excellency’s side, cradled within these hands of fate. There I shall cling to your cherished breast, lay bare all that has transpired until now, and entreat you to let me weep until my heart is sated.

That must be my true fate.

I found myself in an indulgent, tranquil state of mind—like that of a child of seven or eight lost in dreams—and boarded an ascending steam train while dozing in a twilight between wakefulness and sleep.

When I returned to Tokyo, I deliberately stayed at a small, nameless inn on the outskirts.

And as I mentioned before, it was there that I read subsequent newspapers—among those articles, how particularly Your Excellency's kindness tormented me... Even were I to lay bare before your eyes all those terrifying, mysterious secrets clinging to my flesh and soul—secrets so dreadful they beggar belief—and even perceiving both Your Excellency's steadfastness that seemed unlikely to retreat afterward, along with the sudden worsening of your illness caused thereby, how terrifyingly I came to comprehend at once the mystical power of those pressed fabric artworks governing Your Excellency's and my fate. How I must have clutched that newspaper and wept until soaked through!

And no matter how many times I reconsidered, there remained no path but to entrust this body to such fate—to meet Your Excellency and confess this secret. Were we to do so, Your Excellency’s and my illnesses might naturally heal themselves. No—that Your Excellency and I had succumbed to the same malady might well have been through some mysterious kindness of those invisible hands of fate, seeking by all means to draw back to your side this willful self who tried to depart from you... With my heart quivering in these ephemeral, helpless thoughts, how many times did I rewrite the letters meant for Your Excellency? How many sheets of paper I tore up and discarded, vexed by my shameful heart and clumsy prose.

That being said, such thoughts of mine could have been nothing but phantoms born of my delirium from the high fever. I had to awaken to reality before long. In such manner, as I rewrote time and again the letters meant for Your Excellency, I found myself unable to endure this excruciating, unbearable frustration. I became so overwhelmed by the conviction that I might perish were I not to meet Your Excellency posthaste. Had I continued writing this letter in such a state—growing so breathless I might faint from dizziness—I promptly settled my inn charges and began gathering a few belongings with the intention of visiting Your Excellency's sickbed while avoiding others' eyes. Yet as I folded the gray blanket I had acquired in Hakata, I soon suffered my second hemoptysis.

I beg your forgiveness.

At that moment, prostrated upon the blanket, I saw with crystalline clarity in a vision the wretched figure of Your Excellency’s and my fate being crushed to pieces. Blue, blue—wide, wide—a pure and beautiful expanse that might have been sky or sea appeared before me, glittering in the far distance as it sought to draw in Your Excellency’s and my bodies—we who clung tightly together even while coughing blood—waiting all the while. And as Your Excellency and I were steadily drawn toward it, I found the sensation inexpressibly pleasant.

However, when that vision disappeared, I—with desperate effort—finally regained my composure. And while gasping as though my breath might cease at any moment, I covered the bloodstains and rode a rickshaw to this Dr. Kitasato’s sanatorium—but believing my life already lost while accepting the attending physician’s admonition against overexertion—I concealed this paper and pencil stealthily beneath my sickbed and am writing this letter whenever I find nurses distracted.

If Your Excellency reads this letter to its conclusion, I believe you will surely recall a single matter without delay. I imagine this matter is so trivial as to be inconsequential to Your Excellency, who must already comprehend it fully—yet I believe that once you recall it, you will unravel all secrets without difficulty.

Be that as it may, in this vast world, Your Excellency alone is the one who can unravel the mysterious enigma of fate entwined between us. I have been—tormented by an unbearable urge to ask Your Excellency that single matter alone—yet being unable to muster such courage—merely something that has managed to live on until today.

Though I think this, I know not where to begin telling you. What am I to do with this torment? No matter how I rush and rush, this pen refuses to advance—what am I to do with this frustration?

Ah. Would it be wrong for me to pass into the next life bearing Your Excellency’s words spoken through hot tears and your kiss as lifelong memories? I have been seeing nothing but dreams of those pressed fabric artworks nearly every night lately. I have been dreaming repeatedly of Inuzuka Shino’s gallant figure straddling the deepest blue roof tiles at the very pinnacle of Hōryūkaku Pavilion, brandishing his silver sword, and of Akuya’s demure form—her colors faded—playing the koto before the stern Hatakeyama Shigetada. Along with this, the faces of my Father and Mother, as well as the appearance of my childhood home where I lived for twelve years since birth, appear before me as beautiful as a magic lantern show, fragmented into tatters. When I awaken, tears—sweet yet nostalgic, as though reverting to a child’s heart from that time—flow endlessly with no way to stop them.

That, I believed, was not solely due to the fever. It must have been that my life had already dwindled to its last remnants…… And when I thought so, Your Excellency’s face was recalled all the more fondly—or perhaps sorrowfully—until my chest grew tight.

My birthplace was situated upon the delta at the mouth of the Nakagawa River, which flows through the center of Fukuoka City and empties into Hakata Bay. This delta is called Higashi Nakasu, and as it lies between Hakata Town—renowned for Hakata-ori textiles—and Fukuoka Town, which serves as Lord Kuroda’s castle town, numerous bridges span from both towns; my birthplace was situated beside the renowned Kijin Jizo statue at the base of Suishabashi Bridge, which arches across the southernmost tip of Hakata’s side. That house remains encircled by cedar fences preserved in their original form to this day, standing alongside the venerable Jizō statue beside Jūshichi Bank’s tennis court, so anyone who comes will recognize it immediately.

To be precise, Higashi Nakasu from about twenty years ago when we resided there was not as bustling as it is now; there were only a single row of houses near the northwestern coastline and close to where the river splits into two at the southern tip. Thus, ours alone remained a solitary house along the Hakata-side riverside midway between them, surrounded by rapeseed flowers, pumpkin blossoms, and green wheat—a fact those of advanced years may still recall.

My family belonged to the five-hundred-koku horse guard of the Kuroda domain, and though Father was an adopted son, he was often spoken of in books and tales as an old-fashioned man of unyielding stubbornness. He was exactly as described, teaching Chinese classics to the young people in the neighborhood. Moreover, being innately averse to alcohol yet possessing an extreme fondness for sweets, by the time I turned ten years old his stomach condition had worsened considerably; he therefore frequently engaged in farm work under the pretense of recuperation—perhaps owing to this, his complexion grew quite dark, with thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and a large mouth, making him a man of fearsome countenance befitting a samurai.

In stark contrast, my Mother was exquisitely beautiful—and a most mysterious woman. My Mother appeared to take meals solely to sustain her life. It amazed me even as a child how her body endured—she ate so sparingly that I couldn't help but wonder. Furthermore, Mother,

“How does she manage to observe [the latest fashions] while living in that solitary house?” an acquaintance once marveled. Her hair remained perfectly coiffed in the current style, a white garment lightly draped about her shoulders—yet without adornment, she appeared incomparably beautiful. The wet nurse who had raised Mother—a robust old woman named Oseki—carried large tiered paulownia boxes through rural hamlets as an itinerant peddler. From her, Mother acquired only lamp oil and hair cords, never indulging in luxuries. Rather, Oseki profited by selling the shibori tie-dyed sashes and brocade amulet pouches Mother crafted. In summer, she wore indigo-dyed gauze kimono of her own making, their deep blues harmonizing with her porcelain complexion and the pale nape of her neck to create an air of refined elegance. I still see her clearly—that time she declared “I’ll bake you manju,” tying a hand towel about her head in casual fashion before settling by the hibachi, her posture radiating grace even in domesticity.

“I wish to say your mother resembles a painting, but she is far, far more beautiful than any painting.”

A certain person remarked.

“Even women find themselves enraptured.”

There were even instances where the kelp seller woman departed while glancing back repeatedly.

I do not know whether it was true or false, but there existed a popular song in Fukuoka at that time: "Everyone, everyone—though mismatched in Fukuoka-Hakata, so what? Toko-ton yare ton-yare na! That's Master Inokuchi and his Madam. Isn't it strange how they live so amiably in Nakasu (without tears)? Toko-ton yare ton-yare naa!"

I recall hearing from someone that there was one that went like this, but I forgot who taught it to me.

However, what I refer to as Mother’s true mystery was not such things. “Your Mother has the same fingers as I do—how ever does she produce such miraculous works?” Such was what every single person who visited our home would say. My Mother’s skill in handiwork was so extraordinary that it left people marveling to such an extent. According to Grandmother—who had lived until the winter I turned eight—Old Oseki, and others’ accounts, Mother had been the sole heir of the Inokuchi family; yet at seven years old during her first Doll Festival, she broke the pressed fabric doll she had received to examine its construction, then reconstructed it entirely by herself—thereby teaching herself the art of pressed fabric work. After that, once her calligraphy practice was done, she would draw doll faces and floral patterns on the corners of tissue paper or scrap paper, playing endlessly—or so I’ve been told. As for friends, unless they came to visit her first, she would never proactively go out to meet them. And when she reached around ten years of age, the pressed fabric dolls she had made as playthings gained such renown that they began selling well, so my grandfather and grandmother were utterly astonished, or so I’ve heard.

When Mother turned eleven thereafter, she went to learn loom weaving, cutting, sewing, and such from an elderly woman—a maternal relative living in Hakata’s Koyama district—but though this grandmother was an instructor at the renowned Yakamashi-ya workshop, it’s said she never gave Mother any particular instruction. By age fourteen, Mother had become as skilled as any master instructor. As for embroidery and such, even those she created as pastimes during that period were said to be more beautiful and sturdier than those made by adults.

My Father was adopted into the Tsukigawa family when Mother was fifteen years old—Father himself being twenty-four at the time. Now regarding Mother—in her sixteenth year following their wedding ceremony during New Year’s visit to her work instructor’s residence (who being a relative had prepared ozoni soup), someone arrived carrying a man’s obi of Hakata-ori fabric thick as a board. This belonged to a sumo wrestler visiting from Kamigata—a piece specially commissioned to be woven in Hakata yet tailored in Kamigata—but for some reason its knot proved unsatisfactory despite repeated alterations. “There remains no other place for remaking Hakata-ori except through this instructor here,” explained the visitor. At that moment appeared the elderly instructor herself. “How fortuitous—the most accomplished and beautiful wife in all Fukuoka happens to be present,” she declared before thrusting the task upon Mother.

Mother could neither defy the harsh words of that fearsome, ill-natured instructor, nor—being well aware that my Father detested losing in any matter—risk having it discovered later that she had refused and fled home without even partaking of the ozoni soup. Thus did she tearfully accept the task, but having been remade numerous times, the obi proved agonizingly difficult to sew, filling her with sorrow. It is said that tears flowed. Nevertheless, she somehow managed to complete it before the ozoni soup was ready and promptly had it delivered; however, when he immediately sent over a considerable sum for tailoring fees, Mother reportedly refused outright. Thereupon, that sumo wrestler came to Mother’s residence the following day by rickshaw, himself carrying a tray laden with crepe silks and damask silks to express his gratitude—so Father, unaware of the circumstances, was greatly astonished. And then he himself came out to the entrance,

“My wife does not associate with the likes of you.”

When Mother later emerged and intervened upon hearing his declaration, she finally accepted the gifts, but the sumo wrestler was turned away at the entrance. "That fellow undoubtedly came to see you. From now on, you shall not sew anything for sumo wrestlers." And so, it is said that Father later severely reprimanded Mother.

Then came another incident: in February of Mother’s eighteenth year, a man named Shiba Tada (his true name being Shibata Tabei)—reputed to be Hakata’s foremost wealthy man—came personally to meet Father and made this proposal: “The reason for my visit today is that I humbly wish to have Madam’s pressed fabric art decorate my daughter’s first Doll Festival—it is regarding this matter that I have come to request your favor.” “Regarding that matter—in another four or five days—Nakamura Handayu (who is your esteemed father), a thousand-ryō actor from Tokyo—” “—I most humbly beg your forgiveness for my crude manner of speech—will arrive in Hakata and perform at Hyōrakuza Theater for ten days.” “The artistic theme of this debut performance is ‘The Torture of Akuya with the Koto,’ in which Mr. Handayu will portray Akuya. Therefore, if you would kindly view the performance and create a five-piece set depicting that exact scene for us?” “To that end, I have reserved the finest front-facing box seats from opening day through the final performance—please observe them thoroughly.” “I have brought the base brocade pictures here.” “As for this triptych—once you have viewed the play—I have no objection to however extensively you may remake it.” “Should you wish to inspect the costumes as well, you may proceed to the dressing room and examine them firsthand if desired.” “I shall be honored to guide you.” “Though it may be presumptuous of me to say so—I shall spare no expense or effort—if you would be so kind as to have Madam create a piece to be passed down through the ages as her life’s masterwork, and allow my daughter to partake of its auspicious influence—how might this proposal find your favor?”

And thus did he make his plea with heartfelt sincerity. However, it is said that my strict Father did not readily grant permission. He inquired about matters such as what plot the play *The Torture of Akuya with the Koto* entailed and whether men could enter the dressing rooms, posing various questions. In response, Mr. Shiba Tada explained at length—how kabuki plays were called “street learning” for embedding teachings of benevolence and morality; how actors, though still labeled “riverbed folk,” differed entirely from sumo wrestlers in status once they became accomplished Tokyo performers, being instead upstanding individuals with proper etiquette—until at last,

“Then let us go and see it.”

It is said he declared. Then, when the play began, they summoned Oseki—the peddler woman—to keep watch over the house, and Grandmother, Father, and Mother—all three together—attended Hyōrakuza Theater for three days; on that first day, a man named Nakamura Handayu appeared in haori and hakama formal attire, coming to greet them at their viewing seats. And then,

“For my stage appearance to receive the favor of your skilled hands—you, the renowned Madam of Fukuoka—is the honor of a lifetime.” “I humbly entreat your kind assistance...” Having declared this, he reportedly presented Grandmother with a tea set, Father with a tobacco tray, and Mother with a stationery case as gifts—each embossed in gold and silver with our family crest’s interlocking rings pattern—at which Father was utterly astonished. And then, he was greatly impressed by Mr. Handayu’s character and reportedly told others, “Were he a samurai, he would command a thousand koku.”

However, after four or five days had passed, Father—

“I’m getting a headache. Since Mother has apparently grown weary as well, I shall keep watch at home with her. I permit it—you shall go with Old Oseki and see it. Since it’s Mr. Shiba Tada’s earnest request.” It is said he declared this; yet even so, when Mother showed reluctance, Mr. Shiba Tada—who had come to fetch her—insisted forcefully, and thus she ended up viewing the performances for approximately three more days. When she attended on the fifth day, she roughly sketched a draft; then after watching the play once more on the sixth day to revise minute details, she commenced her work—whereupon by the first week, the five-piece set of Akuya’s Torture with the Koto dolls had already been splendidly completed, or so it is said. This pressed fabric doll of Akuya not only had each strand of hair meticulously crafted from unraveled black silk crepe but also featured eyes coated with Mother’s ingenious use of glue to make them glisten. The crimson crepe kimono bore faint white and tie-dyed peonies, while gold and silver butterflies—suspended with hairpin wires—fluttered above it. The obi’s arabesque pattern was carved in relief, all coalescing into a brilliance unlike any brocade print or stage tableau. Within this radiance, Akuya’s likeness seemed to breathe with life, her gaze vividly cast downward. When your father—who had staged the second extended performance at Hyōrakuza Theater—saw it,

“This is astonishing! How could you have observed in such minute detail the physical mannerisms of courtesans from ages past—the very aspect I’ve struggled most to perfect? The posture of this courtesan—not even the finest ukiyo-e artists today could capture it—is the most difficult secret technique passed down in my family’s art… That lady is an extraordinary woman.”

It is said he exclaimed this in astonishment, and even now it remains a topic of conversation among Hakata's people. When those five-piece dolls of Akuya's Torture with the Koto were displayed upon the small honoki stage at Mr. Shiba Tada's residence, the spectacle was said to have been truly extraordinary. Needless to say, both Father and Mother attended as guests at Mr. Shiba Tada's home where a grand feast was served; yet merely receiving relatives who had traveled from afar specifically to view the pressed fabric art and acquaintances visiting for the Doll Festival kept Mr. Shiba Tada so busy he seemed to spin like a top. As these guests showed no signs of diminishing even after the festival had passed, Mr. Shiba Tada reportedly declared with a laugh in the end:

“This is unbearable! Even if it’s my daughter’s celebration, having travelers from as far as Kyoto and Osaka hear rumors and come to see it—I’ll soon face financial ruin.” “There shouldn’t be pressed fabric art this exorbitant.” “In any case, since this is Mrs. Inokuchi’s life’s masterwork into which she poured her soul, we might as well dedicate it to the clan deity under my daughter’s name.” And so it was decided. And so that pressed fabric art was placed into an ornate vitrine-mounted frame, further encased in a sturdy wire mesh, and enshrined within Kushida Shrine’s ema hall. Within that frame, a stage crafted through honoki wood joinery rose in relief, and even the fittings employed meticulously crafted miniature replicas true to their real counterparts—so much so that the piece proved so heavy they say it took four or five men nearly half a day to finally hoist it into place.

Through such circumstances, Mother’s reputation doubled yet again, and needless to say, the commissions that followed soon surpassed even double the previous amount. However, as Mother soon realized she would be giving birth to me near year’s end, it is said that she flatly refused all commissions that came after August.

They say the commotion Grandmother and my parents caused around my birth appeared utterly absurd when viewed from an outsider’s perspective. "They say things like 'A beauty bears no children' or 'A high-strung woman bears few,' but since my Mother embodied both, Grandmother worried endlessly about this matter and often voiced such complaints." Though it is said Father remained silent regarding such matters—despite Fukuoka also observing the custom that 'if three years pass without a child, [the wife] must leave'—with Mother being the family heir and Father being the adopted son, Grandmother likely found herself powerless to act.

Even so, how Grandmother must have yearned to lay eyes upon her first grandchild. Therefore, Grandmother would occasionally take it upon herself to bring Mother along to worship at Jizō statues, Kannon statues, sacred trees and such; obtain protective charms and sacred water for Mother to receive; and exert herself in various such efforts. “You, today is Kannon-sama’s day,” or “Tomorrow is such-and-such for Jizō-sama,” Grandmother would say as she deigned to take Mother out two or three times a month—and at such times, no matter how busy Mother was with her work, she would obediently reply “Yes” and go out. Father too, beyond offering morning and evening prayers to the gods and buddhas, would humbly accept any protective charms or sacred water that Grandmother recommended—it is said he never once dismissed such things as mere superstition.

Given all that the entire household had done in their yearning for a child—when I came into existence, one can only imagine their joy. Father, who had remained silent until then, reportedly commenced what was called prenatal education when Mother began wearing the sixth-month Iwata obi that August. As for that practice, I cannot say what historical precedents existed, but it must have been something transmitted from China through Chinese classical studies. Mother, who until then had retired to sleep with Father in the sitting room, was now made to sleep alone in the tea room adjacent to the kitchen’s wide wooden floor, while Father remained alone in the sitting room, and Grandmother continued sleeping in her own chamber by the entrance as she always had. And so, in the tea room where Mother now slept alone, every wall had been covered with paintings of historically renowned figures and valorous events—some pasted directly, others framed and hung—so that when Mother viewed these images morning and evening, the child in her womb would receive edification from her contemplative state and grow into an exemplary individual. This practice was said to be called prenatal education. Those paintings and calligraphies remained displayed—soot-darkened yet lining all four walls of the tea room even after I had grown—such lithographs blending valor with brutality: Kusunoki Masashige’s doomed last stand; Byakkotai youths committing seppuku; the Shōgitai’s rebellion at Ueno; Yamato Takeru subjugating the Kumaso. These stood alongside Saigō Takamori’s portrait and Takayama Hikokurō’s brushstrokes of “Loyalty.” Yet when surveying these images, it became clear: Father had resolved long before my birth that I would be a son.

Then, as the time for my birth drew near, the aforementioned Old Oseki took up residence, laying out bedding on the wooden floor of the kitchen to sleep. This old woman lived until I was five or six years old—a remarkably vigorous and covetous soul whom Father reportedly never much cared for. Yet given her experience having borne nearly ten children, even he could not protest her attending to Mother’s care at this time.

I still remember her vividly. A plump, dark-skinned woman with bulging eyes, who whenever Mother was mentioned, “I’m the one who raised her… Madam Retired.”

When she said this, she would open her mouth wide and laugh in a mannish way—but I distinctly remember how unusual it was for an old woman of that time not to have 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 belly is big.” “It must be a big baby boy.” “The days will stretch some before the birth.” When she said this, Father was reportedly overjoyed. Yet this old woman’s prophecy proved false, for I was born an average-sized girl. Though the days had merely lengthened by a week, far from resentment, Grandmother and Father even pressed their palms together before Old Oseki in thanks,

“Ah… Thanks to you, we are relieved.” they are said to have shed tears as they declared this.

I was born on December 29th of Meiji 13 (1880), on a morning of heavy snowfall—or so I have been told—when Grandmother and Father had become utterly exhausted from their anxious vigil over my impending arrival. At Old Oseki’s urging—“Wait until birth draws nigh”—they drowsed by the sitting room’s kotatsu during which time I entered this world. When daybreak came and they heard an infant’s cry, both were said to have started in surprise. Yet Old Oseki proved herself resolute; when Father hastened toward where I lay,

“Off with you now.” “I’ll let you hold her soon enough.” “Menfolk don’t go traipsing into birthing chambers!” Thus scolded, Father scrambled back into the kotatsu and yanked the quilt clear over his head. This left half the wooden frame exposed, his black-clad legs sticking straight out on either side like—

“The comical sight of him…”

I heard much later that Old Oseki would often recount this to people with laughter. Regarding events surrounding my birth, there still remained various things I later came to hear.

Foremost among these matters I must first mention is the handball song that became popular shortly after my birth—a tune which, it is said, Fukuoka’s nursemaids still sing even now. “Starting with ichi-yo, one kiri-kanjo…” Lives by his single staff: Ōtsuka-don. (Regarding the staff technique teacher) Lives by two staffs: Inokuchi-don. Lives by the sanbō: Nagasawa-don. (Regarding the revered priest of Kushida Shrine) Lives by four bowls: Terakura (moneylender)-don.

Five pardons granted—oh six brings the test! Seven—grill all manner of rice cakes. Nine pardons, ten pardons—grant them if you will. Pull at my eyes, tug at my sleeves—still I remain your mistress. Even if a child is born, it’s from the mistress’s womb. Your womb is not one I’ll ever borrow. Husband, flirt and preen with whomever you please. The child she bore bears no mark. A living image of the one you cherished. "Oh my, up-up it rose!" Though I say this, I fear it may seem presumptuous for me to speak thus—yet this song undoubtedly satirized Father and Mother, and myself by extension, compounding with further embellishments rumors about the sumo wrestlers for whom Mother sewed sashes, and matters concerning your father that she depicted in pressed fabric art. As I have previously stated, my Father was a dark-skinned, robust man—one might even say an ugly man—while Mother stood in utter contrast as an extraordinarily rare beauty. Given this disparity, it seems only natural that people would say various things about them.

From the time such songs began circulating, Father reportedly never allowed Mother to set foot outside except for daily grave visits, offering prayers for safe childbirth to various gods and buddhas, or making thanksgiving pilgrimages. To be fair, Father had always been a solemn man who never uttered a single jest in his daily life, so he likely did not comprehend the true meaning concealed beneath such songs. However, as it mentioned his own affairs, he seemed to take offense, and Father’s voice—berating those nursemaids who came spitefully singing such songs before our house like a madman—was said to carry all the way to the koto teacher’s residence across the river.

Moreover, during that time, our household’s livelihood was sustained solely by the meager rice harvests, the modest income from Father’s Chinese studies instruction, and Mother’s pressed fabric art and needlework, so I imagine my parents must have endured considerable hardship in the wake of my birth. Yet even such implications seemed to have been woven into this handball song—though I do not know who composed it—and each time I recall it, my heart swells with such loathing that I can scarcely bear it.

Yet perhaps because of this, Mother—disregarding Old Oseki’s warnings that she would ruin her eyes—reportedly began washing her hair earlier than most and taking up her needlework with uncommon haste. Father, from then on, reportedly did not mind being laughed at and even took care of the morning and evening shopping himself. As long as Mother stayed quietly at home working—for this kept Father in good spirits—Grandmother was said to have been greatly troubled by this arrangement.

However, now that I reflect upon it carefully, I believe I have come to 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 comprehend the story that follows. To speak without reserve: even to my eyes after I became aware of my surroundings, it seemed clear that Father—through some warped perception mistaking his joy in accumulating wealth by working beautiful Mother relentlessly for genuine affection and care—had come to conduct himself in such a manner. Therefore, I believe Father was in such good spirits because nothing brought him greater joy and delight than seeing Mother remain at home, working through the night without sleep.

That being said, on reflection from another perspective, I must acknowledge that my Mother’s devotion to work had by then already surpassed what could be called ordinary diligence. Even accounting for how Father’s mercilessly jealous heart compelled Mother to labor under such unreasonable duress—and regardless of how inherently industrious Mother herself might have been—people later recounted that her manner of working after my birth seemed scarcely human in its intensity.

Now that I consider this matter carefully, I believe I have come to understand Mother’s state of mind quite well—to put it plainly, it seems to me that from the moment she brought me into this world, Mother’s heart had withdrawn from the human realm entirely, poured itself entirely into her work alone, and endeavored to forget all else (though what exactly that “else” was, I suppose no one could have known).

However one might speak of it, I was born on the final days of the twelfth month of the new calendar—the very year when the Akuya’s Torture doll was completed—and yet by mid-February of that same new calendar, barely a month and half later, Mother reportedly never declined any work: not only household duties, but also sewing commissions for traditional New Year’s preparations from outside—embroidered fukusa cloths, crest stitching, and intricate pressed fabric dolls—no matter how overwhelming her schedule became. This remained unchanged even after I became aware of my surroundings—haori jackets, hakama trousers, wedding finery, and urgent commissions—which Mother would create through sleepless nights, in addition to which, following Father’s Chinese studies lessons, around ten young ladies from the neighborhood would come for instruction. While teaching them, Mother would even sew garments for the four of us at home (including Grandmother’s), such that her diligence and dedication were enough to impress even my childish mind. On sweltering summer nights, even when besieged by mosquitoes, she paid them no heed; on frigid winter days, she toiled so assiduously that she scarcely had time to warm her hands and feet.

At that time, pressed fabric art had become tremendously popular in Hakata-Fukuoka, which was contiguous with our town. Thus, when a daughter was born to a prominent household, for her first Doll Festival they would all emulate Mr. Shiba Tada by constructing miniature theater stages in which to display pressed fabric dolls. They would come requesting these works with exorbitant prices predetermined—three yen for a trio, five yen for a quintet—as if dictating terms from afar. Even when Mother protested that such lavish expenditure would compromise the work’s quality, the commissioners refused to listen. “I’ll assist as much as I can.” When Father would declare such things and would not countenance refusal, Mother tearfully accepted the commissions. At that time, was rice not priced below ten sen per shō?

“If rice costs ten sen—tra-la-la!” There was even a popular song that went, “If rice costs ten sen—tra-la-la!”, but Father handled all such financial matters—depositing today’s amount, tomorrow’s amount at the Teishin-kyoku (though it was already called the postal office by then, Father persisted in using this old-fashioned name)—so that Mother truly seemed to have fallen into a hell of endless work.

However, even so, Mother’s work was more meticulous than others’. For the hair, unless using extremely cheap materials, she would unravel threads of black satin and implant them strand by strand; stuff even the tiniest fingertips with cotton and set nails; and for the kimonos, after giving each its shape with fullness, she would cut out various patterns—which, as each motif aligned perfectly with the fabric’s weave—appeared as though they had been woven into existence with impeccable skill. When New Year battledores grew large in scale, they became not mere wooden boards—after stretching and hollowing out their upper sections, people would commission lantern painters to create stage props like sliding doors, water basins, stone lanterns, shrubbery arrangements, and painted backdrop patterns. Mother would bring these out to the veranda, coating them with various gofun pigments, letting them dry, then drawing designs to harmonize with her pressed fabric artworks. Then, the preliminary sketches for the pressed fabric art would emerge from Mother’s own collection of some twenty nishiki-e prints and the numerous borrowed drafts she had copied from her pupils—but the fascination lay in how these gentle or severe designs took shape before one’s eyes… Or on vast ceremonial cloths—where flowers and butterflies of peculiar shapes embroidered with gold, silver, and multicolored threads gradually coalesced into interconnected patterns—their beauty... Father seemed to take greatest delight in observing such work of Mother’s from across the round paulownia brazier where we sat together. The kindness with which he would sometimes assist by carving bamboo for the pressed fabric dolls’ legs.

I must have been a quiet child indeed, for I have little memory of crying or such; by the time I was six or seven, I would receive fabric scraps from Mother to make round-headed dolls and play tirelessly, poring over the sketches Mother had copied onto Mino paper. Among these, watching Mother’s pressed-fabric artwork was my greatest joy, yet I bitterly resented it when Father would call for Mother while tending to the fields.

Above all else, when Mother painted the eyes, noses, and mouths of the pressed fabric dolls, she would invariably call me to sit before her. Directing me with phrases like “Turn to the right” or “Turn to the left,” she would scrutinize my eyes, nose, and mouth, moisten the slender brush tip with her tongue, and then inscribe them onto the faces of dolls lined along the brazier’s edge. The faces were varied—there was not a single one that resembled me—yet through daily observation, my childish mind became able to effortlessly discern eyes, noses, and mouths akin to my own among them. So one time, after Father had gone out to the fields,

“This is my eye. “This mouth too… this nose, these eyebrows…” When I said this, Mother— “How observant you are. “Your face is as beautiful as an actor’s, so I’m using it as my model.” With those words, Mother laughed, but then suddenly bowed her head and assumed a sorrowful expression as teardrops fell into the ashes of the brazier. This made me inexplicably sad too, and afterward I never spoke of such things again. Though I cannot recall clearly, I believe it was after this that Mother would set her mirror stand before herself, alternately gazing at her own reflection and peering at my face, blending my features with her own in the pressed fabric art’s visages.

Having completed the New Year dolls, Mother would soon begin work on those for the March Third Doll Festival. There were orders from two or three Hakata shops for mid-grade pieces, while rural areas requested bulk quantities of two or three hundred cheapest items possible. When February arrived, stores came requesting premium items sorted by preference, so by month's end Mother's busyness grew overwhelming to witness—working through the night became commonplace—and thus I often found myself cradled in Father's arms as I drifted to sleep.

When March arrived and I thought I could finally be safely held by Mother again—no sooner had this hope arisen than she would undertake weaving during the rainy season, laundering bedding, and managing the year’s formal attire; yet even amidst these tasks, sewing and embroidery commissions continued to arrive. And then, when June arrived, she would gradually begin working on the dolls for August’s festival. In accordance with Fukuoka custom, girls born after March were celebrated in August, but as the timing never quite aligned properly, Mother did not seem particularly busy during that period.

When August arrived, preparations for the New Year’s pressed fabric art would commence. As cardboard was not available then as it is now, Mother would commission waste dealers to purchase large quantities of scrap paper to create layered sheets—a laborious task that often left them spread out to dry across the autumn-lit garden, fields, and even the veranda. During such times, Father would arrange in the parlor the money that had been strung into coin strings up until then, or re-string them anew while—

“At least I can manage that much assistance, I suppose.”

Father would often say this. Father’s hands were roughened from fieldwork, so when handling pasted paper they would snag or tangle upon it, making the task ultimately more time-consuming than if Mother had worked alone. I too, whenever I saw Mother’s busyness, desperately wished to assist her—yet though we shared the same fingers, I could not manage a single stitch of sewing nor load of laundry as she did, loving only calligraphy and koto-playing beyond ordinary measure. Thus every day after school, I would stop by my koto teacher’s residence in the bustling riverside district across the river for lessons, but returning home to practice before Father and Mother became my greatest joy. Father and Mother doted on me so dearly they might have devoured me whole, so 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.” “Before long, she’ll become as skilled at the koto as Akuya herself.” “Even her playing gestures match those pressed fabric artworks exactly.”

Father would often say.

Yet strangely, whenever Father would say such things, Mother never gave a proper response. She would only offer faint replies like "Mm" or "Ah," moving her needle and paintbrush all the while with that smile tinged with loneliness and sorrow. There were even times when tears pooled in her eyes. However, Father seemed never to have noticed such things. Only I had noticed long ago, and though my childish heart resolved to someday ask Mother about it, it ended up remaining so.

Before long, I reached the spring of my twelfth year. Father turned thirty-eight and Mother twenty-nine, and by this time our household’s circumstances had improved considerably; Father repaired various parts of the house, removed the hedges around the property to prevent dogs and cats from ruining the fields—replacing them with red brick walls that were just coming into fashion—so that everything took on a splendidly transformed appearance. While the three of us as parent and child toured through this renewed space, Father—

“Why hasn’t this one (meaning my younger sibling) been born beneath me?” “Now, without one or two more [children], this house feels too large, I tell you.” There was a time when such words were said, but I remember that even then Mother made an indescribably dark, cold expression. As our household grew splendid in this manner, Mother too ceased taking on only inexpensive jobs as she had before. Aside from instructing nearby pupils who came for lessons, she now created only the most exquisite pressed fabric art and embroidery—yet even so, with their sheer quantity and each piece requiring five or even ten times the effort of simpler commissions, her days appeared unhurried but proved quite taxing. The facial features of those pressed fabric artworks invariably intermingled Mother’s and my own eyes and noses; and the more exquisite a piece was, the more prominently Mother would employ my features—a phenomenon that even in my childish heart struck me as profoundly strange.

However, among these, there were only about two instances where she employed Father’s visage.

Both instances occurred in the spring when I turned twelve—the first being when a shop in Osaka commissioned pressed fabric art with gold-leaf frames to sell to wealthy foreigners. For this commission, Mother devised various innovations; reasoning that foreign clients would prefer Chinese figures over Japanese ones, she meticulously crafted Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Xuande from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. As for their facial models—if following the ukiyo-e prints—Guan Yu would correspond to Danjuro, Zhang Fei to Sadanji, and Xuande to Enzo (I believe). (though I may be mistaken)—those ukiyo-e prints had faded entirely to a mouse-gray hue, being old editions, and thus Mother must have found them unsatisfactory. At her request, she had Father sit before the brazier and proceeded to redraw the faces repeatedly. At that moment,

“I’ll become your pressed fabric art, go abroad, and glare those foreigners to death for you.” “…Like this…” As he said this, Father suddenly rose to his knees, glaring fiercely at Mother with scornful eyes—the terror of that expression… Both Mother and I gasped and recoiled in shock. And then—how uproarious we three became when collapsing in laughter afterward—I thought I might die from it.

“Oh my, do look here.” “The brush fell into the brazier.” As she said this, Mother retrieved the soot-covered calligraphy brush with fire tongs, whereupon the three of us again collapsed in laughter until tears streamed down our faces—but I believe this was the sole occasion, before or since, when I witnessed Mother laugh with such wholehearted sincerity. When the faces were completed in this manner, she would attach beards and hair strands to them—even implanting eyebrows for Guan Yu and Zhang Fei—and when Mother’s signature embossed dolls stood finished, their solemn grandeur appeared so striking they seemed to dazzle the eye. Yet among them all, Zhang Fei’s eyes struck me as bearing a living likeness to Father’s own. Word spread far and wide, drawing many people to come and see, and among them was that wealthy Mr. Shiba Tada, who strained earnestly to express his admiration while uttering these words.

“I find myself newly impressed by your skill, Madam.” “If I may say so, you seem to have become a remarkably greater master artist than during the previous Akuya’s Torture scene.” “In connection with this, though you must be exceedingly busy, I would like to ask if you might create another piece of this caliber to be enshrined alongside that Akuya’s Torture artwork at Kushida Shrine, the tutelary deity of Hakata’s people. What do you think?” “To tell the truth, when we kept that previous Akuya doll at home, the visitors it attracted became so bothersome that we enshrined it at Kushida Shrine under my daughter’s name. At the time, they say the shrine’s offerings differed entirely because of those who came to see it… No, no, I assure you this is no mere flattery.” “Since everyone was indeed admiring how Hakata lives up to its reputation as a city of diverse arts… and since the stock exchange I petitioned Kushida-sama to establish will now be coming to my property in Iwashi-cho, I thought that offering Madam’s pressed fabric art to fulfill this vow would surely please the gods—which is why I have come to make this request.” “If you require fine ukiyo-e prints, I will obtain any number you desire.” “Nowadays we have trains, you see—if you send a telegram to Tokyo, it’ll arrive in less than ten days.”

That was the gist of his proposal.

The appearance of Mother's delight at that time remains etched in my eyes even now. Wringing her hands together, her face flushed crimson and eyes brimming with worry as she awaited Father’s response—her entire demeanor appeared as heartrendingly vulnerable as an infant’s.

Father granted permission immediately. Moreover, with a generous air, "My wife—Mother—used my face as the model for these Three Kingdoms dolls, you see." Father boasted of that occasion with great pride, causing Mother to turn crimson with shame and flee to the kitchen. I too chased after her at once, but found to my astonishment that Mother had somehow grown pale-faced and sat weeping quietly on the kitchen step. When I approached to see what troubled her, Mother drew my now-grown body close like an infant’s and began adjusting my nose’s makeup with a hanagami tissue while—

"If only I could have the ukiyo-e prints—I wouldn’t need any money—yet Father persists in speaking of such greedy matters…" —she bit her lip as though overcome with frustration, tears streaming down her face. At that moment, Father’s and Mr. Shiba Tada’s booming laughter reached us from the sitting room, whereupon I too was suddenly overcome with sorrow and remembered embracing Mother as we wept together. Several days thereafter, a large package resembling a confectionery box arrived from Tokyo addressed to Mother, so Father opened it using a pry bar and hammer—and what do you suppose he found? Wasn’t the inside packed full of ukiyo-e prints?

“Oh my… this… nothing but prints…” I distinctly remember how Mother’s little finger—still deathly pale as she pressed it against her rouged lips—kept trembling uncontrollably.

How exquisite those ukiyo-e prints were... And how inexpressibly nostalgic lay the scent of their paper and pigments... That summer day when all the sliding doors of our ten-mat sitting room stood fully open, I felt the entire space brighten through the scattered colors and fragrance of these spread-out prints. First, Father would look at the prints, then I would view them and pass them to Mother—yet all three of us, as if by prior agreement, kept sighing in admiration, then praising, then sighing again until we even forgot to eat our midday meal.

Within lay two or three variations of three-panel pictures depicting Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Xuande—all differing from those Mother possessed—their pigments dazzlingly beautiful with gold and silver colors that glittered brilliantly. I had been imagining how splendid these would look if Mother were to craft them, yet contrary to all expectations, she selected from among those prints a five-panel series depicting Inuzuka Shinno, Inukai Genpachi, and three constables from *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.

“I should like to create this,” she said. “And I should like to render these roof tiles and Genpachi’s apron to look as authentic as the real things.”

she consulted Father. Father too seemed momentarily taken aback, “Yeah. That too shall suffice. Let me see it.” Having said this, he gazed in rapt admiration at Shinno and Genpachi’s faces. Yet when I peered sideways at Shinno’s countenance—what astonishment gripped me then! For within the small red tanzaku slip beside that face lay inscribed the four characters “Nakamura Sangyoku”—and knowing nothing of your father’s name change, I briefly wondered if this depicted another man altogether. Still, even so—with merely Akuya’s face turned leftward and adorned with masculine long brows—my childish mind instantly recognized it would mirror Shinno’s visage perfectly. At once I felt I had glimpsed Mother’s true intent in selecting these prints—yet also sensed something lingering beyond comprehension—a marvel both wondrous and dreadful—and overwhelmed by this suffocating urge to confess what I dared not ask Mother, how violently my small heart raced! But in those days, I possessed no power to plumb such depths of feeling. Consumed only by a terrifying sense of concealed transgression—unable to meet Father or Mother’s gaze—I intently compared Shinno and Genpachi’s features while tilting the tobacco tray’s edge.

At that time as well, Father seemed not to have noticed anything—but that was most likely due to your father’s name having been changed.

“How might one render these roof tiles as authentic as the real things?” I recalled Father asking Mother with an enigmatic smile—as though posing a riddle.

Starting that day, Mother transferred the five-panel composition onto ganpi paper—pasting them onto backing paper, cutting out shapes—and set to work. By the fifth day of her labors, she splendidly completed the piece and affixed it to a single plank of camphor wood.

The camphor wood plank bore grain resembling clouds, upon which Hōryūkaku Pavilion's golden shachi ornaments and blue roof tiles had been cut out and attached with such realism they might have been genuine. The face of Shinno—kneeling on one knee before those golden shachi with his sword raised high—had been rendered by Mother to precisely mirror my own eyes and nose in masculine form, while confronting him, Genpachi’s poised countenance bore Father’s eyes and nose glaring back with vivid intensity. But above all, how exquisite Genpachi’s apron proved… For she had embroidered it exactly to match the real article… This alone must have been worth a fortune per square inch. It is said that Mr. Shiba Tada, who had come to inspect it, remarked that precautions must be taken against theft even when installed in Kushida Shrine’s ema hall.

The pressed fabric artwork was installed in Kushida Shrine’s ema hall before Hakata’s renowned Yamakasa festival began that late spring. The framed piece—again through Mr. Shiba Tada’s ingenuity—was sealed within a thick glass case enveloped by a bronze net, then installed alongside Akuya’s Torture doll on the eastern front of Kushida Shrine’s ema hall. Yet when compared to that Akuya doll, whose colors had faded to pure white from decades of cypress resin’s exhalations, it appeared truly eye-opening—so much so that for a time, the ema hall reportedly grew packed full of visitors drawn by its renown.

Now then, whether Father had heard of its renown I cannot say, but on that unforgettable twenty-fourth day of May in Meiji 24 (1891), just before noon, Father—

“I’ll go take a look at those spectators.”

Having declared this，he donned a new kasuri-patterned kimono and fastened his usual Kokura obi before departing. The sun was blazing down that day，but Father， “It may rain.” Having said this，he took up a large Western umbrella with white oiled-paper covering，donned a bamboo-woven bowler hat，and put on mid-height clogs. I too wanted to go，but Father— “Since it’s dangerous with so many people，I’ll take you again another time．I’ll buy you a souvenir，so wait here．”

Having tossed out these words, he proceeded along Kawabata riverside toward Suishabashi Bridge. Even now, I can still vividly conjure before my eyes that profile of him walking there with a smile.

After seeing Father off, I took out the koto that had been propped up in the tokonoma alcove and began playing the variation of *Aoi no Ue* I had learned the previous day. Mother seemed to be arranging her hair in the kitchen as I played *Aoi no Ue*, then *Aoyagi*, and finally *Ran*—which I hadn’t touched in ages—until my fingers grew weary. Fidgeting with the square plectrum, I found myself gazing vacantly at Father’s prized Japanese irises blooming in the westward garden pond when clouds suddenly veiled the blazing sun, plunging everything into abrupt darkness. The kitchen noises too seemed to have ceased.

At that moment came the violent sound of the front lattice door being thrown open, as though someone had entered. I had just gasped and begun to rise for no discernible reason when Father came striding briskly into the room, startling me anew, “Welcome home.” I braced my hands. Since such a thing had never occurred before, he would always stand at the entrance upon returning home, “Oh… I’ve just returned now.”

Father would call for Mother.

Father’s face at that moment was utterly bloodless like that of a sick person or something, and he appeared gaunt as a ghost. Then, instead of patting my head as he usually did, he stomped heavily over my koto, proceeded to the sword rack made of deer antlers in the alcove, drew the scabbard from the long black sword resting there, and examined it briefly. Having returned it to its place, he then fixed me with a stare so terrifying—so dreadful that even now recalling it makes my body shrink—before at last wearing a sinister smile as he lifted my trembling form, and upon coming to sit again before the alcove, continued staring intently at my face. His mouth trembled and twisted before my eyes, as tears began to fall in great drops from those large eyes of his.

I could neither cry nor be cried upon, my entire being consumed by a terrifying yet sorrowful emotion as I kept staring at Father's face. Then—what must Father have been thinking—he suddenly pushed me away and struck my left cheek with all his strength, so I lay prostrate on the tatami and burst into loud sobs. This was the first and last time I was struck by Father—neither before nor since.

“Oh... you... what are you doing?” A voice came from the kitchen as Mother’s resolve to come running materialized. I tried to rise and go toward Mother, but before I knew it, Father had seized me by the obi’s edge and forced me down onto the tatami with such violence that my breath caught. From that shock, I remember ceasing to cry altogether out of sheer terror.

Mother, having just arranged her hair into a lustrous round chignon with light makeup, wore the indigo-dyed summer robe she had colored herself. Having tucked into her left sleeve the paper with which she had been wiping her hands, she pressed three fingers to the floor at the parlor entrance in formal greeting,

“Welcome home… Oh… Why must you resort to such rough…” As she spoke these words and attempted to approach me, from behind me came Father’s voice like cannon fire. “...Shut your mouth!” “...Sit there!” Mother—wearing a startled expression—obediently took her seat. Bracing both hands, “Yes…”

Repeating “Yes…” all the while, she compared my slapped cheek with Father’s face. But she did not yet show tears. “Come closer!” Father pressed in a commanding tone. “Yes…”

Mother proceeded with refined composure until she came near the center of the ten-tatami parlor, then once more pressed three fingers to the floor. Father was silently glaring at Mother’s face, but as I lay sprawled facing her direction with my obi’s edge firmly seized, I could not see.

Mother too gazed intently at Father’s face, yet those large, beautiful eyes of hers blinked twice with rapid flutters. "...Y-...You... m-must remember... c-committing adultery with Nakamura Handayu."

Father’s voice resounded like thunder from behind me moments later. Father’s hand gripping my obi trembled violently. “Ah… Goodness…” Mother’s eyes widened in shock as she caught herself with her hands behind her back, but in an instant, she folded both sleeves before her knees and collapsed into weeping. Father remained silent, observing her figure with a solemn air, but after some time had passed, he spoke again—this time in a low, pressing voice that carried an unsettling calm.

“You must remember…”

“What… I know nothing of this… Not even in my dreams… Goodness…” Mother raised her pale face with reddened eyes. “Shut up!”

And Father’s voice once again thundered from behind me like roaring lightning. My right ear rang so intensely it nearly went deaf. "Even if you don't remember, I have proof!" Mother gazed fixedly at Father’s face as he spoke, her hands neatly folded atop her kasuri-patterned apron in a forced attempt at composure—yet that anguished and pitiful figure of hers is one I shall never forget, even in death. But Mother’s voice was different from usual—trembling and hoarse.

“Wh... what kind of...”

“Silence! Silence! How dare you feign ignorance... Whose face did you model for that Inuzuka Shinno pressed fabric artwork at Kushida Shrine?!” Mother released a long, drawn-out sigh. She said quietly while looking at my face: “I modeled it after Toshiko here.” “And whose face does this Toshiko—this brat—resemble?” No sooner had he spoken than Father grabbed my head—my hair tied in a tobacco-tray bun—with both hands and wrenched me toward Mother.

“Wh—” I could hear Mother’s voice uttering “Wh—”, but one of Father’s fingers had pressed into my left eye, and as it throbbed with pain, I found myself unable to open my eyes, clawing desperately at Father’s hand. Meanwhile, Father’s voice continued still. “I had remained ignorant until this very day. But earlier—while gazing at that framed artwork at Kushida Shrine and listening to people’s gossip—I realized that face in the Inuzuka Shinno pressed fabric art perfectly matched Nakamura Handayu’s stage appearance.” “Not only that. The more exquisitely you crafted those doll faces, the more they resembled Nakamura Handayu—something I first became aware of through whispers from those gathered there. That this brat’s features mirror Nakamura Handayu’s like two melon halves—and that even the neighborhood nursemaids know it—is what I first heard in that Ema Hall. …Now I finally comprehend why you bore no 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, allowing me at last to open my eyes. Mother lay prostrate on the tatami mat with both sleeves overlapped. She continued weeping while stifling her sobs, yet strangely made no attempt to offer even a single word of explanation. I had always assumed Mother would immediately offer apologies as she customarily did whenever Father flew into a rage, but this time—for reasons beyond my understanding—she did nothing but weep, until finally she seemed to cease even stifling her sobs and wept freely from the depths of her heart.

Father, who seemed to have been listening intently to those sobs, eventually spoke in a voice befitting a samurai’s dignity. “I have resolved. If your answer proves insufficient, I will cut you down on the spot with this sword. I intend to make this my atonement for having defiled the ancestral tablets. Well? Won’t you answer?”

Even as he spoke these words, Father released his grip on my head and seized the edge of my obi once more.

At that moment, Mother abruptly stopped crying and quietly raised her face. Still looking downward, she quietly untied her indigo kasuri apron, folded it neatly and laid it aside, then used a tissue to smooth the disarray of her face. With a round comb, she swept upward to tidy her disheveled hair before finally raising her eyes to gaze at Father—and in that moment, Mother appeared divinely serene… a goddess-like figure free from sorrow, shock, and all earthly turmoil.

Mother then neatly aligned both hands on the tatami mat and, while gazing up intently at Father’s face, spoke. “I offer my deepest apologies… Your suspicions are most justified.” As she spoke, fresh tears glittered and trailed down from her long lashes to her pale cheeks, yet Mother continued her words just so. “Please, act as your heart desires.” “I have no recollection of having committed infidelity…”

“Wh—what…? Wh—what…?” “I have no recollection whatsoever of having committed infidelity… but I can no longer continue serving in this household.” “……………” “Though parting brings me profound sorrow… to meet my end by your hand…” “Wh—what…? Wh—what…?”

As he said this, Father shook me violently. Mother pressed a tissue to her brimming tears. "Please... I beg you to spare only Toshiko..." "That child is truly yours—" "What... How dare you still—" "No... This alone is true..." "You—... You dare speak further?!" "No... This alone..."

“Silence! This shall not be!”

The moment Father uttered this and thrust me away, I collapsed in a heap and fell prostrate over the koto. Along with that, two or three koto bridges toppled over, and I believe there was a violent crackling sound.

I cannot bring myself to write of what happened next.

However, if I do not write about what comes next, I believe everything will remain in doubt, so I shall now set it down exactly as I remember.

When I finally managed to sit up from atop the koto, I saw Mother seated formally on the tatami, hands resting on her knees and head bowed low, while Father stood rigidly facing her—their figures framed against the dark garden behind. Though Father must have been holding a sword in his right hand at that moment, it remained hidden in his shadow, out of my sight. All I saw were five or six crimson petal-like droplets scattered across the wall behind Mother, though at the time I could not comprehend what they were.

Before long, something red began flowing steadily from Mother’s white collar. No sooner had I registered this than from beneath the blue garment on her left shoulder, a mass of deep red welled up thickly and began crawling beneath her breast like live insects. I think something red was flowing from Mother’s left hand too, thin as threads. As the collar of her blue garment tore away in a triangular flap, it revealed one perfectly round white breast veined with blood—yet Mother remained seated with head bowed, hands folded neatly upon her knees.

I think I became frantic then and rushed to cling to Mother. I believe Mother may have drawn me close in her embrace, though my memory remains unclear. While feeling something fiery hot touch my back and chest, I think I collapsed atop Mother—but being utterly distraught, I cannot clearly recall what emotions I felt. In any case, after that moment I lost all awareness, so when I regained consciousness, I found myself lying on a hospital bed somewhere, surrounded by people in white garments.

After Mother’s shoulder had been slashed, Father’s sword—which then pierced both Mother and me together—had avoided my lung, so I survived, it is said. However, Mother had been pierced through the heart and was said to have expired on the spot, yet even so, it is said that she firmly embraced me with one arm. Furthermore, it is said that Father later donned his hakama and performed seppuku splendidly before the Buddhist altar in the storehouse, though I do not know the details.

As for all subsequent matters, it is said that Mr. Shiba Tada took care of every arrangement. However, no matter who inquired about that time, he would make a sour expression and refuse to answer, so I too took care never to ask Mr. Shiba Tada about my parents. After the wound beneath my breast had healed, I spent three full years under the care of Mr. Shiba Tada at his residence in Hakata Ohama. Thereafter, I was permitted to attend Fukuoka Elementary School, but the kindness shown by Mr. and Mrs. Shiba Tada 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 Akuya pressed fabric doll—she had already welcomed an adopted child by then—but the two of them cherished me as if I were their own beloved younger sister.

However, soon after graduating from higher elementary school in the spring of my sixteenth year, I resolutely requested leave from Mr. Shiba Tada and resolved to enter a music school in Tokyo. This was partly because I had begun learning to play an organ at a church in Ichikoji Town—quite near Ohama—around that time, and found Western music so utterly captivating, but also because I had come to feel that no matter how much I resolved to endure, I could no longer remain in my birthplace of Fukuoka.

The reason for this, I must explain, is none other than the following... For I had come to understand as I grew older—through the pointing fingers and lingering stares—that I was known as that infamous child from the newspapers...the mystery born between Tokyo's foremost onnagata actor and Fukuoka's most beautiful wife. During moral education classes at school, when the teacher would innocently speak of chaste women only to catch sight of my face and suddenly fall silent with a peculiar expression—the anguish of those moments. The heartache. Even as a child, feeling the gazes of all my classmates burning into my body as I bowed my head and wept—the wretchedness of those times.

“I hear there’s a girl here who looks exactly like Nakamura Handayu in his stage performances—I’d love to catch a glimpse of her.”

To this guest’s remark, Mr. Shiba Tada— “Ah… I’ll bring the tea now, so please take a good look then. Ha ha ha ha.”

The sound of that weak laughter heard through the shoji screen—how bitterly humiliating it was when I hid in the storehouse and wept with my face pressed down.

Then again, when I grew somewhat older, I became unbearably ashamed of others seeing the scar on my body. Secretly begging the mistress for permission, I deliberately bathed in the back bathhouse past midnight. But one winter night, outside the sliding door— “You can see it…” “Yeah. “You can see it clear as day.” “A monstrous big scar, that.” “Right enough…” Upon hearing such whispers from the menservants, I stayed submerged up to my neck until the bathwater turned icy—oh the wretchedness—and later lay trembling beneath my bedding, weeping through the night until dawn without a wink of sleep. No matter how I tried to believe Mother could never have done such things—the undeniable truth that my features mirrored Lord Nakamura Handayu’s stage visage remained inescapable.

That is not all. As for my decision to go to Tokyo, there was a far more mysterious reason—one that even I myself could not comprehend. Though made to weep in such fashion, never was there a night when—after taking my final bath and completing my cleaning—I did not peer into the bathhouse’s full-length mirror. Yet within this ritual, I began noticing something strange without knowing when it had started. Was this mere fancy, or could it have sprung from my shifting moods each day? After the Shiba household had fallen into slumber, when I sat alone facing that bathhouse mirror, I realized my reflection not only grew increasingly akin to your father’s visage, but also began resembling either Inuzuka Shinno or Akuya—those two faces from the framed oshi-e in Kushida Shrine’s Ema hall—with the semblance altering completely by the day: yesterday bearing Shinno’s countenance... tonight Akuya’s.

It was something beyond description... a mysterious phenomenon perceived by none but myself, and this nightly observation had grown into an ineffable secret pleasure. Though I knew not why, I came to believe these manifestations might be Mother's vengeance upon the mortal world—she who had endured such wretched brevity of life—and I would often press my own soft, warm cheeks while shuddering involuntarily.

I am not an ordinary girl. I am the congealed essence of feelings Mother left behind in this world. ...Mother's heart—having been exquisitely beautiful yet subjected to unspeakable cruelty before perishing without uttering a word—manifests itself directly through my very form. It would suffice for me to live until Mother's rancor exhausts itself. ...Ah, Mother... Here I remain in sound health... But... but what should I do henceforth?... Ah, Mother... There were countless times I shed tears while confronting my own visage in the mirror with such thoughts.

And then...though you may find this laughable...whenever I would sink into such hollow feelings after crying—unable to tell whether I was happy or sad—I would play at transforming my mirrored face into Shinno’s brave expression as he bit his lip and raised his sword, or Akuya’s anguished figure plucking her koto. There were even times when I found myself laughing softly to myself—all alone in perfect contentment. And so, as this came to seem like Mother’s venting of spleen against society, even the name “child of infidelity” began to feel inexplicably pleasant to me.

Though it may be impertinent to speak of such matters, these events occurred between my twelfth year and when I turned fourteen or fifteen, and I believe it was around that time that I developed a disposition of somehow finding no joy in kindness shown by men. However, once I reached fourteen or fifteen, I think my feelings began to change somewhat. As I mentioned earlier, up until that time it had become my secret pleasure to sit alone before the bathhouse mirror stand each night after the entire household had fallen asleep. And so, night after night as I repeated such musings, there was not a time when I did not weep or laugh—until before long, I began to notice with frequent starts that the contours of my face in the mirror had come to resemble those of my deceased Mother in some indefinable way. The features remained entirely unchanged from before, yet even as my face had grown somewhat elongated—with a faint bluish pallor tinging my chin and neckline—those very areas began to appear as Mother’s living likeness, though I wore not a trace of powder. With each passing day that I looked, this understanding grew clearer within me, until finally I reached a point where I could only think that Mother—bearing the eyes, nose, and lips of both Inuzuka Shinno and Akuya—sat composed within the mirror, gazing out at me.

That visage of Mother's began, strangely enough, to take on an ineffably divine and pure appearance—the very form she had borne just before Father cut her down—and I could not escape this vision. As I gazed intently at that form, before long, Mother’s lips within the mirror began moving of their own accord, and the words she had spoken in those final moments pierced through with dignified clarity, resonating in my ears. “I have no recollection whatsoever of having committed infidelity… but I cannot continue serving at this shrine any longer.”

And so...

Each time I heard that voice, I would start and could not help but look behind me. And when I had confirmed that no one was nearby, I would once again repeat Mother’s mysterious words under my breath, unable to stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks just as they had flowed from hers in that moment.

From then on, I gradually grew afraid to look in mirrors. The reflection of my face in the mirror would appear as something eerily uncanny beyond measure, then at other times seem unbearably nostalgic. Each time, the mirror itself would strike me as an utterly nonsensical object—ridiculous yet dreadful, and unbearably irritating. In the end, even seeing the glass windows of shops on my way to and from school made me feel so sorrowful and eerie that my chest would begin to pound. And so, before I knew it,

...No matter what happens, I will never look at mirrors again. I will not wear makeup either. I will pull my hair back tightly and coil it up. And until I understand the true meaning of Mother's mysterious words, I will not marry. I will go up to Tokyo at once and have Lord Nakamura Handayu elucidate the meaning of Mother's words—those she firmly declared: "I have no recollection whatsoever of having committed infidelity... but I cannot continue this shrine service any longer"... And until I clearly ascertain that I am not Mother's child of infidelity, I shall never accept any kindness from men, even if it costs me my life...

I had come to feel like such a man.

Having made these resolutions, one evening I quietly slipped out of Mr. Shiba Tada’s house and went to the stone wall of Hakata Port. Then, taking out the plain pocket mirror—the only one I possessed—from my obi and bidding farewell to my face, I cast it into the bluish-green tidewater below. And I watched as that mirror sank about ten feet deep, swayed by gentle circular waves, glittering as it disappeared into the depths.

That was the spring of my sixteenth year. Mr. Shiba Tada graciously consented to such a selfish request of mine.

“That is a splendid idea. “As it happens, there’s a man named Okazawa who lectures at the Tokyo Academy of Music 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 kind-hearted couple without children, so they’ll be delighted to take you in. “As I am holding in safekeeping the money from the sale of the Nakasu residence, please send word whenever you require it. “Moreover, this is a small token of my goodwill—keep this close to your person so it won't be stolen. “Traveling to foreign lands brings many unforeseen incidents... And now you have become the sole remaining seed of the Inokuchi family...”

With such thoroughly kind words covering every possible consideration, he provided me with travel expenses, wrote a letter of introduction, and even included a 100-yen note—the first I had ever seen in my life. The letter of introduction was left unsealed, and Mr. Shiba Tada instructed me to be sure to read it once. Furthermore, I was shown the contents of another letter sent by Mr. Shiba Tada addressed to Dr. Okazawa, but in both letters I was described as the only daughter of a deceased friend, with not a word mentioned about my parents—for which I felt profoundly relieved.

Having written down at length a woman’s tedious, roundabout prattling, you must have grown thoroughly weary of it by now.

But at that time, I was in a state of utmost resolve. Perhaps because of this determination, I boarded a steamship from Moji to Onomichi in Bingo Province and arrived at Shinbashi after three days and nights without suffering seasickness. There, Dr. Okazawa and his wife met me and took me into their care at their tranquil home in Yanaka. Yet from that moment onward, though each day I resolved to visit Lord Nakamura Handayu or attend the Kabukiza Theater the next, I found myself in such pitiable circumstances—lacking not only proper connections but even basic knowledge of directions... Being unable to confide such matters to Dr. Okazawa left me utterly at a loss. To this was added Tokyo’s dizzying bustle, the rigorous curriculum at Ueno’s Buddhist Women’s School where I had enrolled provisionally, and above all—the fascination of piano lessons under Dr. Okazawa’s tutelage, which so consumed me that I passed nearly a year as though wandering through a dream.

And before long, when the following spring arrived, it was during a certain evening meal. Dr. Okazawa, who had been drinking cup after cup of sake poured by his wife, unexpectedly brought up the following.

“Miss Toshiko, you still hadn’t seen the Kabukiza Theatre yet, had you?” At that moment, I involuntarily gasped and, looking up at Dr. Okazawa who had spoken those words, turned bright red. I felt as though the secret I had hidden in the deepest recesses of my heart had been guessed, while simultaneously suspecting that Dr. Okazawa might know something of such matters and was saying this out of some subtle kindness…

But from beside him, Mrs. Okazawa—apparently unaware of anything—laughed gently.

“Oh! “My, how true! “Miss Toshiko, I thought you’d become quite the Tokyo sophisticate, yet you’d overlooked the most essential thing—the Kabukiza Theatre, you know.” “Ohoho.” “In that case, since tomorrow is Sunday, could you please take us?” “I haven’t been in as long as Miss Toshiko either…”

Then Dr. Okazawa, seemingly unaware of anything, beamed as he looked at both our faces. “Mm. I was just thinkin’ the same thing.” “Truth is, I’d reckoned Kabukiza Theatre was just for country bumpkins to gawk at—so I clean forgot about it.” “Hahahaha!” “But no matter how you slice it, that hair pulled back tighter’n a snail’s coil won’t do.” “Can’t have folks thinkin’ the Okazawas got kin on Izu Ōshima ’cause of that...”

“Well… “To say such a pitiful thing…”

Amidst such jests, Dr. Okazawa and his wife told me various stories about kabuki plays. Discussions about music-theater relations, the musical value of wooden clappers in stage expression, and other fascinating topics continued endlessly, but I remained distracted, mechanically bringing rice to my mouth while suppressing sighs, and thus forgot everything. The only thing that caught my ear was Mrs. Okazawa’s story—that at tomorrow’s performance’s core lay what might be called a strange twist of fate: *Akuya’s Torture*, your family’s signature piece, had been selected. The one performing that *Akuya* was Nakamura Hanjirou-sama—none other than you—who shared my age of seventeen; never had there been record of an actor so young becoming a leading onnagata. That you could manage a costume weighing thirteen kanme (48.75 kg) with such youthful ease had become a sensation. Moreover, this Kabukiza performance commemorated your late father Lord Nakamura Handayu, who had passed away last spring… among other matters.

How many bowls of rice I had eaten at that time—or whether I had taken only a single bowl—I could not recall at all. While serving Dr. Okazawa and his wife in a dreamlike state, I seemed to think of nothing but matters beyond those walls. Dr. Okazawa had said, "I carelessly forgot to show you the Kabukiza Theatre," but in truth it was I who had been negligent—for what purpose had I taken leave from Mr. Shiba Tada’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 remained unaware that Lord Nakamura Handayu—the sole keeper of Mother’s precious secret—had even passed away? Had this been but a year earlier, such an opportunity would have surpassed my wildest hopes... I might have introduced myself as Inokuchi’s daughter and met Lord Nakamura Handayu... When I realized what an unfortunate creature I was—ah, how wretched!—tears of bitter frustration nearly spilled forth, compelling me to feign fetching hot water and retreat to the kitchen.

However, after that evening meal, as I had been sent on an errand by Dr. Okazawa to mail a letter at a hardware store two or three blocks away, I took a hurried detour on my way back and purchased a copy of that month’s *Kabuki Jidai* magazine from a small stationery shop that also sold magazines in the backstreets. Having returned to my room on the second floor, I sat by the window where the twilight streamed in and opened it softly, as though peering at something frightening.

I was a true country girl who had never even laid hands on such a magazine before. Though I may have known more actors' names than most others, they were solely the old, old names associated with Mother's Nishiki-e prints—I did not know a single one from recent times. That Lord Nakamura Handayu had a son—that you, who were of the same age as myself, existed and were addressed as Lord Nakamura Hanjirou—had never even crossed my wildest dreams; thus upon learning this truth, a strange nostalgia swelled to fullness within me, and even before opening the cover, I felt my face grow hot.

Needless to say, it was then that I first beheld your father’s and your own bare-faced photographs. And though it is truly impertinent to say so, as I gazed intently at your father’s face—prominently featured in the opening pages, clad in his juttoku robe—the image of my own face I had seen in the mirror of Mr. Shiba Tada’s bathhouse emerged before me with startling clarity. What thunderous pounding there was in my chest at that moment! How long did I remain there trembling with this belated emotion—something uncanny yet dreadful... unbearably nostalgic... yet forbidden to dwell upon... this utterly indescribable feeling—gazing into that photograph?

But such thoughts of mine were swept away the moment I turned to the next page. Even if I were to encounter a ghost in broad daylight, I would not have trembled so violently as I did at that moment. When I beheld Your Excellency’s Western-suited figure occupying seven-tenths of that page—resembling my mother so perfectly I might have mistaken it for her in disguise—the truth struck me in a single glance. At that moment I knelt on the tatami with both hands pressed flat... overwhelmed by mysteries layered upon mysteries until I was thoroughly startled. And so everything became incomprehensible; I believe I kept gasping breathlessly as though about to faint. Eventually both wrists grew numb and hair tumbled across my face—yet still I remained motionless, trapped in an endless spiral of terrifying thoughts.

“I have absolutely no recollection of having committed any infidelity.”

While vividly recalling the words Mother had declared...

However, 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 desk's edge, and with trembling fingers opened to where Your Excellency's commentary appeared in the table of contents. Yet as I read through it, I grew so overwhelmed with the urge to cry aloud that I endured only by biting my sleeve again and again—this being how it was.

This concerned Your Excellency's remarks shared with a magazine reporter regarding the upcoming memorial performance—the very commentary I had carefully clipped out alongside your photograph at that time and stored away, which I now enclose here. As it concerns an old matter, you may have already forgotten—or so I thought…

First Major Role: *Akuya’s Torture*

Nakamura Hanjirou-sama’s Commentary

I am most grateful. Thanks to that, my fever has subsided, and given the circumstances, I am putting my life into studying. This *Akuya’s Torture* has been passed down in our family from an ancestor six generations back named Shirai Hannosuke—since Father’s generation began performing it in various places, they say it has always met with great success. The costume styling followed our family’s traditional preferences through generations, but when it came to Father’s era, they settled on peonies and butterflies. The obi is black with gold and silver arabesque patterns—only the collar remains undecided. But something as elaborate and austere as Father’s preferences for black or yellow would be far beyond my capabilities as someone inexperienced, so I’m considering using ancient purple or water blue instead. Since this is for Father’s memorial, I did think about using a white collar—but given my limited skills, I don’t believe I could properly convey that solemn atmosphere, so I’m still deliberating on what to do.

As for the origins of the thirteen-kanme costume... I don't know the precise details, but they say that from New Year's Day of Meiji 24—the year I was born—my father embarked on a theatrical tour through the Kansai region, concluding his performances from Nagasaki to Hakata before returning in time for the March productions. At that time, he must have seen and felt something somewhere. When he devised this costume, declaring it a souvenir from his travels, they say he never altered it throughout his career, deeming this one the finest.

However, as you well know, Father was extremely particular, so his exacting instructions reportedly left the craftsmen perpetually bewildered throughout the process. The pattern itself contains sections specifically altered for this costume—initially called *azumaya*, I wear a grass-green *karaberi* sleeveless robe in *karaori* brocade patterned after a certain family's treasured heirloom when making my entrance, but before approaching the harp scene, I turn my back to remove that *karaberi* and adjust my position to face frontward, thereby revealing the entire costume to the audience.

Now, regarding the five blooming peonies and three butterflies fluttering above them within the design—these crafted decorations were affixed to sway with each adjustment. They had created a base on the costume so that when removing the *karaberi* robe, one had to swiftly secure each piece—a painstaking detail indeed. Beyond this, every last detail was designed solely for theatrical impact—they liberally used wire, whalebone, lead weights, and such in all the crucial areas. Yet with the requirement that it remain sleek and supple, the craftsmen must have been utterly exasperated.

Though Father was inherently meticulous by nature, this costume alone proved exceptionally demanding—so much so that they say he obsessed over even the minutiae. It took nearly a full year before he became wholly satisfied with it, barely completing it in time for the spring production the following year, shortly after I was born. Prior to that, Father made two trips somewhere—likely Kansai—to view reference models for this costume, after which he reissued meticulous instructions. Later, he told me he had even gone out again just before the spring production to re-examine the fitting and how the costume settled on the body. Yet whether those reference models were woodblock prints or pressed fabric art... Moreover, as he never spoke of where exactly that had been located or such matters, even now I find it utterly perplexing.

Moreover—though I do not know whether you are all aware of this—they say Father had a peculiar habit of traveling in female disguise; wearing a plain juttoku robe, donning a kōso headscarf, and putting on round-framed glasses, he apparently appeared somewhat like a well-to-do widow. Even during performances, if something displeased him, he would vanish in such a manner and take amusement in watching the theater managers fret from nearby. Therefore, he must have boarded the train in that very guise during that journey. As no one had caught sight of Father, the true nature of the model for this costume ultimately ended up remaining unknown.

Around that spring performance, Father’s health began visibly deteriorating, so tailors were said to whisper behind his back that it must be the costume’s curse—but in truth, it was likely due to his inherently frail constitution being strained by those demanding journeys. He abruptly ceased those secret travels and did nothing but rest except when performing on stage, barely managing to hold on until last spring. On my part, I too had inherited a frail constitution from my parents, and moreover, being a weakling raised on cow’s milk after losing my mother early, it would be fair to say that most of what was passed down to me from Father came through oral instruction alone. The true foundation of my training owes itself to Uncle (Shiba Sarujou) and my master in Tsukiji (Mr. Fujita Kanjurou). But even then, due to my frail constitution, I have been unable to study properly—for this, it is truly shameful.

Amidst all this, when Uncle came rushing to my bedside—where I lay feverish—to inform me that not only would I be allowed to take the stage for this memorial performance honoring Father, but that I had also received the wholly-unexpected commission of a major role beyond my wildest dreams through everyone’s extraordinary patronage, I was utterly dismayed. At first, assuming it was merely Uncle’s usual habit of pulling my leg, I laughed while giving half-hearted replies. But when Lord Ōnuma of Hatchōbori and Master Shikō of Hirakawachō arrived, confirming it was indeed true, I found myself weeping uncontrollably.

And so I began rehearsals resolved that whatever might happen after this play concluded mattered not—conveniently, as Father and I were both somewhat lean and lanky in build, matching well in shoulder width and all other measurements, so the costumes needed little alteration.

However, this costume weighs thirteen kanme in total, with the *shaguma* wig alone accounting for nearly one kanme. For someone as weak as myself—both in skill and physique—to wear such a costume, even standing up under normal circumstances would be an immense struggle. Yet when I take on the mindset of a woman risking her life and step onto the stage, I find myself moving with surprising ease. I believe this must be because my late father’s spirit has possessed the costume, lightening its burden. …and such.

At this moment, I collapsed upon this article and wept bitterly. When I perceived the true feelings behind how Your Excellency's father—who had beheld my mother's pressed fabric art—had gone to such lengths to meticulously employ the peony-and-butterfly costuming, I found myself unable to remain still whether standing or sitting. Nakamura Hanjirou-sama and I must have been husband-and-wife twins from some tale we heard. One must have resembled Mother, the other Father—we were surely twins. And so after Mother gave birth to us both, she must have secretly sent the boy to his true father's home before Father could discover it—and the one who undertook and assisted in all such matters must have been Oseki-baa. There being no other way to think but this—what was I to do?

"Ah. Lord Nakamura Hanjirou... you who so utterly... and Mother too..." I started to cry out—then gasped and covered my mouth with my own hand. Looking back now, I find it nothing short of miraculous that I did not go mad at that time.

No. I may have been insane for some time after that. Late that night at Dr. Okazawa’s bathhouse, I sat before the mirror—which I had sworn never to face again—for the first time in a full year. As I gazed at Mother’s visage seated within it, weeping ceaselessly, had Brother witnessed my figure there, he would surely have deemed my mind unhinged.

Brother... ah... dear Brother... It may be improper for me to say such things, but I beg your forgiveness. For from that night onward, I had resolved that Your Excellency was my one and only brother. And if there truly existed no real Brother for me, then I resolved from that night onward to beseech God alone—to let me die yearning and pining for you as a Brother far dearer than any real one could ever be: my most precious, most secret Brother......

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

When the lady saw this, "Oh my!" "Miss Toshiko!" "What a flustered state you’re in!" The lady laughed while summoning a hairdresser for me. At that time, I sat facing the mirror thinking, "This is the first time someone else has done my hair," yet my mind seemed to remain asleep throughout. When I came to my senses and saw my hair had been fully styled into a high shimada, I inadvertently exclaimed "Oh!"—prompting laughter from the hairdresser.

Then, changing into the fine kimono I had received from Shiba Tada-san's young mistress when leaving my hometown, I accompanied Dr. Okazawa and his wife as we boarded the horse-drawn railway carriage from Ueno. Whether it was because my mind had sharpened from tightly fastening that stiff obi—something I hadn’t done in so long—or perhaps due to the cold wind still blowing outside, I did not doze off during the carriage ride. However, upon entering the Kabuki-za and sitting in the pit floor seating, before long—whether due to the warmth from the crowd—I grew drowsy once more, and could only listen as if in a dream to Dr. Okazawa and his wife, who were well-versed in theater, explain various matters.

Even when Brother appeared on stage as Akuya, I remained equally drowsy and dazed—the agony of forcing my eyes open through sheer will remains etched in my memory with piercing clarity. I later learned Brother had performed that day despite his own poor condition—they said his tormented figure proved particularly striking during the koto torture scene—yet all I distinctly recall are the shimmering silver wave patterns stitched into his white underrobe’s collar, his pallid face and crimson robes lingering in my vision like a bleached watercolor... Of the plot itself, I comprehended nothing. Then, after returning home—

“Did you enjoy it?”

How utterly ashamed I was when, though asked by the doctor, I could offer not a single response... Even so, I finally managed to conceal my illness completely. I would rather die than have a doctor see this scar on my chest... No— I shall await death's approach as this illness grows ever more merciless. And then I shall go to where Mother awaits me in the afterlife, throw my arms around her, and weep to my heart's content.

Even if everything else was different, my Mother alone must surely be my true Mother... Clinging to this conviction, I bit down on my lips until they throbbed to endure the feverish, dreamlike states that loomed over me, dragging myself to school the next day and the day after—until before I knew it, my illness had mysteriously healed. This was likely because I carried a fate that absolutely necessitated meeting you, Brother, at least once—though...

But at that time, I deeply resented Heaven for why this illness too had healed—

From then on, I came to feel as though a great placard proclaiming "Child of an Adulterer" had been truly and unmistakably affixed to me. I spent each day in shame, feeling that even being seen by the light of day was mortifying.

"Ah, Mother. "You uttered such a lie solely to save me." How many times did I weep bitterly while thinking this? Whenever I encountered characters like 'Nakamura' or 'Hishida,' how my frail heart would flutter and surge. Though truly inexcusable, whenever such characters entered my vision, I would instantly recall the word 'impropriety.' At times I would realize I had unconsciously turned toward the Kabuki-za in my wanderings, and with vague unease would abruptly veer down some side street. How mortifying it all was...

However, when summer vacation arrived, I found myself unexpectedly freed from these sorrowful, wretched torments. It was from when I casually pulled out and opened that old copy of *Hakkenden* that had long been kept in Dr. Okazawa's study. I was truly without a single thought in my mind. During those long idle days spent gazing at neighboring rooftops from my second-floor window, I suddenly recalled the pressed fabric artwork of Hōryūkaku Pavilion. Wondering why Shinno and Genhachi had to duel upon that high roof, I searched out where that scene was described in the book. As I kept reading page after page through it, I found myself gradually drawn into the story's fascination before I knew it. And before I knew it, I had circled back to the very beginning and read all the way to the part where Princess Fuse—the principal heroine of all *Hakkenden*—conceived a child without physical contact with Yatsufusa, the dog whom she had taken as her husband...

Regarding that tale—the author Kyokutei Bakin had written it with such conviction, citing various examples from antiquity—ah, how astonished I was when I read it! Needless to say, until that time I myself had possessed no knowledge of such matters—yet how firmly I believed 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 story, and how utterly enraptured with joy I became. And as I continued reading further ahead, was it not written in detail that upon the bodies of the Eight Dog Warriors—born as beloved children of that dog called Yatsufusa—each of the eight markings that had been on their father’s canine form appeared as a large mole, serving as proof of parentage?

That was for me nothing less than a miraculous joy so blinding it dazzled my eyes. I hugged myself tightly while continuing to read, sometimes sighing so deeply that tears would flow. ――That merely by a man and woman yearning for each other, they could bear―or cause to be born―children who closely resembled that partner―― ...Ah, what a splendidly childlike fantasy this was. Yet at that time, I could not help but believe such a thing absolutely had to be possible. And so thereafter, resolved to verify whether such facts truly existed, I went to Ueno Library nearly every day. I must have blindly groped through dozens of difficult obstetrics and psychology books. The library staff likely thought I was studying for the midwifery examination. Though I felt sincere gratitude when they taught me various book titles, reflecting now, it strikes me as somewhat comical.

However, books that wrote about such mysterious things were not easily found. Not only that, but every time I learned something new for the first time in my life—each revelation astonishing me afresh—I grew so self-conscious about reading such materials in public that I nearly stopped visiting the library altogether. Yet as I idly perused a book on genetics during this time, I made yet another astonishing discovery.

It was a scientific theory that proved through examples that "girls tend to resemble their fathers, and boys their mothers." When I read that, my entire body broke into a sweat as if doused with water. And then my heart, which had been so joyously buoyed up, once again became heavy as stone. “Brother and I are indeed children of adultery. “And I alone in this world know this…”

As I thought this, my vision grew steadily darker.

From then on, my heart became so utterly exhausted that I no longer had the strength to go to the library. Even meals became difficult to swallow, yet I would force myself to sit at the table solely to avoid causing concern for Dr. Okazawa and his wife.

“Lately Miss Toshiko’s complexion has grown so much brighter… This makes our coming to Tokyo worthwhile… Don’t you agree…?” How trying it was whenever they would praise or tease me so… Yet even then, there must still have remained something in the depths of my heart that I could not wholly relinquish. From time to time I would visit Ueno Library as if suddenly reminded to do so, and while reading aimlessly through books documenting strange medical phenomena and rare facts—without any particular purpose—I once again discovered an extraordinary account in an unexpected volume, astonishing me beyond measure.

The author of that book was a Doctor of Medicine named Ishigami Tōbun—who had already passed away by that time—and I believe it was indeed around Meiji 20 (1887) that he had translated it from Western texts. Titled *Forensic Medicine Night Stories*, it contained various mysterious incidents from antiquity to the present day that had become matters of forensic inquiry, all written in an old-fashioned style with engaging prose—though toward the end there appeared a story of the following nature. Since that book was no longer available at any bookstore, I subsequently visited the library once more, copied only that particular story, and kept it close alongside Brother’s photograph and related articles. Though I fear it may prove difficult to read, I will insert it here exactly as written.

*Forensic Medicine Night Stories* (by Dr. Ishigami Tōbun)

Chapter 5: The Mysterious Anomalies of the Human Body – Part 1 – Pregnancy Miracles and Strange Tales

Accounts of mysterious anomalies concerning the human body and other such matters of forensic medical interest are by no means rare. Among these, the most unexpected are strange tales concerning pregnancy—many of which defy judgment by common sense. The first that should be cited is a miraculous phenomenon that occurred to a queen of Greece in antiquity (around 370 BCE).

Translator’s Note: Regrettably, this original text does not record the names of the king and queen. At that time, Greece—excluding the city of Athens—was divided into several despotic monarchies; thus, it is speculated that this incident occurred within one of those states. The queen, having conceived shortly after her enthronement, spent her days confined to a single chamber where she engaged in spinning and recuperation. In that room’s lintel hung but a single portrait—that of a black slave who had loyally perished in place of the previous king. His countenance appeared as though smiling down upon the queen’s sickbed. The Queen too lay reclining upon her bed, and in idle moments would gaze intently at that portrait of the black slave. Yet when the child born at the months' fullness was seen—though one expected a fair-featured scion of the King—it proved instead a pitch-black infant. The Queen's shock knew no bounds, and she nearly swooned then and there unto death—such indeed was the case.

However, the king’s astonishment and fury upon learning this were no less extreme. Immediately ordering his soldiers to confine the queen, he had all black slaves then in service apprehended and cast into prison cells. Though each was put to torture, not a single one confessed—for they had no memory of any wrongdoing—until at last it took on the appearance of a grave miscarriage of justice. Furthermore, at that time in Athens, there existed an elderly physician known as Hippocrates. This man of unparalleled virtue, learning, and skill in his age—upon hearing of this matter—specially appeared before the King's royal presence. He explained through cited examples and evidence how it was not necessarily unreasonable that when a pregnant woman fixates upon a person's form, or patiently contemplates an object of specific shape and color over time, she might bear a child resembling either that person's appearance or the object's characteristics. Thus did the King's suspicions gradually dissipate, the false charges against both Queen and slaves being entirely cleared—with only that portrait of the black slave being subjected to the punishment of disposal by burning. This marked the very genesis of forensic medicine, and was heard to be the first instance wherein a physician’s counsel was adopted in the court of law.

Translator’s Note: Even what is called prenatal education handed down in China should not be summarily dismissed as mere absurd superstition when considered from Hippocrates’ viewpoint. Nor can it be denied that within these traditions lie profound and subtle scientific principles—principles that may only be understood through the most advanced research methodologies. This is precisely what demands our earnest attention.

Next, what follows is an incident that became a focus of profound attention in British legal circles approximately twenty years ago (1866), an event also reported in overseas specialized journals. While some readers may still recall it freshly, for those unfamiliar, I shall excerpt it here: In a remote Scottish countryside (location withheld), there lived a nobleman renowned as a red-haired magnate—a certain Baron Conrad (pseudonym). At age forty, he took as his wife a young woman named Alina (pseudonym), born to the distinguished house of "Hawk's Roost" located several miles distant. Though this woman was originally a peerless beauty, she had for some reason rejected all marriage proposals that came from every quarter. She had resolved to become a nun and enter a convent, but after exhausting every means from all quarters, he barely managed to secure her hand in marriage—thus the Baron’s elation defied comparison. He invited not only his own relatives and friends but also the new bride’s parents, siblings, and even Mr. Randolph Talisman—a licensed physician and lawyer residing in the neighboring house of “Hawk’s Roost,” renowned for his erudition—to hold a magnificent nuptial ceremony, leaving nearby residents wide-eyed with envious admiration.

In due time, Baroness Alina conceived the Baron's child. When her months came to fullness and she bore a boy fair as jade, no sooner had Baron Conrad glimpsed the infant's countenance than his visage underwent sudden transformation, and he roared thus: "In my house's lineage, never has one been born possessing such jet-black locks!" "Moreover, that no such individual exists in your family's line is common knowledge—nor was I aware my very reason for taking you as wife also hung upon this point!" "By my reckoning, you must have lain secretly with some black-haired man to conceive this child—there can be no other explanation!" "I cannot present such a whelp as heir to my house! Take this brat and begone—swiftly, swiftly to your parents' home!" "And know well the measure of my leniency in this punishment!"

Thus did he revile. Yet against this, Baroness Alina strangely did not attempt even a single word of defense. Late that night, clutching the black-haired infant to her breast, she stealthily made her way out of the delivery chamber. Barefoot, she walked several miles until she reached her parents’ home at noon the following day. Seizing a moment when her family was distracted, she slipped into the reception room beside the entrance. There before the portrait of a black-haired handsome youth hanging on the far wall, she collapsed upon the stone-paved floor and breathed her last. When her biological parents discovered this some time later, they were struck with such profound shock that they knew not what to do. They immediately summoned Mr. Talisman from the neighboring house and bustled about with water and medicines, but all to no avail—only the black-haired infant remained alive, crying for milk, which was the most pitiful of all sorrows.

Thereafter, this incident developed into a legal dispute, with Baroness Alina’s biological father and Baron Conrad contending in court over her chastity’s veracity. While the Baron steadfastly maintained that a man identical to the black-haired youth in the portrait must exist, Mr. Randolph Talisman—the physician-lawyer supporting Alina’s father—mounted an unyielding defense without retreating an inch. Ultimately, Mr. Talisman specifically journeyed to France to procure the painter who had created said portrait. Through the artist’s testimony, he demonstrated that the image—originally depicting a deceased Spanish bullfighter rendered in hunting attire at his lover’s request—had been stolen mid-creation as a reputed masterpiece, eventually finding its way to England through various hands. Mr. Talisman then had the painter meticulously identify multiple unfinished details within the work’s composition. Next, Mr. Talisman proved through exact correlations between Baroness Alina’s height, fingerprints, and the portrait’s accumulated kiss marks, tear stains, and supporting handprints that she had long nurtured an unrequited passion for this image. He elucidated the psychological truth behind her former resolve to enter a convent, exhaustively argued across all fronts that her physical chastity remained pure and unwavering, then invoked the previously cited example of a Greek queen to establish such phenomena’s plausibility. Having thoroughly expounded this, he intensified his tone and proclaimed:

"Recently, within our Britain's field of genetics, there is an instance capable of proving such phenomena may exist. At a certain stud farm near Radley, a mare that had been kept there mated three years prior with a zebra used for exhibitions and bore a hybrid foal, bringing its owner an unexpected windfall. However, when they bred this same mare with an ordinary riding horse two years later—in the previous year—she strangely gave birth to a foal bearing identical stripes from hips to thighs as her former zebra mate. This phenomenon has now become the central debate among specialists and geneticists in this field. Moreover, among theories explaining this strange occurrence, there currently stands as the sole most authoritative one overwhelming all others—"

――The resemblance in appearance and character between parent and child organisms arises solely from the profound latent memory within the parent's psyche influencing their sperm and eggs――that children may be born bearing striking resemblance to individuals other than their direct parents―without any act of adultery―is due to this very principle―― ―such is the principle. Therefore, in accordance with precedents wherein numerous legal cases of our nation’s past were decided by the most authoritative scientific theories of their respective eras, I can resolutely assert that this lawsuit too must be adjudicated by accepting this doctrine as truth. Thus, this incident―originating from the Baron’s pursuit of Miss Alina, who harbored the aforementioned psychological state and sought to avoid marriage, driving her to exhaust all refusals until forcibly compelling her consent to cohabitation―must be said to find the guilt for violating this woman’s spiritual chastity toward this portrait lying rather with the Baron’s side. Miss Alina was wed without being able to utter a single word, and died without being able to utter a single word. If one were to doubt the nobility of her chastity and the purity of her nature, where in all the world could one seek justice? "If one cannot sympathize with this, where on earth could one recognize humanity?"

When he argued with tears streaming down his face, the entire courtroom fell into a hushed silence, utterly speechless. Only Alina’s biological parents in the witness stand continued to sob. Thus did the lawsuit conclude with Baron Conrad’s defeat, resolved through the division of a vast sum of property—as support for the child born of Alina’s spirit and the Baron’s blood, and as consolation for her true father.

When viewed through this lens, one could not claim that among women since antiquity who perished unjustly under suspicion of chastity without means to defend themselves, there existed none who fell victim to such analogous cases. Moreover, should one accept these judicial precedents and theories as truth and extrapolate accordingly, it followed that even men might potentially sire children resembling women they had once loved or remembered with their current spouses; in certain circumstances, the presence or absence of spiritual chastity between genders might come to be concretely proven through physical phenomena—such as traits manifested in offspring—thereby rendering the legal definition of chastity far more restrictive than at present, reaching a state utterly irreconcilable with its moral significance, while simultaneously making it scarcely difficult to foresee an era in the near future where adulterous acts concealed through perverse exploitation of these very academic principles might successively emerge.

Translator’s Note: In summary, that the mysterious and unfathomable workings of spiritual consciousness within the biological realm lie beyond what modern scientific knowledge can fully comprehend or apprehend is made abundantly clear even when examined against the aforementioned few special cases concerning pregnancy. How much more perilous and uncertain must it be when such delicate phenomena are entrusted to mere legal statutes or superficial common-sense judgments, with profound medical research being utterly disregarded as in our nation’s courts? Moreover, when one contemplates the inhumanity of punishing multitudes of innocents without reflection, one’s very hairs must stand on end beneath the blazing sun. The development of forensic medicine in advanced Western nations and the greatness of its social authority truly must be said to be enviable.

(The following is omitted.)

Then, just as evening was falling. When the sound of bells from Nikolai Cathedral in distant Surugadai reached my ears, it was not long before the library staff began closing the windows, making me finally notice—by then I was already the sole remaining person in that vast room.

I returned the book to the librarian and walked out with bowed head until I reached a deserted spot near Kanei-ji Temple’s main gate among the cedar groves. Sitting at the base of a large tree there, I wept and wept without cease, wringing out every tear my body could produce. How might I ever convey to you, Brother, what filled my heart in that moment... If such things were indeed possible, would not our circumstances—yours and mine—stand as the most perfect exemplar?

Your father and my mother fell in love at a single glance. Keeping the forms of their beloved ones deeply hidden in their hearts' depths, neither waking nor sleeping did they ever forget... Could it not be that these feelings have manifested in Brother's form and mine, leaving us alive in this world to fulfill what those two could not? When this realization struck me, my small chest felt crushed, and within the darkness that engulfed my vision, I thought I dimly glimpsed two pale will-o'-the-wisps entwining as they drifted away.

But then I gathered my resolve and tried once more to thoroughly consider everything from beginning to end—yet the more I thought, the more realizations came to me, one after another. My mother—who observed my resemblance to your father morning and evening—must surely have discerned something deep within her heart about this mystery. How could we not consider that deep within my mother’s heart—she who deliberately avoided Mr. Shiba Tada’s commission to inscribe “Three Kingdoms” on the framed votive plaque dedicated to Kushida Shrine’s Ema Hall, instead crafting the scene of “Two Dog Warriors at Hōryūkaku”—lay concealed the same astonishment and joy I had recently felt upon reading Princess Fuse’s tale, intertwined with inexpressible maternal sorrow? How could we imagine that Mother alone remained unaware of *Hakkenden*—a tale customarily kept in every samurai household of Fukuoka in those days? ……And was it not precisely because she had harbored such a dreadful, tormenting mystery in her heart day and night that Mother resolved herself to accept Father’s verdict so decisively? Though she knew full well I was truly her daughter—one who inherited Father’s blood—could it not be that precisely because she had discerned such a mystery, she offered not a single word of explanation in that manner…?

Ah... How noble… how terrifying… the power of Mother’s pure heart… She who devoted both spirit and flesh to three paths—the way of art, the way of humanity, and the inescapable path of love she had fallen upon—only to leave this world all too soon, sacred Mother… pitiable Mother… tenderly tragic Mother… cruel… sorrowful… beloved… As I thought this, I felt unbearably close to madness and suddenly lifted my face. When I did, the sun had already plunged below the horizon, and countless fallen leaves mingled with bone-white dust came rushing toward me in a terrifying roaring whirlwind. At last I rose and began making my way back toward Yanaka. I felt hollowed out—emptied—after weeping and weeping until no tears remained…

Yet as I walked unsteadily through the fierce autumn wind blowing beneath the starry sky, I began to feel the world gradually brightening once more. And so that night, still damp with tears, I slept peacefully without dreaming a single dream; but come morning, I rose far earlier than usual and cleaned both the front and back of the teacher’s residence.

I shall never marry in this lifetime. Since Brother still knows nothing... since I cannot possibly take the initiative to confess this secret... For you may yet build a happy family with another... I shall not interfere... By ensuring Brother never learns of my existence in this world, I will devote myself to art. Let me lead a pure life so as not to be defeated by Mother.

And so it was that I would look up at the blue, blue clear morning sky each time I renewed my resolve. From then on, I did nothing but continue to firmly, firmly uphold this resolution in my heart while battling against various temptations and persecutions that came from without. When I graduated from the music school, and even when Dr. Okazawa recommended that I study abroad, I politely declined so as not to cause offense. ...To speak truthfully, though I could not help but feel a soaring impulse, when I considered how my photograph might appear in the newspapers for that reason and catch Brother's eye, a dreadful unease came over me and made me hesitate. If this were indeed the case, then perhaps this too was the work of some strange fate that had long been entwined with Brother and me, though... Moreover, from time to time, I declined in the same manner the marriage proposals that came through the teacher. How could I ever show this scar upon my breast to anyone but you, dear Brother... such were my thoughts—

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 fallen out of fashion, leaving only military bands and school songs remaining—yet undeterred, I made daily pilgrimages to Professor Kēberu’s residence at the university and Mr. Yamauchi’s home at the Imperial Household Ministry. I devoted myself to copying new sheet music and playing it, copying and playing, trying with all my might to lose myself in it.

Yet every time I touched the white, smooth texture of the piano keys, I would invariably recall Mother’s beloved white skin and shed hot tears. Or when I saw the gleam of those black keys, I would always, always recall the beauty of Mother’s blackened teeth. And then again, when I saw the red hues of the dahlias and salvias blooming in Dr. Okazawa’s garden, I would recall those drops of blood that had clung to the white wall behind Mother, and my heart would grow so frantic I thought I might lose my mind.

As I repeatedly lost myself in such reveries, it became impossible to doubt that just as your father’s heart had manifested in Brother’s form, so too my mother’s feelings remained in this world through my mimetic shape. And thus, I came to feel with increasing clarity each day that the fate demanding Brother and I must fulfill—through our reversed visages—the love your father and my mother concealed until death drew ever nearer with each passing moment.

Ah... What am I to do? The world firmly believes me to be of your father's bloodline. Should Brother and I ever join together, what would people say? They would never allow it to stand as anything but that vile love between siblings. Even were we to present the story from that old text as proof that Brother and I are not true siblings, how many would believe us?

Or what proof could those two pressed fabric dolls hanging in Kushida Shrine's Ema Hall possibly offer? Rather than evidence, they would only succeed in making Brother and I into a man and woman reviled by all the world.

Not only that, but at that time such things had also occurred to me.

Could it be that Brother truly heard this story from your father long ago...? Knowing far more about this than I, keeping it outwardly hidden while in your heart being tormented by the same feelings as mine...? The reputation of being a woman-hater that you've so calmly upheld—might this not spring from such sentiments? Could it be that in truth, unbeknownst to all, you think of me... that you seek me in secret ways...?

And should you discover me by some one-in-ten-thousand chance, dear Brother—might you not declare from your masculine resolve that such matters concern you not at all, immediately cast aside your current honorable position, and come to rescue me...? If such a situation were to occur, what was I to do? How could I possibly show you, dear Brother, this horrific scar running through from my back to my chest? And even were you to know of it and pay it no mind, what was I to do when I had been well aware that since that time I was afflicted with an incurable disease offering no hope of recovery in this lifetime?

Precisely because I wished to hide this illness, I continued studying single-mindedly, forgetting everything else. I was living on spirit alone. And so it was that while continuing to harbor such feelings, I had unwittingly come to grasp the latter half of the meaning behind those mysterious words my departed mother left on her deathbed.

"I have no recollection whatsoever of having committed infidelity. "But... I cannot bring myself to continue these marital duties any longer." In those resolute words Mother had declared to Father, I came to realize with piercing clarity that they must have contained—painfully unbearable in their intensity—the full measure of Mother’s despairing state of mind at that time, when she too had been afflicted with the same illness as I and had thrown herself into her work with identical fervor.

What have I left to conceal? My family had been cursed with this illness for generations, so one could say there were virtually no marriage arrangements to speak of. Therefore, one can only consider that Mother left behind those words and departed this world early out of a desire for me alone to find happiness... for her to protect my happiness alone. How could I possibly entrust this body of mine—thoroughly consumed by the same affliction as Mother—to your ailing self, dear Brother? How could I possibly ask you to cast aside your esteemed honor and artistry for my sake?

Every time I thought this, my chest would feel as though it might burst. How many times did I brush away tears that would not cease no matter how I wiped them from the piano keys, quietly remove the lid, and press my fevered cheek earnestly against that cold board?

But dear Brother. I have now reached a point where I can no longer comprehend anything at all. Only... that should you deign to read this letter, you would understand everything completely... and clinging solely to this hope have I painstakingly written thus far. The reason I say this is that I believe you may already know your true mother, dear Brother. And along with that, I believe you are also aware of the true cause behind your honored father's illness—for this very reason.

And furthermore, were it indeed the case that no such matter exists and Brother truly knows nothing whatsoever of these affairs, then one might easily surmise that your honored father—much like my mother—must have lived an incomparably noble life, keeping a single love hidden within his breast... never revealing it even to you, dear Brother... this is why I write.

I beg of you, please forgive me. Disregarding your current state of illness and driven by the pangs of a woman’s heart, I imposed such a lengthy account upon your sight—I can only imagine how arduous it must have been to read. But the only person in this world to whom I can confess this matter and entrust the judgment of its truth is you alone, dear Brother. I no longer possessed the strength to keep such secrets concealed within my breast. I had no other recourse but to cling to your heart alone.

Brother, if you truly are my brother, then I beg of you—even at the cost of my life—to let me remain as your one and only sister. From the nurses’ discreet conversations I have overheard, it seems Brother’s condition has greatly improved since then, and merely knowing this much brings such reassurance that my own illness appears to lessen. I earnestly pray you will strive to improve your condition still further; until you have fully returned to your former self, please forget me as much as possible and rest quietly with a tranquil heart. I am receiving treatment at this hospital, humbly relying solely on that hope. And while living on, I pray to God for nothing else but to behold—even a single glimpse—Brother’s restored form.

In this world, I have no other pleasure left but to think of you, dear Brother... for it is so. But should it come to pass—before Brother attains his vigorous and unencumbered form—that I meet my demise, then though it pains me to ask, I beg you visit my grave but once. Should you find it possible, offer not many flowers, but those Japanese irises instead. For they are the flowers of memory that bloomed before the parlor when Mother was slain...

Please, I earnestly beg of you. I pray you will not overexert yourself even slightly... Should I come to know that you have done such a thing, I stand prepared not to permit any further strain upon you... for it is so. At the very least, Brother—I pray that you alone may safely endure in this world and bring forth Mother’s artistry into the world... for it is so.

But if that were not the case—if Brother and I were not siblings bound by blood… if we were truly but keepsakes shaped by your honored father’s and my mother’s anguished hearts… Ah… what am I to do… The love between your honored father and my mother was of the most noble and immaculate nature. And it remained eternally sublime.

May the love between Brother and I also remain forever noble, pure, and end in sorrow in such a manner… The mere thought of wanting to meet your eyes once more... fills me once again with this frenzied torment. Yet even these feelings of mine, when compared to the nobility of their love, strike me as shameful, defiling things… My thoughts have become disordered, and I can no longer continue writing. I am regretful indeed at this parting.

Ever so humbly,

March 29, Meiji 35 (1902) From Inokuchi Toshiko

Mr. Hishida Shintarou

To the care of