Pathway to Japanese Literature

There were five siblings, and they all loved romance.
The eldest brother was twenty-nine years old.
He was a Bachelor of Laws.
When interacting with others, he had a bad habit of acting somewhat arrogant, but this was a demon mask to hide his own weakness—truly weak and very gentle.
When going to see movies with his younger siblings, while declaring them trash and foolish, it was always this eldest brother who would first be overwhelmed by the samurai's sense of duty and humanity in those films and end up crying.
That was inevitable.
After leaving the movie theater, he would suddenly become arrogant and sullenly ill-humored, not uttering a single word the entire way home.
He declared he had never once told a lie since being born—this without hesitation.
That might have been questionable, but he certainly possessed an aspect of integrity and uprightness.
His school grades hadn't been very good.
After graduating, he hadn't worked anywhere, steadfastly protecting his family.
He was researching Ibsen.
Recently having reread A Doll's House, he had made a significant discovery and become extremely excited.
Nora had been in love at that time.
She had been in love with Dr. Rank.
He had discovered that.
He gathered his younger siblings, pointed out that part, loudly admonished them, and strove to explain—but it was all in vain.
The younger siblings merely tilted their heads as if to say "What's this about?", smirking without showing the slightest hint of excitement.
Generally speaking, the younger siblings looked down on this elder brother.
There was an air of them dismissing him.

The eldest sister was twenty-six years old. She had not yet married and was commuting to the Railway Ministry. She was quite proficient in French. She stood five feet three inches tall. She was extremely thin. Her younger siblings sometimes called her "horse." She had cut her hair short and wore Lloyd glasses. Her heart was flamboyant—she would quickly befriend anyone, serve them devotedly, then be cast aside. This was her hobby. She secretly took pleasure in feelings of melancholy and solitude. Yet when she once became infatuated with a young official from the same department and found herself similarly abandoned, even she—in that instance alone—genuinely grew haggard to the core; feeling awkward about it all, she lied about developing lung trouble and remained bedridden for a week. Afterwards, wrapping her neck in bandages and coughing excessively, she went to consult a doctor—only to be thoroughly examined by X-ray and praised for possessing lungs of rare sturdiness. Her literary appreciation was genuine. She read voraciously. She made no distinction between Eastern and Western works. Out of surplus energy, she secretly wrote various pieces herself. These were hidden in the right drawer of the bookcase. A slip of paper inscribed with "To be published two years after death" lay neatly atop the accumulated manuscripts. The "two years" would later be altered to ten years, rewritten as two months, or sometimes changed to a hundred years.

The second brother was twenty-four years old.
This one was a philistine.
He was enrolled in Imperial University’s Medical School.
But he rarely attended classes.
His body was weak.
He was a genuine invalid.
He had an astonishingly beautiful face.
He was miserly.
When the eldest brother was tricked into buying what was claimed to be Monteigne's used racket—a bizarre, worn-out thing he had haggled down to fifty yen—and came home gloating about it, the second brother would seethe alone in the shadows, his excessive indignation sparking a high fever.
Because of that fever, he ultimately damaged his kidneys.
He had a tendency to look down on people—any kind of person.
When someone said something, he would unhesitatingly emit a bizarre laugh—an unpleasant sound resembling a crow demon’s cackle marked by sharp staccato bursts.
He was fixated solely on Goethe.
Not that he particularly admired Goethe’s simple poetic spirit—there were indeed signs suggesting he was rather infatuated with Goethe’s high rank and official status.
There was something suspicious about it.
However, when all the siblings competed in composing impromptu poems together, he was always first.
He had talent.
Being a philistine, his objective grasp of passion—so to speak—was clear.
If he himself were to apply earnestly with that intent, he might perhaps become a first-rate writer.
He was loved to death by the seventeen-year-old maid with a bad leg in this household.

The second sister was twenty-one years old.
She was a narcissist.
When a newspaper company had been recruiting candidates for Miss Japan, she had tossed and turned for three nights, nearly deciding to nominate herself.
She had wanted to raise her voice and shout wildly.
However, after three nights of tossing and turning, she realized her height fell short and gave up.
Among the siblings, she alone was conspicuously small.
She was four feet seven inches tall.
However, it was by no means unsightly.
It was rather impressive.
She would stand naked before the mirror at midnight, fixing a cute smile upon her face; wash her plump white feet with Hechima Cologne and gently kiss their tips; close her eyes in rapture. Once, when a needle-prick-sized pimple appeared on the tip of her nose, she grew so despondent that she attempted suicide.
Her selection of reading material had a distinctive feature.
She would search out early Meiji-period works like Kajin no Kigū and Keikoku Bidan from used bookstores, then read them alone while giggling to herself.
She also enjoyed reading translations by authors such as Kuroiwa Ruikō and Morita Shiken.
She collected countless obscure literary magazines from unknown sources, and murmuring "How fascinating," "How masterful" with complete seriousness, would meticulously read them cover to cover.
In truth, she secretly loved reading Kyōka most of all.

The youngest brother was eighteen years old. He had just entered First Higher School's Science Course A that year. After entering high school, his attitude had changed abruptly. To his brothers and sisters, this was unbearably comical. Yet the youngest brother remained deadly serious. In even the slightest domestic dispute, he would invariably appear, delivering unsolicited judgments with an air of deep contemplation—a tendency that left the entire household, mother included, utterly at a loss. Consequently, the youngest brother found himself being avoided by the family. This left him thoroughly dissatisfied. The eldest sister, unable to bear his grotesquely puffed-up sulking face, composed a waka poem—"Though you alone may feel grown, none see you as such, pitiful one"—and gave it to him, thus comforting this unrecognized sage's boredom. Because his bear-cub-like face was endearing, the siblings doted on him excessively, resulting in his somewhat scatterbrained nature. He liked detective novels. Sometimes he would try out disguises alone in his room. Under the pretext of language study, he had bought Japanese-English parallel texts of Doyle's works but read only the Japanese parts. He secretly nursed the tragic conviction that among all the siblings, he alone truly worried about their mother.

Father died five years ago.
Yet there was no anxiety about their livelihood.
In short, it was a good household.
There were times when everyone uniformly experienced such terrible boredom that they were at a loss.
Today was a cloudy Sunday.
It was the Seru season; once this dreary rainy season passed, summer would arrive.
Everyone gathered in the parlor where Mother prepared apple juice for her five children to drink.
The youngest brother alone was drinking from an especially large cup.

When boredom struck, it was the custom of this household for everyone to begin collaborative storytelling.
Occasionally, Mother would also join them in this activity.

“Well now. Isn’t there something we’re missing?”
The eldest brother haughtily surveyed his surroundings.
“Today, I’d like to try introducing a slightly different sort of protagonist.”

“An old man would be nice.”
The second sister rested her cheek on the table—supporting one cheek with a single index finger in that utterly affected pose—and said, “Last night I pondered deeply...”
Though in truth, she had only just conceived the idea this very moment.
“I’ve determined that among humans, old men constitute the most romantic species.”
“Old women won’t do.”
“It must be a grandfather.”
“When an old man sits perfectly still like this on the veranda—why, that alone makes it romantic! It’s splendid.”

“An old man?”
The eldest brother pretended to consider for a moment. “Alright, let’s go with that. Let’s make it as sweet and tender a love story as possible—something beautiful.”
“The Gulliver sequel story we did last time was a bit too macabre.”
“I’ve been rereading Brand lately, but it’s making my shoulders stiff.”
“It’s too difficult.”
He had frankly confessed.

“Let me do it.”
“Let me—”
The one who immediately raised his voice and volunteered without proper consideration was the youngest brother.
He gulped down the fruit juice from his large cup and deliberately began to expound his views.
“I—I think it should be like this.”

His affectedly mature tone drew forced bitter smiles from everyone.
The Second Brother emitted his customary derisive 'keh' laugh.
The youngest brother puffed out his cheeks in a sulk.

"I think that old man must surely be a great mathematician."
"That's exactly it."
"He’s a great mathematician."
"Of course he’s a professor."
"He’s world-class."
"Now is a time when mathematics is changing drastically and ceaselessly."
"The transitional period has begun."
"Around the end of the World War—from approximately 1920 to the present day—over these ten years or so, it has been occurring."
The fact that he was now starting to parrot verbatim a lecture he’d just heard at school yesterday made it utterly unbearable.
"When we look back at the history of mathematics, it has indeed undergone transformations through various eras."
"The first stage corresponds to the era of calculus's discovery."
"Then comes modern mathematics in the broad sense, succeeding that inherited from Greece."
"Thus, with new domains having been opened, the period immediately following this opening was not so much one of elevation as it was an era of spreading—an age of expansion."
"That is the mathematics of the eighteenth century."
"As we transition into the nineteenth century, there again exists such a staircase."
"In other words, this too was an era of abrupt transformation."
"If one were to select a single representative—for example Gauss—G, A, U, S, S."
"If an era of rapid, ceaseless change is called a transitional period, then the present day is truly a great transitional period."

Utterly failing to resemble anything like a story.
Even so, the youngest brother was pleased with himself.
He was getting into his rhythm, inwardly glowing with smug satisfaction.
"Mathematics up to now has become utterly bogged down, being needlessly convoluted and flooded with theorems."
"It has degenerated into mere rote memorization."
"At this juncture, it was that elderly professor who boldly stood up and championed the freedom of mathematics."
"He was an extraordinary man."
"If he had become a detective, no matter how bizarre or challenging the case, he would undoubtedly have solved it in a flash after just one quick survey of the scene."
"He was such a brilliant old man."
"Anyway, as Cantor said—"
And off he went again.
"The essence of mathematics lies in its freedom."
"Indeed, that is correct."
"The term 'freedom' refers to the translation of Freiheit."
"In Japanese, the word 'freedom' was initially used with political connotations, so it might not perfectly align with the original meaning of Freiheit."
"Freiheit refers to that which is unbound, unrestricted, and simple in nature."
"Examples of non-frei abound in commonplace situations, but there are so many that it’s difficult to list them all."
"For example, my family’s telephone number is 4823 as you all know, but between the third and fourth digits, we insert a comma and write it as 4,823."
"If we were to write it as 48|23 like in Paris, it would at least be somewhat comprehensible, but this insistence on placing commas every three digits without exception—this is already a form of constraint."
"The Old Professor is striving to break down all such antiquated conventions."

"He's truly remarkable."
"Only that which is true is worthy of love," Poincaré said.
"Indeed."
"If one apprehends truth concisely and directly, that suffices."
"Nothing surpasses it."
There remained nothing resembling a story.
Even the siblings exchanged bewildered glances.
The youngest brother pressed on with his rigorous lecture.
"My abstract digressions lack focus—for which I apologize—but having recently studied Introduction to Analysis, I should like to discuss series as an illustrative example."
"It seems to me there may be two types of definitions for double or higher-order infinite series."
"Were I to draw a diagram, you'd see clearly—there exist two approaches, so to speak: the French and German styles."
"The results prove largely equivalent, yet the French method adopts an eminently rational stance that satisfies all."
"But curiously, every modern analysis text adopts solely the German style as if by prior agreement."
"Tradition appears to evoke something akin to religious devotion."
"This religious sentiment now infiltrates mathematics itself."
"It must be utterly repudiated."
"The Old Professor arose to demolish this tradition."
His fervor intensified.
The siblings remained entirely unamused.

The youngest brother alone, rousing himself precisely like that Old Professor, continued his dry lecture further.

"Nowadays there's a custom of explaining set theory at the beginning of analysis courses.
"I have reservations about this practice too.
"For instance, 'absolute convergence' originally meant that the sum remains fixed regardless of term order.
"In contrast, we have the term 'conditional'.
"Today it's used to mean that the series of absolute values converges.
"When a series converges but its absolute value series doesn't, since you can rearrange terms to approach any limit, it follows that the absolute value series must converge—therefore everything checks out."
His confidence began wavering.
Anxiety tightened his chest.
Ah, Professor Takagi's book lies on my desk back home—even if I wanted to fetch it now, I couldn't possibly go retrieve it.
That volume contains every answer imaginable, yet here I stand—tongue tripping over itself, torso quaking, unleashing a shrill, scream-like cry—

“In short.”
The siblings all uniformly looked down and snickered.

“In short,”
This time, his voice was nearly a sob.
“When it comes to tradition, even grave errors may go unnoticed and be overlooked, but the problems lie in multitudes within the minutiae.”
“It is my earnest hope that an utterly elementary Introduction to Analysis suitable for all might emerge from a more liberated standpoint.”
It was pure bedlam.

And so the youngest brother's story came to an end.

The atmosphere had grown somewhat awkward.
No matter how they tried, there was no continuation to the story.
Everyone had become serious.
The Eldest Sister, being a deeply compassionate soul, suppressed her urge to burst out laughing to salvage her youngest brother’s failed attempt. Composing herself, she began to speak quietly.

“As has just been related, this Old Professor possesses most noble aspirations.”
To noble aspirations, adversity always clings.
“This has already become something like an absolutely precise theorem.”
The Old Professor too found no acceptance in society; called an eccentric and oddball by people in the neighborhood, even he would occasionally feel truly lonesome, and tonight again went out alone for a walk to Shinjuku carrying his cane.
This is a tale from the summer season.
Shinjuku was teeming with people.
The Professor wore a frayed yukata with the obi tightened high on his chest and let the obi’s knot hang long down his back like a rat’s tail—a most pitiable sight indeed.
Moreover, though the Professor was a heavy sweater, having forgotten to bring a handkerchief tonight rendered him all the more wretched.
At first, he wiped away the sweat on his face with his palms, but this was no ordinary perspiration that could be managed in such a manner.
The perspiration flowed from his forehead like a veritable waterfall—one stream coursing down the bridge of his nose, another along his temples—gushing across his entire face until all converged at his chin and slid down into his chest. The discomfort was such that it felt precisely like having a full pot of camellia oil poured thickly over his head, until even the Old Professor found himself utterly overwhelmed by this ordeal.
In the end, he wiped his face's sweat with his yukata sleeves in swift motions, then walked a little only to wipe again discreetly with the sleeves whenever people might notice, until before long both sleeves became soaked through as if pounded by an evening downpour.
The Professor was not one to be particularly concerned about such matters, yet bewildered by this torrential perspiration, he finally resolved to take refuge in a beer hall.
Upon entering the beer hall and being subjected to the tepid breeze from the electric fan, his perspiration nevertheless subsided somewhat.
The beer hall’s radio was loudly broadcasting a current situation lecture at that time.
Suddenly, as he strained his ears to listen and consider it, this was a voice he recognized.
That couldn’t be him, could it?
Just as he was thinking this, sure enough, at the conclusion of the lecture, the announcer reported that fellow’s name with the honorific title of “His Excellency.”
The Old Professor felt the urge to wash out his ears.
Now, this "fellow" was a man who had studied side by side with the Professor through both high school and university, but who had skillfully maneuvered his way into an esteemed position at the Ministry of Education. Though the Professor would occasionally encounter him at alumni gatherings and such, every single time without fail, that fellow would unnecessarily mock the Professor.
They kept firing off witless, tacky puns that never landed—utterly stale wordplay—while his entourage laughed uproariously at every utterance from that fellow, clapping as if compelled though none of it was funny. Once, the Professor kicked back his chair and rose up indignantly, only to step on a mandarin orange that had rolled off the table onto the floor. The squish underfoot startled him into letting out a shrill yelp so pathetically shrill that the entire room erupted in convulsive laughter, reducing his righteous fury to a pitiful outcome.

But the Old Professor did not give up. He intended someday to give that fellow a thorough thrashing. Having just heard that raspy voice on the radio, he found it utterly unbearable. He began gulping down beer in great swigs. The Professor had never been particularly strong with alcohol. He became instantly intoxicated. A girl selling paper fortunes entered the beer hall. The Professor called gently in a hushed voice, "Here now—how old are you?"

"Thirteen?"

"I see."

"Then in five—no, four—no, three years, you'll be able to marry."

"Listen carefully."

"If you add three to thirteen, what do you get? Eh?"

With such remarks, even the mathematics professor turned somewhat lewd when drunk. Having teased the girl too persistently, he finally found himself compelled to purchase her fortune. The Professor naturally disdained superstitions. But tonight—whether due to the radio broadcast or his weakened state—he suddenly wanted to test both his research and fate's course through that fortune. When lives begin crumbling, people inevitably cling to prophecies. A pitiful thing indeed. That fortune required heat revelation.

The Professor toasted the paper fortune over a match's flickering flame, threw his bleary eyes wide open and stared intently. At first it appeared as mere indistinct patterns that gave no reassurance, but gradually there emerged upon the paper hiragana characters in antiquated script—vivid and unmistakable.
He read it.

As you wish

The Professor smiled gently.
No, it was anything but a gentle smile.
A man of the Professor’s stature let out a vulgar “hee-hee-hee” laugh, stretched his neck out abruptly to survey the surrounding drunk patrons, but they paid him no heed.
Undeterred, the Professor paid no mind to their indifference, dispensing a complex medley of youthful laughter—a ha, as you wish; heh heh, pardon me; ho ho—to each drunk patron as he scattered his greetings about. Now having fully regained his confidence, he made a leisurely exit from the beer hall.

Outside flowed a steady stream of people—quite the spectacle. Pushing and jostling, all were uniformly sweating yet walked on composedly. Though they walked without any particular purpose to speak of—their daily lives being so dreary—they all harbored some secret expectation, and so they strolled through nighttime Shinjuku with perfect composure. No matter how much one wandered back and forth through the streets of Shinjuku, nothing good came of it. That had already been decided. But happiness—even being able to faintly expect it—was itself happiness. In this present world, one must think that way.

The Old Professor was spun out through the beer hall's revolving door, staggered, then threw himself into the city's melancholy flock of migratory souls where he was immediately jostled and pressed into flowing away with them in a swimming-like motion. However, tonight's Old Professor was perhaps the most confident individual amidst Shinjuku's great crowds—the probability of grasping happiness was perhaps greatest.

As he walked, the Professor would from time to time recall something and smirk, then nod solemnly to himself in secret approval, raise his eyebrows in feigned seriousness only to startle himself, or attempt clumsy whistles like some delinquent youth—all until a student came thudding into collision with him. But that was only natural—in such a crowd as this, collisions were only natural. It was nothing at all. The student simply continued on their way.

After a while came another thudding collision—this time with a beautiful young lady—but this too was only natural. In such congestion, collisions were only natural. It was nothing at all. The young lady passed by and continued on her way.

Happiness was still being withheld.
The change came from behind.
Tap tap—there was a person who lightly tapped the Professor on the back.
"This time, it's real."

The Eldest Sister, having recounted up to that point with downcast eyes, hurriedly removed her glasses and began diligently wiping the lenses with her handkerchief. This was a habit she would invariably take up whenever experiencing a somewhat embarrassed feeling.

The Second Brother continued.

“Truth be told, I’m not particularly skilled at descriptions—or rather, it’s not that I can’t do them, but today it feels rather tedious.”
“Let’s keep this concise.”
He spoke with characteristic cockiness.
“When the Professor turned around, there stood a plump Madam nearing forty.”
“Clutching a small dog with an undeniably peculiar face.”

The two had such a conversation.

"Your happiness?"

“Ah, happy,”
“Since you left, everything’s gone well—everything’s turned out precisely as wished.”

“Tch, took up with some young thing, didn’t you?”

“Is that wrong?”

"Yes, it is wrong."
"If I just gave up my indulgence with dogs, there was a proper promise that I could return to you anytime, wasn't there?"

"You haven't given it up at all!"
"What's this—this new dog of yours is even worse than before!"
"This is dreadful."
"It looks like it survives by eating chrysalis."
"It's downright monstrous."
"Ah, this turns my stomach."

"There's no need to deliberately show me that pale face."
"Hey, Prof."
"He's badmouthing you."
"Go on—bark!"
"Bark 'Woof'!"

“Stop it, stop it.”
“You’re still such a disagreeable woman.”
“Talking to you always sends a chill down my spine.”
“Prof.”
“What do you mean ‘Prof.’?”
“Couldn’t you come up with a slightly more clever name?”
“Ignorant fool.”
“Unbearable.”

“What’s wrong with that?”
“Professor Prof, darling.”
“I’m just trying to show you some consideration.”
“How endearing.”

“Unbearable.”

“Oh my, oh my.”
“As I thought, you’re sweating quite profusely.”
“Oh my, wiping it with your sleeve—how unsightly!”
“Don’t you have a handkerchief?”
“This wife of yours isn’t very considerate, is she?”
“For summer outings—three handkerchiefs and a folding fan—I have never once forgotten them.”

“It’s problematic to disparage a sacred household.”
“Revolting.”

"My apologies."
"Here, take this handkerchief."

"Thank you."
"I'll borrow it for now."

"You've become quite the stranger, haven't you."

"If we separate, we become strangers."
"This handkerchief—still exactly as it was before... No—it reeks of dog."

"No need for sour grapes talk. You do remember, don't you?"
"Well?"

"Don't talk nonsense."
"You're a woman without refinement."

“Oh my, which one of us?”
“So you’re still acting all spoiled like a child even with this wife of yours?”
“Stop that—at your age, this is disgraceful!”
“You’ll be hated.”
“Things like having his tabi put on while still lying in bed in the morning.”

“It’s troublesome to cast aspersions on a sacred household.”
“I am happy now, I’ll have you know.”
“Everything is going smoothly.”

And so—still soup in the morning?
Does she put in one egg?
Does she put in two?

Two. Sometimes it was three. All of it was more plentiful than when you were around. I must say, now that I think about it, I don't believe there are many women in this world as nagging as you. Why did you scold me so harshly like that? Even in my own home, I felt like a guest. By the third cup, she would quietly bring it out. That was certain. Back then, I had embarked on some truly significant research, you know. You didn't understand any of that. All you ever did was nag from morning till night about my vest buttons this and cigarette butts that, until thanks to you, my research—everything—ended up in complete shambles. After parting with you, I immediately tore off all my vest buttons and then tossed cigarette butts one after another into the coffee cup. That was enjoyable. It was truly exhilarating. Alone, I laughed uproariously until tears streamed down my face. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how terribly you had treated me. Afterwards, time and again, it made me furious. Even now, I am still seething with anger. You are fundamentally a woman who knows nothing of showing compassion to others.

“Excuse me.”
“I was young, you know.”
“Please forgive me, okay?”
“Alright, alright, I get it now.”
“So it wasn’t about the dogs or anything after all.”

"You're crying again."
"You always resort to that trick."
"But it's no use now."
"I'm now getting everything exactly as I wish, you know."
"Shall we go somewhere and have some tea or something?"

"No."
"I've now clearly understood."
"You and I are strangers now."
"No—we've been strangers since long ago."
"The worlds where our hearts dwell lie thousands upon thousands of miles apart."
"Even if we stay together, we'll only make each other miserable."
"I want us to make a clean break now."
"I'm going to have a sacred household nearby soon, you know."

“Seems like it’ll go well?”

It’ll be fine.
“He’s a foreman, you see.”
“The Chief Foreman.”
“They say the factory machines won’t run without him.”
“A big, mountain of a man—a stalwart gentleman.”

He was different from me.

“Yes, he’s not a scholar.”
“He doesn’t do research or anything like that.”
“But he’s really skilled at what he does.”

“It should go well.”
“Farewell.”
“I’ll borrow this handkerchief.”

“Farewell.”
“Oh—your sash is coming undone.”
“Let me tie it for you.”
“Truly… forever making you tend to me like this.”
“……Give my regards to your wife.”

“Yeah.”
“If the opportunity arises, then.”

The second brother suddenly fell silent.
And then, he snorted in self-derision.
For a twenty-four-year-old, the conception was indeed mature.

“I’ve already figured out the ending.”
The second sister put on a smug look and took over the narrative.
“It must surely go like this.”
After the Professor parted with the Madam, an evening shower poured down in torrents.
No wonder it had been swelteringly hot.
The strolling crowds scattered like startled spiders, vanishing phantom-like to who-knows-where—though mere moments before the streets had teemed with people—until in the blink of an eye Shinjuku’s pavements stood deserted, leaving only raindrops kicking up white splashes where they fell.
The Professor hunched his shoulders and made himself small under the flower shop’s eaves to shelter from the rain.
Every now and then he would take out the handkerchief from earlier, glance at it, then hurriedly tuck it back into his sleeve.
He suddenly thought of buying flowers.
If he brought them back as a souvenir for his wife waiting at home, he thought she would surely be delighted.
For the Professor to buy flowers—this was something entirely unprecedented in his life.
He was feeling a bit off that night.
There had been the radio broadcast, street divination, his former wife, dogs, handkerchiefs—all manner of things.
The Professor plunged into the flower shop with tremendous resolve, then floundered about in confusion, broke into a profuse sweat, and despite it all purchased three large-blossomed roses.
He was shocked at how expensive they were.
He leaped out from the flower shop as if fleeing, then hailed an en-taku taxi and made straight for his home.
In the Professor’s suburban residence, electric lights glowed brightly.
His blissful home.
Always warmly caring for the Professor, everything was proceeding smoothly.
Upon entering the entranceway,

“I'm home!” he declared in a loud voice and was in remarkably high spirits.
The house was silent.
Even so, the Professor, paying no heed to details and holding the bouquet, briskly went up to the room and entered the six-tatami study at the back,

“I'm home.
The rain really did me in. What a predicament.”
“How’s this?”
“These are roses.”
“Everything seems to be proceeding as desired.”

He was speaking to the photograph displayed on the desk.
It was a photograph of the Madam with whom he had just parted so neatly moments before.
No, but it was a photograph from ten years ago when she was younger.
She was smiling beautifully.
As if to say “That’s about it,” Narcissus once again struck an affected pose with her index finger propping her cheek and surveyed the gathering with darting eyes.

“Yeah. Basically,”
The Eldest Brother said with affected dignity, “That should suffice there.
“However―”
The Eldest Brother had to maintain the dignity befitting his status as eldest brother.
Compared to his younger siblings, the Eldest Brother was not particularly rich in imagination.
His storytelling was downright clumsy.
His talent was meager.
Yet for this very reason, being scorned by his younger siblings was unacceptable to the Eldest Brother.
He would invariably tack on some superfluous remark at the end.
“But you see, you’ve all overlooked one crucial point.”
“It concerns that professor’s appearance.” It wasn’t anything significant.
“In stories, appearance is crucial.”
“By describing the protagonist’s appearance, one can impart physical presence to them, make listeners recall the face of someone among their close relatives, and thereby instill in the entire story an intimate sense that this is no mere tale about others.”
“According to my analysis, that elderly professor stands at five shaku two sun in height and weighs just under thirteen kan—a remarkably small man.”
“To describe his appearance: a broad high forehead, sparse eyebrows, small nose, large tight-lipped mouth with furrowed brow, bushy white cheek whiskers extending thickly, silver-rimmed reading glasses—in short, a round face.”
It was none other than the face of Mr. Ibsen whom the Eldest Brother revered.
The Eldest Brother’s imagination proved this childishly simple.
It still reeked of superfluous addition.

With this, the story had ended—but no sooner had it ended than they found themselves plunged into even deeper boredom.
It was a weariness, a desolation, an unbearable feeling that follows a small thrill.
The five siblings were completely overwhelmed by a perilous awkwardness where even a single word could spark a brawl.

The mother had been sitting apart by herself, all the while maintaining a constant gentle smile as she enjoyed and grew enraptured by the storytelling styles of her five children that revealed each of their distinct personalities—but now she quietly rose, slid open the shoji screen, and suddenly changed her expression,

“Oh. There’s a strange old man in a frock standing at our gate.”

The five siblings started in surprise and stood up.

The mother dissolved into laughter alone.

(May 1939)